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Queen Alicent Hightower sat by her chamber window, her fingers still clutching the bloodstained fabric of Gwayne's surcoat, when the knock came.
"Come," she called, hastily wiping her eyes and tucking the torn fabric beneath a cushion.
The man who entered was like a wounded animal, old and ugly, his walking stick tapping against the stone floor. Lord Larys Strong, she recognized him from court, though they'd never spoken directly. The younger Strong brother, the one they called "Clubfoot" when they thought themselves out of earshot.
What does the cripple want with me? she wondered.
"Your Grace," Larys said, executing a bow that was surprisingly graceful despite his affliction. "I come to offer my deepest condolences on the loss of your brother. Ser Gwayne was a knight of exceptional promise."
Empty words, Alicent thought, but she nodded graciously. "Lord Larys. Your sympathies are... appreciated."
"Forgive the late hour," Larys continued, his voice soft as if speaking with a child. "But I thought Your Grace might appreciate certain... information that has come to my attention."
Alicent's spine stiffened imperceptibly. Information. In King's Landing, information is deadlier than any blade.
"And what information would that be, Lord Larys?"
He shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on his stick. "May I sit, Your Grace? My leg, you understand."
She gestured to a chair, watching as he lowered himself with obvious relief. Playing up the infirmity, or genuine pain? With men like this, one never knows.
"I have certain friends," Larys began carefully, "in various corners of the city. Little birds, one might say, who sing me songs of what they see and hear."
Spies. He has spies. Alicent felt her pulse quicken. How much does he know? About Gwayne's death, about my plans, about—
"These friends of yours," she said, keeping her voice neutral, "they must sing interesting songs indeed to bring you to my chambers at such an hour."
"Indeed they do, Your Grace." Larys's thin lips curved in what might have been a smile. "Just yesterday, one of them sang me a most peculiar song. About a dragon. Silverwing, to be precise."
Alicent's hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the fold of her green silk gown. "Silverwing has been missing from Dragonstone for some time. This is known."
"Missing, yes. But perhaps not quite so... untended as one might assume." Larys paused, his eyes dancing with triumph. "My little bird swears he saw her flying near the Kingswood. With a rider."
A rider. Alicent leaned forward. "Did your... bird... see who this rider was?"
"Alas, dragons fly high and fast, Your Grace. But he was quite certain about one thing, the rider was a woman. A beautiful woman with the distinctive coloring of Old Valyria."
Daenerys. The name blazed through Alicent's mind like wildfire. That silver-haired whore has claimed one of our dragons.
"If this is true, I can have their heads, that bastard would never allow his whore wife to be executed," Alicent muttered to herself, her heart filling with joy, while Larys had no reaction as if he hadn't heard her. Alicent knew her foolish husband was a weak man, but even Viserys would not allow Daeron and Daenerys to just own dragons.
"Lord Larys," Alicent said, her voice sweet as honey poured over broken glass, "you understand that lying to your queen is treason?"
"I understand perfectly, Your Grace." His expression remained placid.
Alicent rose from her seat and glided toward him, her smile never wavering. "Good. Because if I discover you've brought me false information..." She reached out and touched his shoulder with deceptive gentleness. "I'll have your tongue cut out and fed to the ravens. They do so enjoy fresh meat."
To his credit, Larys didn't flinch. "Your Grace is most gracious in her warnings. However, might I suggest that the word of a cripple and his little birds may not carry sufficient weight for the kind of... justice you seek?"
"I cannot send Hightower soldiers to investigate," she mused aloud. "Too obvious. And Silverwing would burn them to ash before they got close enough to see anything useful."
"A wise assessment, Your Grace. Dragons are notably protective of their riders' privacy."
Alicent wondered how she could prove to Viserys that Silverwing and Vermithor are no longer riderless, that the rumors were true and not just drunk people talking. She could have people follow Lady Daenerys and catch her in the act. Once she had proof, she would tell Viserys, and if the King decided not to believe her, she would bring her own justice.
We need to make the dragon come to us. But how? Alicent studied Larys's bland expression, searching for any hint of his true intentions. This one is dangerous. But perhaps that's exactly what I need.
"These friends of yours," she said carefully, "how extensive is their network?"
Larys tilted his head modestly. "Oh, I have a few here and there. The poorest districts of King's Landing, where men will sell secrets for bread. The pleasure houses, where wine loosens tongues along with clothing."
"And what purpose brings you to me, Lord Larys? What do you hope to gain from sharing this information?"
"I am merely a servant of the crown, Your Grace. A loyal subject of the rightful King of Westeros." His pale eyes met hers directly. "Those who would steal dragons, who would claim what belongs to House Targaryen without permission... well, such people are traitors to the crown, are they not?"
Pretty words, but men like this don't move without purpose. What's your game, Clubfoot?
"I want information on their movements," Alicent commanded. "Lady Daenerys, Ser Daeron. Where they go, who they meet, what they do when they think no one is watching."
"It will be done, Your Grace."
"You may go, Lord Larys."
But before he could rise, the door opened without warning. King Viserys entered, stopping short at the sight of Larys Strong in his wife's chambers.
Seven hells, Alicent thought, forcing her expression into one of mild surprise rather than alarm.
"Husband," she greeted warmly. "Lord Larys was just leaving."
Viserys's eyes moved between them, curiosity evident in his weathered features. "Lord Larys?"
Larys had managed to stand, leaning heavily on his stick. "Your Grace," he said with another surprisingly graceful bow. "I was merely offering my condolences to Her Grace on the loss of her brother. I'm Lord Larys Strong?"
"Ah." Viserys's expression softened slightly. "You're Lord Lyonel's son, aren't you? The younger one?"
"I am, Your Grace. Larys Strong, at your service."
"Your father serves me well. I trust you share his loyalty to the crown?"
"Absolutely, Your Grace. The crown's interests are my own."
"Well then," Viserys said, clearly dismissing him. "Don't let us keep you."
Larys bowed again to both of them. "Your Grace. Your Grace."
They watched in silence as he made his slow, tapping progress to the door. Only when it closed behind him did Viserys turn to Alicent with raised eyebrows.
"Since when do you receive Lord Larys Strong in your chambers?"
Since I need spies to prove your daughter's new favorites are traitors and butchers, she thought, but said, "He sought me out to offer condolences, as he said. I could hardly turn him away—he is Lord Strong's son, after all."
Viserys made a noncommittal sound, moving to pour himself wine from the flagon on her side table. "Interesting how both you and Rhaenyra have taken to spending time with the Strong brothers. First she's constantly with Ser Harwin, now you're entertaining Lord Larys."
Oh, if you only knew what your daughter did with Harwin Strong, my naive husband. Though I suspect she's already forgotten him now that her new toy has arrived.
"I've spent perhaps five minutes in Lord Larys's company," Alicent said mildly. "Hardly comparable to the hours Rhaenyra spends... training... with Ser Harwin."
Viserys either missed or ignored the implication, settling into the chair Larys had vacated. She could smell the wine on him—not drunk, but certainly not sober. How like him to pickle himself rather than face hard truths.
"Speaking of Kingsguards," Viserys said, swirling the wine in his cup, "Ser Criston Cole, a most unfortunate business, his death."
"Unfortunate indeed," she agreed, pouring herself a modest amount of wine. "To have his throat cut in the very infirmary where maesters were trying to save him... it speaks to a disturbing lack of security in the Red Keep."
"My thoughts exactly." Viserys's jaw tightened. "A member of my Kingsguard, murdered while under the protection of the crown. Such a crime cannot go unpunished."
Cannot go unpunished, he says, while we both know perfectly well who held the blade.
"Have the investigations revealed anything?" Alicent asked innocently, though she knew the answer perfectly well.
"Lord Lyonel is looking into it personally," Viserys replied, his tone carrying a weight of frustration. "The guards who were supposed to be watching the infirmary door were found sleeping. Sleeping! Can you imagine such dereliction of duty?"
"Sleeping," Alicent repeated, her voice flat. "How convenient for whoever wished Ser Criston dead."
Sleeping, or more likely paid to close their eyes and develop temporary deafness. The Velaryons have deep pockets, after all.
"They'll spend a month in the black cells," Viserys continued, his fingers drumming against his wine cup. "After that, exile from King's Landing. I won't have guards who can't perform their basic duties."
"A month seems rather lenient for allowing a Kingsguard to be murdered," Alicent observed, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Viserys shot her a look that was part warning, part weariness. "What would you have me do, Alicent? Execute them for falling asleep? They claim they remember nothing—one moment they were alert, the next they were being shaken awake to find Ser Criston dead."
Drugged, most likely. Or simply well-paid to develop selective memory loss.
"I would have you find the actual murderer," she said carefully. "Ser Criston was loyal to the crown, to you. Doesn't his service deserve justice?"
"Of course it does," Viserys snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "Forgive me. This whole business has been... trying. First the melee, then this. Lord Corlys is beside himself with worry about his son."
His son who just happened to have the strongest motive for wanting Criston dead. How terribly worrying for Lord Corlys.
"Lord Laenor has had a difficult week," Alicent said with a blank voice. "Losing someone so... close to him. Grief can drive men to desperate acts."
Viserys's eyes sharpened, and for a moment she wondered if she'd pushed too far. But he merely took another drink and said, "Grief is indeed a powerful force. As you well know, my dear."
Was that a threat? A reminder that my own grief over Gwayne shouldn't drive me to 'desperate acts'?
"Speaking of Ser Criston's death," Viserys continued, setting down his cup, "we must select a new member for the Kingsguard. We cannot leave the position empty, especially with the wedding approaching."
"Have you someone in mind?" Alicent asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer from the slight smile playing at his lips.
"I confess, if Ser Daeron weren't married, I would offer him the position immediately. The man is perhaps the finest warrior I've seen since Daemon in his prime."
The finest warrior. The man who murdered my brother.
"Rhaenyra seems quite taken with his martial prowess," Alicent said, unable to keep herself from talking.
Viserys chuckled. "She does appreciate a skilled sword. She mentioned at dinner that she'd never seen anyone move quite like him in combat."
Oh, I'm certain she's imagining all sorts of ways he might move. Your daughter's appetites are hardly subtle, husband.
"A pity he's married then," Alicent said sweetly. "Though I suppose that wouldn't stop some from pursuing what they desire."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing at all, husband. Merely observing that marriage vows seem to mean less and less these days. Look at poor Lord Laenor, about to enter a marriage while mourning his... dear friend."
Viserys's expression darkened. "Laenor will do his duty to his house and to mine. The alliance between our families is more important than personal feelings."
"Of course," Alicent agreed. "Still, we need a new Kingsguard. If not...Daeron, then who?"
Viserys sighed, suddenly looking every one of his years. "I don't know. The position requires someone of exceptional skill, unquestionable loyalty, and noble bearing. Such men are increasingly rare."
An idea sparked in Alicent's mind. "Perhaps... perhaps I might make a suggestion?"
"Oh?"
"Let me choose the new Kingsguard." She leaned forward, placing her hand over his. "You have so many burdens already, husband. The investigation into Ser Criston's death, the wedding preparations, the small council meetings. Let me take this one task from your shoulders."
Viserys studied her for a long moment. "You wish to choose our new Kingsguard?"
"I knew Ser Criston well," she said, which was true enough. "I understand what makes a man truly loyal to the crown. Give me this, Viserys. Let me find someone who will serve you as faithfully as Criston did."
"And what qualities would you look for in this new Kingsguard?" Viserys asked, though she could see he was already warming to the idea.
"Strength, certainly. Loyalty above all. Someone who understands that serving the crown means serving the entire royal family, not just..." she paused delicately, "certain members of it."
Not just your daughter, who seems to collect men like some ladies collect jewels.
Viserys was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Find me a suitable candidate. But Alicent—" his voice carried a note of warning, "—he must be truly suitable. No second sons seeking glory, no ambitious lords looking to place their own men close to the throne. A true knight."
"Of course, husband. I would never suggest anyone who wasn't completely worthy of the honor."
"Good." Viserys rose from his chair with visible effort. "Oh, and Alicent? There will be a feast tomorrow night. In honor of your brother."
Alicent felt her chest tighten. "A feast?"
"To celebrate his life and service to the realm. I thought it would be fitting."
Fitting? To feast and drink while my brother lies in the cold ground?
"How thoughtful," she managed, her voice strained. "I'm sure Gwayne would be... honored."
"You'll attend, of course. At my side, as queen."
"Of course." The words tasted like ash in her mouth. "I'll sit beside you and smile while the court pretends to mourn a man they barely knew, and his killer walks free among us."
"Alicent—"
"I'll be there, Viserys." She turned away, unable to look at him. "I'll play my part, as I always do. The dutiful queen, graciously accepting condolences while my brother rots in his tomb."
She heard him sigh heavily behind her. "I know you're grieving. But Gwayne died in honorable combat. There's no shame in that."
No shame for him, perhaps. But plenty for those of us left behind.
"If you say so, husband."
"I'll see you at the feast tomorrow," Viserys said finally, and she heard his footsteps moving toward the door. "Try to get some rest, Alicent. You look tired."
Tired of pretending. Tired of smiling while injustice walks free. Tired of being the good queen while my enemies multiply.
After he left, Alicent stood alone in her chambers, staring at the candle flames until they blurred through her tears. Tomorrow she would feast. She would smile. She would play the gracious queen.
But she would also remember. And when the time came, when she had gathered enough proof and enough power, she would show them all what happened to those who spilled Hightower blood.
Gwayne, I swear it. Your death will be avenged. Even if I have to tear down the whole realm to do it.
Corlys and Rhaenys
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood at the window of their private chambers, watching the moon's reflection dance across Blackwater Bay. The Sea Snake had faced storms that would terrify lesser men, but nothing quite compared to the tempest his son had become.
"He was drunk again today," Rhaenys said from behind him. "In the middle of the afternoon, stumbling through the courtyard like a common—"
She cut herself off, but Corlys could fill in the rest. Like a common drunk. Like a man who'd forgotten his name and birthright.
"Who saw?" he asked without turning around.
"Who didn't?" Rhaenys moved to stand beside him. "Several servants, two minor lords from the Reach, and worst of all, that Strong boy had to practically carry him away before he could make an even bigger fool of himself."
Corlys's jaw tightened. Twenty years of building their house's reputation, of careful political maneuvering, and his son seemed determined to tear it all down in a wine-soaked rage of grief.
"The wedding is in days," he said, his voice low and controlled. "He needs to pull himself together."
"He needs time to grieve," Rhaenys countered, but she sounded deeply disappointed. "Joffrey was...dear to him."
"Joffrey is dead," Corlys said flatly. "And if Laenor doesn't remember his duty soon, our alliance with the crown will follow him to the grave."
Rhaenys sighed, settling into a chair near the fire. "Once he marries Rhaenyra and they have a child, the rumors will disappear. A son with silver hair and purple eyes will silence every wagging tongue in King's Landing."
Corlys turned from the window, studying his wife's face. She was still beautiful, still the Queen Who Never Was, but the strain of recent events had etched new lines around her eyes.
"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.
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