𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐄 ~ aemond targaryen (discontinued)

12 ~ Truth ~ 12

Following many protests, eventually, the guards by the King's chambers allowed me to pass. Their initial excuse was my inappropriate attire- I had yet to change from my armours- but I knew the true grievances they held against me. It was the same bias everyone else held- bastard.

My time spent warring for the Stepstones had allowed a short reprieve from that title. No one knew me, who I was, where I hailed from. None but the Master of Driftmark and those few who had left their post to fight on behalf of King's Landing. None who cared. As long as battle was won and territory redeemed, not a soul cared who I was.

Instead they believed in who I became. A symbol of sorts, but not by my own influence. The story of Kaerhys the Swift was not one I had forged and in some ways, I knew it as just another title. A spit in the face, similar to half the glory gifted to me as a Bastard. Only as Kaerhys, my curse was not being illegitimate. My curse was being born a woman. As a Kings bastard, I had royal blood, but was not called princess. As Kaerhys the Swift, I was a legend, but not as a woman, not as my true self. My legacy was of halves.

But it couldn't be denied that the respect and honour I was gifted as the Phantom rider was thrilling.

The door banged shut behind me.

I stepped through the large room, eyes tugging on the constructed model of Old Valyria. In youth, father and I would sit by the 3d map and I would listen as he told me stories of the dead civilisation. He called them my history, told me my blood was of the dragon, through his. He told me I deserved to know of my ancestors.

I wish he hadn't lied. I wish he hadn't convinced me that I was more than a simple, dead maid's daughter.

True, I was a dragon rider, the rider of Balerions Ghost (not that Helios was big enough to match that title), I felt like a thief. A fake. An impersonator of a Targaryen.

Coughs echoed. I pressed further into the room.

The bed was curtained by a sheer fabric, where I knew the King lay. I edged around the bed, metal armour clanking as I moved.

"Daemon?" The weak voice of Viserys tremored from behinfd the veil. "Is that you?"

I didn't respond. Slipping the curtains back, I had to retain my gasp.

Had he not spoken just a moment ago, I would have believed him dead already, left to rot in his bed. Half the kings face had began to crumble away, wrapped tight with a bandage to keep the wound covered. Skin taught over his skull, my father had lost his weight and wore a permanent grimace.

I had always known Viserys in sickness, known him in pain. But in this moment I wished to take it all away from him, to give him peace. This was not living.

"Daemon?" Eyes still shut, he hadn't seen me yet.

"No, father." I sat on the chair by his side, taking his cold hand in mine.

Viserys squited up at me as if even the light was to powerful for his weak form.

I smiled gently, even if I contained no joy from witnessing him like this.

I had missed my father terribly. I missed his guidance, his love, his patience. Especially on the battlefield, taking life, taking land, some days I wished to forfeit the fight and curl up on my father's lap to have him whisper stories of the past to me as he did before.