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Sixteen
🕑 Added 2025-11-06 08:26:41 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 22)
Daemon I
A foretold duel was no duel at all. This was truth etched deep as scripture, pure as blood. What thrill lingered in hazard when the end was scrawled plain, carved into the bones of fate?
None!
Little spark in defying destiny’s script. Nay, it was a labor steeped in folly and wild hubris. Yet for all those stern truths, Daemon burned thrice as fierce to cross blades with Maelys. To clash against a monster and topple him from his perch of favor. To spit in fate’s eye and thwart its bloom.
Mayhap he was making an epic of something mundane.
He swung left, then right, lunging forth with a shoulder’s shove. Each strike and effort surrendered crashed against the rock-wall Maelys called a parry.
The bastard had ever been queerly strong and nimble as a shadow.
Daemon twisted from a sweeping blow, retreated a step, and turned aside another that jarred his bones to howling. He gnashed his teeth, thrusting sharp in retort. It was swatted away like a vexing wench, dismissed with contempt.
He wavered not, whirling with the force’s tide. Maelys’s riposte sliced the air where he’d stood, a whisper of death even to blades as dull as theirs.
A heartbeat later, his swing cleaved naught but empty air, the blade whispering through the void where the bastard had stood. Maelys’s boot cracked against Daemon’s hip, a thunderclap of pain that nearly wrung a yelp from his throat but was strangled with gritted teeth.
His foe blurred forth, a storm in flesh, and Daemon twisted, lashing his sword in a desperate arc. It was batted aside like chaff, yet the youngest knight in memory faltered not, chasing the parry with a fist that slammed into Maelys’s jaw.
His opponent, far from crumpling like a proper cur, spun with the blow’s force, his body a whirlwind, and repaid it with a backhanded slap that stung Daemon’s neck like a lash of fire.
“Fucking whore!” Daemon roared, hacking downward where the bastard had staggered. His blade bit only dirt. “Cease your craven tricks!”
His foe laughed, then flipped to his feet with unnatural grace before charging like a shadow. Daemon met him mid-stride, their swords clashing in a song of steel as if torn from some ancient lay. He was the finer blade, aye, but gods, how vexing to war against one who danced like a mummer’s fool and struck with an aurochs’s might.
It was infuriating and exhilarating in equal measure. Gutting whores with his cock held no contest.
Another slash surrendered was bartered upward, and Daemon’s body howled with pain and weariness now. Maelys stole his legs from under him, then twisted with a boot that cracked against his gut.
He tumbled sprawling, the ground rushing up like a foe, yet he clawed some grace mid-fall, rolling to a crouch with a grunt. His uncle held back.
“Quiet your mind, still your heart,” Maelys intoned as he shaped his stance into something from an old bard’s tale. “Yield to the combat’s dance. Let your senses nourish only your spirit.” The words hung like solace. “One last bout, what say you?”
“Hells if I’d say no to such,” Daemon barked, a laugh tearing free as he hauled himself upright. Adrenaline feasted at his aches and fatigue alike, thus he felt like a force unstoppable.“Come!”
The flurry endured but nine rings of steel before the blade kissed his throat. Surprised? Nay, not a whit. Outlasting one whispered to rut his wife to senselessness was a fool’s fever-dream. And Maelys had honed his frame since they were whelps.
“Gods be cruel!” Daemon gasped, collapsing to his back in a sprawl of spent limbs. His heart thundered wild in his chest, and his body burned with heat unchecked, sweat beading like dew on fevered skin. “Like crossing blades with a rabid lizard-lion, you are.”
The morning sun lingered low, scarce risen to its glaring height, spilling a gentle light that kept the air crisp and kind. Knights and guards had stilled their own clashes, swords hanging idle as they gawked at the fray between him and Maelys. Daemon would wager his left ball some sly bastard had fattened his purse on hasty bets.
He was the storied swordsman, aye, his name a whisper of renown in tourney yards and shadowed halls. Maelys held no such fame, his prowess known by a scant few. He favoured a bow in tourneys, and he was a godsdamned terror with it.
“You hold the sharper edge in the blade’s dance still, nephew mine,” the nimbler prince said, easing down beside him with breath steady as a silent lake. “I’m gladdened you’ve not let idleness claim that fire, at the least.”
The rogue prince scoffed, hauling his frame to a sitting perch, the aches fading like the weariness of reckless fucking eased in a steaming bath.
“Some edge that is,” he drawled, lips curling sly on one side, “when your freakish strength still bars my victory over you.”
His gaze flicked upward, snagging on the giggling ladies perched like birds on the castle’s corridor, spectating their clash. It was a sea of silver hair spilling bright, far more than the dull black locks of Andal wenches.
He even caught Aemma and Gael amid them, their features stark outliers in the throng. He spared them a smile, warm and quick, for what man shunned the gaze of his blood? None worth his salt, he reckoned.
His good-sister returned the gesture, her lips curving soft, while Gael… nay, she spared him naught, her eyes lost to leering at her husband. Aye, there was something queer in that one.
Daemon dragged his attention back to Maelys, a question burning on his tongue. “Seven hells, Maelys, how are you even this strong?” He could not stifle the ask, for the man’s frame betrayed no such monstrosity.
“I drank my milk, aye, and I’m shackled to a name that might as well be legend in days yet unlived.” Maelys tore his ghostly gaze from his wife and fixed it on Daemon, a smile curving his lips—one hard to scorn. His handsomeness struck low, right at the pride. “And I’m your elder still, Daemon. What example would I set if besting me were a trifling thing?”
“Nonsense, nonsense, and more nonsense,” Daemon shot back, rolling his eyes, though a grin cracked his face. He hauled himself straighter, the aches a distant gossip now. “Gods, how I’ve missed this. Viserys shuns the sword like a plague, and Father was—still is—snared by duties and throbbing brows.”
Maelys beckoned a waiting maester with a flick of his hand, and the man scurried forth whilst lugging a wooden trunk that clinked with the chime of countless glass vials. A fucking waste of good coin, that. “Unfortunate,” his uncle murmured, the word idle, though Daemon seized it, chasing the thread toward a curiosity long buried.
“Is it?” The maester halted before them, his trunk thudding soft on the dirt. Daemon pressed on with narrowed eyes. “I know you bear duties thick as Father’s—more, mayhap—yet you carve out hours like a miser hoards gold, all for… how do you name it? Pedestrian pursuits?”
The other prince’s violet eyes shifted back to Daemon’s.
“I’d not call swordplay pedestrian, eh? Nay, and the fierce twists and turns are a balm to the flesh.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspirator’s hush. “Gael’s grown wary of rough tumbles of late, and I’ve never taken to handling my burdens with my own hands. I’ve a swarm of aides for the trifles, thus I’m left with more than enough time to waste away on frivolities that swell the heart.”
The rogue prince grasped little of the flowery words save their heart: time yielded to idles. Daemon knew such leisure too, but unlike Maelys, he found no freedom in the lack of duty or expectation, especially when his elder brother bore a worthy task…
The maester urged him disrobe before he began his treatment.
…Aye, Viserys was a sorry bastard now. Scarce sleeping. Ever irritable. It pricked him sharp, this envy of such burdens.
“What of your little fiefdom? No curiosity how it grows?” The derision bled into his words before he could strangle it dead. “The Sea Snake’s ships prowl these waters often, and swarms of smallfolk sneak aboard to be ferried to your lands.” Whispers said some bribed sailors for berths on hulls carting timber and stone—whatever name his uncle assigned to that sorcerous substance.
He could not fathom it—worthless urchins so eager to flee to Maelys’s barren claim, mere moons since the first settlers broke ground.
Gods be good, King’s Landing brimmed with opportunities and jobs now. Septons and septas droned sermons hourly, feeding houses ladling broth through the sprawl. Even Flea Bottom stirred, that filthy sty. Why flee this prosperity for a land yet unnamed?
“Only a bit,” Maelys said, voice light, untouched by the barb. “But your bloodwyrm rutted my Dreamfyre into a foul mood, so I’m grounded for moons yet.”
“Your bitch of a dragon pestered my Caraxes, you bastard!” Daemon barked, feigning rage though the memory still stung. “I was dragged to the pit nightly because your cunt of a beast kept sparking brawls with mine.”
He’d been hauled from a brothel one night, roused from drunken slumber most others. Half a moon to learn Dreamfyre, in heat, craved Caraxes, not Vermithor…
“Hold steady, your highness,” the maester murmured, daubing the cuts and bruises with a brew that burned like dragonfire.
…Maelys shrugged off the ire. “Still leaves me mountless, stuck here guessing at my principality’s doings.”
“Why not take a ship?” Daemon asked. The grey bastard snuck a needle into his shoulder, stitching a small cut. He winced. “That’s enough from you! I don’t mind the scarring.”
The maester’s rag still dragged fire across his skin. What fresh hell was this brew?
“What sort of question is that?” Maelys scoffed, rising and flicking dust from his breeches. “I’d sooner beg a ride on your red beast than rot weeks aboard a ship with naught to do.” He turned to the hovering maester. “Walder, send more salves and healing draughts to Havenhall, with a dozen maesters skilled in mending.”
To the side, Gael waited with her ladies, a cluster of silk and silver. Maelys strode toward them, easy as sunrise. Daemon watched, eyes narrowing. Envy raped his breast. The man had it all: a radiant wife, a web of trade, a fledgling realm, the king’s trust, a host of loyal hands. All forged in scarce years.
And Daemon? Youngest knight in memory, aye, but what else? In a few years, would he be naught but Viserys’s shadow, a spare prince praying for a boy to not steal his chance at the Iron Throne?
What in the fourteen hells was even that?
He pushed the maester aside and stood up, putting on his vestments. His heart was sour now, and he kept thinking about how his grandsire had denied him his own fucking principality.
“My prince, I must apply more med—“
“Fuck off, Wallen!”
Sweetport Sound
98 AC (Tenth Moon—Day 28)
“Am I fucking daft?” The words ripped free from his throat. “Why did I agree to this madness?”
Caraxes had settled in the keep’s courtyard, the yard cramped for a minor lord’s seat, yet Daemon had guided the wyrm down with grace, sparing all but a few spooked horses that stamped and snorted.
Now the rogue prince knelt, untying bags and boxes lashed to the dragon’s back, bound for this gods-forsaken speck. Of course they had stopped here; why else would Maelys haul bags fit for a moon’s journey?
Who packed a wardrobe for a day’s ride?
No one.
“Don’t curse yourself overmuch, nephew mine,” Maelys said beside him, loosening a crate that rang with vials, their scent sweet and cloying. “Whores dull the mind only so long. This will sharpen yours, trust me.”
He shot the winter prince a glare, heedless of the eyes upon them. Hells, none here mattered save Princess Viserra and her insufferable whelp. The rest were mere Sunglass retainers, a scant handful at that.
Then again, this might be the lot of them. Last he heard, his aunt’s new house withered under a pious fool’s rule. A fit match for his whoring aunt, Daemon thought.
Not that he’d voice it. Maelys would spark a brawl, the man’s loyalty to his siblings was maddening.
“How long will we linger here?” Daemon asked, fingers loosening the last knot on the straps, the leather creaking soft under his pull. Foolish words as no chains bound him and no oath bind him to. the other prince’s whims. Yet King’s Landing yawned dull as dust, and he craved the sky’s bite for a few days more.
“A day at most.” The answer came as they stepped from the dragon’s shadow, scales glinting farewell in the sun. He bid Caraxes off with a low command. “Most of the minor houses here will bend as my bannermen—I reckon it best they know my face.”
“So we stop again at House Massey?” Daemon pressed with a lopsided smile. “Doubt you’d grace the lesser lords with a linger like this. Mayhap a low sweep to rattle the sheep and cravens both?” A full procession would drag a moon’s worth of dust.
“Something of the sort.” Maelys drew the princess close—arms folding her in—before claiming guest right’s bread and salt. “You look beautiful as ever, dearest sister.”
“I’d be even more so if I’d been forewarned of your arrival, Maelys,” Viserra argued, though she returned the hug thrice as eager. Daemon rolled his eyes, the sight of them a bore he felt cursed to endure. “And the welcome would’ve been more grander.”
The rogue prince scoffed, but his discourtesy went unnoticed… or just ignored.
“No need for that, the genuine pleasantry swells my heart just as much.”
When it came he to embracing his aunt—the winter prince having set a close, affectionate tone—the hug was stiff and cold. “Viserra,” he greeted, pulling away with a frown creasing his brow.
“Fair greetings to you too, Daemon,” she replied, before turning back to her brother.
The bread was stale, so Daemon only nipped at it. Maelys chewed like a man starved while trading pleasant words with Viserra. He held back and walked with the servants.
Looking at the Sunglass Keep, he was unimpressed. Aye, there was beauty here—change too—but no grand sprawl like the Red Keep or High Tide. A castle undeserving of a royal, even one as sordid as his aunt. But mayhap that would shift in time—it seemed great renovations clawed underway.
“Let me hold your sword, cousin Daemon.” The voice called from below, where Viserra’s boy stood, wooden sword at his hip. The child dressed fine, and seemed to have a head for manners, at least by look.
“That’s Prince Daemon to you, boy,” he said. “And why need my sword when you’ve your own on your hip?”
“Proper knights need steel,” Jaedar declared, chest puffing out, an act that nearly wrung a guffaw from the rogue prince. “And Ser Hendry says I’m getting better. If I get your sword, I’ll be a swordsman as renowned as you—Father says you’re the best in the realm.”
The validation soothed his ego some, Daemon wouldn’t deny it. He hoisted the little runt up, feeling him weigh a stone at best. Hells, even his niece tipped the scales heavier than this.
“Your father’s a smart man,” he told the boy, sparing a glance at the knight edging nearer. That would be Ser Hendry, no doubt—the whelp’s prattled mentor. “And what do you think—am I the strongest?”
Surprisingly, the boy seemed to mull it, though scarce a few heartbeats passed. “Can you keep up with Aunt Gael?”
“What?”
“Mother says Uncle Maelys is strong because he can lift Aunt Gael like a piece of vellum,” the boy shared, boastful.
“And why’s that a measure of strength?”
Jaedar gestured wide, arms spreading in a curve. “Because Aunt Gael is big—like this.”
This time, his guffaw overtook his calm—a belly-deep laugh rumbling out, for wasn’t that an amusing jape? Daemon shifted, circling so the servants couldn’t snatch the child from his grasp. True words, the boy’s, aye, he supposed that old saw about the young’s honesty held water.
It was so—Gael was large, though curved and endowed more than mere bloat. But what child heeded such finery? Nay, mayhap when the boy’s balls dropped, he’d revisit the princess’s memory with a choked cock.
“Prince Daemon, mayhap Lord Jaedar might—”
“Bugger off, Hadwin!” He shooed the knight away. What cared he if the boy played discourteous?
“It’s Hen—”
“I don’t care—the boy stays with me.” He glanced at Viserra, lost in talk with Maelys—likely dreaming of his cock stuffed in her cunt, scarce hearing a word, proper harlot that she was. “I can pick up Gael just as easily, young Jaedar. More so, if she ever spares me that smile she gives your uncle over there.”
Daemon reckoned he could fuck her into a stupor too, for the winter princess bore a form most bewitching. Yet he would never voice it, lest Aemma’s gaze turn to disgust and Maelys shatter his bones to a cripple’s ruin.
It was all madness, he thought. Who was he to wed, when the worthy maidens were claimed and blinded by love’s fierce glare?
“Well, aunt Gael smiles at me, but I still can’t lift her,” the boy whined.
“I reckon that’s because you’re a right craven,” Daemon teased at the child.
“I’m not a craven!” The retort burst vehement and loud, but the rogue prince laughed it away. “Mother says I’m brave. I even punched a corn’s chaff over the other day.”
What boast was that? The boy was a jest.
“Mayhap try lifting Rhaenyra first,” Daemon suggested out of mind.
“No,” Jaedar pouted, cheeks puffing. He no longer had mind for his sword now. “Rhaenyra clawed at my cheek when I tried picking her. She’s a bad princess!”
Good lass, his niece. Daemon reckoned Jaedar was primed to steal hearts when he was grown—Viserra’s charm thick on the boy. Best his niece shoo him off while young, before the lad snatched her heart and maidenhead both.
Luras should have been a wench, Daemon felt. He’d have made a fuckable one—dainty too, if fate twisted so. The man had no spine, no voice, lost to faith, lost to guidance, marked deep as a craven. Beautiful, aye—near as fair as his harlot wife.
Gods, he pitied Viserra. He disliked the wench, true, but this was a crueler lash for any Old Blood to bear. His grandsire was a right bastard, damning his daughter to such a spineless cur.
“How good are you with a sword, Lord Sunglass?” He found himself asking during dinner that night. “Tales speak of Sunglass men with talent in arms.”
The food was ash—of course, most were now. Where were the damned spices? Condiments? Melted cheese, chilled drinks? Had Viserra dragged none of the Red Keep’s finery here? No wonder she snapped like a bitch.
“I’m afraid I’ve no such talent, Prince Daemon,” the man said low, a smile meek as winter sun on his lips. “The Warrior denied me that blessing. Though I hope no such misfortune befalls my son.”
Luras would have been hard to hate, if he was not such a spineless bastard. “All able-bodied men have a talent at arms, Lord Sunglass. Only the craven would cry a lack of—”
“Daemon!” Viserra cut him off, glare sharp on her face. He’d have cowered if the bitch wasn’t so comely. Still, he refrained and swallowed a gulp of clear wine, at least that tasted fine. “How is the food?” she continued, calm, feigning curiosity.
The lord of Sunglass missed the scorn and judgment Daemon heaped on him—still smiling like a damned flower.
“It tastes like fucking ash and misery,” he answered honest. “Why haven’t you called upon the cooks from the Red Keep to instruct these incompetent fools on how to prepare a proper feast?”
“Don’t be too harsh, Daemon,” Maelys said, no hint of aversion to the meal. “Viserra and her husband have been preoccupied with governing and overseeing the new projects that had come to their lands.”
He scoffed, though kept quiet. The lord of this house soured his mood fierce. How could a man sink so low? His bloody wife sat here dressed like a dream, and the man had eyes only for the thrice-damned holy book Maelys had dragged here. The bastard caressed it like some innocent cunt yet to be gutted.
Aye, he knew Viserra didn’t dress for Luras—she did it for Maelys. But the winter prince had a strange cock, doubtless he felt no lust for the harlot princess, even as he spared her compliments that rang true.
Viserra and Luras—a pair of pathetic fools if any had existed. A harlot princess and a cockless craven.
Daemon’s eyes searched the room, before falling on a fine lass tending young Jaedar. He’d wash away this sour mood with a proper fucking.
“Thank you, Maelys,” Viserra said sweetly. “Though I believe Daemon might be right on this. While it is well and fair to chase after the broader things, it’s ill to neglect the delicate matters, isn’t it, Husband?”
The man startled, but found his wits swift—or about as swift as a halfwit could manage. “Quite so, royal wife,” he said, smiling still. “The sept might even take to such lovely things and award us more blessings.”
Daemon wanted to punch this bastard.
“Oh, then I will remember to send a host with the next voyage,” Maelys replied, sparing a nod. “I might even have septons take root here to further spread the wisdom of the Seven.”
Daemon excluded himself from the dull conversation—looking instead at the night sky out the window. The air was cool here, and the lack of any foul smell was noticeable.
Aye, King’s Landing had come far with its stench, but like hells if the people didn’t still shit mountains. He wanted Viserys done with the rebuilding of the sewers, but it seemed the construction would linger a few years yet. There were so many divisions and problems.
Daemon tried to see if he could aid with the workload a few days back—but he was settled with overseeing inventory—the shovels and axes. He got yelled at after he sold a couple of the tools to some blacksmiths. He didn’t even know why he did so.
Probably because of the boredom and quillwork he was forced to do.
“…speaking of headaches, I’ve had the maesters concoct something that might aid you with your own misfortunes, Luras.” Maelys passed a vial—twilight-light liquid swirling within—to a servant, urging them to hand it to the dull man. “Have a sip of it and tell me how it leaves your head.”
Daemon eyed the concoction suspicious—but then, he was no dull mind.
Luras gulped the mysterious brew with no hesitation or suspicion spared. “Oddly pleasant to the tongue,” was his only critique. The dinner dragged a few minutes more before winding to an end.
Maelys rose first—slipping away—followed by Daemon. He dragged along the earlier lass, quieting her lack of eagerness with a couple of silver moons. He’d be lying if he claimed he fucked her proper after—because he didn’t. Scarce rutted the girl, falling asleep swift after spilling his seed on her breast.
He was so fucking exhausted and drunk.
Comments
Taye
Daemon is a highly entertaining PoV
John
I hope Maelys hooks up with her poor Viserra. She always gets the bad end of the stick
Bal
Viserra has it bad for Maelys
