Flocks Gather in King's Landing

Before the morning mist had fully lifted, the Red Keep's stables were already ringing with hoofbeats. Daemon stood atop a tower, watching dust rise beyond the city gates—the banners of House Tully of the Riverlands, silver trout leaping over red and blue waves like living things freshly pulled from the Green Fork.

"Lord Grover has brought three sons and two daughters," Viserys said from behind him, clutching a parchment densely covered with the names of nobles from every land. "They say his youngest daughter is only seven, yet she already dares to ride an unbroken pony."

Daemon gave a soft laugh. House Tully's devotion to family always carried the tenacity of wet earth, much like Riverrun itself—no flood, however great, could wash it away. "What about Lord Benjen Stark of the North?"

"The northern party is still on the Kingsroad." Viserys's finger traced the name Stark. "His eldest son, Rickon, is only a year old. Lady Lysa fears he cannot endure such a long journey. But the old wet nurses in King's Landing always say that even wrapped in wool blankets, northern direwolf pups can still chew through deerskin boots."

As the two spoke, a sudden commotion rose below. Guards in blue-striped cloaks parted the crowd, and the crowned stag banner of the Stormlands snapped open. Lord Boremund Baratheon walked at the head of the procession, with his eldest son Borros behind him, shoulders as broad as a door.

But the gray-clad figure at the end of the procession made Daemon's breath catch. Ever since first meeting her days ago, he had feared her more than anyone.

Jocelyn Baratheon—widow of Aemon Targaryen, his current "father," and mother of Rhaenys.

She looked even more haggard than she had at their first meeting. Silver strands had quietly crept into her temples, yet her eyes were still like the sea beyond Storm's End, carrying the chill of ice grains when they turned toward him.

When her gaze swept over Daemon, her steps visibly faltered. It was not hostility, but more like the dazed confusion of seeing a reflection in water.

"She cried for half the night at the inn," Viserys said in a low voice. "Father said she keeps mistaking your profile for Prince Aemon's."

Daemon said nothing. He remembered the portrait of Aemon he had seen before: long silver-white hair, a jawline sharp as a blade. They truly did resemble each other. Sometimes, when he looked into a mirror, he would glimpse another man sneering coldly back at him.

Then another horn sounded from the gates. The rose banners of the Reach escorted a group inside. Lord Mathos Tyrell strode forward with his round belly thrust out, his eldest son Garlan following behind him. The boy was secretly studying the Red Keep's arrow towers, his fingers idly turning around his sword hilt.

Even more eye-catching were the youths trailing at the rear. Their brows and eyes all bore the marks of House Tyrell, yet they wore fine clothes slightly different from those of the golden rose.

"His bastards," Viserys said in wonder. "Lord Mathos brought every one of them, claiming he wanted them to learn the customs of the capital."

Daemon suddenly recalled the words of the Dornish envoy. Just as in the history he remembered, the roses of this generation's Reach were like the Sand Snakes of the desert: neither minded displaying bastards openly. One wrapped them in silk, while the other protected them with venomous fangs.

The council hall had long since grown lively. Corlys Velaryon stood before a sea chart, gesturing as he spoke. The newly crafted badge of his office as Master of Ships gleamed upon his breast, while a necklace strung with silver shells softly clinked with his movements. "I have redrawn the reef maps of the Stepstones," he told Jaehaerys. "If Tyrosh's fleet dares come again, I'll see them smashed into splinters."

"What does Lord Mathos think?" Jaehaerys suddenly asked, turning toward the Reach lord who had just entered. "Merchant ships from the Reach often pass through the Stepstones. We should leave the Tyroshi with a lesson to remember."

Before Mathos could answer, Lyman Beesbury beside him had already bowed. "Your Grace, I have just reviewed the royal treasury. There is more than enough coin to build several new warships." The new Master of Coin had slender fingers. Perhaps because he was the Lord of Honeyholt, even his calculations carried a cloying sweetness like honey. "But if House Tyrell's wines paid a little more tax, we might add another two great scorpions."

Mathos burst into laughter and slapped Lyman on the shoulder. "The abacus of House Beesbury is finer than Lannisport's gold sifters!"

Amid the laughter, the party from House Arryn arrived. Aemma's half-brother was younger than expected, dressed in a gray-blue brocade robe with an eagle sigil hanging at his waist. The moment he entered, he went straight for the queen's seat. "Your Grace Alysanne, Aemma wrote that she dreams of the moonlight over the Eyrie every night."

Alysanne's smile softened. "Tell her to rest easy. The towers of Maegor's Holdfast are high enough for her to see stars like those above the Eyrie." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the gathered nobles. "In a few days, you will hear a newborn's first cries. Targaryen blood will welcome another child within the Red Keep."

The words were like a drop of honey falling into hot soup, and the hall immediately grew warmer. Theomore Manderly busied himself livening up the sparse northern seats. Borros Baratheon and Garlan Tyrell began comparing the thickness of their arms. Even Jocelyn's expression eased a little.

Daemon retreated behind a colonnade and watched the bustle. The matter of Dorne was like a feather, lightly brushed into a corner by the anticipation of a newborn. Of course. To the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, what was the Dornish idea of "peace" compared to the dragonlords' legitimate grandchild?

"What are you thinking about?" Alysanne had approached without him noticing, still holding the half-finished cloak she had been weaving. Its velvet edge brushed against the back of Daemon's hand. "Jocelyn just told me that the way you tame dragons is exactly like Aemon in his youth."

Daemon was silent for a moment. "She hates me."

"She hates fate." The queen's fingers brushed over his dragon-mark scar. "She hates that it took her husband away, then returned a similar shadow to her." She suddenly smiled. "But Boremund thinks rather highly of you. He said girls of the Stormlands should marry men like you—any man who can make dragons obey can surely handle a hot-tempered wife."

Daemon was about to reply when a burst of cheering erupted in the distance. Aemma's maid staggered into the hall, grass clippings caught on her skirt. "Your Grace! The lady... the lady is going into labor!"

The council hall fell silent in an instant, then erupted into even greater commotion. Jaehaerys set down his bronze cup. The sharp clink of its base against the stone table somehow drowned out every other voice. "Send all the maesters to attend her. If anyone dares let Aemma come to harm, I will let him taste dragonfire."

He said it in an even tone, yet it seemed to freeze the warmth in the hall. Watching the old king's retreating figure as he headed toward Maegor's Holdfast, Daemon suddenly understood—this gathering of the Seven Kingdoms, these alliances and marriage pacts, all of them meant less than the cry of a single infant.

For that was House Targaryen's hardest shield and sharpest spear.

Then Jocelyn Baratheon approached, clutching a handkerchief embroidered halfway with a stag pattern. "Aemon used to say," she said softly, as if afraid of disturbing something, "that when a dragon child is born, a shooting star appears in the sky." She looked out the window. The morning mist had scattered, and the sky was blue like fire-tempered steel. "Do you think there will be one today?"

Daemon followed her gaze. In the direction of the Dragonpit, Glutton spread its wings, its black shadow sweeping over the Red Keep's spires.

"Perhaps," he said. "It is Targaryen blood, after all."

Jocelyn's eyes reddened. As she turned toward Maegor's Holdfast, Daemon saw the golden thread upon her handkerchief trembling lightly with each step, like a hatchling dragon newly broken from its egg.

The flock had gathered around the nest, waiting for the instant new life broke from its shell. And the schemes hidden in the shadows had, for now, become insignificant dust.