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Chapter 99: The Lion in Chains
Daeron Targaryen's Perspective – Red Keep Dungeons
The stone beneath Daeron's boots was damp, cold, and uneven. The air in the dungeons clung to him like a second skin—thick with mildew, rot, and the unmistakable scent of despair. A torch crackled in the iron sconce beside him, casting long, flickering shadows down the corridor as he moved forward.
Ghost padded silently at his heel, his white fur unnervingly bright against the gloom. The direwolf's red eyes flicked between the iron-barred cells they passed, though most were empty now. The war had left few prisoners still breathing.
Daeron finally stopped in front of a heavy door reinforced with bronze rivets. Two guards stepped aside wordlessly at his presence, unbarring the cell with a metallic clunk. He entered alone.
The figure inside didn't rise. He sat slouched against the stone wall, his once-golden hair matted and dull. His beard had grown out in patches, and the grime clinging to his Lannister armor spoke of months without sunlight or dignity. But even so, his eyes were sharp—dangerous.
"The Dragon King," Jaime Lannister greeted him, voice thick with irony. "Your Grace is here to see me at last."
Daeron said nothing, stepping into the room as Ghost padded in behind him, lowering his massive head with a low growl. Jaime's gaze briefly flicked to the direwolf before resting back on Daeron, a twitch of caution in his jaw.
The cell was large, meant for highborn captives. But no comforts had been spared for Jaime. A straw mattress, a rusted chamber pot, and chains set into the wall were all he had.
"You don't speak much," Jaime said. "Must be the Targaryen in you. All brooding and no manners."
Daeron pulled out a small stool and sat across from him. "You talk enough for the both of us."
That drew a faint smirk from Jaime, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked worn. Not just by captivity, but by loss. The kind of loss that scoured a man hollow from the inside. His father—Tywin—dead at Daeron's hand. His son—Joffrey, the boy-king, dead in the chaos of the riot. His sister Cersei dead by the hands of his brother Tyrion.
Daeron studied him for a moment. Jaime Lannister looked like a man with very little left to lose.
"If you're here to offer mercy," Jaime said, leaning forward, "save your breath. I don't want it."
"I'm not here for that."
Jaime tilted his head. "Then what? You want me to beg? Tell you where I buried my honor? Maybe you want to hear me apologize for loving my sister?" His smile twisted. "Or for killing your grandfather?"
Daeron's eyes narrowed, but his tone remained calm. "Tyrion and the children are being brought to King's Landing."
Something flickered in Jaime's face—too brief to name. Surprise, maybe. Regret. It vanished quickly behind a cold stare.
"Good," Jaime said. "Save yourself the trouble. Just send Tyrion straight to this cell. I'll kill him myself."
Daeron's expression didn't change, but inside, something coiled tight. He'd heard about the rift between the Lannister brothers. He knew Tyrion had killed Cersei. But to hear Jaime speak of fratricide so casually—it was another glimpse into a man unraveling.
Ghost let out a low, warning growl, and Jaime glanced at the beast again, his bravado briefly slipping.
"Don't worry, I wouldn't try anything," Jaime muttered. "Not with your demon wolf watching."
Daeron stood.
"I didn't come here to threaten you," he said quietly. "I came to see what was left of the man they called the Kingslayer."
He turned to leave. Ghost lingered for a moment, baring his teeth, then followed.
Behind him, Jaime leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
As Daeron reached for the door, Jaime's biting words about his brother still echoing in his ears, he stopped and turned back.
"You clearly don't care about your brother," Daeron said, voice colder now, "but what should I do about Tommen and Myrcella?"
Jaime raised a brow. "What are you asking me for? You're the king."
"I am," Daeron replied. "And you of all people should know what kings do to the children of previous kings."
The smirk slid from Jaime's face like blood from a fresh wound.
Daeron stepped closer, voice low and steady. "Your father ordered the deaths of my baby brother Aegon and my sister Rhaenys. Had them slaughtered in their beds during the sack of King's Landing. Wrapped Aegon in a crimson cloak and handed him to Robert Baratheon like a prize."
Jaime looked away, jaw tightening.
"So tell me, Kingslayer," Daeron said softly, "what do you think I should do with Tommen and Myrcella?"
The silence in the cell stretched. For the first time since the war ended, Jaime looked stripped of all arrogance—just a man facing the weight of consequences.
After a long pause, Jaime muttered, "What do you want?"
Daeron didn't look away. "I'm here to give you a chance. To save your children."
Jaime's gaze snapped back to his.
"If you confess—publicly, in court—that Tommen and Myrcella are your children, not Robert's, then they are no longer claimants. They aren't threats. They're just two children born to incredibly foolish parents."
The words hung heavy in the air. Jaime exhaled like the breath had been punched out of him.
"And what sort of life would they have then?" he asked bitterly. "Raised as incest-born bastards of the Lannister twins. Marked by shame until the day they die. It would be better for them to just… die now."
Daeron's eyes narrowed. "If that's your choice, then so be it."
He turned once more, hand reaching for the door latch.
"Wait."
The word came out like a broken sword from Jaime's throat.
Daeron stopped.
"I'll do it," Jaime said, swallowing hard. "I'll confess. Just… promise me. Swear you won't harm them. Whatever comes after… they're just children."
Daeron looked back at him. He studied Jaime's face, saw the torment there—the war between pride and guilt, between love and ruin.
"You have my word," Daeron said, voice steady. "They will not be harmed."
Jaime leaned back, eyes closing briefly. "Then we're both damned men, aren't we?"
Daeron didn't answer. Threatening innocent children, even as a ruse, left a bad taste in his mouth.
He simply turned and left the cell, Ghost silently trailing behind, the cell door closing behind them like the toll of judgment.
And in the darkness, Jaime Lannister sat alone, waiting to destroy what was left of his family to save it.