| Author's Note:
Alright, enough with playing it safe when it comes to writing.
From here on out, I'm putting everything I've got into this story,— no holding back.
Let's see where this journey takes us.
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"Every path I tread seems carved by his hand, and every choice shadowed by his voice. Even the air I breathe feels borrowed, as if my life is not my own but a reflection of his ambitions.
How does one even escape the chains, when they were forged before you even knew the weight of them?"
— Alicent Hightower.
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| Aenys Targaryen 3rd person Pov:
The morning sun had barely begun to cast its pale light over the Red Keep when the lords of the Small Council assembled, summoned with haste by royal decree.
The meeting chamber, with its high vaulted ceilings and long shadowed table, bore witness to their unease, where every man took his seat cautiously, the air thick with the unspoken weight of urgency.
At the head of the table sat King Viserys I Targaryen, clad in the black and crimson finery of House Targaryen, the sword Blackfyre resting at his hip.
His crown sat heavy on his brow, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he seemed to embody the dignity his station demanded.
He was seated to his brother's right, watching everything silently, violet eyes flickering over Viserys, noting the tension in the his brother's jaw, the faint sheen of sweat across his brow.
His gaze then swept over the table, noting every lord in attendance.
Otto Hightower, the ever-watchful Hand, sat rigid and calculating, his fingers steepled before him. Corlys Velaryon stood slightly apart, his arms crossed over his chest, his piercing gaze betraying an impatience that even the great Lord of the Tides could not hide.
Others shifted uncomfortably, their curiosity barely veiled.
The only absence was Rhaenyra, as Viserys had deemed it unnecessary to summon his daughter, a decision he had not explained.
Aenys didn't press him,— no one will question it, not openly, at least, and so,— he wouldn't as well.
Viserys cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Many of you may be wondering why I have summoned you so abruptly." His voice was steady, though Aenys detected the faintest tremor beneath the surface.
His brother lowered himself into his chair, his ornate robes rasping softly against the wood. "The reason is simple, as I have decided to remarry."
A beat of silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the collective gasp of the council.
Murmurs rippled through the room, but Aenys remained unmoved, his expression was a mask of calm, though his thoughts churned beneath the surface.
'So, you've finally made your choice. Let's hope it is the right one, for all our sakes.' He leaned back slightly, hands clasped loosely in his lap as his mind wandered.
He would not fault a man for seeking solace in companionship.
'I, too, once fought for love against what was deemed proper. ' His thoughts flitted briefly to Rhaenys, to the battles waged in his youth. Yet, the burden of the throne demanded sacrifices,— he had learned that lesson harshly.
Viserys's decision would ripple far beyond his own desires, and Aenys knew the stakes, the precarious balance of power. The wrong choice could strengthen old alliances,— or fracture them beyond repair.
And then there was the matter of the long night, the warning that echoed still in his mind, a whispered and shown truth from Vhagar.
'The threat of the dead might come sooner than any of us expect.' He thought, 'Yet even knowing that, I cannot begrudge you this choice, brother. It is yours to make.'
His gaze shifted to Otto Hightower.
The Hand sat motionless, but his eyes betrayed him, gleaming with barely contained triumph, making his lip curl in distaste. 'You've pushed your daughter into my brother's path with all the subtlety of a charging boar. And yet,— I almost admire your tenacity,— almost.'
Corlys Velaryon, meanwhile, was the picture of restrained anticipation. His narrowed eyes darted between Viserys and the rest of the council, his expression a careful mask.
Yet Aenys caught the slight twitch of his fingers, the tension in his shoulders.
'You're hoping for Laena's name, aren't you?
Praying that your house rises yet again, closer to the throne than it has been since Aegon the Conqueror himself.'
Viserys hesitated, the dramatic pause drawing every gaze back to him, his fingers drumming lightly against the table, a nervous tic Aenys had seen many times before.
Beside him, Lyonel Strong shifted in his seat, his usually stoic face betraying quiet concern. Aenys's sharp eyes caught the flicker of uncertainty in Viserys's expression, and his stomach twisted.
'What are you hesitating for? We counseled you clearly, Lyonel and I. You know what must be done.'
And then he saw it,— Otto Hightower's growing smirk, subtle but unmistakable.
The man had seen the hesitation too and his mind already moved into plans and counterplans to exploit it.
Which made his jaw tighten, his fingers curling into a fist beneath the table. 'Damn you, Viserys,— don't falter now.'
Corlys neared his body to the table, his voice low but cutting through the tension. "Your Grace, the council awaits your word."
Viserys's eyes flicked to Aenys, seeking something,— reassurance, perhaps, or strength.
Aenys held his brother's gaze, unblinking, his expression hard. 'Say it! End this farce...'
But Viserys hesitated still, and in that moment, Aenys knew that the tide had turned, and the consequences would soon follow. 'Fuck.'
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| Flashback:
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The chambers of Viserys, the night before, were dimly lit, the flickering glow of the hearth casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Viserys sat slouched in his chair, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of Blackfyre's hilt at his side, a token reminder of the weight he bore.
Across from him, Alicent stood with carefully composed grace, her hands clasped before her to steady their faint trembling.
She had practiced her smile in the mirror before coming here, but now it felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter. 'What am I doing here...?'
The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken tension and the weight of expectations neither could truly voice.
At last, Viserys broke it, his tone weary but threaded with a longing for reassurance.
"The Small Council is urging me to remarry," he said, his gaze fixed on the fire rather than her. "It seems the realm is eager for a new queen."
'I would know...' Alicent's heart skipped, though her practiced demeanor betrayed nothing.
She hesitated just long enough to feign thoughtfulness, tilting her head slightly as though considering his words. "A good and kind queen will give comfort to your subjects." she replied, her voice soft but steady. "Does the Small Council have a particular lady in mind, Your Grace?"
Viserys let out a sigh, his hand lifting to rub at his temple. "Lord Corlys Velaryon has offered the hand of his daughter, the Lady Laena."
'Please choose her.' A faint smile tugged at Alicent's lips, though her knuckles whitened as she gripped the fabric of her skirts. "A very strong match." she said carefully, her tone measured. "The Velaryons are a house of great power and ancient Valyrian blood,— the realm would see it as a union of strength and tradition."
Viserys leaned back, a faint frown crossing his face. "I must admit, I don't know Laena very well. She's Valyrian, yes, but... so young. The idea of binding myself to someone I hardly know..." His words trailed off, his gaze flickering uncertainly toward her.
'Don't look at me after saying that...' Alicent seized the moment, though her heart raced.
She stepped forward, allowing the light of the fire to soften her features and cast her in an almost ethereal glow. "I'm sure she is good and kind." she said, her voice laced with an innocence that belied the unease roiling within her. She paused, dropping her eyes to the floor for just a breath before lifting them back to meet his. "And that she will enjoy your company, as I have, Your Grace."
'Lies,— all of it.' Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Viserys's expression softened. He searched her face, looking for something,— sincerity, perhaps, or the comfort she so carefully offered.
Alicent moved to the small table beside him, withdrawing a modestly wrapped item from her pocket. "I brought you something." she said, her tone lighter now, almost girlish. 'I wish I didn't.'
She unfolded the cloth, revealing the mended stone dragon she had asked the stonemasons to repair. "I asked the stonemasons to mend it for you."
Viserys's eyes lit up as he took the dragon in his hands, turning it over to admire the craftsmanship. His thumb brushed along its delicate wings, his chuckle breaking the tension in the room. "This is, uh..." He paused, looking up at her with a smile that carried both surprise and gratitude. "A very kind gesture, Alicent,— very kind."
'I actually couldn't care less, though.' Her smile widened, though it barely masked the knot tightening in her chest. "I thought it would bring you some comfort, Your Grace."
Viserys's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than was proper, his own weariness momentarily forgotten. "It does." he murmured, his voice almost tender. "More than you know."
'Gods...' The fire crackled in the silence that followed, its warmth doing little to ease the cold coil of guilt in Alicent's stomach.
But she smiled still, her expression a perfect mask of demure contentment, even as her father's voice echoed in her mind: "Win him over, girl,— for the good of the realm."
For the good of her family, she reminded herself, always for her family and never for her own.'Why didn't you stop me from entering this hatefull chamber today?! Where were you then? So much for a supposed charming prince.'
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| End Of Flashback.
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The tension in the council chamber was thick enough to choke on.
Shadows danced along the stone walls, the flickering light of the torches casting uneven patterns that mirrored the chaos brewing within. His hands rested lightly on the carved wood, fingers still, yet his mind anything but.
His brother's voice rang clear, cutting through the anticipatory silence like the toll of a bell. "I am to marry…" Viserys began, his tone carrying both hesitation and resolve.
His eyes, pale and burdened, flickered with a faint light that quickly dimmed before returning. "Alicent Hightower."
And the chamber erupted.
Corlys Velaryon's chair screeched against the stone floor as he rose sharply, his broad shoulders squared, his expression a storm of disbelief and indignation.
"This is an absurdity!" His voice thundered, reverberating off the high stone walls. "My house is Valyrian, the greatest lineage in the realm."
Aenys's gaze swept over the room.
Across the table, Otto Hightower exhaled softly, the hint of relief tugging at the corners of his lips. Yet his eyes betrayed something sharper,— a triumphant gleam, a satisfaction born of his schemes coming to fruition.
'It seems that you got what you wanted, you snake. Unfortunetly for you, that means that I will play my hand sooner than later.' Aenys however, felt his stomach twist as memories of his own confrontation with Jaehaerys resurfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. He saw himself, younger and headstrong, pleading for Rhaenys, his voice raw with emotion.
'Was this how Grandfather felt when he denied me? Am I now the fool, wishing Viserys had made a different choice, one rooted in logic rather than sentiment?' His thoughts spiraled as Corlys's voice cut through his introspection like a blade.
"This is an insult!" Corlys fumed, his face dark with barely-contained rage. "My daughter would have bound the crown and the greatest fleet in the world together. What do the Hightowers bring to this union besides ambition and greed?"
Viserys rose from his seat with a swiftness that belied his usual reluctance for confrontation, his voice, however, carried the full weight of the mantle of king behind him.
"And I am your king, Lord Corlys." Viserys snapped, his tone hard enough to crack stone. "We are not equals,— and perhaps if you did not overreach at every turn, I might have felt inclined to accept your offer." The room seemed to hold its breath.
And he closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head as if to dispel the weight of the moment. 'Stop antagonizing him, brother. You gain nothing by wounding a man's pride in full view of the whole council.'
Corlys turned sharply on his heel, expression cold, his cloak swirling as he stormed from the chamber. The heavy doors swung open, then slammed shut with an echo that seemed to reverberate within his chest.
Otto remained seated, his expression carefully neutral, though his calculating eyes betrayed the plans forming behind them.
Across the table, Lyonel Strong's discomfort was as plain as the furrowed lines on his brow, the Master of Laws looked as though he wished the floor would open and swallow him whole.
And he sighed, the sound soft but laden with weariness, slowly rising to his feet, the quiet creak of his chair standing out against the tense stillness that followed Corlys's departure.
All eyes turned to him as he moved, though he ignored their gazes, his mind churning with thoughts too tangled to untangle, heart heavy, and mind torn.
"Brother?" Viserys called out, his voice betraying his unease. "Where are you going?"
The undercurrent was clear,— Viserys sought his support, his reassurance.
But he could offer him none.
His mind was too full, too burdened by the weight of realization and unwanted memories. And so, he turned to face the king, his expression composed but distant.
"Forgive me, brother..." Aenys said, his voice carefully even. "I simply wish to get some air, though I will join you later for lunch." He paused, his gaze softening slightly. "If you have need of me before then, send someone to fetch me."
Viserys nodded, though his confusion and disappointment were plain, while he simply offered a curt bow before turning and striding toward the doors.
The guards stationed outside opened them swiftly, their polished armor gleaming in the torchlight, as Aenys passed through without a word, his steps steady but his thoughts spinning in endless loops. 'Poor girl that you are, Alicent Hightower. '
The words echoed in his mind as he walked the empty corridors of the Red Keep followed only by Ser Criston Cole, the cool air of the open halls brushing against his face.
The future loomed ahead, uncertain and fraught with dangers,— some seen, many unseen. And yet, amidst it all, Aenys could only think of the burdens now placed upon the shoulders of a girl who he knew had never asked for them. 'Perhaps I should've helped you more directly. But then again, there's still time for you, little doll.'
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The corridor stretched long before him, dimly lit by flickering torches that cast shadows along the cold stone walls. The faint scent of burnt oil lingered in the air, mingling with the distant salt of the Blackwater.
He walked with measured steps, his fingers brushing the hilt of Sunset, the Valyrian steel blade resting against his side like a tether to reality. Yet his thoughts were anything but steady.
They churned and clashed like waves in a storm, the events of the small council still fresh in his mind. "Is everything alright, my prince?" The voice broke through his reverie, and he stopped abruptly, his boots grinding against the stone floor.
Ser Criston Cole stood beside him, his dark eyes filled with a quiet concern that only heightened the prince's frustration.
'Alright? No, nothing is alright.' He shook his head, as if the motion could dispel the chaos inside him. "I am not so sure myself." he said at last, his tone carrying the weight of his inner turmoil.
Criston hesitated, and he noticed it easily, as the former's armor glinted faintly in the fading torchlight, thanks to the ever rising sun. "I know it is not my place, my prince, but I swore an oath to keep your confidence. If you wish it, we could speak of what troubles you." His swornshield's voice was calm, measured, yet laced with a sincerity that made him falter slightly.
And yet, he resumed his stride, his grip tightening on Sunset's hilt until his knuckles whitened. "I wouldn't know where to begin." he muttered, his eyes now fixed on the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the corridor,— the entrance to Rhaenyra's chambers.
Criston chuckled softly, a rare crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. "You could always start from the beginning, my prince."
'Genius! Why didn't I think of that?' He rolled his eyes but didn't slow his pace. "I feel strangely conflicted inside my mind." he admitted, his voice quieter now, as if speaking the words aloud might make them easier to bear.
The hallway was empty save for the two of them, and he felt a small relief in the solitude.
No servants bustled about, no prying ears lingered, only Ser Arryk stood at the end of the corridor, his vigilant gaze fixed on the doors to Rhaenyra's chamber.
The quiet offered a rare moment of candor, and he found himself speaking more freely than he'd intended. "The king has decided to remarry..." he said, his tone flat, though the admission carried an undercurrent of bitterness. "He declared it himself at the council we just left."
'That damned fool...' Criston glanced at him, his brow furrowing slightly. "I suppose there is a catch, my prince?" The knight's voice was thoughtful, though his expression betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
He sighed, his mind racing as they drew closer to the doors. "The catch is…" He stopped abruptly, leaning toward Criston so only he could hear his next words. "The catch is that my brother intends to fall into the trap his own Hand has set for him,— allowing the Hightowers to sink their claws into the direct pact to the Iron Throne, by using his unwilling daughter as a bargaining piece." His voice dropped lower, a hiss that carried his mounting frustration. "And worse still, I cannot for the life of me understand why I even care about what happene to that damned girl!" Criston's expression shifted from puzzlement to outright shock.
The knight opened his mouth, likely to respond, but he didn't wait, resuming his stride, his boots striking the floor with renewed force as he reached the end of the corridor.
"My prince." Ser Arryk greeted him, his tone polite but firm as he stood at his post. The knight's posture was rigid, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
He barely glanced at him, his patience already frayed. "Ser Arryk." he said curtly, "Good morrow. I've come to speak with my niece."
Arryk hesitated, his eyes flickering briefly toward the closed doors behind him. "The princess is still sleeping, my prince. Perhaps it would be better to return later,—..."
"I am aware of that fact." He interrupted, his tone sharp enough to silence further protest.
His gaze locked onto the doors, the flicker of frustration in his violet eyes daring Arryk to press the issue further. Arryk shifted slightly but said nothing more, while Criston, standing a step behind him, rested his hand on the pommel of his sword in a gesture of quiet loyalty, and he gave a slight nod, appreciating the knight's steadfast presence even as his own annoyance simmered beneath the surface.
"I won't be long." He added, more out of politeness than necessity.
Then, he turned the handle and pushed the heavy door open without waiting for permission, the wood creaking softly in protest.
The air inside was warmer, faintly perfumed with lavender and something sweeter that he couldn't quite place. The dim light of the room was cast by the embers of a dying fire, and the sight of his niece, peaceful and unaware, greeted him as he stepped inside.
For now, the storm in his mind stilled, though the quiet unease lingered just beneath the surface.
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| Rhaenyra's 3rd person Pov:
The dream was vivid, almost intoxicating in its clarity.
Rhaenyra was running, her bare feet splashing against the cool, lapping waves of an unknown shore. The sky above was a dusky violet, the horizon stretching endlessly, and the faceless man chasing her was nothing more than a shadow, yet his presence filled her with a wild, unrestrained joy.
"Catch me if you can!" she shouted, her laughter spilling into the air like music carried by the wind. His laughter followed, deep and melodic, mingling with the rhythm of the waves as though the sea itself was in on the jest.
Her breath came in short, exhilarated bursts as the chase stretched on, her legs burning from the effort, and she was breathless by the time he caught her, his strong arms looping around her waist with ease.
She flailed, half-heartedly punching his muscled back, her protests feigned, her laughter unchecked, while her legs instinctively wrapped around his torso as he hoisted her into the air, spinning her until the world blurred.
She felt weightless, free.
The sand was warm against her back when he lowered her onto it, his movements unhurried yet brimming with purpose. Her hair splayed across the dark grains in wild disarray, though she found she cared little.
'Dragonstone, perhaps?' she mused briefly, though the thought slipped away as quickly as it came.
Her limbs felt longer, her body taller, as though she was seeing a version of herself years ahead, someone freer and more confident. He held her wrists above her head, and she squirmed beneath him, the sand shifting beneath her skin.
They were both as naked as the day they were born, but it did not seem strange, it felt natural, as though the moment had always been destined.
His faceless form leaned closer, and the heat of his breath against her neck made her shiver. When his lips brushed her skin, she gasped, and when his teeth grazed her in a teasing bite, a low moan escaped her throat.
And then the dream shattered.
Her body convulsed slightly as reality intruded, pulling her from the warmth of the shore to the cool air of her chambers. She blinked, disoriented, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like a fading mist.
"Rhaenyra." The voice was hesitant, awkward, and painfully familiar. Her eyes focused, and what she saw turned her cheeks crimson with mortification.
Aenys.
Her uncle was perched precariously above her, his posture stiff and awkward. One of his legs was braced on the floor beside her bed, the other knee resting alarmingly close between her thighs.
His hands hovered, uncertain, though one was uncomfortably positioned against her chest, her almost see-through gown offering no protection from the intimacy of the contact.
Her arms were looped around his neck, pulling him closer as though he were some kind of lifelike doll. Realization dawned with an agonizing slowness: 'I pulled him here in my sleep.'
Aenys's growing mismatched eyes were wide, his confusion clear, though there was something else beneath the surface, — an emotion she couldn't quite name.
"What are you doing, Rhaenyra?" His voice was low, a mixture of disbelief and strained composure. She searched for a reply, her thoughts a chaotic tangle of embarrassment and remnants of the dream she had just left behind. "Whatever could you mean, uncle?" she managed, her tone far more coy than she felt.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze locked with hers, unwavering.
He didn't dare look anywhere else, though his tension was palpable. 'Why don't I let go?' she thought, her arms still clinging to him despite the growing heat in her cheeks.
Then she felt it-a chill creeping up her spine as a soft breeze brushed against her back.
Her eyes darted downward, and her mortification deepened. Her gown was barely covering her, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. Worse still, the traitorous response of her body had left her chest... noticeable, and Aenys's hand, calloused and strong, rested right there, covering her whole left breast.
"W-What are you looking at, Uncle?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, as she tried to sound playful, though the heat in her face betrayed her.
"I could ask you the same thing." he retorted, his voice almost steady, though his eyes betrayed the storm within. "What are you doing?"
"I am not the one on someone else's bed, am I?" she shot back, a teasing lilt in her tone despite the rapid beat of her heart, and he tensed, his posture becoming even more rigid. "Nor am I the one who dragged someone here in my sleep." he countered, his voice gaining an edge. "I merely came to ask if you wanted to go flying together."
'Flying?'
The absurdity of the situation struck her, though she nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line as she fought to regain her composure. "That makes sense."
"Could you then... let me go?" he asked finally, his voice strained yet controlled.
"Of course." she murmured, her hands brushing against his neck as she released him, while that brief contact made her pulse quicken, though she ignored it. "Forgive my... lacking manners, uncle."
And he scoffed, though his awkwardness remained, as clear as hers. "You've been forgiven already." he muttered, straightening and stepping back quickly.
Rhaenyra sat up, her hands smoothing the fabric of her gown as she avoided his gaze.
Her heart still raced, but she forced herself to breathe, to find some semblance of normalcy.
Aenys lingered for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before clearing his throat. "I'll wait for you outside." he said curtly, and then he was gone, leaving her alone with the lingering warmth of his presence and the unsettling chaos of her thoughts.
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| General 3rd person Pov / A few days later:
The chamber in Driftmark was a monument to House Velaryon's maritime legacy, adorned with relics of the sea and illuminated by flickering candlelight.
The air was heavy with salt and the faint scent of damp wood, and the sound of waves crashing against the castle walls echoed in the background.
Corlys Velaryon sat at the head of the table, his gaze as sharp as the tides that carried his ships across the known world. Across from him, Daemon Targaryen reclined in his chair, his expression caught between amusement and disinterest, though his sharp eyes betrayed a calculating mind.
Corlys leaned forward, his voice steady and measured. "House Velaryon's origins reach back to Old Valyria." he began, his tone tinged with both pride and resentment.
"More ancient even than House Targaryen, according to some texts,— but unlike the Targaryens, we were no dragonlords."
Daemon offered no response, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest of his chair, as he allowed the Lord of the Tides to continue, his silence a mix of arrogance and curiosity.
"For centuries and more centuries, my house had to scratch out an existence from the sea with grit and luck." Corlys continued, his words deliberate, weighted with the pride of a man who had built his legacy from nothing. "When I ascended the Driftwood Throne, I knew what I wanted. So I went out and seized it,— and unlike every other lord of the realm, I can say that I built my house's high seat with the strength of mine own back." Daemon's lips twitched, but he said nothing, allowing Corlys to weave his narrative.
"I've always thought of you and I as having been made from the same cloth." Corlys said, his voice carrying a hint of camaraderie, and Daemon finally broke his silence, his words laced with mockery. "I wasn't aware you had a king for a brother."
Corlys's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he responded, his tone steady but edged. "We're both men who have had to cut our own way through the world,— we've been passed over too often."
Daemon leaned forward slightly, his violet eyes narrowing. "Did you call me to Driftmark to remind me of my low standing, Lord Corlys?" he asked, his tone as sharp as a blade, "Or was there some other reason?"
A brief silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken words, before Corlys straightened in his chair. His voice lowered, taking on a more serious tone. "You've heard of the troubles in the Stepstones?"
The scene seemed to darken as Corlys's words lingered, the image of a man screaming under the watchful gaze of the Crabfeeder flashing briefly in Daemon's mind.
The rogue prince's lips curled into a faint sneer. "Some Myrish prince feeding Westerosi sailors to the crabs." Daemon said, his tone dismissive, though his eyes glinted with interest and a knowing look.
"I have been petitioning the King to send my navy into the territory." Corlys said, his frustration seeping into his words. "But he's denied me at every turn." Daemon smirked, leaning back once more. "It was never my older brother's strongest trait."
Corlys frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
"Being King." Daemon replied, his words carrying a biting edge. Corlys's expression hardened, though he chose not to rise to the bait, instead, he pressed on, his voice resolute. "The Crabfeeder is backed by powerful entities within the Free Cities who wish to see Westeros weakened, and the King's failures have allowed him to accumulate strength. If those shipping lanes fall, my house will be crippled,— and I will not have Driftmark beggared while our King idles himself with feasts, and balls, and tourneys."
Daemon's smirk disappeared then, replaced by a cold glare. "I will speak of my brother as I wish..." he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You will not."
Corlys held his gaze, the tension between them palpable.
After a moment, he spoke again, his tone softer but no less firm. "Waiting in the Stepstones is a chance for you to prove your worth to any who might yet doubt it. We are the realm's second sons, Daemon,— our worth is not given, it must be made."
Daemon's gaze drifted to the candlelight flickering on the table, his thoughts racing.
He considered his elder brother's recent words, the quiet counsel of Aenys urging him to entertain Corlys's ambitions. "Enter the war on his whims." Aenys had said. "Play the game, brother, and pretend interest if you must."
A small, sardonic smile tugged at Daemon's lips as he reclined once more, his hand resting casually on the hilt of Dark Sister. 'Second sons...' he thought with dark amusement. 'But am I not a third son, after all?'
Still, he gave no outward indication of his thoughts, his eyes returning to Corlys with a calculated gleam. "Very well." he said, his tone cool. "Tell me more of these Stepstones, Lord Corlys."
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| Fire & Blood |
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