Game of thrones: A storm is coming

Daeron's revelation about Rhaenys's connection to Aemon Targaryen hung heavy in the air. The atmosphere in the room shifted, a palpable tension crackling like wildfire. Rhaenys's piercing gaze locked onto Daeron's, and for a moment, it felt as though she was staring into his very soul.

"Your father,Aemon Targaryen?" Daeron asked, his voice trembling slightly as the weight of her words settled on him.

Rhaenys nodded, her face an unreadable mask. "Yes. And the resemblance you bear to him is... striking. I cannot ignore it. The question is, What does it mean?"

Daeron swallowed hard. He hadn't planned for this. He knew he was a Targaryen bastard, but he didn't know that he was the son of the former crown prince. But he couldn't deny the flicker of something deep within him, a sense that perhaps fate had indeed played a hand in his origin story to assimilate him into this world. Yet, revealing the truth of his origins, if he could even make them understand—was quite dangerous.

"I don't know what it means," Daeron admitted honestly. "All I know is that I was left with this sword and nothing else. If there's a connection... I don't have the answers."

Rhaenys glanced at Corlys, whose expression had darkened, his mind clearly racing with the implications. "If he is who we suspect," Corlys began cautiously, "then his presence here could change much. But it could also put both him and us in great danger."

Rhaenys nodded, her gaze never leaving Daeron. "For now, we'll keep this matter between us. You'll stay here until you recover fully, Daeron. After that, we'll decide the best course of action. Until then, I suggest you start learning the ways of this world, because if you truly are of Targaryen blood, ignorance will be your greatest enemy."

Corlys showed up the next morning after that talk and took him to the training yard. He told Daeron that since he plans to go on his own, he should at least be able to protect himself with that sword of his. He then said he would let one of his best knights to train him as well as providing with some knowledge.

Daeron was uncertain of his kindness, so Corlys just shrugged and replied, " My wife insisted that I at least prepare you for your journey alone. I don't lose much by offering you help for a few months. And since you said you'd repay kindness with kindness, maybe you will return the favor someday." He then spoke in a serious tone, "My wife, she is a strong woman who doesn't show her softness to anyone other than our family. But somehow, you have made her emotional, which is detrimental for making clear judgments. I really hope you would not abuse that." To which Daeron resolutely replied, "I won't." 

His days were filled with a new routine- basic sword drills in the mornings, lessons in Westerosi history in the afternoons, and grueling physical conditioning in the evenings. Rhaenys had insisted he begin training under one of Driftmark's knights, Ser Garett, a grizzled veteran who took an immediate dislike to Daeron's way of fighting.

"You hold that sword like it's an ornament, boy," Ser Garett barked during one of their first sessions, his steel-gray eyes boring into Daeron. "If you think carrying Valyrian steel makes you a swordsman, you'll be dead before you take your first swing."

Daeron clenched his jaw, gripping FrostMourne tightly. "It's not the sword that wins battles, it's the hand that wields it."

"True enough," Garett said, smirking. "But you've got the hands of a boy, not a warrior. Let's see if they're quick enough to stop me from breaking your pride."

The sparring match that followed left Daeron bruised and humiliated, his pride in tatters. FrostMourne was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, but in inexperienced hands, it was little more than a decoration. As he lay on the cold stone floor of the training yard, staring up at the sky, Daeron realized how far he still had to go.

Rhaenys observed from the shadows, her expression thoughtful. "He has spirit," she murmured to Corlys, who stood beside her. "But spirit alone won't keep him alive."

"True," Corlys agreed. "But if he survives this training, he may yet prove to be something more."

Daeron had grown stronger over the weeks. Under Ser Garett's unyielding training, along with the swordsmanship guide and Rhaenys's watchful guidance, he honed his skills and tempered his resolve. But progress in the yard wasn't enough—it was safe and controlled.

Rhaenys summoned him to a secluded spot overlooking the churning sea. The wind whipped her hair, making her look as commanding as the dragons of her house. Corlys stood beside her, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

"You've trained well, but training is not reality," Rhaenys said, her voice sharp. "A soldier can practice for years, but it's the battlefield that makes him a warrior." She pointed to the distant silhouette of a small island shrouded in mist. "That island holds your next test."

Daeron followed her gaze, his curiosity picked.

"It's an old Velaryon outpost," Corlys explained. "Now a den of smugglers and criminals using it to smuggle goods. They aren't here always, only on specific nights to pick up goods, so it's been difficult to track them.. A nuisance—but more importantly, an opportunity for you to prove yourself."

"You want me to fight all of them?" Daeron asked, incredulously.

"Upto you. You can just avoid them and survive, that just means you aren't ready. You can also attack them one by one, or you can just try to take them all out." Rhaenys corrected. "You'll go alone. No knights, no guards, no help. Use your wits, your skills, and that sword of yours. If you succeed, you'll show us that you're capable of more than just words."

Daeron clenched his fists. The task was daunting, but the fire of determination burned in his chest. "And if I fail?"

"Then you die," Corlys said bluntly. "But you won't, will you?"

After Daeron left, Corlys turned to Rhaenys and asked, "Do you really believe he can do it? Most of them don't even have proper training, but there are quite a few of them."

Rhaenys smirked and replied, "Isn't that why you sent five knights to watch him from far,my love?"

Corlys scratched his head and replied sheepishly, "Well, there's the chance he might be your half brother. Bastard or not, you always wanted a little sibling to accompany you in the loneliness of the red keep. I can't let him die under my watch,right?"

Rhaenys turned and kissed her husband with a smile and replied, "You are so thoughtful, dear husband. Maybe we should take the chance to go spend the day with Laenor and Laena. Laenor has been grumpy lately because I spent less time with him."

Daeron departed an hour before sunset. The boat that carried him to the island was small, the waves rough. As Driftmark disappeared behind him, he felt the weight of FrostMourne heavier than ever at his side.

When he reached the shore, he secured the boat and climbed onto the rocky beach. The air was salty and thick, and the ruins of the watchtower loomed like a ghost against the grey sky. Smoke rose from a campfire near the tower's base, where several smugglers sat laughing and drinking.

Daeron crouched behind a jagged boulder, observing. There were ten of them—four standing guards, five at the fire, and one who seemed to patrol the tower. Each man was armed, and their movements were casual but confident, the swagger of men who didn't expect trouble.

He waited until nightfall, using the hours to study their patterns. When the smugglers' camp quieted and the guards grew drowsy, he began his assault.

His first strike was silent and swift. One of the guards, half-asleep against a rock, didn't see the blade until it was too late. FrostMourne's edge slid cleanly through his throat, and Daeron eased the body to the ground without a sound.

The second guard didn't spot him as he moved toward the tower. Daeron ducked and drove his blade into the smuggler's neck. He didn't make much sound as he fell.

Daeron then decided to go to the next guard who was drinking and stabbed his back while shoving the bottle in his mouth. After taking out 3 of them, he got a bit more confident and attacked the last guard from his blind side. But somehow, the guy managed to deflect his sword . The clang of steel echoed through the ruins, drawing shouts from the camp.

"Intruder!" one of the smugglers yelled, grabbing his weapon. Daeron cursed under his breath as he cut down the fourth guard,"So much for subtlety."

The remaining men charged, and Daeron was forced to fight on uneven ground. His heart pounded as he parried a sword thrust, the weight of FrostMourne testing his endurance. two smugglers fell to his blade, but the others pressed harder, their strikes wild and relentless.

Daeron stumbled back, blood dripping from a cut on his arm and shoulder. He barely avoided a mace that smashed into the stone where he'd stood moments earlier. Desperation fueled him now, his movements driven by instinct rather than skill.

He swung FrostMourne in a wide arc, forcing his opponents to retreat. In the chaos, he spotted an opening—two of the smugglers had overextended, leaving their flanks exposed. Daeron then let go of FrostMourne and swiftly threw two daggers at the unprepared smugglers.

The last two smugglers hesitated, fear flashing in their eyes as they looked at the bodies of their comrades. They turned to flee, but Daeron wasn't about to let them escape. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance and struck one of them down. The other one ran a bit further but tripped on a rock and fell down. Daeron rushed toward him and buried FrostMourne in his back.

Daeron stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving and his hands trembling. Blood, a bit of it his own—spattered his clothes and FrostMourne's gleaming blade. The thrill of victory was dulled by the weight of what he had done. He searched the ruins, finding some stolen goods and wine, but nothing of great value except a few gold coins. He then set the camp ablaze, the flames licking the night sky as he pushed the smugglers' boat into the water and made his way back to Driftmark.

At the docks, Rhaenys waited, her expression unreadable as she watched Daeron climb from the boat. His face was pale, his steps unsteady, but he held his head high.

"You did it," she said simply.

Daeron nodded, his voice hoarse. "It wasn't easy."

"It wasn't meant to be," Rhaenys replied, a hint of approval in her tone. "You've proven you can fight, but remember, this was only a test. The real challenges will be far greater." Then suprising Daeron, she came close and wiped the grime of his face with her hankerchief and said gently," Go check in with the maester. You've lost a bit of blood."

Corlys joined them, his sharp eyes taking in the bloodstains and Daeron's battered appearance. "You've shown courage," he said. "And more importantly, you've shown that you can use your head. Although it's not perfect, keep that with you, it'll serve you better than any sword."

Daeron met their gazes, the fire in his chest burning brighter than ever despite his tiredness. This was only the beginning, and he was determined to prove that he was more than just a bastard with dragon blood. He would carve his place in the world, one battle at a time.