Daemon stood outside the stables at Runestone, watching coldly as his wife—in name only—walked out.
Rhea Royce wore well-used riding leathers stained with dust and mud, her cheeks still flushed from vigorous exercise.
Daemon’s sharp eyes immediately noticed the small smear of horse manure still clinging to one of her boots.
Gods…
His father had been right.
Rhea was a strong, healthy woman.
Her skin had been roughened by mountain winds and bronzed by countless days beneath the sun.
She looked back at him.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of tenderness in the eyes of a newlywed bride.
The wedding was already over.
They had exchanged vows before the Seven inside Runestone’s sept, with a septon bearing witness.
When Rhea had leaned forward to kiss him, Daemon had simply stepped aside.
Afterward, they had been expected to visit the godswood and swear vows beneath the heart tree.
He had refused.
“Would you like to ride?” Rhea asked evenly.
“There are several gentle mares in the stable.
They’d suit a prince from King’s Landing.”
Leaning against the fence with his arms folded, Daemon shook his head.
“No thanks.
Riding a dragon is enough for me.”
A faint crease formed between Rhea’s brows.
By now, Daemon had learned plenty about her.
She loved horseback riding and hunting.
She loved racing across the valleys and mountains of the Vale.
She loved what she called “honest pursuits.”
“There’s a feast tonight,” she said.
“My father’s bannermen all wish to meet you.
I hope you’ll…
conduct yourself with a little dignity.”
Dignity.
Hearing that word come from her mouth nearly made Daemon laugh.
“I’ll give them a proper taste of House Targaryen,” he replied lazily.
Rhea stopped walking and turned to face him.
“I know you never wanted this marriage.
Neither did I.
But now that we’re wed—”
“And then what?”
Daemon pushed away from the fence and slowly walked toward her.
“We rust together like all that bronze armor your family worships?”
She took a step back, anger flashing across her face.
“My family’s bronze armor protects warriors far better than those gaudy toys you Targaryens parade around.”
“Useful.”
Daemon rolled the word around with growing mockery.
“Do you know what’s truly useful?
Dragonfire.”
“It melts every suit of armor.”
“Even those ridiculous bronze scraps carved with your family’s little magic scribbles.”
Rhea’s face flushed crimson.
Her fingers tightened around the reins.
“Did they teach you nothing in King’s Landing except how to insult people, Your Highness?”
“I’ve only learned one thing since arriving in the Vale.”
Daemon stopped directly before her and looked into her eyes.
“The women here are even duller than the goats.”
The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far.
The color drained from Rhea’s face.
Then returned with even greater fury.
She raised her hand.
For a heartbeat, it looked as though she intended to slap him.
Instead…
She lowered it.
“I’m not going to hit you.”
Her voice was as cold as winter stone.
“Because you aren’t worth the effort.”
…
Daemon felt as though he were drowning beneath an endless flood of stale jokes and tedious conversation.
Hundreds of candles illuminated the great hall, their light dancing across House Royce’s banners and the rune-covered bronze armor decorating the walls.
The long tables groaned beneath roasted suckling pig, smoked ham, pigeon pies, and barrels upon barrels of wine.
The bard Lord Yorbert had hired plucked away at his harp, singing yet another ancient tale about the legendary King Yorwyck Royce driving giants from Runestone.
Daemon sat at the high table beside his new wife.
Below them sat her smiling relatives and bannermen.
His lips maintained a perfectly polite smile.
His eyes stared into empty space.
His soul had already climbed out the nearest window.
“Prince Daemon.”
A voice dragged him back to reality.
Blinking, he realized it belonged to the man seated beside Rhea.
One of her uncles…
What was his name again?
“How may I help you, my lord?” Daemon asked politely, raising his wine cup in greeting.
Ser Gonsor Royce stroked his beard with an easy smile.
“I was just thinking…
someone raised in a grand place like King’s Landing must find our humble Vale rather unfamiliar.”
“Not at all,” Daemon replied smoothly.
“The Vale is beautiful.”
“The people are honest.”
“I’ve enjoyed it greatly.”
It was a lie.
What he actually wanted to say was:
Your women are duller than goats.
Your wine tastes weaker than horse piss.
And your feasts are livelier than funerals.
Unfortunately…
Gonsor believed every word.
“I’m delighted to hear that.” His smile widened.
“You know, House Royce has guarded Runestone for countless generations.
Our bloodline stretches back to the Age of Heroes itself.
Those bronze suits of armor…”
He gestured toward the walls.
“The runes carved upon them date back to the ancient Age of Heroes.
They protect those who wear them from harm.”
He paused.
His eyes drifted meaningfully toward Daemon.
“They’re far more dependable than…
certain foreign things.”
Foreign things.
Daemon’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his goblet.
“Uncle.”
Rhea’s voice interrupted with a quiet warning.
“Prince Daemon is a Targaryen.”
“Their traditions are different from ours.”
Different.
That word stung even worse than foreign things.
Turning toward her, Daemon’s smile never wavered.
“Oh?”
“Then perhaps my wife would explain exactly how we’re different.”
Rhea met his gaze without flinching.
“You conquered the Seven Kingdoms with dragons.”
“We endured through generations of perseverance.”
“We’ve passed our legacy from parent to child.”
“We’ve protected these lands and the people who live upon them for centuries.”
She paused before continuing quietly.
“Your house words are Fire and Blood.”
“Ours are We Remember.”
Daemon stared at her for several long seconds.
Then…
He laughed.
It was the exact same laugh he’d worn in Flea Bottom while facing gamblers.
Bold.
Carefree.
Filled with unmistakable contempt.
“Passed from generation to generation…”
He repeated the phrase before standing and raising his goblet toward the assembled hall.
“What magnificent tradition.”
“My lords!”
“A toast!”
“To House Royce…”
“…and its bronze armor, faithfully handed down through the generations!”
He drained the cup in one swallow.
Then hurled it violently onto the stone floor.
The silver goblet struck the ground with a deafening clang.
The entire hall fell silent.
The harp stopped mid-note.
Guests exchanged stunned glances.
Gonsor Royce froze.
Standing atop the dais, candlelight stretched Daemon’s shadow grotesquely across the wall behind him.
He turned first toward Rhea, then toward the gathered nobles, then finally toward the rune-covered bronze armor decorating the hall.
Suddenly…
The entire spectacle seemed utterly absurd.
“Bronze armor.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
Every word carried effortlessly through the hall.
“Bronze runes.”
“Bronze castle.”
“Bronze family.”
His gaze settled upon Rhea.
“Bronze B****.”
Rhea’s face changed instantly. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Deathly silence swallowed the hall.
Someone sucked in a sharp breath.
A goblet slipped from trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.
Gonsor lurched to his feet, one hand falling to his sword.
“What?”
Daemon tilted his head, dangerous amusement glittering within his violet eyes.
“Does Lord Gonsor wish to test dragonfire?”
“See whether those rune-covered bronze suits can withstand it?”
“Daemon!”
Rhea shot to her feet, her voice trembling.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Have I?”
He turned toward her again.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps I went mad the day I learned I was to marry you.”
“Do you know what I thought when I heard the news in King’s Landing?”
Rhea remained silent.
“I thought…”
“My father had finally found a way to get rid of me.”
His voice became icy.
“Ship me off to this miserable corner of the world.”
“Marry me to a…”
He stopped.
Locked eyes with her.
“…to a Bronze B****.”
Rhea’s lips parted.
No words came.
Daemon turned and strode toward the doors.
“Stop!”
Lord Yorbert’s furious voice thundered behind him.
“This is my daughter’s wedding feast!”
“You dare insult her before every guest—”
Daemon paused.
He looked back once.
His gaze swept across every frozen face.
Shock.
Rage.
Smug satisfaction.
People pretending they hadn’t heard a thing.
He said nothing.
He simply pushed open the great doors and walked out.
Cold mountain wind struck his face.
Drawing a deep breath, he looked skyward.
A massive shadow circled above Runestone.
Caraxes.
Behind him, the castle had erupted into complete chaos.
Voices shouted.
Others tried desperately to calm Lord Yorbert’s fury.
Rhea remained standing upon the dais, her expression far too complicated to put into words.
Without warning, she remembered something her father had told her before the wedding.
“That Targaryen prince is trouble.”
Lord Yorbert had frowned deeply.
“But don’t worry.”
“Once he’s married…
once you’ve given him children…
he’ll settle down.”
“Besides…”
“I have only two daughters.”
“You’ll need a husband to secure your inheritance.”
Outside, a dragon’s roar echoed through the night.
Caraxes carried his rider southward.
Daemon lay low against the Blood Wyrm’s neck as the wind screamed past his ears, his silver hair whipping wildly behind him.
He looked down at the valleys of the Vale shrinking beneath him.
Runestone—the prison that had held him for all of three days—grew smaller…
…and smaller…
…until it vanished into the darkness.
Then he burst into laughter.
The Blood Wyrm answered with a joyous roar, as though sharing its rider’s exhilaration.
“Bronze B****…”
Daemon muttered to himself, repeating the words before slowly shaking his head.
Perhaps…
He had gone too far.
Rhea hadn’t truly done anything wrong.
But in that moment…
He simply couldn’t stop himself.
Patting Caraxes affectionately on the neck, Daemon shouted in High Valyrian:
“My friend!”
“We’re flying to Essos!”
“To the Stepstones!”