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Alicent

Alicent Hightower was many things, but a doting mother she was not.

She had been a child when she had been given children. Newly bleeding when Aegon had slid from her womb. She had not known how to hold him when the midwives passed a blood-matted babe into her arms. Had not known what to do when he cried or fussed, other than passing him off to the nearest nursemaid to be cajoled and dealt with.

Punishment, however, had always been hers to dole out.

When the maids reported how he could pick on his niece and nephews, how he harassed servants and tormented his siblings; Alicent had been the one to stem his allowance, bar his doors, and cut him off from his dragon.

Such were her rights as the Queen. Such were her rights as his mother.

At the news of Aemond’s eye, however, Alicent was moving before her hand twitched. A hard slap. Cheek to chin with her stinging palm and a cry of outrage that he would not—dare not—retaliate from. He shrunk from her; shoulders bent behind little Helaena as the night’s events unfolded.

Aemond’s eye had been taken.

Cut out by a girl who stood red-faced and mussed as if she were the one bleeding. Accusations flew across the room, the children cowered and when the double doors opened, the savior of the hour flew in with skirts of red and black. Her mother. Rhaenyra.

The Crowned Heir. The Realm’s Delight. Her once closest friend.

Historians would call it maternal rage. Alicent would call it justice.

She wanted to carve the eye out of that child’s head. That child who looked so much like Rhaenyra when she was young. That child who was sobbing shrunk between her brothers, behind her mother. Safe behind the clutches of a dragon and the fire that she breathed.

When the blade fell from her hand, Alicent stared after it like a woman possessed.

“Don’t cry for me, mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.” Aemond words and embrace were hollow comforts to her. Marooned in her own impulsiveness, with all the eyes of the court and council. Alicent was beside herself.

Her child was maimed, but Rhaenyra’s honor had overruled Aemond’s eye. It was not a fair trade. It never would be.

But Aemond’s arms wound her waist. His blood-matted cheek pressed to her hair. And Alicent felt cold.

It was not till later when she was piling into the wheelhouse with the king, that she would glimpse her sweet boy atop the war dragon and shiver. Rhaenyra’s Syrax had grown, but never as large as a beast like Vhagar, and never did she imagine that one of her children would claim her.

When Alicent looked back to the rocks, she found a figure watching the departure of her son—pale-haired and dressed still in mournful black. Her son’s massive beast stretched up on the cragged rocks and for a moment, Alicent’s heart was in her throat, the dread of the word hanging unspoken, and Rhaenyra’s little daughter looking on, as Aemond pulled himself up, opened his lungs and shouted.

His voice rose in the gall of wind, the language of his ancestors, the language of fire and blood, had always come so easy to him, a skilled tongue, an emboldened rage: “Your life is mine, Visenya Velaryon! You owe me a debt and I will collect it!”

She watched, horrified and awestruck as the beast lumbered to the cliff’s edge before taking flight. She thought maybe the beast would have reservations about leaving Driftmark, her previous rider’s home, but she reared her head and followed her son’s command. As attentive as if he had always been hers.

The great beast rose and gained wind, flying higher than either of her children’s dragons could claim, but above her, Aegon and Helaena were already set course for home. Far above her where she could not reach.

She would think back on this moment later and think she could have done more. She would pull her hair and pick her nails and pray, but at that moment, still shaken from her own loosened hysterics and the whispers that traded behind hands, she had merely climbed into the wheelhouse, put another blanket on Viserys, and stared on.

“Let us be done with this.” He said and Alicent agreed.

Let them be done with this. Aemond’s eye and his rage, and the words he spoke on the rocks to a little girl he once peered at with doe eyes and wonder. Her eyes stung.

Let them be done with this, and save them all the headache of war.

In the spring of Princess Helaena’s eighteenth nameday, she would marry her brother, Prince Aegon the Elder. It was decried by King Viserys that in honor of such jubilation that a celebration must be held for his youngest daughter’s marriage. The celebration would last a sennight, consisting of hunts and jousts, before nights of feasts and dances, ending with a masque on the very last night before the wedding.

In attendance to the great houses and highborn nobles would be the King’s eldest child, and his only with the late Queen Aemma. The Crowned Heir, Rhaenyra Targaryen and her prince consort would be joining the festivities with their children. The Princess had announced the betrothal of her sons, Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys to her husband’s children, Princess Baela and Princess Rhaena respectively, the previous moon. Neither of which yet named her successor as they were tided with titles of Driftmark and Pentos.

However, it is noted at this time that the Princess’s eldest child, Princess Visenya, was not yet betrothed before her brothers. Some speculated that the princess’s hand would be used to broker peace with Queen Alicent, perhaps with Aegon the Elder. However, given the long impending marriage between him and Princess Helaena, it seemed unlikely.

There were much greater plans in motion for the would-be queen.

Daemon

Daemon had known Visenya to be his trueborn daughter the moment he laid eyes on her.

He had been newly married to Laena then. Her belly still swelling with the twins, when they made their visit to King’s Landing, at the express permission of the King. The celebration of Viserys’ first grandchild would be a eve to remember and night to forget.

Daemon looked down on his niece with her shining babe—pale hair and eyes, strong nose, and soft brow. Not a hint of Laenor in her.

Rhaenyra had looked at him then, steeling herself for anything, any rebuttal or rage as bitter as moon tea, but Daemon had leaned down and kissed the little princess on her silver head. Then, to Rhaenyra he had pressed his lips to her temple.

“She is of you and me.” Daemon looked to her, her eyes like fallen stars. Pleading with him even then. “I will love her from afar, and care for her as I care for you.”

And she was raised up in the court, a little silver-haired princess, a crown on her head and a dragon egg in her cradle hatching under the first brushes of her fingers. Shrykos clung to her warmth with obsidian scales, cool and dark as the night itself. The two of them chattered to each other in the tongues of babes before Valyrian wormed into their words.

Viserys had adored her, his little granddaughter, so much so that the court ignored when her three brothers that followed did not match her stature. Nor that of Laenor Velaryon. And if any were to speak a sour word, it would be cut out in retaliation.

And though Daemon would never be able to claim her as he claimed Baela and Rhaena, he was allowed the simple joy of watching her grow. Chest full of pride when she knocked down Aegon and first mounted her dragon.

His girls got on like dragon fire, running to and fro be it on Driftmark or the Red Keep, driving their mothers and septas into fits when they came back with dirty dresses and knotted hair.

They three were sisters, bound fast in blood and affection in his heart.

Rhaenyra joked that fatherhood had made the Rogue Prince soft, but Daemon would argue that it made him fierce. He had three daughters to protect and he trained them on knives, how to change hands and react in a fight. No one would dare raise a hand to his girls again.

Little Visenya had proved most apt with her training and because of it, her hands shook for weeks when she picked up a blade, blood cold and tears trailing. But having been brought up on blood and fire, and the ever-present threat of the Greens, Daemon watched her throw herself into her training, as determined as her brothers, learning philosophy and heads of houses, singing limericks in Old Valyrian and flying circles around Syrax to annoy Rhaenyra.

She was and would be, the most obvious choice for the next Crowned Heir when Rhaenyra ascended the throne.

Rhaenyra had accused him of wanting his daughter to supersede her brothers, but Daemon merely blinked at the accusation. It was not their hair that made them kings, but dragons. A fact that Rhaena often shrunk from when he mentioned, but he loyally abided to when Rhaenyra herself had been made Crowned Heir over him twenty years before.

Visenya was her eldest child and even though it would be difficult, given the whisper and rumor that surrounded her sons, Rhaenyra could not face that accusation again. No, Rhaenyra’s second-born would have Driftmark and Baela to guide him, the House Velaryon, Lord and Lady of the Tides. Luke and Rhaena would have Pentos. But, her daughter, the daughter he gave her, would be named heir to the Iron Throne.

There was delicate work to place and they had been away from King’s Landing and court much too long. And Visenya’s eighteenth nameday came and went with its usual fanfare.

“You will have to find a partner, sweetling,” Daemon said on their walk together, a fortnight before their departure to King’s Landing, and all that awaited them, he felt ill at ease, old battle bones singing under his skin. His spies told him that the Greens only grew in power since their retreat to Dragonstone, where Rhaenyra chose to raise her children, away from the bustle of court and unkind eyes.

“A keeper, you mean.” Visenya droned, her High Valyrian lax and lazy on her tongue, irate by his words, but not closed off to him as he might have done at her age. Would have done.

Visenya watched her dragon fly overhead, graceful and long as a serpent, whipping through the sky. Visenya looked like she wished to be up in the clouds too.

“You will be named Crowned Heir to the Iron Throne, like your mother before you, you will know no keeper but yourself.”

“King Viserys chose mother’s first husband,” Visenya said quietly.

“Yes, but your mother was allowed to choose me when he passed. And you too will share that privilege but you must be careful. The Greens have friends in most highborn houses. You will have to align yourself with someone who favors us, your mother’s rule, and can stand with you as consort.”

“Such expectations of a man.” Visenya hummed, brows rising, but Daemon could see the hurt in her eyes, the fear, that she might be trading herself for the bloody game.

Daemon took her face in his hands. “Only the highest of expectations for you, sweet.” He said and kissed her brow and his brother’s words echoed through him. “Seek him out, find someone to bring into our fold that might chance himself against me. Your mother and I will be here to guide you and we will be here to celebrate you when you decide.”

Visenya made a noise, almost a laugh and the wrinkle of paper in her skirt pockets drew his attention. He had caught her coming down the winding steps of the aviary when he invited her on his walk and had thought nothing of it. “Have you received a raven?” He asked, brow arched.

His daughter looked sheepish. “A letter from Princess Helaena. She spins riddles for me.” She took out the letter that bore the symbol of House Targaryen but did not open it. “I have a hard time reading them, but mother insisted that I should reply.”

“Yes,” he said, voice light. He squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and turned back towards the castle. “Take a walk and think about what I said. I shall be waiting in the tiltyard for you when you’re ready.” She nodded sheepishly and continued walking the length of the beach.

Daemon walked up the shore and stood vigil, out of sight as his daughter peered over the letter, reading it as if committing its contents to memory before tearing them to bits and letting them be carried away by the sea.

Daemon had intercepted ravens from King’s Landing before. Well-wishes and pardons from King Viserys that he delivered to his wife and queries from the children’s old tutors on whether their coursework was being followed. The only letters he did not deliver were that of Prince Aemond, still blistering from his accident and burning his newfound confidence as Vhagar’s rider, the boy had sent scores to little Visenya and all had been eaten by flames. Their contents unread lest Daemon fly to King’s Landing himself and finish the job.

It was long ago that the letters stopped, but slowly, tentatively Princess Helaena had begun writing. Flowery hand and tangled script, and with no mention of her maimed brother; Daemon had passed them off and then, eventually, stopped reading them altogether.

Now, watching his daughter tear the letter to bits for the sea, he wondered if he had been right to respect that boundary.

Aegon

Aegon’s head split when the heralding of another great house sounded.

“Tis too early for this.” He moaned, laid out on the balcony of his room with a bottle and glass. His brother sent him a side-long glare. “Oh, don’t start Aemond. If Mother wants me at this charade, I will be as drunk as I please.” He peered through the polished stone bars of his balcony and squinted. “What House is that? Tully?”

Aemond looked skyward but answered in that usual dry, affronted tone of his. “House Targaryen and House Velaryon.”

“No.” Aegon leaned up and set his elbows on the balustrade, mindful of his glass as he pulled himself up. The courtyard was filled with unfamiliar faces in familiar dress, among them, his eldest sister, plump with another child. He cackled. “Oh, by the Seven, they actually came.” He gasped delighted and then to Aemond he asked, very seriously, “What do you think they brought me?”

“If our sister were being astute, she would have bought you a house on Silk Street.” Aemond’s nose wrinkled and he looked down. “Oh, I believe Mother was saving those bottles for dinner. Dornish wine is the Crowned Heir’s favorite.”

“Finally, a family resemblance.” He snickered and took a sip. It would be better chilled, but Aegon had been laid out on the balcony for hours now, letting the sun and sun blister him and warm his skin. His favorite hangover remedy when he could not sleep off his sick in the borough of Fleabottom, head pillowed on a woman’s breasts.

He still might be able to, however.

He blinked away the glare of morning as his sister and her dogged husband disappeared into the hall, leaving their children in the courtyard with their guard and septas.

Aegon caught sight of a familiar prism of pale hair and a blue gown and sneered. “Mm. Well, well, if it isn’t the second coming of the Realm’s Delight herself.”

Aemond spotted her at the same time he did, if not quicker. Visenya Velaryon, their only niece, the maimer of kin, and Aegon saw Aemond’s knuckles whiten on the stone. He could not see his face from this angle, so he pulled himself up, but whatever emotion Aemond was hiding, he expelled before Aegon could look at him.

Aemond had told his mother that Vhagar was worth the trade.

His muscles still locked at the memory, his little brother being carried into the hall screaming and bloody, a hole where his eye had once been.

It had been enough to make Aegon lose his dinner.

But Aegon, cheek stinging, had agreed with Mother. All scores should be settled, tooth for a tooth, eye for an eye. Aemond had his right to his revenge. The last thing his left eye had ever seen was her face. She was his to do with as he pleased.

Now, in the wake of her resurfacing at court, Aegon could not help the brush of ire that rose over him. If not for Aemond then for himself. He still could not stand anything having to do with eyes since.

“Visenya. Visenya,” Aegon crooned, slurring on the base note of his little song. “She might be fun for a tumble before this infernal week is up.”

It was merely a suggestion, first that came to mind, but Aemond’s expression and Aegon’s own feeble memory expelled the idea before it could take shape.

Aemond had never been one for whoring. During his own excursion on his thirteenth nameday, he had turned tail and run when Aegon offered him the pick of his favorites.

“She is a highborn lady.” Aemond reminded him, patiently. Patronizing, really. Such creatures were off-limits to him. And even then, it was true, even Mother had taken one look at Visenya with her intricate braids and aquiline nose and seethed, “Well, at least her first is trueborn” and nothing more.

Still, Aegon had his suspicions where his sister’s children were concerned.

“If she were truly the blood of House Velaryon, then I am a Baratheon.” Aegon sighed and bored with trying to make Aemond feel better, he rolled over on the balustrade, wingspan pressed into the stone. His eyes turned to the sky and the bleeding light of early noon. So much day left. Still so much he was expected to do. He groaned. “Would it be that Mother hadn’t locked up Sunfyre, I might be halfway to Storm’s End by now.”

“This entire charade is for you.”

“I would rather it wasn’t.” Aegon continued. “I told her I cared not for these—these—extravagances, but she insisted I would have a wedding befitting of a prince.” Aegon squinted at the sky. “And I am a prince, and I say I would rather cut my wrist and smear blood on Helaena’s lips than swear fealty to her in front of the Seven.”

“She would never let you marry in the old faith, anyway.”

“Yes, then I might have been able to take you for a wife as well. Just as my namesake.”

“Aegon the Conqueror married his sisters.”

“I don’t need a history lesson, Aemond. I am saying you look like a woman.” Aemond’s lips pulled tight and Aegon cackled, unkind and uncaring, but when he brought his glass to his lips, the wine poured out and spilled onto his face, into his nose, and the ground below. He hacked, trying to clear his windpipe and Aemond kept a hand on his shoulder, being careful that he did not fall off the railing.

It would be so easy, Aegon thought as he eased back again, to let himself fall. The distance from the balcony to the yard below was certainly steep enough. Aegon could break his neck or smash his skull, his bone could pierce his soft meaty insides and when he looked into his brother’s eye, he knew he knew it too.

But if any of the King’s children inherited his blatant lack of ability to die, it was Aegon.

Aemond had collected him and recalled many a drunken night, blood crusted under his nose, bruises around his throat, waking up once with a broken toe and again with a missing tooth. All of it Aegon had taken with a laughing insolence of a drunk before running off to another adventure and any depravity that would welcome him for a coin and a smile.

He could survive Fleabottom’s worst, what would a fall into the courtyard do to kill him then? Mother would just wheel him down the aisle of his wedding herself, bind his arm with Helaena’s and pour sacred wine into his broken jaw.

It was, he decided, better that he preserve his brains and not slip on the eve of his wedding.

Even if Helaena would be better off for it.

His twin had reacted much the same as Aegon to the news of the extravagance their mother had planned, which was amusing as it was tragic. Helaena had not grown up, as Mother hoped, to become a snarking socialite or darling princess. She had not grown either out of the lunacy that plagued her in childhood. She kept to herself, with her spiders and her scratched notes, happiest in the Dragonpit conversing with Dreamfyre, speaking madness into the dragon’s ear.

Would it be Aemond who married her, Aegon knew he would do his duty by her, that his cloak would keep her safe and happy.

Aegon reached for his cup, but then remembered that in his state that he had spilled his drink down the balcony. He seethed. “You should fuck her full of kids instead of me.”

At this, Aemond lifted a brow. “Pardon?”

“I won’t have Helaena carrying on as our sister did with her bastards.” Aegon rolled over on the stone and glared, bloodshot eyes finding the three dark princes surrounding their golden sister. “I don’t care if they’re Arryn or Velaryon, my heirs will be Targaryen through and through.”

“So quickly you disavow and reclaim your titles, your grace.” Aemond said with a sneer, uncaring of Aemon’s ranting and misery. “Tell me, would you still feel the same if I were to usurp you and our sister for the Iron Throne?”

“You would hear no complaint from me, so long as my neck does not meet a blade.”

“I might have you spirited away across the Narrow Sea,” Aemond said after a moment. “But you would blow all your money on whores and drink if I let you.”

Aegon snorted. He liked this game. “You shall have to send someone with me, to see that I do not.”

“You still need a septa at your age?” Aemond’s lips quirked. “I do recall one or two occasions where you required a change of pants, so perhaps you’re not too far off the mark.”

“Piss off,” Aegon said and leaned down to refill his glass. “Does Mother have any schemes planned for tonight?”

“Just dinner.” Aemond looked at him, his skeptical eye making him miss the glass. “With close family and then we leave for the hunt on the morrow.”

Aegon made a noise of disgust. “Hunts and tourneys.”

“I know,” Aemond said, but his voice was distracted. Their sister’s family had been formally welcomed over the length of her conversation, servants filtering through to collect their trunks and the septas hurrying in with the younger two, little Viserys and little Aegon.

“Well, I must away to the tiltyard till then.”

“Ser Cole calls for you already?” Aegon questioned and peered up at the sky. “Is it later than I think it is?”

“Some of us have more to do than drink the day away. Take a bath before dinner.” Aemond patted his cheek as he went. “And stop looking at the sun, you’ll dim your eyes.” Aegon raised his glass as Aemond disappeared and drew himself back into his room, dark and messy from the disservice of the maids.

He wandered in aimless circles before coming back to the window again. He was sure that Mother had asked Aemond to stay with him to be sure he did not try to make a run for it or cause a scene. Again.

But his inattention would be his downfall.

Aegon peered through the colored glass and found his nephews and niece in the courtyard, conversing with a knight

He had half a mind to play the same trick on them that he had done before, stand stark in the window and scare them, but then he noticed his brother passing through the yard. Sword on his hip and lit in his walk.

At eight and ten, he easily towered over their sister’s children, and even through the span of years, he could not easily be mistaken for any other.

His eye was set on Visenya Velaryon.

A knock came at the door, that Aegon did not answer, but when it opened was delighted to find a maidservant, head low and demure. Aegon smiled before he noticed Ser Cole standing behind her, ever watchful. “My prince, I believe it’s time you should be getting ready.”

Jacaerys

Their arrival marked the beginning of the unofficial week with a dinner for “just family” and a fight that was “just family” broke out befitting of it. It had started with tributes, then dancing, his sisters and fiancée teasing laughter from Princess Helaena’s lips, Luke telling jokes, Visenya had taken up a dance with a Hightower cousin and, for once, everything had been good and civil until Aemond stood for tribute.

“These three strong boys.” That word had bid a quick end to the evening’s peace and a bruise on his knuckles.

“You think his face is made of stone?” Luke asked when he noticed.

“His head is rock,” Baela commented blasé as usual. She held his hand in hers under the guise of inspection, but her thumb drew circles in his knuckles lessening the pain as his cheeks reddened. Baela’s voice tipped low and conspiratorial. “He bruised my toe when I kicked it last.”

Unbidden, the comment had brought them all back to that night on Driftmark.

Rhaena’s lost dragon. Aemond’s taunts. Visenya’s knife.

Quick and bloody, calling down the end of innocent days and the beginning of training, in earnest when their Mother took the Rogue Prince for her consort, joining their families forever and binding them tighter than the blood that they spilled that night.

“I hit his mouth. His teeth cut my knuckles.”

Baela wrapped his hand under Rhaena’s careful eye and Jace reached for his wine.

They had all drifted back to the old apartments their family had shared when they lived in the Red Keep, unable to sleep and still hungry from the abrupt ending of dinner, they had called down for food and wine and laid out a spread on the low table in the center of the room. This place was a comfort in the castle, reminding them of childhood and childlike things, even if it but seemed smaller now when the walls used to feel so tall.

Jace had looked and found the markings on the archway where Ser Harwin had tracked their progress. Their heights were marked with initials when he smiled. “Someday, you will be as tall as me, my prince.”

The warm memory felt burned into him and all that followed. Unthinking, he looked to his sister for comfort.

“Visenya,” he called and she looked up from her window seat, glaring out at the darkness of the Keep below. “What’s the matter?”

She passed her cup from one hand to the other. Little Joffrey was at her side in an instant. “Enya, Enya.” He was fighting sleep that the twins had succumbed to earlier, strewed across their mother’s bed still in their dress clothes, but none of them would dare disturb them and the quiet, especially with lemon cakes laid out on the table.

“He’s scary,” Joffrey remarked, after claiming his place on Visenya’s lap, dark hair just long enough to curl like Luke’s. Visenya kissed his crown.

“Oh, Aemond isn’t as scary as he thinks he is.”

Jace would scoff if he could, at dinner Visenya had been glaring down at their uncle as if her gaze alone could set him aflame. Aemond was not scary as much as he was insulting. He had touched on the sore comment, expertly twisting around the bars of their grandsire’s decree, before he had turned his venom on Visenya.

He had not gotten to say much, however, Jace’s fist had found his mouth for the “strong” comment, and then his stepfather had intervened.

“Do you think you put out his tooth?” Rhaena asked, curious. “I mean we wouldn’t really see since the serpent never smiles but,” she trailed off. Baela shot her a look.

“Let us just be happy we will not be privy to just the Greens company.”

“Yes,” Visenya said wearily, drawing all eyes in the room as they looked at her, the eldest among them and thus the one bearing the heavy weight of the crown. “All the high houses will be here too.”

The door opened and their mother entered, belly first with the growth of their newest sibling, and she scoffed at the sight of them. “What are all of you still doing awake? Did I not tell you to return to your chambers?”

They made noise of argument and then room when their mother made for the couch, putting her feet up and her shoulders down. Rhaena passed her a glass of wine. Luke offered her a tasting plate. “I am the Crowned Heir of the Iron Throne, and yet children will not even follow my command.”

“It was you who wanted a large family, wife.” Their stepfather said, sweeping into the room, he took in the sprawl of their children and the assort of food. Behind him, the septas entered to take the twins from the bed and to their conjoined room. “Do as your lady mother says. Off to bed with you. All of you. We shall have our work cut out for us on the morrow.”

Knowing they are ultimately beaten; they depart with kisses and well wishes. Luke made a grab for the decanter of wine, but feigned off when their mother gave him a warning look, which allowed Joff to snatch a plate of cakes as he was still a baby in her eyes and above reproach.

Daemon held open the door for all of them as they ducked under, out of the quarters they all once shared and to their separate rooms, guest rooms, spread out throughout the castle.

Once they were safely down the corridor, Visenya drew near to him. Her voice low and serious. “Shrykos is restless. I must go to her.”

“What? Now?”

It seemed preposterous but he knew it was true, from the old stories and the evidence provided to him. Visenya’s bond with her dragon was made of something stronger than what could be discerned from her age or the caliber of her High Valyrian. It was a marker that was simply of her birth.

Visenya was true full Targaryen whereas he, Luke, and Joff, were not.

She could feel Shrykos in the pit and could sense her emotions as well as the blood on her tongue. And his sister’s dragon was a temperamental one. Named aptly after the goddess of beginnings and endings of Old Valyria. Jace would hate to see Shrykos decide to begin the demolition of the Dragonpit.

Still, that did not mean he would allow his lady sister to traverse through Fleabottom alone.

“She cannot wait till morn?”

Visenya shook her head. “No, she cannot.” And Jace sensed, for a moment, that it was not Shrykos who was anxious, but Visenya herself.

His sister had been taut as a bowstring since they landed at the Dragonpit. It was as if they could all taste the shift in the air, the pull when the dragons walked on land into the den they had known since they became too big and cumbersome for the nursery. Jace still remembered his first night sleeping without his dragon, the stark wrongness and roll of his gut without Vimax near.

He took her hand. “I do not feel right about leaving you to do this alone. Not with him skulking about.”

“I will have a guard attend me.” She said, unspoken to who he was referring, Jace felt uneasy. “Besides, you’re needed elsewhere, brother.” Visenya’s eyes cut behind him, spotting Baela in the shadows. She smiled mischievously. “Won’t that cut into your time helping your betrothed find her rooms?” She asked, sweet as honey, while Jace’s neck turned heated.

“That—that is—”

“Remember, the room across the hall from ours is empty because it belonged to that traitor—”

“Visenya.” He gasped, flustered. “Please.”

His elder sister reached up to ruffle his hair in turn and pinched his cheek. “How fast you’ve grown from boy to man. Remind me to tell my good-sister that on your tenth nameday, you cried at the thought of marrying a girl.”

Jace swatted at her, annoyed as Visenya carried on with laughter, eyes turning kind. “I will be fine, Jace. I’ll have Ser Lyonel attend me.”

“See that you do.” He muttered, irate and rubbing his cheek. “And be careful. Please, Visenya.”

“Always am.” She said and walked ahead, throwing Baela a little wave before she linked arms with Rhaena, leading her back to the rooms they glanced at just once before. Luke trailed after them, hand and hand with Joff. All turning a blind eye to Jace and Baela hanging back.

Baela peered out at him from her hiding spot. “What was that?” She asked and Jace shrugged.

“Visenya’s just being annoying again. Trying to get me to beg off.”

“Awe, sweet,” Baela’s hand smoothed his cheek, brushing the reddened mark that his sister had no doubt left and she smiled at him. “Would you like me to kiss it better for you?”

The question illicit some forbidden feeling in him. At Dragonstone, at Driftmark, at Pentos the two of them carried on how they wanted. Betrothed, hand and hand and kissing cheeks. Innocent enough, but they knew better than to get caught seeking more. Worse still to be caught here at the Red Keep under the eyes of Queen Alicent, whose devotion to the Seven bordered on even the brush of hands as a sin.

Damning them both, Baela kissed his cheek, leaning up on her toes, and then his temple, his brow, before her mouth angled down for his lips.

They made sure not to lose themselves, never too high on pleasure, but for the anticipation of the marriage bed. Jace’s hand pressed against the small of her back before the two walked back to their respective rooms. Palm to palm, smiling.

Baela knocked before entering, finding Rhaena in bed with a book. Visenya was still gone and probably would be gone for some time. He bid his fiancé and good-sister goodnight before returning to his own room down the hall. Joffrey was asleep in his dress clothes whereas Luke had the wherewithal to dress for bed and lay out his clothes for the next day.

Neither of them left him even a bit of cake.

Yawning, he undressed quickly and put out the candles, tucking into bed on a mattress that was lumpy and foreign to him. He glanced out the window, about to put out his bedside candle when he spotted twisting shapes in the sky.

Dragons flying above the sleeping city.

Ser Criston Cole

The arrival at the hunting grounds brought on bitter memories to Ser Cole.

Memories of someone he once loved who besmirched his proposal for a life beyond King’s Landing and would have rather had him as her whore than her husband. And even then, seeing her now brought back those scant memories. Dreams of what might have been.

She was still ethereal and beautiful, belly swelling with her uncle’s child, dressed in the colors of her house she loved more than him.

Her shadow trailed after her, the little Princess Visenya who had returned to court to haunt him with her likeness. In a similar dress and attended by her brothers and the Velaryon twins, she was the star attraction of the hunt, stealing the shine from Princess Helaena.

Not that the girl seemed to mind. Helaena shied from all attention, which allowed her brothers to reign in the light. Aegon with his drunken escapades and Aemond with his competitive spirit. The former of which was currently lost in the woods, swinging through trees and tall grass with the kingsguard, making far too much noise to catch anything.

Aemond, however, had returned with his party and three deer and was now attending to his sister. Not that she needed it, Cole had been her constant companion since the twins’ eighteenth nameday.

The Queen had worried that her daughter might do something rash, so Ser Cole had been called to watch her. Even still, Cole was not as worried. He had known Princess Helaena all her life, watched her collect spiders, braid vines into her hair, and answer in riddles to her mother’s bald-faced questions.

Helaena would not be a runaway bride. She would do her duty and marry.

But people had a way of disappointing. Targaryen women especially.

At a glance, his charge was placated with a beetle and his pupil was striding towards him, questions on his lips. Aemond made an inquiry about tomorrow’s event and if he might still have time to enter. At this, Ser Cole’s attention peaked.

“You wish to enter the tourney, my prince?”

“Yes,” Aemond said.

Cole stared.

“What?”

“You wish to enter the tourney.” He repeated, slowly.

“Yes."

“My prince,” Cole began but was not sure where to go from there.

“Do you think it too difficult for me, Ser Cole?” Aemond asked, an archness lifting his tone.

“Not that, my prince.” Cole shook his head and looked out into the yard, past his charge until he spied the Queen, caught up in conversation with the Maester of Revels and her father. Cole hoped to catch her eye, but she was steadfast in her argument, gesturing to the tents and the forest green. Drawn back, Cole had to laugh alone. Aemond looked sullen. “You always said you didn’t give a shit about tourneys.”

“I did.” Aemond conceded, giving away nothing, which made Cole tilt his head. Aemond was always purposefully blank whenever he was wanting something. Not yet as sly as his grandsire when working towards some unspoken goal. He had a habit of using his siblings as distractors, but in this, he could not.

“You said tourneys were beneath you.” Cole continued. “You said the pageantry and riding horseback against one spoiled whelp or another would have you diving off Vhagar into the—”

“Ser Cole, if you will not train with me, I will find someone else to walk me through the specifics.”

“Nonsense.” Cole offered a smile and rose to his feet. “Allow me to find someone else to attend Princess Helaena and we shall find someplace to practice.”

Thirty minutes later, they reconvened at a little field outside the camp, just far enough away for some privacy and yet close enough that they could be called should they be needed. “It’s not the tiltyard, but training on the element of the field should work to your benefit, I think.”

Aemond surveyed the area with disinterest, weighing the sword in his hand. “Walk me through it. I won’t be made a fool because I am unfamiliar with the rules.”

He should have known Aemond wasn’t paying attention all those times, but he had always had higher hopes for his pupil. Had wanted Aemond to start competing when he was of age, so he might show off his progeny of swordsmanship.

No matter. Punishment would be that Cole did not have to make it easy for him.

“First position,” Cole called, and ever the dutiful student, Aemond took up stance, shield and sword raised. Muscles coiled. Cole mirrored him and they fell into a familiar pattern, steel on steel, the warble of shields. Warming their muscles.

They worked through a basic set, first and then second. Cole, meanwhile, reeducated the prince on tourney etiquette and regulations, how much to give, how much to hurt. With all the scions of the highborn houses, he cautioned, it would not be polite to do more damage than bruises and broken skin, but the other knights, Aemond had rights to do as he pleased.

And even more than regulations, there was also etiquette to follow. He would be required to beg the favor of a highborn lady and wear it on his person during the match. And, if he won, he might claim his victory for her. Might crown her—

A stray shout caught them off balance. Third position, sword raised, Aemond froze whereas Cole nearly swung.

Just out of the circle of their duel stood a ghost.

A little Rhaenyra, sunlight on her skin, in her hair. All those gilded feelings twisted in his gut to something sick and vile.

Princess Visenya approached with her hands clasped behind her back and her head tilted in a smile. “Prince Aemond, Ser Cole,” she greeted and then fixed Aemond with a severe look. “You’re training awfully close to our camp, uncle.”

“Are we?” Aemond asked, spotting the banner that Cole had seen earlier. He hummed. “So we are.”

“You are,” Visenya repeated with a smile that was all venom and honey. “Now, I come as an envoy. My lady mother is resting and had hoped you would concede to train elsewhere?”

Cole glanced over Visenya’s shoulder to find not Rhaenyra, but Daemon and the youngest of her brood gathered near the opening of the tent, watching intently as Visenya played messenger for them. He was not quite sure what he was hoping, but Rhaenyra’s lack of appearance made the shift and blister of the midday sun more imposing than before.

Burnt by the blow of her rejection.

Aemond clipped something in High Valyrian that made the princess’s head tilt, but regardless, she replied in plain common tongue, “You keep pronouncing that word wrong, uncle. Perhaps you should practice more.” Her smile was a skyline of teeth before she turned to rejoin her family.

Her stepfather’s watchful eye honing in on him.

“Perhaps we should move to the opposite side of the hunting grounds, my prince.” He said taking up his shield again. “Somewhere we might find some shade?”

Aemond studied him a moment, expression intent, but he said nothing. Not of Cole’s strategic placing or annoyance at being interrupted, a slight that, usually, would have him grumbling by now. Instead, his pupil merely bent down and dragged up his shield, leading the way.

“Let us go then, Ser Cole. I will not have myself bested before my sisters and nephews.” He seemed careful then, not to mention or acknowledge the existence of Visenya Velaryon.

The tourney that was set for Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena’s wedding celebration was said to be the greatest collection of highborn lords and ladies at the time. Every highborn and lowborn challenger would curry favor from the royal family with the showcase of their skill, showmanship, and ability. And not just for royal favor either.

Rumor had taken to court that the Crowned Heir’s daughter, Princess Visenya, had come to court seeking a husband.

With the Princess Helaena safely engaged and at the eve of her wedding, every highborn house had a son, or nephew, or cousin to boast.

Lucerys

A makeshift camp had been made for the dragons a little further off from the tents set up for the high lords and ladies of the court. Nearly all dragons were in attendance, but Syrax, as his mother tended to get sick flying near the end of her pregnancy. Daemon called it the stomach of the dragon. Maesters called it safety.

Still, it was an impressive show of strength. All the Targaryen and Velaryon dragons clustered on the high hills above the camp, keeping the wedding party safe from bandits and drawing that awe of all the houses. It was there that Lucerys had absconded to after the hunt, feeding Arrax the rabbits he had caught, fur and all.

It was there that Visenya snuck up on him.

His scream was cut short by her hand and when he turned round to her smiling face, he deflated.

“Didn’t you always tell me not to do that?” He asked, breathing heavily. “What if Arrax came at you?”

“We’re from the same clutch,” Visenya said and her gaze lifted to his dragon. “And besides, Arrax knew I meant no harm.” It was true. Arrax had looked up when Visenya ambushed him but seeing that he was well and with his sister, turned back to his food. Eyes intent on the other two rabbits slung across Luke’s back.

Visenya was similarly clad, a rabbit or two for her own dragon, but it would prove to be just a treat rather than a meal. Shrykos may not be the largest dragon in attendance, but she was ever-growing, glowing obsidian and cutting through the sky like the wind. Someday, Arrax and he would conquer similar heights.

“Are you alright?”

“I am well.” He said. “Just tired. Jace is anxious about the tourney tomorrow. He keeps going on and on about footwork and his laces.” He tried for a smile, but it was lilted.

His sister knew it was a farce.

He was tense. They all were.

Although their numbers were great and their accomplishments many, the fact remained that they still stood in Green territory. Aemond’s territory.

It had been something unspoken when they heard that they were all to go to King’s Landing for the wedding. None of them knew how great of a grudge Aemond still held for them, but on that first night, he had made his contempt perfectly clear.

Arrax chattered behind him, uneasy as her gaze turned to the hills. The sleeping behemoth that was Vhagar sat further off, sunning herself and her dark scales in the early spring light. Aemond had ridden her in with the fanfare of a prince, capturing the marvel and fear of the crowd as Vhagar scooped air beneath her wings and laid docile until Aemond brought her a bear to eat.

It had still been alive when Vhagar snapped open her jaws. Aemond explained to no one that the fresh blood invigorated her.

He was there now, black-clad and hair bound back, presiding over the hunting grounds as if he were king himself.

Visenya’s chilly fingers took his chin. “Do not worry about him, Luke. His grudge is with me.” But that did not make him feel much better.

It had been he who brought the knife to caves that night. Small and scared, and hurting for his cousins, he had grabbed it from his bedside table without a thought. Not intending to use it. Not even when his nose had been blooded and Jace nearly bludgeoned. Visenya, however, had been the one to take up the dagger and make the decision for all of them.

And for it, she had faced the wrath of the Queen and nearly lost her own eye. He owed her a debt of blood, and he would fulfill it if he could.

And if his sister wanted him to put on a brave face, he would.

“So should I start calling the Lannister my good-brother?”

Visenya looked annoyed. “If you call that louse your good-brother, know that I am deaf, dumb, and dead.”

Luke laughed then, his smile carving true.

His sister had been positively swarmed with lords since their arrival. Old and young, decorated and not, wealthy and powerful, it mattered not whether their marriage to Visenya would be their first, second, or fifth. All were currying the favor of their family. All had their eyes set on her.

He loosened the string on his back and tossed another rabbit for Arrax. “Why do you entertain them? It is clear to all of us that you do not wish to be bothered.”

At this, Visenya looked tense. “Truly?”

Luke bit his lips together. To his sister’s credit, she had played her role as the laughing princess beautifully. Always first to take up a dance or sing a song; charming harming with an ear for song and a wit for japes. She was all those things and more, but he could see the strain at the corner of her mouth. The drift in her eyes when she wanted to get away. The dip in her voice when she wanted to spew venom.

Visenya had the reputation of a shining princess, but people often forgot she was also a maimer of kin. And honestly, Luke hoped for their safety that they would remember that more.

And even now, when she looked at him, eyes kind, he could see the thin peel of her veneer. 

“Mother and Father think it’s time to begin my hunt for a husband.”

And he knew that. He had known that.

Rhaena had told him behind her hand when they walked together, but still, it would be a hard thought to conceptualize. Since their mother married the Rogue Prince, and their little family grew, it had always been just them, all of them. And when Jace and his betrothals were announced and blessed, they knew it would always be just them. Together until their golden years.

But what of Visenya? Who was she to marry? It would be her that would have to face an arrangement with a stranger or seek out someone who might fit in their brood.

Would his sister’s husband live with them? Wasn’t the way of marriage that Visenya would be taken under the care of her husband’s family? His mother had never lived long at Driftmark, as Crowned Heir her title outranked tradition, but his mother had been given the protection of the Velaryons.

But day in and day out, he could not imagine being without his sister to guide him. Annoy him, even. Sing songs and practice High Valyrian. Race with him over the sea salt waters and dare him with smile when Arrax made him feel bold enough to lift his hands, and feel the wind whip his skin.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked, feeling hopeless despite himself. He knew no good lords to make known to his sister. He knew no one but his family and the Greens that extended the other branch of their line.

Visenya smiled at him.

“No, sweet, just promise me you will be good and honest to your own betrothed.” She touched his chin again, tenderness turning to taunt. “If either you or Jace embarrass me by being bad husbands, I might have to reclaim the honor of my good-sisters.”

Luke smiled, but he knew Visenya was serious. She loved Baela and Rhaena as fiercely as him and Jace.

He felt a tug behind him. Something caught on his strings, needle teeth seeking the final rabbit and Luke had no time to right himself before Arrax pulled him down, screeching for his supper. And he landed square in the viscera of his dragon’s leftovers. “Arrax! Serve me!”

But his dragon collected his prize and totted away, like Joffrey knowing he would not be scolded. Visenya shrieked a laugh, hands reaching for him as she cooed. “Luke. Oh, Luke, sweetling.” But she was laughing too hard to get a proper hold of him.

And so, Luke lay there, staring up at the sky, annoyed and wishing to be home. Where, at least, he had a change of clothes.

Baela

Baela had not been as impressed with Princess Helaena when they met. 

They had found her in the gardens the first day, dangerously close to the Godwoood where the leaves bloomed bloody and the Princess looked as though she belonged there. Pale hair tumbling in brushed-out curls down her back. Her dress was a vivid green. A wood sprite from the old tales. If they had been harkening from the Queen’s words, one would think her a beauty to fell all the realm’s men, but what they found in fact, was a scared girl, muttering into her palms and knots in her lush hair. 

But she was meant to be Aegon the Elder’s bride and, even though one of them had to be, Baela was still sorry it was her. 

At the instruction of Princess Rhaenyra, they were enticed to befriend the princess, perhaps bring her into their fold, or even offer her comfort. If the Greens ever got up to something when Rhaenyra ascended the throne, be it a crown on Aegon’s terrible head, or even placing Alicent as Regent, they would at least have a friend in Helaena.

And more and more, the girl was beginning to grow on her. She was strange, yes, but only in the way of whispers and riddles. Her manners were shy, but the more time they spent together, the more of her they saw. She had an unflinching dry wit, morbid to the point of gasping, but sweet in the way of someone who did not have many friends outside her family. And none of that was a fault of her own. 

Aemond often visited when they four were together, at first startled by their appearance in his sister’s chambers and then exasperated by it. Rhaena would shoo him off whenever he was near, still seething from old wounds. The wound that would never close. But he only absconded when Helaena bade him go, more interested, it seemed in keeping the peace and pleasing his brother. 

Which may also prove fruitful for them.  

Visenya fixed the fastening on her hairpin before leaning back to admire her work. “My brother will be the luckiest knight at the tourney, Baela.” 

Baela beamed at the compliment. She liked to wear her hair loose most often as their mother had, but Visenya had crowned her with jewels from their house. Seed pearls and silver. 

She glanced in the mirror and grinned at her reflection above Helaena’s, admiring a moment, Rhaena’s work and the emerald pins interlocked throughout. She caught Visenya over her own shoulder, checking the stays of her dress. “Is there anyone you hope to attract, Visenya?”

Her stepsister hummed and Helaena paused her cross-stitch, her fingers grazing the impossibly delicate needlework of a bow-legged spider. She had explained that she needed something to keep her hands busy while she sat. She did not often allow anyone else to do her hair for her and it made her nervous, but Rhaena did her best to cool her fears.  

“Perhaps, but we shall see.” Visenya was, like their father, always playing close to the chest. No one would know their true intentions until the end of their game. As if, by design.

However, Baela remembered one of two blunders where Visenya had just not wanted to be caught without a plan.

The four of them traveled to the tourney ground together, paying tribute to the King, then Queen, and then Crowned Heir before they were ushered into the royal box, and sat at the front at the Queen’s behest. “The knights shall want to see you girls. Have you your favors? Helaena, do you—good, good.” 

The Queen climbed back up to rejoin the King and Helaena gave a half-hearted shrug, helpless. “She wants everything to go according to plan.” She said and then trailed off, plucking at the green and black ribbons around her wrist. “Ambitions like ribbons.”

They all wore them. All eligible ladies of the court and even married women who had husbands competing in the tourney. Wearing the colors of their house to be given as favors to knights who might claim victory for them. 

A horn cried out and the challengers began filling the arena, on horseback as they were trotted out for all to see, earning cheers from the spectators based on popularity and the pride of their houses. Still, even the commonfolk who had been allowed to come cheered along, pushing for a better vantage. 

Spotting Jace when he was announced, Baela leaped to her feet with Visenya to cheer him on. Grinning when they saw his ears redden from the stands and even Princess Rhaenyra called out her support. They sat with a look from Helaena septa. Unable to hide their excitement they watched the banner for House Velaryon rise beside the banner for House Targaryen. 

Under the red and black banners, there were two more riders. Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, sat tall on warhorses, as comfortable on them as they were on dragonback. She felt Visenya shift beside her, a low oath under her breath. “What is he doing here?”

“Aegon the Elder has to, it’s tradition.” Rhaena supplied and then with a sneer. “I did not think the One-Eyed would be competing.”

“Competing?” Baela repeated mildly, still sensitive to him as Helaena’s brother, she turned to the princess. “You didn’t say both of your brothers would be competing.”

“I did not know,” Helaena said quietly. Her face was very pale, eyes distant. “Ambitions like ribbons are tricky things.” She pulled at her laces and Baela dropped it, turning Rhaena.

“Let us hope he falls from his horse.” She whispered and Rhaena smiled, but it was a wan thing, falling from her lips as soon as it bloomed, and soon Baela saw why. Prince Aemond had urged his horse forward, breaking the formation of the challengers to approach the royal box. When he was close, his gaze fell on Helaena. 

“Sister,” he nodded.

“Aemond.” Helaena croaked.

Pleasantries done, his attention shifted and, for a moment, Baela was worried she might have to keep Rhaena in her chair from how tight she was clutching her hand, but his attention, however, was not for them. 

“Visenya Velaryon!” He called, drawing the eye of the court and all the royals in the box. 

“Uncle,” she greeted, with a tightness Baela could only discern from annoyance. Visenya was always unflinchingly polite in mixed company, the product of spending her early years in the Targaryen court, attached to her mother’s hip be it a social event or small council meeting. But that dark lit in her voice was an edge that was as brittle and dangerous as their father’s. 

Visenya rose from her seat, back straight, and hands clasped before her, the perfect lady as she approached the railing that separated the box from the ring below. 

Her back to her family, she looked every bit the princess from a song, pale hair spilling down her shoulders and gathered up in plaits, decorated with pins of onyx and ruby. “What do I owe the pleasure of this public acknowledgment?”

“Binding ambitions like ribbons,” Helaena muttered, but quieted when Baela shot her a glance, but Helaena would not meet it.

Aemond canted his head, his one eye glinting in the bright sunshine.  

“Would you not give me your colors, sweet niece?” Aemond asked, all venom and honey.

Visenya's hands were braced on the railing, the ribbons on her wrist a riot of colors—red and black, and blue. 

Aemond's smile was civil, but what could their Visenya do to refuse him? After being called upon like that? 

With a deft tug, a ribbon loosened from her wrist, the blue one for House Velaryon, and she leaned down to tie her house colors to the end of his lance. If Aemond took it as a slight, he did not show it. 

“I shall claim victory for you.” He boasted, so proud and so sure that Baela for a moment even believed it. Even as she grew sick with his court manners and polite words. She rather preferred the beast beneath. Unkind and ugly, but honest. 

“See that you do,” Visenya said, insult clear in her sneered lip, and then, in Valyrian she added. "I would hate to see your boasts fall short." 

“Another debt to you could be nothing more than a drop in the ocean,” Aemond called before he turned his horse to rejoin the others. 

Visenya stood there a moment, fingers curled on the railing before she returned to her seat. Anger lancing up her shoulders.

Baela chanced a look over her shoulder, finding the Crowned Heir and her father staring wide at her, confusion was written clear across their faces. What game was this? What was there to gain? She offered their princess a confused look of her own before she attended to Visenya.

Visenya who, would still not look at anyone but allowed Helaena, tentatively, to take her hand. The princess's aversion to touch braved momentarily to squeeze her niece’s fingers before pulling her hands back to herself.

Baela leaned into her, hoping to give comfort and Visenya came alive again. “I can only hope no challenger puts out his other eye,” she said quietly, conspiratorially. “The gods know he would blame me for that too and claim my favor to be an omen.”

Baela and Rhaena smiled in support, but Helaena stayed silent, rising only when Aegon approached their box, giving half-hearted beseeches to her favors and she gave them, ribbons of black and green that she knotted so loosely that they fell to the ground as Aegon road back to the lineup, sending a squire to collect them the Master of Revels noticed.

“Ambitions like ribbons,” she muttered again, taking her seat. None of them said anything.

One by one, the challengers came to claim the favors of women from noble houses, ribbons exchanged, proud proclamations. Baela was positively blooming when Jace approached on horseback to beseech her favors.

Rhaena’s own intended was not yet old enough to enter the tourney, but she had given Luke a ribbon of her own anyway, a ribbon of blue for the home they might one day share. Blue for the cloak that would protect them both. 

They were caught up in the beauty of it all before the peel when another rider approached the box. A tall man, slender and golden as a prince from a faerie story, baring the sigil of roses. “Princess,” the Tyrell called. “If I might be so bold, might I ask for the favor of House Targaryen?”

There was a moment of confusion between the four of them. All were princesses and all boasted Targaryen in their line and ribbons.

The boy flushed. “Princess Visenya, if I may.” He clarified, his eyes flickered to her wrist where the black and red ribbons sat, tied. 

Rhaena tested her nails against her arm to show her excitement. 

Visenya rose, untying the black and red ribbons from her cuff before fastening them to his lowered lance. “I will treasure it always, my lady.” He bowed rejoined the contestants and effectively ended the Ceremony of Favors. 

Rhaena was floored, teasing. “My, sister, how the wolves have swarmed. Twyin Tyrell.”  

Visenya was quick with her wit, smiling. “Only one truly holds my favor, I’m afraid. Otherwise, the compliment is not heard.”

“Let us hope the roses are in bloom,” Rhaena called, loud enough for Aemond to hear as he rode past with the others on parade. “So maybe then our dear sister will have some solace in this exchange!”

Helaena remained stony silent throughout, hands gripped in Visenya’s skirts as they watched the games commence. One by one, young men were felled and lances splintered. Ribbons littered the ground as the pageantry was forgotten in the wake of competition. Baela’s hand flew to her throat when the lance grazed the neck of a competitor, knocking him from his horse and the air from his lungs, but still, the games continued, thinning until a handful of challengers remained.

Prince Aegon and Prince Jacaerys were knocked out by more experienced knights, but Prince Aemond remained in the rotation, cutting through his opponents with ease. As did the Tyrell boy.

The end of the games winded down to a free tourney, a mix of unhorsing and combat, that found the two holders of Visenya’s favors in the ring. None of them had a comment for the match-up, as it seemed so odd, but matte black armor and golden armor were donned and horses were mounted, lances hoisted at a step. 

The crowd held their breath till the flag went down. Visenya was still as stone.

Like a bolt, the opposing riders charged each other, neither feigning nor wavering as they drew closer and closer. Rhaena’s nails in her arm were a welcome distraction when a lance crashed into a shield, splintered wood, and metal, as Tyrell was unhorsed and his mount galloped off without him, reigns caught by a waiting squire before he could trample back. 

Aemond dismounted in one fluid motion, approaching the fallen rider with his sword drawn and the hearts of the crowd in their throats. Baela called out to the little lord, urging him up, and like magic, he did; dancing to his feet and unleashing his blade with a flourish before steel collided with steel. 

The fight was quick and dirty. The two grappling on unequal footing, Lord Tyrell constantly swinging at Aemond’s left side, as if hoping to catch him off-guard, but Aemond seemed to be expecting that and proved himself to be the more experienced fighter. Indulgent until he was not.

The breath of all in the crowd was caught when, in a quick, bloodless maneuver, the sword of House Tyrell was knocked clean out of his hand. Aemond leveled the knight with a blade at his throat, applying pressure until the flower knight was on his knees, eyes weary. He said something to which Aemond grinned, turning the blade over to cut the ribbons still tied to his mail, and as they fluttered to the ground, the Master of Revels made his decree. 

The winner of the tourney was Prince Aemond Targaryen. 

Cheers went up around them, but the royal box was oddly silent. All watched as Aemond mounted his horse, supposedly to ride a victory lap, as was tradition, allowing himself to be showered with flowers and praise, but instead, he cut across to the Master’s box.

Visenya was on her feet. After sitting so long, still as stone, the movement startled them.

“Visenya,” Baela whispered and took her stepsister’s arm. “Visenya, dear, what is the matter?”

Visenya shook from her reverie then, face twisted then pinched, before her brow smoothed and a pantomime of calm overtook her. “I am not well,” she choked out, forced out, but her mouth was all wrong. Like a loose string on a harp, the note warbled a discontent tune. Helaena murmured something, but Visenya paid her no heed. “I need air. Please.” She made to make her way to the stairs, out of the box to freedom, but Aemond was much quicker.

From the Master's box, he had ridden straight for them. 

And in his hands was a woven coronet of flowers. The crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty. 

The Prince had tied a ribbon of Velaryon blue at the notch of his armor, over his heart as if daring the other contestant to strike him there, but it remained intact through the fray, allowing the Prince to claim his victory with ease. 

It was said, in the moments after besting Lord Tywin of House Tyrell that the Prince had forsaken his victory in favor of crowning his benefactor, claiming the win in her name. The houses rejoiced, even the royals held in rapt attention as Prince Aemond crowned Princess Visenya of House Velaryon and House Targaryen with a coronet of flowers, blooms of red and white, and on her silver head, the flowers bared eternal.

It was then, that the court would come to call the daughter of the Realm’s Delight always the Queen of Love and Beauty, even when usurped in following tourneys. She would be called “the little queen” and “the flower queen” in succeeding letters by the court. Before the subsequent moniker of “the Dragon Flower” would be harkened to her name. 

Larys

Larys was not one for tourneys

At the best of times, he was sweating in the sunlight, getting progressively drunker out of boredom as the highborns lost themselves to drink and bloodlust. And, even then, he found himself collecting secrets like dropped favors. 

At the worst of times, they made him think of his brother, in younger times, in better times, Harwin would fiddle with the bridle of his stead and the practice of his footwork, all the while Larys would sit off to the side, book in lap, annoyed by it all. 

The annoyance and the noise would bring him back to those moments and, sometimes in the rise of challengers, he would see echoes of him in other young hopefuls.

He had been watching the Prince Lucerys, still too young yet to compete, but going through the steps with his younger brother, Prince Joffrey. The two of them, dark-haired and broad-mouthed looked everything like Harwin when he was young, down to the laughter, down to the dimple.

It stirred something unkind in his chest, an unease, a dissonance, watching the princes as their elder brother joined them, unhorsed and bruised but smiling. “It’s not to worry, Larys, only a wound of my pride.” He would say when he lost, but as he grew older those times were rarer and farther between. As was their constant company. 

His brother was built for battle. His sons, he was not quite sure. 

Larys drew away from them, yet unnoticed, and made his way back over to the sea of tents instead of the royal box where, most likely, his seat had been assumed by someone more interested in tourneys than he. He decided to skip the pageantry and made his way back to the Queen’s tent, hopeful to get some solitude before the court made their way back to the Red Keep for the evening feast. 

The journey was not a difficult one, but arduous on his leg which, as of late, had begun to ache. The maesters reported old age as their culprit and even suggested he not attend the festivities, but Larys would not be begged off.  

The Black Queen was once again in their midst and there was much to see. 

He had been about to enter the royal tent, eager for his chair and perhaps some wine when he heard shouting from within. Annoyed at his plan foiled, Larys leaned into the crack between the parted curtains and spied two figures alone in the darkened tent. 

Prince Aemond and Princess Visenya. 

The two were speaking in High Valyrian, voices low and harsh, rushed over the foreign syllables and low dipping vowels like venom from their tongues. Larys had, regrettably, not picked up as much of the language as he so hoped at court. Rather, he had picked up wedges and scraps, the beautiful brutality of it when put to parchment, but the heat in the Princess’s eyes as she snarled was nothing his mind could reach.

It was a language, when spoken correctly, rolled together in a song.

But even with the language barrier, Larys had been at court for many years now, he could understand body language if not the words. 

The Prince shucked off the last of his layers, despite being confident in his abilities in the tourney, he was still cautious. He had worn a full suit of Targaryen armor similar to that of the Rogue Prince in his time.

And now, here was Princess Visenya, flower petals coming loose as she moved. A coronet of flowers, Dragon’s breath and Lady’s lace, blood red and snow white like a marriage bed. Petals drifted to the floor.

The entire exchange, Prince Aemond had had his back to Visenya, but once down to his shirt, he turned to face her, going on the defensive as ire loosened from his tongue. 

His boots trampled the fallen petals beneath.

Princess Visenya stood her ground, chin to collarbone, and then chin to chin, as the two royals leveled each other, voices low and harsh, and Larys was sure the word for “throne” was used in there somewhere when the Princess wound her arm back. 

A sharp crack sounded in the tent, but the prince was quick to catch her hand after the assault, knuckles whitening on her wrist bone. 

The two hung motionless. 

The Prince’s eyepatch fell to their feet.

Larys had a perfect view of the Princess then, faced with the bare horror of her actions all those years ago. The split scar and open hole where an eye had once been, now rested a sapphire, as blue as the Velaryon sea. 

And she looked upon him, not as a lady of the court but—

“Visenya.” His voice was low and weighted, and Larys watched in blinks and stares as Aemond leaned towards her, as if pulled into her tide, but then Princess Visenya’s face went from slack surprise to horror as she wrenched herself away, gathering her skirts before fleeing out the tent. 

Larys managed to stumble back in time, just missed in the Princess’s haste and, not wanting to be caught once the exit was made, Larys stumbled along on his own, back towards the competitor’s tent where he would not be so amiss. Ignoring the pain in his leg as he took a lap before starting back.

Once he was settled, and the servants started to make noise about packing up the tourney grounds, he had time to wonder about what he had seen. Voices passed around him, the Princess Visenya had been named Queen of Love and Beauty, just like her mother before her.

He returned to the Queen’s tent to find Prince Aemond supine on a settee, eyepatch replaced and attention fixed on a book.

No flowers remained on the carpeted floor. 

But the silence from the Queen and her children spoke volumes.

They would arrive by early evening and then it was away to the first of the feasts, in honor of the prince’s tourney victory and crowning of a flower queen before attention would shift fully to that of the happy couple. 

“Threads of green, threads of black, threads of red,” Helaena muttered to herself, weaving ribbons between her fingers under Aegon's weary eye. Aemond did not deign to acknowledge him either. 

The Queen summoned a smile. “Shall we return to the Keep?”

Larys summoned his best, most courtly smile and nodded. “Yes, your grace. Lets.”

The Queen, he decided, could wonder without this tidbit of information. If asked, he would feed. For a fee.

Rhaenyra

As if defiant to the nature of her crowning, Visenya would wear the crown of Love and Beauty for the remainder of the tourney, only parting with it momentarily as she left the grounds on her dragon. Leaving earlier than Aemond in what, Rhaenyra decided, was a tactical maneuver to not further embarrass herself. She had won her crowd with a bit of ribbon and Aemond seemed intent to make her pay for it, boasting through the tourney yards that had he worn the favor of anyone else, he might have been thrown from his horse like his brother and nephew.   

Despite the queries and good nature of her stepsisters, Visenya had shut down after her crowning, taking a moment to collect herself before showing the brave face to the court and all the Greens to see.

So much like her father, she would not break until she allowed herself to, and now was not the time for crumbling walls.

Tonight, was the first night of feasting and dancing, rumors had already circulated about her want for a husband, and offers had been made apparent. They would need to be at their best this night and could have no missteps. 

So, she allowed her daughter some silence, trading battle planning for morale, but when they regrouped at the Keep, she found her daughter waiting for her crown. She would wear it tonight. Draw all the eye of the crowd. She asked Rhaenyra to help with her hair and it was as if her daughter livened again. 

She had missed their home in King’s Landing, the quarters they shared, the twisting corridors and art and people. Rhaenyra had too, welcomed home with the sight of banners and tapestries Alicent so cleverly remembered to hang up this time, and she allowed herself to feel at ease in her own home and its old ghosts.

She spent the early evening in her mother’s solar, left untouched since the day she died, and sat for a moment at the window, imagining a time when she would have sat there and unspooled all her troubles, as only mothers and daughters could. 

She had aches in her back and swollen feet from pregnancy. Little Viserys had caught a cold since coming to the Red Keep and needed to be quarantined from his wombmate in the meantime. And she was worried though the septas and maesters assured her not to. These were petty things she was sure her mother would soothe and have answers for, ease her troubles as if they were wrinkles on his skirts. 

But more pressing, she had plans to name Visenya her heir. She only just needed to find the right time to announce it, but not publicly, not yet. The announcement would supersede Prince Aegon’s and Princess Helaena’s marriage, and Rhaenyra was not so young now to want to raise the ire of Alicent anymore than necessary.

No. She would wait. Keep the peace. Bide her time until she and her father could be alone. 

Yet, with the week nearly gone, Rhaenyra was beginning to feel restless. With Alicent’s constant hovering and application of milk of the poppy, her father’s state drifted between dreamless and dreaming. Sweet delirium that carried him away from pain, and away from her.

Even now, sitting on either side of the King, Rhaenyra felt that she was grappling for the attention of her ailing father from his wife. Rhaenyra’s eyes skimmed the side of the table where Alicent’s brood had left their chairs abandoned.

Aegon had disappeared early on in the feast, after proclaiming once again that his brother was a true prince. Rhaenyra had prickled, unsure whether the compliment was meant to be barbed as Aemond’s “strong” comment, but Aegon was well into his cups and stumbled onto the dancefloor bracketed by long tables, chasing skirt or drink.

At this cue, Aemond too disappeared, leaving poor Helaena who had not even raised her voice to oppose, but picked at her fingers, muttering under her breath. 

Her sister looked anything but a blushing bride-to-be. Her pale cheeks were sallow and tired, lack of sun and time with her dragon perhaps. All her children were rosy-cheeked and hearty. The product of the freedom she allowed at Dragonstone, Rhaenyra knew, but still she could not leave her so.  

Rhaenyra caught the eye of her eldest son and beckoned him over.

“Show your aunt some kindness and ask her to dance, if you please?” Jace nodded and, turning back to Baela, kissed her knuckles before depositing her back at Daemon’s side. Baela lifted her cup to her lips, eyes intent as Jace made his way over and asked for Helaena’s hand in a dance. Startling both Otto and Alicent when she accepted and the two went out onto the floor. 

“Thank you,” Alicent whispered, over the King’s head. 

“He’s a good boy,” Rhaenyra said, a smile touching her mouth. 

Alicent nodded and her eyes studied the two of them on the floor, hesitant, but at ease when Jace gave her space, palms hovering, hand behind their back, they began to spin around each other.

Helaena's smile seemed to split her lips.

The children had all returned to the table, Luke and Rhaena red-faced after attempting a lift and trot, Baela laughing hard at a joke her father told, and Joffrey spinning in circles in his little dress clothes. 

“Where is Visenya?” she asked. Rhaena shrugged.

Daemon lifted his chin in indication. “Our little flower queen is comforting her lost champion.” 

Rhaenyra skimmed the crowd until she found her daughter palm-to-palm with Tywin Tyrell, the gale of her daughter’s laughter rapturous with the music. Daemon had his gaze fixed on her since she left their side, anxious as only a father could be. “She has been dancing with all eligible lords of the high houses.”

“Good girl.” Rhaenyra intoned, taking up her drink again. 

She and Daemon had been careful in their training, being sure she knew who was closely allied with the Greens and to avoid becoming entangled with them. They could not have her daughter’s consort be a man too weak or too strong. Highborn, and allied with the King’s intentions. 

It had provided a narrow selection, but Visenya had set out to do as she was bid, making fine introductions and building bridges of finer words. Rhaenyra would like to say she did not worry about her daughter, but in truth, she worried for her heart in all these alliances.

Daemon’s daughters were no strangers to their betroths and Rhaenyra would guide them in honor of Laena’s memory. However, she worried for Visenya and her marriage to a stranger. She had hoped giving her reign to choose would allow her to make a harmonious match. Equal footing to equal understanding. 

Visenya brushed shoulders with Jace and Helaena in the dance and the three of them shared smiles as the Tyrell boy spun her back, pulling her in for the end of the song. Rhaenyra was a little impressed. “Tis good he doesn’t scare easily.”

“After that display at the tourney?” Daemon replied in High Valyrian. “The knight of flowers looked like he would crawl back to Highgarden on his knees.” 

Rhaenyra sniffed, bringing her cup back to her lips, she found her daughter in the crowd again, constant motion and the pull of the music led to a hectic dancefloor. All bodies brushed together, spinning in intricate loops. 

It was then that she spied another silver head in the crowd. For a moment, she thought it might be Aegon, returned to claim his bride from Jace, but the stride is too quick, too sure. 

Aemond had surfaced from his hiding place and he was cutting a straight line for Visenya. 

Rhaenyra drew up, despite herself, for a moment, unsure whether she should make her way over or call Visenya back, but before she could decide, they collided. Songs shifted, partners traded. THe well-trained court worked around them as her daughter stood her ground, eyes locked on Aemond, freeing her dance partner and standing between them before he inched away. 

Crawling back to Highgarden as Daemon said.

Not that Visenya and Aemond seemed to notice. 

Rhaenyra could tell from the snarl on her daughter's mouth that they were arguing, but in the thicket of the crowd and between the motion of dancing bodies, Rhaenyra could only make out slivers and glimpses of the interaction between uncle and niece. 

Aemond’s tilted head. Visenya’s pinched face. A jeweled wrist. A lord’s wayward step. The two seem to have come closer, either to better hear one another over the music or in the heat of the argument. A highborn lady spun, too into her cups, a laugh peeling from her lips. Her daughter’s flower crown shedding more petals. 

Aemond had a hand lifted, palm up. An offer. An invitation. 

Visenya turned from him.

And that hand caught her arm.

Rhaenyra nearly jumped to her feet at that moment, propriety and eyes of the court be damned, if her half-brother put hands on her daughter then Rhaenyra would have those hands removed. 

She looked away for a moment, just a moment, to catch Luke’s eye and beckon him over and when she looked back, the scene had changed again. 

The music was still high and jovial, deserving of high steps and twirls, but Visenya and Aemond were encased in their own closed circle. His hand on her arm, sliding up the sleeve of her dress to her shoulder, then neck. Their foreheads bent together. Close enough to kiss, but neither seemed to cross that invisible barrier.  

But the two were carrying on as if there was no one else in the room. As if they were the only two in the hall. 

How was no one else seeing this?

Rhaenyra looked to Daemon, tense as a dragon about to breathe fire when he met her gaze. The two of them thought back to that night all those years ago, the one that was to be the beginning of her wedding festivities that instead ended in blood and tragedy. She still remembered the dance that they shared, the heat of his hands, the angry tilt of his voice, the press of his kiss. 

Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.

In this very hall. 

Time worked backward and forwards, pale ghosts with their pale heads tipped close, palms against throats. Aemond’s hand took her hip and the two of them began to step to the music, picked up with fervor as if they had been dancing this whole time.

Aemond lifted her, hands lingering and the two switched steps, spinning out and finding other partners; Visenya to a Stark bannerman and Aemond to a Baratheon girl. Neither of them glanced sideways at the other for the remainder of the dance.

“Mother?” Luke’s voice sounded in her ear. “Mother, you called for me?”

Daemon sat beside her in livid silence and Luke grew quiet. Rhaenyra tried to keep her voice smooth. “Luke bring your sister to me.” Her boy nodded and darted off into the crowd, quick to be away and Rhaenyra’s gaze fell on Daemon and Rhaena, the two of them still in silence. 

For a moment, she was without words, but when she looked back into the crowd, Visenya was gone. 

As, too, was Aemond. 

Rhaena

One benefit of Visenya’s flowers had been the shedding petals. 

Since her crowning, she and Baela had been giddily trailing after their stepsister, teasing her for her unseasonable flowers and Visenya had been seething about it all, but the court thought it magical. The Tyrell boy, especially, commented that it made it easy for him to find her in the dance.

And now Rhaena was applying that same logic.

After Lucerys had taken off after his sister, Rhaena had done the same, not minding the stare her father gave her as she rushed out the hall, eyes to the ground until she spotted a trail of bloodred flowers. Trampled by passing servants and Rhaena intended to follow it to the end of it. 

Something had transpired in the hall between Visenya and Aemond. She was not sure what, either an argument or petty squabble, but she had not been able to see from her vantage point on the dais. She was sure she had seen Aemond grab Visenya though. And the insult of his touch had set her in motion. 

Though they teased her for her crown, she and Baela had been horrified when Aemond had ridden up to her at the tourney, begged her favor, and crowned her with victory.

It had been as if they were awaiting some trick afterward. Some meanness that bit back double to the insult. 

Visenya must have fled, she thought, as she followed the trail back towards their shared rooms, but as sure as she was, the trail began to deter. Stopping every once in a while, near an alcove or under the arch of a door, finding hidey-holes and corners to slip behind as she progressed deeper and deeper into the castle. Deeper than Rhaena had ever been. 

It was cold here. Less black and red and greener than she had ever seen. Iconographies of the Seven littered throughout the hall. These were the Greens rooms, close-knit as a family unit. Just as her family’s rooms back in Pentos had been, just as they were now on Dragonstone.

They had decorated their hall with paintings of their mother and the colors of her House, seashells, and nautical curiosities that delighted and enthralled them.

She followed the red blooms down the forsaken path, finding no guard or other guest, not even a maidservant to inquire from, but she kept going, pressing deeper the more her fear rose. 

It was then, turning a corner that she heard a noise save her own heartbeat—a low pained whine. Rhaena stopped cold as her eyes landed on a shape cloistered in the arch of an alcove. A multilimbed beast under the shadow of candlelight. 

Rhaena did not know then, but she knew when a shriek rose in her voice that it had been her own shock that startled her more than some fabled monster. But she watched rapt and horrified as the beast split and one became two, with panic and pressing hands—Visenya and Aemond parted.

"Rhaena—? A-aemond, wait!"

Aemond, her mind caught on the word, his name, his face. Aemond. 

Aemond who had sullied her mother’s memory. Aemond who teased and taunted them as children. Aemond who stole her mother’s dragon. Aemond who had had his hand up Visenya’s skirt and pulled those low noises.

She felt as if she might scream again, but it was lodged in her throat, holding her silent for several moments too many as the one-eyed creatin wheeled on her. 

“What are you doing here?” Aemond demanded, stepping forward as if he might rush her, but Visenya had a hand on his arm, anchoring him back even after they made a show of separating. 

“I was looking for my sister.” She hissed and then glanced at her from the unbound laces of Visenya’s stomacher and the mussed state of her hair, her flowers. All thoughts of her sister—innocent in this sin—were forgotten. “So good of you to find her for me.” 

“Rhaena,” Visenya whispered, stepping forward, but then paused, Aemond’s hand held her in place. She felt sick. 

“Aemond.” Visenya’s voice was all authority, unearned yet unchallenged. “Go, now.”

Aemond sneered and looked apt to argue, as he had, as he always had, but then he stepped back into the shadows, bootheels clicking on the stone steps. Rhaena was not sure if his surrender fueled or filed her rage. 

“I should hope you will find your own chambers!” Rhaena called after him, picking up her skirts as if she might follow. “Because if you darken our doorstep, I will not hesitate to put out your other eye—”

Somewhere, a door slammed, and Visenya’s hand caught hers in a vice, stopping her short before pulling her down the corridor. Rhaena allowed herself to be led, seething, until Visenya brought them into an unoccupied room, dusty and forgotten. 

Under different circumstances, Rhaena would have been a little mystified by the ordeal. Her stepsister knew so much of the Red Keep that was their familial home, but now it only stewed the flames to Rhaena’s fire. 

Was this another one of her and Aemond’s liaison spots? How long had this been going on?

The questions built up within her, but the longer she stared at her stepsister, the less and less she had to say to her. Her lip wobbled though, so she pressed it down with her teeth. Hoping to taste blood. 

“Rhaena, I—” she began, but Rhaena held up a hand. 

“Do not speak.” She whispered, anger rising in her throat. “I want—give me a moment.” Rhaena pressed her hand to her mouth, startled by the own break in her voice. Tears, she could hardly believe it. She was crying when she should be screaming. When she should be demanding. 

Visenya lifted her hands to comfort her, but Rhaena pulled away. Hand clutched to her chest. 

“How could you?” She spat, unable to keep it in any longer.

“I, I did not mean for you to—” 

“With him?” Rhaena shrieked. “The man who disrespected the memory of my mother and stole her dragon! Stole her from me!”

“Rhaena, sweet, let me explain.”

But Rhaena was deaf to her. “You know how father looks at me because I am not a rider. There are no other dragons. Vhagar was a chance. My chance. And he stole her from me. Stole her from me while I was mourning her passing. I could have claimed her. I could have continued her memory with Vhagar, but that whelp, that dragon-stealing cunt, took her from me.”

Visenya was startled but Rhaena was only urged on. Anger was not beneath her. It was a part of her. Although Baela was the first with a sharp comment, first with a cutting move, Rhaena had stewed in it long enough. With tears in her eyes, it was all bubbling up at once. 

“Rhaena—”

“Stop it! And it's not even just that,” Rhaena’s voice dipped into a sob. “But it’s him. It's that it's him, the true pride of the Greens and you let him put hands on you as if he had rights to. Gods, Visenya, what is wrong with you?”

“I don’t—” Visenya’s brow pinched. 

“Do you not remember all those years ago? How he tried to do to Jace? What about Luke? They both still bear scars from that skirmish. What of when he put his hands on Baela and me? Do you not remember your own injury? If you were to take him as consort, do you honestly think he would hesitate to do it again if given half the chance?”

“Rhaena, I know!” Visenya screamed, her rage coming down like the gnashing of teeth. Her pretty face was twisted in a snarl, a dragon through and through. “I know. I remember it all clearly.” Visenya said, biting her lips together. “So clearly, I still feel his blood on my hands. And you forget that for raising a hand to any of you, I cut out his eye in return. That will never heal. Not like your cuts or Luke’s nose. His nails on my throat still sting, but when I look at him, I see a blow I dealt him that was far worse.”

It was then, in the short silence that Rhaena was reminded of another thing that night.

In the moments after the assault, the four of them reeled from the sound of skin splitting and fate spinning. There was screaming, so much screaming. Echos full of it. Confusion and blood, and the dagger were flung to the ground. 

Visenya had rushed Aemond first. Her blood-slick hands had cradled his face. Palm over his eye, as if to stem the bleeding. As if to undo what she did. Screaming it.

Aemond had shoved her back for her guilt and then the rest of them descended in ambush. 

"I know," Visenya said slowly, as if not to startle, "that none of this makes sense, but I beg you Rhaena, allow me to explain. I know what I am doing." 

Rhaena drew her arms around herself. “I do not think you do. You forget yourself, sister. I see it.” She swallowed and the bob of grief in her throat remained there. The trepidation, the tipping scale. “I should have been the one to do it,” Rhaena said, resolute. “It should have been me. I was the one slighted. I should have taken that knife and cut out his eye myself if you wish to stand here and regret defending your kin.” 

“I do not regret it. It needed to be done.” 

“You say one thing, but then you say another,” Rhaena said, fresh tears coming forth. “You let that Green corrupt your body and soul.”

Visenya pressed her lips thin and, for a moment, her indominable sister looked defeated.

“I know you are angry with me, and I have no right to ask, but please, I beg you, do not tell Mother and Father.”

The request prodded at some soft bruise in Rhaena’s mind, but she ignored it. Pushed it under fire and blood. 

Rhaena shook her head. “I owe you nothing.”

“As your sister—”

“You defiled yourself over nothing and expect me to say nothing?”

Visenya’s face went slack, those beseeching, teary eyes turning to desperation. 

“You told no one of Baela's dalliances with Jace.” 

Rhaena’s cheeks burned. “My—my sister’s dalliances with her betrothed, are just that. Long dazes, clasped hands, mayhaps a stolen kiss or two, but not—not that. Not pushed up against a corridor consummating some unholy union. Not with someone like him.” The memory of the two of them, the sounds made her skin crawl. “Gods, Visenya, why him?! Why not someone highborn and true? Someone noble! You can have anyone; anyone you want in all the realms! Why him?!”

"I—"

"What is he to you?"

“I do not know,” Visenya whispered, voice smaller than she had ever heard. 

Rhaena stared at her a moment longer until she realized she would not get an answer that would satisfy her. Though Visenya was misty-eyed and flushed, she was not as bereft as Rhaena felt. Then, suddenly she could not stand to remain a moment longer. She turned to the door, finding it barred, but once her hands stopped shaking, she found it easy to lift the latch. 

She looked back to Visenya and the sight of her broke her heart. 

“I will keep your secret, but do not ask anything else of me, stepsister. Or my love for you will be forfeited.” Rhaena slammed the door as she went, lips caught in her teeth as she tore down the corridor, not stopping until she was somewhere well and familiar. The halls were emptying with lords and ladies returning to their rooms.

The night was done. 

She thought she might have seen her father somewhere in the crowd, hand on the Crowned Heir’s back, but Rhaena quickly diverted her gaze and pressed on. Not stopping until she was back in her room. 

Baela was sitting at her dressing table, taking her hair down, and was startled when she entered. On her feet in an instant. Her twin’s expression turned from shocked to worried in an instant. A deep ache in her chest, like a dragon bond, bound the two of them. 

“Rhaena? Rhaena, what’s happened?”

The familiar touch of her twin, her hands on her arms, her face, was a comfort but Rhaena could not get herself to speak the words. It was as if her oath had lodged them in her throat. 

Visenya has betrayed us,  she wanted to cry. Visenya has turned her back on her sisters for the Greens. But instead, she allowed herself to be petted and cajoled, Baela’s own fear sharpening her resolve as she was led to the bed and her twin lay with her, arms wrapping her tight as the night turned dark.

Neither of them stirred when Visenya tucked into the room later that evening, escorted by Ser Lyonel. 

Her flower crown had been shaken out to bare branches, a husk of itself. In the morning, more flowers would arrive, endlessly throughout their stay, and Rhaena would watch as Visenya wove them into her hair. Wondering who she was doing it for.

Princess Visenya had truly claimed her title of the Dragon Flower then, as she wore them in her hair every eve, fresh plaits of them making a coronet of her already crowned head. She remained close to her mother in those days, as well, preparing to be named heir, she met with all the eligible men of the realm amidst the wedding party. 

But, the future Queen Visenya had someone else in mind for her consort. 

Viserys

Although exempt from most of the festivities, Viserys was content to spend the long afternoons alone in his chambers with his maesters and comfortable bed. Only this time, he was surprised to wake to find his daughter and granddaughter before him, smiling. “Father, I do not mean to disturb you, but I was hoping Visenya might read to you?” 

Viserys’ eye rolled from daughter to granddaughter, seeing double before nodding his affirmation. He would like that. Yes.

Rhaenyra nodded before leaning down to kiss his brow, hands smooth on his burning skin before she turned back to her daughter. “My knight will be outside.” She called, but Viserys knew not who for. Her exit was marked by the echo of the great door leading out of her chambers falling closed. 

Visenya stared after her mother, hands cupping the small book she brought with her. She looked at him, lost. 

Viserys tried for a smile. “Go on. Pull up a chair.” 

Nodding, she did as she was bid, dragging a chair from his bedside so she could sit closer and cracked the book open. “I might fall asleep, Rhaenyra.” He warned gently. “But do keep reading if you can, I so enjoyed it when your mother did this for me.” 

She hesitated for a moment, then took a breath before she began, her voice high and clear as she dipped into the language of their forbearers. High Valyrian was a such challenge for him to learn as a young one, always stumbling over nominative and datives, but Rhaenyra had taken to it beautifully. 

She spun him stories on her tongue, of treachery and dragons and glory of battle, the whisper of songs and old kings and Old Valyria. The words were a well and welcomed distraction from the break of his body and all its futile rot. His lips mumbled along to the words he remembered, words that Aemma had read to him over and over when she was practicing her diction, a girl still with her hair loose and ruffles on her collar.

He was warmed by the sun's golden memory, but when he opened his eyes, the sunlight stopped at the windows, a pale slant of it pouring down over a girl with flowers in her hair. Dragon’s breath were woven into her braid and inspired the Targaryen red of her gown. 

So lovely, Viserys’ eyes filled with tears.

“Your Grace, shall I skip this passage?” The girl asked, folding the book over her thumb. Her eyes were violets, intent on him. Her hand brushed his own. “Or, perhaps fetch the maester for you?” 

Viserys drew a breath. “No, no, sweetling. Read on.” His lips pulled at the corners, chapped with want for tea, but he found at that moment that he did not have the stomach for it. “Your voice will soothe me to sleep, Visenya.” 

Visenya balked at the sound of her name, then smiled and took up her book again. Her hand remained on his until his own went slack from sleep, but still, she remained close, her soft voice rolling over the hills of Old Valyria. 

Viserys had done much wrong in his rule, supported only for his sex and proclamations of the old king that sired his line. He was, often reminded of this by the many ways he proved himself unfit to rule: the cuts the throne dealt him, the deaths of his children and wife, and the tight, almost pitying way Rhaenys looked at him. As if holding back screams.

But, Viserys could take comfort in his child and all the good she would do when she ascended the throne. With Daemon at her side and Visenya as her heir, they would usher in a new age. For a hundred, for a thousand more years. 

Visenya paused again and Viserys was pulled from his dream, only a moment before she picked up again. Viserys was about to wonder if she skipped a word or needed help as little Rhaenyra did, but then he heard the soft click of the small door as it closed. 

Visenya did not pay any particular attention to the newcomer, so Viserys assumed them to be a servant or maester, come through the passage of the Queen, but then the specter appeared at his bedside. 

A tall boy, pale and severe with long hair, and Daemon came to mind, but Viserys wondered about the patch over his eye. His mind carried him back to images of a darkened hall and candlelight. A small boy with a half-stitched face and a curse on his lip. Still, Viserys could not place him among his kin.

The boy nodded then, offering respect before he pulled up a chair to sit beside Rhaenyra.

All the while, she had not broken her trance, reading a fabled love story of Old Valyria. A god-blessed union in the maying times, flowers woven and chases through the forest, a great hunt and greater catch. Two creatures intertwined forever, talons locked as dragons, plummeting to the ocean, neither willing to let go first.

Viserys peaked his eye open, a sliver of violet watching the seated pair beside him. 

The newcomer had yet to say anything, but watched the girl with an expression that Viserys could not name, but felt when Aemma whispered that she would marry him, be his lady wife, and one day his queen. It was a look of unending love, fondness so deep it shook the gods when threatened.

He watched as the newcomer reached out, the poem spinning to the bitter end, and placed his hand on not the girl, but the back of her chair. Visenya continued to read, voice lit and caught with emotion as the lovers were dragged apart by their respective houses, barred by windows and doors, unable to meet. A little more of them wearing away with each passing year. 

No two were more perfect for one another, no two were so well matched. No other would suffice. 

As Viserys drifted off to sleep, he opened his eye again to take in the pair, carved in profile by the sunlight, like a cameo in a book of songs—a shining prince and princess forever bound by longings of the heart. The perfect picture of this drool tragedy. 

Ser Lyonel 

Ser Lyonel knew that becoming a member of the Crowned Heir’s guard would come with its challenges and tribulations, and most times, peace times, those moments came not from the battlefield, but domestic life. 

It seemed that Princess Visenya had stirred up some youthful rebellion, which she was no stranger to, but when he had finished his rounds of the children’s bedrooms, he had returned to the princess’s quarters, only to find the prince consort sharpening Dark Sister against its whetstone and the Princess knotting her hands together as she paced their apartments. Their daughter sat before them, still as stone, and just as silent.

He was ordered to keep an eye on her and protect her, as always, but regardless, the Princess was still allowed to attend the wedding festivities, if only to save face. And to her credit, Princess Visenya gave away nothing with her cold stare and disinterest.

She busied herself with her cousins and siblings. She attended Princess Helaena and stitched the helm of her trousseaus. She danced with eligible lords and feasted with the great families. The wedding week was coming to a close with a masque the night before the wedding and then a final party before the whole charade was done. 

It all felt so anticlimactic that Ser Lyonel almost wished he had pressed what he was meant to keep the princess safe from. 

If not parties and men, then what? What other trouble could the little princess get up to when she was always in attendance of family and friends?

He wondered this when he stood vigil for the nights of feasting. Prince Aegon the Elder, finally persuaded into acknowledging his intended, had led his sister out onto the floor for the opening dance before the two went their separate ways again. 

It would be, the kingdom knew, a loveless match, but a smart one. 

Hidden in the pageantry of the masque, Ser Lyonel made sure to keep his eyes on Princess Visenya, who had dressed as a creature from lore, her hair twisted up into two braids to make mock horns and the overlapping coronet of hair braided with her now signature flowers. 

The flowers continued to arrive every day after the tourney. Dragon’s breath and Lady’s lace.

And every day, Visenya wore those flowers in her hair. 

She looked like a little goddess of the forest. The little princess who had grown in the harrow of the halls was now shining among them, and Ser Lyonel felt a swell of pride when he looked at her. 

The domestic moments of Princess Rhaenyra’s service were sweet relief to the political games. The joy he felt was carried when the future queen, dressed in all gold as the Goddess Syrax, bade him take Prince Joffrey, dressed as a fawn, spotted, and sleepy, back to his nursery for his septa. 

He agreed, smiling before taking the child, the weight familiar and warm as the prince eased into the crux of his arms. He nodded resolutely to the prince consort; he would make sure the little prince made it back to his room safely.  

He exited the hall through a side passage that had been cleared for servants and guards. It would be the only time, he thought wistfully, that the little prince might experience this little world beyond. Servant girls cooed after him as he went, clutching their chests and mouths at the little prince, but he only caught a disapproving stare from Ser Cole, coming back from whatever rock he crawled under before sneering by.

Spilling out back into the main corridor, he continued his venture to the family’s apartments where the septa were waiting up and would care for the children in their mother’s absence.

Aegon the Younger had been fitful without his brother, but little Viserys had turned the corner on his summer cold and would be returning soon. Soon, all of them would be returning home and all would be as it was. 

The further from the party he ventured, the drift of music and revelry never seemed too far behind. It was as if these old halls had caught the tune of the music and it reverberated, stone singing beneath each step.

It was probably how he did not notice the girl before he saw her. 

She was caped, dark, and pale as the Stranger, but a pale slip of hair had his mind immediately going to one of Queen Alicent’s brood, or perhaps one of the bastards that Prince Aegon left in the wake of his desires. His curiosity, however, was answered when the hood fell and the downy head beneath is revealed. “Princess Helaena?” 

The girl was shocked and cold, eyes shifting. “I am going to my dragon,” she said, quietly and then with fervor. “As is my right.” 

Ser Lyonel blinked, arms shifting his hold on Prince Joffrey. “I am sure, your grace, but would you not like an escort to the Dragonpit? If you would give me a moment, I would be more than honored to attend you, or perhaps I could fetch Ser Cole of your mother’s guard?”

The girl shook her head. “No, no, Ser. Thank you, but my brother will attend me.” Her eyes trail off his face and over his shoulder when she speaks as if dragged there by some errant thought. Watching something. Someone.

Ser Lyonel glanced over his shoulder but saw only shadow. Servants rush to and fro from the hall and back in again. 

The child in his arms stirred and Ser Lyonel smoothed a hand down his back. 

“Ser, I—” the Princess called his attention back. Her lips quirked as if to smile, but her knotted hands and pinched brow lessened the effect. “I, I really must away to my brother. I mustn’t keep him waiting. Threads of black, threads of green, you see . . .” She stared at him intently, as if taking care to do so and Lyonel shifted, uncomfortable. 

“Yes, of course, your grace.” He nodded and still the princess remained. “I must too away. Your nephew fell asleep at the party with so much excitement—”

“’Enya!” The child shrieked and all of them turned to find two caped figures retreating down the corridor. One of their hoods had fallen and the intricate braids and flowered plaits of Visenya Velaryon’s hair tumbled down her shoulders. Hand in hand with another, neither looked back as they make their retreat. 

“Excuse me, Ser Lyonel, but I really must—” The Princess trailed off before picking up her skirts and rushing after the fleeing pair, shouting something in High Valyrian that had the retreating two halted long enough for her to catch up and then the three were off again, turning a corner and out of sight.

Ser Lyonel stood for a moment, hand extended, though he did not remember doing so. Would it have been worse if he caught the princess as she skirted him? Turned the ire of the Green Queen to halt the plans of the fleeing pair? He was not sure. But he did know he could not go after them with Prince Joffrey in his arms. And he would not be able to reach the Princess’s apartments and be able to double back to the Dragonpit in time.

If that truly was where they were going. 

As if to harbing his dilemma, Ser Criston Cole appeared, using the main exit as if he were a guest, not a guard. His eyes set upon him and the prince and he moved forward. “Were you not sent away a while ago, Ser Bently? One would think you would be more efficient in—”

“Ser Cole! Princess Visenya just disappeared down that corridor with Princess Helaena and an unknown man. I believe they are heading to the Dragonpit.” 

“Princess—?” Ser Cole’s brows pinched and then he stepped forward. Rage powered his steps. “And you just let them leave? With an unknown man?” He roared and Ser Lyonel thought, for a moment, that his hand inched to his blade. Though he would not need it. 

Ser Cole had a reputation for violence. He had once pulverized the skull of the Knight of Kisses for a stray word, and as the Green Queen’s protector, he faced nary a consequence. 

He shifted his body so that the prince was shielded by him. “I still have to deliver the prince to his septa and I was not able to follow. I believe Princess Helaena was distracting me—”

At this, Ser Cole laughed. “Distracting you? From what?”

“From—for, she said she was meeting her brother. Perhaps the unknown man was her brother?” He offered, now sounding unsure. Ser Cole’s teeth were grit so hard they looked like they might break. “She said she was meeting her brother to visit her dragon. I cannot go. Could you follow them to the Dragonpit?”

“I will.” Ser Cole snarled; his voice was cold, dismissive. “Go do your duty and return to your lady. I will be sure to give a full report to the Queen on how incompetent her stepdaughter’s guard is.” And then he was off after them. 

Ser Lyonel stood for a moment, shivering in the aftermath as his muscles unlocked. Prince Joffrey was clutching at his neck, little hands sweating and face pinched as if tears would flow. “Shh, my prince, it’s alright. He’s gone.” He whispered and hummed, but the longer he stood there, seconds ticking by, he felt more and more unsure. It had happened so fast, what had he seen?

The two princesses fleeing the Red Keep? Youth on their way to mischief? Aids to a runaway bride?

If this was what he was meant to protect Princess Visenya from then he had surely failed.

He stood in the hall, marooned for a moment longer before heading back through the servant’s corridors. The prince’s bedtime could wait. He needed to inform his princess now. 

Helaena

Helaena felt like the Stranger in her brother’s cape. 

It was too large for her, the dark material falling over her shoulders and dragging behind her as she walked, like a veil, a train of a wedding gown and house cloak. 

She had not grown accustomed to the weight of it during her fitting, nor the expectations behind it, but she knew the foreign feeling would be familiar on the morrow, when she dropped her cloak to the ground, only to have it replaced by a mirror of its own—dragons and towers, and she the princess trapped between. 

Helaena felt numb to it, a far away problem when she was up so high already. Her cape, Aemond's cape, had been to hide her dress, which was all lavender and lace like the froth of the seashore. More style than function, exhilarated and chilled by the whip of the wind on Dreamfyre, her hair caught up in netting and seed pearls; she felt free for the first time in so long, up in the clouds and away from never-ending dreams.

A sea nymph. 

The one choice she had been permitted to make during her wedding week had been her costume for the masque and she was reluctant to part with it. The outfit made her feel magical, protected, and brave. 

But even then, there had been no time to change from their costumes, too quick for the guards, too careful for the spies; the four of them had stolen away on dragon back into the night to Dragonstone. On the carrageen rocks, under the light of the moon and fire, they acquired a sept and a blade and made their choices. 

Prince Lucerys looked scandalized. No doubt thinking of the wedding he witnessed here years before of his mother and stepfather. 

Her nephew had been quiet during the mission, managing to cause enough ruckus with Arrax to deter the keepers long enough for Visenya to get to Shrykos, then it had been a matter of keepers versus riders, and that had never been a fair fight. Bloodless, yes, but their stealing out of the Keep was surely known by now. 

And soon all would know what Aemond and Visenya were willing to defy to be together. 

Under the light of the early summer moon, when the chill was still crisp from spring, the two of them were dressed as gods from Old Valyrian faerie stories. It would be marked as one of the most interesting wedding ceremonies Helaena had ever intended. Her own, included. 

When Luke glanced up again, his eyes of deep umber were full of questions, and Helaena knew not how to explain. They two were called as kin to witness this union, so they two would be the first privy to the news. 

But Helaena had known from the moment Aemond come to her chambers, from the moment Visenya stepped down on King’s Landing, the moment Visenya’s dagger broke his skin, the moment Aemond stuttered out his name in introduction, breaking away from Helaena and stepping into his own person. Not twin, but a child. Singular.

He had loved her all his life, through fire and blood, and he would love her until those flames took his body. 

Twin will twine again,  she mouthed to herself as night, until her tongue was dry and her throat sore, twin will twine again, threads of black, threads of red, threads of green, binding ambitions—

And Aemond would never be hers again. Not since he looked upon Visenya first with kindness, then jealousy, then rage. Circular were all feelings, but Aemond’s intentions had been set with an oath, with blood, with love. And in truth, they had been married in the old ways that night on Driftmark, with fire and blood, the old gods of Valyria as their witnesses.

Severing sweet sorrow, close one eye, gain a dragon. Close one eye, lose a heart. Twin will twine again. Twin will twine again, threads of black, threads of red, threads of green, binding ambitions like ribbons. 

Helaena’s eyes tear when Visenya pressed a thumb of her blood to Aemond’s crown and then his lip, mirroring his motions. A moment and her hand was careless and her palm clasped his cheek, smearing her blood against his scar. Under the soft, glimmering socket of his eye. 

She said something Helaena barely catches in High Valyrian, sweet as berries in the spring, and Aemond nodded, enraptured by his bride as he drew her in and kissed her, long and hard.

Helaena watched her nephew turn away, propriety and his own confusion begging him and, after a moment, Helaena did too. She turned out to the sea, dark waters chopping with the pull of the tides, and beyond to the Red Keep glimmering like a jewel in the distance.

She would be married soon, and much change would follow, children and namedays, auburn hair turning gray, and deaths to count in black buttons on mourning dresses. But war would not come. No dance, but those extravagant affairs her mother planned. No battles but the quarrels of familial life.

And Helaena could stomach that.

“Sister,” Aemond hand touched her shoulder. There was blood still smeared on his face and his mouth was pressed with the bruise of Visenya’s kiss, and he always wore her wounds so well.

There seemed to be something lighter about him, despite the tension that ached his shoulders, the coming battle of their mother and their sister, and the ire of the Rogue Prince. “Come, let us return to the Keep.”

“Yes,” she said, eyes flickering over to where Visenya was talking to Luke, wiping his eyes and ruffling his hair. She wore Aemond’s blood with pride. “Yes, let us return.” 

It was often noted by many of the maesters and court historians that the marriage of Prince Aemond of House Targaryen and Princess Visenya of House Targaryen and House Velaryon set the foundations of peace for the two branches of the Targaryen family. Although, at the time, Visenya Velaryon's decision was heavily scrutinized by her family. It was whispered, even, that the Prince Consort even called to have the marriage annulled, but Visenya was steadfast that the old gods of Valyria were not so fickle. 

She remained at the Red Keep for the following year, reuniting with her family again after the death of Viserys Targaryen in the spring. 

With the path cleared for Rhaenyra Targaryen's ascension, and her lineage solidified with the births of her grandsons, Prince Laenores and Prince Daemon, the Crowned Heir returned to King's Landing to be named Queen. It was then, before the realm that Princess Visenya and her consort took the knee to pledge loyalty, and when she rose, she was formally titled as Crowned Heir and Prince Aemond as Prince Consort. 

The May season had taken hold of the young couple and by her mother’s coronation, Princess Visenya and her consort took the knee to pledge loyalty. And when she rose, she was formally named Crowned Heir. All was as it should be, but it was only the beginning of the games to come.