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Chapter 4 (A Feast with Secrets), Chapter 5 (A Dragon's Passion), Chapter 6 (Silver Wings, Valyrian Lies), Chapter 7 (Oaths Broken, Hearts Shattered), Chapter 8 (Wounded Pride and Plotting Queens), and Chapter 9 (When Dragons Play the Game) are already available for Patrons.
The silver-backed looking glass reflected Rhaenyra Targaryen in all her glory as her handmaidens fussed around her like busy little birds. One arranged her silver-gold hair into an intricate series of braids interwoven with rubies, while another adjusted the crimson silk of her gown, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the fabric.
"A little tighter, Alarra," Rhaenyra commanded, inhaling sharply as the handmaiden cinched her corset. "I want every eye in that hall to remember who is heir to the Iron Throne."
"Yes, Princess," Alarra murmured, pulling the laces with practiced precision.
Rhaenyra studied her reflection with critical eyes. The feast tonight would mark the beginning of a week of tedious celebrations, culminating in her wedding to Laenor Velaryon. The thought alone was enough to sour her mood. Of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, she thought bitterly, Father had to choose the one who would rather bed him than me.
"They say Lord Velaryon brought fifty ships," whispered Jeyne, the youngest of her handmaidens, as she sorted through Rhaenyra's jewelry collection. "The harbor looks like a forest of masts."
"The Sea Snake always did have a flair for the dramatic," Rhaenyra replied, selecting a pair of dangling ruby earrings that matched the stones in her hair. "Though I suppose I should be flattered. All this pageantry for me."
"For the wedding, Princess," corrected Sera, her oldest handmaiden, before adding hastily, "Which is, of course, all about you."
Rhaenyra shot her a look that silenced further commentary. The pageantry was indeed impressive—guests from all corners of the realm had descended upon King's Landing for the spectacle. Under different circumstances, she might have reveled in being the center of such attention. If only the groom were different. Uncle Daemon would have been a better match. Even Harwin...
A firm knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Enter," she called out, expecting another servant with yet another message about tonight's seating arrangements.
Instead, Ser Harwin Strong's broad frame filled the doorway. The handmaidens immediately lowered their eyes, though Rhaenyra caught the blush spreading across Jeyne's cheeks. Harwin had that effect on women.
"Princess," he bowed, his eyes appreciatively taking in her appearance. "You look radiant."
"Ser Harwin," she replied, allowing a genuine smile to cross her lips. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Surely the Commander of the City Watch has more pressing matters than delivering messages himself?"
"I thought you might want to hear this directly." Harwin's voice dropped slightly. "There's talk of some strange new arrivals at court. Your father has apparently invited them to stay in the Red Keep."
Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow. "New arrivals? At this late hour? The feast begins in less than two hours."
"The same knight I mentioned two days ago—the one who handily defeated four Gold Cloaks in training." Harwin's expression conveyed both admiration and wariness. "He's been invited to the feast, along with his wife."
"Four Gold Cloaks?" Rhaenyra scoffed, turning back to her reflection. "That's hardly impressive, Harwin. The City Watch isn't exactly known for its fighting prowess. My uncle Daemon could cut through a dozen of them without breaking a sweat."
"He didn't just defeat them, Princess. He moved like... well, like nothing I've ever seen. Not a single blow landed on him." Harwin leaned against the doorframe. "And there's more. His wife apparently bears a striking resemblance to you."
This caught Rhaenyra's attention as she turned to face him. "To me?"
The handmaidens, who had been pretending not to listen, erupted into chatter.
"It's true, Princess!" Alarra exclaimed. "I saw her in the gardens with the king earlier today. The resemblance is—silver-gold hair, violet eyes..."
"I heard she's from Essos," added Sera. "But speaks the Common Tongue without an accent."
"And her husband is Northern, they say," Jeyne chimed in, eyes bright with gossip. "But with purple eyes! Can you imagine? A Northerner with Valyrian blood! They say he is very handsome, too!!"
"That's quite enough," Rhaenyra snapped, suddenly irritated. How dare these servants compare some unknown common woman to me? "I'm sure this woman's resemblance to me is greatly exaggerated. Half the serving girls in this castle can't tell one noble from another."
The handmaidens fell silent, chastened.
Harwin, however, looked amused. "Regardless, Princess, I thought you should know before you encounter them tonight. Your father seems quite taken with them already."
"Does he now?" Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly. Her father was too trusting by half. "Well, I suppose we'll see what all the fuss is about at the feast."
Harwin bowed again. "I should return to my duties. With so many visitors in the city, the Gold Cloaks must be extra vigilant."
"Thank you for the warning, Ser Harwin," Rhaenyra said, softening her tone. "I appreciate your... attentiveness."
After he left, Rhaenyra dismissed her handmaidens' renewed attempts at gossip with a wave of her hand. "Enough about these strangers. Is my necklace prepared?"
As if on cue, another knock sounded at the door. This time, a royal page entered, bearing a small ornate box with the Targaryen seal.
"Princess, a gift from His Grace, to be worn tonight," the page announced, presenting the box with a deep bow.
Rhaenyra opened it to find an exquisite pendant—a dragon's egg crafted from obsidian, wrapped in bands of red gold and studded with tiny rubies that caught the light like flames. A small note accompanied it in her father's hand:
For my daughter, the future queen. Wear this tonight with pride. We have some interesting new arrivals to court that I'm eager for you to meet. —Father
Rhaenyra's lips curved into a smile as she lifted the pendant from its velvet nest. Perhaps this feast wouldn't be as tedious as she had feared. New arrivals that have captured Father's interest enough to warrant a note? Her melancholy gave way to curiosity.
"Sera, help me with this necklace," she commanded, her mood suddenly improved. "And bring me the dragon hair pins as well. If I'm to meet these strangers tonight, I want there to be no doubt about who is the true dragon in the Red Keep."
As the handmaidens rushed to obey, Rhaenyra's mind was working fast. Whoever these mysterious guests were, they had succeeded in one thing already—piquing her interest in what promised to be an otherwise predictable evening.
.
.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with the light of a thousand candles. Rhaenyra sat beside her father, adorned in crimson and black, the obsidian dragon egg pendant gleaming at her throat. She surveyed the gathering with barely concealed satisfaction—all this pageantry, all these noble houses assembled to witness her wedding.
The herald's voice boomed across the hall as the doors swung open. "Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark, Lord of the Tides, and Admiral of the Sea, the Sea Snake!"
Corlys entered with characteristic grandeur, his sea-green doublet embroidered with silver seahorses and pearls that must have cost a small fortune.
"Lady Rhaenys Targaryen, wife to Lord Corlys, daughter of Prince Aemon Targaryen!"
Rhaenys walked with the dignity of the queen she might have been, her bearing regal despite the crown she had been denied.
"Ser Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark, rider of the dragon Seasmoke!"
Rhaenyra straightened imperceptibly as her betrothed entered. Laenor was handsome enough, she supposed, with the classic Valyrian beauty of his lineage. His silver-white hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken hours, and his sea-green doublet matched his father's, though with notably more embellishment.
"Lady Laena Velaryon, daughter of Lord Corlys and Lady Rhaenys, rider of the dragon Vhagar!"
Laena entered with a natural grace that her brother lacked, her smile genuine as she caught Rhaenyra's eye. At least I'll gain a good-sister from this farce, Rhaenyra thought.
The Velaryons made their way to the high table, where King Viserys rose to welcome them. Laenor took his assigned seat beside Rhaenyra, offering a polite bow.
"Princess," he greeted her. "You look radiant tonight."
"Thank you, Ser Laenor," she replied with practiced courtesy. "I hope you are liking your chambers."
"As pleasant as can be expected," he answered, his eyes already drifting toward the lower tables where Ser Joffrey Lonmouth was being seated with the other knights.
Laena, seated on Rhaenyra's other side, leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. "He spent most of the voyage being violently ill over the railing," she whispered. "The Sea Snake's son, afraid of a little wave."
Rhaenyra suppressed a laugh. "How fortunate that our union won't require much sailing."
"Indeed. Though you'll have to tolerate his endless prattling about ship designs nonetheless." Laena's eyes sparkled with mischief. "He knows the function of every sail and rope, even if he can't stomach using them."
King Viserys stood, raising his goblet, and the hall fell silent.
"My lords and ladies," his voice carried through the hall, "we gather to celebrate the upcoming union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, a joining of the blood of Old Valyria." He nodded toward Corlys and Rhaenys. "But before we proceed with tonight's festivities, I would like to introduce two special guests who have recently arrived in King's Landing."
Rhaenyra frowned slightly.
Viserys gestured toward one of the lower tables. "Lord Daeron and Lady Daenerys, would you honor us by joining the high table?"
A ripple of whispers spread through the hall as two figures rose. Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat. The woman—Gods, she does look like me—had the same silver-gold hair, though worn in a simpler style, and similar facial features that marked her unmistakably as having Valyrian blood. But it was her eyes that struck Rhaenyra most deeply—violet like her own.
The man beside her was equally striking, though in a different way. Tall and lean, with dark hair save for a curious white streak at his temple. His beard was neatly trimmed, his face solemn yet handsome in a way that was distinctly Northern. But as he raised his gaze to the high table, Rhaenyra saw it—those eyes. Unmistakably Valyrian purple, set in a face that otherwise spoke of First Men ancestry.
"Gods, he's handsome," Laena murmured beside her.
The pair approached the high table, and Rhaenyra found herself studying the man's features more closely. Beyond the striking eyes, there was something in the shape of his jaw, the set of his cheekbones—subtle markers of Valyrian blood that most wouldn't notice but that she, having grown up surrounded by such features, could easily discern.
"Your Grace," they both bowed deeply before the king.
"My lords and ladies," Viserys announced, "Lord Daeron and Lady Daenerys have traveled far and have fascinating tales to tell. I have invited them to join us for the wedding festivities."
Rhaenyra glanced at Queen Alicent, whose face had gone rigid with disapproval. The queen leaned toward her father, Otto Hightower, and whispered something that made the Hand's eyes narrow as he studied the newcomers.
"Come," Viserys gestured to two empty seats that servants hastily prepared between his own position and where Ser Laenor sat. "Join us."
The unexpected guests took their places, and Rhaenyra found herself directly across from Daenerys, whose resemblance to her was even more uncanny up close. The woman looked at her with a polite smile, but her eyes had that expression on her face as if she knew everything.
An awkward silence fell over their section of the high table until Viserys, ever the genial host, broke it. "Lord Daeron was telling me fascinating stories of his travels beyond the Wall," he said, reaching for more wine. "Apparently, he lived among the wildlings for a time."
"Beyond the Wall?" Laenor asked, suddenly interested despite himself. "Why would anyone willingly go there?"
"Curiosity," Daeron replied with an engaging smile that transformed his solemn face. "The maps all end at the Wall, but the land continues. I wanted to see what lay beyond those ancient stones that most men only ever view from one side."
"And how did you manage that?" Rhaenyra asked, finding herself drawn into his tale despite her skepticism. "The Night's Watch guards the passages with considerable vigilance."
"The Wall is vast, Princess," Daeron answered. "Three hundred miles from shadow tower to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. And for those who know where to look, there are ways through that even the Watch has forgotten."
"You speak of secret passages?" Viserys leaned forward, intrigued.
"Ancient tunnels, Your Grace," Daeron nodded, taking a measured sip of wine. "Remnants of a time when the Wall served a different purpose, perhaps. I found one near the Nightfort—a passage they call the Black Gate."
"And what did you find beyond the Wall, Lord Daeron?" Laena asked, her eyes shining with interest.
"A world both harsher and more wondrous than you could imagine," he replied, his purple eyes distant with memory. "Frozen waterfalls taller than the Red Keep. Forests that have never known an axe. And people—wildlings, we call them—who live free, answering to no king or lord."
"Savages," someone muttered from down the table.
"Survivors," Daeron corrected gently. "They face enemies we in the South have forgotten."
Before she could inquire further, Laena leaned forward, her interest evident. "And where are you from originally, Lord Daeron? I wasn't aware any Northern houses had members with Valyrian features."
"You have a keen eye, Lady Laena," Daeron replied. "My father had Valyrian blood, while my mother was from the North."
This statement drew curious looks from the Northern lords seated at a lower table who had apparently been listening to the exchange. Rhaenyra noted how their expressions ranged from skepticism to outright disbelief, especially from Lord Stark who seemed like he was looking at Daeron's face as if he knew him somehow.
"A rare combination," Rhaenyra observed. "Valyrian blood runs thin in Westeros, outside of Houses Targaryen, Velaryon, and a few others."
"Indeed it does, Princess," Daenerys spoke for the first time, her voice melodious yet with an undercurrent of authority that Rhaenyra found both familiar and irritating. "Which makes those of us who carry it all the more connected, wouldn't you agree?"
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed slightly. Was that presumption she detected? "Blood is just one measure of connection, my lady. Position and power often speak louder."
"Well said, Princess," Daenerys replied with a smile that seemed genuinely warm. "Though in my experience, blood and fire have a way of making themselves heard above all else."
Blood and fire. The words of House Targaryen, spoken so casually by this stranger with her face. Rhaenyra felt a prickle of unease.
"And you, Lady Daenerys," Corlys Velaryon called from further down the table, his keen eyes having missed nothing of the exchange. "Your features are distinctly Valyrian. From which house do you claim descent?"
A brief, almost imperceptible glance passed between Daenerys and Daeron before she answered. "My family lineage is... complicated, Lord Corlys. I was raised in Essos, though Westeros has always been my true home."
"Essos contains the remnants of many Valyrian families," Rhaenys observed, her gaze shrewd. "Though few with such pronounced features as yours."
"Indeed, my lady," Daenerys replied evenly. "The blood of Old Valyria runs strongly in me, as I'm sure you can see."
"Almost as strongly as it does in Princess Rhaenyra," Laena remarked, glancing between them. "The resemblance is remarkable."
"A curious coincidence," Rhaenyra said, reaching for her wine. Or perhaps not a coincidence at all, she thought, remembering the rumors of her Daemon's numerous bastards throughout the realm. Could this woman be one of them? But that wouldn't explain her age—she appeared to be older than Rhaenyra herself.
"My wife has been told she resembles Valyrians of old," Daeron interjected smoothly. "The paintings and descriptions from ancient texts."
"You've studied Valyrian history?" Rhaenyra asked, surprised to find a Northerner with such interests.
"My lord husband has studied many things," Daenerys replied with evident pride. "His knowledge extends far beyond what most would expect."
"How did you two meet?" Laena asked, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Daeron. "A Northern man and a woman from Essos—it seems an unlikely pairing."
"We both fought in the same war," Daeron answered, his expression momentarily darkening. "Against a common enemy."
"A war?" Laenor perked up. "In Essos? Which one?"
Again, that look passed between Daeron and Daenerys—quick, coordinated, as if they had navigated such questions many times before.
"I served with a sellsword company in Meereen," Daeron explained, his tone shifting to something more measured. "Last year, the city was embroiled in conflict—slave masters attempting to reclaim their power after a failed rebellion."
"A sellsword?" Corlys raised an eyebrow. "An unusual occupation for a man of noble bearing."
"It pays well," Daeron replied with a half-smile. "And offers opportunities to see parts of the world most never will. The Bay of Dragons—or Slaver's Bay, as many still call it—is a region of both terrible cruelty and remarkable beauty."
"And that's where you met Lady Daenerys?" Laena asked, glancing between them.
"Indeed," Daenerys answered before Daeron could speak. "I was in Meereen on... business of my own. Our paths crossed during the conflict."
"A romantic meeting on the battlefield," Laena sighed appreciatively.
"Not exactly romantic," Daeron chuckled, the sound warm and rich. "I believe her first words to me were a command to either join her cause or leave the city immediately."
"I've found that directness often yields the best results," Daenerys replied with a smile, her eyes meeting Daeron's with unmistakable affection.
"And clearly, you chose to join her cause," Rhaenyra observed, noting the ease between them.
"It proved to be the wisest decision I ever made," Daeron said simply, his gaze never leaving Daenerys.
Rhaenyra studied them both carefully. There was something they weren't saying—something significant. And judging by the expressions of Corlys and Rhaenys further down the table, they sensed it too.
"And what brings you to King's Landing?" Rhaenyra asked directly. "Specifically during my wedding festivities?"
"Fortune and timing, Princess," Daenerys replied with that same warm smile that somehow managed to seem both genuine and carefully constructed. "We arrived in Westeros only recently, and word of the grand celebration drew us to the capital."
"Where we had the good fortune to meet your father in the gardens," Daeron added.
"Yes, quite the coincidence," Rhaenyra remarked dryly.
Viserys, who had been listening with evident enjoyment, clapped his hands. "And I'm glad for it! Fresh faces and new stories are always welcome, especially when they're as intriguing as Lord Daeron's tales of Beyond the Wall."
"Indeed," Alicent's cool voice cut in from Viserys's other side. "So intriguing that one wonders why we've never heard of a man with Valyrian eyes in the North before."
"The North is vast, your grace," Daeron replied respectfully. "Many come and go without notice, especially those who keep to themselves."
"And yet here you are, noticed by the king himself," Alicent observed with a tight smile.
"A fortunate accident," Daeron said, meeting the queen's gaze.
Rhaenyra found herself unexpectedly impressed by his composure. Few could withstand Alicent's thinly veiled hostility without flinching.
"I think it's marvelous," Laena declared, breaking the tension. "Lord Daeron, you must tell me more about your time beyond the Wall. I've always wondered what lies in those frozen lands."
"Danger and beauty, my lady," he replied, his expression softening slightly. "It's quite cold there."
"I'd wager you've faced worse dangers than cold," Laena said, leaning toward him with interest.
Rhaenyra felt an unexpected twinge of... something. Not jealousy, surely. This man was nothing to her. Yet as she watched Laena openly flirting with him, she found herself studying his hands—strong and calloused, bearing the unmistakable marks of a swordsman—and the breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark doublet. For a fleeting moment, a thought crossed her mind about what else might be proportional to that powerful frame, and she felt her cheeks warm.
As servants cleared away the remnants of the first course, Queen Alicent leaned forward, her green eyes sharp with suspicion. The conversation around the high table had turned to pleasantries, but she had been watching the strangers with growing unease throughout the meal.
"You mentioned fighting in wars, Lord Daeron," Alicent said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of the feast. "I'm curious about these conflicts you've participated in. They must have been significant to shape such a... capable warrior."
The way she emphasized the word suggested doubt, but Daeron met her gaze evenly. Rhaenyra noticed that the hall wasn't paying much attention to them; they were having their own talk, except for Lord Stark; she noticed the way he was looking at Lord Daeron.
"I've fought in several conflicts, Your Grace," Daeron replied. "Some more memorable than others."
"Perhaps you could enlighten us about one of these memorable battles," Alicent pressed, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Especially those in Essos you mentioned. I'm certain my father would be interested as well, given his extensive knowledge of foreign affairs."
Otto Hightower, seated beside his daughter, nodded with thinly veiled skepticism.
Daeron took a sip of wine before answering. "Several years ago, I fought against a Dothraki khalasar that had been raiding merchant caravans east of Qohor. They had grown bold, venturing closer to the Free Cities than they typically dare."
"The Dothraki?" Corlys Velaryon's interest was immediately piqued. "Savage horse-lords. I've encountered them once or twice in my voyages. Not enemies to be taken lightly."
"No, they are not," Daeron agreed. "Extraordinary horsemen and fearsome with their arakhs. A khalasar of even a modest size can devastate unprepared settlements. The khalasar attacked our caravan near the Forest of Qohor. They outnumbered us three to one."
"Yet you survived," Alicent observed.
"We had prepared an ambush," Daeron said. "Used the terrain to our advantage. Even Dothraki aren't invincible when their horses cannot maneuver effectively."
"My husband has faced many formidable foes," Daenerys interjected with quiet pride. "Though perhaps his most impressive victory was against the one-eyed pirate captain on the Shivering Sea."
This comment drew Corlys's full attention. "A pirate, you say? The Shivering Sea breeds some of the most ruthless raiders in the world."
"Was it Saan's fleet?" Laenor asked eagerly, seemingly forgetting his customary reticence. "I've heard tales of their fearsome reputation."
"No, this was a lone captain," Daeron replied. "A man called Euron Crow's Eye, commanding a ship with black sails and a red hull. He claimed to have sailed the Smoking Sea and lived."
Corlys scoffed. "No ship that enters the Smoking Sea returns. The man was clearly a liar along with being a pirate."
"Perhaps," Daeron conceded. "Though he possessed items that lent some credence to his claims. Including a Valyrian steel sword he called 'Silencer.'"
A hush fell over the high table. Even the musicians seemed to play more softly as everyone's attention focused on Daeron.
"Valyrian steel?" Viserys leaned forward, his interest unmistakable. As a collector of Valyrian artifacts, the mention of an unknown blade immediately captured his attention.
"Yes, Your Grace," Daeron confirmed. "A longsword with rippling red patterns in the steel. The hilt was fashioned from what appeared to be dragonbone."
"And what became of this remarkable weapon?" Rhaenys asked, her violet eyes narrowed slightly.
"It now belongs to my husband," Daenerys answered with a smile. "The pirate's final mistake was challenging Daeron to single combat."
Alicent's expression darkened with disbelief. "You expect us to believe you possess a Valyrian steel sword that no one has ever heard of? There are fewer than two hundred such blades in existence, and all are well-documented."
"Not all, Your Grace," Daeron countered respectfully. "Many were lost in the Doom, and others have disappeared over the centuries. The blade I took from the pirate could well be one of those."
"A convenient claim," Otto Hightower remarked coolly, "yet impossible to verify."
"On the contrary," Daeron replied, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of a sword at his waist that the table had previously concealed. "I carry it with me."
The Kingsguard tensed visibly, hands moving to their own weapons. Bringing arms to a royal feast was not forbidden for noble guests, but drawing steel in the presence of the king was another matter entirely.
"You brought a sword to my feast?" Viserys asked, more curious than offended.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," Daeron said with a bow of his head. "Where I come from, a man keeps his blade close. I intended no disrespect."
"May we see this supposed Valyrian steel?" Alicent challenged, her voice dripping with skepticism.
"I would not presume to draw a weapon in His Grace's presence," Daeron replied carefully.
Viserys waved a hand dismissively. "You have my permission to show us the blade, provided it remains mostly within its scabbard. My curiosity is piqued."
With deliberate movements, Daeron unstrapped the sword from his waist. The sheath itself was remarkable—a deep crimson that seemed to shimmer like liquid blood in the torchlight, banded with what appeared to be dark iron.
The Kingsguard watched with hawkish attention as Daeron respectfully presented the sheathed weapon to the king, hilt first.
Viserys took it with evident excitement. The sword was longer than a typical longsword but not quite as massive as a greatsword—proportioned perfectly for a man of Daeron's height and build. The hilt was indeed pale as bone, wrapped in black leather with a pommel shaped like a snarling wolf's head with ruby eyes.
With reverent care, Viserys drew the blade a few inches from its sheath. His sharp intake of breath was audible to all at the high table.
"Gods be good," he whispered.
The distinctive rippling patterns of Valyrian steel were unmistakable—dark crimson against lighter steel, like blood swirling in water. Even partially revealed, the blade's exceptional quality was evident to anyone with knowledge of weaponry.
"It is genuine," Viserys declared, his voice filled with awe. He carefully slid the blade back into its sheath. "And remarkably well-preserved. How old do you believe it to be?"
"I cannot say with certainty, Your Grace," Daeron answered. "Though the pirate claimed it was forged before the Doom."
Viserys handed the sword back to Daeron with visible reluctance. "A magnificent weapon. Have you named it?"
"It already had a name, Your Grace," Daeron replied as he reattached the sword to his belt. "Stormsong."
"Stormsong," Viserys repeated, savoring the word. "A fitting name for such a blade."
Even Alicent seemed momentarily chastened by the indisputable evidence of the Valyrian steel. She might not have been particularly knowledgeable about swords, but even she recognized the rarity and value of such a weapon.
"How came a pirate by such a treasure?" Corlys asked, professional interest evident in his voice. "Valyrian steel is beyond price."
"He insisted that he had taken it from old Valyria, but I wasn't there to confirm his story."
"And now it belongs to you," Rhaenyra observed, studying Daeron with new interest. "A Northerner with Valyrian eyes and a Valyrian blade. You are full of contradictions, Lord Daeron."
"Life often leads us down unexpected paths, Princess," he replied, his gaze meeting hers.
Rhaenyra felt a curious warmth spread through her at the directness of his gaze. Something in those purple eyes seemed to see through her carefully constructed facade—through the princess to the woman beneath.
"Indeed it does," she agreed softly.
The moment was broken as King Viserys clapped his hands, summoning the musicians to play louder. "Enough talk of war and weapons! This is a celebration! Let us have music and more wine!"
As servants rushed to refill goblets, Rhaenyra found her gaze returning to Daeron and Daenerys. The mysterious couple had just become even more intriguing. A man of apparently modest origins who somehow possessed one of the rarest treasures in the known world. A woman with her face and coloring who spoke with the authority of someone born to rule.
Who were these people, really?
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