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Tournament Preparations
The dawn light cast long shadows across the training yard as Daeron moved through his warm-up exercises. His movements were fluid and economical. Unlike the ornate, showy forms favored by southern knights, his style was brutally practical.
He wore only a light tunic and breeches, his muscled torso visible through the sweat-dampened fabric as he worked through a series of lightning-fast strikes against a wooden practice dummy. The characteristic white streak in his dark hair was tied back, revealing the sharp angles of his face set in concentration.
Four gold cloaks stood at the edge of the yard, watching with interest. They had arrived intending to train, only to find the yard already occupied by the mysterious northerner. Now they lingered, evaluating this potential competitor in the upcoming melee.
"They say he's from beyond the Wall," one muttered to his companions.
"Wildling blood, you think?" another replied skeptically.
"Not with those eyes. Valyrian, those are."
Their conversation fell silent as Daeron set aside his practice sword and reached for a blunted tourney blade. He tested its weight, frowning slightly at the balance before adjusting his grip.
In the shadows of a nearby covered walkway, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stood motionless, partially concealed behind a stone column. She had risen early, restless with thoughts of the previous night's feast and the strange pull she felt toward this northern stranger. Now she watched, transfixed, as Daeron moved with a grace that belied his solid frame.
Unlike the performative elegance of Ser Criston Cole or the brute strength of Ser Harwin Strong, Daeron fought like a man who expected each strike might be his last. There was a controlled desperation to his movements—the wariness of someone who had faced opponents who didn't follow rules or honor.
"He fights like he's seen real war," came a low voice from behind her.
Rhaenyra managed not to scream, though her heart leapt at the sudden intrusion. She turned to find Ser Harwin Strong—"Breakbones" as he was known—leaning against the opposite column, his massive arms crossed over his chest.
"Ser Harwin," she acknowledged, keeping her voice neutral despite their prior intimacy. "I didn't hear you approach."
"I can move quietly when I need to," he replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Especially when I'm curious about what's caught the princess's attention so early in the day."
Rhaenyra's gaze returned to the training yard, where Daeron had now begun a series of complex footwork drills. "I'm merely assessing the competition for the melee. As should you, if you intend to participate."
"Oh, I'm assessing," Harwin replied, his voice hardening slightly. "He's good—better than good. But he's not used to fighting in southern melees. Different rules, different weapons."
"You sound concerned," Rhaenyra observed, allowing a hint of teasing into her tone.
Harwin straightened, his considerable height casting a shadow over her. "Not concerned. Intrigued. I enjoy a challenge." He paused, studying her face. "Though I wonder if your interest is purely in the tournament."
Before Rhaenyra could respond, the sound of clashing metal drew their attention back to the yard. One of the gold cloaks had stepped forward to challenge Daeron to a sparring match, and the northerner had accepted with a nod.
The two men circled each other warily, tourney swords raised. The gold cloak—a burly man with a reputation for toughness in the city watch—moved first, launching a powerful overhead strike that would have ended the match immediately had it connected.
But Daeron was no longer there. He had sidestepped with surprising speed, pivoting on his left foot while his right came around in a sweep that caught the gold cloak's ankle. The man staggered, off-balance, as Daeron's blunted blade tapped lightly against his exposed ribs.
"Dead," Daeron said simply, stepping back and resetting his stance.
The gold cloak's face flushed with embarrassment, but he nodded in acknowledgment of the clean hit. They resumed their positions, and this time the watchman was more cautious, probing with feints and lighter strikes.
Daeron parried each attack with minimal movement, his sword always returning to guard position without wasted motion. When he finally attacked, it was a complex sequence—a feint to the left shoulder, followed by a quick disengagement, and then a lightning thrust to the chest that stopped just short of actual contact.
"Dead again," Daeron said, this time with a small smile.
"Seven hells," muttered Harwin from beside Rhaenyra. "He's toying with him."
The gold cloak, clearly frustrated, glanced at his companions before turning back to Daeron. "Care to try against two of us? More like a real melee that way."
Daeron considered for a moment, then nodded. "As you wish."
A second gold cloak stepped forward, drawing his tourney sword. The two men spread out, attempting to flank Daeron, who adjusted his stance to keep both in his field of vision.
"This should be interesting," Harwin commented, leaning forward slightly.
The gold cloaks attacked in tandem, coordination born of years training together. One drove forward with a series of quick thrusts while the other circled to strike from the side.
Daeron retreated diagonally, refusing to be cornered. His blade moved in tight, precise arcs, deflecting the first man's strikes while his footwork kept him just beyond the reach of the second. When the second watchman lunged, overextending, Daeron spun to the inside of the attack, his elbow catching the man's sword arm while his own blade whipped around to tap the first opponent's neck.
"Dead," he said, before completing his turn and bringing his sword across the second man's back. "And dead."
The display had drawn a small crowd now, including several knights and squires who had arrived for their morning training. Among them was Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, whose handsome face was set in a tight expression as he watched the northerner dispatch two more gold cloaks with similar ease.
"Four opponents, four kills," Harwin observed. "Without breaking a sweat."
Rhaenyra found herself holding her breath as Daeron reset his stance, ready for another round. There was something mesmerizing about his economy of movement, so different from the flashy techniques taught in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I think I've seen enough," Harwin said suddenly, pushing away from the column. "If you'll excuse me, Princess."
Rhaenyra nodded absently, her attention still fixed on the training yard as Harwin strode away. She watched as he approached the edge of the yard and called out to Daeron.
"Care for a real challenge, northerner?"
Daeron turned, his expression unreadable as he assessed the muscular knight. "Ser Harwin Strong, is it not? Called 'Breakbones'?"
"The same," Harwin confirmed with a dangerous smile. "Though you have me at a disadvantage. I know only that you're called Daeron and claim to be from beyond the Wall."
"That's all that matters for now," Daeron replied, rolling his shoulders. "Shall we?"
The two men squared off, and Rhaenyra felt a strange conflict within her. Part of her wanted to see Harwin—put this upstart in his place. Another part, unfamiliar and unsettling, hoped to see Daeron triumph.
The difference in their fighting styles was immediately apparent. Harwin fought with overwhelming power, his strikes designed to batter through defenses rather than circumvent them. His reputation had been earned honestly—few men could withstand his raw strength.
But Daeron seemed to anticipate each crushing blow, redirecting rather than blocking, using Harwin's momentum against him. When the bigger man committed to a powerful swing, Daeron would step inside the arc of the strike, too close for the blow to land with full force.
"Stand still and fight," Harwin growled after a particularly frustrating exchange.
"Why would I do that?" Daeron replied calmly, dancing away from another heavy swing. "There are no bonus points for taking hits."
The response drew chuckles from the watching crowd, which only seemed to irritate Harwin further. His next attack was a bull rush, dropping his shoulder to drive Daeron backward.
Instead of retreating, Daeron stepped into the charge, pivoting at the last moment to use Harwin's momentum to send him stumbling past. As the larger man turned, Daeron's practice sword tapped him on the back of the head.
"Dead," Daeron said softly.
Harwin's face darkened, but before he could respond, a female voice cut through the tension.
"Impressive, my lord," said Daenerys, appearing at the edge of the yard. "Though I suspect you're holding back."
All eyes turned to the silver-haired beauty, whose resemblance to Rhaenyra was unmistakable even at a distance. She wore a simple blue dress, her long hair loose around her shoulders, yet carried herself with the confidence of a queen.
"My lady wife speaks truth," Daeron acknowledged with a slight bow to Harwin. "As do you, Ser Harwin. This is practice, not a true contest. I've no desire to embarrass a respected knight of the realm."
Harwin's jaw clenched, but he managed a stiff nod before stepping away. "We'll see what happens in the melee when the strikes are real."
"Indeed we will," Daeron agreed, his tone suddenly solemn. "Though I hope you understand, Ser Harwin, that I fight to win. Always."
Something in his voice caused a momentary silence in the yard. It was not a boast but a statement of fact, delivered with absolute conviction.
The spell was broken when Daenerys approached, handing Daeron a cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow. "You've gathered quite an audience, husband," she murmured, just loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Daeron's eyes scanned the crowd, passing over Ser Criston and the other knights before settling on the shadowed walkway where Rhaenyra stood. Though partially concealed, she knew he had spotted her. The corner of his mouth lifted in a barely perceptible smile before he turned back to his wife.
"An audience is the last thing I want," he replied, loudly enough for all to hear. "I came to train, not perform."
Rhaenyra felt a presence beside her and turned to find Daenerys had somehow slipped away from Daeron's side and joined her in the shadows. The resemblance between them was even more striking up close, and Rhaenyra felt a strange disorientation, as if looking at a version of herself from another life.
"He doesn't enjoy being watched," Daenerys said softly. "Except, perhaps, by certain eyes."
"I don't know what you mean," Rhaenyra replied, keeping her voice cool.
Daenerys smiled, an expression that transformed her face from beautiful to radiant. "Don't you? I've seen the way you look at him. The same way I once did."
"That would be highly inappropriate," Rhaenyra said stiffly. "I am betrothed to Laenor Velaryon."
"And yet here you are, hiding in shadows to watch him train rather than attending to your wedding preparations," Daenerys observed without judgment. "There's no shame in admiration, Princess. Especially when it's earned."
Rhaenyra studied the other woman carefully. "Most wives would be concerned to see another woman watching their husband with... admiration."
"I am not most wives," Daenerys replied simply. "And Daeron is not most men. He sees the world differently than others."
"And how do you see the world, Lady Daenerys?" Rhaenyra asked, her curiosity overcoming her caution.
"I see possibilities where others see only tradition," Daenerys said, her violet eyes never leaving Rhaenyra's. "I see strength in what others might call weakness. And I see a kindred spirit in you, Princess—someone who understands that dragons don't follow the rules of lesser creatures."
Before Rhaenyra could respond to this cryptic statement, Daenerys touched her arm lightly. "He'll be competing in the melee tomorrow. I hope you'll be watching."
With that, she slipped away, returning to Daeron's side as he finished wiping down his practice blade. Rhaenyra remained in the shadows, her thoughts in turmoil. What game were these strangers playing? And why did she feel such a powerful pull toward both of them?
The Night Before the Melee - Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra's chambers were bathed in the warm glow of candles as she sat before her mirror, absently running a brush through her silver-gold hair. Her mind was elsewhere—on tomorrow's melee, on her impending marriage, and on the mysterious northerner who had dominated her thoughts since the feast.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her musings.
"Enter," she called, expecting a handmaiden with evening wine.
Instead, Laena Velaryon slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She was dressed in a flowing nightgown of sea-green silk, her silver-blonde hair loose around her shoulders.
"Cousin," Rhaenyra greeted her with genuine warmth. Despite the awkwardness of her betrothal to Laenor, she had always been fond of his sister.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Laena said, gliding across the room to perch on the edge of Rhaenyra's bed. "I couldn't sleep, and I thought perhaps you might be awake as well."
"Thoughts of tomorrow?" Rhaenyra asked, setting aside her brush.
"Partly," Laena admitted. "Though I suspect your thoughts are even more tumultuous than mine, given you're the one marrying my brother in a few days."
Rhaenyra laughed softly. "Strangely, my impending marriage is the least of my concerns at the moment."
"Oh?" Laena raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eye. "And what could possibly overshadow such a momentous life change? Perhaps a certain northern lord with remarkable fighting skills?"
Heat rose to Rhaenyra's cheeks. "You're as bad as your dragon, Laena—always diving straight for your target."
"Speaking of dragons," Laena replied, smoothly changing the subject, "have you visited Syrax lately? I took Vhagar out yesterday and saw your golden beauty sunning herself on the eastern walls."
"Not for several days," Rhaenyra admitted. "There's been little time with all the wedding preparations."
"You should make time," Laena said, suddenly serious. "No matter what happens in your life—marriage, children, political struggles—your dragon remains your most loyal companion. Never neglect that bond."
There was something in her tone that made Rhaenyra study her more closely. "You speak as if from experience."
"Merely observation," Laena replied with a small shrug. "My mother. When things were difficult for her, her dragon provided solace." She paused, looking down at her hands. "I've always thought that's why dragons choose us, you know. Not just for our blood, but because they recognize a certain... solitude in our souls."
"Solitude?" Rhaenyra echoed. "Is that how you feel, Laena?"
"Sometimes," she admitted. "Don't you? Even surrounded by the court, by family, by duty—don't you sometimes feel utterly alone?"
Rhaenyra moved to sit beside her on the bed, taking one of Laena's hands in hers. "Yes," she said simply. "I do."
For a moment, they sat in companionable silence.
"So," Laena finally said, her tone lightening. "Are we going to discuss the tourney tomorrow? Or more specifically, a certain competitor?"
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "You're relentless."
"I'm curious," Laena corrected. "As is everyone else at court. The mysterious Lord Daeron has made quite an impression—particularly on you, it seems."
"And on you as well," Rhaenyra countered. "I saw how you danced with him at the feast."
Laena's smile turned wistful. "I won't deny he's... intriguing. Those eyes, that quiet intensity. And the way he moves—like a predator, contained but dangerous." She sighed. "If he weren't already married, I might have considered setting my sights on him myself."
"What would be the point?" Rhaenyra asked, more sharply than she intended. "You know our marriages are decided by politics, not preference."
"True enough," Laena conceded. "Though that doesn't stop us from having preferences, does it?" She gave Rhaenyra a meaningful look. "Or from acting on them, when circumstances allow."
Rhaenyra stood abruptly, moving to the window. "What are you suggesting, Laena?"
"Nothing improper," Laena said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "Merely that marriage—especially royal marriage—has always involved certain... accommodations. Look at your own father. He loved Queen Alicent, but there are rumors..."
"Those are just rumors," Rhaenyra said firmly.
"Perhaps," Laena shrugged. "But consider my brother. Everyone knows where his true interests lie, yet he will marry you and do his duty. And you will do yours. But what happens beyond those duties is a matter of discretion."
Rhaenyra turned to face her. "You think I should take Lord Daeron as a lover? A man I barely know, who is married to a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to me?"
"I think," Laena said carefully, "that there are possibilities in this situation that are... unconventional. Have you noticed how Lady Daenerys looks at you? Not with jealousy, but with something almost like curiosity—or invitation."
"Invitation?" Rhaenyra repeated, a strange flutter in her stomach. "What are you implying?"
Laena rose from the bed, crossing to stand before Rhaenyra. "I'm not implying anything. I'm merely observing that those two share a bond unlike any I've seen before. They move as one, think as one. And yet..." She paused, searching for words. "And yet, there's something in the way they look at you, both of them, that suggests an openness."
"You're imagining things," Rhaenyra insisted, though uncertainty colored her words.
"Perhaps," Laena conceded. "But I've seen the world beyond Westeros, Rhaenyra. Sometimes three souls find harmony where two would find discord."
Rhaenyra's eyes widened. "Three? You can't be serious."
"Why not?" Laena challenged. "We are Targaryen and Velaryon. The blood of old Valyria flows in our veins. We ride dragons, Rhaenyra. Why should we be bound by the conventions of lesser houses?"
Silence fell between them as Rhaenyra absorbed these words. She had never considered such a possibility—had never even imagined it. And yet, now that Laena had voiced it, she could not unthink it.
"It's madness," she finally said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Perhaps," Laena smiled. "But isn't there a touch of madness in all of us with the blood of the dragon?" She moved toward the door. "Think on it, cousin. And watch them tomorrow at the melee. See if I'm wrong about the way they look at you."
With that cryptic advice, she slipped out as quietly as she had entered, leaving Rhaenyra alone with thoughts more tumultuous than before.
Across the castle, in chambers granted to them by King Viserys's generosity, Daeron and Daenerys conducted their own late-night conversation. Their room was sparsely furnished but comfortable, illuminated by a single candle that cast long shadows on the stone walls.
Daeron stood by the window, gazing out at the starlit sky. He had removed his doublet, and the white streak in his dark hair gleamed in the moonlight.
"You're thinking about tomorrow's melee," Daenerys observed from where she sat on their bed, her silver hair unbound and shimmering.
"Among other things," he admitted, turning to face her. "We're changing things, Dany. With every word, every action."
"That's why we came," she reminded him, rising to join him at the window. "To change things."
"But are we changing the right things?" he questioned, his brow furrowed with worry. "What if we make things worse?"
Daenerys laid a hand on his arm, her touch anchoring him as it always had. "We won't. We know what happens if we do nothing—the Dance of Dragons, the deaths of the dragons, the weakening of House Targaryen until..."
"Until they're gone entirely," he finished. "Until you're the last."
"And you," she added softly. "Though you didn't know it then."
He covered her hand with his own, his expression solemn. "But we're interfering with lives, Dany. Real people with their own destinies."
"Destinies that end in fire and blood if we don't intervene," she countered. "How many died in the Dance? How many dragons? How many Targaryens?"
"Too many," he conceded. "But where do we draw the line? How far do we go? This morning in the training yard, I won against Ser Harwin, he got mad at me. Perhaps I should have lost."
"No," Daenerys said firmly. "We need to establish ourselves here, gain influence. For that, you need to win tomorrow."
"And Rhaenyra?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "What of her?"
Something flickered in Daenerys's eyes—a mixture of emotions too complex to name. "She's central to everything. Her conflict with Alicent, her children's legitimacy—these are the sparks that ignite the Dance."
"And you've noticed how she looks at me," he stated rather than asked.
Daenerys smiled, a hint of mischief. "Of course. The same way I first looked at you, though I was far less subtle about it."
"It complicates things," he pointed out.
"Or simplifies them," she countered. "Her attraction to you gives us access, influence. And she's... remarkable, isn't she? So like me in some ways, yet entirely her own person."
Daeron studied his wife's face carefully. "You're not jealous."
"Should I be?" she challenged, arching an eyebrow. "After all we've been through, do you think I doubt your love?"
"Never," he said firmly. "But this is different. You're suggesting..."
"I'm suggesting we remain open to possibilities," she clarified. "We've traveled across time, Jon. We've died and returned. Perhaps the old rules no longer apply to us."
He shook his head, a reluctant smile forming. "You never cease to surprise me, even after all this time."
"Good," she said. "Predictability is the enemy of survival."
His expression grew serious once more. "We need to be careful tomorrow. If I win the melee as I intend, eyes will be on us more than ever. Questions will be asked."
"Let them ask," Daenerys said confidently. "Few would believe the truth, even if we told it plainly."
"And what is our truth now?" he asked softly. "What are we trying to build here?"
"A future where dragons don't die out," she replied without hesitation. "Where our house doesn't tear itself apart. Where fire and blood are used to protect, not destroy."
"And what of Rhaenyra in this future? They called her the Black Queen," he pressed.
Daenerys's violet eyes met his, unflinching. "I don't know yet. But I sense she has a role to play beyond what history recorded." She paused, her voice softening. "If she proves to be our ally, then we help her, but if the history books weren't wrong, and she tries to betray us, then we deal with her."
Rhaenyra
Rhaenyra Targaryen couldn't sleep. The Red Keep's stone corridors seemed to close in around her as she paced, her bare feet silent against the cold flagstones. Her silver-gold hair hung loose down her back, freed from the elaborate court styles for the night, and her thin silk nightgown offered little protection against the chill. But the cool air was welcome against her heated skin—her mind raced with thoughts of her impending marriage to Laenor Velaryon, a political match she could not escape. She had escaped the Kingsguard's eye by using a secret passage in her chamber.
"Six days," she whispered to herself, running her fingers along the rough stone wall. "Six days until I'm bound to a man who will never want me."
The hour was late—most of the castle slept after the welcome feast. Even the guards were sparse at this hour, allowing her to wander unnoticed. She found herself in the guest wing, where visiting nobles were housed. Where, she realized with a quickening pulse, the mysterious Daeron and his wife Daenerys had been given chambers.
The woman who looked so unnervingly like herself. The man whose purple eyes betrayed Valyrian blood despite his Northern appearance. They fascinated her in a way few things at court did anymore.
As she approached their chamber, a sound stopped her in her tracks—a low, feminine moan that echoed softly in the corridor. Then another, slightly louder. Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat as she recognized what she was hearing. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, spreading down her neck to her chest.
I should return to my chambers, she thought. But her feet carried her forward instead, drawn inexorably toward the sounds of pleasure.
Their door wasn't fully closed—a narrow strip of golden light spilled into the dark hallway. Rhaenyra hesitated only briefly before stepping closer, positioning herself to peer through the gap. Her heart hammered against her ribs so forcefully she feared they might hear it.
What she saw made her gasp softly, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.
Daenerys was on her hands and knees on the massive bed, her silver-white hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Behind her knelt Daeron, his powerful hands gripping her hips as he drove into her with relentless force. Each thrust pushed Daenerys forward, her face pressing into the pillows which muffled her cries of pleasure.
"Gods," Rhaenyra whispered against her palm, eyes widening.
Daeron's muscled back flexed with each movement, the scars that crisscrossed his skin gleaming in the candlelight. Rhaenyra couldn't see everything from her angle, but the way Daenerys's body jolted with each impact told her everything she needed to know about the force and size of the man behind her.
"Harder," Daenerys commanded, her voice throaty and demanding despite her submissive position. "Take what's yours, Daeron."
Rhaenyra felt her nipples harden beneath her thin nightgown, her breath coming in shallow pants. A familiar ache pulsed between her thighs, growing more insistent with each passing moment. She knew she should leave—this was a private moment between husband and wife—but her feet remained rooted to the spot, her eyes transfixed on the scene before her.
"You like being fucked like this?" Daeron growled, his Northern accent thicker in his arousal. He tangled one hand in Daenerys's hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. "Tell me you like it."
"I love it," Daenerys moaned, arching her back. "I love feeling you deep inside me. No one has ever filled me like you do."
The crude words from such a regal-looking woman sent a shock of heat through Rhaenyra's body. Without conscious thought, her hand slipped between her legs, pressing against the growing wetness there. She bit her lip to keep silent as her fingers began to move in small circles, her body responding to the rhythmic sounds from the bedroom.
This is madness, she thought, but couldn't bring herself to stop. What would the court think if they saw their princess pleasuring herself while watching others?
But the thought of being caught only heightened her arousal. Her free hand slipped inside her nightgown to cup her breast, pinching the hardened peak between her fingers as she watched Daeron's powerful form dominating Daenerys.
"Look at you taking me so well," Daeron praised, his voice husky with desire. "The most beautiful sight in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Rhaenyra imagined those words directed at her, imagined herself in Daenerys's place, feeling Daeron's strength and passion. What would it be like to be desired so completely? Laenor would never want her like this—their marriage bed would be a duty, not a pleasure. She imagined that she was the one getting fucked like that, feeling that wonderful cock inside her.
As she watched, Daeron's pace increased, his movements becoming more urgent. Daenerys's moans grew louder, each one sending a corresponding pulse of pleasure through Rhaenyra's own body.
"I'm close," Daenerys cried out, her voice muffled by the pillows. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop—"
Her words dissolved into a long, keening cry as her body shuddered visibly. The sight of Daenerys's release triggered Rhaenyra's own—she bit down hard on her lower lip as waves of pleasure washed over her, her fingers moving frantically as she rode out her climax, desperately trying to remain silent.
Daeron groaned deeply as he withdrew from Daenerys, revealing himself fully to Rhaenyra's gaze for the first time. Her eyes widened at the sight of him—thick and glistening in the candlelight, far more impressive than she had imagined.
Daenerys rolled onto her back, her flushed body gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. Her smile was almost predatory as she beckoned to Daeron. "Come here," she purred. "I want to taste us both."
Rhaenyra watched, transfixed, as Daenerys took him into her mouth with obvious enthusiasm, her hands caressing him reverently. Daeron's head fell back, his dark curls with that distinctive white streak catching the light as he groaned.
"Gods, Dany," he murmured, using a name Rhaenyra hadn't heard before. "Your mouth... nothing in any world compares."
Daenerys looked up at him with adoration in her eyes as she released him momentarily. "The Lord of Light himself couldn't create anything more perfect," she declared, placing kisses along his length.
The strange title confused Rhaenyra, but she hardly had time to ponder it as she watched Daenerys's continued worship of her husband. They shared something deeper than mere passion.
This is what I want, Rhaenyra realized, a strange ache forming in her chest alongside the lingering pleasure. Not just the physical act, but this connection. This raw devotion.
She had never felt desire like this before—not for Ser Criston, not for her uncle Daemon, not even for Harwin Strong. This was something different, something all-consuming that made her previous experiences seem like pale imitations.
Suddenly aware of how long she'd been standing there, Rhaenyra reluctantly stepped back from the door. Her nightgown clung to her sweat-dampened skin, and her legs trembled slightly as she forced herself to turn away from the captivating scene.
As she made her way back to her chambers, Rhaenyra knew sleep would not come easily tonight. Her mind raced with what she had witnessed—and what it awakened in her. Daeron and Daenerys had ignited something within her, a hunger she hadn't known existed.
And for the first time since the announcement of her betrothal, Rhaenyra found herself looking forward to the next seven days with anticipation rather than dread.
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