Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 56: The Great Game XII
Red Keep
Daemon 'The Hand of the King' Targaryen
I was seated in my office as the Hand of the King, steadily working through the endless paperwork while keeping an eye towards the training yard for entertainment. One of the few genuine advantages of living with supernatural abilities was true parallel processing of thoughts. My mind could split itself cleanly without strain. One of my birds perched atop a tall tree near the yard, observing every movement below, and I could consciously process that stream of information while continuing my work without distraction.
It had been one full week since the swearing-in ceremony. Most of the Lords had been confined within the Red Keep during that time, while their fathers flooded the King with petitions, grievances, and veiled threats. The King had attempted more than once to rope me into these exhausting discussions so he could escape them, but I successfully convinced him otherwise. The main point of contention revolved around the new charter, and only the King himself possessed the political capital to placate the lords without paying a significant price.
The lordlings, on the other hand, possessed an abundance of idle time. Their primary distractions consisted of training in the yard, loudly displaying their prowess, or indulging themselves in the pleasures of Silk Street.
The current heir to House Baratheon, Borros Baratheon, was one such lordling. Even from my knowledge of canon, I was well aware of his many deficiencies. He was currently dominating the yard, boasting loudly as he defeated knights left, right, and center. Despite myself, I was mildly impressed by his raw strength, as he wielded a massive two-handed sword in a single hand. Still, his continuous domination quickly became boring, and I was almost ready to turn my attention elsewhere when my daughter Lyanna entered the training yard alongside one of her half-brothers.
The brother in question was Rickon, who aspired to earn a place in the Kingsguard.
"This is going to be interesting," I muttered quietly to myself.
Lyanna normally trained in the private yard, ever since she thoroughly humiliated most of the warriors in the general training grounds. For her to enter now, especially with Rickon, who had grown remarkably skilled with knives, was unexpected. One of the main reasons I had offered a future Kingsguard position to my son Rickon was my desire to diversify the weapons used by the Kingsguard. Fighting with knives inside castles was far more practical than relying solely on long swords.
Rickon possessed exceptional talent in knife throwing, dual-wielding, and close-quarters combat. I had even suggested he experiment with a metal chain paired with knives. To my pride, the boy embraced the idea and trained independently. By the time he officially joined the Kingsguard, he would resemble a shadowy assassin layered in hidden blades rather than a traditional armored knight.
Lyanna grinned openly as she noticed the curious glances directed at her and Rickon while they prepared to spar. Those glances swiftly transformed into open scoffs and barely concealed jealousy when Lyanna unsheathed Longclaw for training and Rickon readied his knives. The bout began, and I observed carefully, mentally noting areas for improvement. To my eyes, they were not exceptionally fast, but the speed at which they moved because of their familiarity with each other and precise coordination made the exchange resemble a choreographed dance rather than a chaotic fight for others.
I noticed Lyanna send a condescending smirk toward Borros for reasons that were immediately clear. Borros openly snorted and laughed boisterously, though he could not fully conceal his jealousy toward the Valyrian steel blade or the irritation Lyanna provoked in him.
As more people abandoned their own training to watch my children spar, Borros finally snapped.
"What the fuck are you lousy warriors doing?" Borros bellowed angrily. "Wasting time on this stupid dance is foolish. What use are knives against steel plate and superior weapons? What use is Valyrian steel in the hands of a weak girl?" He finished with mocking laughter that several persons followed.
Rickon disengaged instantly, turning toward Borros with cold fury in his eyes. Before he could speak, Lyanna placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him aside as she stepped forward toward Borros.
"Big words for someone who cannot even understand plain speech, Borros the Doofus," Lyanna sniped back.
Borros's laughter vanished, replaced by raw fury. I could see his hands whitening as he clenched his greatsword with barely restrained violence.
"You, a girl from a third-rate northern house, dare insult me after I magnanimously forgave you for what happened during the dance?" Borros snarled. "You should feel honored that I gave you my attention that night, and yet you threatened me for trying to kiss you. Me, the future Lord Baratheon."
I burst into laughter at the sheer irony of his declaration. In that moment, I fully understood why Lyanna had entered the yard today. Poor Borros had walked straight into the trap like the fool he was.
Lyanna shook her head dramatically, adopting an exaggerated expression of fear and regret.
"I did do wrong, Lord Baratheon," Lyanna said softly. "I should not have threatened you at all."
Borros nodded smugly, visibly pleased.
"Rather, I should have cut off your tongue and lips for wishing such foul smells upon the poor whores of Silk Street." Lyanna said her softness vanishing to a smirk.
I snorted loudly and abandoned my work entirely to focus on the unfolding spectacle. Borros's satisfaction dissolved into rage once more.
"I will have your tongue for that, you cunt," Borros shouted. "You insulted the King's nephew, and I am certain the King would forgive me for taking my due from a northern bitch like you."
Borros charged forward, raising his greatsword high. Both Lyanna and I froze in absolute shock at the sheer stupidity of his outburst. The idiot clearly did not know that Lyanna was the King's great-granddaughter, a status that easily surpassed that of a nephew, especially one born from the King's Velaryon mother. By now, nearly everyone important knew Lyanna was my daughter, and I wondered how this moron had remained ignorant. I briefly hoped the maester assigned to teach him belonged to the cabal of magic-hating fools, because only they deserve the punishement of attempting to educate someone like Borros.
Suddenly I grimaced remembering that I would have to deal with this idiot when I am king as my lord paramount. I shook my head dismissing the thought and concentrated on the yard.
Despite her initial shock, Lyanna dodged the attack effortlessly. What followed was one of the most humiliating defeats I had ever witnessed. As she stepped aside, Lyanna calmly sheathed Longclaw and surged forward. Before Borros could recover from his overextended swing, Lyanna slipped inside his guard, tripped him, and struck with lightning-fast precision. Her hands danced across his exposed body, striking nerve points with surgical accuracy.
Borros collapsed like a tree felled at the roots, his limbs locking uselessly beneath him. His final howl resembled that of a terrified chicken after Lyanna delivered a merciless kick to his groin. I smirked proudly, satisfied that the countless hours I spent training her had paid off. The spectators stood frozen in stunned silence.
Lyanna spat at the fallen Borros and then punt-kicked his head, a move that reminded me vividly of Randy Orton's infamous strike.
The Stormlanders moved forward instinctively to defend their future liege, but Lyanna fixed them with a sharp stare.
"When this doofus wakes up," Lyanna said mockingly, "someone tell him that I am the King's great-granddaughter and currently his favorite as well. Also tell him that I have no interest in him whatsoever."
The Stormlanders hesitated, loyalty warring with fear of royal retribution. Suddenly, deep mocking laughter echoed from one corner of the yard. The crowd parted quickly as a familiar figure stepped into the light, still laughing. Those nearest bowed instinctively.
"Prince Daemon."
My cousin continued laughing, and a few others joined nervously. Lyanna met his gaze with a smirk of her own. Daemon slowly sobered, his eyes sweeping over the uneasy crowd.
Ser Selmy, bold and loyal as ever, stepped forward. "My prince, Lady Mormont—"
"Silence," Daemon snapped, raising a hand. "I saw everything. This is not how a future lord should behave. The ignorance displayed by Baratheon here is appalling."
Daemon turned toward Lyanna with an amused smirk. "A bold claim you made, my lady."
Lyanna shrugged casually. "Are you denying that I am the King's great-granddaughter?"
"Not at all," Daemon replied. "I refer only to your claim of being his favorite."
"What can I say," Lyanna shot back smugly. "The King said it himself."
Daemon nodded thoughtfully. "Lady Lyanna, do you wish to lodge an official complaint regarding this attack on yourself with the Crown?" The entire yard held its breath. I wondered what game Daemon was playing.
Lyanna scoffed dismissively. "No need. This humiliation is punishment enough for Borros the Doofus."
Daemon laughed openly again at the insult and finally nodded.
Suddenly, I felt another presence attempting to intrude upon the bird's mind I occupied. I forcefully expelled the intruder and traced the connection back to its source. To my surprise, it was my son Benjen, who winced visibly as my defense crashed against him.
I looked around the yard and I saw benjen rapidly massaging his forehead and face to relieve the pain in one of the shadows in the yard. I wondered what was his reason for trying to take an animal mind now.
Benjen face cleared as he swallowed the pain and concentrated again. I felt him getting control of another bird and I followed the birds flying path. The bird flew over the yard one time and in the second time it was slightly lower and The bird pooped;
Right over where my cousin Dameon was standing and talking to Lyanna as the crowd had slowly stopped watching them openly.
"Fucking bird," Daemon snapped, drawing a knife and hurling it. The bird dodged effortlessly.
Everyone struggled to restrain their laughter out of fear, but that restraint shattered the moment Lyanna's grin broke into loud, unapologetic laughter at Daemon's reaction to the incident. Even I laughed at the sheer absurdity of what I was witnessing. I noticed Lyanna glance subtly toward the side where Benjen was hiding, and I knew she must have sensed the warg control and realized exactly who was responsible.
I was ashamed to admit that it was later that night, while lying in bed after four exhausting rounds of lovemaking with Gael, that the horrifying truth finally dawned on me.
"Fuck me." I muttered to myself. I probably have a fucking love triangle to deal with in the future.
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Dorne
Prince Qoren Martell
Qoren Martell surveyed the assembled council within the high chamber of Sunspear, his dark eyes taking in every lord and representatives gathered beneath the arched ceilings of pale sandstone. Sunlight streamed in through the tall lattice windows, casting long bands of gold across the mosaic floor, where spears, suns, and serpents were worked into ancient Dornish patterns. The air carried the faint scent of salt from the sea and citrus from the palace gardens below.
Lords, or trusted envoys speaking in their names, had answered the summons from every corner of Dorne. This council had been called in the wake of the Great Council's decision, yet by the time the gathering convened, the political ground beneath the realm had shifted in ways none of them had anticipated.
The meeting started by Qoren's command and Lords brought in their complaints before someone actually brought up the main topic of iron throne.
So, it would actually take me to address the main thing in this meeting. Lord yronwood finally said with a sneer at other lords. Prince Qoren, what is the status of the heir of the Iron throne and great coucil. We heard that it was Viserys the dragonless but on the way we heard too many rumpurs of sudden change or something.
At Qoren's signal, the meeting began in earnest, and the lords first aired their customary grievances, disputes over borders, trade routes, and old slights resurfacing as they always did when powerful men were confined in one room. Only after these formalities had run their course did anyone dare steer the discussion toward the matter that weighed on every mind in the hall.
"So," Lord Yronwood finally said, leaning back in his chair with an unmistakable sneer directed at several rival lords, "it would seem that I must be the one to address the true purpose of this gathering." He turned his gaze toward the high seat. "Prince Qoren, what is the current status of the Iron Throne and the decision of the Great Council? We heard that Viserys the Dragonless was named heir, yet along the road we heard far too many rumors of sudden changes and quiet reversals to ignore them."
Prince Qoren inclined his head slowly before responding, his expression carefully composed. "My spies have yet to deliver their full reports," he said evenly, "but I have received an official letter from King Jaehaerys himself. The letter confirms a change in succession, naming the heir not Viserys, but a legitimized bastard from the North, sired by Prince Aemon."
"How in the name of the River Rhoynar did that happen?" one lord shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief as curses and confused murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"Silence," Prince Qoren commanded, striking the rim of his silver wine glass lightly against the table. The sharp sound cut through the noise, and the lords quickly fell quiet.
"The manner of it is not particularly important," Qoren continued, his lips curling into an amused smile. "The old dragon king has likely gone mad in his twilight years, to elevate a northern bastard after the elaborate pretense of a Great Council. The other great lords will be furious at the insult, knowing their time and Gold were wasted." He laughed openly, and the sound proved contagious, drawing bitter chuckles and sharp laughter from the assembled Dornishmen.
"I say the time has come for vengeance, and for a measure of long-delayed justice," Qoren declared. "Our fathers failed because the cursed dragons stood united, but this time will be different. When King Jaehaerys finally dies, the realm will tear itself apart in civil war. That will be our moment to strike, to repay old blood with new blood across the Reach and the Stormlands."
"Yes," came the low, sinister voice of Lord Wyl, cutting through the fading laughter and stilling the room once more. "It is the perfect time, especially when the bastards of Horn Hill have grown soft from decades of unbroken peace."
"So the bandits return," Lord Yronwood said with a derisive snort.
"Yes, the bandits will return after the king's death," Prince Qoren replied, sharing the same predatory smile. "Until then, we will wait and watch the board, judging how the pieces fall before committing to our true move. All of you are hereby ordered to begin training your men, securing resources, and preparing hidden refuges, should the dragons once again take wing over Dorne."
The council answered with near-unanimous agreement, nods and murmurs of approval spreading through the chamber. Even as the meeting drew toward its end, many minds were already racing ahead, plotting how best to turn the coming chaos to their own advantage and expand the power of their houses amid the inevitable fire and blood.
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The Sunset Sea.
The Lonely Light
Harlan Pike.
Harlan stood at the narrow window of the tower of House Farwynd, gazing down at the endless grey sea churning far below after a night of loud laughter, spilled ale, and willing bodies. Dawn had yet to burn the fog from the air, and Lonely Light looked half-drowned even in repose, its black rock and stark towers rising like a jagged tooth from the mouth of the ocean. Waves crashed endlessly against the cliffs, sending up plumes of white spray that vanished into the mist.
The people of Lonely Light numbered scarcely five thousand, and every single soul among them bent knee to the Drowned God with a devotion that bordered on madness. They prayed in the surf, slept to the sound of crashing waves, and laughed at storms that would send other ironborn scrambling for shelter. Since the day the Drowned Priest had named Harlan the chosen champion of their God, his name had spread like wildfire through the islands. Salt wives whispered it in dark corners. Reavers carved it into driftwood. Priests spoke of him with awe and fear in equal measure.
The tales helped, of course. The stories of a man who could fight beneath the waves, who did not weaken in seawater but grew stronger. A man who bled into the ocean and was rewarded for it. Respect had turned to devotion, and devotion to something far more dangerous—belief. None believed more fiercely than the folk of Lonely Light.
They were called queer even by other ironborn, muttered about as half-mad fish-men who loved the sea too much and land too little. Harlan, who had reaved from the Summer Isles to Ibben, could say without hesitation that they were different. Their bodies were lean and knotted with muscle, their skin weathered into something closer to leather than flesh. He had seen them swim through breaking waves in full leather armour, axes clenched between their teeth, dragging enemies down into the dark as easily as other men dragged nets.
It was why he had taken so many of them into his fleet. In battle, they were monsters.
Harlan had watched Unsullied guardians—men drilled from childhood to stand unbroken—lose formation when the warriors of Lonely Light surged out of the surf like drowned wights clawing their way from legend. Shields were torn from grasping hands, spears wrenched downward, and disciplined lines dissolved into screaming chaos as ironborn axes rose and fell beneath the waves. The sea itself became a weapon in their hands, an ally that blinded, dragged, and drowned at their whim.
Harlan smiled faintly at the memory, pride curling in his chest like a warm ember.
Their loyalty had been earned in blood. He lifted a hand and brushed a finger across the smooth, black surface of his eye, the eye that should not exist, the eye that had replaced the one he should have lost to a pirate king. The other eye, the one fate had taken from him long ago when he was a child, still ached faintly when the weather turned.
It had happened in the Basilisk Isles, during a raid that should have ended with his head mounted on a spike as a warning to other fools. The pirate king there was a brute of a man, vast of shoulder and arm, wielding an axe that would have taken two men merely to lift. He laughed as blades skidded uselessly off the heavy steel of his weapon, mocking every failed strike. They had fought across slick stone and burning docks, bodies tumbling into the water below as the battle raged around them.
They matched each other blow for blow despite the difference in size, Harlan smaller but faster, sharper. They bled freely as they exploited fleeting openings, laughing like madmen as steel rang and sparks flew. Five men died around them, cut down by wild, missed attacks, and the rest of the fighters scrambled away, unwilling to be caught between two monsters at play.
At last they reached the edge of the pier, and there the battle rushed toward its brutal finale. They struck at the same instant, and Harlan saw his blade carving toward the pirate king's face at eye level just before his world went black. His remaining eye was ruined in a heartbeat, pain exploding through his skull like fire.
Harlan had taken a blade across the face, and the agony was blinding, wet, and terrifyingly final.
Laughing still, the pirate king, never realizing that Harlan had suffered the same crippling loss as himself, seized him in a crushing grip and hurled them both from the pier into the black sea below. He was convinced that a man in armor would sink like a stone and drown without ceremony.
The water swallowed them.
Cold slammed into Harlan's chest as he sank, the weight of his armor dragging him down into the green-black depths. Panic clawed at him for a heartbeat—just one—before something older and harder took hold. He kicked. He moved. He swam.
The pirate king never expected that.
Steel rang dull and muted beneath the waves as they struggled, bubbles and blood spiraling upward. The pirate king struck wildly, his movements slow and clumsy in the water missing Harlan, while Harlan moved like he had been born there. Harlan drove a dagger infront of him as fast possible feeling his knife entering something, feeling the sea fill with heat.
The wound in his face burned fiercely, his vision fading as darkness closed in and his lungs screamed for air.
As the last of his strength began to flee, something vast moved beneath him.
Tentacles thicker than ship masts coiled through the depths, unseen but undeniable. One brushed against him—not crushing, not cruel, but steady. Anchoring. Lifting. In desperation, as the water rushed into his mouth, Harlan reached out with his mind, blind and drowning and furious.
And something reached back.
For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he saw through alien eyes. He saw the pirate king flailing, suddenly small and fragile in a world of crushing pressure and endless dark. He saw himself no longer as prey, but as an extension of the deep. Guided by that borrowed sight, Harlan moved and struck true.
The pirate king died screaming into the sea, his blood clouding the water like an offering cast upon an altar. As Harlan clung to the edge of life, the ocean itself seemed to close around him, cold, crushing, and intimate, before finally releasing its grip.
When he washed ashore, coughing and broken beneath a merciless sun, his eye had healed. Not as it had been before.
It was black now, smooth as obsidian, reflecting the world without warmth. The Drowned Priest had wept when he saw it. Lord Farwynd had knelt without being asked.
Only later did Harlan understand the truth. The kraken was the same one that had saved him as a child, the vast shadow that had followed his ship through storms and heavy seas. It was enormous, nearly the size of Caraxes, coiled deep beneath the waves, and it answered him, if only faintly. He could not take other skins, and he did not need to.
That bond had sealed his fate.
Lord Farwynd had paid lip service to the blasted House Greyjoy after the incident, offering the expected words of loyalty, yet every man on Lonely Light waited only for Harlan's word to wipe out the cowardly Greyjoys entirely. The sight of Greyjoy bending like a loyal dog and dragging the ironborn lords to heel when the dragon king called his Great Council had only worsened the bitterness festering against their house.
Now Harlan waited for his meeting with Lord Farwynd, who had returned to Lonely Light after the Great Council, while the sea roared below his tower like a beast eager to be unleashed.
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"Captain," Lord Farwynd said with a respectful bow as he entered the chamber where Harlan sat waiting.
The room was dim and heavy with the scent of salt and old smoke, its stone walls sweating faintly from the ceaseless damp carried up from the sea below. A single brazier burned low near the far wall, its embers casting slow, restless shadows that crawled across banners marked with krakens and drowned sigils. Harlan occupied a broad chair near the window, his posture loose and unguarded, as though the tower itself were merely an extension of his body.
Harlan acknowledged the lord with a brief nod and waved a hand, granting him permission to speak.
Lord Farwynd, a man who despised wasted breath almost as much as wasted blood, immediately began his report. He explained how Viserys had first been selected, how the lords had bent and argued during the Great Council, and how a letter from the king had arrived at House Greyjoy just as the ironborn lords were gathering, overturning the decision entirely and naming a new heir. The tale was delivered with open disdain, every word sharpened by mockery.
Harlan listened in silence, his expression unreadable, already half-inclined to dismiss the matter as irrelevant to his own designs, until Lord Farwynd reached the final detail.
"He chose the bastard in the North," Farwynd said, his lips curling with obvious amusement. "Daemon Snow was named heir and formally legitimized, Captain."
The change in Harlan was immediate and unmistakable. The easy looseness left him, and he straightened in his chair, his attention snapping fully into focus. The sea outside crashed harder against the rocks, as though answering the shift in the room.
"Do you know why?" Harlan asked.
Lord Farwynd shrugged, the earlier confidence faltering slightly. "I do not," he admitted. "There are whispers, nothing more. Some claim he tamed an impossible dragon, though others say the tale is confused with the king's half-witted daughter marrying the bastard. It is difficult to tell truth from tavern rot." He ended with a short laugh, hoping to keep the mood light.
"Enough," Harlan snapped. "This is not a matter for jokes," Harlan continued, his gaze hard. "Daemon Snow is not to be underestimated. Do you know why I never moved against House Mormont all those years?" He leaned forward slightly. "It was because the bastard was there, and the Drowned God whispered for me to stay my hand. The man is a skinchanger, and if he truly commands a dragon, then he is a threat we cannot ignore."
Lord Farwynd's expression drained of color, his earlier amusement replaced by open unease.
"My captain," he said carefully, "what do we do then? I have already made promises to other lords who agreed to our proposal. The Greyjoy woman will die in her birthing bed along with her child. Two of the bastards have already been removed through carefully arranged accidents. Only six Greyjoys will remain after the bitch's death."
Harlan did not answer at once.
"Let the plan for the Greyjoy bitch proceed as intended," he said calmly. "Nothing changes there." He rose from his chair and turned slightly toward the window, where the sea roared unseen below. "I will go to the water and commune with our God before committing to anything further." As he spoke, the ruined eye pulsed once with a dull, sinister red light, like a heartbeat glimpsed through flesh.
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