Great Bastards

THE DEFIANT

DAEMON I

182 AC 

"History is made by bastards, son." Daena the Defiant toyed with the golden three-headed dragon pendant around her neck. A gift from the Dragonbane himself, Daemon knew; a symbol so feared and so powerful that it had subdued an entire continent.

Rising from his seat, the twelve-year-old Daemon looked out to the city below. The streets of King's Landing were wild and winding, and he counted himself lucky to have a mother who would let him accompany her wherever she went, even if the King himself disapproved. In a way, he felt sorry for the other children of the court, who spent all their days holed up in the Red Keep. He turned to face his mother. "That's not what the King says. He told me I was baseborn. That my father was a peasant, and all I can ever hope to be is a shit-cleaning stableboy."

Daena approached her son and led him out to her balcony, a soft breeze billowing her white robes. Daemon had never seen his mother out of her typical white attire when at court, but he could remember days when she would don a disguise and take Daemon for secret walks out into the city. He remembered the smells, the cries of crowds, the turning of wheels, the clanging of steel...the only sounds at court were treacherous whispers.

"Look at the city, Daemon. The realm. It could all be yours one day." Daena rested her hand on her son's shoulder. At twelve, he was already bigger and stronger than all of the other boys his age, with an air of defiance he had inherited from her. Daemon scoffed. "Daeron is the heir, and after him, little Baelor will be next. I'm just a bastard, and His Grace never lets me forget it."

Daena smiled wickedly. "Now that you are almost a man, there is something you need to know, Daemon. You are not just any bastard. You are the son of a king. Your father wasn't some peasant man - though I have known many of them. Your father is Aegon the Fourth."

The boy was incredulous. The King, that fat lecher who was always japing at him from atop the sprawling Iron Throne, was his father? "That's impossible, I...I'm a bastard..."

"A great bastard at that." Daena removed her penchant and thrust it into Daemon's hands. "They told me a woman could never rule, that my idiot brother could lock me away in the Maidenvault and preach his folly to the realm...but I have you now. I see how you yearn to impress, Daemon. But you don't need to change anything about yourself to make Aegon or anyone else notice you. You are already as Targaryen as they come. Take this, and be the warrior I know you can be."

Daemon stared in wonder at the golden amulet. A dragon is supposed to be strong and fearless, he realised. Yet Aegon - his father, the one they called the Unworthy - was feeble and frail, and Daeron was no different. His mother was right - he was already better than them all. Still, he was unsure. "Mother, how can I be a warrior, much less a king, if Aegon refuses to recognise me? When will I get a chance to prove my worth?"

"You've heard the talk around court, haven't you?" Daena responded. "It's spring, and Maiden's Day is coming up. A time for youth. Aegon is holding a squires' tourney to celebrate. You've been training so hard, Daemon. Show the world what you can do."

Daemon thought back to all his days in the yard with the master-at-arms, Quentyn Ball, who was always praising him and telling him that he would make a fine knight. Every time Quentyn tried to get Daemon to spar with his younger half-brothers, Aegor and Brynden, using wooden swords, Daemon would refuse and insist on practicing alongside the Fireball and his men, and with true steel. Aegor and Brynden would always be left to flail around with their sticks after which Aegor would promptly knock Brynden to the ground before trying to join in with Daemon.

One day, Daemon had asked Quentyn, "when do I get to fight with Valyrian steel? The King never uses his sword except to knight people, and a sword like Blackfyre shouldn't just be left to gather dust. I should have it."

Fireball gave a hearty laugh. He was known for his temper, which he frequently unleashed on his less skilled pupils such as Brynden, but he had a soft spot for Daemon. "That's quite a presumption, boy. Blackfyre is a sword for kings, for Aegons like the Conqueror and His Grace. Now that the Dragonknight has passed, perhaps you may lay claim to Dark Sister instead. You would make a worthy warrior with such a blade."

Daemon shook his head. "Dark Sister is a woman's sword."

Aegor, who had just finished pulverising his younger half-brother once again, overheard this and japed, "mayhaps it would be best suited for Brynden then." Silently as ever, Brynden sulked away from the training ground after Daemon helped him up, squires spar. Gwenys and Mya were only eight and nine years old, but already they were playing mother to little Shiera, who had been rather neglected by the courtiers. Daemon could understand why - he remembered Shiera's mother, Serenei of Lys, who had captivated Aegon so wholly and mysteriously during her short tenure as his mistress. Rumours abounded of her sorcery and even though she had died giving birth to Shiera, nobody except her half-sisters seemed to want anything to do with the little girl.

Beside them was Daenerys, growing more beautiful each day. Daemon did his best to avoid court gossip, knowing he himself was on the receiving end of much of it, but couldn't help but overhear whenever her name was mentioned. She inherited much of her mother's warmth and gentleness, but wasn't the same after Naerys' death a few moons ago. Daemon's attempts to cheer her up were met with silence, and he noticed that Daenerys always turned to her brother Daeron, even though he always appeared to be busy running the kingdom in Aegon's stead. Why was it that everyone was so enamoured by Daeron, Daemon wondered, when he is just as weak as his father?

Mere days after learning that the King in fact fathered him, Daemon decided to approach Daeron himself. As always, the Prince of Dragonstone had his head buried in some book when Daemon found him in his chambers in the evening. He looked up with surprise, his face illuminated by candlelight. "Daemon, is something the matter?"

Daemon took this as his invitation to enter. He stood before his cousin, and for the first time looked directly into his eyes. They were a plain lilac, but with a determination that he had not entirely expected. Breaking the silence, Daeron said, "you know, I've heard that your skills have improved a lot. Quentyn never stops talking about you. I'm sure you'll make a great knight one day. Aegor too."

"I heard something as well. That we have something in common."

Daeron slowly dropped his quill. "And what might that be?" He asked, now whispering.

"That we are both bastards." Daemon tried to spit out the words with as much venom as possible, but Daeron simply stood calmly and paced the room. "And who has been saying that?" He looked at Daemon again, this time more impatient.

"You know who. The King bellowed it before half the court this morning."

To Daemon's surprise, Daeron did not raise a hand or even his voice against him, but merely gestured for the boy to leave. "You should go to bed now, Daemon." Daeron sat down once again, picked up his quill, and continued to read. "You have a big tourney to prepare for tomorrow."

So it was true, Daemon thought as he returned to his own chambers, and eyed his mother's dragon necklace, shining golden and defiant in the moonlight. He was not the weak bastard - Daeron was. He would show them all tomorrow, and King Aegon would have no choice but to embrace him.

In his dreams, he wielded Blackfyre against an army of ravens. One by one, he cut through them all, until finally he came upon the Iron Throne, Daeron sitting upon it with a smirk. "You will never be king, bastard boy," Daeron taunted him, and Daemon lunged forward. He tried to scale the throne's pointed steps, but found himself trapped between its blades. Soon Daeron was gone and there were only the swords, encasing him, and a fire which burned so dark and terrible that it covered everything in black.