99 AC / 54 HA
Baelon Targaryen
That wantwit, thick-headed fool. How dare he presume that this course of action would serve him well. I should have known the boy would resort to extreme measures. War—that is his solution to an unhappy marriage in the Vale. I worry to wonder what he might do when he faces a greater existential threat to himself. Who am I japing? He would commit genocide were he to face a genuine threat upon his life.
The madness had begun only days prior, beneath the cavernous, vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall.
Flashback
The hall was vast enough to feast a thousand men, its high, narrow windows casting long shafts of pale daylight across the ornate carpets. I stood at the foot of the high platform. High above me, seated at the pinnacle of the steep iron steps, was my father.
King Jaehaerys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne. It was a jagged monstrosity of spikes, edges, and twisted metal. Forged by the Conqueror from the melted, broken blades of his defeated enemies, the fanged steel fanned out like talons from the arms of the chair. Even after nearly a century, many of the thousand blades remained sharp enough to cut bone. Aegon had intended the throne to be deeply uncomfortable, believing that a king should never sit easy. As a result, the towering chair was a constant, physical threat to its occupant. Maegor was proof enough but not Jaehaerys. Father in his long years upon this throne had learned to find comfort in its thorns.
The murmurs of our political discussion were suddenly interrupted. The towering oak-and-bronze doors at the far end of the long hall groaned open.
The sound of hurried, shuffling footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Grand Maester Allar was practically running, his heavy chain of assorted metals clinking wildly against his grey robes. His ancient face was drawn tight, his expression deeply weary and pale as he swiftly bypassed the guards aligned along the walls.
Allar stopped at the base of the iron steps, bowing deeply before the towering throne.
"Your Grace," he breathed, clutching a tightly rolled parchment in his liver-spotted hands. "Prince Baelon. Forgive this sudden intrusion."
"What troubles you, Grand Maester?" Father asked, his voice carrying effortlessly through the cavernous space.
"I have received a most strange missive, Your Grace," Allar replied, attempting to hide a tremble as he held up the scroll.
I frowned as I walked to collect the scroll. "Strange in what manner, Grandmaester? Is it another scuffle between lords, or is the text written in some obscure cipher?"
The old man shook his head slowly. "The parchment is perfectly legible and written in High Valyrian, my Prince. The strangeness lies in its delivery. It was not brought by a raven. It was delivered to my rookery by an owl."
I let out a dismissive scoff. "An owl? That is unseen in these halls, certainly, but hardly strange enough to leave a man of your learning looking as though he has seen a ghost. A bird is a bird."
Allar swallowed hard, his weary eyes darting between me and the King high above. "It is the seal that unsettles me, my Prince. And the author."
Father shifted on the throne, his hands navigating the jagged metal barbs of the armrests to avoid cutting his palms. "Speak plainly, Allar. Who sends us this letter by night bird?"
The Grand Maester held the heavy parchment out. The broken wax seal dangling from the ribbon caught the light—a Circlet housing a Triangulum within which sat a straight line.
"It comes from across the Narrow Sea, Your Grace," Allar answered, his voice barely above a whisper. "From the Imperium a direct missive for the Iron Throne, penned by the Emperor himself."
The old King's confusion mirrored my own. Father leaned forward, the shadows of the jagged barbs stretching across his face. "That is indeed strange."
"Read it, Baelon," he commanded, his voice cutting through the cavernous silence of the hall.
I unrolled the heavy parchment and began to read aloud.
"TO JAEHAERYS TARGARYEN KING OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, SON OF AENYS,
I write to inform you that a most curious creature has entered my demesne, an unexpected arrival the repercussions of doing so hold my hand from crossing your progeny off to die. Wet with the arrogance of youth, Daemon Targaryen has trespassed into the Imperium upon his mount Caraxes, an act treated with impunity elsewhere but met with absolute severity in Rome. And as such, once captured, Prince Daemon will be kept prisoner until a member of House Targaryen with sufficient authority to negotiate on your behalf arrives at Ctesiphon.
Burn the thought from your mind of relying upon the might of your dragons to stage a rescue, as the Dornish are far from the only ones to fell such a beast and the Imperium will not suffer the losses they did. This letter shall reach by the time Daemon is captured. Of that, have no doubt.
IMPERATOR AETERNUS FIGULUS HADRIANUS"
By the time I finished reading, I fully understood the Grand Maester's pale, haunted expression. I had to summon every ounce of my restraint to keep from crushing the heavy parchment in my fist. A fierce, protective rage bubbled within me at the sheer impertinence of the letter—the utter lack of royal decorum and the brazen threats against my blood.
Yet, eclipsing that anger was a profound, suffocating helplessness directed entirely at my youngest son. Deep worry tightened my chest at the thought of Daemon being held captive in a foreign land. A stubborn part of my Targaryen pride doubted this Emperor's boast; capturing a seasoned Dragonlord mounted upon the Blood Wyrm was a monumental task. But war is a cruel and fickle master. Rhaenys and my beloved brother Aemon were the bloodied proof.
"This does not bode well for us," Father murmured, his fingers drumming lightly against the iron armrest. "Daemon entering the Imperium astride Caraxes is a foolish provocation. For Rome to interpret it as an act of invasion complicates this disaster tenfold." The King shifted his sharp gaze toward the stationed gold cloaks. "Summon Prince Viserys and the Queen. Post-haste."
The guard bowed sharply and hurried from the hall.
"Father, I believe I should depart immediately and negotiate for Daemon's release," I voiced, rolling the parchment back up.