King's Landing buzzed with rumors.
The bells had tolled for victory, but the shadows that dwelled within the Red Keep knew that not all victories brought peace.
In the small council chamber, flames flickered in iron candelabras. The atmosphere was warm… and heavy.
"The Stepstones are ours," declared Otto Hightower, his thin fingers crossed over the oak table. "And all thanks to Prince Daemon's audacity."
King Viserys shifted in his seat. He smiled… but not with joy.
"Yes. Audacity," he repeated, though the word seemed to weigh on his tongue. "Still, he acted without a mandate. On his own. I cannot allow this to happen again."
Ser Harrold Westerling remained silent, as always. But Lyonel Strong let out a grunt of approval.
"He did what many dared not, Your Grace. Sometimes, dragon's blood burns before it is summoned."
Viserys narrowed his eyes. The name Daemon floated in the air like a dagger.
In the corner of the chamber, Daron Snow watched in silence, standing as a proper squire and cupbearer should. But his eyes—silver, sharp, hungry—saw everything.
Daemon rose as a hero… and the king looks more uneasy than proud, he thought. The court fears men they cannot control.
And Daron knew exactly what Daemon Targaryen was like. His modern self had memorized every detail of the Dance, every step of the fire that was coming. And now… he was at the heart of the game.
That night, Queen Aemma rested poorly. Her round belly already showed the heir growing within, and the city prepared for a grand tournament in his honor.
"My husband believes that steel and blood bring omens of fortune," the queen said softly as Alicent Hightower helped her lie down. "But I feel only fear."
"He will be strong, Your Grace," Alicent murmured, her voice sweet and innocent. She was barely sixteen, her large eyes filled with sincerity.
Daron, present as a servant in the chamber, felt a pang as he watched them. Not of desire, but of knowledge. He knew what was coming. He knew too much.
Alicent noticed his gaze and smiled at him shyly. Daron returned a polite nod, distant and controlled. He did not wish to attract attention.
Not yet.
Later, in the inner garden, Rhaenyra walked alone under the moon. Daron emerged from the shadows, his black cloak billowing like darkness itself.
"Are you following me, Daron Snow?" the princess asked, her lips curving in a knowing smile.
"I would never follow without wanting to be caught," he replied, his voice low, deep.
"And what do you think of my uncle's war?"
"It was glorious… and dangerous. Swords raise heroes. But they also forge enemies."
Rhaenyra studied him with intensity. There was something between them. A subtle tension, like embers beneath the snow.
"You are different from everyone at court. You speak as if you see beyond."
"Perhaps I do," he answered. "Or perhaps I simply know how to listen."
Their eyes met. Silence weighed between them. Then, Daron bowed his head and walked away without another word.
He left Rhaenyra watching him with a curious smile… and a faint blush.
In the solitude of his chamber, Daron lit a candle. The maester who attended him had mentioned that Daemon might return soon, perhaps to attend the tournament.
Daemon is coming. Like a storm not yet seen, but already making the ground tremble.
That night, his dreams were different.
Darkness.
The crunch of bones.
And two green eyes, glowing like burning emeralds, watched him from an abyss of fire.
A roar shook his very soul.
A black dragon… larger than any other. Its wings were living shadow. Its fire was not red, but green, like poison.
"I wait for you… my blood," whispered a voice that was not a voice.
Daron woke up sweating, his chest burning.
He said nothing. Not even to the maester who came to check on him, worried by the strangled cry.
He only thought of one thing.
War is coming. It is not over. It has only changed its face.
And the tournament… would be the first piece to fall.