Queen Alysanne eventually returned to King’s Landing.
I have to breathe that damned stench again…
She sighed, took Daeron’s small hand, and, with the assistance of her attendants, stepped down from the deck of the ship.
The City Watch had already assembled at the docks.
Under their escort, the Queen and Daeron boarded a royal carriage.
As the carriage rolled toward the River Gate, both sides of the streets were packed with the people of King’s Landing.
They jostled and stood on tiptoe just to catch a glimpse of their beloved queen.
Ragged beggars, women with headscarves, blacksmiths with soot-covered hands…
Countless faces flashed past the carriage windows, their eyes gleaming with curiosity, reverence, and unrestrained joy.
Flowers were thrown onto the carriage roof, their petals drifting down before being crushed beneath the wheels.
Children screamed with excitement as they chased after the procession until the guards forced them back.
“The Queen has returned!”
Someone shouted.
“Good Queen Alysanne!”
“May the Seven bless Her Grace and the King!”
The cheers rose and fell like crashing waves.
Alysanne lifted a corner of the carriage curtain and looked outside with the warm, gracious smile she had perfected over more than forty years before her people.
She could feel Daeron’s nervousness.
The boy pressed close against her, one hand clutching the edge of the seat so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Wrapping an arm around him, she gently pulled him closer until he rested against her shoulder.
“Look, Daeron,” she whispered, pointing to a young boy running alongside the carriage, shouting excitedly.
“They’re cheering for your grandfather…
and for me.”
Daeron blinked, watching the running child until he disappeared into the crowd.
Alysanne softly stroked his silver hair.
The road leading to the Red Keep was heavily guarded.
Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in dense ranks, keeping the welcoming crowds at bay.
Gradually, the cheers faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic march of iron-shod boots and the occasional snort of horses.
Without realizing it, Daeron straightened his back.
At last, the carriage came to a halt in the square before the Throne Room.
An attendant hurried forward to open the carriage door and lower the steps.
Alysanne descended first before turning back, half lifting and half supporting Daeron as he climbed down.
Still holding tightly to her hand, the boy looked around with open curiosity—the towering crimson keeps, the fully armored guards, and beyond the walls, the distant red leaves of the godswood.
Eventually, his gaze settled on the group waiting atop the stone steps.
King Jaehaerys stood at their head.
He looked noticeably older than he had two years ago.
His posture remained straight, but his silver-white hair had grown thinner, and deep wrinkles carved across his weathered face.
Today, he wore only a simple robe.
His eyes rested on Alysanne…
Then shifted to the young boy at her side.
Alysanne met his gaze and gave a slight nod.
There was no embrace.
No kiss.
Not even a greeting.
“You should rest, my wife.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Alysanne replied with equal composure.
Then she saw Gael.
Her youngest daughter had grown into a beautiful young woman.
Her silver hair flowed to her waist like a waterfall spun from moonlight.
Gael lowered her head shyly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, like a timid fawn startled from the woods.
Alysanne stepped forward and embraced her gently.
Gael said nothing.
She simply stayed close behind her mother, occasionally glancing with quiet concern at the child in the Queen’s arms.
Courtiers, nobles, and noblewomen stood on either side of the path, bowing respectfully.
Yet beneath those formal gestures, countless eyes pricked at Alysanne and Daeron like invisible needles.
She could hear the whispers slithering through the crowd like snakes.
They stared at Daeron…
At his pale silver hair.
At his deep violet eyes.
At the face that resembled the late Prince Aemon far too closely.
Alysanne ignored every single one of them.
Holding Daeron’s hand, she walked steadily through the crowd toward the chambers that had once been her own.
For the first few days, rumors buzzed through the Red Keep like mosquitoes in the Neck—impossible to swat away.
People whispered around corridor corners, exchanged meaningful glances between courses at feasts, and described “the boy the Queen brought back from Dragonstone” in carefully coded letters.
Some claimed he was a dragonseed from a fishing village on Dragonstone whom the grieving Queen had adopted to ease the pain of losing her son.
Others, bolder still, recalled Prince Aemon’s mysterious excursions during the final months before he left King’s Landing…
Then, almost overnight…
The rumors vanished.
Not gradually.
Abruptly.
One day, they were everywhere.
The next, they had ceased entirely.
First, a fool known for drunken boasts was discovered at the foot of a staircase, his neck broken after an unfortunate fall.
Soon afterward, a maidservant who had proudly claimed to have overheard the King and Queen arguing about “the boy” suddenly succumbed to a mysterious illness only days later.
There were no formal accusations.
No public trials.
Only silent, unsettling disappearances.
Prince Baelon had begun taking on more and more of the aging King’s responsibilities.
Whenever Ser Ryam Redwyne swept his hawk-like gaze across groups of whispering courtiers, or whenever the Queen and the Prince sat together in the gardens reading poetry to Daeron…
Everyone understood.
Or perhaps they merely understood that they should keep their mouths shut.
No one spoke openly of Daeron anymore.
At least not within the courtyards and corridors of the Red Keep.
His very name became an unspoken taboo.
The boy lived quietly beneath Queen Alysanne’s wings.
Whenever he appeared at court, he was almost always accompanied by Alysanne, Gael, or one of the royal princes.
Baelon, however, left everyone thoroughly perplexed.
By the cruel logic of court gossip, the new Prince of Dragonstone should have regarded this possible rival—this royal bastard—as a threat to both himself and his sons.
Instead, Baelon ordered his own sons—Viserys and Daemon—to spend as much time with Daeron as possible.
Viserys treated the boy with genuine kindness.
He would take Daeron by the hand through the Red Keep’s vast library, pointing at enormous parchment maps while explaining the Seven Kingdoms one by one.
In the gardens, he patiently answered Daeron’s endless stream of questions.
“What do dragons eat?”
“Is it really cold beyond the Wall?”
“Why is Grandfather’s beard so long?”
At first, Aemma Arryn was somewhat timid around the child.
But perhaps influenced by Viserys, she gradually began treating Daeron like a little brother.
She secretly slipped him slices of honey cake.
She told him stories she’d heard growing up in the Eyrie.
And while she embroidered, she’d let Daeron sit beside her, happily playing with the little dragon figurine Viserys had carved for him from stone.
Daemon was another matter entirely.
At fifteen, Prince Daemon Targaryen had already become one of the best-known young men in the Seven Kingdoms.
He had inherited his father Baelon’s martial prowess.
His silver hair was usually tied back carelessly, revealing sharp, handsome features and violet eyes that always seemed to burn with restless ambition.
Not long ago, he had accomplished something astonishing.
Alone, he had slipped into the Dragonpit, climbed onto the back of the late Prince Aemon’s dragon, Caraxes, and successfully claimed the notoriously savage Blood Wyrm as his own.
That same year, he defeated three opponents in succession during the squires’ melee.
Prince Baelon had already decided that Daemon would be knighted the moment he came of age.
The people of King’s Landing had begun calling him the Rogue Prince.
Though still underage, he could already be found in every back alley, every gambling den, and every brothel in the city.
The girls along the Street of Silk knew his preferences by heart.
The tavern singers eagerly composed ballads about his fleeting affairs with celebrated courtesans.
He spent gold recklessly, carried himself with effortless arrogance, and treated convention as little more than a joke.
So when Baelon ordered him to spend time with Daeron…
Daemon scoffed.
He had little interest in this suddenly appearing cousin of questionable birth, and even less affection for him.
Still, he showed no outright malice.
He simply regarded the task as another tedious obligation.
Every day, at the appointed hour, he would stop by Queen Alysanne’s chambers, nod perfunctorily toward Daeron—usually nestled in either his grandmother’s or Aunt Gael’s arms—answer one or two polite questions…
Then promptly disappear to pursue more entertaining diversions.
Alysanne still remembered the moment vividly.
Daeron had stopped Daemon before he could leave, staring up at him with those deep violet eyes.
“Brother Daemon…
will you teach me how to use a sword?”
Daemon halted.
Looking down at the little boy who barely reached his waist, the corner of his mouth curled into an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and mockery.
“I’m not your brother.”
“When you’re tall enough to lift a real sword…”
He turned away.
“…then we’ll talk, boy.”
With that, Daemon strode off without another glance, leaving Daeron standing quietly behind him, watching his retreating figure.