The True Dragon in the Tower

When the iron gates of the Night Watch Tower were lit by moonlight for the third time, Daemon Targaryen's silver boots crushed grape seeds beneath them.

He had a packet of honeyed cherries tightly wrapped in oil paper tucked into his arms. The hem of his cloak carried the distinct perfume of powder and rouge from Silk Street—he had just stolen them from the back kitchen of the Pleasure Hall, and the proprietress in her red silk dress had chased after him, cursing, for half a street.

"Corlys's guards can't even spare a sweet fruit?" He pushed the oil-paper packet through the gaps in the iron bars, his violet eyes gleaming slyly in the torchlight. "Or are House Velaryon's pearls more precious than candied fruit?"

When Daemon Blackfyre caught the packet, his fingertips brushed the thin calluses on the other boy's fingers.

They were not the thick calluses of a knight who practiced swordsmanship, but finer marks worn down by years of clutching dice and handling cards. He had seen such descriptions in the records of the Red Keep's library, accounts of the youth of this future "Rogue Prince": the gambling tables of Flea Bottom, the brothels of Silk Street, and the black markets by the docks had all been his playgrounds.

"Aren't you afraid Corlys will catch you?" Daemon Blackfyre pinched open a cherry, and sweet juice splattered against the corner of his mouth.

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This twelve-year-old body had yet to fully adjust to hunger. His empty stomach ached.

"Better if he does." The Targaryen boy kicked the iron bars, his boot heel ringing against the dragon-carved metal. "Let him see whether the prince's son of Dragonstone would really associate with a 'suspicious person.'" He suddenly leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Honestly, the look in your eyes when you defied him was fiercer than the meanest gambler in Flea Bottom. I like it."

Daemon Blackfyre chewed the cherry pit. Since arriving in this world, this was the first time anyone had defined his existence with the words "I like it."

The boy before him was more vivid than the records had described. His silver hair hung messily over his brow, his cloak was tied carelessly at an angle, and the sword at his waist was an ordinary steel blade. Several dents still marked its scabbard. It was clearly not the Dark Sister he would wield later, but something more like a crudely made weapon for street brawls.

"My name is Daemon." He swallowed the kernel, his voice carrying the rasp unique to a young boy's throat, yet hiding the force with which he had once swung a sword upon the Red Grassland.

"Daemon Targaryen." The other raised a brow and tapped his silver hair with his knuckles. "Looks like our fathers had a bit of a sense of humor when naming us." He suddenly pulled a crumpled parchment scroll from his cloak. "I stole this from the library, Chronicle of the Riverlands' Fires. It records how battles were fought on the Trident during the wars between the realms. That 'heavy cavalry wedge formation' you mentioned last time—even the book has a drawing of it."

Blackfyre spread out the parchment. Upon the yellowed page, Riverlands lords had drawn a cavalry charge formation in red ink, astonishingly similar to the tactics he had used to tear apart House Arryn's shield wall.

Only back then, he had led the Blackfyre rebels, while the banners on the parchment all bore the three-headed dragon of Targaryen.

"You understand this?" Excitement shone in the Targaryen boy's eyes. "The castle instructors only teach me thrusting and blocking, going on about 'a knight's honor.' But I've seen it in Flea Bottom. The nastiest fights never follow the rules—" He suddenly lowered his voice. "Once, I gambled dice with a thief from the docks. He cheated, so I smashed a wine jug over the back of his head. Worked better than a sword."

Blackfyre watched his shining eyes and suddenly remembered what he himself had been like at twelve.

Back then, he had still practiced with Brynden in the courtyards of the Red Keep, wielding wooden swords and believing bloodlines could decide everything. Only after stepping onto a battlefield for the first time had he understood that rules were worth nothing before the dead.

"War is the same." Blackfyre pointed at the formation on the parchment, his finger tracing the position of the cavalry arrows. "The key to a wedge formation isn't charging headlong. It's finding the gaps in the shield wall. Like..." He paused, remembering the narrow alleys of Silk Street. "Like the thieves in Flea Bottom slipping through holes in walls. You have to wait until the moment is right."

Targaryen burst into laughter. It struck the stone walls and startled the crows roosting atop the tower into flight. "You're right! Those old scholars definitely wouldn't understand." He pulled out a tin flask from his cloak and shoved it through the bars. "This is malt ale from the Drunken Mermaid brothel. The proprietress says it gives you courage. I stole three flasks from her, and she chased me around the docks twice."

Over the next six nights, the Night Watch Tower became the secret stronghold of the two Daemons.

The things Targaryen brought grew increasingly miscellaneous: handkerchiefs embroidered by Silk Street prostitutes—"softer than the coarse cloth in the castle"; ivory dice used by Flea Bottom gamblers—"filled with lead, good for winning money"; and rusted daggers scavenged from the docks' black market—"supposedly stained with pirate blood."

The stories he told grew wilder as well: how one prostitute had stabbed out a nobleman's eye with a hairpin, how one gambler had swindled a merchant from Lannisport with counterfeit coins, and how one thief had slipped into the Red Keep and stolen the king's wine.

Blackfyre, meanwhile, spoke of "battlefield tales he had heard": how the rushing waters of the Trident could break apart infantry formations, how ambushes could be set in the passes of the Mountains of the Moon, and how winter snow in the North could freeze bowstrings until they snapped.

He deliberately avoided the Red Grassland. That wilderness had no name yet, buried beneath the dust of the Riverlands. Only a hundred years later, after his blood had stained it red, would it be recorded in history.

"You're far better than the instructors." On the seventh night, Targaryen brought a ring of keys, with a small bronze seahorse hanging from it—the crest of House Velaryon, stolen from Corlys's desk. "Rhaenys and Corlys have been arguing for three days. She wants to take you to King's Landing to see Grandfather. But Corlys says they need to find out whether you're some fake planted by Lysene slavers." He pushed the keys through the bars. "I heard the guards say Corlys plans to move you to the dungeon on Tidehead Island tomorrow. That place is deeper than the Dragonglass Prison and surrounded by sea on all sides."

Blackfyre caught the keys. The iron ring was cold, digging painfully into his palm.

Looking at Targaryen's moonlit profile, he suddenly understood why this boy would later become the "Rogue Prince." His rebellion hid contempt for rules and a yearning for freedom, like an unbridled wild horse.

"Aren't you afraid I really am a fake?" Blackfyre turned the key, and the lock gave a faint click.

"Could a fake tell me about the gaps in a wedge formation?" Targaryen raised a brow, pointing at the brand that flickered in and out of sight on Blackfyre's shoulder. "Could a fake make Glutton roar at him?" He suddenly grinned, like a bear that had stolen honey. "Besides, I'm starting to like you, Daemon Blackfyre. Whoever you are, you're still more interesting than those idiots in the castle who only know how to bow and scrape."

As the iron gate slowly opened, sulfurous mist poured from the volcanic fissures like white serpents. Blackfyre took his first step out. His twelve-year-old legs felt weak, but the warrior's instinct within his soul steadied him.

"Go east and pass through the third crater." Targaryen kept his voice low. "The guard there knows me. I gave him three ivory dice, and he'll pretend he never saw you." He paused, then added, "Watch out for Glutton. It's been circling near the crater these past few days. The dragonriders say it seems to have gone mad."

Blackfyre looked back at him once. Moonlight fell over the faces of the two silver-haired boys, and restless fire burned in both pairs of violet eyes.

"Thanks."

As he passed through the volcanic fissures, the sulfur stung his throat and made him cough violently.

Twelve-year-old lungs had yet to adapt to Dragonstone's air, but the brand on his right shoulder burned with startling intensity, as though a ball of fire were blazing beneath his flesh.

He ran in the direction of the heat until a vast cave appeared before him. Its walls were studded with glowing dragonglass, thick dragon scales carpeted the ground, and at the center lay a shadow larger than Caraxes.

Glutton...