King's Landing was a beast that smelled of the sea, mud, and ambition. From Aegon's Hill, it spread like a living stain, with its winding alleys, red rooftops, and the constant roar of a city that never slept.
Daron Snow, fourteen years old and with eyes of frozen silver, dismounted in front of the Red Keep under the watchful gaze of dozens of gold cloaks, royal guards, courtiers, and servants. His black cloak billowed with a pride that had never been taught to him; he had brought it with him from another life.
Beside him, Maester Gawen glanced at him sideways. He knew this was no ordinary boy. Daron walked with the confidence of a man who had been there a thousand times before... even though this was his first time setting foot in the heart of the realm.
As soon as they crossed the entrance arches, a servant guided them to the Throne Room, where King Viserys awaited.
The Iron Throne gleamed beneath the stained glass windows of the ceiling. It was not as imposing as Daron had imagined in his past life, but the aura remained the same: a throne made to cut. Viserys Targaryen, round-faced and soft-handed, watched him from above.
To his right, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Intelligent. Cunning. Manipulative.
To his left, standing with arms crossed, was Prince Daemon Targaryen: black armor, silver hair, a gaze like a blade in the sun.
And in front of them all, sitting with youthful grace, was Rhaenyra Targaryen, thirteen years old. She wore a dark red dress, embroidered with golden dragons. Her lilac eyes met Daron's.
There was a moment. Just one. But it burned like Valyrian fire.
Daron bowed just enough.
—Your Majesty. Your Highnesses. Lord Hand.
Viserys looked at him with curiosity, not warmth.
—So, you are the bastard from the North they send us. You say your name is Daron Snow?
Daron held the king's gaze without blinking.
—I don't say it. I am. Until I earn a better name.
A murmur spread through the hall. Rhaenyra raised an amused eyebrow. Otto did not smile, but he analyzed him coldly.
Daemon let out a dry chuckle.
—A bastard with a sharp tongue. Do you also know how to wield a sword, or just your words?
Daron looked at him. Not with open defiance, but with a spark in his eyes.
—Sometimes, words cut deeper. But yes. I know how to fight too.
Otto intervened, his voice thick and calculated:
—You will serve as the King's cupbearer, boy. We expect you to remember your place.
—My place is where I am put —Daron replied without raising his voice—. But I never forget who I am.
Viserys said nothing. He was still evaluating him. But Rhaenyra... Rhaenyra watched him with a mix of curiosity, amusement, and danger.
—Are you all they say in the North? —she asked with a sly smile.
Daron returned the smile, softer than hers but with a bold glint.
—That depends on what they say, princess.
She laughed, and Daemon's eyes narrowed.
Hours later, under the midday sun, the training yard buzzed with activity. Knights practiced thrusts. Squires ran with half-fastened armor. Among them, Daron walked as if nothing affected him.
—Ready to prove you can do more than talk? —Daemon said, drawing his sword.
Daron did not answer. He simply removed his cloak and unsheathed Brightflame.
A circle formed. Guards, squires, and even some nobles gathered. Rhaenyra appeared at the edge of the yard, watching openly.
Daemon held nothing back. He attacked as he would against an equal, with a series of strikes meant to disarm him quickly.
But Daron blocked. Dodged. Twisted with an elegance that did not seem Northern. His style was fast, almost dancing, as if moving between blades.
At one moment, he slipped his blade between Daemon's guard and grazed his rib.
A collective gasp.
Daemon stepped back, breathing harder.
—Where did you learn that?
Daron smiled, still standing firm.
—In the North. But also in books... and in places you wouldn't understand.
Daemon growled, charged again, and the duel became fiercer. Daron did not defeat him. But he forced him to fight seriously. Made him sweat. Showed him he was no mere bastard boy.
When they finally parted, the silence was total.
Daemon lowered his sword and barely nodded.
—You might become someone. If you don't get yourself killed first.
—I might try, prince —Daron said with a mocking bow.
Rhaenyra clapped softly.
Otto Hightower did not. But his eyes calculated new variables.
That night, Daron gazed at the sky from the terrace of the tower assigned to him. It was not a cell, but neither was it a luxury.
The wind caressed his face. His mind returned to the dream from days ago. The green eyes. The voice. The fire.
"Wake up... and choose."
He still didn't know what he had to choose. But he did know one thing:
Westeros was a battlefield. And he was born to wage war.
Among dragons...Among wolves...And among lies.