The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.

It was a Valyrian steel dagger.

“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.

Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.

“She will grow into it.”

“She cannot even hold up her own head.”

“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”

The dagger was confiscated.

The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.

The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.

The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.

By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.

By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.

By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.

“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.

Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.

“She is a princess.”

“She does not need a ship.”

“She liked it.”

“She liked the carving.”

“And now she has both.”

Rhaenyra sighed.

Daemon smiled.

There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.

You had always been one of them.

You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.

You apologized when servants bumped into you.

You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.

You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.

Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.

He protected it viciously.

The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.

An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.

It had never hatched.

A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.

It remained cold.

When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.

None did.

You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.

You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.

Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.

He lowered himself beside you without speaking.

For a while, you both watched the flames.

“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.

Daemon’s expression darkened.

“For what?”

“For disappointing you.”

The words were barely audible.

They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.

Daemon turned toward you.

“You have never disappointed me.”

“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”

“You are my daughter.”

You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.

“That should make it worse.”

“It makes it irrelevant.”

“But everyone else—”

“Everyone else is not you.”

Your lower lip trembled.

Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”

Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.

“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I have never meant anything more.”

He rose and extended his hand.

“Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”

It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.

The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.

Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.

The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.

You stopped.

Daemon did not.

Caraxes had always known you.

When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.

Your first word had not been father.

To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.

You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.

Caraxes had never been yours.

Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.

That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.

You placed a trembling hand against his scales.

Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.

“He knows,” Daemon said.

“Knows what?”

“That you are upset.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I wish he had chosen me.”

Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.

“He did.”

You looked back at him.

“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”

Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.

Daemon’s mouth curved.

“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”

You laughed and obeyed.

The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.

“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.

You hesitated.

“Now?”

“The sky does not close at night.”

You looked from him to Caraxes.

“But I am not his rider.”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”

He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.

Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.

The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.

Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.

The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.

Caraxes climbed higher.

You laughed.

The sound carried into the night.

Daemon lowered his head beside yours.

“Still believe you have no dragon?”

You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.

“No.”

After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.

Which was often.

He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.

You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.

Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.

He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.

The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.

He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.

Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.

Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.

“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.

“I did nothing.”

“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”

“He showed restraint.”

“The boy wet himself.”

“I said restraint, not mercy.”

The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.

You never understood why.

You had Caraxes.

You had your father.

And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.

Then came Gwayne Hightower.

The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.

Daemon nearly overturned the table.

“A Hightower?”

King Viserys closed his eyes.

“It is a politically advantageous match.”

“It is an insult.”

“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”

“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”

“Daemon.”

“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”

Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.

“This is not about my ambitions.”

“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”

“Father,” you said softly.

Daemon turned.

You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.

Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.

You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.

Daemon’s face softened by a degree.

“You do not have to marry him,” he said.

Viserys sighed.

“She has not even met him properly.”

“Then she is already better off.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.

“What?”

“You are behaving like a child.”

“I am behaving like a father.”

“A deeply irrational father.”

“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”

Otto lifted his chin.

“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”

“He wears green.”

“Green is our house color.”

“Exactly.”

You pressed your lips together.

Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

Your shoulders shook.

The sight did nothing to improve his mood.

The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.

Entirely on purpose.

“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.

Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.

“Has he?”

“You know he has.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Father.”

“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”

“Being married to me?”

“Being married beneath my supervision.”

When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.

He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.

“My princess.”

“Ser Gwayne.”

His eyes met yours.

For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.

Gwayne smiled.

It was not the polished smile of a courtier.

It was warm and slightly nervous.

You smiled back.

Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

“So,” he said.

Gwayne looked at him.

“So?”

“You wish to marry my daughter.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Gwayne glanced at you again.

Daemon noticed.

His scowl deepened.

“I have admired the princess for some time.”

“Admired what?”

“Her kindness.”

Daemon blinked.

It was not the answer he had expected.

Gwayne continued carefully.

“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”

You stared at him.

You had not known he had noticed any of those things.

“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I believe loving her might.”

The room fell silent.

Daemon leaned back.

“You have met her twice.”

“Four times.”

“You were counting?”

“Yes.”

“That is unsettling.”

“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.

“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.

Daemon glared at both of you.

“No one asked.”

The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.

Daemon tried.

He tried with admirable dedication.

He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.

Gwayne returned the next morning.

Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.

Gwayne listened patiently.

When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.

You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.

Daemon did not find it amusing.

Gwayne remembered the names of servants.

He thanked cooks.

He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.

He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.

He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.

When you spoke, he listened.

When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.

He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.

He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.

He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.

Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.

“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you liked it.”

The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.

Gwayne’s brows rose.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.

Rhaenyra followed his gaze.

“You like him.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I tolerate his continued existence.”

“He reminds you of yourself.”

Daemon looked offended.

“He does not.”

“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”

“That proves nothing.”

“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”

“The lord deserved it.”

“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”

Daemon turned back toward you.

Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.

He looked perfectly content.

Daemon frowned.

“He is holding it incorrectly.”

“Of course.”

Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.

Gwayne was less enthusiastic.

It was not that he was a coward.

He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.

Daemon took great pleasure in this.

The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.

Gwayne stopped walking.

Daemon smiled.

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“You have gone pale.”

“It is warm.”

“It is never warm in here.”

You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.

“He will not hurt you.”

Caraxes released a rumbling growl.

Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.

“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”

“He is only curious.”

“He appears hungry.”

“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.

Gwayne glanced at him.

Daemon smiled wider.

“Mostly.”

“Father,” you chided.

Caraxes lowered his head toward you.

You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.

Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.

You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.

Caraxes was careful with you.

Almost impossibly so.

“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.

Daemon’s smugness faded.

“Yes.”

“Did he ever try to bond with her?”

“No. His bond is mine.”

Gwayne nodded.

“But she is part of you.”

Daemon looked at him.

Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.

“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.

Daemon studied the knight for a moment.

“You understand dragons better than I expected.”

“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”

“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”

You turned.

“Gwayne, come closer.”

He hesitated.

Caraxes stared.

You held out your hand.

Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.

Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.

Still, he moved toward you.

Slowly.

Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.

Gwayne stopped.

You reached back and took his hand.

“He is protective.”

“So I have gathered.”

“He needs to know I trust you.”

“And how do we convince him of that?”

You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.

“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.

Gwayne shot him a look.

“That is tremendously helpful.”

Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.

Caraxes’s growl faded.

Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.

The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.

Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.

He remained standing.

After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.

You beamed.

“He likes you.”

“He tolerated me.”

“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”

Daemon crossed his arms.

“He has poor judgment.”

Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.

Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.

You did not bother disguising yours.

A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.

Daemon had invited him to observe.

Invite was perhaps the wrong word.

Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.

The implication was clear.

You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.

Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.

Daemon looked over his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.

Gwayne’s heart stopped.

The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.

Your laughter reached the cliffs.

Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.

You looked small against him.

Small, but not afraid.

Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.

As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.

You looked radiant.

Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.

Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.

When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.

Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.

Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.

“Well?” you asked Gwayne.

He stared at you.

“Well what?”

“What did you think?”

“I think I understand why poets struggle.”

You blinked.

Daemon groaned.

Gwayne stepped closer.

“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”

Your cheeks turned warmer.

Daemon moved between you.

“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”

“Father.”

“What?”

“You invited him.”

“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”

The days passed more quickly after that.

Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.

It felt like walks through the gardens.

It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.

It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.

It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.

It felt like laughter.

It felt, increasingly, like love.

One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.

Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.

You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.

“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.

You knew immediately whom he meant.

“Caraxes?”

“Yes.”

You considered the question.

“When I was younger.”

“And now?”

You smiled.

“No.”

Gwayne leaned beside you.

“Why not?”

“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”

His gaze settled on your face.

You continued watching the sky.

“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”

“But you love him.”

“Very much.”

“And he loves you.”

“In his own terribly loud way.”

Gwayne smiled.

You turned toward him.

“Does it concern you?”

“What?”

“That I have no dragon.”

“No.”

“Your family may prefer—”

“My family is not marrying you.”

His answer came without hesitation.

Gwayne reached for your hand.

“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”

Your eyes stung.

“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”

You lowered your gaze.

Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”

He kissed your hand again.

“I would choose you if you had none.”

Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.

He looked up.

Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.

And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.

The wedding was held on Dragonstone.

Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.

“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”

Otto objected.

Daemon was delighted.

The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.

Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.

Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.

“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.

Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.

“It is.”

“There are six hundred guests.”

“I excluded several houses.”

You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.

Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.

Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.

A gift from your father.

When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.

You smiled nervously.

“Is something wrong?”

He said nothing.

His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.

For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.

“Father?”

“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.

Your expression softened.

Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.

“I can still end this.”

You laughed.

“No.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”

“Because you will send him away?”

Daemon looked toward the window.

“Something like that.”

You took his hand.

“I love him.”

His jaw tightened.

It was not anger.

Not truly.

Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.

Now you had found something beyond his keeping.

A life that would carry you away from him.

“I know,” he said.

“And he loves me.”

“I know that, too.”

“You admit it?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

You kissed his cheek.

Daemon closed his eyes.

For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.

“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“If he displeases you, come back.”

“Father.”

“If his family displeases you, come back.”

“I will.”

“If Oldtown is too cold—”

“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”

“Then if it is too warm.”

You laughed against him.

Daemon sighed.

“Visit often.”

“I promise.”

When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

Rhaenyra stood nearby.

“What?”

“He looks frightened.”

“He looks in love.”

“Similar conditions.”

Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.

He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.

As though the music had faded.

As though you were the only thing left in the world.

Daemon placed your hand in his.

He did not release it immediately.

Gwayne waited.

Daemon tightened his grip.

“Father,” you whispered.

“I am considering my options.”

Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.

Finally, Daemon released your hand.

“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”

Gwayne nodded solemnly.

“I assumed as much.”

“If she is unhappy—”

“Father.”

“—Caraxes will find you.”

“You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

The vows were spoken.

The cloak was placed around your shoulders.

When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon did not clap.

He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.

At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.

He brought you wine, though you had not asked.

He moved your chair away from the draft.

He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.

Daemon watched all of it.

Rhaenyra leaned toward him.

“You approve.”

“I do not.”

“You cried during the vows.”

“There was smoke from the torches.”

“You were standing outside.”

“It traveled.”

“Of course.”

Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.

The sea spread dark beneath them.

Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.

Gwayne approached cautiously.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Daemon did not turn.

“For threatening you?”

“For trusting me with her.”

“I do not trust you.”

“You allowed the marriage.”

“Viserys allowed the marriage.”

“You could have stopped it.”

Daemon glanced at him.

They both knew this was true.

Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.

Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.

“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”

“No one is.”

“I agree.”

That earned Gwayne his full attention.

“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”

Daemon remained silent.

“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”

“Home?”

“Here.”

Daemon’s expression shifted.

“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”

The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.

Gwayne swallowed.

Daemon stepped closer.

“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”

“There is nothing missing from her.”

Daemon studied his face.

“No?”

Gwayne looked through the open doors.

You had noticed them now.

Your eyes found his across the distance.

You smiled.

Gwayne smiled back.

“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”

Daemon followed his gaze.

His daughter.

His little girl.

Still smiling.

Still safe.

Still loved.

“Take care of her,” Daemon said.

“With my life.”

“If she misses Dragonstone—”

“I will bring her.”

“If she wishes to stay for months—”

“I will wait.”

“If she asks for a dragon—”

“I will remind her that she already has one.”

Caraxes released a low rumble.

Gwayne glanced toward him.

“Two, perhaps.”

Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

“Welcome to the family.”

Gwayne’s expression softened.

“Thank you.”

“I was speaking to Caraxes.”

The dragon huffed.

Gwayne laughed.

Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.

Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.

“Gwayne!”

He turned immediately.

You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.

“Come dance with me.”

Gwayne bowed to Daemon.

“Prince Daemon.”

“Hightower.”

Gwayne returned to you.

You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.

Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.

You whispered something that made your husband laugh.

Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.

“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”

the end.

-----------------

Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor

Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.

It was not Oldtown—not yet.

Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.

He pretended the decision had been practical.

You knew better.

The estate was beautiful.

The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.

He had filled one room with books.

He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.

He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.

You loved your new home.

Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.

On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.

“You miss them,” he said one evening.

You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.

“A little.”

“Your father or the dragon?”

“Yes.”

Gwayne laughed.

“You know we can return whenever you wish.”

“We visited last week.”

“Then we will visit again.”

“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”

“Your father already thinks that.”

You smiled.

Gwayne kissed the top of your head.

A deep roar shook the sky.

Every bird in the trees scattered at once.

You sat upright.

Gwayne went still.

Another roar followed.

It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.

Your face brightened.

“No.”

Gwayne stared toward the horizon.

A red shape moved through the clouds.

“No,” he repeated.

You were already on your feet.

“Caraxes!”

The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.

Servants screamed.

Guards scattered.

Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.

Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.

Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.

“This cannot be happening.”

You ran toward the courtyard.

Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.

He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.

You laughed.

“Caraxes!”

The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.

You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.

Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.

“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.

His golden eyes drifted closed.

Gwayne approached with extreme caution.

Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.

“Lower those,” he ordered.

One of the men stared at him.

“My lord, the dragon—”

“Belongs to my wife’s father.”

Caraxes opened one eye.

Gwayne corrected himself.

“And apparently also to my wife.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

Gwayne stopped beside you.

“Did your father send him?”

“I do not think so.”

“You think he escaped?”

Caraxes huffed.

The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.

You looked up at the dragon.

“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”

Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.

Gwayne stared.

“Is he answering you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“That he has no regrets.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.

Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.

“Never mind.”

A rider arrived less than an hour later.

He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.

“My princess!”

You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.

The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.

The messenger stumbled toward you.

“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”

Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.

“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”

“The prince is on his way.”

Your eyes widened.

“My father is coming here?”

The messenger nodded breathlessly.

“He said—”

The pounding of another horse interrupted him.

Daemon entered the gates at speed.

He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.

His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.

Daemon placed his hands on his hips.

“Caraxes.”

The dragon did not move.

“You disobedient beast.”

Caraxes closed his eyes.

“Do not pretend to be asleep.”

You covered your smile with your hand.

Daemon pointed toward the sky.

“Dragonstone. Now.”

Caraxes remained exactly where he was.

Gwayne looked between them.

“Does this happen often?”

“No,” Daemon snapped.

You raised a brow.

“Father.”

“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”

“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”

“An oversight.”

“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”

“Poorly secured chains.”

Gwayne stared at the dragon.

“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”

Daemon looked offended.

“Obviously.”

Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.

You laughed, placing both hands against his face.

“I missed you, too.”

The dragon purred.

Daemon sighed.

“You have spoiled him.”

“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”

“They deserved it.”

Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.

“How do we convince him to leave?”

Daemon studied Caraxes.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For her to tell him.”

You looked at the dragon.

Caraxes looked at you.

“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”

Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.

“Of course.”

“He can remain for supper.”

Gwayne stared at you.

“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”

“He was excited.”

“He also crushed the roses.”

“They will grow back.”

Caraxes released a pleased trill.

Gwayne looked toward Daemon.

Daemon shrugged.

“She wants him to stay.”

“You are her father.”

“Yes.”

“Tell her this is unreasonable.”

Daemon’s expression became confused.

“Why would I do that?”

Gwayne closed his eyes.

By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.

Daemon remained for supper.

He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.

“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.

“You married my daughter.”

“I married a woman without a dragon.”

Daemon took a drink of wine.

“And yet.”

Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.

Gwayne watched through the window.

“I will have a platform constructed.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.

The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.

“I am happy here,” you assured him.

Caraxes rumbled.

“Gwayne takes good care of me.”

The dragon glanced toward your husband.

Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.

Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.

“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”

“Caraxes is thorough.”

Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.

“Come.”

You turned.

“Where?”

“Caraxes will not leave without you.”

Gwayne’s brows rose.

Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.

“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”

Gwayne stepped forward.

“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”

Daemon stared at him.

Gwayne stared back.

You looked between them.

Caraxes growled softly.

“No one is fighting,” you said.

Neither man moved.

You sighed.

“Gwayne may come with us.”

His face went pale.

Daemon smiled.

“Excellent idea.”

The three of you mounted Caraxes.

You sat before Daemon.

Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.

“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.

“I am holding on.”

“To something secure.”

“I am.”

Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.

“That strap is decorative.”

Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.

You burst into laughter.

Daemon looked deeply offended.

“Remove your hands.”

“You told me to hold something secure.”

“Not me.”

Caraxes launched into the air.

Gwayne shouted.

You laughed harder.

The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.

You looked back at Gwayne.

His eyes were tightly closed.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“I have not looked.”

Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.

Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.

“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”

“Fly straighter!”

“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”

Caraxes roared in agreement.

You laughed until tears filled your eyes.

Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.

Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.

Your father’s arm was secure around you.

Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.

Caraxes flew happily beneath you.

Perhaps the court had been right.

You had never claimed a dragon of your own.

But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.

He had claimed you long ago.