The Red Dragon
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35. A wise heir
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 18:52:18 +0000 UTCSeagard, The Riverlands
Daeron, mounted atop his horse, made his way through the streets of Seagard as the smallfolk watched him with awe, curiosity, and admiration. But all of that changed the moment Caraxes soared overhead. Fear and horror replaced wonder on their faces—some even fled toward their homes. Daeron shook his head and continued toward the keep of House Mallister.
After accepting the surrender of the Frey men, he ordered them to personally release Lord Mallister and his heir before Daeron reached the keep. He also sent a Vale lord with them to ensure that Lord Mallister didn’t start a brawl or draw steel upon seeing the very men who had held him captive in his own ancestral seat.
“Well, I certainly didn’t expect this warm welcome—or such a swift surrender,” remarked Lady Mormont, eyeing the smallfolk who stared back at her with a mix of recognition and doubt. Daeron noticed a faint smile on her lips as she observed their expressions.
“Surprising, for sure. But not unwelcome,” Daeron replied, earning nods of agreement from those around him. Then he turned to one of his Kingsguard. “Why the sour face, Ser Arthur? Still not ready to let go of old grudges?”
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Arthur replied. “I’m simply waiting to see how Lord Jason expresses his gratitude—for freeing him and his heir, and for sparing his people from further looting, presumably at the hands of House Frey.” Arthur’s voice was calm, but Daeron knew better. The knight was still bitter that they had saved men responsible for the deaths of three of the late Silver Prince’s bannermen. Arthur was no doubt eager to see Lord Mallister bend the knee once more to House of the Dragon.
“It was only to be expected,” muttered Master Glover, his eyes fixed on the keep. “Those dead weasels may have amassed a small fortune from tolls, but they were nowhere near as wealthy as the lions of the West or the roses of the Reach. And yet, look at these men—armored well, some even better than Lannister's armor I saw back in the war.”
Daeron noted the same when he met Frey men, but his focus turned when he saw men entering the keep clad in chainmail, boiled leather, and even full armor. He didn’t miss the silver eagle emblazoned on some of their breastplates.
“It seems House Mallister still has loyal men within the walls of Seagard,” said Lady Mormont.
“What use is loyalty when it can’t even free their lord from his own hall?” Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disappointment.
“There may be reasons, Ser Arthur. Let’s not judge them too harshly before hearing their side of the tale,” Daeron said as he dismounted, handing his stallion to a stableboy. “Besides, they didn’t do nothing—if I recall, it was one of them who sent word of Lord Mallister’s captivity in the first place.”
“Welcome to Seagard, Your Grace,” came a voice from the gate. “I beg your pardon for not greeting you sooner—I was in no state to do so. And I thank you, deeply, for freeing me from my captivity.”
Daeron turned toward the speaker and assumed—correctly—it was Lord Jason Mallister. The man had once-dark hair now streaked with white, and sharp blue-grey eyes that showed both gratitude and smoldering anger. Beside him stood his heir.
Both men knelt.
“Rise, Lord Mallister,” Daeron said warmly. “No need to apologize, my lord. We only just arrived.”
~*~
The sky was darkening, and the sun was setting. Daeron had the pleasure of watching it from Lord Mallister’s solar, where the fading light bled into the dark waters of the sea. The Sunset Sea, they called it. Daeron snorted—no fanciful name, just a self-explanatory one. That was something he appreciated about the people of this world.
Lord Mallister and his heir, Patrek Mallister, were with him.
The day had passed in a rush, as time always does. Lord Mallister had spent it punishing and hanging members of his household who had betrayed him. By Daeron’s order, he had not laid hands on the men who had held him captive—but Daeron had made no such promises regarding the Mallister men who betrayed their lord to save their own skins. Those Frey men, on the other hand, were now in the dungeons, awaiting trial on the morrow.
That was also why he was here. Lord Jason and some others had summoned him once again—likely for the umpteenth time—to demand the heads of the men who had imprisoned them. Daeron didn’t blame them for asking, but he had given the Frey men his word, and he intended to keep it. Not out of fondness for them—far from it—but because a man must keep his word. A man who does not follow through on his promises is no man at all, merely a coward and a greedy soul who will find himself friendless, as no one will trust or ally with a man whose word is wind.
“I beg of you once more, Your Grace—sentence them to death, by all means—but allow me the honor of taking their heads myself. I cannot sleep knowing those men might leave Seagard alive,” said Lord Jason Mallister. His expression was a blend of frustration and pleading, but Daeron could smell the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Jason Mallister was a puissant knight, seasoned in war and renowned in tourneys. For a man like him to be humiliated on his own lands was a deep wound, one that might never fully heal.
“And I tell you once again, my lord,” Daeron said with a sigh, “I gave my word. My hands were tied. Either I risked your life and your heir’s, or I offered them a promise—that once you were free, I would not allow you to execute them.”
“But what of what they’ve done—”
“Lord Mallister,” Daeron cut him off, his tone sharper now, “I respect you for your service, for your loyalty to my cousin Robb Stark. But don’t mistake my respect for weakness. I said I gave them my word, and I intend to keep it. And I don’t understand your stubbornness. I never said I’d let them go unpunished. I only promised that I would judge them personally.”
Daeron’s angry stare pinned Lord Jason in place, and the older man finally held his tongue. Too stubborn for his own good.
“Then at least tell us what punishment you’ve decided on,” said Patrek Mallister, his tone calm and measured. “They are guilty. That’s beyond dispute. Command or not, they held the lord of the keep hostage in his own hall. And with the cause they fought for now dead, such men are usually hanged or beheaded.”
Daeron gave the young man a nod. He’ll make a fine lord one day.
“That I can do,” Daeron said. “I intend to give them two choices: the Wall… or exile.”
“Your Grace, in both cases, they live. That would be an insult to House Mallister,” Lord Jason said, his anger reaching its limit. Daeron could sense the man’s frustration rising—but his eyes were on Patrek, who wore a more calculating expression.
“It’s a test,” Patrek said, not disappointing him. “If they choose the Wall over exile, it means they truly are honorable—or at least not acting out of pure greed and were just following commands like they claim.”
“You’ve been blessed with a wise heir, Lord Mallister,” Daeron said, smiling faintly. “Yes, Patrek, I want to see what they choose. Truth be told, I want them dead as well. But the Wall needs men—good men. Not those who flaunt power and privilege, but those who go to the Wall repenting their crimes, to serve in that ancient, honorable order. The Night’s Watch, whose purpose is—if you ask me—more noble than even the Kingsguard’s. Now more than ever.”
“What if they choose exile, Your Grace?” Lord Jason asked.
“I will honor my word,” Daeron said. “They will be exiled. I—and mine—will not hunt them. But that doesn’t include Caraxes. Even I cannot stop a hungry, bloodthirsty dragon when he sets his eyes on prey he wishes to fill his belly with.”
He shrugged, and Patrek smiled. Lord Jason allowed himself a look of grim satisfaction.
“Then I will pray to the Seven that those men choose exile, Your Grace. Winter is nearly upon us, and even Essos won’t be as warm as a dragon’s belly,” Lord Jason said with a grin.
~*~
Daeron was in a room that had been provided to him in Seagard. He had just eaten his supper, and after some brief conversation with the lords and Lady Mormont, he decided to retire for the night. The morrow would bring a trial, followed by a small feast held in his honor by Lord Malister—an undoubtedly hectic day ahead.
Daeron lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and quickly drifted off to sleep. But that sleep was soon interrupted by a dream—the same one he had been having ever since he crossed the Neck.
In the dream, men and women with hair that shimmered in shades between silver and blond spoke quietly among themselves in a room filled with strange, floating objects—candles that burned without melting, orbs that glowed and drifted through the air as if they had minds of their own.
Daeron, in his previous world, had seen scenes like this in Harry Potter films, but the people here were dressed in garments reminiscent of the medieval world. He tried to peer through the room’s only window, but outside, a thick veil of mist obscured everything. As usual, he ignored the idle chatter of these figures and focused on what he always did in these dreams—observing, trying to decipher the language carved into strange surfaces or reading the titles of old leather-bound books.
“Someone is here.”
Daeron turned his head sharply, startled. Could one hallucinate in a dream? The voice belonged to a man with white-gold hair and deep indigo eyes. He was staring directly at Daeron, and in that moment, Daeron felt as if his soul had been laid bare—vulnerable and exposed to this man's gaze.
“Magic strong enough to pierce the enchantments we’ve woven here. And with my own ability, no less. Interesting… very interesting,” the man said again, excitement—and something unsettling—flickering in his expression.
“A descendant, perhaps?” came the voice of a woman with tanned skin, silver-gold hair, and onyx eyes. Her voice sent a tingling sensation down Daeron’s spine, despite the fact he wasn’t physically present.
One by one, the others in the room turned toward him, curiosity and intrigue sparking in their eyes.
“Ah, yes. A descendant. A very distant descendant,” the man mused, a mysterious and satisfied smile spreading across his face. “One we’ve hoped for, planned for, and bent fate itself to ensure would one day be born.”
What surprised Daeron was not the man’s words—but his next.
“But why did I not foresee this encounter?” he continued, almost giddy. “Ah, the joy of something unexpected. I had nearly forgotten how fate delights in hiding some threads, even from my sight. And I imagine his thread must sit at the very top of that hidden weave.”
The man stepped forward slightly, his voice now reverent.
“The song the world was aching to sing has finally graced us with his presence. The Song of Ice and Fire… I welcome you, bearer of that name, to the greatest empire the world has ever known—and ever will. No matter how much time has passed. The Empire of Dawn, and the Order of Sorcerers, are honored to have you among us.”
Comments
HD8234
Okay, not gonna lie the magic stuff was kinda making me mad. Just a bit. But empire of the dawn????😈😈😈😈😈 My god I’ve never seen a GoT/ASOIAF fic actually mention the empire of the dawn. And now. Now you FULLY got me on board with the magic🤣🤣
