Chapter 18 — Seeds of Marriage
While Prince Daemon moved swiftly to fortify his father's faction, placing loyal men within the ranks of the Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks, Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys were far from idle.
The Sea Snake's ambitions spread quietly through the Seven Kingdoms like the tide—subtle, ceaseless, and impossible to stop.
Every promising youth from the recent tourney—be they squires, hedge knights, or sellswords—found invitations pressed into their palms. Coin, honor, and adventure in the service of the Valyrian fleet. Criston Cole was merely the brightest jewel among dozens drawn to the Sea Snake's banner.
---
The Archers' Triumph
The final day of the tourney was reserved for archery. Under the shadow of the Dragonpit, hundreds of bowmen lined the lists, their shafts glinting like starlight in the noon sun.
Among them rose three from the stormlands: Vince Swann, Carson Tarly, and Ser Loreon Caswell. Yet even they fell before a stranger from the western seas—a youth who called himself Raven Greyjoy.
Barely sixteen, Raven had the hard, lean strength of the Ironborn. His hair was bronze-dark and salt-tangled, his eyes as grey as storm surf.
When his final arrow split Caswell's shaft clean in two, the crowd gasped as one.
Daemon approached the young victor with the easy confidence of a prince who already knew he would be obeyed.
"The Kingsguard is recruiting," Daemon said, studying him. "Would you serve the crown?"
Raven's grin was sharp as a cutlass. "Who could refuse a prince's summons? I would be honored, Your Grace."
Then his voice turned sly. "The Sea Snake's men came to me first. But I am no dock rat to serve beneath a merchant's flag."
Daemon chuckled. "And yet the Sea Snake commands half the seas of Westeros."
"The Ironborn respect what he was," Raven said. "A mariner bold enough to cross the smoking sea. But now? He sells cargo to the very men he once raided. He steals our trade, our seas. My father died in the Stepstones, cut down by one of his fleets. I would see the debt repaid."
There was something in the boy's tone—iron and salt and quiet rage—that Daemon liked.
"Then you will fit well among my men," Daemon said.
---
The Melee of Bastards
Next came the grand mêlée—a brutal free-for-all where one hundred warriors fought until only a few remained standing.
When the dust settled, three names echoed across the field:
Franklin Hysham, an aged sellsword with scars older than most squires.
Lyonel Stone, a bastard of the Vale, tall and silent as the mountains.
Richard Storm, a youth from Storm's End who fought with a morningstar and no mercy.
Richard Storm's final blow shattered Lyonel's helm and sent him sprawling.
Daemon watched the carnage with a faint smile. "Send for them," he told his squire. "A man's birth means little. Skill earns my trust."
By nightfall, the three were sworn to Daemon's personal guard.
---
The King's Heir Victorious
The next morning, the crowds gathered once more for the most anticipated event—the joust of knights.
Prince Baelon of Dragonstone, Master of Laws and heir apparent, cut through his opponents one by one until only one remained: Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, victor of countless lists.
Even in his silver years, Ser Ryam's skill was undimmed. The two fought seven passes beneath a roaring crowd before Baelon's lance finally struck true.
King Jaehaerys rose, smiling proudly.
"Baelon is young, strong, and wise. In him, I see the future of House Targaryen."
Queen Alysanne nodded softly. "The dragons have never soared higher, my love."
Yet Daemon, standing below the royal dais, smiled faintly to himself. He knew the truth that none else did—Baelon's days were numbered, and all their dreams of stability would soon turn to ash.
---
A Father's Decision
That night, as the revels echoed through the Red Keep, Baelon clapped his newly knighted son on the shoulder.
"You fought well these past days," he said. "And now, it's time you learned a true man's duty. Tomorrow, we shall go before your grandsire and choose a wife worthy of you."
Daemon blinked, half-smiling. "So soon?"
"You are sixteen," Baelon said. "Old enough to fight, old enough to wed."
Later, as the torches burned low, Daemon confided in Gael.
"My father means to tie me down," he muttered. "Once I'm wed, I'll be sent off to rule some keep or corner of the realm."
Gael, pale and delicate as moonlight, lowered her eyes. "You once swore you would marry me."
Daemon laughed softly. "And you swore you would not have me."
"That was before you became this Daemon," she whispered. "The true dragon of our house. If you still wish it… I am willing."
He took her hand and brushed her silver hair aside. "Then let's see if the realm dares defy us."
---
The Council of Marriage
In the King's solar, the air smelled of parchment and candle wax. King Jaehaerys sat behind his desk, Queen Alysanne beside him, Baelon standing proud.
"Daemon," said the King, "you are of age. The court is alive with gossip—half the ladies of the realm have already set their sights on you."
Baelon listed names: "Candace Rowan, Callie Redwyne, Joanna Lannister, Diana Tully, Rhea Royce—all fine matches."
But before Daemon could reply, a soft voice spoke.
"I am willing," said Gael Targaryen.
Silence fell.
King Jaehaerys looked up, astonished. "Gael? You have always said you had no affection for your cousin."
"Daemon has changed," Gael said firmly. "And so have I."
Queen Alysanne frowned. "Such a match would please neither the Faith nor the court. The bloodline is already tangled enough."
Daemon stepped forward, his voice sharp as dragonsteel.
"Our bloodline is what makes us dragons. The Faith does not bind us—the blood does. Should we pollute it with lesser houses, as if the Lannisters or Tullys could ever birth a dragon?"
He took Gael's hand, defiant.
"Marry me to a lady of the Reach or Riverlands, and our blood flows outward—our dragons with it. Look at the Velaryons! They have dragons of their own now because we sought alliances instead of strength."
His words fell like sparks in dry grass.
King Jaehaerys leaned back, eyes shadowed. "You speak as your foremother Visenya once did. She, too, believed dragon blood must never thin."
Daemon bowed slightly. "Then perhaps the gods sent me to remind our house of what we were."
The old King said nothing. The candles flickered. And in the silence, a new seed of fire took root—one that would one day set the realm ablaze.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 30+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics