The sky above the Kingswood was not blue; it was a bruised, suffocating purple, torn apart by the jagged lightning of an approaching summer storm.

Seven years her senior, the crown prince and heir to the Seven Kingdoms cut a terrifying silhouette against the roiling clouds.

He was mounted atop his massive, obsidian-scaled dragon, a beast of war whose wings beat a rhythmic thunder that shook the canopy of trees below.

Clad in heavy, interlocking black steel armor, his sharp, aristocratic jawline was set in stone, his violet eyes tracking the treeline with a lethal, focused intensity.

Behind him, pushing her gold-scaled dragon Syrax to the absolute brink of her young speed, rode Princess Rhaenyra.

She was seventeen, her long silver-gold hair whipped into a frenzy by the gale, her eyes burning with a mixture of raw terror and exhilarating adrenaline.

She wore no courtly silks today—only tight, dark leather riding gear, her hands gripping the reins until her knuckles turned white.

They were not supposed to be here.

They had slipped away from the royal hunting party hours ago, hunting a rumor whispered by the mountain clans: a rogue, wild dragon had crossed the sea, nesting in the deep ridges, burning small settlements to ash. Suddenly, the air went deathly cold.

With a deafening, metallic screech that split the thunder, a massive, pale-grey beast erupted from the canopy directly beneath them.

It was a wild dragon, scarred and half-blind with rage, its jaws snapping shut inches from Syrax’s tail.

"Rhaenyra, break right!" her brother’s voice roared across the wind, a booming, resonant baritone that carried the absolute authority of a warlord.

Syrax shrieked, veering sharply as a column of pale, blinding fire scorched the air where she had been a second before.

The force of the heatwave nearly threw Rhaenyra from her saddle. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.

For a terrifying moment, she lost her grip, her body slipping sideways. Before she could fall, a massive shadow blocked out the lightning.

Her brother dived straight into the mouth of the storm. His black dragon slammed into the wild beast mid-air with a horrific crunch of scales and bone.

The two massive predators tumbled through the clouds, snapping and clawing, raining blood and fire down onto the forest below.

It was a display of sheer, terrifying power—the unyielding iron will of the true heir, fighting with a ruthless efficiency to protect his blood.

With a final, brutal snap of his dragon's jaws, her brother tore through the wild beast’s wing structure, sending the rogue crashing heavily into the ravine below, defeated and broken.

Breathing heavily, her brother brought his beast around, hovering effortlessly in the turbulent air beside Syrax. He unbuckled his heavy steel gauntlet and threw it aside.

Reaching across the terrifying void between their two dragons, his massive, calloused hand securely caught Rhaenyra by the nape of her neck, pulling her forward as far as their riding chains would allow.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded. His voice was rough, breathless, and laced with a fierce, possessive fury. His deep violet eyes scanned her face, his thumb pressing hard against her jawline to tilt her face up to his.

The sheer, overwhelming affection beneath his anger was blinding—a love that cared nothing for courtly rules or the fragile peace of the realm.

"No," Rhaenyra gasped, her lips parting as she leaned into his touch, her initial terror instantly dissolving into a wicked, triumphant thrill.

She gripped the edge of his chest piece, her eyes flashing with a volatile, shared fire. "I am unhurt. Because you came."