Chapter 16: The Hill of the Poor
Candlelight flickered against the polished bronze of the Red Keep's council seals as King's Landing stirred with new order.
Though Prince Daemon was nominally under the command of Lord Commander Raymont Royce, it took only days for everyone—from the lowest recruit to the Hand of the King—to understand who truly commanded the newly christened Gold Cloaks.
By retiring the aged veterans, recruiting strong young men, and placing loyal, ambitious allies as captains of the city gates, Daemon reshaped the once-lax City Watch into a disciplined, formidable force. Their new black-scaled armor and golden cloaks gleamed under the sun—symbols of a prince who understood both power and image.
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The Hand's Inspection
When Hand of the King Maester Barth came to inspect the barracks, he was astonished by the transformation.
> "Daemon, you've truly done it," Barth said, his scholarly tone laced with admiration. "These Gold Cloaks—armed with short swords, staves, and daggers—are far more capable than the slothful City Watch of old. From now on, the safety of King's Landing rests with you."
Daemon bowed slightly.
> "The city is vast and lawless in corners unseen by lords or knights. I plan to establish watch-posts across every district, manned day and night. Patrols and permanent stations will ensure there is no longer any place for thieves or cutthroats to hide."
Barth smiled faintly, stroking his gray beard.
> "Visenya's Hill will soon house the Great Sept, but it is still crowded with poor hovels. You'll need to clear them out—with restraint. The King and Queen insist on no bloodshed. If you can find a way to resettle them… it would please both gods and men."
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The Prince and His Dragon
Outside, the blood-red shadow of Caraxes rippled over the cobblestones as he landed beside his rider.
Barth turned, shielding his eyes from the dragon's heat.
> "Your Caraxes has been roosting atop the Dragonpit dome lately," he said curiously. "Why not let him stay inside? Isn't that safer?"
Daemon's gaze lingered on the dragon's scarlet scales.
> "Caraxes is still young. I want him to grow. Cages breed weakness, Maester. A dragon confined cannot reach its full might."
Barth blinked, then laughed softly.
> "You echo my own conclusion—one I've debated for decades. I, too, believe that the Dragonpit stunted their growth. Yet the Citadel mocked me for it. Tell me, how did you come to see this truth?"
Daemon's eyes glimmered with quiet amusement.
> "Balerion, Vhagar, and Meleys all grew up free on Dragonstone—and they were the largest ever seen. But after the Dragonpit was built, those raised within its stone belly never reached such size. The wild dragons on Dragonstone's cliffs—untamed, unshackled—grew fastest of all."
Barth was silent, impressed.
> "Perhaps," Daemon continued, "if we opened the dome—let in sun and sky—the dragons inside would grow stronger. But Caraxes will not return there. His wings were not made for walls."
Barth's eyes gleamed.
> "A skylight for the Dragonpit... bold. I'll speak to the King. Perhaps, someday, your idea will save more than dragons."
Daemon only smiled. If only you knew how history once unfolded, he thought.
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The Hill of the Poor
Later that day, Caraxes soared over Visenya's Hill, where tents and huts sprawled like a shantytown beneath the shadow of the Sept-to-be. Lord Commander Raymont Royce waited below, armor gleaming, his men in orderly ranks.
The poor had gathered in fear, hundreds of hollow-eyed souls staring at the golden cloaks and the dragon above.
When Daemon landed, the crowd fell silent. Some wept, others prayed.
A search uncovered three thieves, heavy with stolen gold and jewelry. Daemon confiscated their loot without hesitation.
> "Smash their hands, I say!" growled Qidan Massey beside him. "Let others see what comes of thievery."
Daemon shook his head.
> "Chains will do. Let them atone with labor."
Then came two figures in chains—a weathered old Sister with a tattooed tear beneath one eye, and a young Monk trembling beside her.
Daemon arched a brow.
> "That mark beneath your eye... Volantis, isn't it? The slave mark of a pleasure priestess."
The old Sister smiled wryly.
> "Aye, Prince Daemon. I am Sister Annie, once a healer to the women of Silk Street. Perhaps some you've known were my patients."
Andy Harver snorted.
> "We found books in their tent—lewd tales and blasphemies!"
The monk stammered, "They're not blasphemies, my lord! Only... writings of what Sister Annie has seen. I merely wrote them down!"
Daemon's expression turned grave.
> "You have offended the gods, and such sins require punishment. Perhaps a walk through the streets—naked—will teach you humility."
Sister Annie's face drained of color.
> "Please, Prince Daemon! If men see me bare, who'll come to my bed again?"
Daemon chuckled.
> "So honest. Very well—no parade. Instead, you'll copy scrolls for me. Every heretic must atone through labor and ink."
They bowed low in relief.
Another pair of hands for my records, Daemon thought, already planning to use them for literacy and administration—things the Gold Cloaks sorely lacked.
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The Prince's Mercy
When the matter turned to the rest of the poor, Raymont wrinkled his nose.
> "This place reeks, Your Grace. Let's burn it all and drive them out."
Daemon frowned.
> "No. We'll resettle them."
He faced the fearful crowd.
> "You may take your belongings and leave freely. Those with nowhere to go—head to Flea Bottom; a canteen there offers warm stew. But those young and strong enough to work, come with me. Near the Blackwater Rush, I've opened land for farming. Serve well, and the land may one day be yours."
A heavyset woman raised her voice.
> "Who rules that land, my prince?"
Daemon's smile was thin.
> "The King does. I merely see it tended."
At that, hundreds came forward eagerly—drawn by hope and hunger. Daemon nodded. Hope is the strongest chain of all.
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The Prince Among Friends
As the Gold Cloaks cleared the last of the shanties, Daemon's companions gathered near Caraxes's resting place.
> "Blue Pearl's brought in a new batch of maidens," said Qidan Massey with a grin. "Shall we celebrate, Daemon?"
Daemon smirked.
> "Tomorrow is Princess Rhaenyra's birth tourney. I'll need to save my strength."
Bill Rosby laughed.
> "You're only in the squires' melee. Who could possibly beat you?"
Daemon's eyes glinted with mischief.
> "If I joined the knights' lists, Ser Ryam Redwyne himself would thank the gods I didn't."
The laughter of his men echoed across the empty hill, mingling with the distant roar of Caraxes. Above them, the moonlight bathed the Red Keep's spires—bright, cold, and watchful.
And thus, the Prince of
Flea Bottom took another step forward on the long road of power.
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