Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 42: Revealing

THE ROGUE

When Daemon was nine summers old, his kekepa caught him in the royal bedchambers crouched over Blackfyre, hand around the pommel and ready to make off with it.

In his defence, he had only been curious about it. And—to be fair—it wasn't as though it was entirely out of his character to run amok about the Keep, a wild thing the nursemaids vainly tried to keep trammelled within the cage of decorum. Even at that tender age, he'd gained a reputation for impertinence and intractability, the unruly young grandson to wise old King Jaehaerys.

Turns out, it had been remarkably simple to claim to the guard on watch that the King had 'instructed' him to wait in his rooms. As an old man, Jaehaerys no longer had need of steel at his belt; so, he'd crept up to the box in which the blade had sat for nigh-on ten years, blown the dust off, and opened it.

It was even better than he had imagined it to be. With swirling Valyrian steel the shade of shadows, cross-guards flared in the form of snarling dragons with rubies for eyes, a ridged grip and a diamond-cut ruby inset for a pommel, it was the stuff of every young lad's dreams. But he'd clearly spent too long admiring the damned thing; so absorbed was he in his wonder that he'd failed to notice the return of the King.

"And what do you think you're doing with that, my grandson?"

He had startled so violently that he'd knocked the table, the box's heavy lid slamming shut and narrowly missing taking his fingers with it. Spinning around, he'd fully expected to face the weight of Jaehaerys's remonstration. Instead, he was to be surprised by the indulgent amusement colouring his expression.

"I—I—"

Like a complete fuckwit, he'd only been able to stammer out a few half-arsed attempts at initiating conversation before the King had taken pity on him. His grandfather had taken him by the shoulder and steered him to the table, laughing all the while. What had followed the enquiries—what was he doing in these rooms, what possessed him to lie to the guards, what was he thinking doing something so dangerous without supervision—was a discussion that would stay with him for years to come.

Jaehaerys had stared him down with haunting heliotrope eyes, quiet for an unsettlingly long time before he'd deigned to speak. "Tell me, Daemon. What makes House Targaryen great?"

Daemon assumed the answer could be found in the object he'd been examining earlier. His gaze had flickered over to the sword enshrouded from view.

"No, that's not it," the King had said, a gentle reproach if there ever was one. Though the words were kind, he couldn't help but feel the tingle of embarrassment spread through his cheeks. "Try again."

What else makes us great? he had wondered. "Dragons?"

No other House remained to claim dominion over the great winged creatures of the sky. Through the dragons, the dragonriders of Old Valyria had swept across the continent and brought the Freehold to its pinnacle from dirt and dust. Through the dragons, Aegon and his sister-wives had swept a wave of fire and blood across Westeros, reminding the Andals and the First Men where real strength lies. In this he was surely correct.

The King smiled, shook his head, and spoke.

"Blades and beasts won us the Iron Throne, but they do not keep us there. My grandfather built a single Realm out of several. Yet, he left it to two sons with rival claims, one who was unwell his entire life. The other, we might call... unsound of mind. My uncle wrought little but death and destruction. Now his name is no more than a blight on our line. I should like to think I have done better than my forebears, though it is my sorrow that I shall leave behind fewer children than your grandmother and I had borne to the cradle."