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Sunlight struggled through the heavy velvet curtains of Queen Aemma's chambers, casting the room in a muted golden glow. The air smelled of lavender and sickness—a bitter undercurrent that permeated the queen's quarters since the birth and death of Prince Baelon. Rhaenyra paced before her mother's massive canopied bed, her boots clicking against the stone floor, each step punctuating her arguments like a blacksmith's hammer.
"The Stepstones, Rhaenyra? Pirates and cutthroats?" Queen Aemma's voice was soft but clear, her pale fingers plucking at the silken bedcovers. "This isn't some tourney or court intrigue. Men die in such places."
Rhaenyra stopped pacing and turned to face her mother. She wore riding leathers instead of a gown, her silver-gold hair braided tightly against her head. The leather pants did nothing to hide the bulge between her legs—a trait that had once made Aemma weep with uncertainty when her daughter was born, before eventually accepting it as another quirk of Targaryen blood.
"That's precisely why I must go," Rhaenyra said, crossing her arms. "Men die there, and I intend to prove I'm more than equal to any man."
Aemma sighed, pushing herself up against the pillows. Her nightgown hung loose on her frame, quite a beautiful figure, but Rhaenyra ignored that.
"You're the heir to the Iron Throne. Your place is here, learning governance, not gallivanting across the Narrow Sea playing at war."
"Playing?" Rhaenyra's voice rose sharply. She strode to the bed and planted her hands on the mattress, leaning forward. "Is that what you think I'll be doing? Playing?"
"Lower your voice," Aemma cautioned, glancing toward the door where guards stood outside. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Mother?"
Aemma reached out and took her daughter's hand. "I meant that this conflict in the Stepstones is beneath the attention of the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Let your uncle handle it. Daemon revels in such bloodshed."
Rhaenyra pulled her hand away. "Uncle Daemon suggested I join him. He believes I need to demonstrate my worth as a warrior."
"Of course he did," Aemma muttered, her mouth tightening. "And does your father know of these plans?"
Rhaenyra stalked to the window and yanked back the curtain. Light flooded the room, making her mother wince.
"No," she admitted. "And I don't intend to tell him."
The queen closed her eyes briefly. "So you would leave without his permission? Rhaenyra, he'll be furious. He could strip you of your title—"
"Let him try." Rhaenyra's hand instinctively went to the dragon pin at her shoulder, the symbol of her status. "I am the Princess of Dragonstone, named heir before the entire court. If he disinherits me because I fight to protect Westerosi shipping interests, he'll look weaker than he already does."
"This isn't about shipping interests," Aemma said sharply. "Don't insult my intelligence. This is about your pride. About Alicent."
Rhaenyra's nostrils flared. "Don't speak her name to me."
"Your father's choice of bride hurts you, I understand that—"
"You understand nothing!" Rhaenyra spun around, her voice cracking. "She was mine first! And now he parades her around the castle like some prized mare, while lords whisper that a woman cannot hold the throne, that a woman cannot lead armies." She almost shouted, but held herself. "I am the blood of the dragon, and I will not sit meekly embroidering while they plot to replace me with whatever whelp she pushes out between her legs!"
The room fell silent except for Rhaenyra's heavy breathing. Queen Aemma studied her daughter with tired eyes.
"Come here," she said finally, patting the edge of the bed.
Reluctantly, Rhaenyra complied, sitting stiffly beside her mother.
"I know what it's like to have others determine your worth by what's between your legs," Aemma said quietly. "For most women, it's about what we lack. For you, it's about what you possess that others don't expect. Either way, we're judged."
Rhaenyra's shoulders slumped slightly.
"You think I don't understand ambition?" Aemma continued. "I've been trying to give your father a son for years, killing myself in the process." Her hand fluttered to her still-tender abdomen. "Each time I failed, I saw the disappointment in his eyes, the whispers at court. 'The queen's womb produces only dead princes,' they said."
"Mother—"
"No, let me finish." Aemma's voice strengthened. "I know what it's like to need to prove yourself. But war... it changes people, Rhaenyra. Not always for the better."
Rhaenyra stood again, unable to keep still. "I need this, Mother. When Father named me heir, the Small Council looked as though they'd swallowed sour milk. Otto Hightower could barely hide his disgust. Even Boremund Baratheon, who claims to support me, had doubt in his eyes."
She began to pace again, her movements quick and agitated.
"They won't follow me because I was named heir. They'll follow me because they fear me, respect me. Because I've proven myself with fire and blood, not pretty words at court." Her voice dropped, becoming almost vulnerable. "If I stay here, playing the obedient daughter while he beds that—that whore—I'll suffocate. My claim will wither before it can bloom."
Queen Aemma watched her daughter, seeing not just the petulant girl but the woman struggling to emerge. Rhaenyra's face was flushed, her violet eyes bright with conviction. The queen recognized that look—it was the same determination Viserys had shown when he claimed the throne, the same fire that burned in all true Targaryens.
"You truly believe this will secure your position?" Aemma asked finally.
"I know it will." Rhaenyra stopped pacing, facing her mother squarely. "Who would question my right to rule after I've faced the Crabfeeder and won? After I've shown I can command men in battle as well as any prince? Even Father would have to acknowledge my strength."
Aemma considered her words, then slowly nodded. "Perhaps you're right. The realm respects strength, especially displayed in combat." She frowned. "But the Stepstones is just the beginning for you, isn't it? I see ambition in your eyes that goes beyond pirates."
Rhaenyra didn't deny it. "Aegon the Conqueror wasn't remembered for his court politics."
A ghost of a smile touched Aemma's lips. "No, he certainly wasn't." She sighed deeply. "I can't stop you, can I? Even if I forbade it, you'd go anyway."
"Yes," Rhaenyra said simply. "But I'd rather have your blessing than your opposition."
For a long moment, Aemma was silent. Then she reached for a small bell beside her bed and rang it. A handmaiden appeared almost instantly.
"Bring me the carved box in my dressing room," the queen instructed. When the girl returned moments later with an ornate wooden chest, Aemma dismissed her and opened it herself.
From inside, she withdrew a slender Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt. "This belonged to my father," she said. "A prince of House Arryn should not need such weapons, but my father kept it close. He said sometimes words fail, and when they do, steel speaks more clearly."
She held it out to Rhaenyra. "Take it. May it serve you better than it served him."
Rhaenyra accepted the dagger with reverence, testing its impossible lightness in her hand. "Thank you," she whispered.
"Will you tell your father before you leave?" Aemma asked.
Rhaenyra's expression hardened as she tucked the dagger into her belt. "Why should I? He didn't consult me before deciding to marry my—" She stopped herself, jaw working. "Let him discover it when I'm gone. He's too busy with his Hightower whore to notice what his heir does anyway."
Aemma flinched at the venom in her daughter's voice but didn't contradict her. "Be careful, Rhaenyra. Not just of the enemy, but of yourself. Rage makes for poor counsel."
Rhaenyra leaned down and kissed her mother's cheek. "I'll return with the pirates' heads and the respect of the Seven Kingdoms," she promised. "And when I do, no one—not Otto Hightower, not Alicent, not even Father—will ever question my right to the throne again."
As she strode from the room, back straight and head high, Queen Aemma watched her go with a mixture of pride and fear. Her daughter carried the blood of the dragon indeed—but dragons, for all their power, were not known for their restraint.
.
.
Dragonstone loomed from the sea like a threat made manifest, its dark volcanic stone towers twisted into the shapes of dragons and other beasts from nightmare. As Syrax descended toward the courtyard, her golden scales caught the late afternoon sunlight, casting dappled reflections across the fortress walls. The wind from her massive wings sent servants and soldiers scrambling for balance, cloaks whipping violently as Rhaenyra guided her mount to land.
Behind her, Caraxes shrieked, a sound like steel scraping stone. The Blood Wyrm's longer neck twisted as Daemon directed him to settle on the wide landing area designated for dragons since Aegon's time.
Rhaenyra dismounted with ease, her boots hitting the stone with a satisfying thud. She stroked Syrax's snout, feeling the heat radiating from her dragon's scales. "Good girl," she murmured. "Rest now. We'll need your fire soon enough."
Daemon approached, his silver-gold hair windblown from the flight. "Welcome to our war council, niece," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. He wore black riding leathers with red accents, his Targaryen heritage proudly displayed. "How was your talk with my dear mother?"
"As expected," Rhaenyra replied tersely, not wanting to dwell on her mother. She surveyed the bustling activity around them. Men-at-arms moved in organized chaos, carrying crates of supplies from ships docked below. The clash of steel from the training yard echoed against the stone walls. "You've been busy."
"For weeks," Daemon confirmed, guiding her toward the main keep with a hand at the small of her back. "Corlys Velaryon's ships have been arriving daily with men and provisions. The Sea Snake doesn't skimp when his shipping routes are threatened."
A servant rushed forward to take Rhaenyra's traveling pack, bowing deeply. "Princess, your chambers have been prepared in the Stone Drum tower."
"The King's chambers?" Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow at Daemon.
Her uncle's lips quirked. "You are the heir to the throne. Where else would you stay?"
She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. On Dragonstone, at least, her position was unquestioned.
They passed beneath an archway carved to resemble a dragon's open maw, complete with obsidian teeth that glinted menacingly in the torchlight. Inside, the Great Hall of Dragonstone buzzed with activity, unlike the formal, stifling atmosphere it held during official functions. Maps covered the long table where Targaryen kings once dined. Men gathered around them, arguing strategies and pointing at various markers.
"My lords," Daemon called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "The Princess of Dragonstone has arrived."
The room fell silent as every head turned toward Rhaenyra. She kept her chin high, acutely aware of the skeptical glances from some of the grizzled captains. At sixteen, dressed in riding leathers with her hair wind-tangled, she knew she didn't present the formidable image she desired.
"Princess." Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself. His purple eyes assessed her coolly. "We didn't expect you so soon after your... discussions at court."
"I don't waste time, Lord Velaryon," she replied, striding past him to the map table. She planted her hands on its edge, studying the wooden pieces representing ships and troops. "Neither, it seems, do you."
"The Triarchy doesn't waste time pillaging our ships," Corlys replied, moving to stand across from her. "Three more merchant vessels lost just yesterday."
Rhaenyra's eyes traced the painted coastline of the Stepstones. "And this Crabfeeder? Where is he based?"
"Bloodstone, primarily," Daemon said, pointing to the largest island. "The fucking coward hides in the caves with his men whenever our ships approach. Hard to burn out what you can't see."
Rhaenyra frowned. "How many men does he command?"
"Two thousand, perhaps three," answered a gruff-voiced captain. "Lyseni pirates, Myrish crossbowmen, Tyroshi sellswords. A rabble, but a dangerous one."
"And we have?"
"Seventeen hundred," Corlys answered. "Plus the house guards of minor lords who've joined our cause. Nearly two thousand in total."
"And two dragons," Rhaenyra added, straightening. "The odds seem in our favor."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, but one voice cut through it. "Begging your pardon, Princess," said a weathered man with a salt-and-pepper beard, "but what experience does a maid of sixteen have in warfare?"
The room tensed. Daemon's hand moved to his sword hilt, but Rhaenyra held up a hand to stop him.
"None," she admitted bluntly, meeting the man's gaze. "Just as Aegon the Conqueror had no experience before his first battle. Just as my dragon had never tasted human flesh until her first kill." She smiled, showing teeth. "We all start somewhere, Ser...?"
"Staunton, Princess. Ser Joffrey Staunton."
"Ser Staunton. Tell me, how many men have you commanded against a dragon?"
The knight's face reddened. "None, Princess."
"Then we are both learning new things." She turned back to the map. "Now, tell me everything about the terrain of these islands. Every cave, every ridge, every beach where landing is possible."
For the next hour, Rhaenyra absorbed information, questioning tactics and supply lines.
"The troops from House Celtigar arrive tomorrow," Corlys said eventually. "Once they're settled, we'll have our full force."
Rhaenyra nodded. "Good. I want to inspect every ship, every man. If we're to win this war, I need to know our strengths intimately."
As the meeting dispersed, she turned to find Daemon watching her, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing," he said, his lips curving in that maddening half-smile. "Just appreciating how quickly my niece has become a commander."
"Is that approval I hear, uncle?" she asked dryly.
"Surprise, perhaps," he admitted. "Though I shouldn't be. You've always been... exceptional."
"Save your flattery for the tavern girls, uncle," she said sharply. "I'm here to win a war, not warm your bed."
Daemon laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Don't worry, I like you Rhaenyra, but I'm not into cocks."
Before she could retort, a servant approached. "Princess, Master Altos requests an audience regarding the ravens."
"Go," Daemon said. "I'll have food sent to your chambers. We can continue our... strategic discussions later."
Rhaenyra left him with a withering look, following the servant up the winding stairs of the Stone Drum tower. As she climbed, the fortress of her ancestors embraced her. Here, gargoyles shaped like dragons watched from every corner. It felt like they were watching her, judging her.
Pausing at a narrow window, she looked down at the courtyard now filled with men preparing for war—her men. Ships dotted the harbor below, banners snapping in the wind: the seahorse of Velaryon, the crab of Celtigar, the dragons of her own house.
For the first time since leaving King's Landing, Rhaenyra smiled fully. Let her father play house with his Hightower bride. Here on Dragonstone, surrounded by the symbols of her family's power, with dragons at her command and men gathering to her cause, she was no longer just the heir in name.
Here, she was queen already. All that remained was for the rest of the world to recognize it.
One Hour Later
Wind howled around the uppermost chamber of Dragonstone's Sea Dragon Tower, a constant reminder of the fortress's dominion over the elements. Rhaenyra stood at the open archway, her hands gripping the carved stone balustrade as she gazed out over the churning dark waters. Behind her, Laena Velaryon closed the heavy oak door, the sound echoing in the circular room.
"You summoned me, Princess?" Laena's voice was melodic despite its formal tone.
Rhaenyra turned slowly. Torchlight bathed Laena's features in amber glow, highlighting the silver-gold of her hair—a shade lighter than Rhaenyra's own, courtesy of her Targaryen mother Rhaenys. At nineteen, Laena already stood taller than Rhaenyra, her willowy frame draped in a sea-green dress that complemented her violet eyes.
"I didn't summon you," Rhaenyra corrected, moving away from the balcony. "I invited you."
A small smile played on Laena's full lips. "Semantics. Either way, here I stand in the highest tower of Dragonstone, wondering why the Princess has abandoned King's Landing to play at war."
Rhaenyra's eyebrow arched. "Play at war? You sound like my mother."
"Queen Aemma is a wise woman."
"Careful, Laena." Rhaenyra circled the large map table dominating the center of the room, trailing her fingers along its edge. "I didn't invite you here to parrot my mother's concerns."
Laena approached the table, studying the carved wooden ships positioned around the painted Stepstones. "Then why am I here? Surely not to discuss battle plans. I know nothing of warfare."
"Neither do I, according to your father's captains," Rhaenyra said with a sharp smile. "Yet here I am, commanding them."
"Is that wise?" Laena asked, her voice soft but direct. "Leaving your father alone with the Hightowers while you chase pirates?"
Rhaenyra's hand clenched on the table edge. "My father made his choice when he chose to marry Alicent. Let him wallow in her cunt while I secure our shipping lanes."
Laena's cheeks colored at the crude language. "You risk much. The Small Council already whispers that a woman cannot hold the throne. If you fail here—"
"I won't fail." Rhaenyra stalked closer, close enough to smell the salt and lavender scent of Laena's skin. "And I'm more than just a woman, as you well know."
Laena's breath caught visibly. "Yes. I know."
Rhaenyra smiled, sensing the shift in Laena's energy. "Does it bother you? That your father now fights alongside me instead of seeking vengeance against my father for rejecting you?"
Laena's eyes flashed. "I was never consulted about being offered to King Viserys. My father's ambitions are his own."
"And what are your ambitions, Laena Velaryon?" Rhaenyra moved closer still, near enough that their breaths mingled.
"To claim a dragon," Laena answered without hesitation. "Vhagar has been riderless since Baelon's death."
Rhaenyra laughed, a low sound. "Bold. Vhagar is the oldest living dragon. Some say she's too wild to bond with anyone else."
"Some said the same of your Syrax," Laena countered. "Yet you tamed her."
"I didn't tame her," Rhaenyra corrected, her voice dropping. "I earned her respect. There's a difference."
Their eyes locked. Rhaenyra could see Laena's pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, the slight part of her lips as her breathing quickened.
"And is that why you're here?" Laena asked. "To earn respect?"
"Among other things." Rhaenyra moved to a side table where a flagon of Dornish red waited. She poured two cups, handing one to Laena. "This war with the Triarchy is just the beginning."
Laena accepted the wine but didn't drink. "The beginning of what?"
Rhaenyra sipped her wine, letting the question hang in the air. She turned back to the map, gesturing across the painted lands. "Look at what Aegon accomplished. Six kingdoms fell before him."
"Seven, if you count Dorne," Laena said.
"Dorne never truly fell," Rhaenyra corrected. "A mistake I intend to remedy when I sit the Iron Throne."
Laena's eyes widened slightly. "You mean to conquer Dorne?"
"Dorne. The Free Cities. Perhaps even the ruins of Old Valyria itself." Rhaenyra's voice hummed with barely contained excitement. "Why should I be content with merely holding what my ancestors won? A true dragon takes what she wants."
"The Nine Free Cities have stood independent for centuries," Laena said carefully. "They'd unite against such a threat."
"Let them." Rhaenyra's smile was predatory. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."
Laena set her untouched wine down, moving to stand directly before Rhaenyra. "You speak of unprecedented conquest. The Seven Kingdoms would never support such ambition."
"They will when I return from the Stepstones victorious," Rhaenyra said. "When I've proven that a woman—that I—can lead armies and win wars."
"And if you die trying?" Laena's voice trembled slightly. "What then?"
"Then I die as I lived—on my own terms." Rhaenyra reached out, brushing a strand of silver-gold hair from Laena's face. "Are you worried for me, Laena?"
"I worry about the consequences," Laena said, not flinching from the touch. "For the realm. For House Velaryon. For you."
Rhaenyra's fingers lingered on Laena's cheek. "I didn't know you cared so deeply."
"There are many things you don't know about me," Laena whispered.
haenyra could feel her cock stirring beneath her breeches, responding to Laena's proximity.
"I know you weren't as disappointed as your father when Viserys chose Alicent," Rhaenyra said, her thumb tracing Laena's lower lip. "I know you trembled beneath me the last time we were together."
Laena's breath hitched. "Yes, but you are the Heir now."
"And does my crown make me less desirable?" Rhaenyra pressed closer, her arousal now unmistakable against Laena's thigh.
"No," Laena admitted, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. "It makes you more dangerous."
Rhaenyra smiled, a dragon's smile. "Good."
She closed the final distance between them, capturing Laena's mouth in a bruising kiss.Her arms wound around Rhaenyra's neck, her body melting against the princess.
Rhaenyra walked them backward until Laena's back hit the cold stone wall beside the open archway. Sea spray occasionally misted in, dampening their skin as Rhaenyra deepened the kiss, her tongue claiming Laena's mouth just as ruthlessly as she planned to claim the known world.
Laena moaned, the sound swallowed by the wind and Rhaenyra's hungry mouth. Her fingers tangled in Rhaenyra's hair, pulling it free from its tight braid.
"Is this why you invited me here?" Laena gasped when they finally broke for air. "To seduce me again?"
"I invited you because I wanted you," Rhaenyra said bluntly, her hands already working at the laces of Laena's dress. "Does that offend your sense of propriety, Lady Velaryon?"
"Nothing about you is proper," Laena replied, yet she made no move to stop Rhaenyra's questing fingers.
The dress loosened, sliding down to reveal Laena's small, perfect breasts. Rhaenyra lowered her head, capturing a pink nipple between her teeth. Laena arched, a sharp cry escaping her lips as Rhaenyra sucked and nipped at the sensitive flesh.
"Someone will hear," Laena protested weakly, even as her hands encouraged Rhaenyra's exploration.
"Let them," Rhaenyra murmured against her skin. "Let all of Dragonstone know that their princess takes what she wants."
She pushed the dress lower, until it pooled at Laena's feet. The taller girl stood naked save for a thin silken undergarment, her body pale and perfect in the flickering torchlight. Rhaenyra stepped back just enough to drink in the sight.
"Beautiful," she breathed. "Like Visenya come again."
Color bloomed across Laena's chest and cheeks. "You remain clothed, Princess. Are you afraid to show yourself to me?"
A challenge. Rhaenyra's cock twitched at the fire in Laena's eyes. Without breaking eye contact, she unlaced her leather jerkin, shrugging it off to reveal her bound breasts beneath. Next came her shirt, then the bindings themselves, until her small, firm breasts were bared to the cool air.
Laena's gaze dropped to the obvious bulge in Rhaenyra's breeches. "All of it," she demanded softly.
Rhaenyra complied, unlacing her breeches and pushing them down her hips. Her cock sprang free, hard and flushed with blood. Laena stared openly, her tongue unconsciously wetting her lips.
"Touch me," Rhaenyra commanded.
Laena reached out, her fingers wrapping around Rhaenyra's shaft with tentative curiosity. The princess hissed with pleasure as Laena stroked her, gaining confidence with each pass of her hand.
"Is this how you'll conquer the world?" Laena asked, her voice breathy but with an undercurrent of challenge. "One conquest at a time?"
Rhaenyra growled, grabbing Laena's wrist and pinning it above her head against the wall. "Mock me if you want, but remember—" She pressed her body flush against Laena's, her cock hot and hard against the girl's belly. "—dragons take what they want."
She claimed Laena's mouth again, her free hand sliding between the taller girl's thighs. She found her wet and ready, slick heat greeting her fingers as she pushed aside the thin silk barrier.
"Rhaenyra," Laena moaned as the princess circled her sensitive nub. "Please..."
"Please what?" Rhaenyra demanded, nipping at Laena's throat. "Tell me what you want."
"You," Laena gasped as Rhaenyra's fingers delved deeper. "Inside me. Now."
Rhaenyra needed no further encouragement. She hooked her hands beneath Laena's thighs, lifting her against the wall. Laena wrapped her long legs around Rhaenyra's waist, her arms clinging to the princess's shoulders as Rhaenyra positioned herself at her entrance.
With one smooth thrust, she buried herself to the hilt. Laena cried out, her head falling back against the stone. The sound of skin against skin mixed with the crash of waves below as Rhaenyra established a relentless rhythm, each thrust driving them both closer to the edge.
"Mine," Rhaenyra growled against Laena's throat. "Say it."
"Yours," Laena gasped, her nails digging into Rhaenyra's back. "Gods, Rhaenyra, I'm yours."
The admission sent fire through Rhaenyra's veins. She increased her pace, her cock sliding in and out of Laena's slick heat. The stone wall scraped against Laena's back, adding pain to their pleasure as Rhaenyra fucked her with single-minded determination.
"When I take the Free Cities," Rhaenyra panted, "you'll be at my side. On dragonback."
Laena's inner walls clenched around her at the words. "Yes," she moaned. "Yes, Rhaenyra, don't stop—"
Rhaenyra felt her climax approaching, a familiar tightening in her balls. "Come for me," she demanded. "Come for your princess."
As if obeying a royal command, Laena shattered. Her body convulsed, her cunt squeezing Rhaenyra's cock in rhythmic pulses as she cried out her pleasure. The sight and sensation sent Rhaenyra over the edge. She buried herself deep one final time, spilling her seed inside Laena with a primal groan.
For several moments, they remained locked together, sweat-slick bodies pressed against the cold stone as they caught their breath. The wind continued to howl around them, indifferent to their passion.
Eventually, Rhaenyra lowered Laena back to her feet, both of them wincing slightly as oversensitive flesh separated.
"You truly believe you can conquer the Free Cities?" Laena asked finally, retying the laces of her dress.
Rhaenyra nodded, tucking her softened cock back into her breeches. "With enough dragons, anything is possible."
"Dragons," Laena repeated thoughtfully. "There aren't enough riders."
"There will be." Rhaenyra picked up her discarded wine cup, drinking deeply. "House Targaryen. House Velaryon. Together, we could restore what was lost in the Doom."
Laena studied her with newfound wariness. "You speak of a new Valyrian empire."
"Why not?" Rhaenyra's eyes gleamed with fervor. "We have the blood, the dragons. All we lack is vision."
"And an army," Laena pointed out. "And ships. And the support of the Seven Kingdoms."
Rhaenyra waved these concerns away. "Details. First, we secure the Stepstones. Then, Dorne. After that..." She let the sentence hang.
Laena approached her slowly, reaching out to touch Rhaenyra's cheek. "My fierce dragon," she said softly. "Be careful your ambitions don't burn you along with everyone else."
Rhaenyra captured Laena's hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Fire cannot kill a dragon," she repeated. "Remember that when you finally claim Vhagar. We are meant for greater things than merely preserving what others built."
Laena's eyes showed conflict—desire warring with caution. "I should return below. My father will wonder where I've gone."
"Let him wonder," Rhaenyra said with a smirk. "I doubt he'd be surprised to find you in my bed."
"Is that where I am?" Laena glanced pointedly at the wall where they'd coupled. "I hadn't noticed."
Rhaenyra laughed, pulling Laena in for one more lingering kiss. "Next time," she promised against her lips. "I'll show you the comforts the Dragonlords of old enjoyed."
As Laena slipped from the chamber, her scent lingering in the air, Rhaenyra returned to the balcony. Below, the fortress of her ancestors stood solid and eternal. Beyond, the sea stretched to horizons unknown.
Not unknown for long, she vowed silently. Not once I've put the world to flame.
.
.
The map room of Dragonstone was a chamber built for conquest. Unlike the airy, sunlit war rooms of southern castles, this space was carved directly from the volcanic heart of the island. Black stone walls absorbed the light from dozens of torches, creating more shadows than illumination. The massive obsidian table at its center—cut in the shape of Westeros and its surrounding waters—gleamed wetly in the flickering light.
Rhaenyra entered last, deliberately making the assembled lords and captains wait. She wore a black leather jerkin with red piping, her silver-gold hair pulled back severely, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. The room fell silent as she took her position at the head of the table, directly above the carved representation of Dragonstone.
"My lords," she said, her voice carrying easily in the hushed chamber, "I trust you've all received word of the latest raids?"
Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, stood opposite her at the table's far end. "Three more merchant vessels lost yesterday," he confirmed. "The Bold Venture, the Lady Baela, and the Driftmark's Pride."
"All Velaryon ships," Daemon noted from his position to Rhaenyra's right. "The Triarchy seems particularly fond of your vessels, Lord Corlys."
The Sea Snake's jaw tightened. "They target my ships because I've been the loudest voice calling for action against them. Unlike others who seem content to let pirates strangle our trade."
His pointed glance toward a stout man in rich velvet left no doubt about his target. Lord Gunther Massey shifted uncomfortably. "House Massey has always supported—"
"House Massey has done nothing but complain about the cost of this expedition," Corlys cut in. "While my house bleeds gold with every ship we lose."
"Enough," Rhaenyra said sharply. "We're not here to measure whose purse has suffered most. We're here to end the suffering entirely."
She leaned forward, placing her hands on either side of the Stepstones, carved islands scattered between Westeros and Essos. Small wooden ships had been positioned around them, black for their forces, red for the enemy.
"The Crabfeeder has made Bloodstone his primary base," she said, tapping the largest of the islands. "His men strike from the caves along the eastern shore, then retreat when our ships give chase."
"Cowards," spat a grizzled captain with the kraken of House Greyjoy emblazoned on his salt-stained jerkin. "They should stand and fight like men."
"They're not men; they're vermin," Daemon said. "And vermin hide in dark places."
Ser Vaemond Velaryon, Corlys's nephew, stepped forward. Unlike his uncle, he wore his silver hair short, accentuating the sharpness of his features. "We've attempted to flush them out three times. Each time, they retreat deeper into the caves where our men cannot follow without being ambushed in the darkness."
"And burning the islands from dragonback?" Rhaenyra asked.
"Ineffective," Daemon answered, his frustration evident. "The caves extend deep into the mountains. Caraxes could melt the entire surface of Bloodstone and still not reach them."
Rhaenyra drummed her fingers on the table, studying the wooden pieces. "So they hide from dragons in caves, and they hide from ships in coves too shallow for our larger vessels to navigate."
"Precisely our problem, Princess," Corlys confirmed. "We can blockade them, but we can't root them out."
"Perhaps this expedition was ill-considered from the start. Pirates have always plagued these waters. They are an unfortunate cost of doing business in the Narrow Sea." Lord Lannister said the man was handsome with golden hair.
"Easy to say when it's not your ships being taken," Corlys retorted.
"No, it's my gold being spent on this... adventure," Lannister replied smoothly. "Gold that seems increasingly wasted."
Rhaenyra fixed the Lannister lord with a cold stare. "Is that why you've brought the fewest men of any major house, Lord Jason? To minimize your wasted gold?"
A titter ran through the assembled captains. Lannister's smile tightened. "I brought what was asked of me, Princess. Though I must wonder if a young woman, however nobly born, has the strategic mind to—"
"Careful, Lannister," Daemon cut in, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. "You speak to the heir to the Iron Throne."
"An heir who has never seen battle," Lannister pressed, emboldened by the murmurs of agreement from some of the older lords. "With respect, Princess, this enemy requires experienced military leadership."
"And who would you suggest leads instead, Lord Lannister?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice dangerously soft. "Yourself? My uncle? Lord Velaryon? Men who have tried and failed three times already?"
The room fell silent. Even Daemon looked uncomfortable at the pointed reminder of their previous failures.
"I've studied the reports of each attempt," Rhaenyra continued, moving around the table slowly. "Each time, our forces approached directly, hoping overwhelming numbers would compensate for the disadvantage of terrain. Each time, the pirates retreated to their caves, suffering minimal losses while inflicting significant casualties on our men."
She picked up a black wooden ship, turning it in her fingers. "We continue to think like lords and sailors, attacking from the sea as honor dictates." She set the piece down with a sharp click. "But our enemy doesn't fight with honor."
"What do you suggest, Princess?" Corlys asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Rhaenyra smiled thinly. "We give him what he wants."
A confused murmur ran through the room.
"Bait," she clarified. "The Crabfeeder wants ships. Wealthy targets. So we'll give him one." She pointed to a narrow strait between two of the islands. "Here. A single merchant vessel, apparently damaged, flying Velaryon colors. Rich cargo, minimal escort."
"You want to sacrifice one of my ships?" Corlys asked incredulously.
"I want to sacrifice its appearance," Rhaenyra corrected. "But below decks will be fifty of our best fighters, hidden."
Daemon's eyes lit with understanding. "But the Crabfeeder isn't a fool. He'll suspect a trap."
"Which is why we need to make it irresistible," Rhaenyra agreed. "Lord Corlys, what is the most valuable cargo your ships carry from the east?"
The Sea Snake considered. "Spices. Silk. Valyrian artifacts when we're fortunate."
"Gold," interrupted Lord Lannister. "Gold is what pirates truly want."
Rhaenyra nodded. "Then gold it shall be. Not real gold, but chests that appear to contain it. Enough to make even a cautious pirate reckless."
Ser Vaemond frowned. "Even so, they'll approach carefully. Send scouts first."
"Let them," Rhaenyra said. "Let them see exactly what we want them to see—a damaged ship, minimal crew, struggling to stay afloat. When their main force commits to boarding..."
"Our hidden men attack," Daemon finished, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Precisely," Rhaenyra confirmed. "But that's not all. While they're distracted with the ship, a second force will land here." She pointed to a desolate stretch of Bloodstone's western shore. "A small group can scale the cliffs undetected while the Crabfeeder's attention is eastward."
Corlys stroked his beard thoughtfully. "To what end? The pirates won't all board the decoy. Many will remain in the caves."
"True," Rhaenyra conceded. "Which is why the landing party will not attempt to fight them in the caves."
"Then what is their purpose?" demanded Lord Bar Emmon, a portly man with a walrus mustache.
Rhaenyra looked to Daemon, who studied the map before his eyes widened with realization. "Fire," he said. "Not dragonfire from above, but—"
"Fire from within," Rhaenyra finished. "The caves have limited ventilation. A few men carrying enough oil and pitch could smoke them out like rats."
A stunned silence fell over the room as the lords considered the plan.
"It's risky," Corlys said finally. "The landing party would be cut off if discovered."
"Which is why we need a distraction greater than just the decoy ship," Rhaenyra replied. "That's where the dragons come in. Once the landing party is in position, Syrax and Caraxes will attack the eastern shore—not to kill, but to drive the pirates back toward their caves."
"Directly into the smoke," Daemon said, admiration clear in his voice. "Brilliant."
"And when they flee the caves, coughing and blind?" asked Ser Steffon Darklyn.
Rhaenyra's smile was predatory. "Then they face the dragons in the open. No caves to hide in. No mercy to be given."
Lord Lannister, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "It's unconventional," he admitted reluctantly. "But it might work." His green eyes assessed Rhaenyra with new consideration. "Though I wonder where a sheltered princess learned such... creative tactics."
"I read, Lord Lannister," Rhaenyra replied coolly. "History is filled with battles won by those willing to abandon convention. Aegon the Conqueror didn't win Westeros by following the rules of his enemies."
The iron-haired master-at-arms of Dragonstone, Ser Willem Hull, stepped forward with a respectful nod. "The plan has merit, but the timing must be perfect. If the landing party moves too soon or the dragons attack before they're in position..."
"Which is why you'll lead the landing party, Ser Willem," Rhaenyra said. "I trust your judgment on when to light the fires."
The old knight straightened, clearly pleased with the responsibility. "I would be honored, Princess."
"And the decoy ship?" Corlys asked. "Who captains that death trap?"
"I will," offered a handsome young captain with the Velaryon seahorse on his breast—Ser Laenor Velaryon, the Sea Snake's son. His offer brought murmurs of surprise; the heir to Driftmark was not expected to volunteer for such a dangerous position.
Corlys looked torn between pride and concern. "Laenor, this isn't—"
"I'm the most logical choice, Father," the young man interrupted. "The men will fight harder to protect a Velaryon heir, and the pirates will be all the more eager to capture one."
Rhaenyra studied Laenor with new interest. His willingness to risk himself spoke well of his character.
"Very well, Ser Laenor," she agreed. "You'll command the decoy, and Ser Willem the landing party."
Daemon clapped his hands together. "And I shall lead the dragon assault."
"We shall lead it," Rhaenyra corrected firmly. "Syrax and I will attack from the south while Caraxes comes from the north. We'll drive them like shepherds herd sheep."
For a moment, tension crackled between niece and uncle. Then Daemon inclined his head in acquiescence. "As you command, Princess."
"When do we strike?" asked Corlys.
Rhaenyra looked to Ser Willem. "How long to prepare the landing party and the decoy ship?"
"Three days, Princess. We need special gear for the cliff ascent, and the ship requires modification to hide our men."
"Then we attack at dawn on the fourth day," Rhaenyra decided. "The pirates keep poor watch at first light; their raids typically come at dusk or during the night."
As the council broke into groups to discuss specific preparations, Corlys approached Rhaenyra privately. The Sea Snake's weathered face was thoughtful.
"Clever plan, Princess," he said quietly. "Not what I expected when my daughter's former betrothed sent her heir to our war council."
Rhaenyra met his gaze steadily. "Perhaps that's why we'll succeed where previous attempts failed, Lord Velaryon. The pirates expect to face men thinking as men do."
"And instead they'll face a dragon thinking as a dragon does," Corlys finished with a small smile. "Unexpected and merciless."
"Precisely." Rhaenyra glanced toward where Daemon was deep in conversation with the captains. "This campaign is more than just securing shipping lanes, Lord Velaryon. It's a statement to all of Westeros."
"That the heir to the Iron Throne is no mere figurehead," Corlys said, understanding dawning in his eyes. "That Rhaenyra Targaryen is a commander to be reckoned with."
"And feared," Rhaenyra added softly. "Never forget that part."
As she walked away, she felt the eyes of the war council following her—some with newfound respect, others with careful reassessment. The board was set, the pieces in motion. Soon, very soon, the realm would see what a woman with the blood of the dragon could accomplish.
And after the Stepstones? Her gaze drifted to the map table, to Dorne and beyond to Essos.
After the Stepstones, the real work would begin.
.
.
Moonlight spilled through the arched windows of Rhaenyra's bedchamber.
She sat before her looking glass, methodically brushing her silver-gold hair with long, measured strokes. One hundred each night, as her mother had taught her. A queen must always maintain her beauty, Aemma had insisted, even when no one was watching. Especially then.
Rhaenyra's reflection stared back at her, violet eyes calculating. The war council had gone better than expected. She had surprised them—these weathered lords and battle-hardened captains. Their skepticism had transformed into reluctant respect by the meeting's end.
A small victory, but significant.
She set the brush down and traced the outline of her face in the mirror. The face of a girl still, despite her attempts to appear otherwise. At sixteen, she remained caught between childhood and womanhood, between princess and queen. Her cock made her different, but not enough. Not yet.
"Would Aegon the Conqueror have fretted before his looking glass?" she muttered to herself, disgusted by her moment of vanity.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Rhaenyra frowned—she had dismissed her ladies for the night, preferring solitude before tomorrow's preparations began in earnest.
"Enter," she called, pulling a black silk robe over her nightgown.
The door opened to reveal Myrna, her youngest handmaiden. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, with dark hair and the olive skin of the Dornish borderlands. She entered with head bowed, clearly nervous to disturb her princess so late.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness," Myrna said, curtsying deeply.
"What is it?" Rhaenyra asked. The girl was new to service and easily frightened.
Myrna swallowed visibly. "A ship arrived from Volantis three hours past, Princess. Among its passengers was a woman in red robes who asked specifically for an audience with you."
Rhaenyra's interest sharpened. "A Red Priestess? Here on Dragonstone?"
"Yes, Princess. She calls herself Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis."
"And she came alone? No guards? No servants?"
Myrna nodded. "Alone, Your Highness. She carried nothing but a small wooden chest. When Prince Daemon suggested she wait until morning to seek audience, she said..." The girl hesitated.
"Go on," Rhaenyra prompted.
"She said that fire does not wait for mortal convenience, and neither would she." Myrna's voice dropped to a whisper. "She knew things, Princess. About the castle. About you."
A chill ran down Rhaenyra's spine despite herself. "What things?"
"She spoke of dragons. Of dreams. She said..." The handmaiden's eyes darted nervously around the room, as if checking for unseen listeners. "She said she had seen you in her flames, standing atop the Iron Throne with seven crowns at your feet and the world burning before you."
Rhaenyra felt a strange flutter in her chest—not fear, but excitement, perhaps. Or recognition.
"Where is she now?" she asked, rising from her seat.
"Prince Daemon had her escorted to the Sea Dragon Tower. He said to tell you she could wait until you were ready to receive her." Myrna fidgeted with her apron. "But Princess, there's more. When she was shown to her chambers, she refused to enter. She stands now on the shore below the castle, before a bonfire of her own making."
Rhaenyra moved to the window that faced east, toward the narrow beach that curved beneath Dragonstone's shadow. Indeed, a fire blazed there, unnaturally bright against the darkness. A single figure stood before it, red robes whipping in the sea wind.
"The night is dark and full of terrors," Myrna whispered, repeating the familiar prayer of R'hllor's followers. "That's what she kept saying."
Rhaenyra watched the distant fire, mesmerized by its steady burn despite the gusting wind. Seven crowns at her feet. The world burning before her. The image resonated with the ambitions she had shared with Laena just hours earlier.
"Prepare my clothing," she decided suddenly. "Not a gown. My riding leathers."
Myrna looked startled. "You mean to see her now? At this hour?"
"Fire does not wait for mortal convenience," Rhaenyra echoed, a small smile playing at her lips. "Neither do I."
As Myrna hurried to fetch the requested garments. Beyond the Red Priestess's bonfire, far across the water, the mainland of Westeros was a dark smudge against the horizon. Somewhere there, her father sat the Iron Throne, oblivious to his daughter's plans.
"The night is dark," she whispered to her reflection, "but fire burns it all away."
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