The parchment was as brittle and worn as crone's fingers as Viserra turned another page in her personal book, ignoring the surge in her belly when the cog crested another wave. Though they had left behind the brief squall that assailed them in the Gullet, the waters still roiled and raged as if determined to sink them.

The hanging lantern in her cabin swung erratically with the cog's movement, and she shut her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. The journey from King's Landing to Dragonstone was not a far one by sea, but the days felt as long as winter, especially when she was a stranger to sailing open water. She had expelled all the contents from her stomach the first day and had hardly kept anything down since. Sea-legs still plagued her, so she had confined herself to the bed in her cabin adjacent to the captain's, and only stirred when she had use for the chamber pot.

Reading only made her nausea worse, but the weight and familiarity of her tome was a comfort to her, and when sleep eluded her – as if oft did on the forsaken ship – she found herself sifting through the pages absently, the feel of the paper grounding her. Though she referred to it as her personal writings, it was more akin to a book one would find in the Citadel at Oldtown, bound in leather and secured with a lock on the side, handsomely embossed and decorated. When her mother had realized how quickly she was going through the small hidebound journals she would find in the maesters' chambers, Queen Aemma had commissioned the ledger-like tome to be created for Viserra and gifted it to her on her thirteenth nameday. Years of research, her experimentation on her rats, and other notes littered the vast number of pages. It was the best gift she had ever received.

She glanced at the Valyrian-steel ring Daemon had given her, still resting on the fourth finger of her right hand, and something in her gut pinched that had nothing to do with greensick. The small council had grilled her for the better part of a moon with the terms they sent with her to Dragonstone, but the inevitability that she would soon be faced with her uncle again made her heart pound and sweat form under her arms. Their last parting festered still in her mind, and she only hoped that she would not make a fool of herself again.

A sudden commotion abovedeck jarred her from her pitiful stasis; Dragonstone was all she heard amidst the myriad voices and commands. She shut her book and hauled herself out of bed with a groan.

"Ser Lorent," she called, bracing a hand against the cabin wall when the cog lurched. The Kingsguard entered immediately and took in her disheveled state with concern. He'd hardly left her side their first day at sea, flitting about like a clucking nursemaid whilst she'd vomited again and again; since then, he had assumed to guard the cabin day and night besides a brief four-hour period in the afternoon he allowed himself to eat and rest, despite her protestations that she was not in imminent danger of death. "What is the commotion?" She couldn't hide her relief. "Are we making landfall?"

"Not quite yet, Princess," he said, dashing her hopes instantly. "Dragonstone has just come into view. Lord Corlys reckons we'll be able to take a longboat to shore at first light."

"We can't go now?" She tried to keep the desperation from her voice, but Ser Lorent grimaced.

"Night is close, Princess, and the waters are still rough."

Viserra sagged against the wall. "At least take me above. A turn about the deck for some fresh air sounds agreeable."

"If you wish, Princess." He held out his arm, and Viserra clung to it as the cog pitched and bobbed. He led her up the creaking wooden steps until they emerged on the deck, and she blinked in the sun's setting light. The storm that had harangued them was naught more than a black smudge in the south, allowing the sun to settle peacefully behind grey peaks to the west. Viserra blinked again and realized those peaks were Dragonstone as she inhaled a lungful of salty air touched with sulfur and brimstone.

Ser Lorent noted her gaze as he led her around the deck, taking care to steer them out of the crew's way. The men had turned into a swarm of ants, tucking sails, knotting and unknotting ropes, and calling out directives to each other in a tongue known only by sailors. Watching them was dizzying, so Viserra kept her eyes on the island in the distance.

"Have you been to Dragonstone before, Princess?" Ser Lorent asked.

"Once," she admitted, "but I was very young. I had only just celebrated my second nameday, I believe. I've never been back since then; my father stopped doing royal progresses after that."

"I'd heard the practice had gone out of fashion," he said. "My mother and father had told me of the great tours of King Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne; the King even feasted at Ashemark once in my grandsire's time. He never let us forget it."

"It is a shame," she said. Despite the cog's continued rocking, the fresh air was, indeed, working wonders. With her mouth no longer as thick and her steps invigorated, she found herself conversing for the first time in days. "I would have loved to see the realm as they did."

"Can you not do so yourself?" he said, and she frowned. The thought had never occurred to her.

"I am not the realm's ruler."

"You are still a member of the royal family," he pointed out. "Forgive me if I have spoken out of turn, Princess," he added when she did not speak. "I make an observation only."

"One with merit," she said. When she caught him smiling, she raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "Only that you have been more openhanded with your praise lately, Princess."

She sniffed, nettled at the realization. "Don't become accustomed to it."

As they approached the stern, Viserra recognized the glimmer of Lord Corlys's silver hair as he stood talking to one of the crewmen. She wondered if he was contrite that the crew were Targaryen sailors rather than Velaryon, from his own fleet, but nothing in his face or posture betrayed it. He looked up and offered Viserra a respectful nod as the crewman bowed and hurried away. Viserra copied the Sea Snake's movement, though she was unsure how dignified she looked with her ratty hair and plain clothes.

"Princess Viserra," Lord Corlys said. "It is good to see you up and moving."

"Not for long, I'm afraid." She traded Ser Lorent's arm for the cog's railing, ignoring the churning of her stomach when she glimpsed the green-and-black waves slapping at the hull below. "It must pain you to hear, but I can't wait to trade sea for land."

To her surprise, the stern Velaryon chuckled. "Queer," he said, "how you Targaryens can tolerate a dragon's back better than a ship's deck."

"My father once said that while a Targaryen's blood is seeded with fire, a Verlayon's is salted with water. I see now he spoke truth."

"Eloquently put," he said. "I forget sometimes that the King possesses his own brand of wisdom when it suits him."

Viserra gave him a sharp look, her skin prickling with heat at the jab. "Currying war with the Free Cities over the Stepstones is something wise men should not want, Lord Corlys."

"Words plucked from the mouths of the small council themselves," he said with a bland smile meant to placate. "Doubtless they grew weary of my disagreement and so sent me on this chore with you, Princess."

She mustered all her strength and drew herself up, ignoring the protests of her sore muscles. "Need I remind you, My Lord, that this chore, which you yourself brought before the small council, is in service to your King and the realm itself? Bringing terms of peace is not the job of a page, but respected delegates of the Crown."

"Terms of peace for nothing more than a family dispute and a second son's tantrum." He snorted. "How a member of the small council is needed for, indeed, the job of a page is beyond me. But we may as well make of this opportunity what we may." He fixed her with another stiff smile. "Good eve, Princess. I'll see you on the morrow when we make for shore."

Lord Corlys left her at the prow, and Viserra gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt as if she were back at the tourney, after Daemon had spurned her to grant his favor to Alicent Hightower instead. Was that what the small council thought of her objective? Were they mocking her even now, whispering behind her back, pitying her self-importance for wanting to wave a piece of paper at her uncle? Her father, her sister – did they think her a fool, as well?

"Are you well, Princess?" Ser Lorent had returned to her side. "Has the greensick struck you again?"

She glared out at Dragonstone. The Dragonmont loomed above the rest of the island, smoking and casting shadow upon the land. If she strained her eyes, she could just make out the silhouette of the castle built in that shadow, its hewn edges unnaturally sharp and symmetrical compared to the volcano itself.

"I no longer feel greensick." She stabled herself against the next wave, unflinching when the spray hit her face, cold and salty. "Come; we have a long day ahead of us come the morn."

xx

The waters had calmed when Viserra was awoken at dawn by Ser Lorent, and though her knees still wobbled slightly when she stood, she was able to choke down a few small fish and a rather salty hunk of bread without issue. She dressed with care, donning a simple red gown and study leather shoes, and fastening the silver clasps of a black travelling cloak over the ensemble. Beads of black and red formed twin dragons snaking down the arms of the cloak, their tails curled about her neckline and their maws opening into sleeves. She bound her hair in a tight braid down her back, and after splashing cold water on her face and rinsing out her mouth, she ventured abovedeck again.

Their party was a small one that journeyed to shore in a longboat; she had only brought Ser Lorent as her sworn sword and three household guards with her, and Lord Corlys had only three Velaryon men-at-arms as well. She kept her gaze on the shoreline as they were rowed ever closer to it while Lord Corlys brooded across from her, watching the cog shrink behind her shoulder. They said nothing the entire voyage, even when the longboat jostled and slid onto the black sands of the island.

Ser Lorent helped her onto the shore, and her shoes sunk into the wet sand, the tide lapping at the hem of her cloak. She took a few squelching steps forward and peered up at the curtain walls of Dragonstone.

The whole castle was made of black stone, forged by dragonflame and old Valyrian sorcery, her father had once explained. Everywhere she looked, dragons grasped at her attention, for they were no mere crenellations, but seemed to make up Dragonstone itself, their spines and tails and jaws and wings all molding into a configuration with the same motif. The smoke and sulfurous steam from the Dragonmont and the mist rolling off the bay gave the illusion that she had plunged back into the Valyrian Freehold, and the hair on the back of her neck rose in a mixture of apprehension and delight. Dragonstone, she had quickly discerned, was as magical as the blood in her veins, and it was drawn to her just as she was drawn to it.

She would have stayed there all day, drinking in the soaring towers and walls as the dawn broke, if their party was not approached by four men-at-arms in gold cloaks. Daemon's men, she realized; goldcloaks from the City Watch who had flocked to their Lord Commander and the Prince of the City.

"Hail, Princess Viserra; Lord Corlys," one of the men said. The titles sounded stilted and strange on his tongue, and she guessed the man was lowborn, probably pulled from the depths of Flea Bottom for the promise of steady pay and violence. "News of your arrival reached us late in the evening, but Prince Daemon is prepared to receive you at once in the Stone Drum."

Startled, Viserra exchanged a glance with Corlys. If memory served her properly, the Stone Drum was where the throne room was, where the King or Heir of Dragonstone held audience. The thought must have crossed the Sea Snake's mind, as well, for a furrow appeared between his brows.

"Very well," he said. "Lead us there."

"We may only go so far, m'lord," another of the goldcloaks said, his voice green and tremulous. "The steward will escort you the rest of the way. We are only to guard the beach, he said."

Steward? Viserra searched her mind for mentions of Dragonstone's steward but found none. A lord and house inconsequential, she assumed.

The goldcloaks who had spoken led them to the base of a staircase nestled in the sand, guarded by two upright dragons with lit torches in their jaws to give the illusion of the stone creatures breathing fire. They reminded her of Abraxas, left behind in the Dragonpit despite her protestations, and later tantrums, as Rhaenyra would have called them. If her father feared that she would never return the moment she left on dragonback to confront Daemon, he did not directly say it, but the insinuation had been clear enough, and she had finally relented to give him peace of mind, and her own sanity a respite.

The stairs curled and twisted upward, away into the smoke, and they wended their way carefully, for the stone steps were slippery and uneven in places, warped from the rain and wind that oft plagued the island. Their ascent was slow-going, especially for the men in their armor; though none complained, Viserra would see Ser Lorent in her periphery from time to time, his youthful face soaked in sweat beneath his helm and a grimace on his lips. Viserra's legs were beginning to burn from strain, but she refused to be the one to call for a halt, not with Lord Corlys at her back. Still, that did not keep her from collapsing against the nearest banister when the goldcloaks ahead of them stopped on a long and narrow landing midway to the castle.

"The steward of Dragonstone," the first goldcloak said, gesturing to the figure waiting for them on the landing. "Ash Fyshe."

Ser Lorent disguised a laugh behind a cough; even Viserra, groomed as a royal to always maintain a pleasantly flaccid expression, blinked a couple of times to dash away her amusement.

If Fyshe was not fooled by their deception, he gave no indication of it. He was a short man of round stature, dressed in dark blue robes with a three-tailed fish embroidered in red upon his breast. His grey hair was going white at his temples and crown, and his aged face bore the signs of joviality in the crinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He smiled widely when his gaze alighted on Viserra, and she watched in bemusement as he bowed not once, but twice to her.

"Princess Viserra, what an honor!" His tone was breathless, as if he too had ascended the numerous stairs from the beach, but it was clear his excitement was the culprit; he fidgeted ceaselessly, but not nervously. "The secondborn daughter of King Viserys the First of His Name and Queen Aemma Arryn, and sister to the King's Heir Rhaenyra Targaryen! I have hoped and prayed for the day you would return to Dragonstone, Princess, so I could look upon how fair you have become myself. Please, be welcome – as you are yourself, Lord Corlys, of course."

He bowed once to Lord Corlys, and the Sea Snake looked on in mild revulsion at the steward's enthusiasm. Instantly, Viserra took a liking to the portly steward.

"The pleasure is mine," Viserra said, noting the three-tailed fish once more and his eyes, a peculiar shade of deep blue that resembled violet at certain angles. "Tell me, Fyshe, how fares my uncle Prince Daemon?"

The steward wrung his hands, but his smile never faltered. "Prince Daemon is well, Princess. He awaits you most eagerly, you and Lord Corlys both."

"Eagerly?" Viserra's chin raised a hair. "Well, let us not keep him waiting."

Fyshe's head bobbed so severely she feared it would fall off, but he led their party the rest of the way to the castle, keeping up lively commentary on the architecture and the surrounding environs.

"My grandsire was naught more than a fisherman residing in the village there, just below the curtain walls," Fyshe said, puffing out his chest proudly. "His daughter, my dear sweet mother, came into the favor of the Good Queen Alysanne when the Queen resided here in her youth with King Jaehaerys. My father was part of the castle garrison – only a lad of six-and-ten when Lord Rogar Baratheon came to retrieve the King back to the Red Keep! – but served His Grace faithfully. The day King Jaehaerys raised my family was the happiest of our lives, ancestors and descendants both. When His Grace rewarded me with the stewardship of Dragonstone later in his years, my heart nearly gave out! Gave my wife a right shock, I tell you. Such was the generosity of His Grace. May the Mother keep him and Queen Alysanne in her embrace."

Viserra, in her amusement, looked to Ser Lorent. The Kingsguard looked back at her mildly, but when she jerked her head toward the rambling Fyshe, he turned away quickly, his lips twitching in a manner that threatened laughter. Quite proud of herself, Viserra felt more confident as they approached the grand double doors of the castle, guarded by more goldcloaks.

Fyshe swept them inside, his conversation transitioning from the Targaryens' use of dragon-glass – obsidian to the Westerosi houses, he reminded them – to personal anecdotes of growing up in the castle and serving Viserra's own grandsire. She hardly listened, though, too enraptured by the halls that now surrounded her.

Every stone was basalt and onyx and a strange, smooth rock that looked neither like dragon-glass nor anything else she had seen before. Dark woods and woolen tapestries of dyed reds, blacks, golds, and silvers lent little brightness to the scenery despite the gaping windows and balconies, but even those had heavy black draperies and iron lattices to pull shut when storms battered the island.

The scents of salt, brimstone, and heavy incense immediately coiled about her, welcoming her like the contented purr of a kitten. Statues, tapestries, and more torches shaped like dragons greeted her from every orifice of the castle, and with every step, Viserra knew she had been meant to come to this place. This castle, this once-outpost forged by her Valyrian gods-kin, her ancestors of blood and fire and magic, sang to her, coaxed her, its long-forgotten enchantment drawing her into its embrace.

Wind whistled and echoed through the great corridors of the Stone Drum, stirring the loose hairs about her face and rustling tapestries depicting images of old Valyria along the walls. Another duo of goldcloaks faced them as they arrived at another set of great carved doors, but at the sight of Fyshe and their party, they pushed them open with haste.

Beyond was a grand room, as wide as a dragon's belly and tall as its neck, strung with the red-and-black banners of House Targaryen and iron candelabras suspended amongst the high rafters. A great throne carved from volcanic rock dominated the room, but not nearly as much as the figure sitting upon it.

Daemon lounged comfortably on the throne of Dragonstone, one black boot hooked over his knee and Dark Sister spread across his lap, casually angled and sheathed. In his black surcoat and pants, he almost would have blended into the seat were it not for the radiance of his skin and the silver of his hair. What confidence Viserra had gained quickly took flight at the striking and indolent allure of the Rogue Prince, and it took everything in her not to shrink back as Fyshe bowed to Daemon and spoke.

"Hail, Princess Viserra of the House Targaryen, and Corlys of the House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Driftmark, the Sea Snake, and the King's master of ships."

Viserra chafed at the introduction, or rather her lack of one. It had never been so plain to her before at her lack of titles; even Rhaenyra was known as the Realm's Delight, but her? The Forgotten Princess? The moniker would have stung less than realizing that she was, indeed, forgotten, an afterthought.

She expected Daemon to say something, but silence was all that met Fyshe's introductions. On her left, Lord Corlys stood, unfazed, sizing up Daemon just as Daemon was getting the measure of the Sea Snake. Daemon's ring bit into her finger as she curled her hands into fists.

"Runestone seems different of late, Uncle," she said, glad when her voice reverberated around the room and stole Daemon's attention. "Where is your lady-wife?"

"You jest, beloved niece." His voice was a caress and a slap at once. "My presence suits neither Runestone nor the Lady Rhea. To give the Vale relief of my absence and that of Caraxes, I thought returning to our ancestral home might salvage what little love my lady-wife and her people have for me."

To see him sitting there so carelessly, almost bored, when she had not received one measly raven from him in half a year, drove all thoughts of diplomacy and civility from her mind in one fell strike. She wanted to make him bleed.

"The ancient seat of House Targaryen, yes." She cast her gaze about before settling it on him. "The seat of the heir – which you are not."

His placid smirk did not slip, but his eyes darkened. He said nothing as Viserra strode several steps forward, coming to stand before the base of the throne.

"Rid us of this farce, Uncle. My father cast you aside for a lie, I do not doubt, and whilst I still believe he will see the error of his ways, that does not take away the fact that he renounced you and put my sister in your place. Thus, Dragonstone is hers, not yours. Cross the narrow sea if you wish; tread old ground or new in the Free Cities. But do not bait my father further or foment ill rumors with your presence here. It will serve nothing but your petty satisfaction."

He had the audacity to laugh.

"Words as bold as the one who wields them," he said, leaning forward. "Very well, Viserra, you wish to play the part of conciliator?" His eyes raked her from head to toe, and her anger waned, replaced by a new heat at the lingering look. "Woo me. We shall negotiate properly during your stay here. Right now, you will have my first answer: No, I will not leave."

He sat back, his eyes never once leaving hers. "Fyshe, see the princess and the Sea Snake to their rooms. They are to be treated as honored guests of House Targaryen." He flicked his hand. "Join me for supper or don't, I suppose; you will have free rein whilst you are here, lest my brother or that cunt he calls Hand imagine that you are hostages."

At once, Viserra knew that she had lost this first battle. She did not need Corlys's scathing glare on her back to perceive that as Ash Fyshe led them from the Stone Drum and its throne room. She had let the personal bleed into the political, and once again made a fool of herself.

She stumbled blindly into the chambers Fyshe showed her, not even bothering to take in her surroundings. Instead, she found the nearest chair to collapse into, and told Fyshe to summon someone who could bring her the strongest vintage in the cellars.

Dragonstone, she sensed, would make more the fool of her before it was done with her.

xx

Viserra did not bother to attend supper that evening.

She had ensconced herself in her chambers upon her arrival, surrounded by nothing but books and wine, and eventually water and tea when she realized that she was becoming a miserable drunk. The only contact she'd had was a girl her own age who had introduced herself as Elodie Fyshe, the granddaughter of the steward.

Brown-haired and doe-eyed, she was a plain sort of pretty, with the same ceaseless smile as her grandsire. She had brought Viserra's first decanter of wine, a rich red from the Arbor, and a platter of mild cheeses and meats and brown bread.

"Your Kingsguard informed me that you were greensick on the journey here, Princess, and that if you insisted on indulging yourself, I should bring something else to fill your belly, as well," the girl had said matter-of-factly, as if she were used to giving orders without pushback, even from those of royal birth. "I'll see to it that your things are brought here by nightfall, but there are plenty of extra gowns and shoes in the wardrobe there if you have need of them."

Viserra hadn't said anything, but the girl went on.

"Anything else you need, Princess, don't hesitate to ask for me. Elodie Fyshe, if it please you. My grandsire is Ash Fyshe, the steward of these halls." She had then gazed around the rooms as if Viserra weren't there. "These chambers are my favorite. They were Queen Alysanne's, you know."

Viserra had not known and was intrigued despite herself. The rooms were certainly cheerier than the rest of the castle, hung with brightly-colored tapestries and filled with more light that gave an air of warmth to the place. A small stack of journals rested near Viserra's elbow at the table she occupied in the sitting room, and she fingered them curiously.

"Some of Queen Alysanne's favorite stories, I'm told," Elodie had said when she noticed Viserra's gaze. "Florian and Jonquil and other tales from the Age of Heroes, and some tales from Old Valyria she found here, it is said."

That had settled Viserra on the matter of what she would do the rest of the day, and with grudging thanks to Elodie, she had begun her self-imposed imprisonment. It was not until the hour of the bat that Daemon appeared, as she knew he would.

She had sobered from the cups she had drunk, but her mind was still muddled and her tongue thick with cobwebs. She had removed her cloak and boots and let down her hair, and now relaxed in a comfortable chair situated between the hearth and the window, where she could still feel the cool night air on her face but the warmth of the fire on her feet. It took several knocks before Ser Lorent could rouse her from her sleepy stupor.

"Prince Daemon is here to see you, Princess," he called through the door.

"Let him come," she drawled, and her uncle entered a moment later, shutting the door behind him.

Viserra idly flipped a page in one of Queen Alysanne's books. "How was supper? I heard the lamprey pie was well-received."

"You may goad me all you like, Viserra, but the only one who will get a rise from it is you," Daemon said, leaning on the table behind him that was just in her line of sight, making him impossible to ignore. His hands came to rest on the pommel of Dark Sister, now strapped to his waist, as he watched her. "Why did you come?"

"You know why. My father and the small council wish for you to vacate Dragonstone; I offered to bring you the terms myself."

His lips pursed. "What do you gain from it?"

"Experience." She snapped the book shut and met his gaze evenly. "I am now Rhaenyra's heir just as she is the King's. We are no longer idle, my sister and I; each of us have our own seat at the small council, not as cupbearers, but as observers and advisors. I am simply doing my duty to the realm."

"Your sister's heir until she weds and bears a son, you mean." Daemon gave her a rueful smile. "Surely you cannot expect to remain her heir forever." He gestured to himself.

Viserra sniffed, turning her gaze to the window. "As I said, I have not been idle."

"Then tell me the real reason why you have come, Viserra."

"You spurned me." Her words were little more than whispers, but each one contained the hiss of a dragon, wounded and wrathful. "I laid my truth bare before you, and you ran – I do not care what my father's orders were, laced as they were with the Hand's poison," she said sharply, holding up a hand when Daemon opened his mouth, and felt a brief flare of satisfaction when he closed it again. "Half a year you sat here with your loyal hounds, your loyal servants, while your most loyal defender rotted away in the Red Keep with naught a word from the man she loved."

"My brother," he growled, "gave me no choice."

"And I suppose my ravens all drowned at sea then?" she demanded.

He was quiet for a long moment, his violet eyes fixed on her, unblinking. "I did not know what to say to you."

She scoffed. "Perhaps the only time I have ever heard of you lost for words."

"Faced with you, yes."

"Do not presume to flatter me, Daemon."

His lips curled in a grin at the use of his name. "To refrain would be most difficult, especially with the way you look at this moment."

She battled the heat rising in her cheeks and was gripped by the sudden urge to chuck Queen Alysanne's book at his smirking face. The petulant child within her wanted to press the attack and bicker with him further, but she reminded herself that she was no longer a child, and she had waited for precisely a moment such as this.

"Do you remember the night you found me in the Dragonpit, sleeping next to Abraxas?" Outside the window, the sun had dipped behind the horizon, and stars were appearing one-by-one in the velvet sky, like little shining bubbles that had escaped from the inky expanse of the sea below. "You asked me what I wanted, and I responded everything."

"I remember well, if you recall," he said.

"My everything includes you." She willed her heart to stop racing. For a moon's turn, she had been awaiting this very moment, this opportunity that she could not squander. "What I want, Daemon, is for you to set aside Rhea Royce and make me your lady-wife instead."

Silence greeted her proclamation, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Viserra realized that she had rendered her uncle entirely speechless. He stared at her with an unfathomable expression, but his hands tightened and loosened on the pommel of his sword several times before he found his voice again.

"My brother would never allow it." His tone was more controlled than before, more strained. "To annul my marriage would beggar near-revolt in the Vale. You ask me to abandon this castle to avoid unseemly conflict yet suggest something even more reckless as a solution." He chuckled darkly. "I would be proud of you were it not so foolish."

"You never wanted to marry her. Your grandmother" —Viserra waved Queen Alysanne's book at him— "arranged the match against your will. It has been years, and she has proven barren as you have no heirs to speak of. Any septon will perform the annulment."

"I believe you are conveniently forgetting the fact that your father is the same King who recently exiled me from court." Daemon shook his head. "You are bold, Viserra, and growing bolder each moon, but extend your reach too much, and the dragon is like to turn on you and take your hand."

She tossed the book aside and rose to her feet. "How am I meant to get what I desire if I do naught but sit around and pretend I have no wants? If I managed to persuade the King to let me come here, then surely there is more I can persuade him of." She swallowed, and her voice trembled slightly when she spoke next. "If I am wrong to want you, Daemon, then speak plainly. But if I am right in suspecting that you want me too, then prove it."

He shoved from the table and strode forward so quickly that she nearly fell back into her seat from surprise. His hands reached up to grip both sides of her face, not ungently, but with enough strength to elicit a gasp from her. They were so close that the tips of their noses brushed against each other when he spoke.

"Of course I want you." The words filled her lungs like a breath she had been waiting a lifetime to inhale, and it was the first one to ever provide relief from the grasping dark around her. "Since you were three-and-ten, I dreamed of taking you to wife – you, the blood of the dragon, with the fire of mine own mother and the shrewd mind learned men only claim to possess. I once asked your father to set aside my mockery of a marriage and give me you, but he forbade me to speak of it again, and that I should content myself with what I had already."

She was finding it difficult to speak, let alone think, when he was so near. "I never knew."

"Do not think of my inaction as a slight," he murmured. "Were I truly a criminal like that council of cravens think I am, I would take you now and remain on Dragonstone forevermore."

She trembled under his touch. "You would?"

He raised his chin and kissed her forehead, and her eyes slipped closed in bliss. "You said you brought terms from King's Landing. We shall discuss them on the morrow. I am willing to listen – for you."

"Very well." She pulled back slightly to look him in the eye, her old confidence returning. "But you are to woo me now, Daemon. Should our negotiations prove successful" —she placed her hand over his heart, and it jumped under her touch, a dragon stirred to contest— "then we shall both get what we want."