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https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 88: Quiet Before the....
The chamber was dim, lit only by the faint orange glow of the hearth. Daeron Targaryen stood by the tall oaken chest near his bed, methodically stripping off his Valyrian steel armor. Piece by piece, the polished black plates, with their dark red inlays, were laid to rest on a nearby table. It was strange to remove it—not out of defeat, but by choice.
Tonight was not a night for kings clad in steel to face each other in open field and banners blazing. Tonight was for shadows moving through stone and silence.
Setting aside his Valyrian steel battle-axe next, Daeron reached down into the chest and pulled out a far simpler weapon—a short sword, ordinary and unremarkable. It gleamed dully under the weak firelight. No ornate engravings, no famed valyrian steel, just cold, honest steel. Something any sellsword might carry.
Daeron pulled on the dark leather armor next, the material light and flexible against his skin, made for speed and stealth rather than protection. As he adjusted the straps and pulled the worn black cloak over his shoulders, his mind drifted to Ser Arthur Dayne. Arthur, too, was laying aside Dawn tonight—the sword that no Dayne had ever willingly set down. Seeing the Sword of the Morning without the fabled blade would feel... wrong. Like seeing the Wall without snow.
But it had to be done.
In this endeavor, they were not heroes of the old. They were faceless men moving through the veins of a sleeping city.
As Daeron adjusted the leather gloves on his hands, he heard the soft padding of feet. Turning, he met the steady, burning red eyes of Ghost. His direwolf sat by the hearth, ears pricked forward, gaze locked onto him.
A deep sigh escaped Daeron. "I know," he muttered, moving toward Ghost and kneeling to scratch behind the great wolf's ear. Ghost leaned into the touch, but a low, impatient rumble sounded in his throat.
"I know you want to come," Daeron said, voice low and affectionate. "But we need to be quiet tonight. Can't have a direwolf the size of a horse trailing after us."
Ghost huffed—a short, sharp breath through his nose, as if offended.
Daeron chuckled, resting his forehead against Ghost's for a moment. "Don't sulk. We'll have other battles. I'll need you for those."
Ghost gave a final, indignant snort before padding to the far corner of the chamber. He flopped down heavily, turning his back to Daeron, his way of showing that he is sulking.
Daeron smiled faintly and turned back toward the table, checking the straps of his sword belt one more time. He had just finished securing the blade when the door creaked open.
His smile died the moment Rhaella Targaryen entered.
His grandmother carried herself with the grace of queens long past, her silver hair braided back severely, her violet eyes sharp and shimmering with emotion. She was dressed plainly, without crown or jewels, and that alone spoke volumes.
"You're really going through with this," she said, no greeting, no pleasantries.
Daeron nodded, facing her fully. "I have to."
Rhaella stepped closer, her expression tight. "You don't. You are the king. It is not your place to throw yourself into danger like a common knight."
Daeron said nothing. His gaze held hers, unflinching.
"You've already survived so much," she continued, her voice breaking slightly. "Your father... my Rhaegar... he fought because he had no choice. But you—this—this is madness."
He moved to her then, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate steps. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but full of iron.
"I cannot ask others to bleed for my crown while I cower behind walls. If Renly falls today, it will be by my hand. It is better if I end it now, with as little bloodshed as possible."
Rhaella's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She searched his face for some sign of hesitation, some opening she could exploit—but found none. Only calm, stubborn resolve.
At last, she exhaled, defeated.
"If you do not return..." she whispered, the words catching in her throat, "I will never forgive you."
Daeron stepped forward and pressed his forehead gently against hers, as he had done so often to Arya, to comfort his little sister throughout their childhood.
"I will return," he promised, though deep inside he knew that in war, nothing was certain.
They stood like that for a moment longer, two Targaryens alone against a storm far larger than either of them. Then Daeron pulled away, offering his grandmother a final, reassuring nod.
Rhaella watched in silence as he turned, grabbed the black cloak from the chair, and strode from the room, the door closing behind him with a soft but final thud.
Ghost lifted his head briefly but made no move to follow.
The chamber was silent again, save for the soft crackling of the dying fire.