Morning light bled through the crimson silk curtains of Prince Damon Targaryen's chambers, staining the marble floors in shades of red and gold like fresh-spilled blood.
He had not slept.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw molten gold staring back at him from the darkness of Dragonstone's caverns. He heard the scream of Caraxes shaking the heavens. He felt dragonfire burning through his veins and the crushing pressure of ancient power clawing against his mind.
Even now, hours later, his body still ached.
Thin burns marked his forearms beneath his sleeves. His muscles felt heavy, as though he had fought a battle instead of merely walking through time itself. But deeper than the pain was the bond.
He could still feel Caraxes.
Faint.
Distant.
Sleeping somewhere beyond reality inside the strange "System Space" the voice had spoken of.
The sensation unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
For all his planning, all his schemes and caution, he had never expected to hold the power of dragons in his hands.
Yet now he did.
And everything had changed.
Damon stood near the open balcony overlooking King's Landing, his violet eyes fixed upon the waking city below. Smoke drifted upward from thousands of chimneys, mixing with the morning fog rolling in from Blackwater Bay. Bells rang faintly in the distance while merchants shouted from crowded streets already teeming with life.
But beneath the noise, beneath the illusion of normalcy, he could feel the fear.
King's Landing was rotting.
The city smelled of sweat, piss, smoke, and desperation. Refugees from the Riverlands crowded the lower districts, bringing stories of burned villages and marching armies. Food prices had doubled in less than a moon's turn. Flea Bottom was one spark away from riots.
And above it all sat Aerys Targaryen.
The Mad King.
Damon's expression darkened.
History said the city would soon drown in blood.
But history no longer held absolute power.
He turned from the balcony and crossed toward the washbasin near his bedchamber. Cool water splashed against his face as he scrubbed away dried blood and soot left from his confrontation with Caraxes. For several long moments, he simply stared at his reflection in the silver mirror above the basin.
Silver hair.
Purple eyes.
Sharp features.
A Targaryen prince.
But something about him looked different now.
Harder.
The softness of youth was fading from his face, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous.
Damon dressed carefully in black leather and dark crimson silks trimmed with silver thread. Over it all, he clasped a long black cloak lined with deep red satin, the colors of House Targaryen.
Armor disguised as nobility.
By the time he stepped into the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast, the Red Keep was fully awake.
Servants hurried silently through the halls, heads bowed low. Guards stood stiffly at attention, though many looked exhausted, their eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. Even the castle itself felt tense.
Fear lived here now.
Fear of war.
Fear of the king.
Damon walked calmly through it all, his boots echoing softly against stone.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
As he passed a pair of servants carrying linens, he caught the tail end of their whispers.
"They say Robert killed six men himself."
"Hush! Do you want your tongue removed?"
The moment they noticed Damon, both turned pale and dropped into hurried bows.
He ignored them and continued onward.
The deeper he traveled into the royal apartments, the quieter the keep became. Thick Myrish carpets muffled sound beneath his feet while expensive incense masked the usual odors of the castle.
Finally, he stopped before the queen's chambers.
Two Kingsguard who were secretly Damon's men stood watch outside. Their white cloaks gleamed softly in the morning light.
Both men straightened at once.
"Prince Damon," Ser Jon greeted respectfully.
Damon inclined his head. "How is Her Grace?"
"Tired," Ser Owen admitted quietly. "The queen did not rest much last night."
Another thing history had stolen from her.
Damon thanked them softly before stepping inside.
The queen's chambers were warm and fragrant with lavender oil and burning candles. Sunlight poured through arched windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, casting Queen Rhaella Targaryen in pale gold.
She sat near the window in a carved chair, one hand resting upon the swell of her stomach.
Fragile.
That was the first word most would think upon seeing her.
But Damon knew better.
Rhaella Targaryen had survived decades married to madness itself. She had endured humiliation, cruelty, and grief enough to break stronger people.
And still she remained kind.
When she looked up and saw him, genuine warmth entered her tired violet eyes.
"Damon," she said softly. "You're awake early."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I could say the same to you, Mother."
He crossed the room and knelt beside her chair, pressing a kiss against her hand. Her fingers immediately moved to brush through his silver hair, just as they had when he was a child.
"You look exhausted," she murmured.
Damon almost laughed at the understatement.
"If I told you I spent the night wrestling dragons, would you believe me?"
To his surprise, Rhaella chuckled.
"You always did have strange dreams."
If only you knew.
For a moment, Damon simply sat there beside her in silence, allowing himself something dangerously close to peace.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly how little time remained.
His gaze drifted toward her stomach.
Daenerys.
Not yet born.
History claimed she would enter the world amidst storm and salt and death upon Dragonstone after the fall of their house.
But history would be rewritten.
"How is the baby?" he asked gently.
Rhaella's expression softened immediately.
"She's spirited already," she said with quiet affection. "The maesters say she grows strong."
A shadow of sadness crossed her features.
Damon remained silent.
"Rhaegar has become… consumed lately," she continued softly. "He speaks of prophecy constantly now. Of destiny. Of a promised prince."
Damon's jaw tightened slightly.
Rhaegar.
Always chasing ghosts while the kingdom burned around him.
"He had been behaving as if he carried the weight of the world." She said.
"And sometimes," Damon said carefully, "men crush themselves beneath burdens that never belonged to them."
Rhaella looked at him with quiet surprise.
"You sound angry."
Damon merely sighed.
"I'm tired of watching this family destroy itself."
Pain flickered briefly across Rhaella's face.
"Your father was not always this way," she said quietly.
Damon said nothing.
"He was once charming," she continued, almost as if trying to convince herself. "Beautiful. Clever. The realm loved him."
Madness rarely began as madness.
It grew slowly.
Like rot beneath polished wood.
"He still loves his family," she whispered.
That nearly broke Damon's composure.
Love?
Aerys had beaten her.
Humiliated her.
Driven the realm into ruin.
But looking into his mother's weary eyes, Damon understood the truth.
Victims often clung hardest to hope.
So instead of arguing, he reached for her hand.
"I know."
The lie tasted bitter.
A knock interrupted them.
Sharp.
Urgent.
One of the gold cloaks entered nervously, sweat visible upon his brow despite the cool chamber.
"Your Grace," he said quickly, bowing low. "His Majesty requests Prince Damon's presence at the Small Council."
Rhaella frowned immediately.
"The king attends council today?"
The guard hesitated.
"He insisted upon it."
Damon rose smoothly.
"I should go."
Rhaella caught his wrist before he could leave.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Be careful," she whispered. "Your father has grown… worse."
Damon met her gaze.
For just a moment, he squeezed her hand gently.
"I know how to deal with him."
The Small Council chamber felt colder than the rest of the castle.
The great oak table dominating the room was cluttered with maps, ravens, wax seals, and half-empty goblets of wine. Tension hung over the chamber like smoke.
Grand Maester Pycelle sat hunched near the end of the table, chains clinking softly as he shuffled through reports. Lord Varys stood nearby in flowing lavender robes, his expression calm and unreadable as always.
Several lesser lords lingered nervously around the room.
And every single one of them looked afraid.
Damon took his seat without a word.
Moments later, the doors burst open.
King Aerys II entered like a specter crawling from the grave.
Damon kept his face perfectly still despite the revulsion twisting inside him.
The Mad King had decayed horribly over the years.
His once-beautiful silver hair hung greasy and tangled around his shoulders. His beard was untrimmed and uneven. Fingernails yellowed and overgrown, curled from trembling fingers.
But the eyes were the worst of all.
Wild and bloodshot.
Madness stared from them openly now.
"Traitors," Aerys muttered as he shuffled toward his chair. "Everywhere."
No one answered.
The king sat heavily.
Pycelle cleared his throat carefully.
"Your Grace… ravens have arrived from the Riverlands."
Aerys' eyes snapped toward him.
"Well?"
"Lord Robert Baratheon has joined his forces with Lord Stark and Lord Arryn. Their combined host marches toward the Trident."
Silence.
Then Aerys smiled.
The expression was horrifying.
"Good," he whispered.
Pycelle blinked uncertainly.
"Y-Your Grace?"
"Let them gather." Aerys leaned forward, lips twitching. "Let every traitor in the realm crawl together into one place."
His voice rose suddenly into a shriek.
"And then we'll burn them all!"
The chamber flinched.
Even Varys looked disturbed for a fraction of a second.
"Your Grace," the eunuch said smoothly, "perhaps caution would better serve...."
"Caution?" Aerys hissed. "You speak to me of caution while wolves and stags tear apart my kingdom?"
Spittle flew from his lips.
"Rossart says the wildfire is ready."
Damon felt ice settle in his stomach.
There it is.
The beginning.
"Caches beneath the city," Aerys whispered excitedly. "Under the streets… beneath the Sept… under their homes…"
Pycelle went pale.
"Your Grace, surely you do not intend to....."
"If they take my city," Aerys snarled, "they will choke on its ashes."
"Burn them all!!!"
The words echoed through Damon's skull like funeral bells.
And in that moment, staring at the broken creature sitting upon the Iron Throne's shadow, Damon understood something clearly.
Aerys Targaryen was already dead.
Only the timing remained uncertain.
The meeting dragged on endlessly after that, reports of shortages, riots, and unpaid debts to the Iron Bank, but Damon barely listened.
Instead, he planned.
Rhaegar would die at the Trident.
Tywin Lannister would come soon after.
By the time Damon returned to his chambers, dusk had begun creeping across King's Landing.
He closed the door quietly behind him and stood in silence.
Then he crossed toward his desk.
One parchment after another unfurled beneath his hands.
Lists.
Names.
Wildfire locations.
Guard rotations.
Loyal men within the City Watch.
Secret passages through Maegor's Holdfast.
Every detail mattered.
This time, the Mad King would die by his order as early as tomorrow or as late as weeks.
And no one would ever know his own son had ordered it.