Dawn on Dragonstone brought a sickly sweet scent of interwoven sulfur and sea salt.
The iron gate of the Night Watchtower was still wide open. The keys from last night lay on the ground, gleaming with morning dew.
The Velaryon guards brought by the Sea Snake huddled in the corner, none daring to touch the copper ring bearing the Seahorse sigil—everyone had seen it. They saw how the moonlight reflecting off the scales of that pitch-black dragon shadow melted the iron bars into twisted silver snakes as it swept over the tower last night.
"Lord Sea Snake said to suppress the news," a young guard said, his voice trembling as he gnawed on hard bread. "But listen... the fishermen at the port are already spreading rumors that 'The Black Dragon has descended.'"
Another older soldier spat out a husk of grain and looked toward the crater.
The sulfur mist there was thicker than usual, and faint, low roars of a giant dragon could be heard, rolling like muffled thunder underground. "Suppress it? Even The Cannibal has accepted a master. The Gods themselves are watching."
On the stone table in the Hall of Dragonfire lay the document Corlys Velaryon had drafted overnight. The edges of the parchment were wrinkled from his grip, and a blot of ink had spread in the "Disposition" column—evidence of his repeated revisions.
"Hand him over to the Master of Laws in King's Landing." Corlys's voice was like the reef rocks of Driftmark, cold, hard, and sharp. "Let His Grace decide. Prince Aemon's bastard? Hmph, I say he's some monster conjured by a Lysene warlock."
Baelon had just finished his third bowl of dragonblood herbal potion. The bitter taste made him frown deeply. He set down the wooden bowl, his knuckles tapping lightly on the document. "His Grace is sixty-three this year, Corlys. Do you want him to stand up from the velvet throne in King's Landing to judge the choice of a dragon? Even if my father the King is strict, my mother, Queen Alysanne, would not sit idly by!"
"A dragon's choice is not always wise!" Corlys stood up abruptly, the pearl-handled dagger at his waist making a crisp sound. "That is The Cannibal! A vicious dragon that feeds on its own kind! Binding it to a boy of unknown origin is like stuffing wildfire into a haystack!"
"Then what do you want to do with Daemon?" Rhaenys's voice came from the doorway.
She had just returned from the dragon's lair. The hem of her dress was stained with volcanic ash, and a scarlet dragonbreath flower was tucked in her hair—a plant unique to the area around Caraxes's nest, growing only in soil constantly baked by dragonfire. "Kill him like gutting a fish? Or throw him back into the dragonglass cell and wait for The Cannibal to tear down the entire castle?"
Corlys's face darkened. "Rhaenys, you know what this means. Prince Aemon's bastard... this title will rot the succession like mold. Laena and Laenor..."
"Laena and Laenor's bloodline is harder than obsidian!" Rhaenys interrupted him, anger burning in her pale violet eyes. "It doesn't need to be solidified by erasing an innocent! Besides, my father's blood flows in him—dare you say why Caraxes was so affectionate toward him last night?"
Baelon interrupted their argument with a cough. He picked up the document and lit it over a candle flame. As the parchment curled into ash, he saw a blur of silver and red flash past the window—it was the two Daemons riding their dragons, flying along the coastline. The scarlet of Caraxes and the pitch-black of The Cannibal drew long trails in the morning light.
"Let him stay," Baelon said. His voice was raspy from the medicine, but unusually firm. "Give him a name, give him an identity. Since the dragon accepted him, let us consider it... a test left to us by Aemon."
Corlys's fist clenched until it was white. "A test? Prince Baelon, have you forgotten how the Myrish assassin aimed that crossbow at Prince Aemon? Allowing a person of unknown identity to roam Dragonstone is handing a knife to our enemies!"
"He is not an enemy." Rhaenys walked to the stone table and placed a dragonglass pendant on it—she had found it in the cloak Daemon Blackfyre had dropped last night. The pendant was carved with half of a three-headed dragon crest, looking as if it had been forcibly split in two. "He can't even remember his own past clearly, only that the brand on his shoulder was 'given by his father.'"
Baelon picked up the pendant, the cold touch spreading through his fingertips. He remembered that when Aemon was a boy, he had found a similar stone in the dragonglass mines and carved a pair of twin dragon crests—keeping one for himself and giving one to Rhaenys's mother.
"Call him Daemon Waters," Baelon said suddenly. "Let him stay temporarily at the Night Watchtower near the dragon's lair, under the supervision of Daemon (Targaryen). Tell the maesters to record him as 'Prince Aemon's orphan, mother unknown.'"
Corlys looked up sharply, his eyes full of disbelief. "Are you mad? That is tantamount to acknowledging his bloodline!"
"I only acknowledge the dragon's choice." Baelon looked out the window. The two boys were commanding their giant dragons to dive for fish. The black mist from The Cannibal and the fire from Caraxes interwove on the sea surface, startling schools of silver fish. "Besides, he is Daemon's friend now. Do you want my son to fight a dragon he considers a brother? As for your proposal, I agree. After dealing with the Triarchy's fleet this time, we will go to King's Landing together. Only the King has the right to legitimize a bastard!"
Corlys was speechless. He looked at Rhaenys's resolute eyes, then at Baelon's unquestionable attitude. Finally, he gave a heavy hmph, turned, and stormed out, his sleeves fluttering.
His Sea Snake cloak swept across the stone table, knocking over the unfinished bowl of medicine. The dark liquid spread through the ashes like a pool of silent blood.
Rhaenys picked up the dragonglass pendant, her fingertips tracing the broken lines.
She remembered Corlys telling her in the cabin last night: "The Targaryen bloodline is never a gift; it is a curse." She had taken it as angry words then, but now she suddenly understood that some bloodlines, even if buried, would erupt like the volcanoes of Dragonstone at a certain moment, releasing power enough to change the world.
On the stone wall of the Night Watchtower, a new wooden sign hung, with "Daemon Waters" written in charcoal.
Daemon Blackfyre stood before the sign, looking at the familiar surname. The brand on his right shoulder felt slightly warm. Before being acknowledged by his father Aegon IV at the age of twelve, he had borne this name.
"Waters is the common surname for bastards in the Crownlands." Daemon Targaryen tossed a flask of wine from behind. "Father says to leave it like this for now, wait until there is news from Grandfather." He winked. "But I think 'Blackfyre' is cooler, like The Cannibal's scales."
Blackfyre caught the flask and took a big swig. The spicy burn of the ale reminded him of the victory wine before Redgrass Field, only the people who drank with him then had all become dust of history. "Aren't you afraid I really am a liar?"
"Could a liar make The Cannibal obey?" Targaryen laughed, pointing at the black dragon dozing outside the window. "It tipped over half of Corlys's flagship yesterday just because a sailor looked at it twice." He suddenly lowered his voice. "Rhaenys says your dragonglass pendant looks a lot like her mother's relic."
Blackfyre's heart skipped a beat. He touched his chest, where he kept the half-piece of silver chain he had brought from Redgrass Field next to his skin—it was a relic of his mother, Princess Daena, said to have been passed down from his great-grandmother Queen Rhaenyra. He usually used it just to tie his hair; the break still bore the mark of an arrowhead scratch.
Thinking of this, Blackfyre looked at his "cheap" namesake brother beside him—his own great-grandfather.
He had never told anyone that on the inner side of the silver chain, a line of tiny text was carved: "Blood and Fire, One Source."
"Maybe it's a coincidence." Blackfyre avoided the topic, turning his gaze toward the dragon's lair.
Vhagar's massive silhouette was faintly visible. The ancient dragon seemed interested in The Cannibal, letting out low calls from time to time.
"Vhagar wants to fight The Cannibal." Targaryen followed his gaze, eyes shining with excitement. "Father says when you've fully tamed The Cannibal, we can have a dragonrider tournament. I bet Caraxes wins!"
Blackfyre smiled. He remembered the tourney at King's Landing when he was twelve, remembered knocking seven knights off their horses with his sword.
Back then, he thought victory was everything. It wasn't until he was dying that he understood some bonds were more important than a crown.
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the dragonglass window, casting dappled spots on the stone floor.
Daemon Blackfyre sat by the window, watching Daemon Targaryen feed Caraxes, watching Rhaenys talking to Baelon in the distance, and watching Corlys's flagship slowly leave the harbor, the Seahorse banner snapping in the wind.
He knew the name "Daemon Waters" was only temporary.
The black dragon crest on his shoulder, the existence of The Cannibal, and even that broken dragonglass pendant were all telling a truth that could not be buried.
Blood and fire from the same source. The entanglement between Blackfyre and Targaryen had already had its prologue written on Redgrass Field a hundred years later.
In the distance, The Cannibal suddenly let out a long dragon roar.
Daemon Blackfyre stood up, feeling the power in his blood awaken once more.
He looked out the window. The pitch-black giant dragon was looking up at the sky, its green-fire pupils reflecting a clear blue—a serenity it had never known before.
Daemon Blackfyre tightened his grip on the dagger at his waist, the rusty old thing he had brought from the tower.
He knew his war had not yet begun, but this time, he was no longer fighting alone.
In the sky above Dragonstone, clouds unfurled like the spreading wings of a dragon.
The laughter of the two Daemons carried on the sea breeze, mixing with dragon roars and ocean waves, echoing in every crack of this black stone castle.
And in faraway King's Landing, in King Jaehaerys's Small Council chamber, a secret report about the appearance of a "Black Dragon Rider" on Dragonstone lay at the bottom of a pile of neglected documents, waiting for the moment history would turn the page.
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