Chapter Text
"You have a dragon. He stands before you"
— The World of ice & Fire, The Targaryen Kings: King Daeron I
They called him the Young Dragon. A boy forged to be a far greater king than his sullen father. He was born in the wake of the Dance of the Dragons, a tragedy that saw the magic of dragonkind slowly fade from their blood. His father, who harbored a bitter hatred for the beasts, deemed them nothing more than wild brutes. In all their lineage, no man had ever despised the dragons—the very pride of their house—as deeply as his father did.
Yet Daeron Targaryen was resolute throughout his life. He never surrendered to his ambition, no matter how mad the realm deemed him. And mad he may well have been. Upon his father's death, when he ascended the Iron Throne at a tender age, he at once proclaimed he would fulfill the ancient ambition of his forebears.
Dorne.
They held six kingdoms, but never seven. Aegon the Conqueror might have styled himself Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but not Daeron. He meant for his name to be remembered as a conqueror in truth. Dorne lay within Westeros, and now that he was king, Westeros was his—and so too was Dorne. He swore an oath to right the failures of his ancestors.
At last, Daeron and his host of thousands brought Dorne to its knees, dividing his forces into three columns to encircle the arid land: through the Prince's Pass, by sea, and down the Boneway. It was a campaign he had devised after weighing the errors of Orys Baratheon and Aegon himself. After a string of bloody battles, the Prince of Dorne and forty high lords bent the knee, and Dorne was formally bound beneath his rule.
Yet smallfolk rebellions festered like open sores. When Lord Lyonel Tyrell, whom he had tasked with keeping the peace, was slain in his bed, it sparked a far greater uprising. Daeron returned to Dorne and broke their forces once more. A year later, the Dornish agreed to treat under a flag of peace and renew their fealty. But it was all a treacherous ploy.
A volley of arrows found their mark, biting deep into his flesh where his armor gave way. Vaguely, through the din of betrayal, Daeron heard the cries of his Dragonknight. Ser Aemon Targaryen roared in fury as the Dornish dragged him away, unable to aid his young dragon king, who staggered under the weight of the shafts protruding from his chest. Ser Olyvar Oakheart fell dead at his side.
Adrenaline surged through his veins; Daeron had never known the meaning of surrender. With the last of his strength, staggering through the blood and sand, he swung Blackfyre, carving through his assailants. He slit throats, severed limbs, and ran men through with the Valyrian steel blade in his grip—until an arrow pierced him straight through the heart.
His pupils dilated, his breath hitched, and blood welled from his lips. The venom crept into his bloodstream, disrupting the rhythm of his heart until it fluttered and failed. Cold sweat drenched him, born neither of his plate nor the merciless Dornish sun. Blackfyre slipped from his fingers, his knees buckled, and the Young Dragon tumbled—crashing onto the expanse of sand beside his fallen crown. The agony consumed the last gasp of air left in his lungs.
At the last, his body went rigid, and the final sight granted to his failing eyes was seven lights circling him in the gathering dark.
.。o○○o。.
"Keep pressing!"
"Drive their lines back!"
The clash of steel and the desperate whinnies of warhorses pierced his senses. His eyelids twitched and fluttered open, his vision a blurred haze. Yet the skies above were strangely overcast, far removed from the scorching vaults of Dorne. The heat of the sun lacked its brutal sting. And he felt water.
Since when did the Dornish sands run wet?
"My prince? My prince, can you hear me?!"
Daeron clawed frantically at his chest, only to realize he felt no pain. His plate was whole, unblemished by arrows. No sand blinded him—only dew-slicked grass. His hand flew up to find a heavy helm encasing his head. He tore it off savagely, gulping down air with desperate greed, tasting fresh wind thick with blood and iron. There was no oppressive heat here.
This is madness.
The sharp, metallic stench of war—a smell he knew all too well—hung heavy in the air. His Valyrian purple eyes narrowed as the daylight struck them. Blinked once, twice, until his sight cleared, Daeron realized he was no longer in Dorne.
"My prince! Can you hear me?!"
Daeron winced, clutching a head that spun like a millstone. He looked up to see a knight clad in gilded steel. The man had dark eyes, a trim brown beard, and wore no helm, making his heritage plain to see.
A Dornishman.
"My prince?" the knight gasped, wiping sweat from his brow. "My prince, forgive me, but can you stand and fight?"
Daeron blinked, dazed. His head throbbed, but the sight of the Dornishman addressing him as 'prince' set his Targaryen blood ablaze.
"Prince?!" Daeron snarled, glaring at the man, who met his rage with utter confusion. "Did you just call me prince?! How dare you insult your king!"
The knight paled in shock, but in a heartbeat, he lashed out with his sword, parrying a soldier who sought to strike Daeron from behind. Daeron scrambled backward, reaching for his belt, but swore aloud when his hand found only empty leather.
"Where is my sword?!"
The knight gave him a fleeting glance before driving his boot into the enemy soldier's belly, running him through with a thrust to the chest. Once the man collapsed, the knight knelt beside Daeron, snatching up a fallen longsword from the churning waters of the stream. But when he thrust the hilt toward him, Daeron only glared at him with black fury.
"Not that common steel, damn you! I do not fight with castle-forged junk! Do you not even know the weapon of your own sovereign?!"
"What?"
"Blackfyre!" Daeron spat, his brow furrowed in utter outrage. "Where is Blackfyre?!"
"Huh...?"
The knight looked utterly lost. Daeron felt stripped bare under the man's bewildered, deeply concerned gaze—a look that suggested he was spouting madness. Not even the Septons had stared at him with such disbelief when he declared his intent to conquer Dorne.
"Blackfyre?" the knight muttered softly, shaking his head. "My prince... you have never even held a blade before today."
Seven hells.
.。o○○o。.
Daeron cursed under his breath as they pressed forward. Yet despite his fury, he vented his rage upon anyone foolish enough to cross his path, cutting down attackers as they moved. Men fought like demons around him with sword, spear, and warhammer. The red-stained river beneath filled his boots with freezing water. The Dornish grit was gone; there was only blood and stream.
"Where is Rhaegar?!" Daeron barked at a man-at-arms bearing a shield emblazoned with the three-headed dragon. A Targaryen man, then—an ally.
"Prince Daeron!" the soldier gasped, eyeing him up and down before sighing in relief. "Ah... Gods be good, you live—"
"Cease your chatter and tell me where Rhaegar Targaryen is!" Daeron roared, causing the man to jump.
"Th-there!" the soldier stammered frantically, pointing toward a swirling vortex of brutal combat in the shallows.
Without another word, Daeron sprinted into the fray, blade raised. He parried wildly, cutting through the chaos. He thrust his steel through the eye-slit of a man wielding a broadsword, buried his point into the chest of a pikeman, and brought down a charger by severing its leg. With practiced skill, he snatched a fallen shield from a dying guard, raising it to ward off the blows of cavalry attempting to break their line.
Daeron loved war—he truly did. He lived for the weight of armor, the geometry of siegecraft, the grand campaigns. It was he who had rewritten Aegon the Conqueror's strategies to tame Dorne, aided by Alyn Velaryon, and the glory had been glorious. But now, he felt only cold, gnawing confusion.
The last thing he remembered was dying in Dorne, tricked and butchered by snakes under a peace banner. He had expected to meet his ancestors in the afterlife. Instead, he was thrust into the middle of a slaughter that was decidedly not Dorne. By his reckoning, this had to be a grand rebellion, though in his reign, House Arryn and House Stark were staunch loyalists to the Crown, not traitors in arms.
Cutting his way through the melee, Daeron finally broke into a clearing in the river. There stood a behemoth of a man in a horned helm, facing a warrior clad in night-black armor encrusted with rubies across the breastplate.
"Tell me where Lyanna is!" the giant bellowed, swinging a massive warhammer that crunched brutally into the black-armored knight's shoulder.
The prince stumbled back, but swung his sword in a desperate arc, tearing through the giant's midsection. The giant retaliated instantly, driving his hammer into the dragon prince's chest with a sickening crunch that sent him flying backward into the river.
Daeron’s eyes narrowed as he took in the heraldry. A stag and a dragon. The truth struck him like a thunderbolt. They were a Baratheon and a Targaryen.
Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen.
Rhaegar lay sprawling in the red shallows, his fingers still desperately clutching his sword as he struggled to rise, his hands pressed to his crushed ribs. Behind his visor, his breath came in ragged, agonized gasps. But Robert showed no mercy. The Lord of Storm's End stalked forward like an enraged bull, raising his hammer high for a killing blow. Rhaegar raised his blade to parry, but Robert was faster, bringing the heavy iron head down onto his wrist. The sword flew from Rhaegar's grip, splashing into the current.
Rhaegar fell back, helpless, as Robert loomed over him, raising the hammer once more to cave in the prince's chest.
"Die, Targaryen!"
Just as the hammer began its descent toward Rhaegar's chest, Daeron lunged forward, thrusting his steel deep into the muscle of Robert’s arm. The giant bellowed in agony as blood erupted from the wound, turning blindly to crush this new intruder. But Daeron was nimble, he drove a heavy armored kick into Robert’s wounded belly, then struck the haft of the hammer with his blade, knocking the weapon from Robert’s weakened grip to splash alongside Rhaegar's lost sword.
"You bastard—"
Capitalizing on his proximity, Daeron snatched the falling warhammer mid-air and swung it with all the strength in his young frame, driving the heavy iron back into Robert’s ruptured midsection. The stag fell to his knees in the rushing water. Daeron grunted, stepping forward to plant his boot upon the deep wound, pinning Robert down as the lord groaned in agony, clutching at Daeron’s leg. Swaying from the strain, Daeron raised his blade and slashed across Robert’s chest, opening a long, crimson furrow from collarbone to hip.
Blood soaked through Robert's arming doublet, and Daeron struck again, crossing the first wound with a brutal backhand slash. Robert roared, his grip on Daeron's leg tightening enough to pull the Young Dragon down into the riverbed. They rolled into the shallows, but Daeron scrambled up first. Faster than the eye could follow, before the stunned eyes of both armies, Daeron hoisted the heavy warhammer and brought it crashing down onto Robert's sternum.
A sickening spray of blood erupted from the open wounds, drenching Daeron's plate and painting the river red around them.
Robert Baratheon swayed, his storm-grey eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing face-first into the rushing waters with a heavy splash.
Daeron stood panting over the corpse, his breath coming in ragged gasps, before tossing the bloody hammer carelessly into the stream. Only then did he realize that the roar of battle around them had begun to die away into a stunned silence.
"Daeron..." Rhaegar rasped, still clutching his shattered chest. He stared up at his unlikely savior with a look of utter bewilderment. "You—"
"Robert Baratheon is fallen!" a voice screamed through the quiet.
The rebel lines wavered, surrounded and broken, as a triumphant roar went up from the royal host.
"Robert Baratheon is slain!"
"Prince Daeron has broken the stag!"
.。o○○o。.
Gods knew how many times Daeron had clawed through his silver-gold hair, leaving those around him staring in a mixture of shock and sheer terror. Truth be told, he looked more like a madman than a prince. The battle was won, and the host had begun its long march back to King’s Landing, yet Daeron's mind remained trapped in Dorne—the place where he had taken his last breath. Or so he thought.
Instead, he found himself stranded in the Riverlands amidst a Targaryen army of complete strangers. There was no Blackfyre in his sheath, no Aemon the Dragonknight at his flank, and no crown upon his brow.
This was bad.
And it grew far worse whenever his eyes caught the sun-and-spear banner of Martell fluttering among the loyalist ranks.
"My prince, eat something at least. You must keep up your strength for the long road ahead."
Daeron dragged his hands down his face with a bitter grunt, turning a sharp glare upon the speaker. But the knight merely offered a warm, steady smile as he extended a piece of bread. Defeated, Daeron snatched the coarse loaf and tore into it with savage bites.
"Are you a Dornishman?"
The knight nodded, taking a bite of his own ration. The two sat among a sea of weary men snatching what rest they could; nearby, the wounded groaned beneath the hands of maesters, while others guarded the grim herds of rebel prisoners.
"Aye. I am Lewyn Martell. We met at your brother's wedding feast, my prince."
Daeron’s eyes narrowed into slits at the answer. A hundred questions burned in his mind. First, he was meant to be the eldest brother, not some second son. Second, this treasonous rebellion was led by Houses Baratheon, Stark, and Arryn—houses that had been fiercely loyal during his own reign. Third, and most baffling of all, was the presence of Dorne fighting beneath the dragon flag.
"Tell me what has happened here," Daeron commanded, his voice tight. "Tell me everything. My head spins, and I must make sense of the madness that has broken out."
"What ails you?" Lewyn’s brow furrowed in genuine concern. "Were you struck in the fray?"
"Aye, I was," Daeron lied, his tone flat as lead. "My head was knocked, and I recall little save for the name you lot keep calling me."
Lewyn paled, instantly attempting to rise, but Daeron’s grip clamped around his wrist like a vise, forcing him back down with a low, dangerous growl.
"Do not cause a scene!" Daeron hissed, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing eyes. "I am whole. There is no pain, but my memories are gone. I can look after myself—I know my own constitution better than any maester. Now sit, and tell me every single thing that brought us to this river."
Lewyn opened his mouth, but closed it just as quickly, staring at Daeron in stunned silence. Perhaps it was the prince's sudden aggression that shocked him, or perhaps the absurdity of a warrior asking for a history lesson right after single-handedly winning the battle.
"Very well..." Lewyn whispered with a heavy sigh, giving a slow nod. "Where would you have me begin?"
.。o○○o。.
"Fucking hell!"
Daeron hurled a stone with violent force. It sailed far across the clearing before striking the water with a loud, resounding splash, sending a plume of spray into the air. He collapsed back onto the dew-slicked grass, clawing wildly through his silver-gold hair once more. His mind was an absolute tempest, and every detail of Lewyn's explanation had only driven him deeper into madness.
He had interrogated Lewyn relentlessly, and fortunately, a single fierce threat had been enough to keep the Dornish knight from prying. Lewyn had answered without question, never asking why a Targaryen prince was demanding a history lesson stretching back to an era before his own grandparents were born.
It began with Aemon surviving the treacherous ambush under Dorne's false flag of peace, Baelor walking barefoot into the sun-scorched lands to win their freedom, the chaotic mess left behind by Daena and Aegon, and finally, his nephew managing to bind Dorne to the realm at last—marrying a Martell princess and wedding his own sister to a Dornish prince. And then came the chronicle of the Blackfyre Rebellions, a tale that made Daeron’s head throb with absolute fury.
Aegon—that mad, reckless fool—had given Blackfyre, the ancestral Valyrian steel blade of Aegon the Conqueror passed down through generations of kings, to a bastard named Daemon. Now, the sword was lost to the wind, its whereabouts unknown. The revelation churned Daeron’s stomach into knots. He found himself desperately calculating what might have happened had he survived his campaign, or had he simply forced Daena to wed anyone other than Baelor. Perhaps then he wouldn't be standing in a strange century, driven out of his mind searching for his own sword.
Lewyn had mentioned that Blackfyre likely rested in the hands of the Golden Company. Which meant, sooner or later, Daeron would have to cross the Narrow Sea to rip his blade back from those sellsword exiles.
"Daeron."
Daeron let out a harsh scoff, grabbing another heavy stone and hurling it into the current with vicious strength. He paid no heed to Rhaegar, who had quietly seated himself nearby. Daeron cast him a sideways, venomous glance, exerting every ounce of his willpower not to gut the man or drown him in the river right then and there. For by the Seven and the gods of Old Valyria, he wanted nothing more than to end Rhaegar for the ruin he had brought upon their house. He knew their mad father shared the blame for murdering Lord Stark, aye—but had Rhaegar simply kept his cock in his breeches instead of absconding with a Northern girl barely out of childhood, or had he chosen to depose his father properly, this bloodbath would never have occurred.
How pathetic. The realm had hailed this man as their grand hope, yet thousands lay rotting in the dirt for his sheer selfishness.
Seeing that Daeron remained silent, Rhaegar let out a slow sigh before speaking again. "I was astonished when you killed Robert. But you have my gratitude, brother. You saved my life."
Daeron snatched up another stone—hurling it harder still. His palm twitched with the urge to crack the rock over Rhaegar’s crown and split his skull wide open. But no. Not yet. He might still need Rhaegar to navigate the immediate aftermath before he claimed his rightful place as heir and dealt with Aerys himself.
"You never told me you possessed such martial skill," Rhaegar murmured, tilting his head so his silver locks fell over his shoulders. "I have never seen you raise a blade. You rejected the master-at-arms, insisting on pouring over old tomes as though you meant to bound for the Citadel."
"I am under no obligation to account for my time to you," Daeron snapped, his fingers hunting for another stone to cast into the dark water.
Rhaegar offered a faint, melancholy smile. He reached out and clapped a hand approvingly on Daeron’s shoulder—a touch that sent a jolt of pure revulsion straight down Daeron's spine.
"Touch me again and I will sever your hand," Daeron barked, shoving Rhaegar’s arm away so violently that the elder prince's smile vanished instantly.
Yet Rhaegar merely sighed, gazing up at the canopy of night where the moon and stars burned cold and bright.
"You were not so fierce in times past."
"I am not the Daeron you knew."
"Yet you remain my brother."
"A brother who just yanked your foolish neck from the Stranger's grip," Daeron spat, his words sharp as Valyrian steel. "Now tell me—why was that stag lord so eager to spill your guts?"
Rhaegar’s expression turned solemn, a quiet sorrow creeping into his eyes. The sight filled Daeron with sheer disgust. The man looked for all the world like a tragic hero straight out of the cheap, romantic scrolls Daena used to read as a child—a melancholy prince weighted down by destiny and grand sorrow. Never mind that he was the very architect of the realm's ruin.
"Robert was blinded by misunderstanding. He surrendered to his rage until reason left him entirely."
"A misunderstanding?" Daeron sneered, his brow contorting in cold anger as Rhaegar winced. "You stole his betrothed and fled into hiding, as though you had no lawful wife and trueborn children waiting in the Red Keep! Do you feel no shame for what you inflicted upon them?!"
"Elia and I were wed for duty, for the crown," Rhaegar whispered, his voice barely audible over the rush of the river. "She is my duty. But Lyanna... Lyanna is my heart. I love her, Daeron. And she loves me. It was shared."
"You arrogant fool. What of your children?"
"My children remain my heirs. Their rights are absolute; they will not be cast aside, even when the daughter Lyanna bears me enters this world."
Daeron’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He turned his head slowly toward Rhaegar, who sat with a soft, distant smile, looking entirely at peace. A vein throbbed violently at Daeron's temple. Before he could stop himself, the hand that had been reaching for a stone coiled into a fist. He lunged, seizing the gorget of Rhaegar's armor and driving a brutal punch straight into his cheekbone. Rhaegar's head snapped sideways as blood burst from his nose.
"Are you out of your mind?!" Daeron roared, his voice echoing across the encampment so loudly that nearby guards spun around in shock. "You sired a bastard on a Northern wolf girl?! Are you trying to trigger another Blackfyre Rebellion?!"
Rhaegar clawed frantically at Daeron’s wrists, gasping for air as the grip on his gorget choked him. Within seconds, half a dozen guards rushed forward, throwing themselves onto Daeron to haul him off his brother. It took four heavy men to pin the Young Dragon to the earth as he thrashed, his purple eyes burning with unadulterated fury.
"My princes! By the gods, what has happened?!"
Ser Barristan Selmy dropped to his knees beside Rhaegar, who was struggling to sit up while wiping blood from his mouth and nose. The Lord Commander quickly produced a cloth to stem the flow, while four guards held Daeron down in the mud.
"Stand down," Rhaegar wheezed, holding up a hand as he coughed, wiping away the crimson streak with his forearm. "No—leave us. Release Prince Daeron and step back."
The guards hesitated, glancing between the two royal brothers, but slowly slackened their grip. The moment he was free, Daeron spat near the boot of the nearest soldier. Even Barristan lingered, his hand hovering near his sword hilt.
"My prince, he attacked—"
"I said leave us. Do you hear your prince?!"
Barristan let out a heavy breath, gave a single nod, and signaled for the men to fall back out of earshot. Once they were alone again, Rhaegar sat cross-legged in the grass, meeting the murderous glare of the Young Dragon.
"Do you recall the letter I sent you a year ago?"
"No. I burned it."
A lie. Daeron hadn't been alive to read whatever idiocy Rhaegar had penned.
Rhaegar merely sighed. "I thought as much. I had hoped you would read it, but... what is done is done." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "Daeron... I have spent my life pouring over thousands of scrolls—histories, verses, ancient prophecies. Do you remember the woodswitch's prophecy at Summerhall? The one predicting the Prince That Was Promised would be born of our line?"
Daeron curled his lip, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. He knew better than to reveal too much. "I recall it. Vaguely."
"Then you understand," Rhaegar insisted, his eyes bright with fanatical fervor. "For years I believed the mantle was mine. But I was mistaken. I am not the savior—I am the father to the three heads of the dragon."
Daeron stared at him as if he were looking at a madman in chains. "What nonsense is this?"
"My children are the prophecy fulfilled," Rhaegar whispered. "I already have two heads of the dragon. The third must be born of Lyanna. Together, they will save the realm from the darkness to come and awaken the dragons from stone."
"What?"
"The Promised Prince must be born of ice and fire. I am the fire. Lyanna is the ice."
Daeron leaned forward, his voice dripping with venom. "No. The question I am asking is—have you completely lost your bloody mind?"
Rhaegar shook his head, reaching out to grasp Daeron by the shoulders. "Trust me, brother. This suffering, this bloodshed—it is all a necessary trial. A price we must pay so my children can rise as saviors."
"I thought you dropped your brain somewhere." Daeron shoved Rhaegar's hands off him with savage force. "Are you telling me you dishonored a highborn maid, broke a royal betrothal, and started a civil war... all to fulfill a verse in an old book?!"
"I love her, Daeron!" Rhaegar replied, his voice soft yet unyielding. "I love Lyanna Stark. And I will spend the rest of my days with her."
"Your wife is a Princess of Dorne, you utter fool!" Daeron barked, his face contorted in absolute disgust. "Use that royal brain of yours for once! You have dragged the pride of House Martell through the mud. Push them any further, and Dorne will rise in open rebellion!"
By the Seven—Daeron had spent four grueling years of his past life in the blood and dust of Dorne. He had bled for that land, marshaled armies, reorganized Aegon the Conqueror’s failed strategies, and ultimately lost his life to bring Dorne under the Iron Throne. He had felt a fleeting moment of peace knowing Dorne had finally joined the realm through marriage... only for his idiot descendant to tear that fragile alliance to shreds for a Northern girl!
Years of bloody conquest, wiped clean by a romantic fool.
"Elia remains my Princess, and Aegon will sit the Iron Throne after me," Rhaegar said smoothly, as if resolving a minor court squabble. "As for the Dornish... they will accept it in time. I shall betroth Lyanna's daughter to Aegon when they come of age."
"You think the Dornish will simply bow their heads to that?!"
"They will have to. It is necessary for the realm."
"You are mad," Daeron spat, a bitter smile touching his lips. "You know nothing of the Dornish. You have no conception of their stubbornness, their unyielding pride when their honor is insulted."
Rhaegar had not fought in the passes. He had not watched Lord Lyonel Tyrell get murdered in his bed, nor seen the smallfolk fight with dagger and poison when their lords surrendered. The Dornish would burn the continent before accepting such a humiliation.
"Elia loves me," Rhaegar asserted quietly. "She will stand by me to ensure her son's claim remains secure."
"You gamble on their mercy at your own peril," Daeron muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as he stood up, towering over his brother. He raised his chin with regal coldness. "So. When do you intend to bring this wolf girl and her child to King's Landing?"
"Lyanna is heavy with child. I cannot risk her traveling. She will join us after the birth."
"She has not even birthed the babe yet?!"
"No. But soon, our daughter will—"
"How can you possibly know it is a daughter?!"
"The prophecy declared—"
"TO HELL WITH YOUR PROPHECY!" Daeron bellowed, his voice ringing across the banks as he pointed a trembling finger at Rhaegar, veins bulging along his neck. "Prophecies are useless drivel that bring nothing but fire and ruin! You have shattered the realm for a delusion!"
Rhaegar stared up at him, shocked into silence, his mouth opening and closing as Daeron’s fury filled the night. Slowly, the elder prince rose to his feet to face him.
"It was foretold, Daeron. This war was merely—"
"YOUR GRACE!"
Several guards came sprinting toward Daeron and Rhaegar in a sudden panic, their faces pale, as if the world itself had broken open beneath their feet.
"A prisoner escaped! He... he put a blade through Prince Lewyn!"
Rhaegar’s eyes widened in horror. But before he could even draw breath, Daeron was already running—racing toward the prisoner pens where the wounded knight lay. He shoved his way through the circle of men frantically gathered there.
"Out of my way!" Daeron barked, throwing guards aside. "Move, all of you!"
"My prince..."
Lewyn’s voice was barely a whisper, hollowed out by pain. Daeron knelt beside him, his eyes falling upon the dagger buried hilt-deep in the Dornishman’s belly. Blood pooled around him, black and thick in the grass. There was no surviving such a wound; the steel had cut too deep.
"Why is no one tending to him?! Save him, damn you!" Daeron roared, but Lewyn reached up with a bloodied hand, catching Daeron by the sleeve.
"Don't..." Lewyn wheezed, shaking his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Don't..."
Daeron’s brow furrowed in fierce frustration. "What do you mean, don't?! You are bleeding out—"
"We both know my watch is ended," Lewyn rasped, forcing a small, bitter smile that broke into a wet cough. "I fought for my niece... for my land. I fought well enough."
"Hold your tongue!" Daeron growled. He stared at the hilt protruding from Lewyn’s stomach, his stomach twisting. Pulling it would only let the tide out faster.
"Thank you... for protecting me in the thick of it," Lewyn whispered.
"No. It was you who shielded me."
"No..." Lewyn shook his head slowly, his voice fading. "Before that... you threw yourself between me and a Baratheon warhammer. I only returned the favor. It seems that hammer took more than your footing... it took your memories."
Daeron winced, a sudden pang of guilt striking him for lying to a dying man.
Rhaegar arrived then, dropping to his knees on the other side of Lewyn, his chest heaving under his ruined armor.
"Prince Lewyn... forgive me. I swear to you, the man who did this will face the king’s justice."
"Silver Prince," Lewyn rasped, his dark eyes shifting to Rhaegar. His voice was no louder than the rustle of leaves. "You are my niece’s husband. She loved you... Why did you cast her aside? What did Elia ever do to deserve such shame?"
"Elia did nothing wrong," Rhaegar replied, his tone firm yet heavy. "Believe me, my prince, this was done for her protection as well. For the good of all who remain."
Daeron dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from striking Rhaegar across the face again. Lewyn merely closed his eyes, letting out a weak moan before whispering, "Leave us... leave me with Prince Daeron."
Rhaegar hesitated, but the glare Daeron offered him—combined with the sight of Lewyn’s fading strength—forced him to yield. He rose and signaled for the guards to fall back, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet shadows of the camp.
Daeron’s dark purple eyes flicked toward the stockade, where a roaring prisoner was being dragged away in chains. The assassin. But a sudden, fierce grip on his wrist jerked Daeron’s attention back to Lewyn, whose dark eyes were wide, burning with a sharp, terrifying clarity.
"Who are you?"
Daeron’s breath caught in his throat. Silence settled over them, heavier and colder than the aftermath of the battle they had just won.
"You are not Aerys and Rhaella’s son," Lewyn hissed, his fingers tightening around Daeron’s wrist with the last of his strength, even as his breath hitched in his chest. "Tell me... who are you?"
Daeron let out a slow breath, followed by a harsh, quiet laugh. He placed his hand over Lewyn’s bleeding fingers. "It seems death makes men see phantoms."
"You are no Prince Daeron Targaryen," Lewyn said, his tone low, sharp as a Dornish viper. "Speak the truth, my lord. None will hear it... I shall carry it to the Stranger's realm."
Daeron stared down at the dying Dornishman—at the blood soaking through his gambeson, at his pale, sweat-slicked face. Slowly, he inclined his head.
"Still Daeron Targaryen. But no mere prince."
"Ah..." Lewyn let out a dry, raspy breath, his grip beginning to slip. His sharp gaze softened into wonder, his eyelids heavy as lead. "Daeron the Good?"
"The Young Dragon," Daeron corrected softly, a grim smile touching his lips.
"I see..." Lewyn murmured, coughing up a spatter of crimson that ruined the silver filigree of Daeron’s plate. "So that is why... our living corpse of a prince suddenly fought like a demon... and asked so hungrily of Baelor and Viserys..."
"They were my kin," Daeron whispered.
"Aye..." Lewyn’s eyes flickered, slipping shut, then opening just a crack. "I have kin, too... I should like to see them..."
Daeron closed his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair in raw frustration. "Do not die on me, damn you! Live, and I swear by the Seven I will make you Lord Commander of my Kingsguard when I claim the crown!" He pressed his hand over Lewyn’s wound, trying uselessly to stem the dark flow. "Hold on! I promise I will restore the honor of Dorne—"
"Cease your foolishness!" Lewyn hissed weakly, shoving Daeron’s hand away. "So that is your game? To wear the crown? Will you cut down Rhaegar?"
"From the moment I opened my eyes in this wretched time, I knew—"
"Listen to me!" Lewyn interrupted, his fingers digging desperately into Daeron’s shoulder. "I have no time left... but my niece does. Go to her. Seek out the Dornish... and promise me one thing."
"I make no promises—"
"Promise me!" Lewyn choked out, his chest rattling as the light faded from his eyes. "Elia... my niece... drag her from that gilded cage... free her and her children..."
The hand on Daeron’s shoulder went limp and fell away into the mud. Lewyn Martell breathed no more, his dark eyes staring blindly up into the overcast sky.
And Lewyn died taking his secret with him.