Even after leaving the solar, Daemon remained dazed for a while.
More precisely, his body had not stopped moving. When the steward walked ahead, he followed; when they came to stairs, he went down them; when someone greeted him in the corridor, he gave an appropriate bow of his head. He was unhurt, and there was nothing wrong with his walking.
The problem was his mind.
Lord.
He turned down a corridor.
He wants me to be a lord.
He descended a staircase.
Sea Dragon Point.
Winterfell's gray walls passed beyond the windows.
Ordinarily, he would have slowed without meaning to, wondering when that tower had been expanded, whether the slightly misaligned axis between it and the curtain wall meant it had been added by a later generation, or which way the hot spring water flowed beneath them.
Today, he simply passed it by.
Raymund noticed.
He had waited outside the solar, and when Daemon emerged, he had first looked the child over as usual. His clothes were undamaged, and he bore no injuries. Even the way he walked was no different from usual.
Only his expression was strange.
That was enough.
Raymund did not ask what they had discussed.
If Daemon wanted to speak, he would chatter sooner or later.
If he did not, then he did not wish to speak of it yet.
It was the same after they returned to their room.
Daemon climbed into a chair and sat down, while Raymund began repairing the leather strap of an old scabbard by the window. The scrape of leather and the crackle of logs in the hearth were the only sounds filling the room.
Usually, Daemon would have been the first unable to endure such silence.
Not today.
He picked up a piece of bread from the table and held it for a long while.
He did not eat it.
He put it back down.
Raymund glanced at him once.
Even so, he did not ask.
Rickard's final words kept circling through Daemon's mind.
Build it yourself.
A castle.
A harbor.
Workshops.
A domain.
A lord.
"..."
No matter how many times he considered it, the scale was absurd.
Only several hours later, when the North's brief daylight began to fade and the gray beyond the window started dying into blue, did Daemon finally begin to think properly.
All right.
Let us truly think this through.
Would it be good to accept?
It would.
It would be incredibly good.
The question was whether it was as dangerous as it was good.
And the first problem that came to mind was far too large.
I am a Blackfyre.
Daemon's expression stiffened.
"..."
The most delicate matter had reared its head from the very beginning.
The name Blackfyre itself did not mean much to Daemon. He had not chosen to be born this way, nor did he wish to sit upon the Iron Throne. Owning one proper workshop mattered far more to him than arguing whether the red dragon or the black dragon was the true line.
The question was whether the world would see it that way.
How deeply are the Starks tied up with the Blackfyres?
If they merely knew each other's names, that would be ideal.
If northern armies had clashed with them a few times during the rebellions, it would be somewhat troublesome.
If Starks had died because of the Blackfyres, or if they had spent generations cutting one another's throats and burning one another's castles, it would be quite dangerous.
In the end, a grudge between houses was a matter of memory.
The moment one heard the name—
Ah.
Those bastards.
—if that was the first thought it brought, then it was not good.
To put it simply, it would be like being turned into one of those detestable regulars everyone recognized.
And when such a hated bastard was hiding his identity while doing suspicious things, the next stage was generally set.
Getting murdered.
Daemon's face soured.
"...Fuck."
Raymund, who had been tending the leather by the window, raised his eyes.
Their gazes met.
Daemon discreetly looked away.
Raymund said nothing.
He resumed moving his hands, sending an unspoken message.
It seemed he would let it pass once.
The trouble was that Daemon did not properly know the relationship between the Starks and the Blackfyres.
There had been several rebellions.
His father, Maelys, had died in the last war.
That war had been only a few years ago.
He knew that much.
But he had never investigated how deeply the North had been involved in each rebellion, which Stark had fought which Blackfyre, or whether there were northern houses that would start sharpening swords the instant they heard the name Blackfyre.
Daemon pressed a hand to his forehead.
I searched through sand so thoroughly just to make glass.
And never checked whether my father's family was an enemy in these parts.
His priorities had been somewhat strange.
At least Rickard's reaction had not been bad.
When he first saw Daemon, he had not worn the expression of someone thinking, Blackfyre. Rather, he had seemed intent on determining whether this tiny child truly was the boy behind the heating and glass.
But it would not end with Rickard alone.
He would remain in the North.
He would become a lord.
He would live ten years. Twenty years.
His name would spread.
Documents would reach the royal court.
He might meet southern nobles.
Then, someday, an old knight with a good memory might see him and tilt his head.
"Wait."
He would look once.
Then twice.
"I have seen that face before."
And then remember the dead Maelys Blackfyre.
I am fucked.
Daemon rubbed his face with both hands.
He tried to recall Maelys's face, but could not manage it properly.
Naturally.
He had not been old enough to remember a person's face clearly when he saw him.
Only fragments remained.
He was enormous.
His voice was low.
The arms that lifted him were strangely thick.
His head had not been normal.
That was all.
Father, my ass.
After a moment, another word leapt into his mind.
Cho'Gath.
He immediately shook his head.
No. That is too familiar as well.
His biological father.
That man.
That was enough.
Daemon touched his cheeks and jaw.
He felt that he resembled his mother more. At least, not looking like Maelys was a great advantage.
If he had inherited that massive build intact, he would already have been noticeably large at four years old.
Daemon looked down at his short arms.
I am safe for now.
Then he naturally recalled Rickard Stark.
More precisely, the eyes that had watched him in the solar.
Heating.
Glass.
History.
A western fleet.
Moat Cailin.
Sea Dragon Point.
And finally—
Build it yourself.
Daemon's expression abruptly hardened.
"..."
It felt familiar.
In an exceedingly unpleasant way.
Someone discovers a student with a little wit.
Give him work, and he does it.
Throw something difficult at him, and somehow he brings back results.
Then the man smiles and says:
You have talent.
You only need to do a little more.
I will back you.
Kim Jaebong.
A chill went down Daemon's spine.
"Ugh."
Raymund looked up for the second time.
Daemon calmly avoided his gaze.
Raymund seemed to watch him for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the leather strap again without a word.
Daemon hurriedly shook his head.
No.
That truly is not it.
No matter what, comparing Rickard Stark to Kim Jaebong was too much.
It was a considerable insult to Lord Stark merely to place him on the same level as that human-shaped piece of shit.
They did share one thing: both had said Daemon possessed talent and tried to keep him close.
That was truly where the similarity ended.
Rickard had said that the glassmaker's share belonged to the craftsman. The part Daemon had conceived and initiated was Daemon's share, and Rickard had said he would pay separately for that as well.
Kim Jaebong had been the opposite.
An idea devised by a student became the professor's research.
If the student succeeded in an experiment, it was the result of excellent guidance.
If he failed, the student had not prepared properly.
He held people hostage with graduation, dangled authorship of papers like bait, and changed his words once all the work was done. No one knew where the research funds disappeared to, but there was always no money when they needed equipment.
And in the end, he had tried to pin even his own problem on a student.
If it went badly, Daemon could have gone to prison.
That man's favorite phrase had always been—
I will back you.
Daemon's face twisted again.
"You said you would back me, fucker."
Raymund's eyes rose again.
This time, they lingered a little longer.
A second warning.
Daemon was not a fool. He understood at once.
He shut his mouth and continued his thoughts in silence.
What Kim Jaebong had truly backed was his own achievements upward and his own responsibility downward.
Rickard, on the other hand, meant to keep Daemon here.
So he would give him land.
Daemon sincerely apologized to Rickard in his heart for a moment.
My apologies, Lord Stark.
I compared you to the wrong man.
Yet once he removed the comparison, Rickard's offer seemed even stranger.
He said Daemon had talent.
He said he was needed.
He would give him space to do what he wished.
And ask him to remain here.
It is headhunting, but...
Thinking in modern terms, that was how it felt.
There was an outsider who had come from nowhere.
He had no connections.
For several years, he had done some unusual things.
A superior met him personally.
He liked what he saw.
And then—
Would you like to join our company?
Up to that point, it was ordinary.
The next part was the problem.
It was not an offer to raise his wages.
Nor was it merely a higher position.
They gave him land.
They let him collect taxes.
They let him rule people.
They let him summon soldiers.
He could build a castle, make a harbor, and even pass it all down to his children.
Daemon's eyes widened slightly.
...This is not even like headhunting someone and putting him in the lowest seat on the board.
He thought a little longer.
I will give you a subsidiary. You run it as its president.
That was much closer.
And it was not merely a subsidiary given a new corporate name.
It came with land.
"...Madness."
That was the third time.
Rustle.
Raymund's hand, pulling the leather strap, stopped.
Daemon belatedly read the room.
Raymund slowly rose from his seat.
"Uh."
He came closer.
"Wait."
Daemon instinctively recoiled against the chair back.
Too late.
One cheek was caught.
"Ahh."
Raymund pulled the flesh with two fingers.
"O-old man."
"How many days has it been since I told you not to speak crudely?"
"Is that what matters right now?"
His cheek stretched a little farther.
"Ah! It matters!"
"I told you not to fill your mouth with crude words simply because they come easily."
"It came out while I was thinking alone!"
"Once it comes out of your mouth, it is no longer yours alone."
It was an unassailable argument.
With his cheek still caught, Daemon looked at him with aggrieved eyes.
"You let the first two pass."
"I did."
"Why will you not let the third pass?"
"If I let three pass, it becomes a habit."
Raymund released his cheek.
Daemon rubbed his face with one hand.
"Child abuse."
Raymund raised his hand again.
"No. I take it back."
"I told you this a few days ago, on the road to Winterfell."
"I know."
"Choose your words."
"I said I know."
"And do not let your guard down merely because you believe you are speaking to yourself."
Raymund returned to the window.
"What is most vulnerable in a person comes out when he believes himself alone."
Daemon pouted.
"But you are here."
"That is why I correct you."
It was difficult to refute that.
Daemon rubbed his cheek a while longer.
Even so, his thoughts continued.
Rickard's offer was truly immense.
Then the other side of it.
He could follow the original plan and go to Essos.
Gather money.
Find land.
Determine who truly ruled it.
Negotiate.
Pay money.
Hire guards.
Build a castle.
Establish workshops.
Lay roads.
Dig a harbor.
Find shipwrights and merchants.
He would even have to mind nearby bandits and mercenaries.
If things began to go well, one of the nearby Free Cities might look at him and ask what in the hell he was.
He would have to do all of it from the beginning.
Daemon closed his lips and cursed only in his mind.
Fucking hell.
This time, Daemon did not make the mistake of voicing it.
He checked in Raymund's direction once.
He had not been caught.
At White Harbor, they had already accomplished something similar in a short time.
There was a patron.
There were craftsmen.
Heating was spreading.
Glass had begun to sell as well.
Books could be obtained.
His mother had found her place.
Raymund, too, had settled into a fairly stable position as House Manderly's hunting master.
They would throw all that away, cross to Essos, and begin anew from nothing.
It is like clearing the entire tutorial, then deleting the save and being told to start a new game.
It was exhausting merely to consider.
Furthermore, Daemon himself had told Rickard that power's reach might be thin beyond the cities of Essos.
At first, that had seemed an advantage.
It was easier to hide there.
But seen from the other side, it also meant that security would largely be his responsibility.
I said that myself, and still wanted to go there.
Of course, there had been reasons.
It would take him farther from the Blackfyres.
Farther from the royal house of Westeros as well.
He could live quietly while hiding his identity.
That remained a great advantage.
But the North already possessed too much.
A foundation in White Harbor.
Money.
People.
Relationships.
Craftsmen who could truly make his ideas real.
Stark protection.
And land might be added to all that.
Daemon looked out the window.
Winterfell's towers stood beneath the darkening sky.
He had only been here a few days.
Still, he liked it.
The castle was interesting.
There were many books.
He disliked the cold, but the buildings were warm inside.
The people were better than he had expected.
It is absolutely not because I have come to like the North.
After thinking that, he paused briefly.
He did not consider why he had felt compelled to add those words.
Instead, a more entertaining thought raised its head.
If Sea Dragon Point truly became his land—
His own workshops.
Workshops not rented inside someone else's house.
Glass.
Metal.
Timber.
A shipyard.
Warehouses.
A harbor.
Buildings designed for heating and drainage from the beginning.
He could build glass gardens, too.
The corners of Daemon's mouth slowly rose.
Raymund saw it once.
He said nothing.
Daemon tapped the table with his fingers, then stopped.
No.
Why am I already building it?
He had not even agreed to accept.
He had not seen Sea Dragon Point himself.
It might not even be suitable for a real harbor.
Right.
I will go see it, and if it is good, I will accept it.
That was a fairly sensible conclusion.
But one problem remained.
Blackfyre.
If only he could do something about that—
"..."
His thoughts stopped.
White Harbor.
The mansion where he had lived.
The secret place within it.
And the thing kept there.
Daemon's eyes slowly widened.
Ah.
This time, he made no sound.
Raymund glanced over.
Daemon firmly sealed his lips.
A dragon egg.
That was there.
Why had he forgotten it while thinking about the domain?
He would remain in the North.
He would become a lord.
Then what of the egg?
Leave it forever in the White Harbor mansion?
For now, it would be safe. His mother and Raymund had made a secret place to hide it.
But forever?
Someday, something would happen in the house.
Someone would search it.
The hidden room would be exposed.
A dragon egg would be found.
They would seek its origin.
Valena.
Raymund.
Daemon.
Blackfyre.
It would connect beautifully.
But it would be strange for Daemon to move it first.
There was an even greater problem.
His mother and Raymund did not know that Daemon knew about the place.
One day, suddenly—
Mother, you know that dragon egg you hid there.
—if he said that, the egg would cease to be the problem.
How did you know of that place?
When did you see it?
Who told you?
What else did you see inside?
Raymund would surely sit him in a chair and interrogate him point by point.
Daemon glanced toward the window.
That would not end with my ears being pulled.
For the moment, he would pretend not to know.
It was not yet certain that he would become a lord.
He had not seen Sea Dragon Point himself.
They did not know what the royal court would say.
For now, the egg would remain where it was.
That was the safest course.
The problem was that once a person's thoughts touched the word dragon, it was difficult to stop quietly.
But can it even be hatched?
Daemon's expression became peculiar.
He did not even know the method.
Did he need to make it hot?
Put it into a fire?
Simply keep it warm at all times?
Was magic required?
Was it even truly a living egg?
He did not know.
But what if it really hatched?
At first, it would be small.
Probably.
The problem was that it would grow someday.
He did not know how quickly.
He did not know what or how much it ate.
Goats.
Sheep.
Pigs.
Cattle.
If it grew as large as the dragons in the tales, he did not even wish to imagine what came next.
Daemon's expression abruptly grew grave.
...Food costs.
There was something a little sad about his first concern upon imagining a creature of legend being the cost of feed.
What if feeding a dragon ruins the domain?
Buy cattle with the money intended for the harbor.
Buy sheep with the money intended for the shipyard.
The lord would clutch his ledgers and weep over the cost of feeding a flying pet.
That would be humiliating.
Of course, a dragon would not be livestock that did nothing but eat.
Daemon recalled his conversation with Rickard only a short while earlier.
A fleet.
Castle walls.
Deterrence.
The power to make an enemy consider the price he would pay before attacking.
If a dragon truly grew as large as legend said and breathed fire—
That would be considerably more powerful.
If you touch me, you are fucked.
There would be no need to say it aloud.
One dragon would say it for him.
And at that point, his thoughts veered down a side road with astonishing speed.
He was four now.
He would endure for around ten years.
Develop Sea Dragon Point.
Build a harbor, earn money, gather people.
Build ties with the Starks as well.
Have his own people in the North.
By then, the dragon would be large enough.
And then his identity would be exposed.
Blackfyre.
Dragon.
Even if he had no interest in the throne, it was a combination that would make others attach every imaginable meaning to him.
The royal court comes to seize him?
If all else fails, I can ride the dragon and flee.
For several seconds, it seemed quite plausible.
Then he went one step further.
But do I have to flee?
Daemon stopped himself.
Someone came to kill him.
The dragon was large enough.
Then—
If you touch me, I will burn a castle at a time—
"..."
He looked into his own thoughts again.
Within only hours of considering whether to become a lord, he had progressed to hatching the hidden dragon egg, secretly raising it for ten years, and threatening the continent with a strategic weapon.
Daemon dragged a hand down his face.
My thoughts have gone wildly off course.
At first, he had simply wanted one workshop.
And a harbor.
One castle, too.
That had been all.
Still, I ought to have some final means...
He stopped himself again.
No.
Let us first worry about it after the dragon is born.
There was no point making further plans to threaten King's Landing with a dragon that did not yet exist.
Daemon sank back against the chair.
His mind was a mess.
Blackfyre.
Rickard.
Essos.
A domain.
Kim Jaebong.
A dragon egg.
Dragon feed costs.
Escape plans.
A strategic weapon.
One thing at a time.
Nothing had been settled yet.
The nearest concern was Rickard's offer.
And he needed to tell Raymund about it.
Daemon looked toward the window.
The man who had not once asked what had happened in the solar over all these hours.
"Old man."
Raymund answered without stopping his hands.
"Speak."
Daemon spent a moment wondering where to begin.
He and Rickard had discussed history.
Theon.
Bolton.
The Burning King.
Torrhen.
The Iron Islands.
Moat Cailin.
Sea Dragon Point.
It was a long story.
Daemon compressed it all and spoke one simple fact.
"He told me to become a lord."
Rustle.
The hand pulling the leather stopped.
Raymund did not raise his head immediately.
After a moment, he slowly looked at Daemon.
"Say that again."
"He told me to become a lord."
"Who did?"
"Rickard Stark."
The expression vanished from Raymund's face.
"Personally?"
"Yes."
"Did he say he would grant you a fief?"
"Sea Dragon Point."
This silence lasted somewhat longer.
Raymund set the scabbard aside.
"From the beginning."
"What?"
"What was said after you entered the solar."
His voice grew low.
"Tell me without leaving out a single thing."
Daemon licked his lips once.
"It is long."
"I am old," Raymund said gruffly.
"Not dead."
Daemon adjusted his posture.
"So, at first it was a history lesson."
A small crease formed between Raymund's brows.
"And while discussing history—"
A pause.
"How did you end up being granted land?"
Daemon thought for a moment.
Then he answered honestly.
"...That is what I most want to know."
When Daemon finished his tale, Raymund said nothing for a long while.
He reviewed each subject the boy had brought up, from the old Stark kings to the Boltons and the Andals, the qualities of a king, the Iron Islands, the western fleet, and Moat Cailin.
He had lectured the boy endlessly about watching his words.
And the result was that, only days after arriving at Winterfell, the child had returned from discussing the defense policy of the entire North with its Warden.
Ordinarily, Raymund would have needed time merely to decide where to begin scolding him.
But the word fief swept aside every such reprimand.
Sea Dragon Point.
A Stark vassal.
A lord.
Raymund opened his eyes.
"There is a mountain of things for which I should rebuke you."
Daemon's shoulders drew in slightly.
"...I know."
"You know?"
"More or less."
Raymund's eyebrow twitched.
"Not more or less. Know them properly."
"Yes."
Silence passed briefly.
"Enough."
Daemon blinked.
"What?"
"There is no harm in putting the scolding off."
Daemon's face brightened a little.
"Really?"
"Do not be pleased."
He was cut off at once.
"It has not vanished. It has merely been postponed."
"...Yes."
"We deal with this matter first."
Raymund straightened.
"I will send your mother a letter."
"To Mother?"
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Now."
Rickard Stark had personally said that he would grant a fief.
The child's mother could not be allowed to learn it first from someone else.
Daemon asked, "Will Lord Rickard not send her a letter himself?"
"He will."
"Then why not wait?"
Raymund looked at Daemon.
"There is a difference between another man telling her first and me telling her first."
It was brief.
It was enough.
Yet Raymund did not write the letter at once.
He watched Daemon for a while.
There were things he had deliberately not spoken of until now.
Valena, too, had not wished to burden the child with the weight of the past too early.
But matters were changing.
Heating.
Glass.
Wyman.
Rickard Stark.
And now land and a title.
Daemon's name was about to become attached not merely to people's memories, but to documents and land.
From that moment, the things people asked would change as well.
"Daemon."
"Yes."
"Remember one thing."
Daemon's face became a little serious.
"What is it?"
"There are matters I have not yet told you."
Daemon did not answer.
"Matters concerning your mother."
A pause.
"Matters concerning me."
And then—
"Matters concerning you."
Daemon's eyes moved ever so slightly.
Raymund took it for tension.
He had no notion at all that the child had already uncovered the heart of his own lineage.
"Why?" Daemon asked carefully.
"I cannot tell you everything yet."
"When can you?"
"When the time comes."
Daemon's lips pouted slightly.
Raymund did not smile.
"There is a reason your mother does not speak lightly of the past."
"...Yes."
"And there is a reason I am serving as House Manderly's hunting master at my age."
A pause.
"There are reasons."
Daemon nodded slowly.
"Until now, you were only becoming known as a clever child."
"Have I not gone somewhat beyond merely clever?"
Raymund looked at him.
Daemon immediately shut his mouth.
"Even that did not sit easily with me."
"..."
"It is different if you become a lord."
Raymund tapped the table once with a finger.
"Records are attached to land. Names are attached to titles."
His voice lowered a little.
"People will not ask only your name. They will ask where you came from, who your mother is, who your father was, and why Stark gave land to that child."
Daemon spoke softly.
"I understand."
"So be more careful than you have been."
An aggrieved look appeared on Daemon's face.
"I have truly been very careful lately."
Raymund said nothing for a while.
The cheek he had pulled earlier was still red.
Daemon realized it as well.
"...I understand."
"I am not telling you not to think."
"Yes."
"Think as much as you please."
Then, after a moment—
"But when it comes out of your mouth, it is no longer yours alone."
Daemon listened quietly.
"The one who hears will attach his own meaning to it. Even meanings you never put there."
This time, Daemon did not make a joke of it.
"I understand."
Raymund nodded.
That was enough.
"Go out."
"Why?"
"I am writing the letter."
"You can write it here."
Raymund looked at him.
Daemon looked back.
"It is for Mother. Why can I not see it?"
"You cannot."
"Why?"
"Daemon."
"Yes?"
"Go out."
Daemon considered insisting further, then read the mood.
He climbed down from the chair.
"All right."
At the door, he looked back once.
"Old man."
"What is it?"
"You are not truly terribly angry, are you?"
Raymund looked at the child for a moment.
"I said the scolding was postponed."
"...Then you are angry."
"Go out."
"Yes."
The door closed.
Raymund looked at it for a long while.
Then he released a long breath.
It was a good offer.
That was what made it most troublesome.
Even if Sea Dragon Point was desolate and the old fortress close to ruin, Stark himself would grant the land. He would accept Daemon as a vassal.
At that moment, Daemon would no longer be an unknown foreign child protected in White Harbor.
He would become a northern lord recognized by Stark.
Anyone who meant to touch the boy would have to consider the wolf behind him as well.
It was a powerful shield.
The problem was that a powerful shield could be seen clearly from afar.
Until now, they had chosen the path of hiding.
They had abandoned names.
They had not spoken of the past.
Valena avoided speaking of her husband, while Raymund had left the battlefield to become a Manderly hunting master.
The shadows had kept them alive.
But Daemon had no talent for sitting quietly in those shadows.
He had made heating.
He had made glass.
He had caught Wyman's attention.
And now he had come to Winterfell and seemed likely to receive land from Rickard Stark.
In the very place they had come to hide, the boy was making his own name ever larger with his own hands.
Raymund pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.
This was not something he could decide alone.
Valena had to know.
Letters sent by raven passed through a maester. Even if sealed, the safest wording was that which would present no problem if anyone saw it from the beginning.
There was no need to write lies.
To outward appearances, this was tremendous good fortune.
Raymund took up a quill.
“To Lady Valena.”
“The young master has received a great honor at Winterfell.”
The pen stopped for a moment.
“Lord Stark has looked generously upon the young master's talents and made a most honorable proposal concerning his future. I believe Lord Stark will send a separate letter to you as well.
“Even so, I believed it proper that I report the news first.
“The details of the offer are not something I ought to judge alone, and I wish without fail to first ask your wishes.
“I ask that you reply as soon as possible.
“The young master is well and is being treated with the utmost consideration at Winterfell.
“Raymund.”
That was all.
He did not write Sea Dragon Point.
He did not write fief.
He did not write royal court.
But Valena would understand.
A matter large enough that Rickard Stark would send a separate letter to the child's mother.
A matter large enough that Raymund, unlike himself, would send a raven first.
It could not be trivial.
After folding and sealing the letter, Raymund went to find Maester Walys.
Walys was still working in his chamber.
"Ser Raymund."
"I wish to send a letter to White Harbor."
Walys's gaze moved to the letter.
His face soon brightened.
"Ah."
A smile spread over his face.
"So you have heard as well, Ser Raymund."
"I have."
"It is truly felicitous news."
There was no other meaning in his voice.
Walys had been in the solar.
He had personally seen everything from the moment Rickard proposed Sea Dragon Point to the end.
When Raymund offered the letter, he accepted it naturally.
"You are notifying the lady first."
"I am."
"As is proper."
After thinking briefly, he smiled to himself.
"Perhaps there are not many days left in which we may call him merely Daemon."
Raymund looked at him.
"Nothing has been decided yet."
"Of course."
Though he answered so, excitement remained in Walys's expression.
"Still, Lord Daemon. It does sound rather good."
He seemed quite pleased with the sound after saying it.
Raymund swallowed a sigh.
"Will you call him that already?"
"Would it not be easier if we become accustomed to it beforehand?"
"He is not a lord yet."
Walys pretended not to hear and opened his records.
"I shall send it by a swift raven."
"It is not urgent news."
"Good news ought to be delivered swiftly as well."
He checked the records of ravens that had flown to White Harbor several times, then chose one.
Raymund asked in disbelief, "You consider even that?"
"It is news of his first fief. We cannot send some leisurely fellow."
"Do not forget that he is not a lord yet."
Walys smiled.
There was no political suspicion in him.
He simply seemed glad that Rickard Stark had also thought highly of the child whom he himself had found interesting.
"From a maester's point of view, it is difficult not to like a clever child like that," Walys said.
"It is not because he knows much. It is because he admits what he does not know, then considers how he can learn it and improve it."
Raymund let out a breath that was almost a snort.
"That mouth of his is burning my insides to ash, you know."
Walys laughed again.
Raymund did not.
Still, some small measure of tension left his shoulders.
To Walys, what had happened today was simple.
A clever child had gained a good opportunity.
Something to celebrate.
Nothing more.
"Lady Valena will be very pleased."
Raymund did not answer for a moment.
"...I hope so."
Walys sought no deeper meaning in those words.
There was no reason to.
*
Five days later.
White Harbor.
Valena liked her life of late.
Truthfully, she liked it very much.
When Wyman Manderly had suggested that she spend time beside his mother and help with her affairs, Valena had quickly understood the nature of the position.
Attending closely upon the aged lady of a prominent lordly house did not end with filling cups and arranging clothes. One needed to receive guests and sit with them, converse with them, know which remarks deserved laughter and which should be treated as unheard. A discussion of fabric and spices could turn to marriages, while a conversation about ships entering the harbor could naturally reveal which merchant had prospered and which family's fortunes had declined.
Trivial matters and important ones floated upon the same teacup.
Valena was accustomed to such places.
Born the daughter of Alequo Adarys, tyrant of Tyrosh, she had received fine clothing and fine food, and grown up watching powerful people discuss significant matters behind smiling faces. She had naturally learned when to ask about the things others wished to boast of, and whether it was better to pretend not to hear an insult or smile and return one cutting remark.
She had been far from that life for a time after fleeing to White Harbor, but habits ingrained in the body did not disappear.
She concealed her old name, but had no need to conceal that much.
"Lady Valena."
The noblewoman opposite her set down her teacup.
"Is this the spice you mentioned before?"
Valena examined the powder on the silver plate.
"It is. But if you use too much, its scent overwhelms all the flavor of the food."
"I heard they put it in meat in the south."
"In Tyrosh, it is often used with fish as well."
There was no reason to be guarded about such conversation.
Everyone knew Valena came from Tyrosh.
What she hid was who she had been in Tyrosh.
The old Lady Manderly said, "Next time, let us have the cook try it."
"I will tell him the proper amount."
"Do so."
The fire burned quietly in the hearth.
Even with less wood than before, the room stayed warm for longer.
It seemed Valena was not the only one who had noticed.
The noblewoman beside her suddenly said, "Come to think of it, I have one complaint for you, Lady Valena."
Valena blinked.
"For me?"
"More precisely, for your son."
"Daemon?"
With an exceedingly serious face, the woman said, "Why is my house still cold?"
Silence briefly followed.
Then laughter burst out.
Valena laughed a beat later as well.
"Even if you ask me that—"
"When young Daemon returns, please ask him to improve our house too."
"Is that a request?"
"A favor."
Another noblewoman joined in.
"Last time, you said you wanted windows as well."
"How could I not covet them after seeing that glass?"
The woman pointed toward the newly fitted window.
It was not yet the finest quality, like Myrish glass. A faint green tint remained, and close inspection revealed tiny bubbles.
Even so, it was astonishingly improved compared to the glass White Harbor had known only months before.
"Heating and glass windows as well," the noblewoman said.
"All you must do is say one word to your son."
Valena smiled.
"I do not know whether Daemon will listen just because I say it."
"Even though you are his mother?"
Valena considered for a moment.
"He does listen.
“When he thinks I am right too."
Laughter erupted again.
The old Lady Manderly clicked her tongue.
"When that child returns, I ought to take him in hand."
"Please do," Valena said.
This time, she meant it sincerely.
As they laughed for some time, another noblewoman looked toward the window and said, "Still, he truly is an extraordinary child."
Their eyes moved to the glass.
"I hear that was all something young Daemon began as well."
Valena gave the answer she was accustomed to giving.
"The child only set the direction. It was the craftsmen who truly made it."
A soft snicker came from across the table.
"There you go again."
"What?"
"That is the third time I have heard you say it."
The old Lady Manderly immediately corrected her.
"I have heard it five times."
Valena closed her mouth briefly.
"...Because it is true."
"Who said it was not the craftsmen's work?"
Another woman smiled.
"But they say your son began it all."
Valena lifted her teacup.
She did not answer.
But she could not hide the smile at the corners of her lips.
"See?"
"See what?"
"Your face changes whenever your son is mentioned."
"My face is the same."
"You are smiling now."
Valena tried to compose her expression.
She failed.
In the end, she smiled as well.
It was a little embarrassing.
Still, she had no intention of denying it.
Daemon was her son.
People said he was clever.
They wanted the things he had begun.
The Manderlys treasured the child.
And now noblewomen were even making requests to his mother.
There was no way she could dislike it.
It was all right for her shoulders to rise a little.
Yes.
Valena thought to herself.
Because he is my son.
"I will speak to him when he returns."
The noblewoman's face brightened.
"Truly?"
"Though I cannot say what Daemon may demand in return."
"If it is money, we shall pay it."
"If it is money, that will be fortunate."
Laughter rose again.
It was a very peaceful afternoon.
That was why, when a servant appeared at the door, she thought nothing of it at first.
"Lady Valena."
"What is it?"
"A letter has arrived."
The servant handed her a sealed letter.
Valena received it naturally.
The instant she saw the seal, her hand stopped.
Raymund.
Winterfell.
The smile that had lingered on her face slowly vanished.
The old Lady Manderly noticed at once.
"Has something happened to Daemon?"
Valena quickly composed her face.
"No. It is a letter from the man who went with him."
"News of the child, then."
"It seems so."
"You may read it here."
Valena considered for a moment, then shook her head.
"I will excuse myself briefly."
The old woman asked no more.
Returning to her own room, Valena shut the door and left even the maid who had tried to follow outside.
Then she placed Raymund's letter on the table.
She did not open it immediately.
Raymund was not a man who wrote letters often.
He wrote when necessary.
When it was unnecessary, he did not.
He was not the sort of man to send a raven merely because Daemon had caught a slight cold.
And yet Raymund had sent a letter first, not long after reaching Winterfell.
Valena broke the seal.
She read.
To Lady Valena.
The young master has received a great honor at Winterfell.
Valena's brow moved slightly.
Lord Stark has looked generously upon the young master's talents and made a most honorable proposal concerning his future.
Her gaze stopped.
His future.
I believe Lord Stark will send a separate letter to you as well.
Valena paused her reading.
Raymund had used an expression such as a most honorable proposal.
That itself was strange.
Even when calling something good, that man generally said no more than that it was not bad.
She read to the end.
It was certainly good news.
Daemon was safe.
He had not incurred Rickard Stark's wrath.
The opposite was true.
The problem was that Raymund had deliberately sent a letter first.
He was not a man who would do so over a few words of praise or a costly gift.
Moreover, he said Rickard Stark intended to write separately to the child's mother.
So it was good fortune.
And it was not a small matter.
It did not take Valena long to understand that much.
What in the world has been offered to him?
Would he be educated at Winterfell?
Did Stark mean to employ him in his house someday?
Did he intend to grant a special reward for the boy's accomplishments?
She considered that much.
She could know no more.
If she began forcibly filling in what she did not know, she would only create more worries.
Valena took out fresh parchment.
To Raymund.
She began the first line, then stopped.
Should she tell him to accept if it was a good offer?
She did not even know what the offer was.
Should she tell him to be careful?
Raymund was better at that than she was.
Should she tell him not to let Daemon attract too much attention?
By the point Rickard Stark himself was sending a letter, it was somewhat late for that.
In the end, she put down the quill.
Never mind.
If it had been truly urgent, Raymund would not have written around it so carefully.
She would read Rickard's letter first.
It would not be too late to decide afterward.
Valena pushed the unfinished parchment aside.
For now, handle it yourself, Raymund.
Then a small face came to mind.
Green-gray eyes.
A mouth that endlessly chattered about something.
And you, do not go saying needless things.
Truthfully, that was what worried her more.
Valena gave a small snort of laughter.
It did not last long.
Good news.
But news large enough that Raymund had sent a raven first.
The hatred of powerful people was dangerous.
Their interest revealed a person as well.
Yet that interest could also become the strongest shield.
She could not yet know which would be greater.
The wait was not long.
Late that afternoon, there was another knock.
"Lady Valena."
"Come in."
The maid held another letter.
This time, Valena knew it the instant she saw the seal.
Gray wax.
A wolf. A direwolf.
"It has come from Winterfell. They say Lord Stark sent it himself."
Valena said nothing for a moment.
Raymund's words came back to her.
It had truly come.
"Give it to me."
She dismissed the maid and took the letter.
It was only several sheets of parchment.
Strangely, it felt heavy.
She broke the seal.
The first few lines were what she might have expected.
What Daemon had done in White Harbor.
Heating.
Glass.
That Rickard had spoken with the child personally at Winterfell.
And that he thought highly of the boy's talents.
Valena's face remained composed.
Then her eyes stopped at one sentence.
"..."
She read it again.
She read below it as well.
Then she returned to the top.
Sea Dragon Point.
A vast tract of land not being properly used.
A new vassal to develop it.
Daemon.
As the child was young, the actual governance would begin under a guardian.
Stark would take responsibility for the necessary procedures.
Valena's lips parted slightly.
She read everything from the beginning once more.
The words had not changed.
"...Daemon."
She spoke her son's name very softly.
Valena knew well how noble society moved.
That was why she knew what this meant.
It was not a small gift of money.
It was not a costly present, either.
Rickard Stark meant to accept the young son of a foreign woman of unclear identity as his own vassal.
Grant him land.
Leave him a name.
Make a place for him within the order of the North.
For a long while, no words came.
At last, Valena murmured, "...This is madness."
Even she was not sure whom she meant.
Rickard.
Daemon.
Or both of them.
Now she understood why Raymund had used that expression.
A most honorable proposal.
It was not wrong.
It was glorious.
And frighteningly large.
No.
It was frightening because it was too good.
Stark.
Manderly.
The royal court.
Daemon's father.
That name.
The questions people would ask.
Once he became a lord, no one would regard Daemon merely as the clever son of a Tyroshi woman living in White Harbor.
They would ask his house.
They would ask his origins.
They would ask his father.
They would ask why Stark had chosen that child.
It was good.
Too good an opportunity.
And because it was so good, things they had hidden until now might draw people's attention.
Valena pressed a hand to her forehead.
She needed time to think.
But the world did not wait for her.
Several sets of footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Then came a knock.
"Lady Valena!"
The voice was far more excited than before.
Valena raised her head.
"What is it?"
Another voice overlapped from outside.
"Lady Valena! Congratulations!"
It belonged to one of the noblewomen who had shared tea with her that afternoon.
Valena's face stiffened.
"...For what?"
The doorway was quiet for a moment.
"Have you not heard yet?"
Valena looked down at the wolf-sealed letter in her hand.
It was not that she had not heard.
She had just heard.
"They say House Manderly has received a letter from Winterfell as well!"
Only then did she understand.
Rickard had not sent a letter only to her.
Naturally not.
Daemon was presently under House Manderly's protection.
It would have been stranger to accept him as a Stark vassal without saying anything to those who had watched over the child closely for years.
And such news had entered the Manderly mansion.
There was no possibility it would remain quiet for long.
Valena slowly closed her eyes.
Ah.
It was too late.
Before she could even reach a conclusion, the matter had already passed beyond her room.
"Congratulations, truly!"
"Young Daemon will now—"
"Can we continue calling him young Daemon?"
"He has not received it formally yet."
"Still, Lord Stark proposed it personally!"
Their voices overlapped.
Only hours ago, these same people had laughed as they asked Valena to tell Daemon to improve the heating and glass windows in their homes when he returned.
Then, she had been proud.
Now, something entirely different might be attached before her child's name.
Valena drew a deep breath.
She stood and passed before a mirror, arranging her expression once.
A startled face.
A worried face.
A fearful face.
She erased them all.
Instead, she recovered the face that had smiled among the noblewomen a short time ago.
An appropriate smile.
Calm eyes.
A face from which no one outside could tell what she knew and what she did not.
She had learned to make such a face from a very young age.
Valena placed her hand upon the door handle.
Daemon.
She called her son's name inwardly.
What in the world did you do at Winterfell?
The corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly.
Then she opened the door.
*
Several weeks later.
King's Landing.
A wind blown from Blackwater Bay swept through the city. The harbor's merchant ships, fishing boats, and barges stood with their masts like a forest, while porters' shouts, wagon wheels, and merchants' bargaining never ceased in the narrow streets.
Above that tumult rose Aegon's Hill.
At its summit stood the red castle.
The Red Keep.
A red dragon with three raised heads flew against black in the wind.
True dragons had vanished long ago.
But it had not changed that a single command given beneath that banner could reach the furthest ends of the Seven Kingdoms.
That day, somewhat unusual objects lay upon the table in the small council chamber.
A letter bearing Stark's wolf.
And two glass cups.
They had been deliberately chosen to resemble each other in size, height, and rounded mouths.
One was from Myr.
The other was from White Harbor.
Jaehaerys Targaryen II regarded the two cups for a long while.
He first lifted the left-hand one and held it to the light entering through the window before setting it down.
He examined the right-hand cup in the same way.
The difference was clear.
The Myrish glass was clearer and more evenly colored. Its surface was cleaner as well.
The White Harbor glass took on a faint green hue in slanting light, and when examined closely, retained several tiny bubbles.
Yet to find those differences, the King of the Seven Kingdoms had to lift the two cups in turn and hold them to the light.
That fact alone said much.
Jaehaerys set down the right-hand cup.
"This one is from the North."
Grand Maester Pycelle bowed his head.
"It is, Your Grace."
The king looked at the glass once more.
"It is not bad."
His throat tickled at the end of the words.
"Cough."
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief.
The coughing continued twice more.
Pycelle moved to assist him, but Jaehaerys raised a hand to stop him.
Having steadied his breath, the king opened Stark's letter as though nothing had happened.
Seated around the table were his Hand, Edgar Sloane; Grand Maester Pycelle; Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; and Master of Coin Lucas Celtigar.
Prince Aerys, heir to the throne, was there as well.
Jaehaerys's eyes came to rest on one name in the letter.
Daemon.
It was not a name that brought comfort.
A name committed no crime.
But some names outlived the people who bore them.
Daemon was originally an old Valyrian name. There had been several in Targaryen history, including fine warriors and dragonriding princes.
But for the past several decades, the dragon people first recalled at that name had not been the red dragon.
The black dragon.
Daemon Blackfyre.
The wars begun by that one man had continued for generations.
Only a few years ago, Maelys Blackfyre had raised the black dragon in the Stepstones.
He was dead now.
At the hand of the young Barristan Selmy.
They said the known male line had ended as well.
Someday, the name Daemon would return to being merely an old name.
Not yet.
Jaehaerys moved his eyes to the next line.
Then his finger stopped at one word.
Heating.
Memories of the previous winter returned.
That year, Jaehaerys had fallen gravely ill again.
He could not draw breath properly. No matter how deeply he inhaled, there was not enough air in his chest, and his fevered body felt strangely cold.
A fire burned in the hearth.
But it was too hot when he came near it, and the smoke tormented his breathing. Move even a little away, and he felt the chill of stone walls. When the fire weakened deep in the night, the entire chamber soon grew cold.
Making a man already exhausted merely by breathing endure cold and smoke at once was not a good treatment.
Around then, word came that several wealthy mansions in King's Landing had begun to heat rooms in an unusual fashion.
The fire's heat was directed through low brick passages to warm the stone and floor.
Even when the fire weakened, the room did not cool easily.
At the time, Jaehaerys had not been well enough to remember who had first suggested it.
He had thought he was dying.
So he ordered them to try.
One chamber of the Red Keep was torn apart.
Stonemasons who had already imitated similar structures in the city were summoned.
The first construction was wretched.
Smoke flowed back in.
They tore it apart again.
They fixed it.
In the end, it worked.
The chamber was warm without his having to press himself before the hearth, and warmth did not quickly vanish even when the fire faded late at night.
Jaehaerys survived that winter in that chamber.
Pycelle had said several times that the heating had not cured the king's illness.
Jaehaerys knew.
Warm stone could not heal diseased lungs.
Even so, he did not think it meant nothing that a body already exhausted from fighting disease no longer had to battle cold and smoke as well.
He remembered asking once where it had begun.
White Harbor.
That was all.
He had forgotten it afterward.
A king had too many things to remember.
But now Rickard Stark's letter gave the beginning.
Daemon.
Jaehaerys looked at the name again.
He did not like it.
Yet perhaps one thought begun by that child had helped, in some small way, to keep him alive and seated here now, able to think that he did not like the name.
It was a strange matter.
"Your Grace."
At Pycelle's voice, Jaehaerys raised his head.
"That chamber last winter."
"Do you mean the new heating method?"
"Yes. It was said to have begun in White Harbor."
"That is what I heard."
"The exact route?"
The Grand Maester considered briefly.
"Skilled workmen were not formally summoned. The tale spread through merchants and stonemasons, and several mansions in King's Landing began imitating it independently."
Jaehaerys nodded.
"One can tell from the state of what was first made in my chamber."
Pycelle did not bother denying it.
Aerys spoke then.
"Was that child the one who began it?"
"So it is said."
Aerys's eyes lowered to the letter.
The previous winter.
He too remembered the nights when his father could not breathe.
"Then I bear that child goodwill."
Jaehaerys looked at his son.
"The child did not save me."
"I know."
The reply came quickly.
"Still, it helped."
After a moment, his voice lowered.
"Because I saw it."
The room became quiet.
"I believed something might happen to you, Father."
Aerys did not explain further.
Jaehaerys had remained ill even after moving into that chamber.
Still, he no longer shivered in the cold all night as before.
To a son, that difference was great enough.
Jaehaerys saw that the terror of that winter had not yet entirely left his son's face.
"Your gratitude is your own affair," the king said.
"A king judges other matters."
Aerys looked at his father briefly, then bowed his head.
"Yes."
Jaehaerys looked to his Hand.
"Edgar."
"Your Grace."
"What do you think?"
Edgar Sloane did not answer immediately.
He looked at Stark's letter, then at the two glass cups in turn.
"It is no ordinary petition."
"Naturally."
"The child is very young. He is the son of a woman from abroad, and his father is unclear."
Jaehaerys listened in silence.
"Establishing a new lord does not end with considering the man himself. Bloodline, marriage, heirs, and loyalty all follow."
The concern itself was sound.
"But," Edgar continued, his gaze moving to the glass, "it is difficult to say the child lacks merit."
That was enough to understand his position.
He was not opposed.
He was ensuring the king did not overlook the risks he must bear.
Jaehaerys looked to the Master of Coin.
"Lucas."
"Your Grace."
"The glass?"
Lucas Celtigar opened his accounts.
To him, numbers came before politics.
"On the assumption that White Harbor's calculations are not greatly mistaken."
He went through raw materials, fuel, craftsmen's wages, breakage, and transport costs.
"The Myrish quality is still superior. But the difference in price is greater than the difference in quality."
The silver spent on imported glass flowed across the sea to Myr.
If glass were made in the North, that silver would pass through craftsmen, woodcutters, haulers, and merchants within the kingdom, with some returning as taxes.
A few cups would not change the royal treasury.
But if production expanded to windows, mirrors, and glass gardens, the matter would differ.
"At ten times the present scale, it is worth calculating," Lucas said.
"At a hundred times, even the treasury would find it difficult to ignore."
Jaehaerys nodded briefly.
Then came Sea Dragon Point.
An old fortress.
A sparsely populated western coast.
Rickard meant to establish a small new domain there.
The child would remain under guardianship while a harbor and workshops were built, contributing to the development and defense of the western coast.
It was not a matter of taking away a secure fief belonging to an existing lord.
Edgar said, "A precedent will remain."
Jaehaerys raised his eyes.
"What precedent?"
"The precedent that the young son of a foreigner of uncertain origin may become a new lord for his accomplishments, and that the Iron Throne recognizes it."
Jaehaerys did not respond at once.
His fingertips touched the wax seal bearing the wolf.
"Edgar."
"Your Grace."
"Must Rickard Stark receive my approval whenever he establishes one small vassal in the North?"
The Hand considered a moment.
"It is difficult to say that he must."
"The other great lords are the same."
"They are."
Jaehaerys looked at the wolf seal.
"Yet Stark asked."
The eyes in the room naturally turned toward the letter.
"He did not notify us after finishing the matter."
A pause.
"He asked first."
The Starks were not a house that dwelled close beside the royal court.
They did not send relatives seeking places at court, nor beg for royal marriages. They were not a house that showed its face at every royal feast to curry favor.
The North was far away.
But when the king demanded their due, the Starks gave theirs.
When war came, soldiers marched south.
Sometimes they were slow.
The North was far away.
Yet the loyalty of that house had weight.
"The Starks have been loyal to the Iron Throne," Jaehaerys said.
"At least for as long as I remember."
A pause.
"The wolves have not disappointed us."
The Hand listened silently.
"That house did not merely assert its own authority. It remembered the throne and sought approval first."
Jaehaerys looked at Edgar.
"But if all the throne returns is a refusal without cause—"
A cough rose in his chest.
The king steadied his breathing once.
"Who will seek the Iron Throne's leave next time?"
No one answered.
"Next time, they will act first and notify us afterward."
A pause.
"And afterward, they will not even find a reason to notify us."
This was not merely the tale of House Stark.
The Seven Kingdoms were not a realm in which one king governed every land directly.
The great lords handled countless matters on their own within their domains.
The king recognized that authority.
In return, he wished them to remember that the Iron Throne was still their king.
Then the Iron Throne itself must not teach them that such remembrance had no value.
Edgar spoke slowly.
"Your Grace sees this as a precedent as well."
"Yes," Jaehaerys answered shortly.
"The precedent of a great lord asking the king's will first rather than merely asserting his own rights."
And then—
"The precedent of a king not making that courtesy vain."
Jaehaerys removed his hand from the wolf seal.
"If it is that sort of precedent, we may leave as many as we please."
Edgar did not argue further.
Then Aerys spoke.
"I also believe that point is important."
The young prince's voice held a heat quicker than his father's.
"Stark asked. It is a northern matter, and he could have handled it by his own authority, yet he deliberately—"
He put force into the final word.
"But if we refuse without reason, there will be no reason to ask next time—"
"Aerys."
Jaehaerys spoke only his name.
The crown prince stopped.
"Enough."
It was not a rebuke.
It meant there was no need to press further.
Aerys closed his mouth for a moment and bowed his head.
"Yes."
His son's conclusion was not wrong.
The problem was fire.
Learning where to stop was more difficult than burning brightly.
Teaching that was still Jaehaerys's duty.
The king lifted the White Harbor glass again.
A faint green tint.
Small bubbles.
It was indeed somewhat inferior to the glass from Myr.
Still, it was worth placing on the same table for comparison.
He had experienced the value of heating in his own body.
House Manderly had watched the child closely.
Wyman, their heir who handled much of the practical work, had staked his own name and coin on the child's affairs.
And Rickard Stark had summoned him to Winterfell, spoken with him directly, and staked his own land and authority.
There were surely risks on the other side of the scale.
Four years of age.
The son of a foreigner.
An unclear paternal line.
An unusual elevation.
Jaehaerys was not a king ignorant of those risks.
But the work of a king was not to find a choice without any risk.
Such choices scarcely existed.
It was to decide which risks were worth accepting.
Jaehaerys put down the cup.
"I approve it."
They were small words.
With them, the decision was finished.
Edgar Sloane bowed his head.
"I shall make the preparations."
"Write that Stark bears responsibility for guardianship and the actual administration of the domain until the child comes of age."
"Yes."
"And confirm again that no part of it conflicts with the rights of existing lords."
"I understand."
Jaehaerys thought for a moment.
Naturally, the tale of his illness would not enter royal documents.
That was a memory belonging to Jaehaerys the man, not grounds needed for a king's approval.
"The merits verified in White Harbor."
His eyes moved toward the glass.
"The guarantee of House Manderly."
And then—
"Write that we grant approval on the basis of Rickard Stark's personal judgment, and that development of the land shall not harm the North or the realm."
Edgar nodded.
"That will be sufficient."
"And answer Rickard Stark with proper courtesy."
"Yes."
"They showed courtesy first."
"I shall do so."
With that, the political discussion ended.
Aerys was still looking at the name in the letter.
Daemon.
Jaehaerys noticed.
"Aerys."
"Yes, Father."
"Are you still grateful to that child?"
The crown prince did not hesitate.
"Yes."
A pause.
"Separate from the king's decision."
That was enough.
Jaehaerys nodded very slightly.
Then he reached for the next document.
There was always another matter waiting in the Seven Kingdoms.
For every one the king handled, two more piled up.
Crownlands taxes.
A report from Dorne.
Harbor matters.
Petitions from lords.
Only two glass cups remained on one side of the table.
One had come from Myr.
One had come from White Harbor.
The late-afternoon sun passed through both cups together.
Viewed from a slight distance—
which was which—
was not easily told.
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