Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9872474.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark, Myriah_Martell/Daeron_II_Targaryen, Brynden_Rivers/
      Shiera_Seastar, Brynden_Rivers_&_Daeron_Targaryen, Aegor_Rivers_&_Daemon
      Blackfyre
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Sansa_Stark, Daeron_II_Targaryen, Daemon_Blackfyre, Brynden
      Rivers, Aegor_"Bittersteel"_Rivers, Shiera_Seastar, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Rebellion, Explicit_Language,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-22 Updated: 2017-04-04 Chapters: 3/? Words: 7071
****** The Death of Dragons ******
by AlphaMan
Summary
     What if Jon Snow and Sansa Stark had been alive during the First
     Blackfyre Rebellion?
      
     OR
      
     My take on what really went down between Daeron the Good and Daemon
     Blackfyre.
Notes
     Most of the characters belong to George R.R. Martin. This story will
     diverge from canon.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Prologue *****
They pronounced him dead, sometime after the break of dawn. They sounded the
bells throughout the city, waking the nobles and smallfolk alike. None were
mourning for the dead king, and if they were, they hid it well beneath faces of
pure mirth and merriment. The king’s family had sent for the Silent Sisters.
The High Septon had been ordered to make prompt arrangements for the king’s
funeral. He was to be cremated, like his ancestors before him. Out in the
streets, the commoners and the knights had begun drinking together, toasting
their recently deceased monarch. The women were gossiping amongst themselves in
the market, gleefully sharing tales about the king’s death. Their children ran
amongst the crowds, singing songs to celebrate the passing of a man who was
almost unanimously reviled by his people.
The mood in the Red Keep was only slightly dourer. The King’s family had locked
themselves away from prying eyes, preferring to discuss the funeral
arrangements behind closed doors. Only trusted advisers and family friends had
been allowed to join them. None of the king’s bastards were present, save one.
Most of the nobles were lounging in the gardens, anxiously sharing rumors of
what the king’s family members were planning to do next in the wake of his
death. Talk of succession was rife, with each man casting his lot for either
the black dragon or the red one. Most of them were eagerly waiting in line to
meet the royal family and offer them their condolences. Some of them had been
honest people, while most, like as not, were just there to curry favor. The
gold cloaks had been manning the gates to the Red Keep, with strict orders to
not let anyone through. The knights of the Kingsguard had taken over the
running of the castle, with even stricter orders to observe the guests.
King Aegon Targaryen the Fourth, or better known as Aegon the Unworthy, was
dead, and soon more than half the realm would be celebrating his (long-overdue)
passing. Details of his death and suffering were still being withheld by the
maesters, but most, if not all, knew that Aegon’s gluttony had been his final
undoing. The king’s latest mistress had been inconsolable; she was a baseborn
churl from the Free Cities, and was well aware that her deportation would be
imminent. Nearing the end of his reign, King Aegon had become too fat to even
crawl into her bed. Most of the high lords were relieved that he had not gotten
a babe on her, knowing full well that the realm would soon be crawling with
Aegon’s bastards, and mummers who claimed to be Aegon’s bastards. Before this
woman, there had been a bevy of other women. There had been two Brackens, a
Blackwood, a priestess from Lys, a Vaith, a Lothston, a Stokeworth, a Stark,
and even the King’s own cousin sister.
The maesters swarmed over his corpse like a flock of worried hens. He was to be
delivered to the Silent Sisters soon, but the body of King Aegon reeked of
pestilence and corruption. It would be almost impossible to cart his body
through Maegor’s Holdfast and outside the Red Keep without drawing unwanted
attention. One of the maesters suggested that they use the secret tunnels
within the walls to remove the former king’s body. It was said that his limbs
were rotting and covered in white flesh worms. His face had turned a sickly
shade of green, and his already considerable stomach had taken on a bloated
look. Aegon the Unworthy had been wallowing in his own shit, urine, and vomit
before he passed. In his final hours, even talking caused him a great deal of
discomfort. The maesters had been giving him the milk of the poppy to dull the
pain. A few hours later, the Crown Prince (and soon to be crowned King) had
arrived with a small retinue of knights and noble companions to pay their final
respects to the deceased Targaryen sovereign. The Princess Daenarys mourned
alone in her room.
Almost everyone, save the maesters and Prince Daeron, had squirmed at the sight
of the king’s body. Prince Daeron gave his father a lingering look, before
ordering the maesters and the royal servants to wrap the King’s body up in
cloth before delivering him to the septons and Silent Sisters. Two of the
Kingsguard knights accompanied the small escorting party through the secret
tunnels in Maegor’s Holdfast. In the throne room, tapestries of King Aegon in
his youth had been taken down, and new decorations were being put up in their
place. Prince Daeron’s coronation was to be held after his father’s cremation,
and like as not, most of the attendants would have forgotten about the old,
dead king by then. One of the king’s bastards, Brynden Rivers, was standing in
front of the Iron Throne. He looked back and nodded at the Crown Prince, who
was also his close friend. The pair stood in silence as they observed the
workers around them, grieving for their father in their own separate ways.
Brynden Rivers had always been of a grim disposition, even in his youth. He had
milk white skin, with hair to match his complexion. His eyes were red, and he
had a winestain birthmark on his right cheek. He was not half so popular as his
father, or even his older half-brother Daemon, but men feared and respected him
all the same.
“Did he suffer long?” Brynden asked the Crown Prince.
“All night. But I’m sure you already knew that, brother.” Daeron replied. It
was common knowledge that his half-brother was a spymaster, and frequently
dabbled in the dark arts. None of this bothered the Crown Prince, for he knew
Brynden Rivers to be a good man despite the sinister rumors surrounding him.
“Good”, Brynden said. “I can think of no other man who deserved a more painful
and humiliating demise.”
“I’m sure many would agree with you on that. Nonetheless, he was still my
father, and I should warn you to think twice before speaking ill of the dead.”
Brynden snorted. “You should warn me, but the other high lords will have even
worse things to say of your predecessor. More than half the city is in their
cups, celebrating King Aegon’s death. When word spreads throughout the realm,
and when you invite these other lords to attend your coronation, you will know
your true friends from the false, this I guarantee you.”
The Crown Prince scratched at the stubble growing on his chin. “All this I know
already, Brynden. Tell me, what of the other bastards?” He asked his half-
brother.
“You wish to know of their whereabouts? Very well. Aegor is most likely at
Stone Hedge with his mother and grandmother. My sisters are at Raventree, and
young Jon Snow has apparently attached himself to Lord Baratheon’s uncle. My
spies claim that Baratheon’s uncle means to take the boy on as a page.”
The Crown Prince gave his half-brother a curt nod. It was said that King Aegon
had sired a thousand bastards, but only a small fraction of them were of noble
birth. The ones in King’s Landing were most probably children of whores and
kitchen wenches, and Daeron wondered if any of them even knew that they were
the progeny of the recently departed king. He thought of Jon Snow, the youngest
of his father’s Great Bastards, who had been sired on Lord Stark’s own sister.
Jon was a solemn boy of eight, who wore shades of grey and black, and mostly
kept to himself. Jon was uneasy around other people, but he was far from uneasy
around a blade. Those who had seen him spar in the courtyard with the squires
had taken note of his raw talent. One day, he would turn out to be an excellent
swordsman, of that Daeron had no doubt. Fostering the boy with Lord Baratheon’s
uncle might just prove to be a good decision, the Crown Prince mused. “What of
Shiera?”
“She’s in Lys, attending her aunt’s funeral. She will not be attending her
father’s.”
Daeron had to smile at Brynden’s blunt and gruff response. It was well known
that the two of them were lovers, and that Brynden was fiercely protective of
Shiera. She had been fathered on a woman out of Lys, and was rumored to be a
sorceress as well. Most men were enamored with her, with some even going so far
as to say that she was the most beautiful  woman in all of Westeros. Aegor
Rivers certainly thought so too, and was heard to claim that one day Shiera
would be his, even if he had to take her forcefully. Aegor and Brynden
certainly hated each other due to the history of enmity between their two
houses, but the love they both shared for the same woman, who was their half-
sister at that, had only seemed to have deepened the rift. Daeron loved Shiera
in his own way, but he did not approve of her hedonistic and careless attitude
towards her suitors. “She might not attend the funeral, aye, but something
tells me that she might just attend my coronation”, he mentioned with a wry
smile. “Any word on Daemon?”
His half-brother nodded. “He’s still in Tyrosh, but don’t be surprised if he
already knows of your father’s passing. He has many admirers and leal servants
here amongst the high lords. I would urge you to prohibit him from attending
the ceremony.”
“If only it were that simple, Brynden. Daemon is our brother, and he deserves
the chance to mourn our father as well. Besides, with his presence at the
funeral, my false friends would be even more prompted to reveal themselves now,
wouldn't they?”
Brynden grunted. “Even so my prince, that man is not to be trusted. He’s the
most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and with all of those leeches
whispering in his ear, he might even become aware of that fact.
Daeron did not say anything. He laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder and
bade him goodbye. The Crown Prince retired to his chambers and ate his lunch in
silence. His wife and children were away in Dorne to visit his goodbrother and
he knew that he had to notify them soon of the king’s death. The late King
Aegon had been a terrible father to all of his children, and had proven to be
just as inept at ruling the Seven Kingdoms. The Crown Prince had spent a good
portion of his life at odds with his father, preferring the company of his
mother, his uncle Aemon the Dragonknight, and his half brother Brynden. He was
never as close to the old man as Daemon, and this had lead the late king to
treat his bastard-born brother as if he were his own heir, instead of Daeron,
who was the Crown Prince. Daeron had not envied the relationship between his
father and Daemon, but neither did he appreciate Daemon’s attempts at
ingratiating himself with the royal family and in particular, his younger
sister Daenarys.
Sometime in the evening, after he had sent word to his family in Dorne, he had
received a message from Brynden. Brynden’s message was short and to the point,
but that did not make its contents any less foreboding.
Your bastard brother Daemon is no longer a bastard.
Many years ago, his father had almost started a war with the Dornishmen. He had
sent a fleet of ships to destroy them, and had even commissioned the building
of seven wooden dragons loaded down with wildfire, and had ordered them to be
marched up the Boneway. Both attempts had been met with absolute failure. Then
there were the half-veiled threats towards the Free Cities, leading Brynden to
claim that their father hungered for war as a means to display his power.
Daeron wondered briefly if his father had succeeded in doing so at last.
***** At the Wake of Kings *****
Chapter Summary
     The story continues with King Aegon's wake.
Chapter Notes
     The ages of the Great Bastards (excluding Jon) and that of King
     Aegon's children with Queen Naerys, have been increased for plot
     purposes.
 A week before his death, the king had seen fit to legitimize each and every
one of his bastards. Out of sheer spite, he had even placed Daemon Blackfyre
ahead of his heir, Prince Daeron, in the line of succession to the Iron Throne.
Even in the arms of the Stranger, Aegon the Unworthy still dictated the moves
of his pawns, the Princess Daenarys had thought.
The held the king’s wake in the Great Sept of Baelor, which was already crowded
with high lords and lowly hedge knights alike. The streets on Visenya’s Hill
had been cleared by the Gold Cloaks, and those who were not in attendance at
the wake were presumably at home, sleeping off their hangovers. The septas
stood silently outside the Mother’s Doors, whilst the septons busied themselves
about the Father’s altar, lighting candles and praying for their fallen monarch
to be judged justly. At each altar, stood a Kingsguard knight, all of them
resplendent in white. Daenarys spotted the Crown Prince standing over their
father’s bier. Their late father had been covered up in a black burial shroud,
with the insignia of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon, adorned across
the front in red. Black and red were the colors of House Targaryen, and had
been worn by every king on the Iron Throne.
The first ones to arrive had been the Crown Prince’s own family. His wife, the
Princess Myriah of Dorne, stood silently with her handmaidens, whilst the
children had been given leave to roam and to socialize with the other mourners.
Her brother’s eldest son and heir, was Baelor, and he was by far her favorite
nephew. Baelor was a formidable warrior, even at the age of fourteen. He had
already won three small tourneys, and was on his way to becoming one of the
best swordsmen ever in Westeros. In the mornings, Prince Baelor often visited
the maesters to continue his studies of the languages and the histories. In the
evenings, the prince and the septons would convene to learn of the mysteries of
the Faith, and both parties had naught but praise for the young man. He was
considered to be brilliant and affable by the maesters, as well as righteous
and just by the priests of the Faith of Seven. Daenarys spotted him talking to
the other high lords, feeling at ease even in such exalted company. The other
children of the Crown Prince were still young, but Daenarys knew that her
brother prayed for them every day to turn out right.
The Crown Prince was more of a father to her than a brother, mostly due to the
difference in age between them. Daeron was fiercely protective of Daenarys, and
loathed their half-brother Daemon for fawning over her.
Many years ago, when Daemon had won his first tourney, their father had gifted
him with the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. The sword, named Blackfyre,
had once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror himself, and had been passed down in
unbroken succession from one dragon king to another. Their father had broken
the tradition, and the repercussions of doing so had been controversial. Many
of the high lords at court had whispered that Aegon had finally recognized
Daemon as his own son, and would soon legitimize him and place him ahead of
Daeron in the order of succession. With a start, Daenarys had realized that
those high lords had had the right of it all along. Upon receiving the sword,
many of the high lords and knights who were disillusioned with Daeron and his
pro-Dornish beliefs, had flocked to Daemon’s own unique banner. He had inverted
the colors of House Targaryen, choosing a black dragon on a field of red, and
had started referring to himself as Daemon Blackfyre. Soon after, he had
married the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, due to the king’s insistence, but
he had never stopped wooing Daenarys, much to the chagrin of the royal family.
Most of the king’s bastards, or at least the known ones, had shown up for the
king’s wake. Only the Black Dragon and his close companion, Aegor Rivers, had
been inconspicuously absent.
She spotted Brynden Rivers, her brother’s trusted confidante, standing by the
Stranger’s Doors. He was trying to root out his half-brother’s potential allies
from his foes. He had dispersed his guards and spies, with strict orders to
take notes of what was being said by each and every mourner present. Brynden
was a quiet youth, preferring the company of his half-sister Shiera compared to
the others, but the princess was fond of him in her own way. He and Jon Snow,
by far her favorite half-sibling, were very much alike in their demeanor, and
that alone had endeared Brynden to her. The other men at court had taken to
calling him Bloodraven, due to the winestain birthmark on his cheek. It was
said that he practiced the dark arts, and was a spymaster to boot. He knew your
every movement, as well as your friends, your enemies, and your deepest,
darkest secrets. In short, he knew you better than you knew yourself, and
because of this very reason, the singers were fond of saying that Brynden
‘Bloodraven’ Rivers had a thousand eyes and one.
If her brother had heard that, he would have laughed. But not Bloodraven, who
could be dour even at his own wedding, she mused.
Jon Snow, youngest of the king’s Great Bastards, was deep in conversation with
his foster father and Lord Donnel Arryn. Jon’s uncle, Lord Barthogan Stark, had
written to say that he would be coming to the capital for her brother’s
coronation. Lord Barthogan had been very wroth when his dear sister, the Lady
Lyanna, had been ‘stolen’ by the late king. He was even more wroth when the
king had gotten a babe on her. The Lady Lyanna had passed away during Jon
Snow’s birth, but the boy had stayed in King’s Landing at Aegon’s behest. He
had been trained in the way of the sword with Ser Quentyn Ball, master-at-arms
of the Red Keep, and had been raised alongside Daenarys and the Crown Prince’s
children, as if he were the trueborn son of Aegon and not just his bastard.
Lord Barthogan had oft visited Jon in his earlier, formative years, desperately
begging the king for the rights to the boy’s custody. Barthogan was an good
man, and his relations with his sole nephew were nothing if not amicable.  The
Stark lord had expressed his intentions in his letter to renew his oaths of
fealty to the Crown Prince, but even Daenarys knew that soon enough, Lord
Barthogan would be pressing his claim towards Jon’s custody as well.
But Jon Snow had already been promised to another. A few days ago, Ser Ormund
Baratheon, uncle to Lord Orys who was the ruler of Storm’s End, had decided to
take the Stark bastard on as a page. Ser Ormund, in his younger days, had
fought alongside Daeron the first, in the latter’s Conquest of Dorne. Ser
Ormund was a formidable warrior, and commanded the respect of many a knight and
young lad in the Stormlands. He had even visited Essos a few times, and if the
rumors were true, had even served with a few of the sellsword companies there.
Now in his mid-fifties, Ser Ormund’s hair had largely gone to gray, but his
bright blue eyes and blinding smile still marked him for an attractive man. He
was lean and tall, as most of the Baratheons were, and had his own following of
young men who idolized and respected him. Chief amongst these men were his
grandnephew, Ser Gowen Baratheon, who had been promised to a Lannister of the
Rock. If Brynden’s spies were correct, and in Daenarys’ experience they were
seldom wrong, then the old knight was even intending on founding a sellsword
company in Westeros, to rival those across the Narrow Sea.
Ser Ormund was unpredictable even on a good day, yet the Princess Daenarys knew
that Jon could still learn a great deal from the man. She made her way towards
them, her personal guards falling into step behind her. Jon smiled when he saw
her, and she ruffled his hair. The old knight gave her a curt nod, and laid a
protective hand on Jon’s shoulder. He was flanked by two of his own guards,
young men in steel plates. “Your uncle has written from Winterfell. He is
riding here for Daeron’s coronation”, she informed Jon.
“Aye, Ser Gowen told me”, the boy said excitedly. “Will he be bringing his
children with him too?”
“I should suppose so, it’s not every day that you get invited to a king’s
coronation. He might be taking his daughter with him, the one you always talk
about. The one with the red hair”, she said teasingly.
Jon blushed, picking at the seams on his tunic. “I don’t always talk about
her.” He muttered angrily.
Ser Ormund laughed. “Has this girl stolen your heart then? Gowen is still
trying to find the man that stole your tongue, but it appears as if you have
found it at last.” He turned to the princess. “I’ve never had a page as quiet
as this one, Princess Daenarys. Please thank the Crown Prince for me once
more.”
Daenarys raised her eyebrow in amusement. “Is that a good thing, ser? I fear
that I am not so well-versed in the matters of pages and squires.”
Ser Ormund grinned. “Better to have a quiet page, than a simpering fool or a
lickspittle. Better to do your talking on the battlefield, my father was fond
of saying.”
Daenarys glanced at her half-brother, who was obviously in awe of his foster
father. The man was half a legend to aspiring warriors everywhere, and was said
to have forgotten more about the ways of the sword than most of the current
knights even knew. “I’m sure that Jon here will turn out to be an expedient
page, Ser Ormund. Speaking of expedience, how does your nephew fare at Storm’s
End? Daeron oft talks about him.” She said.
“The fact that His Grace should even think about my lord nephew surprises us
all, Princess Daenarys. He still has a long way to go, before he can even
compare to his father. He does surround himself with wise men though, who are
more than capable of telling him which boot to place on which foot without
taking the better part of an hour”, the knight added dryly.
Daenarys chuckled at that, and bade the two men goodbye. The day was fast
becoming into night, and the princess was of a mind to have an early supper.
She retreated to the Red Keep, her guards riding closely behind her on the
cobbled streets of the city. Some of the smallfolk cheered her name, while most
looked on impassively. As she passed through the castle gates and handed the
reins of her mount over to a stablehand, she noticed a few things which were
somewhat out of place. First, it had been the sudden influx of men in the
courtyard. There were about forty of them, garbed in good castle-forged steel.
 Most of them had the insignia of House Bracken on their breastplates; a red
stallion on a field of yellow. Then there was the fact that all of the men had
seemed to be waiting for her. They told her that they meant her and her guards
no harm, and begged her to follow them to the throne room. Seeing as she had no
other choice, and that the men had certainly piqued her curiosity, she followed
them into the throne room, where she spotted the two figures standing before
the king’s seat.
The man on the left bowed before the princess. He spoke in a bitter tone which
was his custom, offering Daenarys his condolences on their father’s death. The
other figure had merely smiled at her, his face almost inhumanly beautiful.
Her half-brothers.
Aegor and Daemon.  
Daemon spoke in a clear voice, not even in the slightest bit as bitter as Aegor
had been. 
"The King is dead, Princess. Long live the King."
***** All Men Are Ambitious *****
Chapter Summary
     POV'S from Daemon, Brynden and Ser Ormund.
“My Lord, they await you in the Great Sept for the king’s coronation.”
“I am no lord; merely the king’s bastard brother. You tell them to wait a while
longer.”
Talk of Daeron’s coronation had been running rampant throughout the entire
realm. The great lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms had been pouring
through the city gates to renew their oaths of fealty to House Targaryen. He
had spotted the grey direwolf and golden lion. There was also the moon-and-
falcon of the Arryns, and the leaping trout of the Tullys. Golden rose, golden
kraken, and even the sun-and spear of House Martell. Aegor had cursed them for
the treacherous bastards that they were, threatening to kill them all even; but
he had counseled restraint. The port had been filled with ships of all sizes,
from the largest of barges, to the dingiest of poleboats. The owners of the
vessels had formed an endless line of well-wishers and gift-givers to the soon-
to-be king and his family. Even the servants had been showered with presents:
richly embroidered clothes to be worn for the king’s coronation feast.
Accommodating such exalted company had been a tough task for the castle
stewards, and so they had moved him to less-than-ideal quarters without
entirely evicting him from the Red Keep.
He was not in the slightest bit offended by that, but neither was he
appreciative of all these simpering fools fawning over his half-brother.
Outside the castle, the commoners had begun to fill the streets. They wore
shades of red and black in support of their new king. The children ran about
happily, flinging flour at each other. The taverns and the inns were selling
their drinks at half the usual price. The men were playing dice in their
booths, whilst the women eagerly jostled one another for a mug of ale. Even the
mummers and the singers had come out in the droves, pestering the castle guards
to let them into the Red Keep so that they could perform before their new king
at his celebratory feast.  He was not one to frequent taverns, but of late the
castle had become much too crowded for him and his men. Aegor was still nursing
his wounded pride, and on two occasions already, the men of House Bracken (who
were sworn to him) had almost come to blows with the men of House Royce, who
were a part of Lord Arryn’s retinue. The tavern that they were in reeked of
piss and pestilence, but better here than rotting in the black cells (as Daeron
had so considerately warned him) should he fail to keep his men in line. A
hideously large rat scampered across their table, causing a commotion. One of
the Bracken guards stabbed it with the point of his knife. The rat’s blood
sprayed everywhere as it squealed. Some of the blood had stained his clothes,
and Aegor had leaped across the table to strike at the man who had defiled his
jerkin. At that very moment, being in the tavern was not too different from
being in a black cell, or so he thought. 
Having lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away from him and stood. Aegor
and fifteen of his men had followed suit as he exited the establishment. They
mounted their horses, and followed the messenger to the Great Sept of Baelor.
As they rode through the streets, some of the smallfolk cheered his name.
“There goes the king’s brother”, said an old man to his counterpart. “That’s
Daemon Blackfyre.”
He gave the man a weak smile, and tossed him a golden dragon
 
                                      ***
 
The size of the Gold Cloaks had been tripled recently, with the king himself
placing the command of the outfit under one of Brynden’s trusted confidantes.
Most of the senior officers had been relieved of their duties, with a great
many of them getting indicted for a various number of heinous crimes as well.
Under the late King Aegon, the outfit had descended into a pitiful state of
corruption and inefficiency. Most of the cases within the city had even gone
unsolved.And how not, he wondered, when those very same cases had been
perpetrated by the men of the City Watch themselves? He did not doubt that some
of the new recruits would turn out to be as bad at their jobs as their
predecessors, and so he had decided to wait until they had revealed their true
colors. If Daeron’s rule could be compared to a garden, then by all means, his
half-brother had a whole lot of weeding to do. As the commoners took to the
streets to celebrate the crowning of their king, the thieves and the vagrants
hid in the shadows, nervously biding their time before striking. Under the late
king, the number of such criminals had increased tenfold. Some of them had even
grown so bold as to threaten and to bribe the very members of the Gold Cloaks.
Aegon had been lax in developing methods to control them, but Daeron had
promised to show them no such leniency.
He meant to crush them.
The castle guards, on the other hand, were a different problem entirely. They
had made their first mistake in letting Daemon and his followers through,
without so much as consulting even a single member of the small council
beforehand. Brynden doubted their loyalties, knowing full well that some of
them were secretly conspiring with Aegor. As to what they were planning to do,
he was still unsure, but he knew that his spies would get to the bottom of that
issue eventually. Most of the guards were heavy drinkers, and a good amount of
ale could loosen even the stiffest of tongues.
Not more than two days ago, Lord Barthogan Stark had ridden down from his icy
fortress in the North. He had barged his way into the castle, and the men on
the walls had not done very much to stop him. Their attitude (and in
particular, their cowardice) had worried him then, but it was the Northerner
who was the real threat to the king’s safety. Lord Barthogan had harassed the
small council, who were in a middle of a very important meeting, and had
demanded to speak to the king. He had yelled, and had thrown the furniture,
acting like a spoiled little child for the whole world to see. Daeron did,
eventually, grant him his request for an audience , and Brynden had been called
in to serve as their witness. Lord Barthogan had been displeased with the way
that Daeron had treated his nephew, the young Jon Snow. Jon was Barthogan’s
only nephew, and the closest thing he would have to a male heir. He had begged
for Daeron to return his nephew to him, but his half-brother had refused Lord
Barthogan. Jon, after all, had been promised to serve as Ser Ormund’s page, and
to go against that agreement would cause Daeron to appear as a king who could
barely make good on his promises. The talk had lasted for hours, leading
Brynden to believe that a compromise would be impossible.
This was one of those rare moments where he had been wrong.
The deal they had struck was fair, at the very least. Upon reaching manhood,
Jon would be allowed to travel up North to serve under his uncle at Winterfell,
in a position befitting his status as a knight. They had argued over who would
knight him, leading Brynden to say that they could only cross that bridge at a
later date. Lord Barthogan had relented at that, even going so far as to offer
one of his own daughters to serve as the handmaiden to the Princess Daenarys,
until the day of her wedding. Daeron chose his eldest daughter, the pretty one
with the fiery red hair, knowing full well that Stark was doing this out of
force than anything else. After all, the Northerner had acted in a rebellious
way to secure his meeting with the king, and rebels would have to be punished
harshly.
He spotted Lord Barthogan in the Great Sept of Baelor, but had made no attempts
to approach the man. The mood in the Great Sept was suffocating, for he had not
seen this many people in a confined place before in his entire life. The
highborn guests had been allowed into the Great Sept, while those guests of
much humbler birth had been permitted to wait outside the building. They had
lighted candles, and were singing songs of praise to the Seven Above. They
asked the gods for a righteous, and merciful ruler, and some of the septons had
even gone outside to join them in their prayer. The lords and ladies inside the
building were very somber, and there had been a lingering feeling of mistrust
and suspicion amongst them. And how not, he thought, when some of the lords who
Daeron had called friends were secretly rooting for his bastard brother Daemon?
Some of the ladies at court had called for Daemon to claim the Iron Throne as
was his right. And how not, he thought, when word of Daemon's legitimization
had leaked out across half the world by now? Regardless of their sentiments,
however, the High Septon had promised to crown Daeron as the rightful king. The
maesters had argued that Aegon’s mind had already been ravaged by the illness
afflicting him, and that he could not make any sound decisions on his own. The
High Septon had agreed, and Daeron's supporters had pushed for him to declare
his father's last will to be null and void. 
As headstrong as Daemon could be sometimes, even he knew that it would take
more than a frivolous sheet of paper to guarantee his claim to the Iron Throne.
His followers could call him ‘the rightful heir’ to their hearts content, and
it would not change a thing. 
The coronation had lasted the entirety of the evening, and when the seven vows
had been invoked, an almost inaudible sigh of relief had passed through the
Great Sept. The High Septon had tapped Daeron’s shoulders with a hefty
broadsword, and had placed an elaborate golden crown on his head. It had seven
spikes, each fashioned masterfully into the shape of a dragon. With a start,
Brynden realized that the crown had once belonged to their father. It was too
large for Daeron’s head, and so every time he moved his neck, the crown would
threaten to topple over. At the end of the ceremony, the lords and ladies had
rushed to congratulate him. Daeron’s children stood behind him, under the
watchful eye of Princess Myriah Martell. Brynden beckoned towards his men, who
followed him out of the Great Sept. He would congratulate his half-brother
later.
They rode earnestly for the Red Keep. He had placed the safety of the castle in
the very capable hands of one of his lieutenants. Even so, assurance did not
come naturally to him. The castle guards had proven to be as unpredictable and
as untrustworthy as the Black Dragon. Soon, all the lords and ladies would be
headed for the castle to partake in the new king’s celebratory feast. For
Brynden, who had been elected to the post of master of whisperers a few days
ago, the problems were only just piling up.
                                      ***
The feast hall in the Red Keep had been allowed to accommodate up to a thousand
guests. Those seats had been reserved by the noble lords and their wives. Those
from the lesser houses and the hedge knights had been given leave to take their
supper in the gardens. Ser Ormund Baratheon had been granted a table all to
himself, and he shared that very table with his grandnephew, Ser Gowen, his
loyal followers who were the younger sons of the lords of the Stormlands, and
his own page, Jon Snow. His followers had eagerly polished off the food placed
before them, and were now in the very process of drinking their way through the
king's wine cellar. The king himself sat at the dais, surrounded by his family
and closest companions. Every now and then, the Princess Daenarys would throw a
glance their way, making sure that Jon was well attended to. His young page was
quiet, and was not like to develop a sense of humor in the near future either.
Jon only ever spoke to Ser Ormund and his grandnephew, but had proven to be an
exciting prospect in the training yard. The lords of the other Great Houses
were seated all around them, with the nearest table being occupied by Lord
Barthogan Stark and his men. When Ser Ormund had approached the Stark table, he
had found their lord to be cold and unreceptive, preferring to favor the old
knight with short and brusque replies. His young page was deeply engaged in a
conversation with one of Lord Barthogan’s daughters. His face had been as red
as the girl’s hair.
 
When the king had stood to deliver his speech, the entire hall had become
silent. Some of his men were acting in an unruly manner, almost coming to blows
over a plate of veal. He had sent his grandnephew to keep them in line. The
king had started by thanking all of the lords and ladies present, and had
reassured them that their confidence in his abilities would not go unrewarded.
He had also thanked his wife and children for their undying support, and had
embraced his half-brother Brynden, who had been promoted to the position of the
master of whisperers. Ser Ormund had glanced to his right, to the very end of
the hall, where the Black Dragon had been seated with his men from House
Bracken. Daemon guarded his expressions carefully, choosing not to even look at
the king. It was said that he fancied his half-sister Daenarys, and if the
rumors were true; had even approached the Princess to ask for her hand in
marriage. Daemon, of course, had already been promised to another, the daughter
of the Archon of Tyrosh, and the king had vehemently denied his request. Daeron
was even willing to pay the girl’s dowry, and secure a tract of land for them,
so that his half-brother could marry the Archon’s daughter as soon as possible.
When Ser Ormund had heard that he had laughed. He had never seen a Targaryen
king who was so eager to please his enemies.
When the king had ended his speech, the lords and ladies had been permitted to
leave the castle. A serving girl had materialized out of thin air, and had
taken his plate of unfinished apple pie away from him. He stood up, and the
rest of his men had followed suit. They shuffled out of the hall, most of them
inebriated. He summoned his lieutenants and ordered them to lead the men safely
to their quarters. He told Jon to stay with his grandnephew as he made his way
to the godswood. The place was empty at this time of the night, and the wide
spaces between the trees, as well as the bright lighting, made it difficult for
any mysterious figures to eavesdrop on their conversation unseen. The other man
was already there, standing before the heart tree. He was lean and tall, with a
close cropped beard and violet eyes. He was dressed in a studded leather jerkin
and breeches, with the red stallion of his house embroidered over the left side
of his chest. He nodded curtly when he saw Ser Ormund. This was not a man who
trusted others easily; if not at all. “Gowen said that you would not come, but
I told him that you would be hard-pressed to turn down my invitation”, he
began.
The other man snorted, and fingered the handle of the blade on his left hip. He
spoke in low, hating tones. “Say what you mean to say old man, and make it
quick. I do not like the feel of this place.”
“You do not like the godswood, Rivers? Such a shame. This place is so peaceful,
and tranquil, and quiet”, he added with a laugh.
“Some would say that it is too quiet.”
Ser Ormund smiled. He was treading on thin ice right now. Wasn’t it his father
who had once told him that he was too ambitious for his own good? His father
was long gone, and they had never been as close as he would have liked, but the
man had always offered him sound advice, and had worried about him the most out
of his three children.
“I’ve come alone, Rivers, so you need not fear an ambush. It would seem that
you are not one for small talk, so let’s stop beating around the bush.”
“How refreshing”, his counterpart offered sarcastically.
“My nephew is a weak and indecisive man. The smallfolk despise him, and he is
too generous to the wrong sort of people. Some would say that he is gullible. I
say that he is stupid. Even now, the lords sworn to House Baratheon plot his
downfall, meaning to place either me or Orys in his seat. I have no intention
to rule, but I command the loyalty of many respected fighters in the
Stormlands, and it is said that their children even look up to me. My
grandnephew may be foolhardy at times, but he has a good heart and a brilliant
mind. We would both be better rulers than my nephew. Our cook could be a better
ruler than my nephew, even.”
“And why should I care about your nephew, Ser Ormund?”
The old knight moved closer to Aegor, staring him right in the eye. “Our new
king could be just as bad as my nephew. Maybe even worse. For far to long, I
have let my brother's son jeopardize the future of House Baratheon. I'll be
damned before I allow Aegon's legitimate son to jeopardize that of our
country."
Aegor was silent for a long time. Ser Ormund placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You go ask Daemon. Ask him if it isn't too late for an old man to switch sides
now."
 
End Notes
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