Disclaimer : I Own Nothing
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96 AC
It took a while for the world to stop spinning. My palms pressed against the cold metal of the bronze mirror, breath fogging the surface. The face staring back wasn't that of some man reborn through cheap sorcery. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had molded my soul from birth, let me live as Daemon Targaryen, then peeled away the layer as if it were paper.
The memories came like a sledgehammer to my head—painful both physically and emotionally.
After Grandfather's decision, when Rhaenys was passed over, she left without a glance. That cut deeper than I admitted.
Gael had been the only one with me during those times—when our cousin left, when the family grew colder. She laughed with me without fear. Now Alysanne, fearing our closeness, kept her locked away from me like a songbird in a gilded cage.
So I did what a lonely Targaryen boy with a man's body does.
I drowned in vice.
Blood, wine, whores—soft mouths, bruised lips, sweat and laughter tangled in the dark. I took what I could get, because affection here came only at a price, and I could afford it.
Now, with my memories back, I understood why Daemon became who he was.
He loved fiercely, and every love was turned against him. He served, and every service was spat on.
Viserys would use me until I overshadowed him, then cast me aside. It's the way of weak men with power—they fear reflection.
I smirked at that thought, watching my body in the mirror. The cut of muscle, the faint scars along my ribs—marks of training and temper. This, at least, was mine.
The door opened.
"Prince Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne."
"And King Jaehaerys, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."
Seven, when six obey. The irony almost made me laugh.
A snort still escaped me.
They both looked at me as if they'd caught me doing something unholy. In a way, they had—I was thinking for myself.
Jaehaerys spoke first. "Share the jest with us, Daemon. We would also laugh."
"Your Grace," I said, combing a hand through my hair, "you would not find it… appropriate."
His eyes narrowed. Baelon shifted, uncertain. The air between us grew sharp.
"Daemon, you will cease this debauchery and start behaving. That is final."
I turned slightly, smirk still curling my lips. "Zȳhon Grace, nyke issa daor ao buzdari."
(Your Grace, I am not your slave.)
His composure cracked. Baelon's face tightened.
"Daemon," he said quietly, "must you always test patience? This rebellion—"
"Rebellion?" I laughed once, bitterly. "No. I've simply learned not to mistake obedience for loyalty. Everyone who did their duty in this family ended up dead or miserable. Forgive me if I choose not to die by obedience."
My father flinched, but I wasn't done.
"And what use is marriage to some Vale girl when Viserys already plays at being king? He lies with a girl of thirteen and you call it duty. At least my whores are grown women. I make no bastards, and I don't kill girls who should be playing at childhood instead of being forced into beds."
The silence that followed burned hotter than dragonflame.
"Queen Alysanne's matches have been disasters, and she did this because she loathes your Father's decision to make you heir. You know it. Yet you'd gladly watch me drown just so you can't oppose your father's will. For what? To make me more respectable—or more lordly? Sorry, my Crown Prince, I've no idea what else you need from me."
I fastened my belt, movements calm but deliberate. "Respect is a mask. I'd rather wear my sins openly than paint them gold."
I met Baelon's gaze. "If being your son means bowing to every whim, then perhaps it's time you disown me. You'd sleep easier—and I'd feel freer, wouldn't I?"
When I left, they didn't follow.
Jaehaerys's hand twitched; Baelon's mouth opened and closed like a man half-drowned in regret. I could feel the weight of what I'd just done—but the truth was liberating.
Outside, the Red Keep seemed colder, smaller. The city below pulsed with life and stench—real life, not the perfumed rot of court.
At the Dragonpit, I called to the keepers.
"Naejot jorrāelagon Caraxes's saddlon."
(Prepare Caraxes's saddle.)
When he came forth, his crimson scales glistened in the sun. His snout brushed my chest, warm and alive.
"Valzȳrys," I whispered. "Hāedroma sȳz. Ñuha valzȳrys, nyke gōntan nīþir tymagon hen bisy dōrī gūrēñagon."
(Brother. Let us fly well. I've grown weary of this petty world.)
He roared, shaking the pit's walls.
When we took to the air, I laughed—genuinely this time. The city shrank, the wind tore at my hair, and every drop of blood in me sang.
Being in the air—flying atop a dragon. What kid in his life didn't dream of it?
Such exhilaration and rush—what a rush.
And the connection—Gods, he is mine and I am his. We are one being.
For hours, we chased the wind and dove through clouds. Below us lay forests, rivers, the edge of the Kingswood. When he landed to hunt, I took a strip of meat, raw and warm, cooked it over the fire, and chewed while Caraxes devoured his kill. The taste was bland but grounding.
When we returned, I gave the keepers a command they didn't dare question.
"Naejot ivestragī. Hen bisy tolvie, ziry ēza jelmazmo."
(Do not chain him. From this day forth, he shall be free.)
I placed my hand on Caraxes's snout one last time.
"Ābrar se se hāedrȳ, kostilus syt daor ēza vali arlī pȳdas. Soves sȳz, ñuha jorrāelagon."
(Find a home near the city, where no men will disturb you. Fly freely, my friend.)
When he lifted off again, the ground shook.
I watched him disappear into the crimson dusk and realized—for the first time—I owned something no Targaryen could ever take from me.
Freedom.