Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ I

She has restrained herself for this moment, sitting very still at the writing desk in her personal chambers. It is a ritual now—a slow torture, she muses—a quiet suffering every evening. The last four attempts at penning a letter to her uncle have all ended in vain. Her hand trembles as she presses the freshly-dipped quill to paper. She is aware of the trepidation, the distress, stemming from the sheer importance of what she is writing.

Rhaenyra grimaces, lilac eyes narrowing to slits beneath a furrowed brow of silver as she lifts her quill pen up from the parchment. It was an ugly thing to see, she lamented.

From before her fifth name day, she studied the arts of calligraphy under the royal maesters. Yet, no amount of skill could end her ceaseless trembling. Perhaps a glass of wine, she thinks, to ease her anxieties. Father certainly frowned upon it, upon close reflection of himself, yet she found some small comforts in the occasional drink as of late.

She is alone in her room—has been alone all day, in fact. Besides Ser Criston Cole, who no doubt is standing solemn watch outside her door at this very moment, few shared her company. She fell swiftly into grief and sorrow since the departure of her dearest uncle, and none could fill the deepening crater in her heart now. It had nary been a year since he took Caraxes to the skies across the Narrow Sea. Already, there was talk of her potential betrothal to various royals and political subjects across the realm, and her disinterest spoke louder than words. Young as she was, she knew her worth, and refused to entertain such things.

Still, she heard whispers around the Red Keep; from the royals, her maids, the bothersome septa, and even the midwife herself. Whispers bespeaking her close relationship with her uncle. Slanderous, base accusations—calumnies even, instilling small victories to those who wished to see her new baby half-brother, Aegon, sitting the Iron Throne.

She chides herself, inwardly. Such bitterness, even in thought, would not aid here, now. She forbade herself from contemplating these things, from the Red Keep and beyond. Even if it troubled her greatly, she refused to augment the crow's position with acknowledgement.

On her desk are a few trinkets she holds close to her heart: a hair pin made of gold, an ancestral mirror which belonged to Rhaena Targaryen, and a jewel-encrusted coffer. Dangling between her budding breasts is the sigil of her House, what her uncle left as a token of remembrance shortly before he bade leave. As well as this, a tome sits in the corner. The Lineages and Histories of the Great House Targaryen; another gift from Daemon, one he had brought from his last trip to Dragonstone, nearly two years prior. She is on her third exploration of the thing. It is her hope he gifts her with new readings upon his return.

She finds herself frowning now. Nightly, she is mourning the loss of her protector.

Word from the crows made her privy of his newest adventure. It is said he wages war for the Crown in the Stepstones. Spread out on her carved weirwood table is a map she requested from Maester Runciter. Drawn meticulously are the Free Cities, along with Bloodstone and its surrounding isles, consisting of the Grey Gallows, Torturer's Deep, and others. She desires with fullness in her heart to grasp just what her uncle faced. He is fearless, she knows, as fearless as the dauntless Blood Wyrm mount he commands. Still, she worries, even if she knows deep in her heart he will be successful.

With a new piece of parchment, she begins once more. Her father had gifted her this quill, she remembers. My father, she thinks, how unwell he is. He had taken ill shortly after her uncle left for war. Grand Maester Runciter believes it to be some form of rot, but scarcely is she given details of his state. He is tended to in the king's quarters day and night, surrounded by a host of maesters, his good lady wife Alicent, and that devious wretch Mushroom, the new court jester. A relatively young king of thirty, her father always had a youthful guise, jovial and relaxed, yet she could scarcely recognize him as of late. The passing of her mother comes to mind . . . That's where it all began, she thinks.

She believes Daemon innocent to the state of her father—His brother, she reminds herself. He deserves to know what's happening here, she decides.

This letter is important. She needs it to be, because if it isn't, then for what purpose was she writing it? She knows precisely what she needs to say. Careful not to spill any ink, she is meticulous in her art. Calm, smooth strokes. With every character, there's a tinge of love and passion included. The words flow easily now—she can feel him, see him from across the ocean as she paints her way into his world.

Her quill stops. She's finished. Carefully, she folds the parchment crossways. She lifts the stamp bearing the ancient sigil of her House. Red, hot wax is appropriate here, a generous amount to be sure. Hovering over the center of the letter, she presses it down, holds, and lifts. A bloody, three-headed dragon reveals itself, unbroken and unbent.

He will know just who this letter is from. It will find him swiftly, and by personal envoy. It must find safe passage through the treacherous waters. It was a missive from the Princess of Dragonstone.

Not just a missive, but a plea for help.

x x x

There was, of course, no easy pathway ahead, though they had been in conflict for quite some time. In just a year, they'd taken command of one of Prince Drahar's fortifications on the isles of the Grey Gallows. To the north was Bloodstone, the head seat and home to the hosts of the Triarchy. It would take at least a half year . . . and with good luck, before they set foot on those shores.

Daemon settled himself on a wooden stool near his tent at the back of the encampment. Breathing in deeply, he could taste the salt in the air. Early morning as it was, the Stepstones typically had poor weather, but this day was somewhat different. The glittering ocean stretched out beyond him as far as his eyes could see. The eager young sun, cleaved in two by the ocean, bold, yellow, and waking for the day, had just begun its ascension into the skies above.

There were shouting and sounds of cheer. Indeed, he wasn't alone, nor did he want to be. His host were going about their morning preparations, the camp bustling with life. They comprised of sellswords, second sons of ill fortune, yet they trusted him both loyally and with unquestioning faith. Lesser men as they were, they now found themselves in direct service to the Crown, and under his respected command. He appreciated that, valued it, and would honor them for it, trying in his fullest capabilities to lead them to total victory.

And loyalty is what he coveted above all else. Such charisma bore fruit: numerous gold cloaks who served under his command of the City Watch had offered their blades without asking. Once they'd learned their beloved prince took up arms against the Triarchy, they broke their oaths to the city and joined his cause. Gold and glory, Daemon promised them—gold and glory and whores to warm their beds, and drink to fill their bellies. Their spoils would make the Streets of Silk seem like the poor and desolate Bear Island, he told them.

The land here was indeed beautiful, he conceded, barring the endless strife and bloodshed. There was something enjoyable about the rocky shores of the Stepstones. The isles were brush strokes of brown and dark on a blue canvass; all of them perfect. He wasn't in such a disagreeable mood this morning either; the sparkling of the sun on the waters, and the light cutting through the far-off distant clouds were enough to calm even the Black Dread himself. The only sounds were the onshore winds keeping them cool in the autumn heat, and that of his host of men. Just offshore, several of the Sea Snake's ships lay anchored, waiting for command. Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, was here. The Sea Snake, they called him, a namesake taken after his most famous of ships.

It was hard not to be in a good humour today, even when on the brink of another dangerous expedition. Today was a meeting of leadership, a reunion of sorts. It was high time to talk politics, even though Daemon much disliked the role. His was a fire which never dwindled, always wanting for more glory. Even still, there was a greater purpose in such gatherings, and even if it meant little, he would play along to please the Sea Snake, keeping him on the waters and away from his own doings. Lord Corlys was no fool, Daemon understood. Almost a year's time had passed since the sigils of the seahorse and three-headed dragon sailed onto the shores of the Stepstones and sent the Triarchy scattering. A year of strife, bloodshed, and sacrifice it was. Fueled only by the crown seat of Driftmark, and the gold of King Viserys, their host had dwindled, trickling away slowly, like wounded game nigh on the hunt. These were times of peace, Daemon lamented. Hard times it was to find men brave and eager for blood and glory.

He figured this is what Lord Corlys and the rest of his kin had come to discuss. He was not—never had been—a man of subtlety. When the Sea Snake wanted something, he made the first move. Little did Daemon fault him for that, and in truth he found much in common with the Sea Snake, and that formed the heart of their companionship.

Daemon stood and looked around him under the brightening sky. Dark Sister, his ancestral blade wielded time innumerable into war, had been tested by fire once more. Barring a helmet, he was dressed in his royal battle armor, black-and-red and clad from head-to-toe in exquisite majesty. His followers whispered quietly of this fact, claiming he was the true second coming of Aegon. Fiercely inspirational was his visage, shaped and molded by conflict and adventure. And his dragon steed, Caraxes, a veteran of war himself and never shy of bloodshed, was his Black Dread.

Strong-willed and impulsive, to say the least, few could temper the blazing hot Valyrian steel coursing through his veins. His was the blood of the dragon, yet he found himself changed by one alone: the little Princess of Dragonstone. She must have celebrated her tenth name day, he mused. Had it really been that long already? My promise, he remembered, my word.

So busy was he with the machinations of war, he scarcely thought of little Rhaenyra Targaryen and the comforts of home. Home, he scoffed inwardly. He never considered he, Daemon Targaryen, would speak so sentimentally of anything. He never once had a place to call home—not the Vale, nor the Red Keep, or even Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of his House. But he had found a small piece of home, in those fearsome young eyes of lilac which bespoke Visenya born anew. She loved all the things he did; the histories, dragonriding, pride in the Targaryen name, even the godswood itself. Perhaps she is smitten with me, he thought, and to that end she has taken after me.

Soon she would be of age, her maidenhood already taking deep root in her early youth. The Targaryen seed is a strong one. The dragon was strong in her, and for that she was every inch beautiful, a product of the purest bloodline—the finest stock. So young she was, so small, yet when she orbited him as she always did, she seemed so wise and aware of things. Her maturity was rapidly approaching, and he knew just how she adored him so. How she stepped a little closer to him than one should deem appropriate, and how she paid such close heed to him in all aspects. Sometimes, even, she would beggar his attention, like a child might their mother. It was an endearing thing, and he did his best to accommodate and support that. Going further, he saw how she transformed when they were alone. Around the lickspittles and royalties, she kept a demeanor one would consider the opposite of warmth. Little did she reveal of herself, even to her own father, the king. Yet, when they shared company in solace away from the troubles of the realm, he found her giggling, visage spreading to a wide grin, cheeks reddening and breath quickening as if spurred by his very presence. Delighted she always was to be with him, to share in his company. He saw that, knew that above all else.

He knew even in distance they would not come apart. Nay, distance would bring them closer together, he assumed. With every passing moment, she probably wondered about him—envisioning his adventures—like the ones he used to share to her alone on the flathead mountains of the Crownlands, dragons around them singing and purring along.

There was joy, and relief, in his remembrance of such things. The call of home was something new to him, to be sure. It bade new feelings of comfort, of duty. And with it, a strong, but gentle lament.

He wasn't long to dwell on such things. Three pairs of footsteps approached, rock trampled beneath armored feet. Turning to look out the corner of his eye, he saw young Ser Laenor Velaryon, flanked by Ser Vaemond Velaryon and an envoy—a standard bearer flying the colors of the seahorse.

"Is it time?" Daemon asked plainly.

Laenor greeted him kindly, "Prince Daemon," he said, giving a slight bow of his head. "The Sea Snake is ready and awaiting your presence for the start of the war council." Laenor himself, Daemon saw, had a short, but deep scar across his cheek.

There was a great thunderclap overhead. The whole camp shook. Not thunder, but the furious beating of wings across the morning air. Caraxes sung as Seasmoke followed behind, in the shadow of the Blood Wyrm. Seasmoke was a young, but spritely dragon of pale-silver and grey. These conquests were his first taste of bloodshed, Daemon realized. Yet he was in good hands under the tutelage of his mount.

The prince turned to face his greeting party, saying, "Young Ser Laenor, it has been sometime since Caraxes enjoyed the company of others. Certainly, you can see even beasts of such majesty enjoy the presence of one another."

Laenor nodded in agreement, understanding his meaning. "It is good to see, Prince Daemon. Yet, Father awaits. Shall we take our leave?"

Shrewd and straight to business, Daemon noted. Much like his father. "We can go now," he said evenly. "Best not to keep the Sea Snake waiting, I think." With a fervent step, he walked through them in the direction of the hut.

Laenor drew a breath, but said nothing to the receding prince. He probably thought it best not to wake the dragon. Instead, he motioned for his retinue to follow suit, and onward to the council.

They were gathering in a large tent near the back of the encampment. Not the largest of tents, but decorative enough one could plainly see it was fit for a lord. Daemon, not one to enjoy the company of others, found himself arms-crossed and away from the rest of the party. There was Ser Vaemond Velaryon, the Sea Snake's own bloodbrother, along with Ser Laenor and a great many minor figures of too little import for him to care. Ser Vaemond, in particular, was quick to draw the ire of the prince, always standing in disagreement with his war assessments and battle strategies alike. He was proud like the Sea Snake, but without all the wit and warm candor which made Lord Corlys such a formidable foe, and close ally. Few times did Vaemond ever speak his mind directly to Daemon; he'd rather speak ill of him when his shoulder was turned, or when he was on dragonback in the skies above. For that, he thought little of the man.

There were people absent, Daemon knew—those who had fallen in the numerous battles fought in the past year. Two of them were from the upper command, close confidants of Lord Corlys himself. Things were not going well, to say the least.

The costs of war, Daemon thought. There were always going to be sacrificial pieces on the board. Any good commander knew that, and any warlord would accept the price of victory paid in blood.

Ser Vaemond had already begun rambling. Circled around the war table they were, and his voice was the loudest amongst them. Lord Corlys appeared demure, more so than usual. Perhaps war had tired the Sea Snake, or perhaps he desired to sail once more across the waters of the known world.

Whatever the case may be, Daemon remained quiet, listening rather pensively to them argue back-and-forth.

"Prince Dahar's fleet is amassing off the rocks of Bloodstone," Ser Vaemond spoke fervently. "If we do not act now, they will strike first, and we stand to lose all we've gained these past months." His fist met the darkwood table to prove a point.

Young Prince Laenor had some thought on the matter. "We must do something, yes," he agreed, "but our supplies run short. We must fish from the shores themselves just to eke out our own survival. The bread is stale, moldy, and ruined; the salted meats, closer spent still. The wheat is polluted with maggots. We do not have the supplies to make leave the Grey Gallows, least of all face Prince Drahar's fleet in open sea. Send envoy to King's Landing. Call for aid, lest we all share a slow doom—"

Daemon had more than enough of this. "You bring dishonor to your House, young prince," he interrupted, cutting through his words like Dark Sister carves flesh. "My brother, the king himself, has no more desire to fund this war than he has the ships to provide stable supply for our efforts. Lord Corlys, your father commands the sea, and I command the skies. Do best to remember that."

A man of few words, Daemon commanded the attention of all when he spoke. One could see that, as the council fell silent shortly after he did. The prince returned to his corner, crossed his arms once more and said no more.

Laenor considered his words, then nodded. A quiet admission they could not rely on the Crown as a crutch in their times of need. They were alone in this matter, with support from Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, or not.

"Prince Daemon is right," the Sea Snake finally spoke. Voice grave, and head low, his face was nearly covered by his twisted mane of silver. "We cannot rely on the king for help, regardless of if his brother is here fighting alongside us or not. Even still, we cannot stay on the Grey Gallows forever: it is time we strike. Whilst it is true they have been defensive, our spies speak of a counterattack, mayhaps sooner than on the morrow. With the combined efforts of the remainder of the driftwood fleet, Seasmoke and Caraxes, we can catch Prince Drahar's fleet by surprise in open waters. His will burn, but I want his flagship, The Crab Feeder, taken a prize."

Vaemond scoffed, rudely at that, then said angrily, "And what if he retreats into the caves of Bloodstone once more? We do not have the ground forces to mount another battle on the land, nor the resources to fight a continuous battle which may last months. They have the advantage, we do not. This is not a sound plan, Brother. I say burn them in their caves, send in the dragons and let them have their way."

"Silence, Vaemond," Corlys said admonishingly. "There is no other choice. We must mount an offensive. We are cut off from Driftmark . . . Westeros. Who do we go to for aid? The Free Cities? Word brings me they provide Prince Drahar with fresh ships, bread, and water alike. It is they who benefit from this war, not us. These are not mere pirates we face, but a combined force of the Three Daughters."

"Urgency is demanded," Laenor spoke once more, though quieter. "We must start preparations immediately."

Silvery laughter ran through the tent. "I will not send my host to waste," Daemon said, amused. "There is urgency yes, but a rash decision could reflect very poorly on us all if we are not careful." The irritation in his voice made the room itself shudder; all listened to him, entranced by his very ardor. "Sacrifices in war are a must, this is true; yet if a leader does not value the life of his host, he can inspire no victory. My forces follow me with an unquestioning sense of servitude. Can you speak the same, Ser Vaemond, and Ser Laenor?"

"No, they can't," said Corlys.

A small utterance, barely audible to the council, but everyone present heard it. When the Sea Snake spoke, it was with a purpose, Daemon knew.

"I thought as much," Daemon said, visibly vexed. He returned to his corner once more, having spoken his piece.

Laenor had bowed his head, as if the weight of the dragon's words bent him over. Vaemond just remained silent, which in truth, was a rare thing indeed.

A glitter of light streamed through the open tent. The day grew older, and their time grew shorter. Daemon's words hung heavy in the room, clearer than the small speckles of dust caught in the sunlight.

Daemon, out the corner of the eye, saw a flash of shadow cut through the light. Someone approached. His senses were keen enough to guess that as much. From outside the tent, a voice bellowed:

"In the name of Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, I bade greeting and swift word to Prince Daemon Targaryen."

The Sea Snake raised his head and looked plainly at Daemon. The prince himself seemed unconcerned, but the envoy no less had his attention. It was no easy feat to send such a letter, a month's travel by ship even in outstanding weather conditions.

"You may enter," Corlys said, "but leave your retinue outside."

"My lord, my prince," the envoy said, stepping inside the tent with a courteous bow. In his gloved hand he held out a piece of parchment, stamped and with the seal of the three-headed dragon, unbroken. "From the Princess of Dragonstone," he continued.

Daemon said nothing, waiting. It was unusual for any envoy to make a trip out to the Stepstones, especially in these times of war. The trip itself proving perilous to many merchant ships, and warships alike. The Triarchy spared no expense in burning all who crossed these waters. And yet, Rhaenyra had penned him a letter. It certainly was no trivial matter.

The envoy jumped as Daemon swiped the letter out of his hand. "You have done your duty," he said shortly.

Taking that as his time to depart, he bowed, said, "My lord, my prince." With another curt bow, he left them with little explanation.

Daemon looked around the room briefly. Lord Corlys, Ser Vaemond and Ser Laenor looked at him expectantly, as if he should say something. Instead, he looked down at the letter in his gloved hands. He felt something deep down, as he stayed there, silent and brooding. He frowned, tearing the seal away. With the three-headed dragon torn asunder, the letter lay open, revealing words and characters crafted meticulously and with care. Taking one last, but brief look at Lord Corlys, Daemon poured over the missive.

To Daemon Targaryen, Uncle and Love, he read inwardly. I hope this letter finds you, as I have found you in my heart. Both day and night, as I lay awake, and as I sleep, you have kept me in good comfort and warmth unmatched even in your absence. By the time you should read this letter, my father's state will have deteriorated further. He is no longer himself, your brother as you once knew him, and from before your departure. I fear the worst, and I feel terribly alone. I need you, Uncle. I need you now more than I ever did, and it is in that need I call for you now. Every night in the godswood I count the stars in memory of you, and in my heart, I know my love for you is stronger than it ever was. Signed, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne . . .

Finished, he folded the letter back up. Daemon then stood there, silently . . . And he was in the deepest of thought. His guise betrayed no notion of the letter's contents to those in the council, yet internally he felt its reverberating effect. He didn't notice before, but his palms, normally so still and sure, were sweaty, and his heart, ever calmer in the face of mortal danger, beat slightly faster. He felt something extraordinary from her words, he knew this, felt this, as he ran the letter through his mind again and again.

And yes, he thought. Yes, he knew how important she was to him now. She pled for his swift return, and considering the rapid decline of Viserys—which none were privy of—he suspected the worst. He feared the leech who probably sat the throne: Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King . . . And the prince thought lesser of him than any other; his was a one of self-interest, one whom served only his House and not the realm.

Daemon was utterly aware of what was at stake. The coming storm which served to overshadow even what was happening in the Stepstones. Rhaenyra needs me, he thought, to weather her from what was to come.

He turned to Lord Corlys, the Sea Snake.

"Send me," he said,

"I will go it alone."