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Game of Thrones: The Giant Crab of the Narrow Sea
Game of Thrones: The Sword King
Game of Thrones: From Bastard to Emperor
As soon as the horn announced the start of the final duel, the two Daemons moved in unison.
Daemon Targaryen's sword was a meteor streak, Dark Sister a blur of black steel seeking any opening in his cousin's defense.
Daemon Blackfyre responded with the stability of a mountain. Blackfyre danced with unhurried grace, parrying every strike from Dark Sister with precision.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG! The crisp sound of steel on steel vibrated in the teeth of the spectators. The crowd held its breath. Even King Jaehaerys and Crown Prince Baelon leaned forward, eyes locked on the duel.
"Good strike!" Queen Alysanne couldn't help but whisper praise. Watching her two grandsons clash, she was reminded of Aemon and Baelon in their youth, her eyes filling with warmth.
Viserys held Rhaenyra, with Aemma leaning against him. The little princess quieted down, resting her head on her father's shoulder, her eyes fixed on the flashing blades below.
Dozens of exchanges passed. Daemon Targaryen's stamina began to wane. Facing the relentless, age-defying onslaught of his "cousin," he found himself overwhelmed. As the Black Dragon's attacks grew fiercer, the Rogue Prince was forced entirely onto the defensive, scrambling to parry.
In a fleeting moment of distraction, Daemon Blackfyre seized the opportunity. With practiced ease, his blade swept horizontally, stopping just inches from Daemon Targaryen's throat—avenging Rupert Crabb with the very move that had defeated him.
"I lost." Daemon Targaryen smiled and sheathed his sword, his voice devoid of disappointment.
Daemon Blackfyre walked over and offered a hand. The scabbard of Blackfyre gently clinked against Dark Sister. "It seems I won, Cousin. Though it was a narrow victory."
Daemon Targaryen clapped his shoulder. "Don't be humble. You've gotten even better than last year."
They stood side by side on the platform, bowing to the King and Queen. The arena exploded in deafening cheers.
King Jaehaerys stood, his hand trembling slightly on his scepter. His voice was thick with emotion. "Good! Good! You are both the pride of House Targaryen!"
Queen Alysanne applauded, tears shining in her eyes. This was what she longed to see most: harmony in the royal house, hearts united as one.
The match over, Borros Baratheon and Brandon Stark were the first to charge the field. They grabbed Daemon Blackfyre by the arms, shouting, "Little Daemon! You won! Come with us!"
Daemon Targaryen was similarly swarmed by Rupert Crabb and Colin Celtigar. The crowd lifted both Daemons high, tossing them into the air.
"Again!" Borros bellowed. The crowd roared approval, throwing the two princes even higher, the cheers shaking the banners of the tourney grounds.
Dizzy from the tossing, Daemon Targaryen laughed and shouted, "Enough, enough! Throw me again and I'll spew! Tonight drinks are on me! The best tavern in King's Landing! If that's not enough, we hit the Street of Silk! We don't go home until we're crawling!"
The crowd finally stopped, setting Daemon Targaryen down and cheering around him.
But then, Borros realized something was wrong. "Eh? Where's Little Daemon? He was just here!"
They looked around. The crowd was bustling, but the Black Dragon had vanished.
"Did some blind fool drop His Highness in the crowd?" Brandon scratched his head, genuinely worried.
Roland Connington frowned, scanning the throng. "Impossible. His black cloak stands out. Keep looking."
As they searched anxiously, a low purr echoed from the distance—Grey Ghost!
Everyone looked toward the sound. In the twilight by the Blackwater Rush, the pale grey dragon drifted through the mist. Someone seemed to be sitting on its back.
"It must be Prince Daemon!" Lorent Grandison was the first to realize, pointing at the dragon.
It turned out that while everyone was distracted tossing the Rogue Prince, Grey Ghost had curiously drifted over in the mist. Daemon had signaled the dragon down, grabbed its leg, and escaped into the reeds by the riverbank under the cover of the crowd's cheers.
Now, Daemon sat on Grey Ghost's back, holding a piece of honey cake—Gael's special "Champion's Victory Cake." He broke off a piece and fed it to the dragon. "Eat slowly. No one is taking it from you."
Grey Ghost munched on the cake, letting out a satisfied purr that cut through the quiet night, instantly betraying Daemon's position.
Daemon Targaryen laughed and shook his head. "That kid. Since when does he like hiding so much?"
He led the way toward the dragon, with Borros and Brandon following. A massive group marched toward the reeds.
Seeing he couldn't escape, Daemon smiled helplessly and patted Grey Ghost's neck. "Let's go. Looks like I can't dodge this drink."
When they found him, he was leaning against Grey Ghost, holding half a honey cake.
"Daemon! How long did you plan to hide?" Borros grabbed his arm, grinning.
Daemon Targaryen walked up and slapped his shoulder. "Stop running. You have to drink tonight."
Daemon nodded, resigned. "Fine. I'll drink. But don't try to drown me."
The crowd "escorted" Daemon toward the tavern. His followers joined the procession.
The Royce twins flanked him, praising his sword moves.
Myles Rivers and Tybolt Crakehall walked behind, discussing the final duel with Lucas Tyrell.
Harlan Hunter and Lyonel Corbray chatted heatedly with Rupert Crabb, Colin Celtigar, Allan Redwyne, and Meryn Florent.
"Rupert," Harlan laughed, "forcing Big Daemon to pretend he was out of breath is enough to brag about for six months. But... shouldn't we keep an eye on the Prince?"
Rupert blushed and smiled sheepishly.
Rayford Rosby, the "Steward of the Guard," stepped up. "Everyone, take it easy. The Prince has been exhausted lately—hosting lords, reviewing intelligence, handling state affairs. Let him relax tonight. Don't pour too much wine down his throat."
The crowd nodded. Borros shouted from the front, "Don't worry! We'll only drink a little!"
Jarman, the "Captain of the Guard," chimed in. "We'll come with you. We'll watch Prince Daemon Targaryen for Princess Gael, make sure he doesn't lead our Prince into trouble. We deserve to relax too. As for the rest... leave it to the duty squad. Let Larys suffer a bit more."
The crowd burst into laughter. Everyone knew Larys Strong had been buried under intelligence reports in the Red Keep lately, his feet barely touching the ground.
---
At that very moment, in the Master of Whisperers' solar in the Red Keep, Larys Strong sat at his desk, frowning at a report. Beside him was the grey donkey he had brought from Harrenhal to accompany him on the tour—his "Mr. Longlegs," named in jest by Daemon and the others.
Suddenly, "Mr. Longlegs" sneezed. Larys paused, stroking the animal's head. "What is it? Did you catch a chill?"
Just then, Larys sneezed himself. He rubbed his nose, muttering, oblivious that his best friends had just sold him out. "Who is talking about me? Surely not the Prince? I hope he appreciates my hard work these last few days and doesn't add more to my pile."
He didn't know that Daemon was laughing in a tavern, or that Jarman and the others were joking about giving him more work so the Prince could rest.
---
The atmosphere in the tavern grew rowdier. Borros raised his goblet, shouting, "To our two Prince Daemons! Cheers!"
Everyone raised their cups, the clink of metal and glass mixing with laughter.
Daemon Targaryen walked to Daemon, handing him a cup of Arbor Gold. "Next year, we fight again. Lance or sword, I will beat you, brother."
Daemon took the cup with a smile. "Good. I'll be waiting."
Outside, the night deepened. The sound of waves from Blackwater Bay mingled with the tavern's joy, singing a hymn of peace and unity.
Daemon looked at the people around him, feeling the warmth of the wine. He felt fortunate. Crossing a hundred years, he had found not just family, but so many friends and followers. This bond was stronger than any dragonfire.
He knew storms lay ahead. The undercurrents of the Triarchy, the threat of the Others, the shadow of the Dance... they were all waiting.
But right now, he just wanted to set aside his burdens and enjoy this hard-won peace with his people.
With them by his side, he could weather any storm.