The mornings in the Red Keep were always wrapped in the faint, dry scent of parchment and ink. Daemon Blackfyre leaned back in the plush armchair of his solar, pinching a crumpled intelligence briefing between his fingertips. His silver-gold hair cascaded over a dark red brocade robe, while the dragon brand on his right shoulder felt heavy and hot beneath the fabric, a constant, burning reminder.
A stack of parchment scrolls, waist-high, cluttered his desk. The one resting on top still smelled of fresh ink—a report on the movements of the Crownlands' lords, delivered by Larys Strong just this morning. The cramped, dense scrawl was enough to make anyone dizzy. And that was just the beginning; stacks of dossiers detailing the shifting allegiances in the Riverlands and the Reach were still waiting for him.
"Jarman, have Larys and his men double-check this report on the Narrow Sea pirates," Daemon tossed the briefing to Jarman of the Darkblade. The one-eyed Captain of the Guard caught it with practiced ease. "And tell Colin and Elyn to keep a close watch on the Darkblade's patrol routes. I don't want any friction between our men and the Gold Cloaks."
Jarman bowed, his black boots stepping over a crumpled ball of paper on the floor. "Rest assured, Your Highness. Lord Larys is already verifying the intel. Colin sent word that the morning patrols were quiet." He paused, then added, "Also, Prince Daemon Targaryen sent a runner this morning. He says the Gold Cloaks will steer clear of our sectors to avoid any trouble."
Daemon let out a breath and rubbed his temples, sinking deeper into his chair.
Since taking office as the Master of Whisperers, he had truly perfected the art of the "absentee landlord." He believed in weaponizing competence—letting Larys Strong (the future, infamous Master of Whisperers) handle the filing and analysis, while the sharp and loyal Jarman managed the training and deployment of the Darkblade Guard. He even had Redwyne handling the logistics of the royal retinue and dragged the older Mathis Florent and the bewildered Mund Hightower into classifying and numbering intelligence outposts.
Ideally, he only needed to provide periodic decision briefings to his "Grandfather King," Jaehaerys, and his "Uncle Crown Prince," Baelon. Yet, even with all this delegation, the backlog of paperwork from the last few days had forced him to burn the midnight oil. He couldn't help but miss the days spent hunting in the Stormlands.
"Finally, a day of peace." Daemon stood up and grabbed the sword Blackfyre. The ripples of Valyrian steel shimmered coldly in the morning light. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep Grandfather waiting at the Blackwater."
As he moved to the door, he raised his voice slightly, calling out to the group he knew was "stealthily" eavesdropping on the other side: Gael, and her squad of handmaidens—Alicent, Mysaria, Johanna—and their sworn shield, Brienne. "I'm opening the door now!"
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The morning light over Blackwater Bay always carried an amber-hued tenderness. The dawn gilded the grass near the docks, and the sea breeze rolled in, carrying the scent of salt into every corner of the harbor.
King Jaehaerys stood tall in a black robe embroidered with gold, leaning on a scepter—one that Daemon had actually commissioned and sent back from the Citadel during his time there. Queen Alysanne stood beside him, draped in a white fox-fur shawl, a gift Daemon had sent via a White Harbor merchant ship during his Northern tour. The fur brushed against the grass as the royal couple spoke in hushed tones, their eyes constantly drifting toward the Narrow Sea.
Today, they were welcoming VIPs: The "Queen Who Never Was," Princess Rhaenys, and her family.
Prince Baelon stood nearby, his dark gray scale armor catching the light. Viserys was holding little Rhaenyra, while Aemma Arryn leaned against him. The little princess was dressed in a pale blue dress, her tiny hand gripping her father's silver chain. Even in her sleep, she seemed to be reaching toward Daemon, letting out soft, babbling coos.
Gael sat on a cushion off to the side, surrounded by Alicent, Mysaria, and Johanna. The roses embroidered on her pale purple skirt fluttered in the breeze. She looked at Daemon with a gaze that held a hint of playful reproach—he had been so buried in paperwork lately that he hadn't even had time to walk with her in the gardens.
"They're here!"
Young Horace Redwyne, serving as Daemon's guard for the day, suddenly pointed to the sky, his voice trembling with excitement. Having grown up on the shores of the Arbor and trained with a bow from childhood, his sharp eyes were the first to spot the red silhouette against the clouds.
Everyone looked up. At the edge of the Narrow Sea, a red shape emerged, its wings unfurling like a ball of living flame. As it drew closer, the contours of Meleys, the "Red Queen," became clear.
Her scarlet scales gleamed in the sunlight. Three figures sat atop the dragon. At the front was Princess Rhaenys, dressed in black and red riding leathers, her silver hair streaming in the wind. Behind her clung two smaller figures: her children with the "Sea Snake" Corlys Velaryon—four-year-old Laenor and seven-year-old Laena.
Meleys circled the docks once, her breath venting white steam over the water, kicking up fine spray before she touched down with a heavy thud.
Rhaenys slid from the dragon's back first. Jocelyn Baratheon immediately rushed forward, embracing her daughter tightly. Jocelyn's hand stroked Rhaenys's silver hair, her eyes rimmed with red. "My daughter, Rhaenys... you're finally back. I hope Driftmark hasn't been too hard on you?"
"Mother, I'm fine," Rhaenys laughed, shaking her head. She took the hand of Laena, who was holding Laenor, and ushered the children forward. "Look, Laena and Laenor have grown."
As the mother and daughter launched into a long-overdue reunion, Rhaenys momentarily "forgot" her children. Little Laenor took the opportunity to break free, running toward Daemon with short, excited steps. This caused Laena to panic and chase after him.
Four-year-old Laenor, dressed in a silver-white tunic with curly hair that made him look like a little knight, reached out to tackle Daemon's legs. "Uncle Daemon! Pick me up! I have to tell you, I followed my sister all over Driftmark!"
Daemon crouched down, looking into Laenor's sparkling eyes. A complicated feeling washed over him. He remembered his last visit to Driftmark, where this nephew had innocently remarked, "Uncle, you're so pretty." Combining that with the history books' detailed accounts of Laenor's future... preferences... Daemon hesitated.
He didn't pick up the eager boy. Instead, he turned to Laena, who was standing nearby, looking worried about her little brother. "Laena, would you like Uncle to pick you up?"
Seven-year-old Laena, in her pale blue dress with hair plastering softly against her cheek, lit up. She looked shy, twisting her skirt in her small hands, but nodded gently.
Daemon smiled and scooped her up. Laena immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. Her warmth radiated through his clothes. Daemon laughed, "Why so shy? Did you miss your Uncle while you were on Driftmark?"
Laena, only six years younger than Daemon's current physical body, whispered a quiet "Mmhmm," her face turning even redder.
Beside them, seeing that his uncle had snubbed him, Laenor's lip jutted out. Just as he was about to throw a tantrum, Daemon smoothly picked him up and passed him to the side—dumping him straight into the arms of Daemon Targaryen, who had just walked over with the Gold Cloaks to watch the show.
"Brother, hold him for a second, will you?"
To push away this "affectionate" nephew, Daemon Blackfyre didn't hesitate to call his namesake—technically his great-grandfather/cousin—"Brother."
Daemon Targaryen, wearing his signature gold cloak with Dark Sister at his hip, frowned almost imperceptibly as he caught the boy passed to him like a sack of grain. But hearing his namesake call him "Brother" made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Oho? If it isn't our little knight from Driftmark," The Rogue Prince smirked. "Tell your Cousin-Uncle, anything interesting happen on the island?"
Laenor, however, wasn't listening. His little head swiveled back and forth, looking at Daemon Blackfyre holding Laena, then up at Daemon Targaryen holding him. The Rogue Prince's silver-gold hair was shorter, his eyes holding a wild, dangerous arrogance that was totally different from Daemon Blackfyre's steady composure.
Laenor tilted his head, staring blankly, seemingly entranced. He even forgot to wave the toy sword in his hand.
Daemon Targaryen looked down at the dazed boy in his arms. He seemed to sense something in the kid's gaze—a flash of localized disgust flickered in his eyes—but he patiently patted the boy's back. "Cat got your tongue? Scared that your Cousin-Uncle is tougher than you?"
Laenor remained unresponsive, which drew laughter from the crowd. King Jaehaerys pointed at the boy and said to Alysanne, "Look at him. Just like little Daemon when he was young, can't take his eyes off a True Dragon."
Baelon laughed and shook his head. "Laenor is going to be a fine dragonrider one day."
Just then, a loud wail pierced the air.
In Viserys's arms, Rhaenyra had woken up. Her round eyes snapped open, and the moment she saw Daemon Blackfyre holding Laena, her lower lip trembled, and tears began to roll. She reached out a chubby hand, crying out dominantly toward Daemon.
Aemma hurriedly patted her back. "Rhaenyra, be good. Uncle will hold you as soon as he puts brave Laena down."
But the imperious little princess wasn't having it. Her cries grew louder, her small body twisting and turning in Viserys's grip, demanding Daemon immediately.
Hearing the commotion, Laena quickly straightened up in Daemon's arms and whispered into his ear, "Uncle, put me down, please. Sister Rhaenyra is crying." Her voice was soft and panicked, her face still burning red.
Daemon smiled helplessly. He gently set Laena down, walked over to Viserys, and took Rhaenyra into his arms.
The moment the one-year-old touched his hands, the crying stopped instantly. Her tiny fist grabbed a fistful of his silver hair, and she buried her face in his neck, murmuring contentedly.
The royals burst into laughter. Gael took the opportunity to walk over, pinching Rhaenyra's cheek. "You little tyrant," she teased. "So possessive. You won't even let your Uncle hold anyone else?"
Her eyes swept over Daemon, the earlier reproach replaced by amusement. Her plan to "punish" him for ignoring her had been thoroughly interrupted by Rhaenyra's lungs.
Rhaenys walked over, watching Daemon soothe the baby. "That child is truly attached to Little Daemon. More than to her own father, it seems."
Daemon Targaryen, finally free of the staring Laenor, nodded in agreement. "She's going to be pestering Little Daemon every day from now on, I'd wager."
Daemon Blackfyre rocked Rhaenyra, shaking his head at his "niece" (who was technically his great-grandmother). He patted her back, mimicking the way Viserys usually soothed her. "Alright, no more tears. Uncle will only hold you from now on, okay?"
Rhaenyra immediately lifted her head. With tears still clinging to her cheeks, she beamed at him, nodding her head vigorously as if she understood every word.
The sun climbed higher, and the docks grew crowded. King Jaehaerys waved his hand. "Alright, let's not stand around here. We can talk properly back at the Red Keep."
The group began to move. Daemon walked in the center, holding Rhaenyra. Gael walked beside him, holding Laena's hand and "guarding" her territory, occasionally tugging at the hem of Daemon's robe. Laenor was still staring blankly at Daemon Targaryen. Behind them, Jocelyn and Rhaenys walked together, whispering stories of Driftmark.
The sea breeze carried their laughter across the waters of Blackwater Bay. The sunlight fell on everyone, warm and binding.
Daemon looked down at Rhaenyra in his arms, then at Gael and Laena beside him. Suddenly, the headaches of being the Master of Whisperers seemed distant. Amidst this warmth, he realized that perhaps this—this family, this moment—was the very thing he had crossed a hundred years of history to protect.