Before the morning mist had fully receded, the sound of hoofbeats resonated from the Red Keep's stables. Daemon stood atop the tower, watching the dust rising outside the city gates—it was the banner of House Tully of the Riverlands. A silver trout leaped on red and blue ripples, looking as lively as a creature just plucked from the Green Fork.
"Lord Grover Tully brought three sons and two daughters," Viserys's voice came from behind. He held a piece of parchment densely scrawled with the names of nobles from every region. "They say the youngest daughter is only seven, yet she dares to ride an untamed pony."
Daemon chuckled softly. House Tully's persistence with family always carried the tenacity of wet clay; like Riverrun itself, no flood could wash it away. "What about Lord Benjen Stark of the North?"
"The Northern party is still on the Kingsroad." Viserys's fingertip traced the name "Stark." "His eldest son, Rickon, was born only a year ago. Lady Lysa fears he cannot withstand the long, bumpy journey. But Old Nan in King's Landing always says the wolf pups of the North can bite through deerskin boots even wrapped in wool blankets."
As they spoke, a commotion arose below. Guards in blue cloaks parted the crowd, and the Crowned Stag banner of the Stormlands unfurled abruptly. Lord Boremund Baratheon walked at the front, followed by his eldest son Borros, whose shoulders were as broad as a barn door.
But the figure in the grey dress trailing at the end of the procession made Daemon's breath hitch for half a beat. Since seeing her a few days ago, he had been terrified of the owner of that silhouette.
Jocelyn Baratheon—the widow of his current "father," Prince Aemon Targaryen, and Rhaenys's mother.
She looked even more haggard than she had days prior. Silver threads had quietly crept up her temples, but those eyes were still like the sea at Storm's End, carrying an icy chill when they looked his way.
When her gaze swept over Daemon, her steps clearly faltered—it wasn't hostility, but rather the trance of seeing a reflection in water.
"She cried half the night in the guest house yesterday," Viserys whispered, his voice very low. "Father says she keeps mistaking your profile for Prince Aemon."
Daemon said nothing. He recalled the portraits of Aemon he had seen—silver-white long hair, a jawline sharp as a knife. They did look alike, so much so that sometimes when looking in the mirror, he would vaguely see another person sneering back at him.
Just then, a horn sounded at the gate again. The Rose banner of the Reach surrounded a group approaching. Lord Matthos Tyrell walked with his round belly protruding, followed by his eldest son Garlan, who was secretly eyeing the arrow towers of the Red Keep, his fingers drumming on his sword hilt.
Even more conspicuous were several youths trailing at the end of the line. Their brows all carried the shadow of House Tyrell, yet they wore finery slightly different from the Golden Rose's standard.
"His bastards," Viserys clicked his tongue in wonder. "Lord Matthos brought them all, saying he wants them to see the rules of the capital."
Daemon suddenly remembered the words of the Dornish envoy. It seemed that, just like in the history he remembered, the Roses of the Reach in this generation were like the Sand Snakes of the desert—neither minded putting their bastards on display. One just wrapped them in silk, while the other protected them with venomous fangs.
The Small Council chamber was already bustling. Corlys Velaryon stood gesturing before a nautical map, his new Master of Ships badge gleaming on his lapel. The necklace of silver shells clinked softly with his movements. "I've re-charted the reefs of the Stepstones," he told Jaehaerys. "If the Tyroshi fleet dares to come again, I guarantee they'll be smashed into driftwood."
"What does Lord Matthos think?" Jaehaerys asked suddenly, turning his gaze to the Lord of the Reach who had just entered. "Merchant ships from the Reach often pass through the Stepstones. We should leave the Tyroshi with something to remember."
Before Matthos could answer, Lyman Beesbury beside him bowed. "Your Grace, I have just checked the treasury. There is more than enough coin to build several new warships." The new Master of Coin had slender fingers, and perhaps because he was the Lord of Honeyholt, his accounting always carried a sickly sweet air of honey. "Though, if the Tyrells could pay a bit more tax on their Arbor vintage, we might be able to add two more scorpions."
Matthos laughed loudly, clapping Lyman on the shoulder. "The abacus of House Beesbury is denser than the gold sieves of Lannisport!"
Amidst the laughter, Lord Arryn's party arrived. Aemma's half-brother was younger than imagined, wearing a grey-blue brocade robe with a falcon sigil at his waist. He headed straight for the Queen's seat upon entering. "Your Grace, Queen Alysanne. Aemma wrote saying she dreams of the moonlight at the Eyrie every night."
Alysanne's smile softened. "Let her rest easy. The towers of Maegor's Holdfast are high enough to see the same stars as the Eyrie." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the hall full of nobles. "In a few days, you will hear the cry of a newborn. The bloodline of Targaryen is about to welcome a new addition in the Red Keep."
These words were like a drop of honey falling into hot soup; the atmosphere in the hall instantly warmed. Theomore Manderly busied himself adding some life to the quiet Northern seats, Borros Baratheon compared arm thickness with Garlan Tyrell, and even the corners of Jocelyn's mouth relaxed a little.
Daemon retreated behind a pillar, watching the liveliness. The Dornish matter was like a feather, gently brushed into the corner by the anticipation of the new baby. Indeed, to the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, how could the so-called "peace" of the Dornish be as important as a legitimate grandson of the House of the Dragon?
"What are you thinking about?" Alysanne had walked over unnoticed, holding the unfinished cloak. The velvet edge brushed against the back of Daemon's hand. "Jocelyn told me just now that the way you tame dragons looks exactly like Aemon in his youth."
Daemon was silent for a moment. "She hates me."
"She hates fate," the Queen's fingertips traced his dragon brand. "Hates that it took her husband but sent back a similar shadow." She smiled suddenly. "But Boremund thinks you're quite good. He said Stormlands girls should marry someone like you—a man who can make a dragon obey can surely handle a spirited wife."
Daemon was about to reply when a cheer erupted from the distance. Aemma's handmaiden stumbled into the room, bits of grass clinging to her skirt. "Your Grace! My Lady... My Lady is in labor!"
The council chamber went silent instantly, then erupted into even greater commotion. Jaehaerys set down his bronze cup. The crisp sound of the cup hitting the stone table somehow drowned out everyone's voices. "Send all the maesters to attend her. If anyone dares let harm come to Aemma, I will let them taste dragonfire."
His tone was flat when he said it, yet it seemed to freeze the heat in the hall. Watching the old King's back as he headed for Maegor's Holdfast, Daemon suddenly understood—the so-called gathering of the Seven Kingdoms, the alliances and betrothals, in the end, none of it outweighed the cry of a baby.
Because that was the hardest shield and the sharpest spear of House Targaryen.
Just then, Jocelyn Baratheon walked over, clutching a half-embroidered handkerchief with a stag pattern. "Aemon used to say," her voice was very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something, "that when a child of the Dragon is born, there will be shooting stars in the sky." She looked out the window. The morning mist had dispersed, and the sky was as blue as tempered steel. "Do you think there will be one today?"
Daemon followed her gaze. In the direction of the distant Dragonpit, The Cannibal was spreading its wings, its black shadow sweeping over the spires of the Red Keep.
"Perhaps," he said. "It is Targaryen blood, after all."
Jocelyn's eyes reddened. As she turned to walk toward Maegor's Holdfast, Daemon saw the gold thread on her handkerchief trembling gently with her steps, like a small dragon just breaking out of its shell.
The eagles had gathered at the nest, waiting for the moment new life broke through the shell. And those calculations hidden in the shadows became, for the moment, irrelevant dust.
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