The chaos in the pavilion did not last long, but the dead silence that followed spread like a plague, pressing down heavily on everyone's chest.
Maesters and handmaidens scrambled to carry the unconscious Aemma back to Maegor's Holdfast. Her face was as grey as ash, like a wax figure drained of life.
Viserys, holding the loudly wailing Rhaenyra, followed beside them like a lost child, his face a tapestry of worry for his wife and immense grief and confusion over the tragic death of his brother-in-law's family.
Queen Alysanne pressed her lips tight, forcing down the stormy waves in her heart. She directed everyone methodically, her hands holding Rhaenyra trembling slightly, but her eyes sharp as a hawk's, scanning the chaotic scene to ensure every detail was handled.
Gael and Alicent were already pale with fright. Gael huddled closely against Alysanne, her pale violet eyes brimming with tears; Alicent's face was white, trying hard to maintain the composure of a lady-in-waiting, though the knuckles gripping the silver pitcher were white.
King Jaehaerys remained seated on the heavy oak chair, as if turned to stone. His deep purple eyes stared dead at the stained parchment scroll in Prince Baelon's hand, as if trying to burn a hole through it.
Sunlight filtered through the trellis onto his wrinkled face, bringing no warmth, but instead deepening the furrows like dried riverbeds. His hand on the armrest trembled slightly, knuckles turning blue-white from the force of his grip.
In the entire pavilion, only Rhaenyra's intermittent sobs and the distant, muffled noise of confusion remained.
Prince Baelon had finished reading every word on the scroll. His chest heaved violently, every breath accompanied by a suppressed wheeze like a bellows.
On that resolute face, grief, anger, and a near-berserk killing intent churned together, finally solidifying into a cold, terrifying iron-grey.
He jerked his head up. His gaze, like a quenched blade, first flayed the trembling messenger kneeling on the ground—making the poor man nearly collapse—then swept over every face in the pavilion, before finally latching onto Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen like a magnet.
That look was no longer simple scrutiny. It carried a heavy, cold inspection that pierced the soul. Shock (How could he know?), grief, and the deepest, almost tangible suspicion—all of it matched his seemingly casual warning from that day far too eerily!
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen endured that gaze. He stood his ground, his twelve-year-old body looking unusually slight under the purple robe, yet his posture remained ramrod straight.
The color had drained from his face, his lips pressed into a pale line. Deep in his violet eyes, complex emotions surged: a sense of powerlessness against the inertia of history, deep sympathy for Aemma and Viserys, openness to Baelon's scrutiny, and a trace of imperceptible... guilt? He had warned them, using the most unobtrusive method he could think of at the time. But the result?
The wheel of fate crushed forward ruthlessly, leaving devastation in its wake.
His fists at his sides clenched tight, nails digging deep into his palms, the sharp pain the only thing balancing the heavy helplessness in his heart.
"Fa... Father?" Daemon Targaryen's voice carried a rare dryness, breaking the suffocating silence. The frivolity and longing on his face had vanished, replaced by shock and confusion. The Vale, Runestone, Rhea Royce... those imaginings of a future marriage were shattered by bloody reality. He had never felt so clearly the lethal danger lurking behind the games of power and marriage. "What... does the letter say? Is it really... everyone?" He couldn't imagine a Duke, along with his family and guards, being slaughtered by wildlings in the Mountains of the Moon!
Baelon did not answer his son immediately. His gaze remained locked on Daemon Blackfyre, as if trying to see through the boy's shell to the secrets hidden in his soul.
Time seemed to freeze, every second stretching infinitely.
Finally, Baelon spoke slowly. His voice was as low as muffled thunder rolling underground, every word carrying the taste of ice shards and rust, smashing into the silent pavilion:
"The Stone Crows... ambushed them at the 'Widow's Wail' canyon east of the Bloody Gate. Over three hundred wildlings, using boulders and fire arrows... not a single survivor from the convoy." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Jaehaerys's aged and grieving face, before finally settling back on Daemon Blackfyre, the scrutiny even heavier. "Lord Arryn's head... was impaled on a spear, set at the entrance of the canyon. The bodies of his lady wife and children... burned to charred remains with the carriages, unrecognizable. The raven... was found on the body of the last guard who fought his way out, only to die of exhaustion."
Hiss—
Sounds of sharp intakes of breath filled the pavilion. Even Baelon, accustomed to the cruelty of the battlefield, couldn't suppress the tremor and sky-high killing intent in his voice as he recounted the details.
King Jaehaerys's body shuddered violently, as if struck by an invisible hammer.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, the purple eyes of the "Conciliator" held only the cold fury of the Dragon King.
That anger did not burn like a wildfire, but flowed like an undercurrent beneath a ten-thousand-year-old glacier, carrying a chill that froze everything and a power of total destruction.
"The Stone Crows..." The old King's voice rose, not loud, but clearly drowning out all subtle noises, carrying the majesty of unquestionable, final judgment. "They have forgotten that dragons have reverse scales, and to touch them is death. They have also forgotten that the wrath of the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms is enough to turn their nests, and the entire mountain range, into scorched earth."
He stood up slowly. His figure looked somewhat stooped in the sunlight, but the aura he exuded was as heavy as a mountain.
He looked at Baelon. Their eyes met, and without words, father and son saw the same will in each other's eyes—a debt of blood must be paid in blood!
"Baelon," Jaehaerys's voice was decisive. "Summon the Small Council. Immediately. Let Vhagar, Caraxes, The Cannibal... be ready." He paused, his gaze seemingly inadvertently passing over Daemon Blackfyre. "All dragons capable of flight, be ready. The Stone Crows, and those mountain clans who dare shelter them... they need a lesson they will remember for eternity, about the temperature of dragonfire."
"Yes, Your Grace!" Baelon responded in a deep voice, suppressing a bloodthirsty craving.
He took one last deep look at Daemon Blackfyre. He didn't want to believe this had anything to do with his nephew, but it was all too coincidental. The look was extremely complex—lingering suspicion, resolve for the coming slaughter, and perhaps a trace of... expectation? Expectation that this enigmatic boy could prove something in the coming blood and fire? Prove his loyalty? Or prove his worth?
Baelon said nothing, simply turning sharply and striding out of the pavilion. His scarlet cloak billowed behind him like a battle flag, carrying a biting murderous aura.
Only Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Gael, Alicent, and the two Daemons remained in the pavilion.
Daemon Targaryen watched his father leave, then looked at his grandfather's cold profile, and finally, his gaze landed on Daemon Blackfyre, whose face remained pale.
The hot blood of youth surged in his chest—worry for his fiancée's family, rage at the wildlings' atrocity, desire to ride to war with his father, and confusion about the mystery surrounding his cousin, all intertwining.
He took a sudden step towards Daemon Blackfyre, his silver hair fluttering in the wind, his purple eyes fixed tight on the other boy:
"You warned Lord Arryn to be careful of wildlings that day." His voice was no longer teasing or brash, but carried unprecedented seriousness and a hint of interrogation. "Now, tell me, brother. Besides 'wildlings are restless,' what else do you know? About this massacre? About the Stone Crows? About..." He paused, his gaze sharp as a knife. "...Why did you know?"
Pressure instantly concentrated on Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen.
Jaehaerys's gaze turned as well, carrying heavy scrutiny.
Queen Alysanne, holding the gradually quieting but still sobbing Rhaenyra, looked at him with deep worry. Gael and Alicent held their breath.
Daemon Blackfyre raised his head, meeting Daemon Targaryen's gaze, and also meeting Jaehaerys's penetrating stare.
The sunlight outside the pavilion was still bright, the fragrance of flowers still rich, but the smell of blood and cold killing intent in the air had thoroughly dyed this autumn afternoon red.
He knew the quiet days were over. The brief peace belonging to "Daemon Waters" or "Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen" was thoroughly shattered.
No matter how accepted he was by the family, he was still a stray "Black Dragon." His status as a bastard, just like in his past life, made it hard for the world to trust him, even his "family"...
He stood in the eye of the storm. Before him lay the flames of vengeance; behind him, unsolved mysteries and scrutinizing eyes.
Taking a deep breath, the flower-scented air felt cold and piercing in his lungs.
How should he answer? A prophecy? A dream? Or... memories soaked in the blood of Redgrass Field from a hundred years in the future? The truth was a double-edged sword. To speak it now—would he be seen as a prophet giving warning, or a monster inviting destruction?
Deep in his violet eyes, the light of struggle and decision flickered alternately.
Finally, he chose a lie. He spoke slowly, his voice carrying a rasp unsuited for a teenager and a strange calmness:
"My dream... I saw... blood and fire."
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caveleather