The wind in the Vale of Arryn did not blow; it bit. It carried the scent of salt from the Narrow Sea and the copper tang of freezing rain, slamming against the basalt walls of Runestone with a violence that made the very foundations of the castle groan.
To Prince Daemon Targaryen, it smelled like a prison.
He stood on the battlements, his silver-gold hair whipping around his face like a torn banner. He was sixteen years old, a dragonrider, a prince of the blood, and the grandson of the Old King Jaehaerys. Yet, here he was, exiled to the ends of the earth to marry a woman made of rock.
"My Prince," a voice rasped behind him.
Daemon didn't turn. He knew the voice. It belonged to the castellan, a man whose face was as eroded as the mountains surrounding them. "Is it time?" Daemon asked, his voice low, betraying none of the fury boiling in his gut.
"Lady Rhea awaits in the Hall of Runes. The Lords of the Vale have gathered."
Daemon gripped the freezing stone of the parapet until his knuckles turned white. Alysanne's doing, he thought bitterly. The Good Queen believed a good marriage could settle his wild blood. She thought the Vale would tame the dragon. She was wrong. Dragons did not do well in cages, even if the bars were made of ancient bronze.
With a sigh that was more a growl, Daemon turned. "Let us get this farce over with."
The Great Hall of Runestone was nothing like the Red Keep. There were no tapestries depicting the conquest, no intricate Myrish carpets, no scent of lemon cakes and perfumes. Here, the walls were bare stone, adorned only with ancient shields and tapestries of faded wool that smelled of wet dog.
The gathered lords were grim men. Arryns, Corbrays, Redforts—they stood in rows, clad in heavy wool and ringmail, their hands resting on pommels of cold steel. They watched him not with awe, but with suspicion. To them, he was not a god among men; he was a foreigner. A Valyrian intruder with strange eyes and incestuous blood.
Daemon walked down the aisle, his chin held high, Dark Sister resting on his hip. He wore black and red, the colors of his house, a striking contrast to the drab greys and browns of the Vale.
And there, standing before the dais, was his bride.
Rhea Royce did not look like a maiden waiting for her husband. She looked like a fortress. She was not ugly, Daemon conceded silently, but she was hard. Her jaw was set, her eyes the color of flint, and she wore no silk gown. Instead, she was clad in a ceremonial breastplate of bronze, etched with the runic script of the First Men. A cloak of sheepskin hung from her shoulders.
She did not curtsy as he approached. She merely nodded, a sharp, minimal gesture.
"Prince Daemon," she said. Her voice was clear, devoid of the trembling that usually afflicted women in his presence.
"Lady Rhea," Daemon replied, allowing a smirk to touch his lips. "You are armored. Do you expect a wedding or a war?"
The Lords of the Vale murmured, offended by his tone. Rhea did not flinch. She took a step forward, the bronze scales of her armor clinking softly.
"In the Vale, my Prince, we know that marriage is often both," she said, her eyes locking onto his violet ones without fear. "And I am a Royce. We do not wear silk when we make oaths. We wear the metal of our ancestors."
Daemon felt a flicker of annoyance mixed with grudging respect. She was not a flower to be plucked. She was a rock to be broken.
Or perhaps, he thought, looking at the grim faces surrounding them, she is the anvil upon which I am to be hammered.
The Septon stepped forward, a nervous little man who seemed eager to be elsewhere. He began the rites, speaking of the Seven, of duty, of one flesh and one heart. Daemon barely listened. His mind was miles away, soaring over the Blackwater Bay on Caraxes.
When the time came to cloak her, Daemon took the heavy cloak of House Targaryen—red silk with a black dragon—and placed it over her bronze armor. It looked ridiculous. The silk slid against the rough metal, refusing to settle. It was a perfect metaphor for their union: oil and water, fire and stone.
"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Daemon lied, leaning in.
Rhea didn't pull away, but she didn't lean in either. Her lips were cold. "And I take you for my lord and husband," she recited, though her tone suggested she was accepting a sentence rather than a blessing.
As they turned to face the hall, man and wife, the applause was polite, sparse, and hollow. The wind outside howled louder than the cheers inside.
Later, during the feast, the mood was somber. The food was hearty but simple—roasted mutton, turnips, dark ale. Daemon drank deeply, trying to drown the reality of his situation.
"You look unhappy, husband," Rhea said, cutting into a piece of meat with a dagger that looked sharp enough to shave with.
Daemon swirled the wine in his cup. "I am a dragon, madam. I belong in the sky, not in a cave surrounded by sheep."
Rhea placed her knife down. The sound of metal on wood echoed in the sudden silence between them. "Runestone is not a cave. It is the seat of House Royce. My blood runs back to the First Men, to the Bronze Kings who ruled this land before your ancestors even knew how to tame lizards."
Daemon laughed, a harsh, cruel sound that drew the eyes of the nearby lords. "Kings of bronze and mud. Tell me, wife, do you plan to bore me to death with history, or shall we skip to the bedding so I can fulfill my duty and leave this dreary rock?"
Rhea's eyes narrowed. For a moment, Daemon thought she might strike him. Instead, she smiled—a thin, dangerous smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"There will be no bedding tonight, Prince Daemon."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how do you plan to explain that to the High Septon? To the Queen?"
"I have my moon blood," she lied smoothly, loud enough for the nearest servants to hear. "And even if I didn't... the sheep of the Vale have better manners than the dragons of King's Landing. I will not share a bed with a man who looks at my home as if it were a dung heap."
She stood up, her bronze armor gleaming in the torchlight. "Sleep in the guest chambers. Or in the stables with your beast. It matters little to me."
Daemon watched her walk away, leaving him alone at the high table. The humiliation burned hotter than dragonfire. He gripped his goblet until the silver stem bent under his fingers.
He looked around the hall. The Lords of the Vale stared at him, their faces masks of silent judgment. They knew. They knew he had been rejected by his own bride on his wedding night.
This is not a marriage, Daemon thought, chugging the rest of the wine and slamming the cup down. This is a declaration of war.
And as the wind battered the walls of Runestone, Daemon Targaryen realized that the Bronze Bitch was right about one thing: in the Vale, a wedding was indeed just the beginning of a war.