Rhaenyra saw the look on her father’s face.
He was about to reinstate Otto Hightower.
Habitually playing his balancing game.
She frowned.
This felt wrong.
If she remembered correctly, Daemon would eventually return the egg.
Mysaria would be sent back across the Narrow Sea.
But on the journey, a storm would strike.
Mysaria would miscarry.
And Daemon would blame his brother.
Hatred would take root.
She had to stop this.
The egg must be retrieved.
But the bastard’s fate was their own affair.
If necessary, she could bring in Lady Rhea of Runestone.
Let the child be raised under her name.
Anything but letting the Hightowers profit.
She spoke up.
“Father, this is unwise.
You know Uncle’s temper.
There will be trouble.
Let me propose something else.” She laid out her plan.
“This is a family matter.
If it becomes public, Uncle loses face.
So does the crown.
Let us quietly take back the egg and let the rest settle.” Viserys considered.
His daughter had a point.
He knew his brother well.
There would be a scene.
He would be forced to assert his authority.
Another awkward confrontation.
Hightower saw the king waver.
He pressed hard.
“Your Grace, send my father Otto as envoy.
He will succeed.
He will bring the prince to heel.” To heel.
Rhaenyra could already imagine it.
Otto would overstep.
Daemon would hate the Iron Throne forever.
“Father, let me go.
I can speak to Uncle.
This is Targaryen business.
I will appeal to his heart and his reason.
Consider it a test of my abilities.” When Viserys finally nodded, Rhaenyra let out a long breath.
Father, please.
Stop balancing.
You are going to get me fed to a dragon.
The council ended.
Rhaenyra was to depart immediately for Dragonstone, where Daemon and Mysaria were staying.
She found Elly and gave her instructions.
“Hold things together at the Household.
Include Lord Beesbury in the meetings.
I will be back soon.” Tax reform was her next priority.
She was curious just how terrible her predecessor’s policies had been to drive the people to storm the Dragonpit.
With that lesson in mind, and what she had seen of the brothels and gambling dens, she was ready to overhaul the tax system.
“One rule: light taxes on farming, crafts, and trade.
Heavy taxes on high-profit businesses.
Work with the Master of Coin on this.
I will be back from Dragonstone soon.” She was leaving.
Would the Hightowers strike while she was gone?
She pushed the worry aside and found Syrax resting in the yard.
She mounted the dragon, ready to fly.
Then Roderick Roslyg, Daemon’s former subordinate, stopped her.
“Princess, wait!” “I cannot wait.
This is urgent!” “I know what is urgent!
But Daemon is not on Dragonstone!
He is nearby, in a lord’s lands near King’s Landing!” “What?” Rhaenyra was about to lift off.
Roderick hurriedly explained.
“Daemon sent word through one of his men.
He asks you to meet him at Rosby, just outside the city.” Daemon still had eyes and ears in King’s Landing.
His departure had not severed his grip on the city.
Daemon had regretted his actions almost as soon as he left the Dragonpit.
Not because he feared the king’s anger.
Not because he felt guilty toward Rhea, his wife in the Vale.
He regretted giving his enemies a chance to strike back.
Otto Hightower had always outmaneuvered him.
On the small council, he had never gained the upper hand.
Now, just as Otto had stumbled, Daemon had handed him a way back in.
A perfect step to restore himself.
Daemon shook his head.
This was foolish.
I need to mend this.
Apologize to my brother.
Viserys is always the peacemaker.
This will pass.
But Otto Hightower was master of the game.
Rhaenyra had trapped him in his own house.
Yet no one dared to strike the fallen Hand.
No one threw stones at a man who might rise again.
Daemon had never cared for such schemers.
He had assumed, when his brother was crowned, that he was the next in line.
Then Hightower struck.
The same had happened to Rhaenyra.
In the original history, she was innocent and naive.
Her father had spoiled her.
She spent her days flying her dragon across the kingdoms.
When the Greens and Blacks began their struggle, she stood alone.
Most of the realm just watched.
When she took King’s Landing, the nobles were willing to support her.
But she still had not grown.
She made blunder after blunder.
Other royal women had done better.
Visenya and Rhaenys, the conqueror’s queens, had gathered the daughters of noble houses as handmaidens.
They married them strategically to bind the lords to the crown.
And so the realm grew stable.
Then there was Good Queen Alysanne, her great-grandmother.
She travelled the Seven Kingdoms, convened Women’s Courts, brought clever women to serve as ladies-in-waiting.
When she was nearly assassinated for abolishing the first night, her handmaidens shielded her.
And Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, had allies everywhere.
Even Viserys feared her influence at Driftmark.
Against such powerful forces, Rhaenyra had been helpless.
Even with the Velaryon marriage, even with her cousin Jeyne Arryn’s support, she was outmatched.
Otto outmaneuvered her in court.
Alicent outplayed her in the Red Keep.
She had no winning move.
Rhaenyra had none of the tools to break the deadlock.
No dragon legion.
No royal army.
No Valyrian magic.
That was why she feared the Hightowers so much.
Otto, with his mastery of politics, and Alicent, with her mastery of court intrigue, would be nightmares for any heir.
Rhaenyra was no exception.
Daemon was still brooding over Hightower’s influence when Rhaenyra arrived at Rosby.
Rosby was the seat of House Rosby, north of King’s Landing, a shortcut on the way to Duskendale.
From above, the village looked small and poor.
The houses were mud and timber.
The lord here was not particularly capable.
Rhaenyra commanded Syrax to descend in High Valyrian.
The dragon landed in an open space not far from Daemon.
Caraxes roared a challenge at Syrax.
“SKAHR!” Syrax shook her head lazily and ignored him.
Caraxes was a massive, serpentine beast.
Fierce and battle-hardened.
He was among the strongest dragons alive, roughly half the size of Vhagar.
Daemon stood waiting, composed and calm.
He showed no regret.
“Uncle, what farce are you playing?
I was dragged out of bed before dawn.
Father is livid.
If I had not stepped in, Hightower would be mocking you already.” Rhaenyra smoothed her wind-tangled hair and complained.
Daemon said nothing.
She pressed on.
“Look, Uncle.
You committed a crime, but you have not fled.
You know as well as I do that if Hightower gets back into power, we are both in trouble.” “Now, hand over the egg.
We will not interfere with your bastard’s fate.
But I advise you to let Lady Rhea raise the child.
It is the safest path for your reputation.” Daemon’s composure cracked.
“I will not give up the egg.
Apologize to my brother for me.
I will accept his anger.
As for my child…” His voice softened.
“He will have inheritance rights.
And he will have lands.
Give me a fief for my son.” Daemon was not joking.
The “Rogue Prince” did as he pleased.
When he was serious, he gave Viserys headaches.
Rhaenyra’s face turned cold.
By the time he finished, she looked at him like a dead man.
This is not the Blackfyre era.
No bastard has ever received a dragon egg and inheritance rights.
Do you think the Seven Kingdoms will just accept this?
She turned to leave.
Daemon suddenly realized the crown might ally with Hightower to destroy him.
Rhaenyra mounted Syrax.
She spoke at last.
“Daemon Targaryen.” It was the first time she had used his full name, not “Uncle.” “Do not even think of touching Rhea of Runestone.
The crown will not shield you from what follows.” “I wonder…
can Caraxes fight as Balerion the Black Dread did?
Against endless armies of the Faith?
Against the Warrior’s Sons and the Poor Fellows?” Daemon understood.
The Starry Sept in Oldtown and the Hightowers behind it would gladly ignite another holy war.
They would cheer as the crown stood aside.
The weight of both the crown and the Faith bore down on him.
For the first time, Daemon was speechless.
After a long silence, he spoke.
“Fine.
I will win my own lands.
The Iron Throne will not deny that, will it?” He smiled bitterly.
He tossed the egg toward Rhaenyra.
She caught it.
“Careful!
It is not a toy.” She kept her face still, but inside she cursed.
Daemon walked back to Caraxes without another word.
I wonder what King’s Landing will become?
He had noticed Rhaenyra’s change long ago.
He asked himself in silence.
Rhaenyra flew back to the city.
With no witnesses, she let out a breath of relief.
She had been tense the whole time.
She had half-expected Daemon to do something rash.
The first thing she had done after leaving home was to come back home.
She had expected to be gone longer.
But she could not trust King’s Landing to wait.
The egg in her hands gleamed green and pale white in the sunlight.
It looked like a jewel, smooth and delicate as porcelain.
She wondered.
Was this the offspring of Dreamfyre or Silverwing?
Read ahead with 30+ chapters now with daily updates!