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The morning mist at Storm's End hadn't been fully burned off by the rising sun, and the sea breeze from Shipbreaker Bay still carried a salty chill, washing over everyone on the pier.
The blue and white sails of the Redwyne fleet were already unfurled in the harbor, the grape sigils gilded with a warm layer of morning light. The carved oak wine barrel on the prow of the lead ship, the Arbor Queen, was still dewy, adding a touch of lazy warmth to this farewell.
Daemon stood at the edge of the gangplank, his silver-gold hair plastered to his neck by the wind. He touched the dragon brand on his right shoulder; it was slightly warm, as if retaining the heat from the hearth fire last night. Duke Boremund had personally added logs to the fire late at night, knowing Daemon was leaving, and reminded him, "Dress warmly for the departure tomorrow. Mornings in the Stormlands are cold, even for a true dragon."
"Little Daemon, take this cask of ale!" Borros Baratheon's booming voice arrived before he did. He was hugging a heavy oak cask, the bung stopped with burlap. Ale seeped from the cracks, staining the crowned stag sigil on his chest dark. "This is a five-year vintage from the cellars of Storm's End, stronger than that sweet stuff from the Arbor. It's from my old man's collection; I snuck it out. If you want to drink it in King's Landing, send a raven, and I'll have a rider bring it to you! As long as I'm around, you'll never lack for good drink and food!"
Just as Daemon was about to take it, Lorent Grandison sauntered over, clutching a leather wineskin. The hem of his yellow robe with black lions brushed the gravel on the pier. "Prince, don't just take that brute's stuff. Take this too—our wild fruit wine from Grandview. Good for fatigue on the ship, and much lighter than his broken barrel."
He yawned, sleep still in his eyes, but for once didn't mention going back to sleep. "I'll definitely be at the tourney in King's Landing this year. We can have a match then. I won't let you bruise my arm with one hit like that big oaf Borros."
"Stop bragging, you sleepy lion! You can't even last a few rounds against me, let alone Little Daemon. And why haven't I seen you offer this good wine to your big brother here?" Borros reached for the wineskin, but Lorent dodged. The two tall youths tussled, drawing laughter from the crowd.
Ronnel Connington, the young lord, stepped forward at the right moment. His red hair looked like a flame in the morning light. He offered an exquisite hunting knife, the handle carved with the red and white griffin sigil. "Prince, this is a specialty of Griffin's Roost. The blade has been treated with a rust-proof solution mixed by our maester and smith. It's the handiest tool for hunting. I'll be waiting to joust with you at the tourney in King's Landing this year."
The brothers Thurgood and Wyl Fell squeezed through the crowd, holding a cloth bundle filled with freshly baked oatcakes. "Prince, eat these if you get hungry on the way! We asked the kitchen to add extra honey!"
Jon Cafferen handed over a wooden carving identical to the fawn he had given before, the tips of his ears red. "Prince, take this... I carved it from fresh wood after our hunt in the woods at Griffin's Roost a few days ago. It makes a pair with the one I gave you before. In Fawnton, two deer symbolize good luck. Maybe it will ensure a smooth voyage."
Daemon accepted them one by one. His fingertips felt the warmth of the oatcakes, the cold of the hunting knife, the rough grain of the wood carving. His heart felt heavy with warmth, like the sun wrapped in morning mist.
He looked at Criston Cole behind the crowd. The young man wore a gray tunic and stood beside Beric Dondarrion. Seeing Daemon look his way, he immediately knelt on one knee, his movement practiced and perfect. "Prince, the road to King's Landing is long; take care. I return to Blackhaven to hone my skills, and I look forward to meeting you again at the tourney in King's Landing this year with Lord Beric. In the future, if you have need, Criston Cole stands ready to serve you at any time."
Daemon nodded and helped him up. "Train well in the Stormlands. I hope to see your progress when we meet at the tourney." A light flashed in Criston's eyes, and he answered with a firm "Yes" before stepping aside.
Duke Boremund Baratheon stepped to the front. The crowned stag on his dark gray iron armor glinted cold. He patted Daemon's shoulder with a steady hand. "Little Daemon, when you get to King's Landing, give Jocelyn a message for me—Storm's End is always her home, and it can be yours too. If anything happens in King's Landing, send a raven. The knights of the Stormlands stand ready for her and her 'son' at any time."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Gael, Mysaria, Johanna, Vaegon, Lyonel, and the others behind Daemon. "Take care of them, and take care of yourself."
"I will, Boremund... Uncle," Daemon said suddenly, his voice lower than usual.
He abandoned the formal title he had intended to use and stiffly spoke the unfamiliar word.
Boremund froze, then a warmth flashed in his eyes. His hand on Daemon's shoulder grew heavier. "Good, good lad... remember to write to your uncle when you get to King's Landing."
Gael walked up to Elenda Caron and hugged her arm. "Lady Elenda, when you and Borros marry, Daemon and I will definitely come to Storm's End with a gift."
Elenda smiled and nodded, adjusting Gael's pale blue rose cloak. "Rest assured, Princess. I'll have Borros pick you up in King's Landing personally. Johanna, Mysaria, take care of yourselves too. Next time we meet, I'll teach you how to make our exclusive honey cakes from Nightsong."
Mysaria nodded vigorously, her eyes red. Johanna waved the feather in her hand. "I also know how to make the feather accessories you taught me and Mysaria. I'll give you one then!"
As Alyn Redwyne blew the horn for departure, Borros suddenly rushed forward and hugged Daemon, squeezing him so hard he could barely breathe. "Little Daemon! See you in King's Landing! Don't forget our promise—loser drinks three barrels of ale!"
"I won't forget." Daemon patted his back. He watched Borros step back with red eyes, watched Duke Boremund waving, watched Lorent, Ronnel, Thurgood, and the others standing on the pier growing smaller and smaller, until they were just black dots in the morning mist.
---
As the Redwyne fleet slowly left Shipbreaker Bay, the blue and white sails spread across the sea like a flock of seabirds taking flight.
Gael leaned against Daemon, the silhouette of Storm's End reflected in her pale violet eyes. "It seems we can't generalize. Not all the Stormlands are like those we met first. Everyone at Storm's End is wonderful, much warmer than Stonehelm."
Mysaria hugged the pair of wooden fawns Daemon had stuffed into her arms, taking a sip from the wineskin of wild fruit wine Lorent had given Daemon, which he had passed to her. Sea mist clung to her platinum curls. "I'll miss Elenda and the others. Especially this fruit wine from Lorent, it's delicious."
Johanna stood by the railing, looking at the distant coastline, clutching the hunting knife Daemon had just given her. A smile touched the corner of her lips—she finally didn't have to hide behind others anymore. She finally had a future to look forward to. One day, she would spread her "Black Swan" wings, just as her Dragon Prince had protected her that day, to protect the people she wanted to protect.
After half a day's sailing, the fleet rounded the tip of Massey's Hook. This narrow strip of land stretched into the Narrow Sea like an arm. Stone fortifications lined the coast, flying various banners—the triple spiral of red, green, and blue on white of House Massey, the silver swordfish on white of House Bar Emmon, and sigils of lesser lords, all snapping in the wind.
Lyonel Strong stood beside Daemon, his bald head shining in the sun. "Prince, Massey's Hook belonged to the Stormlands before the Conquest. Later, Houses Bar Emmon and Massey swore allegiance to the Targaryens and were incorporated into the Crownlands. The people here have always been loyal to the crown, especially House Massey, which has produced several Masters of Laws."
Daemon nodded, looking toward Stonedance in the distance. The castle was built on a hillside on the eastern side of Massey's Hook. White stone walls were covered in ivy, and the triple spiral banner unfurled in the wind atop the keep.
Lord Massey was already waiting at the pier with his retinue. He wore a blue robe embroidered with spirals and held a silver tray with local fruit wine. "Prince Daemon, Princess Gael, welcome to Stonedance! I have had fresh water and food prepared. Please allow your fleet to rest here for half a day."
In the courtyard of Stonedance, Lord Massey told everyone the history of his house. " The blood of House Massey originates from the First Men. Our founder, Maldon Massey, built Stonedance and ruled Massey's Hook as a vassal of the Storm King Durran 'Ravengfriend'. Later, relations soured, and our ancestor Josua Massey resisted the Storm King here. When the Andals invaded, Togarion Bar Emmon married the ancestor's daughter, and we kept Massey's Hook. But when King Aegon conquered Westeros, we didn't hesitate to join the banner of the true dragon, for we knew only the Targaryen dragons could bring us victory and glory."
He pointed to a tapestry on the wall depicting Aegon riding Balerion over Stonedance. "That is our family heirloom, reminding us to be forever loyal to the true dragon."
Leaving Stonedance, the fleet continued north, arriving at Sharp Point by evening. This castle sat at the very tip of Massey's Hook. A great fire burned atop its watchtower, like a star guiding ships.
Lord Bar Emmon wore silver armor, the swordfish sigil on his breastplate gleaming. He led everyone up the watchtower and pointed to the sea in the distance. "Prince, look. From here you can see the Gullet. As you know, past the Gullet is Blackwater Bay, and further on is King's Landing."
He handed over an ornate glass jar containing a specimen of a tiny, extremely rare swordfish. "This is a specialty of the Narrow Sea, caught by an ancestor on a long voyage and preserved. I give it to the Prince as a memento today. The people of House Bar Emmon are willing to guard this sea for the Targaryens forever."
---
As night fell, the fleet finally entered the Gullet. The outline of Dragonstone appeared faintly in the darkness on the left, its black stone castle looking like a slumbering beast.
Massey's Hook on the right was pitch black. Only the occasional sound of waves mixed with the flapping of sails broke the silence.
Most of Daemon's followers had gone to sleep. Only night owls like Corwyn Celtigar and Alyn Redwyne, accustomed to life at sea, patrolled the deck with Ser Horace and the sailors, their torches casting fragmented light in the darkness.
Daemon lay on the wooden bunk in his cabin but couldn't sleep. He had a vague dream—he was in the godswood at Harrenhal. Alys Rivers stood before the fire, flames dancing in her green eyes, saying "It is coming," but he couldn't see her expression clearly.
Then the scene shifted. Daemon found himself barefoot on the shores of Dragonstone. Suddenly, a black shadow lunged at him from the sky. He woke with a start, his right hand instinctively gripping the hilt of Blackfyre, knuckles white.
The cabin was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth, which cast flickering shadows on the walls.
He checked the doors and windows; all were tightly shut. He then carefully inspected every corner of the room but found nothing unusual.
"Am I too sensitive?" he muttered, reaching for the dragon brand on his right shoulder—it was hot. A familiar warmth spread from his shoulder through his body, stronger than it had been recently, almost like the night he first met the Cannibal, though slightly weaker.
He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. The salty sea breeze rushed in, carrying a faint, fishy smell. The sea outside was pitch black, with only the lights of the fleet scattering like stars on the water.
Suddenly, a black shadow flashed past the window, fast as the wind. Daemon wondered if he was seeing things, but he knew his instincts, honed from battles in his past life, were rarely wrong. Just as he considered chasing after it, a deafening, familiar dragon roar erupted from above—it was the Cannibal!
The black dragon's silhouette unfolded in the night. Massive wings blocked out the stars and moon. Pitch-black pupils swept the sea surface, and the white steam from his nostrils carried scorching heat.
Daemon could clearly hear the warning in the Cannibal's roar. Something strange had stepped into his "territory."
Following the Cannibal's repeated warnings, Dreamfyre began to roar as well. Her pale blue breath condensed into white mist in the night, interweaving with the Cannibal's roar like two guardian flames, illuminating half the sea.
People on deck were awakened. Jarmon Waters rushed out with his bow, his single eye scanning the water. He met the gaze of Daemon, who walked out carrying Blackfyre. "Prince! What's happening?"
Larys Strong hobbled over in a rare panic, leaning on his cane, his black robe sweeping the sawdust on the deck. "Is it pirates? Or Ironborn?"
Daemon didn't speak. His gaze fixed on a corner of the deck where dried fish were stacked. In the shadows beside the fish, something seemed to be moving.
He tightened his grip on Blackfyre and walked over step by step. The torchlight reflected on the dried fish, revealing a slender black shadow moving slowly against the wood, like a lurking snake.
The Cannibal roared again, his claws landing lightly on the edge of the deck, kicking up splinters.
Dreamfyre swooped down, her pale blue breath landing on the empty space beside the shadow, kicking up sparks. The shadow froze, seemingly wanting to flee but paralyzed by the dragons' presence.
Daemon's violet eyes were exceptionally bright in the night. He raised Blackfyre, the blade glinting cold, pointing straight at the shadow. "Come out."
The night was thick as ink. The sound of waves in the Gullet grew louder. The roars of the Cannibal and Dreamfyre echoed over the sea. Everyone on deck held their breath, staring at the black shadow flickering in the firelight. No one knew if this late-night disturbance was a pirate raid or something far more terrifying.