'Whether it is the rider who shapes the dragon, or the dragon who shapes the rider, I will not press the comparison beyond what evidence allows. We know, beyond doubt, that dragons have been bred with intent: there are beasts suited for war, for travel, burden, spectacle, and so on. Such distinctions do not arise by chance.'
— A Treatise on Dragons, Rhaenar I Targaryen
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At the behest of King Viserys, the Princess set out on a tour of the realm in search of a groom of her own choosing.
In truth, Rhaenyra was not fond of marriage — at least not on the terms offered by the Lords of the Kingdom.
She would be no brood mare. When she declared as much to her father, he apologized profusely for giving that impression and bid her marry only for the joy of family, and for the advantage such a union might bring a future Queen, should she one day rule.
It was a laughable affair.
Rhaenyra had wished to travel south from King's Landing, much as her brother had done years earlier, mirroring his journey across the realm. But with her safety insisted upon, they sailed instead.
Thus she came first to Storm's End, where many Lords gathered to make their bids for her hand. The tour was in such demand that even Lords from Raven and Pennytree rode hard to arrive in time — such is the frenzy when both Blackwood and Bracken glimpse a chance at the Princess.
When the two challenged one another to a duel before her, Rhaenyra had enough of the so-called tour and called it quits.
As she sailed back toward King's Landing, a screech split the sky. Caraxes swooped overhead, a red-scaled worm, as Prince Daemon hailed them from the saddle. It seemed he had arrived at precisely the same moment.
Naturally, his return set the court ablaze, like a beehive kicked apart. The King donned his royal finery and awaited his brother in the throne room, flanked by every member of the Kingsguard.
Prince Daemon swaggered in. Rhaenyra prowled alongside the gathered crowd, noting his shorter, war-worn hair—and how every eye was drawn to the driftwood crown upon his head.
Without a word, Daemon strode across the hall. When he reached the steps leading up to the Iron Throne, Ser Harrold stepped forward, drew his sword, and set its point against Daemon's chest.
For a heartbeat, the air grew thick. The court prayed Daemon would not draw Darksister and fell Ser Harold with valyrian steel.
Then Daemon produced a hammer and, pointing it toward the King, said, "Add it to the chair," before letting the weapon fall at his feet.
It became clear that Daemon's return was not one of defiance after all. He knelt and declared the Stepstones won in the King's name.
Viserys, ecstatic to see the brother he had missed so dearly, bid Daemon rise. The two embraced, and the court released a collective sigh of relief.
Later, when they retired to the godswood for food and drink, Rhaenyra was finally able to speak with her uncle.
In truth, she wanted to punch him.
Every day she wore the Valyrian necklace Daemon had given her — a piece of their shared heritage. Yet despite such gifts, he had abandoned her for a foolish war of his own making.
How could he have left her so? After her brother departed and left her alone. After she was named heir and a target painted on her back. After all the love he claimed to bear her.
That stupid, smug smile was the same one worn by the men she loved most in her life — men who could leave without a word and return as though nothing had changed.
And yet that smile had always made her feel safe. Within a single conversation, her resentment washed away, and Rhaenyra found herself glad to have her uncle back.
And indeed, both had changed over the four years apart. Daemon carried a brooding silence now, a hard-earned stoicism. His jests would take time to return after the campaign.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, had grown sharper since her return from Dragonstone—her clothing darker in tone, a constant trace of liner framing her eyes. Somehow, she had come to embody Visenya's fierceness while retaining the natural, girlish beauty of Rhaenys.
Daemon tried to impress upon her that, as a dragonrider, the Game of Marriage mattered little. Such vows were merely political. She could swear them and still fly where — and to whom — she pleased.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. It seemed the two men she cherished most shared the same shallow view of Westerosi politics. When would they ever learn? In any case, she swore she would not end as her mother had: confined to a castle, her sole purpose the bearing of heirs.
"Maegor grows strong," she told him in High Valyrian.
"Of course," Daemon replied. "He's my son."
"Will you go see him?"
"He's young. What good would it do?"
Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes. She had the sudden impression that Daemon did not write home — that he knew far less of his son than he let on.
Surely that could not be true. Surely he knew of the brilliant blue dragon egg Maegor had chosen, pointing to it without hesitation each time the dragonkeepers presented their options.
Surely he knew that the boy had hatched it at only two years of age — second in record only to Rhaenar himself, whose Sundance had split its shell the instant it was laid in cradle.
A feat unmatched since, even Vermithor and Silverwing had taken three years to hatch for Jaehaerys and Alysanne. It had taken Rhaenyra seven years for her to hatch Syrax, and that was considered impressive still.
"All the good in the world. I visit Runestone now and then. The boy eats like a beast. I think he'll be taller than you before long. Speaking of which, it's time you brought your family to court."
Daemon winced. "I just returned. Let me enjoy the peace of home before I'm forced to deal with my Bronze Bitch."
Rhaenyra laughed. "Oh, Uncle. Here I thought your adventures had changed you. How comforting to see I was wrong."
At that, Daemon's expression darkened. He looked skyward. "Men don't change. I see that now. Your brother, however, is another matter."
That same day, the small council convened. Ser Otto had received a troubling report from his brother in Oldtown.
Prince Rhaenar, it seemed, had bestowed Lord Corlys with immense titles and privileges — High Admiral, Warden of the Narrow Sea...
Such honors would be difficult to revoke from a man as proud and self-made as the Sea Snake, and they did not bode well for the Crown.
There was little doubt Corlys felt slighted after the King rejected his daughter. How long before he returned from Lys and used his newfound power to settle that grievance?
Already, rumors spread that he intended to promise Lady Laena's hand to the son of the Sealord of Braavos.
Should that come to pass, it was unclear how Corlys might wield control of the Narrow Sea for his own benefit — or whether he would feel any obligation to answer to the Iron Throne at all.
What if he followed Prince Rhaenar's example and declared Driftmark independent?
Worse still, what if he proclaimed House Velaryon a Valyrian house, renounced the Crown entirely, and placed himself beneath the banner and protection of Dragonstone?
The prospect of House Velaryon aligning with the Free Cities would leave the Crown little choice but to pursue a marriage pact powerful enough to counterbalance it.
Naturally, this made Rhaenyra's hand more desirable than ever. The ultimate bargaining chip.
With all of this weighing on her mind, Rhaenyra was relieved to return to her chambers and find a bundle waiting for her.
Inside lay a change of clothes, along with a sketch showing the location of a hidden door within her room.
The passage beyond was one she had never known existed.
Disguised as a common boy, a cap pulled low over her silver hair, she followed it past the chamber that housed Balerion's skull — where Prince Daemon waited.
Together, they slipped out of the Red Keep and vanished into the city for a night on the streets.
They wandered through King's Landing, sharing a wineskin as they went.