(King's Landing, 112 AC)
The Red Keep did not keep secrets; it nurtured them until they grew teeth.
In the weeks following Prince Daemon's departure for the Vale, the air in the capital had grown thick with tension. Ravens had flown from Runestone to the Eyrie, and from the Eyrie to the Hand's desk, carrying tales that made even the most cynical courtiers whisper in the shadows.
"Two guards wounded," Lord Caswell murmured near the Iron Throne. "The Prince didn't just arrive; he invaded. He drew Valyrian steel against his own wife's men."
"That is not the worst of it," a lady-in-waiting replied, scandalized. "They say he brought a whore from the Street of Silk. He demanded she sleep in Lady Rhea's own chambers. The audacity… the sheer dishonor."
In the Small Council chamber, Ser Otto Hightower made sure every detail was presented to the King like a feast of bitterness.
"Lady Jeyne Arryn is incensed, Your Grace," Otto said. "She speaks of a violation of the King's Peace. Your brother has not only shamed his marriage; he has threatened the stability of the Vale. And now, he sits at Dragonstone, refusing to return the egg he stole."
Viserys I Targaryen looked as if he had aged ten years in a single moon. He sat hunched over, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "He mocks the dead," Viserys whispered. "An egg for Baelon... stolen for a bastard he claims to have made with a mistress."
(Dragonstone)
The ancestral seat of House Targaryen felt like a fortress under siege.
Daemon Targaryen stood on the stone bridge, looking out at the Narrow Sea. Beside him stood Mysaria, her white silks whipping in the wind. She looked troubled, her mask of indifference cracked by the reality of their situation.
"The King's men are here," she said, spotting the ships.
"Let them come," Daemon drawled. "My brother does not have the stomach to fire on his own blood."
But it was not the King who came. It was the Princess.
Syrax descended through the mist, landing on the bridge with a heavy thud. Rhaenyra dismounted, her black mourning clothes stark against her pale skin. She walked toward her uncle, past the line of Otto Hightower's soldiers who watched from a distance.
"Uncle," Rhaenyra said, her voice cold. "I have come for the egg."
"Niece," Daemon replied, hand on Dark Sister. "Have you come to offer more comforts? Or has my brother sent a child to do a man's work?"
"I have come for the truth," Rhaenyra countered, ignoring his jab. "They say you drew blood in the Vale. They say you violated a home. Is it true? Did you strike Lady Rhea's men to put a prostitute in her bed?"
Daemon stepped forward, his eyes flashing. "The Vale is a tomb. I simply chose to bring some life into it. If her men were too weak to hold their ground, that is their failure."
"You violated a home, Daemon," Rhaenyra said, her disappointment palpable. "My mother was an Arryn. When you hurt the Royces, you hurt me."
Daemon looked at Rhaenyra—the girl he had once loved above all others—and saw only judgment. He looked at Mysaria, who was trembling. He realized he was alone.
With a grunt of disgust, Daemon tossed the dragon egg to her. "Take it. Take your toy and leave me to my 'shame'."
"I am leaving," Rhaenyra said, catching the egg. "But know this, Uncle... the King is done forgiving you. You are not a Prince today. You are just a man with a stolen dragon and a heart of ash."
She mounted Syrax and took flight.
Humiliated, Daemon turned his rage on the only person left. He looked at Mysaria. "Pack your things. We go to the Stepstones. I am done with this kingdom."
(Runestone, Three Months Later)
The winter roses were dying in the gardens of Runestone, withered by the frost.
In her solar, Lady Rhea Royce sat staring at a small cup of steaming liquid. It smelled of mint, wormwood, and tansy. Moon Tea.
Maester Hyle stood in the corner, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his face grave. "It will be quick, my Lady. A few cramps, some bleeding, and the... matter... will be resolved."
Rhea looked at the cup. Her hand hovered over it.
She had vomited three mornings in a row. Her armor was feeling tight around the chest. She knew what was growing inside her. It was not a child of love. It was a parasite planted by a monster during a night of violence and humiliation.
Every time she thought of the baby, she saw Daemon's sneering face. She felt his hands on her throat. She remembered the sight of the whore in her bed.
Drink it, a voice in her head screamed. Flush his poison out of your body. Be free of him.
She lifted the cup to her lips. The steam warmed her face.
Then, she stopped.
She looked at the bronze shield hanging on the wall—the shield of her father, and his father before him. The Runes of the First Men. We Remember.
If she drank this, Daemon won. If she drank this, she was admitting that he had broken her, that his seed was a curse she was too weak to bear. And worse... she was the Lady of Runestone. She had no heir. If she died tomorrow, her House would fall to distant cousins or, gods forbid, revert to the Crown.
Rhea's grip on the cup tightened until the ceramic cracked.
"No," she whispered.
She stood up and walked to the hearth. With a sudden, violent motion, she threw the cup into the fire. The liquid hissed as it hit the flames, evaporating into nothing.
"My Lady?" Maester Hyle asked, startled.
"I will not kill my own blood because of his sin," Rhea said, turning to him. Her eyes were dry and hard as flint. "The child is mine. Daemon provided the seed, but the earth that grows it is Royce. I will not let him take my heir from me."
She walked to her desk, ignoring the nausea that roiled in her stomach. She dipped a quill in black ink.
"Paper, Maester. And wax. We have letters to write."
"To whom, my Lady?"
"To everyone," Rhea declared. "To the Eyrie. To the Citadel. To the High Septon. And to the King."
She began to write, her strokes sharp and aggressive.
To His Grace, King Viserys I Targaryen,
I write to inform the Crown that the House of Royce has secured its future. I carry a child.
Let it be known that this child was conceived in violence, during the night Prince Daemon forced his way into my home and bed. He is the father by blood, but he will not be the father by name.
The Vale does not forget. Your brother is hereby declared an enemy of House Royce. If Prince Daemon Targaryen sets foot on Runestone lands again, he will not be greeted with bread and salt. He will be hunted like the beast he is.
The child will bear the name Royce. He will be raised in Bronze. And he will know exactly who his father is, and why he must never be like him.
Lady Rhea Royce, Lady of Runestone.
She sealed the letter with the bronze wax of her House, pressing her signet ring down with enough force to bruise her finger.
"Send them," she commanded Hyle. "Send them all. Let the Seven Kingdoms know that the Dragon tried to break the Rock, and the Rock broke him instead."
As the ravens took flight from the rookery, circling the grey towers before heading south, Rhea placed a hand on her stomach.
"You are mine," she promised the life inside her. "You will have his fire, little one. But I will give you the armor to control it."