Ser Steffon did not waste time.
"Again."
Daemion's boots slid in the dirt as he reset his stance, shoulders squared, practice blade raised. His arms already ached, the pleasant burn of effort creeping into his wrists and shoulders, but he welcomed it. Sweat clung to his brow, darkening the collar of his tunic.
Ser Steffon stepped in without warning.
Wood struck wood with a sharp crack.
Daemion barely managed to turn the blow aside. The impact jarred his arm, sending a shudder through his bones. He stumbled back a half-step.
"Too slow," Ser Steffon said calmly, already pressing forward.
Daemion adjusted, remembering the knight's words. A tool, not an enemy. He loosened his grip, let the blade move instead of forcing it.
The next strike came high. Daemion ducked beneath it, pivoting on his heel, bringing his blade up in a clean, controlled arc. It met Ser Steffon's sword with a solid thud.
Ser Steffon's mouth twitched.
"Better."
They circled one another, the yard fading away around them. The clang of other blades became distant noise, replaced by breath, footwork, and timing. Daemion's movements were not perfect—far from it—but there was a natural sharpness to him, an instinct that could not be taught.
Ser Steffon feinted left.
Daemion did not bite.
Instead he stepped inside the knight's guard, blade angled low, tip stopping a finger's breadth from Ser Steffon's ribs.
Silence stretched between them.
Ser Steffon glanced down at the blade, then back to the boy. "Again," he said, though there was approval in his voice now.
They trained until Daemion's arms trembled and his breath came ragged. Dust clung to his boots, his hands stung, and sweat ran freely down his spine.
At last Ser Steffon lowered his sword.
"That's enough," he said. "For today."
Daemion bowed his head, breathing hard but smiling all the same.
Then—
"DAEMION!"
The voice rang clear and sharp, cutting through the noise of the yard like a trumpet call.
Daemion looked up.
High above, on the stone gallery overlooking the training yard, Rhaenyra leaned over the balustrade, her silver hair catching the sun. She was grinning, practically bouncing on her heels.
"Come on!" she shouted. "I'm going to see Syrax!"
A few heads turned. A few smiles appeared. Even Ser Steffon glanced upward.
Daemion's grin widened.
Ser Steffon sheathed his practice blade. "Go," he said. "But wash first. Dragonkeepers have noses too."
"Yes, ser," Daemion said, already moving.
He wiped his hands on his tunic and looked up once more.
"I'm coming!" he called back.
Rhaenyra laughed, already turning away, her excitement impossible to miss.
As Daemion followed her path out of the yard, sweat-soaked and smiling, he felt it again—that pull, that certainty deep in his chest.
Steel was important. But dragons were something else
The Dragonpit loomed like a great broken crown against the sky, its dark stone arches yawning wide as they entered. Heat lingered within its walls, heavy and constant, carrying the sharp scent of smoke, ash, and old fire. Daemion felt it at once, a warmth that seeped into his skin and settled deep in his bones.
Rhaenyra ran ahead of him, her excitement barely contained.
"Syrax!" she called, her voice echoing across the vast chamber.
The dragon stirred.
From the shadows beneath the great dome, something vast shifted. Chains rattled softly. A low rumble rolled through the stone floor, not quite a sound, not quite a growl—more a breath drawn by something ancient and alive.
Then Syrax lifted her head.
Golden scales caught the torchlight, gleaming like molten metal. Her wings unfurled slightly, stretching, the membranes whispering as they moved. Her eyes opened, large and knowing, pools of molten amber that fixed at once upon the small silver-haired girl standing before her.
Rhaenyra slowed her steps, sudden reverence replacing her eagerness. She approached carefully, just as the dragonkeepers had taught her, palm open, movements calm and deliberate.
"Dohaeris," she said softly.
Syrax lowered her head.
Daemion held his breath.
Rhaenyra rested her hand against Syrax's snout, fingers splayed against warm, living scale. The dragon huffed, a soft gust of heated air washing over the girl, stirring her hair.
"I missed you," Rhaenyra whispered, as if they were alone.
Syrax's tail curled lazily, the tip scraping against the stone. A low sound rumbled in her chest, almost… pleased.
Daemion stood a short distance away, careful not to intrude. He had been near dragons before, had seen them from afar, but this was different. This was not spectacle or terror.
This was communion.
Rhaenyra leaned her forehead against Syrax's snout. "Father says I'll fly again soon," she said. "When I'm ready."
Syrax's eye blinked, slow and unhurried.
"I'll be ready," Rhaenyra promised.
Daemion felt something twist in his chest then—not envy, not quite. Something quieter. A longing he did not yet have words for.
The dragon's gaze shifted.
Syrax looked at him.
Daemion did not move.
Her eye fixed upon him, unblinking, assessing. He felt it like a weight pressing down upon him, as though she were looking past flesh and bone, into blood and breath and the fire hidden beneath.
He bowed his head slightly, instinctive, respectful.
Syrax huffed again, a thin curl of smoke slipping from her nostrils before she turned her attention back to her rider.
Rhaenyra laughed softly. "She likes you."
"I think she tolerates me," Daemion said.
"That's liking," Rhaenyra replied with a grin.
They stood there a while longer, the dragon and the girl, watched by a boy who knew, in his heart, that this would not be the last time a dragon looked at him and remembered.
As they finally turned to leave, Daemion glanced back once more.
Syrax watched him go.
And in the deep heat of the Dragonpit, surrounded by stone and flame, the royal bastard understood something for the first time:
Some bonds were chosen.
Others were inevitable.
The candles were already lit when they gathered for supper, their flames reflected a hundred times over in polished silver and goblets of wine. The long table in Maegor's Holdfast was set simply by royal standards—bread still warm, roasted capon, bowls of stewed onions and apples, wheels of soft cheese brought up from the cellars below.
King Viserys sat at the head of the table, rosy-cheeked and smiling as he listened to Rhaenyra chatter about the Dragonpit. Queen Aemma sat beside him, pale but composed, her hands folded neatly before her plate.
Daemion took his seat farther down the table.
Not at the far end—that would have been a statement—but not beside the royal couple either. Close enough to belong. Far enough to remind him.
Rhaenyra, of course, paid no mind to such things and leaned across the table toward him. "Syrax let me touch her wings today," she said proudly. "She didn't even huff."
"That means she was in a good mood," Daemion replied. "Or you were."
Rhaenyra grinned.
Viserys laughed softly. "You'll spoil her," he said.
"She was spoiled long before me," Daemion said without thinking.
The king's smile widened. "That may be true."
Servants moved quietly as dishes were served. For a time there was only the sound of cutlery and low conversation. Otto Hightower sat to the queen's right, back straight, eyes sharp even as he ate. Alicent sat near him, hands folded, listening more than she spoke.
It was Viserys who broke the calm.
"I hear you were in the yard today," the king said, looking down the table toward Daemion.
Daemion straightened at once. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Ser Steffon speaks highly of your progress," Viserys went on. "Says you listen better than most boys twice your age."
Daemion hesitated. Praise from a knight was one thing. From a king… another entirely.
"I try," he said simply.
Viserys nodded, pleased. "And how did you find the training?"
Daemion considered his words carefully. "Hard," he said. "But… right."
Aemma watched him closely then, her expression unreadable.
"And you enjoy it?" she asked.
"Yes, Your Grace," Daemion replied. "Very much."
Otto's spoon paused briefly above his bowl.
"A sword is a heavy burden for one so young," the Hand said mildly. "Even more so for one in your position."
The words were smooth. The meaning was not.
Viserys waved a hand. "Nonsense. He's a Targaryen. Steel is in his blood as much as fire."
Otto inclined his head. "As you say, Your Grace."
Aemma spoke then, her voice calm but firm. "Ser Steffon would not train him if he thought it unwise."
"Nor would I allow it," Viserys added, glancing toward her.
Daemion kept his eyes on his plate, though his ears burned.
Rhaenyra scowled. "He's better than some of the squires already."
"That may be so," Otto said. "But skill invites attention."
Viserys's smile faded just a touch. "Attention is unavoidable in this house."
Silence followed, brief but telling.
At last Viserys leaned back in his chair and looked at Daemion again, softer now. "You did well today," he said. "I'm proud of you."
The words landed heavier than any blow in the yard.
Daemion bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Viserys only smiled.
Aemma reached for her cup, hiding the glimmer in her eyes. Rhaenyra beamed openly. Alicent looked down at her hands. Otto's face revealed nothing at all.
The candles burned low as the meal went on, and though Daemion said little after that, his chest felt lighter than it had in a long while.
At the king's table, beneath bread and salt, the royal bastard had been seen.
And that, he knew, was never without consequence.