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The Starry Sept of Oldtown was the most beautiful place Daeron had ever known, and he had come to it every night for three nights now. Each evening, he slipped away from the Hightower after the evening meal, making his way through the winding streets of the city until he reached the great black marble structure that dominated the city's heart. The sept was ancient—older than the Targaryen conquest, older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves—and its walls were lined with stained glass that told the stories of the gods in vivid colors that seemed to glow even in the darkness.
Tonight, as on the nights before, Daeron knelt before the altar of the Father. The candles flickered in their holders, casting dancing shadows across the seven-pointed star that dominated the sanctuary. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air, mixing with the cool breeze that drifted in through the open doors. The sept was empty at this hour—the septons had finished their evening prayers, the faithful had returned to their homes—and Daeron was alone with his thoughts and his fears.
He had been kneeling here for three nights now. His knees ached, his back was stiff, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. But he could not stop praying, could not stop begging the gods for guidance, for wisdom, for some sign that he was doing the right thing.
Father above, judge of the righteous, give me strength, he whispered, his voice barely audible. Mother below, protector of the faithful, shield me from harm. Warrior, guide my hands. Maiden, preserve my innocence. Crone, lend me your wisdom. Smith, forge my resolve. Stranger, I know not what fate awaits me, but I trust in your design.
He had never been more afraid in his life.
The news had come three days ago—a raven from King's Landing, its message sealed with the Hightower sigil. King Viserys was dead. Aegon had been crowned in the Red Keep. Rhaenyra had flown to Dragonstone, declaring herself queen in her own right. The realm was split in two, and war was coming.
Daeron had read the letter three times before the full weight of it settled on him. His father was dead—a man he barely remembered, a distant figure who had seemed more like a legend than a parent. His brother was king—a reluctant, unprepared king who had never wanted the crown. His older sister Rhaenyra was his enemy, her claim contested, her children threatened. And Daeron, the youngest son, the forgotten prince, was caught in the middle.
What am I supposed to do? he had asked himself, staring at the letter. Whose side am I supposed to take?
He had gone to the Starry Sept that night, seeking answers. He had come back the next night, and the night after that. And each time, he had found no answers—only silence, and the flickering candlelight, and the weight of his own desperation.
The first night, he had prayed for his family. He prayed for his mother, who rarely wrote to him, who seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely. He remembered her from his childhood—a beautiful woman with sad eyes and a distant smile—but the memory had faded over the years. She had sent him to Oldtown when he was barely more than a babe, and she had never come to visit. She wrote sometimes, brief letters that said little, and Daeron had learned not to expect more.
Mother, he prayed, I do not know if you remember me, but I remember you. I remember your voice, your hands, the way you used to brush my hair. Please, keep yourself safe. Please, do not let the madness consume you.
He prayed for Aegon, the brother he barely knew. They had never been close, separated by the years and the distance. Aegon had been the heir, the golden child, the one who could do no wrong. Daeron had always admired him from afar, had wished for his approval, but had never received it.
Brother, he prayed, I do not know if you wanted this crown, but I know you did not ask for it. Please, be wise. Please, be just. Do not let the hatred of our family destroy you.
He prayed for Aemond, consumed by the memory of his lost eye and the hatred that had festered since that night at Driftmark. Daeron had not been there—he had been in Oldtown, safe and far away—but he had heard the stories. He had heard how Aemond had confronted Luke, how the violence had erupted, how blood had been spilled. He had heard how Aemond had never forgiven, had never let go of his rage.
Brother, he prayed, I know you are angry. I know you have been wronged. But please, do not let your hatred consume you. Do not let it turn you into something monstrous.
He prayed for Helaena, lost in her grief, her strange prophecies and her sad eyes. He had always loved Helaena, had always felt a kinship with her, had always understood that she was as much a prisoner of their family as he was.
Sister, he prayed, I do not know what you see in your dreams, but I pray that you find peace. I pray that you find happiness. You deserve better than this.
He prayed for his half-sister Rhaenyra, the woman who should have been queen, whose child had been born dead because of the cruelty of his family. He had heard the rumors—how she had miscarried when she heard of Viserys's death, how the child Visenya had been born deformed and stillborn, how she had been consumed by grief and rage.
Sister, he prayed, I do not know if you will ever forgive our family for what we have done. I do not know if I deserve your forgiveness. But I pray that you find peace. I pray that you find justice. I pray that this madness ends before it destroys us all.
He prayed for her children—Jace, who had been his friend; Luke, who had taken his brother's eye; Joffrey, who was barely more than a child. He remembered Jace's kindness, Luke's laughter, the way they had all played together in the gardens of the Driftmark. He remembered how it had felt to be included, to be accepted, to feel like he was part of something.
Jace, he prayed, you were always the best of us. You were always kind and wise and just. Please, remember what we were. Please, remember that we were friends. Please, listen to me when I come.
He prayed for them all, and he wept.
The second night, he had prayed for guidance. What am I supposed to do? he had asked the gods, his voice cracking with exhaustion. How do I stop this madness? How do I save my family from themselves?
The candles had flickered, the incense had burned low, and Daeron had heard nothing but the whisper of his own heart. But in the silence, an idea had formed—a desperate, dangerous idea that had taken root in his mind and grown like a weed.
I can go to Driftmark, he thought. I can speak with Jace. I can offer myself as a hostage, a guarantee of good faith. If I give myself into their keeping, perhaps they will see that I am sincere. Perhaps they will be willing to negotiate.
It was a foolish idea. Daeron knew that. He was not a diplomat, not a statesman, not a man of cunning or strategy. He was just a boy who had been sent away from his family, raised by an uncle who saw him as a burden, forgotten by a mother who had never had time for him. But he was also the only one who could do this. The only one who remembered what it was like to be a child in the gardens of the Driftmark, playing with Jace and Luke, pretending they were brothers. The only one who still believed that peace was possible.
On the third night, he had made his decision. He would go to Driftmark. He would find Jace. He would offer himself as a hostage, as proof of his sincerity. He would make them see that there was another way.
The sky above the Narrow Sea was the color of tarnished silver, heavy with clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. Daeron Targaryen had been flying for three days, stopping only twice to rest Tessarion on small islands where the sheep were plentiful and the inhabitants too frightened to approach a dragon. He had not slept properly in that time, had not eaten more than dried meat and hard lenten bread, had not allowed himself to consider what he was doing or the terrible risk he was taking.
He was tired. He was frightened. And he was absolutely certain that this was the right thing to do.
Below him, Tessarion's wings beat with steady rhythm, each stroke carrying them closer to Driftmark. The dragon was a creature of blue and copper, her scales gleaming like scattered sapphires against the grey sky. She had been his companion since childhood, hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was barely old enough to walk. She knew his moods, his fears, his deepest secrets. She knew that he was doing something foolish, and she did not approve.
I know, Daeron thought, reaching down to stroke her warm neck. I know this is dangerous. But I have to try. Someone has to try.
The white banner of truce fluttered from a pole attached to Tessarion's harness, its pale fabric snapping in the wind. It was a symbol of peace, of parley, of the sacred traditions that had governed warfare in Westeros for thousands of years. Daeron had sewn it himself, working by candlelight in his chambers at Oldtown, his fingers clumsy with nervousness.
He had not told anyone what he was doing. His grandfather would have forbidden it. His uncles would have called him a fool. His brother Aegon—newly crowned King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, though the crown sat uneasily on his head—would have laughed and told him to stay out of the way. They did not understand. They could not see that this war would destroy everything, that they were all family, all children of the same cursed dragon blood, all doomed to burn if they could not find a way to stop the madness.
Daeron had laid awake in his chambers in the Hightower for three nights before making his decision. He had stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the stone, trying to find a way out of the trap that was closing around them all. He had thought of his mother's face, pale and desperate. He had thought of his brother Aegon, a reluctant king who had never wanted the crown. He had thought of Aemond, consumed by hatred, and Helaena, lost in her grief, and the innocent people who would suffer and die while the dragons danced.
And he had thought of Jacaerys Velaryon—Jace, his milk brother, the boy he had played with in the gardens of the Driftmark when they were both too young to understand the weight of their bloodlines. Jace was known throughout the realm for his wisdom and diplomacy. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, the man who would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms if his mother's claim prevailed. He was reasonable, intelligent, and above all, he hated war.
If I can speak with Jace, Daeron had reasoned, if I can make him see that there is another way, perhaps we can find a path to peace. Perhaps we can stop the madness before the dragons burn everything.
And if not Jace, then Lord Corlys Velaryon himself—the Sea Snake, the Master of Driftmark, the man who had sailed the world and seen its wonders and its horrors. Corlys was no fool. He understood that war was a waste of treasure and blood, that the realm would bleed for years if the Targaryens turned on each other. He would listen to reason. He would see the wisdom in Daeron's proposal.
Even if they do not accept my terms, Daeron thought, they will at least hear me out. They will know that I came in good faith. They will not harm an envoy bearing a white banner of truce. That is not the Velaryon way.
He had allowed himself to believe in that certainty. He had allowed himself to hope.
The castle of High Tide rose from the sea like a vision from a dream. Its pale white stone gleamed in the grey light, its slender towers reaching toward the sky like fingers grasping for something just out of reach. It sat on a small tidal island, connected to the main land by a narrow causeway that would be submerged at high tide. The sea lapped at its foundations, endless and beautiful and utterly indifferent to the fate of kingdoms.
Daeron's breath caught in his throat as he saw it. He had visited High Tide once, as a child, when Hightowers from Old Town had come to Driftmark for a tourney. He remembered the grandeur of the Hall of Nine, with its treasures from a dozen distant lands. He remembered the tapestries depicting the great sea voyages of House Velaryon, and the Driftwood Throne that had sat in the great hall, blackened and ancient, a symbol of power that predated the Targaryen conquest.
He remembered Jace, standing beside him, their shoulders touching as they watched the knights joust. They had been friends then, milk brothers, bound by the shared experience of the nursery. Jace had been kind to him, had treated him like a brother, had never made him feel like the outsider he had always been.
He will remember, Daeron thought, his heart aching with hope. He will remember the gardens and the games. He will remember that we were friends. He will listen.
Tessarion began her descent, her wings angling to catch the wind. Daeron felt his stomach lurch, not from fear but from the weight of everything he was about to do. He had rehearsed his speech a hundred times, had imagined every possible outcome, had prepared himself for the worst.
But nothing could have prepared him for the emptiness of the courtyard.
No guards rushed forward to meet him. No archers took aim from the battlements. No one stood at the gate to welcome him or to arrest him. The courtyard was eerily silent, as if the castle itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Daeron dismounted, his boots striking the stone with a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness. Tessarion growled low in her throat, her tail lashing with unease. She did not like this place. She did not like the silence, the emptiness, the sense of waiting.
It's all right, Daeron thought, stroking her snout. It's all right. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps Jace is in council. Perhaps Corlys is with the fleet. Perhaps aunt Rhaenys will greet me and explain everything.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was not true. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
And then the great doors of High Tide opened, and Lucerys Velaryon walked out.
Daeron's heart plummeted.
He had expected Jace. He had expected Corlys. He had expected anyone but definetely not young prince. But there he was—Lucerys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides in his grandfather's absence, standing in the courtyard of High Tide with the weight of authority settled on his shoulders like a cloak. He was older than Daeron remembered, his features sharpened by grief and anger. The boyish softness that had once clung to him was gone. He looks enterily different person and in some cases stranger, who was dressed in a doublet of sea-blue velvet, silver clasps at his throat, and his dark curls had been cropped short, revealing the scar that ran across his cheek. He was flanked by guards—hard-faced sellswords in mismatched armor, their eyes devoid of mercy.
Daeron's mouth went dry. He had not seen Luke since the day at Tourney in High Tide. But did not expect so much radical brutal changes.
He is different now, Daeron thought, his throat tight. Time has changed him. Just as it has changed all of us.
But he forced himself to speak, forced his voice to remain steady. "Lucerys. I had hoped to speak with your brother Jace. Or your grandfather, Lord Corlys."
Luke's smile was cold as something goes wrong. "For you, he is crown prince Jacaerys, don’t dare to show your disrespect this way in my castle. By the way, he is in the North now, negotiating with Lord Cregan Stark. What about my grandsire? He is away with the fleet, securing the Stepstones." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You will have to make do with me."
Daeron swallowed hard. "I came to speak of peace. To offer myself as a hostage, a guarantee of good faith. If I stay here, under your protection, perhaps we can—"
"You came to offer yourself," Luke interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. "You came to give yourself into our keeping. You came hoping to prevent the war."
"Yes," Daeron said, relief flooding through him. "Yes, that is exactly—"
"Then you are a fool," Luke said flatly. "The war has already begun, Uncle. My mother has been crowned Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Your brother has been crowned King. There are two rulers in Westeros, and both of them want the same throne. There is no avoiding the war."
"Then we must find a way to end it," Daeron said, his voice rising with desperation. "Before the dragons burn everything. Before all of us are dead. Please, Lucerys—please—I know you remember what it was like, when we were children. I know you remember the gardens, the games, the—"
"I remember," Luke said, and his voice was cold. "I remember everything. I remember you, Daeron. The quiet, beautiful and gentle one. The one they sent away to Oldtown to hide." His gaze flickered to Daeron's hair, to the red strands that were already starting to fade. "I remember you playing with Jace, being kind to me, pretending we were brothers. And I remember that you were always a liar."
Daeron flinched as if struck. "I was not—I am not—"
"Your family stole my mother's throne," Luke said, stepping closer. "Your family murdered my baby sister. Your brother Aemond want to took my eye and would have taken my life. And now you come here, with your white flag of truce, offering yourself as a hostage." He laughed, and it was a terrible sound. "You are a fool, Uncle. A naive, foolish boy who believes that peace can be bought with a performative kindness. And you are going to pay the price."
Daeron's heart was racing. He had known this was a risk, had known that he might be arrested or even killed. But he had not expected this—the cold hatred in Luke's eye, the absolute certainty that he was in the wrong.
"I am not the enemy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I came to help. I came to stop the madness. I came because I remembered who we were, in the gardens, when we were children. I came because I believed there was still good in both of us. Please, we are the family —"
"Enough." Luke gestured, and the guards surrounded Daeron. "You are my prisoner now, Uncle. And I intend to use you very, very well."
Daeron felt the world tilt around him. "Use me? For what?"
Luke smiled, and it was a terrible thing to behold—a boy's smile on a man's face, full of cruel delight. "For everything," he said. "For the crown. For my mother's honor. For the death of my baby-sister. In fact, I loose my chance to marry her, because of your family intrigues." He reached out, touching Daeron's face with a gentleness that was somehow worse than violence. "You will pay for everything, Uncle. You will pay for all of it."
The guards seized Daeron's arms, their grips like iron. Tessarion roared in fury, her blue flames licking the sky, but the sellswords did not flinch. They had been hired for this, Daeron realized—hired to face dragons and not run. His hope crumbled to dust.
"Wait—" he tried to say, but Luke cut him off.
"Take him inside. Chain him in the dungeons. And send word to King's Landing that we have captured a prince of the blood."
As the guards dragged him toward the great doors, Daeron looked back at Luke, desperate for some sign of the boy he had once known. But there was nothing. Only cold calculation, and the bitter taste of revenge.
The doors of High Tide closed behind him, and Daeron's last hope went with them.