The terms Dennis laid before them were so generous that even Daemon, bound, failed to conceal his astonishment.
His wrists were tied behind his back, the ropes biting into flesh already bruised. His legs were shackled wide, posture undignified and humiliating, yet his violet eyes remained sharp. When Dennis spoke of Harrenhal, Daemon scarcely reacted, but when he spoke of Tyrosh, Daemon's gaze changed.
Mysaria stood near the low table, hands folded before her, her dark hair unbound in the Lysene fashion. At first, she listened in silence, her expression guarded.
Dennis met her eyes.
"The Archonship."
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still.
Mysaria's hand flew to her mouth. Her breath caught, sharp and unguarded, disbelief plain upon her face.
"The Archon?" she said quietly. "You speak of making me Archon of Tyrosh?"
She was Lysene born. She had danced in the pleasure houses of the Free Cities. She knew better than most what that title meant. The Archon of Tyrosh was no mere magistrate. He was king in all but name.
Dennis clasped his hands behind his back.
"You may be assured that this is no idle promise. At present, His Grace Prince Baelon commands more than half of Tyrosh's standing forces. The current Archon, Equis, holds his seat at Prince Baelon's sufferance alone."
Daemon's jaw tightened.
"Half a month ago," Dennis went on, "reports arrived. Nearly a third of Tyrosh's primary industries are already under Prince Baelon's control. Dye works, shipping guilds, mercantile houses. The remaining magisters and merchant princes have been dealt with patiently and thoroughly. Some were bought. Some were poisoned. Others met quieter ends in shadowed streets."
He spoke without relish, as though reciting the price of grain.
"In their places stand men and women loyal to Prince Baelon. To speak plainly, Tyrosh already belongs to him. The Archon's seal is but a courtesy he has yet to bestow."
Mysaria lowered herself onto a chair, the strength momentarily gone from her legs. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of her skirts.
"But Tyrosh burned," she said. "He butchered the city. The people have not forgotten. Would they truly accept such rule?"
Her voice trembled, not with fear for herself, but for what she understood of Tyroshi pride.
Dennis answered without hesitation.
"That concern was raised. His Grace dismissed it."
He paused, then quoted Baelon's words precisely.
"He said the Tyroshi are the most obedient flock ever bred. Centuries of chains have taught them how to bow. Strip the masters away and place new ones above them, and they will graze as before."
Dennis did not elaborate. At the time, Baelon had spoken of markets and leverage, of how hunger and coin shaped loyalty. Dennis had grasped the outcome, if not the philosophy behind it.
Silence stretched.
Mysaria stared at the floor for a long while. When she finally looked up, her eyes were clear.
"I refuse," she said.
Daemon let out a low breath, uncertain whether to laugh or curse.
Dennis nodded once, accepting the decision as though it were expected.
"Very well."
He turned and gestured toward Daemon, who remained bound, watching warily.
"Take him away. I confess, my intent was never to cripple him. I wished only to frighten him, to give shape to my displeasure."
Mysaria waved a dismissive hand.
"So be it."
Dennis allowed himself a thin smile.
"Your mercy does you credit, Lady Mysaria. In that case, Prince Daemon will be returned."
He motioned toward the doorway. Two young men stepped forward. They were unremarkable in every respect, the sort one might forget moments after passing them in the street.
They worked quickly. Knots were undone. Daemon grunted as blood rushed back into numbed limbs. One man took him beneath the arms, the other lifted his legs. The prince struggled briefly, then stilled, his pride wounded more deeply than his body.
"My apologies for the intrusion," Dennis said, inclining his head. "Within a few days, Prince Baelon will call upon you himself. Please do prepare."
With that, he departed.
The door closed. The chamber seemed colder.
Mysaria remained seated for a moment longer, listening to the echo of footsteps fade.
Then she spoke.
"Did he swallow it?"
One of her men stepped forward and knelt.
"Yes, my lady. Every drop."
Her expression hardened.
"If the mages spoke true, then it is already done. He will never father another child, and he will never know when it was taken from him."
She rose and crossed the chamber, her movements precise.
"The Widow's Blood cost me dearly," she said softly. "Those fools believed it impossible to alter."
Widow's Blood was infamous throughout the Free Cities. In its natural state, it halted the workings of the bowels and bladder, turning the body into its own executioner.
Mysaria had changed it.
The poison's blockage had been redirected, subtle and surgical.
It would not kill him. It would let him live.
From another view, it might even heighten desire. A cruel irony, layered atop another.
As for the pain, when he lay with a woman, when he strained for heirs he would never have, that agony would be his alone.
She closed her eyes.
I will make you understand loss.
Prince Daemon's abduction proved little more than a passing shadow.
A week later,
Princess Helaena's first nameday was celebrated the following week with a grand tourney, drawing banners and bright armor from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Lords, knights, and heirs crowded the lists to display their valor before the Iron Throne.
Prince Daemon Targaryen was, as all had expected, among them.
He rode clad in black steel chased with silver, a dragon-winged helm shadowing his pale features, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand. Wherever he passed, the press of the crowd stirred. On the field, his presence was ruinous. One by one, challengers fell before him, beaten aside with ruthless efficiency. Some were unhorsed. Others yielded outright, unwilling to meet him stroke for stroke.
From the royal seats, young Prince Baelon watched in silence.
He was only seven, still slight of build, his legs not yet reaching the edge of the cushioned bench. His hands rested in his lap, small fingers laced together as his eyes followed every clash of steel below. He did not cheer. He simply observed, solemn and intent, as his father cut a merciless path through the lists.
"There is no true suspense to this tourney," a lord nearby murmured, leaning toward his companion. "Daemon will take the victory easily."
"Just so," the other replied, nodding toward the field. "See how they shy from him. None dare meet him squarely. They circle and defend, praying to last another pass."
Among the benches reserved for noble ladies, silk sleeves brushed together as whispers rose and fell. Young women leaned close, their voices low and eager, eyes bright as they weighed the merits of the knights below. Strength. Bearing. The breadth of shoulders beneath plate.
Their glances returned again and again to Daemon Targaryen.
Highborn, deadly, and glorious in battle, he seemed the very image of a warrior-prince out of song. A perfect husband, were it not for one inconvenient truth.
Rhea Royce of Runestone, who still lived.
At last, the final challenger was struck aside, and the field fell quiet. The herald stepped forward, his voice ringing clear.
"Let all hear it. Prince Daemon Targaryen stands victorious, having defeated five champions sworn to defend the crown. By ancient custom, he is called upon to name the Queen of Love and Beauty."
King Viserys shifted upon his seat.
At his invitation, Lady Rhea Royce sat among the royal spectators, stiff-backed and composed, bronze hair bound neatly at her nape. The king had hoped her presence might soften old wounds. He had spoken gently, persistently, and Lady Jeyne Arryn herself had added her counsel. At last, Rhea had agreed.
If Daemon would only place the flower crown upon his wife's head, the breach between dragon and Vale might yet be mended. A Targaryen branch rooted in the Vale would serve the realm well. Harrenhal already bore one such cadet line. Another would spread the blood of the dragon farther still.
That was what Viserys desired. Peace. Unity, and continuity.
Daemon had never been inclined to grant him such comforts.
On the field below, Daemon lifted the flower crown upon the tip of his lance. He rode once about the lists, the cheers swelling around him. Then he turned his horse toward the stands and raised the crown high.
Toward Princess Rhaenyra.
Viserys's jaw tightened. His smile vanished as though snuffed by a sudden wind.
Rhea Royce did not look surprised. Her lips pressed together, her gaze lowering for a heartbeat. Long ago, she had learned not to expect courtesy from the man who had once mocked the women of the Vale as lesser than sheep.
Rhaenyra stepped forward, color rising in her cheeks as she reached out.
Before she could take it, a small hand closed around the flowers.
Prince Baelon rose from his seat.
There was a murmur among the spectators as the boy descended the steps, the crown held carefully between his fingers. He crossed the space between benches with deliberate steps and stopped before Lady Rhea, who looked up at him in open surprise.
Baelon inclined his head, solemn beyond his years.
"A Queen of Love and Beauty ought not remain seated," he said, his voice light but clear. "I noticed the crown had not yet found its proper place, so I took it upon myself to deliver it. You need not trouble yourself with thanks."
The words were bold. Yet the child's small stature and earnest expression softened them, turning presumption into courtesy.
Rhea hesitated. Her fingers curled against the arm of her chair.
"…You have my thanks, my prince," she said at last, turning her face slightly aside as she spoke.
She bore the boy no personal ill will. Indeed, there was a certain charm to him. Yet the truth of his birth lingered between them, an unspoken affront to her marriage and her pride.
Still, Prince Baelon was no nameless child hidden in the shadows. Prince of Harrenhal. And the Lord of Crab Bay. His titles alone demanded respect.
Baelon smiled faintly. He stepped closer and lifted the crown.
"Then allow me," he said gently.
He set the circlet upon her head with careful hands, adjusting it so it rested true. For a moment, his fingers brushed bronze hair. Then he stepped back and inclined his head once more.
Only then did the tension in the stands begin to ease. Applause followed, tentative at first, then swelling into something warmer.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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