The morning light over King's Landing carried a warmth that was, for once, just right.
In the Master of Whisperers' chambers—the headquarters of the Darkblade Guard located on the west side of the Red Keep—the candlelight had not yet been fully chased away by the rising sun. The wooden desk was covered in a chaotic spread of parchment scrolls. Some marked the trade routes of merchant ships across the Narrow Sea; others mapped out spy safehouses within the alleys of the capital. The ink stains bloomed on the paper like spiders hiding in the shadows.
Daemon sat behind the long desk, pinching a secret missive from Braavos between his fingertips. The edge of the paper was still crusted with salt from the Narrow Sea.
Colin Celtigar stood beside him. The blue crab sigil of his house, painted on his silver armor, was flecked with a spot of ink. His voice was pitched low. "Your Highness, according to the latest word from my uncle, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, the fleet of Lord Corlys Velaryon—the Sea Snake—has been docked in Braavos for over a fortnight. He hasn't just met with a candidate for the Sealord's chair; he's been seeing others. One of them is a cousin to the current First Sword of Braavos, a man rumored to hold deep connections with the sellsword companies."
"Understood." Daemon raised his eyes. His violet gaze held no ripples of surprise. He casually placed the letter onto the "pending" pile. "Trouble yourself to write back to Lord Bartimos. Tell him to have his sailors and men keep a loose eye on them. Just watch. Do not be discovered. As long as they don't lose track of Corlys's ship, and do not alarm the Velaryons or the Braavosi, that is enough."
He reached down to stroke the pale, grey-white dragon curled at his feet. Grey Ghost, usually so skittish, nuzzled proficiently against his palm, its golden eyes filled with dependence.
For the past few days, this shy wild dragon had been clinging to him. Even when Daemon was buried in paperwork, the dragon would curl up at his feet like a child afraid of being abandoned, occasionally nudging Daemon's knee with its head to beg for dried fish.
"Your Highness, Princess Gael is here!" Rayford Rosby's voice rang out from the doorway.
Hardly had the words fallen when the hem of a pale purple dress swept over the threshold.
Gael walked in carrying a food box, trailed by Mysaria and Johanna. Brienne stood guard beside them, her six-foot frame blocking the morning light, the sun glinting coldly off the Tarth sun-and-moon sigil on her pauldrons.
"Little Daemon, why are you looking at these dusty old archives again?" Gael set the box heavily on the table and placed her hands on her hips. Her pale lilac eyes were full of playful reproach. "Your Auntie had the Red Keep kitchens make honey-almond cakes specifically for you this morning. If you don't eat them now, they'll go cold."
She reached out to snatch the parchment from his hand, but he gently caught her wrist. His fingertips were warm. "I'll eat as soon as I finish this page. Be good."
Mysaria smiled and handed him a piece of cake, her platinum curls brushing against the box. "Your Highness, the Princess specifically asked the cook to add extra crushed almonds today. She remembered you liked them that way when we were guests at the Arbor."
Johanna nodded in agreement, clutching a piece of newly sewn linen in her hand. "Mysaria and I made this for you. We added cotton padding inside this time. You can use it to polish Blackfyre; it's better for the blade than using your cloak."
Daemon took the cake and took a bite. The sweetness mixed with the crunch of almonds spread across his tongue.
He looked at the expectation in Gael's eyes, then at the smiles of Mysaria and Johanna. Suddenly, the mountain of paperwork didn't seem so headache-inducing. "Thank you. I'll finish early tonight. We can walk in the gardens, and I'll take you to see Grey Ghost breathe fire. How does that sound?"
Gael beamed, her eyes bright as stars. "You promised! No letting Larys or Jarman drag you away again!"
"They won't," Daemon nodded, gently scraping her cheek with his finger. Gael blushed and ducked behind Mysaria, muttering, "You're bullying your Little Aunt again."
Brienne, standing at the door, watched the scene. Her imposing figure softened slightly, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She hadn't been with Daemon and Gael long, but in these few days in King's Landing, this was the first time she had seen the Princess smile so truly.
---
The day's joy passed quickly, and night soon wrapped King's Landing in its embrace. The lights of the Red Keep's towers ignited, looking like stars scattered across the dark.
After accompanying Gael in the gardens, Daemon returned to his solar. By the time he finished the last secret missive, the candles had burned down halfway. He rubbed the space between his brows, intending to return to his chambers, when he heard the rhythmic tap-tap of a cane.
Larys Strong appeared in the candlelight. The hem of his black robe swept over the crumpled paper balls on the floor. Jarman of the Darkblade and Rayford Rosby stood guard on either side.
Even though they were ostensibly on the same side, Jarman's hand unconsciously hovered near his dagger as his one eye tracked Larys. Rayford gripped his sword, staring vigilantly down the dark corridor, clearly still wary of the "Clubfoot."
Larys gave a slight nod to the guards, tapping his cane on the floor to signal them to wait outside. He pushed the door open, leaned his cane against the wall, and looked at Daemon with a glint of cunning in his dark eyes. "Your Highness. The intelligence reports for the day are filed. But there are some... 'amusing matters' I must speak of alone."
Daemon settled back into his plush chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. "Speak."
Larys sat down slowly. From his sleeve, he silently withdrew a neatly folded square of parchment and slid it across the desk. "When you first left King's Landing to tour the Seven Kingdoms, there was a squire from the Reach named Will among your retinue. He belongs to our Master of Laws, Lord Otto Hightower."
He paused, watching Daemon's expression remain unchanged, and continued. "Every month, he sends secret letters via the Hightower ravens at the Citadel. The contents detail your itinerary—which lords you met at Highgarden, how many slaves you freed in the Stormlands, even the number of times you walked in the gardens with Princess Gael. It is all recorded with precision."
Daemon picked up his cup of ale and took a sip. The rich bitterness suppressed his fatigue. His tone remained cool. "I know."
Larys raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly, his voice teasing. "It seems I underestimated Your Highness's charm."
His dark eyes swept over Daemon's silver hair before returning to his face. "I didn't expect the allure of a True Dragon to be so potent that even Lady Alicent couldn't resist helping you. She noticed something was wrong with Will and secretly told Princess Gael, who then told you, correct? That Hightower girl seems to value you more than her own father."
Daemon looked up, a hint of resignation in his violet eyes. He traced the rim of his cup. "Say what you mean. Stop circling."
Seeing he was seen through, Larys dropped the teasing. He tapped his fingers on his knee, choosing his words carefully. "Will isn't just Otto's man."
His voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes turning serious. "He also sends letters to the King's solar. Once a week. Received personally by the King's valet. No one knows the contents, but every time a letter arrives, the Small Council discusses your movements. Are you not curious?"
Daemon's hand on the cup didn't move. He uttered three words. "I am not."
"Your Highness, do you truly not wish to know?" Larys blinked, pressing him, his tone genuinely puzzled. "Is the King planting spies around you because he fears your growing power? Or does he fear that after Prince Baelon... you might threaten Prince Viserys's claim?"
"I don't want to know," Daemon repeated, his voice devoid of fluctuation. He looked out the window at the moonlight.
The towers of the Red Keep gleamed cold in the night, like a dormant beast. He had sensed the surveillance long ago. From the way Will "coincidentally" appeared near him during the tour, to the hushed whispers between the squire and the King's valet upon his return. He simply hadn't pointed it out.
Growing up with the stigma of a bastard in his previous life (and this one), combined with the memories of his death at Redgrass Field, made him more sensitive to hidden gazes than anyone.
Larys sighed and spread his hands, a helpless smile on his face. "Your Highness, since becoming Master of Whisperers, you've become even duller than my stern father. You used to joke about Otto's green robes; now you're as closed off as a clam."
He stood up, grabbed his cane, and walked to the door. He turned back, his eyes searching. "You already knew, didn't you? You knew from the moment Will started following you."
Daemon didn't answer. He just waved a hand, dismissing him.
Larys smiled and gently closed the door. He could guess the truth. The sharpness of the prince he followed came half from natural-born instinct and half from the caution of a bastard. Beneath the surface, Daemon hid a mind far more meticulous than people realized.
Outside, Jarman looked at Larys. "What did you say to His Highness?"
Larys leaned on his cane, his black robe swaying in the night breeze. "Nothing. Just reporting the day's trivia." He paused, then added quietly, "Guard his door well. Don't let unrelated people near—especially that squire of Lord Otto's."
He walked away into the shadows, a thought flashing in his dark eyes: The prince I serve knows how to hide his claws far better than I imagined. Only such a man is worthy of the name of the True Dragon.
---
In the Master of Laws' solar on the other side of the Red Keep, the candlelight flickered, stretching Otto Hightower's shadow long against the wall.
He sat behind his desk, fingers tracing the pommel of the dagger at his waist. The white tower sigil of his house gleamed on the sheath. A letter from Oldtown lay open before him, its edges crumpled from being gripped too tight.
The door was pushed open gently. Bethany Hightower entered. Her pale purple gown swept over the stone floor. She held a scroll of Oldtown trade records. Her voice was calm. "Uncle, you sent for me?"
Otto looked up, his gaze sharp, scrutinizing her like an object. "Is that black dragon of unknown origin truly so charming? Alicent warns him of spies, and you run to him daily, even showing him the trade records of Oldtown for the last five years. Have you forgotten you are a Hightower?"
Bethany walked to the desk, sat down slowly, and took a sip of cold water from a cup. The chill made her mind clearer. She set the cup down, meeting his gaze without fear. "Uncle, I haven't forgotten I am a Hightower. But please, do not confuse me with Cousin Alicent. She helps Prince Daemon because her heart flutters for him. I get close to the Black Dragon because his mystery compels me."
She ran a finger over the line marked Arbor Wine Sales. Her voice dropped low. "His mysterious background, the fog surrounding his birth... Even the fact that he rides the Cannibal, tamed Grey Ghost, exposed treason at Highgarden, and freed slaves in the Stormlands—all causing the lords of the Reach and Stormlands to flock to him—none of that compares to the magical riddles he carries. That is what attracts me."
Otto's expression darkened. His hand tightened on the dagger. "Do you know what you are saying? He is a bastard. Prince Aemon's 'wild seed.' He could become a threat at any moment!"
"A threat?" Bethany chuckled softly, her eyes mocking. "Uncle, are you targeting him because of his status and the storm he might bring? Or..." She watched Otto's jaw tighten. "Or are you helping the King check him? The King fears his power might overshadow Prince Viserys, so he allows you to make trouble for him. You help the King stabilize the board, and in doing so, gain power for House Hightower. When your good friend Prince Viserys ascends, you will be Hand of the King."
Otto's face changed completely. He slammed his hand on the table, making the candle flame jump. "Bethany! You dare question me?"
"I am not questioning you. I am stating facts." Bethany stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I won't gossip about family matters like Alicent. I only showed him profit margins to prove my business acumen. I just want to tell you: don't go too far. That man is no soft touch. He has the Darkblade Guard, two dragons, and the support of the Reach and Stormlands. Backing him into a corner does House Hightower no good."
She walked to the door and looked back at Otto's ashen face. A faint smile touched her lips. "Rest assured, I won't betray you. I will look out for House Hightower, but I will also prove my value to Prince Daemon. After all... it is better to stand with a True Dragon than with the losers."
She closed the door, leaving Otto trembling with rage in the candlelight, his fingers unconsciously grinding against his sword hilt, his eyes filled with gloom.
---
In the King's solar in the highest tower, the candle had burned down to a stub, wax dripping onto the stone table in irregular shapes.
King Jaehaerys sat behind the desk. In front of him lay Daemon's intelligence report. It detailed the Darkblade Guard's recent actions—clearing out three smuggling dens, arresting a dozen merchants linked to the Triarchy. The handwriting was neat, the logic clear.
The door opened. Vaegon Targaryen walked in, clutching a copy of New Theory on Stellar Orbits. His silver-gold hair hung loose over his grey robes. His face lacked its usual acerbic expression; instead, he looked urgent.
He placed the book on the table. "Father. Is it truly wise to hide this from Baelon? To secretly allow Otto to target Daemon?"
Jaehaerys didn't turn around. He sighed softly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I don't want to do it either."
He touched the report, his finger tracing the words Daemon tamed Grey Ghost. "Rhaenyra brought new evidence of his identity. Baelon says he is steady. Jocelyn claims him as her son. Even you think he isn't entirely stupid. But... he is a bastard, Vaegon. That is a fact that cannot be changed."
"So what if he is?" Vaegon stepped forward, his voice rising. "He has more sense of duty than Viserys. He is steadier than Daemon Targaryen! You forged Baelon into your sharpest sword for Aemon's sake. Now, you treat Aemon's son as a hidden danger, planting spies to watch him!"
He gripped the book tight. "Do you realize how special he is? He attracts dragons. Even a wild dragon as timid as Grey Ghost flew from Dragonstone to the Gullet to follow him. Last time, he caught wild dragonfire with his bare hands and was unharmed. He might be Unburnt! The questions he asked about the stars at the Citadel were deeper than anything the highborn scholars ask. Such a man is a treasure of House Targaryen, not a threat!"
Jaehaerys finally turned. His aged face was lined with wrinkles, his eyes filled with the weighing of scales. "Vaegon, you are clever. But some things need not be spoken aloud."
He pointed to the line in the report: Darkblade Guard, disciplined and orderly. "I made him Master of Whisperers and let him form a guard. That is trust, but it is also a test. If he had ambition, he would have used that power to court the lords. But he hasn't. He is clearing smugglers and arresting pirates. He is serving the realm."
"A test?" Vaegon laughed coldly. "I heard when he first returned, you wouldn't let him fly alone. You let the lords impeach him and try to poach him. You only let him tour the Seven Kingdoms after he proved himself. If he hadn't passed your test... would you have made him disappear into the night of the Red Keep?"
Jaehaerys stiffened. He gave a bitter laugh. "I am the King. And the Patriarch of House Targaryen. I must protect the Iron Throne and the future of the family. Little Daemon's status is a double-edged sword. Used well, it is the sharpest blade. Used poorly, it cuts our own hands."
Vaegon's breathing steadied. He looked at his father's aged face and asked suddenly, "Father. If I hadn't gone to the Citadel... if I had claimed a dragon and chosen to stay in King's Landing... would you have forged me into a sword as well?"
Jaehaerys froze. He sighed, guilt coloring his tone. "Vaegon. Go back. I have my arrangements."
Vaegon said no more. He took his book and turned to leave. At the door, he whispered, "Father, sometimes you are colder than I am."
Jaehaerys was left alone in the solar. He looked at Daemon's report, then out the window toward the Dragonpit. Moonlight poured through the high arched window, illuminating his frail silhouette. He tapped his scepter against the floor, his voice low.
"I hope... I haven't made a mistake."
The candle flickered, stretching the Old King's shadow long across the floor—a silent barrier hiding the fatigue and fear in his eyes.
The night deepened. The bells of the Red Keep tolled, interweaving with the distant, low rumble of The Cannibal. It sounded like an overture for the future, heavy with the unknown.
Daemon already knew. From the moment he chose to step back into King's Landing, he had been swept into the Old King's balancing act. He was a piece to guard the Iron Throne, and a "Darkblade" to be watched with wary eyes.