Chapter Text
The sea wind rattled the shutters of the solar, its salt-laden breath creeping through every crack, stirring the flames of the torches already lit against the encroaching dusk. From the east, the night rose slowly and steady. Beneath that frail light, mother and daughter stood opposed, their voices rising sharply as drawn blades.
“No.” Rhaenyra pressed both hands against the swell of her belly, as though it tethered her to some last reserve of patience. “That is my final word, Daenya. We sail together.”
“Sail?” Daenya’s tone was edged in disbelief. Her silver hair, long and unbound, whipped over her shoulder as she turned fully to face her mother. “To court with no wings above us? No dragons? What madness is this?”
“Nothing will befall us,” Rhaenyra countered, breath shallow but voice iron. “We go in peace. A dragon… might be seen as provocation.”
“Then you are a fool.” The words slipped free before Daenya could bite them back. “Forgive me,” she added, a shade softer. “But it is folly to go without dragons.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, her jaw taut with strain and fatigue. “I will argue no further. We will go by ship.”
Daenya’s fists clenched. “No, Mother. I will go on dragonback.”
“You will not.” Her mother’s gaze sharpened, a dagger drawn. “You will do as I command, Daenya. You are my daughter—”
“I am also my father’s daughter.” The words rang like a slap, dark and heavy. “Perhaps more his than yours,” Daenya pushed further, the old wound flaring, “since you so willingly let him take me to Pentos without so much as a word.”
The silence that followed was broken by the sudden crash of the chamber doors as they swung open. Iron hinges groaned in protest. Daemon Targaryen entered like a storm sweeping ashore, black cloak trailing, silver hair caught by the wind. His eyes were shadowed clouds over the Blackwater, sharp and watchful.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Seven hells, the whole of Dragonstone can hear you. What is happening?”
“Your daughter wishes to fly to King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra said, her voice clipped.
“Mother would have us sail into court without any of our dragons,” Daenya shot back.
Daemon sighed, a sound laced with both exasperation and the faintest trace of amusement. “I fail to see the harm in it. Alicent’s broods have their dragons there. Why shouldn’t she?”
“You are too soft with her, Daemon.” Rhaenyra’s voice had frayed to threads. “If we must have a dragon, then we willtake Syrax or Vermax.”
“If you wish to go with Syrax or Jace with Vermax, so be it,” Daenya said, chin lifted, voice low but unyielding. “I will ride Vermithor. None shall stop me.”
Rhaenyra opened her mouth whether to argue or plead, even she did not seem certain, but Daenya had already turned on her heel, crimson skirts snapping behind her as she strode for the arched doorway.
She needed air. Stone walls pressed too tight. Her tongue burned with words better left unsaid.
The corridors of Dragonstone were chill, full of shadow and cold stone. The thick walls did little to keep the wind at bay; it howled down the passage like some hungry beast. Her boots rang hollow against the black basalt as she climbed the spiral stairs to one of the high balconies overlooking the Narrow Sea.
There she stood, hands gripping the cold stone rail. Below, the waves smashed themselves against the cliffs. Above, the sky had turned grey, streaked with deepening blue along the far horizon. The smell of salt and was sharp in her lungs.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She did not turn. She knew those steps.
For a time, he said nothing. She felt his presence beside her, solid as stone, dangerous as the sea. “You are our daughter by blood,” Daemon said at last, voice low, touched with that familiar wryness, “but in spirits, you seem to be mine alone sometimes.”
Daenya exhaled sharply, not yet turning to him. “You should tell her that. She’s never half so harsh with Jace, or Luke, or the others.”
Daemon was quiet a moment longer. His cloak flapped behind him, caught by the wind. “Rhaenyra fears for you,” he said at last, with a kind of careful gravity. “You blood runs too hot.”
Daenya’s fingers tightened on the stone until her knuckles whitened. “We are of the blood of the dragon. Then why do some burn hotter than others?”
At that, Daemon chuckled. A low, knowing sound. “A fair question.” He stepped forward, bracing his forearms upon the cold stone beside her. His profile was sharp against the leaden sky, the hard line of his jaw, the cruel curve of his mouth that softened for few, if any, save perhaps for her. “I understand you,” he said, quieter now, the wind nearly stealing the words. “More than she does. I always have. You were born of fire and defiance, Daenya. My fire. My defiance.”
That made her laugh, small and sudden. She glanced sideways at him, and for all his usual arrogance, something rare and sincere lingered beneath his gaze, a softness the realm would scarcely believe Daemon Targaryen capable of. But she knew it well. It was the same softness that had gathered her into his arms as a babe when no one else would. His defiance indeed. She was living proof of it. Conceived outside of wedlock, born in scandal, carried off into exile beneath the furious decree of a King.
“Then speak to her.” Her voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “Make her understand. I lied, Father. It isn’t merely for protection that I wish to fly Vermithor. I want—” her throat tightened, though whether with pride or longing, she could not say—“I want the freedom to take to the skies whenever I wish. To go where I please. Like any Targaryen ought.”
Daemon’s stare sharpened, his lips twitching, not quite frowning, not quite smiling. “I hope you aren’t plotting anything foolish.”
She shook her head, silver hair snapping in the wind. “Nothing foolish, I swear it. Only to circle the King’s Wood, perhaps fly the cliffs or the coasts. Like the others do. Nothing more.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Only watched her, as if weighing her words against the weight of the world. Then his hand rose, calloused fingers threading gently through her hair in that old, familiar gesture that had soothed her since her earliest memory. “Very well,” Daemon murmured. “Take Vermithor. Fly as you will.”
Her brows lifted, startled. “Truly?”
“Truly.” But then his voice turned grave, heavy as storm clouds. “But listen to me, Daenya. And listen well. You must be careful.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“The court is a nest of vipers,” he said. “You’ve been away too long to remember it properly. You were but a girl the last time you set foot there. The Hightowers smile sweetly, but every word hides a blade. They would see us all cast down.”
Her hands curled tighter around the stone balustrade. “But... Rhaenyra is still Viserys’s heir.”
A shadow passed through Daemon’s eyes. “She is.” His gaze drifted out to the sea, dark and restless. “But the king is weak. Fading. And when he is gone...” His voice thinned to something colder, flatter. “...there will be nothing left to hold them back.”
Daenya swallowed. “I will be careful. But I’m not scared of them. Snakes they may be, but we are dragons.”
Daemon’s smile widened, sharp as broken glass, bright as wildfire. “That’s my girl.”
His hand ruffled her hair one last time before he turned back toward the stairs, the black of his cloak flaring behind him. “Come now. Best not let your mother stew too long. She’s likely plotting to chain you to the mast.”
A laugh broke from Daenya’s lips. The knot in her chest unwounded, if only slightly. She cast one last glance out over the sea and then turned, footsteps light but steady, to follow her father down the winding basalt steps of Dragonstone.
Her family’s ship had departed three days prior, their separate journeys timed so they would all reach King’s Landing upon the same tide. Beneath her, the sea glittered like hammered silver, endless and restless. The wind tasted of salt, tugging at her hair as it streamed loose from the coils that could not withstand the fury of flight. Above, the heavens stretched wide and open, blue as a summer sapphire, streaked with long banners of cloud that drifted like ghostly ships across the sky.
Daenya laughed, the sound matching the brightness within her soul. She leaned forward as Vermithor surged through the air with a thunderous beat of his colossal wings. The wind pressed against her face, biting and cold, but glorious. Nothing, nothing in the world, felt like this.
This was freedom.
Beneath her, the Bronze Fury rumbled, a deep-throated growl felt more than heard, thrumming through her bones. Vermithor cut through the sky like a living storm, his wings bronze shot through with gold, glittering where the sun struck them. His shadow rolled across the sea below, monstrous and vast.
Daenya guided him with ease. He rose, banking in a great spiral that made her heart soar, then plunged low over the waves, sending up fountains of spray before climbing once more into the open sky.
As he leveled out, the light shifted. A shadow passed over them, vast, dark, unnatural. Her heart kicked against her ribs.
She snapped her gaze upward. Something blotted the sun, something bigger than Vermithor.
Wings like sails of stormcloud. A monstrous silhouette broke through the clouds above. It could be no other but Vhagar, the only living dragon bigger than her own.
Even before the voice reached her, carried thin but sharp on the wind, she knew who it would be.
“You there!” The rider’s voice was harsh, commanding. “State your name and your business.”
Her fingers tightened reflexively on the saddle’s grips. Beneath her, Vermithor hissed, sensing her tension, his great head twisting upward toward the intruder.
She said nothing. Not yet. Instead, she spurred Vermithor, banking hard, aiming to slip past, but Vhagar was faster than her size should allow. With a sweep of her colossal wings, the elder dragon slid into her path, cutting her off. Every time Daenya feinted left or right, Vhagar answered.
“Seven hells,” Daenya spat through her teeth. The only clear ground was a barren islet below, a miserable spine of rock jutting from the waves.
“Ilagon!,” she commanded, and Vermithor dove.
His talons struck the stone with enough force to send splinters flying. Wind roared past her as she swung down from the saddle, boots scraping against the rough, salt-stained rock.
Opposite, Vhagar landed in a thunder of wings, her bulk eclipsing the sea behind her. Her jaws parted, breath steaming thick and sulfurous in the cold air.
Aemond was already sliding from the saddle. He moved like liquid shadow, silver hair whipping in the wind, a long leather coat snapping behind him. The patch over his eye gleamed black as obsidian; the other eye, cold and pale as a winter sky, was fixed on her.
“Who are you?” he demanded. His stride was long, purposeful, eating the distance between them with unsettling grace.
Daenya folded her arms, forcing her spine straight, chin high. Her every nerve was alight. He was taller than she’d expected. Broad-shouldered, lean of frame, every movement economical and controlled.
But rather than stop before her, he shifted and turned, circling her. Like a predator sizing its prey. His boots crunched against the loose gravel as he paced around her, measured and slow. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate. Daenya resisted the urge to turn with him. She felt his gaze rake over her back like a physical thing, cold as steel, sharp as a knife dragged against bare skin.
Her hands twitched where they were tucked. She became abruptly, acutely aware of herself, the wind-tangled mess of her hair, the flush rising on her cheeks, the salt damp on her lips.
His presence wrapped around her like a noose.
“I am Princess Daenya Targaryen,” she said at last, biting off each word like a blade drawn from its scabbard.
Aemond’s steps slowed behind her, and his voice followed, soft and cruel as silk. “Ah. Rhaenyra’s bastard.” It was a whisper near her ear, sending a shiver straight down her spine.
Her lips thinned, but her voice did not falter. “Unlike my half-brothers, I was legitimized. By the King himself.”
He came into her view again, stepping around until they stood nearly face to face. His eye swept her, bold, assessing. He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing some puzzle whose answer eluded him.
She refused to shift. Refused to blink.
Aemond took another step forward. Close enough now that she could smell leather and smoke, and something fresh underneath she couldn’t quite place. “Mind your tongue,” he murmured, low, a thread of threat wound through velvet. “Or the King might cut it out for speaking such things.”
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “He will not. He loves me too much.”
For a breath, something flickered in that pale eye. Surprise, perhaps. Or something stranger.
Daenya spun on her heel, crimson skirts twisting behind her, and strode to Vermithor’s side. Her fingers caught the worn leather of the saddle, but still, she could feel the weight of his gaze pressing against her back. “Move aside, Prince,” she said without looking at him, as she climbed atop Vermithor again. Her voice cut through the wind like a whip. “I’ve wasted enough time on you.”
Aemond did not move. “Welcome to King’s Landing, niece.”
She did not deign to reply. “Soves,” she commanded, and Vermithor’s great wings surged open. With a roar that shook the islet, the Bronze Fury leapt skyward. Daenya urged him higher, faster, wanting nothing more than to leave Aemond Targaryen far, far behind.
Still, when she risked a glance back, he was watching her.
Her delay brought her to King’s Landing just as her family was coming ashore. From the skies, she spied their ships docking at the harbor, and there upon the pier, her parents stood with their children and retainers, looking up as Vermithor passed overhead. Daenya grinned and raised her hand in a wave, her silver hair trailing like a banner behind her.
The Dragonpit awaited her. She guided Vermithor into a graceful descent, his wings stirring clouds of dust as he landed. A litter was waiting for her, gold-trimmed and lined with crimson, its bearers standing at attention. From there, she was carried up Aegon’s Hill toward the Red Keep.
By the time she reached the castle gates, her parents and siblings had just arrived. Daemon, ever watchful, fell back to walk beside her.
“Did you have a good flight?” he asked, his mouth curving into one of those rare, genuine smiles he reserved for her alone.
“As great as always,” she answered, unable to stop her grin.
Daemon’s smile deepened. “Go bathe before we see Viserys. You smell of dragon.”
She laughed, and the conversation ended there.
Her chambers were prepared in the royal wing, near her half-brothers and half-sisters. A copper tub had been drawn, steam rising from the scented water. As the maids worked fingers through her hair, scrubbing away the tangles of the flight, Daenya closed her eyes, letting her muscles relax into the heat.
Two hours later, she stood before the mirror, helping the maid finish her braids. Half her hair flowed freely down her back, brushed until it shone like beaten silver, the top drawn into elegant braids coiled and pinned with pearl clasps. Simple, but fitting.
She had just begun unpacking her chests when a knock sounded at the door. Her mother entered soon after.
Daenya followed Rhaenyra through the winding halls of the Red Keep. The air smelled of incense and old stone, of damp salt from Blackwater Bay and the sour tang of Maester’s herbs. The closer they drew to the King’s chambers, the heavier the scent of herbs became, cloying and sweet.
Daemon was already within when they arrived. He stood near the great canopied bed, arms crossed, face unreadable, with the babes, Aegon and Viserys, nestled in his arms.
And upon the bed lay King Viserys.
Daenya’s breath caught.
She had braced herself for this, but it did nothing to soften the sight. The man who once rode Balerion the Black Dread, who bore the crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, was now little more than a husk. His flesh was thin and waxen, his hair sparse and thin. Half his face was concealed behind a mask of beaten gold, molded in the likeness of the visage he once wore. Under the heavy blankets, his frame looked frail, diminished.
“Daenya...” His voice was thin, a whisper of silk on brittle paper, but the fondness laced through it was unmistakable. A trembling hand lifted toward her. “Come to me, sweet girl.”
Her throat tightened. “Grandsire...” She crossed the chamber swiftly, settling herself on the edge of his bed. Carefully, mindful of the fragility of his body, she took his hand in both of hers.
“You’ve grown... lovelier still.” His thumb ghosted over her knuckles, his breathing shallow.
Daenya smiled, though it was tight, aching. “I’m happy to see you, Sire.”
A breath that might have once been a laugh rattled in his chest. “Tell me... your arm... does it pain you still?”
She blinked, surprised. “No, not anymore. It healed well.” A fall near the Dragonstone library a moon ago, just a sprain. Still, he remembered, and cared enough to ask.
“Good,” he rasped. A tremor of coughing overtook him, shaking his thin frame.
Her hands tightened on his. “I should have come sooner. Forgive me.”
“No... no.” He shook his head weakly. “A dying king’s court... is no place for a girl full of life.” His lids fluttered closed for a moment, even speech seeming to tax him.
Daemon shifted then, adjusting the babes in his arms. “The little terrors grow restless. They need their wet nurse.”
Rhaenyra pressed a gentle kiss to Viserys’s brow. “We will leave you to speak with her a while longer, Father.” With that, she and Daemon departed, the wailing of infants fading down the corridor.
Daenya remained, watching the rise and fall of Viserys’s thin chest. Her fingers drifted to his brow, and recoiled. Hot. Too hot.
She rose quickly, calling to one of the maids. “Fetch cool water.”
When the basin was brought, she did not hesitate. Her hands went to the gold mask. “No, child...” The King’s voice was faint, pained. “You... you must not... see... what I’ve become.” But she did not stop. The mask came free with a soft scrape of metal on skin.
Beneath it... her grandsire’s face was half-ruined. The flesh on the right side was collapsed, eaten away by rot. The eye on that side was gone, the socket sunken. And yet, it did not frighten her. It only broke her heart.
She dipped a linen cloth into the cool water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to his fevered brow. His breath hitched, but then eased, soothed by the coolness.
“You are kind, child,” the King murmured, his pale eye fluttering open. “I am glad you came home.”
Her throat felt tight. “I’ll stay, Grandsire. If that will make you happy.”
His lips curved into something near a smile. “Yes... child. Yes.”
It was then that the door opened, and Queen Alicent entered.
She paused on the threshold, hands folded before her, the rich green of her gown stark against the gloom of the chamber. The surprise on her face quickly smothered into cool composure. Her gaze flicked from Daenya’s hands, still cradling the damp cloth against the King’s temple, to Daenya’s face.
For a breath, silence hung heavily as iron.
Daenya set the cloth aside and rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” she greeted, polite but cold.
Alicent inclined her head stiffly. “Princess Daenya.”
Daenya exhaled softly and turned back to Viserys. “I must go now, Sire,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable under the Queen’s gaze.
But before she could step away, his frail fingers caught hers once more. “Supper... tonight,” he rasped. “All of us. Together... as a family.”
Daenya squeezed his hand. “I look forward to it, Grandsire.”
She turned then, moving toward the door. As she passed Alicent, she hesitated. Her voice was lowered, soft enough that only the Queen might hear. “Thank you.”
Alicent’s eyes narrowed, faintly puzzled. “For what?”
“For the care you’ve given him.” Daenya’s words were quiet, but genuine. The King’s linens were clean. His body washed. His chambers well-kept despite the stink of sickness.
A flicker passed across Alicent’s face, startlement, perhaps, but it was gone in an instant. “I was the one to read your letters to His Grace. And who penned his replies. I know the affection you bear him. And the affection he bears you.”
Daenya nodded slowly, unsure what to make of that. A Maester should have written those letters, not the Queen. It spoke of the love the King has for her.
“I see,” was all she said.
No further words passed between them.
Daenya left, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. Her steps echoed down the corridor, her thoughts heavier still. Perhaps the King had no need of her, not while the Queen played nurse and scribe both, with competence. And yet... she could not shake the feeling that if she left the Red Keep, her grandsire would die. Die without her here to say goodbye.
And worse... once he was gone, and war came, as it surely would, his memory would fade.
By the time she reached her chambers, her resolve was set. She would stay; she had to stay.
And that, she knew, would bring yet another argument with her mother, perhaps the greatest one yet.