This chapter turned out much larger than I expected, so I'll be splitting it into two parts.The next part will be posted on Christmas 🎄
I've also opened a new P@tr3on, where you can read up to the latest chapters. I'll be working on the story over this weekend, since I won't be free again next week until Christmas Eve.
Thank you for your patience and for sticking with the story. I genuinely appreciate it.
🐑 Smallfolk of the Realm
Access: Early Access Tier
Read one chapter ahead of normal public posting
Support the story at its roots
Ideal for readers who want to stay just ahead of the crowd
The whispers start with the smallfolk. Always have.
⚔️ Landed Knights
Access: Consistent Reader Tier
Read 2–3 chapters ahead of public release
Access to all fanfiction chapters at the same pace
Regular, uninterrupted reading experience
You serve the realm directly. You deserve more than rumors.
🏰 Nobles of the Realm
Access: Full Chapter Access
All released chapters available immediately
No waiting, no gaps
Read at your own pace, whenever you wish
The nobility sees the board more clearly than most.
🐲 Great Houses
Access: Chapter + Draft Access
All chapters available
Access to drafts and work-in-progress chapters
See how the story is shaped before it is finalized
The Great Houses don't just react. They prepare.
👑 Royal House (Blood of the Dragon)
Access: Full Influence Tier
All chapters and all drafts
Early access to experimental content
Ability to suggest "what if" scenarios
Request scenes, perspectives, or explorations
Suggest stories from other fandoms (if I'm familiar and able to write them)
You are the House of the Dragon. You do not merely witness reality. You shape it.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Narrator POV
Aemma Arryn sat curled near the brazier, a shawl around her shoulders despite the warmth of the chamber. Pregnancy played cruel games with her body, turning heat into chills and chills into burning flushes, a cycle her cousin Daemon had been tracking with obsessive attention.
Princess Gael sat beside her, humming softly while stitching pale blue flowers onto a handkerchief. She always embroidered flowers. Soft, bright things. Things she wished the world had more of.
The door opened.
Daemon stepped in.
Not stalking, not swaggering, but controlled. Too controlled. Aemma recognized it immediately.
"Zȳhos ñuhys, Daemon," Aemma said softly. (Your face, Daemon.)
Gael straightened. "You look like someone swung a hammer at your temper."
Daemon closed the door quietly behind him, the first sign this was not a casual visit.
He crossed the room and sat opposite them, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.
Aemma exchanged a glance with Gael.
Something was wrong.
"Aunt Gael. Cousin Aemma."
His voice was low. No flourish. No playful smirk.
Aemma's brows knit. "Did something happen, Daemon?"
"Many things, dear cousin," Daemon muttered. "Foolish and dirty moves by enemies who hide behind honeyed words, praise, and titles."
Gael blinked. "What happened?"
Daemon huffed, then sighed as he leaned back. "I uncovered corruption at a level I did not expect. Orchestrated by Reach lords. And it leads back to House Hightower."
He looked pointedly at Aemma.
She winced. "Oh. Viserys…"
"He went to Grandsire," Daemon said sharply. "Complained about my actions against the Reach. Called it folly. Grandsire refused to even entertain him and put him in his place."
His jaw tightened.
"From now on, Viserys trains under Kepa and studies with Septon Barth. Nothing else. And he is to take care of you, then give your body time to recover and let you grow more after this pregnancy."
Gael's voice softened. "Your brother is kind, nephew."
"And that is the issue," Daemon replied, his tone rising slightly. "He expects to be a king through kindness alone. He believes nobles do not lie, except his own blood, who would lie to him."
The room fell silent.
Then Daemon shifted, abruptly, to the real reason he had come.
He leaned forward, eyes on Aemma.
"You are with child. From this moment forward, no maesters will touch you. Only the Essosi healers I brought, and the handmaidens I personally trust. No one else."
Aemma nodded slowly. Gael's needle slipped from her fingers and clattered softly to the floor. The meaning of his words landed all at once.
Aemma's breath caught. "Daemon… that is a serious accusation."
"It is not an accusation," Daemon said evenly. "It is a precaution."
"You brought the Essosi healers only to assist," Aemma said uneasily.
"Yes," Daemon cut in. "To observe. To monitor the maesters. To confirm nothing malicious was being done."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"Now they replace the maesters entirely. For both of you."
Aemma stiffened. "Daemon, if the maesters or the Citadel notice…" She trailed off, wincing.
"Let them notice," he snapped, his voice hoarse with restrained fury. "I do not care if the entire Citadel marches here with chains and scrolls. They will not touch you."
Gael whispered, "Daemon… this is dangerous."
He looked at her, really looked, and his anger dulled into something protective.
"Gael. Rytsā." (Aunt.)
"I know it is frightening. I know you trust the white robes because the world taught you to."
He took her trembling hand.
"But the Citadel does not love you. I do."
Gael swallowed hard, eyes shining.
Aemma steadied herself. "Daemon… is this about the council?"
He hesitated. For Daemon, hesitation was answer enough.
She sat up straighter. "Daemon. Tell us."
Gael added softly, "Please. No half-truths for family."
Daemon exhaled, long and heavy.
"I do not believe our family died so easily," he said. "I checked. No other house loses children this way. Anyone who could become an obstacle vanished during our grandparents' time."
Aemma froze. Gael's breath hitched.
"I will tell Grandsire," Daemon continued, voice cold. "But until then, you must be safe."
He went on.
"Why did five of Grandsire's children die before ten? Why did my uncles die as infants? Why did my mother and my little brother Aegon fade like smoke? Why did Grandfather Aenys' line, the uncrowned Aegon's progeny, perish except for one girl?"
He gestured sharply.
"We ride dragons. Our blood is magic. We do not die like candles in a draft."
Aemma whispered, "Daemon… you sound like—"
"Paranoid?" he snapped. "Good. Paranoia keeps people alive."
Gael's hands trembled.
Daemon lowered his voice again.
"The Reach hates Father. They hated Uncle. They fear me. They see Viserys as a soft shield."
Aemma's eyes widened.
"Without Kepa and me beside him, and without a dragon of his own, they can control him."
Aemma covered her mouth. Gael looked ill.
"So," Daemon said, steady as stone, "you will listen to me."
He looked at Aemma.
"You will trust only the healers I brought from Braavos and Lys. They answer to me, not Oldtown."
Then to Gael.
"And you will let them treat you as well. No maesters' potions. No milk of the poppy from their hands. If you need anything, anything at all, I provide it."
Gael nodded shakily.
Aemma whispered, "This will cause scandal."
Daemon leaned back.
"Let it. Let every lord in Westeros whisper. Let Oldtown rage. I do not care."
His voice dropped to a lethal hush.
"If any harm comes to my blood, I will burn their Citadel to embers and salt the ashes."
Aemma and Gael stared at him, frightened yet reassured.
Because they knew the truth beneath the fury.
Daemon never made empty threats.
And if it came to this, he would follow through.
Private Family Council
Narrator POV
The doors closed behind Baelon and Daemon with a heavy, final thud that echoed faintly through the chamber.
The sound lingered.
Jaehaerys looked up sharply from the table, his pale eyes immediately alert. Alysanne sat beside him, her hands folded in her lap too tightly, knuckles faintly pale. Baelon did not take a seat, remaining where he stood with his shoulders squared and his jaw locked as though bracing for impact. Daemon stood beside him, posture straight, expression composed, almost formal in its restraint.
Daemon inclined his head, controlled and precise.
"Your Grace. Father. Grandmother."
Jaehaerys studied him for a long moment before speaking. His voice, when it came, was measured.
"Baelon tells me you have troubling insights. Sit."
Daemon's eyes flicked briefly to Baelon. Baelon gave a nearly imperceptible nod, the kind meant for battlefields, not rooms like this.
Daemon stepped forward and took a seat opposite the King. He did not relax into it. His spine remained straight, hands resting loosely together, fingers occasionally tightening and loosening as though testing his own control.
Jaehaerys leaned back slightly and gave a single command.
"Speak."
Daemon lifted his gaze and met his grandsire's eyes fully. What looked back was not defiance, but something more complicated. Anger held in check. Frustration ground down into sharp focus.
"When I first uncovered the corruption in King's Landing," Daemon began, his voice steady but edged, "I thought it was greed. Coin and power scraped together wherever they could be found. Isolated pockets. Petty thieves hiding behind banners."
Alysanne's breath left her in a thin, unsteady exhale, as though she already feared where this was going.
"But over the past two moons," Daemon continued, "something else emerged. Patterns. Connections where none should exist."
Jaehaerys' fingers stilled against the arm of his chair.
"Whose hand?" he asked.
Daemon did not answer immediately. His jaw set.
"The Reach," he said at last. "Oldtown in particular. With the Faith and the Citadel involved. I do not yet know to what extent."
Alysanne's shoulders tightened. Baelon exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound of restrained anger. Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes slightly, but otherwise remained unmoving.
"Explain," the King said.
Daemon nodded once. His voice dropped, quieter now, heavier.
"I began tracing lines. Not just the crimes themselves, but the people behind them. Their kin. Their sworn banners. Every man I dug up had some tie, close or distant, to Oldtown or those who answer to it."
He reached forward and placed a parchment on the table. The sound it made against the wood seemed far louder than it should have been.
"And then," Daemon said, "I looked backward. At us. At our house."
Alysanne flinched visibly this time, her fingers curling into her sleeve.
"Grandsire," Daemon said quietly, "almost all your children died."
Alysanne's breath caught, sharp and audible. Baelon closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though steadying himself against a blow long anticipated.
Daemon did not rush his words.
"The sons," he continued, "Uncle Aemon, Uncle Vaegon, Father. They survived to adulthood. The daughters survived only if they removed themselves entirely from the political board."
"Daemon," Alysanne whispered, her voice breaking.
He lifted a hand, palm outward, not to silence her but to steady her, a small, almost apologetic gesture.
"Septa Magelle withdrew into the Faith. Uncle Vaegon vanished into the Citadel. Aunt Saera fled after you punished her, before she could be used, or because the circumstances surrounding her exile were never as clean as they were presented."
Alysanne's eyes glistened.
"Aunt Viserra," Daemon went on, his voice tightening, "died either trying to escape a marriage that was cruel and foolish, or was helped along after the accident. Only Aunt Gael survived, and that only after Uncle Gaemon died in the cradle."
Jaehaerys' face darkened, lines deepening around his mouth.
"I am not claiming sorcery," Daemon said. "I am saying the pattern is wrong. Instinct tells me something is deeply wrong."
Silence settled heavily over the chamber, thick and suffocating.
Daemon pressed on before it could harden into denial.
"Then Uncle Aemon died," he said. "Right after he spoke openly of naming Rhaenys his heir, publicly and without retreat. He had no intention of fathering more children. Perhaps it was coincidence."
His gaze sharpened.
"Perhaps it was not. Either way, Oldtown benefitted."
The words hung in the air, heavy as smoke.
Alysanne closed her eyes, as if bracing against a truth she had feared for years but never allowed herself to name.
Daemon did not give her time to recover.
"They convinced themselves you bypassed Rhaenys because she was a woman," he said. His voice was steady, but something sharp lived beneath it. "They told themselves you think as they do. But she is a dragonlord in her own right. Uncle Aemon's heir."
Jaehaerys remained still, listening, his face carved into careful neutrality.
"You passed her over to wound Corlys and weaken Velaryon prestige once she took their name," Daemon continued. "And when you named Father heir, they saw the board clear. Their path opened. All that remained were small adjustments."
Baelon's hand tightened against the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as the implications settled in.
"That is when their game changed," Daemon said quietly. "Every move since then points to one aim."
He did not look away from Baelon.
"Removing Father before the crown can ever pass."
Baelon's shoulders drew taut, breath pulling sharp into his chest.
"You mean," he said slowly, voice rough, "they want me dead."
Daemon met his eyes without hesitation.
"Yes."
The word landed heavy, absolute.
"They believe that if you fall," Daemon went on, "Grandsire will have no choice but to crown Viserys. There would be protests. Corlys. The Stormlands. Those who want Rhaenys. But what could be done after the fact?"
His gaze flicked briefly to Alysanne.
"I do not think Grandmother would survive your death, Kepa. And if they can remove Aunt Gael at the same time, grief would finish what time began."
Alysanne let out a broken gasp, her hand flying to her chest.
"Grandsire alone," Daemon continued, his voice hardening again, "with a soft Viserys who wants to be loved. Then Barth must die. Quietly. Conveniently. And suddenly the board reshuffles itself."
Alysanne's breath shuddered.
"Viserys is easy for them," Daemon said. "They flatter him. Fill his cup. Tell him he is destined. Tell him he is the gentle king the realm needs."
His mouth twisted.
"All he requires is an heir to steady his claim, and he devours that fantasy without question."
Baelon swore under his breath, the word sharp and unguarded.
"They twist him by making him fear me," Daemon went on. "They know they cannot control me. I bend only to blood. So they seek to drive a wedge between us."
He shook his head slightly.
"Even if I handed Viserys a kingdom, he would not move unless he believed it his own idea. Once that happens, nothing else matters to him."
Alysanne's hand rose to cover her mouth, eyes shining with horror.
Jaehaerys leaned forward slightly, his voice cold enough to frost the air.
"They dare…"
Daemon did not stop.
"If Aemma gives him a son, they will shape that child from birth," he said. "If she gives him a daughter, they will control the girl's world while squeezing Aemma for a male heir until she breaks. Or dies."
Alysanne's voice trembled. "Daemon… gods…"
"And meanwhile," Daemon said, quieter now, "they expect you and Grandmother to fade. Age. Grief. Time does the work."
His gaze slid toward Gael's empty seat, then back.
"Gael they see as harmless. Sheltered. Without a dragon."
He paused.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer, but far more dangerous.
"And me," he said, voice level but edged like drawn steel. "They plan to taint. Discredit. Destroy. Any method will do. The whispers have already started. Maegor reborn."
The words landed and stayed there.
Silence followed, thick and crushing, settling into the room like ash after a fire.
Not disbelief.
Recognition.