The assembled court hummed, a low, expectant thrum that vibrated through the very stones of the Red Keep.
Baelon stood beside his father, Viserys, on the dais, a new arrangement.
It was Baelon’s first time attending a full session of court.
Viserys had summoned him before the lords arrived and placed him at his side without explanation.
No announcement had been made.
None was needed.
The heir stood beside the king.
That alone was declaration enough.
Baelon watched the faces gathered below.
Servants whispered behind lowered heads.
Lords spoke in hushed voices that carried only fragments.
Prince Daemon returns from the Stepstones.
The war is won.
He comes wearing a crown.
Then the great doors opened.
Daemon Targaryen entered alone.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room.
Shoulders subtly turned, a half-step backward taken by many, though no one moved significantly.
Conversation died and Every eye turned toward the doorway.
Baelon had never seen anyone command a room like this.
Not his father, not even Otto Hightower.
It was not what Daemon did, but what the room did around him.
His black armor still bore the stains of salt and long campaigning.
Across his brow rested a rough circlet of iron and driftwood, hastily forged by men.
He walked to the foot of the Iron Throne, his movements unhurried.
He carried it as though it meant nothing at all.
Without breaking stride, he unhooked a heavy war axe from across his back.
It struck the stone before the Iron Throne with a deafening clang.
The echo rolled through the hall.
Dark stains still marked its blade.
” Add it to the chair.”
Viserys regarded him for a long moment.
“You wear a crown.” His voice carried easily through the silence.
“Do you also call yourself king?” A faint smile touched Daemon’s lips.
“When we broke the Triarchy,” he said evenly, “the men who fought beside me named me King of the Narrow Sea.” He lifted one shoulder.
“People are fond of giving titles.” Then, without hesitation, he sank to one knee.
He removed the crude circlet from his brow and held it out before him.
“But I know that there is only one true king, Your Grace.”
“My King,” Daemon said, his voice carrying easily through the hushed hall.
He held the crude crown up toward Viserys.
“The Stepstones are yours, Your Grace.
The crown is yours.
I am, as ever, your servant.”
His gaze, however, did not remain on Viserys.
It drifted past the white cloaks of the Kingsguard before settling upon the child standing quietly beside the Iron Throne.
Silver-gold hair.
Violet eyes.
Watching him without the slightest trace of fear.
So this was Baelon.
Daemon smiled.
Baelon met his uncle’s gaze without looking away.
He had heard stories of Prince Daemon for as long as he could remember.
This was the first time they had stood before one another.
Daemon glanced once at the crude crown resting in his hand, then back at the boy.
He regarded him for another long moment.
Curious and measuring.
At last, he crooked a single finger.
“Come.” Before anyone could react, Baelon stepped down from the dais.
Then, without hesitation, he broke into a small run.
“Prince—” Ser Harrold began. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Too late.
Before the Kingsguard could move, Baelon had already crossed the hall.
He stopped directly before Daemon.
Daemon, still kneeling, found himself looking almost level into the boy’s violet eyes.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Unhurried, with the effortless certainty of a man who had already made his decision, Daemon lifted the rough iron circlet and settled it upon Baelon’s head.
It was far too large.
The crown slipped immediately over one ear, hanging crookedly across his silver hair.
The throne room fell utterly silent.
No one dared breathe.
“Daemon.” Viserys’s voice was quiet.
It was more of a warning than rebuke.
Daemon ignored him.
His eyes never left Baelon.
“Sȳrī iksis, hen ao gīmigon.”
[It fits better than you’d think.]
He spoke in High Valyrian, softly enough that only the boy could hear.
“Daemon.” This time the king’s voice cut through the silence like cold steel.
Viserys descended the steps, his own face a mask of relief and carefully managed anger.
He stopped before Baelon.
Without a word, he lifted the crooked circlet from his son’s head and handed it to Ser Harrold.
Only then did he look at Daemon.
The brothers faced one another in silence.
Neither needed words to understand the other.
“The realm owes you a debt, brother,” Viserys said at last, his voice formal, yet edged with emotion.
Daemon inclined his head.
“I am my brother’s man, as ever, Your Grace.” For a heartbeat neither moved.
Then Viserys stepped forward and embraced him.
The hall erupted.
Courtiers applauded.
Voices rose.
The tension that had gripped the throne room dissolved all at once.
Then Viserys turned, scooping Baelon up into his arms.
“You have scarcely met your nephew,” he said, presenting the child to Daemon.
Daemon’s gaze lingered on Baelon.
The child was still unruffled, still watching him with complete attention, no childish blinking or shy turning away.
Daemon crouched until they were eye level.
“You stare a lot.” Baelon answered, “So do you.” A short laugh escaped Daemon before he could stop it.
“Fair enough.” Viserys shook his head, unable to hide a smile of his own.
“Where is Lord Corlys?”
“He sailed directly for Driftmark.” Viserys nodded.
“And who holds the Stepstones now?” Daemon’s expression flattened.
“The tides.
The crabs and the bodies of Triarchy corsairs staked upon the beaches to warn those who might follow.”
Then Viserys inclined his head.
“Come.” The king turned first.
Daemon fell into step beside him.
Baelon remained in his father’s arms as the three of them left the throne room together, while the assembled court watched in respectful silence.
The following morning, the Red Keep settled back into its ordinary rhythm.
Servants hurried through the corridors carrying linens and ledgers.
Petitioners gathered outside the throne room.
The previous day’s excitement had already become whispers.
Only Prince Daemon remained.
Baelon was already in the training yard when the morning sun cleared the eastern walls.
Somewhere below, steel rang against steel from the training yard.
Ser Steffon circled him slowly, a blunted practice sword resting across one shoulder.
“Again.”
Baelon stepped forward.
Right.
Guard high.
Wood struck wood with a sharp crack.
They exchanged another measured series of blows.
Then Steffon’s attention shifted.
Prince Daemon stood beside the practice rack.
He walked onto the yard without hurry, his eyes never leaving Baelon.
“Leave us.”
Steffon’s gaze shifted to Baelon.
The prince gave the smallest nod.
Only then did Steffon step back toward the edge of the yard.
Daemon walked to the practice rack.
He selected a blunted swords.
“Come, Show me.”
Without another word he attacked.
Not brutally.
Not gently.
Simply fast enough that pretending became impossible.
For the next several minutes Baelon did little except defend himself.
Daemon neither spared him nor overwhelmed him.
Every strike carried just enough force to demand an answer.
He changed angles without warning.
Broke rhythm deliberately.
Forced Baelon to think instead of remember.
Ten minutes later, Daemon lowered his sword.
Baelon stood breathing hard.
Daemon already understood.
“What have you practiced?”
“Sword.”
“Only sword?
, If someone cornered you in a stable,” Daemon asked, “and you had no sword…
what would you reach for?” Baelon answered after only a moment’s thought.
“Whatever is nearest.” Daemon rested the practice sword against the rack.
“In war, you do not know when you will need another weapon.
A man who knows only the sword becomes helpless the moment his sword is gone.”
He drew the short seax from his belt.
He laid it upon the wooden rail.
“Master the sword first.
It is the longest answer—and the most useful.
But as a prince if you mean to become more than merely competent” He tapped the sheathed knife with one finger.”…learn everything.”
His eyes settled on Baelon.
“Pick up the knife.” Baelon did so without question.
The balance surprised him.
Most of its weight rested close to the hand.
“Wrong.”Daemon adjusted his fingers by barely half an inch.”There.”
“How old are you?” asked Daemon.
“Six.”
Daemon took the seax back, slid it into his belt.
Then he turned toward the castle.
“Come back tomorrow.”
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