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The winter nights in the Red Keep always carried a chill unique to aged stone, and even the wind sweeping over the battlements sounded heavy and steady.
When Daemon emerged from the side door of the Master of Whisperers' solar, his fingertips were stained with ink—a deliberate smudge to maintain the illusion that he had been buried in scrolls all afternoon.
Inside, a faint light still glowed. Larys Strong's donkey, "Mr. Longlegs," dozed in the corner, its warm breath condensing into mist in the cold air, its tail occasionally sweeping over scraps of parchment on the floor.
Jarman of the Darkblade, having just stacked the reports on the Triarchy, leaned close to whisper in Daemon's ear. "Your Highness, Larys has marked the scorpion specifications from the spies. Lord Lyonel has organized the latest charts of the Narrow Sea shipping lanes. All that remains is your review tomorrow."
Daemon nodded, his gaze lingering on a half-empty box of honey cakes on the desk—Gael had sent them in the afternoon. He had hidden two pieces under a scroll, and now their sweetness mingled with the scent of ink, the only warmth in the stifling room.
"You've worked hard," Daemon whispered, careful not to wake "Mr. Clubfoot" or "Mr. Longlegs," who were taking a much-needed rest. "Leave the rest for tomorrow. Go rest."
Stepping into the corridor, the silence was absolute, amplifying the echo of his own footsteps.
Portraits of Targaryen monarchs lined the stone walls, illuminated by patches of moonlight from high windows. The majestic authority of Aegon the Conqueror, the cruel brow of Maegor I, the now-silver hair of Jaehaerys the Conciliator... a heavy lineage pressing down on the heart.
Daemon intended to head toward the Dragonpit to check on The Cannibal, but as he rounded the corner toward the balcony, he ran into an unexpected figure.
Prince Baelon Targaryen stood with his back to him, leaning against the railing.
The hem of his deep crimson velvet robe swayed gently in the night breeze. The dragon-engraved scabbard at his waist glinted coldly in the moonlight.
He seemed to have heard Daemon approaching long ago but didn't turn. He simply stared out toward the city, where Vhagar's low, rhythmic breathing occasionally drifted from the shores of the Blackwater—like the respiration of an ancient, slumbering beast.
Daemon paused, his instinct urging him to retreat. He knew his "Uncle" had been troubled lately by Daemon Targaryen's antics, his usual sharpness dulled even in Small Council meetings.
But Baelon turned slowly. His deep violet eyes were clear in the moonlight, devoid of their usual sternness, holding instead an indescribable exhaustion. The grey at his temples seemed more pronounced than the last time they met.
"Why hide?" Baelon's voice was soft but carried an unavoidable warmth. "Afraid I'll nag you about intelligence reports?"
Daemon stepped forward and bowed. "Uncle."
He noticed Baelon's hand pressed against his ribs—an old wound that had flared up during the funeral rites for House Arryn at the Gates of the Moon. It was likely paining him again.
Baelon ignored the injury, gesturing to the railing beside him. "Stand with me a while."
He looked out at the lights of King's Landing, scattered like crushed diamonds on black velvet. "Tomorrow is the joust. The final event, and the most conspicuous."
Daemon nodded. He remembered last year, winning the joust but using The Cannibal's roar as an excuse to avoid crowning a Queen of Love and Beauty. Back then, he hadn't grown accustomed to the bonds of this century and sought to avoid unnecessary entanglements.
But now, thinking of the smile in Gael's eyes as she handed him honey cakes after every match, and her determination when she rode Dreamfyre to chase him to Rosby... a strange softness stirred in his chest.
"You know of your cousin Big Daemon's recent... absurdities," Baelon said suddenly, his tone dropping. "Rhea Royce sent word to the Red Keep yesterday. He's been sleeping on the Street of Silk. Rumor has it he left his wedding cloak in a brothel. And taking the Tully girl to the melee, humiliating Rhea in public... you must have heard."
Daemon didn't answer. He had done more than hear; he had seen Rhea's cold departure and the farce that followed from a distance.
"I am his father," Baelon said, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. "Alyssa left us early. Viserys was steady, so I thought... I would be lenient with the younger one. When he fell as a boy, I carried him to the Maester, sat by his bed all night, promising to give him the best swords and the wildest horses when he grew up... I forgot that royal children never have the luxury of 'leniency.'"
He paused, looking at Daemon with complex expectation. "Viserys and Aemma—Mother arranged that match. Aemma is an Arryn; the Vale needs that tie. Your father Aemon and Jocelyn—Grandfather decided that. The strength of Baratheon stabilizes the Stormlands. We Targaryens, even riding dragons, cannot escape the duty of marriage. It is not about personal preference. It is about the stability of the Seven Kingdoms, the foundation of our House."
Daemon thought of Prince Aemon's portrait, of Jocelyn's quiet presence in the Red Keep, of Viserys's gentleness with Rhaenyra. He suddenly understood Baelon's heavy heart. Royal marriage was always a duty wrapped in silk—beautiful, but pricking to the touch.
"Since Big Daemon accepted the proposal from your Grandfather and Grandmother to marry Rhea, he must bear the responsibility," Baelon said, his tone turning steel-hard. "Even if there is no love, there cannot be humiliation. He is a Prince of House Targaryen, not a rake from Flea Bottom. Tomorrow, in the joust... I want you to go all out. Win. Leave him no room."
Daemon looked up sharply, meeting the resolve in Baelon's eyes.
"Don't hold back like last year. Don't give him the chance to crown anyone else the Queen of Love and Beauty. That would be another insult to Rhea, a provocation to House Royce, and a trampling of the Crown's dignity. Little Daemon, you are my brother Aemon's son, and the 'youngest son' I place high hopes on. You understand responsibility and propriety. Only you can do this."
Moonlight fell on Baelon's face, highlighting his tight jaw.
Daemon suddenly remembered his first night in the Dragonstone tower cell. The first person to visit him hadn't been his namesake "cousin" who let him out, nor his "sister" Rhaenys who defended his identity. It was this man—Baelon the Brave, the Spring Prince, the heir to the Iron Throne.
That night, Baelon had tapped him gently on the head with a scabbard and said, "Targaryen blood cannot be shed in vain."
He remembered the three dragons recreating the Field of Fire in the Stepstones.
He remembered the synchronization of Vhagar and The Cannibal burning the enemies in the mountains of the Vale, and the embrace afterward.
This "Spring Prince" was never the mere warrior the world saw. As Hand of the King, overseeing the realm and commanding the fleets, he was no longer just the boy behind his brother Aemon or the sharpest sword in his hand. He carried the weight of the entire family in his heart.
"I understand, Uncle," Daemon replied softly, without hesitation. "Tomorrow, I will participate. And I will only win."
Baelon's tense shoulders finally relaxed, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Good. In truth... sometimes I think if not for this position as Crown Prince, I would take the field myself. Knock that rebellious son off his horse and teach him what respect and responsibility truly mean."
He patted Daemon's shoulder, the weight of a father's trust in his grip. "So, I leave it to you. Teach your brother a lesson for me. Let him know that not every mistake can be smoothed over with the title of 'Prince.'"
Daemon nodded, feeling a flicker of anticipation. Not for the win, but because some responsibilities were inescapable from the moment he chose to return to House Targaryen. And perhaps, he hoped his namesake could learn sooner that privilege came with a price.
Baelon suddenly changed the subject, a glint of mischief in his eyes like an elder whose prank had succeeded. "By the way, do you remember the original pretext for your tour of the Seven Kingdoms earlier this year?"
Daemon froze, his ears burning. Of course he remembered. Baelon recited the words from Otto Hightower's proposal perfectly: "The Prince approaches thirteen; a suitable match must be found to secure the realm. Princess Gael also requires arrangements. A tour demonstrates royal authority and allows the scouting of talent—a strategy serving two ends."
Essentially, the tour was a matchmaking trip in disguise.
But then Gael had chased him on Dreamfyre, following him from Rosby to Maidenpool to Crackclaw Point. Seeing the Princess inseparable from him, no lord dared mention marriage alliances.
Daemon had felt relieved then. Now, having it pointed out by Baelon, he felt shy.
"I see you remember," Baelon laughed, his tone knowing. "Gael is my youngest sister, Father and Mother's 'Winter Child.' She was always timid, hiding behind Mother when strangers came. But look at her now—daring to confront Big Daemon on the Street of Silk, chasing you to Rosby on a dragon, taking your affairs as her own."
His voice softened, sounding like he was speaking to Daemon and to himself. "She has changed much for you. As her brother, I see it. My clever 'youngest son' cannot be blind to his Little Aunt's heart, can he?"
Daemon's heart skipped a beat.
He thought of the honey cakes Gael handed him after every match, warm from her hands.
He remembered her sneaking into his room in Maidenpool, saying she was "afraid he'd overthink things."
He recalled her arguing with Rhea at Runestone for Mysaria's sake.
Those small moments were like sugar scattered in his heart, sweetening everything before he realized it.
"She is a good girl," Baelon said, clapping his shoulder with solemn trust. "Take care of her. Don't let her be wronged. I know you carry many burdens—the Triarchy, the lords, the future conflicts of our House. But some happiness, once missed, never returns."
Daemon looked into Baelon's eyes, seeing the moonlight and his own reflection.
He thought again of the dungeon on Dragonstone. He had thought he was alone, here only to fix a historical error.
But now, with The Cannibal's roar, Gael's smile, Baelon's expectations, and the warmth of Rhaenys and Jocelyn... he was no longer a bystander rewriting history. He was Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, a part of this world.
"Uncle," Daemon said softly, his voice firmer than ever. "Tomorrow's joust. I will not hide. I will win."
Surprise flashed in Baelon's eyes, turning into a gratified smile. "Good. Good. A true son of Aemon. My 'youngest son.' You do not disappoint me."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and don't be like your father. Aemon won the tourney years ago and stubbornly refused to crown Jocelyn at first just to be difficult. Father laughed at him for half a month. If you want to give it to Gael, do it openly. No one will say a word."
Daemon's cheeks burned, but he nodded vigorously.
Baelon disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, his crimson robe sweeping the stone like a gentle farewell.
"Remember who you are. Never forget your honor and duty. You have worked hard lately... sometimes your maturity makes us forget you are only thirteen. Rest early, my son."
Daemon stood alone on the balcony, looking up at the full moon. Baelon's final words drifted into his ears, mingling with the moonlight to warm him.
From the distant hills, The Cannibal roared—not a sleepy rumble, but a light, answering call.
Daemon touched the hilt of Blackfyre. The cold steel felt reassuring.
Tomorrow, he would win.
Not just for Baelon's request, not just to stop Big Daemon's farce, but for the "Winter Child" who always brought honey cakes and chased him on a dragon.
He would personally place the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty on Gael's head, letting everyone know that in this century, he had found a warmth worth protecting.
The night wind blew, carrying the sulfur of the Dragonpit and a hint of sweetness—the aftertaste of the honey cake, full of anticipation for the battle to come.
Tonight, the silent stones of the Red Keep bore witness to the Black Dragon from the future, making a promise under the moonlight about duty and heart.