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Blood of Dragons, Grass of Red

Daemon

The night was dark, and blue, and scented with the aroma of roses and lilies. From his place at the open terrace, Daemon stared in the distance. The stars were so bright, he could count each one of them… but not too far away, just over the hills, there was another kind of stars burning: the fires of the enemy camp. His eyes went to the brightly lit tent. It didn't have dragons on it but it was so big and surrounded by men-at-arms that he had no doubt that it was the commander's tent. Maekar's.

For a while, Daemon stared at it, his mind reeling with all the things he had to do before the battle tomorrow. He had hoped that they might have another day or two to plan their things better but Maekar had made an appearance too early. Not that Daemon was surprised. He was always a quick learner, he thought and remembered that their teachers in the Red Keep had never tired of praising Maekar's grasp of strategy and his single-minded determination. If he had decided that he would reach the Silver Peak in a given time, then he would reach it, even if he had to crumble and die at the gates. And it seemed that his host had picked up on his resolve.

Are you so eager to die, Maekar? Daemon wondered. He did not relish the thought of making Lady Naeryne a widow – she was too beautiful and seemed to be as kind as Maekar was insufferable. However, the rumour was that she loved her husband and Daemon had never enjoyed making a woman cry. He supposed he would have to find her a new husband soon – and a better one than Maekar. Her boys would have to be send to some ramshackle castle in the middle of nowhere, of course. There were many years ahead until any of Daeron's grandchildren grew up enough to pose a problem.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. In the solar behind him, a group of young knights laughed and planned what they would do after the battle tomorrow.

"I'll turn the Grey Lion run with his tail between his legs," Ser Maryl Fletchley said. "And then, I'll go under Casterly Rock to dig out all the gold Lannisters hide there."

"I'll take some silver instead," Jon Strickland replied. "I'll do me some good."

The other man laughed. "Silver? I thought copper would suffice to the brothels you prefer."

Jon Strickland laughed. Daemon was pleased to see his men so relaxed before the battle. He liked his people confident. "The one I have in my mind is far more expensive than that," he said. "I saw her at King's Landing a few years ago. In fact, she is worth ten thousands dragons but since her fool of a husband shuns her bed, I think silver would do. She'd be grateful to have a real men to get her warm, I think."

Daeron's good cheer disappeared. He listened intently. Sure, the fool went on, "And what's this about whores? If Aelinor adorns herself with jewels and dons a clinging attire or… if she lets her hair loose and take her finery off, all of it… would she be inferior to the best whores of…"

"Who are you talking about?" Daemon interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Aelinor the Undesired, Your Grace," Jon Strickland said readily. His smile disappeared as he saw the look in Daemon's eyes.

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen, you cur," Daemon snapped. "Say it after me."

"Lady Aelinor Targaryen," the young man said obediently and then gave him a look of astonishment. "But why are you like this, Your Grace? I don't…"

Daemon waved the question off and strode out of the solar, just as surprised as the group of knights. What had gotten into him, really? Aelinor was Daeron's daughter; she was probably praying for Daemon's defeat right now. She was on the other side, firmly.

And still… how did these men dare talk about her like this? Her father might not be the true king but she was as high above them as the sun was. How did they dare make such plans? Aelinor was not a whore from a brothel, no matter what the rumours said. The only truth to that was that Aerys was a fool for shunning her bed. And being wed to him made her untouchable for other men.

Maekar deserves it, Daemon thought gloatingly. It serves him right. For all his arrogance and bad temper, he does love her, I know. So proud and haughtier than what is merited… it does serve him right to be parted from Aelinor. At least I am not suffering alone. For he had witnessed the storm that had raged in the Red Keep when Maekar had been informed that he wouldn't have Aelinor, that he was to marry Lord Velaryon's daughter instead. Knowing this, Daemon now wondered how he had ever entertained the idea that after refusing Maekar and Aelinor, Daeron would mellow for him and Daenerys.

The worst part was that even after his victory, there was not much Daemon could do for Aelinor. She could not be allowed to take a highborn husband who would bed her and father grandchildren of Daeron's on her. It was either a solitary imprisonment – considering how it had worked for Daemon's mother, not a wise option – or a husband of such a low rank that her children could never pretend for anything. He didn't like it but that was the best option.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't realize he had crossed all the way to the garden and was now pacing restlessly. Scent of food showed him that he was near the kitchens. He looked around and really, the patch of garden he had found himself in was sprouting vegetables alone. He started to turn – and almost fell over a servant with a huge bucket. "Your Grace please forgive me," the man stuttered, bowing.

Daemon scented the nasty aroma of bad food and grease and stepped aside, so that the man could proceed for the garbage pit. To his surprise, the white-haired servant headed for the wall of the building, obviously intending to go round. "Where are you going?" Daemon asked.

The man looked down. "To the dungeons, Your Grace. I am to feed the prisoners. With cooking for the army, we didn't have the time…"

"You are to feed…"Daemon repeated and there was fury and disbelief in his voice. Star Peak was the place they had sent all their major captives to. The disgusting stench from the bucket almost made him retch when the realization dawned. "You feed them this?" he asked and eyed the bucket with disgust.

The man's shoulders stooped further and that was the whole reply Daemon needed. "Lead the way," he said. "Leave this here," he added impatiently when the servant started to walk still carrying the bucket.

The dampness started suffocating him as soon as they started climbing down. Here, the stench closely resembled this of a battlefield – the reek of blood, puss, waste, and fever. All this was overlaid by a layer of stuffy smell. The few torches in their brackets in the wall gave some light but also contributed to the heavy air.

The prison chambers were mere stalls, narrow and cramped. Not all of them had buckets, so in some of them the piss and waste were exposed in the corners, as far from the rushes as possible. In each stall, there was a man, incredibly thin and sick-looking. Some of them were delirious, others sat staring at a spot on the floor. The hotness in the dungeon immediately gave Daemon some idea of what was going on.

"For how long haven't you fed them?" he asked. "For how long they had not received water?"

The man cowered back. "Your… Your Grace," he started. "We did feed them but now, with the arrival of the army… the men-at-arms needed to be provided for first…"

Daemon knew it was so. Still, the look of the stalls and the men inside showed him that this was not a recent thing. These people – his captives whom he was responsible for, brave knights who had fought valiantly – had been starved and kept thirsty for weeks and months. And when the people in the castle had thought about them, it was to provide them with the garbage of those who lived in the castle. "How dare you," he spat. "What do you think you're doing? These are humans in there, you…"

The man's terrified face made him come to himself. No, it wasn't the servant's fault. He did what he was ordered to. The one who should answer to Daemon was Lord Strickland – the one he had entrusted the prisoners to. And Daemon would demand an answer… tomorrow.

"Bring some water," he ordered. "And something to eat. Not garbage but real food. Now!"

His relief evident, the man scurried away with speed that was quite unbefitting his years. Daemon hesitated and then stepped towards the first stall. The man there didn't even look at him – he was lying on the rushes, his face flushed, his eyes wandering in the clutches of fever. Daemon didn't know him.

In the next stall, a man sat with his back against the wall. His dark eyes followed each movement of Daemon's but they were devoid of life. He was so emaciated that his bones protruded under the skin. His face resembled a skull. It was hard to say whether he had seen sixteen or sixty namedays. And still, there was something to him that made Daemon unlock the door and enter. Something familiar.

The stench of the man almost made him draw back. But he didn't. He went near, caught the prisoner's chin and turned his face toward the torch in the hallway.

The man flinched and turned his face away. His head hung down. Unsure whether he had lost consciousness, Daemon shook him – and the answer came immediately.

"My back, you beast. Don't you touch my back."

The voice was raspy, barely audible – but along with the face, it suddenly gave Daemon the realization he had been trying to reach. He almost shook with pity and horror and slowly squatted next to him.

While Daemon was lauded as the Warrior, when asked who was the warrior he admired most, he always replied, "Ser Galend Highhill." That earned him looks of surprise because very few people had heard about the young knight of Maekar's household. He wasn't a descendant of a great family. He was not even noble. Just someone who had been captured aboard a pirate's ship and taken to Lannisport. Had Maekar not asked to have the slightly older boy serve him, he would have still probably be toiling in Lannisport. Instead, he had joined the royal household. Daemon still remembered how Maekar spent hours teaching him their language and other things, like holding a sword… Three months later, Galend had bested Maekar, to Daemon's great amusement. Four months later, he had bested Daemon himself, to his great embarrassment and surprise. With time, though, Daemon had come to understand that while he was greatly gifted, there were people who were truly natural in martial arts, people whose bodies were weapons in themselves. As physical abilities, Ser Galend surpassed by far Maekar, Daemon, and everyone else at court; as a warrior, he would have become the greatest one ever seen after Aegon the Conqueror himself. He would have… but then, he had sustained a serious wound in the arm. Almost immediately after, the Black Dragon had captured him and sent him here… to rot.

Daemon's anger was so hot that had Lord Strickland been here, he would have attacked him without thinking about the upcoming battle. He had entrusted his captives to Strickland – and he had turned a bright, promising man into a shadow. In Daemon's name. No matter how wrong Galend was, he had been a warrior. A brilliant one. He did not belong here, his life draining out of him little by little. If he was to die, it should have happened at the battlefield.

"I am sorry," Daemon said and drew his hand back. "What's wrong with your back?"

Yellow teeth flashed in the gaunt face. "The people here weren't too pleased with my lord's arrival, so they took it out on us," Ser Galend replied. His throat was so dry that his words were unclear, painful. "Is this why you're here?"

Surprised, Daemon found that he wanted to smile. So the ex-pirate was not broken. Daemon wasn't guilty of this. Not for a first time, he wished that he had seen in Galend what Maekar had obviously noticed first.

"No," he said. "I don't have time for entertainment. I am preparing to finally claim my crown."

Ser Galend huffed – a tortured sound full of disdain.

The servant returned with a bucket of water and a few mugs. Daemon filled one of them and nodded to the man to give water to the prisoners. He placed the mug to Galend's lips and supported his head, careful not to touch his back.

The other man drank thirstily, then looked at Daemon. "The crown does not belong to you, Ser," he said. "It is King Daeron's."

It was not a daring – more of a mere statement of a fact. Daemon stared at the captive. How many hardships had he encountered but how consistent his deeds were! How firm his convictions and his bond to Maekar must be! And how senseless and cruel it would have been if Daemon held that against him and not give him help.

"I'll send you help," he said. "Before I leave to defeat Maekar," he added. "Because he won't yield if I propose to spare his life, don't you agree?"

Ser Galend huffed again. This time, it looked easier, with his lips wetted and his throat soothed somewhat. His eyes, though, still glowed with fever and his skin was sickly yellow."If you were in my lord's position, would you have accepted such a proposal?"

Daemon didn't deign this with an answer.

Ser Galend smiled. "You see? You're more than my lord than you think."

The thought of being anything like Maekar disturbed him. He rose. "I'll send you my maester," he said. "I want you to be healthy when you accompany me at entering King's Landing."

"Don't bother, " Ser Galend replied. "I'll go there with my lord."

They locked eyes, both smiling with irony.

"What great faith you have in him," Daemon said.

"It isn't as if I have much else left," Ser Galend murmured, matter-of-factly.

He still had his life, although by the look of him it wasn't clear how long that would last. Daemon filled the mug anew and called the servant. "Take him out of here," he said. "Bring him to a room that deserves to be called that. And call my maester."