A conversation beneath the moon: the Prince of Spring Dawn and the Prince of Blackfyre

The nightclub at Red Keep in winter carries the unique coolness of ancient stone walls; even the sound of the wind whistling through the battlements has a steady, reassuring quality.

When Daemon emerged from the side door of his intelligence office, his fingertips were still stained with ink—he had deliberately rubbed ink on his fingertips while pretending to look through files, so that others would think he had really been engrossed in his work all afternoon.

The intelligence room was still dimly lit. Larys Strong's gray donkey, "Mr. Longlegs," was dozing in the corner, the warm breath from its nostrils condensing into white mist in the cold air. Occasionally, it would flick its tail, sweeping over the edges of the scattered parchment on the floor.

Just as Jarman Waters finished stacking the intelligence on the Triarchy, he saw Daemon come out and leaned close to Daemon's ear to whisper, "Your Highness, the ballista parameters from the intelligence report have been marked by Larys, and the latest Narrow Sea route map has been prepared by Sir Leonno. We just need you to review it tomorrow."

Daemon nodded, his gaze sweeping over the honey cakes hanging in the air on the table—the ones Gael had brought that afternoon. He had secretly hidden two pieces under the dossier. At this moment, the sweet aroma of the cakes, mixed with the smell of ink, became the only warmth in this dull room.

"Thank you for your hard work," Daemon said softly, as if afraid of waking "Mr. Clubfoot" and "Mr. Longlegs" who were taking a break. "We'll talk about the rest tomorrow. You should get some rest too."

Stepping out of the intelligence room, the corridor was so quiet that I could hear my own footsteps.

The portraits of the Targaryen monarchs hanging on the stone walls of this corridor appear particularly solemn in the dappled moonlight filtering through the high windows.

The regal majesty of Aegon I the Conqueror, the cold-faced features of Maegor I Cruel, and the silvery hair of Jaehaerys I the the Conciliator —these are like a heavy string of legacies, weighing heavily on one's heart.

He intended to go around to the Dragonpit to check on the Glutton, but at the corner leading to the balcony, he bumped into an unexpected figure.

Prince Baelon Targaryen stood with his back to him, leaning against the railing.

The hem of her deep red velvet robe swayed gently in the night breeze, and the dragon-patterned sword sheath at her waist gleamed coldly in the moonlight.

He seemed to have already noticed Daemon's footsteps, but he didn't turn around. Instead, he looked towards the direction outside King's Landing, where the occasional low roar of Vhagar could be heard on the shore of Blackwater Bay, like the breath of an ancient, slumbering behemoth.

Daemon paused, instinctively wanting to step back—he knew, of course, that his "uncle" had been troubled lately because of Daemon Targaryen, and had even lost his usual sharpness at the Small Council.

But Baelon slowly turned around, his deep purple eyes exceptionally clear in the moonlight. They lacked his usual majesty, instead carrying an indescribable weariness. Even the newly added streaks of white hair at his temples were more noticeable than the last time he was seen.

"What are you hiding from?" Baelon's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable gentleness. "Afraid I'll pressure you to process the intelligence?"

Daemon stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Uncle."

He caught a glimpse of Baelon's hand pressed against his ribs—an old wound that had flared up during the funeral of the House Arryn at Moon Gate Keep, and it was probably hurting again now.

Baelon didn't mention his injuries, but simply pointed to the railing beside him. "Stand with me for a while."

He gazed at the lights of King's Landing in the distance, like scattered diamonds on black velvet. "Tomorrow is the jousting competition, the last and most eye-catching event."

Daemon nodded. He remembered this time last year, when he had won the jousting tournament but had used the Glutton's dragon roar to avoid the coronation as "Queen of Love and Beauty."

At that time, he was not yet used to the entanglements of a hundred years ago and always wanted to avoid unnecessary conflicts.

But now, recalling the smile on Gael every time she handed him honey cakes after his martial arts competitions, and the determination with which she chased after him on her Rosby Dreamfyre he first began his tour, a strange tenderness welled up in his heart.

"You know about your cousin Big Daemon's recent antics," Baelon suddenly spoke, his tone turning somber. "Rhea House Royce sent someone to the Red Keep yesterday, saying he spent the night on Silk Street and even left his wedding cloak in a brothel; and Miss Lysa of House Tully was taken by him to watch a team tournament, which embarrassed Rhea on the spot—you must have heard about all this."

Daemon didn't reply. He had heard more than once; that day in the corner of the team arena, he saw Rhea leave with a cold face, Big Daemon was so angry that he jumped up and down. The way Lysa hid behind her was like an absurd painting.

"I am his father," Baelon's voice trembled slightly. "Alyssa died young, Viserys was steady, so I always thought I could be more lenient with this youngest son. When he hurt himself as a child, I carried him to the maester, and stayed by his bedside at night, thinking that when he grew up, I would give him the best sword and the fiercest horse—but I forgot that there is never any room for 'leniency' for royal children."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Daemon with a complex mix of expectation. "Viserys and Aemma's marriage was arranged by my mother. Aemma is a daughter of House Arryn, Vale needs this bond. Your father Aemon and Jocelyn's marriage was arranged by your grandfather. The power of Baratheon can stabilize the Stormlands. We Targaryen, even riding dragons, cannot escape the responsibility of arranged marriages—this is not a matter of personal preference, but of the stability of the Seven Kingdoms, and the foundation of our family."

Daemon recalled Prince Aemon's portrait, Jocelyn's quiet presence in the Red Keep, and Viserys ' tenderness as he held Rhaenyra. He suddenly understood the weight of Baelon's burden—royal marriages were always responsibilities wrapped in silk, beautiful yet painful.

"Since Big Daemon accepted your grandparents' proposal and married Rhea in a marriage alliance, he should shoulder this responsibility." Baelon's tone suddenly became firm. "Even if he doesn't love her, he cannot be humiliated. He is a Targaryen prince, not a vagrant from the Flea Bottom. Tomorrow's jousting, I want you—to go all out and defeat him without holding back."

Daemon looked up abruptly, meeting the resolute gaze in Baelon's eyes. "Don't go easy on him like last year, and don't give him the chance to hand over the crown of ' Queen of Love and Beauty ' to someone else at the coronation—that would be another humiliation for Rhea, a provocation against the House Royce, and a trampling on the dignity of the royal family. Little Daemon, you are the son of my brother Aemon, and the youngest son on whom I have placed my hopes. You understand responsibility, and you understand boundaries. Only you can do this."

The moonlight fell on Baelon's face, highlighting his taut jaw.

Daemon suddenly remembered that on his first night imprisoned in the Night Watch Tower on Dragonstone, the first person to look at him was not his great-grandfather "cousin" Daemon Targaryen, who had released him from the tower, nor his "sister" Rhaenys, who had publicly declared and acknowledged his identity, but the man before him—the "Prince of Prince of Spring Dawn," Baelon Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne.

That night, Baelon gently tapped him on the head with his sword sheath and said, "Targaryen ' blood cannot be shed in vain."

Recalling the Battle of the Hundred Candles on the Stepstones, the three dragons recreated the Battle of the Hundred Candles, burning down the invading fleet of the Triarchy pirates.

I recall the unspoken understanding between Baelon riding Vhagar and his Glutton as they breathed fire side-by-side in Widow's Wail Canyon, when he avenged the House Arryn family, and the embrace that followed.

This "Prince of Spring Dawn" was never just a warrior who only knew how to fight, as people thought. As the Hand of the King and Regent, he assisted in governing the country, served as the Prime Minister of the Seven Kingdoms, and commanded the Royal Fleet of Dragonstone for many years. He was no longer the boy behind his brother Aemon and the sharpest sword in his hand. He carried the weight of his entire family in his heart.

"I understand, Uncle," Daemon replied softly, his voice unwavering. "I will participate tomorrow, and I will only win."

Baelon's tense shoulders finally relaxed a little, and a faint smile even appeared at the corner of his mouth, "Good. Actually, I've been thinking sometimes lately that if it weren't for my current status as the crown prince, I, as his father, would really like to personally step in and use a spear to knock that rebellious son off his horse, so that he would remember what respect and responsibility really mean."

He patted Daemon on the shoulder, a light but firm touch, carrying the expectation of an elder. "Then it's up to you. Give your brother a good talking-to, let him know that not all mistakes can be excused by being a 'prince'."

Daemon couldn't help but nod, a hint of anticipation rising in his heart—not for the sake of winning, but because there were responsibilities he couldn't escape from the moment he chose to return to the Targaryen Lineage and the royal family.

Of course, Daemon also hopes that his great-grandfather "cousin" of the same name can understand in advance that some responsibilities are predetermined when one enjoys the corresponding rights, let alone that he has already accepted this responsibility.

Baelon suddenly changed the subject, a mischievous glint in his eyes, like an elder who had just pulled off a prank. "By the way, do you remember what your initial reason was when you started touring the Seven Kingdoms at the beginning of the year?"

Daemon was taken aback, then his ears burned slightly. Of course, he remembered that when Baelon saw his expression, he slowly read out the memorial that Otto Hightower had handed him, reminding his "youngest son."

The memorial at the time stated in black and white. "The prince is nearly thirteen years old and should choose a virtuous and capable woman to strengthen the foundation of the nation. Princess Gael should also make plans early. The tour will not only demonstrate the majesty of the royal family but also allow for the search for talented individuals, which is a win-win strategy."

To put it bluntly, Daemon's previous Seven Kingdoms tour was essentially a matchmaking event disguised as a tour.

But then Gael caught up on Dreamfyre and followed Daemon all the way from Rosby to Maidenpool and then to Crab Claw Peninsula. The lords who had wanted to come forward saw that the princess was always by his side, so naturally none of them dared to mention the marriage again.

Daemon felt relieved at the time, but now that Baelon has pointed it out, he feels a little embarrassed.

"Looks like you've remembered." Baelon shook his head with a smile, his tone full of understanding. "Gael is my youngest sister, the Child of Winter of Father and Mother." She was timid as a child, even hiding behind her mother when she saw unfamiliar nobles. But look at her now—she dares to confront Big Daemon on Silk Street, dares to ride her Dreamfyre to chase you to Rosby, and dares to treat your affairs as her own."

His voice softened further, as if he were speaking to Daemon, or perhaps to himself. "She has changed a lot for you. I, as her older brother, have seen it all. My clever 'youngest son,' surely you can see your aunt's feelings?"

Daemon's heart skipped a beat.

He recalled every piece of honey cake that Gael had handed him after each martial arts competition, each one still carrying her warmth;

He remembered her in Maidenpool one night, sneaking into his bed and saying, "I'm afraid you'll overthink things."

I remembered how she stood up for me and Rhea in Runestone because of Mysaria.

Those fleeting moments, like candy sprinkled in my heart, have already sweetened my entire being without me even realizing it.

"She's a good girl." Baelon patted his shoulder, his eyes filled with the solemnity of entrusting her with a responsibility. "Take good care of her, don't let her suffer. I know you have many things on your mind—the alliance of the Three Cities, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, the potential conflicts within your family—but some happiness, once missed, can never be regained."

Daemon looked into Baelon's eyes, where the moonlight reflected, and also his own reflection.

He suddenly remembered his rebirth after dying in battle and arriving at the dungeon on Dragonstone. At that time, he thought he was all alone and that the events of a hundred years ago were just a mistake that needed to be corrected.

But now, with the roar of the Glutton, the smile of Gael, the expectations of elders like Baelon, and the warmth of Rhaenys and Jocelyn, he is no longer the bystander who only wanted to rewrite history, but a "Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen" who has truly integrated into this world.

"Uncle," Daemon's voice was soft, yet filled with an unprecedented firmness, "I will participate in tomorrow's lance duel. I will not shy away; I will only win."

A flicker of surprise crossed Baelon's eyes, quickly turning into a relieved smile, "Good, good. As expected of Aemon's son, my 'youngest child,' you haven't disappointed me."

He turned to leave, then remembered something and turned back to add, "By the way, don't be like your father back then. When Aemon won the tournament, he stubbornly refused to give the laurel wreath to Jocelyn, making him laugh for half a month. If you want to give it to Gael, just be generous, no one will say anything."

Daemon's cheeks flushed slightly, but he nodded vigorously.

Baelon's figure gradually disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, the hem of his deep red robe sweeping across the stone wall one last time, like a gentle farewell.

"Remember your identity, never forget your honor and responsibility. You've certainly worked very hard lately. Sometimes your maturity makes us elders forget that you're only thirteen years old. Get some rest, my youngest son—"

Daemon stood alone on the balcony, gazing at the full moon overhead. Moonlight bathed him, and Baelon's last words drifted into his ears, seemingly mingling with the moonlight, carrying a touch of warmth.

From the distant hills came the roar of Glutton dragon, this time no longer a dull slumber, but rather a lighthearted one, as if echoing his current mood.

He touched the familiar Blackfyre at his waist; the coolness of the hilt seeped through the leather, yet it gave him a sense of peace.

He will win tomorrow's lance duel.

It wasn't just to fulfill Baelon's request, nor merely to stop Big Daemon's absurdity, but also for that "Child of Winter" who always came chasing after him, carrying honey cakes and riding Dreamfyre.

He wanted to personally Gael with the laurel wreath of "Queen of Love and Beauty," so that everyone would know that in those years, he had found a warmth worth protecting.

The night wind blew again, carrying the sulfurous smell of the dragon's Dragonpit, yet also a hint of sweetness.

That was the honey cake that Gael brought in the afternoon; the aftertaste was still on Daemon's tongue, just like the upcoming competition, full of anticipation.

Tonight, the stone walls of the Red Keep stand silently, witnessing the vow made by this Black Dragon from the future under the moonlight.

A commitment to responsibility and goodwill.