| Author's Note: Well, I'm back from my Holidays! I hope you guys enjoy this next small chapter,— and please, do tell me if something is missing. (Such as more descriptions or something, cause I feel that I'm not putting much description and narration into these latest chapters. As you guys know by now, I'm new on this writting stuff, so please do tell if something is missing.)
. . .
. .
.
"Remember, Daemon,— a sword is also an extension of your will, not only of your body. Understand this, and your swordsmanship will flourish with ease."
— Aenys Targaryen, to a younger Daemon Targaryen.
.
. .
. . .
| A few days later - Aenys Targaryen Pov - Council Chambers:
The Small Council chamber hummed with activity, voices layering over each other like clashing waves. Lords and counselors debated matters of coin and commerce, their words blending with the shuffling steps of passing servants. The air was thick with the scent of ink, parchment, and wax from the towering stack of documents awaiting signatures, and Aenys Targaryen sat quietly at the table, his sharp violet eyes sweeping the room with practiced indifference.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming idly on the armrest, listening, as always,— watching everyone's moves.
Otto Hightower choose to clear his throat right then, the sound cutting through the layered conversations happening all around, like a hot knife through butter. "Your Grace, if I may." he began, his voice carefully measured, yet commanding enough to silence the room. "I would like to shift this council's focus to a matter of pressing importance."
Aenys's fingers paused mid-tap, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly on the man.
He'd been paying closer attention to the Hand of the King ever since his conversation with Alicent happened. Since then, he noticed that there was always something hidden beneath Lord Otto's words, and Aenys had made it a habit of his to search for the strings the older man usually pulled.
His brother Viserys, in turn, leaned forward, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Well, go on, Otto. What is so pressing that you feel the need to interrupt the matters at hand?"
Otto hesitated just a moment too long, his gaze flickering around the table before settling on his king at last. "I mean no disrespect in bringing this to your attention, Your Grace, however, I have only just received word of this matter before the council convened." And Aenys's lips twitched into a faint smirk.
His brother's patience was usually thin at the best of times, and Otto's deliberate pacing wasn't helping his own cause as well. "Get on with it, Lord Hand..." Aenys interjected smoothly, eyeing the man with a smirking gaze.
Otto shot him a brief glance, his expression betraying the smallest flicker of annoyance before he continued on. "I have received news that Prince Daemon has taken up residence at Dragonstone. And matter of fact, he is not alone,— as a contingent of Goldcloaks accompanied him, as did... a woman he claims he intends to marry,— a known whore from the street of silk that goes by the name of Mysaria."
Viserys's hand froze mid-reach for his goblet, his frown deepening, eyes darkening. "What did you just say, Otto?"
And the room erupted into murmurs right there. Lord Lyman Beesbury, sitting at Aenys side, was the first to voice what others were likely thinking. "That's treason, your grace!"
"Indeed..." another councilor echoed, his voice rising in agreement, and Viserys eyebrows twitched, until he raised a hand, silencing them all. His gaze was thoughtful, though a flicker of frustration danced behind his eyes. "If this is true, it is merely another attempt by my brother to provoke my attention and ire,— nothing more."
Partially true.
Otto however, leaned forward, his tone very much insistent. "Your Grace, such actions could sow discontent among the lords of the realm. I believe that something must be done to address this slight to your name."
"And what would you have me do, Otto?" Viserys snapped, his voice sharp. "March upon my own brother with an army? Drag him back to King's Landing in chains? Shall I have him executed to appease the same lords who would call me weak for shedding my family's blood?"
"Of course not, Your Grace, that is not what I meant." Otto said quickly, his hands raised in placation.
"Good. Had you meant so, you would've been killed for treason." Aenys declared finally, his tone cold and deliberate, with his sharp, violet eyes locking onto Otto Hightower's, unflinching and uncaring of the man.
The room fell silent then, the tension hanging thick in the air, as Otto's mouth parted slightly, words failing him as he stared back.
His composure was momentarily shaken, his eyes widened, betraying the indignation that burned beneath his carefully crafted exterior.
"Wha-..." he began, but no coherent words followed.
"Must you antagonize my Masters of the Small Council as well, brother?" Viserys interjected, his voice laced with exasperation, casting an annoyed look at Aenys, who responded with nothing more than a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, as if the accusation were as insignificant as a gust of wind.
"I am not doing such a thing." Aenys replied, his voice calm yet unyielding, as he turned his gaze toward the assembled lords, daring any to challenge his words. "I am merely stating what would happen in accordance with the law of this monarchy. Do I need to remind anyone in this chamber that Daemon,— my younger brother,— is royalty?"
His words hung heavy in the room, their weight undeniable, and the lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared speak.
Otto's lips however, pressed into a thin line as he fought to regain his composure. "Of course not, my prince..." Otto finally said, his voice measured, though his clenched fists betrayed his simmering frustration. He cast a quick glance at Viserys, who leaned back in his chair with an audible sigh, clearly weary of the confrontation between heir and hand.
Aenys though, held Otto's gaze a moment longer, a faint, daring smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before he looked away, content with the victory he had claimed in this unspoken battle of wills. Viserys, in turn, exhaled sharply, shaking his head in exasperation. "Let us move on." he muttered, though his tone lacked any real conviction.
Otto bristled until the very end, but said nothing else, and Viserys sighed once more, rubbing his temples. "Aenys, what do you propose that I do?" The question made Aenys straighten his back slightly, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. "It's simple, brother. I will go to Dragonstone, and bring Daemon to heel. He and I have yet to meet after so many years,— so we could all consider it a family reunion of sorts."
Rhaenyra, standing dutifully near her father's chair as the council's cupbearer, bit her lip in a vain attempt to stifle a laugh. A chime of amusement escaping her lips regardless, drawing the attention of both her uncle and her father. "A family reunion, uncle?" she asked, her lilac eyes sparkling with mischief.
Aenys turned his gaze to her, his features settling into a mock-serious expression as he locked eyes with her. "You're not laughing at me, are you, dearest niece?"
"Of course not, uncle. I wouldn't dare." she replied, though the playful smile tugging at her lips suggested otherwise. Viserys groaned audibly, leaning back in his chair as though burdened by the weight of their banter. His expression was one of long-suffering exasperation, the sort only family could inspire. "This is serious, Aenys. If you go, you'll take Kingsguard with you, and a contingent of soldiers to ensure your safety."
"You must be jesting, brother?!" Aenys replied, his eyebrow arching in incredulity.
Viserys frowned, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Why is that?"
Aenys's tone was quick, his words laced with defiance. "You want me to march on my own youngest brother, with an armed force of soldiers? No. I'll fly to Dragonstone,— alone, and deal with this mess by myself." From her place near the king, Rhaenyra's smile widened, her curiosity piqued. "I could come with you!"
"Absolutely not!" Viserys snapped, his voice cutting through the chamber with the finality of a king. "And why not?" Aenys tilted his head, his tone casual yet laced with challenge. "Because I know the two of you, brother..." Viserys replied sharply, fixing him with a glare. "You'll end up fighting for hours over gods know what, then drinking yourselves into a stupor, and finally wandering the island like a pair of drunken fools."
Aenys's lips then curled into an innocent grin, a faint glint of mischief in his violet eyes as he regarded Viserys once more. "And what's the harm in that?"
Viserys groaned aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose as though it might stave off the headache brewing behind his temples. "My decision stands." he declared, his tone firm.
"You may go to Dragonstone, but Rhaenyra will remain here." And Aenys could only chuckle softly, shaking his head in mock defeat. "Very well. Perhaps another time, Rhaenyra." To which Rhaenyra pouted, folding her arms as she regarded her uncle.
"I'll hold you to that, Uncle." She said, and he nodded. "Of course." he replied with a sly wink, the exchange drawing a reluctant smile from her.
Viserys, meanwhile, muttered under his breath, his tone one of resigned exasperation. "Gods save me from my family." Again.
.
After a great while...
.
| Daemon Targaryen Pov - Dragonstone:
The late morning mist clung to Dragonstone like a second skin, the grey haze giving the island an ethereal, almost otherworldly aura.
The rhythmic crash of waves against the black cliffs filled the air, a ceaseless melody that seemed to echo the restlessness within Daemon Targaryen.
On a narrow plateau overlooking the churning sea, Daemon stood alone, Darksister gripped tightly in his calloused hand. The blade gleamed faintly even in the dim light, its dark Valyrian steel a stark contrast to the pale mists around him.
The weight of the sword was nothing compared to the burdens he carried.
Since the news of Aenys's miraculous return and his elevation to heir, a storm had raged within Daemon. It twisted his thoughts into knots, making each day here feel like an eternity.
"How much longer will I remain in the dark about your return, brother?" he muttered, his voice barely audible over the waves, his knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the hilt of Darksister. "Will I never come as a first priority to you?"
The plateau was slick with dew, but Daemon's footing was steady, with him bare-armed and bare-chested, his muscles coiled and uncoiled as he began his practice, each movement deliberate, calculated. Darksister whistled through the air in sweeping arcs, its deadly edge cutting the mist as though it were flesh.
The first part of his training demanded balance, a steady union between the wielder and the weapon.
His feet shifted smoothly over the uneven ground, his arms strong but controlled. "The sword is not an extension of your body, Daemon." his elder brother Aenys had once told him. "It is an extension of your will, and the stronger it gets, the better your swordsmanship becomes." The memory lingered as he moved through the form, Aenys' voice steady in his mind, a reminder of the expectations that came with his Valyrian blood.
The second part emphasized power.
Each strike carried the force of his frustrations, the weight of his doubts. His muscles burned as the blade arced again and again, cutting through the damp air.
The third part, speed, tested him further, his feet pivoting and sliding on the wet stone as he pushed himself to keep pace, sweat beaded on his brow, mixing with the cool mist. A sudden gust of wind swept across the plateau, scattering the mist and throwing him off balance.
Darksister slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground with a dull clang, and Daemon froze, his chest heaving, his breath ragged.
He sank to his knees, staring out at the endless horizon, his mind clouded with doubt. "You have your heart in another place completely, you fool." he muttered to himself, his gaze distant.
The sea stretched before him, vast and unyielding, its rhythm mirroring the turmoil within. For the last few days, the rumors from King's Landing had haunted him,— the whispers of Aenys's return, the coronation of his elder brother as the new heir.
The name Aenys echoed in his mind, a phantom he could not banish. His elder brother, once thought dead, now hailed as the true heir.
A miracle, some called it, a blessing of the gods. But to Daemon, it was a challenge,— a reminder that he, the third son, would never be enough.
Shaking off his thoughts, Daemon reached for Darksister, and slowly, he stood, his legs trembling from exertion and sleepless nights.
The blade felt heavier now, as if it bore the weight of his doubts, and yet, he would not yield. He was a Targaryen, a dragon.
And dragons did not bow to storms, they rode them.
And so he resumed his training, the fourth part,— a chaotic dance of unpredictable strikes and counters. Here, the blade seemed to come alive, its movements fluid and instinctive.
Darksister was not just a weapon, it was a partner, a companion that demanded respect and resolve. A final strike cleaved the air, the blade biting into the stone below.
The plateau trembled slightly, the echo of his strike fading into the roar of the sea.
Exhausted, Daemon dropped to one knee, his chest heaving, and for a moment, he felt at peace, as though he had reclaimed a fragment of his strength.
Then the air changed.
It grew heavier, charged with an unsettling energy.
A low, distant roar shattered the stillness, followed by another, deeper and more guttural, and Daemon's heart twisted in confusion and dread. He rose swiftly, sheathing Darksister with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the skies.
The sound of massive wings beating the air grew louder, closer, as shouts erupted from the walls of the castle ahead, the voices of Goldcloaks and servants rising in alarm.
Daemon's pulse quickened as he ran toward the darkstone fortress, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Dragons..." he muttered under his breath, his mind racing. But which dragons?
As he reached the castle gates, the guards opened them hurriedly, their faces pale with fear. "My prince! What is happening?" one of them asked, his golden cloak fluttering in the wind.
"Prepare to man the walls!" Daemon ordered, his voice sharp. "Ready the scorpions in case they attack the castle."
"Are these unclaimed dragons, my prince?" another guard asked, his voice trembling.
Daemon's answer died on his lips as the shapes emerged from the clouds. Two massive figures descended, their silhouettes dark against the morning light.
His breath caught in his throat as they came into focus.
Vhagar and Cannibal.
The sight of the two grand dragons descending side by side sent a chill through him. Vhagar's immense wings cast shadows over the castle, while Cannibal's feral form exuded raw, untamed power.
Daemon stood frozen, his mind reeling.
Why? Why were these dragons here? And what force had brought them together?
As the great beasts landed on the stone beach below the castle, their roars reverberated across the island, shaking the very foundations of Dragonstone, and the very hearts of the weak.
Daemon's hand tightened around the hilt of Darksister, his resolve hardening. Whatever this was, he would face it.
He was a Targaryen, and he would not be cowed.
But as he descended the steps toward the dragons, a new thought took root in his mind, a whisper of suspicion and dread.
Only one man could command both Vhagar and Cannibal.
And he was coming.
. . .
. .
.
| Fire & Blood |
.
. .
. . .