Chapter 90 — The Old King Makes Peace and Prepares for War
Rewritten, Canon-Consistent Version
Morning winds swept across the battlements of Dragonstone, carrying with them the scent of salt and the distant rumble of the tide. Upon the ancient volcanic stone walls stood Lady Aemma Arryn, visibly pregnant, beside her husband Prince Viserys Targaryen. Little Princess Rhaenyra, four years old, clutched a carved wooden dragon in her tiny hands as she chirped with innocent conviction:
"Princess Rhaenys wants to be Queen," Rhaenyra declared. "But that's silly. A woman can't sit the Iron Throne. Annie and Saenella said so."
Aemma and Viserys exchanged startled looks.
Aemma's face hardened.
"Rhaenyra—who told you that?" Her tone was gentle, but edged with displeasure.
"Princess Saenella and Sister Annie," Rhaenyra said with a shrug, as if repeating a fact as plain as the sky.
Viserys sighed. Aemma's jaw tightened.
"Those women are no teachers for a princess," Aemma said sharply. "They speak nonsense. A woman can inherit the Iron Throne."
A nurse led the confused child away. Aemma's expression darkened.
"This reeks of Daemon's influence," she muttered. "Saenella lives under his roof. Annie serves at his sept. They wouldn't dare speak of succession unless he encouraged it."
Viserys waved a hand dismissively.
"Daemon? Encouraging Rhaenyra to think women cannot inherit? Nonsense."
Aemma placed a protective hand on her swollen belly, eyes troubled.
"After so many miscarriages… perhaps he expects you will never have a son."
Viserys softened.
"We will have a son, Aemma. I saw him in a dream—a silver-haired boy, honored by lords and warriors alike. And Daemon has supported me at every turn. When the Great Council was held, he refused even to put forth his name."
Aemma frowned.
"You rely too much on him. He commands the City Watch, has the loyalty of half the Kingsguard, and now he prepares for war. You should secure your own power by appointing loyal men to Dragonstone's guard."
Viserys shook his head.
"Daemon is my brother. If I cannot trust him, who can I trust? Besides, when he marches to the Stepstones, the Kingsguard in King's Landing will answer to me alone."
Aemma persisted.
"Then choose a captain loyal to you. Someone competent. Someone trustworthy."
At her signal, Ser Criston Cole approached—tall, striking, armored in ash-grey plate. He knelt before Viserys and drew his sword, offering fealty with unwavering resolve.
"Your Highness," Criston declared, "I pledge myself to your service until my last breath."
Viserys studied him, impressed despite himself.
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The Gathering Storm
Beyond Dragonstone, preparations for war spread across the realm.
The Triarchy—the combined powers of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—pressed upon the Stepstones, raiding coastlines from Tarth to Cape Wrath. Dorne too was suspected in the death of Prince Baelon, though they denied any hand in it. Regardless, banners were being raised beneath the cry of vengeance.
But for Prince Daemon, this war meant more than revenge.
It was the beginning of his own vision—of conquest eastward, a foothold on Essos. A seed of power sown beyond the Narrow Sea.
On Dragonmount, Gael Targaryen played with her young sons—Aegon, Jaehaerys, and infant Baelon—atop the warm back of Dreamfyre, her dragon. She smiled at the boys' laughter, though her eyes lingered anxiously upon her husband.
"Must you leave again?" she asked quietly.
Daemon took her hand.
"This time, you will fly beside me. You are a dragonrider now. Dreamfyre will burn our enemies from the sky."
"I've… never seen battle," Gael admitted, fear and pride mingling.
"Neither had Rhaenys nor Visenya when they first took to war," Daemon said. "You are of the blood of the dragon. And Dreamfyre obeys only you."
In truth, Daemon intended for Gael and the children to remain safe in the Stepstones, not on the battlefield. His shapeshifting magic allowed him limited command over other dragons—Vermithor, Silverwing—but such control was fragile and taxing. Dreamfyre, bonded to Gael, responded far more willingly.
Aly Rivers and Terra Uller, with the children they bore Daemon, would also accompany them eastward. Daemon intended to bring his entire household—his line, his blood—into the crucible of war.
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The King's Banquet
That night, King Jaehaerys summoned the lords who would be crucial to the coming campaign:
Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Ships, and Beaumont Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. Princess Rhaenys and her mother, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, were also present.
The Old King raised a goblet.
"No matter the outcomes of councils or elections, House Baratheon and House Velaryon remain the pillars of the realm," he declared.
Jaehaerys reminisced on their shared histories—the Targaryens' arrival in Westeros, the bond between Aegon the Conqueror and Orys Baratheon, the blood ties between the crowned stag and the dragon.
Lord Beaumont thumped a fist against his broad chest.
"Storm's End will answer your call, Your Grace. The Stepstones, Dorne, the Triarchy—whoever stands against the Iron Throne shall fall."
Yet Lord Corlys Velaryon remained frost-cold.
"The Velaryon fleet will not sail," he announced flatly. "Let the Ironborn or the Sistermen aid you, if Westeros no longer values Driftmark."
Daemon spoke lightly, though with razor beneath the silk.
"If the Triarchy takes the Stepstones, Driftmark's trade collapses. Braavos and Pentos cannot save what is already burning."
Jaehaerys clapped, and the Kingsguard brought forth a newly carved map-table—a detailed rendering of the Stepstones and the cities of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. Corlys's eyes flickered.
Jaehaerys said softly,
"You know these waters better than any man alive. You know the riches that lie there. Join us—and claim your share."
Rhaenys stepped forward.
"I will ride Meleys to war," she said. "Will you truly sit home nursing wounded pride while your wife flies into danger?"
That struck home.
Moments later, the Sea Snake relented, agreeing to lead the Velaryon fleet.
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A Request for Dragons
After the feast, Jaehaerys and Daemon stood upon the highest tower of Dragonstone. Vermithor and Silverwing circled above, their shadows sweeping across the courtyard.
"Grandfather," Daemon said, "I wish to bring Vermithor and Silverwing with me."
Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes.
"What purpose do riderless dragons serve in the Stepstones?"
Daemon answered carefully.
"Not for war—at least not at first. I believe they can help me find Vhagar. My father's dragon vanished after his death. If any creatures can call her home, it is Vermithor and Silverwing. Their bonds were entwined for half a century."
The Old King's face softened with memory.
"Baelon's Vhagar…" he murmured. "If a piece of my son lingers in that great beast's soul… bring her home, Daemon. Bring her back to us."
The wind howled, and the dragons roared in answer.
The war was coming.
The realm stirred.
And Daemon Targaryen's own destiny—dark, blazing, unstoppable—took another step forward.
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