Robert’s Second Chance: Dance of Dragons Rewritten (Completed)

Daemon

I took for granted how easy it was to claim Caraxes, Daemon thought as he trudged through Dragonstone's terrain.

His beloved Bloodwyrm had spent thirteen long years in the dragon pit after Prince Aemon's death. Lonely. Isolated. So foul-tempered even the Keepers kept their distance beyond the bare essentials of providing care. Even so, Caraxes had been a tame dragon when Daemon entered the pit to claim him. He was used to being approached by humans. And he was trapped in a confined space. It made the claiming process far easier.

Sheepstealer was granting him no such courtesy.

Four times he'd been within range of the dragon, and four times, Sheepstealer had flown off before Daemon could get close enough to touch him or attempt to command him. But dragons respected perseverance, and so Daemon would persevere.

There are no other options left to me. Either I persevere and claim him, or I do not and I die without avenging my family. Rhaenyra will likely meet her end as well without my aid. Even with Syrax, the usurper would send his pack of dragons to hunt her down to the ends of the earth to make his own feeble claim appear more legitimate. A Hightower will never feel safe on the throne as long as a true Targaryen lives.

And so he trudged forward towards the patch of earth he'd seen Sheepstealer flying towards.

Never in his life had he looked less like a Targaryen prince, even when fighting in the Stepstones. Filthy and chewed by mosquitos and fleas, a consequence of using caves as his only shelter. Muscles aching from exertion, forcing him to leave his armor hidden in a cave. Feet bleeding, his worn shoes offering little protection from the rocky terrain. He'd been able to steal food from the village and scavenge some from the land, but he didn't dare risk taking enough for a proper meal. Doing so would surely draw attention. Attention he could not afford. Not when several ships flying Hightower flags arrived in Dragonstone's harbor. Daemon still wielded Dark Sister, but he could not fight an army by himself. Not anymore.

When I claim Sheepstealer, I will burn their ship before I return to Rook's Rest to recuperate. Then I fly west to rejoin Rhaenyra and the Greyjoys. 

He pushed himself the remaining distance, swearing as his foot snagged a sharp rock, drawing another rush of fresh blood.

Just as well. The scent of dragon's blood might entice Sheepstealer to stay, he thought as he entered the clearing, eyes focused on the massive brown dragon.

True to his name, Sheepstealer held a freshly slaughtered ewe in his claws, its wool soaked in blood as he devoured it in three bites. Not a proper meal for a dragon that size. Sheepstealer was slender, even slenderer than Caraxes had been, and Daemon could see just the faintest hint of protruding rib bones. The great beast lapped up every drop of blood from the ground, unwilling to miss any source of nourishment.

Now is my chance…

"You hunger," Daemon said aloud in High Valyrian, causing the dragon to whip his head around to stare at him.

For a moment, he feared the beast would take to the skies again, leaving Daemon to hunt him down anew, but fortunately, the meal (small as it was) left him lazy. Sheepstealer eyed Daemon warily for a moment, then gave a half-hearted growl and flopped back to the ground, stretching out in the sunlight and clearly preparing to enjoy a nap.

Progress, Daemon thought. He no longer flees from me.

"As your rider, it will be my duty to feed you," Daemon declared, still speaking High Valyrian as he moved in closer. "You will feast on herds of goats and sheep and Hightower swine as we wreak our vengeance upon our enemies."

Sheepstealer didn't even look up, shifting to get more comfortable. But nor did he roar again as Daemon stepped in closer. Closer than he'd ever been before.

"Fed every night. A rider to take care of your needs. Glory. The thrill of seeing your enemy quail before you."

Just like Caraxes once enjoyed. Daemon's throat squeezed at the memory.

Fearsome and ferocious as Caraxes was, the truth of the matter was that the beast was quite ungainly. His feet often slipped whilst climbing. His roar was not loud or intimidating like other dragons. He sang the most screechy love songs to Syrax. More than once, Daemon had trampled his own men in combat because Caraxes could not be bothered to look where he was landing. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed it so when men and beasts alike trembled before him, transfixed in wonder and awe. It bolstered the clumsy oaf's confidence.

Sheepstealer, however, did not seem enticed by the thought of glory or reverence. In fact, when Daemon moved a few steps closer, the beast lifted his head enough to fix Daemon with a glare and a lazy snarl. Mayhaps a dragon's version of "Fuck off".

He's challenging me, Daemon reassured himself. Nothing to fret about. All dragons challenge their would-be riders to test their nerve. Caraxes did the same…

Yet another painful memory. One more shard of glass plunged into the mangled remains of Daemon's heart. Until the day he died, he would never forget how it felt to claim Caraxes. To sit in the saddle and command him into the sky. The freedom. The exhilaration. The quickly-growing bond with a beast who would become his greatest friend. The only one to ever truly understand him. Even more so than Rhaenyra herself ever had.

No such joy or anticipation danced through his heart now. Sheepstealer would never take Caraxes' place. He was a weapon. A means to an end. Nothing more.

Mayhaps the dragon sensed it. Or possibly, he did not like to be interrupted when he desired a sun nap. Whatever the reason, when Daemon stepped in closer yet again, Sheepstealer snarled at him, louder this time, air-snapping a few feet in front of where he stood.

Yes, Daemon smiled toothily, stepping back into a fighting stance and meeting Sheepstealer's gaze. Challenge me. Test me. See that I am the blood of the dragon. Just as Caraxes did.

Snarling and snapping one more time, Sheepstealer rose onto his feet yet again, fixing Daemon with a murderous glare for daring to disturb his post-meal nap. He roared in warning, his foul, sulfuric breath making Daemon's eyes water, yet still, the Rogue Prince did not yield.

"Dohaerās, Sheepstealer," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. "Rȳbās."

But the beast paid his command no mind. Opening his maw, orange flames collected at the back of his throat.

You shall make me earn the right to ride you, Daemon smirked.

"Lykirī," he ordered, even as the flames in Sheepstealer's mouth grew larger, the heat warming Daemon's face.

I must stay my ground. If I run, I will never ride him…

"Lykirī!" he commanded again…all for naught. Daemon's eyes widened, and he was forced to leap to the side as Sheepstealer breathed a jet of fire directly at his face.

Ok, I'll reposition, and… "Fuck!" he cried, dodging another stream of fire. And a third, and a fourth, all the while Sheepstealer snapped at him, fangs missing him by inches as he ducked and weaved.

You will not intimidate me! he thought, snarling right back at the beast. You will submit!

"Dohaerās, Sheepstealer!" he screamed from the depths of his lungs, planting his feet and glaring at the beast. "Rȳbās!"

All at once, Sheepstealer's tirade ended, the rage fading from his yellow eyes as he cocked his head to the side, sniffing the air.

At last, Daemon smiled triumphantly, taking a step forward and reaching out his hand. Now all that's left to do is…

But he froze midstep as he watched the curiosity in Sheepstealer's eyes fade to wariness…and then outright terror.

What?

The beast roared again, but this time a horrible, panicked cry of an animal in its death throes. Expanding his wings, Sheepstealer took to the sky, twisting and turning in a freakish dance, as if trying to dodge…

As if trying to dodge…

Fuck.

The shadow came first. A shadow so massive it surrounded the land around Daemon, blanketing it in darkness as it blocked out the sun. Then came the massive wall of black scales dropping to the earth, the impact of the dragon's landing shaking the ground and knocking Daemon clean off his feet before he could steady himself.

And then came the fire.

Daemon expected the green flame pouring from the Cannibal's mouth to engulf him, but confusingly, the beast did not singe a single hair on his head. Instead, the Cannibal reared up to his full height and set fire to the treeline behind him. A semi-circle ring of flame around their clearing, and Daemon could not for the life of him understand why the beast had done it instead of burning him…

Until he looked over his shoulder and saw that the Cannibal had completely cut off any escape route he might have had.

He doesn't want me dead; he just doesn't want me to run, Daemon realized, staring down the beast with a glower. You needn't have wasted your flame. I do not intend to flee like a frightened lamb.

Do not think I have forgotten that it was your rider who killed my Baela. Aethan. That was his name.

Instead, he drew Dark Sister from her sheath as the Cannibal's rider descended from his back, landing with a metallic clang as his armored boots struck the earth. And then, for the first time, Daemon stared into the face of his daughter's killer.

Almost instantly, his glare was replaced by a dumbfounded blink. I suppose they did say he resembled me…

Minor differences aside, the stone-faced dragonseed striding towards him could have been Daemon's own reflection from twenty-five years prior. Valyrian beauty. Purple eyes that exactly matched the shade of his own. Long silver hair braided in traditional Valyrian war braids. Battle-tested armor: a patched hole in his shoulder from where it was pierced with an arrow. Exactly as Daemon's own shoulder had been pierced by an arrow in the Stepstones.

But right as Daemon thought that his mind had finally broken and he'd succumbed to madness, more tiny differences began to reveal themselves. Not with his face or his body, but how he'd chosen to adorn them.

This man's armor was black, but on his chest was the sigil of a Targaryen dragon…a golden Targaryen dragon. With emeralds for eyes. His silver braids were held in place with green bands. And beneath the armor, Daemon saw just the barest hint of a green shirt peeking out around his chin.

No. Not me. I would die before wearing the usurper's colors.

"Daemon Targaryen," the dragonseed spoke in a low, uninflected voice. "The Queen sent me here to find you. I'm grateful to her for it. I have waited for this day for twenty-eight years."

"That makes one of us," Daemon said coldly, snorting. "And I find it hard to believe that Rhaenyra sent you."

The dragonseed smirked at him cruelly. "You have two nieces," he reminded him. "Only one of them is a queen, and it is not the one you married."

Snorting again, Daemon rolled his eyes. "A traitor loyal to the usurper. And I expect you're about to tell me that you're one of my dragonseeds?" He would not do him the courtesy of using his name.

"My name is Aethan," he declared proudly. "Son of Jaylene."

"And who the fuck is she?" he asked, equally cold. Though he could reasonably guess, of course. This dragonseed would have been conceived during Daemon's wild youth, when he fucked his way through the Street of Silk each night.

Rage flashed in Aethan's eyes…rage echoed in the Cannibal's roar as he bared his teeth at Daemon threateningly. But to Daemon's surprise, Aethan lifted his hand, wordlessly commanding his beast to wait.

"The gods have a sense of humor, it would seem," Aethan said, lips curling in the barest hint of a smile as he pointedly looked Daemon up and down from head to toe. "Mere months ago, our positions were inverted. I was the one clad in rags, filthy and starving with scarcely a copper to my name. And you were the wealthy royal clad in gemstones." Pointedly looking to where Sheepstealer fled, Aethan added, "I even once made my own attempt to claim Sheepstealer, though of course, I am grateful I did not succeed."

A street rat dragonseed then. Daemon sneered at him. "Our positions will never be inverted," he corrected him. "Whatever bloody coin the Hightowers have paid you in, you will always be lowborn."

Another flash of rage. Another fearsome roar. But neither Aethan nor the Cannibal moved to strike.

"It must burn you," Aethan snorted. "That your trueborn children will forge you no legacy. Baela, dead screaming after I nailed her hands to that post and left her for the crabs…"

Daemon snarled, pointing his sword at Aethan threateningly, but the dragonseed only laughed.

"Then there's Rhaena and the two sons the false queen whelped for you. Even if my King does allow them to live, he will surely never allow them to breed. Your legacy ends with you, Rogue Prince…" Grinning toothily, he added, "Except for me."

Daemon said nothing, merely gripped Dark Sister's handle tighter.

"Tell me, father. How does that feel? How does it feel to know that the son you abandoned, discarded like rubbish, is the only chance you have to leave a mark behind on this world after you're dead?"

Losing my children is a pain I pray you come to learn one day, Daemon thought bitterly. You and the usurper you call a king.

But rather than saying that, Daemon laughed cruelly.

"My son?" he said through his laughter. "I have two sons," he corrected. "Aegon and Viserys. Targaryen babes born between myself and the rightful Queen of Westeros. The rightful heirs to the Targaryen dynasty. You will never be their equal. I squirted cum into the belly of a common whore too stupid to drink moon tea. That does not make you my son, and it certainly does not make you a Targaryen." 

Though I may have done you the courtesy of pretending had you served the true Queen. I might have played the father for a moment or two.

Instead, he would seize whatever crumb of opportunity he had to make his daughter's killer suffer.

But to his disappointment, there was no third flash of rage in Aethan's eyes. The only sound was a throaty grumble emerging from the Cannibal. 

Worse, after a long pause, Aethan smiled at him. Not the toothy, cruel smile from before, but one that appeared almost genuine.

"It is you who will be wiped from the Targaryen dynasty, father, not I," he corrected. "King Aegon is a generous ruler. He has promised that I shall be legitimized as a Targaryen. I have been promised a bride with strong Valyrian blood, and mayhaps if our families remain on good terms, my children or grandchildren may marry into the royal line. I'll even have my own castle; Summerhall is under construction as we speak…" A bit cheekily, he added, "You never had your own castle, did you father?" Gesturing to Dragonstone's castle, he added, "Even this was never yours. It belonged to your wife."

"Bastard street rat," he growled, deepening his fighting stance.

"Your memory, on the other hand, will fade away into obscurity. No more than a stray rotten leaf on the Targaryen family tree." Aethan chuckled at the thought. "As I said, the gods have a sense of humor. Not that you will ever learn of it. I'm told they never visit the Seven Hells."

A slow, evil smile spread across Aethan's face. "Though I'm certain by now your wife is more intimately familiar with the Seven Hells than I."

Daemon's grip on Dark Sister slipped.

"Liar," he accused, lip curled back in a snarl. But Aethan only laughed. "LIAR!"

He stepped forward, sword raised, prepared to slice the truth from Aethan's lungs if he refused to give it, but to his horror, the dragonseed reached into his pocket, pulled out something yellow, and threw it to the ground at Daemon's feet.

He didn't have to look to see that it was a scale from Syrax. The color alone revealed the truth in Aethan's words. 

"Your false queen is dead," he said, laughter trailing off. "The King wanted to bury her body in an unmarked mass grave, but the Queen and the Master of War convinced him otherwise. Her corpse will be returning to Dragonstone in time."

Pointedly looking at the scale on the ground, Aethan added, "Not her dragon, though. Syrax made a satisfying meal for the Cannibal."

The great black beast growled throatily again, as if he were laughing at Daemon along with his rider. But Daemon was beyond pain. Beyond feeling anything at all. Not when nothing more remained.

Rhaenyra is dead. Rhaenyra and Syrax both. And I shall never get to Sheepstealer, not now. It is well and truly ended. The Greens have won.

There would be no revenge. The only question that remained was how he himself would die.

Like a dragon.

Screaming one final battle cry, Daemon lunged forward, Dark Sister held high above his head to kill this spawn of his. The usurper's dog. A legacy far worse than none at all.

Perhaps once, in his youth, he might have been able to reach Aethan fast enough to cut him down. But those days were long past, and before Daemon closed half the distance between them, a wall of green fire surrounded him. Engulfed him…and then consumed him.

Aethan

I thought I would feel different, he thought as he watched his father's charred skeleton collapse to the ground, Dark sister still clutched in his grip.

He thought the bloodlust and satisfaction would drive him to hysterics, as it had in the Vale. Or an overpowering sense of justice and righteous wrath would flood his veins, correcting every wrong and erasing the pain of his childhood. Of being abandoned. Of watching his mother die of an illness she would not have contracted if Daemon had provided for them, as was a father's duty.

A sense of justice did linger in Aethan's heart. Not as powerful as he expected, but it was there. A sense of satisfaction as well. Aethan stared at the skeleton with a hard-earned smile on his face, and he knew that it had all been worth it. The arrow. The burns. The maggots. The reward was worth the price he paid.

He's paid for what he did to you, mother, Aethan thought, drawing a deep breath. And for what he did to me. I helped my King take everything from him, just as he left us with nothing. And I claimed his life, as surely as his sins claimed yours.

As one final insult, Aethan stepped forward and ripped Dark Sister from Daemon's hand, the charred bone crumbling away as it yielded control of the pommel.

And now his sword is mine as well.

But the second Aethan held it up to admire, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the blade could never be his.

Aethan was nearly thirty and had never received any martial training. And with his arm being the way it was, he would likely never be able to learn swordplay. The burns from his battle with Caraxes were indeed healing enough for him to climb and fly, but dexterity was a thing of the past. It seemed the maester was correct and he would never have full range of motion again. Even if the burns were on his non-dominant arm, it made little difference. Aethan was no warrior, and he never would be.

Dark Sister belonged to Queen Visenya Targaryen, and long before her, it was their family's ancestral blade. It deserved better than a man who would never be able to wield it properly.

Aegon had given him more than enough already. Him and Borros Baratheon both.

 Perhaps that's why this victory doesn't feel so grand as I once thought it would, Aethan thought as he studied the sword, turning it over in his grip. Once upon a time, a thirst for vengeance was all I had to my name.

Now, he had the promise of a family, both with Cassandra and perhaps with his Targaryen cousins. A home. Wealth. Comfort. A place in the history books, his name memorialized for all time.

And a dragon, he thought, reaching over to pet the Cannibal's snout. My place in history will be that of a Targaryen dragon rider.

With so many blessings bestowed upon him, was it any great mystery that his victory was less sweet than he'd dreamt?

I've done what I set out to do, Mother, he thought, smiling one last smile as he turned away from Daemon's corpse to climb back up onto the Cannibal's back. I've paid my debt to the past, and so has my father. Now it is time for me to finish building my future.

And if he flew quickly enough, he might just be able to help his King and his Princes kill the last of the squids.

Robert

The books were right about one thing. The squid may be vicious, but he's not an imbecile.

Dalton Greyjoy clearly knew how badly he was fucked. Without Rhaenyra's dragon to provide aerial assistance, he wasn't even trying to fight. He couldn't. Helaena had sent Aethan and the Cannibal to Dragonstone to deal with Daemon, but that still left Sunfyre, Vhagar, Tessarion, and Vermithor to lead their navies into battle.

Nor could he safely attack any of the castles on the coast. Helaena and Dreamfyre were stationed at Casterly Rock (Aegon had confided in Robert that she was pregnant and needed to stay out of battle) but her Dreams had twice helped Robert thwart Greyjoy scouting parties from finding safe harbor on the mainland, sending the Northerners or the Riverlanders to deal with them.

Unable to escape by land or by sea, they had no choice but to retreat to the Iron Islands and raise their defenses as best they could…defenses that provided them little cover from dragon fire.

"We have them cornered, your grace," Robert assured him as he and Aegon rested in the sitting area of the suite he was sharing with Helaena. Aemond had claimed one of the suite's bedchambers as his own so he could guard the King and Queen at night against any assassination attempts by the Greyjoys, but his chamber was not occupied now. Aemond and Vhagar were taking their turn on patrol duty.

Robert pointed to the map on the table in front of them.

"The squids are trapped. We have the Iron Islands fully encircled. At least two dragons are patrolling at all times. We've burned all the ships in their harbor, we've razed Pyke and the other castles multiple times. The Iron Born would all be dead ten times over by now if they couldn't take shelter in the mines."

Aegon shifted, wincing a bit as he elevated his injured leg.

"I would have liked to have our armies storm the islands by now," Aegon said.

"We're only a few days into it, your grace," Robert assured him. "The siege will happen, but we want to minimize the number of men we lose in the process. The dragons are doing the smart thing, flirting just enough to get them to loose all their scorpion bolts and arrows. There are no trees on the Iron Islands; they have no means to make more arrows after they dwindle their supply. They have no seafaring vessels left. And with the dragons burning anyone who attempts to fish, they will soon start to starve."

Robert hated to admit he was using tactics similar to what Mace Tyrell had used against Stannis during the rebellion, but he could not deny it was effective. Stannis, stubborn fart that he was, would have died before letting the Tyrells break his will, but Robert learned later that his brother had been forced to eat castle rats to survive.

The Iron Born can't hold out that long. Storm's End had food stockpiled. The squids surely don't.

Aegon shifted again, eyes wandering away from the map and drifting towards a small collection of toys that lingered in the corner. Jaehaerys and Loreon Lannister were currently attending their lessons, but the young prince often spent time in his parents' suite. Aegon's eyes brightened every time he saw his son, even if he was freshly back from a ten-hour patrol on Sunfyre's back.

"It's not just the men who will eventually starve, Borros," Aegon said grimly. "I have no wish to starve the small folk…or any of the innocents. I particularly have no desire to starve children. I've heard horrible stories of what men will do when they eventually start to starve. What they resort to…"

Had it not been for Davos Seaworth, Stannis would have had no choice but to resort to those same horrors.

Still, Robert hesitated. "I do not believe offering terms of peaceful surrender is possible at this point, your grace," he reminded him. "Not after you declared before your Lords that you intend to kill Dalton Greyjoy and every soldier who took up arms against you. It was already a compromise for the full eradication that many of them favored."

It only lasted a moment, but the wistful look in Aegon's eyes reminded Robert of exactly how young he was. A man grown, to be sure, but a young man. A man with little experience under his belt.

A man clearly wondering whether or not he made the right decision.

But then, he drew a breath, and his eyes hardened.

"No," he agreed. "Allowing them peaceful surrender is not an option. My father's reign was outwardly one of peace, but that was in part due to his tendency to close his eyes and pretend that everything was lovely. His weakness and inaction ultimately lead to a war for Rhaenyra and I to fight. A war that has already led to the deaths of thousands of men and seven Targaryen dragons. A war that forced me to take the life of a ten-year-old child atop a dragon that was little more than a hatchling." 

You had no choice; that ten-year-old child was ordering that hatchling to breathe fire at you. But Robert kept his mouth shut. Aegon was not looking for absolution, nor did Robert believe that any words of comfort would chase away the memory of watching a child fall from the sky.

"The decision I made regarding the Iron Born will allow us to simultaneously scorch the earth of the past and sow the seeds of tomorrow," Aegon continued. "And I do not intend to waver due to my sympathy for the innocent. But I believe taking the 'safer' course will lead to more unnecessary suffering in the long term."

Meeting Robert's gaze directly, Aegon lowered his leg and rose to his feet, prompting Robert to rise as well.

"We will not wait until they run out of food and arrows," he declared. "Not when we mean to kill their warriors anyway. We are going to lay siege as soon as possible. Give the order for as many foot soldiers as we can spare to board ships and set sail for the Iron Islands."

Robert hesitated. Starving them out and waiting for their arrow supply to dwindle was the safer option. Attacking now would mean losses on their side. But likely not heavy losses; not with the dragons providing aerial support against potential archers. And the Iron Born's supply of scorpion bolts and arrows was surely already low, what with no trees on the Iron Islands and all of their vessels burned.

And it would show the Lords that their King takes swift, decisive action, Robert reasoned. Swift, decisive, and if need be, ruthless action. Ruthless, but not cruel or unreasonable. That will ultimately lead to a more peaceful reign.

And so Robert bowed his head respectfully. "I'll give the command immediately, your grace," he vowed.

"DRAGON RETURNING!" came the call of one of Casterly Rock's guards. 

Aegon

Two dragons returning, it would seem, Aegon thought a few hours later as Helaena helped him to his feet, Aemond quickly making sure Aegon's crown was sitting properly on his head. With luck, he would need not stand long.

He'd remained sitting when it was just Aemond joining him and Helaena in the suite; his brother would have been more upset if Aegon stood and aggravated his calf unnecessarily. It was healing. The maester told him so every day when he came in to clean it, and Aegon himself could feel that the deeper parts of the wound were starting to close. But it was going to be a long, slow process that would take months, and in the meantime, it still hurt fiercely whenever he stood or walked.

However, he was a King. A King did not have the luxury of appearing weak in front of his vassals in the middle of a war, even if the war was nearly won. And so whenever anyone aside from Helaena, Aemond, Daeron, Jaehaerys, or Borros (his Master of War was as good as family to him) entered his suite, Aegon behaved as if he wasn't injured. And in this case, it meant standing as Aethan entered with a fabric-wrapped sword in his hands.

"I apologize, your grace," Aethan said as he knelt, holding up the sword for Aegon to take. "The sword is undamaged, but the scabbard was incinerated."

Because the sword is Valyrian steel, Aegon thought as he took the sword, immediately recognizing it as Dark Sister. "If the scabbard is incinerated," he said, "am I to understand that its former owner has been incinerated as well?"

He carefully studied Aethan's face, taking in his expression. Anger. A flash of pain. But above all else, satisfaction. Satisfaction, and a small smile. "Yes, your grace. I wish I could tell you that Daemon died screaming after all the pain he inflicted upon your family and the realm at large. Sadly, I cannot. Dragonfire burns so quickly. But I can tell you that he died a broken man. A man who saw everything he once cherished taken from him. A man who likely wished for death by the time it was finally given to him."

Aegon had no pity to offer Daemon, even in death. Not for the man who sent assassins after his mother, his wife, and his children. Not for a man who had the option to surrender peacefully but chose not to take it. Daemon had decided to die fighting, even when doing so had cost him everything. Aegon felt no sympathy for him.

But although he lacked sympathy, he acknowledged the tragedy of the whole thing. To lose everything you once loved. Your wife. Your children. Your stepchildren. Your dragon. And eventually your own life. It was not something Aegon would have wished on anyone, even Daemon.

Then again, he had not wished for any of this. Aegon would have left the Blacks at peace and never thought about them again, had they only bent the knee.

Aegon peeled the fabric back from the sword, revealing the Valyrian steel blade. "You have done the realm a great service, Aethan," he declared, staring regally down at his cousin but not yet gesturing for him to rise. "You have done the realm many great services," he amended. "You were owed a knighthood for far less, and now is as good a time as any."

Aethan looked up at him wide-eyed, shining with a hope that looked almost fearful, but Aegon kept his expression neutral. Regal. The mask of a king.

It felt almost poetic to touch Dark Sister to Aethan's shoulder. The sword Aethan had won by vanquishing the father who abandoned him. It would now welcome Aethan into knighthood. Into House Targaryen.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." He moved the sword to the opposite shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." Back to the right. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent." The left. "In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women…"

One by one, Aegon evoked the name of each of the Seven, all the while watching Aethan struggle to maintain his composure.

A struggle he lost completely, tears streaming down his face when Aegon finished the ceremony.

"I, Aegon Targaryen, Second of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the realm, declare that from this day forth, you will be known as Aethan Targaryen, trueborn son of Daemon Targaryen. The Lord of Summerhall, as soon as its construction is finished, and a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aegon gave him the gesture to rise, and Aethan obeyed, his legs trembling slightly as he rose to his full height.

"Trueborn…" he said through his tears. "A trueborn lord. A knight. A dragon rider…I never dreamed it possible."

Meeting Aegon's gaze directly, he smiled broadly, brushing away his tears. "Thank you, your grace."

Breaking his kingly decorum, Aegon smiled back at him.

This is nothing compared to what you've done for me. Because of your efforts with the Cannibal, we were able to protect thousands of innocent people from Rhaenyra's armies and dragons.

And so he did not hesitate to clap Aethan on the shoulder.

"When we are amongst our family, you are free to address me as 'cousin'," he offered.

He scarcely got further than 'our family' before Aethan started to cry again.

I'll let him have his moment, Aegon decided, smiling indulgently as he patted Aethan's shoulder one last time. I can certainly understand that it's overwhelming.

While his cousin composed himself, Aegon turned, lifting Dark Sister back up to rest carefully in his hands as he turned towards where Aemond waited, meeting his gaze with a smile of his own, undoubtedly knowing exactly what Aegon was about to do.

"We'll have to have a new scabbard made for her," Aegon declared as he stood before his brother, proffering the sword. "But ever since the Conquest, she has belonged to the greatest warriors in our family. It only makes sense to keep that tradition alive." With a teasing smile, he added, "You already have Queen Visenya's dragon. It stands to reason that you should be the one to wield her blade. Vhagar will likely be pleased to see it again."

Aemond laughed softly, nodding gratefully as he accepted the sword, turning the Valyrian steel blade over as he tested its weight. Lighter than Blackfyre, it would be much faster when used in combat. Perfect for his svelte, lithe brother who was built for speed and agility rather than raw strength.

"Thank you, brother," he said as he lowered it. "I shall proudly use it to serve our House…though I pray I will have no need for it after the Iron Born are dealt with."

And I shall pray for the same.

Nodding to Aethan, then to Aemond, Aegon declared, "Get a few hours sleep, the both of you. Vhagar and the Cannibal shall do the same. Then, at first light, we take flight to join our men who have already left by ship with Lord Borros. We have a grim task ahead of us."

And with the favor of the Gods, it will be the last such task I face for the duration of my reign.