Undercurrents and Nocturne

King's Landing's morning fog carried a faint smell of coal smoke. The towers of the Red Keep loomed in and out of view like a slumbering beast. When Daemon Blackfyre was awakened by a dragon's roar beyond the window, the morning light had just climbed onto the sill.

He threw on his clothes and went to the window. Daemon Targaryen was circling above the castle atop Caraxes, the red dragon's scales glowing warmly through the mist.

Not far away, Glutton lay dozing on the hills outside the Dragonpit, its pitch-black wings covering half the rocky slope.

The great beast, accustomed to the wild, seemed utterly unwilling to enter the Dragonpit. Relying on its master's favor, it had even made the king and queen argue over it—until the queen invoked the precedent of their sister Princess Rhaena and Dreamfyre, finally making the "exhausted" king relent.

At that moment, Glutton lifted a claw and batted away several little lizards. They were pets the children had secretly fed, now curled into trembling balls beneath the great dragon's breath.

Ever since Daemon Blackfyre had tamed it, the notorious king of wild dragons had become as obedient as a prodigal son returned to the fold, drawing countless dragon-dreamers to stop and worship.

"Awake?" Viserys's voice came from the doorway. Dressed in an indigo morning robe, he carried two bowls of hot porridge. "Aemma made oat porridge with honey and nuts."

Daemon accepted a bowl, warmth spreading through his fingertips. Viserys was gentler than he had imagined, lacking both an elder brother's majesty and Daemon Targaryen's unruliness. He was like an old oak in the Red Keep's courtyard—quiet, yet dependable. "Thank you, cousin."

"Grandfather wants you in the council chamber after you finish eating." Viserys scooped up some porridge, his gaze passing over the brand on Daemon's shoulder. "Those old nobles did plenty of gossiping after they went home yesterday, but Grandfather knows what he's doing."

Daemon stirred the nuts in his porridge, suddenly recalling the rumors before Aegon IV acknowledged him at the age of twelve in his previous life. Back then, he had answered them with a longsword. Now, he held only a warm bowl of porridge.

The council chamber was more solemn than it had been yesterday. Jaehaerys sat in an oak chair with a map of the Seven Kingdoms spread before him. Queen Alysanne sat beside him, weaving a red cloak—the color of House Targaryen. Baelon, Rhaenys, Corlys, and several members of the small council sat on either side, while the faint scent of Dragonblood Grass tea drifted through the air.

"News of the Stepstones victory has spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms." Jaehaerys tapped the Narrow Sea with one finger. "But remnants of the Triarchy are still fleeing. The governor of Tyrosh is willing to hand them over, provided we recognize their ownership of the disputed islands." He looked at Daemon. "What do you think?"

Daemon paused, recalling Glutton tearing enemy ships apart. "Dragonfire does not negotiate. They either submit or turn to ash."

The chamber fell silent for a moment before soft laughter arose. Approval flashed in Jaehaerys's eyes. "Little Daemon's temperament is unlike Aemon's as an adult, but rather like Baelon's. Though Aemon was much the same in his youth." He turned to Baelon. "Do as he says. Have the elder Daemon take Caraxes to Tyrosh and tell them that Targaryen dragons remember every debt."

Daemon Targaryen immediately bounced in from outside the door, his silver hair in disarray. "Consider it done! Caraxes's flames can turn the governor's mansion into glass!"

Queen Alysanne smacked his back reproachfully. "No mischief. You are only going to display the dragon's might, not truly burn down their castle. And don't forget that you are to marry a daughter of House Royce at year's end." She turned to Daemon Blackfyre and handed him a half-finished cloak. "The lining was just woven. It uses velvet, warmer than armor."

As Daemon accepted it, his fingers brushed the thick calluses on her fingertips—marks earned from years of weaving clothes and raising children. He suddenly thought of his mother, Princess Daena. In his memories, her hands had always been adorned with jeweled rings and steeped in perfume, yet she had never woven him so much as a single garment.

When he left the council chamber, Princess Gael stood beneath a flower trellis at the end of the corridor, holding a small bunch of violets. At the sight of Daemon, she hastily hid them behind her back, her cheeks red as ripe apples. "D-Daemon," she stammered, her voice softer than the petals.

Daemon stopped. This Child of Winter was even shyer than the records described. It was said that she had been born on a snowy night in the winter of 80 AC, though others claimed the name meant the queen's childbearing years had reached their end, as though winter had descended. "Your Highness," he said as gently as he could, "the flowers are beautiful."

Gael stuffed the flowers into his hands and fled, her skirt brushing the pillars and leaving behind a faint floral scent. Blackfyre looked down at the violets. Morning dew still clung to their petals, like a young girl's shy tears.

The training yard was especially lively that afternoon. Daemon Targaryen insisted on a match. Corlys and Rhaenys had brought Laena and Laenor to watch, while Viserys and Aemma sat in the stands. Even Jaehaerys and Alysanne had come.

"Wooden swords." Baelon tossed them two practice blades, their iron hilts wrapped in rough leather. "First blood is not the aim."

Daemon Targaryen struck first, his sword wind as fierce as Caraxes diving from the sky. Daemon Blackfyre slipped aside, then swept his wooden sword across. His moves were simple and precise—the instinct of a man forged on battlefields in his previous life. No flourishes, only vital points.

"Good!" Laena clapped from the stands, her little fists clenched tight. "Go, Uncle Daemon!" Laenor nodded along, squeezing the seashell in his hand until it turned white.

Alicent Hightower stood in a corner holding a water jug, her gaze fixed on Daemon Blackfyre. The boy's silver hair gleamed beneath the sun. His sword movements were fluid and powerful, sweat running down his neck and into his collar, revealing the faint dragon mark on his shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat. She hastily lowered her head, only to knock over the water jug. Clear water spread across the flagstones like feelings she had failed to hide.

The clash of wooden swords echoed through the training yard. Daemon Targaryen's attacks became faster and fiercer, yet they were always deftly evaded. On the final strike, Daemon Blackfyre deliberately revealed an opening, allowing the other's sword tip to knock loose his hair ribbon. As his silver hair spilled free, he reversed his grip and lightly tapped the other's helmet with the pommel.

"I won." Daemon Targaryen removed his visor, grinning like a bear that had stolen honey. "But you're far better than the castle's instructors."

Daemon was about to speak when he saw Corlys signal with his eyes. Following his gaze, he spotted several unfamiliar nobles standing at the edge of the training yard. The sleeves of the blond man at their head bore a lion sigil—the Warden of the Westerlands, Taimond Lannister, and his vassals. They watched him as vultures watched a wounded beast on the plains.

At dinner, those stares became even more blatant. Taimond repeatedly raised his cup, leading the Westerlands guests in probing for information about his "mother" through veiled remarks.

Florence, the wife of Martyn Tyrell, pulled him into household chatter. She mentioned that her husband would soon step down as Master of Coin, and that the contenders were Taimond and Lyman Beesbury of the Reach. She also said Highgarden's rose gardens lacked someone to accompany them on walks.

Even the North's envoy, Lord Theomore Manderly of White Harbor, repeatedly scrutinized his dragon mark with those shrewd little eyes half-hidden by fat. The old man did not have many years left. He had come not only for the office of Master of Ships or Master of Coin, but also to build royal favor for his heir, his great-grandson Desmond.

"Don't mind them," Rhaenys said softly as she cut roasted venison for Laena. "They are only trying to win you over because Grandfather favors you. Once the attention passes, they will go right back to their own schemes."

Daemon looked over the feast before him. Silver candlesticks reflected in jeweled wine cups, velvet curtains fell like waterfalls, and the nobles' laughter rang like gilded bells. The scene was painfully familiar. In his previous life, those nobles had urged him to rebel against Daeron II in much the same way.

Suddenly, Glutton's roar came from afar, low and furious. Caraxes and Vhagar answered at once, followed by Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre. Their roars intertwined, making the Red Keep's glass windows hum.

Jaehaerys set down his wine cup and looked toward the Dragonpit. "It seems we have guests."

The captain of the guards rushed into the banquet hall and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, envoys from Dorne have arrived. They brought ten carts of Shalan Flower petals and a secret letter, which they insist on delivering to you personally."

Dorne. Daemon's grip around his wine cup tightened slightly. He remembered the wars between Dorne and the Targaryens, the slaughter during Aegon's Conquest, and the fate of Daeron I, the Young Dragon.

Jaehaerys tapped his fingers against the table, the rhythm strangely matching the roars from the Dragonpit. "Let them enter." His voice was calm, but it carried unquestionable authority. "Tell them that Targaryen dragons do not like having their dinner disturbed."

Daemon watched the sharp glint flash through the king's eyes and suddenly understood. The game of power in King's Landing had never been limited to the calculations of the Seven Kingdoms' nobles. The poisonous snakes of the desert, the fleets of the Iron Islands, and the city-states across the Narrow Sea were all waiting for their chance.

And he, a black dragon from the future, might be the variable destined to stir the board.

Outside the banquet hall, the figures of the Dornish envoys drew closer in the torchlight. Their silk robes were embroidered with sun sigils, making them look like clusters of flame in the night.

The dragons of the Dragonpit had not stopped roaring. Their cries mingled with the distant sea wind and the nearby music, composing an undercurrent-laden nocturne that belonged to King's Landing.