POV: Viserys I Targaryen
The Great Hall of the Red Keep smelled of incense and old parchments. Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne, not out of necessity, but out of habit. The days had passed slowly since he received the final letter: Daron had ended the war. He had wiped out the last pirate stronghold on the island of Bloody Bend. Caníbal had reduced it to ashes.
The King said nothing upon hearing the news. He simply nodded. But in his chest, a strange emotion stirred. It wasn't just pride. It was something deeper. A mix of relief, admiration... and fear.
"A true Targaryen," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
He wasn't a boy playing at war, like so many had accused him of in court. He wasn't a lucky bastard. He was fire made flesh. Baelon had fathered a second son with the same wild blood of Daemon, tempered by the cold of the North. And now... now Daron returned as a conqueror.
The council awaited him. Otto Hightower murmured something about the Stepstones, about politics, about consequences. Viserys wasn't listening. His mind was elsewhere. Something he had been silently mulling over all this time.
A marriage.
Rhaenyra and Daron.
It made the most sense. The strongest alliance. A legitimate Targaryen, respected by the armies, loved by the people. And his daughter, the light of his days, the future of the throne.
It would not only solidify the succession. It would make history.
But he knew he couldn't impose it.
Rhaenyra wouldn't accept just any man. There was only one who made her smile at dinners, one whose name made her lower her gaze. And now that man was returning, riding a dragon that devoured the others.
Viserys closed his eyes for a moment. He imagined Daron's entrance into King's Landing. The walls trembling under the beating of Caníbal's wings. The crows fleeing. The city stopping. The prince who wasn't born to rule but whose fate had forced him to rise.
He opened his eyes and smiled. For the first time in weeks, he smiled for real.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Come back soon, boy. Let the court see you. Let the kingdom understand what it means to have a dragon like you."
POV: Rhaenyra Targaryen
She had dreamed of him.
Again.
In the dream, she flew through a red sky, mounted on a beast so large it covered the sun. He looked down at her from the heights. He said nothing. He only watched her. And she, from the ground, raised her arms, wishing to reach him, wishing to climb with him.
When she awoke, her sheets were tangled. Her chest was beating fast. She sat by the window of her chamber, her bare feet on the cold stone, and gazed out at the sea. In the distance, nothing yet. No fire. No wings. No signs.
But soon.
Very soon.
She had received the news the night before: Daron had won. He had won it all. Not by the strategy of others. Not by luck. By him. By his sword, his fury, his bond with Caníbal.
The bards were already composing verses in the courtyards. The maids whispered his name when they thought no one could hear them. And she… she whispered it to the wind, when she was alone.
—Daron.
It wasn't a young girl's love, she told herself. It wasn't a youthful fancy. She had felt it in the flesh. In the glances. In the brush of his fingers. In the night they shared, the one they never dared to name.
Now the whole kingdom would talk about him.
And she didn't know what she would do if she saw him smile at someone else.
She rose, went to the mirror. She combed her hair carefully, though she couldn't say why. She chose a new dress, even though there were no royal visits. She pretended it was just out of boredom.
She knew she shouldn't get ahead of herself.
But part of her already felt it: he was coming for her.
Not for the throne.
Not for politics.
For her.
A Few Days Later
The shadow fell first.
Dark. Immense. Unnatural.
It covered half of King's Landing like a silent wave. The bells stopped ringing. The voices quieted. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Caníbal was descending.
The skies burned in his wake. A sea of black wings and dark green, phosphorescent scales. The fire of his breath was unlike any other dragon's: it was denser, more alive, as if he breathed hatred and hunger. The roar that he released from above made the horses rear, made the sentries drop their spears.
And upon his back, a figure that didn't seem human.
Daron Targaryen.
Silver hair blowing in the wind, black cloak billowing, eyes alight like red-hot coals. He didn't need banners. His very presence was a banner.
The Red Keep trembled.
Rhaenyra ran to the highest terrace, ignoring her septa, ignoring the protocol. Her heart raced so fast she couldn't tell if it was from excitement or from fear. Not of Caníbal. But of what she felt when she saw him.
And then she saw him.
He saw her too.
Daron made Caníbal land slowly in the inner courtyard, like a living storm. When the dragon's claws touched stone, everyone stepped back. Only Rhaenyra advanced.
He dismounted without saying a word.
His boots hit the ground, and the world seemed to fall silent.
She walked toward him. It didn't matter the servants, the soldiers, the maesters who watched in awe or fear. It didn't matter their rank, or their duty. It was just the two of them.
He spoke first, his voice feeling like a warm breath against her skin.
— I thought you wouldn't come.
— I thought you'd take longer to win a war, — she replied, defiantly.
Their eyes met. There was a world in those gazes: desire, anger, longing, tenderness, contained passion. He raised a hand, gently, and brushed a lock of hair from her face.
— Did you wait for me? — he asked.
— I don't know how to do anything else, — she whispered.
They stayed like that for a moment. Two children of fire, trapped in their own volcano.
They didn't kiss. Not yet.
But they didn't need to for everyone to know what was between them.
From the heights, Viserys watched them in silence.
He watched them with attention, with eyes that weren't those of a brother, or a father, or a king. But those of a man who had finally made a decision.
When they both entered the castle, and the doors closed behind them, Viserys turned to Ser Harrold Westerling.
— Gather the Council. Tonight.
— About what, Your Majesty?
Viserys narrowed his eyes. His voice was grave. Final.
— About the future of the realm.