The first feast of 99 AC

As the first rays of dawn in the ninety-ninth year of the Conquest calendar (99 AC) shone over the pheasants and butterflies of Red Keep, even the sulfurous air drifting from the Dragonpit seemed to carry a hint of warmth.

It wasn't the usual damp chill of King's Landing; it was a mixture of the aromas of Arbor wine, roasted wild boar fat, and the wooly scent of the newly hung dragon-patterned tapestries, as if all the storms of the past few years had been blended into this first day of the new year.

Today, the brass bells in the Red Keep kitchen rang three times in the corridor. The cooks and apprentices in gray aprons hurried past carrying stacks of silver platters. The morning dew still clung to the rims of the platters, reflecting the three-headed dragons carved on the pillars, making one's eyes dizzy.

Daemon stood by the high window of the banquet hall, the scabbard of his Blackfyre scraping against the icicles on the windowsill with a soft crackling sound. He gazed at the Glutton figure on the distant horizon, with what seemed to be a small dot hidden in the morning mist beside it.

However, this also suddenly reminded him of when he traveled from that unknown red plain, a hundred years after his death, to the Dragonstone prison in the ninety-seventh year of the Conquest calendar, and heard that cold dragon roar—at that time, he was still wrapped in moldy coarse prison clothes, surprised by his arrival, and when he heard the dragon roar, he thought it was the call of death.

However, if we count from then until today, including this year and that year, this is already the third year he has set foot in this world a hundred years ago.

Today, the long oak table in the banquet hall stretched from the throne all the way to the entrance. The light of red candles danced on the silverware. King Jaehaerys, his crown askew, pressed his silver hair askew as he smiled, holding Queen Alysanne's hand, his fingertips caressing the silver dragon embroidered on her cuff.

That was Queen Alys's dragon, "Silverwing," which last month carried our ever-young queen to the Mole's Town in the the North to deliver New Year's bread. When it returned, the dragon's scales still had a few strands of hay that the villagers had prepared for winter on them. The queen, in high spirits, even personally put the hay into a velvet pouch, saying she wanted to keep it as a souvenir.

"Sit down, sit down!" The old king's voice boomed, drowning out the soft clanking of the armor of the Kingsguard outside the hall. "Today is the first day of the new year. Let us not speak of the crossbows across the Narrow Sea, nor of the fleet, but only of the fine wine in our cups, and of family matters!"

As soon as the king finished speaking, the musicians in the corner of the hall began to pluck the strings of their harps, and the melodious tunes filled the entire hall, making even the air feel softer.

Prince Baelon led the way, holding Viserys's hand. Viserys was wearing a dark black silk tuxedo with a Dragonglass brooch at the collar.

He held our little princess Rhaenyra in his arms. Today, the little princess was wrapped in a white fox fur cloak, with pearls sewn onto the collar of the cloak. She was clutching a piece of honey cake in her little fist, and crumbs of the cake were stuck on her little chin, like tiny pearls.

His eyes, however, were fixed on Daemon's direction. His short legs kicked in Viserys's arms, and he was babbling something, probably wanting Daemon to hold him.

Aemma followed behind, the hem of her Renly dress sweeping across the carpet. She smiled and nodded to Jocelyn Baratheon beside her, and the two huddled together, whispering something.

However, it seems that most of the discussion was about how Rhaenyra, who has already started to babble, pestered Gael to ride the Dreamfyre again last night.

Daemon Targaryen followed at the back, his black cloak swinging impatiently as he tossed it around. The cloak's lining, embroidered with the three-headed House Targaryen crest, was deliberately turned inside out, revealing the black cloth beneath.

It wasn't until Baelon turned around and glared at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of helplessness and tenderness, that he finally understood.

Seeing his father's look, Daemon Targaryen reluctantly found a seat, forced to sit near the runic scabbard that Rhea Earl Yobert politely provided, which was engraved with the ancient runes of the House Royce and said to be able to ward off evil.

However, his fingers continued to tap on the edge of the table, the rhythm quick, as if he were counting down the days until the expedition to the Stepstones, or as if he were pondering some secret.

"Little Daemon!" Queen Alysanne spotted Daemon Blackfyre by the window first, her silver bracelet jingling as she beckoned. "Come sit down. Gael just had the kitchen warm up your favorite honeyed fruit wine."

Daemon responded and walked over. Gael was sitting beside her mother, the Queen, her light purple dress adorned with a Dragonglass brooch.

It was dug out of the cliff at the end of last year when Daemon went with Rupert to Crab Claw Peninsula. After returning, he specially had the craftsmen polish it into the shape of a three-headed dragon and gave it to Gael.

When Gael saw Daemon approaching, she quietly pushed the warmed ale to his side, and gently squeezed his hand as her fingertips touched it. "Last night, I heard from Brother Vaegon that the Citadel sent a letter saying that the constellations in the the North were a bit strange. Are you thinking about the the Wall again?"

Daemon paused, his hand holding the wine glass still. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Otto Hightower not far away, talking to Alicent. When Alicent's gaze swept over, it carried a hint of cautious inquiry.

He smiled, bringing the ale to his lips, the warmth blurring the somber look in his eyes. "It just reminds me of the Wildlings in the the North and Beyond the Wall the Wall last year. Commander-in-Chief Cregan Karstark of the Night's Watch wrote to me a few days ago, saying that this winter is unusually long, and he fears they might be heading south again."

This was half true and half false—what he truly cared about was what Leaf had said on Isle of Faces: "The White Walkers have awakened early because of you," and the prophecy that Alys Rivers had secretly entered his room to warn him about. The drawing she made depicted a comet glowing red, with the note "The Citadel calls it the sign of the Long Night." But he couldn't say these things, nor could he. Saying them would only cause panic and make Otto and the others seem like madmen.

Gael didn't press him further, but simply pushed the baked apple on the plate towards him. She knew Daemon didn't like things too sweet, so she had specifically asked the kitchen to use less honey.

Just then, the hall door opened again, and a cold draft rushed in, causing the candlelight to flicker.

Vaegon Targaryen's long, silver-gold hair shone almost blindingly in the candlelight. He held a scroll of star charts in his arms, bound with leather cords and stained with ink.

Bachelor Bernard followed behind him, clutching a quill pen in one hand and carrying a wooden box containing an astrolabe in the other, which made a slight creak as he walked.

Our Vaegon had planned to return to the Citadel early in the morning after the tournament ended last year, along with the fleet of the Reach lords. However, he was stopped by his father, the King, and his mother, the Queen, who were worried about his long absence from home. So he had to stay in King's King's Landing with his assistant, Maester Bernard, until the two elders said, "Until the situation in the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea is more stable."

"Father, Mother." Vaegon bowed respectfully, his tone still as sharp as ever, but softened when he saw his parents' faces. "I brought the astrological records from the Citadel. If you wish to know the celestial phenomena for the New Year—"

"Let's not talk about that today!" Jaehaerys waved his hand, gesturing to the empty seat next to Viserys. "Sit next to your nephew and have him pour you a drink—you've probably forgotten the taste of ale after all these years in the Citadel."

Vaegon sat down helplessly, and just as he picked up his glass, Rhaenyra grabbed his sleeve. The little girl tilted her head back as if she wanted to ask something.

However, everyone in the room laughed at this scene. Viserys patted his daughter's head, Aemma handed her the honey cake with a smile, "Stop fooling around, little one, your Vaegon is studying the stars."

Daemon's gaze swept across the other end of the long table, where Otto Hightower was talking to Leonno Strong while holding a wine glass. His daughter, Alicent, was not serving the King and Queen as a maid today, but was sitting quietly next to her father, twisting a silk handkerchief between her fingers. Occasionally, she would look up at Daemon, then quickly lower her head again.

Garwin Hightower and Mund Hightower huddled together, whispering something, Bethany Hightower didn't join them. Her gaze was fixed on the three-headed dragon brand on Daemon's shoulder, beneath his clothes, her eyes filled with curiosity and an inexplicable gleam—as if she were looking at a treasure that held a secret.

Larys Strong sat down next to Leonno, the chair with his ailing legs making a soft creak on the carpet. Avoiding Harwin's gaze, he subtly winked at Daemon and pointed to the parchment scroll in his pocket—a secret letter from the Triarchy intercepted the previous night, saying that Lys's pirates were once again patrolling near the Stepstones.

"Lyan!" Jaehaerys suddenly looked in the direction of the Kingsguard. Lyan Redwyne immediately stepped forward, his white armor gleaming coldly in the candlelight. "Old pal, I haven't given you your reward yet for your spear duel with Ser Clymont at last year's tournament!"

The old king picked up two ruby-encrusted daggers from beside his throne and handed them over. "These were given to me by the late Lord Lyman Lannister when I was young. I present them to you two today, hoping you will share in the joy of the new year."

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Lyan bowed and accepted the sword. The dragon pattern on the hilt pressed against his palm. He looked at Daemon with a hint of a smile in his eyes. He had given Daemon a couple of pointers during last year's swordsmanship competition.

This prince, whom his two grand-nephews followed, is now rumored to be a "warrior descended to Black Dragon," and he and many of his white-robed brothers privately regard him as their successor.

Halfway through the banquet, Daemon Targaryen quietly tugged at Daemon's sleeve, and the two slipped into a side aisle of the banquet hall. "Father must have told you about the Stepstones, right?"

The Rogue Prince leaned against a pillar, pulling out half a piece of unfinished honey cake from his robes. "I heard from the messenger from Runestone that the Knights of House Royce are all ready and waiting for us to depart."

Clearly, under the urging of their elders, Crown Prince Baelon, the "Prince of Prince of Spring Dawn," and Regent Yobert, the "Protector of the Vale," the relationship between the two has eased considerably, even if only on the surface.

Daemon nodded, tapping the dragon pattern on the pillar with his fingertips. "Uncle Baelon said we'll set off around the fifteenth of next month, Joint Fleet will assemble at Blackwater Bay then. You—don't even think about sneaking off to Silk Street this time."

Daemon Targaryen chuckled and stuffed a honey cake into his mouth, "I know, I know, it's just fighting pirates."

He suddenly paused, looking towards the shoulder where Daemon's three-headed dragon mark was. "Is that mark still burning you lately?" Daemon was taken aback.

Since "taming" the Grey Ghost, the black three-headed dragon pattern on its shoulder has rarely gotten hot unless it's fighting or emotionally agitated. Only recently, when riding on the Glutton's dragon back, does it feel a slight burning sensation.

"It's not hot anymore," he mumbled, but couldn't help recalling the words on Alys Rivers' note—"A comet appears, Dragonfire chills, the White Walkers awaken at the end of the Long Night."

Suddenly, Gael's voice came from outside the corridor. Daemon turned around and saw her standing there holding a thick cloak, her light purple skirt swaying gently in the wind. "It's cold outside. Father and Mother sent me to call you back."

Daemon Targaryen whistled knowingly and turned to walk towards the banquet hall. "I'll go back and play with Rhaenyra first. You two can chat, Auntie."

Daemon took the cloak, Gael stood on tiptoe to help him tie the straps, her fingertips lightly touching the skin on the back of his neck, which felt slightly cool. "Brother Vaegon just told us at the dinner table that the Citadel sent a letter saying that they observed the aurora borealis in the the North earlier than usual, and he said it might be a sign of the ' Long Night '."

Her voice was soft, as if afraid of being blown away by the wind, "If you are really worried about the possible invasion of the people of the the North and the Wildlings Beyond the Wall the Great Wall, after the Stepstones are settled, we can ride the Glutton and the Dreamfyre together to Castle Black."

Daemon looked down at the top of her head, where candlelight cast tiny golden specks through her hair.

He knew that Gael was worried about him, but he couldn't tell her that he wasn't afraid of Wildlings, but of those things hidden in the depths of Long Night that could freeze flames.

"Okay," he replied softly, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "After we return from the Stepstones, we'll go to Castle Black to see the snow."

As the two walked back to the banquet hall side by side, Jaehaerys stood up, raising his glass, his silver hair like a snowflake in the candlelight. "Come! To the new year, to our home, cheers!"

Everyone raised their glasses, the clinking of silver echoing through the hall. Viserys cheered, embracing Rhaenyra, while Daemon Targaryen casually clinked glasses with Larys Strong, without giving Larys 'Larys brother Harwin Strong, a proper look.

Jocelyn and Aemma exchanged a smile, while Vaegon looked down at the star chart, his finger lightly tracing the mark on the comet.

Daemon raised his glass, his gaze slowly sweeping over the people in the room—those he loved, those he had friends, those he wanted to protect.

The Glutton dragon's roar echoed from afar, mingled with the low murmur of Dreamfyre, as if responding to the warmth of the New Year.

He knew what lay hidden behind this warmth: the ballistae of the Stepstones, the constellations of the Citadel, and the shadows deep within the Long Night.

But at this moment, all he wanted was to drink this glass of wine and keep the warmth of the New Year in his heart.

When spring arrives, or perhaps when he returns from the Stepstones, when he and Gael hold their wedding on Dragonstone, when all his plans come to fruition, and when he dons his own laurel wreath on the other side of the Narrow Sea, he will personally shield those shadows from this world of a hundred years ago, and from those he cares about.

The warm, spiced ale in the glass slid down his throat, and Daemon suddenly recalled the sea breeze Conquest calendar on the cliffs of Dragonstone in the ninety-seventh year of the Conquest—

Back then, he thought he was just a lost soul who had traveled back a hundred years, but now, he has a home and everything he wants to protect. This third year from a hundred years ago has only just begun.