Meleys's colossal form swept past the towering spires of Dragonstone, casting a shadow like a giant hand brushing over the jagged black stone fortress below.
The smell of sulfur, mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze, grew more intense.
Rhaenys did not fly directly to the main keep. Instead, she guided the scarlet dragon down to a secluded, heavily guarded courtyard near the eastern wing of the castle.
It was closer to Prince Baelon's chambers and away from prying eyes.
"Hold tight." Rhaenys's voice was unnaturally calm in the wind. She slid off the dragon's back first, her movements agile and practiced.
Daemon followed close behind. His soaked clothes clung to his thin, teenage frame, chilling him to the bone, but the black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder continued to radiate an unnatural warmth, like a piece of burning coal embedded in his flesh.
Meleys let out a low growl and turned her massive head toward Daemon. Hot dragon breath, smelling of sulfur and blood, washed over his face. Her molten gold slit pupils scrutinized him for a moment, yet she showed no aggression. Instead, she flicked her tail impatiently and snorted a small puff of smoke laced with sparks.
The guards in the courtyard had already been alerted. Clad in black armor bearing the Targaryen sigil and holding halberds, their faces were a mix of vigilance and astonishment.
They obviously recognized Princess Rhaenys, but their eyes were locked onto the stranger behind her—a soaked, ragged boy holding a bloodstained curveblade, yet possessing dazzling silver hair and deep purple eyes.
"Princess!" The captain of the guard stepped forward and bowed, his gaze sweeping over Daemon. "This is..."
"Someone I brought." Rhaenys's voice carried an unquestionable authority, cutting off the guard's inquiry. She didn't even glance at the captain, grabbing Daemon's cold wrist and pulling him along with such force that Daemon winced slightly. "Where is Uncle Baelon? I need to see him now."
"Prince Baelon... is in the solar of the Hall of Dragonfire. He just finished a meeting with the maester and is resting..." The captain looked troubled.
"Wake him up then! This is urgent!" Rhaenys's tone was decisive, betraying a rare hint of anxiety.
Dragging Daemon with her, she ignored the guards' hesitant looks and strode across the courtyard. She pushed open the heavy black oak doors and entered the castle interior.
Inside, Dragonstone was even more oppressive than Daemon had imagined.
The corridors were narrow and winding, the walls built of roughly cut black stone. There were almost no windows, relying entirely on torches stuck in wall sconces to provide flickering, uncertain light.
The air was thick with the smell of medicine, sulfur, and a deeper, dank scent of stone and sea.
Daemon noticed countless coiled dragon reliefs carved into the walls. In the dim light, their empty eye sockets seemed to stare silently at him, the intruder.
The brand on his shoulder seemed to pulse more distinctly with his steps. Every beat brought a slight burning pain and a low dragon roar echoing inside his skull. Each pulse felt like it was resonating eerily with the muffled heartbeat of the massive volcano beneath Dragonstone itself.
They finally arrived before a massive stone door carved with the image of a fire-breathing dragon.
Two elite guards in cloaks of black with red dragons stood at attention on either side—Prince Baelon's personal guard.
Seeing Rhaenys dragging Daemon toward them, their hands immediately went to their sword hilts, their eyes sharp as hawks.
"Open the door," Rhaenys commanded, her voice echoing in the empty stone corridor.
The guards hesitated but ultimately pushed open the heavy stone doors. A stronger, pungent smell of medicine mixed with the warmth of a charcoal fire rushed out to meet them.
Inside was a spacious but poorly lit hall. Huge tapestries hung on the walls, depicting Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion to burn Harrenhal.
A large stone brazier burned in the center of the room, dispelling the damp chill unique to Dragonstone. Beside the brazier, on a large chaotic sitting on a chaise longue covered in thick furs and velvet, was a man.
The Prince of Dragonstone, the Hand of the King, the "Spring Prince"—Baelon the Brave.
The room smelled of parchment charts, ink, and faint sea salt.
It was spacious, with one massive wall covered in detailed nautical charts of the coastlines of Westeros and Essos. A warm fire burned in the fireplace. In the center of the room was a large table of black stone, covered in documents and maps.
Baelon Targaryen turned at the noise. He was in his prime, his figure tall and upright. He wore a well-tailored tunic of deep purple velvet, embroidered with a three-headed dragon in gold thread. His silver hair was meticulously groomed, his short beard carefully trimmed, and his deep purple eyes remained sharp. However, there was a trace of imperceptible exhaustion and... gloom between his brows. It wasn't the look of illness, but the oppressive weight of heavy responsibility and hidden worry. Though his movements were slightly stiff from sitting too long, he maintained the sharpness and majesty of the Prince of Dragonstone.
"Rhaenys?" Baelon frowned slightly upon seeing his niece soaked and hurried, but his gaze immediately locked onto Daemon behind her.
Those sharp purple eyes were like a falcon's, instantly piercing through Daemon's wretched appearance to land on his pure silver hair, deep purple pupils, and that young but strikingly handsome face.
The expression on his face froze instantly. An indescribable shock and profound scrutiny flashed in his eyes.
"Uncle." Rhaenys pulled Daemon forward a few steps, stopping a short distance from the desk. "Meleys and I found this child by the sea. He was unconscious in the rocks, burning with fever, and bearing a black three-headed dragon brand on his shoulder."
Her voice was clear and strong, her gaze meeting Baelon's scrutiny without flinching.
Baelon didn't respond immediately. His gaze moved over Daemon's face like a cold probe, searching for any trace of forgery or suspicion.
Daemon forced himself to stand straight, meeting that oppressive gaze. This pressure was different from the clash of swords on the battlefield; it was a cold judgment from the source of his own bloodline, as if trying to dig out the secrets buried deep in his soul that didn't belong in this era.
Though the man didn't look terminally ill, the invisible pressure made Daemon more nervous than Bloodraven on Redgrass Field.
"A black three-headed dragon brand?" Baelon finally spoke, his voice low and steady, betraying no emotion. "And Meleys?"
"Meleys accepted him without any discomfort," Rhaenys answered immediately, her tone certain. "Furthermore, while he was unconscious and just now when he was choking on water, he unconsciously recited the High Valyrian motto Father used to teach me—'Valar Morghulis'."
Baelon's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the chaise longue. The room fell into a brief, suffocating silence. The fire crackled, and the sea breeze squeezed through the window cracks, rustling the papers on the desk.
"Child," Baelon's gaze refocused on Daemon's face. His voice softened, but the probing intent didn't diminish. "Tell me your name. And... how did you come to be on Dragonstone?" He didn't ask about the mother directly, but the question pointed to the core of the matter.
Daemon felt his throat go dry. How should he answer? A lie? An abyss that would require countless more lies to fill? Or silence? He took a deep breath, about to speak—
"His name is Daemon."
Rhaenys cut in before Daemon could answer. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a decisive, undeniable strength, as hard as the black stone of the island itself.
She even took a step forward, subtly shielding Daemon with her body. "As for how he got here, it doesn't matter, Uncle! What matters is the sigil of our House on his body! That Meleys lifted him from the sea! The blood flowing in his veins is the same source as ours! And the motto Father left behind!"
She looked straight into Baelon's eyes, articulating every word clearly: "No matter who he is, no matter where he comes from, his bloodline is beyond doubt! Even if he is a bastard! He is of Targaryen blood! He is a brother I, Rhaenys Targaryen, acknowledge!"
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