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Chapter 2 (A Meeting with A Princess), Chapter 3 (A Feast with House Targaryen), Chapter 4 (A Feast with Secrets), Chapter 5 (A Dragon's Passion), Chapter 6 (Silver Wings, Valyrian Lies), and Chapter 7 (Oaths Broken, Hearts Shattered) are already available for Patrons.
The pale morning light filtered through the ornate windows of Rhaenyra Targaryen's chambers, casting long shadows across the Myrish carpets. She sat rigidly at her dressing table, watching her reflection in the polished silver mirror as her handmaidens fussed around her like busy little birds. One week. Just one week until she would be shackled to Laenor Velaryon for the rest of her days.
Seven hells, what a magnificent waste of a life, she thought bitterly.
"Your hair is especially radiant today, Princess," chirped Alarra, her youngest handmaiden, as she worked a silver brush through Rhaenyra's silver-gold locks. "Lord Laenor will be amazed when he sees you at the ceremony."
Rhaenyra's violet eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm sure Lord Laenor finds many things... amazing."
Her dry tone sailed over the girl's head. Alarra continued dreamily, "They say he's the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms. Those Valyrian features, and such a skilled rider—"
"Oh yes," Rhaenyra interrupted with a smirk, "I've heard Lord Laenor quite enjoys... riding."
Two of her older handmaidens exchanged knowing glances, but Alarra remained blissfully oblivious.
"The Sea Snake's son and heir," another handmaiden, Jaenna, remarked while laying out Rhaenyra's crimson dress for the day. "And you to be the queen. It's a match worthy of song, Princess."
A song of farce and folly, Rhaenyra thought.
She closed her eyes, the memory of her father's words still fresh despite the months that had passed:
"You will marry Laenor Velaryon, or by the Seven, I will name Aegon my heir before the entire court."
Her father's face had been flushed with anger, so unlike his usual gentle demeanor. She had never seen him so determined, and in that moment, she knew he meant every word. Viserys the Placid had finally found his backbone—only to use it against her.
"My lady," Myranda, her most trusted handmaiden, spoke softly as she fastened small ruby dragons into Rhaenyra's elaborate braids. "The entire Red Keep buzzes with preparations for your wedding feast. Seven days of celebration, the king has commanded."
"Yes," Rhaenyra said tersely. "Father wishes the realm to see how united House Targaryen remains." She nearly spat the word 'united.' "As if pretty banners and flowing wine will hide what everyone already knows."
The room fell silent as the handmaidens exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Rhaenyra caught Myranda's eye in the mirror. "Tell me, does Queen Alicent supervise the arrangements herself, or is she too busy nursing my half-brother? Or perhaps carrying another child to further secure her position?"
"The queen is with child again, Princess," Myranda confirmed quietly. "Her third. She oversees what preparations she can between her... duties."
Her third child in as many years, Rhaenyra thought bitterly. While I am to be wed to a man who will sooner bed his squire than his wife.
At eighteen, Rhaenyra had long outgrown any childish notions about marriage and love. She was the Princess of Dragonstone, the named heir to the Iron Throne. But with each squalling babe that Alicent Hightower produced, her claim grew more precarious. This marriage to Laenor was meant to solidify her position, to bind the powerful Velaryons to her cause.
"I heard the most extraordinary thing yesterday while fetching your new slippers, Princess," Alarra said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "There's a new knight in the training yard. They say he fights like no one has ever seen before."
"Better than the gold cloaks, even," Jaenna added, warming to the gossip. "Ser Harrold says he has never seen one move quite like him."
"Perhaps he'll compete in the tourney for your wedding!" Alarra said excitedly. "Wouldn't that be splendid?"
Rhaenyra barely registered their chatter, her thoughts drifting to the circus her wedding would become. Seven days of feasting, tourneys, and false smiles. Seven days of watching Alicent parade about with her swollen belly, a living reminder of what Rhaenyra's father expected of her marriage.
"Is my wedding gown finished?" she asked abruptly, cutting through the servants' gossip.
"Nearly, Princess," Myranda replied, moving to pour Rhaenyra a goblet of watered wine. "The gold thread for the dragons arrived from Lys yesterday. The seamstresses work day and night."
Rhaenyra took the goblet, swirling the crimson liquid. "Make sure the Targaryen colors dominate. I will not be presented as a Velaryon bride. I am the blood of the dragon, the heir to the Iron Throne."
"Of course, Princess," Myranda assured her. "Black and red, with just enough sea-green to acknowledge the match."
As her handmaidens finished arranging her hair, Rhaenyra gazed at her reflection. The face that stared back at her was beautiful—she knew this without vanity—but there was a hardness in her eyes now that hadn't been there before her father's remarriage. Before Alicent Hightower had wormed her way from lady-in-waiting to queen. Before little Aegon's birth had threatened everything Rhaenyra had been promised.
"Will you break your fast in your chambers, Princess, or join the court?" Jaenna asked.
"I shall eat here," Rhaenyra decided, rising from her seat. The crimson dress clung to her figure as Myranda adjusted the final folds. "I have no desire to watch Queen Alicent play happy families with my father this morning."
As if summoned by her words, there was a sharp knock at the door.
"Princess," called a voice Rhaenyra instantly recognized with distaste. "Queen Alicent requests a moment of your time."
Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. "How fortunate," she muttered. "My dear stepmother comes to wish me well."
Her handmaidens exchanged nervous glances, well aware of the tension between the princess and the queen.
"Send her in," Rhaenyra commanded, lifting her chin and schooling her features into a mask of perfect courtesy. "Let us see what congratulations she brings."
Alicent Hightower swept into the chamber, walking like someone who was born to wear a crown, though Rhaenyra knew the truth was quite different. The queen's green silk gown flowed elegantly around her swollen belly, and her dark hair was adorned with emeralds. At two-and-twenty, Alicent remained beautiful despite being in her third pregnancy in as many years.
"My dear stepdaughter," Alicent said, her voice honey-sweet but her eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. "How radiant you look this morning. The glow of a bride-to-be, no doubt."
Rhaenyra forced her lips into a courteous smile. "Your Grace. What an unexpected pleasure."
She did not rise from her seat, a small defiance that did not go unnoticed by either woman.
"Leave us," Alicent commanded the handmaidens, who curtseyed and quickly filed out. When the door closed, the queen's smile became more genuine.
"I wanted to personally offer my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials," Alicent said, gliding forward to take a seat across from Rhaenyra. One hand rested protectively over her pregnant belly. "Your father is beside himself with joy."
"Is he?" Rhaenyra replied, taking a deliberate sip of her wine. "I thought perhaps he was too occupied with your growing brood to notice much else these days."
Alicent's smile didn't falter. "Family brings the king great comfort. Little Aegon is showing such promise already—he's quite taken with his wooden sword. And baby Helaena is the sweetest child. She has your father's eyes." She paused meaningfully. "The Targaryen eyes."
"How fortunate for you," Rhaenyra replied coolly. "Though I wonder if this third one will tax your strength. Three babes in three years—you work diligently at your... duties."
A flash of irritation crossed Alicent's features before she regained her composure. "A queen's duty is to provide heirs. I'm certain you'll understand once you're wed to Lord Laenor."
"If that is my only duty as queen, I should have plenty of free time," Rhaenyra remarked with feigned lightness. "Perhaps I'll take up falconry."
"Oh?" Alicent raised an eyebrow. "I had thought you'd be eager to secure your position with children of your own. After all, the succession is only as strong as the line that follows."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened around her goblet. "My position is secure by my father's decree and the oath of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms—including your own father, as I recall."
"Everything can change," Alicent said softly. "As can the minds of men."
"And yet dragons remain constant," Rhaenyra countered. "Syrax grows larger by the day. Does little Aegon show any affinity for dragons yet? Or is he too busy with his wooden sword?"
The barb found its mark. Alicent's eyes narrowed slightly. "He is young still. But Targaryen blood runs strong in him."
"Half-Targaryen," Rhaenyra corrected. "Half-Hightower."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them, heavy with years of accumulated resentment. Rhaenyra still remembered when Alicent had been her friend, her confidante. Back when they would share secrets and giggle together in these very chambers. Before, Alicent had maneuvered herself into the king's bed barely a year after her mother's death.
"I understand Ser Criston Cole will be participating in the tourney," Alicent said, changing the subject. "He's quite looking forward to honoring your wedding."
The mention of Ser Criston sent a flicker of pain through Rhaenyra's chest. Once, she had thought... but it didn't matter now. The handsome knight had firmly aligned himself with the queen's faction.
"How kind of him," Rhaenyra replied flatly. "Though I wonder at his enthusiasm, given his recent... allegiances."
"Ser Criston serves the crown loyally," Alicent replied, a small smirk playing at her lips. "As all true knights should."
"Indeed. And which crown does he serve, I wonder? The one my father wears, or the one you hope to see on your son's head?"
Alicent's eyes flashed dangerously. "Mind your words, Princess. I am still your queen."
"For now," Rhaenyra said with a sweet smile.
Alicent straightened in her chair, one hand still caressing her belly. "I've been helping your father plan the wedding feast. Seven days of celebration—quite extravagant. The realm will see the full might and wealth of House Targaryen."
"And House Velaryon," Rhaenyra added pointedly. "The wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms, with the largest fleet. My good-father Corlys has spared no expense."
"Yes, the Sea Snake is certainly... invested in this match," Alicent agreed. "Though I wonder if Lord Laenor shares his enthusiasm."
"What do you mean by that?" Rhaenyra asked sharply.
Alicent gave a delicate shrug. "Only that young men often have... particular tastes and interests. Lord Laenor seems most to like the company of his knights and squires. Especially that handsome Joffrey Lonmouth."
"At least my betrothed doesn't drool over every serving girl who crosses his path," Rhaenyra shot back. "Unlike some men who shared their wives' beds while their bodies were still warm."
The color drained from Alicent's face. "You dare—"
"I merely observe," Rhaenyra interrupted coolly. "Just as you do."
Alicent's composure returned quickly, her lips curving into a cold smile. "I worry for you, truly. Marriage requires... certain accommodations. Certain duties. I fear Lord Laenor may find his... sword doesn't easily fit your scabbard."
"How vulgar you've become since leaving my service," Rhaenyra remarked. "Though I suppose birthing heirs like a brood mare leaves little room for refinement."
"Better a brood mare with sons than a barren dragon," Alicent retorted, her mask of politeness finally slipping.
"I am the named heir," Rhaenyra stated firmly. "No matter how many male babes you push out."
"For now," Alicent repeated Rhaenyra's earlier words with venom. She rose to her feet, smoothing her gown over her swollen belly. "But history favors sons over daughters, especially when those daughters marry men who seem more interested in tournaments and swordplay than in producing heirs."
Rhaenyra stood as well, refusing to be looked down upon. "History also shows what happens to those who challenge dragons, Your Grace. They burn."
Alicent's eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat, Princess?"
"An observation," Rhaenyra replied. "Just as you so enjoy making."
For a moment, the women stared at each other, the ghost of their former friendship completely exorcised by the cold reality of their positions. Queen and heir, stepmother and stepdaughter, once-friends now bitter rivals.
"I shall pray to the Mother that your marriage brings you as much joy as mine has brought me," Alicent finally said, her voice dripping with false sincerity. "And that Lord Laenor discovers the same... enthusiasm for his marital chambers as he shows for his close friendships."
"And I shall pray to the Warrior that your next labor is quick," Rhaenyra replied with equal insincerity. "Though not too quick. I've heard that pain in childbirth makes better woman."
Alicent's mouth tightened to a thin line. "Good day, Princess. I look forward to witnessing your happiness at the ceremony."
With a rustle of silk, the queen departed, leaving behind only the faint scent of roses and the bitter taste of enmity.
Rhaenyra stood motionless for several heartbeats after the door closed, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Rage coursed through her veins like wildfire, hot and destructive. How dare that upjumped lady-in-waiting speak to her that way? The daughter of Otto Hightower, a scheming opportunist who had practically shoved his daughter into the king's bed while Queen Aemma's sheets were still being washed.
And yet here Alicent was—queen, mother to a male heir, and growing more powerful with each passing day.
Rhaenyra grabbed the nearest object—a delicate porcelain figurine—and hurled it against the wall, watching with grim satisfaction as it shattered into countless pieces.
"Princess?" Myranda's concerned voice came from the doorway. "Is everything well?"
"Send for Ser Harwin Strong," Rhaenyra commanded, not turning around. "I find I am in need of more pleasant company this morning."
I am the blood of the dragon, she thought fiercely. And dragons do not cower before ambitious little roses. They burn them to ash.
The shards of the porcelain figurine still littered the floor when Ser Harwin Strong arrived. He paused in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame, and surveyed the destruction with one raised eyebrow.
"I see the queen has already paid her respects this morning," he remarked dryly.
Despite her foul mood, Rhaenyra felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward.
"Ser Harwin," she greeted him, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Your timing is impeccable."
"I live to serve, Princess." He bowed with a flourish that was just a touch too theatrical, making her smile in earnest. "Though I'd advise watching your step. The floor appears to be littered with... royal displeasure."
He was handsome in a rugged way that differed from the refined beauty of the Targaryens or Velaryons. Dark-haired and strong-jawed, with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. They called him "Breakbones" for his legendary strength, but there was a gentleness to him that few ever witnessed.
"Would you walk with me in the gardens?" Rhaenyra asked, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of her chambers. "I find myself in need of fresh air."
"It would be my honor," Harwin replied, offering his arm.
They strolled through the castle in comfortable silence, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. The guardsmen they passed bowed respectfully, but Rhaenyra noted the curious glances they exchanged. Let them look, let them whisper. Soon enough, she would be wed to Laenor Velaryon, and opportunities like this would become far more complicated.
The royal gardens were empty this early in the day, the morning dew still clinging to the roses and honeysuckle. Rhaenyra breathed deeply, letting the floral scents wash away the bitterness of Alicent's visit.
"You seem troubled, Princess," Harwin observed as they wandered down a secluded path bordered by tall hedges.
"Am I so transparent?" she asked.
"Only to those who care to look closely," he replied, his voice low and warm.
Rhaenyra felt a pleasant flutter in her stomach. "The queen takes great delight in reminding me of all the ways in which my position might be... undermined."
"The queen is with child and fearful," Harwin said pragmatically. "Fear makes people cruel and unsecure."
"And what do you fear, Ser Harwin?" Rhaenyra asked, stopping to face him directly.
He considered her question, his dark eyes holding hers. "I fear very little, Princess. Except perhaps failing those I care for."
"Will you compete in the tournament?" she asked after a moment of silence.
"In both the joust and the melee," he confirmed with a confident smile. "And when I win, I shall crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty, as is only right."
"Bold words," Rhaenyra teased, though warmth bloomed in her chest at his declaration. "There will be knights from all over the realm competing."
"None with my motivation," Harwin replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
She couldn't help but smile genuinely at that, a rare moment of pleasure. "I shall look forward to wearing your crown of flowers, then."
They resumed walking, and Rhaenyra steered them toward a marble bench beneath a flowering cherry tree. As they sat, she made sure to leave just enough space between them to maintain propriety—should anyone happen upon them—but close enough to feel the heat of him.
"I've heard Ser Criston Cole will also compete," she said, trying to sound casual but unable to keep a bitter edge from her voice.
Harwin's expression hardened slightly at the mention of the knight. "Yes, the Lord Commander seldom misses an opportunity to demonstrate his... prowess."
"He's skilled," Rhaenyra admitted reluctantly. "But I've heard that in a melee, accidents so often happen." She glanced sideways at Harwin. "A broken arm, perhaps. Or ribs."
Harwin's lips curved into a slow, understanding smile. "Indeed they do, Princess. Especially when men are... overzealous."
"It would be a shame if the Lord Commander were unable to perform his duties for a time," Rhaenyra continued, plucking a cherry blossom and twirling it between her fingers. "Though I'm certain the queen would nurse him back to health."
"I'll keep a special eye on Ser Criston during the melee," Harwin promised. "Though I must confess, winning may prove more challenging than in previous years."
Rhaenyra frowned. "Who could possibly challenge you? My uncle is not at court." The mere thought of Daemon Targaryen sent heat through her body, memories of his kiss rising in her mind.
"There's a new man," Harwin explained. "Arrived recently. I've watched him train. He fights like no one I've ever seen—not with brute strength like mine, but he is very fast."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed as she recalled her handmaiden's earlier gossip. "One of my servants mentioned something about a new knight this morning. Who is he?"
"That's the strange thing," Harwin said, leaning closer conspiratorially. "No one seems to know much about him. He appeared at court, and no one really seems to know who he is and I have heard that he is married. Some say he's Valyrian by his looks, though he gives no name or house."
"How mysterious," Rhaenyra murmured, her curiosity piqued despite herself. "And you believe he could defeat you?"
Harwin's pride was evident in his slight bristling. "I didn't say that, Princess. Only that he presents a challenge I hadn't anticipated."
Rhaenyra laughed softly, patting his arm. "Of course. Forgive me for doubting the mighty Breakbones."
His hand covered hers briefly, warm and calloused from years of wielding a sword. "Never apologize to me, Princess. But perhaps... you might favor me with a token for the tourney?"
Their eyes met, and Rhaenyra felt a moment of perfect clarity amid all the political chaos that surrounded her.
"I shall consider it," she said, though they both knew her answer was yes.
A distant bell rang, signaling the approach of midday.
"I should return," Rhaenyra sighed reluctantly. "My father expects me at council today."
As they rose to leave, Harwin's hand brushed against hers. "Perhaps tomorrow you might come to the training yard," he suggested. "You could see this mystery knight for yourself."
"Perhaps I will," Rhaenyra replied. For the first time that day, she had something to look forward to.
The Training Yard
The training yard echoed with the rhythmic clang of steel against steel, punctuated by grunts of exertion and the occasional barked command from the master-at-arms. A crowd had gathered around one of the practice circles, unusual for this time of day. Gold cloaks, squires, and even kitchen maids stood shoulder to shoulder, their usual duties momentarily forgotten.
In the center of the circle stood five men. Four wore the gold cloaks of the City Watch, their faces red from the sun. The fifth man was dressed more simply—plain leather armor with no insignia, a blunted training sword held loosely in his right hand. He wore a helmet that obscured his features, but his figure suggested that he was quite young.
"Four against one?" a kitchen maid whispered to her companion. "Seems hardly sporting."
"Watch," her friend replied with a knowing smile. "You'll see."
The master-at-arms raised his hand, then dropped it sharply. "Begin!"
The gold cloaks moved as one, a coordinated attack meant to overwhelm their singular opponent. Any ordinary fighter would have been backed against the fence in seconds, but this was no ordinary fighter.
The first guardsman lunged with a powerful thrust aimed at the chest, but the target simply wasn't there anymore—having shifted his weight to the left with such speed that it appeared as though he'd anticipated the move before it even began.
"Seven hells," breathed a veteran gold cloak watching from the sidelines. "It's like trying to strike smoke."
The second and third attackers came at him from opposite sides, swords swinging in perfect arcs. The young fighter ducked beneath one blade, the steel whistling mere inches above his helmet, then twisted his torso to let the second sword pass harmlessly by his ribs.
"Fight back, damn you!" shouted one of the gold cloaks, frustration evident in his voice as another strike met empty air.
But the young man seemed content to let them tire themselves, conserving his energy while they expended theirs. Minutes passed, and the gold cloaks' movements grew increasingly desperate, their coordinated attacks devolving into individual efforts as fatigue and frustration took their toll.
"He's toying with them," observed Ser Willem, one of the king's guards, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Like a cat with mice."
Only when the first guardsman overextended himself did the young fighter finally counter. A subtle shift in stance, a precision strike to the back of the knee, and the gold cloak tumbled face-first into the dirt. The fighter didn't press his advantage, instead returning to his defensive posture as the remaining three circled him warily.
The second guardsman fell to a quick feint followed by a swift pommel strike to the temple that left him dazed on his knees. The third lost his sword entirely—disarmed by a maneuver so quick that many in the audience missed it entirely. The fourth, seeing his comrades defeated raised his sword high.
The young fighter sidestepped with almost lazy grace, caught the man's wrist mid-swing, and used his own momentum to send him sprawling into the fence.
Four attackers. Four defeats. And the mystery knight hadn't taken a single hit.
A moment of stunned silence fell over the training yard before erupting into appreciative whistles and applause. The defeated gold cloaks picked themselves up, some rubbing bruised limbs, others offering grudging nods of respect to their victor.
"Never seen anything like it," muttered the master-at-arms, a man not easily impressed after three decades of training knights. "It's not natural."
The young fighter reached up and removed his helmet. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, particularly from the female servants who had paused in their duties to watch the display.
He was strikingly handsome, with a face that seemed carved from marble by a master sculptor. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a solemn expression. His hair, released from the confines of the helmet, fell in dark curls to his shoulders, with a curious streak of white at the front that caught the sunlight like fresh snow. But it was his eyes—a vivid purple.
"Who is he?" whispered a serving girl, her cheeks flushed pink.
"They say he arrived with merchants from the east," replied another, not taking her eyes off the young man. "But look at those eyes. That's dragonblood, that is."
The young man seemed oblivious to the stir he was causing, methodically checking his training sword for damage before returning it to the rack.
"You fight well," the master-at-arms said, approaching him with narrowed eyes. "Who trained you, boy?"
The young man looked up, those remarkable purple eyes revealing nothing. "Many people," he replied, his voice surprisingly soft and touched with a northern accent. "In many places."
"You have a name?"
"Daeron," he said. "Just Daeron."
"Well, 'Just Daeron,'" the master-at-arms said with a gruff laugh, "you've made quite an impression. Lord Commander will want to see what you can do in the melee."
Daeron nodded respectfully but made no comment. As the crowd began to disperse, he reached for a waterskin hanging on the fence.
One of the serving girls, braver than her companions, stepped forward with a cup of fresh water. "That was beautiful to watch, m'lord," she said, offering the cup with a curtsy.
"I'm no lord," he replied but accepted the water with a courteous nod. "Thank you."
"Will you be fighting in the princess's wedding tourney?" she asked, lingering longer.
Something flashed across his face at the mention of the princess. "Yes," he said after a moment. "I believe I will."
As Daeron departed the training yard, the four defeated gold cloaks huddled by the water barrel, pride bruised more than their bodies.
"Where in seven hells did he learn to move like that?" muttered the first, splashing water on his face. "I could have sworn I had him cornered, then he was just... gone."
"Like fighting a ghost," agreed the second, rubbing his temple where the pommel strike had landed. "Or a shadow."
The third guardsman scowled as he flexed his fingers, still stinging from being disarmed. "No man should be that quick. It's unnatural."
"You're just sore because a pretty boy half your size put you on your arse in front of the serving wenches," laughed the fourth, though he winced as he touched the bruise forming on his ribs.
"Speaking of which," the first guardsman said, lowering his voice as he nodded toward a cluster of kitchen maids and serving girls who had lingered after the display, "seems our mystery knight has quite the admirers already."
The young women stood in a tight circle, heads bent together in fervent conversation, occasional giggles erupting from their midst.
"Did you see his eyes?" sighed a plump kitchen maid, fanning herself dramatically. "Purple as amethysts, they were."
"It's his arms I was watching," said another with a sly grin. "The way he moved them—so quick and sure. Imagine those hands on your—"
"Maris!" admonished an older servant.
"They say he sleeps in the eastern barracks," offered a laundry girl. "All alone, no squire or servant."
"Perhaps he needs someone to help him out of that armor," suggested Maris with another giggle. "I've got nimble fingers, I have."
"And what would you do once you got him out of it?" asked another, setting off a round of scandalized laughter.
"I'd have him teach me that move where he spins like a dancer," said the plump maid dreamily. "Though I doubt it's fighting we'd end up doing."
"You're all ridiculous," scoffed a scullery maid. "A man who moves like that? Probably has a string of broken hearts from Dorne to the Wall."
"I don't need his heart," Maris replied with a wicked grin. "Just a night or two of his—"
"That's my husband you are all talking about."
The voice—clear, commanding, and undeniably feminine—cut through their chatter like Valyrian steel. The servants turned as one, and several gasped audibly.
This woman wore a simple dress of deep blue, but her face, hair, and eyes made them all gasp.
Instinctively, two of the younger servants dropped into hasty curtsies.
"Your pardon, Princess Rhaenyra," one stammered, head bowed. "We meant no disrespect."
The older servant grabbed the girl's arm, hissing, "What are you doing? She is not the princess."
The curtsying servants straightened, confusion evident as they took a second, more careful look at the beauty before them.
Silver-gold hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, framing a face of such exquisite beauty it seemed almost unreal. Her eyes—the same striking purple as the mystery knight's—regarded them with cool amusement.
Though there was certainly a resemblance in coloring and features, this woman was not Princess Rhaenyra. She was perhaps a year or two older, her face a touch more delicate, her bearing somehow both regal and yet... different. Foreign, almost.
"I... forgive me, my lady," the servant who had mistaken her identity said, flushing with embarrassment. "The resemblance..."
The silver-haired woman's lips curved in a small, enigmatic smile. "No offense taken. I'm told the similarity can be... striking at first glance."
"If you don't mind my asking," ventured the older servant boldly, "who are you? I know every noble lady at court, and I haven't seen you before."
"My name is Daenerys,"
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