Dragonstone, 114 AC
Rhaenyra stood on the balcony of her bedchamber, enjoying the mix of a faint sulfuric scent and the salty sea breeze blowing from the east. The peace and quiet around her were soon broken by the sound of flapping wings. Being a dragonlord, she knew that sound well; she had heard it for most of her life, ever since she first saw one of their kind as a babe. Her neck craned upward as Laenor's great dragon flapped its wings again, heading toward the sea, if Rhaenyra had to guess.
Embaryx—that was its name. How could she forget? Embaryx and Veltharys, the dragons of House Velaryon, as both the realm and the Velaryons themselves seemed to remind her and her house at every turn. The words stung her more than she liked to admit. Gods were cruel—words her kingly father often lamented after her mother, Lady Aemma Arryn, died. And wasn't that what Rhaenyra felt when she saw Embaryx for the first time? Gods are indeed cruel—cruel and prejudiced and biased. And these days, their favor seemed to lean more toward House Velaryon than any other. Looking at Embaryx, Rhaenyra wondered who would believe her if she said her own mount, Syrax, was not much younger than that gigantic beast now soaring toward the ocean in search of prey, by the looks of it.
Turning her gaze away from Embaryx, Rhaenyra resumed her brooding. She realized she found herself doing that more often since her return from Winterfell. Perhaps living among the Starks in their grey keep and barren, frozen land for moons had its effects even on her. Or maybe it was being denied and rejected by men that made her brood so much—made her question what Laenor Velaryon found lacking in her. Rhaenyra had been called the Realm's Delight by lords high and low, by the entire court since the age of seven. She believed—no, she still believes—that she was the fairest maiden in the realm. Everyone said so. Then why?
At first, she thought Laenor was simply the kind of man who had no interest in the charms of women, but the look of anger and disgust on his face when she told him so had been all the proof she needed to see that he was not that sort.
Not long now, she told herself. House Velaryon had already arrived. Laenor had told her uncle he would give his answer after speaking to his family first. His father would be here soon as well. And Rhaenyra knew her father, the King, would see this betrothal happen at any cost. He would not allow House Velaryon to deny the Targaryens—not after what Lady Daena of House Valarr had revealed to her uncle. If Laenor's awakening powers and his mastery of magic were not enough, then the truth that House Velaryon was once of the dragonlords' blood would surely be more than enough for her father to believe that their two houses must be reunited before any other house of the realm sought to become dragonlords themselves. Though her uncle believed neither Lord Corlys nor Laenor would allow such a thing to happen, Rhaenyra was not so certain about Lord Corlys as she was of Laenor in that matter.
All her life, Rhaenyra believed her house stood above the rest—that the blood of the Targaryens, the blood of dragonlords, was far superior to any of the lesser houses they ruled. That includes House Velaryon, too. Her uncle said as much. He treated others as beneath him, even those of high rank—even the Hand of the King. Rhaenyra had admired him and taken his words as truth, for she had seen them proven again and again. Until, that is, the same uncle admitted there was another man whose power was so great that even he considered him an equal.
House Velaryon was an old house, that much everyone knew—but not that it had been a house of dragonlords. One that was considered of the Old Blood, even back in Valyria. Rhaenyra did not know how to feel about it, so she buried her emotions and accepted this truth as it was.
Who would believe she was the same Rhaenyra who once wore her emotions openly for all to see?
Rhaenyra turned her head with a groan as a guard—Jason, if she remembered correctly—peeked his head inside the door.
"Prince Daemon is without, Princess," Jason announced.
"Let my uncle enter," Rhaenyra replied after a short pause. Her uncle entered moments later, wearing a smirk that Rhaenyra had learned to recognize as his sign of good humor.
"Lovely niece of mine, why such a sullen face? What has upset you so?" he asked, walking over to join her on the balcony.
"What is there to be happy about, uncle?" Rhaenyra replied flatly.
She felt her uncle's curious gaze on her but remained silent, waiting for him to speak of the cause behind his cheerfulness.
"Well, there is not one but several things to be happy about," Daemon began, his tone almost triumphant. "For starters, Laenor Velaryon is here. And soon he will give us his answer—which, I believe, shall be yes. Then we shall have cause not only for happiness but also for celebration and feast."
It seemed magic had softened her uncle's temper and turned him from a power-hungry rogue into an optimistic fool. Rhaenyra dared not say it aloud, lest she provoke the temper that even she feared even now, when her uncle did not get angry so easily as before.
"And why, uncle, are you so certain that House Velaryon's answer will be yes? Why could it not be otherwise?" she asked.
Daemon looked at her, puzzled, then shook his head. "Because I see no reason they would refuse. My brother has already granted them enough, and after certain information provided by our Lyseni guest, he is prepared to grant more—within limits, of course. That should satisfy the ambitious and prideful Lord Corlys. As for Laenor—he shares my views on keeping Valyrian and dragonlord blood pure. And there is only one true dragonlord family alive. So yes, dear niece, I see no answer but yes."
As Rhaenyra had said before, her uncle had indeed become an optimistic fool.
Yet, he was right about one thing—Laenor and he were alike in their desire to marry someone of Valyrian blood. Even Rhaenyra knew that much, for Laenor had said so himself. But that decision left him with very few options for a bride—or perhaps only one, since the other Targaryen princess was still a babe.
Rhaenyra's thoughts raced faster than Syrax or even Meleys in flight when a sudden idea struck her like an arrow loosed at the neck.
What if the Velaryons, like the Targaryens, began to wed brother to sister? Could that be the reason Lord Corlys and Laenor hesitated with the betrothal? Does Laenor intend to take his sister as a bride?
Then, like the hammer of a master blacksmith striking the anvil, memory hit her—the memory of Laena's glare when Rhaenyra tried to greet and speak kindly to her upon Laena's arrival on Dragonstone today..
Is that the reason Laenor refuses the betrothal?
If so, her father must be told. But her father was not here—her uncle was. And Rhaenyra did not intend to waste a moment. She voiced her thoughts aloud.
The joyous look that had brightened Daemon's face all midday—and even into the evening—slowly drained away, replaced by contemplation and unease.
Laena Velaryon
Laena was inside the bedchamber, where she had been sent to refresh herself before the supper they were to have with the king. She cursed aloud, startling her handmaiden by the suddenness of it, as the memory struck her that her parents hadn't even allowed her to speak to Laenor. And that craven brother of hers hadn't dared to kiss her back when she had taken the steps to reach for his mouth. Laena wondered if he even intended to accept the betrothal and marry the heir to the Iron Throne.
The rage she had felt upon learning the purpose behind the visit of the king and his brother to High Tide had been as vast as Veltharys itself. If not for Laenor's letter the next morning, she would have seen both the king and his brother off before her father's ambition made him forget Laenor's request — that he be given a say in whom he would marry. And when she found that her father had gone through with his word, but her brother had yet to clearly refuse the Targaryens, she had been waiting anxiously — and angrily — to meet and have words with him.
The doors of her room were pushed wide open as Laenor entered unannounced. Laena waved off her servants, who were tending to her hair after her bath, so she could have a word with her little brother.
"You fucking mo— Mmmm."
Laena could not utter more than two words before Laenor reached her, lifting her as though she were light as a feather, silencing her with his mouth. She tried to resist, but it was futile — as she had known it would be. Her brother was far too strong, stronger even than most men. After what felt like hours — though it was but a few moments — she let go of her anger and resistance, opening her mouth to meet his tongue, which was demanding entry with maddening persistence.
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