King's Landing, above the Dragonpit.
A sharp, piercing roar tore through the morning air. Inside the cavernous Dragonpit, the Dragon Keepers immediately stiffened, recognizing the distinct, rhythmic screech of the newcomer.
Prince Daemon had arrived on Caraxes, the Bloodworm.
The massive, terrifying beast—a long, red serpent of scales and fire—had not darkened the Pit's entrance in many months. Caraxes's slender, elongated body sliced through the clouds like a blood-stained blade, followed closely by Syrax. Rhaenyra's mount was golden and formidable, but she was soft; well-fed on palace meat, the she-dragon hadn't hunted in the wild for years.
The two dragons touched down before the great bronze doors, kicking up a gale of dust. Caraxes hissed and snapped at the approaching Dragon Keepers, only relenting after Daemon's sharp Valyrian commands.
Rhaenyra walked side-by-side with Daemon toward their waiting carriage, pulling off her riding gloves with jerky, impatient movements.
"Daemon, my father expects me to play the courier," she spat. "He wants me to carry gifts to the Stepstones and personally inform Aegon of our wedding... and his own betrothal on the same day. I refuse. The entire Seven Kingdoms sees Aegon's ambition, yet Father remains blinded, swallowing whatever nonsense the boy feeds him."
Daemon gave Rhaenyra a sharp, warning look. To speak of partiality was dangerous ground. To any observer, Rhaenyra remained the favored child; had Viserys been truly "fair" or traditional, the crown would have passed to Aegon the moment he was born.
Viserys was a man determined to walk his own path, believing he could balance the scales. But the scales had tipped.
When Aegon was born, the Green Faction had been a mere sapling, with Otto Hightower as its root. Viserys had lopped that root off once by dismissing Otto as Hand, but Queen Alicent had grown into a pillar far more resilient than her father.
For a time, the Blacks held the advantage through Viserys's protection and a superior number of dragons. But the year 120 AC had been a season of ash. The Blacks had lost key riders and ministers in rapid succession. Seasmoke was riderless. Vhagar, the greatest living weapon in the world, had been claimed by Aemond. And Otto Hightower had returned, reclaimed his chain, and begun eroding the Blacks' influence from within the Small Council.
The most fatal factor, however, was Aegon himself.
Since the Greens secured Vhagar, Aegon's political edge had become a razor. Daemon had been away, but the reports reached his ears. Aegon's signature phrase—"We are all serving His Grace"—had become a death knell for Black loyalists. In the corridors of the Red Keep, they called it "the devil's whisper." When a man heard those words from Aegon, it was time to pack his bags.
Viserys had eventually "promoted" Aegon to the Stepstones to get him away from court, granting him the title of Protector of the Stepstones—stopping short of naming him a Prince to protect Rhaenyra's status.
Daemon had kept a close watch on the Stepstones. He had expected the young Aegon to be outmatched by the Triarchy and the Dornish, the very foes Daemon and Corlys had bled to hold back for years. Instead, the Triarchy were being treated like greenhorns, and the free city of Tyrosh was screaming for aid that Lys and Myr were too terrified to send.
But one detail haunted Daemon.
Reports from his old contacts mentioned a "mud-colored dragon" harrying the Tyroshi shipping lanes. Aegon rode Sunfyre, the golden. Aemond had Vhagar. Helaena had Dreamfyre. Even young Daeron had Tessarion. None matched the description of a brown, wild beast.
Why would a wild dragon attack Tyrosh? Daemon wondered. Does it have a rider? And if it does, who is the rider to Aegon?
The worst-case scenario flickered in his mind like a guttering candle.
Hugh.
Aegon's "Hammer." The loyal shadow who bared his teeth at anyone who crossed the Prince. If that common-born shadow had claimed a dragon, the Blacks were in deeper peril than Rhaenyra realized.
Daemon kept his silence as they entered the Red Keep. They didn't get far before they ran head-on into Queen Alicent.
"Rhaenyra?" Alicent smiled, though the warmth didn't reach her eyes. "My dear, you should have sent word of your return."
She turned her gaze to Daemon, her smile sharpening. "And Prince Daemon. From now on, you shall call me 'Mother' as well. I find the prospect quite... pleasing."
Daemon's jaw tightened. The sarcasm in Alicent's voice was a physical goad. Behind the Queen, Ser Criston Cole shifted, his hand moving toward his sword hilt as he sensed Daemon's rising fury.
Alicent looked them over—the aging prince and the weary princess. Years ago, she had been the one trembling while Aegon comforted her during the tourneys. Now, she stood tall, backed by Aegon's growing power. With a soft, mocking laugh, she turned and swept away, Cole trailing behind her like a loyal hound.
"She won't be smug for long," Rhaenyra hissed, staring at the Queen's retreating back. "The Iron Throne is mine by right."
Pregnancy had taken its toll on Rhaenyra; though she was barely past twenty, she lacked the slender, effortless grace Alicent maintained even at twice her age. It was a petty grievance, but it fueled her hatred.
"You are the heir, the Princess of Dragonstone," Daemon said, his voice cold and hard. "You will sit that throne. But Aegon has three adult dragons and the Hightower gold behind him. Caraxes and Meleys are formidable, but we must strike back, and soon."
"What are you planning?" Rhaenyra frowned. "We are days away from our wedding. Do not ruin this."
The gods were said to toss a coin for every Targaryen, but Daemon was a different creature entirely—part hero, part monster.
"I know my limits," Daemon said, though his eyes suggested otherwise. "It won't touch the wedding. Sleep easy."
Rhaenyra did not sleep easy. She knew the math. Sunfyre was growing at an impossible rate, and Vhagar and Dreamfyre were the two most powerful dragons alive. No matter how fierce Caraxes or Meleys were, they could not fight the world's largest dragon and Aegon's golden beast at the same time. If Daemon provoked a war now, it was a war they were destined to lose.
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