Chapter Text
The Red Keep reeked of shit and lies.
Perfumed courtiers toasted with honeyed wine, pretending their king’s new bride wasn’t barely older than his daughter. That the sheets soon to be stained weren’t once shared with her mother. That the girl now wearing a queen’s crown wasn’t the same one who braided Rhaenyra’s hair and whispered secrets in the dark not that long ago.
No one looked at her. Not truly. They looked past her—through her. The king’s heir, now a complication. A relic of a promise they never intended to keep.
She left without ceremony. Without escort.
She didn't ask her father for leave.
She didn't tell Alicent goodbye.
She mounted Syrax before the bells could finish ringing and fled to Dragonstone, trailing smoke in her wake.
The sea wind bit at her face as she flew. It did not calm her. Nothing did.
Dragonstone welcomed her as it always had—solemn and ancient. But even here, she could not escape the storm brewing in her chest.
That night, she wandered the cliffs barefoot. Hair unbound. The salt air stung her eyes but she would not cry. She refused to be seen bleeding.
But something called to her.
A tug. Low and primal. A presence older than the crown she once believed in.
She followed it.
Down past the paths carved by Valyrian kings. Down into the bowels of the mountain where even Syrax would not go.
And there he waited.
Cannibal.
A titan of black scale and broken wings. Untamed. Unclaimed. A death sentence given form.
He saw her.
And in that moment, something inside her cracked.
“I don’t care if you eat me,” she said aloud, voice steady. “Do it, then. Do what the rest of them haven’t the spine for.”
But Cannibal didn’t move.
His eyes, twin infernos, narrowed. He exhaled—slow and steady—and lowered his head.
She stepped forward.
No fear. Only rage. And in that moment, Cannibal accepted her. Not as a snack. But as his.
When she placed her hand on his snout, the ground trembled.
When Rhaenyra climbed onto Cannibal’s back for the first time, there was no ceremony. No Valyrian chant. No sacred rite.
Only fury.
And flame.
And the birth of something monstrous.
One Week Later — King’s Landing
The wedding feast had long since faded into whispers and wine stains. Queen Alicent was settling into her new role within the Queen’s wing, wrapped in silks and routine, her presence quiet and careful. Yet the air in the Red Keep remained thick with unease, as if the stones themselves bristled with unfinished business.
Because the princess was still gone.
Rhaenyra had flown from the Keep the night of the wedding and had not returned. No raven. No word. No wreckage. Just silence.
King Viserys sat in the council chamber, crown crooked on his brow, eyes heavy with something between guilt and fear. The lords droned on around him—supply lines, Stepstones, rumors of Myrish sellswords—but all he could see was Syrax’s empty perch.
“She’s never been gone this long,” he muttered.
Otto Hightower folded his hands neatly. “She is grieving, Your Grace. Girls… take such losses deeply.”
“She is not a girl,” Viserys snapped. “She is my heir.”
Otto gave him a look that said otherwise. “Then she should act like it.”
Viserys frowned but said nothing. He took a long sip from the cup.
Otto folded his hands neatly, eyes downcast.
“I do not mean to speak ill of the princess,” he said, voice silk. “Only… grief affects us all differently. Some bear it with grace. Others… retreat.”
Another pause. A beat longer this time.
“Of course,” Otto went on smoothly, “absence does not always mean weakness. Sometimes, it simply reveals where our strength is not.”
Viserys stiffened slightly.
“She is still young,” Otto added, his tone laced with fatherly indulgence. “And the young often seek escape when what they need is guidance.”
He looked up. Met the king’s eyes.
“You have given her so much, Your Grace. A title, a future, your name. Surely she will return. And in time… she may grow into it.”
Viserys stared at his wine.
“...She is my heir,” he said, but it sounded more like a question than a declaration.
Otto only smiled.
“And a father’s love is a mighty thing. But the realm… the realm is not always so forgiving.”
A cry split through the stone walls like a blade through silk.
Viserys jolted upright in his chair, nearly spilling his wine. The small council froze mid-sentence.
Another roar followed, higher this time—piercing, unmistakable.
Syrax.
Viserys was already moving, robes whipping around his legs as he rushed toward the window, Otto trailing behind with less haste but sharp eyes.
They threw open the shutters.
Outside, the skies of King’s Landing boiled with winged shadow.
Syrax descended from the clouds like a comet set aflame. Her golden scales shimmered in the fading light, her wings casting a long, haunting silhouette across the courtyard below. Courtiers and guards spilled into the yards like ants, craning their necks in awe—and fear.
She circled once. Then landed.
But not on the royal courtyard.
Not on the dragonpit.
She chose a high tower—one of the oldest, barely used—on the opposite side of the castle, talons cracking ancient stone as she perched with eerie grace.
And there was no rider on her back.
Viserys gripped the window frame so tightly his knuckles blanched. “Where is she?” he whispered. “Where’s Rhaenyra?”
Otto stepped closer, face unreadable. “Dragons do not often return without command.”
“She wouldn’t fall.” Viserys’s voice rose, brittle. “She wouldn’t leave Syrax to fly alone.”
“No,” Otto said gently. “Not unless… she no longer commands her.”
Viserys turned sharply. “What are you implying?”
Otto raised both hands. “Nothing, my king. Only that dragons are creatures of… instinct. Loyalty. Perhaps Syrax was sent. Or perhaps she has chosen something else.”
That landed like a stone dropped in a well.
And then—
A second roar tore across the sky.
Deeper. Louder. Older.
The kind of sound that vibrated in your bones and made your blood run cold.
Viserys turned back to the window just in time to see the clouds ripple apart, torn open like parchment in a storm.
And there it came.
A shape far too massive to be Syrax. Its wings were jagged and ancient, its scales black as void, its eyes glowing like twin coals stoked by the very fires of Valyria.
The Cannibal.
The room dropped into stunned silence as the beast descended in a lazy, terrible spiral above the city. Smoke curled off his wings. His body was a battlefield of old scars and broken horns, his size eclipsing even Vhagar’s.
The maester dropped his scroll.
Lord Strong swore under his breath.
Even Otto Hightower lost the color in his face.
“No,” Otto breathed. “That can’t be—he’s not ridden. He’s a beast, a monster—he’s—”
But he was real. And he was coming straight for them.
Courtiers screamed. Servants fled. Gold cloaks dropped their spears and ran like children.
The Cannibal landed in the main courtyard of the Red Keep with a sound like thunder shattering stone, wings folding slowly as the ground quaked beneath him.
Guards rallied but didn’t approach—no one dared.
The dragon huffed a stream of smoke, his nostrils flaring. Then slowly, like the lifting of a curtain, he lowered his massive head to the stone.
And from between his horns, she dismounted.
Rhaenyra.
Clad in dark leather and riding boots, her hair wild from the wind, her face calm—but her eyes burned.
She didn’t glance at the guards.
She looked up—to the window where her father stood.
And when Viserys met her gaze, it hit him like a blade.
Not a girl.
Not a grieving daughter.
A woman forged in fire. Returned not for forgiveness—but for reckoning.
Otto stepped back from the window, voice thin. “Gods be good…”
Viserys said nothing.
He couldn’t.
Because his heir had come home.
Not to ask for her place.
But to claim it.
Red Keep – Courtyard Moments Later
Boots thundered down the staircases as the small council and several knights burst out into the courtyard, trailing whispers and panic like spilled ink.
The Cannibal loomed before them, still and statuesque despite the tension humming through his sinewed frame. His eyes tracked every movement, every trembling hand resting near a sword hilt.
But he didn’t roar.
He didn’t attack.
Because beside him stood Rhaenyra.
Calm. Cool. Composed.
Her hands were folded neatly before her, black riding leathers dusted with ash, a crimson cloak trailing behind her like flame. Her silver-gold hair glinted in the evening sun, tousled but regal. She might as well have been carved from the bones of Old Valyria.
And when her father approached, flanked by Otto and Lord Strong, she smiled.
Not with arrogance.
Not with cruelty.
But with warmth.
“Father,” she said, and her voice was smooth as silk soaked in wine.
Viserys stopped in his tracks.
“You—gods, Rhaenyra, you vanished—”
“I needed time,” she said gently. “To grieve. To think. To breathe.”
She stepped forward, unafraid, and placed a hand on his arm.
Then—deliberately, tenderly—she kissed his cheek.
The Cannibal didn’t so much as twitch.
“I didn’t mean to cause worry,” she continued, voice laced with just enough remorse to sound sincere. “I simply… could not bear to remain. Not during the celebrations. Not after mother. After Baelon.”
Viserys looked at her, blinking hard.
Otto opened his mouth to speak, but she turned her head ever so slightly—meeting his eyes with a smile that didn’t reach hers.
“I understand much has happened in my absence. But I have returned. Whole. Steady.”
Her hand moved to the Cannibal’s flank, fingers brushing the obsidian scales as if to say I did this.
“And I am ready to serve my role… if you still wish it.”
Silence.
Then Viserys reached out and took her hand.
“You are my heir,” he said quietly. “That has never changed.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Then I will not fail you.”
Otto stepped closer, voice carefully neutral. “An impressive arrival, Princess. Though some might say… dramatic.”
Rhaenyra tilted her head, smile sweet. “Dramatic? No. Dragons do not tiptoe.”
Then she turned back to her father. “May I clean up? It’s been a long ride. I would like to dine with you tonight. Just us, if that’s possible.”
Viserys nodded, dazed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Rhaenyra inclined her head in a small bow. “Thank you, Father.”
Then, without another word, she walked past the gathered crowd, leaving behind the scent of dragon smoke and a silence thick with awe and unease.
The Cannibal watched her go for a moment, then rose and launched back into the sky with a thunderous flap of his wings—leaving behind cracked stone and a council scrambling to figure out how, exactly, a princess had returned with a beast no one had ever tamed.
Red Keep — Rhaenyra’s Chambers, Later That Evening
The steam curled around her like fog on the Narrow Sea.
The water was near scalding, just shy of blistering skin. Just how she liked it.
She sunk lower, pale shoulders slipping beneath the surface as her hair floated behind her like silver kelp. The bath was quiet—no handmaidens, no servants, only the flicker of candles and the scent of dragon oil and ash clinging to her skin.
It had all gone exactly as she planned.
They were afraid of her.
Good.
Let them be.
Syrax’s cry was her signal. The Cannibal’s landing was the hammer blow. Her descent, the theatrical flourish. But it was her eyes—her calm, unshaken poise—that sealed it.
She reached for the small carved box set beside the tub, running her fingers over the faded crest on its lid—a dragon encircled by thorned ivy, the sigil of a woman most had forgotten: Visenya Targaryen.
The grimoire inside had not been found in the libraries of the Red Keep. No, it had been tucked away in a forgotten tower in Dragonstone, hidden behind stones that sang when she pressed the right words in High Valyrian.
Visenya had not only been a warrior, but a sorceress. A blood mage.
The scrolls, brittle but preserved with ancient spells, had spoken of the rite of dual dominion—the lost ability to bond with two dragons. A practice banned, feared, because of what it meant:
A soul strong enough to hold two fires without being consumed.
Her fingers traced lazy ripples through the steaming water.
Strong.
The word echoed in her mind like a heartbeat.
Not obedient.
Not pretty.
Not the king’s precious little girl.
Strong.
And she was. Stronger than they knew. Stronger than any of them had bothered to see.
Not Alicent with her cloistered virtue and vacant smile.
Not Otto with his condescension wrapped in courtesy.
Not even her father, who crowned her with one hand and doubted her with the other.
She was not some fragile heir waiting to be replaced by the first son squalling in a cradle.
She was the blood of the dragon. Twice over now.
No—she was fire made flesh.
She sat up straighter, the water cascading down her body like liquid glass, steam rising around her like mist off a battlefield.
She was not a whimpering child anymore.
She was the heir.
The future queen.
And she would not inherit a kingdom. She would secure it. With fire, with blood, with secrets they’d tried to bury.
Let them smile and bow and whisper behind closed doors. Let them plot.
She would be three moves ahead.
And if anyone stood in her way?
They’d see how many fires she could truly hold.
Stepstones — Triarchy War Camp, Midnight
The smell of rot clung to everything.
Salt, sweat, blood—Daemon Targaryen was drenched in all of it, yet the scent he missed most was her. The faint perfume of jasmine and dragonfire that always seemed to follow Rhaenyra like a second shadow.
He sat on the edge of a weather-worn table inside his command tent, fingers stained with ink and someone else’s blood. The map in front of him was torn and smudged, covered in new markers and old regrets.
The battle should have been over weeks ago.
They had the men. The ships. The fucking dragons.
But the Triarchy had grown wise to their tactics, retreating to swamps and caves like rats, bleeding Daemon’s forces by inches. They made him look weak. Trapped. Dull.
And he was done.
He slammed his fist down on the map, rattling the flagons and sending a dagger clattering to the dirt.
“I’m wasting my time here,” he muttered. “Wasting myself.”
Laenor was off gods-knew-where on patrol. His knights were asleep or drunk or both. The only thing keeping Daemon from burning the whole cursed island down was the single thought that kept him tethered to sanity:
Rhaenyra.
His niece. His match. His reason.
He hadn’t heard from her in weeks. No ravens. No rumors. Not even a whisper carried on the wind.
That wasn’t like her.
She wrote to him. Always. Scrawled missives in Valyrian, secret notes tucked inside leather pouches, even once sent with a drop of Syrax’s shed scale—a quiet token that had sat in Daemon’s armor ever since.
But now?
Nothing.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, the strands clinging to his temple with sweat.
He hated it here.
He hated the stillness between skirmishes, the way the men looked at him like a weapon kept barely sheathed. He hated being away from her while she grieved alone. While that damned Hightower girl slid into Aemma’s place like a silk-wrapped snake.
He should be with Rhaenyra.
She needed him. And though he’d never admit it aloud—not to a soul—he needed her just as badly.
There was something in her he recognized. Not just blood. Purpose. Fire.
And whatever had happened in the weeks he’d been gone, he could feel it in his bones:
She was changing.
The thought had barely settled in his mind when the tent flap stirred.
A young soldier stumbled in, eyes wide, cheeks ruddy from wind and nerves. “Prince Daemon,” he said breathlessly, clutching a sealed parchment like it might burn him.
Daemon stood, instantly alert. “Who sent you?”
The boy swallowed hard. “A raven, my prince. Marked with the royal seal. From… from Princess Rhaenyra.”
Daemon was across the tent in a heartbeat, snatching the scroll from the boy’s hands. He didn’t wait for ceremony. He broke the seal—her seal, the three-headed dragon pressed in obsidian wax—and unrolled it with shaking fingers.
It wasn’t long.
Only a few lines, written in her tight, deliberate script. Valyrian ink. No embellishment.
---
Hello Uncle,
Tell me your situation and tell me what you need.
Your beloved niece.
---
Daemon stared at the words.
No courtly flourish. No pleasantries. No grief-laced lamentations.
Just command. Just intention. Just her.
His lips curled into a rare, slow smile. The first in weeks.
She wasn’t sulking. She wasn’t broken.
She was ready to move.
He turned back to the table and swept the map clean with one arm, sending cups and markers flying to the floor. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned ink and quill.
Daemon dipped the quill and began to write, the scratch of ink against parchment the only sound in the tent.
---
Princess,
The war is a mire.
The Triarchy has pulled back into the caves and marshes of Bloodstone. They know they cannot beat us in the sky, so they drag us into the mud. They slit throats at night and burn our supply lines. Every inch we take, they reclaim in the dark.
Laenor is here but scattered, more interested in glory than strategy. Velaryon ships control the sea, but the ports are crumbling, and morale is worse.
We are bleeding slowly. Not losing, but not winning. And I am tired of watching men die for a cause we already should have finished.
What we need:
Men who can fight in the dark and swamp, not knights with banners. Bastards. Cutthroats. Shadowbinders, if you can stomach them.
Steel. Fresh. Not rusted shit. The humidity eats it in days.
A new strategy. Something no one expects.
We have dragons. We are not using them like we should.
I am not using mine like I should.
Tell me if you have the pull to shake the court. Or if I need to take a hammer to it when I return.
I want to come home.
Say the word.
—Daemon
---
He folded it without ceremony, pressed his seal into the wax—a dragon biting its own tail—and handed it to the soldier.
“You take this to the maester,” Daemon said, his voice iron. “It flies to the Red Keep by raven, sealed and untouched. If anyone questions it, you tell them it’s from the prince to the heir.”
The boy swallowed hard, nodded, and sprinted off into the night.
Daemon stood at the mouth of his tent, the war burning behind his eyes.
She had asked what he needed.
And now he waited to see what the fuck she'd do with it.