ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great II

A small change from the first chapter: Alyxander’s elite force has been renamed the Silver Shields. Also, I think this fic might end up having more chapters than I initially intended.

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Excerpt from "The Princess, The Queen, and The Empress" by Elena Lannister

The former Princess Myria Martell was brought to King's Landing as a hostage—a living token of Dornish submission after the conquest. Along with many other nobles taken into custody, she was intended as leverage to ensure that the newly appointed lords of Dorne would remain compliant under the rule of the Iron Throne.

Soon, the court began to notice that Alyxander Targaryen, who at the time was newly widowed, paid special attention to Myria. Slowly and unexpectedly, a connection formed between them, one that grew with each passing moon. Those who witnessed their blossoming relationship spoke of a great love—an intense bond that seemed to overcome the barriers between them: conqueror and conquered, Targaryen and Martell. Whisperings spread of the Crown Prince's gentleness towards her, of the way his gaze softened whenever she spoke, and how he seemed to find solace in her company amidst the burdens of ruling.

But, as always, there were other stories, and not all were flattering. Some claimed that Myria was a seductress, scheming to secure her position at court by using her beauty and charm to ensnare the prince. These voices, full of disdain, painted her as a woman who used her Dornish nature to her advantage, who "wantonly gave herself" to Alyxander in order to gain influence. They spoke of her cleverness, how she played on the Crown Prince's grief after the death of his wife, Princess Gael, and how, by slipping into his bed, she secured not just her life but also her place by his side.

It is worth noting that these rumors were likely stoked by disgruntled courtiers, many of whom had their own ambitions for the widowed Crown Prince. There were numerous noble families—ambitious mothers and fathers—who saw Alyxander's closeness to Myria as a threat, especially when their own daughters were overlooked. To see the heir of King Jaehaerys courting a Martell, a former princess of a conquered kingdom, was a slight that many could not bear.

Even within Alyxander's own family, there was substantial opposition. Saera Velaryon, Alyxander's aunt and the wife of Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, was perhaps the most vocally displeased. The Velaryons, one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in Westeros, had expected Alyxander to marry their daughter, Rhaelle Velaryon, thus tying the two houses even closer together. They saw Alyxander's desire to wed a Martell as an affront—a deviation from the grand designs they had crafted for their family's future.

Nor were the Velaryons alone in their disapproval. Princess Rhaenys, Alyxander's sister, and her husband and cousin, Prince Viserys, objected to the match—the Princess especially incensed as she publicly reminded Alyxander of their Stormlander heritage. The most vocal of all, however, was Prince Daemon Targaryen, who openly declared that their family's bloodline would be tainted by a union with a Martell. Daemon's fiery temperament and outspoken nature were well-known at court, and his opposition to the match caused tensions that were felt across the capital.

Yet none of this deterred Alyxander. By then, he had come to deeply love Myria. He saw in her a strength and a fire that drew him in—a spirit unbroken by the trials she had faced. Myria, too, seemed to return his affections, though there are conflicting records. Some say she loved him with equal passion, while others claim that her motivations were more complex, perhaps even colored by a sense of duty or necessity. Regardless, it was clear that whatever began between them had grown into something that neither could easily abandon.

In the end, it was King Jaehaerys, old and ailing, who made the final decision. With his health rapidly fading, the Old King issued a royal command that Alyxander would marry Myria Martell. It was to be the final piece that would solidify Dorne's place within the realm—a union intended to heal the wounds left by conquest and to bring the Dornish fully into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. Jaehaerys, always the conciliator, saw the marriage as a way to mend the rift between Dorne and the Iron Throne, to ensure that Alyxander's conquest was held not just by force but by bonds of kinship as well.

The wedding took place in King's Landing, with all the splendor befitting a Crown Prince. Myria, the former princess turned princess once more, was wed to Alyxander beneath the eyes of gods and men. She vowed herself to the man who had conquered her homeland. It was a union born of both love and politics, and despite the objections and misgivings of many, it was one that ultimately reshaped the future of the realm.

It was to be the Old King's final act, his last attempt to bring peace to a divided kingdom. Only weeks after the wedding, King Jaehaerys passed from this world, leaving the throne to his grandson….

             ….Alyxander's story was not defined by one love alone. The princess he lost, the queen who shared his throne, and the empress who awaited him—each had a place in his tale, each left their mark on the man who dreamed of conquering the known world.

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Daemon Targaryen looked at the men before him, his fingers curling lightly around the goblet of wine in his hand. The solar in the western barracks was a stark room—bare stone walls, a large wooden table, and a few worn chairs. It suited him just fine. Here, there were no sycophants, no prancing courtiers. Except now.

“Speak,” Daemon said, his voice sharp, cutting through the tense silence. He took a long sip of his wine, his sharp eyes fixed on the pair of lords standing before him. He knew who they were and who they represented—a collection of disgruntled lords from the Reach and the Stormlands.

The first man, younger and less confident, cleared his throat, shifting uneasily under Daemon’s gaze. “We come with a… matter of concern, Prince Daemon. We are appalled by the recent marriage of Prince Alyxander and Myria Martell.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, his eyes darkening. He set the goblet down with a dull thud on the table, leaning forward slightly. “Appalled, you say?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a mocking jest. “No, no. You mean outraged. Furious. Call it what it is.”

The second man, older and more confident, stepped forward. His voice carried a rehearsed fervor, his expression earnest. “Yes, my prince. Outraged. Many of us believe that this marriage is an affront to the Valyrian bloodline. Prince Alyxander has allowed a Dornish woman to be the realm’s next queen. Did we not fight in a war just a year ago to conquer them?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His smile widened slightly as he studied them, his sharp gaze flicking between their faces. He had his own thoughts about Myria Martell, and none of them were good. Dornish whore, he often called her in his thoughts, though he never said it aloud in his cousin’s presence.

The sight of her beside Alyxander always left a sour taste in his mouth, a bitter reminder of what he saw as the tainting of Targaryen blood. That Alyxander, the ambitious, cunning conqueror, had allowed himself to be ensnared by her was something Daemon could hardly stomach.

“And what exactly do you want me to do about it?” Daemon asked, his tone almost amused. His fingers drummed lightly on the table. “Speak plainly. I’ve no patience for dancing around the point.”

The first man hesitated, glancing at his companion as if seeking approval. The older lord stepped closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We have a plan, my prince. A way to… remove Alyxander from the throne.”

Daemon’s smile faltered slightly. He sat up straighter, his expression sharpening as he regarded them with growing interest. “Remove him,” he repeated, his voice flat, now devoid of amusement. “And you think I can help you?”

The younger man stepped in, his voice trembling slightly but still resolute. “Yes, my prince. You are his cousin. And you… you have the respect of the City Watch and the loyalty of many.”

Daemon’s gaze turned icy, his fingers tightening slightly on the armrest of his chair. “You’ve yet to tell me how,” he said, his voice cold. “And who you plan to put in his place. Don’t waste my time with half-truths.”

The older man nodded, leaning in further. “We propose Princess Rhaenys—your cousin, daughter of Prince Aemon—and her husband, Prince Viserys, your own brother. They are already wed, and with King Jaehaerys’ age and failing health, it is only a matter of time before the crown changes hands.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a thin smile, but there was no warmth in it. “So, you’d see my brother’s children on the throne,” he said slowly.

“We know you care for the purity of the Targaryen line,” the second man said, his voice urgent. “And we know you have... ambitions of your own. The prince’s marriage has created an opportunity. The lords of the Stormlands, of the Reach—they are prepared to support a change.”

Daemon let the words hang in the air, the tension in the room thick and oppressive. He swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the ripples with faint interest, as if the men before him were of no consequence. His sharp gaze flicked up, studying them closely.

Ambitions of my own. The words struck a nerve. He’d heard such whispers before, spoken by fools who thought they could manipulate him. Daemon had ambitions, yes, but not in the way these lords presumed. His issues with Alyxander were his own. His cousin had always been the golden child, always ambitious, always pushing boundaries, while Daemon often felt like he was left in the shadows, despite his own accomplishments. And now this marriage—Myria Martell as queen. It was a slight he found hard to stomach, a reminder of how far Alyxander was willing to stray from tradition. From purity. From the old ways.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with something sharp. He tapped his finger against the armrest, the sound rhythmic and deliberate. Pretending to consider their words, he finally spoke.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Removing Alyxander is no small feat.”

The first man, emboldened by Daemon’s apparent interest, stepped forward. “We only ask you to show others our concerns, my prince. Show the danger of Prince Alyxander ascending the throne. His actions undermine the realm—”

Daemon leaned forward suddenly, his tone shifting, dark and menacing. “And you think I would betray my own family?”

The men froze, their confidence evaporating under Daemon’s intense gaze. The second man swallowed hard before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “For the good of the realm, my prince.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a smile, but it was cold and devoid of warmth. He watched them squirm, drawing out the silence to let their discomfort settle like a weight in the room. Finally, he spoke again, his voice like a blade cutting through the air.

“I’ll think on it,” he said, dismissing them with a lazy wave of his hand. “But do not think to approach me again unless I call for you.”

The men bowed quickly, their faces pale, and hurried out of the room. Daemon watched them leave, his expression thoughtful. When the door slammed shut behind them, he let out a low sigh, setting his goblet down and rubbing his temple.

He stood and called out, his voice echoing in the bare room. “Randall!”

The door opened immediately, and Ser Randall, his right-hand man, entered, his posture straight and formal. He bowed. “My prince?”

“Anything on the fire in the Lyceum?” Daemon asked, his tone sharp, though there was a weariness in his eyes.

“Nothing yet, my prince,” Randall said, his voice steady. “The Watch has found no solid leads. Whoever was behind it was careful.”

Daemon let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “Do I have to do everything myself?” he muttered, his irritation evident. He strode across the room, grabbing his cloak and fastening it around his shoulders. “Have my horse prepared. We’re going to Visenya’s Hill.”

Randall bowed and hurried to carry out the order. Daemon lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the door. The words of the lords still echoed in his mind, their audacity both infuriating and amusing.

Ambitions of my own.

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Daemon rode through the streets of King’s Landing, the hooves of his horse striking against the freshly paved roads. The city had changed so much under Alyxander’s oversight that it felt like a stranger to him at times. As he approached Visenya’s Hill, his eyes were drawn upward to the Lyceum, a vast structure unlike anything else in the city.

The building was a marvel, towering columns of white stone reaching skyward, each intricately carved with depictions of dragons, flames, and ancient runes. Above, the domed ceiling glinted faintly in the morning light, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that made Daemon look at it in awe. The mosaics along the exterior depicted scenes from history—Valyria’s glory, the Doom, and even Aegon astride Balerion.

He dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting stable hand. His boots thudded against the stone steps as he ascended toward the grand entrance. Dragon-shaped braziers lined the path, their flames flickering despite the wind.

The interior was no less extravagant. The same columns supported a vaulted ceiling painted with stars and dragons, the light from large windows spilling across the polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of smoke, a reminder of the fire that had recently ravaged the library. Randall led the way, his posture stiff and formal, while Daemon’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the grandeur.

“Here, my prince,” Randall said, gesturing toward a charred doorway that led deeper into the Lyceum.

Daemon followed, stepping into a chamber filled with the burned remnants of scrolls and tomes. The scent of ash hung heavy in the air, and blackened shelves stood as silent witnesses to the destruction. He frowned, surveying the damage. Then his gaze caught something—or rather, someone—that made him groan inwardly.

“What are you doing here?” Daemon asked, his tone sharp and annoyed.

The man turned to face him, a faint smile on his lips. He was tall and broad, clad in sleek armor of silver and black. The helm he wore covered most of his face, shaped like a mask, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Only his sharp gray eyes were visible, gleaming coldly in the dim light.

Daemon recognized him immediately. “Roderick Stark,” he muttered, irritation evident in his voice. The man was the captain of Alyxander’s Silver Shields, a feared and respected order of elite warriors who had more than earned their reputation in the Dornish War. They were his cousin’s enforcers, his muscle, and Roderick was their leader.

“Prince Daemon,” Roderick replied evenly, inclining his head in a slight bow. “I was sent to investigate the fire.”

Daemon crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing. “Does my cousin not trust me to find the culprit?” he asked, his tone biting.

Roderick’s expression didn’t change. “It’s not a matter of trust, my prince. The prince believes there’s a conspiracy afoot. He thought it prudent to send someone to assist.”

Daemon snorted. “Fine, then. Stay out of my way.”

Roderick remained unfazed. “I’ve already found a lead.”

Daemon arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Have you now?” he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Roderick gestured toward the charred remains of the shelves. “This section housed restricted texts—older Valyrian and foreign works that the prince acquired. Whoever set this fire knew exactly what they were targeting.”

Daemon frowned, his gaze moving over the damage. “So they’re lost to us, then?” he asked, his tone flat.

Roderick shook his head. “No. There are copies elsewhere. The originals were valuable, but nothing irreplaceable was lost.”

Daemon let out a quiet grunt, unsure whether to be relieved or annoyed. “You mentioned a lead?”

“One of the guards reported seeing a figure running away just as the fire started,” Roderick explained. “And the scorch marks here”—he pointed to the floor—“suggest the use of whale oil, likely to accelerate the flames. Whale oil isn’t cheap, nor is it easily acquired in small amounts.”

Daemon nodded slowly, his mind turning over the details. “This person could be anywhere.”

“Not necessarily,” Roderick said. “If someone bought whale oil recently, they may have purchased it at the Agora.”

Daemon sighed, already weary of the thought. “Fine. I’ll go and investigate. You can return to your Shields.”

Roderick shook his head. “The prince’s orders were clear. I’m to assist you until this matter is resolved.”

Daemon glared at him but said nothing for a moment. Finally, he waved a dismissive hand. “Do as you like. Just stay out of my way.”

With that, the two men exited the Lyceum, their boots echoing in the grand halls as they made their way back outside. Their horses were waiting, and they mounted quickly.

“To the Agora, then,” Daemon said curtly, spurring his horse forward. Behind him, Roderick followed in silence, the Silver Shield’s polished helm gleaming in the sunlight as they rode toward the heart of the city.

“I don’t know why Alyxander keeps coming up with these strange names for everything.”

Roderick turned his head slightly, his polished helm catching the sunlight. “What names, my prince?” he asked, his tone even but tinged with curiosity.

Daemon gestured ahead with one hand. “Come now. Look at the name of the marketplace we’re heading to: the Agora. What is that supposed to mean? And then there’s the Lyceum we just left—what even is a Lyceum? Oh, don’t get me started on what he wanted to call your order at first.”

Roderick’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though the rest of his face remained hidden behind the mask-like helm.

Daemon chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “I once caught Alyx writing in a strange language when we were children. He claimed it was his own invention, a code he made up to keep his thoughts private. Perhaps all these names are just words from his made-up language.”

“My prince has his oddities,” Roderick said diplomatically, the corner of his mouth lifting further.

Daemon laughed aloud at that, memories of his childhood with Alyxander rushing back. They had been rivals from the start, only a year apart, always trying to best each other. Alyxander with his restless mind and grand ideas, and Daemon with his fiery temper and reckless energy.

“Oddities, indeed,” Daemon muttered, though there was a trace of fondness in his voice. One of Alyxander’s oddities was his refusal to drink wine. Not a drop. Once, as a boy, Daemon had asked him why, and Alyxander had replied with a half-smile and a strange, cryptic remark: ‘I’ve already drunk myself to death once.’ Daemon had laughed then, dismissing it as his cousin’s odd sense of humor, but the words had lingered with him, strange and unsettling.

As they neared the Agora, the bustling sounds of trade and commerce filled the air—voices calling out prices, the clinking of coins, and the rumble of wagon wheels. When they entered, Daemon reined in his horse and surveyed the scene.

It was chaotic yet strangely efficient, something Alyxander excelled at. Stalls were arranged in neat rows, and vendors displayed their goods. There were piles of fresh produce, barrels of salted fish, and racks of fine cloth fluttering in the breeze. Other stalls sold rare trinkets from Essos, gleaming in the sunlight—jewelry, carved figurines, and vials of exotic perfumes.

Tall columns surrounded the square, giving the marketplace a sense of structure and grandeur. In the center stood a large fountain, its water flowing from the mouths of intricately carved dragons. The sound of the cascading water provided a soothing counterpoint to the lively chatter of the marketplace.

Daemon frowned slightly as he took it all in. “The heart of King’s Landing,” he muttered to himself. It certainly felt like it. The Agora buzzed with energy, the lifeblood of a city that was becoming richer and more prosperous by the day.

He and Roderick dismounted. Together, they began their search, weaving through the crowd. Eventually, they found a vendor selling whale oil, the acrid scent wafting through the air as they approached. Daemon leaned on the edge of the stall, fixing the vendor with a piercing gaze.

“Did you sell any whale oil recently? Perhaps to someone wearing gray robes?” Daemon asked, his tone sharp and direct.

The vendor scratched his chin, frowning as he thought. “Gray robes? No, I can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that.” He paused, then added, “But, my prince, I did sell oil recently. Strangely, it was in small amounts.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Who bought it?”

The vendor described the buyer—a wiry man with a weathered face, dirty hands, and a quick, furtive way of speaking. Daemon’s expression darkened as recognition flickered in his eyes.

Roderick noticed immediately. “You know him?”

Daemon nodded grimly. “A thief from Flea Bottom. One I’ve dealt with before.”

Roderick straightened, his armor catching the sunlight. “Then we go to Flea Bottom.”

Daemon grunted in agreement, already walking back to where their horses waited. “Let’s hope he’s still skulking about.”

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As they rode toward Flea Bottom, Daemon noticed how busy the city had become. Everywhere he looked, people were working—laborers hauling stones, masons repairing walls, and merchants unloading goods. Construction projects dotted the landscape, scaffolding rising like skeletons against the skyline.

It was clear that Alyxander’s reforms were transforming King’s Landing into a prosperous hub, the center point of the Seven Kingdoms as a capital should be. No one seemed idle; everyone had a role to play, a task to complete. His cousin was continuing their grandfather's and grandmother's legacy, even grander than what they had envisioned.

Yet, as they neared Flea Bottom, the prosperity began to fade. The streets grew narrower, the buildings more dilapidated. The air was heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies and waste.

Alyxander had spoken to him before about plans to improve Flea Bottom, to bring work and resources to its people. But Daemon knew those changes would take time—if they ever came at all.

“Still the same pit,” Daemon muttered under his breath as they dismounted, the sounds of shouting and laughter echoing from the cramped alleyways. He glanced at Roderick. “Stay close. The rats here bite.”

Roderick said nothing, his mask-like helm turning toward the maze of streets ahead.

They strode through the cramped, foul-smelling streets of Flea Bottom, their boots splashing through puddles of murky water.

They soon came to a halt outside a dilapidated tavern, its sign barely legible, swinging on rusted hinges. Daemon knew the place well—and he knew the man they were looking for frequented it. He pushed open the door with a forceful shove, the hinges creaking as they stepped inside.

The tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the stench of cheap ale. Daemon’s presence drew immediate attention; the murmur of voices died down as heads turned toward the imposing figure of the prince and the armored captain of the Silver Shields.

Daemon’s gaze swept the room until it landed on a wiry, weathered man hunched over a tankard at the far end of the bar. “There he is,” Daemon muttered, striding forward.

The man—a thief Daemon had tangled with before—looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized the prince. “My prince!” he stammered, already trying to rise from his seat. “I—I didn’t do anything!”

Daemon reached him in two quick steps, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him to his feet. “Sit,” he growled, slamming the man back into his chair. The thief yelped, his tankard spilling across the table.

Roderick stood behind Daemon, his imposing presence and menacing mask-like helm enough to keep the rest of the tavern’s patrons rooted in place.

“Why and whom did you buy whale oil  for recently?” Daemon demanded, leaning in close. His voice was low but deadly, his eyes boring into the thief’s.

“Oil? What oil?” the thief stammered, his hands raised defensively. “I—I didn’t do anything wrong, my prince! I swear it!”

Daemon snorted, shaking his head. “You always claim innocence, don’t you? Don’t waste my time. Tell me about the oil you bought.”

The thief’s gaze darted between Daemon and Roderick, sweat beading on his brow. “I didn’t start no fire, if that’s what you’re thinking! I was just... I was just asked to buy it, that’s all!”

“By who?” Roderick asked, his voice sharp and commanding.

The thief hesitated, glancing around nervously as if afraid to speak. Daemon grabbed his arm, twisting it just enough to make the man wince. “By who?” he repeated, his tone ice-cold.

“A sailor!” the thief blurted out. “A sailor from Oldtown. He sails on a ship called the Shark’s Tooth. He’s here often, but I don’t know his name! I swear! He just paid me to buy the oil and bring it to him.”

Daemon released his grip, shoving the man back into his chair. “Where is this ship docked?”

The thief hesitated again, rubbing his arm. “The docks, near the south pier. It’s there more often than not, unloading goods from Oldtown. That’s all I know, I swear it!”

Daemon exchanged a glance with Roderick, who gave a slight nod. Without another word, Daemon turned and strode toward the door, Roderick following closely behind. The tavern’s patrons remained silent, their eyes following the two men as they left.

Daemon and Roderick rode into the bustling docks as the afternoon sun glinted off the calm waters of Blackwater Bay. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the scent of fish and tar. Sailors shouted commands, and crates were hauled off ships.

Daemon’s sharp eyes scanned the piers, noting the Shark’s Tooth docked near the southern pier, its brown sails distinctive against the backdrop of weathered ships. The figurehead, a shark’s gaping maw, seemed to leer at them as they approached.

“There it is,” Roderick said, his voice calm but edged with focus. “The Shark’s Tooth.”

Daemon nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as his gaze flicked over the workers bustling about. His mind raced, piecing the puzzle together. Last week, new arrivals had come from the Citadel—a group of acolytes sent to assist in the Lyceum. The timeline fit, as did the description of the man they were chasing.

“It has to be one of the acolytes,” Daemon muttered, his tone laced with irritation.

Roderick’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Look there. Gray robes. Burned clothing. Our man isn’t even trying to hide.”

Daemon’s eyes snapped to where Roderick pointed. Sure enough, the man stood near the gangplank of the Shark’s Tooth, his robes tattered and singed, his face partially obscured by a hood. He seemed to be scanning the area nervously but made no effort to slip away.

“Idiot,” Daemon muttered. “Let’s take him.”

The moment the man noticed them approaching, his eyes widened in panic. He bolted, darting between sailors and crates, his robes billowing behind him.

“Stop him!” Daemon barked, his voice carrying over the din of the docks. The Goldcloaks who had accompanied them sprang into action, shouting as they joined the pursuit.

The acolyte weaved through the crowd with surprising agility, knocking over barrels and slipping through narrow gaps between carts. Daemon cursed under his breath, dismounting swiftly and chasing after him on foot, Roderick close behind.

“He’s fast for a scholar,” Roderick remarked, his tone dry.

“Shut up and catch him!” Daemon snapped, leaping over a fallen crate. The acolyte led them through a maze of piers, dodging dockworkers and leaping over ropes.

The chase led them to a narrow pier, slippery with seawater and algae. The acolyte made a desperate leap onto a pile of stacked barrels, trying to climb higher to evade capture. Daemon lunged after him, his hand outstretched—but his boot slipped on the slick wood.

“Seven hells!” Daemon shouted as he lost his footing and tumbled sideways. The next thing he knew, he was plunging into the cold, briny water of the bay.

Roderick didn’t miss a beat. With a swift motion, he lunged forward, grabbing the acolyte by the arm and yanking him down from the barrels. The man struggled, but Roderick twisted his arm behind his back, locking him in place.

“Got him,” Roderick said calmly, glancing toward the water where Daemon was thrashing angrily.

Daemon surfaced, sputtering and cursing as he swam toward the pier. “Tell no one!” he barked, his wet hair plastered to his face, his voice filled with frustration.

Roderick’s lips twitched into a grin beneath his helm. “My lips are sealed, my prince,” he said, though his tone was far too amused. He gestured to the growing crowd of dockworkers and sailors who had gathered to watch. “But I can’t vouch for them.”

Daemon shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Enough!” he snapped, dragging himself onto the pier, water streaming from his soaked clothes. “Let’s question him.” He straightened, shaking off as much water as he could, though his pride remained thoroughly drenched.

“Of course, my prince,” Roderick said, still holding the struggling acolyte firmly. He chuckled softly. “Shall I fetch you a towel first?”

Daemon’s glare darkened, but he turned on his heel, motioning for the Goldcloaks to follow. The gathered crowd, for their part, dispersed quickly, though not without a few murmurs and amused glances.

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Daemon and Roderick, after questioning the acolyte, returned to the Red Keep. The sunlight streaming through the high windows did little to brighten Daemon’s mood, his pride wounded by the stumble into the bay.

As they approached the corridor leading to Alyxander’s chambers, Daemon’s sharp eyes caught sight of a familiar figure—his aunt Saera, standing with her daughter, Rhaelle, near one of the arched windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. Saera’s expression was tight, her arms crossed, while Rhaelle stood demurely at her side, a picture of Valyrian beauty.

Daemon held up a hand to Roderick. “Go ahead; I’ll join you shortly.”

Roderick nodded before continuing down the corridor, his silver armor glinting faintly in the light.

Daemon turned toward his aunt, his voice carrying across the hall. “Aunt Saera,” he called as he approached.

Saera’s head snapped toward him, her expression softening slightly. “Daemon,” she greeted.

Daemon’s eyes shifted briefly to Rhaelle, who stood with her hands clasped before her. She was the very image of Valyrian beauty—silver hair cascading down her back, violet eyes bright yet shy.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Saera asked, her tone inquisitive but sharp.

“To meet Alyx,” Daemon replied flatly, gesturing vaguely down the hall.

At that, Saera’s face darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She muttered a curse under her breath, too low for Daemon to catch. “Corlys is there as well.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “You should let go of this anger, Aunt. What’s done is done.”

Saera’s eyes flashed, and she let out a sharp breath. “Let go of it? After what that Dornish woman has done? She seduced Alyxander, bewitched him, and he was weak enough to fall for her charms!” Her voice rose, then softened slightly as she added bitterly, “Why did I ever think my daughter was worthy of him?”

Daemon chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. “Perhaps because he’s the Crown Prince?” he quipped, his tone dry.

The remark hit its mark, silencing Saera momentarily. She narrowed her eyes at him, but Daemon saw the flicker of frustration that meant she knew he was right.

Even so, Saera wasn’t finished. “Even Viserra, all the way in her frozen wasteland, has voiced her displeasure.”

Daemon shook his head, his tone dismissive. “I doubt that, Aunt. Viserra cares about nothing other than her Stark husband and her children. She probably hasn’t given Alyx or Myria a second thought.”

Saera huffed but didn’t argue further, her annoyance plain. Daemon’s gaze shifted to Rhaelle, who was still standing quietly beside her mother, her expression carefully neutral.

“Don’t be saddened, my lady,” Daemon said, his tone softer as he addressed his cousin. “I’m sure you’ll find a fine husband.”

At his words, Rhaelle blushed, the pink in her cheeks contrasting with her pale complexion. She lowered her gaze, though Daemon caught the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Saera, observing the interaction, tilted her head slightly, a faint smile of her own curling her lips. “Is it not time for you to find a wife of your own, Daemon?” she asked, her tone turning sly.

Daemon’s face hardened instantly, and he answered with a firm, “No.” His voice carried an edge of finality that made it clear the subject was not open for debate. “Especially not after Grandmother’s attempts to marry me off to that Royce girl. If not for Alyx, I’d be in the Vale right now, surrounded by those sheepfuckers.”

Saera let out a rare laugh at his bluntness, shaking her head. “You are incorrigible, Daemon.”

Daemon smirked faintly, then inclined his head toward her and Rhaelle. “If you’ll excuse me, Aunt, my lady. I mustn’t keep the Crown Prince waiting.”

He turned on his heel and resumed his stride toward Alyxander’s chambers, his cloak billowing behind him.

Daemon arrived at Alyxander’s chambers where Roderick was waiting outside.

“Took you long enough,” Roderick said dryly as Daemon approached.

“Let’s not keep him waiting, then,” Daemon replied, brushing past him and pushing open the doors.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense. Alyxander stood near a large table strewn with maps and documents, his face set in a deep frown. Across from him, Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, gestured animatedly, his voice rising as he made his point.

“We should attack,” Corlys said, his tone firm. “The Triarchy grows bolder by the day. Their taxes are strangling our trade, and soon it won’t just be Driftmark feeling—”

“We cannot do anything now,” Alyxander interrupted, his voice calm but sharp. “We just finished a war, Corlys. Half the realm is still licking its wounds. And remember—I am not king.”

Corlys scoffed, his frustration evident. “You are all but in name. The old king has left the rule to you. You have the power to act.”

Daemon cleared his throat, making his presence known. “What’s all this, then?” he asked, his tone casual as he stepped further into the room. Roderick followed silently, standing at his side.

Both men turned to him, their heated discussion momentarily paused.

“Daemon,” Corlys said, his tone edged with irritation. “I’m trying to get Alyxander to understand how dire the situation in the Stepstones is. We are being taxed to death. If this continues, the effects will ripple through the entire realm.”

Daemon smirked faintly. “We should have continued the war after Dorne fell. The Triarchy would’ve crumbled easily.”

Alyxander shook his head, his expression serious. “And what of Dorne, cousin? It needed to be held, and that took time. Resources….”

Alyxander paused, his sharp eyes flicking to Daemon and Roderick. “Speaking of which—have you found the arsonist?”

Daemon crossed his arms, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I have.”

Roderick cleared his throat. “We have.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “Fine. We have. And as we suspected, the Citadel is involved.”

Alyxander muttered under his breath, his displeasure clear. “Of course they are.”

Corlys’s face darkened. “This is disturbing—to attack royal property so openly.”

Alyxander leaned back slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table. “Do you know why I founded the Lyceum?” he asked suddenly, his voice calmer now, almost thoughtful.

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “Other than quenching your thirst for naming strange things? No.”

Alyxander smiled faintly. “A wise man once told me that all men by nature have a desire to know. The Citadel claims to be the wellspring of all knowledge in Westeros, yet they hoard it, lock it away in their vaults. What use is knowledge if it is not wielded like a sword to shape the world?”

Corlys folded his arms, his expression skeptical. “The maesters believe in preserving wisdom, my prince, not scattering it recklessly. They are wary of the chaos knowledge might bring if placed in the hands of the unwise.”

“Unwise?” Alyxander’s voice sharpened, his tone cutting. “It is not wisdom they fear but change. They cling to the old ways, to the old power structures, terrified that new ideas will snuff them out.”

Daemon, leaning against the edge of the table, snorted. “Would you then open the Citadel’s vaults to all? Even the lowliest peasant?”

“Not to all, but to those with the vision to use it,” Alyxander said firmly. “Imagine a kingdom where every commander knew the strategies of warfare, every healer the cures of old, every builder the secrets of engineering. This is how empires are forged—not by hoarding, but by sharing.”

Roderick, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. “The maesters have committed treason, my prince. This fire was no accident, and they must answer for it.”

Alyxander nodded, his expression grave. “Agreed. But we must tread carefully. The Citadel is entrenched in every corner of Westeros. A direct attack would be dangerous.” He turned to Daemon, his tone shifting to one of command. “Start with the Hightowers. They are the Citadel’s greatest allies, and they may have had a hand in this. Investigate discreetly. We need proof before we act.”

He looked to Roderick. “You’ll join him. I trust you to ensure this is handled with the utmost care. The last thing we need is to provoke a storm we cannot contain.”

“We have another problem as well,” Daemon said, crossing his arms.

Alyxander’s sharp gaze fixed on him. “What now?”

Daemon straightened, his tone losing its levity. “I was approached earlier by men representing certain lords from the Reach and the Stormlands. They want you dead, Alyx.”

The room fell silent, the words hanging heavily in the air.

“Why?” Alyxander asked, his tone calm but his eyes narrowing.

Daemon smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Your marriage to the Dornish woman, of course. It’s made you enemies—powerful ones.”

“Treason!” Roderick barked, his voice reverberating through the chamber. His silver helm gleamed as he took a step forward, his fists clenched. “This cannot stand, my prince. These lords must answer for their plotting.”

Corlys’s expression darkened, his usual composure slipping. “I’m shocked, but not surprised. There are always snakes in the grass. Still, for them to move so openly—it’s bold. Too bold.”

Alyxander’s face remained stoic, though his eyes gleamed with cold calculation. “This is concerning,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I will look into this personally. I need to know who they are and what their plans entail. Until then, we take no action. A rash response could drive them underground, and I would rather have them where I can see them.”

Corlys leaned forward, his tone still carrying the heat of his earlier frustration. “And what of the Stepstones, my prince? What should I do?”

Alyxander sighed, rubbing his temple. “Corlys, I’ve told you—I can only act when I am king. The moment the crown rests on my head, we will move. I’ve planned to invade the Stepstones for years….”

Before Corlys could respond, the heavy doors to the chamber swung open. Prince Baelon, the Hand of the King, entered, flanked by two members of the Kingsguard. His face was pale and drawn, his usual commanding presence overshadowed by the sadness in his expression.

Daemon straightened immediately. “Father?” he asked, concern flickering in his voice.

Alyxander turned as well, his sharp features softening slightly. “Uncle?”

Baelon’s voice was heavy as he spoke. “My father is dead.”

The words hit like a hammer. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of the statement sinking in. King Jaehaerys the Conciliator was gone.

Daemon was the first to break the silence, his fiery energy returning in an instant. He turned to Alyxander, his eyes gleaming. “When do we sail?”

Alyxander turned to him slowly, his lips curling into a faint smile of mock anger.

Daemon simply shrugged.

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I think i got this right scrapped a lot of versions to get here.