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Rhaenyra
The first time she sees the Conqueror’s dagger, it is freshly pulled out of embers, scorching hot and mysterious; the red outlines of Valyrian runes swirl on the surface of the blade, carrying the whisper of the ancient prophecy. It holds a promise—not just a promise of the terrible Doom foreseen by Aegon but also a promise of her Father’s love and trust, bestowed upon her with their legacy. A promise of her worth being seen, of her own place and importance within her Father’s court and heart. A promise that she will not be forgotten or sidelined.
Long years pass before she sees the dagger again. Things do not turn out like she thought they would that night when her Father talked to her about Aegon’s dream.
***
It all happens very fast—too fast for Rhaenyra to properly register everything when she barely manages to react on pure instinct to block the danger from herself and the children. One minute her half-brothers, her boys, and Daemon's girls are speaking loudly over each other, trying to present their versions of the events of the night, and the next, Alicent is charging forward with a crazed look in her eyes, demanding Rhaenyra’s son’s eye. She cannot understand the words, because surely Alicent cannot really mean that? Her childhood friend demanding a child’s mutilation in so-called justice? It seems surreal and grotesque.
Yet, even as the words make no sense, she moves to shield Luke, and she thinks she sees out of the corner of her eye Daemon stepping to block Ser Criston in case the latter decides to follow the Queen’s insane order.
Then, there is movement, a flash of steel— her father’s dagger treacherously snatched from its sheath in the act of bewildering audacity— and a thin line of heat on her protectively raised arm. The rush of adrenaline makes the pain almost insignificant, but she feels the trickle of blood, and she knows there was a cut on her forearm. She stares into Alicent’s wide, open, burning eyes, into her face distorted by hatred, the degree of which Rhaenyna had never witnessed or suspected before.
She remembers her own voice saying:
"Now they see you as you are."
And then, all hell breaks loose. The first thing she notices is the dagger, still suspended in the air, where she was forcefully holding back Alicent’s still threatening arm; its unusual colour draws her gaze when the blade turns a red hue and starts glowing. Then Alicent screams.
The expression on the Queen’s face morphs from anger and hatred to horror and pain. Her armed hand suddenly weakens in Rhaenyra’s grasp, and the dagger falls out of it with a loud clank, drawing sparks when it hits the stone floor. Alicent screams again, and Rhaenyra watches in morbid fascination as the Queen’s arm twitches and turns first grey, as if covered in a layer of ash, and then black, as it withers and dries. There are scared gasps as people move away from her in haste, but Alicent's pained screeches soar above them all.
"I can’t feel it! I can’t feel my arm!" Alicent howls. "What is happening?"
Rhaenyra’s gaze darts to the abandoned dagger, which is now bearing letters burning as embers on its blade. Suddenly, she recognises the ancient weapon.
"Aegon’s dagger…" she whispers.
Daemon's head turns sharply towards her. His gaze jumps between her face, the wound on her arm, the dagger, and her father, whose face is bearing an expression that turned from just as stunned as everyone else’s to a vague understanding upon hearing her words. Just then, she understands herself.
Magic.
Ancient, Valyrian magic woven into a Conqueror’s blade.
It is Daemon who recovers first. And Daemon, no matter if one liked him or not, was never a man to waste the audience.
He jumps into a circle of the cleared space that formed around Alicent after she dropped the dagger.
"You foolish girl…" his voice is low and cold, but it travels to every corner of the stone hall because the crowd is frozen in shock, unmoving, and silent. "You thought you could steal a blade from the King of Westeros and raise it on his firstborn child? To draw blood from a Targaryen with the Conqueror’s dagger? With no consequences?"
Suddenly, without hesitation, he grasps Alicent blackened, dead hand and raises it high above her head for everyone to see, uncaring of her wails.
"This!" he thunders, looking around. "This is what happens when you turn against the House Targaryen. We are the blood of the dragons! The Gods have spoken. This is what will happen to anyone who moves against the King and his rightful heir!"
His searching gaze moves from one person to another, pausing longer on the servants, and Rhaenyra realises that he is counting on them to spread the story of this night. There are members of at least three households here tonight: the King’s retinue from the Red Keep, her own from Dragonstone and the Velaryons’.
Daemon drops Alicent’s arm, and she sinks to her knees, hysterical.
"So think twice before you try," Daemon finishes in an eery whisper.
As he stands there, bold, fiery, unwavering, and dangerous, she is reminded just why she has missed him so much in the last ten years. She cares for Laenor, she really does, and she supposes she loved Harwin in her own way, but – for different reasons – neither of them has ever been able to offer her this kind of open support, nor were they capable of striking fear in her enemies’ hearts.
For all his flaws, she does not know another man who would do what her uncle is doing for her right now. His fire is wild and unpredictable, but it burns for her.
"Help!" Alicent whimpers from the floor, cradling the remains of her arm. "Somebody help me!"
"It’s too late for help for you," Daemon adds gravely.
"Maester!" her Father’s voice comes out with a slight waver when he finally shakes off his stupor. "Where is the Maester?"
"Here, Your Grace," the man in grey responds, already on the scene as he had been called to tend to her half-brother’s eye.
"What are you waiting for?" her father says sounding a bit stronger as he starts to recover. "Get to work!"
"At once, Your Grace," said the Maester with a bow, eyeing Alicent’s arm reluctantly, as if unwilling to touch it. "But I’m afraid Prince Daemon might be right. I can treat the injuries inflicted by men or beasts, but I can do little against magic or Gods’ will. I doubt any medicine will help with the curse."
"Be that as it may," Daemon's clear, cool voice rings again, "the Princess’s wound needs to be taken care of."
The maester seems eager to follow his suggestion and focus his attention on the easier problem to solve instead of the ominous, unknown, and dangerous phenomenon, but Rhaenyra refuses to leave the room yet.
"And bring me my dagger!" the King demands. "Now!"
There is a ripple of hesitation among the guards. Everyone is wary of the magical object lying on the floor, still glowing. Daemon's mocking laughter booms against the walls.
"Are none of you noble knights going to pick up His Grace’s dagger for him?" he asks. "Are you all craven, or do you have an unclear conscience and fear the Gods’ wrath?"
To that, Ser Criston moves forward and bends to pick up the dagger with his glowed hand, but he drops it almost immediately with a hiss, as if burned.
"It’s too hot, Your Grace," he says.
Daemon shoots him a look and smirks condescendingly.
"I’ll get it myself," her father mutters impatiently, and he starts moving towards the dagger, helping himself with a cane.
"You’re the King," Daemon protests. "You will not kneel."
And with that, her uncle moves swiftly and, to a few gasps, reaches for the dagger with his bare hand.
Nothing happens. With ease, Daemon straightens, holding the weapon. Rhaenyra is not sure if it is due to his Targaryen higher tolerance for heath, or supernatural reason, but his skin is unmarked.
"Only traitors need to be afraid," he says loudly. "Maybe I should test your loyalty before handing the dagger back to my brother? Huh? Who will dare to touch it? Lord Hand, shall we try to see if you will fare any better than your daughter? Was it you she learned her treachery from?"
Otto stares at him, his face pale and his thin lips pressed tightly.
"It is unwise to challenge the Gods," he finally croaks in response.
Daemon laughs again.
"Just as I thought," he says.
Meanwhile, Alicent gathers her wits and changes gears:
"It's her fault!" she shouts, turning her head toward Rhaenyra. Her eyes are burning with a feverish light. "Can't you see that this witch cursed me?!"
Daemon looks down at her with a wry twist on his lips.
"Even your father acknowledged it was the act of Gods," he says dismissively, before turning to the King, who slowly extends his hand to him.
Daemon bows, and his gaze lingers on the dagger in his hands, reading the fiery signs.
"Your Grace," Daemon says, his eyes meeting his brother’s, the look charged and full of questions.
The King looks at him for a long moment, as if making a decision.
"Everyone, move along," he orders. "Take the Queen to her room, so she can recover. Put the children to bed. I need to talk to my brother. Daemon, with me."
"Of course, Your Grace," Daemon says smoothly. "Let me just check on my daughters."
"I’ll see to them," their cousin Rhaenys says, putting her hands protectively on the girls’ shoulders.
Daemon's gaze wanders to their little group.
"Are you all right?" he still asks the girls.
He also looks at Rhaenyra, as if asking her the same question. They nod, one by one, including the Princess.
Only then does he follow his brother into his quarters.
Viserys
"Now," Daemon says, after the doors closed behind them. "I’m assuming this is about the Conqueror’s dagger? What are those words?"
Viserys sighs heavily as he lowers himself with difficulty onto an armchair.
He is so tired, so weak…
"Yes," he says. "It’s part of the prophecy."
"What prophecy?"
"Aegon’s prophecy."
"I’ve never heard of it."
"Because it’s one of the best guarded secrets. Known only…" Viserys hesitates before offering a little white lie, "only to the kings."
"So, what about that ‘promised princess’? I’m all ears."
"The princess?" the King repeats, surprised.
"Dārilaros" Daemon offers.
Suddenly, Viserys feels faint, and his mouth goes dry. He turns the Varylian frase in his mind over and over again.
It can’t be… I have dreamt… I’ve believed… Because of that…
He swallows around the bile in his dry throat, blood thundering in his brows, as he realises the enormity of his mistake.
The Prince. The Princess.
Dārilaros.
He thinks of Daemon, his little brother, who, while not exactly a scholar type, has always been so much better than him at High Valyrian. Who had not been told what the prophecy said, but read it for himself. Distrustful of portents, but willing to embrace one without batting an eyelash when it appeared in front of his eyes, as if welcoming an ally. Daemon, whom he deemed not trustworthy enough to share the prophecy with.
He thinks of his beloved daughter, with a cut on her arm, protected by divine intervention.
Of Alicent, his wife, always sweet and proper - with a face twisted with mad fury and a sharp knife in her hand, pointed at his child.
Of Baelon, his lost infant son, and all the other children the Gods took away from him, over and over, while he refused to believe it their will, stubbornly believing he already got the true message. He almost laughs bitterly to himself when he remembers what that message was: the image of the prince from his dreams comes back to his mind, along with the images of fire and the screech of the dragons.
It is only then that he lets it sink in that the Dragon Dreams were always meant to be warnings, not promises from their Gods.
Daemon.
Rhaenyra.
Alicent.
Aemma.
Oh Gods, Aemma.