Alyxander the Great V

Daemon Targaryen sighed contentedly as he reclined in a cushioned chair in the gardens of the Red Keep. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of leaves above, casting dappled light across the lush greenery. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint salt of the nearby sea breeze.

He had missed this place. It had been far too long since he’d last enjoyed the simple pleasures of King’s Landing. His cousin, the King, had made him Archon of the Valyrian Marches. Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and the former Disputed Lands now fell under his rule.

Daemon smirked to himself as he mulled over the title. Archon. It was a fine word, far grander than the common “lord” used in Westeros. It made him feel important—above the petty lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

Over the past six years, the Valyrian Marches had begun to stabilize. Slavery, a cornerstone of the region’s economy for centuries, was being eradicated—slowly, painstakingly—at Alyxander’s insistence. Agriculture flourished, as the fertile lands of the former Disputed Lands were now used for farming, drawing settlers from the Reach, Stormlands, and beyond. Knights who had earned favor during the conquests were granted lands, and common folk sought new opportunities in the now peaceful fields of the Marches.

Of course, the region wasn’t without its challenges. Former nobles plotted in secret, chafing under Targaryen rule. Religious tensions simmered as former slaves, inspired by their liberator King, turned to the Faith of the Seven en masse. The High Septon, with Alyxander’s full blessing, sent missionaries to spread the faith. Some former slaves even began deifying Alyxander, seeing him as a savior.

“It’s only natural,” Alyxander had said to him when he told him of his deification.

The sound of soft, quick footsteps interrupted his musings. Daemon didn’t turn his head but allowed a sly smile to creep across his face. He knew those footsteps well.

His daughter, Alyssa, was sneaking up on him again. She thought herself clever, and to her credit, she was getting better at it every time. Daemon’s heart swelled as he listened to the rustle of leaves and the faint padding of her tiny feet on the garden path.

She was close now, almost upon him. He waited until the very last moment, then—

“Got you!” Alyssa shrieked triumphantly, throwing her small arms around his neck.

Daemon feigned surprise, letting out an exaggerated gasp. “You’ve bested me again, my little dragon!” he said, scooping her up into his arms. She giggled uncontrollably, her bright silver hair gleaming in the sunlight.

“I want to fly!” Alyssa declared, her voice full of excitement. “on Caraxes, Kepa!”

Daemon’s smile faltered ever so slightly. The last time he’d taken her flying, his usually composed wife, Rhaelle, had unleashed a storm of fury upon him. Her calm demeanor had shattered into a torrent of anger, leaving even Daemon—fearless and unshakable—momentarily afraid.

“Where’s your mother?” Daemon asked, hoisting Alyssa higher in his arms.

“She’s sitting by the big tree,” Alyssa replied matter-of-factly, pointing toward a cluster of shade further down the garden.

Daemon sighed but allowed a faint smile to grace his lips. “Of course she is,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on his daughter as he began walking toward the tree she’d indicated.

As he approached the “big tree,” as Alyssa called it, he saw Rhaelle seated beneath the sprawling branches, their one-year-old son, Laenor, nestled comfortably in her arms. Across from her sat Myria, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and once the subject of Daemon’s most colorful insults.

The two women looked up as Daemon approached.

“Ah,” Rhaelle said with a smirk, “she found you then.”

Daemon stopped before them, shifting Alyssa to his other arm. “You left her unattended,” he said, his tone bordering on scolding.

Rhaelle raised an eyebrow, her composure unshaken. “This is the Red Keep, is it not? The safest castle in all of Westeros?”

Daemon opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, knowing any argument would be futile. His wife always had a way of turning his words against him.

Instead, he turned his attention to Myria, offering a slight bow. “My queen,” he said, his voice stiff.

“Daemon,” Myria replied warmly, a hint of amusement in her tone. At that moment, her daughter Jocelyn came running to her, throwing herself into her mother’s arms.

Rhaelle stood, smoothing her skirts. “Now that you’re here,” she said, handing Laenor to Daemon, “why don’t you keep our queen company for a while? I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait, Rhae—” Daemon began, but Rhaelle had already turned and walked off, leaving him with Laenor squirming in his arms.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and Jocelyn’s quiet murmurs to her mother. Daemon stood awkwardly, shifting Laenor as the child wriggled in his grasp.

“You can sit, Daemon,” Myria said, breaking the silence. Her tone was light but carried a trace of teasing. “I won’t bite.”

Daemon muttered a curse under his breath and sat down heavily on the bench beside her. Alyssa, ever curious, began exploring the garden around them, her silvery hair catching the sunlight as she darted between the flowers.

Myria observed him with amusement, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You look as though you’ve been left to face a dragon alone,” she teased.

Daemon muttered under his breath again, this time just loud enough for her to hear. “Where is that woman?”

Myria laughed softly. “She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”

The Queen’s smile widened, her gaze lingering on Daemon. “Still don’t like me, do you?” she asked, her tone light but probing, as though she already knew the answer.

Daemon glanced at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I wouldn’t say I dislike you,” he replied curtly, though his tone betrayed a flicker of annoyance. “I just… don’t understand you.”

Myria tilted her head, intrigued. “What’s there to understand?”

Daemon shrugged, shifting Laenor in his arms. The baby reached for his father’s collar, tugging at it absently.

“Why did you marry Alyx?” he asked bluntly, his voice low and steady. “You must hate us. We invaded Dorne, killed your people. Why agree to marry the man who led the charge?”

Myria’s smile faltered, and her gaze turned contemplative, her eyes distant. “I did hate you,” she admitted, her voice soft yet unflinching. “All of you. Part of me still does.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting such honesty.

“I accepted because, well…” Myria hesitated, her expression thoughtful. “Alyx was the crown prince. At first, it was about power. I even plotted his death a few times, in the early days.”

Daemon blinked, startled by her candor. “You… plotted his death?”

Myria laughed lightly, though there was a faint sadness in her eyes. “I’m Dornish, Daemon. We don’t forgive easily. But through all the hate, there was something else too. Something I couldn’t deny—a pull, an attraction. I didn’t want to feel it, but it was there.”

Daemon snorted, shaking his head. “My poor cousin.”

Myria smiled faintly, the corners of her lips lifting in a way that softened her features. “Yes, your poor cousin. But over time, things changed. What began as hatred softened. I didn’t love Alyx at first, but now… I do. I never thought it possible, like rain in the driest desert in Dorne. But it happened.”

Daemon looked at her, his expression unreadable. He shifted Laenor again, who gurgled contentedly in his arms. After a moment, he nodded slightly. “That’s… good, I suppose.”

Myria’s smile brightened, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Can we get along now, Daemon? It’s sweet, you know, how much you care for your cousin.”

Daemon scowled, his tone turning defensive. “I did no such thing.”

Myria laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. She reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from Jocelyn’s face as the little girl nestled against her.

“Ah, here’s the man himself,” Myria said, her tone light and teasing as she glanced past Daemon. “Let’s tell him.”

Daemon turned to see Alyxander approaching with Olympia walking alongside him, her delicate hand clasping that of little Alyxander, who trotted to keep up with his father.

Myria’s face lit up as they drew near. “Oh, my sweets, you both look wonderful!” she said warmly, her gaze falling on Olympia and little Alyx.

Myria had always treated Olympia as her own daughter, a gesture that Daemon grudgingly admitted had softened his initial dislike of the Dornish queen.

“They wanted to wear the gifts your brother sent,” Alyxander said with a smile, gesturing toward their embroidered outfits.

Daemon muttered under his breath, “Surprised they weren’t poisoned.”

“What was that, Daemon?” Myria asked sharply, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh, nothing,” Daemon replied quickly, waving a hand dismissively.

Alyxander turned his attention to Daemon. “Ah, my Archon,” he said, his voice carrying a note of mock formality. “It’s good I found you because we’re going on a hunt.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “Ah, finally,” he said, standing up and handing Laenor to Olympia, who took her young cousin eagerly.

“We also have some important matters concerning Essos to discuss.”

“What, did you invite the entire small council too?” Daemon quipped, a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes, yes I did,” Alyxander replied evenly.

Daemon sighed, shaking his head. “I should’ve expected that,” he muttered, memories of their younger days flashing through his mind. Back when his cousin had known how to let loose—when they’d visited every brothel on the Street of Silk in a single night, or when they’d outdrunk every patron in the taverns of King’s Landing. Those were the times.

“Be back in time for the feast,” Myria interjected, her tone carrying an unmistakable air of authority.

“Yes, dear,” Alyxander said with a playful nod before turning back to Daemon.

“Come,” Alyxander said, his eyes gleaming. “It’s been far too long since I’ve raced you on Busephalus.”

Daemon chuckled as they began to walk off toward the stables. “I’m surprised to see that monster still alive,” he said.

Alyxander laughed as the two men strode off.

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“How the fuck is that horse so fast?” Daemon muttered as he dismounted, patting his own winded steed.

Alyxander slid off Bucephalus, the great black stallion whose coat gleamed like polished obsidian even under the dappled light of the forest. Stroking the horse’s mane with a practiced hand, Alyxander smiled. “Bucephalus is special,” he said simply.

Daemon rolled his eyes but said nothing as the rest of the hunting party approached, their presence heralded by the sound of hoofbeats. The hunt, Daemon noted, was hardly a hunt in the traditional sense—it was more of an extended small council meeting, disguised under the pretense of sport.

One by one, they arrived, each with their retainers and servants trailing behind. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake and Master of Ships, was the first to dismount, his silver hair catching the sunlight. As Daemon’s goodfather, he greeted him with a curt nod before moving to join Alyxander.

Daeron Stark, their cousin from the North and Master of Laws, came next. The son of their aunt Viserra, he held as much fire in his veins as ice. Otto Hightower, the Master of Coin, followed. The second son of House Hightower had risen swiftly in Alyxander’s court, though Daemon still found his demeanor grating.

Varon Qorvys, the enigmatic Master of Whisperers, brought up the rear. A friend of Alyxander’s with origins shrouded in mystery, Varon’s presence always made Daemon uneasy, though he couldn’t quite say why.

Among the group was a person who held a new position in the council—Nyra, the Grand Envoy of the King. A sharp-eyed woman of unknown birth, she had been the subject of many rumors, some suggesting she had once been Alyxander’s mistress. Daemon had suspected it himself, but the claims had proven untrue. She had, however, shown her worth as an exceptional diplomat, and her quick wit had earned her a place close to the King.

“Too bad Father couldn’t come,” Daemon said.

“Uncle Baelon is doing his duties as the Hand,” Alyxander replied. “He’s hosting some envoys from Volantis.”

“Those fuckers haven’t left yet?” Daemon asked.

Alyx shook his head as the party gathered, and they soon moved deeper into the Kingswood.

The hunt began, and Daemon reveled in the thrill of the chase, his spear gripped tightly in his hand. A boar burst from the underbrush, its tusks gleaming and its small, angry eyes fixed on the intruders in its domain.

With a sharp cry, Daemon hurled his spear, the weapon striking true and felling the beast. The animal let out a final squeal before collapsing, its body skidding across the forest floor.

“Well done,” Daeron remarked, his tone dry but approving.

Daemon grinned, retrieving another spear from a servant and moving to claim a second kill. Moments later, another boar darted out, charging toward the group. With a practiced throw, Daemon struck again, the spear piercing the animal’s flank.

Around him, the others joined the hunt. Corlys and Daeron each took down a boar, their arrows finding their marks. Even Nyra, dressed less for hunting, loosed a shot that grazed a fleeing animal, drawing a cheer from the group.

Alyxander, however, seemed less interested in the hunt. He watched the others with a faint smile, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. After a while, he turned to Nyra and Varon, his voice cutting through their conversations.

“The situation in Essos—tell me about it,” he said, his tone calm but commanding.

‘Ah yes, the situation in Essos,’ Daemon thought as he leaned casually on his spear. It was extraordinary to see it all come together—an alliance that had seemed impossible just a few years ago.

The Lyzomeri Qorvose, or in the Common Tongue the League of the Free Cities—also known by another name: the League of the Daughters of Valyria. Or simply The League, as most had begun to call it.

It was an unprecedented coalition. Volantis, Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath—cities that had been rivals for centuries—had now joined forces, bound by a single shared purpose: to resist the ambitions of House Targaryen, the last of the true dragonlords.

Daemon understood why. Three Free Cities had been conquered by his family: Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Their loss, combined with the growing Targaryen influence over the Narrow Sea, had pushed the remaining Free Cities to act.

Nyra spoke first. “I believe Braavos is part of the League,” she said, her tone measured but firm. “Their trade embargoes, the League’s coordination—it’s too precise. Only Braavos could manage something on this scale.”

Corlys Velaryon nodded in agreement. “Lady Nyra speaks true,” he said. “The recent economic attacks—ships refusing to dock in Westerosi ports, the skyrocketing tariffs on goods—we’ve also seen an uptick in pirate activity harassing our fleets. That reeks of Braavos.”

Alyxander, perched atop a fallen log, turned his sharp gaze to Varon Qorvys, the enigmatic Master of Whisperers. “Varon,” he said calmly. “What do you know?”

Varon hesitated, his dark eyes flicking between the members of the hunting party. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare uncertainty.

Daemon scoffed loudly, his irritation evident. “Not sure?” he repeated, standing upright. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Either they are or they aren’t!”

Alyxander raised a hand to calm Daemon. “Daemon,” he said softly, a warning in his tone.

But Daemon wasn’t done. “Of course Braavos is involved!” he snapped, ignoring Alyxander’s attempt at peace. “It all points to them. And do you know what that means?” He let the question hang in the air for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “It means we need to be on the lookout for Faceless Men.”

The group fell silent. Even the birds in the trees seemed to quiet at the mention of the fabled assassins.

Corlys frowned. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said, though there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

“Oh, they will,” Daemon said grimly, gripping his spear tightly. “And when they come…”

“Father has been writing to me about the suspicious amount of lumber the Braavosi have been buying,” Daeron added.

“See?” Daemon said, motioning to Daeron.

Varon cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “There’s something afoot,” he began, his voice low and measured. “Many Dornish and Stormlands lords have been visited by foreign merchants recently.”

Alyxander was silent for a moment. “Then they are preparing for war,” he said evenly, his tone betraying no surprise.

Corlys scoffed. “Madness,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s madness on their part to go against us.”

Nyra interjected, her voice tinged with concern. “I’ve heard whispers that a certain alchemist has made her home in Lorath—Saelena Morra.”

Daemon’s lips curled in a sneer. “Oh, that bitch,” he muttered, his grip tightening on his spear.

Alyxander’s expression darkened. “That is not good,” he said, his voice carrying a rare hint of unease. “Her weapons nearly killed Silverwing. If she’s involved, this could be more dangerous than we anticipated.”

Varon stepped forward slightly. “I have reason to believe this alchemist is of Westerosi origin,” he added, his voice careful but insistent.

Corlys raised an eyebrow. “Why does it matter where she’s from?”

Varon’s gaze shifted to Alyxander. “It seems she harbors a deep dislike for the royal family. Her motivations might be personal as well as professional.”

The group fell silent for a moment.

Alyxander broke the quiet, striding forward with a spear in hand. His keen eyes scanned the clearing ahead, and Daemon followed his gaze, spotting the shadow of a boar moving between the trees.

Alyxander’s voice cut through the stillness as he raised the spear. “It’s time we prepared for war as well,” he said, his tone firm. “And this time, we will take all the Free Cities.”

He hurled the spear with precision, the weapon slicing through the air and striking the boar cleanly. The beast let out a final cry before collapsing, its lifeless body thudding against the forest floor.

Daemon watched his cousin with a mix of admiration and surprise. Taking all the Free Cities? That was an ambition even he hadn’t considered—ambition bordering on madness.

Alyxander turned back to the group, his calm demeanor replaced with a faint smile. “Now, come,” he said, brushing his hands together. “Let us return. The Queen wants tonight to be a night to remember.”

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‘It was indeed a night to remember,’ Daemon thought grimly as he rode hard toward the Red Keep. The feast had been a grand affair, filled with music, wine, and laughter—a celebration that would surely be spoken of for years to come. Yet Daemon had left it all behind abruptly when word reached him of a disturbance at the Dragonpit.

The messenger had been vague, merely mentioning a “disturbance,” but it was enough to pull Daemon from the festivities. He had gone alone, not wanting to alarm anyone or spoil the feast with what he hoped would prove a trivial matter.

As he approached the Dragonpit, the smell of charred flesh filled the air. His stomach churned at the sight that awaited him—dead dragonkeepers lay scattered across the stone grounds. And further inside, the blackened corpses of their assailants bore the unmistakable marks of dragonfire.

He began investigating, first checking on the dragons. Then movement caught his eye—a man, barely alive, staggering out of the shadows. Daemon gave chase, following him to the buildings near the Dragonpit and cornering him at last. The man died before Daemon could question him, his body burned by dragonfire. The man’s face had been…wrong. Daemon froze, realization striking him: a Faceless Man.

Suddenly, the sound of alarms rang out in the distance, their clamor unmistakably coming from the direction of the Red Keep. 

That was how Daemon found himself riding there with reckless abandon, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. He spurred his horse forward, hooves pounding against the cobblestones like thunder as he tore through the streets of King’s Landing.

He dashed through the gates of the Red Keep, where chaos reigned. Guards rushed to and fro, their faces grim and weapons drawn. Fires burned in the distance, illuminating the night sky with an ominous glow.

Daemon spotted Ser Lancel, the man who had succeeded him as Lord Commander of the City Watch. The knight’s armor was bloodied, his face pale.

“Lancel!” Daemon called out, his voice sharp. “Where is my family? What is going on?”

The knight turned to him, panting relief flickering briefly in his eyes. “Armed men…attacked…, my prince… The royal family is safe. They’ve been moved to Maegor’s Holdfast.”

Daemon exhaled, but his relief was short-lived. His grip tightened on his sword. “And the attackers?”

“They’re dead,” Lancel replied. “But we’re still searching for any who might be hiding. There may be more in the shadows.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. “Lock down the Keep,” he ordered, his voice as hard as steel. “No one comes in or out until we’ve scoured every corner. Understand?”

Lancel nodded. “Yes, my prince.”

Daemon ran toward Maegor’s Holdfast, intending first to find Rhaelle and ensure that his wife and children were safe. Yet as he reached the inner halls, a commotion near the King’s chambers caught his attention.

Without a second thought, Daemon sprinted toward the noise, every instinct screaming that something was terribly wrong. The flickering light of torches cast long, wavering shadows on the cold walls. Outside the chamber doors stood the Kingsguard, their white cloaks stark in the dim light.

Ser Randall, one of their number, looked pale, his gaze fixed on the floor as though afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. Another knight stood rigid, hand gripping his sword hilt so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Daemon’s heart pounded faster, each step toward the door heavier than the last. The very air felt thick and suffocating, as though resisting him. He did not acknowledge the guards; he didn’t even glance at them as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The faint creak of the hinges seemed unnaturally loud.

Inside, the first thing he noticed was the stillness.

The chamber was bathed in pale moonlight, its silver glow spilling through wide-open windows. A breeze carried the faint scent of salt from Blackwater Bay, mingling with an iron tang that made Daemon’s stomach clench.

He surveyed the room—and froze.

At the center, near the brightest patch of moonlight by the window, Alyxander knelt. A dark pool spread beneath him, glistening on the stone floor—fresh blood. Daemon’s breath caught in his throat.

The King’s broad shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, as he cradled something—someone—in his arms.

Daemon forced himself forward, his boots slipping slightly in the blood as he drew closer. The figure in Alyxander’s arms came into focus: dark hair, dusky skin, and the silks of the dress she had worn at the feast just hours before.

Myria.

Daemon halted, his breath leaving him in a slow, shuddering exhale.

Alyxander did not move, did not acknowledge him. He stayed utterly still, his face illuminated by moonlight. It was a mask—cold, unfeeling, devoid of the anguish or fury Daemon would have expected.

The pale light revealed blood clinging to Alyxander’s hands, staining Myria’s lifeless form. Daemon tried to speak, but no words came. His throat burned and tightened, and nothing escaped. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, struggling to contain the maelstrom of rage, grief, and disbelief swirling inside him.

Amid the chaos of his mind, one thought burned hotter than dragonfire—a single, searing certainty:

Essos would burn.