ACT III: The Reign of Jaehaerys I — Part 2: The Severance and Exile (87 AC – 101 AC)
Chapter 20: Stability in the Royal House and the Last Breath of a Great Man (97 AC – 98 AC)
The days that followed my intervention in the royal quarters were dominated by an atmosphere of expectation and tension for young Daemon.
Queen Alysanne, driven by the desire to prevent her grandson from committing a foolish act or being politically exiled to the Vale, joined forces with Prince Baelon to press the Old King into accepting Daemon’s betrothal to Princess Gael.
I, however, knew Jaehaerys I’s mind better than most men on this continent.
I knew perfectly well that in his calculating, pragmatic soul, the monarch had already agreed to that union the exact moment he heard the proposal.
He merely staged an attitude of reluctance and solemn doubt so that the marriage would seem like a monumental privilege, won through great hardship by Daemon.
It was the tired psychology of an old king trying to teach his rebellious grandson the value of discipline and submission.
I had recommended that marriage because I knew it would yield the necessary results for my own board.
Not that Daemon was about to convert into a puritan model of fidelity—escapades and betrayals on his part would certainly occur in the future, given his impetuous nature and Gael’s gentle, naive personality, especially when Alysanne and Baelon passed away in the coming years.
Nevertheless, it was the perfect arrangement to chain the boy to the court of King’s Landing and neutralize the risks of a fracture in the dynasty.
Due to the developments of this arrangement and my veiled desire to witness up close the final acts of Jaehaerys’s reign, I decided to prolong my stay in the capital.
In the North, the Territory of Blessings operated with the precision of an arcane clockwork.
Viserra had assumed direct management of the territorial expansion across the hundred leagues beyond the Wall.
To personally supervise the new fortifications and free folk settlements, my wife used her mount—the former Grey Ghost, which she had renamed the Pale Queen, a fond and direct teasing of my own title as the Pale Wolf of the North.
I accompanied Jaehaerys I and Septon Barth at the conclusion of a long Small Council session.
As the other lords and councilors withdrew in silence, I observed the old septon through my arcane perception.
Barth’s vital force was draining away quietly, like a flame consuming the last bits of wax.
From reading his aura and the wear on his vital organs, I knew the old man would not survive past the following year, 98 AC.
When the heavy bronze door closed, leaving only the three of us in the hall, Jaehaerys faced me directly.
“Arthos…
It was you who put this idea of Gael’s marriage to Daemon into Alysanne’s head.
Can you explain to me the exact reason for this maneuver?”
I let out a low laugh, pouring myself a heavy goblet of wine from the large oak table.
“I think I’ve spent too much time isolated in my tower in the North for you to start speaking to me in such an indirect manner, Jaehaerys.”
The king blinked, caught off guard by my candor, before letting out a long sigh and relaxing his shoulders.
“Forgive me, my old friend…
The habit of diplomacy and dissimulation becomes an incurable vice on this throne.
But tell me openly: what is the logic behind this arrangement?”
“The marriage to House Royce would be a terrible choice for both,” I explained, resting my arms on the back of a chair.
“First, because the Vale of Arryn is already properly tied to the crown through the union of Viserys and Aemma.
Second, because Daemon would ruin the Royce girl’s life out of sheer contempt, creating resentment in a powerful house.
By marrying him to Gael, you solve two problems at once: you appease your grandson’s rebelliousness and secure a marriage within the family for your youngest daughter.”
Jaehaerys nodded slowly.
Though he continued staging indecision for the rest of the royal family, that arrangement was a political blessing for him.
Daemon went about shouting through the corridors that he would only accept a wife of Valyrian blood.
If Alysanne insisted on rejecting him, House Velaryon of Driftmark might attempt to capitalize on the boy’s frustration, offering one of their ladies to draw a Targaryen dragonrider into their sphere of influence—which would cause the royal family to lose exclusive control over yet another mount.
With my intervention, that risk was completely neutralized.
Furthermore, marrying off a Targaryen woman was always a delicate dilemma: even if sweet princesses without military ambition like Gael did not represent a direct danger, nothing would stop their future children from claiming dragons and threatening the line of succession.
Keeping her married to a prince of the royal house kept the beasts under the same roof.
Upon leaving the Council Chamber, I walked down the subterranean tunnels leading to the Dragonpit.
Shortly after, I encountered young Daemon walking in the opposite direction.
Upon laying eyes on me, the boy took an involuntary step back and tried to turn around to escape down the side corridor.
“If you run, Daemon, I guarantee it will be infinitely worse,” I warned in a calm, measured tone.
He stopped in his tracks, letting out a twitch of frustration, and turned to me with an annoyed grimace.
“Fuck, Arthos!
Of all hours of the day for me to run into you, it had to be right now?!
Viserys trapped me for two whole hours to show me the idiotic model of Valyria he’s building!
I lost all the time you were in the meeting!”
“You know you’re not just speaking in your mind, don’t you, boy?
You’re shouting out loud,” I mocked, taking a step forward.
“Why don’t we take a stroll in the sky right now?”
Daemon’s eyes widened, taking another step back.
“No!
I mean…
No, thank you!
I don’t even like flying that much!
I only claimed Caraxes out of pure pressure from my father!”
I tilted my head with a calm, dangerous smile.
“In exactly five minutes, The Cannibal will land at the upper opening of the Pit.
It’s up to you whether you prefer to be down here within reach of his jaws or high above, far from his teeth.”
Without thinking twice, the boy bolted into the interior of the arena tunnels, shouting at the top of his lungs for the Dragonkeepers to prepare the chains and saddle of his Red Dragon.
From the side gallery of the Pit, I watched Caraxes take flight, beating his serpentine wings and desperately gaining altitude.
When Daemon’s beast was a considerable distance up in the clouds, The Cannibal emerged from the sky like a black mountain and landed with a crash that made the rock of the Pit tremble.
I climbed up to the saddle and adjusted the leather straps around my body.
“Let’s go, my friend…” I whispered, giving two pats on my dragon’s black carapace.
“…Follow that red car!”
The Cannibal turned his giant neck and looked at me sideways, his green eyes flashing in pure judgment.
I let out a low laugh.
“What is it, you big idiot?!
It was just a transmigrator joke!
You need to fly faster to lose weight, you’re getting fat from eating carcasses in the North!”
Irritated by the provocation, The Cannibal unleashed a deep roar that shook the capital’s foundations and launched himself into the sky, shaking his body violently on the ascent.
“You’ll have to do much better than that to throw me off!” I shouted against the freezing wind.
Despite The Cannibal’s colossal size, his diving speed was terrifying.
In a matter of minutes, we caught up to Caraxes, plummeting over the Red Dragon from high above the clouds like a peregrine falcon hunting defenseless prey.
And so began an intense session of aerial training—and also something few at court realized: the imposition of trauma.
With the exception of the monarchs who wore crowns, all dragonriders in this realm feared me and my mount.
Even the legendary Vhagar maintained a cautious respect toward The Cannibal.
After all, although The Cannibal was slightly smaller in wingspan than Visenya’s old dragon, he carried a malice and aggressiveness in his heart that no other beast in this world possessed. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
And in war, cruelty matters.
After the exhauster training, we landed in the courtyard and returned together in the luxurious carriage I had built for Viserra—a spacious transport, upholstered in black velvet and extremely comfortable.
Daemon wiped the sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief, still panting from the physical effort of controlling Caraxes during my passes.
“Do you think the king will accept my betrothal to Gael, Arthos?”
“Have you earned his acceptance?” I returned, staring at him with indifference.
“Don’t start, Arthos…” he grumbled, turning his face away.
“I believe he will,” I continued.
“But not because of you, obviously.
The king will accept because of Gael, and primarily to not give access to mounts to other noble houses—as happened with the Velaryons through young Laenor, whose dragon hatched in his cradle.”
Daemon frowned, adjusting his tunic.
“And does that matter so much?
After all, when Laenor dies, that dragon will return to our family anyway, won’t it?”
“Actually, no, boy,” I replied firmly.
“The bond magic between a dragon and a family lineage is extremely specific.
That dragon born on Driftmark is mystically bound to the lineage of House Velaryon, not just the Targaryen crown.
The next rider of that beast will not need pure Targaryen blood to mount it; he will need Velaryon blood.
On paper and in practice, the Seven Kingdoms now have three families with direct access to dragons.
And that changes everything.”
Daemon fell silent for long seconds, absorbing the arcane complexity of the matter.
“Was that why the king chose our father Baelon as heir instead of Rhaenys?”
“In part, yes,” I agreed dryly.
That same night, during the royal banquet in the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys raised his golden goblet at the head of the great table and formally announced Prince Daemon’s betrothal to Princess Gael.
The news made the boy beam with joy, displaying a proud smile.
Beside me, Viserra observed the scene with an extremely mischievous, dangerous smile loaded with ulterior motives—an expression I knew perfectly well and which indicated my wife had already engineered something for that night.
After dinner concluded, I walked the corridors accompanied by Septon Barth, chatting with my old friend about trivial matters of realm administration.
I bid him farewell at the doorway of his quarters and proceeded toward my private rooms.
Crossing the heavy wooden door of my room, I immediately understood what Viserra had orchestrated in the dead of night.
Lying in the center of the vast canopy bed, completely naked and with her legs spread wide, was young Princess Gael.
The girl covered her blush-flushed face with both hands, trying to hide from my view.
Beside her, also entirely naked and displaying her flawless curves, was Viserra, purring with the satisfaction of a hunter.
“Look, my husband…” Viserra said, sliding her hand softly along her younger sister’s white thighs and parting the lips of her damp slit.
“…I prepared a special dessert for you to celebrate tonight.
What do you think?”
I let out a low laugh, unbuttoning the top of my garments and removing my leather tunic.
“I knew you were up to something since the banquet, Viserra.
To what do I owe this sudden generosity?”
“It’s a matter of tradition, my love,” Viserra replied with a mischievous wink.
“You have already taken the body and purity of almost all my Targaryen sisters.
I would never leave my youngest sister out of this celebration.”
I approached the bed and leaned over Gael’s trembling body.
Without hesitation, I began devouring her flesh, sinking my mouth into her sensitive clitoris.
The girl shuddered all over, letting out a sharp, desperate moan while looking at me through the gaps between her fingers.
Attacking the young princess’s slit with hunger, I noticed her core was already copiously lubricated by the sweat of shame, fear, and unrestrained arousal.
Using a subtle trace of blood sorcery to alter the flexibility and texture of my tongue, I reached internal points within her cavity that would be anatomically impossible for an ordinary man.
With my hands, I held her thighs firmly open while Gael moaned without any moral restraint, surrendering to orgasm after orgasm.
I only drew my mouth away when I was saturated with her nectar, leaving the princess in a semi-conscious state, having lost even the ability to articulate words.
Viserra, who watched the scene while caressing her own breasts, smiled with delight.
“Now it’s my turn, isn’t it, my love?”
I repeated the same devious attention on my wife, prolonging the oral acts much longer, since Viserra possessed physical and arcane endurance infinitely superior to her sister’s.
However, I did not forget Gael: while working with my mouth and tongue on Viserra, my fingers kept the young princess’s slit stretched and vigorously stimulated, ensuring she submerged into two more devastating orgasms.
Finishing with Viserra, I positioned my body over Gael’s.
I pulled her delicate hands above her head and pinned her wrists against the pillow with a single hand.
Staring at the girl’s beautiful, naive face—which bore the expression of a helpless little princess—the desire to take her with absolute force dominated my instincts.
I kissed her mouth voraciously, mixing the taste of Viserra’s fluids and her own on our tongues, while aligning the head of my member at her virgin entrance.
Gael was absurdly tight; her velvet walls felt like a hot press trying to contain my eruption.
I lost myself in the rhythm and began pounding her with relentless force and speed.
The intensity of the impact and the depth of the thrusts caused the princess to melt into an orgasm so violent that her body collapsed emotionally, causing her to pass out on the bed.
I fulfilled my goal and released deep within her womb, filling her until it leaked down her thighs.
Without wasting time, I turned to Viserra, who was still recovering from the ravages of my tongue.
I placed my wife on her stomach on the bed, knees supported and her ass propped up in my direction.
I penetrated her with violence.
With one hand I held her arms pinned behind her back, while the other pulled her long silver hair tightly.
Viserra bit the bedsheets, moaning loudly and without any modesty.
I only stopped after releasing twice deep inside Viserra, forming a thick pool of fluid from both princesses over the bed fabrics.
At that moment, Gael slowly began to regain consciousness, blinking her eyes dazedly.
Without giving room for recovery, I pulled the girl’s body and positioned her over Viserra’s exhausted back.
I fucked the young princess again in that same position until she passed out a second time, releasing two more large ejaculations inside her.
I stepped away from the bed and contemplated the masterpiece I had sculpted: Viserra underneath, Gael on top, both leaking my seed from their slits and completely passed out from excessive pleasure.
I walked naked to the armchair in front of the hearth, poured myself a generous goblet of Valyrian wine, and enjoyed the rest of the night in victory.
In the weeks that followed, the court turned its attention to the preparations for two matrimonial ceremonies.
The first marriage occurred between Prince Aegon—Baelon’s youngest son—and young Rhea Royce of Runestone.
That union generated no major political concerns: Aegon was a boy completely devoid of ambitions for the Iron Throne, and to the court’s surprise, the betrothed got along incredibly well from their first meeting, as they shared the same obsessive passion for hunting and outdoor life.
The second marriage was that of Daemon and Gael.
The ceremony was held inside the great Sept of the capital, under the blessings of the Faith of the Seven—which generated deep disgust in both Daemon and me.
Throughout the preparation period until the day at the altar, Gael carried a suffocating feeling of guilt and shame for having surrendered to that debauchery with me on the night the betrothal was announced.
The girl could barely face her brothers without blushing.
However, that resentment passed quickly.
After all, during the same period the betrothal was sealed, Daemon celebrated his future union by hosting a wild party at his favorite brothel in Flea Bottom, demonstrating that his conduct was far from puritanical. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping dot com.
Despite all the peculiarities and the turbulent start, the marriage between Daemon and Gael established itself in a surprisingly prosperous and affectionate manner.
Gael’s gentle, docile, and dedicated presence brought unprecedented maturity and stability to the young prince.
Daemon fell genuinely in love with his wife and, from that moment on, consolidated himself as an extremely loyal and dedicated ally to the political and military bloc led by Viserra and me.
Still late in that year of 97 AC, the capital celebrated the birth of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of Viserys and young Aemma Arryn.
The remainder of the year passed without major incident, until a certain cold night in late 98 AC.
Using the secret passages that cut through the stone walls of the Red Keep, I entered Septon Barth’s private quarters.
The old man was lying in his canopy bed, covered in heavy cloaks, about to fall asleep.
Noticing my presence emerging from the shadows, Barth raised his tired eyes and offered a faint smile.
“Did you come to say goodbye, my old friend?…” he asked, his voice failing in a fragile breath.
I adjusted my tunic and replied in a calm tone:
“Say goodbye for what, Barth?
Aren’t we going to see each other tomorrow morning at the council meeting?”
The old man shook his head slowly on the pillow.
“I feel the Stranger’s cold embrace approaching, Arthos…
My strength has simply run out.
My body no longer responds.”
“I know you, old man…” I whispered, pulling up a wooden chair and sitting beside his bed.
“…I know you didn’t want to disturb anyone at court, nor worry the king with lamentations.
Your intention was simply to close your eyes and die alone in this room.
But I am an intrusive, unbearable sorcerer.”
Barth stared at the wooden ceiling in silence for a few moments.
Then he turned his head sharply in my direction.
I noticed a flicker of fear and vulnerability in his old eyes.
“Answer me something with honesty, Arthos…” the septon requested.
“…Just one thing.”
“Ask, Barth,” I replied.
“The Seven…
Do they really exist, my friend?”
I realized the old man feared the answer, but desired to hear it more than anything else in this world before departing.
I let out a long sigh, looking at the candle flickering on the nightstand.
“Unfortunately, Barth…” I made a dramatic pause “…they exist.”
The old man frowned, slightly irritated by my tone.
“Even on my deathbed you don’t cease your jokes and heresies?…”
I let out a low laugh and continued:
“But look here, Barth: the Seven deeply hate their own followers.”
Barth blinked, surprised.
“And for what reason would they hate?…”
“Because this world is not merely a world where magic exists,” I explained in a solemn tone.
“This is a genuinely magical world in its essence.
Magic runs in the blood of every living being and in the earth itself.
And the Faith of the Seven spends its existence preaching the rejection and destruction of magic.
That is why the mystical force of this world rejects them back—even knowing that the emergence of the Seven themselves occurred through arcane.
Not to mention the false, corrupt priests who use the name of the gods to commit atrocities out of pure political ambition.”
I saw a single tear roll down the old septon’s wrinkled face.
I held his cold hand and continued:
“But you don’t need to worry about any of that, Barth.
The Seven will receive your soul with open arms.
You were an exemplary man, who not only preached the words of the gods to the wind, but lived every day of your life practicing the goodness and justice you preached.”
“Do you…
Do you really think so, Arthos?…” the old man whispered, his voice choked.
“I am absolutely certain,” I replied firmly.
Barth let out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a moment.
“An old man like me…
Fearing death at this point in life…
It’s something pathetic, don’t you think?”
“Actually, no,” I countered softly.
“Fearing death simply means you deeply loved life and the good you did in it.”
The septon smiled, opening his eyes and looking at me with affection.
“I must take back what I said about you years ago, Arthos…
You are not an eternal, irresponsible teenager.
You are a wise man.”
“Ah, no, my friend…” I teased, squeezing his hand.
“…I am a century-old eternal teenager who occasionally remembers to seem wise.”
Barth let out a weak laugh, which gradually turned into a calm, deep breath.
“I am very sleepy, Arthos…”
“Don’t worry, Barth,” I whispered, keeping my hand firm over his.
“I’ll stay here beside you until you fall asleep.”
The old septon closed his eyes slowly, settling his head on the pillow.
“Thank you, Arthos…
Thank you for keeping me company…
And for everything you’ve done…”
The old man’s breathing gradually slowed in pace, becoming lighter and more spaced out, until it ceased completely.
A peaceful, serene smile remained sculpted on his face, devoid of pain.
Septon Barth was dead.
I sat beside his bed for a few more minutes, contemplating the silence of that room.
Then I stood up, adjusted the covers over my old friend’s body, and withdrew through the secret passage I had entered.
Upon returning to my quarters, I called a Kingsguard in the corridor and ordered him to immediately inform King Jaehaerys that, through my arcane monitoring glyphs, I had realized the flame of Septon Barth’s life had just gone out.
Thus departed one of the greatest and most honorable men to ever walk this realm.