"Daeron, you're here."
Elia wasn't shy about it. She continued nursing the infant openly.
Daeron paused at the doorway, not stepping further in. "You're nursing the child yourself?"
In his previous life, staring might have been rude, but in Westeros, such things were hardly taboo. However, the practice itself was unusual for royalty.
Elia's expression softened. "I want my child to grow up on my milk, not a stranger's."
Daeron nodded. Typically, a highborn lady would hire a wet nurse rather than take on the task herself.
Ashara let out a soft sigh. "Princess, this will hinder your recovery."
Elia's health had never been strong, and the birth had taken a heavy toll. Nursing day and night would only drag her frail body down further.
Elia shook her head gently, insisting on doing it herself. If Rhaegar didn't object, Daeron certainly had no right to.
He chose his words carefully to offer some comfort. "I heard Father hasn't summoned you yet. Don't take it to heart. You know how he is."
The truth was harsher. Aerys was particularly cruel regarding his daughter-in-law.
Elia looked downcast. "His Grace said... he didn't want to see a child that 'smelled of Dorne.'"
"Smell or no smell, she is still the eldest Princess of House Targaryen," Daeron said, trying to bolster her spirits.
---
The conversation flowed easily enough after that, shifting to stories about his two younger brothers' time on Dragonstone.
Eventually, Elia smiled again and asked, "Have you seen my brother, Oberyn Martell?"
"He set off before I did. I assume he's nearly at King's Landing by now."
Daeron kept his expression neutral, though he thought, Not yet.
He was deeply suspicious of Elia bringing her daughter to King's Landing at this specific time.
Normally, a royal birth required the King's acknowledgment and a presentation to the city so the smallfolk could celebrate. But Father Aerys was clearly insane. And frankly, neither Rhaegar nor Oberyn seemed entirely sane these days either.
The Tourney at Harrenhal was scheduled for mid-April—imminent. Sending Elia and her newborn into the viper's nest of King's Landing right now? Rhaegar must have lost his mind.
Prince Doran of Dorne was no better. He claimed he was too ill to travel to the Iron Throne himself, yet he sent his brother, Oberyn—the "Red Viper"—in his stead.
Daeron knew the truth about Doran. He wasn't the weak, passive cripple the show portrayed. He remembered Doran's most telling quote regarding the Sand Snakes:
> "I am not blind, nor am I deaf. I know you all believe me weak, frightened, feeble. Your father knew me better. Oberyn was ever the viper. Deadly, dangerous, unpredictable. No man dared tread on him. I was the grass. Pleasant, complaisant, sweet-smelling, swaying with every breeze. Who fears to walk upon the grass? But it is the grass that hides the viper from his enemies and shelters him until he strikes."
Daeron understood this clearly. The danger wasn't the flashy Oberyn standing in the open; it was Doran, the man in the shadows who had released the snake.
If Oberyn was in King's Landing, Doran was making a move.
"None of them are normal," Daeron grumbled internally.
Elia looked puzzled. "He hasn't arrived? That isn't like Oberyn."
As the words left her mouth, a boisterous laugh echoed from the corridor.
"Sister! I heard you calling my name from down the hall."
Daeron turned around.
A lean, tall young man with short black hair and undeniable swagger strode toward them. He was handsome in a sharp, dangerous way, dressed in a deep yellow tunic. He looked like he had just rolled out of a brothel—disheveled, uninhibited, and smelling of wine and perfume.
Stopping at the door, Oberyn's smile vanished instantly. His dark eyes locked onto Daeron.
"Was it your men who took my cloak?"
Daeron looked him up and down and replied coolly, "Be careful next time. Or you might lose the skin off your back, not just your cloak."
"Heh. Interesting."
Oberyn wasn't angered. Instead, his smile returned, hiding a dagger behind the charm. "So, you must be Rhaegar's brother. The 'Bold' Daeron the smallfolk whisper about? The second son threatening Rhaegar's claim to the Iron Throne?"
He lived up to his nickname. Like a viper, he eyed his prey, looking for the soft spot to sink his fangs in.
"I don't like you," Daeron said simply.
Oberyn blinked, surprised by the bluntness. He wasn't questioning Daeron's sexual preference; he was just shocked. Since being exiled from Dorne, no one had spoken to him with such raw honesty. It lacked the usual perfumed courtesy of the Seven Kingdoms' nobility.
He guessed right. Daeron wasn't just honest; he was brutal.
The warmth vanished from Daeron's eyes, replaced by a flash of cold steel.
Thud!
Without warning, Daeron moved. He seized Oberyn by the throat and slammed him against the stone wall, lifting him half a foot off the ground.
Pain exploded in the back of Oberyn's skull. His windpipe felt like it was crushed in an iron vise. He couldn't breathe.
Instinctively, Oberyn reached for the dagger at the small of his back.
Daeron saw it coming. He drove a knee hard into Oberyn's groin and simultaneously wrenched the Dornishman's wrist, disarming him effortlessly.
In the blink of an eye, the Red Viper was reduced to a defanged garden snake.
Daeron remained calm. He wasn't posturing or trying to look tough. He spoke in a flat, terrifyingly even tone.
"Let me teach you some manners. Next time you see me, you bow and speak respectfully."
Daeron leaned in close. "If you dare bare your fangs at me again, I will sew your mouth shut, stitch by stitch, and throw you into Blackwater Bay to feed the fish."
Red Viper? Please. If you talk trash to my face, I'll skin you right here.
Oberyn struggled, his face turning purple, shaking his head. It was unclear if he was suffocating or shaking with rage.
Daeron didn't loosen his grip. He waited.
Oberyn had guts. As long as Daeron held him, he refused to speak.
They remained in a suffocating deadlock.
"Stop! Please!"
Elia finally reacted, realizing her beloved brother was seconds away from passing out. Ignoring her weakness, she rushed over to pull them apart.
Daeron didn't make it difficult for her. As she reached the door, he dropped Oberyn onto the floor.
Gasp—Cough—
Oberyn clutched his throat, gasping for air, his pupils dilating and contracting rapidly as he processed his near-death experience.
He had a gut feeling: This boy would have actually killed me.
More terrifyingly, he had the ability to do it.
"Are you alright?" Elia, disheveled and frantic, knelt on the floor to check her brother's injuries.
Oberyn's mouth was still tougher than steel. "I'm fine. Just a little joke between men."
Elia wasn't stupid. She knew the difference between a joke and a brawl. One was her brother, the other her good-brother; she was caught in the middle.
Daeron spoke up first. "I'm leaving. I'll send some tonics for his recovery later."
"Wait—" Elia tried to stop him, but he was already walking away.
---
Leaving the Red Keep, Daeron headed for the Dragonpit.
The Tourney at Harrenhal was the turning point where House Targaryen began its slide from decline into destruction. With the date approaching, now was the time for vigilance.
Doran sending Oberyn to King's Landing was Dorne officially placing their chips on the table.
"Both the Dragons and the Iron Throne have tempted them," Daeron speculated boldly.
Faced with Oberyn's provocation, Daeron didn't act with the arrogant dismissal of Brandon "The Wild Wolf" Stark. instead, he chose a preemptive strike.
He believed in a simple philosophy: Strike hard enough once, and you won't have to strike a hundred times.
When he had no dragons, he lay low, hiding his time.
Now, he had dragons.
It was time to embody the old adage: "When the tiger sheds its coat, its true stripes are revealed—brilliant and terrifying."
It meant that when a great man rises, his transformation should be undeniable, his actions swift and devastating, possessing a force that could sweep away all opposition.
Anyone who dared provoke him would be answered with Fire and Blood.
The Red Viper wasn't the first, and he wouldn't be the last.
"Prince!"
As soon as he appeared at the foot of the hill, the Dragonkeepers guarding the entrance bowed in salute.
"Mmm."
Daeron nodded gently, slipping back into his persona of the mild-mannered, cheerful prince. He had always considered himself a kind, understanding person, after all.
Inside the Dragonpit.
Caraxes lay on the ground, the charred remains of a sheep in front of him.
Upon seeing Daeron, the red dragon scrambled up immediately, eager as a puppy.
"Let's go back to the Farm first."
Daeron stroked the red dragon's neck and vaulted onto his back.