Chapter 15: Royal Guards
Candlelight flickered across the Red Keep's council chamber, throwing long shadows upon maps, parchments, and tired faces.
King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, his crown gleaming faintly in the dim light. The years had bent his body, but not his will.
"Daemon," he said, his voice calm but deliberate, "has presented a reform worth consideration. I have spoken with my Hand, Maester Barth, and we are agreed."
The lords leaned in. The air seemed to tighten.
"We shall reorganize the City Watch into a standing force," the King continued. "A true order, sworn to protect King's Landing, the Red Keep, and Dragonstone. Henceforth, they shall be known as the King's Guard."
Gasps and murmurs swept the table.
The Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, straightened, eyes narrowing. "Your Grace," he said carefully, "the City Watch reform we discussed was minor — better armor, clearer patrol routes, stricter discipline. This… is a military transformation."
Jaehaerys's gaze was steady. "Order must be built, not begged. The Watch has grown soft, corrupt. It guards coin more than crown. That ends now."
Lord Lyman Beesbury frowned. "But Your Grace, such reform would require funds — coin we do not have."
Daemon's voice, smooth and assured, cut through the murmuring. "It will not drain the treasury. A disciplined city is worth ten times its cost. With proper order in the streets, trade will thrive — and the crown will profit."
He did not add the unspoken truth: A disciplined city would also obey him.
Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, looked between the young prince and the aged king. "Your Grace," he said slowly, "who commands this new order?"
"The King," Jaehaerys replied. "And through me, the realm. The Dragon Guard shall remain, but its loyalty is bound solely to the throne and its heir."
A pause.
"Lord Raymont Royce," Jaehaerys continued, "will serve as temporary Lord Commander of this new force. Prince Daemon will act as his deputy, to oversee and enforce the reform."
Shock rippled through the chamber. The Sea Snake's expression hardened. Alysanne's brow creased. Barth's quill stilled mid-word.
At sixteen, Daemon Targaryen had been given command — in all but name — of the largest armed force in the capital.
Corlys spoke, voice measured but edged. "Your Grace, Prince Daemon is bold and brilliant, but young. Such power may… temper poorly."
"Then let him be tempered," the King said quietly. "Steel must know flame before it becomes strong."
The Sea Snake bowed slightly. "Then, if I may, my brother Vaemond could serve at his side. He has many friends among the City Watch — experienced, loyal men."
Alysanne's tone was gentle but firm. "Your brother may serve, Lord Corlys. But Daemon's place stands. He conceived the plan, and the King has faith in his execution."
Corlys inclined his head, hiding his displeasure behind courtly grace.
Daemon met his gaze and smiled faintly. "I assure you, Lord Corlys, the Watch will serve crown and realm faithfully. And those loyal to the realm will prosper."
Corlys said nothing. But in his silence, Daemon heard the promise of future war.
---
At the Red Keep barracks, torchlight reflected off newly forged helms and polished breastplates.
Ser Raymont Royce stood at attention, tall and broad-shouldered, his bronze beard streaked with grey. "Where is the Prince?" he muttered.
Then came a roar from above — deep, resonant, alive.
Caraxes descended through the dusk, his crimson wings splitting the smoke like blood through fog. The soldiers flinched and then cheered as Daemon dismounted, silver hair gleaming like molten moonlight.
"Welcome to the King's Guard, Your Highness," said Ser Raymont stiffly. "The men have already changed their uniforms. Black scales and golden cloaks — they call themselves 'Gold Cloaks' now."
Daemon nodded, eyes sharp. "A fine name. Simple. Memorable."
The men stood straighter as he passed. He could feel their awe, their uncertainty, their hunger.
Men like these, he thought, need more than orders. They need a symbol.
Ser Raymont cleared his throat. "I'll assign you to oversee patrols. Don't worry — my men will guide you through their routes."
Daemon turned to him, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of command.
"You misunderstand, Ser Raymont. I am not here to learn. I am here to lead."
The commander's smile faltered.
"I represent the King and the Small Council. Every ghost soldier, every falsified roster, every missing coin — it ends now. The next report I submit will bear your name beside the truth. Be sure it is a truth worth writing."
A long silence followed. Then, stiffly, Raymont said, "The City Watch claimed two thousand men. In truth, fewer than seventeen hundred. That number predates me, but yes — the rot runs deep."
Daemon's expression did not change. "Then we'll cut it out. Starting today."
He turned to the gathered soldiers. "Those over fifty years will retire with honor. You've served your city well — now you'll serve it in peace. The King grants each of you land along the Blackwater's banks. Fertile soil. Homes for your families. The Gold Cloaks will protect those lands."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the veterans dropped to their knees, their voices rising:
"Long live Prince Daemon!"
---
Over the following weeks, Daemon's reforms took shape like fire shaping steel.
He appointed new gate captains — not lords' heirs, but their forgotten kin.
Qidan Massey to the Mud Gate, near the ports and fish markets.
Andy Harver to the Old Gate, guarding the road from the Reach.
George Rivers, bastard of Whitewalls, to the Iron Gate.
Bill Rosby, the shortest and loudest of them all, to the Dragon Gate.
They were second sons, bastards, sellswords — men with no inheritance, but everything to prove.
When Rosby grumbled about his post, Daemon smirked.
"The Dragon Gate is closest to the Dragonpit. Be near power, Bill. That's where destiny breeds."
The man laughed nervously, not realizing how prophetic those words would become.
---
Days later, Caraxes soared over the slums of Flea Bottom as Daemon rode out in person to recruit.
Noble second sons, free riders, sellswords — all came at his call. To serve the King, yes, but more truly… to serve him.
Astride his dragon, Daemon Targaryen looked down upon King's Landing — his city now, even if the crown did not yet see it.
From the shadows of the alleys, the people stared up in awe as the red beast passed overhead. Children pointed. Mothers prayed. Thieves hid.
And in the murmuring of the crowd, a name began to spread — quietly, like the first breath of a storm:
> "Prince Daemon. The Dragon of the City."
That night, as the Gold Cloaks marched through the streets in golden waves of torchlight, King's Landing slept safer than it had in decades.
And above it all, Daemon smiled from his tower window — a prince reborn, a ruler in all but crown.
> Every legend begins with fire.
And mine has only just been lit.
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