The morning mist of King's Landing carried a faint scent of coal smoke. The towers of the Red Keep appeared and disappeared in the fog, like a dormant beast. Dawn had just climbed onto the windowsill when Daemon Blackfyre was startled awake by a dragon's roar outside.
Draping a cloak over his shoulders, he walked to the window. Daemon Targaryen was circling above the castle on Caraxes, the red dragon's scales glowing warmly in the mist.
Not far away, The Cannibal was dozing on the hill outside the Dragonpit, its pitch-black wings covering half the rock face.
This wild beast, accustomed to freedom, seemed unwilling to enter the pit. Relying on its master's favor, it had even caused an argument between the King and Queen—finally, the Queen cited the precedent of their sister, Princess Rhaena, and her dragon "Dreamfyre," forcing the "exhausted" King to relent.
At this moment, The Cannibal raised a claw to swat away a few small lizards—pets secretly fed to it by the children—which curled into balls, terrified by the dragon's breath.
Since being tamed by Daemon Blackfyre, this notoriously vicious King of Wild Dragons had turned over a new leaf, becoming unexpectedly docile, attracting countless dragon-dreamers to stop and worship.
"Awake?" Viserys's voice came from the doorway. He wore an indigo morning robe and carried two bowls of hot porridge. "Oatmeal cooked by Aemma, with honey and nuts."
Daemon took the bowl, the warmth spreading through his fingertips. Viserys was gentler than he had imagined; he had neither the imposing aura of an eldest brother nor the erratic energy of Daemon Targaryen. He was like an old oak tree in the Red Keep's courtyard—silent but reliable. "Thank you, cousin."
"Grandfather wants you in the Small Council chamber after you eat." Viserys spooned his porridge, his gaze sweeping over the brand on Daemon's shoulder. "Those old nobles gossiped plenty yesterday, but Grandfather knows what's what."
Daemon stirred the nuts in his porridge, suddenly recalling the rumors from his past life before Aegon IV acknowledged him at twelve. back then, he responded with a longsword; now, he held a warm bowl of porridge.
The atmosphere in the Small Council chamber was more solemn than yesterday. Jaehaerys sat in an oak chair, a map of the Seven Kingdoms spread before him. Queen Alysanne sat beside him, knitting a red cloak—the color of House Targaryen. Baelon, Rhaenys, Corlys, and several ministers sat on either side, the faint scent of dragonblood tea drifting in the air.
"The news of victory in the Stepstones has spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms." Jaehaerys tapped his finger on the Narrow Sea. "But the remnants of the Triarchy are fleeing. The Archon of Tyrosh is willing to hand them over, provided we recognize their claim to the Disputed Lands." He looked at Daemon. "What do you think?"
Daemon paused, remembering the moment The Cannibal tore apart the enemy ships. "Dragonfire does not negotiate. Submit, or turn to ash."
The chamber was silent for a moment, followed by low chuckles. Approval flashed in Jaehaerys's eyes. "Little Daemon's temperament isn't like the adult Aemon, but rather like Baelon. Though, Aemon was like this in his youth too." He turned to Baelon. "Do as he says. Let Big Daemon take Caraxes to Tyrosh. Tell them the dragons of House Targaryen remember every debt."
Daemon Targaryen immediately bounced in from outside the door, his silver hair messy. "Mission guaranteed! Caraxes's fire will turn the Archon's palace into glass!"
Queen Alysanne patted his back reprovingly. "No nonsense. You are only going to display the dragon's might, not actually burn down their castle. Don't forget you are to marry the Royce girl at the end of the year." She turned to Daemon Blackfyre, handing him the half-knitted cloak. "The lining is just finished. It's velvet, warmer than iron armor."
As Daemon took it, he felt the thick calluses on her fingertips—marks left by years of knitting and raising children. He suddenly thought of his mother, Princess Daena. In his memory, her hands always wore jeweled rings and smelled of heavy perfume, but she had never knitted a single garment for him.
When he walked out of the council chamber, Princess Gael was standing under the trellis at the end of the corridor, holding a small bunch of violets. Seeing Daemon, she flustered and hid the flowers behind her back, her cheeks as red as ripe apples. "D-Daemon." She stammered, her voice lighter than flower petals.
Daemon stopped. This "Winter Child" was even shyer than the records described. It was said she was born on a snowy night in the winter of 80 AC, though some whispered the name signified the Queen's fertility had reached its end, like the coming of winter. "Princess." He tried to keep his tone gentle. "Those flowers are beautiful."
Gael shoved the flowers into his hand and turned to run away, her skirt sweeping the pillars and leaving a faint scent of flowers. Blackfyre looked at the bunch of violets; the petals were still wet with morning dew, looking very much like a maiden's shy tears.
The training yard was exceptionally lively in the afternoon. Daemon Targaryen insisted on a duel. Corlys and Rhaenys brought Laena and Laenor to watch the fun. Viserys and Aemma sat in the stands, and even Jaehaerys and Alysanne came.
"Use wooden swords." Baelon threw two practice swords, the iron hilts wrapped in non-slip leather. "Stop at the touch."
Daemon Targaryen attacked first, his sword wind as fierce as Caraxes in a dive. Daemon Blackfyre sidestepped, his wooden sword sweeping horizontally. His moves were simple and precise—instincts honed on the battlefields of his past life, avoiding flourishes to strike straight at the vitals.
"Good!" Laena clapped from the stands, her small fists clenched tight. "Go Uncle Daemon!" Laenor nodded along, the seashell in his hand squeezed white.
Alicent Hightower stood in the corner holding a water pitcher, her gaze locked on Daemon Blackfyre. The boy's silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, his sword movements fluid and powerful. Sweat slid down his neck into his collar, revealing the faint dragon crest on his shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat, and she lowered her head in panic, knocking over the pitcher. Clear water spread across the flagstones like a secret poorly kept.
The sound of clashing wooden swords echoed in the yard. Daemon Targaryen's attacks grew more urgent, but were always nimbly evaded. For the final strike, Daemon Blackfyre deliberately left an opening, letting the opponent's sword tip flick off his hair ribbon—the moment his silver hair came loose, he reversed his grip and lightly tapped the other's helmet with his pommel.
"I win." Daemon Targaryen took off his helm, grinning like a bear that stole honey. "But you're way better than the master-at-arms in the castle."
Daemon was about to speak when he caught a signal from Corlys. Following the gaze, he saw several unfamiliar nobles standing at the edge of the training yard. The golden-haired man leading them had a lion embroidered on his cuffs—Tymond Lannister, Warden of the West, and his bannermen. They looked at him like vultures eyeing a wounded beast on the plains.
At the evening banquet, these gazes were more blatant. Tymond toasted frequently, leading the guests from the Westerlands to subtly inquire about his "mother" in every other sentence.
Florence Fossoway, wife of Martyn Tyrell, pulled him into domestic chatter, mentioning that her husband was about to step down as Master of Coin. The competitors were Tymond and Lyman Beesbury of the Reach. She added that the rose gardens of Highgarden lacked a companion for a tour.
Even the envoy from the North, Theomore Manderly, Earl of White Harbor, used his shrewd little eyes hidden by fat to repeatedly examine the dragon crest—the old man didn't have much time left. He was there not only for the position of Master of Ships or Master of Coin but to build goodwill with the royal family for his great-grandson and heir, Desmond.
"Ignore them," Rhaenys whispered, cutting roast venison for Laena. "They court you only because Grandfather favors you. Once the novelty passes, they'll go back to their own calculations."
Daemon looked at the feast before him: silver candelabras reflecting jeweled goblets, velvet curtains falling like waterfalls, noble laughter ringing like gilded bells. The scene was so familiar; the nobles of his past life had persuaded him to rebel against Daeron II in just this way.
Suddenly, The Cannibal's dragon roar came from the distance, low and irritable. Immediately after, Caraxes, Vhagar, and even Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre responded. The interwoven dragon roars vibrated the glass windows of the Red Keep.
Jaehaerys put down his goblet and looked toward the Dragonpit. "It seems we have guests."
The Captain of the Guard rushed into the hall and knelt on one knee. "Your Grace, the envoys from Dorne have arrived. They brought ten carts of summer-flower petals and a secret letter to be delivered to you personally."
Dorne. Daemon's hand tightened slightly around his goblet. He remembered the wars between Dorne and the Targaryens in history, remembered the brutality of Aegon's Conquest, and remembered the fate of the "Young Dragon," Daeron I.
Jaehaerys tapped his finger lightly on the table, the rhythm surprisingly in sync with the dragon roars from the pit. "Let them in." His voice was calm but carried unquestionable majesty. "Tell them the dragons of House Targaryen do not like their dinner interrupted."
Watching the sharpness flash through the King's eyes, Daemon suddenly understood: the game of power in King's Landing never stopped at the schemes of the Seven Kingdoms' nobles. The vipers in the desert, the fleets of the Iron Islands, the city-states across the Narrow Sea—all were waiting for an opportunity.
And he, this black dragon from the future, might just be the variable that stirred up the board.
Outside the banquet hall, the figures of the Dornish envoys drew closer in the torchlight. Their silk robes, embroidered with the sun sigil, looked like balls of burning fire in the night.
The dragon roars from the pit did not cease. Interweaving with the distant sea breeze and the nearby music, they composed a nocturne belonging to King's Landing, surging with undercurrents.
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