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Daeron Targaryen
The feast had officially started—the initial formalities complete, wine flowing freely, conversations rising and falling like waves across the Great Hall. Daeron sat at a table among the lesser knights and wealthy merchants, distant from the royal dais where political tensions simmered like a pot about to boil.
He'd barely taken his second sip of wine when a shadow fell across his table.
"Daeron!" Lord Umber's booming voice carried across half the hall. The giant of a man approached like a mountain, greeting Daeron as if they were old friends. "The man who sent Prince Daemon to his knees!"
Here we go, Daeron thought, rising to his feet with a respectful nod. Behind Lord Umber came a procession of Northern lords—Manderly, Glover, two fierce-looking Mormont women, and young Cregan Stark who had the biggest smile on his face.
"My lords," Daeron said, gesturing to the empty seats around his table. "Please, join us."
"Us?" Lord Umber looked around, then spotted Daenerys returning from a conversation with some merchant's wife. "Ah, the lovely Lady Daenerys! You must be proud of your husband's victory."
"Pride is one word for it," Daenerys replied with a smile. "Though I confess I spent most of the melee wondering if I'd be a widow by sunset."
"Bah!" Lord Glover waved dismissively. "Your husband fights like he was born with a blade in his hand. Reminded me of my grandfather's tales of the old Northern berserkers."
"You honor me, my lord," Daeron said carefully. Around them, he could hear the whispers of servants as they passed.
"Did you see Lord Laenor at the funeral?" one serving girl murmured to another. "Swaying like a sailor in a storm."
"Coward," her companion replied quietly. "Running from a real fight, then drowning himself in wine."
The realm already doubts the succession, and the marriage hasn't even happened yet.
"Tell us," Lord Manderly leaned forward, his multiple chins wobbling with interest, "where exactly did you perfect such techniques? Your style is Northern, certainly, but with refinements I've never seen."
"Here and there," Daeron replied evasively. "The North teaches the fundamentals, but travel broadens one's education."
"Travel," Lord Rickon Stark repeated thoughtfully, his grey eyes sharp as winter ice. "Yes, you mentioned your mother was Northern. She must have been quite exceptional to raise a son with such skills."
Young Cregan couldn't contain himself any longer. "Could you teach me? Father says I need to learn from the best, and you defeated Prince Daemon himself!"
Daeron smiled genuinely at the boy's enthusiasm. "Your father is a wise man, and I'm sure he's already arranged the finest instructors for you."
"But none of them have Valyrian steel," Cregan pointed out as if he suddenly won a game of cyvasse. "Or purple eyes. Or that white streak in their hair that makes you look like a wizard from the stories."
Several Northern lords chuckled, but Lord Stark's expression remained thoughtful.
"Speaking of the tournament," Lady Mormont interjected, her voice, and her face reminding Daeron of Lady Dacey, "will you be competing in tomorrow's joust?"
"I will," Daeron confirmed. "Though I confess, the lance isn't my preferred weapon."
"Northerners rarely favor the joust," Lord Glover agreed. "It's a Southern game, all rules and pageantry."
"Still," a younger Manderly cousin said eagerly, "you must be a fine rider to handle a destrier in full armor."
"My mother was the finest rider I ever knew," Daeron said, with fondness in his voice. He had never known her, but his uncle had told him everything about her. She was fierce, and in a horse, she was the best rider in Westeros. "She could gentle the wildest horse with a whisper and ride for days without tiring."
Lord Stark's interest sharpened visibly. "She must have been quite a woman. In which lands of the North was she raised?"
Careful, Daeron thought. He's probing again.
Before he could answer, Lord Umber saved him with a loud laugh. "Does it matter? The lad's proven his worth with steel. That's all the lineage that counts in the North!"
"Here, here!" Several Northern lords raised their cups in agreement.
Daenerys, who had been quietly observing, suddenly touched Daeron's arm. "My love," she said softly, though her voice carried an undertone of urgency. "We have a new arrival."
Daeron followed her gaze across the hall. There, among the servants near the far wall, sat a woman who didn't belong. She wore servant's garb. Her features were foreign, possibly Lysene, with pale skin and distinctive white-blonde hair that she'd attempted to hide beneath a rough cap.
Lady Mysaria, he realized with a jolt. The White Worm. Future Mistress of Whisperers to Queen Rhaenyra.
"What should we do?" he asked quietly in High Valyrian, hoping the Northern lords wouldn't understand.
"I'll handle it," Daenerys replied in the same tongue. "You keep our Northern friends entertained. Perhaps a dance with the princess would be advisable—she's been staring at you like a hawk eyeing a rabbit."
Indeed, Princess Rhaenyra was watching them from the high table, her violet eyes burning with desire.
"If you'll excuse me, my lords," Daenerys said, switching back to the Common Tongue. "I must attend to something. Please, continue your conversation."
As she glided away, Lord Manderly leaned forward conspiratorially. "Your wife is quite remarkable. Tell me, how did a Northern bastard win such a beauty?"
"Luck," Daeron replied simply. "Pure luck."
"Luck," Lord Stark repeated, his tone suggesting he didn't believe it for a moment. "Yes, you seem to have quite a lot of that. First, a Valyrian steel sword from a pirate. Then, a wife who could pass for Princess Rhaenyra's sister. And now, the favor of half the court after defeating Prince Daemon."
He's too perceptive by half, Daeron thought.
"The gods have been kind," Daeron said carefully.
"The gods," Lord Stark mused. "Yes. The old gods or the new?"
"Both, my lord. My mother raised me to respect all gods."
"A wise woman indeed." Lord Stark's grey eyes never left Daeron's face. "I would have liked to meet her."
"She passed some years ago," Daeron said quietly, allowing real grief to color his voice. In a way, it wasn't even a lie—Lyanna Stark had been dead for centuries from his perspective.
"My condolences," Lord Stark said, and for the first time, his voice held genuine warmth. "To lose one's mother is to lose half one's heart."
A commotion near the royal dais drew their attention. Laenor Velaryon had risen from his seat, swaying dangerously. Princess Rhaenyra's face was a mask, but she seemed like she wanted to slap him.
"Seven hells," Lord Umber muttered. "The boy's foxed again."
"At his own betrothal feast," Lord Glover added disapprovingly. "What must Lord Corlys think?"
Daeron could see Lord Corlys from here—the Sea Snake's face was carved from stone, but he seemed like it was taking everything for him not to cause a scene.
More servants passed, their whispers growing bolder.
"Won't even be able to bed her properly, that one."
"Craven and a drunk. Some king he'll make."
"My son won't bow to no sodomite's whelp."
Thankfully, Laena whispered something to Laenor, and it seemed to help, the boy sat down right away, and looked ashamed of himself, while Rhaenyra looked a little relieved, but still, looking furious, while the King himself seemed like he wanted to do something, but wasn't sure what, instead he gave Lord Corlys a look, as if telling him that his son should not act like that in front of the Entire Realm.
The discontent was spreading like wildfire. Daeron caught Daenerys's eye across the hall—she had noticed it too. The realm was already fracturing, and they'd barely begun to change things.
"Daeron," young Cregan said suddenly, "do you think I could see Stormsong? Up close, I mean? I've never seen Valyrian steel before."
"Perhaps tomorrow, young lord," Daeron replied. "After the joust."
"You promise?" The boy's eagerness was infectious.
"I promise."
As the Northern lords continued their drinking and boasting, Daeron found his gaze drawn to Princess Rhaenyra again. She had risen from her seat and was making her way across the hall, her path clearly aimed at him.
Here comes trouble, he thought, standing as she approached.
"Daeron," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of royal command that brooked no refusal. "I believe you owe me a dance."
The Northern lords fell silent, watching this interplay with keen interest.
"It would be my honor, Princess," Daeron replied, offering his arm.
As she led him toward the dancing floor, he heard Lord Stark say quietly to his son, "Watch carefully, Cregan. This is how the game is played in the South."
If only you knew, Daeron thought, what game we're really playing.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Finally, she thought, her eyes fixed on Daeron's face. That purple gaze met hers without flinching, and she felt that familiar heat coil in her belly. No more interruptions, no more delays.
"Ser Daeron," she said, in a voice that was rarely used, a voice she used to use when alone with her nuncle. "I believe you owe me a dance."
He rose, gods, the way he moved, all controlled power. Even standing still, he radiated danger. The same hands that had driven Stormsong through Criston Cole's gut, that had opened Gwayne Hightower's throat, now extended toward her.
One less Hightower to worry about, she thought with satisfaction. And you did it so beautifully.
"It would be my honor, Princess," Daeron replied with a voice that made her almost shudder. Control yourself, you are a Princess, she reminded herself.
She took his arm, noting the solid muscle beneath the black leather. The walk to the dance floor felt like a victory march. She could feel Daemon's eyes burning into her back from across the hall—let him watch. Let him see that she had moved beyond his reach.
The musicians began a slow Valyrian waltz. Perfect. She stepped into Daeron's arms, closer than she should have, letting him feel her body, the body beneath the dress.
"You've been avoiding me," she murmured, pitched for his ears alone. His hand settled on her waist, warm through the fabric of her gown. "One might think you were afraid."
"Cautious, perhaps," he replied, guiding her through the opening steps, there were many others dancing around. "Your attention brings both honor and danger, Princess."
She laughed. "Danger? From me? I'm not the one who killed one, and wounded two others, one of them is now dead."
His expression didn't change, but she felt the slight tension in his grip. "Tournament deaths. The King was quite clear on that point."
"My father says many things." She let her hand slide from his shoulder to his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath. "He also says that a rider chooses their dragon like he did with Balerion many years ago? But we both know the truth. Dragons choose their riders, not the other way around."
Daeron gave her a long, sharp look, and for a brief moment, Rhaenyra felt like she was staring at a beast, but then his look changed, and he was Daeron again.
"I wouldn't presume to know about dragons, Princess. I'm just a sell—"
"If you call yourself 'just a sellsword' one more time, I might scream," she interrupted, her nails pressing slightly into his chest. "You're many things, Daeron, but 'just' anything isn't one of them."
He spun her through a complex turn, using the movement to create slightly more distance between them. She allowed it—for now.
"Your betrothed seems to be enjoying the wine," Daeron observed, nodding toward where Laenor was slumped in his chair, eyes glazed.
Rhaenyra almost laughed at the transparent attempt at redirection. "Laenor enjoys many things. Wine. Music. The company of his dear friends." She emphasized the last word just enough to see if he'd catch her meaning. "Though I fear his tastes run more toward... masculine pursuits than what a wife might offer."
Daeron's expression remained frustratingly neutral. "Marriage is about more than personal preferences, Princess. It's about duty, alliance, children."
"Children," she repeated, her smile growing like wildfire across a field. "Yes, those are important. Though they do require certain... activities that Laenor might find challenging." She moved closer again, her breath ghosting across his neck. "A princess needs heirs, after all. One way or another."
Come on, she thought, frustrated by his continued restraint. I'm practically throwing myself at you.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Laena Velaryon watching them with envy. The Velaryon girl was beautiful, Rhaenyra admitted grudgingly, but she lacked the one thing that mattered—she wasn't the heir to the Iron Throne.
"You killed Gwayne Hightower," Rhaenyra said suddenly, wanting to shake that maddening composure.
"He attacked me from behind. I defended myself."
"You did more than that." Her voice dropped to a purr. "You cut his throat. It was magnificent."
This time she definitely felt him react—a slight hitch in his breathing, a minute tightening of his hold on her waist.
"You have an unusual definition of magnificent, Princess."
"I appreciate competence," she replied. "And you, Ser Daeron, are extremely competent. The question is—how far does that competence extend?"
"Far enough to know that some games are too dangerous to play."
"All the best games are dangerous." She traced her finger along the edge of his leather jerkin. "That's what makes them worth playing."
The music was building to its crescendo. Around them, she was vaguely aware of other dancers, of the watching crowd, but they felt distant, unimportant. Her world had narrowed to purple eyes and the heat of his body against hers.
"I could protect you," she said softly, abandoning subtlety entirely. "Your wife too. Alicent wants your head, but I'm the heir. My word carries weight. All you have to do is accept my friendship."
"Friendship," he repeated, and she caught the slight emphasis. His purple eyes held hers. "Is that what you're offering?"
"I'm offering whatever you're brave enough to take."
The music ended. For a moment, they stood frozen, her hand still on his chest, his on her waist. She could feel the heat of his palm through her gown, the slight flex of his fingers against her.
He wants me, she thought triumphantly. And he's not trying as hard to hide it anymore.
"Your Grace is too kind," he said, his voice lower than before. "And I find myself... intrigued by the prospect of such friendship." His thumb traced a small circle on her waist, so subtle no one else would notice. "Perhaps we might discuss the terms more... privately. My wife and I would be honored."
My wife and I. The phrasing sent an unexpected thrill through her.
He stepped back and bowed formally. "But for now, she awaits."
She watched him return to Daenerys, saw the silver-haired woman's knowing smile as she took his arm. They exchanged a look—quick, but loaded with meaning. Not jealous, Rhaenyra realized with growing excitement. They're planning something together.
Across the hall, Daemon was glowering at her with disapproval. Let him disapprove. She was done being the obedient niece, the perfect princess. She wanted what she wanted, and what she wanted had just given her the first real sign of reciprocation.
Soon, she promised herself, returning to the high table where Laenor was now actively snoring into his wine cup. That wasn't a rejection—it was an invitation.
She settled back into her chair, ignoring Alicent's pointed stare and her father's concerned frown. The night was still young, and she had made real progress. Daeron's Northern reserve was cracking, and that mention of his wife joining their "discussion"...
Both of them, she thought with certainty now, watching Daenerys whisper something in her husband's ear that made him smile. Why should I settle for one when I could have them both?
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys slipped through the crowd like smoke, her mind still processing the conversation she'd just concluded with the White Worm. The woman's Lysene accent had been thick but her intelligence sharp as any blade—exactly as dangerous as the histories had warned.
She found Daeron where she'd left him, politely extracting himself from a conversation with some Reach lord whose name she'd already forgotten. His purple eyes found hers immediately, reading the success in her expression.
"Walk with me," she murmured, linking her arm through his. They moved toward a quieter alcove, away from the worst of the drunken revelry.
"Well?" he asked in High Valyrian, his voice low.
"Tomorrow, noon, her establishment in the Street of Silk," she replied in the same tongue. "She's... exactly what we expected. Clever, cautious, and absolutely ruthless beneath that courtesan's smile."
"What does she want?"
"Information, naturally. She's curious about us—everyone is. But more importantly, she wants leverage. Against everyone." Daenerys accepted a cup of wine from a passing servant, using the gesture to look at the room. "I offered her something better than leverage. Partnership."
Daeron's eyebrows rose slightly. "You think she can be trusted?"
"I think she can be useful. There's a difference." She took a sip of wine, noting how Queen Alicent was staring at them from the high table with hatred. "We need our own sources, Jon. In our time, she becomes Rhaenyra's Mistress of Whisperers. Better to have her in our pocket now."
"She might report back to Daemon," he warned, his fingers tightening slightly on her arm. "They have history, don't they?"
"Everyone has history with Daemon," Daenerys replied dryly. "The man collects former lovers like some women collect jewels. But Mysaria is practical above all else. She'll side with whoever offers the best prospects for survival and profit."
A burst of laughter from nearby made them both turn. Lord Laenor had apparently woken from his stupor long enough to knock over an entire pitcher of wine, drenching himself and two unfortunate servants. The disgusted expressions on nearby nobles' faces told her everything about the realm's opinion of Rhaenyra's betrothed.
"The realm fractures more with every cup he drinks," Daeron observed quietly.
"Good for us, in a way. The more they doubt Laenor, the more Rhaenyra needs alternatives." Daenerys caught his hand, intertwining their fingers. "Speaking of which, how was your dance with our eager princess?"
"Eager is one word for it." A slight smile played at his lips. "She was practically undressing me with her eyes. And she made it quite clear that her marriage to Laenor will be... flexible."
"And you were properly receptive this time, I hope? No more of that Northern honor nonsense?"
"I told her we'd be interested in discussing friendship. Privately. Both of us."
Daenerys smiled with satisfaction. "Good. She needs to know we're a matched set." She noticed Alicent still watching them, the queen's knuckles white as she gripped her wine cup. "We're attracting too much attention. We should leave."
"Already? The feast has barely begun."
"All the better. Let them wonder why we're departing early." She ran her hand along his chest, making the gesture deliberately visible to their watchers. "Besides, we have preparations to make. I suspect our princess won't wait long to collect on your promise of 'private discussions.'"
She was right, of course. She could see Rhaenyra watching them from across the hall, violet eyes tracking their every movement like some dragon.
"Tonight, you think?" Daeron asked.
"Within the hour after we leave, I'd wager." Daenerys pulled him closer, speaking directly into his ear for the benefit of their audience. "She's desperate, Jon. For allies, for pleasure, for anything that isn't that drunken fool she's being forced to marry."
They began making their way toward the exit, pausing only to offer appropriate farewells. Lord Stark watched them leave with those too-knowing grey eyes, Lord Corlys looked calculating, and Princess Laena appeared distinctly disappointed.
But it was Alicent's expression that Daenerys looked at most carefully—pure, undiluted hatred.
She knows we're more than we seem, Daenerys thought. But she can't prove it. Yet.
"Ready for tonight?" she asked with a quiet voice as they stepped into the cooler air of the corridor.
"As ready as one can be for seducing the heir to the Iron Throne while preventing a civil war," he replied with dark humor.
She squeezed his hand. They'd faced the end of the world together. This was just another dance—albeit one with dragons.
Corlys Velayron
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood near the great hearth, watching his son with the careful attention of a captain observing dangerous waters. Laena had managed to coax Laenor into eating some bread, and the boy—man, Corlys corrected himself bitterly—seemed steadier than he'd been an hour ago. But the damage was done. Half the realm had witnessed their future king-consort stumbling drunk at his own betrothal feast.
"He's doing better," Rhaenys said quietly. "Laena has a way with him."
"Better," Corlys repeated, his voice flat. "He knocked over a pitcher of wine onto servants. He was snoring at the high table. Better is not good enough."
A pair of soldiers passed nearby, their voices carrying despite their attempt at discretion.
"—won't bend the knee to a drunk," one was saying.
Corlys's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. These were men sworn to various houses, speaking treason as casually as discussing the weather. If common soldiers felt bold enough to voice such thoughts at a royal feast...
"We have a problem," Rhaenys said, her voice pitched for his ears alone.
"We have several," Corlys replied. "Which one concerns you most at this moment?"
"Princess Rhaenyra." Rhaenys nodded toward where the princess sat, her violet eyes fixed on the door through which Daeron and his wife had just departed. "She looks at that Northern boy like a dragon eyeing a sheep."
"She's young. It will pass."
Rhaenys turned to stare at him with those violet eyes that had first captured his heart decades ago. "Corlys Velaryon, you've sailed every sea in the known world, negotiated with princes and pirates alike, and you're going to stand there and pretend you don't see what's directly in front of you?"
"What would you have me see?"
"That princess wants that boy in her bed. Tonight, if she could manage it." Rhaenys's voice was blunt as a hammer blow. "And if we're not careful, she'll be whelping his bastards instead of our son's heirs."
"That will never happen," Corlys said firmly. "The man is clearly devoted to his wife. You saw them together—they barely look at anyone else."
"They barely look at anyone else in public," Rhaenys corrected. "But I've lived in this court longer than you, husband. I know the games played here. And that mysterious couple is playing some game of their own."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching their son attempt to maintain a conversation with some Riverlands lord. Laenor's hands shook slightly as he raised his cup—water now, thankfully.
"You should approach Daeron tomorrow," Rhaenys said suddenly. "That offer you mentioned earlier—make it formal."
Corlys turned to look at his wife in surprise. "You've changed your mind? Earlier you seemed skeptical."
"I've been watching him tonight. And more importantly, I've been watching how others watch him." She nodded toward where the princess sat. "If he's in our employ, traveling with our fleet perhaps, he'll be far from court. Far from certain temptations."
"He seems perfectly devoted to his wife," Corlys maintained. "I doubt the princess's interest moves him at all."
"You see what you want to see, husband. But yes, recruit him. Better to have that sword arm serving House Velaryon than anyone else."
"Speaking of our mysterious guests," Rhaenys added carefully, "three more of our trading vessels reported strange sightings this week."
"More dragon sightings?" Corlys asked, already knowing the answer.
"At dawn and dusk, when the light is dim. Large ones, according to the captains."
"We've discussed this," Corlys said with impatience. "Even if Vermithor and Silverwing have been claimed—which I still doubt—it wouldn't be by some Northern sellsword."
"The lady, though," Rhaenys pressed. "You must admit Lady Daenerys has the look. The blood."
"Having the look and having the ability are different things entirely. If Valyrian features were all it took, half of Lys would be dragonlords." Corlys shook his head. "No, these sightings are likely Meleys or Vhagar, seen at odd angles in poor light. Sailors are notoriously superstitious."
"Perhaps," Rhaenys said, though her tone suggested she wasn't convinced. She watched as Queen Alicent rose from her seat. "Still, if I'm right about the lady—"
"You're not," Corlys interrupted. "And even if you were, what would you have me do? Accuse them publicly without proof?"
"No. But your recruitment plan serves multiple purposes. Keep them close, learn their secrets, and keep them away from the princess." Rhaenys rose, smoothing her sea-green gown. "Because whatever else they may be, they're dangerous. A man who killed the queen's brother wouldn't hesitate to bed the princess if it served his purposes."
"They wouldn't dare—"
"Are you certain? Because I'm not." She moved away to speak with some Reach ladies, leaving Corlys with his thoughts.
The Sea Snake studied the feast with calculating eyes. His son was a disaster, the princess was pursuing dangerous game, and mysterious players had entered the field.
Perhaps, he thought grimly, I should have stayed at sea.
But storms at sea were nothing compared to the tempests of court. Tomorrow, he would make his offer to Daeron. Better to have such a warrior bound to House Velaryon than left to his own devices.
The game was changing. Time to adjust his sails accordingly.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Princess Rhaenyra swept into her chambers, dismissing her handmaidens with more haste than usual. The feast had left her restless, her skin still tingling from where Daeron's hand had rested on her waist during their dance.
A folded parchment on her pillow caught her eye immediately—it hadn't been there when she'd left for the feast.
How did someone get into my chambers? She wondered, though the thought excited rather than alarmed her. She recognized neither the paper nor the seal-less fold, but she was curious.
The message was brief, written in an elegant hand:
"For those brave enough to take what they want—the old tapestry behind the armor, third stone from the left, push twice. The godswood awaits. Come alone."
Her heart raced. She knew exactly which tapestry, the one depicting Aegon's conquest that hung behind the decorative armor near her chamber's back wall. She'd played near it as a child, never suspecting it might hide secrets.
The stone gave way easily under her touch, revealing a narrow passage she'd never known existed in her own chambers. How many secrets does this castle hold? she wondered, grabbing a cloak before slipping into the darkness.
She knew the way to the godswood well enough—had walked it countless times seeking solitude. But approaching it through these hidden passages, with promise and danger singing in her blood, made everything feel new.
The heart tree's pale bark glowed in the moonlight. Daeron stood beneath it, still in his black leather from the feast, the silver streak in his dark hair catching the light like a blade. He looked like something from the old stories, dangerous and beautiful.
"You came," he said simply.
"Did you doubt I would?" She moved closer, noting how his purple eyes tracked her movement. "Though I'm curious how you knew about that passage."
"This castle has many secrets. Some are worth discovering." He studied her face in the moonlight. "You spoke of friendship earlier."
"We both know I am offering more than just friendship." She stepped closer still, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. "Or what you're accepting."
"What I'm accepting," he said carefully, "is more complicated than simple lust, Princess."
"Is it?" She reached up, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. "It seems quite simple to me. I want you. You want me. Your wife seems... amenable."
"My wife understands that some desires are worth exploring." His hand came up to cover hers, not pushing away but holding. "But you should know—we're not simple people, Princess. Getting involved with us means accepting things you might not understand."
"I'm a dragon," she said fiercely. "I understand more than you think."
Daeron gave her a look, and Rhaenyra felt as if she had known him before. He leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished.
She didn't wish.
The kiss was everything she'd imagined. Where she'd expected Northern roughness, there was surprising gentleness. His lips were soft, his hand sliding into her silver hair with a possessiveness that made her knees weak.
Gods, she thought hazily, pressing closer. If he kisses like this...
"Perhaps I could be of assistance?"
They broke apart at the voice, though Daeron didn't release her entirely. Daenerys emerged from the shadows like moonlight given form, her violet eyes dark with desire.
"My lady," Rhaenyra said, surprised to find her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Your Grace." Daenerys moved closer. "My husband mentioned you might be interested in... friendship. I thought I should participate in the negotiations."
The way she said 'negotiations' made Rhaenyra's breath catch. This was really happening—both of them, together.
"I'm very interested in friendship," Rhaenyra managed. "With both of you."
Daenerys smiled, a dragon recognizing another dragon. "Good. Because we have so much to discuss."
She moved closer, and Rhaenyra found herself caught between them—Daeron's solid warmth at her back, Daenerys's intoxicating presence before her.
"Tell me, Princess," Daenerys said softly, her fingers ghosting along Rhaenyra's jaw. "Are you truly brave enough to take what you want?"
Looking into those violet eyes so like her own, feeling Daeron's hands steady on her waist, Rhaenyra had never been more certain of anything.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, I am."
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