Chapter 35 — The Strange Marriage
For half a century, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had roamed their realm like wandering monarchs. Castle after castle, feast after feast, the smallfolk adored them, and even the most hardened lord softened beneath their smiles.
Now it was Daemon's turn. His first royal tour, a chance to measure himself not against smallfolk admiration but against the weight of history.
Yet, at Harford Hall, Daemon Targaryen — second son of Prince Baelon — found himself not in the council chamber but in the bed of Lady Susan Harford.
The affair burned hot and quick, like wildfire on dry hay. And when the heat ebbed, guilt rushed in to fill the hollow.
He lay there for a long while, staring at the timber ceiling, listening to the soft breath of the young countess beside him. What in the Seven Hells am I doing?
Gael, his wife, was in Maegor's Holdfast, heavy with his child. Her laughter echoed faintly in his mind, an innocence he'd buried under ambition and lust.
Daemon rose abruptly and fastened his belt, the gold buckle glinting in the firelight.
"This is folly," he muttered. "We have overstepped a line that should never have been crossed."
Susan stirred, confusion softening her face. "Where are you going, my prince?"
"Away," he said curtly. "Before we add sin upon sin."
Outside, the sept bells tolled softly, the air thick with incense and rain. Daemon passed beneath the carved faces of the Seven — Father stern, Mother sorrowful, Stranger mocking. He paused, uneasy, feeling the weight of unseen eyes upon him.
A septon's voice carried through the dusk. "Confess, my son. The flesh is weak, but repentance purifies the soul."
Daemon almost laughed. Purifies? I've waded too far into the mud for that.
When he turned, Lady Susan was there, pale and luminous in the torchlight. Her smile held no shame — only sorrow.
"Even the Rogue Prince seeks the gods when he's lost?"
"I need no gods," he said. "I am my own."
But she took his hand gently. "Then hear me, Daemon Targaryen. If the gods are cruel, it is because men are worse."
She led him to the stables, where the smell of hay and horse dung mixed with rain-soaked earth. The horses whickered softly, as if mocking them both.
Daemon smirked. "So this is where you take your lovers now? Among beasts?"
Her eyes flashed. "I take no joy in this. You think me wanton, but there are reasons I sought you."
"Such as?"
"Do you remember that young squire outside the sept — the one confessing?"
Daemon nodded. "Your lover, perhaps?"
She shook her head, trembling. "No. He's one of my husband's."
Daemon blinked. "Your husband's?"
Susan's voice dropped to a whisper. "Alen Lannister is not the man he pretends to be. He has no taste for women. I've been his ornament — his cover."
A donkey brayed nearby, and Daemon almost laughed at the absurdity. "Seven save me," he murmured.
Tears glistened in her eyes. "I thought I'd married a lion. Instead, I share a cage with a kitten who only purrs for other men."
Daemon sighed and rubbed his brow. Gods, what pit have I fallen into this time?
"You should seek an annulment," he said, though he knew how empty the words were.
"I've tried," she whispered. "He loves a squire named Ross now. They plan to flee to Lys — with my jewels and my name."
Later that night, Daemon listened to gossip from guards and servants. Every tale painted Alen Lannister as a greedy fool, more concerned with silk and wine than steel and honor.
So Daemon set a trap.
Two of his sworn swords, handsome and cunning, whispered to Alen and Ross about a fortune — ten thousand gold dragons and the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister, lying unguarded beside the sleeping Caraxes.
And greed, like wildfire, needs only a spark.
That night, drunk and fevered with desire and dreams of Lys, Alen crept toward the dragon pens. Caraxes slept like a mountain, crimson scales glistening beneath the moon.
"There," Alen whispered. "Gold, and a blade fit for a king."
But as his hand reached for Dark Sister, the mountain moved.
A rumble grew into a roar that shook the ground. Caraxes's great head rose, eyes blazing with molten fury. The dragon's throat glowed with fire — a heartbeat later, the world turned orange.
When dawn broke, all that remained of Alen Lannister was a blackened corpse, twisted in agony.
The next day, Daemon stood in the courtyard as the Kingsguard reported the incident.
"The squire confessed, my prince. Alen Lannister tried to steal your coin and blade. Caraxes burned him where he stood."
Lady Susan said nothing — only stared at the smoldering pyre where her husband's body turned to ash.
Daemon watched her for a long time. Pity flickered behind his violet eyes, then faded, replaced by something colder.
The gods punish folly, he thought. I merely provide the opportunity.
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