The afternoon sun in King's Landing slanted through the wooden windows of the Oak Shield tavern, turning the foam on the ale mugs into liquid gold.
The place smelled like malt, sizzling roast meat, and worn leather. A fire crackled in the corner hearth, and the stag skull mounted on the wall had been smoked to a deep brown—pure Stormlands vibe, exactly the kind of rowdy spot Borros Baratheon had been raving about since they hit the city.
When the door swung open again, the wind chimes jingled.
Daemon Targaryen strolled in first, arm slung around Daemon's shoulders, black-and-red riding leathers sweeping the threshold. The whole tavern went quiet for half a second—until everyone clocked the Blackfyre sword at his hip and the little pale-grey dragon trotting at his heels. Then the place erupted in cheers.
"By the gods, it's the Blackfyre Prince himself! And our favorite rogue from Flea Bottom!"
Grey Ghost immediately ducked under the nearest table, snout to the floor, still hunting for those Tyroshi sausages he'd gotten hooked on back in the war.
Daemon bent down and scratched the little dragon's head. Before he could straighten up, Borros grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the long table.
"Little Daemon! Finally! Me and the boys just finished three pitchers—get over here and help me crush these Reach bastards with Big Daemon!"
Across the table, Myles Rivers was already grinning like a wolf, tankard raised. Tybolt Crakehall looked ready to explode, veins popping on his forearm from the last round he'd lost.
"Your Highness, hurry!" Myles boomed, loud enough to make the whole room laugh. "Tybolt bet that if you showed up he'd buy you five more pitchers!"
Even the tavern keeper shuffled over with a bigger jug. "On the house, Your Highness—fresh shipment from Lannisport this morning."
Daemon barely got a word in before Jarman Waters tugged his sleeve from behind. The one-eyed captain kept his voice low, but his tone was all business.
"Three strangers in the corner booth, Highness. Look like Narrow Sea merchants to me. I've got eyes on them already."
Bodemyr Tarth—white cloak still spotless—strode straight to Grey Ghost, scooped the little dragon up like he weighed nothing, and cradled him gently. "No wandering off, buddy. Too many boots in here."
At the door, Edwin Tarth tried to slip in behind his brother, half a honey cake still in his fist. Bodemyr spotted him instantly and hauled him over by the collar.
"What are you doing here? Brienne told you to stay at the Red Keep practicing with her!"
Edwin ducked his head. "Brienne said… uh… keep an eye on you so you don't let Little Daemon get dragged into trouble with Big Daemon."
That got another roar of laughter from the room. Bodemyr's ears turned pink, but he just muttered, "One watered-down ale for you, and that's it."
In the far corner, Larys Strong lounged back in his chair, cane resting against his leg, nursing a light ale. He looked half-asleep, but his ears were wide open, catching every whisper about Narrow Sea trade routes and Tyroshi politics. His fingers tapped a silent code on his palm—new intel for later.
Rayford Rosby sat at the next table, ledger open in front of him, but he wasn't reading it. Rupert Crabb had dragged him there and was already complaining.
"Brienne told me to keep an eye on you and not let Big Daemon get you drunk. And Princess Gael sent this whole jug of plain water in case you try."
Daemon glanced at the water jug and couldn't help smiling.
Before he could answer, Daemon Targaryen shoved a fresh mug of ale into his hand.
"Don't listen to Rayford! Gael just worries about you. Tonight we drink like kings!"
He cupped his hands and yelled toward the Reach table. "Mace! Olifa! Lucas! And you, Ellyn—even though little Horas is here, don't hide behind your little brother acting all proper! Get over here!"
The Reach crew was already deep in it. Mace Florent poured for the oldest, Olifa Oakheart. Lucas Tyrell, Rickard Rowan, and Tommen Peck were swapping stories about the Reach harvest. Ellyn Redwyne—green robes spotless—frowned at his little brother Horas and Rickard.
"You two are too young for the strong stuff. Ale only."
Horas blinked innocently. "But the prince is younger than us and he's drinking."
Ellyn sighed, poured them each half a mug, and muttered, "Just this once."
The Stormlanders had claimed two full tables, looking like a reunion from the Mistwood days.
Lorent Grandison leaned back yawning but still stuffing roast into his mouth. Roland Connington was deep in war stories with the Fell brothers—Thurgood and Willis—reliving the moment the dragonfire broke the chain at Tyrosh. Eric Dondarrion and Criston Cole sat quietly polishing swords in the corner. Jasper Wylde and Michael Mertyns were huddled together, whispering about the latest raven from Storm's End and the Dornish border.
Bryce Caron and Robin Beesbury were the prettiest pair in the room besides the two royal Daemons—Bryce in bright yellow with his nightingale sigil gleaming, passing out meat with that easy smile that matched his house words. Robin—tall, pale, and striking—listened with quiet amusement, occasionally brushing crumbs off Bryce's shoulder.
Arstan Selmy moved among them like a gentle breeze, silver flagon in hand, topping off everyone's cups. "Drink slow, lads. Borros told the owner everything's on his tab tonight!"
The cheer that went up shook the rafters. Borros slammed the table. "Damn right! My coin, my round—keep 'em coming!"
Daemon looked around at all of it and felt something warm settle in his chest.
Myles and Tybolt still arguing with Borros. Ellyn getting talked into one more round by his little brother. Bodemyr lecturing Edwin while secretly letting him have a sip. Larys pretending to nap but filing away every scrap of gossip. Grey Ghost happily gnawing on a sausage Arstan had slipped him.
"What are you smiling at?" Daemon Targaryen bumped his mug against Daemon's, eyes sparkling. "If you don't start drinking, Borros is gonna finish your share too!"
Daemon clinked back. The rich ale tasted like victory.
He thought about the blood at Tyrosh, the weight of the council meetings, and then looked at the loud, messy, loyal crew around him—the brothers who had bled with him, laughed with him, and now just wanted to celebrate.
The sun outside dipped lower. Laughter and clinking mugs kept rolling.
Grey Ghost burped, nuzzled Daemon's ankle.
Jarman gave Harlan a subtle nod—corner was clear.
Larys opened one eye and jotted a quick note.
Bodemyr finally caved and poured Edwin half an ale.
Daemon raised his mug again, letting the warmth sink in.
Otto's schemes, Dorne's grudges, the shadows beyond the Wall—those could wait.
Right now, surrounded by these men who would follow him into hell and back, all he wanted was this golden, slightly drunk moment of peace.
Because with them at his side, any storm still coming—he'd face it laughing.