The air in the Red Keep's solar was rich with the scent of cedar and amber. Charcoal crackled in the bronze braziers, warming the Targaryen tapestries hanging on the four walls.
King Jaehaerys's silver hair gleamed like ivory in the firelight. He rubbed the dragon-carved oak armrest, his gaze sweeping over his family present, finally resting on his son, Baelon.
Queen Alysanne sat beside him, silver thread winding through her fingers as she embroidered a small dragon circlet for Rhaenyra. The gold thread shimmered on her lap like a handful of liquid sunlight.
"Baelon," the old King spoke just as a spark popped from the brazier. "You are just forty this year, in the prime of your life." He paused, his gaze grazing the new silver hairs at his son's temples. "Alyssa has been gone for thirteen years. Perhaps..."
"Father." Baelon's voice cut in suddenly, interrupting the King.
He sat ramrod straight, his deep purple eyes alarmingly bright in the firelight. The old injury beneath his ribs made him subconsciously press his side, but the firmness in his tone was unquestionable. "For thirteen years, every morning I wipe the frost from her tombstone, and every evening I speak to the direction of Dragonstone. Do you think thirteen years like this isn't proof enough?"
The solar fell silent instantly, save for the occasional crackle of charcoal.
Viserys quietly took Aemma's hand. Aemma, having stabilized over the past few days with the family's comfort, gently patted her husband's hand, signaling him not to interject.
Daemon Blackfyre noticed Baelon's knuckles turning white from the force of his grip. This Prince, renowned for his martial prowess, now had moisture glinting in his eyes. "I remember the first time she rode Meleys," Baelon's voice dropped low, warm with memory. "Her silver hair scattered over the dragon scales like melted moonlight. She always said, no matter how hot dragonfire is, it couldn't compare to the way I looked at her."
He smiled suddenly, a mix of sweetness and bitterness. "But the day she left, the light in my eyes went out with her. This heart became Alyssa's grave goods long ago. Now only a hollow shell remains; how could it hold another?"
Queen Alysanne set down her needlework, speaking softly, "Baelon, I understand your deep love. But you are the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the realm. You should think of yourself..."
"Mother," Baelon turned to the Queen, pleading in his eyes. "I have three excellent sons—Viserys is steady as a rock, Big Daemon is fierce as fire, and..." His gaze shifted to Daemon Blackfyre, his sharp purple eyes softening suddenly. "And you, Little Daemon. I grew up with your father Aemon; his blood and mine merged long ago. I know I can never replace him, but these days, seeing you ride The Cannibal and spewing dragonfire in the Mountains of the Moon... I saw the shadow of Aemon in his youth."
Daemon Blackfyre's heart skipped a beat. He remembered the night in the Night Watchtower on Dragonstone when this Prince had rapped him on the head with a scabbard; remembered the tacit understanding when Baelon's Vhagar and his Cannibal breathed fire side by side in Widow's Wail Canyon.
At this moment, the voice of this iron-blooded Prince carried a trace of imperceptible tremor: "I admit, when Lord Arryn died, I suspected you. Your appearance was too strange, like mist drifting from across the Narrow Sea. But now I believe it. We are blood and fire from the same source. You carry Targaryen blood, just like me, like Viserys, like Big Daemon."
He leaned forward, flames dancing in his pupils. "From now on, you are my 'youngest son.' I will teach you how to command the fleet of Dragonstone, how to speak with weight in the Small Council, and how to make the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms respect your dragonfire. Just as I did for Viserys and Big Daemon."
Daemon Blackfyre's throat tightened. He wanted to say something but was stopped by Baelon's raised hand. "So, Father, Mother," Baelon turned back to Jaehaerys, "please forgive my stubbornness. For the rest of my days, I only want to guard my sons, guard this little treasure Rhaenyra, and watch your great-grandchildren ride their own dragons. As for remarriage... let those noble ladies find other good matches."
Jaehaerys was silent for a long time. The ash in the brazier accumulated in a thick layer.
Finally, he sighed. It was a sigh of a father's helplessness, but also admiration for his eldest son's deep love. "Fine. Your nature takes after your mother." He turned to Alysanne. The Queen nodded slightly to him, tying a knot with the silver thread, as if putting a period to this dispute.
The old King's gaze swept over everyone, finally landing on his youngest daughter, Gael. The Princess wore a sky-blue dress, the hem embroidered with silver snowflakes—the season of her birth.
Hearing her father's question, Gael's cheeks instantly turned as red as a ripe pomegranate. She subconsciously looked at Daemon Blackfyre, twisting the hem of her dress, her voice as thin as a mosquito's hum: "Father, Mother, I... I want to stay with you longer. I haven't seen all of the Red Keep's gardens, and the hatchlings in the Dragonpit have just gotten to know me..."
Alysanne smiled and ruffled her daughter's hair. "Our little Gael has grown up, but she's still as clingy as when she was small." She looked at Jaehaerys, indulgence in her eyes. "Wait a little longer; she is still young."
Jaehaerys hmphed but didn't press further. His gaze finally landed on Daemon Blackfyre, sharp as an eagle. "And you, Little Daemon? The noble ladies of the Seven Kingdoms are yours to choose. The Tyrells of the Reach have three beautiful daughters, the Baratheons of the Stormlands have suitable girls, and even the Martells of Dorne have extended an olive branch..."
Daemon Blackfyre's gaze inadvertently collided with Gael's. The Princess lowered her head in panic, her ears red enough to drip blood.
He also caught a glimpse of Alicent Hightower standing behind the Queen. Miss Hightower wore a grey-green dress, holding a silver pitcher. Starlight seemed hidden in her lapis lazuli eyes. Seeing him look, she quickly lowered her eyelids, not noticing the red mark the pitcher's handle left on her palm.
"Grandfather," Daemon Blackfyre steadied himself, trying to sound composed. "I will only be thirteen after the new year. The Cannibal isn't fully tamed, the pirates in the Stepstones aren't cleared out..."
"What's wrong with thirteen?" A languid voice suddenly came from the doorway, interrupting him.
Everyone turned to see Daemon Targaryen hobbling in on a carved cane.
His left leg was heavily bandaged, dark red bloodstains faintly visible on the trouser leg. There was still an unfaded bruise on his face, but those purple eyes were amazingly bright, and his mouth wore his habitual mocking smile.
"Marriage is the grave of men, brother." He plopped into the nearest chair, the cane thumping against the floor. "Look at me. I've only been in the grave a few days, and I'm already buried up to my knees."
Queen Alysanne shot to her feet, the silver thread slipping from her lap. "Daemon! What happened to your leg?" She rushed to the grandson she once doted on most, her fingers trembling as she touched the bruise on his face. "Who dared lay a hand on you?"
Daemon Targaryen was about to speak when he met the simultaneous gazes of Jaehaerys and Baelon.
The old King coughed lightly, raising his tea cup to hide his face; Baelon looked down, studying his fingernails as if they held the secrets of dragon runes.
Alysanne was sharp; she understood instantly. She glared reproachfully at her husband and second son, then turned to Daemon Targaryen, speaking softly: "Sit down quickly. I'll have the Maester change your dressing."
Viserys couldn't help but laugh out loud, earning a pinch from Aemma.
Daemon Blackfyre also recalled the scene from that day—when Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes to land in the Red Keep plaza, so high-spirited, laughing as he rushed into the King's solar, threatening to have Caraxes burn a hole in the bronze gates of Runestone.
But he hadn't expected that not only was Jaehaerys in the solar, but Baelon was also there reporting on military matters. Worse, Queen Alysanne happened to be at Maegor's Holdfast visiting Aemma, so no one could protect him.
"Whoever loves that wretched Vale can stay there!" Daemon Targaryen had shouted, slapping the table as soon as he entered. "I have Caraxes; I go where I please—" Before he could finish, Baelon, hidden in the shadows, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
The old King was quick, grabbing a silk napkin from the table and stuffing it into his mouth. Father and son, one pinning the arms, the other the legs. It was said muffled thuds and the sound of tearing fabric came from the solar. The guards stood outside, none daring to enter.
When Daemon Blackfyre and the others arrived upon hearing the news, Daemon Targaryen was already tied to a chair, his left leg twisted unnaturally, mouth still stuffed with the saliva-soaked napkin. Seeing his namesake "brother," he blinked desperately, looking like a plucked turkey.
"All thanks to a certain 'benevolent father and wise ruler,'" Daemon Targaryen rubbed his knee, deliberately drawling. "I just said the bed in Runestone was too hard, and I got 'properly educated' in the solar." He glanced at Baelon. "Some people strike harder than they do against the Dornish."
Baelon's ears turned slightly red. He coughed. "Who told you to spout nonsense in front of the King? And dare say you'd burn the gates of House Royce?"
"Did I say anything wrong?" Daemon Targaryen retorted immediately. "That woman Rhea Royce sleeps in bronze armor! I suspect her heart is cast of iron too!"
The atmosphere in the solar instantly relaxed. Jaehaerys's laughter shook another string of sparks from the charcoal. Alysanne shook her head helplessly, ordering someone to fetch the Maester and having a handmaiden bring mead for Daemon Targaryen's pain.
Watching this scene, Daemon Blackfyre suddenly felt the brand on his shoulder stop burning. Baelon's deep love for his late wife, Gael's shy gaze, Alicent's lowered eyelids, even Daemon Targaryen's complaints about his lame leg—all were like the charcoal in the brazier, emitting real, warm heat.
He remembered the blood and fire of Redgrass Field, remembered the cold of the Dragonstone dungeon, and suddenly understood that the so-called blood bond was never maintained by dragonfire and swords, but by these arguments, laughter, tolerance, and protection, sewing everyone tightly together like threads in a tapestry.
King Jaehaerys took a sip of wine, his gaze circling everyone's faces before finally resting on Rhaenyra's cradle. The little princess was sleeping soundly, soft silver-gold hair resting on her cheek, a milk stain at the corner of her mouth.
"Fine, we'll drop the matter of marriage for now." The old King's voice carried the warmth of wine. "We have plenty of time anyway." He looked at Daemon Blackfyre, a smile in his eyes. "But Little Daemon, don't learn from your lame brother. When you grow up, you must bring me back a granddaughter-in-law."
Daemon Blackfyre's cheeks warmed slightly at the caring teasing he had never experienced in his past life. Gael's head drooped lower, and Alicent's fingers holding the silver pitcher trembled slightly. Outside the solar, the wind and snow had stopped at some point. A beam of moonlight shone through the lattice, landing on Rhaenyra's cradle like a silver blanket.
The charcoal continued to crackle, weaving the story of House Targaryen into the long night of Westeros.
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