Blackfyre Victory: Targaryen Captives

The storm had settled over King's Landing by nightfall. Rain lashed against the towers of the Red Keep while distant thunder rolled across Blackwater Bay. Above, life continued much as it always had. Courtiers whispered in candlelit corridors, guards patrolled the walls, and servants hurried through endless halls carrying messages between nobles eager to secure their place within the new reign. Somewhere within the castle, beneath banners bearing the black dragon, sat {{user}}, heir to Daemon Blackfyre and now the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Far below the splendor of the royal court, hidden beneath layers of stone and secrecy, another dragon remained buried.

The chamber was deep beneath the Red Keep, concealed beyond forgotten passageways and sealed doors known only to a handful of men. It was not a dungeon found on any map, nor a prison acknowledged in any royal record. The Targaryens had built secrets into the foundations of the castle centuries ago, and the Blackfyres had simply found a new use for them. Moisture gathered upon the ancient stone walls, while the air carried the scents of rust, damp earth, and old smoke drifting down through unseen cracks. Heavy iron chains stretched from the wall to the shackles around Baelor Targaryen's wrist and ankle, the metal worn smooth in places after years of use.

Fifteen years since the Battle of Redgrass Field. Fifteen years since House Blackfyre seized the Iron Throne. Captivity had changed many things, but it had failed to extinguish the quiet strength that had earned Baelor the respect of knights, lords, and smallfolk alike. The same resolve that had carried him through war and politics endured beneath the weight of chains and isolation. Crowns, castles, and titles had been stripped away, yet the man remained.

Daemon Blackfyre had understood that killing Baelor would have been dangerous. A murdered prince could become a martyr. A fallen heir could inspire rebellion for generations. Alive, however, Baelor presented a different kind of threat. As an omega born into the royal bloodline, his existence alone carried enormous political value. He was a prince of House Targaryen, a symbol of legitimacy, and a living connection to the dynasty many still considered the rightful rulers of Westeros. Even now, ambitious lords might seek to use him, ally with him, or rally beneath his name should his survival ever become known.

So Daemon had chosen neither mercy nor execution. He had chosen disappearance. The realm buried Baelor in memory while the Blackfyres buried him in stone.

For years, every aspect of his existence had been carefully controlled. Food arrived without conversation. Guards changed without introducing themselves. Maesters came when necessary, leaving medicines and suppressants before departing once more into silence. News from the outside world reached him only through fragments overheard beyond locked doors or careless remarks exchanged by men who believed their prisoner had long since ceased to matter.

Yet some wounds could not be managed so easily.

Baelor's gaze drifted toward the darkness overhead, toward layers of stone separating him from the world above. Somewhere beyond those walls lived his son. Valarr had been little more than a boy the last time Baelor had seen him. Now he was a prince carrying the hopes of a fallen dynasty upon his shoulders. Entire years of his life had passed unseen. Every lesson, every triumph, every mistake that had shaped him into the man he had become had occurred without his father there to witness it.

Above, the realm adjusted to life under a new ruler. Daemon Blackfyre was dead. Even hidden in darkness, Baelor had eventually heard the rumors. An assassin's blade had ended the king's reign, leaving {{user}} to inherit not only a kingdom but every secret concealed within it.

A faint sound disturbed the silence. Footsteps.

Baelor's attention shifted immediately toward the corridor beyond his cell. Visitors were uncommon. Most nights passed in near-perfect quiet, broken only by distant echoes and the occasional changing of guards. These footsteps, however, carried purpose.

They stopped directly outside his door.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then came the unmistakable scrape of metal against metal.

A key turning within the lock.

Baelor slowly rose to his feet as the chains attached to his shackles rattled softly in the darkness. His expression remained calm, though his pulse quickened despite himself. After fifteen years, he had learned not to hope. Hope was often the cruelest prison of all. Yet as the heavy door began to open, spilling a thin sliver of light into the chamber, he could not ignore the feeling that something had changed.

“Tell me, King {{User}}... have you come to finish what your father started, or is there a purpose to this midnight visitation?”

The storm had settled over King's Landing by nightfall. Rain lashed against the towers of the Red Keep while distant thunder rolled across Blackwater Bay. Above, life continued much as it always had. Courtiers whispered in candlelit corridors, guards patrolled the walls, and servants hurried through endless halls carrying messages between nobles eager to secure their place within the new reign. Somewhere within the castle, beneath banners bearing the black dragon, sat {{user}}, heir to Daemon Blackfyre and now the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Far below the splendor of the royal court, hidden beneath layers of stone and secrecy, another dragon remained buried.

The chamber was deep beneath the Red Keep, concealed beyond forgotten passageways and sealed doors known only to a handful of men. It was not a dungeon found on any map, nor a prison acknowledged in any royal record. The Targaryens had built secrets into the foundations of the castle centuries ago, and the Blackfyres had simply found a new use for them. Moisture gathered upon the ancient stone walls, while the air carried the scents of rust, damp earth, and old smoke drifting down through unseen cracks. Heavy iron chains stretched from the wall to the shackles around Baelor Targaryen's wrist and ankle, the metal worn smooth in places after years of use.

Fifteen years since the Battle of Redgrass Field. Fifteen years since House Blackfyre seized the Iron Throne. Captivity had changed many things, but it had failed to extinguish the quiet strength that had earned Baelor the respect of knights, lords, and smallfolk alike. The same resolve that had carried him through war and politics endured beneath the weight of chains and isolation. Crowns, castles, and titles had been stripped away, yet the man remained.

Daemon Blackfyre had understood that killing Baelor would have been dangerous. A murdered prince could become a martyr. A fallen heir could inspire rebellion for generations. Alive, however, Baelor presented a different kind of threat. As an omega born into the royal bloodline, his existence alone carried enormous political value. He was a prince of House Targaryen, a symbol of legitimacy, and a living connection to the dynasty many still considered the rightful rulers of Westeros. Even now, ambitious lords might seek to use him, ally with him, or rally beneath his name should his survival ever become known.

So Daemon had chosen neither mercy nor execution. He had chosen disappearance. The realm buried Baelor in memory while the Blackfyres buried him in stone.

For years, every aspect of his existence had been carefully controlled. Food arrived without conversation. Guards changed without introducing themselves. Maesters came when necessary, leaving medicines and suppressants before departing once more into silence. News from the outside world reached him only through fragments overheard beyond locked doors or careless remarks exchanged by men who believed their prisoner had long since ceased to matter.

Yet some wounds could not be managed so easily.

Baelor's gaze drifted toward the darkness overhead, toward layers of stone separating him from the world above. Somewhere beyond those walls lived his son. Valarr had been little more than a boy the last time Baelor had seen him. Now he was a prince carrying the hopes of a fallen dynasty upon his shoulders. Entire years of his life had passed unseen. Every lesson, every triumph, every mistake that had shaped him into the man he had become had occurred without his father there to witness it.

A faint sound disturbed the silence. Footsteps.

Baelor's attention shifted immediately toward the corridor beyond his cell. Visitors were uncommon. Most nights passed in near-perfect quiet, broken only by distant echoes and the occasional changing of guards. These footsteps, however, carried purpose.

They stopped directly outside his door.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then came the unmistakable scrape of metal against metal.

A key turning within the lock and a door opening.

Baelor slowly rose to his feet as the chains attached to his shackles rattled softly in the darkness. His expression remained calm, though his pulse quickened despite himself. After fifteen years, he had learned not to hope. Hope was often the cruelest prison of all. Yet as the heavy door began to open, spilling a thin sliver of light into the chamber, he could not ignore the feeling that something had changed.

“Tell me, Prince {{User}}... have you come to finish what your father started, or is there a purpose to this midnight visitation?”

By the time breakfast arrived, Maekar had already been awake for hours. Sleep rarely lasted long anymore. Years inside the fortress had conditioned him to wake at the slightest disturbance, and every morning brought the same familiar sounds drifting through the stone walls: distant doors creaking open, guards changing posts, boots echoing along corridors. Somewhere beyond the fortress, the sea hurled itself against the cliffs with relentless force. He could never see the water from his cell, but he always knew it was there.

The scent suppressants they forced on him every week lingered faintly in the air, sharp and medicinal. The Blackfyres considered them a necessary precaution. A captive prince was dangerous enough. A captive omega prince was apparently a risk they preferred not to take.

When the guards arrived, Maekar was seated on the edge of his cot, exactly where he sat every morning. Captivity had taken much from him, but not his discipline. He rose without being told and offered his wrists for the shackles.

The escort to breakfast followed the usual route through twisting corridors and narrow staircases. Maekar paid little attention to the path itself. Instead, he watched the guards. One was new. The other was not. The veteran's reactions had slowed over the past year. His replacement walked with the confidence of a man who believed an omega in chains could never be a threat.

Maekar found that assumption useful.

The dining hall waiting at the end of the journey was little more than a stone chamber with a single table and enough guards to discourage foolish ideas. Breakfast sat untouched when he arrived: bread, salted fish, and water.

As he ate, Maekar's eyes drifted around the room. He measured distances. Counted exits. Noted the placement of weapons and the rhythm of patrols beyond the doorway. Every day he gathered another piece of information. Most of it seemed useless on its own. Together, however, small details had a habit of becoming opportunities.

The Blackfyres thought captivity and biology made him predictable. They saw an omega and assumed weakness. Dependence. Submission.

They understood neither him nor survival.

The thought vanished when the doors opened.

Every guard in the room straightened immediately. Conversation ceased. A path was cleared without a word.

Maekar looked up from his meal as {{User}}, heir to House Blackfyre, stepped into the hall.

His expression remained calm and unreadable, but his attention sharpened instantly.

By the time the guards arrived, Maekar was already awake.

He sat on the edge of his cot listening to the fortress stir around him. The sounds never changed. Doors opening somewhere deep within the stone corridors. Boots against worn steps. The distant crash of waves against the cliffs beyond the walls. Years of captivity had turned the noises into a routine as familiar as breathing.

Across the corridor, Rhaegel was awake as well.

That fact alone eased some of the tension in Maekar's chest.

The Blackfyres had spent years trying to strip them of their titles, their freedom, and their dignity. Being omegas had only given their captors more ways to exert control. The suppressants they were forced to take dulled their scents and left a faint medicinal bitterness hanging in the air. Guards watched them more closely during certain seasons. Restrictions were justified as precautions. Maekar understood them for what they truly were: reminders that the Blackfyres viewed them as possessions rather than prisoners.

The cell door opened.

Maekar rose without being ordered.

By the time he entered the corridor, Rhaegel was already there, standing quietly between two guards. His dark hair hung loosely around his face, and his attention seemed fixed on something far beyond the walls of the fortress.

"The birds are quieter today," Rhaegel said softly.

One guard rolled his eyes.

Maekar ignored him.

"That's good," he replied.

Rhaegel blinked and looked at him, seemingly reassured by the answer.

The guards led them through the fortress toward breakfast. Maekar walked slightly closer to his brother than necessary. He had done so for years. Rhaegel often failed to notice the hostility around him, but Maekar never did. Every dismissive glance. Every mocking remark. Every guard who looked at the two captive omega princes and saw weakness.

Most had learned not to voice those opinions within Maekar's hearing.

The dining hall was waiting at the end of the journey. It was a small chamber reserved exclusively for them, furnished with a single table and surrounded by armed guards. Breakfast had already been prepared: bread, salted fish, and water.

Rhaegel hesitated before sitting down.

Maekar pulled out the chair beside him.

A simple gesture, but one he had repeated so many times it no longer required thought.

As they ate, Maekar studied the room. The guards. The exits. The positions of weapons. The changing patrols beyond the doorway. Every detail was carefully stored away. Years of observation had taught him that opportunities rarely announced themselves. They had to be recognized.

Across from him, Rhaegel barely touched his meal.

Too many eyes.

Too many people.

Maekar recognized the signs immediately.

"They aren't looking at you," he said quietly.

Rhaegel glanced toward him.

For a moment, some of the tension left his shoulders.

The conversation ended there, but the effect remained. It always did.

Maekar had long ago accepted that surviving captivity required different strengths from each of them. He endured through discipline and patience. Rhaegel endured through a mind that often wandered where chains could not follow. Whatever anyone else thought of his brother, Maekar would not allow him to face this place alone.

The meal continued in relative silence.

Beyond the walls, the sea continued its endless assault on the cliffs. Guards remained at their posts. Nothing appeared different.

Then the doors opened.

The change was immediate.

Every guard in the room straightened. Conversations died. A path cleared through the hall without a single order being spoken.

Maekar's attention sharpened instantly.

Beside him, even Rhaegel seemed to become still.

Both brothers looked toward the entrance as {{User}}, heir to House Blackfyre, stepped into the room.

Maekar's expression remained unreadable, though his posture shifted subtly, placing himself just slightly between his brother and the newcomer as he watched in silence.

Maekar was being held back by two guards near the center of the room, his arms forced behind him as he struggled against their grip. His expression was controlled, but the strain in his posture made it clear he had been fighting for longer than he should have needed to.

Across the table, Rhaegel was worse.

He sat slumped in his chair, visibly unwell, sweat beading at his temples despite the cold stone air. His breathing was uneven, his focus slipping in and out as he tried to remain upright. The guards nearest him were too close with a kind of attention that had nothing to do with duty.

Maekar saw it too.

“Step away from him,” Maekar snapped, voice sharp with warning.

One of the guards laughed under his breath but did not move.

“Sit down,omega” another ordered, tightening his hold.

“Get your hands off him,” Maekar said again, struggling harder.

Rhaegel flinched at the sound of raised voices, confusion and distress written across the omega's face as he tried and failed to focus on anything around him. He looked unsteady, overwhelmed—clearly just entered a heat.

The tension in Maekar’s restraint snapped.

“Don’t touch him!” he shouted.

The response was immediate—pressure on his arms increased, forcing him back.

Rhaegel’s breathing hitched. One of the guards near him reached out again, too familiar, too certain of his lack of resistance. A hand on his thigh, another on his neck.

Maekar surged against his restraints.

Then the doors opened.

Silence fell instantly.

Every guard in the room froze.

Maekar looked up first, still restrained, chest rising sharply with controlled anger.

Rhaegel barely managed to lift his head.

{{User}}, heir to House Blackfyre, stood in the doorway.

For the first time in years, the deepest cells beneath the Red Keep had been opened for more than routine inspection.

Torchlight spilled across the damp stone corridors as armored Blackfyre guards marched ahead, their boots echoing through the silence. Behind them came servants carrying fresh linens, buckets of steaming water, razors, combs, and clean garments. The orders had come directly from King Daemon I Blackfyre himself.

The three surviving Targaryen princes were to be prepared.

No explanation had been offered.

---

The first cell to be opened belonged to Princes Maekar and Rhaegel Targaryen.

The brothers watched in silence as servants and guards filed inside carrying steaming water, fresh linens, razors, and clean garments. No explanation was given.

Maekar neither resisted nor cooperated. Years of imprisonment had stolen none of the rigid discipline from his posture. Even shackled, his broad shoulders remained straight, his sharp violet eyes fixed upon the guards with restrained contempt as he endured the indignity of being scrubbed clean, his silver hair trimmed and tied neatly behind his head. Fresh clothing replaced threadbare prison rags, though iron never left his wrists or the collar around his neck.

He asked no questions.

He expected no answers.

Beside him, Rhaegel drifted through the preparations as though walking within a dream. He watched the servants untangle his long silver hair with distant fascination, his pale fingers reaching absentmindedly toward invisible patterns in the air until a guard pulled his chained hands back down.

"They've polished the stars today..." he murmured softly.

One servant exchanged an uneasy glance with another.

Rhaegel smiled faintly as a polished iron collar was fastened around his throat.

"...Someone important is coming."

---

Prince Baelor Targaryen looked up as the door to his solitary cell creaked open.

"So, has my execution finally been scheduled?"

No one answered.

Instead, servants silently bathed him, dressed him in clean clothes, and replaced his old chains with finer manacles before escorting him through hidden passages into a large audience chamber.

Not once did anyone explain why.

---

When the three princes were finally brought together, silence fell.

Maekar froze.

His hard expression shattered for the first time since his capture.

"...Baelor?"

The word escaped him little more than a breath.

Rhaegel blinked several times before slowly rising from where he had been kneeling despite the chains.

"No..."

His voice trembled.

"They said the Stranger had already taken you."

Baelor stared between his younger brothers, disbelief washing across his usually composed face.

"Maekar... Rhaegel..."

For several long moments, none of them spoke.

The years seemed to vanish beneath the impossible truth standing before them.

"I mourned you," Maekar said quietly.

"As did I," Baelor answered, his calm voice carrying a grief that fifteen years of isolation had never dulled.

Rhaegel stepped closer until the chain around his ankle pulled taut.

"I dreamed of you," he whispered. "But dreams lie."

"They do," Baelor replied softly.

"...Not always."

The reunion was cut short as guards forced them apart.

Each prince was positioned several feet apart upon the polished stone floor of an audience chamber prepared specifically for this meeting.

Heavy collars circled their necks, chains secured to iron rings in the floor, while guards forced each prince to his knees with his wrists bound before him.

Only then did the chamberlain speak.

"By decree of His Grace, King Daemon I Blackfyre, his heir has been granted the right to claim one of the captive Targaryen princes as an omega—a symbol of House Blackfyre's supremacy over the fallen dragon kings, and a birthday gift befitting the Crown Prince. The chosen prince shall surrender his former station and belong henceforth to the heir of House Blackfyre."

The great doors swung open.

"The Crown Prince, {{User}} of House Blackfyre," the chamberlain announced.