Blood Echoes, Dragon Dream?

The chaos in the pavilion did not last long, but the oppressive silence spread like a plague, making it hard to breathe.

The maesters and handmaidens hurriedly carried the unconscious Aemma back to Maegor's Holdfast. Her face was ashen, like a wax figure drained of all life.

Viserys held the sobbing Rhaenyra as he followed beside them like a lost child, his face torn between worry for his wife and immense grief and bewilderment over the slaughter of her brother's family.

Queen Alysanne pressed her lips tightly together, suppressing the turmoil within as she directed everyone in an orderly manner. The hand holding Rhaenyra trembled slightly, but her gaze was as sharp as an eagle's as it swept over the chaotic scene, ensuring every matter was handled.

Gael and Alicent had long since gone pale with fright. Gael clung tightly to Alysanne's side, her pale violet eyes brimming with tears; Alicent, meanwhile, was white-faced and struggling to maintain a handmaiden's composure, though the knuckles around the silver pitcher had already turned white.

King Jaehaerys remained seated in that heavy oak chair, as though he had turned to stone. His deep violet eyes were fixed on the stained scroll in Prince Baelon's hand, as if he wished to burn through it.

Sunlight streamed through the trellis onto his wrinkled face. Rather than bringing warmth, it only made those furrows seem deeper, like a dried riverbed. The fingers resting on the armrests had turned bluish-white from gripping too hard, trembling faintly.

Only Rhaenyra's broken sobs remained in the pavilion, along with the distant clamor caused by the disturbance.

Prince Baelon had read every word on the scroll. His chest rose and fell violently, each breath accompanied by a suppressed wheeze like a bellows.

Grief, fury, and a nearly berserk killing intent churned across his resolute face before finally congealing into a cold, terrifying iron-gray.

He suddenly raised his head. His gaze, sharp as a tempered blade, first raked over the kneeling, trembling messenger, making the poor man nearly collapse, then swept across every face in the pavilion before fastening onto Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen like a magnet.

That look was no longer mere scrutiny. It carried a heavy, cold examination that pierced the soul. Shock—How could he know?—grief, and the deepest, almost tangible suspicion. It all matched that seemingly casual warning he had given that day far too strangely.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen bore that gaze. He stood where he was, his twelve-year-old body looking unusually slight beneath his purple robes, yet his back remained straight.

All color had drained from his face, and his lips were pressed into a pale line. Complex emotions surged in the depths of his violet eyes: helplessness before history's unchangeable course, deep sympathy for Aemma and Viserys, and a calm acceptance of Baelon's probing gaze, along with a trace of barely perceptible... guilt? He had warned them, using the least conspicuous method he could think of at the time. But what had it changed?

The great wheel of fate had still rolled forward mercilessly, leaving devastation in its wake.

His fists clenched tightly at his sides, his nails digging deep into his palms and bringing sharp pain, as though only that could offset the crushing helplessness in his heart.

"F-Father?" Daemon Targaryen's voice, unusually dry, broke the suffocating silence. The flippancy and anticipation on his face had vanished, replaced by shock and a trace of confusion. The Vale, Runestone, Rhea Royce... all his imaginings of a future marriage had been shattered by bloody reality. Never before had he understood so clearly what deadly dangers lurked behind the games of power and marriage alliances. "What... what did the letter say? Are they really... all gone?" He could not imagine that a duke, along with his family and guards, had been slaughtered to the last in the Mountains of the Moon by Wildlings!

Baelon did not answer his son at once. His eyes remained locked on Daemon Blackfyre, as though he wished to see through the boy's body and uncover the secrets hidden within his soul.

Time seemed to freeze, every second unbearably long.

At last, Baelon spoke slowly. His voice was as low as muffled thunder rolling beneath the earth, every word carrying the taste of ice chips and rust as it struck the silent pavilion.

"The Stone Crows... ambushed them in Widow's Wail Canyon, east of Eagle Claw Pass. More than three hundred Wildlings. Boulders and fire arrows... no one in the convoy survived." He paused, his gaze passing over Jaehaerys's aged, grief-stricken face before returning to Daemon Blackfyre. The scrutiny in his eyes deepened. "The head of the Arryn duke... was mounted on a spear at the canyon entrance. The lady and children... their remains were burned to charcoal with the carriages, impossible to identify. The raven... was found on the body of the last guard who fought his way out, only to collapse and die from exhaustion."

A sharp intake of breath ran through the pavilion. Even Baelon, accustomed to the brutality of war, could not keep the tremor and boundless killing intent from his voice as he recounted those details.

King Jaehaerys's body jolted as though struck by an invisible hammer.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened them again, the violet eyes of the Conciliator held only the cold fury of a dragon king.

That fury did not blaze like an inferno. It was like an undercurrent beneath an ancient glacier, carrying a chill that could freeze all things and destructive power.

"The Stone Crows..." the old king said. His voice was not loud, but it clearly overwhelmed every faint sound, bearing the unquestionable majesty of final judgment. "They have forgotten that dragons have reverse scales, and whoever touches them must die. They have also forgotten that the wrath of the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms is enough to turn their nests, and the entire mountain range with them, into scorched earth."

He slowly rose to his feet. His figure seemed somewhat stooped in the sunlight, but the presence radiating from him was as weighty as a mountain.

He looked at Baelon. Their eyes met, and no words were needed. Father and son saw the same resolve in each other's gaze—blood debts must be repaid in blood!

"Baelon," Jaehaerys said decisively, "summon the Small Council. At once. Have Vhagar, Caraxes, Glutton... prepare." He paused, his gaze seeming to pass casually over Daemon Blackfyre. "Every dragon that can fly, prepare them. The Stone Crows, and those tribes of the Mountains of the Moon that dare shelter them... they need a lesson they will never forget, about the temperature of dragonfire."

"Yes, Your Grace!" Baelon answered in a deep voice, barely suppressing his bloodthirsty longing.

He gave Daemon Blackfyre one last long look. He did not want to believe this had anything to do with his nephew, but the coincidence was simply too great. His gaze was immensely complicated—lingering doubt, resolve for the coming slaughter, and perhaps even a trace of... hope? Hope that this mysterious boy could prove something in the blood and fire to come? Prove his loyalty? Or prove his worth?

Baelon said nothing. He simply turned sharply and strode from the pavilion, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a banner marching to war, carrying a chilling killing intent.

Only Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Gael, Alicent, and the two Daemons remained in the pavilion.

Daemon Targaryen watched his father leave, then looked at his grandfather's cold profile. Finally, his gaze settled on Daemon Blackfyre, whose face was still pale.

A young man's hot blood surged in his chest. Worry for his betrothed's family, rage at the Wildlings' atrocities, longing to ride to war with his father, and confusion over the mysteries surrounding his cousin all tangled together.

He suddenly stepped before Daemon Blackfyre. His silver hair stirred lightly in the wind, and his violet eyes fixed tightly on the other boy.

"You warned the Arryn duke to beware the Wildlings that day." His voice held none of its usual teasing or swagger, only an unprecedented seriousness and a barely perceptible challenge. "Now tell me, brother. Other than saying the Wildlings were restless, what else do you know? About this massacre? About the Stone Crows? About..." He paused, his eyes sharpening like blades. "...why did you know?"

The pressure instantly converged on Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen.

Jaehaerys's gaze turned toward him as well, heavy with scrutiny.

Queen Alysanne held the gradually quieting but still sniffling Rhaenyra and watched him with concern. Gael and Alicent held their breaths too.

Daemon Blackfyre raised his head and met Daemon Targaryen's eyes, then faced Jaehaerys's penetrating stare.

The sunlight outside the pavilion remained bright, and the scent of flowers in the garden was still rich, but the bloodstained smell and cold killing intent in the air had already dyed this autumn afternoon completely red.

He knew the peaceful days were over. The brief tranquility that belonged to Daemon Waters or Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen had been utterly shattered.

No matter how much they accepted him, he was still a lone Black Dragon. Just as in his previous life, the stain of bastardy made it difficult for the world to trust him, even his "family"...

He stood at the center of the storm. Before him lay the flames of vengeance; behind him, unresolved mysteries and probing eyes.

He drew a deep breath. The flower-scented air felt cold enough to pierce his lungs.

How should he answer? Prophecy? Dreams? Or... memories from a century later, steeped in the blood of the Red Grassland? The truth was a double-edged sword. If he spoke it now, would they see him as a prophetic warning, or a monster deserving destruction?

In the depths of his violet eyes, struggle and resolve flickered in turn.

In the end, he chose a lie. He slowly opened his mouth, his voice carrying a hoarseness no boy should possess and a strange calm.

"My dream. I saw... blood and fire."