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I.
The smallfolk who made their living tending to the crops which grew in the thin soil of the Runestone peninsula were not sure what to make of their new lord. The gifts of coin and sweets which House Royce and the royal house had distributed to them in celebration of the marriage had been welcome, but with the arrival of Prince Daemon to Runestone came a figure in the skies overhead.
In the first week or so, the sight of a dragon in the sky had caused a great hue-and-cry, and men and women had looked upwards, straining to see the shadow of the beast overhead. Chattering children sat up on ledges and roofs to do the same, despite their mothers’ pleas for them to return inside at once. When the young ones finally did as they were told, a few would claim to have seen the dragon in all its scarlet glory.
For his part, whenever Prince Daemon took to the skies, he could not make out the curious smallfolk below him. He could not make out much of the land either, which was a relief.
A hovel clinging to the side of a cliff, inhabited by cretins who worship trees and runes carved into bronze , Daemon thought bitterly. That is what my dear grandmother gave me.
Not for the first time, Daemon’s thoughts turned to Dragonstone. Now that was a keep I deserved! Valyrian to the core, fit for a dragonrider. Like my ancestors. Like me. Like what my sons would have been.
Daemon glanced at the sun, which was sinking into the low horizon. At ground level, night had begun to fall. With a sigh, he cracked his whip in the air, and Caraxes began his descent.
II.
Rhea Royce knelt before the heart tree, and let her mind relax. This grove was her sanctuary, the one place in the world where the petty dealings of day to day life disappeared and where she could focus on what truly mattered, the Gods—
“Nice face on that tree,” a voice behind her said. “Did you carve it yourself?”
Rhea stiffened, and after a moment, got up. “My lord”, she said, “I had not expected you to come into the godswood—”
Daemon shrugged. “I was curious what was so entrancing about these trees,” he said as he wandered into the grove. Rhea watched as the prince brushed a pale white branch aside. “You spend too much time here.”
And you, not enough. Nor do you ever pay the sept a visit.
“Is the godswood not to your liking, my lord?” Inwardly, Rhea hoped for a noncommittal response. She did not want to change the godswood to please this man; it was a welcome constant in her life.
Daemon glanced around and shrugged. “It is average, as godswoods go.” For a moment the pair awkwardly stood facing each other. “Are your gods happy with you?”
“I hope so.”
“I wouldn’t place too much hope in it,” Daemon said offhandedly. “Gods are what they are.” He studied her appearance.
Lady Royce wore a gray dress, over which she wore a tan hooded shawl. Her red-brown hair was tied into a bun, which out of respect for the godswood she covered with her shawl. Out from under her hood Daemon could see a bronze earring peaking out, and he scowled.
Is the ruby and onyx jewelry I gave you so unpleasant to wear? Why do you cling to your bronze trinkets?
III.
Daemon missed his Essosi whores. They were women like him, warm and full of life and love, women who wanted and enjoyed sex, or at least made a good enough act of doing so.
Rhea Royce was not such a woman. His visits to her bedroom were expected, of course, and would be until she bore him a child. But Daemon was all too aware just how unwanted those visits were.
My bronze lady gives me no complaint. She spreads her legs and lets me thrust into her, while she stares up at the ceiling, her mind probably filled with visions of her beloved tree and bronze trinkets. Daemon glared at the sleeping form curled up on the side of the bed, as far away from him as possible. I wish she would complain, that she would turn me away. At least then we could drop this farce.
His irritation swelled, and Daemon reached over and pulled his suddenly awakened wife close. Her sleepy eyes glanced up at Daemons glowering face.
“Is everything all right, my lord—” Rhea stiffened as she felt a hand creep under her shift and up her leg. Much to Daemon’s surprise (and daresay, his pleasure), she brushed it aside and shifted so that there was space between the pair of them. She has a spine after all.
“Everything is perfect, my lovely wife.” Daemon hissed. “I am exiled here to the far reaches of Westeros, away from King’s Landing, away from Dragonstone, and chained to a bronze bitch with no love for anything but her gods–”
Daemon ranted on and on, and Rhea felt the urge to cry. “If I am such a burden to bear,” she said with a quavering voice, “you should not have wed me.”
“Do you think I wanted to?”
And then Rhea did cry.
IV.
After that night, Lady Rhea’s chambers were closed to Daemon. Not that he minded, of course. The gossip falls on my shoulders alone. Rumors of Lady Royce’s (she knew better than to risk Daemon’s wrath by claiming the Targaryen name) barrenness had begun to spread, and with them, the japes and crude songs. No one besides Daemon had been fool enough to say as such to her, but Rhea was not blind.
All the same, there was more to her life than the ongoing collapse of her marriage. Rhea threw herself into the management of the Runestones, carefully managing her ledgers and household. And as always, there was the godswood.
But as she sat before the tree, her mind swirled. This is too much , Rhea thought. A whore would be one thing; Gods know how many married men stray from their beds. But a paramour? A Valyrian paramour?
The scandal’s news had rocked the Red Keep, and news had quickly reached the Vale. Already bards hum out songs dedicated to the White Worm, Lady Mysaria of Lys, she who won the heart of the dragon— Rhea groaned, got up, and walked out of the godswood. She would find no peace here.
Instead, she wandered out of the courtyard and past the gates, into the market town which clung to the keep’s walls. The smallfolk gave her respectful bows and curious stares, but she paid them little mind. A few children ran across the street before her, and Rhea smiled for a moment. The smile quickly faded. The bronze bitch can’t have children, Rhea thought, Daemon’s taunt echoing in her mind. The maester had reassured her, saying that her body was perfectly healthy, but the words had still stung. A bell rang out, and Rhea was shaken out of her thoughts.
Her path had led her to a small sept, probably built for the benefit of the ships and merchants who made their way to Runestone from the south or Andalos. Rhea followed little of the Faith of the Seven, but curiosity led her into the little building. Inside was a small altar with seven painted icons, depicting the New Gods.
“Greetings, daughter.” Rhea turned to find a wizened old man in the corner of the sept, wearing a septon’s robe. She dipped into a slight curtsy before the holy man, and then returned to the icons.
“Would you like to light a candle?” The septon asked, shuffling over to the altar.
Rhea nodded. “I would be honored, Father.”
The septon handed her a pair of stubby, small, candles, and smiled apologetically. “Forgive me for their state. This is not a sept with a large flock, and one must make do with what one has.”
Rhea made a note to see what could be done about the sept’s funding, but gave an easy smile and took the well-used candles. “It is no matter,” she said. “The Gods care little for our frivolities.”
She turned to the altar and before the Mother, lit a candle. After a moment of staring at the other icons, Rhea shrugged and lit the other for the Mother as well. The twin lights reflected off the wooden icon, illuminating the picture of a woman and her baby.
“Marital troubles?” The septon asked sympathetically. Rhea turned to him, suddenly incensed. The septon held up his arms in a conciliatory tone. “Forgive me, daughter. But you are not the first person in this sept to light two candles for the Mother.”
Rhea sat down on the ground before the altar, suddenly exhausted, suddenly sad. “Yes,” Rhea murmured. “My husband has no love for me. He has fled my home—our home—and sleeps in another woman’s bed.” Bitterly, she added, “That woman is of the right stock, you see. She’s Essosi, and she has the Valyrian features he craves. She doesn’t worship trees.” Rhea winced.
With a sigh, the septon sat down next to her. “Well, you are not of the faith but you are a woman in need and a woman who prayed, at least once, to the Seven. I would try to help you if I could.” After a moment, he added, “It is a hard thing to be unloved for something you cannot change. It is wrong that your husband mistreats you for not being Valyrian.”
Rhea nodded. “I know that. But it is little comfort. I do not know what to do.” She smiled sadly. “I wish I was Valyrian. If I was Valyrian he would love me.”
“You are a woman of the Vale,” the septon said kindly. “You come from a noble stock. Your ancestors were fierce warriors and devout women— be they followers of the Old Gods or the Seven.”
“I know,” Rhea said. She sighed. “I am not ashamed of my race. I am grateful to have been born a daughter of the Vale. I just wish my lord husband thought the same of me.” The septon reached over and squeezed her shoulder.
“Where is your lord husband?”
“In the south.” On Dragonstone.
“When will he be returning?”
“I do not know,” she murmured. “I do not know if he will ever return.”
“Then go to him,” the septon urged. “Save your marriage. Were you wed before your gods or the Seven?”
“The Seven.” Rhea closed her eyes and remembered her wedding. Fool that I was, I was excited to marry a prince. I was happy.
“Then your marriage has been made before those who will judge us in this world and the next.” The septon took Rhea’s hands into his. “You must bring your husband home. If not for the sake of your marriage, then for the sake of his soul.”
Her weary eyes met the septon’s empathic ones. “Why me?” she complained. “It was not I who strayed from our vows.”
The septon sighed. “You are right of course. It is not fair that it falls on you to save your marriage. But it is the reality you face. You have made vows and only the Stranger can break them.” The septon got up. “I must prepare for the evening sermon. But I will pray for you, daughter. Keep faith in your gods and in the Mother.”
Rhea bid the septon farewell and made her way back through the market, and from there back to the keep. That night, she sat in bed, fingers idly tracing the circle of her ring.
Is Daemon Targaryen worth fighting for? Do I love him? Rhea thought of the septon’s words and shook her head. Love has nothing to do with it. We are bound to each other. Daemon will be the father of my children. That is worth fighting for. An uncharacteristic anger raced through her. The dignity of my people is worth fighting for. I am the daughter of men who conquered the mountains and the first Andals who stepped foot on Westeros. I will not let some Essosi harpy take my husband from me.
With that, Rhea stood from her bed and made her way to her desk. Seizing a sheet of parchment, she began to write.
Dearest Daemon,
Separation makes my heart ache. I find myself pining for the sight of my lord husband, and I can bear it no more. I will be arriving on Dragonstone soon; by the time you receive this letter I will have set sail for the sacred isle. I look forward to seeing you.
Love,
Lady Rhea of House Targaryen
PS. Please let Lady Mysaria know I thank her for warming my place in our bed during our time apart. Let her also know that if she is on Dragonstone when I arrive, I will have her flogged.
It felt good, Rhea decided, to sign off her letters with the Targaryen name. It felt even better to imagine Daemon’s expression when a Valewoman was the one bearing it. And if Lady Mysaria is wise, she will be long gone by the time I set foot on Dragonstone.
Rhea walked to the rookery and sent the letter to Dragonstone. Then she made her way to her rooms, got dressed, and packed for the trip ahead.
V.
Daemon was furious.
The letter from Rhea lay at the desk in the center of his study. Daemon had not been amused at the way she had signed it, but he had been amused at the threat in the letter’s postscript. He had given it to Mysaria, and she had laughed too.
But she must have taken it more seriously than Daemon had thought, for when he awoke she was long gone.
And with her, my hopes for a Valyrian heir.
Daemon had sulked for the entire day, flying atop Caraxes and occasionally letting a blast of flame off into the waters below. When a ship appeared on the horizon, Daemon noted the fluttering dragon and rune-adorned banners.
She’s here.
He had flown back to Dragonstone.
That evening, the pair found themselves eating dinner together. Daemon studied his bronze bitch’s face, and noted with annoyance her bronze necklace and bronze earrings. Finally he spoke.
“What brings Lady Royce to Dragonstone?”
Rhea swallowed her food, and looked up at Daemon. “It’s as I wrote to you, Daemon. Lady Targaryen craved the sight of her husband.” She smiled. “It is good to see you.”
What’s her game? Daemon narrowed his eyes. Whatever it is, two can play at it.
“In any case, it is good that you are here. You have scared away my bedwarmer, and I have need of one.” That should do the trick. Rhea remembers well the last time we—
“Very well,” Rhea said quietly. “I would be happy to sleep in our bed again.”
Oh?
That night, when they made love it was different. Daemon discarded the attempts at gentleness he had made back in Runestone, and took out his anger at the oh-so-holy woman bucking and moaning under him. For her part, Rhea clung tightly to Daemon, so unlike the woman willing to do her duty and nothing more he remembered.
Afterwards, the pair lay in bed. Rhea, with a hesitancy unlike what she had displayed earlier, nestled against him. Daemon allowed it. He was in too good of a mood to ruin the comfortable atmosphere. He looked at Rhea through the corner of his eye and frowned at the reddening mark on her cheek. It will bruise. With the back of his hand, he reached over and gently rubbed at it.
“I… I was overly impassioned. I did not mean to hurt you—”
“My Lord,” Rhea murmured, “that I can cover with a bit of dust.” And then she added, “Is this what you and your Essosi whore would do?”
Daemon rolled his eyes at that. So that’s what this is all about. She’s perfectly happy with the both of us being quietly miserable but she sailed from Runestone to Dragonstone when the news of my happiness reached her ears. Suddenly the perfect response came to mind.
“No,” he said, a cruel smirk appearing on his face, although Rhea could not see it in the dim light. “With Lady Mysaria I was gentle, loving, affectionate. With my bronze bitch, I do what I want.”
“Oh.”
And with that Daemon turned away. For a moment, there was silence. Then, just as Daemon was about to slip into sleep, Rhea spoke up.
“So it seems the only woman with whom you can do whatever you want… is me.”
Incorrigible.
“Lady Targaryen,” Daemon said in a sickly-sweet tone. “Disturb my slumber again and I will have you sleep in the kennels, where you can bark to your heart’s content.”
Rhea fell quiet at that, and after a while Daemon could hear the quiet rise and fall of her breath. He however, could not fall back asleep.
Why did I call her a Targaryen?
The pair settled into an odd routine. In the mornings, Rhea would make herself scarce, disappearing to the castle’s library. Daemon would spend the day going about his business, and the two would take care to not cross paths. At night the pair would eat dinner together and then…
She said she was the one woman with whom I could do anything, and so far she has been honest. Even Mysaria would protest if I had her do some of what Rhea has been willing to do.
The pair of them had settled into this odd detente, and while it was comfortable they both knew it could not last. Slowly Rhea began making herself seen throughout the day, until Daemon began comfortable with her sitting quietly on a chair in his study while he worked.
One day, he handed her parchment, ink and quill.
“You will write my letters for me.” Rhea nodded, and Daemon sat down across from her and started to dictate his reply to a missive from the Westerlands.
And so their routine was established again.
Finally, one day, Rhea asked Daemon if he could show her the rest of the isle.
“Very well,” Daemon said. “But dress appropriately.”
The next day, Daemon watched as Rhea walked over to him and Caraxes. She wore the riding leathers, warm coat and gloves he had made the maids set out for her, and for a moment, Daemon was entranced.
Truly, she looks like a Targaryen when she dresses like this—
Daemon then noticed the glint of her bronze necklace and inwardly sighed.
Small steps.
As Rhea neared Caraxes, her pace slowed. Finally, she stopped a good distance away from the Blood Wyrm. “Don’t worry about Caraxes,” Daemon yelled out. “He can smell me on you.” He will not eat his master’s mate.
Rhea slowly approached the dragon, and made her way to the beast’s back, where Daemon sat on a saddle (normally he rode bareback, but with Rhea flying with him, he was being cautious). He extended a hand and pulled Rhea onto the saddle.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” came the reply.
With a crack of his whip, Caraxes took flight. Daemon felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist, clinging to him tightly. It felt good.
When they landed on the beach, Daemon took Rhea arm-in-arm and showed her the haunts he had explored as a child: the tidepools, the strange beach with black sands, the mangroves.
High noon found the couple sleeping in the sand, Caraxes’s wing providing them with welcome relief from the sun. When Daemon awoke, he found Rhea snoring peacefully, her head resting in his lap. Gingerly, he touched the small bruise on her face and felt a brief stab of guilt.
She is a comely thing. It is a shame I marred her face. Daemon promised himself that the next time they lay with one another, he would be gentler, for at least one time. He ran his fingers through her hair, and then traced the bronze necklace she wore.
Rhea’s eyes opened, and for a moment the pair stared into each other’s eyes.
“This necklace,” Daemon said slowly. “Your bronze jewelry. Your runes. Why do you care for them so much?”
Rhea reached for Daemon’s hand, cupped it with hers, and brought it to her cheek. For a moment she thought, and then she answered, “For the same reason you love your Valyrian steel and your Valyrian swords.”
Daemon scoffed. “Vale myths are simply myths, Rhea. Your House’s bronze armor is not as effective as modern armor, much less something made from Valyrian steel.”
“That’s not the point,” Rhea whispered. “Our bronze, our runes, it’s all part of our culture, our legacy.”
“And you think that legacy is equal to the Valyrian one?”
“Yes.” Rhea laughed at Daemon’s indignant expression. “Valyria’s culture is a noble one. But so is mine. Born from the mingling of the First Men and the Andals. I know you consider it inferior to yours. It is not.” After a moment, she added, “I am sorry that I am not Valyrian. If I was Valyrian you would not have gotten entangled with Mysaria—”
“You mean more to me than Mysaria ever did,” Daemon blurted. “You are the only woman I have slept with who has flown on Caraxes.” He stroked her cheek. “I just… she is Valyrian. Our children would have been Valyrian.”
“And our’s will not be? With a father like you, a father full of the blood of Old Valyria?”
“And a Valewoman for a mother.”
“Yes, I will be your children’s mother. Will you love them less for it?”
“No,” Daemon murmured. “I care for you. I would love your children as my own.”
“If they hatched a dragon, or claimed one of those roaming on this island, would you teach them to fly?”
“Of course!”
“Then in what way will our children not be Valyrians? They will have the blood, they will have the dragons. The only place they will not be Valyrian is in your mind.”
Daemon didn’t answer, and instead leaned over and pressed his lips to Rhea’s forehead. Ah, my bronze bitch, you have outsmarted me.
“Very well, Rhea. Our children will be Valyrians. And Valemen.”
Rhea smiled.
VI.
“Stupid, stupid woman,” Daemon hissed, his vision blurred with tears.
Rhea lay in bed, surrounded by maesters, maids, and a septon. Her head was wrapped in bandages and she had not moved for an hour. Daemon had moved little from his bedside chair as well, his mind swirling with fear and anger.
She fell from her horse while hawking. What madness possessed her to— it wasn’t her fault. It was the horse’s fault.
An hour later there was an agonized neigh from the stables, and Daemon stumbled out, Dark Sister drawn and dripping with horse blood.
That night, Daemon wandered aimlessly through the halls of Runestone. He couldn’t sleep. Memories of Rhea flashed through his mind: their wedding, his first stay at Runestone, their time together at Dragonstone, and their return home. For the first time in his life, Daemon bitterly regretted the way he had treated his wife before Dragonstone.
If she dies, I will not forgive myself—
His feet had led him to the godswood. Rhea’s favorite place in the world. At night, the weirwood shone brightly in the moonlight. Daemon walked up to the heart tree and sat down, resting his back on it.
“Gods, eh?” Daemon snorted. “I don’t think you are real. But if you are real, an adherent of yours is on the brink of death. Help her. Help her or I’ll burn this godswood, nah every godswood from the Wall to the Reach.” For a moment he sat, waiting for some kind of epiphany, and then he slumped.
Pointless. It is pointless to ask for something from or to threaten something which doesn’t exist. He felt very tired.
Daemon closed his eyes, and tried to ignore his racing thoughts and turbulent emotions. He opened his eyes and stared at the moon, and despite the desperation of his situation, calmed himself.
An hour later, he sat at Rhea’s bedside, and watched as the Valewoman slept off the milk of the poppy she had been given. We will leave this room together, Daemon thought.
For the next nine days, Daemon did not leave Rhea’s room. He sat at her bedside, took his meals there, slept there, and only stood to stretch and relieve himself. The entire household was holding its breath.
And on the ninth day, Rhea opened her eyes.
“Don’t move,” Daemon said gently. “You cracked your skull falling off that damned horse.”
Rhea nodded, and reached for Daemon’s hand. When he lifted it and brought it to his lips, she smiled, but that smile faded when she felt the heat of tears rolling down her hand. Without looking, she moved her hand to cup his cheek.
“I will be fine,” Rhea murmured. “I am sorry I scared you.”
“If you do it again,” Daemon said with a tremor in his voice, “I will beat you.”
Rhea snorted at that, and closed her eyes.
A week later, the maester gingerly touched her head in several places for over an hour, and let her sit up. A week after that, she was allowed to stand, leaning on Daemon for support.
And a few days later, the pair left Rhea’s room, walking together arm-in-arm.
VII.
Rhea sat exhausted in bed, the baby in her arms mewling happily as he looked up at his mother. She cooed at him, and smiled at the gurgling laughter the baby gave her. A knock at the door drew both their attention.
Daemon entered the room, and the boy in Rhea’s arms began blabbering excitedly. Rhea laughed and held him up to her husband. “Here, take your boy.”
Lilac eyes met lilac eyes as Daemon picked up his son. “I have decided on a name. Yorwyck.”
Rhea nodded happily. “You honor me, Daemon.”
Yorwyck Royce was the greatest of the Bronze Kings of old. Yorwyck Targaryen will be a great man, I am sure of it.
“He’s asleep.” Daemon chuckled. “Is your papa that boring, little dragon?”
Daemon walked over to the crib on the other side of the room, and gently lowered Yorwyck into his bed. In the corner rested a dragon egg. He then turned to his bed, and his bronze beloved.
Daemon slipped under the covers of their bed, and as Rhea nestled up against him, he relaxed and threw an arm around her, pulling her close. The pair soon joined their son in slumber, and a peaceful night fell on Runestone.