(King's Landing, 112 AC)
The sky over King's Landing was choked with grey smoke. It was not the smoke of cookfires or forges, but the heavy, greasy smoke of the dead.
On the cliffs overlooking Blackwater Bay, a funeral pyre burned. It was massive, consuming the bodies of Queen Aemma Arryn and her newborn son, Prince Baelon.
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before the flames, her face a mask of pale porcelain. She had given the command—Dracarys—and her dragon, Syrax, had unleashed the fire that turned her mother and brother to ash. She did not weep. Targaryens did not weep in front of the realm. But inside, a part of her had died with them.
Beside her, King Viserys looked like a man whose soul had been scooped out. He leaned heavily on his cane, his eyes vacant, staring into the inferno. He had sacrificed his wife for a male heir, and the gods had taken both.
Prince Daemon stood a few paces back. His face was unreadable. He did not look at the fire; he looked at the gathered lords, scanning their faces. He saw grief, yes, but he also saw calculation. With the male heir dead, the succession was once again an open wound.
As the ceremony ended and the court began to disperse, a heavy silence settled over the Red Keep. But silence, for Daemon Targaryen, was intolerable.
(The Street of Silk, That Night)
Grief does strange things to men. Some weep, some pray, and some, like Daemon, seek to drown the void in wine and noise.
Daemon had rented out the entirety of a pleasure house. His Gold Cloaks filled the main hall, their golden mantles shimmering in the dim light. Casks of Arbor gold were tapped. Women sat on laps, laughter rang out, and for a moment, the gloom of the funeral was forgotten.
Daemon sat at the head of the table, a goblet in his hand. Beside him sat Mysaria, the White Worm. She was pale, slender, and watched him with eyes that missed nothing. She knew his moods better than anyone. She saw the manic energy vibrating beneath his skin.
He stood up, swaying slightly. The room went quiet.
"My loyal men," Daemon slurred, raising his cup. "We mourn today. Yes. We mourn."
A few men nodded solemnly.
"But we must also acknowledge the truth," Daemon continued, a dark grin spreading across his face. "My brother... he tried. He tried so hard. But dragons are not bred in cages."
He looked around, his violet eyes gleaming.
"To Prince Baelon!" Daemon shouted, raising the goblet high. "The Heir for a Day!"
The Gold Cloaks laughed. It was a cruel, drunken sound. They clinked cups, repeating the toast. "The Heir for a Day!"
Mysaria did not laugh. She touched Daemon's arm gently. "My Prince... careful."
Daemon shrugged her off, drinking deep. It was a joke. A dark, Valyrian joke about the fragility of life. But to anyone outside that room, it was treason.
(The Red Keep, The Following Morning)
News travels faster than dragonfire in King's Landing. By dawn, the King knew. By mid-morning, the Princess knew.
Daemon was walking through the corridors of the Red Keep, nursing a headache, when he found his path blocked.
Rhaenyra stood in the center of the hallway. She was dressed in black mourning silk, her silver hair braided tight against her skull. Her eyes, usually so full of admiration for her favorite uncle, were now cold shards of amethyst.
"Rhaenyra," Daemon said, attempting a charming smile. "I was coming to offer my comforts. The loss is—"
"Do not," she cut him off. Her voice was quiet, trembling with suppressed rage.
Daemon stopped. "Little dragon?"
"I heard what you said," Rhaenyra whispered, stepping closer. "In your brothel. With your whores and your drunkards."
Daemon's expression hardened. "It was a wake, niece. We were honoring the dead in the old way. With wine and song."
"You called him 'The Heir for a Day'," Rhaenyra spat the words as if they were poison. "My mother... she was cut open. She died screaming in a bed of blood to give my father that son. She gave her life for him."
She looked at Daemon with a mixture of heartbreak and disgust that pierced him deeper than any sword.
"And you laughed," she said, tears finally spilling from her eyes. "You toasted to his death because it brings you one step closer to the Iron Throne. Is that all we are to you, Uncle? Stepping stones?"
"I am the heir," Daemon snapped defensively. "It is the truth. Baelon could not live. I am simply stating facts."
"You are a monster," Rhaenyra said, her voice breaking. "My father loves you. I loved you. But you... you love nothing but your own reflection."
She brushed past him, her black dress rustling like dry leaves. Daemon stood there for a moment, alone in the hallway. For the first time, he felt a flicker of shame. But he crushed it instantly. He was a dragon. Dragons did not feel shame.
(The Throne Room)
The doors to the Throne Room were thrown open. Daemon walked in, expecting a reprimand, a slap on the wrist.
What he found was a judgment.
King Viserys stood at the base of the Iron Throne. He was not sitting; he was pacing, clutching the hilt of Blackfyre. Ser Otto Hightower stood nearby, looking like a cat who had finally cornered the mouse.
"Daemon," Viserys said. His voice was not loud, but it carried a terrifying finality.
"Brother," Daemon replied, bowing slightly. "I hear there are whispers about my conduct. Spies of the Hand, no doubt."
"Did you say it?" Viserys asked, turning to face him. His eyes were red from weeping, but they were dry now. "Did you toast to my dead son? Did you call him 'The Heir for a Day'?"
Daemon looked at Otto, then at Viserys. He could have denied it. But Daemon Targaryen was too proud for lies.
"I did," Daemon said boldly. "We must all mourn in our own way."
Viserys drew Blackfyre. The sound of the Valyrian steel singing filled the vast room. Daemon's hand went to Dark Sister instinctively, but he did not draw.
"You speak of mourning?" Viserys roared, stepping forward. "You were celebrating! You were laughing at my misery! At my wife's sacrifice!"
"I was celebrating that House Targaryen still stands!" Daemon shouted back. "That I still stand! I am your heir, Viserys! Why can you not see that?"
"You are no protection," Viserys said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You are a plague. I have defended you. I have forgiven you. For ten years... but no more."
Viserys pointed the sword at the door.
"I am naming Rhaenyra Princess of Dragonstone," Viserys declared. "The lords will swear fealty to her. And you... you will return to the Vale."
Daemon froze. The words hit him like a physical blow. "The Vale? You banish me to the sheep again?"
"Go to your lawful wife," Viserys commanded. "Go to Lady Rhea. Live out your days in Runestone. If you return to King's Landing without my leave, I will have your head."
Daemon looked at his brother. He saw no love in Viserys's eyes anymore. Only exhaustion.
"Very well," Daemon spat. "I will go. But do not look to the sky for help when the vultures circle your throne."
He turned on his heel and marched out.
(The Street of Silk)
Daemon did not go straight to the Dragonpit. He rode hard for the pleasure house, his mind boiling with a dark, spiteful plan.
Viserys wanted him to go to his wife? Fine. He would go. But he would not go alone.
He burst into Mysaria's chambers. She was brushing her hair, humming a melody from Lys. She stopped when she saw his face.
"Daemon?"
"Pack your things," Daemon ordered, grabbing a travel chest and throwing it open. "We are leaving."
"Leaving?" Mysaria stood up, alarmed. "Where are we going?"
Daemon stopped. He looked at her, and a cruel smile twisted his lips. It was the smile of a man who wanted to watch the world burn.
"The King has ordered me to return to my lady wife in the Vale," Daemon said. "He wants me to be a husband."
He walked over to Mysaria, cupping her face.
"So I will go," he whispered. "But I am taking you with me. You will live in Runestone. You will eat at her table. You will sleep in her castle."
Mysaria's eyes widened. "Daemon... that is madness. The Lady Rhea will—"
"The Lady Rhea will do as I say," Daemon cut her off. "I am the dragon. I do not ask for permission."
(The Skies over the Riverlands)
An hour later, Caraxes climbed into the clouds. The red dragon shrieked, struggling slightly under the weight of two riders and their trunks strapped to the saddle.
Daemon sat in front, steering the beast. Behind him, Mysaria clung to his waist, her face buried in his cloak to shield herself from the biting wind.
Daemon did not look back at the Red Keep. His mind was set. He was exiled, yes. But he would turn his exile into a weapon. He would turn Runestone into his own court, and he would force Rhea Royce to serve the woman he chose.
It was petty. It was cruel. And it was exactly what he needed to soothe his wounded pride.
As Caraxes beat his wings towards the Mountains of the Moon, Daemon Targaryen smiled into the freezing wind. He was bringing fire to the Vale, and he didn't care who got burned.