THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Threads of Deception

Daemon Targaryen strode through the corridors of the Red Keep, his mind swirling like the stormy seas beyond the castle walls. He glanced at the lavish tapestries depicting the triumphs of his ancestors, but today, they brought him no pride—only irritation. His thoughts drifted to the bronze-bitch, he regretfully called his wife, Rhea Royce. The mere thought of her made his stomach churn. She was more man than he was; her stoic demeanor and robust frame eclipsed his own. How in the Seven Hells did I end up married to a she-beast? And the whispers around the court suggested she favored the company of women. The idea didn’t bother him in the least, but he resented being shackled to her nonetheless.

His grandmother, the formidable Queen Alyssane, had orchestrated this marriage, twisting his arm behind his back until he capitulated. What’s the point of being a Targaryen if I can’t even choose my own bedmate? Daemon had sought an annulment from his brother, Viserys, countless times, but the King, under the shrewd influence of that Cunt Hightower, had denied every request. Ah yes, the great Otto Hightower—the man with the shrewdness of a crow and the soul of a rat. Viserys had married Amma Arryn instead, a union that was supposed to have been Daemon’s. Instead, he was condemned to a loveless marriage with Rhea, the woman who had refused to share his bed even on their wedding night, leaving their marriage technically unconsummated. One of the few silver linings of this disaster—if only my brother wasn’t too soft to give me my freedom.

And so, here he was, entangled in a game of vengeance and ambition, plotting to ensnare his niece, Rhaenyra, the crown princess. She was the embodiment of his desires—his ticket to Valyrian blood and power. Why not aim for the moon when I can set my sights on a dragon? Daemon relished the thought; his heart raced at the potential of it all. He knew he walked a dangerous path, but a dragon should always seek its own kind, and Rhaenyra was the perfect target for his ambitions.

Yet, amid these thoughts, his mind drifted to Alicent Hightower. He remembered her prudent nature, the sharpness of her tongue, and the honey-brown eyes that often glared at him. But today had been different. As he collided with her, he found himself captivated by her striking emerald gaze, so vibrant and alive. Gone was the timid woman he had known; she had transformed in his absence. Did I blink and miss the moment she went from mouse to lioness? Her raven-black hair framed her face like a dark halo, and her complexion had shifted from the milky pallor he remembered to a sun-kissed glow with rosy cheeks. Did she steal some of my dragon's fire, or did someone finally feed her a proper meal? What sorcery was this?

The moment had rattled him. How could a Hightower have emerged from her shell with such grace? The woman who once stood as a pawn in her father’s games had sprouted wings, now commanding her place as a queen. And when she had pushed him away, a mixture of surprise and admiration surged through him. When had Alicent gained the spine to shove a Targaryen?

He recalled the scent of dragonfire that clung to her, the unmistakable aroma of Caraxes. How could she have approached his war dragon without being reduced to ashes? Caraxes was no playful beast; he was a predator, and yet, there she stood, alive and unscathed. Caraxes is a dragon, not a house cat. This is all too curious. Daemon pondered this mystery, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

Then there was the matter of her son, Sirion. He looked strikingly like his mother, with her raven hair and emerald eyes. Surely, the Targaryen blood would dominate, and yet, here he was, taking on the features of a Hightower. This child is a Hightower through and through. Surely, a Targaryen’s blood can’t be that weak. What kind of magic was at play? The ancient Valyrian bloodline was powerful, but the child’s appearance challenged everything Daemon thought he knew about blood and lineage.

As he approached Caraxes, the dragon lifted his massive head and nudged Daemon affectionately. Daemon instinctively began to scratch behind the creature's ears, a familiar comfort. But today, something felt amiss. Caraxes hissed and snorted, a rare sign of dissatisfaction. What’s the matter, my friend? Did you taste the bitterness of Hightower blood? Daemon furrowed his brow, confused. “Why does Alicent smell like you?” he muttered, half to himself. Caraxes merely turned his head away, unfurling his wings and taking to the skies, leaving Daemon standing there, bewildered.