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Rhaenyra had never paid much attention to sunsets. 

Of course, they were beautiful and all, the sky seemingly aflame with the last rays of the scarlet-bright sun, rutilant and glowing in mesmerising colours, but she had seen it all before.

There were only so many times a girl could admire the natural, everyday occurrence before it became insignificant and truly mundane.

Now, with nothing better to do, Rhaenyra stared at the warm sky, thinking that she ought to feel more. If the tales were to be believed, it was her last sunset, and she should at least try to be emotional about it. 

However, all she felt was annoyance. Next to her sat Tyta Frey, who was trembling violently and just could not shut up.

“When we are there, I will run straight to the cellar,” she announced loudly for the tenth time since the ride to the castle began. 

“Sure you will,” Rhaenyra grumbled, feeling squeezed in her seat in the cart, thinking that if Tyta kept wiggling, she might push her out — would it spare Rhaenyra the need to participate in the ritual? Or did it count as deserting?

“If it is a castle, there must be a cellar,” the girl continued confidently. “I will stay there until sunrise and then claim all the riches!”

Rhaenyra sighed. She wished she were as stupid as Tyta Frey and could delude herself into believing that any of them was making it out alive.

In the decades of this ritual’s existence, not a single girl had made it out alive, and yet every year, there were maids foolish enough to think that they would truly be special.

Rhaenyra had made her peace with dying. It was a surprisingly easy conclusion to come to — she would die tonight, and it would probably be painful, but hopefully quick. She did not believe in miraculous rescue and did not attribute to herself any unique dexterity or cunning to survive the night. By no means was she a stupid girl, but she understood that even the smartest of them would be no match for the beast occupying the ancient castle.

No one had ever survived the night in that cursed place, which must mean that the creature was a proficient killer who would stop at nothing to get his fill. Yes, the rules were put together in a way that afforded her and the rest of the girls a sliver of hope, but Rhaenyra did not want to even entertain such a thought.

Whoever survived until sunrise in that castle was free to walk out, but she would not be one of them.

Frankly, she was certain none of them would be coming out of this ordeal alive. Tyta might seek familiar comfort in a cellar, no doubt doing the same rather frequently in the privacy of her own home as well, judging by her sheer size, but Rhaenyra did not see the point in wasting her breath.

Death would find her in the courtyard, on a balcony or in the dining hall. Death was stealthy, swift and moving with agility; death ruled that place and knew its way around it better than any of them.

And now, the cart transporting them to their glorified execution stopped. The horses stumbled and then neighed, undoubtedly disturbed by the eeriness of the place, and the men tasked with bringing fresh, youthful prey began helping them off the wagon. 

In this violent business of being sacrificed to an unknown evil, everything was a fair game. As soon as they crossed the threshold of the shadowy domain, they were free to run, to hide, to scream or to keep silent, to use any weapon to protect themselves and to resort to any method to keep themselves alive for just a little longer. Rhaenyra knew that some of her fellow sisters in this misery had received instructions from their fathers — although no one knew for sure what was hiding behind the dark walls, some sympathetic families still tried to prepare the poor souls to the best of their abilities.

Rhaenyra’s father had told her nothing but how sorry he was. He cried and pulled her into his tight embrace, smearing his tears all over her hair, and this was how she knew that her sire was smarter than all the others, too.

He did not try to instruct her or to prepare her. He did not harbour any hope of seeing her ever again — and Rhaenyra respected that, knowing that at the very least, he appeared truly sorry for what was about to happen. 

Delivered to the gates of the castle in the dying daylight, they were to be released at the grounds and left to fend off all the threats by themselves. From the moment the gates were closed, every one of them was for herself. 

Rhaenyra did not cry, unlike some other girls. She did not try to reason with their convoyers and beg to be spared. All those ugly tears only annoyed Rhaenyra further — she wanted this to be over, and perhaps she did appreciate the sunset now that she thought about it, but it would still be nice for it all to happen quicker. 

She was rather impatient and did not want to have a long farewell.

“What are you going to do, Rhaenyra?” Tyta asked as they were all lined up in front of the heavy gates with lots of wrought details. There were intricate dragons, birds, and lions made out of sturdy iron sitting on top of the high fence, and Rhaenyra tilted her head, way more taken with the craft than with Tyta’s words.

Still, she answered.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean?” the girl asked in disbelief, frowning. “You must tell me so we can hide toge— ”

“I am not going to hide, Tyta,” Rhaenyra replied with a shrug and turned away. She guessed there was still some mercy in this world — she would die in peace knowing that at least the jarring voice of her neighbour was no more. 

Tyta clearly wanted to say something else, but her words were drowned by a cry of one of the men — a cry that signified that the game was truly on now. 

Everyone began running. Girls scattered all over the courtyard, panicking despite sharing elaborate schemes and plans just twenty minutes ago, pretending to have everything under control. Those who had wept the loudest and begged to be spared were now pushing each other, hoping to be the first to claim one secret spot or the other, hoping that some instructions from ignorant townfolk would save her.

Rhaenyra stood in the middle of the courtyard with her arms folded on her chest. Shaking her head, she observed the mounting panic and waited for the last of her unlucky companions to disappear. 

Then, she sighed and slowly made her way towards the main door. 

She was not really sure what the intention behind making this ritual sound like a game was. It was certainly not fun for her, and she doubted it was seen as a game by the other eleven girls — one for each month of the year — now frantically trying to run for imaginary safety. Probably the only person who thought this amusing was not even a person at all.

A vampire. Rhaenyra had heard many a tale about a pale-faced creature that fed on blood and had to be satiated with the blood of exactly twelve maidens every year. In exchange for the sacrifice, the beast promised not to attack their town and the area around it, ensuring that the villages in the vicinity were not ravaged by his kin as well. 

Perhaps she could see the merits of this deal, for the powers at play here were certainly ancient and eerie, way beyond her comprehension, but she did not quite understand why it had to be considered a game.

Was it just the thrill of a chase? Did the creature enjoy the hunt, the sensation of cornering its prey and draining all the blood out of their slit throats? Rhaenyra hummed, thinking that she was entirely too proud to grant the beast the satisfaction. If it had designed the ritual to be fun for itself, thriving off the suffering and desperation of its victims, then she would remain indifferent and defiant out of spite. 

But clearly, the game was supposed to have at least a semblance of justice and fairness built into it. Twelve maids were delivered to the castle on the shortest night of the year, thus weakening their enemy and giving them more chances to survive — nightfall did not make haste, and the dawn was quick to arrive. Since the creature could not be awake during the day, it was supposed to make it easier for the girls to make it out alive.

This was another provision that created the illusion of a chance. According to tradition, anyone who could spend the night in the castle and not fall prey to the vampire was free to walk out claiming the prize. This sounded like a good deal, making a lot of parents accept the fate in hopes of their daughters bringing riches and fame upon them.

The only caveat was that no one had ever survived until daybreak. 

Rhaenyra reached the heavy door and turned around. Behind her, the sun had almost set — just a few more minutes, and the vampire would wake up to begin his wicked pursuit. 

She could not lie to herself — no matter how ready she was to walk through the door and meet her fate, she still loved the world she was now leaving behind. 

Yes, perhaps, sunsets were nothing special, and she might have seen so many of them over the years, but she could not help but sigh when the sun rolled over the horizon. 

“Well, this is it,” she mumbled to herself and pushed the door forward. 

Casting one look at the outside world, knowing that it was the last time she took in the sight of trees bathing in the crepuscular haze, Rhaenyra sighed again. She loathed the long-winded farewell speeches and mawkish promises to always remember her, but still, she felt somewhat attached to the world she had been born into. 

Perhaps it was, after all, perfectly human not to want to die. 

Inside the castle, she could hear some screams and hurried footsteps. Rhaenyra assumed the hunt had actually begun already, so she froze and strained her ears to maybe hear some other noises — the violence of the bodies being torn apart or someone’s wailing.

However, it was surprisingly quiet after that. Perhaps they were still hiding, remembering the silly games of their childhood years when the houses they lived in seemed enormous and the gardens provided plenty of secluded spaces to stay in for long hours, thus winning the round of the game and feeling the elation of the fleeting triumph. 

Rhaenyra had never been a good hide-and-seek player. Lacking the patience to stay in her hideout for a long time, she had scarcely won in this game, always getting too bored and emerging from her shelter before it was time. Much preferring something active and intellectually stimulating, Rhaenyra had always been an outcast in the flock of the town girls who loved playing together. 

Now, some of her childhood companions were hiding in cellars, crevices and dark corners, squeezing themselves under the beds or crouching under the stairs, and Rhaenyra was, once again, an outlier. 

She had never been inside a proper castle or a palace. Not having been poor growing up, she was still not royalty, and her house might have been rather richly decorated, on par with the rest of the wealthy families of the town, but Rhaenyra had always yearned to have a glimpse of proper grandeur. 

This was the display of a fading glory, of course, but it was nonetheless fascinating. She hungrily took in the sight of the large staircase, the vast tapestries, the fine masonwork that made the walls look like the stones were fused together, not just laid upon each other. The fabric of the decorations and the rugs was somewhat dull now, with occasional holes and stains being testaments to the old age of everything around Rhaenyra, but she found herself oddly enchanted by the raggedness of the place.

The railing of the staircase was covered in a thick layer of dust. Rhaenyra dragged her finger over the metal, gathering the dirt and then examining it, without any particular reason, just trying to gauge how long it had been since someone had last wiped it. She assumed that the vampire did not really care for cleanliness and did not need anyone to scrub its floors, but if it was just a bloodthirsty creature with no mind and no need for all things human, then why all the decorations and the many rooms?

There was something incredibly peaceful about not having to worry about her survival. As she strolled from one room to another, having a peek into every door and out of every window, she enjoyed the silence and the serenity of the setting. Indeed, the entire ordeal did not seem so awful now, and if she were to die, she could at least pick a room for it.

Walking through galleries and storage rooms, Rhaenyra kept her lips pursed together, trying to imagine her blood splattering on one rug or another. No, she did not want to die in the chamber full of old rusty armour; it would be terribly uncomfortable to fall onto the metal, and the noise her fall would cause! That would be utterly undignified.

She was also not satisfied with what appeared to be a kitchen. She had never been a servant, and even though Rhaenyra was not ready to call herself a snob, she wanted to be afforded a certain honour even in death, and perishing under the stairs was not worthy of how she lived. 

However, she was surprised to find actual food on the shelves. It did not take her long to locate a flagon of wine — as she opened the bottle, pulling on the cork, she braced herself for the putrid odour. Despite her initial suspicions, though, the liquid had not turned into vinegar or something worse, still smelling rather pleasantly and inviting. 

Rhaenyra hummed. Perhaps Tyta did have the right idea about this castle, after all — even though there was clearly no need to look for a cellar. 

She found a cup that looked the least dusty and wiped it with her sleeve. It was rather foolish to worry about dirt when she was not going to see daylight anyway, but Rhaenyra had standards, and she was not about to lower them just because she did not have much time to live. 

There was also bread in the small basket on the table. Rhaenyra touched it apprehensively, thinking that it surely must be stale or full of rot, and she preemptively scrunched her nose in disgust. To her surprise, though, it appeared relatively fresh — it might not be straight from the oven, but it looked suitable for consumption. She dared break it in two, still not fully convinced that such a product could actually be so easily accessible in a dark and mysterious castle, but it did not disappear in the puff of smoke, and no maggots crawled out of the loaf. 

“Curious,” Rhaenyra remarked, putting it back in the basket. She threw the cup in there, too, thinking that having a very last meal in peace did not sound like such a bad idea.

A bit more rummaging — and she found more simple delicacies to complete her late-night dinner. There was cherry preserve on the shelf, devoid of mould or any suspicious smell, and in a large box in the corner, Rhaenyra found seemingly an endless supply of bright red apples. Sinking her teeth into one of them, she was delighted to discover that they were almost honey-sweet, tasting of the sun, the long evenings, the fresh winds and the summer fun. 

Quite unladylike, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve as she finished the fruit. There was no one to scold her for being improper, and she even contemplated throwing the apple stump over her shoulder in the act of complete carelessness. Still, something steadied her hand — this place might not be inhabited by humans, but it was someone’s house nonetheless, and she suddenly felt bad for littering.

The castle had had its days of glory and grandeur, and if she had admired the tapestries and the rugs, she should at least return the courtesy by not spoiling the surroundings.

It was already bad enough that she was helping herself to all the supplies in this bizarre kitchen. On the one hand, she could not bring herself to truly care — she was about to die, and manners faded in the face of the imminent demise. If she were to be devoured and left to rot somewhere in the sinister garden with malformed trees, the least she could be offered now was some silent hospitality. Rhaenyra doubted the vampire would torture her for helping herself to some of his apples.

On the other hand, she could not help but wonder if some humans did actually live here. Surely, the blood-drinking beast would not need bread and jam, and even the wine seemed like an unnecessary possession for someone who fed on the fresh blood of maidens. 

Was she stealing from someone? The notion seemed pretty absurd, and the castle did look like it was slowly dilapidating, hardly suitable for a proper household. Rhaenyra frowned and took another apple, throwing it up in the air and catching it in her palm. 

Her basket was filled now. A flagon of wine to dull the pain when the death inevitably came, and some nourishment to silence the grumbling of her stomach if she did make it for a few more hours. The night was reigning in full now, but there were still long hours before sunrise, and she hated the sound of her hunger.

Walking up slowly, Rhaenyra carried her simple treasures under her arm. There were many more rooms to discover, and as she climbed the winding stairs to one of the towers, she hummed a simple tune. 

It was rather strange that she had not seen any of her fellow victims — although this might be a good thing. Whether they were successful in hiding and keeping quiet or they were all dead by now, Rhaenyra knew not, but she found herself surprisingly calm either way. 

She might have enjoyed someone’s company, if she were completely honest, but girls like Tyta were as thick as bricks, and there would be nothing to talk to them about at all. It was a shame, truly, that no one smarter had been drafted alongside Rhaenyra — at least she would have had someone to confide in on this fateful night. 

Peeking into every single room, Rhaenyra wondered who had lit all those candles. Clearly, the castle had been prepared for their arrival — perhaps it was another part of the game, another clause in the wicked arrangement to give it the semblance of fairness. Rhaenyra doubted the beast’s eyes were as weak as those of humans — if it was true that a vampire could turn into a bat, then it certainly did not need candlelight to walk around its lair. 

Yes, all those candles were obviously there for them — the girls meant to run around and scream in terror. Rhaenyra scrunched her nose, once again finding the entire process peculiarly dehumanising — what was meant to be presented as fair and just was, in fact, far crueller than many believed.

Taking another turn, she came to a sudden halt. There they were — the first bodies of her unlucky one-time companions. 

She could see two girls lying on the floor, facing each other. In the stupor of their death, they were as bizarre to look at as some dolls made to resemble humans in an uncanny way. Rhaenyra cocked her head and took a few steps forward, clutching her basket tighter to her body. Something inside her whispered that she ought to be careful, that some danger might still come to her from their motionless bodies.

She wondered all of a sudden how she even knew they were dead. It was some innate knowledge, an immediate realisation, but at the same time, there was no pool of blood around them and no intestines falling out of them. Their corpses did not look violated or mauled, and Rhaenyra, had she not known better, could have fooled herself into thinking they were just pretending to be dead. 

But no — as she walked closer, she could see that the girls’ throats had been clearly slit with something sharp and then bitten into. The gaping wounds were there, and yet they were completely bloodless, as if someone — or something — had drained all of the precious, vital liquid out of their bodies. This also explained the excessive pallor — Rhaenyra knew one of the girls, even though she could not now recall her name; it was the daughter of the brewer who lived two streets away from them. She had the brightest ginger hair and a face covered in constellations of freckles — and now, the orange of her hair looked comically out of place, adorning the face completely devoid of any colour. 

Rhaenyra gulped nervously. Maybe she was not as unaffected as she thought she would be. 

Should she do something about the bodies? It felt disrespectful to just leave them there, but Rhaenyra was not sure she was strong enough to drag them down the stairs and all the way to the garden. And even if she did manage to get them there — what was she to do next? Digging graves for them would take an entire night, and she had no shovel and no help from anyone else. 

Biting her lower lip, Rhaenyra hesitated. Rocking herself back and forth, standing in front of two corpses, she thought that they would have to forgive her — it was bad manners to act this way, truly, but she did not have all the time in the world to pay her respects. 

Whistling a simple tune, determined to fill the stillness and unsettling quietness of the place with at least some cheerful sound, Rhaenyra adjusted the food basket in her hands and quickly stepped over the bodies.

Luckily, there was no blood, and the hem of her skirt did not get stained. 

Rhaenyra remembered Alicent always scolding her for behaving inappropriately and telling her to mind her hands and mouth. Apparently, if her stepmother were to be believed, stepping over someone was completely unacceptable — there was some kind of a superstition stipulating that the person would not grow if this happened to them.

Oh well, Rhaenyra thought and shrugged. It was not like those girls would need to have a growing spurt anyway now. 

She was not sure she wanted to be confronted with more deaths, though. Not exactly dismayed by the sight, Rhaenyra still had no taste for seeing others like that — there was something terribly embarrassing about lying like that, limbs thrown apart lifeless on the floor — and thus decided that she had had enough of the mindless wandering around the castle. The next suitable room she found, she would occupy, and that would be fine by her.

It was truly some stroke of luck, then, that the next chamber she walked into was a large and welcoming one. Lit by at least a hundred candles, or so it seemed, it was a true marvel — and Rhaenyra gasped, taking in the sight of it.

She had been ready to settle for anything, but she had accidentally found treasure. 

Rhaenyra was standing on the threshold of a grand library. She had never seen anything like that — walls covered by rows upon rows of tomes and manuscripts, a small ladder leaning on one of the shelves and waiting to be used, and a large round table in the middle of the room surrounded by several chairs. 

It looked like a perfect place to spend the rest of her life — and Rhaenyra chuckled, thinking that it was not just a mindless saying in her case. 

She dashed to the table and quickly unloaded her supplies. Wine, bread, jam, apples — and now endless books! What could even be better than that? Who needed cellars and attics when they could spend all their time here?

Rhaenyra smiled. The dead companions were immediately forgotten, her attention focused entirely on the vast choice of books to read. 

Her father had taught her to enjoy books and put letters together on the parchment, even though her stepmother and a lot of his friends thought it was a folly. Alicent was the daughter of a respectable churchwarden herself, knowledgeable with numbers and not at all illiterate, but the idea of other girls learning how to do it all somehow scandalised her. Over and over again, she repeated that no daughter of hers would be poisoned by silly, dangerous, treacherous ideas that the books contained. When Rhaenyra became old enough to rebuke her bitter words and the insufferable hypocrisy, Alicent oft repeated that her own case was different and that even though her father had her educated, it had never helped her in life.

There was little doubt Helaena would not learn her letters — their father had lost a significant portion of his resolve over the years, and it was rather obvious that he would not be picking this fight one more time.

But Rhaenyra had been lucky. He had taught her before he married Alicent and had always encouraged her inquisitiveness. Where Alicent claimed that the most important part of a woman was her womb, for it produced babies, Rhaenyra’s father nurtured her interest in the world, letting her dream and inquire about things.

Those days were bygones now, though. Year after year, he seemed to lose some of his own spark, becoming more and more entangled in the web of domesticity, the mundane matters that required his attention, and he stopped giving her books or asking her thought-provoking questions.

Rhaenyra shook her head. Still, even after having witnessed how a man could get stuck in a mire of children, debts and gossip, she thought about him first and foremost when seeing this selection of the finest books. Oh, how marvellous would it be to sit with her father by the fire and share their opinions as they flickered through the pages!

That was not meant to be. She was on her own now, and she would not even get out of this castle to share the tales of its treasures with her sire — they both knew that, and their farewell had been fraught with the sense of finality. 

But she was still her own person, and as she walked from a shelf to a shelf, her hands locked behind her back, she examined the spines of many a tome, wondering if there was even any difference in what she picked. Whatever knowledge she ended up acquiring tonight would not stay with her for long. 

Finally, she made up her mind. There was a book bound in red leather that seemed intriguing enough. Golden letters on the thick spine told her that it was about all things supernatural and peculiar, and Rhaenyra decided that there was nothing that could describe her evening better than this.

Supernatural and peculiar indeed.

Perhaps there were even pictures of the mysterious vampire she was being sacrificed to. She envisioned the creature to be rather ugly, with skin falling off the bones and large canine teeth sinking into the pure flesh of the innocent — but maybe there were more details about its origins and nature? 

Ever curious, she took the book to the table. She could sit at it like a proper, educated lady, but in an outburst of childish wonder and recklessness, Rhaenyra jumped and pulled herself up, sitting on the edge of the table and dangling her legs in the air instead. 

If it were her last night on this earth, then she had better do all the things she had not had a chance to in a while.

She chuckled, thinking how horrified Alicent would be if she saw her right now. Her sleeve stained by apple juice and old dust, her tendrils getting out of the unkempt braid, sitting so ungainly and opening a flagon of wine with her teeth — Rhaenyra’s stepmother might keel over and pass from apoplexy if she could see her now. 

Giggling like a child, Rhaenyra thought that dying was not all negative, after all. Before the bad part, at the very least, came some freedom.

Having taken a large swing of wine that went down rather smoothly, Rhaenyra began undoing her braid. She had thought it would be practical to keep her hair away from her face, but she was done walking, and thus it no longer mattered if the loose strands fell onto her eyes. 

It was soothing to work through sections of her hair and rake them with her fingers. This room had no mirrors, but when she poured herself some wine into the cup, she could see her murky reflection — perhaps the last time she saw herself at all. 

Not wanting to dwell too much on it, she sipped some more and took another apple out of the basket. Opening the book on the very first page, she got ready to become engulfed in the story or the narration of the facts, but as soon as she took the first bite of the juicy fruit, her peace was interrupted again.

There was more noise — not screams or wails, not sounds of violence or death, but just footsteps. Rhaenyra frowned, for they were too confident and too slow to belong to one of the spooked maidens running for her life — it must be someone else.

Oh, what if someone was coming to scold her for stealing? That would be entirely too ridiculous — she was about to die, and someone was stingy and mean when it came to a bottle of wine and a handful of apples?!

For a second, she wondered if she should at least try to hide. Nonchalant as she might be, she still flinched as the footsteps became more audible, but ultimately, she decided against moving. 

She was pretty comfortable in this room, and she was just about to start an interesting book. 

Still, her eyes were glued to the door. As much as she wanted to just disregard the noise, she could not ignore the fact that it was approaching, and if this were the death in the form of the vampire coming to claim her, Rhaenyra would prefer to look it in the eye. 

It was not a ghoul or a beast walking through the door, though. Rhaenyra scowled when she saw the figure in the doorway — a perfectly human figure, yet not belonging to one of her fellow victims.

It was most certainly a man. Tall, broad in the shoulders but rather lean in the hips, wearing a white shirt that he kept untied on his chest, he looked as surprised to see her as she was astonished by his presence. 

Shifting on the table and straightening her back, Rhaenyra put down the apple, cleared her throat and tried to muster all her confidence:

“Who are you?”

The man chuckled. She watched a strand of silver hair fall onto his face, and then he swiftly pushed it back, taking a step forward.

“Who are you ?” He asked instead, his voice slightly mocking.

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes. “Surely, you know who I am. One of the twelve.”

“Hm.” The mysterious man seemed to like her answer, but he still appeared to contemplate it rather hard. “And which one of the twelve are you?”

“I do not know,” Rhaenyra said with a shrug. “Maybe a June? Or a November?”

That was, of course, a joke. No one assigned the specific months to the sacrifices in earnest, even if they were meant to represent the entire year, and Rhaenyra had not ever thought about such a distinction at all.

The man laughed. His eyes crinkled, and, once again, Rhaenyra was utterly confused by his apparent humanity. Was he even supposed to be here? No one had ever told her that there were other people in the castle.

But on the other hand, no one had ever made it alive out of here, so perhaps some things had got lost over time.

“If you are one of the twelve, then should you not be hiding?” 

She shrugged. “Whatever for? I am going to be dead either way. Running around and screaming my head off is just exhausting and demeaning.”

“So you would prefer to drink yourself to death instead?” The man nodded at the bottle of wine by her side. 

“What, do you want me to share it with you?” Rhaenyra asked with a challenge in her voice. Then, she put down the book and grabbed the bottle, clutching it to her chest. “I might, but not before you tell me what you are doing here.”

It was his time to shrug. “I live here.”

She examined him head-to-toe once again. Something was telling her that he was lying to her — why would a man like him reside in the eerie castle next to a vicious vampire? Would he even be safe this way? Surely, it would be better for him to walk during the day, even if he were, indeed, an inhabitant of this bizarre place.

Then, she noticed blood on his shirt. The sleeves were all but drenched in it — how had it escaped her initially?! Rhaenyra’s eyes darted to his hands, and, sure enough, they were covered in blood as well.

“Do not come closer!” She exclaimed. Quickly, she got onto the table with her feet, curling into herself and hugging her knees. “Why on earth are your hands bloody?!”

He seemed almost taken aback by her words. Glancing at his own hands and examining them as if he were just as confused by the blood as she was, the man eventually offered her a weak smile.

“Pardon me,” he said apologetically and began wiping his hands on the shirt, adding more streaks of scarlet to it. “I was busy with the cleanup.”

“The cleanup?” Rhaenyra asked incredulously. “What cleanup?”

“Well, someone needs to get rid of the bodies. Did you not see two in the hallway when you walked in here?”

She exhaled. Yes, that did make some sense. She had assumed that the vampire was not letting the corpses rot in the castle forever, and the tidiness of the place had to be maintained by someone. Besides, this explained the food and the wine — if the man was a servant tasked to tidy up the castle, then he surely required a lot of energy to deal with the mess that nights like this one left.

“Oh.” Rhaenyra allowed herself to relax. “So you are… some kind of servant?”

The man smiled. “You can say so, yes.”

“Are you one of the townfolk? Did you come here after us?”

“No, beautiful,” he replied and shook his head. “I have told you — I live here. Now, may I come closer?” 

Rhaenyra nodded. He did not look that intimidating, actually, maybe a bit rough at the edges with his dirty clothes and broad shoulders, but she assumed this came with the job — digging graves and carrying corpses was one hell of a task. 

And she had wished for some company, had she not? Perhaps some gods had heard her prayers and decided to have mercy on her by offering her one last favour. 

“I have wine and some food here, which you probably know about,” she said quietly and scratched the back of her head. “Not really a proper feast, but it is not my fault — you do not have many supplies in the kitchen.”

The man seemed amused as he sat down on the chair next to her. “You have already been there, huh? Have you explored the entire castle?”

“It is not like I am in a rush.”

“Well, I guess you should not be. After all, the time is on the side of the sacrifices.”

Rhaenyra waved her hand and then offered him the wine. “Oh, I do not concern myself with this. Not the kind to count every second and pray for the sun to rise faster.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised by her words, but still took a bottle out of her hands. She watched him take a sip, and when a droplet of red escaped his mouth, he swiftly wiped it with his thumb. 

“Now,” Rhaenyra continued as she folded her arms on her chest. “Tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“About your master, the vampire. Is it terribly ugly?”

He laughed again, and Rhaenyra thought that he had an oddly melodic voice. The way he shook his head as he smiled and laughed, the way his hair fell, were almost enchanting, compelling her to look at him, and she was quite certain that she had never seen a man as handsome as this one, which was almost unsettling. 

“The vampire? I guess he is rather beastly, yes.”

“I knew it!” Rhaenyra exclaimed. “Also… you say it is a male?”

“It used to be,” the man replied. “Now… Hard to tell.”

“Is he quick?”

“Very much.”

“Is it true that he moves faster than humans?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh! Can he turn into a bat?”

“No, that one is a myth as far as I am aware.”

Rhaenyra giggled and took another bite of the apple. Speaking with her mouth full, disregarding all the norms of propriety, she continued with her interrogation:

“Why does he need to employ you ?”

He seemed to hesitate at this question, but then put the flagon of wine on the table and replied:

“He cannot be bothered to clean up after himself. And someone needs to keep things in order. Who do you think has lit all these candles? Surely not the vampire himself.”

“Does he resemble a man?”

“Not really. Perhaps he used to be one once, but now he has that ugly, saggy skin clinging to his thin bones, and his skull is all but showing wherever there is a particularly thin patch of skin.”

Rhaenyra let out a weird sound of excitement. The wine was making her giddy, and she was just thrilled to know about the beast before it came for her. She had given up hope to learn about it before her time came, but now she had a chance to prepare herself.

And it sounded so entertaining, too. She could picture the creature in detail now that she had someone to tell her about it. 

“He sleeps in a coffin,” the man continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “Does not like daylight, obviously, and is simply a terrible conversationalist.”

Rhaenyra giggled and leaned forward, engrossed in the man’s tale. “And how did you come to be in his service?”

“It was quite a long time ago. Needed a job and could not afford to be picky.”

“Does it pay well?”

He waved his hand as if he were urging Rhaenyra to look around. “I get to live here. Seems good enough to me.”

She hummed. In fact, he was right; this arrangement did not seem to be such a terrible deal for him. If he had no family and nowhere else to be, having an opportunity to enjoy the castle’s library and all its vast space, left to his own devices, seemed like a perfect solution. 

“Why maidens?” Rhaenyra asked all of a sudden. 

This question had been troubling her for a while now. Was it true that their blood had some special properties? Rhaenyra had always thought it was an old wives’ tale, complete nonsense that was meant to justify the ritual by selecting the least protected members of the community, but what if it was all true?

In her opinion, this served only to single out those who were not too valuable for their town and thus available to be sacrificed. Men could never be offered to anyone and could not be stripped of their subjectness. Mothers and wives had entirely too much going on — without them, households would fall into disarray, and children would be needy and miserable. Giving up babes and infants was too callous, and they probably would not have enough crones to satiate the vampire’s bloodlust. 

Hence, the choice was obvious. Getting rid of daughters who were no one’s wives yet was seen as an acceptable price to pay. Moreover, it even removed the burden of assembling and paying the dowry, and one less young mouth to feed was not at all a bad thing.

But maybe there was a more poetic explanation for this rule.

“Personal preference,” the man replied with a smirk. “The contract never stipulated it had to be a maiden, actually. I also do not think they… check you beforehand, do they?”

Rhaenyra’s cheeks turned pink at the question. Indeed, she had never thought about it this way. She could have parted with her maidenhead in secret without getting married — and she would still have been included in the draft. She would have had to either disgrace herself by telling the truth or simply comply with the results.

So, perhaps, there was no magical reason, after all.

“No,” she said quickly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It is just a lottery, you can say, among the unwed girls of a certain age.”

The man hummed. “I guess you just got unlucky.”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “It was not luck or lack thereof. My stepmother had seen to it that I was selected; I am pretty confident about this.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What have you done to earn her ire?”

She sighed. Was there a point in delving into the family history and retelling it all? Rhaenyra assumed that no one really cared about her stepmother’s schemes, for no one would have put a stop to them even if they had been discovered, and it was entirely too late to talk about justice anyway.

But there was some kind of intimacy in this setting, and she did not know a thing about the man sitting in the chair next to her. They had just met, and he was a complete stranger in service of a creature that would sooner or later find her and drink her blood. 

So perhaps it was fitting to pour her soul out in the last hours of her life — it was something akin to a confession in a way, an absolution of sins. 

“I do not think I have done anything specific,” Rhaenyra said as she looked down and tugged nervously on her sleeves. “But I do think that my father loved my mother more than he loves her. She is a daughter of a churchwarden and a niece to a priest; they are in charge of the draft, and I guess it was pretty easy to make sure my name ended up on the list.”

“And what about your father? Cannot imagine he was pleased with such a disposition.”

Rhaenyra shrugged. “He has another daughter. I can understand Alicent, truly. According to the rules, a household can only be made to sacrifice a girl once every fifteen years. My going here will give Helaena plenty of time to grow up and marry so that she escapes this fate.”

She had thought about this already. Had she been in Alicent’s shoes — would she not do everything to protect her own blood, her precious daughter? Rhaenyra did not rage or cry about her fate because it all made sense to her, and even though she might think her stepmother a bitter hag, her actions did make sense, no matter how cruel they were. 

“Wow,” the man said with an empathetic look in his eyes. “She sounds really sweet and not at all annoying. Could your father not have married you off in haste, then?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glistened, and she reached out to take another gulp of wine. “Oh, he could, actually. He almost did. I just did not let him do it.”

“What?” 

“Well, there was this man, Criston,” Rhaenyra began, rolling her eyes at the mere memory of her betrothed. “I was promised to him, and my father, when he learned about the draft, sought to hasten the wedding, so I could be… you know… ineligible. ”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I never liked him! He has a big yard and a garden of orange trees. I guess it is a nice trade, certainly not worse than many others, but I just… I do not know. I did not see the point in it all. He was… is…”

“Let me guess,” the man interrupted her and folded his hands behind his head, leaning back in the chair. “Homely, is he not? Much older and all shrivelled?”

“Actually, he is not,” Rhaenyra replied, not because she was offended on Criston’s behalf but because she did not want the man to think she had done this out of some vanity or unfulfillable dreams about a dashing husband. “He is rather good-looking and not much older than me. Enamoured with me, too.”

“Then what could have possibly gone wrong?”

She took a deep breath. This was such a valid question — what had gone wrong, indeed? She could have escaped the terrible fate of being a sacrifice, and Alicent could have choked on her scheming — the salvation had been within her grasp, all but locked down, and yet Rhaenyra had refused it with scorn.

“I guess I just did not see the difference between the two options,” she said quietly, looking into the man’s eyes. “Either path ends in death; one is more predictable than the other.”

Seeing that her companion was not quite following her, still looking confused, she sighed and began explaining:

“My mother died in childbirth. So did my grandmother. So do many other women. I would have perished, too, and I would have been lucky not to do it with my first. And even if I survived, my entire life would consist of nothing but the orange grove, the washing, the pots and the pans, the oven and the bed. Crying children, dirty sheets, holes in my husband’s breeches… It would not have been a life anyway.”

When she finished, she looked down, afraid to meet the man’s eyes. Perhaps he would laugh at her; any sane person would certainly consider any life to be a gift in itself, and forsaking it so readily just because she did not wish to be tied to a man and give birth to his children, the most natural thing in the world, must sound insane to him.

However, no judgment came. He did not try to admonish her or preach about the importance of being docile and accepting of her fate.

Instead, there was a question no one had ever asked her before.

“And if you did not have to die today or to marry that man — what would you do with your life?”

Rhaenyra bit her lower lip. Then, she raised her gaze to look at the walls covered in rows of books and waved her hand. 

“I would read all these books, as many as I could in my lifetime. And if I had some time left — or maybe instead — I would travel the world. They say there are dragons living in the East and krakens swimming in the seas to the West. Seafarers talk about cities of great beauty, buildings of strange stone, and the wonders in deserts and lush rainforests. I would like to see it all and more.”

This sounded pretty silly, she knew it. Women could not travel far and wide — hell, even many men never got to explore the distant shores, and those who did often got lost at sea. Her being able to read was already rather outlandish, and if she had ever confessed her true desires to Alicent, she would have surely attributed Rhaenyra’s having these stupid ideas to the poison of reading books that were not for her female brain.

But this man, whoever he was, did not seem to judge her. He was listening to her every word, keeping his gaze fast on her, and did not interrupt her until she finished.

“An admirable dream indeed,” he said calmly. 

Before he could say anything else and before she could begin to pity herself too much, Rhaenyra shook her head. 

“A foolish dream.” She sipped some more wine, wondering if she had just not noticed him taking the bottle or if he had barely touched it since they began talking. “It is not meant to be anyway; no one has ever made it out of here, as you are well aware.”

He chuckled. “I must confess, I have never seen a girl so brazen and audacious in the face of death.”

“I have not actually faced it yet, have I?” Rhaenyra smiled. “Who knows, I might lose all my resolve and break down in tears when he does find me. Although I do hope to go away with dignity.”

“Everyone usually hides,” the man said, reaching out for an apple and juggling it effortlessly. “In all the same places, too. This is why I was surprised when I saw you — no one ever chooses the library as their hideout.”

“That is because I did not come here to hide. I chose it as a beautiful place to die — and is it not an amazing way to go?”

“Certainly an unconventional one.”

“I have never been much of a conformist.”

They had run out of wine, and Rhaenyra shook the flagon quite ungainly, hoping to catch the very last drop on her tongue. Then, she put the bottle down and looked over her shoulder, using the break in their conversation to see if anything had changed outside the castle.

But it was still pitch black, and all she could do was sigh. She did not want to think about her chances of making it back to her town — even if the vampire did not find her by himself, his servant would certainly let him know that she was in the library. One way or another, the end was in sight, and she wondered if there was anything else to do. 

The man followed her with his attentive gaze, and when she hunched her back and turned to look at him again, he asked another question:

“Do you regret leaving the world behind?”

Rhaenyra thought about the sunset again, about all those colours. She remembered the sensation of the wind getting tangled in her hair, the tickling of grass when she walked barefoot, and the exquisite smell of her mother’s cooking. She looked back at the cool river she loved to swim in when the summer came; she recalled the taste of the luscious peaches growing in their garden. 

There were so many things she had experienced, and even if she died soon, she would know what it meant to eat fresh fruit, to swim, to dive, to run, to roll in the grass. 

But there were so many mysteries of the world she had not yet uncovered — and now, they would remain forever inaccessible to her.

Rhaenyra licked her lips hesitantly. It was too broad an answer, but it had to be enough, for she did not want to go into specifics.

“I guess I mourn all the things I have not yet done.”

Her unlikely companion smiled. “Such as?”

She faltered, unsure what she should say next. If she were to speak what was actually on her mind and on her tongue, it would betray her drunkenness, perhaps — for she did feel quite dizzy and lightheaded for a while now, enjoying the effortless flow of the conversation and the tasty wine that was oh so easy to sip on. 

Besides, it was not really proper to speak of such things. Yes, she had disregarded many a norm of propriety tonight, but some boundaries were all but etched into her brain.

But as she looked at the man, she thought that he ought to know her answer anyway. There was something about him, about the glisten of his lilac eyes, that told Rhaenyra that he was already aware of what she was trying and failing to say — so did it matter if she took the plunge and opened up?

“It is a shame to die and not learn what it means to be loved… or desired, rather,” Rhaenyra whispered, unsure if the blush of her cheeks was of shame or something else.

“Not learn a passionate embrace of a lover?” He prompted her with a faint smile. “Not a husband performing his duty, but a lover?”

She nodded. “Not learn what is so special about the feeling that makes so many people lose their minds.”

“Good thing this can be easily remedied, then,” the man said and put the apple aside, instead reaching out to touch her knee — a minuscule contact that nonetheless jolted Rhaenyra. 

“Remedied?” She repeated numbly, feeling stupid.

“Your maidenhead is of no use in the afterlife,” he whispered, his gaze getting darker and more intense. “And we have already established that the vampire does not care for it either. And you claim not to care about what happens to you anyway — so why not learn what you are craving to?”

Her lips were half-asunder, but she did not protest — because what was the point in trying to lie if this entire exchange was just a verbal confirmation of what she felt already? He knew she felt this way; there was no hiding from his clever gaze that seemingly saw into her very soul.

“And, I assume, you are to offer me your help in the matter?” Rhaenyra murmured, watching his fingers draw circles right above her knee. 

She would quite like that, actually. Maybe it was the wine making her reckless or the certainty of her death, but she felt compelled to yield to the temptation and enjoy the mortal pleasures while she still could.

It had always intrigued her, that notion that women were meant to guard their innocence and preserve their chastity until marriage, as if opening these floodgates could cause a true disaster. Rhaenyra found it difficult to believe that lust could be that strong a force, but now that she was drunk and desperate to savour the last hours of her life, she could see the appeal.

And whoever this man was, he was handsome enough for her to be really curious to find out what it was all about.

He stood up swiftly, and Rhaenyra was momentarily taken aback by how tall he was. Had she failed to notice it before, when he had just walked into the room? Was it the lack of distance making him tower over her like that? Or was it just the heady wine that had sharpened her senses in a peculiar way?

He caressed her leg through the fabric of her dress, and Rhaenyra felt like she had never been touched more tenderly and possessively at the same time. What was that? Just a simple caress, barely a contact, for he had not reached her naked skin yet, but it was still more than enough to make her want this night to last for much longer.

“There is just one thing, beautiful,” the man whispered, bowing his head and gazing into her eyes. 

“What is it?” Rhaenyra breathed out, ready to do just about anything to succumb to this passion that was getting stronger by the moment, spreading all over her body like a wildfire.

Her companion smiled charmingly, disarmingly, and then ran his fingers through her long hair. “I prefer to know the name of the woman I am about to know carnally.”

She let out an awkward laugh. How silly it was! They had not even exchanged names yet, and she was already burning with desire to be claimed by him.

“Rhaenyra,” she murmured. 

“Rhaenyra,” he replied as if savouring the taste of the name on his tongue, as if trying it on and seeing if it fit. 

“And yours? What should I call you?”

He lowered his head and left a small kiss on the tender skin right above her ear. 

“Call me Daemon.”

It was a sinister name, but Rhaenyra was not deterred. Names did not have to mean anything, and she doubted someone as gallant and charming as Daemon could have anything in common with beasts and demons.

Well, apart from doing their dirty work for them.

She wanted to say something, to roll his name on her tongue just like he did hers, but words did not obey her. Maybe it was due to Daemon’s hand slowly moving up her leg, under her skirts now, or maybe she just did not see any point in talking anymore.

“Are you cold, darling? You are shivering.”

Rhaenyra opened and closed her mouth stupidly, struggling to come up with a reply. No, she was not cold, not at all, and it was just her body betraying her inexperience and the inner ache. She lacked the words to express her feelings, but it seemed that Daemon did not really need her answer — he must have known it all before he even asked.

“What a stroke of luck that we have found each other, is it not?” Daemon murmured into her ear as he rolled down her stockings, exposing more and more of her skin littered with goosebumps. 

She nodded. “Yes, yes, it is.”

His hand was in her hair now, fingers running through it before he grabbed the back of her neck and made her tilt her head. Their eyes met, and his were clouded by something Rhaenyra could only describe as hunger.

It was no wonder poets and singers so often conflated it with lust, then, using the same words to describe the simple need for nourishment and the desire for carnal pleasures.

Rhaenyra expected Daemon to kiss her, and she braced herself for the crashing of his lips into hers, thinking that kissing must be fun, too. However, he did not seem too eager to do this — well, at least he did not rush to kiss her on the mouth, preferring to explore other parts of her.

Her lips might remain unclaimed, but every inch of her bare skin was lavished with proper attention. He was careful, too, never causing her any pain or accidentally grazing the delicate skin with his teeth. It was just an almost airy touch of the lips on her neck, collarbone, the tops of her breasts that were rising and falling unevenly now, all while his fingers under her skirts were exploring even more tender parts of her, the softness of her inner thighs that were oh so sensitive.

Then, he pressed his hand on her chest and pushed her — gently, lightly, but with enough force for her to fall with her back onto the table and send the empty cup flying, together with uneaten apples and the bottle cork. 

“Should we not be more careful?” Rhaenyra asked, fearful that the noise might alert the vampire and end her fun prematurely. “We are making quite a mess — ”

“Oh, darling, but dealing with a mess is literally my job,” Daemon replied with a smirk, pushing her skirts further up. 

She laughed again. She supposed he was right — if he was tasked with removing the dead bodies, then taking care of a few dishes should not be a big deal for him. Next to her body, they would look rather insignificant anyway. 

“Open your legs,” Daemon ordered her, pushing his hand between her thighs. “No need to play coy now.”

Rhaenyra did not plan to — and even though it felt weird to lie on the table this way, she obeyed. Proping herself on her elbows not to miss a single thing happening, she watched him watch her — and it was captivating, truly, this mischievous twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes. 

She wondered if it would feel better if they had moved into one of the many bedrooms. Perhaps a feather mattress and a couple of pillows would really improve the experience, but beggars could not be choosers. Gods knew how many years had passed since anyone had last slept in those old, dusty beds, and Rhaenyra did not even want to think about how many people might have died in them.

No, maybe doing this on a library table was not such a bad idea, after all. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers immediately on her inner thigh again. With his other hand, he began undoing the simple lacing of his trousers, and Rhaenyra’s breath hitched in her throat in anticipation.

She had never been with a man like that; hell, she had scarcely imagined being with someone like that. Whenever she drifted to this act in her thoughts, it was always either in weird annoyance upon hearing how foolishly people acted when driven by lust, or in fear of what awaited her if she did end up marrying Criston. Where other maids were either completely clueless or rather excited to be claimed by their beloved betrothed, Rhaenyra had been neither.

Now, however, it was a totally different story. 

Intrigued and slightly trembling with excitement, she wondered if she should undress as well. Already unwrapped and exposed in the most important places, Rhaenyra assumed that it was not strictly necessary for her to take anything off as well, but the dress felt oppressive and too heavy all of a sudden.

Carefully, she undid the lacing on her chest, hoping to make it easier for herself to breathe. Something was telling her that this difficulty in catching her breath now was just the beginning of the true struggle.

 The premonition of being taken was sweet and titillating in itself. Rhaenyra watched Daemon, watched him work on his trousers, but as she inhaled sharply, ready to see the male nude form at long last, he stopped just before pulling his garments down. 

Instead, he turned his full attention to her. 

“What a flower you have here,” Daemon said as his fingers brushed her sensitive spots, making her flinch instinctively. “All for me to pick, hm.”

And then, his fingers parted her. He did not stop at that either, quickly sinking one of the digits inside, and Rhaenyra exhaled loudly at the sensation. 

The second finger followed immediately, barely giving her a chance to adjust, but she also did not really need it. The intrusion might be unusual, but it was still desirable and extremely pleasant. 

“Feels good,” she said lazily, suspecting that Daemon could tell from her relaxed state anyway. 

“Of course it does,” he replied with a chuckle. 

He seemed very proficient in this skill, and she could not help but idly wonder where a servant like him could have picked up the knowledge on how to do this. But he was a man, and it was perhaps expected of them to learn those things early in life — besides, who knew what he did here outside of the night of the ritual? Daemon could easily get regular practice in this field.

His thumb was on the outside of her folds, finding a very sensitive spot that, when touched, helped relieve the newfound ache in her. His two fingers did almost the same, but from the inside, curling and making her breathless. 

He had very long fingers indeed, Rhaenyra mused, which allowed him to touch her so masterfully, seemingly everywhere at the same time. She had no idea how much time had actually passed, but it felt like it had taken her just a few minutes to start gasping for air like she was drowning. 

Arching her back, tossing her head back, Rhaenyra felt weak everywhere, and, at the same time, greatly overwhelmed by the avalanche of sensations. Her toes curled — what a silly way to react to pleasure! — and her lips were parted in half-moans, half-sighs. Every muscle tensed and then relaxed, and it was absolutely marvellous. 

“Oh, fuck. This… this is great,” she mumbled. It was an understatement, but she was not capable of more now.

“Uh-huh,” Daemon agreed — but did not stop with his motions. “And this is not even everything there is.”

Rhaenyra looked over her shoulder. It was still dark outside, with no signs of the morning sun gracing them with its presence, but hours passed swiftly. She would hate not to get to the best part because they ran out of time. 

Daemon noticed her anxiety and hummed. “Worry not, beautiful. We have plenty of time until sunrise.”

“And what if… What if he comes for me?”

“I would not worry about that,” he said and pressed on the sensitive spot inside her, eliciting a moan from Rhaenyra’s lips. “Darling, there are more exciting things to think about.”

Well, she did not want to think at all, and before long, she felt another wave of pleasure coming at her, threatening to take her whole.

When Daemon deemed that he had made enough of a mess of her — Rhaenyra had never been that wet, both between her legs and everywhere else, sweating profusely and loathing the constraints of her dress — he finally stopped the sweet torture and withdrew his fingers. However, the emptiness was brief, for he was finally rewarding her with the real thing, with something she had actually been yearning for.

Daemon was right — dying without knowing what it meant would truly be pointless, for no one in the afterlife would care about her chastity and her honour. If she were to die soon, then what a way to go this was!

He was even closer to her now, having tugged on her hips to make it easier for their bodies to collide. Rhaenyra was sure that all this could have been even more heavenly on satin sheets and among the softest of pillows, but she felt so good that she barely cared about the hard surface she was lying on. What mattered the most was the expression of concentration and interest on Daemon’s face, and she wanted to hold onto this feeling of being desired for as long as she could.

It was not exactly easy to see what he was doing while in such an awkward position, and Rhaenyra bent her neck to get a glimpse of his physique as he finally pushed his garments down. She was not scandalised or particularly shocked by the sight of his appendage, curious but not bashful.

Daemon was not rushing things, but at the same time, there was a sense of purpose to his every motion. He did not speak much, but he did not stop touching her, caressing her hip with one hand while stroking himself with the other. Rhaenyra revelled in the sensation, thinking that she had never been so pleasantly indolent and tired. 

“Might hurt a little,” he warned her, his voice sultry and endlessly seductive. Through half-shut eyelids, Rhaenyra watched him lean closer, and she nodded mindlessly, not at all concerned with the potential pain.

It did hurt, but it was nothing. The feeling was even familiar already — not too dissimilar from being invaded with his fingers, only overwhelmingly more. The girth and the determination in him pushing forward could not be compared to the digits that had explored her, and Rhaenyra exhaled loudly as he nudged her and then began advancing past the resistance of her inexperienced muscles. 

Slowly, either being excessively cautious or savouring Rhaenyra’s helplessness, Daemon eased himself fully into her cunt. Her heart was racing, and the stretch did feel like it was too much, but Rhaenyra found herself elated nonetheless. It was unlike anything else in her life, but worth all the initial, fleeting pain. 

His eyes were bright, even though Rhaenyra’s vision was blurry. She kept her gaze fixed on his face, watching his lips slightly part in a satisfied exhale. This reaction made her smile, and she was proud of making someone look so desperate for this contact.

If she had expected gentleness from her first and only lover in life, then she was out of luck. Daemon might be attentive and treat her with deference, but when it came to this, to the collision of their bodies in the most intimate ways, he was not the one to hold back. As soon as their pelvises joined, his cock sheathed inside her to the hilt, he grabbed her hips with remarkable force and set up a ruthless pace. 

This kind of pain was a bit more unexpected and more challenging to bear, but even it faded quickly when his length began hitting her delicate spots. The stretch, the thrusts, the violence with which he squeezed her hip — Rhaenyra was enchanted by this, empty-headed and barely able to let out a sound that was not a moan or a gasp.

Daemon seemed content with her saying nothing, and when he slightly changed the angle, leaning forward and pushing her thighs back, he whispered:

“Cannot believe you were ready to die without letting someone feel the warmth of your cunt at least once.”

She smiled. “Cannot believe I was ready to die without knowing what it was like to have someone inside my cunt.”

The wooden table creaked under the storm of their passion, and for a second, Rhaenyra was worried its legs might give in and break, making them collapse rather ungallantly and clumsily. However, the piece of furniture seemed sturdy enough, maybe even crafted with unbound lust in mind, and she stopped fretting about a fall.

Because falling was actually such a sweet thing. 

Borderline whimpering, sore and weak from all the pleasure she had received from Daemon today, she saw stars on the back of her eyelids as she rolled her eyes and wondered if her heart could burst from all the sensations. Falling, yes — that was what it reminded her of, but instead of bone-crushing impact, there was just the strength of Daemon’s arms and a new climax, a new wave of release.

Finally, Daemon seemed to feel it, too, that violent force of satisfaction that left every human breathless. After a few particularly harsh thrusts, his hips stilled, and Rhaenyra heard a low grunt flowing off his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut. The muscles of his face twitched, and Rhaenyra watched in wonder how he appeared focused even in such a special moment.

She fell back on the table, giving up on supporting herself on her elbows, and exhaled loudly.

“Gods, that was simply incredible!”

His hand stroked her cheek as his length wilted inside her — he was not in a rush to part from her — and she heard a quiet chuckle. 

“And you are a lovely thing to have, Rhaenyra.”

Afterwards, she was proudly perched on his lap, her bodice askew and her skirts crinkled, hastily smoothed out as she jumped off the table after their ardent coupling. With her arms thrown around Daemon’s neck, Rhaenyra shrieked from laughter as he told her stories about the girls from previous years being sacrificed — how they had thought themselves capable of reasoning with the monster and all the ridiculous places he had found them in, chimneys and piles of old, rotting leaves among them.

She felt light and happy, which was ridiculous on such a night. This person she barely knew, this castle that was a huge coffin to her and eleven other poor souls, this night that was full of unexpected wonders — Rhaenyra could not believe that she was not dead yet and that her last hours were filled with so much delight.

It was, of course, the effect of the sultry night and the imminence of death that made her feel this way, but she could almost swear she and Daemon had known each other their entire lives — so easy it was to talk and to laugh, to smile and even to fuck, as it had turned out.

Daemon’s hand was running up and down her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine and playing with her unruly hair. Suddenly, he stopped talking, looking over Rhaenyra’s shoulder instead.

She followed his gaze, frowning and unsatisfied that he had ceased entertaining her with his stories so abruptly. However, as she realised he was staring out of the window, Rhaenyra’s heart dropped.

The sky was no longer black, and the dawn was upon them. Touched with blush-pink, the world was getting brighter seemingly by the second, and while it was not quite dawn yet, the sun just getting ready to appear and bless them, the night was basically over.

“I guess I have to let you go now,” Daemon said impassively. “And bestow upon you a rich bounty.”

“What?” Rhaenyra mumbled, her eyes darting to his face. “But the — ”

And then, it hit her.

Jolted, she jumped up, the comfort of Daemon’s lap no longer desirable and soothing. Panicking, she measured him with her gaze, wondering how she could have missed it, how she could have not realised it sooner.

“It is you,” she breathed out. “It has been you all along!”

The ridiculous tale he had told her — taking care of the bodies! The confidence with which he acted, the knowledgeable look in his eyes — she should have pieced it all together earlier. 

As if to assuage all her remaining doubts, Daemon smiled — and for the first time, he did so in full, showing her his blindingly white teeth.

No, not teeth — fangs that could pierce the skin and draw blood.

“Where is everyone else?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice no more than a grave, terrified whisper.

Daemon shrugged. “Dead.”

“But… you have been here for hours, and — ”

“Darling, it does not take long to kill a bunch of clumsy, fearful girls. I was done with them before I set out to look for the last one — who happened to be you. ”

“But… But — ” Rhaenyra kept stuttering, dizzy from all the revelations and unable to process his words. “You told me the vampire was ugly!”

Her remark made Daemon smile again. “I will take it as a compliment that you do not consider me ugly, darling.”

She trembled, thinking that hours must have surely passed swiftly in this cursed castle. She could not believe she had been so close to death, trusting his nonsensical stories and willingly indulging in his lies — and that he was so full of insouciance, making jokes, making her laugh.

She could not comprehend that the only person who had ever understood her was not a person at all.

“You have won,” Daemon announced — was she dreaming or was he somewhat proud saying that? “You can walk away now, Rhaenyra. I am not going to chase you.”

Rhaenyra hugged herself. Yes, she should do just that — gods, she was the first girl to ever survive the ritual! The rules were honoured, and she had done her part, still breathing as the sun rose in the sky and bathed the world in its radiance. All she had to do now was to walk away, collecting her prize and making her father happy with her return, and her stepmother insanely bitter and crestfallen.

Still, she hesitated. As she looked over her shoulder, agonising over the slow ascent of the sun, Rhaenyra thought that, contrary to everything that was human and natural, logical and right, she did not want to leave.

The man who was not at all a man had lied to her, had lured her into a trap and had stolen her maidenhead — but had she not been only too happy to play along? Rhaenyra thought back to the moment he walked through the door — there was blood on his hands, was there not? And all the bodies had been emptied, pale, depleted — why would a servant tasked with getting rid of them have his shirt and hands dirty if the vampire drank all the blood?

Daemon had also not touched a single apple — well, he had jungled with one, but he had not eaten either the bread or the fruit, and he had scarcely sipped the wine. Rhaenyra groaned quietly as the extent of her recklessness fully dawned on her. 

She should have noticed earlier. She should not have been so trusting and so easy to bewitch.

But it was also the best she had ever felt, and for the first time in her life, she had been seen. Sharing her grievances, feeling like the other person really understood her, speaking freely about her dreams and regrets — it was endlessly better than her former friends’ incessant prattling about nothing of substance. 

Rhaenyra exhaled, confused and unsure why she could not take even a single step, lingering in the room with hundreds of books when she should be counting her blessings and running as far as possible without looking back.

Perhaps the crux of the issue was that she had already mourned her life. Ready to die, steadfast in her conviction that resistance was futile and beneath her, Rhaenyra had turned out to be cunning and wise enough to win this game, but now that she should be celebrating her victory, she did not feel like it at all.

There was no elation, no sense of triumph — nothing compared to how Daemon had made her feel when fucking her, for example.

She had said goodbye to everyone, and no one was waiting for her. Her father might shed a tear when he woke up and realised that she was truly gone, and her siblings might wonder where their elder sister had gone, but that sort of pain would fade quickly, overshadowed by the myriad of day-to-day matters and new experiences. Criston would find himself a different bride, a plump and silly daughter of a brewer or a butcher, someone who would be happy to tend to the orange grove and birth children who would inherit all their unremarkableness.

But what was there for her in that world now, even with all the riches Daemon had promised her? She was entitled to a reward, yes, perhaps even a significant one, for she was the first to survive the sacrifice, but what would it buy her?

She could disappear; she could travel. Rhaenyra thought about all the places not yet visited and all the people not yet met, but even that dream, no matter how enticing, was not enough. She did not have the slightest idea about what she should even start with, where to go, what to do with all the gold and treasure she would take out of this castle.

If only she were not so dreadfully alone, so hopelessly lonely!

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Daemon stood up and took her hand. 

“Or,” he began in his seductive, velvety voice that now sounded otherworldly to her, “you might stay.”

Rhaenyra looked into his eyes, struggling to understand what he meant. The game, the ritual, the hunt was almost as old as time, and the sacredness of the rules was what held it all together. Besides, what would she even do in an empty castle, alive and on her own, while the only other inhabitant of this place was undead?

“You know, these fangs do not just bring death,” Daemon continued, stroking her knuckles and smiling. “They also bring infinity — do you think this will be enough time for you to read all these books and see the isles with krakens and dragon bones?”

She furrowed her brows for a second, taking in the true meaning of his words, and then giggled. As ludicrous as his proposition sounded, it was also something that made her heart truly flutter — for the last time, perhaps. 

The decision came quickly; she was never prone to doubts, and just as she had been eager to get claimed by a man, she was now keen to offer herself to a monster. She had only known him for meagre hours, enjoying brief companionship, but now this magical tome together would turn into something as serious as forever — and it might have taken Rhaenyra years of failing to find something meaningful among the mortals, but the prospect of being united with death was appealing, and the eternity was enough to make up for all the time she had wasted on mediocre people.

Rhaenyra threw her hair to one side, exposing her neck to him for what she assumed would be a rather painful bite — a fair price to pay, though. Daemon smirked and bowed his head, caressing the throbbing vein under her white skin with his thumb, as if he were apologising in advance for ripping it apart, and whispered one last argument into her ear:

“And if you wish to continue this very pleasant night, I do have a coffin large enough for two.”

But she just rolled her eyes in impatience instead of gracing him with a proper response — she did not need any more persuading to take the gift of eternity.

Eternity with him.