The morning mist still clung to the Honeywine River, moisture creeping over the stone arch bridges of the Citadel and condensing into tiny dewdrops on the blue flagstones.
When Daemon and his party, led by Bethany Hightower, passed the Scribe's Hearth, it was already bustling like a small market. Stone stalls lined the bridge, each surrounded by residents of Oldtown. The chains on the chests of the gray-robed acolytes clinked softly—iron, copper, tin—each reflecting a different sheen in the morning light.
As the morning sun filtered through the glass domes of the Citadel, Daemon stood before the Scribe's Hearth, watching the acolytes at work.
Right inside the main gates, this open-air stall area was alive with activity. Scribes in gray robes sat on wooden stools. Some were helping residents write wills, the scratch of quills on parchment mixing with the ramblings of the elderly. Others were reading letters aloud softly, their listeners occasionally wiping away tears. In a corner stall, piles of yellowed books and hand-drawn maps were stacked like mountains; a bespectacled acolyte was carefully wiping a dog-eared copy of The Movements of Stars in Westeros with a soft cloth.
At the outermost stall, an old woman in a roughspun dress clutched a crumpled piece of parchment, her voice trembling. "Master Maester, please read this letter for me. It's from my son in the Shield Islands. He said he was going to become a sailor, but I can't read the words—"
The acolyte in front of her took the letter, his fingers brushing the yellowed page as he read softly, "Mother, the fish in the Shield Islands are fat. I'm with Lord Chester's fleet. By next month, I'll have earned enough gold dragons to send home. Don't worry—"
As she listened, the wrinkles around the old woman's eyes smoothed out. She fished half an oatcake and a few copper stars from her pocket, insisting on pressing them into the acolyte's hand. He smiled and declined. "Madam, the Citadel has rules. There is no charge for the scribe's service."
At the next stall, a merchant captain in leather armor was arguing over a map. "Last time I sailed the Sea of Dorne, I swear the reefs were two leagues off from what this map says. Is this map old?"
The acolyte selling maps adjusted the copper-rimmed spectacles on his nose and pulled a scroll from the cabinet behind him. "Captain, this is the Chart of the Narrow Sea revised just last year. The reefs in the Sea of Dorne shift with the currents every year. Let me mark the latest positions for you."
He dipped his quill into an inkpot and sketched quickly on the map's edge. The scratching of the nib on parchment, mixed with the shouts of fishermen nearby, felt incredibly vivid.
"This is the Scribe's Hearth, the most grounded place in the Citadel," Bethany explained as she walked beside them, her pale lavender dress brushing against the wooden crates beneath the stalls. "Fishermen, merchants, even dock porters come here for help. Some can't read, others fear making mistakes in their wills. The Citadel never refuses these requests."
Garmund leaned over a map stall, pointing at an old map of the Riverlands. "Look how big Harrenhal is drawn here! It's even more detailed than the maps I saw at Highgarden."
The acolyte behind the stall adjusted his glasses and handed the map over with a smile. "This was drawn thirty years ago, shortly after Harrenhal came into the possession of House Strong. Look here, young master—the markings for the Gods Eye are much clearer than on current maps."
Gael and Mysaria were walking at the back of the group. Suddenly, Gael was drawn to a stall displaying The Illustrated History of Dragons. She reached out and picked up the book with the gold-stamped cover; the edges of the pages were worn, clearly flipped through by many hands.
"Mysaria, look at this illustration," she pointed to a page. It depicted Balerion the Black Dread circling above Dragonstone, his fire melting through the castle's stone walls. "It says Balerion's fire could melt steel into liquid iron and crack even the black stone of Harrenhal."
Mysaria leaned in, her platinum curls falling over the page. She touched the dragon scales in the illustration lightly. "But Prince Daemon's dragon, the Cannibal, has very special black fire too. Last time at Lannisport, I saw from Casterly Rock at dawn how his fire landed on the Ironborn longships. It burned fast, but it carried a chill. Those Ironborn didn't even have time to scream; it was as if their souls were frozen and burned at the same time—"
Just as she was speaking, a group of gray-robed acolytes suddenly gathered around. Their gazes shifted slowly from the Cannibal and Dreamfyre resting in the distant clearing to Daemon. Some looks revealed a thirst for knowledge, others a hunger for the unknown, and some a deep-seated fear.
One young acolyte clutching a book, with chains of copper and tin on his chest, stepped forward excitedly. "Prince! The books record that the Cannibal's fire is pale green, but yesterday I saw him breathe black fire. Why is that?"
Another acolyte in a pointed hat chimed in, "I've observed the Cannibal's scales. His growth rate is thirty percent faster than a normal dragon. This contradicts the records in The Evolution of Dragons!"
Before Daemon could speak, an old white-haired maester nearby coughed loudly, his sharp eyes sweeping over the young men. The questioning acolytes shut their mouths instantly, lowered their heads, and backed away, clearly reprimanded.
The old maester bowed slightly to Daemon. "Prince, the young ones are eager for knowledge and spoke out of turn. Please forgive them." With that, he hurried the group away, leaving Daemon standing there, frowning slightly.
As the crowd dispersed, Gael walked up to Daemon, her pale violet eyes full of confusion. "Why did those maesters stop talking so suddenly? They clearly wanted to know about the Cannibal."
Mysaria nodded in agreement. "That old maester had such a fierce look in his eyes, like he was hiding a secret."
Vaegon walked over, his silver-gold hair trailing down the back of his gray robe. His long face was expressionless as he said flatly, "The Citadel has rules. Don't ask what shouldn't be asked, don't say what shouldn't be said. Dragons are the secret of House Targaryen, not something for them to discuss." He turned and walked toward the Seneschal's Court. "Let's go to the Seneschal's Court. Bernard should be almost done with the little savage's enrollment."
---
The stone walls of the Seneschal's Court were covered in moss. By the entrance stood an iron storage room with a heavy iron lock on the door, half a rusty key still inserted in the hole.
Garmund leaned in curiously, reaching out to touch the lock, but Bethany pulled him back. "Don't touch! That's where apprentices are punished. Last month, an apprentice stole honey cakes from the kitchen and was locked in there for a day and a night. His legs were jelly when he came out." She pointed to the small window on the storage room. "Look at that slit. You can barely fit a hand through. It's so dark inside you can't even see your shadow."
Walking into the Seneschal's Court, they were met by a high-arched hall. The stone floor was worn smooth by time, and sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, casting long strips of light on the ground.
On a raised platform at the end of the hall sat the Gatekeeper in deep gray robes. Seven chains of different metals hung on his chest, marking him as a maester of extreme seniority. Seeing Vaegon, he bowed slightly. "Archmaester Vaegon, Master Beron's enrollment is complete. Bernard is taking him to the dormitory."
Daemon's gaze fell on the bookshelves lining the hall, filled with bound volumes of The Annals of the Citadel. The years on the covers stretched from the first year of the Conquest to the present. He pulled one out at random and opened to the title page. It read: 59 AC, outbreak of the Shivers. Citadel Archmaesters attempted seventeen treatments, all ineffective. Dried herb specimens were pressed between the pages, emitting a faint bitter scent. "The Citadel records things in such detail," Daemon said softly.
"The Citadel's duty is to record everything," the Gatekeeper said suddenly, his voice raspy. "Including matters of dragons." His gaze rested on Daemon, his expression complex. "Targaryen dragons have been recorded since Aegon's Conquest. Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes—every dragon's appearance, habits, flame color, even growth cycles are noted in the Citadel's library."
Daemon's heart sank. "So the records of the Cannibal are also in the Citadel's library?"
The Gatekeeper fell silent and did not answer again. Clearly, his relationship with Vaegon wasn't enough to justify revealing more.
As they walked out of the Seneschal's Court, Daemon's mood grew heavier. He remembered something Brynden Rivers had said at a banquet in his past life, before Daemon died on the Redgrass Field: "The maesters of the Citadel fear dragons. They fear their power, so they have always been researching how to make dragons disappear."
At the time, he thought Bloodraven was just spreading fear. But seeing the Citadel's precise knowledge of the royal dragons now, clearly this understanding went far beyond simple "academic records."
Passing through the high-arched hall of the Seneschal's Court, where the stone floor was engraved with the Citadel motto Knowledge has no boundaries, the Gatekeeper on the platform checked the list of visitors. Seeing Daemon's group, he merely nodded—clearly, Count Hobert had already sent word.
The afternoon sun gradually dispersed the mist. Daemon followed the group to the Isle of Ravens. The wooden bridge to the isle was weathered and swayed slightly underfoot. On the other side, the Rookery was covered in moss and vines. The ancient weirwood tree in the courtyard was lush with leaves, its branches heavy with countless ravens. Their cawing mixed with the sound of the Honeywine.
"This Rookery is the oldest building in the Citadel," Bethany pointed to the carvings on the structure. "In the Age of Heroes, it was a pirate lord's stronghold. Later, it was converted for raising ravens. The white ravens are kept in the West Tower. Every winter, the Citadel sends white ravens to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms to announce the change of seasons."
"That's right. In the Age of Heroes, this really was a pirate stronghold," Lyonel Strong walked beside Daemon, his bald head shining in the sun. He pointed to the windows of the Rookery. "Those windows were originally arrow slits. Pirates used to ambush merchant ships coming down the Honeywine from here, seizing their cargo and fleeing by boat."
Larys, however, leaned close to Daemon's ear, his voice very low. "The Citadel turned this into a Rookery ostensibly to raise ravens for messages. But in reality, I heard the ravens here can fly to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. The Citadel knows more secrets than the Master of Whisperers in King's Landing."
Daemon looked up at the white raven loft on the top floor. Several white ravens were preening their feathers, occasionally letting out crisp calls. "If they know everything about dragons, what don't they know?" he asked softly.
Larys didn't answer directly. He watched his father explaining things to the others, then said slowly, "My father once told my brother and me that the maesters of the Citadel are experts at using 'wisdom' as a guise to hide their ambitions." He pointed to the West Tower in the distance. "That's the alchemy lab. My father said green light often shines from there at night. No one knows what they are researching."
---
As evening fell and the night deepened, Daemon returned to the room arranged for him by the Citadel.
It was a stone room overlooking the river. Outside the window, the Honeywine shimmered with golden-red reflections. Distant lights in Oldtown began to twinkle like stars scattered along the riverbank. The room was simply furnished: a wooden bed, a desk, a fireplace. A glass lamp with the Citadel sigil sat on the desk. The fire in the fireplace danced, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Daemon sat by the window, watching the glistening river. His thoughts drifted back to the day's events—the Citadel's knowledge of the Cannibal was precise down to flame color and growth cycles. They knew the history of this former "King of Wild Dragons" like the back of their hand. This was definitely not ordinary academic research.
"Could the rumors about the Citadel being involved in the extinction of dragons in later generations be true?" he muttered to himself. The black three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder suddenly grew warm, a familiar heat spreading from his shoulder through his body.
He raised a hand to touch the brand, feeling the warmth beneath the skin. The nature of this brand went far beyond "resonating with a dragon." The Cannibal's originally pale green fire had turned into pitch-black "soul-burning fire" after bonding with him.
Every time he rode the Cannibal into battle, when the brand heated up, it felt like endless power surging into his body, sustaining his stamina like magic.
His physique and strength far surpassed his peers from his previous life. The consecutive battles at the Rose Fields tourney without fatigue were the best proof.
Even more miraculous was that his compatibility with the Cannibal was increasing. Commanding the dragon felt as natural as moving his own arm, as if they were one entity. He could even clearly sense the dragon's emotional changes.
"What secret does this brand hide?" Daemon fell deep into thought, so much so that he didn't even notice a silhouette appear in the shadows of the room.
A splash came from the Honeywine outside. Daemon looked up to see a silver fish leap from the water and dive back in, creating a ring of ripples.
His gaze swept across the corner of the room where the shadows were deeper than elsewhere, as if hiding something.
He slowly gripped the hilt of Blackfyre, his knuckles turning white. From the moment he entered the room, he had felt eyes on him—not from outside the window, but from within the room.
But as his thoughts returned to the present, he turned around alertly—the firelight outlined a woman's curves. A dark green dress clung to her body, and black hair fell like a waterfall. It was Alys Rivers.
Alys stepped out of the shadows, her green eyes reflecting the flames, a mysterious smile on her lips. She walked to the fireplace, reaching out to gently poke the logs. Her voice was as soft as the flowing Honeywine. "My dear Prince of the Black Dragon, you seemed to have expected my arrival? Did you discover me earlier?"
Then, lightly touching her chest, she spoke slowly, "But, you seem very confused? Do you wish for me to answer something for you?"
Just as Daemon was about to nod, Alys Rivers spoke first. "From the godswood at Harrenhal to the beaches of the Arbor, and now the stone bridges of the Citadel, I have watched every moment of your confusion, every doubt."
However, her following words carried a hint of regret. "Although I would very much like to answer your question this time, I am sorry to say that I did not see the answer to your doubt in the fire."
Her tone shifted as she walked step by step toward Daemon, the scent of herbs and the warmth of the hearth washing over him. "However, please allow me to personally guide you to see the answer in the fire."
Before Daemon could react, Alys Rivers suddenly reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him tightly into her embrace.
Daemon could feel her softness against his chest, smell the mix of woodsmoke and vanilla on her, and feel the tickle of her hair brushing his cheek.
The fire in the hearth suddenly roared to life. The flames reflected in Alys's green eyes, looking as if they could swallow a person whole. "The answer won't appear on its own—let me guide you personally to see everything you wish to know in the fire."
The flames leaped higher, illuminating the strange light in Alys's eyes. Outside, the Honeywine gurgled, the wind carried the cawing of ravens, and in the distance, low roars from the Cannibal and Dreamfyre seemed to echo the disturbance in the room.
The night was deep. Bright stars and a pale moon hung over the Citadel's dome. The shadow of the stone bridge reflected in the Honeywine, swaying gently with the waves.
Daemon was held tight in Alys Rivers' arms. The dragon brand on his right shoulder grew scorching hot, as if merging with the fire in the hearth. Alys's breath fell lightly on his ear, carrying a faint trace of magic, plunging the room into an eerie and ambiguous silence.
Alys tightened her arms, resting her chin on top of Daemon's head. Her voice was as light as a whisper. "Don't be afraid. The fire won't hurt you; it will only tell you the truth—"
The fire burned brighter and brighter, turning the whole room red. The shadows of the two figures on the wall intertwined, a stark contrast to the night outside.
The sound of the river, the wind, the dragon roars, and the crackling of the fire gradually wove together into an eerie ballad—and tonight's story came to an abrupt halt right here, leaving only the flickering shadows cast by the hearth fire in the room.