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The ravens came heavy with salt and blood. Each bore the same tale: skirmishes in the Narrow Sea, the Triarchy’s hold tightening, the shipping lanes strangled. Pirates and sellswords swarmed the Stepstones like carrion birds, and the crown looked the other way.
The realm named it folly when Daemon Targaryen flew Caraxes east to join Corlys Velaryon. Reckless. Ambitious. Treasonous. At King’s Landing, Otto Hightower whispered poison: “He makes himself a king abroad, Your Grace, while your people suffer.”
But on Dragonstone, the story was told differently.
Rhaenyra stood in the courtyard as the ravens came and went, her sons tumbling at her feet. Aemon swung a wooden sword far too large for him, while Baelon chased a hound with squeals of laughter. Ser Harrold Westerling trailed after them like a weary mastiff, muttering oaths as the boys darted perilously close to the dragon pens.
“They’re their father’s sons,” Rhaenys observed dryly, standing beside her niece. “Too bold for their own good.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved in the faintest smile as she bent to scoop Baelon into her arms, pressing a kiss to his curls. “And mine. Don’t forget that.”
When she rose, her face was steel again. She took the raven’s scroll, broke the seal, and read the latest report of skirmishes.
“Corlys writes that my lord husband fights like a dragon unleashed,” she murmured. “The Triarchy bleeds. Yet still my father refuses to act.”
In the Red Keep, the king sat weary upon his throne as Otto spoke smooth words.
“Your brother plunges the realm into war for his own glory,” the Hand said gravely. “What care has he for your people? What care for you?”
Viserys sighed. “Daemon has ever been rash. Yet he wins where my council counsels only caution. Shall I chastise him for victories my lords are too timid to claim?”
“Today the Stepstones, tomorrow the crown itself,” Otto pressed. “Already he is called lord of those barren rocks. What will he style himself next?”
Alicent sat silent at his side, eyes cast down. She had no wish to speak of war, or of Daemon. Her thoughts were only for her son, the babe in her lap, his small hand curled about her finger. Yet she felt the undercurrent, the danger that grew each day Daemon triumphed abroad.
By torchlight on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra read Daemon’s letters. The parchment was stained, the script hurried, but his words were fierce:
“I will end this. For you. For our sons. Tell them their father makes the seas safe for their dragons to fly.”
She traced the ink with her fingertip, then folded the letter away.
Aemon had climbed onto her knee by then, demanding to know what his father wrote.
“That he fights bravely,” she told him, smoothing his hair. “And that he will come home.”
Baelon, never one to be left behind, tugged at her sleeve. “Does he slay monsters?”
Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “Yes, little dragon. Monsters and worse.”
It was Rhaenys who arranged it, silent and shrewd. A swift ship sailed from Driftmark under cover of night. Syrax wheeled above the waves, her golden scales catching the moonlight, carrying her rider where few would dare follow.
Daemon stood at the edge of a bloodied camp, Dark Sister dripping red, when the shadow of another dragon fell across the shore.
“Syrax,” he whispered, disbelieving.
Rhaenyra slid down from her saddle, her silver hair whipping in the salt wind. For a moment they only stared at one another across the sand, firelight dancing between them.
“You should not be here,” he said hoarsely.
“And yet I am,” she answered, striding to him. “Did you think war would keep me from you forever?”
He caught her then, armor and all, his mouth hard on hers. For a few stolen hours, the world fell away. There was only fire and salt, the crash of waves, and the two of them clinging as though dawn might never come.
When she left, the men whispered of a golden dragon wheeling in the night sky, but Daemon said nothing. He held the memory close, fiercer than any victory.
The Stepstones stank of salt, blood, and smoke. Corpses littered the beaches, gulls wheeling overhead. Daemon moved through it like a shadow, Dark Sister red to the hilt, Caraxes shrieking fire from the skies.
The crabfeeder’s men broke before him, scattering into the rocks. Daemon pressed on, relentless, carving through the tide of enemies with the ferocity of one who had everything to prove.
Corlys’s fleet struck from the sea, hemming the Triarchy’s ships against the shore. Victory was slow, bloody, but sure.
And when at last Daemon dragged the Crabfeeder’s broken body into the light, his men roared.
“King of the Narrow Sea!” they cried.
Daemon stood over the corpse, chest heaving, and felt no triumph. His gaze turned east, toward Dragonstone, where his wife and sons waited.
When Daemon returned at last, he came crowned with driftwood, his men hailing him King of the Narrow Sea. He flew not to King’s Landing but to Dragonstone, his crown in one hand, Dark Sister in the other.
The twins were the first to reach him, charging across the hall with shrieks of joy. Daemon bent, catching both at once, holding them tight despite the blood still dried on his armor.
Rhaenyra stood watching, pride and relief in her eyes. When he met her gaze, he tossed the crown at her feet.
“I win kingdoms,” he said, voice hoarse, “but they mean nothing without you.”
She bent, lifted the crown, and placed it back in his hands. “Then keep it. Our sons should see what their father can do.”
Far away, the court whispered treason, Otto schemed, and Viserys fretted. But on Dragonstone, in the great hall with fire blazing and children laughing, the Targaryens stood together—blood and fire, husband and wife, mother and father, their sons clutched close.
And the realm began to tremble