Chapter Text
182 AC— The Red Keep
The yard, normally smelling of sweat and steel, was uncharacteristically empty and quiet before dawn broke. Daemon Waters was used to the quiet rustle of the banners flapping in the cool sea breeze of the morning. And at night, when the same sea breeze brushed again against the three-headed dragon emblazoned on the black banners.
Daemon arrived early, like usual, on the mornings when he was lucky enough to train with Aemon.
The morning chill bit through Daemon's tunic as he moved deeper into the yard, his boots scuffing against packed dirt still damp from the night's dew. His fingers flexed and curled at his sides: a habit he had developed over the years. Daemon was only two-and-twelve, but already a visage of the Dragonlords of old. Sharp, angular features already carved themselves across a face too young to hold such definition—the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the clean line of his brow all promised the kind of beauty that would make men and women alike turn their heads in years to come. Already he was developing lean muscle along his arms and torso- endless days of training making him quick on his feet and with an endless reserve of energy. His skin was flawless, unmarred by the scars and imperfections that marked other boys who spent their days in the training yard. The characteristic Valyrian colouring marked him unmistakably as Targaryen blood: pale hair the colour of moonlight, so white it seemed to catch what little pre-dawn light touched the yard, and eyes of such deep violet they bordered on amethyst when the sun struck them properly. Even in the grey half-light before sunrise, he looked like something out of the old songs—a dragonlord's heir, if not for the bastard name that followed him. Waters.
While Baelor attended his lessons with maesters, while legitimate princes broke their fast with fathers and grandfathers who acknowledged them openly, Daemon had the yard. The other boys he trained with— squires and wards and sons of visiting lords all had inheritances and guarantees. Daemon Waters had only the yard. No one summoned him to council. No one required his presence at tedious audiences or the careful theater of courtly breakfasts. A bastard's freedom, some might call it.
For six years he had been slipping out into the yard between sleep and dawn. Too restless to stay in bed, Daemon would play with the window latch in his room, looking out at the stars. One day, it opened, and thinking nothing of it, Daemon had climbed his way, navigating the parapets until he made it into the yard. One day, he just started walking into the yard. Not that the servants and gold cloaks patrolling the castle would really care, anyway.
Which left Daemon Waters to his own devices. And Daemon was obsessed. Every morning, if he could manage it, he came. He worked through the drills Ser Quentyn Ball had beaten into his bones until his shoulders burned and his palms blistered.
It was on one of those mornings—three years ago now—that Aemon had found him.
Daemon had been alone, hitting a training dummy. He hadn't heard the Dragonknight approach.
"Your feet are far too close. You'll have no balance when the weight shifts. And if you are hitting a man that hard, things had to have gone very, very bad."
Daemon had frozen, his heart hammering, certain he'd be scolded for sneaking into the yard unsupervised. Instead, Aemon had picked up a practice sword from the rack and struck the straw dummy, hitting the packed straw with a resounding thump and looking as if it had cost him no effort at all.
"You let the blade do the work. Your job is to guide it. When you are fighting an armored man, strength is not what punches through armor. Agility does."
Aemon had guided Daemon through the strikes. Before he'd left, Aemon had made the offer.
"If you're going to rise before the sun anyway, you may as well do it properly. Meet me here. Twice a week, when I can spare it."
Daemon had barely managed to nod.
Now, he rounded the corner past the weapon racks and saw him—pale cloak stirring faintly in the breeze, white armor catching the first threads of light creeping over the eastern walls. Aemon stood near the center of the yard, his posture easy but alert. Dark Sister was slung easily on Aemon's hip, dark scabbard hiding the greatsword. Daemon knew, from the times Aemon let him hold the blade, that the Valyrian steel was far, far lighter than it looked.
Aemon's purple eyes found Daemon's.
"Ser Aemon," Daemon said with a polite bow of his head.
Aemon's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but enough for Daemon to see the curved scar left from Aemon's duel with a Dornish Champion during the Dornish Wars bend into Aemon's eyes.
"Good morning, Daemon. You're early again."
"Couldn't sleep, Ser."
"Good. Neither could I." Aemon turned toward the weapon rack, his cloak settling against his shoulders like folded wings.
Daemon followed, trying not to grin too obviously. He'd learned early that Aemon didn't need flattery or fawning—the Dragonknight had squires and lords enough throwing themselves at his feet. What he seemed to appreciate was focus. Attention. The willingness to shut up and listen.
"But be careful," Aemon continued as he walked alongside the weapon's rack, "The reasons for our restlessness are often our folly."
Aemon's gauntleted hand moved along the rack, fingers brushing past longswords and arming swords, past the heavier blades Daemon had grown to dislike for their cumbersome nature. Then he stopped. His hand closed around two practice bastard swords—blunted steel, weighted properly, balanced for speed and versatility. Shorter, lighter, and thinner than greatswords.
Daemon's pulse quickened.
Aemon lifted one, testing the heft with the ease of a man who'd held a thousand blades in his life. Then he gripped the second by the blade itself and extended the hilt toward Daemon.
"I think you've earned this back."
Daemon took it, his fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip. For a month, Aemon had Daemon wrestling and fighting with fists in the mud. Even in the yard with Fireball, Daemon had scarcely found himself with the sword in hand, having spent the past six months teaching the boys how to handle themselves on horseback. Daemon hadn't complained—complaining to Fireball only earned more bruises, and complaining to Aemon was something he would never even think of. But he missed the blade.
"Thank you, Ser."
Aemon's gaze was steady, measuring. Not cold, but serious in the way a father might look at a son before handing him something dangerous.
"Fireball tells me you didn't whine. Not once."
Daemon shrugged, trying to play it off. "Didn't seem like it'd help." Aegor Rivers— Daemon's other bastard brother and friend- had been complaining for months about the endless horseback drills.
"It wouldn't have. But most boys your age don't realize that." Aemon stepped back, rolling his shoulders, the practice sword loose in his grip.
Aemon raised his blade, and Daemon matched him, coming to a stance with the blade square in front of his body with his right leg forward. "Let's see if you remember how to use it."
Aemon stepped into a light sweep of his blade aimed at Daemon's left shoulder, guiding his blade with one hand.
Daemon answered it with his blade, catching Aemon's steel high and turning it aside with a snap of his wrist. Daemon flowed into a riposte without thought— jsut as Aemon had taught him— the point of his blade dropping into a thrust sent at Aemon's chest. Aemon batted it down and to the side with nothing more than a tap of his blade.
Aemon stepped back.
"Good." No warmth in the word. Just acknowledgment.
They reset. Aemon came again, faster this time—a feint toward Daemon's hip that shifted mid-stroke into a cut at his head. Daemon read it late, not noticing the subtle dip of Aemon's blade until it crossed Daemon's guard. Daemon scrambled to recover, blade rising to meet the attack. Steel rang against steel. He twisted his wrists, redirecting Aemon's sword down and away, and stabbed forward at Aemon's exposed flank.
Aemon pivoted, let the thrust slide past him, and tapped Daemon's shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"Good. A lesser fighter would not have parried the feint. Your reflexes are improving. But you still committed too early. I gave you the opening." Aemon reset his stance, lowering his sword. "Never assume a man like me gives you anything for free. The best opening is the one you create for youself."
Daemon's jaw tightened, but he nodded. His fingers adjusted their grip on the hilt, working out the tension.
Aemon pressed him harder this time with a rapid sequence—high, low, diagonal—forcing Daemon to respond faster than he could think. His blade moved on instinct now, catching each strike and redirecting it, always searching for the angle that would let him turn defense into offense. He parried a cut to his ribs and immediately thrust toward Aemon's throat. Aemon batted it aside and came again, relentless.
Daemon's heel scraped backward across the packed dirt. It was instinct. The left foot controls the retreat, and the right foot controls the advance. Fireball's words. Daemon found himself decisively on his back foot.
Then again.
"You're giving ground." Aemon's voice cut through the rhythm of steel. "Why?"
Daemon parried another strike, breath coming faster now. His back foot shifted again. "You're—"
"I'm what?" Aemon circled left, blade still moving in lazy, controlled arcs. "Faster? Stronger?"
Daemon reset his stance, trying to hold his position. Aemon struck—once, twice—and Daemon caught both attacks, riposting each time. Neither landed. His boots scraped backward.
"Stop."
Aemon lowered his sword.
Daemon froze, chest heaving slightly. Sweat prickled at his hairline despite the morning chill.
"Look at your feet."
Daemon glanced down. He'd retreated nearly five paces from where they'd started.
"You're fighting me well," Aemon said, circling slowly. "Your parries are sharp. Your ripostes are fast. But you're retreating without purpose. Every step back is a step I don't have to take forward. You're doing my work for me."
Daemon straightened, rolling his shoulders. "You were pushing—"
"And you were being pushed." Aemon tapped his own boot against the ground. "Every step you take, you should know why you're taking it. Create your opening. And do not fear the path it takes to get there."
Daemon's grip tightened on the hilt.
"Yes, Ser."
Aemon raised his sword again, settling into his stance with that unnerving calm. "You've got reach. You've got speed. Use them. Make me come to you."
Daemon shifted his weight forward, grounding himself. His back foot dug into the dirt.
"Again," Daemon said. Aemon smiled.
Aemon came fast, but Daemon held his ground this time, boots planted firm. The Dragonknight's blade swept toward his ribs—a testing strike, meant to see if Daemon would retreat again. Instead, Daemon met it with a sharp parry and immediately thrust toward Aemon's exposed shoulder.
Aemon twisted aside, but Daemon was already moving. He pressed forward, closing the distance before Aemon could reset, his blade snapping into a low cut aimed at the Dragonknight's leading knee. Fear abandoned Daemon as Aemon dropped his sword to intercept, and the instant their blades met, Daemon pivoted his hips and drove a horizontal slash toward Aemon's midsection.
Steel rang against steel. Aemon stepped back—one pace, then another.
Daemon surged after him, controlling the tempo now, each strike flowing into the next without hesitation. He fainted high before dropping his blade into a thrust, and parried by Aemon, continued into a low cut. His feet ate up the distance Aemon tried to create on the retreat.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of their blades. The slightest shift of Aemon's shoulders and the angle of his wrists became the only thing that Daemon could focus on.
Aemon parried the thrust and countered with a diagonal cut that forced Daemon to pivot sharply to the left. Daemon caught the blade mid-arc and twisted his wrists, leveraging Aemon's momentum to guide the strike down and away. Before Aemon could recover, Daemon slipped closer—inside his guard—and drove the pommel of his sword toward Aemon's sternum.
The Dragonknight sidestepped smoothly, tapping Daemon's blade aside with the flat of his own and creating separation with a half-step back.
"Better."
They reset. Daemon lost the next exchange—overcommitted to a riposte and ate a light tap to his shoulder. And the one after that, and the one after that, and the one after that.
Daemon's chest heaved as he straightened, his muscles screaming, but he couldn't stop the wild grin splitting his face. His arms ached. His fingers throbbed from gripping the hilt too tightly in those first few passes. None of it mattered.
The other lordlings and princes had their inheritances. This is what he had.
Aemon lowered his sword, breathing easy despite the intensity of the last exchange. His expression was unreadable. Recognition. It sent a spark through Daemon's chest.
"You already are a fine swordsman. One day, if you keep at it, you will be one of the best."
Daemon nodded, still catching his breath. This, he thought fiercely. This is what they can't take.
Titles could be withheld. Inheritance denied. Names whispered with asterisks and quiet scorn. Rhaenerya "the Half Year Queen." Maegor "The Cruel." Aegon "The Unworthy." But no maester's parchment, no septon's sermon, no lord's genealogy could strip away what the blade proved. Then, it wouldn't matter anymore whose bed his mother had shared.
Daemon straightened, rolling his shoulders and resetting his stance without waiting for Aemon's command.
"Again."
Aemon's mouth curved—just barely.
"Again."
The ledge jutted out from the Serpentine Steps like a broken tooth, and Daemon sat there with his legs dangling over nothing, boots scuffing the air above a fifty-foot drop, hands scraping the red stone. King's Landing sprawled below him—smoke curling from smithies, the distant clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestone, a dog barking somewhere near Flea Bottom. The smell of the city rose on the wind: shit and salt and bread baking in stone ovens. After hours of training, Aemon had finally had to attend his duties as a Kingsguard, leaving Daemon alone before his lessons.
Daemon craned his neck to the sky.
The pale autumn light of the morning seeped through the ambling clouds, the colorless sky washed out into greys that seemed to suck the color from all.
Empty. As it had been for years now.
Once, before Daemon had been born, dragons had roamed the sky freely. The dragonpit— now not much more than rubble— had been the crown of Rhaenys's Hill. Once, the House of the Dragon commanded the beasts of Old Valryia. Daemon had grown up with stories of Aegon the Conqueror and the great dragon Balerion. Daemon leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, and studied the empty horizon as if the shadow of Balerion might cross it.
The wind picked up, tossing his short silvery-gold hair about his head. Daemon's fingers curled against the stone, red dust grating into his fingernails. Dragons, he thought. He'd been named for a prince who'd ridden the Blood Wyrm—Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. Dangerous as he was brilliant, a man who never bent his neck to anyone. The thought that he was compared to the dragonlord sent pride coursing through Daemon's belly.
Daemon fidgeted with a button on his black dublet. The old prince had been a prodigy too—quick with a blade, strong, charming when it suited him. Daemon had heard the comparisons enough times to know the shape of them. You fight like him. You move like him.
Daemon Targaryen had mounted Caraxes and took what was his. Aegon Targaryen mounted the black dread, set his sights across the narrow sea, and took what was his.
Daemon Waters could train until his hands bled. He could win every tourney, best every knight, carve his name across the realm in steel and glory—and he would still be Daemon Waters. Daemon Waters could fight and kill and fight and kill again, and his name would still be Daemon Waters.
He kicked his heel against the stone. The sound echoed, small and sharp. It frightened him when he thought like this. Daemon shivered at the thought of turning against the realm. Aemon the Dragonknight— Daemon's hero— would never think to usurp the King.
Nor would I, Daemon told himself fiercely. I wouldn't.
He thought of Aemon. His name didn't need to be Targaryen to mean something. Everyone knew that he was honorable. That he was the greatest fighter of his time. The man had given up his inheritance as a prince of House Targaryen. And still, he inspired songs.
That was the dream, wasn't it? To force the world to see past Waters. But Daemon could not help but wonder if Aemon had become great in the eyes of the realm before or after he took the vows.
Daemon's throat tightened.
He'd been seven when he first understood what Waters meant. The way lords' eyes slid over him at feasts. The careful distance in their courtesy. The way servants whispered with as much cruelty as pity. His half-siblings—trueborn—moved through the Red Keep like they owned the stones. And they did. Their futures were already written: titles, marriages, inheritances. Daemon's future was blank parchment, and every word would have to be won with blood and sweat.
Prove yourself. Prove yourself. Prove yourself.
The refrain never stopped. It hammered through him in the training yard, in the feast hall, in the quiet moments before sleep when his mind wouldn't settle. He could be the best swordsman in the realm and still hear the asterisk in men's voices when they praised him. Exceptional—for a bastard. As if his skill needed qualification. And the irony was not lost on Daemon, for he looked every part the Targaryen prince.
Daemon pressed his palms flat against the stone until it hurt.
Aemon had been knighted at sixteen. Daemon would be twelve in a few months. Daemon wanted nothing more than to never have to be called Waters again. He wondered what his mother would say to him. Daena. They called her "The Definat." She was not afraid to take what she wanted. But she had died on the birthing bed, Daemon wailing in the nursemaid's arms.
He stared at the empty sky.
Give me a dragon, he thought, half prayer, half demand. I am its blood. Let me prove myself.
But from the sky erupted no wings and sounded no roar. Nothing but the wind and pale autumn light peered through from the Seven above. And Daemon sat alone with his hunger.