"You think he can do it? Bed her long enough to produce an heir?"
"He'll do what he must," Rhaenys said firmly. "He's a Velaryon. We always do."
Corlys moved to pour them both wine, needing something to occupy his hands. "Speaking of rumors, what do you make of our mysterious guests? This Daeron and Lady Daenerys?"
"What rumors specifically?" Rhaenys asked, accepting the cup he offered.
"Take your pick. Some say Lady Daenerys is the king's bastard daughter with some whore. Others claim she's descended from Princess Saera, daughter of the Old King."
Rhaenys snorted softly. "My cousin may be weak, but he loved Aemma truly. He wouldn't have strayed, especially not to produce a daughter who looks so remarkably like his legitimate one."
"The resemblance is uncanny," Corlys agreed, settling into his own chair. "But you don't find it concerning?"
"She clearly has Valyrian blood," Rhaenys said with a shrug. "The similarity to Rhaenyra is strange, I'll grant you, but what real power do they have? They're curiosities, nothing more."
Corlys swirled his wine thoughtfully. "I'm thinking of offering Daeron a position."
Rhaenys's eyebrows rose. "Whatever for?"
"I've sailed from Qarth to the Sunset Sea, my dear. I've met and faced every kind of man imaginable, and I know talent when I see it." He leaned forward, his eyes bright with possibility. "That boy—and he is barely more than a boy—defeated Prince Daemon in single combat. Do you understand how valuable a soldier like that could be?"
"He also killed the queen's brother," Rhaenys pointed out dryly.
"In a melee. Legally. And he saved our son's life in the process. House Velayron rewards people who do them service," Corlys set down his cup. "I see opportunity where others see threat."
"Laena sees opportunity too," Rhaenys said carefully. "She's quite taken with him."
Corlys chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "The man is married, and Laena will be married soon enough herself. There's nothing to worry about there."
"If you say so, husband."
"What I'm more curious about," Corlys continued, "is whether there's any truth to what Daemon said during the melee. About the missing dragons."
"You mean his suspicion that Daenerys and her husband have claimed Silverwing and Vermithor?" Rhaenys's expression grew thoughtful. "What do you think?"
"Don't ask me, I'm not the one with the dragon here," Corlys countered. "Could she do it? If a riderless dragon were brought before Lady Daenerys, could she claim it?"
Rhaenys was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. "I cannot say for certain she would fail. She has the blood, clearly. The confidence. Dragons respond to more than just bloodline—they sense strength, purpose, worthiness."
"And Daeron?"
"Daeron is a Northerner," Rhaenys said firmly. "Dark hair, Northern features despite those purple eyes. I can see traces of Valyria in him, perhaps, but a dragonrider?" She shook her head. "If either of them has claimed a dragon, my gold would be on the lady. But even that seems highly unlikely."
"Agreed," Corlys said. "If Valyrian blood alone was enough to claim a dragon, House Celtigar would have torn the realm apart to get their hands on one by now. My grandfather is said that he got burned because he tried to bring dragons to House Velayron."
"We have dragons," Rhaenys reminded him with a slight smile. "I ride Meleys, Laena has Vhagar."
"And yet we seek alliance with the Targaryens rather than challenging them," Corlys said. "Because dragons alone don't make kings. It takes political acumen, strategic marriages, careful planning."
"Speaking of strategic marriages," Rhaenys said, her tone growing more serious, "Laenor's behavior cannot continue."
"I'll speak with him again tomorrow."
"You struck him last time you spoke," Rhaenys pointed out. "Perhaps a different approach?"
Corlys grimaced. "He compared his grief to what I would feel if I lost you. The audacity of comparing his... unnatural attachment to that boy with our marriage."
"Then we must ensure he understands that his family comes first," Rhaenys said simply. "Whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes," Corlys agreed, raising his cup in a mock toast. "To House Velaryon—the sea takes what it will, and so do we."
They drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the days ahead. The wedding would proceed, the alliance would be sealed, and their son would do his duty. Everything else—grief, love, happiness—was secondary to the survival and elevation of their house.
That was the way of the world, Corlys reflected. The sea didn't care about your feelings when it sent storms your way. You either weathered them or you drowned.
And House Velaryon had not survived this long by drowning.
Helaena
Princess Helaena Targaryen sat bolt upright in her bed, her silver hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. The moonlight streaming through her window made strange shadows on the wall—shadows that looked like wings.
"Silver wings in moonlight," she whispered, her five-year-old voice high and trembling. "They fly when nobody's looking."
Her nurse, a plump woman named Dalla, stirred in her chair by the fire. "Princess? Another dream?"
Helaena pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small under the covers. "Not a dream. They're real. The silver one and the bronze one. They have riders now."
"Just a nightmare, sweet girl," Dalla said, rising with a grunt to sit on the edge of the bed. "Let me get you some warm milk."
"No!" Helaena grabbed the nurse's sleeve. "The bronze fury stirs for the wolf. He's angry 'cause the wolf isn't supposed to have him."
Dalla's brow furrowed. "What wolf, Princess?"
"The one with purple eyes." Helaena's own violet eyes were wide and unfocused. "But wolves don't have purple eyes, so maybe he's not really a wolf? Maybe he's a dragon pretending to be a wolf?"
"I don't undersand, little one."
"No one does," Helaena said matter-of-factly, then tilted her head. "Mama says I'm special but I think special means weird."
The door creaked open, and Prince Aemond peered in, his four-year-old face scrunched with concern. "Laena? You 'kay?"
"Aemond!" Helaena brightened immediately. "I had the dream again. The one with the dragons."
Aemond padded into the room, his bare feet silent on the cold stone. "The scary one?"
"Not scary. Just... strange." Helaena scooted over to make room for her younger brother. "Three heads, but which necks will bear them? That's what the voice said."
"What voice?" Aemond climbed onto the bed, his nightshirt tangling around his legs.
"The one in my head. It talks sometimes when I'm sleeping." Helaena reached out to fix his messy hair. "Your hair's all sticky-uppy."
"Your hair's all sweaty," Aemond countered, then yawned widely. "Why you awake?"
"They're coming," Helaena said seriously. "The dragons and their riders. And the dance changes its steps."
Dalla sighed. "Princess, you're frightening your brother."
"Am not frightened!" Aemond protested, though he scooted closer to Helaena. "What's a dance?"
"It's when people move to music, silly," Helaena said, poking his nose. "But this dance is different. It's a dragon dance, and someone's changing the music."
"Dragons don't dance," Aemond said with all the authority a four-year-old could muster. "They fly and breathe fire and eat sheep."
"These ones will dance," Helaena insisted. "And a princess is coming too. From where it's hot and sandy."
"The Summer Isles?" Aemond guessed.
"No, dummy. Dorne." Helaena giggled. "She'll have dark hair and sun-kissed skin and she'll make everyone argue."
"Why?"
"'Cause that's what Dornish princesses do. Mama told me. They make trouble and kiss people they shouldn't."
Dalla cleared her throat. "Perhaps we shouldn't repeat everything your mother says, Princess."
Another small figure appeared in the doorway—Prince Aegon, looking annoyed at being woken. "Why's everyone being so loud?"
"Aegon!" Helaena bounced on the bed. "I had the dragon dream again!"
"'Course you did," Aegon muttered, but he came into the room anyway. At seven, he considered himself far too mature for his younger siblings' nonsense, but he still checked on them when they had nightmares. "Which dragon dream? The one where they eat all the sheep or the one where they turn into butterflies?"
"Neither!" Helaena said indignantly. "The one about the wolf-dragon and the silver lady."
"That's a stupid dream. Wolves and dragons aren't the same thing."
"I know that," Helaena said, sticking out her tongue. "But this wolf has dragon eyes and the dragons think he's one of them but he's not but he is but he's not."
"You're weird," Aegon declared, but he sat on the bed anyway.
"Can I sleep with you and Aemond tonight?" Helaena asked suddenly. "My bed feels too big and the shadows look like wings."
Aemond nodded immediately. "You can have Mr. Scales." He referred to his stuffed dragon, his most prized possession.
"I don't need a baby toy," Helaena said, then immediately added, "But maybe Mr. Scales is scared and needs company."
"We can't all fit in Aemond's bed," Aegon pointed out practically. "We'll have to use mine."
"Yay!" Helaena scrambled off her bed, dragging her blanket behind her like a cape. "Dalla, we're sleeping together!"
"Princess, your mother won't—"
"Mama's prob'ly with Papa," Aegon said with the knowing air of a child who's figured out more than adults think. "She won't know."
As the children trooped toward the door, Helaena suddenly stopped and turned back to look at the window. The moon was full and bright, and somewhere in the distance, she could swear she heard wingbeats.
"They're flying tonight," she said softly. "The stolen dragons. They're learning new songs."
"Come on, Laena," Aemond tugged her hand. "You're being weird again."
Rhaenyra
Princess Rhaenyra dismissed her handmaidens with unusual haste, barely waiting for the door to close before collapsing onto her bed.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to banish the images that had plagued her since the Meele. Daeron's powerful frame in that black leather. The way his purple eyes would look at her with lust. And Daenerys—gods, that woman was dangerous in an entirely different way, with her silver hair and that uncanny resemblance that made looking at her feel like staring into a mirror.
Rhaenyra's hands moved to loosen the ties of her gown, her breathing already unsteady. She thought of that night she'd watched them through the door, the passion between them, the way they moved together like they were two halves of the same soul. The memory sent heat coursing through her.
She settled back against her pillows, letting her mind wander where her body couldn't yet follow. In her imagination, those strong hands that had wielded Stormsong with such deadly precision would be gentle with her. And Daenerys... would she watch? Would she join them? The possibility made Rhaenyra's breath catch.
The dragon princess lost herself in the fantasy, in the wanting that had been building since she'd first seen them together. Her back arched against the silk sheets as she imagined what it would be like to be between them.
When release finally claimed her, it was both their names on her lips.
Afterward, as her breathing slowly returned to normal, Rhaenyra stared up at the canopy of her bed with fierce determination burning in her violet eyes.
"I will have you, Daeron," she promised the darkness. "Both of you, perhaps. Dragons take what they want, and I am a dragon."
She was the heir to the Iron Throne. She would not be denied. Daeron
Daeron—who had once been Jon Snow in another life—winced as he raised his arms, letting Daenerys pull the fine black leather jerkin over his head. The bruises Daemon's Dark Sister had left across his ribs had faded from purple to an ugly yellow-green, but they still protested any sudden movement.
"Stop being such a baby," Daenerys chided, though her fingers were gentle as they adjusted the leather across his shoulders. "You've had worse."
I've died and come back, he thought wryly. But that doesn't mean I enjoy pain.
"That was before," he said aloud. "And I don't think I will ever get used to the pain,"
She moved around to face him, her violet eyes appraising. "You look dangerous. Good. That's exactly what we need tonight."
"Is it?" Daeron flexed his shoulders, testing the fit of the jerkin. "I thought we were aiming for seductive, not threatening."
"With Rhaenyra, they're the same thing." Daenerys's smile was knowing. "She wants what she shouldn't have. The more dangerous you appear, the more she'll want you."
Us, he corrected mentally. She wants us both.
"Speaking of which," Daenerys continued, moving to pour them both wine, "we need to discuss the specifics. How far are we willing to go?"
"As far as necessary," Daeron replied without hesitation. "We didn't come back to fail because of prudishness."
"Even if she wants your bastards?" Daenerys's tone was casual, but he could hear the edge beneath it. "If the histories are accurate, she had three with Harwin Strong. Though given that he's walking with a stick now, he's rather out of the picture."
Daeron accepted the wine she offered, thinking carefully. "Rhaenyra will face opposition from the Greens regardless. Her children being bastards was just more wood on an already burning pyre. The real issue was always her gender and Alicent's ambition."
"But surely her first child must appear to be Laenor's," Daenerys pointed out. "The alliance depends on it."
"Laenor is drowning in wine and grief," Daeron said grimly. "The last thing he wants is to bed anyone, let alone produce an heir."
"Which is why she'll turn to you instead." Daenerys settled onto the bed, watching him with those knowing eyes that had seen the end of the world and come back to prevent it. "The question is whether we let her."
Do we have a choice? he wondered. Every path forward seems to require compromises we wouldn't have made before.
"Yes, she will want something back," he said finally. "Tonight is about securing her alliance, making her need us enough that she'll protect us from whatever Alicent is planning."
"Ah yes, the grieving queen." Daenerys's expression darkened. "Killing her brother was a mistake."
"He attacked me from behind. I reacted on instinct."
"Your instincts need better control," she said, slightly raising her voice, reminding him of the day they first met. "Now we have a queen who wants our heads on spikes."
Daeron moved to the window, looking out at the Red Keep's courtyard below. Servants scurried about preparing for the feast, but he noticed how some would pause and look up at their window.
"We're being watched," he said quietly. "Have been since the melee."
"I've felt it too," Daenerys agreed, joining him. "Eyes everywhere. In the corridors, the courtyard, even when we fly."
Someone knows about the dragons, he thought. Or at least suspects.
"We need Rhaenyra's protection more than ever," he said. "If Alicent moves against us without the heir's backing—"
"We'll have to reveal ourselves," Daenerys finished. "And that could destroy everything we're trying to prevent."
Daeron knew that was true; if they learned the truth about their dragons, the chances of survival were slim. Even someone like Viserys would never allow them to keep two of the most powerful dragons of Westeros. In their eyes, the two of them are still strangers, and suddenly, these strangers have two beasts in their control that are enough to conquer Westeros all over again. Daeron knew no king in existence would allow them to just walk away, and take the chance that maybe these two strangers are not going to do anything with two of the biggest dragons that can be defeated only by the likes of Vhaegar. Alicent would shout that the two of them are conspiring and have stolen dragons of House Targaryen, while a dragon cannot be stolen, still, King Viserys would be forced to act against them to make sure the two of them do not use two dragons to threaten and kill his people.
They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in thoughts of possible futures—futures they'd lived through, futures they were desperate to avoid.
"You know," Daenerys said suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eye, "in our time, you were terrible at seduction."
Daeron turned to her with raised eyebrows. "I seduced you, didn't I?"
"You brooded at me until I decided to seduce you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"Well then, perhaps you should handle Rhaenyra."
"Oh, I intend to." She moved closer, running her hands down his chest, careful of his bruises. "But she wants us both. The Northern with Valyrian blood and his dragon queen. We're a package arrangement."
A package arrangement, he thought with dark humor. Is that what we're calling it?
She kissed him then, fierce and possessive, and he responded with equal passion. They'd been through too much, sacrificed too much, to be coy about their desires now. When she pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
A knock at the door interrupted whatever might have followed.
"Enter," Daeron called, stepping away from Daenerys.
A young page entered, bowing low. "Ser Daeron, Lady Daenerys. Princess Rhaenyra requests your presence in her chambers before the feast."
Daeron and Daenerys exchanged knowing looks.
So it begins, he thought.
"Tell the princess we'll attend her shortly," Daenerys said with a gracious smile.
The page bowed again and scurried away.
"A private audience," Daenerys mused once they were alone. "How intimate."
"How dangerous," Daeron countered. "If she's already making moves this bold..."
"Then we need to be bolder." Daenerys moved to her vanity, checking her appearance one final time. The silver hair that had once conquered cities gleamed in the candlelight. "Remember, we're not Jon and Daenerys tonight. We're whoever we need to be to secure her alliance."
We haven't been Jon and Daenerys for a long time, he thought sadly. We're something else now. Something harder. Something necessary.
"The game begins," he said aloud, offering her his arm.
"No, my love," she corrected as they moved toward the door. "The game began the moment we arrived. Tonight, we simply make our first real move."
As they walked through the corridors toward Rhaenyra's chambers, Daeron couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a dragon's den. The irony wasn't lost on him—they who commanded Vermithor and Silverwing worried about a princess who rode Syrax. One of the smallest of Dragons that can be ridden.
But it wasn't Rhaenyra's dragon that concerned him. It was the woman herself, with her fierce pride and desperate hunger for something more than the cage of duty she'd been placed in.
We're offering her freedom, he reminded himself.
The guards outside Rhaenyra's chambers nodded them through without question, and Daeron wondered what instructions they'd been given. What did the princess have planned for them?
As the door closed behind them, sealing them in with the Dragon Princess, Daeron had the strangest feeling that they were about to cross a line they could never uncross.
But then, he thought with grim determination, we crossed that line the moment we decided to change history.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen—who had once conquered cities—entered Princess Rhaenyra's chambers with the practiced grace of a woman who understood that every movement was a weapon.
She's trying too hard, was Daenerys's first thought upon seeing the princess.
Rhaenyra stood by her window in a dress of deep crimson that clung to every curve, the neckline plunging to show her womanly beauty. Her silver hair was artfully arranged to fall over one shoulder, and she'd applied just enough rouge to her lips to make them look freshly kissed.
I suppose subtlety was never a Targaryen virtue.
"Princess," Daeron said with a perfect bow. "You honor us with this invitation."
"Please, no formality here," Rhaenyra said, her voice pitched low in what she clearly thought was seductive. "In private, I'm simply Rhaenyra."
"Then you must call us Daeron and Daenerys," she replied with a warm smile that revealed nothing. "After all, friends shouldn't stand on ceremony."
"Friends." Rhaenyra tested the word, moving closer with studied casualness. "Is that what we are?"
She offered them wine—Dornish red, expensive and strong. Daenerys accepted with grace, noting how Rhaenyra's fingers lingered against hers during the exchange.
Oh, sweetling, you have no idea what game you're playing.
"Tell me about yourselves," Rhaenyra said, settling onto a velvet couch and patting the space beside her. "You appear from nowhere, capture the court's attention, and yet remain mysteries."
Daeron took the indicated seat while Daenerys chose a chair opposite, forcing Rhaenyra to divide her attention between them.
Never give them everything they want at once. Make them work for it.
"What would you like to know?" Daeron asked carefully.
"Everything." Rhaenyra leaned toward him slightly, her dress shifting in ways that were definitely intentional. "Your parentage, for instance. Those eyes didn't come from nowhere."
"My mother was Northern," Daeron said, sticking to their agreed story. "My father... someone I never knew and prefer not to discuss."
"A bastard then?" Rhaenyra's tone held no judgment, only curiosity.
"Does it matter?" Daenerys interjected smoothly. "In Essos, where I was raised, bloodlines matter less than capability."
"Essos." Rhaenyra's attention shifted to her, those violet eyes sharp with interest. "Which part?"
"Various parts. My guardians were traders. We traveled extensively."
"And yet you look..." Rhaenyra gestured vaguely at Daenerys's silver hair, her violet eyes.
"Like you?" Daenerys supplied with a slight smile. "Yes, I've noticed. Perhaps we share an ancestor. Old Valyria's blood spread far and wide before the Doom."
"Perhaps." Rhaenyra clearly didn't believe it was that simple, but she let it pass. "You both fought magnificently in the melee. Well, Daeron fought. You watched."
"I prefer to observe," Daenerys said. "One learns so much more that way."
"And what have you learned about me?" Rhaenyra asked with a sudective voice.
That you need allies and want a good fuck, Daenerys thought, but said, "That you're a woman constrained by expectations who yearns for something more."
Rhaenyra's breath caught slightly. "And you think you can offer me that? Something more?"
"We think," Daeron said carefully, "that mutual friendship could benefit all parties."
"Friendship." Rhaenyra stood, moving to pour herself more wine. The action was designed to display her figure from different angles. "I have friends. I have allies. I'm the Heir of the Iron Throne. Laena Velaryon is my friend. Ser Harwin was my friend."
Was. Poor Harwin.
"But they can't offer what we can," Daenerys said, rising as well. She moved closer to Rhaenyra, but not too close. Just enough to make the princess's breath quicken. "Protection. Understanding. Freedom from judgment."
"And what would you want in return for this... friendship?"
"Your protection as well," Daeron said honestly. "There are those at court who view us with suspicion."
"Queen Alicent," Rhaenyra said immediately. "She wants your head for killing her brother."
"Among others," Daenerys agreed. "Prince Daemon has also expressed certain concerns."
Rhaenyra laughed, but it wasn't entirely pleasant. "My uncle is concerned that someone else might be getting something he considers his."
"And what does he consider his?" Daenerys asked innocently.
"Everything," Rhaenyra replied, then looked directly at them both. "But I'm not his. I'm not anyone's. I'm the heir to the Iron Throne, and I take what I want."
There we go. Finally, some honesty.
"And what do you want?" Daeron asked.
Before Rhaenyra could answer, the door opened without warning. Laena Velaryon swept in, and Daenerys had to admire her timing. The woman wore deep blue silk that complemented her skin perfectly, and she'd clearly spent considerable time on her appearance.
"Oh!" Laena said with perfectly feigned surprise. "I didn't realize you had guests, Rhaenyra. I came to see if you needed help preparing for the feast."
Sure you did, sweetling. And I'm just a simple trader's ward from Essos.
"Laena," Rhaenyra said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "How thoughtful. You know Ser Daeron and Lady Daenerys, of course."
"Of course." Laena's smile was warmer as she looked at Daeron. "The hero of the melee. You fight like a man possessed by the Warrior himself."
"You flatter me, Lady Laena," Daeron replied diplomatically.
"I speak only truth." Laena moved closer to him. "Perhaps you could teach me some of your techniques? I've always been fascinated by swordplay."
I'll bet you have, Daenerys thought, watching Rhaenyra's jaw tighten.
"My husband's techniques are quite specialized," Daenerys said sweetly. "They require years of training to master properly."
"I'm a quick learner," Laena replied, matching her tone. "And I do so enjoy mastering new things."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Both women wanted Daeron, and neither was being particularly subtle about it. Daenerys found the whole thing delightfully amusing.
If only they knew he was absolutely terrible at reading these signals.
"Perhaps," Rhaenyra said, reclaiming control of the conversation, "we should all proceed to the feast together. As friends."
"Friends," Laena repeated, and the word sounded like a challenge.
"The very best of friends," Daenerys agreed, linking her arm through Daeron's possessively.
As they prepared to leave for the feast, Daenerys caught Daeron's eye. Two dragon riders competing for his attention, both offering different advantages, both dangerous in their own ways.
At least it's never boring, she thought as they made their way to the great hall.
Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent Hightower stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, her green gown pristine and perfectly arranged. The feast in Gwayne's honor—murder victim's memorial, her mind corrected bitterly—was about to begin.
She watched as House Velaryon entered with their usual pageantry. Lord Corlys walked with his chin high, Lady Rhaenys glided with dragonrider grace, and behind them... Laenor stumbled slightly, catching himself against a pillar. Not drunk, not yet, but clearly unsteady. Several knights exchanged glances, and she caught Ser Rickard Thorne muttering to his companion, "That's to be our future king-consort?"
"Did you hear how he screamed at the Tourney? Can it be true?"
"That's our Future King? The boy who weeps like a woman."
Good, Alicent thought with vicious satisfaction. Let them all see what manner of man Rhaenyra chooses. A sodden fool who can barely stand upright at a formal feast.
The next arrival made her blood burn hotter than dragonfire. Princess Rhaenyra swept in wearing black and red—of course she would flaunt Targaryen colors at my brother's memorial—and on her arms were Laena Velaryon, Daeron, and that silver-haired whore Daenerys.
She's doing this on purpose, Alicent realized, her nails digging into her palms. Parading my brother's killer before me like a trophy.
Even Viserys, seated beside her at the high table, shifted uncomfortably at the sight. "That seems... poorly considered," he murmured.
From his place at the table, Prince Daemon actually laughed—a short, sharp bark of amusement that made Alicent want to throw her wine in his face. At least Daeron and Daenerys had the minimal decency to separate from the princess, taking seats among the lesser knights and servants rather than following her to the royal table.
As if that makes it better. As if sitting twenty feet away erases the blood on his hands.
The hall filled quickly, the noise of conversation rising like a tide. When most were seated, Alicent rose from her chair. The movement was noticed immediately—conversations died, heads turned, attention focused on their queen.
"My lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. "We gather tonight to honor the memory of Ser Gwayne Hightower, knight of the realm, son of Oldtown, and..." Her voice caught. "My beloved brother."
She had prepared words, careful political phrases crafted with her father's help. But standing there, looking at the sea of faces that ranged from politely attentive to openly bored, something cracked inside her chest.
"He was twenty years old," she continued, her voice roughening. "Twenty. He loved to read histories of ancient knights. He practiced his swordwork every dawn because he wanted to be worthy of the stories. He used to steal honey cakes from our kitchen and blame the servants, though our mother always knew." A sad smile touched her lips. "He wrote to me every week from Oldtown, terrible letters full of complaints about his tutors and requests for gold to spend on wine and women."
The tears came then, real ones that she didn't try to hide. "He came here to celebrate Princess Rhaenyra's betrothal. To serve his king. And now he lies cold in a sept, his throat—"
She stopped, unable to continue. The hall was utterly silent.
"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury said, rising with his cup. "House Beesbury grieves with you."
"House Redwyne stands with the Queen in her sorrow," another voice added.
The condolences came in a wave, polite, proper, and utterly hollow. Alicent could see it in their eyes. To them, Gwayne was just another casualty of a tournament, barely worth remembering. Only at the table where House Hightower sat, her father Otto, her brother Gerold, various cousins, did she see genuine grief. Uncle Hobert was actually weeping into his wine.
They don't care, she thought. My brother's blood is still fresh in the ground, and already they've forgotten him.
King Viserys rose beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Ser Gwayne Hightower died as he lived—with courage, with honor, and in service to the realm. In the histories, it is written that the greatest knights are those who face death without flinching, who meet their end with steel in hand and defiance in their hearts." His voice grew stronger. "Though his years were few, Ser Gwayne achieved that immortal glory. He will be remembered not for how long he lived, but for how bravely he died."
The words were kind, even beautiful. For a moment, Alicent felt a flicker of warmth toward her husband.
Then her gaze found Daeron across the hall, speaking quietly with some Northern lord, and Lord Stark and the warmth turned to ice. Pretty words won't bring Gwayne back. Won't give me justice.
"To Ser Gwayne Hightower!" Viserys raised his cup. "May the Seven grant him eternal peace!"
"To Ser Gwayne!" the hall echoed, cups raised in unison.
Alicent drank deeply, tasting bitterness rather than wine. As she lowered her cup, her eyes found the new Kingsguard—her choice, approved just this morning. A second son, hungry for glory, was easily bought with the promise of a position. Not as skilled as Criston Cole had been, but twice as ambitious and completely hers.
One piece in place, she thought. Soon there will be more.
She sat down, accepting her husband's gentle squeeze of her hand with a grateful nod she didn't feel. Around her, the feast continued—laughter, conversation, the clink of cups and plates. Life moving on as if Gwayne had never existed at all.
But I remember, little brother. And I'll make them all remember, before this is done. Starting with your murderer.
Her eyes found Daeron again, watching as he smiled at something his wife said. She saw as a Northern Lady laughed at something Daeron said with a smile. That smile, she decided, would look quite different when she had him in chains.
Soon. Daeron Targaryen
The feast had officially started—the initial formalities complete, wine flowing freely, conversations rising and falling like waves across the Great Hall. Daeron sat at a table among the lesser knights and wealthy merchants, distant from the royal dais where political tensions simmered like a pot about to boil.
He'd barely taken his second sip of wine when a shadow fell across his table.
"Daeron!" Lord Umber's booming voice carried across half the hall. The giant of a man approached like a mountain, greeting Daeron as if they were old friends. "The man who sent Prince Daemon to his knees!"
Here we go, Daeron thought, rising to his feet with a respectful nod. Behind Lord Umber came a procession of Northern lords—Manderly, Glover, two fierce-looking Mormont women, and young Cregan Stark who had the biggest smile on his face.
"My lords," Daeron said, gesturing to the empty seats around his table. "Please, join us."
"Us?" Lord Umber looked around, then spotted Daenerys returning from a conversation with some merchant's wife. "Ah, the lovely Lady Daenerys! You must be proud of your husband's victory."
"Pride is one word for it," Daenerys replied with a smile. "Though I confess I spent most of the melee wondering if I'd be a widow by sunset."
"Bah!" Lord Glover waved dismissively. "Your husband fights like he was born with a blade in his hand. Reminded me of my grandfather's tales of the old Northern berserkers."
"You honor me, my lord," Daeron said carefully. Around them, he could hear the whispers of servants as they passed.
"Did you see Lord Laenor at the funeral?" one serving girl murmured to another. "Swaying like a sailor in a storm."
"Coward," her companion replied quietly. "Running from a real fight, then drowning himself in wine."
The realm already doubts the succession, and the marriage hasn't even happened yet.
"Tell us," Lord Manderly leaned forward, his multiple chins wobbling with interest, "where exactly did you perfect such techniques? Your style is Northern, certainly, but with refinements I've never seen."
"Here and there," Daeron replied evasively. "The North teaches the fundamentals, but travel broadens one's education."
"Travel," Lord Rickon Stark repeated thoughtfully, his grey eyes sharp as winter ice. "Yes, you mentioned your mother was Northern. She must have been quite exceptional to raise a son with such skills."
Young Cregan couldn't contain himself any longer. "Could you teach me? Father says I need to learn from the best, and you defeated Prince Daemon himself!"
Daeron smiled genuinely at the boy's enthusiasm. "Your father is a wise man, and I'm sure he's already arranged the finest instructors for you."
"But none of them have Valyrian steel," Cregan pointed out as if he suddenly won a game of cyvasse. "Or purple eyes. Or that white streak in their hair that makes you look like a wizard from the stories."
Several Northern lords chuckled, but Lord Stark's expression remained thoughtful.
"Speaking of the tournament," Lady Mormont interjected, her voice, and her face reminding Daeron of Lady Dacey, "will you be competing in tomorrow's joust?"
"I will," Daeron confirmed. "Though I confess, the lance isn't my preferred weapon."
"Northerners rarely favor the joust," Lord Glover agreed. "It's a Southern game, all rules and pageantry."
"Still," a younger Manderly cousin said eagerly, "you must be a fine rider to handle a destrier in full armor."
"My mother was the finest rider I ever knew," Daeron said, with fondness in his voice. He had never known her, but his uncle had told him everything about her. She was fierce, and in a horse, she was the best rider in Westeros. "She could gentle the wildest horse with a whisper and ride for days without tiring."
Lord Stark's interest sharpened visibly. "She must have been quite a woman. In which lands of the North was she raised?"
Careful, Daeron thought. He's probing again.
Before he could answer, Lord Umber saved him with a loud laugh. "Does it matter? The lad's proven his worth with steel. That's all the lineage that counts in the North!"
"Here, here!" Several Northern lords raised their cups in agreement.
Daenerys, who had been quietly observing, suddenly touched Daeron's arm. "My love," she said softly, though her voice carried an undertone of urgency. "We have a new arrival."
Daeron followed her gaze across the hall. There, among the servants near the far wall, sat a woman who didn't belong. She wore servant's garb. Her features were foreign, possibly Lysene, with pale skin and distinctive white-blonde hair that she'd attempted to hide beneath a rough cap.
Lady Mysaria, he realized with a jolt. The White Worm. Future Mistress of Whisperers to Queen Rhaenyra.
"What should we do?" he asked quietly in High Valyrian, hoping the Northern lords wouldn't understand.
"I'll handle it," Daenerys replied in the same tongue. "You keep our Northern friends entertained. Perhaps a dance with the princess would be advisable—she's been staring at you like a hawk eyeing a rabbit."
Indeed, Princess Rhaenyra was watching them from the high table, her violet eyes burning with desire.
"If you'll excuse me, my lords," Daenerys said, switching back to the Common Tongue. "I must attend to something. Please, continue your conversation."
As she glided away, Lord Manderly leaned forward conspiratorially. "Your wife is quite remarkable. Tell me, how did a Northern bastard win such a beauty?"
"Luck," Daeron replied simply. "Pure luck."
"Luck," Lord Stark repeated, his tone suggesting he didn't believe it for a moment. "Yes, you seem to have quite a lot of that. First, a Valyrian steel sword from a pirate. Then, a wife who could pass for Princess Rhaenyra's sister. And now, the favor of half the court after defeating Prince Daemon."
He's too perceptive by half, Daeron thought.
"The gods have been kind," Daeron said carefully.
"The gods," Lord Stark mused. "Yes. The old gods or the new?"
"Both, my lord. My mother raised me to respect all gods."
"A wise woman indeed." Lord Stark's grey eyes never left Daeron's face. "I would have liked to meet her."
"She passed some years ago," Daeron said quietly, allowing real grief to color his voice. In a way, it wasn't even a lie—Lyanna Stark had been dead for centuries from his perspective.
"My condolences," Lord Stark said, and for the first time, his voice held genuine warmth. "To lose one's mother is to lose half one's heart."
A commotion near the royal dais drew their attention. Laenor Velaryon had risen from his seat, swaying dangerously. Princess Rhaenyra's face was a mask, but she seemed like she wanted to slap him.
"Seven hells," Lord Umber muttered. "The boy's foxed again."
"At his own betrothal feast," Lord Glover added disapprovingly. "What must Lord Corlys think?"
Daeron could see Lord Corlys from here—the Sea Snake's face was carved from stone, but he seemed like it was taking everything for him not to cause a scene.
More servants passed, their whispers growing bolder.
"Won't even be able to bed her properly, that one."
"Craven and a drunk. Some king he'll make."
"My son won't bow to no sodomite's whelp."
Thankfully, Laena whispered something to Laenor, and it seemed to help, the boy sat down right away, and looked ashamed of himself, while Rhaenyra looked a little relieved, but still, looking furious, while the King himself seemed like he wanted to do something, but wasn't sure what, instead he gave Lord Corlys a look, as if telling him that his son should not act like that in front of the Entire Realm.
The discontent was spreading like wildfire. Daeron caught Daenerys's eye across the hall—she had noticed it too. The realm was already fracturing, and they'd barely begun to change things.
"Daeron," young Cregan said suddenly, "do you think I could see Stormsong? Up close, I mean? I've never seen Valyrian steel before."
"Perhaps tomorrow, young lord," Daeron replied. "After the joust."
"You promise?" The boy's eagerness was infectious.
"I promise."
As the Northern lords continued their drinking and boasting, Daeron found his gaze drawn to Princess Rhaenyra again. She had risen from her seat and was making her way across the hall, her path clearly aimed at him.
Here comes trouble, he thought, standing as she approached.
"Daeron," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of royal command that brooked no refusal. "I believe you owe me a dance."
The Northern lords fell silent, watching this interplay with keen interest.
"It would be my honor, Princess," Daeron replied, offering his arm.
As she led him toward the dancing floor, he heard Lord Stark say quietly to his son, "Watch carefully, Cregan. This is how the game is played in the South."
If only you knew, Daeron thought, what game we're really playing.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Finally, she thought, her eyes fixed on Daeron's face. That purple gaze met hers without flinching, and she felt that familiar heat coil in her belly. No more interruptions, no more delays.
"Ser Daeron," she said, in a voice that was rarely used, a voice she used to use when alone with her nuncle. "I believe you owe me a dance."
He rose, gods, the way he moved, all controlled power. Even standing still, he radiated danger. The same hands that had driven Stormsong through Criston Cole's gut, that had opened Gwayne Hightower's throat, now extended toward her.
One less Hightower to worry about, she thought with satisfaction. And you did it so beautifully.
"It would be my honor, Princess," Daeron replied with a voice that made her almost shudder. Control yourself, you are a Princess, she reminded herself.
She took his arm, noting the solid muscle beneath the black leather. The walk to the dance floor felt like a victory march. She could feel Daemon's eyes burning into her back from across the hall—let him watch. Let him see that she had moved beyond his reach.
The musicians began a slow Valyrian waltz. Perfect. She stepped into Daeron's arms, closer than she should have, letting him feel her body, the body beneath the dress.
"You've been avoiding me," she murmured, pitched for his ears alone. His hand settled on her waist, warm through the fabric of her gown. "One might think you were afraid."
"Cautious, perhaps," he replied, guiding her through the opening steps, there were many others dancing around. "Your attention brings both honor and danger, Princess."
She laughed. "Danger? From me? I'm not the one who killed one, and wounded two others, one of them is now dead."
His expression didn't change, but she felt the slight tension in his grip. "Tournament deaths. The King was quite clear on that point."
"My father says many things." She let her hand slide from his shoulder to his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath. "He also says that a rider chooses their dragon like he did with Balerion many years ago? But we both know the truth. Dragons choose their riders, not the other way around."
Daeron gave her a long, sharp look, and for a brief moment, Rhaenyra felt like she was staring at a beast, but then his look changed, and he was Daeron again.
"I wouldn't presume to know about dragons, Princess. I'm just a sell—"
"If you call yourself 'just a sellsword' one more time, I might scream," she interrupted, her nails pressing slightly into his chest. "You're many things, Daeron, but 'just' anything isn't one of them."
He spun her through a complex turn, using the movement to create slightly more distance between them. She allowed it—for now.
"Your betrothed seems to be enjoying the wine," Daeron observed, nodding toward where Laenor was slumped in his chair, eyes glazed.
Rhaenyra almost laughed at the transparent attempt at redirection. "Laenor enjoys many things. Wine. Music. The company of his dear friends." She emphasized the last word just enough to see if he'd catch her meaning. "Though I fear his tastes run more toward... masculine pursuits than what a wife might offer."
Daeron's expression remained frustratingly neutral. "Marriage is about more than personal preferences, Princess. It's about duty, alliance, children."
"Children," she repeated, her smile growing like wildfire across a field. "Yes, those are important. Though they do require certain... activities that Laenor might find challenging." She moved closer again, her breath ghosting across his neck. "A princess needs heirs, after all. One way or another."
Come on, she thought, frustrated by his continued restraint. I'm practically throwing myself at you.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Laena Velaryon watching them with envy. The Velaryon girl was beautiful, Rhaenyra admitted grudgingly, but she lacked the one thing that mattered—she wasn't the heir to the Iron Throne.
"You killed Gwayne Hightower," Rhaenyra said suddenly, wanting to shake that maddening composure.
"He attacked me from behind. I defended myself."
"You did more than that." Her voice dropped to a purr. "You cut his throat. It was magnificent."
This time she definitely felt him react—a slight hitch in his breathing, a minute tightening of his hold on her waist.
"You have an unusual definition of magnificent, Princess."
"I appreciate competence," she replied. "And you, Ser Daeron, are extremely competent. The question is—how far does that competence extend?"
"Far enough to know that some games are too dangerous to play."
"All the best games are dangerous." She traced her finger along the edge of his leather jerkin. "That's what makes them worth playing."
The music was building to its crescendo. Around them, she was vaguely aware of other dancers, of the watching crowd, but they felt distant, unimportant. Her world had narrowed to purple eyes and the heat of his body against hers.
"I could protect you," she said softly, abandoning subtlety entirely. "Your wife too. Alicent wants your head, but I'm the heir. My word carries weight. All you have to do is accept my friendship."
"Friendship," he repeated, and she caught the slight emphasis. His purple eyes held hers. "Is that what you're offering?"
"I'm offering whatever you're brave enough to take."
The music ended. For a moment, they stood frozen, her hand still on his chest, his on her waist. She could feel the heat of his palm through her gown, the slight flex of his fingers against her.
He wants me, she thought triumphantly. And he's not trying as hard to hide it anymore.
"Your Grace is too kind," he said, his voice lower than before. "And I find myself... intrigued by the prospect of such friendship." His thumb traced a small circle on her waist, so subtle no one else would notice. "Perhaps we might discuss the terms more... privately. My wife and I would be honored."
My wife and I. The phrasing sent an unexpected thrill through her.
He stepped back and bowed formally. "But for now, she awaits."
She watched him return to Daenerys, saw the silver-haired woman's knowing smile as she took his arm. They exchanged a look—quick, but loaded with meaning. Not jealous, Rhaenyra realized with growing excitement. They're planning something together.
Across the hall, Daemon was glowering at her with disapproval. Let him disapprove. She was done being the obedient niece, the perfect princess. She wanted what she wanted, and what she wanted had just given her the first real sign of reciprocation.
Soon, she promised herself, returning to the high table where Laenor was now actively snoring into his wine cup. That wasn't a rejection—it was an invitation.
She settled back into her chair, ignoring Alicent's pointed stare and her father's concerned frown. The night was still young, and she had made real progress. Daeron's Northern reserve was cracking, and that mention of his wife joining their "discussion"...
Both of them, she thought with certainty now, watching Daenerys whisper something in her husband's ear that made him smile. Why should I settle for one when I could have them both?
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys slipped through the crowd like smoke, her mind still processing the conversation she'd just concluded with the White Worm. The woman's Lysene accent had been thick but her intelligence sharp as any blade—exactly as dangerous as the histories had warned.
She found Daeron where she'd left him, politely extracting himself from a conversation with some Reach lord whose name she'd already forgotten. His purple eyes found hers immediately, reading the success in her expression.
"Walk with me," she murmured, linking her arm through his. They moved toward a quieter alcove, away from the worst of the drunken revelry.
"Well?" he asked in High Valyrian, his voice low.
"Tomorrow, noon, her establishment in the Street of Silk," she replied in the same tongue. "She's... exactly what we expected. Clever, cautious, and absolutely ruthless beneath that courtesan's smile."
"What does she want?"
"Information, naturally. She's curious about us—everyone is. But more importantly, she wants leverage. Against everyone." Daenerys accepted a cup of wine from a passing servant, using the gesture to look at the room. "I offered her something better than leverage. Partnership."
Daeron's eyebrows rose slightly. "You think she can be trusted?"
"I think she can be useful. There's a difference." She took a sip of wine, noting how Queen Alicent was staring at them from the high table with hatred. "We need our own sources, Jon. In our time, she becomes Rhaenyra's Mistress of Whisperers. Better to have her in our pocket now."
"She might report back to Daemon," he warned, his fingers tightening slightly on her arm. "They have history, don't they?"
"Everyone has history with Daemon," Daenerys replied dryly. "The man collects former lovers like some women collect jewels. But Mysaria is practical above all else. She'll side with whoever offers the best prospects for survival and profit."
A burst of laughter from nearby made them both turn. Lord Laenor had apparently woken from his stupor long enough to knock over an entire pitcher of wine, drenching himself and two unfortunate servants. The disgusted expressions on nearby nobles' faces told her everything about the realm's opinion of Rhaenyra's betrothed.
"The realm fractures more with every cup he drinks," Daeron observed quietly.
"Good for us, in a way. The more they doubt Laenor, the more Rhaenyra needs alternatives." Daenerys caught his hand, intertwining their fingers. "Speaking of which, how was your dance with our eager princess?"
"Eager is one word for it." A slight smile played at his lips. "She was practically undressing me with her eyes. And she made it quite clear that her marriage to Laenor will be... flexible."
"And you were properly receptive this time, I hope? No more of that Northern honor nonsense?"
"I told her we'd be interested in discussing friendship. Privately. Both of us."
Daenerys smiled with satisfaction. "Good. She needs to know we're a matched set." She noticed Alicent still watching them, the queen's knuckles white as she gripped her wine cup. "We're attracting too much attention. We should leave."
"Already? The feast has barely begun."
"All the better. Let them wonder why we're departing early." She ran her hand along his chest, making the gesture deliberately visible to their watchers. "Besides, we have preparations to make. I suspect our princess won't wait long to collect on your promise of 'private discussions.'"
She was right, of course. She could see Rhaenyra watching them from across the hall, violet eyes tracking their every movement like some dragon.
"Tonight, you think?" Daeron asked.
"Within the hour after we leave, I'd wager." Daenerys pulled him closer, speaking directly into his ear for the benefit of their audience. "She's desperate, Jon. For allies, for pleasure, for anything that isn't that drunken fool she's being forced to marry."
They began making their way toward the exit, pausing only to offer appropriate farewells. Lord Stark watched them leave with those too-knowing grey eyes, Lord Corlys looked calculating, and Princess Laena appeared distinctly disappointed.
But it was Alicent's expression that Daenerys looked at most carefully—pure, undiluted hatred.
She knows we're more than we seem, Daenerys thought. But she can't prove it. Yet.
"Ready for tonight?" she asked with a quiet voice as they stepped into the cooler air of the corridor.
"As ready as one can be for seducing the heir to the Iron Throne while preventing a civil war," he replied with dark humor.
She squeezed his hand. They'd faced the end of the world together. This was just another dance—albeit one with dragons.
Corlys Velayron
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood near the great hearth, watching his son with the careful attention of a captain observing dangerous waters. Laena had managed to coax Laenor into eating some bread, and the boy—man, Corlys corrected himself bitterly—seemed steadier than he'd been an hour ago. But the damage was done. Half the realm had witnessed their future king-consort stumbling drunk at his own betrothal feast.
"He's doing better," Rhaenys said quietly. "Laena has a way with him."
"Better," Corlys repeated, his voice flat. "He knocked over a pitcher of wine onto servants. He was snoring at the high table. Better is not good enough."
A pair of soldiers passed nearby, their voices carrying despite their attempt at discretion.
"—won't bend the knee to a drunk," one was saying.
Corlys's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. These were men sworn to various houses, speaking treason as casually as discussing the weather. If common soldiers felt bold enough to voice such thoughts at a royal feast...
"We have a problem," Rhaenys said, her voice pitched for his ears alone.
"We have several," Corlys replied. "Which one concerns you most at this moment?"
"Princess Rhaenyra." Rhaenys nodded toward where the princess sat, her violet eyes fixed on the door through which Daeron and his wife had just departed. "She looks at that Northern boy like a dragon eyeing a sheep."
"She's young. It will pass."
Rhaenys turned to stare at him with those violet eyes that had first captured his heart decades ago. "Corlys Velaryon, you've sailed every sea in the known world, negotiated with princes and pirates alike, and you're going to stand there and pretend you don't see what's directly in front of you?"
"What would you have me see?"
"That princess wants that boy in her bed. Tonight, if she could manage it." Rhaenys's voice was blunt as a hammer blow. "And if we're not careful, she'll be whelping his bastards instead of our son's heirs."
"That will never happen," Corlys said firmly. "The man is clearly devoted to his wife. You saw them together—they barely look at anyone else."
"They barely look at anyone else in public," Rhaenys corrected. "But I've lived in this court longer than you, husband. I know the games played here. And that mysterious couple is playing some game of their own."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching their son attempt to maintain a conversation with some Riverlands lord. Laenor's hands shook slightly as he raised his cup—water now, thankfully.
"You should approach Daeron tomorrow," Rhaenys said suddenly. "That offer you mentioned earlier—make it formal."
Corlys turned to look at his wife in surprise. "You've changed your mind? Earlier you seemed skeptical."
"I've been watching him tonight. And more importantly, I've been watching how others watch him." She nodded toward where the princess sat. "If he's in our employ, traveling with our fleet perhaps, he'll be far from court. Far from certain temptations."
"He seems perfectly devoted to his wife," Corlys maintained. "I doubt the princess's interest moves him at all."
"You see what you want to see, husband. But yes, recruit him. Better to have that sword arm serving House Velaryon than anyone else."
"Speaking of our mysterious guests," Rhaenys added carefully, "three more of our trading vessels reported strange sightings this week."
"More dragon sightings?" Corlys asked, already knowing the answer.
"At dawn and dusk, when the light is dim. Large ones, according to the captains."
"We've discussed this," Corlys said with impatience. "Even if Vermithor and Silverwing have been claimed—which I still doubt—it wouldn't be by some Northern sellsword."
"The lady, though," Rhaenys pressed. "You must admit Lady Daenerys has the look. The blood."
"Having the look and having the ability are different things entirely. If Valyrian features were all it took, half of Lys would be dragonlords." Corlys shook his head. "No, these sightings are likely Meleys or Vhagar, seen at odd angles in poor light. Sailors are notoriously superstitious."
"Perhaps," Rhaenys said, though her tone suggested she wasn't convinced. She watched as Queen Alicent rose from her seat. "Still, if I'm right about the lady—"
"You're not," Corlys interrupted. "And even if you were, what would you have me do? Accuse them publicly without proof?"
"No. But your recruitment plan serves multiple purposes. Keep them close, learn their secrets, and keep them away from the princess." Rhaenys rose, smoothing her sea-green gown. "Because whatever else they may be, they're dangerous. A man who killed the queen's brother wouldn't hesitate to bed the princess if it served his purposes."
"They wouldn't dare—"
"Are you certain? Because I'm not." She moved away to speak with some Reach ladies, leaving Corlys with his thoughts.
The Sea Snake studied the feast with calculating eyes. His son was a disaster, the princess was pursuing dangerous game, and mysterious players had entered the field.
Perhaps, he thought grimly, I should have stayed at sea.
But storms at sea were nothing compared to the tempests of court. Tomorrow, he would make his offer to Daeron. Better to have such a warrior bound to House Velaryon than left to his own devices.
The game was changing. Time to adjust his sails accordingly.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess Rhaenyra swept into her chambers, dismissing her handmaidens with more haste than usual. The feast had left her restless, her skin still tingling from where Daeron's hand had rested on her waist during their dance.
A folded parchment on her pillow caught her eye immediately—it hadn't been there when she'd left for the feast.
How did someone get into my chambers? She wondered, though the thought excited rather than alarmed her. She recognized neither the paper nor the seal-less fold, but she was curious.
The message was brief, written in an elegant hand:
"For those brave enough to take what they want—the old tapestry behind the armor, third stone from the left, push twice. The godswood awaits. Come alone."
Her heart raced. She knew exactly which tapestry, the one depicting Aegon's conquest that hung behind the decorative armor near her chamber's back wall. She'd played near it as a child, never suspecting it might hide secrets.
The stone gave way easily under her touch, revealing a narrow passage she'd never known existed in her own chambers. How many secrets does this castle hold? she wondered, grabbing a cloak before slipping into the darkness.
She knew the way to the godswood well enough—had walked it countless times seeking solitude. But approaching it through these hidden passages, with promise and danger singing in her blood, made everything feel new.
The heart tree's pale bark glowed in the moonlight. Daeron stood beneath it, still in his black leather from the feast, the silver streak in his dark hair catching the light like a blade. He looked like something from the old stories, dangerous and beautiful.
"You came," he said simply.
"Did you doubt I would?" She moved closer, noting how his purple eyes tracked her movement. "Though I'm curious how you knew about that passage."
"This castle has many secrets. Some are worth discovering." He studied her face in the moonlight. "You spoke of friendship earlier."
"We both know I am offering more than just friendship." She stepped closer still, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. "Or what you're accepting."
"What I'm accepting," he said carefully, "is more complicated than simple lust, Princess."
"Is it?" She reached up, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. "It seems quite simple to me. I want you. You want me. Your wife seems... amenable."
"My wife understands that some desires are worth exploring." His hand came up to cover hers, not pushing away but holding. "But you should know—we're not simple people, Princess. Getting involved with us means accepting things you might not understand."
"I'm a dragon," she said fiercely. "I understand more than you think."
Daeron gave her a look, and Rhaenyra felt as if she had known him before. He leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished.
She didn't wish.
The kiss was everything she'd imagined. Where she'd expected Northern roughness, there was surprising gentleness. His lips were soft, his hand sliding into her silver hair with a possessiveness that made her knees weak.
Gods, she thought hazily, pressing closer. If he kisses like this...
"Perhaps I could be of assistance?"
They broke apart at the voice, though Daeron didn't release her entirely. Daenerys emerged from the shadows like moonlight given form, her violet eyes dark with desire.
"My lady," Rhaenyra said, surprised to find her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Your Grace." Daenerys moved closer. "My husband mentioned you might be interested in... friendship. I thought I should participate in the negotiations."
The way she said 'negotiations' made Rhaenyra's breath catch. This was really happening—both of them, together.
"I'm very interested in friendship," Rhaenyra managed. "With both of you."
Daenerys smiled, a dragon recognizing another dragon. "Good. Because we have so much to discuss."
She moved closer, and Rhaenyra