The King's Feast 3: The Rogue Prince
The wet ground squelched as Daemon Targaryen walked deeper and deeper into the Dragonmont, leaving footprints as he went.
As he went further and further into the deep vent that Silverwing had made for her lair, the air became thicker and thicker, while the walls became hotter and hotter. The air was covered with fog and smoke, and Daemon could scarcely see what was ahead, be it a dead end, or a massive drop into an abyss. He carried on walking for what seemed an eternity, until he came across what he was looking for.
The tunnels opened into a massive cave, and here the smoke was thicker than ever, and the air even hotter than before. Daemon felt his leather doublet start to stick to his skin, as gallons of sweat rolled down his forehead and onto the hot ground below him, sizzling as it hit the floor of the cavern.
Just ahead Daemon spotted what he was looking for – a brown pile of what could only be described as a mix of mud and dragon shit.
He rushed over and knelt beside it and started to dig with his hands to try and find what he was looking for.
The pile was gooey and hot, and burned his hands as he touched it, even though they were gloved. He carried on digging as the heat from the excrement scalded his arms, until he could find his treasured prize. He came across chunks of flesh, dragon discharge, and charred bones, and whether those bones were that of a sheep or a man, Daemon could not tell.
That was probably one of my men.
Daemon had lost at least a score of good men in these caverns searching for what he wanted, and would have lost even if Daemon hadn't decided to take matters into his own hands.
Daemon dug and dug and dug, until he reached the bottom of the pile, and found what he was looking for.
The dragon egg, despite being covered in dragon waste, and other things only the Gods knew, still shone bright in the foggy darkness of the cave. The egg glowed silver, with streaks of blue, and as he moved it around, some of the silver turned into swirls of metallic pink in the light of his torch. It was even hotter to touch than the waste, and it radiated heat of its own. As Daemon held the egg an arm's length from his face, he could feel the heat screaming at his face, as if he was standing next to a dragon's open mouth.
He quickly packed the egg into his satchel, and rushed towards the exit of the cave, and away from the scorching hot lair.
Unlike Vermithor or the Grey Ghost's nests, this one actually had an egg. And unlike the other two dragons, Silverwing was out for a flight around Dragonstone when Daemon went looking for eggs. Vermithor is a male dragon, what were you thinking? The bronze dragon didn't leave a single egg in his nest and burned Daemon when he tried to leave. At least the Grey Ghost was asleep when I went hunting through its shit. Daemon was lucky that a small burn was the worst of the damage he suffered from the wrath of Vermithor. Garth the Harelip was turned into breakfast for The Bronze Fury.
Mysaria, the White Worm, had warned him against this mission, but Daemon disregarded his Essosi paramour's warnings. After being made to return Dreamfyre's egg back to King's Landing, Daemon was hell bent of getting at least one other egg before leaving Dragonstone.
Upon hearing of his brother King Viserys' intention to remarry, Daemon flew into a rage, killing the page who had given him the parchment from the Maester. Poor lad. He couldn't have been more than eight-and-ten. Daemon knew his brother would need to remarry, but it hurt all the same. Once Daemon had regained his composure, his rage was replaced with laughter, laughter that the daughter of that slithering weasel Otto Hightower was passed over for Corlys Velaryon's girl.
There are saving graces at least, at least my brother's children won't be fucking Hightowers.
"I thought all your reports said that the Hightower wench was fucking the King every other night," he said to Mysaria, who's spy network stretched from Fleabottom to the market towns of Dragonstone, and even Spicetown and Hull on Driftmark.
"The reports said she was visiting, my Prince, not fucking."
"Either way." Daemon laughed, "I guess my dear brother made the right choice for once. At least he chose a Valyrian."
His brother's marriage would inevitably result in children, be it princes or princesses, and each one would push Daemon further and further down the line of succession and The Iron Throne would become even more of an distant dream. The King had already snubbed him by naming Rhaenyra heir, and though Rhaenyra was someone Daemon had something of a strange fondness for, he was still snubbed, nonetheless.
If I am not wanted here in Westeros, then I shall go and do where and what I please.
He made his way out of the cave and into smoky overcast on the face of the Dragonmont to find Mysaria, wearing her signature white hood, which protected her from the harsh, stormy winds of the Narrow Sea waiting for him.
"My Prince, the boat has been prepared. I packed your armor, and one pair of clothes, the remainder shall remain safe at my manse in King's Landing," she said, shouting over the loud waves smashing across the cliff face and the distant roars of the dragons up in the skies.
"Dark Sister?"
"It's here." She pulled the sword out from underneath her cloak and put it in Daemon's hands "And the gold, I brought it directly to you."
"Good, good."
Daemon pulled out a pouch of gold dragons from the leather bag and placed them in Mysaria's hands. "For my Gold Cloaks. They can return to King's Landing, sail to Essos, or become a hedge knight, or whatever they fucking wish to do. Are you sure you do not wish to come with me?"
Mysaria spat. "I left Essos so I could no longer be a slave. Even free, I still do not wish to return there."
And I wish to not return to King's Landing.
Daemon gave her a nod of approval and made his way to the docks.
The Red Cat was small, and brown, but his rooms were spacious enough, which was the bare minimum considering he had asked the captain for the largest room (though he did do it while Caraxes circled the docks and Daemon had Dark Sister on full display).
Nobody on the galley spoke to him, or even looked at him for that matter, for the entire length of the journey. At breakfast, the chef, a Ghiscari man who knew no words of the common tongue, always gave him an extra strip of bacon, and at supper, one of the Ibbenese oarsmen gave Daemon his serving of ale.
The journey went as good as it could have been, they didn't encounter any storms and winds were always favourable.
Caraxes routinely flew close to the ship, soaring over the waves of the Narrow Sea while the crew of the Red Cat watched in awe at the dragon's long serpentine body and blood red wings flapping and gliding in the clouds. Daemon even rode him once, much to the annoyance of the captain, who made sure to not voice that annoyance to Daemon.
When Daemon wasn't staring out on the dark sea, or sleeping in his cabin, he spent his time brooding, thinking of how things could have gone differently.
Maybe I shouldn't have made that damned comment about being heir for a day. I should've known that leech had eyes everywhere.
Daemon thought about returning to Dragonstone to strengthen his claim, or to King's Landing to ask for his brother's forgiveness, or even to Runestone where he could finally do his husbandly duties to his wife.
He let out a little laugh.
Maybe not to the Bronze Bitch.
The truth was that although Daemon wanted his brother to finally recognise him – and to accept him, Daemon knew he couldn't stay in one place for too long. He was the Master of Coin, then the Master of Laws, and then the Lord Commander of the City Watch after that, and even though he asked Viserys to make him his Hand, Daemon knew deep down that he would eventually get bored of the position, and end up doing something he would regret.
The truth was that Daemon was itching to fight, to live free on his own terms, and to fly on Caraxes and to not to be held down by duties and responsibilities.
Daemon was a Targaryen, the Blood of Old Valyria. He shouldn't have to be held down by the rules of men.
In Essos, he could be a sellsword, a merchant, or a prince living in a large manse of his own.
He could visit the many pleasure houses in Lys, the luscious gardens in Qarth, or even the dark streets of Asshai.
He could do what he wanted, and with Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, who would dare stop the Rogue Prince?