The third time the moonlight washed over the iron gate of the Night Watchtower, Daemon Targaryen's silver boots crushed a grape seed on the stone floor.
Tucked in his shirt was a packet of honey-glazed cherries wrapped in oil paper. The hem of his cloak carried the faint scent of rouge unique to the Street of Silk—he had just stolen them from the back kitchen of the "Hall of Bliss," and the madam in her red silk dress had chased him down half the street cursing.
"Corlys's guards won't even spare a sweet fruit?" He shoved the oil paper packet through the gaps in the iron bars, his purple eyes twinkling with mischief in the torchlight. "Or are House Velaryon's pearls more precious than candied gold?"
When Daemon Blackfyre caught the packet, his fingertips brushed against the thin calluses on the other boy's fingers.
Those weren't the thick calluses of a knight training with a sword, but the fine abrasions from years of holding dice and shuffling cards. He had read about this in the Red Keep's library, about the boyhood of this future "Rogue Prince": the gambling tables of Flea Bottom, the brothels of the Street of Silk, and the black markets by the docks were all his playground.
"Aren't you afraid Corlys will catch you?" Daemon Blackfyre pinched a cherry, the sweet juice splashing onto the corner of his mouth.
This twelve-year-old body hadn't fully adapted to hunger yet; his stomach was aching with emptiness.
"Let him catch me." The Targaryen boy kicked the iron bars, his boot heel clanging against the dragon-carved metal. "Let him see if the Prince of Dragonstone's son will truly associate with a 'suspicious character.'" He suddenly leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Honestly, the look you gave him when you talked back? It was fiercer than the meanest gambler in Flea Bottom. I like it."
Daemon Blackfyre chewed on the cherry pit. Since crossing over, this was the first time someone had defined his existence with the word "like."
The boy before him was even more vivid than the history books described: silver hair messy across his forehead, cloak tied askew, and a plain steel sword at his waist. The scabbard had several dents—clearly not the Dark Sister he would wield later, but a crude piece meant for street brawls.
"I'm Daemon." He swallowed the pit, his voice carrying the raspiness of adolescence but hiding the force of a sword swing on Redgrass Field.
"Daemon Targaryen." The other boy raised an eyebrow and tapped his knuckles against his own silver hair. "Seems our fathers had a bit of fun naming us." He suddenly pulled a crumpled parchment scroll from his shirt. "I stole this from the library. The Beacon Records of the Riverlands. It details how the battles on the Trident were fought during the Wars of Conquest. That 'heavy cavalry wedge' you mentioned last time? The book actually has a drawing of it."
Blackfyre unfurled the parchment. On the yellowed page, a Riverlands lord had drawn a cavalry charge formation in red ink. It was shockingly similar to the tactic he had used to tear apart the Arryn shield wall.
Only back then, he led the Blackfyre rebels. The banners on this paper were all the three-headed dragons of House Targaryen.
"You understand this?" The Targaryen boy's eyes lit up with excitement. "The master-at-arms in the castle only teaches me thrusts and parries, talking about 'knightly honor.' But I've seen it in Flea Bottom. The wildest fights never follow the rules—" He lowered his voice. "Once I gambled dice with a thief by the docks. He cheated, so I smashed a wine pot over the back of his head. Worked better than a sword."
Blackfyre looked at the boy's shining eyes and suddenly remembered himself at twelve.
Back then, he was still in the Red Keep's yard, practicing with wooden swords against Bloodraven, thinking bloodline determined everything. It wasn't until he stepped onto the battlefield for the first time that he realized rules were worthless in front of dead men.
"War is the same." Blackfyre pointed at the formation on the paper, his fingertip tracing the tip of the cavalry wedge. "The key to the wedge isn't the brute force of the charge, but finding the crack in the shield wall. Just like..." He paused, remembering the narrow alleys of the Street of Silk. "Just like a thief in Flea Bottom squeezing through a hole in the wall. You have to spot it before you move."
Targaryen laughed loudly. The sound hit the stone walls and startled the crows nesting atop the tower. "You're right! Those old maesters definitely don't get that." He pulled a tin flask from his shirt and shoved it through the bars. "This is ale from the 'Drunken Nymph' brothel. The madam says it builds courage. I stole three flasks and she chased me twice around the docks."
For the next six nights, the Night Watchtower became the secret base for the two Daemons.
The things Targaryen brought became more eclectic: a handkerchief embroidered by a whore from the Street of Silk ("softer than the coarse cloth in the castle"), ivory dice used by Flea Bottom gamblers ("loaded with lead, guaranteed to win"), and a rusty dagger from the dockside black market ("claimed to have tasted pirate blood").
His stories got wilder too: how a whore blinded a noble with a hairpin, how a gambler swindled a merchant from Lannisport with counterfeit coins, how a thief sneaked into the Red Keep and stole the King's wine.
Blackfyre, in turn, told "battlefield stories he'd heard": how the rapids of the Trident could break an infantry formation, how to set an ambush in the passes of the Mountains of the Moon, how the snow in the North could freeze bowstrings until they snapped.
He deliberately avoided "Redgrass Field"—that wasteland was currently nameless, buried in the dust of the Riverlands. It would take a hundred years and his own blood to dye it red before it would be written into history.
"You're way better than the master-at-arms." On the seventh night, Targaryen brought a set of keys. A small copper seahorse hung from the ring (the Velaryon sigil, stolen from Corlys's desk). "Rhaenys has been arguing with Corlys for three days, saying she wants to take you to King's Landing to see Grandfather. But Corlys says he has to verify if you're a fake brought in by Lysene slavers first." He shoved the keys through the bars. "I heard the guards say Corlys is moving you to the dungeons on Driftmark tomorrow. That place is deeper than the dragonglass cells, surrounded by sea on all sides."
Blackfyre caught the keys. The iron ring was cold, digging painfully into his palm.
He looked at Targaryen's profile illuminated by the moonlight and suddenly understood why this boy would become the "Rogue Prince"—his rebellion hid a disdain for rules and a thirst for freedom, like an unbridled wild horse.
"Aren't you afraid I am a fake?" Blackfyre turned the key, the lock mechanism making a soft click.
"Could a fake talk about the cracks in a wedge formation?" Targaryen raised an eyebrow, pointing at the faint brand on Blackfyre's shoulder. "Could a fake make The Cannibal roar at him?" He smiled suddenly, a grin like a bear that had stolen honey. "Besides, I'm starting to like you, Daemon Blackfyre. I don't care who you are; you're more interesting than those idiots in the castle who only know how to bow and scrape."
As the iron door slowly opened, sulfur mist poured out from the volcanic vents like white snakes. Blackfyre took his first step. His twelve-year-old legs were weak, but the warrior instinct in his soul steadied him.
"Go east, through the third crater." Targaryen's voice was very low. "The guard there is an acquaintance of mine. He took three of my ivory dice; he'll pretend not to see you." He paused, then added, "Be careful of The Cannibal. It's been circling near the crater for days. The dragonkeepers say it's acting crazy."
Blackfyre looked back at him. Moonlight fell on the faces of two silver-haired boys, both with restless fire burning in their purple eyes.
"Thanks."
Crossing the volcanic vents, the sulfur fumes made him cough violently.
His twelve-year-old lungs hadn't adapted to the air of Dragonstone yet, but the brand on his right shoulder was scorching hot, like a fire burning under his skin.
He ran towards the heat until a massive cavern appeared before him—the walls were studded with glowing dragonglass, the floor covered in thick dragon scales, and in the center lay a black shadow far larger than Caraxes.
The Cannibal...
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