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The morning light filtering into the Red Keep's library carried the distinct, dry scent of parchment and ink. It slanted through the lattice window, illuminating the open pages of A History of the Seven Kingdoms before Daemon.
This was a sanctuary he had fought hard to find today—far from the clamor of the tourney grounds, away from the endless bickering of the Small Council. He had even sent The Cannibal off to sunbathe on the dragonmont, hoping to steal half a day of peace to finish the chapter he had started weeks ago.
But his fingertips had barely brushed the page when heavy footsteps, like a hunting wolf, echoed down the corridor.
Jarman of the Darkblade swept aside the curtain. His cloak was dusted with sulfur ash from the Dragonpit. Behind him, Colin Celtigar had lost the cheerful demeanor he'd picked up from Myles during the tour. Today, his spine was rigid, and his violet eyes were as cold as the sea winds of Crackclaw Point. The intelligence scroll in his hand was crumpled at the edges from the force of his grip. He looked ready to flip a table if Daemon didn't move.
"Your Highness, Larys has been in the intelligence room for two nights straight." Jarman's voice carried a rare urgency. "He can't decipher the reports on the Triarchy's new scorpion emplacements. Prince Vaegon is waiting in the Admiralty; Lord Lyonel is stalled on the Narrow Sea shipping lanes without your input."
Daemon's finger paused on the page. He tried to pretend he hadn't heard, but Colin stepped forward, his voice flat but piercing. "And Lord Otto. He ran into Prince Vaegon in the corridor... and seems to be heading for the King's solar."
Daemon's heart skipped a beat.
He remembered Archmaester Bernard's flattery just half an hour ago: "Your Highness has such talent; only you can grasp the intricacies of state affairs where others would go gray trying."
And Alys Rivers, handing him a mysterious scroll: "Processing intelligence at the Hour of the Dragon today avoids a calamity."
But none of that was the real headache. The true terror was the glimpse he'd caught passing his own chambers earlier.
He snapped the book shut, feigning reluctance. "Mere trifles. But I suppose they must be handled."
In truth, he knew if he hid any longer, his room would be dismantled by women and children.
Forget the "reinforcements" Jarman hadn't mentioned:
Gael, Mysaria, Alicent, and Johanna had commandeered his solar. Mysaria's sewing basket had spilled gold thread all over his bed.
Brienne stood guard in the corner, hand on her blade. Beside her was Lia—the Osgrey girl who had disguised herself as a boy at the Field of Roses—brandishing her ivory-hilted dagger and asking Brienne if she could embroider her sigil on the sheath.
Jocelyn and Rhaenys sat by the window. Laena was on Rhaenys's lap, clutching a wooden dragon Daemon had stolen from Viserys's collection last night while drunk with the Rogue Prince. Laenor was demanding a "Grey Ghost version."
Aemma was worse, holding Rhaenyra in one arm and dragging a screaming Jeyne Arryn with the other, threatening to besiege the library.
And then there was the "accident" in the intelligence room:
Daemon knew Larys must be red-eyed by now. The man had dragged his donkey, "Mr. Longlegs," into the room to keep him company and reportedly spilled ink on the beast last night.
Vaegon, who already thought Daemon was staining Prince Aemon's legacy, had passed by and sneered, "Aemon's son knows how to enjoy life, dumping all the work on others."
Lyonel Strong had overheard this while coming to discuss stars with Vaegon. Seeing his son buried in scrolls, he was heartbroken but silent.
But Harwin Strong, Lyonel's hot-tempered heir, had exploded. He was rolling up his sleeves to find Daemon, shouting, "My brother isn't your pack mule!"
Naturally, Otto Hightower had been passing by. Coveting the Master of Whisperers position, he immediately seized the chance to fan the flames and headed straight for Jaehaerys, claiming to "share the King's burden by reminding Prince Daemon of his duties."
"Your Highness?" Colin's voice pulled Daemon back. A flicker of confusion crossed his cold eyes—usually, Daemon didn't fold this fast.
Daemon cleared his throat, finding a convenient excuse. "Cousin Viserys says a ruler must show diligence. Besides..." He recalled the Old King's advice to "let the subordinates suffer a little" and the Rogue Prince's tactics for dodging Jaehaerys. "Delegating the tedious work and reviewing the results is hardly negligence."
It was half-true. Only he knew the real motivation was escaping the flood of requests for wooden dragons and Rhaenyra's babbling.
Sure enough, as he approached his chambers, the noise was deafening.
Lia ran up, eyes shining. "Your Highness! Princess Gael said she'd make a sheath for my dagger. Can I embroider the Osgrey sigil on it?"
Jeyne tugged his cloak. "Little Daemon! Carve a dragon! Now!"
Rhaenyra launched herself at him, grabbing his neck and squealing to be held.
Gael walked over, handing him a honey cake, eyes laughing. "I knew you couldn't hide. Sister Jocelyn and Rhaenys have been waiting for an hour." She pointed to the balcony. "Laenor is feeding Grey Ghost. You really know how to arrange things, sticking him with the dragon."
Daemon looked. Laenor was leaning over the railing, feeding honey cake to the pale grey dragon huddled in the corner. Grey Ghost purred contentedly, though his vertical pupils still held a trace of timidity.
"My intuition says it's a male," Daemon muttered stubbornly. Alys Rivers had said dragon genders were fluid, but he refused to admit the coward was female.
Just then, Alys Rivers drifted down the hall, holding a parchment covered in symbols. She whispered in his ear, "Your Highness, my new prophecy says reviewing intelligence today ensures safety..."
Bethany Hightower followed, clutching a thick ledger of maritime trade, her blue skirt swaying. Mimicking Alys's tone, she purred, "My dear Black Dragon Prince, King's Landing's trade has risen thirty percent since the Redwyne fleet began escorting. Would you care to review?"
Daemon quickly flipped through the ledger, signed off on her work, and hugged Rhaenyra tighter to shield himself from Bethany's predatory gaze.
Boremund Tarth stood at the door, hand on his sword, expressionless but alert. As Daemon's guard for the day, he was responsible for his safety. Seeing Daemon besieged, and his sister Brienne looking equally overwhelmed by the princess, the corner of his mouth twitched upward before he quickly composed himself.
Daemon looked at the sea of people surrounding him and felt his scalp prickle.
Just as he finished signing, Meryn Florent entered. "Your Highness, Larys sends word. When will you review the Triarchy report?"
Daemon feigned reluctance for the benefit of the women. "Let him wait a moment longer. I must play with the children first."
He signaled Meryn with his eyes to leave first; he would follow shortly.
Hearing "play," Jeyne jumped onto Daemon's lap, holding up the wooden dragon Laena had given her. "Little Daemon, carve me a dragon too! Like The Cannibal!"
Daemon smiled bitterly. "Alright. I'll carve it later."
Looks like he'd be forced to join Daemon Targaryen in raiding Viserys's collection again.
Laenor ran in from the balcony. "Me too! I want Grey Ghost!"
Even Rhaenyra, though pre-verbal, nodded and slapped Daemon's arm in agreement.
Finally, Gael saved him. She handed him a honey cake. "Stop worrying. Eat something sweet. If Borros and Brandon win the melee today, they'll drag you out drinking tonight. Relax now. But remember: come back early, and don't run off, especially with Big Daemon."
She looked so stern that even Aemma, Rhaenys, and Jocelyn could only smile helplessly.
Daemon took a bite. The sweetness spread over his tongue. He looked at them—Gael's smile, Jocelyn's warmth, Rhaenys's steadiness, the children's laughter. Even Laenor pestering Grey Ghost seemed tolerable.
It was chaotic, but it felt safe.
He remembered waking up in the dungeons of Dragonstone, thinking he was alone in this century. Now he had so much family.
Whether it was the desolate melee grounds or the noisy Red Keep, this was the life he wanted to protect.
"By the way," Daemon said to Gael, "make a sheath for Lia's dagger as you said. Embroider the Chequy Lion of Osgrey on it. It will give her face when she goes out."
Lia's eyes lit up. She bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness!"
Gael smiled. "I'll tell the artisans."
Daemon quickly signed Bethany's ledger again, brushed off Alys with a "later," and turned to Jarman and Colin. "Let's go. To the intelligence room."
Stepping out of the chamber, he dared a glance back.
Laughter and Jeyne's shouting drifted out, mixed with Grey Ghost's purring.
A smirk tugged at his lips, and his steps lightened. Good thing he escaped fast, or he would have drowned in honey cakes, embroidery needles, and wooden dragons.
Jarman and Colin walked behind him. Colin's frozen expression finally cracked, and even the solemn Jarman nearly laughed.
No one pointed it out, but their "Black Dragon Prince" wasn't rushing to duty—he was fleeing for his life.