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Chapter Two
The Prince of the City

Three weeks earlier…

It did not matter how bright the day may have been outside the walls of the castle, cloudless and sun-ridden or stormy and black as pitch, the interior of Winterfell was always the same dreary darkness. Long shadows cast by dying candles cut through the orange light that barely lit the rooms, as solemn and harsh as those who occupied them. As a child, Elyse had marveled at the singularity of it; as a young woman, it simply seemed appropriate.

Winding through the familiar halls, Elyse nodded to all passersby as they greeted her or moved to make room. Guards stepping inside after a shift change brought the scent of pine and mud with them, while servants bustled from the kitchens with freshly baked bread that made her mouth water. There was a low hum throughout the space as everyone went about their daily duties. Dark Winterfell may have been, but it did not lack for life.

Blinking rapidly as she stepped outside, Elyse found the day to be a sunny one, without a cloud to be found. The light warmed her skin, and might have brought a smile to her face were it not for the circumstances that clung heavily to her.

Horses trotted by, their riders having just passed through the northern gate. Their hooves kicked up mud that splashed upon the hem of her skirts, but Elyse paid it no mind. A life of dirt and muck and grime was one all northern ladies grew accustomed to, and as her father's eldest child, she had seen more than her fair share.

A young guard stood by the entrance to the watchtower, nervously rocking on the balls of his feet as she approached.

"She passed through here then?" Elyse asked.

"Y-yes, my lady," the guard stammered, quickly removing his helm. A shock of blonde hair greeted her, jutting out in various directions. "Not long after my shift started. It felt wrong to be there alone with her, my lady. Not-not that I would think of doing anything…untoward."

"And I would never accuse you of such." The way his shoulders sagged told her that the forced smile upon her face was somehow reassuring. "We won't be long, and then you may resume your duties."

She paused in the threshold, turning back to the young man. "What is your name?"

"D-Dustin, my lady," he replied, juggling his helm until it fell into the mud. "Just Dustin."

"Well, Dustin, I will pass along my thanks to the captain for informing me. He should know you have done me a great service today."

A toothy grin greeted her. "I…thank you, my lady."

The height of the watchtower made itself known in her calves as Elyse slowly climbed her way up. Her sister would flee to the tallest place she could find, if only to deter those who sought to catch her. But Sara often forgot that before she was known as the castle's menace, Elyse had claimed that title, and held it with pride. There hadn't been a corner of the castle her cackles hadn't echoed across as she gave both servants and guards the slip, skipping lessons, stealing cakes, or being a general nuisance out of entertainment's sake. Dress or not, Elyse would scale the very walls of the keep to find her sister.

Fortunately, her climbing skills need not have been put to the test that day. Sara had remained in the tower, staring out the window with her back to her. A strong wind gusted from the South, carrying the smell of rain as it flung her sister's hair about, black as night and fine to the touch. It was her mother's hair.

Elyse stood behind Sara, waiting a while, though she knew winter would return before her sister spoke to her.

"It's not that I wanted to do this," she said slowly, the words hard to come by. When she spoke to her father, she might have gone on for an age, but something held her tongue here. "Things are difficult now. I know you've seen it, and this is the only way I can think to help."

Sara still did not respond, though her hands fell to her sides. They were gripping the fabric of her dress tightly. It was a light blue thing, thick and sturdy, yet full of patchwork from tears and holes it had gained over the years. It was not that her sister was poorly provided for, she simply did not wish to give it up.

It used to be hers.

"You're going to forget me," Sara finally spoke, her voice soft but harsh. "You're going to leave me and be with all those fancy lords and ladies, and you're going to forget me."

"Sara, I could never, I would never!" Elyse started, falling to her knees before her little sister. She turned the girl about, and was confronted by those steel eyes, the same as hers, the same as their father's. She was a girl who cried easily, but there were no tears now. "I am doing this to protect our home, and that means protecting you as well."

"And who will protect me when you're gone? Father ignores me. Your mother hates me. If I go near Cregan, she'll gut me."

Elyse bit her lip, ready to cry herself. She'd drained all the joy out of her little sister, a sin she had sworn to never commit. She truly was her father's daughter.

"The servants adore you, Sara, and you've got the guards wrapped around your fingers. You don't need Father; you never have. Everyone loves you for you. Stick with those who make you laugh and smile, and forget about the rest."

Sara did not appear to believe her. A girl of ten, and already so mistrusting of the world.

Elyse grabbed the white stone hanging about her neck, holding it out as far out as she could. "I will always have this, Sara, and as long as I do, you will never be far from me."


Her hand grabbed for the necklace, but was met with only skin and air. That was right, he had taken it from her, that man with the pox. He'd stolen the one thing that mattered, the one item she would never freely give. She'd forgotten.

Would she forget Sara too?

"You're going to have to talk at some point."

"She's in shock. She needs time."

The second voice belong to a woman. Mysaria, she thought her name was, though there had been much talk around her since she'd fallen through the window, and most of it was lost to her memory. She was undoubtedly a whore at the establishment Elyse had found herself in, but the woman was kind and caring. She had given her water, and a shoulder to cry on when the full weight of the day fell upon her soul, heavy and unforgiving.

She could feel her arm around her now as they sat by the windowsill. The grip of her hand was tight, protective.

"I've given her all day. Must she take the night too?"

Elyse blinked, finally seeing the man sitting across from her. He was no longer naked – thank the gods – but wore a tunic of red covered in black leather. A sword rested at his hip, a dagger on the opposite side. He stared at her, harshly, all traces of his once playful nature gone. In that light, his eyes were almost black.

She turned slowly, getting her first proper look at Mysaria. She was a foreigner, as her lilting accent had hinted earlier, with raven hair and eyes just as dark, but the encouraging smile she gave her was warm and bright.

When Elyse glanced out the window, she saw the city was indeed bathed in darkness.

The sound of the man standing returned her attention to the room. His frown had deepened, and his hands had begun to fiddle with the hilt of his sword.

"Mysaria, take leave of us."

"Daemon, I do not think-"

His eyes shifted to the woman, a silent command that still roared in her ears. That was all he needed. It was more than enough.

Mysaria squeezed her arm, pushing a goblet of water into her hands before leaving. Elyse did not miss the look that she gave him.

In the drawn-out silence that followed, Elyse's mind fumbled over the name she had been given. Daemon, as in Prince Daemon, the younger brother of the king, and heir to the Iron Throne. She'd suspected he was a Targaryen, or at least had their blood, for no one else quite looked as they did, and yet it never occurred to her that it might be the very man whose dragon soared by her ship mere days before.

For his part, Daemon had simply taken to staring at her. He looked rather unimpressed with what he had been presented with.

"I grow tired of coddling you," he spoke quietly, though she could feel the threat in his tone. "Tell me what happened."

She reached for the necklace, but was again met with disappointment. Instead, Elyse gingerly wrapped her fingers around the goblet. They still shook.

"We took a carriage from the docks…"

"We? Who was with you?"

"Ser Medrick Manderly. He…he fought them off when they came for us. They set the carriage on fire." She paused as her mind's eye took her to that moment. The heat of the flames returned to her face, the smoke filled her nostrils, and she could see the foul weapon they'd used against her so clearly, more so then when she'd first encountered it. It was as if she could simply reach out and touch it. "They threw a brick inside, and it was lit with a Targaryen flag."

Elyse became very aware of how still Daemon had grown. She felt the air around them shift, thick with violent possibility, the terrifying calm before a storm, and she stood right in its path.

"Three guards were assigned to us, but when the road had been blocked by a cart, they abandoned us, and the coachmen as well." Elyse took a slow, shaking drink from the goblet, suddenly parched. "Ser Medrick, he held them off for a time, then he told me to take his dagger and run."

"And so here you are," Daemon finished.

She risked holding his gaze, finding it once again unnervingly impassive. "So here I am."

It was quiet once more. Elyse thought the thumping of her heart might have been a drumbeat in the utter silence that dragged between them. Daemon said and did nothing, except to hold her soul captive with his gaze. To turn away felt worthy of the harshest of punishments, so she continued to watch him, ignoring how her nails clawed at her skin in search of her necklace.

What was he searching for, she wondered. Or did he merely mean to test her?

He stepped toward her suddenly, snatching the goblet from her grasp. Elyse jumped as he threw it against the nearby wall, splashing water across the exotic tapestry that depicted a land of palms and elephants. Daemon never made a sound as he did so. He neither shouted nor made any indication he was upset with her; he simply turned away toward a dark corner of the room.

Elyse chose to shift her focus away from him, watching the ruined tapestry. She wondered what distant country it came from, and what story it told. Was it one of the Free Cities, or perhaps somewhere farther? A world far away from her own, where everything would be a distant memory…

Once again, a goblet was shoved into her grasp. Elyse looked to Daemon for explanation, but he was already downing one of his own, her presence briefly forgotten.

Eying the contents warily, Elyse took a tentative sniff, then a sip. It was wine, of course, a thoroughly sweet concoction, despite its bitter aftertaste. She was used northern ales and stouts. Grapes did not grow so far from the warm climates; wine was harder to come by, and even so, a proper lass preferred a proper drink, as her uncle always claimed.

But it warmed her body, and stilled the shaking, so Elyse found herself drinking it as rapidly as the prince had.

When she finished, Daemon had returned to staring. His eyes were still dark, indecipherable, but she found she could tolerate them better than before. Wine was good for many things, it seemed.

He took the goblet gently this time, returning it to the table without incident. She quietly watched the act, fascinated.

"The ladies of the house found your shoe earlier," Daemon finally said, producing a turnshoe and throwing it at her. Elyse barely caught it. "I suggest you not lose it again and follow me."

Hopping out of her seat, Elyse nearly fell over as she put the shoe back on. Daemon had turned a corner in the hall, and her heart felt as frantic as it had in the streets earlier. She rounded the corner quickly, and nearly bumped into him as he casually walked through the whorehouse.

She'd ridden past the one in Winter Town on a rare occasion, and though she could have hardly ventured a guess as to what it may have looked like on the inside, Elyse was certain it resembled nothing here.

A haze clouded the air, smoke that bore the scent of foreign spices. Orange lanterns cast an eerie glow across the hall, lighting other, stranger tapestries that depicted men and women naked amongst one another. A man carried a giggling, half-dressed woman over his shoulder into a room, while a child ran by into another.

Open doors and latticed windows invited all who passed by to witness the pleasures within, as men and women coupled without thought or care. The sounds that echoed within her mind took her to a very distant place. She felt like a little girl again, vulnerable and broken, and stared resolutely at Daemon's back as they ventured through the building.

When they moved downstairs, the sounds died down, and Elyse found herself at ease once again. They were in a wide-open space, used for entertaining the multitudes, no doubt, but she only saw men in armor, and the occasional well-dressed woman. Mysaria returned to her side with a smile and reassuring touch.

Daemon led her outside into the cool night. The city had grown still and quiet, peaceful, and a far cry from the terror she had experienced earlier. Elyse thought she might have gone somewhere else entirely.

A dozen more men were gathered outside, armored and armed to the teeth, golden cloaks hanging from their shoulders. They surrounded an open cart, where a gruesome sight awaited her.

Ser Medrick was a bloody mess, his face obscured by the bruising and swelling. If it were not for his house sigil across his chest, and his helm at his side, Elyse might have thought a different man was lying before her.

"Medrick!" she cried, leaping at the cart. She took a hand into her own. The skin was still warm, and his eyelids fluttered at the sound, though he did not wake. But he was alive. Gods above, he had lived!

"We found him with over a dozen bodies in the street, my prince," one of the men reported. "There's no sign of the guards who escorted them, but they weren't from our ranks."

Daemon nodded once. "Anything else?"

The man pointed, and Elyse followed it to a man in their custody. Held up by two other soldiers, the commoner was a mess himself, nose broken, cuts across his arms, one of his legs may have been broken as well, the way they dragged him forward.

"Found that one still alive. Claims not to know anything, but he'll sing a different tune soon enough."

Elyse stared at the man, struggling to remember his face among the many, but it hardly mattered as the blood in her veins began to boil over. Rage and disgust burned away whatever fear remained in her as she stepped down from the cart. She marched past Daemon without thought, drawing back her fist before driving it squarely into the man's jaw.

The men around her shouted triumphantly, whistling and cheering as the man fell to the ground, his escorts no longer concerned with keeping him upright. Though her knuckles pounded and a distant, sound part of her mind told her to leave it be, Elyse was not satisfied. She couldn't have her revenge upon each one of the men Medrick had cut down, so this one would have to do.

She kicked him once. Twice. Three times. She screamed as she buried her foot into every inch of flesh it could find, and the men grew louder with every hit she landed, encouraging her to continue. They clapped and laughed and made bets on how long the man would last under her treatment. But in the end, a strong arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her away as easily as a mother would her child, though not before she spit on her attacker as one last insult.

"Enough!" Daemon shouted behind her, placing her back on the ground, though his arm remained in place. "Take Ser Medrick to the keep. We'll follow shortly. The rest of you, hunt down these bastards and bring them here, dead or alive, it makes no matter to me."

His men howled, a foolhardy impression of wild packs that wandered the woods past her home, and yet it sent a chill down her spine in a way those creatures never had. They dispersed into the darkness, the distant echo of armor the only sign that they had ever been there.

Only then did Daemon release her, leaving Elyse more ashamed than offended. But when she glanced at him, there was an amused smirk on his face, and his eyes almost glowed in the darkness.


They rode briskly through King's Landing atop Daemon's appropriately black horse. The stallion's hoofbeats echoed down empty streets and alleyways, resounding through the space until the sound returned to them tenfold. At first, Elyse had spied down each opening they passed, waiting for a horde come to finish what they had started, but the city remained deceptively bereft of life. Was it always this way so late, she wondered, or did the man in her company have something to do with it?

Daemon was silent as she clung to him from the back of the saddle. She had hoped to ride casually, and thus spare herself the embarrassment of clutching onto the prince for dear life, but the speed at which he spurred his horse had dashed that hope in an instant. Rather, her face was nestled in the back of his shoulder, the scent of sweat mixed with boiled leather wafting into her nostrils. Oddly, it smelled of home.

Every now and again, the hilts of his weapons would scrape against her knuckles, and she was left to ponder at what had become of Medrick's dagger.

The Red Keep loomed before them, far too large to be fully lit despite the numerous torches that rested upon its surface. Yet she could make out the silhouette all the same as it blotted out the stars in the distance. Between gaps of Daemon's hair that flew past her face, she spied guards on duty across numerous walls and gates, their little fires bouncing as they walked. The air was still here, and far less foul, a regal oasis amidst the populous.

Ser Medrick had already been delivered to the sanctuary, leaving the gates open for their arrival. Daemon drew his horse to an abrupt halt, leaving Elyse to grasp him tighter as the horse slid upon its hind legs.

Elyse thought to lower herself quickly from the mount, and escape to whatever guard would take her, but Daemon's hand drew back and wrapped behind her.

"Open the doors," he commanded, a great boom that shook the courtyard.

The guards stared at him for half a moment before doing as he commanded, opening the wide stone doors that led into the heart of the Red Keep itself.

"What are you-!"

Her sentence went unfinished, turned into a piercing yelp as Daemon drove his horse forward once more, up and over the stairs, and straight into the castle.

They passed guards and servants, maids and young lords, most of whom had to dive out of the way lest they be tramped beneath the prince's stallion. Wide eyes watched them, utterly stunned, and she could only stare back, unable to grasp what was happening.

With great, almost practiced ease, Daemon guided his mount through the winding halls and narrow passageways, taking them through smaller courtyards, past the kitchens, and up various staircases. Elyse was utterly lost, unable to make sense of how high they had climbed, or how far they had gone from the gates. All she could do was bear silent witness to the ludicrous display.

At last, they came to another set of closed doors, and Daemon drew them to a halt, though Elyse made no move to depart again. She expected the prince had more up his sleeve, watching as he eyed the two men standing guard, dressed in the finest armor she'd ever seen, white cloaks hanging from their shoulders.

The Kingsguard.

"And what does the prince think he is doing?" asked one of the men, a thick accent emphasizing his irritation. He was the first who did not seem surprised by Daemon's actions.

"Ah, Ser Harrold, ever the stick in the mud," Daemon replied, almost playfully. "Kindly open the doors, would you? I'd like to see my brother."

"I'll do no such thing."

She watched his head turn to the side. "Do you think I intend to bring him harm? Mine own blood?"

Ser Harrold turned his gaze to her, and Elyse just fought off the urge to hide her face. Certainly, she'd suffered enough embarrassments for one day, if not a lifetime.

With a sigh, the man moved away and pushed the doors to the chamber open. Daemon moved them inside in an instant, nearly hitting him in the process.

Elyse felt her mouth drop open as she realized where they were.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was far taller than any single room she'd ever resided in, and taller still than various parts of Winterfell itself. Great stone pillars stood guard on either side, stretching so high that they faded into darkness upon the ceiling. And there, at the end of it, resting upon a great dais, was the fixation of the realm: the Iron Throne.

A great seat made from the swords of the enemies of the Targaryens, it reached out toward them with spiked arms that beckoned any unworthy visitor to impale themselves upon them. It was a terrifying seat worthy of a terrifying age, when dragons had threatened to burn the country into nothingness. But the man who stood before it was no vision of a fierce conqueror. He was simply a man, with hair as pale as Daemon's, and a scowl that spoke of an annoyance only a brother could bring.

This was not how she hoped to meet King Viserys.

"What is the meaning of this, Daemon?!" the man asked sharply, his voice cracking across the open space. "First you don't come to court for months, and now you've turned my hall into the bloody stables."

Others gathered around, his council, perhaps, noblemen with unsurprised faces and stern frowns. She recognized house sigils, the badge for the Hand of the King, a maester's chains. Gods be good, he'd brought her to the whole lot.

"Forgive me, Brother, but I needed to see you urgently," Daemon replied, turning the horse so that she was no longer covered by his large frame. She might have thought it comical, how wide their eyes had grown, were it not for the heat in her cheeks and the pounding of her heart in her ears. "Allow me to introduce the Lady Elyse Stark, daughter of your Warden in the North."

There were sudden gasps, and calls of 'my lady.' One of the men came forward, hair as light as the Targaryens, but skin not near as pale, and offered her a hand. She took it gratefully, finding her legs unstable as she returned to the ground. There, she spotted the sigil of a seahorse upon the man's chest. House Velaryon, another of the great noble houses escaped from the ashes of Valyria.

"And what is the lady of a noble house doing with the prince at so late an hour, and in such a state?" the Hand of the King asked.

"She and her escort were set upon by bandits as they left the docks," Daemon explained, looking none too kindly upon the man. "It seems their guards abandoned them, but she found her way into my care."

The king approached, anger dissipated as he looked upon her with kind and worried eyes. He gently took her hand. "Has any harm come to you?"

Elyse shook her head, resisting the urge to curtsy before him. Decorum was far beyond her reach now. "No, Your Grace. The prince has kept me safe."

"And where exactly did my brother keep you safe?"

"A brothel," is what Daemon said with a shrug, face twitching in entertainment as the men around her groaned and sputtered. "What? It was she who climbed into the window."

Elyse glared at the insolent prince, feeling at once freed from whatever about him bound her to simple compliance. Daemon only smirked.

"So, it was she who saved herself," the king declared, squeezing her hand tighter and silencing the others. "A remarkable feat for any lady, especially one so new to our city. I hope you will forgive our rude introduction."

"One must wonder how it came to pass," remarked the Hand, who had yet to turn his gaze from Daemon. "Were you not entrusted with the City Watch, Prince Daemon?"

Any trace of playfulness had once again vanished from the prince's face. "For far too little time to raise them up from the depths they have sunk. You are more than welcome to them yourself, Otto. That is, if you can tell me which end of the sword you're supposed to grip."

"Now is not the time for bickering!" the king called, silencing the men once again. Elyse glanced between the two, attempting to decipher what foul thing laid between them. "Daemon, get that horse out of my keep."

"As my king commands," Daemon replied, bowing with a hand on his heart. He turned his mount about, and spurred him forward towards the exit.

The men watched on, murmuring about his behavior in one way or another. The maester inquired about her health, but she could hardly answer him, for she was lost in thought about the prince who had just departed.

After all, she had never told him her name.


Two days and nights passed. Daemon watched his men trickle in and out of the brothel with rapers and pickpockets, the scum of the city they suspected of having something to do with the attack. After careful inquiry, it was determined they did not, but they were put down regardless. There had been no sign of the would-be guards, and he suspected there never would be.

The floors had stained red, sticking to his boots and cloak. The whores cried over the bloodshed, overwhelmed by the violence, but they silenced whenever he entered the room.

On the third day, another man was dragged before him. This one was different. He was a pox-ridden son of a whore, but there was something about his demeanor that left Daemon suspicious. Most men begged and pleaded innocence, pissing themselves with the effort, but this one only cried for mercy, his eyes wide not in confusion, but with the guilt of a man caught.

Daemon nodded once, reclining in his chair, and the man was thrown to the floor.

"He carried this with him, My Prince," one of his soldiers said, holding out a necklace. It was a simple, ugly thing, with naught more than a white stone bauble, but it was the sort of trinket a young woman desperately grasping at her chest might be missing.

He took the stone between his thumb and finger, turning it over again and again, searching for meaning.

"Hand, head, or cock?" Daemon asked.

"Wh-what?"

His eyes flicked up, forced to take in that ugly face again. "Hand, head, or cock?"

"I don't-"

Daemon lunged forward from the chair, slamming a dagger down into the table that stood between them, the ivory hilt vibrating in his grasp. The furniture had served as a fine butcher's block during their searches, blood having seeped into the grain until it took on the appearance of mahogany.

"It is a simple question, even for fools such as yourself. Did you mean to rob the Stark girl, kill her, or rape her?"

"Mercy, My Prince, none of it. None of it, I swear."

Daemon held out the necklace. "None of it?"

The man looked between it and him. "That? It's nothing!"

"Then why do you have nothing unless it came from something?"

He began to heave, looking between him and the others in the brothel. But the building had fallen silent, all eyes locked on him, judging, angered. Mysaria looked ready to finish the deed herself if he'd let her.

Daemon drew the dagger from the wood. "Hand, head, or cock?"

"Hand!" the man shrieked, bursting into tears. "Hand, please, that was all. I only meant to scare her, My Prince. Please!"

Walking forward, Daemon brought the ivory dagger up. He placed the flat of the blade against the man's cheek, turning his head with a gentle nudge, bringing his eyes into the light. He observed the terror in those blue irises, and how his panicked breathing began to drive the sharp edges into his poxy skin. A faint trickle of blood rolled down the metal.

Daemon found himself briefing wondering if the girl had realized she'd cut him.

"I don't believe you," was what he said after a long pause.

Another nod had his men pulling down the bandit's trousers, as the man cried and shrieked for mercy, but the words never registered to Daemon as he used her dagger to cut his manhood off, root and stem. He wiped the blood off on his shirt as the man's shrieks died into the whimpers of a conscious already half gone.

The wound would kill him – what man would want to survive it? – but the punishment was not enough for Daemon. There needed to be more. Much more.

He unsheathed Dark Sister, and an instant later, claimed the man's head as well.

The men roared with laughter and cheers, toasting another defeated bandit. The whores did not appear quite so put off by the slaughter here as with the others. Mysaria returned to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm, but Daemon paid her no mind.

He stared at the headless, cockless body, its bloodied parts steaming, arm draped across the table. He stared and he stared and he grew angry.

With a shout, Daemon swung Dark Sister again, cleaving the hand at the wrist.

Hand, head and cock.

The men grew silent and still. A child cried upstairs.

"Clean up this mess," Daemon ordered, shrugging out of Mysaria's grip. He sheathed Dark Sister, and walked out into the night, taking one last look at the necklace still in his grasp.


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As always, thank you so much for reading! If you have any questions, feel free to send them to me here or at my blog! I am going to try to reply to last chapter's reviews tomorrow. I used to do this all the time, and I need to get back into it. Until next time!