Chapter Text
Year 97 AC
Aegon received the summons in the late morning, while sparring alongside his brother Viserys in the practice yard. The messenger bowed low and informed him that the King, Queen, Prince Baelon, and Septon Barth required his presence in the council chamber — and Daemon’s as well.
That alone foretold trouble.
Daemon arrived first — jaw set, shoulders tense — striding as though he already expected accusation. Aegon followed in his quieter manner, uncertain but steady.
The chamber felt colder than usual, though sunlight streamed through its tall windows. Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, grave and unmoving. Alysanne was beside him, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Baelon stood, as though unable to sit still under the weight of what was to come. Barth watched it all with a scholar’s sorrow.
Aegon bowed. Daemon did not.
A moment of silence stretched.
It was Alysanne who spoke first. Her voice was gentle, but it held the firmness of command.
“Daemon. Aegon. You know that the betrothal between Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce has become… untenable.”
Daemon’s jaw twitched. He said nothing.
Aegon glanced toward his brother — confusion stirring — but remained silent.
Alysanne continued. “The insult spoken in court has placed us in a difficult position, one that risks dishonoring both House Royce and the Vale. We cannot allow such enmity to grow.”
Daemon gave a short, sharp exhale. “So break the betrothal.”
“It is not so simple,” Jaehaerys said, voice heavy. “If Rhea is discarded entirely, Yorbert Royce will rally the Vale. And Jeyne Arryn his warden would support him. We would face unrest from the Bloody Gate to Gulltown. The peace of the realm depends on this match holding.”
Baelon stepped forward. “Therefore, we have decided on another course.”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed.
Alysanne turned to Aegon — and only then did her voice soften, truly soften.
“Aegon, my sweet boy… we ask that you take Lady Rhea to wife. And Daemon would marry Gael.”
The words struck like a blow — though softly delivered.
Aegon blinked, breath leaving him soundlessly.
“…I?” he asked, though he already knew.
Jaehaerys nodded. “It is the only path that preserves our alliances and avoids scandal.”
And then, like a spark catching on dry tinder, Daemon spoke.
“And I,” he said coldly, “am to be punished with Gael.”
Alysanne flinched — just barely. “It is not punishment,” she said. “It is—”
Daemon cut her off. “A sweet, stammering little dove who jumps at her own thoughts. You would tie me to that?”
“Mind your tongue,” Baelon snapped, voice like a whip. “Gael is your blood. Speak of her with respect.”
Daemon stared back — eyes bright, wounded.
“You seek to rearrange marriages like game pieces. Because I refused to be shackled to that bronze-clad goat of Runestone, now I must wear chains of your choosing?”
Baelon stepped forward, anger finally breaking. “You mock duty. You mock your family. You mocked your bride before the whole court! Your pride has forced our hand — YOU have done this, Daemon, not we.”
Silence pulsed like a heartbeat.
Daemon’s voice lowered. Smooth. Dangerous. “And if I refuse?”
Baelon did not shout. He did not need to. “Then you will not fly Caraxes again.”
Daemon’s breath caught — just once — before he hid it behind fury. “You would take my dragon?”
“No one will take your dragon from you. But if you refuse your duty to this family, you will find yourself outside it. And Caraxes will not follow a prince who stands alone,” Baelon answered.
Something broke behind Daemon’s eyes — not tears, but something quieter, more cutting. His pride. His wounded heart. He turned sharply and left the chamber without bowing, the door slamming behind him.
The echo rang for a long while.
The room felt larger after Daemon’s exit — emptier, and heavier.
Aegon stood where he was, hands trembling only slightly.
He wondered whether Gael would cry when she learn.
Alysanne faced him fully now. Her gaze was warm, aching, proud, and guilty all at once. “Aegon,” she whispered, “we do not command this of you. We ask.”
Which made it worse. Aegon swallowed. His throat felt tight.
He thought of Gael — her soft laughter, her shy smile, the comfortable stillness they shared. A life with her would have been gentle. Kind. Safe.
He thought of Rhea — fierce as bronze, proud, shining, alive with her own mind. A storm, not a hearthfire.
He thought of duty, and love, and how Targaryens so rarely had both.
Finally, he spoke — quietly, steadily, painfully: “If this is what the realm needs…”
He drew a slow breath. “…then I will do it.”
Alysanne closed her eyes. Not for triumph — but for grief.
Jaehaerys bowed his head, solemn. “Well spoken, grandson.”
Baelon placed a hand on Aegon’s shoulder — strong, firm, heavy with fatherly pride. “You do honor to us all,” he said. But his voice, too, held sorrow.
Only Barth looked at Aegon fully, truly, and saw the wound beneath the composure. “A sacrifice freely given,” he murmured. “Those are the ones history remembers.”
Aegon said nothing. The decision was made. But something gentle in him — quiet and precious — had been set aside.
And history would remember that, too.
*****
Lady Rhea Royce paced her chamber like a caged wolf, bootheels clicking sharply against the stone. The embroidered bronze-and-brown mantle at her shoulders flared with every turn. She looked ready for battle, not marriage.
The Red Keep felt close around her — too red, too warm, too full of watching eyes. King’s Landing was a city of whispers, and today every whisper was about her. And Daemon.
The memory of his voice burned still, sharp as a blade: Bronze bitch.
She clenched her jaw.
He had wanted her to wilt — to blush, to weep, to beg.
Instead she had stared him down like a hawk watching a snake writhe in dust.
Good. Let him choke on the pride he worships.
She was still replaying the moment when the door opened and Lord Yorbert Royce, her father, entered. His face was set, solemn, though not unkind.
Rhea stopped pacing. “Father. What did the king say?”
Yorbert closed the door behind him before he answered. “You will not marry Prince Daemon.”
For a heartbeat — just one — she allowed herself the shameful relief of not being bound to Daemon.
Then—
“Instead,” Yorbert continued carefully, “you are to be betrothed to Prince Aegon.”
The floor did not move — but the world shifted all the same.
Rhea blinked. Once. Twice. “Aegon. The younger brother.”
“Yes.”
“He is thirteen.”
“Yes.”
“And I,” she said slowly, “am sixteen.”
“Three years is nothing among lords.”
“That is exactly what I fear,” she snapped, pacing again. “They change fiancés and wives like armor pieces. I will not be moved about a board like carved bone.”
Yorbert’s tone remained steady, even when hers rose. “You are not a child to throw storms, Rhea. You know well that the Vale’s survival depends on our alliances. The insult you and Daemon flung at one another — before the entire court — could be seen as deliberate provocation.”
Rhea stopped. Her voice was flint: “He called me a Bronze bitch.”
“And you," Yorbert answered quietly, “Struck first. He struck back harder. That is how pride works between the proud.”
The truth stung. She hated that it did.
Yorbert stepped closer. His hand rested atop hers — firm, grounding.
“If the Targaryens believed the Vale sought to shame them… or to resist them… it could mean war. And you know what war means.”
The room felt colder.
Rhea swallowed, her voice low. “So I am to mend what I broke.”
“You are to protect what you will inherit,” Yorbert corrected. “Runestone’s strength. Our line. Our honor. You are my heir. The weight of our house will rest on your shoulders soon enough.”
Rhea’s gaze flickered, softened for a moment — just a moment.
But then the worry returned, pointed and practical: “And what of Runestone while I live here, waiting for this marriage to be… ripened?”
“Your cousin Alaric will rule in your stead,” Yorbert said.
Rhea recoiled slightly. “Alaric? The one who still asks septons which fork to use at feasts? I have ruled Runestone since Mother died. I am not some maiden to be tucked away and embroidered until needed.”
“Your rule was strong,” Yorbert said. “And it will be again. But duty comes in forms we do not choose.”
Rhea’s shoulders tensed. Her chin lifted — proud, defiant, hurting.
“And I am to be pleased?” she asked bitterly. “To wed a quiet boy who barely raises his voice above a whisper?”
Yorbert did not scold her. He simply said: “Aegon Targaryen is not Daemon.”
Silence settled.
“He is thoughtful,” Yorbert continued. “Earnest. He listens. He watches. He does not believe his blood makes him better than others.”
Rhea’s brow furrowed. She had noticed that, once or twice — in passing.
Aegon rarely stood at the center of a room.
Yorbert’s voice softened. “Give him a chance, Rhea. Not because politics demands it — but because you are owed a marriage with respect. And perhaps… companionship.”
Rhea let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She did not smile. She did not soften fully. But the rigid steel in her posture eased by a fraction.
“…He is still only thirteen,” she tried again, more gently now.
Yorbert nodded. “And so you will not wed until he is sixteen. You will remain here, at court. You will grow familiar with one another. There is time.”
Rhea was silent for a long while. Finally, she said — not in defeat, but in decision: “Very well. If duty demands it, I will do my duty.”
Yorbert smiled — not triumphantly, but with pride and sorrow and fatherly warmth. “I knew you would.”
She straightened her mantle of bronze and brown, dignity returning like a cloak settling on her shoulders.
“But I will not lower my head to them,” Rhea said. “Not to Daemon. Not to those who laughed in that hall.”
“You will not bow,” Yorbert agreed. “But you will build. And that is the greater strength.”
Rhea exhaled. She would not be a bronze statue in a dragon’s hall. She would be the Lady of Runestone, wherever she stood.
And Aegon Targaryen — quiet, gentle, observant Aegon — would have to meet her there.
****
Princess Gael Targaryen sat curled in a cushioned window seat, embroidery forgotten in her lap. She liked the quiet mornings of the Keep — before the corridors filled with courtiers, before her mother became Queen of All and not simply Mother. The early light made her silver-gold hair seem soft, almost pale as down.
She looked up when the door opened.
Alysanne entered first, composed, though her expression carried that careful sadness she wore only when something must be done that hurts. Aegon followed, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tense, but walking with purpose.
Gael smiled at him. It was a smile made of trust. “Aegon,” she said softly, “you look troubled.”
Alysanne exhaled — a slow, bracing breath. “Gael, sweetling,” the Queen began, “there has been… a change. Regarding your future. And Aegon’s.”
Gael blinked, smile dimming but not gone. She was used to changes. The world rearranged itself around her more often than around others.
“Yes, Mother?”
Aegon stepped closer — close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Gael,” he said gently, “I asked to be here when you heard. You deserve that.”
His voice was very quiet. As if any louder sound would break something delicate.
Gael’s fingers tightened on the edge of her gown.
Alysanne spoke carefully: “The betrothal between Prince Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce is being dissolved. And in its place… Aegon will wed Lady Rhea.”
Gael froze. There was no cry. No gasp. Just stillness — like a deer hearing the bowstring.
“And you,” Alysanne continued, voice softer still, “will be betrothed to Prince Daemon.”
Gael’s eyes widened, large and pale-lilac and suddenly wet. “Daemon?” she whispered. “But… but he does not even look at me. He looks at swords and dragons and shadows— He does not see me.”
Her voice was tiny — a child’s voice, though she was no longer truly a child.
Alysanne stepped forward as if to embrace her, but Aegon moved first. He knelt in front of Gael, taking her hands in his.
“Gael,” he said, voice breaking at the edges but steady in shape, “if I could choose—”
She shook her head, tears slipping silently. “I know,” she whispered. “You always choose kindness. But they are taking you away from me.”
Not love — not an intense, consuming flame. Something smaller, but no less real: Understanding. Safety. Belonging.
Aegon rested his forehead against her hands.
“I am not gone,” he murmured. “I will still be here. We will still walk the gardens. We will still talk in the rookery. I will not stop being your friend. I will not leave you alone.”
Gael drew a sharp, trembling breath.
“But Daemon will not be gentle,” she said. “He will not understand me.”
For the first time — Aegon’s expression hardened. There was steel in him, quiet but real. “Then I will make him,” Aegon said.
Alysanne’s eyes widened slightly — proud, sorrowing, startled by the quiet resolve of a son she had always thought too soft.
Gael’s tears continued to fall, but her breathing steadied. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Aegon’s shoulder. “Promise you won’t let him frighten me,” she whispered.
Aegon closed his eyes. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head with infinite gentleness.
“I promise,” he said.
And he meant it. He would stand between Gael and the world if he had to. Even if the world had dragon’s wings.
Alysanne watched them — and her heart ached. She had known Gael would weep. She had known Aegon would fold himself around her like a shield. But seeing it — seeing how deeply they understood one another — hurt more than she expected. A match of peace, she thought. And I have broken it.
Alysanne’s fingers trembled once — only once — before she folded them behind her back. But she could not show that, not now. She placed a hand on both of their shoulders — steady, warm, royal and motherly at once.
“My children,” she said, voice full but controlled, “this path is not easy. But I promise you both — I will guide you through it. You will not face this alone.”
Gael nodded weakly. Aegon squeezed her hand. Alysanne breathed. A gentle love had been severed today — not shattered, but parted.
And tragedy, Alysanne knew, did not always announce itself with fire. Sometimes, it arrived in a quiet room, with soft voices and hands that did not want to let go.
*****
The training yard of the Red Keep echoed with steel.
Sunlight struck the pale stone walls, but the morning felt sharp, cold.
Daemon Targaryen was alone.
His coat discarded, hair damp with sweat, he drove his practice blade again and again into a wooden pell — strikes fast, precise, almost elegant — and yet furious. Not wild. No, Daemon never fought wild. His anger sharpened him.
The wood split. His chest heaved. He did not stop.
Behind him came footsteps — heavy, but not rushed.
Viserys.
Broader than Daemon, softer in face and demeanor, wearing the gentle half-smile he carried like a habit, even when he was unsure.
He watched for a moment before speaking. “You’ll break the pell before you break your temper.”
Daemon did not turn. “That is the point.”
Viserys approached slowly — as one might approach a restless horse. “I heard,” he said. “About the betrothals.”
Daemon’s blade paused mid-air.
He did not look at Viserys — but his voice lowered. “Of course you did. The whole damn court heard. Nothing in this keep happens quietly.”
Viserys hesitated — compassion first, judgment second, as always.
“Gael is… a good girl,” he said gently.
Daemon laughed — short, humorless. “She is sweet, Viserys. That is her strength, perhaps. But sweetness is not a wife to me.”
He set the sword down. Not thrown. Just placed. Controlled.
“I am not meant to be caged with gentle things. I break them.”
Viserys frowned — not in scolding, but in worry. “No one is caging you, brother.”
Daemon finally turned.
There was something wild in him, yes — but more than that, there was restlessness. The kind that comes when a man is born to fly and finds himself chained to earth.
“No?” Daemon asked quietly. “I am to marry where I am told. Speak how I am told. Bow when commanded. Smiling, silent, obedient.”
His lip curled — but not in cruelty. In misery. “I want the sky, Viserys. The world. I want to be something.”
His knuckles whitened around the hilt — not from rage, but from something far more fragile.
Viserys’ expression softened — aching affection, brotherly and helpless. “You will,” he said. “You already are.”
Daemon looked away, jaw tight. Compliments slid off him like rain off steel.
Viserys tried again: “Gael… she is afraid of you, I think. But she is also someone who could learn to understand you, if you gave her a gentler side to see.”
Daemon huffed a breath — half scoff, half sigh. “You want me to pretend to be you?”
Viserys laughed — quietly, without offense. “No. I want you to try to be kind.”
Daemon’s eyes flickered — not angry. Just tired. “I don’t know how.”
For a moment, the training yard fell silent except for the distant cry of gulls over Blackwater Bay.
Viserys stepped closer. Not commanding, just present. “Then learn,” he said softly. “Not for the court. Not for Father. Not for appearances.”
He hesitated, choosing the words carefully. “…for her. Because she will need someone to stand between her and the world.”
Daemon’s throat worked. He didn’t answer.
Viserys smiled — small, sad. “And Daemon—”
He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You are not alone. You have us. You have me.”
Daemon closed his eyes for a moment — a single heartbeat of vulnerability. Then he opened them again. “If you speak of this moment to anyone,” he murmured, voice low, “I’ll poison your wine.”
Viserys chuckled. “That would require subtlety.”
Daemon finally looked at him — and though irritation flashed, there was also fondness.
“Ass.”
“You’re welcome.”
A pause.
Daemon picked up his sword again — but this time, when he struck, it was slower. Less desperate.
Viserys remained with him. Not instructing. Not judging. Just being there.
Two brothers — one gentle, one burning — sharing the same yard, the same blood, the same impossible destiny.