PROLOGUE
It is late autumn, early morning. Just how early is a mystery. It is cool in the godswood, mist drifting upwards to sheathe the weirwood's bloodened visage, as its leaves dance and loom over her. The cottonwood trees, tinged a shade of apricot, join in playfulness as a brisk gust sweeps through. Somewhere far off, she observes, the ringing of temple bells seems distant . . . more so than usual.
She is alone in the garden, quietly contemplating the year's past events. Her mother has been taken from her—likewise her baby brother, Baelon. It is unfair, she thinks, and yet these cruelties serve to teach a powerful lesson, quelling her very innocence.
A fortnight's passed since her ninth name day, yet the world already seems so much clearer to her. Grand Maester Runciter tutors her brusquely now, though with a purpose in its austerity. With his teachings preceding even her first utterances of speech, she's finally coming to an understanding of the world, and even its many burdens. Keen and sprightly, she remembers his assessment of her, wiser still, than her peers, and twofold beyond her years.
She finds solace there in her family's histories, reminding her, and making it painfully clear her own sufferings are no more unique than the shade of her long, platinum hair. Yes, she muses, suffering is a birthright, a treasure of her lineage.
Nobody ever comes to this place anymore. Not even Alicent Hightower, ever since her consequential marriage to her king and father, Viserys Targaryen. Their once-amiable, oft-close relationship has all but faded, becoming nothing more than a fond memory. Indeed, the queen is much older than herself, and for that reason she serves a higher cause. She is of age, she ponders, an age where duty overcomes personal interest. It's an age she herself is swiftly approaching, and not even the Seven themselves can still time.
And with the spring of her maidenhood blossoms new feelings and sensations which she has so seldomly thought of, if she's ever considered them at all. She's grown half a head taller so quickly, her gentle curves defining themselves ever-so-slightly. Indeed, the changes are fresh and, in its birth; yet it is still utterly apparent to even herself . . . and others as well.
After her morning lessons with Grand Maester Runciter, she always finds herself alone like this— though sometimes she isn't. She mistakenly thinks herself abandoned, by both her father and her close friend, yet it isn't altogether true. Her deft and sometimes-too-close uncle always seems to find himself near her side.
And what a comfort he's been to her in this past year, and even before that. When she first mounted Syrax, it is he who guided her through the soaring skies, coaxing her and bringing great relief when no one else bothered. When she pours upon the stories and histories of her great ancestors, she pictures him in her mind: he is bold and fearless, a Dragonlord and rider like herself. Sheathed and clinging tightly at his hip is the vaunted blade, Dark Sister, its mere presence instilling feelings of greatness and pride of family in her. Never has she seen it wrest from its sheathe, and it fills her with a childlike wonder reflecting her age. And now, he has relieved the gaping hole in her heart born from the departure of her dearest mother.
Their relationship has since permeated with numerous wonderful colours, painting her bleak world to be as the numerous rainbows she spies in the vistas over Aegon's high hill. Their fondness for one another already transcends their uncle-niece relation. It is something more, yet she is not so ready to assume it could give true life to her . . . fantasies. Young as she is, there is something about the histories, particularly that of the Old King and his sister, Alysanne Targaryen, which fills her with such feelings of wonder and amazement. She was wed to the king so young, no more an age than of three-and-ten. Grand Maester Runciter wants to overlook that innocent truth, but she knows better. Even in her infinite youth, she desires her life to mimic that of her forebearers. If only he knew, she laments, if only I wasn't so young as I am.
She wonders about her father often; how low he will think of her if he becomes privy of her salacious thoughts. It will be scandalous, she presumes, if the king's court knows the Princess of Dragonstone fancies her uncle. Twice the sum of her age as he is . . . it will be abhorrent indeed. Still, it is there, even in the absence of a father; the daughter in her dangling dangerously over a cliff, fastened by merely a thread. Yet she finds herself not caring of any consequence, nor any other concern of dear import. Thus remains a painful fact, one being her uncle is reluctant to pursue any real relationship with her. She is indeed too young for him, but it doesn't stop her from desiring him any less.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne—the Realm's Delight, as she's been celebrated. Her titles, monikers, and other bestowals betray her sinister desires. The blood of the dragon fills her with life. It is in her very flesh and blood, the desire to be impetuous and take what she wants.
No, it is her birthright to desire him, she tells herself. It is my birthright, she repeats, and none shall take that from me.
She stretches her arms outward and falls backward onto the mossy floor of the godswood. Perhaps it is from dizziness, she muses, dizzy with excitement and failing miserably to keep her stony guise. She feels undignified, almost childlike. There are whispers from the king's court about how her pretense betrays no indication of her young years. Perhaps, for once, she is free and alone to reveal her true self.
And to that point, she is alone. Gone are the Kingsguard who normally watch over her with all their statuesque stoicism. Of course they are, she thinks, because I sent them away.
She lets a small smile form in the corner of her lips. She loves this morning, even if she is alone, because in solitude she is left with the comfort of her thoughts. And so, she reaches out her senses —stretches her mind to hear the birds, to listen to the lesser winds, and even smell the blood red sap trickling down the weirwood.
She is wearing a golden dress fit for a Princess of Dragonstone. As much as she loves the colours of her esteemed House, she finds the brighter colours a perfect match for her alabaster skin and striking hair. And in her hair is a white peony, which she plucked earlier from the gardens of the godswood. It is perfect, she assumes, no doubt it will catch his eye.
On cue, she hears the opening and shuttering of bronze doors—the ones which lead to the Great Hall. He loves this place too, she muses.
A lone pair of footsteps find themselves encroaching upon her. She knows who they belong to.
Only one man will approach the Princess of Dragonstone without announcement.
She is not afraid of him, she feels. Quite the opposite, in fact. She has a small moment to wonder to herself, who is going to speak first?
"I saw you from the inner corridor," he says quietly, answering her question.
Rhaenyra finds her answer, sits up in response. His silky voice soothes her. In the Common Tongue, it's enough to assuage even the worst of her headaches, but when he speaks High Valyrian to her, and only her, she falls deeply under his spell. She wishes to hear it. To hear what he must share amidst their privacy. Her mind works like this. Her heart is racing, she feels.
With hands wound tightly behind her back, she whispers back, "Looking for me, were you, Uncle?"
She makes a point to emphasize his relation to her. It is too forward, she feels. She's too young, she reminds herself. He's not interested.
He says nothing. Yet, she can see him eyeing the flower in her hair. A small smile graces his lips, but she doesn't pay heed to it. Of course he's not interested, Rhaenyra thinks. She's nothing more than a child to him. It will be an affront to the crown—to her father, and the Seven Kingdoms itself if she acts upon her impulses.
She does not say that aloud. She says, "Nuncle, would you please help me up?"
She offers him her arm. He looks at her. His eyes of lilac narrow, brow furrowing beneath his wild mane of gold and silver. Her own eyes rest upon him almost expectantly—of what, she does not know. He is dressed in the colours of their House, and from head-to-toe he is Targaryen: a living, breathing dragon, trapped in human form. He is the history books she so studiously pours over in her spare time, come to extravagant life. And yet, the lines in the corners of his eyes speak of some small measure of grief, though she knows not what spurred it.
In silence, Daemon bows. He offers his own arm, taking her by the forearm and placing his hand on the small of her back. His large hands can envelope her by themselves, his age and size far beyond her own, for she is but a child. This ever-prevalent fact bothers her not. All she can feel is the gentleness and tenderness of his touch, even innocent in its offering.
He says, "You look thin, Princess. Have you been eating?"
"My appetite has lessened as of late," she replies. Upright now, she looks up at him wondrously from her low position.
His hand, still on the small of her back, skitters across almost painfully slow until its warmth fades for good. She bemoans this, but does not show it outwardly.
"Why?" he asks, almost suddenly. His left-hand rests on the pommel of Dark Sister. "Is that fool, Septon Eustace, bothering you again? I warned him last time about his teachings. They dampen one's taste for . . . worldly things."
She finds herself shaking her head. "No, Uncle, that's not the reason why." She pauses, looks between her two feet. She clicks her heels together and continues, "Since the passing of Mother, I haven't had much of an interest in those things. I've been deep in my studies under Maester Runciter. He is very strict, though he says I'm well learned for my age."
"Indeed, you are," Daemon agrees. He smiles wider and pats her on the head approvingly. "You have the blood of the dragon in you, Princess. Your maturity is without equal. Do remember you took claimant to Syrax shortly after your seventh name day. A young, wise, and daring dragonrider you are." He pauses, the sharp features of his face softening. "Wise, and beautiful," he finishes in High Valyrian.
She finds herself in a dream. "Oh, Nuncle," Rhaenyra whispers amorously. She feels his fingers brush over her reddening cheek. The sensation of such a thing is almost too much for her to process.
She regrets the way she uttered those words. It was more like a moan than anything. She's losing herself again, she realizes. Still doesn't care.
He pulls back his hand to rest again at his side. Toying Dark Sister with the other, he grins, says, "I brought something for you."
Pure elation courses through her. Her smile stretches almost from ear to ear. "Oh, wonderful! The Tyroshi cutlass you brought home last month; it's on display just above my bed."
"Is it, now?" Daemon replies cheekily. He looks down at her, says, "Turn around."
Rhaenyra nods her head furiously and lets out a childish giggle. He brings that side of her out, the side of her which scarcely exists anymore. She regrets that fact, but cherishes these moments.
"I've found something truly special for you, Rhaenyra," he says softly.
The sound of him uttering her name enthrals her. He is close to her, closer than before she turned around. She never hears his footsteps, but the jingling of a small chain. Moments later, she feels his hands brush over her neck, striking her with a chill. His touch has that effect on her.
"Here it is," he whispers, pushing her hair to the side.
Cool to the touch, the pendant and chain meets with her ever-so-warming skin, and settles on her chest. Indeed, she grows unknowingly hot, close to him like so, and her heart pounds heavy beneath her breast. Perhaps he can feel it, she wonders, perhaps he knows just what he does to her.
With the pendant around her neck, his hands flee from her, giving her one last squeeze on the shoulders. Already, the absence of his touch is felt. She wants him to embrace her again, closely, even more so than before. She desires the feelings of intimacy she's never experienced in her young years.
He seems to come to another conclusion, though. He looks down at her with pride, whispers, "It's wonderful; perfect, even. Such a jewelled pendant belonged to Queen Alysanne, gifted by my grandsire, the Old King himself on their wedding day." In that moment, a fire lights inside Rhaenyra.
She touches the sigil near her breast. "It's Valyrian steel," she says, breathlessly. Famished lungs suck in another breath. "Thank you, this is most kind a gesture." "I just thought it would suit your beauty," he says evenly.
Her listless digits toy with the bestowal. It's the sigil of her House, a three-headed red dragon. Gloriously adorned with jewels and set upon Valyrian steel, it brings a sense of wonderment to her unlike any other.
She hasn't expected such a thing, not today. She meets his gaze as he stares proudly down at her from beneath the ancient weirwood. A sense of pride is painted on his features, pride, and love.
They both fall silent. Mostly silence all around them now, as well, as the godswood rests just for them. With the winds settling, the birds quiet and tentative to their guests, Rhaenyra can only look upon her uncle with secret love.
She wishes to unsheathe that secret, much like Daemon unsheathes Dark Sister in his countless tourneys and other adventures he plays with. His life is adventure, a ballad of fire and blood. It is not easy, she thinks, to keep such feelings deep within myself.
And this man is twice her age, and then some. She reminds herself of her young stature, remembers that yes, she is indeed a child. What kind of love can he have for a child like herself?
Nothing close to what she holds for him, she assumes.
Take me to wife, she imagines herself saying. Of course, she dares not utter such things aloud.
Instead, she hears him laugh—her reward. "You are unique, even for a Targaryen princess," Daemon says at length, "but Rhaenyra, you are growing quickly . . ." His tone changes. She looks up at him, hears, ". . . Growing more beautiful by the day."
Rhaenyra is stunned by his words.
"Am I truly?" she asks.
Daemon nods. "Always remember one thing, Princess," he says. "Even beautiful as you are, the world is expecting you to be weak. You must be strong. You will be strong."
His sincerity breaks her. She's short of breath, but finds some words. "I will be strong," she declares. "I must be, for Mother and Father . . . and for you, Uncle."
There. Said aloud for all to hear. Only one other does. Can she be anymore plain with her feelings?
Perhaps not.
Mayhaps she can confess to him everything, right here and now. Here in this very godswood, where kings and queens make their dwelling since the time of Aegon the Dragon. All her ancestors are here with her, wandering before this weirwood, hand-in-hand as one, in unison and strength.
They are watching me, she thinks, observing quietly, patiently.
"That's most good," Daemon says abruptly. He dons a somber smile then. "You must keep that strength in my absence . . . I will be going away for a time, and I do not know when I shall return." She blinks at that. She doesn't believe what she's hearing. "Whatever do you mean, Uncle?"
"I'm so sorry, Rhaenyra," he replies quietly. A fainter smile. "I must take my leave, but I will come back to you someday, I promise."
Tears well up. She blinks them out, and down they trickle. "But . . . where are you to go?" she asks, stammering. It's hard to speak through the pain.
"Across the sea, for another adventure."
She feels ill and warm, blazing hot even, with love and sorrow consuming her. She doesn't know what to feel, but she holds his gaze as best she can. He sees her pain, she knows this. "I don't want you to go, Uncle. Please, stay here . . . with me. We can go riding, off together to one of your special places—the places where people can't see us."
He gives her another brief smile. "I leave before nightfall," he admits. "Caraxes is ready and waiting . . ."
Time stops for Rhaenyra. Suddenly, she is hugging him so tightly she may never let go. She reaches only just above his waist, but nevertheless, she buries herself as hard as she can into his protective grasp. He's like a castle keep for her, where she feels safe and under guard. She must stay with him.
She doesn't know it, but she's wailing like a child now. She likens herself to an adult, but it isn't true. She is a child of nine, no more, and no less.
Daemon swallows hard. She hears this, hears him say, "I will never abandon my flesh and blood, Rhaenyra. One day, I shall return to you bearing a great many gifts from across the Narrow Sea. And when you come of age, you will join me. We will cross it, together, and I'll take you to those far off lands—the ones from my stories, and I'll show you all there is to see."
His kind words bring little comfort. She whimpers, saying, "Don't go . . . Take me with you, please!"
It is difficult to speak through sobs. He must feel her love, she knows this. How can he not?
He holds her tightly like that, and for quite some time they stay there in the godswood. I mustn't let him go, she promises herself. She will not let him go.
The sky is bright, and light fills the courtyard brilliantly. He finally releases her from his hold, cupping her cheeks with both hands. Suddenly, his touch fades. He's departing now—she knows this, sees this.
Her eyes feel swollen now. She must look like such a child to him. How can he ever love her as she loves him? A man can never love a child, she thinks.
Daemon, frowning now, stricken by his own grief, places a chaste kiss on her forehead.
"Please, come back to me," she says.
And extends her hand outward to him, toward the man she loves.