King’s Landing, the Red Keep
The raven arrived at night, and the maester of Dragonstone woke Daemon, as it was stated in the missive from the King.
The anger Daemon felt at being woken up at midnight evaporated the moment he read the missive maester handed to him.
His brother wanted him at King’s Landing before dawn, and Daemon, being the obedient younger brother he was, arrived before the sun could rise.
With a smirk on his face, the Rogue Prince entered the Red Keep and made his way to his chambers to take a small nap before his brother called on him and explained the reason behind the urgent summons.
His nap turned into a three-hour sleep before the Kingsguard woke him up, and Daemon took a bath before making his way to where his brother was waiting for him.
The courtiers were wide awake, roaming the Red Keep with ears wide open and eyes ready to track even a fly’s movement.
Seeing Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince himself—sauntering through the keep with a smirk on his face made many expressions sour, as though they had bitten into a rotten lemon.
Daemon’s sleepiness left him bit by bit as he watched those sour faces.
His smirk widened, and a small chuckle of mockery escaped him when he spotted Otto Hightower with an unpleasant look upon his overly long face, a face Daemon often thought almost as tall as the Hightower itself.
With his day already improved, Daemon made his way toward the chamber where the skull of the greatest Targaryen dragon to ever live rested.
In no time, he stood before the skull of Balerion the Black Dread.
Daemon had seen the dragon take flight only once in his life, and it had been a sight so magnificent and pride-inducing that he would remember it until his dying day.
It was that single flight of Balerion with Viserys upon his back that had made Daemon respect his brother for the first time.
Viserys was standing beside the fire brazier with the small Valyrian steel knife that he always kept close to him.
Daemon ignored the knife, as he always had, for he possessed one far finer than Viserys’s and also the one that had smelled and tasted blood unlike his brother’s.
Soon, he was behind Viserys.
“You took your time, Daemon,” Viserys said without turning toward him.
“I ought to say the same to you, brother.
It has been moons.
I thought you would call upon me sooner than this,” Daemon replied as he closed the distance and stood beside his brother, placing his hand above the fire and watching as the flames rose eagerly to lick at his palm.
“I was busy,” was Viserys’s excuse as he turned the knife over in his hand, as though searching for the long-lost legacy of Valyria hidden within its rippling steel.
“There is a reason I called you here with such urgency.
Gaemon has revealed something to me… to us.
Aemma was there as well, though she did not hear everything.
Your son is special, Daemon, even from before he received those strange eyes.
But more than that, his birth means that it is time.”
Viserys inhaled deeply.
“The Darkness is rising, brother.
The realm must be united.
We need—”
“Stop!”
Daemon grabbed Viserys by the shoulder and turned him around.
“You’re rambling like a madman, Viserys.
First, tell me what Gaemon revealed to you.
Start there.”
Viserys’s eyes were sunken deep into his face, dark circles hanging beneath them like bruises.
Daemon realized then that his brother had not slept a single wink throughout the night.
That alone was enough.
All mirth and amusement drained from Daemon’s face.
He looked into Viserys’s emotionless expression as his brother gave a small nod and began recounting the tale of Gaemon revealing what his eyes could truly do.
Though Viserys spoke of Buri’s arrival and the sheer size of the direwolf as well, Daemon’s mind was consumed by only two emotions.
Pride.
And anger.
Anger that Gaemon had not entrusted him with the truth before revealing it to Viserys.
Pride because it was his son who had inherited something so extraordinary that it might become one of the greatest cornerstones in the history of House Targaryen.
With Gaemon’s eyes, the House of the Dragon could relearn the lost arts of Valyria and reclaim a fragment of the glory that had slipped from their grasp since the Doom.
That pride, however, was buried beneath the inferno that was Daemon’s temper.
“That boy… where is he?
I would like to have some words with him,” Daemon asked, interrupting Viserys.
“Cast aside this petty behavior, Daemon.
He did not tell you before because he did not trust us yet, but he has revealed everything now, has he not?
Aemma was right.
You cannot blame Gaemon for being guarded until we earned his trust. Find the original chapter at g.com.
And if this anger of yours burns so fiercely because he came to us before you, then let me remind you that you were not here.
He could not wait forever for your return.”
Viserys clicked his tongue in annoyance before turning back toward the fire.
He tossed the knife into the flames and only then faced Daemon again.
“Now I need you to remain silent and hear the full story.
This is important, Daemon.
I do not need another interruption until I am finished.”
Viserys warned him, tilting his head ever so slightly to one side, the same gesture he always made when he meant business.
Daemon nodded begrudgingly.
He would have a long conversation with his son afterward.
Once Viserys was done.
No sooner had Daemon nodded than Viserys resumed the tale of everything that had transpired the previous night.
It took some time before Viserys finished.
All Daemon gathered from it was that the North held more secrets than House Targaryen had ever imagined.
And that the treacherous activities of the grey rats—the maesters Daemon had always despised—ran deeper than even he had suspected.
They remained second only to Otto on Daemon’s ever-growing list of people he would gladly see burned alive should the opportunity ever present itself.
“Now out with the final piece of the puzzle, Viserys.
What is this Darkness you speak of?
And how does House Stark’s bloodline of ice make Gaemon special?” Daemon asked, shifting his weight onto one leg and resting his hand upon Dark Sister as he prepared himself for whatever his brother was about to reveal.
“It all goes back to Aegon the Dragon, brother.
Like our ancestor Daenys the Dreamer, Aegon too dreamed of a great doom.”
Daemon looked his brother dead in the eyes, searching for any sign that Viserys was lying or had been manipulated by others.
The doom again?
“Aegon, in his dream, saw a great darkness rising from the far North, cold winds blowing from there, and riding upon those winds would come the herald of death, hell-bent on ending the race of men.
Between this annihilation of mankind and that darkness stands House of the Dragon.
Aegon saw our fates intertwined with this whole thing, so he left the warning to his successor, Aenys Targaryen.
And from Aenys, this warning was passed down from king to heir.”
Viserys placed his hand into the heart of the fire where his knife rested and slowly drew it out, shrugging off the heat that would have made even the bravest lord in Westeros squeal in pain.
Daemon’s attention soon shifted from his brother’s hand to the gravity of the moment.
Viserys calling him here meant only one thing.
Viserys was passing down the warning to Daemon—his heir.
Daemon straightened himself and looked down at the dagger his brother had extended toward him.
Slowly, he took it by the hilt and noticed something etched upon the blade.
Bringing it closer to his face, he saw the words were written in High Valyrian.
Tilting his head slightly, Daemon read aloud,
“From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.”
The shock of those words nearly robbed him of his footing.
Daemon felt lightheaded.
Dreams.
Dragon dreams, as they were called within his family.
Daemon had never cared much for them.
Dreams were shadows and whispers; dragonfire was real.
It was the legacy of dragons that interested him.
Fire was kin to Daemon, and he embraced it with all his heart.
It was because of that passion—for flame and for the fire running through his veins—that Caraxes had chosen him.
Dragon and rider were cut from the same blazing cloth.
Anyhow, he digressed.
Daemon might have dismissed Daenys foretelling the Doom as a singular miracle—or a gift from the gods of Old Valyria—but this… the prophesied birth of his own son…
That was not something he could simply cast aside.
“Now you see, brother.
Your son’s birth is the herald of war.
I called you here because I want you to prepare your son.
His will be the Song of Ice and Fire.
His eyes are not some Valyrian blessing, but fate’s own way of aiding him—the prince that was promised to the world.
And we of House Targaryen must forge this promised prince into a fine blade that will cut down the coming darkness and save the race of men from extinction.”
Viserys stepped closer.
“You were always chasing glory, Daemon.
This hunger has always been inside you since you took up the blade.”
He cupped Daemon’s cheek firmly, forcing his younger brother to meet his gaze.
“This is your chance… our chance.
I do not know what the outcome will be.
It matters little.
The glory of one of ours—one of dragon blood—chosen by fate to bear such a burden will be remembered long after kingdoms have turned to dust.
They will speak of him as they speak of the heroes of old.
And it is your son who will be that hero.”
Viserys’s voice dropped.
“Go, Daemon.
See to it that we do not have a single chance of losing.
This is what you always wanted, wasn’t it?
To carve your name into the annals of history so deeply that no man could ever forget Daemon Targaryen.
Here is your chance.
Hone the blade that will end the enemy of mankind.”
He released Daemon’s face before giving him a light shove.
“This will be greater than even Aegon’s Conquest, brother.”
Greater than even the Conquest?
Daemon’s heart thundered inside his chest.
Oh, the glory.
The blood.
The songs yet unsung.
With every word Viserys spoke, Daemon saw the future unfolding before him.
Long wars that would shake kingdoms.
Fields drowned in blood.
Dragons setting the field ablaze.
Daemon could hear Caraxes roaring in delight.
A foe worthy of House Targaryen at last.
And if death awaited him upon that road…
He would greet it with arms spread wide and his smirk full of arrogance.
What greater end could there be than to fall with Dark Sister in hand after carving a path through the darkness itself?
Let the singers remember.
Let the maesters choke upon the tale.
Let every child yet unborn hear the name Daemon Targaryen and know that when the world stood upon the edge of oblivion, it was the Rogue Prince who forged its savior.
His son.
Gaemon.
Father and son.
One the smith.
The other the blade.
Together, they would carve their names so deeply into history that time itself would fail to wear them away.
Daemon looked at his brother in silence for a long moment.
Then he turned toward the exit and strode from the chamber with hurried purpose.
There was no time left to waste.
Too much remained to be done, and he did not know how much time fate would grant them.
He intended to make use of every single moment.