The stone dome of the Hall of Dragonfire seemed to shudder slightly under Corlys Velaryon's footsteps.
The Sea Snake's cloak was still stiff with the salt rime of a long voyage. On the weave of deep green and silver silk, the Seahorse sigil of House Velaryon shimmered in the torchlight—an iridescence unique to the mother-of-pearl of Driftmark. Yet, that warmth was frozen solid by the chill in his eyes.
The moment his boots hit the obsidian floor, his gaze cast a net over Daemon, who stood behind Rhaenys. The boy's silver hair and purple eyes glowed with a ghostly, corpse-light quality in the shadows, causing Corlys's hand to instinctively drift toward the pearl-handled dagger at his waist.
"It seems my lady wife is faster than a raven." Corlys's voice carried the salty rasp common to sailors. His gaze slid over the faint outline of the brand on Daemon's shoulder before finally resting on Rhaenys's wet hair. "Even Meleys's dragonfire couldn't dry out your stubbornness, could it?"
Rhaenys didn't respond. She simply pulled Daemon half an inch further behind her back. That subtle movement was like a needle, puncturing the thin veneer of civility between husband and wife.
The muscles at the corner of Corlys's eyes twitched. When he turned to Baelon, his mouth had already curved into the practiced smile of a statesman. "Prince Baelon, the intelligence from Myr is worse than anticipated. The silk merchants' guilds are colluding with this newborn Triarchy. They are calling our tolls in the Stepstones acts of 'piracy baked by dragonfire.'"
He emphasized the word "dragonfire," his eyes anchoring coldly on Daemon's pale face like a heavy iron hook. "As for this child..."
"His name is Daemon," Rhaenys cut in suddenly, her voice as cold as the winter waves off Driftmark. "He is of my father's blood. He is my brother."
Corlys's hand tightened around the silver clasp of his cloak, the sharp edges of the mother-of-pearl digging into his palm.
He should have expected Rhaenys to say this. From the moment she had carried the unconscious boy onto the ship three days ago, pointing at the brand and saying, "Look at this dragon crest," he knew this storm was unavoidable.
Aemon Targaryen's bastard? What a perfect lie. Perfect enough to make anyone stung by the issue of succession willing to believe it.
"Blood?" The Sea Snake let out a soft chuckle, though the scent of sea salt in his laugh suddenly turned acrid. "Rhaenys, have you forgotten what the septons in Oldtown said last year? They claimed that even Princess Maegelle's greyscale proved that the blood of the True Dragon can also rot."
He walked slowly toward Daemon, his boots making a dull thudding sound on the stone, as if measuring the distance to his prey. "This child's brand was burned into him; it is not birthright. I have seen Lysene slavers forge Valyrian sigils with branding irons. Their craftsmanship is ten times finer than this."
Daemon suddenly looked up.
There was none of the timidity a teenager should have in those deep purple eyes. There was only the cold light of offense—the same look he had worn on Redgrass Field when he split the shield wall of Lord Arryn.
In that instant, Corlys felt his throat tighten, as if the edge of the sword Blackfyre were sliding against his skin.
This was not the look of a common refugee, nor the look of a bastard begging for scraps of Targaryen legitimacy.
"Lord Sea Snake." Daemon's voice still carried the clarity of youth, but it was wrapped in ice. "The craftsmen of Driftmark have said that the hardest mother-of-pearl comes from the deepest trenches." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Corlys's tensed jaw. "Blood is no different."
"Insolence!" A Velaryon guard behind Corlys barked, his hand flying to his sword.
Baelon suddenly began to cough. It was a harsh, rapid sound, as if hot sand were rolling in his lungs. He waved a hand to stop the guard, his knuckles turning white from the strain. "Corlys. When Rhaenys found him on Meleys's back, the boy was nearly drowning. A dragon will not accept blood that does not belong to it." He looked at the brand on Daemon's shoulder. In the firelight, the black dragon crest rose and fell slightly with the boy's breathing. "Besides, this brand..."
"Besides, this brand will cause another ripple in the succession for the Iron Throne, won't it?" Rhaenys's voice suddenly rose, sharp as dragonfire cracking ice. "Just like back then, when they passed over my birthright and gave it to you, Uncle, simply because I am a woman!"
The words hit the hall like a sledgehammer. Baelon's coughing stopped abruptly. Corlys's face instantly darkened like the Blackwater at night.
Daemon keenly caught the stagnation in the air—Rhaenys's accusation hid old wounds, while Corlys's silence hid calculations.
He suddenly understood why he had been thrown into the dragonglass cell initially. It wasn't because he was "pirate scum," but because he stood on the scales of succession, even if he was just a negligible counterweight. Targaryen blood was both his talisman and his death warrant.
Just then, a dull vibration came from deep within the Hall of Dragonfire.
It wasn't the rumble of the volcano, but a sharper sound, like massive claws tearing through rock.
Immediately after, a long, violent dragon roar echoed from the direction of the Dragonmont to the west of the castle. It was different from Meleys's clarity or Caraxes's arrogance. It was muddy and hoarse, sounding like rust grinding in a throat, filled with a hunger that wanted to devour everything.
Baelon shot to his feet, fear flashing in his purple eyes. "The Cannibal!"
Corlys's expression changed completely. The Cannibal. The old dragon that nested in the deepest caverns of the Dragonmont. It had rarely been seen since King Jaehaerys's youth. Rumor had it that it fed on the carcasses of other dragons, and its scales were as black as congealed blood. It hadn't let out a roar like that in ten years.
A searing pain exploded in Daemon's right shoulder!
The black three-headed dragon brand seemed to come alive. Dark red light scrambled frantically beneath his skin, as if something were trying to smash through its shackles.
He clamped his hand over his shoulder, cold sweat seeping between his fingers. The wail from hell he had heard earlier rang out in his mind again—overlapping perfectly with the roar of The Cannibal outside!
It's him! The pitch-black dragon shadow he saw in his dying moments on Redgrass Field—it was The Cannibal!
"This child..." Rhaenys noticed his distress and reached out to support him, but Corlys yanked her away.
"Take him to the Night Watchtower near the Dragonmont," Corlys ordered, his voice cold as ice. "Post ten men. Without my command, he is not to get close to any dragon's lair. Including Meleys."
He looked at Baelon, his eyes hard and uncompromising. "Prince Baelon, until we clear up his background, keep him away from the dragons. The Cannibal's roar is not a good omen, especially not now."
Baelon stared at Daemon's face, twisted in pain, then at Rhaenys's reddened eyes. Finally, he waved his hand in exhaustion. The stabbing pain under his ribs was becoming clearer, as if a dragon's claw were churning inside him.
As Daemon was dragged away by the guards, he glanced back.
Rhaenys stood rooted to the spot, her black hair falling forward to hide her expression, but her clenched fists betrayed her fury.
Corlys stood with his back to her, speaking in low tones to Baelon. The shadow of his Sea Snake cloak engulfed him like a beast poised to strike.
Outside the Hall of Dragonfire, The Cannibal roared again, shaking the torches violently and twisting everyone's shadows into long, grotesque shapes.
---
The stone window of the Night Watchtower faced directly toward the Dragonmont.
Daemon leaned against the cold wall, listening to the faint dragon roars drifting from the distance.
The brand on his right shoulder was still burning. The heat was gradually syncing with the temperature of the sword Blackfyre when it had cleaved through enemy lines on Redgrass Field.
He suddenly smiled. Corlys thought locking him here would cut off his connection to the dragons. He didn't know that Daemon and that most vicious of black dragons were already entwined by a power even Daemon didn't fully understand.
Outside the window, a massive pitch-black shadow flashed through the sulfur mist, sweeping across the silver glow of the full moon.
The Cannibal was circling the night sky of Dragonstone, as if hunting for something.
Daemon touched the brand on his shoulder. The burning sensation was spreading through his veins, resonating eerily with the heartbeat of the distant dragon.
He knew it wouldn't be long before he met the legendary beast.
Not as a prisoner, but as... a kindred spirit.
After all, they were both existences forgotten in the shadows by House Targaryen, both longing for the moment to tear apart their cages.
And as The Cannibal's massive claw hooked onto the stone eaves of the Night Watchtower, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms would never return to its original track.
---