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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories:
F/MGenM/MF/F
Fandoms:
House of the Dragon (TV)A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Relationships:
Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) & Rhaenyra TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Jacaerys VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Lucerys VelaryonHarwin Strong & Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laenor VelaryonAerion Targaryen & Aegon II TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Aemond "One-Eye" TargaryenAerion Targaryen & Helaena TargaryenDaemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen
Characters:
Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I)Rhaenyra TargaryenJacaerys VelaryonLucerys Velaryon (Son of Rhaenyra)Joffrey VelaryonLaenor VelaryonHarwin StrongAlicent HightowerViserys I TargaryenAegon II TargaryenAemond "One-Eye" TargaryenHelaena TargaryenDaemon TargaryenRhaena Targaryen (Daughter of Daemon)Baela TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" VelaryonRhaenys Targaryen VelaryonSilverwing | Alysanne Targaryen's DragonAddam VelaryonDaeron Targaryen (Son of Viserys I)
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceTime TravelThe Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen EraI've fallen victim to the TikTok edits of twins Jace and AerionAerion Targaryen vs The GreensDragon Dreams (Questionable)Dark HumorUnreliable NarratorNo Beta We Die Like Aerion (The First Time)Dragon Dreams (Literal)
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English
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Published:2025-12-18Updated:2026-07-25Words:386,215Chapters:37/?Comments:7,001Kudos:6,014Bookmarks:1,626Hits:246,098
Burn Them All
Anonymous
Chapter 11: DAEMON: The Council of the Victorious
Summary:
The Sea Snake hosts a victory party. (It involves ledgers.)
Also featuring: Daemon's terrible flirting, Rhaenys's devastating side-eye, and Aerion's impending lessons in maritime economics (please send help).
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Sea Dragon's study smelled of salt, old parchment, and the sharp, clean scent of the lemon oil Corlys used on his maps. Torchlight fought the deep shadows thrown by models of famous ships and racks of nautical instruments. It was a room built for plotting courses through treacherous waters. Fitting.
Daemon leaned against Corlys's carved desk with a cup of Arbor gold balanced in his hand as if it bored him. The cup was warm. His mind was not.
He watched them.
Rhaenyra stood by the narrow window, a silhouette against the bruised purple of the evening sea. The black of her mourning gown drank the light, but the line of her spine was a blade. She was tired. He could see it in the slight droop of her shoulders, the way her fingers pressed white against the stone sill. Too much of her father in that, he thought, not for the first time. That capacity to absorb blows, to let the weight of expectation and disappointment settle into her bones. Viserys had let it cripple him. In Rhaenyra, it was a kind of martyrdom he ached to strip away with his teeth.
But then there were the other parts. The parts that were pure him. The fire in her eyes when she'd stared down Alicent. The ruthless calculus she was performing now, silent and swift behind that beautiful, weary face. She would burn this hall and everyone in it if it meant protecting her sons. He knew that with a certainty that warmed the wine in his belly. He would gladly be the one to hand her the torch.
His gaze drifted to the others. Corlys Velaryon sat heavily in his chair, his face a seafarer's map of grim satisfaction and new worries. His wife, Rhaenys, was the true compass in the room. She stood beside a ledger-laden table, her sharp eyes scanning a list of names, her mind already three steps into the future, calculating the removal of rot. She was the one who truly understood the cost of things. Laenor was a ghost at the feast, present in body, his eyes hollow with a grief that was equal parts for Luke and for his own powerlessness.
"The Handship is the pivot," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through the low crackle of the fire. "Everything else spins from it. We name the successor, or the court will name one for us."
"You could take it, Lord Corlys," Rhaenyra said, turning from the window. Her voice was hoarse. "The realm respects you. It would be a statement of stability."
Corlys grunted, a sound like waves on gravel. "And leave Driftmark with him as a ward?" He didn't need to name Aemond. The boy's presence was a stain on the stones. "No. My place is here. To watch the seas, and to watch that one. A Hand cannot do his work looking over his shoulder at a nest of vipers in his own hall."
A sensible point. Daemon hid a smile in his cup. He'd already discounted Corlys. The old sea snake was too tied to his own rocks.
"You, then," Daemon said to Rhaenys, pushing off the mantel. He took a slow sip, letting the wine sit on his tongue. He could taste the faint echo of Rhaenyra's mouth on the rim from when she'd sipped earlier. A petty, possessive thrill. "The Queen Who Never Was, as Hand to the King. It has a certain poetic justice. It would terrify every lord south of the Neck. I'm in favor."
Rhaenys looked up, her violet eyes—so like Rhaenyra's, so like the boy's—sharp as Valyrian steel. "And have the realm whisper that the King is so enfeebled he needs his cousin to rule for him? That the Princess is so untested she needs another woman holding her reins?" She set the list down. "No. My influence is best exerted from the shadows, and from the decks of ships. A visible power is a target. I have no wish to be Otto Hightower in a dress."
Clever, Daemon thought, and true.
"A regent in all but name, then," Laenor murmured from his corner, his voice a dry rustle. He didn't look up from his wine. "Is that not what Otto was?"
"Otto sought to rule for a king he deemed weak, and to rule after him for his own blood," Rhaenys corrected. "I seek to ensure the chosen heir can rule for herself."
Daemon's lips twitched.
"So we propose a figurehead," He said, pushing off the desk. "Some toothless lord from the Reach, perhaps. A Redwyne. Or a Stark, glum and honorable. Let my brother feel he is choosing peace, reuniting the realm with an inoffensive symbol."
"Peace is a quilt made of stable appointments and full coffers," Rhaenys countered, tapping her list. "Not a sleepy lord. A sleepy lord falls asleep on watch, and the rats return. We need someone who knows every rat by name, but has no taste for their cheese."
Her finger landed decisively. "Lyman Beesbury," she said. "Master of Coin. He's old, he's loyal to the crown itself, not to any faction. He has no teeth, but he has memory. He remembers Jaehaerys. He will do as his king commands, and he will not dream of building a dynasty in the Tower of the Hand."
Daemon swirled his wine, a slow, considering motion. "A caretaker," he mused. "Safe. Dull. Exactly what my brother will want after the excitement of actually being king for a day."
"He is king," Rhaenyra said softly, turning fully from the window. Her voice held a note of warning.
"He is," Daemon agreed, too easily. He let his eyes travel over her, a frank, appreciative look that had nothing to do with councils and Hands. He watched her react despite herself: the tiniest stiffening, the heat that wanted to climb her throat, the anger that tried to cover it. It made him want to grin. It made him want to put his mouth at the base of her neck and feel her lose the fight.
Instead, he spoke like a man who could behave in a room. Almost.
"And a caretaker Hand will keep the chair warm while you prepare."
Her gaze snapped to his, a flash of violet in the dimness. She understood.
"You mean for me to shadow him," Rhaenyra stated.
"I mean for you to be the Hand, in all but name," Daemon corrected, his voice dropping into an intimate register that excluded the others, pulling her into a conspiracy of two. "Beesbury will sign the papers, nod at the petitions, and tell boring stories about peacetime tariffs. And you will be at his shoulder, learning the mechanisms you were never taught. The levers of grain, the whispers of gold, the loyalty of men who care more for a steady port than for the color of a dragon. How to truly run the thing you are set to inherit. Not just claim it. Rule it."
The idea settled into the room, taking root. He could see Corlys turning it over, finding the logic—his good-daughter learning statecraft from the ground up, becoming more than just a symbol. Rhaenys gave a slight, approving nod. It was a better use of a weak piece. Transform a placeholder into a tutor.
"It is… wise," Rhaenyra admitted, the words seeming to cost her. She hated admitting she had gaps. Another flaw she'd inherited—Viserys's pride, disguised as humility. Daemon wanted to kiss it off her lips, to swallow the admission and replace it with the arrogance that was her birthright. You are a dragon. You learn by taking. But this… this was a different kind of taking. A patient, cunning theft of knowledge.
"Wise and necessary," Rhaenys affirmed. "The purge must be surgical. We cannot simply replace every man in a green doublet with one in black. That is how you breed resentment in the dark. We identify those who were true believers, those who were opportunists, and those who were merely prudent." She picked up her list again. "The Master of Laws, Jasper Wylde. An opportunist. He will bend with the wind. A private audience, a reminder of his duties to the Crown, not the Crown's wife, will suffice. The Keeper of the Keys, a Hightower cousin… a true believer. He goes. The Commander of the City Watch…"
"Harwin Strong is Lord of Harrenhal now," Laenor said, the name hanging in the air like an old wound. "His successor was one of Otto's. He goes. The Watch must be ours."
"It will be," Daemon said, the words a quiet promise. He had ideas for the City Watch. It would be his project. A blade held at the throat of King's Landing, loyal to Rhaenyra, and by extension, to him. A means to ensure that the next time a Hightower thought to whisper, the gold cloaks would be the ones listening—and acting. He'd need a ruthless, capable man to lead it. A Celtigar, perhaps. Or a Bar Emmon. Someone hungry, with no deep ties to the old court.
"The oath renewal the King ordered," Rhaenys continued, her quill hovering. "It is a perfect sieve. Every lord paramount, every bannerman summoned to swear again to Rhaenyra before the Iron Throne. Watch who hesitates. Mark who avoids eye contact. Note who brings only the barest minimum of kin and guard, and who arrives with a show of force meant to flatter… or to intimidate. Their public performance will tell us more than any spy. Those who swear with gritted teeth can be watched. Those who find excuses not to come at all…" She made a small, decisive mark on her parchment. "They become our list for the next round of… reassignments."
Corlys leaned forward, his heavy signet ring clicking against the wood. "Aye. Use the ceremony to separate the sheep from the goats. The Arryns will come, blood is blood. The Starks will come, honor-bound and grim. The Baratheons…" He grimaced. "Borros is a proud, dull brute. He will need a clearer demonstration of strength. Perhaps a visit from a dragon before the summons is sent."
"The Tullys will follow whichever way the river flows, as ever," Rhaenys said, dismissing the Lord of Riverrun with a flick of her wrist. "The Tyrells will simper and bring gifts, desperate to prove their worth despite their… upjumped origins. It is the Lannisters who interest me. Jason Lannister has no love for Rhaenyra, but his pride is a lever. He cannot be seen to defy the Crown's direct command. When he comes, he must be made to feel his allegiance is a prized and personal concession, not a defeat."
The conversation turned to the minutiae of purges—which of Otto's underlings could be flipped with a threat, which with a bribe, which must be flung from the city walls to make an example. Daemon half-listened.
Corlys spoke of leverage over the Master of Ships. "Replace him with a Velaryon cousin," he suggested. "Or a Bar Emmon. They've been sniffing around our docks for years, hungry for a scrap of true influence. Their loyalty would be bought, but it would be secure—they'd have too much to lose."
Rhaenys coolly outlined which minor lords in the Crownlands had received Hightower brides or grants, and how to isolate them. "We can't remove them all at once. We elevate their neighbors instead. Give the Rosbys a royal charter for a new market, while the indebted Carlyles, who married a Hightower niece, find their petitions 'mysteriously' delayed. Let them feel the chill, and see who comes begging for a warmer hearth."
It was necessary work, the pulling of weeds and the planting of new, controlled growth. But Daemon's mind kept drifting from this administrative gardening to a smaller, fiercer plot of earth: the one currently occupied by a silver-haired child with a mind like a shard of obsidian.
Rhaenys didn't look up when she said it, which made it worse. "And we must decide what to do with your second shadow, Rhaenyra. Before he decides for us."
Daemon knew immediately who she meant. A familiar, fierce pride twisted with something colder in his gut—a sensation like holding Dark Sister and feeling its thirst vibrate up his arm.
"Aerion," Rhaenyra said, a mother's defensive tension squaring her shoulders.
"He is a weapon you left unsheathed on a high table," Rhaenys said, her tone merciless. "What he did… whispering dreams to a dying king to provoke a purge… it was masterful. A stroke of political instinct I've rarely seen, even from seasoned players. It was also the act of a child who sees the world as a game of spill-the-blood. He has no governor. No concept of consequence beyond the immediate, gratifying splash. Only ambition and rage."
She's not wrong, Daemon thought, taking a slow drink. The description was so apt it was almost affectionate.
"He is loyal," Laenor spoke up, his voice rough. "To his family. To Luke." Laenor loved the boy, Daemon knew.
"A rabid dog is loyal to its hunger," Rhaenys shot back, her gaze still on her lists. "That boy looks at a problem and sees only the solution that burns. He inherited it from someone." Her gaze, flint-hard and utterly devoid of warmth, lifted and landed on Daemon.
Daemon smiled, all teeth. The little beast was terrifying, and the fact that Rhaenys, of all people, saw the lineage so clearly was perversely satisfying. He saw too much, understood the levers of fear and desire with an instinct that went beyond cleverness into something preternatural—the same gut-deep sense that told Daemon when a man was about to break, when a crowd was ripe for stirring. It was like looking into a polished, monstrous mirror of his own youth—all the cunning, all the spite, the absolute refusal to be ignored or belittled, the delight in watching proud things stumble.
But where Daemon had only his wits, his sword, and a dragon, Aerion had those damned dragon dreams weaving through it all. It made his cruelty premeditated, targeted.
Daemon liked him. That was the problem. Liking the boy felt like standing too close to a mirror and seeing every flaw sharpened.
"He is far too much like you were at that age, Daemon," Rhaenys pressed, driving the point home like a nail. "All fire and sharp edges, taking delight in the chaos he caused. The difference is, you were a second son with a Valyrian steel sword and a chip on your shoulder. You could be pointed at an enemy and let loose. He is third in line to the throne his mother will occupy. He cannot be left to his own devices in King's Landing, to become either a courtier's puppet or a swung axe in a crowded hall."
"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra's voice was tight, the cords in her neck standing out. The mother was at war with the sovereign, and the mother was losing, bleeding anxiety into the room.
"Leave him here," Rhaenys said simply. "On Driftmark. With me, and with Corlys. As an apprenticeship."
Daemon's eyebrows lifted. It was a bold move. A brilliant one. Take the wildfire and try to bottle it into a lantern. He watched Rhaenyra closely, saw the immediate, visceral rejection.
"Here?" Rhaenyra echoed, aghast. "With Aemond under the same roof?"
"All the more reason," Corlys said, leaning forward, his large hands clasped. "Let him learn to manage a threat up close. Not just scheme against it from afar with rhymes and rumors. Let him learn the sea, trade, logistics—the boring, un-burnable foundations of power. The weight of a ledger can temper a soul faster than any sword. Rhaenys can teach him politics that don't involve poisoning wells or composing slanderous rhymes. I can teach him what it means to be responsible for lands and people, for the thousands who depend on the Lord of the Tides not to be a vengeful little ghost." He turned his weathered face toward Daemon, before looking back at Rhaenyra. "You made him hard. You showed him how to be a weapon. Let us make him strong. Give him a purpose that isn't just destruction. Before that temper of his ignites something even he cannot control, and burns you all with him."
Daemon looked at Rhaenyra, seeing the conflict in her. He saw her eyes flicker to the door, as if she could see through stone to where Luke slept, and then to the window, toward the sea where her other strange, fierce son might learn to be something more than a specter. He couldn't resist. The tension was too thick, her vulnerability too enticing. He let his voice drop, lacing it with a warmth meant only for her.
"An intriguing notion, niece," he said. "How bold of you to have my child without the courtesy of marrying me."
The effect was instantaneous. A flush crept up Rhaenyra's neck, a blend of outrage and a memory of his mouth on her skin. Her eyes flashed a warning, but there was a vulnerability there too, a crack in her regal armor that only he could see, that only he was allowed to touch. It was a gamble, flaunting their connection here, now, but he needed her to remember she was not alone in this. That the decisions that weighed on her were theirs to share.
Rhaenyra's blush deepened. Her glare sharpened. "Daemon."
It came out as a warning and a plea disguised as irritation. Gods, he adored her for it.
The reaction from across the room was a different kind of fire.
Rhaenys went utterly still. The temperature in the study seemed to plummet. The scratching of her quill stopped. When she turned her head toward Daemon, it was with the slow, deadly precision of a scorpion. Her gaze was freezing.
Laenor flinched, looking down into his cup as if he wished to drown in it.
Daemon held Rhaenys's stare, his own expression not quite apologetic, but the smirk fading into something more neutral. He had forgotten, for a breath, in the heat of looking at Rhaenyra and the thrill of the game. The ghost in the room. Laena. He felt no true remorse—Laena had known what he was—but he recognized the boundary violated.
The moment stretched, thick and accusing. Daemon was the first to look away, a tacit acknowledgment of the line he'd danced over. He took a deliberate sip of wine.
Rhaenyra broke the silence, her voice forcibly even, steering them back from the precipice. "We will… consider it. All of it. For now, Beesbury as a provisional Hand, with my involvement. The purges as Rhaenys directs. We present a united front to my father tomorrow."
The room tightened ranks. The council was effectively over.
As they began to disperse, Daemon's thoughts lingered on the boy. Leave him here. Let Rhaenys try to temper that Valyrian steel. Part of him rebelled at the idea—Aerion was his discovery, his kindred spirit in chaos. Another part, the part that loved Rhaenyra with a possessive, terrifying ferocity, knew it was right. The weapon was too sharp. It needed a sheath, lest it cut the hand that wielded it.
And as for Rhaenys's glare… well, he had weathered worse. The dead were dead. The living, especially the one standing by the window with fire in her blood and shadows under her eyes, were his to concern himself with. Laena had chosen her fate, in the end. She had chosen Vhagar. He owed her ghost a nod, perhaps, but not his tomorrows.
Rhaenyra was his future. Her reign, her safety, her heart. He would set the world ablaze for her. Starting, perhaps, with the tedious figure of Lyman Beesbury's ledgers.
Daemon drained the last of the wine and set the cup down.
Notes:
Surprise! Have this little Daemon pov, as a treat!
Thank you, as always, for reading.
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