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Chapter Text

The darkest day had come, one so woeful that it might have been the pit of a frigid winter night.

It was time to pick a new Kingsguard.

“All these lads are greener than a sheep’s pasture, Princess, and skilled as sheep shit,” Ser Harrold grumbled beside her. “Their experience lies in naught but tourneys and training yards.”

“Yes, it is a tragedy that we have had decades of peace.”

“And yet you wish to bring one of these summer knights with you to war.”

Rhaenyra suppressed her exasperated yet amused sigh. “As I have said before, ser, I am not going to war. Father strictly forbade me from joining our forces on the Stepstones.”

Although King Viserys declared war against the Triarchy and their funded pirate fleet, he denied Rhaenyra from riding Syrax alongside Daemon and Laenor to torch the enemy under dragonfire.

She couldn’t explain that she had desired to go not because she wished to fly straight into violence and horror and death, but because a fair number of the enemy’s soldiers were slaves. She had plans to alter their status, garner respect, loyalty, and admiration, and end this costly war so Lord Beesbury would be able to visit Honeyholt before the year’s end.

She did not, as Father had also accused in private, wish to go to war so she could avoid her marriage.

(Cregan wrote terrible letters that couldn’t woo a goat. She liked that about him.)

“Aye, but don’t think I believe for one second that journeying to Dorne for talks isn’t war—because it is, Princess, merely on a different field. Those Dornishmen won’t hesitate to kill you and your dragon should they see the opportunity. And kill you they will if you do not have a good sworn shield at your side.”

“You underestimate my ability to defend myself, then? You would doubt your own teachings?”

“No—” His curt, gruff exhale made Rhaenyra smile a little. “No, Princess. But I do not have to explain my concern to you.”

“You do not. And I also needn’t waste air on explaining all the ways I shall be safe in Dorne, for you will continue to fret as you always have.”

He sniffed. “Indeed.”

“It may not do much to settle your fears, but I did arrange a trial of sorts for these potential candidates.”

“Oh?”

Guided by his love for dramatics, Ser Willis Fell swaggered into the training yard. He eyed the noblemen with contempt and condescension, some of whom shifted uncomfortably beneath the exaggerated ire.

Ser Harrold scoffed, both irritated and pleased at the nature of Rhaenyra’s trial as well as Ser Willis’ excuse to put on a show.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t want me inadequately protected amongst those devious Dornishmen,” she said.

At the end of the trial, one stood out from among the rest: Ser Ellion Tarth, a barrel-chested man in his late twenties with straw blond hair. As the fourth son of the Evenstar, elevation to Kingsguard was the highest position he could ever hope to achieve. He hadn’t beaten Ser Willis, but he also hadn’t been disarmed or defeated for the duration of the two-minute bout—not even when Ser Willis recognized his potential and tested him more harshly than the other candidates.

From a political standpoint, having Ser Ellion as a Kingsguard and sworn shield to the future queen would also strengthen ties with the stormlands. Tarth was a small but mighty house, with both notable knights hailing from Evenfall Hall and a disciplined fleet. Ten ships from that same fleet were preparing to sail to the Stepstones at the very moment to aid in frustrating pirate activity along the northern edge. Their offered number was larger than any other stormlands house, and they did so without any persuasion or coercion from the crown. The Evenstar was particularly eager to end the pirate harassment his ships received.

So, it would be wise to swear in a Tarth son to the Kingsguard as a show of thanks.

Ser Criston Cole was not among the candidates—there had never been a tourney in King’s Landing for him to make an impression, and so he never found himself among the selected. But the steward’s son of Blackhaven had become a favorite at other tourneys due to his exceptional skill and lowlier birth, according to the reports.

(Rhaenyra didn’t doubt that somehow, in some way, their paths would cross.)

Before she decided that Ser Ellion was fit to be her sworn shield, she held a private audience with him in the godswood.

The fourth son of the Evenstar—the sixth and youngest child altogether—was a soft-spoken man who had no head for politics and a strict devotion to honor and knightly behavior. Westerosi nobles would readily call him unattractive; he had a plain, square face, a nose both wide and large, a posture that hunched when he was not in combat, and a missing canine that made him reluctant to smile. His eyes, however, were big and blue and framed by long blond eyelashes.

I know of your descendant, Rhaenyra wanted to laugh, and I see what I imagined her to be in you.

There was a reason that House Tarth was so respected in the stormlands and close to House Baratheon, and it wasn’t because of their guile or might or money. They had the trait of staunch, earnest goodness instilled in them, which they didn’t readily give up.

Ser Ellion was promising. Once he settled into his role as her sworn shield, he would become an excellent confidant and advisor.

“How do you fare with heights, Ser Ellion?”

“They affect me little, Princess. Tarth has high cliffs. I used to jump off them with my siblings when we were young.”

“And the Dornish? What do you think of them?”

“They’re right bastards when they ship in overpriced crates of mushy fruit. Think we should act like their shipments were sent by the gods themselves. Other than that and the like, can’t say I have much of an opinion about them.”

“A good answer to both, because as my sworn shield, we will be flying on dragonback to Dorne in three days’ time.”

They had come to a consensus after arduous battles in the small council room and family quarters. Rhaenyra would not go to the Stepstones. Instead, Dorne would receive her for discussions regarding the rampant piracy in the region. Rhaenyra argued that if Westeros didn’t get to them first, then the Triarchy would, resulting in their forces being pressed by opposition on both sides. And why not use this terrible circumstance as an opportunity to make alliances with Dorne rather than enmities?

The point was too valid to entirely dismiss, so Father attempted to delay it as he was wont to do…until Rhaenyra cornered him. With no way to escape her, she wore him down until he said that he would consider it.

Then Mother received word of Rhaenyra’s intentions.

She barely rallied enough to come out victorious from that siege as well.

Mother had much more severe opinions of the Dornish compared to Ser Ellion and the small council, especially when it came to imagining all that they might do to her once she was alone in their viper’s nest. They alone felled a dragon, and they could do it again.

Rhaenyra reminded her that if Dorne was not their allies, if they weren’t given the slightest incentive to at least stay neutral, they could fell dragons again anyway in the Stepstones. Then she assured Mother that she would not be alone.

She would have a Kingsguard, yes, and a contingent of the finest Targaryen soldiers that were already sailing to Dorne, but she would also have Aunt Rhaenys. Even Dorne knew that although the Sea Snake kept much of Westeros’ trade routes in a serpent’s vise, it was Rhaenys who never allowed any bargains or contracts to pass through Driftmark without being skinned, flayed, examined, and trimmed of all fat and rotten bits.

Mother’s fears were eventually soothed with Rhaenyra’s promises and Rhaenys’ assertions that she would not allow anything to happen to her niece. Although she wasn’t happy, neither did she lock Rhaenyra in her quarters. Ser Harrold’s promotion to Commander of the Kingsguard almost ruined everything since he wouldn’t be there to protect Rhaenyra, but the quick appointment of another sworn shield kept her from the brink of destruction.

Ser Ellion’s frank surprise at Rhaenyra’s declaration did not disappoint. A small whuff of air escaped him, but he recovered soon enough and dropped from the chair and to his knee.

“I swear to uphold and defend you and your reign, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, from now until the Stranger takes me.”

Succinct and simple; exactly what she couldn’t be. She was fond already.

There would be a flowery ceremony later in the eyes of the gods and the court, but this was the true oath, with the true people.

“And I swear to uphold and defend your oaths of knighthood, Ser Ellion Tarth, from now until the Stranger takes me.”

-

This war was for more than control of the Stepstones. It was a reminder to the Triarchy and Essos beyond that Westeros’ benevolence would not be mistaken as weakness—and it was an opportunity to enforce the idea that King Viserys was no meek and mild ruler.

If Rhaenyra desired a strong reign, then her father’s must first be great so none might be able to dismiss how imperative her loyal presence was in achieving that greatness for House Targaryen and all its kingdoms. Then, when certain individuals doubted her heirship and schemed to end it, they’d be considered fools among nobility with a wish to be consumed by dragonfire for treason.

The attempt to bring Dorne into an alliance (or compromising with a neutrality pact) was the first major test toward forming this reality.

Alicent knew how vital and treacherous it was, however, which made her increasingly distressed and weepy the closer it came for Rhaenyra to depart. No matter how much she consoled her friend, nothing helped. Alicent tended to imagine the worst and believe it a certainty. To her, “going to Dorne for talks under the protection of two dragons, a Kingsguard, and a contingent of the best Targaryen guards that their house had to offer” meant “getting brutalized by wild-eyed Dornishmen and returning home piece by piece in ornate crates.”

The day before Rhaenyra was set to depart, she went over the items in her saddlebag for a final time in her room. Alicent was with her, so sick with worry that her face was pale and the edges of her nails were bloody. She couldn’t even form full sentences whenever Rhaenyra attempted to speak with her.

“It’s like I’m packing for a jaunt to the gallows! Alicent Hightower.” Rhaenyra walked over to the chair that she sat in and took her picked-at hands. “I wish to spend my last day in King’s Landing with my dearest friend, and yet she’s so far from me that I’m unsure she can even hear my voice. She’s at my funeral instead, which is strange because I’m standing right in front of her.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry. And don’t cry.” Rhaenyra blew a stream of air on Alicent’s face to dry her gathering tears.

She half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Stop it. I hate when you do that.”

Rhaenyra dragged her out of the chair. “Then I will ask you a question.”

“And that is?”

“Would your vulnerable state allow me to persuade you into finally doing something that you’ve always denied?”

The implication snapped Alicent out of her fugue. “Rhaenyra. No.”

“And yet you’re walking with me…”

“I said no! I don’t want to!”

“Yet we are out the door. Hello, Ser Ellion; come and escort us to the Dragon Pit.”

“Yes, Princess.”

“You’re not even in your riding leathers! I’m unfit to ride that golden beast at all!”

“The day is lovely, and my golden beast will keep a calm pace, so you needn’t worry about ruined dresses for either of us.”

“Rhaenyra—Rhaenyra, please. I’ll be calm and composed, and I won’t shed a single tear from here on out. We can return to the room; I shall help you pack, and we can take lunch in the godswood.”

“We should take lunch in the godswood after this. Splendid idea.”

Her grip tightened. Alicent squirmed as best she could to fight it without looking unladylike, but Rhaenyra had been swinging weapons for years; as soon as they linked arms, she was trapped.

“Let’s take lunch now, yes? It’s nearing that time. Then we may forget about this, and, and instead talk about how Cregan Stark’s eyes are gray like the clouds of a winter storm—”

“You would deny your princess? On the day before she is meant to leave to a desolate desert land without one of her closest friends?”

“I would never deny you, Princess, and so I must beg for mercy that you spared me so I might not embarrass myself at the destination you intend.”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra said, unsmiling but full of mirth, “you won’t embarrass yourself. And think of it from this perspective: the terror of our adventure will drown out any and all sorrows that currently reside in your heart.”

She made a small, piteous whine that would have been considered undignified by some ladies of the court. The sound was that of Alicent giving in but not admitting to anything. She continued to make similar dissents all the way to the carriage, through the streets as Rhaenyra waved to citizens, and up to the great doors of the Dragon Pit. Only when the dragonkeepers brought Syrax out of her den did Alicent whiten and go silent.

“Syrax,” Rhaenyra called, “look who has come to fly with us!”

Her dragon crooned. Alicent gripped Rhaenyra’s arm.

“She’s nervous, so we shall be gentle today.”

Syrax brought her head low to the ground to show her understanding. Rhaenyra took a step closer; Alicent tried to hide behind her. Still, being slight as she was, she didn’t stand much of a chance at keeping her ground. Rhaenyra gently but unwaveringly guided her closer to Syrax until she was in arm’s reach.

“Put your hand out,” Rhaenyra instructed. “Feel her warmth. Feel that she’s never going to hurt you. We are of the same heart, Syrax and I, and so she holds the same love you.”

Alicent squeezed her eyes shut. But although some ladies would snicker that she possessed no spine, there was—and always had been—true courage in her. She had learned to avoid it since birth and thus avoid any circumstances where she’d be at odds with her father and the duties he set upon her, but it arose during moments that mattered.

So, despite how she refused to look at Syrax, her hand still stretched out to a plane of heated scales beneath her palm.

“Oh…” Alicent peeked one eye open, then both. “It’s…strange. Like the stones of the Red Keep.” Her hand haltingly moved across the scales. “Smooth and rough at once.”

Syrax’s hum reverberated through her body. Alicent gasped and almost lurched back, but Rhaenyra kept her steady. “That’s one of her happy noises. She’s glad you’re here just as much as I.”

Several minutes passed while Alicent, for lack of better terms, petted Syrax. Much of her initial fright melted away until Rhaenyra muttered, “Shall we continue? Syrax is eager to fly with you accompanying us.”

“How—how can you tell?”

“She sings it in my heart.”

Alicent choked on a frightened half-laugh, half-sob. “Must you speak like so? With your Targaryen nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense, and you know it. One day, something will sing in your heart as well.”

“Stop it!”

Rhaenyra took Alicent’s hand and placed it on the rope. She shuddered. Then the other hand took the rope, and she began to climb. Once there was enough space, Rhaenyra climbed up behind her, offering encouragements that Alicent likely didn’t hear. She slumped into the saddle, and once Rhaenyra settled in the front, she wrapped both arms around her waist and buried her face between Rhaenyra’s shoulder blades.

“I believe that this is as far as I shall go,” she whimpered.

“You don’t need to go any farther.” Rhaenyra secured Alicent to the saddle, then tied herself down. “Syrax will take us now.”

Before she commanded Syrax to fly, she looked down at Ser Ellion and called, “And tomorrow, it shall be your turn, my knight!”

He replied, “So it shall, Princess! Though, Lady Alicent has shown much more bravery than I will.”

Alicent weakly laughed, but it turned to a muffled shriek when Rhaenyra declared, “Syrax, sōvēs!”

Syrax lumbered toward the square frame of light that grew more and more massive the closer she approached. Alicent’s vise turned to iron. The lumbering hastened into a steady, shifting gallop that was smoother than usual. Seconds later, shadow peeled back and revealed them to the brightness of King’s Landing, and Syrax’s wings stretched out, molten beneath the fair sun. One beat, then two, and her graceful lunge into flight lifted them up to the sky.

“Open your eyes, Alicent,” Rhaenyra said, a lightness to her voice that little else besides dragonriding could illuminate in her. “Open your eyes! Tis a beautiful day!”

Slowly, Alicent’s head lifted from where she had hidden it. She sharply gasped, terrified and awed.

“Oh, Seven…!”

Alicent drank in the aerial view of King’s Landing. The streets were straight and then crooked; the buildings red-roofed and pale tan, splashing with colors from clotheslines like meadow flowers; citizens lively ants as they went about their business; the towers of the Red Keep immovable beside the city they overlooked; the verging bay aglitter with diamonds; the Kingswood a verdant blanket past the walls.

Syrax banked low. Rhaenyra often flew close to the ground so people could wave and watch her wave back. As always, faint cheers and greetings went up as soon as warm, billowing air stirred through streets and windows and rooftops to herald the path of the Silver Princess and her Golden Lady. Today, more joy met them, for the citizens saw that Rhaenyra was not alone. Alicent’s auburn hair flowed freely, and the sleeves of her sapphire dress rippled like banners.

When her courage built up again, Alicent tentatively removed one arm from around Rhaenyra’s waist to wave as well. Then, after Syrax leveled and rose up into the clouds, her other arm unwound so she could lift them both out to her sides, all worry gone from her breast and naught but clouds and cool air and sunlight in its place.

-

Both parents were weepy the early morning of Rhaenyra’s departure, but they mustered the strength to wear the masks of proud rules as they stood in farewell with the rest of the court. A large number of lords and ladies had gathered near the entrance of the Red Keep to show their support of the princess—or show that they made a show of supporting her—but Rhaenyra made sure that word was spread among the staff that they could attend as well, so there were the more earnest faces of maids and stable hands, cooks and laundresses, and their children.

“Come back to us, my sweet daughter,” Mother whispered in Rhaenyra’s ear when they embraced a final time.

“You are the pride of our house; show them Dornishmen why,” said Father as he cupped her face.

“Write to me if you can,” Alicent sniffed. “And should be you be unable, then I await all the tales you will share upon your return.”

Laena stoutly swore, “The next time you and my mother go to Dorne, I’ll be with you on my own dragon, and nobody will be able to stop me.”

“Remember that Dorne is far drier than the crownlands, so drink water as much as you can to make up for the change,” Vaegon said.

“Be cautious,” Otto intoned. “And be bold when caution fails.”

“I will heed your call, Princess, should anything happen,” said Ser Harrold, which made Rhaenyra smile.

With a bow and a sly wink, Mushroom spoke, “Worry not, O Princess of Silver, for Mushroom will tend to the court while she conquers Dorne.”

The citizens of King’s Landing acted like Rhaenyra was going to save the realm with the way they lined the streets, balconies, windows, and rooftops to see her off. When she mentioned as such to Rhaenys in their wheelhouse, her aunt plainly replied, “What else do you expect? You could parade around with a chamber pot full of shit, and they’d sing praises of your noble contribution to the sewage lines.”

Rhaenyra looked at Ser Ellion, who sat stoically next to her. “Princess Rhaenys, you’ll find, is sharp-tongued and wry.”

“Of course, Princess.”

“You may laugh at her remarks on this journey, if you so desire. And mine. You may also speak humorously among us. I would be most gladdened to see your amusement.”

“Yes, Princess.”

Rhaenys said, “You’re already taking the poor boy to Dorne on dragonback not a week into his service. Let him settle before you demand that he replace your fool.”

“Nobody can replace Mushroom…” Rhaenyra turned her attention to waving. “…Save for yourself, mayhaps.”

“Cheeky girl. And don’t think your little smirk went unnoticed, Ser Ellion. Rhaenyra may appreciate a reaction to her tasteless japes, but I do not.”

“Yes, Princess Rhaenys.”

Syrax and Meleys awaited them in the Dragon Pit with their saddlebags already strapped. Her Golden Lady was as big as the Red Queen, and according to the dragonkeepers, her scales indicated that she was due for another growth spurt again.

Rhaenyra had Ser Ellion’s Kingsguard armor reworked to be suitable for flying, and she and Rhaenys donned new riding leathers. Their outfits were meant to make an impression when they reached Dorne, as was the wardrobes that arrived before them. The Dornish court would scrutinize every single thing about them, but they would find no flaws in their clothing.

She concentrated on these technical things rather than morose thoughts of leaving her family and home behind. She had spent plenty of time away, whether it be at Driftmark, Dragonstone, or other regions that she visited on short tours, but never had she been so far as Dorne, and never with so much resting on her shoulders.

She couldn’t afford to fail, so she would have to succeed.

“If you are to be sick while we fly, Ser Ellion, do it when I am not behind or below you,” Rhaenys said as she climbed atop Meleys.

“Yes, Princess Rhaenys.”

Syrax, having already been introduced to Ser Ellion, allowed him to clamber into the second seat of the saddle. Rhaenyra kissed Syrax’s snout before she scaled the ropes as well. She showed Ser Ellion how to tie himself down, double-checked his bindings, then secured herself. If he was frightened about flying, he didn’t show it.

He further proved his fortitude by not screaming or whimpering when Syrax took to the air. As they ascended, Rhaenyra glanced back to ensure her companion wasn’t going to faint. She found Ser Ellion awestruck, possessing none of the terror Alicent did.

She spared herself a brief moment of pride for trusting her intuition. Ser Ellion would make a fine sworn shield and a member of the Kingsguard. She could almost see the legacy he’d leave, where little boys and girls would fight over who got to play him as they acted out his knightly deeds.

Then Rhaenyra turned her gaze to the Red Keep, and the delight in her stomach refined into unyielding determination.

The two-day journey gave Rhaenyra time to obsess over every possible talking point, contention, implication, insult, praise, demand, and compromise that could occur in Sunspear. Of course, Otto, Rhaenys, and the mercenary minds of the small council vetted her through countless scenarios, schemes, and desirable and undesirable outcomes, but the single truth remained: preparations never wholly accounted for the unpredictable nature of humans.

She and Rhaenys spoke when they could about the talks, though the backbreaking speed at which they traveled, along with the exhaustion from being in a saddle from dawn to dusk, kept their conversation to a minimum. Mother wished for them to avoid flying anywhere near the Stepstones and take the route of the Rose Road, but that’d extend their travel from two days to four, where they’d also be forced to spend a night ill-protected in Dornish territory at Sandstone. So, they flew from King’s Landing to Storm’s End on the first day and would continue to Sunspear on the second.

Rhaenyra couldn’t lie that she intended to cast her Myrish eye toward the ocean and scout for any enemy ships. What she would do if she saw any, she kept in her heart.

Lord Boremund Baratheon happily greeted Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Ser Ellion, and the two dragons. He thought that going to Dorne for peace talks was folly, which he stated loudly and copiously over the course of their dinner. Rhaenyra let Rhaenys suffer the conversation since she was Boremund’s niece, and he was far more inclined to speak to her than a sixteen-year-old girl. However, they were given some reprieve whenever Boremund went from cursing the Dornishmen to regaling the table with how he and Ser Ellion’s father, Cameron Tarth, fought off the Myrish pirates that tried to invade the Sapphire Isle.

Boremund’s disinclination to let anybody else talk at least kept his son, Borros, quiet. Rhaenyra didn’t care for the heir of House Baratheon, not when he spoke like he was the most important man in the room and had acted loutishly at his wedding celebration a year past, thus shaming Lady Elenda Caron, who endured the humiliation with a grace she should not have had to. Rhaenyra sent her a fine ruby necklace a week after she returned to King’s Landing as a consolation gift—and to say that she had the princess’ support.

Elenda wore the necklace to dinner that night and again the next morning when House Baratheon watched the dragons take to the air again.

Rhaenyra recognized the lush green of the Rainwood that spanned beneath them, where the old forest magic dwelled in its roots and soil and birds and beasts. At its bottommost point came the Weeping Town, which she visited after the Baratheon wedding along with the other noble houses nestled in and around the Rainwood.

But they did not stop to rest; the dragons sped straight over the land and to the Sea of Dorne. If they veered east, they would reach the Stepstones within the day as well. How strange it was to think that Daemon, Laenor, and Corlys could be fighting this very instant; that soldiers who called themselves men of the Seven Kingdoms were screaming for a loved one to save them from their pain and fear as they died on foreign, unkind shores.

But this was why Rhaenyra flew Dorne instead of to their side. If she could bring a swifter end to the war through wit and politics, then it was her duty to the soldiers, sellswords, second sons, and the realm to do so.

In the afternoon, a new shoreline greeted them, one that hadn’t felt the wind from dragon wings in decades.

Ser Ellion leaned forward and pointed to the stark white castle that shone proudly against the sea. “There’s Ghost Hill, Princess! It won’t be long now until we reach Sunspear.”

Once, Vhagar set a hurricane of dragonfire upon Ghost Hill. Should they find an ill fate in Dorne, it was certain to meet the old dragon’s wrath again alongside countless other holds and towns, for her new, young rider would become Visenya reborn to avenge her mother and cousin.

She despised the thought of that as much as the war on the Stepstones, and from the reports about Qoryn Martell being a young but fair-headed ruler, he would prefer not to watch his realm burn either.

Swaths of sandy brown desert and the occasional jut of dark gray valleys and canyons preoccupied Rhaenyra’s attention. A man from another life would have loved the geography, and since she loved that man, she would always love to regard how this world was shaped by nature and magic from the perspective of a lone bird.

Just as dusk turned the sky vibrant orange, the heat’s horizon drew back, and what looked to be another collection of rocks transformed into proud Sunspear.

Soon, the banners of House Martell became visible outside the walled fortress. Together, Rhaenyra and Rhaenys guided their dragons down, down, down into Dorne and toward the path that she laid awake at night envisioning.

-

Qoryn Martell watched with his breath lodged in his throat as two dragons banked above the edge of the city. He could smell them on the breeze, sulfuric like an alchemist’s lab. One was deep crimson, and her shrill roars dipped and rose. The other was a molten, glittering gold; her roars crooned melodiously, strong and loud. Meleys and Syrax, dragons of Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, and Rhaenyra Targaryen, Westeros’ beloved Silver Princess and its future queen.

“What would our ancestors say if they saw you welcoming dragonriders wearing a face like that?”

“Oh, come now…” Qoryn glanced at Desylla, “as if you don’t wear the very same face!”

“I’m allowed. It’s not the legacy of my reign at risk. Aunt Tarra is already cross with you for letting them come here at all, and you know how long she can hold a grudge.”

Qoryn ignored his sister’s idle vocalization of the worries she had ever since he and the Westerosi king agreed to talks.

They watched the dragons descend until they disappeared beyond the city to land at the encampment where their contingent of Targaryen soldiers and emissaries of House Martell awaited them. The dragons would stay there and be amply fed throughout the duration of the princesses’ stay. Of course, certain plans were in place should the beasts prove troublesome…but Qoryn had faith that they would remain plans, just as he had faith that Princess Rhaenyra would also not have to fall on her own plans either.

They turned away from the balcony and began their journey to the throne room. While they walked, Qoryn decided to tell Desylla: “You are to be Princess Rhaenyra’s chosen lady-in-waiting while she resides in Sunspear, for she has come without any noblewomen to attend her besides Princess Rhaenys.”

She bristled. “What?”

“I trust nobody else to be at her side more than I do you.”

Mulishly and somewhat fearfully, Desylla said, “I wouldn’t trust me! I’ve no head for flattery and the folded speech of the court.”

“I doubt the princess will mind.”

“I have—other duties!”

“You are excused from them until the princess departs.”

“I’m a bastard, Qoryn. She will be insulted that you didn’t choose one of the dozens of other trueborn ladies who would pluck out each other’s eyes for a chance to be her companion.”

“There will be at least a hundred things she will be rightfully insulted over, but you’ll not be among them. Bastard or no, you are my beloved sister. It would insult her if I did not appoint you.”

Qoryn had heard much about the Silver Princess years before open war ever came to the Stepstones.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was strange but adored. Unexpectedly named her father’s heir from a young age, she took her duty with serious intent. Contacts close to the court said that while Viserys was hailed as another king of the people because of his drastic improvements to King’s Landing, Rhaenyra was the one who advocated for it all.

She didn’t speak with cruelty, yet neither was she meek or mild in her opinions. She was favored by Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. He was carving her into a Hightower puppet. He coveted her. He cherished her like a daughter. She forgot her place as a woman, a girl. She would ruin her realm with her fanciful ideas. She would bring her realm into an age of glory. She would never survive the birthing bed anyhow.

She was beautiful for someone who seldom smiled. Some said she had a condition that made it impossible for her to laugh. Others said that only those worthy of her respect earned her smile, and so many vied to glimpse it.

She had been trained by her fierce uncle and the best of her realm’s knights. She wielded the Valyrian sword Blackfyre. Daemon Targaryen would sometimes take her on patrol with the city guard, and during a patrol, she killed seven slavers who opposed her and rescued seven whores from a burning brothel all in one night. Then again, she had also never slain a man and was unworthy of bearing the sword of the Conqueror.

She was betrothed to Cregan Stark. She either loved him thanks to their years of exchanging passionate letters, hated the betrothal to the heathen heir of the North, or was indifferent to it and would continue her affair with Lady Alicent Hightower. Or was it with her cousin, Lady Laena Velaryon, daughter of Princess Rhaenys? Or the son, Laenor Velaryon? Yet it was said that she only loved the people of her realm and could never give that same love to a single person.

She was the Maiden reborn, Queen Aemma the Mother, and King Viserys the Father.

She loved riding her dragon, and on the day her mother was struggling in the birthing bed, Syrax latched herself to the tower where their apartments dwelled and wreathed the sky above the Red Keep in flame.

Queen Aemma survived, the babe died, and Princess Rhaenyra fell seriously ill for several days.

It reeked of magic, yet Dornish spies uncovered nothing about that day, especially because the one maester who’d been present during the birth found himself silenced by House Targaryen.

That matter was more of a personal intrigue, of course, and one Qoryn would likely never find answers to. But the founded and unfounded stories of Princess Rhaenyra culminated into this:

She was not to be underestimated, and she came with the intent to get her way.

Qoryn awaited her entrance into the throne room, which was packed with courtiers who wanted to glimpse the Targaryen princess and spread what they’d seen far and wide. Excitement pulled the fragrance-heady air taut. He didn’t miss the notes of vitriol from more than a few nobles who hadn’t forgotten what her ancestors did to their homes and lands and people, but if they intended to assassinate the princess and wage war with the rest of Westeros, then they wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it now.

(The Targaryens had more dragons than they did when Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters came to Dorne…and more power not only in their realm, but in their devotion to Princess Rhaenyra. It would be unwise to act rashly without considering the destruction that would fall upon his kingdom.)

The doors to the throne room opened.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of the Six Kingdoms, Lady of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne! Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, Lady of Driftmark! Ser Ellion of Tarth, Kingsguard!”

The court’s buzz quieted to whispers, like a snake’s scales scraping against the desert sand.

Princess Rhaenyra paid them no mind. A large, intense, violet-eyed gaze struck through Qoryn as she strode in. Her dragon rider’s garb was entirely black and forwent any pretense of a skirt. The fit of it, from the snug trousers to the belted waist, accentuated her form and revealed her taller height for a young woman. Only the inner lining of her cape was dyed the crimson color of House Targaryen. The cape itself was split down the center and hung off each shoulder, nearly touching the floor. It was cut in the likeness of draping dragon wings, webbed and spiny and sharp. The crimson inside, too, had stitching that resembled the bony structures. Her black, shining boots were detailed with dragon tails that wrapped around her calves. The sigil of the three-headed dragon was stamped into her leather cuirass. A dragonglass circlet banded around braided, bound up silver-white hair; scales were finely carved into the stone, and a single ruby droplet sat in the center. Blackfyre rested comfortably at her hip.

Many would name her the visage of Visenya. Few would be wise enough to recognize Aegon in her.

Oh, yes, Princess Rhaenyra was no soft noblewoman; she commanded attention and respect as a warrior of the court. Qoryn didn’t doubt that she would be no less dangerous when dueling an enemy.

Flanking her left, Princess Rhaenys wore a simpler but equally imposing outfit of stony gray accented with the rich blue color of House Velaryon, a hue that both plagued and blessed Dornish docks and was meant to remind them as such. Her skirt, slit up the front and back for dragon riding, bore depictions of crimson dragons flying over crashing waves. Targaryen silver shot through her onyx hair at the temples. On Princess Rhaenyra’s right, Ser Ellion donned light armor in the honorable colors of the Kingsguard, his sapphire gaze just barely visible beneath a golden helmet. A white cape flowed behind him, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and the strength in his gait.

Nobody could take their eyes off the three even if they tried.

They stopped before the throne. Princess Rhaenys curtsied, but Princess Rhaenyra bowed to Qoryn like a man, and just barely. Ser Ellion mirrored her. The princess’ face was wrought from Valyrian steel, unyielding and beautiful. The sun had tanned her skin, and the redness from the speed of her flight lingered on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She did not smile at him, which he could not help but be a little disappointed in. He had hoped that the prince of Dorne would receive what the lords and ladies of her realm seldom did, if only in an attempt to gain his favor.

“Dorne welcomes you, Princess Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys,” Qoryn said, offering a smile of his own. “I hope your journey here was untroubled.”

Princess Rhaenyra’s voice was deeper than he first presumed; each word rolled off her tongue like wine. “We flew unhindered, your Grace. The heat from the desert offered impressive drafts that quickened our pace without straining the dragons.”

Qoryn almost became wrongfooted. What an odd thing to say!

Or perhaps not. It was a curious enough remark that evaded the typical pitfall of empty flattery, yet it still gave away nothing.

“My, I do hope you found the sights of Dorne more interesting than hot wind!” Qoryn jovially exclaimed. The court echoed its amusement.

“Of course. All of Dorne is poetry risen from the earth; canyons and valleys break through the sands like vines, and the Greenblood is a glittering serpent that cradles life among tan fields. And to watch its pale waters spill into the dark hues of the Summer Sea is like watching dusk roll into darkness above the clouds. Your land is a marvel to behold, and I am humbled that I can regard it so bared.”

He considered saying that Princess Rhaenyra should shed her mantle of heir and live a life in Dorne as a cherished poet, her words were that moving, but the reply risked too much unintentional offense. Then he considered comparing Dorne’s beauty to hers in some way, yet he dashed the thought a moment later—the princess likely heard more than enough remarks by nobles about her beauty, and he had no desire to count himself among such people.

So, Qoryn decided on replying, “And your dragons are a marvel as well, Princesses. It gladdens me that there is peace between our kingdoms so we are able to witness their beauty.”

“Indeed. You honor us by agreeing to address the matter of the Stepstones. It is my hope that we can reach an arrangement wherein both our realms will benefit.”

Yes, the Stepstones. If only Princess Rhaenyra had traveled to Dorne simply to compose poetry about it.

“As it is mine. But your journey has been long; I’m certain you wish for some reprieve. Please, allow my sister, Desylla Sand, to accompany you to your quarters. She offered to be your lady-in-waiting throughout your stay in Sunspear.”

Desylla’s features remained pleasantly unchanging after hearing Qoryn’s lie, and she cordially stepped forward to distinguish herself from the rest of the royal family. Her concern over being a poor choice for Princess Rhaenyra was the exact reason why Qoryn decided she was the best one. He assumed that the princess would prefer a girl with more interest in knives and horses than double speech and courtly maneuvering.

“And for Princess Rhaenys, you are acquainted with my aunt, Tarra Dalt. House Velaryon and House Dalt have maintained an amicable relationship for decades, and she wished to extend that same relationship here.”

Princess Rhaenys dipped her head toward the beautiful, stately woman who terrified and frustrated Qoryn when he was a child because she ensured that he attended all his lessons by any means necessary. Now he was thankful that Aunt Tarra never bent to his riotous will—he wasn’t an incompetent boy on the throne because of her dedication.

She would forgive him for cavorting with Targaryens, in time.

Desylla and Tarra approached the princesses. While Desylla didn’t dare speak lest she accidentally make a fool of herself in front of the court and the Targaryens, Tarra staunchly said to Princess Rhaenys, “What reek—no longer am I fortunate to only have ever smelled your dragon’s foulness on a strong Driftmark breeze.”

“It cannot be worse than the crates of rotten lemons that you still attempt to sell in Spicetown, priced so high that many think it is a jape,” Princess Rhaenys archly replied without a moment’s hesitation.

Then Tarra laughed, and Princess Rhaenys joined in. The two women linked arms, friendly as it was rivalrous.

Qoryn excused the Targaryen host with the promise of grand, merry festivities at dinner to welcome the princesses. Although Princess Rhaenyra replied that she looked forward to it, the focused clarity in her gaze spoke otherwise.

No distractions would delay the purpose of her visit.

He admired this about the princess. Indeed, whatever conversation ensued would be far more entertaining than all the evening had to offer.

-

Desylla Sand was far more interested in Blackfyre than any of the expensive, fashionable dresses in Rhaenyra’s wardrobe, and she was terrible at making polite conversation. Using his bastard sister as a test to determine her character as well as endear her was a clever tactic on Qoryn’s part.

“You may hold it, if you wish,” Rhaenyra said to Desylla while she mused over which dress to wear for dinner.

She leaned toward the crimson gown accented with gold stitching. It was grand, befitting for a princess, yet softer than the other red dress that was coupled with black paneling. The reception hadn’t been frosty nor dangerous enough to wear the more intimidating option. As such, she’d forgo the dragonglass circlet for the golden-winged one, fashioned after Syrax’s own wings.

Desylla took a step back from the sword propped up at the foot of the bed. “Oh—no, Princess, I could never. It is yours, and it would be improper of me to grasp it as if it were mine.”

“You are fond of weaponry, are you not?” The informants at least shared that much.

“Yes, though I will admit that I lack talent in swordsmanship.”

A lack of talent did not mean uselessness. Desylla could likely still kill a man with one.

“Where do your talents lie, then?”

“Daggers,” she readily replied. “I am too slight to wield most other weapons.”

“Fascinating. The Red Keep lacks duelists, so I’ve only ever sparred with cutthroats in King’s Landing.” Desylla’s eyes bulged at Rhaenyra’s confession. Daemon wanted her to learn how to hold her own against someone who fought dishonorably as well as fight dishonorably herself when the time called for it. They decided not to tell her parents about the training for everyone’s sake. “I would be interested in having a match with you so I may learn more about Dornish techniques. Does that sound amenable?”

“Yes, Princess,” Desylla replied with a growing smile that didn’t hide her intent to drive Rhaenyra into the dirt. Then she remembered herself, ducked her head, and asked, “May I assist you with dressing?”

“Please.”

Their conversation became less stilted after that. Desylla steadily supplied Rhaenyra with facts about Sunspear and fondly spoke of horseback riding along the coast. Rhaenyra stayed away from gleaning any information about what she could expect at the feast or which nobles were more agreeable to Westeros’ cause so she wouldn’t make Desylla skittish. Besides, she could handle herself.

Rhaenyra did miss Alicent when Desylla began lacing her up. The girl had none of Alicent’s deft, gentle touch that she had learned from years of assisting Rhaenyra. It would be something she’d tell Alicent in her letter, including the part where Lety, one of the Targaryen maidservants sent to Sunspear to meet the princesses, stepped in with a tsk and shooed Desylla away to finish lacing because she had seen the discomfort on Rhaenyra’s face. Lety then oversaw the rest of her preparations, so Desylla watched the maidservants strike a familiar dance around her with equal parts relief and indignation.

And then it was time. Rhaenyra and Desylla rejoined Rhaenys and Tarra, Ser Ellion two steps behind them, and walked into the Dornish pit.

Be cautious, be bold, she chanted to herself. Be cautious, be bold.

So many lives depended on it.

The feast was extravagant, as if it would distract them all from the corpses that washed up on their shores bearing the armor of her people or the armor of pirates. Rhaenyra received compliments, both sincere and shallow and backhanded, while she made her way to the table. She had the honor of sitting next to Qoryn. The prince would be her focus for the duration of the stay. Meanwhile, Rhaenys would situate herself among the other nobles since she was older and seen as more experienced than a sixteen-year-old heir.

At least Rhaenyra would have no difficulty in gaining Qoryn’s attention. Despite the animosity between their houses, there was no animosity in his gaze as it lingered on her slender neck during their light conversation. Either he didn’t realize that he revealed his hand, or he was brazen enough to let her know that he found her attractive.

But unlike other young men of his age, Qoryn kept himself in check and didn’t insult her by being overtly distracted by her form. This was good cause to hold him in higher esteem than most men who situated themselves near her, for now.

“Has our feasting properly distracted you from the matter of the Stepstones?” Qoryn asked once dessert, a drizzling slice of citrus-laden cake, was presented before them.

Rhaenyra took a delicate bite and didn’t react to the wonderful flavors that melted on her tongue. After she swallowed, she replied, “Alas, it has not.”

“A pity, but I commend you for your unwavering purpose.”

“I would allow myself to enjoy all the lovely brightness of Dorne and its people in full, Prince Qoryn, should your ally your kingdom with Westeros and put the matter of the Stepstones to rest, swiftly and sufficiently.”

“Ah! If only I could provide such a simple solution to this issue. But I fear that should Dorne give way to your Westerosi rule, the moment the Stepstones are reclaimed, your father and his vassals would see fit to reclaim my people next.”

Rhaenyra imagined Papa declaring that Dorne be conquered in his name. What a sight that’d be. Amusement glimmered on her face, and she took another bite of cake. “My father has no desire for such a conflict. He prefers peace to violence; it took much convincing for him to address the Triarchy’s injustices, and only after they ignored our pleas to bring the pirates to heel for the sake of continued peace and prosperity.”

“And you, Princess? You are next to sit the Iron Throne. Do you desire Dorne?”

“No. I shall leave the conquest of this land to a more ambitious descendant.” Qoryn lightly snorted. “I, too, prefer the state of things in times of peace. I would not create war and send my subjects to die on foreign sands unless Dorne presented a true threat to the realm, nor would I dare set dragonflame upon the innocent no matter the actions of their ruler.”

Her gaze drifted from the dessert to Qoryn. His irises were dark and rich like the back of a garden beetle.

“I would also not see Dorne being a threat in this current war, Prince Qoryn—I would see it as an indispensable benefit to our mutual cause. The Triarchy’s pirates have disrupted the flow of trade and safety upon the Narrow Sea for the Seven Kingdoms. Our unity will break their hold on the Stepstones and dissuade the Triarchy from continuing their costly, greedy endeavor.”

Qoryn sipped his wine. It was a sour Dornish red, and although Rhaenyra cared little for its taste, many in Westeros and Essos were fond of it—and currently found themselves in shortage of its casks because of the raiding.

“Or they will redouble their efforts and cause more strife for my people. Then the war will go on, and on, and on, and the promise of a ‘swift and sufficient’ end will have been a lie from the mouth of a well-meaning princess who was simply ignorant to the ways of war, and to the extent of which the powerful will go to in order to carve out power in the world.”

Rhaenyra’s eyelids lowered coolly. “I am a princess—I am familiar with the ways of men. From the moment I was named heir, I learned of all the lengths they would go to in order to undermine, steal, taint, spit on, and vie for my power.” She then slivered off a piece of cake and held it to her mouth, but not before saying, “And if I recall correctly, neither have you glimpsed war, which makes us equally ignorant to its true horrors.”

“You are not entirely wrong,” Qoryn conceded.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but did not Princess Nymeria lead her people out of the clutches of slavers? Is Dorne not a kingdom that abhors slavery and welcomes escaped slaves? So, why do you shy away from the Triarchy, whose power has been built on slavery, the very evil that your ancestors escaped from? How could you possibly consider the notion of allying yourself with them in their offers of safe passage and trade deals? Passage and deals they themselves have made inaccessible due to their villainy?”

Rhaenyra ensured that Qoryn dare not look anywhere else but her, then said:

“I did not think Dorne would bow to the demands of slavers.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Targaryens may rule a free Westeros, but don’t speak as though your lineage is untainted from the same sins. There would be no great slave kingdoms in Essos were it not for the Valyrians and their dragons.”

“And the gods punished them, in the end.”

“So, what does Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen intend to do, hm? For some would call her closer to god than man. Though, gods do not feed the mouths of her subjects. Men do, freed and enslaved alike. However this war ends, Westeros and Dorne and the Triarchy will do what they have always done: trade. Where is your concern for the chained then?”

“My intentions are my own,” she replied, which frustrated and intrigued Qoryn, “and do not mistake my concern as a mere negotiation tactic to garner an alliance. I seek to earn the ire of my ancestors with the opinions I hold and the course I endeavor to set.”

She then cast her gaze back out to the festivities, where the dance floor was a sea of bright colors and faces.

Between their twirls and dips and partner changes, they watched her in return.

“I hope that, however briefly, our courses align, so we may say that we have done something good in this life.”

“What words!” Qoryn laughed. He had mastered making it sound genuine. “I shall consider them judiciously. But enough of this grim talk; let us dance.”

Rhaenyra took his hand when he offered it, and they stood and walked to the center of the dance floor. She had already been versed in current Dornish dances, so when Qoryn tested her with a few steps, she did not embarrass herself by stumbling.

On the night went, with countless partners and conversations after Qoryn relinquished her to the rest of the Dornish court. Rhaenyra came out of it whole and with a heap of information that she and Rhaenys mulled over in the late night. They spoke in High Valyrian for extra precaution.

“Lady Dalt will be trouble,” Rhaenys said. “She and her husband were strongly against our arrival. No doubt they have already been promised much from the Triarchy if they bring their nephew into agreement with their cause.”

“Which is?”

“Generous trading arrangements, I imagine.”

“Pity. She was quite charming.”

“Mm, yes. She has also had the prince’s ear since he was a boy. You must continue to give him a better reason to listen to you rather than her.”

Rhaenys sighed and drained the rest of her wine. “Tis a shame you’re betrothed to the Stark pup. A marriage between you and Prince Qoryn could solve many problems.”

“Assuming he would ever marry a Targaryen and give Dorne to us in the process.”

“With the way he was looking at you tonight, it is not solely in the realm of fantasy.”

“Unfortunately, seduction is not one of my talents. Mysaria was astute in that observation.”

“Fortunately, you do not need to seduce the prince to get what you want. We have much work to do yet, though I believe it will bear fruit. Leave the lesser noblemen to me. Continue to interest the prince and share young dreams of rulership. Spend time with his sister. Learn and discover as you always do, for no other Targaryen has received this kind of invitation into Dornish life and may not again for some time.”

Then she leaned forward and gave Rhaenyra a goodnight kiss on the forehead. “Sleep as well as you can, too. Gods know I won’t in this heat.”

Rhaenyra did indeed sleep that night despite the sweat between her shoulder blades and beneath her breasts. She drifted thinking about the future, as always, and how to craft it into existence in the present.

-

Time in Dorne passed pleasantly, dark clouds of war aside. Rhaenyra spent much of her day with Desylla and other amenable young ladies around her age—who had influential family members, of course—when she wasn’t meeting with Qoryn and other councilors who thought she was worth listening to. Friendships began to form, though not so close as her bond with Alicent. She sorely missed her Hightower.

You would hate the heat, she wrote to Alicent in a letter. It makes one sticky and yet dries the skin to the point of turning reptilian. But you would love the fruit and the sea and the library.

To Cregan Stark, Rhaenyra sent a single letter that wouldn’t reach him for weeks. It would be dreadfully boring to whoever read the contents before he laid his own eyes on it, but Rhaenyra was confident that Cregan liked her extensive descriptions of the land, the people, the architecture, the food, and the weather. He often wrote about the North in return.

She wondered where she’d be by the time he officially broke the letter’s seal. More so, she hoped that the realm could celebrate the end of the war with a royal wedding.

Desylla wasn’t the only Dornish girl who took up a weapon, so Rhaenyra maintained her training with very willing ladies. Who wouldn’t want to go back to their parents bragging that they had knocked her into the dirt? But alas, Desylla remained the sole lady that claimed the right. She was fast and dirty, and Rhaenyra quickly learned how to avoid getting sand in her eyes while staying on her feet. She also became more adept at slicing daggers and spinning spears thanks to Desylla and the ladies.

To repay them, Rhaenyra always allowed the ladies watch her spar with Ser Ellion, who, at her insistence, relinquished his armor and often his shirt. So he wouldn’t overheat, of course. The redness on his face was from exertion, not from their little giggles each time his body flexed.

She and Qoryn became friends too, though they were both well aware of the danger it posed to them. The court wasn’t nearly as divided because of Rhaenys’ work at finding commonality and establishing agreements, but a string of tension remained persistent, waiting to be plucked by Tarra Dalt’s manicured finger and send Sunspear into discord.

Qoryn wasn’t blind to his aunt’s opposition, but he underestimated the extent of it and how many rooted themselves in her faction. Rhaenyra was in no position to bring it to his attention, either, lest she appear snakelike and draw peril to herself for making it aware that she smelled the rot among bright fabrics, pretty music, and enjoyable conversation. There was nothing to do but prepare for possible outcomes and continue to work.

The maidservants who met her in Dorne also accomplished other duties. Aside from gathering information among the staff and meeting with Otto’s informants in Planky Town, they found former slaves and inquired upon undergrounds and channels to report back to Rhaenyra.

She had no idea how well this idea would flourish. There were so many unknowns and variables, so much to consider with human nature and incredible trauma and savage survival. And those she intended to defy would certainly try to see her and any who aided her assassinated, whether it be a year from now or ten.

But she had the power of a princess and future queen. She swore to herself that she would make use of it until the moment she died and this dream ended.

On another blistering day in Sunspear, Qoryn sent a servant with the message that she was to meet him in the lower gardens. It had become their middle ground; Rhaenyra’s station wasn’t insulted by going to him, and he wasn’t seen as weak by going to her.

Or, weaker.

As Ser Ellion escorted her to the gardens, she passed Lady Dalt. The older woman’s gaze was cordial and charming—and practiced. But for all her manners, she couldn’t conceal the terrible wave of cold pouring out of her.

Lady Dalt’s aura prepared Rhaenyra for the discussion with Qoryn. When she came into the soft, muggy shade of the gazebo, she saw that Rhaenys had also been invited to attend.

Qoryn stood upon her arrival, and he pressed a dry kiss to her knuckles. “Princess Rhaenyra, welcome. I have reached a decision regarding Dorne’s involvement in the Stepstones.”

She sat, a vision in an airy, cream-colored gown accented with Martell orange. “I am eager to hear it.”

“Dorne will not ally itself with the Triarchy in any shape or form. We will impose harsh tariffs on any of their imports so long as the war continues and relax those upon your realm on the condition that yours does likewise. Princess Rhaenys has agreed on the percentage. The Triarchy has squeezed our trade long enough; it is time to return the gesture.”

Rhaenyra dipped her head toward Rhaenys in acknowledgment; whatever she determined with Qoryn would be reasonable.

“However, Dorne will not ally itself with greater Westeros. My council is right in fearing that any arrangement without substantial leverage should only invite your realm to think it is owed more than just an alliance.”

“You would rather let our men die fighting a war that affects both our kingdoms than send your own,” Rhaenys dryly said, “and your council does not wish to raise the ire of the Triarchy beyond repair.”

“We are being cautious. It is a trait that the Sea Snake and Prince Daemon lack in their charge against the Crabfeeder and his pirates.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow. “And yet you expect their lack of caution to lead them to victory.”

Qoryn spread his fingers, unapologetic. “Dorne offers little in fleet numbers compared to the combined forces of your vassals’ fleets. Our strength would not make much difference in the tide of the war.”

“It is more than ships and soldiers.”

He evenly said, “We are abstaining from any involvement with the Triarchy. That is more than enough to show our support for your endeavor.”

Frustration coiled like a serpent in her gut, though she showed none of it on her face. Qoryn’s decision was the most expected one; his aunt still had his ear, and he had to compromise with his council somehow. She couldn’t get everything she wanted.

Alas, she had hoped to be surprised.

Not for the first time, Rhaenyra briefly contemplated invoking the old marriage traditions of Aegon Targaryen and their ancestors, except instead of having sister-wives, she’d have a husband from the North and a husband from the South. It’d be the perfect union, bringing a fringe realm and an unconquerable realm together with her at the lead. Another three-headed dragon, full of fangs and fire, desert sun and black winter. Never mind the revolt it’d cause in the Faith and the comparisons to Maegor everyone would draw. Those were manageable obstacles.

But it was just another fanciful scheme that she and Rhaenys chuckled over during their luncheons. The truth was much plainer: The realm didn’t need Dorne like it needed the North.

“Thank you, Prince Qoryn. Truly. Your decisions do much to aid us, nonetheless. I will share this good news with my father and the small council.”

“Once you return to King’s Landing and not over letter, I presume?” Qoryn asked, lightly smiling.

Rhaenyra demurred, “Dragons are faster than ravens, and my parents miss me dearly. I told them I wouldn’t tarry as soon as we reached a beneficial arrangement. Otherwise, I would linger in Sunspear. It provides a refreshing change from life at the Red Keep.”

“Were circumstances different, know that you would be welcome to stay however long you desired. Sunspear has flourished in new ways with your presence here.”

Some would say that she had blighted it.

“As I am certain the Red Keep would, Prince Qoryn, should you ever choose to visit.”

“Ha! Mayhaps one day, Princess.”

They talked more about the finer details of the agreement, and once they finished, Qoryn asked if Rhaenyra would stay but two more days to so she might give proper goodbyes and receive a Dornish farewell. She deferred to Rhaenys, who acquiesced after a show of reluctance.

“What is the true reason for us staying?” Rhaenyra questioned once she was alone with Rhaenys in their apartment.

“Mm. A sneaking suspicion that Tarra Dalt will move against her own nephew in some fashion, which means moving against us and all the concessions we’ve mutually made. She’s an impatient woman. If we don’t depart immediately, something might come to us on the wind to determine her next move.”

“Should we warn Qoryn if we find something truly unsavory?”

“It depends on the nature of the unsavoriness and how it could affect our standing with Dorne.”

“Not because we want to be kind?”

Rhaenys smirked, full of rue and sympathy. “Friendships often fare ill in matters of the Game, my Silver Princess.”

“It is the Game; who better to play it with than friends?”

Her aunt huffed a laugh. “Silly girl. Come—we have an evening to prepare for, and the Dornish chit couldn’t dress you in a timely manner if her life depended on it.”

“Be kind; I am quite fond of the Dornish chit.”

Desylla was genuinely distraught upon hearing that Rhaenyra would soon leave, though she tried to hide it as best she could. Never let it be said that a highborn Dornish bastard could possibly miss a Targaryen. The other ladies she had become acquainted with also spoke of how they would feel her absence since she made life at court so interesting.

“I invited Qoryn to King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra said to console Desylla and the ladies. “I extend the invitation to you all. I hope to show you the same hospitality that you’ve shown me. I do so love to imagine you all turning the Red Keep inside out with your Dornish ways.”

“You have the Dornish spirit, Princess,” Barezza Jordayne complimented. “We would also love to witness how you defy the ways of your people.”

It was these young women that Rhaenyra danced with that night. No matter what man they might go on to marry, they would always remember their youth fondly—and remember Rhaenyra in her brief visit all those years gone by, unfaded because of the correspondence she kept with them. Then they would offer advice and wisdom to their husbands regarding the Targaryen ruler and strengthen ties.

Qoryn was ever the chivalrous prince, and he asked for only one dance with her that didn’t imply anything scandalous. It would be scandalous, of course, no matter what they did—Rhaenyra was sure that Otto had received quite a number of debauched rumors and swooning tales about them by now—but what mattered was how he treated her in the present.

Lady Dalt watched their dance, sweet as poison. She retired early soon after, but not before she wished Rhaenyra and Rhaenys a safe journey home and commended them on their successful efforts in Dorne.

The feast went well into the night, and although Rhaenyra didn’t drink more than a goblet of wine to keep her wits, she stayed partially out of obligation and partially to get one last taste of the convivial atmosphere. The Red Keep didn’t throw nearly as good parties as Sunspear; her Westerosi subjects hadn’t yet learned how to have fun whilst scheming like the Dornish.

Because Rhaenyra had danced and cajoled for so long, it wasn’t an unusual sight when a servant girl came to her chamber with a light snack before bed. The Targaryen guards let the girl pass even though she had never requested food in the first place.

Not meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze, the servant bobbed a quick curtsey and muttered, “Princess,” as she set the platter on the table. Rhaenyra dipped her head in acknowledgment from where she stood half-dressed by the open window to cool herself off.

“Thank you, Narrim. Now off to bed; I wouldn’t want to keep you up any longer.”

“Yes, Princess.”

Narrim had been assigned to Rhaenyra throughout her stay. She was a slight girl, just barely thirteen, orphaned and overlooked because of her mild cleft lip. But she worked efficiently and quietly for someone of her age—perfect for a young, efficient, and quiet princess—and so she was appointed.

She was also one of Otto’s spies.

Once Narrim withdrew from the chamber, Rhaenyra walked over to the platter and unfolded a linen napkin. Within lay a small message, raven-sent. She broke the wax, unscrolled the parchment, and read the contents.

Ship movement near Salt Shore.

Rhaenyra tipped her gaze up to the sandy ceiling. Carved into the stone were depictions of Princess Nymeria leading her people across the sea at the prow of her ship.

“Shit,” she uttered to herself in soft English.

She had hoped that it wouldn’t be so soon. She wanted to see her family before any other information reached them and forced her to leave again.

But Lady Dalt was an impatient woman, and Rhaenyra was not an idle one.

Rhaenys read the message when Rhaenyra brough it to her, then sighed, “Such a pity.”

It was grim news, but not unexpected. Poor Qoryn. When family acted as enemies to one’s rule and realm, nothing but tragedy awaited. She believed that he could keep it contained, though she worried for his heart.

“We will confirm on the morrow. Salt Shore is less than a day’s flight away. If it is indeed true, then we must give our aid.”

Rhaenys obviously disagreed on the “we,” but she kept her opinions to herself to save them from an argument so late.

The next morning, they arose early with the rest of their household staff. Their belongings were gathered, packed, and sent away to the docks. Rhaenyra bade the handmaids and guards to depart ahead of her and Rhaenys with the luggage. She wanted the staff to be out of Sunspear as soon as possible. If they were caught in the midst of any potential mutiny, they’d be the first targeted.

To secure Narrim’s safety, Rhaenyra had the girl secreted away to one of the Targaryen ships.

Qoryn kissed the back of her hand, light as a breeze. Lady Dalt bantered with Rhaenys. Vibrant birds sang, fountains burbled, and Sunspear gleamed. The Dornish sun bronzed Rhaenyra’s cheeks a final time.

Tight as a viper, Desylla hugged Rhaenyra. She returned it, glad to forego decorum—and to be given an opportunity.

(The Game must be played, and perhaps she would die because she could not abandon friendships, but neither could she allow Qoryn Martell and Desylla Sand to not know what dangers lurked in the shadows of their sunbathed home.)

With the morning heat on the nape of her neck, she pecked Desylla’s brow, then whispered next to her ear, “Lady Dalt has dark intentions. Be watchful. Be prepared to protect your brother and your house.”

Desylla would show too much of a reaction on her face, so Rhaenyra guided it back into her shoulder to conceal the shock. She let a few moments pass before releasing Desylla, who by then had mostly recovered, although a frown marred her mouth. Hopefully, it’d be taken as a sorrowful one.

Syrax called to Rhaenyra—and the lives of her subjects wore on her mind—and so she departed with her aunt and Kingsguard shortly after.

The dragons hadn’t been murdered by the Dornishmen like Mother feared, and neither had Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, and Ser Ellion. No arrows or scorpion bolts chased after them as they ascended. By all means, it was a perfect end to unprecedented cooperation between the two powers.

If only Rhaenyra flew back the way she came like she said she would.

They flew north to give the pretense of it, but once they were high enough and Sunspear was behind them, they veered east toward Salt Shore, toward something that could be named war. Rhaenyra wouldn’t name it war just yet—then she could continue to keep her promise to her parents that she would stay far from the center of the conflict.

An area off Dorne’s coast was far from the center, technically.

By midday, Syrax and Meleys delivered them to a cluster of craggy cliffs that hid them from Salt Shore yet provided an ample view of the coast and expanding sea. Rhaenyra took out her Myrish eye to survey.

In the far distance, a trail of Gargalen and Dalt ships heading toward faint plumes of smoke begged to be followed.

Rhaenys, seeing Rhaenyra’s expression shift, said firmly, “Fly back to King’s Landing with Ser Ellion. Inform your father and the council of this treachery.”

“And what of Qoryn Martell?”

“It is his issue, now. Whatever warning you gave his sister will have to suffice.”

Sharpness bled into Rhaenyra’s voice. “That isn’t good enough.”

“Then return to Sunspear. Land straight into the courtyard once darkness has fallen and their scorpions cannot aim at you. Let any who dare come close enough feel Syrax’s flame and the sting of your blade. Tell the prince of this treachery and reap the fruits of coming to his aid in the years ahead.”

Syrax warbled, teeth gnashing. Meleys trilled and swished her spiked tail. It scraped against the stone, leaving pale gouges in its wake.

“Rhaenyra!” Rhaenys snapped. “Look at me: you and your dragon have never flown to battle, never known what it is like to unleash fire upon countless men! Meleys and I have. More so, you are the heir. You cannot risk your life.”

“I would risk my life for my people without hesitation precisely because I am heir! No, I have not seen battle, but neither has Tyland Lannister, nor Cedric Redwyne. Heirs themselves! And the ships they lead by order of the crown are currently under attack from forces they did not anticipate! They could suffer heavy losses, if not face complete annihilation.”

Rhaenys gripped her shoulders. “Then let me go to them. One dragon will more than suffice in thwarting the Dornishmen.” Her eyes became imploring. “I would not have you dive into the horrors that await out on the sea, not while you are still so young, so vulnerable, so precious to the realm and your family. They need you—do not risk the future, your future, all our futures, by wanting this.”

“I don’t want it,” Rhaenyra replied, vehement and sincere. “I know what awaits, and it frightens me. Yet my efforts in Dorne have doomed those men out there when it was meant to safekeep them! And what of duty, Aunt Rhaenys? Should I retreat while they suffer those same horrors? While they die for Westeros?”

“You are a princess—”

“A prince would not be questioned and coddled as I am! He would already be out there.”

Rhaenyra pointed toward the sea. Grim resolve tightened her jaw. “And while we argue, men are losing their very lives, drowning in water and blood and smoke. I will not delay any longer. I am going.”

“You defy your father and king in doing so,” Rhaenys warned.

“Yes. I will beg his forgiveness when I return, and he shall undoubtedly grant it. Now join me. If I cannot ask you, then I command you.”

Rhaenys stared hard at her for a moment, assessing all the traits she had instilled in Rhaenyra now present and unmovable.

Queen That Never Was and the Queen To Be.

Of course, at Rhaenyra’s age, Rhaenys would have also flown to battle if she had the choice. But rarely had she been given one. Rarely had she had the chance to claim the right of duty.

(What Rhaenys could not do, Rhaenyra could.)

Ever so slightly, she bowed.

Rhaenyra turned to Ser Ellion, whose mouth was flattened into a bitter line in anticipation of whatever she was about to say. “Make haste to Sunspear. Find the red tannery on the outskirts of Planky Town; the tanner’s youngest son is one of our informants. Tell him that you must reach the Martells in secret however you can. House Dalt and House Gargalen may be but two of several collaborating enemies. Then tell him that if he does not get his kingdom under control, he will face the consequence of Dorne declaring war on Westeros.”

“I will go, Princess. But I disagree with this course. I should be at your side.”

She almost smiled, thankful for Ser Ellion’s devotion. “Syrax will fly faster with only one rider, but I’m certain we won’t be parted for long. Thank you. I wouldn’t entrust this task to anyone else.”

Ser Ellion said nothing. He’d betray his fiercer emotions if he did, and they had no more time to talk.

“Conceal your armor,” Rhaenys said to him. “There will undoubtedly be those on the lookout for you, and they’ll have been ordered to take your head.”

“They can try,” Ser Ellion muttered, but he began to unclasp a pauldron.

Rhaenyra smiled in full at his quiet, spiteful confidence—relished in it like a last sweet before a fast—then turned on her heel. Sickness trembled in her belly at the forward motion, but it abated once she climbed atop Syrax and sunk back into the steady notes of their bond.

After she untied Ser Ellion’s saddlebags and tossed them down, she raised her hand to him in parting; if she spoke, she risked inviting acidic fear into her throat.

He crossed his arm over his chest. Syrax’s wingbeats whipped back his hair and white cloak as she and Meleys took to the sky.

They climbed higher, higher, higher until clouds dampened her skin and concealed the sea beneath. The altitude’s chill clashed with the heat rising from Syrax, leaving Rhaenyra’s back cold and her front hot. Her heart threw itself against her sternum, over and over. She should have relieved herself when she had the chance, yet her mouth was dry like she hadn’t drunk a single drop of water.

She had injured others, both accidentally in the training yard and purposefully while on patrol with Daemon, but never had she taken a life.

Except the future demanded it. Her reign demanded it.

The notions of saving her subjects because she earnestly thought it right and doing so with the intention that it’d strengthen the power in her claim existed at once.

Too soon, they came to the sea-tossed carnage.

The Dornish ships had indeed taken the Lannister and Redwyne fleets by surprise. Although they were smaller in number and size, the speed and severity of which they came upon the bulkier Westerosi ships gave them a horrible advantage. The Redwyne fleet fared somewhat better than its Lannister counterpart; several red-and-gold ships were burning, sinking, or being boarded. Even so far up, screams of the dying and battle-frenzied reached her ears. Ships cracked and splintered as though a beast was snapping their bones between its jaws. Ocean waves churned darkly, mixing bodies and blood and debris together.

Fear melted beneath the blaze of fury cresting above Rhaenyra’s collarbones.

Syrax’s wings folded to her sides. She and Meleys plummeted, spiraling once around each other like birds of prey. Her heartbeat was lost to the cutting wind. Molten heat blistered the inside of her mouth; she welcomed its pain. The shroud around her soul dissipated into mist and returned to the clouds that Syrax pierced through.

At the head of the Lannister fleet, three Dornish ships laid siege to the flagship.

Rhaenyra bared her teeth. Her eyes stung from wind and smoke, salt and mourning, but her voice was clear as she roared:

“Syrax! DRACARYS!”

-

“The crown requests that our fleet join the disaster in the Stepstones. A useless cause, if you ask me. The Sea Snake has started a war over his injured pride, and he wants all of Westeros to pay for it. But! Never let it be said that House Lannister isn’t obliging. We shall send a quarter of our fleet. Should they desire more ships and men, we can negotiate.”

Jason smiled at Tyland like he was Lann the Clever reborn. Though, that was how Jason always smiled, and perhaps Tyland was less than enthused at the sight of it because of the headache thumping in his skull. In contrast to his unrepentant, unbothered twin, he always indulged in pleasure houses and regretted it the next day.

“I doubt the crown will appreciate that,” was all he settled on saying.

“Ah, but you see, the Sea Snake is already off fighting on that crab-ridden heap of rocks, so he cannot disagree as master of ships, and the Hand doesn’t expect anything different from our house—”

“So you shall provide exactly that.”

“Whatever the Redwynes offer will be more than enough to compensate, anyhow. We simply have to supplement to show our loyalty to the crown and how we, too, believe that the Triarchy’s injustice must be rectified.”

“Of course,” Tyland said with a perfunctory, pain-inducing nod.

“Up to the task of leading our fine men and finer ships into the storm, brother? I suspect you’ll be gone no more than two or three moons before I require your presence at Casterly Rock for…” Jason waved a hand, “some important matter or another that only the entrusted heir can address?”

Tyland detested the thought of being away from home and its comforts for so long, but the prospect of earning some glory while battling loathsome Essosi pirates was appealing. And he could easily do it while staying out of Corlys Velaryon’s and Daemon Targaryen’s way as they heedlessly threw themselves and their men at the enemy.

With a smile reminiscent of Jason’s—but far humbler and fairer—Tyland answered, “Whatever my lord commands.”

Jason chuckled and leaned back to prop his feet up on the desk. The tip of his boot almost knocked over an inkwell. Tyland had long learned how to refrain from outwardly panicking over his brother’s near mishaps. Better to let the gods decide whether or not he was about to make a mess.

“Who knows? Mayhaps the dour little princess will bring Dorne into its rightful place as one of the seven kingdoms, and they can send their ships and swords to the Stepstones since those fucking bastards are its neighbors.”

Tyland briefly thought of the last time he had seen Princess Rhaenyra at her four-and-tenth nameday celebration nearly two years ago. She was strange as always, with her unnerving violet eyes and unimpressed pout. Many men, including Jason, complimented that she would be a great beauty, and Tyland supposed he could agree if pressed.

But his brother and other like-minded noblemen failed to notice that Rhaenyra Targaryen held a frightening amount of power for a girl so young, which would only continue to grow and deepen as she aged into a great beauty.

King Viserys might not have been the wisest or most cunning despite his position, but Otto Hightower was an expert in the Game. And although Rhaenys chaperoned the princess in Dorne, Rhaenyra herself had been named emissary. It indicated that all three powers entrusted her to oversee such a monumental task.

“One may hope,” was all Tyland said.

“She and the Queen Who Never Was will make fools of themselves and their houses down in that gods forsaken wasteland if they don’t get themselves killed first. So—be sure that you don’t, hm?”

“Never, brother.”

Then Tyland had grinned—Jason had grinned—mirrors, indistinguishable, two sides of the same soul, the maester had said—brothers belonging to a world made so easy for them—and there was no worry in either of their hearts as he boarded the flagship and set sail for the Stepstones—

Now, all Tyland tasted was terror and agony.

An arrow lodged deep into his shoulder. It grated maddeningly against muscle and bone. His lungs couldn’t get enough smoke-poisoned air. One of the sailors dragging him back—Artes—was yelling for men to protect their lord; the arrow that burst from the back of his skull and out through his nose interrupted him. He dropped, and Tyland dropped with him, choking on an agonized yell. Artes’ corpse twitched and bled, yet another of the fallen strewn ingloriously across the deck and stairs and ropes as the Dornish closed in.

Lannister ships burned. His men screamed and wailed and wept as they died. Tyland wanted to claw out his eyes, his ears, and be sick. He couldn’t stand back up; all his limbs were useless. Artes’ blood soaked through his expensive leathers and lion-embroidered tunic.

Like a boy, he cried, “Gods, please!”

Tyland resorted to crawling. Ballistae projectiles smashed into the ship. He curled on instinct, his shout of pain and panic lost to the chaos. Splinters and viscera showered around him. The mast above groaned threateningly from the damage. Another hit, and it would fall and drag more Lannister sailors to their ends. Those who remained would face Dornish savagery and perish as well.

Where was the glory in dragging himself through organs and saltwater? Where was the glory in his pathetic state, injured and afraid beyond all thought? Where was the glory in an outmaneuvered fleet in the middle of the merciless sea, where men died and died and died?

Hands gripped Tyland and hauled him upright. He felt the arrowhead scrape and dig into him. “Orders, milord!” someone bellowed in his ear, though the voice sounded faraway. “What are your orders! We’re about to be fucking boarded!”

Scattered across the rolling sea, ships burned like torches.

“Milord! Milord!”

“R-retreat,” Tyland rasped.

Fuck glory.

Who could ever wish to face such devastation?

“Retreat! Retreat!”

Those still living repeated the order, and it rapidly echoed across the ship. But the moment of direction was in vain. The deck shuddered, and Tyland and the sailors were thrown off their feet as the enemy’s ship rammed into the port side. Wood screeched and shattered. The flagship tilted, careening Tyland into a mess of netting. He could see individual Dornishmen now, swords and axes and daggers at the ready. They raced toward the bow of their ship that had gored Tyland’s Red Lion.

He fumbled to grasp the hilt of his sword, but it was tangled up in the rope. He needed to command the men to prepare themselves, but his tongue was leaden in his mouth. He needed to live, but death came for him beneath the sea’s harsh sunlight.

Then Tyland pulled free, staggering, and unsheathed his sword with a shaking, bloody hand. Others followed. He had never been a good fighter; that skill had gone to Jason. Tyland’s talents rested in his intelligence, yet in the face of battle, he seemed to have lost that as well.

The least he could do was die with a shred of honor.

So, he raised his sword with his good arm. Let his men rally around him for the few breaths he had left.

Tyland opened his mouth to command the sailors to attack, to suffer, and to die.

But before he could make a sound, the sun blotted out, pitching him into shadow for but a moment before fire bathed the world.

The Dornish ship rent in two beneath a torrent of iridescent dragonflame, which sent up a gale of heat and stole Tyland’s shallow breath. A harmonious, furious roar struck him clean through, deeper than any arrow and clearer than anything the Seven might have tried to whisper to him. It melded with the cheers of his soldiers and the screams of the Dornishmen and the cracking, breaking of a ship.

In awe and relief, Tyland sunk to his knees and witnessed Syrax, wings wide and tail whipping, turn sharply in the air like a falcon. Upon her back was Princess Rhaenyra, silver hair a daylit star.

Syrax swooped low again and released another fearsome stream of fire upon all three ships; her flames danced gold and orange, white and red, across wood and men and water. What once had been destined to deliver death to Tyland and his men was utterly destroyed under the inferno in a matter of moments—for what could stand against a dragon’s reign?

She flew onward to the other ships attacking the Lannister fleet. Syrax was ruthless, leaving naught but blazing wrecks exploding in her wake. She dove and veered; she circled before she struck at times and streaked past at others, sometimes swallowed up by her own flames before emerging unharmed; she sang as she massacred, beautiful and vengeful.

The scorpions that had been mounted on a few ships missed by wide margins. Syrax was too fast to be targeted, and Rhaenyra was too clever to allow her patterns to be tracked. Those ships that had fired upon the dragon marked themselves for death until there were no scorpions left to arc uselessly through the sky.

Of course, no mere weapon could fell the Silver Princess and her Golden Lady.

While Syrax defended the Lannister fleet, Meleys unleashed crimson-hued devastation upon the Redwyne attackers. Together, they turned the promise of a Dornish victory into a full, crippling retreat. The dragons chased the ships back to the forsaken land that they set sail from, only relinquishing when there was substantial distance put between the opposing forces.

While the sailors thanked the gods for Princesses Rhaenyra and Rhaenys, they dislodged themselves from the remnants of the Dornish ship and placed themselves in a safer position. Tyland called for the maester to tend to the injured. Norwin, his young squire that he ordered below when the fighting broke out, implored him to have the maester first examine the now-broken arrow shaft protruding from his shoulder.

Given his station, Tyland could be seen to before any of the other sailors. But he didn’t feel much like a lord or commander after his conduct during the madness, and too many men suffered from worse injuries, so he was doubly unworthy to demand the maester treat him.

Instead, he waited and gave what orders he could to those who were hale. Put out the fires, assess the damage, help the wounded, signal the other ships…being in control gave Tyland the illusion that the battle was over and won, that he was still himself, still alive.

Artes’ blood began to dry, sticking his tunic to his back.

Some of the calm shattered again when Syrax returned to circle low around the flagship. Tyland tilted his head up to watch. Black spots pricked his vision. The dragon was magnificent, her spanning, webbed wings translucent in the sun.

Princess Rhaenyra unslung her saddle’s rope ladder, and she dismounted and slowly climbed down it. She trusted her dragon to aim her toward the crow’s nest. After swaying freely for several moments, the princess landed, half-caught by a brave sailor who kept his post despite the damage that the mast sustained.

Princess Rhaenyra was mindful of the mast’s fragility as she then continued her descent. She was adept at navigating the ropes. But of course—the Sea Snake was family and oft took her on sailing trips. She had already been tried and tested in some regard.

Aside from the noises of the injured, the ship silenced as Rhaenyra’s boots connected soundly to the deck. Some sailors fell to their knees. Others bowed. She passed between them, nodding in acknowledgement and clasping their hands like she cared.

No. She did care.

What a novel thought.

When she came to Tyland, he attempted to rise from where he slouched against the side of the quarter deck’s staircase.

“Princess—”

All strength went from him; he collapsed back into the fractured wood. The agony in his shoulder amplified again at the jostling, and it reached down to his stomach and twisted it so violently that he was sick without warning.

Princess Rhaenyra sidestepped the meager bile and helped his squire lower him to the floor.

“He’s refused treatment, Princess!” Norwin’s quaking voice came. “But—”

“Fetch the maester,” Rhaenyra replied. The heat from her dragon had saturated her body and now seeped into Tyland. He didn’t immediately realize that she had positioned his head atop her kneeling thigh, yet the shock of impropriety eluded him, for the pain and weakness were too great.

Norwin dashed off, leaving Tyland to stare up at Rhaenyra like a fawn.

“Nearly vomiting on me, my lord?” she said, voice far too calm for the world around them. Soot blackened her cheeks and brow. Flight and wind had torn some of her silver hair free from its tight braid. Her chapped lips were in a flat, somber line, discordant with her tone. “Pray that your brother never hears of it.”

“He—he most certainly will,” Tyland rasped. “Forgive me, Princess.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. You held fast against the enemy. That is most important.”

Yet Tyland did no such thing. He was a craven boy, five years older than the princess and yet with none of her courage. Had it not been for her, he would have doomed them all to the depths of the sea.

Shame overwhelmed him, and he could not hold his tears. If retching in front of the princess wasn’t humiliating enough, he wept before her as well. Then he screamed in wild pain, too, when the maester retracted the arrow. Rhaenyra had removed her gloves, twisted them together, and shoved them into his mouth to bite down on. They tasted of sulfur and smoke and leather. She, Norwin, and two other sailors held him fast as the maester worked.

Tyland only ceased once he pitifully dropped into unconsciousness.

Fire and broken wood flashed behind his eyes—

He awoke in his candlelit quarters, terror on his tongue.

Norwin was at his side to give him water. “Slowly, said Maester Mill. Please, my lord.”

Once he drank what felt like a mere spoonful, he rasped, “How…how long…?”

The words were slow to form; he must have been given milk of the poppy and it had not yet waned.

“Tis before dusk, my lord. Maester Mill and P-Princess Rhaenyra wished for me to fetch them once you awoke. Shall I do so?”

No. Let him rot alone until the Stranger took him. Then he should never have to face the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms again. “Yes.”

If Norwin were a good squire, he would have delayed to let Tyland gather his bearings. Alas, the boy hastily brought the maester and the princess to him.

In the softer lighting of the cabin, Rhaenyra looked more girl again than god. Her cleaned face plainly bore its youth, rounded in places where it had not yet thinned. The features served to contrast against how strange and severe she was.

Tyland went to sit up, but Maester Mill tutted for him to be still, and Rhaenyra held up a hand. “Rest. I can speak to you fine from where you are.”

As the maester began to strip back the bandages and Norwin diligently stood vigil, the princess pulled up a chair to sit in. “This has all turned into a fucking shit pile, hm? Fortunately, our spies warned us in time of the treachery. Prince Qoryn is no betrayer; that title goes to his aunt, and I suspect he will be facing trouble in his own court. But I also suspect that no Dornish ships will attack the fleets again on the journey. Lady Dalt assumed we would be well on our flight home while you were besieged. It was a costly mistake.”

Tyland winced as Maester Mill prodded at the freshly-stitched puncture wound. Mere hours ago, an actual arrow had been embedded in him. Yet the world had already moved on, hadn’t it? Men died, the ship almost sunk, and dragonfire rained, and still the Red Lion sailed onward to more of the same ruin.

“Rhaenys has flown ahead to the Stepstones to inform her husband and Prince Daemon of the naval battle. To ensure the safety of the Lannister and Redwyne fleets, I will remain with Syrax until arrival.”

Meagerly wetting his lips, Tyland forced his throat to cooperate and inquired, “What…of my fleet? The, the damage…”

“Four ships were lost entirely. Another two sustained too much damage to be of use, and so they will be scuttled back to the Arbor along with similarly fated Redwyne ships. Six ships remain, though many of them will need repairs, including this one.”

The loss was a devastating one. Tyland felt his heart plunge into the sea.

Rhaenyra dropped her gaze. “I am sorry that we did not arrive sooner.”

“You…saved us all. You are owed gratitude, and…you have mine.”

His sentiment didn’t comfort her, but she spoke no more of it. Rather, she said, “Your injury may not be healed by the time we reach the Stepstones. Should you be unfit for battle, you may return to Casterly Rock. I am certain your brother and people will gladly welcome you home.”

No, Tyland was wrong—the arrow hadn’t been removed from his shoulder at all. It was burrowing into him like a worm in an apple, eating away and hollowing out all the substance.

Unable to reply, he nodded once.

“I will take my leave. Goodnight, Lord Tyland. I shall pray for your recovery.”

Rhaenyra departed, and as Maester Mill applied more ointment to the puncture, dragonsong haunted the night.

Over the course of ten days, Princess Rhaenyra upheld her duty as protector. She and Syrax rested little, and when she was not scouting, she was coordinating between fleets. Cedric Redwyne also survived the battle; he went without injury because he had more experience with seafaring skirmishes as a man seven years older than Tyland, and he sent word with Rhaenyra that he was gladdened to hear of Tyland’s survival.

How did Rhaenyra get from one ship to another? She descended on the rope ladder, of course, but when it came to getting herself back on her dragon, she climbed up to the crow’s nest, waited for Syrax to glide close and stretch out her wing, then jumped on to the wing and practically walked to her saddle. When Tyland first saw her do it, he nearly shrieked in panic, but he became used to it along with the rest of the sailors.

He also became used to the smell of dragon mixed with the sea. He had heard Jason and plenty of other nobles complain about the stench in the past, but to him, it was the smell of safety, of victory; an oath of destruction.

Rhaenyra took dinner with Tyland and a few of the lieutenants on some nights. She was cordial and graceful—a true princess and heir. But this, he already knew.

What he wanted to know was if she had nightmares like him. Did the men that she burned, deserving as they were of their fate, crowd the halls of her mind?

Tyland found his courage to ask this question the night before the fleets would form a blockade between Lys and the Grey Gallows. They stood on the deck just past nightfall, where much was quiet save for singing on distant ships. Rhaenyra was dressed in a relaxed maroon dress with trousers underneath, resting from her dragonrider garb. The sea sun had burned her face; her nose and high cheekbones flaked with dead skin, and her hair, like Tyland’s, was greasy and stiff.

(More girl than god. There was a tragedy somewhere in there, Tyland thought, despite how it eluded him.)

“I carry them with me,” Rhaenyra answered, “as much as I will carry the rest of the sins I commit for the realm.”

It was not a comforting response. Then again, Tyland didn’t want comfort.

Silence fell between them for a short while. The princess tended toward it if she could.

When she finally spoke again, she asked, “How fares your injury?”

Involuntarily, he touched his shoulder.

A lie almost slipped out, one born from desolate thoughts of a home he missed and his own inadequacy out on the sea.

Tyland took a breath.

“It is…healing, Princess. I believe I will be hale enough to maintain the blockade, given I do nothing too strenuous.”

“I am glad to hear. Lord Cedric is noble, but he is eager to continue a battle that the blockade may not offer. He will need your temperance to remain steady.”

His cowardice, more like.

Tyland dipped his head. “You are too gracious, Princess.”

Rhaenyra momentarily turned rueful at his words, but she smoothed over her expression and stepped away from the railing to indicate her retirement for the night.

Once he was alone, he thought yet again of glory, and how he wanted none of it.