Chapter 77 — The Dragon's Fall, the
Stranger's Veil
The night over Flame Castle was thick with mist—unnatural, suffocating, and heavy as a shroud. It crawled up the walls like ghostly fingers and swallowed the torches until only faint halos remained.
Prince Baelon's screams tore through the courtyard.
Maester Mervyn shouted orders. Ser Harold Westerling of the Kingsguard called for more men. The sharp voice of Maester Lymond—newly arrived from Oldtown—cut through the confusion.
Daemon was already running toward the commotion, Alys Rivers and Tarya gliding behind him like twin shadows. At first, he had worried their presence might anger Baelon or Viserys. But his concern vanished the moment he saw them.
Viserys was drunk beyond sense, slumped in an attendant's arms, while Baelon writhed on the ground clutching his stomach, sweat cascading from his brow.
Daemon knelt beside him.
"Father—what happened? Why suddenly?"
Baelon's lips were nearly white.
"Feels… like dragons warring in my gut—crabs, serpents… something tearing me apart."
Daemon turned sharply. "Maester Mervyn?"
The older maester looked shaken. "My prince… it may be acute inflammation—or poisoning. I cannot yet say."
The words hung heavily. Only days ago, Daemon had received reports:
Lysene alchemists. Myrish poisoners. Dornish knives in the dark. Braavosi Faceless Men.
All possibly stalking King's Landing—and Prince Baelon had been named among their targets.
Ser Harold motioned for guards. The Kingsguard lifted Baelon and carried him toward Daemon's private chambers, the safest rooms in the castle.
Daemon seized Maester Mervyn by the sleeve.
"You will save him."
"I will try," Mervyn said helplessly. "But I am one man. I have already sent for Grand Maester Yowen and Maester Lymond."
Daemon's jaw tightened. He had never trusted the Citadel's choices. Vaegon Targaryen himself had faded from his family once the Conclave claimed him. But medicine was medicine, and Baelon needed it.
Still—he sent riders to fetch healers from the Dragon Academy as well.
Alys Rivers whispered, voice soft as a grave wind:
"Your father walks with Death already, Daemon. He follows the Stranger's pale hand."
Daemon ignored her.
Baelon's screams grew louder—until the sky answered.
A monstrous roar tore through the fog.
Vhagar.
Then Caraxes.
Then Dreamfyre.
Their cries rolled across Blackwater Bay like thunder, as if the dragons themselves felt Baelon's agony.
The mist thickened further, swallowing the city lights of King's Landing. Daemon realized now: this fog did not belong to nature. It felt ancient… ominous… deliberate.
Inside, Maester Mervyn poured concoctions and tried to induce vomiting. Baelon retched violently, but nothing improved. Fever struck him like a hammer—his skin burned to the touch.
Daemon sent riders again and again to the Red Keep, urging the Grand Maester to hurry.
Gaella Waters, Septa Anya, and Princess Saera Targaryen arrived outside the door, pale with worry—though Daemon kept a wary eye on Saera.
Raised in Lys.
Once hostage to the Crabfeeder.
Now conveniently returned to the capital.
She had motive.
But no opportunity—Daemon had ensured she was watched too closely to handle Baelon's food.
"I want to see him," Saera said, breaking from the septa's grip.
Daemon's voice was flat. "Pray for him in the sept. That is all."
But she pushed past regardless, whispered soft comfort to her brother, then left again. Daemon watched every movement. Every breath.
Hours bled into night.
At last Grand Maester Yowen and Maester Lymond arrived—both weary, both blinking through the fog.
"King Jaehaerys will be here shortly," Yowen rasped.
Daemon's eyes sharpened.
"Who summoned him? I forbade it."
Maester Lymond bowed.
"A guard encountered Ser Criston Cole at the Mud Gate. Cole ran to Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, who roused the King."
Daemon cursed under his breath. Criston Cole was supposed to be at Driftmark with the Velaryons—yet here he was, stirring storms in the night.
The Grand Maester oversaw the preparations while Mervyn and Lymond administered draughts. Their combined effort finally subdued Baelon's agony. The dragons quieted. Baelon opened his eyes, weak but conscious.
Daemon exhaled.
"Father… you nearly sent me to the Stranger."
Baelon managed a faint smile.
"I have survived worse. Tell the King to stay in the Red Keep. I am—"
He never finished.
King Jaehaerys arrived.
And Baelon's pain returned in a violent wave. He screamed—then choked—then writhed. The dragon roars came again, furious and mournful. The animals across the compound panicked: dogs howling, horses kicking at stalls, pigs squealing.
When Jaehaerys entered, leaning heavily on Ryam Redwyne and Lady Alicent, he looked a hundred years old.
Daemon recounted the feast—but carefully omitted Baelon's threat to strip him of command. Jaehaerys listened silently.
"Where is Viserys?"
"Drunk," Daemon admitted. "Still unconscious."
Jaehaerys's eyes flashed with sudden fury.
"Viserys is steady and responsible. Why would he be drunk tonight? Wake him. At once."
Daemon left to rouse his brother, dragging Rhaegar Pyke—an exiled Ironborn he'd once taken into service—behind him.
As the fog curled around them, Rhaegar whispered:
"Your father will not live till dawn. And when Viserys wakes, he will accuse you. Everyone knows Baelon threatened to remove you tonight."
Daemon's grip tightened on Dark Sister's hilt.
"After Baelon dies," Rhaegar continued, "you lose command, land, title. Viserys inherits everything. He said so himself—drunk words reveal truth."
Daemon snarled, "Viserys was drunk."
Rhaegar leaned closer.
"When dawn comes, you will be blamed. For harboring witches. For serving Baelon poisoned food. Instead of being prey—strike first."
Daemon froze.
"If Viserys dies tonight," Rhaegar whispered, "and Baelon does not survive the dawn… you are the rightful heir. Jaehaerys is old. Saera is hated. Rhaenys has little support. You could claim the Iron Throne by sunrise."
Daemon stepped back as if burned.
"To murder my own blood? I am not Maegor."
Rhaegar spread his hands. "Only offering truth, my prince."
Daemon left him in the mist.
He roused Viserys, who blinked blearily.
"My head… Daemon? Where is Aemma? Where's Rhaenyra?"
"Brother—Father is dying."
Viserys sobered instantly, terror flooding him.
"Take me to him."
They stepped into the courtyard.
The silence was unnatural.
The dragon roars were gone.
The animals were quiet.
Only fog remained.
A silence thick as death.
When they reached Baelon's chamber, the Silent Sisters already stood outside the door.
Daemon and Viserys pushed forward.
Inside, King Jaehaerys sat beside Baelon's body, weeping silently as he held the cold hand of his last living son.
Viserys collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Daemon's eyes stung, but no tears fell. A prince could bleed, but he could not break.
When dawn finally pierced the fog, the Silent Sisters began to wash Baelon's body.
Jaehaerys stood with his back straight despite the tremor in his bones.
"Was it sickness?" he asked. "Or poison?"
Grand Maester Yowen shook his head.
"We cannot say, Your Grace. Only an autopsy will tell."
Jaehaerys looked at the gathered court—Otto Hightower, Criston Cole, Qyle Massey, Queen Jocelyn Baratheon—faces half-hidden in fog and suspicion.
"I have heard whispers of Lyseni Tears," he said. "Assassins in the city."
"We can rule out the Strangler," Maester Lymond said. "Prince Baelon lived for hours. But Lyseni Tears… cannot be dismissed."
"Open him," Jaehaerys commanded. "I will not have my son carried to the crypts without truth."
His old eyes turned to Viserys.
"What was served at the feast?"
Viserys looked at Alys Rivers and Tarya—the witches Daemon kept close. He remembered the harsh words Baelon had exchanged with Daemon over them.
Daemon's heartbeat thundered. If Viserys spoke of Baelon's threat… Daemon would be accused. Arrested. Perhaps executed.
Viserys hesitated.
Jaehaerys stepped closer.
"Say it."
Daemon's fingers closed around the hilt of Dark Sister.
Viserys swallowed.
"I… I was drunk," he said quietly. "I remember nothing."
Daemon released his sword.
And the fog outside swirled—silent, watching, hungry.
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