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22. 'Kneel'
🕑 Added 2025-03-07 20:27:12 +0000 UTCDaeron Targaryen POV
"...but I couldn't blame him either. When family comes into play, even the most honorable man may set aside his honor." Lord Royce finished, his face impassive, his eyes scanning the gathered lords as if gauging their reactions.
"And yet, he sent me to the Wall rather than telling me the truth of my parentage—doing what his duty demanded of him. There are many in the South who would call him a fool of the highest order for that, as almost all of them want someone of their blood to sit on that Throne." Daeron countered. He did not approve of Eddard Stark’s actions—he was Jon Snow now—but he would not stand by and let others question the honor of a man who raised him, fed him and sheltered him for many years. At least he owes the man that much.
The Northern lords, who had been glaring daggers at Royce, smirked at the older lord and nodded in approval at Daeron. Royce’s expression remained unreadable, but Daeron’s gaze drifted toward Petyr Baelish, who had remained silent until now. The Lord Protector of the Vale was watching the sky, glancing upward at intervals as if waiting for something. He knows. The realization struck Daeron immediately. Baelish knows about Caraxes. Or at the very least, that I possess a dragon. But if that was the case, why were the Vale lords not reacting the same way he was?
"Pardon me, but it seems my old age is failing my mind," Royce said at last, voice edged with mockery. "Because I seem to recall that an oath of the Night's Watch states: 'I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.' You defend the honor of the man who raised you, yet you do not follow in his footsteps." A smirk played on his lips, taunting.
Daeron clenched his jaw, but Aether’s presence helped him rein in his anger. "Your mind has not failed you in your old age, Lord Royce," he said smoothly. "But your ears surely have." Royce’s eyes widened slightly at the open insult, but before he could speak, Daeron pressed on. "Or perhaps the man who provided you with this information conveniently left out a few key details—just enough to make a fool of you in front of us. My watch has ended, and my kingly brother has formally decreed my release from my vows."
Royce’s quick glance toward Baelish told Daeron everything he needed to know. But Baelish, if he noticed, made no effort to acknowledge it.
"Now, now, Lord Royce, let us not waste time with this farce," Baelish finally spoke, stepping forward with his ever-present, honeyed smile. "King Daeron, I am Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale. You may not know this, but I was of great assistance to Lord Eddard Stark during his time in King’s Landing. Lady Catelyn was a dear friend of mine—" his smile twitched, his voice carrying a forced sincerity, "—and the sister of my late wife, Lady Lysa Arryn. When I learned of Lady Sansa’s suffering at the hands of the Bolton bastard, I deeply regretted my past decisions. I convinced young Lord Arryn to call his banners to rescue his cousin from his mother’s side. We were waiting for her raven… but imagine my surprise when I learned that Winterfell was already flying the direwolf banner once more, and whispers of your parentage are known to almost every Northman."
Daeron fought back the urge to end Baelish’s scheming right then and there. How satisfying it would be to twist the man’s neck and silence him for good. But that would only lead to complications—Vale lords grumbling, Robert Arryn throwing a tantrum and possibly retreating to the Eyrie. No, Littlefinger would live… for now.
"Unfortunate indeed," Daeron said with a sigh. "The Vale’s knights would have been invaluable, but it seems it was not meant to be." The gathered lords of the Vale nodded solemnly, clearly uneasy. "However, the gods—both old and new—have granted you another chance to prove your loyalty. The first step? Punishing the Freys for their violation of guest right."
The response was instant. The Northerners bristled, their expressions hardening with anger. Even among the Vale lords, grimaces formed at the mention of the Freys and their treachery. Yet Daeron did not miss the hesitation in some of their eyes. Related to Freys. By marriages. Some among them still had ties to the cursed house.
Baelish, however, looked positively pleased, a victorious smile curling his lips. What are you scheming now, Littlefinger?
"Does that require us to bend the knee to you?" A voice came from Royce’s side. The speaker was an older man, his hair nearly gone, what remained of it gray, his beard of the same shade. The arms on his armor told Daeron all he needed to know—House Redfort.
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Do you take issue with that, my lord?" he asked coolly. "Or would you rather swear fealty to the Lannister bastard?"
The mockery in his tone did not go unnoticed, and some Vale lords shifted uncomfortably.
"You seem to overlook your half-brother and your aunt," Lord Redfort countered. "Both have declared themselves King and Queen of the realm."
Daeron smirked. "One backed by the Golden Company, the other by an army of slavers and Dothraki. Both raised in Essos, among people whose customs are vastly different from our own. And we all know where the Golden Company’s loyalty truly lies, do we not?" He let the words sink in before continuing. "My so-called half-brother was murdered by the Mountain—that much I know. Whoever is now claiming to be Aegon Targaryen in the Stormlands is a Blackfyre, plain and simple. Their ancestors failed to take the throne through strength, so now they rely on deception."
He spoke with absolute certainty, for he trusted Bran’s visions.
A murmur ran through the assembled lords, and then Lord Hunter turned to a man who had remained silent until now. "You. Lord Reed, isn’t it?"
Howland Reed nodded once in answer.
"I have heard that your house is ancient, that you pray to the old gods, and that you share blood with the Children of the Forest," Lord Hunter said, his tone measured. "You were there with Lord Stark, were you not? When his sister gave birth? Can you swear upon your gods that he is a Targaryen… and not the son of Lord Stark and Lady Dayne?"
And that was where Daeron’s patience ended.
-----
Ser Arthur Dayne
Arthur stood by his king’s side, watching as the lords of the Vale stretched out the inevitable. He wondered, not for the first time, why his king had yet to summon his dragon. It would end this farce in an instant.
Ah. But Arthur knew.
His king was measuring them—searching for any remnants of loyalty to House Targaryen among these men. A futile effort, in Arthur’s eyes. The three kingdoms that had risen in rebellion would not have many loyalists to the House of the Dragon. The North followed him because of the Stark blood in his veins, not the Targaryen name. Even if the Vale and Riverlords bent the knee without the sight of his dragon, they would be bowing to Ned Stark’s nephew, not Daeron Targaryen.
Even in death, Lord Stark’s honor cast a vast shadow. And Arthur knew his king would never step beyond it until he fully embraced the other side of his heritage. But Daeron did not seek fealty for his blood alone—he sought acknowledgment for himself, for the man he was, not the weight of his lineage. Arthur understood. Those burdened with great legacies—be they Targaryen or Stark—were rarely seen for who they truly were. Instead, people laid their hopes at their feet, expecting them to lead without question. Sheep, all of them.
So when one of those sheep dared to question his sister’s honor, Arthur felt his blood boil. His hand shot to the pommel of his sword, ready to draw steel—but before he could act, a presence settled over the field, heavy and undeniable.
The air thickened.
Arthur’s fingers clenched instinctively, his breath hitching as a wave of raw power rolled outward, unseen yet suffocating. He wrenched his gaze away from Lord Hunter, drawn instead to the shifting reactions of those around him. Horses reared, whinnying in terror, their riders struggling to keep control. Even Arthur’s own mount shuddered beneath him, though with a firm grip and a single motion, he steadied it. Still, it strained against the reins, desperate to put distance between itself and his king.
Across the field, the Vale lords had involuntarily backed away—some by their own will, others courtesy of their panicked horses. The sound of a body hitting the ground broke the tense silence. Arthur’s eyes snapped to the source.
A minor Vale lord had fallen, his horse bolting across the field in blind fear. The man pushed himself up, his face burning with humiliation as he glared at his fleeing mount, but Arthur’s attention had already shifted back to his king.
The words of those who had fought at Winterfell echoed in his mind.
-/-/-/
"Our king is no mere man, Ser. You’d know it if you were there. It’s like being hunted by a predator you cannot escape, cannot kill. Hundreds stood before him, yet few could meet his gaze. Many pissed and shat themselves just from his presence."
"No, not a predator," another had corrected. "A dragon."
"Aye. Like a dragon."
-/-/-/
At the time, Arthur had dismissed it as the usual exaggerations of soldiers and smallfolk—embellishments to make their tales grander.
But standing here now, he knew they had not exaggerated.
The fear in the eyes of the Vale lords spoke volumes. Other than himself and a handful of northern lords, all stood transfixed, stricken silent and unmoving, their terror laid bare.
And yet, his king paid them no mind.
Daeron stood with his eyes closed, breathing deeply, utterly still. Even his horse did not move, its gaze sweeping over the gathered men with what Arthur could only describe as intelligence.
But those faces—terrified, confused, and shocked—soon twisted into sheer horror as the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath them. A thunderous, bone-rattling sound echoed from the direction of the Northern encampment, followed by a piercing shriek that sent a chill down the spine of even the bravest warrior. Arthur knew that sound all too well. But before he could brace himself, another cry joined it—not a dragon’s roar, but a long, haunting howl that rose behind them. Then another. And another.
Arthur turned his head just as the lone howl was joined by a chorus—dozens, no, at least a hundred voices howling. A shiver ran down his spine despite himself. Around him, men fared far worse—knights of the Vale, men who had likely never faced anything more fearsome than a tourney tilt, now sat pale and rigid in their saddles, some barely holding onto their reins.
Then, the shadow came.
Caraxes, the beast his king called his mount, tore through the clouds like a force of nature, his crimson form gleaming in the dim light. He flew low, circling above them, allowing the Valemen a true look at his terrible majesty. With a deafening roar, he sent the gathered horses into a frenzy, several breaking free and bolting across the field. Lords and knights struggled to rein in their mounts, but Caraxes cared little for their distress. His molten-gold eyes, locked onto the Vale lords, as if he could sense which of them had drawn his rider’s ire.
Then came the wolves.
From the flanks, nearly a hundred of them emerged, their hackles raised, their fangs bared, growls filling the air like the rumbling of an approaching storm. Arthur, experienced as he was, had to tighten his grip on the reins as a particularly deep growl rumbled behind him. He did not need to turn to know the source. Ghost—the monstrous white direwolf, his king’s ever-present shadow—stood at his rider’s side, his crimson eyes locked on the Vale lords, his lips peeled back in a silent snarl. A single step forward, and even the most stubborn of the lords flinched.
Arthur did not envy them.
He could only imagine what this scene must look like from their eyes—a nightmare come to life. They would remember this moment until the day they died. Of that, he had no doubt.
His king exhaled softly and opened his eyes, gazing at the gathered lords with an expression as unreadable as the storm clouds above.
"I answered your questions," he said, his voice calm, yet carrying the weight of a king’s command. "Spoke with you cordially, out of respect for Lord Stark, my uncle, who honored Jon Arryn enough to call him his foster father. You, his vassals, have been afforded the same courtesy." His gaze sharpened. "But it seems one of you has mistaken my patience for weakness."
Silence.
Then, his king’s eyes flicked toward Lord Hunter.
Arthur felt the shift before it even happened.
"To question not my parentage, but the honor of a lady of House Dayne?" The words were spoken quietly, yet they cut sharper than any blade. Arthur’s grip tightened on his pommel as he resisted the urge to act, to strike down the man himself.
Instead, his king merely tilted his head.
"I’m sure Caraxes would love to answer your queries, Lord Hunter," he mused, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Would you care to ask him?"
The dragon shifted.
Caraxes’ long, sinuous neck craned downward, molten-gold eyes locking onto Lord Hunter. The Valeman, a lord who had likely never known true terror in his life, suddenly found himself the object of a predator’s undivided attention.
Arthur did not think he had ever seen a man shake his head so furiously.
"I can’t hear your answer, my lord."
Lord Hunter’s voice cracked as he croaked out the only answer he could give.
"N-No, Your Grace."
His king nodded in satisfaction. And then, in one fluid motion, he drew his sword. The rippling dark steel of Valyria caught the light, a blade forged in dragonfire itself. He leveled it at the gathered lords, his voice unyielding.
"Now that I have satisfied your curiosity," he said, "I will grant you a final chance."
The tip of the Valyrian steel blade pointed directly at them.
"Kneel."
For some, it was immediate—they dismounted and fell to their knees without hesitation, their heads bowed in submission. Others resisted, pride warring with terror, but a single growl from Caraxes and Ghost shattered their resolve. One by one, the high lords of the Vale bent the knee, bowing before the might of the dragon once more.
The lords of the Vale, proud men who had once turned against the House of the Dragon, now knelt once more before its might.
A thunderous roar from Caraxes and the eerie, bone-chilling howls of Ghost and his pack ensured that none present would ever forget this moment.
This was submission.
This was House Targaryen.
Fire and Blood.
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Rachel N
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