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19 Minutes
Young Daemon wakes from a terrible dream where an ancestor explained exactly how his impetuous and violent nature damaged everyone he loved and contributed to the fall of his family. An emotionally damaged Daemon decides he has to change, no matter how much he wants to insist that a prince of the blood should get his way. And if that means he must marry an ugly woman, he will close his eyes and comply. But he might find that sometimes love that is slow to grow can make the strongest bonds.
Daemon woke from his dream sweating and swearing and scrambling to grab Dark Sister. The nightmare had been a strange mash of the far past and near future and the scathing contempt of an ancestor. Whatever wine he had indulged in the previous night, he swore off it forever.
“My prince?” the kingsguard called from his door. Daemon realized he had shouted as the dream ended and his cunt of an ancestor had dropped him back into his body, or at least that is how it had seemed. His imagination was not only far too vivid but demented and masochistic as well.
“I’m fine. It was naught but a dream,” Daemon called back. “It was just a dream,” he said more softly to himself. His grandmother would never betroth him to a stranger, not when Gael was yet unmarried. And the ratcatcher. He would never condemn a prince of the blood. He would never allow a mother to suffer such torture. The memory sickened him, even the brief glimpse had been a torment, but it was not truth. He would not kill a child or cause one to be killed. But to kill a babe who still sought his mother’s arms? No. He would never be that man.
He called for washing water before dressing in silver and black, eager to feel like a prince and not a penitent begging for an ancestor’s forgiveness for things he had never done. For things he would never do. By the time he arrived at breakfast, he had regained some equilibrium. Joining the royal family, he smiled when Gael visibly brightened when he walked in the room. A dozen lords and ladies sat at the lower tables and servants lined the walls, ready to offer wine or hypocras the moment a glass was half empty.
“Good morn to all,” Daemon said. Viserys had his nose in a book and their father was deep in conversation with the king.
“Come, join me,” his grandmother said. She was not Daemon’s favorite person, but he smiled and dismissed the niggle of fear that she would do as the dream warned and announce a betrothal.
“Good morning, Grandmother,” he said as he settled into his chair. A servant placed spiced meat, cheeses and bread in front of him. Daemon speared a piece of meat.
“I had hoped to speak to you, Grandson.”
“Wife,” King Jaehaerys said in a warning tone.
She gave him a tight smile. “There is no reason to hesitate since it is decided.”
Daemon noticed his father was stiff, his hand fisted around his fork. Even Viserys noticed the tension and looked up from his book and Gael gazed about, clearly confused.
“Mother,” Prince Baelon said as a warning.
But Queen Alysanne had never backed away from a challenge, and she raised an eyebrow at her son. She said, “Daemon deserves to know we have found him a good match.”
Daemon’s stomach sank. In truth, he didn’t know the Lady Rhea, but he feared her name coming from his grandmother’s mouth because if that part of the dream was true, then it argued that other parts might be as well. Desperation made his mouth dry and his mind was assaulted with the image of a little boy, blood soaking into the sheets while the mother wailed.
“We will discuss this in time. The betrothal is new,” King Jaehaerys said. It sounded as though the deal had been finalized, and Gael sat up straighter, her gaze going from Alysanne to Jaehaerys to Daemon.
“The Royces are a fine family and Lady Rhea is an excellent match. I see no reason to delay announcing such joyous news.”
Gael’s expression darkened, Viserys looked around as though searching for something, Baelon looked furious, and little Aemma was the only one to look delighted. Fourteen and pregnant again after suffering multiple losses. She should be horrified at the thought of another woman being condemned to the marriage bed.
“How old is the lady?” Daemon asked. He was not his brother to wed and bed a girl so young that her womb could not hold a babe. He liked a young virgin as much as his older brother, but he preferred to pay to purchase their services; he would not use a wife in such a way. Viserys was a fool. And if the dream was true, he would not grow wiser with age.
“Ten and eight, so close in age to you,” Alysanne said in a pleased voice. Two years older, then. Maybe three given that Daemon had only just turned six and ten, and the lady might be ready for another nameday. Women were rarely older in a marriage.
“And she has no other betrothal?” Ladies of noble houses were spoken for long before they flowered, so either her home was undesirable or she was.
His grandmother wrinkled her nose. “She was betrothed to a cousin in order to keep Runestone in the Royce family, but he was killed by mountain clans. Vile barbarians. They take women and kill indiscriminately. You should burn them out of the mountains, husband,” she said as if King Jaehaerys had been on dragonback in the last five years.
“I would burn every tree and sheep in the Vale if I tried, wife.”
Alyssane sniffed. “We have agreed that your first son will be a Royce, so that will fulfill the need for a Royce to inherit Runestone.”
Daemon’s stomach dropped and the blood left his face. His son, his firstborn son, would not carry his name. He would not be a Targaryen, which means his grandparents intended to deny his child his right to ride a dragon. He would have raged had he not seen the dream. They would deny his children their birthright, and in doing so, they would condemn all dragons. And his grandmother smiled as if this were a grand solution. Viserys had inherited his intelligence from their grandmother.
“Your other children will be Targaryens, and Viserys’ children will need betrothals,” Daemon’s father reassured him. Daemon was numb. If he was married away from King’s Landing, he would never be the hand of the king as his father had promised him.
But if the dream was true, that was already writ in stone. Viserys would deny him at every turn. Daemon wondered if he could save his father from a burst belly if he made him drink restoratives. His ancestor in the dream had said that Baelon’s death was inevitable, but if Daemon could change other parts of the future, surely he could change that. If Viserys never took the throne, or if he took it when he was far older, he could not turn the family against itself.
As Aetheana said, Daemon’s impetuousness had doomed the family, but so had Viserys’ stupidity. And Daemon counted that as the worse crime because Viserys started problems. Daemon only overreacted when confronted with the consequences of Viserys’ idiocy. Or when faced with lords who refused to bend the knee to Rhaenyra. He had won many a battle for her, but he had turned lords away from their cause with his overreactions. He glanced at Aemma whose belly was round with the unborn Rhaenyra. His dream wife was not yet born.
“His son won’t be a Targaryen?” Viserys asked. The arse had far too much amusement in his voice.
“The Royces need an heir, and our great-grandson will have a grand seat. We’ve agreed to build new docks and a dragonkeep at Runestone.”
Daemon hadn’t seen that in the dream, but by this point in the dream, he had stormed off. And their marriage had been… difficult. Daemon ought not to have drunk so much that he was unable to bed his wife, but the way she spread tales of his infirmity was unforgivable. No wonder he proved himself with a dozen whores when his own wife spread the story that he could not please a woman. He’d pleased women across two continents to disprove her.
“What is the lady like?” Daemon asked. He had seen only glimpses of her in the dream. Apparently his life and hers had crossed little, and now he wanted to know how others saw her. If the survival of the dragons required him to bed the lady, he hoped she was more than the bronze bitch of his dream.
“She is strong,” his father said. “Her father is in the Eyrie, regent for the Lady Jeyne, and she has taken charge of Runestone with an iron fist, or a bronze one. The Royces are descended from the Bronze Kings.” He knew Daemon was proud of his blood, and now he tried to frame the Lady Rhea as being equal to a Targaryen. Yesterday, Daemon would have said that the first men were no more than dust under a Targaryen’s feet. Today he had to consider carefully.
“Who were defeated by the Andals,” Viserys said. He was clearly trying to aggravate Daemon. Aemma put a hand on her husband’s arm, not that Viserys cared. He made a production out of loving his Arryn wife, but he did not give her body time to recover before planting new seed in her belly and now he spoke of Andals in a derisive tone, even though the Arryns were the very Andals who defeated the Bronze Kings. Those soulless curs had driven the magic from their blood, burning or driving away any with even a touch of magic. Instead of being sought out as wise women, Andal magic users were condemned to be wood witches or they became kindling for a fire.
“The First Men were overrun as a lion gets overrun by ants,” Daemon retorted. First Men blood still had magic. Targaryen magic, if his ancestor spoke true.
Viserys puffed up, and the queen brought her hand down on the table. “Boys!” she snapped. “I would expect each of you to defend the honor of your lady wives’ houses, but you will show decorum.”
“Yes, Grandmother,” Viserys said. Had Daemon never noticed how Viserys tried to antagonize him?
“I have sated my appetite. I think I will train. Grandmother, Grandfather.” Standing, Daemon nodded to his grandparents and headed toward his room. Maybe he should fly to the Vale. In his dream, he had been under guard and Caraxas chained by this point, but Daemon had not offered childish objections. Maybe he still had his freedom.
“Daemon,” his father called, and he turned to see his father hurrying down the corridor after him. His father walked beside him until they were in a more private space with only a kingsguard as witness. “I had hoped to talk to you before she made the announcement.”
“To warn me or gauge my fury?” Daemon asked.
Baelon sighed. “Are you furious?”
Daemon thought about it. Aetheana was correct that the Vale would give him a strong foothold in case of a civil war. There were even volcanoes deep in the Mountains of the Moon where dragons could hide from his family’s madness. If the dream was true, they were northwest of the Eyrie and so inaccessible that only a dragonrider could reach them. On the lower slopes, Mountain clans used vents to keep themselves warm in winter, but the hot peaks would belong to Caraxas and any dragon Daemon could lure to the Vale.
Maybe he could even get his father to claim a cold egg for him. If he joined his blood to the blood of First Men, his children should be even stronger than if they had a Targaryen mother. Maybe. The dream had given him a way to confirm that claim, so he would wait rather than impetuously deny the possibility. He had to fight against his own impulsiveness.
The image of a little boy on blood-stained sheets rose out of the depths of his guilt.
“What if she does not like me?” Daemon asked his father.
“Why would she not?” Baelon asked.
Because he called her a bronze bitch? Because he accused men of the Vale of being sheepfuckers? Because he said they fucked sheep because the beasts were prettier than Vale women? Because he called her castle ugly? Daemon knew any number of reasons why she would hate him, but in his defense, she had spread the rumor that he was unmanned and she called Caraxas an ugly beast. And she had denied him any financial support even though it was his marriage to her that kept him from seeking another woman with a respectable dowry.
“She doesn’t know me,” he finally said, which was a weak answer at best.
Baelon sighed and put a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “You are sixteen. You can become any sort of man you choose, so choose to be someone she can like. Your mother had to choose to become someone who would listen to me, even if she then argued every point. Your grandmother doesn’t like it when I say this, but she was much like Saera before we wed, but she changed for me. I had to become someone who did not worry about where his wife was. I had to learn to stop even asking because such questions reminded her of our mother’s controlling ways. Had we not become people who could live together, then our marriage would have been… uncomfortable. But tell me true. Are you against this match?”
“I do not know enough of it to object,” Daemon said. “It’s not as if the First Men are Andals with their hatred for magic. I could not abide that. But she is not even the daughter of a Lord Paramount.”
“True, but Stark is the only lord paramount with strong First Men blood, and Lord Stark has no daughter or sister. And you hate the cold.”
“I do,” Daemon agreed. “Is not the Vale cold, though?”
Baelon smiled and used the arm across Daemon’s shoulders to pull him toward a bench set under a window. “Not as cold as the North. But I am glad that you are not set against this match. Your grandmother is very concerned that you have a solid foundation for your life, one that does not depend on Viserys. I find her distrust of your brother upsetting, but she insists she wants you to have an income outside the family.” He pulled Daemon down to sit next to him.
Daemon sucked in a breath. He had no idea their grandmother didn’t trust Viserys to support him. It was true that Viserys had cut him off financial any number of times, but Daemon hadn’t thought anyone could have predicted that.
“I am proud of how thoughtful you are being. I feared you would react far worse,” Baelon said.
In the dream, Daemon had reacted far, far worse. Worse than a child. He had embarrassed himself and his family in front of all the visiting lords. The Valemen had probably heard Daemon’s insults before the ravens arrived to announce the wedding date. Daemon’s face heated as he considered how he might have reacted.
“You speak of First Men and magic. What do you know of the topic?” his father asked.
“They have skinchangers and wargs and greendreams. I’m sure there are those who fear the power, but as far as I know, the First Men don’t burn their witches.”
His father said in a darkly amused tone, “They preferred to bleed their enemies rather than burn them.”
“I am fine with bleeding enemies,” Daemon said with a grin, “but to treat anyone with magic as an enemy or some sin from the seven hells is disturbing. Our blood is magic, and that is where our connections to our dragons come from.”
Baelon studied Daemon for a long time, clearly surprised by his answers. Yesterday, Daemon would have given different ones. Yesterday he knew far less, and he believed in his family’s superiority far more.
But today he remembered the small house the Targaryens had in Valyria before they had started dreaming. They had been insignificant. What had Aetheana called him? She said he was a pimple on a family that the other 39 dragonlords thought a boil to be lanced. They’d been near powerless, only allying with others when they could find common cause or potent blackmail.
But maybe he should not believe every word of the dream, even if the betrothal to Rhea Royce had come to pass. He could not put all his faith in a dream and an ancestor that he could not interrogate. She could have lied. But still, fear kept him from objecting to the marriage too vehemently. He could not walk the same path. He thought of a little boy bleeding on his bed.
“I am sorry that your children will not have dragons.”
Daemon took a trembling breath. “I will have children, and my grandchildren might ride. Viserys needs to stop climbing in Aemma’s bed a week after she loses a child. He is abusing her womb, and I need her to have many children for my children to marry.” Viserys would not have those children with Aemma. Daemon knew it. But his children would have dragons one way or another. His father and grandfather would die, and Viserys was too weak to stop Daemon.
His father squeezed his knee. “A man cannot tell another man how to handle the marriage bed, but I will suggest he allow Aemma more rest.”
Daemon snorted.
“I never thought you had such a low opinion of your brother,” Baelon said, concern in his voice.
Daemon looked at his father. “Viserys was amused that my son will not have my name. He should have offered condolences or reasons why the match can still be a good one.”
Baelon winced. “Yes, that was uncalled for.”
Daemon didn’t answer. Maybe his grandmother had a point. Maybe he did need a place outside of King’s Landing where Viserys would one day be king. Daemon prayed that day would not be soon. He turned to face his father. “You should take restoratives, and make sure you ride every day. You need to stay healthy.”
Baelon laughed.
“I’m not jesting,” Daemon said sharply.
Baelon tilted his head. “Are you truly concerned for me, son?”
Daemon nodded. “I am. Viserys knows nothing of the kingdom. He sat in front of those lords and antagonized me. How does that make the family look? He doesn’t think about what he must do as king.”
“It will be decades before he will ascend to the throne.”
“No one expected Uncle Aemon to pass. What if you pass, and Viserys still acts like… Viserys?” Daemon prayed to the fourteen that his father would listen to him. He couldn’t speak of the dream. If he did, they would ask too many questions, and when they got their answers, they would dismiss Daemon as a false dreamer and a fool. Who would believe such things of the ancient house of Targaryen? Who would expect Viserys to tear the family apart? It was less shocking that Daemon had done so much damage to the family, but still, there were events he could never see himself doing.
A little boy on blood-soaked sheets
“I’m healthy,” his father promised.
“So was Uncle Aemon.”
“I don’t plan to ride to war,” his father countered.
“But what if you have to? What if the realm is in danger?”
Baelon ran his fingers through his hair. “You are truly worried, aren’t you?”
Daemon planned his next words. He could not allow impetuousness to rule him. A little boy on blood-soaked sheets. “When I accepted Dark Sister, I agreed to be this family’s sword. But if I’m not here, I can’t protect anyone.” He hoped that sounded logical and mature and sincere enough to get his father to do something about his idiot brother.
Baelon wrapped his arms around Daemon. “It is not your responsibility to protect the family. We take care of each other; you are but six and ten, and you have a life of your own to start. You’ll have a wife and children and responsibilities away from King’s Landing, as you should. I had no idea you felt so much pressure to protect us. That’s not the reason your grandfather gave you Dark Sister.”
Daemon pulled back and studied his father’s face. “Then why did he?”
“Sometimes I think it was to vex me,” he said wryly. “But mostly, your grandfather wanted to recognize how remarkable you are. That does not mean you have to stand between this family and any danger. You are my son, not a kingsguard.”
Daemon nodded. “I should get to the training yard.”
“And you are not upset about this betrothal? Did you have anyone else in mind that you would rather marry?”
That was a rather unsubtle hint. “You mean Gael?”
“Do you like her?” his father asked.
Daemon shrugged. “Not particularly. I did think I was going to marry her because there’s no one else for her to marry without leaving the family, and everyone always says we have to keep the blood inside the family. But she’s too quiet.”
Baelon laughed. “Of all my sisters, she is the only quiet one. Your fire would drive her back to our mother’s arms because you are… a lot. You remind me so much of your mother, and I wish she could see how much you’ve grown. I truly believe Lady Rhea is the better match, and I think your mother would agree.”
“Then I will give the match a chance.” Daemon stood. “I still dislike that you arranged all this without even talking to me or letting us meet. You are asking me if I agree to the match only after grandmother has told the visiting lords of the betrothal, so I can’t express any real doubt without offending the Vale.”
“And I am quite wroth with Mother for that exact reason,” Baelon said. He stood and ruffled Daemon’s hair. “Have no doubt, Mother and I will have several words about how she has approached this. I am just glad you are not opposed to the match. Lady Rhea has a rich land, and by the time I am done playing on your grandmother’s guilt, Runestone and its lands will be far grander.”
“Good,” Daemon said. “She owes us.”
“Us.” He smiled. “It’s good to hear you speaking as though you and your lady are united in this. Leave it with me, and I will champion your cause with your grandmother,” Baelon’s smile was full of pride as he walked away.
Daemon sank back down onto the seat and considered how this life was already different from the glimpses he got in the dream. He was not under guard. The kingsguard had left with Baelon because Daemon had not childishly threatened to run away. He could get on Caraxes and leave for the free cities right now. The dream had given him so much information that if even a fraction was accurate, he could find employment—men willing to pay a king’s ransom for the protection of a dragon.
He considered it. He could leave the family behind and forge his own path, but that would leave the dragons vulnerable. His soul hurt at the thought of dragons chained and helpless as the mob flung stones and bodies and dull blades until they finally felled them. They had been given to bastards and then Rhenerya had continued to treat those riders as bastards until they turned on her and dragons burned each other out of the air.
Daemon had seen how the dream version of himself commanded the respect of the gold cloaks–he had made himself one of them. He’d tried to counsel Rhaenyra to do the same. But she had dismissed him just like her father had when Daemon tried to counsel him out of his idiocy.
People wanted respect. They wanted to know their leader was one of them, that their leaders suffered the same and celebrated the same, too. And Daemon had offered little respect to either Viserys or Rhaenyra, so it was little wonder they had dismissed him. Daemon groaned. Fourteen hells. He was going to have to be one of the Valemen if he wanted their loyalty and to create a strong enough kingdom to stand apart when the war came.
Well he drew the line at fucking sheep.
Unless he absolutely had to.
To save dragons, there was very little he wouldn’t try at least once.
Story Posts
Author Notes
Cast
At least he learnt a little and started thinking. Viserys is a stupid as always.
He saw the consequences. He might not be good at thinking it through for himself, but with this dream, he has to face what he did and change
Very interesting start! I am excited to see where you take this!
I’m so grateful for the support. I usually do slash, but this bunny grabbed me and didn’t want to let me go.
A great read, and absolute lol at the last two lines.
This is such a dark universe GRRM created, but I do like a little more light and humor in my darkness. I’m glad you liked it.
I love Daemon. The Blood & Cheese fiasco was him at his worst, but Daemon was smart. If a dragon dream showed him his house’s downfall, then I could totally see him making a course correction.
Excellent start, can’t wait to see where this goes.
I think Daemon is such a great character because we understand his frustration and his actions, but then he takes everything five steps too far so we can’t side with him. It makes him an awesome character, but so, so very frustrating. So slapping him around until he got emotional damage felt so very appropriate.