The royal family dinner in the Red Keep's Great Hall was bathed in a warmth as thick and sweet as honey.
The flames atop the bronze candelabras danced, gilding the long table in soft light. The grease from the roasting boar sizzled as it hit the charcoal, but tonight, the rich aroma of Arbor Red wine mixed with the brine of fresh lobster, filling every crack and crevice of the castle.
In the center of the table sat an ice bucket filled with lobsters just pulled from Blackwater Bay, sea salt still clinging to their shells. Beside them were mounds of honeyed peaches and golden-baked oatcakes. It was lively enough to be a small festival—technically a welcome feast for Princess Rhaenys and her family, though it had gradually morphed into a "Spoil Daemon" session.
Daemon sat in the middle of the long table, his silver-gold hair cascading over a dark red brocade robe. In his arms, he held little Rhaenyra, who had just woken up.
The little princess, dressed in a pale blue gown, gripped a lock of his silver hair in one fist. In the other, she held a silver spoon, which she kept trying to shove toward his mouth, drawing laughter from everyone around them.
Meanwhile, the plate in front of Daemon was piled high like a small mountain.
To his left, Jocelyn Baratheon had just handed him a slice of roast venison, having carefully removed every bone.
To his right, Rhaenys offered him half a peeled lobster, her fingertips glistening with the rich juices. "Little Daemon, try this. The maids say they were caught this morning—they look even more succulent than the ones on Driftmark."
Jocelyn looked at Rhaenyra in Daemon's arms and frowned slightly, reaching out to take the child. "Daemon, how can you eat while holding her? Let me take her so you can have a proper meal."
Rhaenys nodded in agreement, smoothing a wrinkle on Daemon's sleeve. "Exactly. Last time on Driftmark you said holding children was tiring, and now you've come back a full-blown nursemaid? By the way, I heard from Corlys that after you left the island, you got into another skirmish with Lyseni slavers in the Stepstones. Were you hurt?"
That question immediately struck a nerve with Jocelyn. She grabbed Daemon's wrist, turning his hand over to inspect his palm. "Is that true? Gael told me yesterday you caught wild dragonfire with your bare hands? Did you get burned? Let me see."
Daemon smiled helplessly, letting the two women fuss over him while keeping his left arm steady around Rhaenyra. "Mother, Sister Rhaenys, I'm fine. Truly. And holding Rhaenyra isn't tiring; she's being very good."
Not far away, Gael watched this unfold with a pout, unconsciously twisting the hem of her pale lavender dress. Her gaze drifted to Queen Alysanne.
The Queen suppressed a smile and patted the empty seat beside her. "My little Gael, come sit. Your nephew is the prize of the castle right now; we can't compete. Better to just sit back and watch him be fed."
Gael stomped over, cheeks puffed out, but her eyes kept darting back to Daemon. "I knew Little Daemon first. But now look—Sister-in-law Jocelyn and Rhaenys are hovering over him." Despite her words, there was no real anger in her eyes, only the slight grievance of a young girl who missed her companion.
Alysanne shook her head with a sigh, handing her a honeyed peach. "Who asked Little Daemon to be so capable? He barely got back before helping your heartless father tour the Seven Kingdoms, and now he's taken on the burden of Master of Whisperers. You should be happy for him."
Gael bit into the peach, mumbling, "I am happy for him. It's just... he's been so buried in paperwork lately he hasn't even walked with me in the gardens."
---
While the atmosphere on that side of the table was warm, things were less settled on the other side. Little Laenor was making mischief.
The four-year-old had slipped away from Viserys and sidled up to Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince. One moment, the boy was staring intently at a handsome young cupbearer pouring wine; the next, he was reaching out to touch Daemon Targaryen's short, silver-gold hair, his fingers inches from the Prince's scalp.
Daemon Targaryen finally lost his patience. He swatted the boy's hand away, his voice laced with annoyance. "Laenor, knock it off. And Rhaenys—why didn't Corlys come back with you? He usually dotes on these kids."
It was an innocent attempt to change the subject, but it made King Jaehaerys, seated at the head of the table, frown deeply.
The Old King set down his goblet. The three-headed dragon sigil on his black robe seemed to darken in the candlelight. He exchanged a look with Baelon beside him—both men's eyes held a complexity that suggested they knew exactly why the Sea Snake was absent.
Vaegon, sitting next to Baelon, swirled his cup of fruit wine. His pale violet eyes swept over his father and brother, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. He had clearly deduced the reason as well.
Only Daemon Targaryen, currently digging the white meat out of a lobster claw with a silver fork, remained oblivious. He pressed on, "Seriously, why isn't Corlys here? I wanted to talk to him about the shipping lanes in the Narrow Sea."
It wasn't until Viserys quietly came up behind Laenor, scooped the boy up (stopping him from trying to touch the Rogue Prince's face again), and nudged the older Daemon with his elbow that the Prince realized the mood had shifted. Grandfather Jaehaerys's face was grim, Father Baelon's brow was furrowed, and even Uncle Vaegon had stopped drinking.
Rhaenys, however, acted as if nothing was wrong. She poured a cup of sweet wine for Daemon Blackfyre and spoke naturally. "He's still in Essos, discussing some business with friends in Braavos. It's been a bit... complicated. But he promised to be back before the tourney for Grandfather's fiftieth anniversary on the throne. He said he'd even joust a round with you then."
Before anyone could respond, she pivoted, looking straight at Jaehaerys. "Grandfather, I heard you appointed Little Daemon as Master of Whisperers? That position has been cursed since the days of Tyanna of the Tower. Everyone watches it with suspicion. Why would you make Little Daemon do such hateful work?"
Viserys whispered a quick correction: "Sister Rhaenys, it's Master of Whisperers, not Mistress of Spiders. The duties are slightly different."
"What's the difference?" Rhaenys glared at him, her tone sharp with protective instinct. "It's all handling things that can't see the light of day. Little Daemon is only thirteen. Why should he have to suffer through that?"
The young "Queen Who Never Was" might have lost her ambition for the throne, but she still guarded her family like a mother dragon guarding a clutch of eggs. She wouldn't tolerate her favorite "brother" suffering even a slight grievance.
Her words struck a chord with Queen Alysanne. The Queen put down her spoon, her eyes rimmed with red. "It is true, Jaehaerys. How old is he? He's wandered on his own since childhood, and now that he's finally home, he hasn't had a day of peace before taking on a job that invites jealousy and hatred. The lords already whisper about his parentage; now they have even more reason to talk."
She stood up, signaling for Alicent to help her. "I've lost my appetite. I'm going back to my chambers. As for our 'Conciliator,' the King who worries for the realm... you can stay here and finish eating before you go back to your solar to handle 'state affairs.'"
She swept out of the hall without looking back, her skirt rustling over the floor in obvious protest.
Seeing the situation deteriorate, Daemon Targaryen slammed down his goblet and grabbed his gold cloak from the back of his chair. "Oh, right! The City Watch... I have things to handle! Leaving now!" He practically fled the banquet hall, not even turning around when Laenor called out, "Cousin-Uncle!"
Viserys released Laenor, and Aemma stood up as well. "We should go too. Rhaenyra must be tired; it's time to put her down." They left in a hurry, leaving Laenor standing alone, still staring in a daze at the young cupbearer.
Vaegon set down his glass. "I have an appointment with Archmaester Bernard to observe the stars tonight." He rose and left, his black robes sweeping the ground, offering not a word more.
In an instant, the Great Hall was cold and empty. Only Jaehaerys, Baelon, Jocelyn, Daemon, Gael (with her maids Mysaria and Johanna), and Rhaenys's family remained.
Daemon quickly handed the sleeping Rhaenyra to Aemma before she got too far. Then, he gently patted Rhaenys's hand. "Sister, I'm really fine. Grandfather appointing me shows his trust. I want to do my part for the family, to protect everyone."
Rhaenys looked at his earnest face. The sharpness in her eyes softened, but tears welled up. "But... you're just a child."
Jocelyn put an arm around her daughter's shoulder. "Alright, Rhaenys. Little Daemon is sensible; he knows what he's doing. Let's go back to our rooms and let him and your Grandfather talk." She led Rhaenys and the children away.
Finally, Gael seized her chance. She scooted over to Daemon, propped her chin on her hands, and then boldly climbed into his lap. She poked his cheek, pouting. "You say you're fine, but you've been too busy to spend time with me. I went to the solar yesterday and you were still reading reports. You have dark circles under your eyes, and you've lost weight."
Daemon smiled and ruffled her hair. "Once I finish this batch of work, I'll walk with you in the gardens. I'll even take you fishing in Blackwater Bay. Deal?"
Gael nodded immediately, the grievance in her eyes vanishing.
From the head of the table, a light cough interrupted them. Baelon had quietly slipped away at some point, leaving only the Old King to witness the affectionate scene between his youngest daughter and his grandson.
Jaehaerys broke the mood with a helpless expression. "Alright, you two go rest. I need to go to the solar."
The Old King looked at the pair with a mix of awkwardness and relief—relief that, despite everything, Daemon was growing into a man who cherished his kin.
---
Late that night, after soothing Gael (who had snuck into his room, a habit Mysaria and Johanna had long since accepted, simply curling up to sleep alongside the princess), Daemon quietly rose and knocked on the door of the King's solar in the tower.
The candles were still burning. Jaehaerys sat behind his desk, his scepter leaning against his chair, a wall of parchment scrolls stacked before him. Seeing Daemon enter, he set down his quill. "You came? Sit."
Daemon walked to the desk and handed over a scroll. "Grandfather, this is the intelligence gathered by the Darkblade Guard over the last few days, along with the movements of the nobility in King's Landing. Larys has already verified it."
Jaehaerys took it but didn't look at the text. He stared at Daemon's face. "You haven't slept well. Those circles under your eyes are getting hard to hide."
Daemon paused, then smiled. "It's manageable. Just a lot of paperwork. Once I clear the backlog, it'll be fine."
"Silly boy." Jaehaerys sighed, tapping his finger on the desk. "When I first began my personal rule, I thought I had to do everything myself. I collapsed from exhaustion in less than half a month. I learned the hard way that whether you are a King or a Minister, you cannot carry the world on your back alone. Those boys under you... they are capable. Delegate power where you can. Don't push yourself so hard; let them suffer a little instead."
He paused, then added, "I've already spoken to Baelon, Otto, and Lyonel. They will take the trivial administrative work off your hands. Rest for the next few days. Spend time with Gael, talk to Jocelyn and Rhaenys. Don't lock yourself in this room."
Warmth flooded Daemon's chest. He bowed low. "Thank you, Grandfather."
"You are my grandson. If I don't look out for you, who will?" Jaehaerys waved his hand, a small smile on his face. "Go on, get some rest. I still have these matters to finish."
Daemon turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, he heard the Old King's soft, solitary murmur from behind him.
"I hope... the decision I made today was not a mistake."
Moonlight streamed through the high arched window, falling on Jaehaerys's aged figure and the intelligence report on the desk. The candlelight flickered, stretching the King's shadow long across the floor—a silent barrier guarding the future of House Targaryen, and guarding the "Darkblade" who was growing sharp once more.
Standing in the corridor, the dragon brand on Daemon's right shoulder burned hot. He knew the Old King's worry was for the future of the family. And his responsibility was to ensure that worry never became reality. Even if the path ahead was covered in thorns, he would grip the sword Blackfyre tight, and become the sharpest, most reliable blade his House possessed.