(Runestone, The Vale of Arryn)
The sun was dying behind the Mountains of the Moon when the shadow fell over Runestone.
It was not a cloud. It was a red nightmare. Caraxes descended from the sky like a falling star, his roar shaking the dust from the ancient battlements. He landed in the main courtyard, his talons crushing a cart of grain into splinters.
The guards of House Royce, men sworn to protect the sanctity of the Bronze Gates, rushed forward. They did not know it was the Prince. They only saw a beast.
"Halt!" shouted Ser Vardis, the Captain of the Guard, leveling his spear. "Hold the beast back!"
Daemon Targaryen slid from the saddle, Dark Sister already in his hand. He was not here to negotiate. He was here to conquer.
"Out of my way," Daemon snarled, his eyes burning with the madness of his exile.
Two guards stepped forward to block him. Daemon moved in a blur of Valyrian steel. He didn't kill them—he didn't want to explain corpses to Viserys—but he was surgical. A slash across a thigh. A pommel strike to a face that shattered a nose. The two men fell, screaming, their blood painting the grey stones red.
The other guards hesitated, spears wavering.
Daemon turned back to the dragon. "Caraxes!"
The Blood Wyrm snapped his jaws, a hiss of steam escaping his throat. He lunged at the remaining soldiers, forcing them to scatter in terror.
With the path clear, Daemon reached up and helped Mysaria down. She looked at the blood on the ground, then at Daemon's wild eyes. She said nothing. She simply followed him as he strode into the keep, kicking open the doors, heading straight for the Lady's chambers as if he owned every stone in the valley.
Rhea Royce returned an hour later.
She rode into the courtyard on her destrier, a dead stag strapped to the back of her saddle. She had been hunting in the high valleys, seeking the clean, cold air to clear her head of the rumors from the capital.
What she found was chaos.
Her men were tending to the wounded. The smell of sulfur and dragon-stink hung heavy in the air. And there, curled around the base of the main tower like a coiled viper, slept the Red Dragon.
"My Lady!" Ser Vardis limped forward, his face bandaged. "The Prince... he arrived. He cut down Jaremy and Donnel. We tried to stop him, but the beast..."
"Where is he?" Rhea asked, her voice dangerously calm. She gripped the reins until her knuckles turned white.
"In your chambers, my Lady," Vardis whispered, looking down in shame. "He... he brought a woman. A foreign woman. He took her into your bed."
The world seemed to stop. The insult was so physical, so grotesque, that Rhea couldn't breathe for a second. He wasn't just disrespecting her; he was desecrating her home.
"Gather the men," Vardis said, reaching for his sword hilt. "We will drag him out."
"No," Rhea said sharply. She dismounted, her boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. She unbuckled her hunting cape and threw it aside. She drew her sword—a heavy, functional blade of castle-forged steel.
"My Lady, you cannot go alone," Vardis protested. "He is dangerous."
"He is my husband," Rhea spat, her eyes burning with a cold, murderous light. "And he is in my room. Stay here. If the dragon moves, kill it."
She marched into the keep alone. She didn't run. She walked with the inevitability of an avalanche.
The door to the bedchamber was not locked. Daemon was too arrogant for locks.
Rhea didn't knock. She kicked the door open with enough force to splinter the wood around the latch.
The scene that greeted her was enough to turn her blood to ice.
Daemon was there, in her bed. The bed of the Lords of Runestone. He was naked, glistening with sweat, his body entangled with the pale, lithe form of Mysaria. They were in the throes of passion, moans filling the room that should have been silent.
They froze as the door slammed against the wall.
Daemon looked up. He didn't look ashamed. He looked annoyed.
"Get out!" Rhea screamed, her vision tunneling into a red haze of fury. She raised her sword and charged.
She didn't care that he was a Prince. She didn't care that he was a dragonrider. She wanted to cleave him in two.
Daemon moved with the unnatural speed of a warrior who had lived his life on the edge of violence. He rolled off Mysaria, dodging Rhea's downward slash by an inch. The blade buried itself deep into the feather mattress, slicing through wool and linen.
Before Rhea could wrench the sword free, Daemon was on his feet. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it until she cried out and dropped the weapon.
"You mad bitch!" Daemon shouted, his eyes wide.
Rhea didn't stop. Unarmed, she swung a fist at his face, connecting with his jaw. It was a solid blow, fueled by years of resentment.
Daemon stumbled back, tasting blood. He touched his lip, looked at the blood on his fingers, and then looked at Rhea. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a dark, predatory amusement. The adrenaline of the sex and the violence mixed into something twisted.
Rhea lunged again, but this time Daemon was ready. He didn't grapple. He drove a brutal front kick straight into her stomach.
Wham.
The air left Rhea's lungs in a pained gasp. She collapsed to her knees, clutching her abdomen, unable to breathe, unable to speak. The pain was blinding. She looked up, gasping like a fish out of water, trying to find the strength to stand.
Daemon stood over her, breathing hard. He looked at Mysaria, who was huddled against the headboard, sheets pulled up to her chin, eyes wide with shock.
Then he looked back at Rhea—broken, gasping, but still glaring at him with hatred.
A sick idea formed in his mind. He was already aroused, his blood singing from the fight and the presence of his lover. And here was his wife, on her knees, helpless.
"Get out," Daemon said to Mysaria, his voice low and guttural.
Mysaria blinked. "Daemon?"
"Get out!" Daemon roared, not taking his eyes off Rhea. "Go to the door. Guard it. Let no one in."
Mysaria scrambled out of the bed, gathering her discarded silk robes. She ran to the door, stepping around Rhea, and slipped into the hallway, closing the heavy wood behind her.
Rhea finally found her breath. "Daemon... don't..." she wheezed, trying to crawl toward her fallen sword.
Daemon stepped on the blade, kicking it away across the stone floor.
"You wanted to interrupt?" Daemon whispered, grabbing Rhea by her hair and yanking her head back. "You wanted to come into my bed? Fine. You are here now."
"I will kill you," Rhea rasped, spitting blood at his feet.
"You will try," Daemon sneered.
He dragged her toward the bed. Rhea fought him with everything she had left. She scratched, she bit, she kicked. But she was winded, bruised, and he was possessed by a demon. He struck her—a backhand that sent her reeling against the bedpost, leaving a dark bruise blossoming on her cheekbone.
The struggle was brutal. It was the sound of tearing fabric and dull thuds against the floor. Rhea Royce was a warrior, but she was fighting a storm.
When he finally threw her onto the bed, pinning her down with his weight, it was not an act of intimacy. It was an execution of her dignity.
"You are mine," Daemon growled in her ear as she struggled in vain. "You are my property. And I will use you as I see fit."
The rest of the night was a blur of pain and darkness. Outside the door, Mysaria stood guard, trembling, listening to the muffled sounds of a struggle that slowly turned into a heavy, suffocating silence.
(The Next Morning)
The sun rose over a silent castle.
The courtyard was empty. The dragon was gone.
Daemon and Mysaria had fled before the first light, taking to the skies like thieves in the night. They left behind two wounded guards and a broken door.
In the solar, Rhea Royce sat in a chair by the window. She was dressed in a high-collared gown that hid the bruises on her neck and shoulders. Her face was pale, her expression carved from granite.
"My Lady?" Maester Hyle entered softly. "The guards say the Prince has gone. Shall I send a raven to the King? To report the assault on the guards?"
Rhea turned slowly. Her eyes were dry. There were no tears. Royces did not cry.
"No," she said, her voice raspy. "The King will do nothing. He will only forgive his brother again."
"But... the injury to your men..."
"It was a training accident," Rhea lied, her voice firm. "Daemon was never here."
She placed a hand on her stomach. It was bruised from the kick, tender to the touch. She felt nothing there but pain. She did not know—she could not know—that amidst the violence and the hatred, life had taken root.
The realization would not come for three months. When the moon blood failed to come, when the sickness started, Rhea would understand the final cruelty of the gods.
But for now, she simply stared at the empty sky.
"Let him run," Rhea whispered to the cold wind. "Let him think he has won. But bronze remembers. And the debt... the debt will be paid."