A dream of a sea of flames, a regal shadow on the throne

The night in Dragon's Roost Port was darker than usual tonight. The moonlight, like melting silver foil, covered the stone paths of the temporary castle, casting long shadows of the patrolling private soldiers.

Daemon sat in the oak chair in his study, his fingertips hovering above the parchment. A drop of ink from his quill brush smudged and spread next to the words "Draft Construction Plan for Dragon's Roost Port Castle," but he was completely unaware of it.

The Glutton outside the window let out a low dragon roar. Its black dragon scales gleamed coldly in the moonlight. Grey Ghost curled up beside the Glutton's neck, occasionally emitting soft purring.

A thick stack of documents was piled up in one corner of the desk:

The report included: Rayford Rosby's quarterly supplies summary sent by Tommen House Peake; Lyonel Corbray's training report assisting Rupert Crabb; Colin Celtigar and the Redwyne brothers' patrol logs of the Narrow Sea; Rickard Rowan and Lucas Tyrell's crop harvest forecast; and even a secret report from Larys Strong's mole in King's Landing 'King's Landing.

Otto Hightower made no move after receiving the false intelligence, except for mentioning at the Small Council he attended with Viserys that "Prince Daemon's Crownlands 'Dragon's Roost Port will require stricter control in the future."

Everything is moving in a positive direction. The docks under construction at Dragon's Roost Port are now able to accommodate fifteen ocean-going merchant ships. The salt-tolerant rye in the terraced fields within the Crownlands is about to be harvested. The Crownlands's private army is well-trained. The refugees and tribal peoples who have been pacified are living in peace and prosperity. Even the bandits and Wildlings who previously occupied the mountains and forests have been completely pacified and wiped out. The territory of Crownlands Daemon's territory is becoming increasingly stable.

Even the foundations of Daemon and Gael's castle in the Crownlands have been laid, and the skilled craftsmen they recruited are cutting the Goldenheart that Racallio sent a few days ago according to the blueprints. The outline of the main beam is already faintly visible under the moonlight tonight, like an indestructible fortress that is about to rise from the ground at any moment.

But Daemon's heart today is like the Narrow Sea shrouded in thick fog, lost and bewildered.

This was the second time since he traveled to this point a hundred years ago that he had fallen into such a profound state of confusion.

The first time was in the dungeon of Dragonstone. After waking up, I was faced with an unfamiliar world and didn't know where to go until I rode the Glutton. Only then did everything become clear.

At this moment, everything that could and should be done has been done, and Dragon's Roost Port is as stable as a rock. However, the unknown threats from the future are like a sword hanging over his head, making him restless and unable to eat or sleep.

He didn't know when or where this threat would arrive. Was it the infighting among the nobles led by Otto, and their meticulously planned schemes? Was it the Dorne- present threat of the Dornish Sand Snakes, ready to rise again at any moment? Was it the hidden malice beneath the Iron Islands's Ironborn surrender? Or was it the more distant and terrifying threat of the White Walkers beyond the Wall in the the North?

He hid this confusion very well.

By day, he remains the same decisive, invincible, and enigmatic "Black Dragon" prince, "Prince of Blackfyre," "The Conqueror Reborn," and "Warrior Descended to Earth" in the eyes of those around him and the world.

On the training ground, he sparred with Lyonel and the others, wielding the Blackfyre. The sound of their blades clashing reverberated throughout the entire area, and each strike carried the force of thunder, leaving the recruits no room for complacency.

At the dock, he personally led a team to inspect the planks of the new ship, his fingertips tracing the crossbows forged by the Myr craftsmen, his eyes sharp as knives, as he instructed Colin and his men to strengthen patrols on the eastern side of the Narrow Sea;

In the terraced fields, he watched as Rickard, Lucas, and the maester guided the subjugated tribesmen in harvesting rye, a gentle smile on his face as he encouraged them to plant more salt-tolerant crops;

In the council chamber, he was as methodical as ever, handling government affairs with clarity and decisiveness, and assigning tasks with precision and efficiency, earning the secret admiration of Rayford, Tommen, and others.

This sense of confusion only surfaces when no one is around.

When he was exhausted from practicing his swordsmanship, he would stare blankly at the dragon shadow of the Glutton.

After finishing all the paperwork, he would gaze absently at the moonlight streaming through the window;

When he soars over the Prince 'Crownlands, he looks down at this thriving land, but feels empty inside, as if a crucial piece of the puzzle is missing.

He thought no one would notice, until tonight.

The study door was gently pushed open, bringing with it the coolness of the night dew.

Alys Rivers's figure emerged in the moonlight, the hood of her green cloak slipping down to reveal her fair and beautiful profile, her emerald eyes like two jewels immersed in water in the dim light.

She carried a small stove in her hand, the charcoal inside glowing a dark red. She walked to the fireplace, skillfully added a few pieces of firewood, and the flames crackled and ignited, instantly illuminating half of the study.

Daemon snapped out of his daze and was about to turn around to get out of the documents and ask a question when Alys Rivers behind him had already leaned down gently, skillfully reaching her arms under his armpits to pull him into a tight embrace.

Her chest pressed against his back, warm and soft, carrying a faint scent of grass and trees, like the countless nights they had comforted each other during their travels.

"My dearest Black Dragon Prince," her voice was low and gentle, her breath brushing against his ear with a hint of seduction, "Have you fallen into confusion again?"

Daemon froze, about to deny it, but Alys Rivers reached out and gently turned his head, making him look at her.

Emerald green eyes met deep purple eyes, like the convergence of a forest and the night sky.

Alys Rivers ' eyes were full of understanding, as if she could see through all his pretense, all his forbearance, and all the unease hidden deep in his heart.

Before Daemon could utter a single word in reply, Alys Rivers raised her slender fingers and gently pressed them against Daemon's lips, the cool touch of her fingertips stopping Daemon from uttering the words he was about to say.

"Don't speak," she whispered, a mysterious glint in her eyes, "Just look into my eyes, just look into this firelight."

Daemon followed her gaze to the leaping flames in the fireplace, the firelight reflecting in his eyes, flickering and dancing.

Alys Rivers hugged him tighter, letting his head rest once more between her full breasts. The warm touch enveloped him, like returning to the rare embrace of his mother when he was a child a hundred years later, feeling safe and secure.

Her hand gently stroked his hair, the movement so tender it was almost unbelievable, like soothing a weary beast.

"Relax," she whispered softly in his ear, "Just like before, follow my guidance, see what you want to know, see the path you should take."

The moment the words left his mouth, Daemon felt the firelight before him suddenly become blinding, and his consciousness was pulled by an invisible force, gradually sinking into chaos.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself suspended high in the sky, with the entire Westeros unfolding before him like a giant map.

The scene moves rapidly southward, sweeping across the ice plains of the the North, the rivers of the Riverlands, the mountains of the Vale, the mines of the Westerlands, the forests of the Stormlands, and the farmlands of the Reach, finally stopping at the Crownlands where Crab Claw Peninsula is located.

Within King's Landing, the Red Keep gleamed with a golden-red light under the sun; within the Dragonpit, the shadow of a giant dragon seemed to be faintly visible; Blackwater Rush, sails lined the Blackwater Rush estuary leading to the Blackwater Bay docks.

Further south, beyond the lush greenery of the Kingswood, into the heart of the Stormlands, Storm's End stands atop a cliff, the Crowned Stag banner of House Baratheon fluttering in the wind;

On the plains of Summerhall, several herders drive their flocks of sheep, wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys. The Summerhall Plains are lush and green, and a century later, the site of Summerhall remains a tranquil estate.

The fortresses on the Dornish Marches were as strong as iron, and the soldiers vigilantly looked south. The fortresses on the Dornish Marches were also connected to form a defensive line to resist the threat from the south.

Beyond the Red Mountains between Prince's Pass and Boneway, Dorne's yellow sands intertwine with oases, and the spires of Sunspear pierce the sky.

The scene didn't stop, continuing southward, crossing the territory of the Dornish, passing through a narrow strait, and a vast blue ocean appeared before our eyes. The seawater was warm and clear, and the sunlight shone on the surface, creating shimmering waves—a Summer Sea.

Further south, an archipelago comes into view.

Nearly fifty verdant islands are scattered across the ocean, like a string of emeralds on blue velvet.

The island is covered with dense Rainwood, where towering Goldenheart reach for the sky, their trunks thick and straight, their wood grain gleaming with a warm sheen;

The mysterious Talking Tree deep in the Rainwood, its bark smooth and covered with ancient runes that gleam faintly in the sunlight—this is the Summer Isles.

A grand celebration is being held on the island.

The island's indigenous people put aside their past disputes and, dressed in colorful animal skins and wearing headdresses woven from parrot feathers, danced around a burning bonfire.

Each tribe holds its own Summer Isles celebration on its respective island.

The men beat drums made of Goldenheart, the sound deep and powerful;

The women sang ancient songs, their voices sweet and melodious;

The children chased and played around the campfire, holding toys made of seashells in their hands.

On the sea, fishing boats shuttle back and forth, and fishermen return with their catches full of fresh fish.

At the harbor, merchants came and went, trading gems, hardwoods, and ointments made from the sap of the Talking Tree —a thriving and peaceful scene that one hesitated to disturb.

But this peace and tranquility did not last long.

On the distant horizon, countless black dots appeared, growing closer and clearer—they were Ironborn longships.

The sails were jet black, painted with the symbol of the Drowned God, and a ferocious dragon head was carved on the bow.

The Ironborn stood on the ship, brandishing axes and longswords, singing rough and bloody songs—the songs of their "Old Way," war songs to pay "iron price" to their worshipped Drowned God.

The longship docked, Ironborn surged ashore like a tide, beginning a frenzied looting spree.

They cut down the flagpoles at the celebrations, burned the fishermen's boats, looted the merchants' goods, and massacred the resisting indigenous people.

Blood stained the white sand and the clear sea.

The tall Goldenheart was felled by the axe and crashed to the ground;

The mysterious Talking Tree was ignited, and the runes twisted and disappeared in the flames;

A raging fire broke out in the dense Rainwood, billowing thick smoke that blotted out the sky.

The indigenous people scattered and fled, while the old man lay in a pool of blood, his eyes wide open, filled with resentment;

The men picked up makeshift weapons to fight back, but they were no match for the Ironborn men, and one by one they fell under the axes;

The women screamed and ran, but the Ironborn still caught up with them. Some were killed, some were captured, and some were dragged onto longships and enslaved.

The cries of children, the screams of women, and the maniacal laughter of the Ironborn mingled together, creating a tragic elegy.

Tears of blood flowed from the eyes of women and children, dripping onto the burning earth and evaporating instantly.

Just then, another fleet appeared on the horizon, its sails bearing the emblem of "bone and sword"—it was Racallio's fleet.

His ship was full of pirates, brandishing his twin short-bladed scimitars and singing mad war songs, yet he joined the indigenous people in resisting the Ironborn's raids.

Racallio stood at the bow of the flagship, his purple and orange striped beard and hair flying in the wind, still holding the pair of "Rose and Bone" daggers in his hands, his eyes filled with madness and greed.

But this is not the end.

Behind Racallio's fleet, a massive black shadow appeared on the horizon, growing closer and clearer—it was the Glutton!

Its jet-black dragon wings spread out, blotting out the sky and the sun; its scales gleamed with a dark gold light in the sunlight.

Daemon rode on the back of the Glutton, wearing black dragon scale armor, one hand on the saddle, the other drawing the Blackfyre from his waist.

Grey Ghost emerged from the clouds and landed gently on his right shoulder, where he gripped the Blackfyre, its light gray dragon claws gripping his armor tightly.

On Daemon's right shoulder beneath his clothing, the black Targaryen three-headed dragon brand suddenly emitted a deep and mysterious black light. The black light spread along his arm, turning into pitch- Blackfyre flames that coiled around the Blackfyre, giving the blade an eerie black glow.

He opened his mouth and let out a commanding shout like a dragon's roar, his voice full of anger and majesty. The Glutton then let out a deafening dragon's roar, and jet-black Dragonfire spewed from his mouth, like a black fire dragon, rushing towards the Ironborn and the fleet of slave traders who cooperated with them.

Wherever the Dragonfire passed, the ships instantly burst into flames, and the Ironborn and slave traders screamed as they fell into the sea, engulfed by the flames and submerged by the seawater.

Immediately afterwards, more warships appeared on the horizon. These were the Joint Fleet of Dragon's Roost Port, their sails adorned with crimson and black dragon patterns. The soldiers on board, armed with bows and arrows and longswords, charged forward with shouts, engaging in fierce combat with the Ironborn.

The magnificent and stirring music filled the air, but as the war progressed, the music gradually became mournful and desolate, as if mourning the lives lost and the homes destroyed.

Flames dyed the Summer Sea, blood soaked the beach, the ashes of the Goldenheart scattered in the wind, and the runes of the Talking Tree vanished.

The scene gradually zooms out, and as the sun sets, a colossal throne stands beneath the setting sun on the shores of the Summer Isles.

This throne is forged from countless swords and weapons, with the hilts pointing upwards and the tips downwards, resembling a steel jungle. It is similar to the Iron Throne in King's Landing, but even more bloody and domineering.

Suddenly, a ball of pitch- Blackfyre ignited from the base of the throne, burning fiercely and melting the swords and weapons until they glowed red-hot.

The music in my ears became exciting again, full of hope and new life.

The burned throne transformed into a throne crafted from Goldenheart, warm and sturdy, inscribed with the runes of the Summer Isles and the black three-headed dragon pattern, a variant of the red three-headed dragon pattern of the Targaryen.

A silver-haired man with purple eyes slowly walked to the throne and sat down.

He wore a black royal robe, and at his waist hung a longsword that Daemon recognized all too well— Blackfyre.

A servant wearing a crown woven from thorns and jewels from the Summer Isles stepped forward and offered the man a laurel wreath symbolizing his royal status.

But the man with silver hair and purple eyes on the throne clearly "did not want" to have his way. He drew his sword, Blackfyre, from his waist, gently lifted the crown, then sheathed the sword, picked up the crown with both hands, and put it on his head.

The afterglow of the setting sun shone on him, outlining his tall figure, but his face was not clearly visible.

The sun had completely set, and the silver moon had risen, its cool light illuminating the man on the throne.

Daemon could see his figure, the Blackfyre at his waist, and the jewels on his crown, but he still couldn't see his face.

Just then, the man seemed to notice his gaze, slowly stood up, and turned around.

The silver moonlight shone on the man's face, and Daemon's breath caught in his throat for a moment—it was himself.

He wore a magnificent royal robe and a king's crown, held Blackfyre in his hand, his eyes were firm and majestic, and a faint smile played on his lips.

Just then, the Glutton swooped down from the night sky, its enormous dragon wings obscuring the silver moon and casting a massive shadow that enveloped the throne and Daemon on it.

The video then abruptly ended.

Daemon snapped back to reality, his chest heaving violently, his forehead covered in cold sweat, and his breathing rapid.

The fire in the fireplace was still burning, and the flames reflected in his eyes, lingering in the image of the burning Summer Isles, the Goldenheart throne, and himself wearing a laurel wreath and holding Blackfyre.

Alys Rivers continued to hold him, and the warmth of her embrace gradually calmed him down.

She gently stroked his back, her movements tender, her eyes filled with a complex light—a mixture of understanding, worry, and an indescribable depth.

The study was silent except for the crackling of the flames and Daemon's slightly rapid breathing.

The Glutton outside the window let out another low dragon roar, as if responding to the shouts in the illusion. The Grey Ghost also let out a soft dragon roar, its voice carrying a hint of unease.

Daemon gazed into Alys Rivers's emerald eyes, his mind filled with images from his dream: the burning islands, the lives lost, the fierce wars, and himself sitting on the throne.

The confusion seemed to dissipate somewhat, replaced by a strong premonition, a sense of mission—he knew that his future path might not only involve protecting Dragon's Roost Port and Westeros, but also a more distant place and a greater responsibility.

Moonlight streamed through the window, mingling with the firelight in the study and illuminating Daemon's deep purple eyes, which shone with a resolute light, along with a hint of anticipation and awe for the future.