Syrax did not linger once she set Princess Rhaenyra upon the battlements. Her golden wings unfurled with a whisper of scales, and she lifted back into the sky with a single powerful sweep. Harrenhal had no true dragonpit, only scattered towers and broken stones, so she banked away from the fortress and drifted toward the shimmering expanse of the God's Eye.
There, she felt it.
A pulse of presence, hot as fire, proud as a crowned king.
A sharp cry split the sky as she reached the water's edge, the sound rolling across the lake like thunder chasing itself through the valley.
Tyraxes.
The blood-red wyrm wheeled above the waters, his wings casting long shadows that rippled over the lake's mirrored surface. The moment his ember-bright eyes caught sight of Syrax, he loosed a piercing roar that struck the water with visible force, sending silver ripples racing outward.
Dragons preferred the high ground when alone. Only when another of their kind approached, or when danger woke, did they choose the open skies. Tyraxes' ascent told her everything: he had sensed her long before she had drawn near.
Syrax answered with a softer, trilling note, beating her wings to steady herself yet stopping short of crossing into his territory. The air between them vibrated with heat and warning.
Dragons were fiercely territorial, even when kin. Without a clear signal of peace, even the gentlest of them might meet in blood and flame.
Tyraxes circled once more. His roar changed timbre, lower, calmer, and almost a command.
Permission.
Syrax dipped her head, then moved forward. Slowly at first, then with growing confidence, she closed the distance between them. Moments later the two dragons spiraled together above the lake, golden scales brushing against crimson, their wings carving great circles in the air before they descended onto a narrow stony isle hardly large enough to bear their combined weight.
When their claws touched rock, Tyraxes lowered his massive head until his snout loomed inches from Syrax's. She tensed, tail flicking across the stones, unable to meet his burning gaze. Only when he let out a rumbling exhale and curled into a resting coil did she dare to draw breath again.
Tyraxes had grown.
Where once she and he had been near-equals, two young dragons testing their strength beneath the skies of Dragonstone, time and blood had altered the balance. Tyraxes, with his rich red hide and iron-sharp horns, had become something greater: dominant, commanding, closer now to the great wyrms of Balerion's line.
Had Syrax been wild-born, riderless, adrift without the bond of a Targaryen soul to steady her, Tyraxes might well have challenged her outright and bent her to his will.
Such was the nature of the Dragons.
With a low rumble, he shifted deeper into his coil. Syrax immediately scooted closer, pressing her body along his flank like a younger sibling seeking the warmth of an elder.
The red wyrm dipped his tail into the lake. His muscles tensed, and with a sudden flick he sent a fat, glittering fish sailing through the air. Then another, then another, water spraying up in arcs as he hunted with swift, practiced motions.
One by one, the silver shapes thudded onto the stones before Syrax.
Ten fish made scarcely a mouthful for a dragon her size, yet the meaning far outweighed the meal. Food shared between dragons was never simply sustenance. It was recognition. Camaraderie and Courtship.
Even without riders, dragons remembered.
Like Vermithor and Meleys, who once roamed the hills together, ancient instinct murmured through their blood, until war and riders drove them apart.
Syrax hesitated only a heartbeat before swallowing the fish dutifully, her tongue flicking to gather the last traces of lake-water from her snout. Only when she had consumed them all did Tyraxes finally relax. His heavy eyelids drooped, then closed.
Syrax watched him for a while, her tail curling protectively around his. When she saw he had slipped into true slumber, she finished her last fish and nestled against him.
One dragon slept deeply.
The other dozed lightly, ever watchful.
*
Harrenhal
Meanwhile, back at Harrenhal, Baelon honored Rhaenyra with a feast that filled the great hall with smoke and song.
Harys Strong had been expelled. Control of the castle, its men, its lands, its uneasy loyalties, had consolidated under Baelon's command. With the Targaryen banners flying unchallenged from the highest towers, no Riverlord had yet dared test his rule.
Yet the princess seated at the high table was in no mood for celebration.
Rhaenyra's fingers circled the stem of her wine cup as she stood beside a tall, open-arched window. Moonlight traced pale fire along her silver-gold hair.
"My first stop is here," she said quietly, swirling the wine as if it might swallow her reflection. "Harrenhal will host every eligible lord from the Riverlands and Crownlands. All of them paraded before me, each one desperate to prove himself worth my hand."
Behind her, Baelon leaned against the wall with a cup of milk in hand, ever the sober contrast to her restlessness. He studied her profile, the tension in the set of her jaw.
"I do not want to marry," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice barely above the crackle of torches. "I refuse to become some broodmare lying in a bed while others wage glory upon the battlefield. I have a dragon. I can fight. I can win honor in the Stepstones. I can silence every lord who schemes against me."
Baelon lifted his gaze, seeing the shadow beneath her words, the helplessness she had carried since he left the Red Keep months before. The court had smothered her, choked her, clipped her wings feather by feather.
"And Queen Visenya rode to war," he answered, pushing off the wall. He approached her slowly, not wanting to startle the flame simmering in her chest. "She was queen and warrior both. She rode Vhagar into battle as easily as courtiers don silk."
Rhaenyra cast him a sideways look, one brow arching.
"That is flattery."
"It is truth," he returned evenly.
She shifted, turning away from the window.
The moonlight caught in her eyes, hurt, anger, and longing tangled into one. "If it is truth, then why does my father refuse to see it? I begged him to let me fly to the Stepstones. I asked him to let me show the realm what a future queen can do. He denied me without even a moment's thought."
Rhaenyra hesitated.
Then she lifted both brows, the slightest warning flickering across his expression. "Well… speaking of the Stepstones, you should hear this."
Baelon's head snapped toward him. "What happened?"
Baelon drew a slow breath. "Your father- my uncle Daemon- learned that you had been driven from King's Landing."
Baelon looked at her.
Rhaenyra continued, voice low, and measured. "He beat the messenger bloody in the Hall of Nine. Then, enraged, he rallied Velaryon men for a full assault on the Triarchy's positions. It was reckless and desperate."
He stared at her, her knuckles whitening around her cup.
"It was a disaster," Rhaenyra said. "An ambush. Corlys Velaryon lost half his fleet. Many soldiers died. And uncle was wounded."
The wine sloshed violently inside her cup as her hand trembled.
He had not expected this.
Not Daemon's fury. Not Daemon's impulsive charge. Not Daemon bleeding in the Stepstones because of him.
Baelon watched her carefully, the great hall fading around them. His mind turned, gears clicking one by one. A failed campaign. A wounded prince. A shaken realm. A king uncertain, a court brimming with fear.
An Opportunity.
If he played this well…there was much to gain.
But he said none of that aloud.
-----
A/N: What comes next forces Baelon to make choices he can't walk back from.
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