𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

4

Beneath the golden blush of sunset, Daenaera whispered softly to her dragon. Sylvarion lay coiled atop the hill above King's Landing, a great mass of shimmering silver-blue scales, his eyes half-lidded in lazy contentment.

"Rytsa issa jorrāelagon. Skorkydoso glaesā? Avy jorrāelan tolī," she murmured, pressing her cheek to his forearm. You are my little love. How are you feeling? I love you so much.

She lay in a half-reclined pose, fingers tracing absent patterns across his thick hide. "Iksan sīr biare eman ao, Sylvarion. Iksā se sȳrje zaldrīzes mirre. Kesi henujagon dārys tegorīr aderī, iksan naejot dīnagon iā jelmōñe dārilaros."
I am so happy to have you, Sylvarion. We will leave King's Landing soon. I am to marry a Northern prince.

The dragon let out a low, rumbling purr in response, and Daenaera closed her eyes, grounding herself in that familiar sound. She didn't yet know the boy she was promised to—but she would face him as a true Targaryen.

⸻

Three weeks later, King Viserys I invited King Ragnar Lothbrok, his wife Queen Aslaug, and their sons to attend the grand wedding feast of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon. It would also mark the first meeting between Daenaera and her betrothed, the Viking prince Ivar.

News of their arrival reached the Red Keep at midday. Daenaera stood on her balcony when she first saw them dismounting in the courtyard—broad-shouldered men clad in furs and dark leathers, the sun catching in their golden hair.

She stilled.

Ivar walked with a crutch, as she had been told. But nothing had prepared her for the way he carried himself—proud, unbowed, his posture tall despite his limp. His eyes, impossibly blue, scanned the Keep as if he had already begun to conquer it with his gaze. His face was angular and strong: high cheekbones, a clean jaw, full lips, and a long braid trailing down his shoulder.

Beside Daenaera, Rhaenyra leaned in and elbowed her with a sly grin.

"You're drooling over the prince, sister."

"I am not," Daenaera muttered, eyes darting away. "I was just... surprised."

"You didn't expect him to be that handsome, did you?" Rhaenyra teased, lips curving wider.

"Nyra," Daenaera hissed, giving her a sharp look. "Enough."

"Fine, fine. Just don't faint when you stand beside him."

Daenaera refused to respond. Instead, she turned and made her way to the Great Hall where the royal guests were being received.

⸻

The chamber was already full when she entered. All eyes turned to her as she stepped through the archway, regal in her presence even before she spoke.

"And there she is," King Viserys announced with pride. "My beautiful Daenaera. Come, sit beside Prince Ivar."

A servant named Mel guided her to the seat, pulling out the chair with quiet deference. "Thank you, Mel," she said softly.

Ivar turned to her as she settled beside him. He was even taller up close, his shoulders broad beneath his leather tunic, the scent of pine and salt still clinging to his furs.

"I am Ivar Lothbrok," he said, his voice low but clear. "These are my brothers, Ubbe and Hvitserk. My father, King Ragnar, and my mother, Queen Aslaug."

"It is an honor to meet you all," Daenaera replied with quiet dignity. "I am Daenaera Targaryen."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful princess," said Ubbe, grinning.

"Thank you," Daenaera answered with a modest smile.

Ivar only inclined his head in acknowledgment, but Daenaera noticed the faint curl at the corner of his lips. He was watching her closely—curiously.

"I am pleased my son is to marry your daughter," King Ragnar said, raising his goblet.

"I am not his daughter, yes," Daenaera said before Viserys could speak, her voice firm. "My father, Prince Aemon, died in battle defending our kingdom. He was a true Targaryen warrior."

Ragnar studied her, then nodded in approval. Ivar, beside her, let his grin grow just a little.

"I did indeed lose my brother on the battlefield," Viserys added, his voice growing somber. "But I know he would be proud. Daenaera has grown into a fine young woman—and now, she begins a new chapter."

Just then, Rhaenyra entered the room in a flurry of silk.

"I apologize, Your Grace. I lost track of time."

Viserys frowned but said nothing more. Queen Aslaug smiled warmly at the young princess. "Let the child sit."

Rhaenyra gave her a grateful nod and took the seat beside Daenaera.

"I didn't mean to be late," she whispered.

"It's all right. I'm not angry," Daenaera replied.

"A toast!" King Ragnar stood, raising his goblet. "To the betrothal of my son and the dragon princess of House Targaryen. May their union bring strength to both our realms."

"To their happiness!" echoed throughout the hall.

⸻

The celebration ran late into the night. Though Daenaera smiled and spoke as custom demanded, her mind was restless. As the guests danced and drank, she slipped away into the palace gardens.

The night air was cool, the scent of jasmine hanging thick among the shadows. Her gown, crimson silk embroidered with gold thread, shimmered faintly under moonlight. Her long silver hair, half-braided in Valyrian style, caught the breeze as she walked.

She touched the necklace around her throat—a final gift from her father, one of the last pieces of her mother's collection.

Unbeknownst to her, she was not alone.

From the high windows of his guest chambers, Ivar Lothbrok had seen her pass through the garden paths, her figure luminous in the dark. Curiosity stirred within him. He rose without thinking, taking up his crutch and cloak.

And silently, the Viking prince followed the dragon princess into the night.