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Baelon Targaryen
"What do you know of dragons, Daemon?" Baelon asked, the mighty Vhagar purring under his gentle touch. His son straightened.
"They are not beasts, no matter what the smallfolk or Lords whisper. They are of our blood, our equals." His son was a man grown now, fifteen and strapping. He reminded the Hand of Alyssa with every step he took.
"Aye. The maesters would make those believe a dragon chooses a rider or vice versa, yet that is not so." The winds were fierce on the plains of Dragonstone, where hatchlings and adult wyrms alike either ignored or eyed the Last Daughter of Valyria and her kin warily.
"Think of it as a marriage, you take one, and it's for life. One does not own the other." Daemon made a face at that but nodded. He was still too young to fully understand, but he would soon.
There were plenty for her and Daemon to choose from. The glorious gold and pink the commoners named 'Sunfyre.' His aunt Rhaena's fierce Dreamfyre is splendid as a clear summer sky. Syrax, a fierce she-dragon, and that was not to mention the wild ones on Dragonstone- the Cannibal, the Grey Ghost that flitted around like the mist of a cool autumn morn, and the unnamed ruddy brown dragon that took a liking to the shepherds' flocks. There were young dragonlings too, yet too small to bear weight, but sometimes that produced the strongest bonds. Baelon's son smirked and uncoiled his whip.
"I have long thought about this day, father. There is only one dragon worthy of me, only one that could bring honor and contest my sire's. Viserys was a fool to choose Balerion." The Hand's smile died at that. He did not want to entertain the thought of dragon brother and sister fighting, even in theory. It twisted in his stomach like a knife.
"Which?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
"The Blood Wyrm. Caraxes." Daemon shrugged as though the choice was obvious and walked briskly to the lairs within the Dragonmont.
"He is not to be trifled with. You must be careful." The Hand warned. Another toothy grin flashed in his direction.
"And neither am I." Smoke rose from the dragon's keep like fog floating along the sea. Baelon could see the red outline of Caraxes in the distance, and his heart lurched. The dragon had gone rogue since he'd failed to protect his brother Aemon, and he feared for his son. Alyssa, save me, He thought.
Caraxes roared straight into Daemon's face when he reached touching distance, yet the man did not flinch. He laughed in the dragon's face; R'hllor help him and snapped his whip down hard on Caraxes' snout. Baelon the Brave's son indeed.
The dragon reared back, fire building in his throat, when Daemon roared his command again, lashing wherever he could reach. It could only tickle the dragon, Baelon knew, but now even Vhagar's attention was grasped, and she hummed at his side. It sounded like a laugh.
The Blood Wyrm cocked his head, thinking, and then brushed it against Daemon with a surprising gentleness. The Hand's son rubbed along the huge jaw.
"Are we not the same? Hm?" He asked in earnest. Caraxes grumbled in stubborn agreement. Then to Baelon's amazement, his late brother's mount lowered his wing and accepted Daemon mounting him. The two leaped into the sky with a cry, and Vhagar roared out with them. Baelon hastily climbed her back to join them, and together father and son owned the skies.
96 AC
Queen Alysanne Targaryen sat in her lavishly furnished chambers and stared at the cloudy sky above. She longed to ride her dragon again, and there were no such comforts on the ground that could compare to the sheer ecstasy and freedom of a few minutes on her beloved Silverwing. But as much as she will it so, being sixty years old, her joints creaked, her bones bowed, and her body ravaged by births and miscarriages prevented her from ever experiencing it again.
But she's made her peace with it long ago and focused herself with the matters of her children and grandchildren, especially with her bullheaded son Baelon and unruly grandson Daemon. Though both deny it, father and son were truly alike; their passions burn hot, and their stubbornness was a thing of songs.
Baelon was her fourth child and oldest yet living, was all an heir supposed to be, but tragedy after tragedy slowly eroded the charming and optimistic lad to a bitter, cynical man whose actions drove a wedge between his sons.
Daemon was such a product of this wedge. Even at barely five and ten, the brash youth was as self-important and pleasure-seeking as her ill-fated daughter Viserra.
And seven help her if she would make the same mistake again.
Daemon Targaryen
Though it has only been a moons turn since Prince Daemon Targaryen bonded with his late uncle Aemon's dragon, Caraxes, the princeling, and the beast, also known as the Blood Wyrm, has already flown around the island of Dragonstone nearly a hundred times. A strapping young man of five and ten with silver hair and deep purple eyes, Daemon much resembled the dragonlords of Valyria as he maneuvered through the sky with speed and agility.
Three years ago, his older brother Viserys bonded with Balerion whilst he was six and ten. The massive dragon that saw Valyria at its height and lived for more than two centuries had grown old and weak, barely able to circle around the city of Kings Landing a few times, then died not a year later. As with the tradition between his Uncle and his father, he claimed a mount whilst a year younger. And with Caraxes itself approaching him on the Dragonmount, it seemed like a sign of the gods.
Daemon urged his dragon higher, ignoring the chill and strong winds. Higher they went until Dragonstone disappeared beneath the clouds, and then a familiar sight greeted him; the sun unhindered and its heat slowly warming him, a never-ending blanket of white clouds spread under his dragon's wings, and a sense of freedom one could only feel gliding through the air.
He closed his eyes and released Caraxes's reigns, and reminisced a memory from long ago: he sat on a saddle much like his own, the Sun and clouds in front of him. He remembers being warm despite the cold as a pair of arms wrapped around him.
"Magnificent, isn't it, Daemon?" A gentle voice cooed in his ear. "Only Dragonriders can see sights such as this." He remembers only nodding, so in awe of what was before him.
His mother, Princess Alyssa, looked down on her son and smiled. "And you're my brave little dragon."
Daemon remembers her caring mismatched eyes, one deep violet, and the other startling green. Her brilliant smile while on dragon back and her long silver-gold hair fluttered in the wind as she rode. But try as he might, he can't seem to remember much else, and no other memories of her were as clear. He can't remember how she walked, how she cared for him, or anything motherly, the only thing with any resonance was them soaring in the sky, and to his frustration, it was never enough.
Crestfallen, he guided his dragon to a slow descent. "Why can't I remember her?" he pondered.
Daemon thought little of his descent as the sky below, for it was like many before. The clouds were overcast, and the winds fair. That was until he saw a large figure approach Dragonstone. At first, he thought it'd be a ship, but as he came closer, its speed and the unmistakable dark moss-green scales of Vhagar became clear, and that could only mean his father had come to visit.
He could only curse and groan through the rushing air as he landed on the mouth of a cave near the eastern walls of Dragonstone, as this was where Caraxes made its lair.
A person he recognized as Haegon, a brave or foolish youth near his age that feeds sheep to his voracious dragon after every day. He wore a Black and Red tabard with a Targaryen fire-breathing tri-headed dragon in the center with feathered velvet hat denoting his status as keeper of a royal dragon. Haegon bowed whilst he dismounted as he needed no aid, even though Caraxes stood taller than two men on the ground.
Haegon's family has the largest flock of sheep in Dragonstone and supplied meat to Targaryen dragons long before Aegon, and his sisters conquered most of Westeros. Whilst his silvery gold hair and bluish-purple eyes denoted Valyrian heritage, Haegon's strapping body came from carrying meals to his dragon on the far side of the castle. Dragonlords having a dalliance from daughters of such families Haegon's were not unheard of, and some even are proud of having, as they call, a "Dragon Seed" in the family.
Though Daemon won't go as far as calling him friend, he is certainly impressed with the ease and confidence with which the keeper approached his mount. Hardened knights and men-at-arms flinch and tremble at every movement his dragon makes, but for Haegon, it's little more than an afterthought.
When freed from saddle and bridle, Caraxes entered the cave with a quickness one did not expect from a large beast; its blood-red tail slinked towards the dark cave with smoke billowing from the cave's mouth. "He seems to be livelier than usual, your grace," Haegon observed.
"Mayhaps the cause was Vhagar's return to the island?" Daemon asked as he undid the laces of his riding vest himself and handing it to Haegon. "Has there been word of my father's arrival?"
"None as of yet, your grace." Said Haegon with a riding harness and vest in hand. "He merely stayed long enough for Vhagar to be escorted to its lair in the Dragonmont."
Daemon breathed a small sigh of relief, as spending even a mere moment of his time with the self-righteous and 'honorable' father 'would truly be an ordeal equaled only to the depths of the seven hells. Since he "exiled" him, Daemon hadn't been on the best terms with him, he hoped he could meet Gael again, his aunt was quite sweet.
"Though... her grace Queen Alysanne did call for you."
Daemon grimaced at those words, for they sounded eerily similar to when he was exiled in all but name to Dragonstone after getting caught with a young serving girl in the Red Keep. Prince Baelon the Brave burned bright red upon when he learned of his sons' deed and would've sent him to a septum or the wall if he hadn't suppressed the laugh at his father's rage.
While bonding with Caraxes seemed to be a fair enough trade, he still lusts for a woman's touch as any young princeling his age would. But yearn as he might, all three whore houses on the island answered to his grandmother, as does every other woman on Dragonstone, be they blushing virgin maids or laundresses with a score of whelps.
And Good Queen Alysanne was a harsh taskmaster in her own right, making him long for his lessons with Septon Manfryd and Grand Maester Elysar's droning lectures back at the capital, though her back was bowed after many long years of shouldering the burden of rule with his grandfather and birthing many children, she still commands authority and anyone who thought otherwise would be charmed or most often than not humbled with her intelligence and wit.
Or, in Daemon's case, sheer criticisms made him slightly doubt his worth.
"Tell my beloved grandmother I'm unwell from my flight and wish to retire to my chambers." He tried to walk away, but Haegon wasn't made keeper of a Targaryen dragon to be deceived in such a way. Boy's voice cut through the sounds of blowing winds and crashing waves below. "That would be unwise, your grace!"
"And why would that be?"
"I know not more than you, your grace, but it concerns Prince Baelon as well...." Haegon hesitated, fearful at what might happen if he didn't bring Daemon to his father and fearful still at what how he'll fare against the princes' temper. "Your presence was sternly insisted."
The Prince raised his eyebrows in surprise. What could be so important to call his father from his duties as heir and call on his unruly son?
But now, wearing only a shirt and riding pants, he could feel his sweat dry while his skin got colder from the winds. "Seven hells," Daemon said, frustrated.
"Apologies, your grace!" said Haegon as he ran to catch up to the prince, carrying dragon saddle and its harnesses to the door.
After washing and getting changed into a fine red silken doublet, Daemon headed to the castle's central keep, named the Stone Drum, for the booming and rumbling sounds that can be heard during storms. Ser Clement Crabb, a knight of the Kingsguard, accompanied him. A man of the stout frame and his once coppery brown hair receded from his forehead, now mostly grey and peppered with white; he's a full head shorter than the princes' six feet two inches, but under the white enameled plate lies years of martial experience, Daemons many bruises in the training yards can attest to that.
"Have you any idea why my father has come here, Ser?" Daemon asked the knight.
The knight shook his head and kept pace behind the princeling. "It is his right as the Prince of Dragonstone. Is it not your grace?"
"Yet he came alone and on dragon back no less," Daemon said.
"All I know, your grace, is that a knight has come from The North last night, and her grace Alysanne sent a raven to your father immediately."
Now, Daemon was intrigued. What would the savage of The North want with the South?
"Truly? Who is this visitor then to have the Prince of Dragonstone fly from Kings Landing on such short notice?" he asked. "And why haven't I even heard about this knight?"
"I know not your grace."
"Mayhap they plan on having me accompany my father on a royal progress through the North on dragon's back." Daemon joked while keeping stride, yet he thought accompanying his father on such a journey would be something from the mind of the seven as a means of punishment.
"That is not very likely, your grace; Prince Baelon doesn't know anyone from the North, much less from House Stark."
"How my mother tolerated him gallivanting through Westeros, I'll never know."
For a brief moment, Ser Clement looked at him, then looked away. "Most of those trips were with the late Princess Alyssa. A few times were with you and Prince Viserys whilst still in swaddling clothes."
Daemon looked at the knight as though he had grown another head. "Was that a jape Ser Clement?"
"I wouldn't jape at something like that, your grace." the Kingsguard kept his eyes from him. "I rode with Prince Baelon on the great dragon Vhagar through the Vale of Arryn; your mother was close behind with your then-infant brother swaddled in her breast."
Then Ser Clement shuddered. "I swear by the father, my soul was separated from my body when Vhagar suddenly dove down."
The knights' words made Daemon stop, so taken aback by the very concept of his father taking pleasure in anything. "Is something the matter, your grace? Are you unwell?"
Daemon answered with a fit of laughter, leaving the knight dumbfounded. "Apologies, ser, but the thought of my father being utterly irresponsible and having desires other than settling the realms accounts are quite foreign concepts."
"It would seem so if one should know him before Princess Alyssa passed."
"What does that mean?"
The knight sighed. "It's a question best answered by your father, your grace." Ser Clement smiled.
Daemon sensed there was more to those words, but he much rather saves his effort in dealing with his father. "I would like nothing better, ser, but one should pluck the thorn lest it festers."
As they arrived at the oaken doors of the lords solar, Ser Clement took his place guarding the entrance, and Prince Daemon alone entered. It was decorated much like the rest of the castle, with dragons and glyphs made of stone sculpted by some lost valyrian art covered with lacquered wood. There was a tinge smell of smoke from the fireplace that was shaped like a gaping mouth of a dragon.
In the middle of the room sat three people; his father, grandmother, and some man who he assumed to be the knight from the North. Especially with their coats, as if The Winter had fallen upon all of them.
Daemon could only groan at the anticipation of what cruel and unusual fate would befall upon him now.
"There you are, Daemon dear!" His grandmother said as he came in. "How is the sky today?"
As much as he would like to resent his grandmother for her tight grip on him during his stay, the pure delight on her face every time they talked about dragon riding was a thing he cherished and one of the few things he could talk openly about.
"T'was a fair day for riding, grandmother. The clouds were a sight to behold, though."
She only nodded as though she experienced it herself and gestured for him to take a seat with them.
Daemon strode through the room, gazing at his father before sitting himself opposite Baelon. "To what do I owe your presence, father?"
"I am the Prince of Dragonstone. There is none here that 'owes' my presence, boy." There was venom to his father's words, but this was of little concern to Daemon, for such words held little power over him.
He was about to trade barbs with his father before he was interrupted by the stern regal voice of his grandmother. "That would be quite enough the both of you!"
"Mother, I..." his father started, but her glare cut him off. Having been both cowed, the son took a seat opposite his father.
Good Queen Alyssane then turned to what he supposed was the Northern knight. "My apologies Ser."
"There are none needed, your grace." The knight said as he raised his hand. "I had the same way of speaking with my late father."
She gave him a kind smile and addressed his father and him. "Baelon, Daemon, this is Ser Gunthor Manderly." The Northern knight gave them both court nods and addressed them by their titles. This Ser Gunthor was a giant in the guise of a man wearing a doublet, his short-cropped hair and the scent of snow wafing towards him whilst he was but a yard away.
"And he has come at come at my leisure to attend on a matter regarding the future of House Targaryen."
This made his father raise a discerning eyebrow. "Then why not head for King's Landing and have the king and his small council know."
"It was a personal request by her grace, the queen, and the missives given to Winterfell bore the seal of his grace, the Jaehaerys." Ser Gunthor gave him a piece of parchment with two was seals that indeed have the seals of his parents.
Prince Baelon's eyes dashed through the letter and turned to his mother. "What is the meaning of this?"
Daemon hadn't cared to listen any further and just let his mind wander. His mind drifted to King's Landing. Was this his punishment...
But further thoughts were cut short by a sound akin to a dying mule. "Your Grandmother addresses you, boy!"
Daemon blinked in surprise. "Apologies, father." Was all he could reply. He could swear Prince Baelon the Brave looked like an overly ripe blood orange as he glowered in fury.
"I said, do you consent to your betrothal?" His grandmother sighed. "And should you accept, you will be married by next year..."
He turned to his father, who was as stone-faced as he remembered and then to the knight negotiating on behalf of the air-headed lady he'll have to tolerate the presence of. Daemon's words became sand in his mouth as he struggled to speak. This had the consent of his Kingly Grandfather, grandmother, and most likely his father; thus, it was set in stone, and asking him was a mere formality.
"I accept on one condition." He finally replied after what felt like hours.
"And what is it, dear?"
"My future bride's family will house me and Caraxes until we are wed."
"Daemon, if this is..." his father warned.
"Father, is it not for the best that I know of my bride before we are married?" He said defiantly it was a gamble, but the threat of strained finances due to a dragon eating a flock of sheep every three moons was a credible threat.
"That will not be a problem, Prince Daemon." Answered Ser Gunthor. "My Liege have struck an accord with the king to finance a dragon pit in the surrounding grounds near Winterfell."
Daemon could only stare at the knight in bewilderment. A dragon pit was a permanent lair. What he proposed was a mere visit in order to raise the seven hells in Lord Winterfell's lands.
"Lady Lyanna is of age, and Lord Stark had promised a Good Castle would be built for you and the Lady." His grandmother stated.
The smirk on his father's face was infuriating. "This is a rich match, son." His father said. "They are an old and powerful house, and it's for the betterment of the realm if they're bonded through marriage."
Daemon hated politics. They had dragons. Why not just enforce the realm on the dragon's back and do away with these ambitious lords thinking they'd be awarded a dragon for their obedience?
Mayhaps he should run away to the free cities and live as a sellsword? But he didn't fancy the indignity of being employed by some cheesemonger. Perhaps Volantis would be more accommodating. Surely his aunt Saera and her sons would welcome him? Though having Caraxes would complicate things, how can he trust them not to kill him and take his dragon, kin or not?
In the end, only a single choice was left available.
"If my royal grandfather demands, then who am I to refuse?" He said, not looking forward to the day he would meet Lady Lyanna Stark.