dream

Daemon awoke the next morning to the now-familiar sight of the ornate canopy above his bed, the luxurious feel of the fine linen sheets against his skin, and the soft feather pillow beneath his head. The silence of the early morning had given way to the distant hum of activity from King's Landing, punctuated by the cheerful chirping of birds outside his window.

Turning his head to the side, he noticed that Baelon had already left. For a few minutes, he lay there, staring at the canopy. The gnawing feeling of acceptance toward his new circumstances clawed at him, trying to break through the last vestiges of denial.

I am Daemon Targaryen.

The thought sent a burning sensation through his chest, a mix of anger and something else—something he couldn't quite identify. It felt as though a part of him was actively fighting against it. He shut his eyes, trying to suppress the rising tide of emotions, to keep them under control.

Sitting up slowly, he propped the pillows behind him, leaning back as he surveyed the room once more. Everything around him—the opulent furnishings, the grand architecture—seemed both familiar and alien. He looked down at his hands, the pale skin feeling strange as he flexed his fingers. He rubbed his face, his hand brushing over the slight stubble that had grown in. He remembered that in the show and the artwork, Daemon didn't have facial hair.

*If all you can grow is stubble in just a month, then maybe it wasn't much of a choice.*

A strange sensation of frustration surged within him, directed at himself. He clenched his jaw, fighting down the feeling, trying to regain control.

There was a knock at the door. "Prince Daemon?" a servant called from the other side. "I have brought you breakfast, my prince."

"Please come in," Daemon replied, listening closely to his own voice, still struggling to reconcile it with the one in his memories.

The servant entered, carrying a tray laden with food: freshly baked bread, a small block of butter, a rasher of bacon, and a cup of ale. The aroma was tantalizing, but beneath it all, he couldn't shake the feeling of loss. His stomach growled, but he wasn't sure if he had the energy to eat.

The servant was about to feed him as they had done before, but Daemon stopped them. "Place the tray on my lap, and the cup of ale next to me. You can go about your day; I can feed myself."

"By your leave, my Prince," the servant said, bowing before leaving the room.

Daemon picked at the bread, breaking off small pieces and nibbling at them, doing the same with the bacon, taking small sips of ale—just enough to quell his hunger without risking another bout of sickness.

He eyed the knife on the tray, a fleeting thought crossing his mind. *Maybe...*

But a searing pain in his chest quickly dispelled the idea, forcing him to shut his eyes and take deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside. He placed the tray beside him on the bed, where Baelon had slept the previous night.

*Father... he is your father.*

An intrusive voice echoed in his mind. Daemon shook it away, trying to hold on to the memories of his other father—the one who had taught him about random topics, not the heir to the Iron Throne.

Time passed slowly as he lay there, staring out the window. He missed the sight of other apartment windows rather than an open sky. The sadness quickly turned to boredom; he was no longer able to check his phone, browse the internet, or even read a book. The torturous tick of time gnawed at him.

*I need something to do...*

The servant returned, eyeing the tray. Daemon handed it to them before they could make a move to retrieve it. "Please, my Prince, there is no need," the servant protested.

"It's quite fine, I assure you," Daemon replied with a smile. "You have my thanks."

The servant bowed. "If I could make a request, could you bring me an empty journal, a pot of ink, a quill, and a mirror?"

"Of course, my Prince," the servant said, bowing once more before leaving the room.

A few minutes later, the servant returned with the requested items on a small bed tray. "Thank you," Daemon said, accepting them.

"If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask, my Prince."

*I wish you'd stop calling me 'My Prince.'*

Daemon nodded, and the servant left. He picked up the mirror first, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted it to view his face.

The reflection that stared back at him was unmistakably Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince, the Lord of Flea Bottom. Or at least, a younger version of him.

He wasn't unattractive; quite the opposite. He had to admit, he was handsome. No doubt that had helped Daemon charm people while using them, feeding his ego. His long platinum hair cascaded past his shoulders, almost covering his chest. His broad, muscular shoulders spoke of a man who had put in the work to stay in shape.

A sudden wave of envy and desire washed over him, surprising him with its intensity.

*What is going on?*

He fought the feeling down, reasserting control as he picked up the empty journal, flicking through its blank pages.

"Okay... what first?"

For the rest of the day, Daemon did nothing but write in the journal, filling its pages with the memories of his past life. He hoped that by putting ink to paper, he could somehow keep those memories alive—keep the memory of what he had loved and who he had loved fresh in his mind.

At times, tears stained the pages as he recounted each memory he could think of, especially those of his father, mother, sister, niece, and nephew. He paused frequently, weeping into his pillow.

When the first journal was filled, he requested another, along with a drink. With the new journal, he began to write down everything he could remember from the book *Fire & Blood*. Only one thought occupied his mind, a title etched in this world's history that sent a chill down his spine.

*The Dance of the Dragons.*

He wrote about the events that led to the war—the crisis of succession, the Great Council, the death of Aemma and her son Baelon. He clenched his teeth, swallowing the lump in his throat as he remembered the young woman he had seen the day before, holding her baby.

*I must warn her...*

But how? How do you tell someone to be careful about childbirth in the bloody medieval ages?

He wanted nothing more than to avoid the Dance. He had a few decades to prevent it, but only a handful of key events to try and change.

He wrote about the possibility of Aemma surviving and bearing a son who would succeed Viserys. But the more he retraced his memories, the more he realized that, even if Aemma didn't survive and Viserys remarried Alicent Hightower, the real catalyst was something else.

*The heir for a day.*

Daemon muttered the words, his voice harsh as he glanced at himself in the mirror, feeling a surge of disgust. Almost. For some reason, that emotion was countered by a sense of injustice.

*Why? Why do I feel like this?*

He needed to convince Otto Hightower—if he came to King's Landing as Hand of the King—that while Viserys was without a male heir, Daemon could serve as a substitute until one was born.

But again, those feelings of envy, anger, and desire began to surface.

*Why the hell...*

He glimpsed his reflection in the mirror again and could have sworn the face staring back wasn't his. It belonged to—

*Daemon... you're still here.* 

Clutching his chest, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The conflicting emotions he felt weren't his—they were Daemon's, trying to break free.

Quickly, he shut his eyes and focused on suppressing those feelings, restoring some semblance of calm.

"I won't let you," Daemon muttered to himself, or perhaps to the old Daemon—the true Daemon.

The bastard knows everything. And he wants that future where his bloodline sits on the Iron Throne.

The memory of Aegon III and Viserys II played in his mind—Daemon's sons who would be kings, his legacy, and a desire to do whatever it took to achieve that, even if it meant a mountain of bones.

"No... that won't happen. It can't happen." He muttered to himself, "Go away... just go away..." As quickly as the pain came, it subsided, but a dull ache remained.

After weathering the inner storm, he once more put quill to paper, writing down his next steps, his plans, and his own loves and wants—anything to remind himself that he was not Daemon Targaryen, not the Rogue Prince.

By the time Viserys visited, Daemon was on his third journal and possibly his tenth refill of ink.

"By the Gods, Daemon, if you keep this up, you'll use all the ink in Westeros," Viserys joked. "Crafting some secret plots?" he teased, picking up one of the journals on the nightstand. "You don't mind if I read them?"

Daemon smiled. "I assure you, brother, I have no intention of hoarding information. We're more than just gossiping chambermaids." In truth, he had hidden the journal containing the events of the Dance under his pillow. The rest were either memories, ideas, or old stories he loved

 to read.

"I'm glad you've taken up writing," Viserys said, placing the journal back. "It'll help you recover faster."

Daemon nodded, his smile forced as he stared at Viserys.

*Your face is too pure for what's coming.*

"Brother," Daemon started, his voice hesitant. "Has father returned?"

Viserys sighed, his expression shifting to one of concern. "He has, Daemon, but... he'll need more time."

Daemon nodded slowly. He understood.

"Daemon, I want you to rest and recover." Viserys placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll bring you to father when he's ready. In the meantime, I'll keep you company."

Daemon smiled weakly. "You should be spending time with Aemma, you know. I'll manage."

"Aemma's been seeing you every day," Viserys countered. "She's worried about you. We all are."

Daemon's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Aemma. He recalled her death in childbirth vividly and fought against the instinct to keep her away from him.

"Aemma... yes, of course," Daemon said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He hoped that writing things down, organizing his thoughts, and focusing on keeping Daemon's influence at bay would help him, if only a little. 

Yet as the days passed, he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. He would have to prepare for the worst.