Dragonstone
Daeron and Daenerys made their way to the Great Hall of Dragonstone. If it had not been Aegon who was the visitor, then Daeron might have paused for a moment to admire the dragon-mouth entrance. But it was Aegon Targaryen—or at least the young man with silver hair and dark purple eyes standing before him, who still claimed he was the real Aegon—and for that, Daeron had to stop himself from admiring. He continued toward the throne dais, where his aunt's council was waiting for her.
As Daeron walked toward the throne, his eyes roamed over the people standing beside Aegon. The first to catch his attention was someone standing beside Aegon with quiet confidence; the woman's skin and hair were enough for Daeron to put a name to her—Arianne Martell.
Arianne Martell stood with a quiet, sun-born confidence, her presence as warm and intoxicating as the Dornish heat itself. Her skin, kissed a rich golden bronze by the sun, seemed to glow against the sea-washed hues of her attire. The dress clung to her form like a second skin—light, flowing, yet deliberately tailored to follow every curve she was famed for, from the gentle swell of her hips to the proud, natural fullness of her bosom. Daeron's eyes lingered there for a moment—only a moment.
The fabric, a deep burnt orange threaded with hints of gold, shifted with every movement, catching the light like embers stirred to life. A daring neckline framed her collarbones and the soft rise of her chest, while the cinched waist only served to accentuate the fluid grace of her figure. Slits along the sides revealed glimpses of long, toned legs. Her dark hair fell loose, framing a face both striking and inviting—full lips curved in a knowing half-smile, and dark eyes that lingered just a moment too long, as if weighing, tempting, and challenging all at once.
Behind Arianne, two women dressed in lightweight Dornish leather armor stood armed. Daeron assumed them to be Sand Snakes, for Dorne did not discriminate against women who chose the path of steel as they did in the North of Dorne. Still, a princess would usually be guarded by men—unless she trusted the two women behind her completely. And Daeron knew of only one group trained well enough for such trust: the Sand Snakes.
Daeron and Daenerys soon reached the throne, and Daenerys hesitated for a moment before taking her seat upon it. "Grey Worm, bring a chair for my nephew," Daenerys commanded. The commander of the Unsullied bowed his head and moved to fetch a chair.
Daeron watched the Unsullied depart before turning toward his aunt. "You know, Aunt, you can always let me sit on the throne and take your seat on my lap." He did his best to keep his expression neutral despite the reactions of those present—and Daenerys's own. The Mother of Dragons tried to hide the embarrassment and blush rising to her face, but failed miserably.
Others were shocked, and when the shock faded after a heartbeat, some grew pleased, while others became unhappy or angry. The happiest among them was the Old, Bold knight, Barristan, who seemed decades younger with the bright, relieved smile and renewed resolve on his face.
"It seems we have arrived too late, Your Grace." The voice of a woman sounded, and Daeron turned toward Arianne, who was looking between Daenerys and him with a strained smile.
"It isn't fair, Princess Arianne, to not let your host know your motives behind the visit before deciding that it is a lost cause or that you have arrived too late," Tyrion said, sending a confused look toward Daeron before smirking at Arianne.
"Come now, little Lannister, neither you nor your queen, nor her council, is simple enough to not guess our purpose in coming here." Her dark eyes were filled with anger and disgust as she gazed at the youngest son of Tywin Lannister.
"Late or not, cousin, I still have to try. We are here, are we not? It is better if I at least try instead of simply turning back and returning to the Stormlands," Aegon said in a calm voice. His purple eyes were fixed on Daeron before shifting to Daenerys. "We have come here—I have come here—to reunite with my aunt, the sister of my father, the Silver Prince. The only one still alive bearing the Targaryen name other than me, after the death of Uncle Viserys."
"You know, Aegon, that your uncle Viserys, prideful and arrogant as he might have been, in his obsession to reclaim his rightful throne, even reached out to the Golden Company and promised them their return to Westeros, along with many grand things that he did not possess but believed were his to grant, as the true lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Do you know what response he received from the captain-general?" Daenerys asked, her eyes unamused. "He said it would be a cold day in hell before the Golden Company would fight under the banner of the red dragon. Now, I wonder why this same general is supporting you?"
Her words broke Aegon's calm façade as anger and humiliation flickered across young Griff's face.
"You accuse me of not being who I claim to be? Even after knowing that Jon Connington, who was the Hand of your father and a dear friend of my own father, supports my claim? You think the man who has been loyal to House Targaryen would lie about the identity of the heir to the Iron Throne, or that he would fail to recognize a Targaryen—his dear friend's son—when he sees one?" Aegon returned her questions with his own, his tone growing heated.
Before Daenerys or anyone else could respond, those dark purple eyes shifted toward Daeron. "What about him? He does not even possess Valyrian features; nothing about him suggests he is the son of the Silver Prince, and yet you address him as your nephew?"
"I have very strong proof of which blood flows through my veins, you know," Daeron said in an amused tone, unwilling to have his ancestry questioned by some pretender. "Would you like to meet Caraxes? I am sure my dragon would be delighted."
"I do not question your ancestry, Jon Snow. There is a strong chance that you are my baseborn half-brother. Hugh Hammer, Ulf White, Addam of Hull, and even that girl… Nettles—all of them had dragons. The Dance proved that dragons do not care whether one bears the Targaryen name or not; it is the blood of the dragon that calls to them. And you indeed have that blood flowing through your veins. But that, and your dragon, do not make you a trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. The whole realm knows what happened between my father and Lyanna Stark. I regret and am ashamed…"
Aegon stopped midway, his breath hitching as a sudden pressure descended upon the entire great hall. Though Daeron had not possessed full control over this ability before, he was improving. Unlike earlier, when his anger or killing intent would spiral out of control, merging into an overwhelming force that pressed upon everyone around him, now he could direct it—focus it upon a single target, so everyone does not get the full brunt of it. In other words, he could give his anger and hatred direction, aiming it squarely at the one who provoked it.
And the expression on this Blackfyre's face was answer enough for just how enraged Daeron truly was. Though by the looks of the others, he seems to fail in focusing entirely on Aegon.
Aegon was breathing heavily as his mind struggled with a sudden urge to run away from Daeron as far as he could. He felt as though he stood in the presence of something greater than himself—a predator that could end his life with the snap of its fingers. It was taking every scrap of his will, every ounce of his grit, not to kneel completely and lose control of his bodily functions.
[You know it is not your intent to kill that frightens him so much. This magical outpouring of yours makes you something of an apex predator to them; they—yes, everyone present here, not only Aegon—do not perceive you as human right now. At this moment, in all of their minds, there is an instinct urging them to run away from you as far as they can, the same instinct that compels rabbits or deer to flee when a carnivore approaches them. But in the case of humans, their minds are fighting their instincts, because their eyes see you as one of their own kind, yet their instincts tell them otherwise.]
"Oh, I assume it is the elder race blood in me that makes me an apex predator?" Daeron asked mentally of his companion.
[It might be, if those Earthsingers were right. Though I do not believe this is solely the effect of the Elder blood within you, but rather something born of the blood magic the Valyrians wrought upon themselves. If you wish to understand yourself more deeply, then we will need to conduct more rituals, for with the information we currently possess, I can offer only assumptions and guesses, Master,] Aether replied.
Daeron hummed thoughtfully in his mind.
"Nep… Nephe… Daeron," Daeron was pulled from his musings and looked toward Daenerys—and to Missandei, who was kneeling beside her throne. His eyes widened at the sight of the young girl, who was crying heavily, and upon seeing her in such a state, Daeron ceased the flow of his magic.
Instantly, Missandei's labored breaths eased, and she lifted her head to look at him in horror. Daeron did not allow anything to show on his face, but that look unsettled him—especially because it came from an ally. His gaze shifted to Daenerys, who was also looking at him with a mixture of fear and confusion.
Daeron turned away from them, his eyes settling on the kneeling figure of Aegon, with Arianne and the two Sand Snakes behind him in the same state.
"You… you vermin. It is all because of you. If you had held your bastard tongue, I would not have been forced to show you your place. Stand up, you weak little bastard—get out of my sight before I forget that you are here as a guest," Daeron shouted angrily, his voice echoing through the vast hall shaped like a dragon.