The morning light of King's Landing had just spilled over the battlements of the Red Keep, yet the sand of the tourney grounds had already been raked smooth by the Gold Cloaks. The deep brown earth beneath lay exposed—soil still mixed with the blood scabs of knights unhorsed in last year's tourney, now blended with fresh straw to form a grim, unique "seal of battle."
The stands were already crowded with the banners of the Seven Kingdoms:
The Direwolf of the North snapped in the wind at the northernmost corner. The fur-trimmed flag was damp with morning dew, looking as if it had just been plucked from the snow beneath the Wall.
Beside it flew the Crowned Stag of the Stormlands. The black-and-gold fabric billowed in the sea breeze. Borros Baratheon's battle-axe leaned against the flagstaff, its edge still bearing the notches from yesterday's spar with Brandon Stark.
On the western stands, the Golden Lion on Crimson of the Westerlands roared its defiance. Tymond Lannister's nephew, Erwin, stood beneath it, boasting to a group of Reach nobles that "Westerlands iron can forge swords that cut through anything," prompting a young Tyrell cousin to retort that "Highgarden wine can make even dragons drunk."
Daemon stood on a raised platform at the edge of the grounds, holding Rhaenyra. The little one had just woken up, her fist still clutching the seashell, occasionally trying to stuff it into her mouth. Aemma had strictly ordered last night, "Don't let her touch the sand," but the little princess was rebellious, kicking her legs against Daemon's arm, trying to dive into the dirt below.
"Keep fussing, and I'll let Uncle Borros take you to play with his axe," Daemon teased, gently scraping her nose. Rhaenyra giggled and reached for the black dragon brand on his neck. Just as her fingers touched the fabric, Gael caught her hand.
"Little Daemon, control her!" Gael put her hands on her hips, her pale blue rose cloak sweeping over the wooden railing. "She just got mud on the new dress Johanna sewed yesterday. If she dives into the sand today, Aemma will have my head!"
Mysaria, ever good-tempered, nodded helplessly. She held a box of honey cakes fresh from the kitchens, a smudge of flour on her platinum curls. "Don't worry, Princess. I brought cakes. Let Rhaenyra taste one, she'll settle down."
Johanna stood behind them, holding a clean change of clothes for Rhaenyra, but her gaze drifted toward Blackwater Bay.
Before dawn, scouts from the Darkblade Guard had reported "a massive fleet approaching from the Narrow Sea." Given the scale and the audacity, it could only be the late arrival: Corlys Velaryon, the "Sea Snake," returning from the East.
Daemon had not forgotten the talents of Mysaria and Johanna from history. He shared much intelligence with them, letting them collaborate and hone their skills.
"There!" Elyn's voice rang out from behind the crowd. Serving as an aide today, his guest list fluttered in the wind as he pointed toward the bay. "Is that Lord Corlys's fleet? That flagship—Gods, it's bigger than the Arbor Queen!"
Everyone followed his finger. At the edge of the Narrow Sea, a silver sail appeared like a blade slicing through the morning mist.
As it drew closer, the silver seahorse sigil of House Velaryon became clear. The flagship's prow was carved into the shape of a giant sea snake with jaws agape, its scales gilded in gold, blinding in the sunlight. Flanking it were a dozen swift galleys, each manned by silver-armored Velaryon soldiers, their spear points gleaming cold.
"That is the true Sea Snake!" Boremund Baratheon stood beside Daemon, the stag on his iron armor reflecting the light. "Corlys sailed that ship around the Jade Sea. Even the Queens of the Summer Isles gifted him pearls. Seeing him today... his style remains unchanged. High-spirited as ever."
Jocelyn's hand unconsciously tightened on Daemon's arm, her black gown brushing the platform. "He's finally back. Laena and Laenor were asking yesterday when their father would arrive. Now the family is whole."
The fleet glided into the harbor. The Gold Cloaks and Darkblade Guard formed two lines on the docks. Colin Celtigar, followed by several squires from Claw Isle, ran forward. He had learned sailing from Corlys on Driftmark last year; seeing his old mentor, he was more excited than anyone, shouting from afar, "Lord Corlys! Did you add a new ram to the ship?"
Corlys Velaryon was the first down the gangplank. He wore a tunic of silver and blue, a sapphire-studded dirk at his waist. Though his hair held more silver than last year, his spirit was undimmed. His sharp gaze swept the crowd before softening instantly upon seeing Rhaenys and the children. "Laena, Laenor. Come let Father see you."
Laenor was the first to charge, holding up his drawing of The Cannibal and Grey Ghost. "Father! Sister and I drew dragons! Uncle Daemon said it looks just like them!"
Laena walked more slowly, holding a shell box filled with treasures she had collected since he left. "Father, this is for you," she whispered.
Rhaenys walked to Corlys, her black-and-red riding habit sweeping the stone steps. She patted his shoulder. "A few days later and you would have missed the tourney. Was Braavos smooth?"
"Smooth enough." Corlys smiled, but his eyes shifted to Daemon. He extended a hand. "Little Daemon. It has been a while." As he drew close, Daemon smelled the faint scent of sea salt. "I heard you burned Lyseni slaver ships in the Stepstones and brought the Three Sisters' fleet to heel? Good work."
"Duty demanded it." Daemon bowed slightly, holding Rhaenyra, silently impressed by the Sea Snake's intelligence network. "Did you find what you sought in Braavos? Darkblade reports say the Triarchy is active in the Narrow Sea."
Corlys's smile faded. Hearing the implicit warning, he lowered his voice. "Worse than you imagine. The Pillero family of Lys is stockpiling scorpions on Bloodstone and nearby islands. The Tyroshi fleet has made contact with Dornish patrol ships. They intend to unite and seize the shipping lanes. I returned to propose to the King that the fleets of Velaryon, Tarth, Celtigar, and the Three Sisters launch joint patrols. We cannot let them stir up trouble."
Daemon's heart went cold. The Triarchy was moving faster than he expected. If they allied with Dorne and controlled the Narrow Sea, the trade of the Seven Kingdoms would be strangled. Just as he was about to speak, a commotion erupted behind them.
Borros Baratheon, axe on his shoulder, was arguing red-faced with Brandon Stark. Between them stood Daemon Targaryen, his gold cloak whipping in the wind, trying to mediate.
"I have an agreement with Little Daemon! Axes today!" Borros slammed his axe into the ground, sending sand flying. "You Northern savage, why are you stealing my match?"
Brandon rolled up his sleeves, revealing a scar from a wildling blade. "Because I'm better! I heard last time at Griffin's Roost you couldn't even beat a wild boar, and you want to fight Little Daemon?"
Daemon Targaryen shook his wine flask, interjecting slowly. "Stop fighting. Our Little Daemon is definitely closest to me, his namesake cousin! Just days ago I took him to the Street of Silk..."
Before he could finish, Gael grabbed his ear. "You have the nerve to say that!" She yanked him, her blue cloak sweeping his gold armor. "Last time you got him drunk, the Gold Cloaks had to carry him back, and he threw up on my dress! And now you dare mention the Street of Silk? Be glad it was only drinking!"
Mysaria added a dagger of her own. "And Lady Lysa's hair ribbon! You said you'd keep it safe, but you lost it. She was crying to me about it yesterday!"
Daemon Targaryen's face turned crimson. He shook off his little aunt's hand, muttering, "Women don't understand," and strode to the center of the grounds. He drew Dark Sister, pointing it at the sky. "Who dares fight me? Win, and I'll buy you a cask of the new Arbor Gold!"
The young nobles roared with laughter. The Marbrand boy raised his silver spoon. "Lord Daemon! I'll fight you! But not with a sword—with this!" He waved the spoon—the "Spoon Disarm" technique Daemon had demonstrated at Ashemark was now the center of attention.
Daemon Targaryen raised an eyebrow, pointing his sword. "Fine! If you can beat me with a spoon, I'll buy you a whole tun! Let's see if your skill matches your Uncle Lorent's!"
Just as they were about to start, hoofbeats approached. Lord Ellard Stark was wheeled over by William Dustin. Behind him rode Yorbert Royce and Lady Rhea, flanked by William and Gunthor Royce. The noise had drawn them all.
"A lively scene." Lord Ellard smiled at the tourney grounds. "Tomorrow's contest will be magnificent."
Tymond Lannister nodded, his gilded boots crunching on the gravel. "Our Western lads have been waiting for this. Especially the Marbrand boy... he talks of nothing but testing his steel against Lord Daemon."
Yorbert Royce looked at Daemon, hand on Lamentation. "Prince Daemon. My nephews William and Gunthor wish to exchange pointers with you in the joust tomorrow. What say you?"
"Of course." Daemon smiled, looking down at Rhaenyra. The little one had stolen a honey cake from Mysaria and was stuffing her face, sugar dusting her lips. "But Ser Gunthor must show mercy. I've been holding children so much lately, my arm isn't as strong."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Yorbert chuckled. "Your Highness is too humble. At the Gates of the Moon, you split a wildling shield in two, drew Blackfyre, dismounted from a dragon to fight on horseback... The wildling line broke before your edge. Who in the Vale does not know this?"
Just then, Jocelyn approached, holding a black cloak. One half was embroidered with the Baratheon Stag, the other with the Targaryen Dragon. "Little Daemon. The weather is turning. Wear this. Half was your grandfather's battle cloak; the other half was your father's favorite. He always said wearing it before a tourney brought luck."
Daemon took the cloak, fingers tracing the threads. The fabric was old but soft, smelling faintly of cedar. Though originally two cloaks, unseen hands had stitched them into a seamless whole.
He recalled Jocelyn saying Prince Aemon met her at a tourney at Storm's End. Perhaps he wore half of this very cloak when he won the joust and her heart.
"Thank you, Mother." Daemon tied it around his shoulders. It perfectly covered the brand on his neck. Jocelyn's eyes reddened, and she touched his cheek. "Silly boy, being so polite to your mother. If your grandfather and father were here... they would be so proud. May this cloak let you go forward like your grandfather, and be invincible like your father."
Jeyne Arryn ran over, tugging his cloak, bits of hay clinging to her silver fox fur. "Little Daemon! Can you take me dragon riding tomorrow at the opening ceremony? I want to watch from The Cannibal's back!"
"Of course." Daemon scooped her up with his other arm. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "But you must be good. Don't wiggle. The Cannibal is gentle now, but if he gets startled, he might fly very high."
Jeyne nodded hard, eyes shining like stars. "I'll be good! And I can cheer for you during the joust!"
By evening, the setting sun dyed the grounds red and gold. King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, accompanied by Baelon, ascended the royal box.
The Old King, in black and gold, leaned on his scepter. His voice carried across the field. "Tomorrow marks the fiftieth year of my reign. I hope this tourney is not just a display of martial skill, but a symbol of the unity of the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused, scanning the lords, his tone heavy. "The Narrow Sea is uneasy. Dorne and the Triarchy are stirring. The wildlings in the North are restless. I know the peace of the realm is like thin ice. But as long as the Dragon and the Lords are of one heart, there is no obstacle we cannot cross."
As he finished, a dragon roar tore through the sky. The massive black shadow of The Cannibal flew from the hills, blotting out half the sun. Grey Ghost and Dreamfyre followed, their pale grey and soft blue breath condensing into mist. The lords looked up in awe.
Simultaneously, Vhagar outside the walls, and Vermithor, Silverwing, Caraxes, and Meleys from the Dragonpit roared in chorus.
Daemon stood below, watching the three dragons in the sky. The brand on his shoulder burned.
He remembered Alys Rivers's words at the Citadel: "The Others have awakened early because of you." He thought of Corlys's warning: "The Triarchy colludes with Dorne." This tourney was not just a celebration. It was the calm before the storm.
Corlys stepped up to him, gazing at the dragons. "Little Daemon. After the tourney tomorrow, we need to talk about the Narrow Sea. The situation is more complex than the King knows."
Daemon nodded. The Sea Snake brought not just family reunion, but the dark tides of war. He had to stop the Dance of the Dragons, but now he had to face this sudden threat from the East as well.
Night fell. Torches lit up the grounds like stars on the sand. The lords drifted back to the Red Keep. Borros was still challenging Brandon to an axe fight tomorrow. Daemon Targaryen was being pestered by the Marbrand boy about spoons. Laena and Laenor chattered around Corlys.
Daemon walked back slowly, holding Rhaenyra. Beside him were Gael, Jocelyn, and Jeyne.
Rhaenyra was asleep, head on his shoulder, clutching half a honey cake.
Jeyne held his cloak, matching him step for step.
Gael straightened the folds of his cloak, muttering about Rhaenyra's dress for tomorrow.
Jocelyn walked behind them, watching with gentle eyes, guarding the most precious treasure in the world.
The bells of the Red Keep rang, interweaving with the dragon roars—an overture for the Grand Tourney.
Daemon knew tomorrow would bring swords and shadows, glory and heavy responsibility.
But looking at the people around him, feeling the warmth in his arms, he felt as he always did: with them by his side, there was nothing to fear.
After all, he was not just Daemon Blackfyre from a hundred years hence. He was a True Dragon who rode The Cannibal, a protector acknowledged by the lords, and "Little Daemon" in the eyes of his family.
That bond was stronger than any weapon.