A Dragon Named Black
Baelor
In the day Baelor turned sixteen, King's Landing woke up before dawn – and the Red Keep didn't seem to have housed a single sleeping eye. Save for Baelor. He looked pleased but not particularly impressed by the stream of lords and ladies, the shining of armours, the building and decoration works that had transformed the Red Keep into a place of celebration just in his honour. Of course, he was used to it by now. Since the day of his birth, the important moments of his life had always been accompanied by much pomp and lavish celebrations – of course, not a single one marking some great deed of his. Rather, it was a matter of who he was. Who he was born to. And to him, that was the most natural thing in the world.
Daemon had been younger than him when he had won Blackfyre through his merits, beating all opponents . But the ceremony of Baelor's knighting that took place this day was far more splendid – and the Prince's only achievement so far was that he had stunned everyone through his choice. Everyone expected that the honour of putting the sword into the King's heir's hand would go to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard but Baelor had chosen the Master-at-Arms' second. Not even the renowned Fireball. His second! Was he really this blind, rejecting the chance to bathe in Fireball's glory just because of his personal desires? But no, more likely he didn't even think he needed the glory. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, after all. Why court Fireball, as great a knight as he was?
It was not that Daemon hated Baelor. He didn't. He even liked him somewhat, for Baelor was just and friendly and did not bear grudges. Besides, he could fight – although his preference for breaking lances over sword fights was an uncomfortable reminder of his mother's heritage. As if his very looks wasn't enough of that! But his privileged position irked Daemon because in truth, Baelor hadn't done anything to deserve it. His being Daeron's son weighed more than Daemon's knighthood, martial skills, and the fact that he, too, was royal. Doubly so, which was more than Baelor could claim. Men could admire Daemon, speak of his courage, repeat the tale of his being knighted and given Blackfyre – but at the end, it was Baelor whose favour most sought. Baelor who took additional lessons that no one else did, receiving education befitting a future king – or what Daeron's ideas of a future king were. Given the measure of influence he allowed his Dornish queen, Daemon was not too reassured. For all her charm and generosity when she felt like it, Mariah Martell – no, Mariah Targaryen she was, he reminded himself – did not comport herself in a way befitting a lady. She had even argued with King Aegon! Daemon could find no beauty in her swarthy skin and black eyes. He couldn't understand why Daeron had not repudiated her when he had been given the chance and taken to wife one of their own women. He had sold his soul to Dorne, men whispered. The Dornish woman has poisoned him with her kisses. Daemon did not place any truth to those rumours but Mariah did wield far more power than his father had allotted to his sister and wife, a pure Targaryen, and that was not right.
Daemon felt someone watching him without a good feeling and turned left. Indeed, his cousin Jon Waters was giving him a stony look. All of a sudden, Daemon had the disturbing feeling that the younger boy had read his mind. Jon probably had. After all, he had taken the brunt of being a princess' bastard, just like Daemon. But he didn't have the fortune to be a king's one, as well. Daemon supposed that Jon had no other choice but try to stay in Baelor's goodwill. As Baelor's companion since early childhood, Jon would be knighted today, along with fifteen other young highborn. A worthy celebration of Baelor's majority, indeed! If one didn't take the fact that out of those, three were Dornish, into account… Try as he might, Daemon simply couldn't get how Jon could be so accepting. He was the Young Dragon's nephew, after all, and still he smiled at the Dornish boys and acted all friendly, taking orders from someone who could be mistaken for a Dornishman if not for his attire! If things had been different, Daemon and Jon could have been at the forefront of their uncle's forces, reclaiming Dorne once again through conquest, like true dragons should, instead of this treaty of the King's that was to be signed the following year.
Crushed by the weight of the bitter realization that the glory of the Targaryen dynasty had been stricken by the King himself, Daemon turned his back to Jon and went to take his place in the procession – not in the head of it but far behind Baelor and his entourage, behind the bookworm, the mad one, and the one who had yet to grow up.