Game of thrones: A storm is coming

The next few days were a haze of recovery and reflection. My physical wounds gradually healed, but the mental scars were still fresh and vivid. My strength recovered as the weeks went by, and the wound on my face healed with a small scar. As I lay on the bed, my body still aching from the battle, I kept my thoughts to myself. She had saved me, but that didn't mean she trusted me. And with good reason—what she had found wasn't ordinary, and neither was I.

However, the doubts still stood: Who am I in this world? What am I meant to do? My existence prior to this one seemed like a faraway recollection, a tale that had been passed down to me from another person. I didn't get all the memories clearly, as bits of it are hazy and messy. Who were my parents? This is something that can decide my fate.

I was trying to figure out what to do from here. My original plans all went to shit. 

I was never left alone for long by Rhaenys. She would come to see how I was doing every morning, her keen suspicion still monitoring me. I didn't blame her. Trust is something very difficult to earn, especially from royalty. Extra specially when you are lying to them.

I dressed slowly, pulling on a loose tunic, still feeling the weight of the previous week's events. There was no escaping this situation. I wasn't some orphan anymore. I wasn't a nameless, faceless child of the streets. I was a Targaryen bastard, in the heart of a political storm I couldn't yet understand fully, but I could feel it closing in around me. And Rhaenys... Rhaenys was in the eye of that storm.

I let out a sigh and prepared myself for the conversation that's about to come with Rhaenys and Corlys. 

3rd person PoV

When he finally left his room, he made his way down the dimly lit halls of the castle, his heart pounding in his chest. His feet echoed against the stone floors as he approached the room where he knew Rhaenys and Corlys would be waiting.

As he entered, he found them seated at a long wooden table, the light from a nearby window casting long shadows across the room. Rhaenys looked up first, her sharp eyes assessing him. Corlys didn't look up imimmediately;is attention focused on a parchment in his hands, but Daeron could feel his gaze weighing heavily on him.

"You're looking better," Rhaenys remarked, her voice as smooth as ever, though the suspicion was still there. "I trust the maester's care has done its work?"

Daeron nodded, but his voice faltered as he spoke. "Yes, I feel much better. Thank you... for everything."

Corlys looked up from his parchment then, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You were lucky to survive that fight. Not many boys your age could do what you did. It's... unusual."

Daeron stiffened, feeling the weight of Corlys's gaze on him. He couldn't afford to let any cracks in his facade show, not now.

"I just did what I had to," Daeron replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "I didn't want to die."

Rhaenys gave him a measured look, clearly not convinced, but she didn't press him further. Instead, she spoke, her voice carrying a note of intrigue. "Tell me, Daeron, what exactly do you know about your parents? You said you were abandoned, but there's more to your story than you're letting on. Who were they? Why would someone leave a child like you with a sword of that value?"

Daeron's heart skipped a beat. He'd been dreading this moment, knowing the questions would come sooner or later. He was prepared to lie, but how much could he lie before they caught on? The truth was too dangerous, and yet the more he kept silent, the more suspicious they would become.

"I don't know," Daeron said, his voice steady but tinged with the pain of the uncertainty he truly felt. "I don't remember them. I was just a kid in an orphanage. I grew up with nothing. The sword, it's just a relic, I guess. I don't know why they left it with me. Maybe they thought it would keep me safe. Or maybe... maybe they never meant for me to survive."

There was a long silence as Rhaenys and Corlys exchanged looks. Daeron could tell that neither of them fully believed him. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he feared that they might press further, forcing him to reveal more than he was willing to.

But to his surprise, Rhaenys finally broke the silence with a soft sigh. "You don't know, or you won't say. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes."

"I swear, that's all I know," Daeron said quickly, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be here."

Corlys studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke. "I can see you're hiding something, Daeron. And perhaps you have good reason to. But know this—secrets like yours have a way of coming to light, whether you want them to or not. What matters now is what you do with the opportunities that come your way."

Daeron felt a shift in the air as Corlys's words hung heavy in the room. The lord of the Velaryon family was offering him a dangerous kind of understanding—an invitation to play the game of thrones, or perhaps a warning that his secrets wouldn't remain hidden forever.

Rhaenys, however, remained focused on him, her expression softening ever so slightly. "We're not your enemies, Daeron. Not yet, at least. But the world is a harsh place, especially for someone with your... background."

"I know," Daeron replied, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm not foolish. I know where I stand."

"Then you know what comes next," Rhaenys said. "You're here now. And while we don't know the full truth of who you are, there are things we can offer you. There's power to be gained, and danger to be avoided. But the question reremains—"Whatre you willing to do to secure your place in this world?"

Daeron's heart raced as Rhaenys's question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on him. The words felt like a challenge, an invitation to step deeper into the world of politics and intrigue that was already swallowing him whole. What was he willing to do to secure his place? The answer, he realized, was complicated.

It was a question that gnawed at him constantly, especially now, with the weight of his unknown origins pressing on him. He had no answers, at least none that felt like they could be trusted. His memories were broken and scattered, a puzzle that didn't quite fit. All he had was his sword—FrostMourne—and his own will to survive.

He had already made choices—some by accident, some by necessity. He had killed to survive. He had lied. He had played the role of a helpless, nameless bastard. But now, with these two figures before him, his choices would have far more consequences. They were offering him an uncertain future, a path fraught with risk but also with opportunity.

Corlys Velaryon's sharp gaze pierced through him, as if testing his resolve. Daeron could almost feel the lord's thoughts—wondering whether he was just a pawn, a lost boy clinging to something far greater than himself. His eyes were calculating, seeking weakness, but also something more. Is this boy just a tool, or could he become a player?

"I don't know," Daeron said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "But I intend to figure it out."

Rhaenys nodded, her expression unreadable. She had seen enough to understand that Daeron wasn't completely open, but that didn't necessarily mean he was a threat either. "We all have to choose our path," she said softly. "But there are forces at play that you have no control over. If you're to make it through the coming storm, you'll need allies. And sometimes... sometimes, you'll have to decide what you're willing to sacrifice."

Daeron felt a flicker of doubt at the edges of his mind. Sacrifice? What could he possibly give up in a world that seemed to demand everything from everyone? Yet he knew she was right. The game of thrones was about power, and power always required a price.

Daeron's mind raced, the weight of Rhaenys's words sinking deeper into his thoughts. Sacrifice. The very notion of it felt foreign, yet inevitable. In a world ruled by power and betrayal, what was he willing to lose? His innocence? His honor? Perhaps something even more vital—his very soul.

His grip tightened slightly around the hilt of FrostMourne, the cold steel a constant reminder of the legacy he now carried, whether he wanted it or not. He had already given so much of himself to survive; now, he was faced with the harsh reality that survival alone wouldn't be enough. To rise, to truly secure his place in this world, he would have to play the game of thrones—deceptive, brutal, and unforgiving.

"I understand," Daeron finally replied, his voice steady, though the storm inside him raged. He knew this wasn't just a choice about who he was or who he might become—it was a question of how far he was willing to go to achieve his goals. He wasn't sure of the answer yet, but the path was becoming clearer. The world wouldn't wait for him to make up his mind.

Rhaenys and Corlys exchanged a look, both assessing him silently. For a moment, the room was thick with the unsaid. Then, Corlys leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing in that calculating way that Daeron had learned to recognize. It was the look of someone who saw potential, but also a warning—don't disappoint me.

"Power is like the sea," Corlys said, breaking the silence. "It can either carry you to great heights or drown you in an instant. But it's the currents you can't see that will determine your fate. The question is, will you learn to navigate those waters... or will you be swept away?"

Daeron's heart pounded in his chest as Corlys's words echoed in his mind. The currents you can't see. He could feel the weight of that warning hanging in the air, and for the first time, he truly understood the scope of the game he had been thrust into. Power, like the sea, was unpredictable—dangerous, yet full of potential. And it would be those hidden currents, the unseen forces at play, that would either carry him to victory or drown him in a sea of treachery.

He had already seen the dangers lurking in the shadows. His survival had been a stroke of luck, but luck wouldn't carry him forever. If he was to rise above his station, to carve out a future in this storm of ambition and betrayal, he would need more than luck—he would need to learn how to navigate the dangerous tides of power.

But he can not join any faction right now, specially when he has so little idea of the political undercurrents. He let out a sigh and spoke," I was born as a bastard, with nothing but this sword to my name. It is also the reason you are wary and interested in me. I am grateful for rescue, but I do not wish to become a pawn in someone's game."

he took a pause and continued, " i can lie and pretend to go along with your plans, but that is an insult to Princess Rhaenys's goodwill. Although I may not know much, I know to repay kindness with kindness, not betrayal. I am grateful for your help, but I believe I should follow my own path, we only live once after all."

Rhaenys and Corlys exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable as Daeron spoke. There was a moment of silence, heavy with the weight of his words. His refusal to be drawn into their schemes—his assertion that he wanted no part in their game—hung in the air like a challenge.

Corlys's lips curled into a slight smile, but it was more of an acknowledgment than a gesture of approval. He leaned forward, his voice smooth but laced with the undercurrent of a man who had seen far too many rise and fall on their own pride.

"You speak of repaying kindness with kindness, but the world does not always work that way, Daeron," Corlys said, his gaze sharp, yet thoughtful. "You cannot repay a kindness with nothing in return. The debts in this world are rarely so simple."

Rhaenys, for her part, studied him closely, her sharp, penetrating gaze weighing his words with care. It was as if she were looking for the cracks in his resolve, the lies beneath his righteous posture. But when she spoke, her tone was softer, perhaps even a little more understanding than Corlys's.

"You speak with conviction," Rhaenys remarked, her voice calm but carrying an edge of something more, something deeper. "Many would be content to cling to the safety of others, especially in your position. But you... you're choosing to stand alone." "I understand the value of independence," Rhaenys continued. "But survival requires more than just avoiding others' games. It requires an awareness of those who can help you, or hinder you, in your path forward. You might walk alone, but those who have power will take notice. And not all of them will see your independence as something to be respected."

Rhaenys's gaze never left Daeron as she spoke, her sharp eyes weighing each word. There was something in his voice, something in his manner that resonated with her, but she couldn't put her finger on it just yet. His words were bold, perhaps even admirable, but the defiance in them was almost reckless. He was young, and the world had already chewed him up and spat him out, yet there was a certain pride in him that reminded her of something she couldn't quite grasp.

She had seen the way he moved, the way he held himself. There was a quiet strength, a determination that hadn't been fully forged in the fires of hardship, but one that had the potential to grow with time. But it wasn't just that. It was the way his features caught the light, the shape of his face, the way his hair fell around his shoulders. Something about him seemed... familiar. The resemblance struck her like a bolt of lightning.

 She couldn't help but trace the lines of Daeron's face, the way the shadows caught in his hair, the slight tilt of his chin. There was something about him—a way he carried himself, a depth in his eyes—that reminded her of someone. Someone she hadn't thought about in a long time. Her father.

Aemon Targaryen.

Rhaenys's heart tightened, and for a moment, she found herself caught between a mix of emotions—curiosity, suspicion, anger and something much more personal. Could it be? The idea was absurd. She had no knowledge of this bastard, no idea of how he could be connected to her father.

Yet the resemblance was too strong to ignore.

Her father's features had always been soft, his face kind yet burdened, his manner distant but regal. Daeron's looks weren't an exact match, but the resemblance, the strength in his gaze—it was undeniable.

"Daeron," she said softly, her voice quieter than it had been, "where did you say you came from again?"

Daeron paused, meeting her gaze, unaware of the storm of recognition brewing in her mind. "I told you, I don't know. I was left at an orphanage in the Vale. only my name written on a paper, no family. Just me and this sword."

Rhaenys started thinking. Her father indeed travelled to the Vale around 10 years ago, after her mother passed away. It all seems to point towards the same direction.

Her voice broke the silence, though her tone was softer now, tinged with a mixture of disbelief and quiet calculation. "You... look like someone I once knew. Someone who I grew up wanting to be like." Her eyes flicked to Corlys, and his expression faltered for the briefest moment, but he said nothing. He must have seen it too.

Daeron shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, clearly taken aback. He hadn't expected such a reaction, not after everything they had discussed. He couldn't help but wonder if he had revealed too much by refusing their offer, but the thought of being swept into a political game he barely understood was not something he could bear. Still, something about Rhaenys's words made his stomach twist. She had said someone she grew up wanting to be like. The implications of her words began to settle on him.

"Who do you mean?" Daeron asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though the question felt like an echo of something deeper, something he hadn't yet come to terms with.

Rhaenys took a deep breath, her gaze flicking to Corlys for a brief moment, but the lord of the Velaryon remained silent, his eyes narrowed as if weighing the situation. After a long pause, Rhaenys finally spoke, her voice soft but laced with a trace of confusion.

"I... I was thinking of someone from my past. Someone who..." she trailed off, her thoughts clearly scattered. She met Daeron's eyes again, and for a moment, she seemed lost in them. Her mind raced, torn between the suspicion of his origins and the pull of his strange familiarity. "Aemon Targaryen. He was... someone very close to me. A prince of the realm. My father."