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When the first morning light of the 99th year after Aegon's Conquest spilled over the battlements of the Red Keep, the sulfur scent drifting from the Dragonpit carried a rare warmth.
It wasn't the usual damp chill of King's Landing. It was mixed with the aroma of Arbor wine, the rich scent of roasting boar, and the faint smell of wool from the newly hung dragon tapestries airing in the sun. It felt as if the storms of the past few years had been kneaded into the peace of this New Year's Day.
The copper bells in the Red Keep's kitchens had rung three times already. Kitchen maids and apprentices in grey aprons hurried through the corridors carrying stacks of silver platters. The dew on the rims hadn't yet dried, reflecting the three-headed dragon carvings on the pillars in dizzying flashes of light.
Daemon stood by a high window in the Great Hall. The scabbard of Blackfyre scraped against the ice on the sill, making a crisp sound. He gazed at the distant horizon where the black silhouette of The Cannibal drifted, trailed by a smaller dot hidden in the morning mist.
The sight brought back the memory of waking up in the dungeons of Dragonstone in 97 AC, a hundred years before his death on the Redgrass Field. The cold roar of a dragon had greeted him then. Wrapped in a moldy tunic, bewildered by his arrival, he had thought it was the call of the Stranger.
Counting from that day to this, including the turn of the years, this was his third year in this century.
Today, the oak tables in the Great Hall stretched from the Iron Throne to the doors. Red candles danced on silver. King Jaehaerys's crown sat slightly askew on his silver-white hair. He held Queen Alysanne's hand, smiling as his thumb traced the silver dragon embroidered on her cuff.
It was the likeness of her dragon, Silverwing. Just last month, the indomitable Queen had flown to Mole's Town in the North to deliver New Year's bread. She returned with wisps of winter hay stuck to the dragon's scales, which she delightedly kept in a velvet pouch as a memento.
"Sit, sit!" The Old King's voice was booming, drowning out the clink of Kingsguard armor outside. "Today is the first day of the New Year. No talk of scorpions across the Narrow Sea, no talk of fleets. Only wine in the cup and matters of the family!"
As he spoke, the minstrels in the corner plucked their harp strings. A melodious tune washed over the hall, softening the very air.
Prince Baelon led Viserys by the hand. Viserys wore a deep black silk tunic, a dragonglass brooch at his throat.
In his arms, he held little Princess Rhaenyra. Wrapped in a white fox fur cloak with a pearl-stitched collar, her tiny fist clutched a honey cake, crumbs dotting her chin like pearls.
Her eyes, however, were fixed on Daemon. Her short legs kicked in Viserys's grip, and she babbled something incoherent, clearly demanding to be held by him.
Aemma followed, her pale blue gown sweeping the carpet. She nodded smilingly to Jocelyn Baratheon, and the two whispered together—likely discussing Rhaenyra's latest demand to ride Dreamfyre with Gael.
Daemon Targaryen trailed behind, flipping his black cloak impatiently. He had deliberately turned the lining—embroidered with the three-headed dragon—outward to show the plain black cloth underneath.
It wasn't until Baelon shot him a glare—mixed with helplessness and affection—that the Rogue Prince sulkily found a seat. Forced by protocol, he sat near the runic scabbard Yorbert Royce had sent via Rhea as a "gift," supposedly to ward off evil.
His fingers drummed a rapid rhythm on the table, counting the days until the Stepstones campaign, or perhaps calculating some other scheme.
"Little Daemon!" Queen Alysanne spotted Daemon Blackfyre by the window first. Her silver bracelets jingled as she waved. "Come sit. Gael just had the kitchens warm your favorite honeyed mead."
Daemon walked over. Gael sat beside her mother, a dragonglass brooch at the collar of her pale violet gown.
It was carved in the shape of a three-headed dragon—a piece Daemon and Rupert had dug from a cliff in Crackclaw Point late last year, crafted by artisans specifically for her.
Seeing Daemon, Gael quietly pushed the warmed mead toward him. Her fingers brushed his, giving a gentle squeeze. "I heard Brother Vaegon say last night that the Citadel observed strange stars in the North. Are you thinking about the Wall again?"
Daemon's hand paused on the cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Otto Hightower whispering to Alicent nearby. Alicent's gaze darted toward him, filled with cautious curiosity.
He smiled, bringing the cup to his lips to hide the shadow in his eyes. "Just thinking of the wildlings beyond the Wall last year. Lord Commander Karstark wrote recently that winter is long this year; he fears they might move south again."
It was a half-truth. What truly weighed on him were the words of the Child of the Forest at the God's Eye: "The Others have awakened early because of you."
And the prophecy Alys Rivers had snuck into his room: a drawing of a red comet, annotated "The Citadel calls it the harbinger of the Long Night."
But he couldn't say these things. It would only cause panic and make Otto brand him a madman.
Gael didn't press. She pushed a plate of roasted apples toward him—she knew he disliked things too sweet and had asked the kitchen to use less honey.
The hall doors opened again, letting in a draft that made the candles flicker.
Vaegon Targaryen entered, his silver-gold hair gleaming almost too brightly. He clutched a scroll of star charts tied with leather, ink stains on the parchment.
Archmaester Bernard followed, holding a quill and a wooden box containing an astrolabe that clicked softly as he walked.
Our "Archmaester Prince" had intended to leave with the Reach fleet after the tourney, but his parents, missing their long-absent son, had stopped him. He and Bernard were now stuck in King's Landing until the "situation in the Stepstones stabilizes."
"Father, Mother." Vaegon bowed. His tone was as acerbic as ever, but softened when he looked at his parents' faces. "I brought the Citadel's star records. If you wish to know the portents for the New Year..."
"No talk of that today!" Jaehaerys waved a hand, pointing to an empty seat next to Viserys. "Sit by your nephew. Let him pour you a drink—you've been in the Citadel so long you've probably forgotten the taste of ale."
Vaegon sat resignedly. He had just picked up his cup when Rhaenyra tugged his sleeve, looking up as if to ask a question.
The hall erupted in laughter. Viserys ruffled his daughter's hair, and Aemma handed her a honey cake. "Stop fussing, little one. Your Great-Uncle Vaegon needs to study the stars."
Daemon's gaze drifted down the table. Otto Hightower was drinking with Lyonel Strong. Alicent sat quietly beside her father, twisting a handkerchief, occasionally glancing at Daemon before quickly looking down.
Gwayne and Mund Hightower whispered together, but Bethany Hightower wasn't with them. Her eyes were fixed on Daemon's shoulder—where the dragon brand lay beneath his clothes. Her look was curious and bright, like someone studying a hidden treasure.
Larys Strong sat by Lyonel, his clubfoot resting on the carpet. Avoiding his brother Harwin's gaze, he shot Daemon a subtle look and tapped a scroll in his lap—the intercepted message about Lyseni pirates prowling the Stepstones.
"Ryam!" Jaehaerys suddenly called out to the Kingsguard. Ser Ryam Redwyne stepped forward, white armor gleaming. "Old friend, I never gave you and Ser Clement your reward for the joust!"
The Old King picked up two ruby-encrusted daggers from beside the throne. "These were gifted to me by old Lord Lyman Lannister in my youth. Today, I give them to you both. Let us share the joy of the New Year."
Ryam bowed and accepted them. He looked at Daemon with a smile—he had, after all, taught the Prince a few moves during the sword competition.
Many White Cloaks privately considered the "Warrior Incarnate" Black Dragon as their successor in spirit.
Halfway through the feast, Daemon Targaryen tugged Daemon's sleeve, and they slipped into the side corridor.
"Father told you about the Stepstones?" The Rogue Prince leaned against a pillar, pulling a half-eaten honey cake from his tunic. "I heard from the Runestone messenger that the Royce knights are ready. Waiting for us to move."
Thanks to the pressure from Baelon and Yorbert, the relationship between the two Daemons had thawed, at least on the surface.
Daemon nodded, tapping the stone pillar. "Uncle Baelon says we depart around the fifteenth of next month. The United Fleet will muster in Blackwater Bay. You... don't think about sneaking off to the Street of Silk this time."
Daemon Targaryen scoffed, stuffing the cake into his mouth. "I know, I know. Just fighting pirates."
He paused, looking at Daemon's shoulder. "Does the brand still burn?"
Daemon froze. Since "taming" Grey Ghost, the brand rarely burned unless he was fighting or emotional—or riding The Cannibal.
"Not anymore," he lied vaguely. But Alys Rivers's note flashed in his mind: "Comet appears, dragonfire chills, Others wake at the edge of Eternal Night."
Gael's voice came from the doorway. She stood holding a thick cloak, her dress swaying in the wind. "It's cold out. Father and Mother sent me to call you back."
Daemon Targaryen whistled knowingly. "I'll go play with Rhaenyra. Little Aunt, take your time." He vanished back into the hall.
Daemon took the cloak. Gael stood on tiptoes to tie it for him, her fingers cool against his neck. "Brother Vaegon told us at the table that the Citadel observed the aurora in the North earlier than usual. He says it might be a sign of the 'Long Night.'"
Her voice was soft, afraid to be carried away by the wind. "If you are truly worried about the North and the wildlings... after the Stepstones, we can ride The Cannibal and Dreamfyre to Castle Black together."
Daemon looked down at the top of her head, where candlelight danced in her hair.
He knew she was worried, but he couldn't tell her the truth. He wasn't afraid of wildlings. He was afraid of the things deep in the Eternal Night that could freeze fire.
"Alright," he answered softly, rubbing her head. "When we return from the Stepstones, we'll go see the snow at Castle Black."
As they walked back, Jaehaerys was raising his goblet, silver hair shining like snow. "Come! To the New Year! To our home! Cheers!"
Everyone raised their cups. The clinking of silver echoed. Viserys cheered with Rhaenyra. Daemon Targaryen clinked cups lazily with Larys Strong, ignoring Harwin beside him.
Jocelyn smiled at Aemma. Vaegon studied his star chart, tracing the comet marker with a finger.
Daemon raised his cup, his gaze sweeping over the people in the hall—those he loved, his friends, those he had to protect.
The Cannibal's roar came from afar, mixed with Dreamfyre's call, answering the warmth of the New Year.
He knew what lay behind this warmth—scorpions in the Stepstones, star signs from the Citadel, shadows in the Long Night.
But for now, he just wanted to drink this wine and keep this warmth in his heart.
Wait until spring. Wait until he returned from the Stepstones. Wait until he married Gael on Dragonstone. Wait until his plans came to fruition and he wore his own crown across the Narrow Sea.
Then, he would personally block those shadows. He would stand before this century, before the people he cared for.
As the spiced ale slid down his throat, Daemon remembered the sea wind on the Dragonstone cliffs in 97 AC.
Back then, he thought he was a ghost lost in time. Now, he had a home and everything to protect. The third year of this century had only just begun.