Night Feast at High Tide

When Rhaenys welcomed them at the docks of Dragonstone, the Dragonbreath Flowers on her skirt were still beaded with morning dew.

She first supported the pale-faced Baelon, then her gaze fell upon Daemon Blackfyre— the dragon-patterned brand on the boy's shoulder was clearer than usual, as though it had been warmed by dragonfire. "Corlys said the three of you burned the Stepstones so thoroughly that even seabirds dared not land there."

There was laughter in her voice, yet her fingers lightly twisted the fabric of her skirt. "Come to think of it, I wanted to go with you. Meleys and I are no pushovers, after all."

"You had to stay and look after Laena and Laenor." Baelon accepted the handkerchief she offered and wiped the corner of his mouth, his voice carrying an elder's gentle warmth. "The six-year-old girl keeps demanding to learn swordsmanship, while the three-year-old boy is always sneaking into the Dragonpit. How could they do without their mother?"

Rhaenys shot Corlys, standing beside her, an annoyed look. "It was all him. Going on about how 'women should stay home with the children,' and insisting on keeping me on Dragonstone."

Daemon Blackfyre had been examining the Glutton's trophy between its claws— a gilded shield torn from a Tyroshi flagship. Hearing this, he raised his head.

He had long heard of Rhaenys's children, but he had never met them.

"Laena takes after me. She is braver than most boys." Noticing his gaze, Rhaenys took the initiative to explain, tenderness rippling through her eyes. "A few days ago, she secretly climbed onto Meleys's tail and declared that she wanted to become a dragonrider too. Laenor is quieter. He is always clutching seashells and drawing dragons on the beach." She tipped her chin toward the castle. "I'll have them come meet you shortly. They are your niece and nephew."

Corlys stepped forward and handed Baelon a roll of parchment. "The tally is complete. Eighty percent of the Three Daughters Fleet was destroyed, with three hundred and twenty-seven prisoners captured and seven ships' worth of spoils, including the twelve chests of gold Arys hid in the holds." He paused, his expression toward Daemon Blackfyre becoming more complicated. "By custom, the dragonriders should receive thirty percent of the spoils."

"Our thirty percent will be added to make his fifty." Baelon cut him off, his voice brooking no argument. "Divide the rest among the sailors and Dragonstone's garrison." He turned to Rhaenys. "Make preparations. We will rest at High Tide for three days, then take Arys and the gold back to King's Landing."

Rhaenys's eyes lit up. "You are taking him to meet Grandfather?"

"The old man, Jaehaerys, always says I have spent too long on Dragonstone." Baelon coughed, but smiled openly. "This is a good chance to show him that Aemon's son is no less skilled at riding dragons than anyone else."

Daemon Blackfyre's heart abruptly skipped a beat. Baelon had said "Aemon's son," not "Daemon Waters."

That subtle change in address was like a stone cast into the heart of a lake, sending ripples through his heart.

Three days later, High Tide's banquet hall was livelier than ever.

At Corlys's command, an enormous tapestry had been hung in the center of the hall. It depicted three dragons circling above the Stepstones: Vhagar's blue-green giant form on the left, Caraxes's scarlet shape on the right, and the Glutton's pitch-black silhouette in the center. Their dragonfire intertwined into a net, trapping the wreckage of the Three Daughters Fleet within. A small line of embroidery adorned one corner: Conquest calendar 97, three dragons triumph once more.

Halfway through the feast, Rhaenys entered holding two children by the hand. Six-year-old Laena wore a small suit of leather armor with a toy sword at her waist, her silver-gray eyes fixed curiously on Daemon Blackfyre. Three-year-old Laenor hid behind his mother, clutching a painted shell and peeking out with only half his face visible.

"This is Laena, and this is Laenor." Rhaenys nudged the children forward. "Call him Uncle Daemon."

"Is Uncle riding the Glutton?" Laena asked, tilting her head back, her voice bright and clear. "Father says it eats everything, even its own kind."

Daemon Blackfyre could not help laughing. He pulled a shard of Dragonglass from his robes— it had fallen when the Glutton shed its skin that morning, and he had polished it smooth and translucent. "It does not eat good children. It only eats pirates." He handed the shard to Laena. "This is for you. It can make dragonfire burn hotter." Laena immediately accepted it and tucked it into her clothes as though it were treasure.

Seeing this, Laenor timidly extended his own hand and offered him the shell. "Draw... dragons." Three dragons had been sketched crookedly upon it in charcoal. The one in the middle even had two green dots, like the Glutton's eyes.

"To the dragons of Targaryen!" Corlys raised his cup. This time, his smile held less calculation and more sincerity. "To victory in the Stepstones!"

Baelon clinked cups with him, wine spilling onto his beard.

He looked toward Daemon Blackfyre, seated beside Rhaenys— the boy was patiently listening to Laena explain her "sword-training plan," occasionally using his fingers to straighten Laenor's shell when it was about to slip. The dragon mark on his right shoulder flickered in and out of sight beneath the candlelight.

The sight reminded him of the victory feast after their return in year 83: his father seated at the place of honor, with him and Aemon on either side. Their three cups had met, and it seemed the warmth of dragonfire still lingered at his fingertips.

"Daemon," Baelon suddenly called, his voice carrying throughout the banquet hall. "The King's Landing tourney begins next month. Do you dare have a match with my Daemon?"

When Daemon Blackfyre looked up, he met Baelon's gaze. There was no scrutiny or suspicion in those eyes, only the pure anticipation of one warrior toward another.

He thought of the final battle on the Red Grassland, of the three dragons fighting side by side, of the blood flowing through this body— blood that shared the same origin as the ancestors before him. Decisively, he "ignored" Rhaenys's startled outburst of, "But he is only twelve!"

"I dare." Daemon Blackfyre rose to his feet and raised his cup in return. "But I wager the Glutton is faster than Caraxes, and I am stronger than him."

Daemon Targaryen immediately slapped the table and burst into laughter. "Prepare to lose! Caraxes can outrun the wind!"

Laena suddenly shouted, "I bet Uncle Daemon wins!" Laenor nodded along, tightly clutching his shell in his little hand.

Seeing this, Rhaenys could only put away her worry and smile as she shook her head. The corners of Corlys's mouth also curved upward.

Vhagar's deep roar drifted from the distant Dragonpit, interweaving with the replies of Caraxes and the Glutton like a battle hymn spanning time itself.

"I was not talking about dragon combat, boys." Baelon watched everything before him with a helpless smile, suddenly feeling that even the pain beneath his ribs had lessened.

The three dragons of year 83 had been his father, his brother, and himself. The three dragons of year 97 were him, his son, and his "nephew"— history might not repeat itself, but the power of blood and the choices of dragons always continued in unexpected ways.

He knew the road to King's Landing would not be smooth. Too many schemes lurked in the Iron Throne's shadow, and the struggle over succession had never truly ceased.

But at this moment, looking upon the smiling faces in the banquet hall and listening to the dragons' distant cries, he suddenly felt confident— no matter how fierce the storms ahead, as long as the flames of three dragons still burned, the banner of Targaryen would not fall.

And this Black Dragon, Daemon Blackfyre, who had come from the future, might not be a curse, but another form of salvation bestowed upon Targaryen by the gods.

The night wind swept past High Tide's towers, carrying the salty tang of the Narrow Sea.

Three flagships bound for King's Landing were already waiting at the docks, the three-headed dragon banners at their prows snapping in the moonlight.

Everyone knew that this triumphant return, bearing spoils and prisoners, was destined to stir fresh waves in King's Landing. But at this moment, no one cared about that— they remembered only how, upon the waters of the Stepstones, the flames of three dragons had illuminated the dawn and taught the pirates of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters one truth:

The dragons of Targaryen had never slept!