"A man is a tool of his own body, a tool of his mind, a tool of his emotions. The trick is to learn how to wield that tool properly."
―Duncan Idaho
…
Rhaenyra stood at the center of this somber space, a figure of majestic discontent. Her voice, though even, carried the weight of reproach as she addressed her sons, who stood before her like errant schoolboys caught in the midst of mischief.
"Well," said she, her tone measured, "it seems my trust in your discretion was sorely misplaced. Tell me, Lucerys, at what point did you determine that the proper course of action at Storm's End was to offer your hand in marriage to one of Lord Borros's daughters?"
The younger boy, fair-haired and slight, shifted from foot to foot, his eyes fixed upon the intricate patterns of the stone floor. "I thought—I thought it would please him, Mother. He seemed reluctant to pledge his support, and I believed—"
"You believed?" she interrupted, her brows arching in a manner that made her sons quail. "You believed that the Stormlands' loyalty could be bought with promises you have no authority to give? Did it not occur to you to seek counsel before such a rash declaration?"
Lucerys opened his mouth, though no sound emerged, and his silence seemed to irritate her all the more. She turned her gaze upon Jacaerys, her eldest, who stood a little apart from his brother with the stoicism of a soldier prepared to weather an onslaught. "And you, Jace. Was it not your duty to act as my voice at Lord Borros's hall? How is it that you allowed this—this spectacle to occur?"
Jace, though crimson tinged his cheeks, held her gaze with steady determination. "I sought to intervene, Mother, but the words were spoken before I could prevent them. I thought it unwise to argue the matter before Lord Borros and his court."
"Unwise to argue? Perhaps. But wisdom would have spared you the embarrassment of making offers on my behalf, as though I were some merchant hawking wares," she retorted. "You are sons of House Targaryen, princes of dragonlords. That you should stoop to such—"
Her reprimand was interrupted by the sudden, hurried entrance of one of her Queensguard. His armor bore the sheen of haste, and his expression betrayed a man torn between dread and duty. He paused only long enough to bow deeply before her.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice tight, "forgive the intrusion, but you must come at once."
Rhaenyra's dark eyes narrowed. "Must I?" she asked, though her tone suggested she was not accustomed to being summoned. "Speak plainly, Ser. What is this matter of such urgency that it warrants an interruption?"
The knight hesitated, as if uncertain how to frame his words. "It is the prince, Your Grace. Prince Daemon has returned."
A flicker of surprise crossed her features, swiftly tempered by skepticism. "Daemon has returned? And what cause is there for such alarm in this?"
"It is his dragon, Your Grace," the knight explained. "Caraxes... the beast bears grievous wounds. Gouges and tears—his neck, his wings—they are unlike anything I have seen. The prince himself remains astride, though I fear—"
But Rhaenyra did not wait for him to finish. The severity in her gaze gave way to worry, and she swept past the knight without hesitation, her skirts trailing like banners of war. "Come," she called sharply over her shoulder to Jace and Luke, who followed, their earlier shame forgotten in the wake of this revelation.
✥✥✥
Even in the fading twilight, the gashes along the Bloodwyrm's neck and wings were unmistakable, deep rents in once-impervious scales, blackened at the edges where fire had seared flesh. The great beast moved sluggishly, wings beating with effort as he turned eastward, seeking the solitude of his roost beyond the cliffs.
And then there was Daemon.
Rhaenyra found him at the Dragon's Gate, his boots stirring loose gravel beneath them. His leathers, once fine and supple, were blackened and curling at the seams, his silver hair shorter now where fire had stolen its length. Yet it was his expression that unsettled her most—it was not pain, nor anger, but something quieter, something she had not seen in him before.
Worry.
With hurried steps, she reached for him, her hands finding his arms before he could object, her breath uneven as she took him in.
"You are burned," she observed, her fingers barely skimming the scorched leather before clenching into fists.
Daemon exhaled slowly, and there was the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem I am," he murmured, "but I shall live."
"That remains to be seen," she countered, sharp-eyed, unwilling to be placated. "Tell me what happened. What madness was this? And why—"
"Later." His voice, though weary, held an undeniable finality. He cast a glance over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze, finding what she had not noticed before—the servants, their wide eyes betraying their alarm. The sight of their prince returned battered, his dragon bloodied, would probably be enough to set tongues wagging from Driftmark to the Vale by the morrow.
Rhaenyra, ever proud, drew herself up and forced composure into her limbs. "Come," she said simply, her hand pressing against Daemon's arm. "We will speak of this inside."
Even more worryingly, he did not argue.
✥✥✥
The grand hall of Dragonstone was no stranger to solemn meetings, and tonight was no exception. The firelight cast long shadows across the stonework, playing cruel tricks against the banners of House Targaryen that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The sconces flickered fitfully, their dim glow casting the space in something almost like mourning.
Daemon sank into a chair by the hearth, the motion carrying more weight than he might have liked. His fingers dragged through his hair—what remained of it—before falling to rest against the carved arms of his seat.
"You will tell me now," Rhaenyra demanded.
Daemon did not immediately answer. Instead, a breath escaped him, long and slow. He let his head loll back against the carved chair, his eyes half-lidded.
"Lucerys," Rhaenyra called, not looking away from her husband. "Bring your father some wine."
The boy, who had lingered near the door as though unsure of his place, nodded once before slipping away without a word.
Silence reigned in his absence.
With a sigh, Rhaenyra moved to Daemon's side. She did not speak as she undid the buckles of his leathers, her hands steady despite the storm in her chest. The scent of char clung to him, mingled with sweat and the unmistakable acrid bite of dragonfire. The more she uncovered, the clearer the burns became—thin, cruel lines where the heat had kissed too close, patches of raw skin where his flesh had been tested by the flames.
"Did you think to die today?" she asked at last, her voice quieter than before.
Daemon tilted his head, his violet gaze settling on her with something unreadable behind his eyes. "I have thought of death often," he admitted, as though it were a casual thing. "But not today."
Before Rhaenyra could reply, Lucerys returned, his hands wrapped around a flagon of wine. He crossed the room quickly, his expression betraying his unease as he placed the drink on the table.
Daemon took it without ceremony, drinking deeply, his throat working as the liquid slid past his lips. He finished in several long gulps, then let the empty cup rest against his thigh.
For a moment, he did not speak. Then, at last, he began.
"I went to Winterfell first," He said, his voice roughened by drink and weariness alike. "Cregan Stark heard me out, let me sit by his fire, but he would not uphold his oaths. Not for me. Not for you. Not even for the promise of dragons in the sky."
Rhaenyra said nothing, though her lips pressed into a thin line.
"He said he would not march against you, only that he would not march for you, either."
"A convenient neutrality," Rhaenyra said, her voice cold.
Daemon did not argue.
He drank again before setting the cup down with a heavy hand.
"I left the North behind and turned west. The Ironborn were less… reluctant. Dalton Greyjoy still counts Aemond among his greatest enemies. I barely even needed to threaten him." His smirk was sharp-edged, bitter. "And so, I went to the Riverlands. If we could not gain the North, I thought, perhaps we could weaken the Greens instead—if the Tullys could be convinced to abandon Aegon, it would have undone all of Aemond's careful work."
"But they did not," Rhaenyra guessed.
Daemon's expression darkened. "No. Because the Greens had sent one of their own."
She frowned. "Aemond's emissaries have been known to move quickly, but—"
"It was no emissary," Daemon interrupted. "It was a dragon."
A chill curled around her spine. "You fought Vhagar?"
"Seasmoke," he said simply, his voice flat. "The Greens have found him a rider."
There were many things Rhaenyra had been prepared to hear. That the North had refused them, that the Ironborn were as faithless as ever—these were disappointments, but they were not surprises. This, however, was something else entirely.
Jacaerys, who had remained silent thus far, took a step forward, his eyes flicking between his mother and uncle. "Are you certain?"
Daemon's smirk returned, but it was a bitter thing. "I chased them from the skies myself," he said, "only to find that they had stolen Sheepstealer as well whne it joined the battle."
"...What?" Rhaenyra did not realize she had taken a step back until the chair behind her caught her legs, forcing her into its embrace.
Silence fell again.
The power of the dragons had never been fair to them, but now, what once had been a worrying imbalance had become a chasm. Rhaenyra's mind raced, but the thoughts would not settle. The walls were closing in, and for the first time since the war began, she wondered if they had already lost. Four dragons to eight. The words repeated in her mind, a cruel rhythm that refused to abate.
Jacaerys was the first to break the stillness. His voice, though steady, was not without strain.
"What do we do?"
A simple question, and yet it echoed through the vast chamber as though the stones themselves demanded an answer.
For a long moment, Rhaenyra said nothing.
Was there anything left to do?
The notion that she might yield, that she might put aside her claim and retreat to Dragonstone as a defeated pretender, whispered insidiously in the corners of her mind. Would it not be better to live than to lose everything?
But before the thought could fully form, Daemon spoke.
"No."
His voice, though not raised, carried across the hall with the force of a command. Rhaenyra lifted her gaze to him, and what she saw in his eyes sent a flicker of anger through her bones.
He had seen it. He had seen that treacherous thought cross her mind, and he was disgusted by it.
"No, Rhaenyra." Daemon leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, his voice sharp as the edge of a dagger. "You will not surrender."
Rhaenyra's nostrils flared. "And what chance do we stand, Daemon? If you see one, then by all means, enlighten me!"
For once, he did not reply immediately. He regarded her in silence, his gaze searching hers. Then, slowly, he straightened in his seat.
"If they have found riders for their dragons," he said, "then so must we. Vermithor and Silverwing. They have lain unclaimed too long. If we wish to contest the skies, we must find riders for them."
Rhaenyra opened her mouth, then hesitated. She had known the thought would come, but it unsettled her all the same.
There was danger in it. Too many to count.
And yet, what choice did they have?
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Even if we succeed, that would only bring our numbers to six against their eight," she murmured.
"And that is without counting the armies," Jacaerys added glumly. "Much of the realm has sworn to Aegon. He holds swathes of the Reach, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Riverlands at his feet. Even if we match them in the sky, we do not match them on the field."
A cruel truth, but a truth nonetheless.
Daemon, however, appeared unperturbed. He took his time pouring another cup of wine, lifting it to his lips and drinking deeply before answering.
"Perhaps," he mused, setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. "But the Greens have as many enemies as they do friends."
Rhaenyra frowned. "You speak of the Ironborn?"
"Not only them," Daemon said, tilting his head slightly. "I have been thinking on this for some time. We have few friends in Westeros, that much is true. But Westeros is not the whole world. Aemond has earned himself no shortage of enemies in Essos. While they may hate me, the Triarchy despises him and Corlys far more. Braavos has no love for the man either, and the Free Cities watch him as warily as they watch us." He lifted a brow. "It may be time we make use of that."
At that, Rhaenyra sat up, exhaling slowly. She tapped her fingers against the wood, considering.
It was a dangerous path. A very dangerous one.
But then again, there were no safe paths left.