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High above the Narrow Sea, Daemon Targaryen sat astride the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the scene below.
He watched the colossal Vhagar begin her pre-flight preparations.
His own dragon, Caraxes, was a freak of nature, fast, lean, and serpentine, yet barely half of Vhagar's size.
Caraxes was wholly scarlet, his veins stark against the wing membranes, circling with the predatory menace of a born killer.
Savage, war-hungry, cunning: the dragon's nature mirrored his rider's perfectly.
Daemon wore no armor, only a plain black-and-red leather coat, his silver hair whipping wild in the wind.
"Here we go," he murmured, lips curving into a smirk.
Sensing his rider's mood, Caraxes gave a high-pitched, dolphin-like shriek, tilted his wings, and began a slow descent.
Daemon held a careful distance, close enough to watch, far enough to react.
Daemon knew Vhagar well. She was cranky, unpredictable, and ancient.
She had once belonged to his wife, Laena.
Now, a twelve-year-old madman rode her.
"Madman…" Daemon muttered, unsure whether he meant Aemond or himself.
Once the realm's most dangerous Prince, he had fled to the eastern continent to sell his sword for the sheer joy of killing.
In the alleys of King's Landing, he had rebuilt the gold-cloaked City Watch, executing criminals without trial.
That night, thousands lost heads or limbs, the kingdom's laws mocked in the open.
Some said he murdered his first wife, the Lady of the Vale, simply because he disliked her.
He had ridden a dragon to help the Velaryons seize the Stepstones, personally slaying the Crabfeeder.
Afterward, Daemon crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea, enraging his brother Viserys.
Then, young Daemon had made no secret of coveting the Iron Throne.
With no male heir, only a daughter, Rhaenyra, Viserys should have wed her to him and let them rule together, he argued.
He had even contemplated kinslaying, but the old fool's kindness and their brotherly bond had stayed his hand.
Now older, he understood the madness burning in Targaryen blood, the compulsion to prove, to seize, to destroy.
Aemond's wild stare in the hall last night, the knife pressed to his own eye… it was so very familiar.
Caraxes hovered, his unique, elongated neck twisting as he watched Vhagar.
Daemon kept watching. If the ancient dragon lost control or the boy tried anything that would set the skies above Driftmark ablaze, he would have to act.
Morning light struck Vhagar fully, revealing her true vastness.
When her wings spread, their shadow blanketed half the isle.
Age had thickened her, making her movements slower than a young dragon's, yet that weight, that earth-shaking power, outshone any wyrm in its prime.
At first, gale-force winds bent the trees.
A second, her immense frame lifted from the ground.
A third, she vaulted skyward.
Aemond clung to the scales, stomach lurching at the sudden surge.
Wind roared in his ears, no longer the chaotic howl of last night's storm, but the steady rush of flight.
Below, Driftmark shrank: towers, walls, and harbor ships reduced to toys.
Then he saw Daemon.
Three hundred yards northeast, the blood-red Caraxes kept a parallel course.
Prince Daemon was only a black speck against the high wind, yet Aemond felt that watchful, wary gaze.
He turned, meeting his uncle's eyes across the gulf of air.
The morning sun cast long shadows of the two dragons across the sea, the wind shrieking between them.
Daemon smiled.
Aemond did not.
He bent low over Vhagar's warm scales and murmured a Valyrian command.
Vhagar answered with a thunderous roar that drowned wind and wave.
Every soul on Driftmark looked up as the titan banked, wings hammering, and shot toward the harbor.
For all her years, Vhagar's speed was startling, the air churning in her wake.
Caraxes paused mid-air, then angled leisurely after her.
Daemon studied the tiny figure on Vhagar's back, his expression unreadable.
The boy had mastered her, for now. But dragon-riding is never mere skill; it is a duel of wills, and dragons scent fear, hesitation, and weakness.
Inside the castle, Rhaenyra stood at her eldest son's window.
She watched Vhagar lift into the sky, watched the vast black shadow sweep over the harbor, watched Daemon's red dragon follow through the air, and finally watched Aemond ride the oldest living dragon toward the royal fleet.
She felt a cold dread of Aemond.
She understood her uncle Daemon, and therefore she understood this brother of hers; both were mad, dangerous, and uncontrollable.
"He has her," she whispered, voice dry.
"Who?" came a hoarse, hungover voice behind her.
Rhaenyra did not turn. She knew who it was, her husband, Laenor Velaryon, finally returning from some dockside tavern or sailor's bunk.
Laenor stepped up behind her. He was still handsome, silver-haired and violet-eyed, his nose straight and proud.
But his rumpled clothes and the reek of wine betrayed last night's indulgences.
His collar hung open, carrying the mingled scent of sea-spray and cheap perfume.
He followed her gaze to the window, but there was nothing left now, only empty sky and the brightening sea.
"Vhagar," Rhaenyra said.
"Aemond rode her away, moments ago."
Laenor was silent for a beat, then sighed.
He moved to the bedside and looked down at Jacaerys.
His left eye was swathed in thick bandages, and the boy was still drugged on dreamwine.
Half the youth's face was grotesquely swollen; the visible eye was shut, lashes twitching as though trapped in a nightmare.
"Seven save us," Laenor murmured, anguish raw in his voice.
He reached to touch the boy's forehead, who was, in name, his eldest son, then stopped mid-air; he would not wake the child.
"Last night…" he began haltingly, "I was in the harbor. When I heard, it was already too late. Rhaenyra, I, "
"Where you were no longer matters," Rhaenyra cut in, finally turning. No tears remained, only exhaustion.
"What matters is that Jace has lost an eye."
"But I made them pay."
Laenor studied her, his wife, no, more like a sister. The Princess, whom he had known since childhood, joined him later in politics.
She was breathtaking, truly the Realm's Delight. Even in grief and fury, the fierce Targaryen beauty blazed from her.
Yet he had never desired her.
"I have not been a proper husband," Laenor said softly.
"Nor a proper father. I… cannot give you what you need."
Rhaenyra met his gaze, anger, sorrow, disappointment, and something like release swirling in her violet eyes.
"I tried as well, Laenor," she said.
"When we first wed, I meant to be a good wife. To give Driftmark true heirs, to continue the blood of Targaryen and Velaryon."
Her voice shook, but she forced herself onward.
"Yet every time you turned away. You preferred drinking with your captain friends, crowding into taverns with sailors, or"
She left the rest unsaid; both knew.
The words drained the color from Laenor's face.
He wanted to explain, to beg forgiveness, but speech failed him.
"I failed you," he said at last.
"No." Rhaenyra shook her head; a single tear slipped free, quickly brushed away.
"You cannot love me, and I could not endure the loneliness."
She walked to the window, turning her back to him, watching the sun rise over Driftmark.
"I do not regret it, Laenor. Though all the Seven Kingdoms may call me whore, though the rumors say my sons are bastards… I regret nothing. Because at least I lived, and I chose what I wanted."
Laenor stood as though drained of all strength.
Should he rage? A husband whose wife strayed, whose three sons were not of his blood?
Yet he felt no anger, only guilt.
Rhaenyra had given him chances; his own nature had barred the way.
"You and Daemon…"
He forced the name out.
This marriage had been a torment of duty. He had dreamed of the divorces granted in the eastern realms.
But in Westeros, under the Faith of the Seven, there was no such choice.
A flicker of alarm crossed Rhaenyra's eyes, swiftly steadied.
"That is for another day," she replied, calm once more.
"Right now, we have graver matters. Jace's eye, and the betrothal of Jace and Helaena."
She left the sentence unfinished; Laenor understood.
He drew a breath and moved to the door. Before leaving, he looked back at her one last time.
"I will do what I must," he said.
"As father to Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, before the realm."
He hesitated.
"I'm sorry for all I could never be."
He stepped out; his footfalls faded along the stone gallery.
Rhaenyra remained at the window, dawn light turning her silver hair to gold.
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Next Chapters:
Ch 13: House Arrest I
Ch 14: House Arrest II