Disclaimer: This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 59: The End of the Beginning II
104 AC
The North
Cregan Stark
Cregan stood on the stone walk of Moat Cailin and looked south, his gaze following the causeway as it vanished into the marshes of the Neck. The air carried the damp scent of water and reeds, and the land beyond stretched low and uneven, broken by pools and narrow channels where the ground swallowed careless steps. His grandfather, flush with gold gained through Daemon's maneuvering, had set men to work on the long-abandoned fortress. Moat Cailin had demanded extensive repairs, and what now stood was not a faithful restoration of the ruin described in old accounts. Fifteen towers rose where twenty were once said to stand, their placement chosen for function rather than reverence for the past. Thick walls climbed from the soaked earth, reinforced with packed stone and timber pilings driven deep to resist the slow, relentless pressure of water and time. Each tower commanded the road and the surrounding bogs, offering clear lines of sight across reed beds and shallow pools where movement could not remain unseen for long. Age had left its marks, but the fortress was solid, practical, and built with endurance in mind.
The defenses no longer favored only the southern approach. New works guarded every side, with towers angled to support one another and arrow slits placed to watch the flanks as closely as the road itself. Many of these changes had come from Daemon's suggestions, favoring awareness and adaptability over the old habit of watching only the south. Cregan found little fault in that reasoning. Moat Cailin was no longer merely a gate meant to bar passage, but a stronghold prepared to withstand attack from any direction. Even so, a lingering unease followed him whenever he considered why Daemon had pressed so strongly for defenses facing all four sides. The logic was clear enough if the North ever fell to the White Walker's, for Moat Cailin would then stand as the third line of defense after the Wall and Winterfell. Still, few enemies were mad enough to strike from the west through the Neck, save the Ironborn, and even they attempted such routes only when desperation left them no choice.
Cregan sighed softly as he sensed his wife approaching from the steps behind him. Viserra came to his side, her presence familiar and grounding even before she spoke.
"So, my mad nephew did not make the impossibly insane suggestion of carving a canal through the Neck, as you feared, my love," Viserra asked, her mouth curved in a faint smirk as she too enjoyed the beauty of the scenery infront of them.
Cregan nodded, relief easing some of the tension he had carried for days. "Aye, dear wife. I finally dared to ask him outright, and he laughed it away. He admitted that the thought had crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as useless for his purposes. He had no desire to divert ships from his own coastal cities, whether Oldtown, Lannisport, or Sunspear. Even if such a project filled my coffers further, new income is hardly something we lack at present."
Viserra inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her expression did not fully soften. Cregan turned to look at her then and recognized the emotion in her eyes. He drew a slow breath, bracing himself for the matter they had both been circling and preparing himself for resistance if it came.
Seeing his expression, Viserra scowled.
"Come on my love. Let me hear it then," Cregan said in tiredness.
"Do not make me sound as though I am the problem, Cregan," Viserra snapped at once. "You know the matter is utterly serious. Lyanna claiming my cursed mother's dragon is not something that could be ignored. If it was possible I would even believe that Alysanne specifically made Silverwing claim Lyanna just to fuck with me, but I know it is not my mother this time, just my mad nephew Daemon."
Cregan just closed his eyes remembering all the previous arguments since the news of lyanna claiming a dragon has reached them.
Cregan closed his eyes, memories of countless arguments weighing heavily on him since the news had reached them. "I told you, Viserra, you are seeing danger where there is none," he said, his voice tightening despite himself. "Daemon had every opportunity to remove me and place his own blood as Stark of Winterfell, and he never did. He will not do so now. Lyanna is like a daughter to me, and you have known her for nearly a decade. You have been part of her life. Why doubt her now?"
Viserra shook her head, frustration clear in the sharp movement. "I do not doubt Lyanna herself, not yet. But she has lived in the snake pit for couple of years now, and King's Landing changes people. A dragon changes them even more, Cregan. Why would a dragonrider obey the commands of someone who does not ride one? Daemon should have never allowed anyone not named Targaryen ever to claim a Dragon."
Cregan frowned at her. "Why are you so worked up now, when before you spoke calmly to Daemon about our children receiving dragons? I still remember how you gave up asking for one yourself and made the request with such hope. What has changed?"
"That was before my nephew committed this madness, husband of mine. I never thought he would even allow anyone other than a Targaryen to ever claim a dragon." Viserra replied immediately, her voice sharp with exasperation. "Then the bastard gave Vhagar to Aegon, and now this. Why was nothing done for Rickon, or for our second-born son, Daemon, named after himself? You are his most stalwart supporter, and yet he ignored me and our sons."
"You wanted our then ten-year-old—or even our eight-year-old—to claim a beast like Vhagar?" Cregan scoffed. "I see you have not even realized why Daemon made Aegon the rider of Vhagar so quickly. Viserra, Daemon wanted an adult on the dragon, with time to train. In other words, he wanted soldiers ready to do his bidding when the time comes. Do you truly want our young son consumed by war, burning through thousands?"
Viserra flinched, and Cregan saw the horrified realization dawn across her face.
"Is it against the wildlings?" she whispered. "Is that why Daemon allowed the madness of the Mountain, and even supports him, when that bastard boy screams defiance and declares himself king beyond the Wall?"
Cregan shrugged. "Daemon has his dramatics, and he has not truly shared where the war will be. By my own calculations, it will be either the Stepstones or Dorne. So I am, in fact, rather relieved that Daemon has not forced you or our sons to claim an adult dragon. Fighting in those lands would be horrific, even for dragonriders."
Viserra nodded, relief and unease mingling as she imagined life bound to a war camp.
"Anyway, do not worry, my dear wife," Cregan said. "Daemon has finally called Rickon to King's Landing for his two years of fostering. I am certain that by the time he returns, he will have a young drake of his own."
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104 AC
Aethan Reed
Aethan watched in quiet fascination as his friend worked the forge. The air was thick with heat and the heavy scent of metal, charcoal, and dragon blood, a smell unlike anything found in an ordinary smithy. Daemon moved with practiced certainty, each motion economical, precise, as if the forge itself bent to his will. The Valyrian steel trinkets—rings, broken hilts, ceremonial knifes, candlesticks, ornaments, chains, scraps taken from forgotten relics—had been melted down into a single glowing mass, their once-distinct histories erased in the crucible.
The ability Daemon possessed—to learn, adapt, and improve beyond what should have been possible—had always unsettled Aethan as much as it impressed him. Healing and evolution were powers that could be observed, measured, even explained in part. This was different. This was understanding made instinct, mastery gained without instruction on anything. At first Aethan had dismissed the constantly improving skill of Daemon in fighting to natural skill, but later observations had made him aware that everything is taken in by Daemon.
Aethan had long wondered why Daemon could never share it, not truly, and whether the limitation was choice or something more fundamental. Yet there had been one exception. Gael. Aethan had seen it clearly then, the unnatural rate at which she improved at everything she touched, as though some unseen barrier had been loosened for her alone. Almost all in the court had assumed it as natural talent, but Aethan knew one another person who did the same.
The bastard sword hissed sharply as Daemon plunged it into the trough—not of water, but dragon blood. The sound was sharper, more violent, as if the steel itself protested the bath. Steam rolled upward in thick crimson-tinged clouds, carrying with it the scent of iron and something older, heavier. After several heartbeats, the glow faded rapidly from the blade. Daemon drew it free, blood dripping slowly back into the trough, now half-emptied by absorption and evaporation.
The sword bore all the unmistakable hallmarks of Valyrian steel: the rippling patterns along the blade, the impossible sharpness, the faint sense of wrongness that clung to it. Yet there was something else. Aethan could see it even without trying—a subtle red hue within the steel itself, not painted or treated, but born into the metal. Nearby, the remaining collected Valyrian items lay neatly stacked. Aethan judged, with an appraising eye, that there was enough material left to reforge at least a dozen more swords.
"Fascinating," Daemon murmured, studying the blade.
Aethan's curiosity finally won. "What is fascinating about it other than the red hue unlike other swords?"
Daemon did not answer at once. He continued to observe the sword, turning it slightly to catch the forge light, before finally looking at Aethan. "As you know, Valyrian steel has an enhancing effect if the wielder is properly bonded to it. A good warrior becomes a great one, and a great one becomes a legend. I don't know how or why, but even reforged from disparate pieces, this sword has the same property."
He gave the blade a casual swish, testing the balance. It was perfect, even without bonding.
Aethan nodded. "Aye, I remember you mentioning several times about that effect of Valyrian steel. But your face implied far more than the usual Daemon."
Dameon just smirked slightly before answering. "There is something more, if the sword is of finest quality make, it can develop… let's say some peculiarities. You already saw what happened with Ice long ago. Dark sister has a thirst for blood making every cut bleed more than possible and making it almost deadly. Its bonded wielder moves faster, strikes quicker. I can feel slight magic in this sword too, though I do not know what the effect is or how it came to be. My only guess is it is the dragon blood that added the random effect. It is too bad that I don't have enough Steel to experiment and see whether I could add the effect I want."
Aethan had look of awe and fascination as he learned something new regarding magic. Suddenly his mind was enveloped by a thought; Daemon actually stole Blackfyre even before the king made him heir when he was always fascinated more by Dark Sister in his younger years. Why?
"Daemon, you explained the peculiarities of swords," Aethan said, his gaze lingering on the weapon at Daemon's side. "What about your own—Blackfyre? It must be something exceptional for you to choose it over Dark Sister."
Daemon's lips curved into a knowing grin. "That would be telling, my dear friend. Quite telling."
Aethan scowled faintly, well aware of how theatrical Daemon could be about such matters. He shook his head to dispel the irritation and allowed his eyes to return to the sword. For a single heartbeat, he wondered what it would feel like to wield it, and whether he could receive it as a reward for his loyalty to Daemon. He did not miss the smirk that spread across Daemon's face, nor the certainty that his thoughts had been read by him as plainly as words spoken aloud.
"That sword is not for you, my friend," Daemon said lightly. "Do not fret. I will have two Valyrian steel knives made for you instead."
Aethan immediately nodded in happiness as even he was not foolish enough to ever deny a valyrian steel weapon just because he was utterly loyal enough to serve without any rewards.
Aethan's response was immediate. He nodded with undisguised delight, for he was not foolish enough to refuse a Valyrian steel weapon, no matter how unwavering his loyalty was or how willingly he would have served without reward. "Thank you, Daemon, for your generosity," he said, offering a slight bow. His expression darkened a moment later. "Unfortunately, many others do not value your generosity. The news regarding Lyanna and Silverwing has finally spread everywhere."
Daemon remained silent for several heartbeats, his expression unreadable, before he lifted a hand in dismissal. "Tell me only of those who matter."
Aethan inclined his head. "Surprisingly, the other dragonriders—your sister and your cousins—were almost nonchalant about it."
For a fleeting instant, Aethan caught the rise of Daemon's brows before the mask of control settled back into place.
"Oh?" Daemon asked, genuine intrigue coloring his voice.
"Aye, Daemon. In many cases, it is their spouses who lost their wits," Aethan said with a grin. "Rhaenys dismissed the matter outright, claiming it was inevitable and beyond remedy, much to Corlys's absolute fury. He complained at length about Laenor and Laena and the precariousness of their positions. Aemma, meanwhile, has begun pressing Viserys to claim a dragon of his own and secure a dragon egg for the child she currently carries. Even Rhea reached out to the Rogue Prince, reluctantly, and only under pressure, to speak of trying for a child together."
Aethan paused, then smirked. "As expected by me, Prince Daemon insulted her again and sent her away."
Daemon merely grinned as he listened. "Well, I am pleased that at least my blood remembers both the carrot and the stick."
Aethan snorted and laughed. "It was not just the demonstration you gave them. It was also the absolutely horrific training you put them through every fortnight—dragonriding, fighting atop one, and surviving both."
Daemon just shrugged indifferently. "Could be both, anyway I am happy that they are not planning some foolishness that will make my plans go awry. What about others?"
Aethan nodded and continued. "Borros received a thorough scolding from his father for the sheer foolishness he displayed during your marriage. As for the rest, nearly every lord with ambition is scrambling to see whether Lyanna's hand might be won."
Daemon smirked, amused. "Forward any letters concerning Lyanna directly to her. Gaemon will be bestowed a dragonling next week, and I want you monitoring reactions to that closely."
Aethan inclined his head, then glanced again at the blade with its faint red sheen. "And the sword?"
Daemon was silent for a moment before answering. "This blade will be given to my wife, Gael. I want her capable of slaying any enemy who reaches the Red Keep—whether they arrive by flesh or by spell."
"That will haunt the sleep of many who have already tasted defeat at her hands in the yards," Aethan said with a grin. "The people will love the tale of healing hands that also wield a sword against evil."
Daemon just laughed at that. "Atleast I am glad that all my ideas regarding kings landing has been success and loyalty has been created in many for now."
Aethan nodded with enthusiasm. "Anyone with sense would support you for life. The streets are clean, free of filth, stench, and crime. Disease has become a rarity. Food, shelter, and healing are abundant. Work has been provided through construction of Daemonhold, the roads you are building, the upgradation of sewers and maintenance of entire waste disposal system. It does not matter to them why you did this—only that they have it now, and never did before."
Aethan could see the faint guilt in Daemon's smile and found himself wondering what act, or omission, had earned that trace of shame.
"Well," Daemon said at last, "I want all construction in King's Landing completed by the time of the king's death. I will need the gold for other purposes after that." His gaze sharpened. "And have you finally been able to warg beyond the Wall?"
Aethan shook his head. "No, my friend. That is meant to be impossible—at least until you managed it. You will have to keep an eye on your four sons yourself. I have already ensured that Lord Karstark of Skagos has two ships ready at all times, either to extract them or provide support if they are overwhelmed by Walkers." He paused before adding, "As for gold, why not sell one of the swords? Many would pay dearly for it."
"Good enough preparations," Daemon replied. "But I will not sell any Valyrian steel. It is more useful to me than any amount of gold." He considered for a moment before giving a thin smile. "Still, the idea has merit. Spread word that the Blessed One has gifted a newly forged Valyrian steel blade to his dear wife. At the very least, Essosi will come bearing expensive gifts to see whether the rumor is true."
Aethan hesitated, then decided he had to ask. "Daemon, are you certain of your plan once the king dies? We can always wait, or use other methods. It would only take you, Lyanna and your 8 sons currently in the capital, a week to deal with all the Lords there."
Daemon laughed, a sound edged with self-mockery. "Don't I know it, my dear friend. You know how much I hate wasting time and resources. But an example must be made, so I do not pay a greater price later. You know the situation in the Triarchy and how deeply they hate House Targaryen now. Someone has been pouring oil on those embers for years, ever since my uncle's rampage." His smile faded. "The only reason they do nothing is fear—fear of King Jaehaerys the Cruel. The moment he dies, many will convince themselves the House of the Dragon has grown weak. They will grow bolder still if they believe my attention lies elsewhere. That will make it easier for me to find every enemy that needs to be culled. If I deal with Dorne in short time without making a spectacle, the enemies will not reveal themselves. I alone can clear any castle in Dorne in a night, just like I did with House Connington, but it would be waste. I need that element of surprise for later. Then there is the matter of gaining experience in actually fighting on dragon back for my cousins."
Aethan grimaced at that, but he nodded in acceptance as he too realized that the benefits outweighed the costs.
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The Rogue Prince
Dragonstone
105 AC
Daemon Targaryen laughed loudly, knowing that whatever sound escaped him would be swallowed by the whooping wind as he flew through the sky on Caraxes. His laughter deepened when he saw one of the spears he had narrowly dodged strike Lyanna squarely in the face just as she dove down from above on Silverwing, to mockingly attack him.
Caraxes roared angrily as he twisted aside from another flat-tipped spear. Daemon glanced around and finally spotted his eldest cousin and namesake, casually seated atop Morghul's saddle without any safety ropes or chains. The saddle itself was a madness of iron and leather, fitted with nearly a hundred throwing spears attached all around for the heir's use.
Daemon had laughed in his namesake's face when the man first explained the training method long ago and would have refused to participate entirely if not for a mix of curiosity and arrogance—an urge to prove just how nimble and swift Caraxes truly was. That arrogance had died the moment a flat-tipped spear slammed into his chest, thrown by Daemon from hundreds of meters away, far beyond any distance a human could ever manage from the ground.
His thoughts shattered as he saw Meleys take a spear to the wing. The red queen hissed in pain, her flight faltering as she wobbled in the air. Daemon watched grimly as Meleys began losing altitude, struggling to recover—and then she was struck again, this time by a spear hurled from the ground by Benjen.
That had been a recently added difficulty. Daemon knew the bastard especially loved targeting him. It was true that Daemon had mocked and insulted the heir's left hand relentlessly, but even so, the intensity of Benjen's focus felt excessive. For the life of him, Daemon could not understand why the bastard harbored such strong feelings against him.
Benjen had suffered defeat after defeat in the training yard, blade in hand, and Daemon had of course mocked and humiliated him— as was his right. Yet in the year since Lyanna had claimed Silverwing, something had changed. A fire had been lit beneath the bastard in all martial matters. He improved so rapidly that Benjen now gave even Daemon a proper fight.
By now, Daemon knew better than to expect fair play. The heir only launched sneaky attacks against Caraxes and himself, precisely because they had become the most adept at dodging the thrown spears.
Daemon had once asked the madman why spears should ever trouble dragons at all. Their vulnerable points were few, and thrown weapons could never generate enough force.
In response, the mad man had forged a Valyrian steel spearhead and demonstrated—quite thoroughly—how enough strength, knowledge, and precision could penetrate even Vhagar's scales.
In truth, Vhagar had been the laziest participant in this entire training. The old dragon barely bothered to dodge, secure in the arrogance of her ancient scales. That confidence had cracked when the Valyrian steel point punched through her scales near the neck. Daemon could still remember her furious bellow, proof enough that even dragons could be killed if weapons and understanding were sufficient.
Another spear whistled past his head, snapping Daemon back to the present.
"You absolute mad fucker," Daemon grunted, urging Caraxes faster as they fled toward the edge of the maximum permitted airspace.
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They practiced until the heir finally ran out of spears. With a weary sigh of relief, Daemon brought Caraxes down to the ground. He dismounted stiffly and surveyed the aftermath: Aegon lay sprawled on the ground, panting, while Rhaenys sat in the grass, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Daemon's riding leathers were soaked through with sweat. Holding on and burning strength for hours at a time took its toll from all of them.
From his elevated vantage, Daemon spotted workers near a cave along the beach below Dragonmont, extracting dragonglass. His hand drifted instinctively to the dragonglass knife hidden at his belt, and he wondered how much gold had already been spent on this madness.
Dragonglass jewelry had become fashionable since the royal family began wearing it, but that was nothing compared to the cost of forging countless spear points, arrowheads, maces, and even warhammers embedded with the black glass.
His gaze lifted as Silverwing landed gracefully nearby. Lyanna slid down her dragon, smiling brightly. She looked far too relaxed for someone who had endured such brutal practice, though her breathing was a little faster than normal. For a brief, inexplicable moment, Daemon found himself unable to breathe.
He forced in a deep breath just as Morghul landed beside Silverwing.
To Daemon's exasperation, the heir jumped down from his dragon instead of sliding, clearly showing off—and somehow still looked perfectly at ease. Daemon nearly cursed Fate aloud at the sheer unfairness of it. He had long since accepted that the heir was an inhuman monster when it came to physical ability. Lyanna and all of the bastard sons the man had brought in showed similar enhancements.
Still, Daemon could not fathom how someone could be so far beyond normal men.
His only consolation was that the heir had somehow shared that strength. Daemon had noticed it himself—Aegon, Rhaenys, and even the sluggish Viserys had all been getting better physically with time.
Daemon's thoughts were broken when the heir just laughed as he observed his family.
"Come now," he said lightly. "You're all acting as though you carried the weight of your dragons, rather than the other way around."
"We are not monsters like you, Brother," Rhaenys snapped back irritably. "I still don't understand why you make us do this every other week when we all have responsibilities."
Daemon stayed silent, watching closely.
The heir merely shrugged. "Blame our dear grandfather, the king. He abuses my healing potions like cheap wine—walking and flying Vermithor every day. If he followed my advice, we could space our training better. But he won't, and he'll die faster for it. We must be prepared."
"Prepared for what? War?" Rhaenys snorted, disbelief clear in her voice. "Who would be foolish enough to start an open war with us simply because the king is dead? We still have dragonriders, and more than enough adults to use them effectively."
Before the heir could answer, Daemon finally interjected. "I do not think he is waiting for someone else to start a war, Rhaenys. I think our crown prince is waiting for the king's death to complete the final piece of the conquest."
"Dorne," Rhaenys whispered, a hint of unease slipping through her composure.
Aegon grimaced from where he sat on the ground. The heir merely nodded.
"I am surprised it took all of you so long to realise my intentions. But you are wrong about one thing. I did not wait idly. Long ago, I sent two of my sons to House Tarly, to learn the borders, to map the paths, and to identify every hidden route worth knowing. They have succeeded in that and from my own spies I have come to understand that Dorne expects for there to be a dance of dragons among us when the king dies. The idiots do not believe the rumours' regarding me and I would face rebellion from my trueborn cousins."
A ripple of laughter passed through the gathered Targaryens. The idea was absurd to them. Any thought of opposing Daemon had died quickly after the meetings in King's Landing. Any lingering hopes of change in situation were extinguished, especially after their first training session with Morghul.
"So," Aegon said after a moment of silence, "you are training us to defeat Dorne?"
To Daemon's surprise, the heir shook his head. "No. The shot that struck Meraxes was a fluke. If she had taken the threat seriously, it would never have happened. I am training you to evade every shot, not because of Dorne, but because of something far more dangerous. This discipline will be required of all future dragonriders as well."
Aegon nodded, then shrugged lightly. "Fair enough. Vhagar has been growing increasingly irritable with all this practice and no real opposition. It will be good for her to finally have an outlet."
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Author's Note:
sorry that the king is not dead yet.. the war, the game is not here yet. maybe he will finally die in next chapter…. we still have to see what is happening with mountain beyond the wall and what is happening in sunset sea with the lannister mormont alliance having access to a dragonrider. Also advance sorry for any dorne stans.
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