The Golden Prince

280 AC

Daemon Pov

"All the great houses have arrived in the capital alongside their vassals," Chataya announced, her words calm but laced with subtle urgency. She stood by the edge of the room, framed by the flickering light of a brazier. The shadows danced across her face, emphasizing the sharp intelligence in her dark eyes.

I barely glanced at her, my focus elsewhere. The Red Keep was unusually quiet tonight, save for the muffled hum of activity from the lower halls. The castle was alive with restless energy, the weight of expectation hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

"Their requests for an audience with the king," Chataya continued, "and with you have been rejected outright. Suffice it to say, they wish to know why the Red Keep's gates have been locked to them."

She paused, her gaze cutting toward me with a pointed look, as if testing my reaction.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the wood creak under my weight, and swirled the wine in my goblet. It was Dornish red, rich and spicy, but I had barely touched it. "They can wait until tomorrow," I said, my tone soft but dismissive.

Chataya raised an eyebrow. She was a sharp woman—sharper than most at court—and she didn't miss much. "The great houses do not enjoy being kept waiting, my prince. They are restless, suspicious. You've shut them out, and now they are wondering what schemes are being hatched behind these walls."

Let them wonder. Suspicion is a powerful tool, one I had learned to wield with precision.

I glanced toward Falyse Stokeworth, who knelt in front of me, her black hair spilling over her shoulders as she sucked me off. I held her hair tightly as she took me in deeply. 

"The houses can stew in their frustration for a night," I said finally, looking back at Chataya.

"It will make them more pliable when the time comes. Let them wonder why the gates are closed. Let them think I am plotting something grand."

And then with a grunt, I came as Faylse swallowed every last drop.

"And are you?" Chataya asked, her voice low and edged with curiosity. She stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the silk of her gown trailing behind her like liquid shadow.

I smirked but didn't answer Chataya's question. 

"You should rest, Daemon," Chataya said, her voice cutting through the moment. She was standing by the bed now, her arms crossed, a look of measured disapproval etched onto her sharp features. "You have a big day ahead tomorrow."

"Rest?" I echoed, letting the word hang in the air. "I am resting, albeit in a different way."

She raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. Instead, she moved toward me with a slow, deliberate grace, her silk gown brushing against the cold stone floor.

I reached out, pulling her closer, and kissed her deeply. Her lips were warm, her breath sharp with the faintest hint of spiced wine. For a moment, the world outside these chambers ceased to exist—the restless lords, the locked gates, the whispers of treachery in the shadows.

"You are impossible," she murmured against my lips, though her tone betrayed a trace of amusement.

"Perhaps," I replied, my voice low, "but you wouldn't have it any other way."

Chataya's eyes gleamed with a knowing look as she stepped closer, her poise unshaken. "You truly are insatiable," she said with a faint smirk. Before I could reply, she placed a firm hand on my chest and pushed me backward onto the bed.

I could not help but keep the grin of my face as I saw the two of them strip down. This truly was going to be a long night.

---------------

I stood before the mirror, the weight of the armor settling around my body like a second skin. The dark black of the steel gleamed faintly in the soft light, its surface unmarred and cold. A golden dragon, fierce and regal, was etched into the breastplate, its wings spread wide as if ready to take flight. The metal was polished to perfection, reflecting the light with an almost haunting gleam, as though it held within it the very spirit of House Targaryen.

The gauntlets on my arms were dark red, made from some rare, hardened leather that matched the deep crimson of my cloak. They fit like a glove, providing protection while still allowing for movement, as though the very essence of a warrior had been crafted into every inch. The dark, intricate designs carved into the gauntlets gave them a sinister edge, their sharp lines tracing patterns like fire and blood.

My hair, braided like that of the Dothraki Khals, cascaded down my back. The braids were tight and precise, each one a symbol of my strength and lineage. Dark sister the sword that had been passed down through generations, rested at my side in its sheath, the handle gleaming faintly. The blade had tasted the blood of enemies before, and it would taste it again.

As I adjusted the final piece of my attire, I caught Chataya's reflection in the mirror. She was standing behind me, her gaze fixed on me with an almost reverent intensity. Her eyes followed every movement, her expression one of admiration—and perhaps fear. The sight of me, in full armor, was a sight to behold. A force of nature, a storm brewing on the horizon.

"You look menacing," she whispered, her voice soft, but I could hear the trace of awe and something else—fear, perhaps—lingering in her words.

A grin broke across my face, sharp and predatory. "It's meant to be," I replied, my voice low and filled with an unspoken promise. "A statement they'll remember for the rest of their lives."

Chataya's lips parted as though she wanted to say something more, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she stepped forward and kissed me, her lips lingering for a moment, tasting the steel of my resolve. Her kiss was a fleeting reminder of the pleasures I had at my disposal, but I was already lost in the thoughts of what awaited beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

The moment passed quickly, and with it, the weight of the responsibility that hung over me. The lords and ladies were waiting, expecting to see a prince of power, of grace, and of strength. What they would witness today, however, would be the fury of House Targaryen, unleashed and unrelenting.

I turned away from Chataya, taking one final look at the reflection in the mirror. The man I saw staring back at me was not the same one who had walked into this room earlier. The armor, the sword, the braids—it all combined to form something darker, more dangerous. A symbol of power not just in appearance, but in spirit. I wasn't just Daemon Targaryen today; I was fire and blood incarnate.

I walked toward the door, and as I opened it, I was greeted by the cool breeze of the halls of the Red Keep. The weight of the silence was palpable—this was no ordinary day. The halls were eerily still, as though every servant, every guard, every member of the court was waiting for something to happen.

As I made my way toward my father's chambers, I couldn't help but feel the anticipation building inside me. There was no turning back now. The throne room awaited, and the world beyond those walls was about to witness the rise of the Targaryens once more.

I entered my father's chamber and paused for a moment, taking in the sight of him. Aerys Targaryen, my father, stood tall before a full-length mirror. Though not as towering in stature as I was, he still possessed a presence that was impossible to ignore. He wore his armor like a king—black and gold, with intricate patterns etched into the metal that told the story of his own claim to the throne. The Crown of King Maekar Targaryen sat atop his head, gleaming like a beacon of power. The crown was an ancient symbol of the Targaryen dynasty, and it suited him—its weight was not a burden but a crown that had been earned, and one he wore with pride.

He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting the fit of his armor with care. The image before me was one of a king, a conqueror, a man who had weathered storms and battles alike. Yet even now, as I watched him, I saw the fire in his eyes—his ambition, his desire for greatness. He was ready to claim what was his, ready to show the world that the Targaryens had not faded into obscurity.

He turned to me, his eyes lighting up as he saw me standing in the doorway. "Son, how do I look?" he asked, his voice filled with a sense of pride and something deeper—anticipation, perhaps.

I studied him for a moment, taking in the full spectacle of his appearance. He was regal, a king in every sense of the word. But in that moment, as I stood there, I couldn't help but think that his reign, his time, was nearing its end. His flame was burning brightly, but it was not as fierce as mine.

"The Conqueror reborn," I said, my voice laced with conviction. I stepped forward and gave a slight bow of respect, my words carrying the weight of truth. "You are ready, Father."

Aerys smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. He held the blackfire sword in his hand, the legendary weapon that had been passed down through the generations. It gleamed in the light, its dark blade a reminder of the bloodshed that had come before.

"It is time we show them the Targaryens have risen from the ashes," he said, his voice steady and resolute. He stood straighter, his posture firm, the weight of his words settling into the air.

I nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. We were united, father and son, in purpose and in ambition. The time had come to show the world that the Targaryens were not to be forgotten, that we were not a dynasty lost to history. Our name was synonymous with power, and it was time to remind the realm of that fact.

We exited the chamber, the sound of our footsteps echoing through the halls. The Kingsguard followed closely behind us, their armor glinting with polished steel, their faces solemn as they prepared for the journey ahead. Today was not just another day in the life of the Targaryens—it was a day that would be remembered for centuries to come.

The doors to the great hall groaned as they swung open, and a heavy silence fell over the assembled nobles. Every eye in the room turned toward us, the weight of the gaze of lords, ladies, and knights alike pressing down like a thousand boulders.

I could feel the eyes on me as I strode forward, every movement deliberate, the sound of my boots echoing in the vast hall. My father, Aerys Targaryen, stood beside me, his presence unmistakable. The ancient, dark blade of Blackfyre gleamed at his hip, its jagged, obsidian-like surface a symbol of power that had once been thought lost to the Blackfyre pretenders. Now it was in the hands of the true king of the Seven Kingdoms, and the very sight of it sent a shiver through the ranks of the nobility.

I felt their unease before I even spoke, the whispers running like ripples through the crowd. They had seen dragons once, or so the tales said, but never before had the house of dragons stood so proudly before them. We had risen from the ashes, and now, the world would witness our full fury.

My gaze swept across the hall, eyes locking with those of Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale, and Hostor Tully, Lord of Riverrun. They were the first among equals, powerful and proud—but they weren't immune to the weight of Targaryen ambition. I could see it in their eyes as they watched me, and in the tense posture of their figures. They were calculating their options, weighing their allegiances, their loyalty to the crown already on the verge of fracturing. It was the first crack in their veneer of strength.

I stood still for a moment at the foot of the throne, the Iron Throne looming above us like a mountain of jagged steel and rusted iron, a reminder of what we had fought for—and what we would burn to keep. The sight of it filled me with both pride and disdain. The throne was a symbol of dominion, a prize so fiercely guarded that those who came for it often lost themselves in the madness it fostered. But for us, it was our birthright.

Father ascended the steps, taking his rightful seat with an air of power that only a Targaryen could command. His eyes never left the gathered lords, cold and calculating, like the dragon he was. As he settled into the throne, his expression remained impassive, his grip on Blackfyre firm and unyielding.

"Everyone, kneel to the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms," I shouted, my voice carrying across the hall like the sound of a distant bell tolling, calling all to attention. There was a brief moment of hesitation, a flicker of defiance, but it was short-lived. The nobles knew better. They knew that to defy us in this moment would be to invite ruin. Slowly, hesitantly, they lowered themselves to their knees, the sound of armor scraping against the stone floor echoing in the silence.

I watched them kneel, and for a fleeting moment, I relished the sight. The once-proud lords of Westeros—those who thought themselves invincible—were now reduced to this. They bowed to no god but power, and today, they would bow to us. I locked eyes with each of them, letting them know that every gesture of submission would be remembered.

My gaze shifted to my father. He smiled faintly, his lips curling into a slow, calculated grin. He, too, enjoyed the moment.

"You've all come here not just to attend the tournament but to renew your oaths to the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms," I said, my voice a low growl that resonated through the hall. I paced slowly, letting the weight of my words sink in, each step purposeful, as though marking my territory in the very air they breathed.

"The threats against House Targaryen do not sleep. They are watching our every move. Every step we take, they are here, listening, waiting for us to falter," I continued, my eyes narrowing as I cast a sharp glance at Jon Arryn and Hostor Tully. They shifted uncomfortably, but neither spoke. It was enough to let them know that I saw through their posturing.

"They think we are weak. That we are a farce. That we are just another house, struggling to keep control of a fractured kingdom. But they are wrong. They will be made to remember the truth—that House Targaryen is a force that cannot be bent, cannot be broken. We are not like them."

I paused, allowing my words to hang in the air, the silence pregnant with the fear I had instilled. I could hear the rustling of armor as the lords shifted, discomfort creeping into their expressions. Fear was settling in. Fear of a house they thought defeated, a family they believed had faded into obscurity, now rising like a storm on the horizon.

"House Targaryen does not care what you look like. We do not care who your liege lord is, who you worship—whether the Old Gods, the New, the Drowned God, or whichever god you bend the knee to. It does not matter. We do not care who you love, or whether your father left you a lordship or a title that you think will save you when the blood starts to spill," I spat, my voice rising with the heat of my words, each syllable like the crack of a whip.

"The only thing that matters is strength. The only thing that matters is who commands this kingdom—and right now, that is us. You can choose to ignore that, to delude yourselves into thinking that we will falter, but I assure you: we will not. The only thing that will be left when you challenge House Targaryen is your name on a stone, forgotten in the ashes of your house."

I turned my gaze to Jon Arryn, whose face remained stoic, but his hands twitched slightly, betraying his nerves. Hostor Tully shifted uneasily in his seat, his eyes darting to his fellow lords.

"Facing House Targaryen in battle is something you would be wise to avoid," I said, my voice a dangerous whisper now, quiet yet cutting. 

"If you know what is good for you, if you value your lives, you will think long and hard before raising your sword against us. War with House Targaryen is a war you will not win, and I promise you this: You will not survive it. You will not be remembered. Your houses will fall, your blood will be spilled, and someone else will raise your sons and daughters, someone else will inherit your lands. You will be ash, and we will remain."

The hall was deathly silent. Even the wind outside seemed to still, as if the entire world was holding its breath. My words were like a blade at the throat of every man in the room. They knew that defiance would bring only death.

Then, I raised my hand slowly, and the hall seemed to shudder in anticipation. There was a sharp, crackling sound as the massive doors of the hall flew open, and the unmistakable roar of Solarys, my golden dragon, filled the air. His wings beat against the stone, sending a gust of wind through the chamber, ruffling the banners of the houses that hung like forgotten relics. The dragon landed gracefully on the stone floor, his massive, golden body shimmering in the torchlight.

The lords were frozen. Their faces paled as they stared at the beast before them, the very embodiment of House Targaryen's power. The dragon's eyes glinted with ancient intelligence, his scales gleaming like molten gold. The room was filled with the scent of smoke and the heat of his fiery breath. It was a sight they had never expected to see again—yet here it was, in all its terrifying glory.

"Dragons have returned to House Targaryen," I said, my voice carrying through the hall like thunder. "And so beware, for if you raise the dragon's ire, we will burn you to the ground. You will be remembered for one thing only—your blood, spilled in the name of rebellion. And when your children ask who you were, they will hear only stories of flames and ruin. That is the legacy you will leave behind."

The words hung in the air, and I watched as the lords took them in, their faces etched with fear. Some paled, others clenched their fists, but none dared to challenge the truth that had been laid before them. The kingdom belonged to House Targaryen—and they would either kneel to that truth, or be burned by it.

As I surveyed the hall, my gaze moved over the lords and ladies of the realm, each one a picture of tension, their faces a mix of awe, fear, and barely masked ambition. My eyes, however, caught on one figure amidst the sea of familiar and forgettable faces—a woman unlike any other in this vast chamber. She did not flinch or look away as I locked eyes with her, and in that single, unbroken moment, I felt the stirrings of something I had not allowed myself to feel in years.

She stood tall and poised, her dark hair a cascade of obsidian silk tumbling past her shoulders. The deep black strands shimmered faintly under the flickering torchlight, framing a face of such exquisite beauty that it seemed almost otherworldly. Her skin was pale, luminous, and flawless, as though the gods themselves had sculpted her from moonlight. Her lips, painted a soft crimson, parted ever so slightly, and her violet eyes—haunting and piercing—held a power that was both enchanting and unsettling.

She wore a resplendent gown of deep purple, the color so rich it seemed to drink in the light around her, the fabric clinging to her form in a way that hinted at her elegance and confidence. The neckline was daring but tasteful, revealing the smooth curve of her neck and shoulders, her collarbones sharp yet delicate. The flowing sleeves of her dress ended in intricate lacework that danced around her wrists like wisps of shadow. A silver necklace adorned her throat, the pendant shaped like a star—a tribute, no doubt, to her noble house. House Dayne of Starfall. Ashara Dayne.

She held my stare with a calm, almost defiant grace, as if daring me to look away first. Her confidence was not the arrogance of a courtly lady accustomed to empty praise, nor was it the forced bravado of a woman trying to appear strong in a room full of powerful men. It was quiet, natural, and utterly disarming.

And then, as I stood there, transfixed, a small smile touched her lips. It wasn't mocking or coy; it was something softer, more genuine, yet it carried with it the faintest edge of mystery. That smile, so fleeting and enigmatic, struck me harder than any blade ever could. It was a reminder—a cruel, bittersweet reminder—of the one who had slipped through my fingers all those years ago.

But I was not the same man she had known. Time and the weight of my ambitions had forged me into something harder, something darker. I had become the dragon I was meant to be, and dragons did not chase stars—they claimed them.

I allowed a small smile to curl my lips in return, though mine was sharper, tinged with the promise of a hunt yet to begin. Ashara's violet eyes flickered with something I could not name—amusement, perhaps, or recognition. Did she know what thoughts were stirring in my mind? Could she sense the storm she had awakened with a single glance?

As I turned back toward the Iron Throne, my father's voice brought me back to the present. But even as I stood there, listening to his proclamations, the roar of Solarys in the background, I could feel Ashara's gaze lingering on me. It was a weight, a fire of its own, burning hotter than the flames of my dragon. And though I kept my face impassive, a single thought took root in my mind, growing stronger with every passing second.

She may have been the one who got away.

But not anymore.

Not if I had anything to say about it.

 -------------

Doran Martell Pov

They were back.

For centuries, the world had whispered of dragons as creatures of legend, their fire long extinguished, their bones nothing more than relics of a bygone age. Yet now, the impossible had become reality. The skies had been set ablaze once more, and the realm would never be the same. The Targaryens had reclaimed their birthright.

He had done it.

Daemon Targaryen, the Golden Prince, the man known more for his sword than his wits, had somehow found a way to bring them back. It should have been a fool's errand, a madman's dream, yet here he stood, the master of fire and sky, and with that power, the entire Seven Kingdoms would bow once more.

The chamber was dimly lit, the scent of burning incense mixing with the warm Dornish air. Silence stretched between the two brothers, save for the soft creaking of the wooden floor as slow, measured steps carried restless thoughts across the room. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the carved table beside him, forgotten in the storm of contemplation raging within.

Across the room, laughter rang out—light, amused, utterly at ease. It was an infuriating sound.

"Did you know about this, brother?"

The question was met with a smirk, lazy and knowing.

"What do you mean?" Oberyn drawled, reclining against the cushions with the ease of a man who had never truly feared anything in his life.

A flicker of irritation sparked. "The fact that the man you lust over was going to bring the dragons back," he pressed, his voice sharper now, laced with disbelief and no small amount of concern.

His younger brother merely chuckled. "He told me he would do something to shock the entire realm, and in return, I promised him a dozen jars of Dornish red." A grin spread across Oberyn's face, as if this were no more than a jest shared over wine.

Silence stretched between them before the weight of his own words settled, and a mock sigh escaped him. "Now I wonder whether I'll be able to fulfill that promise from my own purse."

The casualness of it all was maddening.

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. Fingers brushed against the rim of the untouched goblet, but he did not drink. There were too many thoughts, too many questions.

"How?" The word slipped out before he could contain it, but it mattered little. "How did he do it? How is such a thing even possible? The dragons were gone. Extinct. We saw their skulls with our own eyes."

Oberyn merely shrugged, as if magic and legend were simple things. "Does it matter? The world thought they were gone, and yet, here they are."

"But how?" he insisted, voice low. "Dragons do not simply return. This changes everything."

It was not just awe that filled his mind—it was worry.

House Martell had endured where others had fallen. They had weathered storms, outlasted conquerors, played the game of power with patience and precision. The sands of Dorne did not shift easily. And yet…

The sight of dragons soaring across the sky would change the order of the world. The Lords who had once dismissed Daemon as a reckless rogue would now tremble at his name. He would be more than a prince. He would be a god of war, and gods had no need for alliances.

Oberyn's voice cut through his thoughts. "Well, brother, I believe it is time we go meet him."

There was amusement in his tone, excitement even. The prospect of dragons did not weigh on him as it did on others. Where some saw fire and death, Oberyn saw the thrill of something new. "I have a hundred different questions as to how he brought them back," he added, grinning.

A deep breath was drawn, slow and steady.

Yes.

Questions needed answers.

And more than that, a decision had to be made.

To kneel or to stand. To bow or to resist.

For the first time in years, the game had changed.

------

As we entered the solar of Prince Daemon Targaryen in the Tower of the Hand, I beheld a sight both curious and unsettling. The man who had reshaped the realm's destiny sat upon his seat, casual yet commanding, his golden dragon coiled on the table before him. He fed the beast strips of raw meat, his fingers brushing over its shimmering scales as if the creature were nothing more than a favored pet. The air smelled of blood and fire.

"Daemon, you bastard!" Oberyn's voice rang with laughter as he strode forward, clasping Daemon in a fierce embrace. My brother had always been more familiar with men than propriety dictated, and Daemon was no exception. The prince welcomed him with an easy grin.

"Well? Did I win our bet, Oberyn?" Daemon's smirk was filled with mischief.

"That you did, Daemon," my brother replied with a chuckle, shaking his head in amused defeat.

Daemon then turned his sharp gaze upon me. His violet eyes held a glint of amusement, but beneath it, I could see the sharp mind calculating, measuring.

"Prince Doran Martell, it is a pleasure to see you after so long," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

I inclined my head, keeping my expression neutral. "The pleasure is mine, Prince Daemon."

A low growl rumbled from the golden beast at his side, and I stiffened as its piercing gaze fell upon me. The dragon was small, yes, but even a fledgling dragon was not to be underestimated.

"He gets a bit wary of new faces, don't you, Solarys?" Daemon murmured, his fingers stroking the dragon's snout.

He did not soothe the beast like a cautious handler; he commanded it, and it obeyed. That was telling.

"Be nice, boy. They are our friends, after all," Daemon said, though his smirk betrayed the amusement he found in our unease. There was a light in his eyes—something dangerous, something that hinted at a mind that thrived on chaos.

"Aye, we are," Oberyn agreed easily, unbothered as always.

"We are pleased to have an audience with the Hand of the King," I said formally.

Daemon's smirk did not fade, but his expression turned more serious. "I will be direct, Prince Doran. House Martell is caught between a rock and a hard place."

His words, blunt and unapologetic, sent a ripple of unease through me. Daemon was not a man who wasted time with pleasantries.

"Your sister is married to the son of Tywin Lannister, a man my father despises," he continued. "And yet, it may very well be the blood of Tywin's grandson that will sit the Iron Throne one day."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto mine. "House Targaryen is divided, though my brother, Prince Rhaegar, has no power nor freedom to shore up his own support."

I measured my response carefully. "Does the King question our loyalty, Lord Hand?"

Daemon exhaled, shaking his head. "My father believes that all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms are loyal to House Targaryen. But he is wrong."

His voice dropped into something colder, sharper. "The realm is divided, and I cannot count on any of the great houses. The dragons need time to grow."

There it was—the admission of weakness, spoken so openly and yet wielded as a weapon.

"I want Dorne," he said suddenly, his gaze never wavering. "Rather, I need it."

I did not react outwardly, though my mind raced.

"I propose to bind House Targaryen and House Martell in blood," he continued. "As it was before—like Princess Daenerys and Prince Maron Martell."

I felt Oberyn stiffen beside me, and I knew my own eyes had widened slightly.

"Your daughter, Arianne Martell, the heir to Dorne, will wed my youngest brother, Viserys, once they both turn eighteen and name days," Daemon declared. "Viserys will be Prince Consort to your daughter, and their children will bear the name Nymeros Martell."

It was a calculated move, a masterstroke. House Martell would remain independent in name, yet forever tied to the rising power of the Targaryens.

"Should the King not be present for such decisions to take place?" I asked, watching him closely.

Daemon's smirk returned, this time more cutting. "Father has given me full authority to take the necessary steps to ensure the well-being of House Targaryen, Prince Doran."

And then, his tone darkened. "But before you begin celebrating, there are certain conditions."

I tensed. Here was the true price of this alliance.

"Viserys and any of his children born of your daughter will not be given a dragon egg, let alone be allowed to claim a dragon in the future. And if such an attempt is made—though unlikely—the one who dares will be put to death."

The words were spoken without hesitation, without room for argument.

"The dragons will remain with House Targaryen," he stated with finality. "I will not allow another Dance of the Dragons to happen again."

I sat in silence, absorbing his words. It was a wise move. A ruthless move. And it told me all I needed to know about the man before me.

"So, what do you say, Prince Doran?" he asked, his gaze boring into mine. "I have heard you are a cautious man. Do you need time?"

A slow smile spread across my lips. He had already won. House Targaryen was ascending back to power, and with it, so would House Martell.

"I agree with your proposal, Lord Hand," I said as I stood, extending my hand.

Daemon grasped it firmly. "My friends call me Daemon, Martell."

I acknowledged his statement with a nod as Oberyn, ever the celebrant, began pouring drinks.

"Well then," Daemon said, raising his cup. "Let us celebrate."

As our cups met, I knew that the game had changed. And I had just played my first move in this new order where the Targaryen would claim the skies for themselves.