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Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
Game of Thrones: Dragon Knight of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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The betrothal ceremony rolled on, the courtyard still packed with laughing guests and the clink of cups.
But in a shadowed corner far from the high platform, Alys Rivers wore that same knowing half-smile she always did when the future whispered in her ear. Across the square Larys Strong answered with his own crooked grin—the one that never reached his eyes.
He'd been letting Harwin drag him through another round of ale when he spotted her. Alys hadn't shown her face much since that night in the godswood at Harrenhal, when she'd pulled him aside and promised she could make his wildest ambitions real—if he'd only introduce her to the mysterious "Black Dragon." That same night Daemon Blackfyre had taken them both under his wing and carried them from Harrenhal to King's Landing. After that she'd kept to the shadows. Until today.
Now she stood alone, watching Little Daemon like a cat eyeing cream.
Larys started toward her, but Harwin's big hand clamped down on his arm.
"Leave the witch be," Harwin said, sloshing ale as he laughed. "Grandfather and Father both say she's harmless—just another forest woman with odd ways. Come on, you're actually free for once. One more cup before Borros, Brandon Stark, and Myles Rivers start calling us soft. Especially that big rogue Daemon!"
Larys gave a helpless little shrug, flashed his trademark sly smile, and let himself be pulled back. But not before he caught Jarman Waters's eye across the square. Jarman was leaning against a wall with a cup of wine, chatting quietly with Harlan Hunt while his one good eye swept the crowd out of habit. Larys jerked his chin toward Alys. Jarman gave the tiniest nod, gaze sliding over the woman without missing a beat.
Just then the harp music on the platform stopped.
Daemon set the instrument aside, took Gael's hand, and accepted a small golden circlet from the servant. Pure gold, tiny rubies set like dragon eyes. He placed it gently on her silver hair, voice low and warm enough to melt steel.
"Gael, my little aunt, my dearest love—from the dragon caves of Dragonstone to the Red Keep of King's Landing, from the snows beyond the Wall to the waves of the Stepstones, you've been at my side every step of the way. From this day forward I will guard you with Blackfyre at my hip and Cannibal's fire at my back, until the last of us is only dust in the history books."
Gael's violet eyes filled instantly. The shy "Winter Child" who had once hidden behind her mother's skirts threw her arms around him, voice cracking. "And I will stand with you, Little Daemon. Always."
The courtyard erupted. Jaehaerys clapped hardest of all, Alysanne dabbed at her eyes, and Baelon's grin could have lit the whole city. Rhaenys bounced Laena on her hip while Laenor tried to hide the handkerchief he'd embroidered himself.
In the crowd, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen had spent the morning sulking beside his lawful wife Rhea Royce—both of them equally miserable under pressure from Baelon and Yorbert. The moment the music ended he slipped away, dragging Borros Baratheon and Brandon Stark into a corner with a stolen honey cake.
"You think Little Daemon and Gael will consummate the betrothal tonight?" Borros asked around a mouthful of cake. "I bet next month. If I'm wrong I'll ship every cask in Storm's End to you lot."
Brandon laughed, already reaching for his longbow like he planned to settle the wager with steel. Rhea Royce stood a few paces away, bronze amulet in hand, face like thunder. Daemon Targaryen's silver smile froze the second he saw her.
"You're at your own cousin's betrothal feast and you're already plotting drinking contests?" she snapped, slapping the amulet on the table. "If Baelon hears you're causing trouble he'll sell off every gaudy trinket you own and let Jaehaerys break your leg for good measure."
Daemon Targaryen rolled his eyes. "My gaudy trinkets are worth more than that bronze trinket of yours, Royce witch."
The two started bickering; the younger nobles around them grinned. Everyone knew the pair were a walking storm—married on paper, oil and water in every other way—but their fights always made for good entertainment.
Farther off, Otto Hightower stood in quiet conversation with Tymond Lannister and Grover Tully. Otto's deep-green robes were spotless, a small leather notebook open in his hand.
"Daemon Blackfyre's influence is growing too strong," he murmured. "Half the lords here came for him. If Jaehaerys and Baelon ever pass, Viserys's claim becomes… fragile."
Tymond swirled his wine, golden lion ring flashing. "I know. My own bannermen keep saying the boy looks more like a king than Viserys ever will. But we can't move against him yet—the united fleet still needs his dragonfire."
Grover Tully nodded, face troubled. "The Riverlands are watching too. He helped us during the tour. Turn on him now and the smallfolk will remember."
Otto said nothing, but his fingers tightened on the notebook. The Reach was the same—Lord Mace might favor Viserys, yet half his own bannermen, including Otto's brother Hobert, were still weighing their options.
Nearby, Corlys Velaryon spoke in low tones with a Braavosi envoy in a plain grey cloak. The man carried a seal-skin purse and a letter from one of the current Sea Lord candidates.
"We would continue our partnership," the envoy whispered. "If he wins the election, he will back Princess Rhaenys and your children's claim. In return, once he is Sea Lord, you help him control the Narrow Sea trade routes—and he offers a marriage alliance between our houses."
Corlys's eyes flickered. The old dream—Rhaenys on the Iron Throne, his own blood as princes and princesses—stirred again. But he glanced toward the platform where Little Daemon stood with Gael and felt the weight of that black dragon's gaze. The boy was no fool.
By the time the sun stood directly overhead the feast was in full swing. Servants carried platters of roast boar, honey cakes, and Arbor gold while Daemon and Gael moved table to table, accepting toasts.
The North sent white-fox cloaks thick enough to turn winter aside. The Riverlands offered twenty-year peach wine. The Westerlands gave a golden lion statue said to guard its bearer. Borros Baratheon slammed down a freshly forged war-axe etched with Daemon's name.
Daemon thanked them all, smiling.
When it came time for his own followers, Jarman Waters knelt first and offered a bow he had made himself, swearing lifelong loyalty. Colin Celtigar presented a detailed sea chart of a hidden Summer Isles cove drawn by his uncle's old sailors. Rupert Crabb gave an ancestral sword bearing the marsh-marigold of House Crabb, vowing to be the sharpest blade at Daemon's side. Leon Celtigar looked faintly embarrassed at the one-upmanship but still smiled.
Rayford Rosby—prodded by Larys—managed a more dignified oath on behalf of the entire Darkblade Guard.
Daemon clasped Rayford's shoulder. "Thank you, brothers. I would not be here without you."
Borros immediately bellowed that the real celebration would be at the tavern later—loser buys the ale. Brandon Stark grinned and fingered the short sword at his belt, clearly planning a post-drink spar. Gael watched the rowdy bunch with soft laughter, then glanced at Jocelyn and Rhaenys, both beaming with pride.
High above, a dragon roar split the sky.
Cannibal wheeled over the Red Keep, black wings blotting the sun. Dreamfyre and Caraxes joined him, pale-blue and scarlet flames twisting together in a dazzling display. Grey Ghost tried to join the show, only to get gently bumped aside by Cannibal and retreat to the rooftops with an indignant chirp.
Daemon took Gael's hand and looked up at the dragons, then at the family and friends around them. The warmth in his chest pushed back every memory of Redgrass Field, of dying alone with Blackfyre in the mud.
Gael leaned into him. "What are you thinking about?"
He smiled down at her. "Just… how good it would be if every day could feel like this."
She rested her head on his shoulder. Sunlight poured over them. Dragonfire painted the sky. Cheers rolled across King's Landing and beyond the Narrow Sea.
In the corner Alys Rivers watched the pair with that same faint, knowing smile. She knew the Dance of the Dragons still loomed. She knew the Others beyond the Wall had not forgotten Westeros. But she also knew the black dragon who had crossed a century was no ordinary man. He would fight with sword, dragon, and fire for everything he loved.
A few paces away Larys Strong studied her back, then pulled out a small notebook and scribbled: Witch's movements suspicious. Continued surveillance required.
He closed the book, picked up his cup, and melted back into the crowd.
Whatever dark currents waited beneath the celebration, today they could wait. Today the Red Keep rang with bells, dragon roars, and the laughter of a kingdom that—for one golden afternoon—believed the future was theirs to shape.
And on the high platform, Daemon Blackfyre raised Blackfyre to the sky. Cannibal answered with a roar that shook the stones, black flame shaping a towering three-headed dragon against the blue.
The cheers that answered could be heard from the Wall to the Summer Sea.
For now, at least, the black dragon and his Winter Child stood at the center of a realm that loved them.