The Golden Prince

280 AC

Aerys Pov

King.

I was the head of the greatest house in Westeros. The last scion of Valyria. But alas, I was born too late. The dragons—our dragons—were dead for over a century, their flames extinguished by the follies of my ancestors. If only I had been there in their time, I could have stopped the chaos, saved the dragons, and preserved the glory of House Targaryen. Instead, I inherited ashes, a legacy weakened by the incompetence of my forebears.

House Targaryen was but a shadow of its former self without dragons. The lords of Westeros smelled weakness, blood. Like wolves, they encircled my house, waiting for the opportune moment to usurp my throne, to tear my family from the seat of power that we had occupied for centuries. The Iron Throne was ours by right of fire and blood, yet treachery and betrayal seeped through the cracks of our once-impenetrable dynasty.

Even those I had once called friends turned against me. Steffon Baratheon, the jovial fool, had drowned in the seas of Shipbreaker Bay, his fate a grim reminder of the gods' cruelty. Tywin Lannister, my Hand of the King and a man I had once trusted implicitly, proved to be the worst kind of traitor. Cold, calculating, and ambitious, Tywin would have gladly seen a Lannister seated upon the Iron Throne, his golden lion usurping the dragon.

And what was I left with? A court of bumbling fools, sycophants, and schemers. My grand visions of greatness—bringing fresh water to the arid lands of Dorne, building another wall in the North to rival the ancient one—remained unfulfilled. How could they not? I was surrounded by incompetents, cowards incapable of executing the simplest commands. I burned with fury at their failure, and yet I burned alone.

Even my family had disappointed me. My grandfather had died a fool's death at Summerhall, consumed by flames in a vain attempt to hatch eggs that had long since turned to stone. My father, Jaehaerys II, was weak, a pale shadow of the kings who had come before him. And my sister-wife, Rhaella? She was as dull as she was unattractive. Her silver hair and Valyrian features did little to mask her lack of wit. Her beauty had faded with time, and her presence was an irritant. It was only out of necessity—to preserve the purity of our Valyrian blood—that I deigned to share my bed with her.

Not even Rhaella's idiocy could compare to that of our eldest son, Rhaegar Targaryen. The boy was a dreamer, lost in his songs and prophecies. He lacked the fire that a true Targaryen should possess. There were times I wished he had perished alongside his mother in Summerhall. If only fate had been so kind, my line might have been stronger. But then, Daemon would never have been born.

Ah, Daemon. My son, my pride. He was everything I had hoped for in an heir. Strong, intelligent, charismatic—and most importantly, loyal to me. In all his life, Daemon had never once disappointed me. When Rhaegar was captured by that traitor Darklyn during the Defiance of Duskendale, it was Daemon who led the charge to rescue him. He had shown the realm that the blood of the dragon still ran hot in our veins, that we were not to be trifled with, even without dragons.

Daemon's valor was a stark contrast to Rhaegar's weakness. I often wished I could disinherit Rhaegar and name Daemon my heir. The realm would have prospered under Daemon's rule; of that, I had no doubt. But tradition and law shackled me. The elder son was the heir, no matter how unworthy. It was an injustice that ate at my soul.

When I betrothed Daemon to Tywin's daughter, Cersei, it was with careful deliberation. I knew that Daemon, with his strength and cunning, could keep the Lannisters in check. Tywin's daughter was beautiful, yes, but I cared little for her looks. What mattered was that she would serve as a leash for the lion. Tywin's ambitions would be curbed, and the dragon's dominance would remain unchallenged.

But no, Rhaegar lives, his every breath an affront to me. He dragged his brother to the Great Sept of Baelor naked forcing him to kneel and beg forgiveness. The sight must have been glorious—if only I had been well enough to witness it myself. Naming Daemon Hand of the King was the best decision I ever made. Let the maesters write of my wisdom as they wrote of Daeron and Jaehaerys before me. Let them remember me as the king who saw the truth.

I made Daemon Hand of the King, the best decision I had ever made. He reminded me of the Tragaryen Kings of old, the son of Jaehaerys the Wise. The maesters would write of Daemon as they wrote of Baelon, I was certain. They would remember him as a true Targaryen, a son worthy of the name.

I was pulled from my thoughts by a knock at the door. Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered. His white cloak billowed behind him as he bowed.

"The queen wishes to see you, Your Grace," he said, his voice as stoic as ever.

Amused, I waved a hand. "Send her in."

Rhaella entered, her silver hair flowing freely over her nightgown. She looked every inch the Valyrian queen, yet her presence irritated me. As she approached, she poured a cup of wine and handed it to me.

"What is it, woman?" I asked, taking a sip.

"I wished to spend some time with my husband," she said softly, closing the distance between us.

Her words made me laugh. A bitter, scornful laugh. "Are you trying to seduce me?" I asked, my voice dripping with disdain. "You do not know this, sister, but I find you revolting."

Her face fell, but I continued. "The only reason I bed you is because you are the only Targaryen woman available. Do you think, even for a moment, that I am attracted to you?"

Her expression changed, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. It pleased me to see her discomfort. She had lived in comfort and luxury all her life, yet she dared to plead with me now?

"Enough with this tomfoolery. Tell me, what do you want?" I demanded.

Rhaella's voice was barely above a whisper. "All my life, I have listened to you, Aerys. I have never asked anything of you. But this once, please, forgive our eldest and end his exile."

Her words ignited a fire within me. Forgive Rhaegar? The boy who had brought disgrace upon our house? Who had plunged the realm into chaos? My laughter turned cruel as I leaned forward, my voice a venomous hiss.

"Forgive him? Forgive the traitor who would see our house destroyed? You dare to make such a request of me?"

Rhaella's eyes brimmed with tears, but I felt no pity. She was as weak as Rhaegar, a fitting mother for such a son. My fury burned brighter, and I resolved to remind her, and the realm, that I was the king. I was the dragon. And I would suffer no betrayal, no weakness, in my house.

The fire within me raged on. It would consume all who dared defy me, for I was Aerys II Targaryen, and my word was law.

The chamber door burst open with a resounding crash, the sudden noise startling me from my simmering thoughts. Rhaegar stormed in, his silver hair disheveled and his face etched with a mix of fury and fear. His violet eyes, so often serene and introspective, now blazed with a wild urgency.

Before I could unleash my wrath at his unannounced intrusion, he spoke, his voice trembling but resolute.

"Mother, have you seen Visenya?" he demanded, his gaze darting toward Rhaella. His words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Rhaella, seated near the window, turned to him, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, son?" she asked, her tone laced with concern.

"She's not in her crib, Mother," Rhaegar said, his hands trembling at his sides. "She's gone."

The weight of his statement sent a jolt of anger through me. Rising to my feet, I let my fury spill forth. "How could you lose your own daughter, you dumbwit?" I bellowed, my voice echoing through the chamber like a clap of thunder. "A failure as a son, a brother, and now as a father as well. Do you take pride in your ineptitude, Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar's face flushed with a mix of shame and defiance. "I—I only stepped away for a moment, Father," he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of my condemnation.

"A moment is all it takes for disaster to strike," I spat. "You are a disgrace to our house, Rhaegar. A weakling who brings nothing but shame upon the blood of the dragon. Visenya would have been better off born to a wolf or a lion. At least they protect their young."

Before Rhaegar could muster a response, the door opened again, and Ser Gerold Hightower entered, his white cloak billowing behind him. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, ever stoic, now bore an uncharacteristic look of unease. For the first time in two decades, I saw him visibly troubled, and it unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

"My king," he said, his deep voice steady but tinged with urgency.

Rhaegar turned to him, desperation etched into every line of his face. "Have you found my daughter, Ser Gerold?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Ser Gerold's gaze flicked to me, then back to Rhaegar. "You must come to the Great Hall, Your Grace," he said. His words were measured, but the gravity in his tone was unmistakable.

"What is it?" I demanded, my patience wearing thin. "Speak plainly, Hightower."

"It is best you see for yourself, Your Grace," Ser Gerold replied, his eyes betraying a flicker of unease. "."

My fists clenched at his evasiveness. Without waiting for a response, I swept past him, my robes billowing behind me as I strode toward the Great Hall. Rhaegar and Rhaella followed closely, their silence speaking volumes. The weight of unease settled over us as we descended the corridors, the air thick with tension.

The massive, iron-clad doors of the Great Hall of Dragonstone creaked open, their ancient hinges groaning as if reluctant to grant entry. The air inside was thick with the scent of salt and smoke, and as I stepped forward, the echo of my boots on the blackened stone floor reverberated through the cavernous chamber.

Before me stood a dozen knights, their golden armor catching the dim light of the torches lining the walls. The polished plates gleamed like dragonfire, each movement casting dancing reflections that seemed alive. Their helms, shaped like dragon heads, masked their faces, but their rigid stances and hands resting on pommels spoke of vigilance and power.

At the center of it all, perched upon the ebony throne carved from volcanic rock, was my son—Daemon. His silver-gold hair shimmered like molten light under the flickering flames, and his piercing eyes locked onto mine, brimming with mischief and pride.

"Father," he drawled, his lips curling into a grin that was equal parts warmth and defiance. "It's good to see you again."

But it wasn't his greeting that rendered me speechless. No, it was the screech that pierced the air—a sound unmistakable, primal, and terrifying. My eyes darted to the source, and my breath hitched. Resting by his side, coiled like a serpent ready to strike, was Blackfyre. The ancient blade of Aegon the Conqueror himself gleamed with a dull, malevolent glow, its dark hilt adorned with rubies that pulsed like embers in the dim light.

The screech rang out again, and this time, I realized it wasn't from the blade—it was from the dragons.

Daemon Pov

The hall fell silent.

The echoes of my boots on the cold stone floor faded into the quiet hum of disbelief. My family stood before me, their faces a portrait of shock and awe. My father, Aerys, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, looked as though the weight of what he was seeing might bring him to his knees. His pale violet eyes darted from me to the magnificent creature perched on my shoulder.

Solarys, my golden dragon, purred softly, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the low notes of a harp. His molten gold eyes glowed with an inner fire, a reflection of the sun itself, and his shimmering scales caught the dim torchlight, creating an aura of otherworldly brilliance around us. I reached up and brushed my fingers along the warm, smooth scales of his neck. He tilted his head into my touch, a soft hiss escaping his lips—a sound that spoke of trust and companionship.

My younger brother, Daeron, stood to my right, equally mesmerized by his dragon, Stormbane. The small, dark-grey dragon rested on the stone floor beside him, its wings tucked neatly at its sides, its sharp yellow eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. Daeron, too, seemed enchanted, his hand resting on Stormbane's back as though grounding himself to this reality.

In the distance, I caught sight of my elder brother, Rhaegar, walking toward my niece, Visenya. The babe was cradled in the arms of a maid who trembled visibly as she held the child. Her fear was not unfounded; the blood-red dragon perched nearby—Visenya's newly bonded hatchling—watched her with piercing eyes, its forked tongue flicking out as though tasting the air.

The hall smelled of smoke, salt, and something metallic—a faint reminder of the blood and fire it had taken to bring us to this moment.

I turned my gaze to my father. His lips parted, his breath shallow, and for the first time in years, I saw a vulnerability in him that was almost childlike.

"Daemon," he whispered, his voice trembling. "How… How did you achieve this?"

I felt all eyes turn to me—my brothers, my mother and the knights standing guard. Even the dragons, as if understanding the weight of the question, shifted slightly, their glowing eyes fixed on me.

I stepped forward, lowering my head briefly to compose myself. Then, with a steady voice, I answered, "I sacrificed the last remnants of the Blackfyres in Essos, Father. Their blood and their legacy fueled the spell that brought the dragons back to life—and with them, I have reclaimed Blackfyre itself."

I reached for the blade at my side, unsheathing it with reverence. Blackfyre, the sword of kings, gleamed darkly in the flickering light. Its rubies glimmered like tiny pools of blood, and the Valyrian steel seemed to hum softly, as though resonating with the presence of the dragons.

I sank to one knee and extended the blade to my father, both hands supporting its weight as I offered it to him. "This is yours, Father. The sword of Aegon the Conqueror belongs to the King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aerys approached slowly, his steps unsteady, his face pale as he reached out. When his hands closed around the hilt of Blackfyre, a shudder passed through him. His eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought he might weep.

"Rise, my son," he said, his voice breaking as he lifted the sword.

I stood, my gaze never leaving his face. What I saw there was something I had not expected. Tears—glistening and unchecked—streamed down his cheeks. He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before, one that was raw and unguarded.

"I am so proud of you, my boy," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

Before I could react, he stepped forward and pulled me into an embrace. For a moment, I stood frozen, unsure of how to respond. Then, slowly, I returned the embrace.

The hall was silent but for the soft purring of Solarys and the faint crackling of torches. Around us, my family stood stunned. Rhaegar held Visenya now, the babe giggling as she reached for the ruby-like eyes of her dragon. Daeron looked at me with something close to admiration, his hand still resting on Stormbane. Even the maid, though still trembling, seemed less fearful as she watched the scene unfold.

As we parted, Aerys held the sword up, the blade catching the light in a dazzling display. "With this sword," he said, his voice steadier now, "you have restored not only our legacy but our hope. The dragons are the heart of House Targaryen. With them, we are invincible."

His words filled the hall, resonating like the toll of a bell. I saw heads nodding, faces softening as the gravity of the moment sank in.

Solarys chirped softly, nudging my cheek with his snout. I smiled and stroked his scales again, marveling at the warmth and vitality of the creature. His wings, though small, were strong and ready to carry him to the skies one day. Beside me, Stormbane spread his wings slightly, his dark-grey membrane shimmering faintly as he stretched.

"Father," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "This is only the beginning. The dragons may be small now, but they will grow. They will soar above the Seven Kingdoms once more, a symbol of our power and unity. And with them, we will forge a future worthy of our name."

Aerys nodded, his grip on Blackfyre tightening. "Yes," he said, his voice resolute. "With you at my side, Daemon, we will ensure the world never forgets the might of House Targaryen."

As he spoke, the dragons let out a series of low, harmonious cries, their small forms glowing faintly in the torchlight. The sound was haunting yet beautiful, a promise of what was to come.

The air in the chamber was still, save for the faint rustle of the waves outside Dragonstone. I sat in the Room of the Painted Table, the ancient map of Westeros sprawled before me. The intricate carvings of the Seven Kingdoms had been worn smooth in places by centuries of hands, each ruler plotting their ambitions atop this very table. My fingers traced the jagged edges of the Blackwater Bay, my thoughts as restless as the sea itself.

Solarays lay curled in my lap, his molten-gold eyes closed in peaceful slumber. The heat radiating from his small, shimmering form was comforting, though it did little to quell the storm brewing within me.

The heavy doors creaked open, and I glanced up to see my elder brother, Rhaegar, stepping into the room. His expression was as composed as ever, though there was a shadow in his violet eyes that spoke of burdens he would never share aloud.

"Daemon," he said, his voice measured.

"Rhaegar," I replied evenly, my hand absently brushing the warm scales of Solarays.

It had been a year since our last heated exchange—since the rift between us had deepened. The year had not softened the memory of those words, nor the consequences they had wrought.

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his next words, but before he could speak I spoke, "I've heard about Cersei," I said. "They say she's bedridden."

I leaned back in my chair, studying him with a raised brow. "And whose fault is that?" I asked coldly. "You knew she was too young to give birth, Rhaegar. Yet you forced this upon her."

He stiffened, but his composure remained intact. "The dragon must have three heads," he said softly, though there was steel beneath his words.

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "We already have three dragons, brother. Or have you forgotten Solarays, Stormbane, and Bloodfyre?" My tone was sharp, but it masked the ache beneath.

Rhaegar's face fell, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looked away. For a moment, he seemed smaller, diminished by the weight of his conviction.

"You're not the prince who was promised," he said at last, his voice low but firm.

His words hung in the air like a sword poised to strike. I narrowed my eyes, leaning forward slightly. "And you are?"

"For many years, I thought I was," he admitted, his gaze meeting mine. "But the prophecy... it was never about me. It's about my son. Daemon." His voice carried the certainty of a man who had built his life around a single, unshakable truth.

"Prophecies," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. "Do you know what I think of them, brother? They're as fickle and dangerous as wildfire."

His brows furrowed, but I pressed on before he could respond. "I was told a prophecy once," I said, my voice quieter now. "It was during the tourney at Lannisport, for Viserys's birth. A woman came to me and spoke of a black dragoness who would die by my hands."

Rhaegar's eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through his composure. "You never told me this."

I shrugged, the memory heavy on my shoulders. "For the longest time, I thought it meant I would cause our mother's death. It haunted me, Rhaegar. Every word, every glance, every choice I made—I wondered if it would be the one to fulfill that prophecy." I paused, my voice dropping further. "But then I found Serra Blackfyre."

Rhaegar's expression shifted to confusion. "What are you saying?"

"I finished her," I said simply, my tone devoid of emotion. "The last Blackfyre, the last claimant to our house's legacy. I ended her, and with her death, the prophecy was fulfilled."

He stared at me, as though seeing me for the first time. "Prophecy is like a whore, brother," I said with a wry smile. "She'll spread her legs in every which way, and you'll never know which one is the truth."

Rhaegar's lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.

"You can't be certain, Rhaegar," I continued, my voice steady. "You can't know that you'll have a son, or that same son will be the prince who was promised. Prophecy doesn't work that way."

His jaw tightened, a flash of defiance in his eyes. "I disagree," he said, his voice hard.

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Of course, you do."

There was a long silence between us, broken only by the soft sounds of Solarays's breathing.

"Daeron and Visenya will be staying here on Dragonstone," I said at last, my tone shifting. "Until their dragons grow larger."

Rhaegar frowned slightly. "They are dragons daemon and they are not as vulnerable as you think—"

"Even dragons can be killed brother or have you forgotten about the dance of the dragons, ," I interrupted.

"That's why we must protect them, nurture them, until they're strong enough to fend for themselves. Solarays may be small, but one day, he'll be a force to be reckoned with," I said.

"And where will you go?" he asked, his gaze searching.

"I'll be returning to King's Landing," I said, my voice firm as my hand glided over Solarays's warm, golden scales. The young dragon purred softly, the molten glow of his eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. "The realm must see the dragons have returned. And the lords who dare to betray us will have no choice but to act. War will come, sooner or later. Better it comes on my terms, when we are prepared."

Rhaegar stood across from me, the faint lines of worry etched into his otherwise regal face. His silence was maddening, a trait he had mastered and wielded like a weapon. But I was not one to be unnerved by quiet.

His refusal to respond lit a spark of anger within me. I leaned forward, my gaze hard, sharp as Valyrian steel. "You, Rhaegar—you stay here. Stay on this rock and do what you've always done. Absolutely nothing. I'll be the one to ensure our house stands strong, as it always should have."

His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he might retort. But as always, his words stayed buried beneath his polished mask. It was infuriating and, at times, pitiful.

"Do not mistake my words for cruelty, brother," I added, though my tone betrayed no kindness. "I speak plainly because someone in this family has to. You dream of prophecies and destinies while the realm conspires against us. I cannot afford the luxury of dreams."

His eyes flashed, his pride stung, but he held his tongue.

"And one more thing," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. "Do not force another child on Cersei so soon. The woman is no broodmare, and her body is not yet recovered. If anything happens to her—mark my words, Rhaegar—I'll gut you myself."

For a moment, the tension between us was as taut as a drawn bowstring. His hands balled into fists, and I could see the storm brewing in his eyes. But then, as always, his shoulders slumped, and he gave me that insufferable look of resigned acceptance. Without another word, he turned and left the chamber, his shadow stretching long against the stone walls.

The door closed with a dull thud, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sat back in my chair, the tension in the room lingering like smoke after a wildfire. Solarys stirred in my lap, his golden eyes blinking open as he looked up at me.

"You're all I can count on, aren't you?" I murmured, running my fingers along his warm, delicate scales. He let out a soft trill, the sound vibrating through me like a soothing balm against my simmering rage.

The map of Westeros lay before me, an intricate tapestry of power and betrayal. My fingers hovered over King's Landing, the heart of the realm, the seat of power—and the throne that seemed more fragile with each passing day.

The dragons had returned, yes, but they were small, vulnerable. It would take years before they grew into the titanic beasts that once ruled the skies. Years we did not have.

The lords of Westeros were not cowards; they were predators, each one circling the Iron Throne like vultures over a carcass. They would not be awed by the sight of fledgling dragons. No, they would strike swiftly, decisively, before our strength could be fully realized.

And I would meet them with fire and blood.

I opened my eyes, my gaze falling on Solarys. "The gods—or fate—may spin their prophecies," I said, my voice low and steady. "But I'll break the wheel before I let them dictate our doom."

The dragon blinked at me, his molten-gold eyes filled with a calm that I envied.

The road ahead would be drenched in blood. The lords who dared to defy us would face the wrath of dragons, no matter how small they might be. The abomination, whatever it was, would be hunted down and destroyed before it could lay a claw on our legacy.

"War is inevitable," I said softly, tracing the outline of the Riverlands on the map. "And when it comes, I'll be ready."

The Painted Table stretched out before me like the battlefield it represented. Every hill, every river, every keep was a piece in the game of thrones. A game I had no intention of losing.

"Let them come," I whispered, my voice like the hiss of a dragon's breath. "Let them try to take what is ours. I'll burn them all to ash."

The flames of the hearth flickered, casting shadows that danced like wraiths against the walls. Solarys let out a soft trill, as if in agreement, and I felt the weight of House Targaryen settle more firmly on my shoulders.

The lords of Westeros might scheme and conspire, but they would soon learn the truth. The Targaryens were not so easily extinguished. The dragons had returned, and with them, the fire and blood that would forge the realm anew.

And I, Daemon Targaryen, would ensure that House Targaryen not only survived but thrived. Whatever the cost.

I rose from my seat, Solarys perched on my shoulder, his golden eyes glowing in the dim light. The realm would tremble before us, not because of prophecies or destiny, but because I would make it so.

As I strode toward the door, Maggy's final words echoed in my mind, a dark reminder of what lay ahead.

"Death and destruction this beast will bring, and no one can stop it once it starts its rampage."

I allowed myself a small, cold smile.