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🕑 Added 2025-05-12 19:57:26 +0000 UTCChapter 33: A Game of Magic II
Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
93 AC
Braavos
Bessaro Reyaan
He looked at the assembled keyholders of the Iron Bank and sighed in tiredness, as even a demon like himself could feel the mental fatigue of playing a role like this for so long. The entire Braavos was in chaos at the audacity of the Dragonking to send dragons over Essos again and burn both Myr and Tyrosh. They were confused whether to cheer for the burning of slavers or vilify him for using authority and power in Essos, where all the dragonlords and dragons had once been killed off.
Bessaro had not even believed the Old King would dare to do this—breaking their agreement from all those years ago. The current Bessaro may have been known as his father those days, but curse his immortality, he still remembers the meeting like it was yesterday. Bessaro had laughed hard upon seeing a Valyrian dragonlord sending a fucking septon, of all things, as his hand to deal with Braavos. The warning may have been hidden in honeyed words, but Bessaro knew what it was—and he had to respond, alluding to the Faceless Men. Luckily for everyone, an agreement was reached and no dragon would fly over Essos again. The Old King had promised not to interfere with Essosi politics at all. The implied threat on both sides had been understood.
For Braavos, it was the Faceless Men. For the Old King, it was Balerion.
Bessaro wondered why it was now that the Old King had so horribly violated their agreement. Maybe he thought that since the deal was with his father and not written down like the trade agreements, they wouldn’t know—or maybe the Old King had found something to deal with the Faceless Men again. Bessaro knew Balerion wouldn't last long in this world, as he could feel the magic dying if he concentrated hard enough. That had been the Old King’s trump card, and it had made him cautious.
‘So what happened to make the Old King gamble now? Had arrogance and vain pride finally gotten to his head?’ Bessaro wondered.
For a century and a half, Bessaro had been the most powerful man in Braavos—the First Keyholder of the Iron Bank and the hidden Leader of the Faceless Men. The Sealord of Braavos, usually the third most powerful man, was present in this meeting. And even with all his influence, Bessaro knew the position of Sealord had been gathering strength over the years. The people of Braavos gave their respect to the Sealord depending on who held the office, while the Iron Bank and the Faceless Men were increasingly hated and vilified. The respect they once had for ending the dreaded dragonlords of Valyria had long since faded. The masses no longer believed those tales, calling them gossip and rumor.
Many a Braavosi had been bankrupted by the Bank’s interest rates—but it wasn’t because of him.
“Fucking incompetent, prideful fools,” Bessaro cursed inwardly, as he understood how politics had shifted in Braavos. Fools blamed the Bank for their own mistakes, which had landed them in destitution. Consequently many cursed the Keyholders and none more than the oldest and the founder; The Bessaro’s. In the last year alone he had to write off two debts, of influential Braavosi families, in terms of money to some other favour, because threatening them with Faceless Men would have lead to a mutiny.
All the while The Office of the Sealord increased reputation and the current leader solidified it. Bessaro wondered whether it was time for some re-election.
“First Keyholder!” the angry voice of the Sealord echoed above the shouting. “What say you? Should Braavos be silent as the Old King dares to send an open threat of conquest to every city—including Braavos? How fucking dare he! I would have celebrated the burning of slaver scum and the chaos in the Narrow Sea, but even imagining the audacity to send such a message to Braavos makes my blood boil—like every Braavosi’s. We need to answer this threat!”
Bessaro frowned at the tone but remained composed. He didn’t want to start something now.
“And what do you suggest, respected Sealord? Declare war on the Seven Kingdoms?” Bessaro asked sarcastically.
Sealord spluttered at that.
The Sealord spluttered at that.
“What? No, not a war. It would affect us as well. What about increased taxes?”
“That would not be very effective,” Bessaro replied. “They would retaliate by increasing their own taxes, and it would just be posturing. The threat is mainly to the slavers, and we are blessed Free Men. I have men in the Three Whores, and there are whispers of an alliance between them. We will make that possible by ensuring it remains equitable—perhaps by making some changes in Lys's leadership. Let them join together and prepare their fleets.”
The Sealord looked thoughtful as he processed that.
“Yes, Keyholder. That is better than us Braavosi shedding our money, tears, and blood. And we still have the Pentoshi problem. They've been getting uppity, and we must prepare to cut down their arrogance.”
Bessaro nodded.
The meeting went on for some time, and after it ended, Bessaro traveled to his true home—the House of Black and White.
It was the annual meeting of his oldest faces to decide what must be done to preserve their supposed divine duty. Bessaro smirked at the thought as the fools who had made the pact entered the underground meeting room.
There was an ironwood table around which chairs were placed, and everyone sat down.
Bessaro inhaled sharply as his magic slowly snaked into his Faces. He was quite irate and decided to just be done with it—taking over instead of conducting the farce of a meeting.
Every single person except Bessaro froze as if asleep. They all slumped in various positions around the table. One by one, his mind entered one face after another, and his demonic power consumed their entire memories.
He snarled, as his own plans had been thwarted—mainly in Westeros.
“Fucking barbarian scum,” Bessaro whispered.
One of his Faces in Dragonstone hadn’t reported back for three moons, and Bessaro couldn’t feel the connection even when he concentrated. That Face had been tasked with keeping an eye on both the castle and the Cannibal. He thought back to any memories sent by the Face—but it was blank.
“Another one has to be sent,” he said to the face that managed deployments. The command was rooted deep in that face, as if from the Many-Faced God himself—and when they awoke, it would be processed as such.
Another problem Bessaro noted was the increased magic in the North—mainly in Winterfell. There had even been difficulty poisoning one guard in Wintertown, though the Face had succeeded as usual.
Bessaro reviewed the entire matter of the Northmen over the last decades, and the increase in magical abilities was evident. He didn’t have to wonder long to identify the true source of this much improvement.
Daemon Snow.
“Fucking dragon lovers,” Bessaro cursed, feeling regret that he hadn’t ordered his death all those years ago. The navigation method they had found was mind magic—but they couldn’t replicate it.
Bessaro looked through his collected memories to locate the bastard, and the latest information was that he was traveling.
“He must be killed. His soul is needed by the Many-Faced God,” Bessaro declared, planting the order into one of his faces—Jaqen H’ghar, the face who usually wandered through Westeros for information and assassinations.
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95 AC
Braavos
Unlike the last several years, Bessaro was not irate at this annual meeting of his faces. His own movements in the Three Whores had been a success, and the Triarchy was born. Even though they were outwardly silent, the hatred against the dragons burned brighter every day.
Bessaro was pleased that he hadn’t even had to do all the work. The followers of the Red Demon were helpful enough to spread tales of the "enemy of mankind" in the North of Westeros far and wide. Their preaching had reached an otherworldly level, and any slaves of northern origin were now highly expensive. The Red Priests sacrificed anyone of northern blood to the fire after purchasing them for any amount of gold.
The slavers easily believed the tales, as they hated the Westerosi for the audacity of the Old King burning their cities. The three cities had made peace outwardly with the Old King—but peace was nothing more than preparation for war.
Bessaro knew this truth very personally, having prepared for so long to cause the Doom. Now it seemed he would have to prepare again—for the foolish Targaryens. He had thought the Andals and the stupid Faith with their magic hate would have dealt with them by now, but it deeply annoyed him that they too were following in his footsteps of preparation.
His thoughts were broken as he felt another of his connections die painfully. Ever since discovering the death of the Face in Dragonstone, he had been monitoring the severance of links closely—and now this was the third one since.
He sighed in annoyance, realizing it was the one in the North—who had gotten too close to Lyanna Mormont, the daughter of Daemon Snow.
“Fucking cave bear and her use of monsters as pets,” he cursed to himself.
At least Bessaro could now confirm what had made the Old King act in Essos: Daemon Snow, his grandson.
The Old King must have known about the magical abilities—and gambled that it would be enough to withstand the assassins. The healing and the supposed blessing of gods.
Bessaro snarled.
“Well, it seems new resources must be allocated for the enemy to be killed immediately.”
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94 AC
Kingslanding
The Crown Prince
Baelon snarled and almost threw the invaluable dragonglass candle against the wall in anger, as he got nothing from the mind of his grand-niece, Lyanna.
The girl still didn’t know where his cursed nephew was. The only thing he gathered was that Daemon was somewhere in the South or even in Essos, traveling. Ever since the death of Aemon and his nephew stealing his revenge, Baelon had been searching for him. Even the ashes of thousands couldn’t smother his rage or sadness.
Baelon was cursing the gods, his nephew, and his damned father when the king entered the office without knocking or announcing himself. Baelon’s face curled in disgust and anger at the sight of his father and his machinations. The forced Crown Prince position and everything else had been too much. Any courtesy or fear Baelon once had for the old king had ended with the death of Balerion, and so Baelon didn’t even rise from his chair when the king entered.
“What do you want?” Baelon asked curtly. He saw the king’s impassive face observing him closely. Fortunately for the king, his father didn’t press the issue of courtesy.
“Baelon, how many times have you failed in finding my grandson’s whereabouts? It is time you ended this quest and left him be. Is the mind of a little girl that attractive to you?” the king mocked.
Baelon snarled in fury and snapped.
“I am not spending my time in Lyanna’s mind. I was pursuing others and only entered it twice before today. I couldn’t risk it again. That mind has been getting protection after protection—just like that bastard’s mind.”
The king looked surprised for a moment, but the impassiveness returned quickly.
“Impressive indeed and as expected from one of my great-grandchild. I indulged your quest for two years, and now Balerion is dead. It’s time to stop this madness and concentrate on other matters. You are the Crown Prince, and I made it possible to quench your thirst for vengeance. I don’t understand why you're so obsessed. Targaryen blood avenged Targaryen blood. End of the matter,” the king said, sighing in exasperation.
Baelon looked struck for a moment before replying.
“Stop? I will never stop looking for him. You ask why? Then let me educate the great king about what happened when Aemon met Daemon in Winterfell—and what I know. Daemon warned Aemon that he must always stay on Caraxes or beneath him. He knew Aemon would die in Myr. Similarly, he warned Rhaenys that she would be the Queen Who Never Was if she married Corlys. But Rhaenys, in her foolishness and hubris, thought it was Daemon’s clever manipulation.”
Baelon could see the mocking smirk vanish from the king’s face as he grasped the meaning.
“Daemon mocked Aemon about House Targaryen’s losses is because he was left behind in Winterfell. Daemon could have saved so many—and he didn’t. That is forgivable if he didn’t know they needed saving. But the truth is—he knew. He could have saved my sisters and brothers and did nothing with his abilities. That is unforgivable. He can see the future—or must have visions. And yet he did nothing to save his own blood. I must find him. I must know—who will I lose next? Which of my sons will die—by accident or be killed like my dear brother? I must protect them, and I need that bastard for that. It doesn’t matter if I have to threaten him with Vhagar, or if I must keep him in the Black Cells—he will cooperate with me.”
The king was silent for many heartbeats. Baelon gasped, drawing harsh breaths after his outburst.
“I see, Baelon. What you just informed me confirms my own suspicions. Leave Daemon alone for now. He must remain free,” the king commanded, and even Baelon's rage was momentarily smothered by the sheer presence of the old king.
It took him some time to shake off that commanding aura, but Baelon was no longer a young man. He was a father and a hardened warrior.
He just shook his head and said, “It will not happen, Father. I will continue doing what I must.”
The old king sighed, his shoulders dropping as his commanding presence faded. Age had caught up with him once again.
“Baelon, it seems I must begin another lesson—for two reasons. So that you will understand why I am ordering this, and because now Balerion is dead.”
Baelon looked intrigued, though still annoyed that the king hadn’t dropped the matter.
“Tell me, Baelon, how do you think we became the last dragonlord family after the Doom? You, like every learned man, know that several dragonlords in Essos were killed by poison, infighting, and rebellions,” the king snorted. “As if. Do you really think Lys would still stand if a dragonrider was killed while his dragon was in the city—or nearby? Those behemoths? And the people of Lys, the most Valyrian besides us—would they dare strike a dragonlord knowing our power and cruelty? No. It was assassination—by two parties. The Faceless Men of Braavos, and the Red Priests of R’hllor. Faceless Men for the dragonlords, and shadowbinders and poisons of R’hllor for the dragons.
So, my son, tell me—how did House Targaryen overcome this? How did we alone survive?”
Baelon looked shocked as he processed the information, but shook his head—he had no true answer.
The king continued.
“We survived by luck and by chance, Baelon. Luck—because it took nearly a dozen years after the Doom before we became the last dragonlords. And chance—because that delay allowed our enemies be blind to us before finally turn their eyes to us on Dragonstone. It gave Balerion time to grow into his true power—enough to kill every single magic-user who came to Dragonstone, unless they belonged to our house or sworn to us. Balerion claimed the entire island—he could sense magic and people alike.
It took dozens of ships, incinerated by the Black Dread, before they finally stopped trying.”.
Baelon was intrigued by the new knowledge but couldn’t see what it had to do with his quest for Daemon Snow.
The King continued, “ There was understanding that we were not interested in Essos in the Century of Blood and Aegon’s conquest consolidated that view. It was a reluctant truce for a long time until my sisters folly allowed three dragon eggs to the hands of the Bravoosi. The Braavosi threatened me using the Faceless Men and I returned the favour with Balerion. War and annihilation was barely avoided after I reached an agreement giving me enough time to curse the three eggs to be turned into stone. One of that agreement was for there to have no dragonfire used in Essos and to never conquer Essos.
Baelon looked shocked. “But I flew over Essos. I violated the agreements.”
“And now, Balerion is dead.” The King said as if to make Baelon remember that crucial fact too.
Baelon spluttered, “What? Wha… this is…”
“Don’t worry. I don’t think the Faceless Men will be sent, nor will hostilities begin. Times have changed—or I have made them change. Years of songs, rumors, and false information—spread by our ancestors and even by me—have turned the Faceless Men into a hated and feared organization. Add to that the fact the Sea Lord holds more power than the keyholders now—it's a different world than it was decades ago.”
“And what does any of this have to do with my pursuit of my cursed nephew?” Baelon snapped.
“Oh, Baelon. I thought you were clever enough to grasp it yourself. Daemon has demonstrated extraordinary abilities—both physical and magical. If the Faceless were foolish enough to start a purge of the last dragonlord blood, it would include Daemon and his children too. I would make sure that the news reached Daemon’s ears—before even the first Targaryen is dead. He would have no choice but to ensure our enemies die and if Daemon failed to kill off Faceless Men within the death of the entire true line, He will be the backup for making sure my blood continues even if we all die to our enemies.”
“What?” Baelon snapped. “That’s it? You want that bastard—who doesn’t give a fuck about his blood—to care for us and kill our enemies? Wait...”
Baelon’s eyes widened as a surprising thought struck him.
“Are you implying that you gave the order to burn Myr and Tyrosh only because of Daemon? If he had no powers—would you have done nothing The old king’s impassiveness snapped into rage. A harsh slap on the table echoed, silencing Baelon.
“Enough, son. You think I would allow such disrespect from those slaving scum to House Targaryen? I would have done the same—Daemon or no Daemon. Even now, I know how to ensure our blood survives—even without him. A King should be clever enough to use anything to the betterment of his House and realm, Baelon and I know how to make use of my grandson even without his awareness.”
Baelon remained silent.
The old king sighed, looking at the Crown Prince.
“I see you will not stop looking for Daemon. Do as you will—but beware. You are not to harm one of my blood for any reason except direct, willful harm to anyone named Targaryen. If you find him—and I doubt you will—you may coerce, beguile, manipulate, or damn well even seduce him to get your knowledge. But there will be no threats or willful harm done to Daemon. We have no need for new enemies right now—especially not from within our own blood. Do you understand?” the king asked grimly.
Baelon swallowed his anger and nodded, knowing that anything else would be quite detrimental to him.
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94 AC
Oldtown
Lord Hightower
He sighed in annoyance as he read the latest letter from his son Otto. Sending Otto to squire for Ser Ryam was the best decision he had made in the sacred quest every Hightower undertakes in their life—
the eradication of magic and the salvation of mankind.
Otto had spread his roots among Prince Rhaenys and Prince Viserys, and had influence with several nobles of the court. Ever since the maesters lost their spy in the Grand Maester, Hightower had kept away from the Citadel. He had even served loyally when Prince Baelon came to punish the Citadel, confiscate the glass candles, seize books on magic, and raid the vaults to their hearts’ content. The Enlightened had made several requests of him then and even afterward, but he had distanced himself further, claiming they must be patient for a few decades.
Fortunately, only the paranoid Lords of the South and the entire North had actually rejected the maesters' service after the Old King rescinded the Crown’s protection and revoked the order to have a maester in every castle or keep. Even though diminished, the maesters’ wings had spread farther than they had before the Conquest. But it was all for nothing if the dragons were not tamed—and his son had done good work there.
“Father,” the sound of his heir snapped him from his thoughts.
“What is the latest news from The Red Keep?”
“It is bad, my son. Otto has confirmed that Prince Baelon, who once showed the exemplary character of a king, has become increasingly volatile and temperamental. According to your brother, Baelon is for some reason on a quest to find his bastard nephew and has grown far crueler in his punishments out of frustration and anger at his failures. Furthermore, Otto has confirmed that he has no chance to influence the future king in any matter. Prince Viserys is the only one who shows promise.”
“Why is the Prince looking for a northern bastard? And… should we hasten Prince Viserys’s ascension?”
“Enough,” Lord Hightower snapped. “You shall never voice that thought aloud. You wish to assassinate a prince of the blood? The last assassination ended one of the ancient lines and killed thousands of Essosi scum in the fallout. No, we did not come this far by being fools. The majority of nobles may dismiss the reason behind Connington’s madness and his confession to the realm, but the clever few have now heard the same rumors of the Ghost of Prince Aemon. Otto believes Baelon suspects his bastard nephew is this Ghost, meaning the boy infiltrated the castle and killed everyone while making the foolish griffin confess. There can be no other reason for Baelon’s rage and his almost insane desire to find this boy.”
His son looked suitably chastised by the foolish idea of assassination and surprised at the implications. It filled him with pride that his heir was not a fool, one who dismissed tales without considering the possibility.
“Father, if I may—what should we do now? The Citadel has been growing louder in its protests. Our spies report the Order of the Enlightened meets almost weekly now and has sent many men to all corners of the world to collect knowledge for the tomes they lost in the dragon’s wrath.”
“Nothing, my son. Nothing. We carry on as we are until the opportunity presents itself. Otto has ensured he has a good relationship with both heirs to the throne, even though he supports Viserys more and more as time passes. If something were to happen to Prince Baelon, Otto is sure that—should the Old King be too infirm—there will be discontent surrounding the succession. We will wait and Pray to the seven for another good fortune like the death of the heir and see where the pieces fall.”
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96 AC
Daemon Targaryen, The Rogue Prince
Daemon panted hard as Dark Sister went through another post where a strawman was built. Even after swinging the sword many times, his anger and helplessness were not quenched. The looming presence of Caraxes in his mind didn’t help matters either. The dragon was volatile at the best of times, and Daemon could still feel the fury and helplessness the dragon felt when it saw his uncle Aemon dying in front of its eyes. He moved to the next one as his thoughts wandered.
He was pragmatic and knew well enough that he was blessed by birth into the House of the Dragon. He was above almost everyone, and as a dragonlord and a warrior with a sword, he was almost without peers. But even then, the few who were above him were absolute cunts.
His grandfather, the king, bent backward for his queen to reignite a compromise and a love where none existed. His bitch of a grandmother hated him for his “stupid” name—because her firstborn son had named him Daemon after a bastard, apparently.
The latest hateful act his grandmother committed had been the breaking point for Daemon—betrothing him to that bronze bitch when Gael was present and unwedded. He deserved Valyrian blood, not some sheep from the godforsaken Vale. Still, everything came back to that bastard.
Daemon had a second father in Aemon, in how much he was cared for by him—but to know that he was only a replacement for the abandoned bastard had made him angry like nothing else. Only the death of his uncle broke him from that hate and rage. At least that shared sorrow allowed him to bond with Caraxes.
Daemon had often wondered about the bastard he was named after. A bastard who was apparently blessed by the gods and a warrior reborn. Every tale was outlandish, and half the people who heard them scoffed and spat on the ground while calling on the Seven Gods in King’s Landing—but Daemon knew some of it was the truth. After all it was that bastard’s potions that had given him his little brother Aegon.
Another thing he both loved and hated. Loved, because Aegon was his baby brother. Hated, because Aegon had taken two things from him—his mother, and the care of his elders. At least the second thing was irrelevant now, and Daemon had forgiven Aegon for it. Still, the loss of their mother wrinkled his nose whenever Aegon was present. The only good thing was that Aegon was young enough, and Daemon was subtle enough, that their brotherly bond had not been broken.
And Daemon would love and protect his brothers, as his father had taught him.
He grunted as another post was bisected and was moving toward the next one when a voice interrupted him.
"Is it dead enough?" Baelon asked as he entered the private training grounds of the royal family.
Daemon just grunted and ignored his father. Baelon sighed but continued.
"I know you’re angry at me, my son. But my hands are tied."
Daemon stopped hacking down the strawman and looked at his father, seeing tiredness and defeat etched into his entire body. His heart lurched at the sight, but he swallowed the sadness as his selfishness rose.
"Why, Father? Why must I marry a bronze bitch when I could marry Gael? If not her, then there are enough Celtigar or even Velaryon cousins who are Valyrian enough," Daemon snapped.
Baelon looked at him in disappointment, trying to cow his son—but failed. Daemon had matured enough to overthrow such tactics.
"I see you at least deserve an explanation. The first and foremost voice behind this match is the Queen. She is afraid of you seducing Gael or even ruining her with your wicked, whoring ways. I even came to fierce argument with her in your defense, my son, when she called you the 'Rogue Prince' and other things. That is the major reason. The other is that she wanted to limit my influence. Now I have the support of the Vale through Viserys, and Rhaenys has the support of the Stormlands through the Baratheons. She wanted to limit my options by making you marry within the Vale itself. Also, there's the fact that Viserys doesn’t have a dragon after the death of Balerion. She wanted to limit your political influence should you get any ideas in the future. Foolishness at its best."
Daemon’s eyes widened as he registered the fact that his grandmother dared to even think he would betray Viserys.
"Stop. Don’t worry, my son. Such a sentence will never leave my mother’s mouth again. I made sure of that, and even the King was angry enough to ensure it by saying he would betroth Gael to anyone and make sure Alysanne would never see her again."
Daemon laughed hearing that. "Well, she deserves that. At least Gael will escape the golden prison then. Still, why couldn’t I remain free and not marry at all? I am young, and I have time."
Baelon sighed. "Your grandmother made this a part of her return and staying here with the King. The King doesn’t want to fight her on this. He was also intrigued by the idea and wanted to marry you into a First Man house. He even suggested Lyanna Mormont, but it seems your grandmother has more love toward her than her own trueborn grandson."
"Who the fuck is Lyanna Mormont?" Daemon asked in surprise.
Baelon’s eyes widened at the question. He knew Daemon had no interest in the lords of the realm, but the lack of knowledge still surprised him.
"Lyanna Mormont is the daughter of Dacey Mormont—and a bear in the woods, officially," Baelon said with a snort of laughter. Seeing the pure confusion on Daemon’s face made him laugh harder.
Before Daemon could protest, Baelon smothered his laughter and continued. "But during the stay in Winterfell for the marriage of Viserra, Lyanna—a child—walked up to Silverwing, called her 'Silvy', and petted her like a common mule. More than that, she showed no fear of dragons. And for a First Man in appearance, she had clear Valyrian inhuman beauty."
Daemon frowned hearing that. "That must have been quite a sight—seeing my beloved grandmother’s precious dragon allow another child to pet her without her presence. So, she’s my bastard cousin’s daughter? The Red Death’s? But why would the Old King want that? Marrying me—a dragonlord—to a bastard’s bastard daughter?"
Baelon ignored the barbed words toward his mother. He was disappointed that Daemon couldn’t grasp the political power play.
"Yes, Daemon. She is the daughter of Daemon Snow, son of Aemon. The Old King wanted to marry you to a First Man house because he’s wondering whether your children will be magical like Daemon Snow—son of Aemon and a lady of House Stark. And for that, who could ever be more preferred than Lyanna Mormont, the daughter of said magical child and descendant of an old First Man house like the Mormonts from her mother’s side? But the Queen was adamant that wouldn’t be and only Rhea Royce is the perfect choice for you. The Old King agreed finally lacking the will to fight over it as he didn’t want to poke both at the Queen and Daemon Snow at the same time, by ordering the betrothal.”
"So, you all believe in the magic of my bastard cousin, and not some old potions from the Starks that saved my brother? You want to experiment with me to know the validity of some rumors?" Daemon snapped. "We are Valyrians and dragonlords. What magic could one who never even saw a dragon for the first two decades of his life ever conceive? Lunacy and foolishness, I say."
Daemon stopped and closed his mouth upon seeing the furious expression on his father’s face.
"Daemon, don’t ignore what is right before you. Do you think we wouldn’t know the difference between medical concoctions and magic, my son? I have taught you some basics—and your lack of talent is not evidence enough to dismiss the magic of others. I’ve been searching for Daemon Snow ever since Aemon’s death, because the bastard foresaw it and warned Aemon in Winterfell. He warned Rhaenys that she would never be queen if she married Corlys. It was he who wiped out the entire Connington line a single day after Aemon’s death—just because Lyanna Mormont had a haunting vision of it. Daemon was in the South and yet he knew of Aemon’s death, Lyanna’s vision, and he subjugated the entire castle and killed everyone. He even sent a mocking letter to the King informing him of it. Do you think someone without magic could achieve this? No, my son. The maesters and the Faith may say magic is waning and died with the Doom...
But we—with the dragons—are the living, breathing examples of magic, my son. Don’t be a fool and dismiss it, lest you be ended by it."
Daemon lost his breath, not realizing he had been holding it—in surprise and panic at the clearly unhinged tone in his father’s voice. Daemon couldn’t even dismiss it like he did everything else, but he decided to be more wary from now on—and even help his father and elder brother more.
After all, that is the duty of a second son: to love and support the elders, as his father taught him.
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Many maesters had wondered why the second son of Prince Baelon was named Daemon, when the bastard of Prince Aemon was named Daemon as well.
The tantrum of 90 AC was famous in the Red Keep, as it was only from Cregan Stark that the young prince first heard he shared a name with a bastard cousin. It was then that debates among the nobles of the court—and even the servants of the Red Keep—sparked gossip about the possible reason.
The only credible words I could gather came from the diary of Septon Barth, the disgraced Hand of the King and former friend of both the King and the Queen.
“Prince Baelon was overtly loyal to Prince Aemon, and he wished to honor his brother. Thus, he named the child Daemon—a variation of the name Aemon.”
I couldn’t fully trust the words of Septon Barth, as by the time of Prince Daemon’s birth, Barth was almost a non-entity in the Red Keep, far removed from his former power as Hand of the King and confidant of the royal couple. Only the Queen's favor allowed him to remain in King's Landing, and even then, she was exceptionally busy. The loss of her children over the years had further embittered the Queen toward the gods, a sentiment that extended to the clergy, eventually causing Barth to lose the last of his influence among the nobility.
There was a rumor that Barth had written a book on dragons during his decades of close contact with them, but no such book was ever read by another soul, nor does any record of it exist in the Great Targaryen Library or the Citadel.
Excerpts from The Bastard King. Chapter 7: The Rogue Prince Daemon. Written by Maester Theon in 200AC
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Authors note: so here we are. my muse has been firing max and probably there would be two more chapters in may!!
This is the landscape in 95AC-100AC.. reason for marrying daemon to rhea. Baelon still looking but not getting any results.
First pov of the rogue prince and I am intrigued how it will be received. Definitely he will be different from the canon version as the history is definitely different…. Imo daemon for all his assholishness and cruelty was utterly loyal to viserys because baelon made him loyal to his elder brother just like baelon was to aemon.
Baelon’s last bit of sanity is holding by his love for his three children. The loss of aemon had truly broke him…
Even the demon Bessaro is fed up overtly proud politicians and their games… but still his mission remains!!!
And hightower who waits, waits , and waits some more.
so balerion is the reason they survived the purge in my story.. balerion went to magical presence and burned the shit down, just like balerion came in the vision daemon had at the beginning to burn him.. only the blood ties saved him then....
Comments
the batman
probably within chp 40.... daemon and rhaenys will be bad for long time.. after all it will take time and maturity to realise when one is wrong and to admit it to themselves
the batman
ohh?? damn it.. probably how tired i was.. will do so...
Rival
might want to re-proof read again. there are a couple of sentences that repeat each other. i counted two or three iirc.
Tariel Khalvashi
When will the king meet Daemon? Will the relationship between Daemon and Rhaenys always be bad?
