Lost Maidenhood
The Great Hall of the Red Keep smelled of cloying lilies and desperation. Gold leaf shimmered under a thousand beeswax candles, reflecting off the polished stone floor where the nobility of Westeros shifted in their finest silks.
Rhanya leaned against a pillar, her fingers tracing the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger hidden in the folds of her crimson gown. She watched her father, King Viserys, beam with a fragile, misplaced happiness as he stood beside Alicent Hightower. The girl looked like a doll carved from ice, her green dress a stark contrast to the Targaryen red that Rhanya wore like a challenge.
“You look as though you’re planning a massacre, sister.”
Rhanya didn’t turn. She recognized the voice—a low, melodic drawl that tasted of danger.
“The massacre would be a mercy, Daemon,” Rhanya replied, her violet eyes remaining fixed on the royal couple. “The boredom is what’s actually killing me. I can feel my brain turning to porridge.”
Daemon Targaryen stepped into her line of sight, his silver hair caught in a tight braid, his dark riding leathers a scandalous choice for a royal wedding. He smelled of ozone and the salt of the Narrow Sea.
“A tragedy,” Daemon murmured, stepping closer. His presence was a physical weight, pulling her toward him. “The Silver Fire, extinguished by a feast of lemon cakes and pious whispers.”
Rhanya finally looked at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And here I thought you’d be too busy playing soldier in the city to notice my suffering.”
Daemon extended a hand, his palm open, his eyes dancing with a provocative light.
“Dance with me, Rhanya.”
She didn’t hesitate. She slid her hand into his, her calloused palm meeting his. As he led her toward the center of the floor, the music shifted—a slow, sweeping melody that felt too heavy for the air. Daemon pulled her flush against him, his grip firm on her waist.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered against her ear.
“I’m vibrating with the urge to set something on fire,” she countered, her head tilting back to meet his gaze. “Tell me something true, Uncle. Tell me this isn’t the peak of our existence.”
Daemon chuckled, a vibration she felt in her own chest. He spun her, the crimson silk of her skirts flaring like a dying star.
“The peak is elsewhere. Far from the smell of incense and the gaze of the Hightowers.”
Rhanya leaned in, her voice a sharp needle. “Where?”
“The Dragonpit. Midnight,” Daemon breathed, his lips grazing her temple. “Come alone. Bring nothing but your hunger.”
He released her as abruptly as he had claimed her, leaving her cold in the sudden vacuum of his absence. Rhanya watched him walk away, the Rogue Prince moving through the crowd like a shark through a school of frightened fish.
The Dragonpit was a cathedral of shadow and sulfur. The wind howled through the upper vents, sounding like the distant screams of the Doom. Rhanya moved through the gloom, her riding leathers clicking softly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Daemon was waiting in the shadow of a great stone arch, leaning back with a smirk that promised ruin.
“I half-expected you to lose your nerve,” he said.
“I don’t have a nerve to lose, Daemon. I have a fuse.”
He stepped forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her into a sudden, bruising kiss. It tasted of wine and ambition. Rhanya groaned into his mouth, her hands clawing at the leather of his doublet.
“Not here,” he murmured, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe. “The keepers are blind, but they aren’t deaf.”
He led her out of the pits and deep into the heart of King’s Landing, weaving through the narrow, filth-strewn alleys of the Street of Silk. They stopped before a nondescript door of dark wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of Myrish oils and musk. Daemon paid the proprietor with a gold dragon and a look that discouraged questions, leading her up a winding stair to a room draped in deep purple velvet.
The moment the door clicked shut, the pretense vanished.
Daemon pinned her against the wood, his hands sliding up her thighs, bunching the leather of her trousers. Rhanya gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to strip you of that royal poise?” Daemon growled, his voice raw.
“Stop talking,” Rhanya commanded, her voice shaking. “Just... stop talking and take me.”
He carried her to the bed, the velvet sheets cool against her skin as he stripped her with a frantic, focused intensity. When he hovered over her, his pale skin luminous in the candlelight, Rhanya felt a flicker of genuine fear—not of him, but of the sheer scale of her own desire.
As he pushed into her, a sharp, searing pain tore through her. Rhanya arched her back, a cry escaping her lips, her fingers gripping the sheets until her knuckles turned white.
Daemon froze. He didn’t pull away, but he braced himself on his elbows, his violet eyes searching hers.
“Look at me, Rhanya,” he whispered, his voice suddenly tender, stripped of its arrogance. “Look at me. Breathe. Just breathe with me.”
She gasped, her eyes locking onto his. The pain was a white-hot line, but as he waited, as he held her gaze with an intensity that felt like a physical anchor, the pain began to ebb, replaced by a heavy, pulsing heat.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. “You’re a dragon, Rhanya. You were born for the fire.”
He began to move—slowly at first, then with a mounting, rhythmic violence that mirrored the storm outside. Rhanya clung to him, her cries turning from pain to a desperate, guttural pleasure. He fucked her hard, driving into her with a possessive force that seemed to claim not just her body, but her very soul.
They didn’t stop. They collided in the dark, their skin slick with sweat, their breaths mingling in the humid air. Every time she thought she had reached the limit, he pushed her further, exploring every curve of her body as if he were mapping a new continent. They fucked through the midnight hour, through the deep silence of the city, and into the grey, bleeding light of dawn.
The morning brought the cold reality of the Red Keep.
Rhanya stood in the solar, her expression a mask of indifference, though her body still thrummed with the memory of Daemon’s touch. Her father stood by the window, his back to her. His voice was thin, trembling with a mixture of disappointment and rage.
“The servants talk, Rhanya. The streets talk. Do you think the Rogue Prince is the only one with spies in the city?”
“I don’t care for the gossip of servants, Father.”
Viserys turned, his face haggard. “You have brought shame upon this house. You have behaved like a common whore in the Street of Silk.”
Rhanya’s eyes flashed. “I behaved like a Targaryen. I took what I wanted.”
“You will take what I give you!” Viserys roared, slamming his hand onto the table. “To scrub this stain from your reputation, you will marry. I have already spoken with the Hand.”
Rhanya stiffened. “Who?”
“Otto Hightower.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Rhanya felt the blood drain from her face.
“Otto?” she whispered, her voice laced with horror. “He is the father of my stepmother. He is old enough to be my grandfather. You want me to bed the Hand?”
“He is a man of stability, of law. He will keep you grounded. He will tame the fire that Daemon has stoked in you.”
Rhanya let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Tame me? You want to put me in a cage and hand the key to a man who smells of old parchment and ambition.”
“It is my command, Rhanya.”
“Then your command is a joke,” she spat.
She didn’t wait for his response. She turned and bolted from the room, her heart racing. She didn’t go to her chambers; she went to the Dragonpit.
Dreamfyre was waiting, her pale blue scales shimmering in the midday sun. Rhanya mounted the dragon in one fluid motion, the bond between them snapping into place like a lightning bolt.
“Drakarys!” she screamed, not at a target, but at the sky.
Dreamfyre roared, a sound that shook the foundations of the city, and took flight. Rhanya didn’t look back at the Red Keep. She flew south, pushing the dragon until the air grew thin and the clouds became a blur of white and grey. She flew until the coast of Dorne faded and the jagged peaks of the Stepstones appeared on the horizon.
The Stepstones were a wasteland of salt, blood, and screaming men.
When Dreamfyre descended, landing in a cloud of dust and ash, Daemon was in the middle of a war council. He looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the pale blue dragon and the silver-haired girl sliding down from the saddle.
He strode toward her, his face a mask of confusion and sudden anger. He grabbed her by the shoulders, nearly shaking her.
“What in the Seven Hells are you doing here, Rhanya? This is a war zone, not a royal promenade!”
Rhanya shoved him back, her eyes blazing. “I’m not a royal promenade, Daemon! I’m a dragonrider!”
“You are a princess of the realm! Your father will have my head on a spike if you’re killed in a muddy trench!”
“My father wants me to marry Otto Hightower!”
Daemon froze. His grip loosened. “What?”
“He wants me to marry the Hand. To ‘tame’ me.”
A dark, dangerous smile spread across Daemon’s face. “The old vulture. He wants the dragon for himself.”
“I didn’t come here to be rescued, Daemon,” Rhanya said, her voice hardening. “I came to fight. I came to be with you.”
Daemon looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the fire he had helped ignite. He sighed, a sound of reluctant admiration.
“Fine. But you stay behind the lines until I’ve taught you how to actually kill a man without getting blood on your boots.”
“I can handle myself.”
She proved it three days later. During a chaotic skirmish in the ruins of a coastal fort, a Triarchy soldier lunged from the shadows with a jagged spear. Rhanya had spun, her Valyrian steel dagger flashing, but the spear caught her in the thigh, tearing through the leather and deep into the muscle.
She didn’t scream. She drove her blade into the soldier’s throat, twisting it until he stopped breathing. But as she collapsed to her knees, the world began to blur.
Daemon was there in an instant, his sword clearing the path. He scooped her up in his arms, his face pale.
“Get a maester!” he roared to his men.
“I’ve got one right here, my Prince!” a soldier shouted.
“No!” Daemon snarled, his voice a guttural animal sound. “No maester touches her. Stay back! All of you!”
He carried her to his tent, kicking aside a table of maps to lay her on his cot. His hands, usually so steady with a blade, trembled slightly as he tore away the blood-soaked leather.
“You idiot,” he whispered, though there was no heat in it. “You absolute, reckless idiot.”
“I got him, didn’t I?” Rhanya gasped, her face slick with sweat.
“Yes, you did.”
Daemon spent the next four hours tending to her himself. He washed the wound with wine, his movements precise and obsessive. He stitched the skin with a needle and thread, his jaw set. He refused to leave her side, ignoring the reports of the battle, ignoring the calls of his captains.
As the fever broke in the middle of the night, Rhanya looked up at him. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his armor still splattered with blood, watching her with an expression of raw, unguarded longing.
“My father found out,” she whispered.
Daemon didn’t move. “About us.”
“Yes. He told me I was a shame. He told me Otto would be my husband.”
Daemon’s hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “The thought of that old man touching you... it makes me want to burn every city in the Stepstones.”
“He can’t have me, Daemon. I’d rather carve my own heart out.”
“He won’t,” Daemon promised, leaning forward to kiss her brow. “I swear it by the blood of Old Valyria. You are mine, Rhanya. Not the King’s, not the Hand’s. Mine.”
The return to King’s Landing was a funeral procession in all but name.
Viserys had demanded their return, promising a pardon for Daemon if Rhanya returned to fulfill her betrothal. Daemon had agreed, though the look in his eyes suggested he was playing a game the King didn’t understand.
The moment they entered the gates, the separation happened.
“You will be confined to your quarters,” Viserys commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. “The guards will ensure you do not leave until the morning of your wedding to Lord Otto.”
Rhanya looked at the gold cloaks lining the hallway. “You’re treating me like a prisoner.”
“You are a daughter who has forgotten her place,” Viserys replied.
Daemon was escorted in the opposite direction.
“And you, Daemon,” the King said, “will return to the Vale. Your lady wife awaits you. Perhaps some time in the mountains will remind you of the vows you actually took.”
Rhanya watched Daemon walk away. He didn’t look back, but he raised a single hand in a silent gesture—a promise.
For six days, Rhanya lived in a gilded cage. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. She spent her hours staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until she would be handed over to a man she loathed. The guards outside her door were polite, but they were walls of steel.
The day of the wedding arrived.
Rhanya was dressed in a gown of white and gold, a color she hated. It felt like a shroud. As she walked down the aisle of the Sept, the air felt thick, suffocating. At the altar stood Otto Hightower, his expression one of smug satisfaction. He looked at her not as a woman, but as a trophy—a dragon to be collared and kept.
“Do you, Princess Rhanya,” the High Septon began, his voice droning, “take this man—”
The heavy oak doors of the Sept slammed open with a crash that echoed like a thunderclap.
Daemon Targaryen stood there, his armor gleaming, Dark Sister strapped to his hip. He didn’t look at the King. He didn’t look at the Septon. He looked only at Rhanya.
“Stop this farce!” Daemon shouted, his voice filling the hall.
“Daemon!” Viserys gasped, standing up. “How dare you! You were sent to the Vale!”
Daemon ignored him, stepping forward with a predatory grace. He walked straight up the aisle, the guests parting before him in terror. He reached the altar and stepped between Rhanya and Otto.
“Otto,” Daemon said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “You have a fondness for things that don’t belong to you. But the Silver Fire is not a piece of parchment to be filed away in your library.”
“This is an outrage!” Otto hissed. “Your Majesty, remove this madman!”
Daemon turned to Rhanya, his hand extending. “A dragon belongs in the sky, Rhanya. Not in a cage. Do you want to stay here and wither, or do you want to burn?”
Rhanya didn’t hesitate. She reached out and grabbed his hand, her fingers locking with his.
“I choose the fire,” she whispered.
In one swift motion, Daemon pulled her against him and spun her around, shielding her with his body as he backed toward the door.
“You cannot do this!” Viserys screamed. “I am your King!”
“Then be a King!” Daemon shouted back over his shoulder. “But do not try to tell a dragon where to fly!”
The wind screamed past them as Caraxes banked hard to the left.
Rhanya was pressed tight against Daemon’s back, her arms wrapped around his waist, holding on for dear life. The Blood Wyrm was a blur of red against the blue sky, diving and climbing with a violent agility that made her stomach flip.
“Are you terrified?” Daemon yelled over the roar of the wind.
“I’ve never felt more alive!” she screamed back, pressing her face into the leather of his shoulder.
He laughed, a wild, triumphant sound, and banked the dragon toward the distant silhouette of Dragonstone. As they descended, Dreamfyre rose to meet them, her pale blue scales shimmering like a diamond in the sun.
They landed on the jagged cliffs of the island, the salt spray stinging their skin. Daemon didn’t let her go. He pulled her into a kiss that tasted of victory and ozone, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
“We aren’t going back,” he murmured.
“I hope we never do.”
That night, beneath the gaze of the Fourteen Flames and the ancient stones of Dragonstone, they did not call a Septon. They did not recite the prayers of the Seven.
They stood in the center of a circle of fire, their hands joined, their blood mingling in a ritual as old as Valyria itself.
“I claim you,” Daemon whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “By blood and fire, by dragon and flame. You are my wife, my equal, my shadow.”
“And I claim you,” Rhanya replied, her violet eyes glowing. “Until the world burns to ash.”
They married in the old way—with a passion that threatened to consume the room and a loyalty that defied the laws of men.
The next morning, a single raven flew from the cliffs of Dragonstone toward the Red Keep. It carried a short, blunt message written in Rhanya’s sharp hand:
To my Father, the King.*
The Silver Fire has found its home. I am no longer your pawn, nor am I a bride for the Hand. I am the wife of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Try to find us if you dare.*
Signed, The Rogue Princess.*
