The sea breeze over Blackwater Bay had barely stripped the dampness from the morning mist when the horns of a new fleet sent the waters boiling.
The day of the Grand Tourney drew near. The lords of the Crownlands, Vale, North, Riverlands, and Stormlands had largely arrived. In recent days, the nobility of the Reach had trickled in, leaving only the Westerlands silent.
But in today's morning light, two distinct processions of banners rode the currents into the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, slowly approaching the docks of King's Landing.
To the west flew the Golden Lion on Crimson of House Lannister. The gold thread on the fabric glittered coldly in the sun like solidified magma.
To the east unfurled the Golden Rose on Green of House Tyrell. The banners spread like skirts in the wind, carrying the faint scent of fruits and flowers characteristic of the Reach, forming a dazzling and strange contrast with the red and gold beside them.
Daemon stood by the pier, holding Rhaenyra, who had just woken up. The little one rubbed her eyes, her tiny fist still clutching the seashell Laenor had given Daemon earlier.
Gael stood beside him, her pale blue rose-patterned cloak sweeping over the sandy cobblestones. She muttered, "The Westerlands didn't even send a squire before. Why has Lord Tymond suddenly arrived in person with his entire retinue? And Lord Mathos Tyrell... why are the Tyrell ships sailing with the Lannisters?"
Mysaria, holding a box of honey cakes, brushed sea salt from her platinum curls. "Perhaps they met on the way? Lord Redwyne mentioned at the Arbor that the Westerlands and the Reach were discussing wine trade agreements. Lord Tymond and Lord Mathos might be traveling together for that reason."
Johanna stood at the back, holding a change of clothes for Rhaenyra. Her gaze was fixed on the flagship.
Tymond Lannister wore red-and-gold armor, the lion sigil on his breastplate looking even more imperious than rumors suggested. Beside him, Mathos Tyrell wore a brand-new gold-and-green tunic, his round belly straining against his belt. His smile looked unnatural; clearly, he wasn't accustomed to being so close to the Lords of the West.
"It's Lord Tymond!" Rayford's voice came from behind the crowd. Clutching the guest list, he hurried to Daemon's side. "Several Westerlands houses have come this time, all rallied by Lord Tymond. I heard they were delayed dealing with Ironborn remnants and only gathered fully yesterday. Lord Mathos met Lord Tymond after setting out from Highgarden, so they journeyed together."
As they spoke, the ships docked. Tymond Lannister was the first down the gangplank, his gilded boots clicking sharply on the stone. Behind him came his bannermen:
Lord Reyne of Castamere in black armor, the red lion on his chest flecked with rust.
Behind him, the second son of Lord Marbrand of Ashemark secretly gripped a silver spoon. He caught the eye of Rupert Crabb across the distance and waved the spoon discreetly—last year, during Daemon's tour, he had used a technique taught by his uncle, Ser Lorent Marbrand, to disarm opponents with a spoon, a trick that had thoroughly dazzled Rupert and the others.
Mathos Tyrell followed with the Reach lords. Seeing Daemon, the smile on his round face stiffened, and he instinctively shrank behind Tymond Lannister—clearly remembering the embarrassment of Daemon exposing the bastard plot at the Tourney of the Field of Roses.
However, his eldest son, Garlan Tyrell, wearing silver-green armor, stepped forward and bowed to Daemon. "Your Highness, it has been a long time. Father says that Great-Uncle Martyn and Great-Aunt Florence specifically asked us to apologize to you. Regarding the last incident..."
"Let the past be past." Daemon smiled, interrupting him. His gaze swept over Lord Mathos before he signaled Lucas Tyrell in the guard to host his cousins from Highgarden. "As long as the people of the Reach are well, that is all that matters."
Garlan exhaled in relief and signaled a servant to present a brocade box. "This is Golden Rose wine, newly brewed at Highgarden. For Your Highness and the Princess."
Just then, Otto Hightower approached. He gripped the cuff of his green robe until it wrinkled but forced a warm smile. "Lord Tymond, Lord Mathos. The journey must have been tiring. Prince Viserys has prepared a feast at the docks. Shall we rest first, then discuss the tourney?"
He smoothly guided the two Lords Paramount toward Viserys. Most of the Westerlands and Reach lords followed, leaving only a few behind.
"Your Highness! I've been practicing the spear technique you taught me at Ashemark!" The Marbrand boy walked up to Daemon, flashing the silver spoon at Rupert. "I want a rematch at this tourney!"
Lord Reyne of Castamere nodded as well. "The story of Your Highness burning the Ironborn longships at Lannisport has spread throughout the West. My boy talks of nothing else. He says he wants to join the Darkblade Guard!"
Daemon responded to each with calm warmth. After the pleasantries, they too followed their liege lords to Viserys.
Once they were gone, Daemon looked down at Rhaenyra. The little one was yawning again, rubbing her head against his neck. "Viserys, Aemma! I'm taking Rhaenyra back to the Red Keep. I leave this to you."
He called out to Viserys and Aemma. Upon receiving their nod, he took Rhaenyra, Gael, Mysaria, and Johanna back toward the castle.
Otto watched Daemon's retreating back, a faint smile touching his lips. Most of the lords were surrounding Viserys; Daemon's side was quiet. This was exactly what he wanted to see.
He didn't notice, however, that before leaving, the Marbrand boy had slipped a parchment into Daemon's hand while the others were distracted. It detailed the iron ore distribution of the Westerlands—information Daemon had requested to prepare for upgrading the Darkblade Guard's armor and for future procurement.
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The courtyard of the Red Keep still bore traces of morning drills. Wooden swords and spears were piled in the corner, and golden rose petals—decorations sent earlier by the Reach lords—were scattered on the ground.
As Daemon entered the corridor, he saw a figure leaning against a pillar. The hem of a gold cloak swept the floor, and a wine flask dangled from his hand. It was Daemon Targaryen.
"Little Daemon, you're finally back!" He shook the flask, spilling a few drops. "Shopping with that Tully girl today... her father, Lord Grover, looked like he was about to vomit green bile. Boring as the Hells. Drink with me?"
Before Daemon could speak, rapid footsteps approached. Borros Baratheon ran over, carrying a battle-axe, grass stains on his armor. Behind him came Brandon Stark, his leather armor marked with scratches.
"Little Daemon! I finished sparring with Brandon. Want to try?" Borros shouted, spinning the axe. "Brandon claims Northern axes are better than Stormlands axes. I don't buy it!"
Brandon rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular arms. "It's true! My father says our ancestor once split a giant's bone with an axe! Come North, and I'll show you!"
Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow, stepping between them. He slammed his wine flask onto a stone table. "What are you two arguing about? Little Daemon knows me best. I took him to the Street of Silk last time... did any of you get that treatment?"
"That counts for nothing!" Borros bristled, stepping forward. "I hunted a white hart with Little Daemon at Griffin's Roost! He even taught me how to throw a spear!"
"I have a pact with him to hunt bears in the North!" Brandon wouldn't yield. "After drinking that day, he said he'd take me flying on The Cannibal!"
"I share his name!" Daemon Targaryen shook the flask. "We're both Daemon. Who can beat that bond? And I'm his cousin-uncle. By generation, I'm the big brother!"
The three argued fiercely, spit nearly flying onto Rhaenyra's face.
Daemon rubbed his forehead, about to mediate, when a group approached from the end of the corridor. Boremund Baratheon and Yorbert Royce walked side by side. William Dustin pushed Lord Ellard Stark's wheelchair. Jocelyn and Rhaenys followed. Jeyne Arryn, having abandoned her guardian, ran toward Daemon on stumbling legs.
"What's going on?" Boremund asked, laughing as he looked at the squabbling trio. "Borros, arguing again?"
Jocelyn looked worried, walking to Daemon's side. "Are they bullying you? Should I tell your Uncle Boremund?"
Lord Ellard shook his head, his eyes warm. "Lady Jocelyn, don't worry. Young men... the noise means they have spirit. In my youth, my brother Benjen and I fought over a hare."
Yorbert Royce looked at Daemon Targaryen, the coldness in his eyes thawing slightly. Having been Regent in the Eyrie for so long, he didn't really know his niece's husband. He had only heard rumors of the "Rogue Prince" neglecting Rhea and causing scenes at Runestone. But seeing him argue like a child over who was the "Big Brother" made the man seem somewhat... human.
"This is the youth of men," he sighed softly. "I remember arguing with my brothers just as red-faced. Thinking back, I miss it."
Boremund slapped Ellard on the shoulder. "Right! Come on, let's find a place to drink. I brought Storm's End ale. Watching them fight is better than listening to the ministers drone on in the Small Council, eh?"
Ellard and Yorbert nodded laughing. Jocelyn and Rhaenys didn't stop them—watching the young men make noise was far more comfortable than watching the lords scheme. Rhaenys even winked at Daemon. "Don't stop them. Let them play. They'll stop when they're tired."
The elders walked off laughing toward the wine cellar, leaving Daemon standing with the women.
Rhaenyra had woken up in his arms, watching the three men curiously, clutching Daemon's hair.
Jeyne, having been left behind by her guardian, tugged Daemon's cloak. "Little Daemon, are they going to fight? Can I watch?"
Daemon tried to seize the chance to escape. "You watch. I'm going to my room to catch up on sleep."
But Gael grabbed his arm, her violet eyes full of dissatisfaction. "No! You've been busy for days and haven't walked with me in the gardens! Mysaria says new flowers bloomed yesterday, and you haven't seen them!"
Jocelyn walked over, touching his cheek with concern. "You have circles under your eyes. Were you up late with intelligence reports again? I had the kitchen stew pigeon soup. You must drink it while it's hot."
Rhaenys approached with Laena and Laenor. Laenor hugged Daemon's leg. "Uncle! Sister and I drew a picture of The Cannibal. Do you want to see?" Laena nodded helplessly, holding up a piece of parchment filled with black scribbles—a crooked black dragon with stars on its wings.
Daemon looked at the women and children surrounding him. Rhaenyra was babbling to be held. Jeyne wouldn't let go of his cloak. Gael was gripping his arm. Jocelyn's maid held the soup. Mysaria and Johanna stood by, eyes full of amusement.
He sighed helplessly, but a warmth flashed in his violet eyes.
The exhaustion of intelligence work and the tedium of dealing with lords dissolved into softness.
"Alright," he compromised. "First, the dragon drawing. Then the roses in the garden. Then the pigeon soup. And finally, I play with you all. Deal?"
"Deal!" the children shouted in unison. Laenor tried to kiss his cheek but was pulled back by Laena.
Rhaenyra, however, beat them to it, leaving a wet slobber mark on his face.
Gael laughed and wiped it off. Jocelyn took the soup bowl from the maid—the temperature was just right.
From the training yard in the distance came the cheers of the three young men. The clash of Borros's Storm, Brandon's Wolf's Fang, and Daemon Targaryen's Dark Sister rang out clearly.
Holding Rhaenyra, surrounded by chatting women and children, Daemon felt it again. Compared to the schemes of the Small Council and the calculations of the lords, this liveliness and warmth was what he had crossed a hundred years to protect.
The sun dipped west. The bells of the Red Keep tolled, mingling with the laughter from the training yard. Daemon drank his soup, listened to Gael talk about flowers, watched Laena and Laenor show off their art, and felt Jocelyn's gentle gaze.
He suddenly felt that even if he couldn't catch up on sleep... this kind of "trouble" was pretty good.