Chapter 84 — The Skinchanger's Backlash & Discord at the Great Council
High atop the black stone battlements of Dragonstone, Prince Daemon Targaryen stood motionless, the sea wind snapping at his cloak. Through the sorcery he had inherited—half skinchanging, half something older, something Valyrian—Daemon felt the minds of the Dragons as vividly as his own heartbeat.
Through Caraxes's eyes, the nobles gathered below looked like prey: Lannister lions gleaming in crimson and gold; Stark direwolves draped in furs; Arryn falcons; Hightower green flames; Tyrell roses; Velaryon seahorses; Frey twin towers; Redwyne grapes; Florent foxes. All of them clustered like herds on the shore.
The Dragon's furnace-heat swelled in Daemon's chest. His throat tingled with the ghost of Dragonfire. His nostrils steamed like a smith's bellows. The link was intoxicating.
But every Dragon's mind felt different.
Dreamfyre was haughty, cold as blue flame—bearing both the hauteur of her former rider Princess Rhaena and the gentleness of her current rider, Gael.
Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, pulsed with ancient grief: the echo of King Jaehaerys's sorrow for a lost son. Rage simmered within the beast, loathing the petty nobles gathered below.
Silverwing drifted in a quiet melancholy, haunted by memories of Queen Alysanne. Yet Dragonstone stirred in her the bittersweet days of childhood with young Jaehaerys—days shadowed by Visenya's iron rule and the terror of Vhagar's roars.
The three young Dragons—Black Dread, Blue Sprite, and Ancalagon—were wildfire bottled in flesh, eager to explore, to challenge the wild Dragons who lurked in Dragonmont: Cannibal, Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost. Their excitement crackled like sparks.
Caraxes angled his great neck, watching Otto Hightower declaim pompously about the histories of past Councils. Ser Criston Cole stood stiffly at his side; Alicent Hightower and her handmaidens lingered behind; Lady Rhea Royce stood armored in bronze. Daemon's fingers twitched with the desire to burn them all where they stood. Only the presence of children and wet nurses held him back.
But the magic had a price. Daemon's skull throbbed, his temples felt ready to crack open. Still he clung to the connection, terrified that breaking it might mean losing the Dragons forever.
He stood rigid as stone when Gael approached, Alys Rivers and Terra Uller beside her, with wet nurses carrying the young princes—Aegon, Jaehaerys, and infant Baelon.
"Daemon?" Gael whispered, alarm building. He did not move.
Then she saw it—his violet eyes flooding red, veins burning beneath the surface. She gasped. "Daemon, what is happening?"
Alys Rivers touched the carved weirwood bracelet on her wrist, reached for his hand, and the bloody glow in his eyes faded. The soul-bond snapped. A blast of heat surged from Daemon's mouth and nostrils—Dragonbreath escaping in a rush. The wet nurses recoiled; the handmaidens shrieked. Only Alys Rivers and Terra stood steady.
Gael seized him. "Are you ill? You frightened me half to death!"
Daemon's head hammered with a thousand hoofbeats, but he forced a crooked smile. "Grief for my father, that's all. Nothing more."
"You expect me to believe—your eyes—"
Aegon and Jaehaerys chose that exact moment to begin bickering, and Baelon started wailing. Daemon seized the distraction. "Go, love. See to the children."
Gael reluctantly withdrew with the nurses. Only Alys Rivers and Terra remained atop the vast, empty wall, Dragons wheeling overhead like living storms.
Alys Rivers spoke quietly. "You risk too much. If Westeros learns you wield skinchanging sorcery, they will call you cursed—Valyrian witchcraft mixed with northern blasphemy."
Daemon snorted. "Let them talk. A Targaryen is what he claims to be."
Terra Uller stepped closer. "Magic exacts a cost, my prince. Today's backlash nearly killed you. If you attempt to command many Dragons again, you must consult us first. We will stand with you."
Daemon nodded grudgingly. "Since returning to Dragonstone, my power feels… magnified."
Alys Rivers smiled faintly. "Dragonstone is built on fire and blood. When Aenar Targaryen fled Valyria with Daenys the Dreamer, they chose this place for a reason. Its stones are Valyrian, its roots old and powerful."
Daemon glanced toward the lone weirwood in the Godswood. "And the old gods? Their power is strong here as well."
"In the Dawn Age," Terra said, "Dragonstone was thick with weirwoods, as the Isle of Faces still is. Most were cut by First Men and Andals—but their roots endure. The old gods remember."
Alys pressed her bracelet gently against Daemon's brow. A shiver of clarity swept through him. For a heartbeat he heard the entire realm: the swamp-murmur of the Neck; oars slapping the Trident; vows whispered atop the Wall; the clatter of camels in Dorne; ironborn curses on stormy shores; scholars chanting in Oldtown; moans and laughter rising from King's Landing's Silk Street.
Then it vanished, leaving him breathless.
"I want more," he whispered. "To feel all of it again."
"Be careful," Alys murmured. "Or you will lose yourself to it."
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The Sea Snake's Gifts
That afternoon, Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, sailed in with chests of gold, jewels, and luxuries from Driftmark. He showered Westerosi nobles with gifts: a Myrish telescope to King Gavin Greyjoy; Summer Isles monkeys for Oldtown; Lysene maidens for the Freys; a war galley for the Sunderlands. Lesser knights received silver and gemstones—subtle bribes for votes.
Rhaenys and Queen Jocelyn Baratheon brought noble ladies by flower-boat to Spice Town for singers, feasts, and entertainments.
Corlys worked tirelessly to secure votes for Princess Rhaenys.
Daemon approached him with a mocking smile.
"Sea Snake, you've gifted half the realm. Nothing for me?"
Corlys's eyes hardened. "I give gifts to friends. Are you one?"
Daemon smirked. "You're friends with whoever has votes. I do."
"I know how you will vote—either for yourself or for Prince Viserys."
Daemon bowed theatrically. "You're quite the milk-cow, Lord Corlys. Whoever tugs your purse strings gets your favor."
Corlys's jaw tightened like a drawn bow.
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The Great Hall — Quarrels Begin
The next morning, in the carved-stone hall of Dragonstone, the Small Council and the great lords of Westeros gathered to finalize the procedures of the Great Council.
Only the Lords Paramount sat in high seats:
Tymond Lannister, Warden of the West
Ellard Stark, Warden of the North
Mathos Tyrell, Warden of the South
Gavin Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands
Jeyne Arryn, with her regent Yobert Royce
Beaumont Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands
Corlys Velaryon and Lord Quentin Hightower also held elevated places through sheer family power.
Grand Maester Runciter opened the session. "Each Targaryen claimant shall present their case. The lords will vote. His Grace invites discussion on how votes shall be apportioned."
Beaumont Baratheon rose. "The Lords Paramount should hold greater weight. A lord of Storm's End cannot have the same vote as a landed knight."
Daemon's lips curved. "Storm's End, Casterly Rock, Winterfell, Hightower—aye, all great castles. But I heard a shockingly small one slip in. Tell me, Lord Corlys—since when is High Tide a great castle?"
Corlys's face darkened. "High Tide is newly built and costly, and the trade of Spice Town surpasses half the realm. I command fleets and ancient Velaryon lands."
"And I," Daemon replied, "own Flame Castle and Icefort in the Blackwater. Shall we vote by castle count, then?"
That drew laughter—especially from Delan Stark of the Night's Watch.
"If so, the Night's Watch should rule the realm. Nineteen castles along the Wall, from Westwatch to Eastwatch!"
Tymond Lannister scoffed. "Nineteen ruins, manned by thieves and rapers. The Night's Watch has no place in deciding the Iron Throne."
The North erupted as one—Ellard Stark slamming his hand on the table.
"The Watch guards the realm. They bleed where we do not. They will have a vote, and any man who doubts it is a fool."
Western nobles sprang to Tymond's defense; Northern lords shouted back. The hall devolved into snarling chaos.
King Jaehaerys watched in cold silence.
Daemon smiled behind his hand, amused. The Grand Council had not even begun, and already the realm was fracturing.
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