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King Viserys Targaryen paced the length of his solar, the wound on his back throbbing in time with his irritation. The cut from the Iron Throne — a minor thing that should have healed weeks ago — had a way of flaring precisely when his patience was thinnest.
Just like Daemon to arrive on dragonback in the middle of a royal tournament. The man has the subtlety of a drunken aurochs.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the slight stiffness that had begun to plague him these past months. Leaning briefly against his ornate desk, he composed himself before the door opened.
Four Kingsguard escorted Prince Daemon into the solar. Even disarmed and flanked by the realm's finest knights, his brother radiated dangerous confidence. Daemon strode in as though he owned the Red Keep, that familiar half-smile playing on his lips.
"Leave us," Viserys commanded the white cloaks. "Wait outside."
The Lord Commander hesitated. "Your Grace, Prince Daemon is—"
"My brother," Viserys finished firmly. "And I am still King. Leave us."
When the door closed behind them, Viserys turned to face Daemon directly. The brothers shared the same Targaryen coloring — silver-gold hair and striking features — but where Viserys had grown soft with the comforts of rule, Daemon remained lean and hard-edged, his frame honed by war and adventure.
"Wine?" Viserys offered, not waiting for an answer before pouring two cups.
Perhaps the Arbor gold will dull the headache building behind my eyes. The headache named Daemon.
"You always did prefer diplomacy to confrontation, brother," Daemon remarked, accepting the cup. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Viserys. "A fine vintage."
"Why are you here?" Viserys demanded, dispensing with pleasantries. "You remain under royal banishment. Or did you forget the small matter of mocking my dead son and heir as 'the heir for a day'?"
Daemon's face registered brief surprise before settling back into practiced nonchalance. "Still bitter about that? I thought we'd moved past such... misunderstandings."
"Misunderstandings?" Viserys felt heat rising in his neck. "You celebrated the death of my son. Your nephew."
"I celebrated nothing," Daemon countered smoothly. "A tasteless jest in a brothel, repeated by those with reason to turn you against me. Though I notice your ire didn't extend to investigating the convenient timing of your wife's passing."
Viserys slammed his cup down, wine sloshing over the rim. "Do not speak of Rhea Royce. Not now."
"My wife died in a hunting accident," Daemon shrugged, though his eyes remained calculating. "Tragic, of course, but these things happen. I am a widower in mourning, come to seek comfort in family during this difficult time."
Seven save me from his 'mourning.' The man probably danced on her grave.
"You're in mourning," Viserys repeated flatly. "For the wife you called 'the Bronze Bitch' and haven't visited in years."
"Grief manifests in mysterious ways," Daemon replied with mock solemnity before breaking into a grin. "Come now, brother. Is it so wrong for an uncle to attend his beloved niece's wedding?"
Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's nothing wrong with an uncle attending his niece's wedding. There's everything wrong when that uncle is you, Daemon Targaryen."
Daemon laughed then, a genuine sound that momentarily transported Viserys back to their youth, before crowns and thrones and power had complicated everything between them.
"You wound me," Daemon said, placing a hand over his heart. "Have I not always had Rhaenyra's best interests at heart?"
"Like when you took her to a pleasure house and compromised her reputation?" Viserys countered. "Or when you abandoned the Stepstones the moment glory faded? Your actions have consequences, brother, even if you refuse to face them."
The smile faded from Daemon's face. He set down his cup and moved to the window, looking out over King's Landing.
"Speaking of consequences," he said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "have you heard about Vermithor and Silverwing?"
Viserys frowned at the sudden change of subject. "What of them?"
"They're gone."
"Gone?" Viserys repeated. "Dragons don't simply disappear, Daemon."
"These have," Daemon turned back to face him. "I flew to Dragonstone before coming here. The old king's dragon and his queen's mount are no longer in their caves. They've been claimed."
Seven hells. As if I needed more complications. He thought, remembering Corlys had said something similar in the same council meeting.
"Perhaps they've simply found new lairs," Viserys suggested. "Neither has taken a rider since King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne."
"And you think it coincidence they both vanish now?" Daemon's voice carried an edge of impatience. "Dragons are power, brother. Someone with Valyrian blood has claimed two of our most formidable beasts. Someone not of our immediate family."
Viserys waved a dismissive hand, though privately he felt the first stirrings of concern. "The Velaryons—"
"Have all their dragons accounted for," Daemon interrupted. "I checked. This is someone else. Someone with enough Valyrian blood to bond with not one dragon, but two."
"What would you have me do?" Viserys asked, irritation masking his growing unease. "Cancel my daughter's wedding to hunt for wayward dragons?"
"I would have you take this seriously," Daemon replied. "A stranger with a dragon is dangerous. Two dragons... that's an existential threat to House Targaryen."
Ever the alarmist when it suits him. Though this time, he might not be wrong.
"Fine," Viserys conceded. "After the wedding, I'll send men to investigate. Now, was that your only reason for this dramatic return? Or have you more surprises for me?"
Daemon paced slowly, his fingers trailing over the map of Westeros spread across a side table. "I'd like to participate in the melee."
Viserys barked a laugh. "Of course you would. Never content to merely watch, are you?"
"Would you deny your champion brother the chance to honor your daughter with his skill?" Daemon asked with exaggerated innocence.
"The melee began today," Viserys informed him. "Before you so rudely interrupted it."
"Tomorrow, then," Daemon persisted. "Surely it can resume with a new competitor."
Viserys felt the headache intensify. "Seven save me from Targaryen arrogance."
"Says the Targaryen king," Daemon quipped.
Despite himself, Viserys smiled. That was the trouble with Daemon; no matter how infuriating his actions, his wit often disarmed Viserys's anger.
The realm would be simpler without him, but gods, it would be duller too.
"Very well," Viserys sighed. "You may join tomorrow's continuation. But know this, brother — one hint of trouble, one step out of line, and you'll be on Caraxes heading east before you can blink."
"Generous as always," Daemon raised his cup in mock salute. "Any other excitement I've missed during my... absence? Besides mysterious dragon riders?"
Viserys considered mentioning the strange couple who resembled Targaryens, Daeron and his wife, but something held him back. Daemon had enough to occupy his mischievous mind without adding that particular puzzle to his collection.
"Nothing that need concern you," Viserys replied instead. "Though Ser Criston Cole seriously injured Joffrey Lonmouth in today's melee."
"The Knight of Kisses?" Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he Laenor's... companion?"
"Yes," Viserys confirmed grimly. "Which complicates an already complicated match."
"Rhaenyra marrying a man who prefers swords to sheaths," Daemon mused. "Not the wisest choice for continuing the Targaryen line."
"The choice is made," Viserys said firmly. "The alliance with House Velaryon strengthens Rhaenyra's claim and brings the realm's greatest naval power back to our side."
Not to mention appeasing the Queen Who Never Was. Though knowing Rhaenys, she's still plotting something behind those violet eyes.
"And when Laenor fails to give her children?" Daemon pressed. "What then?"
"They know their job, they will do that much even if one side is not as willing. Dynasties find ways to continue," Viserys replied vaguely, not wanting to pursue that particular line of thought with his ambitious brother.
Daemon smirked, clearly catching Viserys's meaning. "Indeed they do. Sometimes in the most... creative of ways."
Viserys knew his brother well enough to recognize the calculations happening behind those Targaryen eyes.
"You'll be accommodated in your old chambers," Viserys finally said. "I expect you to behave with dignity befitting your station. No brothels, no provoking Otto Hightower, and absolutely no meddling with Rhaenyra's betrothal."
"Such restrictions," Daemon sighed dramatically. "One might think you don't trust me, brother."
"One would be correct," Viserys replied dryly.
Daemon laughed again, draining his cup. "Fair enough. I'll be the very model of princely decorum." He moved toward the door but paused with his hand on the latch. "About those dragons, though..."
"Yes, yes," Viserys waved him off. "I'll look into it. After the wedding festivities."
As the door closed behind Daemon, Viserys sank heavily into his chair, the pain in his back flaring anew. He poured himself another cup of wine, larger than the first.
Dragons gone missing. Daemon returned. Joffrey Lonmouth is on the death's doorstep. Rhaenyra's wedding a political trapground. And that mysterious pair with Valyrian features appearing from nowhere...
He took a long drink, savoring the momentary warmth that spread through his chest.
At least the wine is good. Small mercies in a sea of royal headaches.
Laenor Velayron
The chamber stank of blood and despair. Laenor Velaryon sat motionless at Joffrey's bedside, his fine clothes still spattered with dried blood—not his own. The tournament garments that had been so carefully selected that morning were now ruined, much like everything else.
Joffrey Lonmouth lay unnaturally still on the bed, his handsome face unrecognizable beneath a mass of crushed bone and torn flesh. The morningstar had caught him directly in his helm, the force of Ser Criston Cole's blow so powerful it had collapsed the steel inward. When they'd removed the mangled helmet, part of Joffrey's skull had come with it.
This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
Grand Maester Mellos worked silently on the other side of the bed, his withered hands moving as he applied poultices to wounds that would never heal.
"He's going to recover," Laenor said for perhaps the dozenth time, his voice hoarse from shouting earlier. It wasn't a question anymore, but a command—as if his Velaryon blood and royal connection could somehow order the Stranger away.
Mellos paused, his hands hovering over Joffrey's ruined face. "My lord, I have given him milk of the poppy. He feels no pain."
"That's not what I asked," Laenor snapped, his hands clenching into fists. "I want to know when he will wake up."
The maester's eyes flicked briefly toward the two Velaryon guards at the door, then back to Laenor. "He will not wake, my lord. The damage to his skull... the brain beneath..." He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the visible depression in Joffrey's head.
"No," Laenor whispered, the single syllable containing all the denial his heart could muster. "No, you're wrong. Joff is strong. He's a knight. He's survived worse."
He hasn't. Nothing worse than this exists in the world.
"Lord Laenor," Mellos said gently, "I have done everything within my power. The milk of the poppy ensures he will pass without suffering. That is the only mercy I can offer now."
A ragged breath escaped Laenor's lips. His hand moved to cover Joffrey's, mindful of the broken fingers that had been crushed inside his gauntlet. The knight's skin was cool to the touch, the ruddy complexion that had made him so vibrant in life already fading to pallid gray.
"How long?" Laenor asked, the words barely audible.
"Hours, perhaps. By morning at the latest," Mellos replied. "I am deeply sorry, my lord."
Laenor nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak as the maester gathered his supplies and moved discreetly toward the door. Only when the latch clicked shut did Laenor allow his composure to crack, a single sob escaping before he forced it back, swallowing the welling grief like bitter medicine.
"Joff," he whispered, leaning closer to the broken man on the bed. "Joff, can you hear me? The maester says you can't, but I know you better than he does. You're too stubborn to leave like this."
No response came from the still form. Only the shallow, rattling breaths that punctuated the silence of the chamber gave any indication that Joffrey lived at all.
Laenor gentled his voice as if speaking to a frightened child. "Remember what we planned? After the wedding formalities were done, we would sail to Driftmark. You said you wanted to see the Spice Islands, remember? 'A sea so blue it makes sapphires look dull,' you said."
We were going to see the world together. We were going to find a way to be happy despite everything.
Blood had begun seeping through one of the bandages on Joffrey's head, a crimson stain spreading slowly across the white linen. Laenor reached out with trembling fingers to adjust it, trying to be useful, trying to do something, anything.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," he continued, his voice cracking. "A tournament melee. A celebration. Cole had no cause... no right..."
At the name, something shifted in Laenor's grief. The hollow ache in his chest crystallized into something harder, sharper. Rage bloomed where only despair had existed moments before.
"Cole," he repeated, the name like poison on his tongue. "Ser Criston Cole. The noble Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Laenor stood abruptly, pacing the small chamber like a caged animal. His mind filled with images of Cole—the calculated way he had targeted Joffrey in the melee, the vicious blow.
"This wasn't tournament combat," he hissed to the unhearing Joffrey. "This was murder. And everyone saw it. Everyone knows."
But they'll do nothing. A Kingsguard killing a knight in a melee? They'll call it tragic but not criminal. Just another tournament death.
"I swear to you, Joff," Laenor said, his voice low and fierce as he returned to the bedside. "I swear by the old gods and the new, by the Salt Throne of my ancestors and the Iron Throne my children will inherit—Criston Cole will die by my hand. I will make him suffer as you have suffered. I will take everything from him, and when he begs for mercy, I'll show him exactly the mercy he showed you."
The oath felt right, solid and real in a world that had suddenly lost all structure.
A sharp knock at the door forced Laenor to straighten, hastily wiping the wetness from his face with his sleeve. One of his father's men entered without waiting for permission, his Sea Snake livery immaculate and incongruously bright in the somber chamber.
"Lord Laenor," the man began with a stiff bow, "Lord Corlys requires your immediate presence."
"I'm sure he does," Laenor replied coldly. "Tell my father I am occupied."
The guard shifted uncomfortably. "My lord, he was most insistent. He said... he said to remind you of your duty to House Velaryon in this difficult time."
Duty. Always duty. Even now.
"My duty at present is here," Laenor gestured to the bed. "Ser Joffrey was sworn to my service. He wore my colors. He carried my favor. I will not abandon him in his final hours."
"Lord Corlys anticipated your response," the guard said, looking increasingly uneasy. "He instructed me to inform you that the alliance with House Targaryen hangs by a thread. Your public display of... concern... for Ser Lonmouth has already caused talk. The king is displeased, and Princess Rhaenyra—"
"Do not speak to me of Rhaenyra!" Laenor snapped with sudden vehemence. "My bride-to-be sits safe in her chambers while the man I—" He caught himself, jaw clenching. "While my sworn shield dies from wounds inflicted by her own protector."
The guard's expression remained carefully neutral, though Laenor could see the discomfort in his eyes. They all knew, of course. It was the realm's worst-kept secret. But knowing and hearing were different matters.
"Shall I tell Lord Corlys you will attend him later?" the guard asked after an awkward silence.
"Tell my father..." he began, then paused, considering his words carefully. "Tell him that when the Stranger comes for someone we care for, even lords must wait. He taught me that himself when my mother's father passed."
It was a calculated response, invoking both Lord Corlys' own principles and the memory of Lady Rhaenys' father. Whether it would work was another matter entirely, but Laenor found he didn't particularly care. His father's rage was a distant concern compared to the immediacy of Joffrey's suffering.
"As you wish, my lord," the guard bowed again before backing toward the door.
"One more thing," Laenor called after him. "Send word to the kitchens. Have them bring wine—the strongest they have."
When the door closed, Laenor resumed his vigil at Joffrey's side.
How am I to marry her now? How am I to stand in the sept and smile while you lie cold in the ground?
The thought of the impending wedding—mere days away—twisted in his gut like a knife. The political alliance between Velaryon and Targaryen had been years in the making, designed to heal the rift caused by his mother's rejection as heir to the Iron Throne. To abandon it now would mean more than personal disgrace; it would mean war.
"They leave me no choices, Joff," Laenor whispered. "They never have. But I swear to you, I will find a way to make Criston Cole pay."
Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent Hightower sat perfectly still as her handmaiden secured the last emerald hairpin. Her reflection in the polished silver mirror showed a woman of immaculate composure—a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around her. She dismissed the girl with a nod, waiting until the door closed before she allowed her shoulders to relax by the slightest fraction.
The chambers of the Queen were her sanctuary, decorated in the green and gold of House Hightower rather than the traditional Targaryen colors. Even here, she maintained appearances. A queen never truly rested; a queen never showed weakness.
Unlike the princess, who flaunts her indiscretions as if they were achievements.
A discreet knock at the door announced Ser Criston Cole's arrival. Alicent composed her features, arranging them into a mask of cool displeasure. The Kingsguard would need handling after today's... incident.
"Enter," she called, her voice measured.
Ser Criston entered and bowed deeply. Gone was his tournament armor, replaced by the pristine white cloak and plate of the Kingsguard. If not for a faint bruise forming along his jawline, one might never know he'd just killed a man in the melee.
"Your Grace," he began, "you requested my presence."
"I did," Alicent replied, gesturing to a chair positioned across from her own. "Please sit, Ser Criston. We have matters to discuss."
He sat stiffly, his hands resting on his knees, tension visible in every line of his body. Alicent let the silence hang between them for several long moments, watching him grow increasingly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
Let him stew. He needs to understand the position he's put us in.
"The Knight of Kisses lies dying," she finally said, her tone conversational. "Lord Laenor refuses to leave his bedside, and Lord Corlys is... displeased."
"It was a tournament combat, Your Grace," Criston replied, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "Men die in melees. It is unfortunate, but—"
"Unfortunate?" Alicent cut him off with a raised eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it? Not an uncontrolled display of rage that has set the court buzzing with speculation?"
Criston's jaw tightened. "He provoked me. Said things no honorable knight—"
"I don't care if he recited lewd poetry about your mother," Alicent interrupted again, her voice sharp as a blade. "What I care about, Ser Criston, is that my personal champion has now publicly murdered the favorite companion of Lord Laenor Velaryon on the eve of his wedding to Princess Rhaenyra."
"Murdered? Your Grace, in a melee—"
"Don't play the fool," Alicent said, rising from her seat to pace the chamber. "It doesn't suit you. Everyone who witnessed your 'combat' knows what truly happened. The question is not whether it was murder, but what consequences will follow."
Criston fell silent, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.
"Do you understand the precarious position of our faction?" Alicent continued. "My son Aegon is the true heir to the Iron Throne by all the laws of gods and men, yet the king persists in his folly of naming Rhaenyra his successor. Our strength depends on appearing beyond reproach while we gather support."
And you've just handed our enemies a sword to thrust through our armor.
"I understand, Your Grace," Criston replied, his voice tight. "I lost control. It will not happen again."
"See that it doesn't," Alicent said coldly. "I cannot afford a champion who allows mere words to provoke him to such recklessness."
She moved to the window, looking out at the Red Keep's gardens below. In the fading light, she caught sight of the mysterious northerner—Lord Daeron—walking with his silver-haired wife. Even from this distance, there was something compelling about him, a quiet confidence in his bearing that was undeniably attractive.
He's handsome enough, I suppose, in that brooding northern way. But unlike Rhaenyra, I know my duty. Though gods know what she sees in Harwin Strong's brutish form...
"Tell me about this Daeron," Alicent said, turning back to Criston. "You faced him on the training grounds, did you not? And you watched him fight today."
Criston seemed relieved at the change of subject. "I did, Your Grace. He's... formidable."
"Better than you?" Alicent asked bluntly.
Criston hesitated, his pride visibly warring with honesty. "He defeated Harwin Strong with relative ease, and Strong is no mean fighter."
"That's not what I asked," Alicent pressed, returning to her seat and leaning forward. "Could you defeat him in combat? And I want the truth, Ser Criston, not what you think I wish to hear."
"I believe I could," Criston finally said, meeting her gaze directly. "It would not be an easy victory, but yes. I am the better fighter."
Alicent studied him, weighing the conviction in his voice. "Good. Because I want that Valyrian steel sword of his. Stormsong, they call it, do they not?"
"They do, Your Grace," Criston confirmed.
"It should belong to a more worthy owner," Alicent mused. "Someone loyal to the true heir of the Seven Kingdoms. My son, perhaps, when he comes of age."
Criston's eyes widened slightly as he grasped her meaning. "The tournament tomorrow..."
"Would be an excellent opportunity to claim such a prize," Alicent finished for him. "Challenges for possession are not uncommon in melees. No one would question it."
"No one except Lord Daeron," Criston noted.
Alicent waved a dismissive hand. "What is one northern bastard against the might of House Hightower? If he wishes to remain at court, he will accept the outcome gracefully."
And if not, well, there are other ways to deal with troublesome bastards.
"There is another complication, Your Grace," Criston said carefully. "Prince Daemon has returned."
"Yes, I'm aware. My father has already expressed his concerns. The Rogue Prince has an unfortunate habit of appearing precisely when he's least wanted."
"He intends to join the melee tomorrow," Criston added.
"Of course he does," Alicent sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Daemon never could resist an opportunity to display his martial prowess."
She rose again, moving to a side table where a crystal decanter of Arbor gold waited. Pouring two cups, she handed one to Criston before taking a measured sip from her own.
"Daemon complicates matters," she acknowledged. "He's dangerous, unpredictable, and entirely too devoted to his niece. My father believes he still harbors ambitions of marrying Rhaenyra himself."
Criston's knuckles whitened around his cup at the mention of a match between Daemon and Rhaenyra. "Surely the king would never permit such a union."
"The king says many things he does not mean," Alicent replied with a bitter smile. "And changes his mind with the direction of the wind. We cannot rely on Viserys' steadfastness."
"What would you have me do about Prince Daemon, Your Grace?" Criston asked.
Alicent considered a moment, weighing her options. "Nothing, for now. Focus on Lord Daeron and acquiring his sword. We'll deal with Daemon separately."
She moved to her writing desk and picked up a sealed letter bearing her father's hand. "The Hand believes we should accelerate our plans in light of recent developments. The feast following the tournament presents an opportunity."
"What manner of opportunity?" Criston inquired, his curiosity evident.
Alicent smiled thinly, tapping the letter against her palm. "Let us say that Princess Rhaenyra may find her evening less than enjoyable. Nothing overt, nothing that could be traced back to us, but... a reminder of how quickly favor can shift at court."
A reminder that she is not as beloved as she believes herself to be.
"And Lord Daeron and his wife?" Criston asked. "They seem to have captured the king's interest."
"All the more reason to determine exactly who they are and where their loyalties lie," Alicent replied. "My father has set his network to investigating their background. Valyrian features don't appear by accident, and their timing is... suspicious."
She noticed Criston stifling a yawn and realized how late the hour had grown. The day's events had exhausted them both, though she would never show such weakness herself.
"You should rest, Ser Criston," she said, softening her tone slightly. "Tomorrow will require all your skill and focus. Remember, it is not just Stormsong you fight for, but the future of the realm. My son's birthright depends on those who have the courage to stand for what is right, even when it is difficult."
Criston stood and bowed deeply. "I will not fail you, Your Grace. Or Prince Aegon."
"See that you don't," Alicent replied, her voice regaining its edge. "The consequences of today's failure were contained. The next may not be so easily managed."
After Criston departed, Alicent moved to the balcony, gazing out at the darkening city. Below, torches were being lit throughout the Red Keep's grounds, pinpricks of light pushing back against the encroaching night.
Like us, she thought. Small flames against a greater darkness. But even small flames can grow to consume forests if properly tended.
In her mind, she began composing the moves for tomorrow's games—both on the tournament field and in the halls of power. Daemon's return, Joffrey's injury, the mysterious northerner and his Valyrian wife... pieces on the board, to be arranged to her advantage.
Rhaenyra might believe herself secure as the named heir, but Alicent had learned long ago that power resided not in declarations but in alliances, in gold, in swords, and—most importantly—in the willingness to use them all when the moment was right.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen swept into Ser Harwin Strong's chamber with the confidence of one who knew her presence was both a gift and a privilege. She dismissed the attending maester with a flick of her wrist, not bothering to watch as the old man shuffled out, closing the door behind him.
"I ordered them to give you the finest chambers available for your recovery," she announced, her violet eyes appraising the room's appointments. "Though it seems the definition of 'finest' has grown rather lax in my father's household."
Harwin Strong lay propped against a mountain of pillows, his massive frame making the bed seem almost childlike in proportion. His right leg was heavily bandaged, poultices and linens visible beneath the coverings. His face, normally flushed with vigor, had taken on a grayish pallor that did nothing to improve his already rough-hewn features.
He looks terrible, Rhaenyra thought, though she kept this observation to herself. Like some great beast brought low by hunters.
"Princess," Harwin acknowledged, attempting to sit more upright before wincing in pain. "You honor me with your presence."
"Of course I came," Rhaenyra replied, moving to sit at the edge of his bed. She placed her hand briefly on his. "You were injured fighting in my father's tournament."
"I was injured," Harwin corrected, his voice hardening, "by your mysterious northman with the fancy sword."
Rhaenyra withdrew her hand, irritation flashing across her features. "Lord Daeron bested you fairly in combat, Ser Harwin. I witnessed it myself."
"And enjoyed it too, from what I hear," Harwin shot back, then grimaced, shifting his injured leg. "The servants talk, Princess. They say you couldn't tear your eyes from him during the melee."
Of course, they talk. The smallfolk have little else to occupy their simple minds.
"I watched all the competitors with equal interest," she replied coolly. "It was a tournament held in my honor, after all."
"Don't lie to me, Rhaenyra," Harwin said. Rhaenyra was annoyed that he used her name without a title. "Not here, not when I'm lying crippled because of him."
"Crippled?" Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow. "The maester assured me you would recover fully, given time and proper care."
"Six months at least before I can walk without pain," Harwin snarled. "A year or more before I might wield a sword properly again. And all because this 'Lord Daeron' appears from nowhere and hamstrings me like a common butcher!"
His face had flushed now, anger bringing color back to his pallid complexion. Rhaenyra found herself comparing it unfavorably to Daeron's controlled intensity during the melee. Where Harwin was all brute force and hot temper, Daeron had moved with the lethal precision of a water dancer.
The way he fought—like he'd faced worse enemies than mere tournament knights. And those eyes, so like my own yet somehow older, as if they'd seen things beyond imagining...
"You're thinking of him right now, aren't you?" Harwin's accusation cut through her reverie.
Rhaenyra blinked, composing herself. "I'm thinking that self-pity ill becomes the man they call 'Breakbones,'" she replied sharply. "You lost a bout. It happens even to the greatest warriors."
"This is more than a lost bout," Harwin insisted, lowering his voice. "This is about us. About what we've shared. And now your eyes follow this northern lord with his Valyrian features—"
"Be careful, Ser Harwin," Rhaenyra cut him off, her tone suddenly dangerous. "You forget yourself. What we have shared has been at my pleasure, not my promise."
The words hung between them like a drawn blade. Harwin's expression shifted from anger to something more vulnerable, more wounded than his physical injuries could account for.
Perhaps that was too harsh, she thought, without true remorse. But he needs to remember who I am—and what he is to me.
"Of course, Princess," Harwin finally said, his voice carefully neutral. "Forgive my presumption. The pain has made me forget my place."
Rhaenyra softened slightly, reaching out to adjust his coverings with practiced tenderness. "Rest and heal, Ser Harwin. Your... services will be required again once you've recovered."
The double meaning wasn't lost on him. A hint of his familiar grin returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "As Your Highness commands."
"Always," she replied with a small smile, rising to leave. "I'll have them send up some dreamwine. It will help with both the pain and your temper."
Before he could respond, she had swept from the room, her crimson and black gown trailing behind her like liquid fire. Two of her ladies waited in the corridor, falling into step behind her as she made her way back to her own chambers.
He's becoming possessive, she thought as she walked. Too bold by half. Perhaps this injury will teach him humility along with caution.
Her thoughts drifted inevitably back to Lord Daeron. The way he had moved on the tournament field, as if the chaos of combat was a familiar companion. The flash of his Valyrian steel sword—Stormsong, they called it—singing through the air with a deadliness that was almost beautiful.
And then there was his wife, Daenerys, with her uncanny resemblance to Rhaenyra herself. It was like looking in a mirror, yet not quite—the woman was perhaps a few years older, with something in her bearing that spoke of hard-won authority rather than inherited privilege.
Rhaenyra dismissed her ladies upon reaching her chambers, preferring solitude to their incessant chatter. The spacious rooms offered views across King's Landing toward Blackwater Bay, where ships bearing the seahorse of House Velaryon were still visible, anchored in preparation for the coming wedding festivities.
My wedding. To Laenor.
She poured herself a generous cup of wine, carrying it to the window seat where she could gaze out at the darkening sky. The match was politically advantageous, she knew—uniting the realm's greatest naval power with the Iron Throne, healing the rift caused when her grandfather chose her father over "the Queen Who Never Was." Yet the thought of being bound to Laenor Velaryon stirred no passion in her breast.
He's handsome enough, well-mannered, and his Valyrian blood is pure. He'll father dragonriders for House Targaryen. If only his interests lay with women rather than men...
A flash of memory intruded—two nights past, when she had been wandering the corridors of the Red Keep, unable to sleep. She had passed the chambers assigned to Lord Daeron and his wife, hearing sounds that left little doubt as to their activities. Curiosity had gotten the better of her propriety, and she had lingered, listening to their passionate coupling.
The way she called his name. I wanted to be her in that moment. To know what it is to be desired so completely.
Daemon Targaryen
Prince Daemon Targaryen moved through the gardens of the Red Keep like a predator on familiar hunting grounds. The setting sun cast long shadows across the carefully manicured paths, painting the white stone walls with streaks of blood-red light. It was, he thought with wry amusement, a fitting backdrop for a family reunion.
Two Kingsguard followed at a discreet distance—Viserys' way of keeping tabs on his troublesome brother without being overtly hostile. Daemon paid them no mind. He'd spent his life being watched by men in white cloaks, and he'd long since mastered the art of doing exactly as he pleased regardless.
Poor fools, trailing after me like obedient dogs. Do they truly believe they could stop me if I decided to cause my brother a headache?
His quarry was easy enough to find. As expected, Rhaenyra had retreated to the secluded alcove near the heart tree—her favorite spot in the gardens since childhood. Some habits never changed, even as girls grew into women.
And what a woman she had become. Daemon paused momentarily to appreciate the sight of her. Rhaenyra sat on a stone bench, her silver-gold hair catching the dying sunlight, her profile achingly similar to his own. The blood of Old Valyria ran pure in them both.
We were made for each other, niece. Every other match is a pale imitation of what we could be together.
She hadn't noticed him yet, too absorbed in whatever book lay open in her lap. Daemon approached silently, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Heavy reading for the eve of a feast," he remarked casually.
Rhaenyra startled, snapping the book shut and looking up with wide eyes that quickly narrowed upon recognizing him.
"Uncle," she said, her voice cool and controlled. "I had wondered how long it would take you to seek me out."
"And here I thought you might have been waiting for me," Daemon replied, gesturing to the empty space beside her on the bench. "May I?"
Without waiting for permission, he settled himself next to her, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed against her gown. She shifted slightly away, maintaining a proper distance.
Playing the offended maiden now, are we? After all we've shared?
"Your dramatic return caused quite a stir," Rhaenyra commented, tucking the book into the folds of her gown. "Father was furious."
"Viserys is always furious with me," Daemon said with a dismissive wave. "Until he isn't. It's the nature of brothers." He turned to face her directly. "But I didn't come to discuss Viserys."
"Then why did you come, Uncle? To disrupt my wedding festivities? To undermine my position at court yet again?"
There was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there before their adventure in the pleasure houses of King's Landing.
"I came," Daemon said, leaning closer, "because I couldn't bear the thought of my favorite niece marrying a man who will never truly appreciate her... considerable charms."
Rhaenyra's cheeks colored slightly, though whether from anger or something else, Daemon couldn't quite tell.
"My marriage to Lord Laenor is a political alliance," she replied stiffly. "One that strengthens my claim to the throne. My father supports it, the Small Council supports it—"
"And does Rhaenyra support it?" Daemon interrupted, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Does the thought of Laenor Velaryon in your bed quicken your pulse? Does the prospect of his hands on your body kindle desire in your blood?"
"That's hardly appropriate conversation," she said dryly.
"When has our conversation ever been appropriate?" Daemon countered with a knowing smile. "Besides, the whole of King's Landing knows where Laenor's interests truly lie. The Knight of Kisses wasn't merely his companion."
That struck a nerve. He saw the flash of discomfort cross her features before she could mask it.
"Joffrey Lonmouth's death was unfortunate," she said carefully.
"Unfortunate?" Daemon laughed. "Is that what we're calling Ser Criston's display of savagery? I'm told Laenor hasn't left the man's bedside. Hardly the actions of a future king consort preparing to wed the realm's heir."
Rhaenyra stood abruptly, moving to a nearby flowering bush and pretending great interest in its blossoms. "You've been back in King's Landing for less than a day, and already you're neck-deep in court gossip."
Daemon rose to follow her, enjoying the way she tensed as he approached from behind. "It's not gossip when it's the truth, my dear. Laenor Velaryon will never be the husband you need. He'll never give you children. He'll never satisfy the dragon within you."
Not like I could.
He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of her arm. "You deserve a true dragon, Rhaenyra. Someone who understands what it means to have fire in their blood."
She turned to face him, her violet eyes meeting his—so similar to his own. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw the same hunger that had consumed them that night in the pleasure house. Then she stepped away, breaking the contact.
"Perhaps I've already found such a person," she said, a challenge in her voice.
Daemon blinked, genuinely caught off guard. This wasn't the response he had anticipated.
"Harwin Strong?" he guessed, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. "The brute may be built like a bull, but he has all the subtlety of one too."
A small, satisfied smile played across Rhaenyra's lips. "Not Ser Harwin. Though I'm flattered by your jealousy, Uncle."
"Jealous? Of Breakbones?" Daemon scoffed, though inwardly he felt a flicker of unease. If not Strong, then who had captured his niece's attention? "The man couldn't best me with a sword if I were blindfolded and fighting with my off hand."
"No, not Harwin," Rhaenyra agreed. "Someone new to court. Someone who fights like no one I've ever seen before." Her eyes shone with something that looked disturbingly like genuine admiration. "Someone who, perhaps, might even be your equal with a blade."
My equal? Impossible.
Daemon fought to keep his expression neutral, though he felt an unfamiliar sensation churning in his gut. He had always been Rhaenyra's ideal—her dangerous uncle, the Realm's Delight and the Rogue Prince, a forbidden pairing that excited them both. The notion that someone else had usurped this position galled him.
"And does this paragon have a name?" Daemon asked lightly, masking his displeasure.
"Lord Daeron," Rhaenyra replied, watching his face carefully. "A northerner with Valyrian blood. He arrived recently with his wife."
"His wife?" Daemon seized on this detail, relief washing through him. "Then he's hardly an appropriate object for your fascination, is he?"
Rhaenyra merely smiled, a secretive expression that Daemon found he did not like at all. "His wife is... intriguing as well. She bears a remarkable resemblance to me, did you know? Almost as if we were sisters."
Daemon had heard rumors of this mysterious couple, but he hadn't yet laid eyes on them himself.
A northern lord with Valyrian features and a wife who resembles Rhaenyra? Curious indeed.
"How very interesting," Daemon said, studying his niece with newfound intensity. "I look forward to meeting this Lord Daeron and his fascinating wife at the feast tonight."
"I thought you might," Rhaenyra replied, a hint of mischief in her tone. "He defeated Ser Harwin Strong in the melee today with remarkable skill. You'll be facing him tomorrow, I believe."
The challenge was unmistakable. Daemon felt his pride stir, along with his competitive instinct. "Then I shall have to show you what a true master of combat looks like, niece. Perhaps after watching me put this northerner in his place, your fascination will return to more... appropriate targets."
Rhaenyra laughed, the sound both musical and somehow dismissive. "We shall see, Uncle." She glanced at the darkening sky. "I must prepare for the feast. Father expects me to make a good impression on the Velaryon delegation, given recent... complications."
"Of course," Daemon nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. "Don't let me keep you from your duties."
She moved to leave but paused beside him. "It's good to see you again, Uncle," she said, her voice softer now. "Despite everything."
Before Daemon could respond, she had brushed past him. He watched her retreating figure until she disappeared around a hedge, his thoughts churning with this unexpected development.
Lord Daeron. A northerner with Valyrian blood and a supposedly exceptional sword arm.
Daemon's hand instinctively went to Dark Sister's hilt, the familiar feel of the Valyrian steel pommel reassuring beneath his fingers. He had faced countless opponents across the Narrow Sea and in the brutal fighting of the Stepstones. He had emerged victorious against the Triarchy's finest killers. No northern lord, no matter how skilled, would stand against the Rogue Prince.
Tomorrow in the melee, this Lord Daeron will learn what it means to draw the attention of a prince's niece. And tonight at the feast, I shall see for myself what manner of man has captured Rhaenyra's interest.
As Daemon made his way back toward the Red Keep, the Kingsguard falling into step behind him, he found himself unusually eager for the evening's festivities. Court functions normally bored him to tears, but tonight promised to be different.
Tonight, he would hunt.
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