Of loss and farewell

The roar of the tourney still echoed in the background the next day, as the crowd cheered each clash of lances and the thunder of hooves on the arena's dusty ground. Banners waved proudly, and the jubilant atmosphere of chivalry and competition filled the air—until an urgent whisper began to weave through the ranks of nobles.

High above the lists, in the midst of this organized chaos, King Viserys had just received word from his personal herald. His normally jovial expression fell into a frown as he read the dispatch. The message was terse but alarming: Queen Aemma had gone into labor, and her condition was deteriorating quickly. Her attendants reported that complications were mounting, and the situation was far graver than anyone had anticipated.

Without delay, Viserys rose from his throne at the high table. His voice, usually measured and composed, grew strained as he announced, "I must attend to urgent matters. I beg your pardon, my lords and ladies." With that, he departed the hall, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. The sudden departure set the nobles abuzz with speculation.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the grand hall. "Did you hear? The king's rushing to see his wife!" one noblewoman murmured. "Perhaps the labor is too much for her," another said, her tone laced with barely concealed concern. Yet amid these anxious murmurs, opportunists and gossipmongers couldn't help but relish the dramatic turn of events.

Seated near the now-empty high table, Daeron found himself leaning towards Rhaenyra. His face was somber, his earlier mirth from the tourney replaced with the weight of impending tragedy. He reached out and squeezed her hand in silent comfort.

"Rhaenyra," he said softly, "I fear what may come next. You must hope for the best while accepting the worst outcome."

She managed a small, wry smile despite the worry in her eyes. "I hoped today would be filled with only the cheers of victory, not whispers of sorrow. But we must trust in fate—and the gods, if only they spare us further pain."

Their whispered conversation was barely audible above the din of speculation until a messenger burst into the hall, his face pale as parchment. With trembling hands, he delivered the crushing news: Queen Aemma had bled heavily during labor and succumbed to her complications. The room fell deathly silent for a heartbeat as the words registered.

Daeron's stomach churned. The queen had been a pillar of grace, and her untimely passing was a blow not just to the royal family but to the entire realm.

Yet even amid the sorrow, there was a grim twist of fate: the newborn son—barely clinging to life—had been born. His cries were faint, and he was barely breathing, yet he represented the longed-for heir that King Viserys had so desperately hoped for.

Pandemonium soon followed. Noblemen and women exchanged shocked glances, some openly weeping while others muttered curses under their breath. Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears, and she could no longer maintain the veneer of composure.

Overwhelmed by grief and shock, she abruptly rose and rushed toward the private chambers where her mother had been cared for, desperate to see her one last time.

Daeron, left behind in the hall, sat in a heavy silence. He knew all too well that the loss of Queen Aemma would spark a wildfire of political maneuvering and power struggles—a maelstrom he wished to avoid. He leaned against a pillar and sighed deeply, his mind churning with plans of withdrawal from a realm that now teetered on the brink of chaos.

As the initial shock began to vanish , whispers grew louder and more insidious.

It was not long before word reached the nobles that the fragile newborn heir, Prince Daeron Targaryen, the symbol of hope for the future, had also passed away that very night. The official explanation from the maester was that severe birth difficulties had doomed the infant, but murmurs of foul play and mysterious circumstances spread like poison through the corridors of the Red Keep.

In the midst of these tragedies, Daemon Targaryen, ever the irreverent troublemaker, could not resist a biting remark. In a moment of dark humor, he declared the fallen infant "the Heir for a Day." His scornful comment, echoing through the tavern, was met with outrage and shock in the red keep.

Already broken from the loss of his son and wife, Daemon's mockery of the short-lived heir as "the Heir for a Day" was the final straw. His derisive comment spread through his mind like wildfire, and the king's patience, already frayed by grief, snapped. In a swift and unceremonious decree, Daemon was banished from Westeros—a move that, while expected by many, only deepened the chasm within the royal family.

Rhaenyra was inconsolable, and even Alicent couldn't calm her friend down. She took her to Daeron's chambers, who tried his best console the sobbing Rhaenyra. His calm words and gentle soothing was effective over time , and Rhaenyra fell asleep ,clutching onto him tightly as he stroked her hair. Alicent couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and bitterness, as she saw them so close. Daeron carefully carried her back to her chambers with the help of Alicent, not knowing this act of kindness would be used against him in the vilest way. 

In the quiet aftermath of the day's calamity, King Viserys retreated in a secluded chamber, away from the prying eyes of the court. There, with sorrow still etched upon his face, he summoned Rhaenyra for a private audience. 

With a voice thick with sorrow and reluctant hope, he told her, "We haven't talked much since Aemma's passing. And to think Daemon would revel in my sorrow." He sighed. 

"My dear daughter," Viserys began, his voice raw with grief and resignation, "in these dark times, we must look to what the future holds. There is an ancient prophecy—the Song of Ice and Fire—that speaks of a ruler who will emerge from our blood, uniting the realm when all hope seems lost. I believe that fate now points to you, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened, and tears welled up as she struggled to comprehend the weight of his words. "Father… you would name me your heir?" she asked hesitantly, her voice trembling between disbelief and sorrow.

Viserys nodded slowly, his expression tired and broken. "The kingdom cannot endure another cycle of chaos. With Aemma gone and the heir lost, the realm must look to new leadership. You, Rhaenyra, shall be my heir from now on. In these dark times, I have chosen you to lead us from the ashes."

Rhaenyra listened in stunned silence, her tears falling freely. Though grief still clung to her, a fierce determination kindled within her as she realized the burden—and the honor—that was now thrust upon her shoulders.

The announcement, delivered in the quiet intimacy of grief and resignation, was both a beacon of hope and a spark for further intrigue. But even as the king sought to secure his legacy, another figure sought to twist the narrative for his own gain.

In a shadowed corner of the council chamber, Otto Hightower, ever the schemer, leaned forward with a self-satisfied smirk. "It appears, Your Majesty, that in these troubled times, even the noble Prince Daeron finds himself entwined in matters of passion. I have heard whispers that he was seducing PrincessRhaenyra amid this chaos, seeking to secure power for himself. Some even seen the princess going to his chambers after dark and being carried by the prince himself to her chambers late at night."

A murmur of discontent rippled through the assembled council. Viserys's face darkened as he glowered at Otto. "Such idle gossip is beneath you, Otto," he said, his tone icy. "I have seen enough of Daeron's behavior to know his loyalties. I have no desire to see him dragged into this mess and be further entwined with the future of the realm. I will talk to him personally."

The words hung in the air like a decree. Otto's smile widened ever so slightly—a slight victory in the slow, intricate game of court politics. He nodded curtly 

A heavy silence fell. The corridors of the Red Keep, already steeped in sorrow, now bore the additional weight of bitter accusation and political maneuvering, against someone who was loved by the smallfolk and even respected by some nobles. Otto's eyes glittered with triumph as his carefully laid plans began to take shape.

Meanwhile, outside in the public spaces of the keep, noble whispers reached every ear. Some lobbied that Daeron's rumored seductions were but a scheme to defame him in the face of overwhelming tragedy, while others savored the prospect of his exile, convinced that his departure would cement the new order in favor of the Hightowers and their allies.

Yet even as this solemn promise was made, Otto Hightower seized the moment to further his designs. In a hushed conversation before a few select nobles, he insinuated that Daeron, ever the opportunist, had been using the chaos to seduce Rhaenyra, thereby setting the stage for a grab for power. "It is clear," he murmured with a sly smile, "that with Rhaenyra now positioned as the royal heir, Daeron's flirtations were no mere dalliance. They were a calculated bid for influence. I can provide eye witnesses that has seen him acting closely with the princess."

The insinuation spread like a contagion, and the whispers of court intrigue grew louder by the minute. Viserys, broken by loss—of his beloved wife and the promise of a new heir—listened to these accusations with a heavy heart. He summoned Daeron for a private audience.

The Red Keep was eerily quiet, despite the thousands that lived within its walls. The great hall, usually filled with courtiers and noblemen whispering of intrigues, felt hollow, its silence heavy with grief and mistrust. The torches flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the stone floors as Daeron walked towards the Iron Throne, where King Viserys awaited him.

Viserys sat slumped in his seat, his body sagging with the weight of the crown. His normally warm eyes were bloodshot and tired, the burden of ruling a realm full of vipers evident in the deep lines on his face. The death of his wife and son had aged him overnight. Even the Iron Throne, a symbol of strength and dominance, seemed to loom over him as though it would consume him whole.

Daeron, dressed in a simple black tunic, stopped a few paces before the throne. His expression was unreadable, his silver-white hair glowing under the dim torchlight. He bowed his head slightly but did not kneel.

Viserys exhaled deeply. "You know why I called you here."

Daeron's lips curved slightly, but it was a mirthless smile. "I can make a guess," he said evenly. "Lord Otto Hightower has been whispering in your ear. And you… have listened."

Viserys winced at the bluntness of the words. "He and a few others have… brought forth concerns," he admitted, rubbing his temple. "Concerns about your closeness to Rhaenyra. That you… took advantage of her grief to secure your own ambitions."

Daeron's expression did not change, but his fingers curled into a fist. "And do you believe them?" His voice was steady, but there was steel beneath the words. "If you do, Your Grace, I need not defend myself. I will leave immediately, and you will never have to see my face again."

Viserys looked away, shame flickering across his face. "I—" He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "No. I do not want to believe them. But I need to hear the truth from you. Tell me, Daeron. What happened?"

Daeron let out a slow breath. "The truth is simple. Rhaenyra was devastated by her mother's death, and I comforted her. She wept in my arms until exhaustion took her, and she fell asleep in my chambers. Alicent and I carried her back to her own chambers. That is the truth. Nothing more, nothing less."

Viserys rubbed his face tiredly. "So it was nothing improper…"

Daeron scoffed, though his tone remained calm. "Of course not. But Otto does not need the truth, does he? He only needs a rumor."

Viserys seemed to shrink further into his throne, as though the weight of his grief and the crown were too much to bear. "What should I do, Daeron? If I ignore Otto completely, he will only grow bolder. If I defend you outright, it will make his accusations seem all the more valid to those who already believe them."

Daeron crossed his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought. "Then do neither. You do not need to exile me, nor dishonor me with false accusations. Simply declare that you have asked me to leave. It will satisfy Otto, at least for now, and it will make him believe his schemes have worked. He will lower his guard."

Viserys studied him for a long moment. "And what of you? Where will you go?"

Daeron let out a slow sigh. "I planned to leave soon regardless. I will travel to the Vale to bid goodbye and the North. Then I will meet with Lord Lannister and take Jason Lannister with me to Essos to oversee trade matters and join me for an adventure, as we had spoken before. After that, I will leave for Essos. There is war brewing in the Stepstones. If I am victorious there, perhaps one day I will return."

Viserys looked as though he had been struck. "And if you are not victorious?"

Daeron gave a humorless chuckle. "Then it won't matter, will it?"

A heavy silence fell between them. The king, a man who had lost so much in such a short time, looked at the young man before him—the one who made him admire him despite being younger. His heart ached at the injustice of it all.

"It is unfair," Viserys murmured. "You have done nothing wrong, yet you are the one who must leave."

Daeron shrugged, but there was bitterness in his voice. "Life is unfair. It does not matter if you are a commoner, a lord, a prince, or even a king."

Viserys closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly rose from his throne. Daeron stiffened slightly, surprised when the king stepped forward and embraced him.

"I really wish I had a son like you Daeron," Viserys murmured.

Daeron smirked, though it did not reach his eyes. "Then I'd have to deal with Otto Hightower every day. No, thank you."

Viserys let out a genuine laugh—short, tired, but real. 

Daeron paused, and then asked, " If I may be bold to make a request your grace?"

Viserys nodded , " Go ahead."

Daeron spoke calmly, " I request your grace to annul the marriage between Prince Daemon and Rhea Royce. I have met Lady Rhea and become friends with her, and she is a kind soul who doesn't desrve to insulted by Daemon, despite his status. This would cuase more resentment than good for the crown in the long run."

Viserys thought for a while, and nodded with a sigh, " I will grant your request. I have tried to make Daemon see his errors, but it seems it's too far gone. Lady Rhea is free to pursue her happiness." He then chuckled, " How very much like you Daeron. The one request you make to the king is about granting happiness to someone else. Uncle Aemon would be proud if he was alive to see you grow up." Daeron bowed with a smile as he replied, " You should be proud as well , your grace. You are definitely a far better king than this realm deserves."

As Daeron turned to leave, Viserys called after him. "Daeron."

He paused, glancing back.

"Good fortune on your journey," Viserys said softly.

Daeron gave him a final nod. "And to you, Your Grace."

With that, he strode out of the throne room, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Viserys watched him go, feeling more alone than ever despite the thousands in his kingdom. For all his power, he could not stop what was coming.

Upon returning from his audience with Daeron, Viserys announced that after the rise of malicious rumours, he has asked Prince Daeron to return to Essos which he has agreed to.

Otto's eyes gleamed triumphantly as he nodded. "As you say, Your Grace. Soon, the problem will be gone, and the realm shall have clarity once more."

Rhaenyra, rushed to the hall in a daze, her face streaked with tears. She clutched her hands together, her eyes searching desperately for Daeron as she went in his chamber . She found him standing by the window, in deep thoughts. Daeron, who had been trying to gather his scattered thoughts, approached her with a smile. " Hello Rhaenyra," he said gently, "I hope you are feeling better. Did you come to say goodbye?"

Her eyes, red and puffy, met his. "I feel as if the very soul of our family has been torn asunder," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Mother… and my younger brother—lost in the blink of an eye. Now, even you are leaving, all because of bastards spoke bad things about you! " She pleaded with a tear stricken face, " Don't go Daeron! You promised to stay longer. I really need your guidance for what's about to come."

Daeron sighed, a bitter smile touching his lips. "We are caught in a political storm, Rhaenyra. The tides of fate have swept away all we once held dear. I never wished for power or for any of this chaos. I only desired peace and adventure. And now, I fear that I have no part to play here." He shook his head slowly. "I believe I must return to Pentos. I have no desire to be tangled in the bitter struggle for the throne. Leave that to those who revel in it. I must seek my journey elsewhere… at least until this storm passes."

A heavy silence descended upon them as the gravity of their new reality sank in. Rhaenyra's eyes glistened with unshed tears, while Daeron's heart, though filled with sadness and anger, steeled itself for the inevitable exodus.

Thus, amidst the sorrow and bitterness, the stage was set for a new chapter in the realm's tumultuous history. To the people the king's decree, though borne of grief and weariness, left no doubt: Daeron was to be sent away, leaving behind a court rife with ambition, betrayal, and sorrow.

As the night deepened and the Red Keep's corridors echoed with the distant sound of mourning and whispered conspiracies, Daeron gathered his few remaining loyal confidants. A new face joined his ranks. Ser Cryston Cole, bested by Daeron the day before yesterday, who acknowledged the kind prince and his respect despite his status as a no name knight, decided to pledge his loyalty to him rather than the throne. In his words, " If I am to serve royalty, I would serve the one I can respect and dedicate my life to, the one who would respect and treat me with dignity."

With a heavy heart, Daeron resolved that he would depart Westeros soon after visiting Vale, Casterly Rock and the north; and retreat to the relative calm of Pentos—if only to escape the ever-tightening noose of political strife and personal scandal.

In the shadow of these events, Otto Hightower's victorious smirk remained indelible. His plan had borne fruit, and the chaos that had engulfed the realm now seemed poised to tip the scales firmly in his favor. As the firelight danced upon the somber faces of the courtiers, one truth was clear: the kingdom had been forever altered by loss, betrayal, and the cruel, unyielding hand of fate.

And so, in that long, bitter night, as the Red Keep mourned the passing of hope itself, Daeron's heart grew heavy with resolve. His path was now clear—to leave behind this land torn apart by grief and ambition, and to pursue strength like he should , in the distant shores of Pentos.