Daeron Targaryen Novels & Stories

Hearing it spoken in the open air above the Atlantic gave it a different quality. Permanent was the word she kept arriving at. Not ending. Permanent. The crown of the Vael bloodline was a physical object smaller than she'd expected, old metal worn smooth by time, carrying nothing theatrical. Seren placed it on Caspian's head with the precise care of someone who had done this for three hundred years and understood that the object was less significant than the moment. He became, in that moment, what he had been becoming for a very long time. She watched it happen.

“And if I desired him for myself? If I asked for his fealty?” Uthred stepped forward, his voice strained. “My lord, he hails from the Witch Clans. He cannot—” But before he could finish, the cloaked mage fell to one knee, his voice firm and unwavering. “I, Varian Draeven, pledge my loyalty to you, my lord—and to you alone.” Darius stared down at him for a moment, then a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “Well then,” he said darkly, “it seems the old gods still favour me.”