He knelt upon the cold stone floor of the sept, sweat running down his temples and stinging the cut beside his eye.
At sixteen, he already stood half a head taller than most boys his age.
Beneath his lean, powerful frame lay a restless strength that refused to be contained.
According to his grandfather, it was the greatness carried in the blood of House Targaryen.
Or madness, Daemon mocked to himself.
Why can’t I be blessed with both?
His silver hair clung damply to his cheeks, while violet eyes stared at the candlelight flickering before the statue of the Father.
A crooked smile rested on his lips, utterly out of place within the solemn sanctity of the sept.
His gaze slowly dropped back to the stone beneath his knees.
Father…
He felt the heavy weight of a steel sword settle upon his left shoulder.
“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”
Daemon barely heard the words.
His thoughts drifted instead to the previous night—to the brothel on the Street of Silk where he spent far too much of his time.
A newly arrived girl from Lys had taught him an entirely new sort of “dance.” Her skin had been impossibly smooth, her waist so supple it could rob any man of reason.
He had paid an entire pouch of silver stags for those lessons.
Honestly?
Worth every coin.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
Justice.
The word nearly made him laugh aloud.
Only three days earlier, he’d been shooting dice with gamblers in Flea Bottom.
After winning every last coin they owned, he’d returned the money—on one condition.
They had to help him beat up a handful of young nobles who’d mocked him behind his back for “rolling around with common trash.”
It had been a magnificent fight.
His knuckles still hurt.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the weak and the innocent.”
His father’s sword, Dark Sister, shifted to rest upon his head.
Daemon glanced toward the seven-pointed bronze star before him, candlelight dancing across his face.
Without warning, he thought of his mother.
Alyssa…
Mother…
I can barely remember your face anymore…
She had died when he was only three years old.
His grandmother often said he had inherited Alyssa’s fire—that he had been born carrying a blaze inside him, destined either to burn something down…
or to be consumed by the flames himself.
“Rise, Ser Daemon Targaryen.”
Before Prince Baelon had even finished speaking, thunderous cheers erupted throughout the sept.
Both nobles and smallfolk broke into loud applause.
“Prince of Flea Bottom!”
“The Rogue Prince!”
Daemon waved cheerfully to the crowd, flashing a broad grin.
This was the recognition he wanted.
Not empty vows.
He never bothered turning around to look at his father.
He could already imagine the expression on Baelon’s face.
He thought he heard a weary sigh.
Whatever.
That night, wearing his newly earned sword at his hip, he returned to the Street of Silk.
The Lysene girl widened her eyes when she spotted the blade.
“You’ve become a knight, my prince?”
“Ser Daemon.”
He corrected her while removing the coin pouch from his belt and dumping every remaining silver moon onto the table.
“This round is on me.
Tell everyone Ser Daemon Targaryen is throwing a feast tonight.”
The girl laughed and called over a passing servant.
Just before she closed the door behind her, she turned back.
“Do you truly believe in those knightly vows?”
Daemon had already undone the clasps of his coat, revealing a fresh bruise beneath his collarbone—a souvenir from yesterday’s tournament.
He considered the question seriously before answering.
“I believe in the sword in my hand.
I believe in the dragon I ride.
I believe in whatever gives me the greatest thrill.”
“As for those vows…”
He chuckled.
“Someone has to keep them.”
“But it doesn’t have to be me.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
…
Past midnight, the Street of Silk glittered beneath countless lanterns, flowing through King’s Landing like a river of stars.
Daemon emerged from the back entrance of the brothel with two equally unsteady companions beside him—a one-eyed Tyroshi sailor and an old hedge knight whose scarred face had seen too many battles.
All three coin pouches jingled merrily with freshly won silver stags.
“You’ve had impossible luck tonight,” the old knight grumbled, though he couldn’t hide his grin.
“Seven straight wins at dice.
If I hadn’t watched you throw them myself, I’d swear you’d learned some kind of sorcery.”
Daemon spread his hands beneath the moonlight.
Long fingers.
Empty palms.
“See?”
“Nothing there.”
He grinned.
“Pure blessing from the Seven.”
“The Seven don’t bless gambling,” the sailor laughed.
“My guess is you’ve got another patron looking after you.”
Daemon didn’t bother arguing.
He had been absurdly lucky tonight—even luckier than he’d expected.
Still, the spice merchants he’d fleeced didn’t seem particularly upset.
They’d earned fortunes on their latest voyage; what they’d lost tonight amounted to little more than pocket change.
Suddenly, shouting echoed from deeper within the alley.
Daemon looked toward the commotion.
Several figures had gathered around someone, one of them yelling drunken curses.
“Here we go again,” the old knight sighed.
“Drunkards are always looking for trouble.”
Daemon should have kept walking.
He’d already drunk too much, won enough money, and ought to return to the Red Keep.
Instead…
He walked toward the noise.
At the center of the crowd, a girl wearing a worn leather vest had been cornered against a wall by three men.
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen.
Black-haired.
Thin as a stray cat.
“She stole my coin purse!”
The leader shouted drunkenly, reaching for her hair.
She slipped aside with surprising agility, nearly squeezing through the crowd before another man grabbed her arm.
She twisted violently.
When she couldn’t break free, she sank her teeth into his hand.
The man screamed and answered with a vicious slap across her face.
“Enough.”
Daemon’s voice wasn’t loud.
Yet every movement stopped.
Leaning lazily against the mouth of the alley, moonlight turned his silver hair almost white.
His sword rested quietly at his side.
The drunken leader squinted.
Half his intoxication vanished.
“P-Prince Daemon?”
“Ser.”
Daemon corrected him as he approached.
“You said this girl stole your purse?”
“Yes, my lord!
I saw her myself—”
“Then your eyesight must be extraordinary.”
Daemon stopped directly before him.
“I can barely make out her face from here.”
“So how exactly did you watch her steal something from the other end of the alley?”
The drunk opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Daemon turned toward the girl.
“Did you steal it?”
She met his gaze with calm black eyes.
After several silent seconds…
She nodded.
“I did.”
Daemon laughed.
At least she was an honest thief.
“Give it back.”
She pulled the purse from inside her clothes and tossed it onto the ground.
As the drunk bent to retrieve it, Daemon casually planted his boot on top of it.
“Now then.”
He looked down at the man.
“She stole your money.”
“She admitted it.”
“You slapped her.”
“You admitted that.”
“So it’s only fair.”
“You get your purse back.”
“And she gets to return the slap.”
The drunk’s face flushed crimson.
“My lord…
she’s only a thief…”
“And you’re a man who hits women.”
Moonlight gleamed dangerously within Daemon’s violet eyes.
“In my view, that makes you ten times worse.”
“So.”
“You can take one slap.”
“Or fight me.”
“Your choice.”
His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
The drunk glanced from Daemon to the two gamblers standing behind him.
After a long hesitation…
He clenched his jaw and straightened.
Smack.
Daemon’s slap landed with enough force to send the man stumbling into the wall.
“Now get lost.”
The three men scrambled away without another word, disappearing into the darkness.
The girl remained where she stood.
She neither thanked him nor cried.
She simply watched him.
“What’s your name?” Daemon asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
She shrugged.
“We won’t see each other again after tonight.”
Daemon laughed again.
He liked that answer.
Reaching into his belt pouch, he tossed her several silver coins.
“That should keep you alive for a while.”
“The next time you steal…”
“Don’t get caught.”
She caught the coins, closed her fingers around them, and looked at him one last time.
“You’re not like the other nobles.”
“I know.”
Daemon turned away, waving over one shoulder.
On the walk back toward the brothel, the old knight couldn’t hold back his curiosity.
“Why interfere?”
“She’s a thief.”
“She stole.”
“She got hit.”
“What did any of that have to do with us?”
Daemon pushed open the inn’s door.
Warm light and noisy laughter spilled into the street.
He glanced back with an easy smile.
“The world needs people who follow the rules.”
“It also needs people who break them.”
“And tonight…”
“I’m the one breaking the rules.”
He stepped back inside.
The dice game was still waiting for him.
…No.
I was supposed to go back to the Red Keep.
He laughed again anyway, wrapping an arm around the prostitute who eagerly melted into his embrace.