Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Orys stands in the heart of Storm’s End, in front of the towering Storm King, and wonders how he ended up here. He has never wandered outside of Dragonstone, Driftmark and Claw Isle before. Never did he once face a lord that isn’t a Valyrian, not to mention a king…

It’s all Aegon’s fault, he decides. When in doubt, always blame Aegon.

Orys doesn’t dare to look at the great king in his eyes, fearing that he’ll strike at him for disrespect. Instead, he looks at his shoes. The leather is worn out and looks rather disgusting on Storm’s End’s clean, flawless marble ground. He grimaces, hoping he can just get out of the palace and stop embarrassing himself.

He can feel the gaze of countless knights and guardsmen and courters, judging his appearance and finding it wanting, all the way from when he appeared in front of Storm’s End’s gate as Aegon’s envoy to when he arrived at this throne room. Some reacted with disgust, some with mocking laughter… just like the Storm King does. Why else is he laughing right now?

The boisterous laughter of King Argilac Durrandon lasts for an agonising ten minutes, before he cracks, “You, boy. Lift your head. Are you the ‘Orys’ mentioned in this letter?”

“Yes, Your Grace...” Orys obeys reluctantly, taking care not to meet the King’s gaze.

He widens his eyes.

Argilac shakes, his long, silver bread trembles, a large smile on his lips, every wrinkle on his aged face full of joy. “This is the funniest shit I have seen in my whole life,” he crackles, waving Aegon’s letter in one hand, a drop of tear leaving his eyes, “Who wrote this? Don’t tell me you wrote it yourself, boy. I have never heard about this ‘Aegon’ before, but common sense indicates that you aren’t the same person.”

“I, ah, penned it, but Milord Aegon designed the content of the letter. He told me what to write and I just… wrote it down…” Orys’ voice was small and awkward. He told Aegon this is a bad idea! Visenya and Rhaenys both agreed! Yet Aegon insisted, and here he is. Now he’s going to be laughed out of the Stormlands and be the laughingstock of a whole kingdom for the next decade.

King Argilac snorts, wiping his tears. “Does this ‘Aegon’ have no maester to serve in his household? He claims to be the Lord of ‘Dragonstone’, wherever that is, but he has to rely on a peasant boy to write his letters… And he wants me to marry said peasant boy to my daughter?”

Orys doesn’t even feel insulted. He IS a peasant boy, and it’ll be ridiculous for the Great Storm King to give him his daughter’s hand based on a letter. But he has something he must clarify. “Lord Aegon would love to write the letter himself, Your Grace, but the quill is taller than him, so he has difficulty in doing so.”

Argilac’s laughter stops. He stares at Orys, a perplexed look on his face. “It must be my hearing. I heard that you claimed that this ‘Aegon’ is shorter than a quill.”

“You heard it right, Your Grace.” Orys braces himself for the punishment he’ll surely receive for wasting a king’s time. King Argilac won’t want to ally with a lord shorter than a quill, no matter what Aegon claimed.

But instead, he hears laughter.

King Argilac is laughing again, his whole body shaking as he stomps and claps, nearly overthrowing himself in the process. “Gods, you’re hilarious! A lord shorter than a quill… I have thought that we have no use for a jester in court, but you’re clearly the best of them. Servants! Prepare a chamber for young Orys, and buy him whatever he will require to bring us more entertainment!”

How the heck do I explain that I’m not a jester?

It’s all your fault, Aegon.

—

A month ago, on Dragonstone…

Orys has just finished loading off all the cargo from the ship when a voice calls, “Hey, Orys! ORYS!”

Turning around warily, Orys sees a young boy jumping up and down near the shore, his whole body covered in sweat. When their gaze meets, he cries happily, “I have been looking for you the whole morning, Orys! Lord Aegon has summoned you!” Task accomplished, he lays down in the sand, letting the water embrace his body.

Orys groans quietly. Aegon never has anything good for him.

Oh, Aegon means well, as always. They grew up together, and Aegon views Orys as his younger brother… sometimes literally, forgetting that they aren’t even the same species. Despite that Orys’ head is taller and larger than Aegon’s whole body.

Briefly, Orys recalls the good old days when Lord Aerion was alive. He was a generous, good-hearted man: he blessed Orys’ mother when she was too poor to pay for it, and when she still died he took Orys in, raising him in his own halls. If he’s still around, he wouldn’t let Aegon sit in his castle and send an errand boy to do his business. He’ll force Aegon to ride out on Balerion and find Orys himself…

But there’s no use in fantasising. Lord Aerion and Lady Valaena are dead, and Aegon took their place as Balerion’s rider and Lord of Dragonstone. And Aegon takes his title more seriously than any Lord or Lady of Dragonstone ever did.

…Not in a good way.

Orys climbs the long stairs up the mountain and sighs as he sees the long line of men and women doing the same, paying tribute or seeking help. He just knows who will be receiving them.

Hint: Not Aegon.

As he has expected, he sees Rhaenys at the front of the Targaryen temple, recently expanded— and more importantly, rebranded— into a castle. She doesn’t notice him, for she’s busy redirecting the front of the waiting line to various places: presumably, to Aegon if they’re here to deliver tributes and Visenya if they’re here to seek help.

Orys would love to not interrupt her, but he can’t get into the tem— castle with all the people blocking the entrance. So he calls out, “Rhaenys!”

“Oh, hello Orys!” Rhaenys shouts back. Moments later, the crowd around her parts as Meraxes flaps her wings and rises above the crowd. 

Orys sees quite a few people giving him dirty looks, jealous of the attention he gets. “It’s Orys again,” he even hears someone grumbling, “Ungrateful Orys never gets into the line like everyone else.”

This was where I lived until I was sixteen! My home! Orys wants to shout back, but Rhaenys already turns back to them and announces, “Rest time! I’ll be back in five minutes, and I promise everyone’s businesses will be sorted out within the day!”

Cheers, and they’re finally left alone. As Rhaenys approaches, Orys sees her blinking rapidly so sweat won’t fall into her massive eyes. He can’t help but sigh, “Probably not a good idea to make promises you can’t fulfill, you know.”

Rhaenys’ smile turns sly. She leans forward, making Meraxes lift her head towards Orys’ head and whispers, “I’m just going to direct all those people to Aegon. About time he gets a taste of his own medicine. Anyway, Visenya wants to talk to you.”

“Vis…Visenya? Not Aegon?” Orys is a bit distracted as Meraxes starts purring at him and rubbing her head against him, tickling his ears. Stroking her sides absentmindedly, he adds, “I thought it’s Aegon who summoned me.”

“Aegon did, but Visenya wants to talk to you first.” Rhaenys casts a side-eye glance towards the tem— the castle. “She wants to warn you.”

“Warn me what?” Orys feels dread rising in his chest.

—

“I need to warn you, Orys,” crossing her arms, Visenya says solemnly, “Whatever Aegon wants you to do, don’t.”

Sitting on the chair for visitors— human-size visitors, Orys feels intimidated by her. Visenya doesn’t even have her dragon with her, what with Vhagar busily working her magic on the patients outside, but Visenya tends to have that effect on people… when she wants to, that is.

“You don’t have to use that face on me, Visenya, I will if I can,” he sighs, not meeting Visenya’s long, squeezed eyes and instead casting his gaze down to her long chair legs, “But you know how it is. We can never refuse his requests.”

Comes Hissing noise, and Visenya jumps off her chair. Pointing Darksister towards his nose, she yells, “Have some guts, Orys, look at me! You can resist him! We have to!”

“It’s not a matter of guts, Visenya…” Orys reluctantly raises his head and is greeted with a sight he expected: a pair of wet, glistening eyes right in front of him.

“Orys, please…” Visenya begs, blinking, tears threatening to drop, “Our tradition… our duty as the guardians of Dragonstone… Aegon is going to ruin it all! We can’t let him!”

It’s impressive, Orys will admit. It’s Visenya’s speciality to change the impression she gives from one extreme to another in a short period of time. Feeling a lump in his throat, he almost wants to give in and promise to fight Aegon. But…

“Only if you have managed to win the challenge and become heir,” he mumbles, “then Aegon wouldn’t be able to do anything. As it stands we can’t resist him, sister.” The succession of Dragonstone is based on one thing only: how much the challenger can charm the current holder of the title with their puppy dog eyes. In that aspect, Aegon is always far ahead of his sisters. 

Making dissatisfied noises, Visenya pouts, the tears disappearing in an instant. “I tried my best, damn him,” she curses, “But if I can’t charm you, then I can’t charm him either. He’s talented enough to be the most beloved Lord of Dragonstone since Daenys the Charmer, but damn him and his delusions!”

“Don’t… don’t be so angry, Visenya,” Orys says weakly, afraid that she will stab the table with Darksister. The sword might be no longer than a needle, but it’s sharp… extremely so. “So far people seem receptive. They’re surely eager to donate to the temple for the expansion, and as a result, more people come to us for help… that should be a good thing, right?”

“Don’t you dare talk for him, Orys,” Visenya’s cheeks are puffed up, “I welcome people that truly need our help, but the workload for us has tripled because Aegon invited everyone to come to us, no matter how small the problem is! I don’t have the slightest hint on how to find a missing bracelet, or to find a wife for that single man, or…”

“I get it, I understand,” Orys quickly says, “It’s not becoming the head of the Targaryens to exaggerate their magic for attention.”

“Yes! And Aegon won’t even help out!” Visenya nods vehemently, the motion of her huge, round head nearly throwing her off balance. “You know our history. Daenys the Charmer convinced her family and friends to leave Valyria with her puppy dog eyes…”

“When they arrived in Dragonstone, they chased away the tyrannical lords that oppressed the islanders, and thus the locals worshipped Daenys as the first Lady of Dragonstone, her line protecting them as long they reside on the island— Yes, I remember it well,” Orys quickly says before the onset of Visenya’s lecture. He can’t possibly forget the island’s history. He lives and breathes in it, after all.

“Throughout time we replaced the Seven as the local deities of the region,” Visenya isn’t satisfied, however, “We’re closer and more real to them, so it’s logical. But there’s a limit to what we can do. Fertility magic, healing some sickness, manipulating the weather, forging the finest steel… well, we lost that magic as well,” glancing at her sword, she sighs.

“Also dragons can burn things,” Orys adds, “Can’t have a yearly festival without a dragon setting up the bonfire.” And they have their most powerful magic, their puppy dog eyes and the ability to give whatever impression they desire… but perhaps to Visenya, this isn’t magic, just a trick.

Visenya rolls her eyes. “Thanks for the reminder. But anyway, those aren’t large-scale magic, and they’re not always reliable. There’s a reason why none of our ancestors ever expanded outward and why we limited our trades to Driftmark and Claw Isle. What Aegon wants to do is foolish.”

Orys blinks. “He wants to expand outwards?”

“Oh, he has plans and everything,” Visenya shrugs, “I dare you, brother, not to laugh when he brings it up.”

—

“You see, brother, here’s the plan,” Aegon says, pulling the piece of parchment with both of his arms, Balerion cheering for him in the form of howling and flapping his wings, “It has all been written down!”

“I can get it myself, Aegon!” Orys says hurriedly, “How about you just sit back on your, uh, throne and let me read it?”

Luckily, Aegon nods and lets go of the parchment, “You’re a clever and sensible man, Orys. Unlike our sisters, you can surely understand my brilliance and offer me your full support.” Patting his own chest, Aegon sits back down on the ‘throne’— twice the size of Orys’ head, this ‘massive’ throne is painted with the colour of iron to cover up the fact that it’s made with a pillow.

Balerion also lies down on his pile of pillows. Orys swears that the dragon is nowhere as lazy when he’s still Lord Aerion’s mount. Did Aegon’s laziness corrupt him as well?

“Ah, you notice that Balerion is getting bigger and more fearsome too?” Aegon asks, following Orys’ gaze. “Soon, when we ride out together, we’ll be unstoppable!”

“Uh, I guess,” Orys mumbles, turning his gaze back to the parchment, “Let me see what it says—” Orys pauses. Then he blinks. This is…

He wipes his eyes and reads again. Still the same. What the heck?

All he can see is an abstract picture of… a dragon, maybe? If he has to describe what he sees, he’ll say it’s ‘Balerion with four eyes and three tongues snoring and nearly drowning in his drool’.

Obviously, this can’t be what Aegon intended.

“Aegon, I…” Orys finally admits, “I… can’t read a thing it says.”

“What?” Aegon shouts, “It’s very clear! Here,” using Blackfyre as a pointer, he points at the top of the parchment, “Step one, we ally with the Durrandons…”

After Aegon explains his plan, Orys manages to see some of the letters Aegon wrote. It’s an ‘e’ there, an ‘i’ there… but Orys still shakes his head. “Aegon, brother… I don’t want to upset you, but nobody can recognise what you write without you explaining.”

Aegon looks like he is about to burst into tears. “That’s because the quill is too tall! I have beautiful handwriting, you have seen it before…”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Orys sighs, unconsciously extending a hand to stroke Aegon’s head. He does vaguely recall a time when Lord Aerion’s scribe praised Aegon when they were having lessons together… but that was a long time ago, and Aegon was praised for writing with his fingers.

Probably would have been an improvement of what Orys saw, when he thinks about it.

Aegon leans into his touch, letting Orys mess up his silver-white hair— then a second later he pushes Orys’ finger away. “I’m the Lord of Dragonstone and future king of Westeros,” he grumbles, more to himself than Orys, “I need to maintain my dignity.”

But you seem to enjoy it— Orys swallows the words that have come to his lips. Determined not to comment, he moves on, “There are a few men who know their letters on the island. You can enlist their help.” This is how Lord Aerion handled letters addressed to humans when he was alive.

Yet Aegon will have none of it. “Orys, this is important. It’s my secret, secret plan,” flashing a smug grin, he says, “I can’t let anyone but those in my inner circle, my family, know this.”

“Alright, I can write things down for you,” Orys offers.

Aegon grins. “I know I can rely on you, little brother! Come, grab a new piece of parchment and carefully record my words…” Excited, Aegon stands up and walks towards a corner of the table, where a pile of new parchment, quill, and a bottle of ink are waiting for him. Balerion also perks his head up, eying Orys with interest.

“Uh.” Orys feels that he’s falling into a trap. “What exactly am I going to write?”

“The letter to Argilac Durrandon, of course! He’s the king of Stormlands, just near us, he’s not very strong and lacks reliable allies, he has no son but a daughter as heir… my proposal is going to be a godsend to him.” Poking the pile of parchment with a finger, he urges, “The letter won’t write itself, brother.”

“…Fine, fine.” Under pressure, Orys bends. He picks up the quill and unrolls a piece of parchment, while Aegon and Balerion look at him expectedly. “But, uhh, what proposal?” Aegon did say something about allying with the Durrandons, but Orys has no idea how Aegon means to convince the Storm King…

What Aegon wants to do is foolish, Visenya’s warning comes to mind. But even if Aegon’s letter fails to convince the Storm King, nothing bad should come to them… it’s more likely that he’ll ignore the letter of someone whose name he has never heard about. This should be fine…

“You’re going to love it, brother,” Aegon smirks, “Write this down: King Argilac…”

Thinking that nobody will ever see the content of this letter, Orys hurriedly scribbles down what Aegon says.

King Argilac,

Good tidings to you and your kingdom. I’m Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, Protector of the Narrow Sea, the Last Dragonlord, the Heir of Valyria, rider of the biggest dragon in the world, the mighty Balerion…

“Aegon,” Orys cast a sideways glance towards the mighty Balerion, who is nodding approvingly at the title he has been given, “Balerion is as big as a hound.”

“Yes, which makes him the biggest dragon in the world,” Aegon repeats happily.

“You don’t see a problem with this?”

“What problem?”

“…Nevermind,” Orys sighs. No one will read this anyway, he thinks, “Let’s continue.”

…rider of the biggest dragon in the world, the mighty Balerion. I have heard that you’re facing a fearsome enemy, the cruel mannerless Ironborn. I’m sure you’re a formidable warrior in your youth, alas, your time has passed…

“Aegon, you can’t insult the Storm King like that!” Orys cries out, which earns him a glare from Balerion.

“Chill, brother, I’m buttering him up. I said he’s a formidable warrior,” Aegon smiles confidently, “In truth, the old man can’t be more than average.”

“He’s a king with thousands of men at his disposal. If we anger him, we’re all dead,” Orys begs, “Please, Aegon, this is a bad idea.”

“We won’t die, you have me!” Aegon steps forward and pats his hand comfortingly, which… does make Orys feel better. “Besides, I’m only speaking the truth. Argilac is old and he must know it. Even if he does feel insulted, he won’t declare war on Dragonstone for a mere letter.”

Somehow, Aegon’s words sound convincing this time. And King Argilac won’t read the letter anyway… Orys picks the quill back up.

…alas, your time has passed, and you have no son to succeed you. Princess Argella is your only heir, and she needs a worthy husband who can populate your house.

I cannot offer myself in marriage, for I’m a Valyrian and married besides, but my brother Orys is available. He's strong…

Orys bumps his head on the table. Aegon screams, jumping away from him, “Orys, what’s wrong with you?”

“Aegon, I can’t write a letter promoting myself to the Storm King for his daughter’s hand,” Orys sighs, “I’m a nobody. A peasant.”

“You’re my brother! A dragonseed!” Aegon looks angrier than Orys has seen him, his face flushes red and his eyes widen, covering half of his face. “We have the same eye colour, we grew up together. You’re important.”

Even Balerion flies towards him, rubbing his head towards Orys’ legs. Orys sighs— how many times has he sighed today?

His eyes have the same shade of purple as the Targaryens, but that’s because his parents had sought Lord Aerion’s help for his fertility magic. Every baby born from such blessing has a bit of Valyrian in them, be it lighter hair or deeper eye colour. On Dragonstone, children like him are called dragonseeds… he has no blood relation with the Targaryen siblings.

The only reason he’s special is that Lord Aerion brought him into his household after he failed to heal Orys’ mother. Because of his kindness, the orphaned Orys got to grow up with Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys. Otherwise, he’s nothing…

Nothing at all…

“Orys, you’re my brother, blood-related or not.” Having climbed on Balerion’s back, Aegon hovers near Orys’ face and attempts to wipe his tears with his hands, “If you think you aren’t important, then I’ll make you into someone who definitely is. Prince of Stormlands and heir to the Storm King, Hand of the Seven Kingdoms— you’ll soon have as many titles as I do, you just have to write and deliver this letter.”

“…Thank you, Aegon.” Feeling touched, Orys nods to his brother. “This is a crazy idea, but if you are willing to fight for me, then there’s no excuse to not fight for myself.” Aegon smiles at him, his huge eyes glistening with proud tears, and Orys feels full of strength. Damn, so we’re really doing this, huh—

Just when he starts to write again, Aegon’s last remark sinks in. “Wait. Did you say there’s something else for me to do after writing this letter?”

“You’ll deliver the letter and meet with your future goodfather!” Aegon grins, “With luck, you’ll be presented to your betrothed immediately, and who knows— next time we meet, it might be your wedding!”

Orys drops the quill. “I changed my mind. This is a bad idea.”

Chapter Text

Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, Orys Baratheon cringes at the sight of himself. He looks terrible.

His rags have been replaced with garishly colourful clothes adorned with bells that jingle with each movement, as if he craves attention. Laughter followed him everywhere he goes in Storm's End, and he hates it. He hates being a clown.

But that's who he is now, a jester. It's all Aegon's fault.

King Argilac is fond of Orys, summoning him to his side for the last few days and urging him to tell more stories about Dragonstone and Aegon's antics. The Storm King is convinced that Orys is joking and refuses to believe otherwise… unless one of the Targaryens appears in front of him.

Which Orys supposes will eventually happen when they realize he hasn't returned. But that'll bring a new set of problems, namely Aegon's offer to the Storm King… Gosh, he’ll take all of our heads when he knows the truth!

The more Orys thinks about it, the more terrified he becomes. His days are numbered, yet here he is, still wearing ridiculous dresses with tinkling bells, preparing to entertain someone.

…Well, not just someone, but Princess Argella.

Yesterday, when King Argilac summoned him to court, he told Orys, “My daughter has been feeling down lately. I want you to cheer her up!” Then he spent half an hour talking about Princess Argella, from her eating habits to her first pet when she was three. By the end of it, Orys's smile was forced. Still, he gained some insight into the woman he was about to meet, which only made him more nervous.

Argella is the woman whom Aegon wants him to marry. The plan will never come to fruition, of course, but meeting his potential betrothed while dressed as a fool is not a good first impression.

But perhaps the kind, cake-loving princess will take a liking to him. Maybe? Orys's heart races as he is finally granted an audience with her in her chambers.

Orys bows deeply and says, “Princess, I—”

She interrupts him with a bored, lazy voice, “You're the jester my father sent to me. Come closer so I can see you better.”

Orys rises, his eyes wide as Argella looks him over, her frown deepening with each passing moment. He doesn't dare to breathe. Finally, she sinks back into her chair, crossing her legs and scratching her long, messy black hair. “Just a boy,” she snorts, “The old man must be truly senile to find you interesting.”

Orys blinks in surprise. The sweet, kind princess...

Argella notices his gaze and says with contempt, “Hey, what are you looking at, Fool? Go back to the old senile man. I have no use for your service.” She exudes arrogance and disdain.

She’s no sweet princess at all!

Orys's face flushes red, he blurts out, “You shouldn't speak about your father this way. He's a kind man and the King—”

Argella interrupts him, lifting her chin proudly and says, “I’m your princess, and I will inherit this kingdom, not you. Who do you think you are to lecture me?” Orys flinches at her words. Argella laughs, pleased with herself. “Remember your place, jester. Being an entertainer doesn't give you the right to speak out of turn.”

Her laughter is cold and heartless. Orys's fists clench, but he knows he can't challenge her. If it comes down to Argella's words against his, the Storm King will always trust his daughter, even if his perception of her is far from reality.

Orys looks away, but he can still see Argella out of the corner of his eye. She is holding a parchment and biting the tip of a quill, her feet on the table as she sinks deeper into her chair, her shoes scattered on the ground. She looks nothing like a princess. When she notices him looking, she wiggles her toes at him in a dismissive gesture, annoyance growing on her face. There's no point in staying here any longer. As Orys turns to leave—

“Orys! ORYS!”

Orys's head snaps around at the sound of his name.

Aegon is there, hovering outside Argella’s window.

As soon as Orys sees Aegon, he rushes to the window, ignoring Argella's “What?” behind him. He knows he's in trouble, and Argella will kill both of them. Even Balerion won't be able to save them. The whole Stormlands will be hunting them down.

But Aegon doesn't seem to care that Orys is sweating. In fact, he looks pleased with himself as he jumps into Orys's outstretched hands. “I always arrive at the right moment!” he says proudly, patting his chest. “How are you doing, brother? I see you're getting acquainted with Princess Argella here— wait, what are you wearing?”

No matter how much Orys makes faces and shakes his head, he can't stop Aegon from catching Argella's attention. She is already standing behind Orys, her chin touching his shoulders. “What...who are you?” Noticing how close she is, Orys screams, his trembling nearly causing him to drop Aegon.

But Aegon is undeterred. He jumps into Argella's welcoming hands and even bows with flourish as he introduces himself. “I’m Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone and the last of the Dragonlords, Orys's brother. Has my brother mentioned me and the proposal I have for you?”

“What proposal?” she asks, sounding intrigued.

“Orys will marry you and take your name, and I will defeat the Ironborn and conquer the seven kingdoms with the might of the Stormlands and my three dragons,” Aegon answers easily. Orys feels like he blacks out for a second. This is bad. Can he still run? If he can distract Argella, maybe Aegon can jump onto Balerion's back and fly away…

Orys moves his foot slowly, carefully glancing at Argella.

He widens his eyes.

Argella isn’t angry. She looks back and forth between Aegon and Orys, curiosity filling her eyes. “You two are… brothers?”

“I was raised by Lord Aerion, Aegon’s father,” Orys mumbles.

“And he has a bit of Valyrian in him as well. He’s a brave and loyal man, he’ll be a good husband to you, Princess,” Aegon adds, “Oh, and may I request permission for Balerion to enter? He has travelled a long journey from Dragonstone to the Stormlands and needs to rest.”

Balerion howls in agreement. Argella's gaze turns to the dragon and she doesn't take her eyes off it. “A dragon,” she whispers, amazement in her voice.

“His name is Balerion,” Aegon says.

“Come in!” Argella exclaims eagerly. The dragon flies into the room and lands beside Aegon, curling up into a ball and blinking lazily. As Aegon pats his dragon, Argella sits beside him, fussing over him, “Does he need something to drink or eat? Maybe some pillows?”

Orys is confused by the sudden change in Argella's demeanour. She is now a completely different person. After supplying pillows and food for Balerion, who is now sleeping in his new den with an empty bowl in front of him, Argella looks at the dragon adoringly and whispers, “I want...I want you to stay.”

She's in love. That’s clear.

—My daughter loves animals. When she was three, I got her a cat and she cried for three days when it died...

Perhaps not everything the King said about Argella was biased, after all.

Argella is talking to Balerion, but Aegon taps his head thoughtfully. “I shall stay with my brother until the negotiations are completed,” he says, “And my sisters will want to attend Orys’ wedding as well. They’ll bring their dragons with them, of course…”

Oh, now Orys sees it. Argella's head perks up, focusing on Aegon's tiny face. He’s baiting.

And she’s falling for it.

“There are more dragons?” she asks, excitement in her voice.

“Of course!” Aegon answers happily, lying comfortably on his pillow, “My sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys, are both dragon riders. And we have a lot of dragon eggs, one day to be claimed and hatched by my descendants.”

Argella's eyes narrow and her lips purse as she considers the proposition. Suddenly, she turns to Orys and he flinches, still afraid of her.

She briefly closes her eyes and bites her fingernail before a grin spreads across her face. “I'll marry you...Orys, is it? And convince my father of this alliance,” she says, turning to Aegon. “But you will give me a dragon egg, and if it doesn’t hatch, one of your dragons will stay with me for a week every three months.”

“Deal!” Aegon says, extending a hand for Argella to shake.

“Wait, wait,” Orys quickly interjects, “Do I not get a say in this?”

Aegon looks at him with a perplexed expression. “We agreed that you’ll marry Princess Argella when you wrote the letter, remember?”

“Yes, but—” Frustrated, Orys glances at Argella, who is smirking. In his eyes, it's an evil smile. This woman knows that he's unwilling to marry her, but she won't say a thing? But then—

“You’re fine with marrying me? You just met me today, and I’m a jester.”

“A what?” Aegon interrupts, his face twists in confusion, one of his eyes half-closed. He looks adorable, and Orys has to resist the temptation to stroke his hair. Does he not know what a jester is?

Argella seems to have the same urge, as her eyes briefly shine when she looks at Aegon. “Orys is employed by my father because he thinks he has a talent for making people laugh,” she explains quickly, turning to Orys.

“Why not? I see no reason to refuse this match. You can’t be worse than anyone else my father offers to me,” she says, shrugging.

“But—” There’s a lot of things he can say. He’s of a lower station, he knows nothing about being a prince, he can’t wield a sword or use a lance… but under Aegon’s gaze, he can only manage to squeeze out one protest.

"But... is that really the right thing to do?" Orys asks, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Argella snorts dismissively. "There's no point in worrying about right or wrong. The only thing I need to think about is whether I can stand being married to you."

Her choice of words stings Orys. "By your own standards, I can't stand being married to you," he retorts without thinking. Aegon widens his eyes in shock as Orys speaks, his mouth falling open in surprise.

But Argella only laughs. "I figured as much. But I can tolerate you."

She steps closer to Orys and takes his hand in hers. "What are you..." he starts to ask, but before he can finish, Argella's other hand moves to his shoulder and her face is close to his ear. Orys freezes, suddenly aware of how close her lips are to his ear and the warmth of her breath tickling his skin.

As he trembles, the bells on his hat ring out.

"I like an honest man," Argella whispers into his ear. "Too many people are fakes, and won't show how much they hate me— even when I know they all do."

"Is... is that true? You like..." Orys feels his face burning with embarrassment. He doesn't dare to look at her, his thoughts in disarray, and suddenly the prospect of marrying Argella doesn't seem so bad anymore.

"Do you feel differently about me now?" Her voice is low and sultry. Orys glances to the side and sees Aegon hovering close to his face, wiggling his eyebrows, and Balerion nodding rapidly. Those two...

"Yes," Orys murmurs.

"Hooray!" Aegon exclaims as Balerion flies around the room in celebration. "We'll have a wedding in Storm's End!"

Argella leaves Orys and high-fives Aegon. The joyful atmosphere causes Orys to smile as well. They still have to convince King Argilac, but with how much he spoils Argella, this shouldn't be a problem. Orys will become a prince, married to this beautiful woman who apparently likes him...

Smiling, he asks Argella, "You're serious about what you said, right?"

She chuckles and leans forward, winking at him. "Of course... not. I said what I knew you wanted to hear, idiot."

Orys feels his smile slip from his face immediately.

This woman is evil.

Chapter Text

“You,” King Argilac points a finger at Orys' face with a sharp, deadly gaze. "You wish to marry my daughter?"

I don’t, Orys wants to say, but Argella is holding his hand tightly under her sleeves, crushing his fingers. He is certain she’ll break them if he doesn’t respond the way she wants. "Yes, Your Grace," he answers reluctantly.

The king's nose flares with anger, his eyes filled with fury. "And you want me to ally with this little... little…”

"Lord Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone, your Grace.” Aegon chirps in, oblivious to the danger they face. Orys cringes at his cheerful tone. Just once, he wishes Aegon can just stop smiling.

“...lordling," Argilac sneers, “to fight against Harren Hoare.”

"And with your help, we can unite the Seven Kingdoms and form an empire that will last for generations. Isn't that splendid?" Aegon beams.

Argilac growls, "I should have both of your heads! Cut off your hands and feed them to my hounds! This is ridiculous. What do I get out of this? Nothing! I invite you into my house, feed and clothe you, and you deceive me and attempt to steal my daughter away…"

Argella steps forward and places her hand on Argilac's, saying, "Father, I'm right here. Nobody can steal me away." She smiles sweetly and adds, "Don't worry."

Argilac's anger dissolves as he coos over his daughter, a smile spreading across his face. "Sweetie, my precious treasure, you always know what's best. What punishment do you want for these two? Shall we hang them, quarter them, or feed them to the hounds?"

Orys cringes inwardly. He realizes Argella probably won't punish them, but the thought of putting his and Aegon's lives in her hands is disturbing.

"Why not let them make themselves useful, father?" Argella smirks. "We shall parley with the Hoares and warn them from targeting Durrandon lands before they could act. They can be content with the Iron Islands and the riverlands or get chased back into the sea like the Ironborn they are."

Argilac frowns. "Parley with Harren? What reason will he have to talk to us, sweetie?"

"He might not be willing to call for one, but if we request a meeting with him, I can't see why he'll decline. After all, he wants me for one of his sons, doesn't he?" Argella explains, flicking her long, straight hair. "For us, it'll be a show of force. And as meagre as Lord Aegon's force might be, they can still be an asset in the parley. It'll signal that the narrow sea lords have had enough of Harren Hoare's rule, at the very least."

"Harren Hoare will be impressed by me and my dragons, I assure you, King Argilac," Aegon says, bowing with a flourish, while Balerion snorts proudly. Orys lacks the confidence of either of them. "Words are cheap. I shall prove my might by keeping the Hoares in check. After Harren Hoare has been intimidated by my master diplomacy, would you reconsider my offer of alliance?"

Argilac crackles, "You use a lot of big words, tiny lording. How about this? If you and your dragon manage to kick Harren out of the riverlands, I won't only ally with you - I'll make you a king as well, with your own kingdom..."

"Very generous of you, King Argilac!" Aegon beams.

"...That is, if you succeed," Argilac's wrinkled face turns sly. "If you don't, I'll offer you and your islands to Harren as a gift for peace."

"Deal!" Aegon replies without hesitation. Orys widens his eyes.

We’re so doomed.

—

Months later, in Harrenhal…

"Welcome to my humble halls, Argilac," Harren Hoare greets, extending one arm over the main hall of the castle, which is at least thrice the size of Storm End. "I believe it is your first time visiting us since Harrenhal is completed, and Argella as well. The rumours of your beauty are not exaggerated."

“I hope that you’ll find my strength and intelligence pleasing as well, King Harren.” Argella smiles like a cat, and only Orys can see the cruelty beneath her politeness. She won't hesitate to have them all drowned if it serves her purposes. Harren Hoare, with his crooked teeth, wild moustache, and cane, appears to be just an old man. However, his sharp, cold gaze suggests that he would order their deaths without hesitation whenever it is convenient, just like Argella. Orys wishes he could go home.

"Come on, brother, relax. Everything is going according to plan," Aegon whispers to him.

"What part of the plan said that we would be at the back of King Argilac's retinue, waiting to be offered as sacrifices?" Orys retorts, sounding bitter. "I don't know why you think you can win over Harren Hoare. You can't even see him, but he appears less friendly than King Argilac, who threatened to feed us to his hounds."

They— Orys, Aegon, and Balerion— are currently standing near the entrance of the hall, Orys’ view obscured by the wall of people in front of him, while Aegon and Balerion stay inside the basket Orys holds. It’s Argella’s idea to "surprise" Harren Hoare— Orys thinks it’s a plot to reduce Aegon’s mobility.

"We won over Princess Argella, didn't we?" Aegon's tone is confident. "Harren will be charmed, or he will be destroyed."

“…I see no means for us to do the latter.” Visenya and Rhaenys aren’t even with them— Aegon sent them to the Vale and the Reach, respectively. Orys desperately hopes they’re around to keep Aegon in check, but Aegon is incredibly stubborn in insisting that he doesn’t need help.

If Orys has learned anything after growing up with the Targaryens, it’s that you can’t rely on Aegon.

“…I didn’t say that any of your spawns will get to marry my Argella, so step away from her, Harren!” King Argilac growls, the Stag’s howl breaking Orys' thoughts.

“Pff. It’s not like I want her for myself, you needn’t worry,” Harren chuckles, tapping the ground lightly with his cane, “Not that Argella isn’t a prize, but my appetite for women isn’t like the good old days anymore!”

Looking around, he adds, “Anyway… where’s the dragon you promised to show me? I’m rather tempted to call you a liar, given that a dragon will be hard to hide, but I’d love to imagine that my old friend hasn’t gone senile and come here without planning to offer me something worthwhile.”

“Don’t you dare insult me, Harren Hoare. The dragon is here.” Argilac turns and calls, “Orys!”

Orys flinches as he reluctantly steps forward, shifting Aegon's basket awkwardly with every step. Argilac's retainers move aside to clear a path, amusement etched on their faces. They all know they are doomed, and the thought of dying at the hands of the Ironborns terrifies Orys.

"Is this your dragon?" Harren raises an eyebrow and glances at Orys, his expression contorted. “I was joking when I said you’re going senile, Argilac.”

Ignoring Harren's remark, Argilac turns to Orys and demands, "Open the basket."

With little hope left, Orys does as he is told. As soon as he removes the cover, Aegon's head pops up from the opening. "I am Aegon Targaryen, THE DRAGON!" he declares.

Orys punches himself in the forehead, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Balerion takes flight and hovers in the air.

"Isn't he adorable?" Argella comments, her eyes fixated on Balerion. If you haven’t noticed, we’re in bloody danger here!

Harren's mouth falls open, speechless, as he shivers with laughter. "Oh, Argilac. How did you manage to find this treasure?"

Argilac huffs in response, "The 'treasure' fell into my lap. Are you impressed now, Harren?"

Harren Hoare narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Aegon and Balerion. He crosses his arms and lets out a sigh. "You didn't lie, Argilac. This is a dragon, but it's… disappointing. When you mentioned that you have a dragon in your letter, I expected something more… majestic. Grand. A fearsome beast that can dwarf my castle. This is just a fancy pet."

Balerion growls in offence at Harren's words, and Aegon yells indignantly, "Balerion is not a pet! He's older than all of us, and if you don't show him respect, he'll burn you!"

“Oh, right, this one can talk,” Harren remains unbothered by Balerion's fury and kneels down slightly to Aegon's eye level. "So, aside from being the dragon's companion, who are you?" he asks.

“I’m Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, Protector of the Narrow Sea, the Last Dragonlord, the Heir of Valyria, rider of the biggest dragon in the world, the mighty Balerion!” Aegon declares, clenching his fists. “King Harren Hoare, tales of your cruelty have spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and this castle stands as proof of your tyranny! I demand that you put an end to your tyrannical rule of the riverlands, bend the knee to me, and return to the Iron Islands!”

Aegon pulls out Blackfyre and points it at Harren's face. "I swear on the honour of all my ancestors that if you do not comply, I will destroy you!"

"What the heck?" Orys whispers. Aegon is putting on his most regal facade, carrying an air of authority, but it doesn’t make his words less ridiculous. Which part of this castle proves that Harren is a tyrant? Demanding that he bends the knee for Aegon over essentially nothing?

And what happened to the plan of charming Harren, Aegon?

Harren Hoare widens his eyes, clutching his cane as he takes a step back from Aegon and Balerion. "Destroy me? With what, your tongue?"

Aegon counters confidently, "With my sword, Blackfyre, and my dragon, Balerion." His gaze is unwavering.

Glaring at each other, none of them mutters a word. The atmosphere is thick and tense, though Orys can only think of running away. Harren Hoare is going to order them all killed in three… two… one…

Suddenly, Argella's laughter rings out, breaking the tension. "King Harren, you have already lost."

“How so?” Harren demands angrily.

"Can't you see that Aegon is more imposing than you? You spent your whole life trying to appear grand and majestic, building the largest castle in Westeros. But here, a small lord manages to outshine you. Well, a small lord and his dragon.” Argella smiles, “The dragon is the more important part to me.”

With a roar, Harren points at Aegon with his cane, “Get him, boys!”

Harren’s sons rush forward to capture Aegon, but Balerion takes to the air, soaring high above the castle's towering ceilings.

"I said I would destroy you, Harren Hoare!" Aegon shouts, brandishing Blackfyre wildly and slicing off strips of hair from the Hoare boys. Harren growls, lifting his cane to strike at Balerion.

Then it happens.

“Dracarys!” Aegon cries, and Balerion obeys with enthusiasm. The dragon's fiery breath engulfs Harren, transforming him into a burning fireball as his screams resonate throughout the hall.

“Father!” Harren's sons are left trembling with terror, too afraid to approach the burning inferno that was once their father. In no time at all, all that remains of Harren is his skeleton, twisted into a haunting grin in the aftermath of his demise.

“…It's like the legend of Daenys the Charmer, who vanquished the Dragonstone tyrant." Orys murmurs to himself. He's never witnessed someone meet their end through dragon fire before, always having thought of the majestic creatures as agents of healing rather than destruction.

But with Balerion's actions, Orys is proven wrong.

"Rest in peace, Harren... may you continue to boast and construct grandiose castles in the halls of your Drowned Gods." King Argilac approaches the remains of his adversary and offers his respects. After a moment of silence, he turns to Aegon and admits, "Aegon Targaryen, I underestimated you."

Aegon chuckles and replies, "That's to be expected. You will, of course, honour your end of our agreement, correct?"

"Indeed," Argilac responds, sounding regretful. Argella prods him, and he sighs. "Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, I hereby declare you the king of the riverlands—"

Suddenly, one of Harren's sons interrupts, objecting to Argilac's declaration. "Argilac Durrandon, what gives you the right to proclaim the King of the riverlands in my father's castle? This... this invader violated the guest right and killed my father during a peace negotiation! He and his monstrous dragon should be put to death immediately!"

Argella interjects, "As I recall, it was Harren who ordered Aegon's execution in front of all of us."

"That's because he pointed a sword at my father's throat!"

"I didn't see any sword. Did you? Did anyone?" Argella counters, surveying the hall. The river lords shake their heads, amusement playing on their faces.

"Aegon Targaryen freed us from the tyrannical Hoares! He shall be our king, and the riverlands will never suffer under Ironborn rule again!" a redhead lord cried, a statement that meets the furious agreement of his fellow River Lords.

“Wait… but…” Harren's sons and the few remaining Ironborns frantically look around, but the tide has turned against them. Balerion roars and swoops towards them, causing them to scatter and flee.

“Return home and hold a kingsmoot, as you Ironborns prefer. Then, tell the victor to come and swear fealty to me!” Aegon calls behind them, clapping happily. Turning back to Orys, he smiles, "It turned out just as I said, brother."

Orys smiles wryly. Yes, it turned out well. But…

"Why didn't the Ironborn use their archers to shoot down Balerion? Surely, they must have archers among their ranks?"

Aegon blinks. Then, he shrugs.

"Who knows? Perhaps all their archers were intimidated by Balerion's power."

“That must be it,” Argella says, beaming at Balerion. Orys sighs.

Sometimes he feels like he’s the only sane man around. When are Visenya and Rhaenys coming back?

Chapter Text

The Eyrie

"Who are you?" the young king asks the woman who landed on his balcony. His brother hides behind Ronnel's back, shaking in fear.

"I'm Visenya Targaryen, sister and envoy for Lord Aegon of Dragonstone. I want to invite the King of Mountain and Vale to—"

"Why are you so small?" Ronnel asks.

"And what is she riding, brother?" Jonos asks.

Visenya clenches her teeth. "Her name is—"

"I know, it's a dragon!" Ronnel proudly interrupts, "Just like the ones in the books! You'd know if you actually read, Jonos."

"But it's small and cute, not big and scary. And if it's a dragon, then what is she?"

"Her name is Vhagar, and yes, she's a dragon," Visenya hisses, annoyed at being interrupted twice, "Listen, kids, here's the deal. The Vale will join Aegon's great Westeros alliance, or whatever it's called, and I'll stay here and answer your questions until you're happy. Sounds good?"

Ronnel and Jonos exchange glances. "What does she mean?"

"I don't get it either."

"Alright," Visenya smiles, putting on her sweetest face, "If you agree to pay lip service to my brother— I mean, if you agree to call Aegon the king of Westeros, I'll play with the two of you and... um... make your cakes taste even better with magic."

"You can do that?!" the Arryn brothers exclaim. Visenya nods confidently.

"Deal!" Ronnel doesn't hesitate.

—

Highgarden

"I'm delighted that you've accepted my invitation, King Loren," the Gardener king warmly welcomes his esteemed guest, a smile gracing his lips. "I hope you've enjoyed the gift I presented to you."

"Your generosity in sharing those precious silks with me is truly kind, King Mern," Loren Lannister grins, confirming the rumors of his fascination with clothes and fashion. "A Lannister always repays his debts. What would you like to—”

“—How about we explore the advantages of joining Aegon Targaryen's magnificent Westerosi league?" a voice interrupts. Rhaenys gracefully leaps down from the back of Meraxes, offering a sweet smile to the two kings. "Greetings, Your Graces. I am Rhaenys Targaryen, sister and envoy of Aegon, Lord of Dragonstone. It's an honor to meet both of you."

Loren blinks, taking a moment to process the unexpected arrival. He then turns to Mern with a light-hearted tone, "Oh, is this yet another gift from you? You're truly kind, Mern. They make such an adorable pair."

Mern's mind flutters with a hint of suspicion, tempted to scream 'assassin,' but the harmless demeanor of the peculiar woman and her creature diffuses his doubts. "Um, no," Mern stammers, “This… woman… is not one of mine. In fact, I have no idea who or what she is."

"I am a Valyrian from Dragonstone. Though smaller in stature, my people possess the power of magic…” Rhaenys processes to explain the extent of Valyrian magic, making it sound tempting while exaggerating as little as possible. She has been doing this since she was five, so no matter how outrageous the task is, she will succeed…!

"That sounds fascinating, my dear," Loren coos, "To witness your magic in my realm would be truly extraordinary. However, what would be required of us in exchange for your services?"

With an innocent, wide-eyed smile, Rhaenys prepares for the most challenging aspect of the negotiation. "Simply recognize my brother Aegon as the King of Westeros—nothing more, nothing less. It's as easy as that! You will still retain your titles as the King of the West and the King of the Reach, without any changes."

"King of Westeros? That seems preposterous! Does this Aegon aspire to claim all Seven Kingdoms without an army or a just cause?" Mern blurts out, unable to contain his astonishment. "If he were chosen by the Seven, it would be a different story, but as it stands—"

“I think it sounds good, actually,” Loren interjects.

"What?!" Mern's eyes widen in disbelief.

"We gain access to free magic by merely paying lip service to this 'Aegon Targaryen.' The offer couldn't be better... a Lannister knows good business, Mern. Perhaps you'll reconsider as well?"

"Your choice is commendable, King Loren!" Rhaenys beams with delight. "Welcome to King Aegon's esteemed Westerosi league! As an early and courageous ally, you will be entitled to—"

"Lady Rhaenys, would it be possible for your brother to visit the Starry Sept in Oldtown and meet with the High Septon?" Mern swiftly interjects, seeking to regain control of the situation. "If he can earn the blessing of the Seven Who Are One, every soul in Westeros, including myself, would gladly recognize him as the rightful king." But if the High Septon denounces him… hee hee hee, he’ll be an enemy of the whole Westeros.

“The Seven…?” Rhaenys contemplates Mern's proposal. It all depends on how confident she is of Aegon's charisma and charm… well. “Sure!”

—

Oldtown

"Lord Aegon, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," the Gardener king says with a thin smile as he extends his welcome to the Targaryens and Orys. His brow raises upon seeing Argella. "Why, isn't that Princess Argella? I wasn't aware that the Stormlands had business with the Targaryens as well."

"I've recently married King Aegon's brother, Orys Baratheon," Argella explains, pulling Orys to the forefront. Orys has long given up on resisting Argella's antics. This woman is now his wife, as unbelievable as it may be, and he knows he won't be able to escape her... and sometimes, in moments of weakness, he wonders why he ever wanted to. If nothing else, she's a good shield against Aegon's craziness... it takes one crazy to defeat another.

Mern frowns. "...Funny how much the world changes in a few short months. I never thought Argilac would give you away while he's still alive."

"Oh, I assure you, he's very reluctant to see me marry.” You don’t say, Orys thinks while he recalls his disaster of a wedding. “But my father is a man of his word. Besides, with King Aegon's successes, he knows this marriage is of great advantage to the Stormlands. Apart from the Stormlands, the riverlands and the Iron Islands have all submitted to Aegon."

"I believe I taught Harren Hoare a lesson... with his death.” Aegon, do you even remember that we’re here to convince the High Septon that you’re all good and pure and blessed by the Seven? "And King Ronnel and King Loren have agreed to join as well. It's proof that I am the rightful king of Westeros, and the High Septon will certainly recognize me."

Even with Aegon's luck, Orys finds it hard to believe. This is King Mern's suggestion; surely he has pulled some strings to ensure the High Septon won't be charmed by Aegon?

"If you're chosen, the High Septon will see it," Mern says with a thin smile. "Please, come with me."

They enter the Starry Sept, where dragons fly excitedly under the starry ceiling. They seem to have mistaken it for the real sky. "Hey, Balerion, be careful! You'll hit the ceiling!" Aegon giggles, clearly enjoying himself as much as his dragon.

"This Sept is quite beautiful," Rhaenys comments, her fingers reaching for the shiny 'stars' in the ceiling. "I wonder if we could..."

"Please, Rhaenys, don't give Aegon more ideas," Visenya sternly warns. After a moment, she hesitates and adds, "But indeed, it is beautiful. Even more so than the actual sky..."

"What..." a man wearing a crystal crown—presumably the High Septon—stares at them, speechless.

Mern grins. "Your Holiness, they are—"

"Such gracefulness! Such charm! Such beauty... They must have been sent by the Maiden herself, for they radiate innocence and purity!" the High Septon proclaims, and Mern’s jaw falls. Orys’ eyes are threatening to roll out of his skull. Really? For real?

"They..." Mern sighs deeply. "They are the Targaryens I mentioned to you before."

"Oh yes, allow me to introduce myself," Aegon says, descending from the ceiling after noticing the High Septon. "I am Aegon Targaryen, King of Westeros, here to seek the approval of the Seven for my kingship."

“So you are Aegon, and these ladies must be Visenya and Rhaenys! Such perfection… What nonsense have you fed me with, King Mern!” After alternating between fawning over the Targaryens and berating Mern for several minutes, the High Septon finally says, “Yes, of course you should be the King of Westeros! You must have been sent from the Seven Heavens by the Maiden herself!"

Mern hits himself in his head and Orys feels an overwhelming sympathy towards the Gardener king.

—

Trident

"You... you must be King Aegon," says the panting northman, "I have a message for you. From... my brother, King Torrhen of the North."

"Sending a brother as an ambassador? He's just like me!" Aegon exclaims. Orys smiles wryly.

"So what is the message?" Visenya asks.

"He wants to join the Great Westeros Alliance, or the Great Westerosi League, or whatever you're calling it. It's... true that every other kingdom apart from us and Dorne has already joined, right? Is the news accurate?"

"Indeed it is," Aegon confirms proudly.

"And all we have to do is accept Aegon Targaryen as the King of all Westeros?"

"Yes," Visenya sighs.

"Then the North must join, there's no other way. It's... also true that you wield magic, right? Especially with fertilizing crops?"

"Uh... yes, we can do that," Rhaenys forces out a smile. Orys knows that working in the Reach and nursing the newborn Aenys has really worn her out...

"Then please come help us!" Brandon Snow begs, "We need your help!"

Rhaenys groans. Visenya sighs, "Aegon, do we have to?"

"I know you're tired, sisters, but we can't just turn away people who need our help, this isn't the Valyrian way. Don't worry, I'll help too!" Aegon says encouragingly.

His words are met with two pairs of glaring eyes. "See that you do, Aegon," Visenya huffs, "Because if you don't do it yourself, we won't help either." Rhaenys nods eagerly.

"Have... have some faith in me, Visenya!" Aegon's nervous reaction is a sight to behold, at least.

—

Sunspear

"So, in conclusion, you are the last one, Princess Meria," Aegon says confidently. "Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't approached me yourself, but considering your advanced age, it's understandable, and all is forgiven! Surely you've heard of the various benefits of joining our alliance? Your word is all I need, and it will be done!"

Sitting beside Aegon, Orys winces. Aegon has only grown bolder and more confident during the years, drunk on his various successes. It doesn’t make his words any less rude, though. Argella at least possesses the grace not to outright insult someone of equal rank.

"Thankfully, it's only my eyes that are failing me, not my ears," the elderly princess responds slowly, her eyes remaining closed. Despite her old age, wrinkles, and blindness, her voice carries a deep and comforting tone, reminiscent of a bedtime storyteller. It reminds Orys somewhat of Lady Valaena. "Indeed, I have heard of you, Aegon Targaryen. However, I have reservations about the rumors swirling around you. Yet, forgive me if I take a moment to greet my old friend first..."

She coughs and then smiles. "How are you doing, Argella? They say you're married now."

"Married and a mother now, Auntie Meria," Argella chuckles. "I still remember the advice you gave me on how to handle children. It has proven enormously helpful, and I must express my gratitude."

"You have always been a clever child, Argella. The last time I saw you, you were as tall as a pea... Time passes so swiftly! Your child must resemble you, with black hair, sea blue eyes, and lungs strong enough to challenge the heavens."

"All true," Argella giggles. "My father was so proud. He's going to spoil his grandson rotten... and finally leave me to my own devices. I've been eagerly awaiting this day."

"Ah, Argilac is as overbearing as ever, I see. He has always been intense, even in his youth," Meria smiles fondly. "Passionate, stubborn, straightforward... and rude. Your husband is much the same, is he not?"

Uh. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but have I somehow offended you?" Orys asks, perplexed by Meria's description. "If so, I sincerely apologize. I didn't mean—"

"Ugh... Orys, wait." Argella stops him with a finger. "Auntie Meria, the man you just heard, Orys, is my husband, not Aegon. I could never marry Aegon; he's a Valyrian."

"Ah, so it's true that their stature enchanted the High Septon into appointing the Targaryens as Maiden's Chosen?" Meria's question clarifies everything for Orys. Meria cannot see, so she is unaware that Orys is beside Argella or that Aegon is small. "Valyrians... it seems we are living in an age where long-forgotten myths resurface. I am fortunate to witness it."

"Wait, long-forgotten myth? You've heard of us before, Your Highness?" Visenya asks.

"It's in the records brought by Nymeria. Many years ago, my Rhoynar ancestors encountered a Valyrian when they sailed down to the Smoking Sea. It was said that only they could navigate the Smoking Sea effortlessly, riding dragons and employing magic to enhance their eyesight..."

Meria smiles. "I dare say we possess more records on the Valyrians than the Citadel itself. In other words… King Aegon, if you are indeed a Valyrian, then I am more acquainted with your kind than the kings you have treated with. You may be the ruler of the rest of Westeros, but Dorne wants no part in it."

Orys's eyes widen in astonishment. No one has dared to resist Aegon since King Mern yielded to him, yet it is this gentle, elderly woman who stands her ground.

"Wow," Argella whispers beside him, "this is going to be quite the spectacle." Orys glances at her, and she smirks, arms crossed… She’s only here for the drama, isn’t she?

“But why?" Aegon asks, his brows furrowed in an offended expression. "What knowledge of the Valyrians could make you reject me? I assure you, any negative information you've come across is simply a misunderstanding. Dorne will prosper with our magic! If you accept our offer, flowers will bloom across the desert."

Upon hearing Aegon's words, Visenya and Rhaenys simultaneously groan. "Aegon, please..."

"That seems like an exaggeration, Your Grace," Meria giggles. "The magic wielded by the Valyrians, as far as I know, is limited in its scope. It may be able to enhance harvests in regular farmland, but transforming deserts into fields of flowers is beyond its capabilities."

Aegon's face flushes with anger. "We can heal your eyes! Balerion, use your restorative power!"

A blast of blue fire emerges from Balerion's throat. Several guards step forward with their spears and swords, but Meria motions for them to stand down. "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt," she says, sighing contentedly. "Your magic is real. My bones, my skin, they all feel its effects… but not my eyes.”

For the first time during the meeting, Meria opens her eyes. They are completely white and cloudy. "My eyes have been like this for the past ten years, and I regret to inform you that your magic cannot restore them. There's nothing you can do for me, King Aegon, and therefore, I have no need for you in Dorne."

Aegon pouts, his fingers curling into a fist. "Visenya, let Vhagar try!"

"I already told you, Vhagar has been overworked and must not use magic for the next three months. Remember?"

"Rhaenys!"

"I wish I could assist you, but Meraxes has been doing her utmost to nurse Aenys back to full health, and I can't..."

Tears well up in Aegon's wide-open eyes. "You two are conspiring against me! This is revenge for driving you both to exhaustion, isn't it?! I... I only wanted to... I..."

The two sisters awkwardly avert their gaze.

Stomping on Balerion's back, eliciting a growl from the dragon, Aegon gazes at Orys. "Orys, do you understand? I simply desire the best for all of us!"

"Geez, Aegon, what happened to upholding the dignity of a king?" Orys sighs, tenderly stroking Aegon's hair. A king, a father, it doesn’t change Aegon’s childish nature. Orys cannot abandon him in distress, despite his disdain for Aegon's particular madness.

"It's not like she can see," Aegon grumbles.

"Oh, but I can hear," Meria interjects, redirecting everyone's attention towards her. "Dorne will not align with you, as I've mentioned, but we can still maintain a form of friendship. Now that the Stormlands and the Reach are under your control, we can enhance our trade without—"

"No," Aegon interjects.

"No?" Meria tilts her head.

"You will join me, or Dorne shall become an adversary to the rest of Westeros." Aegon lifts his chin defiantly, fixing a glare upon Meria. "I have been anointed by the High Septon as the King of Westeros, and that includes Dorne. If you fail to acknowledge this, Princess Meria, then war shall ensue."

"Aegon!" Rhaenys screams, prompting Meraxes to swiftly approach Balerion's side, allowing Rhaenys to grasp Aegon's arm. "What are you—"

"Aegon Targaryen!" Visenya also exclaims, with Vhagar baring her teeth. "Our purpose here is not to declare war! This is a diplomatic mission!"

"I do not care! We have conquered Harren Hoare, so how much harder could it be to subdue Dorne?"

"Harren Hoare was a tyrant and an invader in the Riverlands, whereas the Martells have always led Dorne! Aegon, this is an entirely different situation. You must see reason—"

"You know, I have an idea," Argella suddenly interjects. "How about we turn this into a competition between the Targaryens and Auntie Meria?"

Orys and the Targaryens gaze at her, stunned. Argella winks. "Nobody truly desires war, do they? Instead, let us settle this with a nonviolent competition. If Auntie Meria triumphs, Dorne remains independent. If King Aegon prevails, Dorne shall submit. Simple and effective."

"But... what will they compete in?" Orys ponders, racking his brain for a fair subject, but to no avail.

"If anyone has a suggestion, speak up, and I will consider it." Aegon seems to be of the same mind as him, for once.

"Well," Meria smiles, "You Valyrians possess the charm, and coincidentally, I find myself skilled in the art of seduction. Let us compete in that. King Aegon, I shall grant you three additional days to convince me to change my stance... while I shall attempt to woo one of you to join me instead. How does that sound for a challenge?"

"By 'one of us,' you mean me, Visenya, Rhaenys... and Orys?" Aegon inquires.

"Oh, no, I could hardly try to seduce Argella's husband away from her! I refer to you and your sisters, young man." As Aegon nods, Meria chuckles. "So... may I offer you some Dornish Red first?"

—

Three days later…

"I cannot go on without this any longer!" Rhaenys exclaims, tightly embracing a bottle of Dornish Red. "Apologies, Aegon, but I have discovered my true passion. Henceforth, I shall remain in Dorne."

"And we gladly welcome you, dear Rhaenys!" Meria applauds, her hands coming together. "There are many people here who can benefit from your assistance alongside Meraxes. Naturally, Meraxes will have ample time to rest, and you will have an unlimited supply of Dornish Red."

"You foresaw this turn of events, didn't you?" Orys narrows his eyes, glancing at Argella.

"How could I have known that Auntie Meria possessed records of certain Valyrians being susceptible to various beverages?" Argella shrugs. "No, I simply believe that she will make the most of this situation. And it will undoubtedly be amusing to witness."

"Even if it means losing a dragon to fawn over?"

Argella smiles secretively. "She is, after all, my favorite auntie, so that is not an issue."

Orys sighs.

"You are truly wonderful leader, Princess Meria," Rhaenys smiles dreamily. "Much better than Aegon..."

"I can't argue with that," Visenya whispers, sighing. "It appears that you have lost, brother."

"You cannot say that, Rhaenys!" Aegon cries, his face contorted and his eyes impossibly wide. "I cannot live without you! And... and Aenys! Aenys needs you!"

Rhaenys perks up slightly, her son's name seeming to bring her back to reality. "Oh, Aegon, do not be so sad... you can still visit me whenever you desire, you know. And Aenys as well."

"She speaks the truth, actually," Visenya says, pondering. "Moreover, it might be beneficial for Aenys' well-being to reside in Dorne for a while... perhaps I should bring Maegor along as well—"

"NO ONE else will stay in Dorne!" Aegon explodes in anger.

Well, Orys thinks, I suppose this is Aegon getting his just punishment.

END OF THE CONQUEST ARC

Chapter Text

Oldtown

"Ceryse," her uncle, the High Septon, begins with gravity, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "I have a task of utmost importance for you."

“Yes, Your Holiness?”

"The king intends to secure a marriage for his second son, Prince Maegor. He wishes to forge a stronger bond between House Targaryen and the Faith, and I have agreed to his proposal after consulting the Most Devout."

“…Yes?” Ceryse isn’t sure what this has to do with her. She is, after all, merely a novice septa. Perhaps the prince is to wed in the Starry Sept and her uncle wants her help arranging it?

“You—” The High Septon glances at her, an excited grin forming on his lips, “You will marry Prince Maegor.”

Ceryse blinks.

“What?”

—

Half an hour later…

“So,” Ceryse begins with a furrowed brow, “The king wants to, uh, ‘Marry his son to the Faith’ because there are no Valyrian girls left suitable for Prince Maegor.”

“Actually, there’s Prince Aenys’ newborn daughter,” the High Septon corrects her, “But the king believes it's wiser to wait for a son to be born from Prince Aenys rather than betrothing the princess to her uncle. A decision with which I wholeheartedly agree.”

You agree with anything the king says, Ceryse thinks, rolling her eyes internally. Her uncle worships the king as much as the Seven, believing that he is the Maiden’s chosen and nothing can convince him otherwise. His unwavering devotion to King Aegon has shaped much of Westeros' perception of the Targaryens, but Ceryse is old enough to remember days before Aegon, and she remains skeptical. Of course, she knows better than to voice her dissent.

"Anyway," she continues with a resigned sigh, "King Aegon believes that the ideal match for Prince Maegor is a woman of the Faith—a septa. Which explains my summons here, I presume?"

"Why, of course!" the High Septon exclaims, "There's no house in Westeros more devout than House Hightower, and your dedication to the Seven-Pointed Star is unparalleled. Your marriage to the prince will serve the Faith admirably," he grins wildly, his enthusiasm infectious, “The wedding will be in Oldtown, in this Sept, then you’ll go to Dragonstone to live with the prince, observing how the Faith and the Valyrians coexist in harmony… oh, I almost fell in the trap of envying you just thinking about it!”

How about YOU marry the prince then? Ceryse thinks, biting her lips. “But, Your Holiness, The prince is a Valyrian and I’m… not. I couldn’t possibly fulfil a wife’s duty towards him, even if I’m fertile.” Which she isn’t. It’s because her parents learned that she’s barren that they sent her to the Faith. They have even sought Valyrian magic beforehand, just to see if she could be cured, but alas she’s not fated to bear children.

…Not that she minds a lot about marrying and producing children, but knowing that she isn’t whole still stings a little.

“No matter! The king and I aren’t expecting children from this match, but the unity of the Faith and House Targaryen. As long as you stay by the prince's side as his wife, you have fulfilled your duty.” The High Septon claps his hands together happily, as if everything is solved, “Now, the Prince will arrive for the wedding in a week, so you should start preparing for it.”

“A— a week?!” Ceryse’s mouth drops wide open. “That’s… that’s not possible! I can barely be prepared for a wedding in a month!”

"Fret not, my dear Ceryse," her uncle reassures her, winking, "I've arranged everything, including a wedding dress tailored to your size six months ago. All that's left is for you to play your part."

He never intented to give me a chance to refuse, Ceryse thinks, groaning inwardly.

—

A week later

"May I introduce to you, Ceryse Hightower, our most promising septa in training," the High Septon announces proudly, gesturing for Ceryse to step forward.

With a resigned sigh, Ceryse complies, bowing deeply before the Targaryens. "Your Graces, Septa-in-training Ceryse Hightower, at your service."

As she straightens, she finds a pair of massive violet eyes, staring at her unwaveringly. “I’m Maegor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. As I understand it, you are to be my bride.”

“…Yes.” Ceryse answers, her discomfort grows as Maegor's intense stare pierces through her. Targaryens, she had heard, were meant to be charming and lively, not unsettling…How is it that Maegor manages to unnerve her despite needing to stand on top of a table and a pile of books to reach her height?

“Oh Maegor, ease up,” his father, King Aegon, interjects from atop his dragon Balerion, hovering dangerously close to the Sept's ceiling, “Can’t you see that you’re scaring her? That's not how you woo a bride, son. Show some of that Targaryen charm!”

Slowly, Maegor diverts his attention from Ceryse and turns to his mother, Queen Visenya, who observes the scene with silent disapproval, her dragon Vhagar resting on the table and glancing at the scene boredly. Catching her son's gaze, she sighs and concedes, "Your father is correct... this time."

“I’m always correct,” Aegon immediately asserts. Everyone but the High Septon (and Balerion, who is nodding heavily and almost throwing Aegon off his back) chooses to ignore him, as Maegor turns back to Ceryse, his face twisting… until his expression settles into a sweet, saccharine smile.

“Forgive me if I startled you, Ceryse! It was not my intention. I truly hope we can build a strong relationship as husband and wife. Will you forgive me?” Even his voice is sweet too, dipped in sugar, when previously his voice was flat and emotionless.

Naturally, Ceryse is horrified. “O-of course…” She fails to keep the shivering out of her voice, nor does she manage to stop herself from taking a step back.

“You overdid it, Maegor,” Aegon comments, shaking his head disappointedly, combined with a dramatic sigh, “This is why Aenys is my heir and not you. You lack the finesse to charm properly.”

“Aegon, can you not?” Visenya snaps, then quickly redirects her attention to Ceryse with a reassuring smile, “Don't be alarmed, dear. Maegor might have overdid it, but his intentions are genuine. He’s a good, honest boy, only wanting to do his best.”

“Uh…” Ceryse stammers. What in the Seven Hells did her uncle get her into? “I… alright. Prince Maegor, I too wish for us to establish a positive relationship.”

“Then we shall!” Maegor beams, his smile now less disconcerting. Ceryse manages to return his smile, even offering him her hands. After a brief hesitation, Maegor steps onto her palms, smiling warmly at her.

He must still be able to feel her trembling, Ceryse knows, but if Maegor can maintain his friendly facade, so can she. As her uncle has instructed, she carefully lifts Maegor towards her shoulders.

“If you may, my prince,” she says.

“I would be honored,” he replies softly— because he worries his voice will scare her when he’s so close to her ears, Ceryse realises— and he settles onto her shoulders.

The High Septon nods approvingly, while Balerion growls contentedly, and King Aegon applauds. "Behold, our happy couple!"

At that moment, Ceryse feels Maegor shift on her shoulders, and a faint, disdainful sneer reaches her ears.

“Ha! As if.”

In that moment, Ceryse can't help but agree silently. As if they could ever be a truly happy couple.

Chapter Text

“I’m bored,” Maegor declares flatly, peeking out of the carriage from Ceryse’s shoulders. “Perhaps I should have convinced Father to hold the wedding at Dragonstone instead.”

“Too late for that,” Ceryse replies through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to toss Maegor out the window. He’s been sitting on her shoulders for over an hour, and maintaining a ‘good posture’ for his sake is wearing her out. “Why didn’t you bring your dragon? If you had, you could’ve returned to the capital with the king and queen instead of being stuck here with me.”

“I don’t have one,” Maegor says, and Ceryse’s eyebrows lift. Don’t all Targaryens live with their own dragon companion?

Seeing her expression, Maegor explains, “I plan to take Balerion once my father dies. I’ll be looking after Dragonstone while Aenys inherits Westeros, after all. It’s fair that I take the oldest dragon, which can also cast the strongest magic.”

Ceryse has no idea what Maegor is talking about. Taking Balerion? Oldest dragon and strongest magic? What?

Confused, Ceryse tilts her head to the right, prompting Maegor to stand up using her face as support. “Hey!” she yells, trying to push him back with her head, but he’s somehow stronger than she is, managing to hold her chin and turn her towards him.

Maegor’s expression is bland, his eyes bored and annoyed. “Might as well talk about it before we get home,” he mutters, then louder, “Tell me, wife, what do you know about us Valyrians… no, us Targaryens and our dragons?”

“You… are supposed to look adorable,” Ceryse blurts out, her mind briefly blanking from Maegor’s actions. She doesn’t want to look into his face, not so close. “And, well… you live with your dragons, they fly you everywhere and assist you in performing your miracles… your magic.”

“It’s not them assisting us, but us directing them,” Maegor corrects her. “Valyrians aren’t more magical than you humans. We’re better at manipulating our expression, tone, and body language, but that’s hardly magic. Everything else? It’s the dragon’s work.”

“Everything?” Ceryse is genuinely surprised.

She remembers her parents taking her to Highgarden when the Targaryens visited to heal her infertility. Queen Visenya’s dragon, Vhagar, breathed blue fire on her body. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t help her conceive either. She always thought it was the queen working her magic through the dragon. It was actually all the dragon’s work?

“Yes, everything.” Maegor gives a firm, sharp nod. “With this in mind, you can see how a dragon’s age affects the strength and scale of the magic it can cast. Balerion is the oldest and largest dragon alive, so he can perform the strongest magic and cast more spells without exhausting himself.”

“But I’ve heard that the king rarely performs miracles. When I sought help for my infertility, it was the queen who tried to heal me.”

Maegor raises an eyebrow. “Infertility? So that’s why you became a Septa… and why you were chosen to marry me.”

Ceryse feels her cheeks heat up in shame. Stupid, stupid mouth blurting out secrets without thinking! “It was indeed why I was sent to the Faith… but I was chosen to be your bride because I’m a Hightower. We’re sworn to the Seven anyway; being fertile or not makes no difference.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard that the Hightowers are highly influential in the Reach, rivalling the Gardeners, and the influence they hold on the Faith is unmatched.” Maegor shakes his head slightly. “Distasteful politics. Well, it doesn’t matter to me. This marriage is to tie the Faith closer to us, so here’s what we’ll do: I’ll tell you all about us Valyrians, and in return, you’ll tell me about the Faith of the Seven.”

“…I thought you were unhappy with the match?” From Maegor’s attitude before and during the wedding, Ceryse is certain he holds only disdain for her, even if he wore a friendly facade in public.

Maegor snorts. “Of course I’m unhappy. Who would be happy to marry someone of a different species? Are you happy, woman?”

“Frankly, no.” It would be incredibly fake to proclaim otherwise now, when Ceryse has displayed no affection towards him.

“As I thought. We’ll never be a ‘happy couple’ the way my father wants. But this marriage is done, and we can’t change it, so we might as well do what’s expected.”

“And that is…” Ceryse recalls what her uncle told her. Observe how the Faith and the Valyrians coexist in harmony… unity of the Faith and House Targaryen…

As long as you stay by the prince's side as his wife, you have fulfilled your duty.

In other words…

“…Showing a united front?”

“You get it,” Maegor says with a satisfied nod. “So tell me about yourself—but keep it brief. I have more important things to do than listen to your life story.”

Ceryse’s face twitches. “The first thing you should know about me is that I don’t like having someone standing on my shoulders.”

Maegor chuckles. “You could have said it sooner.” Before Ceryse reacts, he jumps down, landing on her lap. Glancing up, he asks, “Better? I must be on your shoulders when we walk together, but in this carriage, it isn’t necessary.”

“…Better.” Ceryse is surprised. She thought Maegor wouldn’t care what she wanted.

“The thing you should know about me, wife, is that I don’t like people who don’t speak their thoughts. If you have a request, name it and I’ll consider it.”

Maegor settles down on her dress, constantly adjusting his position to look into her eyes without lifting his head, somewhat resembling a kitten. Despite her reservations, Ceryse can’t help but chuckle.

Maegor instantly narrows his eyes. “The second thing you should know is that I don’t allow disrespect. Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you!” Ceryse is exasperated—King Aegon is right about one thing: Maegor has no idea how to use his natural charm. “I just thought you looked adorable for a second. Can’t you relax while we talk?”

Maegor studies her expression before saying, “Fine.” Sighing, he adds, “Just don’t expect me to act like my father or my brother. I’m not like them at all.”

“I wouldn’t want you to behave like the king…” Ceryse doesn’t have a good impression of the man who came up with the idea of her marriage to Maegor. “…But I know nothing about your brother.”

“Aenys?” The mention of his brother brings a wry smile to Maegor’s face. “Well, he’s…”

—

"Welcome to Aegonfort, my newest good sister!" Aenys Targaryen bows deeply from atop his dragon, Quicksilver, almost losing his balance. "My father told me all about you, Ceryse. It’s my honour to welcome you to our family."

"Be careful, Aenys," Maegor warns from his position on Ceryse's shoulder, raising a brow. "Also, I thought you were in Dorne visiting Aunt Rhaenys?"

"News travels fast. I heard of your wedding and rode straight back here. I had to be the first to congratulate you when you came home!" Aenys beams. A moment later, he blinks and adds, "Oh, right, congratulations on marrying, little brother."

"Thanks." Maegor nods, a thin smile on his lips.

Ceryse watches their exchange with amusement. The two sons of King Aegon couldn’t be more different: Aenys is lean and soft, a bundle of earnest enthusiasm and joy, while Maegor is buff and harsh, cold and awkward even at his best.

If both Valyrians were animals, Aenys would be a lap dog, cuddly and eager to please, while Maegor would be a stray cat, eyeing everyone with suspicion and raising his claws at every passerby.

Yet from Maegor’s demeanour, Ceryse senses he is fond of his elder brother. He isn’t disinterested in Aenys as he is with her, nor is Maegor putting on a friendly mask when interacting with Aenys.

It’s certainly a more affectionate relationship than what Ceryse has seen between King Aegon and Queen Visenya, or Aegon and Maegor.

"Come! Father is waiting for us," Aenys urges, and Ceryse follows Quicksilver into Aegonfort.

Aegonfort is a small, humble keep newly built after King Argilac, Aegon’s first ally, proclaimed him King of Westeros. Its size is pitiful compared to the Hightower or any great castle in Westeros, but considering the size of the Valyrians and their dragons, it might already be enormous to them.

It isn’t until Ceryse walks into the throne room that her eyebrows shoot up.

"You finally returned with your bride, Maegor," the king flies down to welcome them, but Ceryse can’t care less about the king now. What even is the... thing he and his dragon are on before they fly down?

"Ah, you see the most prized creation in my fort," Aegon nods with satisfaction as he follows her gaze. "Behold, the Iron Throne! The most comfortable throne in all of Westeros!"

Ceryse narrows her eyes as she looks at the... Iron... Throne. Is this throne made with melted iron? That might explain its irregular shape, but not its appearance.

The Iron Throne is a ‘throne’ that looks like a pillow fort. Thousands of pillows of different sizes piled together, all in various shades of grey. The throne looks… fluffy and Ceryse has a hard time believing it’s forged with metal.

Noticing her reaction, Maegor leans towards her ear and whispers, "Yes, it’s a pillow fort."

Ceryse feels her eyelids twitch. "Then why is it named the Iron Throne?"

Maegor shrugs. "Father thinks it’s cooler."

For the love of the Smith. Ceryse squeezes out a wry smile as a headache forms.

Balerion growls towards them, and Aegon shouts, "Hey, lovebirds, save the whispering for private and listen to your king! We’re having a feast tonight in your honour, before you return to Dragonstone. You must be introduced to my court, Ceryse."

"And I wish you to meet Alyssa and Rhaena, too." Aenys smiles softly, Quicksilver hovering near Ceryse to purr at her. Ceryse smiles back; the small and beautiful Quicksilver seems friendlier than the bulky and loud Balerion. Like Valyrians, like dragons, she supposes.

She briefly wonders what Maegor’s dragon would be like before the man himself speaks up. "Where is mother?"

Aegon pouts. "She’s back at Dragonstone. Something about needing to attend to our ancestral seat."

"...Right." Hearing that his mother isn’t around, Maegor’s expression darkens. "I need to return soon—"

"Oh, chill, son! Visenya can handle the work herself. It’s not like you’ll be much help when you don’t even have a dragon," Aegon says.

Ceryse feels Maegor’s heavy breath on her neck. She glances at him and sees him glaring at Aegon, but Aegon just shakes his head. "Geez, I have no idea why you’re being so tight. You just got married, enjoy your new life!"

Maegor sneers.

Ceryse hates being in the middle of this family drama, especially with Maegor still on her shoulder. The Crone, please grant me the patience and wisdom to deal with those two.

She’s racking her brain for what to say when Aenys interrupts. "That’s not very fair, father. Maegor’s marriage is much more challenging than mine or yours and mother’s. He’ll need more time to adjust before he can enjoy it thoroughly. And we mustn’t forget Ceryse’s opinion as well." He looks at Ceryse, expecting a response.

"Ah... this is a huge change from my previous life, so I’m still adjusting," Ceryse answers, not liking being put on the spot. "I wish to get to know my new husband... and his family, in the upcoming days."

"...And it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a dragon yet," Maegor suddenly says, startling her. "Ceryse can be my dragon from now on, carrying me wherever we go— if you’re willing, of course," he adds hastily.

Ceryse slowly turns to look at him directly. Maegor beams, but however saccharine his smile, she can feel the force he applies in the hands where he holds the hem of her clothes.

He won’t allow her to refuse, even when he knows she hates having him on her shoulders.

…Does she have the ability to disobey his order, though?

A thought pops into her mind. "Maegor," she says firmly, "I’ll go wherever you go, and carry you as long as you don’t have a dragon. But I don’t like having you on my shoulders constantly— it’s hard to look at you, and tiring. Perhaps there’s another way?"

Annoyance flashes on Maegor’s face, but he suppresses it immediately. Instead, he continues to smile softly. "If you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them."

"Orys once transported me and Balerion with a basket," Aegon chips in, "When we met Harren Hoare. It was a fun experience."

Aenys laughs nervously. "...As in, when Balerion burned Black Harren to death?"

"Balerion must be glad to see some action after being forced to hide," Maegor comments.

Ceryse is bewildered by how fast the topic switches. As much as she wishes not to have Maegor pressuring her, she wants him off her shoulders more. So she tries to steer them back with a suggestion.

"How about using a swaddle? I can carry you in front of me." It won’t look good, but it’s a better alternative than keeping Maegor in his original position or having him in a basket as Aegon suggested.

Maegor frowns, struggling to keep his smile up. "That sounds... awfully restrictive, Ceryse. I would love to keep my mobility in case I need to protect you with my blade."

Protect me with your blade? You? Ceryse bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. The idea that Maegor could protect her from anything is outrageous, considering their size differences. Regardless, displeasing him further is clearly a bad idea.

"A swaddle made with leather?" Aenys questions, looking intrigued. "Can it be made so that it won’t be restrictive?"

"And more importantly, it has to look regal," Aegon adds. "I can’t have a son of mine travelling in what looks like a baby’s swaddle."

Ceryse’s gaze briefly drifts towards Aegon’s 'Iron Throne'. Right, looking very regal here. "We could summon a swaddle designer. With enough gold, someone skilled can make it."

"...Fine." Maegor spits out, his mask of friendliness disappearing. "In the meantime, if you dislike me being on your shoulders so much..."

"Ouch!" Ceryse cries out as sharp pain stabs the side of her head. "What are you doing? It hurts!"

"My apologies, please bear with it for a moment." Maegor’s voice comes from the top of her head. She feels his little legs stomping on her. "Right, I’m settled. Surely this must be a better place for me to stay?"

Ceryse shakes in anger as she feels the sudden weight on her neck, the constant pulling of her hair, and the uncomfortable sensation of his boots rubbing her scalp. In a sudden rush of bravery, she reaches upwards and picks him up. "Hey— What? Put me down!" Maegor screams and kicks, but he can’t hurt her when she’s holding his body.

Holding him at eye level, Ceryse hisses, "Prince Maegor, husband dearest, I don’t like it when someone stays on my shoulders and head. I can accept carrying you with a swaddle. Take it, or travel on your own feet."

Then she puts him down on the ground. Maegor stares at her, his face twisting.

In rage, Ceryse feels invincible, but then Balerion growls and she remembers she’s in front of two dragons, one known for burning someone to death. In fear, she takes a step back. "No... no disrespect meant, of course..."

Balerion flies down, landing by Maegor’s side. Quicksilver too lands, nudging Balerion with her head as Aenys looks helplessly towards his father.

Finally, Aegon laughs. "Oh, we picked the right girl for you, I just know it. I’m such a genius." Self-congratulating, he smiles benevolently towards his younger son. "She isn’t wrong, son. Although we Valyrians are meant to soar in the sky, some walking can still do you good. Wait a week or so, and I’ll get someone to make your swaddle."

Maegor glares at his father, his face flushed red in anger; but slowly, gradually, his large violet eyes are filled with tears. "I... I understand, father." His voice is filled with sadness and regret.

When he looks back at Ceryse, he’s struggling to open his swollen eyes, sniffing. It’s both pathetic and heartbreaking. Despite knowing Maegor’s tricks, she still can’t help but kneel to look at him. "I’m sorry," she blurts out, opening her hands to him. "You can come back on if you want."

Maegor steps onto her palms, pouting. He isn’t that heavy, not really. Just the weight of a kitten. And he’s a decade younger than her, still a child... perhaps she should be less harsh with him, she starts to reconsider.

"...No, Ceryse, I won’t trouble you further..." Maegor continues to sniff, shivering on her palms, eyeing her with the faintest hint of hope.

Ceryse is so close to giving in before Aenys speaks up.

"Maegor, how about you travel with me on Quicksilver? We should mostly be in the same place when you’re in King’s Landing, anyway." Aenys smiles brightly. "At least until Aunt Visenya comes back..."

Maegor glances back at Aenys, his gaze drifting between the two of them. It’s a judging gaze, the look of a canny merchant deciding between two attractive offers.

Or a kitten deciding between two plates of tasty treats, carefully sniffing out possible poison.

Finally, he beams at Aenys. "I’ll take your offer, brother." Then he jumps from Ceryse’s palms to Quicksilver’s side, swiftly pulling himself up her back. Quicksilver purrs softly.

Satisfied, Maegor quickly makes a face at her as he sits behind Aenys.

Ceryse feels like she has been hit by a cane on the head. Oh, it’s Maegor. Whatever spell he has cast on her, it couldn’t possibly be genuine.

...What an annoying brat!

As Ceryse rolls her eyes, Balerion flies back to her side. "My son is... quite a character," Aegon says. "But he’s still a Targaryen, with the charm he inherited. Be patient with him, dear girl, and you’ll find him being a tenth of the husband I am... even if he could never be as clever and charismatic as I am!"

Ceryse looks at Aegon, who is laughing proudly.

She clenches her fist.

I bet it’s your fault that Maegor turned out like this!

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

Ceryse stares at the funeral pyre, still bewildered. Everything happened so suddenly.

Just yesterday, Aegon was as much of a nuisance as ever, telling his grandchildren wildly improbable stories, his appearance barely changed since Ceryse first met him. And today, he’s dead—his body consumed by the flames Balerion created.

From healthy to lifeless… it took less than half an hour. He just started coughing, then choking, clutching his chest, and… nothing.

“Father…” Aenys sighs from atop Quicksilver, his voice more resigned than sorrowful. “I—I know it was coming, but… so soon after mother…”

“The time comes for us all,” Visenya says sharply, Vhagar soaring above the pyre. “Rhaenys drank too much wine, and Aegon…” She glances down, her tone hardening. “At our age, every day could be our last. You must take the reins and rule.”

Yes, Ceryse reminds herself. Even if Aegon didn’t look it, he was old enough to have grandchildren of marriageable age. The Valyrians are magical, but their lifespans aren’t so different from humans.

And now Aenys is king. Well, he’s certainly more pleasant to be around than his father, so Ceryse can’t imagine much trouble ahead in his reign…

“Ceryse,” her husband calls at his usual spot— standing on her left shoulder, one hand gripping the hem of her clothes to steady himself. “The time has come. Walk closer to the pyre.”

Immediately she frowns. “What?” She turns to glare at him, squinting her eyes, and sees an unusual expression on Maegor’s face— his cheeks are flushed with excitement.

Maegor’s default expression is boredom, as if everything is beneath him; however, when given an assignment, he works solemnly, an attitude Ceryse knows he inherited from Visenya. Then, of course, there’s the “harmless” facade he wears when he wants something… and from time to time, he does show genuine happiness. But excitement? Not even once.

“Don’t you always want to get me off your shoulders?” he asks. Then Ceryse remembers. It’s been over a decade, but Maegor once told her he was waiting to claim a dragon.

Balerion, King Aegon’s mount.

Ceryse obeys, carefully approaches the black dragon watching the pyre. She extends her hand, and Maegor leaps down onto her palm, standing at nearly eye level with the beast.

“Balerion, come with me. Father is gone, and we have work to do,” Maegor says simply.

Balerion nods. Then he roars, launching a bright fireball at the pyre, sending a final farewell to his former master before turning to Maegor. Maegor jumps down, placing himself firmly on the dragon’s back.

He smiles.

“Thank you for your service all these years, wife,” he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I’ll no longer need you for travel.”

Ceryse glances at her shoulder, feeling strangely empty. She’d once protested and fought against Maegor clinging to her like a parasite when they first married. But over the years, she had grown used to it. And now he’s gone…

“You’re still welcome here if you want,” she blurts out, quickly adding, “I mean, in case Balerion isn’t available and you need me…”

Before Maegor can respond, Balerion lets out a sound that suspiciously resembles a human chuckle. Damn you, dragon! Ceryse glares at the beast, her fear of the mighty Black Dread long gone after years of interaction.

“You will treat my wife with respect, Balerion,” Maegor warns, patting the dragon’s back. “My father might have indulged your bad behaviour, but I won’t allow it.”

Balerion flaps his wings quickly, whether in protest or acknowledgement, Ceryse can’t tell.

“He’ll learn,” Maegor promises, turning back to Ceryse, offering a smile, “I’m glad to hear you say that. Your shoulders were always comfortable, and I’m sure I’ll want to return from time to time. But now—”

“Your Grace! Urgent news!” A voice calls from behind.

Ceryse turns and sees Dragonstone’s maester rushing toward them, a letter in hand. “A raven from the Vale,” he says, panting. “King Ronnel Arryn has been imprisoned and usurped by his brother Jonos. Ronnel’s loyal lords are calling for help from the King of Westeros.”

“That’s…” Aenys blinks, confused. “How come? Was there any sign of tension between the Arryn brothers?”

“Jonos Arryn has always been a coward, outshone by his older brother even as a child,” Visenya declares, her lips pressed together in distaste. “I suppose he can’t stand being second best anymore.”

Maegor shifts uneasily on Balerion’s back. “We must send help. A request has been made, and as the King of Westeros, it’s Aenys’ duty to answer it.”

“But…” Aenys hesitates, looking down. “How can we help? We don’t have an army to match what the Vale can field. We can fly to the Eyrie, but surely Jonos must have archers prepared. This isn’t like our father’s surprise attack on Harren Hoare.”

Ceryse thinks over his words. Indeed, Dragonstone and King’s Landing have little in the way of an army; after all, the Targaryens never need one. From what Ceryse gathered, the Targaryens haven't interacted much outside the narrow sea until Aegon, and King’s Landing is a fresh city built on Stormlands’ and the Faith’s charity, lacking a substantial military force.

They could summon the banners of some lords loyal to the Targaryens, but how many would send more than a token force? Despite Aegon and Visenya’s efforts, most lords still view the Targaryens more like idols to be admired than rulers to be obeyed. Their respect for Aegon is more akin to worship than fealty.

Still, there’s no denying the Targaryens’ popularity, especially with the High Septon’s proclamation of them as the Maiden’s chosen, and their miracles throughout the Seven Kingdoms…

“The Faith,” Ceryse suddenly realises. “My uncle… The High Septon supports us, and he commands the Warrior’s Sons.”

“Perhaps the Storm Queen would help, too,” Aenys’ wife Alyssa adds. “Though she’s had less contact with us since King Orys’ death, she has always been our greatest supporter.”

Visenya shakes her head. “Argella will help, no doubt, as will the Faith. And with Ronnel married to a Stark, it’s likely the North will move against Jonos as well. But invading the Vale is not simple, even with an army. It requires strategy, logistics, and tactics—things we’ve never been trained in. There’s a reason we’ve relied on diplomacy, not warfare, to convince kings to submit.”

“Then…” Aenys begins slowly, “Maybe we can defeat Jonos… with diplomacy?”

His eyes meet Maegor’s, and he nods sharply. “The letter came from Ronnel’s loyalists, and Jonos hasn’t declared himself King of Mountain and Vale yet, has he?”

“No such proclamation has come from the Vale,” the maester replies.

“Then we can send a letter to the Vale. Jonos would be ready to strike if we invade with an army, but if it’s a mere diplomatic visit, we’ll have a chance to get close to him.” Maegor looks directly at Aenys. “I’ll handle it for you, if you wish, brother.”

Ceryse can’t help but frown as Quicksilver flies towards Balerion and Aenys embraces Maegor. Maegor is always eager for his brother’s approval, so it’s no surprise he’d offer to take charge… but she hasn’t heard an actual plan from him yet.

And knowing Maegor, his perception of things is often… skewed.

“Maegor, I know you’re reliable,” Aenys says happily, drawing Blackfyre from his side and handing it to Maegor. “You’ll put this sword to better use than I would. Take it and reclaim the Vale, and you’ll be my Hand, ruling by my side, just as Uncle Orys did with our father.”

“Aegon made Orys his Hand because Orys was literally… never mind,” Visenya sighs as her son and nephew glance at her, annoyed by her interruption.

“It’s my honour to accept this post. I shall serve you loyally and ably, until the last of my days,” Maegor gives his oath solemnly, taking the sword with both hands. Turning to the maester, he adds, “Maester, I need you to write a letter.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the maester answers.

“And Ceryse…” Maegor glances at her and says matter-of-factly, “You’re going to the Vale with me.”

“What?”

—

The Eyrie

“Announcing Prince Maegor Targaryen of Westeros, and his wife, Princess Ceryse Hightower!”

Ceryse steps into the High Hall of the Eyrie, just behind Maegor and Balerion. Their retainers trail behind, but their numbers pale in comparison to the knights stationed within the Eyrie. As the doors close behind them, Ceryse can't shake off a creeping sense of unease. We don’t have enough men…

The throne of the Eyrie stands empty, for the man who wears the crown is standing on the hall's blue carpet. He doesn’t kneel, but he offers his respect with a deep bow. “I, Ronnel Arryn, King of Mountain and Vale, welcome you to the Eyrie, my prince and princess.”

Instantly Ceryse’s eyebrows shoot up. Ronnel? He called himself Ronnel Arryn? If the man before them isn’t Jonos Arryn, Ceryse will bite off her tongue and eat it.

Sure, he looks the part of an Arryn king, dressed in blue and white, standing tall and proud in his ancestor’s hall. But the real Ronnel Arryn wouldn’t greet them so casually; he would be aware of the plea for help sent by his bannerman, and thank Maegor for coming to his rescue.

Yet, Maegor isn’t fazed by the pretender’s bold claim; he simply returns his bow politely. “It’s our pleasure to be here, Your Grace. I'm glad to find you in good health. I have heard some rumours concerning unrest in the Vale, I trust that it’s all unfounded?”

The false falcon king feigns innocence, widening his eyes. "Not at all, my lord. The Vale is as peaceful as can be. Even the mountain clans have been quiet these past months."

"Good," Maegor nods. "And your family? How are they faring?"

“Ah,” Arryn hesitates briefly, “My wife, Lyarra, has unfortunately fallen ill with a fever, preventing her from greeting our guests. But rest assured, she is under the care of our maester and will soon recover.”

“I could try to heal her with Balerion—”

“No, no, it's unnecessary!” Arryn says quickly, his hands and head shaking in rejection, “My maester has the situation well in hand, she is already getting better.”

Balerion huffs and Arryn glances at him with fear in his eyes. Gods, what is this mummer thinking? Ceryse can’t believe Jonos thinks he can trick them with his amateurish acting. Even Maegor seems to be suppressing a laugh, his lips twitching at the corners. Still, he continues to question Jonos.

“And your brother?”

“Jonos is currently out travelling.”

“Well,” Maegor smiles warmly, “as long as the most important man in the Vale is present, my mission is accomplished. From what I have heard, you’re a far more accomplished man than your brother anyway.”

Arryn’s face twitches. “That's not true! I— Jonos is an accomplished knight.”

How is he falling for this stupid bait? Ceryse thinks, rolling her eyes. Be done with this mummer’s farce already!

"On the contrary, Your Grace, you are far more impressive than your brother," Maegor insists, “You’re handsome, imposing, born to be king. My mother has told me her visit to the Eyrie and she said Jonos Arryn was a witless coward who could only hide behind your back—”

"That's a lie!" Jonos explodes, his voice reverberating through the marble walls of the High Hall. His face reddens with anger. “I’m no witless coward! I don’t hide behind my brother’s back! You all look down on me, but I’ll be a better king than Ronnel ever was!”

A tense silence fills the hall.

Then Maegor moves.

“Balerion!” Maegor shouts as Jonos instinctively ducks, anticipating dragonfire. Yet Balerion doesn’t breathe fire; he lunges for Jonos' neck instead, while Maegor jumps and climbs onto Jonos’ head, one hand pulling his sandy-blond hair and the other pointing Blackfyre at his blue eyes. Jonos freezes, his pupils narrow at the tip of Blackfyre.

Several of Jonos' men advance towards Ceryse, but she retreats, positioning herself behind the knights accompanying Maegor. "Nobody moves," Maegor orders calmly, his voice carrying authority. Balerion's jaws clamp down on Jonos' neck, and when Jonos echoes Maegor's command, his voice trembling, Ceryse knows that Maegor has won.

…Somehow. Only due to ridiculous circumstances. And most importantly enemy stupidity.

Is today Maegor’s lucky day?

“Now, Lord Jonos, answer me a question. This time with the truth.” Maegor asks coldly, “Where are King Ronnel and his wife? Are they in the sky cells?”

"They're not there," Jonos replies, his voice shaking. "I had them moved, fearing you might hear them. If you... if you can guarantee my safety, I'll reveal their location."

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate, my lord,” Maegor responds darkly, “Your life is in Balerion’s… mouth. Disobey, and he'll snap your neck in an instant.” 

“But if you kill me, you’ll never find my brother.” Jonos is shivering, but he seems to stand by his words, his lips tight even when Maegor and Balerion glare at him. As the standoff continues, Ceryse feels like she should intervene.

“Maegor, perhaps Lord Jonos can take the black?”

Maegor stares at her. She expected him to be mad at her for interrupting, but his gaze isn’t one of anger; rather, it’s searching, waiting for an… answer?

Wait. Does Maegor not know about the Night’s Watch?

Ceryse’s face twists as she realises that for all the things she had taught Maegor in the last decade, the Night’s Watch isn’t one of them. Maegor’s knowledge of Westerosi customs has always been rather lacking… he had her drilling him on knowledge about the Vale for weeks before coming here.

Yet she would never have thought that he didn’t know about the Night’s Watch!

“Lord Jonos, surely you would agree that taking the black will be preferable to death,” Ceryse quickly adds, more to Maegor’s benefit than Jonos, “You will renounce all your claims and titles to serve as a man of the Watch, defending the realms from the wildlings beyond the Wall, and with time you might even rise to the position of Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“…I know what taking the black means,” Jonos glances at her with confusion, “And… Yes, I suppose joining the Night’s Watch is the best I could get. I accept.”

“Then so be it,” Maegor says immediately, relief in his eyes, “Now, release your brother and his wife, and bring them here as promised.”

“Bring them out,” Jonos orders, and his men obey. Running out of the hall, they bring back… a short man dressed in rags, his appearance dishevelled.

Jonos is apparently as confused as Ceryse is. “What? Why haven't you brought my brother and his wife?”

"Milord, you ordered us to move them out," the short man explains, his voice trembling. "So, I pushed them out to the skies..."

“They… they died?” Jonos whispers, his face pales, “That’s… that’s not what I intended! I didn’t mean to kill them! I’m no kinslayer!”

“Regardless, they’re dead,” Maegor sneers, “Dead because of you. The man who did the deed will lose his head, but you must face punishment as well, Lord Jonos.”

“You— I— If you kill me, you’ll be breaking the guest right!” Jonos protests, his fear palpable, “You ate my bread and salt before entering this hall!”

Maegor pauses for a second as Balerion looks at him, waiting for permission to bite.

“Ceryse, explain to Lord Jonos why he is mistaken,” Maegor says at last, looking at Ceryse expectantly.

You little— Ceryse glares at Maegor, irritated at being put on the spot. She bet he wasn’t educated on the guest right either. Gods, what does he actually know?

I’ll force him to attend extensive lessons with the maester later, Ceryse vows in her head as she scrambles to figure out a solution… well, more of a loophole.

“Lord Jonos,” she starts calmly, “it’s true, we did receive bread and salt from the King of Mountain and Vale upon our arrival. However, you aren’t the king, are you?”

“I…” Jonos is at a loss for words as he realises his defeat.

“You’re merely a pretender to your brother’s throne, not the true master of the Eyrie. Thus, we’re under no obligation to grant you protection,” Ceryse finishes. Jonos stares at her with horror, while Maegor smiles slightly. This is done now— as Ceryse thinks that, another thought rises in her head.

I’m condemning a man to death by my words.

She, Ceryse Hightower, a Septa and servant of the ever merciful Seven.

Mother above, how could I live with myself if I do that?

“BUT,” Ceryse blurts out quickly before Balerion bites down, “My husband is a merciful man. He once offered you the opportunity to take the black, and he will uphold that offer as long as you leave the Eyrie by tomorrow. Am I right, husband?”

Maegor stares at her. She stares back. Very soon, her eyes start to hurt, but she refuses to blink. She can see that Maegor is fuming, but just this once he has to listen to her!

As tears well up in her eyes, Maegor finally relents. “Fair is fair. I AM a merciful man. You will depart for the Night's Watch tomorrow, Jonos Arryn.”

“Thank you for your mercy, my prince and princess!” Jonos immediately says. After Maegor jumps down from his head and Balerion reluctantly releases him, Maegor’s knight takes him into custody. Ceryse exhales, a sense of relief washing over her.

Maegor flies to her side on Balerion. “You owe me, wife,” he hisses, his face contorted in a menacing scowl.

“I— I’m not afraid of you,” Ceryse stammers, her words ineffective. After over a decade of marriage, she has grown accustomed to Maegor’s terrifying face, but combined with Balerion's growls, the effect is unnerving. The dragon's eyes glow red, saliva dripping from his open mouth, revealing sharp teeth. Balerion has never looked at her with such hunger before.

“Sure you aren’t,” Maegor sneers. “Since you have been helpful today, I’ll forgive you for speaking out of turn. Balerion, Ceryse isn’t your meal, so behave yourself.” The dragon grunts and closes his mouth on Maegor’s order. Returning his focus to Ceryse, Maegor warns, “But remember, wife: if a similar situation arises again, I won’t be so merciful towards our enemies.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Ceryse replies coldly, trying to shake off her fear, “but I must do what I can as a Septa of the Faith.”

“So you do,” Maegor acknowledges, his gaze intense. “I'll keep that in mind.” He glares at her once more before shifting his attention. “With Ronnel dead and Jonos removed from inheritance, we need a new king of Mountain and Vale. The closest Arryn in line would be…”

“Hubert Arryn, the brothers’ cousin,” Ceryse reminds him, “We have studied the Arryn family tree just before in preparation.”

“That we did. And this is why I insisted you come with me, to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.”

"I understand that now," Ceryse mutters, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Reflecting on the events that just transpired, she adds, “We were fortunate that Jonos is a fool fearing for his own life. If he had been even slightly competent, this encounter could have ended very differently.”

Maegor gives her a curious look. "No, it would have ended the same way. A kinslaying usurper like Jonos Arryn could never defeat me." Balerion roars, and Maegor quickly adds, "And Balerion, of course."

“Then what’s your plan if he didn’t stupidly pretend to be Ronnel Arryn?”

“Rush him with Balerion.”

"But that would have put us all in grave danger!" Ceryse protests. "If he had been prepared, he could have killed us all!"

"Have faith in my abilities, Ceryse," Maegor says dismissively, waving his hand. "In close combat, Balerion and I are invincible. You've witnessed our training sessions; you should know this."

Ceryse grits her teeth, a realisation dawning on her. I’ll have to accompany him wherever he goes, otherwise he’ll get into trouble sooner or later.

Maegor's lack of common sense, which might have gone unnoticed on Dragonstone, becomes glaringly apparent when he ventures out into the world. If Ceryse isn’t around to cover for him… she doesn’t want to imagine the outcome.

And Aenys appointed him Hand of the King!

Chapter Text

Harrenhal

“Lord Harroway, your daughter won’t marry the man you have chosen for her,” Maegor calmly declares, sitting on top of Balerion.

Lucas Harroway, the newly made lord of Harrenhal rises from his seat, his face flushes red. “Even if you’re a prince, you still have no right to interfere with my daughter’s marriage!” he retorts, eying the dragon with caution. 

Alys— Lord Harroway’s daughter was standing right next to Ceryse earlier. Now she cowers behind the older woman’s back, fearing her father’s wrath. Offering a reassuring pat on young Alys’ shoulders, Ceryse glances at her husband worriedly. What are you planning to do, Maegor?

Ceryse has gotten him to promise not to use Balerion or attack with Blackfyre, but knowing Maegor… there are many ways this can go wrong—

“I have the right because I’m her intended,” Maegor announces, “I have decided to take Lady Alys Harroway as my second wife.”

Ceryse’s eyes widen. Her jaw drops. Though countless words of fury surge through her mind, no words come from her mouth.

Excuse me? I’m standing right here!

—

A few hours ago…

“You— you’re one of those Targaryens! With a dragon!” a young maid, no older than seventeen, exclaims upon seeing Maegor and Balerion. Her eyes wide with wonder, she hurries toward them, offering a relieved smile. “I’ve heard a Targaryen has come to the riverlands, but I never thought…”

Her words trail off as Balerion swoops down and nudges his head forward, signalling her to pet him. The girl hesitates, extending her hand, then quickly pulls back when Maegor glares at her.

“Do you need something?” Maegor asks flatly. “If it’s help you seek, we’ll offer it. If not, Balerion and I have places to go.”

They don’t actually, Ceryse reflects. They came to the riverlands after hearing of a rebel, Harren the Red, claiming to be a grandson of Harren the Black and taking up residence at Harrenhal. But when Maegor and Ceryse arrived, they found out that the Hoares on the Iron Islands had denounced Harren the Red as false, and the riverlords had already crushed the rebellion, leaving Maegor with nothing to do.

Ceryse is relieved she won’t have to watch Maegor and Balerion deal with another pretender, but Maegor must feel rather annoyed.

“I do, I need your help!” the girl nods, her expression immediately turning into one of distress, “My father is forcing me to marry a monstrous man, one who abuses any girl who crosses his path. If I marry him, he’ll ruin my life. Please, stop this marriage!”

Maegor remains silent for a moment. “…Wife,” he finally says, turning to Ceryse. “You deal with this. It’s more your area of expertise.”

Ceryse sighs, resigned. Of course. Putting on a polite smile, she steps closer to the girl. “What’s your name, young lady?”

“Alys, Alys Harroway,” the girl answers, eyeing Ceryse curiously. “And you are…?”

“Ceryse Hightower, wife to Prince Maegor Targaryen, Hand of the King,” Ceryse replies automatically, though her mind is still processing Alys’ answer. “Harroway… Lord Lucas Harroway was recently awarded Harrenhal for crushing the Ironborn rebel. How are you related?”

“I’m his eldest daughter,” Alys admits.

Oh no. Ceryse had hoped she would only be a merchant’s daughter, but now that hope is gone. “And the man your father wants you to marry is…?”

“Davos Darry, the youngest son of Lord Darry,” Alys sighs. “He’s been widowed three times already. None of his wives lasted more than six months. I don’t want to be the fourth wife who dies!”

“I… I see.” Ceryse frowns, a headache incoming. While it’s no common affair, marriage disputes sometimes happen in Oldtown too, and Ceryse has seen the Faith intervene. For women in such distress as Alys, the Starry Sept can offer a safe refuge.

Typically, the woman in question would return home after speaking with her parents and betrothed, reassured that her marriage wouldn’t be as terrible as she feared. In some cases, she would find taking the vows of septa preferable. This is the solution Ceryse is going to suggest, but…

It only works if she isn’t a noble. Even the Starry Sept can’t take in a daughter of Hightower without Lord Hightower’s consent, and the Starry Sept is where the Faith is most influential. If Lord Harroway insists on this marriage, it’s entirely in his right and no one in the Seven Kingdoms can object to it.

Not even a prince. Not even a king.

“Lady Alys, I’ll need to speak with my husband,” Ceryse says, excusing herself. Maegor shoots her an unhappy look but urges Balerion to follow her. Once they are out of earshot, Ceryse tells Maegor her concerns.

“…It’s a pity, but I don’t think there’s much we can do for her, Maegor,” Ceryse concludes with a sigh, “She can defy her father, but it will only bring her more pain once the marriage happens.”

Maegor frowns deeply. “Will she be wedded even if she refuses to say the vows?”

“If she refuses to say it, it’ll be a scandal,” Ceryse replies, reluctant to speak the harsh truth. “But she’ll still be wed. When the time comes, she won’t have the choice. She knows the consequences of resisting.”

Maegor nods, considering. “You’ve said the Faith can’t help, and if I interfere with the crown’s authority, the riverlords will resent us. However…” he pauses, musing, “If I just… yes, that would work, no doubt. I have another way.”

“Another way?” Ceryse doesn’t like the sound of that. “Please tell me that it doesn’t involve Balerion. Or Blackfyre.”

“I’m no mindless brute, woman,” Maegor scoffs, glaring at her, “I know violence isn’t the answer here.”

“Then what’s your plan?” Ceryse asks, dreading his response. “If it’s like the last time in the Vale… you don’t mean to simply take Alys away without her father’s permission, do you?”

“No, of course not. I’ll speak to him,” Maegor says with confidence. “He’ll listen to my reasoning.”

Ceryse remains skeptical. Reasoning is rarely Maegor’s strong suit. “You won’t be threatening him, will you?”

“None of that,” Maegor assures her. “I’ll handle it. This time, all you need to do is watch.”

And so she watches.

—

Upon hearing Maegor’s words, Lord Harroway’s eyes widen. “Second wife? You want to marry my daughter… when you’re already married?”

“My father Aegon had two wives. This practice isn’t unheard of for us Valyrians,” Maegor explains, “I’m a prince and the Hand of the King. I’m a much better match for your daughter than anyone you could have found. I trust you’ll consent to the engagement?”

A series of emotions flicker across Lord Harroway’s face. Rage turns to confusion, and then a calculating gleam appears in his eyes as he glances at Alys, still hidden behind Ceryse’s back and clearly bewildered.

Finally, he smiles. “I would, Your Grace. But I trust your wife, Princess Ceryse, also consents?”

“Of course,” Maegor answers before Ceryse can speak. “My wife will treat Alys well. See,” he gestures toward the pair, ignoring the deadly glare Ceryse gives him, “They’re already as close as sisters.”

“Then I have no objection,” Lucas Harroway says, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “You honour my House with your choice, my prince.”

Ceryse finds it tempting to push Alys aside, to declare loudly that she doesn’t approve nor consent to this marriage. But she hesitates, not only for Maegor’s sake, but because the girl clings to her sleeve, trembling, shaking her head slightly, silently begging her to go along.

It pains Ceryse to see Alys so terrified at the thought of marrying her betrothed, that she would prefer being Maegor’s second wife. If Ceryse protests now, she might break the engagement, but Alys would be branded a wanton girl who tried—and failed—to seduce a married prince.

Can Ceryse do that to her? Alys is a stranger, yes, but she’s also just an innocent girl caught in something much bigger than her.

Yet, if Ceryse lets the marriage go through, how will the rest of Westeros react? Will her family in Hightower and her brothers and sisters in the Faith denounce her and Maegor?

Ceryse hesitates. She ponders. She struggles. Struggled between her desires and her faith, her duty as Maegor’s wife and as a Septa.

Then Maegor turns to face her and Alys. “Lady Alys, have no fear,” he says with a kind, gentle smile— a fake smile, but more natural than the one he had when he first met Ceryse, “I’ll never mistreat you. When we return to King’s Landing, I’ll introduce you to my family, and you’ll be known as a princess of the realm, with all the freedoms and allowances you are entitled to.”

Hearing that, Alys’ face brightens. She leaps from behind Ceryse, throwing herself toward Balerion. “Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you so much!” she exclaims, laughing as Balerion nuzzles her, previous despair forgotten. 

Ceryse wants to say something, to do something, but she’s frozen on the spot. Should she approach them and welcome Alys into the family, as if she agrees with Maegor’s plan? Or should she storm away in a silent protest for this insult?

She doesn’t know, and the indecision is tearing her apart.

Maegor… jumps off from Balerion’s back. “Get familiar with Alys,” he tells the dragon before turning to Ceryse, walking toward her with a strange smile. For a moment, Ceryse can’t read him. It’s not the fake sweet smile he gave Alys, but it’s not a genuine one either. It’s… off, somewhat, almost comical.

Ceryse kneels and extends a hand towards Maegor. He climbs onto her shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispers, “but this is the only way we can save her.”

At the moment, Ceryse understands. His smile… It's an apologetic smile.

Maegor knew this would anger her, that she would surely protest if he’d told her earlier. And so he chose not to say anything, knowing she would be reluctant to oppose him publicly.

Now, he hopes a simple apology will suffice.

Oh, Maegor.

Ceryse suddenly feels tired, very tired. Maegor… he has no idea what he has done, beyond angering her. This is much, much bigger than just the three of them.

To Maegor, this is just offering Alys shelter when she has nowhere to turn to. Married or not, Maegor could never truly be a “husband” to any woman, nor does he desire to take a woman to bed. Ceryse knows that. But most of the realm doesn’t, and she doubts they’ll listen to Maegor’s explanation, even if he offers it.

“Maegor…” Ceryse says softly, her voice tinged with concern. “The realm will see this as an outrage. A lot more people than just me will be angry. To marry another woman when you already have a wife… people will see you as a sinful creature unworthy to be a prince. Are you sure you can handle this?”

“I—” Maegor looks confident, but then he sees Ceryse’s expression, and falters. “…I don’t know,” he answers, quietly, truthfully, “But if we can save her, it’s worth it.”

—Is it? Is saving a girl worth the ire of the whole Westeros?

Ceryse glances at Alys again. She’s holding Balerion in her arms, laughing and giggling as the dragon licks her face affectionately.

“…I suppose.” She finds herself compelled to agree.

—

Aegonfort

“Maegor!” Aenys shouts as Maegor enters the throne room, Quicksilver diving towards Balerion. “What happened? We’ve received letters from all over Westeros—” He stops short, noticing Alys. “…Oh.”

Ceryse sighs. Those letters must have informed Aenys about the events in the Riverlands. If he had doubts before, the sight of Alys beside Maegor would have confirmed them.

It has already caused quite a mess back in Harrenhal, when all the septons Lord Harroway could find refused to perform the wedding— In the end, Maegor told Lucas Harroway he would wed Alys in a Valyrian ceremony instead, but the damage was done. And it’s not just the Faith or the riverlanders; a third of their retainers went missing after the marriage was announced. Worse, some of those men are from Oldtown—men who went to Dragonstone with Ceryse when she married Maegor. They are certainly returning home, bringing the news to Starry Sept and Hightower.

Since then, the news had spread like wildfire, with whispers following Ceryse wherever she went, louder and fiercer as time passed. Fearing for their safety, she urged Maegor to return to King’s Landing as fast as possible, but even in the capital she sensed hostility she never felt before. Not towards Ceryse, perhaps, but to Maegor and Alys.

Even if she doesn’t hear it, she sees the word whore forming on people’s lips when they see Alys all the same. Maegor might have saved her from an abusive marriage, but he has doomed her to be despised by all.

Ceryse has severely underestimated the hatred Westeros would feel towards Alys, but it’s too late for regrets. Standing firm before Aenys, she squeezes Alys’ hand, trying to reassure her.

“Brother,” Maegor nods, gesturing to Alys. “Let me introduce you. This is Alys Harroway, my second wife.”

Alys steps forward and curtsies, bowing deeply. “Your Grace—”

“Maegor,” yet Aenys rudely interrupts her, looking more serious than ever, “we need to talk privately. You, me, and your wife— I mean Ceryse.”

Maegor’s face darkens. “Alys is my wife too.”

Balerion growls as Quicksilver squirms, terrified of the older dragon’s reaction. Aenys likewise looks shaken, but he recovers faster than his dragon. “Even so, I would like to discuss important matters in the realm with you, privately, as my Hand.”

Maegor huffs, yet nods curtly. “Very well. Ceryse, go and settle Alys in. I’ll join you later.”

Not wanting to get between the Targaryen brothers, Ceryse leaves with Alys quickly. However, upon exiting the room, she finds two Valyrians waiting.

Two Valyrians and one dragon. Visenya sits atop Vhagar, her arms crossed. Alyssa sits behind her, frowning, her gaze worried.

“Welcome back, Ceryse,” Visenya says flatly, “And you must be Alys Harroway.”

“Yes… Your Grace,” Alys answers meekly.

Visenya ignores her. “Alyssa, sees that she gets a set of chambers most secure, lest someone try to scale the walls to get to her. Vhagar will accompany you. I need to speak to my good daughter—good Ceryse.”

Visenya leaps from the dragon’s back, and Ceryse has no choice but to lift her from the ground. Visenya stands proudly in Ceryse’s palms, though she doesn’t climb up her shoulders as her son would. “Take me to my chambers,” Visenya orders.

Visenya’s commands are as absolute as Aenys’ in Aegonfort, and Ceryse obeys without complaint. Visenya’s chambers are close to the throne room, a set of plain but functional chambers designed for Valyrians.

Once inside, Ceryse places Visenya on a table. “Sit,” Visenya gestures to the chairs.

Ceryse sits carefully while Visenya drags a miniature chair on the table and sits across from her, allowing them to speak at eye level. “Now,” Visenya urges, “I see the girl keeps close to you. Did you approve of Maegor’s marriage to her?”

“I did,” Ceryse admits, “but I wish I hadn’t. It’s a mistake. Maegor only did it because—”

“No need to explain,” Visenya cuts her off. “I saw it all through your eyes. Whatever good intentions you two had, this is a grave mistake. Maegor’s boldness often leads to blunders, but I expected better from you, Ceryse. You’re supposed to advise him in my absence.”

“I’m sorry.” What else can Ceryse do but apologise?

“I’d rather you do something useful than say sorry,” Visenya snaps, pointing to a pile of letters on the side of the table. “Read them and reply. It must be by your own hand, or else I fear they will simply discard it.”

Ceryse picks up the first letter, her heart sinking at the familiar seal—a tower with flames. It’s from her brother, Martyn Hightower, demanding Maegor set Alys aside. The second is from the High Septon, questioning House Targaryen’s integrity after King Aegon’s death and urging Visenya to rein in her perverse son and punish Alys. One by one, the letters pile up, all denouncing Maegor and Alys, calling them all sorts of names.

Unable to bear the harsh words, Ceryse pushes the stack aside, looking at Visenya helplessly. “What… what can we do? Even if I write back, explaining Maegor only married Alys to protect her, people—”

“They won’t believe you, yes,” Visenya shakes her head, “But you can still try to convince your brother and uncle that Maegor hasn’t mistreated you. Tell them he’ll eventually put his mistress aside.”

Ceryse frowns. “That would ruin her. She has nowhere to go. Maegor… he won’t agree to it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Visenya scoffs. “The girl has nowhere to go because she’s Maegor’s wife. If she’s set aside, Westeros will soon forget her. She won’t be able to go home, but I plan to send her to your hometown to swear the vows.”

“To Starry Sept?” Ceryse is unsettled. Alys hasn’t shown any indication that she wishes to join the Faith, but in truth being married to Maegor isn’t much different from being a Septa…

Still, Ceryse doubts Alys would be happy in Oldtown, at the heart of House Hightower, with everyone believing she insulted Ceryse. Not even the Faith could protect Alys… and Ceryse isn’t sure if they would.

Sure, Ceryse could try to explain to her kin what actually happened. But to write down such a ridiculous tale would only make her sound mad— even in person she would have difficulties persuading them.

No, Alys would be shunted and ridiculed for as long as she lives in Oldtown. Ceryse can’t let that happen. They’ve already interrupted her life; they must take responsibility for her well-being.

“Sending her to the Starry Sept seems rather cruel,” Ceryse says cautiously, “There must be something else we can do.”

Much like her son before, Visenya’s face darkens. “This isn’t your decision to make,” she hisses, glaring at Ceryse, “You and Maegor made this mess. Now it’s up to—”

A dragon’s roar interrupts her, then the door is shoved open. Ceryse turns around just in time for Balerion to fly onto her lap, almost knocking her off her chair.

“Balerion, don’t— Gods, you’re heavy!” Ceryse exclaims as the dragon’s weight almost crushes her legs. “Maegor, get your dragon off me!”

“Bear with me,” Maegor says, climbing onto Balerion’s neck to his favourite spot—Ceryse’s shoulders. “Done. Balerion, get yourself comfortable somewhere else.”

Balerion huffs, but he obeys Maegor and flies to the side of the room where a pile of pillows lies. Ceryse lets out a sigh of relief and slumps in her seat.

Maegor won’t give her time to relax, though. “Mother,” looking straight at Visenya, he says firmly, “I won’t let anyone take my wife away without my permission. Not even you. Ceryse is here, but where is Alys?”

“I had Alyssa take her to her chambers,” Visenya responds, meeting her son’s accusatory gaze with a scold, “Where are your manners, Maegor? You should’ve knocked before entering. Your behaviour is unbefitting of a prince.”

“I— that’s not important right now!” Maegor shouts, nearing blasting off Ceryse’s eardrums, “I know you planned to send Alys away in disgrace to please those Westerosi. This isn’t right, Mother. She came to us for help. You always said it’s our responsibility to help when asked.”

“I said we should help when we can,” Visenya retorts. “Whatever trouble the girl was in, it’s not our concern. You’ve only created a bigger mess. Do you know how many letters we’ve received this week?”

“But we can help her,” Maegor insists. “We can fix this without selling her out to the Westerosi or the Faith. We’ve found a way.”

“We?” Ceryse asks, confused.

“Yes, we both did.” Aenys echos. He files into the room on Quicksilver, looking tired and defeated. “Maegor convinced me. There’s a better solution than sending Alys Harroway to the Starry Sept.”

“What is it, then?” Visenya asks sharply.

Ceryse is relieved that Maegor and Aenys have sorted out their differences, but she can’t help feeling nervous. The two of them together had produced some of the worst ideas she had heard.

For example, using “diplomacy” to defeat Jonos Arryn.

“I’ll take her to Essos,” Maegor says simply. “People there won’t care if she’s my second wife. I’ll find her a safe place to start a new life. Then I’ll return to Westeros and announce I’ve set her aside.”

Ceryse blinks. This… actually isn’t a bad idea.

The Free Cities accept all kinds of people, and Alys could blend in without the prejudice she faces in Westeros. If Maegor can find her a decent job, she’ll be safe. On paper, it sounds perfect.

Visenya furrows her brows, her eyes narrow. Eventually, she says, “There’s a ship to Pentos next week. You’ll board it, establish a trade deal with the magister of Pentos— tell them that the city of King’s Landing is growing rapidly and there are many opportunities for trades. Have Alys Harroway take on a new identity and leave her there.” She turns to Aenys, “Do you have anything to add, Your Grace?”

“No— that’s fine,” Aenys quickly says, feeling the pressure behind Visenya’s words, “Oh… I’ve told Maegor already, but I’ve decided to remove him as my Hand. It should help reduce the anger from those righteous Westerosi.”

“It’s for the best,” Visenya says dismissively. “Maegor, did you hear all that?”

“Understood, Mother.” Maegor nods obediently.

“Good. Meanwhile, Ceryse, you should do your best to convince the Faith—”

“Ceryse is coming with me,” Maegor says, “She’s my wife.”

For a moment silence grows in the room, as those inside consider Maegor’s statement: Visenya glares, Aenys frowns, Quicksilver stretches her neck and Balerion snoozes on his pile of pillows. For Ceryse’s part, she just smiles wryly. Of course, Maegor will insist that she comes with him.

On one hand, the idea of leaving Maegor to conduct a trade deal by himself sounds like it’ll be… disastrous. On the other…

“Taking Ceryse with you… when you’re on a trip with your new mistress?” Aenys voices Ceryse’s concern, his head tilting in confusion, “Won’t that seem… odd?”

“Not mistress,” Maegor corrects him, “Alys is my wife too.”

“Yes, but those Westerosi will see it differently. Have Ceryse explain to you later if you don’t understand.” Losing patience with her son, Visenya turns to Ceryse, “It’s your choice. I can’t force you to return to Oldtown if you prefer to follow my son. But beware of the consequences. You’ve already made one mistake.”

With Visenya’s words, all eyes are on Ceryse. She sighs. Knowing Maegor, there’s only one choice.

“I’ll accompany my husband, wherever he goes.”

Chapter Text

Dragonstone

“How bad is it?” Maegor asks.

No one answers. The small party on Dragonstone waiting for their return has no smiles on their faces. Seeing their silence, Visenya grits her teeth and flies ahead with Vhagar, pushing to reach the castle as quickly as possible.

The situation was already dire when Visenya crossed the narrow sea to find us, Ceryse thinks, it’ll only be worse now.

The journey to Pentos had been full of surprises since they met Tyanna, but Visenya’s sudden arrival changed everything. Departing Pentos in a fortnight, Ceryse and Maegor return to Dragonstone, their mood grim, dreading what lies ahead. Visenya’s words still echo in their minds.

“There’s an attack on King’s Landing,” she had said. “Aenys... before the rebels reached Aegonfort, he had Alyssa take the children to safety with Quicksilver. They’re on Dragonstone now, but Aenys is trapped with no way out.”

“Why didn’t he leave with his wife and children?” Maegor had cried out, cursing his brother’s foolishness. But Visenya’s answer had left him speechless.

“He’s the king,” Visenya said simply. “He believed he had to stay to defend the capital.”

Aenys couldn’t defend the capital, not even when he had Quicksilver, and definitely not when he was dragonless. Yet his sense of duty had kept him there. It was as foolish as it was noble, but Ceryse couldn’t blame him. After all, she and Maegor were the ones who’d started this.

The Faith hadn’t calmed after Maegor and Alys left Westeros; it had only grown more furious, believing Ceryse had been forced to accompany them to Pentos. With the High Septon’s proclamation, the Faith Militant had risen, determined to end Targaryen rule.

The Faith had turned completely against the Targaryens, previous adoration changed into hatred. Visenya had been right to ask Ceryse to return to Oldtown—Ceryse knows that now—but the past can’t be changed. If she can face the High Septon and convince him it’s all a misunderstanding, perhaps the worst won’t come to pass.

But first, they must retake King’s Landing and save Aenys.

Arriving on Dragonstone, they rush to the castle, fearing the worst. Aenys isn’t alone in Aegonfort; a group of Dragonstone-born servants, loyal to the Targaryens, should still be there. Some may even be decent fighters. But is it enough?

Inside the castle, they find Alyssa standing on a table, tears falling from her vacant eyes. Visenya, who is just ahead of Maegor and Ceryse, stares at Alyssa blankly, shock written on her face. Vhagar lets out a mournful roar.

No, Ceryse thinks, it can’t be.

Urging Balerion to Vhagar’s side, Maegor shouts, “How is it? Is Aenys still in King’s Landing?”

For a moment, Alyssa just stares at him, her eyes swollen and red. Then she breaks down. “Aenys is dead! Buried in the ruins of Aegonfort!”

“This can’t be true,” Maegor says desperately. “How did Aegonfort get reduced to ruins? Aenys had loyal men and women. He can still run. He must be out there somewhere.”

“The news just came in,” Visenya replies, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Aegonfort collapsed under the Warrior’s Sons’ attack. Aenys and everyone else in the castle were crushed to death. A declaration was sent to us…”

She gestures to a parchment on the table. Ceryse glances at it, her heart sinking with each word.

Your castle is destroyed. Your king is dead. Return Lady Ceryse Hightower to the Faith and do not set foot onto the mainland again, or we will sail to your islands and crush you too.

“No…” Ceryse whispers, gasping for air. “They mean to kill us all unless I return to the Starry Sept. I have to go—”

“You think you can convince them to lay down their swords?” Visenya interrupts sharply, glaring at Ceryse. “No. They won’t listen, not after destroying Aegonfort and killing Aenys. These oversized thugs are drunk on power. They need to get a beating.”

“But... how?” Ceryse asks, her voice faltering. “We don’t have an army. All we have is Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle. How can we defeat the Warrior’s Sons?”

Visenya clicks her tongue. “The Durrandons—”

“Queen Argella is dead,” Alyssa cuts in. “Her successor... I’ve been sending ravens to King Rogar, but he says he can’t help without facing his bannermen’s wrath.”

“Damn that coward!” Visenya curses. Vhagar growls with her, yet Visenya doesn’t say more. She has run out of ideas, Ceryse realises. If the Durrandons— their greatest ally— cannot help, no one can.

They’re trapped.

“We have to take them on ourselves. There’s no other way,” Maegor says suddenly. He turns to Ceryse. “In Westeros, the accused can ask for trial by combat, right?”

“Yes, but…” Ceryse hesitates. “The Warrior’s Sons won’t fight you when you ride Balerion.”

“It’s not a problem,” Maegor replies. “I’m the one they think is sinful. If I confront them and win, they’ll have to lay down their swords. Afterwards, we’ll punish them for murdering Aenys.”

“But how will you win?” Ceryse asks, a sense of dread rising in her. It’s happening again—Maegor has a reckless plan he won’t explain.

Once again, Maegor ignores her. “We have no other choice. I’m the only one who can do it. I have to… I have to protect my house. I—” Sighing, he turns to Alyssa abruptly and asks, “Has Aenys named an heir yet? Aegon? Rhaena?”

“No, no… it all happened so suddenly. None of us expect…” Alyssa trails off.

Oh, that’s right, Ceryse remembers, the Targaryens don't always have the eldest son inherit. Instead, the current head of the house picks their successor. As the crown has smoothly passed from Aegon to Aenys, it’s easy to forget that…

But now Aenys is dead, and he has no named successor.

Maegor grits his teeth. “Jaehaerys and Alysanne are too young. It has to be Rhaena or Aegon. Where are they?”

“In the Westlands… somewhere,” Visenya answers, her frown deepening. “Last we heard, they’re trapped there. Rhaena has Dreamfyre with her, so they should be safe, but... they haven’t returned yet.”

Maegor thinks for a long moment. Finally, he says, “Then I’ll have to hold the kingship until they return.”

“But—!” Alyssa protests immediately.

“I’ll return the throne to your children as soon as they’re back,” Maegor promises. “But we must keep— no, we must recover the throne first. The Warrior’s Sons must know I speak for House Targaryen. I can’t do that unless I’m the king.”

Alyssa regards him warily. “You swear it’s temporary?”

Ceryse feels a flare of anger— but she understands Alyssa’s fear. Any man in Maegor’s position could easily take the throne for himself.

But Maegor isn’t like most men. He doesn’t lie… at least, not for malicious reasons.

“I swear,” Maegor says solemnly.

“Then do as you must,” Alyssa sighs. “Good luck in the wars ahead, Your Grace. You’ll need it...” her bitter tone turns into sorrow as she grits her teeth. “I’d love to see Aenys’ body return to me.”

Ceryse winces. Maegor doesn’t flinch, but there’s pain in his eyes. “I’ll see it done to the best of my ability.”

He wants Aenys back as much as Alyssa does, Ceryse knows.

But there’s no bringing the dead back.

—

King’s Landing

It has begun.

Soon after they have landed, Ceryse, Maegor, and Visenya are surrounded— by the Warrior’s Sons, of course, but there are some small folks too, possibly members of the Poor Fellows. Ceryse can’t tell.

Whoever they are, they’re clearly wary of Balerion and Vhagar. The Targaryens have positioned themselves and their dragons on either side of Ceryse, worried their enemies might try to pull her away and shoot them full of arrows. So far, the strategy works: though outnumbered and encircled, they’re allowed to enter the city unharmed.

Ceryse flinches as she looks at Aegon’s High Hill and sees only hubris. When she first visited Aegonfort she thought it was small and unassuming, but she would never have expected it to collapse immediately under attack, the castle as fragile as a block of bean curd. The Targaryens have paid for it dearly—Aenys is buried beneath the ruins now. Despite Maegor’s promise to Alyssa, Ceryse doubts they’ll find his body.

But that’s a problem for another time. First, they have to survive the Faith Militant.

“You people murdered your king, my nephew, who is too kind and noble for his own good,” Visenya calls out to the knights surrounding them. “Now Westeros has a new king, my son Maegor, whom you accused of being sinful. He comes here with his beloved wife, his lawful queen. Face them and repeat your accusations, if you dare.”

Vhagar roars into the sky, issuing the challenge. Moments later, several knights ride down from Rhaenys’ Hill. The leader dismounts. “I’m Damon Morrigen, Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons,” he says, barely polite, glaring at Maegor and Visenya. “Leave the lady Ceryse, and I’ll let you return to your islands unharmed. But Westeros is no longer yours.”

“I won’t leave my husband,” Ceryse says, standing tall beside Maegor. “Ser Damon, you misunderstand. Maegor is no sinful man. His marriage to Alys wasn’t out of lust. It was for her protection.”

Her last ditch effort in convincing the Warrior’s Sons is met with a sneer. “Did you get corrupted by the Targaryens as well, Lady Ceryse?” Ser Damon asks, shaking his head, “You were a Septa. You know no one can marry while their spouse still lives. No matter his reasons, Maegor Targaryen is sinful in the eyes of the Seven.”

“I’m unfamiliar with Westerosi customs,” Maegor says through gritted teeth, “but I have heard from Ceryse that an accused can request a trial by combat. You’ve accused me. I demand that right.”

Ser Damon raises an eyebrow.“You have that right,” he agrees tentatively, “The Gods will grant victory to the man whose cause is just.”

“Then we shall fight.”

“Not by yourself. None of us will fight you and your dragon. We’ll fight in an ancient trial of seven, with seven men on each side. Can you find seven champions to represent you?”

With a shiver, Ceryse realises Damon Morrigen’s trap. Maegor doesn’t have seven men to represent him, not men trained in arms. But the rules are clear: without seven champions, Maegor will automatically be declared guilty.

Maegor doesn’t know about this, of course. He tilts his head slightly, studying Ser Damon from Balerion’s back. “I don’t see why I need any champion. I can take seven of you by myself, without my dragon.”

The crowd erupts in disbelief. Ser Damon signals for silence, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You think you can fight us all alone, Targaryen? With your tiny frame and your little sword?”

Balerion roars, furious. Maegor pats his dragon and draws Blackfyre, holding it high. “I am Maegor Targaryen, King of Westeros. With Blackfyre, I can defeat any foe.” He points his sword at his enemies. “When I win, all of you will bend the knee, and justice will be done for those who murdered my brother. Do you accept?”

Ser Damon laughs. “You insult us, Targaryen! The finest of the Warrior’s Sons will never refuse this challenge!”

Seven knights are quickly chosen, and the field is cleared. As Ser Damon leads a prayer for his knights, Ceryse turns to Maegor. “You’ll need to defeat all of your opponents in a trial of seven,” she informs him in a low whisper. “If they yield, you win, but if not, you’ll have to kill them. And I doubt they’ll yield.”

“I understand.” Balerion hovers near Ceryse’s shoulders as Maegor jumps to his favourite spot with practised ease. “I won’t lose,” he whispers back in a softer tone than usual, “There’s no need to worry.”

Ceryse looks at him, his massive violet eyes staring back at her smaller ones. In those eyes, she sees no fear. But that’s what worries her. Overconfidence can easily lead to doom.

And it must be overconfidence, isn’t it? Maegor, with his short limbs, his non-existent height, and his wobbly head… Maegor isn’t made for fighting. If he’s with Balerion he might be able to take on the knights, but without his dragon…

—This recent development, it’s very interesting. Targaryens are never meant to be more than—

Ceryse shakes her head. Forget it, forget about Tyanna’s words.

What Tyanna has told her isn’t important right now. If Maegor fails, House Targaryen dies with him.

“Ceryse?” Maegor questions, frowning. Since he’s on her shoulder, her action affects him as well. She immediately freezes but Maegor can sense her unease. “I won’t fail,” he says more sharply. “Never doubt me, wife.”

“I have plenty of reasons to,” she mutters. “Your plans don’t always work out.”

“Only twice. Once with Alys, and once when we went to Pentos.” Maegor climbs down from Ceryse’s shoulder to her open palm, looking up at her. “I won’t miss a third time.”

Before she can reply, he jumps down to the field. “Are you done with your prayers, Ser Damon? I’m tired of waiting.”

“It’s done. The Warrior has surely blessed us.” Ser Damon pulls down his helm’s visor. “Let’s begin.”

Balerion roars as Maegor steps into the centre of the field, ready to face his accusers. They try to surround him, but Maegor easily slips out before a circle is formed. Thus the game of catching mice starts.

Ceryse’s heart beats heavily in her chest, but to her amazement, Maegor has evaded everything the knights throw at him. A group of rat-catchers probably will have an easier time than the knights: they are trained for human opponents, not enemies one-eighth of their size. They scramble above Maegor, their swords and axes miss with every swing.

If they accidentally harm each other and lose the trial this way, Ceryse will have a long, long laugh.

“This won’t last long,” hovering beside her on Vhagar, Visenya mutters under her breath, “They’ll catch up to you soon. You need to act, Maegor.”

Maegor needs to act— when Ceryse looks back to the field, she realises Visenya is right. The knights are regrouping, adjusting their formation, and cornering Maegor. One knight, abandoning his long sword, moves in to grab Maegor’s head—

Then Maegor swings Blackfyre upwards.

Valyrian steel cuts through the knight’s gauntlet effortlessly. Fingers, still covered with pieces of metal drops, painting the ground red. The now fingerless knight stumbles back, screaming.

Maegor seizes this chance. Sneaking through stomping feet, he closes into the back of one knight and slashes Blackfyre across the back of his legs. Once again, the sword cuts through armour and flesh and the knight screams. Cursing, he falls backwards. Maegor is prepared for it and he ends the knight’s life when he stabs Blackfyre into the fallen man’s neck.

The battlefield erupts in shouts and curses. The knights are stunned—none expected Maegor to damage them, much less kill one of them. To the credit of the Warrior’s Sons, none of them are cowards; Instead of fleeing, they charge forward, enraged. But Maegor refuses to give them time to recover. He jumps and hacks, Blackfyre swiftly cutting through multiple legs. Once a man falls, ending him is all too easy.

Soon, only two knights remain—Ser Damon and the man who lost his fingers, both men glaring at Maegor with bloodshot eyes. Ser Damon is unharmed, but his silver armour is tarnished by mud and the blood of his comrades. 

“You might as well yield, Ser Damon,” Maegor calls, “You’re the only one left with the ability to fight. And you too, Ser Fingerless.”

“I can take you,” Damon Morrigen snarls. His companion likewise growls and stomps the ground Maegor stood a second before. Looks like it’s not going to end before Maegor kills both of them.

Ceryse watches, wide-eyed, as Damon discards his weapon and grabs two shields from his fallen comrade, holding a shield in each of his hands. What’s he planning?

Maegor is busily avoiding being crushed under Ser Fingerless’ boots when Ser Damon slams the shields down where he stands. Maegor manages to roll away, but the pursuit continues. The shields can cover more ground than a knight’s boots, making it much harder for Maegor to dodge. But he still has Blackfyre—

Wait. Where is Maegor now?

“Maegor!” Visenya shouts as Ser Damon lifts the shields and Maegor is nowhere to be seen— only Blackfyre lies on the ground, lacking its master.

Vhagar growls, distraught, but Balerion only hisses. It’s not over yet, Ceryse tells herself, half-praying and half-believing. If Maegor falls, Balerion will react more strongly.

In the field, the two knights seem to be rather confused. They can’t find Maegor anywhere— Ceryse watches as Ser Damon flips his shields, checking for blood or remains. Thankfully, the shields are clean. Maegor isn’t crushed to death, but where is he then?

The answer comes seconds later when Ser Fingerless gestures towards Ser Damon. “On your head!” he shouts. Indeed, Maegor has climbed onto Damon Morrigen’s helmet. But it’s still useless, is it not? Ser Damon’s head is protected, and without Blackfyre Maegor cannot harm him—

Beside Ceryse, Visenya sneers.

Ceryse looks at her and finds out that one thing is missing.

Dark Sister.

With a victorious laugh, Maegor pulls Dark Sister from its sheath and slashes Ser Damon’s throat in a single stroke. Before the knight falls, Maegor leaps from his shoulders to Ser Fingerless’ frozen figure and ends his life the same way he ended Ser Damon’s.

“All seven champions of the Warrior’s Sons are dead,” Maegor declares, jumping down to recover Blackfyre. “I’m the undisputed winner! Now bend the knee—”

“MAEGOR!” Ceryse screams, “BEHIND YOU!”

Maegor turns his head just in time to see Ser Fingerless’ heavily armoured body fall onto him.

—

Maegor lives, but he hasn’t woken up since the trial of seven.

Ceryse clutches Maegor in her arms as Balerion slumbers on nearby pillows. The dragon is exhausted, having spent hours using his healing flames on Maegor. Balerion’s magic keeps Maegor alive, but he must rest.

Twenty-seven days. Almost a month. Will Maegor ever wake? Balerion’s and Vhagar’s efforts can only prevent things from getting worse. The maesters offer no real help.

Tyanna, Ceryse thinks, Tyanna is our only hope.

It’s been difficult to convince Visenya to seek her out, especially since Ceryse couldn’t reveal what Tyanna had discovered. With no other options, Visenya finally agreed. She crossed the narrow sea herself, determined to bring the Pentoshi woman to King’s Landing as quickly as possible. Ceryse doesn’t doubt that Tyanna will come—but will she be able to help?

If Tyanna fails, then…

Ceryse shakes her head. Don’t think like that. Maegor will recover. He won the trial, his name cleared in the eyes of the Seven and the Warrior’s Sons. King’s Landing has been retaken. Once Maegor wakes, everything will be fine—

A polite knock on the door interrupts her thoughts. “Your Grace, your food—”

“I’m not hungry right now,” Ceryse replies.

The servant pauses, then says, “But you must eat, Your Grace. You haven’t had your meal since yesterday, and barely anything the past week…”

Ceryse blinks. She hadn’t realised. Has Maegor’s condition affected her so much that she skips meals regularly?

Thinking about it, she hadn’t slept last night or the night before. She doesn’t dare. With Visenya gone, she’s the only one who can care for Maegor…

Are you, though?

It’s not true, Ceryse realises. There are others loyal to Maegor in the city—retainers from Dragonstone, like the servant waiting outside. She doesn’t have to stay by Maegor’s side constantly. She can eat, she can sleep. She doesn’t need to hold him all the time like he’s her child.

Yet, even now, she can’t bring herself to let go.

She looks down at him, realising she’s been unconsciously stroking his silver hair. The touch is soothing and comforting. His warmth in her hands reassures her. He’s still breathing. He’ll hate it if he wakes, though—he’ll scold her, demanding that she treats him with more respect.

He deserves respect, of course, after he single-handedly defeated the Warrior’s Sons. Maegor can be a deadly warrior. But seeing him so helpless in her arms… it’s hard not to feel like he’ll slip away if she lets go.

The thought is unbearable. Maegor means so much to her, as her husband…

Or, more accurately, as her family. They’re no husband and wife the way her parents were. But after all these years, she’s come to care for him, despite the headaches he gave her. She loves him, the way she once loved the stray cat she took in as a child.

—The Valyrians, the Targaryens, they are—

…Ultimately, Ceryse must admit that Tyanna is right.

She knows about the Valyrians more than anyone. She can save Maegor…

Ceryse’s vision blurs. The room seems to spin.

She feels dizzy, her body too heavy to move. She wants to stand, to lay Maegor back on the pillow, but she’s too weak. Is she fainting? The thought to call for help flashes in her mind, but her voice won’t come. She can’t hear it.

I’m such a fool, she thinks, as she collapses onto the bed.

—

“Ceryse? Queen Ceryse?” a woman’s voice thick with accent. A Pentoshi one…

“Tyanna?!” Ceryse jerks up, nearly hitting her head on Tyanna’s nose. The black-haired woman quickly pulls back, scowling, but Ceryse doesn’t care. “You came! How is Maegor?”

“I’ve treated him. He should wake soon,” Tyanna replies, rubbing her nose. “But you should be more concerned about yourself, Your Grace. It’s surprising to find you collapsed too. Queen Visenya is certainly going to have words with you… and think of the fright you gave poor Alys!”

“Alys?” Ceryse turns, noticing the girl standing in the corner. Alys Harroway is dressed in Pentoshi garb, but she looks the same as when Ceryse last saw her. “What are you doing here? We told you to stay in Pentos!”

“Queen Visenya said that Prince— King Maegor fell into a coma. I… I was worried,” Alys answers quietly, avoiding Ceryse’s gaze. She probably feels responsible for some of this. Still, returning to Westeros where she could be killed…

“I’ll take her with me when I leave,” Tyanna says. “She’s been a good assistant. But I suspect you might need me here for a while.”

“…True. Maegor might still need you.” Ceryse isn’t sure if Maegor will fully recover, or if he’ll get hurt again. Better keep Tyanna close.

Ceryse tries to stand, but her legs wobble. Tyanna and Alys rush to support her, helping her into Maegor’s room.

As soon as Ceryse enters, Vhagar swoops toward her, releasing a blast of blue fire. The flames give her a jolt of energy, strengthening her. “Thank you, Vhagar… and you, Mother.”

Visenya gives her a sharp look. “You shouldn’t have overworked yourself… but I appreciate what you’ve done for my son.” She tilts her head toward Maegor. “Go to him. Tyanna says he’ll wake any moment.”

Ceryse approaches Maegor’s bed slowly. He’s still there, lying beside Balerion, but his face is creased in a frown, his lips turned down. Is he… in pain?

“Maegor?” Ceryse asks, her voice laced with worry. She reaches for his forehead—

Maegor stirs.

He blinks, his lips trembling.

“Maegor? Do you need to say something?” Ceryse leans closer, bringing her ear to his mouth.

He smiles softly.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing

“I’m going to kill all of them,” Maegor declares. Balerion roars in agreement, which makes it more worrisome. Ceryse must absolutely stop Maegor from declaring war on the Faith.

“No, you aren’t going to kill all of them,” she sighs. “Haven’t we gone through this already? You can’t kill the Warrior’s Sons right after they bend their knees.”

“They murdered Aenys!” Maegor yells in frustration, “I swear I’d make them pay!”

“You promised justice. Punishment for Aenys’ murderer,” Visenya says tiredly, “But there’s no one whom we can name responsible. None alive, at the very least.”

That’s the crux of the matter. On all accounts, Aegonfort collapsed when the Warrior’s Sons tried to break through its front gate. Not expecting the castle to crash, the frontline of the attack— the men who were directly responsible— were buried alive.

As the commander of the attack, Ser Damon Morrigen, has perished during the trial of seven, Maegor has already avenged Aenys to the best of his ability. But Maegor won’t accept that. Ever since he woke up, he has been crying for blood and vengeance.

“I understand how you feel,” Ceryse says emphatically. “You want to make someone pay for Aenys’ death. But we need the men of the Faith Militant to maintain the city and, most importantly, to dig up Aenys’ body. He’s still buried in the ruins of Aegonfort, and we can never return his remains to Alyssa without their manpower.”

“In a way, it’s for the best that Aegonfort broke down during a war. Imagine if it had happened in peacetime, when we were all inside the castle! We’d all be dead then.” Visenya shudders. “Aenys sacrificed himself to let us know that we need to build better, sturdier walls, with the help of someone knowledgeable, instead of following Aegon’s fancy the way we did.”

Maegor narrows his eyes. “Mother, are you saying it’s father’s fault that Aenys died?”

Ceryse halts her breath. This is a serious accusation. However, Visenya doesn’t falter; she meets Maegor’s question with a sharp nod. “It is his fault… or do you want me to say it’s your fault, Son? Don’t forget who caused this mess in the first place.”

Maegor ground his teeth. “My fault. Mine.” Fuming, he paces around Balerion’s back, the dragon flinching and growling uncomfortably. Finally, Maegor turns and glares at Visenya. “What will you have me do then, Mother?”

“Go to Oldtown and clear the issue up with the High Septon once and for all,” Visenya orders, staring down at her son as Vhagar flies higher. “I’ll handle things in King’s Landing. You go to the Reach with Ceryse and Alys. With some members of the Warrior’s Sons escorting you, there won’t be any more attacks.”

Maegor frowns deeply, scowling, clearly making an effort to stop himself from cursing Visenya. He despises the idea of making peace with the Faith… but even Maegor must realise that it’s necessary. The Targaryens cannot hope to win a war against the Faith of Seven, the religion that the majority of Westeros worship. Sooner or later, Maegor will come around.

So instead, Ceryse addresses Visenya. “Your Grace, will you be safe in the city?”

Visenya snorts. “As safe as you were last month. The men here recognise Maegor’s victory in the trial, which means they respect my authority as the queen mother… And if anything happens, I can still fly to Dragonstone.”

“…I’ll go to Oldtown,” Maegor finally says, still scowling, “But I want the Faith Militant put to work immediately. The ground clear of ruins, Aenys’ body recovered.”

“It will be done,” Visenya promises. “And Ceryse? We will need funds for the new castle. See if you can get the Faith to pay for it.”

“What?” Ceryse is completely flabbergasted. They just barely managed to appease the Warrior’s Sons in King’s Landing, and now Visenya wants to extort money out of the Faith? “But…”

“The Faith owes us,” Visenya says in her most convincing tone. “We were attacked under a false belief that Maegor is sinful. It’s only fair that the Faith pays to repair the damage they made.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Ceryse mumbles. She doubts her ability to make the High Septon see it the same way, but it won’t hurt to try…

Maegor flashes a bloodthirsty smile. “I’ll ensure that the Faith pays.”

Ceryse doesn’t like the sound of that.

—

Oldtown

"Sister," Ceryse's brother calls from the city walls, staring down at her. "Ceryse! Is— is that really you? Are you unharmed?"

"Safe and unharmed!" Ceryse calls back, her voice loud for everyone to hear. "Open the gates, Martyn! House Targaryen comes here to make peace with the Faith!”

The Lord of Hightower doesn’t hesitate. Ceryse watches as he barks orders, ignoring those who try to advise him otherwise. Minutes later, the gate creaks open. “Welcome to Oldtown,” Martyn Hightower bows, “…Your Grace.”

Reluctance lingers in his voice, but he still acknowledges Maegor as king. Ceryse sighs in relief. It’s a good sign—though his attitude may shift once he sees Alys…

Maegor stands tall on Balerion as the dragon flies forward to greet Martyn. "Lord Hightower," Maegor says, "I hope you don’t think I’ll let your sister come to harm. She’s my beloved wife."

"There are rumors to the contrary," Martyn replies coolly. "But I’m glad to see they’re false." He pulls Ceryse into a quick hug. The two siblings exchange brief pleasantries before Martyn’s eyes narrow, locking on the woman behind them. "Is this…?"

"Alys Harroway," Alys curtsies deeply, her knuckles tight around the hem of her dress. "Lord Hightower—"

"We’ll talk inside," Martyn interrupts, his earlier smile fading into a scowl. "The Seven knows we have much to discuss."

To Ceryse’s surprise, Martyn leads them directly to the Starry Sept. "Aren’t we going home first?" she asks.

"Hightower isn’t your home anymore, Ceryse," Martyn replies without looking back, his voice firm. "It hasn’t been since you took the vows of a septa. Your home is with the Faith... and the High Septon will want to see you right away." Finally nudging his head towards her, he adds, “Besides, you’ve got the Warrior’s Sons with you. They need to report back too."

Ceryse can’t argue. When they reach the plaza outside the Starry Sept, an anxious knight approaches—her younger brother, Morgan Hightower.

"Brother... Ceryse," he pauses, eyeing Maegor and Alys before narrowing his gaze like Martyn had. He doesn’t comment. “The Most— the High Septon is waiting for you.”

"Good," Maegor says. "I’m ready to meet with him and settle this."

Morgan leads them into the Sept. The Starry Sept looks just as Ceryse remembers—its marble walls, the sweet scent in the air. Maybe Martyn’s right, the Faith is more her home than Hightower.

But at this point, her home isn’t Hightower or the Starry Sept. It’s Dragonstone.

And it’s Dragonstone’s interest she’ll be looking out for in this meeting.

They arrive in a room that’s suspiciously unfamiliar to Ceryse. It’s small, with walls covered in colorful depictions of the Seven… at least, that’s what she thinks they are. The room is dark, lit only by a few dim candles. The only thing clearly visible is a bed in the middle of the room, on which the High Septon lies.

"Ceryse," he rasps, his voice weak. "You’ve come back."

"Your Holiness..." Ceryse falters. When she prepared for this confrontation, she expected her uncle to be energetic and full of fury, not lying in bed, frail and old. Uncle has been around for longer than King Aegon, Ceryse suddenly realises.

She’s been away too long.

“Sit,” the High Septon commands. Ceryse does so, pulling over the only chair in the room to her uncle’s bedside. Balerion lands in her lap uninvited, nearly knocking over a candle. Maegor pats the dragon’s back, and Balerion lets out a burst of blue flames.

No one reacts— everyone knows the dragon’s healing power. The High Septon sighs, his eyes looking less swollen than a minute before. “Your Grace… my thanks...” He then looks around the room briefly, his eyes lock on— Alys, who is hiding in a corner and desperately avoiding attention. “But the Faith still won’t accept you taking another wife.”

"As you must have heard, I was found innocent of the Faith’s accusations in a trial of seven." Maegor crosses his arms, glaring at the High Septon. “But if that still doesn’t satisfy the Faith, perhaps you’d like a full explanation of what happened."

He glances at Ceryse, and she begins to explain. It’s a brief recount, with Maegor adding occasional details, and Alys nodding along, confirming Ceryse’s words.

Just as the story nears its end, Ceryse hears shouting from outside. "This is ridiculous!" a man’s voice, followed by a chorus of agreement.

"But it concerns a Targaryen. Of course it’s ridiculous. A Targaryen’s outrageous, but never malicious. We’ve met Aegon and his sisters, even Aenys—why would this Maegor be any different?" a woman asks. "And it’s a septa speaking for him. A septa won’t lie. She has no reason to."

"Ser Morgan, open the drapes," the High Septon says. Morgan walks over and pulls— the curtains that Ceryse thought were the walls fall open, revealing the actual room they are in.

They are in the middle of the Sept, with the starry ceiling stretching high above them— the “ceiling” Ceryse previously saw was merely part of the drapes. In the hall, hundreds of septons and septas sit or stand, all watching. Ceryse understands at once—they are the Most Devout, gathered to hear her tale… and to elect the candidates of next High Septon when her uncle dies.

“I might be the voice of the Seven, but I’m not long for this world,” the High Septon says, half to Ceryse and half to the Most Devout, "I want my successor, whoever the Seven chooses, to hear the full story from those involved."

"I’ll gladly tell it to the whole Most Devout if you wish, Your Holiness," Ceryse sighs.

"Nonsense," the High Septon waves her off. "You’re always too shy to speak in public." Struggling, he turns in his bed to face the assembly. "Brothers and sisters, you’ve heard it from Septa Ceryse. Now you’ll hear my judgment."

"I declare Maegor Targaryen free of all accusations of sin. The Faith will recognize him as the rightful King of Westeros, and his only wife, Ceryse Hightower, the rightful Queen."

"Alys—" Maegor begins angrily.

But the High Septon isn't finished. "Alys Harroway, the foolish maid, should be banished from Westeros. Essos has a place for her, I hear."

Maegor silences himself. Alys bows, murmuring her thanks. The High Septon scans the room. "Do you all agree with my decision?"

There’s a murmur of assent throughout the room. If there are people who are unhappy with the High Septon’s judgment, they do not show it.

"Then it is done, as the Seven wills. The Faith Militant will stand down, and the various lords and kings in Westeros will acknowledge Targaryen rule once more," the High Septon says, smiling at Ceryse. She wants to smile too, relieved the misunderstanding is settled, but Visenya’s task still looms over her. If she doesn’t act, Maegor will.

If she lets Maegor act, it might mean another war.

"If you’ll permit me, Your Holiness..." Ceryse says carefully. "There’s one more matter. Aegonfort has collapsed under the Warrior’s Sons’ attack."

The High Septon frowns. "I know. A tragic mistake. May King Aenys and the innocent souls with him rest in the Seven Heavens.”

“We need to rebuild King’s Landing. Since the Warrior’s Sons are responsible for the destruction of Aegonfort… perhaps the Faith should contribute to its reconstruction?"

Her suggestion sparks an uproar among the Most Devout. "You want to extort us?" "Why should we pay for a poorly built castle?" "This isn’t what donations are for!"

She flinches at the noise. The High Septon calls for silence, his voice frail. Morgan shakes a bell, but the protests persist... until Balerion roars, silencing the room.

"Much better," Maegor says. “Godsworn of the Most Devout. A few decades ago, when my father began building King’s Landing, the Faith generously donated a large sum. Most of it went into Aegonfort. Unfortunately, the castle that should’ve been our home ended up killing my brother instead.“

Raising his voice, Maegor shouts, “Aenys is dead because of the Faith! Shouldn’t the Faith pay blood money for it? In the spirit of peace, I haven’t killed any of the Warrior’s Sons, except those who died in my trial. Now it’s time for the Faith to make amends!"

His words ignite a new wave of debate—until the High Septon raises a trembling hand. "For the death of King Aenys, the Faith will help finance the rebuilding of King’s Landing... on the condition that no future Valyrians may marry more than one spouse at a time."

"Done," Maegor replies quickly. "We have a deal?"

The High Septon hesitates, glancing at the Most Devout before nodding. "Yes, we do."

Maegor nods solemnly, jumping off Balerion to walk towards the High Septon, extending a hand. The High Septon carefully takes it with shivering fingers, shaking it thrice times.

It’s a sealed deal.

—

A few months later…

Ceryse hadn’t expected to stay in Oldtown for so long, but one event followed another: a ceremony where the High Septon publicly blesses and anoints Maegor as king, then the High Septon passed away, and they stayed to attend his funeral. Afterward, they witnessed the new High Septon being chosen, and he gave Maegor his approval as well…

It’s a blessing, though, as the Faith’s opinion of Maegor has improved over the past few months, as they’ve gotten to know him. Maegor, understandably, hasn’t fully forgiven the Faith for Aenys’ death, but time seems to have softened his anger.
Yet there’s one thing that worries Ceryse: Visenya hasn’t responded to any of the ravens they sent to King’s Landing or Dragonstone. Ceryse has sent several letters updating her, and surely, Visenya would want to reply?

The answer comes unexpectedly in the form of Tyanna arriving in Oldtown, carrying a small bundle.

“Tyanna?” Ceryse says, surprised. They left her behind in King’s Landing, as she claimed Maegor had stabilised, and bringing a foreign woman with them might have caused trouble with the Faith. “What are you doing here?”

Tyanna shakes her head weakly, her face somber. “I had to bring the news myself.”

She unwraps the bundle. Inside— is the lifeless corpse of Visenya Targaryen.

“Mother!” Maegor screams. “How? Why?” Balerion roars in grief, sharing his pain.

“It’s the shock,” Tyanna whispers.

“Shock? What shock?” Ceryse asks, confused. The shock of making peace with the Faith? That doesn’t make sense. Something else must have happened.

Tyanna gestures for them to come closer and speaks softly, “When I was at Dragonstone with Queen Visenya... A Valyrian boy on a silver dragon took Queen Alyssa, shouting that he would soon take what’s rightfully his.”

Ceryse gasps. “That’s…”

“Aegon,” Maegor growls. He’s right, Ceryse knows that it could only be Aegon. But why? Why did Aegon do this?

Did he not realize that Maegor would return everything to him, as soon as he asked?

Tyanna continues, “Then a girl on a blue dragon appeared and took Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Alysanne with her. Queen Visenya tried to chase them, but witnessing her family taken before her eyes must have been a great shock. She fell off Vhagar, just a few meters in the air. I caught her… but she was no longer breathing at that point.”

“Aegon. Rhaena. They…” Maegor stares at his mother’s lifeless form. “They killed my mother.”

Indirectly, Ceryse wants to add, but looking at Maegor she knows there’s no use saying it. Maegor knows perfectly well that it’s an accident. Yet…

“We need to find them,” Maegor hisses, “Now.”

—

The Gods Eye

“Aegon!” Maegor cries as Balerion soars through the sky, unseen but swift. If Ceryse blinks, she’ll lose track of him. She stands by the lakeside, rain pouring down her face, eyes wide open, determined not to look away.

She has to watch. This may be the only thing she can do.

They’ve been chasing Aegon for weeks, moving through the Riverlands. Somehow, he’s convinced half of the river lords and some of the West to rally to his cause, amassing a large army. Maegor’s forces are far smaller—a handful of Warrior’s Sons and some levies Ceryse’s brother provided. But that doesn’t matter. Maegor has said time and again, We didn’t come here to fight a war.

All he wants is to find Aegon and Rhaena.

And now, the moment has come. Maegor spots Quicksilver, a gleaming silver bulb above the massive army, and charges forward with Balerion. Aegon must be eager to face him, for Quicksilver is faster than Balerion, closing in on the sky above Ceryse.

Perhaps there’s still a chance for peace, Ceryse thinks. Aegon’s army hasn’t attacked them, despite the difference in numbers.

Or maybe it’s the distance—Aegon’s army is still far off. Or perhaps they’ve realized that the only fight that matters is the one in the sky.

It will decide everything.

“Uncle Maegor!” Aegon shouts. “You finally show yourself! Why did you do it… Why did you kill my father and usurp his crown?!”

“I killed your father?” Maegor growls, fury in his voice. “You killed my mother, Aegon! You and Rhaena! Where is she? Why isn’t she with you?”

“She’s protecting our family,” Aegon hisses, his voice low but clear. “You won’t find her, or my mother, or Jaehaerys or Alysanne. They're safe.”

“Safe?” Maegor spits. “There’s no place safer than Dragonstone! You’re a fool, Aegon. I saved House Targaryen, and you repaid me by kidnapping your mother and siblings!” Balerion roars, a deafening sound that forces Quicksilver to retreat. Even Aegon looks taken aback.

“You... you saved our house? This is a lie!” Aegon yells. “You caused all this! You married another woman, made the Faith declare war on you, then ran off to Essos, leaving my father to take the fall. Now you come here with the Faith Militant… you just tricked the Faith into doing your dirty work!”

His voice is loud enough for the Warrior’s Sons to hear, and they shout at the hovering Quicksilver, protesting Aegon’s accusations. Maegor is no less enraged. “Your timeline doesn’t make sense, Aegon! I went to Essos before the Faith declared war on us. If I knew what would happen... if I’d known Aenys would die, I never would have left!”

Maegor locks eyes with Aegon. “I would never harm Aenys. He’s my brother! I’d have returned everything to the two of you if you just asked!”

Aegon stares back. “Everything?”

“The kingship, the capital. All of it. I never wanted to be king.” Maegor growled, a frustrated sound, “If you two had been at Dragonstone when your father died, I’d have gladly supported you! It’s only because you weren’t there that I temporarily took the throne! Didn’t Alyssa tell you about our agreement?”

Aegon seems unsure, his head hangs down as Quicksilver hovers. It’s too far to tell, but Ceryse feels that he looks pale. “She did mention something... about you taking the throne to defeat the Faith... but I thought—”

“You can’t even trust your own mother?” Maegor snaps. “This proves you’re unfit to be king! Now tell me, where are Rhaena, Jaehaerys, and Alysanne? We’ll see if any of them are better suited to rule than you.”

Ceryse grits her teeth. Maegor has gone too far. Aegon, who was teetering on the edge of belief, now shakes his head violently. “You... you’re going to disinherit me! You never meant to keep your promise! Why should I trust you? Never. Never!”

“Foolish child—” Maegor’s words lose their power. Aegon screams, Quicksilver shrieks, and suddenly, a volley of white fireballs are blasted towards Balerion. 

The older dragon is caught off guard. He yelps in pain as several of the fireballs strike, smoke rising from his body. He opens his mouth wide—

“Aegon— Balerion, don’t!” Maegor cries, but it’s too late. In a furious retaliatory strike, Balerion breathes a massive fireball, engulfing Quicksilver and Aegon in flames.

Quicksilver lets out an agonized scream that shakes Ceryse to her core. She presses her hands to her ears, but nothing can block the sound. It’s not just her. The Hightower levies, the knights of the Warrior’s Sons, Aegon’s distant army— be it pitchforks or swords, all are dropping their weapons to protect their ears.

The rain cannot wash away the fire, and Quicksilver’s dying scream pierces the storm.

Maegor rushes forward with Balerion, intent on saving Aegon. Still screaming, Aegon and Quicksilver plummet. Smoke clouds the air, but Balerion dives after them, his jaw closing into the smaller dragon—

Then, with a sickening thud, Quicksilver crashes into the lake, dragging Aegon down with her.

Suddenly, the world falls silent. The scream is gone, replaced only by the sound of the rain. Smoke rises from the water, the fading remnants of Quicksilver and Aegon. When it clears, no one will be able to find Aegon.

Ceryse doesn’t think, she just moves. She jumps into the lake, the cold water an afterthought. She’s already soaked from the rain, so the chill doesn’t bother her. She learned to swim as a child in Hightower, and after moving to Dragonstone, she had plenty of opportunity to practice. She can do this.

She has to find Aegon. 

She pushes through the waves, fighting to make progress. The knights around her are too heavily armored to follow. Her dress is heavy, but better than their gear. Maegor himself certainly can’t swim—none of the Valyrians can.

Ceryse kicks and pulls, determined. She’s never swum in such rough weather, but she can’t stop. If Aegon dies here, Maegor will be seen as a kinslayer. She won’t let that happen. Maegor never meant to kill Aegon.

She forces her eyes open, despite the sting of the water, and pushes onward. Aegon must be nearby. Before she dove, she saw the smoke not far from the shore—

Ceryse would have screamed if she’d been able to. A round head appears in her view, half floating and half sinking. That shape, so perfectly round—it can only be Aegon. She doesn’t see Quicksilver anywhere. Perhaps the dragon, heavier than Aegon, has already sunk to the bottom of the lake.

But it doesn’t matter. Ceryse never hoped to save Quicksilver, only Aegon. Approaching his tiny body swiftly, Ceryse scopes him up and swims upwards.

“Ceryse!” The first thing she hears out of water is Maegor shouting her name. He’s on the lakeside, Balerion hovering above the water. “Why did you—”

“Look... look!” Ceryse chokes, coughing up water. Her lungs burn, her body feels heavy, but she has to show him. “He’s—”

—Alive…

But halfway through, she looks down at Aegon. His body is still, his face blackened and unrecognizable. Not a wisp of silver hair remains. His jaw is locked in a silent scream—frozen forever, the marks of a fiery death.

Aegon is dead. Maybe even before he hit the lake.

All she’s done... was for nothing.

“Ceryse? Ceryse!” Maegor is calling for her, his small hands shaking her shoulders. But his voice is fading. All sounds are mixing together into a meaningless white noise. Her eyelids flutter, and her body grows heavy.

It’s cold.

Oh, I’m fainting again—

Chapter Text

King’s Landing

It’s all gone up in flames.

After Aegon died, his army scattered—most ran, while some tried to attack Maegor. The attempt was so disorganized that the Warrior’s Sons easily repelled them. Under Maegor’s orders, they retreated, taking the unconscious Ceryse with them, and eventually returned to King’s Landing.

They were safe here… but Maegor’s reputation is ruined. Nearly a thousand men witnessed Maegor’s "battle" with Aegon beneath the Gods Eye, but only a few heard the conversation between uncle and nephew. Those close to Maegor know the truth—that he never actually attacked Aegon. But from afar, what people saw was Balerion incinerating Aegon and Quicksilver.

It’s thanks to their time in Oldtown that King’s Landing wasn’t attacked again. After spending time with Maegor and with several of the Warrior’s Sons vouching for his innocence, the Faith did not condemn him as a kinslayer. Instead, they supported him as the rightful king.

Westeros is divided between those who denounce Maegor and those who support him—a deadlock that accomplishes nothing. It also means they cannot find where Alyssa, Rhaena, Jaehaerys, and Alysanne are hiding. At first, Ceryse hoped Alyssa might convince her children to return to King’s Landing, but now she has given up. With Aegon’s death, Alyssa probably lost all faith in Maegor’s promises.

Even so, Maegor continues searching the Riverlands and the West. He believes one of the houses that supported Aegon is hiding his family. Maegor can’t go himself, but he sends countless letters and envoys, none of which bring results. Maegor is stubborn, though. Ceryse knows he will search every corner of Westeros if he can. The only reason he hasn’t gone… is to stay by her side.

Since fainting for the second time, she hasn’t fully recovered. She was feverish throughout the journey back to King’s Landing, and after their return, her condition only worsened. She became weak; she couldn’t travel any more, the maester said. Tyanna has checked her as well, and her only advice was to keep using Balerion’s healing flame. But the flames only provide brief relief.

Ceryse knows her situation is hopeless, that she is slowly dying. Well, perhaps not “slowly”— in the short span of two years, she has become bedridden and can barely stay awake for a few hours a day. Her time is running out… the Stranger will collect her soon.

She looks outside her window, facing Aegon’s High Hill. There, the castle funded by the Faith is under construction. Watching it being built has become one of her few pleasures, and she imagines how magnificent it will be—though she won’t live to see it finished.

“Ceryse.” Maegor’s voice snaps her back to the present.

On the other side of the bed, Maegor and Balerion are sitting next to her pillow. They came in a little while ago, but Maegor was struggling to speak, so she tuned out for a moment. Whatever he wants to talk about, it can’t be worse than the news she’s already heard.

“I spoke with the maester. And Tyanna,” Maegor says, his face twisted with frustration. For several moments, he remains silent, staring at her. Ceryse waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Finally, she guesses.

“You talked about my condition.”

“Yes. And... from what they said,” Maegor takes a deep breath, “it seems you don’t want me to know you’re dying soon.”

“I…” Ceryse doesn’t want that. She hates the thought of Maegor worrying about her more than he already does. But realistically, she knows she can’t hide it forever. If today is the day he finds out… so be it. As long as Tyanna keeps the real secret, it’s fine.

“I don’t want you to worry when there’s nothing you can do,” Ceryse says quietly.

“Balerion can help,” Maegor insists stubbornly.

“Balerion has overworked himself.” Ceryse glances at the dragon, who’s dozing. “He helps with my pain, but that’s all he can do. There’s nothing you can do to save me, Maegor.”

Maegor grits his teeth, his voice low and fierce. “You don’t get to decide when I give up, Ceryse. I’ll never stop trying.”

Ceryse frowns. Maegor must understand that she’s right, yet… “You’ll have to give up when I die.”

A flash of anger crosses Maegor’s face. “You can’t die! Father, Aenys, Mother, Aenys’ children… Everyone’s left me. I won’t allow you to die… not yet.”

Ceryse can’t bear to see the pain on Maegor’s face. He’s acting like a child, demanding the impossible—all because she’s the only family he has left. He shouldn’t have to suffer so much. After all, he’s just…

—The Targaryens, they are just—

Oh, why does it have to come up now, of all times? Why can’t she just forget what Tyanna told her?

Ceryse recalls her conversation with Tyanna, a week after they met.

“Thanks for showing us around the city, Tyanna. You and your family have been generous hosts—” Ceryse began, but Tyanna waved her off.

“No need for all the formalities when it’s just the two of us, Ceryse. I thought we were friends already!” Tyanna beamed, leaning in closer. At first, Ceryse had been put off by Tyanna’s eccentricity. When she first saw Maegor, the Pentoshi woman practically lit up, rushing toward him with inhuman speed. It took a warning flame from Balerion to cool her down. Even after that, Tyanna bombarded Maegor and Ceryse with questions.

Despite her enthusiasm, Tyanna had proven kind and helpful to their mission. Without Tyanna’s insistence, Ceryse doubted her father, the magister, would have been so eager to host them. Ceryse got the sense that Tyanna wasn’t so much charmed by Maegor, just fascinated by him though…

“I want to show you something.” Tyanna’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone as she pulled Ceryse into a dusty room filled with books and scrolls, a large table at the center. “This week I’ve spent with your husband has been enlightening,” she said, her hands quickly lighting candles and opening scrolls. “I’ve gathered so much valuable information to further my research. I feel that it’s time for me to return the favour… oh, who am I lying to? I’m just eager to share my findings with someone who’ll appreciate them.”

Before Ceryse could ask, her gaze fell on an open scroll— one that depicted a Valyrian in great detail. Beside the Valyrian was a drawing of a human, with many lines and notes comparing the two species.

...And next to the human, the label read, “Human - Original Valyrian”.

“What is this?” Ceryse asked immediately, pointing at the label. “What does ‘Original Valyrian’ mean?”

“It’s exactly what is written there. Original Valyrians are like you and me—just humans,” Tyanna said, pausing briefly before correcting herself, “Well, they were rather advanced, so it’s possible they weren’t just plain humans. But from the few surviving records, they looked human enough—aside from the hair and eye color.”

“Then... what are the Targaryens?” Ceryse asked, thoroughly confused. “Are you claiming they were humans at some point in history? Because that’s…”

“…Insane?” Tyanna guessed. She shook her head. “Not exactly. The current Valyrians, like Prince Maegor, aren’t descended from the Original Valyrians. They’re two distinct species. Few know about this, but I’ve spent years studying both the old and current Valyrians. I have a theory, if you’re interested.”

Ceryse nodded. If everything in this room was Tyanna’s collection of records related to the Valyrians, then she was probably the most qualified person to talk about this. More than anyone Ceryse had met in Westeros, at least.

“Good. So, you must know where the Valyrians came from, right? From Valyria, in the heart of the Smoking Sea—a dangerous place few dare to venture.” Tyanna pointed to a map of Essos, indicating the vague location of Valyria. “It’s so perilous, most aren’t even aware there’s an island in the middle of the Smoking Sea. Yet, centuries-old records tell of people claiming to have come from Valyria. They were beautiful, with silver hair and violet eyes, and they possessed magical powers.”

Ceryse could see where this was going. “But they were human-sized.”

“Exactly! They’re human size.” Tyanna grinned, “But somehow, a few hundred years later, it’s the Targaryens that moved to Westeros, and the Original Valyrians disappeared from history.”

“Then how can you be sure the two are unrelated?” Ceryse countered. “Maybe some sort of… magical accident transformed the Original Valyrians into the current Valyrians. That would explain it, right?” It made sense, she thought. Visenya had told her much of the magic the Targaryens once wielded was lost. Perhaps one of those lost spells altered their size and proportions.

“It’s a reasonable theory, but it’s been disproven.” Tyanna pulled out another scroll, nearly identical to the first one, but the notes were in a language Ceryse didn’t recognize. The scroll also looked far older.

“See, the first scroll you saw is a copy of this one, translated into modern language. But on the original scroll, it doesn’t say ‘Original Valyrian’ on the human side. The word there just means ‘human’—a bit of liberty was taken in translation.”

“Then what does the Valyrian—” Ceryse paused as her eyes fell on the old scroll. Next to the Valyrian drawing was a word that looked suspiciously like… “Targaryen”.

She turned to the translated scroll. There, in the same place, it read:

“Pet - Current Valyrian”.

Ceryse froze, stunned. She stared at the scroll, then at Tyanna.

“…Pet?” Ceryse’s voice trembled. “The word ‘Targaryen’, it means pet?”

“Yes—well, a specific type of pet. The words ‘Velaryon’ and ‘Celtigar’ also mean pet, though with some subtle differences I haven’t figured out yet,” Tyanna said, her excitement building. “This scroll proves it. The Valyrians—the Targaryens—they were originally just pets of the true Valyrians. This scroll came from Volantis, which holds the most records on the Original Valyrians. I think one of them dropped this—”

“But what does that even mean?!” Ceryse cried out. “Pets… what kind of pets? If the Targaryens were pets of the Original Valyrians, then what happened to them? Why did they let their pets move to Dragonstone…” Her voice trailed off as realization struck. “Oh. They’re dead, aren’t they?”

Tyanna nodded. “It would seem so. There’s no record of any Original Valyrians appearing in over a century… then again, it might be hard to recognise them, as more and more people around Volantis are born with silver hair and violet eyes. The fertility magic the Original Valyrians used centuries ago still has lingering effects.”

“As for your earlier question… the scroll I showed you seems like a design draft. I’d wager the Targaryens were man-made magical creatures designed to act like pets. I’ve found documents about dragons, too. It seems they were bred to accompany—”

Ceryse waved a hand, stopping Tyanna’s rambling. She held her head, trying to make sense of the confusion. In a way, Tyanna’s words made sense. The Targaryens looked adorable, generally non-violent, and their magic was mostly beneficial to humans… even a fireball could be useful under the right circumstances. And deep down, Ceryse had always felt that Maegor was like a clingy cat… like a pet.

But then…

“Why did the Original Valyrians die out?” Ceryse asked, her brow furrowed.

“That’s a question I’ve been pondering for some time,” Tyanna said thoughtfully, “Especially with the… recent developments. It’s very interesting. After all, Targaryens weren’t meant to be anything more than pets, yet now they rule all of Westeros. I didn’t have an answer to these questions… until I met your husband.”

“What do you mean…?”

“Prince Maegor isn’t what I expected,” Tyanna said, excitedly pacing around the room. “He has the Valyrian appearance, but his personality couldn’t be more different from what’s described in the scrolls. He’s blunt and unfriendly by nature. When he tries to act otherwise, it feels forced and awkward.”

Ceryse bit her lips. “But ultimately, Maegor doesn’t have any malicious intent. He’s just not very sociable.”

“Of course. Still, that personality isn’t ideal for a pet. At first, I thought this divergence from the original design was simply due to the passing of time. But perhaps time isn’t the real factor here?” Tyanna stopped pacing and turned to Ceryse, her voice lowering to a whisper. “What if, from the start, the project of creating these pets failed?”

“You’re implying…” Ceryse’s voice faltered, horrified. “The Original Valyrians… they were killed by the Targaryens?”

“In short… yes. Now,” Tyanna raised a hand to stop Ceryse from speaking, “I don’t mean to say the Original Valyrians were murdered. It may not have been malicious. But considering the Targaryens fled all the way to Westeros, it’s likely they played a part in the death of the Original Valyrians. And that means they could be dangerous. They are pets who’ve gone rogue.”

“And those dangerous pets… are now ruling Westeros.”

—

At the end of their conversation, Ceryse made Tyanna promise not to tell anyone about her theory, especially not Maegor. To this day, Tyanna hasn’t broken that promise… or perhaps she knows revealing it to Maegor would make her unwelcome in King’s Landing.

Regardless, Ceryse is certain Maegor won’t hear the story from Tyanna. The only way he could learn of it is if Ceryse tells him herself. And she has long decided to take the secret to her grave…

…But now, as death approaches, she can’t help but start to reconsider. Is it really fair to hide all these secrets from Maegor?

Ceryse has been mulling over what Tyanna said, and as far as she can tell Tyanna has no reason to lie. Tyanna is certainly more knowledgeable about the Valyrians than anyone else, and she woke Maegor from his coma. That doesn’t mean all her theories are true, of course. Ceryse still has doubts about how the Original Valyrians died. But for Targaryen originally being pets? There’s too much evidence to deny it.

The Targaryens aren’t meant to be kings and queens. They aren’t even meant to be lords. Yet, Maegor took on the burden of the crown and is hated by his own family for it. He shouldn’t be obligated to do any of this. He could have just left King’s Landing, abandoned the realm his father brought together, and maybe… Maybe he wouldn’t have lost so much.

…Perhaps it’s not too late if Ceryse can still convince him.

“Maegor, I think… there might be a way to make Aenys’ children come back,” Ceryse says after a long silence. “If you renounce your kingship, maybe they will see reason.”

Maegor studies her, considering, before slowly shaking his head. “After the Faith threw their support behind me? No. I can’t leave the throne empty and assume that Rhaena will come and take it. If I renounce my kingship, we might lose everything.”

“Not everything. You’ll still have Dragonstone,” Ceryse reminds him gently.

For a moment, Maegor’s eyes widen. Giving up Westeros clearly isn’t something he’s ever considered. “I have a duty to my house… to my father.”

“The realm King Aegon built has always been a fragile illusion. You and Aenys did your best in maintaining it. You don’t have to keep doing… this,” Ceryse gestures to the crown on Maegor’s brows, “You don’t have to keep suffering.”

Maegor listens with a bitter expression. Raising his arms, he catches Ceryse’s index finger in both of his hands and squeezes it. “I don’t care much for my father’s ambition, it’s true,” he says quietly, “But this crown will one day be Rhaena’s, or Jaehaerys’, or Alysanne’s. It’s not just mine. I can’t give up something that isn’t wholly mine.”

“But—” Ceryse begins.

“It’s my nature to do this, Ceryse,” Maegor sighs deeply. “I’m not doing this because it’s the best choice. I’m doing it because it’s the only way I can live with myself.”

Ceryse doesn’t argue further. She could tell him that being king isn’t in his nature, that Targaryens are just pets… but it won’t change his mind.

Because that’s strictly not true. Whatever design the Original Valyrians made for the Targaryens, Maegor has completely surpassed it. He might not be as charming as his kin, but he’s more responsible than most men, more considerate than most people.

The crown… it suits him more than anyone she knows.

Even if it brings him pain…

Ceryse’s eyes well up, and soon, tears begin to fall.

“Why… why are you crying?” Maegor asks in a panic. Letting go of her finger, he rushes forward, trying to comfort her. Still weeping, Ceryse pulls him close and pats his head. Maegor looks confused, but he doesn’t protest.

Instead, he leans into her touch. Ceryse smiles sadly.

“Maegor, you’re a lovable fool, do you know that?”

Chapter Text

Storm’s End

Rhaena streaks across the sky atop Dreamfyre. Soon, Storm’s End rises into view, its solitary tower looming by the sea. Her heart pounds. She carries important news for her family.

The time for hiding is almost over.

“Rhaena!” Alysanne spots Rhaena as soon as Dreamfyre dives through the window. “You’re back! How did it go?”

“Great. I have good news,” Rhaena says, a smile forming. Alysanne is playing with her dragon, her body lying beneath Silverwing, only her round face peeking out. In these harsh years, watching Alysanne grow has been Rhaena’s one constant comfort.

During the last few years, Rhaena has travelled across Westeros seeking allies, making many friends. Girls doted on her, especially Elissa, who adored her to no end… But to Rhaena, none are as precious as Alysanne. Her wild curls and crooked grin never fail to warm Rhaena’s heart.

“What’s the good news?” Alysanne asks, slipping from under Silverwing and hurrying to Rhaena’s side. “Tell me!”

“I will,” Rhaena promises, voice softening. “But where are Mother and Jaehaerys? I want everyone here to hear it.”

“Mother’s with King Rogar. Jaehaerys is… well,” Alysanne thinks for a moment, frowning, “I think he’s probably in that room again.”

“What room?” Rhaena asks, an eyebrow raised. She knows Storm’s End less than her siblings. Since she and Aegon brought the family here, she hasn’t stayed around for long.

…They thought their plan was flawless—Aegon would raise an army, Rhaena would keep the family safe. They were wrong. If only she had been with Aegon that day…

“You’ll see,” Alysanne says, snapping Rhaena out of her thoughts. When Rhaena notices, Alysanne’s already left with Silverwing. Dreamfyre quickly follows.

The room they reach is covered in drawings. Jaehaerys sits on the floor, leaning against a sleeping Vermithor. He doesn’t react to them entering, staring instead at the largest, most eye-catching painting in the center of the room.

It shows a man and a woman. The woman sits on a throne, hair black as night, wearing a bright yellow dress—Durrandon colours. Rhaena immediately recognises Queen Argella. She was much older when Rhaena met her, but the smirk she wears is unmistakable.

The man beside her, Rhaena has no idea. He wears gaudy, colourful clothing with bells. A jester? He looks annoyed, not amused. Why include such a figure in a royal portrait?

“Jaehaerys,” Rhaena turns to her younger brother, who looks like he’s daydreaming. “Can you hear me?” Dreamfyre swoops in to block his view, but Jaehaerys doesn’t respond.

“He hears you,” Alysanne says, dismounting. “He just doesn’t talk to anyone in here.”

“Why?”

“It’s his thinking room. He’s thinking.”

At the same time, Silverwing flies over and nudges Vermithor, but the bronze dragon only snores louder.

“I… fine.” Rolling her eyes, Rhaena sighs. “We’ll wait for Mother. She must know I’m back by now.”

“Indeed, she does,” says a deep voice as the door opens. Entering the room is the Storm King himself, tall and broad, his sea blue eyes gleaming. “Welcome back, Princess Rhaena. The door—or window—of Storm’s End is always open to you.”

“Your Grace.” Rhaena bows. Part of her resents deferring to Rogar, but he’s a king, and she isn’t a queen—yet. Besides, the Durrandons have kept her family hidden from Maegor. She should be gracious. Be charming.

Especially since Rogar has her mother in his open palms. Kneeling, Rogar sets Alyssa down gently, beaming. “It’s good to see a family reunited!”

Feeling the unspoken pressure, Rhaena dismounts from Dreamfyre and hugs her mother. Hesitantly, Alyssa returns it, stiff and brief.

Things have been tense between them since Aegon’s death. Rhaena still remembers how Alyssa defended Maegor at first, claiming the news must be false, that Maegor had returned Aenys’ corpse, so he must be telling the truth—how wrong she was!

Maegor burned Aegon alive with Balerion. Thousands saw it. There’s no denying it. Alyssa must feel the shame, which is why she can’t meet Rhaena’s eyes.

When they part, Rogar is still watching them, chuckling. “Good, good, very good. Much has happened since your last visit, princess. We have much to discuss.”

Rhaena hates looking up to talk to Rogar, but she cannot refuse. “Yes, a lot has changed. I—”

“Oh, I see you found my grandparents’ portrait,” Rogar interrupts, standing back up and gesturing at the painting proudly. “You met them as a child: The Storm Queen Argella Durrandon and her consort, Orys Baratheon.”

Rhaena’s jaw drops. “Orys Baratheon? Why is he dressed like that?” He was Hand to her grandfather Aegon, not a jester! From what she remembers, Orys was kind, but surely he wouldn’t tolerate such disrespect.

“King Rogar said that’s how he dressed when he first met Queen Argella,” Alysanne informs her happily.

“Yes, your sister is right. When they’re both alive, my grandmother often asks my grandfather to entertain us in that getup. He made a great fool,” Rogar says affectionately.

Rhaena blinks. Right.

The Durrandons are just weird.

Alyssa gives Rhaena a warning look. Fine, no comments. So instead, Rhaena says, “Thank you for keeping my family safe, Your Grace. I’ve just returned from the Crownlands. There’s a rumour spreading—everywhere from Maidenpool to Kingswood—that Maegor is—”

“Dying?” Alyssa suggests.

Rhaena widens her eyes. She spent weeks spying in the Crownlands to confirm this. How does her mother already know? She hasn’t left Storm’s End for years.

Rogar smirks and sits back down. Chuckling to himself, he pulls out a piece of parchment. “A raven came this morning. Your mother and I were discussing it when you arrived.”

He holds the paper in front of Rhaena’s face. It reads:

To all of Westeros,

I, Maegor Targaryen, King of Westeros, am near death. Anyone who could be my successor remains absent from King’s Landing. As you must know, they are my nieces and nephews: Rhaena, Jaehaerys, and Alysanne.

If any of you are hiding them, I urge you to inform them of my impending demise and have them return to be my heir. If their safety is of concern, know that I have no intention to harm my house’s legacy—

“This is a trap!” Rhaena shouts, face reddening. Pushing away the letter, she turns to Alyssa and demands, “You can’t believe this, mother. He wants to lure us in and kill all of us!”

Alyssa lowers her gaze. “But Rhaena, if he’s truly dying, we can’t stay hidden. If no one takes the city, we will lose it forever…”

“And if we lose King’s Landing, we lose Westeros,” Alysanne concludes.

“We can’t lose Westeros,” Jaehaerys says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him. Jaehaerys is no longer daydreaming; he looks intense, his eyes are sharp. “We can’t lose Westeros,” he repeats, “There are things I want to build. Roads. Laws. A council. Taxes—”

“Roads?” Rhaena asks, making a face. “We’re Targaryens, we fly on our dragons. Why would we need roads?”

“But Westeros needs them. And I want to build them.” Jaehaerys meets her gaze, pouting. Such a baby! He has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Jaehaerys has been telling us his plans for a while,” Alysanne says.

“He has some interesting ideas,” Rogar agrees, amused.

“Whatever plans he has, it’s not going anywhere. No one ever had control of the whole Westeros. Not even Aegon the Conqueror managed that.” Shaking her head, Rhaena sighs, “I understand what you’re saying, mother. But this is clearly a trap. It’ll be foolish for us to just walk into it.”

“And yet, you flew all the way back to tell us Maegor is dying,” Jaehaerys says.

Rhaena smiles tightly. Now you listen? Deciding to teach her little brother a lesson, she walks over and pinches his cheeks.

“Stomp,” Jaehaerys protests. Rhaena ignores him. He looks at his mother for help, but Alyssa only shrugs with a faint smile.

Alysanne giggles. “His face is soft and puffy, right?”

Rhaena nods. Letting go, her expression has softened. Jaehaerys glares but stays quiet.

“Jaehaerys has a point, you know.”

Rhaena looks up sharply. Rogar Durrandon is still seated on the ground, glancing down at Rhaena with a cat-like smile. “If Maegor hadn’t sent this letter, what was your plan? Didn’t you come here to Storm’s End to convince your family— convince me to help you take King’s Landing by force?”

“That’s…” Rhaena pauses. “Are you saying you’ll help?”

It’s hard to believe. Rogar Durrandon never raised an axe for them. He talked about supporting them— supporting Aegon, supporting Rhaena— but all he’s willing to do is to keep hosting Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne in Storm’s End. He claimed his lords opposed war, but Rhaena never bought it. He’s the Storm King—his word is law. She thought him a coward.

And now, of all times, he’s willing to fight?

“I‘ll help. It’s not like before, when my vassals couldn’t tell who was opposing us. With this letter, we won’t face resistance when we enter King’s Landing. We’ll end this conflict and begin a new golden age— one no less than what your grandfather created. My bannermen will support this worthy cause.”

Rogar’s words are passionate, his enthusiasm infectious. Rhaena can see how Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne light up, excited at the prospect Rogar described. Even Rhaena feels the pull of his words. It’s hard to fake such conviction—

But for a moment, Rhaena feels Rogar’s smirk isn’t one of enthusiasm, but… amusement.

Yet no matter his motives, it’s not a suggestion they can refuse. It’s decided.

They’re returning to King’s Landing. With an army.

—

King’s Landing

“You’re all here. Finally.” Maegor seethes, but his voice is lacking in strength. Slumped on the throne, limping as he moves, he looks far frailer than Rhaena expected.

Perhaps Rhaena shouldn’t be surprised. She has heard the rumours, she has read the letter, she has felt the heavy air when she flew into the castle. But now, face to face with him, she can no longer deny it: Maegor told the truth.

He’s dying.

The throne room is nearly empty, with only Balerion and a foreign woman on Maegor’s side. She must be the Pentoshi healer who brought Maegor back to life after his trial of seven, Rhaena knows. Maegor keeps her around for her service, but whatever magic she has clearly can’t save him again.

“Tyanna, leave us. I must speak to them alone,” Maegor orders, his bloodshot eyes turning to the gathered men. “And you too, Durrandon. This is King’s Landing, not Storm’s End. Why did you bring an army? Did you not read my letter?”

Balerion roars. Rogar takes a step back. “It’s merely a precaution.” To his credit, Rogar’s tone is calm. With a wave of his arm, he commands, “Boys, wait outside.”

Soon, the room clears, leaving only House Targaryen and Rogar. “I won’t interfere,” Rogar says, stepping aside, “but I must act as a witness.”

Maegor snorts and nods. Dreamfyre, Vermithor and Silverwing fly towards Maegor and Balerion, the three siblings staring down at Maegor. Nervous, Rhaena takes a quick glance at her siblings. Alysanne looks pale and tight-lipped. Jaehaerys, in contrast, is smiling— happy and eager.

Seriously, what is wrong with him?

“Rhaena. Jaehaerys. Alysanne. As I promised your mother, I’ll return the crown today,” Maegor begins, eyes narrowing. “Had you come earlier, I could’ve judged who’s most worthy. But now I must choose—”

“You don’t get to choose,” Rhaena hisses, cutting off Maegor’s words, “You were never the rightful king. My father didn’t choose you as his heir.”

“Aenys didn’t name anyone as his heir, foolish girl,” Maegor snaps. “He didn’t get a chance to. And when he died, you and Aegon were away. I had to be king, or we would’ve lost everything. Alyssa knows this. She must have told you. Why won’t any of you listen?”

“Listen? You killed Aegon!”

“He attacked me first!” Maegor shouts, “Balerion killed him, not me! I tried to stop it, Ceryse tried to—”

He breaks into a cough, blood speckling his lips. Balerion moves to him, but Maegor waves the dragon off. “There’s no time. I’ll tell you what happened, but you must listen.”

And so, he tells them everything. From his marriage to Alys Harroway, to Aegon’s death by Balerion’s flames. It’s a long story, interrupted frequently by Maegor’s coughing fits and groans. During the tale, Rhaena’s expression slowly shifts from cold scepticism to horror. Were they all wrong? Was their suffering just the result of foolish choices on both sides?

“…Ceryse has advised me to give up my crown before she died. Perhaps I should have listened to her. You are all idiots,” Maegor mutters, eyeing them one by one. “I suppose I must pick the least foolish among you.”

Rhaena grits her teeth. The insults sting, but she sees it now—she’s misjudged him. “Uncle… I’m sorry.”

Alysanne and Jaehaerys echo her words. Maegor sneers. “Too late. All I can do is hope you fix what I couldn’t. You, you should be my heir—”

Rhaena watches in terror as Maegor trembles, one hand clutching his head and another pointing at her— then Alysanne— then Jaehaerys. He gasps, blood trailing down his chin, his hand shakes. Balerion breathes blue flames towards his master, but Maegor still struggles to speak. His lips twitch—

Then still. His arms drop. The light fades from his violet eyes.

Balerion roars.

Maegor is dead.

For a long moment, no one moves. Then Rogar steps forward—Rhaena had almost forgotten he was still there. “May King Maegor rest in peace,” he says, carefully removing the crown from Maegor’s head. “Long live Jaehaerys Targaryen, King of Westeros.”

Rhaena’s eyes nearly pop out of her skull as Rogar puts the crown on Jaehaerys’ head. “What? Are you blind, Rogar Durrandon? It’s clear that Maegor was going to name me his heir.”

Dreamfyre growls threateningly, but Rogar doesn’t flinch. He smirks. “Was he? I didn’t hear a name. The last thing he did was to point— point at Jaehaerys.” Rogar turns to Alysanne and asks, “You always have a sharp memory, Alysanne. Tell me, am I wrong?”

Alysanne sighs. “You’re right, King Rogar.”

“Then it’s settled. Jaehaerys is king. Unless…” Rogar looks at the boy with a sly smile. “You don’t want it?”

Jaehaerys grins, eyes gleaming. “Of course I do. I have plans for the realm.”

Rhaena trembles with fury as Rogar and Jaehaerys leave to announce the news. She could attack them, but Rogar’s army waits just outside. Besides, starting another war now will destroy House Targaryen completely.

But… she’s the most capable! Anyone could see Maegor meant to name her!

Was this all planned? Has Rogar always plotted to make Jaehaerys king over her? No… he couldn’t have known what Maegor would do. So it was chance, and Rogar ran with it because he prefers Jaehaerys?

“Has Rogar Durrandon always favoured Jaehaerys?” Rhaena asks Alysanne.

Alysanne ponders. “Maybe… he likes some of Jaehaerys’ ideas.”

Rhaena frowns. “But they’re all completely unrealistic.”

“We just have to help him rule,” Alysanne says with a crooked smile. “He listens… sometimes.”

…Sometimes.

Next time Jaehaerys walks into this room, Rhaena swears she’s going to pull him by the ear until he listens to every word she says.

END OF SONS OF THE DRAGON ARC

Chapter Text

King’s Landing

“Your Grace,” Criston Cole reports dutifully as he kneels before the throne. “I have returned from Dragonstone with Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. The ceremony was completed successfully.”

He looks up and sees a familiar smile on the king’s face— the same cheerful expression Viserys wore when Criston first met him, back when he was still a prince.

Criston will never forget that day Prince Baelon saved Blackhaven from drought. Located in the Red Mountains, Criston’s homeland was never the most fertile, and that drought would have killed many if not for the Targaryens. Prince Baelon soared over the fields on Vhagar, showering it with green flames— Immediately, the dying crops sprang back to life, stronger than ever.

Viserys had been seated behind his father then. When Criston knelt to thank them, he saw their faces: Baelon looking kinder and nobler than anyone, while Viserys’ face was plump and round and full of joy, those massive sparkling eyes containing all the goodness in the world. It’s what makes the Targaryens worth worshipping, Criston had thought, they really are creatures the Maiden sent to save us all.

Now that he has spent more than a decade in King’s Landing, he has seen a lot that has changed his view. Still, his loyalty to the Targaryens will never change.

“Good, very good, Lord Commander,” Viserys says, gesturing for him to rise. “Is Helaena pregnant, then?”

“She is. Maester Gerardys thought it was too early to tell, but Lady Mysaria confirmed it.”

And what a mess that was. The aged maester had stubbornly refused to write a letter back to King’s Landing about the good news, for he doubted Mysaria’s judgment, calling her a Lyseni fraud. If not for cooler heads on both sides, blood would have been shed that day.

Criston himself has little regard for Prince Daemon’s favourite, but he knows better than to speak against her. After all, everyone knows the legend of Tyanna of Pentos, who once saved King Maegor from his coma, and Mysaria claims to have learned from Tyanna. If there’s any truth to her story, merely confirming a pregnancy should be simple for her.

“Yes!” Viserys bumps his tiny fist up, excited. “I hope it’s a girl. All of Rhaenyra’s children are boys. They’re my precious grandsons, but…” Turning to his side, he asks his wife, “What do you think, Alicent? Will I finally get a granddaughter cuter than Daemon’s twins?”

Queen Alicent is standing beside the high throne— the throne the old King Jaehaerys commissioned to ensure that he would be on the same height as his subjects when he held court. She smiles wryly. “Perhaps, if the Mother wills it. Either way, a child from those two will be adorable.”

She stays composed, but Criston notes a trace of distraction. Perhaps she knows what happened between her stepchildren through her father, the Hand? Unlike the king, she can’t afford to be obvious. It’s common knowledge in the court that Rhaenyra hates her.

“However, Your Grace…” Criston speaks up carefully, bringing the royal couple's attention back to him. You might want to know that a… fierce argument has broken out between Princess Rhaenyra and her younger siblings.

Viserys’ face falls. “Not again,” he pouts, “What is it about this time? Rhaenyra’s position as Princess of Dragonstone? Her marriage to Daemon? Or—”

Criston suppresses a grimace. This is one of the unpleasant discoveries he made after joining the kingsguards: Viserys always misses the point. It can be unbearable, at times.

“Actually, Viserys, I think it’s probably about who you’re going to pick.” Queen Alicent says, her expression pained.

“Pick what?”

Almost at the same time, the door to the throne room opens. In comes Aegon, Helaena and Aemond, flying on their respective dragons. Vhagar lands in front of the throne, ahead of Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, and Aemond immediately leaps down from her back, staring up at his father.

“Father! Now that the ceremony is completed, please name Aegon or Helaena as your heir!” Aemond demands boldly, “You promised!”

“I… what?” Viserys looks flabbergasted. He glances towards his queen for help, but she’s burying her face in her hands. Criston also avoids the king’s gaze. That’s one threat he cannot protect the king from.

Also, he’s interested in seeing how the king will deal with it this time.

“You said you’d decide once Helaena came of age,” Aegon says, motioning to his newly wed wife’s belly, “Now that she’s a mother, surely you can no longer say that she’s still a child.”

“Um, yes, she is… I just forgot…” Now, Viserys is sweating. “Did I say I will name an heir when Helaena reaches adulthood? Maybe we should wait until Aemond—”

“No, it’s not necessary!” Aemond snaps, “We all know that I have no chance anyway! When Aegon was younger, you said we should wait, then when Aegon came to age, you said to wait for Helaena, and now—”

“Aemond Targaryen, is that how you speak to your father?!” Alicent scolds. Aemond immediately falls silent.

“Sorry, father,” he mumbles. Viserys, previously shivering in fear, shakes his head weakly.

And that’s why so many people fear the Hightower influence. With her father at her side, Alicent holds sway over the court without a drop of Targaryen blood. Knowing King Viserys, though… Criston would say that Alicent is a necessity. Without her, how could a king with no backbone manage his… colourful children?

Still, it’s because of her that the court has split in two. Those who like her, like Aegon, Helaena and Aemond… and those who don’t.

“Father, Aemond means well,” Helaena says smoothly, “He merely wants to remind you how important this is. We all remember how the realm was plunged into chaos during the reign of King Maegor, all because his brother, King Aenys, didn’t name any of his children as heir before he died.”

“Well, yes, that happened. But… It’s not the only factor, is it?” Viserys chuckles nervously. Aemond and Aegon glare at him, while Helaena’s smile sharpens. Viserys adds hastily, “You’re right, children. It’s important to choose an heir. Maybe… maybe I’ll choose…”

“…Your firstborn?” says a voice behind them, “My wife?”

“Father, I hope that you aren’t picking an heir without me,” Rhaenyra says.

Entering the throne room are Caraxes and Syrax, carrying their proud masters. Caraxes settles down on a dragon-sized seat next to Viserys— meant to be reserved for the king’s dragon, left empty only because Viserys is dragonless.

“Brother. Your Grace,” Daemon says in an amused tone, “I heard you’re finally choosing an heir? You should have done it ages ago, but now is not too late— as long as you make the right choice.”

“Daemon, you… You know that you can’t interfere with the succession… Our grandfather outlawed it,” Viserys murmurs, his massive violet eyes gazing around, seeking a way out. The king has always been terrified of his younger brother— rightfully, for Daemon is dangerous.

Throughout the years, Criston has seen how Daemon attempted to bully the king to get what he wanted— first marriage to Rhaenyra, who was still Viserys’ only child at that time, then that failed conquest of the Stepstones, and now making Rhaenyra heir so he could rule through her. Despite prompting Valyrian supremacy, he displays no admirable qualities other Targaryens possess. All he cares about is himself.

Daemon Targaryen is a nuisance and a threat. This, Criston and the Hightowers agree.

Now that the king is looking for help, Criston will gladly do his duty. “Get down from there, Prince Daemon,” drawing his morningstar, he demands, “That seat is reserved for the king’s dragon.”

Daemon pouts. “Brother,” ignoring Criston, he continues to push Viserys, “You aren’t going to let a common knight order me around, are you?”

“Ser Criston is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguards, he’s no common knight,” Aegon protests, “Besides, he’s our teacher. He trains me and Aemond in arms.”

Actually, given their massive height difference, Criston never trained the boys much, just practising in front of them, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut.

“Ser Criston is right, Daemon,” Viserys finally says, still avoiding Daemon’s gaze, “This isn’t Caraxes’ seat. You should fly him back down.”

“You’ve grown stingy,” Daemon grumbles but obeys, leading Caraxes back to hover beside Rhaenyra and Syrax. “But fine. We’re here to see you fulfill your promise— to formally name Rhaenyra your heir.”

With that line, the temperature in the room plummets. Aegon, Helaena and Aemond stare daggers at Rhaenyra, looking half afraid and half angry. Even Alicent has widened her eyes, disbelief written on her face.

Viserys coughs. “Umm… I really, really don’t remember saying that?”

“Are you saying you have forgotten it all, Father?” Rhaenyra yells with indignation, “You said I’d be queen one day!”

Ah. Criston understands their angle now. He clears his throat.

“I remember that promise. It was made back when I first came to King’s Landing, when I was assigned to guard Princess Rhaenyra,” he says.

His statement makes the three younger Targaryen siblings gasp, shocked by his ”betrayal”, but Rhaenyra’s surprise yet approving gaze hurts him even more. Don’t look at me like that.

I’m not helping you. I won’t. I can’t.

“...But it was a promise made to a child nearly twenty years ago, when Prince Aegon was not yet born.” Looking straight at Rhaenyra, Criston addresses the princess directly, “It has long since been outdated, Rhaenyra. The circumstances have changed.” Too much has changed.

Halfway through his words, Rhaenyra’s face falls, fire spitting from her large eyes as she glares at him. “Criston Cole, you— I’m your princess! You don’t get to address me like we’re friends— like we’re equal!”

And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Where did the friendly and approachable princess go? Resisting to sigh, Criston says, “I apologise, princess. Yet… my point still stands.”

“Yes,” Viserys nods, “Rhaenyra, I expected you to succeed me when you were a child, because Aemma hadn’t given me more children in many years. Once Aegon was born, everything was different. I can’t choose…” 

Tears in his eyes, Viserys examines his children. “Rhaenyra, my firstborn, the Realm’s Delight… Aegon, my first son, the one most similar to me… Helaena, the sweetest, smartest girl… Aemond, uhh, Aemond…”

“It’s fine, father,” Aemond rolls his eyes, “I know that you like me the least.”

“True,” Daemon smirks, “He sees too much of me in you.”

“Gods, I hope not. You’re a disaster.”

”I can’t choose between you all!” Ignoring the mumblings, Viserys cries, “You’re all my precious children!”

“But you must,” Alicent says, gentle yet firm, “they are no longer children. If you don’t choose, there will be war in the future.”

“And I’m the only viable choice!” Syrax inching closer to the throne, Rhaenyra shouts, “Father, if this continues, it’ll be the Hightowers that rule King’s Landing, not us! Aegon, Helaena and Aemond… they’re all too young to remember our real mother. They don’t understand that we’re Targaryens, meant to be worshipped, not to mingle with humans. This is the only reason we get to be king of kings, ruler of all Westeros… please, Father, you have to understand!”

Criston remains unmoved by her speech. How many of those words are hers, and how many are Daemon’s? He cannot tell. Regardless, this talk only proves that Rhaenyra cannot be queen. To follow her policy is to see the Targaryens back being contained in Dragonstone.

If the Targaryens are to continue, they must be led by a monarch who is willing to work with others.

“It’s true, I don’t remember Aemma Targaryen, our birth mother,” Aegon says, “But Queen Alicent is the one who nursed us, who loves us as her own children. She is our true mother, just as Queen Aemma was.”

“And our ancestors only managed to build the current realm by collaborating with humans,” Helaena reminds them quietly, “King Aegon negotiated an alliance with King Argilac, and King Jaehaerys appointed King Rogar as his Hand to promote his reforms.”

“...I just want to protect mother,” Aemond whispers, glaring at Daemon and Rhaenyra, “I know what you plan to do to her if you get the crown. I won’t allow it, ever.”

“You little—”

“Children!” Viserys shrieks. When his children turn to look at him, he physically shrinks in his seat and mumbles, “I think… Obviously we need to work with humans, but we must preserve our standing as well…”

His answer pleases no one. Before his children speak again, he quickly blurts, “It’s too big of a decision to make myself! I need to delegate it to someone else… the small council?”

“The small council are all men of Otto Hightower,” Daemon says darkly, “They’ll never make a fair decision.”

“Well, then… if not the small council… how about a big council?” Viserys desperately suggests, “We invite more people to temporarily join just for this vote?”

“And who are those people going to be?” Rhaenyra questions, “If it’s picked by a Hightower, they’re going to vote like a Hightower.”

“Uhh… they’re going to be nobles, of course, lords and ladies of the realm… but as for whom exactly, I don’t…”

“All of them?” Criston offers, “It’ll be fair, at least.”

“That’s—”

“That’s a great idea, worthy of a great council!” Alicent claps her hands together and exclaims, “This matter concerns all of Westeros, so it’s natural that every house should get a vote. We can invite all heads of house in the seven kingdoms to vote… This is an idea even my father would agree with. Viserys, my dear, you have found such a wonderful solution to the succession!”

…Since Alicent came to court, she has clearly mastered the art of flattery.

Viserys blushes. “Then it shall be done! A great council consists of all the houses in Westeros to determine the succession, being held after… after Aegon and Helaena’s child is born. That sounds fair to everyone?”

Aegon, Helaena and Aemond nod, unsure but obedient. Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a glance. “This could work,” eventually, Daemon says, “The Hightowers have an advantage in the Reach, but we can still sway other houses to our side.”

“If we move quickly,” Rhaenyra agrees, turning to Viserys, “Father, can we go speak to the lords?”

“By all means…” With Viserys’ confirmation, Caraxes and Syrax fly out of the room like whirlwinds. Seeing Aegon, Helaena and Aemond preparing to rush out, Viserys quickly calls, “Wait, children! I don’t want you to go alone!”

The three Targaryens turn back to their father. “Can mother come with us?” Aemond asks hopefully.

“Or grandfather?” Helaena says, “If he’s with us, he’ll convince the whole Westeros to support us in no time…”

Viserys looks at his wife. She gives her children a wry smile. “No, children, I can’t come with you. I’m your father’s queen, and I must stay at his side.”

“And Ser Otto is my Hand. The whole small council must remain neutral, or else it’ll be unfair.” Viserys continues, “But there’s one exception. Ser Criston.”

“Yes, Your Grace!” Criston kneels immediately, knowing what order he will receive.

“As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I want you to follow Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond on their journey and protect them against any threat they face.”

“I shall, with my life if necessary,” Criston swears solemnly.

“Then go, my beloved children,” Viserys says, looking more kingly than he has ever been, “With this great council, I trust that no matter the result… everyone will accept it.”

Yes, Criston thinks, even Rhaenyra and Daemon will have to accept it.

Rhaenyra has her number of supporters, but none of them are as unreasonable as Daemon. Barring Viserys clearly naming an heir, a great council with all the lords of the realm making the decision might be the only way to stop Daemon from creating trouble.

We’ll win, he tells himself. Aegon and his younger siblings are willing to work with people, while Rhaenyra… Rhaenyra is—

…He can still recall how adorable Rhaenyra was when she was a child, kind and sweet and even more charming than her father. But that child is gone. What is left is a high and haughty woman convinced of her superiority above everyone else.

He will keep her from inheriting the crown. Not only to save the rest of the Targaryens…

But also Rhaenyra herself.

Chapter Text

High Tide

“…We must convince the realm to support me over Aegon or Helaena,” Princess Rhaenyra explains.

Corlys Velaryon frowns from the Driftwood Throne— a small, old wooden throne that clashes badly with the new marble table it sits on. “This will be an uphill battle. The Hightowers have allies in the Reach and the Faith. We have gold… but that may not be enough.”

“Viserys is being foolish, as usual,” Rhaenys sighs. There’s a seat besides the Driftwood Throne reserved for her, but it’s empty— She prefers the back of Meleys. “We are different from humans. Outsiders should have no voice in our succession. He’s setting a precedent for interference.”

“You don’t know my brother like I do, Rhaenys,” Daemon says, “He totally could have just pointed at someone blindly and named them heir. At least this way, we still have some control. Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond will no doubt head south to win the support of the Gardener King and the Faith. I say we fly north. The Starks won’t care what the High Septon thinks.”

“Why not visit the Vale first, Uncle Daemon?” young Jacaerys asks with an innocent expression. At eleven, he’s only allowed to be here because Rhaenyra has decided to make him heir— and he’s also Corlys’ heir after Laenor’s death. “The Maiden of the Vale will surely look kindly on Mother’s claim.”

“Oh, and…” He points to Mysaria, seated in the corner. “Why is she here? I thought this was a council of Valyrians.”

As Jacaerys’ words fall, all five Valyrians in the room turn to look at Mysaria. She smiles. As the only human— only outsider here, she was content to remain silent. But if the young boy wants to challenge her…

“I was invited by your parents, my prince,” she says evenly, “I’m honored to witness this council. When I return to Tyanna’s Temple, I’ll ensure the Free Cities hear of Queen Rhaenyra’s victory.”

If she wins, that is.

Of course, it’s in Mysaria’s interest that Rhaenyra wins, because she won’t be allowed to stay if Rhaenyra’s younger siblings take power. Mysaria has stayed beside Daemon for years, known to be his loyal companion… though apart from her friendship with the prince, she has another reason to be loyal. 

Mysaria came from Tyanna’s temple, a place where people worship the wisdom of the Valyrians— the original Valyrians, that is. The current Valyrians who rule Westeros are more subjects of their study.

The difference between the two is kept secret from people outside of the Temple though, and Mysaria’s respect among her peers has grown because of her connection to Daemon. One day, her writings on him may be revered as Tyanna’s book on Maegor is…

“My mother invited you,” Jacaerys corrects her, breaking her thoughts, “But not my father. My father is dead.”

Well, he’s right— but Mysaria isn’t in a position to agree with him. So instead she raises a brow, looking at his not-father— and Mysaria’s patron— pointedly.

Daemon snorts. “Jace, I don’t care whether you see me as your father or not, but you need to learn to shut your mouth.”

“Am I not here to offer ideas, uncle? You still haven’t answered me. Why skip the Vale?” For a boy of eleven, Jacaerys is far too smart. He knows how to phrase his barbs.

Too bad he’s aiming them at an ally.

Or is he? Mysaria wonders. Daemon is ambitious, but he knows he can never inherit the throne, so his only path to influence is through Rhaenyra and her heirs. Jacaerys is betrothed to Daemon’s daughter… but if he keeps challenging Daemon, the prince might push for Rhaenyra to name another as heir instead.

Well, that’s a problem for another day.

“You know why, boy. The Arryn woman and her friends despise me,” Daemon spits. “She made it clear I’m not welcome in the Vale.”

Mysaria remembers Laena teasing Daemon about that failure when they were staying in Tyanna’s Temple. Apparently, when he was younger, he had once been sent to heal the sick in Runestone, but threw a tantrum when he felt he wasn’t thanked enough. He’s learned to temper his anger since then—

Somewhat. Jacaerys is testing his limit, though.

“Yes, they loathe you. Not me or Mother. You don’t have to come, Uncle Daemon. I’m sure your talents are better suited for…” Jacaerys tilts his head mockingly. “Hmm, what are you suited for?”

Caraxes growls. Daemon’s face darkens. “I’m very good at burning things.”

Mysaria smiles. Daemon isn’t very good with the typical innocent look most Targaryens excel at, but his scary face is quite effective. Jacaerys’ smirk fades, and Rhaenyra goes pale. “Daemon, this is my son you’re speaking to.”

“And my grandson,” Rhaenys hisses, glaring daggers at Daemon.

“And my good-nephew, cousin, and step-son!” Daemon rolls his eyes, throwing his hands, “I’m well aware we’re family. I’m afraid Jace is the one who forgot.”

Meleys growls in return. Corlys glances at his wife for a second, then turns to Daemon warily, “Is this necessary? Jace’s tone aside, his suggestion has merit. If you’re absent, Jeyne Arryn might be more receptive to Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“I have met Jeyne before, when she was not yet queen,” Rhaenys says, “I think it’ll work. If I go to the Eyrie with Rhaenyra, on Meleys and Syrax, we can meet up in the North before going to Winterfell.”

“This is sound,” Rhaenyra nods, “We can regroup at…”

“White Harbor,” Daemon says, a smirk back on his face. “Corlys and I will sail there with gifts for Cregan Stark. Mysaria comes with us.”

“It’s my pleasure, my prince,” Mysaria replies. She can anticipate another outburst…

“I’ll go to the Vale,” Jacaerys declares, his chubby face flushed, “Mother, it was my idea. I should go with you and Grandmother.“

“You will not,” Rhaenyra says firmly, “You’re still a child. You’ll stay and watch over your brothers.”

“But I’m your heir! And Grandfather’s!”

“It’s for your safety,” Corlys explains, “I have already lost all my children—” he glances at Daemon briefly, “I won’t have any of my grandchildren put in the way of harm.”

“Jace, if you’re going to be heir, you must take responsibility,” Daemon adds, his words undermined by his smug tone, “Ruling Dragonstone in your mother’s absence is no easy task. Unless, of course, you don’t think you’re ready—”

“I am ready,” Jacaerys snaps, “I can rule.”

“Then prove it,” Daemon shrugs. “Be a good boy.”

Jacaerys glares, but says nothing. Mysaria watches, amused. Daemon can’t help himself— he just has to get the last word. Petty, prideful, ruthless, ambitious… he’s fascinating, as always.

There are no Targaryens more worth studying than Daemon, after all.

—

White Harbor

Mysaria is about to sleep when she sees Caraxes fly into her window. “Mysaria,” Daemon calls out, “Care to drink with me?”

“My prince,” she replies, setting down the candle she had been about to blow out, “The voyage must have been tiring. If you insist, I’ll pour you a cup… just one, though.”

“Come on, woman, I can take more than that.” Caraxes settles down on her bed, and Daemon leaps off, eyes already fixed on the bottle by her bedside. It’s not strong wine, but she knows all alcohol hits Valyrians hard.

“Imagine what punishment I’d face if I let you drink yourself to death.” She rummages through her luggage and retrieves the set of tableware made for Valyrians. Pouring herself a goblet first, she carefully fills Daemon’s cup with a spoonful of wine.

Daemon pouts as he accepts the cup. “Always so strict.” He downs it in one gulp. “Do you care because you want to keep your head, or because you like me?”

“Of course I like you, Daemon.” You’re the most fascinating case I’ve ever encountered, and… “You saved me from the Crabfeeder.”

That was years ago, when Mysaria was just a novice at Tyanna’s Temple. Because she is of Lyseni origin, she was sent to search for a rumoured Valyrian relic in Lys… unfortunately, her journey led her through the Stepstones, where Craghas Drahar demanded a toll she couldn’t pay.

She would have remained in Crabfeeder’s captivity or worse if not for Daemon's campaign. Though the war ended in his defeat, he managed to raid Bloodstone and rescue her, bringing her back to the temple. She has owed him ever since.

“That I did,” Daemon says proudly, “It was a damn good day. Caraxes burned more men than ever, and I earned glory on the battlefield.” He raises his cup again, only to find it empty, and scowls. “Corlys and Rhaenys recognised my worth and promised me Laena’s hand. I was happy, and yet…” He shakes his head sadly, “They still suspect I had something to do with Laena and Laenor’s deaths.”

“...It’s not your fault.” And that’s why he’s here tonight, right after they arrived in White Harbor. Back on the ship, Corlys had kept Daemon under close watch, always probing.

It has been three years since Laena and Laenor died— both Velaryon siblings lost in a shipwreck. Having inherited the adventurous spirit of the Sea Snake, they led a small fleet travelling to the Summer Islands, but only their dragons made it back. From what they have heard from the survivors, the ships have been destroyed by a storm in the narrow sea, the wave so sudden that not even the two dragon riders managed to avoid it.

Search parties were sent by their families, by the king himself—but all came back empty. Eventually, the efforts stopped. Life moved on.

Except for Corlys and Rhaenys, who suspect Daemon had a hand in Laena and Laenor’s demise. To be fair to the grieving parents, Daemon did benefit from their death somewhat, but…

“Of course it’s not my fault,” Daemon says, frustrated, “I searched for Laena for a year, hoping to find her alive. But Vhagar was tamed by Aemond, so she’s clearly dead! What more do Corlys and Rhaenys want? For me to sit and mourn forever?”

Obviously, they don’t want you to remarry, especially not to Laenor’s widow. And they don’t want you to threaten their grandson. “Give them time,” Mysaria says softly. “Eventually, they’ll see the truth— as long as you keep backing Rhaenyra and Laenor’s sons…”

“I will if Jace just show me some bloody respect!” Daemon grumbles, “Haven’t I treated them as my own? I give Joff gifts, I help Luke with his dragon, I tell Jace how to rule.” Pushing his cup aside, Daemon clenches his fists. “I’m marrying my daughters to them! That should be enough, but they still act like… that.”

Just like how Rhaenyra acted towards her stepmother, you mean? “They’re children,” Mysaria reminds him gently. “They lost their father. Jace resents you for not being Laenor. You don’t have to force the role of father. He still sees you as an uncle, just be that.”

“I suppose,” Daemon waves it off with a sigh. “At least Rhaenyra listens to me. We must win this. Viserys had no idea what he was doing by marrying that Hightower woman… he’s showing our weaknesses to people who want to control us, who will dethrone us and put us on a leash.”

“Otto Hightower,” Mysaria says. This isn’t the first time she has heard Daemon’s pitch. Daemon’s rival in court has been encouraging the king to “stand up for himself” for years— though from what Mysaria hears, King Viserys still shrank in Daemon’s presence, so Otto isn’t having much success on that front.

“Yes, Otto. Viserys thought Alicent would be like Maegor’s queen, but they’re completely different. Good Queen Ceryse was a Septa sworn to the Faith, but Alicent is of House Hightower… with Otto as a father.” Daemon’s eyes are bloodshot. It’s the wine, Mysaria knows. “Mysaria… do you think that I— we, House Targaryen, are weak?”

“You aren’t weak,” Mysaria assures him. Just stupid, sometimes. “And House Targaryen… isn’t created to be strong. It doesn’t have to be.” After all, Aegon Targaryen didn’t conquer Westeros with his strength, but his charm.

“We are weak,” Daemon insists, looking up at her, “But we pretend that we aren’t. Westeros cheers at the sight of dragons. They worship us. But they don’t understand us. When they do…” He trails off, eyes hollow. “They’ll turn on us.”

“That betrayal cost you the Stepstones,” Mysaria remembers, of course. At first, Daemon’s campaign went smoothly… but the majority of his army were sellswords, hired with Velaryon gold. They turned on Daemon easily when they saw the Triarchy’s reinforcements, forcing him to escape on dragonback. Daemon has never forgotten the humiliation he suffered, both during the war and afterwards, when the whole Westeros learned of his failure.

“Yes, it did. All because those sellswords didn’t worship me. Although I performed well on the battlefield, they saw how much I relied on my dragon. They saw that I had to leave the assault when Caraxes was wounded. And so…” Daemon sighs, his shoulders slumped, “That’s why we have to keep the illusion. Keep Westeros worshipping us. And this won’t work when we get close to them. A Targaryen monarch cannot treat a human as their mother. It makes us... mortal. A joke.”

“It won’t come to that, I’m sure,” Mysaria can only say. Whatever ambition the Hightowers might have, it seems unlikely that they will harm any Targaryens, for their power over the whole Westeros is dependent on a Targaryen sitting on the throne. But another generation later, when the nobles of Westeros find out that the Targaryens hold no sway above humans… who can say what will happen? Daemon’s fear isn’t unfounded. “I’ll always support you, and my peers in Pentos support House Targaryen as well.”

Daemon smiles. “I know. You’re the only human I trust. We have known each other for years… when I brought Laena to Pentos, you helped her deliver…”

He’s starting to ramble, and Mysaria decides to put a stop to that. “Daemon, I think you should go back and get some rest.” She beckons Caraxes over, pats the dragon, then sends him towards his master. Mysaria helps Daemon on his back. Drunk or not, Caraxes can protect him and bring him back to his room.

“Good night,” Daemon mumbles as Caraxes flies out of Mysaria’s window. Right, she should sleep as well. If things go well in the Vale, Rhaenyra and Rhaenys will arrive in days, then they will travel to Winterfell… Will Cregan Stark be like his ancestor, King Torrhen, who needed no convincing to join Aegon?

Mysaria can only hope that it’ll be so easy.

—

Winterfell

“Welcome to Winterfell. I’m Bennard Stark, Regent of the North. Those are my sons.” Bennard gestures toward the three boys lined up behind him. “Benjen, Brandon, and Elric.”

Rhaenyra looks confused as the children step forward to greet her one by one. “But… where is the king?”

“Where is King Cregan?” Rhaenys demands sternly, Meleys hovering high in the air, “Why isn’t he here to greet us in the courtyard?”

“As I recall, King Cregan is seventeen this year,” Corlys, sitting behind Rhaenys, remarks coldly, “Surely he doesn’t need a regent to speak for him.”

“My nephew is inside the castle,” Bennard says, his expression hardening. “He’s... indisposed. I can still show you around—”

“We need to speak to the king,” Daemon cuts in, “We have important business to discuss with him.”

Bennard stares at them in silence. Mysaria tenses. Will he send them away—or worse, order their deaths? Depending on how loyal the guards in Winterfell are to him, the latter is a possibility she cannot dismiss. Being stared down by such a large, hairy man with hundreds of armed men under his command… It's quite terrifying.

Then Bennard exhales.

“Fine. I’ll bring you to my nephew.”

A trap? Or something else?

As he turns to give orders, Mysaria moves close to Rhaenyra and Daemon. “Perhaps…”

“It’s suspicious, I know,” Daemon whispers. “But we must see Cregan. We’re all on guard with our dragons… if a fight breaks out, we’ll be ready. Just stay behind us.”

“He hasn’t called Cregan ‘king’ even once,” Rhaenyra murmurs worriedly, “If he’s luring us inside to avoid killing us in plain sight…”

Then we’re dead. Inside the castle, we’ll have nowhere to run. “He can’t kill a princess and expect no consequences,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “We stayed in White Harbor long enough for word to spread. The North knows we’re coming. He can’t risk it…”

“He has decided not to,” Corlys says quietly. “Look.”

Inside the castle, a servant comes carrying a small plate of breadcrumbs. “Please, eat,” Bennard offers. The Targaryens and Velaryons each take one piece, Rhaenys even feeding one to her dragon. This is an offer of protection, as cheap as it is.

So Bennard Stark won’t kill them. Good. What is he planning, then?

Bennard leads them through the castle to a solar that clearly belongs to the King of Winter… but no Cregan Stark in sight. “You said we’d see your king,” Rhaenyra demands.

If Bennard is unsettled by having three dragons sit on his table, he doesn’t show it. “I wanted to speak to you privately first,” he says as the door closes behind them. “I’ve heard there will be a Great Council in King’s Landing by year’s end— to decide King Viserys’ successor. I presume you came to win the North.”

“You heard it right,” Rhaenyra says, her lips pursed. She hides it well, but Mysaria can still see the anxiety in her large violet eyes. “I must be Queen of Westeros one day. I hoped the Stark of Winterfell would support me…”

“You needn’t look far for one,” Bennard says, gesturing to himself. “I can rally the North. All I ask is your support.”

“To usurp your nephew?” Rhaenys says sharply. “You’re a Stark, but you’re not the Stark.”

“Cregan Stark is the rightful King of the North,” Corlys says, folding his small arms, “It’s one thing if he’s still a child… but he’s at the age where he should rule by himself. By all means, you should have stepped down as regent.”

“And the North must know this as well,” Daemon sneers, “I don’t see why we should support an usurper— and I bet you don’t have enough support to rally the northern houses behind you.”

“An usurper?” Bennard hisses, cold eyes glaring at them, “Do not presume to know me, Prince Daemon, or the North. I would have gladly stepped down if my nephew weren’t… Cregan.” He spits, looking sour.

Mysaria raises a brow. It seems that there’s more to this tale than young kings and ambitious regents. “What’s wrong with King Cregan?”

“He’s your kin,” Corlys says coolly. “Whatever your issues, treason is no answer.”

Bennard slams the table. “Cregan plans to kill me and my sons!" he shouts, “Is that not enough of an issue for you, Lord Velaryon?”

Screaming, Meleys, Caraxes and Syrax all fly away from the table, and their riders are no less shocked. “Kill you?” Rhaenys repeats, her eyes narrowed, “And your sons? Why would he…”

“Is it not because of your treason?” Daemon frowns.

“But, his sons… those children?” Rhaenyra’s voice shakes, “Cregan Stark will go that far?”

“Cregan has always been ruthless, even as a little boy,” Bennard says, looking up at the hovering dragons, “I thought it was good… Winter is coming, and the King in the North needs to be able to make hard decisions. However, in the last few years, he began to trust me less and less, refusing to hear my words or even eat at the same table. Then, a year ago, just before he came of age… I overheard him muttering in his room— swearing he’d kill me and my sons.”

“And so you put him under arrest,” Daemon nods, sounding oddly empathetic, “But the North won’t stand for it, will they? You cannot prolong the regency forever.”

“The North is slipping away from my grasp,” Bennard finally admits, “If I can formally remove Cregan on the count of his madness, the lords might quiet down. But our maester has checked him and found him sound of mind, just… vengeful. Why, I have no idea.” He throws his hands, “I need your support, just as you need the North’s. Support my ascension as the new King in the North, and Winterfell shall stand behind you.”

“This isn’t something we can make lightly,” Rhaenyra says, frowning deeply, “And your bannermen? Do you have the faith to control them if you overthrow Cregan Stark?”

“With your backing, yes. The North is wary of outsiders bringing war, and I’ve ruled long enough to earn their respect. They’ll listen,” Bennard promises. He looks sincere, Mysaria thinks as she observes the Northman’s long face, but sincerity doesn’t make him right. What if the North still turns on him?

“This is risky,” Corlys says, clearly having the same thought. “You’re asking us to back your usurpation. And we’ve only heard your side of this story.”

“We need to hear Cregan’s,” Rhaenys agrees. “You promised we’d see your nephew. Take us to him, and we’ll judge for ourselves.”

It’s a fair request, but Bennard’s face hardens. “Cregan will deny everything. Swear your support first, and I’ll bring him to you. If not—”

“You’ll what, kill us?” Daemon laughs. “There are three dragons in this room, Prince Bennard.”

“No. You’re my guests,” Bennard says, voice cold. “But I can send you away. You’ll get nothing from me— or the North.”

Silence. Neither side budges. They can’t support Bennard blindly, and he won’t let them see Cregan without a promise. Yet walking away empty-handed isn’t an option either.

There has to be a way to break the deadlock.

“What is it you truly want, Your Grace?” Mysaria asks. “To rule the North— or just protect your family?”

Bennard meets her eyes, anger simmering. “I told you. I’m only doing this because Cregan wants me and my sons dead.”

“So if he changes his mind, you’ll step down?”

“I… I guess?” Bennard hesitates. “Yes. But…”

“…But even if we talk him down, he could change his mind later,” Mysaria nods. She turns to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, what if we offer Prince Bennard and his sons our protection? If he can’t stay in the North, he can come south with us.”

“That…” Rhaenyra pauses only a moment. “That works. If you’re willing, Prince Bennard, I’ll accept you into my service. Your family will be under my protection.”

“I could be a king,” Bennard mutters. “And you want me to be a courtier?”

“At the rate you’re going, you’re more likely to be a corpse within the year,” Rhaenys quips.

“And in the South, you’ll be at the centre of Westeros,” Corlys adds. “Not many Northerners get that chance to get a position in King’s Landing.”

“Fine, I understand,” Bennard sighs. Looking up at the hovering Syrax, he bows his head. “Princess Rhaenyra, I accept your offer. I’ll step down—if you can convince Cregan not to harm me or my sons. But if not…”

Daemon laughs. “Stark, there’s nothing we Valyrians can’t achieve. Don’t worry, once this is done, you’ll be one of us. We treat our friends well.”

Given Daemon’s reputation, Mysaria can’t blame Bennard for looking skeptical. Regardless, the deal is made.

Not long after, Cregan Stark is brought in, the teenage boy flanked by guardsmen on both sides. His icy expression breaks at the sight of them. “Targaryens? In Winterfell… You must be Princess Rhaenyra. Is this about that Great Council everyone is talking about?”

Apparently, being placed under house arrest doesn’t impact Cregan’s ability to hear the latest news. “We’re here to seek the North’s support, yes,” Rhaenyra starts, “But we’re also here to free you from your predicament. Prince Bennard has agreed to relinquish his power.”

Cregan narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Bennard says. “Just let me and my sons leave safely. The Princess offered us a place in the South.”

“You want to leave Winterfell? The North?” Cregan sneers. “Uncle, you’ve wanted Winterfell your whole life. Now you run? Are you that afraid of justice?”

“Justice?” Corlys repeats, “He says you plan to kill him and his sons. Is that your idea of justice?”

“A kinslayer is accursed,” Cregan replies, a thin smile forming. “I won’t kill them. They’ll live comfortably—in my cells. Forever.”

Bennard rises, furious. “What’s your problem with me, boy? Why can’t you just let me go?”

Cregan glares, then surveys the rest of the room. “My guests from King’s Landing,” he begins slowly, “Listen up. My uncle is a criminal. A kinslayer.”

“A kinslayer?” Bennard says, stunned. Then his eyes widen. “Wait… don’t tell me—”

“Remember now, Uncle? You killed Jonnel! My brother!” Cregan shouts with full force, “Three years ago, Jonnel fell ill and you forbade me to see him, then he died within a month… you must have poisoned him. You wanted to kill us both so that you could take Winterfell!”

Mysaria blinks. Jumping to conclusions much? Sure, it’s possible, but… childhood sickness takes children all the time.

“Others take you, Cregan,” Bennard curses, “I forbade you to see Jonnel because he was contagious. I kept you away to save your life! Foolish boy, if you’d asked, you’d have known the truth ages ago!”

Cregan is rendered speechless… for a mere moment, then he blurts out, “You never explained, nor did anyone! How did I know… I thought… You still denied me my rightful power! You’re a traitor!”

Bennard rolls his eyes, a gesture that conveys more than words. While Cregan isn’t exactly… mad, Mysaria feels that Bennard’s assessment of him isn’t far off. Is this really who they want ruling the North? Maybe it’ll be better to let Bennard quietly dispose of him.

But whatever Mysaria thinks, it’s too late for Rhaenyra to back off. “King Cregan,” she says gently, Syrax hovering at Cregan’s eye level, “As monarchs, we both know that compromises are necessary. You must wish to restore your power as fast as possible. Let Prince Bennard and his sons come with me, and tomorrow you’ll rule as a king in your own right.”

Cregan clenches his jaw. “He’s no longer a prince to the North. His children have no claim to Winterfell.”

“I served you and your father ably and loyally—”

“Please,” Rhaenys says tiredly, “Let‘s not be children here. You don’t plan to return, do you?”

Bennard growls. “Fine.”

“Now that’s settled—” disregarding Bennard’s scowl, Cregan pushes his uncle aside and takes Bennard’s seat, crossing his legs, “Princess. What will you offer the North in exchange for our support?”

Mysaria’s eyes widen. That little…

“We just helped you,” Daemon is similarly outraged, “What else do you want?”

“Queen Jeyne of the Vale pledged to support me, after I showed that I support her birthright and the right of her chosen heir,” Rhaenyra says, her tone notably getting colder, “Likewise, King Cregan, you have my full support in your reign. Is that not enough?”

“Jeyne Arryn? Still childless, isn’t she?” Cregan smirks. “Of course she wants outside support. I’m a young, healthy man, certain to father many children in the future. You need more to convince me.”

“We’ve brought gifts,” Corlys offers. “Treasures I collected from all over the world. Spice, silk, and jade.”

“Expensive treasures. But what good will they do in the North?” Cregan chuckles, “I’ll take it, though you should just give me gold. We can always use more gold… Still, there’s one thing gold can’t buy.”

“And that is?” Rhaenyra asks, frowning.

“Something your great-grandmother promised, princess. When Queen Alysanne visited the North, she brokered a deal with King Brandon. The North would pay tax to King’s Landing, in exchange for a dragon coming north to fertilise our lands every five years. However, ever since King Jaehaerys died, no Targaryen has visited the North until today.”

“Is that true?” Daemon asks Bennard.

“Yes,” Bennard sighs, “It’s all true. I have been paying the agreed tax every year, but no dragon riders have come north again.”

“That’s our mistake,” Rhaenys immediately says, “We will fix it. Once Rhaenyra is named heir, Winterfell will be visited by a dragon rider every five years.”

“No, no, you don’t get away with it so easily. You need to make a better deal than your ancestor.” Shaking a finger, Cregan states his terms, “A dragon rider, every year, staying for at least a month each time. If not, the North stops paying tax the next year.”

Rhaenyra gasps. “But that’s…”

“…Too frequent?” Cregan sneers. “Why princess, you have a lot of younger siblings, and even more sons. You’ll manage. If you do, the North will be your ally.”

“If I agree, every kingdom will demand the same or more,” Rhaenyra says angrily, “This is not acceptable.”

“House Targaryen has been fruitful for the last two generations, and the number of dragon riders will only rise.” Cregan stares at Rhaenyra, unmoved. “You can meet the demand. You just don’t want to try.”

“Yet what you asked for is too much,” Corlys sighs, “How about… every four years?”

“You have five grandchildren who are dragon riders, Lord Velaryon. Two years, each time a month.”

“We aren’t here to bargain like peddlers,” Daemon finally snaps, “We are Targaryens, and you’re a king. We shouldn’t be dealing with this petty nonsense.”

“That’s where we disagree, Prince Daemon,” Cregan says coldly, “Being a king is about ‘petty nonsense’ as much as it’s about bigger things. At least, that’s what Uncle Bennard taught me when I was younger. Isn’t that right, Uncle?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Bennard let out a long-suffering sigh, “Princess… just agree to this deal. The North is always at risk of a famine, and a dragon rider coming north every two years can save a lot of lives.”

Rhaenyra considers it for a long time. She dislikes this bargain just like Daemon, Mysaria can tell, but she wants the North too much to throw away Cregan’s offer. Still, her pride doesn’t allow her to simply yield…

“Your Grace,” Mysaria leans close to her and whispers, “This isn’t about compromising, but to do good— to be adored. You will be loved in the North, the way you deserve.”

A light grows in Rhaenyra’s eyes. She smiles.

“Every three years, each time a month,” she says with an air of finality, “And when famine threatens, we’ll send food. I’ll be the Queen of Westeros, and that includes the North. I’ll protect the people here.”

“Good,” Cregan extends his hand— or rather, two fingers, “The North stands behind you, Princess.” 

As Rhaenyra takes Cregan’s fingers and shakes them, a deal is made. She now has two kingdoms with her—

The Vale and the North.

Chapter Text

Storm’s End

“…And that’s why you should vote for Aegon,” Helaena says in her sweetest voice, “What do you think, Your Grace?”

Criston suppresses a sigh. Helaena has been speaking to King Boremund for over an hour now. She is determined to win the Storm King over to Aegon’s side, Criston knows, but he just hopes she gives up soon. After all…

“Sweet Aemma, I can never refuse you and your brother. Anything you want, anything,” Boremund replies, smiling fondly.

Helaena exhales, frustrated. “I’m not my mother,” she says, pleading. “Please, Your Grace, don’t you recognize me?”

“Rhaenyra? Ah, you look so much like Aemma. I confuse you two sometimes…”

“I’m Helaena!” she finally snaps. Criston bites his lips to keep himself from laughing.

They have been in Storm’s End for nearly two weeks. The Durrandons welcomed Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond with feasts, hunts, and tourneys, but Prince Borros hasn’t pledged support to Aegon yet, and he’s kept his guests away from his father. So Helaena decided to seek Boremund out… only to face an unpleasant truth.

King Boremund is a man trapped in the past, unable to follow a conversation for more than a few minutes. Not even Dreamfyre’s healing magic has helped.

No wonder Borros keeps him hidden.

“Old man, did you sneak out of your chambers again… Oh. Princess Helaena,” Prince Borros raises a brow as he steps into the room, “What are you doing here?“

“Speaking with King Boremund,” she replies, frowning. “I thought he might remember me. I visited Storm’s End when I was a child…”

Borros laughs. “The old man doesn’t even recognize his granddaughters.” He claps Boremund on the shoulder. “You remember them? Cass, Maris, Floris, and Ellyn?”

“Of course. Maris is my cousin,” Boremund says with a pout.

“See?” Borros turns to Helaena. “He’s gone. Come on, princess, your brothers are waiting for you outside, in the training yard.”

He leads Boremund away, presumably returning him to his chambers. Helaena leaves, fuming. Criston leans close to Dreamfyre and whispers, smiling wryly, “Helaena, it won’t work.”

Displeased, Helaena hisses, “I know that now, Ser Criston. But I had to try. We’ve wasted enough time already. Who knows what Rhaenyra is doing while we sit here feasting?”

Criston has no answer. He’s the one who recommended the three Targaryen siblings to visit Storm’s End first. Being from the Stormlands, he’d hoped his presence might sway the Durrandons— but Borros barely acknowledged him. To the prince, Criston might as well be a regular guardsman. 

…Maybe if he proves himself, Borros will listen? From what Criston has seen, Borros is certainly a man who appreciates valour. If Criston can defeat him in the yards… 

As they arrive, Aegon’s voice breaks his train of thought.

“Helaena, Ser Criston, over here!” Pointing at the field, Aegon shouts, “Look at Aemond, he is being great!”

Criston looks up. Aemond is soaring on Vhagar, busily dodging arrows left and right. Four archers shoot from the corners of the yard, all aiming at Vhagar, yet narrowly missing the dragon every time. One hand clinging onto Vhagar’s back, Aemond even has time to wave to his main audience— the four Durrandon princesses watching nearby. They scream with excitement.

Criston is glad to be nowhere near them.

“Aemond hasn’t been hit once!” Aegon says proudly, “Riding Vhagar helps, sure, but he’s still incredible.”

Hearing Aegon’s words, Sunfyre flaps his wings, eager to lift off. Aegon laughs, patting the dragon’s head. “It’s not our turn yet, Sunfyre!”

Criston frowns. Aemond’s performance is impressive, and Criston is proud of him, but for Aegon… “You mustn’t join this training, Aegon,” he warns, “It’s too dangerous.”

“Whose idea was this?” Helaena asks, her face pale, “If even one arrow hits, Aemond could die!”

“Don’t worry, the arrows are all corked—”

“Even so, the impact could knock him off!” Helaena turns to Criston, eyes wide with tears. “Please, Lord Commander, tell him to stop!”

Criston nods. If Aegon means to join, this needs to end. “Aemond!” he calls out. “That’s enough!”

Hearing his call, Vhagar takes a sharp turn in the air and dives towards the three of them. Wearing a smug smile, Aemond boasts, “Did you see? I flew perfectly. Surely I have impressed the Durrandons! The girls keep clapping and cheering for me—”

Aemond’s words come to a halt as he sees Helaena’s expression. “Was this your idea, Aemond?” Helaena asks, narrowing her eyes, “Did you risk your life just to impress those girls?”

“What— What of it? I’m just showing my skill!” Aemond immediately flushes red, “I already listened to Aegon and corked the arrows! Besides, I wouldn’t be hit. I’m the best rider in the family.”

Helaena frowns. “That might be so, but—”

“What is going on?” a high, sharp voice cuts in, “Why did you stop, Aemond?“

“We were still watching!” a louder voice adds.

Instinctively, Criston steps forward to defend his charges. A squad of terrifying enemies are charging towards him.

They are the four Durrandon princesses… the Four Storms. Their earlier exhilaration turned into wrath, the girls stomp towards them with thunderous anger.

“Behind me,” Criston orders. The three dragons gather behind Criston’s back, their riders peering at the enemies with fear. Having no way to flee, Criston faces the girls, “Princesses, Prince Aemond isn’t yours to command…”

“Get out of my way, knight!” Princess Cassandra snaps, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’m talking to Aemond, not you!”

Her sisters all shout at once, demanding that Aemond and Aegon show their faces. Criston nearly covers his ears. Even Vhagar and Sunfyre press behind him, shivering.

The Four Storms’ attack is just that fearsome.

They— Cassandra, Maris, Floris, and Ellyn— might look ordinary, but Criston and the Targaryens have learned how unbearable they are during the Welcoming Feast Borros prepared. Curious about the Targaryens, the Four Storms hurled question after question towards them, all at the same time. Never staying quiet for a second, the Four Storms live up to their nickname— perhaps too much. And when they get angry…

If it’s a request from them, Criston now understands why Aemond performed in the training yard. At least he got their cheers instead of their jeers, for one moment.

Only one moment, though.

“I’m the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Criston tries to reason with them, “I forbid Prince Aemond to continue his practice, for it was too dangerous. His safety is my utmost concern.”

What he receives is more booing. Taking a step forward, Princess Maris asks, “Do Aemond and Aegon only know to hide behind your back, ser? How can they ask for our house’s support if they won’t even face us like men?”

Behind Criston, Aemond hisses angrily. Thankfully, Aegon and Helaena are holding him down, stopping him from responding to Maris’ taunt.

This is when Borros Durrandon enters the scene.

“Girls,” he calls out, “What’s going on?”

The sisters rush to him. “Father! Father!” they cry, all speaking at once. Borros runs a hand along his beard, nodding. Criston doesn’t know how much Borros manages to get from them, but he is evidently not affected by his daughters’ assault.

The three Targaryens come out from their hiding place, looking at each other, their dragons hovering next to Criston. “Is Prince Borros going to send us away?” Aegon whispers.

“No, he’s smiling,” Helaena whispers back, “Maybe he’ll actually consider our proposal this time.”

“I see, I see,” Borros says, turning to face Criston and the Targaryens, “My girls are wild, too wild at times. Yet they have a point. My father has supported House Targaryen his whole life, yet receiving nothing but empty gratitude…”

“…Besides the kingsroad revenue,” Helaena says, “The Stormlands still receive the largest share, thanks to King Rogar’s support of King Jaehaerys’ project many years ago.”

Borros ignores her. “Storm’s End won’t change cause as long as my father lives, yet this is a conflict between Targaryens. By coming here before other kingdoms, you have shown your appreciation for House Durrandon… yet I cannot support you hastily, unless you show yourself to be the strongest.”

“The strongest?” poking his head out from behind Sunfyre, Aegon blinks, “You want me to fight Rhaenyra? But she’ll never agree to this.”

“Your sister? No, no,” Borros laughs, “My girls told me that your brother is an adept fighter.”

That catches Criston off guard. He turns to Aemond, who shakes his head frantically, “It’s not what you think! I never had any aspirations to the throne!”

“Yes, you’ll never…” Aegon mumbles, looking confused, “But… why?”

“Aren't all the children of King Viserys candidates of this great council?” Borros asks, his brow raised, “All of you are opponents. Rhaenyra hasn’t sent anyone to Storm’s End, so I don’t consider her. But you three…”

“We have decided to support Aegon,” Helaena clarifies, “He is the one most similar to our father, the one who can unite the realm. I have no desire to rule, nor does Aemond.”

“Aegon is the most suitable candidate out of all of us,” Aemond adds, “Besides, I’ll never compete with my brother. I might be a better fighter, but he’s far more kingly than I could ever be.”

“Aemond…” Aegon stares at his brother with misty eyes. Aemond looks away, embarrassed.

Effective misty eyes are part of the kingly package for Targaryens, so Aemond isn’t wrong, Criston muses. And with this misunderstanding cleared up, surely Borros will agree to support Aegon?

“If that’s so,” Borros says, sounding strangely disappointed, “Then I see no reason not to support—”

A powerful gust cuts off his words as dark shadows sweep overhead.

“WAIT!”

Three dragons dive through the air, nearly slamming into Criston. He stumbles back, eyeing the intruders with disbelief. Why would they…

Did Rhaenyra decide to send children as envoys?

“Jace? Luke? Joff?” Helaena blurts out, “Where is your mother?”

“Why isn’t Rhaenyra here?” Aegon adds, frowning, “Or at least, Uncle Daemon? Or your grandmother?”

“We have come to stop you!” cries Lucerys Velaryon. Standing proudly on Arrax’s back, the little prince points at Aegon, Aemond and Helaena accusingly. “Mother must be queen! I won’t let you win over the Durrandons while she’s busy in the North—”

“Luke!” Jacaerys shouts. Lucerys stops abruptly, panic apparent on his face.

Huh. Criston looks at the three Velaryon boys, thinking. Rhaenyra is in the North… seeking the support of the Starks, no doubt. She probably didn’t go along. Daemon would be on her side, and the Velaryons too…

Wait. The Velaryon boys came specifically to stop Aegon from winning the Stormlands. But if Rhaenyra is travelling, there's no way she could’ve known where Aegon was. Even a raven wouldn’t reach her in time. Which means—

“Oh damn, did you children run away from home?” Aemond laughs. “Against mommy’s order?”

“Mother will be glad we’re stopping your evil plans,” Joffrey declares. His baby dragon Tyraxes follows his lead and hisses towards Vhagar.

Vhagar responds with a vicious grin. Tyraxes gasps and shudders, nearly tossing Joffrey from his back. Aemond laughs harder.

“Aemond, don’t scare the baby. If Joff breaks his neck, we don’t have any sons to pay Rhaenyra back,” Aegon says, amused.

Aemond snorts. “We can give her your unborn child.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Helaena snarls, her hands instinctively covering her belly.

“I was joking, joking,” Aemond says, raising his hands in surrender, “Unlike what Joff thinks, I’m not evil.”

“You stole Aunt Laena’s dragon,” Lucerys hisses, “You have a black heart.”

“How many times do I have to tell you three idiots? You can’t steal a dragon! Your Aunt Laena is dead, so Vhagar chose me to be her new rider!”

Criston takes a deep breath. Gods, he hates handling these brats. Rhaenyra should have left someone responsible on Dragonstone when she left for the North. Jacaerys was likely meant to watch his brothers, but instead, he led them here when word of Aegon’s courting efforts reached Dragonstone.

Now, instead of greeting Lord Borros, they’re squabbling with Aemond like common boys in a yard. Criston knows he has to step in before this escalates. As a Kingsguard, he can’t let any of them get hurt—

“Enough!” suddenly, Borros shouts, “Is this how Rhaenyra raised her sons? Bursting into my hall and bickering with my guests? You’re not welcome here!”

If he stops here, perhaps Criston will be happy, but Borros isn’t done yet. Turning towards Aemond, he continues, “And you! What business do you have provoking them here? I’ll not allow you to fight them under my roof! All of you— out! Targaryen or Velaryon, I’ve had enough!”

“But, my prince,” Helaena tries, ”I thought we had an agreement—”

“Tell Viserys none of the Stormlands will come to his great council!” Borros roars. He turns and storms off, muttering, “Such disrespect… acting like they own the place…”

Criston stiffens. This is worse than expected. Borros feels so insulted, he won’t even attend the great council. How much damage have they done to the relationship between King’s Landing and Storm’s End? Even after the breakup between King Jaehaerys and King Rogar, the Durrandons remain one of the closest allies to the Targaryens. Will that change now?

Without the Targaryens, who can save Criston’s homeland in the next drought?

No, I can’t let this happen. Criston’s body moves on its own, blocking Borros’ way. “Please listen to me, my prince.”

“Step aside, ser,” Borros orders disdainfully.

“Give them another chance,” Criston begs, “They need your support, but the Stormlands also need the Targaryens. I wouldn't be standing here if not for King Viserys’ father saving my homeland in the Red Mountains. You won’t want to break the alliance with them, my prince. Please reconsider.”

“I said, move!” Borros barks, yet Criston stands firm. “Who are you to advise me? You’re a Stormlander, yet you stand with them!”

“King Boremund allowed me to join King Viserys’ kingsguard when I was younger,” Criston says, staring at Borros, “But I remember where I came from. I want the best for Stormlands, too.”

Borros snorts and turns away, unmoved. He might have walked away— if not for the Four Storms speaking up.

They’re not speaking in Criston’s favour.

“Father, you’re just going to let them leave?” the youngest girl, Ellyn, whines. “Aemond promised us a show!”

“They haven’t done anything yet!”

“They owe us!”

One by one, the daughters join in, loud and insistent. For a moment, Criston stares, unable to react. Borros frowns, but he doesn’t seem to be angry with his daughters. Maybe he can still be swayed—

Then Aemond speaks. “Then let me give you a show. The best you’ll ever see.”

He points at Jacaerys. “Let’s have a rematch. You three and your dragons, against me and Vhagar. The loser will not bother the Durrandons about the great council again.”

Silence falls. Even the girls go quiet. Jacaerys looks stunned. “You want a fight… to decide the Stormlands’ vote?”

“Yes. One against three, dragon to dragon. If you think I’m evil, come and defeat me.” Proudly, Aemond turns to the Four Storms and asks, “Wouldn’t that be a great show, girls?”

The girls let out an excited— no, a bloodthirsty scream. Immediately, they try pestering Borros to accept Aemond’s suggestion. Borros doesn’t need much convincing, however. He laughs. “This is how it should be! Stormlands should only support the strongest!”

And just like that, it’s settled. Aside from Aemond and the Durrandons, no one else looks pleased. The three Velaryon boys argue amongst themselves in low whispers, while Aegon and Helaena drag Aemond aside. 

“What are you thinking?” Helaena hisses, “They’re children— not that you’re that much older, but their dragons are just mere hatchlings!”

“I’m fine with teaching them a lesson, but on dragonback— Aemond, if any of them fall from the sky, we can’t give Rhaenyra her son back!” In contrast to the furious Helaena, Aegon mostly looks worried, “With Vhagar, you know that it won’t be much of a fight…”

“Oh, quit fretting,” Aemond says cheerfully, “That’s why I’m letting all three fight me at once. Vhagar is a lot larger, but that also means she is not as swift as those baby dragons. I’m giving them a fair chance to win.”

“This only makes it worse!” Aegon cries, “What’s the point of this if you lose?”

“I said I’m giving them a chance, not that I mean to throw the fight.” Aemond pets Vhagar’s head, “Even if I want to, Vhagar won’t forgive me for this disrespect.”

Vhagar lets out a low growl in agreement.

Helaena sighs deeply. “Aemond, you’re fifteen this year, surely that’s old enough to understand how dangerous this is? You, Jace, Luke, Joff… any of you might die.”

Aemond frowns. “I won’t kill them, and I won’t let them kill me.”

“You can’t promise that!” Aegon shouts, “What if you fall from the sky? What if one of their dragons burns you?”

“Have some faith in me!” Aemond growls, his face twisted in annoyance. “You saw me dodge every arrow. I can handle them.”

“Even so…” Criston decides it’s time to step in. “We will need some safety measures. Rules to ensure that nobody is harmed.”

“What rules?” Aemond asks.

“I’m not sure yet,” Criston admits, “I’ll discuss it with Prince Borros, but no matter what, it’ll take time to prepare… a few days, perhaps.”

“A few days?” Aemond groans, “I want it done today. Finish the show before those girls get bored and change their minds.”

“Prince Borros is the one who makes the decision, not the girls,” Helaena says dryly, “And he’s hardly going to take back his words now, after announcing it in public.”

“We almost had his support before those brats showed up,” Aegon complains, “but… fine. Aemond, you’re right. Against them, there’s no way you can lose.” Turning to Criston, he says, “There must be a way to make it a friendly, harmless competition.”

Criston raises a brow. “You sound quite certain. Do you have an idea?”

“No, but I’m sure Helaena has,” Aegon says confidently. Helaena glares at him. “What, am I wrong?”

“…I do have an idea,” Helaena sighs, burying her face in her hands, “but it’s really stupid.”

—

A week later…

“What is this?” Lucerys asks, eyeing the pile of old vines tossed between the Targaryens and Velaryons.

“Dried ivy vines,” Criston explains, “Collected from castle walls. You’ll wear them during the fight, wrapped around your bodies.”

Jacaerys blinks. “Why? Are they meant to be makeshift armor? We already have proper gear.” He pauses. “Well, Luke and I do. Joff doesn’t need one— he’s not fighting.”

Joffrey pouts but doesn’t argue. Criston knows Jacaerys and Lucerys have been trying to keep their younger brother out of the match—and clearly, they’ve only just succeeded. He expects they’ll revisit the topic, but for now, he answers Jacaerys’ question.

“It’s not armor. It’s how we’ll determine the winner.”

The Velaryon boys exchange confused looks. Time for a demonstration. Picking up a branch of vine, Criston asks, “Princess Helaena, please show them what they should do in the fight.” It’s her idea, after all.

Helaena nods. Hovering in front of Criston, Dreamfyre let out a blast of green flame, aiming at his hand. Immediately, the vine softens, turning lush and green. Leaves and flowers bloom wildly where the fire touches, like summer arriving in a single breath.

This is the power that once saved Criston’s home, and it’s the power Aemond and the Velaryon boys will use today.

“As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I’m responsible for the safety of all participants in this competition,” Criston informs them, “Therefore, I have designed some rules. In this match, you’re only allowed to attack your opponent with green flames— with your dragons’ fertility magic. When you succeed, flowers will grow on your opponent, for he is covered by vines.”

He gestures towards Borros, who’s trying to keep his daughters seated. “Once Prince Borros signals the start, you’ll have half an hour. The one with the fewest flowers wins.”

“This is stupid,” Aemond says bluntly, the corners of his mouth lifting, “But I’ll play along. Go on, nephews— cover up yourselves with vines.”

“It’s not like you have any better ideas,” Helaena mumbles. She and Aegon help Aemond with the vines, quickly wrapping them around his body.

On the other hand, the Velaryon boys don’t even look at the vines. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchange tense glances. “I should fight,” Jacaerys says softly, “I’m the eldest.”

“We’re only one year apart, and I’m a better dragon rider than you,” Lucerys insists, “It should be me.”

Joffrey chimes in, hopeful. “We can still go together, the three of us—”

“No, it’s too dangerous!” both brothers shout. Joffrey shrinks back. Jacaerys sighs.

“Fine, Luke. You will represent us. Just— don’t do anything that will make our mother worry.”

You already made her worry by coming here, Criston almost shouted. He can’t imagine how furious Rhaenyra will be when she learns her sons came to Storm’s End on their own— let alone to fight. And if anything happens to them… Rhaenyra will never forgive him.

Swallowing his thoughts, Criston walks towards the Velaryon boys. “Prince Lucerys, are you choosing to fight Aemond alone, giving up your advantage?”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Lucerys nods, determined.

“And you two agree with this?”

Jacaerys nods. Joffrey puffs his cheeks, making his most displeased expression and earning a glare from his eldest brother. Scared, Joffrey dips his head.

“So be it,” Criston turns and calls, “Aemond!”

“Yes, Ser Criston?” Aemond asks happily as Vhagar flies towards them, his body covered in vines.

“Change of plans. Only Prince Lucerys will fight against you.”

“What?” Aemond’s eyebrows jump up. Chuckling, he leans towards Lucerys and taunts, “You’re facing me alone, Luke? Without your big brother? Are you not aaaaafraid?”

“Stop ruffling them up, Aemond,” Helaena calls from behind him, sighing deeply, “Why can’t you be a bit more mature?”

“You’re just a big bully,” Lucerys fearlessly declares, “I’ll beat you and secure Storm’s End support.”

“Funny, I think the same about your new father,” Aemond mutters.

“He’s not my father!”

“Enough,” Criston cuts in before the fight can escalate further, “Save it for the match. Lucerys, get those vines on and match Aemond’s coverage. Be quick about it, we shouldn’t keep the Durrandons waiting.”

The Velaryon boys finally start working on the vines, stumbling to wrap Lucerys in vines. “I’d tell you to help them,” Criston sighs, turning to Aemond, “but there’s no way they’d accept.”

Aemond shrugs. “Well, I don’t want to help them anyway. I’ll go and entertain the girls, tell me when Luke is ready—”

“Wait,” Criston holds up a hand in front of Vhagar, stopping the dragon from flying away, “You can’t go. I need you to stay here so that Lucerys can see how much vine coverage he needs. And I still have rules to explain.”

“More rules?”

“You’re not allowed to attack your opponent with anything but your dragon’s fertility magic—”

“I know! You said it already,” Lucerys says, still fighting with his share of vines.

“I mean, any other way is forbidden,” Criston clarifies, “You’re not allowed to bring any other weapon into the fight, no matter how minor. Your dragon isn’t allowed to attack with their teeth, claws, or tail— or any part of their body. You’re not allowed to slam your opponent or deliberately cause your opponent to fall off. And of course, you’re not allowed to remove the flowers on your vines.”

Aemond pouts and removes the tiny sword on his back, shoving it towards Aegon. Lucerys also hands his small knife to Jacaerys, scowling. I knew it.

If Criston doesn’t explicitly close every loophole, those children will exploit them to win. He must do everything to prevent them from hurting each other.

“As an added precaution, Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena will patrol the skies,” Criston continues. “They’ll enforce the rules— and catch anyone who falls.”

The Velaryon boys freeze, vines slipping from their hands. They glare at Criston. “This is completely unfair!” Jacaerys protests, “They’ll obviously favour Aemond—”

“If you and Prince Joffrey aren’t participating in the competition, you can join Aegon and Helaena in patrol,” Criston quickly offers, “That’ll be fair.”

“I…” Jacaerys glances at Joffrey, likely judging how dangerous this will be for his little brother. Eventually, he nods. “Fine.”

“Glad that we’re all on the same page,” Aegon chuckles. Helaena elbows him.

With that, the match finally begins. Borros flips the hourglass and gives the signal. Vhagar and Arrax rise into the sky, their riders glaring at one another. Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Vermax, and Tyraxes follow, circling beneath them.

The Four Storms’ cheers nearly pierce Criston’s ears as the first attack lands. Aemond has been speeding up, elevating, daring Lucerys to chase— and when the latter catches up to him, Vhagar turns around and breathes a massive green fireball, only narrowly missing Lucerys’ torso. The fireball strikes the field below, where a small patch of grass immediately sprouts.

“You—!” Lucerys screams as Arrax retaliates with several smaller fireballs. Some strike Vhagar, but none come close to Aemond. “You’re baiting me... using your advantage…”

“Of course I’m using my advantage, you idiot!” Aemond shouts back on the top of his lungs, clinging tightly to Vhagar as she rises nearly vertical. “I gave you and your brothers an advantage! You chose to throw it away!”

“I won’t let Joff face you— no!” Lucerys cries as Vhagar dives, jaws wide. Arrax spins away, but for one second, the left side of Lucerys’ face is engulfed in green flames. Even on the ground, Criston can see colourful flowers blooming along his shoulder and chest.

“Damn it!” Lucerys swears. Arrax pulls away from Vhagar, gaining a safe distance from the larger dragon. “You won’t get me again, monster!”

“Monster? What have I done to deserve that title?” Aemond shouts as Vhagar blasts fireball after fireball rapidly, each shot closing in on Lucerys, making him twist and turn to dodge. “I just took Vhagar! Your Aunt and your father’s deaths have nothing to do with me!”

Down on the ground, Criston sighs. That must be the real reason why the Velaryon boys hate Aemond so much, right? They are still grieving for Laena and Laenor, not old enough to understand that nobody is to blame—

“You tried to kill Joff!” fleeing from Vhagar’s pursuit, Lucerys cries, “He was only five at that time! If Jace and I hadn’t stopped you—”

“What?” Criston says aloud. He’s not the only one. Gasps and shouts can be heard all over. Even in the sky, Criston can see Dreamfyre faltering, her rider frozen up, mouth agape. 

What in the Seven Hells is Lucerys talking about? Criston knows that the Velaryon boys fought with Aemond three years ago when he tamed Vhagar; it’s common knowledge in the court. But for Lucerys to claim murder… this is ridiculous, for Aemond would surely be punished harshly if he did, and Criston would have known. 

“You’re lying!” Coming to Aemond’s defence, Sunfyre flies straight towards Arrax. Red-faced, Aegon shouts at Lucerys, “Aemond never tried to kill anyone. You’re just throwing mud at his name!”

Now this isn’t something Criston can overlook. “Aegon! Stay out of it!” he orders from the ground, “You can’t interfere!”

“But, Ser Criston, he—”

“Not during this match!” Criston barks, frustrated. Why must every bad thing happen on his watch? “Jacaerys, Joffrey— same goes for you. Stay out of it!”

Criston can see Vermax and Tyraxes stopping in their tracks mid-flight, their riders flinching at his order. He has stopped a full-scale fight from breaking out between the Velaryons and the Targaryens, at the very least, but he can’t stop Lucerys and Aemond from taunting each other, for that’s a valid strategy to distract their opponent. How will Aemond react?

If Lucerys is lying to distract Aemond, then he’s quite successful, as Vhagar’s assault towards Lucerys has noticeably slowed down. Arrax flies between large green fireballs effortlessly, often turning around to return fire, while Vhagar futilely chases after the smaller dragon. 

Aemond still manages to elude most of Arrax’s attacks, shocked as he is, but he’s clearly not at his top condition. “I tried to kill Joff?” he repeats, mindlessly turning to dodge as a small fireball skirts close, “I didn’t! I only tried to stop his cries, so he wouldn’t alert the adults… he shouldn’t try to stop me from taming Vhagar!”

“You beat Joff until he can’t get up from the ground! When we found him, his face was red and swollen, and he couldn't even mutter a full sentence!” Lucerys cries from afar, Arrax’s volley of fireballs aiming at Vhagar with surprising accuracy.

He’s good, Criston admits. Despite the size difference of their dragons, Lucerys is holding well against Aemond. As the sand runs through the glass, Vhagar’s movement has become sluggish, drained from casting so much magic. If this keeps up, Lucerys might soon be able to even the score.

But where Lucerys is good, Aemond is even better. Vhagar spreads her wings at the last minute, the fireballs harmlessly striking her, none of them touching Aemond. “I gave him a beating, yes,” Aemond’s voice is high, almost shrill, “but I was nowhere close to killing him! You’re exaggerating, Luke, you must know that— I never intended to—”

His words come to a pause as Arrax makes a sharp turn in the air, flying towards him at full speed, so fast that he’s only visible as a white blur surrounded by green fireballs. Lucerys takes full advantage of Vhagar’s tiredness, attacking Aemond from all sides. From left to right, from front to back, homing fireballs cover nearly every direction. Vhagar turns midair, struggling to shift her body, too slow to block Arrax’s flames.

Hands clinging onto Vhagar’s back as the large dragon nearly flips over, Aemond has no way to run. No matter how good he is, he will be engulfed by green flames in a few seconds. Criston meets his eyes as Aemond looks down, to where Criston and Borros and the Four Storms are seated. In those large violet eyes, Criston sees fear, guilt… and resignation.

Wait. When Aemond looks away, a horrifying realisation comes to Criston. “Don’t! It’s too dangerous!”

“Have it your way,” glancing back at Lucerys, Aemond says with a faint smile on his lips, “If you truly believe so…”

“Aemond!” Helaena cries out, “No!”

Aemond let go of Vhagar, one second before the fireballs could reach him.

He falls straight down. Aegon and Helaena are both screaming, scrambling to catch him, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre speeding through the air. But by luck, there are two dragons posted closer to where Aemond falls.

Vermax and Tyraxes. Joffrey is the one who catches Aemond first, the older boy’s weight nearly making him fall off as well. Jacaerys comes next, warping his arms around Joffrey’s body with all his might, until his younger brother stands firmly on Tyraxes. Then Aegon and Helaena arrive, pulling Aemond onto Dreamfyre’s back.

“What were you thinking?” Aegon and Helaena scream together in unison. “You’d have DIED if you hit the ground!”

“Did you let yourself fall because of what Luke said? To prove your innocence?” Jacaerys asks, flabbergasted, “I didn’t think… Joff was so hurt that day, I thought… although grandfather didn’t agree with us…”

“You’re still evil,” pointing an accusing finger towards Aemond, Joffrey declares, “I just don’t want anyone to die.”

For a moment, Aemond doesn’t say anything. Then his face twists into a sneer. “Good thing that I didn’t do it for your forgiveness. I did it to win.”

“What?”

It’s at this moment that Vhagar flies to Dreamfyre’s side. Laughing, Aemond leaps back onto her, and the large dragon dives towards Criston and Borros. “My prince! The match has just ended, hasn’t it?”

Criston checks the hourglass sitting on a table next to Borros. Indeed, the upper chamber of the hourglass is now empty, when mere moments ago— before Aemond fell— a few grains still lingered.

“It has ended,” Borros confirms.

“Then you must agree that it’s time to count the score?” Aemond asks sweetly, “Ser Criston, will you please—”

“You cheated!” Lucerys cries angrily as Arrax descends to the ground, “You jumped off your dragon to avoid being hit!”

Aemond laughs. “Technically, I fell off. But yes, I did it to avoid getting hit. So what? It isn’t against the rules. Ser Criston, is there a rule that forbids us from falling?”

“No, of course not,” Criston sighs, “Because I didn’t think anyone would do it on their own accord. To attempt such a risky gambit.”

He realised it when Aemond looked at him— or rather, the hourglass. Aemond was trying to see how much time was left, to see the benefits he could get from this huge gamble. If there was too much time left, he might be disqualified after he fell, and Lucerys would win by default. But there was just a little bit of time left, perhaps a minute or two…

So he let himself fall, trusting someone would catch him, and Lucerys wouldn’t realise his intentions and attack him again before the time was up. Very clever, and too bold by half.

Criston just knew that they would use every loophole in the rules to win.

“But, then…” Lucerys trembles in anger, “He only has… three flowers on him, while I…”

“I’m glad you have learned to count, Luke,” Aemond chuckles, looking at the left side of Lucerys’ body, “You have… what? Ten? Twenty? Hmm, perhaps I’m the one who doesn’t know how to count… does that mean I win?”

Gritting his teeth, Lucerys seems too shaken in his rage to answer Aemond’s mocking question. His elder brother is quick to the rescue. “You used underhanded tactics to win!” Vermax lands in front of the Durrandons while Jacaerys tries to appeal to the Four Storms, “Fair and wise princesses, you’ve all witnessed Aemond using nothing but dirty tricks throughout the match. Is this really fair? Could you allow such a cheater to claim victory?”

“It’s reckless, but it wasn’t cheating—”

“Luke tried to distract Aemond by claiming he attempted to kill Joff! Isn’t that just as bad—”

Helaena and Aegon’s words are soon drowned out by the Four Storms’ shouts. Jacaerys’ passionate argument has moved them— or perhaps it’s his flattery. Whatever their reasons, the Four Storms are now shouting, screaming in support of Lucerys. Borros tries once, twice, to calm them down. Eventually, he has enough. “Silence!” he yells, large fist pounding onto the table next to him.

The whole table collapses, sending the hourglass onto the ground, instantly shattering. The Four Storms quiet down immediately, their faces pale.

“Good. Now…” he coughs, clearing his throat, “I’ve seen enough. Both sides fought hard. You both tried everything to win, and there’s no shame in it. What else should a man do in a fight? But one of you stood out— in skill, bravery, and wit.”

Criston exhales. With this, the outcome is clear…

“Prince Aemond Targaryen,” Borros announces, “Winner of this competition. With that, I promise the support of Storm’s End to Prince Aegon.”

Aegon cheers, throwing his arms around Aemond. Helaena sighs deeply, a smile reluctantly appears on her lips. “You’re too reckless. What if Jace and Joff didn’t catch you?”

“I didn’t count on them to catch me,” Aemond smiles softly, “I counted on you.”

Stunned, Helaena stands still, staring at Aemond… for one moment, then she leaps off Dreamfyre, joining Aegon and Aemond’s hug. “Aww, little brother, you’re so sweet,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around both of her brothers.

“Hey, Helaena, be careful,” Aegon reminds her happily, “You’re pregnant, after all.” Turning to Aemond— a rather difficult thing to do for him at the moment, with Helaena holding him tight— he asks, “What about me? You didn’t count on me?”

“Dreamfyre is larger, faster, and more experienced,” Aemond says, voice muffled between them, “So she’d be more suitable to catch me than any other dragons here today. Sunfyre is—”

“So you weren’t counting on me because you trusted me,” Helaena narrows her eyes dangerously.

“That’s not what I meant!” Aemond quickly clarifies.

Criston nearly laughs. Shaking his head, he turns to face Borros, “My prince, on behalf of my charges, I thank you for your generous hospitality and the support you offered to them.”

Borros snorts. “Careful, knight, or else you’ll show your true loyalty. You’re not meant to take sides between the candidates, are you?”

Criston has nothing to say to that, because it’s true. He tried to stay impartial before the match, ensuring fairness. But once it began, it became impossible. He wanted Aemond to win; it’s plain for all to see.

Borros sneers. “It doesn’t matter to me. If the candidate I support has friends in Viserys’ court, all the better. Aemond won because he’s willing to fight for it, by fair means or foul. That’s what I want my girls to learn.” He ruffles his daughters’ hair with both hands. “You hear that, Cass? Maris?”

“Yes, I’ll learn to be more cunning, just like Queen Argella!” Maris says happily.

“Who?” Borros asks.

Criston almost winces. There’s a massive portrait of Queen Argella in the drawing room of Storm’s End, yet Borros doesn’t know of her? Has Borros never bothered to learn the history of his own house?

But there’s nothing Criston can do about it. He turns and walks to the corner where the three Velaryon boys stand next to their dragons, heads bowed. They look as gloomy as if they are attending a funeral. “Lord Commander,” Jacaerys notices him first, his brows knitted together, “What do you want from us?”

Though Jacaerys tries to conceal it, there’s anger in his voice. No doubt that he has also noticed Criston’s preference for Aemond and resents him for it. Perhaps the Velaryon boys think that he’s to blame for Lucerys losing. Criston could explain— say he did his best to keep the match fair— but would they believe him? He thinks not.

Instead, he kneels before Lucerys. “My prince, you did well today. When King Viserys hears of it, he’ll be proud.” He left out Rhaenyra’s reaction, which will probably be… catastrophic.

Lucerys’ face is still grim. “You’ll tell grandfather about today?”

“A week ago, I sent word to inform him of this competition. His Grace will want to know the outcome. I’ll send another raven today with the details and the date of our return.” Seeing their puzzled looks, he adds, “Now that our business with the Durrandons is done, I’ll escort you back to King’s Landing. From there, the king will decide whether to keep you in the capital or send you back to Dragonstone…”

Jacaerys groans. “Mother will kill us when she hears.”

Criston sighs. If only you had thought of that before coming here. “Princess Rhaenyra will hear of it sooner or later, and you three won’t be the only ones she’s displeased with. But it’s my duty to see you safely to the capital.”

“What about them?” Joffrey asks, pointing at the three Targaryens nearby, still laughing and celebrating.

“They’ll come with us. I can hardly be in two places at once, so we’ll all return to King’s Landing together before they resume their tour. I’ll follow them again to ensure their safety.”

And they’ll hate this detour, Criston sighs inwardly. Aegon, Helaena and Aemond are planning to go to the Reach next… this back and forth will be a considerable delay, not to mention the animosity between Aemond and the Velaryon boys.

If Aemond could just apologize to Joffrey, sincerely, perhaps there is still a chance of reconciliation. But Aemond is Aemond. For him to admit his mistakes… he still needs a lot of growing up.

They all do.

Maybe Criston should allow himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Because today, against all odds, he manages to keep those children alive, so that they can have a chance to mature.

And that matters so much more than who wins this dance of dragons.