Chapter Text
Pyke 105
Aemon Targaryen
The ground beneath Aemon's feet was still smoldering, emitting waves of intense heat that licked at his skin and threatened to scorch his lungs with every breath. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning debris, stinging his eyes and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Aemon Targaryen, clad in his black gambeson and a cloak of black wolf fur, strode through the desolate remnants of the once-mighty castle of Pyke, his loyal dire wolf Ghost at his side. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and charred debris, and the ground beneath his feet still radiated heat from the inferno that had consumed the castle.
As Aemon walked alongside Ghost, the towering dire wolf moved with fluid grace. His pure white fur stood starkly against the charred landscape of molten rock and dark storm clouds that loomed overhead. The contrast between the wolf's pristine coat and the desolate surroundings served as a haunting reminder of the devastation wrought upon the once-proud castle of Pyke.
The stormy skies overhead churned with dark clouds, casting an eerie pall over the devastated landscape. The molten rock beneath Aemon's boots sizzled and smoked, a grim testament to the destructive power of the dragonfire that had laid waste to the island.
Despite his reluctance, Aemon knew that it was his duty to unleash the full might of Balerion the Black Dread upon the Pyke. The decision weighed heavily on his heart, but he understood that sometimes, in war, difficult choices must be made for the greater good.
As he reached the final island, the main bastion of the Pyke, Aemon gazed upon the solitary pillar standing amidst the ruins. Once a towering stronghold symbolizing Ironborn strength and resilience, it now stood as a crumbling relic of a bygone era. Aemon had burned them all.
The bridge that once connected the smaller islands to the main bastion lay in ruins, shattered by the force of Balerion's fiery breath. Aemon could still see the charred remains of Ironborn warriors strewn about the island, their bodies blackened and twisted by the intense heat of the dragonfire.
With a heavy heart, Aemon approached the lone pillar that had once been the heart of the castle of Pyke. It stood as a stark reminder of the futility of war, a testament to the destructive power of dragons and the merciless toll they exacted upon their enemies.
As he stood before the ruins of the Pyke, Aemon couldn't help but feel a profound sorrow for all those who had perished in the fiery onslaught. Gods, he hated himself. He hated what he had done. He looked at the charred remains and could only see Brandon and Rickard Stark, the uncle and grandfather of Jon Snow. He could hear the laughter of the Mad King.
Aemon fell to his knees as he saw the charred remains of one to small to be anything less than a child. The Mad King laughed in his ears. He could heard Rickard and Brandon cursing his name calling no kin of theirs.
Aemon hated himself; he was a monster. No honor. No justice. Just death. Just fire. Aemon was no better than the Mad King, and he supposed he deserved the same fate, mayhaps Jamie Lannister was born in this time once more and would cut him down? He hated himself or what he had to do and yet, it had to be done. How can a man hate himself for the decision that saved so many more lives? He knew their sacrifices had not been in vain, for they had helped to secure a victory that would end the rebellion and restore peace to the realm.
The air was heavy with the stench of smoke and sulfur, the remnants of the inferno that had consumed the once-proud castle of Pyke. Aemonlooked down, not once looking up; he would not dare look upon what he had done, for every second he closed his eyes, he saw King's landing once more; he saw Daenerys the Mad Queen's work, striding through the desolation with Ghost by his side. When did a candle become a wildfire? When did words turn into daggers? When did a man become a monster? When did dragonlords turn into madmen?
Ghost licked his face. Aemon looked up, and the wolf placed his head against Aemon's forehead. The wolf's red eyes closed. Aemon still had Ghost. Mayhaps men could be monsters if they have something worth burning the world for. Ghost was the only one who understood. Ghost was the same in both lives. Ghost was the dire wolf of Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen, and the wolf would follow him, no matter the name or century, for just like Aemon, they were the only ones the other had. Even before Jon Snow was named a Targaryen, the wolf claimed him, and he claimed the wolf.
Aemon Targaryen wanted to move back; Jon Snow leaned into the wolf even more. Until then, there was white contrasting againstblack. "Thank you, boy." Aemon rose once more and the two continued on.
As they moved among the smoldering ruins, Aemon's thoughts turned inward, weighed down by the grim reality of what he had done. He had unleashed the full fury of Balerion the Black Dread upon the Pyke, reducing it to little more than molten rubble and ash. The storm that raged overhead mirrored the turmoil in his heart, its fierce winds howling like the cries of the fallen.
Aemon couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him from within. He had taken countless lives to quell the rebellion and restore peace to the realm. Each soul lost weighed heavily on his conscience, a burden that threatened to overwhelm him.
But even as he grappled with his guilt, Aemon knew deep down that his actions had been necessary. The rebellion had threatened to plunge the realm into chaos, and he had been tasked with ending it by any means necessary. He can't prepare for the Dance of Dragons, let alone the Long Night, if the realm was at war with the f*cking Greyjoys! Balerion's flames had been the instrument of that end, an essential evil in pursuing a greater good.
Yet, despite his conviction, Aemon couldn't shake the feeling that there had been another way, a more honorable path that didn't involve the wholesale destruction of an entire castle and all who dwelled within it. He questioned whether he had made the right choice, whether there had been a way to achieve victory without sacrificing so much.
Lost in his thoughts, Aemon felt a gentle nudge against his hand and saw Ghost pressing his snout into his palm. It was a small gesture of comfort, but in that moment, it was enough to remind Aemon that he was not alone in his struggle. Ghost's presence offered solace amidst the devastation, a silent reassurance that they would weather this storm together.
As the smoke billowed skyward, mingling with the dark storm clouds overhead, Aemon's gaze was drawn to a glimmer of silver amidst the devastation. It starkly contrasted the charred rubble and ashen debris surrounding him, a small beacon of light amid darkness. A star from the skies trapped in rubble and dark rock.
Aemon looked at the great silver shine that contrasted against the dark, gloomy rock and ruins. He had wondered where the treasury was, but he supposed it did not matter once he burned the keep. But something seemed to survive. The Ironborn pillaged the Seven Kingdoms for just about nine months, and now Aemon might reap its benefits. Whatever Aemon found would be his by right; he won this war, he destroyed the Pyke, and anything he recovered from these ruins would be his, even if it once belonged to the other Houses.
Intrigued by the unexpected sight, Aemon approached cautiously, his boots crunching against the scorched earth beneath him. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool metal, and carefully cleared away the debris that obscured whatever lay beneath. With each stone and rock he moved aside, the glint of silver grew brighter until, finally, Aemon uncovered the source of the shining light.
Drawing closer, he discerned the telltale outlines of handles protruding from beneath a pile of shattered stone and twisted metal. With anticipation mingled with trepidation, Aemon reached out, his fingers wrapping around the familiar contours of sword hilts.
With a determined effort, Aemon began to unearth the blades, each revealing itself in turn as he carefully removed the rubble that concealed them. As the last of the debris fell away, Aemon was confronted with a breathtaking sight—a cache of Valyrian steel swords glinting dully in the dim light of the storm-shrouded day.
For a moment, Aemon stood in stunned silence, his mind racing as he attempted to comprehend the magnitude of his discovery. Valyrian steel, forged in the fires of Old Valyria, was a rare and precious commodity, coveted by lords and kings alike for its unparalleled strength and sharpness. And here, amidst the ruins of Pyke, lay a trove of these legendary weapons, more than Aemon had ever seen gathered in one place before.
As he surveyed the gleaming blades before him, Aemon's thoughts turned to the histories and legends surrounding each one. Lady Forlorn, the ancestral sword of House Corbray, its pommel adorned with a single ruby, the Valyrian steel of its blade is smoke-grey in appearance.; Nightfall, the prized possession of House Harlaw, its blade shimmering like the night sky with an ornate golden crossguard; Red Rain, the fearsome blade of House Drumm, the steel a crimson hue a stark reminder of the bloodshed it had witnessed; Lamentation, the ancient sword of House Royce, its hilt etched with runes, the handle and cross guard made to look like bronze, it's blade as black as Blackfyre; Orphan-Maker, the razor-sharp scimitar of House Roxton, the handle wrapped in white and the cross guard golden, with the blade near black due to the Valyrian steel ripples; and Vigilance, the towering greatsword of House Hightower, its handle being Hightower itself and an emerald in the center as if it were the fires atop the watchtower and a second emerald in the heart of the crossguard. But it was not only Westerosi houses whose swords lay amongst the rubble. Aemon's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the exotic blades of distant lands—Truth, the gleaming sword once wielded by the noble Rogare family of Lys. While seven Valyrian steel swords would be more than enough, a single blade of Valyrian steel could bankrupt the entirety of the Lannisters. Still, four others indeed took Aemon's attention.
As Aemon gazed upon these weapons, a surge of excitement and apprehension coursed through his veins. These swords were symbols of power and prestige, artifacts of a bygone age, imbued with the weight of history and legend. And now, they were his to claim, a testament to his triumph over the Ironborn and a reminder of the responsibilities ahead.
Aemon had something to ace against the Long Night. He had weapons, some of which would be lost within this century or decade, and he would be able to fight, or his decadents may use them. Aemon had the chance. Aemon could fight. Aemon cried; it was not for naught. Maybe some part was screaming at him for feeling joy after killing innocents but the other roared that he could save more by having these.
As Aemon Targaryen, Prince of House Targaryen, gazed upon the cache of Valyrian steel swords before him, his eyes were drawn to four blades that held a particular significance. This significance transcended mere material value and spoke to the very heart of Westerosii history and legend.
First among them was Brightroar, the ancestral sword of House Lannister, its golden hilt gleaming even amidst the rubble of Pyke. Aemon knew the tale of Brightroar well, for it was a story told in every corner of the realm—a story of a lost sword, a lost legacy. Forged in the fiery depths of Old Valyria, Brightroar had been wielded by the Lannisters for generations, a symbol of their wealth and power. But centuries ago, the blade had vanished, lost to the annals of time and memory. And now, here it lay, rediscovered amidst the ruins of Pyke, its golden lion's-head pommel a testament to the enduring legacy of House Lannister.
Beside Brightroar lay two swords that should not exist, according to the histories and chronicles of Westeros—Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail. But it made no sense to him, it should be impossible. These blades were forged from the remnants of Ice, the sword of House Stark, melted down in the fires of Tywin Lannister's forge. These blades should not exist for another century, mayhaps two. The blades should only come to be after Tywin ripped Ice from the executioner who used it to behead Ned Stark. From the corpse of House Stark, House Lannister rose just a bit higher, as they did with the corpse of House Targaryen.
Aemon fought the urge to have Balerion burn them. Burn Tywin and his legacy, the same urge he fought to burn the Baratheons and Lannisters of this time. It would be so much better since they join the Greens and would be two fewer Lord Paramounts to worry about, it would be so much easier for House Lannister not to exist for the Targaryens to remain in power. But Aemon would avoid this, the dragons would live, and it would leave the Baratheons and Lannisters in check.
The blades should not be here. But neither should Aemon Targaryen. But here they were, tangible proof of the Lannisters' ambition and cunning. Oathkeeper, with its shining blade and lion-shaped pommel, symbolizes Jaime Lannister's oath to protect the innocent. Widow's Wail, with its twisted hilt and blood-red gemstone, is a cruel mockery of the Stark legacy.
And then there was Longclaw, the sword that Aemon knew better than any other in the world. For decades, Longclaw had been his constant companion, his loyal weapon. Crafted by the skilled hands of House Mormont, its pommel adorned with the fearsome likeness of a snarling bear, Longclaw had seen Aemon through countless battles and trials. And now, here it lay amidst the other legendary blades of Westeros, a testament to the enduring bond between man and steel.
As Aemon beheld these eleven Valyrian steel swords before him, he felt a sense of awe and reverence. For these were not merely weapons of war but relics of a bygone age, each bearing witness to the triumphs and tragedies of the Seven Kingdoms. With Blackfyre, the legendary sword of House Targaryen left behind in Summerhall, Aemon now possessed twelve such swords—a collection of unparalleled rarity and power.
Twelve swords to fight for the dawn.
Daemon Targaryen
As Daemon Targaryen mounted Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, and soared into the skies above the Iron Islands, the world around him was shrouded in darkness. The storm that had raged moments before had ceased, yet the ominous clouds lingered, casting a shadow over the tumultuous sea below. Only the flickering red glow of the fires Caraxes had ignited on the beach of Pyke provided any semblance of light in the gloom.
The flight back to Pyke was fraught with tension and fury, as Daemon's mind seethed with anger at the Ironborn's treachery. The winds whipped around them, carrying the echoes of the tumultuous battle that had unfolded moments earlier. Caraxes, with his powerful wings beating against the air, carried Daemon swiftly through the night, his crimson scales glimmering in the faint light.
Daemon's gaze fell upon the wreckage strewn across the dark waters below as they approached the naval battle site. Ships, both Ironborn and Velaryon, lay broken and burning, their shattered hulls testament to the ferocity of the conflict. With grim determination, Daemon directed Caraxes towards the scattered vessels, his eyes burning with rage at the sight of his fleet in ruins.
Daemon and Caraxes circled the waters for hours, hunting down every last enemy ship that dared to flee from their wrath. With each fiery breath, Caraxes sent another vessel plummeting into the depths until the sea was littered with their enemies' wreckage. It was a grim and relentless pursuit, but Daemon knew that every ship reclaimed meant another ship for the one hundred thousand men he had led to the Pyke to return upon.
Finally, as the first light of dawn began to streak across the horizon, Daemon brought the last of the captured ships back to Pyke's shores. The journey had been long and arduous, but Daemon's resolve remained unbroken as he dismounted from Caraxes and surveyed the devastation around him. A fierce determination burned in his eyes. The Ironborn may have dealt a blow to his fleet, but they soon learned that the Blood of the Dragon was not so easily vanquished.
As Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes approached the island of Pyke, the red fires that Caraxes had ignited still burned brightly along the shore and in Lordsport. The flames cast an eerie glow against the dark skies, their flickering light dancing like malevolent spirits in the night.
The storm that had raged moments before had subsided, yet the clouds loomed overhead like a shroud of darkness, obscuring the stars and casting a pall over the scene below. Only the crimson fires of Caraxes provided any illumination, their fiery brilliance serving as beacons amidst the gloom.
As Daemon drew nearer to the island, the full extent of the devastation became apparent. Where once stood the imposing stronghold of Pyke, with its assembly of towers and small islands, now lay nothing but a landscape of molten rock and ruin. The castle had been reduced to a mere stub; its once proud towers melted and deformed by the intense heat.
The molten stone, now cooled and solidified into jagged formations, Daemon had never witnessed the ferocity of the Balerion's flames but he wished to have seen his son show the power of House Targaryen, he wanted to see Lyanna's boy show the world his strength. Streams of hardened magma snaked across the landscape, resembling twisted rivers of blackened glass. Smoke still rose from the scorched earth, mingling with the lingering scent of charred wood and burning flesh.
Daemon's smirk widened into a smug grin as he surveyed the ruins of Pyke from atop Caraxes. The sight of the once-mighty stronghold reduced to a smoldering heap brought a sense of satisfaction to the Targaryen prince. The Ironborn had underestimated the dragon's power, and now they paid the price for their folly.
With a chuckle of triumph, Daemon urged Caraxes onward, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over. As long as the Blood of the Dragon still flowed through his veins, Daemon vowed to see his enemies vanquished and his family's legacy restored to its former glory.
As Daemon and Caraxes descended towards the desolate ruins of Pyke, the flickering red fires from Caraxes's earlier devastation illuminated the dawn just slightly more, casting an eerie glow over the shattered landscape below. The storm that once ravaged the Iron Islands had subsided, leaving only the ominous clouds looming overhead as the sun rose in the east.
As they drew closer to the island, Daemon's gaze fell upon the remnants of what was once the imposing stronghold of House Greyjoy. The castle of Pyke, with its assembly of towers and small islands, lay before him in ruin. The once formidable stone structures had been reduced to molten rock, the very foundations now dripping like candle wax in the aftermath of Balerion's fiery onslaught.
The sight filled Daemon with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. His son, Aemon, had wielded the might of Balerion to devastating effect, leaving behind a smoldering wasteland where the seat of Ironborn power once stood. Yet, amidst his pride in Aemon's prowess, Daemon couldn't shake the pang of regret that gnawed at his heart.
He had never enjoyed the relationship with his son that he had desired. From the moment King Jaehaerys and later King Viserys took Aemon from him, their bond had been strained. Daemon had longed to be with his son. He wished nothing more than to spar and laugh, but fate had conspired against them. As Caraxes touched down upon the scorched earth, Daemon's attention turned to the gathering host of Lannister, Stark, and Velaryon men that awaited them.
Dismounting from Caraxes, Daemon surveyed the scene before him, taking in the heated argument between Lord Jason Lannister and Lord Rickon Stark. Lord Jason wore armor made of almost pure gold, while most of his men wore armor Lannister red. Lord Jason's armor had a lion's head engraved on each shoulder, and he wore a helmet like a lion's head he currently had in his arms, as he argued. Lord Rickon towered over the man, with his height and broad shoulders, the Stark dark hair and gray eyes showing nothing but contempt. The man, like Aemon, often did since Daemon saw him once at Fair Castle, worse a dark leather gambeson and wolf's pelt cloak, but it was the coloring. It was different; while Aemon looked like a member of the Night's Watch in all black, Lord Rickon had a grey pelt.
Daemon's eyes glanced over the attire of Lord Corlys, who seemed to have once been the three's peacemaker but cared less about the argument that might lead to a fight between Lannsiters and Starks and more of what was being argued over. Lord Corlys wore silvery armor not unlike the armor of the Kingsguard but with no white cloak. Lord Corlys wore a helmet over his head that covered most of the dark skin of his face; only some of his silver rope-like hair came from the helmet, just barely spilling over his shoulders.
Lord Jason's face was flushed with anger, his voice rising in frustration as he vehemently argued his point. Stoic and resolute, Rickon stood his ground, his gaze unwavering as he countered Jason's demands.
Lord Jason stepped closer and glared upwards at the Stark, and Daemon laughed slightly at the height difference. To him, the Warden of the West seemed like the child facing a bear, and more importantly, the child lacked common sense. "What was found on the Pyke rightfully belongs to House Lannister!" Jason insisted, his tone brimming with indignation.
Rickon, unmoved by Jason's outburst, replied with steely resolve, "By the laws of Conquest, it belongs to Prince Aemon as the rightful victor of this campaign. By those same laws, Aegon the Conqueror took the Seven Kingdoms. The boy keeps what he has earned."
Daemon, caught in their dispute, could only listen as the tension between the two lords escalated. Lord Corlys, ever the voice of reason, remained silent, his expression unreadable as he observed the unfolding confrontation.
Though the specifics of their argument remained veiled in mystery to Daemon, the intensity of their debate left no doubt that the object in question held great significance to both parties. Daemon could sense the simmering resentment and rivalry between House Lannister and House Stark as the exchange grew more heated.
As Daemon glanced at Lord Corlys, seeking some hint of support or guidance, he was met only with a disapproving head shake. Lord Corlys leveled a glare at Daemon, for a reason, Deamon did not know but had no doubt that to Corlys that he deserved. Suppressing a smirk, Daemon couldn't help but find amusem*nt in Corlys's silent reproach.
Jason Lannister's voice dripped with frustration as he declared, "This is preposterous, Stark! House Lannister's claim to Brightroar is indisputable. It is our ancestral sword, and we demand its return!"
Rickon Stark, his demeanor unwavering, "By the laws of Conquest, any spoils found on Pyke rightfully belong to Prince Aemon. He has earned the right to claim what he will. Even my lords, who have the same right to be angry as you, conceded this point! If you are foolish enough to anger the rider of the Black Dread, then please, go f*cking on to your death then."
The back-and-forth continued, with Jason persisting, "But the sword symbolizes Lannister pride and heritage! It cannot be stripped from us so easily! It belonged to my House before the Conquest!" He took another step forward, now leaving only three steps between the pair.
Lord Rickon allowed the first step to go unchecked, but the second. The Lord of Winterfell stepped forward and looked down nearly a head and a half down on the new Lord of Casterly Rock. "And you f*cking lost it before the Conquest." Rickon's response was equally steadfast, "The spoils of war are not subject to emotions. They are the spoils of victory, to be claimed by the victor."
Finally, Daemon could bear the cryptic exchange no longer. He had his fill of the arguing, and while he would find the two fighting mildly entertaining, he frankly had less taste of battle when his standards were already a fire-breathing dragon over an open ocean. A giant wolf devouring a small golden kitten was not as interesting. Stepping forward, he interjected, his voice cutting through the mounting tension like a knife.
Daemon stepped up and interjected. "What is the meaning of this argument?" he demanded, his gaze sweeping between Jason and Rickon.
At last, Rickon Stark relented, his expression grave as he revealed the truth that had been veiled beneath their veiled words. "The prince,my grandson," he said to Lord Jason as if proving a point that the North would back the boy, "has discovered a cache of Valyrian steel swords among the ruins of Pyke," he disclosed, his tone grave. "By right of conquest, they now belong to him."
Jason Lannister's eyes narrowed at the revelation, his resolve unyielding as he turned to Daemon, his voice tinged with urgency. Lord Jason Lannister cleaned himself quickly and showed the iconic Lannister smug face as he approached Prince Daemon. Daemon hated the face and its smugness. And yet, as Lord Corlys and his brother Viserys would always remind him, he held the same face. But to Daemon, he earned that right; he had a bloody dragon.
The Lannister's smug smile was gold, as if he had already won the argument. "Prince Daemon, I implore you, reason with your son," he beseeched. "Brightroar rightfully belongs to House Lannister. It must be returned to us."
Daemon turned to Lord Corlys. His voice slowed enough for everyone to hear, but there was a hint of a whisper to showcase the conversation between the pair as if throwing it in the face of the Warder of North and West. "He found Valyrian steel?"he asked in Valyrian to ensure only Corlys was privy to his thoughts while also blatantly angering the lords who did not understand.
Lord Corlys crossed his arms and turned Daemon with a brooding face that nearly matched Aemon's own. Daemon wondered if his son was more Corlys' child than Daemon's own, and he and Laenor were switched at birth. Laenor was loud; he was brash, and he cared to fight. Aemon was brooding, stoic, and calculating far beyond his years should be. Daemon felt in his heart that the gods switched the children from who the father should have been, but in the end, Daemon was happy for Aemon to ride Balerion rather than Seasmoke.
Lord Corlys looked Daemon in the eye, no doubt not fearing a Targaryen royal that road a red dragon due to the fact he f*cked one every night. "Aye, the boy found enough swords to buy Essos and Westeros. One Valyrian steel sword could buy him an army to conquer Westeros twice over."
Daemon touched the pommel of Dark Sister at his side in thought. Daemon nodded. He never cared about economics, but he did think that Valyrian steel was worth at least the amount of an army larger than the entire Reach and Westerlands combined and Dark Sister more still. Daemon nodded his head. "How many?" was the only question that followed from Daemon's lips.
Corlys smiled smugly; the Lord of Tides removed his helmet so Daemon could look better to the face. "Eleven. Not including Blackfyre."
Daemon laughed loudly, a single loud laugh of reckless abandon, almost like a bark. "The gods provide, do they not?" In response, Lord Corlys rolled his eyes. But not in a dismissal, but rather in anger, almost trying to disrespect Daemon and his son. Daemon fought the urge to embrace the man then and there but stopped, solely for the fact that his brother, Viserys would need to show the realm that House Targaryen and House Velaryon had won this day and were one of mind and spirit.
With a wry chuckle, Daemon addressed Lord Jason's impassioned plea. "Lord Jason, Valyrian steel is a frightful rare and precious commodity, is it not?"
Lord Jason nodded fervently in agreement, his frustration evident in his furrowed brow. "Indeed, Prince Daemon. It is a treasure beyond compare."
Daemon's lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "Then, Lord Jason, how much would House Lannister be willing to pay for such a treasure?"
Lord Jason's confusion was palpable as he struggled to comprehend Daemon's meaning. "I beg your pardon, Prince Daemon. What do you mean?"
Prince Daemon's amusem*nt danced in his eyes as he elaborated, his tone tinged with subtle sarcasm. "Brightroar rightfully belongs to my son, Aemon. He discovered the cache of Valyrian steel swords on the Pyke and claimed them by right of Conquest. Surely you don't expect House Targaryen to give away such valuable assets for free? I supposed House Targaryen would also be inclined to give free mountains of gold alongside it. Or even give back our claim on the Seven Kingdoms."
Lord Jason's expression darkened as he realized the implications of Daemon's words. "But Brightroar has long been a cherished heirloom of House Lannister."
Daemon shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze unwavering. "Indeed, it was lost by House Lannister, was it not? Besides, a blade forged of Valyrian steel seems far more fitting in the hands of one with Valyrian blood, wouldn't you agree?" Daemon smirked before walking away. Daemon did not know when Colrys began following him, but he supposed that following the Rouge Prince was far better than listening to a lion and wolf argue.
As Daemon and Lord Corlys traversed the desolate ruins of Pyke, the once proud castle was now reduced to a twisted mass of molten stone and ash, and they found themselves enveloped in an oppressive atmosphere. The air was thick with ash and smoke, casting a pall of darkness over the devastated landscape. Their footsteps echoed hollowly amidst the wreckage, a haunting reminder of the destruction wrought by dragonfire.
Daemon's smug smile lingered on his lips as he chuckled softly, his gaze sweeping over the ruinous scene before him. Lord Corlys trailed behind him, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Lead me to my son, Corlys," Daemon requested, his tone commanding yet tinged with an underlying sense of urgency. Daemon knew that ordering Corlys would not be something the Lord of the Tides would take lightly, but this was more a father asking his kin for aid rather than a prince ordering a lord.
Corlys nodded silently, his steely resolve unwavering even in the face of such devastation. Together, they continued their journey through the desolate landscape, navigating the treacherous terrain with purpose. The skies were dark as the night as the storms, while no longer there, still lingered in black clouds. Smoke and magma clung to the ground like a blanket coating the floor. The red glow of flames of Lordsport and several other places that Caraxes had ventured before the rest of the armies had come still lingered. The red glow of Caraxes crimson flames was the only true form of light, leaving everything in a red red-tinted light.
Daemon turned to see several men hacking and coughing due to the smoke and dust in the air. Balerion was a monster; there was no doubt. If Balerion had been this equal size during the height of Valryia, Daemon did not know if Baleiron would measure to the largest of dragons, but Daemon did know for certain now that currently, the Black Dread had no equal. The Black Dread was a living natural disaster, and the entire island of Pyke was nothing but the receiver of his hatred and wrath. The castle and the islands that comprised Pyke, which were nothing but a single pillar of motel rock, were more than enough to show this.
As they walked, Lord Corlys broached the topic of the stolen Velaryon ships. Daemon had wondered how long it would take for Corlys to ask; Daemon was not known for being gentle upon Caraxes' back. "My ships, Daemon."
Daemon looked to Corlys, "What of them?" Daemon knew he would anger Corlys by not giving him the answer outright, but Daemon did so love angering Lord Corlys, the man had a stick up his ass as long as wide as the Hightower itself.
Lord Corly's face showed no distaste, merely the stoic pride that seemed to be a Velaryon staple. But even Daemon knew that Corlys would not have the patience for a long jest between the two. Corlys worried for his ships, while Daemon worried for his son. "What have you done to them, Daemon? How many did I f*cking lose?"
Daemon smiled, just a simple curl of the lips. He toyed with the pommel of Dark Sister as it rested by his side. "Half of the stolen ones are nothing but tinder on the waves. The other I was able to guide back to the port with a fair bit of help from Caraxes' flames."
Corlys looked surprised before his features schooled themselves faster than a blink; only the fires of Caraxes flame by the shore illuminated the land enough for Dameon to see the change of expression. "You did not simply burn all the ships, Daemon? Your recklessness often knows no bounds."
Daemon's laughter rang out, a sharp contrast to the grim surroundings. "Of course not, my dear Corlys. Do you take me for a fool? We do need a few ships to sail our men back upon."
Lord Corlys regarded him with a skeptical gaze, his expression betraying no hint of amusem*nt. "Your penchant for recklessness is well-known, Daemon. There is often little reason in your actions."
"There is a method to my madness, Corlys," he replied, his voice tinged with regret. "Even my recklessness had reasoning," he chuckled to himself.
Lord Corlys paused, turning to face Daemon with a piercing gaze. "And what method was there in stealing Lyanna Stark, Daemon? Your actions were nothing short of reckless." Daemon's demeanor shifted, his laughter fading into a somber silence. Daemon did not know why the man chose then to speak of her and was caught off his guard. He supposed he was used to men acting as though they had a c*nt rather than co*ck and not asking about his late lady wife.
Daemon's expression hardened, a shadow crossing his features. "Lyanna Stark was a woman of extraordinary strength and courage," he admitted, his voice tinged with reverence. "She was more than I could ever hope for."
Daemon looked at Corlys's face, but he could not read what Corlys was thinking. At times like this, he despised the stoic features that both Corlys and Aemon had mastered. Even the best in King's Landing would not be able to discern what they thought by facial features alone. But Daemon could see emotion in Corlys' eyes, anger. Something had angered Corlys, that was for certain. And it had been that way for quite some time.
At first, Daemon thought it was merely the man being angered at the results of the Grand Council, for his wife was not named queen. Still, the times he saw the man after showed that while the man's pride was hurt and he would always be angry at the results, he had enough sense to school his features, something that man had only developed after a year or two of sulking of the decision. But two years of Corlys showing his dislike for the results gave Daemon an idea of how long the man would sulk for a decision and situation that did not go his way.
Whatever happened, happened recently, around the time of the Tourney of Harrenhal, that anger only showed itself at the tourney and lasted deep into the Greyjoy Rebellion. And that anger was somehow directed to Aemon and Daemon more than the rest of the House Targaryen, far more than to Viserys. Corlys was angry with Daemon and Aemon; Daemon did not know what it could be due to.
Corlys showed no emotion as they locked onto Daemon; while his face was stoic, his eyes held a fire of anger. "What did you see in Lyanna Stark, Daemon?" Corlys inquired, his voice cutting through the solemn atmosphere.
Daemon's demeanor shifted, a subtle flicker of emotion crossing his features. "Why does it matter to you, Corlys?" he countered, his voice tinged with guardedness. Corlys nor Daemon were men to think of sentiments or empathy; they were men of action, and talking of the past, especially of the past not related to anything of importance, was not commonplace.
Corlys shrugged, his expression inscrutable. Corlys gestures to the smoke around them and the molten magma that was once the castle of Pyke. "Given the impact of her son's victories, I thought it might be important to understand Lyanna's influence."
Daemon's lips curled into a bitter smile, the weight of memories settling heavily upon him. Daemon did not wish to speak of his late wife; he had not spoken of her aloud in quite some time, far too long a time. She was the kind of woman that would ruin a man for years to come, and yet, for some reason, the only thing he recalled was piecing Stark gray eyes. He did not know when the day came when, instead of seeing Lyann's face in his thoughts every morning since her passing, he could only imagine her gray eyes, but from that day forward, he could only imagine gray eyes and blue winter roses.
Daemon tightened his hands into fists before the strength he had failed him, and he rested his hand on the pommel of Dark Sister. "It's ironic, really," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "I barely knew Lyanna for more than a few months. Her time with a child was fleeting, shorter than most. It's a cruel twist that a full pregnancy lasts longer than Lyanna's time with me."
The words hung heavy in the air, laden with melancholy. Daemon's gaze drifted into the distance, lost in the recollection of fleeting moments and lost opportunities. In truth, Daemon had not spent much time with Lyanna; in fact, his limited time with Aemon was likely more than he did with his late wife. And even the time with Aemon was restricted. It would seem the gods had cursed him in that regard to know the son he never had full access to better than the wife he had for half a year, both being taken from him. Now it was Aemon's face he could recall when thinking of his wife, a face he rarely saw, a face of a boy who now destroyed the entire castle of Pyke, if the rumors were true, in only two passes.
Two passes, and Lyanna's boy had destroyed an entire castle. He could remember this; he would remember this; his son was a rider, a dragon rider of the highest regard; he would not forget Lyanna's boy, even if he had already forgotten Lyanna. Daemon turned back to Corlys, knowing full well that the man asked this question to hurt Daemon. No one spoke to Daemon about Lyanna; that was taboo; Daemon had killed men for such. Corlys wanted Daemon to hurt, but Daemon did not know why. But he would repay the debt.
Daemon looked to the molten rock, not keeping his eyes on Corlys. "I wish I could remember more," he confessed, his voice tinged with longing. "But after all the battles, the bloodshed, the faces blur together. I can't even recall her face anymore." There was a palpable sadness in his words, a lament for the memories that had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. "All I see is gray eyes now."
Corlys said nothing for some time, even his voice level. "I heard she was a great beauty. I can not say for sure; I barely recall her face a decade later. It would seem Lyanna's husband is just as forgetful. How cruel a fate for a woman to be forgotten by the man she loves and to never be seen by the son she bore." Corlys smirked, satisfied with himself, before walking forward. "I do not pity you, losing the woman you loved because the son you could never have, the son that burned innocents to the ground, killed her. A cruel fate, to be sure."
In a blink, Daemon lost his composure, grabbed Corlys by the throat, and pushed him against a ruined wall. The wall almost fell to the ground, the dust and smoke kicking up as they slammed into the wall. Daemon did not think of why Corlys did not fight back. Corlys said nothing, his face having a satisfied smirk as he allowed Daemon to push him without any fight. He seemed happy to get the said reaction. "I should f*cking kill you where you stand. I have killed for far less."
Corlys said nothing but looked at Daemon's hand on his chest as he pushed him. The pair respected one another and knew how much the other could be pushed. Both knew Corlys was dangerously close to the edge. "I'm right here, Daemon. You have the chance. You have the power, and I will not fight back."
Daemon glared into Corlys' eyes. Daemon watched for any hint of deception; no man, knowing he would do so, told Daemon to have his way with them and kill them. Corlys knew Daemon would kill the man with no second thought; Corlys knew he had no power, especially since his family only had two dragons compared to the Targaryen's own ten; Corlys had no leverage; he had no power; he could not return in vengeance, and yet Daemon lost the drive to kill the man. Just knowing he could kill him and the man was not afraid of it, somehow welcoming it and dismissing the thought made Daemon think this was some trap, a trap that he had no interest in, not because he was scared but because he found it lacking in entertainment. Daemon smirked; he released Corlys and allowed the man to stand up straight. The man was stubborn and entertaining, and life would be far more boring with one less Valyrian walking around, especially one as interesting as Corlys Velaryon. But Daemon still needed to make a point.
Daemon, faster than the heart could beat, punched Colrys with enough force to make the man fall on his ass. Corlys fell and looked up at Daemon with a seething glare, but no words came from his mouth as Daemon chuckled and offered him that hand. Daemon knew Corlys well enough that the man was not stupid enough to retaliate against a prince of the realm when he was the one who offered him the chance to kill him.
The landscape around them seemed to echo the tension as Daemon pressed Corlys for the truth, his voice edging impatiently. "Why do you truly care about Lyanna, Corlys?" he demanded, his tone betraying a sense of urgency. "Don't try to mask it with the pretext of Aemon's actions at Pyke."
Corlys still looked angered, more than willing to return the favor to Daemon if he could, Daemon would guess. Corlys, his expression unreadable, nodded in acknowledgment before forging ahead. "You and Aemon are not cut from the same cloth," he observed, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. "He is stoic, brooding, while you are brash, reckless, and confrontational."
Daemon's brows furrowed in response, a flicker of anger dancing in his eyes. "And what, pray tell, do we have in common?" he retorted, his voice laced with defiance.
Corlys's gaze hardened his words, carrying a sharp bite. "Both of you are cowards who wield dragons as your weapons," he declared, the accusation hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud.
Daemon's grip on Dark Sister tightened, a glint of menace flashing in his eyes. Daemon was now concidering gutting the man. Even if he were entertaining to him, there were other ways for Daemon to find amusem*nt. "Watch your words, Corlys," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I'll feed you to Caraxes before you utter another insult."
But Corlys refused to back down, his resolve unwavering in the face of Daemon's threat. "You and Aemon are both cravens," he continued, his voice seething with contempt. "You forsake your betrothals, abandoning your duties and responsibilities."
Daemon's confusion was palpable, his features contorted in disbelief. "What are you talking about, Corlys?" he demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.
Corlys's anger flared, his words ringing out like a clarion call. "You know full well what I'm talking about," he spat, his voice rising with each syllable. "You and Viserys canceled the betrothal between Aemon and my daughter, Laena, and you didn't even have the decency to do it in person!"
Daemon's incredulity was evident, his gaze locking onto Corlys with disbelief and anger. "I never agreed to any betrothal between Aemon and Laena," he protested, his voice tinged with outrage. "How could House Targaryen cancel a betrothal that was never agreed upon? I never agreed to any betrothal with your daughter, Corlys," Daemon insisted, his voice laced with frustration as he sought to defend his stance. "I would remember such a significant arrangement for my son."
Corlys's expression darkened, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he countered Daemon's assertion. "Do not dare to feign ignorance, Daemon," he shot back, his voice sharp with accusation. "You know full well the agreement between our houses."
Daemon's temper flared, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his rage. "I know of no such agreement," he declared, his voice ringing out with defiance. "I would never allow Aemon to be betrothed without my knowledge or consent." Daemon's resolve faltered, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes. "In fact," he added, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, "Aemon has been betrothed since infancy to another."
Corlys's features hardened, his eyes ablaze with fury, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you take me for a fool?"
Daemon's patience wore thin, his anger bubbling to the surface like molten lava. "I'll have you know that Aemon was betrothed to Rhaenyra since they were babes in swaddling clothes," he retorted, his words cutting through the air like a knife.
Corlys' eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat. "You mean to tell me that you kept such a betrothal a secret? The daughter of the king and the son of the king's heir are to be married, and not a single one knows save for the pair of you," he exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief. Realization then dawned upon Corlys' eyes as his eyes narrowed. "It would seem it's a shared trait you and your brother gain from your father.
Daemon's gaze bore into Corlys's, a silent challenge passing between them. "What did my father never say?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
"Years ago, Prince Baelon flew to Driftmark atop Vhagar and negotiated a betrothal between Laena and Aemon," he revealed, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought the matter was settled until it was abruptly canceled nine months ago."
"Who dared to cancel the betrothal?" Daemon demanded, his voice edged with fury. "Neither Viserys nor I were aware of any such arrangement. We can't exactly cancel a betrothal we had no idea of existing."
Corlys's eyes flashed with anger, his voice trembling with indignation. Daemon could tell clearly that the man had realized something and all the pieces had fallen together. "It was the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower," he spat, his words laced with bitterness.
Daemon's lips curled into a sneer of disdain as he scoffed at the mention of Lord Otto. "That old fool," he scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "He's always been a thorn in my side. Otto," he spat, his voice dripping with venom, "fancies himself the puppeteer pulling the strings of the realm." Then Daemon began to laugh, cruelly laugh. "The man canceled a betrothal that the royal family did not know existed. And you angry at me for it?"
The mention of Lord Otto Hightower ignited a firestorm of hatred within Daemon, memories of past conflicts and bitter rivalries flooding his mind like a torrential downpour. He remembered the countless times the Hand of the King had thwarted his ambitions, undermined his authority, and sabotaged his plans. The mere thought of the man filled him with a seething rage that threatened to consume him whole. But another thought that crossed his mind was how Rhaenyra had gotten rather close to the Hightower's daughter.
"If I had wished to cancel a betrothal, I would have done so myself," Daemon declared, his voice laced with venomous fury. "Otto had no right to meddle in the affairs of House Targaryen." Daemon's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within their depths. "Otto seems to forget that he serves at the pleasure of the crown," he declared, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "And if he dares to make decisions without the will of House Targaryen, he will answer for his arrogance."
Corlys's nostrils flared with anger as he spat out his reply. His fists clenched at his sides, and his face contorted with rage. "First, he denies the looming threat of war from the Greyjoys and Martells, costing us hundreds of Velaryon ships," he seethed, his voice rising with each word. "And now, he dares to meddle in the affairs of my f*cking House! As if he were some lord of petty squabbles!"
"Otto is a lecher, a snake in the grass," Daemon spat, his words dripping with contempt. "He thinks himself clever, but he's nothing more than a c*nt playing at politics."
Corlys's face contorted with rage, his voice a savage roar of fury. "I'll tear him limb from limb," he bellowed, his fists clenched in white-knuckled fury. His voice was not much of a scream but a grunt of seething anger.
Daemon's eyes gleamed with malice, his voice a cold whisper of hatred. "I could have his position for this," he mused darkly, his mind already calculating how to exact his revenge.
Corlys's lips curled into a snarl of disdain, his voice a venomous hiss of contempt. "The man is a weasel, a coward who hides behind his lies," he sneered, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation. "He no doubt already has covered his tracks; there would be no proof, and one would need proof for such a claim. Its only by my word that anything could be claimed and the man is Hand, it would be next to nothing."
Daemon's lips upturned for a second before returning to the ruins. "If making a claim that is taken as fact, even if it is doubtful, is not a true benefit of being a prince of the realm, I don't know what is."
Corlys looked at Daemon, his eyes showing Daemon that he truly did not know what went through his mind, and Daemon let out a small smile at knowing it to be true. "The man is the Hand of the king; he reaps better benefits and, unlike you, has spent his time in King's Landing securing his position while you have been building Summerhall; the man is rooted deep and most definitely found ways to ensure even a wild weed, such as himself, could not remove him so easily."
Daemon scoffed at the thought. "Any plant that gross roots could be burned by dragon fire. Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives proved that at the Field of Fire. I am more than willing to reeducate Otto if need be."
Corlys's face twisted with grim resolve, his voice a grim vow of vengeance. "His head will adorn a spike," he declared, his voice echoing with the weight of his conviction.
Daemon's lips twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes gleaming with savage delight. "You can have him after I've fed him to Caraxes," he chuckled darkly, his laughter ringing with the promise of retribution.
Corlys soon left Daemon alone, pointing out where Aemon was. Corlys did not want to see the boy. Aemon wanted to be alone. Aemon had killed innocent people in the castle, and now the boy was alone. Daemon did not care for the innocents lost; his son, however, would. Daemon did not care for those who did not matter, and yet Aemon would care, and he wanted to grieve for them alone.
As Daemon strode through the desolate landscape, his mind churned with conflicting emotions, swirling like the storm clouds above. His thoughts were a tumultuous sea, roiling with regret, sorrow, and a burning desire to see his son, Aemon.
The memory of Lyanna Stark, the woman he loved and lost, haunted him like a specter in the night. He remembered her laughter, warmth, and how her eyes sparkled like stars in the sky. But alongside the fond memories lurked the bitter sting of grief, for Lyanna had died bringing their son into the world—a son Daemon had never truly known.
Corlys's words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the pain and loss that had shaped their lives. Aemon, the son Daemon had longed for, had unwittingly become a symbol of everything he had lost—the wife he adored and the family they might have had together. The thought of Aemon, of the son he could never fully know, filled him with pride and longing, mingled with a deep regret for the life they could have shared.
Daemon's heart was heavy with the weight of his past, his choices, and the paths he had chosen. But amidst the darkness, a glimmer of hope remained—a chance to see his son, to reconcile the fractured pieces of their relationship, and to forge a new future together.
Memories of Lyanna Stark flooded his mind like a relentless tide. She was the one woman he had loved above all others, her laughter like music to his ears, her touch a balm to his soul. But now, she was gone—snatched away by the cruel hand of fate, leaving behind only a void that no amount of time could fill.
Daemon's grief was a heavy cloak, weighing him down with loss and longing. He mourned for the wife he had loved so fiercely, for the life they might have shared—a life that had been cruelly cut short before it had truly begun. The memory of Lyanna's final moments haunted him, her pale face twisted in pain as she struggled to bring their son into the world—a son Daemon had never truly known.
And yet, even amidst the depths of his sorrow, another emotion simmered beneath the surface—a simmering resentment towards the son who had unknowingly robbed him of the woman he loved. Aemon, his flesh and blood, was a source of pride and a painful reminder of everything he had lost. Daemon couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness towards the boy, knowing that his arrival into the world had cost Lyanna her life.
But alongside the bitterness, a flicker of paternal love lingered—a love that transcended the pain and the regret. Despite everything, Daemon cared for his son deeply, his heart aching with the knowledge of all the moments they would never share. He longed to see Aemon, to hold him in his arms and tell him that he was loved, even as the knowledge of Lyanna's sacrifice cast a shadow over their relationship.
As he walked, Daemon's thoughts were consumed by the tangled web of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him—a whirlwind of love and loss, anger and affection. And in the distance, amid the ruins of the Pyke, awaited the son he had longed to see.
Amidst the swirling storm of his emotions, a seed of bitterness took root—a poisonous vine coiled around his heart with each passing moment. Corlys's words echoed in his ears like a sinister refrain, planting doubts and suspicions where once there had been only love and longing. Had Aemon truly been the harbinger of Lyanna's downfall? Had his very existence condemned her to an early grave?
And yet, even as he blamed Aemon for Lyanna's death, Daemon could not deny the pang of guilt that gnawed at his conscience. Was it fair to hold his son responsible for a fate he could not control? Was it right to heap the weight of his sorrow upon innocent shoulders? In the depths of his soul, Daemon grappled with these questions, torn between the need for vengeance and the yearning for absolution.
As Daemon approached the scene, the stark contrast of white and black dominated the desolate landscape. Aemon, clad in his black gambeson and cloak adorned with the likeness of a wolf, sat amidst the rubble, his silhouette framed by the haunting glow of the dying embers. Beside him, Ghost, the majestic white dire wolf, stood sentinel, his fur a cascade of moonlit silk against the backdrop of destruction. Aemon sat atop a throne amongst the rubble. A throne of a block of oily black stone carved into the shape of a Kraken.
But the looming presence behind them truly commanded attention—a behemoth of ebony scales and burning eyes, Balerion the Black Dread. The dragon's massive form stretched across the horizon like a mountain made of flesh—a towering monolith of scaled fury, his obsidian hide gleaming in the fading light, its wings folded against its sides as it surveyed the aftermath of its fiery wrath. Eight hundred feet of raw power and primal rage, Balerion lay coiled like a slumbering serpent, his presence casting a long shadow over the shattered remnants of the Pyke.
Aemon's hands moved with purpose as he held the Valyrian steel sword cradled, the blade glinting softly in the fading light. The pommel fashioned in the likeness of a white wolf's head. While some portions of the blade glistened from the red hue of the fires of Lordsport, the blade was mostly gray ripples, almost black. The wolf's white head was not a sword he knew, but he knew the blade seemed perfect in Aemon's hands as he cleaned and maintained the blade.
Seated upon a mound of rubble, Aemon appeared lost in thought, his gaze fixed upon the task. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone echoed through the silence, a solemn refrain that seemed to resonate with the world's weight. Despite the chaos surrounding him, Aemon remained steadfast, his focus unwavering as he tended to his blade with care bordering on reverence.
But despite the scene's gravity, Aemon remained lost in his task, his gaze fixed upon the blade before him as though seeking solace in its polished surface. His features were drawn and weary, etched with the weight of his responsibilities and the burden of his actions.
As Daemon stood there, gazing upon the scene before him, a tumult of emotions churned within his breast, threatening to consume him whole. His eyes, once filled with pride and longing, now harbored a storm of conflicting feelings—a vortex of grief, anger, and regret.
In the light of dawn, Aemon appeared almost ethereal, bathed in the glow of the rising sun as he diligently tended to his sword. Each stroke of the whetstone against the blade echoed through the silence, a haunting melody that seemed to reverberate with the weight of Daemon's sorrow.
With each passing moment, Daemon found himself consumed by memories of Lyanna—the woman he had loved and lost in equal measure. Her laughter, smile, and touch are now mere echoes of a life once lived, lost to the relentless passage of time.
Yet, even amidst the ruins of his shattered dreams, Daemon could not help but feel a pang of resentment toward his son. Aemon, the child he had yearned for, the child he had never truly known, now stood before him as a living testament to all that had been lost.
As he watched Aemon, Daemon's thoughts turned inward, grappling with the bitter irony of fate. How could he reconcile his love for his son with the knowledge that Aemon had been the unwitting instrument of Lyanna's demise? How could he mourn the loss of his wife while harboring resentment towards the very son she had sacrificed everything for?
How could he reconcile the love he still bore for his son with the knowledge that Aemon's birth had robbed him of Lyanna's embrace? How could he look upon the face of his flesh and blood and not feel the sting of betrayal—the cruel twist of fate that had torn them apart before they had ever truly begun?
As Aemon continued to clean his sword, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone served as a haunting reminder of all that had been lost. Each stroke, each pass of the blade, seemed to echo the relentless passage of time, driving a wedge deeper between father and son.
The sight of Aemon, so stoic and resolute amidst the ruins, stirred a tumultuous maelstrom of memories within Daemon's heart. He recalled Lyanna—the woman he had loved with a passion that burned brighter than the fires of Valyria itself. Her laughter echoed in the recesses of his mind, a haunting melody that tugged at the frayed edges of his soul.
But alongside Lyanna's memory lurked a shadow—a shadow born of regret and unspoken grief. For though Daemon had loved Lyanna fiercely, he had never truly known the son she had borne him. Aemon remained a mystery—a distant figure shrouded in the fog of war and the passage of time.
And now, as Daemon beheld his son, his heart heavy with lost opportunities and shattered dreams, he was consumed by a bitter sense of betrayal. For Aemon had brought about Lyanna's demise—a fact that gnawed at Daemon's soul like a ravenous beast.
Daemon's ribs began to hurt again like when the maesters began giving him the new medicines made from Citadel. He would need more again. He would need the medicine they named after him. The medicine that they had made just for him.
"You look a lot better brooding than I do," Daemon's voice cut through the silence, heavy with a mixture of frustration and concern. "You brood too much, my son. You're twice as good at it as any northern should be."
Aemon's response was curt; his gaze fixed intently upon the sword in his hands as he continued to sharpen its blade. "I have nothing to say, Kepa."
Daemon rolled his eyes as he took a few steps closer. "You brood too much. Frankly, if not for Balerion and your skill with a sword, I would have a reason for concern that you take nothing after me." Daemon's disapproval was palpable, a low grunt escaping his lips as he regarded his son with exasperation and disappointment. "You're too much like a Northern, Aemon—always so serious, so solemn. Where's the joy in life?"
Aemon continued to sharpen the blade as he sat on the throne of the Krakens, its black oil rock glistening in the red hue of the flames. Aemon's response was as stoic as ever, his voice tinged with melancholy. "There is no joy to be found in the wake of such devastation."
Daemon's laughter cut through the air like a blade, sharp and biting in its sarcasm. "And who, pray tell, is responsible for this devastation, if not you?" His words were harsh, laced with accusation and amusem*nt. "You must accept it, Aemon. You must accept the consequences of your actions."
But Aemon's resolve remained unshaken, his gaze unwavering as he met his father's accusing stare. "I will not accept the death of innocents," he declared, his voice firm and resolute. "I will not laugh and find joy in innocent lives are sacrificed for the sake of ambition and power."
As Daemon stood before his son amidst Pyke's desolation, his mind churned with a tumultuous mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He grappled with the weight of his role as a father, torn between the instinct to shield his son from pain and the need to ensure that Aemon faced the consequences of his actions.
Should he console Aemon and offer him comfort and reassurance in the face of the devastation they had wrought? Or should he force Aemon to confront the harsh reality of his choices, to acknowledge the lives lost and the innocent blood spilled?
Daemon's thoughts swirled like a storm, each option presenting its challenges and uncertainties. He remembered Aemon's strength, his prowess in battle, and the harsh realities of war that his son had already faced. Aemon had fought in wars and killed before, and Daemon knew that his son possessed a resilience born of experience.
With a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination, Daemon made his decision. He would not shield Aemon from the consequences of his actions. Instead, he would compel his son to face them head-on, to confront the harsh truths of war and the weight of his choices.
It was a difficult choice, fraught with uncertainty and the fear of causing his son further pain. But Daemon knew it was the only way forward, the only path leading to Aemon's growth and redemption.
And so, with resolve hardening in his heart, Daemon steeled himself to confront his son, to make him face the consequences of his actions and the harsh realities of their world. It was a father's duty, a burden that Daemon bore with a heavy heart but an unwavering determination to see his son through the trials ahead.
Aemon had told Daemon that he would not accept the fact he killed innocents in the castle, and Daemon would make sure that he Aemon faced the reality of it. His son was a dragon, not a sheep; dragons were strong, and they held themselves higher than the standards of men. In the desolate aftermath of the destruction, Daemon's voice sliced through the heavy silence like a blade through flesh. "You were the one to kill the innocents," he accused, his words sharp and biting.
Aemon's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing with a cold fury. "I will find no joy in the death of those not guilty," he retorted, his voice icy and resolute.
But Daemon would not be swayed. "Just because you don't enjoy it doesn't make it any less the reality. You burnt them all," he insisted, his tone firm and unyielding. "You must accept it."
As they stood amidst the rubble and ruin, Daemon's eyes caught sight of something amidst the debris. Daemon walked over to the rubble to the side, knowing full well his son watched from the throne of black. Ghost's eyes, as red as blood, never left Daemon. Daemon moved the rubble and removed stone and dust to see two small forms, no bigger than his forearm. His lips curled into a chilling smile as he stooped to retrieve two small bodies, cradled in his arms like macabre trophies.
With a flick of his wrist, he cast them before Aemon's feet. Aemon recoiled in horror, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the lifeless figures before him. Babies. Bodies. Burnt to near blacked bone, the only corpses that remained of the entire area.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but anger soon replaced sorrow as he turned to face his father. Aemon turns his head away; he cannot look at the corpses of the babies he killed. "You have no respect for the dead," he spat, his voice trembling with emotion.
Daemon's laughter echoed hollowly in the desolate landscape. "You're the one who killed them," he jeered, his tone laced with cruelty.
Aemon's fists clenched at his sides, his heart heavy with guilt and remorse. "I am a murderer," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
But Daemon's laughter only grew louder, more derisive. "You can't be a murderer if the babies aren't even human," he scoffed, his words dripping with disdain. "They are nothing but the bodies of baby Krakens, not fit to be called human."
Aemon's rage blazed like wildfire, consuming him from within. His voice thundered through the shattered ruins, a primal scream torn from the depths of his anguish. "You're a monster!" he accused, his words a searing indictment of his father's actions.
But Daemon remained unmoved, his expression impassive as stone. "I did not kill them," he countered, his voice cool and detached. "How many innocents were in that castle, Aemon?" Daemon demanded, his tone cutting like a knife. "Women, children, the elderly, kidnapped people, and babies. How many?"
Aemon's breath hitched in his throat, his chest tight with sorrow and regret. "I'm a monster," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, the fire dying and the remorse rising.
"This is war," Daemon declared, his words harsh and unforgiving. "People die. You did your duty."
"I know," Aemon admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of his guilt. "I knew what I was going to do. But that doesn't make me any less of a monster, any less of a murderer." Aemon shook his head, his eyes blazing with defiance. "Might does not make right," he insisted, his voice unwavering. "Those in power should never subjugate those who have none."
"But we're dragons, Aemon," Daemon countered, his voice rising fervently. "We're kings. This is what we do."
Daemon's steps echoed like thunder as he strode toward Aemon, his gaze burning with intensity. "We are kings, Aemon," he declared, his voice commanding and authoritative. "We are dragons. We do as we please."
Aemon met his father's gaze with a defiant glare. "That doesn't make it right," he retorted, his voice firm and resolute.
"Right?" Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with derision. "What is right but the whims of those in power?"
Aemon's eyes blazed with indignation as he stood his ground. "It's not right to slaughter innocents," he insisted, his voice tinged with fury.
Daemon's expression darkened, his features twisted with rage. In one swift motion, he seized Aemon by the arm and forced him to look at the tiny corpses lying at their feet. "Look at them!" he demanded, his voice low and menacing.
Aemon recoiled, his heart heavy with grief and horror. "They're babies," he protested, his voice choked with emotion.
But Daemon's eyes remained cold and unyielding. "I see no babies," he countered, his voice devoid of empathy. "Only krakenspawn, born to a foul and treacherous race."
Aemon's protests grew louder, his voice rising to a crescendo of anguish and outrage. "You're cruel, Kepa," he spat, his words a bitter condemnation. "Heartless."
Daemon's temper flared, unleashing a volatile storm within him. "I care for what is necessary," he snapped, his voice a harsh snarl. Innocence holds no sway in the affairs of kings and dragons."
Daemon's mind churned with frustration and bitterness as Aemon continued to protest, his words a relentless assault on Daemon's patience. Daemon's anger simmered beneath the surface with each accusation hurled his way, a volatile tempest threatening to consume him. He couldn't comprehend Aemon's overreaction to the harsh realities of war, and his son's naivety starkly contrasted with Daemon's hardened resolve.
As the argument reached a fever pitch, Daemon's thoughts turned to Lyanna, the woman he had loved with all his heart, the woman whose life had been extinguished in the throes of childbirth. Aemon's very existence, a reminder of that fateful day, fueled Daemon's growing resentment. How could Aemon, his flesh and blood, be so blind to the sacrifices made in the name of duty and power?
Frustration boiled within Daemon's veins as he lashed out, his words cutting like a knife through the air. "You weep for innocence, Aemon?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You, who robbed me of the only woman I ever loved, you dare to shed tears for the innocent?"
Aemon recoiled at the accusation, his eyes brimming with tears. "Leave me alone," he pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion.
But Daemon's rage knew no bounds. With a bitter laugh, he spat out words he would soon regret, his pain and anguish fueling the onslaught. "You're no better than a murderer, Aemon," he seethed, his voice laced with hatred. "You killed your mother when you were born."
Daemon's heart clenched with remorse when the words left his lips. He had crossed a line he could never uncross, his pain blinding him to his son's suffering. But before he could utter a word of apology, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the air, causing the ground to tremble beneath his feet.
Daemon looked up, his heart pounding in his chest, to see Balerion the Black Dread, his eyes ablaze with fury, towering over him. Besides the dragon stood Ghost, the dire wolf's teeth bared in a silent snarl.
At that moment, Daemon realized the gravity of his words, the danger he had unleashed upon himself. He had things to his son he would never be able to take back, and now he had a dragon and a dire wolf wanting his head. He would need to speak to his son when the creatures did not want to bite out his heart and burn him to ash. Swallowing his pride, he turned on his heel and fled, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the ruined castle, leaving behind the wrath of beasts far more formidable than any man.
It would be the last time he saw his son for almost a decade.
