The golden-red embers of the setting sun sank slowly into Blackwater Bay, dyeing the limestone steps of the docks a deep, honeyed hue.
Viserys stood on the pier, speaking in low tones with Lord Massey. The hem of his red-and-black tunic brushed against the dew-dampened grass as he gestured with his hands, outlining the plans for the end-of-year tourney grounds. Beside him, Aemma gently soothed Rhaenyra. The little princess, finally pried away from Daemon's arms, was groggy with sleep, though her tiny fist still clutched the Blackfyre sword tassel she had "stolen" from him again. Her eyes fluttered, fighting a losing battle against slumber.
Lyonel Strong approached his son, Larys. The Master of Laws' bald head gleamed faintly in the twilight as he looked at his second son, who had arrived late after processing the day's intelligence.
Noticing the heavy dark circles under Larys's eyes and his noticeably thinner jawline, Lyonel's voice carried a hidden current of fatherly concern. "You've been working yourself to the bone handling intelligence for Prince Daemon, haven't you? And regarding Lord Bennard Brune's oath to the Prince—you were part of the retinue during the tour. Did you truly hear not a whisper of it beforehand?"
Larys leaned on his cane, the hem of his black robe sweeping over the gravel. He gave a slight shrug. The usual cunning in his dark eyes was replaced by fatigue. "Father, I joined the retinue after they left the Reach. I only heard fragments about Crackclaw Point from Rayford, Jarman, or Myles. How could I know the details? Besides, the party was small back then. Who could have predicted Lord Bennard would swear fealty so early?"
He paused, then added, "Ser Clement Crabb of the Kingsguard, who read the King's decree, kept his mouth shut. Rupert and the Crabb family didn't gossip. It is perfectly normal that this secret was kept until now."
Lyonel sighed. He didn't press further, simply patting his son's shoulder. "True enough. Just... don't stay up until dawn every night. The intelligence may be urgent, but you must mind your health."
Larys nodded, but his gaze drifted involuntarily toward the distant Red Keep. The lights there were flickering on one by one, like stars scattered in the dark. He knew the night's business was far from over.
Not far away, Otto Hightower stood with a furrowed brow, his hand gripping the cuff of his green tunic so tightly the fabric wrinkled.
He watched Daemon hand the sleeping Rhaenyra to Aemma before turning to speak with Bennard Brune. The image of Bennard dropping to one knee and calling Daemon "My Liege" replayed in Otto's mind. His fingers unconsciously brushed the pommel of his dagger, his eyes filled with gloom.
The movements of the Triarchy, the Sea Snake's maneuvering in Braavos, and now this Black Dragon securing private oaths from lords... every piece of it made him uneasy. Yet, he could find no solid pretext to strike. He could only stand there, letting his dark thoughts churn.
"Prince Viserys!"
A set of brisk footsteps approached. Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—clapped his brother Viserys on the shoulder with a familiarity that ignored all protocol. The chains on his gold cloak jingled. "I've sorted out the City Watch. If the squad captain on duty tonight dares to slack off, I'll have him guarding the gates by morning!"
He grinned, his eyes darting toward the direction of the Street of Silk (Flea Bottom). The corner of his mouth hooked up in his trademark roguish smile. "As for your little brother, I'm taking a few of the lads to 'inspect' the city. I'll head back to the Red Keep later."
Viserys shook his head helplessly. He reached out to grab him, but the Rogue Prince dodged nimbly. "You... just don't get blind drunk and force the Gold Cloaks to carry you back. If Grandfather and Father find out—"
Before Viserys could finish, Daemon Targaryen was already walking away without looking back. He waved a hand dismissively, and along with a few trusted squires and off-duty Gold Cloaks, vanished into the deepening shadows of King's Landing's alleys.
Viserys gave a bitter laugh, looking at Daemon Blackfyre. "Look at him. Still so irresponsible. He isn't half as obedient to his big brother as you are."
Daemon Blackfyre, watching the retreat, let a hint of amusement color his violet eyes. "He knows his limits now. He won't cause trouble."
With that, he signaled Rayford and Colin to escort the visiting lords to their guest quarters, then joined Viserys and Aemma for the walk back to the Red Keep.
---
Night thickened. On the streets of King's Landing, vendors packed away their wares. Only a few scattered taverns remained lit, the faint sounds of singing and laughter drifting out to mingle with the tolling bells of the Red Keep, creating a deceptive sense of peace.
When Daemon returned to the Master of Whisperers' solar, the candle had burned down past the halfway mark.
Larys and Jarman were waiting. A scroll of old archives lay open before Larys, his fingertips stained with ink, the circles under his eyes even darker than they had been at the docks. Jarman leaned against the wall, his one eye scanning the door vigilantly, his hand resting on the dagger at his waist.
"No anomalies during the patrol today," Jarman reported first, his voice low. "The Darkblade Guard outposts have been reinforced as you ordered. The Gold Cloaks were cooperative; no friction."
Larys handed over a piece of parchment. "This is from the old archives. We found that the Triarchy stockpiled a significant number of scorpions in the Stepstones last year. Also... merchant ships from Braavos have been frequently visiting Driftmark. It looks like the Sea Snake is trading favors."
Daemon took the parchment, his eyes scanning the dense script. Just as he was about to speak, the Royce twins, serving as his door guards for the night, pushed open the heavy oak door. They looked respectful but confused.
"Your Highness, Lord Bartimos Celtigar of Claw Isle requests an audience. He says he has urgent intelligence to report."
Daemon paused. He exchanged a glance with Larys and Jarman. Both men looked surprised. The Old Crab had been boasting loudly at the docks all day; for him to come knocking at night meant something more complex was afoot.
Daemon rubbed his forehead and nodded to the twins. "Let him in."
Bartimos entered quickly. His black robe was damp with night dew, and the golden crab-claw chain at his waist clinked softly. As he entered, his eyes darted to Larys and Jarman. He frowned slightly, looking at Daemon with an unspoken question.
Daemon replied calmly, "Larys and Jarman are my most trusted aides. You may speak freely."
Bartimos's brow remained furrowed, his lips pressed tight. Seeing this, Daemon sighed and waved his hand. "Larys, Jarman. Leave us for a moment."
The two bowed and exited. As Larys passed Bartimos, a gleam of calculation flashed in his dark eyes, though he didn't linger.
The moment the door clicked shut, Bartimos leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Your Highness, this old vassal comes with two matters of grave importance. First, the Triarchy is moving. Fleets from Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr are gathering in the Stepstones. It looks like they intend to retake Bloodstone. Second, the Sea Snake is making moves in Braavos. He is secretly backing a candidate for the next Sealord and intends to betroth Lady Laena to the man's son. He is extending his reach across the Narrow Sea!"
He spoke with an urgency that screamed for praise, as if he were delivering earth-shattering news.
Daemon's hand on the parchment didn't move. Internally, he was between laughter and tears. He had known about the Triarchy's movements from the Darkblade reports and the reactions of coastal lords months ago. As for the Sea Snake's maneuvering, not only did Jaehaerys and Baelon likely know, but even Larys's archives contained traces of it.
The Old Crab was playing dumb. He was taking intelligence he had likely already hinted at in letters to Colin and presenting it now to curry favor.
Still, Daemon played his part. He frowned, feigning surprise. "Is that so? I thank you, Lord Celtigar. I will report this to Grandfather and Uncle Baelon first thing tomorrow."
Bartimos beamed. He opened his mouth to say more, but Daemon stood up, his tone final. "The night is deep, Lord Celtigar. You should return to your guest quarters and rest. After all... if you visit me privately this late, a report of it might already be sitting on the King's desk."
A flash of cunning passed through Bartimos's eyes. He bowed deeply. "Your Highness is wise. This old vassal takes his leave."
He turned to go, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face. His steps were lighter, as if he had achieved exactly what he came for.
Daemon watched him leave, tapping his fingers on the desk. The Old Crab wasn't here to give me news, he realized. He was here to leave a trail. He wanted the King to know he is close to me. His calculations are sharper than anyone's.
---
Meanwhile, in the King's solar at the highest point of the Red Keep, the candles flickered, casting King Jaehaerys's shadow long against the stone.
Otto Hightower pushed open the door. The silver clasps of his green tunic glinted coldly. He bowed to the King, his voice urgent. "Your Grace. Today at the docks, Lord Bennard Brune of Crackclaw Point publicly swore fealty to Prince Daemon, calling him 'My Liege'! Such private acceptance of oaths... surely this is detrimental to the authority of the Iron Throne!"
Jaehaerys sat behind his desk, holding a scroll—a detailed report of Bennard's oath from earlier that day. He looked up at Otto, his voice flat. "Because Lord Bennard is loyal to Little Daemon, he cannot be loyal to the Iron Throne? The old Lord Brune entrusted the boy to Daemon on his deathbed. Bennard voluntarily accepted the Crown's appointment to govern the peninsula alongside Lord Crabb. The people there are safe and prosperous. Is this loyalty not exactly what the Iron Throne requires?"
Otto stammered, "But... but Prince Daemon Blackfyre is, after all..."
"Is what?" Jaehaerys cut him off with a wave of his hand. "He is my grandson. He is a Targaryen."
The Old King's voice carried an unquestionable authority. "I knew of this matter when Daemon left Crackclaw Point six months ago. Lord Bennard's loyalty is commendable, and Little Daemon has not let favor make him arrogant. Why must you cling to this?"
Unwilling to give up, Otto stepped forward again. "Your Grace, there is one more thing! Lord Bartimos Celtigar of Claw Isle secretly visited Prince Daemon's solar tonight. They spoke behind closed doors for a long time. Who knows what they conspired?"
He thought this would alarm the King. Instead, Jaehaerys pointed to another scroll on the corner of his desk. The ink was barely dry. It read: Bartimos Celtigar visits Master of Whisperers' Solar.
"You wish to know what they discussed?" Jaehaerys's tone held a hint of mockery. "I personally ordered the security measures for the Master of Whisperers' solar. Even I do not know the exact words spoken inside. How would you know?"
He set down the report, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. A flash of the "Bronze Fury"—the anger of the dragonlord—flickered in his eyes.
"Otto. I know your loyalty. I allow you to help Viserys check Daemon's influence. But remember... do not reach too far. Little Daemon is my grandson, not someone you can offend at will."
Otto's face turned pale. Cold sweat trickled down his temple. He fell to his knees, his voice trembling. "I... I have overstepped. I beg Your Grace's forgiveness."
Jaehaerys didn't look at him. He simply waved his hand. "Leave. And remember: the balance of House Targaryen is not maintained by suspicion and framing. It is maintained by blood and duty."
Otto backed out of the room slowly. As the door closed, he could still hear the rhythmic tapping of the King's finger against the desk. It sounded like a warning bell, striking heavy against his heart.
Alone in the solar, Jaehaerys looked out the window toward the Dragonpit. The moonlight streamed through the high arched window, illuminating his frail, aged silhouette.
He picked up the report on Bartimos's visit, his finger tracing the name Daemon Blackfyre. He sighed softly.
"I hope you understand, my boy. Your grandfather's balancing act... it is all for the future of House Targaryen. The tragedy of Aegon the Uncrowned and Maegor the Cruel... it must never happen again."
The candle flame danced, casting the Old King's shadow against the wall. It stood like a silent barrier, guarding the family's secrets, and guarding the "Darkblade" in whom he had placed such heavy hope.
The night deepened. The bells of the Red Keep tolled, interweaving with the low, distant rumble of The Cannibal, drawing a heavy conclusion to a night filled with hidden blades.