The lingering warmth of the Grand Tourney had not yet dissipated, but the streets of King's Landing were already gradually returning to their usual rhythm. Knights polished their armor, merchants reopened their stalls, and only the dragon shadows circling above the Dragonpit remained to remind the people of the grand event that belonged to House Targaryen.
The nobles began to depart one after another.
Before leaving, Brandon Stark of the North gifted Daemon a dagger with a direwolf bone hilt, calling it "a warrior's respect for a warrior."
Duke Matthos Tyrell of the Reach patted him on the shoulder, joking, "Next time, don't let the roses of House Tyrell get muddy again."
Even Borros Baratheon made a point to detour in front of him, dropping a line: "Blackfyre boy, next time we meet in the Stormlands, I'll let you taste a real battle axe—the flat side, of course," before slapping his shoulder and leaving with a loud laugh.
Daemon returned the courtesies one by one, until he saw the procession from the Vale preparing to depart.
Aemma's half-brother, Lord Arryn, was holding the reins of his horse. His wife stood in the sunlight, smiling gently while holding their young son.
Daemon suddenly recalled fragmented records from his past life—this Lord would encounter a wildling raid on his return journey, and not a single soul of his family would survive.
Perhaps out of gratitude for Aemma's care, he stepped forward quickly, grabbing Lord Arryn's sleeve just before he mounted. "My Lord," he lowered his voice, his violet eyes holding a rare gravity. "On the road back to the Vale, especially around the Mountains of the Moon, please be extra careful. The wildlings... seem restless lately."
Lord Arryn paused, then chuckled. "Thank you for the warning, but wildlings only dare to wander beyond the Wall. They can't cross the Mountains of the Moon." He patted the back of Daemon's hand. "Rest assured, I will take care of myself."
Daemon watched his retreating figure, his throat tightening slightly.
He knew how stubborn the inertia of history was, yet he couldn't help but offer this futile warning—just like in his past life on the battlefield, knowing defeat was certain, but still raising his lance.
But what left his mind most unsettled was the sudden farewell of Rhaenys and her family.
The "Sea Snake," Corlys Velaryon, stood on the docks of King's Landing harbor. His sea-blue cloak was whipped high by the salty wind, snapping like an unyielding banner.
Whether out of weariness for the intrigues of the Small Council or because the "Old Mariner" had smelled an approaching storm again, he had ultimately submitted his resignation to the Iron Throne, just as history dictated, removing the silver shell badge of the Master of Ships.
The massive Sea Snake was moored nearby like a dormant sea beast. Sailors were busy with final preparations for departure, their rough shouts interweaving with the sound of waves slapping the hull.
"The ships of High Tide need a captain," he told Daemon. His voice seemed to carry a longing for the ocean, but also hinted at the reason for his departure—the treasures of the sea and the lands across the Narrow Sea still held such allure for him.
Rhaenys, holding Laenor and leading Laena by the hand, had reddened eyes. "I will write to you when we reach High Tide." She pressed a small cloth pouch into his hand, embroidered by her own hand with a dragon crest. "If anyone bullies you, write a letter and put it in here. I will ride Meleys to help you."
Daemon squeezed the warm pouch, watching them board the Sea Snake. As the sails rose, Laena poked her small head out from behind her mother, waving her slender hand. He suddenly remembered Daeron often saying in his past life, "We are family." It wasn't until this moment that he finally understood the weight of those words.
Just as Daemon turned to leave, Rhaenys's voice drifted across the Blackwater: "If you get tired of King's Landing, come to High Tide! You ride The Cannibal; you can go anywhere you want!"
After seeing off the Sea Snake's family, Daemon walked alone on the road back to the Red Keep, feeling empty inside. As soon as he entered the gates, he saw King Jaehaerys sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard, holding a yellowed ancient book, seemingly waiting for him.
"Why do you look so listless?" Jaehaerys closed the book, looking at him with grandfatherly affection in his eyes. "Feeling bad that Rhaenys and the others left?"
Daemon nodded, saying nothing.
"Parting between family is always sad." Jaehaerys patted the stone bench beside him, signaling him to sit. "But you must know, true family, no matter how far apart, are together in heart. High Tide isn't far from King's Landing. If you miss them, just ride The Cannibal over for a visit."
Daemon sat on the bench, feeling a little better listening to his "Grandfather."
Just then, Prince Baelon and Viserys walked over too.
Baelon patted Daemon's shoulder, his tone steady. "A man shouldn't be so sentimental. Rhaenys and the others just went back to High Tide; it's not like you'll never see them again. Besides, you still have us. We are all your family."
Viserys smiled too. "Yes, Daemon. If you need anything in the future, just tell me. I may not compare to Rhaenys and the others, but I can help you plenty."
Daemon looked at them, feeling warm inside.
A moment later, Daemon Targaryen sauntered over, holding a bottle of wine, speaking brashly: "Hey, Blackfyre boy, what's wrong? Looking like a wilted flower. Is it because no one's left to spar with you, feeling bored? Don't worry, whenever I'm free, I'll spar with you anytime."
His carefree manner made Daemon chuckle despite himself.
Princess Gael also walked over timidly, holding a freshly made pastry. She offered it to Daemon, whispering, "Daemon, eat this. You'll feel better after eating."
Daemon took the pastry, touched. He patted the head of Gael, who was actually a few years older than him. "Thank you, Gael."
Aemma arrived holding Rhaenyra, speaking gently: "Daemon, don't be too sad. I will write to Rhaenys often and ask her to tell you more about High Tide. If you miss them, you can tell me too, and I'll remember to tell them in the next letter."
Even Alicent, standing not far away, walked over with a faint smile. "Lord Daemon, I heard you were in low spirits. I made some honey water. Would you like some? It can make one feel more at ease."
Daemon looked at the people before him. Their concern was like a warm current, slowly filling the emptiness in his heart.
He suddenly understood that even if Rhaenys and the others had left, he wasn't alone. He still had so much family in King's Landing.
The appointment from the Small Council soon spread throughout the city—Tymond Lannister got his wish, replacing the Sea Snake as Master of Ships.
When the news came, Daemon was feeding The Cannibal at the Dragonpit. The black giant snorted, the hot breath messing up his silver hair.
"So the Lion got what he wanted," he murmured to himself, his fingertips tracing the patterns on The Cannibal's scales. In his past life, he had worked with the Lannisters and knew the ambition hidden in those green eyes well.
But what caught him most off guard was Jocelyn Baratheon's decision.
On the day the Baratheon procession prepared to return to Storm's End, he met her in the corridors of the Red Keep. She had changed out of her splendid gown into plain traveling clothes, yet she showed no sign of following the procession.
"Are you... not returning to Storm's End?" Daemon couldn't help but ask, his voice a bit dry.
Jocelyn turned. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass onto her face, half bright, half obscure. She looked at him. The complexity in her eyes remained, but with less resentment and more calm. "The wind at Storm's End... is too cold," she said softly. "King's Landing has dragons. Perhaps... it will be warmer."
Daemon froze. He remembered her gaze that day, remembered her loneliness after losing her husband, and suddenly realized this might not be a choice, but a silent struggle—she wanted to be closer to the shadow that resembled her late husband, yet wanted to be farther away from the stinging pain.
"There are empty towers in the Red Keep," he said in a low voice. "You can stay."
Jocelyn didn't answer, simply turning to walk toward the Queen's chambers. Her silhouette stretched long in the corridor, like a cutout worn by time.
Daemon stood there, watching the sunlight move across the flagstones. The noise of departure gradually subsided, but something indefinable had been added to the wind of King's Landing.
Tymond's green eyes flickering in the Small Council, Jocelyn's figure in the corridors of the Red Keep, Lord Arryn's family on the road to the Vale...
He tightened his grip on the cloth pouch in his hand. The Cannibal's roar came from the distance, low and powerful.
Perhaps the river of fate would ultimately flow to its destined ocean, but at least for this moment, he stood on the bank. Those warm bonds, those silent concerns, those unfinished stories—all were waiting for a new chapter under the sun of King's Landing.
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