The morning mist had not yet fully lifted from King's Landing, but the cobblestones of Rosby Road outside the Iron Gate were already slick with dampness, churned by the hooves of the Vale lords' caravan.
The black cloaks of the Darkblade Guard stood in a rigid line along the city walls. The Royce twins, standing within the ranks, kept their heads low. The runes on their silver armor gleamed coldly in the fog, yet neither dared take a step forward. Their distant cousin, Lady Rhea Royce, stood at the very front of the procession. The patterns on her bronze armor looked like frozen icicles, and she hadn't spared them so much as a glance.
Since childhood, the twins had feared this cousin and the man standing behind her—their great-uncle, Yorbert Royce, the Regent of the Vale. Within the family, these two were simply the most terrifying existences imaginable.
Seeing them flanked by their guards—their distant uncle William (famous for his good temper) and their cousin Gunthor (famous for his terrible one), all wearing identically stern expressions—the twins naturally didn't dare approach.
When Daemon arrived, he found Viserys wearing an apologetic smile, rubbing his hands together as he tried to engage the stone-faced Lord Regent in conversation, with his good friend Otto Hightower hovering nearby.
Yorbert Royce, a man whose life seemed carved from granite, wore a deep grey brocade robe that suited his temperament perfectly. At his waist hung Lamentation, the Valyrian steel sword of House Royce. His right hand unconsciously traced the pommel, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
When a squire offered a flask of wine to ward off the chill, the Regent merely shook his head. His gaze swept over the empty space on the other side of the gate.
According to letters from Vale lords who had already arrived, that space should have been filled by the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch, led by his niece's husband, Daemon Targaryen, standing in formation to welcome them. Instead, there was only wind chasing fallen leaves across the stones.
"Lord Yorbert, the journey must have been tiring," Viserys said, his smile stiffening. The cuffs of his red-and-black tunic were damp with morning dew. "Lady Jeyne is young and frail. Perhaps we should proceed to the manse to rest? Or the guest chambers in the Red Keep are already prepared..."
"Unnecessary."
The voice of Rhea Royce cut through the air, answering for her uncle. The single word was as cold as the snow on the Mountains of the Moon.
She took two steps forward, her bronze boots clicking sharply against the stone. "We of House Royce are not so delicate that we cannot walk. Unlike some, who dare to leave their lawful wife and elders standing outside the city gates like beggars."
Her words were a block of ice smashed into the crowd. Viserys's ingratiating smile froze instantly.
The atmosphere only thawed slightly with the arrival of Aemma Arryn. Holding Rhaenyra, she hurried forward, reaching out to the little girl beside Yorbert. "Jeyne, come to Auntie."
The four-year-old Lady of the Vale, Jeyne Arryn, was wrapped in a silver fox cloak. Sensing the tension, her small hand gripped Yorbert's robe tightly. Only after seeing Yorbert's expression soften did she look at Aemma and timidly reach out.
As Yorbert watched his ward throw her soft little body into Aemma's arms, the tension in his shoulders finally eased. Beside him, even the calm William Royce's furrowed brow smoothed out a fraction.
Only Gunthor Royce remained like a silent volcano. His seven-foot frame was encased in bronze armor, his hand resting on the hilt of a rune-etched greatsword. His glare toward the city gate remained undisguised in its fury.
As a distant nephew to Rhea, Gunthor had grown up under the "stern protection" of his cousin and uncle. Seeing them lead a delegation to the capital only to be snubbed by their lawful husband and nephew-in-law made his blood boil. His knuckles were white, and the muffled clank of his armor was harsh in the fog.
Just then, a low dragon's roar echoed from within King's Landing. The pitch-black shadow of The Cannibal swept over the city walls from its lair in the hills, the wind from its wings instantly dispersing the mid-air fog.
Trailing behind the black shadow was a smaller, pale grey-white shape, drifting in and out of the clouds.
Daemon's carriage rolled up the avenue, flanked by Rupert and Colin on horseback. The black cloaks of the Darkblade Guard snapped in the wind.
"Lord Yorbert. Lady Rhea." Daemon stepped out of the carriage, his face showing signs of fatigue. Given the atmosphere, he didn't dare call Rhea "Sister-in-law" as he called Aemma.
He met their eyes quickly but politely. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Lamentation at Yorbert's waist and the icy glare in Rhea's eyes before speaking slowly. "Delayed on the road. My apologies for the lateness."
Upon seeing this young man he admired, the corners of Yorbert's tight mouth finally curved upward.
During the Siege of the Gates of the Moon earlier that year, it was this boy who had led the Vale coalition to break the wildling army. After the battle, it was he who had pulled Jeyne from beneath a collapsing wall. At the victory feast in the Eyrie, he had spent an entire afternoon playing wooden swords with the little Lady. That bond was more substantial than blood or marriage.
Seeing his chosen "successor" in spirit, Lord Yorbert smiled—a rare sight.
"Prince Daemon. It is good you are here." He placed a hand on Gunthor's arm, signaling him to stand down. "Since we parted at the Eyrie, our Lady Jeyne has spoken of you constantly. Even on the road to King's Landing, she babbled about you for days."
As the Regent spoke, Jeyne suddenly wriggled free from Aemma's arms and ran toward Daemon on her short legs, reaching up. "Little Daemon!"
She remembered. Last year at the Gates of the Moon, this silver-haired brother had saved her from the fire. Later, he had sat with her by the Sky Cells, watching the clouds. She remembered him teaching her how to hold a wooden sword, telling her, "A Lady of the Vale must learn to protect her future self."
Daemon bent down and picked her up. The little girl wrapped her arms around his neck with practiced ease—though he had grown taller since the beginning of the year, and she had to fumble a bit to get a good grip. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, her black hair spilling over his cloak.
Feeling her warm, soft weight, Daemon recalled the first time he held her after the battle—she had been trembling then. Now, she leaped into his arms.
"Missed me?" Daemon pinched her cheek gently.
Jeyne nodded vigorously, pointing a small finger at the sky where The Cannibal circled. "Dragon! You promised at the Eyrie you'd take me flying! I want to ride the dragon! Little Daemon!"
Aemma, holding the still-sleeping Rhaenyra, smiled helplessly at Daemon. "I knew you'd spoil her. But I didn't expect Jeyne to be so captivated by you. Our Little Daemon really does have a way with children."
In her arms, Rhaenyra frowned slightly, disturbed by the noise, but she didn't wake. Her hand simply tightened on Aemma's dress.
Rhea stood still, her bronze armor reflecting the morning light. Her face remained cold, but watching the scene, she offered no biting remarks.
William Royce stepped forward, patting the shoulder of Rayford Rosby, who stood behind Daemon, before speaking to ease the tension. "Your Highness, we heard on the road you established the Darkblade Guard in King's Landing. They look far sharper than the recruits we train in the Vale."
Taking the cue, the Royce twins finally dared to step forward. At Daemon's signal, they each took one of Yorbert's arms, steering the conversation toward changes in their hometown and family.
Behind Viserys, Otto Hightower gripped the cuff of his green robe until it wrinkled.
He watched Daemon effortlessly diffuse the tension. He saw Yorbert treating this "bastard" with more warmth than he showed Viserys. A shadow of malice flitted through Otto's eyes, but he dared not speak. His friend Viserys had dropped several hints lately, and the Old King's warning still rang in his ears: Reach too far, and you will get no good fruit.
"Everyone, a feast is prepared at the Red Keep," Viserys said, seizing the chance to smooth things over. He gestured toward the city gates. "Aemma had the kitchens prepare Vale dishes this morning. I'm sure Jeyne and everyone will enjoy them."
The procession began to move toward the Red Keep, the atmosphere noticeably lighter.
William chatted with the Royce twins about the battle at the Gates of the Moon. Yorbert listened happily to the younger generation, occasionally interjecting to praise Daemon's tactical use of The Cannibal's fire to cut off the wildling retreat.
Jeyne lay in Daemon's arms, whispering questions about whether there were small dragons in the Dragonpit. Daemon patiently told her stories about Silverwing and her mate Vermithor.
Viserys walked alongside Yorbert, chatting about the future marriages of Rhaenyra and Jeyne. Though nothing was explicit, his tone as Jeyne's uncle-by-marriage was naturally intimate.
But no one expected that halfway there, they would run headlong into another procession.
The red shadow of Caraxes appeared at the street corner first. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, vaulted off the dragon as it landed in the square. The hem of his gold cloak—which looked a bit frivolous on him—swept the ground.
Beside him walked Lady Lysa Tully, the third daughter of House Tully. Dressed in pale blue, she was laughing like a blooming flower, clutching a wooden carved dragon he had just given her—the craftsmanship suspiciously similar to something the Rogue Prince might have pilfered from Viserys's collection.
Lord Grover Tully walked behind them. Watching the interaction between his daughter and the Prince, his brow was furrowed tight enough to crush a fly. His sons—Hoster, Brynden, and the others—flanked their mother and sisters, eyeing the approaching group warily.
The two parties met in the center of the square. The air froze instantly.
The smile on Daemon Targaryen's face stiffened. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of Dark Sister. He saw Yorbert Royce's hand move to Lamentation. He saw Gunthor's furious glare. He saw the faces of William and the others turn cold.
Lord Grover instinctively pulled Lysa behind him, avoiding Yorbert's gaze, his worry deepening. He had heard the Royces were unhappy with the Prince over the marriage; now, running into his daughter and the Prince together... this was a disaster waiting to happen.
"Calm down! We are all family!" Viserys rushed forward, spreading his arms to separate the groups. He looked frantically at his "eldest son" and "foolish brother," signaling desperately. "Big Daemon! Weren't you settling the Tullys? What are you doing here?"
"Just finished. Thought I'd show Lady Lysa the city streets." Daemon Targaryen's voice was dry. He couldn't look Yorbert in the eye, yet he couldn't resist—ignoring the glares from Viserys and Daemon Blackfyre—shooting a provocative glance at Rhea.
Even Otto chimed in to mediate. "Lord Tully, Lord Yorbert. We are all here for the King's tourney. Let us not damage the peace."
Daemon Blackfyre didn't wait for more words. He raised a hand, signaling the Darkblade Guard. "Stand apart. Don't crowd."
The black cloaks immediately formed a human wall, separating the two groups. The Gold Cloak captains caught on and ordered their men back to avoid a clash.
Just then, Rhea Royce took two steps forward. The runes on her bronze armor gleamed coldly in the sun.
She looked at Daemon Targaryen, a mocking smile curling her lips. "What? Too busy escorting the Tully girl to remember you have a home?"
Daemon Targaryen dropped the roguish grin, raising an eyebrow in retort. "Better than the frozen face I got at Runestone. At least someone here is willing to walk with me."
"Indeed," Rhea said coldly. She turned and walked toward the Red Keep, her bronze boots striking the stone with finality.
Daemon Targaryen watched her go, snorted, and turned to his Gold Cloaks. "We'll go the other way."
The two groups split down the branching paths of the square, footsteps fading into the distance.
Daemon Blackfyre, holding Jeyne, felt the little girl secretly tighten her grip on his cloak.
Yorbert's hand remained on Lamentation, though he didn't draw it.
William watched Daemon Targaryen's retreating back, his brow still furrowed.
The sun had burned off the morning mist, but it couldn't disperse the shadow in everyone's hearts.
Viserys sighed helplessly, patting Daemon's shoulder. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep Grandfather, Grandmother, and Father waiting."
Daemon nodded, his gaze sweeping over the fallen leaves in the square.
He knew this brief confrontation was just the tip of the iceberg for the dark currents swirling beneath King's Landing and the future of Westeros. Otto's suspicion, Daemon Targaryen's recklessness, the dissatisfaction of House Royce, the wavering of House Tully... they were like tangling vines. Sooner or later, after the climax of the Grand Tourney, they would grow thorns sharper than any sword.