"Alas…" Daemon fiddled with the letter in his hand as the crash of waves against the jagged shoreline rang out below, each impact grating on his already fragile sense of calm. "That Hightower whore and her petty cleverness…"
His words light...amused even.
Yet, his grip told another story entirely, as the parchment had crumpled under his grasp.
And for good reason. He had taken a gamble, one that should have paid well. A Tyroshi agent, a bribed servant and a dose of the Tears of Lys slipped into the right hands at the right time.
Perhaps it would not have killed them outright, those two and their…magic, but it would have weakened them. Humbled them.
Forced them into a position where they needed treatment, then the rest could be done quietly.
Gerardys would have seen to that. With the right words in Rhaenyra's ear, her loyal hound would have finished what was started.
It had been simple.
Beautifully simple.
And yet—
Daemon exhaled, stepping closer to the cliff's edge as the wind lashed at him, tugging at hair and cloak alike.
Salt stung his face where the sea sprayed upward in angry bursts, the waters below churning white against the black rock.
Bloodstone stretched behind him in all its bleak defiance, harsh, barren, and stubbornly alive.
The only thing that decorated this desolate rock was the outpost that sat behind him, however rough-hewn it was.
It was a prize taken after he had crushed the third self-proclaimed Pirate King foolish enough to stake a claim here following his departure all those years ago.
Try as it might, it was no castle, neither was it the Red Keep, nor was it a seat worthy of a legacy. His legacy.
Yet, here he was all the same.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a fleeting moment, he said nothing, stood still against the roar of the sea and the howl of the wind, the letter clenched in his hand like a final insult.
"Damnit!"
Then his foot lashed out, meeting the large, indifferent rock beside him, bearing all his frustration.
Again and again, he kicked the rock as he screamed.
"THEY F*CKING REFUSE TO DIE! WHY?! WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO TURN AGAINST ME?!?"
Soon his shouts changed, from rage to suffering as pain surged up his foot in violent waves.
His expression contorted as he staggered back a step.
Daemon sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, jaw tightening as he fought the instinct to curse further.
"Seven hells…"
He bent slightly, glaring down at his foot, flexing it once before grimacing again.
Looking back at the rock, he noticed a jagged protrusion at its side that he had not noticed, making him curse his recent string of misfortune all the more.
The dull throb pulsed incessantly, a harsh, mocking reminder of both his misstep and the failure that had led him here in the first place.
Did he regret his actions? Perhaps.
He had loved Jacaerys, in his own way. Claimed him as his own, even when the truth of it mattered little to anyone but pride.
Still, whatever faint guilt lingered was quickly drowned beneath something far stronger. The sting of being outplayed. The indignity of failure. The simple, burning desire to see the Greens suffer for it.
Alas...fate, it seemed, had little interest in indulging him.
His allies had begun to drift once more, lingering in Dorne especially. Since his latest failure and his growing distance from his brother, their tone had cooled.
Where once there had been eagerness, now there was hesitation and even disdain.
Gold-hungry curs, the lot of them.
Though if he were honest, their chill had begun the moment he refused to hand over the Stepstones.
That had been the price they truly wanted, and he had denied them outright.
"Fucking merchants…" Daemon muttered, the words slipping out with a bitter touch.
The wind howled around him, whilst his foot still throbbed in time with his pulse.
Unfortunately for him, the Stepstones offered no comfort, only offering a storm-kissed hellscape and the constant roar of a sea that never rested.
He would need to return to the outpost soon. There was nothing to be gained standing here any longer.
Yet as Daemon turned…the sky answered.
A roar split the air, cutting through wind and wave alike.
A flicker of gold pierced the heavy clouds above, glimmering like a shard of dawn forced through a storm.
Daemon groaned softly, already knowing. He could have named the dragon blind, deaf, and half-dead. Caraxes' distant, eager cries were enough to betray it.
"Of course…"
Rhaenyra.
Syrax descended in a rush of wind and fury, her landing sending a violent gust outward that lashed against him.
Daemon's expression tightened, his already pale features paling further beneath the force of it.
A moment later, she was there.
Rhaenyra dismounted quickly, her movements lacking their usual poise as she hurried toward him.
Daemon barely had time to register it before—
Crack!
The slap struck clean across his face, sharp and unrestrained.
"You fool! You wretched, arrogant fool!" Her voice followed immediately, cutting deeper than the blow itself. "Is your ambition sated? Are you pleased with yourself for what you have done?!"
Daemon's jaw tightened, instinct rising to meet her fury, but the words never came.
Not when he truly saw her.
Her eyes were bloodshot, red veining stark against pale skin, so vivid it called to mind Caraxes' own scales.
Her face, once composed, was now marred by tears long since dried and replaced anew. And those violet eyes…dimmed, yet burning, fixed upon him with a grief that felt almost tangible.
"D-did you know…" Her voice faltered, breath uneven as her hand rose to clutch at her head. A bitter, broken chuckle slipped free. "How eagerly I challenged my father that day? I demanded he give me that woman's head…"
She shook slightly, the sound of her laughter turning hollow. "And when he refused, I thought he had abandoned me. Given up on me."
Her gaze snapped back to him, something sharper now, something final.
"Only for him to tell me…IT. WAS. YOU."
The scream tore through the air, sharp enough to make even Daemon flinch, triggering the pain in his foot to pulse in greater intensity. "YOUR MORBID AMBITION KILLED MY SON!"
She laughed again, but there was nothing joyous in it. Nothing resembling the woman she had been.
"Because of you… I no longer even have the face to ask my father to punish that woman."
The words fell away after that.
And with them, something else.
Gone was the warmth that had once lived in her voice. Gone was the fire that had earned her the name Realm's Delight.
Gone, most of all, was the fierce, consuming obsession with which she had once looked at him.
Daemon pursed his lips, yet no apology came.
"Then what do you want from me, woman? Do you ask me to die in apology?" He winced faintly, trying to remain impassive against the pain in his foot and the harsh winds around them.
Alas, it was nothing compared to the way her face stilled at his words.
For a moment, even the wind seemed to falter.
Then it returned in force, tearing at their pale hair, whipping it into wild tangles as the sky above darkened further.
The first hints of rain began to fall, light at first, a scattered patter against stone and scale.
Hearing the silence from Rhaenyra, Daemon could not help but speak up, his tone softer than before.
"I… will take Alicent's head in Jacaerys' honour. You have my word."
The promise cut through the storm between them.
Rhaenyra lowered her head, her voice fragile in a way he had never heard before. "If we are to seek fault…do you not bear the greater burden of guilt?"
The rain came a little heavier, but Daemon heard every word.
"She had the knowledge and power to stop it, yet she let it happen," he said, shaking his head, his voice rising just enough to carry over the wind. "She killed Jacaerys all the same."
Rhaenyra's shoulders tensed. "No…"
"Alicent is guilty," Daemon pressed, stepping closer. "Do not mistake restraint for innocence. Do not offer kindness to an enemy's blade."
"No," she repeated, though this time it wavered. "You…this was you—"
"She used it," Daemon cut in. "You said it yourself. You went to your father, demanded justice, and what did you find? That she had already moved ahead of you. Who else could have let my brother know the circumstances behind the poisoning if not for the perpetrator herself?"
Rhaenyra's breath hitched.
"That is not mercy," he continued, quieter now, measured. "That is calculation. It is scheming."
Her gaze faltered, shifting away from him in uncertainty.
"She could have stopped it," he said again, softer still. "But she did not."
Rhaenyra's silence stretched.
The storm around them seemed to echo it, the growing rain, the restless wind, the distant thunder rolling far across the sea.
Daemon watched on carefully.
And at last, she did not argue, simply nodding at him.
He exhaled, almost imperceptibly, some small tension easing from his shoulders.
Yet even as he did, something lingered.
A doubt.
Did she truly believe him?
Or had she simply chosen not to fight him, choosing instead to keep him close, as one might keep a blade within reach?
Daemon could not tell.
And worse still, he did not know when that uncertainty had taken root between them.
Once, there had been no need for such thoughts.
What they had shared had been simple, in its own way…fierce and consuming. A bond befitting the blood of House Targaryen's strongest heirs.
Now…
It was something else. Twisted. Fractured into pieces he could no longer name.
The rain fell harder.
Daemon turned his gaze briefly toward the sea, jaw tightening.
Still, what else was there to do?
To yield was to become nothing.
And that…
Was not something he would ever allow.
Not now.
Not ever.
***
Baelon felt his eye twitch as a plump beetle darted frantically across the chamber, its wings buzzing in frantic bursts before it was neatly plucked from the air by a dainty hand.
"Did you listen to a thing I said?" Baelon pressed a hand to his forehead as he looked at Helaena.
"I suppose," she said lightly. The beetle sat cradled between her fingers, still trembling, its frantic movements softening as she traced its shell. "A fool's follies. A mother's worries. Which of it is anything new?"
Baelon's brow furrowed. "You say that as though it changes nothing."
"Does it?" She tilted her head slightly, eyes still on the insect rather than him. "People do what their desires ask of them. It is rarely a surprise, only the timing ever is."
"That timing nearly cost us our lives," Baelon replied flatly.
Even he was not certain what would have arisen if they had consumed it. Sure, they may have fared better than their late nephew, but…they had no wish to meet The Stranger so early.
Helaena hummed, unconcerned. The beetle's wings slowed, its panic easing under her touch. "Yet here you are. Complaining rather loudly for a dead man."
Baelon let out a breath, finding himself filled with reluctant amusement. "You truly have a way with words."
"And you…do not," she returned. Then, after a pause, "Though I do wonder…do you know who would send you such a message?"
His expression shifted slightly at that. "I have a faint guess," he admitted. "But I would rather not act on guesses alone. I'll need confirmation."
"From Silvo?"
"Yes." Baelon moved toward the window, gaze drifting outward, though his thoughts remained elsewhere. "If there is truth to it, he will know. Until then, we wait."
"Waiting," Helaena repeated. She opened her hands slightly, watching as the beetle hesitated, then settled instead of fleeing, as if it had given up resistance. "You've never liked that."
"No," Baelon said simply.
Silence soon settled between them.
Alas, why did this return have to become so complicated?
He had come back to ease something within himself, to rid himself of that lingering guilt, that quiet homesickness that had followed him even across the Narrow Sea.
And instead…
This.
Baelon shook his head faintly. The gods, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humour.
***
The hours passed without much notice after that.
By the time dusk began to settle over King's Landing, painting the sky in dim hues of gold and violet, Baelon found a new thought had begun to take shape in his mind.
If that letter was true, and the poison had truly been meant for them…then what, precisely, was he meant to do with that knowledge?
Baelon very much wished he could snap Daemon's neck clean through and be done with it.
But Driftmark had taught him something...that certain events did not bend easily, no matter how tightly one gripped them.
Some things simply were, as though already preordained.
Even now, a quiet fear lingered at the edges of his thoughts. That one morning, he might wake and find Helaena no longer beside him. Just…gone.
"Damn it!" He hissed through clenched teeth, bending over his desk as frustration finally broke through restraint. "The madman can try and harm us, and I'm expected to do nothing in return? Ridiculous."
Simply putting that wretch through misfortune was not enough for Baelon to be satisfied.
Daemon Targaryen had to die.
The oil lamps around him flickered in rhythm with his thoughts, their flames spitting softly as they fought against the draughts slipping through the chamber.
Warm light spilt across the desk in trembling pools. Spread across it were several sheets of paper.
Much of it concerned the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin Strong. The date. The circumstances. Even his encounter with the River Lords and prior mentions of a possible dragon in the vicinity.
Yet it was a separate line of inquiry that had begun to draw his attention. Something he had not thought to question until now.
At his request, his father had allowed him access to the archives. It was there, buried among records from 120 A.C., that something unsettling had surfaced.
A prison escape in the Black Cells.
Not uncommon in itself. But this one…stood apart. It succeeded.
The document listed names, dates, dispositions, and transfers. A record of chaos swiftly contained.
And then Baelon saw it.
All those who had been released shared a single detail.
Each had been under the care, or interrogation, of the same confessor.
The ink on the parchment seemed to darken as his eyes lingered on it. He'd be damned if this was some mere coincidence.
Baelon scoffed quietly and leaned back, turning his gaze away from the papers. "Of course," he muttered under his breath. "Of course it would be him."
He was already certain who had placed that letter into motion. Certain enough that confirmation almost felt redundant.
Soon, his eyes drifted across the desk again. Past the scattered notes. Past the ink-stained parchments.
And settled on a book.
An all-too-familiar one.
For a moment, he simply stared at it. There was a reflexive urge to turn away, to leave it untouched, as though distance alone could blunt its influence.
But that thought collapsed almost immediately under the weight of his frustration. If he could not strike at Daemon directly, he could not rest easy.
His hand closed around the cover. The book opened with reluctant ease.
Baelon set it before him and, after a moment's hesitation, dipped his quill.
What do you know of fate?
The ink vanished into the page as though swallowed by some greedy, unseen beast. The blankness remained for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed.
Then, slowly, he conjured a flame with his fingertip and brought it to the page.
Soon…words began to surface.
Inevitable yet unknowable, that is fate. A thread that binds all sorts of men, beasts and even Gods. What is it specifically you seek?
Baelon paused. Its answer had said nothing, yet everything at the same time.
Still, he wrote again.
Can one break free from the chains of fate?
The ink disappeared.
This time, the book did not respond. Even as the flame hovered near its surface, nothing stirred. No ink.
No reaction. Only silence, as though the thing within had turned its attention elsewhere, or chosen not to answer at all.
For a moment, Baelon considered closing it.
Then, just as his hand shifted…
A single word bled into existence upon the page.
Perhaps.