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CaveLeather
The autumn sun over King's Landing carried a warm golden glow, spilling across the Red Keep's battlements and painting the whole capital in celebration.
The united fleet of Westeros had just pulled off something no one had seen in living memory: a full patrol of every sea around the Seven Kingdoms. Today marked their first official homecoming.
Lord Boremund Baratheon, fresh from victory in the Marches, marched in with the combined Stormlands and Reach border forces to pay his respects at court.
Lords from every corner of Westeros had come in person—or sent their best envoys—to cheer the betrothal of Prince Daemon and Princess Gael. Even the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea sent representatives: the Triarchy of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh (already at peace with the Iron Throne and locked into new trade deals), plus the Sea Lord of Braavos, the Prince of Pentos, and the Tiger and Elephant magistrates of Volantis. Out of the Nine Free Cities, six had shown up—everyone except the more distant Lorath, Norvos, and Qohor.
Blackwater Bay was alive with color. Banners snapped in the breeze: the crowned stag of Storm's End, the direwolf of Winterfell, the red-and-blue trout of Riverrun, the moon-and-falcon of the Eyrie, the golden rose of Highgarden, and the roaring lion of Casterly Rock. Even the black banner of the Night's Watch fluttered beside the colorful sails of the Free Cities.
The docks looked like a living rainbow.
The air smelled of pine resin from the decorations, cinnamon from the feast pastries, and the rich, smoky sweetness of dragon's amber used for the royal procession—the perfect opening note for the betrothal.
Stone flags rang under boots as the first lords stepped ashore.
Leading the way was Lord Boremund Baratheon himself, clad in black-and-gold battle armor, the stag on his shoulder plates gleaming in the sea wind. Behind him came the Stormlands and Reach Marches lords who had fought at his side.
Borros Baratheon waited at the head of the greeting party, looking every inch his father's son. Flanking him were the young Stormlands lords who had stayed in King's Landing: Roland Connington in his crimson cloak, Lorent Grandison in yellow, Thurgood and Willis Fell with short blades at their hips, and Bryce Caron in his bright yellow doublet—the whole "Stormlands crew" in one proud picture.
The moment Boremund's boot hit the pier, the City Watch's gold cloaks steered him toward the waiting carriages. As he passed Daemon, the stern lord dropped the serious act, clapped the younger man hard on the shoulder, and grinned.
"Little Daemon! I brought the best barley ale from Storm's End. You and Borros are drinking until you can't stand tonight!"
Daemon laughed and nodded, eyes sweeping the growing crowd.
Lord Benjen Stark—brother to Lord Eddard—and his wife Lysa Locke walked hand in hand, leading their three-year-old son Rickon. Their thick northern cloaks still carried a dusting of frost. Young Rickon clutched a little wooden direwolf. When he spotted Grey Ghost his eyes lit up. He broke free and toddled straight over, reaching out.
"Is that your dragon?"
Before he could finish, his big, boisterous cousin Brandon Stark scooped him up, tossed him high, and laughed. "Kid doesn't know any better. Been too long, Little Daemon! This betrothal is finally my chance to drink you under the table!"
Grey Ghost tilted his head, then floated up and gently bumped Brandon's palm with his snout. The big northern wolf let out his trademark booming laugh.
Benjen and Lysa just shook their heads with the tired fondness of parents who had watched Brandon grow up the exact same way.
Benjen turned to Daemon. "Lord Eddard's been feeling poorly, so he asked us to bring the finest white-fox furs from the North for the princess. And Lord Commander Karlon Karstark sent a letter—everything's quiet on the Wall. You can rest easy."
A little farther down, Lord Rodrik Dustin and his wife were herding their second son Harmen and daughter Aida while sorting baggage. With Lord Eddard unwell, their eldest son William had stayed behind to help; the lord and lady had come themselves. Their grey cloaks bore the crossed black axes and crown of Barrow Hall. Little Aida hugged a stuffed dragon—the one Daemon and Gael had given her during the northern tour.
Their son Beron Dustin, the maester-in-training who had sailed from the Citadel, wore the plain grey robes of a novice. His chain links glinted in the sun. He started toward his family, only to be caught by Prince Vaegon Targaryen, who had Maester Bernard quiz him right there on the latest star charts.
"According to the Citadel's ravens, the northern lights have dimmed," Vaegon said. "They think the cold snaps will come later this year—perfect sailing weather after the betrothal."
White Harbor's fleet made the loudest entrance. Lord Wyman Manderly waddled down the gangplank with half his enormous family, all of them broad and silk-clad, arms full of northern pearls and ocean jewels. Wyman grinned and pressed a fresh honey cake into Daemon's hand.
"Little Prince, it's been too long! Our ship's cook made these this morning—just the way you and Princess Gael liked them when you sailed north. Extra sugar from the Arbor this time. William writes home constantly about your latest heroics!"
William Manderly trailed behind in his united-fleet naval uniform, logbook tucked under one arm.
The Riverlands contingent had an elegant touch. Lord Grover Tully stepped ashore in silver-and-blue silks that perfectly matched his house's red, blue, and silver trout. Behind him came his sons—Hoster and Brynden from the fleet—plus daughters Lysa and Lyanna, nephew Edmure, and a whole crowd of Tully kin.
Grover spotted Daemon and waved him over with a smile. "Little Daemon, I brought the newest peach wine from Riverrun. Smoother than Arbor gold. I'll have a servant send a cask to your chambers."
The Vale delegation carried true knightly grace. Regent Yorbert Royce and his heir, Lady Rhea Royce, strode forward in riding leathers. Ser Gwayne Royce carried little Lady Jeyne Arryn on his shoulders—the girl perched like the falcon on her house sigil, staring at Daemon as if demanding why he hadn't visited the Eyrie yet. William Royce held a wooden box of Vale eagle-feather arrows.
"A betrothal gift for you and Princess Gael," Yorbert said warmly. "We heard the little dragon likes shiny things."
The Reach envoys turned the dock into a rose garden. Ser Martyn Tyrell and his wife, Lady Olenna Fossoway, kept things understated—but their lord nephew's taste for grandeur had rubbed off on the whole party. They wore rose-embroidered robes. Garlan Tyrell, just back from the fleet, carried a fresh bouquet of red roses, salt still crusting his silver armor.
"Lord Mace sends Arbor wine and Highgarden preserves," Martyn said, offering a silver box. "Some candied petals too—children love sweets. May it bring you both good fortune."
The Westerlands group moved with quiet wealth. Lord Tymond Lannister, already in the city, arrived with his nephew Lancel (fresh from the Sunset Sea patrol) and the twin heirs Jason and Tyland Lannister. Their golden-lion robes swept the stones. Lancel carried a jeweled box.
"Tymond says this necklace was made in Lannisport for the princess," Lancel told Daemon. "The rubies came straight from Casterly Rock's private vaults."
Daemon accepted every gift with a grateful nod. His eyes drifted toward the Red Keep gates, where Gael stood waiting in a soft violet gown, sunlight catching the fabric like morning mist. Mysaria and Johanna hovered behind her; Brienne and Lia stood guard, swords ready.
When Gael saw him looking she hurried over, food box in hand.
"I had the kitchens bake honey cakes—they're still warm from the ovens."
She lifted the lid. Each cake was stamped with tiny images of Grey Ghost and Dreamfyre.
Vaegon told me the stars are perfect for our betrothal decorations today. Want to go see how the Red Keep looks?"
Daemon smiled, took her hand, and they walked toward the castle together. Grey Ghost trotted at their heels, a little cloth doll from Aida Dustin clamped gently in his jaws.
All along the streets, craftsmen hung bright ribbons. Tavern keepers dragged tables outside. A troupe had even set up a stage in the square, belting out "The Dragon Knight and the Princess" while crowds clapped along.
Inside the Red Keep's council chamber, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne reviewed the ceremony plans with the Faith's envoy. The white-robed septon held the Seven-Pointed Star and spoke with solemn dignity.
"The betrothal will follow Westerosi custom: His Grace will bless the pair, the Citadel maesters will read the formal contract, and the lords will witness the exchange of tokens."
Maesters from the Citadel shuffled parchment contracts stamped with the Iron Throne's red-gold seal.
Prince Baelon stood nearby, eyes shining with pride. When Daemon and Gael entered he waved them over with a grin.
"You're just in time. Borros and that Stark lad Brandon are already bragging they'll challenge you to swords at the feast. Don't lose."
Daemon Targaryen slid in beside them, twirling a practice blade. "Count me in! We haven't had a proper scrap since the Stepstones. Let little Aunt Gael be the judge!"
Gael laughed, violet eyes sparkling. "If you two are dueling, I'm picking the blunted blades. No one gets hurt on my watch."
By mid-afternoon the lords filled the Red Keep's courtyards. Boremund chatted border defenses with Ser Martyn. Benjen and Lysa swapped northern harvest news with Queen Alysanne. Vaegon and Maester Bernard quizzed young Beron on star charts in the corner.
The children mobbed Grey Ghost. Brandon somehow ended up feeding the little dragon honey cakes while Aida and Jeyne clapped. On the far side, Hoster Tully and Garlan Tyrell argued new fleet routes like old friends.
No stiff courtesy here—just the easy warmth of family. The Seven Kingdoms felt like one big, loud household.
Daemon watched it all and felt a deep contentment settle in his chest. Three years ago he had woken alone in a Dragonstone cell. He remembered the long tour through the Seven Kingdoms, the bloody battles in the Stepstones, the Iron Islands' surrender, and the Marches victory. Now the lords stood shoulder to shoulder, Free City envoys offered congratulations, and even the Night's Watch sent blessings.
This wasn't just his and Gael's betrothal. It was proof that the Iron Throne and House Targaryen had reached a new height of strength and unity.
As the sun dipped low, candles flared to life throughout the Red Keep. The betrothal contract lay ready on the table, the Faith's septon tuned the bells, and the maesters arranged the tokens.
Grey Ghost curled at Daemon's feet, happily chewing the little wooden direwolf Brandon had just given him. In the distance came The Cannibal's low, powerful rumble from the dragon pit—deep, steady, and strong. That was the power of House Targaryen, and the foundation that would guard this hard-won peace.
When the last rays of sunset faded, the Red Keep bells rang out once more.
Lords and envoys retired to their guest quarters. The feast hall overflowed with gifts; every house sigil on the walls caught the candlelight like living flames.
Daemon stepped onto his balcony and looked out over the city. King's Landing glowed with a thousand lanterns. After three years—tours, sea battles, submissions, and victories—Westeros had never been stronger.
The lords had come to King's Landing almost every year now, not just for feasts but because something deeper had taken root in their hearts: Targaryen dragonfire would always keep the realm safe.
Far below on Blackwater Bay, a Lyseni silk trader's ship slipped away on the evening tide. The Night's Watch banner fluttered in the breeze. Northern white-fox furs, Westerlands gold, and Reach roses all gleamed in the Red Keep's candlelight.
A betrothal feast fit for dragons and peace was about to begin beneath the blessings of the Seven Kingdoms.