1
The Great Hall of the Red Keep smelled of roasted swan, spilled wine, and the cloying, sweet scent of Seven-Pointed Star incense. Princess Rhanya Targaryen sat at the high table, her fingers tracing the silver-gold filigree of her wine goblet. Beside her, King Viserys laughed, a sound that lacked the strength it possessed only a year ago. Across the table, Alicent Hightower sat draped in a gown the color of a moss-grown tombstone.
Rhanya caught a flicker of movement by the fluted pillars. Daemon. He leaned there with a casual arrogance, his dark sister sword at his hip, his violet eyes boring into hers.
“Ao brōzoma issi ñuha dōna,” (You are being named my sweet,) Daemon’s voice cut through the din of the lutes and the laughter.
The guests turned, but the High Valyrian kept the common lords in the dark.
“I am being named a prize to be won, Uncle,” Rhanya replied in the same ancient tongue, her voice a low vibration. “Nyke dōna bāne iksan.” (I am a sweet poison.)
“The King looks happy,” Alicent whispered, her hand brushing Viserys’s sleeve. “Do you not agree, Rhanya?”
Rhanya didn’t look at her. “He looks like a man who has forgotten the smell of my mother’s blood.”
“Rhanya, please,” Viserys groaned, rubbing his temple. “Tonight is a celebration.”
“The celebration of a funeral, perhaps,” Daemon said, pushing off the pillar and stalking toward the table. “A funeral for the pride of House Targaryen. Tell me, Brother, does the Hightower reach high enough to touch the dragon’s belly yet?”
“Enough, Daemon,” Viserys snapped. “If you cannot be civil, find another hall.”
Daemon’s gaze flicked back to Rhanya, a challenge dancing in his eyes. He turned on his heel without a word and vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
The Street of Silk was a riot of lanterns and the heavy perfume of Essosi spices. Rhanya pulled her hooded cloak tighter, the dark boiled leather of her riding gear hidden beneath the wool. She pushed through the beaded curtain of the White Worm’s most private parlor.
Daemon sat on a low divan, a flagon of deep red wine on the table. He didn’t look up as she entered.
“You took your time,” he said.
“The Kingsguard are more alert when the King is distracted by his new bride.”
Rhanya dropped the cloak. She stood before him in the dim light, the Valyrian steel necklace he had given her years ago glinting against her throat.
“You look like a warrior,” Daemon said, his voice dropping an octave. “Not a princess.”
“I am what you made me, Uncle.”
He stood, the distance between them vanishing in a single stride. His hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “The realm thinks you are a girl. They think you can be molded. They think Otto’s daughter will replace you with a son.”
“Let them think,” Rhanya whispered. “I want to feel something other than the weight of that crown.”
Daemon’s mouth crashed against hers, tasting of salt and wine. He led her to the silk-covered bed, his movements devoid of the hesitation her father showed. He stripped away the leather and silk until she stood shivering in the humid air.
“You are certain?” he asked, his hands resting on her hips.
“I have been certain since the day I claimed Dreamfyre. I do not want a husband chosen by a council of old men. I want the blood of the dragon.”
He laid her back on the pillows. When he moved over her, the heat of him was a physical weight. As he pushed into her, Rhanya’s breath hitched, her body tensing as a sharp, hot blade of pain bloomed in her center. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
“Breathe,” he whispered against her ear, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “The fire is always hottest at the start.”
He stayed still, letting her adjust, his lips brushing the sweat from her forehead. When she finally relaxed, her hips rising to meet him, he began to move with a slow, deliberate rhythm that turned the pain into a low, thrumming ache of heat.
“You are mine, Rhanya,” he murmured into the crook of her neck. “Not the realm’s. Not the Hightowers’. Mine.”
“Always,” she gasped, the word lost in the tangle of silver-gold hair on the pillow.
The sun had barely cleared the horizon when the doors to Rhanya’s chambers in the Red Keep were thrown open. She sat at her vanity, already dressed in her flying leathers, her face a mask of stone.
Viserys stood in the doorway, his face pale, his hands shaking. Behind him, Otto Hightower hovered like a vulture.
“Is it true?” Viserys asked, his voice cracking.
“You will have to be more specific, Father. I have done many things that are true.”
“The Street of Silk,” Otto interjected, his voice smooth and oily. “Witnesses saw the Princess enter a house of ill repute with the Prince. They were not seen leaving until the hour of the bat.”
Rhanya stood, turning to face them. “I went to see the only man in this city who speaks the truth to me. What we did is no concern of yours, Lord Hand.”
“No concern?” Viserys roared. “You are my heir! You have sullied yourself with a man who mocks your very position!”
“Daemon does not mock me. He reminds me who I am. You, however, seem intent on turning me into a broodmare for the Hightowers.”
“You will stay in these quarters,” Viserys commanded. “Until I decide on a suitable match to restore your virtue.”
“My virtue is not a coin to be spent, Father.”
Rhanya pushed past them, her shoulder catching Otto’s with enough force to make the man stumble. She ran for the Dragonpit, the scent of sulfur and old scales calling to her.
Dreamfyre was waiting, her pale blue scales shimmering like ice. Rhanya didn’t wait for the keepers. She climbed the saddle, the bond snapping into place like a lock.
“Sōves!” (Fly!)
The dragon roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of the hill, and took to the sky. Rhanya didn’t look back at the Red Keep. She banked south, toward the smoke and the sea.
The Stepstones were a wasteland of jagged rock and the stench of rotting crab meat. Daemon stood on the beach of Bloodstone, his armor crusted with salt and dried gore. The roar of a dragon made him look up.
Dreamfyre descended like a silver thunderbolt, her wings kicking up a gale of sand that blinded the nearby archers. Rhanya slid from the saddle before the dragon had even fully settled.
“What madness is this?” Daemon shouted, walking toward her. “The war is not a playground, Rhanya.”
“The King knows,” she said, her chest heaving. “Otto sent his spies. They saw us at the White Worm.”
Daemon stopped, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. “And? Did he send you here to fetch me for execution?”
“He wants to lock me away. He wants to marry me to some lordling to ‘fix’ what we did. I told him I would rather burn.”
“He will send ships,” a deep voice boomed. Lord Corlys Velaryon walked over the dunes, his brow furrowed. “He will send more than ships. He will send a decree disinheriting you if you stay here.”
“Let him,” Rhanya snapped. “I have a dragon. I have the City Watch’s loyalty. What does he have? A wife who prays to stones?”
Corlys looked from Rhanya to Daemon. “This was Otto’s play from the start. He knew you would go to him, Daemon. He knew it would ruin her standing. Now, he can push for the boy, Aegon, with the support of the faith and the lords.”
“Then we change the game,” Corlys continued, his eyes sharp. “Daemon, you are a prince of the blood. She is the heir. If you marry her now—in the old way—the King cannot undo it without admitting his own blood is tainted. A Valyrian union is a bond of fire. Not even the High Septon can cut it.”
Daemon looked at Rhanya. “It will mean war. Not just with the Triarchy, but with your father.”
“The war started the day he married Alicent,” Rhanya said. “Give me a sword, Uncle. I am tired of talking.”
The assault on the Triarchy’s hidden caves was a blur of fire and screaming. Rhanya flew low, Dreamfyre’s blue flames illuminating the dark crevices where the Crabfeeder’s men hid.
A volley of scorpions hissed from a hidden ridge. Rhanya felt the impact before she heard it. A bolt, tipped with jagged iron, tore through the air, catching her in the side, just below the ribs.
She gasped, the world tilting as she slumped against the dragon’s neck. Dreamfyre roared in sympathetic agony, banking sharply toward the beach.
When they landed, Daemon was there before the sand had settled. He hauled her from the saddle, his hands coming away red.
“A Maester!” a soldier shouted. “Bring the Maester from the fleet!”
“No!” Daemon’s voice was a whip-crack. He swept Rhanya into his arms.
“My Prince, the wound is deep,” a knight protested. “She needs the milk of the poppy and the stitches of the Citadel.”
“The Maesters serve Oldtown,” Daemon spat, carrying her toward his tent. “And Oldtown serves the Hightowers. They would see her ‘die’ of her wounds or send her back in chains to King’s Landing. Get out! All of you!”
Inside the tent, he laid her on a table covered in furs. Rhanya’s breath was a ragged whistle.
“Daemon...”
“Stay with me, little star,” he whispered, his hands trembling as he cut away her leathers.
He didn’t use herbs. He used boiling wine and a dagger heated in the brazier until it glowed white.
“This will hurt more than the bolt,” he said, his eyes meeting hers.
“Do it,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
The smell of searing flesh filled the tent. Rhanya screamed, her hand catching Daemon’s forearm, her nails drawing blood. She watched him, his face a mask of focus, as he worked to stop the bleeding.
For three days, the fever raged. Daemon never left her side. He fed her water from his own flask and whispered histories of their ancestors in High Valyrian, keeping her anchored to the world.
On the fourth morning, her eyes opened, clear and cold.
“Is the Crabfeeder dead?” she asked.
Daemon chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “I dragged his torso across the beach myself while you slept. Are you ready to be a wife?”
The wedding took place on the cliffs overlooking the Smoking Sea. There was no septon, no incense, and no vows of the Seven.
The entire Velaryon fleet sat in the bay, their banners snapping in the wind. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys stood as witnesses.
Daemon and Rhanya stood before a stone altar. He took a piece of dragonglass and drew it across his palm. Rhanya did the same, her hand steady despite the bandage on her side.
“Blood of the dragon,” Daemon said, his voice carrying over the crashing waves.
“Fire of the soul,” Rhanya responded.
They pressed their palms together, their blood mingling and dripping onto the dark stone. Daemon took a silken cord of red and black and bound their wrists together.
“Sīr lēkia, sīr ābra,” (Now brother, now wife,) he murmured.
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers. “You are the Rogue Queen now, Rhanya. There is no turning back.”
“I never learned how to walk backward, Uncle.”
The Red Keep was silent as the massive doors to the throne room swung open. King Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, looking older than the stones themselves. Alicent stood at his side, her face pale. Otto Hightower stood below the dais, his hands tucked into his sleeves.
The heavy tread of boots echoed through the hall.
Daemon and Rhanya walked side by side. They weren’t dressed in the finery of the court. They wore the battered, salt-stained armor of the Stepstones. Daemon carried a heavy sack, which he tossed at the foot of the throne. The head of the Crabfeeder rolled out, grey and grotesque.
“A gift for the King,” Daemon said.
Viserys looked at the head, then at his daughter. “Rhanya... what have you done?”
“I have secured the Stepstones for the crown, Father,” she said, her voice echoing with a new, terrifying authority. “And I have secured the succession.”
She raised her hand, showing the silver-gold band on her finger, matched by the one on Daemon’s.
“You married him?” Viserys whispered, his voice trembling. “Without my leave? In a heathen ceremony?”
“We married in the tradition of our house,” Rhanya said. “The tradition of Aegon and Visenya. The blood of the dragon does not ask for leave to join with its own.”
“This is treason,” Otto barked. “The Princess was ordered to remain in her quarters. The Prince has manipulated—”
“Silence, Otto,” Viserys said, his voice surprisingly firm.
He looked at his brother, then at his daughter. He saw the way they stood—a single unit of fire and steel. He saw the Velaryon guards standing at the back of the hall, their loyalty clear.
“You think you have won,” Viserys said, leaning back into the blades of the throne.
“I have not won anything yet, Father,” Rhanya said, stepping forward. “I have simply taken what was mine. I am the Heir. He is my Consort. And if any man in this room has a grievance, Dreamfyre is resting in the outer ward. She is very hungry.”
Viserys looked at the ceiling, a long, weary sigh escaping him. He looked at Alicent, whose face was a mask of suppressed fury.
“You are a rogue, Rhanya,” the King said. “Just like your uncle.”
“No, Father,” Rhanya replied, her violet eyes locking onto his. “I am a Targaryen. It’s time you remembered what that means.”
Daemon leaned in, his hand resting on the small of Rhanya’s back. “The dragons are home, Brother. Try not to let the servants trip over them.”
They turned together, leaving the court in a stunned silence, the sound of their boots the only rhythm in a kingdom that had just realized the peace was over.
