The next morning, Rhaenys kissed her husband farewell beneath a sky still pale with dawn. She mounted Meleys with practiced ease, the Red Queen shifting her great scarlet wings as if impatient to be gone. A moment later, dragon and rider leapt from the heights, banking eastward toward Dragonstone.
Meleys cut through the sky like an arrow loosed from a bow. By 75 AC, she had earned her name in truth. No dragon in Westeros could match her for speed, not Caraxes with his serpentine fury, nor even ancient Vhagar. The wind howled around them, tearing at Rhaenys's cloak, and the sea below became a blur of blue and white. By noon, the broken isles and treacherous waters of the Stepstones rose beneath them.
It was then that Meleys hissed, a low, uneasy sound that vibrated through her chest.
Rhaenys frowned, leaning forward to lay a steadying hand against the dragon's warm scales. She murmured soft Valyrian words, more habit than thought, her brow furrowing in confusion. Meleys was many things fierce, swift, proud, but rarely restless. In all the years they had flown together, Rhaenys had almost never felt such tension coiled beneath her.
Without warning, Meleys threw her head back and roared at the clouds ahead, the sound sharp and furious.
Another roar answered, deeper and rougher.
The clouds split apart as Sheepstealer burst through them, wings beating with raw, brutal force, his scarred hide dark against the light. He came straight toward them.
Rhaenys's breath caught. She hauled hard on the reins, bracing her legs as Meleys instinctively surged forward, eager to meet the threat head-on. The Red Queen twisted aside at the last heartbeat, the two dragons passing so close that the wind of Sheepstealer's wings slammed into her like a blow.
Sheepstealer retracted his hind claws with surprising deftness, avoiding Meleys's raking talons by inches.
Heart pounding, Rhaenys twisted in her saddle and looked back.
There was a rider.
Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, one hand gripping the saddle horn, forcing herself to see clearly through the swirling air.
"Hugh," she breathed, the name torn from her in disbelief.
Shock washed over her, cold and heavy. Rumors of five dragons in the Stepstones had spread for some time, whispered in courts and taverns alike. Like most of the highborn, Rhaenys had dismissed them as fear-born exaggerations, Tyroshi sailors mistaking shadow and flame for monsters.
But this was no rumor. This was flesh and fire before her eyes.
Her heart sank.
Everyone had underestimated Prince Aegon. Not merely his ambition, but the depth of his recklessness. To allow a bastard to claim a dragon was madness of the highest order. Did he truly believe such a man could be held on a leash?
Rhaenys's jaw tightened, her fingers curling against the leather. Once the truth spread, the consequences would ripple outward without end. Power like this could not be hidden, and it could not be recalled.
Below the clouds, the two dragons hovered, twenty paces apart. Meleys's wings beat in slow, guarded strokes, her body angled for a strike or a retreat. She remembered this ugly male dragon. They had crossed paths once before while hunting. He was clumsy in the air, but his strength was undeniable, a blunt weapon forged for destruction.
Rhaenys felt that wariness echo through her own bones. She straightened in the saddle, scanning the skies, every sense taut.
Then came another roar.
Sunfyre descended from above, bursting through the clouds in a cascade of golden light. His scales gleamed like molten metal beneath the sun, radiant and terrible in their beauty.
Meleys shuddered.
Rhaenys felt it at once, the shift in her dragon's posture, the subtle hitch in her wings. Alarm flared, sharp and instinctive. Fear. True fear.
Her breath turned shallow as she stared upward. She could not remember the last time Meleys had reacted so. The Red Queen had faced armies, fleets, and dragons without flinching.
Sunfyre circled slowly, vast and resplendent. He was larger than before, yes, but not so much as to inspire this dread.
Then their eyes met.
Rhaenys's blood seemed to freeze.
She had always known dragons were intelligent. Any rider did. But what she saw in Sunfyre's gaze was something else entirely. Awareness. Focus. A cold, measuring presence that did not belong to a beast.
Those eyes were human.
The realization struck her like a blade between the ribs. For one terrible instant, she felt as though she were not being regarded by a dragon at all, but by a man wearing a dragon's skin.
A soul, she thought dimly. A human soul, looking out from behind golden fire.
And in that moment, Rhaenys understood that the danger before her was far greater than she had ever imagined.
Sunfyre did not trouble himself with Rhaenys or the unease stirring within Meleys. After loosing a final roar that echoed across the sky, the golden dragon beat his wings and turned toward Drakoncrest, descending with unhurried certainty.
Sheepstealer followed at once, Hugh hunched low against the wind, clinging to the jagged ridges of the dragon's neck.
Rhaenys watched them go, her lips pressed thin. For a while, a shameful thought took hold of her. She could turn back now. Driftmark lay behind her, safe and familiar. No, not Driftmark. King's Landing. She should fly straight to the Red Keep and put this madness before the king's council while there was still time.
Her hands tightened on the reins.
After a long moment, she drew in a steadying breath and nudged Meleys forward. Her jaw set with quiet resolve. She could not retreat like a frightened girl. Too much had already been revealed, and the most dangerous question remained unanswered.
Meleys surged after Sunfyre.
The Red Queen was swift beyond measure, her wings slicing cleanly through the air, yet no matter how she pressed, Sunfyre maintained a steady lead. Fifty paces. Always fifty. Neither gaining nor yielding.
Rhaenys felt a heaviness settle in her chest.
She understood then, with a clarity that stung. From this day forward, Meleys would no longer be the fastest dragon in Westeros.
The Dragonpit of Drakoncrest soon rose beneath them, black stone crouched against the sea. Sunfyre descended first, landing with controlled grace as dust and ash billowed around his golden form. Meleys touched down not far behind, her claws scraping stone as she folded her wings.
A thunderous crash followed.
Sheepstealer struck the ground before the pit like a falling boulder, his weight shaking the earth, loose stones skittering away from his talons.
"Hiss."
At the gate, Vhagar lifted her great head, one ancient eye opening in open irritation. Her lip curled, smoke drifting from her nostrils as she regarded Sheepstealer's ungainly landing.
This mud-brown brute lands like a collapsing tower every time, her gaze seemed to say.
She flicked her attention briefly toward Meleys, snorted, then lowered her massive head again, settling back into uneasy sleep.
Hugh slid down from Sheepstealer's saddle and straightened, brushing dust from his cloak. He crossed the yard with measured steps toward Rhaenys, who had just dismounted.
"Esteemed Princess Rhaenys," he said, inclining his head. "On behalf of Prince Aegon, I welcome you to Drakoncrest."
Rhaenys returned the gesture stiffly. Her eyes drifted past Hugh to Sunfyre, who stood apart, radiant even at rest.
"Where is Prince Aegon?" she asked.
"His Highness awaits you at the main manor." Hugh gestured with one arm. "Please, follow me."
He turned and began to walk. Rhaenys fell in behind him, silent, her steps echoing on the stone. More than once, she glanced back over her shoulder. Each time, Sunfyre seemed unchanged, calm, and watchful.
They walked in silence until the towers of the Golden Dragon Manor loomed ahead. At last, Rhaenys spoke, unable to restrain herself any longer.
"When did you tame Sheepstealer?" Her voice was even, though her eyes were sharp. "I know that dragon. He has long haunted the Vale."
Hugh did not slow. "It was an accident."
He paused only long enough to add, "Have you heard of the Cannibal?"
"Yes," Rhaenys replied at once. "A charcoal-black wild dragon. Grown, vicious, perhaps ninety years old or more. He feeds on hatchlings and eggs."
Her expression darkened. "When my son Laenor was young, Seasmoke was nearly slain by him. Meleys drove the Cannibal off just in time. That dragon is cunning."
Hugh inclined his head. "He is."
As they walked, Hugh recounted the events of that encounter, his voice flat, almost casual. A chance meeting. A desperate gamble. A dragon driven into a corner.
As he finished, Rhaenys studied him sidelong.
"You are very fortunate Prince Aegon did not kill you," she said quietly.
Hugh stopped.
The suddenness of it forced Rhaenys to halt as well. He turned, slow and deliberate, until he faced her fully. The courteous mask he had worn fell away, leaving something raw and violent beneath.
"I am His Highness's most devout follower," Hugh said. His voice was low, coiled tight with fervor. "I will personally crush that woman's fragile skull. I will clear every obstacle from his path and place Prince Aegon upon the Iron Throne."
His eyes burned as he looked at her, naked hatred and killing intent laid bare, unsoftened by fear or doubt.
Rhaenys did not step back.
But in that moment, she understood. The danger before her was no longer rumor or shadow. It walked beside her now, breathing, believing, and utterly unashamed.