Daughter of Fire and Shadow

Prologue - The Eyrie

The hall of the Eyrie was colder than dragonstone, though no fire burned in its veins. Lady Jeyne Arryn sat upon her chair with the Vale's falcon carved high above her head, the weight of her rule carried as easily as her cloak.

Prince Daemon Targaryen strode into the chamber as if it belonged to him already. His smirk was as sharp as Dark Sister at his hip.

"My lady," he greeted, a shallow bow that was half insult. "I have come to claim what is owed. Runestone is mine by right of marriage. My wife is dead. Her halls should pass to me."

Lady Jeyne's gaze was like frost on the mountain peaks. "Runestone is not yours, Prince Daemon. Nor will it ever be."

Daemon tilted his head, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. "And who, pray, stands before me more worthy? Some cousin, some sheep-fucker of the Vale?" His smile widened, mocking. "Surely you would not deny me for the sake of tradition alone."

"Tradition," Jeyne said evenly, "is the bone upon which kingdoms stand. And law as well. Your claim is weak, prince. We both know it."

"Then strengthen it," he pressed, stepping closer, voice low. "You need allies. A dragonrider at your side, a prince of royal blood."

Her lips curved in something between pity and disdain. "Even if there were no child, Runestone would not be yours."

Daemon stilled, though only for a moment. His smirk faltered, then re-formed sharper than before. "No child?"

Jeyne's eyes never left his. "A daughter. Born of Lady Rhea. She is a year old."

There was a heartbeat of silence — and then Daemon laughed. The sound rang harsh against the Eyrie's stone. "A year?" he repeated, teeth flashing. "Then perhaps she carries the seed of one of your fine Vale lords. I lay with Rhea but once, and that but to prove the wedding not a farce. You expect me to believe the gods themselves plucked a babe from that coupling?"

His laugh faded into a smirk. "Tell me, my lady, does the girl at least bray like a sheep?"

Murmurs stirred among the assembled retainers. Jeyne's face, however, did not change. "Mock if you will, Prince Daemon. She is Rhea's blood, and that is enough. Runestone passes to her, not to you. And as long as I draw breath, the Vale shall see it done."

Daemon's eyes narrowed, but his grin never faltered. "Then keep your stones and your sheep, Lady Arryn. I have dragons. And dragons do not ask permission."

He turned on his heel, cloak sweeping the floor behind him, but the laughter he left in the hall was thin, edged with the bite of insult — and with something darker, festering beneath.