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24. Talk with King's Gaurd
🕑 Added 2025-03-22 20:07:48 +0000 UTCDaeron Targaryen POV
Daeron beheld the Twins for the first time in his life—at least, outside of the show from his previous world. He nudged Luna to descend, wanting a closer look at the Frey stronghold while skinchanged into her. The Northern eagle let out a high-pitched whistle, weak in comparison to the guttural roar Caraxes made when annoyed, but reminiscent of it nonetheless. She folded her wings and dove, slicing through the air with effortless speed. Within moments, Daeron had an unobstructed view of the infamous keep.
The two identical stone castles stood imposingly on either side of the Green Fork, a testament to their strategic importance. Daeron could see why a proper siege would require an army on both banks; the river between them was swift and deep, and the water tower ensured that no one could cross unnoticed. From above, it was evident that the fortifications were well-manned, ready to repel any invading force that dared challenge House Frey’s dominion.
Still, the stronghold had its weaknesses and was not impregnable as none are that. If a Frey on the inside lowered the bridges, even a small army could take the keep with ease. A prolonged siege was another option—starve them out and force their surrender. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, Daeron willed himself back into his own body. As his consciousness returned, he took a deep breath and rose from his chair, his gaze falling upon Dark Sister at his side. He fastened the blade to his belt and stepped outside.
Ser Arthur Dayne stood at attention just beyond the tent, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his longsword. He had taken it upon himself to personally guard Daeron, his old vows still holding weight despite the passage of years.
Daeron knew that Arthur longed to don the white cloak again, to revive the Kingsguard in all its former glory. However, he had yet to reinstate the order. Seven knights were too few to protect a royal family, as history has proven time and time again. The constraints of their oaths also posed an issue—but that was a matter for the future when his crown sat firmly upon his brow.
For now, the focus was on the Riverlands. They were only a day’s ride from the Twins, and Daeron had little interest in drawn-out negotiations. The element of surprise was on his side, and he saw no reason to waste it. A direct assault would be the best course of action. The Riverlands needed time to recover and unify again, and even then, the greater threats remained—the Lannister host and the Freys besieging Riverrun. However, if rumors were to be believed, those forces had already suffered devastating losses at the hands of an army of wolves, leaving rivers of Lannister blood in their wake.
Daeron’s steps slowed as he took in a familiar sight—Ser Davos, ever the peacemaker, mediating yet another dispute between Vale soldiers and Freefolk. Such clashes had become so frequent that they were now a routine occurrence, but Davos had a knack for resolving them before they spiraled out of control.
"He does have a way with words," Ser Arthur remarked from behind him.
Daeron nodded but left Davos to his work, making his way toward the horse lines. One of the stablehands spotted him and hurried off, returning shortly with his steed—coal-black and sleek. Daeron had grown quite fond of the color. Mounting the horse, he urged it into a trot, weaving his way through the sprawling sea of tents near the river’s edge.
It took over an hour to leave the camp, slowed by the long route and the many lords eager to accompany him. Each time, Daeron declined as politely as he could. Eventually, he reached a quiet stretch of riverbank and dismounted, stepping into the cool water as the first light of dawn painted the horizon.
"Pardon me, Your Grace," Arthur spoke, standing behind him. "But if I may ask, what are your plans regarding your aunt and the pretender in the Stormlands?"
Daeron exhaled, reclining onto the grass with his hands behind his head. "Once the pretender’s true identity is exposed, he’ll die by my hand," he said without hesitation.
Arthur made no comment, but Daeron knew the knight did not disapprove. He smirked before continuing, "As for Daenerys… that is more complicated. She’s had a taste of power, and as someone who knows what that feels like, I doubt she’ll surrender it easily, least of all because of me someone who popped out of nowhere claiming he is rightful heir. Still, I intend to attempt diplomacy. A second Dance of the Dragons is the last thing the realm needs."
"I second that," Arthur said flatly.
Daeron snorted at the knight’s deadpan tone.
"There is another option," Arthur added after a moment. "You could make her your queen. Share power with her."
Daeron raised a brow but nodded. "That is an option I wouldn’t dismiss outright," he admitted. "But if anyone should be worried, it’s her, not us. She comes to a land she has never set foot on, leading a foreign barbarian army. That alone complicates matters, even if she agrees to marriage. That said, four dragons can silence many objections."
His eyes gleamed with mischief as he turned toward Arthur. "You do know Ser Barristan will be with her, right? Are you excited to reunite with your brother-in-arms after all these years?"
Arthur’s expression remained unreadable, though his tone held a trace of dry amusement. "Overjoyed, Your Grace. No end to my delight." Then, with a grim look and slight anger in his tone, he added, "I’ll be sure to show that old bold coot the new tricks we’ve learned together."
Daeron chuckled, but Arthur’s next words were quieter, almost a murmur—words not meant for Daeron’s ears.
"If only I had Dawn in my hands again…"
But Daeron’s senses were sharp, and he caught them nonetheless. He turned his head slightly, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"We’ll get your sword back, Arthur," he promised. "Last I heard, a member of a lesser branch of your house is in possession of it. I doubt he would refuse to hand it over to someone who can wield it far better than he ever could."
Arthur gave a rare smile, nodding in acknowledgment. But as Daeron closed his eyes once more, basking in the peace of the moment, the knight fell silent.
Yet unlike other days, when Daeron would take a short nap in the morning sun, today his mind remained restless. His thoughts drifted to Daenerys Targaryen.
Where was she now? What was she doing?
He had no intention of waiting for her to march on King’s Landing. The moment the Riverlands were secured, he would make for the capital.
Cersei. The Lannisters. Their end would be brutal and as soon as Daeron intends to lessen the number of enemies he has as fast as he can. Because as soon as Cersei and Lannisters are dead there is one less headache he had to deal with. And there are too many for Daeron not to make haste with them who are sitting on his throne.
{----Line Break---}
The Slaver's Bay
Mother of Dragons
Daenerys stood by the hull of her ship, named Rhaella in honor of her mother. The vast armada carrying her and her forces to Westeros stretched across the horizon, its sheer size almost incomprehensible. She wished she could see it from above, soaring on Drogon’s back, the largest and fiercest of her children. As if summoned by her thoughts, her gaze drifted skyward, where three distant, colorful shapes danced and circled one another against the bright expanse. From her vantage point, they could have been birds, but she knew better. Her smile widened at the sight of her children playing so freely.
The salty sea breeze swept over her, carrying the scent of the ocean—a scent that reminded her of the only home she had ever known. A pang of nostalgia threatened to dim her joy, but another memory surfaced, one that filled her with hope, excitement, and steely resolve. Her unwilling journey to the Dothraki Sea had turned into something far more mystical than she had ever imagined. The visions, the whispers of fate, had left her with lingering uncertainty. Were they truths or mere illusions? False promises or glimpses of a destiny within reach? Yet, even the slimmest chance of reclaiming a true home, of finding family, was enough for her to seize upon it with both hands.
Still, not all choices sat well with her. The decision to leave Volantis unchallenged gnawed at her. But if Meereen had taught her anything, it was that even with three dragons, she could not act on every impulse without consequence. Power alone did not make her omnipotent. If she had learned that lesson sooner, perhaps she would not have made so many costly mistakes.
“Thinking about Volantis again, Your Grace?” came a familiar voice from behind her.
Daenerys did not startle. She had already heard the approaching footsteps, though she had not expected them to belong to Ser Barristan Selmy—the once-loyal Kingsguard of her father, now her own.
Her feelings about the old knight were... complicated. He had saved her life, yet once, he had sworn himself to the Usurper and his son after her family lost. A betrayal, perhaps, though time had revealed its nuances. He had been cast aside by the Baratheon king, his service discarded like old armor. And yet, he had come to her, offering his sword, his wisdom, his unwavering honor. So far, he had given her no cause to doubt him. That, at least, was a comfort.
“No, not Volantis,” Daenerys lied, her tone smooth. “I was thinking of my newfound nephews—family I never knew existed. I wonder where they were when Viserys and I were starving in the streets, begging for scraps.” Her violet eyes darkened with unspoken questions, ones she longed to ask Aegon face-to-face. As for the other... the one from the North, Daeron, she could not blame him for his absence. He had only just learned the truth of his own identity.
Ser Barristan gave her a small, knowing smile, though concern still lined his weathered face. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but the answers you seek will take time. This journey is long.” He exhaled lightly, his gaze turning thoughtful. “But I will admit, I am most curious about this Jon Snow—or Daeron, as he is truly named. When Varys revealed that Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son had been raised as Eddard Stark’s bastard, I confess I was too stunned to process much else.”
“It’s Daeron,” Daenerys corrected, testing the name on her tongue.
“There is no doubt in my mind of his parentage,” Barristan continued. “Even if the rumors of him riding a dragon larger than Drogon are mere exaggerations, the North has never been a land of schemers—not like the South. Their lords, save for the Boltons, do not plot and connive as the courtiers of King’s Landing do.”
“We shall see,” Daenerys replied, her expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, she turned to him with a sharp gaze. “But tell me, Ser Barristan, if Daeron truly is my brother’s son, the rightful heir of House Targaryen, would you serve him?”
It was a question she had not only for him but for many of those who stood by her side. Tyrion had already admitted he chose her because he saw her as the better alternative to Joffrey, but what if he now deemed Daeron the better choice? Varys, too, followed his own sense of necessity rather than loyalty. And then there was Victarion Greyjoy. The very thought of that brute drew a quiet scoff from her lips. Anyone with eyes could see the greed and lust in his gaze—directed at her, at her dragons, at the power she wielded. He was a useful tool for now, but once he had served his purpose, she would have no patience for his lingering presence.
Barristan’s response came with the weight of sincerity. “I swore my sword to you, Your Grace. I will serve as long as you will have me.”
Daenerys studied him for a moment before turning her gaze back to the endless sea before her.
