“Seven hells…
will someone tell me where my son has disappeared to?”
Prince Baelon stood with a thunderous expression, glaring at the men assembled before him.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ser Rickard Redwyne, Commander of the City Watch, stepped forward.
“Your Highness…
I believe I know where Prince Daemon is.”
Daemon leaned halfway out a window, a wine cup raised in one hand.
His silver hair hung loose over his shoulders, his violet eyes glittering with drunken delight, and the grin plastered across his face was utterly shameless.
“Another round!” he shouted before hurling the empty goblet across the alley, where it shattered against a stone wall.
Behind him, two completely naked prostitutes sprawled across the bed, laughing.
One of them called out in heavily accented Lysene Common Tongue.
“My prince, if you keep making this much noise, everyone on the Street of Silk will know you’re here!”
“So let them know.”
Daemon staggered back into the center of the room, grabbed a wine jug from the table, and drank deeply.
Wine spilled down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt.
“You’ve ruined that tunic,” the other woman said regretfully.
Daemon glanced down and shrugged without the slightest concern.
The women adored this prince.
He tipped lavishly.
He never cared about rank.
When he lost at dice, he’d laugh louder than anyone else.
When he won, he’d buy drinks for the entire tavern.
Even when he lost heavily, he always paid without complaint.
Suddenly, a disturbance erupted downstairs.
Someone was shouting.
Heavy boots pounded rapidly up the wooden staircase.
There wasn’t just one visitor.
The door burst open.
The two prostitutes instantly pulled blankets over their naked bodies.
Rickard stood in the doorway, six fully armed guards behind him.
His face was carved from stone, his eyes locking immediately onto the disheveled silver-haired prince standing in the middle of the room, reeking of wine.
“Prince Daemon.”
His voice was flat and cold.
“Prince Baelon commands that you return to the Red Keep immediately.”
The room fell silent.
The two Lysene girls looked anxiously between Daemon and the man who had barged into their room.
Daemon remained where he stood, still holding the wine jug.
He stared at Rickard for several seconds.
Then burst into roaring laughter.
“Well, well…
Ser Rickard.”
He performed an exaggerated bow that nearly sent him tumbling over.
“Coming all this way at this hour…
such admirable devotion to the realm.”
He raised the jug.
“Care for a drink?
It’s surprisingly good…”
“Prince Daemon.”
Rickard interrupted without changing expression.
“Please come with us.”
Two guards stepped into the room, positioning themselves firmly on either side of him.
Daemon glanced at them.
Then looked down at himself.
His coat was stained with wine.
The gold embroidery around the collar hung crooked.
His belt had vanished somewhere hours ago.
His boots…
Appeared to have stepped in something decidedly unpleasant.
Damn.
Definitely walked through something on the way here…
For some reason…
The entire situation struck him as hysterically funny.
“Fine.”
He tossed the wine jug aside.
It rolled across the floor, splashing wine over the wooden boards.
“I’ll come.”
“But…”
He winked at the two prostitutes.
“Save this room for me, darlings.”
“I’ll be back once I finish my business.”
The guards escorted him through the streets.
The Street of Silk remained as lively as ever.
Gamblers still rolled dice.
Whores still called for customers. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Drunken songs still poured from taverns.
Not a single person spared the procession a second glance.
This corridor is colder than an ice cellar.
Winterfell can’t be much worse.
Eventually, they arrived outside Prince Baelon’s study.
Ser Rickard bowed to the prince waiting inside before quietly withdrawing.
The door closed behind them.
Baelon sat behind his desk, staring at his son with profound disappointment.
A single candle burned upon the desk, casting dim light that stretched his shadow across the bookshelves behind him.
“Do you know what you look like?”
His father’s voice sounded exhausted.
“Son…”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve become?”
Leaning casually against the wall beside the door, Daemon folded his arms.
“Someone who’s had too much to drink?”
Baelon almost laughed from sheer frustration.
He shot to his feet, planting both hands on the desk.
“I’ve been informed that my son—a prince of House Targaryen—spent the very night I knighted him brawling in Flea Bottom!”
“You smashed up a shop.”
“You publicly insulted noblemen.”
“And the night before last, when you were supposed to attend an official ceremony, my men searched half the city before dragging you out of a brothel bed!”
Daemon tilted his head thoughtfully.
“What was that fellow’s name again?”
“I ought to reward him tomorrow.”
“I really was asleep when he found me.”
“Seven save me…
that girl was extraordinary.”
Baelon’s face flushed crimson.
He strode around the desk and seized Daemon by the collar.
“What exactly are you trying to do?”
His voice was low, barely containing his anger.
“You’re a prince of House Targaryen.”
“One of my heirs.”
“Why are you determined to destroy your own reputation?”
Daemon lowered his gaze to the hand gripping his shirt.
After several silent moments…
He looked his father straight in the eye.
“Reputation.”
He repeated the word with open mockery.
“Like Uncle’s reputation?”
“Like yours?”
Baelon’s hand slowly loosened.
He stepped back.
Turning away, he stood before the bookshelves for a long while.
The candle flame flickered, causing his shadow to waver across the wall.
“Rhea Royce.”
At last, he spoke again.
Daemon frowned.
“What?”
“Rhea Royce.”
Baelon turned back to face him.
The anger had vanished.
Only exhaustion remained.
“The eldest daughter of Lord Yorbert Royce of Runestone.”
“I’ve already reached an agreement with the envoy he sent.”
“You will depart for the Vale immediately.”
“You are to prepare for your marriage.”
Daemon froze.
For several heartbeats…
He genuinely believed he’d misheard.
“What did you just say?”
“You’re getting married.”
Baelon returned to his desk, calmly opening another document as though discussing tomorrow’s weather.
“House Royce is ancient and honorable.”
“The blood of the First Men still flows through their veins.”
“This marriage benefits the realm.”
“It benefits you as well.”
“Runestone is among the richest holdings in the Vale, and Lady Rhea is her father’s—”
“Have you lost your mind?”
Daemon cut him off.
“You’re sending me to the Vale?”
“To marry a woman I’ve never even met?”
Baelon didn’t even bother looking up.
“Your…
exploits…
are known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Lord Yorbert doesn’t care.”
“What he needs—”
“I’m not going.”
Daemon straightened.
His voice turned cold.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’m not going.”
Baelon finally looked up again.
There was no anger in his eyes.
No threat.
Only something Daemon had never seen before.
Weariness.
And perhaps…
A trace of sorrow.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“You are a prince of House Targaryen.”
“Your marriage is decided by me.”
“By your grandfather and grandmother.”
“By the realm.”
“By the Iron Throne.”
“It is your duty.”
“Your responsibility.”
“Duty?”
Daemon laughed.
The sound was dry enough to scrape stone.
“So you inherit Uncle Aemon’s title as Prince of Dragonstone…”
“And suddenly you think you can decide everyone else’s fate?”
“Now you’re shipping me off to the arse end of nowhere to marry some woman I don’t even know—”
“Enough.”
Baelon’s voice wasn’t loud.
But it carried an authority that silenced Daemon immediately.
He had never heard his father speak to him like that.
“Listen carefully.”
Baelon rose once more.
Every day I wake up surrounded by people waiting for me to fail.”
“They watch me.”
“They watch you.”
“They watch every member of this family.”
“Do you know what they call you?”
“‘The Prince of Flea Bottom.'”
“‘The Rogue Prince.'”
“They’re waiting for you to make another mistake.”
“They’re waiting for another scandal.”
“They’re waiting for the day they can use your name to attack mine.”
“So you’re sending me away?”
“I’m not sending you away.”
Baelon turned slightly, candlelight leaving half his face in shadow.
“I’m giving you a chance.”
“House Royce is one of the oldest noble houses in the Vale.”
“Their bloodline reaches back to the Age of the First Men.”
“Lady Rhea may not be the most beautiful woman in Westeros, but she’s healthy.”
“Strong.”
“She’ll bear children.”
“Runestone is a fine place.”
“Go there.”
“Live an honest life.”
“Have a son.”
“In a few years…”
“In a few years what?”
Daemon stepped toward him.
“So I become some useless country lord?”
“Riding horses.”
“Hunting.”
“Drinking ale with Vale bumpkins.”
“And eventually forgetting who I am?”
Baelon looked at him for a very long time.
Then, quietly, he answered.
“Perhaps…”
“…that would be for the best.”