The heat of Volantis was a living thing, thick and foul with the stink of the muddy Rhoyne, baked dung, and burning wood.
Jonett Peake wiped a sheen of greasy sweat from his forehead with the back of a scarred gauntlet. His steel harness weighed sixty pounds, and every plate felt as if it had been sat in a blacksmith's forge for an hour before he strapped it on. Three years he had spent wandering the Free Cities—from the pleasure houses of Lys to the bloody gutters of Myr—chasing ghosts and half-forgotten tavern rumors. Back in the Reach, his brother sat in the lord's chair at Starpike, having bent the knee to Robert Baratheon to keep their ancestral lands. His brother had called him a madman for leaving, an outcast chasing dead dragons across the sea.
Perhaps his brother was right. Perhaps Jonett was merely a fool, the stubborn second son who couldn't let the black dragon's memory rust.
He certainly had not expected his wild chase to lead here: to the gilded loggia of a Volantene Triarch behind the Black Walls.
The guards in lacquered scale-armor ushered him out onto the open stone terrace. Jonett's hand remained rested on the pommel of his broadsword, his eyes instinctively mapping the room: four spearmen at the perimeter, a fat noble drowning in green velvet, a woman in rich violet silk... and an eleven-year-old boy.
Jonett stopped, his heavy greaves clanking loudly against the polished marble.
The woman turned. Her silver-gold hair fell in a river down her back, and her pale purple eyes locked onto his orange wooden shield. She recognized the faded, blade-scarred sigil of the three black castles instantly.
"House Peake," the silver-haired woman said, her hand moving instinctively to shield the boy beside her. Her voice carried a fierce, electric tension. "You wear the three castles of Starpike, knight. Which of Lord Peake's blood has crossed the Narrow Sea?"
"Ser Jonett Peake, My Lady," he said, the title tasting like ash and iron on his tongue. "Brother to the lord who bent his knee to the Usurper in King's Landing. I came to Volantis following word of a Westerosi merchant fleet, not knowing I would find the blood of the dragon taking shade behind a red wall."
"Who is this?" the fat lord at the table purred in smooth, accentless Valyrian, daintily dabbing a linen napkin against his lips. "Another sunset beggar looking for coin, Captain?"
"I am no beggar, merchant," Jonett growled in his rough Reach accent, completely ignoring the guards whose hands twitched toward their scimitars. His dark, weary eyes moved past the Triarch to fix entirely on the boy.
Jonett had expected a thin, frail youth—the sort of sickly, silver-haired shadow the exile houses usually produced after decades of rot in the Essosi heat. But as the lad stood up, Jonett felt a sudden, quiet shift in the air.
The boy possessed an undeniable stillness. He had the silver hair and high features of Old Valyria, but there was a quiet, solid strength to the way he held himself—a natural balance that belonged to a fighter rather than a spoiled prince.
"By the Seven," Jonett muttered under his breath, stepping closer without asking leave.
"He is Daemon Blackfyre," the mother declared, her chin held high as her hand rested on her son's shoulder. "The blood of the King Who Bore the Sword. My son is eleven, yet he trains six hours a day with the finest Tyroshi water-dancing master money can buy."
Jonett reached out with a rough, calloused hand and seized the boy's right wrist. The palace guards bristled, but the lad didn't flinch—he just stared up at Jonett with those dark, intense indigo eyes.
Jonett turned the boy's palm over, inspecting the skin. "Raw," the knight spat, pressing a thick thumb into the bruised, split knuckles. "Split by light steel and wooden foils. Water-dancing is for Lysene silk-merchants and boys who like to dance in slippers, My Lady. A Tyroshi foil will snap the first time it hits a Reachman's coat of plate."
The boy didn't pull his hand away.
"Ser Vario says footwork matters more than iron," the lad said.
His voice was surprisingly soft—a gentle, silver cadence that sounded every bit like a true Valyrian prince, yet carried a quiet, unwavering calm that caught Jonett off guard.
"Ser Vario is a fool selling you fancy tricks," Jonett growled, though his tone softened slightly despite himself. He released the boy's wrist. "You aren't meant to prick at men with a silver needle, lad. You're made for real steel."
A sudden, sharp emotion flared in the boy's dark eyes.
"Can you teach me?" Daemon asked directly. His voice remained quiet and smooth as silk, yet held a clear, unmistakable edge of purpose. "Can you teach me how to fight like a knight?"
Jonett looked at the boy, then at the mother, whose hand was gripping her son's arm. For three years Jonett had been a wanderer without a lord, while his brother held Starpike under the Usurper's banner. But standing here, listening to this silver-voiced boy with the storm brewing beneath his calm surface, Jonett knew he had not wasted his life.
He dropped hard onto one knee, his heavy iron armor screeching against the marble loggia. He pulled his broadsword from its scabbard and laid the bare, grey steel across his knees.
"I came to these cities looking for a king worth fighting for, Your Grace," Jonett said, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone at the boy's feet. "I am Ser Jonett of House Peake, and my sword, my blood, and my life belong to the true dragon."
Above him, the fat Triarch chuckled softly behind a silk fan. "A dramatic performance, Ser Knight. But oaths do not buy warships, nor do grand words win back stolen thrones. The sun in Volantis will bake the brains right out of the boy's head if you put him in heavy iron."
Jonett stood up with a heavy clank, turning his cold, grey gaze on the Volantene lord. "Good. Because the sun won't stop burning when he lands in the Marches, and the men of Westeros won't wait for the shade."
Daena stepped between Jonett and her son, her tall, regal frame cutting through the tense air on the loggia. Her violet eyes lingered on Jonett for a long, calculating second before a sharp, triumphant smile touched her lips.
"The Tyroshi master is dismissed, then," Daena said, her voice cold, smooth, and carrying the absolute authority of a queen in exile. "He was paid to teach my son grace, but grace will not pierce plate mail. Iron will."
She turned to Daemon, taking his jaw in her firm, slender hand. Her thumb pressed against his cheekbone, her gaze locking onto his dark indigo eyes.
"You hear the knight, Daemon," she whispered, her tone softening just enough for him alone to hear the fierce pride beneath it. "You will wear his steel. You will bleed until the armor fits like skin. When you march on King's Landing, you will be the nightmare of every knight who betrayed your father's name."
"Yes, Mother," Daemon replied, his soft silver voice carrying that eerie, calm resolve.
Satisfied, Daena released him and turned back to Ser Jonett.
"You have your king's vow, Ser Jonett, and you have mine," she declared. "You shall be his sworn shield and his master-at-arms. But know this: if you break him, I will have your hand. If you make him strong, House Peake shall have Dunstonbury and Whitegrove returned to them when we reclaim the Seven Kingdoms."
Jonett bowed his head even lower, his fist pressing hard into the marble stone. "My Lady."
Daena then turned her icy gaze onto Triarch Malaquo, who was quietly watching the exchange over the rim of his wine goblet.
"We leave you to your sweet wine and your quail, Triarch," Daena said smoothly, resting her hand on Daemon's shoulder as she guided him toward the stairs. "We have a kingdom to win back."
Jonett turned to follow the young king, his voice rough and unyielding. "Go put on linen trousers and heavy boots, Your Grace. We start at noon."