The food smelled good.
Daemon had to admit that much. The buttered bread was golden and warm, the slow-cooked meat fragrant with herbs and spices, rich with juices before his knife had even touched it. Small birds roasted crisp beneath a thin glaze of honey, root vegetables, cheese, fruit, and fish arrived one after another; and the royal table used spices generously enough that each new dish brought a new scent.
Compared to the smells he had encountered while walking the streets of King's Landing that afternoon, it was almost moving.
So this city is fit for human habitation when it comes to eating.
The problem was not the food.
Daemon looked down at the meat on his plate, then naturally lifted only his eyes to survey those seated opposite. Aerys II and Queen Rhaella sat side by side, with Crown Prince Rhaegar beside them. A short distance away sat Rickard Stark and his two sons, Brandon and Eddard, with Daemon himself between them.
There were far fewer people than at the formal audience earlier. No musicians, no fools, no burden of dozens of eyes examining him beneath the Iron Throne. Just as Aerys had said, this was not a ceremonial exchange between king and vassal, but a private meal where the elders and children of two houses could share food more closely.
At least, in name.
Daemon speared a piece of meat with his fork.
Aerys opened his mouth.
Daemon put down his fork.
The king finished speaking.
He picked it up again.
This time Rickard answered.
Daemon set it down again.
For a while, he stared at his plate.
So am I supposed to eat this with my mouth?
Wait. Am I supposed to eat it with my nose?
The scent kept rising from the food, yet he could not find a proper moment to put any in his mouth.
Of course, the king would not have him beheaded simply for chewing while he spoke. Nor would he be dragged away for treason because his knife made a clink against the plate while the queen drank water.
Probably.
Why is there a “probably” attached to that?
The formal audience had been easier. The king asked, Daemon answered, he observed protocol and did not say anything unnecessary, and it was over. Everyone's role had been clear.
But now they were meant to eat and converse at ease.
At ease.
Daemon scoffed inwardly.
With the king.
At ease.
He had heard those words somewhere before.
At some lab meeting in his previous life, Kim Jaebong had leaned back in his chair with an unusually pleasant expression.
"Don't be so tense, everyone. Speak freely. If you think I'm wrong, you can say I'm wrong."
And there had been one master's student who actually believed him.
"Professor, under these conditions, I believe this method suits us better than the current one."
He had even prepared materials and spoken politely.
Kim Jaebong had smiled at the time.
"Really? That could be."
For the next week, that master's student had not been treated properly as a human being in the laboratory. His opportunities to speak at meetings shrank, his workload grew, and whenever an experiment went wrong, his name came up even in matters that had little to do with him.
Thanks to that, Daemon had learned an important principle of graduate life very early.
When someone above you tells you to speak freely,
you must not speak freely.
A principle verified through the blood and tears of doctoral candidates.
Thus Daemon was meek today as well. When the king asked, he answered; when Rickard spoke, he listened; and only when no one addressed him did he swiftly put meat into his mouth.
And he observed.
One suspicion he had formed during the day became nearly certain not long after the meal began.
Ah.
That marriage is thoroughly fucked.
Aerys and Rhaella did not fight.
If anything, they were excessively polite to one another.
When the king asked something, the queen answered only as much as necessary. When Rhaella spoke to him, Aerys answered as much as he had to. They did not interrupt or mock one another, nor did they raise their voices. On the surface, there was nothing to fault.
That was what made it strange.
Married couples who have lived together for a long time retain small habits, whether they want to or not. They know what the other dislikes, when the other tends to speak first; their eyes naturally meet when they smile. Yet there was almost none of that between them. They seemed less like king and queen than two nobles seated at the same table for an official occasion, with no wish to trespass upon each other's lands but no wish to become close either.
A bad marriage did not necessarily require plates to fly.
Sometimes it was more serious when nothing flew at all.
They're completely ruined.
Daemon tore off a little bread.
Then a fact so obvious that he had temporarily forgotten it rose into his mind.
Aerys and Rhaella.
Full brother and sister.
His hand stopped.
Ah.
Then, deep within his mind, two calamities awoke at once.
A Confucian Dragon with a topknot appeared above the clouds and slammed a foreclaw down into empty air.
Blasphemous!
Beside it, a Neo-Confucian Tiger in a gat trembled through its whiskers.
How can a man and woman born of the same parents enter the bond of marriage?
The Confucian Dragon roared.
The order of mankind has collapsed!
The Neo-Confucian Tiger howled back.
This is an abomination against heaven's law!
No.
Daemon clenched his teeth inwardly.
I know.
Please shut up.
But the two beasts did not stop.
Bring forth the rites of marriage!
Open the family register!
No, burn the family register!
Agree with each other first, fuckers.
In reality, Daemon calmly took a sip of water.
Keeping his expression under control was important.
If he grimaced at the king and queen here, that would be even more blasphemous.
Daemon occasionally wondered why he had acquired a mental zoo in this life that he had not possessed in his former one, but the answer generally came whenever he examined a family tree, so he chose not to think deeply on it.
Fortunately, there was someone else to look at.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
Daemon had only seen him at a distance during the day. Only now, at supper, did he get a proper look at the crown prince's face.
His first impression was very simple.
Wow.
He's fucking handsome.
His silver-gold hair seemed to faintly gleam beneath the candlelight. Though his face had not yet fully matured, its lines were already finely formed. The Valyrian features characteristic of the Targaryens sat upon him in a gentler, more elegant fashion than they did upon Aerys.
More than anything, he had a quiet air.
Aerys was the sort of man who drew an entire room toward himself. When he smiled, those around him brightened; when he lowered his voice, people instinctively listened.
Rhaegar was different.
He listened when others spoke and opened his mouth only when necessary, but his quietness did not make his presence faint.
Daemon glanced at the prince, then returned his gaze to his plate.
...I can somewhat see why people keep going on about Valyria.
He could not understand every reason the Targaryens had believed their blood exceptional for generations, but if one grew up looking at faces like that, they had at least succeeded at marketing.
Fucking excellent branding.
Yet the person Daemon was most grateful for at this table was someone else.
Brandon Stark.
When Daemon looked sideways, he found him astonishingly quiet.
That afternoon, while they had walked the Street of Steel, Brandon had driven everyone mad whenever he saw a sword—what was that one, why did it look like that, how much did it cost, let's spar again later.
Yet now, one look from Rickard made him straighten his back, and when the king asked him a question, he answered only what was needed and closed his mouth at once.
Daemon was almost moved.
Lord Stark.
How do you turn on this function?
Please teach me before we return North.
Eddard had always been quiet, so there was little difference.
As expected, he's a good lad.
If only his brother took after him halfway as much.
At least the chance of Daemon losing his head tonight because of the Stark brothers had greatly diminished.
The trouble was the mood of the meal.
It was strange.
At some moments, it was truly warm.
Aerys and Rickard in particular understood each other better than expected.
"I hear the northern stretch of the Kingsroad still has many places needing repair," Aerys said.
Rickard answered evenly. "It cannot be helped when winters are long, Your Grace. Even if we repair it in summer, stretches begin to fail again after a few years."
"It would be unreasonable to demand that the roads of such a vast land all be maintained to the same standard."
"The North is harsh country. Still, we are grateful that the Crown remembers the North."
Aerys smiled.
"Had Jaehaerys I attempted to administer the North himself as well, I think even he would have thrown up his hands midway."
A tiny smile appeared at Rickard's lips.
"The roads he laid still serve us greatly today."
"Jaehaerys I would be pleased to hear such words from the Warden of the North."
Aerys raised his goblet and drank.
"Just as the North does not forget the Crown, I hope you know the Crown has not forgotten the North or House Stark's loyalty."
Moments like these were good.
A young king and his loyal great vassal calmly discussed the affairs of an old kingdom. Rhaegar listened in silence, while the children ate quietly.
Rhaella, too, occasionally softened.
"Is the North truly so cold in winter?" the queen asked Eddard.
After considering for a moment, Eddard answered, "We are accustomed to it, Your Grace."
"Of course. I find even King's Landing winters cold enough, though those who endure northern winters may find that laughable."
That made Daemon smile a little.
Rhaella, too, smiled faintly. For a brief moment, she looked not like a queen but an ordinary mother speaking with a child.
Then Aerys said casually, "Rhaella has disliked the cold since childhood."
Rhaella's smile stiffened ever so slightly.
"Your Grace disliked the heat."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"I do not remember it well."
"Ah. Is that so?"
That was all.
The warmth in the air became a layer thinner.
Daemon slowly chewed the meat in his mouth.
When Rickard began speaking again after a time, the mood eased. When the king and queen exchanged a few words, it turned strangely cold again.
Only after this happened several times did Daemon understand the rhythm of the table.
Warmth.
Stifling tension.
Warmth.
Stifling tension.
What fucking beat am I supposed to follow?
Meals with important people were tiring, in either life.
People everywhere were much the same.
After enough dishes had passed and their cups had been refilled several times, Aerys, who had been discussing Jaehaerys I's roads, slowly turned his goblet between his fingertips.
"Being king is a curious thing."
His tone was light.
But Daemon instinctively put down his fork.
Here it comes.
I don't know what, but something is coming.
Looking into the red wine in his cup, Aerys spoke.
"While one sits the throne, countless things happen. There are wars, marriages, famine, abundance. As one lives through each day, they all seem important."
He paused.
"Yet after enough time passes, people remember only a few among them."
Rickard listened silently. Rhaegar watched his father as well.
"When Jaehaerys I is spoken of, people first remember his roads and laws. The long peace, too."
Aerys smiled.
"The Young Dragon's name is bound to Dorne. Though he did not rule it long, no one will ever entirely separate Dorne from that name."
Then he spoke of his father.
"My royal father ruled only briefly, but he ended the threat of the last pretenders and passed the Seven Kingdoms to me in peace. That was no small thing either."
Then Aerys smiled more easily.
"I have been fortunate as well."
Daemon expected it.
Sure enough, Tywin's name appeared.
"I have a man like Tywin for Hand. No one can deny that since he took charge of the realm's affairs, the royal treasury has become sounder than before, and the court itself has been noticeably put in order."
It was praise.
Clearly.
Daemon had no reason to deny it.
Yet the image of Aerys looking toward his Hand again and again in the great hall that afternoon returned to his mind.
"That makes me wonder sometimes."
The king set down his cup.
"What my still-young reign will be remembered for in the distant future."
They were beautiful words: the concern of a young monarch who looked upon the reigns of kings in history and wished to leave a good name of his own.
Daemon's mind translated them instantly.
Don't I have anything I can slap my name on?
I admit Tywin does good work.
But it'd be nice if I had something of my own too.
That's basically it.
It fit his suspicions from that afternoon too well.
Fuck.
He really is conscious of his Hand.
Rickard did not answer at once. He set down his cup, considered for a moment, and said, "Your Grace's reign has scarcely begun."
"Do you mean there is no need to hurry yet?"
"Great works are not made merely by haste."
It was a good answer.
Safe.
Daemon fervently agreed inwardly.
Yes.
End it there.
Very good.
But Rickard added, "However."
Daemon felt a sense of foreboding at once.
For a moment.
Only a moment.
Rickard's eyes turned toward him.
"There may be things that begin merely by looking at something long familiar with slightly different eyes."
Interest rose in Aerys's eyes.
"That is a vague thing to say for you."
"It is not what I do best."
Rickard said it calmly.
Then he looked at Daemon again.
"But I have seen someone nearby who is rather good at such things."
Daemon was smiling politely.
Why are you looking at me?
Aerys's gaze came to him as well.
No.
Why is Your Grace looking at me too?
Rickard raised his cup as if nothing had occurred.
Lord Stark?
Are you telling me to produce something now?
"Daemon Seadrake," Aerys said.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Does anything come to mind?"
Ah.
Fuck.
It had come at last.
Daemon's thoughts raced.
Nothing grand.
A canal? Madness.
A kingdom-wide road network? Say it wrong and he would become responsible for designing it.
A standing army? How was a centralized standing army meant to function within an antiquated feudal structure?
Currency reform? Absolutely not.
He had no grand sense of mission concerning the kingdom's future or the prosperity of its people. Aerys sought something to leave his name upon, Rickard was quietly pushing Daemon forward, and Daemon merely wanted to survive this suffocating meal.
The conditions were simple.
It had to be small.
Visible.
Profitable.
And above all:
I do not have to do it.
Daemon recalled King's Landing's harbor as he had seen it that afternoon: endless ships and carts, porters, warehouses, merchants, and every sort of goods.
Then a name that seemed to have nothing to do with it sprang into memory.
Lavoisier.
Daemon's eyebrow twitched faintly.
Most people thought of modern chemistry when they heard Lavoisier: conservation of mass, oxygen, the theory of combustion. He was fucking famous for that.
But in life, the man had worn a much less romantic face as well.
Taxes.
The tax system of old France was a chain of things difficult for a modern Korean to comprehend. Taxes differed by region, exemptions came by social rank, and the state did not even collect all of them directly. Private contractors promised to pay the Crown a fixed sum, bought the right to collect taxes, and kept whatever remained after the contract amount and expenses as their profit.
The more they collected, the more money they made.
The design itself left no room to expect kindness.
Lavoisier had been especially capable among them. He found smuggling through ledgers, hunted down where taxes were leaking away, and even used chemical knowledge to catch merchants mixing other substances into tobacco to falsify its weight.
In the history of science, he was a great man.
From the taxpayer's perspective, he was someone one would rather not meet.
Was he a tax inspector whose main profession was chemistry?
Or a bastard who collected taxes to fund his chemistry?
I get confused sometimes.
When taxes around Paris kept leaking away, the solution was astonishingly simple.
Control the roads entering and leaving the city.
Inspect goods as they passed.
In modern terms, it was close to combining toll gates and customs houses. Make people and cargo travel through principal routes, record what and how much they brought in, divide goods into categories—wine, grain, timber, livestock—and collect the fixed tax.
They squeezed people mercilessly.
People could not have liked it. Goods that had been smuggled in untaxed yesterday now had to be paid for, and those who caught smugglers and collected arrears made fortunes.
When the Revolution came, tax farmers became symbols of the old regime's greed, and Lavoisier was seized as well.
All manner of charges were attached to him.
And then—
The guillotine.
Daemon divided the name in his head for a moment.
Chop.
Lavois-ier.
The corner of his mouth almost moved before stopping.
...Well, there are reasons people get their heads cut off.
To be precise, it had been far more complicated than that.
But the legitimacy of a historical trial was not important now.
And this was a story he must never tell before the king.
Especially not before a king speaking of his reign and legacy: a story about a royal man good at collecting taxes who got his head cut off in a revolution would help nothing.
The useful part came before that.
There was no need to throw tax collection rights to private contractors. Daemon disliked that arrangement too.
If one entrusted the people's throats to men whose personal wealth grew with every coin squeezed out—
Of course they will squeeze them dry.
What was needed was a checkpoint.
Measurement.
Ledgers.
Cross-checking.
King's Landing was a port city. Ships had to touch a dock eventually.
They could not force every vessel into one place, but the large merchant ships could be made to pass through several designated docks. There their cargo could be recorded, their tax payment verified, and a mark issued.
Then, if foreign goods without such marks were found within the capital, one could ask questions.
Oh.
That sounds plausible.
It also had elements a king would like.
No need to create new taxes.
No need openly to declare that merchants must pay more.
Simply make sure less of the money already owed leaked away.
The numbers would rise.
And the king's name could be put on it.
The king's docks.
The king's scales.
The king's ledgers.
Yes.
Let's throw him this.
Then eat some food.
Having arranged his thoughts, Daemon opened his mouth cautiously, as a twelve-year-old vassal ought.
"If Your Grace permits, may I speak of a small thought that came to me while I toured the capital today?"
Aerys brightened.
"Speak."
Daemon did not begin with taxes.
The same contents needed proper wrapping before a king.
"The King's Landing I saw today held more things than any city I have yet seen."
"More than White Harbor?" Aerys asked with a smile.
Daemon smiled as well.
"The comparison would be embarrassing, Your Grace."
The king looked satisfied.
Good. Praise first.
"There were northern furs and grain from the Reach. Wines from Dorne, silk from across the Narrow Sea, dyes and spices; and at the harbor, cargo was unloaded without end, goods whose origin I could scarcely identify."
Daemon chose his words for a moment.
"Seeing it, I had a rather curious thought."
"What thought?"
"When a storehouse is small, its owner can count what lies inside with his own eyes."
Aerys listened.
"But if that storehouse grows as large as a city, might not the owner's ledgers and scales need to see more than his own eyes can?"
The words came out fairly old-fashioned. Their true meaning was simple.
The harbor is fucking enormous. How can the king know whether taxes are actually coming in properly?
Interest appeared on the king's face. Rickard set down his cup too.
"Your Grace already has officers charged with the harbor, men who inspect goods, royal scales, and various ledgers, as I understand it. Above all, your Hand has organized Your Grace's finances admirably, so I would not dare suggest adding new taxes or a great new office."
Aerys showed little reaction.
Daemon added desperately inwardly, I am not saying Tywin is incompetent. Please do not put me between you two. I want to live.
"But I wondered whether we might give the things already in place a clearer path."
"A path?"
"Yes."
Daemon explained slowly.
"It would be impossible to gather every ship entering the capital at one place; the harbor could not bear it. But could not merchant vessels arriving from distant seas with great quantities of cargo pass first through several appointed docks before unloading?"
The king's eyes narrowed.
"And there?"
"The shipowner would submit the kind and amount of his cargo, its weight would be checked upon the Crown's scales, and an officer would record its type and quantity in a ledger. Once the portion already due to Your Grace had been paid, the goods would be given a mark showing they had passed through a lawful route."
Daemon continued. "Should foreign goods without that mark be found in markets or warehouses of the capital, it would not be unjust for the Crown to ask by what path they entered the city."
The real meaning: Put toll gates in the harbor and catch those who evade customs duties.
The corner of Aerys's mouth rose slightly.
"Merchants would not like it."
Daemon did not immediately deny it. That would have been a lie.
"If Your Grace demanded a heavier portion than before, they likely would not."
The king smiled. "But?"
"If it is only a matter of ensuring that the portion already fixed does not vanish on the road before reaching Your Grace's coffers, I do not dare judge whether it should be called a new burden."
Aerys chuckled lowly.
"Without raising taxes, more coin enters the treasury."
Daemon inclined his head a little.
"It would be closer to receiving what was not being received."
Yes. I mean catching tax evaders.
Aerys ran a finger along the rim of his cup.
"The officers would need to be rather honest."
Kim Jaebong's face appeared in Daemon's mind again.
No. If you build a system by trusting people, it fails.
But he spoke much more decorously aloud.
"I think it may be better not to place too great a burden upon human honesty."
The table grew somewhat quiet. Rhaegar's gaze turned to Daemon.
"What do you mean?" Aerys asked.
"Make the list of cargo first submitted by the shipowner, the figures confirmed by the royal scales, the ledger of the customs officer and mark proving tax payment, and finally the actual goods entering the markets and warehouses, all tell the same story."
Daemon drew a breath before continuing.
"If one person writes a lie, it will show when it does not accord with the other records; even if two deceive together, matching all the remaining records becomes much more difficult."
A good phrase came to him.
"Rather than hoping people are simply good—"
He paused.
"—I think an order that makes lying somewhat more troublesome will endure longer."
The true meaning was simpler. Not that we eliminate corruption; make corruption fucking inconvenient.
Aerys was silent for a moment.
Rickard spoke first. "Set the path, and leave a trace that it has been passed through."
"Precisely."
Then Aerys said, "That would let the Crown know more accurately not only its coin, but what is entering the capital."
Daemon glanced at the king.
Oh. He saw that immediately.
Grain. Iron. Timber. Wine. Foreign goods. The ledgers would pile up, recording what came from each city and in what quantity.
Not only revenue.
Information.
Daemon revised his assessment again.
He's not an idiot after all.
"As Your Grace says."
Aerys looked quite pleased.
Good. He had asked. Daemon had chewed. He had tasted the food.
Now—
Get my name out of this.
Daemon touched his cup, then let it go.
"However, Your Grace."
"Speak."
"I understand tonight to be a private table where Your Grace has invited the Warden of the North, his sons, and myself as guests."
The atmosphere shifted slightly. Aerys looked at Daemon, as did Rickard.
Daemon did not hurry.
"It is not a place where a vassal offers formal counsel beneath the Iron Throne, nor a session of the small council where scribes record every word."
"No."
"Then I think what is said at this table tonight ought to remain at this table."
This time the king did not answer at once.
Daemon selected his next words with even greater care.
"If a sovereign closes the doors within his own house and permits a vassal to speak without restraint, I believe he entrusts more than mere convenience; he entrusts confidence. If one takes words heard in such a place outside to use for his own honor or gain, it would be more than a loose tongue."
Daemon looked directly at the king.
"The moment he breaks a boundary the king has ordered kept, he becomes disloyal for breaking the promise made with his sovereign. If he knows the king's will and defies it, he cannot be far from treason."
The words fell heavily.
The meaning beneath them was: What I said tonight cannot leak outside. Erase my name.
But saying only that would have been too blatant, so he wrapped it in another layer.
"If Your Grace finds something useful in the thought I offered, Your Grace may command your Hand and other servants to shape it into a far better form."
Daemon spoke very respectfully.
"And if one day a new order is established in the harbor of King's Landing and merchants follow it, what people ought to see is not a few words set upon a table tonight by a young vassal—"
He gave it a beat.
"—but the order Your Grace has established in your city."
The words were beautiful.
The meaning was disgustingly simple.
I give you the idea. Say Your Grace did it. I am going home.
The table was quiet.
Daemon kept smiling, though a little cold sweat ran down his back.
Was that too blatant? Did it sound like I was openly telling the king to take the credit?
Rickard's lips moved almost imperceptibly.
That man understood.
Aerys was not someone who would fail to understand either.
The king smiled slowly.
"You speak of loyalty in a curious fashion."
Daemon lowered his head.
"I am still young and have not chosen my words well."
"No."
Aerys smiled.
"You chose them very well."
The king lifted his cup and drank a mouthful of wine.
"If a king closes his doors to guests and tells them to speak freely, then turns what is said there into court gossip the next day, how many will ever bare their hearts before him again?"
"Just as Your Grace says."
Good. It worked.
Aerys turned to Rickard. "And what do you think?"
Rickard did not hesitate. "If Your Grace has declared it a private occasion, setting the boundary of that privacy is likewise Your Grace's right."
Daemon translated at once. If you say it is secret, it is secret. End.
Aerys seemed to like the brief answer.
"I do like how northerners speak briefly and plainly."
Then he looked back at Daemon.
"The man who finds a good seed need not till the field himself. A king's task is to recognize a good seed when it falls before him, and decide where it should be planted."
Daemon's eyes shifted slightly.
Oh. He understood perfectly.
The king's words were beautiful, and their meaning clear.
I will take the idea. I will decide where to use it.
Perfect.
Daemon bowed politely. "I leave it to Your Grace's wisdom."
Yes. Take every bit of it.
The peace lasted only three breaths.
Aerys said, "I should have Tywin consider it tomorrow as well."
Daemon's hand paused very slightly.
"If it is a matter of tying together officers and servants already in place, he will judge it most precisely."
"...Indeed he will, Your Grace."
Ah. Fuck. It isn't over.
But as if he had read Daemon's heart, the king added another word.
"Of course."
Aerys leisurely turned his cup.
"There is no reason for my Hand to know who said what at this table tonight."
Daemon's eyes lifted a little.
"A king merely spends an evening considering various matters, then the next day commands his Hand to examine one proposal."
Daemon looked at Aerys for a moment.
It was a flawlessly beautiful expression.
The king preserved the trust of a private gathering. The king considered the realm's affairs himself. The next day, by his own judgment, he gave his Hand an order.
That was all.
The meaning beneath it was perfect too.
I will leave out your name. The idea is mine. Tywin does the work.
This time Daemon bowed with a fair amount of genuine feeling.
"A wise course, Your Grace."
At that moment Rickard's eyes touched Daemon's briefly. His expression did not change, but Daemon somehow felt that gaze saying, You escaped well.
Daemon answered only inwardly. You pushed me in there, Lord Stark.
After that, he remembered the food's taste even less.
# *
After supper ended, Daemon was not certain he had actually eaten dinner.
He had emptied his plate several times, and his belly was certainly full. He had eaten meat and bread, and sweet things at the end.
Yet their flavors were vague.
Walking through the corridor toward his chambers, Daemon touched his stomach.
"Hiss..."
He felt oddly bloated.
Can this really be called eating a meal?
Or should I say I ate a meal of reading the room?
During the day, the king had nearly gotten him killed over his hair color. In the evening, he had gone in for one meal and emerged after throwing out a proposal for a customs system.
Am I seriously not going to get indigestion?
Lying down immediately did not seem wise. Daemon changed direction.
At the end of dinner, Aerys had permitted his royal guests to move freely through the Red Keep's rear gardens, courtyards, and nearby corridors. It did not mean they could wander at will through the depths of the royal apartments, but it was enough for a breath of night air.
The air changed as soon as he descended into the gardens. The high walls cut away much of the city's noise, and even what remained was only a distant hum, like waves rolling in from afar. The wind off the sea was cooler than it had been by day, carrying the mingled smells of flowers, grass, and damp earth.
Only then did Daemon feel he could breathe a little.
He walked slowly.
The day replayed itself in his mind without permission.
The Iron Throne and Aerys.
Tywin.
Hair color.
The king's daughter.
Raymund.
The Street of Steel.
Shields.
Brandon.
Aluminum.
The royal table.
Rhaella.
Rhaegar.
Taxes.
Customs.
Secrets.
The Hand.
Daemon let out a long sigh.
"Ah, fuck."
There was no one in the garden, so he muttered a little louder.
"I really want to go home."
He meant it. He missed his room at Sea Dragon Point, his workshop and laboratory, glass and stills, mines and documents. He even slightly missed the training where Raymund beat him around.
At least there, he did not need to check a king's expression every time he chewed a bite of meat.
I will have to stay a few more days.
There was no chance they would pack and leave tomorrow. Rickard would have business to settle, and Wyman Manderly would meet southern merchants. Daemon himself had come all the way to King's Landing and had much to buy.
Seeds. Books. Craftsmen. Livestock. Unusual tools.
He also needed to see more of the harbor and markets.
So, a few days.
Yes. Just endure a few days.
Daemon made a very modest wish.
Please. Nobody bother me.
He had met the king. Seen the queen. Seen the future king, the crown prince, across the dinner table.
He wanted to stay as far from the Hand as possible.
Still, he should be able to spend the remaining days quietly.
Nobody.
Pay.
Attention.
"Lord Seadrake?"
Daemon's eyes slowly closed.
"..."
He looked up at the night sky.
Fuck.
If there was a god, it seemed he had a hobby of overhearing Daemon's prayers and granting exactly their opposite.
He turned his head.
Silver-gold hair.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
He wore lighter clothes than at dinner, yet retained the unmistakable bearing of royalty. He was perhaps a year older than Daemon, but Daemon was so much larger that anyone unfamiliar with them might have guessed their ages reversed.
The crown prince approached.
"Can you not sleep?"
No. And now I doubt I will sleep even more because of you, Prince.
Daemon smiled outwardly.
"It seems I ate a little too much at dinner."
Rhaegar smiled faintly.
"It did not seem you ate so much."
You were watching that?
"I was nervous, so I do not really know how much I ate."
"My father seemed to enjoy tonight's supper greatly."
"If His Grace enjoyed it, that is fortunate."
"And Lord Seadrake?"
The question was natural. Daemon paused for a beat.
Kim Jaebong came to mind again.
Speak freely. Sure. I am not falling for that.
"It was an honor beyond anything I would have dared dream of."
The safest, most unremarkable answer.
Rhaegar's lips rose slightly further.
"I do not think that was the answer I asked for."
This bastard.
Daemon's smile stiffened very slightly. He was more troublesome than expected.
But Rhaegar immediately added, "You need not answer if it is difficult."
That, oddly, lowered Daemon's guard somewhat.
He did not force him. He let the other person choose how far to speak.
Hm.
They naturally began walking in the same direction. Daemon matched Rhaegar's pace. It would have been strange to stride far ahead beside the crown prince.
At first, they spoke of trivial things: whether the North was truly so cold; how winter at Sea Dragon Point differed from Winterfell; how the craftsmen of White Harbor made glass so uniformly; whether it was true that a twelve-year-old lord made and sold Campbell despite being unable to drink it properly himself.
At that last question, Daemon laughed.
"It is not that I never taste it, but I am still growing, so I keep my distance from it as much as possible."
"Is that so? My father rather likes the liquor Lord Seadrake makes."
"Does he, Your Highness?"
"I have not yet tasted it properly myself."
"There is no need for Your Highness to drink it early."
Rhaegar looked sideways at him.
"The maker says that?"
"I have a feeling Your Highness may one day become my customer, so I only mean that I hope you will drink it in the future."
Rhaegar laughed. Daemon laughed with him.
After a few more exchanges, Daemon became certain of something he had dimly sensed at the table.
He speaks well.
Speaking well did not mean knowing many difficult words. Rhaegar did not keep talking only about himself. He listened, chose his next question from the answer he received, and naturally guided the conversation toward things the other person might care about. He made speaking comfortable, then left one realizing too late that one had revealed more than expected.
Daemon glanced at him.
Fucking handsome.
Good voice.
Good with words.
Good at listening too.
And the crown prince.
Fuck. He's a cheat character.
He differed from Aerys as well. Aerys was the kind of man whose arrival made everyone feel at once that the king had entered the room.
With Rhaegar, after exchanging a few words, one found oneself wanting to hear the next thing he would say.
He has a talent for bewitching people.
And with a face like that, the effect would be even stronger.
The conversation naturally turned to books and history.
"I heard you like history," Rhaegar said.
"I do."
"Which age do you favor most?"
Daemon considered briefly. "It is hard to choose only one."
"Do you like tales of war?"
"Wars are interesting too."
After thinking a little, Daemon added, "But I prefer looking at why wars occurred."
Rhaegar tilted his head slightly. "You look at the cause rather than the result?"
"When possible."
"Interesting."
They walked a few more steps.
"Then you must be greatly interested in the Doom of Valyria," Rhaegar said.
Daemon's gaze shifted a little. "Of course."
For someone who loved history, few hooks were better than the Doom of Valyria: the world's greatest empire, dragons, magic, volcanoes, a great catastrophe whose cause was unknown.
"And Daenys's dream?"
"Daenys the Dreamer, you mean."
Rhaegar nodded. "I was taught it is the reason our house can be here today."
Daemon knew the tale well. Daenys dreamed of Valyria's destruction. Her father Aenar believed his daughter's words, sold his wealth and lands, and departed for Dragonstone with his family and dragons. The other Valyrian dragonlords mocked him as a coward. Twelve years later, Valyria was destroyed.
"That is how it has been passed down," Daemon said.
Rhaegar immediately caught the phrasing.
"Passed down?"
Sensitive, isn't he?
"Do you doubt it?"
Daemon shook his head at once.
"If you mean whether Daenys truly had such a dream, I have no reason to doubt it."
In his previous life, prophecy, dreams, oracles—bullshit, more or less.
Daemon had been an atheist in his former life. More precisely, the more religion he encountered, the closer he became to an antitheist. He had been sick of seeing countless people speak nonsense in God's name, and had developed a habit of instinctively taking one step back whenever someone invoked divine will.
But after coming here, he had been forced to alter his thinking somewhat.
God. Magic. Natural phenomena.
It was difficult to deny that something beyond his understanding existed.
Above all—
I was reborn.
There was no greater counterexample.
So Daemon now admitted the possibility that something transcendent existed. He simply did not believe that something had delivered religious scriptures to humanity and helpfully provided a donation account number.
Believing a god might exist and liking religion were entirely different matters.
Prophecy was the same.
"What I view cautiously is not Daenys's dream itself, but the conclusions later people draw from it."
Interest deepened in Rhaegar's expression.
"What conclusions?"
"The conclusion that Aenar left Valyria solely because of his daughter's dream."
Rhaegar's pace slowed slightly.
"Is that not what the records say?"
"It is."
Daemon acknowledged it at once.
"And it may truly have been so."
"May have been?"
"Because I am not Aenar."
Rhaegar listened in silence.
Daemon selected his words slowly.
"He may indeed have wholly believed his daughter's prophecy. But House Targaryen's position within Valyria may also have been becoming unstable. There may have been trouble with rival houses, poor political prospects, or knowledge that did not survive outside Valyria."
"What knowledge?"
"I do not know."
Daemon said it firmly.
"Which is why it is inference. Perhaps there were abnormalities in the Fourteen Flames, problems in the mines, unsettling movements among the nobles. Or perhaps they had already considered leaving Valyria for reasons of wealth, trade, or politics."
He drew breath.
"And with such reasons already present, Daenys's dream may have given the final push."
"Several reasons overlapped."
"They may have."
Rhaegar asked, "But Valyria was destroyed in the end."
"Yes."
"Daenys's dream was right."
"That is true as well."
A trace of question appeared in Rhaegar's eyes.
"Then why seek other possibilities?"
Daemon thought for a while. It was a problem he often encountered in his love of history.
"Because I do not think that the result proving a prophecy correct means every reason behind a decision made at the time can be explained by that one prophecy."
Rhaegar fell silent.
"When people make decisions, money and fear, pride and family, power and even the emotion of that day are often entangled all at once."
Even a person quitting a company had five different reasons attached to it. How much more so when one abandoned a country, sold one's property, and departed with family and dragons?
After several centuries, such complex circumstances disappeared, leaving only a few lines in a history book.
A daughter dreamed.
Her father believed.
They left.
"History seems to become simpler as more time passes," Daemon said.
"Simpler?"
"Events terribly complex while people live become one line of record centuries later."
Rhaegar smiled faintly. "The maesters would not like that statement."
"My maester dislikes it sometimes too."
Rhaegar laughed. Daemon smiled a little as well.
But the weight of the conversation remained.
"Then how do you see Daenys's prophecy?" Rhaegar asked again.
This time Daemon considered longer.
"As a warning."
"Only that?"
"I do not mean it is only that."
Daemon shook his head.
"But if prophecy truly sees the future, I think it is like seeing some unchanging shape from far away."
Rhaegar showed interest. "An unchanging shape."
"If the future truly exists somewhere, perhaps it is like a mountain. The mountain is there, but we are not beings who stand upon it and see the entire world at a glance."
Daemon looked once to the night sky.
"We are born, live in one direction, and die. We are mortal. Our lives are short, our information lacking, our sight limited."
The crown prince listened quietly.
"Even if a prophet truly sees the future, we cannot know whether they see all of it or only part. And the moment they put what they saw into words, interpretation has already entered once."
"The interpretation of the one who sees."
"Yes."
"And the one who hears?"
"A second time."
Daemon nodded.
"Even when people see the same sight, they notice different things first. They fear different things and desire different things."
In his former life, he could have proven it merely by posting a video and opening the comments. A hundred people watched the same thirty-second clip and fought for a hundred different reasons.
Seeing prophecy does not suddenly upgrade a human being's CPU.
Aloud, he spoke politely.
"I think people struggle to see the world entirely free of what they wish to see and what they fear."
"Then should one not believe prophecy?"
"No."
Daemon answered at once.
"I think that certainty is dangerous too."
The prince's expression shifted a little.
"Consider Daenys. If her dream had been wrong, what would Aenar have lost?"
Rhaegar answered, "Part of his wealth and his standing in Valyria."
"And his face."
The other dragonlords had mocked him as a coward.
"But if the dream was right and he remained?"
No answer was needed. His entire house vanished.
"Thus, if I were Aenar, I would have left even if I could not completely believe my daughter's prophecy."
Rhaegar looked somewhat surprised.
"You would follow it without believing?"
"Avoiding danger does not require certainty. Seeing smoke in the distance does not mean one must be certain one's house is burning."
Daemon paused.
"But if one's family is inside that house, one should first find where the doors are."
Rhaegar thought for some time.
"Then prophecy is—"
"Information from which one can reason."
Daemon chose a more exact expression.
"At least, I think that is the safer way to handle it. Prophecy may be information, but it is not itself a confirmed command."
Rhaegar remained silent for quite a while. Only the footsteps of the two boys continued along the stone path.
Then the crown prince asked, "What if prophecy does not speak only of disaster?"
Daemon looked sideways.
"What if it speaks of something someone must do?"
His voice was calm.
"If many might die because that person did not act, and some catastrophe could not be prevented because he turned away from the role he was meant to fulfill?"
The night wind stirred the leaves.
"Could it still be regarded as only information then?"
Daemon did not answer immediately.
He looked at Rhaegar.
Handsome.
Really.
Fucking handsome.
He spoke well. He knew how to hear others. He thought deeply.
And he had attached duty to prophecy.
Ah.
Fuck.
Something clicked into place within Daemon's mind.
It was a wholly different kind of foreboding from the one he had felt when assessing Aerys that day.
Aerys trusted himself too much: his bloodline, his royal authority, his talent, his name. If things went wrong, he seemed likely to head toward, I am king, so why can't I do it?
But Rhaegar was different.
Not because I want to do it.
Because I must.
That was the kind of thing he could say.
The difference was not small.
The father is the tyrant type.
Daemon looked at the prince beside him once more.
The son...
Is he the bad-king type?
No. That was not accurate either. He was far from a man who ruined a realm through stupidity.
He was the opposite.
Smart. Articulate. A listener. Able to arrange his thoughts logically. Able to draw people to him.
That's even more dangerous.
When a foolish king says nonsense, people curse him behind his back. There he goes again. People who will stop him emerge.
But if someone with Rhaegar's face and voice, with logic like that, said, We must save the world—
Daemon imagined knights, nobles, young people, all looking at Rhaegar with moved expressions.
A fucking lot of them would follow him.
That was most dangerous.
A man who believes a wrong conviction alone and walks toward a cliff is less dangerous than one who moves people's hearts and leads them all to that cliff.
And it was prophecy, of all things.
What Daemon hated was not the possibility that something transcendent existed. It was the moment faith replaced human judgment.
He had seen it often in his former life.
It is God's will.
It is written in scripture.
Your faith is lacking.
You must not doubt.
Once those sentences appeared, logic, evidence, and probability ceased to matter to some people.
He had accepted that something unknowable—god or magic—might exist in this world. But he had no intention of outsourcing his judgment to it.
Daemon slowly opened his mouth.
"That may be so."
Rhaegar seemed a little surprised.
"There may truly be something someone must do."
Daemon did not deny the possibility itself.
"But."
His voice lowered a little.
"Then there is something else I would question first."
"What?"
"Why."
He paused.
"Why did that person come to think it was himself?"
Rhaegar's expression stopped, truly only by the smallest degree.
Daemon saw it, but pretended not to.
"Suppose a prophecy points to one person. It would not be difficult for whoever interprets it to place himself in that position. Or he might place his child there, or a king he serves, or a hero he admires."
Daemon looked once toward the night sky.
"People are more accustomed than they think to believing themselves the center of a story."
Rhaegar said nothing.
Daemon had no intention of mocking that desire itself. People wanted to believe their lives had meaning, that their suffering had a reason, that they had a role to fulfill.
He understood.
That was why it was more dangerous.
"If prophecy is truly fact, I think one must be even more careful."
"Even if it is fact?"
"Because it is fact."
Rhaegar waited.
"If one misinterprets a false prophecy, it may end with a few believers looking foolish."
Daemon's smile vanished.
"But if one misinterprets a true prophecy, those who believe that interpretation may move the world."
Rhaegar did not answer.
Daemon looked ahead again.
"Your Highness, I do not mean we should ignore prophecy."
"I know."
"If it is a warning, we should examine it. If it is an omen, record it and, if possible, seek other evidence. And if we must decide whether to act, we should consider what is lost if the prophecy is right, and what is lost if it is wrong."
Like Aenar.
If he was wrong, he lost wealth, face, and part of his standing. If he was right and did not act, his house was destroyed.
So he left.
Not faith. Risk management.
"But if one says a prophecy told me to become king, so I must become king; or it told me to kill someone, so I kill; or it told me to wage war, so I make war—"
Daemon looked at Rhaegar.
"—then I think one needs far more than one dream or a few vague, ancient lines before going that far."
Silence again. Somewhere in the distance, water murmured from a fountain.
Rhaegar walked for a while without speaking.
Then he said quietly, "You think very differently from me."
There was no hostility in it. If anything, it was closer to interest.
"What does Your Highness think?" Daemon asked.
Rhaegar did not answer immediately.
"I do not yet know well."
Daemon looked at him with some surprise. He liked that answer more than expected.
But what followed, he did not like.
"Yet whenever I think of Daenys, I wonder whether there are meanings in this world that we cannot dismiss merely because we do not understand them."
Meaning.
An alarm sounded in Daemon's mind again.
Not information. Not a phenomenon.
Meaning. Purpose. Will.
Rhaegar spoke very quietly.
"And if a role is given to someone, then turning away from that role would be a choice as well."
Daemon did not answer.
Ah. I can see the estimate now.
Of course, he was only thirteen. However precocious, he was thirteen. His thoughts could change in any number of ways. At that age, one book could alter one's whole way of seeing the world.
He had not yet said he would lead armies into war for prophecy.
But the seed was there.
Prophecy might have meaning. A person might be given a role. Turning from that role was also a choice, perhaps even a sin.
Ah, fuck.
Daemon clicked his tongue inwardly.
He's a fucking exhausting bastard in a different direction from his father.
And this one could persuade people.
Daemon glanced again at Rhaegar's face.
With that face.
With that voice.
The gods have given us a mission.
If he said one line like that—
Knights would be creaming themselves as they followed him.
That was the truly dangerous thing.
Still, outwardly Daemon smiled.
"Perhaps Your Highness may be right."
Rhaegar seemed slightly surprised.
"That is unexpected."
"I may be wrong."
Daemon said it as if it were obvious.
"I do not know everything in the world, do I?"
Saying he did not know what he did not know was one of the few principles Daemon held dear.
If he did not know, he checked. He tested it, even on a small scale. If he was wrong, he changed course.
Prophecy. History. People. If possible, all the same.
"So I think I would trust someone who doubts a prophecy yet prepares for it a little more than someone who believes it."
"Why?"
"Because they leave room for the possibility that they are wrong."
Daemon smiled lightly.
"Someone who thinks he may be wrong can at least change direction."
Rhaegar seemed to consider the words for a long time. Then he slowly nodded.
"I will remember that."
No. You do not need to remember it that much.
"This conversation is more interesting than dinner was," the prince said.
Daemon answered at once.
"I preferred dinner."
Rhaegar laughed. "Truly?"
Daemon thought for a moment. He could not remember the flavor of a single thing he had eaten.
"...Probably."
This time Rhaegar laughed a little louder.
They soon reached a fork in the path: one way led to the royal apartments, the other to the corridors of the guest chambers.
Rhaegar stopped.
"I would like to speak with Lord Seadrake like this often in the future."
Daemon's smile froze for one brief moment.
"It would be an honor, Your Highness."
The words were perfect.
Rhaegar nodded in satisfaction.
"Have a restful night, Lord Seadrake."
"May Your Highness rest well also."
Silver-gold hair slowly receded. Daemon remained where he stood until the crown prince's back vanished entirely beyond the corridor.
Handsome.
Smart.
Articulate.
A good listener.
The crown prince.
And he liked prophecy far too much.
Daemon's face slowly soured.
"...Fuck."
The father seemed dangerous because he believed in himself too much.
The son seemed likely to become dangerous if he began believing in something greater than himself.
The king and queen's marriage was a disaster.
There was already a strange smell between king and Hand.
In the day, the king had casually mentioned his daughter, making every noble eye in the great hall turn on Daemon.
In the evening, Daemon had gone in for a meal and come out after tossing out a plan to reform King's Landing's customs.
He had come outside merely for night air, only to have a philosophical discussion about prophecy with the crown prince.
Daemon recalled the entire day from the beginning.
Then he reached a very simple conclusion.
Getting involved with Targaryens is fucking exhausting.
It was practically a natural law.
Dragons. Crowns. Prophecy. Bloodlines. Politics.
Every time he met one of that family's members, something came attached.
Daemon slowly nodded.
Good.
Change of policy.
For the rest of his stay in King's Landing, he would draw as little attention as possible.
If the king did not summon him, he would not go near the king. If he saw Rhaegar, he would offer a polite greeting and pass on. He would avoid even meeting the Hand's eyes if possible.
If a court noble spoke to him—
Yes.
No.
I do not know.
Three answers would suffice.
His opinion? None.
Ideas? None.
Thoughts? What thoughts could a twelve-year-old have?
Daemon's gaze gradually became resolute.
Starting tomorrow, I will show them.
The greatest survival skill perfected by the blood and sweat of countless sergeants of the Republic of Korea Army over many years was neither marksmanship nor hand-to-hand combat.
One did one's work.
But one did not needlessly stand out.
If someone sought one, one was somewhere, yet strangely already occupied with another duty.
When an accident occurred, one was oddly not responsible for it.
When a superior passed by, one was naturally outside his field of view. When a meeting was held, one was strangely omitted from those expected to attend.
It was not written in any official field manual, but anyone who had completed military service generally knew it existed.
Cloaking.
Perfect.
Daemon already felt a little more at ease.
I will show them what cloaking by a discharged Korean Army sergeant is.
In King's Landing, he would keep perfectly away from the royal family, nobles, and politics. Quietly buy what he needed, then flee north.
That was the answer.
But after a few steps, Daemon stopped.
There was one problem.
He had already done too many things to disappear quietly.
His red-and-black hair stood out even at a distance. He had a build difficult to believe for a twelve-year-old, and the king had praised him personally in the great hall. He was the man behind glass famous enough that Myr had come to protest and Campbell the king enjoyed drinking. Today he had even been called to dine privately with the royal family, where he had put forth an idea for customs reform.
Daemon stared into empty air for a moment.
"..."
It was harder than expected.
But he had to do it.
Daemon began walking again.
From tomorrow.
I do not exist.
A few steps.
Absolutely.
A few more steps.
The day returned to him once again.
Aerys.
Tywin.
Rhaella.
Rhaegar.
Prophecy.
Customs.
The royal family.
Daemon rubbed his face with both hands.
"Ah, I really want to go home."
That night, Daemon Seadrake firmly vowed that for the rest of his stay in King's Landing, he would not catch anyone's eye.
At least, that was what he thought.
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