The docks of King's Landing had been steeped in the salty tang of the sea breeze for days, the cobblestones polished smooth by the endless processions of noble retinues.
Just as Jeyne Arryn and Rhea Royce were settled into the guest chambers of the Red Keep, the fleet from the Stormlands drifted into Blackwater Bay. The banners of the crowned stag snapped in the wind, their deep green and black-gold sails crowding the bay like a moving forest.
Daemon stood at the very edge of the pier. His left hand was gripped tight by Rhaenyra—the little princess was still half-asleep, rubbing her head groggily against his leg.
To his right, Gael held Jeyne Arryn. The little Lady of the Vale was tugging playfully at Gael's silver hair, her silver fox cloak dusted with sand carried by the sea breeze.
Mysaria and Johanna followed close behind. Mysaria held a box of honey cakes for the children, while Johanna carried a cloth bag filled with nappies and toys.
Since the lords Daemon had met on his tour began arriving, his days had been packed: Small Council meetings at dawn, processing Darkblade intelligence in the morning, and coordinating guest accommodations in the afternoon. If not for the help of these women, Jeyne and Rhaenyra would have turned the Red Keep upside down.
Of course, part of the chaos was simply that Daemon had no time. He was already facing the suffocating, daily doting of his "new mother" Jocelyn and "sister" Rhaenys. Even Queen Alysanne, famous for spoiling children, and Aemma, who wanted to look after him, couldn't get a word in edgewise.
He recalled this morning, just after the third bell rang. He had just walked out of the Small Council antechamber, clutching a half-read intelligence report, when Rayford's voice echoed down the corridor, urgent and breathless.
"Your Highness! The Stormlands fleet is here! Lord Boremund's flagship has entered Blackwater Bay!"
Daemon rubbed his throbbing temples. He had been up until late last night tracking the movements of the lords already in the city, and then grilled by Otto early this morning about the Darkblade patrol logs. He hadn't even had time for tea.
Walking through the courtyard, he had run straight into Gael holding Rhaenyra, with Mysaria and Johanna in tow. Jeyne had stumbled over on her short legs, grabbing Gael's skirt. "Little Daemon! I want to go meet people too! Auntie Aemma said the Stormlands knights wear antlers!"
"I'll take you." Daemon helplessly bent down to pick up the charging Jeyne, then took Rhaenyra from Gael—the little one had woken up and was squealing, clutching a handful of Gael's hair. "But you have to be good. No running off."
His recollection was cut short as Rayford's voice rang out from behind him again.
"They're here!" Rayford pointed to the lead ship, where a massive stag figurehead gleamed bronze in the sunlight. "It's Lord Boremund's Storm's Breath!"
The group moved further down the pier. The sound of horns was deafening.
The Stormlands fleet spread out in the morning light. The golden banners with black stags fluttered proudly, looking even more majestic than when Daemon had seen them at Storm's End half a year ago.
Lord Boremund Baratheon stood at the gunwale, the stag sigil on his dark grey iron armor reflecting the cold light. Beside him, Borros Baratheon was practically bouncing on the deck, his short black hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind. Seeing Daemon from afar, he waved his arms and shouted, "Little Daemon! Here!"
On the docks, the Darkblade Guard stood ready. Jarman's single eye swept over the fleet.
Larys Strong stood nearby, leaning on his cane, the hem of his black robe sweeping over the gravel. Seeing Daemon approach, he whispered, "Lord Boremund brings twelve houses from the Stormlands. Lord Roland Connington, Lord Lorent Grandison... they are all here. And... Criston Cole, the man you favored, is with them."
Daemon nodded. Before they walked much further, Storm's Breath docked steadily.
Boremund was the first down the gangplank, hand on his sword hilt. His gaze swept the crowd before softening instantly as it landed on Jocelyn. "Jocelyn."
Jocelyn hurried forward, her black gown sweeping the stone steps, and took her brother's arm. "Brother. The journey... is all well at Storm's End?"
"With me there, chaos dares not rise." Boremund patted her hand, then turned to Daemon, his eyes landing on the children. Jeyne was curiously touching his iron armor, while Rhaenyra still held Daemon's hair. "So this is Lady Jeyne of the Vale and our Princess Rhaenyra? And you, Little Daemon... haven't seen you in a while, and you've become the King of Children."
"They're just clingy." Daemon laughed and passed Jeyne to Boremund. The little girl showed no fear, reaching out to touch the stag sigil on his chest. "Grandpa, I heard there are lots of deer in your forests. Is it true?"
Jeyne's innocent question drew laughter from the Stormlords close to Boremund. Even Borros, the Lord's "oafish son," was covering his mouth, snickering with his brothers.
But the "Wild Stag" wasted no time squeezing past his father and uncles.
Borros hooked an arm around Daemon's neck, the chainmail on his black tunic digging in painfully. "Little Daemon! We finally meet again! Last time at Griffin's Roost, my hand was hurt and you owed me a match! This tourney, we settle it!"
Before he could finish, Lorent Grandison tugged him back, reminding him of decorum. "Quiet down, you loudmouth. I haven't even woken up yet."
The heir to Grandview wore a yellow tunic with a black lion, eyes half-closed, clutching a leather sleeping roll. "Your Highness, I brought Grandview fruit wine. Definitely better than Borros's ale. We must drink tonight."
"And me!" Roland Connington squeezed through, his red hair like a flame in the sun, gripping a newly forged spear. "Your Highness, last hunt you went easy on me. This tourney, I want a fair fight!"
Daemon agreed with a smile, scanning the crowd. Thurgood Fell and the Wylde brothers were asking Rayford about the Darkblade Guard. Jon Cafferen was secretly trying to hand Daemon a wooden carved deer. Beside Beric Dondarrion stood Criston Cole, posture ramrod straight, his pale green eyes fixed on Blackfyre at Daemon's waist with undisguised admiration.
"Criston, has your swordsmanship improved?" Daemon asked.
Criston dropped to one knee, his voice steady. "Thanks to Your Highness's blessing, I've been training with Lord Beric. I am steadier than before."
Watching this, Boremund smiled at Jocelyn. "You didn't choose wrong. Little Daemon can fight, and he can make young men follow him."
Jocelyn's eyes filled with pride. She patted Daemon's back. "Don't just talk to them. Rhaenys and the children should be here soon."
Daemon turned to see Rhaenys landing Meleys near the Dragonpit. She walked toward the docks followed by Laena and Laenor.
Four-year-old Laenor, in a silver-white riding outfit, ran toward Daemon clutching a seashell. "Uncle Daemon! I want to ride The Cannibal too! You promised!"
Daemon smoothly intercepted him and passed him into the arms of his other uncle, Borros.
"Sure. After the tourney, I'll let Big Daemon take you up." Daemon accepted the seashell and handed it to Rhaenyra, who giggled and clutched it tight.
Rhaenys approached, her black-and-red riding habit sweeping the ground. "You uncle... always indulging them. Laena and Laenor talk about you daily. Laenor keeps saying he wants to race The Cannibal on Meleys."
Boremund looked at Rhaenys's family and nodded. "Even if Corlys isn't here, having you all here makes it a reunion." He turned to Jocelyn, his voice soft. "If Father were still here, seeing us like this... he would be happy."
Jocelyn's eyes reddened. "Yes. He loved us best."
Just then, a low, heavy horn blast echoed from the distance. Unlike the brassy call of the Stormlands, this sound carried the weight of the North, like ice striking rock.
Larys stepped up to Daemon, a flicker of knowing in his dark eyes. "It's the Northern fleet. The Manderlys' Merling King."
Daemon looked up. At the end of the bay, several massive black-wood ships appeared. The silver merman figureheads and the direwolf sails of Winterfell, along with the white-and-green merman of House Manderly, gleamed coldly in the morning light.
Unlike the boisterous Stormlands fleet, the Northern ships exuded a steady chill. Even the sailors wore thick wool cloaks, their movements efficient and quiet.
"Lord Ellard has arrived." Viserys's voice came from behind as he took Rhaenyra from Daemon. Aemma stood beside him. "The Northern lords rarely come to King's Landing. Lord Ellard Stark coming himself... he's given us great face."
When the ships docked, Lord Manderly was the first to waddle down the gangplank, his large belly leading the way. His teal-and-silver tunic was dazzling.
Behind him, two squires pushed a wheelchair. Seated in it was the Warden of the North, Lord Ellard Stark.
The Lord wore a deep grey wool cloak. Though his face was pale, his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
To his left stood a youth in brown armor—William Dustin, son of Roderick Dustin.
To his right was a tall young man, leather armor dusted with Northern snow. It was Ellard's distant cousin, known as the "Wild Wolf of the North," Brandon Stark.
"Little Daemon!" Brandon saw Daemon and charged, hugging him so hard Daemon nearly dropped Jeyne. "Brother! You said at White Harbor you'd come hunt bears with us! Why haven't you come? I told Father I wanted to race you to the kill!"
Daemon laughed and slapped his hand away. "Just finished the tour. After the tourney, I'll definitely head North to find you."
Brandon noticed Jeyne and Rhaenyra. He scratched his head. "So this is the little Lady of the Vale and the Princess? Cute."
Jeyne reached out to touch the wolf sigil on his armor. "Are you a Wolf Knight?"
Lord Ellard was wheeled closer. His voice was gentle but carried the gravity of the North. "Prince Daemon. It has been long. The road from the North is far; forgive our lateness."
He pointed to William Dustin. "This is Roderick's son. He's here to see the world. You should remember him. Brandon is wild; having him along helps keep an eye on things."
"My Lord is too kind," Daemon bowed. "For you to come so far is an immense honor. But... where are Benjen and the other lords?"
Brandon boomed, "Don't ask! Benjen has to watch Winterfell. As for the lords... old foxes, all of them! None of them are honest. Some say they need to guard the Neck, some fear Ironborn raids! Some say winter is coming and refuse to march south!"
Lord Ellard nodded slightly. "The North is not like the South. Our lords are wary of the capital. But rest assured... as long as the Iron Throne needs us, the Direwolf banner of Winterfell will always rise for a True Dragon."
Daemon felt a warmth in his chest. Before he could speak, Gael walked over with oatcakes. "You've been busy all morning. Eat. I'll take Jeyne and Rhaenyra."
Mysaria and Johanna took over the children. Jeyne showed Rhaenyra the seashell, telling the toddler stories about clouds in the Vale.
Watching this, Boremund smiled at Lord Ellard. "It seems our Prince Daemon is not just a warrior, but a patriarch."
Lord Ellard nodded. "The blood of the True Dragon is like that. Like King Jaehaerys in his youth... they always bring people together."
The sun rose higher. The docks crowded. Stormlords discussed the tourney with Boremund; Northerners asked Viserys about the capital. Brandon dragged Borros off to spar. Lorent found a pillar to lean against and fell asleep. Roland Connington discussed spear techniques with Lyonel Corbray.
Daemon stood in the center, watching them. Jocelyn and Boremund talking of old times. Rhaenys and Aemma playing with Laena and Laenor. Gael and her ladies watching the children. Lord Ellard discussing harvests with the King's envoy. Brandon's laughter mixing with the Stormlands' horns.
He suddenly felt the exhaustion was worth it. The pressure of the Small Council, the fatigue of intelligence work... all of it dissolved into warmth amidst this liveliness. Blackfyre at his hip felt solid, and the dragon brand on his shoulder hummed, as if echoing this sense of belonging.
"Time to return to the Red Keep." Viserys patted his shoulder. "Grandfather is waiting to meet Lord Ellard and Lord Boremund."
Daemon nodded, taking Rhaenyra back. The little one kissed his cheek.
Jeyne tugged his cloak. "Little Daemon, I want to ride a dragon too!"
"Alright. Back at the Keep, I'll have The Cannibal take us for a spin." Daemon smiled, looking up at the Red Keep. The towers glowed dark red in the morning light, like a dragon guarding its family.
The Crowned Stag, the Direwolf, the Moon-and-Falcon, the Silver Trout, and the Red Dragon... all fluttering together on the docks. It was a painting of the Seven Kingdoms unfurled.
Daemon knew this gathering was the beginning of a bond that spanned the realm. And he would carry this bond to protect these people and this land.
The group moved toward the Red Keep. The laughter of children, the talk of lords, and the low rumble of dragons interwove with the sound of the waves, drawing a warm footnote to this reunion of North and South.