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As evening fell over Dragon's Nest Harbor, the wind suddenly turned savage, carrying the salty damp of the Narrow Sea and howling through the pine forest like a living thing.
Black clouds rolled in like spilled ink, swallowing the bright morning light and leaving no doubt that the storm Vaegon had warned about was about to break.
Daemon stood at the lookout on the fortress high platform, eyes sweeping the frantic activity below. Lord Bernarr Brune's cousin Roscoe Brune, heir to the Whispers, was directing the fresh recruits Daemon had raised on Crackclaw Point to reinforce the drainage dikes. The thud of timber and tamped earth rang sharp above the wind.
Rupert Crabb barked orders at craftsmen lashing boulders to the workshop roofs so the gale wouldn't tear them off. Gael moved between the refugee tents with Mysaria, steadying frightened women and children. Her pale-violet skirt clung to her legs in the rising wind.
"Your Highness, the western section of the drainage channel is still twenty yards short," Rayford Rosby shouted, running up against the wind, his sheepskin ledger flapping like a sail. "Ser Ilyn Beesbury just held up a timber shipment on some excuse about needing King's Landing confirmation."
A cold spark lit in Daemon's eyes. Exactly the bootlicker Garlan Tyrell had described.
Otto Hightower clearly hadn't counted on his man being stupid enough to move now. Suicide.
Trying to slow the work so the flood would wreck everything, shake the refugees' trust, and set the whole harbor back. But dancing in front of Blackfyre and The Cannibal's fire? Same as begging for it.
"Send Jarman and Harlan with armed men to seize the timber from the warehouse. Tell Ser Ilyn that anyone who delays my work answers to me. Today he blocks my plans—tomorrow The Cannibal flies straight to the Reach and burns Honeyholt to the ground, him and every last Beesbury. A wild dragon king going rogue without his rider? Even Lord Lyman would have to swallow it."
Daemon's voice was ice. "And get the Black Hill warriors on the dikes. They know the marshes better than anyone."
Rayford ran off. Moments later Jarman Waters came sprinting, his good eye tight with tension. "Your Highness, that Maester Maren's gone. Our men saw him this morning whispering to some Tyroshi refugee youths about 'royal orders' to watch the native tribes. Now he's vanished into the pines."
"Trying to stir trouble and run?" Daemon snorted, tossing a dried fish to Grey Ghost at his heels. "Go find him. Don't kill him—just bring him back."
Grey Ghost let out a sharp trill and shot into the forest like pale lightning. The little "timid dragon" might spook at cats, but he followed Daemon's orders without question. Two days of solo hunting and he already knew every trail around Dragon's Nest Harbor.
At the same time, in a hidden hollow by the marsh, Alys Rivers stood beneath an old pine facing the Black Hill tribe's old chief. She pulled back her hood, pale face calm, and held out a black stone carved with ancient runes. Her voice was low, urgent.
The old chief's expression shifted from confusion to grim understanding. He took the stone, clenched it tight, and bowed deeply.
Harlan Hunter, checking the dikes, saw the whole exchange from behind a tree. He waited until Alys slipped back into the marsh before slipping away to report.
"Unknown ancient runes…" Daemon rubbed Blackfyre's hilt. Alys Rivers was growing more dangerous by the hour.
The stone might tie to her past or hide secrets of Crackclaw Point itself. But who knew? The Black Dragon's own origins were just as unmentionable, and right now he had bigger problems.
"Leave her for now," he decided. "Storm first. Stability above all. Keep eyes on her, but don't spook her. I'll go to the dikes myself and make sure they hold."
When Daemon reached the western section, Rayford was already directing Mysaria and Tybolt Crakehall with the craftsmen, jamming the last boulders into the gap. Fat raindrops were falling, turning the marsh into a gray blur.
"Twenty more yards," Johanna Swann said, wiping rain from Gael's face. "Half an hour and we're done."
Gael's voice was tired but steady. Tyroshi refugees and Black Hill warriors worked shoulder to shoulder, no one flinching. They knew this dike meant real homes and steady lives.
Grey Ghost returned just then, pinning Maester Maren to the ground with one claw and dropping him at Daemon's feet. The maester was soaked, pale, babbling, "I'm a royal maester—you can't treat me this way—"
"The crown sent you to assist, not to sow discord or delay work," Daemon said coldly, Blackfyre's tip resting against the man's throat. "Stay and teach. No more meddling in military or political matters. Or Grey Ghost drops you in the marsh for the crocodiles."
Maren shook so hard his teeth rattled and dropped to his knees. "I'll obey! I swear!"
Daemon sheathed the sword. "Take him to the workshop. Log supplies under guard. He doesn't leave anyone's sight."
The storm hit like a broken dam. Muddy floodwater roared down the channel, slamming the new dikes. A crack opened in the western section. People screamed.
"Sandbags—now!" Daemon shouted, grabbing one himself and charging forward.
Roscoe, Jarman, Rupert, and Black Hill warriors jumped waist-deep into the torrent, using their bodies to hold the bags. The Cannibal circled overhead, black flame evaporating floodwater outside the dike to ease the pressure.
An hour later the crack was sealed. The channel carried the flood safely into the Narrow Sea. The camp and workshops were wet but standing. The rain eased. A thin line of light broke through the clouds.
Soaked and exhausted, Daemon called his core group together at once. "Keep Maester Maren and Ser Ilyn Beesbury alive. They're useful. Let them think their games worked. We'll feed Otto false reports through them."
He looked at Jarman. "Alys Rivers?"
"Back in her tent alone. Just staring at that black stone Harlan reported. No more contact with anyone."
"Keep watching." Daemon nodded, then turned to Gael. "Clear the water from the workshops and homes. Check every structure for damage. Black Hill warriors earned double rations and a plot near the pines. Let them settle in."
Gael smiled through the rain. "May, Hannah, and I have hot soup and dry clothes ready. We'll hand them out as soon as it stops. Vaegon says the land will be richer after this—perfect for salt-tolerant crops."
By the time the meeting ended, the rain had stopped. Sunset broke through the clouds, painting Dragon's Nest Harbor in gold.
The marsh and pines smelled clean and fresh. Harbor waters sparkled.
Daemon stood on the high platform, looking over the restored order. This storm had tested more than timber and earth—it had forged the people into something stronger.
Otto's schemes had been wrecked by his own man's stupidity. The Black Hill tribe was fully part of them now. Dragon's Nest Harbor's roots ran deeper than ever.
But Alys Rivers's secrets and the shadows in King's Landing still waited in the dark. The road ahead was far from clear.
Alys herself had stepped out of her tent and was quietly helping Gael and the others hand out medicines she had somehow prepared.
As for King's Landing—day after tomorrow he would return for what might be his last Small Council meeting for a while. There he would plant a nail that would stay forever.