Daemon had been confined to his chambers for what felt like an eternity—nearly a week, in reality—before Maester Allar finally granted him permission to leave his bed. His time spent writing had grown obsessive, with journal after journal piling up beside his bed. When not writing, he paced his room, pushing his recovering body to its limits, or read Alysanne's letter over and over, trying to find comfort in its familiar words.
The day he was told he could walk freely around the castle, Daemon's spirits lifted, only to be quickly dashed when he learned that he was to meet his grandfather, King Jaehaerys Targaryen.
The King. The man Daemon had read about, revered in history books, yet also remembered by Daemon Targaryen as a distant figure—more patriarch than father. The memories left a bitter taste in his mouth. How could he face such a man, especially now that he was trapped in a life that wasn't his own?
*Perhaps I could convince him to name Rhaenys or Laenor as his heir,* he mused, but the thought was quickly smothered by a painful reminder of his precarious situation.
*Alright, that was a joke!*
The servants arrived early that morning, laying out his clothes and drawing a hot bath. Daemon firmly insisted on bathing himself, a small act of control in a world that felt increasingly alien. The hot water soothed his aching muscles, and for a moment, he imagined himself back in his own world, in his own life.
After dressing in the black tunic and trousers provided, Daemon sat before the mirror. He had avoided the larger mirror until now, unable to reconcile the face staring back at him with the one he knew. His reflection—silver hair, violet eyes—was Daemon Targaryen's, not his own. The dissonance was unsettling, a constant reminder of his fractured reality.
*Will I one day forget what my own face looked like?*
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "You may enter," Daemon called, his voice steady. Two servants entered, one carrying a bowl of hot water, the other a cloth and a small knife. Daemon endured their ministrations in silence, the ritual of grooming making him feel even more disconnected from the life he once knew.
Once they were finished, Daemon dismissed them, asking only for a ball of string to tie his hair. Alone again, he gathered his long hair into a ponytail, securing it at the nape of his neck. With a final deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway for the first time since his injury.
A member of the Kingsguard awaited him, bowing his head as Daemon emerged. "His Grace, your grandfather, awaits you in the chamber of the Small Council, my Prince."
"Thank you, ser," Daemon replied, his voice betraying none of the anxiety roiling within him.
"But first," the knight said, presenting a sword to Daemon. "Your sword, my Prince."
Daemon's breath caught as his eyes fell upon the weapon. *Darksister.* The Valyrian steel blade was lighter than he expected, its black leather grip familiar yet foreign in his hand. With a practiced motion, he fastened it to his belt, feeling the weight of his new identity pressing down on him.
As the knight led him through the grand halls of the Red Keep, Daemon's eyes roved over the opulent surroundings. The memories of Daemon Targaryen did not fully prepare him for the grandeur of the castle—the polished tiles, the dragon gargoyles, the banners of black and gold. It was both awe-inspiring and suffocating, a reminder of the legacy he was now part of.
The knight led him to a set of heavy wooden doors, flanked by more members of the Kingsguard. "Prince Daemon," one of them announced, "His Grace, your grandfather, and Prince Baelon await you inside."
The doors opened to reveal the chamber of the Small Council. A long marble table dominated the room, with Jaehaerys Targaryen seated at its head. To his left was Prince Baelon, Daemon's father, and to his right, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryman Redwyne.
Jaehaerys's age was evident in his frail frame, his once-powerful presence diminished by time. Yet his gaze was sharp, assessing Daemon with a penetrating stare as he stepped into the room.
"Your Grace," Daemon greeted, bowing deeply.
"Daemon, my grandson," Jaehaerys intoned, "come, sit by your father."
Daemon complied, sitting beside Baelon, who gave him a warm, if slightly puzzled, smile.
"How are you feeling?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice betraying a hint of concern.
"I am well, Your Grace," Daemon replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
"That is good to hear," Jaehaerys said, nodding. "When word reached me of your accident, we feared the worst. But the gods have been merciful."
"You are walking around now, my Prince?" Ser Ryman asked.
"Yes," Daemon confirmed. "I've been moving around my chambers and am now able to walk the Keep."
"Good," Ryman said with approval. "It will be good to see you in the training yard again."
A thrill of anxiety shot through Daemon at the thought of sparring. He would need to rely on Daemon Targaryen's muscle memory to avoid embarrassment.
"Some practice would do me good," Daemon agreed, masking his nerves with a smile.
"I hear you've taken to writing during your recovery," Jaehaerys noted, his tone deceptively casual.
"Yes, Your Grace," Daemon replied carefully. "It kept my mind occupied."
"Good," Jaehaerys said. "The mind must be sharpened as much as the sword." His gaze hardened as he continued. "I must ask, Daemon—what do you intend to do once you've recovered?"
Daemon felt the trap closing around him. "I plan to return to Runestone, Your Grace," he said, choosing his words with care. "I realize now that my treatment of Lady Rhea Royce was unbecoming. I intend to fulfill my duties as her husband."
Baelon blinked in surprise, and Ser Ryman looked equally taken aback. But Jaehaerys's expression remained unreadable. "Do you speak true?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Daemon replied firmly.
Jaehaerys studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "That pleases me to hear. But tell me, does it still bother you that your children will take the name Royce?"
A flicker of anger stirred within Daemon, but he forced it down. "No, Your Grace. Those were the terms agreed upon."
"And what of the matter of dragon eggs for your children?" Jaehaerys pressed, his tone sharp.
The anger flared again, but Daemon kept his voice calm. "While it disappoints me, I understand the reasons why. To have another house with dragons could threaten the realm's stability."
Jaehaerys seemed satisfied with this answer and began writing on a piece of parchment. "I will send a raven to Lord Yobert Royce, informing him of your arrival," he said, handing the parchment to Ser Ryman. "How long do you intend to stay in the Red Keep before returning to Runestone?"
Daemon hesitated, feeling the weight of the King's scrutiny. Before he could answer, Baelon interjected, "Three turns of the moon should suffice, Your Grace."
Daemon nodded, grateful for his father's intervention. "Three months, then."
"Good," Jaehaerys said, his tone final. "I expect your raven to be sent today. We must show the realm that House Targaryen is united."
"Yes, Your Grace," Daemon replied, bowing his head.
With that, Jaehaerys dismissed them. As Daemon left the chamber, escorted back to his room by a Kingsguard, he couldn't help but feel the walls closing in around him. Once alone in his chambers, he let out a frustrated curse, the weight of his situation pressing down on him.
Sitting at his desk, he picked up a quill and parchment, the words he had spoken still echoing in his mind. He began to write, the ink flowing freely as he drafted a letter to Rhea, each word carefully chosen to fulfill the expectations placed upon him while masking his true feelings.
*To my dearest Rhea,* he began, forcing the words onto the page. The letter was both a confession and a performance, each line designed to placate the woman he had wronged while securing his own position.
When he finished, Daemon set the quill aside and stared at the letter, a mixture of anger and resignation settling over him. There was still much to do, and his time was running short. But for now, all he could do was wait—and plan.
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