Claiming the Dragon

Storm's End

The flight was far longer than Syrax or Rhaenyra were used to, and her muscles were aching by the time they landed in Storm's End. Aptly named, the rain greeted them upon their arrival, and they hurried out of the torrential downpour, thoroughly soaked. Lord Boremund welcomed Rhaenyra and Daemon with open arms; food and drink flowed endlessly, and the princess found herself in good spirits, clapping along to the music and smiling at Daemon. Before the evening ended, Laenor arrived with Seasmoke and joined them in the Round Hall. While Boremund was the same friendly man she remembered from her tour years prior, Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel annoyed at the glare his son, Borros, repeatedly sent her way.

"House Baratheon is glad to offer our support, your highness—" Borros scoffed and his father turned to him, eyes sharp.

"You have something to add, son?" Boremund asked coldly.

"This is the second war over the Stepstones in less than a decade. I don't see why we are getting dragged into their fight." While he was only a few years older than she, Rhaenyra couldn't help but think he sounded like a petulant child.

"If the crown goes to war, the realm goes to war. Is that not so?" Rhaenyra asked. "After all, the Stepstones belong to Westeros. Without them, our trade, and our fleet, will be threatened ceaselessly. Storm's End, being far closer to the Stepstones than the crown, should understand the threat the Triarchy presents." Borros said nothing; merely continued eyeing her resentfully.

"Well said, princess. My apologies for my son."

"That's not necessary, Lord Boremund." Rhaenyra insisted with a smile and returned to sipping her wine. When the minstrel started playing once more, Ser Laenor offered Rhaenyra his arm and the pair made their way to the center of the hall to dance.

"I must say, cousin, I was quite surprised to hear that you were coming with us to assist in the war efforts, yourself." Laenor told her, spinning her about.

"Dear cousin, you wound me." Rhaenyra replied, "Did I not promise your father a seat at my table, and a future betrothal between our houses? How can I keep my promises to your house if I leave House Velaryon to fight alone?" She turned serious. "How are you, truly? I never got the chance to offer my condolences, when—"

"Thank you, Rhaenyra." he interrupted, clearly affected by her near mention of Joffrey. "It was a hard loss to bear, but I am moving past it." The princess merely nodded at him.

"If you should need anything," she told him, "Any future support from the crown, you need only send a Raven." Laenor smiled. Rhaenyra's gut twisted with guilt as she recalled the events from the betrothal banquet.

"Relax, cousin. You have already been forgiven," he told her.

"It's not enough," she insisted, twirling about and stepping close. "What happened was my fault. Not only for your loss, but for abandoning you and our betrothal. It was not princess-like behavior, for my part. I am sorry." Laenor pressed a friendly kiss to the top of her head.

"It is in the past, cousin," he insisted, "I thank you for your kind words." Shortly after, Daemon interrupted, taking Laenor's place in the dance.

"Should I be jealous?" the prince teased with a smirk, nodding toward Laenor. Rhaenyra laughed.

"Hardly, my love. You know my cousin is more likely to enjoy your company than my own." Daemon chuckled at her remark, before growing serious, "Borros is not thrilled about this."

"A suspect few people are." Rhaenyra answered. "Still, it needs to be done. We have his father's support, and the king's. That's what matters." They each stepped to in the opposite direction and came back together, moving in time with the beat.

"It's been a long time since we danced together like this," Daemon murmured softly, gazing down at her, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand.

"Too long..." she agreed, flushing when she noticed the intense look in his violet eyes. Suddenly, she wondered if the hall was hot or if it was merely her. After the heated look they exchanged, Daemon quickly found an excuse for them to retire for the night; immediately taking her to bed...

Rhaenyra gasped and writhed beneath him as his hands explored her naked skin. Daemon kissed his way up her body until their lips met, searingly. They kissed for ages, shifting on the bed as their lips traveled along one another's skin. Every touch produced sweet sounds; moans and groans and whimpers filled their guest chambers. Their hands caressed, lips explored, all the while committing one another's bodies to memory, hoping it would not be the last time they came together so passionately.

He entered her repeatedly, coaxing orgasm after orgasm from Rhaenyra's lips, her nails leaving crescent marks in his skin that would later bruise. His mouth sucked and pulled at her flesh, marking her as his own in turn. When they finally tired, their fire had turned to cinders; it was nearing dawn, and they remained entwined in one another's arms.

"Rhaenyra," Daemon spoke softly, reverently, as he ran his fingers through her silver locks. "Once the fighting begins, you must remain with myself or Ser Harwin. We can keep you safe."

"I've been training," she reassured him. The prince sat up and lifted her chin, forcing her to look up into his violet eyes.

"You must. I—I cannot lose you." The earnestness in his voice hit her like a blow to the stomach and she cupped his face in her hands.

"I will be cautious, my love, I swear." Her lips met his softly, pouring her adoration and need into her kiss and hoping it was enough for him to understand just how much he meant to her.

Breakfast was a hazy ordeal, as the princess was exhausted from the night's exertions. Lord Boremund seemed in a jovial mood, however, and his energy was contagious. As Rhaenyra allowed herself to relax, for a time, the fear of their impending excursions were put out of mind, at least temporarily. News of the fleet's movements reached them by midday, informing them that the ships would arrive late that evening. While Rhaenyra wanted to explore the grounds, the dreary weather kept them inside for most of the day and the princess grew restless, wandering about the castle.

An unshakable anxiety had settled in her gut, no matter what reassurances she had been given. She worried, not only about the battle, but about the men. As the princess, Rhaenyra had already been told that many questioned a woman's ability to lead. Would the men consider her advice when it came to battle; would they be willing to follow her, potentially to their deaths? Doubts swarmed inside her and she struggled to put them out of mind.

As the day grew late, they gathered in the Round Hall once more, going over some semblance of what they might expect when they arrived in the Stepstones. Daemon and Laenor recalled their previous excursion there and explained how their feint won their last battle. The princess listened intently, as she had never heard the full tale, and wondered if any of their previous tactics would work against the Triarchy a second time.

Rhaenyra made quick work of her supper and turned in early, in dire need of rest before their morning departure. Daemon kissed her goodnight and remained in the hall with Lord Boremund to await the fleet's arrival. As she remained awake under the covers, Rhaenyra's thoughts returned to The Stepstones and she wondered what awaited them there. Would there be an abundance of blood? Would the smell of the carcasses on the beach turn her stomach? Her mind carried on ceaselessly and when she finally managed to drift off, she dreamed of screams and dragonfire...