Jaehaerys II could not overcome his body in the end.
He had never been robust from birth. He had often been ill as a child, and even after taking the throne, his body was too frail to bear the weight demanded by the Iron Throne.
The new method of heating sent up from White Harbor had certainly helped.
It lessened the chill rising through the cold stone floors and held warmth in the bedchamber for long hours without filling the room with smoke as a hearth did. Even the maesters attending Jaehaerys admitted that the cough which worsened every winter had grown less severe.
But heating was only heating.
It could keep a man from freezing to death, but it could not exchange a body weak from birth for another man's body.
It had only allowed him to endure several winters with a little less suffering.
Then, in 268 AC, Jaehaerys II breathed his last.
The crown passed to his son.
Aerys Targaryen the Second.
The age of a new king began.
The Aerys of those early days differed considerably from the man people would later remember.
He was young, vigorous, and interested in new things. The world was still wide, and he believed he could leave something great upon it.
His accession was peaceful as well.
He had not won his throne through blood, nor had a great rebellion erupted the instant he placed the crown upon his head.
Above all, he had a capable friend.
Tywin Lannister.
Not long after becoming king, Aerys named the friend he had grown up beside as his Hand.
Judging solely by the results, it was an excellent choice.
Tywin was good at his work.
Too good.
Money that had been leaking from royal accounts for no apparent reason diminished, while old debts and tax troubles were settled one by one. Officials quickly learned that doing their work on time was preferable to having their names appear upon the Hand's desk, and lords in the provinces answered letters bearing Tywin Lannister's name a little more swiftly than before.
The realm was peaceful.
The treasury steadily improved.
The nobility praised the young Hand.
At first, Aerys smiled with them.
Tywin was his friend.
He was the one who had recognized Tywin's ability.
He was the one who had entrusted him with the highest office beneath the king in the Seven Kingdoms.
Was it not a king's ability, too, to recognize a capable man and employ him properly?
`Because I recognized Tywin.`
At first, that was enough.
The problem was that the better the kingdom ran, the more strangely all praise flowed in only one direction.
If the finances improved, Tywin.
If the lords grew quiet, Tywin.
If administration became swifter, Tywin.
The king's name ought to have stood at the beginning of every such sentence, yet from people's mouths the Hand's name came first.
At some point, Aerys found himself asking a very simple question.
`Then what is mine?`
His father had been a good king.
Aerys did not deny it.
Jaehaerys had been cautious and knew how to listen. Knowing his body was weak, he did not overstrain himself, and if there was a way to solve a matter without fighting, he chose that road whenever possible.
He preserved the other side's dignity.
He left them room to take a step back.
He listened to the same words once more.
He was a good king.
Yet to Aerys, it sometimes seemed overly forgiving.
There were men in this world who needed to be shown who they were dealing with before they were offered another explanation.
The Targaryens had not won the Seven Kingdoms through words alone.
They had dragons.
And sometimes the world forgot that.
As it happened, on that day there stood before the Iron Throne a guest whom Aerys wished to remind.
"The artisan guilds and principal merchants of Myr regard this matter as exceedingly grave, Your Grace."
It was an envoy from Myr.
Aerys heard him from atop the Iron Throne.
Or rather, he pretended to hear him.
It was not the first day Myr had complained about northern glass.
At first, merchants had passed their complaints through business partners in King's Landing. They claimed that the new glass produced in White Harbor had stolen Myrish methods.
Then letters came.
Investigate whether artisans from Myr had been hired in secret.
Determine whether anyone had stolen the guilds' techniques.
Return any involved parties if such people existed.
There was no evidence.
The Crown did not act.
So a formal envoy came.
And then another.
In this age, an artisan's skill was generally guarded by the artisan himself. There was no patent office, no international treaty on intellectual property. A guild that wished to protect a technique needed either to conceal its secrets or obtain special protection from its ruler.
Of course, matters would be different if there were proof that artisans had truly been abducted or secrets stolen.
But the strongest proof Myr had presented over several years was ultimately one thing.
Those people could not possibly have made such fine glass themselves.
Aerys had laughed for quite some time upon first hearing that logic.
Today's envoy was of higher station than the previous ones.
His clothes were dearer.
He had brought scribes and merchants behind him.
His speech was longer as well.
"Recently, even colored glass is being produced—wares excessively similar to products Myr has developed over long centuries."
Aerys asked, "Is that so?"
Believing the king had shown interest, the envoy's voice strengthened.
"It is, Your Grace. Myrish glassmaking is precious knowledge preserved by artisans for hundreds of years. If someone has stolen it, he ought rightly to be punished."
"Who stole it?"
The envoy hesitated.
"That is precisely why Your Grace must order an investigation."
"Your evidence?"
"The very standard of glass now being made in Westeros—"
Aerys cut him off.
"Is that evidence?"
"Your Grace?"
"Because glass of that quality cannot be made without Myrish methods, the fact that they make good glass is itself proof of theft?"
The corner of his mouth slowly rose.
The envoy's face stiffened. "That is not what I mean."
"It is what I heard."
"I mean that the pace of their advancement is excessively swift."
"Have you watched their process yourself?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it is the same process?"
The envoy's mouth closed.
Aerys leaned back against the Iron Throne.
His father would have preserved the man's dignity here.
There seems to have been a misunderstanding.
We shall investigate.
We shall prevent needless friction in trade.
But Aerys was not his father.
"As I understand it," he said languidly, "this is not the first time Myr has sent someone over this matter."
The royal scribe replied at once. "This is the third formal envoy alone, Your Grace. Including letters and informal requests, there have been more."
"The third."
Aerys nodded slowly. "The Iron Throne has been quite generous."
For one brief instant, relief appeared on the Myrman's face.
"It has heard merchants whine three times."
The relief vanished at once.
"Your Grace, this is not merely a commercial loss, but Myr's ancient traditions—"
"Traditions?" Aerys repeated. "Do your traditions contain some law saying that a Westerosi artisan may not make a better product?"
"That is not what I mean."
"Then the matter is ended."
The Myrman did not retreat. "Should this situation continue, Myr's influential merchants and shipowners will have no choice but to reconsider the trading relationship between our lands."
It was a threat, though dressed in different words.
Aerys's mood improved instead.
"If you wish to reduce trade, reduce it."
The envoy's face hardened.
"If you wish to turn your ships about, turn them about."
Aerys's violet eyes settled upon him.
"And if there is something more you wish to do... that too must be the freedom of a Free City."
The king's words were dignified enough.
Their meaning had no need to be.
Try it, if you dare.
The Myrish envoy understood perfectly.
"Your Grace is insulting Myr."
The air in the hall turned cold in an instant.
Aerys's smile faded a little.
"Take care."
His voice was lower still.
"You stand before the Iron Throne."
The envoy's mouth shut.
Aerys watched his face for a moment before raising a hand.
"Bring that liquor."
A servant withdrew.
Not long afterward, a small tray was carried in.
The eyes of several nobles who recognized the bottle upon it were naturally drawn there.
It was dark blue glass.
Viewed from the front, its color was so deep it seemed almost black, yet when light passed through its edges, the blue of a deep sea came alive. Its thickness was remarkably even, and there were scarcely any large bubbles.
In this age, glass bottles normally differed slightly even when the same artisan made them on the same day.
Yet these bottles closely resembled one another.
Upon the front was a silver dragon spreading its wings.
Beneath it was a name that had recently become known swiftly throughout King's Landing.
SEADRAKE CAMPBELL.
Aerys himself took up the bottle.
"You said you knew glass well?"
The Myrish envoy's eyes fixed on the bottle.
For the briefest moment, his expression changed.
That was enough.
"Come closer."
The envoy stepped forward.
Aerys held the bottle to the light. "What do you think?"
The Myrman could not answer easily.
"...It is an excellent piece."
"Excellent?" Aerys lifted an eyebrow. "To my eye, it appears finer than those imported from Myr."
"Myr has many types of glass, and the finest examples—"
"Then bring one, and we shall compare them."
Silence again.
Aerys slowly rotated the bottle.
"The color is even."
He lightly tapped its surface with a fingertip.
"There are scarcely any bubbles."
He traced the bottle's shoulder and neck.
"And its shape is astonishingly similar to the others."
The king raised his eyes.
"Yet because such wares exist, Myr has begun by searching for thieves."
He paused.
"Where exactly are you whining?"
The Myrman's face reddened.
"Your Grace is now—"
He stopped when Aerys looked at him.
The king did not bother warning him again. Instead, he opened the stopper himself.
A servant held out a cup.
Golden liquor flowed from the dark glass bottle.
"And I think you misunderstand one thing," said Aerys, lifting the cup to smell it. "The true thing is not the bottle."
He took a mouthful.
"It is inside."
Strong alcohol swept over his tongue and throat.
It was sharp at first, but it did not linger foully like cheap spirits. After a moment came the scent of grain and wood, and a heavy warmth spread through his chest and belly.
Seadrake Campbell.
The new liquor made in the North had recently gained a name rather swiftly among the nobles of King's Landing.
It was not the sort of drink to compare with Arbor Gold.
It was wholly unlike Dorne's rich wines as well.
If wine slowly drew a man in with fragrance, sweetness, and acidity, Campbell asserted its presence from the first mouthful.
It was strong.
Yet it was not merely harsh.
Especially the bottles long aged in wooden casks, whose production was limited, had risen swiftly in price.
Aerys set down his cup.
"It is quite popular at court lately."
The envoy stared at the bottle.
"The house that made this liquor made the bottle as well."
"...I know."
"Then do you know how old the person was when he began making this glass?"
The envoy did not answer.
"It seems you do not."
The king kindly told him.
"He was three years old."
This time a small stir ran not only through the Myrman, but among the Westerosi nobles in the hall as well.
"Your Grace, that a child of three created every process of glassmaking alone—"
"Of course not," Aerys interrupted.
He did not mean to say anything so foolish.
There had been artisans.
There must have been countless failures.
White Harbor had possessed men who knew how to work glass long before, and Aerys did not believe some fairy tale in which a child had changed sand into glass with bare hands.
What mattered was the starting point.
The child had questioned the existing process.
He had kept working at it with artisans.
Several years later, the result had changed.
That was enough.
Aerys looked at the envoy.
"Myr has been famed for glass for hundreds of years."
His eyes fell once more to the bottle.
"You have artisan guilds, and people who have passed down their craft through generations."
In contrast, in the North a three-year-old child had begun making glass with artisans.
And not even ten years had passed.
Now that glass had begun competing in the same market as Myrish wares.
Aerys's smile deepened.
"Yet Myr's conclusion is this."
He paused.
"There is no possibility that we could lose."
A beat passed.
"Therefore, that child stole what was ours."
From one side of the hall came the sound of someone swallowing laughter.
The Myrish envoy's face reddened further.
Aerys softened his voice instead.
"I wish to think highly of Myr."
The envoy looked at the king.
"You are a daughter of old Valyria."
Glass and lenses.
Fine workmanship.
These were things Myr had boasted of for generations.
"Such a city," Aerys said with a smile, "is not so petty as to feel inferior because it has fallen a little behind a process begun by a three-year-old child.
"Nor is it a place that runs all the way to the Iron Throne begging it to scold someone on its behalf."
This time the entire hall was silent.
"Your Grace, we are by no means feeling inferior—"
"Then that is fortunate."
Aerys smiled brightly.
"I would not wish to think Myr so small a city."
The envoy lost his words.
Aerys had enjoyed himself enough.
"Bring another bottle."
An identical bottle of Campbell was placed before the envoy.
"Your Grace?"
"Take it," Aerys said leisurely. "You have come a long way. If I send you back empty-handed, people may call the Iron Throne miserly."
Again, someone in the hall seemed to suppress a laugh.
"Show it to Myr's artisans as well."
Aerys lifted the bottle in his own hand.
"Before sending another envoy, consider not who stole what... but what you must first catch up to."
The Myrish delegation withdrew.
Even after the great doors closed, Aerys continued looking in that direction for a while.
He felt good.
It was something his father would not have done.
Jaehaerys would have made a gap through which the Myrmen could retreat while preserving their dignity.
Aerys did not regret it in the least.
`I am not my father.`
A king sometimes needed to remind others who he was.
He drank another mouthful of Campbell.
His gaze naturally went to the silver dragon on the bottle and the name beneath it.
SEADRAKE CAMPBELL.
Campbell.
He had once had its meaning investigated.
No one knew it.
It was not Valyrian.
It was not any known ancient Andal tongue.
Nothing similar could be found in the old speech of the First Men, nor was there any particular meaning in Tyroshi or Lysene.
It was simply a name Daemon Seadrake had chosen.
That was all.
`Daemon Seadrake.`
The name was not unfamiliar to Aerys.
He had heard it while his father still lived.
The child who had made a strange arrangement that heated chamber floors in White Harbor.
That heating had not cured Jaehaerys's illness.
Still, it had made several winters less miserable.
Aerys had not forgotten the favor.
Afterward there had been glass.
And Rickard Stark had sought the Iron Throne's confirmation when he intended to grant Sea Dragon Point to a child.
The Iron Throne's leave was not strictly necessary to establish a vassal within the North.
Yet Rickard Stark had first shown proper courtesy to the Crown.
Aerys had liked that as well.
The distant North still respected the Iron Throne.
Thereafter, the child's name appeared from time to time.
A road had been laid at Sea Dragon Point.
An old fortress had risen once more.
A harbor had been built.
Strange devices had been made that moved heavy stones with few men.
The glass continued to improve.
Colored glass appeared.
Myr grew angry.
And now liquor had reached King's Landing.
At first, he remembered the child because of his father.
Then because of the glass.
For a time, he remembered because Myr's anger amused him.
But from some point onward, he had grown curious what the child would do next.
Aerys looked down at his cup.
`A child who has no notion of remaining still.`
Then the question that had kept scratching at one corner of his mind returned.
`What is mine?`
Tywin managed the kingdom well.
Good.
He could go on doing so.
But management and creation were different.
Making what already existed run excellently, and bringing into being what had not existed before, shone with entirely different lights in Aerys's mind.
A child on the northern frontier had been given an abandoned cape and laid roads there, built a harbor, erected workshops, made glass, and even sold liquor in King's Landing.
Then what could he, a king, not do?
He did not possess merely one Sea Dragon Point. He possessed the entire Seven Kingdoms.
Aerys's fingers slowly traced the rim of his cup.
"That child."
The scribe at his side bowed. "Your Grace?"
"Daemon Seadrake. How old is he now?"
The scribe searched his memory briefly. "About twelve, Your Grace."
Aerys's hand stopped.
"Twelve."
Glass.
Heating.
A harbor.
Liquor.
And still only twelve.
Aerys smiled slowly.
"I have never met that child in person."
No one answered.
The king drank the rest of his cup.
He wanted something that would symbolize not Tywin's achievements, but Aerys's age.
And perhaps that strange child in the North could show him where it began.
"Send a letter to Rickard Stark."
The royal scribe immediately straightened.
Aerys thought for a moment.
"It is not an order."
Rickard Stark had shown the Iron Throne proper courtesy.
Then it was fitting that the Iron Throne return the same courtesy.
At least for now.
"Write that it is an invitation."
"What shall it say, Your Grace?"
Aerys raised the bottle of Campbell once.
Golden liquor swayed inside the dark glass.
"That I would like to see Daemon Seadrake... once, in King's Landing."
# *
Time had not stood still in the North either.
When Rickard Stark had visited Sea Dragon Point again, Daemon had been ten. Now he was already twelve.
Two years was a long time for a child.
Especially for one entering his growth years.
At the very moment Aerys in King's Landing was imagining the North's strange genius, that strange genius was being miserably beaten in the training yard of his own domain.
Two wooden swords struck with a dull sound.
Daemon gritted his teeth and angled Raymund's blade aside.
He had turned it aside.
The problem was that it fucking hurt even after he had.
`Fuck, heavy.`
The shock tingled from his palm to his elbow. His right foot slid half a step backward.
Raymund did not wait for him.
The instant the swords glanced away, he turned his wrist.
The next line was for Daemon's ribs.
Daemon twisted his body.
The wooden sword brushed his clothes.
"Your feet," Raymund said.
"I know."
"You do not, or they would not tangle."
"I dodged it."
"Do you think an enemy will only tear your clothes and go home?"
Daemon scowled. "Why use your mouth too when you can hit me with the sword, old man?"
Raymund's expression did not move.
"I have not struck you with my mouth."
"It hurts my feelings."
"That is not an injury I can mend."
`He really talks like a bastard.`
Daemon raised his wooden sword again.
When he had first begun learning swordsmanship, he had thought it quite romantic.
In his former life, swords were things he had only seen in museums or games.
Learning real swordsmanship from a real medieval knight.
There had been romance in it.
For about three days.
Actual swordsmanship was not about swinging a blade beautifully. Most of it was matching distance, footwork, balance, and breath, repeating the same movements until the body remembered them before the mind did. Before learning dazzling techniques, he spent far longer being struck with a wooden sword for placing one foot wrong.
Raymund had taught him that with great diligence for years.
"Again."
Daemon gave a hollow laugh. "Let us rest a little."
"You just rested."
"When?"
"While you were talking."
"If you call that rest, the labor bureau—"
He stopped.
`Ah.`
`There is no labor bureau.`
Raymund raised his wooden sword. "Here I come."
"Fuck."
"I heard that."
"I meant you to."
This time Daemon went in first.
He moved his feet.
Lowered his sword, then lifted it.
Raymund received it.
Daemon did not drive straight through with force. At the moment their swords met, he turned his wrist and slipped aside.
His sword point went for Raymund's shoulder.
Raymund twisted his upper body away.
Daemon followed at once.
It was not bad.
At least, he thought so.
The wooden swords met again.
This time he turned the shock aside fairly well.
And at that moment, a useless thought crossed his mind.
`But this old man.`
The swords struck again.
`Does he really age at all?`
Raymund had been old since Daemon's earliest memories of him.
Gray-streaked hair.
Deep wrinkles.
A rough, blunt face.
The problem was that several years had passed, and whenever Raymund took up a sword, little about him seemed changed.
Daemon, by contrast, had changed visibly over the last two years.
His limbs had lengthened and his shoulders broadened. He had always been bigger than children his age, but his growth had not slowed—it had increased. Years of swordsmanship, riding, and running meant he was not merely tall, either.
Yet his arms still went numb when he took Raymund's sword.
Raymund moved swiftly.
He hardly lost his breath.
`No, fuck.`
`At that age, should not something normally start failing?`
`Why am I the only one growing while this old man remains the same?`
People aged.
Strength declined, reactions slowed, and recovery took longer.
Raymund could not possibly have been exempted from human aging.
The problem was that Daemon could not feel the decline in him at all.
`This is not slow aging. It is like he never got patched.`
At that very moment, Raymund's sword vanished from view.
More precisely, Daemon lost sight of it.
"Huh?"
A dull impact drove into his ribs.
His breath caught.
"Ugh!"
His body spun.
His feet tangled.
Daemon rolled over the dirt.
Blue sky.
And beneath it, Raymund.
"Focus."
Daemon first tried to find his breath.
The tip of Raymund's wooden sword descended to the center of his chest.
Exactly where his heart would be.
"I do not know what you were thinking just then, but... if this had been a battlefield, you would be dead."
After taking several breaths, Daemon managed to answer. "I was thinking about you, old man."
Raymund's eyebrow moved. "What?"
"Wondering if you actually age."
A brief silence.
"You died while thinking nonsense."
"I did not die."
"Because I carried a wooden sword."
"That is why this is training."
"Say that in war."
Daemon clutched his ribs. "How can I say it when I am dead?"
Raymund withdrew his sword.
Daemon rose with a groan.
`Fuck.`
`Is this not a bit much for a twelve-year-old?`
But when he looked down at his own body, even that protest troubled his conscience a little.
He was certainly twelve.
The problem was that he did not look very much like a twelve-year-old.
Even when he was ten, Rickard Stark had momentarily mistaken his age.
Over the last two years, his growth had accelerated even further.
Among children his own age, he looked as though an older brother had been mixed in alone.
Daemon had now accepted the cause to some degree.
`I think the genes are showing their true colors.`
Maelys Blackfyre.
His biological father.
Daemon's first memory of that man was simple.
Big.
Fucking huge.
And he had two heads.
That was all.
An ordinary person would not remember a sight seen as a newborn, but Daemon had possessed the consciousness of his former life from the moment he was born.
When he later read history books and learned the name, the connection came naturally.
`Ah.`
`That Cho'gall-looking bastard was my father.`
Recently, his body had been growing too quickly, which made him uneasy enough to seek out further records.
And he regretted looking.
There was a record saying Maelys had torn his cousin's head off with bare hands.
At first Daemon wondered whether it was a mistranslation.
Cut it off?
No.
Broke it off?
No.
Pulled it off.
`Was a human neck built to come out like a radish?`
His bad habit of calculating things whenever he failed to understand them emerged at once.
A human neck was obviously not a rod made of one material. Bone and joints, ligaments and muscles, skin and soft tissue all joined in complex ways, and the destruction pattern changed according to direction and speed of pulling.
Daemon plugged in rough values before soon giving up.
`...No way.`
`No matter how I calculate it, that is not human.`
The record that Maelys had beaten a warhorse to death with his fists was worse.
This time Daemon considered the impulse.
And gave up even faster.
With a normal human arm mass, the needed speed was insane. With a normal speed, the needed mass was insane. Above all, if such force were delivered barehanded, one should worry about the striker's hand before the horse.
There were things that became understandable when calculated, and things one was healthier not trying to understand the more one calculated.
Maelys Blackfyre was plainly the latter.
In the end, the conclusion remained the same as before.
`Cho'gall.`
That day, Daemon had seriously felt his own head as well.
Left side.
Normal.
Right side.
Normal.
Forehead.
Normal.
Back of the head.
One head.
`Thank fuck.`
`Really fucking thank fuck.`
His face resembled his mother.
His body...
He was less certain.
Daemon stood, dusting himself off.
`I will not really grow past two meters, will I?`
He paused.
`...But would that be bad?`
Being big helped in a fight.
People could see him from far away.
Clothes might even hang well on him.
Then a practical concern immediately followed.
Beds.
Chairs.
Doors.
Armor.
Horses.
Daemon's expression stiffened.
`The upkeep is going to cost a fucking fortune.`
"Sword," Raymund said.
"I know."
Then hurried footsteps sounded beyond the training yard.
"My lord!"
Daemon and Raymund turned their heads at once.
A young attendant from the castle was running toward them as though about to fall.
Daemon lowered his wooden sword. "Why are you running like that? Is there a fire?"
"No, my lord."
"Has someone died?"
"No, my lord."
"Then come slowly. You will die before reaching us."
Only after catching his breath several times did the boy straighten himself.
"Maester Luwin seeks you, my lord."
"The old fellow?"
The boy showed no reaction.
Those who had lived in the castle long enough were accustomed to it by now.
For the first few years, Luwin had faithfully corrected Daemon whenever he failed to call him Maester.
The following day, Daemon called him old fellow again.
Luwin corrected him once more.
Daemon called him old fellow again.
In the end, the maester had tired first.
That did not mean he had wholly given up on Daemon's conduct.
Once, with quite a serious expression, he had advised Daemon that treating people without arrogance and forgetting that one was a lord were entirely different matters.
No matter how comfortable Daemon felt with someone, that person would not forget Daemon was their lord.
So he should at least remember the seat in which he sat.
At the end, in a resigned voice, Luwin added that not everyone would surrender as he had.
Daemon had not ignored even that advice.
In public, he observed proper formality.
But Luwin was still the old fellow.
"What is it?"
The attendant replied, "A raven has come from King's Landing."
Daemon's expression froze.
"King's Landing?"
"Yes, my lord."
For a moment, only the wind could be heard.
The first words to rise in Daemon's mind were very simple.
`Ah, fuck.`
`Why is the place I never wanted to get tangled up with contacting me?`
King's Landing.
The Iron Throne.
The Red Keep.
The king.
The court.
Politics.
They were words Daemon wanted as far away from his life as possible.
A king was simple.
A man with far more power than oneself.
And a powerful man taking an interest in him.
`When has that ever been good?`
He had thought so since his former life.
A professor takes an interest in a student.
More work.
A superior takes an interest in a subordinate.
More work.
A king takes an interest in a vassal.
Daemon's face darkened further.
`...I would be lucky if it only meant more work.`
He tossed his wooden sword to Raymund.
Raymund caught it in one hand.
"Old man."
"What?"
"We are done for today?"
"No."
"A letter came from King's Landing."
"Read it and return."
"..."
"We finish what remains."
Daemon stared at Raymund for a while.
`This old bastard.`
`He seriously seems like he never got the aging patch.`
He did not say it aloud this time.
He had already died once while having such thoughts.
The moment he entered Luwin's chamber, his faint remaining hope vanished.
Red wax lay on the desk.
A three-headed dragon.
The royal seal.
`Ah, fuck.`
`It is real.`
Luwin pointed to the letter as Daemon entered.
"It would be best if you read it yourself."
"Is it good news?"
"I will leave that judgment to you, my lord."
"The fact that you put it that way is fucking ominous."
Luwin silently looked at him.
Daemon gave a brief, false cough.
"Ominous."
He pulled up a chair.
Past the long, ornate royal titles.
To the point.
He read it once.
He read it again.
Then he translated it into modern language in his head.
`You remember the Iron Throne approved your house, right?`
`It was good that Lord Stark properly asked for confirmation.`
`But come to think of it, I have kept hearing about you without ever seeing your face.`
`You made glass.`
`And heating.`
`I hear you run your lands well.`
`I am enjoying your liquor too.`
`So come show me your face.`
`Signed, the king.`
The actual words were naturally far more elegant.
The king wrote that he was pleased by the prosperity of House Seadrake and often heard of its talent. Though the Iron Throne had confirmed the house's founding, he regretted never having met Daemon in person; if he visited King's Landing to offer his greetings personally, he would be gladly received.
Daemon put down the letter.
"Can I not go?"
Luwin's answer was swift. "I would not advise it."
"Of course not."
"It is not in the form of an order."
"That makes it more irritating."
Luwin's eyebrow moved.
Daemon tapped the letter with a finger. "If it were an order, I could simply go."
He paused.
"If it is an invitation, I have to pretend I am pleased as well."
"You need not see it that way."
"Old fellow."
"Yes?"
"The king wants to see my face. Can I say, 'I would rather not'?"
Luwin did not answer.
Daemon nodded. "See?"
A king's invitation was not an order.
In form.
To a vassal, the distinction offered little comfort.
Only then did Daemon properly notice that someone other than Luwin was in the room.
Valena.
And Raymund.
Their expressions were not merely stiff because of one letter.
Their eyes met briefly.
The instant Daemon saw it, he understood.
`Ah.`
`At last, that talk.`
Raymund spoke first. "There is something to discuss."
Daemon sighed inwardly.
Valena looked to Luwin. "Maester."
Luwin looked once at the three of them and nodded. "I understand."
Daemon gathered the royal letter.
"See you later, old fellow."
"...Yes."
His voice was wholly resigned.
The three moved to a small room deeper within the keep, one normally used only for examining sensitive ledgers and contracts.
After closing the door, Raymund checked even the corridor himself.
The bolt was drawn.
Daemon sat down.
`One hundred percent.`
Valena sat opposite him.
Raymund remained standing.
Silence continued for a while.
At last Valena spoke.
"Daemon."
"Yes."
"There is something you must know before going to King's Landing."
Daemon looked once at the ceiling.
`Ah.`
`This is fucking long if she begins from the start.`
So he struck first.
"My father was a kinslayer."
Both their faces froze.
Daemon raised one finger.
"There is a record that he pulled his cousin's head off with bare hands."
A second finger.
"He had another head attached."
A third.
"And if you mean that he was a Blackfyre, whom the Iron Throne would not much like to learn about—"
He lowered his hand.
"I know."
Perfect silence.
Raymund asked very slowly, "What?"
"I said I know."
Valena's voice came almost at the same moment. "Since when have you known?"
Daemon opened his mouth, then stopped.
The truth was too simple.
He had seen him the instant he was born.
A giant with two heads.
His consciousness from a former life remained, so he remembered.
Later he saw the name in a history book and connected it.
That was all.
`But how the fuck am I supposed to say that?`
The moment he said he remembered what happened as a newborn, a problem far more troublesome than Blackfyre blood would open.
Why do you remember?
How do you remember?
What did you think then?
And eventually, the matter of reincarnation would emerge.
`No.`
`That is too great a problem for me to handle.`
He already knew the conclusion.
What he needed now was a plausible chain of reasoning.
Daemon had sufficient material.
"I think you both forget sometimes."
Raymund narrowed his eyes. "Forget what?"
"That I am a genius."
He paused.
"They call me that in the South too, I hear."
Raymund's expression grew grim. "Is this the time for jokes?"
"No."
Daemon did not smile either.
"When I was around four, I knew something was fucking strange."
Valena's eyes widened greatly. "At four?"
"Yes."
"How?"
`Good.`
`Here comes the lie.`
Strictly speaking, it was not all a lie.
Every clue was real.
Only the order in which he reached the conclusion was reversed.
Know the result first.
Gather the evidence afterward and write the analysis.
It would have earned him a thorough scolding in a laboratory, but this was about concealing the secret of his birth.
A man sometimes had to apply research ethics flexibly according to circumstance.
"We came from Tyrosh," Daemon said. "Mother is Tyroshi too."
Yet no matter how he looked at her, she was not the ordinary daughter of a merchant.
Valena was too accustomed to handling money and contracts, and she did not become intimidated even before nobles. Her manner of entrusting work to people and dividing responsibility did not naturally come from the daughter of a merchant with some money.
Valena narrowed her eyes. "Was I that obvious?"
"Much more than you think."
Daemon turned his eyes to Raymund.
"And you, old man."
Raymund's face was already displeased. "Why me again?"
"You were the most suspicious."
Raymund was officially the master of the hunt.
For a hunter, it was enough to know the woods, read an animal's tracks, and use a bow well.
But Raymund's ears bore the marks of countless clashes with men, and his hands had calluses no bow alone could explain.
Sword and spear.
Shield and reins.
They were hands that had handled many kinds of weapons for a long time.
That was not all.
Whenever he entered a room, he checked the entrances first.
When he met strangers, he looked at their hands and waists before their faces.
Whenever someone approached Daemon, he naturally placed himself between them.
He was excessively accustomed to forming soldiers into ranks, changing sentries, organizing marches, and inspecting equipment.
Daemon looked Raymund up and down.
"That is a career far too splendid for an ordinary master of the hunt."
Raymund said lowly, "There is no law saying a hunter cannot handle weapons."
"If it were one or two things, sure." Daemon cut him off at once. "You know a fucking lot."
Raymund narrowed his eyes.
Daemon corrected himself obediently. "An excessive amount."
And such a man had always remained beside a three-year-old child living in White Harbor.
"That was the strangest part."
Daemon spread his hands.
"Why would a man like you stay attached to a little merchant's child?"
Raymund's mouth closed.
And all mention of Daemon's father had been thoroughly empty.
He was dead.
That was all.
No name.
No origin.
No account of what he had done.
Whenever Daemon asked, Valena and Raymund's expressions changed first.
Even a child could see that much.
`Ah.`
`There is one fucking huge bomb in this family.`
Raymund asked, "How did that lead you as far as Blackfyre?"
"Tyrosh."
Daemon's answer was swift.
The Blackfyres and Tyrosh had been entangled for a long time.
Exile.
Bittersteel.
The Golden Company.
And the most recent War of the Ninepenny Kings.
The time of Daemon's birth nearly overlapped with the end of that war.
At about that time, Valena had left Tyrosh with her child and come all the way to the North.
His father was dead.
No one said who he was.
And when word came in 266 AC that Alequo Adarys, tyrant of Tyrosh, had been poisoned, Valena had wept.
Daemon looked at his mother.
"You cried that day."
Valena's fingertips moved very slightly. "You remember that?"
"I was in the same room."
She was not a person who easily showed emotion.
Yet she had broken down.
Her reaction had been too great to regard it merely as the death of an influential man from her homeland.
After that, it had been putting together a puzzle.
Valena was connected to one of Tyrosh's high families.
She had been close to Alequo Adarys.
Alequo had been one of the Ninepenny Kings.
Daemon had been born near the end of that war.
His father was already dead.
And the last male-line Blackfyre to die in that war had been Maelys Blackfyre.
Daemon spread a palm. "At this point, was the answer sheet not almost shown to me?"
Raymund looked at Daemon for a long time.
"You figured that out at six?"
Daemon shrugged.
"Like I said."
He paused.
"I am a genius."
Inwardly, he added one thing.
`Actually, I knew the answer from the moment I was born.`
He intended to keep that part quiet until he died.
Valena asked, "Then why have you kept seeking books about the Blackfyres lately?"
"That is separate."
Daemon looked down at his own arm.
"I have been growing rather severely lately."
Only recently had he begun properly looking into exactly what sort of man his biological father had been.
And he regretted it a little.
"The more I learned, the less human he seemed."
Raymund's eyes grew cold.
Daemon immediately added, "His strength. His strength did not seem human."
This time even Raymund said nothing.
Daemon did not joke further either.
To him, Maelys was a bizarre man from books.
To Raymund, he had been a man he had truly taught with a sword, watched from beside, and witnessed fall.
Daemon understood at least that difference.
After a long while, Valena asked, "Why did you not tell us, even knowing this?"
Daemon thought briefly.
"Why would I?"
"Daemon."
"Truly."
He spread his hands.
"You wanted to hide it, Mother. The old man wanted to hide it too."
Neither denied it.
"If you think I do not know, you can simply keep hiding it."
If they revealed that Daemon knew, then came the questions.
How much do you know?
Whom have you told?
Do you want the throne?
Do you plan revenge?
What will you do from now on?
The questions would follow without end.
Daemon had imagined the entire process beforehand and judged it troublesome.
"So I simply pretended not to know."
Valena stared at her son for a long time.
Whether she felt relief.
Whether she felt emptiness.
Whether she ought to be angry.
No one could tell from her expression alone.
Then Daemon looked as though he remembered something.
"Ah."
Unease immediately appeared on Valena's face. "What now?"
"I know about the dragon egg too."
This time both of them froze completely.
The last trace of composure vanished from Raymund's face.
Valena seemed to forget even to breathe for a moment.
"...What did you say?"
"The dragon egg."
Daemon roughly showed its size with both hands.
"That thing."
Raymund's voice became very low. "How did you know?"
This time Daemon could not answer immediately.
"That is... I do not know exactly either."
Raymund narrowed his eyes. Valena looked directly at her son.
"What do you mean?"
Daemon sought a suitable expression.
It was difficult even for him to explain.
"Sometimes... I think I hear something."
He pointed near his ear with a finger.
"A sound?"
"Yes."
He thought a little.
"Something like a baby's babbling."
Raymund's face hardened. "You mean it speaks?"
"No." Daemon shook his head. "It is not words. I do not even know whether it has meaning."
It seemed as if he heard it with his ears, yet he did not.
At the edge of his consciousness, a very faint sensation that something was calling him.
In his former life, he would have suspected his own mind first.
Had he not slept enough?
Was he under too much stress?
Was something wrong with his ears?
Had he finally gone insane?
To a modern man, auditory hallucinations were a reason to visit a hospital.
The problem was that dragons truly existed in this world.
Magic too had at least been recorded as having existed in the past.
`With a world like this, even psychiatric differential diagnosis is fucking difficult.`
"Sometimes I also felt as if I should go somewhere."
Raymund asked, "Where?"
"Down below."
Daemon answered calmly.
"At first I thought I was merely paying it too much attention."
Then one day, he followed that feeling.
Deep within the old fortress.
A place he ordinarily had no reason to enter.
The egg was there.
"After that, since I knew where it was, I went sometimes," Daemon added. "You two may not know this, but I maintain it too."
Raymund asked slowly, "Maintain it?"
"I wipe off the dust."
"..."
"Check that it has no cracks."
"..."
"Make sure it remains there."
Valena asked, "Have you touched it with your hands?"
"Yes."
Their expressions changed at the same time.
Daemon spoke as though they were strange. "You have to touch it to clean it."
Valena closed her eyes for a moment.
Daemon went on. "But there is something strange."
Raymund's gaze sharpened. "What?"
"Sometimes it is warm."
This time Raymund could not hide his expression at all.
Valena asked almost in a whisper, "Warm?"
"Not always."
On some days, it was cold as stone.
It gave no response whatsoever.
But sometimes, when he laid a palm upon it, he could feel the faintest warmth.
Daemon had first assumed it came from the surroundings.
He had touched the stone floor.
He had checked the temperature of the storage place.
He had checked whether it was because of torches.
Yet there were days that did not explain easily.
"So one day," Daemon said, perfectly casually, "I held it for several hours."
This time Valena and Raymund stiffened at once.
"...What?"
"I said I held it."
Daemon mimed embracing something in both arms.
"Because it was warm."
Raymund asked very slowly, "For several hours?"
"Yes."
"A dragon egg?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
Raymund said nothing.
Valena pressed one hand against her forehead.
Daemon felt a little wronged.
"No, really."
Silence.
"I said it was warm."
No one answered.
"It was nice in winter."
Raymund closed his eyes.
Only then did Daemon think it might be better to stop there.
But there was one thing he dearly wanted to say.
"And."
Raymund opened his eyes. "What now?"
Daemon's eyes gleamed a little.
"If it really hatches... I will ride it."
He raised a hand into the air.
This time neither looked surprised.
They merely stared at Daemon with exhausted expressions.
"Why?"
No one answered.
"It is a dragon."
Silence.
"A real dragon."
Daemon grew a little excited.
"If I climbed onto the back of that huge thing and flew over the sea... it would be fucking cool."
Raymund stared at him for a very long time.
It was not anger.
It was the face of a man who had passed beyond the stage of getting angry.
At last, a low, heavy voice emerged.
"Is that truly your entire reason?"
Daemon blinked. "For what?"
"For wanting to hatch a dragon."
Daemon considered it seriously.
"Yes."
He thought a little longer.
"Mostly?"
Raymund waited.
"It would be fast too."
Silence.
"I could cross mountains easily."
Silence.
"Cross the sea too."
Silence.
"The view would probably be good."
Valena bit her lip.
Daemon looked from one to the other.
"Does it really not sound cool to you?"
No one answered.
To Raymund, a dragon was not a splendid mount.
It was royal power.
Legitimacy.
The most overwhelming strength by which the Targaryens had conquered the Seven Kingdoms.
And the symbol the Blackfyres had never managed to possess.
The last Blackfyre of the male line, who might possess that symbol, was asked why he wanted a dragon.
He said it would look cool to ride and fly upon one.
Raymund found it difficult to judge whether he should feel relieved or empty.
Valena was not much different.
Her son did not want a dragon for power.
That was certainly fortunate.
But he said the egg seemed to call him.
He said it sometimes became warm.
He said he had held it in his arms for hours.
From a mother's position, there were too many things to worry about even to prioritize them.
But there was another problem requiring immediate attention.
The king's letter on the table.
Raymund stared a long while at the royal seal.
"That is why it would be better still not to go to King's Landing."
Daemon tilted his head. "Would refusing not be stranger?"
"Better than having your identity exposed."
"The king is not summoning me because he suspects me now."
Daemon tapped the letter with a finger.
"If anything, he likes me."
He remembered the confirmation favorably.
He remembered the heating.
The glass too.
The reports that Sea Dragon Point was prospering.
Recently, he was even drinking the liquor.
It truly was close to an invitation simply to see Daemon's face once.
Precisely for that reason, refusing was more dangerous.
`The king wants to see my face once, and I avoid him for no reason?`
`That is not hiding. It is me pressing the button to get myself killed.`
Daemon said, "Suppose I suddenly say I will not go."
Was he ill?
No.
Could he not leave his lands?
It was not that serious a situation.
Was it too dangerous for him to travel to King's Landing?
That was not true either.
After crossing out each reason, the remaining question was simple.
"Why is he avoiding me?"
The room grew quiet.
"He likes me now."
Daemon tapped the letter.
"But I avoid him for no reason."
He paused.
"Then liking becomes curiosity."
He tapped it once more.
"And curiosity becomes suspicion."
He shook his head.
"That is more fucked up."
"Daemon!"
Valena's voice flew out immediately.
Daemon flinched. "...More dangerous."
"Yes."
Only then did Valena nod slowly. "That is true."
Raymund looked at her. "Valena."
"I do not wish to send him either."
Her voice lowered.
"What mother would wish to send her son all the way to the Red Keep?"
But the king viewed Daemon favorably now.
If they began avoiding him without a proper reason, Aerys would seek one.
That would be more dangerous.
Raymund said nothing for a long while.
He looked at the three-headed dragon upon the red wax.
Then he slowly turned his eyes toward Daemon.
There was something different in his gaze from before.
It did not hold concern alone.
Something very old lingered there.
Regret.
Or perhaps a faint expectation.
Valena and Raymund were different.
To Valena, Daemon was the most important thing.
Raymund was a man who had served the very name Blackfyre.
He had lived beneath that banner.
He had watched people die beneath that banner.
He had taught Maelys the sword.
And at the end of all that, the last male-line descendant sat before his eyes.
Raymund spoke lowly.
"Daemon."
"What is it, old man?"
"Do you truly... not want the throne?"
Daemon did not answer at once.
The question carried a different weight.
Deep within Raymund's eyes was the faintest expectation.
`What if?`
Daemon saw it.
And he answered honestly.
"Well."
He shrugged.
"Who does not like being king?"
Raymund's eyes moved slightly.
"You live in a fine palace. People call you Your Grace. Most things get done if you command them."
He paused.
"You have a fucking great deal of power too."
Raymund's eyebrow moved.
Daemon coughed softly. "A great deal."
He nodded.
"It is cool."
Then he added, "But I do not crave it."
Raymund's expression stiffened. "Why?"
"It looks exhausting."
Raymund looked slightly empty.
Daemon did not smile.
This time he was serious.
"Think about it."
He tapped the royal letter.
"The Blackfyres never even managed to be king once, but they kept charging back several times."
Defeat had not ended it.
Death had not ended it.
When one generation was ruined, the next raised the banner.
They crossed the sea.
They bought mercenaries.
They sought old supporters.
They claimed the throne.
Reading that history, Daemon had reached the opposite conclusion.
`Do they think the end credits roll once you push out the Targaryens?`
`That is when the fucking DLC starts.`
Outwardly, he softened it somewhat.
"Suppose one day I lose my mind and think, 'Fuck it. I will do what my ancestors could not do.'"
Raymund said lowly, "Your language."
"It is an example."
Daemon continued. "And somehow I drive out the Targaryens."
He becomes king.
Then what?
Would that be the end?
Daemon shook his head.
The Targaryens had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly three centuries. Their blood had mingled with many noble houses, and many had gained station and wealth through royal favor. There were knights and lords who regarded loyalty itself as honor.
Let even one royal survive, and there would be a banner.
Let even one bastard appear, and someone would make a cause of him.
Let someone in a Free City provide coin, and mercenaries could be bought.
If the new dynasty made one great mistake, rebellion would gain a better name at once.
Daemon spread a palm.
"Blackfyre history itself proves it."
Defeat did not end it.
Even if people died, blood remained.
Resentment remained.
Memory remained.
Someone would raise a banner again.
"Driving out the Targaryens would not be the end," Daemon said. "It might be the beginning."
Raymund's face grew heavy.
"Why bother?"
Daemon was sincere.
"Would I turn the entire Seven Kingdoms into a civil-war project lasting decades just so I could be king once?"
He shook his head.
"I will pass."
Raymund asked, "Does the crown seem so light to you?"
"No."
The answer was swift.
"It looks far too heavy."
Raymund stopped.
Daemon tapped the table with a finger.
"Imagine a ship."
There was a hole in its bottom.
Its sails were torn.
The deck was on fire.
The sailors were cutting one another with knives.
And amid all that, people fought over becoming captain.
Daemon spoke as though dumbfounded.
"Why the hell should I be captain there?"
Raymund said nothing.
"If the captaincy of a sinking ship is the crown... I do not want it."
Raymund stared at Daemon for a long time, but still seemed unable to entirely let go.
"Even so, they are your ancestors."
Daemon's expression became strange.
"So what?"
Raymund narrowed his eyes. "Watch your words."
"No, seriously."
Daemon felt genuinely wronged.
"I looked through the family tree, and the proportion of idiots among the people listed as my ancestors is too high."
Valena closed her eyes.
Raymund's gaze turned cold.
"Daemon."
"What?"
"I told you to watch your words."
"You read the family tree too, old man."
Daemon said it far too naturally.
"Am I inventing things that are not there?"
One name came to mind first.
Aegon IV.
Daemon's face became incredulous.
"Especially that fellow."
Raymund asked, "Who?"
"Aegon IV. The man who legitimized all his bastards just before dying, lit the fuse on a powder keg, and ran away."
Raymund said lowly, "You cannot lay every cause of everything upon one man."
"Of course not."
Daemon immediately conceded it.
"But he did pour oil on it."
Then he remembered something he had read in his former life.
Judging crimes even after death.
Digging up graves.
Dragging out the corpse and punishing it anew.
Such punishments even had names in East Asian history.
Daemon said, "There is a punishment called posthumous execution."
Valena and Raymund both looked at him.
"You judge the crime again after death, dig up the grave, take out the body, and behead or mutilate it."
Valena's expression grew peculiar. "Where is there such a punishment?"
`Ah.`
`Fuck.`
Daemon's mind turned swiftly.
"I saw it in a book about Yi Ti before."
It was a lie.
But Yi Ti was far away.
It was difficult to verify.
To Daemon, distant lands and old books were sometimes very useful rubbish bins.
Valena carefully asked, "Why are you telling this story?"
"Suppose I."
Daemon raised a hand.
"By truly random chance."
Once.
"Somehow."
Twice.
"Ended up becoming king without meaning to."
Raymund's face hardened. "That supposition—"
"I said it is a supposition."
Daemon waved his hand. "I said I have no interest."
Then he said calmly, "I think I would begin by posthumously executing Aegon IV."
Silence.
Valena and Raymund stared at Daemon together.
Daemon lifted his eyebrows instead. "Why?"
Raymund asked lowly, "Why?"
"Honestly, if you read the history of the Seven Kingdoms, has any family killed one another as often as ours?"
The Targaryens and Blackfyres had been the same blood from the beginning.
If one went back to the Dance of the Dragons, it became even more wretched.
Brothers.
Uncles and nephews.
Cousins.
They burned, killed, and cut down members of their own house.
"After killing family so many times," Daemon asked with his head tilted, "is digging up one dead man's grave really crossing such a line?"
Valena wore the face of someone who had given up answering.
"And because of the mess that man left behind, people of the same blood beat each other for nearly a hundred years."
Daemon lightly tapped the table.
"He is guilty."
Once more.
"Guilty."
Then Daemon's expression froze.
"Ah."
Valena's face immediately stiffened. "What now?"
"Targaryen funerals are cremations, right?"
Silence.
Daemon thought seriously.
"Then if I dig up the grave, is there no corpse?"
Raymund stared at him for a very long time.
"Stop."
"If ashes remain—"
"Daemon."
This time Valena called him too.
"Yes?"
"Stop."
"All right."
Daemon obediently closed his mouth.
That calm attitude made things harder for the other two instead.
Raymund had spent his life looking upon the Blackfyre banner.
The throne.
Legitimacy.
Exile.
Revenge.
War.
Death.
And the last male descendant remaining at the end of it all asked what on earth his ancestors had been doing for nearly a hundred years just to be king once.
He did not want the throne.
He wanted a dragon.
Because riding and flying it would be cool.
Raymund could no longer tell whether he ought to feel relieved or empty.
Then Daemon spoke again.
"Above all."
This time there was no playfulness.
"There is no guarantee Mother or you would not be hurt in the process."
The air in the room changed slightly.
Daemon looked to Valena first.
Then to Raymund.
If he rose claiming he would try being king, Valena would have to live again worrying that someone would come to kill her son.
Raymund might have to return to war.
The people of Sea Dragon Point would die too.
The harbor, roads, and workshops built over years might burn.
Daemon said, "Just because my ancestors failed to become king... does not mean I have a reason to inherit that."
Raymund watched him silently.
Daemon's voice lowered a little.
"Ancestors are ancestors."
He paused.
"My people are my people."
Raymund's gaze trembled almost imperceptibly.
"The living matter more to me."
This time no one could answer at once.
Raymund looked away first.
What he had clung to for his entire life and what the child before him had chosen were too different.
And yet it was difficult to call it wrong.
After a long while, Raymund spoke lowly.
"If Maelys had heard you..."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "He would have been angry?"
Raymund paused. "Probably."
"That sounds right."
The corner of Raymund's mouth moved very slightly.
It was too small to call a smile.
But neither was it complete coldness.
He said nothing more.
At least in that moment, what Maelys might have wanted did not matter.
What mattered more was what Daemon before him wanted.
The king's letter still lay on the table.
Daemon picked it up.
"So."
Red wax.
A three-headed dragon.
"I should go."
Raymund immediately raised his head.
"Refusing would draw more attention."
The king did not suspect Daemon yet.
Rather, he felt favor toward him.
Then Daemon would go and show his face.
He would observe courtesy.
He would see directly what Aerys wanted.
And he would return.
"We only need to get through this properly."
Raymund said lowly, "Do not speak as if it is easy."
"I did not say it was easy."
Daemon leaned back in his chair.
"Still, we prepared for the worst, did we not?"
Valena asked, "What preparations?"
"Braavos."
Raymund's eyes moved.
Daemon looked to his mother.
"The money we divided into the Iron Bank."
Valena understood immediately.
Seadrake assets had not been concentrated in a single domain.
There were assets in White Harbor.
There were goods.
There were silver bars.
And part had been deposited in the Iron Bank of Braavos.
It was preparation so that they would not lose everything if one place fell.
To Daemon, it was utterly ordinary diversification.
To a feudal lord, it was merely somewhat strange.
"If things feel truly wrong, we can get out."
Raymund asked, "And if the king will not let you go?"
"Which is why it is too late to make an escape plan after being caught."
Daemon spoke as though it were self-evident.
"You prepare to escape before you are caught."
Raymund's expression darkened further.
"Easy words."
"Still better than having nothing."
Braavos.
Tyrosh.
Farther east.
Even if they lost Sea Dragon Point in the worst case, they could begin again if they retained money, skills, and a few trustworthy people.
Daemon said, "The money in the Iron Bank alone would let us begin again somewhere."
Valena immediately corrected him. "That depends what scale of 'beginning again' you mean."
"One house."
"Possible."
"A small workshop."
"Possible."
"A few people."
"More than enough."
Daemon nodded.
Raymund watched the two of them for a long time.
Then, very slowly, he opened his mouth.
"...Good."
Daemon looked at him. "What is?"
"If that is your choice."
Raymund's gaze stayed on Daemon.
Giving up the throne.
Protecting Sea Dragon Point.
Abandoning everything if necessary in order to survive.
Choosing the people before his eyes rather than the Blackfyres' old dream.
Raymund released a short breath.
"I will follow."
Daemon said nothing for a moment.
He could have joked.
Normally, he would have.
But he did not want to this time.
"Yeah."
That was all.
Raymund said nothing more either.
That one word was enough.
After a while, he spoke again.
"I will go with you."
This time Daemon nodded as if he had expected it.
"I know."
"In King's Landing, I will not leave your side."
"Even to the privy?"
Raymund's heavy gaze descended upon him.
Daemon immediately corrected his posture. "All right."
"Do not take it as a joke."
"I really understand this time."
Only after examining Daemon's face for several moments did Raymund nod.
Valena said, "It would be best if Maester Luwin goes too."
"The old fellow too?"
"It is natural for a lord's maester to accompany an official visit. We need someone to handle letters, law, protocol, and records as well."
Daemon nodded.
`The old fellow has won a business trip too.`
He felt a little sorry.
Very little.
There was one more person they absolutely had to see before leaving.
Rickard Stark.
Daemon was his vassal.
Having received the king's invitation and traveling down to King's Landing, he could not say nothing to the Warden of the North.
Valena was already arranging everything that needed doing in her mind.
They would send their reply to the Crown today.
They would send a raven to Winterfell that same day.
Too many attendants would be a problem, but too few to the point of making a lord's dignity laughable would not do either.
The cost of staying in King's Landing.
Gifts for the royal family and important figures.
Provisions and horses needed for the journey.
Guards.
As Daemon listened, the journey began to feel increasingly real.
He was truly going.
Leaving the North.
Winterfell.
The kingsroad.
The South.
King's Landing.
The Red Keep.
A city he had never seen.
People he had never met.
Technologies he had never seen.
Foods he had never eaten.
A little anticipation...
Daemon's gaze landed on the red wax stamped with a three-headed dragon.
`No.`
`This is not tourism. It is a business trip.`
His mood sank again.
"Let us write the reply first."
Valena asked, "What will you say?"
Daemon thought briefly.
The words that came from his mouth were remarkably dignified.
"That I regard His Grace's gracious invitation as an honor beyond measure, that I have not forgotten the favor of confirming House Seadrake's founding, and that I shall proceed to King's Landing as swiftly as possible to offer my personal greetings."
Raymund looked at Daemon.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Is it strange when I speak politely?"
"A little."
"You really are something, old man."
His true thoughts were naturally different.
`Ah, fuck.`
`I am coming.`
It was only a little regrettable that he could not write that in a reply to the king.
Daemon rose from his seat.
As he headed for the door, he stopped suddenly.
"Ah."
Unease immediately returned to Valena's face. "What now?"
Daemon spoke very seriously.
"Please wipe the dust off the dragon egg while I am gone."
The two said nothing.
"We have to maintain it well if it is going to hatch and I am going to ride it later."
Raymund slowly closed his eyes.
Valena lowered her head as well.
Daemon looked from one to the other.
"What now?"
No one answered.
After a moment, Raymund spoke in a very low, heavy voice.
"Get out."
"...You are not swearing at me."
Raymund opened his eyes.
"While I can still endure it."
Daemon opened the door at once.
"Yes."
The door shut.
Alone in the corridor, Daemon looked at the closed door for a moment.
Then he tilted his head.
`Is riding a real dragon really not cool?`
No matter how he thought of it, the two of them were the strange ones.
But soon his expression grew somewhat stiff.
King's Landing.
The Iron Throne.
Aerys II.
The last blood of the Black Dragon, whom the world believed had already been severed, was for the first time entering the heart of the Red Dragon.
Daemon released a short breath.
Danger did not vanish merely because one avoided it.
One confirmed what one did not know.
One prepared for danger.
If things went wrong, one got out.
It was not the philosophy of some special hero.
In research.
In running his domain.
It was simply the way Daemon had always done things.
And several days later, horses and wagons bound south began gathering one by one before the gates of Sea Dragon Point.
The young lord of Seadrake, invited by the king, finally began preparing to leave the North.
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register