Dragonstone
"What was that?" his aunt asked at once as Aegon and his small party scrambled out through the great doors of the hall. Aegon had to be carried away by the Sand Snakes, who were glaring at Daeron with anger and fear in equal measure. Arianne, on the other hand, wore an expression different from the rest. But Daeron paid them no mind, his thoughts fixed on how easily he had been provoked.
"That was my killing intent directed at Aegon. I lost control when he uttered things he should not have. In any case, I admit it was unbecoming of me to lose control over such petty words," Daeron said sullenly.
To be honest with himself, even he was still trying to understand where these sudden outbursts came from. Daeron had not been like this—at least, the soul that now inhabited this body had not been. In his previous world, he had been quiet, an introvert who rarely grew angry unless pushed to extremes. Now, even a minor insult stirred him like a volcano on the verge of eruption. His personality had changed so much that he could scarcely remember how he used to act or handle such situations.
"Well, I have hated many men and wished them dead when they stood before me, but by the Seven, my intent to kill was never this… overwhelming," Barristan remarked, half amused and half surprised by what had just transpired.
"Well, let us just say I am not normal, Ser Barristan. Ever since I returned from the tight clutches of death, there are things I have gained that I cannot easily explain—lest I be branded a heretic by the followers of the Seven," Daeron replied with an amused snort.
"So the rumors of you dying and returning from death are true, then?" Tyrion spoke this time—the little Lannister, as Arianne had called him. He now regarded Daeron warily, with a healthy measure of fear, though it was still less than that shown by Varys, who watched him with outright horror.
"Yes, indeed. Though it was no skill of mine that brought me back. In fact, you may be familiar with the one who performed the act. She goes by the name Melisandre—the same priestess who once held Stannis's ear," Daeron said.
"The woman who urged me to meet you… and who claimed that this Aegon is a black dragon," Daenerys said, her brow furrowed in thought.
"Yes, it was her words—along with the presence of the Golden Company behind this Aegon—that convinced me he is not what he claims to be," Daeron added with a slight tilt of his head. His gaze drifted toward the doors, where Grey Worm had returned, accompanied by two servants carrying a well-cushioned chair. Slightly late, was he not?
"Is the way of magic truly a more reliable means of verifying one's identity than the words of loyal men?" Varys asked, his eyes fixed firmly upon Daenerys; he did not dare look at Daeron.
"Speak plainly, Lord Varys. Do you believe this Aegon to be a true Targaryen? Perhaps it is time for you to shift your loyalties to this new king. I have heard you quite enjoy playing this game of thrones, as the South calls it—and that you are a most devoted and skilled player. Perhaps you have seen an opportunity we have overlooked in supporting this Aegon before your queen. Do tell us—do not hoard all the information for yourself," Daeron said, his tone laced with false seriousness and feigned curiosity.
Truth be told, from the very beginning, he had wondered why Varys had not already shifted his allegiance to Aegon and taken Tyrion with him. Not to mention, he had never supported the idea of Aegon's legitimacy—until now.
Daenerys's eyes narrowed upon Varys, and Ser Barristan's posture stiffened, his gaze locking onto the eunuch. Tyrion observed everyone's reactions and cast Varys a look that practically screamed that he was cursing him in his mind.
"I am certain Varys means nothing by it, Your Grace. It is merely that this open display of magic has… unsettled him, enough that he might consider trusting a man whose claim is, at best, uncertain—despite the small force he commands. In any case, we have someone among us who can clear our doubts, do we not? Ser Barristan has known Prince Rhaegar since he was a babe and may have seen Prince Aegon as well—along with Princess Elia Martell. Why not ask him?" Tyrion said, attempting to shift the attention away from Varys and toward Barristan—and the matter of Aegon's legitimacy—while simultaneously glaring at Varys, silently urging him to hold his tongue and not endanger them all with his words.
Daeron smiled at that exchange before turning toward Ser Barristan. After all, he too was curious to hear what the old knight had to say, because Tyrion was right—if anyone could identify Aegon, it would be Barristan the Bold.
Ser Barristan's expression turned thoughtful before he looked toward Daeron's aunt and spoke, "Your Grace, I admit the boy does possess a Valyrian look, and thus there would be fewer who would doubt he is a Targaryen. Even I, for a moment, considered that there might be a chance he is who he claims to be. But then my eyes shifted to Princess Arianne at his side, and seeing them together—a Dornishwoman beside him—I realized that this Aegon bears no Dornish features when he should because of whom his mother was, but as I said, no Dornish feature, none that my old eyes could discern. So, if you ask me, I do not believe he is Aegon Targaryen." Barristan finished with a slight bow of his head.
Judging by everyone's reactions, Daeron could tell that none of them had thought to verify something as simple as this.
"Very perceptive, Ser Barristan. Though, as a reminder, certain bloodlines tend to dominate in a child, and it is possible for one parent's features to overshadow the other's," Tyrion added with a small smile.
"Like how your nephews and nieces failed to exhibit the Baratheon look, my lord of Lannister," Ser Barristan replied with a snort.
Tyrion's face twisted with rage, but before he could deliver a sharp retort, Missandei spoke. "Does it matter?" she asked.
All eyes turned toward her, and the young girl shrank slightly under the sudden attention until her queen placed a reassuring hand over hers and offered an encouraging smile.
"I mean, whoever this Aegon is—real or false—he is not blessed by the gods, nor is he the one who brought dragons back from stone. He possesses no dragons, and his allies are former enemies of the house he claims to descend from. To my eyes, he is not fit to be king. I am sure the lords of this land will see that as well."
There was absolute conviction and simple honesty in her words that made Daeron chuckle. Such a straightforward answer—if only the politics and struggles of this land worked that way.
The Guest Wing of Dragonstone
Arianne, along with her cousins—the Sand Snakes—and her future husband, Aegon Targaryen, self-proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms, was now recovering from what they had endured half an hour ago.
Half an hour had passed, and yet the so-called Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms had not stopped shaking. His eyes remained vacant, and he flinched at every utterance of his name.
Arianne scoffed—not in her mind, but openly to his face. Not that he was in any state to notice, though her cousins did, and they cast him looks of thinly veiled pity.
"Your Grace, do you perhaps need more water?" Nymeria asked in a silk-smooth voice, her expression laced with mockery.
Obara scoffed at her sister's tone, but Aegon paid neither of them any attention. He merely nodded weakly.
Nymeria, after a small scoff of her own, handed him a cup filled with water, which the king drank greedily—just as he had done with the previous fifteen cups.
"What… was that?" Aegon muttered, turning toward Arianne as if she might hold the answers. His eyes were as hollow as they had been when they dragged him away from the hall.
Arianne knew that whatever the Northern King had unleashed had been directed primarily at Aegon. Still, she had expected that some minutes of rest would have been enough for him to regain himself. Yet the man before her managed to disappoint her once again.
"That, my dear, was quite a grave miscalculation on my father's part—and your Hand's as well. It would have cost you dearly, if not for the Northern king's sense of honor," Arianne replied. Her father had indeed made a severe miscalculation in his schemes when he had underestimated this Daeron and thought him no more than a bastard reaching for more than he should. That same 'bastard' possessed the power to bring them all to their knees without even moving from where he stood.
"No, I don't mean that. I mean… did you all see your deaths too?" Aegon asked, his frustration and fear plain for all to hear.
Arianne had to admit, he had never behaved like this before. Since the day they had met, he had been the very image of a king—a boy groomed for the throne, raised with the constant reminder of his place in the world, and he had carried that role with pride and composure. But now that façade had shattered, and what stood before her was the truth—raw and exposed. A frightened child, shaken to his core by a power far beyond anything he had ever imagined.
"No."
"No."
Obara and Nymeria answered in unison. Arianne, too, shook her head in denial. While she and her cousins had certainly felt death brush close, they had not seen it.
"So that bastard only targeted me," Aegon muttered, anger creeping into his voice.
"What did you see—" Obara began, only for Nymeria to jab her sharply in the side. "…Your Grace?" she corrected herself smoothly.
"Death," Aegon said hoarsely. "So much death—in so many different ways. Mine… and those of everyone I hold dear. Every detail laid bare… while that man laughed, standing atop their corpses, looking down at me with pity and disgust."
His hands rose to his head, fingers digging into his hair as if he could claw the visions out of his mind.