Drunk in King's Landing

The afternoon sun in King's Landing's Landing slanted through the wooden windows of the "Oak Shield" tavern, falling on the polished long wooden table and turning the foam of the ale golden red.

The tavern was filled with the mingled aromas of malt, roasting meat fat, and leather; the fireplace in the corner crackled, and the stag skull decoration on the wall was tinged a dark brown by smoke—a lively scene straight out of a Stormlands.

This was a place Borros Baratheon had specifically chosen during his King's Landing. Before arriving, he had kept telling everyone, "The ale here is strong, the roast meat is delicious, it's perfect for a victory celebration."

When the door was pushed open again, the wind chimes tinkled instantly.

Daemon Targaryen, arm in arm with Daemon, strode in first. The hem of his black and red riding attire swept across the threshold, causing the previously noisy crowd in the tavern to fall silent for a moment. Only when a patron noticed the Blackfyre slung across his shoulder and the pale gray dragon following at his feet in the light from the open doorway did the crowd erupt in even louder laughter. "What rare guests! It's that warrior descended to earth, His Highness the Prince of Blackfyre! And our Flea Bottom's Rogue Prince!"

As soon as the Grey Ghost entered, it ducked under the table, sniffing the ground with its nose pressed against the floor, clearly still thinking about the grilled sausage it had tasted at the Tyrosh Tavern last time.

Daemon bent down to pat the little dragon's head, and as soon as he straightened up, Borros grabbed his arm. "Little Daemon! You're finally here! Myles and Tybolt just had a three-drink beer contest with me, come help me beat them with Big Daemon!"

Following the direction Borros pointed, we saw Myles Rivers holding a rough earthenware cup, his dark face full of smugness, while Tybolt Crakehall's hand, gripping a wine glass, was bulging with veins, clearly having just lost a round.

"Your Highness! Come quick! That guy Tybolt just bet that if you come today, he'll drink five more jugs with you!" Myles's loud voice drew cheers from the surrounding crowd.

Even the tavern owner came over, holding an even larger jug. "Your Highness, this is Westerlands ale that just arrived this morning from Lannisport, it's free for you!"

Before Daemon could respond, his arm was pulled.

Jarman Waters stood behind him, his one eye gleaming warily in the shadows. Harlan Hunter and Lyonel Corbray, whom he had pulled over, stood on either side of him, their hands on their sword hilts, clearly keeping everyone in the tavern under his watchful eye.

"Your Highness, there are three unfamiliar faces at the corner table. They look like merchants from across the Narrow Sea. I've already had my men keep an eye on them." Jarman's voice was low, but it reached Daemon's ears clearly.

As Daemon's personal bodyguard, Budimir Tarth went straight to the Grey Ghost under the table. His white robe swept across the floor as he bent down and picked up the little dragon, his movements unusually gentle for a bodyguard. "Grey Ghost, don't run around. There are a lot of people here; be careful not to get stepped on."

He had barely finished speaking when he caught sight of Edwyn Tarth entering through the door. His brow furrowed instantly, and he strode over to grab his brother's arm. "Why did you sneak in too? Your Highness, I can handle things here. Didn't Sister Brienne tell you to stay at the Red Keep and practice swordsmanship with her?"

Edwyn shrank back, still clutching half a sweet pie in his hand. "Sister Brienne said—said I should watch over you, so you wouldn't lose sight of Prince Little Daemon and let Big Daemon drag you into his antics."

This remark drew laughter from those around them. Budimir's ears turned slightly red, and he could only pull his younger brother to his side, reluctantly whispering to him, "No alcohol, only ale."

In another corner, Larys Strong was leaning back in his chair, his cane resting at his feet, a glass of pale ale in his hand. He seemed to be resting with his eyes closed, but his ears were actually perked up as he listened to the businessmen at the next table chatting about the shipping routes in the Narrow Sea.

Someone mentioned that "the price of silk in Lys has recently increased," and he subtly traced a line with his fingertip on his palm;

Some say that "the new Great Khan of Tyrosh is purging the old guard." He slightly raised his eyelids, a calculating glint in his eyes. Anyway, if his father asked, he could say that he was "gathering intelligence on the Narrow Sea trade at the tavern" today, and no one could find fault with that.

Moreover, since His Highness has finally returned, I finally have a legitimate reason to rest while keeping an eye on His Highness.

Rayford Rosby half-dragged, half-pulled to sit at the table by Rupert Crabb, holding a logistics ledger in his hands, but he had no interest in reading it.

Rupert complained with a bitter face, "After the meeting, Brienne said I could practice swordsmanship with her, but when Princess Gael heard I was going out with His Highness, she also told me to keep an eye on Big Daemon, not to let him get His Highness drunk, and not to let His Highness drink too much—"

As he spoke, he pointed to the water jug on the table and looked at Daemon, saying, "Your Highness, look, the princess specifically asked me to bring this, saying that if you dare to drink too much, she'll give you water to drink."

Daemon glanced at the jug of water beside Rupert, smiled helplessly, and was about to speak when Daemon Targaryen shoved a glass of ale at him, "Don't listen to Rupert! Gael is just too concerned about you! Let's drink until we drop tonight!"

As he spoke, he called out to the table Reach was already seated, "Mace, Olyvar, Lucas, you guys!"

Especially Alyn, even though Little Horas is here, don't hide in the back and pretend to be all prim and proper just because your brother's around! Come on over and have a drink!"

At the long table in the Reach, Mace Florent, the second oldest of Daemon's followers, was pouring wine for the oldest, Olyvar Oakhurst.

Lucas Tyrell, pulled along by them, held a wine glass, accompanied by Rickard Rowan, who was also from the Reach.

Tommen House Peake talked about the harvest in the Reach.

Alyn Redwyne, dressed in a light green robe and holding a grape leaf, frowned at Little Horas Redwyne and Rickard Rowan beside him. "You two are too young. Ale is fine, don't touch any hard liquor."

"Alyn," Little Horas blinked, pointing in Daemon's direction, "His Highness is even younger than us, yet he can drink too, right?"

Rickard nodded in agreement. "Exactly! And we'll only drink a little, not much."

This left Alyn speechless. He could only helplessly pour each of them half a glass of weak ale, muttering, "Just this once, don't do it again."

The Stormlands group, who had come to King's Landing with Borros, occupied the other two long tables, making it feel like a reunion as they had on that day in Mistwood.

Lorent Grandson leaned back in his chair, yawning but not forgetting to stuff some roasted meat into his mouth.

Roland Clinton Fell, holding his wine glass, chatted with the brothers Theogood and Willie Fell about the details of their time at the Battle of Tyrosh: "When Caraxes's Dragonfire broke the chains, I happened to board the Tyrosh ship and almost thought I was going to get hit by sparks, but then Little Daemon pulled me behind him—"

Alaric Dondarrion and Criston Cole, master and servant of Blackhaven, sat in a corner; one the son of Earl, the other the son of a butler, both wiping their longswords and occasionally interjecting a word.

Jasper Will and Michael Mettarin, who had been assigned to Borros by Duke Boremund, huddled together, discussing the standoff between the Allied Dornish Marches and Dorne: "Duke Boremund and my father just wrote that once the matter in King's King's Landing settled, they want us to return to Stormlands to help defend against the Sand Snakes ' sneak attacks."

Bryce Caron and Robin Bizbury were undoubtedly the most eye-catching couple in the tavern, aside from the two Daemon of House Targaryen, both possessing inhumanly handsome looks.

Bryce, dressed in a bright yellow outfit, the black nightingale pattern on his sword scabbard gleaming in the light, a gentle smile on his handsome face, was handing roasted meat to the person next to him.

This is simply the best proof of their family motto, "No Songs So Sweet."

Robin, on the other hand, was tall and handsome, a well-known beauty in their Stormlands. His skin was as white as a noble lady's, and the longsword at his waist gleamed coldly. But at this moment, he was patiently listening to Bryce tell interesting stories about Nightsong, occasionally brushing breadcrumbs off his shoulders.

Just like that night in Mistwood, Astan Selmi held a silver jug in his hands, pouring wine for everyone one by one, his smile as gentle as a spring breeze, "Please enjoy your drinks. If you're still hungry, just let me know. Borros told the owner that all the ale today is on his tab!"

This drew cheers from the crowd, Borros slammed his fist on the table, shouting, "That's right! It's on me today! All you can eat!"

Daemon looked at the scene before him and felt a warmth rise in his heart.

Myles and Tybolt were still drinking with Borros, and ale was spilled all over the table;

Alyn, unable to resist the pestering of Little Horas and Rickard, could only keep them company while they drank light ale.

Budimir was scolding his younger brother for reaching for the roast meat;

Larys appeared to be resting with his eyes closed, but he was actually still paying attention to the movements around him;

The Grey Ghost curled up at his feet, happily munching on a piece of grilled sausage "offered" by Astan Selmi.

"What are you daydreaming about?" Daemon Targaryen clinked his glass together, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "If you don't join in, that guy Borros is going to drink yours too!"

Daemon raised his glass and clinked it gently against his, the rich aroma of the ale spreading across his tongue.

He recalled the bloody battle of Tyrosh and the solemnity of the Small Council. Looking at the commotion in the tavern now, he saw his brothers who had risked their lives with him and his friends who were willing to relax with him. These were the most precious bonds he had formed throughout the past century.

The sunlight outside the window gradually slanted westward, but the laughter and clinking of glasses inside the tavern continued unabated.

Grey Ghost let out a burp and nuzzled Daemon's ankle;

Jarman quietly nodded to Harlan, indicating that there was nothing unusual around them;

Larys opened his eyes and wrote down the information he had just heard on parchment;

Budimir finally relented and poured Edwyn half a glass of light ale.

Daemon watched all this, raised his glass and took a sip. Perhaps in the future there would be Otto's schemes, the standoff with Dorne, and the hidden dangers of the the Wall.

But at this moment, he still only wanted to immerse himself in this slightly intoxicating warmth and enjoy this rare post-war relaxation. After all, with these people around him, he could weather any storm with a smile.