Daeron I

Daeron Targaryen would soon be king, yet he was made to stand like a puppet, his arms stretched to allow the tailor to adjust his doublet. His lady wife, Princess Myriah of Dorne, encouraged the man, whispering in his ear as if her husband could not hear, "Is there a way to make him look. . . stronger?"

She gestured her arms towards the prince's frame disapprovingly, "The shoulders are too narrow and the gut- that gut," she began to whine loudly. "Many a lady hides two, even three stone beneath a proper fit. Surely, you can do something with . . . . this?" Myriah's expression soured looking at him, as if she'd bit into turned cheese.

The Prince knew what he was. He knew what he looked like. He favored his mother, Naerys, in appearance: frail and fair. Daeron had the Targaryen colors, silver gold hair, light violet eyes, fair complexion, but he lacked the looks that made his father famous. Infamous.

His sire possessed the Targaryen jawline: proud, strong, and handsome. Daeron's seemed to slink softly from his ears to a dainty, almost feminine chin. His shoulders were narrow, forcing a hunched posture better for reading than warring or riding. He had developed the beginnings of a pot belly, which laid almost apart from him on his lap as he sat. And though his father, the slovenly menace he'd become, was the fattest lard in the realm, the King couldn't stop poking at it, both with his greasy prodding fingers, and his venomous tongue. "Prince Piggy," he'd say in private, over and over like the chorus to some fool's sonnet. "Prince Piggy of Pigshire. Lord of the Pot Bellies. Protector of Ham, and Sovereign of the Sow."

Daeron had matured to be able to deal with his father's japes as little more than the bleating of an aged wheezing aurochs. What he couldn't bear were the expressions his wife made when she looked upon him.

The Prince channeled his anger towards the working man, growling indiscernibly and pointing to the door. The tailor left his tools and scurried away without delay, and when the door shut behind him, Daeron turned to his wife. "Woman," he said, struggling to hold his mask of courtesy, "today is but just an appearance, is all. It is not some coronation. It is not some parade or celebration. It is a tourney. And a squires' tourney at that. All I need is to look Targaryen."

"Why do you think I requested a tailor?" she asked, gesturing her arms as if to show him what he knew he looked like. "If you looked Targaryen already, I'd have no reason to fuss." There was no doubt Princess Myriah took pride in her place as the Lady in Waiting of Westeros. Whether she took pride in her king was harder to be certain.

The Prince and Princess were escorted by their Kingsguard, Ser Carron Caswell, dressed head to toe in the traditional milk white of their order, from the chambers they were using in the Red Keep, to the street where their litter was waiting. King Aegon was said to have chosen Ser Carron for the wrong reasons. After the execution of Terrence Toyne, the vacant white cloak was rumored to have been up for auction. As appointment of one's kin to the Order was considered a great honor, many of the more minor lords angled for their second sons or nephews to have a chance at glory, whether they deserved the boon by merit or not.

Upon Caswell's appointment, the King quickly assigned him to Daeron, hiding him away from court in Dragonstone. To Daeron, the vision of his sworn protector became just another on the long lists of slights by his father. He's almost as ill-suited for knighthood as I, Daeron thought watching the short and soft knight shield their path through the crowd to the royal litter. At least he has been dutiful.

After his wife climbed the stairs into the litter and sat down, Daeron hurried behind her, tripping up the steps and rolling clumsily through the curtain in clear view of the onlooking crowd of rabble and merchants.

Laughter began to follow him through the streets of King's Landing as the litter embarked. There's nothing the small folk appreciate more than the slips of the mighty.

Before he and his family had left for Dragonstone, Daeron would only hear the occasional taunts of his wife and son's "Dornishness" from those as he passed. Now, as the crowd still chuckled over his stumble, he could begin to hear their new favorite slander for him.

"Falseborn!" they would call in between their joyful bouts of undiscernible mockery. Daeron cringed to hear it.

"Heed them not, my Prince," Myriah reassured him, reaching out to gently touch his forearm as he gathered his fallen body into his seat. "Though how are you to garner the peoples' respect if they continue to see you fall?" she smirked, amused by her humor. A grin slid across her smug face, "Not long ago, Dragons flew," she drawled. "Now, it seems they can't so much as make it into the litter."

Daeron served his wife dutifully and respected all she'd done for him and for House Targaryen, but he hated her in moments like this. Better the blood of the Dragon than the blood of the Toad. How dare you mock me with that wide mouth and Tully trout lips? I've had to bed the Princess Meria reborn all these years and you dare to speak of my look? Daeron held his tongue and stewed, brimming with a bubbling contempt for his wife and all that came with her.

Falseborn they say, Daeron thought. It was in reference to the rumors spread by Ser Morgil Hastwyck claiming Daeron's mother, Naerys, had an affair with Aemon the DragonKnight that led to his birth. It was probably slander spread by or to appease his fat father, but the more he pondered the idea, the more it sounded preferable to being the King's son.

Even if that was the truth of it, he thought, that a hero like Aemon was actually my sire; what of it? Would these people not rather my lineage come from one of the best men in the History of House Targaryen than the absolute worst? Would they rather me be the son of the slut, than son to the most puissant knight to ever earn his spurs?

His uncle Aemon dispelled those allegations against Daeron's mother himself, slaying the Hastwyck knight in the Queen's Trial by Combat, lopping off the man's jaw from beneath his helm with his first slice with Dark Sister. It was clear in the eyes of the Gods Hastwyck was false, but that didn't quiet the whispers.

"The Dragon does not concern himself with the opinion of rats," Daeron replied.

"These rats fear dragons, my Lord. Not the men that wear their sigil."

Myriah's words always cut deepest. Her tongue had the sharpest edge in all of Dorne. But maybe she does have the right of it. Who am I to fear?

Daeron intended to be all his father was not. Learned. Just. Honorable. Loyal.

Loyal, he thought. Not one more fucking bastard. Not a one.

Aegon IV had spread his royal seed throughout the realm as if he was Garth the Greenhand come again. He was not. He was no deity. He was just a fat king whose seed was sold to those he favored, and spread in the gardens he deemed fit.

But where Daeron would differ, in his goodness, there was the weakness he could not hide from. And a king must be feared.

They feared his fat father because of his wickedness. His cruelty. The threat of his misrule was also his greatest asset, keeping his subordinates in line. How can I evoke that same respect? That same fear? How could Daeron II ever be a dragon?

As he too often did, he let his wife's words linger without reply. As long as he tried to come up with one, Daeron couldn't find a suitable response.

The short journey to the Dragon Pit, where the tournament would be held, was uncomfortable. The litter bumped with every cobbled stone. Daeron thought of the citadel he had left to come here. Dragonstone was no Valyria, but at least its roads were smooth. He imagined the differences between King's Landing and Dragonstone, and how each fit his father and he.

King's Landing was alive with all the decadence of the known world, smelling of shit and sex and fish, rotten from the nightsoil that lined the streets of Fleabottom to the tallest spire of the Red Keep. Dragonstone was dull, grim, and grotesquely shaped. There was a wisdom to its design, and a strength in its composition, but to the common eye, it was ugly, depressing, and boring.

"Your Grace, we're here," Daeron heard from outside the litter as the horse drawing it clopped to a halt. Daeron took extra care on his descent. He tried to learn from his failures.

Caswell led the way between two columns of the Goldcloaks, holding the crowd back from their path in. It was the most excitement many of these commoners would have until their next bout of pox, just getting a chance to see the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.

For whatever reason, there seemed to be more Lords than he expected. Those are Vale sigils, Daeron thought, seeing the Three Sisters of Sunderland on blue and green, and black and gold Ninestars of the Templetons. That is a long journey for a squires' tourney.

As Ser Carron ushered them through the procession in, minor lords making way for the Prince of Dragonstone out of courtesy, Daeron stood as straight and proud as he could, his chest out and his back arched upward. Myriah was on his arm, her form squeezed into a corset and wrapped in a fine red silk and Myrish lace gown, covered on her neck, arms, and ears with gold to round out her look in Martell colors. He felt proud, as his black cape flowed behind him in his dragon scaled doublet with padded shoulders. Daeron gave a princely smile and wave to the crowd as a noble should.

"Falseborn!"

The Prince blushed to hear it, feeling his face flush hot like an iron, his blood moving so fast to his head he almost wanted to faint. Daeron gritted his teeth, and in a quiet rage thought to order whoever had shouted that killed on the spot. His eyes stared at the decrepit man. His head was poorly shaven, probably to rid it of lice, and his garb was a roughspun mess of brown and stain that might as well have been a sack of grain with leg holes. Daeron took a deep breath in, flaring his nostrils to feel the cool air fill his hot head.

How weak am I to cow to words? To show strength, I must carry on unaffected. Today is not about me. This man is the lowest of the low. His punishment shall be to live another day. A public death would be a reward, not a sentence.

Daeron composed his face again, choosing to walk on and ignore the mocking beggar. It was right to. He would be a just king, and justice was not served out of anger or shame. It is served out of necessity. This man need not die.

The Prince forced a smile, but felt it best not to wave to the crowd anymore. Daeron kept his eyes straight towards the end of the procession to the entrance of the Pit. On each side, he could see the faces of the Goldcloaks. Though their bodies stood at attention, their expressions seemed to betray held back smirks and grins. As more chants of "Falseborn," continued, Daeron could ignore the shouts, but not the Goldcloaks. Not their faces.

"Is something the matter, ser?" he stopped and asked a red-haired young watchman no taller than he, standing sentry in his golden chest plate and cloak. He was stationed where a man of small status would stand, potentially of a minor house.

The man's face reddened to the color of his hair, or darker. "I'm sorry, your Grace, no. Nothing is the matter," he mumbled, looking down at his boots. He was younger than most of them, but stood straighter, as if he were trained in courtesy in a castle. The man couldn't help keeping a smirk off of his face, but he showed respect enough. He cowed at the Prince's glare, and that's all Daeron hoped he'd do. Good, he thought. They better fear me.

Daeron carried on, hoping he had made his point, but the chants continued, and the Goldcloaks smirks never ceased. He sped up his walk, dragging his wife behind him.

"Wait, Daeron. I can hardly move in this thing," Myriah yelled dramatically, carrying the train of her gown in her hands.

"Ser Carron," Daeron called over his shoulder to the trailing knight. "After we enter, fetch me that red-haired man of the Watch. Bring him to me. I'll be in one of the chambers to the right. You'll know the one."

Lady Myriah looked at her husband with her brown eyes in a way he found beautiful. "I love it when you talk like that." Her eyes widened, smiling wickedly and saying to him without words, Talk like that more.

"You should accompany me," he said, trying to keep the same tone. "As in Dorne, women will be equal in my court."

"What do you plan to do to him?" she asked softly.

"Depends on how I feel in the moment." Daeron's heart was racing. They will learn not to laugh, he thought. Then time passed waiting for Carron and the Watchman. When his heart slowed, he felt almost silly to interrogate him now.

Ask him what; why are you laughing at me? He'd likely say something to make Myriah laugh and shame me even more. As confident as he felt giving an order to his sworn protector, he knew it was out of shame and anger. That is no way to rule.

Then, he saw the man's face. It was still smirking. The anger rekindled the darkness in his mood.

I'm not the king, yet.

Ser Carron brought the man before the Prince and removed his sword belt, scabbard and daggers, leaving the man unarmed. Ser Carron stepped back and away, standing next to the excited Princess of Dorne. Both watched as Daeron composed himself, standing still as his insides tingled with fear and angst.

Daeron looked down at the man. "What is so funny you and your comrades can't stop smiling?" The man gave no reply. Daeron continued. "It is known that to strike a member of the royal family is a crime punishable by instant death. Surely, as a member of this city's Watch, you are aware of this law, ser?"

"Yes, your Grace," the man replied. He spoke as if he was well raised, but he didn't stop smirking. Daeron slapped his face, managing to connect harder than he had hoped. It was a shameful slap, sending the red-haired Watchman almost to his one knee. Daeron was learned enough to know the form of a good strike, turning the hips and shoulders fully with the arm as it swung. He was just never fast enough to connect one in an honest fight.

Blood trickled down from the man's nose and his freckled face was red where Daeron's hand connected. He looked back up at the Prince, balling his hand into a fist. "Strike me, and I'll have my man flay you," Daeron said with a reply at the ready.

The man's arm shot back to his side. His face shamefully looked away, quibbling to himself and barely asking, "What was that for, your grace?"

"I can continue to slap you like a bitch in heat or you can answer my questions and be handed coin monthly from my men in the city. My father has paid handsomely for the Goldcloaks and I am not as stupid as he would have you believe. What is so fucking funny, ser?" Daeron raised his hand again.

"The King gave us coin to spread amongst the crowd to say it, your Grace."

Daeron slapped him again. Myriah giggled behind him.

"I told you," the man whined. This is power, Daeron thought, as a wide smile flickered across his face.

"And I thanked you," Daeron said simply. Myriah gasped softly behind him. "What is your name, ser?" Daeron asked.

"I'm no knight, your Grace. I'm Willem Wylde, from the Stormlands. I'm no one, really," he replied, keeping his head down and turned away. "Just a cousin of a nephew of a lord."

"Willem," Daeron said, "King Aegon's time on this earth is not far from its conclusion. As fat and filthy as he is, either a sausage or pox will take him soon as not. When he dies, who will be in charge of the Watch and its members?"

"You, your Grace," Wylde responded sullenly.

"And what were you paid by the King for this?"

"Nothing personally," he said, looking back up.

"So, why mock me? A smart man would know his place and what was best for his future." Daeron gave the man a purse of golden dragons. "As funny as it is to mock me now, you should find those among the Watch that can see the benefit in taking me more seriously. There's enough to share. If it is found out you were selfish, it will not be a mere slap you will have to fear. Help me buy my father's Watch, Ser Willem of House Wylde, and I will help you become more than just a Goldcloak."

"I'm no knight, your Grace," Wylde replied, gaining back some of the gumption that brought a smirk to his face in the first place.

"Not yet, Willem. Not yet."

When the Goldcloak was escorted away and Carron returned to guard them, Myriah grabbed onto Daeron's right arm, the one that struck the red-haired young man, and nestled close to her husband. She didn't speak, only humming to herself as her eyes playfully grinned at him. Her dark wide eyes were mesmerizing when they looked at him like that. Power must look good on me.

Ser Carron led them to the royal box for the tournament. Though the Pit had seen better days, the brief restoration King Aegon had commissioned through the Hayfords, allegedly for a turn at the Lord's baker's wife, had made the place once again presentable, or near enough for a squires' tourney. Lists were set up in the center, and stands were erected for the commoners to sit. Chambers for Lords and their retainers were sectioned off above the fray in newly constructed boxes, looking down on the action below. Above it all, annexed out from the broken stone crenelations of the Pit's once formidable ceiling, was the Royal Box, extending out over the other boxes and the lists themselves, as if they were part of the sky.

The only price for the accommodations was the steep climb, as the stairs were added more decoratively than functionally, ascending from the floor of the Lord's boxes in a tight spiral that grew tiresome as the Prince and his Dornish wife reached their summit.

"Mind my silk, husband," Lady Myriah called behind to him as either a warning or a request. Either way, Daeron bent over and picked up her Martell red train, and carried it up the remainder of the staircase.

Ser Carron was waiting patiently at the top, offering a hand to the Lady to assist in the final lunge onto the platform. The new elm boards creaked as she stepped onto them, and the collective of the King's pets giggled quietly to themselves, huddled to the wall edge of the box.

My love, Daeron thought, knowing his wife's shame about her weight and how the laughs would crush her. The worst part for him was knowing there were no words he could say to help her feel otherwise. She would have to care what I think.

Myriah's smile from his show of strength was to be short lived. Now he'd have to deal with the shame of their laughter with her newly fouled mood. As he stepped onto the platform himself, the boards creaked again. More laughter murmured. At least his wife could have a chuckle at that.

They crossed over to the congregated group with Myriah on Daeron's arm, their shoulders back and proud. This was nothing new for the Prince of Dragonstone and the Princess of Dorne. Every event was a show.

Daena the Defiant, as she was known, was the first to greet them, and part of that deviance was shown in her unfiltered admiration for the Dornish Princess. "That dress and gold are stunning, cousin," she said with a bright Targaryen smile. She wore a mixture of a dress and a riding gown, as if it were sewn from halves of each, equal parts black and white, as she no longer pretended to be a maid anymore, her unclaimed bastard son old enough to be a participant in the tourney along with Baelor.

"And I love what you've done with your hair," Myriah replied, reaching out and touching the bottoms of a long twisted elaborate braid.

"The woman I paid to braid it says its Dothraki, like the horselords wear. She seemed as full of shit as these horses, but it sounded fitting nonetheless. She even put bells in it," Daena jingled the bells in her hair by shaking her hips provocatively. There was still a wildness to her that Daeron admired, wishing he could have her apathetic freedom.

But he was to be King.

She was easily passed over.

The rest of the party was less enthusiastic to greet them. His mother Naerys would likely not even attend the tournament due to her health and proclivity to weakness. It was probably one of the reasons his fat father constructed their box so high, as to deter her from deciding to come even if she had wanted to. Daeron never wished his father's attention on his mother, for that would be a curse more than a boon, but he never understood his father's disdain for her. She was a dutiful wife and allowed his affairs. Daeron found his own spouse hard at times as well, but why did Aegon IV of his name detest Queen Naerys Targaryen, his wife and sister, so vehemently?

A voice answered from the back of Daeron's head, Because she gave him you.

The Prince looked out to the crowd to see who was among them. At things like this, the King always kept his mistress close. He almost missed Lady Mellissa Blackwood, Missy, Aegon's former lover, since she returned to Raventree Hall. She was at least kind and genial. The new one, Serenei of Lys, was as frightening as she was enchanting. The realm agreed she was the fairest one yet, but there was something unsettling about her glare, dark shadows painted on her eyelids, her long lashes brushing her golden gaze away like a ghost. They never smiled, her eyes, even when her lips would.

And her beauty alone was already enough to take the breath from even a Prince. Daeron avoided catching her steely stare for fear of looking the utter fool, but who else could he and his wife even approach?

Next to the Lady of Lys, Jon Hightower and his Tyrell wife Alysse split the small crowd on their way over to him. Hightower was the latest in the long line of Hands his father allowed to agree with him. It was Hightower who brought the King Serenei back from a diplomatic trip to Lys, and there were rumors Jon had also used his considerable influence with his wife's house to bring enough funding from the Reach to build the dragons King Aegon wished to invade Dorne with. Hands had done less for his father, but Hightower seemed as intent on starting a war with Myriah's House as Daeron's fat father was.

When Hightower and his wife approached, the Lady Alysse snuck behind Jon's wide frame as if to dismiss herself from the pleasantries.

Daeron extended his arm to the Hand first, "Lord Hand," he said with a courteous smile. "It is so good to finally meet you. I've heard you've been keeping the old man in line." Daeron had heard no such thing. However, it was a polite sounding phrase to say.

Two bristly curled whiskers hid the Hightower Hand's mouth from view, as his cheeks reddened and his stance shuffled under his heavy feet. "Your Grace," he mumbled, bowing, but refusing to look the Prince directly into his purple eyes.

Eventually, after a brief but awkward pause, the man's blue eyes peered back up at Daeron, uneasy beneath his bushy blonde brows. "Can we . . .," he said uncomfortably. "If, for but a moment," he said again, gesturing towards an empty space on the platform near the rail and the wall.

"The business of the realm can wait a few hours, my Lord. My wife and I are here to enjoy my son's tilts in the lists."

Hightower persisted with his gesture, as if he could not hear the Prince's dismissal. The man was no older than Daeron, yet he wore his years heavier. I have felt that in my time here, Daeron thought, remembering how grinding his father's presence could be on a man. Jon's hair was still mostly golden, but it had begun to fall rapidly from the crown of his head as if each strand were needed to keep Aegon's crown on his. Dark depressing bags drooped from each one of his piercing blue eyes, and his trembling mouth seemed to hang off his jaw, as he began to gurgle his next words, "Due to the company of the King's box," the Hand murmured.

"Excuse me, my Lord?" Myriah butted in, her arm still around Daeron's, but her head lunged out in between the two men as if to take over the exchange. Daeron shot her a look. She refuses to accept her place at my side, always shuffling in front of me.

The Hand stood taller, sighing before speaking. Alysse had stepped away, floating back towards the crowd as if someone called her. No one had.

After a dry swallow, Hightower said, "The King has requested you and your wife watch from a private box." Though he held his posture as tall as he could, his eyes sank low, refusing to look up at Daeron.

"My father has dismissed his only son from the family box?" Daeron replied, insensed.

"We walked all the way . . . ," Myriah began to whine.

"Woman, silence," Daeron roared under his breath.

"With the current company, we," Hightower said, then corrected himself, "the King, felt it would be more comfortable for you and your wife in a private box."

"Where is he?" Daeron asked. "Where's my father? Where's the King?"

"His Grace will be here shortly. There is a separate stairway for his . . . needs."

"Well, he can dismiss me from our family's box to my face. If he can even make it this high without his leg shattering beneath his girth."

The Hand began to feel emboldened, looking up and nearly scolding Daeron. "Your Grace, it is known to be treason to speak of the King in such a way."

"Treason? You call it treason to say that a fat man is fat? The realm calls me fat, is it treason then?"

"Calm down, love," Myriah whispered in Daeron's ear behind a wide smile. "We can just go."

"Your Grace. We mean you no offense, but with the current situation. . .,"

"What situation? You mean the war my father wants with my wife's kin? The incessant and never-ending vendetta against Dorne?"

"That is enough, your Grace. You may be the Prince of Dragonstone, but I am Hand of the King."

"Today. Tomorrow, your gift from Lys could be caught in bed with that man's baker," Daeron said, pointing to the Hayford Lord, "and him, her, and you will all be a head shorter."

Myriah pulled Daeron's arm, growling quietly in his ear, "You've said your peace. My honor is avenged. Can we go? I will not stay where I'm not wanted."

Daeron breathed in deep through his nose, the air inside the Pit still sour with the slightest hint of brimstone. The smell of the dragon. "Well met, Lord Hightower. Remember this day when my father's day has come."

Daeron stormed off the platform, forgetting how much give there was on the top step. In his anger, his stomping foot pushed the platform further away from the stair than he anticipated, and he once again stumbled in front of a crowd.

Laughter hurried him back to his feet, and Daeron, his wife, and his White Knight scurried down the spiral staircase with what little dignity they could scrounge in such a sordid display of grace.

I was so close, he thought, equally as embarrassed as he was enraged.

He wasn't angry at his father's pets and their dismissal. He enjoyed the opportunity to spit in the faces of the pedestals his father used to stay upright. His hatred was for himself.

How can I command the respect of the realm when everyone can't stop laughing?