read more inpatreon Caveleather
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: Dragon Knight of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
The morning mist over King's Landing hadn't even burned off yet when the wind off Blackwater Bay carried the warm, scaled scent of dragons across the city walls.
The first to stir were the kids from Flea Bottom. They kicked through the still-warm crumbs of barley cakes and spilled out into the streets, craning their necks at the rainbow silk banners streaming from the Red Keep's arrow loops all the way down to the River Gate.
But what really made them whoop were the shadows in the clouds.
The Cannibal's massive black wings swept past the bell towers, the downdraft snatching a baker's straw hat clean off his head. Dreamfyre's pale-blue scales caught the sunrise like glacial ice, Princess Gael's silver hair streaming behind her like moonlight wrapped around the dragon's neck. Caraxes was the showiest of all—Daemon Targaryen had gotten special permission today, and the Blood Wyrm spat a small jet of scarlet flame that turned the fountain in the square gold-red in the early light.
Vhagar, Meleys, Vermithor, and Silverwing flew in formation behind them, their riders watching the city below.
"More dragons than at the Golden Wedding!" Old Tom the mead-seller in Flea Bottom poked the blacksmith next to him. "I was just a boy in 49 AC. Back then the only dragons you saw with riders were Dreamfyre, Vermithor, and Silverwing. Now there are more dragons still in the Dragonpit than were flying that day. And what's that little pale one?"
The blacksmith squinted. "That's Grey Ghost, the wild one Prince Daemon tamed. Big Daemon says our Blackfyre Prince has such a way with dragons he can charm the wild ones right off Dragonstone."
A roar went up from the crowd as the Red Keep's main gates swung open. Twelve gold cloaks on white horses formed an honor guard. Today they wore royal crimson cloaks embroidered with black three-headed dragons instead of their usual gold, their silver armor flashing bright in the sun.
Daemon walked at the head of the procession.
He wore a deep black velvet doublet, the collar and cuffs embroidered in gold with three-headed dragons. His silver-gold hair hung loose to his broad shoulders, still carrying a trace of morning dew at the tips. His face was clean-shaven, violet eyes like polished amethysts in the sunlight, nose straight, lips firm. If it weren't for the dark Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre hanging at his hip, and the quiet, mysterious confidence that always clung to him, anyone might have mistaken him for Aegon the Conqueror stepped out of legend.
"Gods be good, he's even better-looking than the paintings," the washerwomen by the River Gate whispered, their wooden paddles forgotten in their hands.
A young girl blushed and offered him a bunch of wild roses. Daemon smiled, took them, and tucked one into Gael's hair as she walked beside him. She wore a sea-green silk gown Rhaenys had commissioned from Driftmark's best seamstress, the hem embroidered with tiny dragon-scale patterns. Her pale violet eyes stayed fixed on Daemon's profile, her ears flushed pink.
As they moved through the crowd, Daemon's gaze swept the square.
Borros Baratheon was hoisting a huge tankard of ale and challenging Brandon Stark to a drinking contest, spilling half of it down his chest and not caring. He spotted Daemon and bellowed, "Little Daemon! You and me later—I've sharpened my blade!"
Brandon joined in, his longbow still strung with a fluffy white-fox tail hanging from it—a betrothal gift from Benjen and Lysa Stark on behalf of Lord Eddard.
Daemon waved back with a grin, but Jocelyn Baratheon tugged his sleeve.
"Don't get rowdy with those louts," she said, eyes full of affection as she straightened his collar. "You're the groom today. If you spill wine on that doublet, Gael and Rhaenys will never let you hear the end of it."
Her fingers brushed the right side of his neck, where the black three-headed dragon brand marked his shoulder—the brand he'd had since he woke in this time. Jocelyn had wept the first time she saw it, calling it proof that Prince Aemon was watching over him from the heavens.
Daemon took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry, Mother. I know how to behave."
Jocelyn's eyes misted. It was the first time he'd called her "Mother" so naturally.
She turned and saw Rhaenys approaching with Laena and Laenor. Laena was riding on Corlys's shoulders, blowing a little seashell horn. "Daemon uncle! I brought you pearls from Driftmark!"
Laenor hid behind Rhaenys, clutching a handkerchief he'd embroidered himself with a silver seahorse—stitches crooked but full of love.
"Slow down or you'll trip," Rhaenys said, setting Laena down and patting Daemon's arm. "You look good today. Much better than that outfit you wore at Highgarden."
Corlys nodded, wearing a deep-blue brocade robe with a string of sea-sapphires at his belt—a gift from a Braavosi friend. "Envoys from across the Narrow Sea have arrived. A Volantene noble just asked if his sons could train in swordplay under you. Your name carries more weight now than Prince Aemon's did at your age."
Daemon was about to reply when a clear chime of bells rang out.
Queen Alysanne walked arm-in-arm with King Jaehaerys. The Old King wore a gold-embroidered cream robe and carried an ivory cane made from his old dragon-saddle straps. Alysanne's silver hair was pinned up with a pearl clasp—the token of their own betrothal.
"My children," Jaehaerys said, taking Daemon's hand. His palm was wrinkled but strong. "This is a good day. Even the gods are smiling."
He looked up. Vermithor circled above the Red Keep, bronze scales turning the sunlight golden. "In 49 AC, when my mother Queen Alyssa and Lord Rogar Baratheon wed, it wasn't this grand."
Alysanne added with a laugh, "I was only thirteen then. Your grandfather and I hid in a tent eating honey cakes and got scolded by my mother and sister."
She took Gael's hand and slipped a silver ring onto her finger. "This belonged to your grandmother. They say it brings good fortune."
Gael's cheeks flushed deeper. She looked almost like the shy "Winter Child" again. "Thank you, Mother."
Another cheer went up as Prince Baelon arrived.
He wore armor accented with Vhagar-green, his old wound making him move a little stiffly, but his back was straight. He clapped Daemon on the shoulder with mock seriousness. "My youngest son—take good care of your Aunt Gael. If I hear you've mistreated her, I'll thrash you even if you have The Cannibal at your back."
Daemon smiled, warmth spreading in his chest. Since arriving in this time, Baelon had treated him like his own son—teaching him to ride dragons, strategy, and standing up for him in council.
He thought of his previous life at the Redgrass Field, raising his banner alone, dying with almost no one at his side. Now he had Jocelyn, Baelon, Gael, and so many others who truly cared.
The betrothal ceremony took place in the Red Keep's courtyard.
A high platform had been built in the center, covered in red carpet embroidered with three-headed dragons by the royal weavers. Two long curved tables flanked it, with a round table in the middle. The left held the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, the right the envoys from across the Narrow Sea, and the center was for House Targaryen's close kin.
Tables groaned under roast boar, smoked salmon, honey cakes, Arbor wine, and northern ice-wine chilled in the cellars.
Grand Maester Arryn stood on the platform with a thick history book—the same one Grand Maester Benifer had used to record the Golden Wedding. He cleared his throat, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
"Never in the history of Westeros has there been a more magnificent event," he began, echoing Benifer's words from the Golden Wedding. "The Golden Wedding of 49 AC united House Targaryen and House Baratheon, strengthening the dragon's rule over the realm. Today's betrothal joins Prince Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen and Princess Gael Targaryen—not only in love but in true dragon blood—a new pinnacle for the Iron Throne and all Westeros, from the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea, from the Summer Isles to the lands beyond the Wall, every eye is upon us."
The crowd roared.
Daemon led Gael onto the platform.
A servant handed him a maple-wood harp with silver strings and tiny dragon carvings. He sat and began to play.
The melody flowed gently, a song his mother Daena had hummed in his first life mixed with the warmth of this one—loneliness in the Dragonstone cells, the long tour through the Seven Kingdoms, the battles, and the love he'd found here.
Gael stood beside him, fingers lightly resting on his right shoulder where the black dragon brand lay hidden beneath cloth. She felt the warmth of it, just like the first time they'd met at the Red Keep gates.
The courtyard fell silent.
Borros set down his tankard. Brandon lowered his bow. Even Grey Ghost lay down, ears perked.
Alicent Hightower stood in the crowd, clutching a violet-embroidered handkerchief Gael had given her. Tears pricked her eyes as she watched Daemon's profile.
Mysaria stood nearby, fingering a necklace Daemon and Gael had bought for her on the Street of Silk. Her gaze held gratitude and something deeper, remembering that wild night.
Johanna Swann watched from the side, cheeks flushed, remembering Gael's words at Stonehelm: "You're one of us now." In her mind, those words had slowly become Daemon's.
Bethany Hightower leaned against a pillar with a cup of wine, eyes fixed on the brand she knew lay beneath his clothes. She was fascinated by the mystery of this man who could tame wild dragons and command loyalty so easily.
In a shadowed corner, Alys Rivers watched under her hood, a knowing smile on her lips. She saw the comet in her visions, the Long Night approaching, and Daemon's role in it all. Her fingers brushed the herbs in her pouch that could induce visions.
Larys Strong stood nearby with Harwin and Lyonel, wine cup in hand, his gaze wary as he noticed Alys watching Daemon.
The music swelled, carrying Daemon's past loneliness and present warmth across the courtyard. For the first time in either of his lives, he felt truly home.
The sun climbed higher, bathing King's Landing in golden light as the betrothal of the Black Dragon and the Winter Child began under the watchful eyes of dragons and gods alike.
---