House Of The Dragons

In the midst of war. As fire continued to consume the realm. And some distances became more dangerous than battles… There were still nights the maesters never wrote of.

Rhaenyra was inside when Caraxes’s roar shook Dragonstone. She straightened immediately. A second roar echoed through the fortress. Closer. Guards began running through the corridors. Someone shouted that a dragon was approaching the tower. For a few seconds, Rhaenyra thought they were under attack. She hurried from the room and stepped out onto the terrace. Then she saw him. Caraxes. Clinging to the black stone of Dragonstone, immense, his long wings still spread wide. And upon his back... Daemon. After all those weeks. Rhaenyra froze.

He could have dismounted. He did not. He remained upon Caraxes and simply looked at her.

“Get on.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“You disappear for weeks and return giving me orders?”

“Yes.”

Of course. Rhaenyra folded her arms.

“No.”

Daemon did not move.

“Get on, Rhaenyra.”

“I am your Queen.”

Something shifted in his gaze.

“Not tonight.”

She went still.

“Excuse me?”

Daemon held out his hand to her.

“Tonight, I need my wife.”

She looked at his hand. Then at his face. She should have refused. She had councillors waiting for her. Armies to move. A war to win. A realm that threatened to collapse whenever she looked away. But Daemon had returned. And despite all the anger she had held against him, some part of her had waited for this moment every day since he left. So she took his hand. And climbed onto Caraxes.

Rhaenyra settled behind him. For the first few minutes, her hands barely rested against his waist. Daemon felt it. He said nothing. Caraxes spread his wings. Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath them. The dragon climbed higher. The wind struck Rhaenyra’s face and swept through her hair. She drew a deep breath. The air was cold. Salt-laced. Brutal. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt as though she could breathe. Truly breathe. No councillors. No armies. No messages announcing another death. No crown. Only the sky. The sea. Caraxes. And him.

The warmth of Daemon’s body before her stood in stark contrast to the cold biting at her face. She found his scent again. Leather. Smoke. Dragon. And something she would have recognized among a thousand others. Daemon. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Then Caraxes plunged sharply toward the sea. Instinctively, Rhaenyra tightened her arms around her husband’s waist. Daemon closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Finally. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. His wife’s hands around him. Her body pressed against his back. Her breath close to his neck. He had longed for her touch more than he was willing to admit.

Slowly, his hand left the leather of the saddle. It came to rest upon Rhaenyra’s thigh. Gently. His thumb brushed over the fabric of her gown. She could have pulled away. She did not. Instead, her arms tightened slightly around him. Daemon tilted his head to one side. A strand of Rhaenyra’s hair, caught by the wind, brushed against his face. He breathed in. Her scent. Her. Finally. He could have kept flying for hours. As long as she did not take her arms away. As long as she continued to hold him like this. As long as neither of them had to become the Prince and the Queen again.

But eventually, Caraxes descended. When her feet touched the ground, Rhaenyra looked around. She recognized the place immediately. And her heart tightened. Years before, after spending far too long apart, they had found their way back to one another here. Before the crown. Before the war. Before so many deaths had come to stand between who they had once been and who they had become.

Rhaenyra slowly turned toward Daemon.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I had forgotten who you were before that crown.”

The words struck her like a blow.

“And now you remember?”

Daemon looked at her.

“No.”

She frowned.

“Then why are we here?”

He stepped closer.

“So that you can.”

Rhaenyra looked away. The wind from the sea lifted her hair. She drew a deep breath. How long had it been since she had simply breathed? Without thinking of her father. Her sons. The dead. The war. Everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. That crown that seemed to weigh upon her even when she was not wearing it.

“Do you truly believe a place can repair what we have become?”

“No.”

Daemon’s answer was immediate. She looked up at him. He moved closer still.

“But I thought it might remind us of who we were before we began destroying each other.”

Something shifted in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

“You left.”

“Because you no longer wanted me near you.”

“I was grieving.”

“I know.”

“I was afraid.”

This time, he said nothing. She looked toward the sea.

“Every time someone leaves that fortress, I wonder whether I will ever see them again.”

Her voice broke despite her efforts to control it.

“My sons. My men. You.”

Daemon remained perfectly still.

“And when you returned from Tumbleton covered in blood…”

She stopped. He understood. Finally. Her anger. Her shouting. The accusation she had thrown at him. You could have died. It had never been only anger. It was fear. An almost uncontrollable fear of losing someone else. Of losing him.

“I no longer knew how to love someone without being afraid they would be taken from me,” she whispered.

Daemon stepped closer.

“So you chose to push me away yourself.”

She lifted her eyes to his.

“Perhaps.”

Silence. Then Daemon gave a short, humourless laugh.

“I probably hate you half the time.”

Rhaenyra immediately frowned.

“Charming.”

“You are stubborn. Arrogant. You refuse to listen to me even when I am right.”

“You made me cross half the realm on the back of your dragon just to insult me?”

“No.”

He was standing before her now. Close. And yet he did not touch her.

“I came back because even on the days I hate you, I do not know how to live without you.”

Rhaenyra went still. Daemon continued. More softly now.

“I can fight for your crown. I can burn your enemies. I can die for your cause if that is what this war demands of me.”

His gaze remained fixed upon hers.

“But I cannot keep being your Prince if you will no longer let me be your husband.”

This time, Rhaenyra lowered her eyes. When she spoke, there was nothing of the Queen left in her voice.

“I thought you would not come back.”

Daemon slowly raised a hand. His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“I always come back to you.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes against his palm. For a few seconds. A few seconds in which she simply allowed herself to feel his hand against her skin. She placed a hand behind his neck. Then she kissed him.

It took Daemon only a second to respond. His hand found her waist again. The same waist he had not held in his arms for far too long. He pulled her closer. There was still anger between them. Grief. Weeks of silence. Words they had never spoken. None of it had disappeared. But something had survived. Something neither the crown, nor the war, nor the fire had managed to take from them.

When they finally parted, their faces remained close. Rhaenyra gently ran her fingers through his hair.

“I missed you.”

Daemon looked at her for a few seconds.

“I know.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Still as arrogant as ever.”

This time, he truly smiled.

“And you married me anyway.”

She rested her forehead against his. In the distance, Caraxes gave a low rumble. The war was still waiting for them. So was the realm. Tomorrow, she would become the Queen again. And he, the Prince. Tomorrow, the dead would have names again. But not yet. For a few more hours, the realm could wait. That night, Rhaenyra was neither heir nor Queen. Daemon was neither Prince nor warrior.

They had simply found their way back to each other.

The maesters write of wars, coronations, and deaths. But some stories never found their way into their books.

To be continued…