The morning light in the Red Keep had just spilled across the stone windows of the intelligence room when the creak of turning hinges shattered it.
Daemon wore a half-worn black velvet cloak, fingertips still carrying the faint ale scent from last night that hadn't quite washed off. For once he stood straight-backed, steps light but steady—no lazy, hungover slouch like usual.
The Royce twins guarding the door overnight froze solid.
Older brother Arwood Royce, still groggy from the long watch, thought he was seeing things. His key ring clattered straight to the floor. Younger brother Yorick Royce slapped a hand on his sword hilt, startled. They traded one wide-eyed look: How the hell is His Highness up this early?
"What's with the panic?" Daemon glanced at them, Blackfyre slung at his hip, the dragon on the scabbard still dotted with morning dew. "Relax, your prince didn't go causing trouble with Big Daemon last night. I'm not hiding from Princess Gael either, so no need to freak out."
The words barely left his mouth before papers hit the floor inside the room.
Rayford Rosby had come in early to sort documents. He was squatting, picking up a stack of parchment, when he saw Daemon. Another scroll slipped from his hand. "Y-Your Highness? What brings you here this morning? Usually at this hour you'd still be out practicing sword—"
He didn't finish. Daemon walked straight to the table, fingertips brushing the spread Narrow Sea map, and Rayford wisely shut up. He quickly passed over the fresh intelligence scrolls. "This just came from the Blackwater Bay docks, plus records on those Iron Islands envoys."
Daemon had barely opened the first scroll when Gael's voice floated down the corridor, edged with worry. "Rayford? Have you seen Little Daemon? Last night Bodemyr told Brienne he got pretty drunk, and when I checked his room this morning he wasn't there—no training yard, no dragon pit—"
The door swung open. Gael stepped in, lifting the hem of her pale violet gown, Mysaria and Johanna right behind as her handmaids. Brienne and Lia stood guard at the doorway, swords ready.
She spotted Daemon at the table with the scroll in hand and her violet eyes flew wide. "Little Daemon? What are you doing here? I figured after all that drinking you'd sleep in like Big Daemon till noon. We went to your room first thing and didn't find you—I thought you hadn't come back yet—"
Before she finished, Bodemyr Tarth—supposed to be guarding Daemon's bedchamber door—walked up scratching his head, black cloak in hand. "Princess, I just went to fetch His Highness's cloak. Didn't expect you'd be here too."
Gael noticed the cloak and laughed softly. "Looks like I came to the right place. You really forgot to dress warmer."
She stepped closer and helped settle the cloak around his shoulders, fingertips brushing his wrist with a gentle squeeze. "No hangover trouble?"
"Not bad," Daemon's ear tips warmed. He was about to say more when Larys Strong's voice drifted in from the corridor, that familiar sly drawl in full swing. "Well, if it isn't our dear princess. What brings you to the intelligence room? Did our Blackfyre prince leave important papers in his bedchamber again?"
Larys limped in on his cane, Jarman Waters behind him.
He took one look at the scene—Daemon at the table, Gael beside him, Rayford with scrolls, Brienne and the others at the door—and dramatically clapped a hand over his mouth, cane tapping the floor. "Old gods and new! How did Westeros's dawn rise from the Sunset Sea today? When did my humble little intelligence room start hosting this many highborns?"
Mysaria, Johanna, and even Lia laughed outright; Brienne and Bodemyr's mouths twitched too.
Daemon set the scroll down and gave Larys a helpless look. "Cut it out. Gael just came to check on me."
"Yes, yes," Larys bowed to Gael with a grin. "Don't worry, Princess—His Highness is unusually diligent today. Must be the betrothal. A true dragon about to get married really does change. Last night's ale didn't even slow him down. Way better than the usual guy who needs three reminders before he'll touch paperwork."
The sly bastard clearly knew who to flatter. Gael burst out laughing and patted Daemon's shoulder. "Looks like I don't need to worry. Since you've got work, we'll leave you to it. I'll have the kitchens send hangover broth later."
She gave Mysaria a few last instructions—"Keep an eye on Little Daemon; don't let either of you skip meals"—then finally led the others out. On the way she shot Larys a mock-stern glare that clearly said Don't you dare trick my Little Daemon.
The door clicked shut. Larys dropped the joking act. He pulled a sharkskin-wrapped parchment from his robe and laid it in front of Daemon. "Your Highness, the Iron Islands envoy Theon Harlaw sent this early this morning through a servant. Personal letter from their new king, Goron Greyjoy, addressed straight to you."
Daemon raised an eyebrow and unwrapped it. He'd been curious what the man could possibly write—maybe a thank-you for taking out both rival brothers?
One dead under his sword, the other "missing" to everyone except Lord Tymond and a few who knew he was rotting in Casterly Rock's dungeons.
But the letter's boot-licking tone nearly made his eyes roll. Pure flattery, page after page of awe, plus the usual "reaving the old way" in the Summer Isles.
Goron's handwriting was crooked but dripping with praise: "—Your Highness's bravery is like the true dragons of ancient Valyria, shaking the Narrow Sea, like Aegon the Conqueror reborn, a warrior descended from the gods. My foolish brothers Uragon and Dagon did not recognize Your Highness's heavenly might and brought ruin upon themselves. This humble servant Goron deeply feels Your Highness's protection, which allowed me to claim the Iron Islands' throne—"
It went on: hearing of the upcoming betrothal to Princess Gael, if the Old King permits, this humble servant would be honored to come to King's Landing, lay down his crown in atonement, and present treasured gifts as a blessing.
He'd already decided to offer strings of Summer Isles gems and a goldenheart bow as a congratulatory gift.
This servant's only wish is to follow the Iron Throne. Should chaos arise in the Narrow Sea, the ships of the Iron Islands stand ready at Your Highness's command—
The flattery was so thick even Larys felt outdone. "This new Iron King and his envoy uncle are cut from the same cloth."
Rayford leaned in, clicked his tongue. "Goron Greyjoy sounds even smoother than his uncle from yesterday's council."
Larys leaned back, cane tapping the letter. "Not necessarily. The uncle's begging attitude this morning was even worse. These Ironborn always believed reaving beats farming, yet here they are bending the knee like pros. Looks like your tour—twice helping clear his rivals—scared them straight. That goldenheart bow is rare, though. Summer Isles specialty, punches through plate. He's going all-in."
Daemon passed the letter to Larys to file and was about to speak when Rayford handed over another scroll, edges still salty from the sea. "Your Highness, this just came from the Blackwater Bay patrol. From Racallio Ryndoon, sent up from the Summer Isles."
Daemon unrolled it. Racallio's handwriting was as sloppy as ever, but smug as hell: "—Little Daemon! Made it to the Summer Isles! Place just got raided by pirates—the natives are soft. I claimed three small islands next to Walano and married some old woman from Zhai Island—
She's the local tribe chief, just lost her husband, and she's got plenty of hardwood and gems—
After you get betrothed to Princess Gael, if you've got time, ride your dragon down. Perfect spot for you nobles to honeymoon.
I'll have my old crew ready with the best coconut wine, and I'll show you the talking trees—the stories carved on them are way better than Westerosi plays—
Oh, and the natives said keep the Ironborn out. I'll beat the shit out of any I see!"
"This guy sure knows how to pick a spot," Jarman muttered, one eye scanning the page. "Claiming islands and going right back to his 'King of the Narrow Sea' routine. Married a widowed chief—probably stirring trouble already."
Larys laughed, finger tapping the Summer Isles map. "Walano and Zhai are big islands. Racallio's little ones block the Ironborn triangle trade route perfectly. Goron wants to keep running Iron Islands–Summer Isles–Slaver's Bay trade? This former King of the Narrow Sea hates slavery. Their ships are going to have a rough time."
Daemon studied the map marked from Corlys's old voyages: Walano's Lotus Port, Obenlu's Laughing Sea, Zhai Island's Redflower Valley, scattered small islands. His fingertip pressed the "goldenheart wood" marker.
He'd heard of the riches—emeralds, rubies, rare hardwoods, nutmeg, cinnamon that fetched high prices in Westeros. Goldenheart bows with range far beyond ordinary arrows. Controlling them would boost royal forces.
He remembered the "talking trees" and the sea lessons from Maester Bernard during the tour with the Redwyne fleet.
Dark-skinned natives, expert archers—rich but fragmented, each island with its own princes and princesses, rarely unified. Conquering it would threaten Dorne from the Sunset Sea. Its value to the Iron Throne would be huge.
"The Summer Isles—" Daemon murmured, meeting Larys's eyes.
Larys read him instantly. Cane tapped the map. "Your Highness sees potential?"
Daemon didn't answer right away. He picked up Racallio's letter again, then Goron's fawning one, an outline forming.
Racallio already had a foothold; Ironborn trade would suffer. The loose structure was perfect for conquest.
He set the letters down, fingertip tracing the Indigo Sea Strait. "Keep tabs on Racallio's movements and every Ironborn trade ship. Watch what they do in the Summer Isles. Have the Shadow Guard map out the princes' alliances."
Larys grinned, excitement flashing. "Rest easy, Your Highness. Within half a month the full Summer Isles dossier will be on your desk."
Jarman watched them, sensing something big but staying quiet. "If Your Highness moves, the Shadow Guard is ready."
Rayford added softly, "Summer Isles hardwood would let King's Landing's shipyards build new vessels—"
Morning light filled the room. Ink gleamed on parchment. The Summer Isles map lay open like an inviting feast.
Daemon studied it, knowing this early scheme for the Summer Isles had only just begun. And this time he wanted more than peace—he wanted the whole rich archipelago.
The game was on.