# The Red Keep - Jaehaerys' Chambers, 105 AC
The afternoon sun slanted low through the tall windows of the prince's chambers, casting long shadows across polished flagstones that gleamed like black water. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, though most were soon disturbed by the restless energy of the room's young occupant. Tapestries depicting Valyrian dragons wheeling above smoking towers hung heavy on the walls, their colors rich as spilled wine. A bronze helm sat atop a carved chest beside practice swords scarred from daily use—weapons that had already been outgrown twice over.
Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen stood before his mirror with the methodical precision of a seasoned knight preparing for battle, though he had seen only eight name days. His broad shoulders—unusual for his age—filled out the frame as he stripped away dragon-leather that still reeked of smoke and his mount's hide. Where most boys his age might struggle with the complex buckles and ties, his hands moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who had never accepted help he didn't absolutely require.
"Garrett," he called to his hovering servant, his voice carrying that distinctive dry humor that seemed far too mature for his years—the kind of deadpan delivery that could make grown men question their own competence. "Stop fidgeting like a maiden at her first feast. The leather won't fold itself, and I won't have it wrinkled like some merchant's cast-offs."
"Your Grace, surely I could—" Garrett began, wringing his hands.
"Could what? Make it more complicated?" Jaehaerys folded each piece of gear with military precision, his movements economical and sure. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he worked—every motion deliberate, waste eliminated. "There's a reason soldiers learn to tend their own kit, Garrett. Dependency breeds weakness. Weakness breeds death. I prefer to keep breathing, so I'll handle my own affairs."
He held up a piece of leather that Garrett had apparently been reaching for. "This goes here, not there. The buckle faces inward to prevent catching on armor joints. If you're going to help, at least learn the proper way."
"Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me, I just—"
"You just think because I'm eight, I need mothering." Jaehaerys' tone wasn't unkind, but it carried absolute finality. "I've been dressing myself since I was five, Garrett. I've been caring for my own weapons since I was six. Trust me to manage a doublet."
He reached for the garment in question—black silk shot through with bronze threads that caught the light like captured fire. The weight of two bloodlines settled across his shoulders as he fastened it with practiced ease. Where other boys might fumble with the intricate clasps, his fingers moved with the surety of someone who had never doubted his own competence.
The green woolen cloak followed, deep as pine forests, clasped with a brooch bearing both dragon and runic bronze. The combination was striking—Targaryen fire tempered by Royce stone, silver-gold hair with those distinctive bronze streaks that marked him as something unique in a world of pure bloodlines.
At his hip, he buckled his sword—the third he'd outgrown, though this one seemed to fit him as if forged for his hand alone. The weight sat perfectly, the balance exactly right. In the mirror, the boy became something else entirely. Eyes that had seen too much, understood too deeply, gazed back from a face still young but marked by premature wisdom.
He tilted his head, studying his reflection like a general assessing an opponent. His mouth curved—half smile, half predator's acknowledgment of worthy prey.
"Almost civilized," he murmured to himself, adjusting the sword's position with minute precision. "Almost what they expect a prince to be." His fingers traced the hilt absently, and for a moment something dangerous flickered across his features. "Too bad dragons weren't meant for silk and ceremony."
A soft but insistent knock interrupted his musings.
"Your Grace," Garrett's voice was carefully measured, having learned to read the subtle signs of his young master's moods. "Word from the gates—Lady Rhea's party approaches from the east. His Grace the Prince Daemon awaits your presence in the courtyard."
Jaehaerys gave his reflection one final appraising look, then turned with the kind of fluid grace that made observers forget they were watching a child. "Tell my father I'll join him when I'm ready. Not before." He paused at the door, glancing back with that crooked half-smile that could charm or unnerve depending on the recipient. "And Garrett? Next time someone tells you to hurry a dragon, remind them that fire doesn't rush for anyone's convenience. We arrive precisely when we mean to."
---
## The Gates of the Red Keep
The massive oak gates of the Red Keep stood open like the maw of some ancient beast, their iron bands scarred from forgotten sieges and bearing the patina of centuries. The courtyard beyond buzzed with controlled chaos—squires darted between shadows carrying messages and equipment, guards maintained their posts in the black and red of House Targaryen, and nobles lingered at the periphery like carrion birds, ears straining for whispers of tomorrow's feast and whatever fresh intrigue it might bring.
Daemon Targaryen prowled before the gates like a caged predator, his lean frame coiled with the kind of restless energy that made seasoned warriors step aside without quite knowing why. Pale hair caught the sunlight like spun silver, while violet eyes tracked every movement in the yard with predatory interest—cataloging threats, opportunities, and entertainment in equal measure. Black leather hugged his form, cut to flatter as much as protect, and Dark Sister hung at his side in that casual way that suggested the blade was as natural to him as breathing.
He radiated the kind of dangerous charm that made half the court hope for trouble and the other half pray fervently against it.
The sound of measured boot steps drew his attention, though he didn't turn. He didn't need to—he could identify his son's approach by the cadence alone.
"Took you long enough," Daemon drawled, his voice carrying that familiar lazy arrogance that had started three duels and ended two marriages. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to fly back to Runestone on principle. Leave your dear father to face the bronze wolves alone while you sulked in your chambers like a proper princeling."
"The thought had considerable merit," Jaehaerys replied, striding forward with the bearing of a man twice his age and thrice his patience. His green eyes glittered with amusement as he adjusted his cloak with unnecessary precision. "But someone needs to prevent you from starting three wars before the second course. Besides, I hear tonight's theatrics promise more entertainment than those dreadful mummers you inflicted on us at Maidenpool."
"Those mummers were educational," Daemon protested with mock offense. "Nothing teaches the value of good entertainment like suffering through truly abysmal attempts at it."
"Father, they made the tragedy of Aegon the Conqueror into a comedy. I'm fairly certain that violates several laws, both divine and temporal."
Daemon turned fully now, violet eyes raking over his son with the assessment of a swordmaster examining a promising new blade. What he saw clearly pleased him—a boy already tempered into something harder than castle steel, shoulders squared like a soldier's, chin raised with the kind of quiet confidence that couldn't be taught or faked.
"You look like a prince," Daemon said, genuine pride threading through his words like gold wire through dark silk. "Let's see if you can act like one when the vultures come circling for scraps of tomorrow's feast."
"I've been practicing," Jaehaerys said with that dry delivery that could make grown men question their life choices. "Though I find vultures prefer the direct approach. Less posturing, more results. Cleaner kills, if you'll pardon the metaphor."
"I'm not sure I should encourage this bloodthirsty streak of yours."
"You say that, but you're smiling."
"I'm always smiling. It unnerves people."
Before Daemon could elaborate on his philosophy of strategic intimidation, the thunder of approaching hooves echoed across the cobblestones. A column of riders swept beneath the gates like a bronze avalanche, mail glinting in the sun, banners snapping with the ancient runes of House Royce that spoke of First Men pride and mountain stone stubbornness.
At their head rode Lady Rhea herself—tall and commanding in the saddle with the natural grace of someone born to horseback, auburn hair woven with bronze wire that caught the light like captured flame. Her bearing spoke of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question or delay, the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to shout to be heard across a battlefield.
She dismounted with fluid grace, moving with the confidence of a woman who had never doubted her place in the world or her right to it. Even in travel leathers, she managed to look like she was holding court.
"Bronze before gold," Jaehaerys murmured to his father, his crooked smile widening into something that suggested deep appreciation for the performance about to unfold. "And always arriving at precisely the right moment to steal someone's thunder."
"My beloved wife!" Daemon spread his arms in an exaggerated gesture of welcome that fooled absolutely no one but entertained everyone. "She who brings light to these dreary halls and such delightfully sharp conversation to my otherwise tedious existence! Truly, King's Landing is blessed by your presence. The Vale must be positively desolate without your guiding hand—I imagine the sheep are practically throwing themselves off cliffs in despair."
Rhea fixed him with a look sharp enough to cut glass and twice as transparent. When she spoke, her voice carried the kind of crisp authority that could silence a war council or make seasoned knights check their posture.
"My dear husband," she replied, somehow managing to make the endearment sound like both a threat and a promise, "your castle might benefit from more than just my charming presence. Perhaps we could start with servants who don't scatter like startled sparrows every time your dragon so much as hiccups. I passed at least three maids hiding in alcoves on the way here."
"Where's the entertainment in that?" Daemon countered, his grin turning positively wolfish. "Half the pleasure of owning Caraxes is watching grown men wet themselves when he stretches his wings. The other half is making dramatic entrances at precisely the worst possible moment for maximum chaos."
"How wonderfully predictable of you," Rhea said with the kind of cool precision that could frost wine in summer. "Though I suppose consistency has its own charm, even when it involves terrorizing the staff for sport. Do you at least warn them first, or is surprise part of the experience?"
"Warning them defeats the entire purpose, my dear. Fear keeps people honest."
"No, fear keeps people paralyzed. There's a difference, though I don't expect you to appreciate the distinction."
"She's got your measure, Father," Jaehaerys interjected, barely containing his laughter as he watched the familiar dance of wit and warfare that passed for affection between his parents. "Thoroughly and completely."
"Et tu, my traitorous heir?" Daemon placed a hand over his heart in mock wounded fashion that would have impressed the mummers at court. "Here I thought blood meant something in this family."
"Blood means everything," Jaehaerys replied with perfect sincerity. "That's precisely why I'm honor-bound to point out when you're being ridiculous."
Rhea's stern expression melted completely as she turned to her son, warmth transforming her entire bearing like sunrise over the mountains. She pulled him into her arms with fierce affection, the kind of embrace that spoke of months apart and genuine love that could survive any amount of political maneuvering.
"My darling boy," she murmured, holding him tight enough to suggest she was reassuring herself he was real and whole. "You've grown again—I swear you add inches just to spite me. You look every bit the prince, though I'd wager that sword of yours has seen more use than most courtiers would credit."
"Everything in this family sees more use than expected," Jaehaerys replied, his voice warm with genuine affection even as his eyes danced with mischief. "How was the journey? And please tell me Cousin Gunthor didn't spend the entire ride lecturing about proper escort formations and the seventeen different ways our route violated military doctrine."
"Eighteen different ways," came a rumbling voice from behind them. "I thought of another one just as we passed through the gates."
Ser Gunthor Royce had dismounted and joined the group with the kind of measured precision that suggested every movement was considered, calculated, and potentially devastating. Tall as a keep's tower and broad as a siege engine, he moved with the deliberate grace of a man who had learned that his size required careful control lest he accidentally demolish whatever he was trying to help.
Bronze-studded mail gleamed across shoulders that looked capable of supporting the Red Keep's roof without strain, and his weathered face held the patient expression of someone accustomed to being underestimated by cleverer men—and proving them catastrophically wrong.
"Your son," Gunthor continued, his voice carrying the subtle warmth of genuine fondness beneath its gravelly bass, "has a deeply troubling habit of answering questions before they're properly asked. I'd call it sorcery if I believed in such nonsense, but since I'm a practical man, I'll settle for calling it unnerving."
He fixed Jaehaerys with a look that was equal parts affection and mock warning. "And yes, young prince, escort procedures exist for excellent reasons. Especially when certain ladies insist on taking paths better suited to mountain goats than civilized horses with any regard for their own necks."
"Efficiency over elegance, Uncle," Rhea declared with obvious pride, using the familiar address that spoke of bonds forged in childhood rather than mere political alliance. "That route saved us half a day's travel. Otherwise we'd have missed whatever 'crisis' has the entire Red Keep buzzing like a hive that's been kicked by particularly vindictive children with sticks."
Daemon's eyes narrowed suddenly, his casual arrogance sharpening into the kind of focused intensity that had won him Dark Sister and a dozen lesser battles. "How exactly did you—" He stopped abruptly, mouth twisting as he caught the meaningful look exchanged between mother and son. "Seven bloody hells. Of course. The same way he knows about Pentoshi correspondence and Small Council deliberations before they happen. Sometimes I wonder if our boy's less a prince than a prophet with very inconvenient timing and an alarming talent for making me feel like an idiot."
"Why not both?" Jaehaerys asked, his expression all studied innocence masking what was obviously considerable mischief. "The realm could certainly use more of each. Prophets and princes both seem to be in rather short supply these days, along with common sense and decent wine."
Gunthor barked a laugh that sounded like boulders tumbling down a mountain. "The boy has a point. Most princes I've met couldn't prophecy their way out of a brothel with a map and a guide, let alone navigate actual statecraft."
"How many princes have you met in brothels, exactly?" Daemon asked with the kind of innocent curiosity that suggested dangerous territory.
"More than you'd expect, fewer than you'd hope," Gunthor replied without missing a beat. "Present company excepted, naturally."
"Naturally," Rhea said dryly. "Though I notice you didn't specify which part of the present company you were excepting."
For a heartbeat that stretched like the moment before lightning strikes, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Three generations stood there—bronze and silver, fire and stone, ambition and duty woven together like steel folded in the forging. The weight of history pressed down on them, along with the certainty that whatever came next would echo through the ages.
Then Daemon laughed, sharp and delighted, the sound cutting through tension like Dark Sister through silk. "Come then, my prophetic heir and my bronze battalion. Let's see what fresh chaos awaits us in the keep of kings. I have a feeling tonight will be memorable."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Rhea muttered, but she was smiling as she said it.
---
## Daemon's Chambers
The chambers of the Master of Ships commanded one of the finest views in the Red Keep—not through ostentation, for Daemon Targaryen had always preferred substance to gilt—but through their commanding prospect over Blackwater Bay. Tall windows stood thrown wide to catch the sea breeze, where afternoon sun scattered diamonds across the water and foreign ships rode at anchor like patient ravens awaiting carrion. The salt-tinged air carried hints of distant shores, exotic spices, and profitable violence.
Maps covered every available wall space in a testament to strategic obsession—detailed charts marking sea lanes and shipping routes, jagged annotations noting pirate activity in red ink that looked disturbingly like dried blood, the serpentine coastlines of both Essos and Westeros marked with a navigator's precision and a conqueror's eye for opportunity.
Weapons from across the known world decorated the remaining space: curved Myrish steel that could slice through mail like silk, brutal steppe axes designed for mounted warfare, an elegant Summer Island bow taller than most men and twice as deadly, and a pair of ornate Volantene daggers that had supposedly belonged to a triarch before their previous owner met an unfortunate end. Beauty and lethality in equal measure, much like their owner.
Daemon lounged in his chair with feline grace, wine cup balanced in his hand like he was born to hold it, violet eyes half-lidded but missing absolutely nothing. The pose was calculated—relaxed enough to seem harmless, alert enough to spring into action at the first sign of trouble or entertainment.
Beside him, Rhea had exchanged her travel leathers for a gown of bronze-dyed silk that caught the lamplight like liquid metal poured over curves that would have inspired poets if she'd allowed them to live long enough to finish their verses. She radiated the kind of contained energy that suggested a storm barely held in check.
Gunthor leaned against the wall with the casual ease of a man utterly confident in his ability to break the furniture if circumstances required—or if anyone looked at his family wrong. His massive frame somehow managed to make the stone walls look insufficient.
And before them all stood Jaehaerys—tall for his eight years, green eyes blazing with intelligence that made grown men uncomfortable and seasoned courtiers nervous. When he spoke, it was with the kind of matter-of-fact certainty that brooked no argument.
"Mother," he began without preamble, his voice carrying authority that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his years should allow, "tomorrow you must stay with Aunt Aemma. All day. From first light until well after the feast concludes. You and Aunt Amanda both, assuming she's arrived from the Eyrie."
Rhea set down her wine with deliberate precision, the kind of movement that suggested she was buying time to think rather than reacting from instinct. "That's oddly specific, even for you." Her gaze sharpened like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Explain why. Is Aemma in some particular danger beyond what already threatens any woman so near her time?"
"The birth will be..." Jaehaerys paused, choosing his words with surgical care, "complicated. More so than the maesters anticipate. They'll press for a male heir regardless of the cost. She'll need voices speaking for her life, not merely the sex of her child."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"You've seen something," Daemon said, straightening abruptly as interest sparked in his eyes like flint on steel. "One of your little... insights. Don't bother denying it—you get that look when you know things you shouldn't. Like you're watching events play out behind your eyes."
"I've seen enough," Jaehaerys replied evenly, his tone carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Enough to know the maesters will fail her unless someone reminds them, forcefully, where their true duty lies. And enough to know that what happens tomorrow will echo through years we haven't lived yet."
Rhea's expression hardened into something that could have been carved from Runestone itself, her jaw setting with the kind of determination that had helped her survive decades of marriage to Daemon Targaryen. "The boy speaks truth." Her voice carried the ring of absolute conviction. "Aemma deserves advocates who put her life above political convenience or royal succession. Amanda left the Eyrie a fortnight past—if the roads were kind and the weather held, she should arrive before nightfall."
She leaned forward, fixing her son with a mother's stare that could pierce armor and see straight through to the soul beneath. "But Jaehaerys... how certain are you of this? You speak with a confidence that frankly unnerves me, and I'm not easily rattled."
"More certain than the maesters with their herbs and prayers," he replied without flinching. "More certain than Uncle Viserys with his hopes and good intentions. Tomorrow will test all of us. Not just Aemma."
The words settled over the room like a shroud, heavy with implications none of them wanted to examine too closely.
Gunthor shifted uncomfortably, his massive frame somehow managing to convey unease despite his size. "The lad has that look again. The one that means we're all about to have a very interesting day whether we want to or not."
"Define 'interesting,'" Daemon said with the kind of careful casualness that suggested he was already reaching for Dark Sister in his mind.
"The kind where people make choices they can't take back," Jaehaerys replied with devastating simplicity.
"Lovely," Rhea muttered. "And here I thought I'd left politics behind in the Vale."
"And you, Father." Jaehaerys turned to face Daemon directly, his gaze steady and implacable. "Tonight you'll attend the full Small Council session. All of it. Not just the parts concerning ships and naval matters."
Daemon's eyebrows shot up like they were trying to escape his forehead entirely, and he barked a laugh that held no real humor. "The Small Council? In its entirety? You'd have me sit through Otto's interminable lectures on grain tallies and tax assessments? By all the gods, boy, I'd rather take Caraxes to the Stepstones personally and reduce every pirate nest to smoking ash and pleasant memories than endure Hightower's voice droning about customs duties and trade regulations."
"The letter from Pentos changes everything," Jaehaerys said flatly, his tone suggesting this was a fact as immutable as sunrise or the tides. "It concerns the Stepstones directly. Piracy has grown bolder, more coordinated. The Free Cities have reached their breaking point. Pentos now seeks formal alliance. With us."
The casual atmosphere in the room evaporated like morning mist before dragonfire. Rhea's head snapped toward her son with predatory focus. Gunthor straightened to his full, considerable height, suddenly looking less like comfortable family and more like the weapon of war he'd been trained to be. Daemon's easy grin transformed into something far more dangerous.
"How," Daemon asked, his voice gone soft and deadly in the way that made smart men check their weapons and fools soil themselves, "would you possibly know that?"
"The same way I know the tide tables," Jaehaerys replied with infuriating calm that suggested he was discussing the weather rather than classified correspondence. "It's true. That should be sufficient. Lord Corlys has been warning about this for months, but Ser Otto dismisses his concerns as the posturing of an ambitious lord with too many ships and not enough sense. Uncle Viserys prefers to hope the problem will resolve itself through the magic of wishful thinking."
He paused, letting that sink in before delivering the killing blow. "Without you in that chamber, Father, the decision falls to men who each see only half the truth and like what they see even less."
Gunthor rumbled agreement, his massive frame radiating sudden tension like a siege engine being wound. "The Vale has been hearing whispers. Merchant ships waylaid, cargoes vanishing into the mist, but the attacks are too coordinated for common piracy. Different banners, different methods, but they move like a single fleet with a single purpose."
"The Triarchy," Daemon spat the word like a curse that had personally offended him. "Those three-headed bastards think they can carve up the Stepstones like a feast day pig and leave us the scraps."
"Exactly." Jaehaerys nodded grimly, his expression carrying the weight of someone far older than his years. "Pentos offers gold to solve the problem. Lord Corlys will push for immediate military action—he's been spoiling for a proper fight since his last campaign. Ser Otto will sneer at the expense and suggest we negotiate our way out of what he'll call 'a merchant's quarrel.' Princess Rhaenys will weigh every word before committing to either side, because she's the only one in that room with sense."
His green eyes fixed on his father with laser intensity. "Uncle Viserys will wring his hands and wish desperately for peaceful resolution that lets him avoid making any actual decisions. You're the only one who can speak both to the brutal reality of warfare and to your brother's heart."
The silence that followed was pregnant with possibility and heavy with the weight of decisions yet unmade.
Rhea studied her son as if she could read his thoughts through sheer force of will. "You speak as though this single decision will echo through the years."
"Every choice echoes," Jaehaerys said with the kind of simple truth that cut deeper than any blade. "But some ring louder than others. How we answer Pentos will determine whether the realm sees House Targaryen as strong or weak. As protectors worthy of their crown or dreamers content to let the world burn around them while they compose songs about better days."
Daemon surged to his feet with explosive energy, restless power crackling around him like lightning before a storm. He began pacing before the windows like a wolf testing the bars of its cage, Dark Sister slapping against his thigh with each step.
"Gods help me, the boy's absolutely right. Viserys would debate and deliberate until the entire bloody tide swallows the docks whole and half the fleet with it." He spun to face them, decision blazing in his violet eyes like dragonfire given form. "Enough. I'll be there. Let Otto choke on his objections—it'll improve his complexion."
"Be there to counsel," Rhea warned, though her tone held fond exasperation rather than real reproach. She'd been married to Daemon long enough to know when he was genuinely committed versus when he was simply looking for entertainment. "Not to bait Otto into another spectacular shouting match that accomplishes nothing but wounded pride and broken furniture."
"I make no promises," Daemon replied with a grin that suggested mayhem was already being planned. "But I'll try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum."
"Perhaps just one or two carefully placed barbs," Gunthor suggested, his own grin making him look like a particularly jovial giant who happened to specialize in creative violence. "Anything more and the Hand might actually choke on his evening meal. That would be unfortunate."
"Unfortunate for whom?" Daemon asked with genuine curiosity.
"For whoever has to clean up the mess," Rhea replied tartly.
Daemon's laughter was sharp as a blade and twice as cutting. "One or two of my choicest observations, then. Just enough to remind our Lord Hand whose blood runs hotter and whose family conquered this realm with dragons and will."
"And whose family," Jaehaerys added quietly, "will determine whether we keep it."
The words hung in the air like a challenge to fate itself.
Rhea shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips despite her best efforts to maintain maternal disapproval. "You're all impossible. Completely, utterly, magnificently impossible."
"But effective," Jaehaerys pointed out with the kind of practical certainty that made him sound decades older than his years. "Tomorrow, while Aunt Aemma fights for her life and the council argues over pirates and pride, we'll know we've done everything possible to shape the coming storm."
He folded his arms with the composure of a seasoned commander who had seen too many battles and learned to accept what couldn't be changed. "The rest is fire and fate."
"Fire and fate," Gunthor repeated thoughtfully. "I like that. Has a ring to it."
"Everything has a ring when you say it," Daemon observed. "Your voice could make a grocery list sound like an epic ballad."
"That's a very specific talent," Rhea noted.
"You're son is a man of many gifts," Gunthor replied with mock solemnity.
The words hung in the air like an oath sworn before the Old Gods and the New, as if the ancient stones of the Red Keep itself had marked them for remembrance. The boy spoke with the voice of prophecy wrapped in the practical certainty of someone who had glimpsed the future and found it wanting.
For the Dance was coming, though they did not yet name it so. And in that chamber, surrounded by maps of distant wars and weapons from forgotten battles, a family prepared to face the storm that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms forever.
The game of thrones waited for no one, but perhaps—just perhaps—it could be played with enough skill to change the rules entirely.
---
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