Aerys Targaryen II was in a good mood.
Even a few days ago, when the envoys from Myr standing beneath the Iron Throne had repeated the grievances they had been raising for years, he had enjoyed himself. The Myrish could not bear to admit that the glass made in White Harbor and the North was comparable to theirs, or in some cases better. They spoke of stolen techniques and poached craftsmen, but when the king asked who had stolen what, what proof they possessed, and whether they had personally witnessed the alleged process, they could offer no proper answer. In the end, all they had left was their old renown and pride, and the sight of Free City envoys clutching those things as they quailed before the Iron Throne pleased him greatly.
Today, however, was somewhat different.
Sending the Myrish envoys away had displayed the majesty of the Iron Throne. The northerners now entering King's Landing felt like proof that someone had answered that majesty willingly.
The invitation Aerys had sent north had originally been meant for two men: Rickard Stark, Warden of the North, and Daemon Seadrake, the young lord whose name had been reaching his ears with strange frequency for years. It had not even been an order. He had merely conveyed, with due courtesy, that he wished to see Rickard again after so long, and that he was curious to meet the boy who had had a hand in the heating that had eased his father's final years, the liquor he himself had come to enjoy, and the glass that had repeatedly affronted Myrish pride.
Yet the party that had come south was not merely the two of them.
Manderlys, Mormonts, Ryswells, and Umbers had come, with men from the Glovers and Dustins following as well. Not every northern lord had sent the head of his house personally, but there was no need for that. The North was an exceptionally vast land even among the Seven Kingdoms. It would have been madness for every lord to abandon his domain and travel thousands of miles for a single royal summons. What mattered was that the merman of White Harbor, the bear of Bear Island, the Ryswell horse, and the giant of Last Hearth had entered King's Landing in one procession.
Each claimed to have business to attend to in the south.
Of course they did.
Feudal nobles always had business to attend to.
But Aerys had no reason to interpret poorly the fact that their business had, by chance, all been bound into a single line to coincide with the king's invitation.
While servants adjusted his garments and cloak, he studied himself in the mirror: red and black, the three-headed dragon upon his breast, and the crown. A smile came naturally to his lips.
What pleased him more was that this had not begun with Tywin's advice.
Tywin Lannister was an excellent Hand. Aerys had no intention of denying it. He was a friend he had known since childhood, and Aerys had admired the decisiveness he displayed in subduing the rebellious bannermen of the Westerlands while still young. Thus, upon ascending the throne, he had made Tywin his Hand without hesitation, and Tywin had not disappointed him.
Tangled ledgers had been put in order, the royal finances had improved, and merchants and nobles moved more swiftly than before. It was undoubtedly a good thing that the court and administration were finding order.
The trouble was that as the realm improved, praise flowed in only one direction.
Better finances meant Tywin. Returning merchants meant Tywin. Troublesome nobles falling silent meant, in the end, talk of the young Hand's sternness and ability. Yet it was the king who had chosen Tywin, and the king who had granted him authority. Surely recognizing the worth of an excellent servant and employing him properly ought to be a king's ability as well.
And yet Tywin's name always came first from people's mouths.
Then what is mine?
Aerys looked at the crown in the mirror, then pushed the thought away.
Not today.
It had been his own thought to summon Daemon Seadrake, and to use the chance to strengthen his ties with Rickard Stark anew. And the northerners had come.
That was enough.
"See that there is no deficiency in the reception prepared for the northerners today."
The Lord Steward bowed at once. "Everything has already been prepared, Your Grace."
"Check again nonetheless. Consider how far they have traveled. If we cannot properly offer a bed and a meal to vassals who have ridden thousands of miles to pay their respects to their king, that would shame the Iron Throne."
"I shall remember it."
Aerys nodded in satisfaction.
Come to think of it, the North was a rather good vassal.
They rarely pushed their children into the king's presence and begged for offices. Nor did they compete with the great southern houses for a royal marriage. They were not a house that first calculated what price would follow whenever they were given something. They were so far away that kings had sometimes forgotten they existed, but Starks rarely treated their oaths lightly.
Torrhen Stark had knelt before the Conqueror and saved the North from Valyrian flame. During the Dance of the Dragons, Cregan Stark had not forgotten a promise once made. Even when the Black Dragon had repeatedly sought the Red Dragon's throne, no record spoke of a great northern host rising beneath a Blackfyre banner.
And for all their loyalty, they were remarkably quiet.
Good people.
More precisely, good vassals.
They moved when their king required them, ruled their own lands without supervision, and did not constantly clamor for favors.
What people could be more convenient from a king's perspective?
Thinking so as he made his way toward the great hall, Aerys slowed when he saw a party approaching down the opposite corridor.
Rhaella.
Two handmaidens and a septa accompanied the queen. He had intended to pass by, but stopped the moment he saw her face. Though she had attempted to conceal it with cosmetics, her eyelids were red and swollen. Her pale face alone told him she had not slept properly all night.
A weight settled over the buoyant mood that had filled Aerys moments before.
"You could not sleep again."
Rhaella did not answer.
That silence was answer enough.
"Because of Aegon?"
Only then did she raise her head slightly. "His breathing grew labored last night."
"And Pycelle?"
"He says he is well for now."
Aerys tried to reply, but fell silent at the look on Rhaella's face.
She could not believe it.
"They said Daeron was well too."
The corridor fell quiet.
Aerys could no longer find easy words either. He had heard it many times already: there was no need to worry, the child was healthy, the gods would watch over them. Yet there had been a child they had not even properly named. Shaena had not breathed from the moment she came into the world. Daeron had been pronounced healthy at birth, but had not survived half a year. There had been several more miscarriages between them, and now Aegon had come into the world two months early, so tiny and frail that Aerys had been afraid to touch him even when he first saw him.
He was so small that one misplaced finger seemed enough to break him. At times, his breathing was so faint in sleep that Aerys needed to see the rise and fall of his chest with his own eyes before he could be at ease.
He will be all right.
He will live.
The gods will protect him.
Such words no longer came easily even from Aerys's own lips.
He had heard them too often.
They had been wrong too often.
"He is alive."
The words that finally emerged were quiet. "Yes. He is alive."
Rhaella looked up.
"Aegon is alive, Rhaella."
It sounded less like comfort than something he was telling himself.
"So do not set him beside the children already dead and weep for him."
Rhaella's eyes grew wet again, but she did not cry this time.
Aerys watched her for a moment. Rhaella had never been a woman of many words, but she had not worn such an expression from childhood.
And neither of them had ever wanted this marriage.
At the end of that thought was always the same man.
Jaehaerys II.
Aerys did not hate his father. Rather, there was much he respected in him as king. Being frail of body, Jaehaerys had known his limits. He did not anger easily, and he knew how to listen to others. Even after taking the throne, when Aerys faced difficult matters, he sometimes wondered what his father would have done.
But this marriage.
No matter how much time passed, he could not accept it.
That damned prophecy.
Some woods witch had said that the prince who was promised would be born of Aerys and Rhaella's line. His father had believed her, and after that, what his son and daughter wanted no longer mattered.
It was not unusual for Targaryens to marry brother to sister. The Conqueror had done it, as had the dragonlords of old Valyria.
But tradition and coercion were different matters.
Above all, Jaehaerys himself had been a man who chose the woman he loved. He had defied even a king's will to marry his sister Shaera, yet gave his own children no choice.
Because of a prophecy.
Aerys's jaw tightened.
His father had been a good king.
That had not changed.
But in this, he had been wrong.
His gaze returned to Rhaella.
It had been strange from the beginning. Summerhall had burned on the day Rhaegar was born. Amid fire, screams, and the dead, Rhaella had given birth, and that child had survived and grown healthy.
But why, after that—
Aerys cut the thought short.
Aegon was alive.
He was still alive.
That was enough.
"You know the northerners are arriving today."
"Yes."
"You need not attend the formal audience."
Rhaella looked at him in mild surprise.
"I mean that you need not stand beside the Iron Throne with that face and pretend that nothing is wrong."
Aerys turned to the handmaidens. "Prepare cold water to ease the queen's eyes. Then see that she rests."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And if you wish to stay beside Aegon, you may."
Rhaella watched her husband silently. Aerys was quiet for a moment before adding, "But come out this evening."
"This evening?"
"I intend to invite Rickard Stark and his children. Daemon Seadrake as well."
A faint spark of life returned to her heavy expression.
"Are you so curious about that boy?" Rhaella asked.
"Are you not?" Aerys laughed shortly. "A boy who had his hands in glassmaking from the age of three is now twelve and has brought a line of northerners all the way to King's Landing."
"You did not tell him to bring them."
"That is why it is more amusing."
Aerys turned and took several steps, then halted again without looking back.
"Rhaella."
"Yes."
"Aegon is alive."
After a moment, the king added, "Think of nothing else today."
Leaving those words behind, Aerys went on to the great hall.
The great hall of the Iron Throne was already full.
When the king entered, the murmuring subsided. Aerys climbed slowly up the twisted steps forged from a thousand melted swords and seated himself upon the Iron Throne. Amid nobles, knights, royal officials, and Kingsguard, the grey direwolf, merman, bear, horse, and giant brought unfamiliar colors to the hall today.
It looked far better than he had expected.
Then his eyes naturally turned to one side.
Tywin Lannister.
The Hand stood as flawlessly composed as ever. Whether he knew the king was looking at him or not, his expression did not change.
Aerys's lips curved faintly upward.
The Lord Steward called the names. Rickard Stark stepped forward, followed by Brandon, Eddard, and the northern nobles taking their places in turn.
When their obeisance was done, Aerys spoke.
"Rickard Stark."
"Your Grace."
"It must have been a long journey."
"Since Your Grace called, it was a road I was bound to travel."
A short answer, and sufficient. Aerys liked it.
"If I recall correctly, I summoned you and one other." The king's gaze moved toward the people lined behind Rickard. "Has my memory failed me?"
Soft laughter spread through the hall. Rickard smiled very faintly as well.
"No, Your Grace."
"Then who are these people?"
"Some had business to attend to in the south. Others believed it proper to pay their respects in person when Your Grace honored the North with a summons."
Aerys surveyed the northerners for a moment.
Proper.
A good word.
"Then the Iron Throne gladly accepts the North's respects."
The following greetings were not long. Wyman Manderly, Jeor Mormont, Roderick Ryswell, Mors Umber, and the other northerners paid their respects in turn. Their clothes were less splendid and their words briefer than those of southern courtiers, but the king found that amusing rather than displeasing.
Looking at Umber in particular, Aerys thought sincerely, I would not wish to meet that man as an enemy.
Then at last the name he had been most curious to hear was called.
"Lord Daemon Seadrake of Sea Dragon Point."
A boy walked forward.
Aerys's brows rose slightly. He had heard the boy was twelve. Yet he was much larger than expected.
It was not only his height. His shoulders were broad, and his stride held the steadiness of one long trained in riding and swordsmanship. He was not yet fully grown, but he had a frame that made one wonder what he would become in several years.
His face, in contrast, was plainly that of a boy.
Young and handsome.
And bearing a strangely familiar trace.
Daemon knelt before the Iron Throne. "Daemon Seadrake pays his respects to Your Grace."
"Raise your head."
When the boy did, Aerys studied him without speech for a moment.
Tyrosh.
A daughter of old Valyria.
Though not so clear as in Lys, traces of the old blood remained among the ancient Tyroshi nobility.
Aerys smiled slowly. "You have the look of Valyria."
Several gazes in the hall turned toward Daemon. The king nodded, satisfied. "Good."
It was pure praise. To Aerys, traces of old Valyria were traces of beauty and nobility.
"Your mother is Tyroshi, I hear?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Was she raised in a distinguished house?"
Daemon thought for the briefest moment. "I have heard that my mother received an education and treatment wanting for nothing in Tyrosh."
Interest stirred in Aerys's eyes. The boy had not avoided the question, but neither had he boasted beyond necessity.
"I hear you are twelve this year. You have been well taught. You have spirit as well."
The king lightly tapped the Iron Throne. "What is your impression of the Iron Throne, seeing it for the first time?"
"I can only submit to the authority of Your Grace and the Iron Throne."
"Who taught you that?"
"My mother taught me most of all."
"So it would seem."
Aerys now asked what he truly wished to know. "Did you truly begin making glass at three?"
"It is true that I was involved at the beginning."
"Involved?"
"I described what I wanted, and the craftsmen of White Harbor tested it."
"You did not make it yourself, then?"
"Had a three-year-old handled a furnace himself, I would likely be missing several fingers by now."
Low laughter flowed through the great hall. Daemon immediately continued.
"The ideas were mine, but the people who turned them into goods were the craftsmen. To say that I made them without them would be a lie."
Aerys watched the boy briefly. His answers about heating, roads, and harbors had all been similar. Daemon said that he chose what should be built and set the direction, but craftsmen and laborers made those things real.
He was at an age when boys wished to boast of their accomplishments, especially before a king. Yet the boy drew an unusual distinction between his own share and that of others.
The king liked that.
"And Campbell?"
This time Daemon smiled a little. "I can say that choosing the method and direction of that liquor was my part."
"At last, something you claim to have made."
"I hear Your Grace enjoys it, so I believe it was not a great failure at least."
"Ha." Aerys laughed softly. "No failure. I like it very much."
"I am honored."
Then the king's gaze reached the boy's hair.
Red and black.
Aerys knew the Tyroshi had a custom of dyeing their hair, but had never seen anyone divide two colors so distinctly.
"Is that hair also a Tyroshi custom?"
"The custom of dyeing one's hair itself is something I learned from Tyrosh."
"And dividing it into two colors?"
"That was my choice."
"Why red and black?"
The air in the great hall changed, ever so slightly. Aerys felt it too.
Red.
Black.
Dragon.
It had not been so long since the last Blackfyre died. Few in this hall could see that combination without thinking of the Black Dragon.
The king found it amusing instead.
Daemon considered before speaking. "At first, I simply thought the two colors suited each other. But after studying history, I thought they might bear a somewhat different meaning."
"What meaning?"
"Once, the Black Dragon usurped the throne of the Red Dragon."
The great hall fell silent. Aerys's fingers stilled as well.
"But the usurping dragon fell, while the Red Dragon remains upon the Iron Throne."
Daemon's voice was not raised. "Then there is no reason black must forever remain only the color of a usurper. Black is also the ground that makes the Red Dragon stand out most clearly."
The boy looked to the king upon the Iron Throne. "If the usurping dragon has vanished, I believe black ought to return to the side of its true master. A red dragon upon a black ground is a color long used by the true master of the Iron Throne."
Aerys said nothing for a long while.
He liked it.
Very much.
The Black Dragon had fallen, and the Red Dragon remained.
Even black was now merely a ground that made the Red Dragon clearer.
"Ha." A short laugh escaped him, then grew. "Ha ha. Good."
The king tapped the arm of the Iron Throne. "Very good."
Daemon bowed his head. "You praise me too highly."
"Do you think that much over something as simple as dyeing your hair?"
It was a question tossed out almost for amusement. Daemon was silent briefly.
"I did not choose it with that meaning from the start, Your Grace."
Several expressions shifted almost imperceptibly. Aerys raised his brows.
"At first, I merely thought the colors went well together. Since Your Grace asked my reason, upon thinking of it now, I felt that explanation suited it best."
A silence passed. Having just spoken words that pleased the king, he had openly admitted that they were not a grand creed of loyalty he had cherished from the beginning.
Another king might have considered it rude.
Aerys laughed. "Yes. Yes, I see."
The king looked over the northerners. "I hear northerners speak facts rather than adorn their words, and remember promises long after they make them."
Several southern nobles' faces stiffened subtly, but Aerys did not care.
"Though you were born in Tyrosh, it seems you have learned northern forthrightness quite well."
"Thank you for seeing me kindly."
"Is there any reason not to?"
Aerys leaned back against the Iron Throne. "I prefer truth to embellished words."
An odd silence crossed the hall. Aerys found even that amusing. How many nobles spoke only truth before their king?
"I like the origin of your hair as well. The next time someone asks its meaning, you may tell them exactly what you just told me."
"I shall remember it."
"Especially before the Myrish."
This time the laughter was louder. Aerys laughed as well. Merely imagining the expressions the Myrish envoys would make at that hair was pleasing.
Then, suddenly, he looked again at Daemon: a large frame, handsome features, traces of old Valyria, and a manner that knew how to choose words. Only twelve.
Without any particular political calculation, a thought came from his lips.
"A pity."
The laughter gradually faded. Daemon raised his head. "Your Grace?"
"If I had a daughter grown enough..." Aerys looked at the boy. "I find myself wondering what might have been."
The air in the great hall cooled.
Only a little.
But unmistakably.
Rickard Stark's eyes moved. Wyman Manderly's smile vanished. Even Tywin looked at Daemon a little longer than usual.
To Aerys it had merely been a passing thought. But a king's daughter was not merely a daughter.
Only then did Aerys realize what he had said. He laughed lightly. "Ah. I seem to be in far too good a mood today."
He waved a hand. "Do not attach needless meaning to it."
Then, for the briefest instant, Rhaella's face that morning crossed his mind.
Shaena.
His dead daughter.
The king's smile faded so faintly that no one could have noticed.
"As you see, I have no daughters. Only Rhaegar and Aegon, who has not yet even left his cradle."
The tension eased somewhat. Looking over the great hall, Aerys abruptly realized he had summoned people from the North only to question and judge them from the Iron Throne.
"I truly must be in too good a mood today."
Rickard lifted his head.
"I have forgotten, somewhat, the courtesy a king should observe after calling guests from the distant North."
"Your Grace has bestowed more than sufficient honor upon us."
Aerys waved his hand. "Do not say such things. Did I not just say that I prefer truth to embellished words?"
Small laughter returned.
"Keep this evening free."
"Your Grace?"
"I wish to speak with you. Not in the formal manner of a king and the Warden of the North, but as people meeting again after a long time."
He looked at Brandon and Eddard. "Bring the boys as well."
Then he turned to Daemon. "Lord Seadrake too."
"It is an honor, Your Grace."
"Rhaella and Rhaegar will join us. Aegon is still too young; that cannot be helped."
Rickard bowed deeply. "We shall gladly obey."
Aerys smiled in satisfaction.
Today was a very good day.
*
The massive doors of the great hall shut behind them.
The heavy sound echoed through the corridor, and only after Daemon was certain that the eyes of the Iron Throne and court nobles no longer followed him did he stop and release a long breath.
"Haaaaah..."
The shoulders he had held straight before the king sagged.
"I nearly got myself killed."
He meant it sincerely.
On the surface, nothing had gone wrong.
No, it had gone extraordinarily well.
The king liked him, praised the glass and Campbell, and treated the northerners graciously. The discussion had somehow reached Blackfyres because of his red-and-black hair, but he had escaped that brilliantly, and had even received an invitation to dine separately with the royal family.
Objectively speaking, it had been a resounding success.
Yet his back itched strangely.
`What was that?`
Walking slowly down the corridor, Daemon reviewed the audience.
His doctoral course in his previous life had left him with all kinds of useless abilities. One was the habit of assessing whether his advisor was in a good mood today, whether he could say more now, whether that silence was contemplation or rage, and whether a laugh during a presentation was because something was truly funny or because the professor knew the presenter was about to get fucked.
A bullshit skill that made him read Kim Jaebong's eyebrows before experimental results.
Having dealt with merchants, officials, knights, and nobles in this life, it had only grown needlessly sharper.
Thus, Daemon had his own standard for judging people.
Namely:
`The asshole detector.`
He fed the king he had just met into it.
`Is he an asshole?`
Daemon considered for a moment.
`...No.`
His face soured in a complicated way.
`Fuck. He's not.`
At the very least, he was not a foolish king.
Aerys knew how to speak before a crowd. He laughed when the atmosphere stiffened, lowered his voice when he wished for silence, and raised the northerners' pride without lowering himself. The questions he threw at Daemon had been more detailed than expected. While seeming to ask harmlessly about his mother, glass, heating, roads, liquor, and hair color, he had drawn out quite a great deal: the environment in which Daemon had been raised, how he viewed his accomplishments, and how far he acknowledged others' contributions.
`He knows how to be a king.`
That much was certain.
Which made Daemon even more uneasy.
`Fuck. So what is bothering me?`
After several more steps, Daemon's pace slowed.
The Hand.
Tywin Lannister.
The blond man who had stood at one side of the great hall.
When the northerners paid their respects, when people laughed, when Aerys's mood lifted, the king had sometimes looked in that direction. Not continuously, nor for long.
Just briefly.
Several times.
That was why it felt stranger.
`Why does he keep checking the Hand?`
As far as Daemon knew, the two had been old friends. They had been close since childhood, and when Aerys took the throne, he had immediately seated Tywin as Hand. Daemon had heard they trusted one another greatly.
Yet the looks he had seen felt different.
They were not dislike.
They did not seem like suspicion.
But Aerys was continuously conscious of him.
That feeling was strangely familiar.
`Oh.`
Daemon slowed further.
`There was something like that in my previous life too.`
Kim Jaebong.
At first, he said Daemon was doing well. Before other professors, he boasted that Daemon was the best student in his laboratory, clapped him on the shoulder, and said he would support him if he followed properly.
But when others began praising Daemon's results for too long, something attached itself to every sentence.
I set the direction.
I created the overall picture.
He cannot do it alone yet.
He only achieved that much because I watched over him.
At first, Daemon had thought it natural.
He was the supervising professor.
But eventually the boundary of achievement began to grow strange.
`Ah.`
Daemon's lips parted slightly.
`Fuck.`
Of course, he had no intention of deciding that a king he had watched for mere minutes was the same kind of man as Kim Jaebong. He did not overestimate his eye for people to that degree.
The smell was merely a little similar.
The expression people sometimes wore when someone more highly praised than themselves stood right beside them.
`The king is jealous of the Hand?`
Daemon tilted his head a little.
`Well, before power, even fathers and sons can become nothing. What is friendship worth?`
History books were full of such stories. Growing up together, drinking together, entrusting one's back to another on battlefields—none guaranteed that a king and his subject remained friends for life.
The question was Tywin.
Although the king had looked at him several times, Tywin had shown no reaction.
None at all.
The same expression.
The same posture.
`That's why I understand even less.`
He could genuinely be a loyal servant who did his duty regardless of what the king thought.
Or...
Daemon recalled Tywin's expressionless face.
`Keep looking.`
`So what?`
`Do you think I'll be scared?`
He could be that sort of man.
Daemon had only seen him for the first time today; there was no way to know which he was.
But he knew the name.
Tywin Lannister.
The young Hand.
And Castamere.
Daemon did not remember every detail, but the ending was famous. The Reynes and Tarbecks, who had looked down on Tywin's father Tytos, had rebelled. In the end, one house fell, and the other withdrew into underground mines.
Then Tywin let in the water.
Daemon walked in silence for a while.
`...This one isn't fucking easy to deal with either.`
He was not merely an official good at ledgers and taxes. He was a man who had erased two vassal houses that mocked his family entirely from history.
One side was a young, ambitious king fiercely proud of his bloodline, who seemed oddly conscious of his capable Hand.
The other was famed for being damned good at his work, never changed his expression, and was ruthless enough to erase a rebellious house from the map if necessary.
And they were friends.
For now.
Daemon looked once at the ceiling.
"...No matter how I look at it, it smells like something's going to go to hell within ten years."
Of course, he might be overreacting. Aerys and Tywin could genuinely be close even now. The king might trust his Hand, and the Hand might be loyal to the king. To decide the future from a few glances would be even more idiotic.
Still.
`That's what it smells like.`
Living under Kim Jaebong, Daemon had smelled this sort of thing several times.
At first it was nothing.
One expression.
One word.
Who received more credit, who believed the other had slighted him.
Then one day it exploded.
`Back then, it was a lab.`
Daemon's face soured.
`This is the Seven Kingdoms.`
The difference in scale was far too great.
Since there was nothing he could do immediately, Daemon shoved the thought into a corner of his mind and considered Aerys himself again.
He liked Valyrian blood quite a bit. That was certain. The instant he saw even one trace of it in Daemon's face, the king's eyes had changed.
He seemed ambitious too.
He overflowed with confidence and possessed a pull that drew people in.
And he was not stupid.
That continued to trouble Daemon.
In history, exhausting kings were not necessarily incompetent kings. A man incapable of anything might instead be carried along by those around him, who restrained and supported him appropriately.
The truly exhausting kind had ability.
Confidence as well.
Ambition too.
And believed he could do anything.
A name came into Daemon's mind.
`Daeron I.`
Young, charming, and bold.
He was good at war.
He pushed through what others said could not be done.
Daeron I had not invaded Dorne because he was foolish. Rather, because he was skilled at war, he thought he could do it—and in fact, he succeeded once.
What followed had been the problem.
`He doesn't smell like a bad king.`
Daemon rubbed his face.
`Is he the kind who'll be fucked if he runs wild?`
It did not mean he was a tyrant yet. The Aerys he had seen today had actually seemed decent. He respected the northerners, took Daemon's crediting of craftsmen well, laughed at honest answers, and with Myr, he had not immediately started a war but merely shown that the Iron Throne was not to be taken lightly.
That made it even more ambiguous.
`He's fine now, but...`
Daemon groaned softly.
`A man like that feels like he'd lose his mind in a big way if he ever snapped.`
He could know no more than that. He did not see the future, nor had he become a wizard who could read hearts.
But as he kept reviewing the audience, another scene returned.
When Aerys spoke of his children.
For only an instant, his expression had changed. The face that had been smiling sank.
And the queen had not appeared at today's formal audience.
`Are things bad between husband and wife?`
Daemon thought briefly.
`Or is something wrong with the children?`
There was no way to know the royal family's circumstances. It could be either. It could be neither.
Then the word daughter crossed his mind.
Daemon stopped walking.
"Ah."
The king's words returned vividly.
If I had a daughter grown enough.
What might have been.
And in that instant—
Rickard.
Wyman.
Tywin.
The surrounding nobles.
Every one of them had looked at him.
Daemon's mouth twitched.
`Fuck.`
`Why are you looking at me?`
He had not asked for the king's daughter, nor had he raised marriage.
The king had spoken on his own, and everyone had looked at Daemon.
Aerys himself genuinely seemed to have said it without thought. Only after the hall went silent had he looked as though he realized what he had said.
But a king's passing words were not passing words to others.
`The king says something because it occurred to him.`
`The nobles beside him immediately unroll their family trees in their minds.`
Daemon grimaced.
`This is why I hate being around important people.`
When an ordinary man misspeaks, it ends as a mistake.
When a king misspeaks, it becomes politics.
At least he had handled the hair issue well. The moment he heard that question, a chill had run down his back.
Black and red.
Before a dynasty that remembered the Blackfyre rebellions.
And him of all people.
Yet when he said the Black Dragon had fallen and black was now a ground that made the Red Dragon shine, Aerys's face had brightened visibly.
Daemon's lips curled upward.
`Wow.`
For a moment.
`I was pretty fucking impressive there, wasn't I?`
"What did I tell you?"
A low voice came from behind him.
His smile froze in place. Daemon slowly turned to find Raymund standing there.
"...Old man."
The old man's eyes moved over Daemon's face to his red and black hair.
"Your hair."
Daemon glanced away. "What about it?"
"I told you to change the dye."
"It's pretty."
"Daemon."
His voice was not raised. That was why it was more frightening.
Raymund looked at the boy's hair briefly, then said, "Today, the Black Dragon was mentioned before the Iron Throne."
"I handled it well anyway."
"Yes."
Daemon's eyes rose a little.
"You handled it well. You did not hesitate despite being questioned suddenly, and you did not speak too much. Even if your mother had heard it, she would have found no fault in your conduct today."
Daemon's shoulders lifted slightly. "Right?"
"But when we return, dye your hair again first."
They dropped immediately.
"I don't want to."
Raymund looked at him. Daemon stared back.
"It really suits me."
"I know."
"See?"
"Yes."
Hope rose within him.
Raymund added calmly, "We'll discuss it when we return."
Hope died.
`Crazy old man.`
Daemon pouted and turned away. Through the window, the roofs of King's Landing spread below. There was still time before dinner. Thinking of sitting at one table with the king, queen, crown prince, Rickard, and the Stark brothers already made his head ache, but he still had several hours of freedom.
`Right.`
`Let's properly see King's Landing first.`
He wished to see the market and workshops. Simply seeing what Essosi merchants brought in, what goods sold dearly, and where what kind of craftsmen gathered would teach him much.
At that moment, a voice came from farther down the corridor.
"Daemon!"
His eyes slowly closed.
`Ah.`
Rapid footsteps. As expected, Brandon Stark was running toward him. Eddard followed much more quietly behind.
Without even catching his breath, Brandon said, "Found you!"
"What?"
"You said we'd cross swords when we had time!"
Daemon's brow twitched. "When did I say that?"
"At Winterfell!"
"I said I didn't want to."
"Then I said we could do it tomorrow, and you didn't say anything."
Daemon stared blankly at Brandon. "You thought that was a promise?"
"Yes."
There was no hesitation.
`Fuck off.`
"There's time before dinner."
"I have things to do."
"What?"
Daemon pointed out the window. "Seeing King's Landing."
Brandon's face brightened further. "I'll come too."
"..."
"And if we find an empty space, we can cross swords too."
"Why are you combining those naturally?"
"We can do both."
Daemon looked toward Eddard with his last hope. The quiet boy stood a few paces behind his brother.
`Eddard.`
`You're normal, aren't you?`
Eddard looked once at his brother, then at Daemon. "My brother will probably keep following you, Lord Seadrake."
Daemon closed his eyes.
`Ah.`
`You gave up on stopping him long ago.`
In the end, he took them both out.
He had initially intended to visit the market, but the destination changed the instant Brandon mentioned the Street of Steel. Upon hearing that King's Landing possessed a street crowded with blacksmiths and armorers, Daemon's interest immediately shifted there.
Weapons.
Armor.
Fine workshops.
"Let's go there first."
Brandon grinned broadly. "Good!"
Eddard said nothing, but his steps quickened a little. Daemon did not miss it.
`You like it too.`
`Right. A child is a child.`
They could tell they were nearing the Street of Steel before reaching it. The sound of hammers striking metal rang through the alleys, and the smells of charcoal, oil, hot iron, and leather filled the air. Compared to the stench of filth that permeated King's Landing, it was practically heaven.
In the lower part of the street were cheap spears, helms, swords, and shields fit for soldiers. As they climbed the hill, the quality of the wares visibly changed. Blade finishing improved, silver and brass appeared on hilts, and house sigils were engraved upon armor and scabbards.
Brandon looked everywhere until his head nearly turned around.
"Look at that."
"I saw it."
"That sword too."
"I said I saw it."
"What about that armor?"
"Brandon."
"What?"
"Keep that up and your neck will twist around."
Brandon paid no attention. Eddard did not chatter like his brother, but he lingered longer at each shop. Curiously, he examined straight blades, grips, and leather straps longer than silver ornament or lavish gilding.
Then Daemon stopped before one workshop.
One shield hung upon the wall had an unusual shape. It was neither round nor the common triangle. Its long body rose diagonally at one upper side.
"Please take that one down."
After looking over the clothing of the young lord and his retainers, the shop owner promptly handed him the shield. Daemon slipped his arm through and lifted it.
His eyes widened slightly.
The raised portion naturally covered beneath his jaw and beside his neck—an awkwardly exposed place with an ordinary shield. Even when he turned and moved his arm, it did not obstruct his view greatly. It looked useful for deflecting weapons, shoving an opponent back, or driving into him with his weight.
`This is good.`
It seemed especially suited to someone like him, who could make use of size and strength.
Raymund, who had watched from behind, took the shield, moved it several times, and checked the grip and straps.
"Not bad. It will suit your build. But the grip ought to be moved somewhat. As it is, the upper portion could catch when you swing your arm wide."
Daemon's face brightened. "Right?"
He immediately asked the owner whether it could be altered. The man answered that it could be done today. When asked whether he wanted an emblem, Daemon requested a dragon flying over the sea, engraved in silver.
Then he felt eyes upon him.
Brandon and Eddard.
More precisely, Brandon was studying the nearby swords more avidly than the shield, while Eddard discreetly looked away when Daemon met his eyes.
Daemon looked between them.
He was buying only his own things.
The boys who had come with him were merely looking.
Brandon was Stark's heir, and Eddard had likewise been raised wanting for nothing, so they could not lack money. But ten- and nine-year-old boys were not at an age to pick up expensive King's Landing arms and pay for them as they pleased.
Daemon considered briefly.
`Well.`
`Money keeps coming in.`
There was income from glass, Campbell, mines, and his lands. Seadrake would not be ruined from buying two swords.
"You pick one each too."
Brandon's head whipped around. "What?"
"Whatever you want."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"A sword too?"
"Yes."
"The one I pick?"
Daemon raised a brow. "How many times are you going to ask?"
Brandon disappeared into the shop at once.
`Fuck off.`
Still, he was a little cute.
Eddard remained still. "What about you?"
"I am all right. I already have a sword."
"So?"
"...Isn't one sword enough?"
Daemon shut his mouth.
`This bastard.`
`Someone's offering to buy you something. Just choose.`
He suggested daggers, hunting knives, and shields in turn, but received the answer that Eddard already had each of them. Finally, when Daemon practically forced him to choose, Eddard passed every piece with flashy silver decoration and selected a simple dagger.
A black leather grip.
An unadorned scabbard.
But the blade was finely finished.
Eddard drew it once, checked its weight and balance, and said, "I will take this one."
"The one with silver ornament over there costs more."
"This fits my hand better."
Daemon's favorable opinion rose again.
`If only Brandon were half as sensible as him.`
They decided to put a small silver direwolf on the dagger's scabbard.
Then Brandon returned, naturally holding a sword. Its hilt had silver ornament, its pommel was worked, and its scabbard bore handsome bronze fittings.
Daemon looked at the sword, then Brandon.
"You chose it for the decorations."
"No, I didn't."
"Really?"
"Its balance is good too!"
Daemon took it and swung it several times. It was genuinely not bad. It was actually quite good.
`He chose it for the decorations, then checked the balance.`
Daemon did not say it aloud.
"Fine."
Brandon's face lit up. "You'll buy it?"
"Yes."
"You promised."
"Yes."
They decided to engrave a small silver direwolf on this scabbard as well. Brandon insisted that it be large, but Daemon refused, saying the wolf would become bigger than the sword.
Then Daemon remembered something.
"Ah."
"What?"
"Lyanna and Benjen."
Brandon's eyes sparkled again. "Something for them too?"
"It would be strange to buy only for you two and leave."
Daemon had no intention of giving Lyanna a sharp sword. Handing a bladed weapon to a five- or six-year-old was madness no matter how he considered it. But he did not intend to give her a toy that was merely light and decorative either.
He chose a blunted training sword with enough weight, but manageable with both hands by a small child.
When the owner said he could make it lighter if it was to be a decoration for a young lady, Daemon immediately shook his head.
"No. She will likely actually swing it."
The owner stared at him briefly. Brandon laughed beside him.
"Lyanna will like that."
Daemon asked, "Do you think she'll hang it on a wall and leave it alone?"
Brandon considered seriously. "No."
"That's what I think too."
It was their first perfect agreement.
Benjen was younger, so Daemon chose a well-balanced, sturdy wooden sword rather than an iron training blade. Once they decided to put Stark wolves on both children's weapons, Daemon's attention naturally shifted to protective gear.
It seemed strange to put weapons in their hands while leaving them in old gambesons that did not fit.
When Brandon said he had one fitted last year, Daemon looked at him in disbelief.
"You're growing right now."
Brandon answered calmly, "When it gets too small, I'll have another made."
"..."
It was a fair point.
But Daemon already wanted to buy it for him.
"Have a new one made."
"Why?"
"You bought a new sword."
"So?"
"If you buy a new sword, you need new armor too."
Brandon thought briefly. "That seems right."
Daemon's eyes grew complicated.
`We are the same sort after all.`
In the end, they found a nearby maker of protective gear. Brandon and Eddard were measured anew, while Daemon checked room at the shoulders, armpits, and waist for their future growth. He ordered them made to last several years without being loose enough to impede movement, and commissioned sets for Lyanna and Benjen, who had not come to King's Landing, as well.
Lyanna's would allow the arms to move particularly freely.
Benjen's would be light and soft.
All four would bear a grey direwolf with red eyes upon the chest.
When he came to himself, he had commissioned a full set of weapons and protective gear for all four Stark children.
Brandon asked, "Father will pay for it, won't he?"
Daemon turned his head. "Why?"
"They're ours."
"I'm giving them as gifts."
"Still."
"If you pay after receiving a gift, is it a gift?"
Brandon thought for a moment. "No."
"Then that settles it."
Eddard said quietly, "Thank you."
Daemon paused. Only then did Brandon say belatedly, "...Thank you."
Daemon looked between them, then turned away as if it were nothing. "For what?"
Still, the faintest smile remained on his lips.
`I've put lollipops in the kids' mouths, at least.`
It was roughly the right expression, except that the lollipops were a full medieval noble-child set of sword, dagger, training sword, wooden sword, and gambeson.
Afterward, they climbed a little farther through the Street of Steel. Brandon regretted that his new sword would not immediately be in his hands, but peered into every shop. Eddard followed quietly, touching his new dagger's scabbard.
Daemon slowly sank into thought as he looked over the fine swords, armor, shields, and decorations all around him.
Arms and armor were not merely weapons.
To a noble of this era, a good sword and suit of armor were tools that truly preserved life, but also property, pride, and a house's prestige.
Simply put:
`Luxury goods that perform well too.`
Daemon looked at an elaborately worked breastplate.
`How could this possibly not sell?`
Then an entirely different metal entered his thoughts.
Aluminum.
His steps slowed a little.
The mineral itself was not rare. Rather, he remembered it as an element extraordinarily abundant in the earth's crust.
The problem was extracting it as metal. In his previous life, it had been common enough for beverage cans and kitchenware, but when he considered what process was required to make such things, it was essentially a nonexistent metal in this era.
Daemon's eyes narrowed.
`Wait.`
If—
If he truly could devise a method to extract it?
It was silver-colored.
Light.
It did not rust easily.
And above all, it was highly likely no one in this world had ever properly seen metallic aluminum.
Then it did not matter how little he could produce. There was no need to use it in quantity from the beginning.
Cups.
Plates.
Brooches.
Sword hilts or armor ornaments.
House sigils.
Daemon's lips slowly curled up.
`I can sell it as a precious metal.`
It was a substance common in the earth.
But no one knew how to turn it into metal.
Seadrake alone could release a little at a time.
The scarcity would be perfect.
`And I set the price.`
He smelled money.
At once, Aerys's face came to mind. He was a king whose mood had improved at one trace of old Valyria, and who had openly delighted in the symbolic meaning attached to hair color. He did not seem the sort to dislike new things or goods no one else possessed.
The first product.
One exquisitely made cup.
Engrave the three-headed dragon upon it.
Give it to the king.
Aerys drinks Campbell from it.
The court nobles see it.
They ask what that silver object is.
Daemon's eyes shone.
`The king is a billboard.`
The most expensive and authoritative billboard in the Seven Kingdoms.
The king uses it first.
Then the nobles want it.
Limited production.
Serial numbers.
The Seadrake sigil.
The manufacturing process secret.
The price—
`Higher than gold.`
Daemon's smile deepened.
`This will make money.`
And naturally, the thought did not end there.
If he could extract aluminum, he could consider alloys too. He did not remember the exact composition, but one name remained.
`Duralumin.`
An alloy that greatly increased aluminum's strength by mixing it with other metals. He remembered it was used in aircraft.
Copper, perhaps.
There might have been magnesium.
Manganese as well?
The proportions?
`No idea.`
Daemon was not particularly troubled. If he did not know, he could experiment later.
The issue came much sooner than that.
How did he extract aluminum itself?
As he searched his memories from his prior life, the word electrolysis came first.
`Electricity.`
Daemon's steps slowed.
From here, the problem suddenly became much bigger.
Electrolysis naturally required electricity. But all he possessed was knowledge and memory of what electricity was. His lands had no device that drew power through wires, and naturally no generating facility that produced electricity at the press of a button.
`Then do I have to make electricity first?`
Daemon frowned.
He roughly remembered how to make batteries: different metals and an electrolyte. With a very simple structure like a Voltaic cell, he might imitate one on an experimental scale.
But could that produce enough power for metal smelting?
`Not a chance.`
Then he needed another method.
Rotational motion.
Magnets.
Coils.
Memories of electromagnetism and mechanics learned at university began tangling in Daemon's mind.
Use a force already available, such as a waterwheel, to turn something.
Arrange magnets and wire somehow.
`A generator.`
One word surfaced.
He knew the principle. Moving a magnet and coil relative to one another created voltage.
But knowing the principle and making a device that actually worked were entirely different matters. He needed good magnets, technology to draw copper wire at an even thickness and great length, methods for insulation and contacts, and experiments to obtain the desired voltage and current.
Daemon's expression grew odd.
`To make a little aluminum.`
`I have to invent a generator first?`
For a moment.
`This isn't one research project. It opens an entire goddamned research tree.`
He did not even properly remember the method of smelting aluminum yet.
The phrase molten salts remained dimly in his memory.
Alumina.
And—
`Cryolite.`
That word also surfaced faintly from deep in his mind. But he did not know precisely what temperature, apparatus, or electrodes were required.
Daemon instead felt a little more at ease.
Then what he needed to do now was simple.
Not make it.
Write it down first.
Test how much current a battery could truly produce, then verify the principle of a magnet-and-coil generator with a small model. At the same time, search the minerals and books arriving in White Harbor and Seadrake for cryolite or similar minerals.
After doing that, if he saw potential, he could proceed.
If not, he would record it and postpone it.
`Right.`
`Start with what I can do.`
But human imagination did not behave as obediently as a research schedule. The thought that had leapt from aluminum to duralumin had already gone elsewhere.
Light.
If it could provide sufficient strength—
Armor.
Shields.
Helms.
And for a flying creature, weight was especially important.
One little bastard naturally sprang into Daemon's mind.
`Dragonlet.`
The egg hidden deep in Sea Dragon Point. Its shell was stone-cold some days, and subtly warmer than its surroundings on others.
And that strange babbling that seemed to reach only him.
One day, it would hatch.
It would grow.
He would ride it.
Then came the thought that had struck him at Harrenhal.
Meraxes.
The eye.
Even a colossal dragon could die if struck properly in somewhere as vulnerable as an eye.
Daemon's expression became more serious.
`Then cover at least around the eyes.`
Head and neck.
Chest.
The place where the rider mounted.
Above all, around the eyes.
A structure that did not greatly hinder vision but deflected arrows and spears.
Then Daemon realized how far his thoughts had flown.
`No, fuck.`
`The egg hasn't even hatched, and I'm already putting armor on it.`
There was no aluminum.
No generator.
He did not even know the precise method to smelt aluminum.
The dragon had not hatched.
For now, he had merely connected a few lines in his mind.
Still, there was no harm in dreaming big.
He could trim it away piece by piece when he brought it into reality.
Then Brandon called beside him.
"Daemon."
He jolted out of his thoughts. "Hm?"
"That's really mine, right?"
Brandon pointed toward where the sword he had left for sigil work lay. Daemon answered with an incredulous look, "Yes."
"Even if Father tells me to give it back later?"
"I'll speak to Lord Stark myself. Satisfied?"
Brandon grinned. "Good."
Eddard also ran his fingertips once over the new dagger's scabbard. It was still plain, without its silver wolf, but anyone could see from his face that he was pleased.
Daemon smiled faintly too.
"Please do the remaining sigils properly."
The workshop man bowed. "Do not worry, my lord."
"The wolves are grey, and their eyes red."
"Yes, my lord."
Brandon said, "Lyanna will really like it."
"She'll ask for the sword first."
"Definitely."
This time, even Eddard smiled very slightly.
Daemon's eyes widened.
`Oh.`
`He knows how to smile too.`
Then Brandon opened his mouth.
"But."
Daemon instinctively felt dread.
"What?"
Brandon smiled brightly. "There's still time."
"So?"
"A sword match with me."
Daemon slowly looked at the sky.
Seeing King's Landing.
The Street of Steel.
A shield.
Gifts.
Aluminum.
Royal advertising.
A generator.
Dragon armor.
While thinking all these thoughts, he had completely forgotten why this boy had followed him in the first place.
"We have time before dinner," Brandon drove the nail in.
Daemon sighed. "No live steel."
Brandon's face brightened further. "Yes!"
"Wear gambesons."
"Yes."
"Helms too."
"They're uncomfortable."
"Then we do not do it."
"I'll wear one!"
Daemon looked at Raymund. "Old man, is there somewhere nearby to practice?"
Raymund looked between Brandon and Daemon. "If we look, we'll find somewhere."
Daemon sighed quietly. Yet a smile remained on his lips.
`Well.`
`I bought them lollipops, so I have to play with them too.`
As the sun slanted west, the two stood facing one another in a small training yard behind the quarters assigned to the northern nobles.
Blunted swords and shields.
Gambesons and training helms.
Brandon was excited before they even began.
Daemon was much more relaxed. Though only two years separated their ages, the difference in their builds was much greater, and Daemon had held a sword longer.
He would simply take it easy on him.
"Ready?" Brandon asked.
"Yes."
"Don't regret it."
Daemon narrowed his eyes behind his helm.
`This bastard.`
Brandon charged first.
He was faster than expected.
The blunted sword struck the shield.
Thud.
When it was blocked, Brandon immediately changed angles and came in again. He naturally lacked strength, and his technique was still rough, but he did not hesitate. When one attack was stopped, he came from another direction. Even after Daemon shoved him back a step, he immediately closed the distance again.
Daemon's eyes widened slightly.
`Oh.`
He was the sort who pressed forward so insistently that his personality was tiresome, but with a sword in hand, that disposition worked quite well.
He had no fear.
When Daemon thrust out his sword, Brandon received it with his shield and was pushed back a step by their difference in size.
But he was smiling.
And he charged again.
Daemon smiled without realizing it.
`Right.`
`This is why it's hard to hate children even when they're annoying.`
Sword and shield collided several more times. Finally, Daemon twisted his shield and broke Brandon's balance, sending the boy rolling sideways.
"Agh!"
Daemon stopped his sword immediately. "Are you all right?"
Brandon lay on the ground, looking at the sky for a moment.
Then he laughed.
"One more time."
Daemon's face hardened. "No."
"Why!"
"We have to eat soon."
"Just once!"
"No."
"Daemon!"
Daemon removed his helm. Red-and-black hair damp with sweat clung to his forehead. Walking toward the fence, he looked at Eddard.
"You're not doing it, right?"
Eddard looked once at his brother springing to his feet, then at Daemon. "I am all right for today."
Daemon's face became peaceful.
`Good lad.`
Brandon immediately shouted, "Eddard! You try too!"
Eddard answered calmly, "Father will not be pleased if we are late for dinner."
Brandon stopped.
Daemon stopped too.
The king.
The queen.
The crown prince.
Rickard.
The Stark brothers.
And himself.
The dinner they had forgotten for a while came back to them all at once.
Daemon's smile gradually disappeared.
Brandon spoke first. "We should go."
"Yes."
Daemon wiped sweat from his face with a towel.
Only hours ago, he had answered the king's questions before the Iron Throne. Then he had smelled something strange between the king and his Hand, gone out to the Street of Steel and bought weapons and armor for Stark's children, and leapt as far as wondering whether he needed to invent a generator just to make aluminum.
And now.
The king's family and Stark's family would sit at one table.
It ought to be more comfortable than a formal audience.
Yet he had the odd feeling that the opposite would be true.
"Let's go," Daemon said first.
Brandon promptly followed. "Will my sword be done today?"
"I don't know."
"I should have asked them to make the wolf bigger."
"No."
"Why?"
"I told you, the wolf would be bigger than the sword."
"That would be cooler."
Daemon did not answer. Eddard followed quietly behind the two of them.
The dinner bell was ringing.
Daemon looked once toward the inner reaches of the Red Keep.
The young king he had seen upon the Iron Throne.
The brief glances he had cast at Tywin.
The queen who had not appeared today.
The crown prince whose face he had not even properly seen.
And the remark about a daughter that Aerys had tossed out without thought.
Daemon's mouth twisted slightly.
`Fuck.`
`Isn't this harder than the formal audience?`
With that thought, the three boys turned back toward the inner Red Keep for dinner with the royal family.
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