Dragonstone
Daeron's steps slowed, then halted entirely, as his gaze settled on the figures waiting for him at the entrance of the keep.
Standing before him were Tyrion Lannister, Missandei, and Ser Barristan Selmy, flanked by ten or so Unsullied, their spears held upright and faces carved into the same disciplined stillness. A handful of Dothraki lingered farther back, hands resting near their arakhs, eyes sharp and wary.
Daeron's attention was about to settle fully on Tyrion when something else caught his notice—something deliberately concealed, yet unmistakable once seen. A figure lingered within the shadows cast by the Unsullied ranks, blending in far more skillfully than one would expect. The bald head and rich velvet garments were the first giveaways. The second was more… obvious.
A round belly protruded just enough to betray him among the lean, hardened bodies of the Unsullied.
The Spider, Daeron thought. Varys is here too.
Quite the welcome party assembled to receive him.
"Should I call you Jon Snow, or—"
"King Daeron Targaryen."
Daeron cut Tyrion off sharply before the dwarf could finish. His voice carried neither anger nor warmth—only authority, cold and immovable.
"That is how you shall address me, Tyrion Lannister."
A brief silence followed.
Tyrion studied him for a heartbeat longer than necessary before inclining his head, his expression carefully neutralized.
"Very well, King Daeron," he said at last, his tone noticeably more formal, stripped of the casual familiarity he had begun with.
"You attacked the Queen," Missandei said next.
Her words came sharp and clipped, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on Daeron with accusation clear in both her voice and expression.
"I saved your Queen," Daeron replied immediately, his voice cold and unyielding. "You all saw how deeply Viserion and Rhaegal were ensnared by the spell of the Horn. Do you truly believe two enthralled dragons would have recognized Daenerys and spared her—or Drogon?"
He took a single step forward, his gaze sweeping across them.
"Caraxes forcing Drogon away was not an attack. It was me preventing your Queen from suffering grievous injury—or from marching straight into her own death."
Barristan and Tyrion exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.
"And after realizing what I had done," Daeron continued evenly, "your Queen invited me as her guest. So tell me, girl—are you now questioning her decision?"
Missandei's sharp expression faltered. Embarrassment crept into her features, followed by hesitation. She opened her mouth, closed it again, words failing her.
Tyrion cleared his throat softly and offered her a reassuring smile before turning back to Daeron.
"Forgive Missandei, King Daeron," Tyrion said smoothly. "She did not fully understand what you did for Her Grace. She witnessed your dragon closing in on Drogon and mistook it for an act of aggression."
He bowed his head slightly. Not fully—but enough.
"Since Her Grace herself has extended the invitation, I welcome you to Dragonstone and offer you guest right."
"Bring bread and salt," Tyrion commanded.
An Unsullied moved at once. Moments later, the ritual was completed, and Daeron accepted the bread and salt without hesitation.
"I will guide our guest to his resting chambers," came the firm, commanding voice of Ser Barristan the Bold.
Tyrion hesitated, visibly conflicted, but eventually nodded curtly. Missandei raised no objection.
Ser Barristan took the lead, and Daeron followed the old knight through the keep.
As they passed between the ranks of Unsullied, Daeron observed them closely. Their eyes remained forward, their posture unbroken, as if they perceived something beyond the ordinary senses of men.
Such discipline, Daeron thought. If only it were not born of such barbarity.
The Ghiscari methods were cruel beyond reason, yet without that cruelty, it was doubtful these men could ever have been molded into what they were now.
Naturally, as Daeron passed, his gaze met Varys'.
The Spider offered him a shaky nod and a strained smile before subtly retreating a step, as though afraid to stand too close.
Daeron suppressed a scoff.
[He's afraid of you,] Aether's voice echoed softly in his mind.
He's afraid of magic, Daeron replied silently, and of the rumors tied to my name. His fear does not surprise me.
Ser Barristan remained silent as they walked, allowing Daeron's attention to drift to the carved stone dragons and other mythical beasts adorning the walls. Through the tall, narrow windows, more carvings were visible outside—frozen in stone, ancient and watchful.
"If I may, King Daeron," Ser Barristan asked at last, breaking the quiet, "how did you come to know of your parentage?"
Daeron's gaze lingered on a carved dragon mid-flight before he answered.
"The same way I knew your Queen would meet her death alongside her dragon had I not arrived today."
Ser Barristan turned slightly, confusion etched into his features.
"Dreams," Daeron continued calmly. "Surely you have not forgotten that House Targaryen possessed more than dragons, Ser Barristan. We were dreamers, too—bearers of prophetic visions. The one ability that saved the Targaryen family, the only dragonlord family from meeting its doom alongside thirty-nine others at the Old Freehold."
His eyes flicked toward the old knight.
Barristan's face soured at Daeron's words, the stern mask he wore cracking just enough for something older to surface. A look of deep nostalgia—and regret—settled upon his weathered features.
"How could I forget them?" he murmured.
The question was not meant for Daeron. It came out more like self-reproach, as if the old knight were chastising himself for ever allowing such memories to fade. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed far away.
"It was the dreams that led His Grace Aerys into madness," Barristan continued slowly. "It was these same dreams that led Prince Rhaegar Targaryen…" He paused, then looked directly at Daeron before finishing, "…to hold back at the Trident."
The words came heavier now.
"Forgive me, King Daeron, but I used to curse these dreams every day. If it were not for them, you—and our Queen—might have lived far better, far different lives than the ones fate carved out for you." His jaw ground against itself, the anger visible now, not violent, but bitter and restrained.
"You mean to say my grandfather and father were dreamers as well?" Daeron asked.
There was genuine curiosity in his voice. Though the knowledge would change nothing for him, it still felt strange—and sobering—to hear about men he had once known only as names and characters he had read in his previous life, now spoken of as real people with flaws and hopes. At least Daeron would like to know more of them.
Ser Barristan regarded him carefully.
"It is… good to hear you acknowledge them as your family and sires," he said at last, "even King Aerys." The anger faded from his face, replaced once more by that familiar, disciplined stillness. "Varys told me you still address Eddard Stark as your father."
He did not linger on the point.
"Both Rhaegar and Aerys claimed to dream of the future—of what was to come. Yet as a witness to their lives, I did not see those dreams come true." Barristan exhaled softly. "Your father once spoke of a dream where his son Aegon, born of Princess Elia Martell, would sit the Iron Throne with two wives, as Aegon the Conqueror once did."
His eyes darkened.
"But we both know what became of that poor child."
"So you do not believe the man in the Stormlands claiming to be Aegon Targaryen is truly my half-brother?" Daeron asked, one brow lifting.
Barristan's mouth tightened slightly.
"I have fought the Golden Company before," he said. "I slew their general with my own blade. I know well their hatred for the red dragon. In my time, they would never have supported a true Targaryen. Never." He paused, considering. "Though I have heard they have changed over the years—less sellswords of honor now, more outlaws and opportunists."
He looked thoughtful then.
"It is only the presence of Lord Jon Connington beside this Aegon that grants him even a sliver of legitimacy in my eyes. Still, I would need to see him myself—to look upon him and judge whether he is truly the Silver Prince's son."
"So you are uncertain," Daeron concluded.
Barristan nodded as they turned another corner. They had taken so many winding passages by now that Daeron doubted he could retrace the route without guidance.
"What of me, then?" Daeron asked after a moment. "Few living men knew Prince Rhaegar as well as you did. There was one man at the Wall who saw enough to react when I said that I am Rhegar's son—but I would hear your thoughts."
Ser Barristan smiled faintly, something warmer breaking through at last.
"There is no doubt that dragon blood flows in your veins," he said. "Your dragon alone is proof enough." He studied Daeron more closely now. "Your features favor your mother's line, it is true. The Stark look is strong. Yet if one knows what to look for—if one has truly seen Prince Rhaegar—then yes, the likeness is there, hidden beneath the North's shadow."
He hesitated, then added, "Speaking of your dragon… may I ask how such a creature came to be? Did you hatch it yourself, or did you find it?"
Daeron chuckled softly and answered with the same blend of half-truth and half-lie he had used before. The old knight listened without pressing further.
More questions followed—some from Daeron, answered with smiles or sorrowful silence; others from Barristan, met with honesty where possible. Time slipped by unnoticed as they spoke.
At last, they reached a pair of dark, heavy doors.
Ser Barristan pushed them open and stepped aside, motioning Daeron forward.
"After you, King Daeron."