The silk robes of the Dornish envoys swept across the flagstones of the banquet hall. The sweet scent of summer-flower petals mixed with the aroma of dragonblood tea, spreading through the air.
The lead envoy wore a gilded mask, revealing only a pair of amber eyes. When he bowed, the sun sigil on his cloak flickered in and out of the candlelight.
"Your Grace, Your Grace the Queen." The envoy's voice, filtered through the mask, carried a metallic coldness. "Princess Mara Martell has asked me to present these summer-flower petals—the lands of Dorne have never yearned for peace so much as the desert yearns for rain."
Jaehaerys's fingers continued to tap lightly on the edge of the map, his gaze resting on the gilded tray held by the envoy. The secret letter was sealed with scarlet wax, stamped with the golden spear sigil of House Martell. "The embers of the Triarchy have not yet burned out, and your peace arrives right on time." His tone was flat, yet it instantly silenced the laughter in the banquet hall.
The envoy seemed prepared, pulling a scroll of parchment from his sleeve. "The Princess is willing to pledge ten border fortresses as collateral to guarantee that Tyrosh will no longer touch the Stepstones." He paused, his amber eyes glinting subtly behind the mask. "To demonstrate this sincerity, Her Highness also expressed her heartfelt admiration for a warrior—the warrior who tamed the ancient wild dragon, The Cannibal. Legend has it that his dragonfire is fiercer than the midsummer sun. The Princess has a presumptuous request: she longs to witness this power with her own eyes."
Daemon gripped the dried stem of the violet, the morning dew on its petals long since evaporated. He noticed Baelon's knuckles turning slightly white, while Daemon Targaryen was grinding his boot heel into the floor—just like Caraxes's agitation before spewing fire. Only Jaehaerys remained calm, as if the "warrior" mentioned by the envoy was merely an ordinary tribute.
"Daemon is of Targaryen blood, the son of my son Aemon," Queen Alysanne spoke suddenly. Her voice was not loud, but it clearly cut through the whispers. She draped the half-knitted cloak over the back of her chair, her movements carrying unquestionable authority. "He is a grandson acknowledged by Jaehaerys and myself." Her sharp gaze swept across the tables, lingering for a moment on Tymond Lannister, who wore a faint smile.
The envoy's mask turned toward the Queen, a hint of a smile entering his voice. "Precisely for this reason, the Princess wishes to seek a marriage for her youngest daughter. The Sand Snakes of Dorne never mind a husband's past; they value only the power of the future—such as a black dragon that can shade half a mountain."
This sentence was like a spark thrown into boiling oil. The council chamber instantly erupted in low murmurs.
Rhaenys's silver fork made a light scrape on her plate. Corlys pressed his hand over her wrist, but his gaze was locked on Daemon.
Theomore Manderly's Adam's apple bobbed, seemingly calculating the possibility of a marriage alliance between his own house and Daemon Blackfyre.
But the words poured down Daemon's spine like ice water.
Marriage? His knuckles turned white from gripping the dried flower stem.
The memories of blood and fire from his past life instantly scorched him with pain. Maron Martell had taken Daenerys away—the love he buried deep in his heart but lost forever.
Even more hateful was that when he raised the Blackfyre banner in rebellion against the "Dornish-tainted" court of Daeron II, the vipers of the desert sat on the fence the entire time, only baring their fangs to snatch the greatest profit when victory was decided!
One of the roots of his rebellion was the hatred the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms held for Dorne's excessive influence.
Now, they were actively extending an olive branch, and the target was him—the one bearing the name "Blackfyre," the "rule-breaker" in their eyes?
How ironic, how sinister! The branch was clearly soaked in the venom of division.
"Princess Martell's youngest daughter is only eight years old." Baelon's voice was like ground iron. "It is too early to discuss marriage."
"A Dornish betrothal is never a child's game." The envoy opened his hand, revealing a pigeon-blood ruby ring in his palm. "The Princess says this 'Heart of Sand' once belonged to her sister-in-law, the widow of Prince Morion Martell, who died in the Fourth Dornish War. Her dying words were that the dragons of Targaryen and the spears of Martell need not have shed so much blood."
The Fourth Dornish War of 83 AC. Daemon's fingertips tightened.
That was the very year the three dragons—Jaehaerys, Aemon, and Baelon—crushed Dorne.
The Dornish were actually using the scars of that war as leverage, implying they remembered the blood debt while flaunting a posture of "letting go of grudges"—and the pivot for all this was him, the sudden "Bastard Dragonlord."
"The matter of betrothal will be discussed later." Jaehaerys finally picked up the secret letter. The wax seal crumbled with a light twist of his fingers. "But your sincerity must convince The Cannibal as well." When he looked up, the amber candlelight reflected in his pupils. "Let your people visit the Dragonpit tomorrow. Tell Martell that the dragons of House Targaryen recognize friends, but they recognize enemies even better."
As the envoy bowed and retreated, Daemon caught a glimpse of a silver chain beneath his cloak—hanging from it was a small dragon pendant, its scales rough, seemingly carved hastily from obsidian. The outline of The Cannibal. The Dornish had even investigated his dragon thoroughly.
After the banquet, Daemon met Viserys in the corridor. Moonlight wove silver threads on his indigo cloak through the arched window. "Grandfather wants you in his solar." Viserys handed him a lantern. "The Dornish letter mentioned the promise the Triarchy made to them—as long as Martell sends troops to pin us down, half the Disputed Lands will be theirs."
In the solar, oak logs burned in the fireplace. Jaehaerys was poking the ashes with fire tongs. On the wall hung a replica of Aegon the Conqueror's crown, its spikes still stained with imagined blood. "Do you know why they chose you?" The old King didn't turn his head. "In the Seven Kingdoms, only Dorne never shies away from bastards inheriting lands. They think you are like them, a person outside the rules."
Daemon watched the dancing flames in the fireplace, remembering the bastards who supported Blackfyre in his past life. They shouted "blood over birth," but were the first to defect after his defeat. "What they want isn't me, it's The Cannibal."
"And division." Jaehaerys put down the tongs, sparks landing on his dragon-embroidered slippers. "Baelon just returned from outside. The Cannibal is exceptionally irritable tonight—the summer-flower petals from the Dornish were laced with dragonbane grass. To a wild dragon, that is the scent of provocation." He smiled suddenly, his wrinkles holding understanding. "But they didn't calculate that The Cannibal only answers to you now."
Outside the window, The Cannibal's low croon could be heard, much gentler than in the evening. Daemon thought of the half-knitted cloak from Queen Alysanne, the touch of velvet still seemingly on his fingertips. "I will not marry a Dornish Sand Snake."
"You can choose for yourself." Jaehaerys pulled a scroll from the shelf, containing portraits of noble maidens from the Seven Kingdoms. "But Martell's scheme must be turned back on them."
When he returned to his bedchamber, he placed the violets in a crystal vase. Moonlight cast fragmented shadows on the wall through the petals. In the distance, the tents of the Dornish envoys were lit, like lone wolves wandering outside the Red Keep.
They hadn't mentioned that there were more than three dragons outside the Dragonpit. Vhagar was too large, The Cannibal loathed confinement, and Caraxes seemed to want to stay outside the pit with his new and old friends.
The Cannibal roared again, this time with obvious vigilance. Immediately after, Vhagar responded, old but majestic. Daemon walked to the window and saw three bursts of flame rising from the direction of the Dragonpit—Caraxes's red, Vhagar's bronze, and The Cannibal's black.
Three dragons circled in the night sky, their fire illuminating the clouds. The Dornish probably hadn't expected their provocation would draw the three dragons closer together.
Daemon touched the dragon brand on his shoulder, which still held the warmth of the morning porridge. He knew that from the day he tamed The Cannibal, history had veered off course. The choice of the Dornish was merely the first undercurrent in this deviation.
And he, this black dragon from the future, had to not only stand his ground but also make all those watching understand—Blackfyre's dragonfire burns only traitors.
The night deepened. The bells of the Red Keep tolled ten times. Daemon tossed the obsidian dragon pendant, which the Dornish envoy had deliberately dropped, out the window. It streaked across the night sky like a brief meteor, finally falling into the dark currents of the moat.
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