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2. Discarded Fate
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 17:40:46 +0000 UTCTwo years had now passed since mine awakening in this world. In that span, I had learned much, seen much, and come to grasp the traditions and workings of this realm medieval, of the culture of Targaryen, and the concessions it had yielded unto Andal ways.
I had gained respectable motion—no longer crawling, no longer staggering when I stood. Yet I must confess, I broke no records in such matters, and at times my mother fretted at the seeming slowness of my growth. Dishonour upon me, that I should give her cause for worry. Still, within a moon’s turn, I found myself swift of step, and even grace wed itself unto me.
Aye, I was all the image of pretension. A babe who walked unlike one, who comported himself unlike one. Yet no whispers of superstition rose at my oddity, for my elder brother too was no ordinary child.
As for my pursuits of the mind, Rhaegar proved himself a most diligent servitor. Through him, I mastered the Andal tongue, and with it, the reading of their scripts. He taught me as well the letters of Valyria, and still he longed that we might learn together the tongues of other lands, that we might glut ourselves upon their epics also.
It was through such study of history—our own—that I discovered two more kin whose eyes bore resemblance to mine. A daughter of the Conciliator, and her third son, who did not survive his infancy. Mother said I was his soul reborn, a child of Aegon, and for that reason she had wished to name me so.
I found little fondness for that name, and so too did my father, who despised the memory of his grandsire’s deeds.
Thus was I named Daemon—a name stained by rogues, blackened by traitors. Aerys, I judged, was already half-mad, yet perhaps it should fall to me to strip that name of its ignominy, to don nobility as though it were a robe well-tailored to my frame. And in that spirit did I yearn for the tutelage of one both honourable and storied.
So it was that I cast mine eyes upon Ser Barristan the Bold.
This was no idle fancy, but a deliberate design. Ser Barristan was a man of renown, a knight of unblemished virtue, whose very presence commanded respect. Few, whether highborn or humble, dared dismiss his word without risk of reproach, and amongst the smallfolk especially his name rang pure as steel.
Charisma I lacked, and thus I sought his surety to strengthen mine own. With Ser Barristan beside me, I dreamed we might reshape tradition, wed rule once more to the house of Targaryen, and render the very thought of usurpation abhorrent.
Such were my silent hopes.
Yet as is the wont of cruel reality, my desires did not suffice to bend the course of fate. When first I found my steps steady and my wanderings drew me about the holdfast—when I pressed too boldly against the gates of the Red Keep—my parents saw fit to assign me not to Ser Barristan, but to some Whitecloak little known to me. One Ser of Gaunt.
Or as I had named him in the solitude of my thoughts—the Stern Knight.
“Are you to tutor me in the ways of the sword, Ser of Gaunt?” I asked him that day, my gaze wandering toward the yard where my poor brother Rhaegar endured his ceaseless drills, his young form repeating swings again and again beneath the watchful eye of Ser Barristan the Bold.
Behind me stood Ser Gwayne, a tower of a man—as all grown folk were to one of my size and years. He was a quiet creature: silent in bearing, measured in step, and spare of word. When he spoke, it was only ever the words themselves, without flourish nor colour.
“I am to be your shield, Prince Daemon,” said he, and nothing more.
“Just so,” I answered, donning no mask of childishness. “Yet I would still have you tutor me, as Ser Barristan does my brother.”
The Stern Knight shifted, cloth whispering faintly with his movement. It was no great stirring, but rather the smallest betrayal of thought, a man weighing reply. “Your eagerness is… admirable, my prince. Yet you are still young. There lies still a span of years before such disciplines may be begun.”
“Do not be dull, ser,” said I, turning to meet his eye—the blond knight with gaze as cold and blue as the sea. “I ask not for the brutalities laid upon my brother, only for instruction in the movements, the virtues, and the duties. Surely such lessons may be afforded.”
He held me, that knight, and held me still, even as impatience began its slow crawl through my breast. After a span—long to me, though not so long as the tales would have it—he inclined his head, a gesture brief as the flicker of a candle.
“I shall have words with King Aerys of your desire, Your Grace.” And with that, all was said, and no more given.
Thus was I left once more to surrender my hours to the cruel spectacle of Rhaegar’s torment. He was set to running now, and he ran as only a child might who loathed the labour of the body.
Somewhere in the recess of my thoughts, there came to me the image of another—Kageyama Shigeo.
Father, as I have told, was no creature of wisdom. He was a man lost amidst the fumes of his own arrogance, whose chief ambition was that all men should look upon him with eyes touched by awe. Thus, when my shield set forth the petition of my martial tutelage, I held no doubt as to the outcome.
“… You would take up the arts of war so young?” he asked, laughter spilling, half condescension, half amusement. “Know you not that children of your tender years are better suited to idle wonders and the dreaming of fantasies, child?”
He sat within his solar—the king’s solar—cup in hand, pressing seals to parchment, hearing his missives read aloud by the Grand Maester, and giving orders for Pycelle’s quillmen to scratch out his replies.
Tiresome work it was, though light as feather compared to the labour he would have others believe it.
“I care not for such trifles, Father,” I said. And I did not—I could not. Yet nor was it true that I was gripped by hunger for martial excellence. I was merely going to ground, bending to the customs of this realm, taking advantage of youth’s pliant mind, sparing myself the lash of harsh correction when the time for discipline arrived, and in the meantime, drawing to myself the sycophants and the useful.
Aerys snorted, then quieted. “I ought not be surprised. Mine own blood runs in your veins, and so such excellence is but natural.” His gaze passed over me; he flicked his hand as though to sweep the matter aside. “Then let it be so. But take care not to strain yourself, queer child. Your mother would be much afflicted should your growth be stunned.”
And so the matter was settled. Yet Aerys kept me still, for though he was vain and often misguided, he was not barren of love for his son. Thus did I sit upon his lap, and there he spun me tales. They were blemished recounts of his youth, wherein he played ever the hero, ever the leader.
He spoke of Summerhall, and of its tragic flame, lamenting the ruin—for he swore he would have gifted that palace unto me, had it endured, once I came into manhood.
He spoke, too, of dreams and cruelties. Of blood spilt and blood owed. Of lords high and small, and the caution required in all dealings with them. He confessed his hopes for me, that I should serve as pillar and shield to Rhaegar, when the day came that my brother wore the crown.
At last he lifted me in his arms, and his gaze turned full upon my eyes. Long did he look, and longer still, until the silence about him grew thick. He stared, and he stared. And in that stillness, he was as quiet as Ser Gwayne had ever been.
“You are an odd child, Daemon,” said he at last, setting me once more upon his thigh. “You bear the demeanour of my Hand, even in these tender years. And though it grieves me to confess it, I would hope you have his mind as well.”
Thus ended his musing. And there, cradled in the arms of the king, did I surrender to slumber. When I woke, I found within my breast a quiet fondness for Aerys.
“Come, Daemon, I would have you meet a companion of my youth,” so did my lady mother bid me, as once more I took to the gardens in the company of my shield and maid. These ventures I held dear each sennight, to clear my thoughts, to swell my heart with import…
…to flee, if truth be told, from Rhaella’s suffocating affections.
I loathed them, her hands upon me as though I were some plaything, some painted doll.
This day, my mother was not alone. With her stood a woman of fair hair, pale of skin, and eyes touched by a dimmed green. There was in her beauty a strange familiarity—no sorcerous perfection, but rather the simple and unembellished grace of nature.
Her identity was plain enough. My mother’s words of long friendship, the richness of her raiment, and the golden lion stitched proudly upon her breast left little room for doubt. She was of House Lannister.
So did I walk to them, careful of my step and mindful of my decorum.
Mother seized me with haste, as ever was her wont. To her eyes, I was no strange creature nor precocious soul, but naught save the babe she had borne and suckled. She pressed me to her breast, kissed me, clasped me, moved my limbs as though I were some plaything fashioned for her solace.
Often in those still hours of leisure I grieved for her, that she had been cast into so cruel a world. I did not wish her set in mine old one either, for that realm too was draped in sorrow. Nay, what I longed was some fairer tale, wherein she might dwell in dream and bliss, unbound and unbruised, free to be herself without fear of consequence.
But such was not so. My dearest mother had drawn breath in this dark and heavy world.
“My second son, Joanna,” she proclaimed with pride to her fair-haired friend. Her cheek brushed mine, unmindful of manners or the dignity of station. “He is the delight of the realm.”
My face did twist, though in this frail body displeasure could find but one guise, that of a child’s pout. Sorely was I grieved by my lady mother’s fair naming of me.
“I am no girl, Mother,” argued I, though the words slipped with the unmeant lilt of childishness.
Lady Lannister laughed, yet the sound was strained, the mirth uneasy. Her gaze fastened upon me, and lingered on mine eyes. What thoughts stirred behind that green, I could not say, nor did I greatly care.
“Alas, an unfortunate truth, my little dragon,” said she, her laughter chiming soft as bells. “Yet still are you a delight.”
I glimpsed Vaelery at the edge of my sight, her lips curled in amusement, and in that moment I felt made the fool.
Thus I pouted, and bided till my lady mother, her mirth spent, gathered once more her queenly composure. Soon enough she did, though not before she had drunk her fill of my nearness.
“Daemon, this is Joanna,” said she, her voice warm with fondness. “A cherished friend of mine, and wife to the Lord Hand, Warden of the West. Do greet her, sweet son.”
And so I did.
“Grace and greetings to you, Lady of Lannister.” My tongue framed the words with care, though the child’s lilt clung still to the sound. The lady’s mien softened then, her lips unbending from their tautness, and she seemed lighter for it.
Thereafter she plied me with gentle queries—my years, my studies, the play of my friendships, the dreams I dared speak of. And when she found my answers to bear sense beyond my tender age, her astonishment shone plain, whilst my mother preened beside me, pride swelling her breast.
So I sat amongst them, listening as one might to a song in a tongue half-known. They spoke of stories, of whispers, of grievances dressed as jests. The Lady Lannister, heavy with child, confessed her hope for a daughter, for such was her lord’s desire. Yet the manner in which she voiced his will was strange to mine ear.
Of love I had no measure—never had it been mine to cradle, nor had I seen aught of it save the fierce devotion of a mother for her babe. And still, when I pondered love, it was not the same thing I discerned in the timbre of Joanna’s speech.
But such was my judgment only, and judgment is not always truth. Perhaps I erred in my musings, and the golden lord and his lady were indeed a tale of romance, sung in earnest.
Yet whether true or false, I cared naught for the loves of Lannisters. My heart was turned to Mother, and how her smile stretched the wider for the Lady Lannister’s presence. With her here, perchance she might ease her hold upon me, granting me blessed reprieve.
“I had not thought to see you,” Mother said, voice warm with fond remembrance. “Not since tidings reached me of your quickening. To think Tywin would bid you come, rather than make his own progress to Casterly Rock.”
Joanna’s lips curved, her laughter tempered by a feigned vexation. “You know the manner of him, dear friend. Ever seeking excellence in governance, ever seeing threats in shadows where none may stand. Yet I begrudge him not the summons. It gladdens me to renew old bonds with you.” She smoothed her hand across the swell of her belly, as women with child are wont to do.
My gaze fell there, to that swelling. Of the mystery of woman’s bearing I knew little, and so wondered whether she drew near to birthing, or whether such girth was but the mark of twins hidden within.
In near a moon’s turn, before a single week had passed to bring it full, word reached the Red Keep: the Lady of Lannister had been safely delivered of a son. Loren was he named, and no twin shared the womb with him, as once I had suspected.
This struck me with surprise, for I had made no design nor effort toward such an end. Yet I came, in slow dawning, to a truth most plain—that neither great nor minor turns of fate required my hand. The realm itself moved as it willed, and change unfolded regardless of my intent. For that same month, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands yielded to death, leaving no heir behind him.
The Saint: This chapter was inspired by a quote from Kaledar’s Better Than Hunger. It read, “The butterfly effect is an incredible thing. One man decides to be a bad father, and here I am, enduring twelve hours of sermons.” This relates to how in the WH40K, all imperium humans are forced to be fanatics.
I like this quote because it underlines how the most severe of consequences could be caused by the most inconsequential of decisions. In this story, I have made all major outcomes to be a culmination of both minor and major decisions and events. This means the butterfly effect immediately happened after Daemon’s conception.
