Chapter 1: The Lion and the Dragon's Bride
The air in the chamber was too thick, smelling of beeswax and the faint, dying perfume of rosewater. Crimson silk hangings drank the light from a hundred candles, making the room feel like the inside of a warm, bloody throat. Jaime stood by the great canopied bed, his hand resting on one of the carved posts. He’d traded his armor for a doublet of black velvet, but he felt more exposed than ever.
Rhaenys stood at the heavy wooden table, her back to him. The bridal gown was a Lannister conceit, cloth-of-silver threaded with gold lions. It was too severe for her, but nothing could tame the wild spill of black curls down her back, a single, defiant streak of silver running through them like a bolt of lightning. She poured wine into a goblet, the crystal clinking a fragile rhythm against the silence. He watched the tremor in her hand.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. His voice was low, rough from disuse.
She turned, the silver fabric whispering. The violet of her eyes in the candlelight was staggering. It was her father’s gaze, haunted and royal, set in the lovely, solemn face she’d inherited from her Dornish mother. She was no longer the little girl he’d dragged, weeping and kicking, from beneath her father’s bed. The memory was a cold stone in his gut. The blood on the tiles, the small hands grasping at nothing.
“We both know that’s a lie,” she said. Her voice was clearer than he expected, with a sharp edge to it. She took a slow drink of the wine, her eyes not leaving his. A drop lingered on her lower lip. He found himself staring at it, at the line of her neck as she swallowed.
He looked away, toward the hearth. “The words were said. The cloaks were exchanged. My father’s satisfaction is currently echoing through every hall in the Rock. That doesn’t mean we need to… consummate the farce tonight.”
“Farce.” She let the word hang. She set the goblet down with a definitive click. “Is that what you call it? My life has been a farce since you pulled me from that room. A pretty, political farce. This is just the final act.” She took a step toward him. The candles threw her shadow, long and twisting, up the wall. “Or do you find the sight of me distasteful, Lord Lannister? A reminder of what your family took?”
The old anger, the defensiveness, flared in him. “I took you from that room. Me. Not my father. Not my sister. My hand.”
“And I have thanked you for it every single day since,” she shot back, her composure cracking for the first time, a flash of pure fire. “By living as your guest. Your ward. Your prize. Now your wife.” She was close now. He could smell the wine on her breath, something spicier beneath it. “So do not speak to me of distaste. I am neck-deep in it.”
He caught her wrist then. His calloused fingers circled the delicate bones. She didn’t flinch. “I have never treated you as a prize.”
“Haven’t you?” She tried to pull away, but he held firm. Not hard. Just firm. A current passed between them, a live wire of anger and something else, something that had been simmering for years. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. A challenge. “You look at me. I see it. Even now, with all this guilt choking you, you look.”
He was. He was looking at the curve of her lips, the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that no maid’s powder could fully conceal, the rapid pulse in her throat. The girl was gone. This was a woman, all sorrow and defiance and terrifying beauty. His guilt was a familiar cloak, but beneath it, his desire was a simpler, hotter truth.
“I am not a good man, Rhaenys,” he said, his thumb moving unconsciously against the inside of her wrist. “The things I’ve done…”
“I know what you’ve done,” she whispered. “The Kingslayer. The oathbreaker. The man who saved a dragon spawn. You are a collection of contradictions, Jaime Lannister. And I am tired of being a duty.”
She moved first.
It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was a collision. Her free hand came up to clutch the front of his doublet, pulling him down as she rose onto her toes. Her mouth was wine and fury. He groaned into it, his arms wrapping around her, one hand splaying against the small of her back, crushing the expensive fabric. The rational part of him, the part that whispered of betrayal and dishonor, was drowned out by the pounding of his own blood. She bit his lower lip, not gently, and the sharp pain was exhilarating.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed. They broke apart, breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide and dark. He saw the fear then, finally, beneath the bravado. It stopped him cold.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice ragged. “And I will. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll leave. Just say it.”
She stared up at him, her chest rising and falling. She brought her hands to the fastenings of his doublet. Her fingers, clever and determined, began to work the laces. “I am tired of being a symbol. For tonight,” she said, her gaze unwavering, “let me just be a woman. And you just be a man.”
It was permission. It was a surrender. It was neither.
The silks and velvets became a pool of luxury on the floor. The candles guttered. In the dim light, her skin was dusky gold, marked here and there with pale, faint scars—a childhood of hiding, of fear. He traced one on her ribcage with a reverence that felt alien to him. She shivered.
Later, when the heat had burned down to embers and the room was quiet save for their breathing, she lay with her head on his chest. His fingers were idly threading through her impossible curls. The guilt was still there, a dull ache, but it was tangled now with a fierce, protective warmth that threatened to crack him open.
“They’ll expect an heir,” she said into the darkness, her voice flat.
“They can expect what they like.”
She was silent for a long time. Just as he thought she might have fallen asleep, she spoke again. “When you found me… did you see her? My mother?”
He closed his eyes. The memory was always waiting. “No. I only saw you.”
She nodded against his chest, a small, accepting movement. Then she sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. The candlelight caught the silver in her hair, the purple in her eyes. She looked like some ancient queen carved from night and starlight. “I want you to teach me.”
“Teach you what?”
“How to fight.”
He laughed, a short, surprised sound. “What?”
“You heard me. I don’t want to be pulled from under a bed ever again. I want to know how to use a dagger. At least.” Her expression was utterly serious. “You owe me that much. Not just my life, but the means to keep it.”
He sat up, facing her. The request was madness. A highborn lady, a Targaryen princess… his wife. Yet it was the first thing she had ever asked of him for herself. Not a favor, not a trinket. A weapon.
Before he could answer, a heavy fist hammered against the chamber door.
“Lord Jaime!” The voice was urgent, strained. A guardsman.
Jaime was on his feet in an instant, grabbing a breech from the floor. “What?”
“A rider, my lord. From King’s Landing. He’s in the lower hall, says he must speak with you immediately. He bears the royal seal.”
Rhaenys had pulled the sheet up to her chin, her eyes wide and alert. All softness was gone. The prisoner was back, watching the bars of her cage.
“Tell him I’m coming,” Jaime barked. He turned, finding his clothes. The world, with all its complications and dangers, had just slammed back into their fragile sanctuary. As he fastened his belt, he looked at her. She was watching him, unreadable.
He crossed the room in three strides, bent, and kissed her, hard and quick. “We will discuss your lessons,” he said against her mouth.
Then he was gone, the door closing with a solid, final sound, leaving her alone in the gilded dimness. She slowly brought her fingers to her lips. Then she threw back the sheets and walked to the window, naked, looking out at the moonlit sea. For the first time in a long time, she did not feel like a prize. She felt like a promise, sharp and unsheathed. And she smiled.