The morning sun over Volantis brought no gentle dawn, only a stifling, oppressive heat that baked the high marble walls of the palace until the air grew thick as wool.
Daemon sat on the edge of his feather mattress, staring at his palms. The blood from his nightmare was gone—it had been nothing more than a bad dream, a chaotic fever-vision of dark iron and screaming men—but the skin over his knuckles was real enough: raw, purpled, and split from six hours of yesterday's sword drills. Every muscle in his shoulders throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.
Beside his boots, Sela moved with the quiet stealth of a ghost.
The ten-year-old girl knelt on the cold stone, a bronze bowl of water and a tin of green willow-salve beside her. Her dark, honey-brown waves fell forward, hiding her small face as her trembling fingers carefully spread the cooling ointment over his raw knuckles.
"Softly, Sela," Daemon murmured, his voice low enough that the elephant-guards outside his chamber door would not hear.
"I am sorry, My Prince," she squeaked instantly, flinching as if she expected a backhand. Her soft hazel eyes flicked up to his, wide with the perpetual terror of a Lysene slave who knew how easily bone broke beneath an overseer's lash. "Does it burn?"
"No," Daemon lied. He looked at her small, thin wrist, where the faint scar of an iron slave-shackle still marked her skin. Malaquo had gifted her to him on his tenth birthday like a trinket from a market stall. A boy king should have something of his own to command, the Triarch had purred with that oily Volantene smile.
Daemon reached out with his uninjured hand and gently touched her shoulder. "Your hands are gentle, Sela. You are doing well."
Sela let out a tiny, shuddering breath, a faint, fragile smile touching her lips before she quickly ducked her head back to her work. "I saved the candied fig from your supper tray, Your Highness. I hid it behind the heraldry scrolls."
"Keep it for yourself," Daemon whispered. "If my mother sees fruit in my chambers, she will say it makes the blood soft."
"A king's blood must never be soft," a cool, sharp voice declared from the doorway.
Sela gasped, dropping the salve tin. It clattered loudly across the marble floor. In a heartbeat, the girl pressed her forehead flat against the stone, her small frame shivering in absolute silence.
Daena Blackfyre stood in the threshold.
Framed by the harsh morning light, she was striking in a gown of heavy violet silk slashed with black satin along the sleeves. Her silver-gold hair cascaded like a frozen waterfall down her back. Her purple eyes swept over the room—dismissing Sela as merely part of the furniture—before settling on her son.
"You are late rising, Daemon," Daena said, stepping into the muggy warmth. Her scent—bitter almond and dried nightshade—drifted around them.
"I was wrapping my hands, Mother," Daemon said, standing erect. He pulled his shoulders back, lifting his chin just as she had taught him.
Daena glided across the marble floor and stopped before him. She did not kneel, nor did she coddle him, but her hand rose to firmly take his wrist, turning his palm up into the sunlight. Her thumb pressed against his split knuckles, testing the swell. Daemon winced slightly, but she held his hand steady, inspecting the injury with the exacting eye of a commander who cared deeply for her champion.
"Six hours with the Tyroshi bravo," she noted, her voice carrying a quiet, fierce pride beneath its sharp edge. "The skin is split, but your grip is growing heavier. Good."
She released his hand and cupped his jaw, her thumb resting against his cheekbone. Her touch was firm and possessive, carrying the fierce, demanding love of a queen who saw her entire legacy resting on this eleven-year-old boy's shoulders.
"I know the drills are punishing, Daemon," she said softly, looking straight into his eyes. "I know your shoulders ache. But I demand this of you because the world across the Narrow Sea is full of wolves. The Usurper sits upon the Iron Throne in King's Landing, drinking himself blind while his dogs wear our stolen crowns. When we return, they will not show you mercy because you are young. You must be hard enough to shatter them."
"I understand, Mother," Daemon said, his chest tightening with a deep need to prove himself to her.
A small, proud smile touched Daena's lips—cool, regal, but entirely genuine. She smoothed a stray lock of silver hair behind his ear, her touch lingering with brief, fierce affection. "You look pale this morning. Did you sleep poorly?"
Daemon's heart thudded against his ribs. To him, it had just been a foolish nightmare, a child's fever-dream brought on by heat and bruised knuckles. But looking into her proud face, he refused to show weakness.
"I slept soundly, Mother," Daemon lied, holding her gaze. "I dreamed of the black dragon flying over the sea."
Satisfied, Daena nodded, her eyes flashing with quiet triumph. "The dragons will fly again, my son. So long as you remember who you are."
She glanced down at Sela, who remained pressed flat against the floorboards. Daena's voice dropped into a measured, instructive tone.
"Send the slave girl away, Daemon. It is fine that she wraps your hands, but do not seek comfort in her. A king may treat his servants well, but he must never lean on them. If Malaquo sees that you care for a slave, he will view it as a weakness to exploit."
"I will be careful, Mother," Daemon replied.
"I know you will." Daena smoothed the shoulders of his dark tunic with a quick, practiced motion. "Dress in black and silver. The Triarch expects us on the high loggia, and I will not have him think us unprepared."
She turned and swept from the chamber, her violet silks rustling against the stone.
Daemon stood motionless until her footsteps faded. He looked down at Sela, who was slowly lifting her frightened face.
"Go to the gardens, Sela," Daemon whispered, picking up the tin of salve and pressing it into her palm. "Stay by the fountain until noon."
"Yes, My Prince," she breathed, taking the tin before slipping behind the heavy wall tapestries.
The high loggia of the palace sat beneath the full brunt of the Volantene sun. Below, the ancient city sprawled like a sleeping beast of basalt and black stone, bisected by the massive, muddy expanse of the Rhoyne. The air up high offered no relief from the heat, carried on a heavy river breeze that smelled of silt, roasted peacock, and the thick incense of the Red Temple.
Triarch Malaquo Maegyr sat at the center of a grand table of carved teak, draped in robes of green and gold velvet that signified his standing among the Old Blood. He was a plump man, but his eyes—dark, small, and sharp as obsidian needles—never ceased moving.
Four palace guards in lacquered armor and tall, crested helmets stood behind his chair, their hands resting on the pommels of their curved scimitars.
"Ah, the dragonlings grace us with their presence," Malaquo purred in smooth, melodic High Valyrian as Daena and Daemon approached. He gestured grandly to the table, laden with iced melons, poached figs, dark wine, and roasted quail stuffed with pomegranates. "Come, sit. My kitchen-slaves have prepared the sweet pastries the boy favors."
"Daemon eats meat and bread, Triarch," Daena said smoothly, placing a hand on the small of Daemon's back to guide him to his chair. "He does not need Volantene sugar to build his frame."
Malaquo smiled, a thin, patronizing curve of his lips that did not reach his dark eyes. He leaned back, tearing a leg from a roasted quail with his ringed fingers.
"Always so fierce, Daena," Malaquo chuckled softly. "Even as a guest in my house. You speak as if the Golden Company were already waiting at the city gates with ten thousand spears." He turned his gaze to Daemon, scanning the eleven-year-old boy from his silver hair down to his broad, black-clad shoulders. "And how is our little king today? Did the Tyroshi bravo teach you how to hold a sword, or did he merely teach you how to bleed?"
Daemon felt a hot flush of blood rise to his neck. Deep in his chest, a heavy, chaotic ember flickered—a dark, furious spark that wanted to shatter the Triarch's wine goblet against his fat, smiling face.
Control it, Daemon told himself, pressing his bruised knuckles hard into his thighs beneath the table. You are a dragon. You are ice.
"Ser Vario says my footwork improves, My Lord," Daemon replied, his voice measured, smooth, and stripped of all emotion. "He says by next moon, I will be ready for heavy steel."
"Heavy steel!" Malaquo laughed, a booming sound that made the guards behind him shift their stance. "Listen to him! An eleven-year-old boy talking of heavy steel. You Westerosi are all the same—obsessed with iron and blood. Look at him, Daena. He has the silver hair of Old Valyria, but he builds muscle like a dray-horse. He will be wider than he is tall if you keep feeding him raw beef."
Daena's eyes flashed with sharp, aristocratic disdain. She set her goblet down with a deliberate clink, leaning forward to meet the lord's condescension.
"He builds the frame required to wear plate mail, Triarch," Daena said coldly. "The King Who Bore the Sword was knighted at twelve years old. My son is eleven, yet he trains six hours a day in this heat without complaint. When he crosses the Narrow Sea, he will not be cut down by Westerosi knights because he was bred soft on silk cushions."
"If he ever sees Westeros," Malaquo corrected softly, the patronizing warmth vanishing from his voice, replaced by the cold, calculating edge of a Volantene ruler. "The Elephants hold the Council this year, Daena. The Triarchs have no desire to fund a war against King Robert. The Usurper's trade ships bring gold to our harbors. Why should Volantis bleed to put a Blackfyre on a chair of swords?"
"Because you swore an oath to my father's memory," Daena said, her voice dropping an octave, vibrating with lethal intensity. "Because the Old Blood does not forget a debt."
"The Old Blood forgets nothing," Malaquo agreed smoothly, taking a slow sip of his spiced wine. "Which is why you remain here, safe behind the Black Walls, eating my quail and drinking my wine. You are my honored guests, Daena. But a guest who forgets their place becomes a burden."
Malaquo reached out, his heavy, ringed hand dropping onto Daemon's shoulder. He patted the boy's back with condescending affection, his thick fingers pinching the meat of Daemon's broad shoulder.
"Be patient, little dragon," Malaquo whispered, smiling tightly at the boy. "You live in paradise here behind the Black Walls. You have fine clothes, a soft bed, and a sweet little Lysene maid to wash your feet. Why trade all this comfort for the cold rain of Westeros?"
Daemon sat rigid. Where Malaquo's hand touched his shoulder, Daemon felt an overwhelming, suffocating surge of heat. It was not the cold, majestic fire his mother spoke of. It was a thick, black, violent rage—a terrifying, primal urge to grab the Triarch's wrist, snap the bones like dry twigs, and tear the smile from his face.
His vision edged with red. His dark indigo eyes fixed onto Malaquo's throat, his heart pounding with a heavy, deafening cadence.
Underneath the table, Daemon's hands clenched into tight fists. A hairline crack split down the side of the wooden table leg where his knee jammed against it, hidden beneath the heavy silk tablecloth.
Daena's hand immediately moved beneath the table, wrapping firmly around Daemon's forearm. Her grip was tight, steady, and commanding—holding him back from ruining himself before his time, anchoring his wild temper with her own icy discipline.
Daemon took a slow, agonizing breath. He forced his muscles to relax, pulling the dark rage back down into the deep cellar of his mind. He lifted his head and met the Triarch's dark gaze without flinching.
"I am grateful for your hospitality, Triarch Malaquo," Daemon said, his voice flat, regal, and entirely devoid of youth. "I am sure my mother and I will find a way to repay your generosity... in full."
Malaquo blinked, a brief shadow of uncertainty crossing his plump features as he looked into the boy's dark, stormy indigo eyes. For a fraction of a second, the Triarch drew his hand back from Daemon's shoulder, as if he had accidentally touched a piece of hot iron.
Before Malaquo could speak, a captain of the palace guard stepped onto the loggia, bowing low.
"Forgive the interruption, My Lord Triarch," the captain said in rapid Volantene Valyrian. "A Westerosi ship has docked at the river quays. A knight from the sunset lands demands an audience behind the Black Walls. He wears battered steel and carries an orange shield bearing three black castles."
Daena's head snapped up, her purple eyes suddenly blazing with a fierce, terrifying light. She squeezed Daemon's arm tight.
"House Peake," she whispered, her voice trembling with the first genuine emotion Daemon had heard all morning. "The Lords of Starpike have come."