SEE HOW IT SHINES

ACT ONE: I.

110 AC.

It's dark when the knock comes.

The fire has long since died, leaving only embers that glitter like rubies and do little to warm Rhaenyra Targaryen's bedchamber past the hearth. The princess sits up, rubs sleep from her eyes, and frowns at the door. Who would come to her at this hour, when the sky is at its darkest and the Red Keep at its quietest? Her beloved uncle is gone, her sworn sword is now her sworn enemy, and her new friend would never be so bold as to visit her chambers in the dead of night. So who—

"Nyra? It's Laenor."

Right. Her husband. They've been married for three moons—three moons, and he's all but ignored her, lost to his mourning and his cups. She doesn't blame him, truly; after the horror that abruptly ended their wedding, how could she? They were friends once, as children, before Lord Corlys took him to the Stepstones and time made them strangers. And now they're married, tied together by more than just the dragon's blood they share.

She never wanted him. She never wanted to be married. Or, at least, not to him. She closes her eyes and lets the memory wash over her: the late afternoon light streaming in through the windows of her father's chamber, the gruff misery in his voice. I will do my duty as heir and wed Ser Laenor, she'd said, tears welling in her eyes. Duty.

Another knock, softer than the first. The time for duty, it seems, has come at last. "Come in."

She fiddles with the end of her braid as the door creaks open and a familiar figure appears, face lit up from beneath by the candle in his hands. He smiles sheepishly, grief still clinging to his eyes, his brow, his silver-gold locs. Her heart clenches in her chest; guilt, though she knows it doesn't fully belong there. (Is it her fault? Is it all her fault? Joffrey dead, Daemon gone, Criston twisted into an unrecognizable monster. It must be.)

"Can't sleep?" She tries to read the determined line of his lips as he lights a few more candles and pours two glasses of wine at the table on the other side of her room. He still hasn't looked at her, not really. He drains his cup in one gulp and hastily refills it, and something like nervousness roils in her stomach. They both know what he has come to do. She pushes back her blankets and pads across the room to him. "Laenor?"

When she creeps closer, she sees the red imprint of a palm across his face. She reaches for it but he flinches away, pressing a goblet into her hand and filling his again. His breath and half-unlaced tunic already smell of wine, but she says nothing, simply sips at her cup and waits for him to speak. He's always been quiet, even as children. And since their wedding—well, words have been few and far between.

"I have neglected my duty, Nyra."

Duty. She knows she should not loathe a concept, especially one that awards her all that she wants. A small price to pay, really; accepting her duties, her responsibilities, will grant her the Iron Throne and all the glory in the realm besides. But what she wants, even more than any throne, is freedom—and Laenor does, too, or so she thought, until this very moment.

She tries for a casual laugh. "Who cares about duty?"

The guilt-laden sorrow in his eyes is answer enough: a father who cares more about legacy than his children's happiness; a mother still bitter about a crown that never was, though she claims to have put it behind her. A king who expects a boy to go against his nature for a girl who desires another. The court in the Red Keep and the fat lords in their country estates and even the smallfolk on the streets of the city below them.

"Drink," he nudges her hand softly, pausing her fingers' slow and methodical spinning of the rings that adorn them night and day. Finally, finally, he raises his gaze to hers. Even in the low candlelight, she's stunned by how beautiful his eyes are. Not quite purple, not quite blue, brighter and lovelier than even his sister's—and everyone says Laena Velaryon has the most beautiful eyes in the Seven Kingdoms. (Everyone but Daemon. Daemon says hers take the prize. But Daemon also dances with Laena instead of whisking Rhaenyra away to Dragonstone when she asks. Her heart clenches again, shaped into something shriveled and half-mad by their abandonment.)