Jaehaerys' POV
The next morning, I summoned Daemon to my private council chamber.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, spilling warmth over the marble floor and glinting along the dragon-carved arms of my chair. The chamber was still — oppressively still — as though the air itself waited to see which way the wind would turn.
He entered with that infuriating composure of his — head high, shoulders squared, violet eyes catching the light like burnished glass. He bowed, a movement so brief it barely counted as courtesy.
"Your Grace," he said, tone clipped, perfectly measured.
"Daemon," I replied evenly, "sit."
He did not. Of course not. He preferred to stand, to loom — to meet my gaze as though daring me to flinch.
"After much consideration," I began, keeping my voice steady, "I have decided to annul your betrothal to Lady Rhea Royce."
His brows flicked upward. For once, something pierced his mask. The surprise was enormous; later, his face slowly replaced it with a happy smile — teeth bared and full.
"Well," he drawled softly, "will wonders never cease."
I folded my hands. "As the matter comes to an end, this marks a new beginning for you, Daemon."
Daemon tilted his head slightly. "A beginning of what, Your Grace?"
"Your command," I said simply. "From this day forth, you are named Prince Commander of the City Watch. You will oversee all its ranks, captains, and officers. You will answer to the Crown — and to no one else."
He blinked once, calculating. "You're giving me the Watch?" His lips curved. "And I answer to you alone? Not you and the Small Council?"
"I said you answer to me," I replied, sharper now. "You will be granted a full budget to reform and equip your men. The gold you have already spent will be reimbursed. From this day forward, the Watch will have what it requires — and it will have no excuses."
Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, "That's… generous, Your Grace. Almost suspiciously so."
My lips twitched. "Do not test my generosity, boy. It has limits."
He smirked faintly. "Then I'll try not to find them."
I exhaled through my nose — a sigh more than anything. "Tell me, Daemon — what do you intend to do with this command?"
His grin thinned, sharpening into something dangerous. "I intend to make the city bleed less, for one. The filth in King's Landing runs deep — smugglers, cutthroats, corrupt guards, even a few highborns with too many coins in their pockets and not enough conscience to spend them honestly. I mean to remind them that the Crown still rules here."
"Justice, then?" I said mildly. "You make it sound like a crusade."
Daemon shrugged. "It may happen that way, Your Grace. Most of the rot festers in the same old corners — Reachmen and Riverlanders who preach of the Seven and fill their coffers with sin. I'll need the freedom to deal with them properly."
I leaned back, studying him. "Why this newfound zeal for justice? The last I recall, you didn't consider the smallfolk much."
His grin faded, replaced by something quieter. "Because they spoke to me," he said simply. "They warned me. The fishmongers, the bakers, even the whores. They called me their prince. Their prince, Your Grace."
He gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Imagine that — a Targaryen of royal blood, warned by peasants to mind his step, lest he be robbed or gutted in his own city."
I frowned. His words landed harder than I cared to admit. My blood being harmed in my own city set a fire in my veins. Vermithor's loud roar echoed through the city, feeling my rage.
Daemon's eyes flicked upward, faint satisfaction and pride glinting in them.
I fixed him with a long stare. "You have your command. But hear me clearly, Daemon — if your justice touches noble blood, there will be proof. Witnesses. Confession. I will not have mobs in gold cloaks dragging men from their beds."
"Oh, there will be, Your Grace," he said with an amused tone.
Ha. It seems he already has evidence but hasn't acted yet — either for more proof or to decide whether to act. Well, I'm sure they didn't touch him; otherwise, it wouldn't have mattered to wait for him.
"Go, then," I said finally. "Make something of this charge."
He bowed — deeper this time, though the smirk lingered at the corners of his mouth. "As you command, Grandsire."
As he turned to leave, sunlight caught the hilt of Dark Sister at his side — a glint like fire across the marble floor.
There went the youngest dragon of my blood — unleashed upon the city, cloaked in gold and authority.
And I wondered, not for the first time, whether I had granted him command… or permission to set King's Landing ablaze in the name of order.
Ser Harrold Westerling's POV
Prince Daemon found me in the training yard as I ran through the morning forms.
The clang of steel on steel echoed off the walls; the air smelled of sweat, dust, and oil. Sunlight filtered through the open arches, catching motes of sand kicked up by each step.
He picked up a training sword and strode toward me. "Ser Harrold," he said, voice light, confident. "You've grown slow."
I raised a brow. "And you've grown bold, my prince."
He grinned, that same wolfish edge to his smile. "I was born bold. You were born cautious. Let's see which of us the gods favor today."
I sighed, lowering my visor. "As you wish, my prince."
He had the stance perfected now — balanced, easy, almost lazy to the untrained eye. The blade hung loose at his side, the weight of it absorbed into the line of his body. It was a deceptive posture; his center of gravity was coiled, his feet ready to spring.
I moved toward him at an angle, testing the distance. He adjusted his stance subtly — a half-step back, the shift of a duelist, not a knight. His eyes were bright, intent, reading every movement.
Then he struck.
The first exchange came fast — faster than I expected. Steel rang out as he met my guard, the jolt running up my arms. His follow-up was a short cut at my ribs, blocked in time, then a kick aimed low. I twisted aside, riposted with a downward slash. He rolled his wrist, caught it, and used the momentum to pivot, coming around behind me.
I turned just in time to parry another blow, sparks flashing where our swords met.
"Quicker," he taunted, grin widening. "The years are catching you, Ser Harrold."
"Perhaps," I said, stepping in close, "but experience counts for something."
I feinted high and struck low, catching him off-guard — almost. His knee came up sharply, knocking my blade aside before he countered with a horizontal cut that would've split me from hip to shoulder had I not twisted away.
The rhythm built — strike, block, counter, disengage. The training yard echoed with the crisp, clean rhythm of two skilled fighters pushing each other further with every exchange. Dust clung to our boots, sweat traced lines through the grime on our faces.
Daemon's style was different now — less brute force, more control. He had learned to wait for mistakes instead of forcing them. I saw flashes of real discipline in him — the kind that came from blood and battle, not drills.
But he was still reckless.
When I shifted my weight and opened my guard just slightly, he lunged for it — a perfect, precise thrust. I turned my wrist, caught his blade, and used his momentum to knock him off balance. My pommel came up toward his shoulder — but he twisted again, quicker than expected, driving his knee into my thigh and forcing the break.
We separated, both breathing hard.
He grinned, teeth flashing. "Still not too old, I see."
"Still too impatient," I replied.
That earned a sharp laugh. "Impatience wins wars."
"Not when it gets you killed first."
He circled me again, this time slower — measuring, assessing. Then he feinted left, pivoted on his heel, and swung from the right. I barely caught it on my guard, our blades screeching together before I pushed back hard, the clash of strength echoing across the yard.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved — blades locked, muscles straining. His eyes burned with that fierce, restless spark that never seemed to dim.
Then, with a sudden twist, he dropped low, swept my leg, and brought me down to one knee.
Before he could press the advantage, I surged forward, shoulder-checking him with all my weight. He staggered, but his balance held — and with a flick of his wrist, the flat of his blade tapped my shoulder.
"I yield, Ser," he said between breaths, smiling despite the sweat running down his neck.
I pushed myself up, letting the tension fade. "You fight better now. Less temper, more thought."
He shrugged, wiping his brow. "You've been saying that for years. Maybe I finally listened."
We rested on the edge of the yard, the clang of other swords echoing faintly around us. Daemon spoke first, his tone quieter now.
"I've been named Prince Commander of the City Watch," he said. "The appointment was made this morning."
I looked at him carefully. "Then you'll have your hands full."
He smirked faintly. "So I thought. Which is why I'll need yours as well. I want you to train some of them — teach them the basics. If they're to serve under me, they'll fight properly."
I nodded once. "My loyalty is to the House of the Dragon, my prince. If you're trying to help this city, I'll gladly see it done."
Daemon rose, sheathing the training blade. "Good. Then we begin at dawn."
He left the yard in that unhurried, confident stride of his — as though every step was part of a plan only he could see. I watched him go, the echo of steel still ringing faintly in my ears.
The Barracks of the City Watch
By evening, word of Prince Daemon's appointment had already reached the barracks of the City Watch. Predictably, the news was not met with enthusiasm.
The Watch's current commander, Ser Olyvar Buckler — a second son of a Hightower bannerman — ruled the Watch like a tavern gang. His officers lounged, cups in hand, when Daemon arrived.
He entered with two dozen of his chosen — lean, scarred, silent men in mismatched armor. His boots struck the cobbles with purpose.
"To what do we owe this royal intrusion? Come to see real soldiers at work?"
Daemon's face was unreadable. "You call this work?"
A few of the Reachmen chuckled. One of them — a tall, red-haired bastard from House Beesbury's lesser line — spat to the side. "We patrol the streets, Your Grace. Not your concern how we do it."
Prince Daemon tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Then allow me to clarify." He stepped forward, voice low but carrying. "As of this evening, by order of King Jaehaerys, I am the Prince Commander of the City Watch. Ser Olyvar Buckler, you are relieved of duty — effective immediately."
The laughter died. Olyvar blinked, then barked a short, mocking laugh. "You can't—"
Daemon's sword was out before he finished the sentence. Dark Sister's edge gleamed in the failing light, the point resting lightly against the man's throat.
"I can," Daemon said softly. "And I just did."
Olyvar's face turned red with fury. "You'll regret this, boy. The Reach—"
"—will do nothing," Daemon cut in coldly. "Because the Reach knows better than to challenge the Crown over a drunken fool otherwise fire and blood will be brought upon reach."
He leaned in closer, voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Take your men and leave King's Landing. You have until the sun sets. After that, I start hanging deserters and traitors from the city walls."
The silence that followed was heavy. Olyvar's eyes darted to the two dozen men standing behind Daemon — their faces hard, expressionless, hands resting on hilts.
Daemon's smile was faint and terrible.
"Dismissed."
Next Day
Ser Harrold Westerling's POV
Dawn found the Watchmen assembled in the yard — a ragged half-company of those who had not fled, not bribed, not bent the knee to other masters. They stood in loose ranks, sun catching the edge of mismatched helms and the dull sheen of worn mail. Daemon rode in like he always did: ease in his seat, purpose in his stride. He dismounted and walked the line himself, boots scuffing the gravel, eyes taking each man in as if measuring weight and soul at once.
"Listen well," he told them, voice carrying without flourish. "From this day forward, you may accept a bribe. But your loyalty is to the Watch — and to the Throne. Anything you take is to be reported to me."
He paced slowly, letting the words sink in. "When a man comes with coin, you will bring him before me and state why the bribe was given. If the coin is for protection — some merchant asking for safe passage, some householder paying to keep a gate closed to thieves — you will enforce that protection yourselves. Take the coin, give the promise, and keep your eyes on the man who paid. You serve the Watch; make that service count."
The men shifted. A few glanced at one another; others kept their faces blank. Daemon did not wait for them to settle.
"If the bribe is meant to subvert the Crown or to harm the people of this city — if it buys a lie, a false guard rota, or the silence needed to kidnap a child — you do not accept it quietly. You tell me. I will send another squad to handle the matter. The man who brought such coin will be used as our source. He keeps the payment for his information; we use what he knows."
He fixed them with a look that allowed no misreading. "If any of you keep bribes and do not inform me of the reason, pray to your gods for mercy — because I will find you."
A hush fell. The threat was plain and the consequence plain, and it steadied more than it frightened. Discipline had grammar.
"Ser Harrold Westerling will train you," Daemon went on, naming me openly. "Once every sennight you will come here for drills and instruction. You will learn to fight, to hold lines, and to read a street. If you do not understand an order or a tactic, you ask him. If you have trouble with coin, or with kin, or with any officer from a great house pressing you for favours — you inform me. I will see it done. Do not rely on other nobles. Rely on the Watch."
He drew a line in the air with his hand when he listed the chain of command. "The city watch answers to the royal family first: the King, then the Crown Prince, then the Commander. No other voice outranks that. You will prioritise the safety of royal blood in the city above all else."
He let that hang for a moment, then shifted to the work at hand. "We begin with the worst — the gangs that pressgang children, the houses that sell women as if they were wares, the places where men traffic in people and slaughter dignity for coin. For a week, we root them out."
The men who stayed had a look in their faces then that told me more than any banner: some had tired of theft, some had family to protect, some only wanted steady pay. Daemon paired his chosen with those Watchmen he judged salvageable, handing out tasks as though arranging pieces on a board.
Our weeks of operations were not theatre. We took no needless risks; we relied on informants, on the dogs of the docks, on fishermen who had seen boys taken from riverbanks. We watched doors for patterns, timed deliveries, and shadowed the same wagons until the driver grew careless. When we struck, it was with blunt speed: a dozen men in and out before the alarm could be sounded, doors kicked, bolts ripped, and chains cut.
Children found in damp cellars and locked rooms were freed and wrapped in cloaks, breathing in air like men coming up from water. Women bought and sold as merchandise were turned over to healers and septas where possible; where the goods of a house were evidence, we took it — ledgers, seals, receipts — and put men in irons. The men who resisted were held for the city gaol; those with noble backing were noted and shadowed until clear proof could be given to bring them before a court that would not be easily bent.
Every evening we returned to the barracks with lists: names, places, thin scrapings of proof that could be built into cases. Daemon would sit with these lists, staining a thumb with ink as he annotated who would stand guard, who would ride with a squad, who we would let go as a warning. He rewarded those who aided us — coin, small foodstuffs, a word to a lord when necessary — and he punished swiftly those who betrayed their oaths.
It was not theatrical justice. It was methodical. For a week the city felt a tightening — less the heat of panic and more the pressure of a hand that would not let evil breathe. Word spread: the prince commanded; the Watch answered; something in the gutters shifted.
When the week ended, the men had learned more than how to swing a blade. They learned that the Watch was a thing with teeth, that the Crown could reach where other houses could not, and that loyalty bought cheaply would not be tolerated. Ser Harrold's drills had turned ragged formations into crude order; Daemon's summons had given them purpose.
We had not yet touched the great corruption that sat in gilded halls, nor had we undone all the bargains paid in secret. But for the children taken from alleys and the women sold behind closed shutters, the city had, for now, a measure of reprieve — and for the Watch, a reason to stand.
The Small Council
Septon Barth's POV
The bells of the Red Keep tolled the hour as the Small Council gathered in the solar. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, thin and cold, glinting off the polished table where seven men sat to rule a realm — or at least to quarrel over how best to do so.
His Grace, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, presided as ever, calm and inscrutable. At his right hand sat Queen Alysanne, whose gaze could silence a lord faster than the King's decree. To her right, Crown Prince Baelon, Master of Laws, leaned forward with a frown that deepened as each report was read.
Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, had already surrounded himself with ledgers like a scribe preparing for battle. Lord Redwyne, the new Master of Ships, smelled faintly of the Arbor's best vintage, which I suspected he considered an extension of his office. Across from him, Grand Maester Allar adjusted his chains for the third time, as though their sound might lend his words weight once he began.
I sat opposite the King, parchment in hand, my quill hovering idly. The morning had already promised tedium.
It began, as such meetings often did of late, with complaint.
"The prince has overstepped," Lord Redwyne declared, slapping a palm against the table. "He dismisses officers without consulting His Grace, seizes ships under suspicion alone, and conducts raids at night as though the law were his personal sword."
"Better his sword than a Reachman's purse," muttered Lord Beesbury, not bothering to lift his eyes from his accounts.
Redwyne's face flushed. "You defend him? The man's made enemies of half the Faith already."
"Enemies of the corrupt," Beesbury corrected. "Since Prince Daemon's appointment, harbor revenues have nearly doubled. Merchants complain, aye — but they also pay. The smugglers no longer dine so well."
That earned a faint arch of the King's brow, though he said nothing.
Queen Alysanne's tone, when it came, was measured. "Revenue is not peace, Lord Beesbury. The people fear him."
"The people feared their neighbors before he came," Beesbury replied dryly. "At least now they fear someone honest."
The quill in my hand paused. It was a shrewd observation, if not a charitable one.
Grand Maester Allar cleared his throat with ceremony. "Your Graces, if I may—"
"You may," the King said mildly.
"The Reachmen," Allar began, "write with grievous concern. They claim Prince Daemon threatened their sons, their ships, even their chaplains. He has dismissed septons from the Watch entirely — men assigned for the spiritual guidance of our city's guardians. Without them, the Watchmen lack moral counsel, or any notion of penance."
Queen Alysanne turned to her husband, brows drawn. "Did he truly dismiss the septons?"
Before Jaehaerys could reply, the doors opened.
Prince Daemon entered the chamber as though he had been summoned by the gods themselves. No armor this time, only black leather and a cloak clasped with the sigil of the three-headed dragon. Dust still clung to his boots.
He bowed briefly to the King and Queen — and to none else, save for a curt nod to Lord Beesbury and a glance my way.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice clear, "you asked for an accounting."
The King gestured for him to proceed.
Daemon stepped forward, his tone measured but taut with restrained impatience. "Two sennights ago, I found the City Watch rotten. The Reachmen who led it fattened themselves on bribes. They took coin from smugglers and merchants alike, threatening smallfolk who could not pay. If a man refused them, his stall was broken, his goods seized, or his daughter harassed. And the septons—" he gave a sharp smile, "—the septons offered absolution for a price."
A low murmur passed through the council.
"At the harbor," Daemon continued, pacing now, "three ships might dock in a day, but only one was taxed. The other two? 'Exempted' — because they belonged to some pious Reach house with a septon's blessing. That is how sin hides itself: behind prayer and parchment."
Grand Maester Allar shifted in his chair. "Prince Daemon, if I may—"
Daemon turned his head, eyes cold. "Interrupt me again, Maester, and I'll toss you from that window myself."
there was a Battlefield commander's tone in that voice
Silence followed — the heavy, watchful kind.
He returned to the King. "We have spent two weeks cleansing the city. Gangs broken. Women freed from brothels where they were sold like livestock. Children rescued from those who'd press them into service or slavery. I do not need sermons to know what justice looks like."
Allar swallowed. "Justice, perhaps, but not mercy."
Daemon's gaze flicked toward him again, and the old man wisely said no more.
Queen Alysanne spoke next, voice even. "Why dismiss the septons, Daemon? They served to guide the Watchmen — to cleanse their conscience when blood was spilled."
Daemon turned toward her with a bow of respect, though his reply was ironclad. "If a watchman wants absolution, Your Grace, he may seek it in his own time and pay for it from his own purse. I'll not waste the Crown's gold on priests who buy silk robes and Dornish wine with the sins of better men. If the gods require coin to forgive us, then perhaps they can earn it themselves."
That earned a sharp breath from Lord Redwyne, and even Baelon's eyes widened slightly. But Daemon did not flinch.
Crown Prince Baelon, Master of Laws, spoke at last — his voice heavy with both weariness and blood-ties. "Your methods are bold, son, and your tongue sharper still. But you've stepped close to offending the Faith. You would do well to remember that the gods have long memories."
Daemon inclined his head, not contrite but acknowledging. "Aye, Father. So do dragons."
King Jaehaerys's expression did not shift. He simply regarded Daemon with that long, quiet scrutiny that could feel like judgment or approval — sometimes both.
"You've made enemies," the King said finally.
Daemon's mouth twitched. "Then I must be doing something right."
Beesbury closed his ledger with a quiet snap. "The numbers support him, Your Grace. The treasury gains where corruption once drained it. If the prince's hand is rough, it is at least clean."
Jaehaerys nodded slightly. "Then we shall see if these reforms endure longer than their maker's temper."
Daemon bowed, properly this time — to his King, his Queen, and to his father, though not to the rest. "As you command, Your Grace."
He turned and left the chamber, boots echoing across the floor until the doors closed behind him.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Queen Alysanne murmured softly, "You cannot bridle a dragon, no matter how you raise it."
The King's answer was quiet. "No," he said, gaze fixed on the door. "But you can aim its fire."
I made a note of that line. It would not be the last time His Grace spoke of his grandson that way.