Marriage Talks in the Warm Chamber and the Lame Prince

The air in the Red Keep's warm chamber carried the scent of cedar and amber. Charcoal crackled in the bronze brazier, baking the Targaryen Lineage tapestries hanging on the walls until they felt hot to the touch.

King Jaehaerys's silver hair gleamed like ivory in the firelight. He stroked the dragon patterns carved into the oak armrest, his gaze passing over the family gathered there before finally settling on his eldest son, Baelon.

Queen Alysanne sat beside him, silver thread looped around her fingers as she embroidered a small dragon-shaped crown for Rhaenyra. Golden thread shimmered across her lap like a handful of flowing sunlight.

"Baelon," the old king began, just as the charcoal spat a spray of sparks, "you turned forty this year. You are in the prime of your life." He paused, his gaze brushing over the new silver strands at his son's temples. "Alyssa has been gone for thirteen years now. Perhaps..."

"Father." Baelon's voice suddenly cut him off.

He sat ramrod straight, his deep violet eyes startlingly bright in the firelight. The old wound beneath his ribs seemed to make him press a hand to his side unconsciously, but there was no questioning the resolve in his tone. "For thirteen years, every morning I have wiped frost and dust from her gravestone. Every evening, I have spoken toward Dragonstone. Do you truly think thirteen years like that proves nothing?" The warm chamber fell silent at once, save for the occasional crackle of the coals.

Viserys quietly took Aemma's hand. Having gradually steadied herself these past few days under the family's comfort, Aemma lightly patted the back of his hand, signaling him not to interrupt.

Daemon Blackfyre noticed Baelon's knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip. The prince renowned for his martial valor had tears glinting in his eyes. "I remember the first time she rode Meleys," Baelon said, his voice dropping, warm with memory. "Her silver hair spilled across the dragon's scales like melting moonlight. She always said that no dragonfire was hotter than the way I looked at her."

He suddenly smiled, sweetness and bitterness mingling in that expression. "But the day she left, the light in my eyes went out with her. This heart was buried with Alyssa long ago. What remains is only an empty shell. How could it possibly make room for another?"

Queen Alysanne set down her needlework and said gently, "Baelon, I understand the depth of your love. But you are the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the realm. You should at least think more for yourself..."

"Mother." Baelon turned to the queen, his eyes pleading. "I have three exceptional sons—Viserys, steady as stone; older Daemon, fierce as fire; and..." His gaze shifted to Daemon Blackfyre, and his sharp violet eyes suddenly softened. "And you, little Daemon. Your father Aemon and I grew up together. His blood and mine have long since become one. I know I can never replace him, but these past days, seeing the dragonfire you unleashed from Glutton in the Mountains of the Moon, I saw Aemon's shadow in you."

Daemon Blackfyre's heart skipped a beat. He remembered the nights at the Night Watch Tower on Dragonstone, when the prince had tapped the top of his head with a sword sheath. He remembered Widow's Wail Canyon, where Baelon's Vhagar and his Glutton had breathed fire side by side in perfect unspoken coordination.

Now, there was even a faint, barely perceptible tremor in the iron-blooded prince's voice. "I admit that when the Lord of House Arryn met with misfortune, I suspected you. Your appearance was simply too strange, like mist drifting over from the far side of the Narrow Sea. But now I believe. We share the same source of blood and fire. Targaryen blood flows through you, just as it flows through me, Viserys, and older Daemon."

He leaned forward, flames dancing in his pupils. "From this day onward, you are my 'youngest son.' I will teach you how to command Dragonstone's fleet, how to make your voice carry weight in the Small Council, and how to make the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms fear your dragonfire. Just as I have done for Viserys and older Daemon."

Daemon Blackfyre's throat tightened. He wanted to say something, but Baelon raised a hand to stop him. "So, Father, Mother," Baelon said, turning back to Jaehaerys, "forgive my stubbornness. For the rest of my days, I only wish to watch over my sons, watch over little Rhaenyra, and see your great-grandchildren mount dragons of their own. As for another marriage... let those noble ladies seek better matches elsewhere."

Jaehaerys remained silent for a long while. A thick layer of ash had gathered in the brazier.

At last, he sighed. That sigh carried both a father's helplessness and admiration for his eldest son's devotion. "Very well. That temperament of yours comes from your mother." He turned to Alysanne. The queen gave him a slight nod, and the silver thread knotted between her fingers, as though bringing this dispute to its conclusion.

The old king's gaze swept across the room before finally landing on his youngest daughter, Gael. The princess wore a sky-blue dress, its hem embroidered with silver snowflakes—the season in which she had been born.

At her father's question, Gael's cheeks instantly turned as red as a ripe pomegranate. She instinctively looked toward Daemon Blackfyre, fingers twisting the edge of her skirt, her voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz. "Father, Mother, I... I still want to spend more time with you. I haven't finished seeing the Red Keep gardens, and the little dragons in the Dragonpit have only just gotten to know me..."

Alysanne smiled and rubbed her daughter's hair. "Our little Gael has grown up, but she is still as clingy as she was as a child." She looked at Jaehaerys with indulgence in her eyes. "Let us wait a little longer. She is still young."

Jaehaerys snorted but did not press further. His gaze eventually settled on Daemon Blackfyre, sharp as an eagle's. "And what about you, little Daemon? The noble ladies of the Seven Kingdoms are yours to choose from. House Tyrell in the Reach has three beautiful daughters. The Baratheons of the Stormlands have eligible girls as well. Even House Martell of Dorne has extended an olive branch..."

Daemon Blackfyre's gaze happened to meet Gael's. The princess hurriedly lowered her head, the tips of her ears so red they seemed ready to drip blood.

He then caught sight of Alicent Hightower standing behind the queen. The Hightower girl wore a gray-green dress and held a silver pitcher in her hands. Her lapis-lazuli eyes seemed to contain starlight. When she saw him looking, she swiftly lowered her gaze, failing to notice that the pitcher's handle had left red marks on her palm.

"Grandfather," Daemon Blackfyre said after steadying himself, trying to keep his tone composed, "I will not turn thirteen until after the new year. Glutton has not been fully tamed yet, and the pirates of the Stepstones have not been cleared out..."

"What does thirteen have to do with it?" A flippant voice suddenly came from the entrance to the warm chamber, cutting him off.

Everyone turned to look. Daemon Targaryen hobbled in, leaning on a carved cane.

His left leg was wrapped in thick bandages, dark red blood faintly seeping through his trouser leg. A bruise still marked his face, yet his violet eyes remained astonishingly bright, and his lips even carried their usual mocking smile.

"Marriage is a man's grave, brother." He dropped heavily into the nearest chair, his cane thudding against the floor. "Look at me. I have only been in the grave for a few days, and I am already buried up to my knees."

Queen Alysanne sprang to her feet, silver thread slipping from her lap. "Daemon! What happened to your leg?" She hurried over to the grandson she had once loved most dearly, her fingers trembling as they brushed the bruise on his face. "Who dared lay hands on you?"

Daemon Targaryen was just about to speak when he met the simultaneous looks cast by Jaehaerys and Baelon.

The old king cleared his throat and lifted his teacup to hide his face. Baelon lowered his head to inspect his fingernails as though dragon-pattern secrets were hidden upon them.

Alysanne was far too perceptive not to understand at once. She shot her husband and younger son a reproachful glare, then turned back to Daemon Targaryen and said gently, "Sit down quickly. I will have a maester change your bandages."

Viserys could not help laughing aloud, and Aemma secretly pinched him.

Daemon Blackfyre also remembered that day—how high-spirited Daemon Targaryen had been when he landed on Caraxes in the Red Keep courtyard. He had charged into the king's study laughing, loudly declaring that he would have Caraxes burn a hole through Runestone's bronze gates.

What he had not expected was that Jaehaerys was not alone in the study. Baelon had also been there, reporting on military affairs. Worse still, Queen Alysanne had happened to visit Aemma in Maegor's Holdfast, leaving no one to protect him.

"Whoever likes that miserable Vale can stay there!" Daemon Targaryen had shouted, slamming his palm on the desk the moment he entered. "I have Caraxes. I can go wherever I want—" Before he could finish, Baelon, who had been lurking in the shadows, seized him by the back of the collar.

The old king moved with startling speed, snatching up a silk napkin from the desk and stuffing it into his mouth. Father and son pinned one arm and one leg each. It was said that muffled thuds and the sound of tearing cloth came from within the study, while the guards stood outside, none daring to enter.

By the time Daemon Blackfyre and the others rushed over after hearing the news, Daemon Targaryen had already been tied to a chair. His left leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, and the wad of napkin, soaked with saliva, was still stuffed in his mouth. At the sight of his namesake "brother," he blinked frantically, looking exactly like a plucked turkey.

"Wasn't it all thanks to certain 'kind fathers and wise kings'?" Daemon Targaryen rubbed his knee, deliberately drawing out his words. "I merely said Runestone's bedboards were too hard, and I was pinned down in the study for a 'proper lesson.'" He glanced at Baelon. "Certain people hit much harder than they do when fighting Dornishmen."

The tips of Baelon's ears reddened slightly. He coughed. "Who told you to speak so wildly before the king? You even dared say you would burn down House Royce's gates?"

"Was I wrong?" Daemon Targaryen immediately shot back. "That woman Rhea Royce sleeps in bronze armor! I suspect even her heart is forged from iron!"

The atmosphere in the warm chamber instantly relaxed. Jaehaerys's laughter shook the brazier until it spat another burst of sparks. Alysanne shook her head helplessly, ordered someone to fetch a maester, and had a maid bring Daemon Targaryen honeyed wine to ease the pain.

Watching the scene before him, Daemon Blackfyre suddenly felt that the brand on his shoulder no longer burned. Baelon's devotion to his late wife, Gael's shy glances, Alicent's lowered eyes, even Daemon Targaryen's complaints as he limped—all of it was like the coals in the warm chamber, giving off a warmth that was real and tangible.

He remembered the blood and fire of the Red Grassland, remembered the cold of Dragonstone's dungeons, and suddenly understood that the bonds of blood were never maintained by dragonfire and swords. They were held together by these quarrels, this laughter, this tolerance, and this protection—like threads in a tapestry, stitching everyone tightly together.

King Jaehaerys took a sip of wine, his gaze circling the faces around him before settling on Rhaenyra's cradle. The little princess slept soundly, soft silver-gold hair resting against her cheeks, a trace of milk still at the corner of her mouth.

"Very well, let us put marriage aside for now." The old king's voice carried the warmth of drink. "We have plenty of time." He looked at Daemon Blackfyre with a smile in his eyes. "But little Daemon, do not follow your lame brother's example. When you grow up, you must bring me a granddaughter-in-law."

Daemon Blackfyre's cheeks warmed slightly at the teasing concern he had never received in his previous life. Gael lowered her head even further, while the fingers holding Alicent's silver pitcher trembled softly. At some point, the snowstorm outside the warm chamber had stopped. A beam of moonlight passed through the window lattice and fell upon Rhaenyra's cradle like a silver blanket.

The coals continued to crackle, weaving the story of the Targaryen Lineage into Westeros's long night.