Chapter 1 - 1

Daeron closed the heavy oak door behind them, grateful for the privacy of their chambers after a day filled with prying eyes and whispered rumors. Dany was already removing her jeweled hairpins before the looking glass, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back like molten Valyrian steel.

"Seven hells, I'd forgotten how bloody these tourneys could be," Daeron muttered, unbuckling Stormsong from his hip and placing the Valyrian steel blade carefully on the table. "Poor Joffrey Lonmouth never stood a chance against Cole."

Dany turned to face him, her violet eyes flickering in the candlelight. "The Knight of Kisses needed to die, Daeron." 

"Laenor will be heartbroken. I saw his face when they carried Joffrey away."

"It's for the best," Dany said, accepting the wine cup from his hand. "If everything goes according to plan, you'll kill Criston Cole tomorrow. That should earn you favor with Lord Laenor, at least."

Daeron took a long drink, savoring the wine's sweetness while considering the bitter task ahead. "Do you think I can defeat him?" he asked, more to himself than to her.

"You're asking if Jon Snow, the man who survived years against the White Walkers and rode Rhaegal into battle, can best a single Kingsguard?" There was amusement in her voice now.

"The Kingmaker is as strong as the histories claimed," Daeron admitted, rubbing his shoulder where he'd taken a hit during today's fights. "If I had to guess, he might be as good as Ser Arthur Dayne was in our time."

Dany set down her cup and approached him, her fingers tracing the skin above his cheekbone, almost feeling the scar that was supposed to be there. "And yet you'll kill him all the same."

Daeron nodded. "I'm certain of it." And he was. Death and he were old friends by now.

"There's something else we need to discuss," Dany said, moving to the window that overlooked the Blackwater. "Prince Daemon wasn't supposed to arrive yet."

"No, he wasn't," Daeron agreed, joining her at the window. "Our histories claimed he wasn't part of Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor Velayron, and he only made a move when he killed the one who was supposed to marry Laena Velayron."

Dany's reflection in the glass showed a troubled expression. "Perhaps he'll marry Laena Velaryon sooner than expected."

"Perhaps," Daeron said, though he doubted it. "But if I had to guess, he came here because of Silverwing and Vermithor. Two riderless dragons suddenly taking to the skies again after decades? That would draw any Targaryen's attention."

"Do you think the Targaryens might see us as enemies if they learn the truth?" Dany's tone had a hint of uncertainty. 

A part of Daeron still could not believe he was really here, six months had passed, and a part of him still thought that he would wake up and find himself back in the Westeros he knew. "They might. But as long as House Targaryen and the dragons survive the Dance, our mission is complete. The details matter less than the outcome."

"What about Daemon?" she pressed. "From what we know of the history books, he was ambitious, dangerous. If he discovers who we are—who we really are—and what dragons we ride..."

"He might see us as rivals for the throne," Daeron finished her thought. "I hope we can avoid making Daemon an enemy. But if he decides we're his enemies—" He let the sentence hang unfinished.

"We'll have to get rid of him as well," Dany concluded softly, ever the queen even in this distant past.

She turned to face him fully now. "And what will you do about Rhaenyra and Laena?"

"Laena?" Daeron asked, genuinely confused. "She's supposed to be Daemon's first wife. She's not our concern."

Dany's lips curved into a knowing smile. "She was giving you quite the look last night at the feast. And defeating Ser Harwin Strong has only enhanced your reputation."

Daeron felt heat rise to his cheeks, glad for the dim lighting. "Laena isn't part of our plan. Our focus is on Rhaenyra."

"Making sure she doesn't birth any Strong bastards this time," Dany added, stepping closer until he could smell the sweetness of her breath. "Though I wonder if your Northern honor will allow you to seduce a princess who's betrothed to another."

"You know as well as I do that we left our honor behind when we stepped through that red door," Daeron reminded her, his hands finding her waist. "For the survival of our house—we'll do what must be done."

Dany's fingers traced up his chest, finding the scar over his heart. "Our house," she repeated, as if testing the words. "Strange how destiny brought us here, isn't it? The dragon and the wolf, come to save dragons and wolves who don't yet know they need saving."

Daeron captured her hand in his and brought it to his lips. "No stranger than anything else we've faced."

When their lips met, it was with the fierce hunger they always had for each other, since the day he met her in that desert. As he lifted her onto the bed, silver hair spilling across furs imported from the North, Daeron pushed away thoughts of tomorrow's melee and the blood that would stain its sands.

Tonight, in this moment out of time, there was only them.

Laenor Velayron

Laenor couldn't let go of his hand. Even now, as the last warmth faded from Joffrey's fingers, he clung to him as if his grip alone could tether the knight's spirit to his broken body. The blood had been cleaned from Joffrey's face, but no amount of the maesters' careful work could hide the damage that Ser Criston's morningstar had wrought. His beautiful Knight of Kisses, his smile forever stilled.

"My lord," Grand Maester Mellos spoke from behind him, his voice soft with practiced sympathy. "I regret to inform you that Ser Joffrey Lonmouth has passed from this world."

Laenor didn't turn to face him. The old man was telling him what he had known for the past ten minutes—the moment when Joffrey's labored breathing had simply... stopped. The chamber fell silent save for the gentle sputter of candles and Laenor's own ragged breaths.

"I understand this is difficult, Lord Laenor, he was your friend," the maester continued when he offered no response, "but we must prepare his body for burial. House Lonmouth will want their son returned to them with proper dignity."

Proper dignity. The words cut through Laenor like Valyrian steel. Where was Joffrey's dignity when Cole beat him to death in front of everyone? Where was dignity when his father and King Viserys allowed the melee to continue after a man lay dying on the field, and stopped only because Prince Daemon arrived?

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice cracking despite his effort to sound authoritative. "I will call for you when I am ready."

"My lord, the body must be—"

"I said leave us!" Laenor hadn't meant to shout, but the sound echoed off the stone walls of the sickroom. The maester bowed stiffly and withdrew, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud.

Finally alone, Laenor brought Joffrey's knuckles to his lips.

"Do you remember when we first met?" he whispered to Joffrey, as if he might still hear him somewhere beyond the Narrow Sea of death. "At that tourney in Driftmark? You unseated three knights twice your size, and when I asked how you managed it, you said, 'A kiss brings more luck than all the armor in the Seven Kingdoms.'"

His thumb traced the line of Joffrey's jaw, now growing cold beneath his touch. He could almost see him that day, five years ago, his dark hair gleaming in the summer sun, his smile mischievous and bold in a way that had made Laenor's heart race.

"I didn't believe you then," he continued, tears blurring his vision.

A sob tore through his chest, raw and primal. Laenor pressed his forehead against their joined hands.

"They're calling you the Knight of Kisses now," he told him, voice breaking. "But they don't know—they don't understand what you were to me."

Laenor thought of his father's stern face, of his mother's disappointed eyes when they saw his grief displayed so openly. A true Velaryon would mourn with dignity, they would say. A future consort to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms should not weep like a child over a mere companion.

But Joffrey had never been merely anything.

"I swear it by the old gods and the new," he whispered, his words a vow more binding than any marriage pledge he would soon make to Princess Rhaenyra. "Ser Criston Cole will die by my hand. He will know your name as he draws his last breath."

He rose then, legs unsteady beneath him, and carefully arranged Joffrey's arms across his chest. Joffrey looked peaceful now, almost as if he were sleeping, though the terrible caved-in side of his skull told the brutal truth. 

"Wait for me in whatever world comes after this one," he begged him. "Our song isn't finished yet."

Only when he was certain he would be truly alone did Laenor allow himself to break completely, collapsing to his knees beside the deathbed. His sobs echoed in the empty chamber. He wept not only for Joffrey but for himself—for the future stretching before him without his lover, a future of pretense and duty and loneliness.

A future where he would be husband to a woman who wanted him no more than he wanted her, while the one person who had truly known him lay cold in the ground.

Laenor didn't know how long he knelt there, but by the time he rose to call for the maesters, his tears had dried, replaced by something harder and colder than grief.

Vengeance.

Laenor had barely stepped foot in his family's chambers when his father's voice cut through the air like the crack of a ship's sail in high wind.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, stood by the hearth, his face a storm of fury. "Weeping over a knight like some lovesick maiden for all the court to see?"

Laenor closed the door behind him, attempting to gather whatever fragments of dignity remained within him. His eyes were still red-rimmed, his throat raw from sobbing, but he forced himself to stand tall. The chamber felt suffocating—all Velaryon blue and green, with the scent of sea salt that Father insisted on bringing wherever they traveled, as if he couldn't bear to be parted from the ocean even when inland.

"Joffrey is dead," Laenor said simply, as if that explained everything. And to him, it did.

"Ser Joffrey Lonmouth was your sworn shield," his mother interjected, rising from her seat by the window. Rhaenys Targaryen—the Queen Who Never Was—approached her son with the same measured grace she exhibited whether mounting her dragon Meleys or navigating court politics. "Nothing more."

Her violet eyes, so like Laenor's own, held no true sympathy—only calculation. Always calculation.

"You dishonor yourself, your betrothed, and House Velaryon with this... display," Corlys continued, gesturing dismissively as if Laenor's grief were nothing more than an unsightly stain on his finest doublet. "We stand on the precipice of the greatest alliance our house has known in generations, and you risk it all for what? A pretty knight from the Stormlands?"

Laenor bit back the words that threatened to spill forth—that Joffrey had been more to him than they could ever understand, that his death left a void no political alliance could ever fill. Instead, he stared at the Velaryon seahorse emblazoned on the tapestry behind his father, counting breaths as Joffrey had once taught him to do when his anger threatened to overwhelm his sense.

"Princess Rhaenyra is the heir to the Iron Throne," Rhaenys reminded him, her tone softening slightly though her eyes remained hard. "Your marriage to her elevates our house to unprecedented heights. Your children will be kings and queens."

If there are children at all, Laenor thought bitterly, though he kept this to himself. Rhaenyra and he had an understanding—or so he believed—but such arrangements were fragile things, especially with the entire realm watching.

"The Hightowers already look for any excuse to discredit the princess," Corlys added, pouring himself a goblet of wine without offering any to his son. "Your... association with Ser Joffrey was tolerated because it was discreet. This public spectacle gives them fire."

"He was murdered before my eyes," Laenor said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Am I to pretend I saw nothing? Feel nothing?"

"Yes," both his parents replied in unison, the single syllable falling between them like an executioner's ax.

"You are a Velaryon," Corlys continued, approaching his son with the prowling gait that had intimidated admirals and kings alike. "The blood of Old Valyria flows through your veins. We do not show weakness. We do not indulge in public sentiment. And we certainly do not jeopardize alliances over the death of a household knight."

Laenor's hands curled into fists at his sides. "And if it were Mother who had been beaten to death in front of you? Would you maintain proper decorum then, Father?"

The blow came swiftly—Corlys's open palm connecting with Laenor's cheek with enough force to turn his head. He hadn't expected it; the Sea Snake rarely resorted to physical discipline, preferring the sharper strike of his cutting words.

"You dishonor your mother with the comparison," he hissed.

"Corlys," Rhaenys said, placing a hand on her husband's arm. To her son, she said, "You will join us at the feast tonight. You will smile, dance with your betrothed, and show the court that the death of Ser Joffrey, while regrettable, has not affected you beyond the appropriate concern for a loyal retainer."

Laenor touched his stinging cheek, tasting blood where his tooth had cut into his lip. "And if I refuse?"

"Then you are no son of mine," Corlys said coldly. "And House Velaryon will find another path to the throne."

The weight of his father's words pressed down upon Laenor, heavier than any armor he had worn in tournament or battle. This was his family, his blood, his duty. And yet, Joffrey's broken body lay cooling in a chamber not far from where they stood.

"I will attend," he said finally, the words like ashes in his mouth. "But do not expect me to pretend joy where there is none."

"Joy is not required," his mother said pragmatically. "Composure is sufficient."

As Laenor turned to leave, to prepare himself for the masquerade of normalcy that awaited, his father's voice stopped him at the door.

"Laenor," Corlys said, his tone slightly gentled. "Your Ser Joffrey is beyond pain now. But our house—our legacy—remains in the balance. Remember that tonight."

Laenor nodded without turning, unwilling to let his father see the fresh tears that threatened. The Sea Snake might understand the politics of kings and the strategies of naval warfare, but he knew nothing of the tides of the heart.

And that sea, Laenor feared, would drown him before this wedding was done.

Laenor's hand trembled as he raised it to knock on his sister's chamber door. The sting of his father's slap still burned on his cheek, but the wound to his pride cut deeper. He hesitated, wondering if he should simply retreat to his own rooms and face the night's ordeal alone.

Before he could decide, the door swung open. Laena stood there, her silver-gold hair loose around her shoulders, already changed from her riding clothes into a simple blue gown. Her expression shifted instantly from surprise to concern as she took in the redness on his face.

"Seven hells, what happened to you?" she asked, pulling him inside and closing the door swiftly behind them.

Laena's chambers were simpler than his own—she preferred functionality over opulence, a trait she shared with their mother despite their many differences. Dragon figurines carved from driftwood lined her shelves, collected since childhood. The windows were open to the sea breeze, the distant cry of gulls carrying on the wind.

"Father expressed his disappointment," Laenor said dryly, touching his cheek. "With his hand."

Laena's violet eyes widened. "He struck you? For mourning Joffrey?"

"For embarrassing House Velaryon," Laenor corrected, sinking into a chair by the window. "Apparently, my grief is politically inconvenient."

Laena retrieved a cloth dipped in cool water and pressed it gently to his face. Unlike their parents' cold disapproval, her touch held genuine care.

"They're fools," she said softly. "The both of them."

"They're politicians," Laenor replied. "And in this game of thrones, my heart is collateral damage."

Laena sat across from him, taking his hands in hers. 

"I saw what happened in the melee," she said. "Ser Criston targeted him deliberately. It wasn't a fair fight."

"Nothing about this is fair," Laenor whispered, his voice catching. "Joffrey is dead, and I'm to smile and dance at a feast tonight as if nothing happened. At the end of this Tourney, I'll stand beside Princess Rhaenyra and swear vows neither of us wishes to keep."

"You fear the marriage," Laena observed, not a question but a statement of fact.

Laenor stared out at the darkening sky. "I fear the lie of it. How am I to father heirs when the very thought of..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"Rhaenyra is no fool," Laena said carefully. "From what I've observed, she has appetites of her own. Perhaps an arrangement can be reached."

"An arrangement built on secrets and lies," Laenor said bitterly. "Is that to be my life? My legacy?"

Laena squeezed his hands. "Your legacy will be what you make it. Joffrey would not want you to destroy yourself or our house in your grief."

The mention of Joffrey's name broke something in him. Tears he'd been holding back since leaving his parents welled in his eyes.

"He was everything to me," Laenor admitted, his voice barely audible. "How do I stand in that Sept and pledge myself to another when half my soul will soon sank into the sea?"

Laena moved to kneel before him, her eyes level with his. "You survive," she said simply. "One day at a time. And you remember that while Father and Mother see alliances and bloodlines, I see you, brother. All of you."

The simple truth of her words—the acceptance he'd craved—undid him completely. Laenor slid from his chair and into his sister's arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Laena held him tightly, one hand stroking his silver hair as she had done when they were children and he'd fallen from his first pony.

"Thank you," he whispered against her shoulder when he could finally speak again.

Laena pulled back just enough to wipe a tear from his cheek. "We dragonriders must stick together," she said with a small smile. "I'm your sister, you can tell me anything. I will always support you."

Laenor embraced her again, clinging to this moment of genuine connection in a world that increasingly felt like a mummer's farce. With Joffrey gone, Laena might be the only person left in the Seven Kingdoms who saw him for who he truly was.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rhaenyra dismissed her handmaidens with a sharp wave, barely waiting for the door to close before she yanked at the laces of her constricting bodice. The silk gown—crimson and black, Targaryen colors to remind everyone of exactly who she was—fell to the floor in a whispered heap. The Princess Heir stood in nothing but her thin shift, her skin prickling in the cool evening air filtering through the half-open window.

The day's events swirled in her mind like storm clouds. Joffrey Lonmouth's death. Laenor's grief. Her uncle Daemon's unexpected arrival. And then there was Daeron, that Northern mystery with Valyrian eyes, who moved like no fighter she had ever seen, and beat Harwin like he was a green boy. 

She poured herself wine from the flagon by her bed, drinking deeply as heat bloomed within her that had nothing to do with the Arbor red. The faces of two men flickered behind her closed eyelids—one familiar, one new, both forbidden in their own ways.

"Dragon takes what dragon wants," she murmured to herself, her mother's words from long ago. Before the queen died birthing Viserys's son, who only lived for an hour. Before everything changed.

Rhaenyra sank onto her bed, the silken sheets cool against her fevered skin. Her shift rode up her thighs as she leaned back against the pillows, one hand absentmindedly tracing patterns across her collarbone, down to where her heart beat rapidly beneath her breast.

Her mind wandered to the training yard where she had watched Daeron move like water given form, his sword an extension of his arm as he disarmed Ser Harwin with insulting ease. When he defeated Ser Harwin in the Melee. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her—something knowing, as if he could see beneath her royal facade to the wild creature that lurked beneath.

Rhaenyra's fingers slid lower, across the soft plane of her stomach. She thought of Daeron's strong hands, imagining them in place of her own. Would he be gentle or fierce? Would he tremble when he touched her, as Ser Harwin had done that one impulsive night, or would he command her body with confidence? In the same way, he had commanded the body of his wife?

The image shifted, and suddenly it was Daemon in her mind's eye—her uncle with his dangerous smile and knowing gaze. The way he had looked at her upon his return, like a man starving for a feast only she could provide. He had taught her things once, before Father had sent him away. Things that had awakened her to possibilities beyond duty and royal marriages.

"Daeron," she whispered as her fingers found their destination, circling slowly, imagining violet eyes watching her with that same intensity he had shown in the melee. Her breath quickened, heat building where she touched herself.

But as the pleasure mounted, it was another name that escaped her lips: "Daemon." Her uncle. Her father's brother. The forbidden flame she could not seem to extinguish despite the years and distance.

Back and forth her mind traveled between them—Daeron's youthful strength and mystery, Daemon's experienced danger and familiarity. Her body arched as she increased her pace, uninhibited sounds escaping her that would scandalize the court should anyone hear their princess so undone.

In the final moment, as waves of pleasure crashed through her, both names tumbled from her lips in breathless succession. Two men. Two desires. Two paths that could lead to glory or destruction.

As her breathing slowed and reason returned, Rhaenyra stared at the canopy above her bed, the red and black dragons embroidered there seeming to watch her with judging eyes. Tomorrow she would sit beside her betrothed, the man who had loved the now-dead Knight of Kisses, and pretend to be the perfect princess heir.

But tonight, in the privacy of her chambers, she remained simply Rhaenyra—a dragon with appetites that would not be denied.

Alicent Hightower

Alicent Hightower, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, arranged the tiny wooden dragons in a row as her daughter watched with solemn eyes. Unlike her boisterous brothers, Helaena preferred quiet play, studying things in an unusual way for a child of five. 

"The red one is Caraxes," Alicent explained, picking up the carved figure. "That's Prince Daemon's dragon. And this one," she selected a smaller figure, "is Syrax, which belongs to Princess Rhaenyra."

Helaena nodded, reaching for a silver-painted dragon. "This one is the pretty one," she declared with the certainty only children possess.

"Yes, that's Silverwing," Alicent agreed, pleased with her daughter's knowledge. "Queen Alysanne's mount from long ago. No one rides her now."

The little princess tilted her head, considering this information with a slight furrow between her silver brows. "She waited for too long," she said finally.

"Did she?"

"Yes, and she is not alone anymore," Helaena answered cryptically, returning to arranging the wooden dragons in some pattern that made sense only to her.

Alicent watched her daughter with pride. Helaena was a true Targaryen, silver-haired and violet-eyed, a perfect combination of Hightower cunning and dragonlord blood. A valuable piece in the game of succession.

She sipped her honeyed wine, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction as she recalled the day's events. Laenor Velaryon had made quite the spectacle of himself, weeping over his fallen "friend" like a widow rather than a future consort to the heir. Such displays could only help her cause.

"Grand Maester Mellos tells me that Ser Harwin Strong may not walk properly for a year after his encounter with Ser Daeron," she remarked to her handmaiden who stood nearby, though the comment was really for her own pleasure. "It seems our mysterious northern has a talent for crippling the princess's supporters."

The handmaiden nodded dutifully. "They say he cut through Ser Harwin's armor at the knees as if it were parchment, Your Grace."

"How fortunate," Alicent mused, tracing the rim of her goblet with one finger. This Daeron, whoever he truly was, had proven unexpectedly useful. First dispatching Harwin Strong, Rhaenyra's rumored paramour, and then creating the circumstances for Ser Criston to eliminate Laenor's lover. Whether by design or chance, the man served her interests.

"Dragon!" Helaena suddenly exclaimed, abandoning her toys and rushing to the window. "Dragon, Mother, look!"

Alicent set down her wine and joined her daughter, expecting to see Syrax or perhaps Caraxes circling the keep. Instead, her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed a massive silvery shape gliding through the distant clouds. The dragon was larger than Meleys and rode in a way that made it clear that someone was riding her.

"Silverwing," she whispered, disbelieving. The dragon had not been ridden since Queen Alysanne's death decades ago. Yet there it was.

"She found her," Helaena said with a satisfied nod, as if confirming something she had long known. "She found the one with matching blood."

Before Alicent could question her daughter's strange words, the silver dragon banked sharply and disappeared behind a distant hill, leaving only the empty sky and wisps of clouds.

"Are you certain that was Silverwing, my love?" Alicent asked, wondering if her eyes had deceived her. "That dragon hasn't been seen flying in many years."

Helaena returned to her wooden figures, picking up the silver dragon and holding it to her chest. "She flies at night mostly," the child said matter-of-factly. "She doesn't want everyone to see yet. It's not time."

A chill ran through Alicent that had nothing to do with the breeze from the window. There had always been something different about Helaena—something in the way she spoke about certain things with unsettling clarity. The maesters dismissed it as childish fancy, but Alicent knew the histories of House Targaryen well enough to recognize the signs of a dragon dreamer.

"And when will it be time?" she asked carefully, returning to her seat and motioning for her daughter to join her.

"I'm not sure. I want to see, but it's all dark, " she said innocently, and she started playing with her toys again.

Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen lounged in his seat at the high table, one finger idly tracing the rim of his wine goblet as he surveyed the Great Hall of the Red Keep. The last time he had been in this room, his brother had banished him from court. Now he returned, ostensibly to mourn his wife—though few would believe such sentiment from the Prince of the City. Rhea Royce's "hunting accident" had been convenient, if nothing else.

But it wasn't thoughts of his dead wife that occupied him tonight. It was curiosity about the two strangers who had appeared at court during his absence—the ones his niece Rhaenyra had spoken of with such fascination.

"He might be a better swordsman than you, Uncle," she had taunted him earlier, her eyes gleaming with the mischief he had always encouraged in her. "You should have seen how he dispatched Ser Harwin."

The idea was absurd, of course. Daemon had crossed swords with the greatest fighters in Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea. He had wielded Dark Sister since he was sixteen. No Northern hedge warrior with a fancy blade could possibly compare.

"You're staring," Viserys remarked beside him, interrupting his thoughts. His brother looked pale and drawn, the crown sitting heavily on his brow, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Waiting to size up your competition?"

Daemon snorted. "Hardly competition. I'm merely curious what manner of fraud has captured everyone's attention in my absence." He took a long sip of Arbor Gold. "Though I hear you've been quite taken with them yourself, brother."

Viserys chuckled. "They're certainly... interesting. The young man fights like he was born with a sword in hand, and the woman—" He paused, glancing sidelong at Daemon. "Well, you'll see for yourself."

Before Daemon could press further, a stir at the entrance to the Great Hall drew his attention. The herald announced, "Ser Daeron and Lady Daenerys."

The crowd parted to admit the mysterious couple, and Daemon found himself leaning forward despite his determined nonchalance. The man was tall and well-built, with dark hair pulled back severely from a face that was handsome in a solemn, Northern way, with a silver streak of hair in front of his face. But it was his eyes—a startling Valyrian violet—that caught Daemon's attention first.

And then he saw the woman.

Lady Daenerys glided forward on her husband's arm, her silver-gold hair falling in waves down her back, adorned with simple pearl pins rather than an elaborate court style. She wore a gown of deep blue that somehow managed to be both modest and alluring. But it was her face that caused Daemon's breath to catch in his throat.

She looked like Rhaenyra—or rather, what Rhaenyra might look like in six years' time. The same high cheekbones, the same full lips, the same proud tilt to her chin. Yet there were differences too—something in the set of her violet eyes that spoke of hardships his niece had never known.

"Gods be good," Daemon muttered. "Who are these people truly?"

Viserys smiled indulgently. "They've explained their lineage. Daenerys was raised in Essos—"

"And you believe that tale?" Daemon interrupted, lowering his voice. "Look at them, brother. There's something strange here. The boy has the build of a Northman but Valyrian eyes. And the woman..." He trailed off, watching as Daenerys greeted Lady Redwyne with a gracious smile. "She could be Rhaenyra's older twin."

"There are many with the blood of Old Valyria scattered across the known world," Viserys said dismissively. "Not all dragonlords perished in the Doom."

"Then why haven't we heard of them before now?" Daemon pressed. "And why come to King's Landing just as two riderless dragons vanish from Dragonstone?"

Viserys frowned. "You suspect them of claiming Vermithor and Silverwing? That's—"

Whatever his brother had been about to say was lost as trumpets blared, announcing another arrival. All heads turned toward the entrance.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rhaenyra paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the Great Hall, allowing the moment to stretch. The herald's voice rang out, announcing her with all her titles and honors—Princess of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. She had chosen her gown with care: crimson samite with black lacework, the bodice cut low enough to draw the eyes of everyone. Rubies were woven into her elaborate silver-gold braids.

She began her descent, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon her. This was power—the ability to command attention simply by entering a room. Father might wear the crown, but she had mastered the performance of royalty in ways he never had.

Pride swelled in her chest as the assembled lords and ladies bowed and curtsied. Even those who whispered against her claim behind closed doors showed deference to her face. She was the dragon's daughter, and tonight she looked the part.

Her gaze swept the room, noting with satisfaction the admiring glances, the hushed comments behind hands. Lord Beesbury nodded respectfully. Her uncle Daemon raised his wine glass in a half-mocking toast, his eyes holding that dangerous glint she had both feared and craved since girlhood.

But when her eyes found Daeron and Daenerys at their table, her satisfaction faltered. Unlike every other person in the room, Daeron wasn't looking at her at all. He was leaning close to his wife, whispering something in her ear that made Daenerys cover her mouth to suppress a laugh, her eyes dancing with amusement.

Something sharp and unexpected twisted in Rhaenyra's chest. She was accustomed to being the center of attention, particularly from handsome men. Even her betrothed Laenor, despite his known preferences, had the courtesy to feign interest when she entered a room. Yet this Northern upstart with his Valyrian eyes acted as if she were any ordinary court lady rather than the future queen.

Rhaenyra forced her expression to remain serene as she reached the bottom of the stairs, accepting compliments with practiced grace while keenly aware that Daeron still hadn't glanced her way. Only when Daenerys nudged him did he finally look up, offering a polite but brief nod before returning to his conversation.

How dare he? she thought, moving toward the high table where her father waited. Does he not understand who I am?

She was so caught in her irritation that she almost missed the herald announcing House Velaryon. The Sea Snake entered first, Lord Corlys resplendent in sea-green and silver, his arm linked with Lady Rhaenys's. Behind them walked Laena, beautiful in a gown of pale blue silk that complemented her silver-gold hair.

And then came Laenor, her husband-to-be. Unlike his parents and sister, he made no effort to shine tonight. His attire, while finely made, was subdued, and his face bore the hollow look of one moving through a dream. Rhaenyra felt a pang of something like sympathy—they were both trapped in this arrangement, both mourning something that could never be.

As the Velaryons made their way toward the high table, Rhaenyra noticed something that further pricked her pride: Laena's gaze kept drifting toward Daeron's table, a subtle smile playing on her lips when their eyes met. Rhaenyra had known, of course, that Laena fancied Daeron, but still, it felt irritating.

The realization only deepened Rhaenyra's sense of irritation. She was the heir to the Iron Throne. She was to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet somehow, in her own court, she found herself competing for the attention of a man whose name no one had known a fortnight ago.

It was, she decided as she took her seat between her father and her betrothed, absolutely intolerable.

Rhaenyra cut into her honeyed duck. The high table afforded her an excellent view of the Great Hall, allowing her to monitor the shifting patterns of conversation and alliance that flowed through the court like currents in a stream. Her father was deep in conversation with Lord Corlys about trade routes to Yi Ti, while Queen Alicent doted on little Prince Aegon, ensuring the boy was visible to all who might support his claim over Rhaenyra's own.

Politics, always politics. Even at a feast meant for celebration.

Beside her, Laenor Velaryon sat in studied silence, pushing food around his plate without eating. His eyes were red-rimmed, though he had managed to compose himself somewhat since the scene at the melee. Rhaenyra had made three attempts at conversation since they were seated—comments about the music, a question about his sister's new dress, an observation about Lord Celtigar's drunkenness—each met with monosyllabic responses or empty nods.

"I hear the Dornish have sent envoys to Sunspear," she tried again, leaning slightly toward her betrothed. "Perhaps we might visit after our wedding. I've always wanted to see the Water Gardens."

Laenor's gaze remained fixed on his trencher. "Perhaps," he murmured, so softly she barely heard him over the musicians.

Rhaenyra suppressed a sigh, taking a sip of her wine instead. She kind of understood his grief. But they were to be married within days, and appearances must be maintained. She was making an effort; the least he could do was respond in kind.

"My brother is poor company tonight," came a voice from her other side. Rhaenyra turned to find Laena Velaryon sliding into the empty seat beside her, looking radiant in her pale blue gown. "Though I suppose we can hardly blame him."

"Joffrey's death was... unfortunate."

Laena's eyebrow quirked slightly at the diplomatic understatement, but she didn't challenge it. Instead, she gestured with her wine cup toward the Stark table. "Have you noticed how Lord Rickon keeps watching our mysterious northerner?"

Rhaenyra followed her gaze to where the Warden of the North sat with his son Cregan. True enough, Lord Stark's attention repeatedly returned to Daeron, his expression a mixture of curiosity and something harder to define.

"Perhaps he recognizes the accent," Rhaenyra suggested, recalling that Daeron claimed his mother was of the North. "Or wonders which northern woman bore a son with Valyrian eyes."

"If his mother truly was a northerner," Laena said with a knowing smile. "Men have been known to invent convenient histories when it suits them."

Rhaenyra studied Daeron across the hall. He seemed unaware of the speculation swirling around him. His wife, Daenerys, was speaking with Lady Rosby, her hands moving animatedly as she described something that had the older woman laughing in delight.

"They don't behave like people with something to hide," Rhaenyra observed.

"The best liars never do," Laena replied, sipping her wine. "But I admit, I find him... intriguing. Did you see him in the Meele? if he wasn't married, then I'm sure his grace would have thought of making him a Kingsguard, the way he moves, he moves like someone who has fought in wars."

"Perhaps he served in the free companies across the Narrow Sea," Rhaenyra suggested, ignoring the small flare of jealousy at Laena's obvious interest. "Many second sons and bastards seek their fortunes there."

"Perhaps," Laena echoed, her tone making it clear she doubted this explanation. "But his Valyrian steel sword, he said he earned it from a Pirate, but what kind of pirate has a Valyrian Steel Sword?"

"Your brother doesn't seem to be the only Velaryon captivated by our visitors," Rhaenyra noted, changing the subject as she observed Lord Corlys watching Daeron with calculating eyes.

Laena laughed softly. "Father sees advantages in every new piece on the board. No doubt he's already considering how to bring Ser Daeron into our service."

"And what of you?" Rhaenyra asked, unable to resist. "Do you see Ser Daeron as a piece to be played, or something else entirely?"

A flush of color touched Laena's cheeks, making her look younger than her nineteen years. "I see a man unlike others at court. One who doesn't simper or scheme—at least not obviously." She turned her violet eyes to Rhaenyra with unexpected directness. "But I think you see the same, don't you, Princess?"

Rhaenyra maintained her composed expression despite the sudden quickening of her pulse. "I see a curiosity," she said carefully. "Nothing more."

Laena's knowing smile suggested she wasn't convinced, but she mercifully let the subject drop. "Caxton Celtigar is staring at you again," she observed instead, nodding toward a young lord in Celtigar crimson. "He's composed three songs about your beauty, according to my handmaiden."

"Only three?" Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Lord Darklyn is at five, and young Gwayne Hightower attempted a sixth, though he couldn't find a suitable rhyme for 'dragon.'"

They shared a laugh, and Rhaenyra felt better.

Her gaze drifted back to Daeron of its own accord, only to find him looking directly at her for the first time that evening. He raised his cup in a subtle salute, his expression inscrutable, before turning back to his wife.

Rhaenyra felt a shiver. Whoever this man was, whatever game he played, she would uncover his secrets. After all, she was the blood of the dragon—and dragons were not meant to be denied.

Daeron

Daeron was in the middle of explaining the differences between Braavosi and Westerosi swordplay to an overly attentive Fossoway knight when he noticed a man with dark hair approaching their table. The man's beard was full but neatly trimmed, his eyes grey as winter clouds. Beside him walked a boy of about thirteen, lean and long-faced, with the same grey eyes but a wilder energy about him.

Daeron didn't need to see the direwolf sigil emblazoned on the man's doublet to know who he was looking at. Lord Rickon Stark, Warden of the North, and his son Cregan—a boy who would one day become the legendary leader known as the Wolf of Winter. The resemblance to Lord Eddard was unmistakable, and the boy called to mind memories of Robb that sent a pang through Daeron's chest.

My brother in another life, he thought, watching young Cregan's eager eyes dart around the hall, taking everything in with barely concealed excitement. And he doesn't even know we share blood.

Dany placed a hand on his arm, having also noticed the approaching Northerners. "Careful," she whispered. "Remember who we're supposed to be."

Lord Stark stopped before their table, inclining his head in a gesture that was respectful without being deferential. "Ser Daeron," he said, his accent thick with the rhythms of the North. "I thought it time to introduce myself. Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

"My lord," Daeron replied, rising to his feet and offering the traditional bow due to a great lord. "It's an honor."

"This is my son, Cregan," Lord Stark continued, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Well met, young lord," Daeron said, finding himself fighting the urge to ruffle the boy's hair as he might have done with Arya or Bran. Gods, but the Stark look ran true through the centuries.

"You fought well today," Cregan said bluntly, northern directness evident even at his young age. "Father says you move like a Skagosi with a steel blade."

Lord Stark's mouth twitched with what might have been amusement. "What my son means to say is that your fighting style is... distinctive."

"Thank you," Daeron replied, uncertain whether it was meant as compliment or observation. "Though I've never had the pleasure of visiting Skagos."

"Nor would you want to," Lord Stark said with a dry chuckle. Then, to Daeron's surprise, he gestured to the Stark table across the hall. "I'd be honored if you and your lady wife would join us for a drink. It's not often we meet a fellow Northerner so far south."

Daeron blinked, caught off guard. "How did you—"

"Know you're of the North?" Lord Stark finished for him, one eyebrow raised. "You mentioned your mother was Northern. But even without that, your accent gives you away. You can scrub the snow from your boots, but the North stays in your voice."

Daeron exchanged a quick glance with Dany, who gave a subtle nod.

"We'd be honored, my lord," Daeron replied, taking Dany's hand as she rose to her feet.

As they crossed the hall to the Stark table, Daeron found himself aware of the eyes tracking their movement—Rhaenyra's from the high table, Daemon's from beside the king, and others whose political calculus was no doubt being adjusted with each new association they formed.

The Stark table was a raucous contrast to the affected courtesies of the southern lords. Here, men and women alike spoke loudly, laughed freely, and drank deeply. Among them were two women wearing the bear sigil of House Mormont, their manner as fierce as any of the men present.

"So here's the man who cut Ser Harwin Strong down to size!" bellowed a broad-shouldered lord with a giant emblazoned on his surcoat—an Umber, if Daeron recalled his heraldry correctly. "About time someone showed these soft southern knights what real fighting looks like!"

"Lord Beron," Rickon Stark said with a warning glance, "perhaps let our guests sit before you begin your usual tirade against southern warriors."

"It's no mere tirade when it's the truth," insisted one of the Mormont women, her dark hair streaked with grey. "I've seen children on Bear Island who could outfight half the knights in this hall."

Daeron couldn't help but smile as he and Dany took their seats, the woman reminded him of Lady Dacey. The straightforward nature of Northerners was a balm after weeks of navigating the veiled words and hidden meanings of the court.

Cups were filled with strong northern ale, toasts were made to good fighting and harsh winters, and for a time, Daeron allowed himself to relax slightly in the company of people who, in some distant way, were his kin.

"Your sword," Cregan said during a lull in the conversation, nodding toward Stormsong sheathed at Daeron's hip. "Valyrian steel, isn't it? I heard you took it from a bloody pirate?"

"It has a complicated history," Daeron replied cautiously. "It came to me recently."

"A pirate you said, I doubt it. From your father's side, maybe," said a thin lord with the merman of House Manderly on his breast. "Given your mother was Northern, and I know of no Northern house with such a blade save for Ice." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Which Northern house did you say your mother hailed from?"

Daeron's face remained calm, not the first time he had been under pressure.

But before he could answer, Lord Stark spoke. "Lord Manderly, I believe our guests came to enjoy our company, not to recite their lineage." His tone was light, but his eyes held a warning. "The man has Northern blood, and he fights with Northern honor. That's enough for my table."

Manderly looked ready to press the issue, but something in Rickon Stark's expression made him reconsider. He offered a conciliatory nod and returned to his ale.

Daeron glanced at Lord Stark, finding the man's grey eyes fixed on him with an intensity that reminded him eerily of another Stark lord, centuries in the future.

"You remind me of someone," Stark said quietly, pitched for Daeron's ears alone. "Though that should be impossible."

Before Daeron could respond, young Cregan broke the tension, launching into an enthusiastic recounting of Daeron's bout with Ser Harwin, complete with dramatic gestures that nearly upended a flagon of ale.

As the table erupted in laughter, Daeron caught Dany's eye. Her expression was a careful mask of amusement, but he could read the concern beneath. Lord Stark was too perceptive by half, and they would need to tread carefully around him. Daeron never thought he would have to be that careful around a Northern Lord, especially Lord Stark. It seems that if his Uncle was not good at playing, maybe this Lord Rickon Stark was good at playing.

Whatever Rickon Stark suspected, he had chosen to keep it to himself—for now. But Daeron knew better than most that Stark men were nothing if not patient. They could wait through the longest winter for the truth to emerge.

And winter, as his uncle had been fond of saying, was always coming. 

The musicians struck up a lively Valyrian melody. He had never been much of a dancer as Jon Snow—there had been precious little time for such frivolities at Winterfell or during the wars that followed. But in this new life they had forged, Dany had insisted he learn.

"Shall we?" Dany asked, her eyes alight with mischief and challenge as she extended her hand to him. 

"As my lady commands," Daeron replied with a small bow, taking her hand and leading her to the center of the floor where other couples were already gathering.

They moved together, their bodies remembering the steps they had rehearsed during those long months preparing for this mission. He held her closer, savoring these moments. It was a Valyrian Dance.

"We're being watched," Dany murmured during one such close pass, her lips near his ear.

"We're always being watched," Daeron replied, turning her in a spin. "By whom in particular this time?"

"Prince Daemon hasn't taken his eyes off us since we began. And the princess appears to be waiting for her turn."

Daeron risked a glance toward the high table where, sure enough, Princess Rhaenyra watched their dance. Beside her, Prince Daemon's expression was darker, his fingers tapping against his wine goblet in a rhythm that did not match the music.

"Let them watch," Daeron said, completing the final flourish of the dance with a dramatic dip that brought Dany's face close to his own. "We're here to be seen, after all."

As the music ended and they straightened, applause rippled through the hall. Daeron bowed to his wife, but before they could leave the floor, a new presence approached.

"Lord Daeron," came Princess Rhaenyra's voice, sweet and commanding at once. "Might I claim the next dance?"

She stood before them in her crimson and black gown, a vision of Targaryen majesty. Looking at her was like seeing Dany as she might have been without the hardships of exile and war—proud, untested, secure in her inheritance.

Daeron bowed deeply. "I would be honored, Princess." He glanced at Dany, who just gave him a smile of amusement, before walking back to her seat.

The musicians began again, this time a slower, more intimate tune. Rhaenyra placed her hand in his, her skin warm against his palm as they began to move.

"You dance remarkably well for a man of the North," she observed, her violet eyes never leaving his face. "I've heard Northern men prefer swords to dancing."

"Perhaps I simply have the right partner, Your Highness," Daeron replied carefully, aware of Daemon's gaze burning into his back.

"Flattery will get you everywhere at court, Ser Daeron," Rhaenyra said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Though I suspect you already know that."

They turned together, and over Rhaenyra's shoulder, Daeron spotted Ser Criston Cole watching them with barely concealed contempt. The Kingmaker's hand rested on his sword hilt, his knuckles white with tension.

Another man who'll try to kill me before this is done, Daeron thought grimly.

"Your victory over Ser Harwin was impressive," Rhaenyra continued, pulling his attention back to her. "Few men have ever bested him in combat."

"He's strong, but strength isn't everything in a fight."

"No," she agreed, her hand tightening slightly on his shoulder as they turned again. "Skill matters more. As does knowledge of one's opponent." Her eyes searched his. "I find myself curious about what else you might know, Ser Daeron."

Daeron maintained his neutral expression with effort.

"I'm but a simple swordsmen, Princess. My knowledge extends to swordplay and little else."

"Somehow I doubt that." She moved closer than the dance required, her body nearly pressing against his. "A man who appears from nowhere, with a Valyrian steel sword and skills to match, is rarely simple."

The music reached its crescendo, and Daeron completed their dance with a respectful but restrained bow. "You honor me with your attention, Princess, but I fear I'm not as interesting as you imagine."

"We'll see," she replied, a challenge in her voice. As she turned to leave, she added over her shoulder, "My uncle wishes to dance with your wife. I hope she finds him as charming as most women do."

Before Daeron could process this, another partner appeared before him—Laena Velaryon, resplendent in her gown, her Valyrian beauty evident in every feature.

"Ser Daeron," she said with a graceful curtsy. "Might I claim you for the next dance?"

Trapped in the intricate dance of court politics as much as the actual dance, Daeron nodded his assent, taking Laena's hand as the music began again.

She moved differently from Rhaenyra, while the Princess seemed to want to dance just to gain his attention, Lady Laena seemed to like dancing. There was an honesty to Laena that reminded him somewhat of Daenerys in her younger days.

"You've made quite an impression," Laena remarked as they moved through the steps of a traditional Westerosi reel. "Half the court wonders who you are, and the other half pretends they already know."

"And which half do you belong to, my lady?" Daeron asked, guiding her through a turn.

"Oh, I'm firmly in the wondering camp," she replied with a genuine smile. "Though I find the mystery more entertaining than frustrating."

"I hear you're a dragonrider," Daeron said, attempting to redirect the conversation.

"I am. Vhagar is mine." Pride filled her voice. "She's the oldest and largest of the living dragons. Have you ever seen a dragon up close, Ser Daeron?"

More than you know, he thought, remembering Rhaegal's scales beneath his hands, the heat of dragonfire, the bond that had briefly connected them before everything fell apart.

"Once or twice," he said aloud. "From a distance."

"Perhaps I could take you flying sometime," Laena suggested, her meaning clear in the way she leaned slightly closer. "There's nothing quite like the feeling of a dragon beneath you."

Daeron silently cursed. Corlys Velaryon was a dangerous enough potential enemy without Daeron adding the complication of his daughter's interest.

"A generous offer, my lady, but I'm quite content with my feet on the ground and my wife by my side."

Laena's smile didn't falter. "A loyal husband. How refreshing at court." She glanced toward where Daemon and Rhaenyra were dancing. "Though loyalty is sometimes... flexible in certain circles."

The dance ended before Daeron could formulate a suitable response, and he bowed to Laena with relief.

"Until tomorrow's melee, Ser Daeron," she said as they parted. "I'll be cheering for you."

Rhaenyra

As the next dance began, Rhaenyra found herself in her uncle's arms, his familiar scent of cloves and leather enveloping her as they began to move. Daemon held her closer than was proper, his hand at the small of her back possessive in a way that once would have thrilled her.

"Enjoying your new pet northerner?" he asked, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Uncle," she replied, feigning indifference despite the quickening of her pulse. "Besides, I merely wished to assess the man everyone's talking about."

"And your assessment?" His grip tightened fractionally as they turned.

"He's skilled, certainly. Well-spoken for a northerner. And those eyes..." She deliberately let her gaze drift to where Daeron now danced with Laena Velaryon. "Quite remarkable, don't you think?"

A muscle twitched in Daemon's jaw. "What game are you playing, Rhaenyra?"

"The same one you taught me, Uncle." She smiled sweetly. "I'm keeping my enemies close."

"Is that what he is? An enemy?"

"I haven't decided yet. Are you concerned?"

Daemon's laugh held no humor. "Concerned? About some boy with pretty eyes? Hardly." He spun her with unnecessary force. "But you should be cautious. There's something not right about him or his lovely wife."

"Do tell," Rhaenyra prompted, enjoying the evidence of his jealousy despite herself.

"They appear from nowhere, with a Valyrian steel sword and features that echo our own, just as two riderless dragons vanish from Dragonstone?" Daemon's dark eyes bored into hers. "Even you must see the connection."

The thought had occurred to her as well, but hearing Daemon voice it made it seem simultaneously more plausible and more absurd.

"You think they're dragonriders?" She arched an eyebrow. "Next you'll tell me they're from the future, come to warn us of some great calamity."

"Mock if you will," Daemon said coldly, "but when your new friend reveals his true nature, don't say I didn't warn you."

"How gallant of you to be concerned for my welfare," she replied, her tone sharp. "And here I thought you were simply possessive."

His hand at her waist pulled her flush against him, propriety be damned. "I protect what's mine," he whispered against her ear. "Always."

Their dance ended, and Daemon set his eyes on someone else.

Daemon

Daemon Targaryen was not accustomed to being refused. As Prince of the Realm, former Commander of the City Watch, and wielder of Dark Sister, he was accustomed to deference bordering on fear from men and eager accommodation from women. Yet the silver-haired beauty in his arms regarded him with the polite disinterest one might show a particularly unimpressive court minstrel.

"You're quite graceful, my lady," he said, guiding Lady Daenerys through a complex turn designed to bring her closer to his chest. "One might think you were raised in a royal court rather than across the Narrow Sea."

"One learns to adapt," she replied, maintaining a proper distance despite his attempts to close it. "Though the dances in Essos are rather different."

"More sensual, I've heard," Daemon said with a smile that had melted the resistance of ladies from King's Landing to Lys. "Less restricted by the tedious proprieties of Westeros."

Daenerys met his gaze directly, her violet eyes cool and assessing. "Some might call them 'tedious proprieties,' Prince Daemon. Others might call them 'basic respect.'"

Her rebuke, gentle though it was, took him aback. Women did not generally speak to him this way—especially beautiful women with no political power to protect them.

"You speak boldly for a newcomer to court," he observed, curiosity mingling with irritation.

"And you flirt boldly with a married woman," she countered, a slight smile playing at her lips. "Particularly when her husband stands just across the hall."

"Your husband seems occupied with Lady Laena at present," Daemon nodded toward where Laena and Daeron were engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation. 

"My husband is being polite," Daenerys said with perfect confidence. "As am I."

"Is that all this is? Politeness?" Daemon pressed, refusing to accept her dismissal. "Surely you must find court life exciting after wherever it is you've been hiding."

"I find it exactly as I expected," she replied, an odd note in her voice that suggested hidden meaning. "Men who mistake titles for character, power plays disguised as pleasantries, and beneath it all, the constant struggle for something that ultimately brings little joy."

Her words struck uncomfortably close to his own unacknowledged thoughts, and Daemon found himself momentarily speechless. This woman with Rhaenyra's face and a stranger's eyes seemed to see through him in a way few ever had.

"You're an unusual woman, Lady Daenerys," he said finally.

"So I've been told," she agreed as the music began to wind down. "But I'm a happily married one, which is all that should concern you, Prince Daemon."

The dance ended, and she stepped back with a perfect curtsy—respectful but not subservient.

"I thank you for the dance," she said with formal politeness. "Now if you'll excuse me, I should rejoin my husband."

As she walked away, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, Daemon found himself more intrigued than offended by her rejection. There was something about both Daeron and Daenerys that didn't fit—puzzle pieces forced into the wrong places.

And Daemon Targaryen had never been one to leave puzzles unsolved.

.

.

The feast began to wind down as the hour grew late, with servants clearing emptied platters and refilling wine cups for those determined to continue the revelry into the night. Lords and ladies departed in small groups, some steady on their feet, others requiring assistance after indulging too freely in Arbor gold.

Outside the Great Hall, torches illuminated the stone corridors of the Red Keep, casting long shadows that danced along the walls. Ser Criston Cole stood at his post near the main doors.

Laenor Velaryon emerged from the hall alone, his eyes clear despite the wine served at the feast. He paused beside the Kingsguard knight, close enough that no one else could hear his words.

"I want you to know," Laenor said softly, his voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath, "that before this week is done, you will meet the Stranger, and unlike Joffrey, you will spend eternity burning."

Ser Criston's jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead. "Threatening a Kingsguard is treason, Lord Velaryon."

"It's not a threat," Laenor replied, his Valyrian eyes cold as ice. "It's a promise. A debt to be paid in full."

Without waiting for a response, Laenor continued down the corridor, his shoulders straight, his steps unhurried. Ser Criston's hand moved briefly to the pommel of his sword before returning to its position at his side, the only indication that the exchange had affected him at all.

Further along the corridor, Daeron and Daenerys emerged from the feast, arm in arm, their heads bent close in private conversation. They stopped abruptly as a figure detached itself from the shadows ahead.

Prince Daemon Targaryen stepped into the torchlight, Dark Sister hanging at his hip, a goblet of wine still in his hand. 

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, taking a languid sip from his cup. "The night is young, and I've had so little opportunity to become acquainted with our mysterious guests."

Daeron inclined his head in a bow. "Prince Daemon. We were just retiring for the evening. Tomorrow's melee will begin early."

"Ah yes, the melee." Daemon's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I look forward to seeing your skills firsthand, Ser Daeron. If that is indeed your name."

"It's the only one I answer to," Daeron replied evenly.

Daemon stepped closer, the torchlight throwing his sharp features into stark relief. "I've been watching you, you know. During the feast. During the dances." His gaze slid to Daenerys, then back to Daeron. "I saw how you looked at my niece."

"With the respect due to the heir to the Iron Throne," Daeron said, his expression neutral.

A short, sharp laugh escaped Daemon. "Is that what they call it in the North? Respect?" He shook his head. "I've seen men look at Rhaenyra with fear, with ambition, with lust. I know the difference."

"And yet you confuse them still," Daenerys interjected, her voice cool and composed. "Perhaps the fault lies not in my husband's gaze but in your interpretation of it."

Daemon's eyes narrowed at her challenge. "Bold words from newcomers at court. One might wonder what gives you such confidence."

"One might wonder many things, Prince Daemon," Daeron said, subtly shifting his stance to place himself slightly ahead of Daenerys. "Such as why the king's brother takes such interest in two minor nobles of no particular importance."

"No importance?" Daemon smiled thinly. "A man who bests Ser Harwin Strong as if he were a squire, who carries Valyrian steel, who appears from nowhere with a wife who bears an uncanny resemblance to the princess?" He drained his wine cup and set it on a nearby ledge with deliberate care. "I would say that makes you very interesting indeed."

"You flatter us," Daeron replied, his hand casually coming to rest on the pommel of Stormsong. "But as I told the princess, I'm a simple northern. Nothing more."

Daemon's eyes tracked the movement to the sword, his own fingers brushing against Dark Sister's hilt in response. "There is nothing simple about you or your lady wife, Ser Daeron. Of that I am certain."

"Will you be participating in tomorrow's melee, Prince Daemon?" Daenerys asked.

"I will indeed," he replied without taking his eyes off Daeron. "I find myself suddenly eager to test the mettle of the North against Valyrian steel."

"Then we shall meet on the field," Daeron said with a slight nod. "And may the better swordsman prevail."

"Oh, he will," Daemon assured him, stepping aside to allow them passage. "Tomorrow you'll feel the dragon's blade, Ser Daeron. I promise you that."

Daeron and Daenerys continued past him, their pace unhurried, their backs straight under the weight of Daemon's stare. Only when they had turned the corner did Daenerys squeeze Daeron's arm.

Behind them, Daemon remained in the torchlit corridor, his violet eyes thoughtful as he gazed in the direction they had gone. Whatever secrets the mysterious couple harbored, he intended to uncover them—one way or another. King Viserys Targaryen woke to the familiar throb of pain that had become his unwelcome companion these past months. The infection in his hand pulsed with each heartbeat, a reminder that even kings were mortal. He flexed what remained of his fingers—the thumb, index, and ring finger still intact, though the middle finger had begun showing the telltale blackness that meant Mellos would soon be reaching for his bone saw again.

At this rate, he thought grimly, I'll be waving at my subjects with a bloody stump.

Dawn light filtered through the windows of his chambers, carrying with it the distant sounds of preparation from the tournament grounds. Hammering, shouting, the creak of wooden stands being assembled—all the familiar chaos that preceded a grand melee. Despite the pain, Viserys felt a flutter of anticipation. Today would be spectacular, he was certain of it.

'By the Seven! I admire your confidence, Lord Daeron. Should you prove correct, I shall knight you myself on the field of victory.' Viserys remembered his promise to Daeron. Viserys was not sure yet what to make of Daeron and his wife, but he felt as if he knew them somehow.

"Your Grace," came the soft voice of Grand Maester Mellos as he entered the chamber, his chain of office clinking softly. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like a man whose hand is rotting off his arm," Viserys replied with dark humor. "But otherwise splendid. Nothing that watching grown men beat each other senseless won't cure."

Mellos approached with his leather satchel of instruments and potions, his lined face creased with concern. "Your Grace, I must examine the wound. The blackness has spread since yesterday."

Viserys extended his right hand with resignation. The sight of his own fingers—or lack thereof—still startled him sometimes. When did I become so bloody decrepit? he wondered. I'm only seven-and-thirty, for the Seven's sake. Aegon the Conqueror lived to be sixty-four, and he never had bits of himself falling off.

"The infection is advancing more rapidly than I hoped," Mellos said after unwrapping the bandages. His touch was gentle but clinical. "Your Grace, I strongly advise that you remain in bed today. The excitement of the tournament could—"

"Absolutely not," Viserys interrupted, pulling his hand back with more force than necessary. "My daughter is to be married. This is her wedding tournament. What manner of father would I be if I spent the week of her wedding celebrations abed like some invalid?"

"A living one," Mellos replied bluntly, then immediately looked as if he regretted his candor.

Viserys laughed, though it came out more as a wheeze. "Gods, Mellos, you've developed quite the tongue in your old age. Very well, speak plainly—how long do I have?"

The maester hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "If the infection continues to spread at this rate... perhaps a year. Maybe two, if we're fortunate."

Two years. Viserys considered this as Mellos began applying fresh bandages. Long enough to see Rhaenyra married and hopefully with child. Long enough to ensure the succession is secure. He thought of his daughter, so fierce and proud, so much like her mother. Aemma would have loved to see this day. She would have fussed over every detail of the wedding, argued with me about the guest list, and probably threatened to feed me to Syrax if I so much as suggested changing the menu.

The memory brought both comfort and pain. Aemma had been gone four years now, dead in childbirth trying to give him the male heir he'd thought he needed. The irony wasn't lost on him—he'd killed his beloved wife chasing a son, only to name their daughter as his heir anyway.

"Your Grace?" Mellos prompted, apparently having asked a question.

"Forgive me, my mind wandered. What did you say?"

"I asked if you'd given any thought to naming a regent. Someone to assist with the more demanding aspects of rule while you recover."

"Recover?" Viserys raised an eyebrow. "I thought you just told me I had two years to live. That's not recovering, that's dying slowly."

"Your Grace—"

"No regent," Viserys said firmly. "Rhaenyra is my heir. Let her take on more responsibilities, but I'll not have some ambitious lord claiming to speak with my voice."

A distant roar from the crowd drew his attention to the window. The tournament grounds were already filling with spectators, colorful pavilions dotting the field like exotic flowers. From this height, the people looked like ants scurrying about their daily business, unaware that their king was slowly rotting away above them.

Rather fitting, actually. Kings die, the realm endures.

As he watched, something caught his eye—a flash of silver in the sky, far to the east. Viserys squinted, his failing vision making it difficult to focus. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw the distinctive shape of a dragon in flight, its silver scales catching the morning light.

He blinked, and it was gone.

"Mellos," he said slowly, "remind me—when was the last time anyone reported seeing Silverwing?"

The maester paused in his work. "Queen Alysanne's dragon? Not since Her Grace's death, Your Grace. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Viserys continued staring at the empty sky. "Just thought I saw... never mind. Probably just a cloud."

But even as he said it, he didn't believe it. Daemon's words when he arrived echoed in his mind: Two riderless dragons vanish from Dragonstone just as these mysterious strangers appear. At the time, he'd dismissed it as his brother's paranoia, but now...

If someone has truly claimed Silverwing and Vermithor without our knowledge, he thought, then we have a problem far greater than my rotting hand.

"Your Grace," Mellos ventured, "perhaps we should postpone the melee. Given your condition—"

"My condition," Viserys said with sudden steel in his voice, "is that I am King of the Seven Kingdoms. My daughter will marry once in her life, and I will be there to see it. Every bloody moment of it."

He stood, swaying slightly as the pain lanced through his arm. "Now help me dress. And make sure my crown is polished—if I'm going to sit through hours of watching men try to kill each other, I want to look properly regal while doing it."

"But Your Grace—"

"Mellos," Viserys interrupted, his voice carrying the authority that had cowed lords and dragons alike, "I've buried a wife, lost children, and watched my brother scheme against my wishes for years. I will not be denied the pleasure of watching my daughter's wedding tournament because my hand has decided to rot off. Is that understood?"

The maester bowed his head. "Understood, Your Grace."

As Mellos helped him into his robes, Viserys found his thoughts returning to that flash of silver in the sky. Dragons were creatures of fire and blood, drawn to those who shared their nature. If Silverwing had indeed chosen a new rider, it meant someone with significant Valyrian blood had entered the game.

Someone like Lord Daeron and Lady Daenerys, he mused. Daemon may be paranoid, but he's rarely wrong about matters of blood and dragons.

The thought should have alarmed him, but instead, Viserys felt a curious sense of anticipation. If these mysterious newcomers truly were dragonriders, then perhaps the gods had sent them for a purpose. Perhaps they were exactly what House Targaryen needed.

Or perhaps, he thought with grim humor, they're here to finish what my infected hand started.

Either way, today's melee would be far more interesting than anyone expected. And if it was to be one of his last great spectacles as king, Viserys intended to enjoy every moment of it—rotting hand be damned.

The distant sound of trumpets announced the official beginning of the tournament day. Soon, the greatest fighters in the realm would clash for glory, honor, and his daughter's favor.

"Your Grace?" Mellos suddenly called him, causing Viserys to turn to look at him.

"What?"

"I think there might be a way to give you more time," Mellos repeated carefully. "More years, Your Grace."

Viserys looked up sharply, meeting the maester's grey eyes. "Go on."

Mellos cleared his throat nervously. "With your previous fingers—the ones we've already lost—we tried to treat them, to save them. We only resorted to amputation when it was far too late, when the infection had already spread beyond hope." He gestured to the blackened middle finger. "But this time, we could act... preemptively."

Understanding dawned on Viserys's face. "You think I should have the finger removed now? Before the rot spreads further?"

"Yes, Your Grace. If we take it now, while the infection is still localized, it could buy you significantly more time. Years, potentially."

Viserys stared down at his hand—at the finger that had once worn rings, once signed documents that shaped the realm, once touched his beloved Aemma's face. Now it was little more than a blackened reminder of mortality.

"How much time are we talking about?"

"Impossible to say with certainty, Your Grace, but... if we're aggressive about future infections, if we act quickly each time..." Mellos paused. "You could see your grandchildren, Your Grace. You could see Rhaenyra's reign begin."

The promise of seeing Rhaenyra rule tasted sweet like honey in his tongue. More time with his daughter. More time to secure the succession. More time to ensure the realm's stability.

"Do you truly believe this will help?" Viserys asked.

"I do, Your Grace. But the choice must be yours."

Viserys looked out the window again, toward the tournament grounds where his daughter's future was being celebrated. Where Rhaenyra would soon stand as a married woman, closer to taking the throne that would one day be hers.

Aemma, he thought, give me strength.

"Very well," he said, settling back in his chair with resignation. "Get on with it."

Mellos nodded and began retrieving instruments from his satchel. "I'll fetch milk of the poppy—"

"No," Viserys interrupted. "If I'm to lose another piece of myself, I'll do it with a clear head. Just... be quick about it."

"As you wish, Your Grace."

Daenerys Targaryen

Daenerys woke to the sound of distant hammering from the tournament grounds, though truthfully, she'd been only half-asleep for the past hour. The bed beside her was warm but empty—Daeron had risen before dawn, as was his habit when facing potential death. She found him standing by the window, already dressed in his smallclothes, watching the early preparations below.

Some things never change, she thought with fond exasperation. Jon Snow always did brood before a battle. At least now he has better reasons than bastard angst. She had never told him, but Dany had found Jon quite annoying at first, he had been so sure that his parents were never married, so even after being with her for three months in Meeren, he still often talked about his Bastard status, until finally it was confirmed that he was a Trueborn, and never a bastard.

"Contemplating your glorious death, my love?" she asked, stretching languidly beneath the furs. "Because I have to say, if you're planning to die today, you could have mentioned it last night. I would have demanded a more memorable farewell."

Daeron turned, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good morning to you too, Your Grace. And no, I'm not planning to die. I'm planning to win."

"Excellent. I've grown rather fond of this face." She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself as she joined him at the window. "Though I suppose if you die heroically, I could commission a statue. 'Here lies Daeron, who was adequate at swordplay and exceptional at other things.'"

"Adequate?" He raised an eyebrow. "I defeated Ser Harwin Strong."

"Yes, well, Ser Harwin fights like a bull—all charging and no finesse. Today you face Ser Criston Cole, and Prince Daemon, who fights like..." She paused, considering. "A very dangerous dragon with decades of practice and a legendary Valyrian steel sword."

The levity faded from Daeron's expression. "About that. We need to discuss strategy."

"Enter the melee, survive the initial chaos, eliminate Criston Cole when the opportunity presents itself. Make it look like a fair fight, nothing suspicious."

"And Daemon?"

"Avoid him if possible. If not..." Daeron shrugged and Dany continued. "Try not to embarrass him too badly."

Daenerys frowned. "He was very confident last night that he would defeat you. Almost arrogantly so."

"Should I let him win?" Daeron asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Gods, no." Daenerys sat up fully now, her violet eyes flashing. "Daemon Targaryen is many things, but he's not stupid. If you hold back, he'll notice. And then he'll see it as the insult it is—some unknown handsome man taking pity on a prince of the blood." She shook her head. "That would make an enemy of him faster than defeating him honestly ever could."

"And if he defeats me?"

"Then you'll be dead, and I'll have to find another handsome husband with mysterious origins and excellent sword skills. Do you know how exhausting that sounds?"

Daeron chuckled despite himself. "You're terrible at reassurance."

"I'm excellent at honesty, which is far more useful." She fastened the buckles on his chest piece, her fingers lingering over the red fabric. "Besides, it's only a matter of time before they realize who's been flying Silverwing and Vermithor. We can't hide forever."

The reminder sobered them both. Two riderless dragons suddenly taking to the skies again hadn't gone unnoticed—Daemon's arrival proved that much.

"Perhaps we could speak with the king," Daeron suggested. "Explain our situation."

"Our situation being that we're time-traveling Targaryens from a future where dragons went extinct and the realm nearly destroyed itself in civil war?" Daenerys gave him a look. "Yes, I'm sure that conversation would go swimmingly. 'Your Grace, we're here to prevent your descendants from being idiots. Also, two powerful dragons.'" 

"When you put it like that..."

"The king might be persuaded to listen, eventually. But Daemon and Rhaenyra?" She shook her head. "That's a different matter entirely."

Daeron's expression grew troubled. "You think Rhaenyra might become an enemy?"

"I think Rhaenyra is young, proud, and unused to sharing power or attention. She's also her father's heir, which means she'll see anyone with dragons as a potential threat to her claim." Daenerys moved to retrieve Stormsong from where it rested against the wall. "And let's not forget what the history books told us about her—toward the end of the Dance, she turned on her own allies. Paranoia and desperation make people do terrible things."

"We don't know her well enough yet to be certain she'll follow the same path."

"No, but we know enough to be cautious." She handed him the Valyrian steel blade, noting how his grip on the hilt seemed to steady him. "Our mission is simple: ensure the dragons survive, ensure House Targaryen remains on the throne. Everything else is secondary."

"Including our own survival?"

Daenerys was quiet for a moment, thinking of all they'd already lost, all they'd already sacrificed to be here. "We've died before, my love. We can die again if necessary. But preferably not today—I have plans for tonight that require you to be alive and relatively unmaimed."

She helped him strap on his sword belt, the familiar weight of Stormsong settling against his hip. In the red and black leather, with his dark hair and violet eyes, he looked every inch a Targaryen prince. The irony wasn't lost on her.

"There's something else," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "I noticed how Princess Rhaenyra looked at you during the dancing last night."

"What about it?"

"She wants you." Daenerys's tone was matter-of-fact rather than jealous. "And she's not used to being denied what she wants."

Daeron's cheeks reddened slightly. "Dany—"

"I'm not jealous," she assured him with amusement. "Well, not much. But you should be aware that you've caught the attention of the realm's future queen. That could be useful... or dangerous."

"Keeping the dragons and House Targaryen alive doesn't require me fucking the Princess, and—"

"But," Dany interrupted him, leaning forward to kiss his lips. "But if it becomes necessary for our mission, if seducing Princess Rhaenyra might give us an edge or advantage..."

"Or might be our doom, we need to be careful with what we do with the Princess. Last night Lord Corlys was glaring at me when his daughter started flirting with me while we were dancing."

"I would trust you to do what's necessary." Her voice was soft but steady. "Just as you trusted me to do what was necessary when the Wildfire destroyed King's Landing."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Daeron said finally.

"Let's hope." She stood on her toes to kiss him, a brief but fierce press of lips that tasted of wine. "Now go. Show them what happens when the dragon and the wolf hunt together."

As he moved toward the door, she called after him. "Daeron?"

He turned back.

"Try not to die stupidly. If you must die, make it spectacular. I refuse to mourn a husband who tripped over his own feet."

His laughter followed him out the door, and Daenerys was left alone with her thoughts and the distant roar of the gathering crowd.

Gods help us all, she thought, moving to the window to watch the tournament grounds fill with spectators. We're about to change the course of history with nothing but wit, steel, and the questionable decision-making skills that costed us the first time.

But as she watched the red and black banners flutter in the morning breeze, she felt a familiar fire kindle in her chest. They were dragons, after all. And dragons were meant to soar.

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before her looking glass as her handmaidens fussed about her like anxious butterflies, adjusting the drape of her crimson silk gown and weaving small rubies through her silver-gold braids. The tournament colors suited her—red and black, the ancient colors of her house—and she knew she looked every inch the dragon princess she was born to be.

Yet beneath the regal composure, her stomach churned with a mixture of anticipation.

"Your Grace looks radiant," murmured Elinda Massey, her most trusted handmaiden, as she pinned a particularly stubborn curl into place. "The lords will be fighting twice as hard with you watching."

"Let them," Rhaenyra replied, though her thoughts were far from the flattery of court lords. "Men always fight harder when they have something beautiful to impress."

Something beautiful. The words felt hollow in her mouth. Beautiful she might be, but today she felt more like a prize to be won than a person to be admired. In a few short days, she would be married to Laenor Velaryon, bound in a union that would serve everyone's interests except her own desires.

Her mind wandered, as it had with increasing frequency, to a certain dark-haired Northern with purple eyes and the most intriguing sword work she had ever witnessed. Daeron—mysterious, skilled, and frustratingly married to a woman who looked far too much like herself for comfort.

If only he were unwed, she mused, watching her reflection as Elinda added the final touches to her hair. A man like that could serve as more than just a soldier. He could be... useful.

The memory of that night crept unbidden into her thoughts—the night she had been unable to sleep and found herself wandering the castle corridors. The night she had heard sounds from Daeron and Daenerys's chambers and, in a moment of shameful curiosity, had peered through the keyhole. What she had seen there—the fierce passion, the way Daeron commanded his wife's body with such confident skill—had left her breathless and aching.

In her mind's eye, she had replaced Daenerys with herself, imagined those strong hands on her skin, his big cock inside her, his rough voice in her ears as he fucked her like he owned her. The fantasy had sustained her through many lonely nights since.

While Laenor busies himself with his... preferences, she thought with bitter amusement, I could busy myself with more appealing company. If only the man weren't so inconveniently devoted to his wife.

She had seen how Ser Harwin looked at her, with want and worship in equal measure. It had been flattering, even useful, but ultimately uninspiring. Harwin was strength without subtlety, passion without artistry. Compared to what she had glimpsed of Daeron's capabilities, poor Harwin seemed like a boy playing at being a man. He had been defeated so easily by Daeron and Rhaenyra found herself wanting Daeron's company more and more, especially after last night, he still remembered his hands on her waist, if only she could feel his hands in other places as well.

"Will you be watching the melee closely, Your Grace?" asked another handmaiden, a young woman whose name Rhaenyra could never be bothered to remember.