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Unlike her husband, and unlike how most folk, noble or common think of her, Rhaenys never felt much rancor over being passed over for the crown.

Oh, she had been furious at first. Rhaenys is a Targaryen, dragon blooded, the blood of old Valyria and Aegon the conqueror, granddaughter of kings, the only child of the prince of Dragonstone. To be passed over for anyone, including her dragonless cousin from a junior line, by a joint decision from the mewling male lords of Westeros was enough to fill her with white hot fury. To stand and be judged by her inferiors. She was carrying Laena then and sometimes wonder if it was the child in her belly that stopped her from wreaking bloody vengeance, to let Harrenhal taste dragonfire once more (she told her husband as much once and he joked that given how she was when with child, the idea that she was further from fury then was amusing).

But time mellowed that anger and she would come to see the wisdom of her grandfather’s decision to let the lords choose by vote rather than steel. She was not left without patrimony and her house, her children were not left wanting. The driftwood throne is not a conciliation price.

Oh. Intellectually she knew that what her husband kept repeating long after anything cared to listen, that she would have been a better ruler than her cousin, was true. But Viserys was not a bad man nor a bad king. He kept the realm peaceful and its armies at home (for the most part), negotiated before he fought, kept their grandfather's legacy alive. She saw him weep when his wife died and laugh when his second finally gave him the son that poor Aemma died trying to give him (even though she had shared her husbands disappointment in the kings choice of bride, a part of her was relieved that she wouldn't lose Laena so soon).

But then, as her husbands sailors would say, it all went to shit.

Any fool could see that Viserys decision to take a nubile young wife and at the same time raise his daughter to heir apparent was inviting civil war, later if not sooner. She had even tried to advice the girl such, when the decision was still in the air, that the lords of the land would rather see it burn than see her on the throne.

But the girl is stubborn, and so is her sire, and out of hopes and stubbornness and dreams wars are hatched.

Rhaenys never actually liked Rhaenyra, not at first, nor later.

To be so stubborn, to flaunt the rules and go against the order of things. A girl who will go through rather around problems, who dares the world to grind her down (as it will, Rhaenys knows, as it will).

But a part of her, a rebellious part (the part who choose a sailor lord for a husband and rode her dragon to their nuptials) envies her her certainty.

She was never so certain.

Everyone grieves differently. Yet she had hoped she and Corlys would at least have grieved together.

In truth, however, she had not expected him to. Corlys loves three things in life, she knows: his children, his voyages and his wife. That your lord will not always be home is something noble girls, even princesses in the line of succession, have drilled into them at an early age. That Corlys would not always be home is something she knew from the start: that he would rather go out in the world, grasping for the treasure that line the seas were one of the things that attracted her to him, when she was a maiden (well...officially) and a roguish lord with braided locks swaggered up the throneroom and kneeled before her grandfather while laying the treasures of Essos and the Summer Seas at his feet. Corlys was not the sort of man to rest easy, not the sort to curl up and cry (though he did cry, thinking men who didn't weak).

Corlys grieves through action, even though that action is a continuation of his senseless campaign in the Stepstones, which he continues, year after year after year, as their castle grows colder and shadows cast by their missing children grow longer.

While she knows Corlys does not love her because of her title, she knows he wanted, more then anything else, to see her on the throne. Failing that, he wanted to see his children on it. But having lost both, son and daughter and any hope that Viserys would fall down and die without heirs (the problem, in fact, is that he now has far too many) he has nothing left to fight for, so he fights for the sake of fighting.

Rhaenys is used to his long absences, doesn't mind them for there are times where she prefers solitude, but in grief she misses his presence. Miss his laugh, his outrageous tales, his smell as he holds her in his arms. She misses him at supper, at council and yes, she very much does miss him at night.

Its this loneliness, more then anything, that causes her to write to Daemon and Rhanyera (she does not travel in person, for it would be unseemly to beg and she is not sure whether she will be able to be civil with the two of them) to ask to have Baela for ward. They acquiesce, faster and easier then she thought they would. Maybe they understand that they need to keep the actual holders of Lucery’s patrimony on their side.

Maybe they are sorry. (damn them in that case)

But Baela is a joy, would be even if she wasn't her granddaughter. Clever, joyful and curious, as interested in the histories of their house as in the actual running of Driftmark. They walk the markets, gently interrogates merchants for news, taste the spices and fell the silks that flow into Driftmark from all the worlds seas. They gossip before the fire (though not the fire in the great hall which she would have removed if she could), over the young lords and knights who come acourting Baela, drinking wine and gorging themselves on sweets. They swim the seas, when no one is watching, and fly through the skies, dragons whirling around each other. It helps heal her broken heart.

But it doesn't not solve her central problem, for Driftmark has been promised to another (though thankfully not her boorish brother-in-law) and that another is, she is certain of it, bastard-born and away on Dragonstone with his mother.

One day Baela is packing to leave for a week, to visit her father and family over there, the other great fortress of Blackwater bay. She has tried and cox her grandmother to come, to no avail, and has promised to bring her sister back with her, for a short while at the least.

"...and all the cousins will be there," she exclaims, standing in the middle of her rooms dressed in riding leathers while directing servants to pack her dresses into bags small enough to fit a dragons saddle. "I was thinking of asking Luke to come back with me as well," she continues, "he really ought to spend more time here."

"If you wish," Rhaenys answers. Something in her voice must have tipped off her (clever) granddaughter for she stands rigid and suddenly dismisses the servants with an imperious wave.

"You do not want him to come?"

"I did not say that."

"But you mean it," Baela takes a step closer to her. She is tall, her granddaughter, favoring her father in that regard and they are almost of height. "Luke, and Jace too, they miss you grandmother."

She smiles, placating, "then ask them to come dear."

But her granddaughter does not give up. "You believe them don't you? Believe those ugly rumors!" She is angry now, for Baela often carries her emotions well on the outside.

Rhaenys opens her mouth to protest but decides better for it. She owes Baela her honesty, all things considered "Yes," she says in a low tone, looking at the mosaics of seahorses and shells that cover the floors, "how could I not?"

"Why does it matter?" Baela exclaims and now Rhaenys does look up. She is still angry, her granddaughter is but now that anger is tempered with tears and desperation.

"Why does it matter," Baela continues, "uncle would write us, often, about the boys. He was proud of them, he loved them and you always told me how clever he was. They were the children of his heart, whatever else they may or may not be!"

Rhaenys is about to contradict her, to say something about honor and blood and what is right and just in this world but then decides not too. For her granddaughter may be angry, desperate and even foolhardy, given the kings commandment, but she is also one other very important thing.

She is right.

And, for whats it worth, Rhaenys does miss her grandchildren. So she agrees, and invites them all.

But later, as she stands on the ramparts and watches Moondancer take off against clouds heavy with rain, she begins to think of what her decision to accept the boys truly means.

For this is not a just a matter of family. Her grandsons are the heirs Rhaenyra, who is the heir of Viserys, who is old and frail and sick. And news carry easily to Driftmark: she knows Otto Hightower is back, ensconced in the Tower of the Hand. She has no real tidings or intelligence but she knows the man, knows most of the men holding lordly title in the land, as she always has. When the king dies, as he surely must and soon at that it will be his son they will try and put on the throne, not the daughter who is incidentally the mother and step-mother of Rhaenys grandchildren.

And this time there is no wise old king to negotiate and smooth over the differences. So it will be war, one way or the other.

Rhaenys once accepted to be robbed of her birthright in the name of peace. She is fairly certain Rhaenyra and Daemon will not.

The two of them,, she knows, have made little effort in shoring up their support she knows. They have precious few allies in the capital, none at the small council. And by accepting her grandsons as that she has done something else.

She has picked a side. And a side that has made little preparation for what is to come.

She looks to the heavens, where her granddaughter and her dragon can still just be seen. The girl seemingly turns around in her saddle and waves to the castle below before urging her dragon up through the clouds.

Rhaenys smiles as she waves back but it is not a grandmothers smile any longer.

It is a dragon’s smile.

She may not hold much rancor over being passed over but she may still be entitled to a certain level of sweet revenge on those would would rob women of their birthright.

Once her decision is made she shows no hesitation. Tools are needed, weapons with whom to smite those she has decided are her enemies.

Even if one has to look for them in unsavory places.

Rhaenys never liked any of her cousins much but while she could accept and eventually even grew somewhat fond of Viserys, she positively loathes Daemon. Arrogant, vain, murderous and probably the one who arranged her sons death, insofar it was arranged. A schemer who will nevertheless choose direct, shockingly direct violence when or when not called for, a preening fool full of himself, Daemon and Rhaenys have still found themselves on the same side more often than she would have liked. Her husbands ally at council and in his war for the Stepstones. Her former son-in-law, gods be god, and father (and step-father) to her grandchildren.

Prosaic it may be but everyone has that one close family member they positively cannot stand. For Rhaenys, its Daemon, and she likes to think her reasons are better than most.

Nevertheless, before he became prince-consort as well as prince, before he proclaimed himself King of the Stepstones, before he became a permanent feature of her house even, Daemon held one other crucial position. The commander of the City Watch of Kings Landing, the Gold Cloaks. Not just an empty sinecure, he had taken what had been a rather sad collection of thief-takers and night guards and welded them into a fighting force, possibly the finest of their kind in the world, if one was willing to look away from their tendency for prodigious violence against those whose guilt may not have been properly ascertained yet (a hound knows no better than to take after its master, after all).

So it is Daemon she asks one day. The crown-princess and her family are visiting Driftmark and the skies are filled with dragons, rising and falling to the delight of the children of the island.

This time the whole family has arrived, ostensibly to celebrate Baela and Rhaena’s nameday. A peace offering, of sorts. An old woman, cajoled by her grandchildren who ache to see their whole little clan gathered (and in any case, it is entertaining to see Vaemond squirm and attempt small talk with people he views as obstacles to his patrimony).

Or so, at least she has made sure for the rumors to say.

Daemon stands on a balcony overlooking the beach, the sea, Spicetown's harbor crowded with ships flying the pennants of half the known world and the dragons and children at play in the skies above. His hands are clasped behind his back and he dresses, as is his habit since returning to Westeros, all in black. At first she had thought it was in mourning of her daughter but lately she has regrettably come to realize is simply his affection.

"I thought you would be flying with them?" she asks by way of bringing attention to herself.

"Maybe later. Children should have time to find their own limitations, without me or Caraxes watching over their shoulder."

Unexpectedly wise, she thinks. "My father would not have agreed. I used to take off on Maelys and he would follow me. We would play hide and seek among the clouds, or at least I would."

Daemon smiles, that almost sneer that is one of the many things she dislikes about him. "No doubt. Caraxes would have been inexperienced then, or he would have found you sooner."

Her father’s dragon, which Daemon now rides, much as she rides his mother’s. The close, intertwining circlets of the Targaryen family. Sometimes she thinks their sigil should show the dragons swallowing their own tails, so close are they. Maybe another, subconscious reason why she had chosen Corlys and Driftmark instead of the conquerors festering capital.

Out loud she says: "They would take you up on that bet, should you tell them."

"I have," the man smiles again, a better smile this time, a father's smile, before he turns, still leaning on the balustrade. "I know you have precious little reason to care for me or my ways but have no fear that I am raising your grandchildren to be mediocre dragon riders."

She nods in affirmation. "Of that I least I have no worries." They stand silent for a while, the sound of the waves and dragonchildren at play fighting against the gulls and the distant murmur of the town.

"The princess’ ascension will be challenged," she says, finally.

"The Hightowers? They wouldn't dare, much's the pity. We'll burn them in their halls should they try anything." Daemons tone is mocking and inwards Rhaenys sighs. Arrogance and willfullness, her cousin and former son-in-laws perhaps greatest sin. He does not lack for cleverness, Rhaenys knows, but his inability to not go straight at a problem or fall into abject apathy when that fails is why Daemon has always failed as a power-broker, and why his brother kept choosing other men than him for his Hand.

"I do not think," she says, "that princess Rhaenyra would much appreciate becoming queen of ashes and dead folk."

"No I suppose not," he says with a shrug, "she is sentimental that way." His eyes narrow, taking her in. "Why do you care so much about Rhaenyra's claim all of a sudden?"

"I do not," she answers simply, "I care for my grandchildrens life and patrimony. I care for the realm and the peace my grandfather and cousin tried up uphold." She looks to the sky again. Clouds are gathering, fat and promising rain. Good for the herds and gardens of the island, an annoyance for fishermen and dragonriding youths. "And I suppose," she says still looking at the clouds, "that I don't want to lose my title." At Daemons raised eyebrow she adds, "there is only room for one queen that never was in this realm."

Daemons laughs. "Indeed. But if not dragonfire what do you suggest."

"You cannot move freely in Kings Landing without drawing suspicion should you be spotted," Rhaenys points out, "I can, the Hightowers do not see me as an enemy, yet, our discord is too well known. Otto will do nothing until the king dies but then he will be quick."

"I see," Daemon is still smiling though his smile doesn't reach his eyes, which are boring into Rhaenys, attempting to peel away the layers to whatever deception he has conjured in his mind "and assuming that you are right, why should I trust you with my wife's birthright?"

Rhaenys doesn’t flinch. "I trusted you with my daughter’s life," she says. And the man has the decency to lowers his eyes.

"What do you need from me?" he asks quietly.

"You commanded, no, you made the city watch. There must be men there you can trust."

"Some," he admits, "though it has been years."

"We won't need all of them," she says, "and also, given your propensity for spending your time with all sorts of riff-raff, I imagine you have contacts of a...lower sort as well."

"Well," he says, "I have some of those too."

Her second tool she finds on her own.

Corlys may have taken many of their ships and soldiers with him but many remain, always remains to protect the island. And on of those men is now standing at attention in her parlor, with crows at his eyes and a short beard seemingly specked with salt.

Ser Aethan Waters, bastardborn of a Myrish sailor and one of the women working the docks. No born knight, instead someone who had worked himself up from a deckhand at ten and two years old to captain of his own vessel. Someone who had carried wares, legal and otherwise into every port across the narrow sea. A man of her husbands liking, self-made, someone who had created his fortune with his hands and wit.

A man who still owes a lot to house Velaryon, which has given him a home and hearth and a knighthood, the later which he carries with the particular pride only a man not born to it can show. He stands ill at attention, the swaying gait of a sailor rendering him ill-suited to the palace.

"Ser Aethan," she says.

"My lady," he answers before she can continue.

She holds up a hand, "Please stand at ease, ser. I have spent my life among my husbands sailors, you do not need to treat me like some noble from the mainland."

He nods, "apologies, my lady."

"Tell me, ser Aethan, you have children, correct?"

"Yes my lady. Four at home, three girls and one boy and my eldest, he's a cadet with your lord husband."

"I see." She pushes her chair back and stands, slowly walking around the table holding her hands with fingers arched in front of her. "And may I ask another thing, and I hope you will not find it indelicate, where do your loyalties lie?"

His brow furrows. A noble, a true-born might have bristled at the question but she suspects this is something Ser Aethan is often asked. "I serve house Velaryon, has done for a score years. My loyalty is to the house, to lord Corlys and to you, your grace.

"Why?" she asks

"Why? Because, well because," the man is flustered for a moment before answering. "Because you have been good to me. Gave me a chance. Because Driftmark is my home. Because lord Corlys could have been happy with what little he inherited but instead he went out and became the greatest sailor of our time."

"And me?" she ask, honestly curious if there is an answer beyond mere matrimony.

"Well, you, my lady, you are our princess. I was a child when you first came, riding over Hull on your dragon. You could have chosen a Targaryen prince, any great lord and castle you liked but you choose us. There is pride in that, your grace, even for the smallfolk."

She smiles, genuinely this time. "A fine answer, ser Aethan." She leans back on the table and crosses her arms in front of her. "One last question if I may. How well do you know Kings landing?"

Her last tool Daemon finds for her, but she has to go out and collect it herself.

Even as a child at court she never spent much time in the actual city of Kings Landing, preferring the royal hunting preserve, the sea and the sky to the packed streets of the city. Corlys had once suggested to buy a manse somewhere in the city, something big and gaudy and ripping with Velaryon wealth, a place to show off and entertain. She had scoffed at him and told him that he could do so if he wished but he would have to sleep alone in it where that case. Rhaenys is a Targaryen still and her place in this city, so long as she has one, is in the castle her fathers greatuncle had built. The city was mostly somewhere you passed through on your way to the harbor, the dragonpit or the Kingswood beyond, that you escaped on dragonback when the winds were not strong enough to carry away the stench that rose even onto the castle itself.

Now, she is wrapped in a heavy gray cloak as she follows Ser Aethan (himself dressed like a regular merchant captain) down a dirty back alley somewhere between Flea Bottom and the Street of Silk. Daemon has given her the address and the introduction, if being annoyingly cagily about exactly how he knows this person.

They come onto a courtyard dominated by a large two story house, not luxurious but not particularly poor either.

A man exits a door in the house, stooping low to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. He towers over both Aethan and Rhaenys and she can all but feel the neckhairs of her escort stand up.

"And who'll you be?" his accent, at least, is nothing but pure Kings Lander.

"We're here to see the White Worm," says Aethan, hand close to his shortsword.

The brute laughs, smile revealing rotten teeth. "And who is that? And where did you hear that name little man?"

Rhaenys hold out her hand to grasp onto ser Aethan’s arm before it can reach the hilt of his weapon. "We are here to meet with the White Worm on a business matter. Her friend, the blood wyrm suggested it." This was the password that Daemon had given her and she internally sighs that the man thought he was clever using his dragon as a sobriquet, "If we are in the wrong place just say so and we shall be on our way."

The smile turns uglier still. "Who said I'll let you?" the man takes a step closer to them, his shadow beginning to cover theirs.

"Enough!" a voice interrupts them from the balcony. A petit, ravenhaired woman is standing there, dressed in silken robes and a gold necklace. "They are expected. Let them in."

They are ushered inside and upstairs, where a chamber decorated in Free cities style awaits them, warm colors and silken drapes, myrish carpets and statuets from far-off Meeren. It is a collection of foreign paraphernalia and Rhaenys wonders just how much of it is another facade. In any case, the juxtaposition from the dirt outside is staggering. "I apologize for my doorman," the woman says, in an accent soft with the tones of Lys, as Rhaenys and Aethan are served wine out of a silver decanter. "These are uncertain times."

"No need," Rhaenys answers as she reclines with her cup. Its red, from the Arbor, much like the ones she and Corlys favors. She says as much and the woman smiles again.

"I have been told that High Tide fills its cellars with Arbor red after each season."

She raise an impressed eyebrow. "So you do know that?"

"I know many things," the woman says sipping her own wine, "men so like to talk, in my experience. One of the first things I learned." She puts down her cup and her petite brow scrunches for a moment. "Tell me, why did Daemon send you?"

"He did not," she answers and puts down her own cup, facing the Lyseni. "He mentioned that you were the person to see if you were looking for information in this city."

"He did? Well that was kind of him. I have not seen him for many years: last time I did I saved him from causing a scandal and he called me a common whore in response."

She nods her head in sympathy. "That was ungracious of him,"

"It was. I am far from common." She leans back in her chair, "But in the end what me and Daemon had was a business relationship. He protected me and gave me an opportunity to cultivate other talents than mere loveplay and in turn I protected him from some of his baser vices and supplied his Goldcloaks with information. A mutually beneficial arrangement. I fail to see what the lady of Driftmark may want from me. If it is boys or girls in your husband absence I can provide, though there are considerably easier ways to go about that business."

A needlestick, and, she suspects, a calculated one.

"The king is dying-" she begins.

"That is not new information. The whole city knows that," Mysaria all but scoffs.

"Please do not interrupt me," Rhaenys says with natural authority, "The King is dying," she continuous, "and when he dies there's going to be a conflict. The princess Rhaenyra and her husband versus Prince Aegon and the Queen and the Hand."

"That game is for the highborn," Mysaria answers, "why should I care who stabs who in some council chamber?"

"Because it will not stay there. Rhaenyra and Daemon will be safely entrenched on Dragonstone, beyond reach. Enough lords will come down on either side for it not to be a short conflict. And both sides will have dragons. And when dragons fly to war whole cities, even the grandest ones, will burn."

"Are you appealing to my duty to the kingdoms? Maybe I will simply take my money and sail for Lys if what you say happens."

Rhaenys shakes her head. "I don't think you will. You have worked too hard to establish yourself here to do so. Property houses, brothels...not to mention you do not strike as someone who is uncaring for those in your service. You cannot carry them on your back. As for any others reward, name it and I shall see whether or not I can find it a reasonable price to pay."

The woman nods, thoughtfully before she stands. "Come with me. There is something I want to show you."

They pass out of a backdoor, down and through another narrow alley, ducks through another courtyard and eventually they have turned around so many times that, with the high walls of the buildings hemming them in, Rhaenys is utterly lost to their location. It amuses her for a moment to think whether or not this woman is leading them into an ambush, that all her hopes and ambitions might end in a gutter in Kings Landing.

Not the dragonrider’s death she had once hoped for, not a Velaryons quiet slumber beneath the sea.

Eventually they enter into what looks from the outside to be a warehouse. Inside, throngs of men and some women are shouting, laughing, swearing, drinking a, evidently, gambling. Rhaenys, Aethan and Mysaria pass along the outer edges of the building, up a rickety staircase before they reach a position where they can look down on the crowd.

Said crowd is clustered, she can see now, around a sanded fighting pit in the center and bets are being taken on proceedings to begin.

"Dog baiting?" Rhaenys asks.

Mysaria shakes her head and says "no," with gritted teeth. The small gates open.

Children. They are children gods be good. Rhaenys have seen alot of things in her life that she would prefer to have unseen but this? Her stomach churns and she feel like she needs to throw up all of a sudden.

"How can this be allowed?" she ask, horrified.

"It is not," Mysaria says, staring at the combat with purpose, "but it does not 'threaten the peace' so the goldcloaks look the other way. They are payed handsomely as well of course and both your king and your princess stayed oblivious to this obscenity, staying aloof in their castle. The children are nobody, unwanted get from the pillowhouses or riffraff from the gutters. Look there," she points to a small girl who's covering in the corner, clad in a dirty tunic and arms grasping her legs. Her hair is dirty and handing over her face.

And stark white.

"That one is probably one of your prince Aegon's. He visits here to occasionally, to gamble away the royal fortunes. Spends more time down here than in the castle sometimes." She turns toward Rhaenys "I have done what is within my powers to put a stop to this but a woman in my position is limited. You asked of me what I could have as a reward? I want to put a stop to this. I want the full force of house Targaryen brought down onto these people."

"It shall be done," Rhaenys answers is more forceful then she was planning to.

They leave the horrors though the same door and Mysaria points their way to the main road.

Rhaenys suddenly realizes something. "You could have asked this of the Hand as well, it falls well within his remit."

The woman turns "Ah, so I could have done. But his grandson takes his pleasures down here and who is more likely to do something then? The princess who didn't care to know, or the prince who didn't know to care? I will have my people contact yours."

When Viserys asks her to come forward, to state her and her husbands case against her brother-in-law she feels relieved.

Relieved that the Hightower's gambit has failed. Relieved that her cousin still has his senses, at least to some degree. Relieved that Rhaenyra has inadvertently already rewarded her and her house for what she is about to do, by trying to goad her to her side.

But most of all, she feels relief because her cousin clearly doesn't have long to go. And for every month her task has grown harder. Goldcloak officers replaced, lords bribed with Lannister gold, Targaryens flying their dragons over the city, Helarna (poor Heleana) raising heirs of the wrong lineage, all while her side grows weaker, more divided, insular.

She cannot blame the princess of isolating herself on her island: she did the same for too many years. But when she warns her that the Hightowers are about to strike the first blow, she knows that it would have already been to late. Forces are already conspiring against her.

In the evening Viserys holds a banquet for his family. She is not invited, nor does she insist on attending. She takes her supper alone in her chambers, the same chambers she has occupied since she was but a princess. She hears, afterwards though Myserias network of the kings pleading, of her grandson's dance with the princess, of the final insult thrown and first punch lain, of Alicent, as ignorant as she is pure of love grasping Rhaenyras arm, in the same place as she drew blood just a few years before. Of a promised return and reconciliation.

Rhaenys is no cynic. Even she can hold onto hope, as the family leaves the next day. She stays, makes up some excuse or the another.

Maybe the gods will be good. Maybe her cousin will draw breath for a while longer. Maybe the young women will reconcile.

Its a beautiful dream. But it is not to be true, for Rhaenys never inherited that particular gift of her lineage. So when her door is locked shut from the outside she feels sadness and relief in equal measure.

She was not wrong.

Seven candles are lit in window of the kings chambers. Seven gods look down on the sleeping city, oblivious of its master-lessness, ignorant of the gathering stormclouds. The dragons, asleep in their caves beneath the dragonpit move and whine softly.

They say that a dragon will know, instinctively, when their rider has passed. But Viserys rode no dragon and thus the giant stone cavern stays as silent as the city.

Oblivious too is prince Aegon, king Aegon if certain men will have their way, drunk in his cups, spiked with dreamwine without his knowledge. He too will sleep through most of the coming events and be happier for it.

Rhaenys always believed in small mercies.

No extra guard has been mounted on the gate of the Red Keep, the plotters seeing little threat from without. And the guards, unaware that there is anything amiss within the castle, only knowing they have been ordered to not let anyone in or out without authorization, are not surprised nor particularly wary when a Goldcloak patrol comes up to the gatehouse and asked to be let in with a message for the commander.

An officer holds out his hand for the missive only to find his arm grasped and a dirk punched through his chainmail.

The gates are open.

And the second coup of the night begins.

In the dark she has far too much time for her thoughts.

She gets up and dresses, something she still prides herself on doing most days. She chooses a simple, almost stark deep blue dress with silver linings and clasps. It is somewhere between a coronation dress and a mourning one and its fitting for the occasion she thinks. At first she had been thinking of packing her armor but it might have brought questions and so it remains with Meleys in the Dragonpit.

She has already left letters on Driftmark for Corlys, for Baela and Rhaena, explaining her actions and apologizing in case of failure. To do more would have risked discovery, to do less would have been cruel. Still she fumbles with ink and parchment for a moment, considering if she should amend this correspondence. But again, words can be dangerous if she fails, and unnecessary if she succeeds.

So instead she waits, laying fully clothed on her bed, hands clasped over eachother. She stares at the ceiling, its painted fresco dim in the twilight of her barely lit chamber. They offer little in terms of comfort.

She rubs her hands against a sudden chill. They are old hands now, she has come to discover, thin and with veins that can be seen more clearly for every passing year. Hands hardened by the salt of the waters of Blackwater bay, of the force of wind as she had grasped her saddle when Meleys rose and fell with the air-streams.

The hands that held Laena and Laenor when they were first brought to her breast, screaming their lungs out in the halls of High Tide.

To think that she might have thought that this, this would be her purpose when her children were lost. The folly of an unchosen queen, grasping for the game she had already lost. Maybe Corlys had the better of it, taking off as he did.

Time moves agonizingly slowly, which is why she even entertains such dark thoughts. She lies there in the gloom, listening to every sound. The castle is quiet now, after the Hands men finished locking up the servants. She can hear the guards outside her door idling, shifting from foot to foot.

Has she failed? Did her skills at this rust in the damp of Driftmark? When the door opens, will it be the kings justice who stand there with a sharp sword?

Will the door open?

Ever?

And then she hears a muffled shout, the unmelodious sound of steel on steel and soft wheeze of steel on flesh, the soft thud of bodies being lowered to the ground.

The door opens, quietly on oiled hinges.

Ser Aethan is standing outside, blood still on his shortsword. He nods, grimly.

Despite it all she smiles. She may yet fail but at least now she will do so on her feet.

They march quickly along quiet corridors, she, ser Aethan and their escort of Goldcloaks and Velaryon soldiers. The barracks have been seized, he tells her and they have men near the royal chambers. The Kings Guard are accounted for, two are on Dragonstone, two are presumably asleep in the White Sword Tower, one is guarding the prince's chambers (which, as it happens, are empty). The lord commander will be with the small council and in all probability ser Cole.

The door to the smallcouncil chamber should have been guarded, but the men gathering inside have hoped that no one would notice their gathering. It is locked too, but not barred and Rhaenys had made sure to borrow a key earlier that one of Mysarias people had copied. They pause, for a moment, to listen in. There are raised voices behind the door, something about The Wall. She nods, takes a step backwards and the doors swing open.

Inside, a queen, a Hand, three councilors, two knights and a corpse are in discussion. No other servant or guard, as she had guessed there would not be.

Ser Cole is there, as suspected. His hand goes to his blade, viper quick, but the Goldcloaks are quicker. They may not be much in the way of soldiers but they are expert thiefcatchers, well versed in the art of rushing a man four at the time and hold him down by way of sitting on his limps. The lord commander jumps backwards, out of reach (more experienced but also not as close to the door). The rest of the room stands or sit still, in shock at the sudden intrusion.

Rhaenys walks forward, looking more serene than she feels. She carries no weapon and her hands are neatly folded over eachother. Ser Lannister is the first to get out of his chair, retreating towards the Hand and the Queen now opposite her as she stands at the end of the table.

Ser Otto, naturally, finds his balance first. "What is the meaning of this!" he demands, attempting to bowl her over with sheer force of his office, "this is the kings small council! You there!" this last is addressed to the Goldcloaks, who heartily ignores him, "Release Ser Criston at once."

Rhanys says little, giving the Hand a scornful look as she slowly starts walking along the table, only to stop by the body poor old lord Beesbury. She feels for his pulse and finds none.

"The kings small council," she intones every word before she looks up, "and what a council it is lord Hand, debating policy with you colleague dead at the table."

The situation is absurd and would be almost funny if not for the body in front of her. The Hand bristles. "We have an urgent matter to discuss, Kings business that cannot wait. I have sent-"

"The King is dead, is he not?" Rhaenys asks. She is tired of this farce. At another day she might have played with the Hand, see how far his absurd lies would take him but not now, not with the dead lord at the table.

Ser Otto opens his mouth to retort, only to close it again. Rhaenys turns to the queen, still sat in her chair (the kings chair) at the other end of the table. "Is he not?" she asks her.

The queen bows her head. "He is."

Rhaenys nods. Of course she knew but the confirmation is important. "In that case," she continues, "why have the bells not been rung? Why have the septons and silent sisters not been called to attend him? Why have rens not been sent to Dragonstone, to inform the crown princess?"

"The King," says ser Otto, "made a last wish, on his dying breath. A wish for his son and trueborn heir, Aegon, to succeed him."

Clever, she thinks. "And I assume," she answers, "that said wish was witnessed?"

"Only by me" says Alicent.

And this time Rhaenys does laugh, a quick, dry but surprised laugh at the sheer audacity of this claim. "How very convenient." She shakes her head and catch sight of the dead man in front of her again. She had known lord Beesbury for many years, ever since he served her grandfather. At times he had seemed as if he part of the castle itself, part of the very walls almost. They had not been friends, no, but this was a man she had known almost since she was a girl with skinned knees. They had danced at her wedding, she suddenly remembers.

"This was ill done," she says as she bends forward to close the poor mans eyes, "your work, Ser Criston?"

The man looks at her, still fighting the weight of the Goldcloaks piled on top of him. He opens his mouth as if to say something but thinks better of it. No matter, she has bigger prey for tonight and no time to play with the queens cats-paw.

"This," and now she lets her anger flare, "is nothing but treason, a coup and usurpation and cold murder in support of it at that." She looks to the men massed behind her, "Ser Aethan, take the lord Hand and his, 'councilors' to the black cells and take this murderer with you. Lord commander," she turns to the man who stands rigid, “lord commander, I have known you for many a year. I cannot think you would support these actions.”

He bows his head low, shameful. “I do not but to my shame I failed to act. The queen ordered me to put away my sword when Ser Criston did as he did.”

“The Queen. And who, do you serve now?”

“I serve the king, your highness. And who comes after him.”

A hedge, but such as perhaps to be expected of such a man. Finally she nods in acknowledgment. “In that case, Lord commander, may I suggest you retur to your tower with your brothers until this business is finished? No harm will befall the royal family, I swear it.”

The man nods and leaved, leaving her alone with the queen.

The problem with Queen Alicent, Rhaenys has long surmised, is that Rhaenyra never got a chance to take her flying.

There are no rules, no law, duty or tradition in the sky. The rulers of old Valyria, their ancestors, had understood this. This is why their house, still a century after the conquest, keep to the old ways, celebrate matrimony by sharing blood, marry their sisters and brothers to the disgust of the septons.

For even the great Starry Sept of Oldtown does not reach as high into the heavens as a dragon.

Targaryens are beyond such things. And had poor Alicent gone flying only once she might have understood that.

So instead she claws at the walls of the prison she and her duties has built for her while ignoring that the roof is long gone.

It would be sad, where she and Rhaenyra just women.

But they are not and so the realm might yet burn because of it.

They stand face to face now, at opposite ends of the table now empty but for the orbs of the councilors and the blood of poor old lord Beesbury.

Rhaenys puts three ringed fingers down on the table. "Did you know about this?" she asks, conversationally. Then she looks down on the old treasurers blood and up again. "Did you order it?"

"No," says the queen, "no one did. Ser Criston thought lord Beesbury was insulting me, implying that I had something to do with the kings death." She clenches her fist and meets Rhaenys eyes defiantly. "I did not murder my husband."

"No, I don’t think you did. Still, striking down a member of the small council, in the very council chamber, without orders as you say. There has to be repercussions."

"He is my sworn sword and acted to protect my honor, I will not see his head cut off for that!" Her voice raises an octave.

"I do not think you are in a position to make much in the way of demands my queen. But," she shrugs, "there is always the wall, I suppose."

Alicent still flinches and well she should. She (and ser Criston too, come to think of it) are children of the south, far away from the the dour men of the Nights Watch and their frozen edifice. Rhaenys herself has seen it only the once, flying north with her father when young.

"I think," she continues gently, "that you have more pressing matters than the fate of ser Criston your grace to think of." She holds up a hand to continue, "your children and grandchildren are safe, no harm has befallen them."

"Even Aegon?" she asks, expertly hiding the tremble Rhaenys knows is there.

"Even him. Nothing has happened to him that he does not do himself on the regular."

And the queen visibly deflates, falling back into her chair. "Viserys wanted him to be king. He told me, I swear it as the gods are my witness."

"Oh yes, maybe he did." Alicent opens her eyes again as Rhaenys continues, "But who did he mean? Your son, the drunk who disgraces our house down the brothels? Oh yes, I know," she says before the queen may protest. "Or did he mean Rhaenyra and Daemons's son, as pureblooded a Targaryen as he himself was? Or a long dead conqueror?" She shakes her head, "No, it does none of us any favors on dwelling what he might have meant, whom he wanted disinherited or not. He had over a score years to make Aegon his heir: there were many who expected it of him even when the boy was born. That he didn't should tell you all you need to know about his wishes."

The queen stares at her and then chuckles, smothering a tear. "Indeed. What do we do know of the wishes of men?" She looks to the side and then to Rhaenys. "Would it be the height of arrogance to ask for a cup of wine?"

Rhaenys smiles crookedly. There is a cabinet from which the the kings cupbearers used to serve him wine. She grabs a decanter and two glasses and returns to the table, sitting down in lord Wylde’s vacated chair. She serves first the queen and then herself, with utmost courtesy. The queen tastes the wine and then leans back.

"What happens now?" she asks, the voice of the condemned waiting for judgment.

Rhaenys waits to answer, sipping her own wine carefully. It is still not a night to be lightheaded, after all. "That is not for me to decide. I have written to the queen, with a bit of luck she should be here at the morrow."

"You think I will throw myself at her feet and beg for mercy?" Alicent scoffs.

"I think," Rhaenys says carefully, "that there's a part of you that want to do that more than anything." The queen turns her head away and she continues, "Your grace, may I give you some matronly advice, as someone who has been a part of this family for longer then you? They tell us that we have a duty to the realm and our children and grandchildren and the house and it is true that we do so. But duty does not tell us whom to love and we do not immediately fail if acting upon that instinct. "

"Duty," the queen says, "my father always told me about duty. My whole life has been naught but duty."

"Your father-" Rhaenys begins but the queen interrupts her.

"My father saw me as a piece. His favorite piece perhaps but a piece. That is the way he understands the world." She drains her cup and looks at Rhaenys. "I never asked him to plan this."

Rhaneys nods, "I guessed as much. But his fate will be judged by his actions."

"I know." The queen furrows her brow briefly. "Why did you plan it? You did not have all this prepared yesterday. Rhaenyra and Daemon are not friends of your house, they-"

She interrupts before the accusations can fly. "They are the parents of my granddaughters and grandsons. That is enough. And this way, the realm will know peace, for a few more years at least."

"Rhaenyra's sons-"

Again Rhaenys interrupts. "Were Laenor's. He said as much and who am I to correct him? Blood is not always what we think it is." For a moment she drums her fingers on the table. "Whatever those men might tell you she will let your children live, as long as they do not force her hand" she says, changing the subject, "and she might, just might need you one day." The look that Alicent gives her is haunted, beaten and yet somehow hopeful, "But that is up to the two of you to decide."

She stands again. "I hope you will not consider it impolite but I will have to have you escorted and confined to your chambers. Or would you rather go to your daughter's quarters?"

The queen smiles a brittle smile. "My daughter's, if possible."

"It will be done," Rhaenys marches across the council chamber and knocks on the door for her men to open.

Dawn is breaking and the sevenpointed star the Hightowers have installed in the chambers suddenly gleams.

Rhaenyra does not come on the morrow.

So it is up Rhaenys to make the announcement. The King, Viserys I, has passed. As per his wishes, and the wishes of the lords of the realm codified in his proclamation years ago, he will be succeeded by his heir and oldest child, princess Rhaenyra. In contradiction to his wishes and acting for reasons of his own, but probably an inflated view of his own status and that of his house, the lord hand has tried to put his own grandson on the throne. He, and those who plotted with him, are now under arrest and the true queen is expected from Dragonstone, to be crowned.

The nobles and city notables assembled in the hall mainly looks confused but then no great council or tournament has been summoned and many a noble are all in their castles and if they wish to speak against what has happened they will need time. And that time can be used.

Overnight, Rhaenys has spoken to a few key nobles and even formed an impromptu small council, impressing on each of the men that their positions are temporary and only as they await the queen. Old crusty lord Merryweather sits as Hand, fidgeting yet loyal lord Caswell as master of coin. She has not spent enough time in the capital alas, has not been able to identify many more loyal men.

So she holds the castle with a few dozen Velaryon armsmen and Goldcloaks she bought and payed for, the later which is not an ideal incentive for long-lasting loyalty. She has had Meleys moved from the dragonpit to roosting in the gardens but in all seriousness its more of a symbol than a meaningful defence.

For once she dearly hopes to see her former daughter-in-law. But the queen does not come by the noonday meal either. No word, in fact, comes from Dragonstone.

Word reaches her of an incident down the Lion Gate, where a goldcloak officer have attempted to rouse his men to march on the castle and free the hand and the trueborn king. The men are weary, and there is a distinct lack of financial offerings, and so her loyal men can arrest the officer to join his Hand in the black cells.

The city is confused, leaderless. Talk is about in the castle and for every minute that no queen is in residence their grip is slipping.

So for the first and only time in her life Rhaenys takes the Iron Throne.

She does it, primarily, to sit in judgment. The Hand has been appointed to hold an inquiry in private, in the council chamber away form prying eyes. The accused are not called and as far as trials go, it is grossly unfair. Nonetheless, she tells the audience, the men in question have committed grievous crimes. Three of them in fact.

They broke their word to uphold the succession as the king wanted it and are thus oathbreakers, their names made mud, lower then the low.

They slandered the queens sons, her own grandsons, parentage and are thus liars, their tongues fit for removal by Viserys order.

They tried to usurp the throne from the rightful heir and place prince Aegon, against his will, on it and are thus traitors.

Witnesses are called. Goldcloak officers stand to what they saw in the room that very night. Soldiers witness how they were ordered to close doors and lock up notables, including the princess proceeding. The queens frightened maid witness how she was ordered to lock the doors of the kings chambers. The prince that was to be king appears, hands shaking and whitefaced, professing he knew naught of his grandfathers treason, denounces any wish for the crown and ask for nothing but mercy for himself, his mother, wife and children.

Aegon’s partaking is the final touch. She had worried, at first, that Mysaria would go to rough on him but the former courtesan has exceeded expectations, molding him into as near perfect a witness as can be asked for. In any case, they had little choice. Someone from the royal family had to take the stand. The queen is to obviously a coo-conspirator, Helaena to unreliable and Aemond to clever. And does the young man for the first and only time in his useless life rise to the occasion: never has she seen a man more afraid of power then Aegon.

A somewhat tawdry performance perhaps but the best they could do on such short notice.

Lord Manderly, the lord Hand, stern old and rigid lord Manderly, proclaims the verdict. And the judgment is up to her.

She had decided on this long before of course. The former Hand ser Otto Hightower, Lord Jasper Wilde and Grand Maester Orwyle will go to face the queens justice. Ser Tyland Lannister will be put under house arrest, pending further investigation (in truth, to hold Casterly Rock sweet, to keep the lion from roaring). Ser Criston Cole will be stripped of his white cloak and gain a black one in its stead.

So judges princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Lady of Driftmark, granddaughter, cousin and grandmother of kings.

She dismisses the court, the witnesses, the guards. For a moment she's alone in the throneroom, empty of all.

The seat is not comfortable, as it wasn't meant to be. She closes her eyes, momentarily, touch the sides of the throne and feels it.

Feels the weight of the crown on her brow. Feels the murmur, fear, adoration and anticipation of the crowd. Feels the seven kingdoms lain out beneath her as from dragonback.

Maybe Corlys was right after all. Maybe this should have been her destiny.

Something sharp cuts at her hand and she opens her eyes, only to see that she has cut herself on the throne.

Alone in the great hall, Rhaenys begins to laugh.

At twilight, after the queens justice has done his grim work and the heads of the traitors been spiked above the gates as is customary, as the sun sets over the western hills and the city prepares to bed down, nervous of what is to come, a dragon is finally sighted offshore.

It comes in slowly, seemingly riding the last rays of the sun as it circles the Red Keep before turning sharply and landing in the gardens where Meleys greets the young upstart with an annoyed hiss.

Lookouts have posted to the highest towers to keep an eye on the eastern horizon and so Rhaenys stands ready to greet the newcomer. She was hoping for Rhaenyra, and dreading Daemon and so she is both disappointed and happily surprised when her eldest grandson nimbly leaps from his saddle.

"Grandmother!" he exclaims happily and inwardly Rhaenys again thanks Baela for making her spend time with her grandsons. She smiles and bows formally.

"My prince,"

Jace almost seem to stumble in surprise at the formality. As he catches himself, craggy lord commander Westerling, having finally left his white tower, draws his sword.

"All hail prince Jacaerys Targaryen, crown-prince of the Seven Kingdoms!" The knights and soldiers assembled likewise draw swords in salute as the servants and lords bow deeply, and so Rhaenys escorts her grandson through the throng beneath dully gleaming rows of sharp swords and into the castle.

And that, as they say, is that.

"So this is it then?" Jace asks.

They are standing alone in the great hall, facing the Iron Throne that looms menacingly on its spiked dais. Lord Commander Westerling holds the gate, having attached himself to Jace's side like a barnacle, making up for some failure only he can know.

"Not quite but almost," says Rhaenys, smiling. Then her face grows serious. "I have but two score of Valeryon soldiers here," she says, "and less then three hundred goldcloaks I feel confident in. The rest are on the fence, as they say, and I am still not sure about the castle armsmen."

"That’s enough to hold the castle, as long as the garrison don't riot," Jace observes and Rhaenys nods. A keen military mind this one, taking after his grandfather and proving once again that blood isn't everything.

"Indeed. Lady Fell has pledged her househould troops however and they should be here by noon tomorrow. That gives us another two hundred swords. Another three score armsmen from houses loyal to our cause. I have sent for ships from Driftmark though with the wind I am not sure when they will arrive." She looks at her grandson, tall and dark and handsome as his birthfather. "I am very happy to see you grandson but I have to admit I was hoping for your mother."

"The baby came early," Jace says tersely. Rhaenys nods, tersely, in acknowledgment. The princess was not set to give birth for several more months and the chances of a child surviving at that age are slim at the very best.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"She was still in confinement when I left. The maesters and the midwifes are doing what they can to ease her pain."

The gods, Rhaenys has come to learn, have a sick and twisted sense of humor. Rhaenyra might be dying, might already be dead, in childbirth of all things as Rhaenys fight over her throne.

"And yet you came," she says to her grandson.

Jace stands tall in the shadows of the great hall. "Someone had to and I have the best claim apart from my mother. Luke wanted to come as well but I told him to stay, we couldn’t all go.

"And Daemon?" she asks, almost afraid for the answer.

Jace smiles, the dragon smile of their house. "He wanted to fly immediately but mother forbid him and ordered him to see to the defenses on Dragonstone."

"And he did as he was told?" Rhaenys is pleased, Rhaenyra has more steel in her then she would have counted on.

"He did," Jace smiles almost menacingly.

"You might have to deal with him one day," she warns.

"Maybe. But not today." He puts his hands to the small of his back and stretches weary muscles. "Is there any food left or did Ser Otto also spirit away the pantry?"

They sup in her chambers, for Rhaenyra's family's are not prepared. Together they demolish a roasted pheasant, fresh bread soaked in garlic, carrots and turnips and onion roasted in oil, slices of cheese and plum tarts, as well as finishing off half bottle of wine.

As they do she briefs him on the events of the last few days, on what she promised queen Alicent, if not all the reasons for it (a son can find out his mother's secrets on his own) and what she promised in return. She tells him of the worm down beyond the street of silk and the promise she made there. She tells him what nobles have pledged to their cause and which ones of those she believes are true in that pledge.

Her grandson listens attentively, asks the right questions and disagrees but a little. He is crown-prince now, even though his mother is not crowned, and he seemingly prepares for his role. Only afterwards does he ask her something else.

"You didn't ask me about grandfather,"

Rhaenys hand freezes momentarily as she was reaching for her cup. In truth, she has been dreading news about Corlys for days now and have thus resolutely moved to push any thoughts about him to the back of her mind, focusing on the duties in front of her.

"Are there news?" she asks.

"We received a letter from Driftmark, his ship has docked and the maester says he should make a full recovery,"

Relief washes over her. She has spent so much time these years being angry with Corlys, having to uphold their house as he plays at war. Yet the weight that is suddenly lifted off her chest makes her feel light enough to soar with Meleys in the sky.

"That is good," she says, in an almost sob, "that is very good."

"You should write him," Jace says, bold, and she shoots him a sour but affectionate look.

"Don't be telling your elders what they can and cannot do boy," she mock-scolds him.

He puffs himself up with feigned bravado. "I am the crown-prince of the seven kingdoms and thus listen to no one but the queen."

They both laugh and a for one short moment she lets go of her burdens.

On the morrow she is awoken by strident knocking on her door. As her lady in waiting opens in, ser Aethan comes, face terse and worried.

Prince Aemond has escaped in the night, making his bed as for it to look that he was still in it and taking one of the hidden passages that are buried throughout the castle. Undermanned as they are no one saw him leave until the people bringing him his breakfast arrived.

She immediately sends word, asks the Goldcloaks to seal the gates and search everyone leaving. She sends word to Mysaria, to have her search every nook and cranny of the town. And she sends as many men she can spare to the Dragonpit.

Whether they are too slow or unable to seal off the giant structure she will never know. But as she has herself armored for battle she can suddenly hear the roar across the city. She rushes to a window and sees the doors smash open as if made of kindle, sees the enormous shape of Vhagar lunge forward and beat wings for the sky with the force of a hurricane.

Her shoulders drops and she sighs inwardly.

She had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Tracking a dragon through the sky is not easy.

Oh dragons can track, can smell their counterparts over vast distances. But a dragon is not a dog, to be told to search for whatever their rider is looking for. A dragon has a mind of its own and even an experienced rider like Rhaenys cannot tell it to seek, to find.

Luckily, Rhaenys has a couple of advantages. First, she can guess where he is going.

The only place he can go, logically, is Oldtown. It is where his mother's cousin rules, it is where his uncles are, it is where his youngest brother and the only other dragon of the Hightowers not locked up in the Dragonpit resides. From its fortifications they can hold out, from its great trading houses armies can be funded, from the Starry Sept bought preachers can rally the faithful against the untrue queen.

Now, by dragonback there are two ways that you can reach Oldtown. The shortest way is the way the ravens fly, south by southwest, cutting across the land to Tumbleton then following the Mander past Highgarden and then true south. It is the way Rhaenys would have taken.

However, for all his cleverness Aemond is not an experienced rider and does not know to trust his dragon’s instinct the way she would. So the easiest way to navigate is in fact east and then south, cutting across the Stormlands and then following the mountain range that makes up the Dornish marshes, letting your dragons wings carry on the updraft of said mountains until they almost deliver you to the gates of Oldtown. This is the path he would have taken.

Her second advantage is this: Meleys is one of the fastest dragons alive, especially when compared to old and creaky Vhagar.

Jace, brave lad, wants to accompany her but she tells him to stay put. Someone needs to hold the town until his mother can get there and in any case Vermax is much too young for the sort of confrontation that is brewing, something not seen since Maegor the cruel fought her great-uncle Aegon and Quicksilver beneath the God's eye.

Just over Storm's end, where he should turn west if her route was correct, she catches up to him.

She has the advantage of height and possibly surprise. Yet, the one thing that has guided her throughout all of this is the need to give your enemies room to back down. Killing Aemond outright will not bring advantage to her house, will threaten the peace she has wrought with queen Alicent, will tarnish her a kinslayer.

So she descends and fly parallel with him instead.

Aemond looks across in astonishment at the copper scaled dragon that has appeared beside him, seemingly without noise. She cannot talk to him so she gestures for the ground instead, proposing a meeting. He follows her finger, sees the meadows below where the two dragonriders could meet on their own two feet. Then he looks at her again and she can see the hatred in his only eye.

Hatred for the stodgy old bat who took away his and his brother's birthright. Hatred for his brother, weak and unfitting for the position he was born into. Hatred for the boy who took his eye and the father who didn't raise a hand to defend him. Hatred for a world that made him into a superb weapon for a lost cause.

She can feel it all just before he pulls on Vhagars reins to the right, trying to use his dragon’s greater weight and size to physically knock Meleys out of the sky. Her dragon needs no encouragement and folds her wings, dropping below the older dragon. She corkscrews, avoiding Vhagar’s fire, as her blood is now up and she goes for Meleys with or without her riders encouragement. Meleys lances out with fire of her own, scorching the side of Vhagar, who protects herself with her wings. Aemond might not be in control much (she can briefly see him screaming at his dragon) but Rhaenys maneuvers, she and her dragon as one as the riders of old Valyria once was. She tries to find an opening to get at Aemond, for he is the true target not his dragon. But Vhagar is a veteran of battles going even before the conquest and she wants Meleys head.

They twist and turn, fire scorching wings and bellies, claws and fangs almost connecting. Below them people crowd the battlements and village streets, staring at what is unfolding in the skies above. They descend in a spiral, each dragon trying to get to grips with each-other. Blood is rushing to the riders heads, neither of their frail human bodies prepared for this sort of conflict.

Their control over the dragons was a lie, Viserys used to say. Rhaenys had scoffed at him, thinking it the easy statement of a king who only ridden a dragon by himself once but in this sort of contest she might agree. Hanging upside town in her seat, hair stretched out behind her, her body heavy with the forces of the flight, dizzy with the spinning. Below them is the dark gray sea.

She's not sure whether it is she or Meleys who sees the opening. But suddenly the dragon rushes forward, impacting Vhagar with force enough to push the older dragon out of her flight-path. Claws catch on eachother like they’re holding hands and Meleys buries her teeth deep into Vhagars throat, ripping and tearing, blood spreading through the sky like rain. The other dragon howls, loud enough that Rhaenys feels a sudden pain in her ears and feel blood leaking from them. Claws are released and as Vhagars turns away, Meleys all but climbs her.

For a moment she and Aemond lock eyes again and she sees anger, fear and just at the end, perhaps, acceptance. Then Meleys head descends and her fangs rips the prince in half.

The older dragon screams with pain, from the mortal wound in her throat to the unknowable pain dragons feel when their riders fall. She turns, faster than any creature her size and age should be able and tears into Meleys as the Red Queen is briefly immovable when she tries to disengage. Fangs close around her neck, tearing at skin and bone and flesh.

And saddlewear, which rips and breaks under pressure.

For the first time in her life, it is as if Rhaenys herself is flying.

There's no sound but the rushing air, though maybe this is because of her damaged ears.

The clouds surround her like so many times before, the sky above.

She twists, try to gain movement, though not sure why. She can see the sea below, the point where the castle is constructed. Far away she can see the two dragons, now intertwined in their death-struggle, falling towards the sea.

It is oddly peaceful.

There is pain, yes, pain in her ears, on her face when dragonfire came too close and as harsh, grueling pain in her leg, crushed when Vhagar smashed into Meleys. She's almost surprised she is still conscious.

She is alone.

Her duty is done. The war has, she hopes, been avoided. The injustice inflected on her righted. Corlys would have had a laugh at that, she thinks and then remembers the somewhat cold letters they were sending to one another during his absence.

She wished she had time to tell him she forgave him.

But there's never enough time.

Laenor, Laena.

Baela, Rhaena. Jace, Luke, Joffrey.

Corlys.

I wished we could have had more time.

I am sorry.

In the end, Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon, the Queen Who Never Was, dies at death fitting both her houses.

Like a Targaryen, she dies a dragonriders death.

And like a Velaryon, she returns to the sea that birthed them.

The Hightower coup, as is the name usually used to refer to the events surrounding the death of King Viserys I in 129 AC, was in the end quashed by princess Rhaenys Targaryen and crown.prince Jacaerys Targaryen (the future king Jacaerys I). Having seemingly taken no part in the actual conflict, Queen Rhaenyra I would be crowned a few days later. [...] One of the last events of this short conflict would be the Duel above Storm's End, wherein both the princess Rhaenys and Prince Aemond, second son of king Viserys I, would seemingly perish, though no trace of either combatants or their dragons was ever found. Multiple accounts of the combat are extant however, including that of Lord Boros Baratheon, writing to the queen about what he saw. [...] A more fanciful retelling is the authorless ballad "the Dance of the Dragons" which retells these same events. This ballad is also known for popularizing the folktale that the princess Rhaenys did not in fact die, but instead flew to far off Valyria (joined by her husband when after he was laid to rest on his ship years later) where she waits. The Queen Who Never was, they say, reign there awaiting the moment when her people might have need of her cunning and wisdom yet again.

              - Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros, Archmaester Gyldayn.