Chapter Text
Twelve Years Ago
The Red Keep was never truly quiet, but on this night it felt as though the very stones held their breath. Ten-year-old Talia Targaryen sat at the edge of her ornate bed, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the chill wind that whispered through the cracks in the ancient windows. Her chambers smelled of lavender oil and the faint smoke of the hearth, where a low fire crackled and cast dancing shadows across the tapestries depicting dragons in flight. She brushed her long silver-gold hair with slow, absent strokes, the silver-backed brush a gift from Uncle Daemon on her last nameday. Each pass through the strands felt mechanical tonight, her small hands moving without the usual joy.
A few hours earlier, the sound had pierced the Keep like a dragon’s roar—high, thin, insistent. A baby’s cry. Talia had frozen then, standing barefoot on the cold stone floor of the corridor outside the royal birthing chamber, her heart hammering. She had not been allowed inside. Servants had ushered her away with hurried, pitying glances. But she had heard it clearly: a new life had entered the world. Her father’s new wife had given him what her own mother could not. Another child. A sibling.
Now, the Keep had settled again, but the echo of that cry lingered in Talia’s chest like a wound. She set the brush down and reached for her nightgown, the soft silk embroidered with tiny crimson dragons breathing thread-of-gold flame. Her mother had worn something similar once, or so the septas told her. Lady Maera had died bringing Talia into the world, her life traded for her daughter’s first breath. Talia often wondered if that was why Father sometimes looked at her with a sadness he tried to hide behind gentle smiles.
She slipped the nightgown over her head, the fabric cool against her skin, and padded to the window. The moon hung low over Blackwater Bay, silver light glinting on the distant waves. Somewhere out there, Uncle Daemon was probably laughing with his Gold Cloaks or riding his dragon Caraxes through the night sky. He had promised to take her flying again soon.
“You have the blood for it, little flame,” he had said last week, ruffling her hair after a lesson in High Valyrian. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.
A dragon is not a slave.
The words felt like armor when he spoke them to her.
A soft knock at the door made her turn. Before she could answer, it opened.
King Viserys Targaryen stepped inside, his robes heavy with the weight of office, the golden crown absent from his brow tonight. He looked tired—more tired than Talia had ever seen him. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper in the firelight, and his shoulders, usually straight with the quiet dignity of a king, were slightly bowed. He closed the door gently behind him, the latch clicking like a final breath.
“Talia, my sweet girl,” he said, his voice soft, almost breaking on her name. He crossed the room in a few strides and lowered himself onto the edge of her bed, patting the space beside him. There was something in the way he looked at her—slow, lingering, as though memorizing every freckle on her nose, every strand of silver hair—that made her stomach twist with unease.
She climbed up beside him obediently, her bare feet dangling. His hand, warm and large, covered hers. For a long moment he simply held it, thumb stroking the back of her knuckles in the same rhythm he had used when she was smaller and frightened by thunderstorms.
“Father?” she whispered. “Was that… the baby? Is it a brother or a sister?”
Viserys’s eyes glistened. He swallowed hard, then drew her closer, wrapping one arm around her narrow shoulders. She leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment, incense, and the faint metallic tang that always clung to him after handling the Iron Throne.
“Yes,” he said at last. “A sister. Rhaenyra. She is… strong. Healthy.” His voice caught. “The gods have been kind tonight.”
Talia nodded against his chest. A sister. The word felt strange, like a new cloak that didn’t quite fit yet. She had always been the only one. The princess. The last piece of her mother that Father had left.
But then Viserys pulled back slightly, cupping her face in both hands. His eyes searched hers—violet meeting violet—and she saw the tears he was fighting to contain. This was not the joyful father who had once danced with her in the godswood. This was a man saying goodbye.
“My darling Talia,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “You have been the light of these halls since the day you came to us. So brave. So full of fire, just like your mother. But… things are changing now.”
Talia’s small brow furrowed. “Changing how?”
He hesitated, then pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as if drawing strength from the contact. When he spoke again, his words were careful, gentle, wrapped in the kind of tenderness that only made the knife twist deeper.
“You must go away for a while, my sweet one. To Essos. It is not forever—only until things here are… settled. The court can be a dangerous place for a young princess when new heirs arrive. Whispers, ambitions… I cannot risk you.”
Talia blinked, confusion flooding her like cold seawater. She pulled back just enough to look at his face.
“Why, Daddy? I don’t understand. This is my home. You’re here. Uncle Daemon is here. My dragon—”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She had only just begun riding the young dragon in the pit under Daemon’s watchful eye. The creature knew her voice, her scent. How could she leave?
Viserys’s hands trembled slightly against her cheeks.
“You are not safe here right now, Talia. I wish it were not so, but the gods have set a new path for our family. Your stepmother has given me another child, and the lords… they watch everything. I must protect you. A ship waits at the harbor even now. Trusted men will take you across the Narrow Sea. You will have everything you need—servants, gold, safety.”
Tears welled in Talia’s eyes, hot and stinging. She shook her head fiercely, silver hair whipping across her face.
“But I don’t want to go! Please, Daddy, don’t send me away. I’ll be good. I’ll help with the baby. I can learn to be a proper big sister. Don’t make me leave…”
Her voice broke into a sob. Viserys pulled her into his arms fully then, crushing her against his chest as she cried. His own tears fell silently into her hair. He rocked her the way he had when she was a toddling babe, murmuring soft Valyrian endearments—riñus, ñuha riñus—my little one, my little one. The fire popped and hissed in the hearth, a cruel reminder that warmth still existed here while he prepared to send her into the unknown.
“I love you more than the stars in the sky, Talia,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Never doubt that. This is to keep you alive. To keep our blood safe. One day, when the realm is steady again, you will come home. I swear it.”
She clung to him, fists twisting in his robes, her small body shaking with the force of her grief. The baby’s distant cry echoed faintly down the corridor once more, as if the newborn princess herself were sealing Talia’s fate.
Viserys held her until her sobs quieted into exhausted hiccups. Then, with the gentleness of a man breaking his own heart, he stood and helped her to her feet.
“Pack what you cherish most,” he said quietly, his eyes red-rimmed but resolute. “The ship sails with the tide. Be brave, my dragon daughter. The blood of Old Valyria runs true in you.”
Talia stood there in her nightgown, the brush and scattered clothes suddenly foreign on the bed. Her world, once filled with dragons and uncles and the promise of belonging, was shattering around her. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she reached for a small satchel.
Talia’s small hands froze on the leather satchel. The words hung in the air like smoke—pack what you cherish most—and something inside her chest snapped. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, but they were no longer just tears of sorrow. They burned with fury.
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, her voice cracking but fierce. “No! I won’t go!”
King Viserys reached for her, his face a mask of pained kindness. “Talia, please—”
She darted away from his outstretched arms, quicker than he expected. Her bare feet slapped against the cold stone as she bolted for the chamber door. The nightgown tangled around her legs, but she didn’t care. Behind her, she heard her father’s startled cry and the heavy footsteps of the guards who had been waiting outside.
“Stop her!” Viserys called, voice thick with regret. “Gently! Do not harm her!”
But Talia was already gone.
She flew down the torchlit corridor like a shadow, silver hair streaming behind her. At ten years old she was small, but Daemon had taught her well. Move like smoke, he had said during their secret lessons.
The world sees what it expects—a little princess. Show them something else.
She ducked under the reaching arm of the first guard, twisted away from the second with a spin he had drilled into her during mock swordplay. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drumbeat of betrayal and terror.
They want to send me away. Like I’m nothing. Like Mother’s death wasn’t enough.
Angry sobs tore from her throat as she ran deeper into the Red Keep. Servants gasped and pressed against the walls. A maid dropped a tray of wine cups, the crash echoing behind her. Talia’s bare feet stung on the rough stone, but pain only fueled her. She knew these halls better than any guard—every hidden stair, every shadowed alcove. Daemon’s training sang in her blood.
“Princess!” a guard shouted. “Come back!”
She didn’t look back.
Somewhere behind her, she heard heavier, more purposeful footsteps. A voice she knew better than her own cut through the chaos.
“Talia!”
Daemon.
Her uncle’s voice was sharp with alarm, laced with something deeper—something raw that made her chest ache even as she ran faster. She glanced over her shoulder for a split second and saw him: tall, silver-haired, cloak billowing as he shoved past the guards. His violet eyes locked on her, wide with shock and something fiercer.
Concern.
Possession.
A hunger he tried so hard to bury beneath mocking smiles and reckless charm.
She kept running.
Down spiraling stairs, through an arched doorway, and out into the night air. The wind whipped her nightgown as she raced across the outer yard toward the Dragonpit. Torches flickered wildly. Above, the stars wheeled coldly, indifferent to a little girl’s breaking heart.
Aethrax felt her before she even reached the massive stone dome.
The young dragon’s roar split the night—furious, protective, echoing her pain. Black scales rippled under moonlight, copper markings glinting like fresh blood. Dark red wings half-unfurled in agitation. Aethrax was still growing, but already swift and warlike, bonded to her since the day she first touched his egg. Now he thrashed against his chains inside the pit, sensing every tear, every stab of betrayal pulsing through their connection.
Talia burst through the smaller entrance used by riders, her lungs burning. The air inside was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of dragonfire. Aethrax’s golden eyes fixed on her immediately. He lowered his massive head, nostrils flaring, a low keening sound rumbling from his throat.
“I’m here,” she gasped, running straight to him. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving any of them.”
Guards poured in behind her. Daemon was faster than all of them.
“Talia, stop!” His voice cracked with urgency. He skidded to a halt a few paces away, hands raised in a gesture of peace. The usual smirk was gone. In its place was raw, open fear—and beneath it, the feelings he had tried so desperately to control. She was only ten, a child, his niece, yet the bond between them had always burned brighter than it should. He had taught her to fly, to speak the old tongue, to fight. He had seen the fire in her and loved it too much.
“Little flame, listen to me,” he said, voice low and coaxing, stepping closer. “This isn’t the way. Your father… he thinks he’s protecting you. Come here. We’ll speak to him together. I won’t let them take you if you don’t want to go.”
For a moment, she wavered. Daemon’s presence had always been her anchor. Those violet eyes that saw her—not as a reminder of her mother’s death, but as something fierce and worthy. She took one hesitant step toward him.
Then she saw them—more guards flooding the entrance, and behind them, her father. Viserys’s face was pale, tears streaking his cheeks as he pushed forward.
“Talia, please—”
The sight of him shattered the fragile hesitation. They were all liars. They were all taking everything from her.
Daemon was close now—so close she could smell the leather and smoke on him. His hand reached out, gentle, trembling slightly with the effort not to grab her too roughly.
In one lightning movement, Talia’s small hand darted to his belt and yanked the small dagger free—the one he always carried, razor-sharp and balanced for throwing. Daemon’s eyes widened in shock.
“Talia—”
She stabbed downward with all the strength her small body could muster. The blade sank into the meat of his thigh. Daemon grunted in pain, staggering back. Blood welled dark against his breeches. He did not cry out. Instead, a strange mix of pride and agony flashed across his face.
“Seven hells… that’s my girl,” he hissed through gritted teeth, even as he dropped to one knee.
Guards shouted and surged forward. Viserys cried her name in horror.
Talia didn’t wait. She spun, tears streaming, and sprinted the last few steps to Aethrax. The dragon lowered his wing like a ramp, feeling her desperation as clearly as his own. She scrambled up the warm, scaled surface, nightgown tearing, knees scraping. Her hands gripped the ridges along his neck.
“Fly, Aethrax!” she screamed, voice breaking. “Sōvēs!”
The black dragon roared—a sound that shook dust from the rafters of the Dragonpit. Chains snapped under his sudden surge of power. Dark red wings unfurled fully, knocking guards aside like toys. With a powerful leap, Aethrax launched into the night sky.
Wind tore at Talia’s hair as they climbed higher and higher. Below, the Red Keep shrank rapidly. She saw Daemon limping forward, one hand pressed to his bleeding leg, staring up at her with an expression she would never forget—pride, loss, and a fierce, forbidden longing all at once. Her father had fallen to his knees in the yard, arms outstretched as if he could pull her back by sheer will.
Tears froze on her cheeks as Aethrax banked east, toward the Narrow Sea. The dragon’s powerful body thrummed with protective rage beneath her. His pain was her pain. Her anger was his fire.
Behind them, King’s Landing faded into darkness. The girl who would one day be called the Exile Princess clung to her dragon’s neck, sobbing into black scales as the first light of dawn touched the horizon.
The wind howled like a mourning widow as Aethrax carried Talia higher into the pre-dawn sky. King’s Landing had shrunk to a cluster of flickering lights far behind them, the Red Keep nothing more than a jagged shadow against the horizon. Talia clung to the warm ridges of her dragon’s neck, her small body pressed flat, silver hair whipping wildly in the freezing rush of air. Her nightgown was torn and soaked with sweat and tears, her bare legs scraped raw from the desperate climb.
She had done it. She had escaped.
A shaky, broken sob escaped her lips, half-laugh, half-cry.
“We’re free, Aethrax,” she whispered into his scales, voice hoarse.
The black dragon rumbled beneath her, copper markings catching the first faint rays of sunrise. His dark red wings beat with powerful, steady strokes, carrying them eastward over the Narrow Sea. The water below glittered like dark glass. For one fragile moment, relief flooded Talia’s chest—sharp and sweet. She had fought. She had chosen. The pain of her father’s betrayal and the sting of Daemon’s blood on her hands felt distant now, carried away by the wind.
But freedom was an illusion.
A blood-curdling screech tore through the sky behind them.
Talia’s heart seized. She knew that sound.
Caraxes.
She twisted around on Aethrax’s neck, violet eyes wide with disbelief. There—silhouetted against the paling sky—was the Blood Wyrm. Long, sinuous, and horrifyingly fast, his pinkish-red body twisted like a serpent through the clouds. And on his back, cloak streaming like a banner of war, rode Daemon Targaryen.
Even from this distance, she could see the dark stain of blood on his thigh where her dagger had struck. Yet he sat tall in the saddle, one hand gripping the reins, the other pressed to the wound. His face was a storm of fury, fear, and something deeper—something that made Talia’s stomach twist with guilt and longing all at once.
“Uncle…” she breathed.
Aethrax felt the shift in her immediately. The dragon’s body tensed, a low growl vibrating through his chest. He could sense her turmoil, the storm of emotions—betrayal, love, terror—pouring through their bond. His wings faltered for a heartbeat, then beat harder.
Caraxes screeched again, closer now.
Daemon’s voice carried on the wind, raw and desperate. “Talia! Turn back! Now!”
She shook her head fiercely, though he could not see it. Tears streamed down her face, freezing instantly in the high altitude. “I can’t! I won’t!”
The two dragons circled each other warily at first. Caraxes, older and more experienced, darted forward with terrifying agility. Aethrax roared in response, protective instincts blazing. He was young, but bonded heart and soul to his rider. No one would take her from him.
The first clash was chaos.
Caraxes lunged, jaws snapping. Aethrax twisted mid-air with surprising swiftness, copper-flecked wings slicing through the sky. Flames erupted—bright orange from Aethrax, hotter and wilder from Caraxes. Fire met fire in a blazing explosion that lit the dawn like a second sun. Talia screamed as heat washed over her, singeing the edges of her nightgown. She gripped Aethrax’s neck ridges until her knuckles turned white.
“Easy! Aethrax, easy!” she cried, but the dragons were beyond commands now. Their riders’ emotions fueled the frenzy. Caraxes was fiercely protective of Daemon, and through him, of the family he refused to let fracture further. Aethrax fought for the terrified girl on his back who had chosen exile over abandonment.
They collided again. Scales scraped scales with a sound like shattering swords. Talia was thrown violently to one side as Aethrax rolled to avoid Caraxes’ whipping tail. The world spun—sky, sea, dragons, all blurring into a nightmare of fire and wind. Another burst of dragonflame scorched the air just above her head. She smelled burning hair—her own.
Daemon was shouting something, but the wind tore his words away. His face, when she caught a glimpse, was twisted with horror. He had drawn closer, dangerously close, one hand reaching out as if he could pluck her from the sky by sheer force of will. The feelings he fought so hard to bury were naked now—raw, possessive, terrified. She was just a child, his little flame, and he had failed her.
“Talia!”
Caraxes dove beneath them suddenly, then surged upward. The impact was devastating. Aethrax roared in pain as the Blood Wyrm’s claws raked across his flank. Blood—dark and steaming—sprayed into the wind. Talia felt her dragon’s agony like a knife in her own side.
“No!” she screamed.
In the chaos, Aethrax bucked wildly. One massive wing clipped Caraxes, but the force sent Talia sliding. Her grip failed. Time slowed.
She fell.
The world became nothing but rushing air and the roar of dragons above. Her nightgown billowed like a broken sail as she tumbled end over end. The sea rushed up to meet her—dark, cold, merciless. She caught one final glimpse of Daemon’s face: pale with terror, mouth open in a silent scream as he urged Caraxes downward in a desperate dive.
Then the ocean swallowed her whole.
The impact drove the air from her lungs. Freezing saltwater crashed over her, filling her mouth and nose. The currents dragged her down, down, into blackness. Her small limbs flailed uselessly against the pull. Above, muffled through the water, she heard the distant screams of dragons—Caraxes and Aethrax still locked in their messy, blazing battle.
Darkness closed in. Her chest burned. The last thoughts flickering through her mind were of her father’s tear-streaked face, Daemon’s blood on her hands.