HĀROS BARTOSSI | DAEMON T.

[ 𝟐𝟎 ]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑

── •✧• ── ⋆⋅༻✦༺⋅⋆ ── •✧• ──

The Godswood at King's Landing had transformed that afternoon. No longer the quiet, sacred sanctuary it had once been, it was now a grand banquet beneath the open sky, alive with the bustle of celebration. The ancient trees, their thick trunks twisted and gnarled with the weight of centuries, stood in reverent witness to the jubilant scene unfolding before them. The last the Red Keep had seen such revelry was when Queen Aemma still walked among them, not even when the present Queen Alicent arrived, nor when the realm's firstborn son of King Viserys had been born.

Sunlight glittered through the leaves, their shadows dancing across the faces of the lords and ladies who had gathered to rejoice Prince Daemon's victorious return. Their laughter and voices carried on the cool noon air. Despite the roguish reputation Daemon had cultivated, many sought an audience with him. Even if it were just a fleeting moment in his presence, their desperate curiosities about his conquest of the Crabfeeder and legendary deeds were satisfied. 

The weirwood at the heart of the Godswood loomed over all, its pale face ever watchful, its wide, blood-red leaves fluttering gently in the breeze. The great tree, ancient and wise, had seen countless moments of celebrations, betrayals, and mayhaps battles. Its roots were deep in the history of the realm, and now, it stood as an impartial observer to yet another chapter in the Targaryen saga: the tentative reconciliation of the Targaryen brothers.

Its white bark glowed in the soft light, starkly contrasting the warmth of the festivities below. The eyes of the tree seemed to watch over all with a mixture of judgment and mystery, as if it knew the secrets of the future, and more of the fates of those gathered around it, but would never share them.

Beneath the boughs and corridors, long tables were draped with fine cloths, laden with platters of roasted meats, steaming vegetables, and honeyed cakes, all piled high and fresh. Servants in crisp livery moved swiftly among the guests, their eyes sharp for the slightest needs. Goblets were filled with the finest juices and wines from across the realm: vintage dry Arbor reds and golds, sweet sparkling wines from the Reach, spiced-honeyed wines from Lannisport, and even warm, cinnamon-scented Hippocras from Highgarden. With the mingling scents of roasted meat and the blooming flowers thickening the air, charged with anticipation, the Godswood had become a stage, the Targaryens its reluctant stars.

Prince Daemon simpered to himself, raising his cup in occasional toasts to the guests who exchanged pleasantries. Yet, even amid the clamour of celebration, there was something about him— an unmistakable weight to his voice and aura. Despite his rare moments of kindness, his presence remained dignified, and he carried an authority that marked him as Targaryen through and through. Of all the others, he was one of those closest to the gods.

One by one, the guests came and went, flattering and toasting Daemon's victory and engaging in brief conversations. None stayed for long, for the presence of the King and Queen was overpowering. While all was peaceful and lively, a subtle undercurrent of wariness persisted— the unspoken knowledge that triumph, too, has its price. Nevertheless, it mattered little for now. A battle had been won, and Daemon had returned. 

King Viserys guffawed for the tenth time, wine never far from his lips as he regaled his young Queen with stories of his youth. Daemon stood by his flank, having refreshed himself from arrival— his silvery gold hair sleeked back, his armour replaced by the rich red and black of House Targaryen, and Dark Sister, hung by his side with pride, and in his hand, a cup of ember wine. His gaze never strayed from his brother, nor the weirwood, whose face seemed to hold a thousand secrets, or even the figure looming in the distance, veiled by the shadows, but eyes were set firmly on him alone.