Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hall of the Red Keep was thick with the scent of roasted meats and sour wine, the air buzzing with the chatter of courtiers who had never held a blade sharper than a dinner knife. King Viserys sat at the raised dais at the foot of the Iron Throne — a precarious perch for a man who preferred the weight of a crown to the burden of ruling. His fingers drummed idly against the armrest, his thoughts as meandering as the courtiers before him.

Then the doors groaned open, and silence fell like a headsman’s axe.

Daemon Targaryen strode in, his boots echoing loudly with each step. His armor was dented, his cloak torn, and his smile sharper than any sword in the room. The lords and ladies recoiled as if he carried the stench of death itself — which, in fairness, he did.

“Brother,” Daemon called, his voice a velvet rasp. “How kind of you to hold court while I was away winning your wars.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, his crown suddenly heavier. “You are late, Daemon.”

“The Stepstones do not surrender on schedule,” Daemon replied, flicking a piece of dried blood from his sleeve. “Though I’m touched you kept supper warm.” His gaze swept the room, lingering on the simpering lords who had spent the war counting coins instead of corpses. “Tell me, did any of you miss me? Or were you too busy composing ballads about your own imagined bravery?”

A nervous titter rippled through the crowd. Daemon’s grin widened. He had always found it amusing how quickly men laughed when they feared the alternative.

Viserys sighed — a sound well-practiced in longsuffering. “You will give your report, then join us for the feast.”

“Ah, the feast.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I do hope the wine is better than your last batch. Even my men refused to drink it — and they’d swallow seawater if it had enough rum in it.”

The king’s face twitched. Daemon counted it a victory.

With a flourish, the Rogue Prince turned to the gathered nobility, raising a goblet he had stolen from some fool’s trembling hand. “To peace!” he declared, “May it last just long enough for me to grow bored of it.”

And as the court drank — some in relief, some in dread — Daemon Targaryen laughed, knowing full well that chaos, like a faithful hound, would always heel at his command.

The lords and ladies of the court were a sea of silk and sycophancy, their faces frozen in practiced smiles — ready to bend, to flatter, to betray. Daemon’s gaze swept over them like a blade testing its edge. “Fools and vultures, the lot of them.”

And then — there.

Amidst the flock of bleating nobles stood a girl who was not a girl at all, but a dragon in human skin. Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver-gold hair shimmered like Valyrian steel in the torchlight, her violet eyes sharp with a wit far beyond her years. She did not simper. She did not cower. She watched — like a queen already, though the throne had not yet tasted her wrath.

Daemon’s smirk deepened. “Ah, little niece. How you’ve grown.”

He moved toward her, the crowd parting before him like waves before a storm. The lords muttered, the ladies clutched their pearls, but Rhaenyra stood her ground, chin lifted in defiance.

“Uncle,” she said, her voice cool, but with a hint of interest. “I see you’ve brought the Stepstones back with you. Or is that just the smell?”

A laugh burst from Daemon’s lips — genuine, for once. “Careful, princess. Mock a conqueror, and he might just conquer you next.”

The court gasped. Viserys shifted on his armchair, his face a mask of weary exasperation. “Daemon...”

But Rhaenyra only smiled, slow and knowing. “You may try, uncle. But dragons do not bow.”

Daemon tilted his head, studying her — this fierce, insolent creature who wore her bloodline like armor. “Oh, but you are Aemma’s daughter,” he thought. “And perhaps the only one in this damned castle worth a damn.”

He raised his stolen goblet once more, this time in salute to her. “To the Realm’s Delight,” he purred. “May she never dull her claws on lesser prey.”

And as the court held its breath, Rhaenyra raised her own cup, her eyes alight with challenge.

The game, Daemon decided, had just become far more interesting.

The king’s voice was as heavy as the crown upon his head, each word measured, deliberate — a poor attempt to smother the wildfire in the room before it could catch.

“It is time,” Viserys declared, “for Rhaenyra to wed. The Prince of Dorne, Qoren Martell, has made his interest known, and I find the match... advantageous.”

A murmur rippled through the court. Dorne. A land of snakes and scorpions, of poisoned wine and sharper tongues. A land that had never bent the knee to dragons.

Daemon’s fingers stilled around his cup. His smile did not fade — no, it grew sharper, like a blade being slowly unsheathed.

“Qoren Martell?” he repeated, tasting the name as if it were a curious new poison. “How... unexpected. Tell me, brother, does our dear niece know she’s to be traded for a few casks of Dornish red and a promise of peace that won’t last the year?”

Viserys’ jaw tightened. “This is not a trade, Daemon. It is an alliance.”

“Ah, of course. How foolish of me.” Daemon’s gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, who stood rigid, her face a mask of icy calm. But her eyes — oh, her eyes burned. “And what does the Realm’s Delight think of this... alliance?”

Rhaenyra’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. “The King’s wisdom is, as ever, beyond question.”

Daemon nearly laughed. “Oh, you perfect little liar.”

He turned back to Viserys, tilting his head like a dragon considering whether to roast its prey or simply swallow it whole. “Martell is a clever man, I’ll grant him that. Wed a Targaryen princess, and suddenly his deserts are no longer our problem. But tell me, brother — when has a Dornishman ever kept an oath longer than it took the ink to dry?”

The king’s patience, never deep to begin with, frayed. “Enough, Daemon. The matter is decided.”

“Is it?” Daemon asked, trying his brother.

A hush fell. Even the courtiers, who thrived on gossip like rats on scraps, dared not breathe.

As no answer came, Daemon raised his cup in mocking salute. “To Prince Qoren, then. May he live long enough to regret his ambitions.”

And as the uneasy silence stretched, Viserys realized — too late — that in his haste to secure peace, he might have made a wrong choice.

Alicent Hightower’s fingers curled around the armrest of her chair, her nails digging into the wood like talons. She had remained silent, a specter in emerald silk, until now.

“Prince Qoren is a man of honour,” she interjected, her voice honeyed, though her eyes were sharp as a septon’s knife. “And Dorne has long been a thorn in the Realm’s side. This union would bring stability — would it not, my king?”

She did not glance at Rhaenyra. She did not need to. The message was clear: “Go. Go far away, and never return.”

Viserys, ever the weary peacemaker, nodded. “Just so. The match is sound.”

Daemon’s grin turned feral. “Oh, I’m sure it is. How fortunate that the Queen’s notion of stability aligns so neatly with her son’s future prospects.

Alicent’s smile did not waver, but her knuckles whitened. “You speak treason, Prince Daemon.”

“Do I?” He leaned forward, his voice a velvet threat. “Or do I simply speak what the entire court is thinking? Tell me, Your Grace, does young Aegon already practice sitting the Iron Throne? Or does he still trip over his own feet when he tries to climb the steps?”

A gasp. A stifled laugh. The air thickened with tension.

Rhaenyra, silent until now, finally spoke — her voice colder than the Wall. “I am touched by my stepmother’s concern for my future. But perhaps she should focus on her own children’s manners before worrying about my marriage prospects.”

Alicent’s composure cracked, just for a moment. “You—“

“Enough!” Viserys slammed his fist against the table. “This bickering is beneath us all. The matter is settled. Rhaenyra will wed Prince Qoren, and that is final.”

Daemon’s eyes met Rhaenyra’s. A silent understanding passed between them — a spark of defiance, a promise unspoken.

“Settled?” Daemon thought, swirling his wine. “Oh, brother. Nothing is ever settled where dragons are concerned.”

And as Alicent sat back, her victory tasting like ash in her mouth, she realized too late that in trying to remove one rival, she might have just awakened two.

The king, eager to smooth the frayed edges of the conversation, clapped his hands with forced cheer. “Enough talk of politics for now! I have invited a gifted artist from Lys — a man whose brush captures the very soul of his subjects. He shall paint Rhaenyra’s likeness, so that Prince Qoren might behold his future bride in all her splendour before the wedding.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the court. What could be more innocent than a portrait?

Daemon’s smirk returned, sharper than ever. “Ah, of course. Nothing wins a Dornishman’s heart like a pretty picture. Shall we have her pose with a lemon tree and a tame viper as well? Or perhaps in the traditional Dornish style — bare as her nameday?”

Rhaenyra threw him a glare that could melt stone. “Uncle.”

“What?” Daemon spread his hands in mock innocence. “I only seek to ensure the Martell prince receives an accurate representation.”

Alicent’s lips thinned. “The portrait will be dignified,” she said, as if the word itself could scrub away Daemon’s insinuations.

“How dull,” Daemon sighed. “But very well. Let the Lyseni work his magic. Though, if we’re to play this game, why not send a living portrait?” His gaze slid to Rhaenyra, wicked with suggestion. “I’d be happy to escort my niece to Sunspear myself. I’ve heard Dornish weddings are... lively affairs.”  

Viserys groaned. “Daemon—”

“No, no, brother, think of the benefits! No need for paints that fade or canvases that tear. Just a dragon, a princess, and a warm Dornish welcome.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And if the Martell prince proves unworthy... well, we can always blame the weather on the way home. Tragic, really, how often travelers perish in the desert.”

The king massaged his temples. “The portrait will suffice.”

Rhaenyra, however, was no longer listening. Her mind raced ahead — past the painter, past the betrothal, to the moment she would be sent away from her own land.

Yet, only Daemon noticed her true temper…

***

The Lysene painter was a slight man with nimble fingers and a serpent’s smile. His studio, tucked high in the Red Keep’s eastern tower, smelled of linseed oil and ambition.

“Hold still, princess,” he murmured, his brush darting like a hummingbird. “The light favors you today.”

Rhaenyra sat stiffly upon the cushioned chair, her violet eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the window. She wore a gown of deep crimson, her silver-gold hair spilling like molten metal over her shoulders. The painter had begged for jewels, for regalia — “Something to show your royal blood!” — but she had refused.

“Paint me,” she had said. “Not the throne’s ornament.”

Daemon, ever the uninvited shadow, lounged in the corner, peeling an apple with his dagger. “You’re making her look too solemn,” he remarked, tossing a slice into the air and catching it in his teeth. “My niece has a wicked smile. The kind that makes men pray to the Seven — or drop to their knees.”

The painter’s hand faltered. “My prince, I — I strive only for accuracy.”

“Do you?” Daemon’s blade flashed as he carved another slice. “Or do you strive to please the man who’ll pay your weight in gold for a flattering lie?”

Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose. “Uncle, if you’re going to lurk, at least do it quietly.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He sauntered forward, peering over the artist’s shoulder. “Hmm. The eyes are wrong.”

“Wrong?” The painter stiffened.

“They’re not just purple,” Daemon said, tapping the canvas with his knife. “They’re alive. Like wildfire. You’ve made her look docile. My niece has never been docile a day in her life.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched despite herself.

The painter wiped his brow. “Perhaps... perhaps if the princess relaxed—”

“Oh, I’ll help with that.” Daemon tossed the apple aside and strode to Rhaenyra’s side. Before she could protest, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered something too low for the painter to hear.

Her laugh was sudden, bright, and utterly dangerous — the sound of a dragon amused by the antics of mortals.

“There,” Daemon murmured, straightening with a smirk. “Now that’s the Rhaenyra I know.”

The painter scrambled to capture the change — the spark of defiance, the unspoken challenge in her gaze. But the moment was already fading, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

Rhaenyra arched a brow. “Satisfied, uncle?”

“Not even slightly.” He winked. “But it’s a start.”

And as the painter frantically mixed new pigments, desperate to trap lightning on canvas, Daemon settled back into the shadows, his grin a promise:

This portrait would be a masterpiece. But who would be honoured with it?…

The days stretched like fresh-spun silk, each thread another layer of scrutiny upon the growing portrait. The Lysene artist worked under the weight of many gazes — some curious, some calculating, all hungry for the image of the princess who would soon be shipped off to Dorne like a gilded bargaining chip.

King Viserys visited often, his heavy steps echoing through the solar as he studied the half-finished canvas with a melancholy frown. “You’ve captured her likeness well,” he murmured once, though his voice lacked conviction. Was it truly his daughter he saw in those strokes of paint, or just another piece slipping from his grasp?

Queen Alicent stood at his side, her fingers laced together in that pious, suffocating way of hers. She said little, but her eyes — sharp as a falcon’s — missed nothing. The Prince of Dorne will be pleased.” she remarked once, her tone smooth as poisoned wine. “Such a... serene expression.”

Rhaenyra did not react, but Daemon — ever lurking — let out a bark of laughter. “Serene? My dear queen, have you met my niece?”

Alicent’s smile was thin. “One can always hope for growth.”

Then came Aegon, the golden-haired prince who had yet to grow into his own smirk. He slouched into the room one afternoon, still smelling of the stables, and squinted at the painting. Why does she get to look so regal? he whined. “My portrait made me look like a startled sheep.”

Daemon ruffled the boy’s hair with exaggerated affection. “Because, nephew, unlike you, she doesn’t bleat when she speaks.”

Aegon scowled, but before he could retort, Otto Hightower appeared in the doorway, his presence like a sudden chill. The Hand of the King studied the portrait with the detached interest of a man assessing a ledger. “A fine likeness,” he conceded. “Though one wonders if Prince Qoren would prefer a bride who smiles.”

Rhaenyra, seated stiffly on her cushioned dais, did not grace that with a reply.

Daemon, however, leaned against the window ledge, arms crossed. “Oh, I’m sure the Dornish have other ways to make a woman smile, Lord Hand. Perhaps you’d like to suggest some?”

Otto’s expression darkened, but before he could respond, Viserys sighed. “Daemon. Must you?”

“Always, brother. Always.”

And as the artist’s brush continued its dance — each stroke a lie, a truth, a weapon — Rhaenyra’s painted gaze seemed to grow sharper, as if she were already plotting how to burn this betrothal to the ground.

Days bled into one another like watercolors left in the rain. The portrait grew — layer upon layer of pigment and pretense. The Lysene painter had begun to sweat under the weight of so many expectations. His brush flickered between hesitation and boldness, unsure whether to please the king, flatter the queen, or betray the fire in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

Viserys still visited, though his stays grew shorter, his gaze more distant. Once, he reached out as if to touch the canvas, then stopped himself. “You have her face,” he murmured. “But I wonder if any artist could truly capture her spirit.”

Alicent said nothing, but her presence was a slow poison in the air. She would tilt her head, examining the painting as if searching for flaws — not in the artistry, but in the girl it depicted. “The Dornish favor warmth in their women,” she remarked one evening. “Perhaps a softer expression would be... prudent.”

The painter’s hand trembled. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra, perched on her chair like a dragon on a roost, did not deign to reply.

Then came Aegon again, this time dragging his younger brother Aemond along. The little prince studied the portrait with cold curiosity. “It doesn’t look like her,” he declared.

“Oh?” Daemon, lounging in his usual spot, twirled a dagger between his fingers. “And what does our dear sister really look like, nephew? Go on. Describe her for the artist.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “Like someone who thinks she’s already queen.”

The room went still.

Rhaenyra’s smile was slow, lethal. “How kind of you to notice.”

Even Otto Hightower, usually so composed, stiffened at that. “A portrait is a likeness, not a prophecy,” he said sharply.

“Isn’t it?” Daemon mused. “Funny how paint can make a princess look like a peace offering — or a threat.”

The painter, desperate to escape the tension, dabbed frantically at Rhaenyra’s lips, trying to soften their curve into something docile, obedient.

But the more he painted, the more the truth bled through — the tilt of her chin, the challenge in her gaze. 

This was no docile bride for Dorne. 

This was a dragon.

And dragons did not fade quietly into paint.

And so the final brushstroke had dried.

The court gathered in the Great Hall as the portrait was unveiled, its surface gleaming under the torchlight. A murmur of approval rippled through the nobles — King Viserys nodded, satisfied; Queen Alicent offered a thin, measured smile; even Otto Hightower conceded a curt nod.

“A triumph,” declared Viserys. “Prince Qoren will be enchanted.”

And indeed, the painting was exquisite.

Rhaenyra’s likeness had been rendered in breathtaking detail — her silver-gold hair cascading like liquid moonlight, her violet eyes luminous, her posture regal yet softened just enough to suggest maidenly grace. The artist had even captured the delicate embroidery of her gown, the glint of the ruby at her throat.

A perfect princess.

A flawless bride.

Alicent stepped closer, her fingers brushing the gilded frame. “She looks... radiant,” she said, the words smooth as silk. “Dorne will be honored.”

Aegon, ever the brat, wrinkled his nose. “She doesn’t even look like herself. Where’s the scowl?”

Daemon, leaning against a pillar, smirked. “Ah, but that’s the magic of art, nephew. It shows us not as we are, but as others wish us to be.” His gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, who stood apart from the crowd, her expression unreadable. “Tell me, niece, do you recognize yourself?”

Rhaenyra studied the portrait sceptically, scorned by the fact that she was sold to the Dornish Prince and said: “Not at all.”

The court laughed, assuming it a jest.

But Daemon knew better. The portrait the Prince would see would be nothing like Rhaenyra.

***

The portrait was carefully packed in scented cedar, swaddled in silk, and sent south with a retinue of guards and a flowery letter from the king.

“Let Dorne admire their prize,” the evil tongues at the court whispered. “Let them think her tamed.”

The Red Keep held its breath, waiting for Dorne’s response.

Viserys paced the throne room, his crown perpetually askew. “Surely the raven was delayed,” he muttered. “Sandstorms. Bandits.”

Alicent, ever the picture of composed piety, sipped her wine and said nothing. But her fingers tapped a silent, victorious rhythm against her goblet. Let the Martells have her. Let her rot in the sun.

Otto Hightower stood by the window, his face devoid of any emotions. “Patience, Your Grace. These things take time.”

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra had taken up brooding like a new hobby. She glided through the halls like a shadow with a grudge, her expression suggesting she was mentally preparing for a scandal — she would not surrender easily.

Daemon, of course, found the whole affair hilarious, because only he knew how it would end.

“Cheer up, niece,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Dorne has splendid wine. And even better poisons. You could always slip some into Qoren’s cup and rule the place as a merry widow.”

Rhaenyra shot him a look that could curdle milk. “I’d sooner feed you to Caraxes.”

“Tempting. But I’d wriggle free halfway down his throat just to annoy you.”

Aegon, ever the oblivious boy, chose that moment to bound over. “When you leave, can I have your rooms? They’re nicer than mine.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was sweet as arsenic. “Of course, brother. And when you wake one night to find your bedsheets full of scorpions, know it’s my parting gift.”

Aegon paled and scampered off to tattle to Alicent, who sighed theatrically, calling for patience.

And so Red Keep waited with bated breath, the way a headsman waits for a condemned man to finish his prayers.

King Viserys was like a man already half a ghost, his fingers worrying the collar on his doublet. “No word from Sunspear?” he asked for the tenth time that hour, his voice thin with anticipation.

“None, Your Grace,” Otto Hightower replied. “The Martells have ever been... deliberate in their correspondence.”

Alicent Hightower, wrapped in her seven-pointed righteousness, smiled the smile of a woman who had already written the next chapter in her mind. “Prince Qoren is a man of passion. No doubt he prepares some grand gesture to honor his bride-to-be.”

Bride-to-be. The words slithered through the hall, leaving a trail of unease in their wake.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood by the window, her back straight as a sword, her eyes fixed on the southern horizon. She had not spoken a word of protest since the portrait left. That was what frightened them. A dragon’s silence is but the pause before the fire.

“Perhaps he’s dead,” mused Daemon with Caraxes’ cruelty in his grin. “The Dornish are forever killing each other over trifles — a spilled cup, a crooked glance, a particularly offensive gesture.”

“Daemon,” sighed Viserys, rubbing his temples.

“Brother,” Daemon countered, all false innocence. “I only suggest we prepare for all possibilities. Shall I fly to Sunspear and investigate? I’d be happy to deliver the king’s justice to any who’ve slighted his daughter.”

And burn the entire of Dorne to ash while I’m at it, his eyes added.

Alicent’s knuckles whitened around her goblet. “How dutiful.”

The tension thickened, a stew left too long on the fire.

Then — the raven came.

Chapter Text

King Viserys had always loved a spectacle.

He had envisioned this moment as a triumph — the grand announcement of Rhaenyra’s betrothal to Prince Qoren Martell, a union to secure peace with Dorne. His Grandsire Jaehaerys was written in history as the Conciliator, while he would be… Let’s say, a Peacemaker. Too sad Rhaenyra would have to spend her time in Dorne — that is till the moment of her ascension to the Iron Throne. But dragons fly fast and regular visits were something he hoped for.

The court had been assembled in all its glittering finery, the servants bearing trays of spiced wine, the musicians poised to strike up a celebratory tune.

Then came the letter.

“At last!” Viserys declared, his voice trembling with pride. “Let us hear what Prince Qoren has to say of our beloved Rhaenyra!”  

He cracked the seal with a flourish — and his smile died a swift and brutal death. The king’s face darkened like a stormcloud rolling over Blackwater Bay, fingers clenched the parchment so tightly it threatened to tear. He coughed violently, and a servant rushed forward with a goblet of wine. Viserys drained it in one gulp, his jowls trembling with fury.

“How—how DARE he!”

Viserys’ voice shook with outrage as he read aloud:

To His Grace, King Viserys of House Targaryen,  

I thank you for your most... earnest efforts in presenting your daughter as a bride. The portrait was indeed a marvel — if one wished to study the art of melancholy. Here in Dorne, we prefer our women as we prefer our wines: bold, spirited, and impossible to forget. What you have sent me is but watered-down ale.

Furthermore, the princess’s likeness suggests that Your Grace hosts feasts several times a month — for surely no woman of such... generous proportions could resist the royal table’s bounty. Alas, in Sunspear, we value agility as much as appetite.

With respect,  
Qoren Martell, Prince of Dorne

A gasp. A stifled snort. Then — chaos.

Alicent’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, glare scandalised. Otto Hightower pinched the bridge of his nose, as if praying for patience. Aegon burst into laughter before his mother’s glare silenced him.

And Rhaenyra?

She stood perfectly still, her face a mask of icy calm. But her eyes — oh, her eyes burned with mixture of different emotions.

“So that’s how it is?!” bellowed Viserys, his voice shaking the rafters. “Let him rot in the Seven Hells! To call my daughter — the jewel and delight of the realm — some plain-faced mediocrity! And let him thank the gods I don’t send my brother on dragonback to reduce Sunspear to ashes!”

He turned to Daemon, who was already nodding along with theatrical vigor.

“Prince Martell is fortunate Your Grace possesses such a forgiving nature, Daemon drawled, clicking his tongue. “Otherwise...” He trailed off meaningfully, leaving no doubt that he would happily mount Caraxes and turn the Prince of Dorne into a smoking crater if given the word.

Only Queen Alicent remained silent, her brown eyes wide as an owl’s, darting between the king and Rhaenyra in stunned disbelief. The corners of her lips tugged downward in a sour grimace. This was supposed to be the end of it, she seethed inwardly. Rhaenyra shipped off to Dorne, Aegon positioned as heir...

“I cannot fathom how this happened,” she finally hissed through clenched teeth.

Beside her, Prince Aegon dug a finger deep into his nose, searching for treasure, until a sharp smack from his mother made him yelp.

Lord Otto Hightower scratched his rust-colored beard. “We all saw the portrait before it was sent, did we not?” He glanced between the king and queen. “There could be no mistake...”

“Mistake?!” Viserys exploded. “The portrait was a perfect likeness! Everyone agreed! The artist was paid handsomely for his work!”

Which could only mean one thing: Prince Qoren Martell had, for reasons beyond comprehension, rejected the most eligible bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Perhaps he prefers men?” someone whispered in the crowd.

“No, just a typical Dornish,” came the reply. “No wonder we’ve been fighting them for centuries.”

The murmurs only stoked Viserys’ fury further. He flung his arms wide and pulled Rhaenyra into a clumsy embrace — though, notably, his daughter did not seem particularly distraught. Surprised, yes. Annoyed, certainly. But devastated? Not even close.

“Outrageous!” Daemon chimed in helpfully as Viserys unleashed another volley of curses upon Qoren Martell’s lineage, intelligence, and taste in women.

And so, instead of a joyous betrothal announcement, the court was dismissed in awkward silence, the musicians packing up their unused songs, the servants quietly redistributing the uneaten delicacies.

***

Daemon’s chambers smelled of smoke and iron, the way a warrior’s rooms ought to. The firelight painted the walls in shifting hues of orange and black, like the scales of a restless dragon.

Rhaenyra stood stiffly by the hearth, her silver-gold hair catching the light, giving it an ethereal glow.

“By the gods, what a farce,” Rhaenyra muttered, rubbing her temples.

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather enjoyed it. Viserys hasn’t cursed that creatively since the Great Council.”

She shot him a withering look. “He was this close to declaring war over a portrait.”

“War?” Daemon scoffed, pushing off the wall to stride toward her. “Please. The most that would’ve come of it was me taking Caraxes for a leisurely flight over Sunspear. Maybe singe a few Dornish banners. Qoren would’ve pissed himself and sent an apology written in his own tears.”

Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, catching her wrist and tugging her closer, “you’ve never suffered me for long.”

She didn’t pull away. “This changes nothing. Alicent will still scheme. Otto will still whisper in my father’s ear. And Aegon—”

“—will keep picking his nose until someone slaps his hand again,” Daemon finished, rolling his eyes. “Let them play their games. We know the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That you’re not going to Dorne,” he purred, teeth glinting like dagger points. “Aren’t you glad to be spared Qoren Martell’s bed and company?”

“Glad, yes.” Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her gown. “But... it stung.”

Ah, a dragon’s pride, wounded…

Daemon chuckled, low and dangerous. “Come here, then. I’ve something to show you.”

When she didn’t move, he caught her wrist — his touch burned hotter than the hearth.

“Must you always resist?” he murmured, pulling her toward the shadowed corner where something stood veiled in black silk.

With a flourish, he yanked the cloth away — fluttered to the floor like a slain banner, revealing the real portrait beneath.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught.

This was her.

The artist had captured the wildfire in her gaze, the defiant tilt of her chin, the unspoken dare in her smirk. Her silver-gold hair seemed alive in the candlelight, her posture that of a conqueror, not a consort. Even the ruby at her throat glinted like a drop of blood — a warning, not an ornament.

“You kept it,” she whispered.

Daemon’s grin was a blade in the dark. “Of course I did. Did you truly think I’d let some Dornish Prince have the real you?”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her fingers hovering over the canvas. “Then what did Qoren receive?”

“Oh, a portrait,” Daemon said breezily. “Just... not yours.”

He produced a small sketch from his sleeve — a hasty, unflattering caricature of a sour-faced noblewoman with a double chin and a distinctly porcine nose.

Rhaenyra stared. Then—

She laughed, bright and sharp as shattered glass. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Daemon purred. “Our Lysene painter was very motivated after I explained what happens to men who wake the dragons.”

She whirled to face him, eyes blazing. “You told the artist to—?”

“Why do you think he fled King’s Landing so quickly?” Daemon shrugged. “Though in fairness, I may have mentioned Caraxes enjoys the taste of lying tongues. Anyway, our friend has drawn two portraits — one for the prince of Dorne and one for myself.”

“So Prince Qoren insulted... some random crone.” said Rhaenyra, not without relief.

“Indeed… Our little deception,” he murmured, trailing a finger along the gilded frame. “Let Viserys rage like a thwarted child. Let Alicent choke on her own venom. And let poor, dull Qoren Martell wonder forever why the gods cursed him with such uninspiring brides.”

A laugh escaped Rhaenyra — low, rich, and laced with triumph.

Daemon stepped closer, his voice a velvet threat. “The throne will be yours. Not some sun-scorched seat in Dorne where vipers nest in the bedsheets. You’ll take what’s yours here—” His knuckle brushed her jaw. “—with fire. With blood. With me.”

Rhaenyra fixed him with curious gaze. His fingers tightened around the painted frame, his usual smirk slipping into something raw and unguarded.    

“You shan’t go to Dorne — nor need you. Why seek a husband so far afield when he stands before you now? When every night I’ve dreamed of you….” he confessed passionately. Then added “And Alicent will not seat her sniveling whelp upon the Iron Throne whilst you are away.”

The words hung between them, heavy with implication, like the scent of smoke before flame. Rhaenyra stilled, her breath catching like a sail in a sudden gust. The air between them thickened, charged with the weight of centuries — of shared blood, shared fury, shared purpose.

Why indeed?

The unspoken truth coiled around them, serpentine and inevitable.

Fire calls to fire.

***

For years, the portrait remained shrouded in silk within Daemon’s chambers — a dragon’s hoarded gem, hidden from unworthy eyes. He would unveil it sometimes in the dead of night, when the Red Keep slept and only the ghosts of fallen kings bore witness. The firelight would catch Rhaenyra’s painted gaze just so, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if she stood there with him, untamed and unbroken.

Mine, the rogue prince would think, tracing the gilded frame with possessive pride. Mine before I could claim her.

Then came the day when secrecy was no longer necessary — when Rhaenyra Targaryen sat the Iron Throne at last, her crown gleaming with seven gemstones, her enemies reduced to ashes and whispers.

The silk shroud fell away for good.

The portrait took its rightful place in the gallery of the Red Keep, flanked by the likenesses of her consort (Daemon, smirking as if privy to some grand joke), her sons (silver-haired boys with fire in their veins), and her parents (Viserys weary but kind, Aemma forever young).

Courtiers would pause before it, murmuring half-truths about its long absence:

“Lost during the war,” said one.

“Hidden to keep it safe,” lied another.

Only Daemon knew the truth — that some treasures are kept close not for protection, but for the sheer, selfish pleasure of being the only one who gets to admire them.