Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

Notes: This is the first PoV from Daegon Rogare. I'll cover the backstory as I go and fill in some of the gaps between Now and the Ninepenny Kings but in short after the war Daegon's father sought closer ties with the throne and agreed to send his eldest son as a ward in the hopes of future relations. King Jaehaerys II Targaryen accepted, deals were made, and Daegon spent most of his childhood growing up with Rhaegar whom was of a similar age. He's since spent most of his life in Westeros.

Chapter 3: The Truth

The sound of clashing steel echoed in the night air as two knights fought. After the initial clash they stepped around an imaginary circle. One, with short silver hair that shun in the moonlight, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second, a full plate helm guarding his features, lunged forward with a centuries old war cry and a greatsword as pale as milkglass. *Clash* The two knights clashed swords, now locked together.

"Today is mine!" The first smiled, holding back the greatsword with all his strength.

"You think so?" The second spoke from beneath his helm, using his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked under his helm as he seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward and his opponent ducked under the blade.

"Ha!" The first chuckled, having easily dodged the strike.

"It seems your tiring." The second mocked, standing idle as his opponent swung his silver sword through the air for show.

The first lunged wide without a retort, his silver longsword cutting the air where his foe once stood, having quickly moved to parry and taken a step closer to swing at the firsts neck. Ducking backwards he avoided the blow easily and took the opening to stab upwards, towards the seconds helm, causing him to take a swift step back.

In the opening the first swung wildly like the Warrior reborn. He would dodge and lunge for the joints in his foes armor like a man possessed. They were moves that would best most men, he knew, but to his frustration his opponent was no such man. He blocked yet another sword strike from the pale greatsword with less and less ease as he began to tire, slashing outward at the challengers chest with a back-swing before driving his steel to parry another blow. "Your breathing appears to be labored." The second mocked him, and he could picture the smirk under his helm. This thought only drove him forward, more determined than ever.

He dodged another blow swung at him, dunking under the wide swing and moving instantly to return the blow only to find it parried once more.

"Almost lost your head there, brother." The second's smirk was larger this time, he knew it.

He lunged wide in response, his anger getting the better of him, as the second quickly moved to parry but took a step closer and brought his pale sword up, warped it around his opponents sword then slid down the outside of his blade, jerking his greatsword inward causing the firsts sword to fly out of his hand. Pale milkglass against his throat.

"Well shit," The first cursed through labored breaths, carefully with a single finger, moving the steel away with his throat. "I almost had you this time."

The second removed his helm, revealing a fair skinned man with pale blond hair and dark purple eyes. He had a smile on his lips, the one the first had pictured.

"Wipe that smirk off your face Dayne."

"Ah," Dayne replied as the smirk grew. "but how else would I teach you humility Ser?"

"I'll win one of these days, you know."

"I'm certain you will brother." Dayne kept his smirk. "Perhaps when I am old and grey? Hm?"

The first rolled his eyes, sheathing his blade into it's scabbard.

"Daegon Rogare." A new voice arrived, coming from a man what appeared from the shadows of a ruined doorway. "How can a man be expected to sleep soundly with the clashing of steel outside his window, hm?" The man was tall and beautiful, with dark indigo eyes and the silver hair, worn long.

"My Prince." Dayne bowed his head in the mans presence.

"Rhae." Daegon addressed the newcomer. "I was just keeping Dayne here on his toes."

A smile crept onto Rhaegar's face.

"In his dreams, perhaps."

"Never you mind my dreams, Dayne."

Rhaegar shook his head at the antics.

"You had your beauty sleep Rhae?" Daegon asked.

"In a hurry brother?"

"Might be I am," Daegon replied to Dayne. "some of us can beat Rhae in a tourney Dayne."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Daegon smirked. "that you've gotten unhorsed by him in every tourney lately."

"I never-"

Daegon continued, taking a seat on a ruined section of wall. "It was Storm's End, no? You broke twelve lances against him. It was twelve, no? An impressive defeat indeed. How many did it take me again brother? My memory is not what it once was..." Dayne simply shook his head and refused to answer.

"Maybe he shouldn't knock you over the head be much?" Another man spoke from behind Rhaegar, tall with brown hair and a helm emblazoned with a black bat with its wings spread under his arm. Daegon rose to the new challenger with his usual confident smirk and a hand on Truth's hilt. Rhaegar stood between the two, unimpressed.

"Arthur bested me at Lannisport," he interrupted the two. "you seem to forget, Daegon."

Daegon rolled his eyes. "That tourney was rigged."

"He made you eat dirt, as I recall."

"You want to go Whent?" Daegon offered, unsheathing Truth haft way. The valyrian steel shun like the morning sun. "You and me, right now!"

"Gladly." Whent replied, stepping forward only to be blocked by hand of Rhaegar.

"We're leaving in the hour." The Prince explained, snapping Daegon and Whent out of whatever childish rivalry they had.

"Saved by the dragon." Daegon smirked.

Whent seemed unimpressed, ignoring his challenger and following Rhaegar away like his own shadow.

"Shall we continue?" Dayne asked, resting his hands atop of his greatswords pommel. Dawn, it was called, pale as milkglass and formed from a fallen star; or so the legends claimed. Truth had no such fanciful tale. House Rogare's valyrian steel was bought and paid as a show of wealth and prestige. Glory was the most recent addition, made instead of the ambitious idea of 'Valyrian Armor', quickly dismissed as the dream of a mad man. No, instead Glory was forged, a second blade for the second dragons head.

Daegon, as the eldest, was given Turth when he came of age. His brother was given Glory, a fine blade adorned with gold and diamonds.

Truth clashed against Dawn in a flurry of wild strikes, giving Dayne no time to prepare. No man could claim Daegon fought with honor. He fought to win and not end up dead; he was far too young for death, or so he'd tell himself repeatably. "Not today." Dayne smirked, pushing forward and freeing himself from the clashing of steel.

Daegon swung Truth in the air, showing off as he often did, with the usual smirk on his lips. He'd come to miss these sparring matches.

They left the Ruins of Summerhall behind and rose north to Harrenhal, where Lord Walter Whent would doubtless open them with open arms. His brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, rode with them after all; and no lord would turn away the crown prince. Only months back Rhaegar had met with Lord Whent and surely enough, suddenly the man announced a tourney to honor this or that. Something to do with the mans daughter? Daegon didn't care, but he did wager that Rhaegar was paying for it.

The rewards offered by Walter were three times greater than those offered by Lord Tywin Lannister in the tourney in honor of Prince Viserys's birth at Lannisport in 276 AC. Such lavish prizes offered were bound to bring hundreds of challengers to the tourney where Lord Walter would present his massive castle and alleged wealth.

The Riverlander cow was leaner than it's northern cousin. Don't ask Daegon how he knew that, he'd despised the lessons with a passion. Unlike it's northern cousins, with coats of fur so thick peasants sheared them to make clothes and blankets, the southern cow had no such coat. Not a single part of the animal was left to go to waste however as this appeared to be the same north or south. The bones were milled into meal and sown in the fields to make the crops grow strong, the marrow was boiled to make broth, the balls and the rest of that area were usually thrown to the dogs or given to the poor. The organs were made into sausages and given to the guards...or to the Night's Watch in the north, as a good dry beef sausage could last for nearly a year in a cupboard...and forever, if kept cool in a buttery underground. The smell of hearty beef and ale stew wafted through the air strongly, making Daegon's belly growl. Round loaves were flipped in the wood ovens, trenchers, ready for the households. Plates of trifle pewter were cleaned and another cask of ale rolled up from the buttery, not drinking but to be added to the sauces. His mouth watered, but he forced himself onward... past a small basket of little buns decorated with the seven sided star, smelling ever so slightly of cinnamon and raisins. They were for the sept, Daegon learnt later from the prince, for one of the holidays of the Faith. Something to do with Hugor of the Hill? Again, Daegon hated that he knew these things. If he couldn't fight or kill with it he'd then rather just not know it.

The ceiling in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths was high, with thick oaken rafters holding up a steep roof. Thirty-four or thirty-five hearth and floors of smooth slate. The dais was wide and high, big enough that a dozen could be feasted on the high table in comfort and a few thousand more beneath the salt, maybe more if they removed the proud statues that lined the walls. Tapestries rot, paintings fade... but statues were forever. It was said that this hall could host an army, in it's prime. Even now, a ruin, Harrenhal was the greatest castle Daegon had laid eyes on. With colossal curtain walls, sheer, and high as great mountain cliffs.

"More wine, m'lord?" Daegon heard one of the servents ask.

"I'll not object," The lord said, holding up his cup. Daegon did not know his name. "A fine red."

"It's dornish, you fool." Another lord to the firsts left shouted over him and gestured, as the serving man poured. Daegon felt sorry for the servant as he looked down from the high dais at the bickering lords, a candle lit table flickering as one spat out not too subtle insults. "Dornish is not often so rich, you should learn to appreciate it!"

"It's from the Arbor!" The other lord with a snarl, taking a sip, looking like a pompous bastard in Daegon's silent opinion.

"I'm pleased you like it m'lord but..."

"With your vineyards, Bracken." The lord took another sip. "I cant say I'm surprised at your inadequacy..."

Somewhere in the hall a man covered his mouth and belched. "Oh my," he said, and they both ignored the other guests like they were nothing but one of the ghosts said to be haunting the halls of theses ruins. Harren the Black and his sons, to name a few, along with the countless dead slaves used by him to build his legacy. "that's a mighty big word you just used, Blackwood. Did it strain you? Perhaps you should lay down for a moment and rest..."

Daegon sighed, the bickering of these lords reminded him of home. He sat with Princess Elia to his right and Lord Whent to her right. Rhaegar sat to the lords right, whispering in his ear about whatever he was plotting. It annoyed Daegon, in truth, that he'd been kept out of the plan. He accepted a cup of wine from a serving lass and offered her a sly look that caused her to blush and continue at her duties. She was a pretty thing, although no match to Elia in his honest opinion. He was enjoying the meal for the most part despite the looming threat of politics and whatever Rhaegar was planning, he supposed the oxtail soup, summer greens with pecans, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hot crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter were all ample distraction from the worries of the real world. He took a sip of wine and noticed Elia's cup was empty.

"More wine Princess?"

"No." She smiled sweetly, "I couldn't drink another glass."

Daegon offered a smile of his own in reply and kept his thoughts to himself before turning his attention back to the hall. Elia was like a sister to him, having grown up at King's Landing as a ward a short time after the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Rhaegar and Arthur were more brothers to him than his own flesh and blood brother...

The thought caused him to drink deep from his glass, drowning it in blood red arbor wine.

In the great hall he could see Stark and Baratheon seated closely, with the Arryn and Tully tables as close to them as they could muster. The Northmen and Stormlanders were loud and boisterous, deep in the cups, laughing and enjoying themselves. Daegon took an instant liking to them, compared to the Tyrell and Lannister tables that were almost silent in comparison. At the Stark table he eyed a young women punch a mans shoulder, causing the others to laugh.

"Someone catch your eye?" Elia smirked.

Daegon went wide-eyed for a moment, but quickly regained his composure.

"Aye," he replied with confidence. "my breath was away away by the shocking length of that serving girls skirt..."

Elia rolled her eyes. "That serving girl you were staring at, would be Lord Starks daughter."

"I don't stare."

"You did."

"Did not."

The pair laughed, gaining Lord Whents attention.

"Enjoying yourself Princess?"

Elia offered her usual sweet smile. "Very much so, my lord. A fine feast."

"And finer company." Daegon added, as he accepted more wine from the serving girl whom assumed he was speaking of her.

Daegon laid his eyes on Arthur, sat with his sister, a wide smile on his face as they talked.

"Prince Daegon." A voice snapped him to attention.

The voice belonged to one of Lord Whent's sons, he knew, named... actually he couldn't recall the boys name and didn't honestly care. He was busy shoving a piece of roasted boar into his mouth and spat as he spoke. "Can I help you with something, Ser?" Daegon offered with narrowed eyes. "a napkin perhaps?"

The boy was too drunk or simple to notice the insult.

"I wanted to-" He belched, using his sleeve to wipe away the juice from the boar. "I wanted to ask. Lys, what's it like?"

Daegon didn't recall much of his home, actually, he'd be sent to King's Landing as a boy. "It's-"

"I hear the women are goddesses!" Whent's son smirked. "And the bed-slaves? To die for! You've tried a few in your day no doubt eh?"

"We've no slaves." Daegon growled at the mention, the days of that were long done by now. Once upon a time perhaps one could claim as such but nowadays Lys was a Free City in a way that none of the others could boast. The citizens of Lys were citizens, and wore no collars. They did have whores, like any city, but no slaves...

"Nonsense!" The Whent lad laughed, spilling is ale in the process as he carelessly swayed his mug in the air with a wave of his hand. "I- I don't judge, just asking for a friend!" He moved to drink from his mug onyl to wind it empty. The contents had long since fled across the table and socked his food. "Some bastard stole my drink!"

"You have drank it all Ser Whent." Elia offered from over his shoulder.

"I-" He seemed to sober up at the sound of her voice.

"You should get some rest nephew." The wisdom of Ser Oswell, the boys uncle, seemed enough to get through to him.

The boy left the table with muttered apologies to Elia, swaying slightly as he moved to his chambers to sleep it off and prepare for the tourney that was set for tomorrow. "He'll feel that tomorrow." Daegon commented to the boys uncle. "Although, it's better than had I floored the fool I suppose..."

"You wouldn't have." Elia dismissed the notion.

"You doubt me Princess?" Daegon asked, a smirk on his lips.

"Your kinder than you know."

His smirk died and his eyes darted back to the Stark girl, laughing with those he assumed were her kinsmen and friends. She was louder than any noble lady of the county he'd seen before, seemingly uncaring who heard her enjoy herself. The sound of the great oaken doors swinging wide snapping him from his thoughts.

"Presenting," the herald announced as the great hall of lords turned to see the new arrivals. "his Grace, Aerys Targaryen. Second of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Mem. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." The herald read of the mans titles as if his life depending on it, and from what Daegon knew of the Mad King, it likely did. This was to his knowledge the first time Aerys had left the Red Keep since the Defiance of Duskendale...

"Father." Rhaegar was heard muttering to himself with a scowl.

The king had not taken care of his appearance since the Defiance. His fear of blades meant he'd not permit his hair to be cut, or his nails to be groomed. His hair and beard were unwashed, matted and tangled, and his nails were yellow and grew nine inches in length. His fear and paranoia of poison had made him thin and gaunt. The Lords and knights int he great hall were appalled at what their monarch had become, despite their attempts to hide it. Nor was his behavior that of a sane man, as he entered the room full of mirth and moved to melancholy at a snap of the fingers. "Son!" He spoke as he entered, a seemingly genuine smile on his lips.

Rhaegar stood from his seat. "Welcome, father. I was not expecting you."

In an instant, the mans mood shifted. "I was not invited!"

Lord Whent moved to defend the notion. "I assure you, Your Grace, that-"

"Save me your honeyed words Whent," the man scowled as he walked towards the dais. "did you think me too frail and old for a tourney? Hm?!"

"N- No, Your Grace." Whent's eyes darted to Rhaegar for an instant.

"Don't look to him!" Aerys snarled.

"Father if you-"

A burst of hysterical laughter silenced the room, as a smirk returned to the kings lips.

"Ah," he croaked. "my lord. An honest mistake I'm sure."

"I-" Whent's confusion was matched by his guests, whom all shared hushed whispers.

"Come!" Aerys laughed. "Let us drink and feast!"

His bouts of hysterical laughter, long silences, sudden rages and occasional weeping made all present weary throughout the remainder of the feast and would continue to keep all on edge int he tourney to come. The King ignored Daegon throughout, as if he hadn't been the mans ward all his childhood. Daegon wondered if he cared. Or if he even remembered who he was. The herald spoke again as the king made his way up to the dais and claimed Lord Whent's seat for himself.

"Presenting," the herald cleared his throat. "Vaegon Rogare. Prince of Lys and the Sword of Glory."

The man in question was the spitting image of Daegon, with only his light unshaven beard telling the two apart. He wore all the finery of a prince with a golden dragon clasp holding a fine silk cloak in place. On his hip in a black-and-gold scabbard sat Glory, it's hilt adorned with gems worth more than a kings ransom. He walked towards the dais flanked by fifty or so Lys royal guards; known for their harsh training and undying loyalty to the Rogare family. Prince Vaegon smiled up at his twin.

"Is there a seat spare for me, Your Grace?"

Aery's eyes darted down at him. "Hm?" He seemed to forget where he was for a moment.

Vaegon stood in silence as the hall held it's breath.

"Yes!" Aerys finally snapped, laughing heartily. "Yes, yes! What are you waiting for Daegon?!"

Vaegon blinked at that, eyes darting to his brother whom motioned him to sit quickly.

"Princess," Vaegon spoke as he took the empty seat beside his brother. "you look well."

Elia offered her usual sweet smile. "It's good to see you Prince Vaegon."

"What are you doing in Westeros brother?"

Vaegon didn't falter to the challenge. "Can I not visit my wayward twin?"

"You can," Daegon replied with none of his usual charm. "but you've never come before..."

His brother sighed. "It's father."

"What of him?"

Vaegon waited as his cup was filled. "He's-"

"Dead?"

"No!" Vaegon almost choked on the wine. "Gods no. Not yet at least."

If the old man wasn't dead then he was near enough to send his brother after him, Daegon knew, not once had his twin visited since they were boys.

"He's ill."

Daegon scoffed, earning a scowl from his twin.

"He wants you home brother."

"He has you, brother." Daegon drank him his cup. "He doesn't need me."

"He gave you the sword. Not me."

That was true, he knew, but he'd rather have had the mans attention than his steel.

"You'll come home."

Daegon laughed bitterly. "You sound so certain, little brother."

"We both have our duties." Vaegon replied simply, opting to stubbornly leave the discussion there.

Daegon merely stared at his little brother, younger by barely minutes, as he poured himself another drink. Elia placed her hand atop the clenched fist that he wasn't aware he'd made, calming him in an heartbeat at the contact. He ignored his brother for the rest of the feast and grabbed the pitcher to pour himself another drink.

There was a desk with papers in the far corner some swords on the walls. The chambers Lord Whent had given him were large, well decorated and fit for a prince. The thing that stood out most however was the olive skinned beauty laid out on the bed, with large dark eyes, black hair and full lips. "Prince." She smiled, beckoning him over with her finger.

"It seems your lost my lady." He replied coyly. "These are my chambers."

She smirked. "I am no lady."

"I'd have to disagree." Daegon stared at her as she slowly moved a shoulder, the strap falling.

"Care to join me little dragon," She paused. "although perhaps little is the wrong word..."

He huffed in mild amusement. "Your a bold one."

Time flew by and Daegon did not think to ask or care who the dornish women was. Not a maindmaiden of Elia's, for he knew each of them well, so he assumed her to be a daughter of some dornish noble that was here with the Martells for the tournament. "I could stay with you, my prince." She spoke after kissing him, a delaying tactic to be sure. He dismissed the notion of her being a nobleman's daughter. A whore then? And an ambitious one.

"No," He stated rather bluntly. "I think not."

"You didn't enjoy?" She asked, eyebrow raised and a sultry smile on her lips.

"You know the answer to that I'd think."

"Another women then?" She feigned shock, hurt, and then whispered something practically dirty in his ear.

Daegon laughed and kissed her in the hopes of shutting her up, not that he didn't like doing the act or what she suggested, but he had places to be. Another kiss, another goodbye, and she was getting dressed to leave. If she was of noble birth he might be in some trouble later... but he was grateful for the distraction all the same.

He was haft dressed as he watched her get out of bed and walk across the room to pick up her cloths.

"Another day." Daegon sighed, looking out his window as the door shut and the women sneaked out of his chambers without anyone being the wiser. His brothers guards would see her, he knew, but they would not say a word. Why would they? He'd hardly be the first price to sleep around and he wasn't married, so there was nobody to insult. Other than the girls parents but again that was an issue for another day if that day ever came. Daegon focused on the tournament that was to come.