Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It hurt—it had, before. Now it’s only cold, the warmth pooling underneath her yet so far out of reach. She tries to move, but her body won’t obey. She tries to breathe, a wheezing kind of futility.

She’s drowning, she thinks. In her own blood. There’s a knife sticking out of her chest, or was when she fell down, but she can’t feel it anymore. She can’t feel much of anything, anymore. Just the cold and the encroaching nothing.

It’s a pathetic way to go, the way she goes, but she finds it hard to care enough to feel bitter about it.

She closes her eyes as the cold seeps into her bones, the quiet static around her.

Then, nothing.

○

Rhea knew that she shouldn’t have laid with Daemon, even for appearance’s sake, on their first wedding night. She didn’t really like him; he didn’t really like her. Their marriage was only because his grandmother commanded them wed. Neither of them held any illusion that it was the only possible way they became tied together.

It was a fine match. A rich match. A prince of the realm and an heiress of Runestone.

But Rhea had little fondness of men, of anyone, in general, and Daemon might have been a pretty face but his tongue was sharp and quicker than he, and his observations cruel and snide and crude. He thought her dull, he thought her ugly. For a while there she thought he wouldn’t even be able to perform his duty with her, with how displeased he was with the match.

It was only after she insinuated that he couldn’t when he did, only to prove her the contrary.

They managed, somehow, and it wasn’t even unpleasant in all honesty, though Rhea saw no point in the act, and now understood people’s obsession with sex even less. But they had to legitimize that marriage they didn’t want, because the Good Queen ordered it so, and they did. And now here she was, nine moons almost to the day after that wedding night, pacing around her bedroom with one hand on her swollen belly as contractions rippled through her body time and time again, and she wished she had taken that damned tea when it was offered to her.

She didn’t think one half-assed night would be enough for her to get with child, and yet, here she was. To her displeasure, Daemon was there too. Outside, because he didn’t really want to see her any more than she wanted to see him, but he was here, despite the months of his increasing hostility and dislike of both her and the realm, he was playing the part of a doting husband and a soon-to-be loving father. It was pissing Rhea off.

“My Lady, it’s best you lay down,” the Maester fretted and she sent him a stink eye. The elderly midwife, broom still in hand, did too. Rhea didn’t feel like laying down, and right now no amount of pleading would make her. It was the pregnancy moods, she supposed, but the fretting Maester was making no sense and only pissing her off.

“Her ladyship will do whatever she pleases,” the old woman told him and whacked him with the broom for a good measure. “Her body will tell her what to do.”

“But the books—”

“Fuck your books,” Rhea hisses, bending forward as a particularly strong cramp makes her legs buckle. She leans forward, hands braced on a table as she moves from foot to foot.

“Men,” the midwife huffs. “Always barging in where they got no business! Go on, boy, fetch me more hot water! It won’t kill you to be useful for once!”

Rhea snorts as she sits down on a chair. It’s going to be a long night.

○

[Are you certain this is a good idea? Completely, absolutely certain?]

[…in truth, no, old friend. But what choice do we have?]

[Direct intervention?]

[This is a direct intervention.]

[This is—]

[It is.]

[This is us ripping the future as we know to shreds and diving into the deep. If we do this, we will have no way of knowing what happens anymore—]

[And neither will they. It is not nearly the vice you think it will be—sometimes, it’s best to not know.]

[All this, losing all that foresight, for faint hope of fate changing in ways that will truly be out of our hands this time?]

[Yes. But we must try this; we have failed so many times, I fear the world itself will collapse if we keep going the way we were.]

[…I truly hope you know what you’re doing, Shrykos.]

[As do I, Balerion. As do I.]

○

The child arrives at midday on a calm, sunny summer day. The labour was easy, the midwife tells Rhea, very quick for a first-time mother, not even a full day’s worth from when it began in late afternoon. She wants to call bullshit, but the old woman has had plenty her own children, and aided even more other births, and Rhea only partook in this one, so she says nothing. If it really can be worse than this, then she’ll count her blessings. It hurt like all hells, that’s for sure, but now, she realizes she doesn’t feel all too bad.

She’s heard enough horror stories about women unable to leave the birthing bed for moons on end, of birth fever and excessive bleeding that could end a mother’s life before the Maester would even get to her chambers. But she feels fine; the old midwife told her she’s healthy and that she shouldn’t expect many complications.

The child isn’t wailing like she’s been taught to expect, thank the Gods, but it is mewling in displeasure as the maids delicately bathe it in warm water and wrap it in soft blankets and shove it into Rhea’s arms. She stiffens, unsure what to do with it. She can’t wait to push it onto nannies and nursemaids; she’s done her part, and she’s not sure she wants anything of Daemon near her, even if the child is half of her, too. Half of Daemon is still a Daemon too much.

“A healthy girl, my lady.”

Ah, so the it is a she.

She’s ugly, Rhea realizes, looking down at the child. All red and wrinkly, pug-nosed and looking more like a big caterpillar than a human, but the midwife assures her that all babes look like this, so it’s probably true. The girl’s eyes are closed shut and her tiny red hands are clenched into fists, and, really… It is truly the ugliest thing Rhea has seen in her life.

She cannot fathom how some women enjoy caring for those things.

Then the door swings open, and the second ugliest thing Rhea’s seen in her life barges into the room.

“Is it done?” Daemon asks, and the fucker has the gall to actually look excited. Rhea rolls her eyes as the girl starts to mewl louder in her wooden-stiff arms, and shoves the bundle-of-joy at her idiot husband. He takes the child, and it just might be the first time he’s done anything well in his life.

“Here, you hold it. It’s a girl.”

And hold her he does; with some amount of skill, too. If Rhea remembers correctly, he had a niece born few years ago. Two or three or four—she doesn’t remember right now, exhausted as she is.

She can’t say she cares for much other than some food and a nap right now, though.

She thinks she hears a rumbling sound from him—purr?—but ignores it.

“Have you thought of a name?” he asks her, and it actually sounds genuine, if only because he’s distracted by the babe. She has no use of his genuine care; he’s offended her twice and their dislike was no secret. If not for her falling pregnant on their wedding night, he’d have long since fucked off somewhere, she’s sure. Probably would have had a bastard well on the way by now.

“No. Name her if you want her named, I did enough birthing her.”

She held the child long enough to see the white wisps of hair well, and she did not doubt the child would have violet eyes to match, and if the traditions were anything to go by, the child would soon enough have a dragon of her own; the only reason it would be delayed was the lack of eggs at the current time but some would be laid eventually. Or, once she grew, the child would claim some dead relative’s already-grown beast.

Rhea doesn’t want any dragons in Runestone. She can’t wait to be rid of Caraxes, ugly and misshapen even among other abominations of its kind, and a second dragon is the last thing she’d want.

Daemon’s smile is almost charming. Almost. He looks happy, at least, oddly soft when he looks down at the bundled babe. She imagines he’ll look like that when she dies; or when his grandfather, the king, agrees to annul their marriage.

(With them having a child, there’s no reason to annul, and she decides she will live a long life to spite him. Outlive him; him and this accursed child both, Gods willing.)

Rhea tells herself that the way the child instantly calms in his hold compared to how it doesn’t stop mewling in hers doesn’t put a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Well, I’ve been thinking—”

“Think less, then,” she snaps. “Or faster. I’m in pain, hungry, and tired, I’m in no mood for this.”

He huffs, but he’s still smiling, looking down at the ugly human caterpillar. Rhea doesn’t know why the larva makes him this happy, but if it keeps him away from bothering her, she’ll take it.

“Daelyra,” he says. “Daelyra Targaryen.”

Very Targaryen, that name, but what else was she expecting.

“We’re not making any more,” she warns him. He only laughs.

“Please, you couldn’t pay me enough to sleep with you again. It’d be more fun fucking a driftwood log, at least that would react. Your men here fuck sheep, I heard. They sure are prettier. I hope Daelyra takes after me in looks. She deserves that much, at least."

Rhea almost throws her cup at him, stopped only by the child in his arms. She doesn’t hate Daemon, at least not yet though there’s plenty to hate, but she has no fondness for him either and plenty of dislike. And right now, he’s pissing her off.

“Get the fuck out. Find her a wetnurse, or something, I need to sleep.”

He leaves without any more of his snide remarks after that, taking the child with him.

○

She opens her eyes swaddled in warmth, ambience of a soft voice overhead.

She can’t see much—anything really, everything is blurry and she feels her body being rocked back and forth even though her limbs feel like they’re made of lead. The voice above her is melodic… Singing, she thinks. She can’t hear very well either, as if she’s underwater.

Her last memory is cold, dark, and silent.

But what was it? She can’t remember much. She can’t remember anything, really, though she feels she should.

She feels sleepy, heavy and tired and sluggish even though she just woke up.

She feels safe.

Surely, a nap won’t hurt.

○

Daemon has never quite considered himself a family man, or a father material for that matter.

When grandfather knighted him and given him Dark Sister a little over a year ago when he became of age, he felt like the world was unveiling its secrets before him; like he could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone he wanted.

When grandmother told him he was to be married, to some lady in the Vale no less, he felt like his world shattered right there in his palms.

He was a man grown, but only barely; six-and-ten namedays and the second son of the second son, with a sword, a knighthood, and a dragon, and to a boy it seemed like everything, but to a man it wasn’t much at all.

He raged and pleaded and begged, but to no avail. His grandmother insisted; grandfather often agreed with her in those matters, his brother was useless to help as he himself was married and about to be a father, and his father never went against grandfather either. If his mother were alive, she would have not stood for it; but alas, she died to bring to this world a babe that outlived her for barely six moons, and Daemon was barely old enough to speak and walk when that happened.

He didn’t even remember her face, not really.

He was not happy to be tied down to a woman he didn’t even know, in a land he didn’t even like. And as he was the second son and she was the heir, it would be he who would be tied to her. He hated that too. He was the second son of the second son, and he hated that this was apparently the best he could and would ever get.

His place was by his brother’s side, not in the Vale. Why couldn’t they see that? He was his brother’s support, the pillar for Viserys to lean on. Always has been. How dare they take it from him? How dare they push him away from it? Why couldn’t they see that was where he belonged? When they were what made it his place to begin with?

But everyone insisted. It would be good for you, they said. You’re too wild, it’ll help you settle down.

He didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to fight and explore and protect his brother.

And they pushed him away. Gently; he could visit, still, always, Caraxes for his long neck could carry him over long distances before needing rest. But he wasn’t by Viserys’ side anymore and that stung in a way he didn’t know how to name. Viserys didn’t seem to notice, too busy with his wife and daughter to notice the hurt in his eyes.

So off he went with a bitter taste in his mouth. He wedded Rhea Royce in a dull ceremony, bedded her only when she goaded him to and didn’t enjoy any of it, and then drank himself into a stupor.

And then Rhea Royce was with child.

He balked at first; surely, one night wasn’t enough? She must have slept with someone else in the meantime—but that wouldn’t make sense. It wasn’t that she wasn’t thrilled about him specifically, she didn’t seem to find sex exciting at all. And she was entirely too stuck-up and, sadly, too honourable, to mother a bastard.

Daemon… Didn’t take to the news too well, he will admit. He was upset, truly, that his marriage to Rhea would be sealed in a way quite this permanent. He got drunk, gotten into a fight. Might’ve goaded Rhea into a screaming match; might’ve gotten a vase thrown at him. The cut still smarted.

But he accepted his fate; he couldn’t exactly kill Rhea, he’d be suspected first.

He was prepared to—he was expecting to hate this child that he didn’t want, that he sired on a woman he didn’t want during a night he didn’t really enjoy. He may have even wanted to hate this child, deep down, he thinks. It would have made it easy to leave, to not care about the comings and goings of Runestone. He was stifled by this place enough.

He waited, still, by the birthing room, for the whole night. Part of him just wanted to hear Rhea scream; part of him, he thinks, was almost excited to see the child. Part of him, one that he’d soon learn to loathe, was hoping the child would die. Part of him, one that remained, hoped Rhea would die.

She lived, sadly. The child did too, and he delighted in the hateful glare Rhea sent him when he entered the room. When the child, the girl—his daughter—was pressed into his arms, he didn’t expect much. He’s seen his brother’s daughter, an ugly worm-like thing that screeched and shat and ate and slept and did nothing else and didn’t find any appeal in it.

He didn’t expect this to be any different.

But she had to grab onto his finger, that daughter of his. She had to calm in his arms when she fused in her mother’s. Defenceless, fragile, yet instinctively so trusting. Not of Rhea, the mother who birthed her, but of Daemon; a rogue barely year into adulthood and yet already known for violence and quickness to anger, who rode a vicious dragon and carried a Valyrian steel sword he never hesitated to use.

He’s only ever felt like this around Viserys, and even then, it was less. That warmth spreading through his chest, that bone-deep certainty that this was exactly where he was meant to be, what he was meant to be doing.

How was he going to leave now, when he had a daughter to care for when her mother clearly didn’t?

Ruining his plans before he had the chance to enact them. Truly, blood of his blood.

Daelyra, he names her, after Daelyra Valtigar; a half-real half-made-up heroine of a series of books, treasures now, salvaged from Old Valyria when Aenar fled, that he read over and over again as a boy and imagined all the adventures, and her dragon of shadow and bone and terror, and the blood magic she wielded almost as well as her blades, and all her adventures in Sorthoryos and east of Asshai.

He’s not sure why it’s the first name that comes to his mind; he’s not sure why it feels so right, but it does. He’s not thought about the name for a child at all, but he sees his daughter, and then she’s just—Daelyra.

He makes up his mind then and there; he may be a second son, and he may not have much at all, but he will give her anything she wants. He will be free one day, he knows, and she will be too. And when she finds her dragon, they will fly all the way to Essos, away from all this politicking and all these people who will hate her just because she is his daughter.

He will teach her whatever she wants to know; dragonriding and High Valyrian and anything else she wants to know. He’ll teach her how to fight if she so wishes, he’ll learn hawking and how to use a bow in the way of the people of the Vale if she prefers that.

Seven hells, he’ll learn embroidery for her, he thinks, if she only asks.

And she’s not even a day old yet.

And as he sits by the fireplace in the nursery, where fire rages comfortably bright and warm, calling forth a memory of his mother and the lullabies she sang is easier than he thought it would be. He’s not used to singing, he never really sings at all, but High Valyrian rolls off his tongue easily enough, and Daelyra sleeps peacefully against his chest, and that’s enough.

○

[How do we choose?]

[We don’t. It’s a bit like fishing; we can narrow down the soul selection at best.]

[Are you sure this is wise?]

[Not at all! But we must hope for the best.]

[That’s an awful lot of things you’re leaving to chance, Shrykos.]

[Yes, yes, my friend. Now will you help me?]

[I cannot believe we’re pulling a dead soul through the fabric of reality. I cannot believe this is actually working; we’re pulling a dead soul through reality itself!]

[Well, death is your domain, and passages are mine. Don’t ask how or why it works; just be glad it does.]

[And what do we do with this dead soul? It’ll need a live body, will it not? Will we just decimate a pre-existing soul?]

[No. There is a perfect vessel, though; one that will take the soul. One that never lives no matter how many iterations we try.]

[That’s… Are we talking about Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce’s never-born child?]

[Precisely.]

[…Shrykos.]

[What?]

[I don’t want to scare you, but if we want to put a new soul into a babe, we will need Meleys’ help.]

[Oh. Fuck.]

○

He was a fortnight old when his mother took him for his first fly on dragonback, or so he was told, and then often since, for as long as his mother lived. Cousin Rhaenys rode his mother’s dragon now, but Caraxes was no less red than Meleys, the same wolfish thing, jagged and evil-looking and beloved all the same.

Caraxes looks at him curiously when he approaches, dressed in riding leathers and with Daelyra in a sling across his chest, fast asleep and unbothered, swaddled in blankets and a leather brace to protect her from wind. Caraxes trills and chuffs in greeting, sniffing him curiously, nosing at Daelyra.

Daemon is hit with a near-overwhelming wave of curiosity from his dragon, with undertones of excitement. What did you bring me? he seems to ask.

<It’s my daughter,> Daemon tells his dragon in High Valyrian. <See? This is Daelyra.>

He twists the sling to show the babe to his dragon. Caraxes trills, nosing at the babe gently, understanding how delicate a creature it is. Daemon trills back, and Caraxes purrs. Curiosity melds into contentment, happiness, and a bit of protectiveness he no doubt siphons from Daemon himself.

Presence presses against his mind, filling in the cracks of his being and fitting where it belongs. Warm-happy-protect. Hatchling, Caraxes tells him. Daemon smiles.

<I’m taking her flying today.>

He rests against Caraxes’ snout bodily as he fixes up the sling. He can see the servants fretting at the side, and he doesn’t care. This is a Targaryen’s right, and he will not be denied dragonback, and neither will his daughter.

Caraxes presses more emotions at him. Happy-sky-free. Don’t wait. Go.

Daemon laughs. His dragon has always been the bossy kind, but his dearest friend all the same.

Caraxes turns, leans down ever so slightly to make climbing onto the saddle easier and Daemon doesn’t need any more encouragement to climb onto his dragon and snap the belts and chains to keep him in place. He keeps one hand on Daelyra and the other on the reins, heart beating wildly. It’s not just because he’s not flown in entirely too long (a fortnight!) but because he’s not flying alone, and he is excited to share it with his daughter, even though she will not remember this first flight.

<This is what we are,> he whispers to the babe. <This is who we are.>

Caraxes chitters as he crawls to the edge of the cliff, vibrating with energy. Daemon chuckles and pats his red scaly back, and Daelyra mewls, blinking slowly, now awake. Daemon is purring before he even makes a conscious decision to do so, and she calms down before she can begin to fuss. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Normally they’re blue, Daemon’s been told, but not, in the light, he can see glimmers of deep violet in the darkness. He smiles, kisses her forehead, and turns to Caraxes.

<Fly, my friend!>

And fly he does, and Daemon swears Daelyra giggles when they’re in the air.

She’s asleep again by the time they land.

○

She dreams of flying among the clouds and chittering red dragons.

It’s a very pleasant dream.

○

Daelyra makes Runestone ever so bearable.

True, as a babe she’s little more than a toy, and all she does is eat and sleep and shit and sleep some more and make a disgruntled baby noise if something displeases her, but Daemon doesn’t find it boring.

She’s not a difficult child, rather easy to care for really. Quiet, too. It worries the maids who care for her, but Daemon doesn’t mind. He learns her tells faster than anyone; when she’s hungry, when she’s uncomfortable, when she’s tired. He hands her off to the wet nurse to feed and rocks her to sleep even in the middle of the night, and glares at Rhea when she deigns to waltz in to check if the child yet lives, and make a disgusted face when she sees Daemon there more often than not.

Maybe she’s upset to have given him something he likes.

He leaves Daelyra alone only to train with his sword and to fly Caraxes, but he’s with her more often than he isn’t. He moves a cot into the nursery and sleeps there more often than anywhere, and the serving girls moving about give him odd looks, but get used to him soon enough. Especially when it quickly becomes apparent that he can calm Daelyra and they cannot.

They give him odd looks when he purrs and chirps at her, on when he sits a little too close to the fireplace, and he hears them say that he’ll loose interest soon enough. He’s a lord, after all, a man; men don’t raise children.

He decides that he will, if only to spite them.

○

She wakes in parts, and her days are full of silver hair and violet eyes and a language she’s growing to understand, and warmth and the overwhelming feeling of contentment she’s not certain the source of.

She doesn’t want to let go—so, she reaches for it.

She doesn’t remember feeling quite this warm before.

○

Years pass quickly when he’s busy. He trains, he rides, he politicks how much he feels like, sends ravens here and there.

Daelyra grows from a quiet babe to a quiet toddler. She speaks little but with intent, and he claims her a little genius in the private confines of their rooms. She walks with purpose, too. It was amazing, the first time she stood up and looked at him with a concentrated frown, and he stopped then too like a hunted deer and watched in amazement as she took a step, and another, and then—

And then he dove and bruised his knees painfully but he caught her before she fell face-first onto the carpeted floor. She didn’t cry, just looked at him with those big almost-black eyes and patted his face.

<Great job little flame,> he told her anyway. She doesn’t quite understand, barely one nameday and some moons old, but she understands well enough when he stands up with her and presses her against his chest. She curls into familiar warmth and only makes a small disgruntled noise when he sets her down among her toys. It’s near enough to the fireplace that she doesn’t mind.

A wood-carved dragon with neck just a little too long, painted in red lacquer, is her favourite.

It’s Daemon’s favourite, too.

“Cawaxes!” she says, holding the toy out to him, and he smiles.

“Yes, Caraxes,” he agrees as he sits down. It’s adorable when she can’t pronounce ‘r’ properly yet; even more so when it clearly annoys her, judging by the way she scrunches her nose. He can’t help but poke her cheek, and she pouts at him in return. “And do you know what colour he is?”

He shouldn’t expect her to know. She’s only started speaking very recently, and this is a higher level of association. She wouldn’t be able to tell—

“Wed,” Daelyra tells him after a moment of consideration, and Daemon blinks at her, surprised and so proud it’s threatening to burst out of his chest.

“Yes, red,” he says with a nod, patting her head

Gods know his brother’s daughter was stupid in the way all small children were, from what he’s read from Aemma’s letters. Daelyra at least never tried to drink the ink he wrote with, or eat worms and dirt and leaves, and Daemon knows to count his blessings if only from all of Aemma’s horror tales.

Daelyra did stick her hand in the fireplace, though.

It shocked him at first, and he shoved his own hand in the fire to grab hers on instinct.

It was with some delay that he realized it burned neither of them.

○

It’s only when he looks close enough is when he realizes, and only in bright midday light. Daelyra is perched on his hip as she often is when she tires, and she puts a clumsily-woven flower crown on his head.

It’s only when they’re so close their noses almost touch that he realizes—that he sees.

Daelyra’s pupils are slit. The sheer darkness of her irises hides it well, is all.

○

The bandits he kills bleed red just like Caraxes’ scales, just like Daelyra’s toys.

Red stains Dark Sister, and his hands, and his armor. He needed this, so long he spent caring for his daughter, and this is his reward. Violence, blood, death.

A dragon has his cravings, after all. It’s unwise to put them off for too long.

He comes back to the castle covered in blood, apprehension crawling in his veins. He wants to see, he needs to see, what she will think.

He comes across Daelyra and her nanny in the hallway. The nanny gasps, paling rapidly, and Daelyra runs off on quiet feet.

Did he scare her? Does she finally understand—

She runs back with a rag in her tiny hands and holds it up at him.

“Kepa, wash!”

He kneels down, full armour on and covered in blood and marvels at this tiny creature as she diligently rubs half-dried blood off his face. She sticks her tongue out, like every other time when she’s very focused on her task.

It’s adorable.

He wants to hug her, but she’s wearing her favourite pale-blue cotton dress and he knows better than to dirty it; she can hold a grudge almost as well as he, after all.

He’s almost afraid to see what she’ll grow into. Almost. Mostly he can’t wait.

He hisses when she finds a scratch on his face under all the grime.

“Kepa! You hurt!”

“It’s nothing, perzītsos.”

“No!” she says and puffs her cheeks and stomps her foot for good measure. “Kepa hurt! Hurt dirty! Kepa go to aunty Missy!”

“Not to the Maester?” he asks with a chuckle, and she scrunches her face.

“Gray-man stupid. Kepa go to aunty Missy, aunty Missy not stupid,” she says with a finality and wisdom of a child of two who knows exactly what she’s talking about. Maybe she does.

Missy—Melissa, oldest daughter of the old midwife who delivered Daelyra, is a stern woman of well over forty who’s taken liking to the girl, if only to indulge in their shared dislike for Maesters.

He hates the Maesters, too; and Melissa has a good head on her shoulders, and the wounds she tends to heal better than when any Maester touches them. True, Melissa washes the wounds with alcohol and it hurts like all Hells and smarts for hours after, but she’s clearly onto something, given how well they tend to heal. Boils all her needles and threads too—some woodswitch taught her, apparently.

Compared to the Maester who doesn’t even wash his hands after he wipes himself after going to the outhouse, he’ll take Melissa and her alcohol washes and boiled needles anytime.

He imagines his mother would’ve liked the woman.

He imagines his mother would’ve lived, if she was attended by some smallfolk woman-healer like Melissa, rather than a Citadel-borne grey rat.

○

With Daelyra demanding his attention, his affection, almost every waking moment, he feels almost at peace—and lack of summons from Viserys almost doesn’t hurt.

But that doesn’t change the truth. This is not his place; his place is by his brother’s side, as his pillar, his support, his protector. Their father made it clear enough when they were growing up, so why doesn’t Viserys see it? Why hasn’t he asked him to come yet? Why is he stuck here, in the Vale, for years on end, festering like some—

“Kepa,” Dealyra says, tugging at his tunic. She points to where a ginger tabby is washing its face “Kepa, look, kitty!”

He smiles. “Do you want to pet it, perzītsos?”

“Uh-huh!”

Daelyra is his only respite from the bile scratching at the back of his throat whenever he thinks of Viserys. The only thing staving the fury off, with her big near-black eyes ad tiny hands grasping at him. She’s so small. So much smaller than Viserys ever was. So fragile.

Not even his brother trusts him so wholly. Not even his brother needs him so much.

Does he even need him at all? He left him to rot here—

But does Daemon need his brother, really, sitting cross-legged under a tree with his daughter in his lap running her hands through a purring cat’s soft fur?

○

She lives in a confusing kind of haze, with only constants being white hair and violet eyes, and red—so much red of all kinds.

She uses it to ground herself, finds comfort in it. It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense.

She feels most awake when she’s about to fall asleep, like she’s forgetting something important at the periphery of her awareness but doesn’t have the ability to name it.

Or the knowledge.

Then she turns around and curls under her father’s arm, presses her face against his side and he lets her even though it’s ticklish, and everything is okay when she drifts away.

○

His father dies. Burst stomach, after five days of agony.

Daemon is among the first to be informed, at least.

He takes Daelyra to the funeral on dragonback, and pretends he doesn’t cry when grandfather lights his father’s pyre. And, oh, this is probably the first time in years when the Old King is a grandfather first, rather than a king. Jaehaerys talks to them; they sit in a room all together and it almost feels like a family again.

But they go back to politicking soon enough. Baelon was Jaehaerys’ last surviving son. Last heir.

And the Old King is old.

So, what’s next? Or rather; who’s next?

○

Rhaenyra, having recently acquired her own dragon, decides to show off. Why she needs to show off to her toddler cousin is anyone’s guess, but Daelyra appears to be appropriately awed. That is, until Syrax turns into putty in her small hands much like Caraxes often does, much to Rhaenyra’s displeasure. She huffs and puffs and Daelyra is very smug at the whole ordeal, but they eventually manage to make enough peace to take a nap under Syrax’ wing together.

They’re not friends by any means; Daelyra is barely three and Rhaenyra is almost seven, but the older girl finds it impossible to boss her younger cousin around the way she does with everyone else. It’s a humbling experience Aemma says she’s sorely needed.

Aemma seems also quite taken with the quiet and well-behaved child that her wild good-brother somehow managed to make.

“Are there no eggs available still?” he asks Viserys. His brother shakes his head.

“Dreamfyre laid a clutch recently but they all turned to stone within hours. It worries us greatly. I’m sorry Daemon. Daelyra will make a great dragonrider one day, I’m certain of that. I saw her handle Caraxes beautifully, and now Syrax, too.”

They don’t mention wild dragons on Dragonstone. Daelyra is much too young to try claiming any.

There’s something wistful in Viserys’ voice. Balerion’s passing killed something in him. That very flame that burns so bright in Daemon and Daelyra; it made Viserys painfully, insultingly human.

Daemon bites the inside of his mouth. He’s less worried about his daughter—there is a dragon just for her out there, he knows, she only needs to find it and that can take years. It took him years, too. But the egg issue, that is very worrying. That’s another clutch that just turned to stone so shortly after it was laid for seemingly no reason at all.

Their dragons weren’t growing as well as they used to, and their eggs were becoming less and less viable.

Just what was going on?

○

Daelyra is three years old when Daemon leaves the Vale without her. She understands more than most at her age, and Daemon is loathe to leave her, but his grandfather—the King first, grandfather second, always—is calling council to determine his heir. Daemon has a claim, but he’s a second son of a second son, and his hopes are low.

In all honesty, he’s not even going to press his claim seriously.

Viserys, though.

Viserys is the old king’s eldest male descendant. And as loathe as Daemon is to go against cousin Rhaenys (she who was chosen by his mother’s dragon, she who carries a piece of her mother with the magnificent beast she rides) he is Viserys’ brother first, and it’s his duty to protect his brother, and his claim, and even his pretty half-dragon Arryn wife and their daughter.

So, he goes to Harrenhall even though maybe he isn’t needed, and suddenly Viserys is the heir and once he’s king, Daemon will be his heir because Viserys has no son.

He wonders if that’ll make Viserys notice him, finally. Call him to his rightful place at his brother’s side, where he will stay. Ask him to the side, ask him to stay.

He doesn’t. It tastes bitter, and it tugs uncomfortably at his lungs.

Daelyra is happier to see him back than to see the gifts he brought her.

It feels like sunshine on his face, and when she drags him to weave flower-crowns and chase cats for her to pet and climbs Caraxes like he’s the best playground there is, the hole in his chest doesn’t feel nearly as all-consuming anymore.

○

Vale is a cesspit and Runestone is one of the seven Hells that the Faith keeps screeching about, and Daemon is going insane. Daelyra, too, the more she understands the more she loathes the place and all the Maesters and Septas who try to force Faith of the Seven down her throat.

Daemon threatens to kill them.

They will not be forcing Andal customs and Andal religion and fake Andal gods on his child. He will not allow such crime to be committed on his child when he yet breathes.

Rhea rages against it, but Daemon reminds her that Daelyra is his daughter first, and that was Rhea’s choice too when she refused to care. He cares for her, he raises her, and if this is when and where she wants to involve herself with the child, it’s four years too late.

He tells Daelyra of their gods when they sit under Caraxes’ wings, and of Old Valyria and their history and customs. Sitting by a living dragon, telling tales of their people, it feels different. It feels right.

His child will not grow up ignorant of their family’s history.

○

She dreams of gods. They speak to her, and she cannot hear, doesn’t remember what they say.

She wakes up angry for no reason in particular.

“What’s wrong, perzītsos?” her father asks, voice laden with sleep. The sun isn’t even peeking through the horizon yet, and the room is swaddled in darkness, but she sees everything clearly.

“Weird dream, kepa,” she says and makes herself more comfortable, using his stomach for a pillow. “But I forgot it.”

He nods and runs his hand through her hair, lulling her right back to sleep with the touch and a purr that rolls through his chest. It’s a familiar comfort she’s learned to crave.

Since when does she have a father? One that loves her, no less?

○

Nobody sane would think a dragon would be a remotely appropriate nanny for a child. Daemon thought these people were stupid. Caraxes was as besotted with Daelyra as he was, and she spent hours on end lounging with her back against the beast, slowly making her way through the books Daemon has gotten her.

It made Rhea jittery and upset when Daemon would leave to have his alone time, whether he was killing highwaymen or entertaining whores, and Daelyra spent all that time with Caraxes in his cave, reading her books, singing her songs, and tending to a fire, eating rabbits she hunted and skinned herself.

It’s a nice outing. The weather is warm, she has her blankets, and food, and fresh water. Caraxes is warmer than a fireplace, and will kill anything that will approach, and the cave shields them from both wind and the incessant sun.

It’s a nice few days, though, that she spends camping half an hour walk from Runestone.

She remembers several songs and sings them to Caraxes with a trained kind of skill she should not possess. He seems to enjoy them a lot.

<I think I need a guitar,> she sighs despondently, and the dragon chirrups in answer, huffing a gust of hot air at her face. She pats him under the eye. <I don’t think I should know what a guitar is, though. I don’t even know if they invented it yet. Do you think they did, somewhere?>

Caraxes chuffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what a guitar is, she supposes.

She knows things she can’t explain. She figures she should stop trying to, and just roll with it.

○

Rhea teaches her to hunt; when Daelyra marches up to her mother and asks to be taught. Rhea isn’t fully enthused about spending time with her daughter, but it is by far the best and longest time they spent together. Mother-daughter bonding, or something like that.

But Rhea finds Daelyra unsettling. All the noises the girl makes; the growls and purrs and chirps and chitters have her nervously stepping from foot to foot like the horse she rides. All the noises she’s heard Daemon make too, when the two communicate without words. It’s not unlike a mother cat purring and meowing at her kitten.

It’s not unlike two dragons when they’re together.

And the wisdom beyond her years, and the unerring patience and quiet comprehension of the world a child of not even five namedays should not have.

Rhea is thankful Daelyra learns quick and learns well. The sooner she does, the sooner Rhea can leave.

And Daelyra doesn’t even seem that bothered by her mother’s unsettled state. It’s a sad kind of acceptance that sometimes almost tugs at Rhea’s heart. She knows she’s a bad mother—

And then a piece of a pheasant they hunted falls into the bonfire, and Daelyra reaches into the open flame unbothered until Rhea screams, and she has the gall to look at her with confusion, hand still in the fire, red flames licking at the cuffs of her shirt.

When she retracts it, piece of meat between her fingers, her skin is entirely unmarred. Not even reddened, let alone blistered.

They return to Runestone the same evening and Rhea isn’t ashamed to admit that she runs.

○

<Dad, Mother is terrified of me.>

<Is she now, little flame?>

<Mhm. I think I might be too much of a dragon for her tastes.>

<That may be so. I think I might be too.>

<Some food fell into the fire.>

<Oh. You picked it up in front of her, didn’t you.>

<Sorry. It’s a habit, I forgot she’d freak out.>

<It’s alright. You’ve done nothing wrong, little flame. You’re just a bit more a dragon than most of our family, is all. You should be proud of it, not ashamed.>

<I’m not ashamed. I’m annoyed at Mother overreacting. At least she didn’t notice my eyes glowing in the dark. I think.>

<It’s certainly a sight.>

<You shrieked like a maiden first time you saw.>

<I did not!>

<Did too!>

○

Targaryens are closer to gods than men.

It has to do with their dragons; but not with their ability to ride them.

Not entirely.

○

“Gods be good,” Rhea whispers, laying in her bed wide-awake as full moon slides across the black sky. She grips the seven-pointed star pendant until her knuckles creak and turn white. “Gods be good, that girl is a monster.”

That girl is a dragon, is all.

○

Time passes in Runestone, dreary as it is.

Rhea avoids her daughter is if her life depended on it.

Daemon takes her flying and teaches her Valyrian, and when she’s tall enough asks her if she’d like to learn to fight, and with a gleam to her eye she excitedly agrees. And if Daemon exaggerates his defeats when she does well, it’s all in good fun.

She’s more skilled with a small sword than he expected her at this age, but she is his daughter. She has much more patience than he had her age, though. Maybe that’s why.

She is also wise beyond her years; patient and stubborn, calm but unwilling to bend to others. She knows things she shouldn’t and grasps ideas children twice her age struggle with, and runs circles around the Maester for fun. She seems to have instinctive grasp on her numbers, struggles with letters only briefly, seems to genuinely enjoy studying maps and history and all the highborn houses.

She makes the Septa cry when the woman refuses to stop with her thinly-veiled insults, and Daemon sneaks her cookies as a reward, and they catch rats together and put them in the Maester’s rooms after he smacks Daelyra’s knuckles with a wooden strip because she solved and equation using the method he didn’t approve of.

Ignoring the fact that her method was better.

She keeps mumbling about maths and arithmetic and how much she hated them in school for days after. Daemon doesn’t really understand what she means, but he’s not overly fond of numbers either.

It’s not bad, living like that. He almost gets used to it.

And then Old King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, dies.

○

Rhea comes to see them off, at least, when Daemon straps the most necessary luggage to Caraxes’ saddle and Daelyra makes sure her riding outfit is properly fitted. The flight will take two days, but it’s preferable to carriage procession which will take two weeks. The crow took its time to fly to the Vale, too, and they don’t have time to lose in Daemon’s opinion.

Rhea watches them with apprehension, and Daelyra seems to ignore her entirely.

“Shouldn’t you be happier?” Daemon calls with one of his infuriating smirks. “You’re getting rid of us.”

“Oh, believe me,” Rhea scoffs. “I will be celebrating your departure for the whole week.”

“Don’t celebrate to hard; all the realm is supposed to mourn the king.”

“We’ll tell them we’re celebrating the new one.”

He hums in answer and walks forward. Pats Daelyra’s head.

Rhea doesn’t miss how the girl leans into his touch, like a spoiled cat. She finds herself envious of it sometimes, still, even though she can scarcely look at the girl these days, after the hunting trip.

Mostly, she just ignores the child and Daemon both, for her peace of mind.

“Don’t come back,” she says. “Either of you.”

Daemon smiles. “If I have my way, you’ll never see either of us again.”

“Good.”

He means to annul their marriage. She hopes he can succeed, with brother for a king. And that he keeps the brat. Privately, Rhea thinks that Good Queen Alysanne must have grown senile in her advanced age to match them to begin with.

Rhea thinks she’s learned to hate him, though all these years.

“Goodbye, Mother,” Daelyra says and looks at her with those unsettling black eyes, and smiles brightly. “Have fun pretending we don’t exist and living your sorry life in this sorry middle of nowhere!”

That whelp. Rhea glares at the girl, but she only keeps smiling as she happily skips to the disfigured red beast Daemon has for a dragon. She climbs it skilfully and Daemon after her, snapping belts and chains around them both to secure them on the saddle.

He still manages one last smirk and a two-fingered salute, and then with a loud “sōves!” the red beast flaps its wings, rising from the ground, and then they fly.

It’s a majestic kind of view. Rhea hates it.

Good riddance, she thinks.

Chapter Text

When they touch down for a rest stop and set up a small camp, it’s almost like just a normal camping trip with nothing pressing happening. They stop fairly away from any settlements, near to a road, by a small river that feeds into equally small lake, and set up a bonfire and a bedroll for the night. The only tent they need is Caraxes’ wing once he settles down.

They have rations, but they go fishing anyway, having discarded their shoes and rolled up their breeches. Daemon is quick enough to catch a nice-sized catfish with his bare hands. He’s a bit lost on what to do with it later—he always had someone else to prepare the game for him, after all—so Daelyra stabs the fish through the head and shows him how to gut it and then filet it.

<Did Rhea teach you this too?>

Daelyra cocks her head. <I’m not sure. Someone taught me, though.>

The Internet.

The fuck’s Internet?

It’s almost as if they’re not on their way to the capital for Viserys’ coronation, and Daemon isn’t to be considered to be an heir in all but name until his brother manages to make a son.

But he won’t, though? All Viserys will do is bring them to easily avoidable ruin.

That man is a fool.

When the night falls, they lay down on the bedroll, Daelyra tucked in her customary spot under Daemon’s right arm, and they trace the constellations on the dark sky until Caraxes coils around their little campsite and puts his wing over them, shielding them from elements.

<Hey, dad.>

<Hmm?>

<Does this mean I’m a princess now?>

<…I suppose so? No, wait, I don’t think so. Not if I’m not even the official heir.>

Daelyra scrunches her nose. <Good. That sounds like a bother.>

Daemon laughs. <Don’t you want to be a princess?>

<No. Why would I? I want to be free to do whatever I want. Running a country would be the exact opposite of that.>

<Huh. I never thought of it that way.>

<There’s many things you don’t think about, dad.>

<And what is that supposed to mean?>

He pokes her in the side and she squeals, moving away. He knows she’s ticklish! He’s ticklish in the exact same spot! She pouts at him, and he laughs and presses his forehead to hers.

<It means that I packed your socks because you forgot,> she says, still pouting. <Again.>

○

They arrive in King’s Landing late afternoon next day; Caraxes caught a wind current that carried them gliding most of the way, greatly reducing the amount of actual flying he had to do past occasional flap of his massive wings to keep the altitude.

<I can smell it from here,> Daelyra says unhappily as they near the cesspit of a city. <Why can I smell it from here? The wind is blowing in the other direction!>

<Joys of the city. You were here before, though, and didn’t complain as much then!>

<Dad, I was three.>

<And?>

She rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. <And three-year-olds don’t have much opinion on anything.>

<And five-year-olds do?>

<Well, I’m having plenty opinions, aren’t I?>

He laughs. <That you do!>

○

“What are you doing here?”

Daelyra looks up at Rhenyra—damn her age and height advantage—and blinks placidly at the very apparent unhappiness of the princess. Rhaenyra is being flanked by a servant and another girl, one in pretty blue dress with pretty chestnut hair that Daelyra doesn’t know. She’s taller than them both, lanky in a way only tweens really are when their body mass is yet to catch up to their rapidly growing bones; she’s all limbs, and she looks about twelve-ish. Older than both Targaryen girls, at least.

She’s eyeing Daelyra’s riding leathers with a degree of apprehension, in stark contrast to Rhaenyra’s obvious jealousy.

Alicent Hightower , her mind whispers. Must be.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” she asks back, and where Daelyra didn’t falter, Rhaenyra does, loosing a bit of her bravado. “It’s my uncle’s coronation day, and my father will likely be named heir soon after.”

The girl-that-might-be-Alicent gently grabs Rhaenyra’s elbow. “Princess, that was very rude.”

Daelyra chuckles and turns to the maybe-Alicent, and greets her with a dignified dip. It’s the best she can do, as a noble lady of higher rank than the other girl. “Excuse my manners, I’ve spent last two days on dragonback. I’m Daelyra Targaryen, nice to meet you, my lady.”

Maybe-Alicent smiles at her appreciatively, her apprehension melting away. Daelyra might have grown in bumfuck nowhere, but she always felt like learning manners was important, and it was serving her well now. The older girl also dips down with much more grace, but also lower on her knees than Daelyra did; the lower the rank, the lower the dip, after all.

“Well met, my lady. I’m Alicent Hightower,” she says with a smile.

Ah, so the maybe-Alicent is Alicent. Rhaenyra huffs and rolls her eyes; Alicent elbows her. Knowing what Daelyra knows, the older girl likely has no taste for courtly manners either.

Daemon takes this moment to walk out of the Dragonpit, taking off his riding gloves. “Apologies for the delay, Caraxes wasn’t keen on nesting in this contraption.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes brighten and she runs up to her uncle, and Daelyra takes no small amount of glee in the fact that he looks at her first before interacting with her cousin. She only waves him away; as his daughter, she can spend time with him anytime she pleases. Rhaenyra, despite what she thinks, can’t. Daemon nods and turns to the older girl as she excitedly chitters at him about dragons.

Alicent sighs. “I can’t imagine travelling on a dragon.”

“It’s a lot like riding a horse,” Daelyra says with a shrug. “Just leagues above the ground. It’s windy and cold, but nothing beats the feeling. Or the speed.”

Alicent looks down at her—and it is a long way down, how is she so tall already?—but flinches, like everyone, when she meets her eyes, and looks away. Daelyra blinks and looks at the ground.

“I apologize, I spent two days with just my father and Caraxes,” she says as if it explains anything. To her it does; it’s hard to interact with prey after spending time with only fellow predators. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright,” Alicent says with a strained smile. “Rhae—The Princess does that sometimes, too. I was a little surprised, is all.”

Daelyra nods, though she’s not sure how her cousin can compare to a true dragon. Oh well, she was certain people would stop mistaking Rhaenyra’s stubbornness and lack of self-preservation for dragon instincts soon enough. At least Alicent didn’t chance Daemon first; Daelyra fears her heart would’ve stopped then and there. She at least still has the baby charm that makes her look halfway harmless. Daemon does not.

“Did you want to say something before?” she asks Alicent, and she startles a little.

“What—Oh, not really, no. Just, making small talk, is all.”

She nods and leaves it at that, and runs off to save her father from Rhaenyra. The look of utter fury on the older girl’s face when Daemon picks her up and turns his attention to her brings her joy, and she sees more than hears the snort Alicent lets out in the uptick of her lips and rise of her shoulders before the older girl composes herself again. Rhaenyra, bless her indignant nine-year-old self’s complete lack of situational awareness, notices nothing.

<Jealous, little flame?> Daemon teases, and it’s Daelyra’s turn to snort.

<There’s nothing to be jealous of, though?> she says with faux-innocence and he laughs.

<I like your certainty,> he admits, and she shrugs.

<You’re my dad,> she tells him simply, as if it explains everything. To them at least, it does.

○

Daemon realizes that it’s the first time in moons, maybe even over a year, that he’s seeing Daelyra wear a dress. It’s a nice black one with their house crest embroidered at the right collarbone in red thread, the whole thing chased with gold thread. It’s Rhaenyra’s old dress she’s long since grown out of that Aemma found somewhere on the fly when they realized that Daelyra didn’t actually have a proper Targaryen dress for the coronation, and it fits her perfectly.

(Which is why they’re in Rhaenyra’s dressing room. Its opulent and there’s much too many clothes in both Daemon and Daelyra’s taste; all the items barely fit in one garderobe room.)

With the braids coiling about her hair that Daemon braided himself, she looks like a real Targaryen Princess. Though she isn’t one, or even wants to be one, it is nice to fit in with the family. Aemma certainly gave her an appreciative glance and then proceeded to try to wrangle Rhaenyra into a similar official getup.

While Daelyra merely grumbled and made unhappy faces about the dress, Rhaenyra threw a proper fit. She didn’t like this particular dress, the jewellery wasn’t shiny enough, and also why was Daelyra wearing her old dress? Ignore the fact she’d never fit into that dress again, that was hers. Daemon shot Aemma and her maids a commiserating look and the Queen-to-be didn’t even hide her jealousy looking at his well-behaved daughter.

As if to underline her point, Daelyra gives her aunt an absolutely angelic smile from where she’s kicking her legs in the air on a cushioned couch. Daemon snorts.

Privately, though, he’s beyond relieved. Daelyra may scrunch her nose and make noises of complaint, but he simply cannot imagine her throwing a fit like that. Spoiled as he’s raised her, she always knew how and when to behave.

Hells, sometimes she’d be the one to correct him instead.

As he’s thinking it, she hops of the couch and dusts her skirt.

<What’s wrong?>

<Aunt Aemma needs help,> is all she says before she trots over to Rhaenyra, no doubt to taunt her into behaving properly.

Well—as long as it works.

○

She very carefully never mentions anything about what feels like years and years’ worth of memories and mannerisms that guide her through life.

It gives her unfair advantage on top of already being a magical demi-human half-dragon royalty.

At the cost of remembering her—

What was that?

Cold steel in her lungs, blood, so much blood—

She rubs her eyes and goes about her days, and tries to ignore the burning in her lungs and the prickle at her neck.

She’ll be fine.

○

The coronation comes and goes. It drags; first the Septon drones on the blessings they don’t need—not their culture, not their faith, Daemon will never understand why his family bends backwards to accommodate for the Citadel, just raze the thing to the ground and be done with it—and the Lords keep kneeling and swearing fealty.

Daemon thinks back to what Daelyra said, and he can’t help but agree.

The whole performance is bothersome.

But Daemon is a good brother—he tries to be a good brother, for Viserys if no other reason, so he stays and tries not to step from foot to foot. Aemma sends him a commiserating look. She’s visibly pregnant again, so she neds to contend with additional weight.

Daemon can’t imagine it’s remotely pleasant. He lends her an arm when she sways, and she sends him a thankful smile. She’s his family, after all.

○

“Annul my marriage to Rhea Royce.”

Viserys stops, his fingers twitching above his head as he halts in reaching for his crown. He turns to Daemon, looking almost aghast.

“What?”

“You’re king now, so I’m asking you to annul my marriage. Here, I even wrote up an official petition.”

And he has, handing his brother a sheet of parchment. He ensured it looked and was worded officially.

Viserys gives him a look Daemon doesn’t know how to interpret.

“You have a child together.”

“Oh, I’m taking Daelyra.”

“You cannot deny a girl her mother—”

“But she hates Rhea! Rhea can’t even look at her either.”

Viserys takes a deep breath. Then: “no.”

“No?”

“No. It was grandmother’s will that bound you to Rhea, and the Royces are an old and powerful house. They will not be insulted like this, and neither be Good Queen Alysanne’s memory. And don’t bring it up again.”

It leaves sour taste in Daemon’s mouth.

Fuck the Good Queen, senile with age. Fuck Royces, the bane of his existence; they didn’t even have the decency to lean into their First Men roots, embracing the Andal filth wholly.

○

“Annul kepa’s marriage,” Daelyra tells him not even an hour later. Viserys almost trips where he’s walking to his chamber, and looks at the girl who seems to have sprouted from the ground. She’s since changed into clothes boys would wear and her hair was re-twined into two casual braids hanging down her back. She’s looking up at him with those big black eyes.

“What.”

Daelyra blinks up at him, eyes wide. “Kepa said you didn’t listen to him, so I’m trying. I really hate my mother. Pretty please uncle, annul kepa’s marriage?”

Viserys almost says yes on the spot, looking into those big wide eyes—she’s doing that on purpose, entirely on purpose, he’ll realize later—but catches himself last moment.

“Absolutely not! I already told Daemon as much and the matter is closed.” he says instead. “And you shouldn’t listen to your father!”

Daelyra cocks her head in confusion. He really wants to pinch her cheeks, but the downtick to her lip and the displeased crinkle to her eyes tells him that she will bite if he tries.

○

“Daemon, no means no. Don’t send your daughter to convince me.”

“What are you on about this time?”

“Daelyra asked me to annul your marriage.”

“She did? Huh. I need to bring her more treats later.”

“More—Don’t enable her, Daemon! Wait—You didn’t put her up to it?”

“No? I only told her you said no when she asked. I told you; she hates Rhea.”

“I doubt she even knows what annulment means!”

“She knows it means she won’t have to see Rhea ever again. I think that’s quite enough for her, brother. And I’m being serious. We’re both miserable in the Vale.”

“My decision is final, Daemon, and I told you why. Do not push or I’ll send you back off to your lady wife at the earliest convenience.”

“Tsk.”

“And who knows? Maybe you’ll eventually be blessed with another child. Wouldn’t Daelyra like a sibling?”

“I wouldn’t fuck Rhea again if you held me at sword-point. Or gave me all the realms to rule in return.”

“Your loss, Daemon.”

“It really, truly isn’t.”

○

Viserys doesn’t—Daemon isn’t sure what he doesn’t. Value him? Trust him? Want him around?

Point is; after graciously allowing Daemon and Daelyra to remain in King’s Landing, Viserys does little else. Daemon is… He is. He wanders about, doing nothing of consequence. He doesn’t quite mind, exactly, it helps him settle at the new place with Daelyra, and they both complain about the smell because it is horrid. He spends his time with Aemma and Rhaenyra and Rhaenyra’s little Hightower friend who seems afraid of him, he frequents the training grounds and at night when he can’t find any sleep—more and more often—he sneaks out to either Street of Silk or Fleabottom. Most nights he goes, he makes it back before sunrise and catches up on sleep a bit, some nights, he doesn’t.

Every morning he leaves, though, Daelyra has a bath and breakfast waiting for him.

Depending on how sober he is, and how many new cuts and bruises he carries, sometimes also a scolding.

She scolds him often.

He’s not sure how they ended up this way, his daughter effectively parenting him, but it is keeping him afloat and he clings to it. The nights he has no energy to go anywhere, he coils around her like a dragon around a treasure, and waits until her soft breaths lull him to sleep.

But the Viserys issue.

He understands his brother is busy but supposes that is also half the problem.

He should be busy too, with something. Anything. Being Heir, being the Hand—and if that’s asking to much, at least being part of Viserys’ ruling body. Being his brother’s confidant and support and most of all, his protector.

This is what he was born for. This is what their father raised him for, in no uncertain terms told him that. When Baelor would be king and Viserys the heir, Daemon was to be his shield and guard and retainer—

Except Baelor was never king. And Daemon was sold off to the Vale the moment he reached adulthood. And he wasn’t even sure he knew his brother anymore. If he were honest, he hasn’t known his brother for years, now; he was a dragon once, just like Daemon, but—Balerion’s death defanged him, smothered all that fire that Daemon loved his brother for so fiercely, made him soft and round and complacent.

Made him so utterly, uselessly, disgustingly human.

And it was a tragedy, yes, but… But dragons bond to new riders after their old one passes. His mother’s Meleys was with cousin Rhaenys now, Caraxes used to be his uncle Aemon’s dragon. There were dragons available to try to bond, and many eggs turned to stone but some were viable still.

Viserys simply refused to even try.

And now Daemon was listless and angry and hollow because nothing was as it was supposed to be, because he was supposed to be at his brother’s side, helping him with anything that needed help, and he was not.

It left him confused and blindsided

Father said—

Father—

Father’s dead.

○

Instead, Viserys keeps the Hightower cunt as his Hand. Daemon doesn’t like him much.

○

Viserys names him Master of Coin. It’s—something.

Viserys also knows Daemon loathes numbers, especially repetitive and at that scale of calculations. Daemon still tries, does his best, really, because finally, finally his brother entrusted him with something and it almost makes him sob.

He falls asleep at the desk, the numbers blurring together and making his head heavy as the weeks of sleepless nights, alcohol, fights and whores catch up to him.

He wakes up tucked in bed with Daelyra in her customary spot under his right arm.

When he reaches the desk, the accounts are all sorted, labelled, and a spare page of parchment with all the tallied numbers at the top of the stack, with a little note at the bottom.

It reads: ‘I know you hate numbers more than me. You can copy it, or throw it away and do it all over yourself.’

That’s Daelyra’s handwriting, careful big letters written by small hands unused to a quill just yet.

This time, he’s the one to wake her up with breakfast, and takes her to fly on Caraxes after presenting Viserys with the tallied accounts. The Hightower cunt is displeased that there’s no mistakes in the ledgers to complain about.

○

He meets a woman in Flea Bottom, Mysaria. She’s a bit of a special case, he realizes quickly; she catches his attention, which is rather easy to do, because she’s pretty.

She manages to keep it, which, for a whore from Flea Bottom is nearly impossible, because of her shrewdness and wit.

Sometimes he goes to her just to talk but pays for her time all the same.

She seems to know everything that’s going on in the bowels of the city.

○

The elation of having something to do for Viserys is short-lived. Books and keeping of records are not what Daemon was made for; he’s meant for action, not sitting slouched over a desk mulling over numbers for hours. Alas, he bites his teeth and does the work assigned to him.

Daelyra, as always, makes it all the more bearable with her presence and help, but she also stopped him whenever he wanted to use the treasury funds for something more fun. Viserys was fond of his tourneys, balls and feats, and often hosted them, so why couldn’t Daemon have some fun?

He wasn’t even going to spend it all on whores! Just some. Less than half.

More importantly than the whores, though, he was more interested in finding a good blacksmith and pouring some gold in his hands—Daelyra was nearing her sixth name day, and it was about time she got some proper blades of her own, after all.

○

Daelyra never really had a mother from what Aemma gathered from the not-quite-quelled not-quite feud between her husband and her good-brother, with the girl somewhat caught in the middle. After all, if Daelyra was one of the staunchest supporters of annulment of Daemon’s marriage, she couldn’t be too close with Rhea Royce.

Aemma asked her, out of concern. She knew that Daemon largely did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, so it was not impossible that he merely set his daughter against his wife.

The confession she got from Daelyra instead almost had her march and scream at Viserys for not agreeing to annul the marriage instead. Sadly, she knew her husband, and while he could be decisive and stubborn, he usually was at the worst possible times. She couldn’t free Daelyra (and Daemon) from Rhea, but she could at least offer the girl some motherly guidance. Gods knew Daemon had the girl wearing breeches most of the time and hacking the straw dummies until she couldn’t hold the wooden sword anymore some days. She did seem to quite enjoy it, but young lady needed to know how to behave; especially a lady of this high standing, especially at court.

And when Rhaenyra spent time with Alicent, or kept harassing Viserys or, more often these days, Daemon about all things dragon, Aemma would sit with Daelyra and read fairy stories with her, and remember better times, when Viserys wasn’t king, or this obsessed with having a son, and Rhaenyra wasn’t quite so wilful.

○

It was the second time she chose to give up on having a remotely acceptable mother figure.

But Aemma—Aemma is a near thing, she decides. She fills in where her father simply can’t, ties ribbons in her hair and gives her dresses to try and sits with her in the Godswood weaving flower crowns.

This is a dead woman walking.

○

“A spendthrift?!”

Daemon cannot believe what he’s hearing. Otto—that Hightower cunt—is claiming he’s a spendthrift and cannot be trusted with money, and Viserys is looking at him with disappointment. After Daemon sat for hours every day making sure the money flowed properly through the castle and to all the feasts and balls and the tourney Viserys was organizing—

“You spend the treasure money on whores and dealing with the scum of the lower streets,” the Hightower cunt continues. “They call you Lord Flea Bottom.”

Daemon grits his teeth and clenches his fists.

“I am not blowing through the treasury,” he snarls, looking straight at the man. The cunt starts to look uncomfortable, and nervously looks to Dark Sister where she rests propped against the table. “I am only using what is allotted to me, and nothing more.”

“You’re the one allotting the money,” the cunt says smugly. Daemon considers killing him anyway, then and there.

“Otto brought reports to my attention,” Viserys says and Daemon’s eyes snap to him.

“Reports?”

“Of the finances. There are some worrying trends there.”

“Show me those reports—”

He’ll fucking see for himself what the problem is about, and then he’ll fix it—

“There will be no need,” Viserys says, and looks at him with disappointment. It’s enough to make Daemon still. “They’re proof enough. I’m relieving you of your position as Master of Coin and reinstating Lord Beesbury, effective immediately.”

Daemon slams his fists on the table, and leaves before he does something Viserys will deeply regret. His throat is constricting, a scratching heat clawing at his lungs and the back of his neck and he feels as if he might just breathe fire himself. He notices the self-satisfied smirk on the Hightower cunt, and almost turns around to cut him down, but decides against it.

He never sees those reports in the end.

○

He barges in on Daelyra’s lesson. The septa sends him a nasty look, but his daughter brightens up from her bored-to-tears look when she sees him. It helps that hot-ugly-clawing something settle when she runs into his arms and he picks her up. It’s the warmth, the trust, and the smell that always carries a note of ash and brimstone, he thinks.

<Let’s go flying,> he says when he thinks he can trust his voice, but it still comes out as enough of a snarl for the septa to recoil.

<Okay. But you’re telling me what happened!>

<Of course.>

“My Prince, the Lady—”

“This lesson is over,” Daemon tells the woman, and she flinches again. Looking at their books, Daelyra’s been learning about the Faith of the Seven. It puts a bad taste in his mouth, but she insisted she needs to know the enemy, and who was he to deny her?

“I need a different septa,” Daelyra says instead. “Nothing wrong with Bredgit but the way she teaches things is so boring I can’t focus at all and I need to read everything all over anyway if I want to learn anything! Like—all she does is just read things back at me! I can do that myself! And faster!”

Bredgit, who’s still standing by the desk, colours and ugly shade of puce. Daemon laughs.

“I’ll find you a better one.”

○

Viserys makes him the Master of Laws.

But what of it, when Otto Cunttower blocks him every time he tries to do anything on that front?

He’s too bloodthirsty. He’s too vicious, too violent, to cruel with his laws.

How dare he make the same laws that apply to smallfolk apply to the highborn.

This time he quits himself.

Cunttower smirks when he does, and this time Daemon punches him.

○

Feeling my way through the darkness

Guided by a beating heart

I can't tell where the journey will end

But I know where to start

They tell me I'm too young to understand

They say I'm caught up in a dream

Well life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes

Well that's fine by me

○

She stands on stars and ocean ripples above her, and she can hear a distant yet haunting whalesong.

Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t see. The air presses against her unpleasantly, her lungs burn as if she’s drowning, green flames lick at her feet—

[You—]

She wakes up gasping.

Her lungs burn. It’s a familiar pain.

Cold steel in your chest, blood, so much blood—

This is a curse gift.

Arms wrap around her, and Daemon pulls her into his lap as he sits up, and—

Cold steel in lungs, blood pooling under, the cold, you’re—

Oh, right, she’s hyperventilating.

He speaks to her in a low sleep-laden voice and keeps his hand between her shoulder blades. She doesn’t understand a word he says and doesn’t remember anything she said. It feels important, this dream she keeps chasing. Stars under her feet, ocean above her head, cold steel burning her lungs.

It feels like she shouldn’t.

She feels wrung out when she calms down, too tired to move but unable to fall asleep, and Daemon doesn’t seem in a hurry to sleep either. Instead, he gets them both dressed and takes a horse to the Dragonpit.

She feels cold, like all the blood left her body, and Daemon is shaking ever so slightly when he carries her, but he refuses to let go. His warmth would be enough, but he’s cold to, and his heart has yet to calm as he holds her ever so tighter when they ride on horseback in the middle of the night.

They curl up against Caraxes’ flank bundled in furs and blankets, in silence that’s almost comfortable. By the first light, Lyra’s warm again, and her father’s heart has calmed.

Wait, has she ever shortened her name before—?

○

It stirs in the dark where it made its home, this thing of shadow and bone and violence.

Soon, it thinks. Soon I will be complete.

But not just yet.

No. Not just yet.

It waited so long. This, in comparison, is nothing.

○

<I think I died.>

<In that dream?>

<I don’t think it was a dream, dad.>

<…>

<Don’t make that face.>

<But—>

<It wasn’t… I know what you’re thinking, dad, but it wasn’t a Dragon Dream.>

<How can you be so sure?>

<I… I don’t know. But I it wasn’t. It feels like… It feels like a memory.>

<That’s even more impossible.>

<I know.>

He holds her close and doesn’t let go, and when his hands grip her and press her tightly against his chest, the dread fails to.

○

[Are you certain she can handle it?]

[She must.]

[With that reaction?]

[It was too early—it still might be. We must believe that she’ll be able to handle it.]

[Again with your faith, Shrykos! I’m starting to get sick of it.]

[…she will remember it all, and it will break or make her. We can only watch, and hope.]

[There’s a reason not even the souls in the Afterworld remember how they died—!]

[And what can we do about it?]

[…if the Freehold hasn’t blown itself up, we could have—]

[If the Freehold didn’t blow itself up, we wouldn’t be desperately grasping at straws to be able to stand against Them. But the Freehold was fundamentally flawed.]

[Valyrians are fundamentally flawed. Both too human and too inhuman at once, and finding that perfect balance is damn near impossible—]

[You know what I mean, Balerion. A civilization built on slavery and blood magic was doomed to fall the moment it was established. No matter how much we artificially extended its lifespan, no matter how much we aided it…]

[We should have just let it die when it first started unravelling, you know. Nobody needs city-sized dragons and legions of artificial beastfolk.]

[But we can only say that with certainty because of hindsight, can’t we?]

[Sadly.]

○

“You were supposed to go see Syrax with me today!” Rhaenyra screeches and stops her foot. She’s already kilted out in her riding leathers, and has found particular offense to Daemon, who only now managed to make his way back to the Red Keep. Daelyra is still in his arms, and she feels smaller than ever, and neither of them is in much of a hurry to let go.

Viserys and Aemma are there too to see her off in the morning, both barely awake, but Aemma notices the absolute state they’re both in first.

“Daemon, what happened?” she asks concerned and takes a step forward.

Danger, Daemon’s mind screams and he takes a step back, a growl bubbling at the back of his throat. Aemma stops and looks at him with confusion and a bit of fear. Viserys looks between the two and ever so slowly, his eyes clear of sleep and widen with the realization. When Rhaenyra, unbothered by the growl, makes to stomp over to Daemon anyway, Viserys grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her back, maybe a tad too harshly.

“Father?!”

Viserys kneels down next to her. “I know your uncle promised to take you flying today, but you’ll need to postpone it.”

“What? No! He promised! We’re going flying, now!”

Aemma and Viserys seem to have a whole conversation over the top of their daughter’s head, and then Aemma puts her hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder too.

“I’m sorry darling, but Daemon is very tired now,” she says. Rhaenyra looks at her with a grimace, and then at Daemon—no, at Daelyra. She stomps her foot again.

“He promised! Uncle, you promised!”

“Adults break promises,” Daemon tells her curtly. Viserys flinches at the tone, and because Daemon looks right at him, as if he means something else.

Rhaenyra’s lip wobbles and tears well in her eyes. Daemon pushes past them.

Viserys calls after him, maybe in concern, but it falls on deaf ears.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

○

“You haven’t visited here in a long time, my prince,” Mysaria says a bit breathless once he’s done with her. He merely hums, reclining on the bed of the semi-private room.

“My daughter has been having nightmares recently,” he says, and Mysaria looks at him curiously.

“The Lady Daelyra?”

“Mhm.”

“…I never really took you for a family man, you know?” she says and sits up. Daemon scoffs.

“She’s a bit special,” he says. “She’s not as needy as other children her age, she understands that sometimes, I just have to go have some fun before I turn violent.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. Daemon coughs.

“She was very upset I beat up a guard to a pulp once, in Runestone. I had no idea a four-year-old could look this deeply disappointed. She stepped on a stool, grabbed my face and—”

“And?” Mysaria prompts, small indulgent smile on her lips as Daemon collects his words.

“She—She scolded me! She just—I got scolded by a four-year-old child for beating up her mean guard!”

Mysaria laughs at him, well and truly laughs. “Oh, I can’t believe this, the great Rogue Prince bested by his tiny child. I’d pay to see that.”

“I don’t recall paying you to laugh at me,” Daemon bites back, and she only shakes her head and sits up.

“You pay me for my time,” she says with a shrug. “Though I must admit, it’s quite endearing when you talk about your daughter. Your eyes get a lot brighter.”

“Hm.”

“Though I wonder, if you are such a great father and she’s been having bad nights, why are you here tonight?”

“She went to bother Aemma tonight.”

“The queen?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh my. She truly does whatever she pleases, doesn’t she?”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

“Hmm, maybe someday. And certainly not here.”

○

Third time, as Lyra is fond of saying, is the charm. It seems to hold true. After the fiascos that was putting him in the position of Master of Coin and then Master of Laws, Viserys finally, finally gives Daemon a position that he knows he will do well in.

It’s not as close to his brother as he’d like to be, but it’s something. It’s better than anything so far before, because this time, he can actually make change. He can act, instead of sitting in his chair pooling over papers and ledgers.

Lyra, too, says that being the Commander of the City Watch will suit him just fine.

He’s not sure when her approval started to take precedence over Viserys’. No matter.

The issue is, the City Watch is…

“An utter dumpsterfire,” Lyra says, her tiny hand in his as she looks critically at the sorry state of the barracks, the mess, the damage, the lack of equipment. “Quite disgraceful, at that. Who was the Commander before you again? And where did all the funding go?”

Good questions. Daemon remembers allocating the funding to the Watch himself some scarce moons ago when he was Master of Coin. Initially he really did think they were merely underfunded. The money he allocated them should have been more than enough.

This? This was so much worse than underfunding. Someone was stealing the money, there was no other explaination.

He looks down at Lyra. Lyra looks up at him.

“Good luck,” she says. “You have a lot of work before you.”

“I am aware. But it will be worth it. I will make Gods-forsaken city a safe—er, place.”

She pats his elbow, because it’s about as high as she can reach. “I believe in you.”

He smiles. “I know.”

She kicks him in the shin. “You’re supposed to say ‘thanks’, not ‘I know’!”

“I know,” he says like the menace he is, shit-eating grin on his face. She kicks him again, even though he can’t even feel it. Damn her six-year-old body.

○

He’s tall, a little gangly still in a way still-growing teenage boys usually are, with a mop of fluffy brown hair on his head and dustings of a beard of his chin, dressed in what passes for the City Watch armour.

She almost calls him Jace, but not quite. That’s Luke’s hair.

Wait, who the fuck are Jace and Luke?

“I’m Harwin Strong, princess.”

He gives her an exaggerated bow and she laughs. She likes him, she thinks.

“I’m not a princess,” she corrects him. “Just a lady, and that’s bothersome plenty enough.”

He laughs at that.

○

He finds the morons who were stealing from the City Watch first. He’s swift and merciless; thievery is losing a hand, no matter if they’re lords and knights. Law is law.

But they blew all the money, and all that he managed to get back were measly leftovers, so he persuades Lord Beesbury to give him some more funding to make up for what was stolen.

(“This is harassment,” Lyra says with a sigh and shakes her hand, but still helps him draft the documents and tally up exactly how much capital he’ll need to start. “Make sure you don’t give Beesbury a coronary at least, he’s getting there in years.”

He presses his forehead against hers, and even thanks Lord Beesbury later, when his project gets approved.)

First order of business is new armour and weapons, and before long the City Watch is once more properly outfitted. Now they can actually do their jobs, instead of standing awkwardly at corners, pretending their swords and maces and axes aren’t falling apart in their holsters. Still, something, he feels, is missing.

“Give them cloaks,” Lyra says one day when they’re in the barracks. She has bullied employed one of the younger Watchmen to be her pony and is now comfortably sitting on his shoulders, following Daemon around the place. He’d carry her himself, but he needs his hands at the moment.

“Cloaks?” he asks, and she nods, fingers laced on the top of young man’s head. Harwin, Daemon thinks is his name; he looks a lot like Lord Strong, the new Master of Laws. It might be the son he’s been talking about; Daemon remembers him mention the boy was joining City Guard. Barely a man grown, a gangly still but already tall and fit, and likely still growing. A little goofy but honest, and Daemon had no doubt he’ll soon grow into a very fine man.

He didn’t miss how Lyra zoned in on him either, picking him over all the others, and it was more than enough to get the boy Daemon’s attention in turn.

“Yeah. Dye them gold, maybe darken the armour they wear if you can.”

He blinks at her. This—this is a good idea, actually. He’d probably come up with it himself in few days’ time, but that way the can have a head-start at actually implementing it. The guards need standout uniforms anyway, and addition of the cloaks will easily be that. If he standardizes the colour of the armour, too, it will make for a fine, uniform organization that could be easily told apart from the Red Keep guards, mercenaries, and random lordling knights loitering about.

He reaches up—damn, the Strong boy is tall, almost taller than him—and pats Lyra’s head.

“Good idea.”

She smiles. “I know!”

Daemon makes a face. “Now you’re just being petty.”

Her smile turns into a smirk. “I know.”

He squishes her cheeks. Harwin, bless him, actually bends down on his knees to make it easier for Daemon. He finds he already likes him, even when Lyra cries ‘traitor!’ in offense.

○

I tried carrying the weight of the world

But I only have two hands

Hope I get the chance to travel the world

But I don't have any plans

Wish that I could stay forever this young

Not afraid to close my eyes

Life's a game made for everyone

And love is a prize

○

Static in the darkness, like an old radio you didn’t quite turn off.

[…ra, you mu…ake up—!]

Glint of steel aimed at her, wild bloodshot eyes.

Her own fucking kitchen knife. How dare he.

Pain. Cold. Eventually, nothing.

He ruined his life with it, at the very least.

○

She died, didn’t she.

And yet—

wake up

w̸a̴k̶e̸ ̵u̵p̶

̸W̵A̴K̴E̴ ̴U̸P̷

—she wakes up.

○

Her name was Lyra Clark, thirty-two years old at the time. She had her own flat, an okay-paying job, and a hobby for music she hoped to eventually turn into a career. Rascal, the cat she had since she was eleven years, passed away two months prior, two weeks after turning twenty-one.

And when she was grieving for her best friend, Warren Slater, her boyfriend of then-eight-months finally crossed the line for the last time, so she broke up with him and kicked him out; he had been shifty about his job and income ever since she let him move in, after all, and she wasn’t willing to support him, especially when his comments started to get unpleasantly snippy.

You’re too tall. Too muscular. I don’t like your piercings.

Why is your makeup so dark.

You should remove your tattoos, not get more.

When will you stop fucking around with that guitar.

Why can’t you be more feminine. Wear a dress for once.

She kept him because he was pretty, but when his mouth turned foul not even his sparkling eyes and pouty lips could stop her from showing him the door.

He kept calling, insisting that it was all am misunderstanding, saying he was sorry and can she please take him back. She didn’t.

One week, two, a month—

And just when the blessed silence finally reigned, she came back from work to find him in her kitchen. There was an argument, a screaming match, really, him trying to guilt her into taking him back. She was just about to grab him by the throat and throw him onto the hallway—

There was a knife on the counter. She didn’t put it there, she always kept tidy, so the only explanation was that he prepared it. Put it within his reach.

Premeditated fucker.

Forty-three stabs, she thinks hysterically. She counted.

Forty-three premeditated stabs, and while she wouldn’t have much problems overpowering him otherwise, a knife to the lungs really does knock the wind out of you.

She dies, not quite upset about it but not quite happy about it either. She just met a nice and interested girl at the club yesterday and got her number and wondered if that’d go anywhere. But with Rascal gone and her not being on speaking terms with her parents, and her lack of closer friends… She wasn’t that upset about it. She was only really upset about not being able to do music anymore.

She found glee in the fact that Warren wouldn’t be getting out of it. Her next-door-neighbour was full-on renovating his flat, he and his workers wouldn’t miss Warren. They probably noticed the yelling and the scuffle, too. Someone might’ve gone to check up on her, and she’s a little sorry for the traumatizing sight.

She died, she figures, the way she lived—not terribly upset about it, but far from happy about it, her energy drained from her by someone else.

○

The world, it seems, wasn’t quite as done with her as she was with it, though.

○

Remembering your death in high definition is a decidedly unpleasant sensation, Lyra decides as she opens her eyes to gaze at—

The ocean?

She sits up startled and looks around frantically, and this is not her room, not her bed, Daemon is nowhere to be found, here is—

She’s standing among konpeitō-shaped glowing pebbles of multiple colours ranging in size from smaller than her nail to as big as her fist, her bare feet on the veritable sea of silky glittering sand the colour of the night sky. Wherever she turns around, she’s met with trees at every side, crystal and bent and far enough away that it would take a longer trek to reach them. Pink glow of the half-hidden sun glows above the trees.

And above her head…

Ocean ripples, water moving naturally as if it weren’t hanging impossibly upside down, taunting her. She thinks she hears a whale sing, but she can’t see any.

Her hands are translucent, so are her feet.

[Hello, Lyra.]

She turns to the side, and then looks up, and up, and up—there, higher than anyone had any business being, two red eyes were peering down at her. Dark eyelashes, cheekbones that could cut glass, glossy black hair, straight and reaching almost to the hips; black-and-red robes, the whole design brought together with silver jewellery in a style that was oddly familiar to her. Vaguely historically East-Asian in cut, but she can’t for shit actually place it geographically—those are ceremonial Valyrian robes, she realizes. Figures; Valyria was on Planetos, not Earth, and it was its own thing.

Human, almost, if not for the black scales on his cheekbones, nose and forehead, vanishing into the hairline or transitioning into black, bony horns curving back, crowning him, and the long, black, ridged tail swishing lazily in the sand. The claws, the slit pupils, black veins on pallid skin, black lips and eyelids.

And the fact that he’s inhumanly tall. Over nine feet, in her estimate. Maybe closer to ten, she has to crane her neck to look at him.

[Do I know you?] she asks though she doesn’t know the language, she doesn’t know if they’re even speaking at all. It feels more like they’re sharing thoughts.

He smiles, his impossible perfect features—doll-like, almost, she’s pretty sure she’s seen a ball-jointed-doll looking like that once, the expensive kind—softening with it.

[I wouldn’t say you know me, exactly,] he allows with a dip of his head. [We never truly met until now.]

She narrows her eyes at him. [You know my name. I don’t know yours, though.]

[You do. I am Balerion,] he says easily. Lyra blinks at him.

And sure, he did carry the exact coloration that Balerion-the-Dragon was said to have, black scales chased with red, glowing red eyes, curving horns of black bone, a perfect mixture of human and dragon, but—but as far as Lyra’s concerned, dragons cannot shapeshift, and Balerion-the-Dragon is dead.

But there is another Balerion, one that her father told her about, back in Runestone, curled under Caraxes’ wing.

[You’re the Valyrian God of Death,] she says, a little awed. [You’re… Tall.]

[Well, maybe you’re just very short?] he asks, and his smile takes on a cocky edge. Lyra grabs the first next konpeitō-shaped glowing rock and chucks it at the god. He merely ducks away with a chuckle.

[I am normal height, thank you very much!]

She’s about to say something more, but there’s a chime and suddenly another dragonoid faceplants into the stary sand, right next to Lyra. This one is mostly pale gold and platinum, their skin a hueless coal-black in stark contrast to Balerion’s creamy porcelain. They get up, dust their white robes off, and look at Lyra; their eyes are glowing orange, like coals aglow in the fireplace, and their skin is littered with golden cracks.

They’re also infuriatingly tall, and with obvious dragon features.

[You actually made it!] they say and brighten up, and Lyra instinctively takes a step back. Their colouring is friendlier than Balerion, but their edges are sharper. Ridged horns, longer claws.

[Um.]

Balerion grabs the newcomer by the scruff and dusts them off. [Peace. I know you’re ecstatic but you’re overwhelming her.]

They blink at him, and sigh. [Right, yes, that’s… Ahem. I am Shrykos, and it’s really nice to finally meet you!]

Lyra blinks up at them, searching her memory. This is definitely one of the fourteen flames, but it takes her few seconds to come up with the domain; beginnings and endings, transitions, doorways. Passages of all kind, really.

[Likewise,] she says a little awkwardly. It’s mostly their height, she realizes, as they loom above her. She’s—

Oh yeah, she’s back in her original form, but her standing at almost six feet is still nothing when she doesn’t even reach Balerion’s elbow.

[Can you guys crouch down,] she asks them as she puts her hands on the hips. They look between themselves and chuckle, but they actually do. Shrykos gets on their knees and sits on the heels of their feet in a proper seiza, and Balerion, the utter fucking madlad, does a slav squat. A proper one, with his feet fully on the ground. It’s surreal. But they are on eye-level with her now.

[Better?] he asks.

[Yes, thank you.]

Awkward silence reigns as they both look at her and she tries to make sense of it all.

And it’s not that hard to make sense of it. She does have all the pieces, after all. She died, and yet she lives, in another world. Balerion is the God of Death, Shrykos is the God of—well, all kinds of transitions, really.

The conclusion writes itself. She died, dimension-hopped, and was born again, and it’s their doing.

[I’m reincarnated as a Targaryen and I don’t even have a dragon,] she says, breaking the silence, and she absolutely does not sulk. [It’s your doing, isn’t it? It makes too much sense for it not to be. Is that why we’re all here now? To—talk it out? My… Well, whyever I’m alive again?]

[Oh thank fuck you can think,] Shrykos says with obvious relief and Lyra startles a little at their wording. [This makes this whole undertaking a whole lot easier.]

[The—uh—Thanks? But also, now that I, you know, remember stuff, it’s a simple conclusion.]

Balerion sighs and pokes Shrykos’ cheek. [Truth to be told, we did not choose you to be reborn. We may be gods, but no power is unlimited, and dragging a whole intact soul through dimensions is no small feat. We could only do it once, and it was impossible to choose. All we could do was cast a net, and hope for the best.]

[That’s… Awfully irresponsible.]

[We know,] Shrykos says with a sigh. [But we were running out of options.]

[Running out of options? Wait, this—Wait. Is this some—That—Is this not your first timeline doing this?]

They exchange looks. Balerion shrugs, Shrykos sighs again, despondently this time.

[No,] Balerion says. [But that is irrelevant. Though your existence disrupted our ability to foresee certain events, as you or anyone like you has existed prior. I am, however, starting to think that it is exactly what we have needed.]

Lyra shrugs and nods. [Fair enough.]

[We did need to ask Meleys for help, though,] Shrykos says with a shudder. [She was very upset with us.]

Meleys. Her domains, Lyra thinks, are motherhood and general reproduction. That does make sense, if they needed a baby to shove a soul into. She’s not very interested in the mechanics of her reincarnation, though; she gets to live again and she doesn’t need to know how.

She would like to know why, though. So, she asks: [Why did you need someone?] She thinks for a moment. The most obvious thing she would be born in time to fuck with would be— [Do you need me to stop the Dance?]

[Close, but no,] Balerion says, and she startles. That is not what she was expecting. [No, we don’t care much for humans and their little civil wars, we don’t even need a Targaryen on the throne, that was all Aegon’s fancy. We don’t care where they are or what are they doing, as long as there are those carrying enough of Valyrian blood still. We need—]

[Dragons,] Lyra breathes, because that’s the next best thing. [You want me to save the dragons from extinction.]

[—precisely,] Balerion agrees, unbothered by the interruption. [We don’t care much for how you will achieve it either, stop the civil war if you feel like it or spearhead it yourself, Hells, grab the crown yourself if you want it; do whatever. It doesn’t matter as long as dragons survive this pivotal moment and thrive after. That is all we need.]

[And if I fail?]

[Two centuries into the future, this world ends.]

[Gee, no pressure, huh?] she groans and rubs her eyes. [You know, for someone set to save dragons, I’m awfully dragonless myself.]

[Yet,] Shrykos chirps. [He’s waiting for you, though.]

She blinks up at them, as Balerion elbows them in the ribs.

[No spoilers?] she asks with a crooked smile.

[No spoilers,] Balerion says with a small smirk. [I want to see your reaction.]

Lyra has a sassy comeback on the tip of her tongue, but the world around them ripples, the konpeitō-stars blinking wildly and the ocean above growing violent as the whole dreamscape bleeds color.

[Our time is almost up,] Shrykos says as their fingertips start fading into gold dust. [We won’t be able to meet anytime soon, between this and bringing you here, what was left of out power is mostly gone.]

[And last important advice before you go, then?]

[Old Valyria,] Balerion says immediately. [Knowledge lost there would be a great boon to you, though it is optional. Be very careful if you do go there, though; that place is an absolute death trap.]

[Don’t trust any gods you haven’t personally met,] Shrykos chirps with a smile. [And trust their followers even less.]

[Organized religion is cancer, I know,] she chuckles as the dreamscape shakes harder. [Tell Meleys I said thank you. Daemon is a pretty good father, really.]

[And trust your judgement!]

[You don’t know me, Shrykos. I may be a dumbass.]

[Yes, but you do have a degree of hindsight, and a much differing outlook on life,] Balerion interjects. [If you want to pull this off, you will need to think outside the box in the way only someone in your situation can. Trust yourself.]

She takes a deep breath, and nods. The dreamscape swims and blurs at the edges, vanishing into glitter.

[Best of luck!] Shrykos says—yells—and it sounds distant, now. They’re almost gone, and so is Balerion.

[We’ll be seeing you sometime in the future,] Balerion says with a nod.

She waves at them as everything turns into static, and then nothing, save for one indignant thought;

It’s a fucking isekai.

○

So wake me up when it's all over

When I'm wiser and I'm older

All this time I was finding myself, and I

Didn't know I was lost

I didn't know I was lost.

○

She wakes up.

That fucker, Warren, stabbed her in the chest forty-three times and she died. She remembers exactly how it felt, cold steel in her lungs, and she will have to live with that knowledge forever. It is a price she will be paying forever, because—

Because she wakes up.

She died and yet she’s here, breathing, alive, warm, though elsewhere. Six years old and impossibly alive, and finally developed enough to recover enough memory to be aware of what actually happened.

There are gaps of course, there are things she doesn’t remember, can’t, maybe won’t. Memories she lost to defence mechanisms that she doesn’t even want back.

But she’s alive all the same, in another world, a Targaryen at the eve of the Dance of Dragons, and—she’s read the books once, and watched the show then it was coming out, and she barely remembers anything from it. Fuck.

She’s always been more of a Tolkien girl to get her fantasy fix, after all.

She rolls onto Daemon’s chest with a groan, using the familiar warmth to ground herself as memories settle, and one conversation she had in a dream stands out. And isn’t that crazy that Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, is the person she relies on the most? The person she unironically trusts with her life?

He’s an asshole. A villain, chaotic evil, or at least selfish—but she doesn’t for a second, even with the new-old memories, doubt his love for her. That is a bone-deep kind of certainty. He’s the best parent she’s ever had in either life and though the bar isn’t very high, he’s trying his best, and she’s finding that his best is not really bad at all. He’s not, by any means, the best father to ever live, but—he’s good. Attentive, supportive, nurturing, uncharacteristically patient for himself.

He's a good parent, plain and simple, she knows it, especially with hindsight of what her parents used to be a lifetime ago—she cut contact with them for a reason, after all.

Hell, even Rhea was passable in comparison to them, since all she did was severely neglect Lyra out of fear of their Targaryen-ness and dislike for Daemon.

She grabs the book he was reading to her, some tales, and throws it haphazardly on the nightstand. It was on his chest; he must have fallen asleep before putting it down. Daemon startles awake, takes a deep breath, blinks a little, looks at her. His hair is braided loosely and over his shoulder, and he’s wearing that soft cotton shirt she likes to cuddle into.

<What’s wrong, little flame?> he asks her, voice heavily laden with sleep, and she sighs dramatically.

<A lot of things, I suppose. But for now, I need a hug.>

<Oh. Okay.>

And just like that he rolls onto his side and gathers her in his arms and presses her against his chest, the softness of his shirt and the heat of his body and the steady beat of his heart so calming and familiar that she starts dozing off immediately.

The best part, she thinks, is that Daemon is still himself. He’s still violent, vicious, and exceedingly selfish. He still kills for fun and frequents whorehouses and threatens anyone he can get away with threatening, and flies around on Caraxes and occasionally feeds people to him. But he also reads her bedtime stories and braids her hair and carries her around and gives the best hugs and kisses her forehead and spends the whole night awake with her if she’s unwell.

He still, without complaint, cradles her in his arms when the sleep won’t come or dreams haunt her, and runs his hand through her hair as a quiet purr rumbles from his chest, and she doesn’t think she’s ever felt safer, or warmer, or more content.

This side of his, this softness—it’s hers, and hers alone, she knows. It’s her most precious treasure, just like she is his.

<Dad?>

<Yes, little flame?>

She presses her forehead against his collarbone. <I love you.>

And she might be small and six years old, and she might be alive all over again and she might remember her first death and there is and will me trauma there, she just knows it, and this might be a fucking isekai in another world she barely remembers the plot of, but—

<I love you too.>

His voice is smooth and quiet, barely above a whisper, but there’s a certainty in these words. A promise. A belonging, to somewhere, with someone, freely given. She thinks she should feel bitter that it took her dying to find what she should have always had, but she doesn’t care. Past matters little, save for the knowledge it grants her. Past is the road she’s already walked, a teacher of lessons of life, and this is now, and she’s thankful that she gets to have this in the end.

Enough to be glad to have died for it, even.

Because this, she thinks, this is enough. This is home.

Chapter Text

She wakes up.

It feels surreal now, with her memories making sense at last, no longer hidden at the peripheries of her consciousness. Daemon is still asleep, still wrapped around her, and right now she’s little more than a glorified teddy bear. She finds that she doesn’t mind. It’s comfortable and warm, and she can feel the steady thrum of Daemon’s heartbeat around her.

Lyra listens to its steady rhythm as she plots. Just a little bit, of course, but it’s always good to have a plan, she thinks. Or at least a set of goals to work towards. Next few years will be very important for her future, after all. They’ll set her course, dictate how people will see and treat her. If she’s not careful, they may as well ruin her, too, and she really hates that thought.

Children should be kept safe. Teenagers should be allowed to be stupid.

She doesn’t want to be—can’t be the perfect highborn lady. Both her violently independent and unapologetic past self and the fire that burns in her veins now simply won’t let her. It’s a volatile combination and it will combust if some fool tries to tamper it into a box it was never meant to fit in.

She is a dragon. And before she was a dragon, she was a person from a world which worked differently. World which, for all its faults and inequalities, was better.

Besides—perfect highborn ladies don’t have more muscles than average man, or tattoos, or piercings. They don’t wear breeches and steel-toed boots, and they only sometimes wield swords.

She just really wants to be the kind of person whose mere existence makes the gods-fearing and proper ladies clutch their pearls and pretend-faint with how scandalized it makes them, just like she was her first go-around.

She sighs into her father’s shirt.

(And holy shit she actually has a father now, isn’t that crazy? She kinda loves it.)

<What are you thinking so hard about, little flame?> Daemon asks her sleepily, and she cranes her head to look at him. His eyes are barely open and his braid has come half-undone, and he really doesn’t look very awake yet, but his attention is still fully on her.

<About how Gods let me live this life and that I will make it everybody’s problem,> she tells him seriously, and looks him in the eye. <Also, enjoy your time as the most problematic member of this family, because I’m taking that spot in next few years.>

He laughs.

Not derisive, or patronising, not even really amused—he’s delighted, the madman, and Lyra loves him a little more for it. He loves the challenge, she knows. And the fact that he just believes in her like that—no you’ll-grow-out-of-it’s, just I-can’t-wait-to-see-what-you’ll-do’s, it makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

<I’m not going to make it easy for you,> he declares. <If you want to be the rogue, you’re going to have to prove you got what it takes to be the black sheep of this family. And I’m not going down easily.>

She nuzzles into his chest. <I know. Challenge is good, though. Would be boring otherwise. What time is it?>

He twists, looks at the curtained windows critically for a moment, then moves back into a comfortable position. <Sunrise.>

<Weh, too early. I’m hungry.>

<Of course, you are.>

<I want a salad.>

<…little flame, my love and the most important lady in my life—>

<I’m not letting you have a steak at fuck-you-o’clock in the morning, dad. We can have some scrambled eggs, though.>

<Bacon?>

<Works. But no heavy food until after midday, or you’ll feel fatigued and bloated again.>

<Fine, fine.>

<And you will be eating the salad with me. Not just the bacon and the eggs. Understood?>

<…>

<Dad.>

He sighs.  She gives him a toothy grin and he groans in defeat. <Of course, little flame.>

<By the way, I love you.>

<By the way?> he asks in mock-offense and chuckles before kissing the top of her head. <I love you too. What brought this on?>

<Nothing, really. You’re a good dad, is all. I know I’m lucky to be your daughter.>

He preens. Of course, he does.

She crawls out of bed and almost faceplants on the rug but he catches her with a laugh.

○

Daemon eats the salad. He grumbles about eating like a rabbit all the way, but it’s more theatrical than anything. He’s trying to keep her spirits up, she realizes.

He may not be attuned to other people at all, but he’s very-well attuned to her emotions. He knows that something has changed yesternight. He knows something is different, but he’s not going to ask, because she will come to him when she needs it.

Until then, he makes a clown of himself at breakfast to make her laugh, and that’s more than enough.

Drowning in her own blood haunts her a little less for his efforts.

<I’ll tell you,> she promises. <Soon. Just. Not now.>

<Alright.>

And that’s that.

○

Aemma is pregnant again. The year is 105 After Conquest.

Lyra digs her nails into her palms until they bleed when Rhaenyra runs up to them and exclaims that she will have a sister and her name will be Visenya, and puts on her prettiest fake smile and congratulates her as she ignores the cold stab of dread in her gut.

“I’m sure you’ll make a great big sister,” she tells Rhaenyra and hopes it’s passably genuine.

She screams in her pillow later, and if she spends more time with Aemma than before, that’s on her. She’s seven, after all, she’s simply missing a motherly presence.

Nothing else. Nothing more.

Later in the evening, Daemon notices her hands. Or maybe he’s noticed before, but followed Lyra’s example and refused to acknowledge them. Once they’re alone, though, he personally cleans the wounds and wraps her palms with gauze. It stings, because he cleans them with pure alcohol like Melissa taught them both all the way back in Runestone.

<He will have his son,> Lyra tells him quietly and Daemon freezes. Something is… Different, about this confession, whispered in the confines of their quarters as Lyra is resolutely looking forward at nothing in particular. Her hand feels oddly cold in his, and oddly small. He looks up from the gauze, his attention fully on her.

<He will?> he asks, and can’t deny worry gnawing at his gut. He knows, eventually, he will be removed from the line of succession, even though he was never quite the heir. Eventually, Viserys will have a son, a true heir, and Daemon will, once more, be just the spare to be discarded—

But he will be free, won’t he. The way Lyra said she wants to be. Then they can do anything, go anywhere. He wants to go to Essos with her—

Lyra lets out a hollow chuckle. <For a day, anyway. Then he’ll have neither a son nor a queen.>

Daemon’s blood runs cold. That sounds an awful lot like prophecy.

<And how do you know that?> he asks her and hopes his voice doesn’t shake much. She notices anyway, of course she does; she knows him too well, really. She takes his hand in hers.

<I saw it in a dream,> she says, and it’s not the usual cheeky tone he’s used to. It’s a sombre one, sad almost. She’s fond of Aemma. Hells, he’s fond of Aemma. He can give Lyra all the love he has, but she will still yearn for a mother’s touch, it’s how it works.

<Let’s hope it was just a nightmare, then, hmm?> he says as he lets go of her hand and wraps his arm around her shoulder, pressing her to his side. She sighs, almost despondently. That won’t do, he has to cheer her up somehow. <You’ll see, Viserys’ second brat will be running around terrorizing the Red Keep soon enough. They’ll have their hands full, him and Aemma and Rhaenyra.>

<No, they won’t,> she says with a sense of bone-deep finality. <I do wish they did, though.>

Daemon moves to stand in front of her and wraps his arms around her fully, pressing her to his chest. She responds in kind, latching onto him, fingers digging into his spine.

<It’s going to be okay,> he says and kisses the top of her head. Her shoulders shake.

<I don’t want Aunt Aemma to die.>

Daemon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lyra seem quite this small, let alone properly cry. She was a calm child; not necessarily happy all the time or rambunctious, but content. But the sound that escapes her throat at that time feels like someone is ripping his still beating heart out of his chest.

And there’s nothing he can do about it. He can only hold his daughter close as she weeps.

○

Daemon doesn’t tell Viserys about her ‘premonition’. He’s never broken her trust before, but it’s always nice to have it reinforced like that.

That being said, he doesn’t tell her to go tell him either. There’s something going on there, she thinks.

Maybe he simply fears Viserys pushing him away more. Maybe he’s hoping for the crown.

○

Daemon brings Aemma cookies with rose jam and sugared orange peels. It’s her favourites, he remembers as much. When she asks him to stay and talk, he does.

There isn’t much left in her of that girl who climbed trees with him and pushed Viserys into a fountain, buried under all that stifling duty, but he brings out as much of it as he can.

He doesn’t realize how much he’s missed this until now.

He doesn’t think of Lyra’s haunted prophecy. Doesn’t think of how chilling it was. Doesn’t think of how his very soul forbids him from disregarding it.

He doesn’t.

○

She rips the straw training dummy to shreds and once she’s done, she hunts down Aemma and takes a nap on her lap while the woman lounges on her cushions and reads her book—some Vale history, if Lyra read the cover right.

“What’s wrong?” Aemma asks her once she wakes up. Lyra huffs and looks up at her.

“I’m worried. Last time you were having a baby it… Went wrong.”

Aemma’s face softens, but there’s a glint of grief in her eyes as she runs her hand through Lyra’s hair.

“It’s going to be alright,” she reassures the girl, and Lyra nuzzles into the palm of her hand and pretends her heart doesn’t break a little bit when she hears it, or when she lies with a cheerful façade.

“I hope so! I could really use a cousin that isn’t annoying.”

“Rhaenyra will grow out of it,” Aemma chuckles.

Lyra knows she won’t. She doesn’t say it—instead, she pouts. “Well, I hope she grows out of it faster! But I’d like a small cousin, too. Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

“Rhaenyra thinks it’ll be a girl. She already declared her name will be Visenya.”

“Well then,” Lyra says, “I hope it’s a boy so that we can train together!”

Aemma chuckles and braids her hair and sneaks her some sour-sweet lemon cakes after dinner.

○

She’s seven. She can’t do anything other than spend as much time as she can with Aemma.

Viserys won’t listen to her—Maesters won’t even give her the time of the day to hear her. Daemon will listen to her, but Viserys won’t listen to him, either.

She knows this, because she’s tried.

You don’t understand, they tell her. It’s very important for the king to have a son. You will understand when you’re grown.

Except she does. She does understand why Viserys needs a son.

She also understands that his quest for one will kill Aemma before the year is up.

The rage bubbles up, surfacing in progressively more and more mauled dummies. Some, she just stabs with her knives. Others, she tears apart with her bare hands, punches the battered wood until her knuckles bleed. Every time she does it, Daemon finds her first, somehow, and cleans and wraps her hands, and then takes her flying on Caraxes.

It’s frustrating, but not surprising. Even in the world she was from very few people took children, especially girls, seriously.

Still, the patronizing tones make her want to commit murder—and it sure is an odd experience to have Daemon of all people discourage bloodshed.

Though, he is right. Viserys and his personal Maester what’s-his-name are a bit too of high-profile victims, even for him.

○

She’s an idiot. Why go for self-destructive rage when she can go for a creative one?

<Dad, I need a guitar.>

<The fuck’s a guitar?>

<It’s like a lute. Here, let me draw it for you, it looks something like this—>

○

She’s not sure when the dreams of bloodstained cheap linoleum and glinting kitchen knives turn into dreams of shadows looking at her with eyes so viciously green that she fears acid burns from just looking back at them, but she won’t complain about it. The shadows are comforting in a way she can’t explain, bone-deep just like Daemon’s presence but just different, and she finds herself much less stressed at night-time, and much less afraid of falling asleep.

It’s a relief. It certainly upgrades her quality of sleep, and her mood during the day. Daemon becomes visibly less jittery and stressed when she calms down, too, no longer on hair trigger.

(There’s less blood under his fingernails, less bruises on his knuckles. Less reports of him getting into fights anywhere and anytime.

He heals fast. He always has. Rhaenyra, too, Lyra noticed, though not nearly as fast. Lyra doesn’t, bruises and scrapes taking weeks to fade, and neither does Viserys, throne-cuts on his fingers smarting for weeks.

If it’s not connected to their dragon-having status, Lyra will eat her new leather boots.)

○

<You’ve been visiting aunt Aemma recently.>

<I have. Did you know we used to be close in childhood?>

<I figured.>

<Mhm. I suppose I just missed my old friend.>

<Viserys is jealous. I saw him.>

<Aemma always liked me better when we were children.>

○

Instead of letting her maul straw dummies next to a squire that might at this point be more-than-appropriately terrified of his seven-year-old daughter, Daemon starts bringing her to the City Watch barracks almost every other day, much to Viserys and Aemma’s displeasure. (This is no place for a girl, or some other useless drivel, he paid them no mind and Lyra didn’t either.) With the funding going properly into where it ought to, they finally have a slow but steady influx of proper gear.

Daemon takes Lyra’s advice and has the guardsmen darken their armour and wear golden embroidered cloaks over it. Finally, instead of a ragtag group of stableboys, desperate smallfolk, and unwanted fourth and fifth and sixth sons, they’re starting to look like a proper militia. That in turns boosts their morale and has them actually acting like proper militia, too.

Daemon will admit that he is quite proud of how far they’ve come in mere weeks, and he is happy to be able to work on the field, rather stan again stuck behind some desk. Lyra does have to occasionally stop him when he jumps from topic to topic too much to keep him focused on one, preferably the important one, but it really isn’t his fault that there’s so much to do and he finds new things and loses track of the old ones just to find them again. He was never good at sitting still or focusing on one thing for too long anyway, unless something really interested him.

He’s not sure what he thinks about Lyra latching onto that Strong boy, though. She’s too young to be interested in boys. He tells her as much.

Lyra shoots him a very judgmental look, and Harwin has the gall to laugh at him.

○

The side effect of her latching onto Harwin is that Daemon remembers that he, too, can carry her on his shoulders, and promptly starts doing so whenever he can.

It’s not like she’s complaining. His legs are longer than hers so he can get places faster than she can, and she can play with his hair in the meanwhile. It’s a win-win situation.

○

She finds a guy in the City Watch named Corren Flowers—a skinny, ratty thing with curly, reddish hair and freckled face, kind-of skittery in disposition and likely an unacknowledged Tyrell bastard if his remarks are anything to go by. He’s really good at throwing knives, though, and passable at pickpocketing. It only takes three days of pestering and a bottle of Dornish Red (don’t ask how she got it) for him to agree to teach her, and then a continued supply of lemon tarts to persuade him to keep up with the lessons.

It’s pretty fun smuggling them out from the Red Keep kitchens with Daemon.

Having resources and using them to further her own agenda feels great. Like she’s doing something.

○

He caves some lowlife’s face in in an alley at dusk. Mysaria pointed him out to Daemon, said he’s been harassing her whores, killed one the day prior, too. Daemon was more than happy to take the matters into his own hands for her; he likes her well enough and it involved murder.

He runs into Harwin the moment he turns the corner, still a little crazed, with blood and brain matter dripping from his fingers—with what’s left of the lowlife’s head in his hand to give to Mysaria as proof, because the left side of the face had a distinct tattoo. Lyra looks at him from where she’s perched on Harwin’s shoulders and scrunches her nose.

<You forgot to pin your hair up again.>

He looks down at himself, where his braid hangs loosely on his chest, and sure enough, his almost-white hair is splattered with blood, and it will take a lot of effort to get the red out. He looks back up at Lyra. She sighs and pulls out a handkerchief and a flask of water.

<Turn around and crouch. Harwin, set me down.>

Harwin, for one, seems entirely unperturbed by the situation, even as they both do as they’re told. Daemon is still turning the man’s head in his hands.

He was one ugly motherfucker, that’s for sure. No wonder best he could do was Flea Bottom whores.

It takes him a moment for him to realize that Lyra spoke to Harwin in High Valyrian and he understood. He looks at the boy, eyes narrowed.

“She’s been teaching me,” the boy says sheepishly. “I’m not really good at speaking yet but I can understand simple things.”

Daemon snorts. “I take it you don’t have much choice in the matter?”

“I don’t think I do, my Prince,” Harwin says with a smile. He doesn’t seem to mind much, though; the whole fact that he’s been chosen by Lyra. It’s good, Daemon thinks, that she’s seeking other people. He thinks. But the pang of jealousy curling around his gut sure is an ugly kind of feeling.

He smiles. There’s blood on his teeth. He tells the boy in Valyrian: <if she thinks you’re worthy, then so be it.>

She cleans his braid to the best of her ability and pins it up with a stick she was apparently carrying in her pocket. Somehow, she makes it stay up.

<Wow,> she says as she leans over his shoulder to peer at her head. <He was ugly.>

<I think I should be worried about how flippant you’re about this, you know?> he asks, raising an eyebrow at her. <Viserys says I should keep my… Bloodier escapades to myself. that you might get nightmares from it.>

<I have other things to have nightmares of~> she tells him cheerfully. Suddenly, that night when she woke up and grew so terrifyingly cold and wouldn’t calm down for hours flashes to the forefront of his memory, and then all the smaller in-betweens. She presses her forehead against his as much as she can reach, and he presses back. <Don’t worry, I’m fine.>

<It’s been my job to worry since I held you for the first time, you know.> he asks as he stands up.

<Mmh. I guess,> she sighs, and looks up at him. <But to think you could cave in a man’s skull with your bare hands! That’s very impressive.>

<Is it? I couldn’t tell. I could almost always—wait. Hey, don’t change the topic!>

She laughs and sticks her tongue out at him as Harwin picks her up and puts her on his shoulders again.

There are many reasons for Daemon to worry, he knows. Most of them centre on his daughter, some of them on his brother and his brother’s wife. Some even on Viserys’ whelp as she tries to insert herself in between him and Lyra, as if there would ever be a place for her in that relationship.

She’s not very smart, that girl, and quite spoiled, but he doesn’t really mind her existence that much. She has more fire than Viserys—though that bar is an inch off the ground—and she’s still young and doesn’t know better in many (most) situations. Lyra is ambivalent to her, unless directly annoyed, so Daemon lets her be, too. Being the cool uncle who teaches her dragon-riding and tells her tales of travels and tourneys is something he can do.

She’s not Lyra. She doesn’t need to know the real him.

She’d run crying from the real him, unlike Lyra who chases him with a handkerchief because he’s tracking blood around again.

○

It takes a month, but she gets her guitar. She’s not sure she even wants to know what kind of strings Daemon has pulled to get it for her, but given that the craftsman who brings it looks more ready to strangle her father than deathly afraid of him, Lyra supposed it couldn’t have been that bad.

It’s not what she’s used to, but it certainly is recognizable as one. She’ll have to fine-tune it with time, and it’s not like she’s the size to play it properly just yet, but she manages.

But when she spends a day familiarizing herself with the instrument and making notes on what to change, and her fingers ache in a familiar way, it feels alright, for once.

She plays Wonderwall like the basic bitch she is at heart, but she elects to redeem herself with Playing God—or really anything from Polyphia, death hasn’t cured her from her obsession with their music—as soon as she’s physically able to, cursing her short fingers all the while.

Daemon is quite interested in whatever she’s doing with it, at least. Though he makes a bigger fuss than necessary when she nicks her fingers on the strings, no matter how much she assures him that this is fine and normal and will happen again. If anything, it worries him more.

○

“So… This is… What do you call it again?”

“A guitar.”

Lyra’s pretty sure it says something about her, that fact that Aemma is the second person to hear her play anything other than mindless plucking.

“It looks a lot like the lute bards play,” she notices, and Lyra nods.

“It’s based on it, yes. It’s a bit different, though.”

And so, Lyra plays and Aemma listens, reclining in her velveted settee. She falls asleep like that, and Lyra doesn’t dare wake her up, as now that she’s started showing (second trimester, probably) she’s been wracked by insomnia and nausea.

Lyra manages to drag a blanket over Aemma’s legs and finishes her tea and scones before leaving.

○

The third person she plays to is Caraxes.

<Remember when I talked about a guitar? Well, I got one now!>

He sniffs the instrument and looks at her judgmentally. He probably doesn’t like the lacquered wood; the smell is a bit offensive even for Lyra, but it will fade soon enough.

<I promise it’s good.>

He barks at her without much conviction.

<Okay, that was just rude. Just for that, all you deserve is Wonderwall.>

Caraxes has no idea what Wonderwall is, but he’s offended anyway. Lyra sticks her tongue out at him.

○

Aemma really likes Soldier, Poet, King. Enough to learn the lyrics and sing with her.

It’s good, seeing her brighten up like that and forget the weariness and nausea.

The Maester tells Aemma not to overtax herself, and she glares at the man while Lyra throws various heavy objects at him in her stead. She nails him in the nose with the cup—that shuts him up, at least.

Viserys tries to scold her for it later, but gets scolded by Aemma himself instead. She was told to not to overtax herself, and Lyra was only doing this in her stead, after all. Daemon, predictably, praises her for nailing the Grey Rat in the face. Alicent is disapproving of her behaviour, of course, but Rhaenyra is happy that her mother is happy, so there’s that. She doesn’t even make a sour face at Lyra.

○

She subjects the City Watch—newly dubbed Gold Cloaks for their refurbished uniforms—to her music as well. When she sits out of the way in some corner and doesn’t bother anyone to teach her to stab better, the barracks are actually a very nice spot to pluck at her guitar and remember songs from her past life that she enjoyed playing. Some of them sit around when they’re on a break and listen to her fiddling. Many are surprised at just how violently she can curse when she misses a note.

It’s easier than she thought it would be, though, that remembrance and writing down words of songs and notes of their music. It feels like Tessarion is smiling on her, but—it wouldn’t be odd, would it? If Balerion and Shrykos and even Meleys personally meddled in her life, why would other gods stay out? Especially since her job is apparently to directly help them?

Best not to think about it too much. She’ll just take what she’s given.

○

Lyra isn’t sure how exactly Daemon gets his hands on the Valyrian Steel, as though he’s not frequenting the Red Keep, he isn’t really travelling about that much; not enough to go spelunking in Essos, anyway. All she knows is that, one morning, he just puts it around her neck, so that she can have something of their heritage, too—or something sappy like that. He’s always sappy when it comes to their culture, but it’s endearing and she really likes learning about it anyway.

It’s nice, made of three rows of links, and the pendant looks a bit like a Celtic knot, with a ruby in the middle. But—

She distinctly remembers this necklace was supposed to have been gifted to Rhaenyra.

She asks about it but the answer is, as many things with Daemon at their core, very straightforward.

<She’s not my daughter. You are.>

It brings Lyra no small amount of joy to hear this, for more than one reason. Childishly, selfishly, she’s just glad she’s the top priority. It also brings her some peace of mind; unlike what she remembers, Daemon doesn’t seem very interested in trying to seduce his severely underaged niece here and now. It might change in few years, but…

Maybe fatherhood made him a slightly better person overall? Or maybe he simply couldn’t imagine a girl barely few years older than his daughter as a potential partner, even for the sake of power.

Rhaenyra still having her puppy crush on him did make sense, though, as annoying as it could get at times. Daemon was, objectively, quite dashing, and his roguish reputation was exactly the exciting bad boy dangerous something a lot of tween girls at the cusp of puberty would be into to the point of being almost rabid.

Lyra would know. She was a preteen once before, after all. She’s not quite proud of that time, but she understands it was necessary formative period.

Gods be good, was it embarrassing as all hell in retrospect though. She really could’ve gone without the edgy period, too. The MCR and Tokio Hotel obsession sure were… Something, as were all the edgy, badly-drawn Sonic OCs.

…

Wow, she really has no room to judge Rhaenyra, does she.

○

“You’re very violent for someone your size,” Harwin says, poking at the sad pile of straw that was once a training dummy with his shoe.

“It’s a violent world,” Lyra says with a shrug. “And besides, I’m going to get taller soon enough. And then I’ll move on to swords. And I’m going to get worse,” she says and looks at them with a grin. He sighs and shakes his head.

“Aren’t you supposed to get better with time? Isn’t that how personal growth works?”

“Eh. Kepa doesn’t seem to think so, just look at him.”

“…Prince Daemon is… Certainly a particular case.”

“Mhm. Like a seagull in human form. And I’m gonna be just as bad when I grow up!”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Just thinking about you having to do a lot of growing if you want to match that.”

Lyra looks up at him. He looks down at her.

She kicks him in the shin with a shriek and enough force to make his knees buckle. He curses at the pain but laughs at her indignance.

“It’s not my fault I’m vertically challenged! I’m seven!”

Harwin only laughs harder.

“I will steal your kneecaps!”

He only barely avoids her swiping at his knees, backing into an exasperated Corren who sidesteps him easily as Harwin falls backwards, landing flat on his ass, still laughing.

Lyra looks at Corren. “You see this shit? No respect!”

“How horrible, m’lady,” he deadpans without an ounce of sympathy.

○

She’s busy and days fly, turning into weeks, and then months. It’s not bad, save for the ever-looming, quickly approaching mess that’s puberty. She finds her balance again after remembering her past life, between dragons, City Watch, lessons, her guitar, and spending time with Aemma. She almost loses track of time entirely.

Rhaenyra’s unbearably smug occasionally, because Lyra doesn’t even have a dragon and she’s already a seasoned dragonrider; she’s claimed Syrax at the age Lyra is now, after all, so where is her dragon?

Lyra counters her cousin’s boasting by being able to handle just about any dragon in her vicinity, while anyone else would pay for that with their whole arm at the very least.

She has her ways, and they usually include talking at the dragons in High Valyrian about anything and everything. They certainly seem to understand. Of course, she can’t ride them; that’s for their chosen person only, but she nonetheless is about the only person other than their chosen rider who can just walk up to any dragon without getting incinerated on the spot.

Might be gods’ blessing, might be her dragon blood.

Might be both.

Then, Viserys declares a tourney will be held for the birth of his son and heir next month one day at a rare family breakfast, and it takes all of Lyra’s mental fortitude and then some to not to throw her plate at his face.

In a month, Aemma will die. Viserys will kill her for a dream that he will never live to see fulfilled.

She gives him a bright (fake) smile and manages to compliment his idiocy without being mean about it. Viserys doesn’t notice shit, and neither does Rhaenyra. Aemma and Daemon do, but they don’t press. They’re growing tired of him, too.

○

And then Daemon purges the city of criminals. He’s been gearing to do that for a few weeks now, but Lyra knows that the Tourney announcement moved his timetable forward a fair bit, and sends the Gold Cloaks scrambling a bit. It’s by no means a mess, but it is a situation. Enough for Daemon to be annoyed about it.

It’s his job to keep the city safe, after all.

…

Safe-ish. As much as place like King’s Landing can be, that is.

“Make sure to pick up all the body parts. I don’t want to find a disembowelled cock tomorrow.”

Corren chokes on air, and Harwin falters in his step. Daemon starts laughing.

“I’ll personally make sure we pick everything up,” he tells her with twinkling eyes. She nods.

“Good. I’ll be with aunt Aemma.”

○

“It will be fine,” Aemma reassures her, even though she’s sprawled on her settee, constantly shifting in her now-ever-present discomfort. “You’ll have a little cousin to spoil in no time.”

“I know,” Lyra lies with a small, much less fake-looking smile.

In two years, she will. And his name will be Aegon.

Aemma’s eyes are distant, glazed. She’s tired.

Lyra nicks her finger on the strings. She wraps it up and continues playing.

○

And then just like that, the day of the tourney arrives.

○

“You deserve better than this,” she tells Aemma as she places a crown of daisies and hydrangeas on her head. Aemma, though hazy-eyed, looks at her and smiles, reaching out to gently caress her cheek. A mother’s touch Lyra never allowed herself to crave, in neither life.

“I know,” Aemma tells her weakly through the haze of tonics and incenses and some poppy milk. “This is a goodbye.”

Lyra isn’t surprised by this. Their mutual assurances were hollow at best, before. Lyra, sad and desperate, and Aemma, slowly wasting away and having given up. There’s little life left in her eyes—was, under all that haze. Now there’s none.

Lyra lets herself cry.

“You knew,” she says trying to bite through her trembling voice.

“I knew,” Aemma agrees. “I could taste it, my death, I… I think I knew, from the start. Is it bad that I’m glad I will no longer have to see Viserys? I tire of his dreams. Of his insistence for a son. I tire of… This.”

Lyra shakes her head. “Not at all.”

“I didn’t want to think about it, you know,” Aemma says wistfully. “But I think I knew, from the start, that this is the end of the line. That this one… This one is where it ends, for me. I’m pathetic, aren’t I? Only admitting it now, drugged to the gills…”

“You’re not pathetic,” Lyra disagrees. “You’re very strong, actually.”

“I want to rest. Gods, Lyra, I’m so tired.”

“Then rest. You’ve done enough.”

“He’s waiting for me. Balerion, in his Halls, I can feel it.”

Lyra chuckles a little, remembering an awkward but kind behemoth with blood-red eyes who knelt down to her level because she was uncomfortable. “He’s not a bad person, you know. A bit stupid, lets his friends drag him into crazy schemes. But he’s nice.”

Aemma smiles.

“I hope so.” A pause. Aemma looks at up at the ceiling, then back at Lyra, with some newfound clarity in her hazed eyes. “Goodbye, Lyra. Have fun today. And don’t be too mean to Rhaenyra, alright? I fear it’s out fault she’s this spoiled.”

Lyra chuckles, and it comes out all wet and shuddery.

“Goodbye, aunt Aemma. I’ll try. But I make no promises.”

○

Rhaenyra remains entirely unaware of anything, as usual, as she excitedly gets ready for the tourney.

Lyra envies her so much she has to check herself in the mirror out of fear she’d turn physically green.

○

[Shrykos, I think I’m going to do something stupid, and I need your help.]

[Balerion, what in the fuck—]

[I helped you drag Lyra here. Now, I need you to help me back, since we used most of our power to speak with her. And passages are your domain, anyway.]

[Alright, shoot.]

○

She doesn’t go to the royal box. Instead, she sneaks into the knight tents first, and makes a beeline for her father. Her face is still a bit puffy and she splashes it with cold water.

Daemon is drunk, that’s easy to realize as he fumbles with the clasps of his armour, his usual dexterity gone. She doesn’t mention it, though, just as he doesn’t mention her puffy reddened eyes.

She helps him with the armour—where the fuck is his squire?—and he helps her wash her face and fixes her hair. Lyra looks tired if presentable when she finally makes her way, and Daemon looks somewhat sober. He’s in no state to fight, in no state to win the tourney, and Lyra thinks, maybe this is how he lost the first time in the past life, in the book and the show.

After all, if Baelon is born safely, he’ll loose what affection and standing he has with Viserys. And if they die, he’ll grieve for their loss.

It’s an odd sort of sadness.

○

There’s a tourney. Daemon asks for Alicent’s favour to insult Otto, which admittedly is funny, then proceeds to unhorse Hightower Junior—whichever, if Lyra’s counting right Otto has four sons and she really doesn’t feel like remembering their names, let alone remembering which one is this in particular—and then gets his ass handed to him by Criston Cole who then crowns Rhaenyra. Lyra smiles fondly as Daemon stomps off in a huff, predictably furious that he didn’t win anyway, but at least he doesn’t pick more of a fight. Lyra’s pretty sure he’d have won easily if he was sober.

Or maybe Viserys leaving just as he was about to fight knocked him off his game. Either or.

Probably both.

Lyra wished she was drunk, too. That way, maybe the cold dread pooling in her stomach wouldn’t have been as bad when she saw Viserys leave to finish murdering his wife.

Instead, she turned back to Laena to continue their conversation and tried very hard to not think about it. It’s almost easy; Laena is a delight. She’s fifteen, and Lyra’s lizard-child seven-year-old brain thinks that’s really cool, and she’s reasonable, quite mature, and has that feral little glint in her eye and sharpness in her words that endears her to Lyra in no time.

Laena also catches that Lyra’s upset for whatever reason and instead of wheedling it out of her, simply diverts her attention elsewhere. Trash-talking knights and their armour is pretty fun, when done with someone who knows what they’re talking about.

She also recently claimed Vhagar, the great beast Lyra saw all of once at her grandfather’s funeral two years ago, which makes Laena even cooler.

It’s a weird but a little fun situation once they start talking about it; Laena’s mother, Rhaenys, now rides Daemon’s mother’s dragon, while Daemon rides Rhaenys’ father’s dragon, and now Laena swooped in and took Daemon’s father’s dragon. Thinking and talking about it—because Lyra is, at heart, a dragon nerd, how could she not be?—helps a lot.

And then they’re given the news of Aemma’s death and nothing matters anymore.

○

She holds Rhaenyra with Alicent as she wails, and the sound the princess makes rattles her very bones.

A brat she may be, but now she’s just a little girl of not even twelve who just lost her mother, and least Lyra can do is be there, because though her heart feels like someone stabbed it with an icicle, she knows for a fact she can’t compare to what Rhaenyra feels.

But she’s also seven, and has the emotional control to match, and soon enough everyone in that pile is crying.

○

Baelon dies too; he doesn’t even reach the twenty-four-hour mark. Lyra seethes when she sees how haunted Viserys looks.

It’s his fault. He did it. He insisted Aemma keep trying to birth him a son, he ordered her cut open.

Lyra wants to scream it in his face. She almost does, but Daemon resurfaces from wherever he was and sweeps her up and grabs Rhaenyra by the hand and drags them both to his chambers. They have a sleepover and talk and reminisce about the good days, but throughout it all Lyra can’t help but wonder one thing; where the fuck is Viserys and why isn’t he comforting his own daughter?

She asks as much, which sends Rhaenyra into a massive tantrum about her father, screaming and cursing and throwing plates and all, but Lyra thinks she feels better by the end of it. She looks a little less haunted.

Alicent is missing too. Lyra wonders if Otto has already started planting his fourteen-year-old daughter in Viserys’ bubble.

Later, Rhaenyra demands Lyra to sing her Aemma’s favourite song. Somehow, by a miracle of sheer force of will, she manages to perform Soldier, Poet, King without breaking down.

○

Rhaenyra has to be the one to light the funeral pyre of her mother and brother, and the ones comforting her are Daemon and Rhaenys, and the only thing Lyra is sure of is that Viserys found the rock bottom and the attached shovel and he’s been digging ever since like it was something he was born to do.

His incompetence as a husband, a father, and a king has the capacity to ruin a nation.

It had, in a different timeline.

But Lyra lives in this timeline. And she needs to save dragons that Viserys will try so hard to bring to extinction, kill them all with his thoughtlessness like he had Aemma. And Lyra isn’t going to let him.

○

Daemon would be a second Maegor, or worse. It is the duty of the king to protect the realm from him.

It plays on reply in his head as he watches the Gold Cloaks have their promised fun for keeping the city safe over the tourney. For keeping the theft and harassment to little, and murder to none. He desn’t much feel like it, between Aemma’s death and Cunttower’s words, but—he gave his word, and his word he will keep, because those are good, hardworking men, keeping the city safe.

I will not be made to choose between my daughter and my brother.

But it was not quite a disagreement, was it? And if Cunttower is allowed to keep pouring poison into Viserys’ head, it’s only matter of time before it takes root. And Viserys doesn’t really want much with him nowadays anyway, preferring Cunttower’s counsel over his.

Mysaria says something to him and he smiles and waves his hand at her, not really listening. Then one of the Cloaks—Rorke, maybe?—bellows for the crowd to quiet down for him to speak. He sighs, not feeling much into it.

Daemon would be a second Maegor, or worse.

“King and council have long rued my position as the next in line for the throne.”

He stands up, doesn’t sway as much as he feared he would.

It is the duty of the king to protect the realm from him.

“But dream and pray as they all might, it seems I am not so easily replaced. The gods give, just as the gods take away.”

Tears, tantrums, Lyra and Rhaenyra both unwilling to let him go in their grief.

I will not be made to choose between my daughter and my brother.

But choosing between your daughter and your son was easy, wasn’t it?

He raises his cup, wry smile on his lips.

“To my brother, the king, and to the king’s son, who was his heir for less than a day!”

Rhaenyra wailing, waking up at night only to cry, calling for her mother. Lyra trying and almost succeeding to play Aemma’s favourite songs on her guitar for Rhaenyra without breaking down.

His own disbelief as he watched his goodsister wrapped for the pyre.

Gods, they were friends since childhood. He was just beginning to rekindle that friendship.

And Viserys—

Viserys—

 “And for the wife he killed for nothing, may she rest in peace free from him at last!”

The people roar and cheer him, but if Daemon’s being honest, he just wants to get back and sleep, and hope when he wakes up, the world isn’t as horrible.

○

He wakes up.

It’s worse.

Viserys calls for him and from the way Lyra sighs, he knows it’s nothing good. She pats his shoulder and he presses his forehead to hers to ground himself, and then he’s on his feet.

It won’t do to keep the king waiting.

<Don’t do anything he’d regret.>

Daemon will try to keep it in mind.

○

The confrontation is ugly. Daemon… Both plays a fool and doesn’t, because he said what he said and he doesn’t regret saying it—because it was truth—but hearing how much Otto misrepresented his words knocks the wind out of him.

He’s just.

He’s tired.

And Viserys is incensed for Daemon calling Baelon ‘Heir for a Day’ even though Daemon didn’t quite call him that. What he did, what he said, was said out of anger and helplessness at Viserys. If he’s to be honest, he genuinely thought Viserys would be mad at him for openly stating that he killed his wife, but he doesn’t even mention that.

Odd.

Maybe he doesn’t know Daemon said it.

Maybe he does but doesn’t address it because he did order her cut open and even before that, he did put the babe in her, and it all directly led to her death.

“We all mourn in different ways, Your Grace,” he says after a consideration.

“My family has just been destroyed.”

You destroyed your family, Daemon almost says. You made Aemma bear you heirs until it killed her, you ordered her stomach cut open. No pressing outside force. You.

“But instead of being by my side, or Rhaenyra’s—”

Porcelain on the wall, little half-orphan girl clawing at his arms as she wails into his chest begging for her mother—

“—you chose to celebrate your own rise, laughing with your whores and your lickspittles!”

Daemon stops listening then, just looking at his feet and trying to keep calm lest he does something his brother will regret.

Dark Sister is at his belt, and cold fury pools in the pit of his stomach. He feels weightless with anger though his throat constricts bitterly.

So he throws his woes back at Viserys. How he always pushes him away, how he’s always trying to get him gone. Doesn’t he realize he’s hurting him, when Daemon only wants to be of use for his brother the way father conditioned him to?

Otto. More honourable than him.

Something snaps, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re weak, Viserys. And your council of leeches knows it, they all prey on you for their own ends!”

But will truth thrown in his face now wake him up, when it failed so many times before?

He lives in his own little bubble, dad, Lyra told him once. Where the world works the way he thinks it does. And he will never step half a foot outside that bubble, lest he realizes he might be wrong about something.

He can see that now, much clearer than before.

“I have decided to name a new heir.”

Daemon startles a little. “I’m your heir?” he blurts out. It sounds like a question even to him.

Even though he knows he’s not, not really. He’s never been officially inundated, and Viserys’ constant tries for a son made it clear enough he’d never be one. It hurts, but he’s accepted it.

But this? Now?

It can’t be. He can’t, he won’t—Surely, surely—

“You will return to Runestone and to your lady wife, and you will do so without quarrel, by order of your King.”

All of a sudden, he feels empty. There’s no anger rising at the back of his throat nor sadness wrapping its hands around his neck, choking him. There’s just—nothing.

He takes a step forward, and the white cloaks close in. He looks at his brother, searching. He’s not—it’s not—

Viserys looks back, resolute. He thinks he’s made a good decision, and the emptiness grows.

“Your Grace.”

Daemon turns on his heel and walks out.

A part of him stays behind, in that throne room.

It dies there.

○

<Sit.>

He sits on the bed, and looks down at his hands without seeing much at all.

Lyra climbs onto his lap and wraps her small hands around his neck. He wraps his arms around her in turn and buries his face in her hair, grounding himself in the familiarity of it. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t; she’s his daughter, not a doll to be hugged whenever he feels worse. She probably shouldn’t be the one comforting him.

But she offers. Every time, she knows when he’s feeling worse and comes to him without fail, and he’s powerless to refuse. His mother was the only one who ever brought him this comfort, and she was dead before he truly tasted it.

She’s purring, a small sound he can almost feel in his bones. It helps more than he knows to describe.

<We need to pack,> he says eventually, when he actually can push words past his constricting throat. <We’re…>

<Alright.>

Alright. Nothing more, nothing less. Just… Alright.

<You’re not mad?>

<At Viserys. Does that count?>

<A little. But I meant me.>

<No. What happened?>

<Cunttower. Spread around that I called Baelon ‘Heir for a Day’. Though… Given the reaction, maybe it’s better.>

<Better than what?>

<The truth.>

<Which is?>

<Me calling the king a murderer.>

<Oh.> She considers it for a moment, cocks her head from side to side. Shrugs. <Yeah, I can see that. Anyway, where are we going?>

Just like that, she’s willing to uproot her life and go with him, again, and Daemon can’t help but seethe. She’s too good for him—when he and his father and Viserys would have to move, he’d always kick up a fuss, because to a seven-year-old, moving from place to place was terrifying. Children, he knows, need stability. Stability he’s very much not providing right now.

He looks down at her with a soft smile, and says: <Dragonstone.>

She nods. <Good. I’ll finally get my dragon.>

<Oh?>

She grins, but doesn’t answer. He tickles her in retaliation, and for a brief moment forgets the bitterness at the back of his throat.

○

<I know you’re getting your dragon, but I’ll need your help with something.>

She looks up at him and narrows her eyes.

<You’re stealing Baelon’s egg.>

It’s not a question, but he answers anyway.

<I’m stealing Baelon’s egg.>

Pause. Moment of consideration. Unimpressed sigh. Then:

<That is very petty. I’m in.>

Gods, he loves her so much.

○

“Bye Harwin, bye Corren!”

“Bye—What?”

“Kepa got kicked out of King’s Landing and I’m going with him.”

“Ah. Shit, who’s going to run Gold Cloaks now? What if they put another useless shmuck in charge?!”

“I dunno. Figure something out, I believe in you! Anyway, that’s all I wanted, bye!”

“Have fun and remember to keep up the training!”

“And make sure Daemon eats his vegetables!”

○

Daemon doesn’t take Mysaria with them when they leave, like Lyra expected he would. It sends her reeling in confusion because this isn’t how that went, but—

But why would he take Mysaria with them? It would be another story if the woman was actually pregnant like in the books, but as it stands, if Daemon wants a reason to steal the egg that was for Baelon, Lyra is a much better excuse than Mysaria and her hypothetical pregnancy.

It just makes sense. Lyra is already here, and she’s yet to find her dragon.

And Mysaria not being put in danger by Daemon for superficial reasons, and therefore still fond of him later, when she grows her spy network?

For that alone, Lyra will gladly play along with this plot.

○

Dragonstone is impressive.

A massive island formed around a volcano, and a sizable jagged keep that served as a Valyrian outpost before the Doom, and a Targaryen refuge after. Made of blackstone, with dragons carved into its walls and glass in its windows.

But it feels right, when Caraxes lands and she clambers down the saddle and almost falls flat on her face if not for Daemon catching her by the scruff last moment. When her feet hit the ground rich in volcanic ash and a dragon cries in the sky, circling around them briefly before dipping back towards the volcano itself, its bronze scales flittering in the sunlight.

Vermithor.

Daemon looks at her and then at the Bronze Fury flying in the distance, but she only shakes her head. Other than being in awe of the magnificent beast, she felt nothing.

○

It’s a siren kind of song; alluring and inescapable. She hears it from the moment she steps on Dragonstone, a soft but sure thrum in her chest and tinkle in her ears that only she knows to look for. It’s in the keens of the seagulls and crash of the waves, it rumbles in the island under her feet.

It’s something ancient. It’s something wild. It’s something just for her.

The bone-deep certainty of something waiting.

○

Daemon is probably more excited about the dragon thing than she is. He’s almost vibrating with anticipation and she laughs at him for it. He even proposes they go to the caves on the face of the volcano where the wild dragons nest.

Unnecessary. They wouldn’t find it there.

<Patience, dad. Patience.>

He’s not a very patient person, but the excitement from Lyra’s impending dragon-claiming at least distracts him from the mess they left behind in King’s Landing.

○

They don’t have to wait long at all.

They get to Dragonstone in the early hours of the afternoon. By sundown, it’s already there, lured to the keep by the very same kind of song that prompts Lyra to get out of the keep.

It startles Daemon, if the sharp stutter in his breath is anything to go by.

It’s a great black shape, perched on the hill like a giant spider that wasn’t there before, big enough to cover the entire peak with its shadow-and-tar-coloured body. It unfurls when she approaches, slowly as if for show, into leathery wings and scaly sides and ridged back and long neck covered in spikes until finally, a great scarred wolfish head crowned with wicked horns turns towards her. She can see white jagged teeth sticking from the maw of the creature, as long and thick as she’s tall.

She sees the familiar acid-green gaze focused on her—the very same that haunted her for months, chasing away bloodstained cheap linoleum and glinting kitchen knives.

A titan to match titans, the oldest and the second-largest dragon alive; a relic of a bygone era.

A dragon who was never meant to be ridden for a girl that was never meant to live.

Lyra takes a fortifying breath and walks forward despite Daemon making a sound of protest, as the Cannibal dragon looks at her with half-crazed, half-intelligent eyes, the perfect picture of a living nightmare.

<Hello, Satan,> she says under her breath, not faltering in her step. <How kind of you to finally come to me.>

Chapter Text

Daemon stays behind, even though it’s obvious that he really wants to follow. But he can’t, because this is something Lyra must do on her own. A Targaryen rite of passage, almost, years before Rhaenyra and her bad decisions and bastards and that stupid egg-in-cradle tradition. (Did they really expect the eggs to not hatch when the mother is the source of Targaryen dragon-blood?) So instead, he chooses to wear a hole in the grass with his pacing at a distance great enough that Lyra would barely hear him if he yelled. It’s still a bit of a long walk from the keep, and with her short legs it takes a good few minutes, but she gets there.

The Cannibal dragon only looks worse up closer, with jagged teeth and bright, slit-pupiled eyes, and black scales. Like all the tense scenes in Jurassic Park, the original one, that she watched when she was probably too young to, all put into one giant fire-breathing lizard with its gaze trained on her, unblinking. Except this one is real, and not animatronic or CGI.

It’s a wicked kind of beast, all black like tar or a starless night, with eyes glowing acid-green, alert and intelligent but half-crazed, and horns curving about its skeletally wolfish head scarred in a way only another dragon unwilling to become prey without a fight could maim while thrashing between its teeth. It’s utterly crowned with horns; two curling forward, in tandem with its muzzle, and the rest curved backwards, uneven, jagged, and all black. She could walk on each; she could lay down on each, with room to spare.

This, Lyra imagines, is how the Devil must look like.

Actually, now that she’s looking at it, it’s looking a whole lot like Black Dragons from Dungeons and Dragons, in shape and colour both; especially with its head, though not quite as sunken and skull-like.

She’s not very tall, being seven and all, but her whole body is about the size of the teeth she can see clearly now, as the dragon curls its lips back in a wordless snarl. Still, she’s almost vibrating, excitement and adrenaline and giddiness swirling in her head. It takes a lot of effort to not squeal, and to walk instead of skipping. She may have memories of having lived thirty years before this, but she is biologically seven with all the emotional control that implies.

Which is little on a good day and almost none in the face of something like this. She’s only good at pretending she has her shit together.

The dragon rears back, bares its teeth again, hisses. Opens its maw as its throat glows green with something that looks like the not-yet-invented wildfire. Lyra feels the heat hit her as the green glow builds up slowly, threateningly, but without hostility. She would know if it was hostility, because if it was it wouldn’t be waiting, watching, seeing what she’s going to do about the situation. She’s be a pile of ash at best already, if it really aimed to hurt, killed like every other fool that tried to approach.

A loud, clear ‘daor’ is enough to make it slam its maw shut with a loud clack and a puff of green fire.

She finds herself oddly unimpressed at the threatening display; she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, it gives her the same kind of exasperation as when she found Rascal chewing on her shoes, again, the little orange runt living up to his name every day, even as he grew old and slow.

(Gods, she misses her cat so much still. He was with her for most of her life.)

The dragon cocks its head at her, bright eyes not leaving her for a moment. It’s coiled, she notices, tense in a way Caraxes is just before he takes to the skies.

It’s excited, too, she realizes belatedly, maybe because she only feels it now; faint at first and stronger with every step, emotions that respond to hers but that aren’t hers. The dragon’s—its—his. Every moment is new information, constantly more, constantly clearer. Curious, wary, alert, hopeful—not-food, not-prey, not enemy, friend? pack?

Mine?

It’s both too much and almost nothing at all, her young human mind against his ancient, wild one. It threatens to sweep her away—would have, if she really were seven.

But she has thirty-two more years (and probably divine providence) to fall back on.

As it is, she holds on only barely, but she does. She might actually be able to do this.

<Hello,> she says and reaches out. The Cannibal doesn’t rear back this time, curious, enthralled by the promise of a bond, letting her press her hand on his snout. It dwarfs her, everything about this creature. She could set up a tent on his horned head with room to spare.

He lets out a rumble. It almost sounds like a purr.

Happy? Happy. Mine? Pack?

It’s disjointed, not at all a voice; feelings and images, all abstract, but she understands, like a weird dream that doesn’t fade after you wake up.

Like acid-eyed shadows chasing bloodstained linoleum away.

She smiles and presses bodily against his head in a bastardized hug before stepping back. <Yeah, pack. Pack works.>

The Cannibal shoves against her with his head, picking her up with the motion. Lyra squeals and holds on the scales and smaller horns until she can slide down. She laughs, and pats his head again, wondering if he can even feel that. He seems to hear and understand her, even though she’s not really raising her voice, so… Maybe?

She’s just following Daemon’s lead here, really. He doesn’t yell at Caraxes, he just says things loud and clear, and even in the air Caraxes hears and understands. He told her, once; if your dragon is truly yours, they will know what you want them to do. They hear you.

(But whether they choose to listen to you is another matter entirely. They are winged fire-breathing cats on a good day, and most often half as cuddly and twice as capricious.)

She needs a name for him, Lyra realizes, before anything else. The Cannibal is a moniker; like calling Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, or Vermithor the Bronze Fury. But a moniker is not a name. Her dragon, first of all, deserves a proper name; deserves for his first flight to be with a name.

And there is only one name that is worthy of him, she thinks. And ever since Balerion and Shrykos visited her in a dream, and foreshadowed her dragon, she knew exactly what it would be.

An inherited name, from worlds away. She almost spoke it, when she first saw him perched on that hill waiting for her, because that was exactly what the image brought to her mind; Satan was only second. A name from another story, easily one she loved more than the one she is living now. A story full of magic and hope, with some dragons sprinkled on top as it struggled time and time again against evil or uncaring gods and demon lords.

<I ought to name you, when no other has, don’t I,> she asks, though it’s not a question. The Cannibal tilts his head towards her, listening closer. Lyra smiles. <I have a perfect one. I hope you don’t mind it being a legacy name, though; I name you in honour of someone else, and in hope that this name will guide you, too.>

Cannibal purrs, though it’s more of a rumble with his size, and feelings of happiness and a sense of finality press against her mind, but also impatience.

Give me that damn name already. Mine. Mine-mine-minemine.

<From today onwards, you shall be known as the greatest of all winged dragons; Ancalagon.>

Sorry GRRM, she thinks privately and not sorry at all, but I’ve always been a Tolkien girl.

And this world doesn’t have a Eärendil on a flying ship, or pretty but ultimately worthless gems to commit kinslayings over. Instead, it has rampant greed and senseless violent cruelty, but without Vhagar or Vermithor, those things aren’t enough to kill this Ancalagon.

And might he grow big enough to level three mountains one day, really. All the power to him.

Pack, an emotion close to elation all but slams into her. Together. Not alone.

<Not alone,> Lyra agrees, and thinks of Daemon; turns around, spots a tiny white-red-and-black figure still wearing out a hole in the patch of grass by the stone bridge. Looks back to Ancalagon. <I’m not alone, and now neither are you.>

And it snaps together, just like that, and she feels something take root in her very soul. It’s warm and comforting in a way few other things are, and it makes her feel like she could fly.

Lyra looks at Ancalagon. Ancalagon looks at Lyra.

They both look up.

<Yeah,> she says. <There’s one more thing to do. Very important thing.>

Sky, Ancalagon agrees. Fly. Fly-free-fly-wind-cloud-blue. Together.

<You don’t have a saddle,> Lyra points out, and sighs. <Oh, this will be borderline suicidal, but I’m not backing down now for some small inconvenience!>

Though she probably shouldn’t call a potential fall to the death a minor inconvenience. Oh well.

(If Targaryens weren’t born pale-haired Daemon would surely be greying because of her by now.)

It’s difficult to ride without a saddle, but it’s perfectly doable, Daemon told her when she proclaimed she’ll have a dragon soon. The placement is up higher, on the neck. The catch is, you need to bodily lay down on the dragon for it to be somewhat safe, lodge yourself between all these spikes, hold onto them. Ideally, tie yourself down. When it’s flying upwards, you have to hold on like your life depends on it, because it does, but once the flight evens out, you can sit up.

Lyra doesn’t have a rope, but she smuggled three leather belts out in her pockets in anticipation, and they will have to do.

She puts her hands on her hips, taps her foot on the ground a bit, as she studies Ancalagon’s neck critically. She could try to climb it, with all the jagged spines, if she only was able to reach them, but they only start halfway up his neck and that’s much too high for her to reach. Beneath, it’s just smooth scale she has no hope of climbing.

She could try clamouring up his wings, but they likewise have no purchase. They’d make a good slide, while she needs to go up.

She looks back at his head, horned, ridged, and perfectly within reach.

It will do.

<I’m going to have to excuse you for a moment,> she says, putting her riding gloves on, and unceremoniously vaults herself on Ancalagon’s horn, the one curved to the front in line with his maw. She stands up on it, barely keeping her balance as the dragon rumbles in confusion, and walks up, hopping onto his head when she gets close enough. She finds purchase on smaller horns, easily dragging herself up when she slips. From there, she just walks down his neck until she reaches its base.

It does take her a moment, with unknown, uneven, constantly moving terrain under her feet not aiding her at all. She almost trips a few times when she’s not careful enough in her excitement, but soon enough she’s there, sitting down on the scales and wrapping the leather belts around the ridges, and herself down with them. She has just enough to tie herself down semi-securely.

She fixes up her leather jacket, pulls her gloves firmly down to fit better, and then lays flat on Ancalagon’s scaly back, gripping both the ridges and the belts lightly, for now just enough to hold them. No need to waste grip strength yet.

She’s not sure if it’s her that’s vibrating so hard, or the dragon, but that doesn’t matter.

Right now, nothing else matters.

<Fly!> she commands, and Ancalagon roars, bodily moving for the first time since uncoiling. Takes one step, then another, and another, each faster than the other.

Lyra can’t see the ground darting underfoot where she is but she feels the earthquakes of his steps as he gains speed on all fours, and then on just hind legs as he spreads his wings and, with few mighty flaps, they’re going up, and higher still. Lyra doesn’t chance a look behind her, at Dragonstone, her grip on the belts and the ridges tightening, strong with adrenaline and the very real fear of falling as Ancalagon rises higher and higher into the sky with massive flaps of his wings that displace the air with a sound that’s almost thunder.

It’s so wildly different from flying Caraxes with Daemon. This is dangerous. This is fun.

She doesn’t even try fighting a manic grin that she feels almost split her face in two, uncaring of the wind. Ancalagon roars, and she feels it more than she hears it, and she screams back with something like joy but more.

Ancalagon’s flight stabilizes eventually, only the occasional wingbeats rocking the dragon, and Lyra carefully sits up, still holding onto the spikes for dear life, but not as desperately. She looks around, takes a deep breath—she’s not sure how long the ascent took really, but they’re above the sea of clouds and it’s probably the most beautiful view Lyra has ever seen.

It’s sunset; the clouds are dark, violet and pink, and the sky is bathed in bright yellow and orange as the last golden of today’s sun light it up. The sun itself is right before them, about to dip beneath the clouds, and Lyra has to shield her eyes from its brightness when it shines between Ancalagon’s horns.

The dragon snorts and roars, and Lyra feels a laugh bubbling up in her throat, and soon enough, she’s laughing with glee, throwing one hand up. The part of her that’s thirty-two and fully aware that they’re very fucking high up keeps her other hand firmly grasping the leather belt wound around a horn.

The air is thin and cold up here, and the wind is hitting her face and whipping her hair about, but it’s amazing. Different from riding Caraxes with Daemon. Her own. Better.

She can feel the low thrum of Ancalagon’s consciousness, its tendrils reaching out for hers, and then, like the last puzzle piece slotting into the image, their minds slot together, and everything makes sense—

She sees. She feels.

She’s content and calm, happy in a way she’s never been before.

She’s so free—

Wind under her wings, sun on her scales, content hum of a bond forged—

She snaps awake and it’s like surfacing from a pool of water, breathing heavily. She tightens her grip on the belt, doesn’t let herself slip again when she sees it coming, and it overwhelms her again, like a wave crashing over and all around her.

She’s Lyra the girl, not Ancalagon the dragon.

She takes a step back. The wave crashes forward.

She’s Lyra the girl.

Something grabs her ankle, pulls her down.

She’s—

She feels Ancalagon land more than actually perceives it. She undoes the belts holding her down mechanically, and then slides down his wing without much graze at all, or, at least she thinks she does, because the next thing she knows she’s back on the ground.

Ancalagon’s presence in her mind is receding, though he doesn’t quite know how to step back, and after the bond fell in place it leaves Lyra with a hollow feeling in her chest. She almost pulls his mind forward on instinct, but stops herself. He’s doing it for her. He’s doing what he can not to overwhelm her, because he knows, understands, that she almost lost it—lost herself.

She wipes her mouth when she feels it’s wet, and it comes red. Blood. But she doesn’t feel particularly strained, it’s like—

She sways on her feet, faint all of a sudden, feeling a little rattled.

So, she didn’t come out of it unscathed, it would seem.

Bonding a dragon includes opening your mind to your dragon, and them to you. Two beings, not quite becoming one but becoming linked, with the connection rooting itself deeply within their very soul, letting their minds overlap, more or less. It really depends on each specific pair how deep it goes. Valyrians grow into it, usually claiming dragons young and malleable. Young dragons do the same, figuring everything as they go. Old dragons, who have had riders before, simply know what to do.

But Ancalagon is an old wild dragon who has never been bonded. He has lived a long life wild, developed a strong personality all on his own, and he has no idea what he’s doing any more than Lyra.

If she truly were seven, Lyra would’ve been swept away, her ego erased and left a husk, dead or overridden with something distinctly inhuman. Anchoring herself in the thirty-two years she lived before was the only way she could resurface, but it would seem her psyche took a beating from the merge anyway, now that the adrenaline high was wearing off and she was actually feeling it.

But she lived. She pulled through, successfully bonded Ancalagon. The gods wouldn’t have sent her to get him if they weren’t sure she could do it. She hopes.

It was a near thing still, she realizes as she sways and falls on her knees. Ancalagon makes an inquisitive sound, sniffing at her, and let credit be given where due, he did retract back into his mind when she started fracturing—at least, as much as he could. She can only hear him as if through water now, only gets strong feelings.

She knows that if they open their minds again, she will just be swept.

The bond is in place, but she’s not out of the danger yet. It will take a bit.

She can’t move. She can’t feel her legs, either, she realizes. She’s exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical. She can’t make herself move, more than her body having no strength to do so. But she has to, she realizes. She has to go to Daemon, or worry will eat him from the inside. He might try to approach Ancalagon himself if he worries enough, and that, she cannot allow. He’d die. Her dragon would kill him, she doesn’t doubt that. Ancalagon is too wild, completely unsocialized. Maybe one day he will be approachable by others but not now. Not today.

Not without Lyra able to keep him calm while someone else approaches right now, and she can sense, hazy as it is, that he’s nervous and protective. In the state she’s in, everyone is a threat.

She must go.

She physically cannot.

Colourful spots start dancing in front of her eyes, her ears start to ring. She feels faint, from the fatigue and the blood loss. She’s about to faint. She can’t go anywhere, she—

Green-eyed shadows. Bloodstained linoleum.

Something like a knock on the door, and she lets it in, this distinctly not-Targaryen thing. It’s nothing like the bond, unfamiliar, alien—cold.

She thinks she feels surprise that’s not hers because she’s too tired, and then determination.

The world sharpens and she drops, her body suddenly not hers at all. But her body moves. Like a puppet on strings, with strength not her own, one hand on the grass, then the other. Drops of blood splatter on her hands as her body pushes itself up, one leg under her, then the other, and she slowly rises, and sways only a little. It’s hazy, but her weakness is in the fatigue of her mind, not her body.

Walk, Ancalagon wills at her, sharing his own fortitude for the lack of her own.

Walk.

And she does.

○

Daemon is whiter than milk, and a little ashen, when he sees her. Breaks into a sprint and snatches her off the ground with an alarmed shout she’s too exhausted to decipher.

All the will that pushed her forward is there still one blink, and gone the next.

She thinks she tries to say something, but can’t know for sure. She’s gone too fast.

○

He’s stupid. Idiot, moron, dimwit—how could he forget, how could he not realize—

Bonding a dragon was forging a connection between two minds, the rider and the dragon connected in a way that anyone outside the loop was simply unable to understand. It let them know each-other, work with each-other seamlessly.

Some bonds were stronger, some weaker, but there was always a bond there; whether it was a slight, barely-there thing where only the strongest of emotions came though, or so strong and comprehensive that you couldn’t be sure where dragon ended and person began, or something somewhere in-between, a bond would always be forged.

It was simple, if the dragon was young. A young dragon and a young Targaryen were on equal footing; neither knew what they were doing, each had ego on comparable level, and they meet each-other midway. It was trickier with older dragons, because their egos, their personalities, their very souls continued to develop as long as they lived, but if they had experience with riders, they could easily accommodate for a new one, barely overwhelm it a little.

But if the rider was young and inexperienced, but the dragon was old and inexperienced—

Erasure of the rider’s very ego, their personality, their soul, swallowed by the dragon’s own, was all but certain.

Lyra was seven. The Cannibal dragon was, if the stories were to be believed, nearing its second century. The Cannibal dragon was also never ridden before.

Daemon realizes it about when the Cannibal dragon takes off with his daughter on its back (did she—did she just get on this beast without a saddle? Does she not know how dangerous that is—) and by then it’s far too late to even try to stop her. All he can do is pray that she will somehow survive this.

The idea of Lyra not coming back makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He feels faint, and cold, and jittery, and he’s watching for a great black shape in the sky almost obsessively, spotting it above the clouds and between them, circling the island.

When the dragon lands, he starts walking towards it, quick paces, nervous. The dragon will kill him, a logical part of him whispers, but he ignores it.

He’s terrified, but not of anything; he’s terrified for something. Someone.

He cannot lose Lyra. He cannot—

His legs almost buckle under him from relief when he sees her walking down the hill, but that relief is short-lived, because she’s walking all wrong—as if she’s not used to walking on two legs at all.

And her face is covered in blood.

And her eyes are a shining, sinister green, slit-pupiled, vibrant, and wild.

He breaks into a sprint, sweeps her off her feet, presses her against his chest and begs—

<’m fine…> she slurs weakly as her eyes flash back to their original dark purple and Daemon almost falls to his knees with the sheer relief, only for his panic to flare for the third time when she goes limp in his arms nearly immediately after. But she’s breathing, and she’s warm. Alive.

His eyes are wet. His cheeks are wet. His throat is uncomfortably warm and tight.

He’s crying, he realizes, with terror and relief both.

<You’ll be the death of me,> he whispers in barely audible, shaking voice, and kisses her forehead. <I’m so glad you’re alive.>

○

Consciousness flowing to and from.

Snippets of conversation above her; frantic father and someone else, shocked.

“Then how did—"

“Green eyes, like the dragon—"

“First Men blood— Her mother—"

“A skinchanger—”

“—warged into the dragon—”

“Never seen anything like—!”

Huh. So maybe she did get something more than neglect from her mother after all.

○

Green-eyed shadows instead of bloodstained linoleum. Black ocean that is the mind of an ancient beast.

Her alone among calm waters, floating on her back. It’s warm. It’s boundless.

Something calling from the depths, fish-memories darting beneath her fingers, not her own.

This time, she doesn’t sink. This time, his mind doesn’t try to drown her.

It takes all of her to stay afloat, all collective thirty-nine years, but she does.

And it takes all of him, all delicate subtlety he can scrounge together to not to sink her, but he does.

Together, but not as one. Together, but each their own.

Slowly, it solidifies. Soon, it will be instinctual, ebbing and flowing together and around each-other.

They have found their balance.

○

She wakes up slowly, unwilling to open her eyes just yet if only for the pain pulsing behind her eyelids with every heartbeat and breath. It’s not bad, not a migraine at all, but it’s there, and it’s persistent. It’s the kind that stays for hours, even days on end, not bad enough to be debilitating but bad enough to be a constant chore to withstand.

Fuck, this world doesn’t have Ibuprofen.

She groans and curls up, only briefly hindered by the arm slung over her.

Daemon predictably stirs at the motion, the hitch in his breath signifying the switch between sleep and bleary wakefulness.

<Lyra?> he whispers, quiet and uncertain. Lyra winces, and this time not because of pain.

<Yeah?> she asks. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he wraps his arms around her and presses her tighter to his chest. Soon enough a purr rolls through his chest, and Lyra sighs, pressing her forehead against his collarbone as the frequency takes off the worst pressure of the headache. She would respond in kind, but she doesn’t think she can right now.

She thinks she drifts back to sleep, because the next time she wakes, her head hurts less, and Daemon isn’t in bed with her being a glorified teddy bear. Instead, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, poking her in the cheek.

She swats his hand away and burrows deeper into the blankets, but he doesn’t relent.

<Come on Lyra, you need to drink some water.>

<I need to sleep,> she grumbles, no doubt muffled by all the covers.

<You will sleep more when you had a drink. Come on, I have milk of the poppy too if you want.>

They don’t have Ibuprofen but they do have straight-up drugs. Thanks, but no thanks.

<No poppymilk,> she complains and forces herself to slowly crawl out of her nest. She flops back on the pillows, and slowly opens her eyes. The room is bathed in bright sunlight that makes her wince. Her head may hurt less, but it still hurts. Now that she thinks about it, she is quite parched, and her tongue feels like sandpaper and sponge. <How long was I out for?>

<Two days. It’s a little past noon.>

Daemon helps her sit up, propped on the pillows and the bedframe, and then helps her drink some cool water. She needed that.

She takes a deep breath. She feels rather faint, probably from the nosebleed. It was rather profuse.

<How are you feeling?> Daemon asks, putting his hand against her forehead. His hand feels cool—cold, almost.

<Like I’m about to come down with a cold,> she answers after a moment, because in all honesty, the symptoms match. It’s probably not it, but it sure feels like it.

<I doubt you are,> Daemon says. <You are running a bit of a fever, but it’s probably just the bond.>

<Mm. Sorry for worrying you.>

Daemon shakes his head. <You’re alive. That’s what matters.>

<But you were worried.>

<Oh, horribly. But I couldn’t have stopped it, could I?>

<No. And it wouldn’t really have been fair.>

<Still, I was worried. Terrified, really. I cannot lose you; I refuse. I lost enough family.>

Lyra blinks slowly, looks up at Daemon. Unguarded, open, honest. He’s twenty-four, barely an adult, and his life is already falling apart around him. His parents dead, his brother constantly against him. Maybe he feels like she is all he has.

She reaches forward, puts her hand on his.

<I’m too stubborn to leave you,> she says, and she means it. <I will eventually go may way once I’m grown… But I will never leave you forever. Yeah?>

Daemon takes a shaky breath. He reaches out, drags her into his lap, and curls around her.

<Look at you. You almost just died, and here you are, comforting me,> he says, voice shivering. <I’m rather a lousy father, aren’t I?>

<You’re doing your best, and I see that. It’s enough. Besides, you’re taking it harder than I am, so why shouldn’t I comfort you?>

He lets out a wet chuckle, his arms tightening around her. Lyra sighs and closes her eyes, resting her head comfortably on his collarbone.

<I’m so glad you’re alive. Don’t be so flippant about dying.>

<Me too, dad. I love you.>

<I love you, too.>

They stay like that for a good while, until Lyra’s stomach decides to remind her she was out of it for two days. Daemon laughs at her, and she pokes him in the side, as they call for a meal.

○

Seeing Daemon like that shakes her up, Lyra will admit. Especially since if she were a real seven-year-old, she would have been dead.

It’s a bit late, but she decides that she might as well just tell him the truth, outlandish as it is.

○

<It’s not like you to be this picky when eating.>

<I know. But right now, I don’t think I can stomach anything other than meat. Do you think it’s the bond?>

<Likely, yes.>

<Hmm. Well, on the good side I can actually eat liver without retching right now!>

<You seem awfully happy about that.>

<Well, I did lose some blood. Liver is good for replenishing that.>

<Huh. I did not know that.>

<Now you do.>

○

<What did you name your dragon?>

<Ancalagon.>

<Ancalagon? Odd name.>

<Mmm. From a story I heard before.>

<Oh?>

<Maybe I’ll tell you it one day.>

<Maybe. Must be great story, to name your dragon after.>

<Mhm. The best, really.>

○

It’s the evening when she decides to just rip off the band-aid. So, she looks at her father, and says:

<I died once before.>

Daemon has never looked more like a deer caught in the headlights than at this moment. He takes a sharp breath and looks at her for a moment, unblinking. She holds his gaze.

<This. This is not a very funny joke, little flame.>

<It’s not a joke. Will you listen?>

He looks at her, and takes a deep breath. <Of course.>

<Are you in any way familiar with reincarnation, re-embodiment, or rebirth?>

He isn’t, because Valyrian Religion only has an afterlife, and he really can’t be bothered with other religions. She explains it to him.

And then she explains to him everything else; her past life, her death, the gods and their plan, the mission she was sent on. Of how she always had flashes of her past life, which made her an abnormal child and in hindsight explained so much about her behaviour, and how she remembered everything after turning seven, after weeks of nightmares that left them both haunted.

How she remembers, in vivid detail, her first death, and how her dreaming of Ancalagon helped push these memories from her dreams and the forefront of her mind.

 He listens to her, enraptured and horrified both.

<I want to think this is just some elaborate cruel prank,> he tells her when she’s done. <But you would never do that. And… It makes too much sense. Between how you act, and your ability to bond with the Cannni—Ancalagon, if you were a normal child, you—>

<My mind would’ve been erased,> she finishes. Daemon closes his eyes and puts his hand over them, letting out a hollow chuckle. He refuses to think about it to deeply, she can see. Because it’s the kind of person he is; angry that he wasn’t there for her, worlds away.

<But you are Lyra, aren’t you?>

<Yes. From birth to now and going onwards, it’s always been just me.>

<Then that’s all that matters to me. I’m sorry you died, but I’m glad to have you.>

<Mmm. If I’m being honest, I’d say dying has actually been worth it so far.>

<How?>

<Because I got you. And yes, I do miss the creature comforts of my past life, because it was a thousand years ahead of this world socially and technologically, but… I can work with this, I think.>

<Because of me?>

<Well, it’s my first time having a parent that actually loves me without me having to conform exactly to what they think I should be, so. Yeah. Because of you.>

He wraps his arms around her, and she wraps her arms around his neck as they press their foreheads together.

<I’m really happy you think that.>

<Well, I’ really happy you’re my dad.>

<So… Ancalagon, is he from a story from that other world?>

She looks up at him with sparkling eyes. The dam’s open, now she won’t be able to shut up about Tolkien’s works until she gets it out of her system.

<Yeah! It’s my favourite story ever!>

Daemon sees her excitement and smiles. For the first time today it’s just a smile, unburdened by worry and the revelations.

<Will you tell me?>

<Of course!>

○

Once they’ve calmed down and Daemon processed the bombshell Lyra just threw in his face, they get ready for bed. But this time, instead of Daemon regaling her with Valyrian mythos, it’s Lyra retelling him Silmarillion, in as much detail as she can recall, starting with Ainulindalë.

Given that she re-read Silmarillion roughly once a year since she turned sixteen, it’s actually a lot of detail, and soon enough Daemon understands just why Middle Earth entranced her so, and finds himself similarly enamoured.

He very quickly decides that Fëanor is a pompous fool, and refuses to listen when Lyra points out that their arrogance and compulsiveness are almost mirrors, and asks if he isn’t simply hating what he perceives as his traits. He admits that maybe he is, but if he had seven sons, he’d surely cherish them, rather than drag them on a fool’s voyage across the world and get the mall killed.

Certainly not over some shiny rocks.

Maybe she should write it down, before she forgets details. And she supposes it says something about her; that she’d be loath to lose Tolkien’s works, while she doesn’t quite care for Fire and Blood or House of the Dragon that much, despite living these stories right now.

Part of it, she’s sure, is wanting to make this story uniquely her own.

(That doesn’t mean she won’t try to prevent the potential deaths of her loved ones if she’s able, of course. Daemon certainly won’t be dying above God’s Eye.)

○

<You claiming Ancalagon, do you think it has something to do with the gods?>

<How so?>

<Well, they send you in with explicit orders to save dragons, and then the one dragon killing others ends up being yours, putting you in a perfect position to rein him in.>

<I have no idea but I really wouldn’t put it past them. Or it was luck. Whichever way, I’m not going to question things that make my job easier.>

○

<Wait, does this mean that you’re actually an adult?>

<Hm? Not at all. I’m very much a child—do you know how children mature as they age into adults?>

<Yes.>

<Big part of it is processes in the body. Emotional control, reasoning, impulse control. All that is in the body, not the mind. So I am, right now, a child with memories of an adult. Doesn’t mean I have a much better impulse control, though!>

<But it is somewhat better, isn’t it? Compared to other children?>

<Only because I understand consequences, and even then, it’s really difficult. Child thoughts want instant gratification. I almost let go of the belts when I was flying Ancalagon for example, because it was really fun.>

<But you didn’t want to plummet from cloud level to the sea.>

<Exactly.>

<Well I will tell you now, it hardly gets better!>

<Nah, that’s just you, dad.>

<What was that?>

<Nothing. Love you.>

He tickles her for that.

○

Maybe it is a bit early, and she does still feel a bit faint, but the next morning after she wakes up, Lyra decides to go to Ancalagon. Daemon makes a face at it, the master that was begrudgingly allowed to exist in Dragonstone harrumphs, and the smallfolk healer woman looks at her with disapproval.

So, Lyra gives them an ultimatum; either she’s allowed to go see Ancalagon, or she will sneak out to go and see Ancalagon. She has a stare-down with Daemon that lasts maybe three seconds before he huffs, shakes his head, and asks a maid to prepare her some clothes.

Not riding leathers, he makes sure to point out, because Lyra will not be going flying again until she’s fully recovered; ideally, after the dragon is saddled.

Lyra just shrugs, grabs her guitar, and tells him that they do, in fact, need to figure something out about the saddle because riding a beast this big without one was difficult. And then she’s off.

○

Ancalagon is where she left him, curled into a gigantic ball of indistinct scales and wings. Apparently, she’s been told, he’s been curled like that, asleep, all this time. Some braver stableboys approached him yesterday out of curiosity, only to sprint right back when Ancalagon took offense to their approach and made it known by poking his head from under his wings and hissing at them.

Lyra giggles at the mental image, though she has enough first-hand experience to know for a fact that it would have been a rather terrifying sight.

He uncoils, somewhat, at her approach, but only really enough for her to duck under his wings into the leathery tent. The weather outside left a lot to be desired today, being a misty, rainy, cold, wet, and overall unpleasant, but the space underneath Ancalagon’s wings was dry and warm. The darkness didn’t quite bother Lyra, as usual, with her eyes adapted more to low light than bright light.

<Hello!> she says cheerfully, patting the dragon’s massive snout before clamouring onto his front-curving horns and making herself comfortable there. Something presses against her mind, skittish and uncertain, and she lets it. <It’s alright. We figured it out, didn’t we?>

Worry, hurt, confusion, fragile-fragile-fragile, careful.

Are you okay?

<Yes. Thank you for worrying.>

Remorse, regret, shame.

I’m sorry.

<It’s alright. I expected it would happen. Sorry for scaring you.>

Determination.

I’ll be better.

<Mhm. Me too.>

She spends the next hour playing the soundtrack of How to Train Your Dragon to Ancalagon, and it feels both incredibly appropriate and like a horrible awful pun. Ancalagon really likes it, though, especially when she feeds him some half-remembered clips from the movie through the bond.

That, he sends back. Want.

<Me too, buddy. So, let’s work for it together, okay?>

Together. Mine. Yours. Pack.

She likes the sound of that.

○

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No means no, my Prince. We will consider saddling the Cannibal only if your daughter demonstrates enough of a control over him to prevent him butchering the Dragonkeepers. No sooner. Not with how dangerous of a beast it is.”

“And if she can control him well enough?”

“With all due respect to the young lady, I sincerely doubt it. She’s seven, and this beast is, if the stories are right, near two centuries old. It would be miraculous if she could command him this effortlessly.”

“…we shall see, Keeper.”

○

<Okay but you really do need a saddle.>

Her answer is hisses and growls.

<Buddy, look, you can sound like a grumpy crocodile all you want, but nothing’s going to change. For me to be able to fly with you, you need a saddle.>

Weh.

<Hey now, don’t give me that attitude! Do you not want to fly with me?>

Weh.

But he does move.

○

It only takes half-an-hour of a seemingly one-sided argument for Ancalagon to huffily crawl into the workshop with a smug-looking Lyra sitting cross-legged on his head.

Daemon for his part also feels very smug, looking at the slack-jawed Keeper.

“How,” the man demands, disbelieving, as the other keepers warily but efficiently take measurements for the saddle. If they’re lucky, they’ll be able to use one of the models made for Vhagar, or even Balerion, with only minimal adjustments. There are several backup saddles in good condition.

“My daughter just is like that,” Daemon tells the man with a gleeful glint in his violet eyes. “Horrible for my blood pressure, but she works her miracles anyway.”

“Is it true then?”

“What is?”

“That she can handle any dragon?”

“So far, yes. Every dragon she approached was friendly to her, even when the rider wasn’t. I found her napping against Dreamfyre few times when we still stayed in King’s Landing.”

So, he may be bragging a bit. Bite him.

“Remarkable. Truly, a blessing from the Fourteen!”

“Truly,” Daemon agrees.

○

One of Balerion’s unused saddles is deemed fit, and then subjected to a whole week of alterations, because Lyra wants this and that and doesn’t want all the ornate ornamental addons. Ancalagon grumbles and groans and hisses, but Lyra reminds him that he promised, and he can’t go back on that, and soon enough the mighty beast has a befitting saddle bolted to his back, equipped with a rope ladder to climb up and down.

Though he does snap his teeth at a Keeper who comes too close to his head, and slams his tail into the ground once or twice for no other reason than to scare the workers for fun, nobody gets singed or even maimed, let alone killed. By the standards he’s set throughout his life, he’s outstandingly well-behaved.

It takes some adjustments between several test flights until both Lyra and Ancalagon are fully satisfied with the result—it’s too shaky for her here, it’s pinching him there, can they add some more bags for long-flight resources? She will be going to Essos sometime—but they get there. The saddle is sleek, a washed-out brown of hardened leather, not very ornate but embedded with a dragon motif. Lyra accessorizes it with black fabric and white furs that can be easily repurposed into equipment.

There’s enough space for two to fly and then some, but Lyra doesn’t know when, or if, she’ll put that to use. Ancalagon may have tolerated all the workers putting a saddle on him, but that’s about his limit of human interaction for next several decades, bar her. Despite Lyra’s best efforts, Ancalagon isn’t very fond of her father, or of Caraxes, either. He’s quickly learned to tolerate their general existence due to Lyra’s insistence, but that’s about the effort he’s willing to make. And if that’s how he is towards those she cherishes the most, she doesn’t think she wants to know how he’ll react to others.

She’ll have to work on socializing him more.

But the saddle is good, high quality and hardened leather, made with the almost-lost ways of saddlemakers of Old Valyria. It will last long, unless Ancalagon outgrows it, and he likely won’t anytime soon. And when Lyra climbs the ladder to it, and secures herself in place with the belts and they take off to the sky, all is right in the world.

Well, almost. The weather is horrible. It’s foggy and wet and windy, and she thanks Daemon in her thoughts for throwing a woollen scarf at her.

She really needs flying googles. And a mask. And a hood attached to her riding jacket.

Are there any glass-workers on Dragonstone?

○

There’s fair few Gold Cloaks on Dragonstone with them, Lyra notices after a while. They apparently came by the ship when she was busy harassing the Keepers about the saddle. Not Corren or Harwin—Daemon specifically told them to stay and hold the fort in King’s Landing, but familiar faces still.

Then again, with how much time she’s spent in the barracks, almost every Gold Cloak is a familiar face, and she can put names to a lot of faces. And they know her too; enough that nobody bats an eye when she waltzes into the training yard and demands to be taught anymore, odd as a girl learning martial arts is in this cultural climate was.

○

It’s a misty, gloomy day in a consecutive series of misty, gloomy days when Otto Hightower comes to Dragonstone with his little entourage to harass Daemon about the dragon egg.

(It sure takes people time to get around in this world, Lyra can’t help but notice, on all the ships and carriages, and entirely dependent on the weather, which on Dragonstone is not ideal on a good day. Not everyone has Nuclear Lizard Airlines either. But this time, it’s probably the fog covering the island.)

Daemon looks at Lyra. Lyra looks at Daemon.

They both grin.

<Go get your dragon,> he tells her. <Join us when you hear Caraxes roaring, or if I whistle, whichever comes first.>

<Will do!>

<Can you get close enough to hear it?>

<Easily, if this fog keeps up.>

And she’s off, barely pulling her shoes on before she breaks into a run to where Ancalagon is perched. Daemon chuckles and reaches into the flames of the fireplace, picking the egg up. He gently pats the wood ash off it.

Shame it didn’t hatch before they came to get it. With whatever that’s wrong in Dragonpit, now it may never, once Cunttower takes it back.

Maybe he should chuck it in the volcano. With Ancalagon now under Lyra’s heel, the hatchling would do well fending for itself. The other dragons on Dragonstone weren’t very aggressive, after all, at least towards each-other. It would grow, maybe even thrive, and in fifteen, maybe twenty years, there would be another dragon ripe for claiming.

○

Ancalagon raises his head and lets out an inquisitive chuff when Lyra skids to a stop next to him, out of breath after a long run uphill. She leans on his horn until she catches her breath.

<Aight buddy, this is very important. How sneaky can you be?>

He snorts.

Foggy, windy, dark. Obscured. Prey. Stalk. Good.

In this weather? Nothing will see him coming.

Lyra grins. <Perfect!>

○

The fog does keep up.

Just to be sure, Lyra has Ancalagon perch in the fog on the side the setting sun is shining from, further obscuring the visibility of them.

○

He meets them halfway, Otto and his, as Lyra called them, ‘goonies’. Daemon has his own, several Gold Cloaks who refused to let him go alone, or with the Dragonstone guards they didn’t quite trust. Daemon didn’t quite trust them either; he didn’t know any of them and he wasn’t sure they had much loyalty for him. Not in the way the Gold Cloaks did. They were loyal to the Targaryens, true, but Daemon was more comfortable with people loyal to him specifically. Safer.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Otto,” Daemon says, as emotionlessly as he can make himself. He plays with the egg a little, throwing it from hand to hand nonchalantly, because he’s not nervous.

He’s not.

“Your occupation of this island is at an end,” Otto tells him, and Daemon fights the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re to relinquish the dragon’s egg, disband your army, and leave Dragonstone by order of his grace, king Visery—”

For fuck’s sake, that pompous shit. At least he didn’t say anything demeaning about Lyra, or Daemon would be stabbing him already.

Also banish his army? It wasn’t his army—Gold Cloaks were meant to protect King’s Landing! It was never his army. Like most things, it was all for Viserys. It wasn’t Daemon’s fault that several of them were loyal enough to follow him into exile.

“Where’s the king?” he asks instead, cutting Otto off. “I don’t see him.”

“His grace would never lower himself to entertain such a mummer’s farce,” Otto says, and his smug face is making it harder by the minute not to punch him. The few seconds of silence that ensue are uncomfortable, so Daemon zones on something else; the Dornish whelp of a knight that unhorsed him during the tourney, now kilted out in Kingsguard armour. It stings, that he gets to wear it. Reminds Daemon all about his loss in the tourney, and he doesn’t much like it.

What was his name again? Cretin? No. Crispy? Crispin?

“Ser Crispin, isn’t it?”

“Ser Criston Cole, my prince,” the whelp says, almost beatifically. He’s an annoying one.

“Ah, yes, apologies, I couldn’t recall.” More like I couldn’t be fucked to but alas.

“Perhaps my prince recalls when I knocked him off his horse.”

Oh. The audacity of this bitch. Daemon chuckles at the provocation. “Very good.”

“This is a truly pathetic show, Daemon,” Otto cuts in, because of course he does. “Are you so desperate for king’s attention that you resorted to skulking about like a common cutpurse?”

“I’m simply keeping with the traditions of my house, the same as my brother did for his heir,” he says.

“And yet here you stand, egg unhatched and your daughter nowhere in sight. And if no other egg has hatched for her, then surely one meant for her cousin wouldn’t either.”

“You’re not to be the judge of that,” Daemon says, an edge to his voice. “And so will my daughter, whether or not her dragon is in the egg—"

“This is a mummer’s farce. With every breath you soil your name, your house, and your brother’s reign. To resort to common thievery for what you call a birthright is beyond pathetic, Daemon. Are you certain this is the legacy you wish for your daughter?”

“My daughter is perfectly fine with her legacy,” Daemon says tersely. How dare that cunt imply—

“And what of you, men of the city watch? Aiding a prince in his treason?”

Clearly, Otto wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him in his shrivelled arse.

And Daemon is tired of this. It’s a curious skill that Otto has; tiring Daemon through merely existing. But Daemon was never fond of snakes, pathetic, legless, yet venomous.

All he did was take the egg, and just like Daemon expected, Otto took the bait and has gone completely rabid on traces of what might be treason if you bend the definition really hard. And sideways.

“And what of Lady Daelyra?” Otto pushes. “What would happen to her, should you face the consequences of your actions?”

Oh. Oh, he fucking did not.

“The king made me their commander, they are loyal to me,” he snaps, and holds the egg out. “You’ve come for the egg. Here it is. It is of no more use to me.”

Otto looks at him incredulously. “Are you mad? You’d never survive this.”

Mad. For getting upset for that piece of shit insinuating things about his daughter?

Fine. He’ll take mad. He puts his hand on Dark Sister’s pommel.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d take his chances, he thinks, with Caraxes well within reach and Ancalagon in the mist.

“To choose violence is to declare war against your king.”

“Wonderful,” Daemon says tersely. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks.

“Even if it ends in the death of your daughter—”

Daemon sees white. He doesn’t even fully register it, but then he’s holding Dark Sister, her blade of folded steel pointed straight at Otto, as unsheathed steel sings around him.

“You will not threaten my daughter,” he says with calmness that surprises even him. It makes Otto flinch.

Inside, he feels an inferno build in his chest. It sings at him to kill. To protect his daughter at all cost, and damned be Otto, and damned be Viserys too.

He’ll kill them all, if it’s for her. Then he’ll be king, and Daelyra will be queen after him.

He thinks he likes the sound of that.

Caraxes, attuned to him as always, crawls from behind the rocks in answer to his stress and rage, the dragon’s long neck twisting, his red scales glimmering in the fog and sunlight. He lets out a broken roar, more of a shriek, but paints a terrifying picture nonetheless.

Daemon holds Otto’s gaze for what feels like forever, and then Otto gives a small shrug and a nod, and a “all of you, sheathe the fucking steel.”

Oh look. Even Otto knows better sometimes. Wonder of wonders.

And then something snarls in the mist beneath, and Daemon’s smile grows from a slight smirk into a grin that shows teeth, as loud, methodical thumping sounds closer, and closer, as something huge moves in the mist. Otto’s goonies look to their right, where the sound comes from, uneasily, and Otto himself looks progressively more frantically between Daemon and the mist.

Then, a massive jagged head bursts out of the mist, followed by a long scaly neck as a gigantic black beast emerges from the valley, clamouring onto the rocks uncomfortably close to the bridge full of people. Daemon delights in watching Otto’s men turn whiter than fresh cotton sheets. Someone screams, someone almost falls over the other side of the bridge in their effort to get away, someone pisses himself from what Daemon sees, as Ancalagon stands tall enough to cast shadow over them all.

He's close enough that one more step of the massive beast and he would be able to devour them all; and they’re certainly well within the range of dragonfire.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important!” Lyra yells out cheekily, casually walking up Ancalagon’s neck and then down his head until she stands on his snout, between his eyes. She puts her hands on her hips and grins, letting Otto and his goonies take in her obviously windswept look, and Ancalagon pointedly turns to show off his brand-new saddle. Proof, as good as any, that this isn’t a one-off, that this isn’t Lyra temporarily taming a wild dragon like she’s done so many times.

Just in case.

Standing on top of her dragon, with the sun behind her, even a small girl like her cuts an incredibly imposing figure; moreso that they all need to look up to look at her. This is someone who will be listened to, and pride wells in Daemon’s chest, chasing his frustration away.

“Not at all, perzītsos. Lord Hand was already leaving.”

She nods and turns to Otto.

“Good to see you again, Lord Hand,” she says, her cheer so obviously fake that Daemon wants to laugh. “Are you here for the egg? You can very well take it—we scarcely need it anymore.”

She squats down, pointedly patting Ancalagon’s snout. The beast snorts, the gust of wind strong enough to shove some unprepared people around.

“I…” Otto says, swallowing. He looks like someone just made him drink the shit-filled seawater of King’s Landing, while being whiter than chalk at the same time. “I can see that, my lady,” he grits out.

She claps her hands. “I do hope my father was most gracious, even for the short while. Last few days were quite busy, so do forgive him if he was short with you.”

Her smile is absolutely beatific, and entirely fake.

Ancalagon shifts and growls. Caraxes barks at him, and Ancalagon hisses, his lips curling to reveal long, sharp teeth. One of Otto’s goonies faints.

The Gold Cloaks, who at least saw Ancalagon in passing before, fare a bit better.

“You father…” Otto says, somewhat dazed. “…has not been the most gracious host.”

“Why?” Lyra asks, eyes wide, fake cluelessness exacerbated by her tilting her head to the side. Otto grits his teeth, and for a moment Daemon is sure he’s going to call her out on making a fool out of him.

And then Syrax bursts through the clouds. Lyra shakes her head and stands up, running back to grab onto Ancalagon’s horns just as he rears his head up to snap his massive jaws at the yellow dragon barely the size of his head. Syrax screeches in terror, wings flapping to get her as far away from what undoubtedly is her hatchling-hood nightmare as possible, and Rhaenyra lets out an alarmed shout.

Daemon delights in Otto’s face contorting into an easily-readable ‘oh fuck’, what colour he regained fading away again.

“Anca, kelīs! Syrax ipradā daor!” Lyra commands loudly, and with one last snarl, he does stop. Lyra looks to the side, and Daemon notices her holding Rhaenyra’s wide, spooked gaze. She looks like a terrified kitten as she forces her dragon to perch on the bridge behind Otto and his goonies.

Syrax, predictably, wants to be nowhere near Ancalagon. She didn’t survive twenty-odd years on Dragonstone under the constant threat of him to now be led right into his jaws. She makes an alarmed noise when Rhaenyra slides off the saddle anyway and pushes through the people to get to the front of the procession, trying to move forward on the stone railing barely supporting her weight as is.

Ancalagon growls at her, and for a moment she’s very conflicted on whether she actually wants to be worried about Rhaenyra or should self-preservation win.

One more warning growl and self-preservation wins, and Syrax stays put.

Rhaenyra, daemon notices, looks confused and fearful, glancing at Ancalagon as she walks forward, any bravado she might’ve had flying here, gone. Clearly, she’s been expecting Caraxes at most. One reasonably-sized dragon versus another reasonably-sized dragon. In all honesty, it was a safe assumption. She had no way of knowing what kind of beast waited for Lyra here, and Daemon didn’t send any word out.

Not like it would’ve reached them in time, in this weather.

But she does walk forward, and that’s admirable enough.

“What are you doing here, princess?” Otto asks, nervous of the dragon above them all.

“Preventing bloodshed,” Rhaenyra says, voice only a little shaken.

“I’ve already done that, cousin!” Lyra calls. “Would you be so kind as to collect uncle’s lickspittles and herd them away? Ancalagon doesn’t like crowds very much. He gets anxious.”

Rhaenyra looks at her incredulously, and Lyra only smiles.

“What monstrosity is this?” the princess asks.

“My dragon!” Lyra chirps. Rhaenyra huffs. It’s shaky, Daemon says, but she tries to smirk.

“That’s a nightmare on wings,” she says, and Lyra cackles.

“I know! I love him a lot!”

She’s pale, but whether she’s forming a rapport with Lyra instinctively or consciously, Daemon can’t help but commend her for it. She knows he’s fond of his daughter, and she just bolstered her odds exponentially.

Rhaenyra looks between her and Daemon, and Daemon just smiles. Shocked and wary, she still walks forward. If it’s bravery or bravado, Daemon doesn’t much care; he finds it admirable enough regardless.

<My father named me the Princess of Dragonstone,> Rhaenyra tells him, instead of further discussing Ancalagon. <That’s my castle you’re living in, uncle.>

<Not until you come of age.>

<You’ve angered your king.>

<I don’t see why. My daughter is older, the egg was supposed to be hers.>

<She has a dragon now.>

<But she didn’t before.>

Rhaenyra clicks her tongue, the brat. <And that required you to steal my brother’s egg?>

<The egg was meant to be Daelyra’s. I could argue you stole it.>

Which. Is true, to a degree. Daemon has been waiting for a chance to have Lyra try to bond a dragon ever since she expressed no more interest in Dreamfyre than an occasional nap under her wing; so, when the she-dragon laid a clutch, and only one was viable, he did plan on asking for Lyra to try hatching the egg.

Hells, he did ask.

But Rhaenyra snatched it first, just as Viserys was about to agree, claiming that it was for Baelon.

(Now he knows that it wasn’t Lyra’s dragon, but few weeks back, he didn’t.)

Rhaenyra looks at him, and sighs.

“I’m right here, uncle,” she says, and Daemon blinks in surprise. “The object of your ire. The reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me.”

That’s. Objectively incorrect. He was banished because he called Viserys a murderer, and toasted Baelon as a heir for a day, and Otto spun it the way that would anger Viserys most. He never wanted to be the heir, and he sure as all hells wouldn’t want to be restored. All he ever wanted was to stay by Viserys’ side, like father told him he should.

He glances at Lyra. She shrugs and shakes her head.

Yes, that’s about how he feels right now.

“So do it,” Rhaneyra continues. “And be done with all this bother.”

Otto is a bother. Daemon doesn’t think he cares that much, not about the throne, or really his brother. Not after he’s done some soul-searching and realized that he doesn’t want his life defined by Viserys. Not when he has his daughter and his dragon (and maybe his daughter’s grumpy dragon, too) by his side.

And yes, power is nice to have. He wants it. The prestige, the respect, the money. But he’ll manage on his own just fine, he thinks. He doesn’t need to scuttle in Viserys’ shadow.

He doesn’t want to, after what happened.

Daemon chuckles, and throws the egg to Rhaenyra, as she scrambles to catch it without much grace.

“If this is what this whole situation is about, then you know even less about me than I thought, niece.”

Rhaenyra looks at him with wide eyes.

<Daughter!> he says loudly, snapping his head to the side. <Turn your beast around, lest it decides little Syrax would make for a fine meal after all!>

Lyra laughs, and with few sharp commands, Ancalagon turns around and crawls back into the misty valley below, only to burst upwards, flying deeper into the island.

He turns around and walks back to the keep, not interested in watching Rhaenyra and Otto go. Fatigue seeps into his bones with every step, but it wasn’t bad. More importantly, it was rather fun, seeing Otto almost piss himself. He will surely re-evaluate his stance, now that Lyra rides the second largest dragon alive. He will consider them even more of a threat than before.

But it wasn’t bad.

He’s certain that Syrax will be rather cross with Rhaenyra for almost flying her right into Ancalagon’s jaws, too.

○

He barely sits down and throws his gloves on the table when Lyra bursts into the room, cackling maniacally.

<Dad, dad, did you see Otto’s face?> she squeals, all but throwing herself on his lap. He barely catches her. <Oh, he looked so constipated, it was amazing!>

<I know,> he chuckles and leans back as she only now unwinds the scarf from her neck, and throws it with her gloves next to his on the table. Her braids held very well in this windy weather, he notices, pleased. He spent all morning on them. <It was tiring, though. Dealing with Otto always is. I didn’t expect Rhaenyra to come, though.>

<Yeah, not the best move. It was very dangerous with just Caraxes alone.>

<Mhm. I think I will take a nap, now. I’m exhausted.>

<Food first. I think I’ll go look around the island later, see if I can find the other dragons.>

<Alright, but be careful. The volcanic ground is unstable, and the air is full of ash, especially near the summit.>

<I’ll keep that in mind.>

○

It’s scarcely a week later—Lyra barely seen Grey Ghost twice, but the dragon seemed healthy at least, but all the dragons are accounted for, yet-unnamed pony-sized Sunfyre included—that Daemon bursts into the room with a letter in his hand. She can see teal wax seal with a seahorse stamp, broken in half.

<Pack up, we’re going to Driftmark. Corlys wants to speak with me, and we’re not welcome here anymore, apparently. It’s the next island over, so be quick and we’ll be there before dinner.>

She gathers her notes and shoves them into a leather bag for safekeeping.

<Aight!>

Finally, Stepstones.

Maybe she’ll get to stay with the Velaryons for its duration. It would certainly be nice.

(She wheedled a recipe for a healing salve for dragons from one of the Keepers. It would be nice if she could rope Laena into patching up Vhagar’s wings a bit.)

Chapter Text

The good thing about Driftmark being next door is that Daemon walks in with the invitation letter in the morning and they actually get there by lunch, and impose on the Velaryons while they’re at it. And Corlys did invite Daemon in, so it’s not like they’ll turn them away.

Though they didn’t expect them quite this soon.

And they certainly did not expect Ancalagon to be with them, who, sadly rather predictably, tried to eat Seasmoke and then got into a screaming (roaring??) match with Meleys who took offense at that. And while Meleys was only about a third his size, he did seem somewhat cowed by it, though not enough to back off. Only Vhagar rousing up and grumpily huffing at them made them stop, because even though Ancalagon did almost match her in size, he sure wasn’t keen on fighting a fight he wouldn’t win. Though seeing him backpedal the way he did was funny.

Rhaenys and Laena were very unimpressed by the display, and in all honesty, so was Lyra. Ancalagon got a severe dressing down for picking fights, and especially picking on smaller dragons, after which he went to sulk on the end of the island opposite to where other dragons currently nested.

Lyra didn’t even feel bad about that. If he wanted to chew some trees, she’d just be exasperated like with Rascal chewing her shoes, but the sooner she stomped out any inclination of his to attack other dragons, the better.

Thankfully, the only fight he picked after that was after Seasmoke purposefully goaded him into one. The younger dragon was smug about it only until Meleys got wind of that. Seasmoke was a very young dragon—maybe twenty, if that—with an even younger rider. He was bound to be a brat.

Caraxes at least seemed to enjoy the shitshow so there’s that.

○

“I don’t know what impresses me more, the fact that you claimed a beast this old at such a young age and survived, or the fact that he actually listens to you,” is one of the first things Rhaenys tells her. Lyra shrugs.

“I’m glad for both. I was only bedridden for one whole day!”

Rhaenys looks at Daemon critically who shrugs with a ‘what can you do’ face. The older woman sighs and shakes her head, slaps Daemon’s shoulder in disapproval.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same,” Daemon tells his cousin smugly, and she gives him a nasty look but doesn’t even attempt to say she wouldn’t.

Lyra just giggles at it.

○

Lyra has not interacted much with the Velaryons before.

Sure, they had a small conversation before Aemma’s death was announced, but after that it was just a flurry of movement and shock and sadness on their part, and bitterness and rage on Lyra’s, and then she was on Dragonstone and they were back at Driftmark, and that was that. She doesn’t even remember what they talked about at all. As far as she’s concerned, they’ve met, introduced each other, and left.

She remembers Laena being super nice but that’s all she’s got.

Now, however, as Daemon went off to talk with Corlys about one thing or another—most likely to end with Corlys conning Daemon to fight in the Stepstones and making it sound like it was Daemon’s idea all along, that man’s really good at that—she’s left sitting awkwardly in one of the drawing room with Laena and Laenor on the other side of the table. All adults are gone, and their only directive is ‘play nice’.

Laena is okay with this, Laenor—less. After all, she’s fifteen and he’s thirteen, and they’ve been suddenly saddled with some brat all of seven-going-on-eight after her father said she can take care of herself, therefore no need for nannies, and Rhaenys said they should spend some time together, because they’re cousins and they should get along.

It’s awkward as fuck.

“Sorry my dragon tried to eat your dragon,” Lyra says to Laenor, deciding she’s had quite enough of the silence. Of course, it’s about dragons; they’re half-Targaryen, both of those teens, with Velaryon blood coming from Valyria as well. Surely, dragons are a safe topic here. She hopes. “He’s old and feral and really mean and I only got him like, last week, so he doesn’t know how to behave yet.”

Laenor puffs up, doing his best impression of an angry kitten. It’s kinda cute, really; he’s still a little pudgy though his martial training is slowly but surely taking care of any baby fat left, and Lyra wants to pinch his cheeks for it while she still can. His face darkens with a blush while he’s at it, too.

“As long as he doesn’t do it again!” he says eventually. “How did you even tame that beast anyway?”

“I didn’t.”

“But—You’re his rider??”

“Yeah. But he flew to a hill close to the keep and kinda just… Sat there. Until I went to him. I didn’t tame him, I got chosen.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Is it weird? It’s like he was waiting for me. I mean—I’ve been having dreams before we left King’s Landing.”

“What kind of dreams?” Laena asks, curious.

“Green eyes and black scales is all I can remember. But I—just knew that this was my dragon. Did this not happen to you?”

“Uh, no??” Laenor says, leaning forward to brace himself on the table. “Well. A little bit? Seasmoke certainly didn’t wait for me, I had to find him myself. And he ran off a few times, and I had to bribe him with a cache of prime tuna.”

“Huh,” is all Lyra says. “And Vhagar?”

Laena crosses her eyes and inclines her head to the side. “Well, I kind of just—approached her on the beach? She threatened me but I stood my ground and I guess she decided I was good enough. At least, that’s the impression I got.”

“Well, her previous rider did punch Balerion in the snout.”

“Mhm. But she’s not… You know, as the last of the Conqueror’s dragons, I expected her to be a lot more bloodthirsty, but she’s only really just calm. It’s very reassuring to have that always at the back of my mind. Grounding.”

“Seasmoke isn’t,” Laenor complains. “Mother said it’s normal, since he’s a very young dragon. He’s very chaotic sometimes, and full of energy. I can never quite work it off myself. Great for waking up, but I can’t fall asleep without shutting down the connection some days.”

“That’s pretty normal I think,” Lyra says. “He’s a very young dragon. He’s like… What, twenty?”

“Mother says probably less, but definitely late teens judging by his size.”

Someone brings them snacks and tea, and they barely notice, too wrapped up in talking about dragons, the former awkwardness long forgotten. In the end, they decide to go try making the ointment Lyra wheedled out of Dragonstone Keepers, in enough quantity to be of any use for Vhagar.

○

It’s a mess and a half and Lyra’s sure Rhaenys will be very unimpressed with them, but they do successfully make a whole cauldron of the ointment after some math and creative thinking.

“You think that’s going to be enough for Vhagar’s wings?” Laenor asks. “She’s big.”

“We’ll see!”

“Ugh, seeing all this makes my arms hurt already,” Laena complains. “And all the climbing!”

“We’ll help!” Lyra tells her.

“No we won’t. Vhagar won’t like us close,” Laenor disagrees. Lyra looks at him.

“Bet.”

“Be—what??”

○

“This is ridiculous and you’re some kind of a witch,” Laenor declares, massaging the ointment into Vhagar’s fraying wings next to Laena who can’t stop smiling. Lyra shrugs.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you don’t talk to her!” she huffs. “Vhagar is cranky, but she wouldn’t actually hurt us without a good reason, you know.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone can just talk a dragon into letting them come close!”

“All the more reason to get better at High Valyrian!”

“I’m plenty good at High Valyrian! And I really don’t think it’s just about that!”

Laena laughs at them. “But you could definitely brush up, valonquar! You’ve been falling behind on your studies!”

Laenor pouts at them both.

○

Driftmark, despite its closeness to Dragonstone, has vastly different climate. It’s warm and rather nice, and the weather is fine. Most likely due to the fact that Dragonstone was an active volcano, unlike Driftmark. There’s very little ash in the air, and the weather is normal; a little windy, mostly warm, and not nearly as suffocating. And while Dragonstone has its charm, Lyra quickly finds she likes it here better. It may be the clear sky, or the warmer weather, she’s not sure.

Or maybe it’s the tide pools, which fascinate her to no end; just pockets of clear, warm water on the shore, some bare and some full of seaweed and sometimes even fish.

It’s Laenor’s idea they go there, because he’s thirteen, and thirteen-year-old-boys like to show people the cool stuff.

They go swimming in them, and Lyra carefully does not think what the seawater will do to her hair. Some problems are best ignored in the heat of the moment.

Ancalagon flies out when they’re getting ready to swim, and returns sometime later, when they’re out of the water and hunting for crabs in the shallows, a whole whale clutched in his hind legs. He drops it from fairly low not too far from them so that it splatters only a little, and then circles the spot few times before landing comfortably and getting into his meal with gusto. Shore soon runs red.

“Huh, so he can be normal about feeding,” Lyra muses. “Good to know. Now he has no excuse for going after other dragons.”

“At least he’s willing to get his own food,” Laenor mutters, pushing his stick into crab’s claw and lifting it up once it latches on, shaking it off violently into his bucket. “Seasmoke learned to stalk the port where the fishermen will feed him. And he just keeps whining until we give him some tuna.”

“He’s spoiled rotten,” Laena chuckles, catching a fish with her bare hands in one of the shallower pools. “Vhagar hunts her own food, I saw her bring a giant squid once! But she mostly just sleeps.”

“Old people usually do,” Lyra says with a shrug.

“I suppose they do.”

○

<Did you go swimming in saltwater?>

<Did Corlys con you into fighting for him?>

Daemon makes a face.

<He did not con me!>

<Sure Jan,> Lyra says absent-mindedly. <And I did not go swimming in the tide pools with Laena and Laenor.>

<It’s—I’m—Ugh. Fine, alright, he was very… Persuasive.>

<So you’re going to war?>

<Yes.>

He looks away. Lyra doesn’t. <Where will I be staying?>

<You’re not mad?>

<…I’m not happy about it. But I get where you’re coming from, I think. Anyway, not Runestone. I’d rather eat my boots.>

<What?>

<Where I’m going to stay. I don’t think you’d bring me into an active warzone, would you? So, not Runestone. I’m not feeling King’s Landing either. I’d probably stab Viserys for what he did to aunt Aemma and I heard regicide isn’t fashionable these days.>

<Actually, I’m going to ask Rhaenys if she wouldn’t mind having you here. How does that sound?>

<Oooh. Yeah, I like that. Driftmark is fine.>

A beat of silence.

<Still, you need a bath after all that saltwater.>

<Shush, you say it like I’m not going for another swim tomorrow.>

Another beat of silence. Then, Daemon sighs and pulls Lyra into his lap, wrapping his arms around her as if she’s some oversized teddy bear.

<Are you second-guessing yourself?>

<A little,> he admits. <But… I want to have something, you know? Someplace my own, if for no other reason than to give it to you after you’ve grown.>

<Dad…>

<I realized that I really have nothing,> he says morosely. <I have my dragon and my sword and the clothes on my back… And that’s it. And then I thought… Just what kind of future am I giving you?>

<You say it like having a dragon, a sword, and clothes on your back and nothing more is such a bad thing,> Lyra huffs. <It’s not!>

<It’s uncertainty. It’s nowhere to fall back to. We don’t even have a home .>

<It’s freedom paid for in rejecting duty. And we have each other. That’s home enough.>

Daemon’s breath hitches as he buries his face in her shoulder. He tightens his grip on her shirt, the linen crinkling under his fingers. <You deserve so much better than such a lousy father.>

Lyra pats his head. <You’re a good father, though. And I don’t need castles and jewelleries and pretty dresses. A dragon, a sword, and clothes on my back sound just fine . In fact, I quite like the sound of that better than stuffy castles and parties and politicking.>

Daemon takes a deep breath, still shaky.

<Besides, it’s alright,> she says. <I know you. You thrive on bloodshed and violence. It wouldn’t be fair to keep you cooped up with me in some keep like that, just because I’m not strong enough to follow you yet. It was part of the reason, wasn’t it? The bloodshed.>

<Yes,> he admits easily. <And I’m realizing that it’s a shallow reason.>

<It’s not. It’s your reason, and that’s enough. Just… Just don’t get hurt, alright? I… I’ll live with the separation, but I don’t think I’d be able to deal with you getting hurt.>

<Mhm. I’ll do my best, but it’s going to be bloodshed.>

<And you’re a Targaryen with a magic blood iron sword and a whole dragon. I can reasonably expect you to be safer than most people.>

<I suppose that’s fair.>

○

<You’re really not mad?>

<It’s the middle of the night. If you keep pestering me instead of sleeping, I will be!>

○

She’s not mad.

She is worried, though. And definitely a little upset, because up until now, she spent all her life with her father; even if he was busy, even if he went away for few days, he would come back soon enough.

Stepstones mean he’ll be out there for years, not necessarily able to visit, Caraxes or no.

Lyra doesn’t want to be clingy, but she isn’t sure she could deal with this kind of separation very well just yet despite her assurances to the contrary. The child lizard brain part of her was all but throwing a tantrum even since learning that Daemon was going to Stepstones for sure.

And sure, in the books and in the show both, Daemon dealt with it just fine. But this is neither show, nor books, but Lyra’s reality instead. And reality had a nasty habit of being unpredictable sometimes; and so, Lyra can’t help but worry anyway.

Going dragonriding certainly helps, and if she stabs the training dummy with more ferocity than usual… Well, they have more straw on Driftmark, surely.

○

There’s a woman in Driftmark that Lyra needs a moment to assign the proper name to from both her memory and the context. Her hair is black, peppered with grey, her eyes are very dark but shine purple in certain light, just like Lyra’s, she’s very tall, and in all honesty, she looks a lot like Rhaenys, just older. She wears Baratheon yellow but despite her attire, she seems very much at home at Driftmark.

Between the Baratheon colouring and the borderline inhuman Valyrian bone structure, the woman is certainly stunning.

Lyra decides the time it takes her—a whole week!—to realize that this is Jocelyn Baratheon, Rhaenys’ mother, is frankly embarrassing, even if they barely interact at all. Jocelyn spends most of her time in library or in the gardens, embroidering, reading, and in general, preferring peace and quiet to the racket that children and dragons can rouse up.

But, Lyra thinks, it makes sense why she would live in Driftmark with her daughter. Her grandmother was a Velaryon, and her daughter married back into them, and before that, Jocelyn was married to Aemon, Lyra’s granduncle. And with Jocelyn’s nephew, Borros, being… Well, himself , Lyra figures it really isn’t surprising the woman decided to move to Driftmark.

She figures she would too, if suffering Borros Baratheon’s continued existence was the alternative.

Still, they don’t really cross paths other than exchanging greetings at mealtime.

Maybe it’s for the better. She won’t admit it out loud, but Lyra feels a little cowed in Jocelyn’s presence. She has that kind of aura of not being willing to deal with anyone’s shit. Lyra respects it, and wants nowhere near it.

○

Rhaenys easily agrees to letting Lyra stay at Driftmark, and Lyra gets an impression that Corlys doesn’t get much say on the matter. It seems like he wants to say something about it—if Lyra were to make a wild guess, probably related to a certain huge black dragon harassing the Driftmark whale population and trying to rib Vhagar into a pissing contest as of recent, not that she’d know anything about it —but one look from his wife and he promptly shuts his mouth with a click.

Something along the lines of fostering Lyra for Daemon since Daemon will soon be out fighting Corlys’ private war in Stepstones.

Laena and Laenor are happy enough about the announcement, though. After getting over the initial awkwardness, they’ve begun getting along like a house on fire, despite the wild age differences between all three.

○

Lyra will admit, she kind-of lost track of time. Medieval era was in general much less organized time-wise, without clocks and widely-available calendars and alarm clocks. Days became weeks became months, and while she always did something each day—even if it was just cardio to keep building her stamina—the time just passed.

And then there was a commotion, and Rhaenys instructing Daemon to behave, and the Velaryons gearing up to leave for King’s Landing, and—right.

Viserys does need a new wife.

Lyra reaches out and squeezes Laena’s hand, the older girl looking at her. She has been progressively less happy in the last few days, and Lyra feels a bit stupid for not realizing why.

“It’ll be fine,” Lyra tells her, because—for Laena, it will be.

“You think so?”

“Even if he chooses you, between Vhagar and Rhaenys and Meleys and everyone else, he won’t have the balls to mistreat you like he had Aemma.”

Laena stills a bit. “Even if ?”

Lyra’s smiles, a little strained. “We don’t know the future for sure, do we? And Viserys… Well, he’s a fool, and a coward, and a lickspittle, and he’s only assertive when it causes more harm.”

Laena narrows her eyes, but says nothing, but some creases disappear from her face, and her shoulders relax ever so slightly.

○

<He’s not going to pick Laena,> Lyra says later that day, after the Velaryons have left—Corlys with Rhaenys on dragonback, despite his insistence he’d get there by ship just fine—as she’s laying sprawled on Caraxes’ snout as the dragon naps. Daemon stops and looks up from where he’s been whittling a block of soft wood.

<You certain?>

<No offense dad, but Viserys is a coward, and a fool, and Otto’s lickspittle. And him marrying Laena would give the Velaryons a lot of say in court. I guess this is ultimately the test of what he prefers more.>

<Between?>

<Between sucking Otto’s dick and actually amassing power and keeping the stability of the realm. Otto will say hard no to the Velaryons, because it would give them power and diminish his. But Laena has Vhagar, and the Velaryon fleet backing her.>

<And Viserys would be a fool to not marry her,> Daemon says, looking at the sky. <And… My brother has only ever been a fool.>

And that’s that.

Caraxes snorts and Lyra reaches out to pat him as a large shadow falls over them, followed by a small quake of Ancalagon’s landing. Caraxes looks up with interest, mostly at the giant squid Ancalagon has in his teeth.

<Go get your own if you want some,> Lyra tells him as she slides off his snout and walks to her dragon, guitar slung over her shoulder.

○

In the end, Viserys doesn’t choose Laena, five-and-ten, with the last Conquering dragon and whole Velaryon family backing her.

No.

Instead, he chooses Alicent Hightower; four-and-ten, daughter of a landless second son.

It’s the most foolish move he could have made in his situation. And there’s only one reason why he would have chosen Alicent over the significantly more politically savvy option that was Laena.

Lyra knew it was coming, but it makes her want to puke all the same.

She wishes she could just fly Ancalagon to King’s Landing and kill Viserys without it throwing the realm into a war of succession between Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Otto.

○

<Damned Hightower cunt,> Daemon spits out, pacing around the room. <Whoring herself out for power, just like her cunt father—>

<She’s a child,> Lyra snaps at him harshly, and he falters in his step, startled. He stops, and turns to look at her, eyes wide, because—he doesn’t think he’s ever had her anger directed at him, and now here she sits, looking at him with a sharp glint in her eyes. But now that he stops and thinks about it for a moment… Would Alicent have been able to actually catch Viserys’ interest on her own?

<She’s marrying my brother,> he says, but it sounds uncertain even to him.

<Otto has no doubt pushed her into that,> Lyra says, and he sees the anger simmering under her skin for what it is. The cold, disgusted fury that’s been running through her nonstop since the Velaryons returned.

<Otto is her father,> Daemon says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Lyra just looks at him. There’s very little in her eyes and on her face other than anger.

<Otto is Otto.>

But—Surely—Surely not? Surely he wouldn’t?

Daemon decides very quickly that he does not like the implication of this. At all. In fact, he quite hates it. Viscerally.

Then the feeling of nausea comes when he realizes that this isn’t really a reach. That Otto Hightower, the man he knows, who works for nothing but his own agenda… Otto would .

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, but it takes a moment before he finds his voice.

<Did he. Did he send her to him ?> he whispers, voice shaking with anger. <Did he—She—Otto??>

<Yes.>

<Why?!>

<Greed.>

She speaks so matter-of-factly in her rage while Daemon feels like he’s falling apart. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to understand. All this talk of duty from Otto only for the cunt to turn around and fail his duty as a father—to knowingly, willingly, purposefully put his daughter in harm’s way for personal gain—

<And here I thought I couldn’t hate Otto any more than I already did,> he says with a hollow laugh.

<Mhm. I find myself greatly disliking Viserys, too. But then again, I’m in general hateful towards any man, anyone , preying on children, girls or no.>

<I was married at six-and-ten and I may have gotten you out of it but I still think that was far too early for me—>

<Mhm. Now add to that the fact that Alicent is four-and-ten, young mothers have much higher childbirth death rates than average, and Viserys has already murdered one wife in childbirth. Oh, and he watched Alicent grow up with Rhaenyra .>

The nausea returns with vengeance, this time directed at his brother. Daemon hates this. The revelation, the fact that he’s upset about Otto’s daughter, but his mind can’t help but push sinister little ‘what if it was Lyra?’ questions into his attention.

If it was Lyra, he’d kill his brother and run off to Essos with her, never to be seen again.

He hides his face in his hands. <I think I’m going to retch.>

<Want a bucket?>

<…yes.>

○

She really wishes she could do something for Alicent, but short of burning Red Keep down king included and starting a civil war, Lyra’s out of options. She hates it.

○

It takes time for everyone to settle, but for the days following the revelation, the atmosphere is certainly off, constantly on a pendulum swinging between anger and disgust.

The preparations for Stepstones continue as planned, though. If anything, both Corlys and Daemon are all the more determined to just go and fight. Lyra doubts either of them will bother attending the wedding. She doesn’t think she will either.

At least dragonriding still works to calm them all down. It’s especially picturesque during sunsets and sunrises, the sun paining the sky and sea in gold, orange, and purple.

○

Lyra turns eight shortly before they leave for Stepstones.

She and Daemon fly back to Dragonstone for the occasion, have a nice little picnic. When they get back to Driftmark, it’s to a small party just for the family. It’s—nice. The Velaryons certainly make her and Daemon feel more welcome than Viserys ever did, and their gifts are actually thoughtful. A solid, empty journal because Laenor wants her to compile dragon knowledge, a pretty hairpin studded with pearls, sturdy enough to stab someone in the neck or eye, a box with a lock and key to put previous trinkets into.

Even Harwin and Corren, and several other Gold Cloaks, send her a gift, though it arrives a bit late. Some sweets and a good quality shortsword with a sharpening kit.

Viserys sends her a doll. It’s a pretty doll, all things considered.

Lyra burns it.

Daemon gives her a stuffed toy. It’s a red dragon, a little wonky-looking, and Lyra loves it a lot.

○

Coincidentally, the day after her birthday is the day Lyra finally loses her first milk tooth.

<Burn it for good luck,> Daemon tells her as she tries not to think about the gap in her front teeth, and fails miserably.

<No tooth fairy?> she asks.

<What’s a tooth fairy?>

<When a child loses a tooth and they put it under the pillow and the parents take the tooth and put money there instead and say it was a fairy to make the whole ordeal less traumatic.>

<Ah. No, we burn milk teeth for good luck in hopes new ones grow out strong and sharp.>

<Huh. Makes sense.>

She ends up having to ask Ancalagon for help because teeth don’t really burn at all, but in joint effort, they manage to burn it. Along with a good patch of the beach.

She picks out what glass there is among scorched sand and takes it to the keep. There isn’t really anyone who’s figured out how to make protective googles yet—not the kind that would allow her to see without breaking—but they use this glass for windows or jars at least. Lyra will manage without googles, as every dragonrider currently active does.

○

“You’re three-and-ten and you’re not going anywhere, and that’s final.”

“But I have a whole dragon!”

“Laena has a bigger dragon and she’s not going anywhere either! And neither is your mother!”

“Mother’s only staying because someone has to run Driftmark when you’re gone!”

And so on, and so forth. Lyra looks at Laena, and Laena looks down at Lyra.

“He’s not going to let him.”

“No. Laenor has been at it ever since he learned there will be war at Stepstones at all, father never budged once. I understand he wants to prove himself, but…”

“He’s a baby.”

“Pretty much. And so are you.”

“Well, I don’t want to go to Stepstones. Even if I have a bigger dragon than he does.”

“Wise.”

○

<Don’t let Triarchy ally with Dorne. Ally with Dorne yourself if you can.>

<What? Why?>

<You won’t be able to actually hold onto Stepstones otherwise. Ally with Dorne if you can, or at least prevent Triarchy from doing so.>

<Oh. That makes a lot of sense.>

<Duh. And Dorne might be receptive to it. Hopefully. Gods, this country is a fucking mess held together by hopes, dreams, and few dragons.>

<But it holds!>

<Barely. And not for the lack of trying.>

<Yes, Viserys is…>

Daemon doesn’t finish the sentence, but his grimace speaks volumes.

○

Now, Lyra isn’t a clingy person. It’s not like her to keep someone from leaving if they want or need to go. A goodbye and a promise to return is enough for her.

Daemon, though.

“Are you quite done yet?” Corlys asks, looking impatiently at Daemon who’s currently squishing Lyra into his chest. For her part, Lyra just lets him, dangling her feet above the ground.

“Just a moment,” Daemon says, not really making a move to let go. Lyra snorts into his shirt.

“Come on, kepa, you have to go.”

“I know. And I will. In a moment.”

“Okay.”

He lets go eventually, climbs up on Caraxes, and with one last wave, urges the dragon to fly. Lyra watches them go until they’re but a speck on the horizon.

“He’ll be fine,” Laena tells her.

“I know. But he’s gone to a battlefield, and I’m going to worry anyway. And I’m eight and we’ve never been apart for longer than a month, so he will worry anyway.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

○

Sleeping alone when she’s so used to sleeping with her father is a kind of hell for the first few days. The lack of Daemon-shaped pillow and heater and security blanket all in one makes Lyra fidgety, and unable to fall asleep. The silence unbroken by steady breaths and occasional soft snores rings in her ears uncomfortably. She falls asleep late and wakes up early, and remains cranky for the rest of the day. She can’t find a comfortable position, and the red dragon stuffy only provides so much comfort.

Day four, she decides she’s had quite enough of this idiocy, so she grabs a small cart, piles a bedroll and a duvet and some pillows on it and, red stuffy in hand, drags it all the way to where Ancalagon is coiled.

(Stuffy’s name is Smaug.)

It’s not the same—it’s a wildly different experience, in all honesty, because it’s just camping but with a dragon—but sleeping in the giant tent that’s Ancalagon’s wing-covered coil is the first good night’s sleep she has since Daemon’s departure.

Rhaenys isn’t exactly happy about the whole thing, but since Lyra actually manages to sleep, and Ancalagon provides both warmth and shelter from the elements, she lets it slide for a few days.

It takes a while, but Lyra is eventually able to sleep properly in bed, Smaug in hand, and not too much bloodstained linoleum in her dreams

○

Even though it can’t compare to staying on Dragonstone with Daemon, staying on Driftmark is quite nice. She can go dragonriding anytime, and Ancalagon has a whole beach to sleep on, Laena and Laenor are great company—she’s not quite Laenor’s level martial-arts-wise but she can give him a good run for his money, which is nice—and Rhaenys is a nice, stabilizing influence. Lyra even manages to kind-of make friends with Jocelyn. She thinks.

They read books in each other’s vicinity and even talk sometimes.

She misses her dad, of course, but she can’t deny she’s doing really well.

○

She starts telling stories, mostly to Laenor and Laena. Silmarillion, Hobbit, Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Then Harry Potter, but without all the dumb prejudices and imperialistic influences. Some Lovecraftian horror after Laenor requests something more sea-based.

Any story she can remember, really, and the Velaryon siblings can never get enough of it.

○

Vhagar’s wings look so much better with maintenance, and the old girl seems much more energized. For her part, Laena is thankful to actually have help taking care of a dragon this size.

Ancalagon is jealous, but Lyra always makes sure to spend time with him afterwards, so it’s all okay.

○

The royal wedding comes and goes and they don’t attend.

Lyra makes an effort to send Viserys a letter with a piece of coal attached. All she writes is ‘you’re a disgrace’ in High Valyrian, in neat Old Valyria runes. She’s not sure why, but it just feels like something she needs to do.

She never once saw Viserys as the head of their family anyway. She tried, sometimes, because he was the king, but her instincts would never let her. He was not their leader, and he was not their protector either. He was, at best, a stain on their name, wilfully making bad choice after bad choice.

Sheep ought not lead wolves; worms ought not lead dragons.

○

It’s been several moons since the royal wedding, and some more since Daemon and Corlys left for Stepstones, though not a whole year, when the stability Lyra found in her life on Driftmark crashes and burns.

There’s a gaggle of knights that come to Driftmark, dressed the same as those that followed Otto to Dragonstone when he came for the egg, though there’s a notable absence of Otto. Good for him; he’d have gotten fed to Ancalagon if he showed his scheming mug before her.

Instead, they’re being headed by a Kingsguard Lyra recognizes as Willis Fell.

Rhaenys welcomes them in the throne room, sitting on the driftwood throne. She looks like a real ruler, dressed in Targaryen black and Velaryon blue, with her black hair twisted into traditional braids. Lyra, Laena, Laenor, and Jocelyn all stand next to the throne, a little to the side. Several Velaryon cousins stood some ways off, looking at the knights warily.

Lyra has a bad feeling about this.

“What brings you here, ser Fell?” Rhaenys asks.

Ser Fell bows politely and pulls a scroll out of his bag.

“I am here by the orders of His Grace, King Viserys, first of his name. In the absence of her father, the Lady Daelyra Targaryen is to return to her lady mother in Runestone.”

Lyra hears static. Her hand is on the dagger hidden in her pocket before she makes a conscious decision to reach for it, and it’s only Jocelyn’s hand landing heavy but warm on her shoulder that prevents her from taking a step forward.

Rhaenys purses her lips, her fingers digging into the driftwood throne. “Daemon has personally entrusted us to look after her in his absence.”

“But she is not being fostered here, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Ser Darklyn steps forward and offers Rhaenys the scroll with a bow. “This is the Royal Order. His Grace is worried about his niece’s wellbeing. We will escort her to Runestone as soon as possible.”

Rhaenys takes the scroll, though if a glare could kill, Fell would have died at least five times over. The Kingsguard seems rather cowed by Rhaenys’ barely-contained rage, at least.

As for Lyra—Lyra is physically vibrating in a way that makes her feel weightless, clenching her fists so tight she can feel her nails break the skin of her palms.

This whole thing—this has Otto written all over it. Viserys is an idiot, but he would have been more than happy to let Lyra stay at Driftmark, not bothering anyone. The Velaryons are her family, Rhaenys even more so. Not to mention that the island had much better means of sustaining Ancalagon—Runestone may have been on a peninsula, but it was much farther north. Big sealife was not nearly as abundant there.

Lyra was willing to bet her whole arm that Rhea was not informed of the whole situation at all either, if only because if she was, she would have in no uncertain terms told everyone to shut up, fuck off, and let Lyra and her new pet keep-sized nuclear lizard stay where they were, away from Runestone.

Jocelyn pats her back, and Lyra looks up, and then at Rhaenys, who’s looking at her. Did she miss something?

“You will leave tomorrow,” Rhaenys says (or repeats, Lyra doesn’t quite care) though she doesn’t seem very enthused about it. She takes her promises seriously.

“Alright,” Lyra tells her. “I’ll pack up by then.”

Ser Fell looks awfully pleased with himself at this.

Lyra smiles at him sweetly. She can’t wait to see his reaction tomorrow—because if he thinks she’s going to dance to Cunttower’s tune, then he has another thing coming.

○

Pack, angry. Not safe. Bad.

Want to kill. Want to hunt. Can’t. Can’t cause trouble.

Father gone, can’t help.

Ancalagon unfurls and roars in anger that isn’t his own.

[It’s alright,] something whispers in his mind before he can start lumbering towards the keep. [I got this. We’ve got this. It’ll be fine.]

He settles unhappily.

[It’ll be fun.]

Promise?

[Promise.]

○

She’s fidgeting with a dagger in the drawing room when Rhaenys walks in, looking very tired and unimpressed with whatever bullshit follow-up to Fell’s dismissal was.

<You know, maybe it’s time a change in power occurs,> Lyra says conversationally, twirling the unsheathed blade in her hand. She’s not doing all that badly.

<No,> Rhaenys says in High Valyrian, and then pours herself a glass of wine. Jocelyn briefly looks up from her book, but returns to it soon enough. Laena and Laenor both continue looking between the two.

Lyra turns to Rhaenys, eyes wide and lip quivering, as perfect a picture of childish innocence as she can muster in the situation. She doesn’t stop twirling the knife. <But cousin, it’s only a bit of regicide and a little kinslaying!>

<You can’t kill the king. Or the hand.>

<I should. He’s not even half as good a king as you’d be a queen without trying. And Otto’s only in it for his personal gain anyway.>

<Flattery won’t make me agree with you.>

<Tsk.>

<Don’t click your tongue at me, young lady. No murder.>

<Not even a little murder? I swear I’ll only trip him down the stairs. The fall will do the rest for me, gravity is a natural cause!>

<Gods, you really are Daemon’s daughter, aren’t you?> Rhaenys says fondly and shakes her head. <No, not even a little.>

<Fine. I hope Viserys chokes on his figurines. And Otto falls out of his damn tower.>

Rhaenys snorts at that before she can stop herself.

“Still,” she says in common, “I’m sorry, but you have to go. None may officially go against an actual Royal Order, though we must all agree, it is too much in this situation.”

“It stinks of Cunttower all over it,” Lyra says petulantly. “He’s using me to get back at Daemon by sending me to the one place neither of us wants me to go.”

“It’ll be fine!” Laena says as she sits down next to Lyra and pulls her into a half-hug. “I’d prefer if you stayed, but… It’ll be fine!”

“Of course it’ll be fine!” Lyra scoffs as she leans into the hug. “Because I’m not going to Runestone.”

Everyone turns to her, even Jocelyn.

“I cannot let you stay here with the Royal Order issued,” Rhaenys warns.

“I know,” Lyra says with an innocent smile. Rhaenys eyes widen with realization.

“You’re eight ,” she says, standing up in agitation. Her children look at her in confusion. “No, you—It’s too dangerous!”

Lyra just keeps smiling.

“What’s going on?” Laenor asks.

“Your cousin seems to be just as wild and reckless as her father at a much younger age, is all,” Rhaenys huffs. “Nothing I say will dissuade you, will it?”

“Not unless I can stay here, no,” Lyra says, and keeps smiling.

“You know what they say about Targaryens and insanity,” Jocelyn muses. “Because this certainly sounds insane to me.”

“What sounds insane??” Laenor asks, agitated. “What’s going on?”

“Lyra’s going to Stepstones,” Laena says and squeezes her shoulder. “Aren’t you.”

Laenor turns to look at her, eyes wide. “But—There’s a whole host of knights there?”

“Yeah, and?”

“And—They’re trained knights! And you’re tiny!”

“I am!” Lyra agrees. “But Ancalagon is not.”

○

“It’s not fair,” Laenor whines, starfished on her bed and Lyra folds her clothes and shoves them into a bag. “How come you get to go to Stepstones, and I don’t?”

“I don’t want to go to Stepstones, you dipshit,” she huffs. “I’m going there because I can’t stay here.”

“Can’t you just go to your mother to Runestone?”

“And what? Get assassinated by one of the many aunts and uncles around?”

“They wouldn’t!”

“Well, they sure as fuck don’t like me enough to try!”

“But Ancalagon! And Daemon!”

“Ancalagon can’t get in the keep and prevent an unfortunate fall down the stairs, and Daemon’s in Stepstones. Which is why I’m going there.”

“It’s still unfair.”

“Says you.”

○

The perks of being an eight-year-old girl is that people who don’t know you just don’t take you seriously, and certainly don’t suspect that you might be trying to ditch them.

Ser Fell and the knights certainly don’t suspect shit, allowing Lyra to run wild unhindered for the entire evening. There’s much to do, and many things she needs, but a resigned Rhaenys, her devilishly delighted children and an oddly supportive Jocelyn make quick work of it all.

○

“Uh,” Ser Fell says, looking at the mass of black scales on the beach that makes Ancalagon. “That’s… Certainly a beast. Are you—certain that you must put all your luggage in the saddle?”

“Yes,” Lyra huffs, dragging a big backpack with her.

“We can put it in the carriage—”

“But I need to take my dragon with me anyway, so what’s the point?”

“…alright, have it your way.”

○

She spends her evening writing letters, checking and double checking if she tagged them properly. One to Rhea, for Rhaenys to send. One for Viserys and one forOtto, for Fell to take back with him so that he doesn’t go back entirely empty-handed.

One for Daemon, though she suspects she’ll get there faster than the message, but it’s as good a backup as any.

With Laena’s help, she carries more conspicuous items to Ancalagon; a bedroll, a full waterskin, enough rations to last her the way there and then some.

Perks of having a big dragon with a big saddle is that he carries all her gear with room to spare.

At night, she decides to have a sleepover with Laenor and Laena. They make a pillow fort with blankets and all, and tell stories until they fall asleep. In the morning, they eat breakfast together, and Lyra puts on her riding leathers.

Map: check. Rations: check. Money, clothes, bedroll: check.

Giant flying nuclear lizard that makes her plan possible in the first place: double check.

Rhaenys’ disapproval at her ridiculous plan: triple check.

Confused knights who have no idea what’s about to happen: also check.

She’s ready to go.

“Are you truly that much against going to Runestone?”  Rhaenys asks again. “You would truly rather fly to Stepstones, on your lonesome?”

“I promised my mother she’d never see me again,” Lyra says, lacing up her boots. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

“You truly are every bit your father’s daughter.”

“Well, yes. I’m more surprised you’re going to let me do this, really.”

“I considered trying to stop you, but with how strong your bond is with that beast of yours, there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t break the keep open like a mussel to get to you.

“Mmm, true enough. He most likely would.”

Rhaenys sighs. “Exactly. And trust me—if I could escort you, or send Laena with you… I would. But going against the Royal Order—”

“You need to think of your house first,” Lyra says. “I understand. It’s okay, I don’t want you to feel guilty about it.”

“That won’t make me stop feeling guilty about it,” Rhaenys sighs. “I can neither stop you nor help you—”

“Nonsense!” Lyra scoffs. “You gave me all my supplies. That’s help enough.”

“I meant more in the way of flying you to the Stepstones to make sure you got there safely. You will not make it even halfway there before nightfall; Ancalagon is too big to fly for long, he’ll need to rest. It’ll take you at least three full days to get there.”

“I’ll sleep in Ancalagon’s coil, under his wing, like I did right after Daemon left. It’s warm and safe there. Trust me cousin, it’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re eight,” Rhaenys says flatly in lieu of ‘you have no clue what you’re doing, you feral baby’. She’s not necessarily wrong.

“And I have a giant dragon, basic hunting skills, and a map. I’ll be fine .”

Rhaenys still looks like she wants to argue, but she shakes her head instead, muttering about fathers and daughters. Lyra rolls her shoulders to make sure her leather jacket lays well on her shoulders and wraps a scarf around her neck and mouth.

It’s go time.

○

“I still think it would be better if you took the ship with us,” Ser Fell says, looking at Ancalagon with uncertainty, more on edge as the dragon, now unfurled, seems much more active than when he seen him before.

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, then,” Lyra tells him coldly, “because they’re rather useless to me.”

“My Lady—”

Lyra shoves letters to Otto and Viserys at him, and he catches them on instinct as Ancalagon rears up and begins crawling towards them.

“What—”

“Deliver those to my uncle and his Lord Hand later, would you kindly? I have a dragon to attend to.”

“At a later—Wait—My Lady?!”

Nobody is willing to approach Ancalagon as he looms over them but Lyra, who skilfully scales the ladder up to the saddle and begins rolling it up.

“Apologies, fellows!” she hollers down, fastening herself to the saddle, “but those letters are all I have to you as I fly to join my father in Stepstones! You can tell my uncle king to shove his royal decree up Otto’s ass whence it came from! Ancalagon, sōves!”

Ser Fell’s face circles through several funny emotions and she can’t help but grin as the realization dawns on the Kingsguard as the massive, tar-coloured beast rears up and lumbers past the alarmed, screaming knights, taking to the sky with powerful wingbeats knocking up dust and sand, and Lyra cackles appropriately maniacally as Ancalagon turns South.

Fuck Runestone, and fuck Viserys, and fuck Otto especially, with a red-hot iron stick. If she can’t stay at Driftmark like both she and Daemon wanted, she’ll join Daemon in the stepstones. Neither of them will be happy with the fact for the exact same reasons, but Lyra is not going to Runestone.

Not with the persistent nagging feeling at the back of her mind that tells her that Runestone would have been just as dangerous, among the Royces who see her as an intruder. In Stepstones, she’ll at least have Daemon to fall back to.

She turns around and watches Driftmark grow smaller and smaller behind them as Ancalagon gains altitude, bursting through the clouds to soar above them as they fly towards the sun. She turns forward, reaches out to pat Ancalagon’s back where she can actually reach it.

<I’m glad I have you, buddy,> she says quietly. <Or I’d have been fucked back there.>

Ancalagon rumbles in agreement.

Together, safe.

<Yeah. Thanks.>

○

It’s, in a way, an exciting road trip, really.

Now, despite how haphazard her departure might have been, Lyra does in fact have a plan. And a map, and money if she needs it, and knives, and even a bow with some arrows. And, most vital of all, she has Ancalagon.

It is, all things considered, a very simple plan that consists of nothing more than ‘get to point Z, rest, repeat until destination’.

Get to Sharp Point because she had about halfday of daylight left, camp there for the night. Get to Bronzegate on day two, then to Crow’s Nest on day three, and then to Greenstone on day four. That left crossing the Sea of Dorne at its narrowest point on day five, and then she’d be in Stepstones.

She would have to skip Bloodstone, though, and fly a bit farther south past Grey Gallows to Shipwreck Key—and it was nice to have a map with all the islands named to be sure—because that was where the Velaryon fleet was stationed currently.

Lyra knows that having a simple and sound plan for her trajectory backed up with actual map-pointing and asking for non-perishable provisions was a big reason as to why Rhaenys even considered letting and helping her go do this. Either that, or Rhaenys knew that if she let Lyra go with Ser Fell she would have executed her plan anyway, just much less prepared.

She was not going to Runestone, thank you very much.

○

In a way, it’s a bonding experience that Lyra knows they will both treasure going forward. Just them and the wilderness; a rider and a dragon on a road, setting up camp Ancalagon can coil around and she can play the guitar and sing songs from a world over, as she waits for her food to cook.

They avoid settlements and the big keeps, camping far enough away from any people that they’re not bothered by anyone. She doesn’t want to deal with any well-meaning lords and ladies who would impede her progress, she just wants to be in Stepstones already.

…

Okay so they take a whole day’s worth of detour at the edge of Rainwood, what of it. It’s a very pretty forest and Lyra likes it there, so they just camp and rest and sunbathe the whole day.

She even manages to catch a young deer with barely-there horns with a well-placed lucky shot in the lungs. It takes her a while to drag the thing back to where Ancalagon can get to where the trees are sparse, but she does. Skins the thing clumsily, roasts a whole leg to eat.

Ancalagon gets the rest though it’s not even a mouthful for him, but it’s the thought that counts because he’s very happy with the fact that Lyra hunted something and they got to eat it together, like a pack is supposed to do. Even if his only contribution was scaring the deer half-to-death with his presence, it still helped.

○

Long time no contact, mother.

I’d have preferred it stayed that way, but my uncle king and his cunt of a Hand forced me to do something drastic. I don’t know if you’ve heard by now, but Daemon and Lord Corlys Velaryon have left for a campaign to take the Stepstones from the Triarchy and secure better maritime trade opportunities. In the meantime, I have been staying on Driftmark with my Velaryon cousins, but uncle king decided to take offense to that, on the behest of his Hand no doubt, and ordered me to return to Runestone to you.

I’m certain that you were not contacted prior to the making of the Royal Order, because I know very well that you’d have vehemently rejected the idea, as you want to see me as much as I want to see you, therefore I did us all the favour of rejecting the order myself but ditching the knights and flying south to Stepstones on my dragon. By the time you get this letter, I will most likely have arrived there.

I have a dragon now. Twice the size of Caraxes; trust me, you want him nowhere near Runestone. And he goes wherever I go, always. So, you won’t want me near Runestone either. Which is good! Because I don’t want to be near Runestone.

If I could ask you for this one thing to do for us both, I’d ask you to write a letter to the king. Explain to him that you want me nowhere near Runestone. Say you’ve disinherited me, that you and Daemon are living separately to begin with. I don’t mind being disinherited, actually. I don’t want Runestone, I rather hate that place. Pick some cousin to have it.

Don’t worry, I’ll deal with Daemon. He doesn’t really like Runestone either.

Your misbegotten spawn,

Daelyra Targaryen.

PS.: We asked about the divorce, uncle king said no, you probably heard. Worry not, we’ll try again at the earliest convenience. We’re not exactly on speaking terms right now.

Rhea huffs, reading the letter in the scrawly script, and turns to look at the servant standing by her side.

“M’Lady?”

“Bring me my stationery. I have a letter to write.”

“To your daughter?”

“No,” Rhea scoffs. “To the king, in case he tries to send her my way again. We ought to cull bad ideas before they become problematic.”

○

Ancalagon lands not too far from the encampment and Lyra kicks the rope ladder loose and makes her way down. By the time her feet touch the ground, Daemon is already almost there, still in full armour and seemingly straight from the battlefield, eyes wide, and completely uncaring of Ancalagon’s disapproving growl to his approach.

Lyra dusts her pants, rolls her shoulders, and walks forward to meet him midway.

<Hi,> she says. <It’s been a while.>

Daemon pends down and picks her up in a tight hug, smushing her face uncomfortably against his chestplate. <You’re not supposed to be here, Little Flame.>

<I know,> she says and pats his shoulder. <But Otto and Viserys tried to send me off to Runestone. What was I supposed to do, go there?>

Daemon nods sagely. <I don’t like you being here—>

<That makes two of us.>

<—but it’s better than Runestone. But you’re staying out of combat at all cost, you hear me? You’re much too small to go fighting anyone seriously.>

<Sir, yes sir.>

Chapter Text

The parchment crinkles under his fingers as Otto reads it, the slightly-lopsided childish scrawl, yet in oddly practiced hand, inked into words on the dried parchment. The crease on his forehead depends as he reads into it.

For a child, Daelyra Targaryen’s written words are surprisingly eloquent, and subtly threatening in a childlike way that everyone would tell him is just excited childhood babble he should not look to deeply into—or Rhaenys Targaryen’s guiding hand. He cannot be sure.

Either way, the letter is barely acceptably polite and very vaguely threatening. Nothing he can hold over the girl or Rhaenys or anyone, really. Just an upset child being upset and at least being kind enough to write him a letter about why before taking off on her massive blasphemous beast in the direction opposite than she was meant to go.

And it took Otto months to convince Viserys that the girl ought to have been sent to her mother in Runestone, where Daemon wouldn’t have wanted her, only for it all to be ruined.

Viserys was sent a letter of his own, too, and it sent him into a morose spiral, cursing the idea under his breath. And yet, just like Otto knew he would, the king had no spine whatsoever, and refused to rescind his order.

○

Otto did not think that Daelyra would want to have anything to do with her lady mother. It’s why he pushed for the girl to be sent there, to be easily monitored and away from Daemon’s heretic teachings of dragon lords and dragon gods. And yet, when barely a fortnight later, a very politely scathing letter came from Runestone, he learned better.

Lady Rhea Royce has written, in official capacity and in no uncertain terms, that Daelyra Targaryen was to remain with her father, or with the guardians appointed by her father at all times. She stated it nowhere in her letter, but the message was very clear; the girl—and her father as well—was not welcome in Runestone. And, Royal Order or no, Daelyra would be sent back.

It was Rhea’s right as her mother to override the will of her uncle, king or no, and Otto knew Daelyra’s meddling for what it was. Rhea Royce would not have known ofher daughter’s planned arrival; unless said daughter informed her in advance.

Viserys had a sour look on his face when he read the letter that effectively rendered his order moot. King or no, he couldn’t actually tell Lady Royce to keep the girl if she didn’t want her there. That was the power the lords had, after all.

“She went to the Stepstones,” Viserys says. “A girlchild of eight. Otto, she’s eight. I will rescind the order after all. She was much safer with the Velaryons—”

Otto grimaces. Daelyra and Daemon are cut from the same cloth, he thinks but doesn’t say. Daelyra will stay in Stepstones out of spite, and Daemon will let her.

Then he grimaces harder. He spent months convincing Viserys to have the girl sent to Runestone, only for the brat to do whatever she wanted anyway; and Viserys did not see the problem with her blatant disregard of royal orders at all!

He hates this family. But with Alicent for a Queen, he very well won’t have to suffer them much longer. As soon as she births and heir and pushes Daemon and his spawn further down the inheritance line, he will sleep easier.

○

“How,” Corlys says. It’s not even a question, as he looks at Lyra grinning her best grin at him as she stands next to Daemon.

“Big dragon,” she chirps cheerfully anyway, and his face sours. “And before you ask for why; uncle king was more interested in sucking Cunttower’s dick than using the half-rotted soggy bacon between his ears to make good decisions. Anyway, it was either Runestone or here.”

Corlys looks like he just bit into a lemon. “I can guess which you picked.”

“Not very hard, that.”

Corlys lets out a deep sigh, as if to say ‘this is my life now I guess’. “Very well. What now? This is a warzone, not a daycare.”

“Now, Lyra stays safe behind the back lines, and Ancalagon sometimes flies overhead burning the Triarchy mercenaries down, of course!” Daemon says, entirely too smug.

“Can Ancalagon do that without a rider?” Corlys asks dubiously.

“If I warg into him, he can,” Lyra says with a smile, and he looks down at her. Surely not—

“You can warg into your dragon? The way those with First Men blood can?”

“Yep! Did that before. Royces have a lot of First Men blood, probably got it from there!”

Corlys hides his face in his hands. He hates that this ridiculous situation and its ridiculous explanation actually makes sense in a way, he’s learned, things orbiting those two usually make sense. “Fine. Do whatever. Stay out of trouble. Both of you.”

Lyra and Daemon share twin grins and Corlys regrets.

He’s not even sure what he’s regretting exactly—except his king’s utter stupidity.

“Wait,” Lyra says as she looks up at her father. “Did you get in trouble?”

Daemon looks away. “No?”

“He took an arrow to the shoulder,” Corlys says, entirely unrepentant. “Decided it was fine to go flying without armour.”

Lyra’s dark eyes sharpen.

“Traitor!” Daemon cries as his daughter grabs the sleeve of his shirt. “It was an emergency! I didn’t have time to put armour on!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Corlys says with a shrug.

“Kepaaaa…”

“Perzītsos, talus jorrāeliarzus—”

Lyra’s eyelid twitches, and Corlys takes his chance to evacuate and leave Daemon at the mercy of his now-irate spawn. Serves him right.

○

At least it’s not infected, and it’s healing properly.

Stupid reckless dad not wearing armour riding his dragon in a warzone.

○

Viserys revokes the order.

<Rhea must’ve sent him a Strongly Worded Letter,> Lyra muses, breaking the wax seal into tiny pieces and throwing them into fire one by one. Daemon scoffs, reading the recall over one more time.

<One good thing she’s done. I have half a mind to send you back to Driftmark.>

<I’m sensing a but.>

Daemon gets up from his chair, tears the letter in half, then that in half, and again, until he’s holding a handful of parchment. He lets it fall into the open flame.

<But he doesn’t get to backtrack like that, after giving in to Otto’s wheedling. The fuck was he expecting to happen?>

<Remember, he thinks the world truly works the way he decides it should.>

Daemon sighs. <Do you want to go back? It would be safer.>

<True,> she agrees. <But I’m safe enough here, in the back lines.>

<That doesn’t answer my question.>

<Gh. Yes, fine, I would want to go back. But I won’t. Because fuck that and fuck him. With a red-hot iron.>

<Careful, he might like that,> he says and cackles. Lyra makes a gagging sound and slaps his shoulder.

<Besides, I prefer being somewhere you are. I know this is no place for a child, but my case is a little special… And I missed you a lot.>

Daemon’s face softens.

<So do I, little flame,> he says and presses his forehead against hers, and everything is alright. <But I’m very serious; no frontlines for you, ever. Not until you’re a woman grown and I can no longer tell you what to do. Understood?>

<Sir, yes sir!>

○

All in all, when one is not in active warzone, the Stepstones War is pretty damn boring. Lyra can only poke at the map and ask questions so much until she knows everything there is to be known about it, and she’s not really a tactician or a general. She does have few good ideas here and there, but her playing a couple of tactical games a whole lifetime over, while it certainly puts her above a typical child in understanding of war, is mostly anecdotal, very situational, and largely useless. It quickly becomes apparent that to wage war effectively one has to either have a knack for it, or be specifically trained for it, and ideally both.

Lyra is neither.

Though, that isn’t to say she’s entirely useless. She did come in with a dragon twice the size of Caraxes that she could relatively easily direct to where Corlys pointed at the map to burn the Triarchy.

And sure, impressing the importance of Not Landing to Ancalagon took a hot minute, but he definitely learned his lesson after he took a catapulted stone to the face. Knocked few of his teeth loose, but they would grow back in soon enough; dragons were crocodilian like that.

Gave the Triarchy something to fear, too. For a bunch of fools claiming descent from Old Valyria themselves, they were awfully dragon-less.

One thing that upset the nightmarish creature (and Lyra, too) was the fact that it was simply safer for her to stay hidden away somewhere mostly safe and out of the way rather than fly him into the battle. Not only did she promise to do that, but even if the chances are low, a talented and stubborn marksman would have been able to snipe at her even on dragonback. It was a constant hassle for Daemon, who in the time they spent there took several arrows. Mostly harmless, but that was because he had a fitted plate mail he could wear on dragonback, and Lyra did not. The one time the arrow actually did damage was the one time he had foregone the armour.

He’s not done that again since, thankfully.

On top of that, Lyra found, Ancalagon minded Caraxes’ presence less and less, and vice versa. The two dragons, as capricious as they each were, were by no means friends—but they could tolerate sharing the aerial space, and even coiling on the opposite ends of the same beach. Given the strength of their respective bonds to their readers, the bond between Lyra and Daemon must have rubbed off on them, at least to a degree. It was certainly helpful, for the lack of the pissing contest between the two.

And Ancalagon, who in his two-centuries-plus of life has never had a rider certainly had a lot to learn from the Blood Wyrm. Even if his already-scarce patience was running thin, constantly tested by Caraxes’ smugness.

○

“Can you please blink?”

“No.”

“Daemon, tell your spawn to blink.”

“No.”

○

Years pass, slowly but surely, and with two dragons rather than one, Corlys and Daemon are seeing moderate to high success against the Triarchy.

Who would’ve thought that flying nuclear lizards capable of breathing superhot fire would be of help in a war effort, right?

Lyra and Ancalagon perfect their bond as she sends him to fight; sharing thoughts and senses and feelings at distances greater than reasonable, able to find one another no matter the location. She can look through his eyes when he soars and breathes green fire on the enemy encampment, and for now, it’s a good enough substitute for flying together. It’s not warging, not really. A bastardized version of it, where they each can see through the other’s eyes and direct them, but cannot direct the other past what they allow. Maybe it’s reasonable, as Lyra is more Valyrian than she’d ever be of First Men, but it’s an inheritance she values.

Corlys is pretty good at hiding his discomfort when he finds her sitting somewhere—usually their war tents, safest and closest to Daemon—eyes wide, bright green and slit-pupiled. Lyra admires this; she’s freaked herself enough that one time she caught a glimpse of it in her reflection. It was really cool, don’t get her wrong—but it was also creepy.

Soon enough, from the girl who barely survived bonding her dragon she turns into a girl who is perfectly attuned to her dragon, and him to her. They have long conversations in the privacy of their own minds, and Lyra thinks she becomes rather good at interpreting the snippets of images and emotions he sends.

There’s news from the capital, too. Of course, they are. Aegon is born and the people rejoice for a prince, and Lyra can’t help a bitter pang at the back of her throat because she knows—she knows that Viserys will neglect this boy, even though he killed Aemma for this.

Is Aegon lesser, for not being Aemma’s? For being born of a girl barely sixteen, forced to replace the woman Viserys claimed he loved but murdered anyway?

Lyra sends a polite congratulatory letter anyway, makes Daemon sign it too even though he doesn’t seem too happy about that. Sends a letter to Rhaenyra, expressing hopes the girl will see her siblings for what they are—innocent victims in all of this, whose crime is being born and nothing more. Hopes that Rhaenyra won’t hate her young siblings.

Hopes it changes things.

She knows it won’t, unless Viserys either actually begins reinforcing Rhaenyra’s position as the heir or names Aegon heir in turn. He does neither, of course, content to set his children on an express road to a civil war; an uneducated entitled daughter for an heir, a discarded wastrel firstborn son barely a spare, and nothing done to change this.

This family is already ripping itself apart, and it will try very hard to drag the country and the dragons down with it; and it’s all Viserys’ fault.

She sends a letter to Alicent, too, and Alicent—replies. So, Lyra replies in turn, and so on, and so forth. They’re each careful to not mention anything upsetting, anything about Alicent’s queendom, and reading those letters, Lyra hopes they can fool each other, however briefly, that they’re just two penpals writing to one another. No wars, no kings, no queens, no unwanted marriages or dragons flying overhead. It feels almost like a friendship; Lyra wonders idly how long it’ll last.

Until Otto learns of the exchanges, most likely.

Rhaenyra doesn’t write back to her at all. After all, how dare she advise her to try being kind to her half-siblings and her former best friend forever. They’re the root cause of all her misfortunes, surely!

Or something like that.

○

<Um, dad.>

<Yeah?>

<My teeth… Are growing in a little sharp? Like. Sharper than they should—>

<Oh, that’s normal.>

<Th—Wait what?>

Daemon puts a finger in his mouth and lifts his lip.

Now, Lyra never looked in his mouth, because that’s rude, but in all honesty, maybe she should have.

His canines are a bit more pronounced than normal, which is fair, some people get that. On upper and lower jaw. But the premolars being pronounced and sharp on upper and lower jaw both is—

<Is this dragon magic again?>

<Uh—No? Why would you think that?>

<Because,> she looks him in the eye, <not-Targaryens don’t have teeth this sharp.>

<…they don’t?>

<No. Canines, at most,> she says, and points the teeth in question, <but the upper ones at most, typically. And premolars are never this sharp.>

<Hm.>

<You had no idea.>

<No. My teeth are normal to me! Father had sharp teeth. Cousin Rhaenys does too.>

<Uncle king?>

<No. But he was the odd one out for it. We, ah,> Daemon’s cheeks pinken a little, <we used to pick on him for that, when we were little. Even Aemma had sharper teeth than he. We called him a dullard.>

<Wish that was applicable only to his teeth and not his mind,> Lyra mutters quietly. If Daemon hears, he ignores it. <The more you know!>

<Even Corlys has sharper teeth, and he has least Valyrian blood of all of us.>

<How the fuck do you know that?>

<Cousin Rhaenys told me! How else?>

Lyra looks at him. Daemon balks.

<He wouldn’t be the first married man you wooed into your bed.>

<True. But Cousin Rhaenys scares me… Hm.>

<Dad. No.>

<Do you think if I talked to both of them—>

<Oh my gods, you’re incorrigible. Even if you do, I don’t want to know!>

<Fair.>

○

Lyra keeps up with her training in the meantime. She grows, and keeps growing, and while the growth spurts are paid for in aching bones and awkward movements as she gets used to it, a whole new world opens for her. She no longer has to climb the cupboards and bookshelves much to Daemon’s relief, and she can handle bigger weapons. Finally, proper shortswords, axes, and maces.

She needs to be careful to not overstrain her body—torn ligaments and broken bones would not be very fun to deal with in any way—but agility training is always a good idea. It’s all she can do so far; she still has several years before she can start to reasonably bulk up.

○

So apparently, potatoes grow on Stepstones as weeds. Something-something cargo ship from Essos sunk, potatoes floated up to the island and started growing there.

Lyra didn’t realize just how much she missed this crop until she chanced on some of it growing wild in the sandy soil, and she will admit, she may have fallen on her knees and cried. Baked potatoes, hashbrowns, fries, potato stew, potato starch—she missed them. And now, she will have them back.

Lyra grabs few men who are off-duty and, armed with shovels and baskets, goes to dig for the tubers. They humour her, because she’s Daemon’s daughter, and she frames it like she’s just a kid playing treasure hunt, but she can see them exchange nervous glances as, by sundown, thy have filled four baskets with potatoes.

“Um, my lady… What are you planning to do with these?” one of them asks.

“Eat them,” she tells him, face, knees, and hands covered in dirt as she holds one of the last potatoes of the day. He looks at her weirdly.

“Um. Those are…”

“Potatoes. We need to wash and cook them. They’re delicious with butter and sea-salt.”

They don’t believe her, of course. She delights in proving them wrong scantly an hour later. And potatoes really are delicious with sea-salt which, with dragons capable of evaporating large quantities of water, is abundant here. Baked potato is certainly a hit.

The cook looks at her weird when she puts them in the stew, but is also forced to stand corrected when it turns out good—and helps cut on meat.

The potatoes quickly grow popular with the deployed troops, too; they can take them on the way, raw and fresh, and just throw them in the fire in the evening, and eat them warm.

Her potato propaganda starts spreading like wildfire, and she gets her French fries, too.

Everybody wins. The knights and soldiers will no doubt take potatoes home with them, and spread them further

○

109AC rolls around. Lyra turns eleven, Laenor turns sixteen and week later he’s in Stepstones more than eager to join the war efforts because teenage boys think that war is cool. Laena comes with him, Vhagar in tow. She checks on Lyra, no doubt on Rhaenys’ orders, stays for a little but leaves soon enough. Corlys is barely okay with Laenor being there, and he looks like he’d like nothing more than chase both his children back to Driftmark. Dragons or no, those are his heirs. His legacy.

(Bar the Hull bastards, of which neither has been born yet.)

More importantly, Helaena is born, and Lyra bullies Daemon until he sends a whole congratulatory letter of his own. Helaena, of all, deserves at least this little, and it’s a good enough first step. Maybe Rhaenyra will be more amicable to a little sister? Lyra can hope.

Laena leaves eventually, but for a little while there’s four whole adult dragons in the Stepstones, three of which remain, and that turns heads.

The Triarchy doesn’t like it, of course. But what is much more important is the attention they get from Dorne. And, fuelled by Lyra’s (and subsequently Daemon’s) constant nagging, Corlys reaches out to them with a promise of alliance.

○

“Offer them a big piece in the Stepstones,” Lyra says. Corlys looks at her sharply, takes a breath. “No, no, no, hear me out.”

Daemon is staring at him as he looms behind Lyra. Corlys tries to hold his gaze, but very quickly grows uncomfortable.

“Elaborate,” he says unhappily.

“If we can sweep in and secure a good deal with Dorne, everybody benefits. You get better tariffs, they get better tariffs, Triarchy goes to fuck itself being attacked from both sides. You get half, they get half, you keep it together.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Oh, I know. I’m no diplomat, I don’t even know what exactly would it take to parlay like that. But you need to push for an alliance that’s beneficial enough for Dorne that they don’t turn around and run to the Triarchy. If they do, you’ve automatically lost because they ill chase you out together very fast. Then, you get nothing. I don’t know, maybe I’m weird, but for me half’s better than nothing! My point is; you need to make good with Dorne and cuck Triarchy, or this whole war effort is fucked. Wasted, gone, reduced to atoms!”

Corlys sighs and puts his face in his hands. “Stop making sense, you horrible creature.”

“No,” Lyra chirps cheerfully. “Look, I get it, you hate making concessions, especially after uncle king stood your family up as he has, but concessions will be good in this case. And you’ll be able to hold a semi-alliance with Dorne over uncle king’s head. Wouldn’t that be great? Hells, you might just lay the foundation to bring Dorne into Westeros-the-Kingdom proper. Think of the legacy you’d leave behind, if it all worked out. Corlys Velaryon, the man who laid grounds for proper alliance with Dorne, after the Conquerors themselves failed even that much.”

Corlys’ eyelid twitches, because Lyra hit the nail right on the head, especially with the last one. He knows it, she knows it, Daemon knows it from how he’s smirking above her shoulder.

Corlys looks at her, his bright turquoise eyes shining with exasperation. “I told you to stop making sense, you horrid silver-tongued creature.”

“And I said no. What says you?”

Corlys looks at her, then at Daemon, then back at her. “I say, I wonder where you got your smarts from, because it certainly wasn’t your father.”

“Hey!”

Lyra shrugs. “Kepa’s not stupid. He’s just very hotheaded and forgets to think, is all.”

“Perzītsos, why do you bully your poor old father?” Daemon bemoans dramatically, swooning a little.

“For an old man, you’re awfully under thirty,” she says and pats his shoulder where she can reach. “And that’s not what I meant, Lord Corlys.”

“Fine,” Corlys sighs. “Fine, we’ll go talk with Dorne. But you’re coming with. And Daemon, and you,” he points at Daemon, “will be on your best behaviour. Laenor’s coming too, he needs to learn. Where’s that boy?”

“We should leave the dragons behind,” Lyra tells him as she hops off the chair. “Dorne and Dornish won’t have too good associations with them. It may have been a century ago, but the Conquest was rather traumatic to them.”

“It will put us in danger!” Daemon protests. “It will put you in danger.”

“It will be a show of goodwill,” Lyra argues. “Appreciate one.”

“Are you certain that courtly life isn’t for you?” Corlys asks as he picks up his maps, eyebrow quirked as he looks at her. “When you grow up and train up in diplomacy, you’ll run circles around all those od fools at court.”

“Just because I could be good at it doesn’t mean I want to do it,” Lyra says with a shrug. “Besides, I have a hard limit on how much back-and-forth I’m able to tolerate. Past that, I’ll get a tension headache and if I’m not left the fuck alone when I need solitude, I will bite.”

“Fair enough.”

Bless.

○

Qoren—

Is a hot-headed kid, barely seventeen, having found himself suddenly running his house after his father’s sudden death. Lyra is no doctor, but from the way they describe it, it sounds an awful lot like the late Quentin Martell had a stress-induced aneurysm that led to a haemorrhagic stroke. And Qoren, try as he might to act tough in front of them, isn’t nearly as good at hiding his grief as he tries to make himself be.

He looks a little like she imagined Oberyn to look, with wavy black hair and healthy tanned skin and shining honey-coloured eyes. Has that swagger, too. Overexaggerated, a dash of bravado on an otherwise lost kid. It fools most of them, she sees. Not Corlys, not Daemon, not her. But others.

He looks a lot more like a creature of fire, sun-kissed as he is, than any of the wraith-like Targaryen with their icy silver hair and cold violet eyes and pallid near-sickly skin that doesn’t tan no matter how long Lyra spends in the sun.

(Damned fire resistance strong enough to stand against Planetos’ own star, leaving Lyra looking like she’s some basemen-dwelling goblin.)

She grabs her Daemon’s hand, drags him to lean down. <Be nice to the kid,> she warns her father. <He just lost his father recently. He’s not doing well.>

<But—>

<Remember how you felt when grandpa died.>

He closes his mouth, recognition shining in his eyes. Empathy is not something he’s equipped with, but they’re working on it. Soon enough, he’ll be able to compare situations others are in with his on his own. Lyra hopes he will, at least.

○

The talks—don’t go bad, in all honesty. Lyra pesters Corlys until he plays nice, mindful of Qoren’s loss, and the lack of dragons also helps. The kid side-eyes all Targaryens present, of course he does, but he’s not hostile. As eager as he is to prove himself, he’s also pretty damn smart, and while allying with Triarchy would let him triumph over Targaryens, he recognizes that allying with the Velaryon Fleet would be just more economically sensible to him, and Dorne as a whole. The Fleet, after all, controls all but two islands, and with three grown dragons, taking the last two isles won’t take much.

Qoren—unaware of the future in which the dragons vacate the isles very soon, though it’s not like Lyra is going to tell—takes the better option. It’s not quite an alliance, but it is a reasonable trade agreement for both Dorne and Driftmark. Lyra, for her part, is just happy it seems to actually be working.

○

Nobody seems to miss Qoren and Laenor’s flirting. It gets them a side-eye or two—they’re from opposing factions and supposed to be having talks of the diplomatic kind, not the pillow one—but the two hit it off quickly and get along well outside of the council tent. Lyra accidentally catches them snogging against a tree and elects to distract the guard walking their way before he notices them.

It may be sneaky and underhanded and dangerously close to a honeypot mission, but—Laenor’s happy with wooing Qoren, Qoren is happy with being wooed, and it’s very likely to net them a better deal with Dorne if Qoren is fond of Laenor. It all works out.

Corlys, of course, ever-so-mindful of his reputation, wants to stop them. Lyra, infinitely wise in her tweenage ways, embarks on a mission to stop him from stopping them.

Laenor’s gonna owe her for that.

○

“Leave Laenor and Qoren alone.”

Corlys Velaryon, the fabled Sea Snake, Master of Tides, the Head of House Velaryon, does not jump or shriek when Daemon’s spawn seems to manifest at his elbow out of thin air.

“Leave Laenor and Qoren alone.”

It’s a near thing, though, and he certainly feels his heart jump uncomfortably to this throat when the little menace sneaks up on him unnoticed like that.

“Laenor is—”

He doesn’t know what Laenor is; for now he’s just trying to breathe as Lyra cranes her head up to look at him with those wide black eyes of hers.

“Laenor’s booty call is about to make the whole deal with Dorne go a whole lot smoother if Qoren likes him,” Lyra tells the man. “Besides, you expect him to carry your house after you. Let him live a little before that.”

He winces. It is a shame on house Velaryon for Laenor to be up to his usual proclivities this openly, but Lyra is right. Corlys knows this; it’s why he’s hesitated to put a stop to it so far.

Lyra keeps looking at him, unblinking.

He thinks, for a moment, that he can see a glimpse of a slit pupil in the darkness of her irises, but it fades as she shifts ever so slightly, along with the sunlit gleam in her eyes.

“Horrid little creature,” he says in exasperation, but can’t stop the fond undertone that she clearly hears, judging by how her face softens into an almost-smile.

“I’m not going to stop making sense,” she chirps smugly, but she knows she’s won, because she turns on her heel without further ado and prances off, beaded braids bouncing off her shoulders and back.

Corlys smiles to himself as his heart calms from the scare.

Daemon is one thing, but Lyra—Lyra will make Otto Hightower’s life living hell if she so chooses.

And Corlys genuinely hopes she so chooses indeed.

○

<Dad, I’m going to need your help wingmanning.>

<What’s wingmanning?>

<Helping Laenor get laid. For the sake of the trade alliance.>

<Of course. Not because you want him to owe you or anything.>

<Of course.>

○

Laenor is furious, and Qoren is fuming. World, it seems, is out to cockblock them.

Lyra will not stand for this.

Their pining is unbearable.

Why can’t he just be a bit more like Daemon, making his way through every interested Dornish soldier regardless of who may walk in on them?

(Unless it’s Lyra. Which is why Daemon is very careful in sending her to the other side of the camp until he sends back for her so that he can have his fun unhindered. She appreciates it quite a bit. There are some things in this world she wants nowhere near, ever.)

○

“I know a spot.”

Laenor yelps and twirls to look at her, takes a half-step back, hand on his chest.

“Sweet Meraxes someone ought to put a bell on you!” he absolutely doesn’t shriek. “W—Wait, what do you mean, you know a spot?”

“Where you can fuck Qoren in peace. Or get fucked by him, I don’t judge.”

“How do you—Nevermind. What’s in it for you?”

“Less annoyance and potentially better agreement terms. Also, your soul.”

“You—You think I’m doing this for the agreement, or something?” he asks, cheeks already colouring in offense. “And what do you mean my soul—"

“No. But it is a side effect we’d all benefit from. Mostly, I’m just tired of your pining.”

“I’m not—!!”

“You are. You very much are.”

“…okay. Fine. So, you know a spot. And?”

“And me and dad set you up a nice picnic getaway half-hour flight from here and you take Qoren there and you’ll have a day of peace together.”

“And what do you want for it?”

“I’ll think of it.”

“Because not knowing is not scary.”

“Relax, I’m ele—one-and-ten. What could I even want?”

“A lot!” Leanor argues. “You’re one of the most sneaky and shady people I know!”

“Who even taught you to use shady to describe people.”

“You did.”

“…I used it to describe Cunttower.”

Laenor has enough sense in him to hastily retreat.

But Lyra keeps her word, and the next day he takes Qoren for a nice getaway. They come back well into the night, still all over each other but way less irritable about it.

Lyra wonders if the historians of centuries from now will write about Laenor Velaryon and his very good friend Qoren Martell, or will they actually be smart about it and avoid straightwashing history.

○

“What the fuck did you mean by my soul, though?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“…how about I do anyway?”

○

Yes, she is having a lot of fun messing with Laenor. Sue her.

○

History, Lyra decides, seems to have a somewhat fucked up way of repeating itself sometimes.

She’s eleven years old. Laenor just came back with Qoren after a whole day they spent elsewhere—both look quite pleased with themselves too—and promptly shoves something small and fuzzy into her hands.

The thing, it appears, is a small ball of fluff, a little dirty, a little wet, but otherwise warm. And it moves; twists and turns a little in her hands, one paw, two paws, tail, ears. Two big blue eyes that are yet to darken into a proper eye colour blink up at her. White-and-tan fur, still somewhat shaggy. There’s a meow.

She’s eleven years old and Laenor just brought her a kitten.

She was eleven years old when she got Rascal.

She may very well be reading into it too deeply, but with gods and magic and dragons, this doesn’t feel like coincidence that much.

Still, she takes the cat.

“Your debt has been paid,” she tells Laenor sagely and he gives her a slightly startled look that morphs into exasperated annoyance as he reaches out and ruffles her hair.

“You’re why I don’t want younger siblings anymore.”

“You’re welcome!”

“That’s not—Ugh.”

Qoren snorts into his fist next to them, and Laenor puffs up. Lyra grins.

○

She makes it a small batch of completely unseasoned fish and egg soup of sorts, and the cat. Thankfully it’s at least a month old—closer to five weeks, if she’s remembering all the cat development videos that she watched a lifetime ago correctly—so keeping it alive is all the much easier.

If it was still eating only milk, and Lyra had no way of finding a feeding mother cat, it would have been kinder to just put it down—alternatives were to starve or, if she tried to feed it cow or goat milk, to die of the diarrhoea it’d cause. She was glad they were past the unsalvageable state.

She scratches the kitten between its ears absent-mindedly as it inhales the cooled food, contemplating.

What does she name the cat? It’s a very important decision. So important that Rascal got his name after stealing her sock on a day one. She hollered ‘you rascal!’ after him and then it just stuck.

It’s how Daemon finds her, a little drunk himself, no doubt having wooed a Dornish soldier or two himself. While Laenor is still trying to pretend to be ashamed of his sexuality, Daemon is at the age where he finally knows better and just embraces himself wholeheartedly.

<What’s this?> he asks, pointing at the crinkled-tissue-shaped creature. Lyra looks at him.

<A cat.>

<How did it get here?>

<Laenor gave it to me.>

Brief silence as he shuffles about for more alcohol, throws himself onto the padded chair—way too extra for a tent, in Lyra’s opinion—and takes a swing of something that smells like it has high percentile in it.

<You gonna keep it?>

<Yeah.>

<What’s its name?>

<Haven’t gotten that far,> she admits.

Daemon looks at the kitten. The kitten is none the wiser, too busy licking the plate of and food remnants, and Lyra doesn’t like the glint in her father’s eye.

<Name it Vodka.>

And she’s right.

<I am not naming the cat Vodka!> Lyra says, aghast. Daemon pouts.

<What are you naming him, then?>

<I don’t know yet!>

<Why not Vodka then?>

<Because—I’m not naming my cat Vodka!>

<Do you have any other ideas?>

<I—Uh—> she jumps to her feet and looks around a little frantically for anything of help, until her gaze falls onto the simple cinnamon-sugar cookies on the table. <Snickerdoodle!>

<How’s that better than Vodka??> he demands. <You’re just naming him after the first next thing you see!>

<Well, at least his colouring matches Snickerdoodles! What reason do I have to name him Vodka?>

<To amuse your old father.>

<You get plenty amusement when I harass other people.>

He opens his hands and nods sagely. <True that. So, no Vodka the Cat?>

<No. Snickerdoodle it is.>

Snickerdoodle doesn’t much care, too busy pushing the little ceramic plate around. Lyra swipes it up before the cat can push it over the edge.

<But you’re the one taking care of it,> Daemon warns.

<Sure, sure.>

○

Daemon, predictably, likes the cat as much as she does, if not more.

It’s just how that works.

○

Ancalagon seems fine with Snickerdoodle, too. Which is good, because Snickerdoodle ends up loving flying. For now, he has a cat-sized basket affixed on the saddle just for him with a little pillow inset, but the cat keeps growing like a weed and Lyra is waiting for him to reach his maximum size before adding a permanent cat station to her saddle.

But soon.

○

They do secure the alliance. It’s not really a tug of war, since nobody actually owns Stepstones, and they both benefit from it. It really was a matter of goodwill and reaching out first before the Triarchy—and Daemon not pissing off Qoren, and Laenor wooing Qoren, and them not bringing dragons at first as a sign of goodwill. The only dragon that came close to the Dornish delegation was Seasmoke, and that was only for Laenor to take him for a ride to the picnic spot and back.

Corlys looks like he just bit a lemon the entire way to the main camp; h’s not fond of having to share Stepstones with Dorne, even if it is the smarter option, and he especially doesn’t like how pleased Lyra is with herself, and how smug and proud Daemon is. He doesn’t seem to appreciate Laenor’s starstruck mooning either.

Though to be fair, if he continues to pine it may get really tiring really fast for everyone involved.

Soon enough, though, they’re back on their bullshit in Stepstones. Between he Velaryon fleet, the Dornish fleet, and three dragons, they’re done taking over the islands within a year. And between the Velaryon and Dornish fleets, they have a real chance of keeping them, this time.

Then Aemond is born, and it seems like Lyra is the only one who cares about it, because she’s friends with Alicent—or at least she thinks she is.

And then, before Lyra knows it, it’s 111AC.

○

<Are you not going to crown yourself the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea?>

It’s been two years since he had done that in the canon books. Now, it’s been two years later, and here, there’s not so much as an inkling that he would. So, she asks.

<I thought about it, but no.>

<Why?>

<Didn’t you say you’re fine with just your dragon, your sword and clothes on your back?> he asks with a wry grin. <I think there’s something to it, you know. And besides… I’m starting to realize that this sort of power—it’s a burden. And I’m starting to think that I don’t want it, after all.>

<The constant need to worry about so many things, inability to just get up and go?>

<Exactly,> he sighs and turns to face her. <I suppose, you’ve always been the wiser one between the two of us, little flame.>

<But you’re getting there. Getting to know yourself. What you really want, what you really need. Not power. Not prestige. Freedom.>

<Freedom and love,> he says. <Thank you, little flame. For being born.>

<You should be thanking Balerion, Shrykos, and Meleys. It’s thanks to their shenanigans that I’m here.>

<I will, in my next prayer. Meanwhile, I’ll just be glad you’re my daughter.>

<And I’ll be glad you’re my father. Love you.>

<Love you more, little flame.>

<Nonsense!>

He chuckles, presses his forehead against hers. <Sense, sense.>

○

“Did you read it, Otto?” Viserys asks, almost vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, I did,” Otto says, even though it feels like he has to force it past a bile in his throat.

The Velaryons—with Daemon’s aid—have managed to secure an alliance with Dorne. Potentially, the first real step towards allying with Dorne since the Conquest.

And it was done by Daemon and Corlys.

Otto tries to be politely happy about it, but inside he seethes. Daemon expanding his influence is never anything good, and this was never meant to happen. This shouldn’t have happened.

But Corlys Velaryon is a man brilliant enough to counter even Daemon’s wild tendencies. But Corlys Velaryon is a creature built from pride that not even his greed can match. It never has.

What changed?

○

Lyra turns thirteen. Daemon throws her a nice little party, brings a shipment of all kinds of things. Even Corlys splurges a little, which admittedly is rare. It’s because she pressed for the trade alliance with Dorne, he tells her, because it’s already started paying off. Predictably, he doesn’t like how smug it makes her.

Qoren visits from Dorne, brings some gifts. He stays for a polite amount of time and then drags Laenor off somewhere more private with a basket of food in hand, and that’s the last Lyra sees them that evening.

It’s fun, in the tents, with her father and a disgruntled Corlys, unpacking gifts others have sent her from wherever they are. With the knights and soldiers that she made friends with. There’s a lot of potato dishes, courtesy of the very same cook who saw her make the potato stew that first time.

Lyra tries to have fun. She really does.

But she can feel a familiar-odd kind of sensation at the bit of her stomach that she knows, and really, truly does not like.

○

She wakes up, just like she predicted, to nausea, fatigue, general discomfort, and a patch of blood between her legs. It’s still dark outside, and Daemon is snoring sprawled on the bed not too far from her. She takes a moment to curse her body, tries to stop herself from throwing something at someone, springs from the bed without a word and goes to find an adult woman, barely bothering to grab a jacket and shoes. People, whoever is up at this our anyway, step out of her way with concern and mild shock; her disgruntlement must be showing on her face, no doubt.

She finds some women in the kitchen tent, going about meal prep. She clears her throat.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” one of them says, “the breakfast isn’t ready yet—”

“I’m bleeding.”

“It’s—Oh. Oh! Yes, um, Tilda, manage for now, I’ll go help her ladyship a bit.”

She mostly just needed to figure out a replacement for pads and tampons. Soon, she’s going to have to stalk around for herbal remedies for pain, but for that her best bet would be a midwife.

The woman—Yvonne—is very helpful. Gives her a linen cloth, tells her how to use it, gives some tips and tricks. Lyra is very grateful, if curt, but Yvonne says nothing, just sends her off on her way and returns to the meal prep.

She comes back to her tent a little lighter, throws herself on the bed with something that’s between a groan and a snarl, and just lays there, face-down on the pillow.

<Little flame, everything okay?> Daemon asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

<I got my period.>

<Oh. Huh. Can I help?>

<Not unless you can find me someone to kill, no,> she says grumpily and makes herself a bit more comfortable. She has no clue if she’ll fall asleep anymore today, disgruntled, uncomfortable, and a little homicidal, but she tries.

<I’ll figure something out,> Daemon tells her, and she makes a sound of agreement, kicking the blanket onto her feet. Ultimately, he has to sit up and tuck her in.

She doesn’t really sleep, but she does rest a bit so there’s that.

○

Now, when Lyra told Daemon that morning to find her someone to kill, she was mostly joking.

And yet, here they are, at noon, on the outskirts of the camp, with Daemon looking entirely too pleased with himself, two nervous soldiers, and a bound triarchy pirate between them. And while Lyra has always felt homicidal on her period, she’s obviously never acted on it before.

But that was in a different world. And this was—

She makes grabby hands at Dark Sister, and Daemon unsheathes the longsword and hands it to her.

It’s quite heavy, and still too big for her, unwieldy in her hands unused to wielding anything bigger than a shortsword and an odd mace, but it’s lighter than it looks. Light enough to wield, and she can almost hear the steel sing a mesmerizing, haunted tune.

The pirate says something; taunts her and Daemon in Low Valyrian, something about children, cowards, and not being man enough to kill him himself. She looks at Daemon, and then back at the man, and takes a step forward. She raises the sword in both hands, presses the tip to the man’s neck. He tries to inch away, but the soldiers keep him in place.

<Meleys, lady of blood, bringer of life,> she says quietly, <accept this humble offering.>

And then she plunges Dark Sister diagonally into the man’s neck using her own weight and gravity to lead the blade, in one side, out the other, right through the heart if it’s where it’s supposed to be. Bright red blood gushes out of the artery offering him a quick but bloody death. Dark Sister goes through flesh and sinew like knife goes through butter, barely stops at bone and she only has to put more on her weight on it to keep going. Blood spurts out of the man’s neck and onto her hands, and an odd jolt runs through her spine, red mist rising from the blood and curling around her fingers before dispersing.

For a second, she feels like something—someone—is looming over her, bright red hair swaying in her periphery, red eyes looking down at her from an ethereal face. It smiles down at her.

[Thank you, child.]

Then, it’s gone.

She shivers, braces herself with a foot on the corpse and pulls Dark Sister free, losing her balance minutely, and only Daemon’s steadying hand across her shoulderblades prevents her from falling on her ass. It takes her good several seconds to process what’s wrong—or rather, what’s right.

The cramps are gone. So is the bloated feeling in her insides, and she catches herself just as the last bits of fatigue vanish. More; she’s starting to feel energized and refreshed.

She looks at her bloodied hands and the bloodied sword with wonder, and then at Daemon.

<Dad.>

<Yeah?>

<I think I just did magic.>

<…what.>

○

She opens her eyes to an ocean above and star-shaped rocks floating about, and she’s not very surprised. She’s not even surprised that it’s not the typical culprits with her in the in-between this time.

Meleys sits before her, cross-legged and somewhat amused, with bright red hair and a crown of creamy horns, and slit-pupiled red eyes. She’s dressed much more casually than Balerion or Shrykos were, in something middle-class Valryians would wear daily for work rather than any sort of ceremonial robes. Her clothes are still embossed, of course, but not unreasonably so.

[It’s nice to finally meet you, Lyra,] Meleys says with a smile, and Lyra nods. [Congratulations on your first successful bout of blood magic. We can meet partly thanks to it.]

[Because it’s your domain?]

[That, too. I’m mostly just glad I finally get to talk to you. I’ve not been this involved in someone’s life in… Millennia, at this point.]

[How so? Enabling me to be born?]

[Yes. Rhea Royce, for her health, has a weak womb unable to sustain life. I had to be directly involved until you were born. And this is also why I wanted to meet. There are… Alterations, to your body, compared to regular Valyrians.]

Lyra turns to look at Meleys sharply, her full attention on the goddess. [Elaborate?]

[You’re a homunculus,] Meleys tells her simply, as if it’s not some sort of a huge revelation. [Artificial human with more dragon blood than average. In a literal way. This is what allows you to be this attuned to dragons.]

[…I’m assuming there’s drawbacks?]

[Of course,] Meleys agrees. [One of them is a fragile mental state, but that was mostly mitigated with your soul coming in pre-formed. Of course, you pay for that remembering your death, and with all your pre-existing issues carrying over… But it should be more than enough to avoid a repeat of Maegor.]

[Mae—He was artificially made too?!]

[Yes.]

[I fucking knew it! Did Visenya make him in a cauldron or something?]

Meleys chuckles. [As a matter of fact, she did. But we’re not here to talk about Maegor. There are also physical alterations you need to be aware. I’m here mostly to explain them to you. May we get to the point? My time with you is limited.]

[Shit, sorry. Yes, physical changes.]

[Long story short, you will be stronger and bigger than average, just like Maegor was, and effectively infertile. Even if you have your moon blood consistently, it will be incredibly difficult for you to conceive—and when you do, every single child from your womb will be a dragon chimera, and will be stillborn. No exceptions. They are a blood price Valyrians pay for their magic, and you’re more magic than most.]

[That does make a lot of sense,] Lyra agrees, not particularly concerned. She never had any children in her previous life, and she wasn’t really planning on having any in this. Now she at least knew she couldn’t, at all. But… [I’m still hearing a but in there anyway.]

[Women in Old Valyria were often met with this very problem, and so a blood ritual was created to circumvent the blood price—once,] Meleys says, rising a finger. [So if you ever find yourself in the position of needing or wanting an heir, the records of it should be somewhere. In the Lost City.]

[...lovely. With other blood magic, I’m assuming?]

[Yes.]

[Hm. So might as well grab it when I go for it, I guess?]

Meleys smiles and inclines her head. [In the interim, if you feel yourself drawn to the pleasures of flesh, Moon Tea should suffice.]

[Mmkay. And period cramps? Do I have to sacrifice someone every day? Because then I’ll run out of people really quick—]

[No, just one every cycle.]

[Okay good, was worried there for a second. Thanks for checking up on me, I guess?]

[No problem. I apologize for any trouble Shrykos and Balerion may have caused you, and the responsibility they placed on your shoulders.]

[It’s—Mostly fine. Thank you for taking your time to come and tell me all that stuff!]

Meleys shakes her head. [It’s merely something you should be aware of. Be prepared; you will be naturally more inclined to grow taller and stout than women do.]

[Oh. I like that!]

Meleys chuckles. [Typically, women would be aghast about that.]

[What about my situation is typical, really?]

[Very little,] Meleys inclines her head in agreement. The world around them ripples. [I wish you best of luck on your journey. This whole conspiracy… May very well be bigger than you think.]

[I—Wait, what does that mean??]

[I cannot tell you much, for it will know otherwise; it knows whenever we invoke it too closely, even whole reality planes away. And you… You just keep changing the world. Save the dragons. Give us a fighting chance.]

[Because that’s not concerning at all! Meleys—]

The world twists, shatters into a whirlpool.

Lyra’s eyes snap open as she jolts upright on the bed, hides her face in her hands. For a moment, she just breathes.

<Fuck. Thanks for the heads up, I guess.>

<Little flame?> Daemon looks up from some papers he’s been reviewing. She shakes her head.

<Talked with Meleys a bit,> she says. <Got some… Weird and concerning information.>

<Ah. Okay.>

Ah. Okay.

She just told him she spoke with a real god and his reaction is Ah. Okay.

She laughs. <Ah, dad, never change. Love you.>

<Love you too!>

○

She grips the doorknob, pale fingers wrapped around the embossed metal. She’s shaking a little, she realizes, but—she wants to do this. She has to do this. If for no other reason than to see if she can.

Parchment crinkles under her fingers, and she reads the last passage of the letter one more time.

You can do it. You can do anything, in your position, if you only take that leap. You have power; more than you imagine. Try and find out for yourself. I believe in you, and you should believe in you, too.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

Best wishes, Lyra.

She folds the letter, puts it under the cover of her book. Puts her hand back on the knob, and this time, turns it. She enters the room on silent feet, eyes sweeping over the miniature of a city long since lost.

“Husband, I wish to speak with you,” she says, and the pitiful creature that is Viserys lift his eyes up.

“Oh yes, Alicent, come in, come in, I want to show you something—”

She smiles her empty polite smile and sits down as he rants and raves about things that have been lost for centuries and will never be recovered, quiet and obedient, until he tires himself. Then, it’s her turn. Sweet, careful words, the undertone of worry, well-meaning all, on a topic that seems to press him the most these days. She brings him a solution to salvaging a crumbling relationship, magnanimous and regal and well-meaning, and not at all testing her influence over him.

And Viserys folds like a wet napkin.

○

<Lyra!> Daemon calls, running towards her. His eyes are wide and twinkling, and his cheeks are flushed. There’s an official-looking missive with a royal seal in his hand, fluttering as he runs. She can’t help but be confused—what on Fourteen’s good Planetos could have Viserys sent to make Daemon this happy?

<Uhhh… What’s up?>

<Look! Read it!> he says excitedly, pushing the parchment into her hands. It crinkles in her hands, but she reads it enough.

Something, something, by the Grace of King Viserys, First of His Name, the—

<—marriage of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone is hereby declared annulled,> she reads, and almost cannot believe the words she reads. She looks up at Daemon, who’s been hopping from foot to foot, hands shaking in excitement. <Holy shit dad. He did it. He actually—>

<I know! And you’re staying with me. It means your rights to Runestone will be forfeit, but at this point I’m just happy to officially be apart from that woman.>

Lyra rubs her forehead. <This is probably his way of apologizing,> she says once the initial excitement wears off. <Of trying to mend your relationship.>

Daemon sighs. <Maybe.>

<Is it working?>

<A little, yeah.>

<Oh well, I suppose it’s fine. He really did us a favour there. You know—>

<Hm? Something wrong?>

<No offense, but uncle Viserys is nor nearly smart enough to come up with something like that. And Otto certainly never would do you a favor.>

<…and?>

<And bet you it was Alicent’s idea. So, you gotta be nice to her.>

<…fuck. You know what, fine. I owe her at least this much.>

○

“My Lady, your horse is ready for the trip—”

“Get it back to the stables,” Rhea says and sets the royal missive on the table, looking out the window. “And get me some wine.”

“Pardon? My Lady?”

“I’m finally free of those menaces, both of them,” she says, a grin growing on her lips with every word. “Postpone my trip, open the larders, call for a feast—I intend to celebrate.”

○

[Huh.]

[Something wrong, Balerion?]

[No, no, it’s just—Rhea Royce usually dies around this time. But she’s fine, with no indication of impending doom, and I’m a little confused, is all. That… Doesn’t happen. Either an unfortunate accident, Daemon, or one of her jealous relatives will always do the job.]

[Oh. What changed?]

[I don’t know, I’ll go to the tree and look back later. Anyway—you said you got some saplings from Tyraxes, didn’t you? Let me check if she didn’t slip you something poisonous.]

[It’s alright, you don’t have to! She wouldn’t hurt me.]

[Not on purpose, but she has no idea what could be harmful to human souls, past the obvious. I do, however, as I interact with mortal souls daily.]

[Oh. Okay, that does make sense. Thank you.]

[Anytime, Aemma.]

[Now put down those papers and drink your tea. Tallying souls can wait, they’re not going anywhere.]

[Yes, yes.]

Chapter Text

“You’re plotting something,” is the first thing Shrykos says as they sit down on the bench next to him. Balerion looks at them out of the corner of his eye. “I know you. This is your plotting face.”

“You make it sound like I’m about to collapse a civilization.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Balerion huffs, amused, and looks at the fractured sky above them. “Aemma Arryn will die soon.”

“Oh. You were at the Waytree recently?”

“Yes. Tyraxes was there, whatever she was doing, so I figured I’d ask a few questions. Maybe she saw things,” he shudders. “She had. Predictably centered around Lyra, like the tree wants us to follow her future now.”

Shrykos turns to look at him, eyes sad. “Don’t overdo it. Meleys is still at our tails for bringing Lyra in. And don’t encourage Tyraxes to go there!”

“Meleys worries too much,” Balerion huffs. “Sometimes the knowledge of the future is necessary to divert the worst of it; and even if not, have you tried to stop Tyraxes?”

Shrykos face sours. They tried before. All of them tried before. They shake their head.

“But Aemma Arryn won’t be influencing that future anymore. So let me ask again; what are you plotting?”

“Damn, didn’t I knock you off the topic enough?”

“Never. Speak.”

Balerion sighs. “I’m going to meet her.”

“Personally?” Shrykos jolts up, turns to look at him. “But you—Meeting souls isn’t your job? You’re only supposed to make sure everything goes smoothly—”

“I’m going to ask her if she wants to come here,” Balerion says, cutting Shrykos off. Shrykos narrows their eyes at him. “What? It’s been done before!”

“Yes, and now Tyraxes has a minion. Do you want a minion too?”

“No! I just—I want her to be happy.”

“Happy, huh,” Shrykos says with a glint in their eyes. “Very well.”

Balerion shudders. “It’s not like that!”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I’ll be saying ‘I told you so’ soon enough.”

“You will not!” he protests hotly, cheeks darkening.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

○

It’s peaceful when she opens her eyes, even though she doesn’t think it should be at all, let alone be peaceful. She gets up slowly, reveling in the newfound lightness of her body, in the lack of pain that comes with it—that she thinks should come with it. She looks at her hands, only to find them translucent and faintly aglow. A dress of misty, white gossamer hugs her body and flutters in the non-existent wind, melting into the blindingly white nothing all around her.

Like this the pain seems like a hazy, half-remembered nightmare fading by the second until she’s free of it, and free of the detached sort of painful weightlessness that was her goodbye from the world.

The bitterness at the back of her throat remains.

“Hello, Aemma.”

She whirls around, feeling as if she solidifies more with the motion, to find the source of the voice.

He materializes out of the shadows that aren’t there, red, slit-pupiled eyes looking at her from blackness first, framed with thick eyelashes. Then his face, pallid and marked with a spiderweb of black veins, uncannily perfect like that of a sculpted doll, dotted with scales at the ridges, crowned with wicked horns of charred bone, and framed with glossy black hair reaching past his waist. Then, the rest of him; broad-shouldered and clad in ceremonial Valyrian funerary robes, the kind nobody uses anymore since the Doom and Aemma only knows to recognize because Viserys raved about the traditional dress enough.

She thinks she can even read the runes etched on the collar in silver thread, knowledgeable enough in Valryian script as she is, but she has to crane her head up to a very uncomfortable angle to be able to even see them, let alone look the dragon-corpse-doll man in the eye. His eyelids and lips are painted black, she notices, and it only makes him look paler, adding to the haunted look.

She thinks she should be unsettled by his appearance, but she can’t find it in herself to be.

He’s beautiful. Too beautiful, yes, but in a way so mesmerizing it’s difficult to look away.

A long, scaly black tail catches her eye, swishing among the misty white fog covering their feet. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was wagging.

Do dragons even wag their tails?

Do gods?

“Do I know you?” she asks, though she thinks she does. She knows of him, at least. The dragon-corpse-doll-man shakes his head, and crouches down so that they’re mostly on eye-level. It’s kind of him, Aemma thinks.

“You do not know me, but you do know of me. I am Balerion; Keeper of Death and Guide of Souls. And you, Aemma Arryn, are dead.”

She looks at her hands again, almost solid now but still somewhat translucent.

She knows she’s died, but can no longer recall a single detail of how, though she thinks she also remembers the events that led to it. It’s an odd kind of sense. The terror, betrayal, and pain that she ended with, though, escape her grasp firmly. She remembers Viserys ordering her cut open, and then nothing of substance.

She knows what happened after, but she can’t recall any of it if she tries.

It’s a memory she’s glad to lose.

The context, however—

“Viserys killed me,” she says and looks up at Balerion with newfound disbelief shining in her eyes, and she feels as if it only truly sinks then. “My own husband. He claimed to love me, and he killed me. Ordered me cut open, and he knew it would kill me—”

She’s shaking now, and she doesn’t know what she feels. Shock? Anger? Disgust?

Loathing, maybe, and then all of those too. She liked Viserys less and less with each pregnancy, because he saw it kill her little by little each time and insisted on trying again, and again, and again, and she loved him (she thought she loved him, because what else was she supposed to do?) so she agreed, all for his foolish little dream even though it ruined her body, brittled her bones, blackened her blood, sapped away her very life each and every single time—

Hand on her shoulder, grounding. She blinks the haze away, cranes her head up.

For someone who looks like a haunted corpse, Balerion’s hand is very warm.

“He won’t trouble you anymore,” he says with a finality that helps Aemma calm down. He is the God of Death, after all, and the afterlife is his domain. If he says she’s free of Viserys, then it must be true. He’s the only one who can make it true. “Walk with me?”

She nods, and in a blink the vast nothingness around morphs into a forest of crystal trees and little glowing stars frozen all around them. Ocean ripples above their heads, warm sand under their feet, everything bathed in dusk.

Balerion stands up again, towering over her, and the fact that she doesn’t even reach his elbow with the top of her head makes her a little annoyed. His touch lingers, and Aemma doesn’t mind. It surprises her a little; she most often feels uncomfortable with it.

She thinks she should be feeling something stronger about this whole situation, but all she feels is peace and relief that she’s finally free, and some weightless numbness. Stronger emotions elude her in favor of a calm sense of acceptance. It must be a death thing, she decides. Makes it easier to think rationally and accept that her mortal harrowing is finally over.

Gods, she wasn’t even thirty.

But her emotions aren't gone, and they grow stronger with every passing moment. The bitter taste at the back of her throat magnifies when she remembers names and faces of those who pushed her into the role of a wife much too soon, and then shunned her for her body being too young to become a mother.

“Is this the afterlife?” she asks as she looks around. It's pretty, but in a barely-tangible, dreamlike way. For a life after life, it's rather lacking.

“No,” Balerion says. “This is the space in-between life and death, dreams and reality. Here go dreamers in-between dreams and waking world, and here go souls in-between life and passing on. Here mortals can meet the divine. We just call it Crossroads.”

“Oh. It’s… very pretty here, even with the ocean over my head. Which is a little scary. And, now that you mention dreams… I think I remember being here before.”

A woman in red who would come to her at her lowest, soothe and comfort her when nobody else would. Warm hands in her hair and soothing words in her ears as she wailed at her fate, because she wasn’t permitted to let her true feelings slip in the waking world.

It’ll be over soon.

Red eyes, slit pupils, scales on her face—

She looks at Balerion a little startled but the memory fades faster than it came.

“People typically don’t remember coming here. Though sometimes one of us will call someone here, for whatever reason.”

Balerion looks at her. He looks a little like the dream, she thinks, but with those red, slit-pupiled eyes, it feels much more like looking at Viserys’ dragon, when he still lived, but somehow—more. Different. Much smaller and shaped almost like a man, but there’s a kind of power emanating from Balerion that Aemma has never felt before. It feels like the ocean on a sunny day; calm, soothing, and seemingly infinite on the surface, and wholly capable of drowning all life underneath.

And who knows what the darkness under its surface hides at all?

This is no dragon, and this certainly is no mere man; the only thing Aemma thinks he can be, is a god.

Of this she is certain like she’s never been certain of anything else before.

Aemma thinks she should be more awed or at least surprised to find him actually real, instead of the calm acceptance she feels. She did genuinely worship the Flames, and Balerion was one of the most important out of the Fourteen with his domain over death, next to Meleys and her blood magic, Vermithor and his riches, and Gaelithox and her fire.

And yet here she is. Not very awed, and mostly annoyed at his height, if a little put off by his ghastly appearance, though she’s getting used to it rapidly. 

She thinks she rather likes this sort of casual acceptance.

“Do you visit every soul that comes here?” she asks, because she has a feeling that this is a bit of a special situation.

“No,” Balerion says, confirming her suspicions. “Almost none, in fact. They go directly to the afterlife, and I may greet them there, or I may not.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“Because I have a proposition for you.”

She cranes her neck to look up at him again. “Which is?”

“You can move on to the afterlife, as you were meant to,” he says. “Or, you can come with me to the realm of the gods, to watch over what remains of the Valyrian bloodline. Only few are ever given this chance.”

Aemma wrings her hands together, considers it.

It is a very tempting offer. Moving on means potentially meeting the souls of other people—people she’s certain she doesn’t want to meet. Chiefly among them her father, Rodrik Arryn, who married her off to Viserys at two-and-ten just after her first blood, and Jaehaerys and Alysanne who orchestrated her misery in the first place, and Baelon who scorned her for not giving his son a male heir, blind to how it slowly killed her, miscarriage after miscarriage, running her body and soul.

Not even the prospect of meeting her mother, who died bringing her into this world, could truly tempt her into going. Not under the threat of meeting any of the architects of her suffering.

Still—

“Why me? I’m… No-one special.”

Balerion stutters a bit, looks away, around. It’s—kind of endearing, actually. His tail is thumping at the sand; he doesn’t seem to notice. She giggles before she can stop herself, and his cheeks darken. It makes him look almost alive.

“You are!” he insists with almost childish fervour. “And even if you deny it—I, you—you deserve better, and that’s that.”

She stops herself from giggling anymore, but she can’t deny she’s still amused at his fumbling. It’s… Oddly ordinary, this situation, even though she’s dead, he’s a god, and they’re somewhere unspecified and magical. Cute, almost, if he wasn’t so tall and corpse-like and rather intimidating for it, but Aemma finds herself wary of him less with each passing moment as he keeps acting so personable.

More normal than most lords she’s met, in fact, and isn’t that a realization.

“Of course, should you dislike it, sending you to the afterlife anyway won’t be difficult, it’s not permanent or anything—”

“Alright.”

“And you can—Alright?”

“Yes. I… There are dead people I do not want to seat all if I can help it. I fear things might get violent if I had. There is… a lot of anger in me, I realize, because I could’ve been spared so much misery if they made better choices. I think I would punch someone. Or strangle someone, really. Several people in fact. Can the dead even hurt each other?”

Balerion cocks his head. “There are ways but it’s complicated, since souls aren’t corporeal.”

“Shame. And I do wish to watch over those who yet live. Rhaenyra, Daelyra, Daemon—I wish I could be there with them, but cheering them on from here will have to do.”

But not Viserys, who she carefully leaves out of her words. He caused her too much hurt, and she doesn’t want to darken her thoughts with him anymore. Death was meant to set her free of him, and she will see that through. Balerion will aid her in seeing that through.

And there is a certain sense of giddiness here too, that she gets to do this. Maybe because she was scarcely ever allowed to make her own choices before, and certainly none so big. She was always strung along by her family and her duty. Her wedding, her pregnancies, her life; even her dresses and hair were orchestrated by others most of the time. Even her hobbies were dictated by what Viserys wanted to do, which was build his city miniature and delve into Valyrian books

(What did she like to do? She wasn’t sure she knew.)

Balerion nods and extends his hand to her, and she takes it without hesitation. His hand is big, dwarfing hers easily, and his claws are long and sharp but she’s not very bothered by it. She’s more fascinated by just how dark the veins in his wrists are against the pallor, and the slight scaly texture to his skin that she notices; almost like a snake she saw once in a garden when she was maybe nine. It only serves to set him apart from humans further.

(She was never allowed to be fascinated by these things. Never allowed to even try for a dragon of her own. It doesn’t mean she never wanted.)

○

It feels like she’s forgetting something.

No matter.

○

The doorway leads them to a gloomy corridor made of black basalt, with pillars etched with Valyrian runes and floor of cracked diorite filled in with gold and polished so much Aemma can see herself as if in a mirror when she looks down.

It’s cold, she realizes.

Or, it should be cold. She doesn’t quite notice how she only feels it when she realizes she should.

Her feet, though not fully materialized, are bare and cold, and for a moment, she imagines them in her favorite rabbit-fur slippers, soft and warm—

And then they’re there, blue ribbons and all.

She stops, lifts her skirt up a little, and raises her leg, to look at her slippers in amazement. But those are her slippers; the very same ones Rhaenyra accidentally knocked into the fireplace last year.

“Just how—?”

“It’s one of the things you can do now,” Balerion tells her, sounding rather amused. There’s a small smile on his lips, too. She doesn’t pout at him, but she does huff. “I’ll explain in a moment, let’s get out of the Crossroads first. We get the most traffic here.”

“Very well, lead the way.”

He offers her his arm, and she takes it, and he matches his pace to hers, which is definitely quite nice. With how long his legs are, he could easily move at twice her pace.

Outside—

Aemma has no words to describe it other than utterly breathtaking. She lets go of Balerion’s arm and rushes forward like an overly eager girlchild, head whipping around and her hair with it as she tries to take in all the sights, and colors, and sounds.

In front of her is a sprawling valley surrounded by a wall of mountain ranges, towers of stone jutting out of them at an equal distance from each other, seemingly merged with the mountains at their bases; when she counts, there’s fourteen of them. Inside the valley there is a sprawling lake fed by multiple rivers running from the mountain ranges, dotted by patches of trees. That, in itself, is somewhat ordinary for someone who lived in the Vale of Arryn, like Aemma.

However, the multitude of fractured islands swaying above the lake is not ordinary at all, opalescent crystals jutting from the jagged bedrock underside, glowing and twinkling as if containing stars, with runic arrays encircling them, and oily tar-like roots wrapped around them. 

It’s keeping the islands afloat, Aemma thinks, with fluffy pastel clouds floating lazily about the bedrock. Waterfalls drop from them, islands and clouds both, seemingly endless and feeding into the lake, and she can see forests and castles of ivory and colored glass on the islands; the grass is all blue and purple, little of it green. 

On the biggest, middlemost island, with smaller, fractured islets floating about it, there is a tree; with black bark inlaid with sparkling amethyst veins, splintering into thousands of branches reaching high into the dark sky, crown of pallid, flowerlike pearlescent-lilac leaves upon it. The trunk of the tree is split in half, jagged, with an opalescent gem floating within the gap, tendrils of bright light originating from the gem bridging the gap in the tree like silver threads or spidersilk. 

Underneath the tree, a half-exposed core of magma surrounded by the dark oily roots jutted out of the bedrock of the biggest island, pulsing as if it was a heart.

Above it all, in the place of sun, a massive, fractured crystal, its parts orbiting around themselves, all in the color of kaleidoscope and ice, floating suspended in the sky. Directly from its center, arms of shining auroras sprawl all over the vale underneath the vast star-glittering darkness of the firmament above.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “Though, knowing what I know of Valyria… Not what I expected.”

“It was a joint effort, and only a refurbishment besides,” Balerion says as he comes to a stop next to her. “We call this realm home but it is not our own. We are but interlopers here, waiting for the inevitable conclusion to our story. It was kind enough to let us have our domains here.”

“What was?” Aemma says as they sail closer.

“The Waytree, which grows at the centermost island above Hallowed Vale.”

It’s the first time she hears of it, and it sounds important. Why was it left out of their mythology? She looks at the tree on the middlemost island again; blinks, once, twice. It looks… Less, like a tree, this time. Different. More sprawling, more complex, as if it shifted in the few short moments she looked to Balerion instead. It swims and sways in color she cannot describe, less perceivable the more she tries to focus on it. There’s a whispering ringing in her ears and she turns away. Relief is immediate, as she presses the heel of her palm to her eye. “What was that? Is this the Waytree?” she asks, and points vaguely at it without looking.

“Yes,” Balerion says, voice a little worried. “Are you alright? I forgot it does that to people who aren’t used to its presence.”

“Why did it shift?” Aemma asks. “I—It hurts to look at it. Why?”

“It’s a little complicated, so I’ll tell you about it later.”

Aemma huffs. “Define later, because this seems a little important.”

“When you’ve settled in, maybe over tea? First we need to find Meleys and find you a place.”

She almost says she could stay with him, since he brought her here and she knows him, and finds a sense of comfort in his company, but that’d probably sound rude. They’ve known each other for maybe an hour now, and she shouldn’t impose.

“Alright,” she says instead. “Lead the way. Can it be away from the tree?”

“Of course! Nobody lives near it, it would be too dangerous in the long run, even for us.”

○

He leads her to a small dock on a cliffside, with a small gilded ship docked next to it. That in itself wouldn’t be too odd, except for the fact that there is no water in the immediate proximity, and the ship is swaying in the air. It has sails for oars that make it look like a bird.

“I hope you have no fear of heights,” Balerion says as he helps her in the boat. The seats are padded and comfortable, and there are railings she can cling to if necessary, but Aemma isn’t very bothered by the height. In fact, she feels quite at home, as she always has. Towers and cliffsides always made her feel at ease; the higher and windier, the better.

“I’m an Arryn,” she tells him as if it explains everything. For her, it does. Balerion smiles.

“One with Targaryen blood, too,” he agrees. “Both meant for the sky.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes Aemma feel a pang of—something. It’s not quite jealousy, but she knows she should have had a dragon. Her mother was a Targaryen, and so was her husband; even if she was an Arryn by name, it was her birthright all the same.

She chases those thoughts away. No point dwelling on them anymore.

The boat sways comfortably as a translucent, robed shape appears at the steer, and then they’re sailing through the sky. Aemma grips the side and leans over ever so slightly, mindful of the height but excited with it all the same, and she notices Balerion shift ever so closer, ready to catch her should she lean over too far, but she doesn’t mind. With the wind in her hair, nostalgic enough to bring tears to her eyes with a memory of a better time, she feels as if she could fly on her own wings.

“Careful,” Balerion chides. “The fall down would be rather unpleasant.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insists. “It’s not like I can die. I’ve done that already.”

Balerion levels her with a flat look and sighs.

“Your soul is precious, don’t fray it,” he tells her instead. His eyes widen as he does, and he immediately turns his head away and coughs into his hand. “I meant, be careful. The impact would be very unpleasant… And detrimental to your overall experience…”

She thinks she glimpses a dusting of pink on his cheeks before he turns fully, but it very well might’ve been the light. Given his bashful tone and stumbling over words, though, it likely wasn’t.

Still, she chuckles, and can’t help but tease a little; “Do you warn everyone of that?”

“...no,” Balerion says, pointy ears only coloring deeper. “Just you.”

Aemma smiles. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll be careful.”

○

“Is there something on your mind?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

“Something less… Kind.”

“I can be many things. An old, expected friend, or the greatest enemy. A bringer of respite, or a herald of tragedy. Ultimately, it hinges entirely on the one who dies, how they perceive me. I’ve been cursed and spat at and sometimes even attacked by many who I greeted. Especially in the wake of Doom. What am I to you?”

“Escape. Relief, from the role I was pushed against my will… Oh.”

Balerion nods. There’s something sad in those red, slit-pupiled eyes when he looks at her. Aemma supposes that’s fair.

○

They get off the boat on one of the shattered isles, lush with a garden full of fruits and vegetables and mostly devoid of flowers. They walk a path fenced on each side with an orchard of trees heavy with nearly-ripe fruit, and Aemma knows most of these fruits. There’s apples and oranges and lemons, but she can’t help being drawn to a tree with serrated bark and spiky leaves, full of fruit that look like flame, pink at the core and yellow at the tips.

“What is this? I have never seen a tree like this before.”

“It’s dragonfruit,” Balerion tells her. “They grow in much warmer climates than where you lived.”

“Is—Is it actually called dragonfruit?” Aemma looks at him, confused. Surely, he’s pulling her leg?

“Yes,” he chuckles. “You want one? They’re ripe.”

“I—Uh, is it okay?” she asks, a little startled.

“Of course. She won’t mind,” Balerion says and reaches to pluck one of the fruits.

“She?”

“Meleys,” Balerion says as he digs his claws in the fruit, splits it in two. “Oh, it’s the white one!”

Aemma takes one half, and then blinks. “Meleys?”

“Don’t worry about it. If anything, just blame me. She never stayed mad at me for long,” Balerion says with a cheeky smile and Aemma can’t help but huff out a laugh. She looks down at the fruit in her hands, at the white flesh dotted with black seeds. Looks back at Balerion, who flips his half inside out to eat it, and tries to copy him, if clumsily. It’s good, the fruit. Sweet but mild, with an interesting texture. She thinks she quite likes it.

○

They find her on her knees in the dirt, elbow deep in rows of bushes full of heart-shaped red fruit Aemma doesn’t recognize. She doesn’t seem to notice them at all at first, but as they approach closer, she slowly rises to her feet, and turns to face them.

Her eyes are blood-red, though deeper and darker than Balerion’s, whose shine almost sinisterly. Hers are darker, slit-pupiled still, a little tired and a little warm. Her hair is in messy waves and just as red, held in a high bun with gilded sticks and ribbon, and on her head, a crown of short and straight creamy-white horns. Her skin is tanned, like that of someone who spends most of their time outside in the sun, with a healthy flush on her cheeks. 

She’s quite stocky, with a considerable bosom and more than a head shorter than Balerion. Her clothes are quite casual, though still embroidered with gold and patterned with silk.

Still, she looks—ordinary. High-class, and not really unassuming, but ordinary. The way Aemma knew Valyrian women often would in the Freehold. There are wrinkles on her face, and some hairs are sticking out of the bun. Aemma thinks she knows her.

“And here I thought it would be Shrykos or Morhgul causing trouble. Or Tessarion, like the last time. But you?” the woman says, quiring and eyebrow. Balerion smiles, more than a little strained.

“I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m causing trouble, you know,” he says, playing with the cuffs of his robe. It looks subconscious, but also a little nervous.

“Well, at least you brought a familiar face with you. It’s good to see you in person, Aemma.”

Aemma smiles. “Likewise, Meleys.”

Balerion holds a hand up, closed save for his index finger. Looks at Meleys, then at Aemma, then at Meleys again. “You know eachother?”

“We’ve met on occasion,” Aemma says with a small smile. She feels a little smug at his confusion. “I’ve been to the Crossroads before. With Meleys.”

“Oh,” Balerion says, and pouts a little.

It’s cute.

“Don’t be a baby,” Meleys chides, and turns to Aemma. “Now, I assume you’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future?”

“I—yes. Yes, I intend to.”

“Good, good. You’ll have a place by the end of the day.”

Quick, Aemma muses. But this is no longer the mortal world governed by the mortal rules.

“What would you like?”

“Somewhere pretty high up,” she says. Fidgets with her sleeves a little. “And with a garden. And small enough I can reasonably take care of it myself.”

“No servants, even at the start?”

Aemma remembers their pitying eyes and honeyed words, their blatant disobedience in favor of Viserys, even though she was their master. She was the queen.

“No,” she says firmly. “No I don’t need help, unless—”

“Unless?”

Aemma freezes. What was she about to say?

She looks around, confused. She’s missing something. She’s forgetting something.

“Aemma? What’s wrong?” Balerion asks, and she looks at him. God of Death. Because she’s dead. Because she died, and she died—

“Did the child survive?” she asks, and her voice sounds distant. There’s a feeling of foreboding creeping up on her the longer she looks at the gods. Balerion, especially. Aemma really doesn’t like his expression, because there’s really only one way to interpret it.

“Aemma—” Meleys says gently, reaching out.

“No,” Balerion tells her, curt and honest.

“Balerion!” Meleys snaps. “That’s too much!”

“She deserves to know. Better now than later!”

“That’s cruel!”

Aemma giggles, and it sounds distant and hysterical to her. “It’s kinder than I’ve been afforded before,” she tells Meleys, because it’s the truth. Others would beat around the bush constantly and tire her out. Try to make her believe things that weren’t true, run circles around her. Balerion’s honesty, though harsh, was welcome.

She sits down on the grass, a fair bit more forcefully than she intended to as her legs give way and fold under her, knees suddenly made of cotton. The bitter taste is back in full force, and it’s all she feels, rather than a small nagging feeling at the back of her throat.

More than that, however, her chest burns from within. It’s actually glowing, an angry orange shining through her ribs and skin, beating in tandem with her heart.

“I died for nothing,” she says, and doesn’t quite recognize her voice, and when she looks at her hands, now again fading, for a moment they don’t look like her hands at all. “He killed me in the worst way, he ordered me cut open, he who said he loved me—and it was for nothing?!”

She screams. Fuck propriety, fuck the rules. Fuck that ladies of her station don’t curse and scream. Fuck the world that used and abused her, and when she was no longer useful, threw her away like yesterday’s garbage. Fuck Viserys, most of all, that selfish, cruel, wicked creature that ruined her for his own enjoyment and greed, claiming to love her every step he pushed her closer towards her doom.

She can’t hear anything past her heartbeat and breath. She can’t see past the blur. She thinks there’s a rustle as something looms over her, a displacement of grass, warm hands around hers—

Red eyes, slit-pupiled and sinisterly bright, so full of concern.

When he pulls her into his chest, she goes without resistance. Digs her fingers into the silk robe, presses her eyes against the crook of his neck, and just—wails, and wails, until the bitterness on her tongue is a bit easier to bear, and she feels a little more real. Until grief gives way to fury, until the bitterness at the back of her throat becomes nigh-unbearable fire again.

And she seethes.

“If it’s any consolation,” Balerion says somewhere above her, close, voice reverberating through the chest she still clings to like a lifeline, “Viserys will die a slow and painful death, rotting from inside, having achieved nothing and having ruined almost everything.”

It sounds like a promise and a fact both at once. It sounds like a tiny bit of justice.

“Good,” Aemma spits out. “It’s what he deserves. For me, and for all my children.”

○

“Thank you for telling me,” she tells him later, when she’s calmed down a little more. Meleys has gone back to her cottage to bring them some tea and refreshments, leaving them alone to gather their bearings. Aemma doesn’t even have the energy to care that she’s still effectively in Balerion’s lap, glued to his chest. She needs that comfort, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Hurtful or no, you should know.”

“But… If the child died, where are they?” she asks as Balerion shifts, putting her back on the grass. Even as he sits shoulder-to-shoulder with her, she misses the touch. It made her feel more solid.

“Returned to Soulstream.”

“Soulstream?”

He points up, to the aurora radiating above them. “It’s life energy flowing through the worlds. All souls come from it, and all souls eventually return to it.”

“But I’m here.”

“And here you’ll stay, until you’re ready to go.”

“How long?”

“It varies between souls. Your child isn’t here, because newborns don’t have souls.”

Aemma blinks. “What?”

“Everyone is born with a potential to have a soul,” he says and raises his hand. A tendril of green energy curls around his fingers, forms into a ball. Flickers, and darts off up, into the aurora. “But not an actual soul. This needs forming of self-awareness, and then needs to be settled with self-actualization. Baseline is, the more of a person you are, the more of a soul you have. Your soul is, effectively, everything that makes you, you, that isn’t your physical body. Which is why some souls have enough staying power for millenia, and some fade after a few years. But souls are also a form of energy, so the body and mind both need to be strong enough to handle proper formation of one. Typically around six to eight years of age. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later—sometimes never.”

“But my child… They didn’t suffer, did they?”

“No.”

“Then I’m glad for that, at least.”

○

“You know, in retrospect, you were incredibly lucky Lyra’s body actually survived through her awakening,” Meleys says conversationally as she steps back into the living area. Aemma is fast asleep in the guest room behind, recovering after the revelations.

“You heard us talking about souls, I take it,” Balerion sighs.

“Yes. If she weren’t a homunculus, she’d be dead.”

“Uh. Thanks… For making her extra durable? I guess?”

Meleys chuckles. “You’re welcome. Was seven years your limit?”

“Yes. You know well how limited our powers in the mortal realm are. Her true soul was bleeding in from the very start. Without my interference, the dam would have broken in half the time—”

“Seven is an ominous number,” Meleys says, and Balerion closes his mouth with a click, eyes narrow.

“Do you think it’s an omen, then? Of—that thing?”

“I hope not. But its awakening approaches more rapidly than ever, and doom with it.”

Balerion bites his lip, puts a hand on his chest, over his heart. Feels the steady thrum under his fingers, staccato almost natural enough to fool him into thinking there’s a heart there. He knows better than to fall for it. “We won’t fail this time,” he hisses, clenches his hand into a fist, the silk of his robes with it. “I swear. The future the Waytree showed us—It will not come to pass. I won’t let it.”

“You already haven’t,” Meleys says gently, and takes his hand into her own. Unfurls his fingers, whispers away the black blood and the wounds he dug with his nails. “Your and Shrykos’ insane plan is working. Have more faith in Lyra. She’s one driven creature of chaos, especially now, with that wicked dragon of hers. She will fulfill her mission splendidly, I know it. And even still, this isn’t just your disaster to stop. We’re all here, all fourteen of us, all that is left, exactly for that. None of us stands alone.”

Balerion chuckles, and it sounds a little wet. “Thank you. For looking out for me. For us. You don’t have to. Mother is—”

“Pah, I know! But even if I didn’t promise her to take care of you kids, I still would. It’s what I do.”

Balerion smiles. There’s comfort in that; that despite everything, despite all they’ve been through, Meleys remains the same. Even though she lost more than most, she still finds it in her to hold her head up high, and to lift others up.

And he? He failed to even die properly.

But if they managed to turn the tide, even his failure would have served them. He’d hold onto that hope.

○

Aemma isn’t sure what possessed her to ask for her new dwelling to look like Meleys’ courtyard the very last moment she could, but she did, and so it now stood before her; an imposing wall with blue shingled roof and a gate in the middle, pale blue wood with Arryn crest on the double door and chimes hanging from the supports.

She thought the gods would be offended for her not including targaryen sigils anywhere, but nobody seemed to mind, or even remark about it.

It’s smaller than Meleys’, of course, as per her wishes. The courtyard is accessible immediately behind the gate, fresh soil to be worked. The main building is adjacent to the gate, flanked by two smaller ones on either side. It’s pretty small; enough for one person to reasonably manage, though not so small that few guests would overcrowd it.

Rural Valyrian Courtyard, Meleys has called it. After the Doom, Valyrians from rural areas fled to Yi Ti, taking the style with them, and it’s been used there since, in common houses and grand estates.

She can barely see Waytree from here. It’s for the best.

“Do you like it?” Meleys asks as she comes to a stop next to her.

“Yes,” Aemma says, taking a deep breath. This is her home now.

Hers.

Not her fathers, not her husbands, not nobody else’s—her own, with which she can do whatever she pleases, free of rules she doesn’t herself make and influence of others she doesn’t welcome.

She’ll need a moment for it to skink in.

“Are you certain you don’t want an attendant for the first few weeks?” Balerion asks as he comes to a stop next to her. “You’re making a pretty big shift from being waited on hand and foot to living completely alone.”

“I’m certain,” Aemma insists. “I want to try, at least. I’ll tell you if I can’t make it. But I’m healthy now, and I’m sure I can keep myself fed and clothed in a clean home by myself.”

Because her servants always answered to everyone but her. Because she was never strong enough to do anything for herself, stuck between being pregnant and recovering from it.

“I will leave you to it,” Meleys says, her duty done.

“Yes, thank you so much!”

“Don’t mention it. And you should go rest.”

She’s right, of course. Despite her nap, Aemma still feels rather exhausted under all that excitement. She shakes her head.

“Soon.”

“If you’d rather rest, I can come tomorrow,” Balerion says as they both watch Meleys leave.

“I’d love to rest, but I’d like to learn more about this place,” she says. “I, uh… I’d offer you tea, but I’m… I’ve never made any.”

“I can teach you,” he says with a small smile.

“Wouldn’t it be a bother?”

“Not at all! I’m not a master at it, but I know my way around a kettle at least.”

“Then if you’d be so kind.”

○

They sit in the kitchen with their tea and some snacks from the thankfully-stocked pantry.

“What is the Waytree?”

Balerion sighs. “Starting with the heavy ones, huh?”

“When I looked at it, it felt like… Like it was burning my very mind to ashes. Why is it here? Is it dangerous?”

“Yes, it does that,” he says and shakes his head. “It’s been here forever. It predates us. Its roots keep the isles afloat, and its branches stretch endlessly into the sky, each reaching for a different future, and its leaves anchor and sift through the Soulstream. We… Ah, we don’t really understand it. It’s been here before us, and it will be here long after we’re gone.”

Aemma mulls it over for a moment. “So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Just that it’s ancient and powerful, and either responsible for the cycle of life of the world, or feeding on it. It’s a coin toss, really.”

“That’s… Not reassuring.”

Balerion shrugs. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about it. We don't even know how to begin describing it. Once, Tyraxes tried to channel its power. It… Changed her.”

“The Flower Maiden?”

“Yes. She—has gone completely insane. Hungry, unpredictable, violent. Grew a third eye on her forehead, and I still can’t decide if she’s creepier in a haze, or when lucid. But she’s the only one who can decipher the Waytree to any degree.”

“And what needs deciphering there?”

“Possibilities,” he says. “Future, and how to alter it.”

Aemma looks at him. “And have you?”

He nods. “For the first time, we succeeded. Tyraxes said the futures she’s been seeing these days are vastly different than before. Typically, very little changed no matter what we did.”

“And… What exactly did you do?”

Balerion smiles, half-terse and half-mischievous. “Brought a soul from another world into this one.”

“I—What? How??”

“It’s really simple,” he says. “We, Shrykos and I, I mean, opened a pathway to another world, and let a soul from there come here. Since it came from a fundamentally Other place, it didn’t join and assimilate into the Soulstream, which allowed us to instead put it into a new body from the get-go.”

“But you said that everyone forms their own soul. Wouldn’t—If you put another soul into somebody, wouldn’t that cause problems?”

“If they had a soul, yes,” he agrees. “But it’s fairly common that when a woman conceives, the child is not granted any soul energy at all. In that case, she’ll simply miscarry before she even knows she’s pregnant, and nobody is any wiser. We used one such case to house our otherworldly soul, so that this is the only soul in the body.”

“If the soul is fully formed, how does that work then?”

“Well, in this case, and in this case only because we’ve done it exactly once, the soul lay dormant with some slight bleeding of memories until it awoke, all memories of past life recovered. Sadly due to the nature of the soul, that includes the way they died in perfect clarity.”

Aemma shudders. She barely remembers flashes and that’s bad enough.

“Who is it?” she asks, curious. “I mean—You don’t have to tell me if it’s a secret, or something!”

“It’s not, not really,” Balerion shrugs. “Everybody here knows. It’s Daelyra Targaryen.”

Lyra? Daemon’s Lyra?

This—

“You said she remembered her past life?”

“Yes.”

“At… Around seven years old?”

“Yes…?”

“This… Explains a lot about her, actually. How are you planning to have her alter the future?”

“Just existing, really.”

“But past that. What is she here for?”

Balerion shifts, a little uncomfortable. “We need her to prevent the mass-dying of dragons.”

“Hm… Makes sense,” she says, and decides not to press, even though his reaction begs to ask many more questions.

She yawns. It startles her, and she covers her mouth quickly. Balerion chuckles.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” he says, and finishes his tea in one big gulp. “We will have plenty of time to talk later once you’ve settled properly. How do you find afterlife so far?”

“Very nice,” Aemma says. “Everyone is friendly and I’m not in pain, or in much danger. I don’t have to see people I don’t want to see… And I don’t have to follow strict etiquette. And uh… I meant to say it earlier, but I apologize for crying on your silk robes earlier.”

Balerion pats his chest and chuckles. “Don’t worry about it! You needed help, and that’s that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What do you plan to do now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t. You answered my questions after all,” Aemma says, “For now, I should think I would enjoy some solitude. Learn to live, by myself, for myself. Find some interests that are my own. But firstly, go to sleep.”

“Very reasonable.”

“Of course, you’re most welcome to visit whenever you’d like!” she says hastily, and her cheeks color a bit. “Should you like that, of course. And—And Meleys, too,” she adds a bit lamely.

Balerion chuckles again. “I will visit soon, don’t worry. I enjoyed our conversation, and your company. But for now, you really look like you could use some sleep.”

“I did too. And yes, I will, don’t worry. Thank you again, for… Everything. Leading me here, and—”

“Don’t mention it.”

Aemma doesn’t, she just smiles at him instead. It might be a little too wide a smile to be polite, but it’s real and she thinks that’s what matters the most.

She waves after him as he retreats, and he waves back, and then he’s gone. Aemma tries to not miss his company too much.

Chapter Text

Daemon kills Crabfeeder, as a treat. Just because, really; Viserys doesn’t send any letters about sending reinforcements that send him into a rage, because between three dragons and Dornish allies, Daemon and Corlys are doing fine. More than fine, even. And the last time Viserys tried to interfere more significantly, Lyra did what she did and he didn’t seem to be over it even years after, still reeling from the fact that real world did not, in fact, work the way he expected it to. Of course, Lyra held no illusions that the issue actually taught Viserys anything, but his current careful distance was appreciated, whether it stemmed from genuine understanding or confusion over people not reacting exactly the way he wanted them to.

Still, when Daemon comes back covered head-to-toe in blood infected with grayscale, Lyra all but throws him in a vat of near-boiling soapy water and doesn’t let him out until she deems him acceptably clean of the infected blood, and then has his wounds and nicks disinfected for good measure.

Thanks to their dragon blood, Targaryens were less prone to getting sick than regular people and more prone to recover quickly, but Daemon’s aunt Maegelle died two years before Lyra was born of this very affliction, and Lyra wasn’t taking any chances if she could help it. And sure, Maegelle didn’t have a dragon boosting her physical health through the bond, but Maegelle also caught the disease through simply caring for the sick; Daemon likely got infected blood in open wounds, and with a line this direct Lyra was taking no chances. Even if he bitched about the soap and pure alcohol stinging.

She even saves his hair form the blood and grime taking to staining the white all too eagerly, and sure some of it is beyond saving and has to go, but more than enough is left to weave into Valyrian braids, gold clasps and whalebone pins Lyra carved herself included.

It’s the victory one, and Daemon preens. Both for what it signifies, and because Lyra can braid it exactly the way it’s supposed to be. But then again, she learned from the best.

(Ancalagon liked his diet whale-rich, and Lyra oftentimes had more whalebone than she knew what to do with; she wore no corsets or petticoats, and even if she did, she could only get so many made before it got ridiculous. Instead, she sold the whalebone to Corlys for mostly-cheap, as people on Driftmark could always use some. She liked having pocket money, and the way Corlys looked at her warily impressed was equal parts amusing and insulting. Was the bar really so low?)

But all good things have to come to an end eventually, and the War for the Stepstones does too, a little over three years early. Not with Daemon’s return upon the news of his wife’s death, but with the Triarchy being chased out by the combined might of the Velaryon and Dornish fleets and three grown dragons.

Rhea Royce isn’t even dead, and now that the divorce has taken effect Lyra hopes she lives a good, long life. She has no hard feelings for the woman; she just doesn’t want to see her again, and she knows her sentiments are much returned.

Or maybe she was just used to her first set of parents being openly disdainful of her instead of politely disinterested unless startled. The kind where she actively cut contact the moment she no longer depended on them for basic survival.

○

King’s Landing stinks as it stank when she first arrived here years ago for Viserys’ coronation, with rot of garbage and human waste alike. It’s horrid, and even with Jaehaerys’ work on the waterways they only ever benefitted the rich and privileged in the upper town, leaving the smallfolk to wade in their own filth because the Conqueror couldn’t have gotten a functioning city built to save his life, and his sons were certainly more interested in being an utter failure and a tyrannical fuckup respectively.

They land just outside the city, on the plains, Ancalagon and Caraxes both. Ancalagon would neither fit in the Dragonpit—and Lyra would never make him go there besides, to be chained in a cell too-small even for a dragon half his size instead of being able to at least burrow his own hole in a cliffside somewhere—nor would Lyra want him in such close proximity to other dragons, all of them smaller than him. That was just inviting trouble. Daemon doesn’t want to leave her to wander the city by herself, of course, and there’s little issue leaving Caraxes outside as well. He and Ancalagon at least won’t try to kill each other. They’ll likely roost somewhere on the cliff-face of Blackwater Bay, under the Red Keep.

By the time they get off their dragons and get all their things off their dragons, and it takes several trips on both ends, there’s a simple carriage waiting for them at the gate, flanked by Gold Cloaks. She sees Harwin first, with a well-groomed beard doing nothing to hide his grin, and the last of the baby fat gone since she last seen him. He’s filled out, she can see, lanky gait gone. Corren is a little harder to spot, his ginger mop hidden under the guard helmet, but she knows what to look for. The rest of them are less-familiar faces but she recognizes them still as having seen them in passing at least, and Daemon greets each like an old friend, with a clap on the back and by name.

He made them what they are now, and they are loyal to him even now. Will be still, nearly twenty years from now when Viserys’ short-sighted decisions catch up to everyone but him after he dies and leaves an utter clusterfuck of a succession crisis in his wake that would have been so easy to fix for him either which way, if he wasn’t a fool blinded to reality by the world he wanted to see.

Lyra can already feel the noose tightening around her neck, and it’s shaped an awful lot like her uncle’s hands.

○

They get to Red Keep without all that much fanfare past the excitement Ancalagon’s presence generates, and Daemon doesn’t do the whole song and dance with swearing allegiance to Viserys. He’s no King of the Narrow Sea this time around, and he’s not looking for his brother’s approval that much either. Not anymore, at least.

They reconcile anyway, a hug, a kiss to the cheek, a promise of good behaviour that everyone but Viserys knows Daemon won’t keep for long.

His wilful ignorance is a comfortable one sometimes but it makes Lyra seethe all the same, because this very wilful ignorance that serves them well right now is one of the major causes of the Dance less than twenty years from now.

If only he gave enough a shit to raise Rhaenyra’s popularity; if only he had her educated to rule; if only he put his foot down in the matter of securing a politically useful marriage for her, or at the very least a husband that would somewhat uphold her. If only he opened his fucking eyes and did something, anything , instead of saying a thing and closing his eyes pretending that made it real, no actual elbow grease necessary.

If only she could tell Viserys about the future, if only she could steer him towards a better ending without the very real and very terrifying risk of everything going so much worse through his meddling, and causing new disasters she couldn’t see and prepare for.

If only, if only, if only.

The only thing she can trust Viserys to do is to make everything worse, as always. He has claimed to love Aemma after all, and he had her butchered alive anyway. He doesn’t give half a shit about Alicent in comparison, or her children, and Lyra is certainly not willing to risk whatever Viserys would do with the knowledge she has and his absolute conviction that Rhaenyra will be queen just because he says so, without actually preparing her to rule.

(This can only end in disaster. Even if she assumes rule peacefully, she won’t know what to do if nobody teaches her. And nobody can teach her how to rule the country except the gods-damned king.)

She gives her best close-lipped smile as she claps and congratulates her king of an uncle and his wayward brother of her father on their reconciliation, though she doesn’t mean a word of it.

They only just got back, after all. Give them a few months before they make themselves unpalatable enough to Viserys’ sensibilities to have to leave. Unless Viserys does something so supremely stupid that they have to hoof it before then, of course.

He’s bound to do something stupid enough to piss them off himself sometime; he always does. But until then she smiles and curtsies and pointedly ignores the jabs the courtiers make about her wearing pants and looking like a boy, as if it’s a moral failing on Daemon’s part and she didn’t just spend several years in a warzone where court-appropriate dresses were a little hard to come by.

○

Alicent is awkward when they meet in person; a little startled, a little worried, and barely twenty this year. Thinner, her hair duller and her eyes have aged at least twenty years in the span of the past six; she doesn’t look particularly healthy, though she doesn’t look unhealthy either. There’s little happiness in those aged eyes, and her fingers are scabbed over in places, clearly picked at.

They run into each other half by chance and half by design on the hallway. Lyra has been on her way to do just that.

It’s a little startling to realize that they’re on eye-level now, though, because Lyra is thirteen and in the middle of a growth spurt that’s doing numbers on her bones and rapidly shrinking her clothing selection, and Alicent is now an adult done growing.

Before she left, after Aemma’s death, they were at best passing associates; her cousin’s best friend, exchanging greetings when they ran into each other as was polite, and little else, and Lyra barely reached Alicent’s bony elbows with the top of her head.

“Hi,” Lyra says with a small wave.

“Hello,” Alicent says and takes a breath, straightens her spine, folds her hands daintily in front; a posture more befitting of queen. It suits her. “I see you have returned from Stepstones. It gladdens me to see you well.”

Lyra smiles. “I am glad to see you as well,” she says. “Though you do look tired.”

Alicent sighs, a little self-consciously. “I… Am, somewhat,” she admits. “It is, they tell me, the lot of all mothers of young babes. Scarcely time to rest.”

There’s something in her voice, a tinge of displeasure at having young babes at all, that Lyra catches before it’s gone. She can’t blame Alicent for it at all, even if she knows this resentment will cause issues for her children down the line, too; a vicious cycle of abuse and neglect, begotten from a rape of a child.

No wonder Alicent’s children would turn out fucked up if she’s already like this, and between Viserys who can’t give half a fuck and Otto who does nothing but scheme for power and Rhaenyra who refuses to understand, she doesn’t really have anybody.

“I can’t tell, I’ve not been around small children… At all, really,” Lyra says, a little awkwardly. “They’re hardly the company I keep.”

“You will eventually,” Alicent says with a small smile. “They are tiring, but they are a blessing.”

She’s clearly trying to sell it to Lyra now, as she’s been taught by the society to. To soften the blow to her friend, no doubt; it comes from a kind place.

Still, Lyra wants to say that it’s beyond unlikely to happen. Her manufactured homunculus body is incapable of growing life, after all. Not without copious amounts of blood magic, and only once in its entire lifetime.

Instead she just shrugs. “We shall see,” she says. “First I’ll need to find someone crazy enough to withstand both myself and my father, and comely enough so that my father doesn’t cut him down for sport.”

Alicent gives a startled giggle. “Oh dear. He would, wouldn’t he?”

“He killed for far less.”

Alicent opens her mouth to say something, but they’re interrupted by a maid. Alicent, apparently, was on her way to the nursery; when Lyra held her up, the maids got worried, and came to fetch her.

Lyra catches the minute grimace Alicent makes. Split-second decision later, she’s opening her mouth.

“I can go with you, if you don’t mind,” she says quickly. “I’ve not yet met my younger cousins, after all.”

Alicent smiles. “In that case, let us hurry.”

○

It’s only when Lyra enters the nursery that she realizes she may have miscalculated a little.

Or a lot, actually.

Truth is, Lyra was never overly good with children, or all that comfortable with them, in either life. And so, when tiny Helaena in a puffy yellow dress toddles to her and latches onto her leg with zero warning, all Lyra really knows to do is freeze up, and look around panicked for help.

Alicent, some friend she is, laughs at her and makes no move to help at all, whatever sort of help Lyra hopes for; unlatch the toddler, ideally. Because those things are loud, and slobbery, and fragile , and she has no idea what to do.

Helaena reaches her grubby arms up and hops a little against her leg, and for a moment all Lyra does is just stare. The toddler is entirely undeterred, though; and eventually, slowly and carefully, Lyra bends down, puts her hands under Helaena’s arms, picks up the child, and examines the creature.

She’s not very heavy, for how chubby she looks, but she already has a worrying number of toddler-sharp teeth she’s undoubtedly plotting to put on nearest unidentified object, which just so happens to be Lyra herself right now. Helaena is certainly already making grabby hands at Lyra’s braids, barred from painful tugs by the distance alone.

“That is new,” Alicent says, amazement in her voice.

“What is?” Lyra asks, momentarily distracted. Helaena uses the momentary distraction as Lyra bends her elbows and, finally able to reach, grabs one of her braids and tugs on it as hard as a toddler can. “Fucking ow—! Ow, no, bad toddler, let go—”

Alicent lets out a startled giggle as Lyra grabs under Helaena’s legs with one hand for support and tries to unlatch the grabby hands finger by finger from her braids with the other, with only some success.

“Helaena hates being touched,” Alicent admits. “Will more often than not cry when approached at all. Certainly, she has never approached anyone herself before, not to my knowledge.”

Lyra looks at the giggling menace and narrows her eyes a little. Helaena only beams in answer, violet eyes twinkling, as if grabbing a scowling teenager by the hair is the best thing ever.

For a toddler, it might just be.

“Skill issue,” Lyra says and brings Helaena to her chest, hoisting her up and putting one hand on her back for support, like she does with Snickerdoodle. It doesn’t turn on any waterworks, so she figures it is as good a method as any.

Still, she’d much rather be holding an actual cat right now. A cat wouldn’t hold her hair hostage. Maybe gnaw on it, but not try to rip braids out of her skull.

“Skill—what?”

Lyra only grins at Alicent’s questioning look.

They talk some more after that, about everything and nothing and benign fun little things, and it’s not bad; except Alicent lulls Lyra into a false sense of security, and next thing Lyra knows more small children are being put in her immediate vicinity.

And Aemond, though he has less teeth than Helaena, is significantly keener on using them, much to Aegon’s unrestrained giggles as Lyra yelps and locks her elbow in place as she fights the urge to swing her arm and shake the cause of hurt off it very, very hard.

Getting him off, when he clearly means to bite to blood and refuses to latch off, is more difficult than it should be. Snickerdoodle would never be this problematic.

She takes everything back; she hates it here.

○

Daemon finds them eventually, sometime after. Alicent is serenely embroidering a shirt for Aegon using a moment of peace, and Lyra covered in sleeping toddlers who couldn’t care less at how she stiffened whenever a small human appeared within five feet of her and showed any interest in her, and tugged at her braids, and bit her hands for sport.

At least she managed to put her braids up in a bun, out of reach for too-curious pudgy hands, but soon enough had to resign herself to be climbed, slobbered on, thrice bitten, and eventually napped on by two of three of them when the spawns tired themselves out after using as a glorified jungle gym. She’s not sure if they’re actually asleep or just resting before the next round of chaos, but she takes her peace where she can get it.

She can’t feel her legs, but at least all she has to do now is sit still instead of minding where each spawn is, what it is doing, and if it’s not eating something it really shouldn’t.

Like her hair. Or her hands. Or her shirt. Or the legs of the chair Alicent is sitting on. Aemond made it rather clear he has energy to spare unlike his elders.

Daemon is fair game the moment he enters, too. Fairest game of all, perhaps, as far as Aemond is concerned. He has no fear and teeth to sharpen, and his uncle’s leather boots apparently look tastier than his mother’s chair.

Daemon is having none of this of course. He scoops the toddler up in a well-practiced move, heedless of the way it makes Alicent tense, and looks him in the eyes.

“You sure do remind me of someone, nephew, though your eyes are far brighter,” he muses, eyes sliding to Lyra. Aemond gives him a grin; given that it’s the first time he sees his uncle, it’s a pretty good reaction. Lyra meanwhile bristles.

“I did not bite everything my teeth could reach!”

“No, but you loved to cause trouble,” Daemon says, putting the toddler in the crook of his arm and against his chest comfortably, effortlessly instinctual. Aemond settles almost instantly, as comfortable as one gets. “Not that much has changed since then.”

“I was unaware the Rogue Prince had such a way with children,” Alicent says, a little strained. Daemon looks at her, then back down at Aemond.

“It’s not hard,” he says. “You just pick them up and keep them interested. It worked before, why not now?”

Lyra can almost hear what Alicent wants to say in response to that.

“I suppose it is a gift not all men possess ,” Alicent says instead, and it’s close enough.

“It’s not a gift, it’s a skill,” Deamon says, focused on his mesmerized nephew and either none-the-wiser or wilfully ignoring of the jab hanging between them directed at his brother. “Some men are simply not inclined to learning the simplest of skills.”

Nevermind, he got it. Him talking shit about Viserys in court-speak is a new one, though.

He gives a startled Alicent a cheeky smirk and proceeds to entertain Aemond without making a single move to free Lyra of the rest of the toddlers.

What a menace, that father of hers.

“I thought you’d have gone to spent some time with Rhaenyra,” Alicent says eventually, carefully.

“She’s not my only niece,” Daemon says, half-dismissive. “And young women tend to be cantankerous in ways I’m in no mood to entertain for long besides. Not this soon off the road, anyway.”

“That might well be me in a few years, too,” Lyra reminds him.

“I have my doubts,” Daemon says. “And even if, you’re mine. I made you and I named you, and now you're my responsibility. Rhaenyra isn't.”

“If you say so.”

Alicent looks between them wistfully, with a twinge of jealousy she can't quite hide. She feels it on both fronts, Lyra can tell, as both a daughter of a father who put his greed over her wellbeing, and the wife of an absent, deeply mediocre man hung up on a ghost of the woman he murdered, forcing children upon her but never truly taking responsibility.

What-if s can be an insidious game.

But at least Alicent relaxes and returns to her embroidery, only glancing at them every so often, and less surprised each time.

○

With Lyra as a buffer, Daemon is much more receptive to his newest niblings. He likes them, she thinks. With time, he learns to visit them just by himself, without following her to the nursery. Alicent relaxes in his presence, too.

He’s good with children, after all. Engages them easily, knows what he’s doing. He managed to raise Lyra successfully and in some ways she was worse than a normal toddler, living with a half-remembered life constantly hanging over her that her developing child lizard brain couldn’t compute.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Aegon who latches onto him, almost desperately. It might just be the first time he has something remotely resembling a father figure; and a child of four starts to notice the cracks of a broken home in full. Lyra would know. She had, in her first life.

Helaena clings to Lyra mostly, and Lyra notices all the more how uncomfortable the girl is with literally everybody else. She’ll cry, and run, and if desperate enough, even bite a particularly dedicated nursemaid. Poor woman’s just trying to do her job.

Daemon comes a close enough tolerable second to be of use in an emergency at least, but he's on thin ice. Alicent is barely tolerated, even with Lyra mediating. Lyra isn't exactly sure why it's like this.

Aemond meanwhile is happy to hog his mother’s attention, now that his siblings consistently target other people, and Alicent herself is quite content with this arrangement. For the first time in forever she’s getting actual help with her children; nannies and nursemaids try their best, but they’re too human to properly care for those children in the end. Their bodies are too cold, they don’t purr, they don’t get the little lizard-adjacent tells that Targaryens do by instinct alone, and in the absence of Viserys, Daemon simply steps in. It's easy for him.

They calm down, Alicent claims, almost overnight. It’s as if something settles in them, now that they no longer feel so alone and disassociated among the non magical people without the first clue on what to do. It does weird Alicent out, though. It’s more like she tolerates Daemon’s presence than anything, especially when he purrs and chirps at them, and they respond in kind.

It’s difficult for Alicent to wrap her head around her children not being truly human, and needing different care than that, even if she means well. Forcing them into human boxes will never do anything but backfire, potentially horribly, and it’s giving Lyra flashbacks to her first life and her parents never putting any effort into understanding her own neurodivergent struggles and sending her into the world with a nice box of issues and trauma that not even reincarnation could fix because they refused to read a diagnosis, let alone understand it.

She’s better, though. Because she gets it, and even if Daemon doesn’t, he tries his best to be accommodating. Being magic elf-coded lizardpeople also helps. Is this why neurodivergent people were compared to fey in ye olden times? Because being weird sure is easier if your immediate family is just like you, and it weirds others out.

The children like music, too. Lyra has to keep her guitar from getting trampled on, but once she starts playing, they sit and listen and don't cause her much trouble.

Same can’t be said about poor Snickerdoodle. Lyra brings the cat to the nursery exactly once, and he spends most of his stay on the top of the wardrobe after Aemond tries to eat his tail.

The one person who is very unhappy with the whole situation is of course Rhaenyra. She expected Daemon to join her in complaining about her siblings, and instead, he shuts it down rather quickly. Reminds her that Alicent didn’t want to marry her father, and her siblings didn’t choose to be born, and that she should be kinder to them. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t take kindly to it; Daemon doesn’t seem to care.

She gives up her sulking after a week when Daemon continues to not care. Huffs and puffs still, but seemingly accepts that she can’t hog her uncle’s attention. Even starts to come to see her siblings from time to time, and to her horror realizes they’re not that bad.

Lyra meanwhile follows Snickerdoodle’s example, and begins to climb out onto the roof whenever she wants a moment of peace. Past some startled looks, it works very well.

○

Daemon takes them flying, one by one. Alicent tries to disagree, but he insists it’s tradition, backed by just about everyone. Even Viserys comes out of the woodwork to support the idea. After all, he can’t because Balerion is dead, Rhaenyra is too young with a still-young dragon (a bullshit excuse nobody buys, Syrax is at a point where she can fly two) and Alicent never had a dragon to begin with, so it just makes sense. Daemon is the next best thing.

Lyra too it turns out when Helaena decides that today is the day she doesn’t like Daemon after all. It takes some back-and-forth, but Ancalagon graciously allows a passenger other than Snickerdoodle in the end. Once.

It’s a hit, especially with Aegon. He starts hunting down Daemon to demand dragon rides daily after that. It’s funny to see a toddler marching towards a spooked Daemon. Defeated by a child quarter his size, again.

○

It's never that Alicent seeks out Daemon's company in any capacity, so it makes it all the more confusing the one time she does.

“Thank you,” is what she tells him. “For all your help. You needn't have to.”

“But I did need to,” Daemon says. “If not me, then who?”

Her face does this funny thing where it freezes somewhere between anger and shame as she bites down on an agreement. They both know the kind of a man Viserys is.

“You need to learn to take care of them,” Daemon declares eventually and she startles. “Properly, I mean. I won't be here forever, neither will Lyra, and if you try to raise them like any other human child, all you'll have will be heartache and unstable, broken adults.”

Alicent picks at her fingers, face set in a frown. “Do you mean that I am a bad mother?” she asks eventually.

“No, just human. And that is simply not what they need. Can't make a bird out of a fish, or a fish out of a bird.”

“Do you detest my humanness then, then?”

“It's not a personal attack, goodsister. Just the truth,” Daemon smiles wryly. “Don't try to put a dragon into a human mold and we'll get along just fine.”

○

Corlys arrives eventually, too, with Laenor. They needed some more time, between Corlys making the best of the victory and not having a dragon, but they're there. Lyra doesn’t really remember if they did that originally, but without Daemon crowning himself, and with a newfound relationship between Velaryons and Dorne, Corlys is a very welcome guest.

Viserys grovels almost, between that and not having married Laena. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

○

Honestly… Daemon should have known that something like this would’ve happened, and soon.

His stay in King’s Landing was nice. Too nice. Too peaceful. Too unproblematic past the chaos he caused himself for fun.

Then, Viserys calls him to a Small Council meeting, and Daemon can’t fathom why. It’s not somewhere he goes after all of Cunttower’s plots to have him removed from this very room. Part of it has him curious.

He finds Otto there, all smug, and Viserys positively beaming, and Corlys looking—wildly uncomfortable. He winces when his eyes land on Daemon, and that is the precise moment Daemon knows he’s about to hate this meeting equally as much, or more.

He soon finds out why as his curiosity bleeds into confusion bleeds into disbelief and eventually into simmering anger.

It’s a betrothal talk. Viserys’ and Cunttowers newest machination, trying desperately to soothe the relation with Velaryons fuelled by Corlys’ newest Dornish alliance and haphazard attempt at soothing the political quagmire Viserys gleefully ran into by not marrying Laena—

But it’s not Rhaenyra, who is looking for a husband anyway, that Viserys wants to throw at Laenor and call it a fix. No, no—Rhaenyra gets to pick her own future king. No.

It’s Daelyra that he wants to marry to Laenor.

“What,” Daemon says somewhat dumbly, because he, for the life of him, cannot quite compute anything about this decision, starting with the fact that his daughter, his child , is three-and-ten , and ending with the fact that neither he nor she were asked for their input on the situation.

Corlys, too, is looking like he wants to shrink into his chair, and part of Daemon can commiserate. Between the hell Rhaenys would unleash and the hell Lyra would add to it, and Laena no doubt being upset in the middle—

How can Viserys not see it?

“Daelyra and Laenor already have built up a rapport, after all,” Viserys says, hapless fool. “They know and are fond of eachother, and besides Daelyra already bleeds so there’s no need to wait—”

And how the fuck does he know that? Daemon will snap the neck of whichever maid that tattled.

He doesn’t hear the rest of Viserys’ speech as static fills his ears. He sees white, grits his teeth, clenches his fists; something burns in his chest and throat so hot he thinks he could very well breathe fire right now.

Instead, he stands up abruptly, bright eyes zoned on this foolish, foolish creature.

“Brother,” he says as calmly as he can and his voice sounds distant to him through the haze of the fire that swirls in his chest for it, and takes grim satisfaction in the way Viserys flinches. “I suggest you stop with this jest. There’s nothing remotely amusing about it.”

Viserys balks. Gods, please, he can’t be this stupid, he—

“This isn’t a jest, Daemon. Daelyra will be betrothed to Laenor—”

The world goes grey, static in his ears.

He will marry Lady Royce as soon as he comes of age. Married life will calm him down.

Of course, mother.

But he doesn’t—

He abruptly stands up and slams his fists onto the solid slab of wood they have for a table, and it crackles ominously under his fingers and the power of the blow, splintered spiderwebs left in his wake. “Stop. This. Jest. Before I do something you will regret,” Daemon snarls, and there’s nothing at all human in his voice. The kingsguard take a step forward but he doesn’t move, eyes boring into that pathetic foolish wyrm before him. Viserys had gone pale all of a sudden, shivering like a rabbit spotted during a hunt.

“I-I’m your king—” he tries.

“And?” Daemon snaps, because right now, he doesn’t think kings matter much. Just because Baelon, in his uncharacteristically limp-dicked spineless lapse let Alysanne sell Daemon off as she pleased in her senility doesn’t mean Daemon will do the same when his brother threatens his daughter like that.

He knows how that feels, and fourteen forbid he was a father quite as lousy as Baelon. He’d rather die.

He’d rather kill Viserys, really. Lyra wouldn’t even stop him, he knows, because he would be right to kill that wretched, spineless creature—

No.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Repeat until you feel a little less like getting blood on your hands could fix you.

But it could, though—

He shouldn’t commit regicide, and neither should Lyra. It’s rude, apparently. Bad for the realm too, or some unimportant shit like that. He doesn’t see how or why because Viserys is many things but a good king he’s not, but it would upset Lyra that she wasn’t there for it and that’s enough to stop him.

Viserys swallows, fixes his collar, fidgets with his hands nervously, as if aware of the thoughts going through Daemon’s head. Daemon doesn’t move, or even blink. He’s quite good at not blinking, and it makes people nervous the longer it goes on.

“You should,” Viserys says, stops. Swallows thickly. “You should consider it.”

It wasn't even about Laenor’s proclivities; Daemon himself partook in men, perhaps more often than in women. It was about the principle.

“I will,” Daemon tells him, voice devoid of anything. “If—and only if—Lyra drags Laenor before me on her own and in no uncertain terms tells me that this is who she will wed. I don’t give a shit about the political quagmire you waltzed into, and you will not use my child as a tool to get out!”

“Daemon, this isn’t how—”

“Am I understood, my King ?”

There’s an undertone to those words. A growl, a snarl—he’s not sure, but it’s bone-deep and rattling, a flash of sharp teeth, and it makes Viserys snap his mouth shut. Because at the end of the day, they’re both dragons. Dressed in human silks as they may be, playing pretend with human hierarchies—it won’t kill instinct.

And Daemon is done deferring to one quite so toothless.

Daemon is also fairly sure nobody has ever used ‘my king’ as an insult to the king’s face either, but alas, there’s a first time to everything. All the councilmen suddenly decided their hands laid on the table are the most interesting thing in the room, even the Cunttower. Even the Kingsguard are uneasy, shifting from foot to foot like half-spooked horses.

“Yes,” Viserys says, voice a little faint to match the paleness of his face. “I—I believe… That this meeting is adjourned. You made your opinion on the matter quite… Clear.”

“And don’t even think of going behind my back about it,” Daemon feels it prudent to warn. “I doubt you’ll enjoy the consequences.”

“You dare threaten the king—” Cunttower rises up, but snaps his mouth shut when Daemon side-eyes him. Pales, more than he’s already pale.

“I’m not threatening anyone, merely reminding people to be mindful of the consequences of their actions, like you constantly remind me. And I’m protecting my daughter as is my gods-given duty,” he tells the man. “Though I understand that you wouldn’t know anything about that .”

As he turns on his heel and walks out, he doesn’t miss the sharp glint of discomfort in Otto’s eyes. It brings him enough glee to calm some of his anger.

The silence left in the wake of Daemon’s exit is nothing short of ominous. There was a sort of confidence in Viserys and in all his councilmen before this—that Daemon, despite his vices, would never turn against his brother.

Now, through Viserys’ own designs, that certainty is gone.

○

“Your Grace, you cannot let Daemon get away with such display of hostility. It is all the more essential you bring him to heel. I beg you to proceed with the initial plan.”

“I… You’re right, Otto. I made my decision. I ought to see it though.”

○

They go take a nice long flight, after Daemon comes back and tells her. It’s necessary. Caraxes was just about ready to chew his way through the Red Keep to get to Viserys, and the more Lyra listened, the more Ancalagon became a gleeful accomplice.

They’re still rattled by the end of it, but better. So long as Viserys pulls no more stunts.

Which is probably exactly why he pulls another stunt very quickly.

○

Corlys Velaryon, as steeped in the traditions and customs of the realm as he is, with all his pride and greed, is far from blind, and he’s far from stupid. He has also spent several years in close vicinity of Daemon and Daelyra at the Stepstones, and gained an insight that most seem to sorely lack in the face of those two.

And so when Viserys calls him to speak again privately and resumes as if each party agreed to the betrothal, Corlys shuts him down maybe more harshly than intended. Viserys balks at it, at this olive branch he so graciously extended, and Corlys doesn’t budge.

He declines, without any room for discussion even if it will inevitably lead to continued tensions between Velaryons and the crown, and he sends Laenor to tattle.

○

Laenor shivers under her gaze, co carefully blank, with a smile so carefully polite he dreads whatever hides beneath it.

“Thank you,” she says simply, voice carefully even. He swallows thickly.

“What will you do now?” he asks, even though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Her smile sharpens; miniscule but noticeable, and Laenor finds himself flinching.

“Nothing,” she says breezily, but her eyes have darkened to black with rage threatening to overspill under that mockery of calm nothingness that devoured light as if it only ever starved. He doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of rampage her nightmare of a dragon is going on right now; he thinks he can hear it screeching somewhere outside the city, in the skies above the ocean, more than receptive to its rider’s rage and more than eager to act on it.

He’s relieved to see her turn around and leave; no doubt to go to the beast, and rage with it.

He’s glad to be wiser than the king, as the cold claws of danger leave with her.

○

Daemon is restless, and he knows himself that his idea is stupid and dangerous and, in all honesty, wrong, and that he shouldn’t—but he doesn’t think he cares.

He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he expected it would. It hurts him all the same, and it makes him want Viserys to hurt as well. To regret. He wants his brother to taste the same bitterness he’s tasting, to feed him the same medicine Viserys has been trying to feed him.

And if Viserys insists on targeting Daemon’s daughter—well. Daemon can do the same.

He runs into Lyra by what almost feels like chance, but he knows better. She’s still in her riding leathers, the braid he twined himself windswept but holding strong, coiled at the base of her neck.

She looks like a wraith in the candlelight, a ghost come to haunt him for his choices or maybe absolve him of guilt or something in-between, white hair and pale face shining in the darkness, black clothes melding with the shadows, and black eyes looking like bottomless voids full of emotion, reflecting candlelight back in an eerie glow, his own emotions thrown back at him through the warped mirror of his blood. Rage, mostly, but underneath the rage it’s a maelstrom of conflict there, and singularly he can read them fluently, but together he can’t make much sense of them—and by the looks of it, neither can she.

He can relate. He wants to lash out, too, some way, any way. He’s lashing out now, actually.

They stand like that for a while, just looking at each other.

She may stop him, he thinks. He worries. Because she’s the only one who can. If she tells him to not do this, he won’t. If she tells him she forgives Viserys for this transgression, he will forgive.

She takes a deep breath, and her eyes harden as she clenches her fists. Then—

She steps away without a word, away from the light and into the shadow. She looks away.

This is wrong, Daemon thinks. She should be stopping him. She should be telling him not to follow through, because it’s wrong. And she wants to, he realizes. That’s what shining in her eyes. Part of her does, at least, the lone righteous piece left.

But the part blazing hotter and hotter, the bitter anger; it snuffs the reason out. They really are made of the same stuff, in the end, vengeful and capricious and utterly unwilling to let this go. They will both regret it tomorrow when their minds are cleared of this fire, and neither of them cares.

She turns on her heel and leaves on silent feet, and Daemon watches her go as he lets out the breath that he didn’t know he was holding. He takes in another, in and out, plasters a cheeky grin on his face and hopes it looks real enough, and if the swagger to his step looks a little forced, it’s best to not dwell on it.

He has a note and some common clothes to deliver.

○

Cloak and rough spun clothes, a scarf wrapped tightly around her head. A prayer and a toll paid in blood spilled from her own veins, answered by a glint of yellow eyes just outside of the periphery as Morghul lets his shadows cloak her.

Until dawn and not a moment longer ,  the Shadowlord whispers as she lets blood drip down her fingers and into the fire. It’s more than enough she declares as she licks what is left off her fingers and takes a moment to wrap the shallow cut tight with clean linen.

And maybe that’s overkill. And maybe she doesn’t need them, and maybe she wouldn’t have been seen anyway, slithering through the bowels of the keep like a thief in the night with her skill alone—but one can never truly be too careful, and she wants to test her limits, too.

○

He leaves Rhaenyra with her pants down and hair undone in the middle of a brothel where everyone can see her, and leaves. Runs, almost, to Mysaria, grabs her shoulders, shoves a pouch in her hand, heavy with coin.

His skin crawls. His hands feel clammy. He wants to scrub his lips and neck and hands raw and then pour pure alcohol over them for good measure, to make sure they’re clean .

Stick them in a vat of boiling water, even. Maybe that would help.

“Make sure the princess remains unharmed. I want her reputation ruined, nothing more.”

“Of course, my prince.”

He trusts Mysaria’s greed.

He himself goes deeper in Fleabottom, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks—until Lyra, hooded and barely-recognizable in urchin garb save for the familiar gleam in her near-black eyes, materializes at his elbow and slams her hand on his cup.

She’s only a fragment of his wine-and-regret-addled mind, he’s certain. The wraith his guilt chose to show him, shaped like that which he holds most dear.

And then she speaks.

<She’s back in Red Keep.>

<You should be, too,> he slurs but leans onto her shoulder. She’s warm, and too solid for an illusion of what remains of his conscience. The hands she puts on his shoulders are warm, too, fingers digging into his shoulders so hard it hurts. He welcomes the distraction. <It’s dangerous here.>

<It’s more dangerous for you, in your state. You can barely sit up. Come.>

She tugs at his elbow and he goes, blindly following her lead, much too drunk to do more than focus on not falling flat on his face. She leads him through alleys he barely-recognizes when sober, better-versed in the veins cutting the city than he is, especially in the dark, and much less drunk. They stop eventually, she speaks to someone—he thinks he recognizes the voice, deep and friendly, but is tugged along again before he can figure it out. He’s ushered onto a cot and tucked in, manages to get his shoes off before fitful sleep claims him.

○

“Harwin.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it still startles him as he spins, face to face with the shining dark eyes he recognizes; Lyra, sitting on a barrel half-covered by shadows, deeper in the alley, awfully at home in rough-spun street urchin garb with a knife at her belt.

“Seven hells, where did you come from?!”

“Red Keep,” comes the dry yet cheeky answer. “I need your help.”

“I don’t know where Daemon is.”

“I do. Rather, I need you to escort the princess safely back to the Keep.”

“Ah. I. Yes, if you know where she is.”

“I do.”

“Of course, you do. I’m not even going to question why you’re sneaking around alone at night.”

“The less you know the better you sleep. Follow.”

“That wasn’t ominous at all. Aren’t you going to question how I’m not surprised Princess is here?”

“You ran into her earlier.”

“…how do you know that?”

Glint of violet in the candlelight, pupils that look uncomfortably slit and viperlike in the light, starting straight at him. That’s a familiar smirk right there, all smug and Daemon-like. Eerie, in this light.

She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t ask again.

○

Mysaria looks into the creature’s eyes, all the darker for the candlelight yet glowing impossibly bright under the shadows of the hood. She just sent off the princess, upset and cantankerous at being stood up as she was, led away and back to the Keep by a Gold Cloak the girl brought with her.

Then Mysaria is alone with the wraith, and it’s… Far from the way she imagined their first meeting would go.

“Can you make sure Otto Hightower thinks they fucked?” the wraith asks and Mysaria bites at her lower lip. “Just enough implication without outright stating it. Let his mind fill in the blanks.”

“I can try,” she says carefully. The wraith turns to look at her properly, and she shivers. Something moves under the cloak.

“Let me rephrase that,” the wraith says, a hefty bag of coin between its pale fingers. It’s bigger than the one Daemon gave Mysaria a scant minutes agon. The bag is more than enough to buy Mysaria’s loyalty for the night.

The wraith came prepared. Of course she came prepared, ready to speak the language of whores and thieves, dressed like an assassin urchin just after her father ran with his tail between his legs and something disturbed in his eyes.

Maybe it’s this very thing before her now that haunts him.

“I can,” Mysaria amends herself. “And then?”

“The rest will fix itself. Don’t worry about it,” the wraith that is Daelyra Targaryen says in a sing-song voice the notes of which send shivers down Mysaria’s spine and makes her feel cold around her neck, and then the girl slinks back into the shadows she came from leaving only empty space, like she was never there at all.

Mysaria rubs her arms, the bag of coin in her hand the only proof that she didn’t dream it.

She worries about it.

○

“What are you going to do about this?” Harwin asks.

“Sleep.”

“The dawn is already almost upon us. But I meant—” he trails off and gestures at Daemon sprawled on the cot. “He was out with the princess. I ran into them. The king will have questions.”

Lyra sighs, tugs the scarf off her head and two thick braids come loose from under it, falling haplessly on her back. They’re almost blindingly white in contrast with everything; very easily recognizable without the headgear.

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it in the morning. And you—and I mean, all of you,” she leans forward and points at the door where few other freshly-off-duty guardsmen cheekily wave at her, unabashed in their eavesdropping, “don’t throw yourselves under the bu— carriage for us. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“With all due respect m’lady,” Corren says and crosses his arms on his chest. An ugly bruise is blooming on his cheek, no doubt from duty hours. “If all of City Watch says you and Daemon were here all night, then who will speak otherwise?”

Lyra closes her eyes and sighs. “Some are in Cunttower’s pocket.”

“Few. They’ll be persuaded to speak the truth.”

She likes the tone with which he says it. She likes that they will stand with Daemon, the loyalty they still hold for him years later.

But getting them in trouble is not something she wants. It’s a lousy reward for their loyalty.

“Viserys will believe what he’s more comfortable believing. And if Otto believes Daemon to have been the culprit, and feels scorned by you—the Hand can make you all miserable. And he can spin his tales into a believable case.”

“Otto can go fuck himself,” spits out a huge guy, buzzcut and bushy moustache, Lyra somewhat recognizes him—Morsh, she thinks, former bouncer at one of Fleabottom brothels. Wave of agreements follows. “Daemon made us into what we are. He’s the only reason we’re able to do our jobs at all, that we’re no longer just a bunch of idiots with pitchforks and leather jackets!”

The men cheer. Lyra sighs and shakes her head. “I have a better idea,” she says, a half-remembered scene coming back to her, two girls, a tree crying bloody tears, and a lie by omission. “Say he was there, with Rhaenyra. Say you saw them drinking in taverns. Say they went to a brothel.”

A murmur of confusion. Lyra holds a hand up, wags a finger at them.

“And then tell the truth. Tell that he didn’t do it. Moment of clarity or coward’s way out or got distracted by whores, however you want to phrase it.”

“How do you know that?” Morsh asks. Lyra grins.

“Because I was there, stalking them,” she says simply. “Making sure nobody got into actual trouble.”

“She told me to get the princess safely to the castle,” Harwin admits, and turns to her. “Aren’t you a little young to be your father’s protector, though?”

“If I don’t look out for him, who will?” she asks. It causes an uncomfortable beat of silence as they look between each other. She claps her hands. “Anyway, boys, remember! Don’t get in trouble for our sake. We got ourselves into this; we’ll get back out. We always do.”

They filter out after that, shift rotating. Some get in the barracks for some much-deserved sleep, some leave. Corren’s cot is right next to the one Daemon is on right now, and Harwin sits at the foot of it once he’s gotten out of his armour.

“Sorry for taking your bed,” Lyra says. He shakes his head.

“I offered. I’ll figure it out.”

Corren lets out a long-suffering sigh and scoots to the side of his cot, patting the now-free half. “Get on, idiot.”

Harwin looks at him, eyebrow raised. “You just want me because I’m warm.”

“Would you rather sleep on the floor?”

Harwin rolls his eyes and heaves himself to lay down next to Corren. “But if you put your cold feet on my shins, I will kick you o— ogh-fucker !”

Corren, who has clearly just put his feet on Harwin’s shins, snickers and sprawls across his chest. It looks like a somewhat familiar maneuver, and he’s clearly comfortable. “I’m letting you sleep on my cot. Least you can do is spare some warmth in return.”

Harwin grumbles, but neither moves to push Corren off or to get out himself. Lyra giggles.

“Goodnight boys.”

○

“What if he does get banished again?”

“Then I’ll follow.”

“You can’t follow him forever.”

“I will for as long as I’m the only thing he has.”

“Lyra, Harwin.”

“Yes Corren?”

“Go the fuck to sleep instead of philosophizing, would you? Some of us want to rest.”

“Sorry Corren.”

“Goodnight Corren.”

○

Kingsguard comes, finds them—how they find them, Daemon stumbling towards Red Keep, disheveled and bitching about everything every step of the way. The sun’s too bright, the people too loud, the air too dry, and the puddle too wet.

Corren, bless his soul, crawled out of the bed to get him some water before they left, but then crawled right back under the covers, causing Harwin to bitch about cold feet all over again but not budge, and leaving Lyra to drag her father back to the Keep through the morning light.

What birds are out there chirping piss her off too as she does. Who let them be this chirpy this early even.

It’s Willis Fell who first sees them as they enter the courtyard, Lyra recognizes his face immediately. He takes a step forward and then promptly freezes when his eyes slide to her and he registers her presence, as if reconsidering his life decisions as his face circles through several emotions before settling on a sour grimace. The Kingsguard make a move to grab Daemon but Lyra whacks the hands of the nearest one with her sheathed dagger and snarls at the other and he takes the instinctive step back, hands raised. Smart man. Or startled—either way, no longer a problem.

“We know the way to the throne room, thank you,” she says primly and then shoves the cloaks and other unworn outer layers into the hands of Fell because carrying them wrapped around her elbow and dragging Daemon along is a bit much logistically. “If you want to be of use, carry these instead.”

Fell’s face sours further but he bites on his words, especially as Ancalagon’s crocodillian rumble resonates through the air, still audible from the other side of the cliff and over all the city-noises. It’s the kind of rumble that triggers something deep within the hindbrain that says run before the consciousness even registers the danger.  Fell grips the cloaks and follows, and if Lyra purposefully sets a slower pace, well. Daemon is still somewhat out of it, and she herself isn’t faring the best either, between lack of sleep and coming off of a magic high.

Fell barely follows them in; throws the cloaks on the ground and leaves. Lyra doesn’t turn to look.

The throne room is drab and dreary as always, with its offensive chair sitting offensively as the centerpiece further in. Lyra sits Daemon by one of the pillars but he flops over to the ground, curling on himself. She lets him, though he doesn’t get to wallow for long, because the door creaks open, and Lyra’s second least favorite person in the world wobbles in.

He is surprised to see Lyra there for sure, as he stops and looks at her wide-eyed, taking in her appearance. Bar her hair, so white it almost glows in the shadows, she’s dressed like any other street rat after all.

“What—” Viserys says and sighs before looking at Daemon with disapproval. “My daughter. Your daughter. You’d take them both to the bowels of Flea Bottom?”

“No,” Daemon groans. “Just Rhaenyra. Lyra hunted me down herself.”

“You don’t—” Viserys snaps and makes a move as if to kick Daemon, but Lyra is faster and whacks his shin with her sheathed dagger maybe harder than she intended, but it certainly sends the message as Viserys stumbles back, looking at her wide-eyed, wind knocked out of him.

“He won’t deny the truth,” she tells her idiot uncle king. “But you don’t know the truth, do you. Just the honey Otto Hightower poured into your ears.”

“That I took Rhaenyra to the brothels,” Daemon groans and rubs his eyes.

“You defiled her,” Viserys says, but though he visibly wants to, doesn’t make a move to try to kick him again. Lyra still has her sheathed dagger in hand, and already proved she’s faster than him.

“Oh, what does it matter, brother?” Daemon asks as he slowly straightens up into a sitting position, only to flop his head on Lyra’s shoulder. If her back wasn’t against the pillar, he’d have toppled her over. “When we were Rhaenyra’s age we fucked out way though most of the brothels on the Street of Silk.”

“We were young men,” Viserys says with that disbelieving huff of his. “She’s just a girl. Your niece!”

Lyra isn’t sure what Daemon being Rhaenyra’s uncle has anything to do with it in the magic dragon incest family other than being a hypocritical kind of statement.

“Rhaenyra’s a woman grown,” Daemon argues instead and smirks. It’s a sharp and ugly thing, but a winning one nonetheless. “Besides, if you can marry off my daughter, then I can at least show yours how to have a good time, can’t I?” he coos and Viserys rears back and stutters, and looks at him in shock.

“It was revenge, then?”

“Reminder,” Daemon purrs and leans forward, a little more awake. “I’ll cut you a deal, how about that?”

“What deal could you possibly offer me?”

“A very simple one. You stay the fuck away from my daughter, and I’ll stay the fuck away from yours. I suppose Rhaenyra will sulk for a bit for it, but in the end, everybody wins.”

Viserys’ face sours. He looks at Lyra, sitting next to Daemon, then back at Daemon. His face goes through several emotions Lyra finds very funny. The fact that her father can be slumped halfway between the pillar and her shoulder, though, hungover and in crumpled dirty clothes and looking like death warmed over, yet still exude a commanding aura over the king of the Realm—that’s impressive.

“I ought to have you sent away for this,” Viserys says. “You said so yourself, actions have consequences.”

“Then do so,” Daemon says as he leans back against the pillar, soaking up its chill. “But know this, once and forever. I’ll do anything to protect my daughter, no matter from what—or from who. Even from you.”

“Including harming mine?”

“I didn’t go that far,” Daemon bristles, violet eyes snapping open, ablaze in the morning light. “And I wouldn’t. Unlike some , I don’t find myself attracted to girls barely older than my daughter that I helped raise. I’m not a monster .”

Viserys rears back as if struck. Daemon grins, and his teeth seem sharper in the low light, bared and threatening.

“And I am to believe you have no ambition for my crown?” Viserys pivots quickly, grasping desperately at any topic at all to distract from being called out on his own misgivings. He’s good at that. “No intention for Rhaenyra’s hand?”

“Please ,” Daemon scoffs. “She’s cantankerous and spoiled and more arrogant than us both combined on a good day, I can barely tolerate her in small doses. I got out of one miserable marriage, I’m in no hurry for another. And I’m certainly happier away from the responsibilities of ruling. Why do you think I didn’t crown myself King of Stepstones, or something equally idiotic? I could have. Corlys said I should have, but I have no patience for this nonsense and you should know this by now!”

“So you have no ambition for rule? For power?”

“I only have ambition for enough power to protect my daughter and punish those who’d seek to harm her,” Daemon snaps. “Which is exactly why I did what I did, and if I must, I will do it again until Rhaenyra’s reputation is shredded into nothing, because that, brother, is the best and most direct way I have to make you pay. To tarnish your precious, precious heir and force you to disinherit her. I can. And I will , if you keep pushing me, so step the fuck back while the situation is still salvageable, brother —because I did not start this, but I’m more than willing to end it.”

Viserys rears back, angry but helpless at the way Daemon looks at him, eyes bright and wide and so full of nothing but disdain. He may be consistent at failing his children, even the one he claims to care about, but Daemon isn’t, and the realization is a bitter pill to swallow now that it’s happening, before he shoves it in a box and pretends this conversation never happened.

Lyra flips him off on both hands when Viserys looks at her helplessly, and he winces. She only offers judgment, there’s no support to be found from her. Not for Viserys.

She is happy Daemon picked up on her very nonchalant way of speaking, though. Music for sore ears indeed, to hear him chew his brother the king out like that.

In the end, Viserys huffs and puffs and postures and tries and fails terribly at trying to take control of the situation but between the lack of sleep, Lyra coming off of a magic high, and Daemon’s hangover, they simply don’t give enough of a shit about it, and even Viserys catches on, too. That, or it’s their continued flippant, snappy comments that have him biting back tears at a certain point, because he knows he’s fucked up though he refuses to admit it, but it’s two on one. Especially after it comes to light that not only Daemon didn’t do anything to Rhaenyra—didn’t even think to, past making everyone see her be at the brothel—and Lyra on top of that made sure her cousin got safely back.

He doesn’t do much to either of them in the end. No banishment, not even a ban on seeing Rhaenyra for Daemon. Just a helpless and uncomfortable man being called out on his bullshit after being warned to not commit this very mistake and trying to shift blame when Daemon predictably did a very Daemon thing to drive the point home.

Lyra is so glad he’s on her side, her father is a force of nature. Same capacity to be reasoned with at times as a hurricane.

She hopes that this humiliation will make Viserys be even harsher on Otto later. He has to take it out on someone after all, and Daemon has just made himself an incredibly inconvenient scapegoat in his willingness to bite back where it hurts, and technically not doing anything wrong besides.

○

Alicent hunts Lyra down after the audience. She heard what happened, and wants the truth; Lyra gives it to her, and doesn’t mention things she shouldn’t know. 

Granted, she doesn’t actually know if Rhaenyra went and fucked Criston Cole after she returned, so she’s not even lying by omission. She just knows it could have happened.

Final puzzle piece is set.

○

She hears about it. She’s in the nursery with her cousins and the bored maids whisper of a displeased king and Hand who’s no longer a Hand.

Life’s—not good, not really, but better.

○

It’s by sheer chance that she runs into Otto as she returns from the nursery. He seems to be in a hurry. 

Lyra doesn’t think she’s seen the man up close before, at least not alone. He’s awfully unassuming for someone causing so much trouble for her family, though most importantly, he’s finally missing the Hand of the King golden pin that otherwise sat primly on his chest.

Lyra almost chokes on the giddy giggle that threatens to burst out.

“Good day to you, Ser Otto,” she says breezily as she passes him. “And a word of advice?”

He stops. He turns around. Lyra turns around, too. He’s taller than her, but it feels like they’re on equal ground, and she doesn’t cower under his disappointed stare that no doubt makes Alicent wilt every time.

“And what advice might you have for me, My Lady?” he asks. Lyra smiles.

“Daemon is not Viserys, and I’m not Rhaenyra,” she tells him simply. “And you’re not our old friend.”

“I’m not sure what you mean—” he interrupts.

“I’m not here to listen to you play dumb, Otto,” Lyra interrupts back, sharply, and his mouth clicks shut, maybe at the sheer shock of it. “I’m here to tell you that Viserys won’t protect you and take the fall for you forever if you insist on poking the sleeping dragon. While my father has the propensity to lash out at the surface threat he also listens to me, and I’m not blind to the underlying problem.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Actions have consequences, as you are so fond of reminding my father. Figured you could use a reminder yourself, too, is all.”

Lyra smiles at his grimace; and her smile widens further at the realization flashing suddenly in his eyes. The knowledge that a child, a little girl, played him like a fiddle. And yes, she followed what she knew, made sure to iron out a few kinks and ensure information flow is all… But him thinking it was all her master plan is infinitely funnier.

“Good day to you, Ser Otto,” she repeats herself with a small but perfect curtsy, voice just to the left of composed as some giddiness pierces through. “You played yourself beautifully .”

And then she’s gone.

Chapter Text

Viserys leaves them the fuck alone, at least for the time being, entirely unable to deal with the truth they so readily throw in his face when nobody else is willing to. He’s the king, after all; people generally at best criticise his policies, and even that in a way that doesn’t make him feel like a pile of human waste he actually is. Daemon and Lyra are related to him, able to ignore the barrier of his social standing, and not nearly as kind as his lickspittles.

And Viserys doesn’t like the consequences of his actions manifesting to bite him, even if it’s just the truth thrown in his face. It ruins his little perfect delusion in which nothing is wrong and everyone loves everyone and he didn’t hurt anyone.

Pretending like he didn’t abuse and murder Aemma, like he doesn’t doesn’t abuse Alicent now, like he doesn’t let Rhaenyra run unchecked and make bad choice after bad choice without consequences in a truly insidiously self-destructive way, like he doesn’t neglect his children by Alicent, forgetting they exist half the time—

With a clear view like that, Lyra thinks she just hates him. No wonder this family is so fucked up.

<I hate him, you know?> she tells her father. She’s sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Daemon on the roof where she made a habit of escaping to. <I think I hated him for a long time.>

<I think I don’t have the energy left to hate him, wasted on trying to love him all those years before,> Daemon admits and takes a swing of wine. <I’m tired, and I want him to stop. I don’t even know what I want him to stop, just— stop .>

<I don’t think he will, not until he rots in his filth and dies,> Lyra says and briefly considers the bottle, but Daemon moves it out of her reach, shaking his head. Fair enough. <But we should do better even with the Viserys-shaped obstacle in our path. For the future he’s trying so hard to ruin.>

<It’s about Rhaenyra and Aegon, isn’t it?> Daemon hums. 

<Uh-huh,> Lyra grumbles and snatches Snickerdoodle who wandered a little too close, wraps herself around the cat. <Didn’t change heirship, didn’t betroth them to eachother. On its own that’s fine I suppose; but he’s not teaching Rhaenyra anything ! Hells, he’s letting her make a mistake after a mistake without any fucking consequences! Who’s going to accept her as queen if she doesn’t know how to do shit? What if she gets worse? In her position, there’s things she absolutely cannot do, and if she does the Hightowers are going to exploit the fuck out of that, and then the civil war will be inevitable—>

Daemon looks at her sharply as she snaps her mouth shut, and looks away. 

She dropped hints that she knew the future of this world in a certain capacity, he knew there were stories in her past life; but she’s never gone in depth about it. She regaled him with tales of other worlds, but never this one that was now hers, avoiding the topic on purpose often.

But he knew. He knew she knew what future they were heading towards.

Lyra takes a breath, scoots closer and puts her head on her father’s shoulder. He puts the bottle away and puts his hand around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind picking up and world alike.

<You don’t have to shoulder this burden alone,> he says softly, and so horribly, horribly perceptive in the way he gets with her, and Lyra knows he wanted to ask before, just never did. <Tell me?>

And Lyra folds like a wet blanket, and tells Daemon everything she can remember about the Dance of Dragons.

Daemon can’t sleep, late in the night, with his daughter and her shedding beast curled by his side. His mind is racing, it has been for hours. The conversation they had, the information he learned; all put the happenings around him into a brand new perspective Daemon decided he hates with vitriol.

And how scary it must be for Lyra, his child, to be the lone person capable of change. And how terrifying it is that despite her existence changing things, so much remains the same anyway, because people are bound to act on their whims all the same?

And she’s playing the long game, she tells him. Because how easy would it be to just kill Viserys and Cunttower and throw the country into chaos,and run East to never be seen again? That was his first thought, but what guarantee was there it wouldn’t make everything worse?

None. In fact, it guaranteed the opposite.

But hope was not all lost, Daemon thinks. He changed. Things changed, not many, not nearly enough, but some , and for now that’s enough to hope..

He’s not good at playing the long con, not remotely, patience has always been his weakness; but it’s not Lyra’s. She has no idea what to do just yet, told him as much, her goal is to save the dragons first and the Targaryen family maybe if she can fit their survival into her plans, but she wants to try.

Daemon has faith in her. They have a little less than twenty years before Viserys dies, and Lyra is still a child besides. He doesn’t doubt that they will have a solution by the time the mounting conflict reaches its breaking point.

<Dad, you’re thinking to loud,> Lyra complains into his side. Daemon chuckles.

<I’m not saying anything.>

<But your heart is hammering really loud, and you’re very tense. Not a good pillow.>

<Ah. Sorry, little flame.>

<It’ll be fine,> she tells him and pats his chest. <There’s time. Don’t worry about any of it yet. There’s enough shit to deal with now.>

It’s almost like a magic spell. She’s right; there’s no point in worrying about the future so distant when the now is tricky enough.

<Alright,> he says. <Goodnight.>

<Mhm. Goodnight.>

And it works, somehow. Daemon turns on his side and pulls her close, and the cat weasels itself from between them, clearly done playing the cuddle-toy; but Daemon falls asleep, mind finally calmed enough to shut up.

Between the stunt they pulled, Otto getting dismissed—and subsequently getting replaced by none other than Harwin’s father, Lyonel—and the following rumours about Rhaenyra’s outing, Viserys decides to speak with Corlys once more, though this time about possible betrothal between Laenor and Rhaenyra. Those talks bear much more fruit than Vsierys’ attempts to circumvent Daemon, even though Corlys isn’t entirely happy with being the fallback. He’s fully aware Laenor wouldn’t willingly touch a woman, and he knows Viserys knows; and no matter their family’s standing, this is looking an awful lot like Rhaenyra getting punished with a gay husband for her indiscretions.

Lyra and Daemon exchange a knowing look as they see them off on their trip to Driftmark. Corlys catches them, and his face does something ugly, because Corlys is a sharp, smart man who has seen enough shit in his life, and who can put two and two together quickly.

<We have your back, should you ever need it,> Daemon tells him with a pat to the shoulder. Corlys nods. <Be it a shoulder to cry on, or a blade between ribs.>

<You’ll outlive Viserys,> Lyra tells him quietly, tugging on his hand and he looks at her sharply. She grins. <And remember, nothing he breaks is unfixable even if it seems like it. It just takes willpower and elbow grease.>

<You’re both horrible ,> Corlys tells them fondly. <Thank you. I’ll see you when we’re back for the party.>

<Good luck with cousin Rhaenys,> Lyra says with a fanged grin. <Remind her that if we can’t commit regicide, she can’t either.>

<Duly noted,> Corlys snorts, and with one last pat to Lyra’s head and a handshake with Daemon, he’s off for the ships. Viserys and Rhaenyra pack up too, trailed by Criston Cole. Alicent barely sees them off, upset and shaken by her father’s recent dismissal.

Daemon does see Rhaenyra off—she’s still somewhat cross with him for not fucking her—but neither pays much mind to Viserys, who also does his best to ignore them.

It’s better that way.

The procession of ships leaves. They will have at least two weeks or so of peace before Viserys returns, maybe even a month if they’re lucky.

Then, they’ll see.

It’s barely a day after the departure of the royal procession to Driftmark that Alicent hunts Lyra down, even more frantic that she’s last seen the older girl, dragged off to a more secluded corner in the gardens.

“You lied to me,” Alicent hisses, shaking Lyra by the shoulders, and for a moment Lyra just lets her, marvelling at the outburst of emotion unbridled by decorum. “You and Rhaenyra both, you lied to me .”

“Hey now, I didn’t!” Lyra tells her, putting her hands on Alicent’s wrist to stop the shaking. “Is it about the brothel visit?”

Alicent opens her mouth, but says nothing. Closes it, opens again, closes it again. Frustrated, she sighs and just nods.

“I didn’t lie,” Lyra repeats. “Daemon didn’t fuck Rhaenyra. He did take her to the whorehouse, but it went no further.”

“And how do you even know that?” Alicent asks finally. “Was it your father’s word? Wasn’t he just corroborating Rhaenyra’s own words for his own safety and peace?”

“I told you what I saw ,” Lyra says simply and Alicent rears back in surprise, eyes wide and searching for something, anything on Lyra’s face. Lyra can’t tell what.

“You were there?”

“I stalked him, and Rhaenyra too I suppose, because I was worried,” she admits, “because I knew how angry he was at everything, and I know how he gets when he’s angry like that. I followed them through Fleabottom and into the brothel dressed like a street urchin, and I saw what they did, and what they didn’t do, and I was ready to step in had they gone any further. They didn’t . He left her with her pants down and hair loose and upset he didn’t fuck her, and ran with his tail between his legs. I found a Gold Cloak I trusted, and had him escort Rhaenyra back to the keep safely. I saw no more of her that night; I was busy making sure Daemon didn’t end up gutted in some corner.”

“So Rhaenyra spoke true?” Alicent asks, dejected and confused. “Then why’d she take the tea if it was sent to her?”

“The tea?” Lyra blinks. “The moon tea? She took it? How do you know?”

“I heard—coincidentally, also from a son of Lord Strong,” Alicent admits, calmer by the moment. “He asked me about her wellbeing after she left for Driftmark, he saw Grand Maester bringing her tea. I… Maybe it was actually just regular tea?”

There’s so much hope in those words, it’s unbearable. Lyra almost feels bad for what she’s about to do next, but she is no liar. Alicent deserves the truth, even if it’s hidden under the veneer of speculation.

“It may have been moon tea,” she tells Alicent who snaps to look at her, eyes narrow. “The honest truth is, she didn’t fuck Daemon. But the honest truth is also that there is a chance she fucked someone after her return to the keep.”

“Who?” Alicent asks. She’s picking at her fingers again. Lyra shrugs, and takes the older girl’s hands in her own.

“Serving boys. Castle guards. Fuck, a Kingsguard even. Few men would say no to the young, pretty, willing princess.”

Alicent mulls over it.

“Daemon did,” she says eventually.

“Daemon is not nearly wretched enough to be interested in fucking the girl he watched grow up,” Lyra scoffs. “And he’s always been one of the special few besides, in thought and action both.”

Alicent bites her lip and looks away, grasping the double-meaning of Lyra’s words with ease.

But there’s something else that worries Lyra.

“The Lord Strong that told you… Was it Larys, the younger one?” she asks quietly. Alicent looks at her, and nods.

“Yes. He was… Helpful.”

“Or intent on sowing discord by giving you a very convenient twisting of overheard gossip intended to prey on your vulnerability after your father’s departure,” Lyra tells her and Alicent looks at her fully. She’s thinking about it, and there’s a moment where her eyes widen with a realisation. Lyra looks around, scanning the area for people and rats alike, before she leans in to whisper. “Do not trust this man. His brother is one of the Gold Cloaks I trust the most and I have it on very good authority that nothing Larys ever does is for free. He’s looking for a wedge to slither into your good graces and exploit the hells out of your goodwill. He’s an expert in twisting anything in his favour, and then calling that favour in. He may have well told you the truth, but he did not do it out of goodwill.”

Granted, it’s not Harwin who told her, but he’s as good an excuse as any for Lyra to try to protect Alicent from Larys and his sticky paws as it gets. A believable one at least.

“I… Are you certain?”

“Yes. Do not trust him. Use his services if you must, but as sparingly and carefully as possible, you understand? A double-edged blade may just cut you deeper than it does your opponent, and he will bleed you dry if you slip once .”

Alicent just kind of slumps at that, eyes going glassy. She’s picking at her fingers again, her presence diminished. Lyra pulls her into a hug.

Alicent digs her fingers into Lyra’s sides, shaking as she buries her face in Lyra’s shoulder.

“Father was right, this is a den of hungry wolves,” she sobs. “I want to go home. I want all this to stop. I never wanted any of this.”

“I know,” Lyra says as she wraps her arms around Alicent in a tight hug. “You shouldn’t need to be contending with any of this.”

“I’m so scared of so many things. Of the future, of what Rhaenyra might do, of what Viserys might do, and I don’t know what to do, how to protect myself, how to protect my children!” Alicent sobs quietly. “I’m terrified Rhaenyra will have to kill them for posing a challenge to her by just existing whether she wants to or not. I have two sons, Lyra, no matter what Viserys says the lords will prefer them over a ruling queen because that’s tradition and they already passed over Rhaenys once before! And Rhaenyra barely tolerates her brothers as is. She will have them killed—”

“She will not ,” Lyra says and presses her cheek to Alicent’s hair.

It starts now then, doesn’t it? Right here, in this dark alcove, with her friend sobbing on her shoulder, terrified of the threat that might befall her children for the sin of being alive in the relatively near future.

“How can you be so sure?” Alicent asks as she pulls back to look Lyra in the eyes. “You know how she is. You know how this land is. Once Viserys is dead, all semblance of peace goes with him! We both know it’s only his willful blindness keeping this farce going!”

“Because I won’t let her,” Lyra tells Alicent simply. “And before you disagree; I will be an adult before Viserys dies. I ride the second largest dragon in the world, I have Daemon and his dragon on my side as well. And the Velaryons--they always preferred Daemon, and Rhaenyra’s peaceful ascension would be in their best interest if this marriage goes through besides.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Alicent whispers.

“Because at the end of it all, it is so easy,” Lyra insists. “On the fire and the blood in my veins, on the ancient magic that binds me and Ancalagon in mind and soul, I swear . I will not let her kill them . I will protect your children from unjust, early death to the best of my ability. I will protect them from Rhaenyra and from this world’s fucking inheritance politics and outdated Andal traditions that should have never bound my people in the first place. But you need to promise me something, too.”

“What is it?”

“That you will protect them from the greatest threat they will ever face. One only you can successfully shield them from.”

Alicent shivers, wide-eyed. “And what is that threat?”

“Your father’s ambition,” Lyra tells her, and Alicent presses her mouth into a thin line. “The very ambition that forced you in this position, that will herd your children into an early grave if left unchecked no matter what I do. I can protect them from Rhaenyra and from Viserys and Daemon, from open conflict and dragons and fire and steel; I cannot protect them from your father and his insidious influence.”

“He’s my shield. My strength—”

“He’s the root of your misery. The poison seeping into your bones. Can you not see, can you not feel ?” Lyra asks. “He peddled you to Viserys for a morsel of power. His beloved daughter. What makes you think he won’t sell your children, should it benefit him?”

Alicent opens her mouth. Closes it, looks away.

“What can I even do?”

“More than you think. You’re the queen, Alicent. Quite a beloved one, in fact. You have more power than you see; exploit to Hells and back and then some more. Protect yourself, protect your children. I can only do so much, a child and a daughter of a second son and a nobody without a name forged in fire yet. You can do so much more . Yes, you’re surrounded by ravenous wolves, but you forget that you’re no lamb destined for slaughter. Otto’s hapless power grabs put you in a situation you should never have contended with, but it also gave you power. Seize it. It’s okay to be selfish in your situation.”

Alicent looks up at her, eyes still glassy, but face set.

“Thank you,” she says. “I… Still don’t know what I’m going to do, but this… Helped, I think. I needed this.”

“We all need a friend sometimes,” Lyra says. “A shoulder to cry on and some advice. You’re not alone. I’m not going to agree with everything you do, you won’t agree with everything I do… But I like to think we can look past that when we need each other.”

Alicent nods. “I… Have a lot to think about. You brought up a lot of things I didn’t think about… That I don’t want to think about. Not all is as it seems, isn’t it?”

“It never is. But I think it’ll do you good to reevaluate some things.”

Alicent chuckles wetly. “Have you always been this casually insightful?”

“When you need to translate your father back to himself and to the world sometimes, you pick up a thing or two. Besides, I’m not afraid to be honest with you, etiquette be damned.”

“I suppose it’s alright, if it’s just the two of us,” Alicent agrees. “I’ll be going now. I need solitude, I should think.”

“And do not reach for religion first thing,” Lyra cautions. “The gods have enough to contend with. They rarely answer, and never in personal matters.”

She means the Fourteen. She knows Alicent will interpret it as the Seven instead, but it is a common language for them at least.

Alicent blinks at her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Will you visit the children later? I… Might not be able to, today.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

She sets Snickerdoodle loose on the rats. See how well Larys can greenseer through them while running for their lives from a hungry and motivated beast.

Lyra does visit the children later, and even pesters Ancalagon into letting her take Helaena for a flight again. Once the excitement is dealt with and time comes for bed, she tells them the story about a boy living in a cupboard under the stairs and the enchanted castle he went to study magic in.

And if half of it is better than the original, drawn from half-remembered fanworks, well, nobody will know.

Once they’re asleep piled on top of her father, she slinks away into the hidden passageways and out of the keep. She needs a breather, maybe to cause some chaos, and she has questions she needs to ask that Harwin might just be able to answer besides. Larys, as the talk with Alicent reminded her, is not someone she can afford to ignore for much longer if at all, and who better to give her information than the man’s own brother?

Still she’s distracted from her laser-focus easily enough when she runs across a scrawny boy being held by the neck against a wall. The other guy is an adult, scrawny too but twice the kid’s size, and has a knife to the kid’s neck; something about money the boy’s mother owes.

Worse, there’s a round iron plaque hanging from his belt, with a severed hand scratched on it. Lyra isn’t sure what exactly is the name of these guys, but it’s a new Fleabottom cartel that Gold Cloaks are trying to nip at the bud.

This isn’t even Fleabottom. Or her problem. Or first or last or only altercation of this kind. By all means, she could— should —walk away, ignoring the situation like everybody else around.

Instead, she unhooks the wooden club from her belt, speeds her step for momentum, and swings the studded wood into the back of the brute’s ankle. He howls and drops the boy as he too drops down on one knee. Lyra wastes no time and totals the other knee with a strong whack to the kneecap, and when she has him downed, howling, the third hit connecting with the man’s jaw and putting him writhing on the ground in pain and confusion is little more than a formality.

Club in hand, Lyra turns to the boy looking at her with wide eyes—and promptly freezes.

He’s scrawny, shorter than her, and dirty, which is normal. His dirty hair shines white under the grime, his eyes are just almost faded enough to pass for blue, but there’s an unmistakable tint of violet in there; but that is not unusual. Dragonseeds and Essosi of Valyrian descent are common enough a sight in King’s Landing.

It’s the face that gets her, distinct and almost-regal under the grime and so, so painfully familiar in such an uncanny way; a little like her father and a good bit like her uncle, and missing the sharpness of her grandmother just to circle back to looking eerily like a younger, living version of her grandfather’s portrait hung in the Red Keep. And it just made sense timeline-wise, too; the boy, scrawny and a head shorter than her, looks to be somewhere between ten and twelve. Baelon died ten years ago.

It takes Lyra just a split second too long to analyse him, enough for the boy to grow defensive and all but snarl at her, hackles raised.

“What do you want?” he hisses, unfriendly. Lyra blinks slowly on instinct and he almost blinks back, only to catch himself and give her a weird look instead.

“What’s your name?” she settles to ask after a few seconds. The boy scowls, body winding up like he’s about to make his grand escape, eyes darting between the club in the hand and the man. Lyra puts her weapon back in her belt, and with the other hand tugs her hood down and then the bandana she wrapped around her head, two white braids spilling over her shoulders. “I’m Lyra.”

There’s an immediate shift in the boy as his gaze latches onto the white hair, and his hand twitches, stopping halfway to his own head. Lyra lets him come to his own conclusions.

“Ulf,” he deigns eventually. “‘m Ulf.”

Ulf, maybe not yet called White, with her grandfather’s face and potential to claim a dragon some twenty years from now, is currently maybe twelve and standing within arm’s reach, and suddenly, this is no longer just because of some sort of innate dragonseed camaraderie Lyra may have felt before.

She really is gods’ favourite princess. She’s also not stupid enough to ignore a chance like this.

By this time, the thug is finally crawling up, and the Gold Cloaks have noticed. Lyra doesn’t recognize the guardsman approaching them other than vaguely having seen him before in the barracks, but he does recognize her, especially with her hair out, so she catches the man’s gaze directly, nods at the thug and then turns around, grabs Ulf by the hand, and drags him along the street where they vanish into the crowd.

They weave under elbows and between legs with the ease of two street rats, unbothered and unnoticed, but the place is unpleasantly crowded and the air stale for it, so Lyra pulls Ulf to the rooftops soon enough via some conveniently stacked boxes under some brass fixtures that are easy to climb on. Ulf is clumsier than she, unused to the impromptu parkour but good enough at improvising to follow, and Lyra herself hasn’t been taking to the high ground as often as she’d like either, so they both stumble here and there. She needs to fix that—as far as extreme sports go, reenacting Assassin’s Creed parkour in King’s Landing is one of the more fun ones, and it makes moving around the crowded city much easier to boot.

“Ya hungry?” Lyra asks once they’re both perched at the edge of one of the buildings. Ulf looks at her briefly, then shrugs, but Lyra has been hearing his stomach grumble since she pulled him along. “Come on, I can get us somethin’ nice.”

“Why?” Ulf asks, somewhat suspicious still. “You saved me, that’s enough.”

“Call it my good deed o’ the day, eh?”

“You this nice to everyone?”

“Jus’ the pathetic ones,” Lyra grins. Ulf, she can see in his eyes, considers shoving her off the roof. He doesn’t.

This is just one of the steps, in a way. While Lyra isn’t blind to the situation of people in the poorer districts of King’s Landing, she also lacks any real power to do anything about it right now, thirteen-year-old daughter of a second son; certainly something to look into changing in the future. Between everything going on, she does need to start considering venues of making money, ideally large amounts of it. It will be easier with her background and a dragon, so that is a boon, and once she has some wealth, she will be able to do things she wants.

Like forcing the king and council into fixing up the city’s waterways and sewers properly by investing in it herself and putting them before a decided fact. Like investing in businesses to create more jobs. Like getting healers educated and settled in. Like building shelters and soup kitchens. Like continuing to fund and train the Gold Cloaks and weeding out any corrupt ones with no mercy.

But for today, she thinks, she’ll settle for feeding just one street rat wearing her grandfather’s face.

She hops off the roof onto a haystack, then onto the street, and Ulf looks at th path dubiously before deciding fuck it , and followign her anyway.

They go to the market, get some food. Ulf gets some herbs for his ill mother with what money he has, and Lyra matches his budget to double it, to get him something better on top of a fresh leg of pork and some vegetables. She’s pleased to find potatoes among them.

“They say the princess Daelyra brought them from an expedition,” Ulf says, still a little overwhelmed over all the things he now has to bring to his mother, and Lyra almost bites her tongue for real out of sheer instinct to correct the princess part. “Can you imagine? I wonder how she found them. People get sick when they eat them raw, but they’re as good as bread when you cook ‘em!”

“I hear they’re even better when you fry ‘em in fat,” Lyra muses. Ulf makes a face.

“I hear, too, but who’s got money for so much fat to waste?”

“Yeah.”

She walks Ulf back to his home, a little shack in a poorer district but not quite Fleabottom. The sun is setting by then already, and she still needs to hunt Harwin down.

“Wanna come in?” Ulf asks. Lyra shakes her head.

“I was lookin’ for someone actually, before I ran off with you.”

Ulf blinks. “Oh. Shite, did I waste yer time?”

“Nah. But I should go now. Pops will worry if I stay out too long after nightfall.”

Ulf nods. “Will ye… Will we see eachother again? Where do ya live?”

“Here and there,” Lyra evades, but Ulf just nods. Some things are touchy subjects here, and she takes full advantage of that. “And sure. I know where ya live, I can find ya. An’ if ya want to find me, ask the Cloaks.”

“Cloaks?” Ulf asks, eyebrows raising. “Why in the Hells would Cloaks know shite?”

“Coz’ they’re thick with my Pops,” Lyra shrugs. “I’ll tell them to know, if you’re gonna come lookin’.”

“...alright,” Ulf says after a moment. “Alright! I’ll be seein’ ya then, I s’ppose.”

“Ya will. Until me and pops fuck off from the city again. We do that from time to time.”

“Harwin, your brother is suspicious as fuck. Tell me everything about him.”

“Bloody fucking hells Lyra, where did you come from?!”

“The fucking street, through the door like everybody else?”

Harwin just looks at her funny. Lyra grins.

“I’m starting to think you just like scaring me.”

“Your pattern recognition is in working order then.”

Harwin closes his eyes and sighs. Some of the other cloaks, as they are now gathered in the canteen, chuckle. This is a rather common occurrence, and free entertainment besides.

“Why are you interested in my brother all of a sudden?” Harwin asks. Lyra shrugs and sits next to him to minimize the amount of people that could overhear.

“Not much, he’s just been actively widening the rift between the princess and the queen for his personal gain on top of his other courtly exploits. He’s a threat, to me, to them, to everyone probably.”

Harwin purses his lips, a frown on his face and gaze hardening. “What do you want to know?”

“ Everything .”

After she’s done grilling Harwin, she tells the Cloaks present about Ulf. She hops back to Red Keep pretty much only to show that she’s still alive and change clothes, and then she’s off to fly with Ancalagon. The air helps her clear her head and come to conclusions between what she learned and what she remembers of the show.

If Larys Strong isn’t a greenseer, she’ll actually eat her leather boots, buckles and all.

Ulf becomes something of a fixture in her day-to-day life from then on. She finally makes good on her promise to learn to run the rooftops and Ulf, for all he thinks her weird for it, joins in anyway. He finds her weird in general, she thinks, for her odd mannerisms and more so how he reacts to them. For how the Cloaks treat her to how she always has at least a little money that she doesn’t mind spending on him, or how she never tells him where she lives. 

For how she never steals, not even a stray apple, but slits a man’s throat in the gutters without so much as a flinch when she finds him with his pants down in front of a little girl, and only stops speaking to Ulf to check up on the child before she runs off, uncomfortable, spooked, but otherwise fine for the day.

He gets used to it, in the short weeks of peace of Viserys’ absence that let Lyra run more unchecked than usual. His mother gets better, too, he tells Lyra, between the herbs and the food. She has no idea if the woman lived originally, but it’s nice she’s fine nonetheless. Ulf is happier for it.

Devil works fast, Viserys works faster. Unseemly fast, in fact.

Because if Lyra learned one thing they never show in shows and gloss over in the books, is that this society, without electricity and cars and planes, works slow. Leisurely.

Organizing a Royal Wedding within one month—two weeks that it will take Viserys and Rhaenyra to go to and from Driftmark, and another two that Alicent and master of coin, Lyman Beesbury, jointly demanded before the start of the Viserys-ordained week-long celebration, or the whole ordeal would be impossible—is not only unseemly fast, but also a logistical nightmare .

Then again, a total lack of foresight on Viserys' part is something everyone just learned to work around. He, happily and haplessly, just said he wanted a Thing to happen—and everyone else had to bend backwards to make it happen.

Because fucker was the king, and that’s just how it worked.

Not something Lyra can do much to help with, except tip Alicent and Beesbury off about merchants peddling good quality wares they wouldn’t otherwise think to hire.

At least Corlys had enough foresight to insist Viserys send out wedding invitations before they even leave for Driftmark, so that lords from further reaches of the country even had a chance to arrive on time; otherwise Viserys would have shafted the Lannisters, coming all the way from Casterly Rock.

Daemon comes to Lyra with a frankly brilliant idea that she loves, and not even because it will piss people off.

This is medieval; people do not throw away good clothes, and Daemon still has plenty of good clothes stored from his youth, and it won’t even take many alterations at all for them to fit Lyra.

She picks a silk red shirt with long, puffy sleeves with golden buttons at the embroidered cuffs, and a black sleeveless doublet-tunic reaching slightly past her knee, embroidered in delicate golden stitch with geometric lines and runes, and a red three-headed Targaryen sigil on the right breast. With a belt and gloves and boots all in matching leather, and pants roughly the same black as the doublet, she looks like a proper Targaryen prince. It just needs to be taken in the shoulders a little; while she’s as tall as Daemon when he was fifteen, her shoulders aren’t quite as broad.

She’s not a prince, of course; but she hates dresses and likes looking nice, so it’s the next best thing.

<I never liked hand-me-downs,> Daemon agrees.

<I do,> Lyra says. <It’s less work on a good pay for the seamstress, too.>

<And it looks good, even if it’s not a traditional Valyrian look. It has our colors at least.>

<And what is a traditional Valyrian look?>

<More Essosi,> Daemon hums. <I think at this point the Yi Ti has fashion most closely resembling it. They traded closely with Valyria through the sea, and many who lived on the coast sought refuge there after the Doom. None with dragons, but I hear white hair became relatively common there in the last two centuries.>

Lyra blinks. Yi Ti? That meant Valyria was more Chinese-coded than she thought. Wasn’t it supposed to be more Byzantine-adjacent? Or maybe it simply was here.

<Interesting,> she says. <I think I’d like to go there. I hear they have the best silks and good food. And I’ve been considering learning a new language.>

She wasn’t. Not in this life, anyway; but in her past one, she has been making slow progress in learning Chinese. Chinese dramas have been a bit of a guilty pleasure for her.

She looks at the doublet again. It does look good, sleek and expensive.

A hanfu in those colors would have looked better, though. More dramatic.

<Want me to get you a Yi Tish tutor?>

<Not yet. But after this whole mess is over, we’ll see.>

<Alright.>

Somehow along the way, Alicent decides it’s a good idea to organize a family supper. Neither Viserys nor Rhaenyra are back yet, and Otto is by this point halfway to Oldtown, so it’s just the three of them and a cat, toddlers already tucked in bed.

Still, it’s only really awkward in the beginning, with Alicent on one side of the table and Lyra and Daemon on the other. Five minutes in, Lyra decides to magnanimously come to the rescue, as funny as it is watching Alicent and her father flail. Navigating the minefield of their potential topics isn’t even that hard, so long as the topics are kept in interesting neutrals. Music and art and fabrics, and soon enough Daemon is once more sharing with Alicent tips and tricks on how to deal with magic lizard toddlers.

(Daemon never actually put her in a fireplace, but Alicent’s horrified face when she said he did was priceless and Daemon almost cackled himself off the chair rather than deny the allegations.)

Lyra plays the guitar for them when they sit down after the supper, Daemon on one side with a glass of wine and Alicent on the other with Snickerdoodle on her lap, tracking in white fur all over her dark dress, and Lyra cross-legged on the floor in the middle.

It’s actually quite nice without interference like that. It could stay so if Lyra had a say.

Which is probably unrelated to Viserys and Rhaenyra and the whole progress returning just a couple days later to ruin whatever pleasant routine they worked out in the absence of them because they were due to return soon, but it sure feels like it happens to spite her anyway.

The thing with Rhaenyra is that, Lyra is simply unable to hate her, and certainly unwilling to wish ill on her, unlike Viserys. That may well change in the future, of course, but currently, while Rhaenyra is definitely an infuriating presence, Lyra is able to somewhat look past all the entitled and spoiled veneer and see a seventeen-year-old girl so utterly failed by her father it’s hard to even truly blame her for her behavior.

Even though at this point, she probably should be actively learning to do better on several fronts, than expecting fortune to keep falling in her lap and active consequences keep evading her.

Which—is easier said than done, honestly. Rhaenyra has some lordling friends and her tutors, but she’s a princess who was never really told ‘no’ until Viserys put his foot down about her marriage. And anybody who’d tell her ‘no’—that is Lyra, Alicent and Daemon, primarily—she’d never listen to. Do the opposite, most likely, if they tried.

Naive and prideful is not a good combination to be, in Rhaenyra’s position.

It is a rock and a hard place kind of situation, and Lyra couldn’t change it if she tried.

Viserys could, but he doesn’t see anything to change. He sees Alyssa with Aemma’s face, and lets her do whatever.

One more reason to hate him.

<You would have been a better match in every way but political,> is the first thing Laenor tells her after he hunts her down to vent his frustrations shortly after landing and greeting everyone important.

Lyra blinks at him. It is—not necessarily out of left field, but it’s weird. It also appears she’s become everyone’s shoulder to cry on.

<What the fuck,> she tells him in answer. Laenor snorts and leans against the wall. They’re in a hallway, a little ways off from the party. Lyra is sat on the railing, ready to vault herself over and run if the conversation gets weird, which—it already has in the opener.

<I mean—hear me out,> Laenor sighs. <She has a strong personality, which—>

<I do, too,> Lyra reminds him.

<Which, yes, you do too,> Laenor agrees. <But you are more… Reasonable , than her. You’re not expecting everything to just fall on your lap.>

Sometimes she does, and she almost says it, but bites her tongue. Cheeky distractions are not something Laenor needs now and curse Lyra’s bleeding heart for trying to be a good friend.

<You are so similar, but you couldn’t be more different,> he says. <Both prideful, both mercurial, both entitled brats—>

<Bitch.>

<It’s true!>

<It is. But you’re supposed to be nice and not say the quiet part out loud, therefore; bitch.>

Laenor snorts and shakes his head. <What I’m getting at is, I have a very foreboding feeling about the whole thing. Like I’m marching to my doom. Because unlike you, Rhaenyra does not stop to think. To consider the consequences of her actions. And I’m worried. So, so worried about the future. Mine, my house’s. My family’s. I’ve seen her making cow eyes at her kingsguard, Cole, all the time we were at Driftmark. She was not subtle. Neither am I but—I at least can’t fuck a bastard into Joffrey, you know?>

<Offer her one of your cousins, then, > Lyra says. <She can keep fucking Cole if she wants, but if she has half a working brain, she’ll either have a child by you, or by someone who looks like you. Take initiative.>

<And this is precisely why I’d prefer you, > Laenor says. <You with your flippancy and reasonable approach to the situation. But Rhaenyra…>

Lyra winces. <Rhaenyra always knows best, doesn’t she.>

<Yeah.>

<She will think it beneath her, to do the smart thing.>

< Yeah .>

<Rhaenyra will never listen to me,> Lyra tells him. <But she might to you, if you dress your arguments prettily in concern for her throne. She needs heirs too. Ones she can pass as legitimate; she’s already knee-deep in this quagmire as a woman heir, a single misstep, especially of this magnitude, and the lords will eat her alive .>

They mull it over for a moment in silence unbroken between them bar the sounds of celebration and people moving about the keep. Laenor hides his face in his hands and slides down the wall, in to a crouch, and then sits.

<I envy you,> he says. <I envy your boldness. Your wildness. I envy the fact that any day you could just pack up, get on your dragon, and go. And that you wouldn’t look behind.>

He looks at her, and Lyra remains silent. His eyes are an angry, stormy purple.

<I envy that you can, that you have this choice. That you can choose to go, or you can choose to stay. I envy that you would be brave enough to choose yourself, even if you were in my shoes.>

<I don’t think I’d damn my house if I were in your shoes, to be honest,> Lyra admits. <I understand duty. I’m just beyond glad I’m privileged enough to be born into little of it. A daughter of the second son, a girl with nothing.>

<A girl who can be anything,> Laenor muses. <I couldn’t. It’s too comfortable, being the Velaryon Heir, and soon the King Consort. The shackles chafe and tug—but it’s just too comfortable in my little gilded cage to dare try the unknown.>

<Do you pity me, then?> Lyra asks. Laenor looks at her and chuckles, entirely humorlessly.

<Of course! You have nothing. You are nothing. Nothing but your blood and that blasted dragon. No lands, no holdings, no name, no legacy, no duty . Not a single shackle past ones you yourself choose. I pity it. I pity you. And in the same thought I envy you so, so much.>

< Bitch ,> Lyra repeats. <You’d want to shackle me to the Velaryons instead of yourself to Rhaenyra and I’d have to slit your throat if you did. I’d hate to make Rhaenys upset, but needs must.>

Laenor snorts. <There it is. The courage to leave naught but scorched earth. To burn the very bridge you stand on. I wish I had half your spine.>

Lyra hops off the railing and walks up to him, hand extended. <Alright, pity party over. You made your choice, and that is to stay. And, for whatever it’s worth Laenor, I think it’s admirable, and impressive.>

Laenor chuckles, but takes her hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. <Viserys made a whole circus of the proposal, I hate that too. But you’re right. I’ll ask if any of my cousins won’t fuck the princess for me. I just hope nothing goes wrong in the end, you know?>

<Don’t jinx it,> Lyra huffs. <Or I’ll kill someone at the party myself, just to spite you.>

<Bitch!>

It’s so offended-sounding when he says it, Lyra can’t help but cackle.

With the wedding, many things will change. Lyra is anticipating that she might need to leave King’s Landing soon, and she was thinking about Ulf. She’s grown fond of the scrawny brat, and worried what mess he’d get into without her to pull him out of it if she were elsewhere.

Thankfully, she has quite a perfect solution for it, and so she hunts Ulf down and pulls him to the rooftops.

“I might leave soon,” she tells him honestly. “Go somewhere else with me dad. I won’t be able to help you anymore.”

Ulf looks down at his feet. “Oh.”

“So, I been thinking. Gonna pull some strings,” she says and looks to the side, to where she can see the shingled roof of the guard barracks. “I’m gonna get ye a job. I’m gonna get ye a trainer. And when yer a man, yer gonna join the Cloaks.”

Ulf looks at her wide-eyed, disbelieving. Lyra can almost hear what he’s thinking.

For a noble son, Gold Cloaks were a respectable enough position to take for several years; Harwin was one of them. Men seeking to be knights or even knights without land seeking to improve or better themselves, acknowledged bastards of noble houses. Actual prince in line to the throne was a Cloak once, even.

It was a prestigious position, where you could rub your shoulders with even Lords Paramount and the Royal Family.

It was employment, good pay, and a chance at a better life; and near-impossible for someone of Ulf’s background to join unless he was an exceptional fighter, or literate, or both.

Ulf was neither. He was a scrawny twelve-year-old bastard son of a former whore trying to make ends meet as a washerwoman after being able to leave the whorehouse she worked at, likely because Baelon paid her so well for her services she could afford to buy herself out and go.

Ulf clenches his fists and purses his lips.

“Ye can, can’t ye,” he says, and looks at her, eyes bright and piercing. “Cause yer the princess, ain’t ye.”

Lyra crosses her arms on her chest and grins. “When’d you figure it out?”

“Now, coz only the prince Daemon’s daughter could have enough say over them Cloaks to even think of making someone like me one of ‘em,” he says. “An’ the prince Daemon got only one daughter.”

“You upset?”

“You lied.”

“I did,” she nods. “You’d tell me to shove it if I didn’t.”

“I would. Why me?”

“Why not?”

“Coz I’m one of many white-haired bastards runnin’ around,” Ulf scoffs. “S’ppose I got lucky, eh?”

“I suppose you did,” Lyra agrees, and extends a hand to him. “Come. We have Gold Cloaks to harass.”

“Yer fuckin’ weird,” Ulf snorts and shakes his head, but takes her hand anyway.

“Thanks!” Lyra grins at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Wait, Lyra, does it mean that huge black beast—”

“Yes, that’s my dragon, Ancalagon.”

“Can ye take me dragon-riding?”

“No.”

“Awh. Dragons only for them royals, eh?”

“It’s a no because I have the grumpiest, meanest dragon alive. He’d eat you. He tried to eat my father.”

“Really?”

“Yea. He only ever lets me take my cat and the princess Helaena flying on him. Anyone else and he throws a shitfit, even the other kid princelings.”

“A cat? You got a cat?”

“Yep. His name’s Snickerdoodle. White and fluffy and bigger than a small dog. Eats at least three rats a day; good thing, too, Keep’s crawling with ‘em.”

“Hate rats?”

“Not really, but ones in the Keep give me the creeps. They watch. They listen. Especially when you don’t want them to.”

“Eugh.”

“Indeed.”

“Corren! Harwin!”

They’re both off night shifts now, as she knew they would be, satin the canteen and eating a late breakfast before a nap. She may or may not have memorized the schedules of all people she liked harassing, for ease of intruding on their lives.

Corren looks at her from his bowl of stew. Harwin, with a freshly split brow barely scabbed over and bruised knuckles from his shift, has apparently decided she can wait in favor of his food. Understandable, really.

“Lyra! I thought you’d be back—” Corren says, as his eyes slide to Ulf. “—home.”

Lyra shakes her head. “He’s figured it out, you can just say Red Keep.”

Corren and Harwin exchange a glance over their bowls and look back at the two.

“I have a favor to ask of you. Mostly Corren, because Harwin’s gonna be heading home sometime soon for lordling duties,” she says and pulls Ulf before herself with a hand on his shoulder, and the boy just looks between her and Corren, unsure.

Corren chews his food for a moment and then points at her with his spoon. “You want us to take the kid in,” he deduces. “‘Cause you think you’ll be out of the city soon, and want someone to take care of him.”

Lyra grins. “See, and this is why I like you! He’s only two-and-ten, so he can’t really join the Cloaks yet, but you can put him on, dunno, floor sweeping or other busywork, and train him up with some weapons so he can join when he’s grown in four years.”

Corren sighs.

“Please?” Lyra asks. “He’s quick on his feet and pretty quick with his head, too.”

Corren sighs again. Harwin elbows him.

“Alright, cough it up,” Corren says. “He’s your brother?”

Ulf looks at him wide-eyed, then at Lyra. “I am?”

“He’s not!” Lyra huffs and pulls Ulf closer to the two, to sit on the bench next to Corren. She leans in. “I’m pretty damn sure he’s my uncle, though.”

“He’s what?!”

“I’m what?!”

“Fucking hush, all of you!” Lyra snaps at the three. “I can’t say for sure, but the timeline lines up, and he looks a lot like the portrait of grandfather that hangs in the Keep. Honestly, more than uncle or dad. My dad just looks more like his mom, and my uncle like a pudgy overcooked noodle.”

“Isn’t your uncle the king?” Harwin asks, eyebrow raised.

“Last I checked, speaking true is no crime.”

Harwin raises his hands in surrender, Ulf meanwhile looks at Lyra like she grew a second head.

“She hates her uncle,” Corren tells the boy. “Any chance she gets to talk shit about him, she’ll take.”

“Damn fuckin’ right,” Lyra says and steals a slice of Harwin’s bread, dunks it in Corren’s bowl of stew, and bites into it.

“Oy,” Corren says. In response, Lyra dunks her bread in his bowl again. He ruffles her hair. “You little shit.”

“Why thank you for recognizing my efforts!” Lyra chirps, and eats her prize. “Anyway. Will you take him?”

“Go talk to the Commander,” Harwin advises her. “I assume you’re keeping this from your father?”

Lyra looks at him, then at Ulf. “Not… Particularly. Now that Ulf knows who I am, might as well tell dad.”

“Then do so. And then have him come down and talk to the Commander about taking the kid in. You could do it on your own, but Daemon will have an easier time.”

Lyra nods. “I only have sway here because of him anyway. Yeah, I’ll go ask tonight. It’ll be finished by tomorrow.”

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding from me these last few weeks,” Daemon says, eyes trained on a fidgeting Ulf. “Hells, he really does look like father.”

“Told ya,” Lyra says. “So, you gonna talk to the head Cloak? I think his name’s Kester.”

Daemon looks at her and Ulf takes a relieved breath. “Alright. Let’s get my secret kid brother a job. Gods know you can’t keep taking care of him, Viserys might kick us out any day now.”

“Um,” Ulf says, wringing his hands. “I’m, um.”

“Out with it, I don’t bite,” Daemon says, hands crossed on his chest. Ulf looks up at him, eyes big.

“Can you take me to fly on a dragon?” the boy blurts out. Daemon’s brely-extant eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and he looks between Lyra and Ulf for a moment, before he grins.

“Oh he’s got guts, I think I like this brother better.”

Lyra snorts.

Caraxes is much more amendable to joyrides with extras than Ancalagon. Ulf almost vibrates out of his skin with excitement when they finally land.

Ulf gets the job at ten stags a month. It’s not much, but more than he expected, and he’s more than happy to bring extra money home to his mother.

Commander Kester originally offered him half that, but Daemon asked nicely that he reconsider, so he did reconsider.

The day before the celebrations begin, Lyra is filled with an odd sense of restlessness. Untapped energy buzzing just beneath her skin, a horrible kind of anticipation. She spends the rest of her day in the nursery, after the final fitting of her party outfit.

It’s where Alicent finds her, and pulls her to the side, face firm.

“I will wear green,”Alicent tells her, arms crossed on her chest. “I trust you know what that means.”

“I do,” Lyra says. “I’m wearing pants. My father’s old clothes perfectly befitting the occasion with their opulence and craft, but still. Not a dress.”

“That’s a statement, too.”

Lyra grins. “I guess we’ll both be taking bits of Rhaenyra’s spotlight then, if for entirely different reasons. But a green dress? That’s a loud and clear sign of your allegiance. I don’t think I've ever seen you in green before, ever .”

Alicent turns to face her, a small, sad smile on her face. “You said so yourself, I have more power than I know. And I will make good use of it, to protect myself and my children. And that starts with my own house. My father did have some— unsavory ideas, but I cannot ignore the rest of my house, or their power. And my uncle, Lord Hobert Hightower, will lend me his strength if I show I stand for my house. I need that support.”

Lyra nods. “Our paths will diverge, even if they lead to a similar goal. They would have diverged nonetheless, because you are right. My support is not enough. It would not be, not for a long time.”

“Because you were never a lady at all,” Alicent agrees. “Our customs are not for a creature such as you, and… I suppose the color fits, for I am green with envy when I think of you. For all you lack in power to sway the courts, neither are you shackled by any duty, and that—that is a terrifying kind of privilege, like a leaf fallen from the tree, unburdened by branches but at the mercy of four winds.”

“And yet, I would never trade that dangerous freedom for the comfort of a cage,” Lyra says.

“I admire that. I envy that. I resent that. But my place is here, and it is time I played this wretched game. For me. For my children.”

“Good luck Alicent,” Lyra says. “Good luck surviving that father-daughter duo from hell.”

Alicent chuckles. “I thought that was you and Daemon?”

Lyra shakes her head. “Sometimes I wish, but Rhaenyra and Viserys really do outdo us with all the harm they cause by their blind haplessness alone.”

Alicent chuckles again. She’s a little more firm now, a little sharper. She gave up on Rhaenyra, Lyra thinks, and if she ever had any hope for Viserys, Lyra will never know. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was none.

“I hope you will keep your cousins in your heart, still,” Alicent says after a moment. “And then—And then, when the winds inevitably carry you on another adventure away from here, I hope you would write to me once more.”

“I will,” Lyra promises. “We will disagree. We may well grow to resent each other, and our choices and circumstances, but remember. Where it actually matters, past those idiotic politics of old men who can’t even wipe their arses, you have a friend in me. Always. And if I’m able to help, I will.”

“Thank you. For everything. And good luck on your future endeavors.”

“You too,” Lyra nods. “For whatever it’s worth—I’ll likely cause trouble at the reception, too.”

Alicent actually giggles at that. “I rather look forward to it. Just don’t kill anyone.”

“No promises. I’ve been getting really good at that.”

Alicent slaps her shoulder. “Do not .”

“Gods, you sound like cousin Rhaenys! Fine , I’ll keep my violence to myself!”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Oh, and Alicent?”

“Yes?”

“If you want to make a big statement, be late to the welcome party.”

“Oh, I intended to, yes.”

“Good luck. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“You too, Lyra.”

Chapter Text

In the morning of the wedding opening feast Lyra gets up bright and early, lured out by the budding activity of the final preparations. She dresses simply, puts her hair in a quick single braid and then a bun, and goes to shovel the combs she used yesterday into a bag full of other combs, oils, tools and trinkets. It rouses the Daemon-shaped mound of blankets, but only enough for him to poke his head out, glance at her, and flop back on the mattress like a particularly disgruntled mop.

Lyra chuckles at the scene.

<Don’t laugh at me, little flame,> the blanket-mound complains. <It’s not time for me to be up. Why are you up? The sun barely is.>

<I’m going to harass Rhaenyra a little,> she says and pats her bag. <You catch a few more hours of sleep, old man. There’s trouble to be caused later.>

The blanket-mound snorts. <Do you want me to save you some breakfast?>

<I’ll eat there.>

<Have fun, then. Go harass your cousin, she's not yet stressed enough I'm sure.>

Lyra snorts. <I thought you were supposed to tell me to be nice.>

<Nonsense. Now let me sleep.>

<Yes, yes. I'll see you later.>

The blanket-mound stills, and says nothing further. After a moment, she hears soft snoring from it, and takes it as her cue to leave.

○

She walks by the guards, and they look at her weird but let her come in without much fuss. She’s not known for a good relationship with Rhaenyra, but she’s family still and the circumstances are special for once.

Rhaenyra is already up, groggy and frowning at nothing in particular but also everything at once. She almost glitters in the morning light, white-haired and pale-skinned, clad in a shimmery robe. Inhuman kind of creature with its bright purple eyes still with a film of milky sleep over them, elfin, fae almost; like a figurine of spun glass among her attendants.

Lyra would even be impressed, if she didn't see a very similar sight in the mirror every day.

Rhaenyra bristles the second Lyra struts into the room, eyes locking on her cousin, head motionless save the barest tilt of her pale neck.

<What are you doing here?> Rhaenyra hisses between the startled attendants, looking among themselves and unsure how to react. Lyra puts her bag by the vanity before she looks Rhaenyra up and down. Her hair is down and still a little damp from a recent bath. Lyra can work with this.

She brandishes her bag at Rhaenyra, and simply says; <Move your ass to the vanity, I'm braiding your hair and we don't got all day.>

It's not simple of course, and Rhaenyra doesn't move at all, frozen and mouth ajar and herself taken entirely off-guard. It takes her a moment to reboot, and when she does there's something half-guarded and half-hopeful in her eyes.

<Why?> she asks. <Why would you?>

<Who else. Alicent doesn't know the first thing about Valyrian braids and Rhaenys is the groom's mother, Laena is the groom's sister,> Lyra says, and points at the vanity. <I'm the only one who's left.>

There's a pained glint in Rhaenyra's eyes, because it shouldn't have been Lyra. It never should have been Lyra here, now, at this day, offering this because there was simply nobody else who could. It was to be a special, traditional moment between two women, but not them.

It should've been Aemma here instead.

<How do you even know how to do these braids?>

Lyra shrugs. <One of us has a useless father, and it isn't me.>

Rhaenyra snorts, crossing her hands on her chest somewhat petulantly, but otherwise doesn't defend Viserys. She would any other day, probably, because he’s still her father and she still loves him for it, but not now, not when Rhaenyra can’t ignore the painful, mother-shaped hole in her chest.

It takes her a moment to decide, but she does make her way to the vanity and sits down, glaring at Lyra through the mirror. They stay quiet like this, Rhaenyra thunderous and Lyra busy taking out all the combs and oils out of her bag and arranging them in order that makes no sense to anyone but herself before she starts pawing at her cousin’s hair.

<It shouldn't be you,> Rhaenyra says after a moment, and her eyes grow misty as she digs her nails into her legs. <I hate it. It's my wedding, and I wouldn't even get to wear the fucking wedding braids if it weren't for you.>

Lyra grabs Rhaenyra's hair, squeezes it a little to see how damp it still is.

<Rest assured,> she hums, not unkindly. <My dislike of you won’t stop me from making Aunt Aemma proud.>

Rhaenyra scoffs. <You better. Or I’ll stab you with one of your combs..>

<That’s quite an annoying attitude for someone whose fistful of hair I just grabbed, don’t you agree?> Lyra chirps, and sees Rhaenyra's eyes narrow in annoyance in the mirror, blinking away the unshed tears.

< You're an annoying brat, and this changes nothing,> she declares after a moment.

<And you’re an insufferable bint, and I intend it to change nothing,> Lyra snorts, combing and sectioning the hair off for easier work.

Rhaenyra sighs. <How about just shut up, braid, and let me hate you in peace.>

<You know this will take too long, right?> Lyra hums, attention divided between the hair and the conversation. <My silence will drive you up the wall, and I need you sitting still.>

Rhaenyra groans and rolls her eyes. <Fine. Tell me about Laenor, then. You know him far better than I. How long have you been at the Stepstones together again?>

<Not that long. He was banned from joining until he became an adult.>

<Unlike you.>

<Oh no, I was absolutely not allowed to join either,> Lyra snorts. <I simply didn’t let that stop me.>

<Are you stupid?> Rhaenyra asks, sending her a look through the mirror.

<I'm my father's daughter,> Lyra answers diplomatically.

<Yeah, you're stupid.>

○

It’s a labor of love for sure, more hours than Lyra is willing to admit of planning and picking accessories and letting the aromatic oils sit on Rhaenyra’s scalp, and then painstakingly braiding the hair strands one by one and then together with lace and pearls and gems. The Valyrian wedding braid is one of the most technically challenging hairstyles of their people even without the accessories, meant to be worn only once in a lifetime, look pretty, but be durable enough to survive dressing up and the whole party.

And it’s composed majorly out of tiny, thin braids, something Rhaenyra’s hip-long hair is definitely not helping speed along. Lyra needs to take more than one break when her arms start hurting too much to keep going.

Rhaenyra’s maids ask if they could maybe help midway through, because surely they could if Lyra directed them, no? And she’s struggling already, and they need to start getting ready—

Rhaenyra snaps at them somewhat unkindly, and Lyra soothes it over. This is tradition, she tells them. Important and personal, and vital that a blood relation does this. Part of a heritage that just barely escaped the Doom.

They manage in the end, of course, even in an almost-timely manner, and Lyra only feels like stabbing Rhaenyra with a hairpin twice in the however many hours it takes. Her arms ache and will ache for days for this and her fingers are numb, but her creation looks good and she’s proud of herself; hair pulled back and braids layered over another to form something like a halo at the back of Rhaenyra’s hair, and then the rest of it hanging down in an elaborate, ribboned lattice.

<Not half bad,> Rhaenyra says, looking herself over in the mirror. <Now go away, I need to dress.>

<Fuck you, too,> Lyra chirps, mood currently too good for Rhaenyra’s quips to sour, shoveling her haircare products back into the bag. She has to dress up for the party, too.

<Lyra,> Rhaenyra says just as she puts her hand on the doorknob. Lyra stops, but doesn’t turn around. She knows Rhaenyra isn’t looking at her either, by how her voice sounds. <Thank you.>

<You’re welcome. Now go get dressed, you have a party to impress,> Lyra says, and leaves.

○

Lyra gets dressed too, in the refurbished outfit she filched off her father. Now that it’s been touched up, it’s hard to believe the garment is fifteen years old, and she takes a moment to marvel at the sheer quality of the craftsmanship, and how it survived for years without even fading. Fashion contemporary to her old world could never.

And her boots—she has new ones, and she loves them a lot. They reach mid-shin, are made of blackened leather and reinforced with Ancalagon’s shed scales. Their toes have steel caps in them, and they lace in the front with reinforced leather strips through steel inlets.

The smith she asked to work on it looked at her weird, but she paid well and got what she asked for. The cobbler looked at her even weirder when she brought him a custom design, but obliged regardless, intrigued, and then she had her boots. Ulf was appropriately impressed by the idea of putting steel caps on them, as were the Gold Cloaks. Something they will end up implementing, likely—good for their line of work. In the shadier parts of town, people fight dirty, and a well-placed boot tends to be more useful than a sword.

She lets Daemon braid her hair, a simple two thick ropes hanging down her back, her hair bone-bleached white, thick and healthy, and longer by the day. It almost reaches her waist braided, and she likes the look and feel of it. One vanity she’ll need to learn to function around with her preferred rougher lifestyle.

She puts the Valyrian pendant on, lets it hang hidden under her vest, almost-unseen, and then hurries Daemon up so they can leave, or they’ll end up later than they intend to be.

They walk in just fashionably late enough, after the Velaryons enter but before everyone is seated and the doors closed, so everyone’s attention is on them, unannounced by Ser Westerling but seen and acknowledged all the same. It’s just rude and tactless enough to cause a stir, but not really enough to be commented on, as Daemon struts in like he owns the place to the tune of murmur disguised behind well-placed coughs, followed by Lyra in perfect form, hands languidly clasped behind her as she stands half-obscured by her father’s shadow.

Some will see an obedient child following her father despite his obvious flaws—others, wiser to the ways women operate in this world, will see a hand wrapped around Daemon’s leash.

The truth, of course, is as always somewhere in between, and it begins and ends with mutual respect that many cannot fathom could exist between a parent and child.

As they walk, Lyra looks around discreetly and makes a tally of all the houses she recognizes.

On the right, there’s the Lannisters all in gold and Lyra is surprised that, even though they’re identical twins, Jason has an incredibly punchable face in comparison to Tyland who just looks normal.

There are Velaryons up front, decked in their sea-green silk, a good mix of Valyrian and Summer Islander traits that sets them apart from others, save for a pretty blonde twink. Joffrey Lonmouth, Lyra guesses. The most important of them sit up at the main table, Laena at the narrow part and next to her Vaemond on the angle, technically closer to the king and practically quite uncomfortable. Then Rhaenys and Corlys, and then Laenor almost at the center, all in teal and white except for Rhaenys in teal and black.

There’s Rhaenyra, sat at the very center and strategically placed so that anyone entering sees the silhouette of the Iron Throne right behind her as they enter, her hair the elaborate braids Lyra spent all morning working on, adorned with a ruby diadem. The dress she wears is black, glossy Yi-Tish satin and silk lined with Myrish lace, off-shoulder with red silk lining, and puffy leg-of-mutton sleeves, vine-dragon patterns woven into the fabric itself. There’s a shape of a corset as she stands, the front panel likewise patterned and embroidered with little rubies going up from the hem, lined with lace. A black skirt-cover goes down from it, edges embroidered in more gold and rubies and finished in black lace, and between it peeks out the skirt of heavy and heavily embroidered in more gold dragons glossy-red silk. Her jewelry is all ruby and delicate gold chains, save for the band of a midnight-black Valyrian Steel choker around her neck. She already looks the part of a Valyrian Queen.

Lyra has no love for dresses on her own frame, but she can appreciate them on others.

There’s Viserys there, too, in royal regalia and the Conciliator’s crown. There’s a lack of Alicent beside him, a declaration in the making.

On the left, there’s the Strongs, Harwin with his hair pulled back easily towering at least half a head over everyone else with an easy grin she nods at, and Larys with his shining eyes who keeps staring at her unpleasantly, and for the moment she catches his gaze something brushes against her mind, only for it to recoil when it comes against the power that is Ancalagon embedded in her ego. Larys looks away first, breath hitching but composure otherwise kept. Ancalagon rumbles somewhere in Lyra’s hindbrain in displeasure, but Lyra pays it no mind. She’ll have to deal with Larys eventually. She likes Harwin, and she’d much prefer him alive and unburned.

Then there is the Royces to the left, in their bronze. And there’s Rhea Royce, very pointedly looking everywhere else but them, and Lyra is a little surprised to see the woman alive, and a guest.

There’s nothing as Lyra sees the woman. No longing, no love, no guilt, no grief. This is a stranger she lived with once that she is bound through the choice and will of neither. Lyra is already luckier than most, too—many have nowhere to go, no choice but stay with a mother who was forced to bear them and hates them for it, and many suffer for that.

Rhea looks better than she remembers, too. More serene, physically healthier. For that, Lyra is glad. Being stuck with someone you hate is not good for anyone.

Speaking of that, she does not like that the Royces are seated immediately next to the left side of the main table, because this is where she and Daemon are directed to sit, chairs placed for them and plates set down prior. Daemon notices, too, and grabs Lyra’s shoulders and directs her to sit at the edge of the long side of the table, between him and Lyonel Strong, while he takes the seat at the short side. Coincidentally, it’s the seat facing Laena, and Lyra would have sat there but she gets it. If not for the space to walk and some steps down the platform the table is on, she’d be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her mother.

Not something either of them would enjoy, and Rhea and Daemon have more experience pretending they don’t know each other.

(Though it seems Viserys did get one up on them this once, seating them next to the Royces. At least they have spaces prepared for them at all—Lyra halfway expected he wouldn’t, at least for Daemon, as neither even attempted to make up after their recent disagreement yet.)

Lyonel looks at her with a raised eyebrow, but says nothing. It’s the first time Lyra sees the man up close, in truth, but even without the golden Hand pin, she’d recognize him easily enough. He really looks like a softer, fatter, older Harwin. He squints at her suspiciously in the same way too, like he’s expecting her to cause trouble.

She gives him a cheeky smirk, as is customary of her, and sits down without fanfare.

Viserys starts his welcoming speech. Typical welcomes, an announcement that this is the first party of many for the celebration, prattling on about how Velaryons are their oldest allies.

Then he abruptly stops, and Lyra lets her eyes trail to the still-open main door purposefully slowly.

And there stands Alicent, a green beacon among the braziers.

Her gown is an emerald green satin, high-necked with hems and edges lined with gilded lace, geometric pattern heat-stamped on carefully. The bodice ends in a sharp point, lined with a girdle of dark satin studded with gold, pearls, and emeralds. The sleeves are open and hanging, from underneath which the pristine-white sleeves of the smock can be plainly seen, capped with ruffled lace, the same pattern as the ruff at her neck. The petticoat peeks out from underneath the gown where it splits in two at the skirt, brighter green and lushly embroidered with golden thread. She has ropes of pearls and golden chains hanging around her shoulders, and gold-encrusted emeralds on her rings.

Oldtown’s finest, a dress elaborate and expensive enough it has to have been waiting for Alicent.

Then, something catches Lyra’s eye. On Alicent’s head, there’s a tiara of gold and pearls, and it sits atop an elaborate updo, the kind that’s popular in the Reach. That in itself is very normal.

There are braids among the ringlets, though, thin and delicate—a nice accent to upgrade the look, others will think.

These are my casual fishtails I taught her , Lyra thinks instead. Her handiwork, knowledge down from Daemon when her hair grew long and fingers dexterous, that she worked Helaena and Aegon’s hair with, that Alicent asked to learn and did not even a moon ago.

Casual, pretty but practical, and entirely without meaning on their own bar their comfort and durability, yet the circumstances now give them more than meaning enough in a way Alicent knows nobody but them will see. The lighthouse green gown rallying for war for the lot, the obvious statement; the Valyrian braids hidden between her hair, a silent hope.

All stand up to greet her, all bar Daemon who’s looking at Alicent intrigued, gaze flickering between the dress and the hair, trying to make sense of it.

Alicent slows as she makes her way past the Hightowers, nods at them in greeting where she ignores all other houses. She goes up the steps to the family table, and rounds it from the left. She brushes past Daemon and bumps into him in a way that’s almost friendly and easily written off as a stumble, and squeezes Lyra’s arm in quick, silent greeting. That is sincere.

The even, emotionless and definitely-rehearsed “Congratulations, stepdaughter. What a blessing this is for you,” and the slow, deliberate kiss to Viserys’ cheek is not.

Even among the Targaryens, Alicent’s picked a side. Assuming there is a side to pick, of course; Lyra isn’t sure what to think about the blatant green yet, even if she was forewarned about it, and Daemon loathes anything Otto-related with rabid disdain.

They sit back down when Viserys tells them to, and he fumbles for a few seconds too long before Lyonel comes to the rescue, reminding him of where his speech was interrupted. From then, he continues for a short time, something about family unity and prosperity.

Lyra only half-listens, just like most people gathered. They laugh when appropriate, and clap vigorously, with just their hands or slamming at the table, when he’s finished. He reaffirms Rhaenyra as his heir, too—and with two sons and likely counting, that is a very decisive statement.

Pity he’d never quite follow it up, or seek to cull Rhaenyra’s arrogance and replace it with cunning.

○

The guests get about half an hour to snack on the provided food and acclimate after the arrival, mostly using it to gossip about everything and anything. Anything scandalous is quickly drowned in the murmur of the larger crowd and clanking of cups and cutlery. Laena and Daemon seem to have a whole conversation in that time, one edge of the table to another, not a word spoken and communicated entirely in raised eyebrows and cups, a fork waved here and there. It’s actually quite cute.

Daemon’s interested; there’s finally something to be interested in, what with Laena being twenty-one and having shed the last of the baby fat and grown into that teenage lankiness in the past few years. Finally she’s someone he’s even aware has entered the dating pool. And she’s Valyrian—scion of two Valyrian houses no less—and a dragonrider, which happens to be his exact type.

Then finally Rhaenyra and Laenor step out and the music starts, and they have their first dance. It’s without much feeling past a polite smile, and they touch each other like they’re each touching a hedgehog, but from the outside perspective of someone who doesn’t know them, the dance definitely must look impressive. Their technique is impeccable, both matching each beat, and they look just gorgeous, Rhaenyra in her black-and-red gown among the telltale rustle of a silk petticoat, and Laenor in his teal garb with a tail and a capelet that flows just as nicely.

Two well-dressed good-looking people skillfully dancing together; no wonder they paint such a pretty picture. They even start having fun as the song progresses, so that’s nice to see at least.

Everybody claps when they’re done, mostly excited. Alicent’s heart clearly isn’t into it, Daemon gives a few lazy claps and stops, and Joffrey Lonmouth really looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than his boyfriend’s wedding. Viserys is clapping eagerly though, and Lyra is gripped with jealousy.

Fools really tend to live happy, simple lives. Part of her would love that sort of unburdened existence.

After the first dance, the music continues, but this time anyone who wants to dance can go to the space between the tables, and most do. Alicent runs off to speak with the Hightowers; it makes even Viserys wince, and all merriment drains from Lyonel’s face at it too. Lyra pays it little mind, instead scanning the hall for what she’s looking for. It’s not long before she finds it, the white armor standing out like a sore thumb in the sea of colorful gowns, and a sour-faced Criston Cole skulking by a column. She needs to track him; she doesn’t know if he’ll strike tonight, but she hopes he will. If he kills Lonmouth during a tourney like it was in the books, Lyra is shit out of luck in doing something about that.

She almost misses Rhea’s approach to the royal table, but when the woman positions herself right on the other side of the table to them, Lyra is forced to look at her. The other options are Viserys and a wall.

She looks—not bad. A little tired, just as jagged around the edges, but healthy and like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Lyra can relate.

Though the dress she wears looks good on Rhea, a traditional Vale cut in a warm orange with many bronze accessories, she’s clearly uncomfortable in it. The stitching, the embroidery, the weight and constraint—it’s no cotton pants and leather cuirass that allows for a wide range of movement in its comfort and durability that she yearns for in her very posture.

They’re alike, that way.

They’re alike in many ways, Lyra realizes, as she looks at the woman standing before her, now that she’s shedding her own baby fat and Rhea is here, reminding her of her own looks.

It’s in the shape of their eyes, and the bridge of their nose, and the chin is somewhere in-between.

If Lyra wore the colors of a normal person, instead of being the washed-out wraith she is, she’d look a lot like her mother. Incomparably more than Daemon, at least—the white hair and purple eyes are doing a lot of the heavy lifting there. Their physique too, is similar now that Lyra can see her; shoulders just a smidge too-wide to be considered attractively feminine, taller than average, fingers bony, body prone to bulk, chest almost negligible. Unfeminine.

She likes it, she thinks, being a bulwark more than a wispy willow. Something that won’t bend or break, but will shatter anyone who tries.

Daemon sees it too, judging by how his face sours as he looks between them. It’s easy for him to think Lyra looks just like him, when the woman half of whose face she’s wearing isn’t there.

“Daelyra,” Rhea says stiffly, and Lyra twitches a bit. Few people ever refer to her with her full name, it sounds weird now.

Daemon sits back, eyebrow lifted and gaze flickering between them both. He says nothing.

“Lady Royce,” Lyra responds. Rhea doesn’t so much as twitch. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“There are matters we must discuss, as much as we’d rather avoid each other for the duration of the festivities. I ask you to visit me before tomorrow’s festivities begin in the Royce Manse,” Rhea asks, eyes flickering to Daemon. “Alone, of course. This is a family matter.”

Daemon bristles. “Do remember I do not take insults well, Rhea—”

“It’s but the truth,” Rhea tells him simply. “You are no longer my husband, and we are strangers to each other. Daelyra alone has any claim to kinship with me.”

“Well… Since you actually approached of your own volition it must be important,” Daelyra muses. “Very well. I’ll come for breakfast tomorrow, an hour after daybreak. You’re usually awake by then, are you not?”

Rhea nods, satisfied, and without further ado walks back to her table. Lyra laces her hands in front of her on the table and rests her chin on them, trying to figure out why the fuck would Rhea want to speak with her at all, and why now.

But it’s simple, isn’t it? Without any other children or talks of remarriage, Lyra is Rhea’s only direct heir, despite legally staying with Daemon. There’s much to discuss on that front.

Daemon just huffs, following Rhea with a thunderous gaze until she sits down, looks at him, and gives him a subtle but undeniably rude gesture with both hands; one she must have seen Lyra do on occasion. Daemon snorts and looks away, back at Laena—and brightens up immediately. It doesn’t take long before, through a series of gestures, they agree to go to the dancefloor and do just that. He pats her shoulder and Lyra tells him nothing of the fight that might happen, and less of her plans to intervene. This is his fun to have, his romance to test out. He’ll have his dancing and flirting—she’ll have her violence, gods willing.

She wonders, briefly, if Maegor craved it that way, too. If the lack of it, of the adrenaline, of the sticky-warm iron-smelling red on his hands made his skin crawl with a lack, if it made him more fidgety and restless the longer he went among the people but without a fight.

Like a monster waiting to feed on cortisol.

It would make sense. Homunculi were supersoldiers, handcrafted to kill and main in the name of Valyria; they were not meant to be stable, or socially functional.

Fucked up, if you ask Lyra. Another tick in the ‘no wonder the gods did nothing when they all died’ box.

She shakes it off and looks over to that end of the table as Laena leaves, catching Rhaenys’ eye. There’s a shared raised eyebrow and a shrug, but no disapproval. They both know Laena is betrothed to the son of a Sealord; it says a lot about the match that nobody on her side is at all fazed by her flirting with Daemon.

Lyra turns back to the dancefloor, eyes zoning back on her white-armored sour-faced prey. He’s looking at Rhaenyra as she twirls between Laenor and Harwin with a big smile, clearly having fun properly now, gaze somewhere between longing and disgusted.

The dancing keeps going. Joffrey Lonmouth approaches Cole—Lyra gets up, skitters past the people. Daemon doesn’t approach Rhaenyra, but Lyra thinks she sees him bump into Harwin anyway, laugh it off, and keep going.

She circles the dancefloor, elbows sharp and eyes trained on white armor between the people. Adrenaline keeps rising as she gets closer and closer—and she sees it, the way Cole’s face changes. She sees the shift in his stance under the armor, sees the way he telegraphs his movement—

Cole grabs Lonmouth by the collar, throws him to the ground and the crowd yelps, roused into a beginning of an useless hysteria.

It may be adrenaline, it may be how she’s made with some human parts but others not so much—it’s definitely something, deep and primal and ancient, and it boils in her blood clawing to get free, chanting violence-violence-violence in Ancalagon’s crocodilian rumble in her hindbrain, when she finally breaks through the crowd and sees Cole over Lonmouth on the ground fully, raining down blows.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t think. There’s only do—so, she does.

The steel cap of her boot connects with Cole’s jaw with a force and a snap, and he howls as the combination of shock, momentum and pain throws him off Lonmouth and on his side, wincing and gasping. Lonmouth for his part has his face bloody, and a split lip and probably broken nose, and he tries to curl into a ball the moment he can, but Lyra doesn’t let him do that under her feet. She grabs him by the coat and pushes him around and away from Cole, towards the crowd that backs away as she steps between the curled-up man and the rabid Kingsguard.

Cole shakes his head like a dog, blood spilling from his broken lip as he stumbles to his knees then his feet, looking around in confusion and cupping his jaw. Lyra hopes it’s broken.

The crowd shies back from him, a murmur spreading. It shies away from her, and from Lonmouth, and from Cole, sizing them up, expectant and shocked at the turn of events. Someone screams, but it’s eerily quiet in the backdrop of a murmur and still past that, much more so than seconds ago. Lyra pays it no mind. She’s more focused on giving Cole no time to recover—he barely stands and she’s there, kicking up his knee because his leg is angled perfectly for that, and when it topples him, she can reach his face with her legs and kicks his chin up again. She’d punch him, but her arms don’t have necessary power yet. Her legs do, so she kicks him in the stomach as he lays down. It actually hurts, because his armour is pretty thick. If not for the caps on her shoes, Lyra might’ve broken a toe.

Cole tries to grab at her, so she skips out of his reach and a step further as he gags and coughs and shakes his head again as he clamours back to his feet, face contorted in anger and pain.

It happens fast, all of it, but it’s enough time for Laenor to sneak in, grab Lonmouth, and drag him back to safety. Lyra pays them no mind; the threat is before her, furious enough that she knows he will step forward. Might get a punch in even, before he’s reached by the guards and tackled.

She might end with a broken nose or a jaw. Maybe a concussion. He is bigger than her, and a trained soldier, so if he gets a hit in she’ll definitely fold, and he is not a man of self-control. She got him good, but element of surprise is done and she doesn’t have time to reach for the knife in her boot, so all she can do is brace herself—

A shadow steps between them, a glint of a steel dagger pointed at Cole’s neck, stopping him mid-step as the crowd gasps entirely too dramatically.

“No,” Daemon says, tone faux-casual. “I don’t think you will.”

Cole’s eyes snap to Daemon, target recalibrating, but he doesn’t move. There’s something in Daemon’s eyes, Lyra can tell, even if all she sees is the back of his head. She sees Cole’s face though, and whatever he sees makes him freeze.

Daemon kills liberally as it is, that is a well-known fact, and Cole just tried to maul his daughter for the sin of stopping him from mauling someone else.

Not to mention Daemon is actually Cole’s size and can effectively fight back, unlike Lyra, or Lonmouth. That is not a target Cole is willing to engage, clearly.

“So,” Daemon purrs, tilting Cole’s chin with the dagger. “It would appear that the only opponents the great Ser Criston Cole is willing to engage are a felled squire and an unarmed child.”

He says it in that absolutely, utterly, infuriatingly condescending, saccharine-sweet croon of his, like he’s talking to a baby or a dog, and it works wonders in making Cole tense and coil like he’s going to strike anyway. The rage is boiling in his eyes, and if gaze alone could kill the whole room would have dropped dead already.

“Your daughter is a savage,” Criston spits, and Daemon barks out a sharp laugh.

“I think you misspoke a saviour,” Damon says and tilts his head. “Though it is so very like you to lay blame on a child trying to save a life, rather take ownership of your would-be murder. Is this the honour and integrity of the Kingsguard these days? If so, I must worry for my brother’s safety.”

“And what do you know of honour!” Cole snaps, incensed all over again. Daemon lets out another cackle.

“I know how a man looks without it,” he says. It’s all he needs to say—it’s all he can say, before the castle guards finally make it through the crowd and seize Cole. Daemon sheathes the dagger, tucks it in his inner breast pocket as he steps back, next to Lyra, and leads her away from the mess.

<Why didn’t you tell me?> he asks, looking down at her. There’s definitely worry in his eyes as he gives her a cursory look-over, satisfied to find no damage.

<You were having fun,> Lyra says with a shrug. <Didn’t want to interrupt. I may have overestimated how reasonable he’d be.>

Daemon puts a hand on her head. <Next time you’re not sure, come to me. Cole has a looser grip on his temper than I do, and half  the self-awareness.>

<Half? Very charitable estimation.>

Daemon snorts. <Just. Try to not pick very obviously losing battles next time, okay?>

<Yeah,> Lyra says with a nod.

They make their way back to the royal table, where Lyra is immediately accosted by Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Laena, first two worried enough to just exchange a startled look before returning to fussing about her like they’re not in a middle of a blood feud.

“Wow, maybe I should get into more trouble if that brings you two back together,” Lyra grins. Rhaenyra and Alicent both look at her incredulously, and Laena immediately cuffs her at the back of her head.

“Absolutely not,” she hisses.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Daemon agrees as he steps between them and puts his hands on Lyra’s shoulders. “You will sit down, have some chicken, and not get into any more trouble today.”

“Awww. Is Laenor’s twink okay at least?”

“What is—Never mind,” Rhaenyra sighs and shakes her head. “They took him away, to the Maester I believe. I hope he’s fine.”

“Hopefully,” Laena says. “It would be a very dark cloud over the celebrations otherwise, and Laenor would be downright inconsolable.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I want to be on good terms with him, and the marriage being soured in such a way in its infancy would get in the way of that. I’d much rather avoid such a thing. This is to be a happy occasion for us both.”

As they speak, Lyra looks at Alicent. “Can you do me a favour?”

“What is it?”

“Deal with Cole,” Lyra says, looking at her. “He might try to kill himself after this… ah, shameful display. I hate him too much to let him take the easy way out—keep him alive, because perception is what he actually cares about. It’ll be better if he stews in his shame.”

Alicent sighs and shakes her head, but there is a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You can be so wicked sometimes,” she says. “But alas, he is a greatly skilled and… usually a very loyal knight. It’d be such a shame to let him go indeed.”

○

The party, predictably, fizzles out after that. Laenor refuses to leave Lonmouth’s side as he’s looked over by the Maesters, and the festive atmosphere is definitively gone in the light of the outburst anyway. Hopefully, the people will be back in high—er spirits tomorrow, but today there’s no more fun to be had, so people leave back to their lodgings.

Daemon stays behind to make sure Lyra is okay, he always does; but she isn’t even that shaken and about to be busy besides, so she tells him to go chase Laena. Though he hesitates at first, he does relent and soon enough the two vanish off to somewhere, giggling like teenagers.

Still, people whisper. Lyra hears it through Snickerdoodle’s ears as he prances through the halls, snatching rat after rat, not even eating them, just making sure to limit Larys’ reach with a growing pile of furry corpses. Black dress, green dress, political strife between two emerging parties, Lyra’s own stunt—the Rogue Prince’s blood in action, they say. Just like her father, they say, and mean it in mockery.

She takes it for a compliment.

○

She goes to unwind Rhaenyra’s braids. She doesn’t have to, not really, she could handle that herself or with the help of her ladies-in-waiting, but there’s a matter she’d like to discuss.

<I hate everything about today,> Rhaenyra rages. Understandable, really. <And Alicent’s dress, and Cole—gods, it would have been so much worse if you didn’t kick his face in.>

<You’re welcome. And, since I braided your hair and then saved your husband’s boyfriend,> Lyra chirps and throws the few ruby-encrusted hairpins she loosed out into a wooden box. <I have a favor to ask.>

Rhaenyra glares at her through the mirror. <Of course you do.>

<Relax, it’s nothing bad.>

<I’ll be the judge of that.>

<I want free pass to Dragonstone.>

Rhaenyra blinks at her. <Why?>

<Dragons,> Lyra says like it’s obvious. <Their numbers are concerningly low, you surely noticed. Dreamfyre and Silverwing roost there, confirmed egg-layers both, and yet only Syrax, Seasmoke, and that young golden dragon have hatched and successfully grown in the last thirty years. Before that, we only got Caraxes and Meleys. Five dragons in what—seventy years?>

Rhaenyra narrows her eyes, thoughtful. <It’s been six years since you claimed the Cannibal, and spent most of that time away in Stepstones. Surely, something must have hatched in the meantime—?>

<If any have, there was surely no word of it. What of Dragonpit hatcheries?>

<Empty,> Rhaenyra says. <Eggs all gone cold, every single one. I thought it’s because Dragonstone is an active volcano and Dragonpit is much colder?>

<Definitely a case against Dragonpit,> Lyra agrees. <But if Dragonstone is empty as well, that is a reason for worry, which is why I’m requesting a free pass. Someone must investigate this.>

<And you’re that someone.>

<Yeah. I’ve always had a knack for handling our mean big lizards, even those that aren’t mine.>

<I’ll allow it,> Rhaenyra says after a brief consideration. <You are right about its importance. Without dragons, there’s very little special about us. Queer looks, queer customs, queer resistance to heat and taste for raw flesh aside, we are as mortal as the rest of them. And the Kingdoms have tried to rebel with the dragons at our disposal—without them, we’re but sitting ducks waiting for the bowman.>

<Dreams didn’t make us kings,> Lyra hums. <Dragons did.>

Rhaenyra’s spine snaps straight with a jolt and she whirls to look at Lyra properly. <How did you—?!>

Lyra smiles. <Because though dreams don’t bring Kingship, they bring important knowledge.>

<Is that why you’re so weird?> Rhaenyra asks, convinced by her own words thrown back at her coupled with the family lore. <Because you’re a Dreamer?>

Lyra just hums. <Something like that. Now sit still.>

<Then… actually—>

<What?>

<Will you do my hair tomorrow, as well?>

Lyra tilts her head. <Depends. My mother requested my presence at the Royce manse at breakfast.>

<Rhea Royce? Why?>

<Inheritance, probably,> Lyra muses. <She has no other children, and avoids remarriage like it’s the Shivers. And every lord needs an heir, or their vassals get nervous of strife.>

<True. They get nervous about a girl heir too, though.>

<For the whole kingdom, because they’re stupid,> Lyra reminds. <The local lords do have women as rulers from time to time. Disputed to hells and back, but they do.>

<Like my cousin, Jeyne,> Rhaenyra muses.

<Like your cousin, Jeyne,> Lyra agrees. <Do you write to her?>

<Not really.>

<You should. Show solidarity as a fellow woman in power, not just as family. Gathering your power base should be your primary worry right now.>

Rhaenyra hums. She’s not taking it very seriously, but that’s her mistake to make. <I suppose. Hey, Lyra?>

<What?>

<Do you want me on the throne?>

Lyra tilts her head. <You specifically, I don’t care. But it’s way past the time we had a queen regnant, so you’ll do.>

<And you?>

<What me? I already told you—>

<Would you want to be the ruling queen?>

Lyra barks out a laugh. <Hells, never. That is not the kind of a job I’m willing to ever handle. I’d end up being a tyrant first week in.>

<How so?> Rhaenyra asks with interest.

<Because I value the smallfolk,> Lyra says. <But think the highborn are beneath me bar those I personally like. And if I ever got the chance I would very much act accordingly. Taxing the rich to feed the poor and the like.>

<They’d revolt, wouldn’t they?> Rhaenyra asks, raising an eyebrow.

<And give me an excuse to burn them all, yes,> Lyra nods as she undoes another braid. <I appreciate their eagerness to waddle off to their doom.>

Rhaenyra narrows her eyes in the mirror. <You’d rule a kingdom of ash and tears.>

<Nope, I’d rule the smallfolk,> Lyra grins. <And I’d keep them fed, and healthy, and safe. And they’d love me as I burned their masters and danced on their charred corpses and instated thoroughly vetted and loyal people in positions of power so they would not dare do other than I like.>

<You’re right, you would be a tyrant.>

Lyra smiles. <To the rich and the highborn,> she agrees. <I’m not a patient person when faced with idiocy and greed, and I have less than no time for the game. You’re either with me, or dead. Otto Hightower, for example, would not have survived a week of being my hand with his ambitions.>

Rhaenyra shudders. <As much as I agree on the Otto Hightower matter specifically, you are a bloodthirsty little monster. I find myself grateful you’re as good as dead-last in line.>

<As am I,> Lyra chirps. <This job would be far too stressful than I’m willing to handle. Your father’s easy existence is provided to him by the very capable Hand and Small Council; we both know he only cares about tourneys, feasts, and his Freehold model. Which by the way is incorrect in its planning, Freehold was in a valley, not on a hill.>

<Pedantic menace,> Rhaenyra sighs. <Still, it clearly works for him. Why wouldn’t you do something similar?>

<Because I don’t want the damn chair to cut me every time I sit on it. And remember, Rhae; always put the amount of work equal to what you’re paid. The more you’re paid, the more you need to apply yourself, and few get paid more than the King.>

<So it’s about money?>

Lyra cackles. <Oh Rhae, it’s always about money. Wealth is the fuel the world runs on, but surely you knew that?>

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker away.

○

Later into the night as she’s on her way to visit Laenor and check if Lonmouth still breathes, she’s stopped by Lyonel Strong. That is odd; though she is friends with Harwin, and Lyonel himself is Hand of the King, they have never really interacted. Never enough for him to flag her on the stairs at least, and that makes her curious.

“Lord Hand, to what do I owe the surprise?”

Lyonel looks to his side with a face like he’s rethinking many more decisions than just flagging her down, before he sighs deeply. 

“There’s… No reasonable way to explain this, I fear,” he says honestly. “My—cousin, from Harrenhall, she wrote to me insisting I pass her letter to you—”

Lyra blinks.

“Oh, it’s Alys isn’t it?” she says and Lyonel looks at her with a gaze stuck somewhere between surprise and realization that quickly turns into sour discomfort. “That’s earlier than I thought to meet her.”

“You know her.”

“Of her,” Lyra corrects. “Never met the woman.”

“But you know,” Lyonel sighs. “Of course you know. This… explains things.”

Lyra just shrugs. “The letter?”

“I will have a servant deliver it to your chambers tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Lyra says, and almost turns to leave, but—

She wonders if he’ll die this time, too, burned in his own home. Part of her wants to say no—part of her simply doesn’t know. Still, as she thinks about it, she can’t help but feel like he will. Even if it doesn’t go the way it did, Lyonel is the Hand now. That is the position Otto wants. Whether there’s a scandal or not, Otto will seek to oust him and return all the same, and chances are high that, no matter what, these people’s ambition will lead to the exact same result, whichever path is taken.

And after all, all it takes is one wrong word to Larys—or, Hells, Larys’ own ambition, for it all to go down the same way it had. Given the people involved chances are higher they will than they won’t.

She turns back and skips towards Lyonel, tugging on his sleeve when she reaches him. “Lean down.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’re tall and what I have to say is for your ears only.”

Lyonel raises an eyebrow and looks around a little. He finds nothing of course, but after a moment of consideration he leans down anyway. Walls have ears in this damned place and he knows that well. Lyra grins.

“One night within the next decade, when you’ve been relieved of your post in favor of Hightower’s return, when you have come back to Harrenhall, you and Harwin will burn,” she whispers into his ear, and he stiffens. “Despite what they will say, it will not have been an accident at all.”

Lyonel flinches away as if burned. “What—?!”

Lyra steps back with a small smile and curtsies him with the hem of her jacket instead as she chirps a “Have a nice day!” and skips away with Lyonel’s perturbed gaze prickling the back of her neck.

○

Lyra takes her time to visit Lonmouth too, if only to confirm that she succeeded and he’s alive, to both of which the answer is yes. Though beaten, with his face swollen, lip split, and nose more crooked than it was before, Lonmouth breathes evenly through his parted lips. Laenor predictably remains glued at his bedside, worried sick despite the Maester’s best assurances, and Lyra can’t blame him at all. Medicine right now is only advanced enough to tell him that head wounds are serious, but not give him any real certainty that Lonmouth will recover.

Lyra stays for a bit, they talk—about nothing much really, just Snickerdoodle and bitching about Cole and maybe plotting revenge a bit. Laenor profusely thanks her and calls her stupid in the same sentence for even approaching the situation, and he’s right on both counts so she takes it.

<Do you want me to stay here with you?> Lyra asks eventually, when the few conversation topics they had for now dry out.

Laenor shakes his head. < I want to stay alone with him. I don’t want to be distracted, just in case.>

Lyra nods. <I’ll leave you to it then.>

<Ah, Lyra?>

She turns back to face Laenor.

<Just so you know, Laena might be with Daemon right now.>

<Thanks, but contrary to popular belief I actually have my own room.>

<I—Really?>

<Yeah. I rarely use it, but it’s there.>

<I didn’t know, actually,> Laenor admits. <You and Daemon are attached at the hip. Ah, irrelevant. What I wanted to ask is, are you okay with it? With Laena and Daemon?>

<Yeah. Why not?>

<She’s your friend. He’s your father.>

<Are you afraid of another version of Rhaenyra and Alicent emerging?>

Laenor looks down on his hands. <Yes.>

<Don’t worry, the situation is very different. I could do far worse for a stepmother, and he could do far worse for a wife. She could do far worse for a husband. Say, how many people would be upset if her current intended dropped dead?>

Leanor snorts. <Not many. All he has now is debts and grandeur. But still—>

<Laenor.>

<Yes?>

<Laena is not my competition for Daemon’s affection in any way. If he chooses to love her, he will love her in a completely different way to the way he loves me. And besides, he deserves to be happy.>

<He seems perfectly happy with you.>

<Seems. But I will not stay under his wings forever, and loneliness has always been his greatest enemy.>

Laenor hums and nods. <I understand.>

Lyra snorts. <Anything else to discuss?>

<No. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.>

<Yeah. Keep an eye on your boyfriend.>

<I will. Thank you, again.>

○

Laena is still with Daemon by the time Lyra makes it to the room, though they’re both thankfully dressed, if barely in some nightgowns, sipping wine and talking. They both look rather pointedly disheveled, despite clear if hasty attempts to make themselves look presentable.

Lyra would’ve caught them in bed, if she didn’t think to send Snickerdoodle to them with a note some ten minutes before her own arrival. The cat is once more nowhere to be seen, slunk back into the hollow walls of the Keep to slash more of the rats but the note she put in his collar lays next to the wine bottle on the table.

They stop and look at her when Lyra comes in. She matches their gaze, hands on her hips.

<I’m sleeping in my room tonight, I need my nightgown,> she declares. <And clothes for tomorrow>

<The nightgown should be folded somewhere on the chair,> Daemon says, waving his hand in the general direction, and Lyra goes to get it. <Clothes—elsewhere. I thought you’d want to talk? About—you know.>

The ‘you know’ is Laena waving her fingers at Lyra. Lyra chuckles.

<I do,> she says gathering her clothes. <But not now. It’s late, I’m tired, and I promised Rhea I’ll visit her for breakfast to talk about inheritance politics. I’m not doing something this bothersome when tired.>

Daemon snorts and gets up, then walks over to Lyra and pulls her into a hug. <Then I’ll just tell you again that what you did today was very brave, and very stupid, and next time something like that comes up you are to tell me so I can know and step in as needed, rather than intuit what might happen and nearly have my heart stop with fright.>

<Yes dad,> Lyra sighs. <I wanted to let you flirt in peace.>

<I can flirt while keeping an eye on your safety,> Daemon huffs. <You forget I can multitask when both things are of interest to me.>

Lyra snorts. <I suppose. Sorry for worrying you but not for stepping in. Crispy would’ve killed Lonmouth.>

<And I thank you for that,> Laena chimes in. <Laenor would’ve been inconsolable.>

<He’s barely consolable pining at his bedside as is,> Lyra snorts. <Are you going to visit him?>

<Not right now,> Laena says. <I’ll go tomorrow morning, I don’t want to heap even more interaction on him. He prefers to be alone during times like these.>

Lyra nods. It is pretty much how Laenor reacted—but then again, Laena is his older sister, if anyone would know him and his habits, it would be her.

<Yeah, he told me as much,> Lyra nods. <Was also worried I’d suddenly hate you for messing with my dad, so, uh. No I won’t. If that’s a concern still. You’re both adults, have responsible fun, don’t be too loud because I want to sleep and we share a wall, and goodnight.>

Laena laughs out loud and Daemon gives Lyra a lazy salute with a grin. Lyra grabs some clothes for tomorrow morning from the wardrobe—she’s still in her party clothes, and reusing them for a more casual setting would be  overkill—and promptly leaves to the far, far reaches of the room right next door.

It’s weird, having a whole big bed for herself. Jarring, in fact; she either slept on cots or bedrolls in Stepstones, or co-slept with Daemon for as long as she can remember, with the exception of the time in Driftmark before Stepstones.

She’s gotten so used to not sleeping alone, and didn’t even realize. Maybe Targaryens really were pack animals?

A riddle for another time.