The morning light in King's Landing was wrapped in a feverish anticipation of the coming festivities.
Along the great avenue leading to the Red Keep, banners bearing the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen on black fields had already been hung. When the wind blew, the fabric snapped and fluttered, sounding like the beating of countless small drums against the ear.
Merchants had set up stalls along the roadside. Some hawked fresh-baked oatcakes, others displayed small ornaments embroidered with dragon motifs. There were even blacksmiths displaying half-finished blades as gimmicks, shouting that their wares were "Tourney grade! Sharp enough to cleave iron like mud!" to attract the gaze of passing travelers.
Daemon stood on the welcome dais outside the Red Keep, holding Rhaenyra. His silver-gold hair was brushed against his neck by the breeze, and the hem of his dark red brocade robe swept across the stone steps.
The little princess in his arms was dressed in a pale blue gown today. Her tiny hand tightly gripped a lock of his silver hair, and she had a small silver pacifier in her mouth. Every now and then, she would spit it out to coo and babble at the birds flying overhead.
Beside them, Aemma couldn't help but laugh. "That child... she's spent so much time with you lately. Look at her—she watches those birds with the same focused intensity you have when practicing with your sword."
Viserys stood at the center of the welcoming party, dressed in a formal tunic of deep onyx, the three-headed dragon embroidered on his chest shimmering with agate stones. He was speaking in low tones with his good friend, the Master of Laws, Otto Hightower.
Seeing Daemon approach with Rhaenyra, Viserys hurried forward. "Little Daemon, you're finally here. The Buckwell party has just reached the perimeter of the Old Gate. Jarman should be spotting them soon, so keep an eye out."
Clearly, this "Cousin"—who was technically his great-grandfather—had been asking around about Daemon's followers and knew the history there.
Daemon nodded, looking down at Rhaenyra. The little one was reaching for the tassel on the hilt of Blackfyre at his waist—a gift made for him by Gael and Mysaria. Her face was full of curiosity.
Helpless, Daemon gently held her hand, trying to coax his little great-grandmother. "Be good now. That's not a toy."
Rhaenyra wouldn't have it. Her lower lip trembled, and tears threatened to fall. Defeated, Daemon untied the tassel and handed it to her. She immediately broke into a smile, shaking the tassel back and forth in her grip.
"You really have a way with her," Aemma said, walking over to straighten Rhaenyra's crumpled skirt. "Viserys and I spent half the morning trying to coax her into this dress, and she refused. But the moment you picked her up, she became as docile as a kitten."
Daemon smiled and shook his head, casting his gaze toward the formation below.
The Darkblade Guard stood in two rows, their black cloaks stark against the stone, short swords gleaming in their sheaths. Since Jarman had gone to the Old Gate, Rayford Rosby stood at the head of the formation near the Iron Gate. His posture was upright as he exchanged words with Lucas Tyrell beside him.
On the other side, the Gold Cloaks shone in their gilded armor. Daemon Targaryen stood among them, his short silver-gold hair catching the sunlight. He held a scroll, checking names against the roster, occasionally looking up to meet Rayford's eyes with a nod of mutual respect.
"Black cloaks and gold cloaks... it really does look like a painting," Viserys said, following his gaze with a tone of admiration. "I was worried there would be friction between the two groups, but thanks to the relationship between you two Daemons, they are far more harmonious than I imagined."
Daemon didn't speak, only gently patted Rhaenyra's back.
He knew this harmony wasn't just due to their recent interactions or the bond of shared Valyrian blood. Most of the Darkblade Guard were followers he had picked up during his tour of the Seven Kingdoms, and many of the "veterans" had served alongside Daemon Targaryen in the Riverlands. Furthermore, the Gold Cloaks were men the Rogue Prince had handpicked and trained himself; they admired Daemon Blackfyre's deeds during the tour.
Both units understood the close bond between their leaders and shared the duty of guarding King's Landing. Naturally, they wouldn't cause trouble for one another.
Just then, the sound of hooves echoed from the far end of the Rosby Road.
Rayford immediately raised his hand, and the Darkblade Guard straightened their backs in unison. Daemon Targaryen rolled up his scroll, and the Gold Cloaks tightened their grips on their spears.
All eyes turned to the end of the avenue.
A retinue of men in grey armor was approaching slowly. The red chevron sigil on their breastplates was striking—House Rosby had arrived.
"It's Lord Rosby!" Viserys adjusted his tunic and walked briskly down the steps. Daemon followed with Rhaenyra, with Aemma close behind.
From the lead carriage, the elder Lord Rosby was helped down by his eldest son, Giles Rosby.
The old lord looked much better than he had when Daemon passed through Rosby earlier that year. His pale cheeks had regained some color, and his gait was steadier, though he still required support.
Seeing Viserys, he smiled immediately. "Prince Viserys, it has been a long time. You look robust."
"Is your health improving, my Lord?" Viserys took his arm, his voice full of concern. "Years ago, you needed a wheelchair. You have improved greatly; to think you can ride a horse now."
"Thanks to the blessings of King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon," Lord Rosby nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Rayford. His eyes filled with pride. "Rayford, come here."
Rayford stepped forward quickly and bowed. "Father."
Lord Rosby patted his shoulder, looking at the black cloak he wore. "You have followed Prince Daemon for the better part of a year. Your growth and your deeds on the road... you have not shamed House Rosby. Your mother speaks of you constantly. She says the handwriting in your last report was much tidier than before."
The tips of Rayford's ears turned red. Before he could speak, Daemon walked over, smiling. "Rest assured, Lord Rosby. Rayford doesn't just write well; he handles affairs with exceptional stability. The patrol routes of the Darkblade Guard were drafted with his assistance."
Hearing this, Lord Rosby's smile deepened. He bowed to Daemon. "Thank you for cultivating him, Your Highness. It is his fortune to follow you."
Giles also nodded, slapping Rayford on the back with brotherly familiarity. "Brother, serve the Prince well. It seems the reputation of House Rosby in King's Landing will depend on you now."
Rayford nodded heavily, his eyes resolute. Daemon watched the scene with warmth. Rayford had been steady and reliable since joining him; seeing him gain his family's approval felt like fulfilling a wish.
---
Not long after the Rosbys were settled, another retinue arrived from the direction of the Dragon Gate.
The banners bore the red salmon on a silver field of House Mooton. The man at the front wore a silver-white ceremonial robe. Tall and burly, with a roguish grin on his face, Lord Jonah Mooton of Maidenpool looked to have lost some weight under his wife's supervision over the last six months.
Behind him rode his wife, Lady Floriana, and several squires. But the most conspicuous figure in the group was Myles "Mys" Rivers, who, with Daemon's permission, had run ahead carrying his Northern battle-axe to greet his brother and sister-in-law.
"Prince Viserys! Prince Daemon!" Jonah Mooton started shouting from a distance. He dismounted with an agility that belied his size, looking nothing like a dignified lord. "I'm finally here! We got held up by a bunch of peddlers. They insisted on selling me 'Tourney Lucky Charms,' claiming if I hung them on my horse's neck I'd win. Bah! Just a swindle!"
Lady Floriana patted his shoulder helplessly, curtseying to Viserys and Daemon. "Your Highnesses, please forgive him. Despite being a Lord now, he's as excitable coming to King's Landing as he was when he was a squire."
Daemon smiled and shook his head, his gaze shifting to Myles.
Myles had just set down his axe when Jonah grabbed him in a bear hug. "Mys! You lad! You toured the realm with the Prince and got sturdy as a bull! In your letter, you said you fought a wild boar in the Stormlands. Is it true? Tell me, how big was it?"
Myles's face turned crimson. He scratched his head. "It... it wasn't that big. Just a bit taller than me."
"Taller than you?!" Jonah's eyes lit up. He dragged Myles aside. "Tell me everything! I fought a boar when I was young, but it chased me up a tree. Embarrassing business!"
Lady Floriana watched their backs and laughed softly. "Look, Your Highness. The moment those brothers meet, they have endless things to say. Myles lost his father young. Though he is a bastard, Jonah raised him. He treats him no differently than a trueborn brother."
Daemon nodded, understanding perfectly. Myles was a bastard, yet he had Jonah's genuine love. That was a luck not every bastard possessed. He thought of the many he had met in two lifetimes—cast aside, nameless, forced to steal to survive. Compared to them, Myles was fortunate indeed.
Just then, Daemon noticed Jarman of the Darkblade had returned. He stood at the tail of the formation, his one eye fixed on a group approaching from the Old Gate.
They wore brown armor, and the antler sigil on their breastplates was unmistakable. House Buckwell.
Jarman stared intently at a middle-aged man in the procession. His fingers unconsciously brushed the fletching of the arrows at his waist, his expression turning colder by the second.
Before Daemon could speak, Jarman turned and walked over, bowing low. "Your Highness. House Buckwell has arrived. I would like to return to the tower to help Larys process the intelligence. Rayford and the others can handle the order here; there will be no issues."
Daemon looked at the man's tight jaw and understood immediately. Jarman did not wish to see the Buckwells.
He remembered the night Jarman joined him. Under the moonlight, the silent bastard had clutched a rusted sword, kneeling before him, his voice raspy. "Your Highness, I have no family, no lands. Only this sword and my archery. If you will take me, I will walk through fire and water for you."
That night, Daemon had seen a forbearance and resolve in his eyes different from other bastards. It was why he took in the man House Buckwell had tried to "foist" upon him. Clearly, the Buckwells represented a past Jarman wished to bury.
"Go," Daemon said calmly. "Tell Larys the intelligence isn't urgent. Tell him not to overwork himself."
Jarman bowed and turned toward the Red Keep without glancing back at the Buckwell retinue.
Daemon watched his retreating back, then looked at Myles, who was laughing with Jonah nearby. He felt a sudden pang of emotion. They were both bastards. Myles had Jonah's protection; Jarman had only his own struggle for survival.
As for Daemon himself—leaving aside his previous life—in this life, he had been legitimized, accepted by his family, and even declared a "trueborn" equivalent by Jaehaerys. Yet, he still carried the label of "Prince Aemon's Bastard." Like the "Noble Bastard" label of his past life, he had to walk carefully through the game of thrones played by the royals and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
"What are you thinking about?" Viserys asked, following his gaze. "Is Jarman at odds with the Buckwells again?"
Myles, overhearing, chipped in with a sigh. "I heard him say he joined the Guard to get away from them. They say when he was little, the Buckwells bullied him constantly. Didn't even give him enough to eat."
Viserys's face darkened, but he looked resigned. No matter where, bastards were rarely seen as equals. Even in Dorne, where they claimed bastards had rights, they were still often the least favored "servants" compared to legitimate heirs.
In Westeros, bastards were widely considered treacherous and greedy by nature, born of lust and lies. Even if both parents were noble, they were said to be born on the wrong side of the sheet.
Daemon said nothing more. He looked down at Rhaenyra. The little one had fallen asleep, her small hand still clutching the sword tassel, her face peaceful.
Everything he was doing now was not just to protect House Targaryen, but to ensure that men like Myles and Jarman—and perhaps himself—could break the shackles of their fate and live with dignity.
---
The sun began to dip west, but the streets of King's Landing remained lively. The Rosbys and Mootons were settled in guest quarters. The Buckwells had been welcomed into the city by Viserys. Only Jarman had not reappeared from the direction of the Red Keep.
Daemon stood amidst the welcoming party, Rhaenyra sleeping in his arms, watching the sky.
The black cloaks of the Darkblade Guard and the gold armor of the City Watch stood in orderly lines on either side of the avenue, like two barriers guarding the capital.
Rayford was checking the remaining list with Daemon Targaryen, the two occasionally laughing. Colin and Elyn were packing up the welcoming banners. Myles was still telling Jonah stories from the road, while Lady Floriana watched them with a gentle smile.
The scene was warm, like a painting. Daemon knew that no matter how many storms lay ahead, as long as these people were by his side, he could protect this peace. He would guard the liveliness of King's Landing, the smile of the infant in his arms, and the trust of those who followed him.
Night fell, and the lights of the Red Keep ignited, scattered like stars in the darkness.
Daemon walked back toward the castle holding Rhaenyra, with Aemma and Viserys following behind. In the distance, the shouts of vendors packing up their stalls mingled with the bells of the Red Keep. It sounded like a warm nocturne, drawing a gentle conclusion to the prelude of the Grand Tourney.