This is a story based on ASOIAF Universe and all recognizable characters, plots belong to GRRM. I have no ownership to it.
Chapter 58: The End of the Beginning
King's Landing
Lyanna Mormont
Lyanna watched with quiet curiosity from the shadows of the Great Hall, standing where the torchlight failed to fully reach, while her father sat upon the Iron Throne holding court. Even when the man lounged casually upon the twisted seat, his long legs thrown over the edge of one armrest in blatant disregard for decorum, she could see that much of his weight rested directly against the jagged points and sharpened edges of the swords forged into the throne itself. Anyone with a shred of sense could tell that his skin showed no sign of discomfort, not even the faintest bruise or mark, despite the cold steel pressed so carelessly against him.
Despite his laid-back posture and apparent indifference to ceremony, his presence as the most important man in the room had not diminished in the slightest, and if anything, it only deepened the unspoken authority that surrounded him.
Lyanna did not know why she had been summoned to attend this session of court, but her father had ordered her presence, and so she stood and watched. The usual petitions dragged on, dull and predictable, with lords and merchants presenting grievances she barely listened to, until a quietly sobbing woman entered the hall, clutching a sick child tightly against her chest. The nobles and courtiers lining the chamber began to whisper among themselves, their interest suddenly piqued, and when the woman finally reached the foot of the throne, she collapsed to her knees in despair.
"Ma prince, please save my daughter," the woman pleaded through tears, her voice trembling as it echoed through the hall. "You have to save her, please, my lord. Please save her. I have nothing else to offer. The gods have abandoned me, the septons demanded coin and feared the sickness, and the grey rats would not even look at us smallfolk. I have heard songs of your blessings, gifts said to come from the gods themselves. Please save her."
The raw desperation in her voice made Lyanna's chest tighten, and she turned her gaze away. Her attention shifted only when it caught on her brother Benjen, standing proudly among the onlookers, his expression sharp and satisfied. Lyanna snorted quietly under her breath. Of course, her bastard of a father had found a way to profit even from this misery. It was no wonder the woman blamed the septons, the gods, and even the maesters all at once. Still, Lyanna could see plainly that the grief was genuine, and the child in the woman's arms was truly ill.
She watched as Daemon slowly straightened from his lounging position, the iron of the throne creaking faintly against the boots of her father as he shifted, and studied the woman and her daughter with an expression of deep contemplation. He nodded slowly and exaggeratedly, as though reaching a difficult decision after a long internal debate, playing the part of a man burdened by sacrifice.
The woman noticed the change immediately, and hope flared across her face, fragile and desperate.
"It is true that I have been gifted with certain things," Daemon said at last, his voice calm and measured as it carried through the hall. "Whether those gifts come from the Old Gods or from my father's Valyrian gods remains to be seen. Yet it is pointless to speculate on their source when the real question lies in how they may be used. Until now, I lacked the power and the means to bestow such miracles, for I was only a simple bastard. Now, however, I am the Crown Prince of House Targaryen, the greatest house in this world. I will give your daughter a drink prepared by my own hand, and if she is not too far gone, she will be well within three days. Benjen."
Lyanna saw Benjen slip quietly through a side door and return moments later holding a small vial. He approached the woman, reaching toward the child to administer the contents himself, when Daemon's voice cracked through the hall with sudden sharpness.
"Stop, Benjen," Daemon ordered. "This drink will work far better if it is given by my own hands, or by those who have been gifted."
Daemon descended from the throne and crossed the hall with unhurried steps, the court falling into a tense silence as he approached the kneeling woman and her child. Lyanna watched as he gently fed the girl the liquid, which contained his blood, before stepping back and wiping his hands clean.
"You will be given quarters among the servants of the Red Keep," Daemon said, his gaze fixed on the woman. "In three days' time, you will present the child before the court, so that all may see her condition for themselves."
The woman broke down completely, nodding frantically as tears streamed down her face, bowing again and again while whispering her gratitude and thanks, her voice barely audible beneath her sobs.
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Otto Hightower
Otto walked quickly out of the court just as the peasant woman and her child were escorted away by the guards. He could barely restrain the anger and helpless frustration rising in his chest as he recognized the performance that had just unfolded before the realm's most powerful eyes. The child may indeed have been close to death, but the mother herself had been a schemer, her words rehearsed with care, every sob placed where it would do the most damage. The public display of such power by the Crown Prince was no act of mercy alone; it was a declaration, and Otto understood it all too well.
When the girl was healed, everyone present would know that their prince possessed the ability to cure illness when it suited him. Nothing was more prized among the nobles and the wealthy than their own health and the promise of continued comfort. Even the proud Baratheons would swallow any lingering resentment over their precious Rhaenys being sidelined if they ever found themselves desperate for aid after injury or a wasting disease.
Otto's thoughts darkened as he considered the cost of such miracles. What would Daemon demand in return for his healing? Gold, fealty, devotion, or something far more insidious? The thought followed him as he reached the outer paths near the godswood, where the noise of the court faded into murmuring leaves and distant birdsong.
There he saw Princess Rhaenyra laughing as she played with her still-young dragon, Syrax, her silver hair catching the light filtering through the branches. Nearby stood Prince Daemon, watching over her with an ease that spoke of long familiarity rather than mere duty. Otto halted abruptly as a memory struck him, words Viserys had spoken some time ago now rising unbidden to the surface of his mind.
"And why do you accept that monstrous wolf so easily? You even allow Princess Rhaenyra to play with it."
"That is why I avoided meeting anyone alone. And you asked why I accept the monstrous wolf? Because it can identify a Faceless Man if one infiltrates the Red Keep. Rhaenyra is safer with that creature than with any guard. Even today, I agreed to speak with you only because the wolf passed you in the hall and reacted to nothing.
Otto felt the blood drain from his face as the implications settled heavily upon him. Had the monster already bound the Targaryens to his side by dangling such protections before them? Otto had pressed Viserys relentlessly about his rightful position and had made no progress at all. Now he was forced to consider the possibility that the supposedly easy-to-manipulate Viserys had been playing a far longer game, quietly outmaneuvering him. If Viserys had already been won over through promises of protection for Rhaenyra, or even a healing draught for poor Aemma, who had suffered so many stillbirths, then Otto had been dancing to another man's tune all along.
Until this moment, Otto had believed he could still sway Viserys to his way of thinking. That belief shattered as he recalled the Rogue Prince himself offering no trouble after the naming of the new heir. Otto had celebrated the news of Aegon claiming Vhagar, yet he now saw the truth with bitter clarity. That victory belonged not to Viserys, but to the monster pulling unseen strings.
Otto understood the power of belief and carefully shaped narratives better than most. He had studied the rise of the Faith Militant and its brief success, as well as the reasons for its eventual destruction, preserved in the records locked away in his house's vaults. The Faith had flourished because the king at the time was weak and eager to please, granting concession after concession while refusing to act decisively. The septons and maesters exploited that weakness until their influence threatened the crown itself. Had Aenys the Weak lived longer, they might have achieved everything they desired. His death proved to be the greatest fortune House Targaryen ever received, for Maegor ascended in his place.
By the standards of Westerosi warfare, the Faith might still have secured victory, but Maegor was Valyrian to the core and answered resistance with slaughter. Thousands of smallfolk died without distinction of guilt or innocence, and devotion to faith dissolved when faced with unrelenting terror. Fear of Balerion and Maegor silenced faith, and the realm learned its lesson.
Now Otto saw another would be king already acting to strip away every form of soft power before it could take root. The maesters had been gutted, and House Hightower had lost centuries of careful effort and unimaginable sums of gold through a single royal decree. The public humiliation of the High Septon had followed soon after, and by the time his punishment of seventy-seven days ended, the Faith was tearing itself apart while the people mocked the so-called Fat Shepherd openly.
Otto knew that the woman's words spoken in court would be exaggerated and carried far beyond the Red Keep. The bards under Daemon's influence would ensure that the tale spread quickly, embroidered with wonder and reverence. Otto had already heard other songs, and for the life of him he could not understand how a creature as monstrous as Daemon could produce melodies so easily embraced by the masses, tunes that lingered in the mind and begged to be repeated.
By the time Otto reached his chambers, exhaustion weighed heavily upon him. He collapsed onto his bed, his body aching with the strain of constant vigilance. He had served Viserys and aided the small council whenever needed, lending his sharp mind even while remaining little more than an unofficial hostage. The sting to his pride was constant, especially as bastard sons of the monster were elevated above him while the nobles swallowed their outrage out of fear and hesitation.
The tale of the Conningtons had resurfaced during the tourney, whispered with renewed vigor, and the monster's own performance had silenced even the boldest voices. Otto closed his eyes, searching for any path forward that might restore his influence or advance House Hightower's ambitions. They had come so close, and to accept defeat and wait another generation was a truth he loathed. Still, he would endure it if no other path revealed itself.
For now, Otto resolved to make no further moves, to stop needling the Targaryens against the monster. Instinct told him that Daemon would never trust him, that the creature saw through every layer of his soul, and that even perfect loyalty would not restore his political power. The only path left was subtlety, allowing other fools to believe in his devotion while he worked unseen, waiting patiently for opportunity to arise.
With that final thought, Otto drifted into sleep, clinging to the hope of a better tomorrow for himself and for House Hightower.
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Gael Targaryen
It had been nearly a full moon since her husband had miraculously healed that smallfolk girl, and already two desperate souls from Flea Bottom had dared to approach the court seeking the same mercy. Daemon, as expected, granted each of them a single potent dose and allowed them to remain within the healing house for three days, during which their conditions steadily improved under watchful care.
Rumors had already begun to spread through the city, carefully shaped and eagerly repeated, claiming that Daemon could only heal a limited number of people each week. It was said that anyone seeking such aid would be required to offer something of value to the crown, whether that payment came in the form of gold, information, or sworn loyalty. The stories moved quickly through taverns and alleyways, growing more elaborate with each telling.
As anticipated, many smallfolk remained wary. They had been cheated too many times by false cures, hollow promises, and traveling peddlers selling useless concoctions, and even the word of the royal family did not fully earn their trust. Gael rode calmly through the streets toward the healing house, lifting her hand to wave at the gathered crowd from atop her horse. Faces turned toward her with cautious curiosity as she passed, hope and doubt warring openly in their expressions.
Daemon had already visited earlier that day and made all necessary preparations for the healing to be carried out properly. As they rode, Gael glanced to the side and noticed Benjen riding among her escort, his brow deeply furrowed as he stared ahead in brooding silence.
Once they entered the healing house and dismounted, Gael finally lost patience with his expression and turned toward him. "Benjen, why do you look as though someone has ruined your meal," she asked with a light smirk, "Or are you worried about the time Lyanna has been spending with the younger Daemon?"
Benjen immediately shook his head, straightening in alarm. "No, my princess. That is not it at all. I have been trying to determine where Fenrir has gone since giving us the four pups. I am grateful that Father chose one for me and one for Lyanna, truly, but he has teased me with clues and hints without ever giving an answer. I have searched everywhere and found nothing. There is no mention of a monstrous wolf anywhere, and even my own animal spies have failed to find him in the Kingswood or in the North."
Gael smirked softly, already knowing how this exchange would end the moment Benjen looked at her face. As expected, his eyes narrowed and his expression shifted into open frustration.
"This is pure torture," Benjen muttered with a tired sigh. "You wear almost the same expression my father does when he dangles knowledge just out of my reach."
Gael merely shrugged in response, her manner unbothered, as she turned her attention back toward the entrance of the healing house. She waited calmly for the first person brave enough to step forward and be healed by the miracle hand of the lovely Princess.
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104 AC
Daemon 'The Monster' Targaryen
I watched behind a cold Stark mask as Silverwing and Vermithor reduced the pyre of Queen Alysanne Targaryen to ash. The woman had endured for an astonishing length of time, sustained by sheer spite even after she was all but exiled to Dragonstone. In the end, only a handful of family ever visited her, and those visits were few and carefully chosen. Rhaenys came, and Jaehaerys as well, but little more than that.
Alysanne had asked to see both Saera and Gael, yet no one bothered to inform Saera, knowing full well how she would respond, and Gael herself was firmly against visiting at all. The only time Gael relented was when Alysanne lay on her deathbed, and the healers confirmed that there was no longer any hope left to preserve.
The King came to stand beside me as the flames rose higher, and together we watched the fire consume what remained. For a brief moment, I fully extended my magical senses, probing the fire itself to determine whether the Red Demon R'hllor held any influence over it. My burned hands tingled with phantom pain as memory stirred, recalling my earlier encounter with that foreign entity. To my relief, there was no trace of influence from the Red Demon hiding as a God in Essos lingering within the flames.
"Daemon, I thought you would have already departed by now," the King said, his tone lightly curious. "We both know you hold no affection for my dear sister. Still, I am grateful that you never visited her merely to gloat or provoke her further after you were named heir."
"You are correct, Grandfather," I replied calmly, my shoulders lifting in a careless shrug. "I remained here to observe something else entirely. I have no interest in petty triumphs over an old woman who never truly held power."
Jaehaerys studied me more closely then, intrigue clear in his eyes as he turned fully toward me.
"Every fire on this cursed world can be influenced by the Red Demon R'hllor," I continued evenly. "I wished to know whether fire born of dragonflame could resist that influence, or whether Valyrians have unknowingly been feeding that god with every funeral pyre we have ever burned."
The shock struck Jaehaerys immediately, plain on his face, as though the words themselves had landed like a physical blow.
I allowed myself a faint, satisfied smile as the King struggled to process the implication. He had been far too willing to share fragments of his own arcane knowledge with me in the past, and much of it had surprised me, even with what I had learned from Morghul and my own limited efforts at spying through greenseeing.
"How do you know this, Daemon?" Jaehaerys finally asked, his voice carefully controlled. "As far as I am aware, you have never visited a Red Temple or spoken with a Red Priest."
I recognized the effort it took for him to maintain composure before me as he turned away to look at his beloved sister-wife's pyre, and I decided then that he needed distraction rather than further unease. More than that, he needed truth. I resolved to tell him what I had learned of the First Long Night from my Stark grandfather, and of the true challenge that awaited me, one that neither crowns nor dragons alone would be enough to overcome.
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Benjen Snow
Benjen watched with quiet fascination as Gael fought Lyanna in the private training yard, their movements sharp and disciplined beneath the open sky. He knew that many men would willingly part with vast sums merely to witness the enticing spectacle before him. Even though he was entirely besotted with Lyanna, he could acknowledge without hesitation that Princess Gael was also among the most striking women he had ever seen.
What truly held his attention, however, was not beauty but skill. Gael had once been famously slow to learn, a girl who had not taken up any weapon seriously until she met Daemon, and yet now she matched Lyanna's superior physique blow for blow. Benjen himself had suffered defeat at Gael's hands every single time they crossed blades, and more than once he found himself wondering exactly what his father had done to refine and strengthen his wife to such an extent.
Over the past moons, Benjen had made repeated attempts to woo Lyanna, only to find himself halted by an invisible barrier. She teased him readily and responded to his attention, but nothing ever followed beyond that. Lyanna did not acknowledge his feelings, nor did she acknowledge anyone else's. During that same time, Benjen had observed her interactions with the Rogue Prince, and those exchanges were undeniably charged, playful in a way that suggested long familiarity rather than mere rivalry. He even wondered whether Daemon himself had realized that he was teasing Lyanna, or that he might actually like her.
Benjen had once considered asking the Rogue Prince outright whether he intended to pursue Lyanna, or even warning Lyanna of Daemon's interest. Fortunately for him, his father intervened first. After realizing that Benjen had been the one controlling the bird that had relieved itself upon Daemon's head, his father had summoned him for a private talk. He warned Benjen that neither of those fools had any real understanding of what they were doing, and that the Rogue Prince was so enamored with the idea of a Valyrian bride that he might not even recognize his own broader inclinations. More importantly, his father cautioned that informing either Lyanna or Daemon would be self-sabotage at its finest, since both were rebellious by nature and would feel compelled to prove themselves if told they could not do something.
After several days of thought, Benjen came to accept that his father was right. He began to ignore Daemon and Lyanna's rivalry entirely, choosing instead to focus on improving himself and proving his own worth to her. That resolve paid off when their father assigned Lyanna to negotiate with House Lannister regarding the hiring of Mormont ships. Though Lyanna served as the face of the talks, the true mind behind the arrangement was Benjen. Every party involved was satisfied with the final agreement, including Lord Lannister himself. Hours of careful planning and negotiation proved worthwhile when Lyanna kissed his cheek in gratitude.
"Son, I hope you are not drooling over your stepmother," his father's voice cut in, pulling Benjen from his thoughts, accompanied by a knowing smirk.
"Not at all, Father," Benjen replied without thinking. "I am drooling over your beloved daughter, after all."
The words left his mouth before sense caught up with him, and he flinched slightly, finally tearing his gaze away from Lyanna as apprehension settled in his chest. He looked to his father with cautious unease.
Daemon merely grinned at the remark and nodded with open amusement.
"With a comeback like that, maybe, and I truly mean maybe, she might want you the way you want her, my son," Daemon said lightly before his expression shifted into something more serious. "That said, it is time to end your current distraction."
Benjen grimaced immediately, understanding the implication. "Are you certain, Father, that you wish to open the Wall like this?"
Daemon snorted in clear derision. "Really, son? You would deny your own sister one of the greatest experiences in this world simply because it would reduce your chances with her?"
Benjen flinched, guilt and shame rising together as he remembered everything Lyanna had done for him. He knew his father would act regardless, and after a brief moment, he shook his head.
"I am sorry, Father," Benjen said quietly. "You are right. I should never have said that, especially knowing how much Lyanna has wished for this and all that she has done for me."
Daemon nodded once, satisfied. "Then I will leave for the Dragonpit, where Morghul is waiting," he said calmly. "You may inform Lyanna that it is finally time for her to claim Silverwing."
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Daemon 'The Father' Targaryen.
I smiled with genuine happiness as I watched my firstborn daughter whooping in unrestrained joy while flying upon Silverwing. I kept pace beside her on Morghul, holding position to her right, and with my enhanced sight I could see her expression with perfect clarity, every trace of exhilaration written plainly across her face.
The claiming itself had been neither extraordinary nor dangerous, but instead a straightforward and almost gentle affair. Silverwing had gone without a rider for so long that she had begun to yearn for companionship well before Alysanne's death. Jaehaerys' habit of abusing my healing draughts to ride Vermithor at every opportunity may also have played its part, leaving Silverwing accustomed to seeing her mate flown while she remained grounded. Lyanna was accepted easily, without resistance or spectacle, as though the dragon herself had already made the decision long before the moment came.
Of course, I knew that the true drama would not unfold in the sky but over the course of a lifetime. The noble houses and the powerful forces of this world would react in ways both subtle and violent once the implications settled in. Jaehaerys had cautioned me repeatedly against granting dragons to anyone outside our immediate family, yet the knowledge of the White Walkers and their true numbers had forced him to reconsider. The same man who once warned me against expanding the kingdom had admitted that ruling merely seven kingdoms would never be enough to face the threats that waited beyond the Wall and from Essos.
"You are a fool, Daemon," Morghul's voice echoed within my mind, heavy with certainty. "You spend too much time worrying about enemies when you have me. There is nothing in this world more dangerous than I am. We will burn whatever stands before us and rule for eternity."
I scoffed quietly at the immense pride radiating from him, though I could not deny that it was earned by the sheer scale of his growth. Even so, his power had limits. My greatest advantage lay in adaptation, and Morghul had no true enemy against which to test or refine that trait. I would never allow dragons to fight one another merely for training. I pushed them to fly faster, to turn sharper, to master control and endurance, but never to shed each other's blood.
"Morghul, even a dragon can be overwhelmed by numbers and opposing forces," I replied silently.
He snorted in clear dismissal and offered no response, veering instead toward his lair within the Dragonmont as we had planned once Lyanna had settled into the rhythm of flight. Morghul entered the cavern at speed, ignoring every impact as his massive body brushed against stone, sending fragments raining down. I raised my arms to shield my head, forcing myself to ignore the falling debris as the dragon pressed deeper inside.
At last, Morghul slowed and came to a halt near the center of the cavern, where a black dragon egg rested upon a bed of steady fire, kept warm for some time now. He lowered his head toward it, studying the shell in silence before finally turning his attention back to me.
"Are you certain you wish to hatch this with my flame and your blood, Daemon?" Morghul asked, his tone unusually measured.
"Aye, my friend, I am certain," I answered without hesitation. "I am arming the future with dragons. Even if they fear me now, there will always be fools in generations to come. My son will need a stronger dragon than the common hatchlings. He is only two, and this is the perfect age for a companion that will grow alongside him. For now, his two direwolves are more than capable of keeping the dragon in check."
For reasons I immediately regretted, Morghul flared with sudden heat, close enough that I felt the warning edge of his fire. He pulled back just as quickly, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he fixed me with a burning gaze.
"Are you truly saying that, even to me?" he demanded.
I stared at him in confusion for a brief moment before understanding dawned. I shrugged lightly, unbothered.
"Apologies, my friend," I said with a laugh. "That was merely a practiced response."
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The Wall
After months of relentless, bone-jarring training, all four brothers finally succeeded in casting Daemon out of their minds entirely. Their father had long since realized that they were training together in secret, yet he neither restricted them nor offered comment. Instead, his interest sharpened, and over time he grew increasingly eager to test each of them in turn as their abilities steadily improved.
In the end, the four brothers prevailed, and proof of their success soon followed. A letter bearing the three-headed dragon was delivered to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, commanding him to support the brothers in all matters and provide them with whatever supplies they required. The order was clear, and its authority unmistakable.
The Lord Commander was a southern man, and dissent stirred quietly among the ranks. Many voices spoke against the presence of the four brothers, though none dared raise their objections beyond whispers. Within the Night's Watch, the tale of the Red Death, the purge, and the hunt had passed into legend, and no man wished to see that terror return astride a dragon.
Mountain was keenly aware that fear surrounded them as well. Since the brothers' arrival, not a single man had managed to defeat even the weakest among them in the training yard. Their superiority was undeniable, reflected in their speed, their strength, and the ruthless efficiency of their skill.
Mountain's breath caught in his throat as the gates of Castle Black groaned open at last. A bitter cold wind surged through the passage, striking his face and that of his companions, carrying with it the weight of the Wall and the uneasy certainty that whatever lay ahead would change all of them forever.
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Author's Note: storywise we are finally reaching the time daemon would ascend as king.
To read ahead 4 chapters: My Patreon : search for black wolf
My Discord
My Stories: All For Me. MHA AU.
Grim: Last Hope. (HP/DC/Marvel/Invincible)
Feral Dragon(Wolverine in ASOIAF)
What If ?