Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ IV
Daemon, regent of the Seven Kingdoms, slowly turns around to look upon her as she sits, noticeably uncomfortable, on a throne forged from jagged war-trophies of long-distant conquests. She sees him smile at her below a crownless mane of pale-silver and turn away, looking narrowly over at a man who has just spoken—out of turn, she notes.
"I do not believe I bade you leave to speak, Lord Peake," the regent says in his unexpectedly measured, yet high voice. In the few days since his ascension, his court has come to appreciate such candor; gone were the pleasant vagaries of her father. And in the Great Hall measured fifty or so men, from lords and nobles to the entirety of the remaining Queensguard, all is stretched out on both sides of the center carpet black-and-red. Standing tall at the foot of the grand staircase leading to the throne was none other than her uncle.
With extravagance—and more than mere air of petulance—Lord Peake snatches his wine gourd from his servant and drinks it deeply before replying. He is disobedient in his demeanor, and rebellious to her queendom. Looking across the hall at the regent, he points. "I understand King Viserys is dead. Yet, where is his wife, the Good Queen Alicent? I simply asked, how can Princess Rhaenyra sit the Iron Throne, with the king's succession left in doubt?"
The regent's hand raises; a finger bejeweled with Targaryen ancestry points. His voice is resolute—booming, even. "Her Grace's succession is not in question. And you will address the queen by all proper titles, or I'll return your corpse to Starpike so unrecognizable, they'll bury you unmarked and unblessed. And your rotting stink of a corpse will grow lonely, undisturbed by your progeny for centuries to come. Do I make myself understood, Lord Peake?"
Rhaenyra looks down at the two quarreling men. She's sat high above them—towering even in her highchair and point of power, yet she feels their animosity toward one another—sees them glaring daggers and exchanging words of war silently. There is an awkward silence in the room as courtiers, lords, and Queensguard alike suddenly find heavy interest in the many trophies lining the walls, and the high pillars reaching up to meet ceilings far above. The skulls of dragons seemingly smile down upon them, she thinks, amused, and interested in their mortal feud. She slouches back in the throne, and her finger toils one of the many blades jutting out. It's sharp—dangerous, she thinks—much like her uncle's current demeanor.
The Lord of Starpike takes another gulp from his gourd. With an insolent flick of his dark, shoulder-length hair, he says, "Your Grace, I give you the hall . . ." And turns on his heel and takes his spot next to the other lords in waiting. There is a slight shuffling amongst them as he plants himself next to Lord Beesbury, who looks upon him with disdain. Daemon seems perturbed, she feels, as she sees him stand in uncomfortable silence, closed fist on pommel and the other hooked on his belt.
"Let us begin anew," the regent says, sternly. "I welcome all who've answered the call of your true and rightful queen. Today, this very afternoon, you will renew the oaths of fealty you made before the seven faces of god—vows of servitude to Her Grace, whom, now sits upon her rightful seat atop the Iron Throne . . ."
And amongst the hall she counts seven lords and their servants. There's Elmo Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and his grandsire, Grover Tully, Lord-Paramount of the Trident. Lord Stokeworth is here, as are the lords who sit on the small council. Altogether, too few have come on such short notice. No, they were not given enough time, she thinks . . . and little time they had to affirm her rule.
With a gloved hand, Daemon beckons them to kneel. There is quiet in the halls now, she hears . . . and the kindly Lord Beesbury is the first to oblige him. Soon, one after another, more lords submit themselves to her. One, she notes, even prostrates himself across the red carpet. A few of the lesser courtiers, she sees, quickly understand their position on the matter, and kneel as well. She sees countless bowed heads stretched out across the great hall before her. Though, one remains unbowed—unwilling if she may. He is a treacherous thing, she thinks.
The one called Lord Peake stands tall before her. She feels her palms curl across the sharp contours of the throne's armrests. Anger permeates her being, and suddenly she feels hot enough to sweat. She wants to speak now, but she can't. Her eyes dart to Daemon. He's pacing now . . . back and forth in small, quick steps. He's dressed in his court attire—a black tunic made of the finest Braavosi silks, and the leggings to match it. He looks wonderful in those colors—shining, gleaming even—dressed in darkness as he was. And his long, pale-silver hair shimmers above a fair complexioned face sculpted by the seven gods themselves.
A feeling of awe washes over Rhaenyra. She can't see his eyes, but she just knows they breathe fire now as he stares down his prey, fists clenched and Dark Sister throbbing to be released. The dragon stirs from his slumber, she thinks.
Lord Peake, strong in his demeanor and hard-headed, holds his ground unflinchingly. He's not afraid, she realizes . . . although he should be. He was a stout man of three-and-forty. Like all who called the Reach home, he was thick of beard and hairy.
Daemon stops pacing, tries hard to restrain himself she sees, saying, "You have but one more chance, my lord. I will give you no further stage for this mummer's farce."
The thickness of the tension in the room peaks. Everyone can feel it, she thinks—see what's about to happen. Even with bowed heads, they know what's coming. Several of the lordly men steady themselves, knees weak, planted on floor of black hard-stone as they were. Lyman Beesbury is an older man of one-and-sixty yet holds firm in his respect. Lord Peake himself takes another gulp of his wine—drains it empty then throws it to his servant. His young son, Unwin, is nearby and white-faced.
"I'll not kneel," he then says. Audible gasps emit from lord and courtier alike. "I'll not kneel for any women. Not that bitch Rhaenys, and certainly not that misguided child you've sat on the throne for your own lecherous ends. Yes . . . you don't think we all know what you've been doing with her in secret? Your own niece of three-and—"
The shriek of Dark Sister singing from its sheathe cuts through the lord's speech. It's outstretched now, shimmering, and famished for the highborn blood of lords with insatiable gluttony. She smells blood, feels pain as the Iron Throne suckles her palms like a bloodfly. Her grip loosens, and she stands. Still, she feels helpless, unable to speak against the man's treacherous words. Though, she needn't really say anything.
"Ser Harrold!" Daemon beckons, with teeth clenched and voice spiteful. "Seize that treasonous dog at once!" And seconds later the lord was immediately taken upon violently by he and Ser Erryk.
"Take your hands off me!" Lord Peake bellows. "You stain your white cloaks red with a whore's bloodied order! I am the head of House Peake, ancient and long lasting! Mine is the blood of the First Men as it flows through these very veins and all my progeny!"
Daemon Targaryen, Lord-Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, disdains to even glance at the man. He approaches with a brooding silence as the man struggles against his knightly captors. Little Unwin is wailing nearby, cries for his father before Lord Beesbury takes the child in his arms and leads him away from the commotion.
Lord Peake bares his teeth, cries, "Do not mourn me, my dear Unwin! House Peake does not cower in the face of tyranny!"
"You, wretched one," Daemon says, spitefully, "are a lord no longer. Lord Unwin Peake, a young boy of ten, has inherited that title and land just now . . . and you will not be mourned. Yours is a memory deigned to be remembered bereft of fondness . . . Nay, yours is a memory to be cursed in every hall of the Reach, I dare say—along with those Hightower dogs when I bring them to heel."
The disgraced lord smiles, replies, "Alas, a dog I may be. But remember this, boy. Your mother Alyssa was a cheap, young whore when she cursed the Seven Kingdoms with you. Yours is a lineage of whores, as will be the accursed incestuous spawn of your—"
He gasps out in pain as an armored fist meets him square in the face. Ser Erryk struck him fierce, breaking his nose. He's briefly in a daze, she sees, and then regains his composure, spitting a stream of dark blood onto the stone floor. Smiling beneath a bloodied visage, he says, "Liked that one, did you? Whoreson dog!"
The regent laughs, a curiously mad, high-pitched sound in the vast, shadowed halls. She sees him sheathe Dark Sister, then brandish a dagger. It gleams amidst the darkness like a candle. "Ser Erryk, seize his witless tongue," he orders.
The Queensguard nods obediently and then pulls the man down to the stone floor with great strength. He's fighting, she sees, struggling against the two hulking knights, yet he's no match for them. Rhaenyra takes steps down from the Iron Throne, closer to where the struggle is—to get a better look at what's about to happen. She sees Daemon stepping closer, grinning wicked like a dragon and eyes vengeful looking. Ser Erryk grips his jaw, pries it open and takes ahold of the man's flopping, pink tongue. He's groaning, moaning even as the regent approaches.
Daemon draws the knife across his face, whispers, "You won't be needing this in the hell I'm sending you too." He then grips the side of his face and cuts into the man's vile tongue.
He's agonizingly slow with his work, she sees. The disgraced lord wails, gurgles as the sharp blade cuts through him effortlessly. Daemon makes sure to get all the thing, slices through flesh carefully as if it were the final strokes on a masterwork of a canvass. He's an expert of his craft, she thinks, if torture could be an art form. With a final flick of his blade, he cuts through completely, and in his left hand he clenches his ruined tongue between gloved fist. She sees Ser Erryk stuff him with a tattered cloth, probably to stop the bleeding, she thinks. He needn't taint this hallowed ground with a traitor's blood.
Her uncle and protector smiles, looks upon the bleating man with contentment for all to see. Courtier and lord alike cower away, dare not to look at what is happening. The two White Cloaks stand him up, and the man can barely holdfast under his own weight. His trousers too, she notices, have been soiled. Yet, he says nothing, just whimpers and cries in his own way . . . Daemon had silenced both his treasonous tongue and sullied his manhood, she realizes.
There is a shocked silence. Even in a court formerly known for horrible cruelties, especially in Maegor's time—when royal executions and torture exceeded tourneys, balls, and feasts alike—the treatment of Lord Peake is shocking to all. Daemon fixes the man with a glare of contempt, orders, "Remove this wretch from these great halls, at once!"
Abruptly the Queensguard turn him around and begin walking him—no, dragging him toward the towering bronze gates. He's limp in their arms, refusing to face his punishment with honor and courage.
Rhaenyra's poulaines click loudly as she follows them out the door and into the adjacent ward. The man is motionless, resigned to whatever fate awaits him, and into a long hallway is he taken, lit only by several sconces lining the walls. She follows quietly behind Daemon, as he escorts the treasonous prisoner to wherever they were going. The air, she feels, grew hotter which each step—drier, even. And the smell . . . it was like rotting flesh. She suddenly realizes where they are headed.
And into a spacious ward they stepped. Tall pillars line the circular room large enough to house a dragon—and so it does. She hears a shrill, short hiss, and then a blood-curdling shriek from a tongueless man. Caraxes' enormously long tail curls itself around his expansive blood-red body half as long as the Great Hall itself. His extensive neck twists and vibrates with his wail, long teeth baring out like fifty short-swords pointed and threatening. He'd appear to smile like that, wicked and hungry—starved too long for the flesh of man as he was. The rotten corpses of bulls and sheep alike litter one corner of the ward, and it stinks like death.
"He smells you," Daemon whispers, taunts even. "He smells the scent of a treasonous graveworm . . . and long has it been since he's dined on lordly flesh." With tongue in hand, he tosses the bloodied appendage toward the dragon who sets upon it hungrily.
Such a small morsel could not abate such a beast, she thinks. No, it would only entice him further.
Rhaenyra can only watch as the gigantic wyrm hisses and stalks over his prey. Daemon needn't give any order. No, two minds are one, she realizes. His very command, wordless as it was, takes hold of the great beast, and his massive jaws open—mouth salivating, and dripping to the floor to form puddles of ravenous desire. His eyes glittered like pools of ruby in the darkness, glazed over, blinking madly to devour his very soul. And as his great head lingers closer, the foul stench of his breath encapsulating them all in its rankness—Daemon shoves him forward mercilessly.
Rhaenyra covers her mouth with the bloodied palm of her hand . . . sees the beast take the man by his legs, just beneath his midsection. He's careful not to spoil his prey, not to ruin the enjoyment of the feast. He drags him over away and to the corner of his lair. The lord screams, ekes out what he can, tongueless as he was. His hands claw the stone floor madly, nails shrieking as they peel from his very flesh. And as Caraxes whistles pleasingly, he tosses him against the walls to set upon him again. With a monstrous roar, he shakes the very walls of the sanctum, and his jaws open slowly—eagerly, even—to reveal a gluttonous long tongue begging for a taste. The wyrm smiles wickedly, slitted dragon eyes terrifyingly demon-like and full of mean-spirit. He takes pleasure in his prey's anguish, she realizes, as the man screams his loudest—soils himself further to shed away whatever remnants of honor held so dearly . . .
And the entire room took up an insidiously hellish hue of bright crimsons, as fires splash against the high walls to reach the painted ceiling above. The rotten scent of corpses is overtaken by that of burning flesh. It smells good . . . excites her, even, she thinks morbidly to herself. As does the erratic beat of her heart and her dragon's blood pumping madly through her veins. She sees Daemon look upon the beast with great pride, and he lets out a mad wail of his own to match his dragonsteed. Fires fade and so does their song. Lilac eyes blink to see the man's charred remains lay plastered against the wall, cooked perfectly crisp to his liking and ready for digesting.
And Caraxes, with what she can only describe as pleasure, whistles loudly and looks to her uncle for approval. Daemon smiles and gives a slight nod to the great beast—and no sooner than seconds pass did he engulf the man whole, devouring his very being in one, great bite. Bones crunch, flesh tears as the dragon grinds his corpse down with his razor-sharp teeth.
And then Lord Peake is gone, consumed by Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.
x x x
Later that same day, towards evening, Rhaenyra, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, finds herself gazing at the crackling fireplace in the queen's bedchambers. She comes here to get away from all her problems. And after earlier events, she needs only to forget.
The flames lure her in deeper, as she sits upon her father's chair. She sees them sparkle and dance within its elaborate marble hearth, its outer portions adorned with dragon engravings and reliefs depicting Aegon's Conquest. She's changed out of her court-wear and into her best black-and-red gown, both the colors of her House, and his favorite as well. Her pale-cream shoulders expose themselves, and its wavy ends settle just below her ankles. It fits her well, she notes, and shines in its modesty.
There is a melancholic feeling living in such places. She'd grown up in these apartments; watched her father build and toil away at his replica of Old Valyria here. And here it remains, incomplete as it was. She's had her maids dust it off and keep it pristine in memory of him, as a reverent reminder of whom he once was before his illness took him. She will always love him, she feels . . . love and cherish the memories they'd shared together. Such a thought beckons tears fresh and raw. She can feel that, as small droplets well up. She'll cry if she isn't careful . . . and if she does, no one would ever see them fall—to slide down her cheeks and strike the carpeted floor below.
This room is much larger than her previous quarters, and for that it makes her feel even lonelier. On the desk next to her is a red-and-white glass vase. The flowers in them are wilted, she sees. The desk itself, carved from a weirwood tree from the north, clash with the Targaryen decadence of norm. On it are an assortment of treasures, one being a jade tiara gifted to her by Daemon. He tells her it belonged to the Empress of Leng, but she cherishes it all the same. She touches the necklace between her breasts; the one Daemon had given her so long ago. She feels herself smile in remembrance. Such memories calm her being . . . ease her spirit.
And yet it's not enough, she feels. Today, her own rule was called into question, and she faced accusations of perversion . . . of debauchery. Before, she had only suspected the rumors—the whispers in the shadows of the keep. But now, they've revealed themselves for all gods and men make judgement on.
On the weirwood desk is something tempting. Her servant has brought her supper: steaming pink trout freshly caught from the Blackwater Rush, and summerwine to relax herself. She hadn't the stomach for it now, so it has grown unfortunately cold. Still, perhaps the wine could calm her uneasy spirit, and with that thought she takes the glass in hand and sips from it. It's pleasantly sweet, she notes, and after finishing the glass she feels altogether tired. Perhaps from the wine, or a combination of the day's events. The ghosts and spiders haunt me now, she thinks.
After the burning, the remaining lords and royalties about the halls fell to their knees and swore their oaths anew. Out of fear, or out of respect for her rule—her birthright—it matters not. The little lordling Unwin was whisked away back to the Reach. He was told his father was a traitor, and indeed he was. His was one of heedless treason, tarnishing very his name and House with the folly of disloyalty and oathbreaking. She possessed a gentle heart however, bestowing her very goodness upon the courts. House Peake's ancient name and seat would survive this debacle, as will its high station amongst the good realms of the Seven Kingdoms. That was her benevolence, her generosity on full display before the very eyes of lord and lady.
Rhaenyra looks at her hands and grimaces. She had her handmaids bandage the small cuts on her palms. In her fury, she hadn't realized how tightly she gripped the throne. She will need to be more careful in the future.
She shifts over to the couch to hug her knees tightly to chest and shiver. She still feels cold . . . cold and alone and without the comforts of love. It feels lonely to sit atop that throne, she feels, to look down upon the world with a gelid glare. Thrice has she sat the throne, and already she feels a darkness welling within, warping her in ways unknown. She needn't ponder on it though; just . . . close her eyes to it. The wine has taken me, she thinks. Just one glass . . .
Later still, the moon west by then and the sun dimming orange, there is a sound. The doors to her quarters swing outward, waking her. She hears heavy footsteps, sees him. Daemon is here.
Rhaenyra sits up from the couch, her heart wrestling against the cage of her breast. With only seconds to banish the sleep from her being, she's alert and ready. She has waited patiently for this moment. Waited patiently for him to breathe life back into her.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," he says, closing the doors behind him, and stepping halfway into the room. "I fear I am making a habit of this, belated as I am."
"Forgo the titles, Uncle," she says. "You are quite welcome in these quarters. I have waited patiently for you, my love."
She sees Daemon sigh softly, remove Dark Sister from his belt and place it against the wall, pommel facing upward. He then comes before her and looks at her plainly. He is weary and weighted, she sees, the normal lilac fires of his eyes dimmed—lowly coloured amidst their darkness.
She beckons him to her, and he obliges. He's sitting quietly beside her now, wordless. Uncomfortably so, she feels. And suddenly her needy fingers find themselves snaking across his leg. She's begging him silently and in her own way to come closer. He doesn't, and instead she takes his hand in her own, tightens her fingers around his, guiding it upwards. She sees him flinch, daring not to look into her eyes—to allow her to see into his soul. She scoots closer, and her other hand goes to his cheek.
He goes limp, allows her briefly to turn his face to look at him closely. She's left a candle lit, to see him. He says, "You needn't worry yourself about such things, Rhaenyra . . ."
"Stop it," she whispers quietly. "Have you no understanding? We must weather this storm together. Even unwed as we are—apart and unbound only by ritual—our hearts still beat as one."
He is quiet for a time. He shifts his position to nestle himself against her hand. He's coarse against her bandaged palm, unshaven and unkempt after the day's long events. She feels him inhale deeply, tickling her.
His sigh is long lasting and cathartic, she sees. "We can't keep doing this," Daemon whispers into her palm. "The Red Keep will know what we do . . . "
She squeezes his thigh, hard. "And what of it?" Rhaenyra asks him. "A dragon does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep and cattle. You are my protector, my lover, and my comfort . . . and I forbid you to stray from my side."
He doesn't reply this time. She moves closer and wraps her arms further around him, twists her fingers around his pale-silver hair. "Forget the courts for a day," she whispers, working her way to massage him pleasingly. "In the sanctity of these quarters, there is only us."
She hears him laugh a little. It is a dark, morbid laugh.
"We may soon be at war, Rhaenyra," he says. Then, so quiet she struggles to hear, "Our desires matter little to the lords and realms we must curry favor with."
"Our desires?" she asks.
He takes her hands in his own, lowers them to his lap. He inhales deeply, saying, "We must hide this affair between us, and all it may lead to. It is for the betterment of the realm, and for your rule, Rhaenyra."
She finds she cannot speak.
He continues, saying, "And to that end, our secret meetings like this will dwindle. War is upon us, Rhaenyra. We must harden our defenses, give strength to your rule—not weigh it down with scandal. Three long years are ahead of us now—perhaps even a winter, say the maesters."
Her heart is pounding. There is fear palpable in the room now, in her too, as she understands the truth of the matter. Horror washes over her fair features as she sees uneasy worry painted on his own visage so strong and unyielding.
Rhaenyra's lips tremble. She says, "And what if my queendom is not honored? What if my birthright is stricken from me? Then I have sacrificed my love for you in vain—relinquished my happiness for nothing!"
Her uncle then takes her in his arms. Wordless, he guides her to the comforts of his lap. His very large hands rest on her naval and cradle her neck. She feels her frown curl to a smile as she looks up at him. He treats her with a smile of his own, and clears his throat to say:
'Tis a time when dragons fly,
And when all men do cry,
As the earth shakes,
And the mountains quake.
So great was brave Aegon, they say,
Of the three-headed dragon, nay,
A dragon he was, right and true,
And his gentle rule, altogether too few.
There is a comfortable silence when he is done. Both uncle and niece stare at one another.
His High Valyrian speech is music, she thinks—feels, as his poem climaxes. And his seductive voice . . . is his instrument played so masterfully. She's caught in his web now once more, ensnared by his very being. Muscles formerly tense relax under the spell he cast upon her.
His voice . . . his heart is beautiful, she thinks. She knows who Daemon is: to his foes, he was menacing and unpredictable. To family and all he held dear, he was beauteous . . . He is both light and dark in equal parts, she feels, enigmatic and beguiling to her in ways few can understand.
"Oh, Nuncle," she drawls out, "how I yearned for your poesy these past years. Please, another, if you will be so gracious. One about us, and the love we have for one another."
Daemon blinks, looks down at her. A moment passes, then he says, "That's all I have the time for now, Rhaenyra. I must go at once to the small council to discuss things. You may stay here and rest—you need not attend this one. The lords will understand you are weary, and if they don't . . . I will make them understand."
Rhaenyra blinks. She feels left out. "Perhaps we should have granted clemency to that foolish man," she whispers pensively. "Could he have been pardoned for such a misdeed?"
Daemon shakes his head. "No. He was craven to think himself wise in his utterance of such things in your presence. As soon as he made his wretched thoughts audible, his life was spent, whether he knew it or not."
"I see," she says, nodding. "But will that quell the idle talk of our relationship? Of my birthright—my very claim to the Iron Throne bestowed by my father?"
She sees him think for a moment. He frowns, saying, "No, I do not believe so. There are others walking these very halls, plotting to supplant you in secrecy. I have my suspicions, though I cannot act upon them yet."
"And what of Otto Hightower? Queen Alicent?" Rhaenyra asks.
"I will deal with them in time," he says, resolutely.
A silence fills the room. Brisk wind can be heard wailing against the high-glass windows, as can the scented burning of candles. The moon is rising higher, and the sun taken abed for the day.
She looks up at Daemon from her low position, resigned to his protective grasp as she is. And when their eyes meet, lilac to lilac, pale-silver brows gleaming upon faces fair and beautiful, she comes to a finality—a realization of sorts.
I cannot stop time . . . nor can I what is to come, she thinks.
But he will.
x x x
"We must bring the Hightowers to heel," Lord Lyman Beesbury said, glaring at the man on the far side of the table. It was Larys Strong, the recently-promoted Master of Whisperers. Formerly, he served as Lord Confessor, stealing secrets from all who tried in vain to hide them.
The night had grown long—boring even, as the small council convened for a special hearing of sorts. To Daemon, nothing being discussed here was any news to him, and in that aspect it felt redundant.
"They believe Rhaenyra's claim to the throne false, my lord," Larys said, evenly and calm. "To stain the Iron Throne with a woman's blood, it's unthinkable to many of the realm—an affront to traditions set since the beginnings of recorded history."
Lord Beesbury cursed, saying, "Damn the traditions! The laws of succession have been made clear. Queen Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne, as decreed by Viserys. She has ascended the Iron Throne. Rebellion after the fact must be crushed swiftly, and without quarter!"
"Lord Beesbury, please . . . do not be hasty," Lyonel said, raising a large hand to assuage the infuriated councilmember. "We need to approach this matter very carefully. If we don't, we could set the entire realm aflame with the fires of dragons. Entire cities will burn, millions will perish. My son's concerns are, just that, concerns—and duly noted."
Daemon, leaning back in his chair, laughed. "His concerns mean nothing," he said, eked out through chuckle. "I don't care about a lord's pitiful concerns. They've all taken oaths of fealty before gods and men, and they will honor it. Whether they honor it in submission or force, it matters not to me. Disloyalty and treason come in many different forms, you see."
The council was silenced for a moment. Daemon had sent a servant for wine earlier, and he'd just arrived. He had forgotten who acted as cupbearer today, but it didn't matter. The young boy came in and poured the lords a glass of wine, and then departed afterward. Daemon took the glass in his hand and drained it. Feeling the sweet summerwine trickle down his throat was cathartic. He needed something to quell his headache, after all. He'd stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, as he listened to his small council bicker further.
"Send me, Your Grace," Lyman said, abruptly, cutting through the argument. "Viserys' firstborn son, Aegon the Second, must not be made to rule. As Lord of Honeyholt, I exert a large influence over the Reach, one far greater than the Hightowers suspect. I will be able to turn many banners to our cause."
Daemon allowed himself another glass of wine. He'd be needing that cupbearer boy again by the end of the night. "Very good," he drawled out. "Though . . . perhaps you send a raven in your stead? I need my small council here and united as much as possible."
"That will not do, Your Grace," Lyman replied, eyes stern beneath long, grey brows. "A raven may not make it all the way to the Reach. I must go myself to see this important task through. We cannot let Otto Hightower exert his dominance over his banners for this . . . unjust cause."
"If Lord Beesbury makes for the Reach," Lyonel interjected, "then, I will make haste to Riverrun and bring things under control. However, I feel the westerlands may prove difficult to manage. Lannister gold runs thick there, and loyalty to the Crown is cheap when bought like so."
"And what of the Greyjoys?" Lord Corlys asked. He had been quiet during this bluster, as per usual. "Their fleet of ships may prove useful to us. Mayhaps we send envoy to the Iron Islands, and request a meeting of sorts? We know they've no love for Jason Lannister and his doings on the Sunset Sea."
Grand Maester Gerardys nodded, saying, "Yes, yes . . . Some even say the Lannisters pay off the corsairs to sink ironborn ships. Theirs is a feud which has been longstanding."
Daemon agreed, said, "I do not believe them to soil their pride with Lannister gold. We shall send envoy there, and another to the Eyrie. My former wife, the Lady Rhea Royce, and Lady Jeyne Arryn do not share the most amicable of friendships with myself. I believe another should be sent to the Eyrie to offer terms in my stead."
Lyman twisted in his chair, saying, "And the Starks; theirs is a loyal bloodline. They will not break oaths so easily. Although, I believe in time we should make a trip to the north in order to rekindle vows—perhaps with the joys of feasting and drink."
"That is a sound plan," Daemon agreed pensively.
And he knew before its utterance the Starks would never retract a vow made before the old gods. They were loyal—honorable almost to a fault. If he had one ally amongst all the Seven Kingdoms, he had that in the Starks of Winterfell.
Moving forward, Daemon said, "Is there anything else of note? The night grows later still, and we'd all benefit from a bit of sleep for once."
There was a brief silence, then an older voice rose. "There is another matter at hand, Your Grace," Gerardys announced. "It has been brought to my attention by the Dragonkeepers two eggs have vanished from the Dragonpit. It would seem the Hightowers have taken them."
Daemon almost stood from the table with the breaking of this news. "Which two eggs?" he asked immediately.
Gerardys cleared his throat, said gravely, "That of Sunfyre and Tessarion, Your Grace."
If the Hightowers had sought to provoke his ire, they'd succeeded. The first stroke, as Daemon had predicted, was exactly the type of game they liked to play.
He drew a slow breath, met Gerardys' gaze for a moment and held his peace. He then gazed around the room, as councilmen looked upon his growing fury with trepidation. No one seemed to have dared to move now, awaiting his word and order.
Daemon stood. "Grand Maester Gerardys," he beckoned. "Order the Dragonkeepers to prepare Caraxes for flight to Oldtown. I will travel there myself on the morrow, after my brother's funeral."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
An unquestioning acceptance of his command. No one dared question him, he saw, as they looked upon him with a palpable fear. They knew of his resolve, much unlike that of his brother's. No, they'd not dare defy his orders, or even argue against them.
"I see the small council consents," Daemon announced, voice raised to beckon their attention. His tone was both courteous and detached. "This council is hereby retired until further notice. You may all return to your quarters and continue about your day."
Everyone amongst the room bowed their heads, bade farewell respectfully as Daemon sauntered off toward the doorway. The whole room was silent as he departed from them.
He desired his outward appearance to be relaxed, but inside, he was boiling hot. The Hightowers truly wished to bring about his full and uncontrollable rage, he realized. They'd not only stolen ancient relics of his House, but also dragon eggs which belonged to him and his future lineage. He wanted to curse their names aloud, strip their titles, brand them enemies of the Crown, order their deaths, and sign their writs here and now—but he was quick to control himself.
He had decided immediately to go to them himself.
Just this once, they had a chance to accept his terms of peace. And if they didn't . . . Hightower will burn, he decided, and all the many ships who make port in Oldtown will set their eyes upon its flaming majesty until it finally collapsed into the Whispering Sound.