When Rhaenys greeted everyone at the docks of Dragonstone, the dragonbreath flowers on the hem of her dress were still wet with morning dew.
She first steadied the pale-faced Baelon, then let her gaze fall on Daemon Blackfyre—the dragon brand on the boy's shoulder was clearer than usual, as if warmed by dragonfire. "Corlys says you three burned the Stepstones so thoroughly even the seabirds dare not land."
Her tone was teasing, but her fingers nervously twisted her dress. "Come to think of it, I wanted to go too. After all, Meleys and I are no pushovers."
"You had to stay to look after Laena and Laenor." Baelon took the handkerchief she offered to wipe the corner of his mouth, his voice carrying the gentleness of an elder. "The six-year-old girl is pestering everyone to learn swordplay, and the three-year-old boy is always trying to crawl into the dragonpit. How could they manage without their mother?"
Rhaenys cast a reproachful glance at Corlys beside her. "It was all him, saying 'women should stay with the children,' practically nailing me to Dragonstone."
Daemon Blackfyre was looking down at the trophy in The Cannibal's claws—a gilded shield torn from the Tyroshi flagship. Hearing this, he looked up.
He had heard of Rhaenys's children but had never met them.
"Laena is like me; she has more nerve than most boys," Rhaenys explained proactively when she noticed his gaze, her eyes soft with affection. "A few days ago, she secretly climbed onto Meleys's tail, claiming she wanted to be a dragonrider too. Laenor is quieter; he always clutches a seashell and draws dragons in the sand." She nodded toward the castle. "I'll have them meet you later. They are your niece and nephew, after all."
Corlys stepped forward and handed Baelon a scroll of parchment. "The count is finished. The Triarchy fleet is eighty percent destroyed. We have three hundred and twenty-seven prisoners and seven ships of spoils, including twelve chests of gold Craghas hid in the bilge." He paused, his gaze on Daemon Blackfyre growing more complex. "By custom, a dragonrider is entitled to three shares of the spoils."
"Give him five shares from our portion," Baelon interrupted, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Distribute the rest to the sailors and the Dragonstone garrison." He turned to Rhaenys. "Prepare everything. We will rest at High Tide for three days, then take Craghas and the gold to King's Landing together."
Rhaenys's eyes lit up. "You're taking him to see Grandfather?"
"The Old Man (Jaehaerys) always says I stay on Dragonstone too much." Baelon coughed but smiled openly. "It's the perfect time to show him that Aemon's son has skills on dragonback that rival anyone."
Daemon Blackfyre's heart skipped a beat. Baelon had used "Aemon's son," not "Daemon Waters."
This subtle change in address was like a stone thrown into the center of a lake, sending ripples spreading through his heart.
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Three days later, the Great Hall of High Tide was livelier than ever.
Corlys had ordered a massive tapestry hung in the center of the hall, depicting three dragons circling the Stepstones: Vhagar's massive bronze-green shadow on the left, Caraxes's scarlet figure on the right, and The Cannibal's pitch-black silhouette in the middle. Dragonfire wove a net, trapping the wreckage of the Triarchy fleet in the center. In the corner of the tapestry, a line of small text was embroidered: 97 AC, The Second Great Victory of the Three Dragons.
Halfway through the feast, Rhaenys walked in holding the hands of two children. Six-year-old Laena wore a small leather jerkin with a toy sword at her waist, her silver-grey eyes staring curiously at Daemon Blackfyre. Three-year-old Laenor hid behind his mother, clutching a painted seashell, only revealing half his face to peek out.
"This is Laena, and this is Laenor." Rhaenys nudged the children forward. "Say hello to Uncle Daemon."
"Does Uncle ride The Cannibal?" Laena looked up and asked, her voice crisp. "Father says it eats everything, even other dragons."
Daemon Blackfyre couldn't help but smile. He pulled a shard of dragonglass from his tunic—it had fallen from The Cannibal during its shedding this morning, and he had polished it until it was smooth and translucent. "It doesn't eat good children, only pirates." He handed the shard to Laena. "This is for you. It makes dragonbreath burn hotter." Laena immediately took it, tucking it into her tunic like a treasure.
Seeing this, Laenor timidly reached out his hand and offered the seashell to him. "Draw... dragon." On the shell, a three-headed dragon was drawn crookedly in charcoal. The middle head had two green dots on it, like The Cannibal's eyes.
"To the dragons of House Targaryen!" Corlys raised his goblet. This time, his smile held less calculation and more sincerity. "To the victory in the Stepstones!"
Baelon clinked cups with him, wine staining his beard.
He looked at Daemon Blackfyre sitting beside Rhaenys—the boy was patiently listening to Laena explain her "sword training plan," occasionally helping Laenor steady the seashell that was about to fall. The dragon brand on his right shoulder appeared and disappeared in the candlelight.
The scene reminded him of the victory feast in 83 AC: Father sat at the head of the table, he and Aemon sat on either side, their three cups clinking together, the heat of dragonfire seemingly still lingering on their fingertips.
"Daemon," Baelon suddenly spoke, his voice carrying across the hall. "The tourney at King's Landing opens next month. Do you dare to compete against my Daemon?"
When Daemon Blackfyre looked up, he met Baelon's gaze. There was no scrutiny, no suspicion, only the pure expectation of a warrior.
He thought of the final battle on Redgrass Field, thought of the three dragons fighting side by side, and thought of the blood flowing in this body—blood from the same source as these ancestors before him. He decisively "ignored" Rhaenys, who had just blurted out, "He's only twelve!"
"I dare." Daemon Blackfyre stood up and raised his cup in return. "But I bet The Cannibal is faster than Caraxes, and I am stronger than him."
Daemon Targaryen immediately slapped the table and laughed. "Wait to lose! Caraxes's speed can catch the wind!"
Laena suddenly shouted, "I bet Uncle Daemon wins!" Laenor nodded along, his small hand gripping the seashell tightly.
Seeing this, Rhaenys could only put away her worries and shake her head with a smile. The corners of Corlys's mouth also lifted.
Vhagar's low dragon roar came from the distant pit, interweaving with the responses of Caraxes and The Cannibal like a battle song crossing time and space.
"I wasn't talking about a dragon duel, boys." Baelon smiled helplessly at the scene, suddenly feeling the pain under his ribs lessen slightly.
The "Three Dragons" of 83 AC were his father, his brother, and himself. The "Three Dragons" of 97 AC were him, his son, and his "nephew"—history might not repeat itself exactly, but the power of blood and the choice of dragons always continued in unexpected ways.
He knew the road to King's Landing would not be smooth. The shadows of the Iron Throne hid too many schemes, and the dispute over succession never truly ceased.
But right now, looking at the smiling faces in the hall and listening to the dragon roars in the distance, he suddenly felt confident—no matter how many storms lay ahead, as long as the fire of the three dragons still burned, the banner of House Targaryen would not fall.
And Daemon Blackfyre, this black dragon from the future, might not be a curse, but a different form of redemption granted to the Targaryens by the Gods.
The night wind blew past the towers of High Tide, carrying the salty tang of the Narrow Sea.
Three flagships preparing for the voyage to King's Landing waited at the docks, the three-headed dragon banners at their prows snapping in the moonlight.
Everyone knew that this triumphant return, laden with spoils and prisoners, was destined to set off new waves in King's Landing. But for now, no one cared about that—they only remembered how, on the waters of the Stepstones, the fire of three dragons had illuminated the dawn, and how the pirates of the Three Daughters Kingdom learned a lesson:
The dragons of House Targaryen never sleep!
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