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Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had never been as cross with her father as she was in this very moment. Not when he let her mother perish in the child bed. Not when he essentially doomed her to that fate many years ago in his incessant need for a male child. Not even when he offered her no comfort after she gave Syrax the order to burn her dear mother and her too-soon-departed baby brother. No, she’s never felt this much rage before. All of those actions from before - she felt frustration, sadness, desperation, and so much grief she thought she would die. But this? This feeling?

If she were a dragon she’d burn the Red Keep to the ground. Level all of King’s Landing in one breath. 

Her father, in all his terrible ideas and weak ruling as King, had truly gone too far for Rhaenyra to simply play dutifully daughter any longer.

Killing her mother for a babe that lived barely a breath had already thrown her over the edge. She was merely clinging to her sanity by the tips of her very fingers, and her cowardly father had stamped on said fingertips until she fell to the pits below with his marriage announcement.

His marriage announcement to her best friend, Alicent Hightower.

Never has Rhaenyra wanted to chew somebody’s throat out before. But right now, seeing Alicent and her father stood in front of her, she envisioned it perfectly. How the blood would feel running down her cheeks, and neck. How her teeth would crush through their windpipes. How they’d feel withering beneath her. She wanted them to feel physically what she was feeling emotionally. 

How dare they betray her like this? 

Her best friend, her confidante, her rock that kept her from drowning in the very depths of her grief during the darkest moments following her mother’s death. This person that Rhaenyra had considered to be a sister, had slid into her mother’s spot in her parent’s marriage bed, not even waiting for the sheets to cool. There was almost no way for Rhaenyra to reconcile that these two women are one and the same. Alicent, the girl that would card her fingers through Rhaenyra’s hair as they lounged in the sun together is the same as Alicent, the girl that sought her father out throughout his mourning to worm her way to a seat of power.

Lest Rhaenyra forget what her father has done. He had his choice of every available Lady in all the Seven Kingdoms, yet he chooses Rhaenyra’s best friend. He saw them play together as girls. When did he think she’d make a good match? Was it during the third babe her mother lost, or the fifth? Was it while Rhaenyra was holding her mother, who was cradling her second stillborn babe and making wretched sounds as she begged the Gods to please take me instead Gods please spare my baby ? When had her father looked upon Alicent and thought if he had a choice, he’d choose her ?

“Rhaenyra?”

Her eyes snapped into focus, landing sharply on her father’s face. He had called her name, eyebrows pinched as if in worry. She wanted to rip his face off, cut him from forehead to chin and take his skin. She wanted to hear him scream the way her mind hasn’t stopped screaming since she was told the news. 

She’s never wanted to harm her father before. No, she’s considered hearself a rather peaceful person up until this moment in her life. Her uncle, Daemon, would say that everybody has their limits. All you have to do, niece, is push them in the right - or wrong - direction. Everybody has the ability to seek harm to others. Some people are just naturals at it, you see?

Rhaenyra had shrunk back from Daemon as he had said that to her, years ago, but now, as she mentally goes through all the different ways she’d torture the two standing in front of her, she sees how right Daemon was. She’d have to tell him, next she saw him. He’d love to hear it. 

“Rhaenyra, I know this is quite a shock, but I do hope, in time, we can continue on as before,” Her father said, a slight uptick to his lips, as if he was calming a pouting child. 

She would paint the walls with his blood. She would-

“We’re still the same, aren’t we, Rhaenyra? This doesn’t have to change anything. We’re still friends,” Alicent added, addressing her as her father had, already stepping into the role of mother to Rhaenyra. 

A position that had just been vacated, and Rhaenyra seems to be the only one in the room that remembers that fact. 

We’re still friends , Alicent had said. As if marrying your friend’s father is completely normal, as if Alicent wouldn’t be screaming loud enough to be heard in the Vale if Rhaenyra had done what she had.

That gave Rhaenyra pause. 

Otto Hightower was a widowed second son of the House Hightower. He wasn’t Lord, but he had risen to be Hand of the King. Rhaenyra knew of the bad blood between him and Daemon. Knew that Otto despised Daemon, and convinced her father to rid him as Master of Coin, and Master of Laws. Truly, he wasn’t that great of a man. Certainly a scheming one. Intelligent enough to keep his role as Hand. Intelligent enough to push his daughter toward her grieving father. Intelligent enough to push Daemon away from the throne. 

But, Rhaenyra was a dragon, and while scheming and plotting had their places at court, so did blood and fire. She had wanted her father and Alicent to feel what she felt, and perhaps she would have her true wish. 

The two newly betrothed would pay for their betrayals. Rhaenyra would make sure of it. 

If Alicent wanted to wed, and bed, her father, well, Rhaenyra would just have to do the very same.

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Rhaenyra knew what the Lord Hand’s motive was. Knew that he essentially dangled his unwed, beautiful daughter in front of her father like Alicent was a piece of meat and her father a starved dog. And, foolishly, her father acted just as the dog would, and pounced without a second thought as to who was holding the meat there. Otto, holding Alicent, was waiting with a scythe to chop her family’s legacy down. She knew his plan was to get Hightower blood on the throne. And young, fertile Alicent was the perfect person to achieve said goal. 

Enter Rhaenyra. 

Angry Rhaenyra, who never wanted to see the child bed after witnessing the terror and cruelty her mother experienced there, but would do so if it meant she could hurt her father and Alicent, while securing her claim to the throne in the same breath. 

She wasn’t as angry as she was when she first heard the news. This played in her favor. Rhaenyra could not approach the Hand spewing fire, as she could tell better than anyone the old fool was afraid of dragons. 

It was why he loathed Daemon so much.

Daemon was as dragon as they come, and Rhaenyra was following in his footsteps. She needed to reign that in, for this to work. 

So, she bit her tongue. She played shocked, confused, and a little hurt to her father and Alicent, both soaking it up like dry cloths being rained on. They always gave her the benefit of the doubt, always trusted her to be graceful, kind, forgiving, She was Aemma’s daughter after all, and Aemma was a kind Queen, a just Queen, desperate to please her husband Queen.

Rhaenyra knew how to play the type, but never would she let herself fall victim to her mother’s predator. 

Rhaenyra spent many a night after the announcement screaming into her pillows, beating her hands against her walls, breaking glasses.

All in the safety of her room, in the dead of night, lest word get out that the Realm’s Delight wasn’t a fan of the match. Wasn’t happy for her King father. Outside of her quarters, she smiled, laughed, joined hands with Alicent, spoke kindly with her new ladies in waiting. She played the Princess role everyone had delegated her to, seemingly forgetting already that she was named Heir to the Iron Throne.

She would not forget, though.

Otto was walking the halls, now, heading toward the King’s chambers. Rhaenyra quickened her pace to match his, noticing his steps faltering as he looked to see who his new companion was. 

“Princess Rhaenyra! On your way to see the King?” He inquired, pausing his stride to give a slight bow. She didn’t have to play pretend too much with Otto, after all, he was a man out for his gains. As long as she played demure enough, seemed just easily enough to control, her offer would be better than his current.

After all, who wants a grandchild on the throne when you could have a son ?

“Lord Otto, I was hoping to speak with you, actually.”

She made eye contact, never glancing down, never fidgeting with her hands. Rhaenyra knew how loathe he was when Alicent picked at her fingers, when Alicent looked at your nose rather than your eyes. He straightened, understanding this was different from whatever previous talks they shared.

Usually ones of warning about Daemon.

If I may, Princess, I’d advise being wary around the Prince. He spends quite a lot of time in poor company, and your reputation would not survive the way Daemon’s has.

It was sound advice, she admitted. Daemon was able to flock around with a different whore every night and never see any lasting effects. If Rhaenyra so much as blinks in the direction of somebody with a cock, suddenly her virtue is called into question. 

“As you well know, my father named me heir to the throne. I am not foolish enough to believe he did it knowing I’d be a good ruler, but out of desperation. Now, though, he has a new opportunity. One in the form of your daughter, Lady Alicent.”

She paused, watching his face as he took in her words. He seemed surprised at first, to hear her admit that her being named heir wasn’t out of her father’s hope in her as a Queen. Rhaenyra was not dim witted, she knew she was her father’s only choice.

But she also knows, no matter what crawls out of Alicent, she will be the best choice. 

“I fear I am lost on the meaning of this conversation, Princess.”

Perhaps Rhaenyra had put too much faith into his intelligence. Well, that would just make him easier to control. 

“My succession to the throne is at stake. I see this. Should my father and Lady Alicent have a son, I’m sure there would be Lords across the Seven Kingdoms calling for my father to name him heir.”

Otto morphed his face into one of pity, though it never reached his eyes. He nodded slowly, as if afraid to agree to what she was saying. 

“Would the Lords still question my claim, though, if I had a son as well? One to inherit after my ruling?”

This gave Otto pause. He likely hadn’t considered Rhaenyra willing to be with child, likely foresaw a grand fight her father would have to go through to force her to find a worthy husband. She wanted to smile, laugh at them, yell at them that she was willing to find herself a husband, he may not be a worthy one, but by the Gods was he going to be useful to her.

“I suppose if you chose a husband that the Realm thought strong enough to be King Consort, as well as father the next King, it would go far to gather support for your claim. It sounds as though you already have someone in mind. If you don’t mind my overstep, might I ask who this Lord is?”

He was genuinely curious. After all, who could have caught her eye? The only man she would have ever willingly considered marrying was Daemon, and he was unattainable. And useless for her. Sure, when he had been heir, she would have thrown herself into a marriage with him. Queen Consort wasn’t a terrible title, in her mind, back then. But now? Now she would be Queen. And while Daemon would be a good choice for King Consort, she needed someone that would bolster her claim, as well as destroy her father and Alicent. Who better than the little tower standing in front of her?

She gave a small smile, one that could be seen as shy, or conniving. Whichever Otto needed to see.

“Lord Otto, how would you feel about writing a marriage contract with me?”

Silence consumed the hall.

Not even a breath could be heard, as both Otto and Rhaenyra held theirs. One in anticipation, the other in pure shock. 

“Me, Princess?” He questioned, blinking a few times as if thinking she would disappear, that she was a visage in front of his eyes. 

She gave one nod, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared. Rhaenyra would not appear scared, not appear unsure of herself. She was a dragon, and a dragon always got what a dragon wanted. Daemon taught her that. She almost wanted to laugh thinking of how he would react to this. He would be so very angry with her, it made her a little excited, thinking of his rage. 

“I do not see the purpose of such a match, for yourself.”

He didn’t address her as princess, seeming to forget himself from the shock of being propositioned by her. She was alright with the drop in formalities, as it opened her up to explain her reasoning. Well. Half her reasoning.

“Your daughter will be Queen Consort. She will produce an heir for my father, of that I have no doubt. An heir you would choose over myself, to inherit the throne. But, why fight for a grandson to inherit the throne? Would you not rather have a son inherit?”

His eyes widened slightly, as if just now realizing what she was offering. She admitted, it was a lot. She was giving up her body for this man, letting his blood mingle with hers. Offering to let a half-Hightower boy sit the throne after her. But she knows whatever child she creates will be hers . They will have Hightower blood, but she will ensure they know they are a Targaryen first, and foremost. They may be half Otto, but they will be half Rhaenyra, and she knows of which of those people is the strongest willed. 

“What do you gain from this, Princess?”

Quick to recover, this Lord Hand was. Rhaenyra appreciated that, would need that in the future. If only she could tell Otto that she would gain the looks of complete outrage on her father and Alicent’s faces. They would not mask their anger as well as she did. Continues to do. But she would tell him of the other reason, the reason she thought of after her rage had stopped blinding her. 

“I will be Queen, Lord Otto. I was named heir, and I refuse to let my future little brother, whenever he shall be born, take that away from me. Your support in that would be what I gained. Support me as Queen, support your future son as my heir.”

Do not support your daughter, or her children, your grandchildren, as possible successors, went unsaid, but hung in the air as if Rhaenyra screamed it. 

Otto stared into her eyes, hard, eyebrows pulled together in thought. He swallowed, audibly, as he readied himself to speak. 

“Your father would never approve of the match.”

Rhaenyra wanted to smile, a manic smile, one that she was sure Maegor wore during his time. It was bloodthirsty, wild, crazed. The smile she wanted to paint on her face was brought on by the feeling of success, the feeling of dragging others down to suffer her pain with her. 

“My father would be reminded of his current match, with my dear friend Lady Alicent. My father would be reminded that his brother, Prince Daemon, pines for my hand. My father would be reminded that I am able to secure my own matches.”

For the first time in Rhaenyra’s entire life of knowing Otto, he smiled at her. It wasn’t a kind smile. Not one shared between two people discussing a possible betrothal. It was secretive, smug. 

“If your father accepts, I will sign the contract. As long as our own agreement stands. A son of mine will sit on the Iron Throne.”

As if Rhaenyra needed reminding. But she nodded along anyway, knowing he needed to feel secure in the terms.

“Support my claim, and I’ll give you a Hightower heir.”

Otto gestured for her to walk, advising she speak with her father as soon as possible. Rhaenyra made him promise not to speak of this to Alicent, convincing him that as her friend, she should be the one to tell her. Otto had nodded along, taking his leave. 

Rhaenyra wished she could have painters there the moment she told Alicent. Wished she could invite Daemon to watch. Though she isn’t sure she could stop Daemon from burying Dark Sister into Otto’s skull once he heard the news. 

She greeted the guards at her father’s doors, telling them she wished to speak with her father on an important matter. Announcing her arrival, her father was quick to gesture her toward his model of Old Valyria. Sitting opposite each other, he waited for her to speak, seemingly on the edge of his seat, awaiting her news. 

“You inspired me, father, as I’ve decided to marry!” She said the news happily, as if she were truly excited at the prospective match. Her father was quick to match her, eyebrows shooting up, hands clasping together. 

“Oh, what news, my child! And who is this lucky Lord to have successfully charmed the Realm’s Delight?”

He leaned forward, as if it would be a secret. Rhaenyra would make it no secret. She had to endure every lord and lady knowing her father was marrying Rhaenyra’s own lady in waiting, had to watch as their shared friends fawned over Alicent, trying to become closer to the future Queen Consort. No, no, Rhaenyra would ensure that all knew who she would marry. That all would look at the Lady Alicent and know that Princess Rhaenyra was marrying her father. 

And right now, Rhaenyra was going to relish this moment. Her father, bright eyed and excited at the prospect of her marrying. He had not a care in the world. Rhaenyra was going to enjoy destroying that. Watching that joyousness disappear as the rage slid over his eyes. Daemon used to say she was Visenya come again, a warrior trapped in a girl’s body. A dragon masquerading as a princess. Right now, feeling her lips curve up, her hands grasp her father’s, her body lean in to share the news, she felt like she related more to Maegor. Her smile from before, the one she wanted to let slide onto her face, was lurking below the one she now gave her father. 

She was a dragon, and she breathed fire as she said, “Otto Hightower.”

Her father’s hands slipped from hers.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had never known her father to behave anything near a dragon. She had come into his life years after his own dragon, Balerion, had passed on. Her early memories of her father are soft, gentle hands, whispered words of encouragement, lazy lie-ins where they indulged in lemon cakes until they felt a little ill. Daemon would jest that whatever dragon blood that resided in Viserys was taken when Balerion’s life ended. 

All this to say, Rhaenyra had never seen her father breathe fire like he was right now. 

He was red in the face, shaking, looming over her. Rhaenyra felt a strike of fear run up of her spine, suddenly remembering her father wasn’t just a dragonless dragon king, like Daemon would whisper into her ear, but King of the Seven Kingdoms. He may not have his dragon anymore, but he had been the last to mount Balerion the Black Dread, and didn’t that say something in itself? 

But, Rhaenyra remembered her own rage, just a few days ago. If she had been alone with her father when told the news, perhaps she would have felt free enough to react the way he is. Perhaps Rhaenyra would not have been able to hold herself upright, with a blank face, if it had just been her and her father in the room. Would her father have survived? 

Will Rhaenyra survive?

A part of her, the part that orchestrated all of this, is laughing. Laughing so loudly it almost drowns out her father’s yelling. Because this? His reaction? His wide eyes, his eyebrows scrunched so far together they’re becoming one, his hands flying up and down and all around his face, his entire posture tense as he leans over Rhaenyra? 

This is exactly what she wanted.

And she feels… Satisfied. 

Deliciously, and wholly satisfied. 

She can only hope that Alicent’s reaction is half of her father’s, because even that would be enough to sate the dragon that rests within Rhaenyra. 

But, she has to convince her father to go through with the marriage for Alicent to even hear of this. Rhaenyra has to genuinely convince her father that she wishes to wed herself to a second born son. That she wishes for Otto Hightower to be her King Consort. 

Rhaenyra had to let go of her rage, and her vindication, in order to make herself be believed by her father. She knew, despite him naming her heir, despite him making small comments over the years about choosing a husband, he still saw her as his first babe. His only babe. His last link to Aemma. He’s said it often enough over the years that Rhaenyra knows she has her mother’s smile. And she wouldn’t hesitate to use that against the man in front of her.

So, she smiled. Reaching out, she grabbed at his flailing hands, pulling to be still. She let out a small sigh, eyes finally making contact with his. 

He’s heaving as he stops yelling, his chest violently moving up and down as he lets himself drop into his previously vacated chair. 

Viserys looks more weathered than he had before Rhaenyra entered his chambers. As if he’s aged a decade, just in her presence.

Good.

“Father, I know this is a shock-” a pained noise leaves his throat, as if she struck him with a dagger. At one point she had thought of doing such a thing, but this is far better, “-but, you must understand, Otto and I have grown close during these past few moons. With mother’s absence, he’s been a voice I relied on to find my way through my grief. I imagine it’s much similar to how dear Alicent is to you.”

Watching her father flinch at her saying Otto will be her most treasured memory, she’s sure of it. And she knows, seeing how he breaks eye contact with her to look at his model of Old Valyria with a pained expression at her mention of Alicent, that she will wed Otto. She’s already won this battle. Her father was never going to deny her, this she knew realistically. He had to play the part, though, feel as if he did the job he’s required to do as her father. 

“But, my sweet, he’s a second son. Yes, he’s Lord Hand, but what will he inherit? What is there to gain with this match?” Her father implored, connecting their eyes once again.

He’s gripping her hands fiercely, begging for a reason to this marriage beyond just he’s nice to me .

“I will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, father. He will inherit plenty when he assumes his positon at my side. Never mind his title of second son, I care not for any of it. Will you listen to my words? I care for his voice, his opinions. He’s proven himself plenty as your Hand, and he proved himself plenty more to me in the interim of mother’s burning and your betrothal announcement. He lost a wife too, once. He understands me. We understand each other,” Rhaenyra gushed it all out at once, as if she slit her own throat open and let the words pour out of the wound. 

All a farce, truly. She cared not for Otto fucking Hightower as Hand, had seen and heard him make one too many disparaging comments against her Uncle for her to care about the man. But the look on her dear father’s face makes her guts light up. She feels the fire flooding from her throat down to her stomach. She has never felt more pleased at the morose look marring her father’s face. 

“By the Gods, Rhaenyra, do you love him?”

His eyes were begging her to say no, the grip on her hands tightening impossibly more, drawing his body closer to her. He’s already caving in on himself, fearing the answer that hangs in the air.

“Yes, father. I do.”

The marriage contract was written that very day, per Rhaenyra’s request, claiming the want to marry as quickly as possible.

“I can secure my claim as heir the sooner I give the realm an heir of mine own, father.”

The look she received from Viserys was disgust, likely thinking of the act that must commence for Rhaenyra and Otto to produce an heir. And, yes, Rhaenyra was not looking forward to the act, either. But she feared for the child bed, rather than the marriage bed. She knew she’d survive whatever bedding Otto would put her through. But there was no guarantee for the labors that would follow it. 

Thoughts of her mother plagued her, and she banished the entire stream of consciousness from her mind. 

Today would be a momentous occasion after all.

As her father was King, and Alicent not yet married to him, there was no need to include her in the discussions that took place yesterday. The official writing of the match was of no concern to Alicent, being a woman preparing to enter into her own marriage.

So, today? 

Today Rhaenyra would tell her of the joyous news. 

She was in the gardens, by the Weirwood tree, as she always seems to be as of late. Rhaenyra comes up behind her silently, as a predator stalking their prey, and she fully plans to eat Alicent alive. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t announce herself, simply places herself to the left side of her, watching from the corner of her eye as Alicent startles. 

“Princess Rhaenyra, I was not expecting to have you join me.” Her words were quiet, as if respecting the silence she had previously been surrounded by. Rhaenyra would do no respecting, for Alicent ensured all good will had been stripped from her the second she slithered like a snake into her mother’s bed. 

“I wished to tell you of the news, before you heard the rumors from servants. Or, worse, told to you by myself and your father in the council room,” Rhaenyra watched as Alicent stripped her fingers of their flesh, scarring them to look mangled and off-putting. She understands why Otto hates the habit so much. Rhaenyra had taken to twisting rings, or fiddling with jewelry to deal with her nerves. Alicent had taken to peeling back her own flesh. 

“What do you mean, the news?” Alicent turned herself toward Rhaenyra, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth. Would she tear at that as well? When Rhaenyra told her she would be marrying her father, would Alicent pull the skin away from her lips until they’re scarred? 

Rhaenyra certainly hopes so. 

“I recently met with my father, about a match. He accepted, and the contract was written yesterday, accepted by both the King and the Lord in question.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, eyebrows receding into her hairline. As they should, since throughout their entire friendship Rhaenyra had never cared for marriage. What changed, she’s likely wondering.

You did, Rhaenyra thought viciously. She imagined the words written on a thick piece of wood, and saw herself beating Alicent’s head in with it. Thought about what it would like to flatten her useless skull. 

“A match? Truly? Who is this lord you have chosen so suddenly? For I have no recall of any lord being held in such high regard for your hand.”

It’s been nearly seven moons since her mother perished. Rhaenyra had seen very little of her dear friend the past five moons or so, and she truly had wondered why. All questions were answered though, almost a moon ago when her father had announced his betrothal to one Alicent Hightower. Which begs the thought, when would Rhaenyra had told her about any lord she found interesting? Before or after Alicent had snuck her way into Viserys’s chambers? Before or after Alicent seduced her grieving father? Before or after Alicent had secured a match so far above her station it was laughable?

No, there was no recall for Alicent to have. Even if Rhaenyra had a match for love, like her father thought, there would have been no sharing of the development. 

“You have been rather busy, these past few moons. I felt the need not to worry you with such idle chatter of matters concerning my hand, and what not.”

Alicent let her fingers drop from the other, her left hand grazing gently at Rhaenyra’s right. Almost as if she wished to grasp it, hold onto her like they used to. Before she was King Viserys’s intended. There would be no more of that. She’d allow the ghost of a touch now, but if it continued after she announced her own betrothal, Rhaenyra would cut the offending appendage off of her. 

“You simply must tell me the name of this man who has taken the heart of our Princess Rhaenyra.”

Our. 

Rhaenyra would have her tongue. Cut her directly from her mouth and feed it to her. She is no one’s. Rhaenyra belonged only to Aemma Targaryen. And when Aemma was flayed open and left to bleed out in favor of an infant that was yet to have a name, Rhaenyra ceased to belong to anybody. 

“I am to wed Lord Otto Hightower in three moons time,” Rhaenyra whispered, finally grasping Alicent’s hand fully, intending to keep her there. She would not have Alicent running away from her.

No, no, she’d witness every emotion that flittered across Alicent’s face, lest she had to cut the damn thing off. 

And dear, sweet Alicent was frozen where she stood, as if Rhaenyra’s words had seeped like ice out of her mouth and covered her body wholly. As if Alicent truly was powerless to leave, remaining her position, mouth open as she took in Rhaenyra’s statement.

“My… father?”

And Rhaenyra, Meagor come again, couldn’t help but smile at the tone. The words were croaked out, barely audible, but heard all the same. And Rhaenyra’s lips stretched from ear to ear, teeth gleaming. She wanted to slit Alicent open from belly button to chin, to see how the news made her guts squirm. 

“Indeed. He’s a kind man, as I’m sure you know. He offered me many words of advice over the last few moons. With you occupied with mine own father, he became a much needed friend in a time of need.”

She couldn’t help herself, having to slap Alicent with the fact that if she had simply stayed away from her father, so, too, would have Rhaenyra stayed away from her’s. The narrowing of Alicent’s eyes tells Rhaenyra she understood the meaning. But Alicent is feeble, where Rhaenyra is strong. She won’t confront her about this, won’t accuse her of anything. What could she do anyways? Her greatest supporter will be in Rhaenyra’s bed in three moons time. She may not find the man pleasing, but Daemon’s crassness has taught her one thing: a woman has the greatest power over a man when he’s between her legs. 

Alicent had finally unfrozen, pulling her hands back to herself, pulling at the skin around her middle finger. Small drops of her blood were dropping onto the grass at their feet from her ministrations. She took a step back, and then another. Her hands drop, smooth her dress, and she finds her voice.

“My congratulations to you and your… betrothed, Princess Rhaenyra. I shall be taking my leave now.”

And she’s gone with a flurry that Rhaenyra has never seen Alicent move with before. 

Oh that was just simply inspiring, Rhaenyra thinks to herself. Her smile has yet to drop, and she fears it will remain in place for years to come. She wishes she could see Alicent confronting Otto, as she has no doubt that is where she has run off to. Rhaenyra thinks of suggesting a dinner with the four of them, perhaps within the next few days. Alicent and Viserys would be absolutely uncomfortable. 

She can’t wait.

Chapter Text

They whispered that Viserys was cursed. That it was him that created the loss that surrounded him. After all, the common folk said, what kind of dragon king doesn’t have a dragon? Surely not a blessed one. They figured this was the Gods showing their displeasure. They took his dragon, his babes with the Good Queen Aemma, his first wife, and now they have sought to take his babes with the second wife. 

Alicent and the King’s first born son, not yet named, took his first and last breath at the same time. 

Across the castle, in the Princess’s rooms, with Otto pacing the floor, Rhaenyra brought forth a healthy boy. He took a single deep breath, as if to prepare his little body, before he unleashed fire upon the midwife. Screaming filled the room, screaming so loud Rhaenyra knew her father and stepmother had to hear. When the squirming, spitting babe was placed in Rhaenyra’s arms he quieted immediately. Rhaenyra smiled, not her Maegor smile that she’s taken to haunting the castle with. But one of genuine joy. She had survived the child bed, and if her wailing boy was anything to go by, so would the babe. And the volume of the newborn was astounding! Rhaenyra knew he would be a fierce dragon rider some day.

A fierce king. 

Otto stopped his incessant pacing, and joined Rhaenyra at the bedside. He seemed uncharacteristically soft in this moment, staring down at his new son. He reached a hand out, slowly, as if fearful of earning the ire of both mother and son. He was always slow moving around Rhaenyra, always mindful of her dragon blood. She knew he’d be mindful around the boy, too. She’d make him. 

“A name, my wife?”

Otto did that frequently. Laid claim on her. It started out as a show for the servants, the lords and ladies, the small folk. Somewhere along the way it seeped into their private moments. Rhaenyra often wondered if Otto truly loved her. It didn’t matter the answer, though, as Rhaenyra feared she could never love anybody. Even if Otto felt anything positive in regards to his dragon bride, Rhaenyra would be quick to separate his head from his body as soon as he proved himself useless. 

No, the only thing Rhaenyra feels love towards is the now sleeping infant in her arms. Her heir, her dragon rider. 

“Aegon,” She did not have to think of the name long. 

She knew as soon as she became with child that the boy would be named Aegon. A conqueror. Her defender. Her supporter. She may not be named Visenya, but she knew her Aegon would ride by her side anyways. 

“A fitting name for the future King of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

She hummed, letting Otto’s words drift to the back of her mind. Rhaenyra had done her duty, given him a son that would sit the throne. Now he would do his. 

And when news came of the passing of her little brother, Gaemon, Otto’s face told her he already was. 

“It seems the Queen has suffered the same fate as your dear mother, unfortunately. The Gods have decided you shall be heir, for they seem to take away any competition at a quick pace.”

They simply looked at each other, Rhaenyra holding Aegon, Otto standing at the door where the messenger had just left. A dragon facing a tower. A tower that tore down his own kin in an effort to support the ones that gave him more promise. She felt a thrumming inside her. 

No, she could never love Otto, but she could find him fantastically delightful. She would give him another son, this she knew. Reward him for his good effort of not just supporting her claim, but tearing down Alicent and Viserys in the process. 

He had no knowledge of her cruel revenge plot, but he seemed to take the proper steps to ensure it occurred anyways. And that… That made Rhaenyra delirious with happiness. 

“Such terrible news, husband mine. Let’s give thanks for our many blessings, and hope the Gods remain generous.”

His smile was twisted, malformed. Hers was matching. Perhaps they were made for each other, her and this tower. Perhaps he had spent enough time around her now that he’s becoming a bit more dragon than tower. 

Rhaenyra stays true to the words she told herself, giving Otto a second son. She cradles the brown eyed boy to her breast tightly, erasing the hours she’s spent screaming for the midwife and maester to rip the offending thing from her body. Her boy, who had screamed louder than Aegon had, was quiet as a mouse now, small hand resting against her chest. 

Otto had went after Aegon, as Rhaenyra requested. The maester wished she would clean herself first before bringing in her first son, but one look from Rhaenyra had Otto demanding proper respect for the princess. 

She is heir to the throne, and your princess! Her judgment is not to be questioned, unless you wish to attempt your questions without a tongue!

Rhaenyra had genuinely found Otto attractive in that brief moment. She has trained him well, like a loyal dog. Ready to attack at her command, but happy to lick at her fingers until then. She laughed to herself, resting her forehead against the babe’s. 

When Otto returned, Aegon was endlessly curious. He crawled to his mother immediately, resting his head against her arm to get a better look. 

“He pink, muna,” Aegon pointed out, dragging a finger down the babe’s cheek. 

Rhaenyra kissed the top of Aegon’s head, loving the tickle of his wispy nearly white hair against her face. 

“You were, too, when you were just born.”

Aegon made a face, but didn’t seem too put off by the thought. He continued stroking his brother’s face, content to rest with his mother as long as she allowed. 

“A name, my wife?” 

Otto had come to her other side, sitting as gently as he could on the bed so as to not jostle the nesting dragons. She wondered if Otto realized he was outnumbered now. Aegon’s dragon, Sunfyre, had hatched the year previous, on his first name day. And Rhaenyra had high hopes for the next egg, the one she chose for this babe. She said as much to Otto, when the child was fighting to stay inside her. 

He is blood of the dragon. Stubborn, and strong. He will be a fighter, for he is going to come into this world fighting. 

Now, Otto was surrounded by dragons and the like. He may have contributed something to their creation, as was evident by the brown hairs that were scattered across Aegon’s head, and the brown eyes of their newest member, but all said Prince Aegon was Rhaenyra’s child, through and through. 

“Aemond,” She answered, no room for Otto to argue any differently - though she was sure she would never hear an argument from Otto. 

“Like it!” Aegon declared, earning a genuine smile from Rhaenyra. 

And that had not gone unnoticed at court. The servants and lords alike gossiped that Rhaenyra was only soft to her children, and became as hard as Valyrian steel to anyone else. She tore, cut, and disregarded any that stood in her way, or upset her. But when Aegon came bounding around the corner, muddy and disgusting from rolling in the dirt, she melted. 

“How fares our Queen, husband?” Rhaenyra questioned, settling more into the pillows. She dragged Aegon with her, knowing he, too, needed a nap. 

He adjusted himself quickly, closing his eyes as he threw one arm around Aemond and Rhaenyra, as if to protect them. 

“The maesters say this pregnancy is the hardest they’ve seen, even of the late Queen Aemma’s. She is only six moons along, but they fear the babe will not survive the exit from the womb.”

Otto made a motion, asking silently if he could join them. He always asked, tiptoeing around them as if they were not man and wife, father and son. She nodded, allowing him her other side. He rested his head against hers, looking down at her children. 

“Sleep, wife. I’ll keep watch.”

And for the first time in their marriage, Rhaenyra did as he told her. 

The war in the Stepstones had prevented Rhaenyra from her Uncle for years. She had sent announcements, knowing news of her marriage and children would better come from her hand than that of a royal messenger. She never heard back. 

But the war was over. 

And Daemon was coming home. 

She was with child again, Aegon nearing three, and Aemond eager to toddle after his brother at seven moons. She knew she’d weep when Aemond took off walking, walking away from her. But she knew he’d follow Aegon anywhere, and Aegon always found his way back to her. 

With the return of her dear Uncle, preparations being made for Aegon’s name day celebrations, as well as being near five moons along with child, Rhaenyra felt very busy. She was also still heir, something Otto has ensured with the recent stillborn Viserys and Alicent suffered. A girl. Daenys. Alicent refused to attend the funeral pyre, and had rarely been seen out of her rooms since. Though whispers floated in the air of her failing body. Her eyes sunken in like a corpses, cheeks white as a sheet, fingers twisted and bloodied. Rhaenyra wished she would be graced with the Queen’s presence, wanting to see for herself the walking skeleton that had become of the fair maiden that was once her friend. 

She thought of suggesting a royal painter capture their likenesses. Viserys and Alicent’s, as well as hers and Otto’s, with their children. That would truly do the betrayer in. Seeing portraits hung of her father with his new children. His new, healthy children. 

Rhaenyra would mention it to Viserys, knowing he would never deny her of something she asked. Since her marriage to Otto, Viserys has fallen over himself to mend their relationship, seeming to think if she was able to become so close to Otto to want a marriage without him ever knowing, he had failed her. And he had. Just not in the way he thought. He failed her the moment he chose Baelon over her mother. Failed when he kept pushing, and pushing for a male heir when Rhaenyra was right there the entire time. 

And the court loves her. 

They commend her for being cutthroat with lords and small folk alike, but kind to her children. Respect her for being able to handle herself in court while continuing to be a dutiful mother. They whisper that if she can handle being heir and a mother, she can certainly handle being Queen and a mother, for by the time she takes the throne her children will be grown. 

Grown and riding dragons. 

She smiles at the thought, standing to the side of Viserys as he sits on the throne. They are waiting for the grand entrance that Daemon will no doubt make. They have heard his new title, King of the Stepstones and Narrow Sea. She found it rather funny, though her father did not hold the same amusement. 

It did not matter, in the end, as Daemon offered the crown to his brother, showing his loyalty. Rhaenyra thought it all a grand joke, knowing the good will between the two brothers would be short lived, as all things are when it comes to Daemon. 

Soon, he had cornered her in the gardens where she was having a late lunch with her boys. Aegon looked upon Daemon as if he were a god, which she supposes was how Daemon presented himself well enough. 

“Good day, Uncle. Would you care to join us for our midday meal?” She was perfectly polite, offering him a spot between her and Aemond, who was more engrossed with gnawing on everything than eating it. 

“Where is your lapdog?” He demanded, sitting down with a huff. Unhooking Dark Sister from his side, resting it within arms reach. Aegon’s eyes went even wider, never breaking his stare from the sword. Rhaenyra smiled, running her hand down his face, squeezing his neck a little before letting go. 

“He is the Lord Hand, Uncle. Very busy with meetings most days.” 

Daemon snorted, roughly grabbing at their bread. He tore it apart like a savage, smiling cruelly as he offered Aegon a piece. When Aegon reached for it, Daemon withdrew his offer, eating from both pieces in his hands. Rhaenyra had never seen her son look so disheartened. She remembered telling him stories of Prince Daemon. Of Dark Sister and Caraxes. Her son had developed a bit of hero worship for her uncaring Uncle. 

Rhaenyra pulled the bread from Daemon’s hands, offering both to Aegon. He took both, handing one back to Daemon. A game they were all playing, and Aegon was winning, as Daemon sat back on his hands to eat his bread. The smaller piece. Aegon had kept the larger half. 

He smiled at Rhaenyra, who could not help but drop a kiss upon his head. 

“Has he fully taken your spot as heir, then? Sitting in meetings, talking with the King. What is there for you to do besides have children?” 

Daemon could always be openly cruel when he felt betrayed. She had hidden her acts of viciousness behind sweet smiles and gentle hands, but Daemon had no want for such things. If he felt wronged, he would simply tear you down then and there. Rhaenyra had amused herself with the idea, once upon a time. But she was quite pleased with the current unfolding of events. Sometimes it paid to be quiet, to not act outright, to play the game. Daemon never saw the merit in it, though, proof in how he’s frequently exiled. 

“I am heir, and Aegon is heir after me. I sit the meetings that are important, though I must admit tourney organization meetings are only important to father. Otto is kind enough to take my place, in those instances.” 

Viserys loved tourneys, so naturally he’d plan the largest one possible for his grandson's third name day. Nothing less would do, for Viserys. 

Daemon still seemed displeased, biting into the bread as if imagining it were her head. Or Otto’s. Or her father’s. Perhaps all three. All was silent for a few minutes, Aemond having crawled into her lap to nap. Aegon was busy subtly moving closer to Dark Sister, as if Rhaenyra and Daemon hadn’t realized what he was doing. 

Finally, Daemon spoke of it. 

“Why a tower, little dragon? You had pick of them all. A lion, a wolf. But a tower was your chosen piece. I could not understand it when you wrote to me, and still find myself confused.”

Rhaenyra minded her words, eyes on Aegon as he ran his hands slowly down the blade. He seemed engrossed in the sword, but she knew he was listening. Aegon was always listening, her smart boy. 

“Father thought a tower a worthy consort, who am I to think whoever I chose would be better than the King’s? Nevermind all that, for haven’t you bore witness yet? He supports my claim better than any wolf or lion would. He is a tower, yes, but he’s spent enough time around dragons to play the part.”

Daemon grimaced, being reminded of their Queen. He never liked Alicent, even when she was simply Rhaenyra’s lady in waiting. He thought her too prudish, and Rhaenyra had always agreed. 

“And? What happens when you sit the throne? Will you keep him as your consort?”

It went unsaid, but Rhaenyra knew the meaning. Would she kill Otto once she became Queen? She had thought of this often. She had no love for the man, but she loved her children, and they cared for their father. Aegon looked at her then, and withdrew his hand from the blade. He smiled, and shrugged. In respect to touching the sword, or answering her silent question in if he’d care if she murdered his father, she was unsure.

“Our King is healthy, Daemon. He may not be blessed with children, but he has thus far been blessed with his good health. I shall not think of such matters until the time draws closer.”

Daemon tilted his head, eyebrow raising. It was like he was questioning her, asking, Is the King really healthy? As if he knew more than she. Rhaenyra would not stand for that, never liking the thought of having less knowledge than those around her. She would question Otto, later, but for now, she’d play the arrogant heir. She wore the title rather well. 

She called for a servant, informing her they were finished with the meal. Rhaenyra would take the boys to the nursery, she said. The servant bowed, calling others to help clear the space. Daemon rolled his eyes as he was forced to stand, clipping his sword into place again. 

Before she could take her leave, Daemon grabbed her upper arm, halting her. Aegon was already walking ahead, seemingly giving them privacy. Aemond was still sleeping soundly, nestled to her chest. 

“Dark Sister is at your command, Princess. As it always will be, for as long as I wield it.”

I will kill anyone you wish for me to, Rhaenyra was said between the words. Rhaenyra nodded, pulling her arm as to walk away.

Daemon let her go. 

Chapter Text

The tourney for Aegon's name day was the largest celebration Rhaenyra had seen. She knew Otto had his ruthless fingers in the entire planning. She never sat the meetings where Viserys wanted to speak solely of organizing the extravagant party, choosing instead to spend the time with her children, or taking her ladies-in-waiting to do charity in the streets. That had garnered her far more support than producing any heir ever could. The common people enjoyed being taken care of, and Rhaenyra made sure to give them food, drink, and clothes. She soothed their wailing bastards, and fed their ailing parents. She made sure to live up to her given title of the Realm’s Delight.

The people loved her.

She worked very hard to earn that love.

Now, she saw that love celebrated. The people came in droves to celebrate her little Prince, calling him the Blessed Prince. He was certainly blessed, her Aegon. Born on a day the sun was high in the sky, scalding hot, the small folk nearly melting. A good sign from the Gods of what kind of dragon her boy would be. And when his dragon finally hatched, on his name day no less, with scales as golden as melting sunlight, it was seen as another sign. Now, on his third name day, the sun was back in its favorite position. It was the hottest day the people had seen all year. Water would disappear the second it dropped to the stones, spit would not even make it from mouth to person before turning to near ash in the air. The small folk whispered that he was blessed by the Gods, chosen to rule after his mother, destined to rule.

Such comments were not uttered about Gaemon or Daenys on their birthing days. Even though Gaemon and Aegon shared the day they came into the world, the people whispered that Aegon’s fire had burned Gaemon away. And Daenys, poor Daenys, was born on a day lacking sun. It was the dead of winter, and so very cold. The sun was hidden behind the thickest layers of clouds Kings Landing had seen all year. And Daenys seemed to have been frozen through and through. Talk went about that Aegon would have survived such a cold day, for his dragon blood kept him warm and vivacious, all throughout winter.

Rhaenyra could not help but preen at the comments and good words bestowed upon her firstborn. Her conqueror would come to the throne with the whole of the Seven Kingdoms already at his feet, and she knows he’d be happy to keep them there, buried underneath his boot.

Aemond, though he came screaming and fighting into the world, had turned out to be her quiet boy. He dutifully attempted to walk after his brother, content to stay by his side. Her Aemond paid little attention to any other people around them, only having eyes for Rhaenyra and Aegon. He was the Protector, the people said. Would grow to be his brother’s greatest defender. Many speculated he would wield Dark Sister, when Daemon grew too old to throw her about anymore. They were eager for the day, the small folk. 

And now, coming to sit in their box, the people cheered as the royal family was announced. Their cries were deafening at the start of her name, and only grew impossibly louder as they finished with Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond. 

Alicent had been nearly forced from her rooms, dressed by the maids, and dragged to the tourney. Viserys would not have his wife miss the event, downright refused to let her be. Rhaenyra was brimming with happiness, seeing her dear stepmother dressed like a doll in red and black, swaying unsteadily on her feet. 

She was with child again, the servants whispered to each other as they braided Rhaenyra’s hair. 

Again? So soon after the last babe? She either thinks herself invincible or wishes for the Stranger to take her!

Rhaenyra had told her servants, her maids, her ladies-in-waiting to talk freely amongst her. She may be the Princess, but she was a woman, as well. She knew the whispers would flow no matter when they took place. Knew gossip would be spread no matter where they were. So, better to have an ear to the beast’s chest than let it sneak up on her. 

And she so relished hearing of the decline of Alicent.

Rhaenyra knew the girl thought not of herself being invincible, but that she was pushing herself forward, to do her duty, fulfill the only purpose for which she married the King in the first place. For if she couldn’t give Viserys an heir, what was her reason in wedding the man? It would all be for not. 

Rhaenyra would ensure Alicent tasted failure. Whether the girl gave in to the Stranger in the child bed, or withered away into nothing but dust and blood over the years. Rhaenyra would see Alicent to the end of her miserable life. 

And when that occurred, she’d watch Viserys mourn his second wife, and the slew of babes he’d lost lying at his feet. 

For now, she’d enjoy watching Alicent struggle to stay upright, as they celebrated Aegon’s name day. Rhaenyra placed a gentle hand on her ever-growing belly, noticing how Alicent turned a little green when she caught the movement. With Alicent’s watchful eyes on her now, Rhaenyra turned to her husband, reaching for him. He moved without her ever uttering a word, coming to stand by her, taking her arm in his, and placing a strong hand on her back. He guided her to her chair, sitting quickly beside her. 

“Thank you, husband mine,” Rhaenyra said, smiling, stroking a soft hand down his face. 

Otto indulged her, smiling as he plucked the hand from his cheek, kissing her knuckles. He placed his unoccupied hand on her belly, thumb moving gently up and down. Otto need not know the show was for Alicent and Viserys, more than it was for the small folk close enough to see the pair. It worked well enough either way. The people close saw a couple eagerly awaiting their third child, and the King and Queen saw their daughter and father, respectively, looking deeply enamored with the other. It had the desired effects, all around.

She had forgotten about Daemon, though.

He had been gone so long, she found herself forgetting he was even home again. Until the guards made their announcement of the Rogue Prince. He would not participate in this tourney, instead choosing to join his family, as mixed up as it was, in the royal box. Rhaenyra’s eyes caught his, before he looked down at where she held Otto’s hand, laid worshippingly over her belly. He laid his hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, as if reminding her of the power.

Rhaenyra was hard-fast to forget the power she had. 

Though it was somewhat exciting, to know the King would never deny her wants, the Lord Hand was firmly trapped between her legs, and the Rogue Prince was always ready to slice apart any she deemed necessary. Truly, there had never been a more powerful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

Rhaenyra tried not to let herself become drunk with the knowledge, but she was most like Daemon in that regard. Their egos were often too large to fit in the same room. Perhaps people saw Daemon as a God, but they would see her as just the same, she was sure of it.

The tourney was well underway when Rhaenyra came back from her musings, noticing the Valeryons had made their appearance somewhere along the way. She smiled at Laenor and Laena, noting immediately that Laena seated herself next to Daemon. Rhaenyra knew Laena was unwed, still, after the rejection from Viserys in favor of Alicent. There was still plenty of bad blood between the once-united families, and Rhaenyra thought of how to remedy that. She had two sons herself that would need brides one day, but with Laena without child, and Laenor choosing instead to busy himself with knights rather than ladies, possible betrothals were impossible. 

Perhaps Rhaenyra could push her callous Uncle toward her wild-spirited cousin. After all, Rhaenyra had always enjoyed Laena’s presence, when she was graced with it. They would make a fitting pair, and a striking one at that. They’d make quite beautiful children, and coupled with hers, well the next generation after Aegon and Aemond’s would be a dashing one.

Turning back to the tourney, she felt Otto tap his fingers against her. She looked to him, and he titled his head ever so slightly backwards, as if asking her of the Valeryons and Daemon. Sometimes, he proved himself so clever, that Rheanyra felt ever so thankful to have him on her side. She offered a small uptick of her lips, to show she saw the merits he did. 

They turned away from each other, knowing they’d discuss it later, with less prying ears. 

“Muna, when can I fight in a tourney?” Aegon had spoke up, looking up at her with his darling lilac-colored eyes. As he grew, more brown seeped into his hair than gold. He looked speckled, and Rhaenyra adored him.

“I’m sure with Uncle Daemon returned to us, he would be more than happy to train you in sword fighting. Soon enough, you’ll be jousting with the very best of them.”

Rhaenyra knew speaking it out loud would force it to happen. Her father had heard, thus trapping Daemon’s hand. Viserys spoke before Daemon could utter his refusal, “I think that a marvelous idea, my sweet! The boy should start training soon, as is befitting a young Prince! And who better to teach him than our own Commander of the City Watch?”

Viserys truly seemed delighted at the prospect, likely because it kept Daemon close, and forced interaction between the family. Her father, despite his many flaws, did love them, in his own way. He could never fully state it, nor could he make the best choices to show it, but he did love them. Rhaenyra just wished he loved them better.

Daemon made a loud sigh, a dramatic showing of his displeasure, but when she turned, she saw he had a rueful smile on his face. “I suppose someone ought to teach the little Hightower how to be a dragon.”

She glared at him, knowing he was trying to rile her up, as he so enjoyed doing. Everyone in the court, and in Kings Landing, knew Aegon was no Hightower. He was all Targaryen, all dragon. His spotted hair being the only proof he had any other blood that ran his veins than her own. 

Aegon turned quickly in his seat, offering a glare so like Rhaenyra’s it caught Daemon a little off guard. He said, with all the confidence a three-year-old could muster, “I am no tower, Uncle. I am a dragon. Should I set fire to the tents to prove it?”

And Rhaenyra, well, she couldn’t help herself but laugh. Not at her boy, never at him, but at the looks of shock that crossed over her family’s faces. Aegon was always listening, this she knew, and he listened most to Rhaenyra. Heard her own taunts and threats to those that spurned her. And remembered. He remembered and spewed them right back when faced with the same issues. 

She carded her fingers through his ever-growing hair, raising an eyebrow at Daemon, asking if he was to retaliate against her toddler. 

“We’ll start our training in a moons time, after the tourney, and when the heat settles,” Daemon answered, drinking from his goblet. 

Laena recovered much quicker than her family, and smiled a blinding smile at her little Aegon. She offered him grapes and strawberries, which Aegon gratefully accepted. Thanking her with a low bow of his head, and a sweetly uttered, “Lady Laena,” before turning himself back to the tourney. And Laena seemed absolutely smitten with him. Rheanyra smirked, knowing that Corlys and Rhaenys may have their preconceived notions of her boy due to lineage, but Laena would not hold the same thoughts.

A future betrothal between the children would be even easier. 

When Rheanyra called for the nursemaids to return Aemond to the nursery, as she knew the noise of the small folk was too much for her quiet prince to sleep through, she took the chance to look at Alicent.

She was positively drenched, sweating through her dress. Her forehead dripping with the signs of her body’s obvious dislike of the heat. Her hair looked lackluster, sticking to her skull and damp. Her lips were dry, cracked, and nearly bleeding. Rhaenyra, ever the faithful stepdaughter, plucked a goblet of wine from a servant, and offered it to Alicent. 

“You look unwell, your grace. Have some wine to cool yourself. Perhaps you might join Aemond in the nursery? Visit with your younger brother.”

Alicent could hardly hold her head up to look Rhaenyra in the eyes, but she did reach for the drink held out to her. Shaking hands brought it to marred lips, drinking greedily, as if she hadn’t had a drink in years. With the look of her, perhaps she hadn’t. Rhaenyra was almost disgusted, wondered how she could be with child again, how Viserys could see this creature before him and bed her. 

“My many thanks, Princess Rhaenyra. I think I will take my leave, though I do not think a visit to the nursery is in order,” Alicent murmured, standing with great effort. 

Viserys stood, offering her support, but he caught Rhaenyra’s eyes, and said, “Just a quick visit, my dear. Stop in to see little Aemond. He is a quiet babe, perhaps he’ll offer a nice reprieve from the noise.”

Alicent seemed unable to deny him, as she nodded, looking put out and uncomfortable with the eyes of the royal family on her. 

The servants came to her, each taking an arm to lead her away. Her feet seemed to drag along, as if she could barely lift them. Perhaps she couldn’t. 

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, sitting down after Alicent’s form disappeared out of the box. Otto took her hand, bringing her attention to him once again. Rhaenyra spoke her thoughts, though they were edited to fit the ears that surrounded them, “May the Gods bless this pregnancy, and allow our Queen Alicent a healthy babe.”

Viserys spoke his agreement behind her, but Otto stayed locked in her eye contact. His eyes showed their confusion. Was she asking him to allow Alicent to have a child? A child that may lay claim to her throne? Her inheritance?

Rhaenyra squeezed his hand, urging him to take it in stride, for they would talk later. He seemed appeased, kissing her temple, before their attentions were drawn to the tourney once more. 

Rhaenyra had no sympathy for the betrayer. But she did see a use for her, and her unborn babe. Otto was uncomfortable with the idea, with the chances they would take.

“If the babe a boy, it will take its last breath in the cradle, like my brother, Gaemon. If it a girl, think of the uses, Otto. Our sons need brides! Targaryen brides. One to be Queen Consort.”

He came to her, grabbing her hands, as he frequently did when they discussed their future, the children’s futures. Affections between the two had only grown over the years, Rhaenyra figuring it was borne from laying together. 

“You would wed Aegon to the daughter of Alicent and Viserys?”

The idea made her a little sick, but she thought little of the unborn girl’s parents. “Think not of who her mother and father are, and instead who her grandparents are. Their grandparents before them. My father comes from a long line of Targaryens, and uniting those lines through Aegon or Aemond would only make their children that much stronger.”

She hated to say, the words tasting like bile on her tongue, but Otto was a man that cared for his house, “Think of those that came before Alicent. The Hightowers are one of the most ancient and wealthy houses in Westeros. That lives in the boys, just as it would live in the babe that grows in Alicent’s belly.”

Otto seemed pleased at her words, at her recognition that Aegon and Aemond had Hightower blood, for Gods knows the court is aft to forget such a thing. Rhaenyra cares not to remind them, but she’ll speak such words to her husband, if it means earning his agreement to her plot.

“It is risky, Rhaenyra. Gaemon was doomed from the start, manipulated from outside the womb to fail. Daenys much the same. This babe, if allowed to thrive, would be harder to perish once freed from Alicent’s body.”

He spoke of his own daughter, and grandchildren, so callously. With no care. As if they meant nothing to him. It sent a thrill down her spine. There were times, like now, that Rhaenyra truly found herself attracted to the man that was her husband. Could see she made herself a good match, though it was one made out of spite. 

“The babe only need to wither away if born a boy. And no child to come from Alicent’s body will be as healthy as a normal babe. She is the weakest she’s ever been, not eating enough, not drinking enough. She hardly spends time outside her rooms, unless forced by Viserys. The child, no matter if it a boy or girl, will be weak when they enter this world. Quick to expire if not given the proper care.”

Otto’s hands had drifted over her arms, linking behind her back, bringing her body as close to his as possible with her bump between the two. She dragged her hands up his chest, clasping around his neck, imagining her strangling him. He imagined it, too, Rhaenyra knew, as his body tensed beneath her. She delighted in the feeling. Their foreheads came together, resting. She felt his breath puff against her lips, and all was silent as he thought of her requests. 

He would do what she asked, whether he agreed with it or not, this she knew. 

“As you wish, my Princess.”

Part of her thought Otto enjoyed being her puppet. He was so used to playing puppet master with lords and ladies, with the common folk, that she thought he enjoyed having a chance to just act. And Rhaenyra enjoyed pulling the strings. 

Rhaenyra gave birth to another screaming babe. Her whole body was red with the effort, and she squirmed with as much strength as a newborn could. The midwives said she was trying to escape their grasp, intending to tumble into Rhaenyra’s waiting arms, who had no qualms catching her slippery babe.

“Heleana,” She whispered, using the flimsy coth the girl was wrapped in to wipe the liquid around her face.

“I did not even have a chance to ask,” Otto complained, though his tone was quiet, as if respecting the bond being formed between mother and daughter.

Rhaenyra had loved her boys, so thoroughly that the entirety of Westeros had called her a dragon mother. A nickname she earned at Aemond’s first name day celebration, where she commanded a minor lord’s head to be brought to her feet when he insulted her boy, calling him the Mute Prince. He was quiet, observing, and how dare a lord think he better than a dragon? How dare he insult one so carelessly? Heads had rolled that day, and the people saw she would tear down in the name of her children. 

But this love? The love she feels forming between her and her little Heleana is one Rhaenyra had never felt before. It is the other side of the love she shared with her mother, Aemma. It is pure understanding of the other. For no other being in all of Westeros will know of Rhaenyra’s struggles like Heleana, just as none knew of Aemma’s struggles like Rhaenyra. 

She was daughter to her mother, and now she was mother to her daughter. How she wished Aemma were here to meet her granddaughter. 

That thought sent fire burning through her veins, and she wondered of Alicent and the unborn child. 

Aegon and Aemond came in then, the same as Aegon had come to see Aemond a year ago. The maester did not comment this time, at her cleanliness. 

“A girl, muna?” Aegon asked, clambering up onto the bed to peer at his little sister. Aemond was helped up by Otto, both boys sitting on either side of her. Aemond, successfully walking now, was silent. He laid a gentle hand on the babe’s arm, and seemed pleased when she did not move away from him.

“Her name is Helaena, my sweet boys.”

Aegon pet at her head, snuggling in close to her. Aemond nodded, stating, “Good name,” in such a serious tone that Rhaenyra had to smile. 

“Her dragon egg is here?” Aegon asked, never taking his eyes off Helaena. 

Rhaenyra nodded, “I chose the egg myself, just as I did for you, and Aemond.”

Aemond’s egg had hatched a few days after Aegon’s name day tourney. Named Vermax, the dragon spent most of its day following Sunfyre, much to Rhaenyra’s amusement. She had high hopes for this egg as well.

Just as Otto did not have a chance to ask the name, he did not have a chance to ask to join them on the bed. Rhaenyra made her motions for him to come to them, and if he was shocked, he did his best to hide it. He simply slid into place behind Aemond, head resting against hers. Aegon, once again, had an arm around her and Helaena. Aemond copied the motion. She and her babe were nestled between her boys, and for once, she included Otto in that sentiment. 

A few moons later, Alicent gave birth to a girl. A wispy little thing, who barely uttered a sound as she was thrust into the world. She had a head full of hair, though, that was as white gold as Rhaenyra’s own. Her eyes were purple, matching her father’s. 

Their father’s. 

She never cried in her cradle, causing the maesters to fear her survival. But they were too busy fretting over the Queen to worry too much over the new Princess. Viserys had made himself scarce, too afraid of losing the both of them to be near either of them. No one seemed to mind much when Rhaenyra plucked the babe from her nursey and brought her to her own chambers. Rhaenyra had taken upon the routine of keeping her babes close to her the first few moons of their life, and such would be the same for her little sister.

Her unnamed little sister. 

When such a fact was brought to her father’s attention, he made a choked sound, before quietly offering Rhaenyra to name the babe. 

And all Rhaenyra could imagine was Alicent surviving the birthing bed, only to wake up to her child being named by Rhaenyra, and residing in Rhaenyra’s rooms. 

She had made sure Otto knew Alicent was to survive, at least long enough to see Rhaenyra with her child. Otto hadn’t known the second part of the thought, but he agreed to ensure Alicent’s meager life would continue on. 

Rhaenyra named the girl Alysanne, knowing it fit as either the wife of Aegon or Aemond. She was a frail thing now, but she wouldn’t be forever, not with Rhaenyra’s nursing. She may be from Alicent’s crumpled body, but she would be raised with Rhaenyra’s fire. 

Daemon came to her one day, followed closely by Laena. They cooed over Helaena, as they always did, before their eyes rested on Alysanne, snuggled tightly into her arms. The midwife had said Alysanne would do good with skin-to-skin contact. Skin-to-skin with a strong mother, she said. The insult to Alicent went disregarded, but Rhaenyra had laughed herself silly when she was alone. 

“Have you adopted the Hightower’s spawn, then?” Daemon asked, openly glaring at the infant. 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, adjusting herself so her breasts were covered, but her chest still exposed enough for Alysanne to rest against. “She is my little sister. Should I not care for her?”

Laena ran a finger down Helaena’s sleeping face, turning from the cradle to join the two at the table. Tea was served, and lemon cakes, Rhaenyra’s favorites. Otto always made sure lemon cakes were available at all times, should Rhaenyra want for them. 

“I think it sweet, Princess, to take care of Princess Alysanne while the Queen is unwell. Better she’s cared for by family than nursemaids,” Laena said, refilling Rhaenyra’s tea for her.

She smiled her thanks, before turning toward Daemon.

“And what of this visit, Uncle? I am unused to seeing you looking so bright-eyed this early in the morn.”

Daemon turned his narrowed eyes from Alysanne to her, angrily taking a sip from his tea, which caused Rhaenyra and Laena to laugh at him. 

“We have grand news, Princess!”

No matter how often Rhaenyra asked, Laena would always refer to her so formally. She thinks the lady takes great pride in teasing her. And Rhaenyra feels… Pleased, to have a friend, again. The sting of Alicent’s betrayal had left her closed off from her current ladies, but what could Laena do? Wed her father again? She’d much prefer a Valeryon as a third mother, at this point, anyways. 

“Oh, and what is this news? Truly, it must be something quite special to have the Rogue Prince willingly seating himself near all these babes!” Rhaenyra exclaimed, smiling at Daemon so maturely sticking his tongue out at her. Laena gingerly slapped his shoulder, the two sharing a kind of look Rhaenyra never saw on either of their faces. She knew, then, what the news would be. 

“We are to wed! In two moons time,” Laena said, clasping her hands together. Daemon offered her a small, but genuine, smile. And Rhaenyra saw an entire future lay out before her.

“Oh, what fantastic news! I so look forward to your union, and the talks this finally opens up!”

Daemon looked at her then, eyebrow-raising, “And what talks are those, niece?”

Rhaenyra felt her lips stretching, her Maegor smile sliding into place, one she hadn’t worn in many moons. She saw the moment Daemon and Laena became uncomfortable, and yet she continued showing off her teeth. Let them see, a vicious part of her thought, let them see who Rhaenyra can be.

“Why, future betrothals, naturally. Alysanne will make a good wife to Aemond someday, this I am sure of, but I am also sure of your future child making a good wife to Aegon.”

Laena came back to herself first, swallowing as she prepared to speak, “Is this true, Princess? You would wed your firstborn to ours?”

Daemon stayed closed off, cautious. He was blood of the dragon after all, more than Laena was. He felt the trepidation no one else did, when she let herself imagine she was Maegor born again. 

She nodded, careful not to jostle Alysanne, “Of course. Perhaps, even, your son could wed my little Helaena, as well. A whole generation of Targaryens and Velaryons.”

Laena seemed pleased, grabbing at Daemon’s hand, trying to share in the excitement. But Daemon’s eyes had not strayed from Rhaenyra’s. He looked at her like he finally saw her. Saw the dragon she was, is, and will always be. And, most surprisingly, Daemon smiled.

It was when Laena took her leave, eager to tell her father of the future betrothals Rhaenyra promised, Daemon stayed. Alysanne had been placed in the cradle with Helaena and her egg, where she hoped the dragon egg would bolster little Alysanne’s survival. 

“How long have you been pulling the strings, my little dragon?” Daemon whispered, lips near touching her ears as he leaned over her. She kept herself still, looking over her daughter, and future good daughter. But she did smile. Her twisted, cruel smile that she adopted the day she told Alicent she would wed Otto. 

“For as long as I realized I had strings to pull, Uncle,” She answered, turning to face him fully. 

Daemon’s face was wicked, eyes dark and wild, lips smirking. He looked as delighted as she did when she first heard the news of Gaemon’s expiration. He was more dragon than man, just as she was more dragon than woman. Perhaps in another life they would lay together, create their own army. But this is her life, currently, and knowing her children would twist themselves around Daemon’s was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

There was not a tourney for Aemond’s first name day. It seemed the entire Targaryen family knew that Aemond desired no such grand celebrations of his life, and thus a feast had been the only passing showing of any celebration in the entirety of King’s Landing. Otto watched his youngest son survey the room around him with eyes that did not belong on that of a toddler’s face. Aemond always seemed to know more, understand more, than any child seeing their first name day should. Viserys would claim Aemond had the gift of dragon dreams, whereas Rhaenyra would say her boy was her silent dragon, always watching, always learning. Otto was more inclined to believe the boy took after him, in that regard. Rhaenyra labeled him a dragon, and Otto knew better than to offer a differing opinion from that of his dear wife, but he saw Aemond for what he was: a tower. A bright tower standing alone, lighting the way for the dragons to come home. 

His musings were cut short, when a brutish man let out a loud guffaw, heard from across the room. Those around him were silent, looking at him in distaste, either from his volume, or his joke, Otto was unsure. 

But a servant, rushing their way, told Otto the joke was not one the royal family would appreciate. 

The words were rushed out, stated in a whisper so gossiping ears could not hear. It was a poor joke, to be sure, one that had Otto ready to draw blood. He did not particularly enjoy dirtying his own hands, but he could see the appeal of dragging Dark Sister through the lord’s neck. He understood Daemon, suddenly, and that made him even more angry. 

Rhaenyra spoke before he, or Viserys, could. 

“Bring the lord to me, Ser Harwin.”

She had not even finished saying his name before the knight was off, rushing toward the lord, with two other City Watch members trailing behind him. Ser Harwin did whatever Rhaenyra bid him to do, always eager to please her. Otto would be upset over the entire idea, but Ser Harwin’s admiration and loyalty for his wife extended to Otto, so he was quite alright with taking advantage of the entire thing.

Soon, the drunken man was stood in front of them. Well, being stood in front of them. Ser Harwin and Ser Cole were holding him by his arms, as he gazed up at the royal family. 

He was a minor lord, a useless house, worth nothing to Rhaenyra, thus he was worth nothing to Otto. He did not listen to the man’s pleas, to the man trying to play off his joke, his joke at the expense of Otto’s son.

The Mute Prince, this drunkard had called his Aemond.

All because Aemond was silent. All because Aemond would rather listen than speak, would rather watch than participate. His tower. 

Otto did not flinch when Rhaenyra called for his head, neither did Viserys. Alicent seemed to pale, cutting her eyes to look directly at him. They hardly looked upon each other, these days. She did her best to avoid both him, and Rhaenyra, but it seemed with this decision she was hoping he would sway their dragons away from murder. 

He would not. 

Daemon offered to do it, looking more than pleased to have a reason to kill somebody. He smiled as he jumped from his chair, standing in front of the lord. Otto disliked the man greatly, but he knew when to give credit where credit was due. Daemon was portraying a fearsome image, unsheathing Dark Sister, twisted smile marring his face. 

Aegon and Aemond watched the entire scene unfold, unflinching, unyielding. Otto had never been more proud of his sons. 

Daemon picked up the head by the greasy, sweat-addled hair, and held it up to Rhaenyra. He gave a mock bow, saying, “The head, as requested, Princess,” and plopped the offending thing right on the table. Rhaenyra stood, hand resting on the head, petting it as if it were a stray animal brought in from the cold. 

She addressed the guests, lips pulled back to show her teeth, “If anyone else would like to tell a joke, I, and my dear Uncle, would be more than pleased to show our appreciation of such an action.”

Not a single breath could be heard, as all stared at Rhaenyra. All at once, Rhaenyra’s lips dropped, and she looked to fit the title of the Realm’s Delight. Soft smile, rosy cheeks, and eyes half-lidded. Her hand dropped away from the ever-bleeding head, and she raised her goblet.

“Then let us feast, and celebrate Prince Aemond’s first name day!”

The people listened, joyous noises returning to the hall, and people offering their well wishes to the youngest Prince. 

And Otto, well, he was watching his wife. 

He had seen her bloodthirsty before, yes, but she had never been able to act on it in such an obvious way. She and Otto acted the same, never truly digging their hands in, letting others involve themselves while they ordered and played on the side. He knew she would rather act like Daemon. Would rather jump from her chair and eat someone alive. In the beginning, he did not know such things. She acted so much more demure compared to the Rogue Prince, so much more scheming and full of whispers. Over time, she let Otto see what lay beneath her soft skin, her pretty smiles. He knew he still did not see all. Rhaenyra was a tricky one, fire and death, yes, but also falsehoods and secrets. She played the game better than he did, and he always felt a step behind her. 

But tonight. Tonight he got to see his wife demand for a man’s head, and be listened to. He got to see the gleam in her eyes as she watched Daemon slice through the lord’s neck. Otto wondered if Rhaenyra would have done it as quickly. He doubts it. She would have taken her time, taken the man apart inch by inch, slowly peeling his skin away to watch his insides wither away. 

Otto, while watching Rhaenyra, had found himself truly awed by her. Admiring her. Drinking her in. And he knew what that meant. 

He lost. 

As he said, Rhaenyra played the game better than he did. She was still playing, and Otto finally realized he had gone from player to pawn, somewhere along the way. He did not find himself upset by the idea. 

The night of Aemond’s first name day, Otto realized he loved Rhaenyra. As a woman, as a wife, as a Queen. He fooled himself into thinking perhaps she felt something similar, for that night they lay together as man and wife did. They only laid together when Rhaenyra wanted a child, and since she was already with one, Otto was surprised at the action. He held her to him, afterwards, breathing in her hair. She slept soundlessly, body curled a little into her ever-growing belly, hands resting atop his as they laid over her. 

Otto wondered what would change now. He had arranged for the deaths of his own grandchildren before loving Rhaenyra, and he almost feared what he would do now that he did love her. Perhaps he’d be like Ser Harwin, tripping over his own feet to do what she requests before she can finish requesting it. Perhaps he already does. 

He’s a tower, and Rhaenyra is the dragon digging her claws in, standing at the top, breathing fire on those beneath them. He’s her tower. 

He’s okay with the idea. 

Rhaenyra changed with him after that. She still had her secrets, had her own devious plans he was none the wiser to, but she touched him more often. Broke her fast with him. Shared little bits of information she overheard from the servants of nothing important. She laid with him often. 

And Otto wanted to show his devotion, in the only way he knew how. Rhaenyra had asked that Alicent live, after the exhausting and traumatic labors. Otto was unsure what her plan was, but seeing her wrapped up with Helaena and Alysanne had him uncaring. So, Otto devised a different plan. Rhaenyra’s claim was secure, this they both had ensured, and with her set to sit the throne, Aegon had nothing to fear for his own inheritance. But he knew Rhaenyra worried for their second son, Aemond. What would he inherit? What was there for a second son? He could be granted the title of Hand, once Aegon becomes king, but that was unlikely. No, Rhaenyra wanted him to have more .

So, Otto returned to Oldtown. 

It had been too long since he saw his older brother, and nephew. Not since his own wedding had his brother made the trip to King’s Landing. Otto did not plan to stay long. 

Just long enough. 

Otto returned to King’s Landing in time for the wedding between Daemon and Laena. Rhaenyra had been overjoyed at the match, speaking of babes, betrothals, and friendships. He had never seen her so close to another lady before, knowing it was really his fault, for pushing Alicent to Viserys in the way that he had. He did not think of such things for long, instead choosing to dance with his wife, enjoying her rare, genuine smile. 

Viserys, too, was happy to see his family together. No matter what Otto whispered in his ear, Viserys’s love for Daemon would be neverending. He looked as though a proud parent to witness Daemon dance with Laena. And beside Viserys sat the ghost of Otto’s first daughter. She had been pulled from her chambers, much like she had for Aegon’s name-day tourney all those moons ago. Her skin was nearly translucent, and Otto was sure he saw her hair falling into her lap with every breath she took. She was unblinking, staring ahead at nothing, as if she wasn’t really there at all. Otto wonders if her mind has left them already, her body the only thing going. 

He almost wants to ask Rhaenyra to let her die, be done with it, as he’s sickened at the look of her. 

Almost. 

It is when they sit at the high table, all together, that Rhaenyra makes an announcement to all those attending. A betrothal, between the firstborn daughter of Daemon and Laena, and their firstborn son, Aegon. Securing the unyielding support of the Velaryons, as well as producing more dragon riders. When the cheers die, Rhaenyra’s smile turns deadly. It curls across her face, staining her. It silences the entire room at once.

“And I wish to announce the betrothal between our second son, Prince Aemond, and King Viserys and Queen Alicent’s firstborn, Princess Alysanne.”

Alicent moves then, lurches forward, staring into Otto’s face. They look at each other, and Otto wonders what she’s hoping to see. Whatever it is, she doesn’t see it, falling back against her chair. Rhaenyra sits, hand grabbing Otto’s, and the smile thrown at him is bloodthirsty. He remembers the feeling of her fingers around his throat. 

He loves her.

The news comes a moon later. 

A tragedy occurred at Oldtown. Lord Hobert Hightower and his son, Ormund, died, just days apart, from the same illness. The maesters are lost at the cause, but liken it to the same disease that took Prince Baelon in the span of just five days. Otto returned to Oldtown once more, with Rhaenyra and their children, for the funerals. Lady Lynesse, his brother’s wife, greeted them. She was distraught, having lost a husband and son so close together. A terrible loss, Rhaenyra had said, wrapping her arms around Lynesse. Rhaenyra locked eyes with him over Lynesse’s shoulder, and he knew she saw his plan.

She always saw.

Aemond was named future Lord of Oldtown before the sun was down. 

She lays with him that night, digging her nails into his back, clawing at his sides, beating against his chest. If she were a true dragon, she would eat him wholly while he was still inside her. She would burn him alive. Instead she claws, and hits, and screams. After, she is soft again. She places one hand on his throat, doesn’t squeeze, just reminds him of what she could do. She offers him a sweet kiss, thanks him for what he gave to Aemond, and falls asleep against him. 

They return home.

Rhaenyra announces she’s with child soon after, hands proudly cupping her belly, as if she can already feel the babe growing within her. She likely can. 

Otto loves her. 

She does not love Otto, despite his best efforts.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had tea daily, at midday, in the gardens. She took to inviting an assortment of ladies from court, alternating between all the noble houses that lived near enough to join, or came to visit the keep. It offered the favor of the mothers, daughters, and sisters of Westeros. And Rhaenyra knew a woman’s favor was worth far more than a man’s. While those with cocks wielded the swords, it was those standing behind them with their silk dresses and swollen bellies that pulled the strings, wound them up, and watched them fight. The teas allowed for the spread of gossip, as well, where Rhaenyra devoured every piece of information offered her. Rhaenyra learned the new Lord of the Iron Islands, Dalton Greyjoy, was busy training men, building ships, and forging swords. Lady Helya, from House Harlaw, shares that the boy claims a storm is coming. She has little knowledge of prophetic dreams in other houses, knows only of the ones shared in hers, but this thought never leaves her.

A storm is coming.

She twists the rings around her fingers and strokes her belly constantly, thinking, always thinking. Otto has taken to running a finger between her brows, claiming to be smoothing the lines, releasing the pressure, allowing her a breath of relief. He changed, sometime between Aegon’s tourney and Helaena’s birth. Much more pliable, she notices. 

He seems to make his decision with only Rhaenyra and her children in mind. Cutting down his own brother and nephew in favor of offering the title of Lord to their second-born son. She hadn’t asked for that. She never asked for things, these days, he just simply did them. Daemon mocked that he was her lap dog, willing to bite the ankles of any she looked at funny. She’s taken to looking at a lot of people funny, just to see what would happen. 

It isn’t until she mentions her dislike of Ser Cole, his righteousness, his arrogance, that she realizes what has happened. 

Ser Cole dies on the training field, blood pouring out of his eyes and ears, dirtying his trousers as he upchucks all over the front of his armor, falling to his knees before hitting the dirt. Otto watches on, unmoving, while Rhaenyra keeps a safe arm around her midsection. 

Rhaenyra realizes, as Otto kisses her temple, speaks of the dignity even the most righteous lose in death, that Otto is no longer playing the game. 

Not really. 

He’s letting her push and pull, make the decisions, point the finger. His hand on her belly is searing, tearing into her flesh. She feels all at once gleeful and disgusted. She has all of the power, and Otto has willingly handed it over to her. Rhaenyra would one day rule all of the Seven Kingdoms, but as of right now, she fully rules Otto Hightower. It makes her giddy, ecstatic, lightheaded with the realization. 

The disgust follows soon after. 

As Otto leans into her, lips to ear, and whispers, “I will do anything for you, my Queen.”

Otto loves her. 

Otto loves her. 

A wave of revulsion travels over her skin, lights up the spots he is touching, singes her fingertips. She feels all at once cold all over and too hot. She’s never felt too hot before. She wants to push Otto away, but she also wants to push him to his knees. Rhaenyra simply turns her body away, feeling more than seeing, Otto’s hands fall away from her. She walks away.

She needs to find Daemon. 

She found Daemon. 

Sitting with Laena, having a small meal, sharing whispers, foreheads near touching. Rhaenyra wants to scream. She cares for Laena, truly, but not near enough to stop her from wanting to dig her own nails into Laena’s soft, brown skin and tear it away from her body like a wild animal. Rhaenyra wanted to call for Syrax, scream dracarys until the entire Keep burns down. 

She didn’t. 

Instead, Rhaenyra turned her body away, this time with no arms drifting away from her, and she walks.

She has no destination this time.

Rhaenyra thinks.

Thinks of Laena and Daemon, bodies pulling together as they whispered secrets Rhaenyra would never be privy to. 

Thinks of her father and her mother, how they always touched, always drifted their hands towards each other, always orbiting the other. 

Thinks of herself and Otto. Of his gentle touches. Of his kind words. Of his fierce protectiveness. Of his unending loyalty. 

It leaves a rotten taste in her mouth, like bile threatening to spew out. She feels dirty, disgusting, feels caked in dirt, feels dipped in oil. She wants to bathe. She wants to peel her skin off. She wants to pull at her hair until she’s bleeding.

The realization crawls up Rhaenyra’s body, starting at her toes and clawing its way up her legs. She feels it digging into her torso, her spine, her breast, and burying itself into her chest. It pumps and pounds, like a heart, beating wildly, erratically. The babe in her belly is kicking, as if angry at Rhaenyra for bringing such thoughts and feelings into her body, for letting them make a home there. 

She didn’t know! She wants to yell, cupping her midsection. 

Her chest can’t fully expand. There’s no room to breathe, not with the babe and this clawing creature. How can she fit inside? The babe is kicking, the creature is burrowing in deeper, and Rhaenyra’s soul is being squeezed out through her throat. 

Rhaenyra loves Otto. 

The thought stops the digging. The creature stills inside her, calm, content. It’s warm, and that alone has it being welcomed by the babe. No more kicking. Rhaenyra’s soul slides down her throat, she swallows and it returns to her core. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for a cup, desperate for a drink, desperate to push the taste of herself off of her tongue. 

She sits, breathing heavily, eyes unfocused. 

Rhaenyra had always felt she could never love someone, not again. She loved Alicent, loved her father, and had been so thoroughly betrayed by the two that it left a laceration through her very being. It was open, pouring blood, oozing, aching, hurting. Every time Rhaenyra looked at Viserys it grew deeper, and deeper, and deeper . And yet…

When had Rhaenyra lost control? 

She tries to think back, tries to pinpoint the exact moment this creature was formed, when it was allowed to breathe and exist. Thinks perhaps it was around the time Otto ensured Aemond would be Lord of Oldtown. Thinks maybe it was when Otto looked at her like she was a god at Aemond’s name day feast, when she called for that lord’s head. Or maybe it had been happening all along, and Rhaenyra had just buried it until it became too large to contain. 

Perhaps Otto had buried his too, until it became too large. Perhaps he had the same experience she did, is still having. She feels out of depth, out of control, out of plots. How does one scheme their way out of these emotions? She is unsure. 

Rhaenyra hates being unsure.

She falls asleep fitfully, twisting and turning. It isn’t until she wakes at dawn, body aching, eyes tired, that she realizes why.

Rhaenyra sleeps nightmarishly only when Otto is absent from their bed.

The thought has her retching into the chamber pot.  

Rhaenyra held no women in her surroundings to a high regard. Yes, she had ladies she dined with, but none that she would ever so trust with the thoughts beating through her skull causing her eyes to shake. No, the only woman Rhaenyra could even fathom going to was one that just arrived at court. She had been absent for many years, showing her distaste for Visrerys’s marriage to Alicent, and then for Rhaenyra’s marriage to Otto. She never showed for either weddings, or for any following name day celebrations. She has only returned because her daughter is at court, taking a spot as one of Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting. She had come for the wedding, and now she will stay for Laena’s pregnancy. Rheanys is the only woman Rhaenyra can think of that would stab her until she stopped feeling these ridiculous emotions, or she simply died. Either would work, for Rhaenys. 

They met in a disused section of the library. Only the maesters made use of it. Rhaenyra and Alicent used to, when they would steal books to read outside in the gardens. Neither had been to the library in years. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys stood when she entered, showing proper respect, though it didn’t reach the woman’s eyes. 

It did not matter, not in this instance. Rhaenyra waved her to sit, choosing a chair close to her, nearly sitting knee to knee. The surprise showed on Rhaenys’s face, as she glanced between where their legs touched and at Rhaenyra’s face. 

“I come to you with a need for advise, Rhaenys.”

Rhaenyra had dropped all titles, all pleasantries. This action caused Rhaenys’s eyebrows to draw up toward her hairline, fingers drumming where they rested on the table. 

“You sound rather anxious.”

Rhaenyra paid no attention to the look of pleasure rolling over the other woman’s face. She took great joy in watching Alicent and Viserys suffer over the years, she knows exactly what justice feels like. Rhaenys can have her moment, if Rhaenyra thinks she’s relishing too much, she’ll have either Daemon or Otto kill her. 

“I have this issue, one that’s just become visible to me. I fear it has been there for many moons. I wish for help ridding myself of it.”

Rhaenys purses her lips together, clasping her hands together in her lap. 

“You know, Rhaenyra, if you wish to have someone made to disappear, I am not the person to ask. I’m sure Daemon would be more than pleased to wield a sword in your name.”

She says Daemon’s name like a curse, which Rhaenyra’s sure it is, to the Velaryons. Fighting in the Stepstones with Corlys earned Daemon some amount of respect, but his reputation as the Rogue Prince, and Lord of Fleabottom, precedes him. Rhaenyra imagines Helaena telling her she wished to marry a known whoremonger, and then she imagined slicing the whoremonger’s body apart. No, she sees Rhaenys’s distaste. 

“I am not asking you such a thing, surely you must know that!” Rhaenyra exclaims, touching a gentle hand to Rhaenys’s. It draws her eye immediately, but Rhaenyra does not withdraw. She holds fast, and continues, “I fear… I love someone.”

It is silent, which is to be expected in a library, but not this silent.

Rhaenys looks to be a statue, unmoving, unblinking. Perhaps she isn’t even breathing. Rhaenyra waits, hand still holding hers. And finally, she takes a deep breath, and a slow blink.

“You fear such a thing? I imagine your husband is not one to raise a fist against a secondary lover. He does not seem the type, at least. Do you fear your paramour, then? Is he a violent man?”

Rhaenys turned her hands, grabbing Rhaenyra’s, holding them in her lap. She seemed to have a look of concern, leaning forward, eyebrows pinched. Rhaenyra saw her mother sitting in front of her, and she ached. 

“No, no, there is no paramour. I have no one apart from my husband.”

And suddenly, Rhaenys laughed. 

A hand slipped from Rhaenyra’s, landing on her own chest as she seemed to attempt to control herself. Rhaenyra blinked at her, leaning toward having the woman sitting in front of her killed. Imagined Dark Sister sliding into her mouth, down her throat. Let her laugh at me then.

Rhaenys opened her eyes, and the laughter ceased. Whatever she saw on Rhaenyra’s face had her sitting up straight, face wiped of all humor.

“I apologize for my reaction, Rhaenyra, but you must understand. You seemed truly out of sorts, fearful, even, over this love, I had nothing else to do but think it was either a terrible man or you feared for his life. But to hear it is your husband you love? What is there to fear in that?”

A silly, stupid woman, Rhaenyra thought.

“There is everything to fear, Rhaenys. My mother loved my father wholly, and completely, and that love had her losing babe after babe. That love had her cut open like an animal, and ripped apart, for a prince that never saw his second day. That love destroyed her.”

Rhaenyra was digging her nails into Rhaenys’s hands, squeezing so tight the woman flinched, attempting to pull her hands away. But Rhaenyra would not let go. If Rhaenys did not fear this love, Rhaenyra would make her fear something else. She would make her bleed like Rhaenyra felt like she was bleeding. 

And then Rhaenyra felt the creature stirring, waking up. It had been docile since Rhaenyra admitted she loved Otto, but now it seemed poised to attack. It unfurled within her lungs, claws scratching her heart, teeth grazing her guts. The babe started to sitr, and Rhaenyra swore she felt it ready to kick, to scream, to fight inside her. 

She let go of Rhaenys’s hands.

Everything settled inside her, immediately. 

“Rhaenyra, you are not Aemma. You have successfully carried three babes, all born vibrant and healthy. Screaming like the dragons they are, I heard. You are pregnant now, and all I see before me is your strength. I certainly felt it,” Rhaenys had the audacity to offer Rhaenyra a smirk at that, before saying, “I love Corlys, with my entire body. I feel it every time I look upon his face, or so much as think of him. He is my partner, my equal, my match. And I am here before you, with two grown children, and a body fully intact. I am before you, just as you are before me, and we are alive.”

We are alive. 

But Rhaenyra feels like she is dying. 

A storm is coming. 

Is this the storm? Is Rhaenyra the storm?

Rhaenyra looks at the woman in front of her, and she wants to weep. It should be her mother, speaking of love and matches. It should be her mother, urging Rhaenyra to let herself love someone. Instead, her mother is ash. Instead, Rhaenys is left trying to fit back the pieces that have fallen from Rhaenyra’s body over the years. 

The babe kicks.

The creature sleeps.

Otto returns to their bed after three nights away. Rhaenyra does not ask where he was, hearing the whispers from servants that he had taken up residence in one of their spare rooms. She realized, sometime during the second sleepless night, that he had intended to give her space. Space to think, or rage, or plot ways to kill him, she is unsure, but space all the same. Rhaenyra had found herself grateful for the space, as whenever she went to lie down, make to sleep, the creature woke and became so violent it knocked her breath away. She’d curl into herself, beat her hands against her chest, drink as many cups as she could in an attempt to silence the offending thing. 

It wasn’t until the fourth night, Otto’s return, that the creature had settled. For the first time, Rhaenyra was able to lie down fully, and feel nothing twisting inside her. She sighed, eyes closing, and was asleep within minutes. 

She awoke to Otto’s arms around her, resting against her belly. The babe was pushing, as if touching Otto’s hands. And the creature was pressed into Rhaenyra’s spine, struggling to get as close to Otto as her body would allow. All was silent, Otto’s chest moving up and down behind her as he breathed, still sleeping. She had not woken throughout the night, not felt either babe or creature moving. Rhaenyra had rested.

Rhaenys had said they were alive. 

Rhaenyra supposed she was right. 

It was not often the two couples shared a meal together, choosing instead to share them separately, or not at all. Sometimes Rhaenyra would join Daemon and Laena, but never had Daemon and Laena chosen to join Rhaenyra and Otto.

Tonight was a first.

Rhaenyra wondered if they would all survive. She had demanded Daemon leave Dark Sister in his chambers, of which he complained thoroughly about.

And what if we are attacked, niece? How will I protect us?

She had reminded him of the kingsguard, and her trusted knight. Ser Harwin would protect Rhaenyra with his life, and thus would protect whoever she was with. Daemon had been none too pleased.

And what if I wish to do the attacking? How shall I commence an ambush with no weapon?

Rhaenyra wasn’t foolish enough to believe Dark Sister was the only weapon Daemon carried on his person, and his subsequent smirk was proof enough of that. She had inquired as to who he was ambushing, of which his only response was, It’s not an ambush if you know about it, princess. Rhaenyra had pinched the back of his neck when he turned to walk away, causing him to yelp, and swat at her hand. She laughed him out of the room. 

Now, the four of them sat around a table, where Rhaenyra and Laena attempted to stimulate their too-busy-glaring-at-each-other husbands into conversation. 

“Keep it up, and I’ll mistake this hatred for obsession and become paranoid the two of you wish to fall into bed with the other,” Rhaenyra said, stabbing her meat viciously, imagining it were Otto’s head. And Daemon’s.

The two men spluttered, turning their glares to her.

Laena spoke up, smiling widely, “As they say, hatred and love are two sides to the same coin. Perhaps you two have some unresolved emotions to contend with? A moment alone might do you well.”

Rhaenyra had laughed, reaching for her goblet, “Cheers, cousin.”

“I dislike the insinuations you two put forth, wife,” Otto said, hand finding hers under the table.

They hadn’t spoken of it, whatever it was that transpired between the two of them during Ser Cole’s death. It seemed Otto was fine leaving it unmentioned, and Rhaenyra had no want to dig it up and talk over it. 

Daemon took a large drink of his wine, slamming the goblet down, “If need, Laena, I can show you unresolved emotions, hm?” his hand drifted down her side, sliding behind her back. Laena smiled at him, cupping his cheek.

Rhaenyra watched, entranced. Such easy affection, likely with no thought to their audience. She thought of Otto grabbing her hand, where no one could see, not for show of their guests, or the servants, just for them. And she hadn’t pulled away, no, in fact, she had grabbed at his right back. What does it mean?

Rhaenys is laughing at her in her head, saying things like “match” and “partner”. 

Somewhere during dinner, when the dishes were taken and lemon cakes brought out - As requested by the Lord Hand - Daemon and Otto had started speaking of the City Watch, and the small folk, and the lords in the Realm, and upcoming tourneys. It was an actual conversation, and Rhaenyra found herself silent, in fear her speaking would upset the natural balance the two had created. Laena hadn’t said a word, either, and the two shared a look.

Isn’t this new? Rhaenyra thought.

Certainly unexpected. Rhaenyra thought Laena would say back.

Rhaenyra rested her hand on her belly, feeling the babe pushing away, always pushing. The maester said it was a sign they were eager to come out, ready to exist outside the womb, and not inside. Rhaenyra only had a moon more to go. Laena was following close behind her, at six moons, but she was ever so larger. Growing faster than Rhaenyra ever had. The maester was sure it was twins. Rhaenyra was excited, excited Laena would have twins, and excited she would not. 

Dinner had ended when Rhaenyra and Laena deemed it much too late to continue up and talking. As they left, Rhaenyra watched as Daemon guided Laena from the room, arms never leaving her, holding her strong and steady. She recalls Otto doing similar things for her. He’s doing it now, helping her into her nightclothes, ensuring she makes it to the bed without misstepping. He lays with her, warm body pressed into her, hand splayed over her naval. 

She waits for him to close his eyes, for his breath to even, and for his body to relax. 

In High Valaryian, she whispers, “I love you.”

The words taste like lemon cakes and wine. 

She goes to the childbed not a full moon later, a bit earlier than she was expecting. But the babe had been ready, so ready, for so long, that she was unsure how she made it this long, trapping it inside her. Otto was at her side, watching, pacing, whispering kind words, always whispering kind words. 

Her fourth child, Daeron, bursts out of her with a screech the likes of which has the maester raising his shoulders, attempting to cover his ears. He wails, as if he changed his mind immediately upon exiting her body, like he wishes to return. She smiles, arms outstretched, waiting for her boy. He is wrapped, and offered to her like a sacrifice, the maester’s face begging her to take him. Pressed against her breast, Rhaenyra shushes, and soothes, fingers drawing gentle circles over his forehead. He whimpers, face scrunched up, but there is no more screaming. 

“He is the strongest one we’ve had, my wife,” Otto says, sitting on the bed beside her, moving her sweaty hair off of her face. 

He has never shied away from the childbed, Rhaenyra thinks. 

“Our wailing dragon,” Rhaenyra offers.

They share a smile, before turning their eyes back to the newborn. He has a head full of brown hair, and when he graces them with his eyes, they are brown. He is Otto made over, she supposes. All tower. Except for his fire. He breathes it over everyone that attempts to hold him, screaming and screeching. Viserys tries, and does not try again. Otto can get him down to a small cry, and Rhaenyra a whimper. He is his most silent with Daemon. She finds it terribly ironic then, watching Daemon rock him, sing to him, walk with him, seeing as Daeron was the most Hightower of them all. 

“He is of your blood. My blood. Blood of the dragon, born of fire. No matter his hair or eyes, he is Targaryen,” Daemon says, running a finger from his hair to his chin.

Daeron sighs, at peace in the arms of the Rogue Prince. 

Rhaenyra is in the nursery, offering attentions to Helaena and Alysanne, feeling much too neglectful. Aegon is playing with Aemond across the room, both content to simply share the same space as their mother, if not her full focus. She is at peace, watching Helaena and Alys attempt to maneuver themselves around the room. They were growing much too quickly, for Rhaenyra’s taste. 

And then Viserys entered. 

He walked slow, measured steps, as if worried he would fall over. He likely would, Rhaenyra thought. He had grown quite sickly over the last few moons. The maesters had no idea what it was, just how to treat the symptoms Viserys was having. He had lost two fingers so far. Rhaenyra wondered what would fall off next. Who would follow a king with no hands? No eyes? 

He fell into a chair near her, heaving out a breath as he did so. His skin had gone too thin, papery. Her once strong father had become weak, not just in his will, but his look. What was on the inside, must show on the outside, she mused. 

“How is my girl, then?” He asked, turning to her, smiling.

They made small talk, nothing too serious, nothing meaningful. Rhaenyra thinks that she lost her father the day she lost her mother. They both died, just in different ways. So when she inevitably sets Viserys to burn at the pyre, there will be no one to mourn. Just a body to clean up.

“Alicent is in much higher spirits, these days. She asks for Alysanne. Perhaps you could take the babe to visit?”

Rhaenyra had no plans of such a thing. She was allowing Alicent to gather her strength, survive long enough to watch Alysanne grow, but not have enough power to raise her. She had no intentions of making anything easy for the woman. 

“I fear being away too long from Daeron, with him being so picky of who holds him. I’d hate for the nursemaids to be stuck with a wailing babe. And I would be so remorseful to have Daeron wail when her grace is seeing Alysanne. Perhaps you could take her? I’m sure our queen would enjoy a visit from her husband and babe.”

The words were poison from her mouth, referring to her father as Alicent’s husband, but seeing Viserys’s discomfort at her proposal was worth it. Did he despise his second wife so? Were her troubles from the birthing bed so disgusting to him? Did they remind him of the burdens he placed on his first wife? 

Aegon came over then, eyeing Viserys as if he were a bug to examine. 

“Muna, Helaena’s first name day is coming up. Will we have a tourney?”

And Viserys was off, talking of tourneys, and feasts, and all the lords and ladies to invite. Aegon smiled, looking at Rhaenyra. She kissed the top of his head, whispering her thanks into his hair, before she made her leave from the nursery. 

Rhaenys cornered her by the Weirwood tree, slipping her arm into hers, essentially locking them in place. She thought back to a similar situation she had put Alicent in, many years previous. 

“How is your match, Rhaenyra?”

The words were whispered, offered as a secret. Rhaenyra loved secrets. She sighed, arm tightening, squeezing Rhaenys’s arm in hers. She didn’t stop until Rhaenys gasped, and then she allowed her arm to loosen. 

“I still fear. But, I can admit, not as much as before. I am willing to concede that perhaps you were right.”

Rhaenys smiled, which Rhaenyra saw from the corner of her eye. Neither were looking at the other, staring straight ahead at the tree before them. The only sign the two were speaking together being their bodies pressed together. 

“Right about what?” she played the fool, head cocking to the side.

Rhaenyra thought of snapping her neck. Slamming her face into the tree, over and over, watching blood soak the ground beneath them. Laena would be so upset with her, and then Daemon would have to calm her down, and then Corlys would be angry. Too much work for such a little gain. So, she didn’t kill Rhaenys. 

Yet.

There was always the next time they spoke.

For Rhaenyra cannot always be as in control as she is today.

“We are alive. I am alive. I went through my labors with Daeron, and he never left my side. He never does, did you know? Through all four babes, he was there the entire time. I never thought of that before.”

Thankfully, as if Rhaenys knew she should tread carefully, she did not mock Rhaenyra. In fact, she stayed ever so silent, waiting.

“I think I shall be okay. Perhaps this feeling is not the worst.”

Rhaenys did the unthinkable then, leaning over and kissing Rhaenyra on the temple. She was so in shock, that Rhaenys was able to disentangle their arms, and leave the garden without her making a move. Rhaenyra stayed in her spot, skin sizzling where Rhaenys’s lips were, feeling as though there was a hole there now. She touched the spot, surprised to find no bubbling skin, no gaping wound. 

Maybe the storm has passed. Maybe she isn’t dying.

Chapter Text

Years slip by faster than she was expecting them to.

It is when Viserys dons a golden mask, hiding an entire side of his face, preventing his family from seeing his missing eye and gaping flesh, that Rhaenyra realizes she will be queen sooner than late. The thought settles into her stomach, blooms and grows, alongside her creature. She takes over the act of ruling, Viserys remaining king in face only, while Rhaenyra pulls the strings. She did not burden her father with a disease or some unknown curse, but it feels like the Gods have done it for her. His punishment for all he did, and didn’t do, throughout his life. She watches him rot away, watches fingers and toes detach themselves from him, watches the skin on his face slide away, and she sees her mother. She sees her little brother, Baelon. She sees their pyres.

She cuts back his milk of the poppy, stating to the maesters he still needs most of his wits about him, in case his ruling is ever needed. 

Sometimes, she walks slowly past his door, just to hear his wailing.

She wonders if it sounds anything like hers did, after she gave Syrax the command to burn her mother and brother’s bodies. 

And Alicent, gathering enough willpower to walk short distances on her own, spends most of her time praying at the godswood. Rhaenyra hears from maid’s whispers that the queen prays for strength, prays for her daughter, prays for herself. 

Rhaenyra arranges for a meal together, where the king doesn’t want to refuse and the queen is still forced to bend to the will of her husband, whether he is rotting or not. They sit at one table, Rhaenyra and Otto facing Viserys and Alicent. Surrounding them are the children, her children. They are speaking animatedly, voices chattering away. Viserys seems at peace, looking between all his grandchildren, and children. Alicent looks absent, lost, as if someone has plucked her soul from her very body and run away with it. 

Alysanne does not acknowledge her parents, beyond a polite greeting, turning toward Helaena to share whispers. She has grown into a beautiful girl, long golden hair, bright violet eyes. She mirrors Rhaenyra in her body. They could be twins, Rhaenyra says over the table, watching Alicent flinch. Alysanne and Aemond share sneaking glances at each other, blushes rising to their cheeks. Rhaenyra smiles at the two, causing her grace to realize what was happening, and look between the children with a fervent glance. She might kill herself, Rhaenyra thinks, watching as Alicent squeezes her knife in a white-knuckled grip. 

Aegon, who, to his frustration, has inherited his mother’s height over his father’s, stands up from his chair, offering a toast. His hair follows whatever pattern Daemon’s does. If Daemon’s is short, so is Aegon’s, and if Daemon’s is long, so follows Aegon’s. She finds it so amusing, listening to Daemon grumble about mimicking dragons. 

“To my mother, for having us all together, to share in our blessings and good fortune! She is the center of our family, and we are so very fortunate to have her as a mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend,” he raises his glass, smile taking over his face. 

Her Aegon, her fierce little dragon, always knowing what to say, when to say it. Rhaenyra adores him, wishes she could see him be king. She raises her glass, hand to chest, offering her most genuine smile. 

Viserys, wheezing, replies, “Well done, my boy.”

Alicent remains silent, stoic. Unmoving. She has not touched her glass, but her hand has not moved from her knife. 

Otto moves, catches Alicent’s eye, as he stands.

“I am not one to be outdone by my son,” Otto begins, drawing a laugh from Rhaenyra, which earns her a gentle smile from him, “so I shall offer my toast. My wife has provided me with many blessings throughout our marriage, of which I had never dreamed of having. Our children together will forever remain the best thing I ever had a part in creating. They have grown to be such intelligent, bright, vivacious young men and women that I am constantly in awe that my blood runs through them. I adore each of you, but none more than my dear wife. To our family!” Otto finishes, drinking down his wine.

Rhaenyra eyes had strayed along the way, during the speech, to Alicent’s. They never looked away from the other, and the despair that swept over her face when Otto spoke of their children was more filling to Rhaenyra than any food provided at the meal. 

More toasts follow, from Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, shorter and following the same path of Aegon’s, but each word sends another dagger into Alicent’s torso. It isn’t until Alys stands that Alicent gasps in a deep breath, as if readying herself for battle. 

“I know that neither Princess Rhaenyra, nor Lord Otto, are my parents, but they have gifted me the same love they have willingly given their own children. It is unconditional, unending, and forever supportive. I wish to offer my many thanks, for raising me, and caring for me, as your own. And to my mother and father, I thank each of you for the life that you have afforded us. You are a wonderful king, father, and a graceful queen, mother.” 

With that, she sits, and Rhaenyra’s children cheer to her, drinking and resuming their speaking. Alicent has bowled over into herself, chest heaving. No one pays her any mind, to the extent that Rhaenyra wonders if she’s imagining the entire thing. But then Viserys offers a hand to Alicent’s back, patting her, soothing her like a father would a child. Rhaenyra decides to speak then.

“All these words of kindness will fill my heart for many years to come, this I swear. We do not have a chance to be together as a family often, so tonight is certainly a special occasion. I love seeing all of us around this table together, and hope we can make this a more regular occurrence. We could all do with more family in our lives,” Rhaenyra had stood, hand resting on her swollen belly, and looked at her father and stepmother. 

“Let us give our thanks to the Gods for all they have given us. For Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron. For Alysanne. For my dear husband, Otto, and the love we share. For my father and dear friend. House Targaryen has been touched by the Gods this evening, allowing us all to come together to enjoy each other’s presence. To our family,” She finishes as Otto did, taking a small drink, watching Viserys attempt to do the same. 

Otto helps her sit, one hand to her back, the other holding her outstretched hand. She offers him a smile in thanks, entwining their fingers together. A chaste kiss is exchanged, one that is met with resounding grunts of displeasure from their children. 

She rolls her eyes, saying, “Just wait until all of you find your matches. I’ll make every affection you share out to be the grossest action to witness, I swear on it.”

Helaena and Alys giggle to each other, foreheads close together. Aegon and Daeron look at her as if she wouldn’t dare, whereas Aemond has a look of fear. Her silent dragon knows her too well, knows she’ll keep that promise. 

There are no more toasts, just easy conversations as they eat. Rhaenyra removes her eyes from Alicent, choosing instead to focus on her children. She hears Aemond and Daeron speak of the upcoming tourney, of the knights that are in attendance, and who they believe will win. Daeron is only eight name days old, but he’s her fiercest child. He is their loudest, his laugh echoing off every wall in the Keep. There are jokes that if Daeron yelled, one would hear him in Pentos, perhaps even beyond. His hair trails a little past his chin, a golden brown that always looked as if the sun was shining on him. His soft brown eyes find hers, and he smiles toothily, the way only a boy could. She runs her hand down his face, kissing his brow, wishing he would cease his growing. Aemond was much the same, she feared, shooting up like a wildflower. He towered over Aegon, much the annoyance of his older brother, and had the same eyes as Daeron. His hair was long, as long as hers, and they spent many nights together either brushing or braiding their hair. He enjoyed the quiet moments with her, and she would never deny him such a thing. And her darling Helaena, with hair as wild as she is, but as white as a sheet. Her eyes shine a soft purple when they looked at her, a deep understanding shining in them. Helaena always understood.

She withdrew from her thoughts when she saw her children move, making to dance on the floor behind them. Rhaenyra watched, hands clapping together, as Aemond and Alys shared many dances, and Aegon and Daeron twirled Helaena between them.

Her dragons.

Baela and Rhaena are beautiful girls, with their tanned skin and white hair, they looked almost otherworldly, to Rhaenyra. She imagined what her grandchildren would look like, between Aegon and Baela. Soft white hair, maybe a few wisps of brown trickled in like Aegon. Would they match Aegon’s pale skin or Baela’s brown? Would they have Aegon’s violet eyes or Baela’s bright purple? Such things Rhaenyra was excited to experience, though her boy was only near thirteen, and Baela only eight. She does not wish away their childhoods, but she cannot help but let the future run through her like syrup.

Laena was with child again, matching Rhaenyra. She joked that Laena seemed to wait for Rhaenyra to become pregnant again. Laena simply shrugged, stating it better to suffer the childbed with a friend than alone. Rhaenyra silently agreed, thinking of all the times Aemma was alone in her suffering. 

Rhaenyra, to her ever frustration, was with twins. She was seven moons along and bigger than she had been at the end of all of her previous pregnancies. Laena had laughed herself near tears when she was told, reminding Rhaenyra of all the teases she provided during Baela and Rhaena’s time in the womb.

Yes, yes, it is very amusing to witness my karma come to me so quickly. I am ever so glad you are enjoying this. 

Laena, contrary to her last time with child, had gained little weight. She was light, and as quick as ever, nearing nine moons. She was advised against riding Vhagar so late in the pregnancy, but it seemed unable to stop her. Laena rode close to the ground, never going too fast, just enough to feel the wind whistling through her hair. It made Rhaenyra wish to cut her open and eat her alive. For she could only move so much before exhaustion set in. She could barely sit herself up on her own, requiring Otto’s assistance. And Laena was out dragon riding.

“Well, you did provide many a comment during her last pregnancy,” Daemon said, having brought her candied oranges and nut-crusted plums. She was grateful, devouring them as if she hadn’t just finished her last meal but an hour ago. 

He watched, amused, sitting on the edge of her bed. 

Aegon was napping beside her, having taken to eating his midday meal with her, so she had company. He did not like that she was stuck in her chambers all day. She carded her fingers through his hair, glancing up at Daemon.

“Yes, I may have been a bit too amused at the entire predicament, but as I recall, I did no dragon-riding while she was stuck watching me through the window.”

Daemon hums, stealing a candied orange, “This is true. Though Laena riding Vhagar is less about torturing you and more about taking her leave from me.”

As Rhaenyra watched him eat her candied orange she imagined him choking it. How dare he take her sweet treat? She would shove them into his nostrils one day. 

“From you? What have you done, then?”

A grunt was his only reply.

There was a beat of silence, where the only sound was Aegon’s soft breathing. 

Peace, Rhaenyra thought.

And then Daemon spoke. “She wishes for Rhaena to inherit Driftmark. Laenor is obviously going to have no children, so the heirs are left to her, and she chose Rhaena.”

Rhaenyra thinks of Laenor, who has yet to grace the court with his presence in years. He met his nieces when Daemon and Laena took them to Driftmark for their first name day. Rumors twist about that he’s off in Lys, working at a pleasure house, being used by the men. She finds it distasteful, that such rumors are allowed to be spread. 

“I am confused, uncle. Do you not wish for your daughter to inherit Driftmark?”

Daemon was quick to dissuade her of such thoughts. “Of course, I wish for her to rule Driftmark! I support your claim to the throne, just as I support Rhaena’s claim as Lady of the Tides! It… is Corlys. He wishes to wait until Laena has this child, in case it is a boy.”

Rhaenyra has not seen Corlys in many years. Rhaenys has taken to visiting court, staying for prolonged periods sporadically. But when she wishes to see her husband, Rhaenys takes to the skies, flying back to Corlys. He only showed for the wedding, and to meet Baela and Rhaena. That was the last Rhaenyra had seen of him.

“And? If you support Rhaena’s claim, why is she cross with you? Should she not be upset with her father?”

Rhaenyra adjusts herself, wincing as the babes move inside her. Daemon is quick to remove the plate of treats, helping her move, fixing her pillows. She smiles at him, patting his hand, waving for him to continue.

“She wanted to fly to Driftmark to argue with him in person, rather than in letters. I told her to wait, have the babe, we could speak with Corlys when he came to see his third grandchild.”

She simply nodded, waiting for more. 

“Laena asked if I wanted to wait for the babe to see if it would be a boy or girl, asked if I would support the boy over Rhaena.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, noticing his slight hesitation. “And, uncle? You assured her you would support Rhaena over any child, whether male or female?”

Daemon’s silence was her answer, and she rolled her eyes.

“So you, as well, want a son to rule the tides? Prefer a child with a cock over any others, hm?”

He grunted, standing. Daemon’s glare was not aimed at her, but it was painted on his face all the same. “I wish for Rhaena to rule, I do. But Corlys is the Lord now, Master of Driftmark. He has the right to choose his heirs. As it stands, Laena is not heir to Driftmark. Despite Laenor’s proclivities, he is set to inherit the title. I do not wish to upset Corlys so that he chooses to keep it that way!”

Her scheming uncle, always trying to think ahead, plan all the steps before he takes him. She thinks of herself, of all her plots and plans, and wonders, if she had to scheme against a living son, how much harder, would her trials have been? If Baelon had lived, or Gaemon, what would her father do? The realm? It is no secret men prefer to bend the knee to men. If she were fighting for the throne against her brother, would she win? 

“And you explained such thoughts to Laena?”

Silence. 

Rhaenyra groaned, wishing she could pull Daemon’s hair until he cried. 

“You foolish boy. Go find your wife, speak as you spoke to me, and tell her she is forbidden from riding her dragon until I am well enough to do so!”

Daemon smiled, offering a mock bow, before he turned on his heels, and left the room entirely. Rhaenyra sighed, sinking into her pillows and mattress, arm pulling Aegon into her. He smelled of ink and old books, evidence of his early morning lessons. 

Rhaenyra gave birth to a boy and a girl, who upon being laid together, locked their hands as one. The maester mused that perhaps that was how they were in the womb, grabbing each other. She held them to her chest, as they made soft noises, wiggling against her. Otto had just arrived back from Oldtown, having taken Aemond there to visit and see his future duties. They had been away for two weeks, and he had arrived halfway through Rhaenyra’s labors. Once informed, he had rushed through the halls, bursting into their rooms just as Rhaenyra let out a curse to his name. 

Now, he was laying with her, hand moving between the two babes, seemingly unsure which to touch. 

“Name one,” Rhaenyra demanded. 

Otto jerked slightly, looking at her, asking if she was sure. Rhaenyra had named all of their children, and she had no idea what came over her as she demanded he name one now. She thinks perhaps it is because these are the last babes Rhaenyra will have. She knows this. After seeing her father creep closer to death, Rhaenyra had decided she would have no more children. She would not sit the throne pregnant, become a bedridden queen that opened space for the lords to sow their cruel remarks. They would find fault with her, this she knew. Too weak to even get out of bed, too weak to sit the throne. No, these babes were her last. 

So, she offers Otto a chance to name one.

Only one.

He moves his hand over the girl, stroking her barely there hair. “Alerie,” he whispers, reverently. Rhaenyra looks down at her, as she nuzzles into Rhaenyra’s breast and her brother’s body, and thinks Alerie. 

Yes. Her little Alerie. 

Alerie Targaryen.

“And the boy, my beloved? His name?” Otto asks.

Rhaenyra thought, staring down at her newest boy. He was pale in skin, though flushed red from the trauma of birth. He had yet to open his eyes, but Rhaenyra knew they would match hers. His head had few hairs, though from what she could see the few showing were a brown matching Daeron’s. 

“Aerion,” she said.

The names twisted together, Alerie and Aerion, like they belonged. Destined for each other. The babes clung together, seemingly content as long as they were together. Rhaenyra would ensure they would always be together. 

Laena was screaming again. This time, unfortunately, the babes were not coming. It had been a night and day of this, and they were heading swiftly into the second night. The maesters were fearful of what this meant, whispering to Daemon that the longer she remained in the childbed, the worse her chances of leaving became. Rhaenys was with her daughter, speaking soft words, offering a hand to squeeze. Rhaenyra heard all of this from a maid, who was running between the two families, helping to take care of Laena, and Rhaenyra. Laena, who the maids had to douse with cool water over and over to fight the fever threatening to consume her. Rhaenyra, recovering from the childbed herself, but otherwise whole, unharmed. 

She thought of Rhaenys’s words.

I am before you, just as you are before me, and we are alive.

We are alive.

Had Rhaenys included Laena in such sentiments? Perhaps if she had, Laena would not be suffering this fate. For how could Laena survive twins, but fail to survive a single babe? 

The babe came suddenly in the night.

He was curled into himself, arms bent at odd angles, legs deformed. His face, purely free of any misshapen figures, was darling. Rhaenyra had seen him as the silent sisters took him. He had Daemon’s face. And he looked to be sleeping, content, in the arms of Daemon as he handed the babe away. His body twisted and turned in odd ways, but a face that mirrored his father’s. He did not live for but a second outside Laena’s body. 

As the pyre was readied, Daemon demanded they wait for Laena to be well enough to attend. She could not leave the childbed, sweating, and crying. The maesters said it was a fever, and the labor had left her weak, too weak to fight it. She anguished for three days, crying and screaming and beating her hands against the sheets. 

Rhaenyra came to her on her last day, offering her cool drinks, and cloths dipped in cold water. She pulled Laena’s hair back, out of her face, twisting it up and away. Laena’s eyes were glazed over, lips cracked open, and every breath sounded like it shredded her insides. 

And all at once, she became clear-eyed and strong. She grabbed at Rhaenyra’s arm, pulling her down toward her face, and said, “Protect my girls, Rhaenyra, you must.”

Rhaenyra was at a loss for words, unsure how to proceed, and the shock must have shown on her face as Laena tightened her grip.

“Marry Daemon, kill Otto, do what you wish on the throne, but protect my girls. They are of your blood, like your children, like Alysanne. Treat them as such.”

The glaze crept over her eyes again, and her grip weakened. She fell to the bed, and Rhaenyra leaned backward, away. She looked at the fever-ridden mother in front of her and wondered how she knew all she did. Perhaps Daemon had told her, had trusted her enough to share their secrets like wine. 

It didn’t matter, in the end.

Laena did not make it through the night. 

Her funeral pyre was set next to their son’s, whom Daemon had named Baelor. Caraxes set fire to them both, as Vhagar circled overhead. 

Rhaenyra had walked silently to the nursery. Once inside, she went to Alerie and Aerion, and with help from the nursemaids, she held them to her chest as tightly as she could. They cooed at her, drooling all over her mourning clothes, hands grasping at the fabric.

She did not feel much for Laena’s death, nor for Baelor’s. But she heard Laena’s words, and would honor them. Baela and Rhaena would always be protected, just as all her children. Blood of my blood, born of fire. She thought of Otto, ensuring Aemond would become lord someday. She thought of Corlys, who was fighting with all his might to keep his own granddaughter from inheriting the title. 

Blood of my blood.

Rhaena would become Lady of the Tides, no matter the obstacles standing in the way, this Rhaenyra knew.

Chapter Text

There are rumors that have followed Laenor his entire life, and those that grew exponentially at his continuous refusal to take a wife, to have children, instead choosing to travel in close quarters with a knight. Laenor Velaryon has existed in a bed of rumors from his first breath.

And his last.

Laenor died by a dagger to the throat. His knight’s dagger. Blood had soaked the sheets where his body lay, covered the nightclothes his knight wore. It was an obvious conclusion to make, that Laenor’s lover had killed him while he slept. There were no witnesses, and no others to shoulder the blame. 

The funeral came and went, but what Rhaenyra remembered most was Corlys Velaryon being permitted by Viserys to wield the sword that killed his son’s murderer. She took great pleasure in watching the blade slide through the man’s neck, watching the arch of blood spray, hearing the head hit the floor at the body’s feet. Blood was pooling rapidly all over the stone floor, and Rhaenyra almost clapped for the great show.

Before the week could end, though, Vaemond Velaryon had made his appearance at court, intent on speaking with Corlys and Rhaenys privately.

All knew it was in regard to who would inherit Driftmark, with Laena and Laenor both gone. But, Rhaenyra wanted to scream, Laena had two healthy girls! Two dragon riders, as Rhaena has claimed Vhagar after Laena’s passing. But, dragon riders were not what they cared for, for though Baela and Rhaena are healthy, strong children, they are girls first. Rhaenyra wished to remove the cocks from those that think like Vaemond and Corlys, so they could walk through life as she did. 

Otto laughed when she said such a thing to him, later, when they were alone in their chambers. 

“No one, man or woman, could walk through life as you do, beloved.”

She looked at him, lounging back in a chair, wine in hand. The fire throwing light upon his face, sending shadows dancing behind him. His eyes showed the fire crackling. All at once she wanted to kiss him and kill him. She wanted to bury a dagger in this throat as had been done to Laenor and kiss him while he convulsed beneath her. Instead, she sat in his lap, hands twisting in his shirt. He set his wine done, arms encircling her waist, pulling her closer. 

“What is there to do, then, husband? Vaemond will fight for his own right, and I fear Corlys is more inclined to agree with them. Gods know the dislike is deep and strong between Corlys and Daemon, so for Daemon to fight for Rhaena leaves little goodwill in that direction.”

A soft hum emits from Otto as his thumbs stroke her side. The motions are gentle, and she wishes he dug his nails into her, brought blood to the surface, made her feel pain. He was too gentle, these days. 

“With Laenor gone, Rhaena is Corlys’s only option to continue passing Driftmark down through his line. Still, perhaps if Vaemond were to also be done away with, Corlys would cease his want for a male successor, like your father.”

She kissed him, searingly, pushing herself into him fully. Dragging her nails down his throat, she scraped at the open skin she could, relishing in the gasps he let out. He’d kill whoever she needed him to kill, and Rhaena would have her birthright. And when Rhaena wed one of Rhaenyra’s boys, she would have control over not just Dritfmark, but Oldtown. She wonders who Helaena could marry. How much could Rhaenyra control?

They gathered in the throne room, Daemon standing with Baela and Rhaena at the front, to the right. Vaemond stood to the left. Corlys and Rhaenys were in the middle. It was unofficial, their meeting. More just a secure location to speak of the claims, and allow for all a fair chance to be heard. Such was why Alicent was permitted not to join, claiming too ill to leave her chambers. But as Corlys was still head of his house, and Master of Driftmark, it was truly all up to him. Viserys sat on the throne anyways, breathing heavily, hunched into himself. Rhaenyra was to his right, standing, dreaming of having Syrax set her father on fire. Put him out of his misery and allow Rhaenyra to sit on her throne. 

Daemon was succinct, swift with his argument for Rhaena, logical. He had put time into this, effort, likely thinking of this eventuality even when Laena was alive. Perhaps he pictured Laena arguing with him. Corlys listened dutifully, holding a clear face, never showing if he was agreeing or not. A good lord, Rhaenyra thought, well-practiced. Vaemond spoke with haste, and passion. He was loud, demanding. His voice echoed off the walls. Aegon glanced quickly at her, her only child to attend, due to his being her heir. He stood with Otto, below Rhaenyra and Viserys. She locked eyes with him, and widened her eyes slightly, saying, A man who has to yell, is a man who fears your words.

Aegon gave a small nod, returning his eyes back to the display before them. 

And then there was only silence, as Corlys looked between his nephew, and his granddaughter. Daemon had a hand on the hilt of Dark Sister, waiting, always waiting. Rhaenyra felt herself coiled up, aching to partake in death the way Daemon does. Where she has to watch, Daemon gets to feel. 

Otto made a move then, readying to speak. “I feel I would be remiss if I did not remind the men in this room of a woman’s right to rule. Our Crown Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, has proven that she is more capable, and thus shown us that with time, so, too, will Lady Rhaena be capable.”

Stirring the pot with kind words and a gentle smile. He made no decisions, offered not his own thoughts, but reminded those that if a woman could be named future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a woman could be named future Lady of the Tides. It was an easy comment, of no consequence, and Daemon and Corlys seemed unbothered by his words. 

Vaemond took great offense to the Lord Hand’s comments, though.

Rhaenyra held back her smile as he rounded on Otto.

“And who are you, a Hightower, involving yourself in matters of the tides? You warm the princess’s bed, nothing more of it. Speak not of who should rule over my house, Ser.”

The mention of bed warming had Viserys sitting up.

But Otto spoke before anyone else could, “You would do well to refrain from mentioning my wife in such a vile way, this I warn you, Ser Vaemond.”

He did not cut a threatening image, but he need not to. Otto was not looking to fight the man himself, simply wishing to back Vaemond into a corner where others in the room could do the dirty work. 

“A loyal dog, then, are you? I’m sure his grace is pleased with such a match for his daughter, as now the princess has two fathers. One to raise her, and one to bed her!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

Rhaenyra was a little shocked at his comment, unaware a few words could wound the man so. It was not as if his inheritance was being taken, as he never stood to inherit Driftmark in the first place. It is, by right, Rhaena’s. And yet… 

Viserys stands, pulling forth a knife, back curved down, shoulders at his ears as he says, “I shall have your tongue for that!”

But there is no need.

Vaemond’s head is removed from his body.

Once again, Rhaenyra watches as blood sprays, pools, as the body falls forward, as the head drops away. Standing there, sword in hand, is Aegon. He takes a singular breath, before Daemon offers him a cloth to clean the sword. He takes it with grace, cleaning his blade, sheathing it where it was. Aegon returns to Otto’s side, turning toward Viserys. 

“You can still have his tongue, your grace. I’ve no need for it.”

Rhaenyra loves him, wholly and completely. Her Aegon. 

There are no talks after. As the maids come to clean the floor, and remove the body, Rhaenyra speaks, for the first time that morning.

“Do take the corpse to the dragonpit, girls. Syrax should need a snack soon.”

The maids stutter a moment, before hurrying to agree. 

Corlys names Rhaena his successor, leaving King’s Landing that night. Rhaenys makes arrangements for Rhaena to foster with them, when she’s at least ten. Viserys agrees, before he makes his leave, returning to his chambers to rest. When it is just Daemon and Rhaenyra alone, they stare at each other but a moment. 

“Your son took my kill,” is all Daemon says.

Rhaenyra grins, “He’s faster than you.”

A huff is all that she is offered. 

They speak of betrothals, Daemon agreeing that Rhaena and Daeron should wed, when the time comes. He asks of her plans with Helaena, of which Rhaenyra laments that her darling girl is wild, and will likely want to wed a man she’s found across the Narrow Sea. Daemon laughs at her, saying, “And you will allow such a thing?”

Rhaenyra shrugs, “She may wed whoever she wishes. Can I be blamed, though, if they succumb to an early death?”

She would never want to force a marriage on her daughter, wishing her freedom to choose. But she also craves to have her fingers in as many houses as possible, and the way to do that is to populate them with her children, and their children. Helaena could have her an adventure, but Rhaenyra would ensure she settles. 

“Lord Rickon Stark had a son, near the age of Helaena,” Daemon says, sometime later.

Rhaenyra says nothing, simply raising an eyebrow to ask for more information.

“If Helaena wishes for something different to see when she looks outside her window, I know of nothing more different than Winterfell. She could have her adventures there, traveling to the Wall like Queen Alysanne once did. Conferring with the smallfolk there.”

She enjoys the thought. 

Her grandchild would be Warden of the North. 

Sharing a smile, she and Daemon continue on to pleasant, less meaningful conversations. It is a fine night, a peaceful one. She relishes the contentedness she is feeling in this moment, taking her leave to return to her husband. Slipping into bed beside him, Rhaenyra’s mind is filled with ideas of the future. It keeps returning to her on the throne, officially crowned queen. Who is her consort, her mind whispers. Her chess piece, her tower? Or her Dark Sister, her weapon? She falls asleep to the image of both of them, standing on either side of her, blood soaking the stones below them, heads falling from the ceiling. 

It is a year later, when Rhaenyra finds herself in the godswood. She is sitting on a blanket, sweets laid out about her, her children surrounding her. Otto had gone to Oldtown, taking her precious Aemond with him again. He claims Aemond needs to spend more time there, the people, the customs, the land. That Aemond needs to see what he is to rule. She agrees, naturally, but she aches for all her children to remain close while they can. Soon, they will spread out, fly away from her on their dragons, and visits will take place every few moons, perhaps every few years. She takes great relief in knowing Aegon will remain near to her, and that she has more years to bask in Alerie and Aerion’s growing. 

Still.

She watches them sit around her and pictures them grown. 

The hobbling form of Alicent enters the gardens, taking her mind swiftly from thoughts of children to thoughts of the mangled form of her stepmother. They make a pair, Viserys and Alicent. Caved in on themselves, shaking. 

Rhaenyra had invited Alicent to join them, letting it known it was less an option and more a requirement. Despite Alicent having a higher standing, she complied. Likely figuring Rhaenyra would just corner her in her rooms if she denied the invitation. She figured right.

Alicent’s maids set her near Rhaenyra, careful in their situating of their frail queen. She waved them away when they finished, as Alicent was busy trying to catch her breath to do so. 

“Some wine, your grace?” Rhaenyra offered.

Eyes met, and Rhaenyra was suddenly winded at the realization that her Daeron shares the same eyes as Alicent. How could she have never noticed? All these years, staring into Alicent’s eyes, watching her reactions to one thing or another, and never did Rhaenyra see them in her little dragon. Until now. She is all at once reminded that Daeron is as related to Alicent that Alysanne is related to her. The complications of marrying fathers, Rhaenyra muses. 

“Thank you, princess, I shall take some,” Alicent answers, using both hands to grasp the cup.

Aegon has taken Alerie and Aerion farther away, letting them crawl all over him as he lies on the grass. Helaena and Alysanne are resting in the shade, eyes closed, near sleeping. Daeron is reading, farthest away from them all, seeking peace. Alicent and Rhaenyra are as alone as they have ever been since the day Rhaenyra told her she was wedding Otto. 

“Thank you for the invitation, princess. I fear I needed a good reason to leave my rooms on such a sunny day.”

Rhaenyra turns to her, thinking. Alicent is only looking at Alys, seeming to drink her in, trying to commit the image to memory. Alicent does not know that Alys dislikes plums and sweet wine, that her favorite meal is roasted pork. She does not know that Alys prefers to wear pinks and blues over the traditional Targaryen colors. Does not know that Alys loves to run. Alicent does not know her daughter. Rhaenyra can skim her eyes over Alysanne and feel a passing rush of affection, but she has no need to cement the image of her relaxing in the godswood to memory. She knows she can see such actions near every day, as the girl is quick to find a quiet and warm place to nap. Rhaenyra wonders if Alicent dreams of her regrets, of the different paths she could have taken, the different lives she could have lived. 

“She picks at her nails,” Rhaenyra says.

Alicent turns to face her, mouth falling open slightly. “What?” 

“Alys. She picks at her nails, her fingers. It drives Otto mad, though I remind him we all have our habits. I’ve tried helping her stop, but is a stubborn girl.”

Alicent looks over at Alysanne again, before returning her eyes to Rhaenyra. “My father abhorred my picking at my fingers. It made him so angry, to see me doing such things. Unladylike, he would say.”

Rhaenyra can picture it, Otto’s anger toward his now oldest daughter. He wouldn’t dare act in such a way to Alysanne, knowing Rhaenyra would be quick to split him in two than allow him to speak in a negative manner toward the children. 

“Yes, he said much the same to me when we discussed it. I’ve offered Alys to choose from my rings, or have ones made for herself. She has taken to wearing a few, after I told her that when I become agitated, or nervous, I simply twist the rings on my fingers. I believe it is helping.”

Alicent, in a great shock, smiles. “That’s very kind of you, I’m sure she appreciates it. You take good care of her.”

Yes, Rhaenyra thinks, she does. 

“Where is Aemond, then?” Alicent asks, taking a slow sip of her wine, carefully lowering the cup from her lips.

“Otto has taken him to Oldtown, to prepare him for his future lordship. I miss him terribly, having him so far away,” Rhaenyra answers, glancing over at her boys, still wallowing in the grass together. She smiles at them, imagining how dirty their clothes are getting. The maids will be so upset. 

“I haven’t been Oldtown in so long. I admit, I miss the lighthouse. It was grand, from what little I can recall from childhood. Father brought me to court so early, I have few memories of home,” Alicent sighed out, becoming lost in thought. 

Rhaenyra silently agreed, having seen the lighthouse for the first time at the funerals of Hobert and Ormund. A remarkable sight, sitting atop the island. She imagines a young Alicent running the halls, with a tumbling Ormund trailing after her. She banishes the thought quickly, focusing on the sickly woman sitting in front of her. 

“I have been the one time, and I quite enjoyed my stay, despite the circumstances. The Hightower offered a wondrous sight of the world around it. Aemond enjoys it immensely, when he visits.”

A drop of silence drops between them, and all is heard is the children’s laughter being carried on the breeze toward them. 

“My father visited in me the day before yesterday, he made no mention of leaving, but perhaps that was cause for the visit,” Alicent began.

Rhaenyra’s vision slowed, and she turned to fully face Alicent. She focused in, all noises and sights faded away, and all she could see was Alicent, just Alicent, only Alicent. 

“He did? I wonder why he did not mention his leave,” Rhaenyra said, waiting for more of an explanation.

Otto has not seen Alicent since before Alysanne was born. What point did he have seeing her now? What reasoning? And to not tell Rhaenyra? This had her uneasy, unsure where to step, and she disliked feeling so out of sorts. Hated being discombobulated. For Otto to have her feeling such a way is a grievous action. 

“I know not, just that he came to see me. He gave me a tea that the maesters have been working on, told me it would bring about some more strength. I have been drinking it every morning and night since. I believe that is the reason I was able enough to join you in the sun today.”

The thoughts began spinning in Rhaenyra’s head, sliding over her skull, burning holes where they landed. She felt caught unawares, for she was, as Otto had not told her of such a thing. They always spoke of such things. What tea? Why tea? Rhaenyra was lost, aching to mount Syrax and take off to Oldtown. She’d burn her husband alive for letting her be confronted by Alicent.

“What a gift to receive! Perhaps you shall gain a touch of strength every day, be well enough to stand with us for Aemond and Alysanne’s wedding!” Rhaenyra exclaims, needing to remind Alicent of what futures were set firmly in place, despite her father scheming behind her back. 

Alicent flinched, slightly, eyes glancing toward Alys. “One can only hope, princess,” she whispered. 

Otto would return in a fortnight, and Rhaenyra would ensure he explained thoroughly the reason for giving Alicent anything without telling her first. 

“My father mentioned the wedding to me, actually. Had said once the two are man and wife, and Aemond assumes his role as lord, I would be able to reside, temporarily, in Oldtown. As Princess Rhaenys did for Lady Laena,” Alicent said, bringing her eyes back to Rhaenyra’s.

Otto was doing more than scheming, Rhaenyra thinks. He had plans, plans he had no intentions of sharing with her, it seems. Fire flooded her body, twisting through her veins, pumping through her heart. Her creature wailed, being burned alive. It had almost become a comfort, over the years. Her talk with Rhaenys all those years ago had soothed her, truly, but now. Now it wailed. Wailed as Rhaenyra burned it alive, and ripped it apart. She could still hear it screaming, as she said, “What a charming idea. I’m sure Alys would enjoy a chance to spend time with you. And the two of you could get to know Oldtown, together.”

Rhaenyra remembers nothing else of the day. Her mind filled with screams, her body with fire. She knows the nursemaids took the twins to the nursery, and Aegon had walked with her to her rooms. Alicent drifted off somewhere else, she knows not where, and does not care. Aegon sits with her, silently, letting her come back to herself. 

“Something happened with the queen?” he asked, body tilted toward her.

She ran a hand down his face, brushing hair behind his ear. He reached up, grabbing her hand, pulling it into his. He clasped her hand wholly with both of his, offering some comfort. She remembers when he was small, crawling into bed with her, falling asleep easily beside her. Now he looks at her, worry etched on his face, knowing something is wrong. 

“Nothing for us to worry of, my little dragon,” Daemon’s nickname for her had moved to be her nickname for Aegon. The first she said it he had gotten very cross with her. Said she was insulting him by calling him ‘little’ due to his height. She had defended herself, explained he was ‘little’ because she would always see him as her first dragon, her first babe. He seemed appease, though still disliked the term. 

“Nothing for us, but something for you, then, muna?”

Trust Aegon to call her out, Rhaenyra thinks. 

“I received some news from the queen, darling, news I was not expecting. All is well, this I swear. Why don’t you go spend some time with Baela? Perhaps take an evening dragon ride together?”

Aegon looks at her deeply for a breath longer, before nodding. He trusts her to handle whatever has happened, and she will not betray that. As he stands, he kisses her forehead, as she does to him. It causes her to laugh, pressing her own kiss to his cheek, watching as he makes to leave. 

“Aegon,” she calls. When he turns, she says, “Will you have Prince Daemon find me, my sweet? I wish to speak with him.”

Something connects in his mind, as his eyes darken, and his spine straightens. He nods, says, “Of course, muna. As you wish.”

He leaves, standing tall, as a king should. 

Daemon arrives quickly, and silently, through the hidden passage. She is watching the door, waiting, so when he does arrive, she’s ready. He moves into the room, standing before her. They stare into the other's eyes for a breath, two, before he drops to his knees before her. 

“My queen, my niece, my dragon. Is it time?”

She stands, hand under his chin, pulling his face up to look at her. “Yes,” she whispers.

Daemon grins, feral, wild, wicked. He stands, nose to nose with her, eyes nearly black with want, and rage. She shares the smile, pictures bathing in blood, drinking it down, covering the entire Keep in it. They don’t speak, foreheads touching. Rhaenyra can feel his breath against her lips, can feel his chest against hers, his hands on her arms. 

Later, after, when they lie together in bed, rid of their clothes, Daemon asks for more information. 

“What has the useless cunt done then? For his loyal dragon bride to throw him away so,” Daemon speaks into her hair, body pressed against her. His touch is warm, fingertips dragging down her belly. 

“He plots and does not tell me. He went to see Alicent before he left, gave her a tea for strength, and told her she would be free to visit Oldtown when Aemond and Alysanne start their residence.”

He hums, chest vibrating on her back. 

“Foolish tower. After all these years, why move against you? All he’s done, all he’s still doing. What does he gain?”

Rhaenyra had thought of similar questions, waiting for Daemon to arrive. 

“I do not know if he moves against me, or simply moves away from me. Alicent is no threat, not anymore. Viserys will die soon, there are no more heirs to be made.”

A kiss to the back of her neck, top of her spine, shoulder. He trails down her body, pulling her so she’s laying on her back, him above her. “Could he have gone soft, in his old age? Sees his current children thriving, while his oldest withers away. Perhaps he wishes for her to experience some semblance of happiness, before the bitch dies.”

A thought Rhaenyra had not shared. Otto was never soft, not with Alicent. Though, perhaps as Daemon said, her children had changed him. Otto had gotten everything he wished for. His first son for the throne, his second to be Lord of Oldtown, his third to help rule in Driftmark. Is there a chance he sees this as a success? As though he should end their trials, and allow Alicent to remain at peace, until she dies naturally? Otto knows not of Rhaenyra’s own schemes, only following along with the idea that it all lead to her ascending the throne, and eventually Aegon. But this game was not over. Not while Alicent and Viserys took in air. 

Daemon moves against her, feels him against her thighs. Insatiable, she thinks. He kisses her, bruisingly, one hand holding him up, and the other moving down her body. 

“I am tired of them both. Rid me of the Hightowers, Daemon,” she says, reaching down to grab his sneaking hand. She grabs at him, smirking as he lets out a gasp when she squeezes him. He makes to move, pump his hips, but she refuses him any relief. Her fingers are circled at his base, tightening with every breath. He glares down at her, says, “That is a promise I would happily make, my queen.”

His voice is breathy, strained. She laughs, causing him to lean down and bite her shoulder, drawing blood. She feels his teeth, his tongue against her. Feels the blood trickling down her shoulder, onto the sheets. Graciously, she loosens her grip on him, fingers still holding, though. He moves, pulling back, and rushing forward, using her hand. She watches his face, enjoying being in control, as Daemon chases his own high. He says her name as he finishes, collapsing over her, lips to her throat. 

“You are not finished, my prince,” she says, pushing him off of her. 

He rolls, mimicking her earlier position. She sits on her knees, watching his eyes trail over her body. “I am but a willing tool, my queen, to use as you see fit,” he said, lips stretching into a wide smile. 

She climbs him, sitting over his face, feeling fire everywhere he touches her. He is not gentle, nails scratching her thighs, hips, wherever he can reach. He draws blood at every spot his hands can grab. 

Rhaenyra wonders how he’ll do it. Kill Otto and Alicent. Alicent will be easy. One strong gust of wind would knock her off a cliff, ending that situation. She wants to see, watch it all happen. But Otto will be more difficult. Despite Daemon’s comments on his age, he is healthy, and strong. A poison would need to be given in a large dose. But, knowing Daemon, he’d want it to be physical, feel Otto die beneath his hands. Rhaenyra feels similar, lamenting that she won’t have such a chance. Rhaenyra pictures Otto and Daemon, sees Daemon swinging Dark Sister, impaling Otto through the throat, or the belly, or the skull. Blood sprays everywhere. Otto falls to his knees, gargling, choking. Daemon stands above him, white hair stained red. 

She finishes with that thought, falling off of Daemon, letting him crawl over her, kiss her, and lick her, and scratch at her. She feels like an animal when she’s with Daemon, like a wild dragon, untamed. She knows, now, who will stand beside her on the throne. She’s no idea why she struggled before. It’s very clear now.

It’s Daemon.

It’s always been Daemon. 

Alicent dies before Otto returns from Oldtown. It’s peaceful, in her sleep. She simply went to bed one night, and could not wake up in the morning. The maesters say she was living on borrowed time ever since Alysanne’s birth, and it was only a matter of time before her body gave in. Rhaenyra had looked at her, before her maids found her body, and imagined digging a knife into her, over and over. It would be useless, undo what Daemon had done, but she craved it. Craved looking down at her face and stabbing into it. She refrained, removing herself from the room entirely. She spent the day with the twins, letting the servants spread rumors that Princess Rhaenyra was so distraught over the death of Queen Alicent that she craved the comfort of her babes. 

Daemon had found it very amusing.

“The Realm’s Delight has struck again!” He proclaimed, sitting behind her in the bath. She swatted at him, telling him to mind his words, or, “The Realm’s Delight will kick you from her chambers.”

He was silent after that. 

Otto returned. Rhaenyra had yet to let go of Aemond, holding her to him, squeezing him against her chest. She felt his smile, kissing his brow, the crown of his head, his cheeks. 

“I believe that to be enough, muna,” he whispered, pulling himself back.

She allowed this, knowing he had swift boundaries, and she was wont to cross them. “I missed you so, my son,” she said, staring at him. 

Even in only a fortnight, he had grown so. Aegon would be upset, seeing as Aemond continued to grow taller and taller, and Aegon remained. Alys entered the room, rushing to Aemond, just as Rhaenyra had.

“Welcome home, Prince Aemond!” she exclaimed, face brightening into a wide smile. 

They simply looked at each other, soft eyes, and softer smiles. Rhaenyra let them be, knowing their guards would be watching close enough. Her son would find her, he always did. 

It is as she’s walking that she runs into Otto. She had done her best to avoid him, giving him the customary greeting upon his return, but retreating to welcome her son back. Separating from him. He found her now, ironically along the same path she had first approached him on talks of a betrothal. 

“My condolences, husband, on the passing of your daughter,” Rhaenyra said, standing a good distance away.

He cocked his head to the side, questioning her. “Yes, I was distraught upon hearing such news. No parent should outlive their own child.”

They stared at each other, assessing. She hopes Otto feels as she did when Alicent told her of the visit. Feels unsure of himself, unsure where he should step. She hopes he feels scared. 

“We are to have a family meal, all of us. In honor of what has happened, I felt it prudent to gather together, mourn our loss as a family,” Rhaenyra said.

Otto nodded, “I shall ready myself then. Will the twins be joining us?”

“For a moment, before they should be put to bed. The nursemaids will take them.”

They parted, uncertainty hanging in the air. She had thought of the plan against Otto, as neither her nor Daemon wanted to watch Otto die from poison. They wanted to see him die, see him bleed. 

Tonight.

She would watch Otto die tonight.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had forgotten, rather foolishly, that Otto came to last in court so long due to his manipulations. His schemes. He had an uncanny ability to worm, wriggle, and weasel his way out of an unwanted situation. 

Otto did not die that night. 

Over the meal, he slid his hands into hers, grasped tightly, and smiled down at her, “My wife, this is precisely the familial celebration that my dear Alicent would have loved. Thank you ever so for creating such a memorable occasion to celebrate her spirit.”

Rhaenyra wanted to take her knife and cut open his fingers, slide his bones out, and chew them up. Instead, she smiled, dug her nails into his hand, and set her mind to thinking. 

To scheming.

She did not dare look toward Daemon during the meal, choosing instead to focus on her children, and let the back of her mind think of ways to kill the man currently holding her hand. 

Once in their chambers, alone, the two faced each other head-on, unmoving. Neither blinked, or breathed, choosing instead to take in the other, analyzing. 

“Was our family meal all you hoped it to be, wife?” Otto finally said, breaking the silence. 

Rhaenyra breathed, fingers twitching at her side, “You gave Alicent tea,” is all she said, offered.

He tilted his head to the side, thinking, as if trying to remember his sin. How could he forget when it was all Rhaenyra could think of? It consumed her, wholly, unapologetically, frustratingly. She could not sleep without thinking of what he did, dreaming of it, waking up to it. And yet he ponders it. 

“I did,” he says, “was that so wrong? You wished for her to see Aemond and Alysanne’s wedding.”

Don’t say their names! , she wanted to scream. She wanted to tear her children out of his mind, disallow him from thinking of them, burn away his memories of her dragons. 

“You did not tell me. I heard it from her mouth. She told me, in the godswood, while the children played, that you gave her tea. Offered to let her visit Aemond and Alys once they settled in Oldtown. She told me that. Did you know? She told me that,” Rhaenyra felt herself going mad. Her mind was a spool of yarn, and it was unspinning rapidly, too quick for her hands to stop.

He did this to her.

They did this to her.

All of them. Alicent and Viserys and Otto. Look at what they made her, she thinks, look at what they created. She swallowed, waiting for his reply, knowing it would never please her.

“I am unaware of the accusation you seem to lay at my feet. I did nothing to cause you harm, Rhaenyra. I offered Alicent some tea to ensure her survival for the next few years, of which you made useless with your own actions. Last we spoke, she was to see the children’s wedding. What changed, then? What could she have done while I was away to earn your ire so?”

She had always suspected, truthfully. Suspected he knew of her plots, her ideas of revenge. How could he be so dense?, she wondered. She married him to hurt Viserys and Alicent, but that was never going to be enough. The deaths of Gaemon and Daenys would never be enough. The weakening of their bodies would never be enough. No, no, no, Rhaenyra had to see him suffer and die. She had to witness their last breaths, their last thoughts pass behind their eyes. She did not want them strengthened by tea, she wanted to suffer, long and slow. 

And he had ruined that.

Because he wasn’t as clever as she once thought. He was a tower, a lowly, plain-faced tower, trying to play with dragons. She would claw him down and bury his pieces. Maegor had known the disloyalties that lied within Oldtown, she should have heeded his warnings, taken his actions as proof that Otto would never measure up to her. He was never her match. Never more than a pawn in the game that she foolishly believed to be near her level.

She had let hope blind her. For years, she let it grow inside her, this false love she believed to have had for him, but here he was before her, and she felt no love. No goodwill toward him. No, she wanted to dig her nails into his eyes and pull them out. She wanted to drive stakes through his ears, and watch his brain pool out on the floor. 

Rhaenyra thought of Rhaenys’s words and wanted to laugh. 

He is my partner, my equal, my match. Otto was none of those things to Rhaenyra, not like Corlys was to Rhaenys. Rhaenyra had no partner, no equal, no match. Not even Daemon would ascend to where she was, but he was far closer than Otto would ever be. How silly, Rhaenyra thinks, to have thought herself in love with this man before her. How very fucking silly. 

“I wish to remain alone tonight, husband,” is all Rhaenyra says to him, before turning toward the bed, and walking away.

Otto responds, “As you wish, my queen,” and she hears the door open, and the door shut.

Rhaenyra does not sleep that night.

She is breaking her fast with Aemond, he requested time with her, after being gone for so many days in a row. She could never deny him, so here she sits, mind in turmoil, body coiled and ready to strike. He feels it immediately, so in tune with her energy, as all her children seem to be.

“What has transpired, then?” 

Too formal, always too formal, her Aemond.

“Nothing to worry about, my love, let us enjoy our early morning meal before you take off to Dragonstone with Aegon,” she reassures, running a hand down his face, smiling at him.

He does not believe her, reads her too well. But he does not question her further, eating his food, drinking his wine, glancing up at her every few minutes. Finally, as the servants clean away the remnants of their meal, he sits back in his chair, and sighs. 

“Aegon said you would say something like that, that you said something similar when he asked. Then, you asked for Prince Daemon. After that, the queen died. Now, father is back, and you two seem to be warring against each other. So, I shall ask once more, for mine and Aegon’s curiosity, what has transpired?”

She looks at him, assessing her secondborn, and smiles. “You see too much, beloved.”

He tilts his head, and Rhaenyra fights the disgust at him looking too similar to Otto with that action. 

“You once said my observance was a gift,” he points out. 

She nods, grabbing his hand, stroking her thumb over his fingers, “It is. But also a burden. You must be weary of who you share your observations with, pick and choose the right people. And even then, you must know that you cannot share one thing with a person you shared something with before. It is a game, sweet boy, and we can never stop playing.”

He stares into her eyes, understanding, drinking it all in. Always so eager to listen and learn. “What if we win?” he asks.

She laughs, not mockingly, but lovingly, enjoying his childhood naivety.

“Darling, you never win the game. It just keeps going.”

They are sitting in the godswood, the sun burning into their skin. It is too hot and not hot enough at the same time, as Rhaenyra takes in a breath, and lets it out slowly. Daemon watches her, lounging on his side, Alerie and Aerion asleep next to him, nestled into each other and into Daemon. 

“What do you think of?” 

She looks down at her youngest, watching their chests rise and fall. “I asked you to rid me of the towers, but I change my mind,” she says, brushing stray hairs off of Alerie’s face. 

Daemon stiffens, his eyes betraying nothing, “What is there to do, then?” He sounds angry with her, frustrated. Does he think she wishes for Otto to remain living? A fool.

All men are fools.

“I shall tear down the last tower. With mine own hands.”

A slight uptick in his lips shows his true feelings, his want to smile. “And what about him? Shall nature take its course?” he asks, speaking of Viserys.

Rhaenyra has her own plans for Viserys. 

“Do not worry, uncle. I have much planned, and this time, I shall not be outdone or outstepped.”

He leans toward her a fraction, stops himself, realizes where they are. But his eyes burn, and she knows what he wants. She imagines herself giving in, right here in the godswood, letting him take her. 

After, she thinks. 

“Aemma?” he wheezed, chest cracking with the weight of her body above him. His eyes were alight, staring at her in wonder and fear. No , not fear. Regret. Viserys looked upon Rhaenyra above him, his disease-ridden mind seeing his late wife, and he was filled with regret. This made Rhaenyra rage. How dare he feel guilt? How dare he regret? There is no undoing what he did, she screams in her mind. There is no bringing her mother back. 

She pushes the blade into his throat, breaking skin. Blood trickles down his neck, stains his nightclothes. His eyes go wide, clear, he sees . 

“Rhaenyra?” he questions, tears forming. 

She is a dragon. A dragon born of blood and fire, of dead mothers and ashen little brothers. Of betrayal and treason. They did this to her, she thinks, she says. She says it over and over, digging the knife in deeper and deeper. 

“You did this. Alicent did this. You did this, you did this, you did this!” she is unaware she is crying until her tears drop onto her father’s face, mixing with his own. Tear tracks trail down his face, copulating with the blood at his neck. He does not fight her. 

Can he fight her? 

Would he fight her?

“My girl,” he whispers, and Rhaenyra wails. 

“No. No, I am not yours. I have not been yours since I burned my mother’s body. Have not been yours since you killed her, over and over again, as you pushed her for a son. Have not been yours since you wed my best friend.” 

He is silent, assessing, the guilt filling up his eyes and pouring out over Rhaenyra’s hands. She slides the knife over his neck, seeing the wound split open, skin splaying out. “If I had had the chance, I would have given mine own life in exchange for your mother’s,” he says. 

She leans down, nose to nose, and is struck suddenly by how similar her father and Daemon look. Her Dark Sister shares a face with her betrayer, and this makes her want to skin the offending image off of Viserys. 

“As would I have given your life for hers. But I shall take it for mine own. I have felt no peace with you still breathing knowing she was ash beneath my feet.”

He swallows, digging the knife in more, accidentally or on purpose, she does not know. His hand comes up, shaking, touches her cheek gently. She remembers how she used to run to him as a child, seeking affections and comforts. Now, the touch sickens her. Fills her with fire and brimstone. Forces her hand to move deeper. 

“I forgive you, daughter,” he whispers, closing his eyes. 

She screams, uncaring who hears her, and slashes. She rearranges her body, lifting herself up, and grips the handle of the knife with both hands. She plunges the weapon into his chest, over and over. Blood sprays, fills the bed, covers her clothes. She is crying acid, burning its way down her cheeks, sizzling holes into her father’s body. Finally, she stops. Crashes into him, sobbing, and clutches at his shoulders. 

“Mother, mother, mother,” she repeats, beating her hand against her father’s bloody chest. 

“I loved you, didn’t you know?” she whispers, pulling herself up enough to grab Viserys’s cheeks, staring at his closed eyes. “You were my father, my first protector, my greatest supporter. I loved you wholly and completely. How could you betray me so? Betray my mother? Why were we not enough for you?” she implores, shaking him. 

He does not answer. 

The kingsguard were beings of chaos upon discovering Viserys’s body. Rhaenyra had thought they would barge into his chambers, pull her off of him, put her to the sword. She had screamed rather loudly, she was surprised she had been allowed to simply cleanse herself and return to her own chambers through the secret passages. Daemon had explained, later, that he created his own issue a little away. His own issue being Caraxes setting fire to a portion of the Keep. Daemon had come heralding in, then, yelling of wildfire and traitors to the crown. All nearby kingsguard had ran to the supposed threat to the king, all while Rhaenyra remained inside. 

All at once, Ser Harwin questioned the whereabouts of her husband, Otto, to his father, Lord Strong. As he was a dutiful member of the small council, Lord Strong raised his own concerns to the other members, as they met privately to discuss who could have done such a thing to their king. Otto was absent from the meetings, tending to a grieving Rhaenyra. They named him kingslayer, later that day, coming to the conclusion that Ser Otto Hightower had killed the king to avenge the suffering and subsequent death of his daughter, the queen, Alicent. This was met with a tearful Rhaenyra admitting her husband had been suspiciously absent from their bed during the night. That he had returned near morning. Rhaenyra, shaking, admitted she feared his safety when news of the wildfire had reached her. The small council looked at her with pity, as tears streamed down her face and her hands clenched in her lap. 

Otto was to be executed, at dawn, in front of the small folk. All agreed the kingslayer should face a public punishment, to show the small folk what happened to those that struck against the crown. 

Rhaenyra said she would swing the sword. 

When met with an uproar from what was now her small council, she easily explained her reasoning. 

“I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I demand mine own justice, for my father and for the crown. The small folk must see me as strong, unwilling to bend even when faced with hard situations.”

“Situations such as executing your own husband?” Grandmaester Orwyle questioned, one eyebrow arched, lips pressed in a thin line. 

He was Otto’s, this much Rhaenyra knew. She would do away with him, soon enough. But for now, he would remain. 

“My husband viciously murdered the king, my father, in the dead of night! He brutalized my father, betrayed mine trust, and besmirched the name Hightower all in one fell swoop! I shall execute the traitor, husband or not.”

No further arguments were heard. 

Later, in her chambers, Daemon kneeled before her, offering her Dark Sister. His head was bowed, face solemn. “Take my sword, my queen, and wield it against the kingslayer.”

She took it, hand connecting to the hilt, and felt her body flood with fire. It was an extension of herself, the sword, as if it had always been a part of her. Perhaps it had. Perhaps she was meant to have a sword in hand, always. Born to make others bleed. 

When dawn came, the small folk had flooded the courtyard. People, no matter their social class, were always eager to see blood spilled. Rhaenyra would happily give it to them. 

Otto was brought forth, bag over his head, and forced to his knees. His hands were tied behind his back, wrists raw and red where the rope had burned him. Suddenly, the bag was pulled away, offering Otto his first glance at the scene around him. The small folk let out vicious jeers, insults flying. Rhaenyra did not smile, not outright, at least. But a pleased thrum flitted through her. 

She lifted her hand, bringing silence to the gathered crowd, and said, “The man before you, Otto Hightower, has committed the most grievous sin: kingslaying. He took an oath as Hand to the King, to advise him, execute his justice, and rule in his stead. This Hand chose to execute his own justice. He betrayed his king! He murdered King Viserys with a dagger to the throat and chest. The small council and I, acting Queen, sentence him to death for his treason against the crown.”

When she unsheathed Dark Sister the small folk cheered violently loud. A display of violence excited all, and Rhaenyra wished she could cheer with them. Turning to Otto, the moment they met, words were exchanged silently. He understood, she knew. She had won, beaten him at his own game, and was going to use him as a warning to all, lords and common people alike, not to rise up against her. Not to attempt to betray her. She would find them, and she would kill them. 

Husband or not. 

Daemon should use this as a reminder, as well. 

Otto was leaned over the stool, set in front of him. His chest laid flat against the wood, neck and head hanging. She raised the sword, finally allowing a smile to appear on her face, and sliced through the air. She felt the resistance immediately, felt when the blade made contact with her husband’s neck. Rhaenyra did not loosen her hold, pushing through the skin, muscle, bone. The head rolled off, and over the ledge, into the crowd below. They screamed, one lifting the head to show others. Curses went around, celebrating the “death of the kingslayer”. Otto’s body slumped off the stool, blood pouring out of the stump endlessly. 

Rhaenyra looked around her, finding Daemon's eyes first. The smile twisting his face was disgusting, vile, and perfect, Rhaenyra thought. She remembers how he called her Visenya, once, and how she thought of herself more as Maegor. Now, she sees. Daemon was Visenya, her biggest supporter, her dragon, her slayer. She was Maegor, come to bathe the kingdoms in blood and fire. She tore her eyes away, and found her father’s chosen small council, and grinned at them. Feral, bloodthirsty, evil . The men before her shrunk, fear lacing through them, and she wished to raise the blade against them, cut them open and bathe in their guts. 

She did no such thing. 

But from the looks about them, she felt they saw what she wanted to do. All at once, they took the knee, bending to her. The crowd saw, yelling, “Long live the queen!”. 

Yes. 

She was queen, now. 

And the betrayers were gone. 

She won. 

You never win the game. It just keeps going.

Chapter Text

Aegon had never had fanciful notions of his parents. He knew who they were, are, and never minded it. His mother, a fierce and bloodthirsty woman hiding behind the calm facade of an adoring wife and mother. Aegon’s thoughts stutter, reminding him that she is an adoring mother, just not an adoring wife. Who is Aegon to care of her wifely behavior? His father is nothing but a dog on a leash, doing as his master commands. Though, Aegon muses, perhaps he is also a simple dog on a leash. His father and he share the same master. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen is master of many. 

At least she treats Aegon far better than she treats his father. He also knows if he shares these thoughts with his mother she would grow upset, hands flitting to her belly whether she was with child or not, offering comforting words and soft kisses. She does not see him as she does his father, he knows this. Still, his mother is a dragon, fully, and while Aegon feels the dragon blood in his veins, he is nowhere near his mother. Thusly, she treats him as he is: below her. 

Aegon does not begrudge her this. He loves his mother, so deeply and wholly that he bows to her will without a second thought, hardly even a first. She is everything he could ever hope to be in an heir, everything he knows he never will be. 

She was created in fire and blood, broken and reshaped to be the dragon woman that calls for heads of lords that make jokes against her sons. The dragon woman that smiles a secret but cruel smile whenever Queen Alicent enters a room. The dragon woman that killed his father. Aegon adores her. As does everyone around her. Rhaenyra calls for adoration, from her birth being heralded as the Realm’s Delight to her current standing as Dragon Queen. 

Aegon’s thoughts about his mother were chaotic, but clear. He would support her in everything she ever did, against his father, against her father, and whoever else decided to stand against her. Or, rather, not stand with her, for Rhaenyra didn’t wait for somebody to stand against her before striking. 

Aegon’s father was an entirely different matter. He knew who the man was as Aegon’s father, but never knew who he was before that. Previous stories told of a scheming man aiming to put his family on the throne, and Aegon had not been the family he was fighting for at the time. His first born, Alicent Hightower, had been his means of securing the iron throne at the time. He had Prince Daemon exiled to open the line of inheritance, and then planted his maiden daughter in front of King Viserys like a prized pig. It worked out perfectly in his favor. 

Enter Rhaenyra. 

Aegon was told by others it was a love match, but he was no fool. He was privy to private time between the family, able to witness his mother and father interact away from court and small folk and servants. There was no love, in the beginning. Rhaenyra was all teeth and broken edges whereas Otto was all plots and deceitful eyes. When he was young, he had no idea it was abnormal, the way his parents looked at each other, spoke to each other, held themselves around each other. One look at the King and Queen had Aegon believing his parents were a quite successful match compared to others . 

It was untrue, of course, but Aegon was a child without fanciful notions of his parents, but still wanting to believe they at least liked each other. 

All these thoughts led Aegon to wondering of his father. He didn’t particularly love the man, nor did he loathe him. He felt little emotion toward him, if anything. Nothing as passionate as he felt toward his mother, and nothing as absent as he felt toward his grandfather. Aegon’s father was simply around. The stories Aegon knew were of an intelligent Hand to the King plotting for his own success. The man he knew as his father was bent at the waist, seemingly in a permanent bow to his mother. 

It wasn’t until years later, after Aemond came along to act as his shadow, and after his little brother was named future Lord of Oldtown, that Aegon saw his father break. 

He was in love. 

In love with Aegon’s mother. 

It thoroughly disgusted him. 

If Aegon thought of his father as a lap dog before, he was surely mistaken. The way he acted after the tragedy of Oldtown was entirely uncouth. He seemed to be stuck to his mother’s side eternally. Always fawning over her, serving her, bending to her. It took not a genius to see the beast that was Rhaenyra draw back in distaste. She was a dragon, not a doll. She wanted to be feared and revered in the same breath, not adored and taken care of. 

Aegon knew such things. How his father didn’t was unknown to him. 

He watched them curiously, as Heleana watched her precious bugs. Watched as Rhaenyra seemed to open up to Otto, accepting his touches slowly, and offering her own later on. Aegon ponders if he somehow misunderstood his mother. 

Perhaps she does love father, Aegon had thought at the time. Perhaps they’ll love each other. 

And then Aegon had watched as Alicent and his mother spoke over sweet treats one day. He was being pawed at by his younger siblings, laying in the grass, pretending not to notice as his mother grew still. Aegon had gestured for a nursemaid, silently handing them both Alerie and Aerion as he quietly made his way toward his mother. Alys and Helaena were seemingly napping, hands tangled together as they’ve been since they were babes. And his mother had yet to notice Aegon inching closer. 

That had worried him, he remembers. His mother’s eyes were vacant, staring at Alicent but not fully seeing her. The Queen had yet to notice, or she just didn’t care, either way their conversation continued. 

Unfortunately, Aegon had only heard Rhaenyra ending the conversation, speaking of Alys and Oldtown. As Alicent was ushered away by her lady, Aegon had gently done the same to his mother. Quietly leading her down the halls toward her rooms, never speaking a word to her. 

Aegon had, at the time, foolishly thought to write to his father. Explain the situation. Ask for him to return as quickly as possible. 

Mother needs you , he had thought of writing. 

But when asked what happened, his mother had waved off his fears, coming back to herself a bit at a time. He is thoroughly dismissed, and as he goes he drops a kiss to her forehead, hoping to soothe her worries until his father returns. 

How ignorant he had been, Aegon thinks now. 

Before he had left she had called for him. Asked that he send Daemon to her. This has him straightening, thoughts spinning, conclusions being made. He realized then that his father would not make this better, as his father had been the cause. 

Perhaps she loved father once, Aegon thought, but it seems he pushed his luck. 

He wondered then how many more days his father would live. Before he leaves, he agrees, as he always does with his mother. “Of course, muna. As you wish.”

Aegon had left his mother’s chambers that afternoon knowing she and his great uncle were planning to kill his father. It isn’t until the death of Alicent that it all becomes so startlingly clear. They were not just plotting for Otto’s death, but for all who Rhaenyra felt wronged by. Aegon would never know the entirety of it. He had heard only whispers as a boy from servants. Secrets being shared among the staff that were too stupid to realize he was listening to. Stories of Viserys killing his first wife in his quest for a son. Stories of Alicent warming his bed long before Queen Aemma had died. Stories of Otto playing king long before Daemon had been exiled. Stories of his mother, having to give the order to burn her own mother’s funeral pyre. Having to watch as her best friend married her father. Having her claim questioned because she had tits instead of a cock. 

Aegon had realized that while his mother may have loved Otto once it would never have been enough to save him. Perhaps he had felt, Aegon muses, safe in the dragon’s den. 

Foolish man , Aegon thought, sitting to Rhaenyra’s left as Otto occupied her right. He could see their hands clasped together, but he could also see how his mother gripped her knife. 

Aegon wondered if his father would survive the night. 

He had, but seemingly by the skin of his teeth. Staff whispered that Otto had slept in another room, away from the dragon. Aemond had found Aegon, shoved inside an alcove so he could listen without being seen. The two regarded each other without speaking, the younger and taller one with an amused smirk playing at his lips. The older and shorter one glaring as well as he could shoved between two pillars. 

“Are you breaking fast with mother?” Aegon asked, refusing to let Aemond have the first word. 

“I was on my way there now, brother. And what are you up to, then?”

Aegon did not bother with a response, instead telling Aemond of everything that has transpired since he left for Oldtown. Mother had always had a soft spot for Aemond, Aegon knew how to use that to his advantage. She would let something slip to him, she always did. He was her sleeping dragon, quiet and observing, she just loved to share things with him. Aegon could feed Aemond the information, and he would ask the right questions, and mother would not be able to stop herself from saying something . 

The three of them have been playing this game for years. 

Aemond had found him not crammed into a much-too-small wall space later and shared what mother had said. They will never win the game. They just keep playing. 

Aemond seemed upset by this information, speaking as much. “What if I tire of playing? What will happen then?”

Aegon wasted no time, hands coming around Aemond’s throat. He may be bigger than Aegon but Aemond will always be his little brother, and little brothers don’t fight back . 

“You die. That’s what happens, you imbecile. Is that what you want? Mother would never recover should you be killed. She’d likely follow soon after. So you tire of the game and what? Take mother down with you?”

Aemond’s face grew blue before Aegon loosened his fingers, but he did not retract them. “I don’t want mother to die. I don’t want to die, either. But I don’t want to play the game forever, either, Aegon.” 

Aegon sighed, staring into his too-big little brother's face. “I’ll play the game for you if you ever tire, Aemond. Just as mother is playing it for all of us now. One day I’ll play it for you.”

“When you’re king?” Aemond whispered. 

“When you need me to,” Aegon answered, dropping his hands. 

Viserys died quickly after that. 

Fingers were pointed before Viserys’s pyre had even been constructed. All at once Otto was arrested and named kingslayer. Aegon had done his best to shield his younger siblings of the happenings in court. Alerie and Aerion were easy to distract, still young enough to not be interested in what goes on with the lords and ladies around them. Helaena and Alys are quite different. Helaena has this knowing look about her, as if she was in on the entire thing. She watches with disinterest, holding Alys’s hand through it all. Alys was never close to Viserys, though she cried nonetheless. Aemond had told him, years later, she did it out of duty. 

“If none of the Targaryen children cried over the death of the king, what would people of thought, Aegon?” 

Aegon had respected Alys greatly after that. Thought of her as a strong woman, willing to look weak to protect others. Her unknowing sacrifice was appreciated, as Aegon, nor his siblings, cried over the losses that occurred over those moons. 

Daeron had even gone as far as sneaking into the small council meeting to find out who would do it, who would be the person to detach their father’s head from his body?

He returned breathless, eyeing all of them lounging in Aegon’s room as he said, “Mother will do it!” 

Aegon should have expected nothing less, of course. This man had forced Rhaenyra to love him, even if it was for just a moment in time, before betraying her. His mother did not tolerate betrayers, this all the children knew. Baela and Rhaena had come to be included in that grouping, over the years. They were all Targaryens first, and Rhaenyra’s brood second. None would go against her, lest they fall victim to her ways. 

None of them wanted to waste away as Alicent had. Or be brutally attacked in their bed as Viserys. Least of all did they want to witness Rhaenyra swinging Dark Sister in their direction. So they all huddled together, silent and observing, as Aemond had taught them, and watched as their mad mother wielded Dark Sister through Otto’s neck. His head rolled off the balcony, into the hands of the small folk, who cheered for the show of violence. 

The small council had bent the knee as soon as Rhaenyra had turned to them, smiling a twisted up smile. It was all teeth, her eyes a little too wide, and her breathing erratic. She wasn’t Aegon’s mother, not entirely. Something else has come loose, finally, after all these years. 

Aegon thought he saw Maegor in her. 

But he dismissed the thought. 

His mother was not Maegor. 

She was better . 

Aegon smiled with her.

Chapter Text

She had imagined her life many times, laying under the Godswood tree, head cradled safely in Rhaenyra’s lap. Soft fingers would wind through her curls, and all Alicent could see was blonde hair, and purple eyes. Rhaenyra always watched her, and Alicent always bathed in that vision. Reveled in the idea that Rhaenyra thought her worthy enough to watch. 

Alicent would soak in the attentions of Rhaenyra, bathe herself in those soft fingers, and softer eyes, all while imagining how her life would turn out. 

Rhaenyra will become Queen , Alicent mused. No matter that her grace was with child, and no matter that Rhaenyra thought the babe a boy. Alicent knew that Rhaenyra’s future, no matter what path she took to get there, would end on the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra was too determined. Whether it be by marriage, or by right, Alicent knew it would all come to happen. One way or another.

“And what has you smiling so, Alicent?” Rhaenyra whispered, leaning down, nearly pressing her lips to Alicent’s ear.

A shiver traveled slowly up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades, and causing the hair on her arms to raise. She could still feel Rhaenyra’s breath against her cheek.

“I am thinking, is all, Princess,” Alicent whispers back, the formal title sounding more sentimental than respectful, as it drifts in the space between their bodies. 

Rhaenyra smiles, cheeks rising up to her eyes. Her fingers trail from Alicent’s hair to her forehead, and cascade softly down her nose, her chin. Sliding down her neck, and gently brushing a stray curl away.

Alicent swallows as Rhaenyra says, “You are always thinking. Does your mind ever rest? Sometimes I think I can hear it across the keep.”

The jest has Alicent rolling her eyes, as they both know Rhaenyra’s mind is the one that never truly ceases. She is always thinking, always planning. Most times Alicent is deeply envious at how fast Rhaenyra’s mind moves. Right now, with Rhaenyra leaning over her, fingertips brushing against her skin, Alicent enjoys watching Rhaenyra’s mind tumble through whatever thoughts she has. 

A sigh leaving her dear friend has her returning from her own runaway thoughts, watching as Rhaenyra situates herself. Alicent’s head is lifted with careful fingers, placing her gently on the ground. Rhaenyra is then arranged to lay down fully beside her, fingers clasping hers. They lay together, holding hands, watching the wind twist through the leaves above them.

It was peaceful.

Alicent knew it would not last.

Peace never lasts long in Kings Landing. Peace never lasts long for her . 

She wed the King shortly after that peaceful moment by the Godswood tree. Rhaenyra never looked upon her the same way again. Gone was the softness that Alicent had once had the privilege of witnessing. The Rhaenyra that Alicent had now was one of rage.

Rage that Alicent had created.

Though, to say Alicent had hopes that Rhaenyra would one day… forgive her, would not be a complete lie. Alicent had loved Rhaenyra so wholly that she held on to a foolish childhood belief that Rhaenyra would one day return to her. One day they would lay together by the Godswood, soft skin pressed to soft skin. One day , Alicent thought. 

She was such a fool. A foolish little girl, raised to be such by her cruel father. A twisted man determined to succeed his own name. Alicent had been his only way once upon a time, but Rhaenyra’s ever-turning mind had devised a new way, created a more appealing path. Alicent sat at their wedding feeling a stone in her belly, and a fire in her throat. She watched as her beloved friend and her cunning father danced together, and for the first time in her life she felt a violent rage settle into her hands.

Alicent had never wanted to strike someone. Had never had the urge to hurt another person. But this moment, as her father’s hand was placed over the back of a white dress, this had Alicent digging her nails into her palms. She envisioned herself standing up, saying something, something completely inappropriate that would have Viserys and her father claiming it were the emotions of being with child that caused the Queen to behave in such an uncouth manner. 

But that is where she and Rhaenyra differed, Alicent thought. Her plans would stop there, as visions of what could be, whereas Rhaenyra would be a dragon . Rhaenyra would set fire to the entire hall, and all of its attendees. Alicent would be nothing but another pile of ashes.

When the festivities ended, Alicent watched as Rhaenyra and her father were led to their own chambers, trailed by the guards. 

The fire went down Alicent’s throat as she swallowed, settling firmly in her belly. She did not need to hear the jeering from the guards across the hall, nor did she need to hear the whispers from her own ladies in waiting. Alicent knew that Rhaenyra’s wedding night would be much the same as hers. 

Alicent felt happy to share something with Rhaenyra, something only the two of them could really understand. They were married women now, with a dynasty resting on their shoulders. A certain pressure, one that Alicent had been suffocating from, despite already being with child. Rhaenyra would face the pressure head-on, refusing to so much as bend to it. 

Rhaenyra was with child. 

Rhaenyra was with child, and she still took to the sky on Syrax. They flew every morning, and every night. Alicent would watch from her chamber’s windows, as Syrax took Rhaenyra in lazy circles around Kings Landing. 

Alicent had never ridden atop Syrax, despite Rhaenyra’s incessant begging of her to do so. Never has she so much regretted a decision than now. Perhaps if Alicent had been brave enough to ride a dragon, she never would have lost one. 

Her babe was born silent, laying still in her arms. He was breathtaking, Alicent decided. A tuft of white hair on his head, so soft Alicent had yet to cease stroking it. He was everything she could have ever wanted in a child. 

He was set to the pyre that very night. The servants having plenty of experience preparing for them. Alicent did not leave the fire that night, watching over her nameless boy, listening to the wails of the new Prince Aegon. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine… Imagine for just a moment that those cries were from her own boy.

Unfortunately, she could not imagine forever, no matter how hard she tried.

There was a dynasty to uphold, the pressure returning as the smoke cleared away. The sun rose over the pyre, as night gave way to day, and Alicent knew Viserys would only give her so long. He was well-versed in the mourning of babes, after all.

Alicent heard, quite literally, the birth of the second Prince. Aemond, the servants relayed his name later, came with such volume that the castle had forgone any and all productivity in favor of covering their ears. Alicent was trapped in her bed, weak and heavy with her own babe, listening to the boys around her. 

She took a heaving breath, eyes slipping closed, hands cradling her belly as she prayed to the Gods to let her keep this one. 

Daenys was her darling girl, as soft as her brother. As still as her brother. She did not watch over the pyre as before, could not bare to listen to the sounds of Rhaenyra’s healthy children while hers burned in a pile of wood. 

She remembered Rhaenyra’s wedding, thinking that Rhaenyra would set fire to those in attendance, letting them burn to ash. She thinks, perhaps, this is her punishment. Alicent was a bystander in her own wedding, and a bystander in Rhaenyra’s. Why should she not burn? 

No, Alicent did not attend Daenys’s pyre, for fear that she would throw herself into it. 

Her body was failing her, Alicent decided. She was withering away, while Rhaenyra was flourishing. Perhaps this was how it was always meant to be. All those days spent musing under the Godswood tree were for naught, as Alicent lay in her bed and felt as though she were caving in on herself. 

Rhaenyra was with child, again. Aegon and Aemond healthy, running all over the castle, leaving chaos in their wake. Daemon had returned. Her father was absent from her chambers. 

Rhaenyra would make a good Queen, Alicent thought. After all, look at the situation around them. Alicent had wronged Rhaenyra, marred her so deeply that Rhaenyra’s lovely mind had set its sights on Alicent’s downfall. And what a fall it was.

She had never cried as hard as she had than finding she was with child again. The dynasty be damned, Alicent sobbed. She wanted her body back. She wanted her friend back. Watching Rhaenyra simply glow at Aegon’s tourney had nearly killed Alicent. 

Rhaenyra, who was carding her fingers through Aegon’s hair as she used to do Alicent. Rhaenyra, who called for a nursemaid to take Aemond from her breast. Rhaenyra, who was now looking at her much the way Syrax did a sheep. 

Rhaenyra.

Alicent took the offered goblet of wine from her, downing it quickly, eyes flicking away from Rhaenyra’s purple eyes. She feared looking into those eyes these days, the grief that hit her whenever she saw nothing but loathing in those eyes was not worth how much she missed looking into them. 

Not for the first time, as Alicent is practically dragged to the nursery per the orders of King Viserys, does she regret her past inactions. Perhaps if she had been more dragon, she would not be married to a man that sees her as a duty. Perhaps if she had taken after her friend, she wouldn’t have lost her. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

This babe survived.

By the Gods, she survived. 

Alicent feared she wouldn’t, eyes opening and closing for what feels like moons at a time. One moment she is holding her daughter, white hair and purple eyes, eyes that watch her in a way she hasn’t been watched in years. The next, she is alone, a single maester in her room, no babe in sight. 

She ponders if it was all a dream, a product of her grief-addled mind. 

But Viserys visited her, sometime between her eyes opening and closing, and told her.

Told her their babe was being cared for by Rhaenyra. Told her that Rhaenyra named her Alysanne. Told her that Rhaenyra doted on the babe as if she were her own. 

Told her, and told her, and told her. 

Alicent felt breathless, listening, never speaking. She hardly ever spoke with Viserys. And he hardly seemed to mind.

Alicent realised that she was being played with. Much like a cat ( or a dragon ) toys with their dinner, Alicent was a plaything for Rhaenyra. Nothing more than a mouse to beat back and forth between its paws before taking it by the neck and snapping it in their teeth. 

Time passed quickly after that, slipping from Alicent’s brittle fingers as if it were sand. She attends a grand feast, she is sure it is for Aemond, as she knows at the very least a tourney would be held for Aegon. She watches as Rhaenyra calls for a Lord’s head, and as Daemon hungrily jumps to the order. When the head is placed on the table, the day slips away from Alicent.

Then a wedding. Whose? She is sure she hasn’t missed so much that Aegon is already at the age to be wed, but she knows not how much time has passed since she was fully here . She hears many voices, but none at the same time. It is too much, a cacophony of noises that muddle together and rattle around in her skull. It isn’t until that voice speaks that she listens. Listens to Rhaenyra announce the betrothal between her little Alysanne and Rhaenyra’s little Aemond. Her body falls forward, propelled by some unknown force. Alicent makes eye contact with her father, who looks upon her with indifference, with disgust . Alicent breathes in, pressing herself back against her chair, and letting her mind slip away. 

She is in bed, the next she remembers, Viserys sitting beside her. He is talking, always talking, and Alicent has to struggle to understand the words. He speaks of Alysanne, of how quick she is growing, under the watchful eye of Rhaenyra. She does not remember the last time she spoke. Was it at Aegon’s nameday tourney? It matters none, as she attempts to speak now. 

“When could I see her?”

Viserys lurches slightly, eyeing her warily, as if just now realising he wasn’t speaking to the ether but at a person. At his wife .

“I shall… make a request to Rhaenyra.”

She slips away again.

Alicent fears that years have gone by the next time she has fully come back. Sitting at a table, surrounded by the many children of Rhaenyra and her father. Viserys is wearing a golden mask. When had that happened? When had she been placed here? She twists and turns, taking at those around her. She finds Alysanne immediately, drinking in the girl before her. It makes her ache to see the resemblance between Alysanne and Rhaenyra. 

That makes two dragons that she has lost.

Speeches are given, Alicent struggles to stay, to listen. She is split, a part of her sitting at a table with what is now her family, and a part of her under the Godswood tree, fingers in her hair and whispers in her ear. 

She lets go, finally, as Viserys places a hand to her back, attempting to comfort her. 

She is back in the Godswood, sitting beside Rhaenyra. It feels all at once like a mercy and a punishment. Alicent is alert, more alert than she’s been in years. She is unsure why, having flashes of her father, and tea that tasted vile but her maester swore would make her feel stronger. 

The sun is shining on them, lighting up Rhaenyra in such a way it causes Alicent to go breathless. She has missed Rhaenyra so forcefully that being this close to her, in this place, has Alicent feeling that foolish bit of hope rising up her throat. 

“She picks at her nails,” Rhaenyra says, eyeing Alicent in such a different way than she has in the past few years. 

“What?” is all Alicent manages to get out.

“Alys. She picks at her nails, her fingers. It drives Otto mad, though I remind him we all have our habits. I’ve tried helping her stop, but she is a stubborn girl.”

Alys. Her Alys. Alicent’s babe that belongs to Rhaenyra now. This piece of information, this shared habit between mother and daughter, causes Alicent to turn to look upon Alysanne, truly look upon her, since entering the gardens. “My father abhorred my picking at my fingers. It made him so angry, to see me doing such things. Unladylike, he would say,” Alicent whispers, facing Rhaenyra again.

Her throat hurts, voice hoarse after so long without use. This is the most she’s said in ages, she muses. Of course it would be to Rhaenyra. Alicent would have it no other way. 

The conversation continues, both women going back and forth about the children. Alicent is pained knowing that this is how it could have been, had she married another. This relationship of motherhood with her dear friend could have been her life the last few years, had Alicent had enough strength to stand up to her father. One inaction has caused such turmoil in Alicent’s life. 

They speak of Oldtown, and Alicent is filled with a longing so intense she almost chokes. Knowing that her father has taken Aemond to visit her former home leaves a sickening taste in the back of her throat. What she would give to go back to the Hightower…

“My father visited me the day before yesterday, he made no mention of leaving, but perhaps that was the cause for the visit,” Alicent muses, thinking back to her father bringing that awful tea with him. He had not mentioned Oldtown the entire time he was with her, nor had he spoken of leaving. Or perhaps he did? Alicent is always so confused, of late. 

“He did? I wonder why he did not mention his leave,” Rhaenyra said, though her voice sounded off. Gone was the tone of indifference, or the fondness by which she spoke of the children. She sounded… much as she did that day in the councilroom when Alicent and Viserys had announced their betrothal. 

Controlled anger. 

“I know not, just that he came to see me. He gave me a tea that the maesters have been working on, told me it would bring about some more strength. I have been drinking it every morning and night since. I believe that is the reason I was able enough to join you in the sun today,” Alicent knows not why she said what she had, but it seemed being in such close proximity to Rhaenyra had caused something to burst inside her. The need to be heard by someone. The need to be heard by Rhaenyra . 

“What a gift to receive! Perhaps you shall gain a touch of strength every day, be well enough to stand with us for Aemond and Alysanne’s wedding!” Rhaenyra’s voice is cruel, like a knife digging into Alicent’s back. 

One look shows Alicent all she needs to see, that Rhaenyra has done away with their previous conversations, and whatever hope Alicent had let slide back into her has easily been squeezed out. No, nothing would fix this relationship, Alicent realizes. She looks away, eyes finding Alysanne, “One can only hope, princess,” Alicent says, her voice drifting into the open air of the Godswood.

But Alicent was nothing if not naive, still a foolish little girl desperately wanting her friend back. “My father mentioned the wedding to me, actually. Had said once the two are man and wife, and Aemond assumes his role as lord, I would be able to reside, temporarily, in Oldtown. As Princess Rhaenys did for Lady Laena.” Alicent had thought, perhaps, if Rhaenyra knew that her father planned to send Alicent away, rid Kings Landing of her, that Rhaenyra would be pleased. After all, it is her presence that does the most damage does it not? An ever living reminder that Rhaenyra’s mother is gone, and Viserys chose to marry Alicent. 

Instead, Rhaenyra ignored her, eyes going dark. She looked… like a dragon. Outright. As though she would eat Alicent alive, spit her out, and do it all over again. This was not Rhaenyra, not truly, not anymore. Alicent stared, watched as Aegon came to escort his mother away, throwing her wary glances all the way. 

Alicent’s ladies came to retrieve her not long after, leading her away from the Godswood. 

She forces herself to slip away, then, not wanting to be aware any longer. 

The maester brought her tea, dutifully, as they have done the last fortnight. She hesitates, knowing the taste, but does take a sip at the urging of the maester. It tastes… sweet. The tea is cold as Alicent drinks heavily from the cup. She knows this is not the same tea her father has instructed the maesters to give her. It is like drinking a lemon cake on a summer day.

Like laying under the Godswood tree, in the lap of a much loved friend, fingers in her hair, and warm thighs under her head. 

She cleans the cup, and rests against her pillows. The maester leaves without a single word to her, and she lets her eyes slip closed. 

Rhaenyra smiles, cheeks rising up to her eyes. Her fingers trail from Alicent’s hair to her forehead, and cascade softly down her nose, her chin. Sliding down her neck, and gently brushing a stray curl away.

Oh. 

“I missed you,” Alicent says, staring up at Rhaenyra, memorizing the way her eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles.

They lay together, holding hands, watching the wind twist through the leaves above them.

It was peaceful.

Chapter Text

It was a cold day in King’s Landing, the coldest the record keepers had ever noted. The morning the common folk woke to see their breaths and feel the wind sweep through their clothes, leaving goosebumps and raised hair behind, they knew something terrible had happened. None living had experienced such things before. They were used to searing hot days, warm as dragon breath, turning skin red as cooked meat. Even the old, the very old, were unsettled by the drastic change in the air around them. Just yesterday saw children swimming in the waters, mothers and fathers wiping sweat from their brows. A single thought carried itself on that chilly wind that morning: a dragon has died. 

This could be the only explanation the people could understand. They have been blessed in the recent years, in the recent many years. Never have the record keepers had so much to write, to immortalize in Westeros history. From the moment Queen Rheanyra was born, there had been page after page of notable events to keep record of, to carefully preserve the rapidly changing history caused by the Realm’s Delight. They had written, with little smiles, every single birth that came from their Dragon Queen, how blistering hot those days, and even nights, were. How loud the Keep was with her wailing babes, her little dragons. They had written, with slightly shaky hands, the many deaths that had followed behind her grace as she ascended the throne. No one would accuse her of such vile things, but the record keepers know. 

Still, she makes a mighty queen, and never has King’s Landing shone the way it has under her rule. They would know best, after all. 

Today was not one of those smiling days, nor hand-shaking ones. Today was one the keepers had feared for many, many years. None more than Gorath, who had been the one to note the birth of Queen Rhaenyra, when she was simply a Princess, not even an heir to the throne. Gorath, who noted every single babe her grace brought into this world. Gorath, who noted when their Princess became Queen. Gorath, who sat now, in the Queen’s chambers, as those carefully scribed babes now stood as a wall around her grace. 

The maester had said she went quietly, as a whisper, before the sun rose. 

It went so very against everything her grace stood for that Gorath was half waiting for her to sit upright, staring at them with her usual mix of mirth and seriousness. Poised. She was always so poised. So to be told this great queen passed in her sleep, with not a soul around her at the time, was unsettling for Gorath. He felt the chill outside pollute the fire-warmed chambers, slipping into the cracks in the stones to find the silent dragons inside. 

Gorath has yet to write anything down. He is simply staring, as the children are. He does not feel like he is seeing, not truly. He never thought he would outlive her grace. Gorath had been working with another, younger boy to prepare him to be Queen Rhaenyra’s official history writer. Gorath knew his own time was coming, and wanted somebody trustworthy, and dedicated, and loyal, to keep their Queen’s histories. 

And here Gorath sits. 

Alive, breathing, watching his Queen lay there, silent, unmoving. 

Unnatural , Gorath thinks. 

Prince Aegon is the first to break the silence, slice through the thickness hanging in the air. 

Gorath realizes he is no longer Prince Aegon, but King . It has been many years since King’s Landing has seen a man sit the Iron Throne. Gorath makes note that after forty-eight years, Westeros will once again be under a man’s rule. 

King Aegon speaks, “Prepare the pyre, and Sunfyre. She will be burned at high noon, with the sun over us.” 

Queen Baela has laid a hand upon their new king’s shoulder, a silent offering of support. He touches it absentmindedly, as if unaware he’s doing it, before he continues, “I understand the coronation will need to be planned as well. As far as I am concerned, those plans can be made without me involved. The burning will take place today, and the coronation can happen two days from then. I’m sure the small court can make the arrangements without requiring me to hold their hands through the process?” 

He raises a single eyebrow at the end of his question, looking so like his mother Gorath has to swallow and look away. The messenger in the room, tasked with taking this news to said small court, jumps at the sight, assuring his new king that all will be done, before making a hasty exit. 

“You leave little time for Aemond and Alysanne to return, brother,” Prince Daeron says, quietly, as if afraid to be too loud in the silent room. 

“They were well on their way yesterday, and should arrive in time for the burning. I have little concern for them, and Aemond would agree Mother would wish to be burned sooner than later. Let her reunite with her own mother.” 

That is all the king says, as he turns to exit the room, taking one last glance over his mother’s body. He sighs, deep and long, as if the weight that their Dragon Queen had carried for nearly half a century has now firmly settled on his shoulders. He leaves the room, his new queen consort following quickly behind him. 

Gorath has noted the words shared, has written how strong King Aegon stood in the face of grief, and a mountain of new responsibilities. The late queen has raised him well. 

It is unfortunate , Gorath thinks, that Prince Aemond and Princess Alysanne are on their way for celebrations. The youngest Prince and Princess, Aerion and Alerie, had planned a grand celebration for their twins' fifth name day. It would likely still occur, as it was scheduled for days after this. Prince Aemond had wanted to arrive early, always wanting to come before the loudness descended upon the Keep, always wanting a moment alone with his mother. 

Gorath stood, knowing he would have to meet with the small court to help plan the coronation before he would attend the funeral pyre. After that, Prince Aegon would officially become King Aegon, and then, but another two days later, the people would celebrate Rhaegar and Rhaela’s fifth name day. A busy week ahead for the record keepers, an even busier week ahead for the royal family. 

Before he could make his exit from the room, Princess Rhaena spoke up, “You knew, I presume?” 

It is spoken softly, a whisper between the two women. Princess Helaena answers, “I never know. I simply feel.”

Everyone had been surprised when Princess Helaena had arrived, towing along her two Stark boys. No one had expected her arrival, not even her mother, who had hugged the princess so long Gorath was unsure if she would ever let go. When questioned what prompted this visit, Princess Helaena simply smiled. And that was all Queen Rhaenyra needed. They took off, arm in arm, into the keep. 

“What did you feel?” Prince Daeron asked. 

Princess Helaena turned away from her mother’s bed, seeming to make to follow Gorath’s exit he had yet to make. “I felt her leaving.” 

Finally, Gorath goes through the chamber door, Princess Helaena following with a quiet, “I must check on Arran and Benjam.” 

Gorath leaves the remaining royal children behind. He has a lot of things to prepare, things he never thought he’d live to see. He has attended many funeral pyres before, in most recent years was the king consort, Daemon. He went down on dragon back, taking Caraxes with him, in an uprising that Queen Rhaenyra had deemed insignificant. But King Daemon had grown restless in his later years, eager for a fight, hungry for blood, reckless . He took off at daybreak, without alerting his Queen. 

He never returned. 

The pyre simply held his clothes, as King Daemon’s body had been lost in the fight. The queen did not cry, nor did she hesitate to give the command for Syrax to set the pyre on fire. Many whispered that their queen had gone into a rage upon hearing the news, throwing things, and ripping apart sheets. Some say with grief, and that is what Gorath has written in the official histories. But Gorath knows. Queen Rhaenyra was not grieving. 

She was angry . 

She had told her king consort to ignore the uprising, that a few small folk throwing a tantrum was not worth their time, not when they had allies nearby to take care of the situation. She was furious that she was ignored. Prince Aegon had to talk her down, bring her mind back from that precipice she walked, tilting between the Realm’s Delight and Maegor the Cruel. 

Eventually, the heir to the throne convinced his mother to hold a pyre, more as a memorial than a funeral service. He convinced his mother to breathe, rather than attack. 

Yes , Gorath thinks, he will make a good King. 

He sighs, thinking of all that will be written in the coming days. He will need to send for more scribes. But for now… 

For now, he has a coronation to help plan.