Chapter Text
Caraxes’ mournful call of parting shook the ground and gave sound to the pain, the loss, the disappointment, the betrayal Daemon himself had drowned in ever since he had read that damned letter.
He could see no way out, no way through anymore.
All paths to victory, to survival, had been neatly cut off by his own prideful wife, no less.
“A queen’s words, a whore’s work.” That was what he had told the trembling maester, and that was what it was, was it not? He had left Rhaenyra’s side, left her in a nest of grasping snakes, and now he was reaping his just rewards.
Madness.
This was pure, unadulterated madness.
To follow her order to return would be madness too, would provide Aemond a neat little opportunity to remove Daemon and take King’s Landing in one fell swoop.
To follow his own dismal plan would be madness too. A challenge his foolish nephew would not refuse, a challenge the boy would lose, he was certain. At the cost of Daemon’s own life.
But he was an old, tired man now, bound to die in this godsforsaken war.
And once he was gone, there would be no more shields left to Rhaenyra.
None left for Aegon either, and his heart twinged at yet another promise broken.
To his son, Daemon would die a liar.
“I promise, I will be back. I promise,” he had told Aegon before he had left King’s Landing for the last time, his throat tight at the sight of the unshed tears burning in his son’s eyes. Aegon had tried so hard to put on a brave face for his mother after they had lost Viserys and Jace and Stormcloud in one foul day.
Aegon did not believe him. “Everyone says that, and no one ever comes back,” he had muttered under his breath, and Daemon’s heart broke. They had been on the very cusp of victory, yet there was little to see for it, little but their mounting losses.
He had embraced him and held him to himself, pressing kisses to his pale hair as he whispered the promise over and over again, until Aegon’s own grip on him loosened. He had repeated the promise once more when they had separated, drawing a small smile from the desolate boy.
Daemon watched Sheepstealer vanish into the morning mists, heading for the Bay of Crabs, flying away, flying to freedom.
Once, he had craved freedom above all else. Now, he had little use for it, had even grown to resent it.
One was free to do whatever they wished when there was no one about to care.
“There was a letter from the queen in the night,” he announced to Lord Mooton as they broke their fast together, and the man’s hand froze as it reached for bread, his eyes going very, very wide.
The vice grip on his heart eased a little at the sight. The man knew, likely had known before Daemon himself. Men that were loyal to him still existed. That would make matters infinitely easier. He gave the man a wan smile.
“I thank you for your leal service, my lord. Alas, now that my companion is gone into exile, I must return to our queen’s side, as she commands me. I will be sure to inform Her Grace what a good and loyal man you are.”
It was not what he had planned to say.
It was not what he had told Netty he would do.
But… Daemon was an old, tired man, and he was going to die in this war. He had spent the majority of his years alone. He did not wish to die so as well.
King’s Landing was a city awake with unrest when Caraxes descended below the clouds, dots of distant fires blending together into rivulets of light.
That was far too much light for the time of night, and he found there was far too much sound for it too when he descended further.
King’s Landing appeared a city at war, yet no army stood at its gates.
Rhaenyra had claimed an urgent need of him, and bitterness had swirled in his gut when he had read the words. She had had no need for him when at her side. What possible need could she have of him now when she believed him disloyal?
He flew in a wide circle above the city, taking grim account of its state. Not a single head thought to turn upward and see the dragon above, too intent on wanton destruction.
No army had taken King’s Landing, but the chaos was no lesser for it.
Caraxes descended upon the River Gate with a roar that tore through the ringing of swords and braying voices of men, giving pause to all movement and all sound, as he inspected the vermin below him as he sat atop the city wall.
“Disperse! In the name of the queen! Disperse now or die!” Daemon shouted into the silence, his voice thundering with black rage. The men did not move, seemingly did not so much as draw a breath. He had no patience for them, so Caraxes roared again, a column of fire rising into the dark sky. “Disperse!” he ordered one last time.
He relished in the horror painted on the upturned faces, weapons dropping from senseless fingers one by one. They knew to look up now, knew to fear the deadly power barely leashed above them, and they melted into the night, their torches left behind to sputter and die, better to hide their miserable forms from his sight.
Fury bubbled in him just below the surface as he unfastened his chains and climbed down from the saddle. He had been a fool to dawdle when Rhaenyra called for him. He should have left the moment he had read her message, should have taken Netty with him, should have talked to her, should have… Should have done anything but make a last half-arsed attempt to scour the countryside for Vhagar so he may skulk back to King’s Landing under the cover of darkness and face Rhaenyra’s repudiation with only the night to bear witness.
“My prince,” the relieved voice of Ser Luthor greeted him on the ground, “your presence is most welcome. The city is rioting.”
An ironic smile twisted his lips. “You do not say, commander,” he drawled out. “The queen has sent for me, and here I am.”
“And we could not be more grateful for Her Grace’s foresight,” his old comrade sighed. “There is looting and worse all over, and there is a rabble-rouser in the Cobbler’s square, declaring the gods have forsaken this city. Smallfolk flock to him in their droves.”
Daemon’s lips thinned. Religious fanatics were a hornet’s nest they could ill afford to poke. “Forget the zealot. Order in the city must be restored. I will have no fires and no looting. Set the men to patrolling the streets and quelling disturbances. No less than a score to a group.”
Ser Luthor appeared pained at the order, casting his eyes about the gate, the dead, and the dying lying around it, some of them wearing gold. “No less than half a hundred?” he amended at the stark reminder.
“That would be more like it, my prince,” the knight agreed grimly.
Daemon took a firm hold of his shoulder and implored him, “Do not let your men get into pitched battles. You are to restore order, not add to the mess.” They could hardly afford to waste good men on rabble when worse was like to come soon.
He turned to leave, a smirk twisting his lip as he clapped Ser Luthor’s shoulder. “I will mount Caraxes and remind the good people of our fair city of reason. I expect to see you in the Red Keep on the morrow, my friend. Farewell.” May the gods keep you, he thought. May the gods preserve them all.
Order was spreading from the River Gate and Fishmonger’s Square and along the River Row while he slowly climbed the steps to reach the battlement, where the Blood Wyrm patiently awaited him, his red scales glowing menacingly in the waning firelight. Still, he secured himself into the saddle somberly, as if riding into a battle.
Another roar split the night as the dragon leapt into the sky once more, his prince’s heart heavy. More roars followed every time he flew above a group of ants gathered in misdeed, sending any with half a wit scurrying back into whatever hole they had crawled out of.
His city. In riot no more.
Only for the nonce, he was afraid.
Syrax, somewhere beyond the stout walls of the Red Keep, lent her roar in support when they soared over it, and Caraxes’ answering trill was filled with joy.
But joy was not what his rider felt as the lights in the streets sputtered out and a semblance of order reigned over most of the capital, and at last they returned to the keep to join her.
The chains were heavier than ever as he freed himself of them, his movements sluggish as he heaved himself out of the saddle, taking great care with the placement of his feet as he climbed down. He had missed them, desperately so, had longed for their presence with every fiber of his being, and now that their reunion was at hand, he feared to turn and not find them there to welcome him back.
Pathetic. He had turned craven in his old age.
“Daemon!” Rhaenyra called, and his hand stilled against the warm scales. His whole body stilled.
If Syrax’ roar had been full of joy, Rhaenyra’s call was… Joy seemed a puny, pitiful word to encompass everything she had entrusted to his name.
He did not remember turning, did not remember moving at all, but between one wink and the next, Joffrey and Aegon stood by their mother’s side, were no longer there, darting toward him, slamming into him one after the other. A startled laugh escaped him, his arms closing around them even as he stumbled back under the enthusiastic assault. “Whatever is this? Did you happen to miss me, boys?”
Joffrey stepped back first, shamefaced, as he donned his princely mask. “Of course we did, Father,” he said in a perfectly proper courtly tone, and Daemon’s hand reached out to brush through his dark curls of its own accord, coming to rest on his shoulder. Kepa, with its generous breadth, had been the preferred term for the longest time.
Aegon could not remain in his embrace long once his older brother was out of it and bounced on the balls of his feet, tugging at his hand instead. “You’re back! You’re back!”
“Did I not promise I would be?” he asked, his brows raised.
“You did,” the boy breathed, his dark eyes wide and filled with stars.
“You did?” Rhaenyra’s soft voice questioned, and his eyes darted to her, much closer than she had been.
“Of course,” he confirmed, caught wrong-footed, searching for the words to say to her, his mind blank, his eyes looking for an escape, carefully avoiding her drawn face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes.
“You’ve grown taller than your mother,” he dumbly informed Joffrey. Where had the time gone?
The boy straightened to show off his full height, a proud smile on his face. “That I did.”
“That you did,” his mother agreed, pride suffusing her voice, and her fingers combed through her son’s hair fondly before she rose to her tiptoes to press a kiss to his temple. “You seem almost a man now. I fear you will be breaking hearts left and right soon enough.” There was more than mere mother’s melancholy in her tone.
An embarrassed blush dusted the boy’s cheeks, and he stepped back, beyond the reach of his parents.
Daemon let out a huff. “A man soon, but not quite yet, running from a fair lady’s kisses like that. Now, I do not know about strapping young lads like you two, but this poor old man needs his sleep.”
Laughter rang through the courtyard for a moment, and he seized the opportunity to snag Rhaenyra’s hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Unless our fair lady disagrees?” he murmured, his lips still brushing the soft skin.
“The fair lady does not,” she said. “'Tis high time children were put to bed.”
Her sons let out twin groans of “Mother!” but a look and a raised brow from her nipped further protests in the bud.
Their hands did not part when she turned to lead them inside, their fingers entwining as her other arm wrapped around Joffrey’s back. Daemon did not question the gift. Not when he had his wife’s fingers brushing his, not holding on, not letting go, and Aegon’s warm hand in his, chattering away as he hopped along.
They might be out of time, but whatever they were left with, they would spend together.