Chapter 72 — The Prostitute Princess
The Iron Throne loomed behind King Jaehaerys like a jagged shadow, its blades catching the morning light. Daemon stood before it, fingers drumming restlessly on Dark Sister's pommel.
"The Crabfeeder and Prince Qoren Martell," he said, "are both snakes. Even if we sign a truce, what guarantee do we have that they will return Princess Saera safely?"
Jaehaerys's voice thundered through the hall.
"If they break their word, then the Iron Throne shall never relent! I will not rest until Myr, Lys, Tyrosh, and Dorne are reduced to ash and ruin. By fire and sword they will pay."
Viserys, who had remained in King's Landing with their father, stepped forward, hands clasped.
"Family must come first. A truce that secures Saera's return is worth any price. And we are winning. The Triarchy seeks peace because they are bleeding. Their offer of reparations shows they fear further losses."
Jaehaerys's expression softened at that—hope flickered faintly, painfully.
"If Saera comes home," he murmured, half to himself, "we will prepare chambers for her in the Queen's Tower… Alysanne would have wanted her near."
A hush fell. Those chambers were infamous—Maegor's former "Dark Brides" had once lived there, and some whispered their ghosts still walked the halls. Jocelyn Baratheon, Rhaenys's mother, currently resided there.
Rhaenys shifted uneasily. The irony was clear to all:
The Queen's Tower might soon house the most scandalous Targaryen daughter in living memory.
---
The Grand Maester Objects
Archmaester Yalar shuffled forward, his breath rattling, his chain clinking like a death knell.
"Your Grace," he wheezed, "Princess Saera's sins are infamous. As a girl she lay with half the young lords of court. She was given to the Faith—to repent—but she fled. She became a harlot in Lys, a plaything in Volantis. Such a woman defiles the gods merely by breathing their air."
His eyes narrowed to slits.
"She must be sent to the Great Sept of Baelor or the Starry Sept in Oldtown. Only a lifetime of penance can cleanse her."
Jaehaerys's fury was instant.
"Five years ago, Archmaester, I might have listened. But grief changes a man. Alysanne begged me to forgive Saera before she died, and I failed her. I blame myself for what Saera became. If I had not forced her into the Faith, she might never have turned to brothels."
Yalar clutched his chest, breath tightening, but persisted.
"Even so, Your Grace—her nature is corrupt. She must be—"
"Enough," Jaehaerys snapped.
Daemon stepped forward.
"Atonement does not require chains and prayers. Let Saera live in the sept at Flame Castle. Sister Annie will watch over her well enough."
A murmur rippled across the council.
Sister Annie—Coryanne Wylde—was infamous from here to Qarth. Alysanne's former handmaiden, once ordered to seduce Jaehaerys in his youth, later a runaway bride, pirate plaything, brothel madam, courtesan, then penitent nun. Her scandalous book Confessions of a Red Chamber circulated widely in both Essos and Westeros.
Jaehaerys grimaced.
"Daemon, Saera is my daughter, not that wandering sinner's apprentice. She will remain in the Red Keep. She is a Targaryen of royal blood."
---
Death in the Citadel's Shadows
The council dispersed. Archmaester Yalar doubled over in another fit of coughing, dark blood staining his handkerchief. The stench of decay followed him as he tottered away.
Daemon watched him go with narrowed eyes.
"He will not last the year. The Citadel sends us corpses wrapped in chains."
Jaehaerys nodded weakly.
"Maester Meros is already sailing. Younger men, fresh minds. We may yet see improvement."
Daemon allowed himself a thin smile.
"The Dragon Academy will produce its own scholars soon. Maesters who swear loyalty to House Targaryen—not Oldtown."
Corlys Velaryon choked back laughter.
"Your academy is full of men from Lys, Myr, Tyrosh. They may be spies. And you trust them more than the Citadel?"
"I trust no one," Daemon replied coldly. "Not them, not Oldtown. But knowledge is power, and I will not let the Citadel hold a monopoly on it."
---
The Return of Princess Saera
Two days later, the Lysene merchant galley Dragon's Slave sailed into Blackwater Bay. The ship's figurehead—a voluptuous nude woman—was a pointed insult to the Targaryen crest carved on its sails.
Daemon noted it with disgust.
"So they mock us openly."
King Jaehaerys had not left the Red Keep in months, but today he bathed, dressed in fresh robes, and descended with Baelon, Viserys, Daemon, Corlys, and Rhaenys to welcome his prodigal daughter.
Princess Saera emerged from the ship flanked by guards. Once beautiful, she was now heavier, weathered, but still carried herself with regal poise. Her violet eyes scanned the unfamiliar harbor.
"This is not King's Landing," she said flatly. "Have I forgotten my own home?"
"This is Blackwater City," Jaehaerys said gently. "Your nephew Daemon's domain."
Saera snorted.
"Ah yes, Daemon the Rogue. Even across the Narrow Sea, I heard your name whispered in bedsheets."
Baelon quickly introduced Viserys and Daemon.
"They were children when you fled. They are fathers now."
Saera's lips curled into a playful, mocking smile.
"Handsome boys. In my brothel, girls would have served them for free."
Jaehaerys flushed.
"Enough, Saera. I know what you endured, but you need not parade it before us."
Saera lifted her chin.
"If my past shames you, Father, send me back to Craghas. He cared nothing for my history. Perhaps the Triarchy values honesty more than the Iron Throne."
Baelon stepped forward, stern.
"Saera, mind your tongue. Father's health is failing. Do not torment him."
She stared at him coolly.
"A dutiful son defending his inheritance. Tell me, Baelon—if you died, would the Iron Throne pass to me?"
Daemon stiffened. His dream of a dying dragon flickered in his memory like a curse.
He said quietly,
"I warned you all. A truce for Saera was never worth the risk."
Saera ignored him, turning to Daemon with sudden interest.
"And you, Daemon… you married our shy little Gael, did you not? She was sweet as milk. You married one aunt but scorn the other? How ungrateful."
She took his wrist, squeezing.
"I rode no dragon in my youth. Had I done so, perhaps I would not have needed men's purses to live. Perhaps I would have burned Volantis myself."
Rhaenys stepped forward, voice cold.
"Silverwing belongs to me, Aunt Saera. And I remember you well."
Corlys shifted awkwardly.
"Rhaenys is my wife."
Saera's eyes lit up with recognition.
"Ah! Lord Corlys. You never visited my brothels though you docked in every port. No wonder—you had a true dragon princess waiting at home."
Jaehaerys's shoulders sagged.
"Enough! Saera, you are home. I forgive your past. But you must behave with dignity. This is not Lys."
Saera's voice hardened.
"When you forced me to the Faith in Oldtown—when you let them cut my hair, strip me, bind me—you forfeited your right to demand my obedience."
Jaehaerys paled.
"You broke the pelvis of the septa who tried to stop you. She died."
Saera shrugged.
"She was ancient. She would've died brushing her teeth."
Jaehaerys's face crumpled.
"You are my greatest failure."
He turned away, leaning heavily on Lady Alicent's arm, his back bowed under invisible weight.
Saera stared after him, shaken despite herself.
"…Why did he not shout at me? Curse me?"
Daemon answered quietly.
"The King is old, Aunt."
---
A Dangerous Guest
Baelon assigned Saera to reside in Daemon's domain, hoping distance would ease tensions.
Daemon escorted her to Flame Castle, flames glowing on its draconic battlements.
"You may stay in the guest rooms, or in Icefort across the river. But I recommend the sept—Sister Annie resides there."
Saera rolled her eyes.
"I'd rather sleep in a midden than near that hypocrite."
Daemon raised a brow.
"Sister Annie has lived a dozen lives—courtesan, pirate captive, brothel madam, actress, Qartheen servant. She wrote Confessions of a Red Chamber. Half of Westeros reads her."
Saera blinked in shock.
"That book was real? Then I must meet her. Perhaps I shall write my own—Confessions of a True Dragon Princess."
She paused, then said, almost casually:
"I want to visit the dragonpit. If I could claim Silverwing, it would be… fitting. Mother's dragon, after all."
Daemon's blood chilled.
Saera wanted a dragon.
A former prostitute with ties to Volantene Triarchs.
Craghas's recent hostage.
Her loyalties questionable.
Volantis—eldest daughter of Valyria—long coveted dragons.
Was this all a ploy?
Daemon said coldly:
"You should keep far from Silverwing."
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