Prince Daemon Targaryen, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea

  In the small garden of the Archon's Pace, lemon trees were in bloom, and their intoxicating scent penetrated deep into the chambers even through closed doors and drawn curtains, while on the covered terrace, where some trees had boldly thrust their branches, it simply knocked one off one's feet. Daemon reclined on a low Tyroshi sofa, enveloped on all sides by this fragrance, and stared unseeingly at the green-and-white patches of trees blurring behind the translucent curtains.

  His soul felt wretched, and in his heart, since returning from the capital, a searing fme of anger burned, fueled by lingering resentment, and for the third day, it simply would not cool. Frankly speaking, Daemon did not want it to cool, and so he repyed again, and again, and again in his head the details of that accursed meeting and the seven-times-accursed conversation with his brothers, who of all possible betrayals had chosen the most vile and base. Gods witness, others' words about a "second Maegor" did not touch him, rather amused him even, but the familiar gossip sounded different, acquired different tones, which they probably had initially, as soon as these accusations fell from the lips of Viserys and Aegon.

  One more recollection of them caused a new fit of malice, and the King of Tyrosh grabbed a crystal goblet and, without looking, hurled it at the wall. The fine work of a Myrish gssblower did not withstand the collision with red marble and shattered, showering the bck stone sbs of the floor with a melodious rain of shards. Daemon had long ceased to think of such trifles as broken goblets, cups, and pitchers: on the first day after his return, in a fit of rage, he had hacked at statues in the gallery with Dark Sister, where Jaegaer had the folly to ask him for news; it seemed one of the old archons had lost his head a second time, or perhaps he himself had toppled them from their pedestals. The innocent rocks in the Narrow Sea were also unlucky, which Caraxes had melted on the way home, sensing his rider's mood.

  Having vented his anger on the idols, he ordered the surprised Ilyleon to prepare the city and the entire Kingdom of the Stepstones for war: to call the banners, send letters to mercenary companies, put the fleet to sea, triple the guard on the outer and inner ring of walls, recheck granaries and storehouses. Much had to be done in a short time, and time was slipping through his fingers—his brothers did not need much time to wipe their own shit, and then guests should be expected.

  They had been feeding mercenaries for a long time, entrusting them with guard duty in the Disputed Lands; some of them, after two five-year contracts with decent pay, settled in the nds of their former employer and swore allegiance to him, continuing guard service as vassals. They would gather a couple of tens of thousands of sellswords in the first month alone, and as many more could be gathered from Tyrosh, moreover, if chosen selectively, and not ragamuffins from the slums by the Goat Gate. The summer years and trade allowed them to fill storehouses not only with gold but also with grain, so famine did not threaten the townsfolk. The fleet remained a weak point: Rogar Veryon, Lord Admiral of Tyrosh, had done everything to rebuild the fleet destroyed in the war, achieved considerable success in this, but honestly admitted that his fleet could argue with his elder brother's fleet or Viserys's fleet, but not with both at once.

  On the first day, orders flew from his tongue of their own accord, one after another, and Daemon thought of nothing but the fring forges of armories and ships raising sails. Jaegaer frowned discontentedly, not having learned to see an enemy in the one who had dragged him from the other world and put a sword and the meaning of life into his hand, but did what was expected of him.

  And then a raven arrived from the Red Keep, barely alive from having to drag a heavy letter. The King of Tyrosh first wanted to burn it without reading—he expected nothing good from the shores of the Bckwater anymore—but, cursing the Seven Hells (Peklo), at the st moment broke the seal and read it anyway. Viserys verbosely promised to forget everything Daemon said, asked forgiveness himself for loud accusations, and exhorted not to start a war over empty and foolish insults, and also swore to return the badge of the Hand "accidentally dropped" by him and all rights and privileges if Daemon returned to court and accepted the proposal.

  A foolish letter, but it was all Viserys. Not start a war over foolishness, indeed. Only his elder brother was capable of reducing the problem of succession and a war of dragon riders to "foolishness." A brother whom he could not imagine with the bde of Dark Sister at his neck. From the realization that he had tried the sword on his brothers, even for a split second, even in his own thoughts, he felt sick and ordered wine then. The wine celrs of the Archon's Pace were hard to empty, but Daemon honestly tried.

  The thin curtains swayed and reached for the door, and a moment ter Daemon felt the movement of air betraying a silent servant hastening to clean up the shards of gss. At first, they were afraid to catch his eye, but when he snapped and nearly killed some petty ckey because the King of Tyrosh was forced to live amidst rubbish and broken gss, the servants tried to anticipate his every whim. While one hastily swept up the remains of the shattered goblet, another had already pced a new one and filled it almost to the brim with Dornish wine—Daemon also did not tolerate or forgive negligence and stinginess towards himself.

  Dismissing the servants with a careless wave of his hand, he drank from the goblet. The wine tasted sour, tart, astringent, and intoxicated well enough—in short, it was rare Dornish piss, but this swill corresponded most to his mood. Lysene wines were too weak and sweet for this shit, Arbor wine reeked of the Reach and Hightowers a league away, and it was simply a pity to waste the Tyroshi brandy usually served to him at supper; his brothers were not worth it.

  Hell, years of faithful service—and here is the royal gratitude for it! The City Watch, from a bunch of dirty, thieving drunks and ragamuffins, became a real force maintaining order in the capital. The Martells, those desert bloodsuckers, lost not only power but their own dignity; unbending Dorne was brought to its knees and turned into a mongrel barking only on orders from King's Landing. The Triarchy fell, and a pirate's nest turned into a thriving kingdom, the richest in the realm. The Free Cities either hastened to become their allies or, living in fear, were afraid to undertake anything, knowing they could not avoid dragon wrath, and Targaryens were swift to punish. Thanks to him, the banner with the three-headed dragon rose as high as never since the days of the Conquerors.

  And in response to this, he received first a "gift" that meant nothing, since it already belonged to him by right of birth, and then these same hands took this "gift" away. Maegor, usurper, murderer, traitor... that is who he is considered at court. And by his own brothers! Brothers whom he protected, for whose sake he waged wars and burned castles and cities in dragon fire!

  Gods, how he wanted at that moment to fully justify these foolish expectations! To give free rein to dragon wrath and Dark Sister, and let the bde sing, let Caraxes rejoice! It would cost him nothing to take off the head of either the lying cripple or the henpecked weakling; he could certainly pierce the pretty white armor of those toy guardsmen.

  Daemon could well have started and ended the war in that very room, prevented it in that very castle, but that would have meant committing fratricide. But that was exactly what they expected, expected atrocities, crimes, and other horrors that these brainless sheep bleating with fear had long attributed to him. He was called Rogue, of course, but he did not count this vice among "his own" and did not intend to even try it on himself. And besides, what could be worse at that moment than meeting their expectations? He did not give them such pleasure, and all his anger poured out on the road and behind the Bck Verge, the only pce now worthy to be called home.

  From wretched thoughts, or perhaps from wretched wine and wretched people, he raised his hand again, intending to send the goblet after its predecessor, but his wife's voice stopped him:

  "If you continue in the same spirit, we shall enrich the Myrish but impoverish ourselves. Put it back, Daemon."

  Daemon reluctantly looked over his shoulder and curled his lips in a pitiful parody of a smile. Rhaenyra had wits enough to first step out onto the terrace and close the door behind her before speaking, and now she stood before him, hands csped under her bosom, terribly strict and eerily resembling one of his grandmother's confidantes, which he did not fail to announce:

  "Make your face simpler; you look like a septa."

  "And you look like a drunkard," she cut him off. "For the second day you do nothing but drink and sh out at servants. A little more and they will flee from us, just to avoid falling under your hot hand. That gatekeeper now soils his breeches every time someone shouts nearby."

  "We need no milk-sops," Daemon snorted and drained the wine in one gulp.

  Rhaenyra sighed and, walking around the sofa, sat beside him. She picked up the fallen letter, which had become quite frayed over a couple of days, frowned, but read it silently. Nothing, let her know. Reaching the end, his wife sighed and, folding the sheet in three, said with mild reproach:

  "The children are afraid of you, Daemon. Viserys and Daemon wanted to py with you so much when you returned, but you evidently had no time for them. Alyssa waited for you too—you promised to fly around the isnd with her, remember?"

  She spoke of her in vain—memory with a malicious smirk slipped Viserys's words again: "You will give Alyssa to Aegon."

  "Your father wants to buy a throne for his bastard through my daughter," he spat out.

  "I understood that already."

  "Evidently poorly understood. Although, we are not speaking of your daughter..." a sp did not let him finish.

  "Don't you dare!" Rhaenyra hissed, bringing a finger threateningly to his very nose. "Don't you dare say such things to me! I raised her as my own daughter, nursed her when we were not yet married. Not every mother loves her own child as I love Alyssa, so don't you dare insult me with this!"

  Say what you will, but his wife had managed to grow dragon scales over the years of marriage, become tougher, hardened, more dangerous. In the first couple of years after the wedding, she spoiled his blood considerably, sometimes tormenting him with foolish tantrums and childish grievances out of nowhere; instead of standing in the center of the world in her wful pce beside him herself, she wanted the world led by her husband to revolve around her. Well, the girl had to learn the bitter truth, and, to her credit, she understood it after all and managed to grow up before Daemon became disappointed in his wife. Over time, irrepressible outbursts of childishness were repced by manifestations of true dragon wrath. Had she a dagger on her now and were he not her husband, for such words he would certainly have earned a couple of marks on his face—she might even have tried to deprive him of an eye.

  Yes, Rhaenyra had changed, could not help but change. Six pregnancies, of course, did not pass without a trace for her, but she was still called the Realm's Delight, fttering her not a whit. The beauty of the young Queen Rhaenys was repced by the beauty of Queen Alysanne the Good, as singers praised her in balds, and Daemon understood why his grandfather never wished for another wife. Comparisons with her great-grandmother were naturally pleasant to Rhaenyra, considering that neither one nor the other, despite numerous births, had fattened to the state of sows into which many Andal women who had gone through the same turned. It fttered Daemon that his wife wanted to arouse the same desire in him as before.

  And yet he sometimes saw something else: something in her gait, in the turn of her head, in the manner of arranging her braid, in the sharp tone of her voice, in the fury in her eyes made him think that Visenya might have looked like this. If he was right, the Conqueror had no taste in women if he spent only one night out of ten with her.

  "That is why I married you," Daemon smirked, rubbing his burning cheek.

  "You needed a nurse for your daughter, just say it," Rhaenyra snorted, still displeased, but her features softened.

  "Not only her."

  "In any case," she continued. "Whatever nastiness your father or uncle said to you..."

  "Both."

  "...that is no reason to drink, destroy your own home, and frighten the children. Life has not ended, Daemon, however sure you may be of the contrary."

  His spouse's words reopened old wounds, stirred up bile again. Rhaenyra was right: cherishing one's grievances was too Andal-like. Daemon rose from the pillows and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to chase away the wine haze.

  "What choice do you have?" she asked, continuing to fan the fire kindled within him.

  "I can accept all that nonsense they offered me. The 'best offer', you understand, may the Seven Hells (Peklo) take them. Or I can not accept. And, frankly speaking, I do not want to accept it."

  "And what will happen if you do not accept?"

  A good question.

  "Nothing special," he shrugged. "Only then Viserys will do everything his own way anyway. He will decre his son Prince of Dragonstone, and the Seven Kingdoms will joyfully run to swear allegiance to him, because a son succeeding a father is simpler, more understandable, and closer to them."

  "And we get nothing from this," Rhaenyra concluded.

  "That is in the best case."

  "Do we truly have no allies in the capital?"

  "Why, certainly: Luthor Largent still commands the City Watch, only he does not sit on the Small Council. The Sea Snake and Lannister stand for Aegon. Otto... you understand yourself. Beesbury and Mellos will not say a word against Viserys; Cole can barely speak or think at all. No, we have no friends on the Small Council. I tried to find a repcement for Otto, looked in the Rivernds and the North, but everyone I spoke to was unsuitable in some way: one is old, another proud, a third busy with his nds, a fourth would rob the Iron Bank if he had the chance. But everyone I met was ready to talk about marriages with our children, as if they were breeding stallions or cows. You remember yourself, I gave no answer or hint to anyone then, and now I think, perhaps it would have been worth it..."

  "Perhaps it is for the best," she remarked and, tilting her head slightly to the side, suggested, "Maybe it makes sense to write to the Tyrells. It is unlikely they are pleased that their own bannermen jumped over their heads into the royal bed and have behaved like great lords ever since. This will temper the Hightowers' appetites, flick them on the nose; besides, there are houses closer to the Tyrells than to the Hightowers..."

  "Maybe," Daemon drawled. "But I won't give Jace to them."

  "That is out of the question. We will look for someone for the younger ones."

  "Yes, as one of the options."

  "One of the options... We can also secede from Westeros. Tyrosh can provide for itself; we have nds in Essos and will have even more; Caraxes and Syrax will protect us from enemies. Why, we can even get Vontis as a vassal!"

  "Do you think I will send you or Alyssa into battle?"

  "How are we worse than Visenya and Rhaenys?!"

  "Don't make me ugh," Daemon snorted. "We will fight off all this riffraff like Dorne, Myr, and Braavos, of course, but your father does not like it when something is taken from him, and your uncle made it clear that we won't be able to count on him. Besides... Would you truly agree to be content with Tyrosh alone?"

  "And what else remains for me if, as you say, a fight is deadly dangerous for me?" Rhaenyra answered a question with a question.

  "There is an alternative," he nodded. "I mount Caraxes, fly to King's Landing, and do what I refused to do st time. Burn the Red Keep, that snake's nest, and then do the same to Dragon’s Heart; it is not the first time it bathes in dragon fire. If done quickly, they won't have time to answer with anything, nor will they be able to. There are only two, at best three riders in the capital, and if I bring down the vault of Maegor's Holdfast on them, they won't have time to do anything, and the dragons... Well, a dragon can have several riders in a lifetime. The main thing is to maintain the element of surprise."

  "Then you will have to visit Driftmark as well. Even if Rhaenys is at Dragon’s Heart, Laenor still protects his father's shipyards."

  "Not a great detour."

  "And yet it is time. You alone cannot be in three pces at once."

  "Don't fish for an invitation; I won't take you. Someone must remain in Tyrosh while I settle differences with my dear brothers. The children cannot handle this."

  "Then do not be surprised at a possible meeting in the skies. Caraxes is strong, of course, but any battle is a risk. Besides, the dragon may survive, but his rider..."

  "One still has to get to the rider."

  "Vhagar will get there."

  Daemon ughed joylessly and buried his face in his wife's shoulder. The stiff gold thread embroidery, imitating Syrax's scales and wings, almost completely concealed the bck silk and pricked his skin.

  "I refuse to consider Vhagar a serious opponent while a boy sits in her saddle. The old dy won't listen to him."

  "But she won't run away herself," Rhaenyra objected. "My brother won't stop her, that is true, but he doesn't need to; it is enough not to interfere. Vhagar is a dangerous opponent in any case; she is older and bigger than Caraxes."

  "Vhagar has not fought dragons, unlike Caraxes. For that matter, Vermithor is hardly more dangerous than she is now. Aegon knows how to behave in a dragon battle," he paused, then added. "But I am stronger than him."

  "There is also Meleys. She may not have fought the Cannibal, but she is accustomed to battles and cks no fury. That makes at least three against one, my husband. And even if you and Caraxes defeat them all, three more will remain..."

  "Ah, those... Don't count."

  "But you count. How many wounds will be on Caraxes after three duels? How many burns will you earn yourself? Silverwing and Seasmoke will be able to defeat a wounded champion."

  Daemon clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground again. No, if this continued, he would grind them down to the roots, and the King of Tyrosh did not want a toothless old age like his grandfather's. However, bitter as it was to admit, Rhaenyra was right. Three war dragons against one was a risky enough yout in itself, and if "extra" dragons were added, the chances of victory became ughable indeed. Even if Rhaenyra flew with him, Syrax could distract one of these dragons and most likely die in the process, but this sacrifice would hardly allow gaining anything. Daemon simply could not send his wife to death, and the sons... the sons were still too small.

  "Ye-e-es," he drawled with a joyless chuckle. "The yout is rare shit. If Viserys specially sent your brothers together to find the snot-nose a bigger dragon... A beautiful move, nothing to say. Although, no, that is too clever for Viserys. Surely Aegon came up with this infernal scheme. Master of Dragons, indeed..."

  "Perhaps there is our fault in this too, Daemon," Rhaenyra said softly and, embracing him, rested his head on her chest.

  The King of Tyrosh inhaled the soothingly sweet scent of his wife's incense, overpowering the intrusive blooming of lemons, and allowed himself to bury his face in her ample bust. The meaning of what his spouse said did not reach him immediately. Raising his gaze, he drawled in bewilderment:

  "What fault is that?"

  "Every egg Syrax id, we put in our children's cradles; only the Red Dancer and Vermax are changelings. Every egg hatched, every one of our children has a dragon, but they are young and will be so for a long time."

  "And what should we have done in your opinion?" Daemon grumbled discontentedly. "Not put eggs? So they would say about my children that they have no dragons, like Alicent's children?"

  "But Jace would have gotten Vhagar herself, not her egg."

  "Not a fact that Vhagar would have accepted him," Vhagar's rider needs audacity first of all, which Baelon the Brave possessed and which Alicent's pup apparently possesses, and Jace has problems with this.

  "Be that as it may, I want you to calm down, stop raging and drinking, and think with your head what we are to do now. We were outpyed, yes, but is that a reason to give up?"

  "I am not giving up."

  "Correct, you want to kill yourself against a wall of dragons. That is flight from the problem, not its solution. You want to leave me here with the children, but have you thought what will become of us if you do not return? You do not want to take me with you, and I will not let you go alone either."

  "You and the children are of no use in battle now; you will only get in the way."

  "Perhaps," Rhaenyra did not deny. "But dragons grow, as do our children. In five years Jace will become a knight..."

  "In four."

  "As you say, dear. In four years he will become a knight and one can already count on him with Vermax. Then the rest will grow up. In the end, I am still young, I am only twenty-six..."

  Daemon pulled away and stared at her with feigned horror:

  "What, already?!"

  Rhaenyra snorted and shoved him in the shoulder.

  "I can still bear you an army of dragon riders for big dragons."

  Daemon's smile withered instantly. He himself had not heard these words, but his father always repeated them when recalling their mother's death. Forty sons, an army of warriors, an army of dragon riders...

  "Not worth it," he answered.

  "What? Do you not want any more?.."

  "My mother... And yours too, and your grandmother... Frequent births ruin women in our family."

  "Ah, you mean that," Rhaenyra exhaled. "I worried about that too, but Gerardys says my health takes more after Queen Alysanne. Besides, had I the same problems as Mother and Princess Dael, I would not have been able to bear you six healthy children. Visenya... With Visenya it was difficult at the end, yes, but Gerardys assures nothing irreparable happened, only recommends waiting."

  "We will have to wait a long time," Daemon drawled thoughtfully. Her speech did not convince the King overly much, but at least calmed him a little. "First birth, then wait until the child grows... Besides, dragons are fastidious."

  "Show me a dragon that will refuse a rider of Valyrian blood," angry notes of a mother offended that her child was neglected sounded in Rhaenyra's voice.

  "It won't refuse, of course," he agreed submissively and, after a pause, added. "You are right, we need time. Curse it, they truly offer the best possible. Father-in-w and grandfather of the future king, Hand..."

  "Regent."

  Daemon looked up at his wife in surprise. So, when it came to him and his brothers, he could not step over this line, but she lightly suggests getting rid of her own!

  "What do I hear," he drawled. "You propose getting rid of your own brother? Your future son-in-w?"

  Rhaenyra looked at him with deadly seriousness, and resolve burned in her violet eyes. Yes, he spoke in vain about her and Alyssa at the beginning, but wine and anger spoke in him, she should understand; can a stepmother speak so of a stepdaughter? No, only a mother.

  "I wish no evil to my brothers, as any sister should not," she answered strictly. "My father, as we have seen, fears becoming the cause of war most of all, but his sons may prove not so peaceful, and if they have folly enough to unleash a conflict or impose their will on us... The choice between brothers and my own children is obvious to me."

  ---------------

  Read advance +50 chapters on my

  (.)com/WinterScribe