Chapter Text
"Princess, are you alright?”
She nodded, her jaw clenched as anger burned beneath her calm façade. Words churned inside her, unspoken, as her mind replayed Viserys’s demands. They hadn’t shocked her—no, she had expected his duplicity. But the sheer audacity of it still filled her with a hot, consuming rage.
She should have known it wouldn’t be as easy as she had hoped. That Viserys would never let this marriage stand without testing her resolve. Now, he had made his intentions clear, his words laced with suspicion. He must have guessed something had happened when she returned alone. Daenerys cursed inwardly, blaming Otto for planting the seeds of doubt in her father’s mind. Whatever lies the leech had spun, they’d worked.
She ripped a black robe from the chest of drawers, slamming it shut so hard the wood groaned in protest. Her movements were sharp as she reached for her sword belt, her fingers brushing the hilt of her Valyrian steel blade. Viserys’s threats rang in her ears—talk of disinheritance, of replacing her with Aegon or Aemond, his sons by Alicent.
The idea of either of them as king churned her stomach. Aegon, already prone to drunkenness and violence at fourteen, and Aemond, always lurking in shadows with a smirk that promised cruelty. Neither boy had the strength or the will to rule.
No, the House of the Dragon was falling, and it was Viserys’s weakness that had led them here. She would not stand by and watch their legacy crumble. She would rebuild it, restore its glory—but only with Daemon at her side.
Daemon. Her husband. The man Viserys now expected her to betray. What did they think? That she would break, cower under their threats? They didn’t know her. They didn’t understand the fire that burned in her veins, stoked long ago by Baelon’s teachings.
She wasn’t a flickering candle, blown out by a gust of wind. She was a storm. And while the rest of the world might see Daemon as a beast, she knew better. He had made her his wife—not in name alone, like Rhea Royce—but truly. He saw her for what she was: a dragon.
“Welcome back, Princess.”
The slimy voice froze her in place. Otto Hightower stood there, his expression smug, every word dripping with false politeness. Her body trembled, not with fear, but with the force of the rage she was barely holding back.
She had to decide—now—whether to play the game or let her fury take control. She chose the game.
“Good day, Otto,” she said, her voice sweet as honey, masking the venom underneath. “What brings me the pleasure of your visit?” Sheathing her sword with deliberate care, she imagined driving it through his chest and letting dragonfire do the rest.
“Your marriage doesn’t seem to be going well,” Otto began, his tone oily. “You’ve returned without Prince Daemon. Surely, you must now see the mistake you’ve made. He manipulated you, of course, as any seasoned rogue would. How could a young woman such as yourself resist?”
Ah, yes. The old trope. A woman’s mind, too weak to resist the charms of a man. How predictable. But his arrogance gave her the advantage.
“I was dazzled,” she said softly, letting her voice waver as though close to tears. Lowering her eyes, she let her shoulders slump just slightly. “You must understand—his daring, his charm—it was too much.”
Otto’s smirk widened. “That is why I’m here, Princess. To ensure you heed your father’s wishes. Daemon must die. The realm will be better without him. And once that is done, the king has decided on a better match for you—one more befitting your station.”
His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “Aegon will soon be of age. This time, the king is resolute. You will marry your blood.”
Her stomach churned, but she forced a sweet, docile smile onto her lips. “Of course, Otto. I will do whatever my father commands.”
Otto left, satisfied, his steps echoing down the hall. The moment he was gone, Daenerys’s expression hardened. The sweetness vanished, replaced by cold fury.
The House of the Dragon was decaying, its glory tarnished by weak men like Viserys. Rhaenyra married to a man who cared more for his pleasures than his duty. Children born into scandal, their legitimacy questioned at every turn. And leeches like Otto Hightower draining what little strength remained in the king.
Yet, Viserys failed to see the truth. Daemon, for all his flaws, had spent his life defending the Targaryen legacy. Yes, his methods were bloody, ruthless, but his loyalty to their house had never wavered. Viserys saw only hunger for power, refusing to acknowledge the man beneath.
Outright defiance wasn’t an option—not yet. The consequences would come swiftly and without mercy. But Daenerys had a plan. Otto’s arrogance had revealed too much. His rash words hinted at deeper schemes, and she would find proof of his treachery. She would expose him.
Viserys might be blind to Otto’s manipulation, but she had no choice. For her, for Daemon, and for the House of the Dragon, she would uncover the truth. One way or another, Otto Hightower would fall.
She quickly slipped into sturdier clothes, tugging at the fabric to ensure it fit snugly before fastening her sword belt securely. Over it, she draped a concealing black cloak, pulling the hood low over her face.
“Ser Erryk!” she called, her voice cutting through the stillness.
The knight entered promptly, his expression sharp and attentive. “Princess?”
“I need your help,” she said firmly. “You know this city better than I do, and I need to find someone—someone who deals in information. By tonight, I need someone who might know of assassins or have knowledge about the massacre of my brothers. A plot has been set in motion against me, and I will not sit idle.”
Ser Erryk didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask a single question. He gave a single nod, his jaw tight, before striding out of the room.
By the time dusk began to settle, Erryk returned and gestured for her to follow. To avoid drawing attention, she purchased a small vial of poison from an apothecary along the way, ignoring the knight’s confused glances. She had neither the time nor patience to explain herself, and she simply waved him ahead.
Their path twisted deeper into the shadowy alleys of Flea Bottom, where the air grew thick with the smell of rot and sweat. Erryk knocked three times on a warped wooden door, his movements deliberate.
The door creaked open to reveal an unexpectedly well-dressed man, his gaze flickering briefly to Daenerys before he stepped aside to let them in.
“Who are you? What do you want?” the man asked curtly, his tone clipped.
Ser Erryk had wisely foregone his armor and cloak, blending into their surroundings more seamlessly. The man didn’t seem to recognize her—or didn’t care to.
“I’ve heard you know something about the deaths of the king’s bastard sons,” she said, her words dripping with contempt.
The man stiffened, his eyes darting between her and the knight. “Who wants to know?”
She stepped forward, her voice dropping to a cold whisper. “Someone who is very unhappy. Tell me, wasn’t the princess supposed to die once?”
At her signal, Erryk raised his sword, pressing the blade firmly against the man’s throat. The steel glinted in the dim light, and the man swallowed audibly, his hands raising in submission.
“Wait, wait! This must be a misunderstanding!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I—I don’t know much, but yes, I remember. It was years ago, just after the young prince was born. A masked man came with a fortune in gold, offering it to anyone willing to kill the children. It was meant to be covered up by stealing dragon eggs.”
The man’s words came faster now, panic overtaking his caution. “Three brothers took on the task. They… they killed the boys, but the girl—she survived.”
Daenerys felt her breath catch, her fury bubbling just below the surface. Her hands remained still, though her mind churned with thoughts of vengeance.
“And who hired this masked man?” she demanded, her voice icy.
The man faltered, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find an answer. The blade pressed harder against his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
“I—I don’t know!” he croaked. “I swear, I only heard whispers. Please, have mercy!”
Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her hood. “Mercy is a luxury,” she said softly, “one you’ll find only if you remember something useful.”
The man’s breathing quickened, his panic filling the air like a stench. She let the silence hang, suffocating, as she waited for him to decide whether his fear of her was greater than his fear of whoever had paid the gold.
Now, tell me,” Daenerys demanded, her voice sharp and cutting. “Who was this man? I find it hard to believe you don’t know. What were his reasons? Speak, or it will cost you more than you’re willing to lose!”
She gave a subtle nod, and Ser Erryk pressed the blade harder against the man’s throat, the cold steel eliciting a shudder from him.
“I can’t!” the man whimpered, his eyes darting wildly. “I mustn’t say it—they’ll kill me!”
“If you don’t speak, you’ll die anyway,” Daenerys hissed, stepping closer. Her lilac eyes gleamed with fury beneath the shadow of her hood. “I will protect you if you tell the truth. But I need a name. Who is the third man? Where can I find him?”
With deliberate slowness, she pulled back her hood, revealing her face. The man gasped sharply, his trembling growing more pronounced as recognition dawned.
“P-Princess Daenerys,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “I—I didn’t know…” His words faltered under the weight of her penetrating gaze, every ounce of her anger burning in her eyes. Her jaw tightened, and her hands twitched at her sides, the urge to unleash her rage barely restrained.
“My honor has been tarnished, my prince’s life threatened, and innocent blood spilled,” she said, her voice low and deadly. “This is your last chance. Speak.”
The man swallowed hard, his hands raised defensively. “Swear to protect my life,” he pleaded, his desperation evident.
With a cold nod, Daenerys reached into her cloak and tossed a small bag of gold at his feet. The coins clinked against the ground, a sound that seemed to echo louder than her threats. Payment and fear—tools that often loosened tongues.
“It was Ser Otto Hightower,” the man finally confessed, his voice trembling. “He saw you as a threat to his grandson. The king was always speaking of you—and of the bastards. He said it had to be done in secret.”
The man hesitated, his eyes darting nervously to Ser Erryk before continuing. “There’s a rumor… that he poisoned Queen Aemma. That he weakened her body to ensure she couldn’t survive the birth of an heir. Afterward, he sent his daughter to the king, ensuring she would become queen.”
The words came faster now, spilling out in a mix of fear and eagerness to appease. “The smallfolk despise him. They whisper of his hatred for you and the princess. But you and Princess Rhaenyra—the people love you. You’re kind, you’ve cared for them. That’s why he acts, to crush what little loyalty the realm has left for you.”
He licked his lips nervously. “The men who carried out his orders… They’re outcasts, disgraced members of his own family. One of them, Darkon Waters, still lives. He’s a wretched man, holed up in a shack not far from here. He’s the last of them.”
Daenerys clenched her teeth, her fury barely contained. The man’s words would mean nothing before the small council—his kind were untrustworthy at best—but they gave her something far more valuable: certainty.
Otto Hightower. The puppet master behind it all.
This revelation wouldn’t strip Alicent of her crown, nor would it rid her of the Hightowers entirely. But it was a thread she could pull, a weapon she could wield. If Otto dared to present himself as noble, to call out Daemon’s flaws or undermine her further, he would learn what it meant to cross her.
She pulled her hood back over her head, her mind racing with the possibilities. Turning sharply, she stepped out of the man’s dingy dwelling, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.
But as she exited, an arm wrapped firmly around her neck.
Instinctively, she stiffened, her breath hitching as her mind raced. Ser Erryk moved instantly, his hand already on his sword, but stopped abruptly.
Daenerys flinched at first, ready to fight, but then she caught it—a scent, warm and familiar, wrapping around her like a shield.
"What are you doing here?” he hissed imperiously in her ear, his tone sharp and cutting.
“I could ask you the same thing!” Daenerys snapped back, yanking herself free from his grasp. Her glare burned beneath the shadow of her hood as she eyed his similarly cloaked figure. “Shouldn’t you be at the Vale? Or are the rumors true—that you’re already hunting for new whores?”
Daemon’s mouth twisted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I got you a wedding present,” he said mockingly, tossing a bloodstained bag at her feet.
The tattered fabric was damp with crimson, and she didn’t need to open it to know what it contained.
“You wanted his head,” he continued with a cruel smile. “I was on my way back when I saw you. What were you doing in there for so long?”
Daenerys exhaled sharply, her mind racing. Daemon Targaryen was nothing if not unpredictable. He had done exactly what she had asked, but as always, without warning or coordination. Yet, for all his recklessness, she realized something crucial in that moment—they had to work together. It was the only way they could face what lay ahead.
“I was gathering information,” she said, her voice firm but low. “We need to rid ourselves of Otto, but we can’t just cut off his head. His grip on Viserys is tighter than ever, and in such a short time. He’s the one responsible for the deaths of my brothers. He tried to have me eliminated, and now he’s failed twice. But Daemon—” Her voice dropped further, almost trembling. “They want you dead. It was Viserys who ordered me to kill you.”
Daemon stilled, the weight of her words settling over him. She watched him closely, expecting fury or betrayal, but instead, he looked almost unsurprised. He nodded slowly, his expression darkening, though a flicker of derision danced in his eyes.
“Then do it,” he challenged, his voice laced with quiet venom.
“Are you mad?” she hissed, her words almost a whisper.
“No. But we need to make it look like I’m dead,” he said, his tone suddenly cold and calculating. “We’re playing our own game now. Viserys is weak—he proves that again and again. But if we can force Otto to confess what he’s done, I will end him myself. Otto knows my death simplifies things for him, and that’s exactly why he needs to believe it’s real.”
Daenerys stared at him, disbelief etched across her face. “How in the Seven Hells are we supposed to pull that off?”
Daemon leaned closer as shadowy figures passed nearby, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “There’s a potion I know of. It mimics death for a short time—slows the breathing so much it’s imperceptible. It’ll be enough to fool them. Meanwhile, you need to provoke Otto in front of Viserys. Push him until he cracks, until he can’t help but reveal himself. Viserys won’t order his death—I know my brother—but he will send him away.”
“I hate this plan,” Daenerys growled, gripping his forearms tightly. It wasn’t the deception or danger that unnerved her. It was the thought of seeing Daemon—motionless, lifeless—that tightened her throat and sent a chill down her spine.
“It’s the only way,” Daemon said sharply, his fingers catching her chin as he tilted her face toward his. His fiery gaze bore into hers, his voice dropping to Valyrian.
“Pōnta jeldan naejot tymagon rūsīr perzys sīr pōnta jiōragon perzys. Se ānogar. Otto jāhor daor ūndegon se mōris hen bisa. Nyke dīnagon issa pāsagon isse ao. Ao jāhor mirre rūsīr bona kȳvanon. Se pōnta jāhor gūrēñagon naejot zūgagon ao, īlva.”
(They wanted to play with fire, so they will get fire. And blood. Otto will not see the end of this week. I put my trust in you. You will work with this plan. And they will learn to fear you—fear us.)
“Ivestragī ziry sagon zūgagon pār,” Daenerys whispered, her voice catching as the intensity of his words wrapped around her. (Let it be fear, then.)
Without waiting, she surged forward, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Her hands gripped the front of his cloak as if anchoring herself, her anger and desperation pouring into the embrace.
If this was what it took, she would do it. She would play the game as Daemon demanded, and she would ensure they emerged victorious.