The Red Keep was never quiet. Even in the early hours, when the sun was no more than a pale shimmer above Blackwater Bay, the castle breathed and moved as if alive — footsteps on stone, servants whispering through corridors, the faint clang of armor from the yard below.
From her window, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen could see the city waking beneath the walls — smoke curling from chimneys, gulls wheeling over the harbor. The wind carried the scent of salt and ash, the same smell that clung to her father's robes after his councils.
Within the keep, every arch and column spoke of dragons. The great tapestries shimmered with red and gold threads, showing wings spread over mountains, silver-scaled beasts locked in battle or coiled protectively around kings. Even the carpets beneath her small bare feet bore scales and flame. It was said that every inch of Maegor's fortress reminded men who ruled it that they sat in the shadow of dragons.
Rhaenyra loved it.
She ran her hand along the cold stone as she hurried down the corridor, her septa's voice calling faintly behind her. "Princess! The morning lessons have not yet begun!"
"I know, Septa! I'm only—" she grinned, slipping around the corner, "—not listening!"
Her laughter echoed as she darted past a pair of guards in crimson cloaks, who bowed low but smiled despite themselves. The Red Keep was filled with such moments — stern faces softening at the sight of the king's golden-haired daughter.
When she finally reached the Queen's solar, Aemma Arryn sat in the light of the open windows, her pale hair braided with silver ribbons. She looked up from her embroidery as Rhaenyra entered, cheeks flushed from the run.
"Seven save me, child, did you race the ravens here?"
"I only wanted to see you before my lessons," Rhaenyra said, catching her breath. She climbed onto the cushioned bench beside her mother and peered at the fabric in her lap — a tapestry in progress, dragons in flight above a mountain pass.
Aemma smiled faintly. "Always dragons, even in thread."
"They're beautiful," Rhaenyra whispered. "Father says they are a symbol of House Targaryen's fire."
Her mother smoothed a hand over her daughter's hair. "Your father sees dragons in all things. He is happiest when he believes the world remembers their glory."
As if summoned by the words, King Viserys I appeared at the doorway. He was broad and soft-cheeked even then, his crown resting light upon his head. A warmth clung to him like sunlight, yet there was weariness behind his eyes — the weight of rulership beginning to settle.
"Here you are, my little dragon," he said, his voice rich with affection.
Rhaenyra leapt from the bench and ran to him. "Father!"
He lifted her easily, laughing as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "You've been avoiding your septa again, haven't you?"
"I was visiting Mother."
"Ah, so now your mischief has purpose." He kissed her forehead, then set her down gently. "Your brother is already at his letters. You would not want him growing cleverer than you."
Rhaenyra frowned. "Meakar only reads because he thinks the words are magic."
Viserys chuckled. "In time, perhaps he will prove they are." He turned to Aemma, his expression softening. "The council meets early today. Otto insists the realm won't govern itself."
"Nor will your daughter learn if she keeps running from her septa," Aemma said, though her tone carried amusement.
The King bent to kiss her hand. "Then let her run a little longer. The Keep is safest when its laughter belongs to her."
When Viserys departed, the air in the room lingered with his warmth — and faintly with the scent of smoke and parchment.
Later that day, after her lessons were done (with much sighing and little patience), Rhaenyra escaped again — this time to the Dragonpit.
The great cavern of Dragonstone had been replaced by the King's pit in the capital, a vaulted hall whose roof arched high enough to hold thunder. The keepers bowed as she entered, the scent of sulfur and straw thick in the air.
And there she was — Syrax.
Her dragon gleamed in the torchlight, scales the color of molten gold. She was still young, but already taller than a horse, her wings stretching nearly the width of the pen. When Rhaenyra approached, the beast's head turned sharply, nostrils flaring, then lowered — slow and deliberate — until her snout brushed the girl's outstretched hand.
"I missed you too," Rhaenyra whispered.
The heat beneath Syrax's skin pulsed faintly, alive, wild. When Rhaenyra laughed, it echoed like a secret only they shared.
"Princess Rhaenyra!" a voice called — softer, younger. She turned to see Alicent Hightower, standing shyly by the archway, her green gown neatly pressed, brown hair braided back. She was only a few years older, but carried herself with careful grace, already trained to move as her father's station demanded.
"You'll be scolded if your septa finds you here," Alicent warned, though there was a smile beneath her words.
"She already has," Rhaenyra said, grinning. "Twice."
Alicent giggled. "Then thrice will make it proper."
Together they sat at the edge of the pit, feet dangling above the warm stones. Syrax watched them both with slitted eyes, a low hum vibrating in her throat.
"Does she ever frighten you?" Alicent asked softly.
Rhaenyra shook her head. "No. She's part of me."
"Father says dragons are dangerous."
"So are kings," Rhaenyra said simply, her gaze lifting to the red roofs of the Keep above.
The words lingered — strange, thoughtful — but Alicent didn't press. The two girls sat in silence as the great beast dozed, the warmth of her breath washing over them.
Above, the bells of the Keep began to toll. Rhaenyra knew her father's council had ended. Soon, the hallways would fill again with voices — lords, maesters, knights — all serving the king who sat the Iron Throne.
For now, though, she was only Rhaenyra. A princess of dragons, laughing in the shadow of flame.