The tent smelled of salt, stale wine, and the charred meat of Crabfeeder's men.
War in the Stepstones was a dirty business, but Prince Daemon Targaryen thrived in the filth. He sat at the head of a makeshift table made from driftwoods, his silver-gold hair matted with sweat and ash. Around him, the captains of the Sea Snake's fleet drank and boasted, their laughter drowning out the distant roar of the waves.
A messenger from the mainland stood trembling at the entrance, holding a scroll sealed with the bronze wax of House Royce.
"Read it," Daemon commanded, tearing a chunk of meat from a bone with his teeth.
The messenger hesitated. "My Prince... it is from Runestone. Lady Rhea writes to the Crown, but copies were sent to all major lords... and to you."
"Read it!" Daemon barked.
The boy cleared his throat, his voice shaking. "To the realm, let it be known... Lady Rhea Royce carries a child... fathered by Prince Daemon Targaryen... despite the violence of his departure..."
The tent went silent. Lord Corlys Velaryon, seated to Daemon's right, raised an eyebrow, looking at the Prince with a mixture of surprise and calculation.
Daemon froze. For a second, the memory of the Bronze Night flashed in his mind—the struggle, the hate, the way he had forced her. But shame was a weakness Daemon had long ago excised from his soul.
He laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that made the messenger flinch.
"A child?" Daemon mocked, standing up and crushing his goblet. "The Bronze Bitch claims I put a babe in her belly? That is the greatest jape of the year!"
He turned to his men, spreading his arms wide, performing for his audience.
"I never touched her!" Daemon lied, his voice booming with false indignation. "The woman is barren as a rock and twice as hard. If she is pregnant, it is because she finally found a knight drunk enough to lift her skirt. Or perhaps she grew fond of the sheep she herds!"
The soldiers erupted in laughter, eager to please their dragonrider.
"But my Prince," the messenger stammered, "she claims... she claims violence. She says—"
"She lies!" Daemon roared, kicking the table over. "She is a whore in bronze armor who seeks to steal my name for her bastard. Tell the world, boy: I have no son in the Vale. That thing growing inside her is a Bronze Bastard. It is no blood of mine."
Corlys Velaryon did not laugh. He watched Daemon closely, seeing the desperate edge in his denial. But he needed Caraxes to win this war, so the Sea Snake remained silent.
Daemon stormed out of the tent, staring at the churning grey sea. He told himself it was a lie. He told himself the seed couldn't have taken root in such poisoned soil. But deep down, a flicker of doubt gnawed at him. He crushed it with hatred. Let it be a bastard, he thought. Let it rot in the mountains.
...
The Red Keep was suffocating.
King Viserys I Targaryen paced the floor of his private solar, the letter from Rhea Royce crumpled in his fist.
"It cannot be true," Viserys muttered, looking at his Hand. "Daemon is wild, Otto. He is arrogant. But he is not... he is not a rapist. He would not defile his own marriage bed."
Ser Otto Hightower stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a vulture waiting for a dying animal to take its last breath.
"The Lady Rhea is a woman of honor, Your Grace," Otto said softly. "House Royce does not make such accusations lightly. And the rumors of the wounded guards... of the mistress he brought..."
"Rumors!" Viserys snapped. "Daemon denies it. He wrote to me from the Stepstones. He swears he never touched her. He calls the child a bastard of the Vale."
Viserys sank into his chair, rubbing his temples. He wanted to believe his brother. He needed to believe him. If Daemon was guilty of this, then Viserys was guilty of letting a monster roam free for too long.
"There is a way to know the truth," Otto said, turning slowly.
Viserys looked up. "How?"
"The woman," Otto replied. "The mistress. Mysaria. The one he took to Dragonstone... and then to the Vale."
"She is gone," Viserys dismissed. "Daemon abandoned her in the Stepstones."
"My agents are thorough, Your Grace," Otto said, a thin, triumphant smile touching his lips. "When the Prince cast her aside like a broken toy, she did not go far. She was found in Pentos, trying to sell her jewelry for passage back to Lys. I took the liberty of... inviting her to the capital."
Viserys stared at him. "You have her?"
"She is in the dungeons. Not as a prisoner, but as a guest. She is bitter, Your Grace. And a bitter woman has no reason to lie for the man who discarded her."
Viserys felt a chill run down his spine. He was afraid of the truth. But he was the King.
"Bring her," Viserys whispered. "Bring her to me."
...
Mysaria was brought up to the solar in chains of gold, not iron. She wore a dress of foreign silk, stained from travel, but she held her head high. Her eyes were cold, devoid of the warmth she had once held for the Rogue Prince.
She looked at the King, then at the Hand. She did not bow.
"You are the woman called Mysaria?" Viserys asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"I am," she replied, her accent thick with the flavor of Lys.
"I want the truth," Viserys said, leaning forward. "About the Vale. About my brother and Lady Rhea. Daemon says he never touched her. He says the child is a product of her infidelity."
Mysaria laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound.
"Daemon says many things," she said. "He told me he loved me. He told me I would be his Lady at Runestone. He lies as easily as he breathes."
She stepped closer to the desk. Otto did not stop her.
"I was there, Your Grace," Mysaria said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a hammer. "He dragged me into the castle. He flaunted me before his wife to break her pride. But she... she was stronger than he expected. She threatened to kill me."
Viserys paled.
"And then?"
"Then he locked us in the bedchamber," Mysaria continued, her eyes fixing on the King's. "Lady Rhea came back. She had a sword. She fought him. She fought like a lioness."
Mysaria paused, remembering the sound of the blows, the smell of blood and sweat.
"He beat her," Mysaria said bluntly. "He kicked her in the belly until she could not stand. And then... he ordered me to guard the door."
Viserys closed his eyes. "No..."
"I stood there, King Viserys," Mysaria said mercilessly. "I stood by the door while your brother forced himself on his wife. I heard her struggle. I heard her hate. And I heard him tell her that she was his property."
The silence in the room was absolute. It was the silence of a shattered world.
"He finished," Mysaria concluded. "And the next morning, he woke me up and we flew away. He felt nothing. No shame. No regret. He only felt anger that the world did not applaud him."
Viserys sat frozen. The image of Daemon—his champion, his blood—beating a woman and forcing her... it destroyed the last defense Viserys had built around his heart.
He looked at Otto. The Hand did not gloat. He simply nodded, confirming that the testimony aligned with the reports.
"Take her," Viserys whispered, his voice hoarse. "Give her gold. Give her a ship to wherever she wishes to go. She has done the Crown a service."
As the guards escorted Mysaria out, she stopped at the door and looked back.
"He will come for the child," she warned. "Not because he loves it. But because he cannot stand for anything to be his and not his."
...
Night had fallen over King's Landing.
Viserys sat alone at his desk. The candle was burning low. He felt old. He felt weak.
He picked up his quill. He could not undo the violence. He could not heal Rhea Royce's bruises or her spirit. But he could ensure that Daemon's lie did not stand.
He began to write, his hand heavy but firm.
To Lady Rhea of House Royce,
The Crown has heard your words. The Crown believes them.
My brother has denied his blood, casting shadows upon your honor to hide his own shame. I, Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, hereby reject his denial.
The child you carry is of the Blood of the Dragon. But he is also of the Blood of the First Men. Let it be known that this child, upon their birth, shall be legitimized by Royal Decree.
He shall not be a bastard. He shall not be a Snow or a Stone.
He shall bear the name ROYCE-TARGARYEN.
He shall be the Heir to Runestone, second only to you. Prince Daemon is hereby forbidden from claiming custody, guardianship, or visitation rights without the express permission of the Crown.
We apologize. Though words are wind, let this decree be stone.
Done in the Light of the Seven,
King Viserys I Targaryen.
Viserys poured the hot red wax onto the parchment. He pressed his signet ring into it—the three-headed dragon.
He stared at the seal. It looked different tonight. One head was roaring, but the other... the other seemed to be weeping.
"Forgive me, brother," Viserys whispered to the empty room. "But you have gone where I cannot follow."
He handed the scroll to the Grand Maester. "Send it. Send it tonight."
Far away, in the dark womb of Runestone, the child who would one day be called the Bronze Dragon stirred for the first time. The game had begun.