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Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Deserter to Power
Game of Thrones: King of Harrenhal— Garth Greenhand Stat Panel
A solemn chill hung over the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep today. Morning light streamed through the high arched windows, casting long strips of illumination onto the stone walls. The lords seated on either side of the council table held their breath, keeping their very respiration shallow. King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, the three-headed dragon on his black robe gleaming with a dark, golden luster. His scepter tapped lightly against the floor, each strike seemingly landing on the hearts of those present.
Daemon stood just inside the chamber doors, the breeze rustling his silver-gold hair against his neck. The dragon brand on his right shoulder was hidden beneath his clothing, yet he could still feel its faint, pulsing warmth.
The moment the squire led him in, he sensed something was amiss:
Prince Baelon sat beside the King, his brow furrowed tight enough to crush ice.
Lyonel Strong's bald head shone coldly in the light, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the badge of the Master of Ships.
Otto Hightower held a silver goblet, his eyes darting frequently toward the King as if waiting for a signal.
"My lords, I have summoned you today to announce a matter concerning my grandson, Little Daemon." Jaehaerys's voice broke the silence as he pointed his scepter at Daemon. "After deliberation with the Small Council, I have decided to appoint Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, son of the late Prince Aemon, as the Master of Whisperers for the Iron Throne. He shall oversee intelligence across the Seven Kingdoms and answer directly to me."
The moment the words fell, it was as if a spark had been thrown into the chamber, instantly igniting an explosion.
Baelon slammed his hand on the table and rose, the pauldrons of his dark grey scale armor trembling with tension. "Father! Have you gone mad? Master of Whisperers! That position has been abolished for over forty years since the death of Tyanna of the Tower! Who does not know it as a seat steeped in blood and evil? Little Daemon is but three-and-ten. To have him take on such duties is to set him up for ruin! Do you wish for the lords of the Seven Kingdoms to see him as a second Tyanna?"
His voice carried a rare agitation as his gaze swept the room. "In those years, Tyanna tortured your brother Viserys, exterminated House Harroway... how many innocents died at her hands? To revive this office now, and place it upon Little Daemon... what will the lords think? They will believe the Crown intends to rule through fear once more! This is not protecting him; it is pushing him into the fire!"
Lyonel Strong frowned as well, the hem of his black robe sweeping the floor. "Your Grace, the Crown Prince speaks true. Since your ascension, matters of intelligence have been handled concurrently by the Hand and the Master of Laws. Though inconvenient, it avoided suspicion. Prince Daemon has achieved great deeds, but he is young. To take on such a... shadowy office may tarnish his reputation."
Grand Maester Allar pushed up the spectacles slipping down his nose, his hands trembling slightly as he held his parchment. "Your Grace, this old servant dares to advise caution. The infamy of Tyanna still circulates in the Seven Kingdoms. The common folk turn pale at the mention of a 'Mistress of Whisperers.' Reviving this post requires prudence. Moreover, Prince Daemon... he is but a child. How can he bear such a heavy burden? Perhaps he should first serve as a squire in the Small Council and discuss this further once he is familiar with governance?"
Viserys, sitting at the far end of the table holding Rhaenyra, couldn't help but speak up. "Grandfather, Little Daemon has just finished touring the Seven Kingdoms for the Crown. He likely doesn't even know all the lords yet. How can he gather intelligence? Besides... that position is terrifying. When I was young, Mother often told me Tyanna used red-hot tongs to—" Aemma gently pressed his hand before he could finish, but he looked stubbornly at the King. "You cannot make Little Daemon do this."
Daemon's gaze swept over everyone, finally landing on Otto Hightower. The Master of Laws was looking down, wiping his silver goblet, deliberately avoiding Daemon's eyes, though his knuckles were white.
Daemon understood. This proposal likely originated from Lord Otto. It was as if Otto had foreseen Daemon's influence on his future; ever since Daemon's "return" to the family, Otto had targeted this Black Dragon who might bring storms. But Otto had probably not expected the King to be so direct, announcing it without even briefing the other ministers.
Just then, the chamber doors burst open. Queen Alysanne strode in, her white fox fur shawl flowing behind her, her dark skirts sweeping the stone floor. Her face was full of anger. "Jaehaerys! What are you doing? Master of Whisperers? Have you forgotten how Tyanna treated our brother Viserys? Do you want Little Daemon to become that kind of person?"
She walked to Daemon's side, shielding him with her body like a lioness protecting her cub. "How long has this child been back from the outside? Do you know how much he has suffered? And now you want him to do these underhanded, dark deeds? No! I absolutely will not agree!"
As the Queen's voice fell, another figure stormed in—Prince Daemon Targaryen, who had not attended a single Small Council meeting since being appointed Commander of the City Watch.
Our "Rogue Prince" was not wearing his gold cloak today, but rather the black and red of his house. Dark Sister was still sheathed at his hip, yet it radiated a chilling killing intent.
He swept his gaze across the room, finally locking onto Otto Hightower. He rushed forward, drawing his longsword with a shhhing sound, the tip pointing straight at Otto's throat. "It was your suggestion, wasn't it? Otto! You want to push Little Daemon into that cursed position! I heard you also want to split up his followers? I warn you, if you plot against Little Daemon again, I'll take my men and Caraxes and burn your Hightower to the ground!"
"Insolence!" Jaehaerys slammed his hand on the table, his scepter striking the stone with a resounding crack. "Drawing steel in the Small Council! Daemon Targaryen, have you no regard for the laws of the Iron Throne? Or for me, your grandfather?"
The King's "Bronze Fury" instantly swept the room, dropping the temperature in the chamber by several degrees.
Daemon Targaryen's grip on his sword tightened, but he reluctantly sheathed it, still glaring at Otto. "Father, Otto has ill intentions! He fears Little Daemon's power is too great and will affect his own authority, so he uses this position to suppress him!"
Otto's face was pale, but he forced a calm demeanor. "The Prince jests. I merely felt Prince Daemon is young and capable, suitable to share the King's burdens—"
"Enough." Jaehaerys cut him off, turning his gaze to Daemon, his tone softening. "Little Daemon, I know this position is controversial, and I know Tyanna's infamy. But I ask you, are you willing to take on this heavy responsibility? Are you willing to be the sharp blade of the Iron Throne, protecting the peace of our House and the Seven Kingdoms?"
Daemon took a deep breath. His gaze swept over Queen Alysanne shielding him, over Baelon whose anger had not yet faded, over Vaegon standing in the corner with a complex expression, and finally rested on the King.
He dropped to one knee, holding Blackfyre in both hands, the black dragon pattern on the scabbard glinting coldly in the light. "I, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, swear by the ancestral blade Blackfyre and by the dragon Cannibal to be the sharp blade of the Iron Throne and my House. Those who plot treason, those who harm the people, those who threaten the peace of the Seven Kingdoms—no matter where they hide, I shall find them and cut them down. Those loyal to the Crown, those who keep order and law—I shall protect them with my life. This oath holds until death."
The chamber fell silent. Even Queen Alysanne forgot to object, staring blankly at the kneeling youth.
Finally, a smile broke across Jaehaerys's face. He rose and walked over, personally helping Daemon up. He took Blackfyre from him, then handed it back, his voice filled with pride. "Good! This is a true son of House Targaryen! This is my good grandson!"
He turned to the council, tapping his scepter again, his tone carrying undeniable authority. "From this day forth, Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen is the Master of Whisperers for the Iron Throne and shall sit on the Small Council. He may organize his own followers to form the 'Darkblade Guard.' Their duties shall include serving as his personal guard, patrols, and arrests. In times of emergency, he may act first and report later, without need for approval from other ministers."
This was like a thunderclap, catching everyone off guard. Lyonel Strong's brow furrowed deeper, Grand Maester Allar's spectacles nearly fell off, and Viserys's mouth hung open. The power to "act first and report later"—even the Commander of the City Watch, Daemon Targaryen, did not have that!
Otto Hightower's face changed completely. His fingers gripped the silver goblet so hard his knuckles turned white.
He had originally proposed appointing Daemon as Master of Whisperers to use this "idle position" to split up his followers—sending Cullen, Rayford, and the others to the City Watch or the Royal Fleet. He hadn't expected the King to not only keep them together but to grant Daemon the power to form a personal guard and act with impunity. He had dropped a rock on his own foot!
Looking at Blackfyre in Daemon's hands, Otto suddenly felt he had summoned a true dragon that would be far harder to control.
Queen Alysanne wanted to say more but was stopped by a look from Jaehaerys. The King's gaze swept the room. "Does anyone have further objections?"
Baelon looked at Daemon's determined eyes, then at his father's majesty, and finally sighed. "I have no objection. But if any harm comes to Little Daemon, I will be the first to speak to Your Grace."
Lyonel, Allar, and the others bowed. "We have no objections."
Though Daemon Targaryen was still disgruntled, he knew the matter was settled. He glared at Otto once more but said nothing.
The Small Council meeting adjourned. The ministers left in twos and threes, their eyes full of complexity: some envied Daemon's favor, some worried for his future, and some calculated how to deal with this sudden "Darkblade Guard."
Otto walked at the rear, his steps heavy, his heart filled with regret. He had intended to weaken Daemon's power, but instead, he had handed him immense authority. It would be even harder to check this young prince in the Small Council now.
Night deepened, and lights flickered in the towers of the Red Keep. King Jaehaerys stood by the window of his solar, gazing at the distant Dragonpit, his brow slightly furrowed—Alysanne was still angry and refused to let him into their bedchamber. She had even sent back the dinner the servants brought, untouched.
"Father." Baelon's voice came from the door. He wore a simple robe and held a scroll of parchment. "I still cannot understand. Why give Little Daemon such great power? To 'act first and report later'... it is too risky."
Jaehaerys did not turn, only sighed softly. "Do you think I am setting him up for a fall?"
Baelon did not answer, but his silence was an affirmation. He walked to the King's side, looking at the moonlight outside. "Little Daemon is only three-and-ten. He does not understand the shadows of the court or the schemes of the lords. To make him Master of Whisperers and give him such power... the lords will fear him, the ministers will ostracize him. Even... Viserys might grow distant from him in the future."
"Heh." A cold voice came from the shadows in the corner of the solar. Vaegon Targaryen stepped out, holding a copy of New Theories on Star Tracks, his silver-gold hair hanging over his grey robes. "Brother, you are still so sentimental. Father does this for a reason."
Baelon frowned. "Vaegon, you knew?"
Vaegon did not answer, only looking at Jaehaerys. The King finally turned, placing his scepter on the desk. His voice carried the weight of years. "Baelon, I am not setting Little Daemon up to fail. I am paving the way for you, and reclaiming the power that belongs to the Iron Throne. Just as I forged you for Aemon!"
He pointed to two parchments on the desk—one bearing the sigil of the City Watch, the other a drawing of a dark blade. "In these years, the Master of Laws has controlled the City Watch, the Master of Coin holds the taxes, the Hand manages the realm. The King's power has been too dispersed. I need two swords—one in the light, guarding the order of King's Landing; one in the dark, purging hidden threats."
"Big Daemon is the sword in the light." Jaehaerys's gaze sharpened. "I made him Commander of the City Watch to take military power back from Otto, keeping the order of King's Landing firmly in Royal hands. And Little Daemon is the sword in the dark. He has dragons, followers, and prestige that the lords respect. He is most suited to be Master of Whisperers. Only he can suppress those who plot treason in the shadows. Only he can make the lords hesitate to defy the Iron Throne."
Baelon was stunned, then realized. "You want them to balance each other?"
"Not just balance," Vaegon interjected suddenly, tapping the "Darkblade" drawing. "Brother, you overlook the most important point—status. Little Daemon is a bastard. Even if legitimized, even if his father recognized him, even if granted Blackfyre... in the eyes of the lords, he will always be 'irregular.' Making him the Darkblade utilizes his abilities without threatening Viserys's succession. If you made Big Daemon the Darkblade, with his personality, he would clash with Viserys sooner or later."
Baelon's expression grew complex. He had never considered the "status" flaw. But Vaegon was right. Daemon's bastard origin destined him to be the "edge," not the "hilt."
Jaehaerys sighed, looking toward the Dragonpit. "I gave Little Daemon the power to act with impunity not so he could kill indiscriminately, but so he has the power to protect himself and clear threats. The Seven Kingdoms seem calm on the surface, but too many dangers hide beneath—the Ironborn are not extinguished, Dorne is not subdued, the Reach lords have their own minds, and the North stirs. I need Little Daemon, this dark blade, to clear the obstacles for your future."
He paused, his voice tinged with worry. "Baelon, you can wield these two swords because you have known war and understand balance. But what of Viserys? He is too kind, too soft-hearted. When he succeeds, can he keep Big Daemon and Little Daemon loyal? Can he wield these two swords without cutting himself? Or... will there come a day when these two swords turn against each other?"
Silence filled the solar, save for the crackling of the candles. Baelon looked at his father's aged face, at Vaegon's detached eyes, and suddenly felt that the power of the Iron Throne was far heavier than he had imagined.
Jaehaerys walked to the window, gazing at the moonlight. "I have lived for nearly seventy years. I have seen too many brothers turn against each other, too much infighting within families. I only hope that today's decision will not plunge House Targaryen into a civil war of fire and blood again... I only hope my grandsons can hold this land."
Moonlight streamed through the high arched window, falling on the old King's figure and on the two parchments on the desk—the City Watch sigil in the light, and the Darkblade pattern in the night. Under the candlelight, they shone like two silent swords, quietly awaiting the trials of the future.
And Daemon Blackfyre did not know that his fate had long been placed by the Old King into a chess game to protect House Targaryen and the Iron Throne, becoming the sharpest, yet most involuntary, piece on the board.