From Flames to Fury (Part 2)

Chapter 1: Bending the Knee

His gaze flicked up to the Cannibal who let out a growl ominously overhead.

In that moment, I caught a glimpse of his inner turmoil—a flicker of confusion, mingled with contempt. His eyes searched mine, as if trying to unravel the mystery of how I had earned the dragon's trust, how I had managed to command him to scorch the forest from inside Harrenhal.

The contempt was palpable; it dripped from him like venom. I could see it in the way his lip curled, a silent accusation against my very existence. I was an outsider, not of his blood, and yet here I was, riding a dragon and standing beside Rhaenyra, emboldening her to claim her rightful place. I could almost feel the weight of his resentment, a silent reminder that I had stolen something precious from him—not just Rhaenyra, but the very essence of his legacy.

"Daemon," Rhaenyra's voice cut through the tension, steady and commanding.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, the weight of Daemon's gaze finally dragging away from me as he shifted his attention back to her. The relief was instant, but not without its edge—this moment was far from over, and we both knew it.

Daemon turned his full attention to Rhaenyra, his expression unreadable as his lips twitched, almost amused. But beneath that mask of calm, I could feel the undercurrent of tension pulsing between them—an invisible thread drawn taut, ready to snap at the slightest wrong move.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there, eyes locked, as if in a battle of wills. Rhaenyra, with her chin held high, radiated a quiet strength, a power that had only grown with time. Daemon, on the other hand, was a coiled spring—dangerous, unpredictable, as though he was deciding whether to honor the moment or destroy it.

"To whom are you sworn?" Rhaenyra's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering, cutting through the crisp morning air like the swing of a sword. Her words weren't just meant for Daemon—they were meant for every soldier standing behind him, their faces hard and grim, eyes flicking between the two Targaryens who stood at the center of this tense standoff.

This was the moment that would define the course of everything that followed, the moment that would decide where their loyalties truly lay.

The soldiers, battle-hardened and weary, shifted uneasily in the silence that followed her question. Their faces betrayed flickers of uncertainty, brows furrowing as they glanced toward Daemon for guidance. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, the weight of the decision pressing down on everyone like a physical force.

Daemon stood between his men and his wife, his expression unreadable for a moment as his eyes darted between Rhaenyra and the soldiers at his back. I could see his jaw tighten, his fingers flexing as though he were contemplating his next move. There was something dangerous in the way he stood, as though he were deciding whether to let this fragile alliance stand or break it apart with a single command.

His lips curled into a smirk, but the easy arrogance that usually accompanied it was gone. It was a mask, barely concealing the roiling tension beneath the surface. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face his men, raising his chin in a gesture of authority.

"You heard your queen," Daemon said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of something darker, something more volatile. "To whom do you swear your loyalty?"

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. It stretched on, heavy and oppressive, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of us like an unspoken threat. My heart pounded in my chest, my grip tightening around Freya as I felt her stir slightly, the tension in the air so thick it was suffocating.

And then, one by one, the men began to move. Knees hit the ground with a dull thud, armor clinking together as they lowered their heads in unison. Each bow felt like the strike of a hammer, a sound of submission echoing through the ranks as the soldiers swore their fealty to Rhaenyra. Their voices, low but steady, carried across the field.

"My queen," they murmured, the words rumbling like distant thunder as they pledged their loyalty.

A wave of relief washed over me, but it was fleeting. As my gaze shifted toward Daemon, I felt a chill creep down my spine. While his men knelt before Rhaenyra, heads bowed in submission, Daemon remained standing, tall and defiant, his eyes locked on hers with a smoldering intensity. There was something unsettling in the way he held himself—something dangerous, something that hinted at a game still being played beneath the surface.

The air between them crackled with tension, and the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. For a moment, it felt as though everything could shatter with a single word, a single movement. Rhaenyra's violet eyes were fixed on him, unwavering, demanding. She wasn't just asking for his loyalty—she was commanding it.

Daemon's jaw clenched, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes. This was not in his nature, bending the knee, submitting to anyone. He was a man born of chaos, a man who thrived on defiance and unpredictability. But slowly, almost as though fighting against his own instincts, he lowered himself. Inch by inch, Daemon Targaryen—Prince of the Realm, rider of Caraxes, and Rhaenyra's husband—dropped to one knee before her.

"My queen," he declared, his voice low yet resonant, each word dripping with a reluctant reverence that echoed through the ranks. His gaze remained locked on hers, fierce and unwavering, even as he knelt before her. "I am your sword, and I will carve a path for you to the Iron Throne."

Rhaenyra stood tall, her face an unreadable mask, though I knew her well enough now to sense the turmoil beneath. She stepped forward, her presence commanding as ever, her gaze never wavering from Daemon's. She placed a hand on his head, not in affection, but in power.

"Then rise, husband," she said, her voice firm but soft. "And prove your loyalty not with words, but with actions."

Daemon rose slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, as though he had already begun plotting his next move. But in that moment, the balance of power was clear. Rhaenyra stood at the center, her grip on her claim stronger than ever.

But as I looked into Daemon's eyes, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. He had sworn his sword, but Daemon Targaryen was not a man to be easily controlled.

Not even by the woman he had just bent the knee to.