With a heavy, earth-shaking thud, Vhagar landed in the centre of the wide courtyard, her massive talons gouging the pristine marble. She folded her colossal wings, but her agitation only grew. She shifted her heavy bulk constantly, letting out sharp, hissing breaths as her golden eyes darted toward the towering palace walls.
As I unbuckled the heavy riding straps, a series of deafening sounds cracked through the quiet air—three successive, violent thunderclaps that seemed to echo from deep within the palace itself.
I snapped my head toward the sound, my hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of the sword at my hip, but there was no sign of a visible threat. The courtyard remained entirely still.
I dismounted, helping Vaegon down from the high saddle. As our boots hit the marble, a single figure detached himself from the silent ranks of the military guard and strode confidently toward us.
He was young—perhaps the same age as Viserys—with a clean-shaven, structured face and closely cropped black hair. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine without a trace of fear. He wore the heavy, polished black armour synonymous with the elite Praetorian Guard, but his chest plate was distinctly unique. It was deeply etched with intricate silver inscriptions that I could not begin to identify.
He stopped a few paces away and offered a crisp, formal bow. Vhagar growled at his approach but seeing my disposition did not do anything further.
"Prince Baelon. It is a pleasure to welcome you to Ctesiphon," he stated, his High Valyrian flawless, though carrying a sharp, clipped accent. "My name is Maximus, Commander of the Praetorians. Please, follow me to your accommodations. The Imperator will receive you in the Throne Room once the midday bell is struck."
Vaegon stepped forward, smoothing his wrinkled grey robes. "Commander Maximus. We thank you for your welcome. If it pleases you, might we see Prince Daemon immediately? We have travelled far to ascertain his condition."
Maximus offered a polite, practiced smile. "Certainly, Archmaester. Prince Daemon has been kept under comfortable house arrest. I shall lead you to his chambers at once, if you wish."
I was surprised he knew who Vaegon was even more so that he referred to him as Archmaester a title my brother had only recently acquired.
"I do wish it," I said firmly. I glanced back at my restless mount. "Should I have Vhagar relocated to a more secure holding area?"
"That will not be necessary," Maximus answered smoothly. "She will not be approached or harmed by anyone in Rome, Prince Baelon. You may ask her to rest here without worry. The courtyard is secure."
With a final, calming word to Vhagar in Valyrian, I turned and followed the young commander.
As we walked, I observed Maximus closely. For a man tasked with guarding the Emperor, he moved with an uncanny, rigid discipline. He walked in a perfectly straight line, his posture immaculate, carrying himself far more like a seasoned frontline soldier than the polished, tourney-bred knights of our own city guards back in King's Landing.
We passed through the towering double doors of the palace, and both Vaegon and I were struck silent.
The interior architecture was breathtaking. Sweeping arches and massive pillars of white marble lined the grand corridors, their surfaces interwoven with intricate, gilded carvings. The walls were adorned with massive, vivid tapestries and breathtaking frescoes depicting the ancient history of the Sarnori people and their eventual integration into the Empire. It was a monument to wealth and power, in many ways similar to but also heavily contrasting the dark stone of the Red Keep.
After ascending several flights of sweeping, ornate stairs, we reached the secure guest wing.
Maximus halted before a set of heavy oak doors flanked by two silent Praetorians. He offered a brief nod, and the guards hauled the doors open.
The chamber within was opulent, heated by a roaring hearth and bathed in natural light from a large balcony. Sitting at a polished table in the centre of the room, casually swirling a goblet of dark wine, was my son.
Daemon looked up as the heavy doors opened. He was wrapped in fresh gauze, his injuries having visibly healed to a certain extent. The crushing worry in my chest lessened at the sight of my son safe and relatively hale. He blinked, seemingly entirely surprised by my presence.
"F-father?" he stammered in stark confusion, clearly not expecting me at all.
I disregarded his shock, striding forward to embrace him.
"Daemon, you are well," I murmured, thanking the gods. He was still too battered and overwhelmed to formulate a proper reply.
"I shall give you some time alone, Prince Baelon," Maximus stated. He offered a crisp nod to his stationed guards, and the three Praetorians swiftly exited the chamber, sealing the doors behind them.
Now free from Imperial observation, I turned toward Vaegon, who had already seated himself at the polished table.
I released Daemon, my expression hardening into stone. "Sit. Tell us everything. Every minutia of detail—do not leave a single thing out. Your vainglorious pursuits will cost us dearly. It is better we are prepared than to walk blindly as sacrifices to this Emperor."
Daemon let out a defeated sigh, collapsing back into his seat. "I did not think you would be the one to come for me, but it is to be expected. You must be aware of the reason I fled. I primarily intended to travel to one of the Free Cities—Pentos or Braavos. But then I heard of the war brewing between Qohor and Rome. I thought... I thought perhaps this was my chance to forge a name for myself. To be something more than just another prince of the Targaryen dynasty."
He looked up at me, desperate for some fleeting sign of approval. Although my heart bled for him as a father, I could not give him what he so desperately desired.
"So you thought participating in a foreign war would win you the glory you so deeply crave?" Vaegon asked, his tone laced with disdain.
"At the time, yes," Daemon admitted. "I knew involving Caraxes would be a disaster, so I chose to hide him in the wilderness while I masqueraded as a sellsword. It was working flawlessly. Right until the night of the final siege."
The blood suddenly drained from his aristocratic face. I could visibly see the sheer terror gripping him as the memories surfaced. He looked toward me, his pale purple eyes filled with absolute helplessness.