Welcome to my fix-it HotD story! A few things you need to know before we start:

- This is definitely a Team Black story. If you are pro Team Green, you should probably find another story, because this isn't Green friendly

- This story is rated M for violence. I think it's pretty "canon typical" - you won't find long, graphic descriptions of torture here, but some drastic things are mentioned. And yes, this is House of the Dragon, some characters will die. There will also be a short mention of Aegon's past crimes (so of sexual violence) and how it will be dealt with in future chapters.

- This story is set in a show-verse

- Timeline-wise, the first chapter is an alternative take on episode 1 season 2, possibly some mentions of the events from episode 2, because the timeline is imperfect, so if you haven't watched that far, beware the spoilers

- Probably not all characters are 100% like they were described in canon, but hey, this is my self-indulgent fantasy

- One thing I changed consciously is the character of Sylvi, who is described in the show as a madame, here, for plot convenience, I made her just work in the brother, but she's not the owner

- Although only the first chapter is written from his POV, if I were to choose one character this is centered around, it would be Daemon

- English is not my first language

- Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or any part of the original story. All mistakes are my own

BLOOD WILL HAVE BLOOD

Because of his fearsome reputation, Daemon Targaryen often got mistaken for a brute. Violence tends to have that effect: it grabs people's attention, making them forget what seems like less important details—like the fact that the Rogue Prince was neither simple-minded nor uneducated. He received lessons from the best scholars serving in the royal court in his youth, and while he might have at times lacked patience, none of his teachers has ever claimed him untalented. He showed particular promise in learning languages, and his interest in all things Varyrian was well-known to the maesters, who often saw him perusing old tomes in the libraries both in the Red Keep and on Dragonstone. The prince was an avid reader, unafraid of studying even difficult writings in his free time, which, in addition to his practical knowledge and first-hand experiences collected during his many travels, made him a man of vast knowledge and wide horizons.

Still, most people associated him with blunt force, more often mindless than not. Daemon did not really mind. It made his enemies underestimate him.

It was true that his hot temper quite often caused him to react before he could think things through and that he had violent impulses, but that did not mean that he was incapable of calculation.

For example, when he had been informed of his stepson's death—his beloved niece's child, the boy whom he had been watching growing up and helping to raise for the past six years—he would have loved nothing more than to rip Luke's killer to pieces with his bare hands. Alas, it had been impossible at the moment. And so, as the time passed and the Rogue Prince found himself trapped in his family's ancestral castle, impatiently waiting for the return of his grief-sticken wife and queen, who had taken off on her dragon after receiving the tragic news, consumed with concern for her safety and with no outlet for his white-rot rage, he started plotting.

His thoughts circled around the most recent culprit of his and his family's misery and all the ways in which he could make him pay for his crime. Ever since he had gone to war, Daemon had lost all qualms about using so-called dishonourable tactics like deception and traps to gain a victory—not that a kinslayer who slaughtered an envoy protected under all law without a second thought deserved such consideration—so now his head was full of musings about Maegor's tunnels and exotic poisons. Aemond had to return to the Red Keep eventually, and when he would, Daemon would be waiting for him.

A stroke of luck that was capturing Mysaria by Corlys's fleet proved that that would not be necessary. Oh, well. It was a trick that could still be repurposed at a later time.

Daemon had lost much of his fondness and all of his trust in his former lover years ago, when he found out that she had been the one to feed Otto Hightower information on him, but he knew that her knowledge and contacts could still be useful to him, so he made her a deal: her freedom for information on the Hightowers. There was one topic in particular he was interested in: the Kinslayer's favourite whore. After all, it is much easier to capture a prince in a brothel than in a fortress.

After he was done questioning Mysaria, he locked himself in a library. Next morrow, he barged into Maester Gerardys's chamber.

"Can you make this for me?" he asked, throwing a scroll of parchment onto his desk.

The maester leaned over the aged page to read the smudged letters. Daemon felt himself getting impatient while he waited for the verdict.

"If I had all the ingredients," the old man said, throwing Daemon a meaningful glance, since some of the items the recipe called for were not easily obtained, "then I believe so, yes."

"I'll get you the ingredients," Daemon replied.

When Rhaenyra finally returned from her grim quest, her eyes hard and full of dragonglass edges, she had only five words for them:

"I want Aemond Targaryen's head."

But by then, Daemon was ready. He was gone by nightfall, slipping off the island and across the bay on a plain boat, his absence unnoticed by anyone but his dragon.

The Green's security was shit. One would expect someone who was preparing for a bloody war to be on high alert, but no. Daemon was able to enter the city without the slightest problem. Nobody was checking the ships coming into port, even despite the effects of the Sea Snake's blockade, which meant much lower numbers of the incoming veasels.

Daemon was first to admit that his disguise was very basic—just some plain, well-worn clothes and a deep hood—but he had not walked the Street of Silk for many years, and apparently, that was enough to allow him to blend in. He found the right pillow house with no trouble and then quickly located the woman he was here for, going by the name and the description Mysaria had given him. He was in luck: the whore was currently on the main floor, without a client, mingling. He observed her for a few minutes before looking for the owner of the establishment.

"I like to watch without being seen," he said, producing a pouch of coin. "Let me hide in one of the private rooms while your girl is there with the clients, but tell neither them nor her."

The madame opened the pouch and looked inside before answering.

"That could be arranged," he said.

"There is one woman in particular I'm interested in," Daemon continued setting his trap.

"Which one?"

"Sylvi."

The madame hesitated when she heard the name.

"She's supposed to have an important client tonight," she said. "He wouldn't like this."

Daemon raised his eyebrows, feigning only mild interest.

"How important?"

"Very important."

"All the more exciting," he lied through his teeth, producing another, bigger pouch. "No one needs to know."

He shook it to make it jingle while he watched the madame's reason fighting her greed. Ultimately, it was the latter that prevailed and Daemon had to hide his satisfaction when the woman simply nodded and quickly snatched the pouch before directing him to the right room. He had been fully prepared to spend the day in some hideaway and keep coming night after night if needed, but it appeared that the gods were on his side and Aemond was heading there that very night. In the end, it felt almost too easy, and Daemon reminded himself to make sure their own security was better once he got back to Dragonstone.

Once inside the room, Daemon hid behind a curtain. The light was low, which only helped him to remain unnoticed. Then he had to wait.

Sylvi came back soon enough, but it took two more hours before finally, his patience paid off. By the end of it, Daemon was cursing his ageing body, which, despite still doing well on the training yard, was seemingly intent on killing him with aching joints if he demanded it kept absolutely still for too long.

Finally, his treacherous nephew appeared. Daemon planned on making his move while the boy would be distracted rutting, but instead of doing that, after removing his clothes, Aemond just curled on the mattress, with his head on Silvi's lap. Apparently, he just came here for some pillow talk.

Daemon stayed his hand, both to give the princeling some time to relax and lower his guard and in case he might hear something useful. He listened intently while Aemond droned on the moods in the Red Keep and made some snide comments about his older brother, the Usurper, who was, accordingly to him, completely useless. On this one point, he might have been correct.

The woman seemed sympathetic, and Daemon wondered if this was just her craft as the entertainer of men or if she would be a problem.

Then, the topic of conversation shifted to the prospect of the impending war, and Daemon had to keep a tight leash on his nerves when Luke's name was mentioned.

"I do regret that business with Luke," the Kinslayer said.

To any other person, this might have been a reason to soften a bit towards him, opening the gates for compassion. To Daemon, this was just a confession of guilt. He shifted and quietly reached for his weapon. He had a perfect view on Aemond's bare back from his hiding spot.

Suddenly, there were sounds of commotion outside of the room. Daemon cursed inwardly and froze again when the curtain of the door was yanked sharply and several people stepped in. The Usurper's face filled the doorframe. Time slowed down.

As Daemon listened to the little bully mocking his brother, absent-mindedly noting that none of his children ever treated each other this way (- Luke would never… - ), he knew at the back of his head that he had only seconds to make a decision. Aemond was already getting up, and the window of opportunity was closing. He knew the prudent thing to do would be to abort and come back at another time, for he had not accounted for this development in his plan, but he had no guarantee that he would even get another chance. Plus, there was the temptation to cease the opportunity and grab both brothers, ending it once and for all. When would he get his next shot to apprehend the Usurper outside of the castle walls, away from his dragon, with only a handful of guards to protect him?

He raised his weapon to his mouth.

He aimed at the kingsguard first, using the element of surprise on them, for he deemed Aegon less of a threat, and Aemond had his back to him. The guards had their helmets off, the idiot lot of them, so when Daemon's blowdart reached the neck of the first of them, he did not even realise what happened, a brief look of surprise on his face all the reaction before he fell over, as if someone cut his knees, causing confusion among his brothers at arms. This gave Daemon time to hit another one before they recovered.

The design of Daemon's weapon, ingenious in its simplicity, was modelled after what he had seen on display in one of the merchant shops in the free cities, the contraption allegedly used by assassins in Yi-Ti, but instead of poison, the darts were laced with less potent but much faster-working sedative, the recipe for which he had found in the old scrolls and reluctantly tested on a few guards in Dragonstone after Maester Gerardys assured him it was not deadly. When injected directly into the bloodstream, the effect was instantaneous and sufficiently powerful, even if only temporary.

Daemon's next dart landed a few seconds later, but this one etched itself in a kingsguard's hand rather than his neck, which gave him a moment to notice it before he, too, fell unconscious. The last remaining guard reached for his sword, and Sylvi screamed and turned around before her eyes widened when she saw Daemon hiding in the shadows. All the men spotted him then, but he still managed to eliminate the kingsguard, his dart hitting the man's arm when he instinctively covered his face.

"Guards!" the Usurper called, and Daemon silenced him too.

Things did not go as easily with Aemond, who quickly recovered from his shock and managed to grab his sword and charge in the attacker's direction before Daemon could take him down from the distance as well. Daemon met him with his own blade, while Sylvi flattened herself against the wall, trying to avoid getting cut.

"Hello, nephew," Daemon rasped, baring his teeth in a draconic smile.

Aemond's eye widened slightly when he realised whom he was facing. Their duel took them to the main room, causing more screams and commotion. The relief of the real fight after days of forced inaction felt exhilarating to Daemon. He had to give it to the brat: he presented some challenge with his sword skills, but Daemon had more real-battle experience and better motivation—it was not just his life he fought for. The boy was not bad; it was simply that Daemon was better. And he did not have a blind spot.

"Not so easy when you can't count on poison, is it?" Aemond taunted him. "A coward's weapon…"

Daemon chuckled coldly.

"If I came here to kill you, you'd already be dead," he disillusioned his opponent. "The only reason why you still live is because I want to take you alive."

He forced Aemond to take a few steps back.

"You're not being assassinated," he told him when the boy tripped on one of the chair legs and fell backwards."

"You're being arrested -"

Aemond's sword flew away, knocked out of his hand by Dark Sister.

"- for murder -"

Daemon's blade at his throat prevented Aemond from getting up.

"- of Prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax."

Daemon reached into his pocket for a final dart and threw it at Aemond's chest. The green prince only grunted before slumping, his head rolling to the side.

Only then could Daemon reflect on the mess he found himself in: he was standing in the middle of a crowded brothel, alone and exposed in the open, with two unconscious bodies of fully grown men to transport instead of one. He had made arrangements for his faithful Gold Cloak and former second-in-command, Ser Luthor, to help him carry Aemond to the docks (preferably in secret), but it would be more complicated than that as it was. He frantically looked around the room searching for his ally and noticed that some of the men present had already unshielded their swords, though they stayed out of line of fight. It was time for Daemon to make another split-second decision. True to his character, he took the risky path.

High risk, high reward.

"Nobody moves!" he roared, tugging off his hood in one swift movement.

It was true that few of his old acquaintances still walked these streets, but Targaryen hair was a beacon difficult to mistake for the sign of anything else than what it was, and Daemon's legend preceded him. His reveal was followed by some gasps and whispers of his name (as well as a few curses), and then caution and stepping back.

Good.

"Anyone who tries to stop me or report to the palace to rattle to the rats that infested it will be tried under the charge of treason and conspiring with the Usurper," Daemon announced.

The fact that it was not clear if the Greens at his feet were even alive worked in his favour—why risk your neck for a dead usurper? Unfortunately, not everyone in the room was reasonable.

"Treason! He killed Prince Aemond!" somebody called.

"Call for the Gold Cloaks!"

"What of the king? Is he dead?"

One man raised his sword at Daemon with the clear intention of fighting him, but the Rogue Prince sliced him in half in one smooth stroke of Dark Sister, keeping others at bay. This kind of sight tends to make an impression on people, so understandably, it bought him a few more precious moments.

"To answer the last question," Daemon said, raising his voice as well as his sword, "my brother, King Viserys, is dead. Unless you meant King Consort—that would be me. There is no other king."

"City Watch!" the voices sounded panicked now. "Where is the City Watch?"

"Here! Calm down!"

Daemon breathed with relief, recognising Ser Luthor's gruff voice as he finally made his way to the scene. With some amusement, he realised that his old companion's delay must have been due to him putting on his Gold Cloak, as they had previously planned for him to stay incognito. Even better, it looked like he was leading a few more guards with him, all of them in the City Watch uniforms. He must have had some loyal people on standby. If he was still paying him, Daemon would have given him a raise.

"Your Grace," Luthor addressed Daemon with a perfect sense of dramatic timing and fell to his knees. "The City Watch is yours."

That was not entirely true, of course, for Luthor did not have the authority to speak for all of the Gold Cloaks, but it had the desired effect on the crowd.

His underlings followed suit, bowing their heads, and so did some of the other people in the room. It was amazing how many people preferred to mimic someone in charge instead of making choices for themselves.

Daemon knew he did not have much time, but at least for the moment, it felt like the situation was under control.

"Wrap him up," he started barking orders, pointing at naked Aemond. "Retrieve the Usurper from the other room. You," he turned to Sylvi, who was trying to sneak away, "are coming with me."

"I was just doing my job, Your Grace," she said, looking down.

She was clearly scared, but Daemon was pleased to see that she was quick to adjust.

"Not as a culprit. As a witness."

"To what happened here tonight?"

"Of what he told you. Will you come on your own, or are you going to cause trouble?"

"I'll go."

"Excellent." He turned to the guards. "Tie them up and cover their faces. We're taking them with us."

"And the kingsguard?"

"Leave them."

With the help of Luthor's men, they quickly left the establishment. Luthor had horses waiting for them. It was faster to strap the bodies to the saddles like sacks than make their way through the narrow streets with a cart.

"To the docks," Daemon commanded.

It was understood without saying that they needed to make haste. Just as they were leaving the Street of Silk, there could be some shouts heard from around the corner. It sounded like someone had alerted a patrol, but the enemy soldiers were on foot, and Daemon and his small group were able to escape them. He knew the city map like the back of his hand, and after a few turns they lost their tail.

"You're bleeding, My Prince," Luthor told him when they were loading their captives onto the boat.

Only then did Daemon notice a red stain blooming on his arm. He rolled his sleeve to check the wound.

"It's only a scratch," he said dismissively. "And wasn't I Your Grace only half an hour ago?"

"I meant no dis…"

But Daemon waved him off.

"Relax. No offence taken among old friends. Are you sure you don't want to get on the boat? You'll be in trouble if they catch you."

Ser Luthor shook his head.

"This is my city," he said. "I'll just lay low."

"All right. But be careful. The queen and I might yet have a need for you, and I'd prefer it if you kept your head attached to your neck."

Ser Luthor nodded.

"Good luck, commander," he said. "We'll be waiting for you to come back."

"The Crown won't forget your help."

Daemon jumped onto the board and disembarked. Luthor's people made themselves scarce. By the time Daemon heard alarm bells, they were already a fair distance away from the shore. He supposed they could have tried to stop him had they been better organised, but there was clearly no plan in place for such.

"Douse the lamps," Daemon ordered once they left the harbour safely.

Good luck trying to pursue them on the open sea at night.

I'll keep this story short (currently planning to wrap it up in 3 chapters). If you enjoyed this (or just want to share your thoughts on the show) drop me a line!