Chapter 80 — Dragon and Serpent: The Shapechanger's Power
The Iron Throne chamber felt colder than winter itself. Torches flickered against the jagged metal of Aegon the Conqueror's throne, casting long, broken shadows across the stone floor.
Ser Otto Hightower stood at the foot of the dais, hands folded neatly over emerald sleeves, his expression carefully carved between humility and ambition.
"Your Grace," Otto began, voice echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling, "now that Prince Baelon's death has been confirmed as murder by Tears of Lys, it is improper—unsafe—for Prince Daemon to lead the investigation."
King Jaehaerys I Targaryen looked like a man carved from pale stone. His grief aged him another decade, though he wore his crown as if it were the last burden he refused to set down.
"Daemon is my Hand," Jaehaerys replied wearily. "And Baelon's son. No one is more motivated to uncover the truth."
Otto bowed slightly, unfazed.
"Your Grace, Prince Baelon fell sick in Daemon's own hall. He drank Daemon's wine. He quarreled with Daemon openly before half the court. And now—conveniently—every servant who witnessed that quarrel is dead. All lost at sea on Daemon's orders."
The King's jaw tightened.
"You imply my grandson is a kinslayer."
"I imply only this, Your Grace—an investigation led by Daemon is tainted from the start. Prince Baelon deserved better."
Jaehaerys rose with effort, and though age had softened him, his voice still carried the weight of fifty years on the throne.
"No Targaryen—not one—would be foolish enough to poison a man in his own hall the same night they quarrel. You think Daemon is reckless, Otto, but he is not stupid."
Otto bowed again, lips a thin line.
"Then at least grant me leave to question the household at Dragonstone. Servants, stableboys, wet nurses—someone must know the truth."
Jaehaerys's eyes hardened.
"This ends now. The poisoner wishes to sow doubt within House Targaryen. I will not give them the satisfaction."
Otto's jaw flexed, but he inclined his head. He would not win this battle. Not today.
With a dismissive wave from the King, the audience ended.
Otto Hightower turned on his heel and descended the steps of the throne room slowly, each footstep ringing with cold calculation. Daemon Targaryen had humiliated him once by seizing the office of Hand before Otto could claim it. And now? Otto would not forget this slight. Not ever.
---
Driftmark — High Tide
The courtyard of High Tide shimmered with sea mist. Laenor Velaryon ran laughing across the white stone as the young dragon Seasmoke landed beside him, silver-gray wings kicking up sand and spray.
Princess Rhaenys watched from the balcony, leaning against carved driftwood railings. Her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon—the famed Sea Snake—stood beside her, pride gleaming in his dark eyes.
"A dragon has chosen our son," Corlys said. "That alone will force every lord of Westeros to reconsider where true strength lies."
Rhaenys's brows drew together.
"Dragons rarely choose outside the Targaryen line. This will not be celebrated in King's Landing. Daemon will see it as challenge, not miracle."
Corlys smirked.
"Daemon sees challenge everywhere. Let him stew. Laenor did not steal a dragon—Seasmoke sought him."
Rhaenys turned sharply.
"You speak as if crowns and dragons are yours to claim. The kingdom is grieving. Baelon is dead, and already you whisper of alliances."
Corlys's voice lowered.
"The North relies on our ships for food. The Vale's grain fills our hulls. Storm's End stands with us by blood. The Reach and Riverlands look to us for coin and protection. With a dragon at Driftmark, our influence grows tenfold."
"And suspicion grows beside it," Rhaenys warned. "There are already whispers that you orchestrated Baelon's murder."
Corlys scoffed.
"Whispers are wind. The truth is stone—I had no hand in Baelon's death."
"You had motive," she said quietly. "That is enough for Daemon."
Corlys looked out over the waves.
"Then let Daemon come."
---
Dragonstone — The Godswood
The godswood of Dragonstone was a strange thing—foreign to an island of smoke and fire. The pale weirwood stood like a ghost amid black volcanic soil.
Daemon Targaryen sat beneath the bleeding red leaves, Dark Sister across his knees, three newborn infants in swaddles beside him.
Alys Rivers cradled one child. Terra—her origins half-lost in rumor—held another. Gael, Daemon's young wife, rested in the shade with their older sons.
Daemon brushed a thumb over his newborn's cheek, expression unreadable.
"My blood grows," he murmured. "If the realm fractures, they will not want for allies. Or dragons."
Alys Rivers spoke softly.
"Your gifts grow, my prince. The dragons recognize you. The beasts of field and sky obey your call."
Daemon closed his eyes.
He felt the heartbeat of the hound in the kennels.
The watchful eyes of ravens circling the cliffs.
The steady breath of the stable horses.
Even the distant rumble of Caraxes, soaring above the clouds.
His magic—your story's shapechanging bond—had deepened. Becoming something more. Something older.
"When I wear Caraxes," Daemon whispered, "I feel his flame. His hunger. His fury. And when I return to myself… part of him remains."
"Dangerous," Terra murmured. "Power grows, but so does the fire that tries to consume you."
Daemon smirked.
"I'll master it. Fire obeys Targaryens."
"Not always," Alys said. "Not Dreamfyre. She resists you still."
Daemon's jaw clenched.
Dreamfyre burned him—mind and soul—every time he tried to reach her. She yielded only to Gael.
"The Sea Snake moves now more boldly," Alys continued. "He gathers allies. His son rides Seasmoke."
Daemon opened his eyes slowly.
"So I saw. The boy thinks dragonriding is a game. Corlys believes it divine favor. Fools."
Terra asked quietly,
"Did Corlys kill Prince Baelon?"
Daemon exhaled a long, cold breath.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But he gains most from Baelon's death—and he has now armed his House with a dragon."
He rose, eyes burning with resolve.
"I will not allow Velaryons to claim dragon power unchecked. I will speak with the King."
He rested a hand upon the weirwood's pale bark.
Its carved face seemed to smile back, crimson sap dripping like tears.
"Blood calls to blood," the women whispered.
"And fire answers fire."
Daemon Targaryen turned toward Dragonstone Castle as Caraxes circled overhead, roaring into the storm-wreathed sky.
The Dance had not yet begun—
—but the first stones were falling.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 30+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics