Rhea dismounted in a quiet patch of forest where the hunting path thinned into brush and shadow.
She looped her horse's reins around a low branch, gave the animal one firm pat on the neck, and slipped the bow from her shoulder.
The Kingswood was quiet around her. Not silent.
Leaves stirred overhead. Insects chirped in the grass. Somewhere deeper between the trees, a bird called once or twice, then went still.
Rhea nocked an arrow and moved forward. Soft steps. Slow breath. Eyes searching the gaps between trunks and hanging branches.
Her hair was bound back, but sweat had loosened a few strands around her temples. They clung there as she stepped over a root and lowered her weight carefully onto the other foot.
Then she froze. A bush to her left trembled.
Rhea turned in one smooth motion. The bowstring came back to her cheek. She aimed at the heart of the rustle and released.
The arrow snapped through the leaves and buried itself in the dirt beyond.
A hare burst from the bush.
Unharmed. Terrified.
It bolted into the undergrowth, its white tail flicking once before vanishing between the ferns.
Rhea exhaled through her nose. "Damn it."
She took one step to give chase.
A slow clap sounded behind her. Then a laugh. Low. Mocking.
Rhea turned sharply.
Daemon stood twenty paces away, one shoulder resting against an oak. His arms were crossed over his chest, and a stray patch of sunlight caught in his silver hair.
A smile sat on his mouth.
A taunting one.
"A hare," he said. "I came all this way to see the great huntress of Runestone, and she misses a rabbit at ten paces."
Rhea's jaw tightened.
In one swift motion, she drew another arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and raised the bow until the point aimed directly at his chest.
"You are welcome," she said, voice flat, "to test my skills yourself."
Daemon did not move from the tree. His smile widened.
"You would shoot your husband?" he asked. "Here? In the Kingswood? Knowing—"
Rhea loosed.
The arrow hissed past his ear. Close enough that a single pale strand of hair drifted loose and fell toward the grass. The shaft struck the oak trunk beside his head with a hard thunk.
Daemon went still.
His smile vanished.
Slowly, his hand rose to the place where the arrow had passed. He looked at the shaft. Then he looked back at her.
His eyes had gone cold.
"You fucking—"
He pushed off the tree and strode toward her. Rhea was already reaching for another arrow.
Daemon moved faster.
He tore the waterskin from his belt and hurled it.
The heavy leather pouch struck her square in the face.
Her head snapped back. The arrow in her hand flew wide, spinning away into the brush. She stumbled against a thin sapling and blinked hard through the sting of water and leather. Her nose burned.
She reached for another shaft.
Daemon closed the distance.
His sheathed sword came up in a short, brutal arc and cracked against her bow.
The weapon flew from her hand and vanished into the brush.
Before she could recover, his hand closed around her throat.
He drove her backward.
Her back struck an oak hard enough to force the breath from her lungs.
Daemon pinned her there.
Not choking her.
Holding her.
His forearm pressed across her neck, keeping her against the bark. His face hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.
"You fucking wench," he breathed. "Do you want to make yourself a widow that badly?"
Rhea's hands came up and gripped his arm.
She did not look away.
Her eyes burned into his.
"And you are a coward," she said, voice rough from the pressure, "who could not even say he wanted a silver-haired bride."
Daemon's grip tightened a fraction.
His lips pulled back from his teeth.
"Keep testing me," he said. "I will leave you with scars."
"Scars would be more honor than you have shown," she spat. "The Vale knights fear nothing. You fear your own grandsire's frown."
His breath came hotter now. Faster.
She could smell wine on him. Wine, sweat, horse, and anger.
He leaned closer, until his forehead almost touched hers.
"Say that again," he whispered. "I dare you."
Rhea said nothing.
Neither did he.
For a long moment, only their breathing filled the space between them.
Ragged.
Shallow.
Too close.
Daemon's gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth.
Rhea's followed his.
The hatred did not leave.
It shifted.
Curdled into something hotter. Something confused.
His grip did not loosen. Her hands did not push him away.
They stayed there, breathing against each other, close enough to turn away.
Neither did.
Then Rhea moved.
She stretched her neck forward, closed the last inch between them, and kissed him.
Hard.
Daemon stiffened.
Then he jerked back with a hiss.
His fingers touched his lower lip.
Blood shone on them.
He stared at it for half a breath, then looked back at her.
Rhea's lips were red with his blood.
She smiled.
Savage. Mocking.
Then she slowly licked it from her mouth.
Daemon stared at her.
One heartbeat.
Two.
His face twisted into a sneer.
Then he surged forward and kissed her back.
There was nothing soft in it.
It was anger. Hunger. Teeth and breath. Her hands fisted in his tunic. His hands caught the laces of her hunting leathers. Cloth pulled. Leather creaked. A buckle struck a root somewhere near their feet.
They stumbled against the tree again.
The forest swallowed the rest beneath leaves, bark, and harsh breathing.
A hundred paces away, behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak, Aegon stood frozen.
He had followed Daemon on foot.
Because leaving Daemon alone with Rhea in the Kingswood had seemed like a poor idea.
Aegon had expected shouting.
Perhaps a threat. Perhaps blood.
Not this.
Through the gaps in the leaves, he caught enough of the two figures tangled against the tree to understand exactly what was happening.
His face twisted with disgust.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath.
He looked away at once.
Then a short snort escaped him.
A chuckle.
Aegon shook his head and turned his back on the clearing.
Behind him, the forest closed again.
It seemed there was no saving either of them from the other.
Soon, the Arryns' visit came to an end.
The carriages waited in the yard beneath the red walls of the keep. Trunks had been loaded. Cloaks had been gathered. The children had been rounded up twice.
The farewells had begun.
Viserys and Aemma stood near the first carriage. Behind them, the stone of the Red Keep rose high and red beneath the daylight. Aemma held a small bundle against her chest.
Rhaenyra was awake for once.
Her tiny face peeked out from a cream-colored blanket, red-cheeked.
Lady Janyce stood before them in her travelling cloak, fastened neatly at the throat. Her hair had been tucked beneath a simple hood.
"You must come back to the Vale," Janyce said, taking Aemma's free hand and squeezing it. "When the child is older. The mountain air would do all of you good."
Aemma smiled, softer now. "I would like that. It has been too long."
"And Father would never forgive me if I returned without making you promise it properly," Janyce added.
Viserys nodded amiably. "We should go. I have not seen the Giant's Lance since I was a boy."
"You would enjoy it," Janyce said. "Though perhaps not the road."
"No one enjoys the road," Aemma said dryly.
Janyce laughed softly.
Then her expression shifted.
A teasing curl at the corner of her mouth.
"So," she said, lowering her voice, "it seems something interesting happened on that hunt."
Aemma's smile changed.
Janyce continued, "Lady Rhea has decided to continue her stay."
Aemma did not answer with words. She only inclined her head slightly and met Janyce's gaze.
It was enough.
Janyce's smile deepened.
Viserys looked from his wife to her good-sister. His brow furrowed.
"I am not sure I follow…"
Aemma shook her head slowly, still smiling.
Janyce looked at her, and Aemma looked back.
One woman to another.
A silent understanding that left Viserys standing outside it.
Janyce gave a soft laugh.
"Never mind, Prince Viserys," she said. "Some things are clearer from a distance."
Viserys blinked. "From a distance?"
Aemma adjusted Rhaenyra in her arms. "Leave it, husband."
"I was only asking."
"Yes," Aemma said fondly. "That is usually the trouble."
Behind them, a commotion rose near the second carriage.
Lord Taron Arryn had both hands on his sons' shoulders and was steering them forward like a man guiding two unruly lambs toward a pen. Godric had a smudge of dirt across one cheek. Osric was missing a shoe, and the remaining one hung half-laced from his foot.
"Inside," Taron said firmly. "Now."
"But Father—"
"No."
"I had it a moment ago—"
"Then you should have kept it on your foot."
Godric tried to twist away. Taron caught the back of his collar without looking.
"Inside," he repeated, "before I leave you both here to become page boys."
The threat worked better than any lecture.
Both boys scrambled into the carriage in a tangle of elbows, knees, and offended dignity.
Aemma laughed under her breath.
Janyce leaned in and kissed her cheek.
"Write to me," she said.
"I will."
Janyce looked down at the bundle in Aemma's arms and touched Rhaenyra's blanket with one finger.
"And grow well, little princess," she murmured.
Rhaenyra made a tiny sound.
Janyce smiled, then turned to Viserys.
Viserys inclined his head. "Give our love to your lord father and lady mother."
"I shall."
"And tell them we are grateful for the cap."
Janyce's smile turned amused. "Even the orange thread?"
"Especially the orange thread," Aemma said.
Janyce laughed again, then stepped back toward the carriage.
Taron had already climbed inside after making sure both boys were contained. Janyce followed him, gathering her cloak as she stepped up.
From the window, Godric waved with wild enthusiasm.
Osric pressed his face to the glass beside him, nose flattened, one hand raised in a slower farewell.
Aemma lifted Rhaenyra's tiny hand and moved it gently.
"Wave goodbye," she said softly.
The carriage door closed with a solid click.
A moment later, the driver called to the horses.
The carriage lurched forward.
Wheels turned over the cobblestones. The horses pulled slowly at first, then steadier as the carriage rolled across the yard toward the gate.
Viserys and Aemma stood side by side as it passed beneath the portcullis.
Janyce's hand appeared briefly through the window.
Aemma raised her own in answer.
Then the carriage moved out through the gates of the Red Keep and onto the wider street beyond. The sound of wheels faded gradually into the noise of the city.
Aemma let out a long breath.
Viserys looked at her.
Then at the gate.
Then back at her again.
"You and Janyce," he said. "What was that look about?"
Aemma only smiled, kissed Rhaenyra's forehead, and turned back toward the keep.
"Nothing, my love," she said. "Nothing at all."
Myr — Night
Gasps and low grunts filled the chamber.
The room was large and lavish, lit by braziers and scented with wine, smoke, and perfume. Low tables stood near the walls, scattered with half-eaten fruit, cups, and a sweating silver pitcher. At the far side of the room, silken curtains fluttered around the bed as a night breeze slipped through the balcony shutters.
Behind the thin fabric, two bodies moved together.
A woman's silver hair spilled across the pillows. A man's broad, olive-skinned back bent over her, his shoulders thick, his chest dark with hair where the curtain briefly shifted. There were glimpses only. White skin. Tangled sheets. A hand gripping silk. Then the curtain fell back into place.
The sounds rose, then slowly faded.
For a while, only hard breathing remained.
The man rose first. The bed creaked beneath him as he swung his legs over the side and reached for a linen tunic abandoned on a chair. He wrapped it around his lower waist and crossed to the table.
His body was sturdy, his arms corded with muscle. A beard covered most of his jaw, but the left side of his face bore an ugly, scabbed burn mark that pulled at the skin beneath his eye and vanished into his hair.
He poured wine into a carved onyx cup.
"So," he said, his voice low and accented, "who should the message be sent to?"
On the bed, Saera Targaryen stirred among the sheets. Her silver hair was wild, her breathing still uneven, but her smile came easily.
She laughed softly.
"Send it to my mother," she said. "Queen Alysanne."
The man paused with the cup in his hand.
Saera's smirk deepened.
"After all, she is the one who loves me the most. My dear Magister."
The magister turned toward her.
The brazier light caught the burnt side of his face while the good side curved into a slow, sinister smile.
He raised his cup toward her in a slow, mocking toast, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
Outside, gulls cried over the dark water, and the curtains kept fluttering in the night breeze.
***
📜 Milestones:
150 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅
***
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