Dragonstone
Daemon took deep breaths and steadied himself before he could fall from the chair he was sitting on. The very next moment, after managing to ground himself, his eyes turned toward the Myrish glass mirror positioned before him, its back supported by the black stone wall of his House's ancestral seat—Dragonstone.
Good. There was no blood coming from his eyes, ears, or nose. And more importantly, he had glimpsed the happenings of King's Landing exactly as he had intended. With this, Daemon considered—no, declared—that he had finally mastered the glass candle now tightly gripped in his hand. Nearly a year had passed since he had begun this daily ritual: clutching the treacherous relic, forcing upon it both his will and his magic, attempting to peer into places far beyond his mortal frame.
And for a year, Daemon had danced with death. Every attempt to dominate the glass candle was a battle. The cursed thing would often rebel, refusing his will, flooding his mind with visions—thousands at once. It was like being flayed open by knowledge he hadn't asked for, as though the candle took a sick pleasure in force-feeding him sights and memories not his own. Like dead souls taking their revenge on Daemon. Not to mention the pain, the pain that followed felt like someone was driving molten knives into his skull, stuffing information into his brain with no regard for space or sanity. As a result, more often than not, Daemon had been found lying unconscious on the cold stone floor, blood leaking from his nose, ears, and eyes.
Daemon was certain that the healer from Essos—who had replaced the Maester in all but name—was the only reason he still lived. The man's healing skills were the stuff of Essosi whispers, and though Daemon would never admit it aloud, the foreigner had saved his life more times than he could count. Not that Daemon feared death. If he feared dying, he would've stopped long ago. No—what Daemon feared was being forgotten, remembered only as another prince who had the good fortune to be born to the House of the Dragon. A second son. A footnote. A brother to the king. Nothing more.
And so, with the unyielding determination that had fueled him all his life, Daemon threw himself into the task of mastering the glass candle. So what if the attempt left him barely clinging to life? He wasn't the Rogue Prince for nothing. He didn't live for safety. He lived for the thrill of defiance, for doing what others whispered was madness. To him, this was what a true dragonlord of Valyria's Freehold should embody: mastery of fire, the soul-deep bond with a dragon, the ability to bend magic to one's will—and the refusal to give a damn about the opinions of lesser men.
Being able to wield the glass candle was not just a mark of status. It was a statement: I am more. More than bloodlines. More than crowns. More than history.
Daemon rose from his chair, leaving the glass candle behind on the stone table. The chamber's door remained closed. He had given strict orders—no one was to enter while he worked. And unlike most noble houses, the servants on Dragonstone obeyed such commands to the letter. That, too, was one of the many changes Daemon had made in the two years since he left Bloodstone.
Dragon's Forge on Bloodstone—his seat of power, carved with his own hands and claimed with fire and blood—had been where Daemon had thought he'd settle. Truth be told, he had believed he would leave the Seven Kingdoms behind after imparting what he had learned to Viserys and Rhaenyra; what they do with that would have been no concern of his. It would've been so easy to cling to his claim and remain a king, ruling in defiance. Daemon knew his brother, much reliant on his traitorous advisors Viseyrs might be, he would never attack his younger brother. But something—someone—had held him back. It wasn't love for the throne or for the trappings of kingship. It was the understanding that a divided House of the Dragon would fall to carrion birds. Viserys needed strength at his back, not a dagger aimed at it.
And yet, of late, Daemon had come to understand something deeper. Those ambitions that once burned in his heart—sitting the Iron Throne, wearing the Conqueror's crown—had faded to ash. Because he'd seen something greater. Something real. The illusion of power that came with the throne paled in comparison to the truth: true power was in shaping the world around you through sheer force of will.
That truth struck him like dragonfire when he saw Laenor.
Laenor Velaryon, wielding water like a song, like breath—shaping it to his desires, forging it with elegance and savagery both. Laenor, growing stronger by the day, with a power that no one in the realm, not even a dragonrider, could replicate. Watching Laenor made Daemon wonder—not fear, wonder—what would happen when that boy reached his full potential. Would he become something dragons feared? When surrounded by the sea, his domain, would even Balerion's fire be enough to stop him?
And if that day came… how would Viserys command such a man? How would even Rhaenyra, should she marry Laenor, rule beside someone who bent the very elements to his will? Would anyone be able to bend Laenor's knee but the gods themselves?
Daemon did not know. But what he did know was that the age of swords and crowns was beginning to wane. The age of magic—the age of true dragonlords—was coming.
And he intended to stand at its center. Or die trying.
Daemon knew Laenor had no issue calling Viserys his king—but that, Daemon thought, was where Laenor's courtesy ended. In fact, Daemon would have wagered the entirety of the Stepstones and handed it all over to three whores of Valyria before believing Laenor would ever bend the knee to Viserys. Hell, the boy never even bent the knee to him—not once—even when his own father had knelt before Daemon.
Laenor had called him "king" during their campaign, had obeyed his orders, or at least pretended to. But never had Daemon seen him lower himself in submission. Not even once.
And now that Daemon, with his wand in hand, can summon fire with his will and a few words—Daemon understood why.
It was simple.
The strong do not grovel before the weak.
Magic made them stronger—both in a physical and metaphorical sense.
Daemon shook his head, pulling himself out of his thoughts. He'd been drifting into these internal monologues more and more lately—hesitating, reflecting—something he never used to do. Perhaps it was magic's influence. He made a mental note of that. Something to observe in himself, lest he fall prey to it.
Pushing open the carved doors, Daemon stepped into the chamber—walls littered with parchments, shelves crammed with ancient tomes, and a large darkwood bookshelf containing everything the Targaryens had ever gathered or recorded about magic. Every spell they had created in the past two years was here, etched in ink and time.
Rhaenyra was already inside, seated cross-legged on a low divan, reading through a worn book that Daemon himself had penned. She looked up at him, and he caught the flicker of reluctance in her eyes—how much effort it took to tear her gaze from the page. But irritation quickly gave way to surprised delight, her features brightening with joy.
"Nuncle! I didn't expect you here. I thought you'd be with the healer—as usual," she said, a grin tugging at her lips.
Daemon snorted. Gods, she reminded him too much of himself. He pulled back a chair and sat with a grunt, cracking his knuckles.
"Unlike you, dear niece, I do succeed in what I pursue." His smirk was infuriating.
Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes in mock frustration. "Then I would be most heartened if you pursued air magic next and succeeded in that, my brilliant nuncle," she retorted.
Daemon barked a laugh, unfazed. "I'll have to disappoint you, little dragon. Fire suits me more than air. You'll have to walk that windy path alone, I fear." He offered a casual shrug.
She rolled her eyes and leaned back against a pillow. "So… did you really master the glass candle?" she asked slyly, peering at him from the corner of her eye.
"Aye," Daemon replied, his tone shifting into something deeper, darker—serious. "And you'd be surprised at what I saw… and heard… through it. Especially in King's Landing."
Her curiosity sharpened. "What is it?"
Daemon let the silence stretch for a beat. "Your father has set sail."
Rhaenyra blinked. "That is a surprise. His last letter said he wouldn't leave the capital until the moon's end. Why the sudden change? Did something happen?"
Daemon's grin widened. "Ah, little dragon… I said your father set sail. I never said he was coming here."
Rhaenyra straightened in her seat, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to full alertness.
"He's not?"
"No," Daemon said, drawing out the moment, "Viserys has set sail for the last known location of Vhagar—my father's and Queen Visenya's ancient beast."
For a moment, silence.
Then came the look Daemon had been waiting for—the widening of the eyes, the subtle stiffening of posture, the mix of awe and concern. Shock, yes—but also calculation.
He chuckled under his breath.
Rhaenyra had no idea what kind of storm was coming.
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