Fire and Blood

Chapter 63: Filler Arc ― Daeron Targaryen

King's Landing ― Street of Silk...

From his perch atop a residential house in the capital city, young Daeron Targaryen surveyed the local populace from afar. Despite being in the midst of his training, the princeling felt that he needed this moment to himself. Unfortunately, he had been in a bad mood all day. Jaehaerys had been given more responsibility and was trusted in court. Aegon and Viserys were off improving their coordinated efforts for the next confrontation, and he had no time for pranks since the Driftmark incident. As for his older sister, Aemma, she was still in the Red Keep, likely receiving praise from her tutors for her needlework. Daeron scoffed at this. At nine years old, he was a Targaryen prince and the blood of Old Valyria. He felt his father should give him a chance to prove his worth regardless of birth order, simply because he was born the youngest.

Look at them all. They are going about their day without a care in the world. Pfft! Bloody peasants. They've no clue of what's to come soon.

Daeron, the young princeling, shook his head and adhered to maintain his rigorous training regimen as he sprinted across the rooftop and deftly leaped from building to building like an agile feline. He wrapped heavy sacks around his arms and legs to push himself beyond his limits, causing him to strain and struggle with the added weight. Nevertheless, he remained persistent and clung to the architecture's empty spaces and precarious stones, using them as leverage to propel himself forward. "Nnnngh!" he strained. Come on now! Don't let go; you can do this! You can show them all! I... am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon! Huffing and puffing, Daeron reached out to grab the nearest pillar before pulling his feet up. One after the other, the princeling remained steadfast and determined, but his recklessness and disregard for his safety also worked against him. He was pushing himself too hard. This... represents courage; Daeron held on. Stretching his right hand outward, he climbed higher. And this... he raised his foot, symbolizes strength. Putting his boot tip into an empty gap for stability, Daeron felt every fiber in his tendons burning; the strain on his muscles made him ache. Exhaustion was taking him. No! Not now! Not yet! Not when I'm... so... close! His palms were sweating, his knees were sore, and the sacks strapped around his limbs felt increasingly heavier by the second. Gritting his teeth, Daeron tried pulling himself up, but he felt the loose stones beneath his feet slide out from under him as his hands, too, lost their grip, unable to support the heavy weight.

Daeron exclaimed as he fell to the ground, hitting snag after snag of different residents' clotheslines before finally landing into a cart carrying stacks of straw.

"What the?!" one of the commoners said in surprise.

"What was that?"

"By the Mother!"

"Where did that boy come from?!"

A lowborn farmer, whose mules were pulling the cart, shouted for his animals to stop once they started braying and could not move further due to the sudden yet added weight from such velocity. "Whoa there!" he shouted. Then, hopping off his cart, the farmer "Why that no good, prissy little, when I find out who did that to my cart, I swear by the Father, I'm going to... Oh. It's just you," he noticed the unwelcome addition.

"Prince Daeron?" one of the salesmen noticed.

"Seven hells, it is the young prince," a tavern wench recognized him.

Sooner or later, one by one, a contingent of City Watch gold cloaks arrived to separate the growing assembly. "All right, you lots! Out of the way! Out of the way! Move!" their commander ordered. A lowborn knight who succeeded Ser Harwin Strong, Ser Luthor Largent was fierce and almost seven feet tall. Although nowhere near the level of human physicality as the Bonebreaker, it has been rumored that Luthor had once killed a warhorse with a single punch. A grizzled veteran, he was appointed by Prince Aeonar to assume the position of Commander of the City Watch following the dismissal of Ser Harwin. Looking into the cart, Luthor shook his head. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here, boys. Prince Daeron Targaryen. Why am I not surprised?" he gruffed. "Come here, lad. Let's see what you did this time."