King's Landing
98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 15)
Daemon II
The nights were swift to summon to mind days of boredom and ease, when no grand revelry was promised. Seldom was rest truly claimed, seldom a repose where one might yield to the embrace of blankets and bed until the timid sun of winter hovered near the pinnacle of day, and the chill did not shrivel a man's balls.
Yet for all that, Daemon could not profess lament. His frame burned with the flames of exhilaration and eager awaiting for what the true tourney was yet to unveil. Thus far, he had known no disappointment nor tedium's grip.
His charge of overseeing inventories was concluded, less true duties than mere diversions to occupy him awhile, if truth be told. He had filched a measure, and in so doing, garnered himself coin to squander on the diversions borne to the lower wards by cunning mummers and gamesters.
Those wretches were fleecing the beggarly smallfolk of their scant coppers. Daemon deemed himself a veritable hero for sparing the ragamuffins from utter penury, for he was ever so generous with his pouch.
He was due some veneration, he reckoned, akin to that bestowed upon Maelys.
"Daemon the Heroic has a fine ring to it," he murmured softly, pondering if his uncle had not already laid claim to that epithet as well.
His uncle bore quite a few such titles, though they leaned more toward the "chosen" sort than anything else.
Not long past, he had been hailed as Maelys the Merciful. Gael the Generous. The Twins of Winter. Prized names all; Daemon harbored some envy that his own semblance had not been enshrined in ballad. Even Viserys claimed a song, wherein some bard dubbed him a shit stirrer.
That had been a cause for mirth. Still, he had claimed the wretch's hand for the affront.
He shook his head and cast aside those idle fancies. He was a man betrothed now, bound to bear himself with royal poise and honor. As had been decreed, he was granted leave to acquaint himself with the Lysene noble who was to become his wife. To forge a bond, as his father phrased it…
…It was naught but courtship. A tedious pursuit. He loathed the endeavor, to bide in patience whilst committing every word to memory. It echoed his guileless years anew.
Yet he was not overmuch dismayed. The Rogare girl was at least fair of face and pure of blood. Older besides, a year shy of his brother's age. Well mannered, though not drab. Proud, her eyes bespeaking a scorn for the Andal sheep.
In that whimsical humor, he rose from his bed at the first glimpse of dawn and departed his chambers in search of whatever diversion the day might offer. He would not tarry in the Red Keep. He abhorred enduring the empty flatteries and felicitations of the lords and those wanton ladies long since bereft of their maidenheads.
That notion amused him, for he bore the blame for much of that pilfering. Yet what was a man to do when these self proclaimed virtuous dames parted their thighs for him to claim?
"Mayhap I should summon one of them this night to warm my bed," he mused aloud and heedless, drawing glances from the score of servants who toiled within the holdfast. "Or perchance I might entice my betrothed to my quar—"
"Best you quell that notion before it festers foul, brother." Viserys's voice near startled him from behind.
Daemon turned to behold his brother scarce three arms' lengths away. He was attired finely and appeared well rested. The burdens of his duties had stripped some flesh from him, though Viserys cut no sorry figure.
A form more befitting a man, in truth. Aemma was doubtless pleased… or mayhap not—she did ever fret over trifles.
"A joyous morn to you as well, brother." An easy smile graced his face, lips quirking faintly. "You appear most gallant. What pursuit demands such finery?"
He teased his brother, who affected exasperation as he drew abreast.
"These are my customary garments, Daemon," Viserys replied with a trace of weariness in his tone. "And a small council is to convene. Much unfolds all at once."
Ah, he had heard of the Dornish skirmishes, or whatever name they bore. War, in his reckoning. He yearned to join the fray and claim some renown, as the boisterous knights proclaimed it. The Yronwoods rose against the Martells. It was a grave matter, somehow stirred by his own betrothal.
And that was not all. Volantis was whispered to eye the Disputed Lands once more. So much stirred afar.
Yet it touched Westeros little, for the most part.
"Is grandsire grasping this chance to cleanse the shame those sand devouring wretches inflicted upon our house?" he inquired with an arched brow as Viserys fell in step beside him. "Do you know the curs style themselves dragon slayers?"
The audacity of those Dornish hounds. To think they would swell with pride over a mere stroke of fortune. It galled him sorely that his grandsire professed sovereignty over the Rhoynar and Dornish, though no lord from the dunes bent the knee to him.
Maelys contended that the houses were not the folk, and that many Dornish dwelt in the Reach and Stormlands. That was utter horseshit. The wretches needed to submit, none of this prattle about Dornish smallfolk.
"And what of it?" Viserys asked, sparing no heed. "The Dornish lords have proven a mulish breed. They would sooner brand us tyrants than yield. And we have already exacted our vengeance upon them."
Daemon rolled his eyes. That was such a craven sentiment. A handful of keeps razed was no retribution for the slaying of a dragon and a most cherished queen. Yet he desired no quarrel over it. Mayhap later.
"Any tidings as to why the Yronwoods chose revolt?" He turned to that intrigue instead. It could not stem solely from the Rogares proving opportunistic cunts.
"The reason would be trade."
Once more, a voice startled him, though not so sharply as to mar his outward composure. Viserys was not so steadfast, twitching visibly.
Rhaenys stood behind them, her black gown trailing long and her chin lifted in that haughty pride of hers. She was so vexing and tall, the daring wench. Her eyes fixed upon them, and though he sensed she judged, Daemon knew in truth it was merely her way.
"Odd to behold you without your arm entwined about your lord husband's own, dearest cousin," he said with a deliberate smirk and a voice tailored mocking.
He yet harboured enmity toward the princess for claiming his mother's dragon so soon after her passing.
It was queer how he bore so many fraught ties with his female kin. Only Aemma and Gael showed him kindness, and the latter was less kind than merely courteous. Tolerance.
That spoiled his mood some, feeling the tendrils of envy wrap around his heart. Then he dismissed such bitter lingers…
It was not all gloom.
…He wondered if mayhap matters would differ with Saera when the time came to behold her in Lys.
Was he even bound for Lys? He would convene with his father to jaw out the actual details of his marriage.
"… I see you still bear the spite of a scorned lady, Daemon," Rhaenys replied, her eyes regarding him in silence. "Truly, the years have not been gentle with you."
This bitter bitc—
"It is a touch too early for bickering, is it not?" Viserys interjected with a laugh, and it served to quell Daemon's irritation. He scoffed and turned his gaze aside. His brother bade their cousin join them, as they had resolved to make for the dining hall.
Viserys had ever possessed a heart barren of malice and much easier to gladden.
"About the trade…" his brother urged softly. Rhaenys obliged with no prompting, minding that her posture took on the appearance of a maester wording out his lessons. Scorned bitch. You'd think her husband wasn't leering at ladies and servants.
But to the shared knowledge.
It seemed trade had not flowed smoothly in Dorne. Recent tidings, more so the Velaryons' waxing naval might, had siphoned much of the commerce between Essos and the dunes. Moreover, whatever pact Maelys had forged with the Summer Isles had lessened the clamor for sundry Dornish wares.
Thus, with affairs so arrayed, many of the houses of the sands had fared ill. It bred an imbalance of power amongst the great houses, especially as the Martells favored their closest allies whilst the others languished.
The whispers of Lys forsaking the Triarchy had only deepened the woes. Now that the pact forged to curb Westerosi sway lay sundered, or so rumour held, matters had grown more fraught.
"…of course, it is more entangled than that," Rhaenys added. "There are tales that bandits have harried villages and set ablaze crops and orchards in recent years."
Those were naught but Reach knights feigning righteousness whilst wreaking horrors. If there was one infamy those summer lands bore, it was spawning bandit knights. Those foolish nobles delighted in dubbing knightly every smallfolk with a cock and sword.
"So war is inevitable, then?" That question came from him, the curiosity pouring out before his wits could reclaim his impulse.
Rhaenys proved less bitter. "It is possible, though I believe both sides will wait on the king's intentions before commencing in their skirmish. It would make little sense to open themselves up to a takeover."
There was truth in that, he supposed. Daemon was eager to see how matters developed. And with that, they arrived at the hall where their broke they fast. Immediately after, they all scattered, and the Rogue Prince sought out his betrothed.
He was wanting to be told more about Old Valyria.
———————
The last of the great houses came scarce three days before the grand tourney began in earnest. They were the men of the North and the Vale, and from the labouring of their mounts and the weariness writ plain upon their faces one might guess they had pressed their horses hard, lest the king take offence at tardiness.
His grandsire was a man both feared and revered, and in the tales of his prime a sword of fell renown. Daemon's breast swelled with pride for the aged king, and he wondered, not for the first time, how he might have fared blade to blade against such a warrior.
Yet he himself had been knighted youngest of any in living memory, and that honour had not been won by blood alone.
"You have come again to grace the welcoming of the crown's vassals," Maelys observed, mild as ever. The winter prince was seldom seen at such idle pageants, preferring the company of maesters and their dusty tomes. "Has the presence of the lord banker's daughter at last taught you some measure of the subtler arts?"
Daemon scoffed at the foolish question. What care had he for the mummery of courts? He held neither land nor castle to rule.
"This is mere pretence and nothing more," he answered, his mind turning to the sharp words his good-sister had spoken. He tugged at his sleeve. "I must not conduct myself in any fashion that would bring shame upon my betrothed."
Those were the admonitions Aemma had pressed upon him. She had warmed swiftly to Naerys, and thus he could not be callous with her.
"I had thought the Lyseni more hospitable to your whoring ways, given the hedonism of their isle," his uncle said, one brow lifted.
"So had I," Daemon replied, "yet it seems my betrothed is minded to embrace the ways of the Andals. Fortunate it is that she does not also crave their dull Faith, else I doubt I could bear her." He paused, then added, "She also asked that I convey her father's wish for a word with you. I cannot fathom why you have been so assiduous in avoiding them."
Ever since the Lyseni had arrived in their silks and splendour, Maelys had not once deigned to meet them. The slight had not gone unmarked; already the crownlanders grew hesitant to treat with the Rogares.
At first Daemon had supposed the twins were merely keeping to their accustomed seclusion, indulging whatever private pleasures they shared behind closed doors. But in time he had discerned purpose in the deliberate scorn.
Maelys hummed, giving a faint, absent nod. He seemed neither troubled nor surprised. "I have become a symbol of the Faith, Daemon. I cannot be seen consorting with a house that so openly traffics in sin and debauchery."
Daemon would have planted his fist in the depraved bastard's face had there been no lords and ladies to bear witness. What mummery was his uncle playing at? Maelys was the very incarnation of sin, his debaucheries beyond counting; to see him now clad in the robes of a devotee was a jest fit only for fools.
He did not truly believe the High Septon's prattling nonsense, not as the others did.
Thus Daemon fixed his uncle with a look of open displeasure. Maelys answered it with a smile and nod.
"Very well," he said. "Though I will own that my words were not wholly false. The true cause was that I wished to measure the extent of my sway among the nobility. I needed to know whom I might trust, and whom I might not."
That much made sense. It was also… pitiable. What need had they of such petty scheming when dragons answered their call?
"And have you measured it truly?" Daemon asked.
His uncle gave a single nod.
"Then I urge you to meet with the banker lord," Daemon pressed. "Father has already spoken of a most lucrative trade pact in the making. You stand to gain much from whatever mummery they propose, especially since Havenhall lies closest of all our houses to Lys."
"I see no harm in it," Maelys replied, "though discretion must still be observed. And I warn you: do not boast that you were the one who swayed me, lest the Rogares find themselves disappointed in days to come."
Daemon smirked, the bastard didn't want him boasting sway over the ever revered chosen of the gods. Utter nonsense. "So you have room in your heart to be swayed only by your wife, is that it? I hear she has you dancing attendance upon half the Reach lords these days."
A great many ladies of true power had begun to flock to Gael like moths to flame. Something about the welfare of women, or some other such prattle. They even held their own little courts, chiefly concerning the merchants who had taken up residence in the city. It was passing amusing to watch gold cloaks drag men from their homes at the mere cries of their wives.
Daemon was most curious to see what manner of place Havenhall would become.
"You also need to begin building a base of influence, Daemon," Maelys told him. "As you have seen, there are many second and third sons who possess no prospects worth the name. They may seem of little account, yet they are still highborn."
"You have an idea?" Daemon asked. His uncle always had ideas, even when most of them sounded tedious or overly intricate.
"Father means to break more of the Dornish houses along the marches come the new year. The fighting will fall chiefly to the marcher lords, yet the crown will need men to stand for it. Build yourself a competent host and ride south with them. When the skirmish is done and the rewards are portioned out, some of your men may be granted lands of worth. You will then possess a loyal base within the greater game. You will cease to be merely the Rogue Prince."
That gave him pause, for he had not been certain war would come, nor that the king would wish any part in it. Yet upon reflection the notion seemed reasonable. The Dornish were divided and at one another's throats; the lesser lords of the sands might be brought low with little cost.
As for a host, the idea held a certain allure. He might raise a company after the fashion of the sellswords of Essos.
"I shall require coin and harness," he said, stroking his chin in thought.
"That can be arranged," Maelys answered, and no more than that.
Ever indulgent was his uncle, ever swift to lavish coin upon the frivolous and the foolish. What profit could he possibly seek in Daemon's ventures? The question had long gnawed at him, stirring both confusion and curiosity.
"Tell me, Maelys, for I have long wondered," he said, turning the full weight of his gaze upon the taller man. "What purpose drives all your deeds and choices and idle fancies? Is it fame you pursue? If so, I think you need not fear on that score. Or is it wealth? Some grand vision? An endless caprice? I cannot fathom what spurs you to such vast undertakings. What, in truth, do you chase?"
The winter prince showed no surprise at the question. He merely inclined his head with a soft hum of acknowledgement.
"Ah, you ask after my dream, do you not?"
Daemon gave a single nod.
"Well, if I am to speak plainly," Maelys said, "it is nothing so lofty. My dream… is fatherhood. Not the mere act of getting a woman with child, but true parentage. Family. I wish to fashion a future free of hardship and misery. I would have my children spared the sorrows of toil and obscurity. Thus, my dream is to build paradise."
With those words he turned away to speak with certain fur-clad northerners. If Daemon recalled rightly, these were the men who had ridden in upon the strange beasts they called unicorns. Goats, more like, if one were honest.
Maelys's words lingered with him for some time thereafter, for he could not wholly grasp
their meaning. They were already royalty. They had been spared the greater part of life's hardships and miseries. What more, then, could there possibly be?
Foolish!
Daemon clicked his tongue.
He glanced toward the sun, now hastening to meet the horizon. "I should make ready myself for the melee," he murmured, "and perchance the joust as well."
Then, he went seeking his brother.
===••••===
The Saint: And so it was. The Rogue Prince's betrothal is secured and all other things are in motion.
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