280 AC
Jon Arryn POV
The solar was bathed in soft light as I sat across from the two young men I had once thought of as boys. Robert and Ned had grown under my watch, molded in their ways, yet they were as different as fire and ice. Both of them had traits I cherished, though neither were without their flaws. Today, I held a letter that could very well stir those differences to the surface.
"A raven has come from King's Landing," I began, noting how both of their attentions sharpened instantly. "There will be a grand tourney held to celebrate one year of the Hand's rule. It is intended as a tribute to his accomplishments."
Ned's face tightened, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. His sentiments toward the current Hand, Prince Daemon Targaryen, were no secret to me. There was a starkness in his gaze, a disapproval that cut deeper than his reserved nature would ever allow him to voice openly. Robert, on the other hand, appeared mildly intrigued, perhaps apathetic at first, though I could sense the glimmer of interest.
"We have been invited, along with the other lords of the realm," I continued.
"The melee," Robert exclaimed, a gleam of excitement sparking in his deep blue eyes. "It's been far too long since we've had a proper one. Perhaps this time, I'll have a chance to knock some sense into those southern knights."
Ned remained silent, his gaze steady as it rested on the letter in my hands. Then, finally, he asked, "Will Prince Rhaegar attend? Will his wife and child be there?"
Robert's excitement faded almost instantly. Rhaegar's disappearance from the court, running off with the woman to whom his brother was betrothed, was still an open wound in the realm's honor and dignity. That Rhaegar was allowed to retain his title, his position as heir to the throne, had been a point of contention and frustration for many. Daemon, the younger brother, had usurped the Handship, humiliating Rhaegar publicly. He had forced him to walk naked through the streets of King's Landing to the Great Sept of Baelor, parading his brother's shame before the masses. It was a cruel act, one that Daemon had clearly savored, and afterward, Rhaegar was exiled to Dragonstone, stripped of any real influence or power.
"I doubt we will see Prince Rhaegar at the tourney," I replied, my voice neutral. "Nor his wife, Princess Cersei, and their daughter, Visenya."
The realm had been abuzz, waiting anxiously to hear whether Rhaegar's child would be a son or a daughter. Whispers of civil war had circulated like poison in a cup, with many fearing that Tywin Lannister might use the birth of a boy as an excuse to press his own ambitions. But a daughter had been born, and Tywin's designs had been momentarily thwarted.
Ned's face grew dark as he spoke, his tone tinged with a barely controlled anger. "Prince Daemon wouldn't risk his celebration by allowing Rhaegar to attend."
Robert scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. "He's never been one for sharing the spotlight. Always makes sure he has the room, the cheers, the adulation."
Despite my own misgivings about Daemon's methods, I could not deny his effectiveness. The Darklyn Rebellion had left an indelible mark on the realm's memory, a stark reminder of the costs of defiance. Daemon had put down the rebellion with brutal efficiency, slaughtering every last Darklyn in the harsh light of day, making a grisly spectacle of it for all to witness. Ned found such excess distasteful, unnecessary—he would have preferred a quieter, more private approach to justice. Yet, I understood that Daemon's ruthlessness had achieved a message that would linger in the minds of any lord considering defiance.
I turned to Robert, raising an eyebrow. "What news from Stannis?"
"Stannis is all praise for Daemon," Robert muttered, his tone sharp with irritation. "He writes of Daemon's reforms as if he were the bloody Seven come to earth, going on about the order in the city, the discipline. It's nauseating."
There was a flicker of jealousy in Robert's voice, a note I was careful to file away. Though he would never admit it openly, Robert did not appreciate hearing his brother praise Daemon so highly. Stannis, for all his unyielding loyalty and hard sense of duty, respected Daemon's mind, even as it seemed to irritate Robert all the more.
I could not help but think of Daemon's approach to governance. Contrary to the assumptions of many, myself included, he had taken the reins of power with startling competence. I had expected a spendthrift, a wastrel like Aegon the Unworthy, one who would squander the realm's wealth on wine, women, and song. But Daemon had been different. Though he enjoyed his pleasures, he approached the throne room with a mind as sharp as a Valyrian steel sword. He had taken to his duties with the skill and focus of a true ruler, bringing order to King's Landing, tightening the crown's coffers, and even managing the kingdom's finances with the precision of a master steward.
His excesses, however, had not gone unnoticed. A man with less ambition might have settled into his position quietly, content to play the part of Hand without overshadowing the throne. But Daemon had chosen to make his mark, to brand his authority into the very heart of the realm, and that ambition worried me. For though he ruled well, his hunger for power burned brightly, casting shadows across his deeds.
And there lay my advantage. As Daemon grew bolder, he would inevitably overreach, his arrogance leading him toward a mistake—a misstep that I would be ready to exploit. I had no illusions about the importance of Daemon's rule, and yet I could not shake the desire to see him falter. It was a quiet yearning, buried beneath layers of duty and allegiance, but it was there all the same.
Ned's steady voice interrupted my thoughts. "Prince Daemon's rule may be harsh, but he's kept order in the realm."
"Order," Robert scoffed, disdain sharpening his tone. "Only Stannis could respect that man for it. Daemon's as ruthless as the dragons of old. He may dress it up as order, but it's just control, and Stannis is too blind to see it."
A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, hidden by the shadows of the room. Robert's disdain was a tool, one I could use when the time came. There was strength in Robert's impulsiveness, a raw power that could be channeled against Daemon's rule should the moment arise. And Ned—Ned's righteous nature would be my shield, his honor a beacon that would lend legitimacy to any move I chose to make.
For now, I would wait, content to let Daemon's rule unfold as it would. Let him parade his victories, bask in the glory he had carved out for himself. His time would come, and when it did, I would be there to steer the course of events, to guide these two young men—Robert and Ned—toward a future that suited my design.
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Rickard Pov
The letters lay in front of me, a stack of thick parchment bound with wax seals from all across the realm. They were tidings from the south, mostly—petitions, summons, and updates on the ever-complicated politics of King's Landing and beyond. I felt the weight of it all in my bones, an ache that seemed to settle in my shoulders as I scanned the lines of inked script, letters from lords who would never understand the severity of life beyond the Neck. There was little warmth in the cold air of the solar, the stone walls thick with the chill of Winterfell, and yet it was home—unchanging, resolute.
A shuffle at the door drew my attention, and I raised my head to see my children enter. Brandon, my eldest and heir, strode forward with that same reckless confidence that seemed to define his every step. He was followed by Lyanna, my only daughter, a spark of wildness in her eyes, and last came Benjen, my youngest son, still bearing the softness of boyhood, though there was a steady resolve in him that showed promise.
"Father, what's wrong? You look tired," Benjen observed, his voice tinged with concern.
I couldn't help but soften as I reached out to ruffle his dark hair. "I'm all right, boy. Nothing to trouble yourself over."
But Brandon, ever brash, broke in, his voice edged with frustration. "It's that prince's fault, isn't it? Prince Daemon and his damned schemes."
I raised a brow, a flicker of curiosity turning to caution. "Oh?"
"He's been shipping the scum from King's Landing to the Wall, Father," Brandon growled, his voice lowering as if the walls themselves might hear him. "Alongside dragonglass, to fight the demons in Old Nan's tales. He sends the filth he doesn't want clogging his streets up north and acts like he's doing us a favor."
I kept my voice steady, a coldness slipping in like frost. "What Prince Daemon has done is provide the Night's Watch with additional hands to keep the wildlings at bay. Lord Commander Qorgyle has been able to increase the patrols along the Wall, and the influx of men is a boon, Brandon. Do not let your disdain for the south cloud your judgment. You are a Stark of Winterfell."
Brandon held my gaze for a moment, unrepentant, though he said nothing more. His restlessness was in his blood, the same wolfish spirit that ran deep in our line. But it was more than his wildness that troubled me; there was a rashness in him, a hunger for excitement and chaos that he rarely knew how to temper. As much as I wanted him to understand the weight of duty, it was not always clear that he would learn without trial.
Lyanna's voice broke the silence, filled with a brightness that felt out of place in the solemn air of the solar. "Father, are we going to the tourney?"
I looked at her, my only daughter, with a mix of pride and apprehension. She had just turned thirteen, and there was still a softness to her that I cherished, even as I worried it would be swept away in the currents of a world far harsher than Winterfell. The south was not a place I wished to expose her to so soon, but it was time she saw beyond the North.
"Aye," I replied, and her face broke into a radiant smile. It was her first chance to travel south, to see the places she'd heard of only in tales and stories, and I could not deny her the excitement. But that was not all I needed from her—and from Brandon and Benjen as well.
"That is why I have summoned you here," I said, leaning forward, my gaze fixing on Brandon. "When I leave with your siblings, you will be the Stark of Winterfell. You will be responsible for these lands and the people who depend on us."
There was a spark of pride in his eyes as he straightened. "I'll make you proud, Father," he said, an earnestness behind the grin he wore.
I nodded, though inwardly, I was cautious. Brandon's enthusiasm was never in question; his loyalty was beyond doubt. Yet there were times when I wondered if he truly understood what it meant to lead, to put duty above every desire, every whim. Winterfell needed more than a wolf's boldness—it needed patience, foresight, and a tempered hand. I could only hope the boy would learn, and that the weight of this responsibility would shape him, not break him.
I turned my gaze to Lyanna and Benjen. They were young, but they needed to learn the ways of the world beyond the Wall and Winterfell. "The two of you will accompany me south," I said, my tone softening as I spoke to them. "But remember, the people of the south are not like those of the North. Many are treacherous. Some will smile and offer you friendship while keeping daggers hidden at their sides. You must always be wary."
Lyanna's smile faded, and Benjen's expression grew serious. They both watched me intently, absorbing my words with a gravity beyond their years. It was a harsh lesson, but one I knew they would need, for we lived in a world where trust was a precious and rare thing, especially when one carried the name Stark.
"When the snows fall, and the white winds blow…" I began, my voice deepening, each word weighted with the solemnity of our house. These were words I'd etched into them since they were barely old enough to stand at my knee.
In unison, their voices rose to meet mine, steady and unwavering. "The pack survives, but the lone wolf dies."
I let the silence stretch after, letting the truth of those words settle over them. They were young, but already they were Starks through and through—wolves born to face a world of lions, dragons, and serpents. The south would test them, perhaps seek to weaken or turn them. And yet, I trusted that no matter the cunning of those southern lords or the cruelty of their courts, my children would hold their ground. We were the wolves of Winterfell. We were different. We endured.
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Hoster Pov
The light in the solar was dim, filtered through thick stone walls and narrow windows that let in more cold than sun. The flickering flames in the hearth threw shadows across the chamber as I sat, my eyes tracing the worn words on the letter in my hand. My fingers tightened around it; the message from King's Landing was troubling, but it was the implications behind it that truly set me on edge.
My brother, Brynden, entered without a knock, his step easy and unbothered as he caught sight of me. He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What's got your balls in a twist, brother?" he asked, his tone mocking, though I knew him well enough to sense his curiosity.
I scowled and handed him the letter, watching as he scanned the lines, his brows knitting as he read.
"At least we'll get to see Lysa," he remarked, though his tone held a hint of apprehension. His casualness barely masked the tension beneath. My youngest daughter was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, a prestigious position, but one I often feared placed her far too close to the court's intrigue.
"Aye," I replied with a sigh. "Catelyn and Demure will be happy to see their sister again." But my gaze drifted, thinking not of the reunion but of the complexities surrounding it. My daughters were dear to me, but in this game, they were also valuable pieces. And I would use every tool at my disposal if it meant securing the future of House Tully.
Brynden folded the letter, handing it back to me with a knowing look. "And how's your new squire doing?" I asked, changing the subject, though the weight of my thoughts remained.
"Eldric's a good lad," he replied, shrugging. "Quick on his feet, sharp with his blade. He'll make a fine knight someday." He spoke with pride, and I nodded in acknowledgment.
"It will be good for him to meet Lysa," I ventured, glancing at him, testing his reaction. But as expected, Brynden's expression soured.
"I thought you stopped playing these games, Hoster," he said, his voice low and cutting. "Lysa's your daughter, not some pawn to be bartered and traded away."
My jaw clenched, and I fought back a retort, reminding myself to stay calm. "Eldric Arryn is the heir to Jon Arryn," I replied, my voice controlled but firm. "By betrothing him to Lysa, we solidify an alliance that could be the final knot in a noose tying us to one of the most powerful men in the realm."
Brynden scoffed, his disdain palpable. "You speak of nooses and knots as if you're binding the realm itself, but tell me, Hoster—what of Lysa's wishes? Or does her wishes not matter at all? Do you not love your own daughter ?"
"Do not talk to me of love, Brynden," I snapped. "This isn't some game played in back rooms or petty courtships. This is about survival. It's about ensuring House Tully's future."
I gripped the arms of my chair, my fingers curling tight around the carved wood as Brynden stood before me, as unmovable as stone. His face was a mask, but his eyes, those familiar Tully eyes, carried an accusation that burned hotter than any torch. "The Hand of the King is no friend to you, Hoster. He warned you all those years ago." Brynden's voice was steady, controlled. But I knew him well enough to hear the frustration beneath the calm.
I exhaled sharply, more to clear my own thoughts than anything else. "That boy, that Targaryen boy who calls himself the Hand," I said, bitterness lacing my words, "he thinks too much of himself. What does he have, truly? His bloodline? His title? He carries the name Targaryen, and that's all he has to his name."
Brynden's gaze sharpened. "His title is enough, and it carries weight in these halls. You know that, Hoster." He paced across the room, his boots hitting the stone with an unyielding rhythm. "Despite what everyone whispers in secret, the House of the Dragon still rules—and it rules in division. After what Daemon did to Rhaegar, imprisoning him on Dragonstone, they've split their loyalties. House Lannister no longer favors them, and Tywin himself will back the Crown Prince against both the king and Daemon."
I allowed a slow, dark smile to spread across my lips, savoring the irony. "A house divided will fall," I muttered, more to myself than to Brynden. "And the dragons—the Targaryens—are no exception. They lost their dragons more than a century ago. Why do they still sit on the Iron Throne? What strength do they truly have?"
Brynden's hand clenched as he stared at me, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "Hoster, what you're suggesting… it's treason. Have you forgotten what we stand for? Our duty? Our honor?"
"Have you forgotten, Brynden, the very words of our house?" I leaned forward, my voice low and insistent. "Family, Duty, Honor. Family comes first, brother. Our family must come first."
Brynden shook his head, his mouth a tight line. "Family comes first, yes—but not at the expense of our honor. And this… this is your pride talking, not loyalty to family. You're letting old grudges twist your heart."
"Old grudges? I am merely seeing things clearly, brother. Unlike you," I said, barely able to contain my resentment. I rose from the chair, the firelight casting shadows across my face as I met his gaze. "You're too loyal to the notion of honor, Brynden. You've always held it like a shield before you. But it blinds you to reality. Those Targaryens have kept us all bound to their whims, no matter the cost. How long must we bow to their arrogance?"
Brynden's expression turned hard. "So, what is your plan, Hoster? Do you think aligning yourself against the crown is some noble cause? You're playing a dangerous game, and you risk dragging all of Riverrun into ruin with your reckless pride."
I laughed—a bitter, humorless sound. "Reckless? We've watched these Targaryens tear each other apart, Daemon imprisoning his own kin and sowing division at every turn. And you think I am reckless? House Lannister has already shifted their support, you know that. Tywin himself would see the Iron Throne ruled by a strong hand like him than the current hand , and he has no love for Daemon or Aerys for that matter.
"Tywin cares for nothing but power," Brynden said, his voice rising with an uncharacteristic anger. "This isn't about family, Hoster. This is about your own pride and your willingness to seize any opportunity, no matter the risk."
My jaw tightened as I met his gaze, my patience slipping. "It's not pride, Brynden—it's survival. I do what I must to ensure our family's future, to protect Riverrun from the chaos that's to come. You're blind if you think loyalty to a crumbling dynasty will shield us."
"And you're blind if you think betrayal will bring you anything but ruin." Brynden's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You're no better than the lords who led rebellions of old, driven by their own ambitions and forgetting the very oaths they swore."
The anger flared hot in my chest, and I took a step closer. "Enough. I've had my fill of your lectures, Brynden. This is my choice. My path."
He held my gaze for a long, tense moment before shaking his head slowly. "Then you're a fool." He turned on his heel, striding toward the door.
I couldn't resist a final parting shot. "Walk away, brother, if that's what you choose. But know this—you're no true Tully if you place duty above family."
"Gladly," he shot back, without turning around. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dim firelight.
I sank back into my chair, my mind racing with thoughts of the Targaryens, Tywin, and the precarious future we faced. Brynden was a fool, but there was a part of me—small, hidden—that wondered if he might be right. Was it pride that drove me? Or was it the unyielding belief that only through bold action could I protect our house?
But there was no turning back now. The wheels were already in motion, and I would see it through. The House of Targaryen was a relic, unworthy of the power it held. And if I had to stand alone to see their downfall, so be it.
After all, Family came first. Even if it meant breaking with Honor.
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Oberyn Martell Pov
"Who is the cutest baby in all the world?" I murmured, cradling my niece gently in my arms.
Myrcella Lannister was the name given by my sister Elia and her husband. The child was a striking blend of her parents. She had her father's emerald-green eyes and golden hair, but her skin bore a warm undertone reminiscent of our Dornish heritage. A perfect melding of two worlds, I thought as I placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Myrcella stirred briefly but then quieted, her little fingers curling into the fabric of my tunic.
A nursemaid approached, bowing slightly, and took the baby from my arms. I reluctantly let go, my gaze trailing after her as she carried Myrcella to the bassinet. Turning, I looked at my sister, lying pale and exhausted on the bed.
The birth had taken a heavy toll on Elia, leaving her fragile. Maester Symon had prescribed complete rest for the foreseeable future. Though her body seemed frail, her spirit remained resilient.
"Is she not beautiful, Jaime?" Elia said softly, her voice carrying a blend of exhaustion and pride as she looked at her husband.
Jaime Lannister sat beside her, his golden hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window. He looked uncharacteristically serene, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile.
"Yes, she is, my love," he replied, leaning over to kiss Elia's hand.
I settled on the chair beside the bed, watching the intimate moment. Jaime seemed at ease, but I knew him well enough to catch the subtle tension in his posture. The Lannisters, for all their riches and power, were never free of schemes and shadows.
The door creaked open, and our elder brother Doran entered the room with his usual quiet dignity. As the Prince of Dorne, his mere presence commanded attention. His expression was grave as he addressed Jaime.
"The Lord of Casterly Rock summons you," he said, his tone polite but firm.
Jaime nodded, pressing another kiss to Elia's hand before rising. "Rest well, my love. I'll return soon."
With that he departed, leaving only the three of us—siblings, bound by blood and fate.
As the door closed, I turned to Doran, arching an eyebrow. "So, what did the Lion say?"
"Tywin Lannister is not pleased," Doran replied, his voice as steady as ever.
I laughed bitterly. "Of course, he isn't. The great Tywin Lannister, blessed with not one but two granddaughters, yet still dissatisfied. What did he expect? Grandsons falling from the heavens like rain?"
Doran's lips twitched into a faint smile. "The King, however, is delighted. A healthy daughter born to the Crown Prince has eased his fears, much to Tywin's chagrin."
Elia, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. "My goodmother wrote to me about Visenya Targaryen. She is thriving, though Cersei has not fared well after childbirth. The strain was too much for her, it seems."
She paused, her eyes softening. "But she is grateful to Prince Daemon for allowing her to visit her daughter. She says she cannot wait to meet Myrcella as well."
I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. "That woman is far too good for a man like Tywin Lannister."
"Brother, mind your tongue," Doran chided. "You are in the man's castle."
I waved a hand dismissively but held my tongue—for now.
Doran shifted the conversation. "The King has announced a grand tourney to honor Prince Daemon's first year as Hand of the King."
The mention of a tourney brightened my mood. "It will be a spectacle, brother. The King has tasked me, as the Master of Scions, with ensuring it is an occasion to remember."
Doran's expression darkened. "Do not lose yourself in frivolities, Oberyn. Your loyalty lies with House Martell, not the Prince."
His words stung, and I shot him a glare. "And what loyalty do you speak of? The one that binds us to the Lannisters? A family we should not trust?"
Doran's voice was sharp but measured. "You underestimate the significance of alliances. There are factions in the court, Oberyn. One supports King Aerys; the other rallies behind the Crown Prince. We must tread carefully."
"And you believe aligning with the Lannisters is the answer?" I asked incredulously.
"It is the wisest course," Doran replied firmly. "Through them, we support the Crown Prince and secure our place."
I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. "You are a fool to think Rhaegar holds any real power. The true power lies in the hands of Daemon, and you are blind to it."
"And you," Doran countered, his voice rising, "are blinded by your infatuation with Daemon Targaryen. You fail to see the storm brewing, the realm teetering on the edge of civil war."
Our argument grew heated, voices clashing until Elia, who had been silent, raised her voice. "Enough! I will not have my brothers tearing at each other."
Her words silenced us, and we turned to her, chastened.
Elia's expression softened as she changed the subject. "The tourney will bring every great house to the capital. Even my goodfather will attend."
She looked at me, her eyes questioning. "Will the Hand of the King recall Rhaegar from Dragonstone?"
The question hit me like a blow. I hesitated, searching for an answer I did not have. "I do not know, sister. He has not revealed his plans to me."
Doran, ever the strategist, pressed further. "And why is he in Pentos?"
I sighed, my gaze distant. "Daemon said he would return either with glory unparalleled, ensuring his name is remembered throughout history, or empty-handed. He does not do things by half-measures."
Doran's expression softened, a rare occurrence. "He is an enigma," he admitted.
I laughed, though it was tinged with helplessness. "That he is, brother. That he is."
As the conversation waned, my thoughts drifted to Daemon Targaryen, imagining what schemes and triumphs he might be pursuing in the Free Cities.
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Daemon Pov
The music of the bards echoed through the grand hall, a lively symphony of strings and flutes that seemed to dance with the flickering light of the chandeliers. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasted meats, exotic spices, and the sweet tang of Pentoshi wines. Laughter and chatter reverberated across the room, a symphony of decadence, and at its center stood I, Prince Daemon Targaryen.
The Free City of Pentos had opened its gates to me as if I were a conqueror come to claim it, though no swords were drawn. The only battles fought here were with goblets raised and tongues loosened. Every night since my arrival had been a feast, a celebration of excess, with food and drink flowing as freely as the Sea of Myrth.
I sat amongst the crowd of Pentoshi nobles, their silken robes shimmering in the golden light. Their faces, flushed with drink, turned to me with admiration—or at least the pretense of it. This was a city where masks were worn not on the face but in the heart.
"Prince Daemon," came a familiar voice, cutting through the din.
I turned to see the Prince of Pentos himself, a corpulent man with cheeks flushed red from wine and a permanent sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He approached with arms outstretched, embracing me warmly.
"My friend," he exclaimed, his voice booming over the music. "The magisters have approved the trade deal!"
A smile spread across my face as I embraced him in return. "That is wonderful news, my prince. Your wisdom and persuasion have made this possible."
He beamed at the flattery, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "You honor me, my lord," he said, leaning closer. "And as for that scheming cur Illyrio Mopatis, you have leave to deal with him and his whore of a wife as you see fit."
I inclined my head, my smile sharp. "Your generosity does you credit, my prince."
With a gesture, the prince called for silence, and the din of the hall gradually faded. All eyes turned to me as I ascended the dais, my hand resting lightly on the hilt of Darksister, its dragonbone pommel cool beneath my fingers. The blade, a legacy of my house, gleamed in the torchlight—a reminder of Valyria's lost glory.
I raised the sword high, its shadow stretching across the hall. The crowd stilled, anticipation hanging thick in the air.
"To all the nobles, magisters, and their families gathered here tonight," I began, my voice carrying over the hall. "It is said that bonds forged in fire are unbreakable. And so it is with the bond between Pentos and House Targaryen. Through fire and blood, through triumph and tribulation, we have stood together, our destinies intertwined."
I paused, scanning the room, meeting the eyes of those gathered.
"Pentos, one of the most beautiful daughters of Valyria, has always held a special place in the heart of my house. My namesake, Daemon Targaryen, once walked these very streets, praising your city's magnificence. And now, here I stand, honored to continue the legacy of unity between us."
I felt a slight slur creep into my words, the wine I had consumed loosening my tongue. No matter. The crowd was rapt, their cheers a balm to my ego.
"So let us raise our cups," I declared, lifting my goblet high. "To the enduring bond between Pentos and House Targaryen. To achieving greatness, hand in hand!"
A roar erupted from the crowd as goblets were lifted and clashed together in a cacophony of toasts. The bards struck up a triumphant tune, and the revelry resumed with renewed vigor.
As I descended the dais, I was surrounded almost immediately by Pentoshi beauties, their jeweled gowns clinging to their forms, their eyes glittering with desire—or ambition. Perhaps both. They laughed at every jest I made, their hands brushing against mine, their lips whispering promises of pleasures untold.
I could not help but grin. My time in Pentos had been one of indulgence, of nights spent losing myself in the embrace of silken sheets and softer skin. A prince, after all, should enjoy the fruits of life, should he not?
The feast was winding down, though the energy in the hall had not dimmed. Laughter echoed across the room as wine flowed freely, and the air was heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced perfumes. I stood at the edge of the festivities, my gaze scanning the crowd. A dark-haired Pentoshi woman, her gown barely clinging to her curves, approached with a bold smile. She slid her hand into mine, her eyes full of mischief as she gently tugged me toward the shadows.
I chuckled, allowing myself to be led, but before we could leave, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. A hush fell over the room as all eyes turned to the figure who entered.
She was a vision of fire and shadow. Her gown, a deep crimson that shimmered like molten gold, clung to her slender frame, emphasizing her narrow waist and graceful curves. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, fell in waves down her back, and her pale, unblemished skin seemed to glow in the dim light. Most striking of all were her eyes—deep red, like embers smoldering in a dying fire, and full of an otherworldly intensity that froze me in place.
"Prince Daemon," she said, her voice melodic yet firm. The way she spoke my name was both a caress and a command.
The Pentoshi woman beside me quickly dropped my hand, bowing her head as she backed away. I straightened, a smile spreading across my face as I strode forward to meet the red priestess.
"Melisandre," I said, my voice soft but laden with feeling. "It has been too long."
Her lips curved into a faint smile, though there was a trace of disapproval in her gaze as she took in my slightly disheveled appearance. "My prince," she said, her tone measured, "you reek of wine and indulgence."
"And why shouldn't I?" I replied, grinning as I spread my arms. "Is it not the Pentoshi way to revel in life's pleasures?"
She stepped closer, her fiery gaze unwavering. "You may enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, my prince, but not at the cost of forgetting your purpose."
Before I could reply, she reached for my hand. Her touch was cool and commanding, and without another word, she led me from the hall. My guards followed at a respectful distance as we wound through the corridors of the palace, their footsteps echoing faintly behind us.
Once inside my chambers, I could no longer control myself and pulled Melisandre close to me, feeling her warmth against my chest. I ran my hands over her body, grabbing onto her shapely rear as I began kissing her neck. "I have missed you," I murmured between kisses, using my other hand to caress her thigh.
"My prince, I have brought what you desired," she said breathlessly as she looked up at me with a small smile. "Benerro, the High Priest of the Lord of Light, received a vision and upon my arrival, he entrusted it to me."
"Fuck yes," I muttered as I kissed Melisandre's lips once more, feeling myself grow impatient with need. I quickly removed her dress, eager to be inside her. As she undid my pants and they fell to the ground, I pushed her onto the bed and thrust myself inside her, relishing in the feeling of her warm insides.
"I have seen visions, my prince," she gasped out between moans. "Visions of you achieving what has not been done in centuries."
As I continued to move within her, Melisandre spoke of prophecies and destinies, of me being the promised Azor Ahai and the one who will bring dragons back to life. And as she rode on top of me, I could feel myself reaching my peak. "Melisandre," I moaned out her name as I found release.
As we lay spent on the bed, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the chamber, my gaze shifted to the case placed at the foot of the bed. Its intricate carvings gleamed faintly in the dim light, drawing my attention as if it were alive. When the lid was lifted, revealing the contents within, I felt a surge of power unlike anything I had ever experienced.
Three dragon eggs, each one pulsing with an energy so fierce and raw it seemed to vibrate the very air around us. The scales of the eggs shimmered, glistening like liquid fire, reflecting the light in a hypnotic dance. The weight of their potential, their purpose, was undeniable.
I could feel the power radiating from them, a power that called to something deep within me—a hunger, a desire to claim what was mine by birthright. Dragons. The very creatures that had once ruled the skies and seas, that had forged empires and brought kings to their knees. These eggs—these were the key to the rise of House Targaryen once again.
"This world is about to burn, priestess," I said, my voice low and filled with resolve. "And when it does, I will be the one to wield its flames."
The dragons would rise. The world would kneel. And I would be the one to lead them all.