The Golden Wyrm

Daemon watched with that familiar mix of contempt and a reluctant admiration as the boy walked away. His back was stiff as an oak, head held high, proud and unrepentant, as though the sight of a man lying dead at his feet was no more to him than a broken stick. There was something in that posture, in the way the boy's gaze did not falter, that stirred a pang of kinship in Daemon—a glimmer of a shared fire. How could such cold audacity live in one so young? The thought was almost worthy of praise. Almost.

The boy was a dragon, that much was certain. His strength as real and dangerous as the edge of a whetted blade—a thing that could be grasped, drawn, wielded. Not like Viserys, whose every moment seemed to be drained of what little fortitude he had once possessed, his spine turned to mush under the weight of a crown and a dull-witted Hightower bitch. But this child… this boy had fire. He had it in his blood, in his eyes, in his every stride.

A growl rumbled low in Daemon's throat—irritation, something of that sort—as he turned back to the scene behind him. His gaze lingered on his niece, sweet Rhaenyra, foolish Rhaenyra, cradling Ser Harwin's head in her lap, her face pale with disbelief. Her hands were red, stained with Harwin's blood, as it poured from the ruin of his throat, dripping through her fingers to pool upon the stones beneath her. The castle stones seemed to drink it greedily, but their hunger was unquenched. It never was, was it? Not unlike the Sea Snake and his ambitions. Daemon's lips curled in amusement. Perhaps this horror, this spectacle of death in their own halls, might dissuade Corlys from his endless hunger for power. Though likely not. Such men were never sated.

Viserys, meanwhile, was trying to impose some semblance of order amidst the uproar. His voice was a thin thread, wavering and weak, swallowed up by the clamour. Daemon could almost laugh at it, at the futility of his brother's attempts. There it was—that flicker of amusement, that dark mirth—before it was swallowed by a rising tide of disgust. The leech's daughter—Alicent, the Hightower cunt—was already moving forward, stepping in to speak for the king, to quell the nobles, to play the peacemaker for her feeble husband.

The weak peace would not hold, and Daemon knew it. No words from Alicent, nor pleas from Viserys, would change the truth of what had happened here tonight. Viserys, in his cowardice, had undone himself. He had harmed his standing not only with Rhaenyra, but with Lyonel Strong, and perhaps even with that whore of a queen he'd wed. The balance was shattered. This night, Daemon knew, was the final shattering of any fragile pretext of civility between their families. It did not take a seer to see it: the animosity between Rhaenyra and the Queen could no longer be a mere rivalry.

***

The sun sulked behind a shroud of sullen clouds above Dragonstone, its light a harsh lance through the heavens, painting the yard in a brutal blaze. The sweltering heat clung to the air like a lover's unwelcome embrace, thickening the already stifling humidity into something like a punishment, a cruel jest played by the gods.

Jacaerys cursed his decision to wear his black leathers. The garments clung to him now, soaked and heavy, sticking like a second skin. Sweat beaded upon his brow, trailing down his neck in thin rivulets, and his hands, slippery with moisture, could hardly keep their grip on the waster. He lunged with sudden, savage intensity, slashing at the dummy. The blade cut the air with a fierce hiss, blow after blow raining down upon the straw figure, each stroke vicious, unyielding. The dummy swayed with his onslaught, rocked back and forth like a reed in a storm, but it would not break, and that only served to deepen his frustration.

The yard was empty, yet not. He trained alone, but the weight of unseen eyes was ever there. Guards on their rounds, squires at their drills, all of them stealing glances, their scrutiny a constant itch between his shoulder blades. When he was younger, these looks had carried curiosity, amusement, or at worst, thinly veiled disdain. Now, they burned with something else. Resentment, perhaps. Fear, more likely. Jacaerys knew it well enough, and he had no one to blame but himself.

His thoughts strayed, as they often did, to another day much like this one. The day when the shame of Driftmark still gnawed at him, and a squire's taunting words—boasting of his vile uncle's deeds with the Red Cloaks—had stirred a dark fire within him. Anger had driven him then. He had challenged the boy, in his pride and his rage, and in his hubris, he had killed him.

The taste of blood had been far worse than he had imagined. It was not like the stories, not the sweet burn of victory. It was foul, metallic, cloying, and it had tasted of failure, not triumph. In that moment, he had thought it dragon's blood that coursed through his veins—but he knew better now. It was not the fire of old Valyria. It was something darker, something lesser. He regretted the act, but regret changed nothing. It was done, and it had only cemented what they all believed of him: that he was treacherous, conniving, bloodthirsty. A creature unbefitting.

With a sharp breath, Jacaerys flung the waster away and turned his back on the yard. He longed for silence, for solitude, for a place where he might hide from the gazes that sought to pierce him, to peel back his skin and reveal the weakness beneath.

He wandered the winding halls of Dragonstone, twisting passages that coiled through the ancient keep like the belly of a serpent, old stones pressing in from all sides, cold and indifferent. His thoughts turned, as they always did, to his uncle—Aemond. How could they not? Aemond haunted his days and his dreams both, an ever-present spectre, the one who had taken his father. His true father. Not Laenor.

Aemond Targaryen. Master of Coin. Lord Commander of the Red Cloaks. The Lawgiver. The Lord of Feasts. The Realm's Favour. Dragonknight. The Merchant Prince. The One-eyed Blade.

The titles were many, and each one spoke of accomplishment, of a legacy wrought in deeds and daring. The Dragon Bank that threatens to dislodge Braavosi influence entirely from Westeros, the reforms of Daemon's Gold Cloaks into something more disciplined, more dangerous, more loyal. Red Cloaks. His adventures, his duels, his endless string of victories. The realm whispered his name in awe, but there was fear too. Aemond was not simply a hero of song and story—he was a creature of mystery, his depths unfathomable. It was said he practised dark Valyrian magics, that he needed no eyes to see, that he could unearth the truth from lies as a butcher might carve flesh from bone. That at his beck and call, a web of spies, thieves and cutthroats that stretched across the Seven Kingdoms. Some said he was a second Daemon, more polished, more refined—but no less deadly.

Jacaerys found himself in a small alcove overlooking the Painted Table, the great chamber beneath empty but for shadows and the weight of history. The hearth flickered in the distance, flames casting long shapes across the walls, monstrous, hungry—the shadows of dragons, or something worse.

He was about to leave when he heard footsteps, soft, echoing through the stone. No one was supposed to be here. Jacaerys pressed himself back, flattening against a pillar, sinking low. He peered out, watching as Daemon strode into the room with his usual briskness, Rhaenys close behind. They paused, facing each other, silence stretching between them, heavy with unspoken words.

"It is a fair offer, Rhaenys," Daemon said, his voice tight with impatience. "Corlys would take it. You know he would. Why do you resist?"

"Because I am not Corlys," Rhaenys shot back, her eyes narrowing. "And because I will not be bullied by you, Daemon. I will not have my granddaughters married off to those boys, those savages—sons of a woman who could not wait for her husband's corpse to cool before taking you into her bed."

"Come now, Rhaenys—savage? Truly? They are hardly so monstrous."

Rhaenys scoffed. "You forget, cousin. Those girls are my granddaughters, the last pieces of my daughter. You took them from me once, and I will not let you take them again."

"I raised them," Daemon countered, his voice softening, though his eyes remained hard. "In Pentos, for years. They are my daughters. Mine to arrange as I see fit, mine to marry."

"You raised them, yes. But they are still of me, Daemon. And I will not see them suffer for your ambition, or Rhaenyra's." Rhaenys shook her head. "You seek alliances, you seek strength now Rhaenyra stands on crumbling ground she chose of her own hubris. Her followers slip away, her claim weakens, and Aemond…"

She trailed off, a frown on her face. "The Sapphire-eye gathers strength. His schemes grow ever darker, and what does your wife do? She buries her head in the sand and hopes for the best."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, Rhaenys turned sharply, her skirts swishing. "I tire of this. If you wish to speak, wait for Corlys. He will hear my mind. If you seek me again, come to Driftmark. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an egg to fetch. It is unbefitting for Rhaena to remain dragonless at her age"

Daemon watched her leave, his lips moving, muttering something too quiet for Jacaerys to hear. Then he, too, turned, leaving the Painted Table empty once more.

Targaryens were dragons. They felt no fear. It was their creed, their truth. Fearlessness led them to greatness, forged them in fire. Aegon the first. Jaehaerys. Daemon. Aemond.

Yet as Jacaerys crouched there, hidden in the shadows, the truth of what he had heard sinking into his bones, he could not deny the cold knot coiling in his belly.

He was afraid.