"Let us raise an army of bastards."
―Rhaenyra Targaryen
…
Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the threshold, her breath misting before her in the morning chill. The stone beneath her feet was ancient, weathered by time and tempest.
She found Daemon there, seated before the high table, his figure carved of shadow and gloom. His silver hair fell loose over his shoulders, gleaming faintly in the dim light. He was dressed for court, in the black and red of their house, yet his posture betrayed the unrest within him. One hand curled around the armrest of his chair, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. His other hand lay still upon the table, mere inches from the hilt of Dark Sister.
Rhaenyra's heart tightened. She knew the fury that smoldered still beneath his stony visage. It had been there since dawn, since Rhaena had burst into their chambers with a dragon hatchling cradled against her breast.
Rhaenyra approached, her skirts whispering against the cold floor. "Husband." Her voice was soft, but it echoed in the vaulted hall.
Daemon did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, his jaw tight. "If you've come to speak of Rhaena, save your words."
"She did not ask for this," Rhaenyra said, stepping closer. "Nor did we. It was a miracle, Daemon."
"A miracle," Daemon repeated, the word twisting bitterly on his tongue. He leaned forward, his shoulders rigid. "A miracle that binds her to a hatchling—a whelp that will see no battle for years, if ever. And now we are one rider short. One dragon fewer." His eyes turned to her, dark and cold. "Tell me, wife, how is that a miracle?"
Rhaenyra's patience was thinning. She met his glare with one of her own. "You would rather she have no dragon at all?"
His jaw tightened, but he did not reply.
Rhaenyra's voice softened. "She is a child, Daemon. And now, by the grace of the gods, she would be a rider. We should be grateful."
"Grateful," Daemon muttered, his fingers curling into a fist. "Grateful that our daughter is bound to a dragon too weak to serve us when we need her most. Grateful." He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Pray, then. Pray that the bastards and mongrels waiting below can succeed where Ser Steffon Darklyn and his ilk failed so miserably."
Rhaenyra's mouth fell open, no words escaping her. Daemon's face was a mask of bitter resignation. "If they fail," he continued, his voice low and hard, "then we march on the enemy short in every way that counts. And then, my queen, I will hear no more talk of miracles."
Without another word, Daemon swept past her, his cloak billowing behind him. The door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the hall long after he was gone.
Rhaenyra stood in the cold silence, her shoulders heavy with grief. She watched the dying light flicker along the walls and felt a chill deeper than that of mere stone. The weight of her crown bore down upon her, a burden would not surrender. Not to Aegon. Not to anyone.
She squared her shoulders and followed her husband from the hall, her mood bleak and heavy. She could not afford despair. Not today.
...
The chamber below the castle was cavernous, the stone walls arching overhead like the ribs of some great beast. The dragonseeds were gathered there—common folk, bastards, fisherfolk, and merchants' sons—all huddled together beneath the wary gaze of the Dragonkeepers.
The men of the ancient order stood apart, their arms crossed over their chests, faces hard and unyielding. At their head stood Vezhof, their leader, a man as old and weathered as the castle itself. His hair was white as sea foam, and his eyes as cold as the waves beyond the castle's walls.
He saw her before she reached the foot of the stairs. His mouth tightened, and his arms fell to his sides. "My queen," he began, his voice carrying clear through the stone vaults, "this is folly."
Rhaenyra held her head high. "How so? These men and women have come to prove themselves worthy of a dragon."
Vezhof's lips curled in distaste. "Andals and mongrels. Not one of them is fit to serve a dragon, let alone ride one." His gaze swept the gathered dragonseeds, his expression darkening. "You bring filth before the last divine remnants of Old Valyria. Have you no reverence?"
Rhaenyra's temper flared. "These folk are of the blood of the dragon."
The Dragonkeeper's face grew hard. "Blood too fouled with Andal impurity. None here is a dragonlord, and neither were the ones that came before." He pointed a gnarled finger at the assembled hopefuls. "These are not your kin. They are rabble. They are pretenders. They are sacrilege."
Daemon's patience finally snapped. "And whose truth is greater? Yours, keeper, or hers?" He stepped forward, his presence commanding, his voice a whip crack against stone. "Rhaenyra is queen, a dragonlord, descended of Old Valyria. These are her dragons, her birthright. If she says they may be claimed, then who are you to defy her?"
Vezhof did not flinch. "I am Vezhofbelmon, Torch Holder, keeper of the dragons. It is my sacred duty to protect them from those who would defile them. They are the last magic of a beautiful age. Not weapons. Not playthings for lesser men." His chin lifted, defiance in his ancient eyes. "My order will take no part in this desecration."
The air grew cold. Daemon's face darkened, his lips drawing back in a snarl. Before Rhaenyra could react, Dark Sister was in his hand, the Valyrian steel pressed to Vezhof's throat.
The chamber fell silent. The Dragonkeepers tensed, hands drifting to their own blades. The commonfolk cowered, eyes wide in terror. Rhaenyra felt her heart lurch.
Daemon's voice was low and dangerous. "Repeat that."
Vezhof's gaze was steady, his voice unwavering. "I will not take part in this abomination. Not for you. Not for anyone." His eyes never left Daemon's. "Kill me, if you must. I will not betray my oath."
The blade did not waver. Rhaenyra watched, her heart pounding in her chest. She placed her hand on Daemon's arm, her voice soft, pleading. "Enough, husband. Please."
For a long, tense moment, Daemon did not move. His muscles were rigid, his jaw clenched, his eyes alight with fury. Then, at last, he lowered his blade. A thin line of blood welled on Vezhof's neck, gleaming red against his pale skin.
Without a word, Vezhof turned and walked away, his back straight, his head high. The other Dragonkeepers followed, their faces grim, their silence damning.
Daemon sheathed his sword, his jaw tight. He did not look at his wife. "Let them go," he said, his voice cold. "If they will not serve, then they are of no use to us."
Rhaenyra said nothing. Her hand lingered on his arm a moment longer before she let it fall away. She looked at the dragonseeds, the fear and awe in their eyes. She looked at her husband, his face hard as the stone around them. She looked at the door through which the Dragonkeepers had vanished, shadows swallowing them whole.
And in her heart, doubt took root.
✥✥✥
The stairwell spiraled endlessly downward, narrow and steep, the stone steps slick beneath Morya's worn boots. Each breath clouded before her, the chill of the underground air clinging to her skin. She gripped the iron rail as she descended, her fingers numb and stiff, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm.
The crowd pressed close around her, a mass of bodies moving as one, faces pale and drawn in the flickering torchlight. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting into monstrous shapes that seemed to leer at them from the dark. Morya shivered, feeling the weight of the ancient stones bearing down on her.
Soon, the air grew warmer, heavy with a scent she couldn't place—sharp and acrid, burning at the back of her throat. Sulfur. It was the smell of dragons. In the end, they reached a door, the crowd spilling into a vast, yawning chamber. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, their light barely touching the high, vaulted ceiling. A gantry of stone stretched from the threshold to the heart of the room, suspended over a drop so deep Morya could barely see the bottom in the dark. She hesitated at the entrance, her knees weak, but the press of bodies behind her drove her forward.
At the end of the gantry stood the Queen, Rhaenyra, her silver hair shimmering in the torchlight, her face cold and pale as marble. Beside her was her wraith of a spouse, his arms crossed, gaze dark as he stared at them.
Rhaenyra's voice rang out, clear and strong, cutting through the murmurs. "Vermithor," she said. "He is the largest in the world after Vhagar. Perhaps the most fierce. He is called the Bronze Fury. Today, the bravest and most worthy amongst you will claim him."
Her gaze swept over them, cold and imperious. "Turn back now, if you lack the will. This is your last chance."
She turned then, facing the darkness at the far end of the chamber. Her voice changed, falling into a low, guttural chant, the words harsh and alien, echoing off the stone. Morya shivered. She did not know the words, but it felt old. Older than the castle, older than the sea itself.
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating. Morya's heart thudded in her chest, her skin prickling with cold sweat. Then, a sound—a low rumble, distant and deep, like thunder beneath the earth. The air grew hotter, dry and stifling, carrying the stench of sulfur and charred bone.
The darkness moved. Golden eyes appeared first, terrible, gleaming with ancient malice. The shadow took shape, teeth, scales, horns, immense and monstrous, unfolding from the darkness with the slow, deliberateness of a predator.
The dragon's breath came in low, hissing exhalations, smoke curling from his nostrils. His claws scraped the stone, the sound like knives grinding against each other. He lowered his head, eyes sweeping over the crowd, cold and indifferent.
Morya felt herself shrink under that gaze. She was nothing before this creature—less than nothing. Her blood was ice, her knees weak. She fought to breathe, to move, but her body was frozen.
Rhaenyra's voice cut through the silence. "I have nothing more to tell you. It will be the dragon who speaks."
Without another word, the queen turned and walked away, her cloak trailing behind her. Daemon, who had been caressing the beast's chin, followed, his gaze lingering on the crowd, his mouth curled in disdain. The doors boomed shut behind them, the echo reverberating through the chamber.
Morya's heart sank.
The crowd murmured, uncertain, fearful. Some stepped forward, faces pale and drawn, eyes wide with awe. Others edged backward, inching toward the door. Morya felt her feet move of their own accord, carrying her backward, away from the beast. But there was nowhere to go.
Vermithor growled, low and deep, the sound vibrating through the stone. His eyes narrowed, his lips curling back to reveal dark gums gnarled with teeth. The heat of his breath washed over them, hot and suffocating.
A man stepped forward, his hands trembling as he reached for the beast. "Blood of the dragon," he whispered. "I am—"
The flame came without warning, a torrent of fire that engulfed him in a flash. He did not scream. There was no time. His body crumbled to ash, the air filled with the sickly sweet stench of burnt flesh.
Panic erupted. The crowd surged, screaming, shoving, trampling each other in their frenzy to escape. Morya stumbled, her foot catching on something. She fell hard, her knees slamming into stone. She gasped, pain shooting through her legs.
She pushed herself up, eyes wide with terror. The dragon was moving, his body uncoiling, his wings unfurling. The air crackled with heat, the light dimming as shadows danced across the walls.
Morya ran, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding. Down the stairs, into the darkness below. Others followed, their faces twisted in panic, their voices rising in a cacophony of terror.
Soon, they stumbled into a smaller chamber, cold and dark. At its center lay another dragon, smaller and sleeker, its scales gleaming silver in the dim light.
The beast's head rose, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing with suspicion. It watched them, silent and still.
Before Morya could think, a man screamed, his voice high and wild. "Ashes to Ashes!" he howled. "Blood to Blood!"
Then, without warning, he charged the beast with a dagger raised. The dragon's eyes dilated, its mouth opening wide, glowing. Fire burst forth, hot and blinding, filling the chamber with light. Heat. Pain.
Morya screamed—