Hello, PerfectPage. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of A Dragon's Legacy
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/PerfectPage' on Websearch
The following 8 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, and Chapter 22 are already available for Patrons.
Daeron
Daeron—who had once been Jon Snow in another life—winced as he raised his arms, letting Daenerys pull the fine black leather jerkin over his head. The bruises Daemon's Dark Sister had left across his ribs had faded from purple to an ugly yellow-green, but they still protested any sudden movement.
"Stop being such a baby," Daenerys chided, though her fingers were gentle as they adjusted the leather across his shoulders. "You've had worse."
I've died and come back, he thought wryly. But that doesn't mean I enjoy pain.
"That was before," he said aloud. "And I don't think I will ever get used to the pain,"
She moved around to face him, her violet eyes appraising. "You look dangerous. Good. That's exactly what we need tonight."
"Is it?" Daeron flexed his shoulders, testing the fit of the jerkin. "I thought we were aiming for seductive, not threatening."
"With Rhaenyra, they're the same thing." Daenerys's smile was knowing. "She wants what she shouldn't have. The more dangerous you appear, the more she'll want you."
Us, he corrected mentally. She wants us both.
"Speaking of which," Daenerys continued, moving to pour them both wine, "we need to discuss the specifics. How far are we willing to go?"
"As far as necessary," Daeron replied without hesitation. "We didn't come back to fail because of prudishness."
"Even if she wants your bastards?" Daenerys's tone was casual, but he could hear the edge beneath it. "If the histories are accurate, she had three with Harwin Strong. Though given that he's walking with a stick now, he's rather out of the picture."
Daeron accepted the wine she offered, thinking carefully. "Rhaenyra will face opposition from the Greens regardless. Her children being bastards was just more wood on an already burning pyre. The real issue was always her gender and Alicent's ambition."
"But surely her first child must appear to be Laenor's," Daenerys pointed out. "The alliance depends on it."
"Laenor is drowning in wine and grief," Daeron said grimly. "The last thing he wants is to bed anyone, let alone produce an heir."
"Which is why she'll turn to you instead." Daenerys settled onto the bed, watching him with those knowing eyes that had seen the end of the world and come back to prevent it. "The question is whether we let her."
Do we have a choice? he wondered. Every path forward seems to require compromises we wouldn't have made before.
"Yes, she will want something back," he said finally. "Tonight is about securing her alliance, making her need us enough that she'll protect us from whatever Alicent is planning."
"Ah yes, the grieving queen." Daenerys's expression darkened. "Killing her brother was a mistake."
"He attacked me from behind. I reacted on instinct."
"Your instincts need better control," she said, slightly raising her voice, reminding him of the day they first met. "Now we have a queen who wants our heads on spikes."
Daeron moved to the window, looking out at the Red Keep's courtyard below. Servants scurried about preparing for the feast, but he noticed how some would pause and look up at their window.
"We're being watched," he said quietly. "Have been since the melee."
"I've felt it too," Daenerys agreed, joining him. "Eyes everywhere. In the corridors, the courtyard, even when we fly."
Someone knows about the dragons, he thought. Or at least suspects.
"We need Rhaenyra's protection more than ever," he said. "If Alicent moves against us without the heir's backing—"
"We'll have to reveal ourselves," Daenerys finished. "And that could destroy everything we're trying to prevent."
Daeron knew that was true; if they learned the truth about their dragons, the chances of survival were slim. Even someone like Viserys would never allow them to keep two of the most powerful dragons of Westeros. In their eyes, the two of them are still strangers, and suddenly, these strangers have two beasts in their control that are enough to conquer Westeros all over again. Daeron knew no king in existence would allow them to just walk away, and take the chance that maybe these two strangers are not going to do anything with two of the biggest dragons that can be defeated only by the likes of Vhaegar. Alicent would shout that the two of them are conspiring and have stolen dragons of House Targaryen, while a dragon cannot be stolen, still, King Viserys would be forced to act against them to make sure the two of them do not use two dragons to threaten and kill his people.
They stood in silence for a moment, both lost in thoughts of possible futures—futures they'd lived through, futures they were desperate to avoid.
"You know," Daenerys said suddenly, a mischievous glint in her eye, "in our time, you were terrible at seduction."
Daeron turned to her with raised eyebrows. "I seduced you, didn't I?"
"You brooded at me until I decided to seduce you," she corrected. "There's a difference."
"Well then, perhaps you should handle Rhaenyra."
"Oh, I intend to." She moved closer, running her hands down his chest, careful of his bruises. "But she wants us both. The Northern with Valyrian blood and his dragon queen. We're a package arrangement."
A package arrangement, he thought with dark humor. Is that what we're calling it?
She kissed him then, fierce and possessive, and he responded with equal passion. They'd been through too much, sacrificed too much, to be coy about their desires now. When she pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
A knock at the door interrupted whatever might have followed.
"Enter," Daeron called, stepping away from Daenerys.
A young page entered, bowing low. "Ser Daeron, Lady Daenerys. Princess Rhaenyra requests your presence in her chambers before the feast."
Daeron and Daenerys exchanged knowing looks.
So it begins, he thought.
"Tell the princess we'll attend her shortly," Daenerys said with a gracious smile.
The page bowed again and scurried away.
"A private audience," Daenerys mused once they were alone. "How intimate."
"How dangerous," Daeron countered. "If she's already making moves this bold..."
"Then we need to be bolder." Daenerys moved to her vanity, checking her appearance one final time. The silver hair that had once conquered cities gleamed in the candlelight. "Remember, we're not Jon and Daenerys tonight. We're whoever we need to be to secure her alliance."
We haven't been Jon and Daenerys for a long time, he thought sadly. We're something else now. Something harder. Something necessary.
"The game begins," he said aloud, offering her his arm.
"No, my love," she corrected as they moved toward the door. "The game began the moment we arrived. Tonight, we simply make our first real move."
As they walked through the corridors toward Rhaenyra's chambers, Daeron couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a dragon's den. The irony wasn't lost on him—they who commanded Vermithor and Silverwing worried about a princess who rode Syrax. One of the smallest of Dragons that can be ridden.
But it wasn't Rhaenyra's dragon that concerned him. It was the woman herself, with her fierce pride and desperate hunger for something more than the cage of duty she'd been placed in.
We're offering her freedom, he reminded himself.
The guards outside Rhaenyra's chambers nodded them through without question, and Daeron wondered what instructions they'd been given. What did the princess have planned for them?
As the door closed behind them, sealing them in with the Dragon Princess, Daeron had the strangest feeling that they were about to cross a line they could never uncross.
But then, he thought with grim determination, we crossed that line the moment we decided to change history.
Daenerys Targaryen
Daenerys Targaryen—who had once conquered cities—entered Princess Rhaenyra's chambers with the practiced grace of a woman who understood that every movement was a weapon.
She's trying too hard, was Daenerys's first thought upon seeing the princess.
Rhaenyra stood by her window in a dress of deep crimson that clung to every curve, the neckline plunging to show her womanly beauty. Her silver hair was artfully arranged to fall over one shoulder, and she'd applied just enough rouge to her lips to make them look freshly kissed.
I suppose subtlety was never a Targaryen virtue.
"Princess," Daeron said with a perfect bow. "You honor us with this invitation."
"Please, no formality here," Rhaenyra said, her voice pitched low in what she clearly thought was seductive. "In private, I'm simply Rhaenyra."
"Then you must call us Daeron and Daenerys," she replied with a warm smile that revealed nothing. "After all, friends shouldn't stand on ceremony."
"Friends." Rhaenyra tested the word, moving closer with studied casualness. "Is that what we are?"
She offered them wine—Dornish red, expensive and strong. Daenerys accepted with grace, noting how Rhaenyra's fingers lingered against hers during the exchange.
Oh, sweetling, you have no idea what game you're playing.
"Tell me about yourselves," Rhaenyra said, settling onto a velvet couch and patting the space beside her. "You appear from nowhere, capture the court's attention, and yet remain mysteries."
Daeron took the indicated seat while Daenerys chose a chair opposite, forcing Rhaenyra to divide her attention between them.
Never give them everything they want at once. Make them work for it.
"What would you like to know?" Daeron asked carefully.
"Everything." Rhaenyra leaned toward him slightly, her dress shifting in ways that were definitely intentional. "Your parentage, for instance. Those eyes didn't come from nowhere."
"My mother was Northern," Daeron said, sticking to their agreed story. "My father... someone I never knew and prefer not to discuss."
"A bastard then?" Rhaenyra's tone held no judgment, only curiosity.
"Does it matter?" Daenerys interjected smoothly. "In Essos, where I was raised, bloodlines matter less than capability."
"Essos." Rhaenyra's attention shifted to her, those violet eyes sharp with interest. "Which part?"
"Various parts. My guardians were traders. We traveled extensively."
"And yet you look..." Rhaenyra gestured vaguely at Daenerys's silver hair, her violet eyes.
"Like you?" Daenerys supplied with a slight smile. "Yes, I've noticed. Perhaps we share an ancestor. Old Valyria's blood spread far and wide before the Doom."
"Perhaps." Rhaenyra clearly didn't believe it was that simple, but she let it pass. "You both fought magnificently in the melee. Well, Daeron fought. You watched."
"I prefer to observe," Daenerys said. "One learns so much more that way."
"And what have you learned about me?" Rhaenyra asked with a sudective voice.
That you need allies and want a good fuck, Daenerys thought, but said, "That you're a woman constrained by expectations who yearns for something more."
Rhaenyra's breath caught slightly. "And you think you can offer me that? Something more?"
"We think," Daeron said carefully, "that mutual friendship could benefit all parties."
"Friendship." Rhaenyra stood, moving to pour herself more wine. The action was designed to display her figure from different angles. "I have friends. I have allies. I'm the Heir of the Iron Throne. Laena Velaryon is my friend. Ser Harwin was my friend."
Was. Poor Harwin.
"But they can't offer what we can," Daenerys said, rising as well. She moved closer to Rhaenyra, but not too close. Just enough to make the princess's breath quicken. "Protection. Understanding. Freedom from judgment."
"And what would you want in return for this... friendship?"
"Your protection as well," Daeron said honestly. "There are those at court who view us with suspicion."
"Queen Alicent," Rhaenyra said immediately. "She wants your head for killing her brother."
"Among others," Daenerys agreed. "Prince Daemon has also expressed certain concerns."
Rhaenyra laughed, but it wasn't entirely pleasant. "My uncle is concerned that someone else might be getting something he considers his."
"And what does he consider his?" Daenerys asked innocently.
"Everything," Rhaenyra replied, then looked directly at them both. "But I'm not his. I'm not anyone's. I'm the heir to the Iron Throne, and I take what I want."
There we go. Finally, some honesty.
"And what do you want?" Daeron asked.
Before Rhaenyra could answer, the door opened without warning. Laena Velaryon swept in, and Daenerys had to admire her timing. The woman wore deep blue silk that complemented her skin perfectly, and she'd clearly spent considerable time on her appearance.
"Oh!" Laena said with perfectly feigned surprise. "I didn't realize you had guests, Rhaenyra. I came to see if you needed help preparing for the feast."
Sure you did, sweetling. And I'm just a simple trader's ward from Essos.
"Laena," Rhaenyra said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "How thoughtful. You know Ser Daeron and Lady Daenerys, of course."
"Of course." Laena's smile was warmer as she looked at Daeron. "The hero of the melee. You fight like a man possessed by the Warrior himself."
"You flatter me, Lady Laena," Daeron replied diplomatically.
"I speak only truth." Laena moved closer to him. "Perhaps you could teach me some of your techniques? I've always been fascinated by swordplay."
I'll bet you have, Daenerys thought, watching Rhaenyra's jaw tighten.
"My husband's techniques are quite specialized," Daenerys said sweetly. "They require years of training to master properly."
"I'm a quick learner," Laena replied, matching her tone. "And I do so enjoy mastering new things."
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Both women wanted Daeron, and neither was being particularly subtle about it. Daenerys found the whole thing delightfully amusing.
If only they knew he was absolutely terrible at reading these signals.
"Perhaps," Rhaenyra said, reclaiming control of the conversation, "we should all proceed to the feast together. As friends."
"Friends," Laena repeated, and the word sounded like a challenge.
"The very best of friends," Daenerys agreed, linking her arm through Daeron's possessively.
As they prepared to leave for the feast, Daenerys caught Daeron's eye. Two dragon riders competing for his attention, both offering different advantages, both dangerous in their own ways.
At least it's never boring, she thought as they made their way to the great hall.
Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent Hightower stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, her green gown pristine and perfectly arranged. The feast in Gwayne's honor—murder victim's memorial, her mind corrected bitterly—was about to begin.
She watched as House Velaryon entered with their usual pageantry. Lord Corlys walked with his chin high, Lady Rhaenys glided with dragonrider grace, and behind them... Laenor stumbled slightly, catching himself against a pillar. Not drunk, not yet, but clearly unsteady. Several knights exchanged glances, and she caught Ser Rickard Thorne muttering to his companion, "That's to be our future king-consort?"
"Did you hear how he screamed at the Tourney? Can it be true?"
"That's our Future King? The boy who weeps like a woman."
Good, Alicent thought with vicious satisfaction. Let them all see what manner of man Rhaenyra chooses. A sodden fool who can barely stand upright at a formal feast.
The next arrival made her blood burn hotter than dragonfire. Princess Rhaenyra swept in wearing black and red—of course she would flaunt Targaryen colors at my brother's memorial—and on her arms were Laena Velaryon, Daeron, and that silver-haired whore Daenerys.
She's doing this on purpose, Alicent realized, her nails digging into her palms. Parading my brother's killer before me like a trophy.
Even Viserys, seated beside her at the high table, shifted uncomfortably at the sight. "That seems... poorly considered," he murmured.
From his place at the table, Prince Daemon actually laughed—a short, sharp bark of amusement that made Alicent want to throw her wine in his face. At least Daeron and Daenerys had the minimal decency to separate from the princess, taking seats among the lesser knights and servants rather than following her to the royal table.
As if that makes it better. As if sitting twenty feet away erases the blood on his hands.
The hall filled quickly, the noise of conversation rising like a tide. When most were seated, Alicent rose from her chair. The movement was noticed immediately—conversations died, heads turned, attention focused on their queen.
"My lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. "We gather tonight to honor the memory of Ser Gwayne Hightower, knight of the realm, son of Oldtown, and..." Her voice caught. "My beloved brother."
She had prepared words, careful political phrases crafted with her father's help. But standing there, looking at the sea of faces that ranged from politely attentive to openly bored, something cracked inside her chest.
"He was twenty years old," she continued, her voice roughening. "Twenty. He loved to read histories of ancient knights. He practiced his swordwork every dawn because he wanted to be worthy of the stories. He used to steal honey cakes from our kitchen and blame the servants, though our mother always knew." A sad smile touched her lips. "He wrote to me every week from Oldtown, terrible letters full of complaints about his tutors and requests for gold to spend on wine and women."
The tears came then, real ones that she didn't try to hide. "He came here to celebrate Princess Rhaenyra's betrothal. To serve his king. And now he lies cold in a sept, his throat—"
She stopped, unable to continue. The hall was utterly silent.
"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury said, rising with his cup. "House Beesbury grieves with you."
"House Redwyne stands with the Queen in her sorrow," another voice added.
The condolences came in a wave, polite, proper, and utterly hollow. Alicent could see it in their eyes. To them, Gwayne was just another casualty of a tournament, barely worth remembering. Only at the table where House Hightower sat, her father Otto, her brother Gerold, various cousins, did she see genuine grief. Uncle Hobert was actually weeping into his wine.
They don't care, she thought. My brother's blood is still fresh in the ground, and already they've forgotten him.
King Viserys rose beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Ser Gwayne Hightower died as he lived—with courage, with honor, and in service to the realm. In the histories, it is written that the greatest knights are those who face death without flinching, who meet their end with steel in hand and defiance in their hearts." His voice grew stronger. "Though his years were few, Ser Gwayne achieved that immortal glory. He will be remembered not for how long he lived, but for how bravely he died."
The words were kind, even beautiful. For a moment, Alicent felt a flicker of warmth toward her husband.
Then her gaze found Daeron across the hall, speaking quietly with some Northern lord, and Lord Stark and the warmth turned to ice. Pretty words won't bring Gwayne back. Won't give me justice.
"To Ser Gwayne Hightower!" Viserys raised his cup. "May the Seven grant him eternal peace!"
"To Ser Gwayne!" the hall echoed, cups raised in unison.
Alicent drank deeply, tasting bitterness rather than wine. As she lowered her cup, her eyes found the new Kingsguard—her choice, approved just this morning. A second son, hungry for glory, was easily bought with the promise of a position. Not as skilled as Criston Cole had been, but twice as ambitious and completely hers.
One piece in place, she thought. Soon there will be more.
She sat down, accepting her husband's gentle squeeze of her hand with a grateful nod she didn't feel. Around her, the feast continued—laughter, conversation, the clink of cups and plates. Life moving on as if Gwayne had never existed at all.
But I remember, little brother. And I'll make them all remember, before this is done. Starting with your murderer.
Her eyes found Daeron again, watching as he smiled at something his wife said. She saw as a Northern Lady laughed at something Daeron said with a smile. That smile, she decided, would look quite different when she had him in chains.
Soon.
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/PerfectPage' on Websearch