young prince

As Daemon stared up into the sky, the clouds moving quickly as his father carried his body back into the castle; he begged the Gods to spare his life, pleaded with them for spare him of this fate. As his vision began to fade into darkness he thought that this would be his end.

The young prince Daemon, received by the Gods far before his prime, sharing a fate similar to his uncles and aunts whom had met their ends in ways they could not predict and he would become yet another unfortunate accident inflicted upon House Targaryen.

Please Gods… don't let this be my end.

As his vision turned to pure darkness, he heard a voice utter one last desperate pray to the heavens to spare him.

Please God, I don't want to die like this…

In the briefest of moments before the lightless oblivion consumed him, he wondered to himself where that voice had come from as it certainly was not his; yet it did not matter now, his body was limp, his heart beat slowing to a crawl and his breathing weak, he drifted into a gentle sleep as a strange feeling of someone placing bed sheets over his head put him to rest.

When Daemon felt his eyes open, he was greeted to the sight of his bed and the sound of Kings landing and the Red Keep around him. He would have wept with tears of joy; his prayers had been answered, the Gods have been merciful! he was alive!

And yet he did not cry, or cheer or even smile.

He tried to move his body and yet it stayed in place; only his eyes moved around as if trying to figure out what was going on, its own movement independent of his thoughts and control. 

Then he felt it; Fear, it was fear that he could feel. Yet it was not his fear that he was experiencing, it was as though someone had placed the fear upon him. 

He saw his arm rise to his face as it rubbed his eyes.

As his eyes looked at his hand, he could then feel confusion at the sight; as if a part of him couldn't believe what he was seeing.

His body rose from the bed, Daemon could now see his room around him and yet the feeling of comfort wasn't there. 

He felt confused, unsure as to what was happening. 

What is this… Why can't I…

The fear that he had felt being placed onto him, was now becoming his own. 

He tried to move his mouth to speak yet he couldn't, he tried to move his arm once more yet he couldn't, he tried to move his eyes yet they would not.

A maid entered into his room, carrying bowl of water, she dropped it onto the floor when she saw him trying to reach out to her.

Maid… help me!

Yet his mouth would not move…

"Nurse…" his voice called out to the maid, he sounded broken and raspy.

What?

The maid quickly pushes him back down onto the bed as she hysterically runs out of the room, running to get Maester Allar. Daemon would normally be bitter about this, a lowly peasant woman putting her hands on him. Yet his mind was clouded by a horrifying thought.

I did not speak, that was not what I had wanted to say…

Then all at once he was struck with flashes of memories that were not his of a life that he had not lived; he saw a house? a small manse? On a street not made of cobblestones or rock, he saw a woman, a person who was his mother? With almost Dornish like skin, dark curly hair now greying with age carrying stacks of books and reading him strange stories. He saw an aged man with greying brown hair, pale skin wearing a strange round metal thing around his eyes and who tediously kept showing Daemon these strange things he had made. There was also a younger woman, his sister perhaps, with a boy and a girl but no father with them.

He remembered working in a building of white stone and glass, writing reports and talking to people who looked to be dressed in formal attire discussing about events and problems he had not heard about but which left him bored nonetheless.

This was the life of vassals to minor lords, castellans or stewarts to landed knights… why do I have the memories of someone so insignificant?

Among his memories was something else, a revelation hidden within that would come to him sporadically; it was of what would come to pass in the decades to come.

He remembered a time when he was exiled by his brother and passed over as heir to the throne by his niece Rhaenyra.

He was crowned as a king in his own right over the Narrow Sea by Corlys Velaryon and then losing his small kingdom at the hands of the Triarchy and Dorne, he remembered marrying Laena who had given him two daughters who would then be tied to the sons of Rhaenyra, plotting for a day when his grandsons would sit the Iron throne and the Driftwood throne, two great Valyrian houses.

He suffered the death of his wife and first son, yet remarried with his niece who would become Queen, chosen by his brother, and himself a King as he had desired.

He held his own sons in his arms, the little Aegon and Viserys, given to him by Rhaenyra.

He waged a war for the throne against his nephew who sought to usurp his eldest sister of her birthright, crowning his niece himself as she named him Protector of the realm.

He had love affairs with Myrisa, a Lysene dancer who served him well as he master of whispers, and Nettles who claimed the dragon Sheepstealer and tried to claim Daemon too.

He fell from the sky as he slew his nephew, burying Darksister into his eye as Caraxes bests the legendary dragon Vhagar beofre crashing into the Gods' eye.

His own death.

Yet his victory remained; his sons Aegon and Viserys would both sit the Iron throne, Daemon's blood will flow through the veins of every Targaryen from then till the end of time. His name, his memory and his legacy now forever a part of his family lineage.

Kings… I am the father to a line of kings

But as he glimpsed his future, he wanted more. Far more.

When he awoke once more, did the next few moments truly illuminate his situation; he was surrounded by his family, his father embracing him with tears in his eyes. His brother celebrating his return from his long sleep and seeing his good-sister Aemma and niece Rhaenyra.

And yet he could not say anything to them, not a single word that left his lips were his. He tried to strain against himself, against the walls that seem to hold him in from regaining control of himself, all in vain.

Yet that was not the end of his torture.

His eyes fell upon his young niece, Rhaenyra. His key to such a legacy. But he knew now; he was no longer in control of his own life try an form such a fate. Once more he strained against himself, wanting nothing more than to reach out to her as his body stayed still and merely watched them.

He still could not move his body but learned something of the upmost importance as whoever controlled his body gripped his chest with his hand.

You can feel I am here?

Empowered, he tried to break free once more. All smashing his head against his cage as whoever was in control restrained him, choking him as he faded to black. He had never felt so powerless before, the feeling of death pulling him into the abyss.

That night he looked through his own eyes as he felt tears roll down his cheeks; whomever was using his body as a puppet felt nothing more than anguish, surrounded by nothing but the feeling of sorrow he too wept even if he could not try of his own volition.

Yet as his father held his hand he felt comforted in that moment.

Father... please, notice I am still here... 

The next few days since then had been the dullest days of Daemons life. He had feared that whomever controlled his body would abuse his powers and rights as a prince; living a life of luxury and royalty that could be afforded to a Prince.

but that would have been a mercy, a hedonisitic lifestyle and abuses of his rights and powers would have been a far more interesting use of his time, his life and body as all the person who controlled him did was write.

And write.

And write.

And write.

By the Gods, can you do something else?!

He wrote about strange ideas and contraptions, he wrote about stories and memories from his own life and then he wrote about Daemon's future. And how he planned to avoid that future.

It was in that moment that Daemon was able to make himself known to whoever or whatever was using his body. Straining himself against the trappings of his own body as he wrote down about that moment his own brother Viserys removed him as heir and plotted to put his nephew as the Prince of Dragonstone.

"Daemon… you're- you're still here." Daemon felt alive, it was the first time he was acknowledged as himself, his true self trapped inside. He continued to try and break free but the weakling who used his body restrained him "I won't let you." The bastard muttered.

Daemon raged against that, had he any hands they would be bloody as he slammed them against the walls of his prison.

"No… that won't happen, it can't happen." The puppeteer muttered to "Go away... just go away" Daemon felt a hand grab his chest as it pushed him back and once more he was thrown back into total darkness.

When he had come back, Daemon decided to bide his time; sitting, watching and waiting for the moment he would strike and try to regain his body. He allowed this puppeteer to write, and write, and write as he looked through these new memories as he plotted to change his fate.

Through him he learnt more about this world of the foreign invader which occupied his body; it appeared that this foreigner had gotten something of maester's education in his younger life until he reached manhood, then working for the "civil service" which looked to be the arm of those who wielded power in his world; there he wrote words on contraptions made of glass and metal.

A scribe… a lowly scribe, I am a prisoner to someone so beneath me. 

He did not know whether to be disappointed by this revelation or angered by it; that a man who would have served as a maester or, if they were lucky, would have held the most minor of minor offices in the Red Keep had control of Daemon's body. 

His family were not mere peasants however, it seemed them had come from a scholarly background; a mother and father who indulged in books on a different subjects, watched pictures move about in the metal and glass which spoke of their world and a sister who dotted on two bastard children without the need of a father getting the children on her but had memories of said sister seeking the companionship of other women, which puzzled Daemon as to how that was possible.

His father, he was a carpenter by trade? How did his mother gain a maester's education? Who is the father to his sister's bastards if his sister takes only women to her bed?

But the greatest discovery was that of the books of Westeros, of The Seven Kingdoms and of events now far into the future, he had glimpsed his own future and the more he searched the more he found of those more than a hundred years from now.

But what he found only enraged him the more he peered into it; his descendants toppled from the throne by a rebellion and by replaced House Baratheon, whom could trance their lineage to him, a little girl carrying the hopes of house Targaryen across the narrow sea with three dragons at her back, a war between five kings, Lannister bastards seizing control of the throne and…

A winter never ending and within a cloud of ice and frost, blue eyes peering through displaying something unworldly just beyond the mist. He tried to peer closer into the fog before he felt himself being quickly pulled back into the present.

What was that?

He had tried to peer back into the memory only to be met by darkness, no matter how hard he had tried to peer into the memory it was as if someone had lifted a veil of shadows over it. Daemon quickly composed himself, dismissing what he saw and instead focusing on what was before him.

A servant appeared before his vision, handing the imposter a letter. He broke the wax and unravelled the letter reading its contents; it was a letter from the Queen, his grandmother Alysanne. As his eyes poured over every word, every letter and space in between Daemon could only feel anguish as the once proud Queen Alysanne confessed her sorrow and pain.

Had Daemon of been the one to read that letter, hold it in his hand then would have have rejoiced, feeling vindicated for his emotions and pushed to have it annulled with his grandmother's 'blessing.' 

Yet in that moment he was overwhlemed by sorrow with the knowledge of her and Gael's fate. And for the first time both he and the puppeteer were united in the feeling; sparing their grandmother of more loss and saving their aunt from the pain of losing her child.

However this moment would be fleeting, extremely fleeting.

As time passed, he felt himself get closer and closer to this spirit that controlled his body; soon enough he was able to hear the creatures thoughts as if he was being spoken to. 

Monster! Can you hear me? Address me, I am a Prince of House Targaryen!

He knew of this imposter's plans; he wished to hold Daemon back from his destiny, he wished to push him into irrelevance, deny him the throne for fear of conflict. 

Yet despite his yelling the other did not respond, it likely couldn't not hear Daemon's angered calls. But he could still feel pain, especially that inflicted upon by Daemon himself. 

Seeing his own face, clearly was strange and almost comforting but it had felt perverse and wrong as he watched his body move against his will and thoughts.

And when he was handed Darksister, the sword of Targaryen kings and Queens. It took everything to not immediately lash out. 

Yet when the puppeteer had met with his grandfather the king and told of what he had planned to do after his recovery, Daemon could only rage at the words that were being spoken without his own thoughts on the matter. 

"I plan to go back to Runestone, your Grace." This imposter spoke; he acted weak, a craven who was willing to beggar himself to that Bronze Bitch and deny Daemon the legacy that could be his! And every concession that the weakling allowed only further enraged him.

Truly you are no better than a cowering girl…

To Daemon, the worse part of all of this was that the imposter knew; he knew that within his chest Daemon was raging at his choices, angered by the injustice and despised the attempt to confined him to such a horrid fate.

The only moment of solace he could take was when his grandfather had placed this imposter into a corner, trapping him in a prison of his own making. He took great pleasure in the fool's hopeless challenge.

But even those moments of triumph was short-lived as the fool did what he did best; putting quill to parchment and grovelling at the feet of the Bronze Bitch of their cursed marriage.

Had I control over but one hand I would straggle the life from both of us!

He tried his best to look away, the control his body and fight back against this yet he could not move a finger or twitch a muscle

Daemon could feel it, he could almost see it; the future of his lineage, the legacy of house Targaryen, the glory and infamy that his name would carry dying before his eyes as this puppeteer, this imposter, this demon that wore his skin and moved his arms and legs, sought to place him as nothing more than a footnote in history as the consort to some landed lady in a kingdom of sheep fuckers.

He thought of his children, the ones who may never be born or live to have their names in history.

Aegon…

Viserys…

Baela…

Rhaena…

If he only had control over his eyes he would weep, yet all he could do was rage, and rage, and rage. Rage against the monster that controlled him, that sought to have him grovel to his lesser and snatch away the future that he deserved.

With his new found freedom, the imposter seemed to just wonder around the Red Keep like a simpleton quawking at everything around him; every tapestry, every window and even the tiles on the floor seem to amaze this fool. 

Are you a scribe or perhaps a bumbling fool? 

Then the imposter came upon the doors that Daemon was all too familiar with; the large doors to the throne room. 

No! you shall not step in there!

Daemon did all he could to will the monster than controlled his body, this craven not worthy of being a ratcatcher let alone a Prince, from setting his eyes upon the Iron Throne. 

When the imposter stopped, his hand on the door as the pain held him back, he once again focused on Daemon; soon the restraints or hands that pulled him back dragged Daemon almost into the edge of darkness. 

He fought as hard as he could, will all his strength yet the more the imposter focused on banishing him, the closer to the edge it seemed Daemon got. 

Before Daemon was thrown over into the void, he saw through his own eyes the imposter stepping into the throne room; the Grand hall with the banners of his House displayed proudly on the walls. 

And the throne of swords at the heart of it all. 

As his vision grew dark he glimpsed the throne as the imposter stared at it. 

Yet as he fell into the pit, Daemon resolved himself to keep going, to see a history that would be even close to the one that he had learnt of. Instead he would live to see that day than die in a glorious battle or be the prisoner to this stranger wearing his skin, content to be subservient to others. 

He shall have more. 

No matter how, no matter what, I will rise, I shall live on.

In the writings of Maesters shall be my history,

On the lips of the smallfolk shall be my tales,

In the veins of Kings shall be my blood,

In the annals of legend shall be my name. 

People will rememeber who I am.