By the time the noise of the tourney grounds was swallowed by the night, hundreds of torches were already burning in the castle's Great Hall. Gilded candelabras illuminated tables laden with roast boar and mead. The rich scent of spices mixed with the pungency of strong spirits, weaving a lazy yet fervent net beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen had just unclasped his mud-stained cloak when an arm hooked around his elbow.
Daemon Targaryen swirled his wine goblet, his gaze landing on the red rose crown nestled in the crook of the other's arm. He raised an eyebrow. "What? Won the crown but can't bear to give it away? Planning to sleep on it?"
Before he could finish, Rhaenys walked over holding a silver cup, her violet eyes rippling with teasing laughter. "Does our little Daemon have a sweetheart? Do you think your sister here isn't worthy of the title 'Queen of Love and Beauty'?" She deliberately glanced at the flower crown in his arm, but her fingertips lightly touched the dragon crest on his chest—a shallow dent made by a lance during the joust, showing a trace of imperceptible concern.
Daemon looked down at the night dew on the flower crown, then looked up to meet Jocelyn Baratheon's gaze. That look suddenly reminded him of how she had looked at him that afternoon—a vortex of extreme complexity:
There was deep resentment against the unfair fate that took her beloved husband Aemon;
There was the trance-like stinging pain brought by his face, so strikingly similar to her late husband's;
And beneath the ice, there even surged a trace of almost instinctive pity for his "tragic background." That gaze was like a fine needle, pricking him lightly.
When he looked up again, his vision collided with a web of intersecting gazes:
Queen Alysanne sat on the dais, silver hair falling like moonlight, her eyes gentle but carrying the scrutiny unique to a grandmother;
Princess Gael was whispering with Aemma, turning to give him a shallow smile—pale and fragile, filled with childlike innocence, like a small flower easily withered. It stung him instantly, looking so much like the gentle, frail Daenerys he first met in his memories of a past life;
Alicent Hightower stood in the corner holding a cup, her lapis lazuli eyes shining startlingly bright, like stars in the dark night;
There were even several noble maidens from across the Seven Kingdoms, just come of age, blushing as they stole glances at him.
"I..." Just as he was about to speak, Viserys raised his cup and laughed loudly. "Who cares who he gives it to? Penalty first! Three cups for the champion! Today he actually made our 'Rogue Prince' taste the mud!"
Amidst the roar of laughter in the hall, Daemon was forced to drink half a flagon of dragonblood wine. The liquid burned his throat but couldn't suppress the turmoil in his heart.
Queen Alysanne gave him the "grandmother's love" he never had in his past life; Rhaenys had treated him like a brother since his rebirth, close as real siblings; cousin-in-law Aemma was always gentle, treating him like her own brother; and Gael's fragile, familiar gaze left his mind unsettled...
These warm bonds were treasures he had never possessed in the blood and fire of his past life, nor dared to hope for.
At this moment, this crown felt like a red-hot branding iron.
"Why not give it to Princess Rhaenyra?" Borros Baratheon suggested loudly, winking. "She is the most favored little princess today! The future Queen, perhaps!"
The laughter grew louder. Daemon followed the sound and saw Rhaenyra being held in Aemma's arms. Her small fist unconsciously clutched a lock of Queen Alysanne's silver hair. Her violet eyes were half-open, her small mouth slightly pouty, clearly having zero interest in this noise or the crown symbolizing "Love and Beauty."
"Good idea!" Viserys was in high spirits, shouting through the wine. "Give it to my daughter! To my future Queen!" He strode over and took the red rose crown from Daemon's hand, his movements carrying the clumsiness and pride of a new father.
Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.
Viserys walked to Aemma's side and carefully, even somewhat exaggeratedly, hovered the flower crown over the sleeping Rhaenyra's head, eliciting another round of good-natured laughter and applause from the crowd.
The bright red roses against the infant's soft silver-gold hair and pink face created a strange yet heartwarming picture.
Aemma smiled gently, and Queen Alysanne nodded with a smile.
Watching the crown finally hover over the little princess, the subtle burden in Daemon's heart finally dissipated.
Halfway through the night feast, he made an excuse to get some air and walked into the courtyard. Moonlight shattered into silver on the fountain. From the distant Dragonpit came a low dragon roar—The Cannibal seemed to sense his mood, the sound carrying a soothing note.
The cold night wind scattered some of the heat brought by the wine and noise.
"Targaryen blood truly has a knack for unsettling the mind."
A low voice sounded from behind. Daemon turned to see Tymond Lannister standing in the shadows. His green eyes glinted coldly in the moonlight, like deep pools.
The Lord of the Westerlands had kept a low profile since losing the contest for Master of Coin, but now he wore a velvet coat embroidered with the lion sigil, toying with a gold ring in his hand—a movement accompanied by the subtle sound of metal friction.
"Lord Lannister seeks me out late at night for more than just this, I assume." Daemon's hand unconsciously went to his waist—where Blackfyre should have been, but he had left it in the Great Hall.
Tymond chuckled, the sound seeming abrupt in the quiet courtyard. He stepped closer, moonlight illuminating half his face, making the other half look even more sinister. "I once thought you would be another Daemon Targaryen. Proud, sharp, like unpolished Valyrian steel. But what you said in the arena today—'Against family, I don't use real blades'—surprised me." He paused, spinning the gold ring faster, creating an irritating click. "The gold mines of the Westerlands are bottomless, enough to support an army that can sweep the Seven Kingdoms. Lions never make a losing trade. If you wish... to see your banner flying over the Red Keep..."
"My Lord." Daemon interrupted him, his voice calm but carrying an unquestionable firmness, like steel striking steel. "My father was Prince Aemon Targaryen. My grandfather is King Jaehaerys Targaryen. The sword Blackfyre in my hand is the heritage of House Targaryen, not a banner of rebellion." He looked straight into Tymond's eyes, his violet pupils profound in the moonlight.
The smile on Tymond's face froze instantly, like a poorly made mask. A trace of astonishment flashed through his green eyes, immediately replaced by a knowing, heavily mocking sneer. "Heh... It seems Targaryen kinship buys loyalty better than the mountains of gold in the Westerlands." He turned to leave but stopped, turning his face half-back. Shadows obscured his expression, leaving only cold words drifting in the night wind: "You will regret this, boy. Blood may be warm, but it is also the fickle thing. Remember my words."
As the heavy footsteps disappeared at the end of the corridor, a hint of fish-belly white appeared on the eastern horizon. Daemon looked at the rising dawn, tinged with faint rose, and took a deep breath of the crisp air.
He remembered the rebellion he had launched in his past life that swept the Seven Kingdoms, remembered the countless nobles who bled rivers and piled corpses high for the word "legitimacy."
Back then, he thought power was everything—the cold Iron Throne, the bloodstained crown.
But now, what his palm felt gripping Blackfyre was something heavier and warmer than steel—the genuine smiling faces cheering for him in the stands; the warm fingertips passing him wine cups; the unspoken but omnipresent care.
"Cannibal." He whispered toward the Dragonpit, his voice light as a sigh but carrying unprecedented determination. "I won't walk the old path. Never!"
A long, low dragon roar came from the distance, piercing the thin mist like a heavy response, or perhaps a sigh for the past.
The noise of the banquet hall finally subsided completely. A new day was slowly unfolding over the lands of the Targaryens with the rising sun.
As Daemon turned to leave, a rose petal was blown into the water by the wind, drifting away with the morning light—
And on the cold stone rim of the fountain, the red rose crown that once belonged to the "Queen of Love and Beauty" lay quietly, forgotten in the dawn.
Crystal dew slowly dripped from the full petals. One drop, then another, silently seeping into the stone cracks like silent tear tracks.
Soaked by the morning dew, the red appeared increasingly bright and piercing, like an uncoagulated, unfinished ending, emitting a faint glow in the quiet dawn.
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