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Chapter Text

Rhaenyra spent the evening resting before the fire as her grandmother read a story to her. Her father stood by a window, deep in thought while her mother embroidered a piece of cloth by the couch. The past few days had been quiet, Rhaenyra noticed, since her grandfather Baelon had returned from his hunting trip ill and weak.

Her great-aunt, Septa Maegelle, entered the room, her face somber and her eyes red. "Sister," she addressed Alyssa, "I bear the most unfortunate news. Our brother Baelon has met the Stranger this evening. You have my deepest sympathies."

With those words, Princess Rhaenyra felt a cold shift in the air. The little girl had only seen four namedays, and did not fully understand death, but she was old enough to know that something terrible had happened. Her lord father sank into a chair with his hands in his face, while her lady mother went over to embrace him. Alyssa threw her arms around her younger sister and the two women wept together.

Rhaenyra looked around the room anxiously, "Aunt Septa, what happened? Will Grandfather be alright?"

"He is with the gods, princess," Maegelle answered hoarsely, struck with pity for the little girl who did not yet understand that she would never see her beloved grandfather again.

That night, Rhaenyra slept in her mother's bed, between her parents, rather than in the nursery. As they lay down to sleep, Aemma let out a small yelp and cradled her swelling belly.

"It's happened," she breathed, a fresh wave of tears filling her eyes. "The quickening."

Viserys placed a hand on his wife's belly, "It's a sign from the gods, it must be. I only wished my father..." He could not finish the words.

"I know," Aemma pressed Rhaenyra against her and placed the little girl's hand on her belly. "Your brother's in there, just waiting to get out."

Rhaenyra squealed in delight when the babe kicked against her hand. "He said hello to me!"

"He did," Viserys kissed her silver-gold curls. "He can't wait to meet you."

Seven days later, the Spring Prince burned atop a cliff on the outskirts of the capital as the royal court, all draped in black, mourned. No one expected Baelon, a healthy man who had not yet reached fifty years, to pass, much less so quickly, and a thick curtain of grief fell over the kingdom. None wept louder than his widow, Princess Alyssa.

The king himself lit the flame, issued by his mount Vermithor. As the prince's body turned to ash, his own dragon, Vhagar, let out a sorrowful roar and took off into the sky. Where she went, none could say. Jaehaerys had been old before her father was born, but to Princess Rhaenyra he had never looked older than he had in that moment. His shoulders slumped; his eyes filled with tears as the she-dragon vanished into the pale blue sky. Rhaenyra wriggled her way out of her mother's grasp and threw her arms around her great-grandfather. He had always smiled when she hugged him. Jaehaerys gently rested a weathered hand atop her head and hugged her back with his other arm.

In the coming weeks, no one found it necessary to explain to the princess why troubles brewed at court, but she felt the tension mounting regardless. The long hours her father spent in the king's solar, the icy looks from Aunt Rhaenys and her husband, the whispers that ceased abruptly when she entered a room. When she asked her mother, Aemma replied, "It is not for you to worry about."

One day a man dressed finely in green stood before the court and named himself Ser Otto Hightower of Oldtown. He swore an oath of service to king, and Jaehaerys descended from the Iron Throne to place a golden necklace of interlocking hands around his neck. Rhaenyra recognized it as the necklace her grandfather had worn before his passing.

"Why did Great-grandfather give that man Grandfather's necklace?" Rhaenyra asked father much later, after court had been dismissed.

"That necklace belongs to the Hand of the King," Viserys explained, "And Ser Otto is the new hand, now that my father is gone."

"Why didn't Great-grandfather make you his hand?"

"It is not my place to question it," Viserys smiled sadly. "Great-grandfather is the wisest of us. If he chose Ser Otto for the position, Ser Otto must be well-suited to the task."

Days after Ser Otto's appointment, he introduced the youngest princess to his daughter. In appearance, the girls resembled each other little. Where Rhaenyra had russet brown skin and cloud-like silver-gold hair, Alicent had ivory skin and dark auburn hair that hung in loose curls. A shy, quiet girl two scant moons the princess's senior, Alicent's sweet and soothing temperament comforted the princess in her time of worry and grief. Their growing familiarity allowed the older girl to open like a spring blossom. Alicent went everywhere with Rhaenyra, played with her, wiped her tears, laughed with her, and slept in her bed more nights than not. The friendship between the king's great-granddaughter and hand's daughter charmed the royal court, most of all the king himself.

Barely a fortnight after selecting his new hand, King Jaehaerys gathered the royal court into the throne room. Rhaenyra and Alicent stood on the mezzanine overlooking the raised dias where the king sat the Iron Throne.

"My lords and ladies," Jaehaerys announced. "I came to power when I was but a boy of fourteen years, and now I sit before a man of seven-and-sixty, with children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. My time with you will not last much longer, that much is clear, but before I can rest, I must settle the question of succession. For the security and prosperity of this kingdom. In six moons times, I shall assemble a great council to aid in the selection of my rightful heir."

A loud gasp burst from the crowd. Rhaenyra pouted, not sure what her great-grandfather meant. Wasn't her father now the heir, before his father had died?

Jaehaerys continued, "All lords of the realm are invited to attend and lend their wisdom. All potential claimants will make their case and at the end, the lords of the realm will advise me on the nature of these claims before I make my decision. The future of our kingdom is at stake, but I trust my lords to direct me toward the correct choice."

Chapter Text

Laenor Velaryon, son of the Sea Snake, faced expectations so high he couldn't see above them. The boy was only nine years old, yet he carried the weight of his parents' hopes upon his shoulders. His mother and father explained the circumstances to him. As the only child of Prince Aemon Targaryen, Rhaenys ought to have been heir to her grandfather when her father died. The firstborn son's line must end before a secondborn son may inherit; therefore, a daughter came before a brother.

Yet, Jaehaerys had named his second son Baelon as heir instead his granddaughter, his sex taking precedence over her position in the senior branch of the family. Now that Laenor had been born and Baelon had died, the king had to confirm Laenor's claim as a male scion of his eldest son or dismiss that claim because it came through the female line.

Laenor knew of the ships that his father had gathered to defends his rights, and of the swords Viserys had gathered to defend his.

As his parents made arrangement for the great council and a possible outburst of war, Laenor spent hours under the tutelage of his grandmother, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, in addition to his lessons under Maester Brynmore. He had to look every inch a future king, lest the lords of the realm be persuaded to choose his mother's cousin as heir. By the time the Velaryons arrived at Harrenhal, Laenor could recite the arguments for his succession rights as his grandmother had drilled into him.

Though his parents tried to assure him of their eventually success, his only true comfort was his dragon, Seasmoke, the first, last, and only gift he had ever received from his celebrated grandfather, Prince Aemon. The late Prince of Dragonstone had been delighted when he learned of his daughter's pregnancy and selected an egg for her unborn babe. Only weeks later, Aemon fell to a Myrish crossbowman on Tarth. Though King Jaehaerys refused to name Rhaenys as his new heir, he could not bring himself to take back the egg Aemon had so lovingly given to her for her child.

The sight of Harrenhal filled young Laenor with dread. Built of burned, black stone, the castle boasted five tall towers that reached into the sky like twisted fingers. The stone walls must have rivaled Brandon's Wall in the far north, in the child's imagination, and the inner baileys were large enough to host entire villages. Small wonder it had taken Harren the Black forty years and the wealth of two kingdoms to build.

Lords and ladies swarmed from across the kingdoms, from Winterfell to the Arbor and from Fair Isle to Storm's End. Though the Dornish refused to acknowledge the authority of the crown, the Prince of Dorne sent a daughter and a retinue of knights to observe the proceedings. Even magisters of the Free Cities and princes of the Summer Isles came as spectators.

But men and women of noble birth was far from the only people who had come for the great council. Hedge knights and freeriders came by the hundreds in search of lords to swear their swords. Merchants and tradesmen and craftsmen had set up outside the walls, seeking work. Thieves and cutpurses crawled around like rats, and everyone one looked one could find whores eager for clients. A sea of tents flooded the land surrounding Harrenhal, larger than Hull or Spicetown.

The thought of all those people judging his worth as a claimant made Laenor sick to his stomach.

Worst of all was Belarion. The Black Dread had grown slow and lazy in his old age but was nonetheless the most formidable dragon alive. The last creature to have laid eyes upon Valyria in its glory, Belarion had forged the Seven Kingdoms into one, as he had forged the Iron Throne itself. And he had been claimed by Laenor's chief rival, Prince Viserys.

Uncle Boremond, grandmother's brother, greeted them at the gates. He picked Laenor up and laughed, "Before long you'll be King Laenor, First of His Name."

The Old King and Good Queen had been blessed with many children, and nearly all of them had come along with their families. Viserys' mother Alyssa and goodmother Daella came in his support, the latter bringing with her the might of the Vale. Viserra and her husband Tymond Lannister advocated for their son Jason, though his claim was weakened by the fact his mother was only the king's tenth child. Prince Gaemon's claim was barely stronger, for he was the eleventh child. None took Gael's claim seriously, including the princess herself, for she was female, the youngest of many children, and still unwed at one-and-twenty.

Archmaester Vaegor dismissed his own claim, citing his vows to the Citadel. Septa Maegelle did the same on account of her vows to the Faith. Ser Valerion had proudly donned the white cloak of the Kingsguard four years past, and so he too was not considered. The disgraced Princess Saera saw no need to bestir herself from Volantis, but her three bastard sons had traveled the seas to press their claims.

There were other claimants, scions of second and third sons from generations past, alleged bastards of previous kings and princes. One man claimed to be a natural son of Jaehaerys, but the king himself proved that false and had the man imprisoned. But in truth, none of those claims were truly considered. It came down to Viserys and Laenor: the son of a second son or the grandson of the first son through the female line.

The great council progressed too quickly and too slowly for Laenor's liking. In a flash, he stood at the front of the great hall with his parents defending his claim; then it was over, and the vote lasted thirteen days, what seemed like a lifetime. King Jaehaerys sat on an ornate throne upon a raised dias as two maester brought him the final ballot. Laenor's small hands dug into his father's arm as the king opened the ballot...

And declared Viserys Targaryen the new Prince of Dragonstone.

Laenor looked up at his parents. His mother's face was as cold as hard as glass, his father's as furious as a raging fire. He looked down at his feet, shame burning so hot he could barely breath. They had been counting on him to prove himself a worthy heir, and he had failed. Laena reached for his hand, but he brushed her off.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra was happy with the results of the great council because it made her parents happy. It mattered little to her whether her father was a prince or a king, but it mattered greatly that he had smiled for the first time in months when Great-grandfather read his name for the assembled lords. He took her into his arms and flew Balerion around the Harrenhal thrice in celebration. Rhaenyra could not remember a time she was happier than when she was in the air with her father.

At the feast that night, she sat between her uncle Prince Daemon and his wife Lady Rhea watching with amusement as a never-ending line of lords and knights paid homage to her great-grandfather, the king, and her father, the future king. Then the Velaryons came, and Rhaenyra's face fell. She knew they had wanted to the throne and were angered by her father's fortune. Yet, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys knelt him like the others, and the tension left her. Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the sweet tart her aunt tried feeding her.

Sometime in the night, as the lords and ladies began to retire, Aemma felt a sharp pain in her womb, followed by a rush of fluid from her lower parts. Fear gripped her. It was far too soon for the babe to come. She stood up abruptly and fled from the table. Her ladies-in-waiting followed close by.

"Get a maester," she hissed to Lady Jesma, the wife of the king's hand.

Princess Aemma labored through the night, while her mother and goodmother held her hands. Her husband came as soon as he was able to get away from his lords. Come morning a stillborn boy emerged from her womb. The young princess wailed uncontrollably, her happiness from the previous evening shattered like glass. Her husband, the newly made heir, sat by her bedside in a state of shock. He helplessly attempted to comfort her, but in his heart, Viserys wondered if this was an omen.

After the maester gave her milk-of-the-poppy for the pain, Aemma fell into a troubled sleep.

"Your Royal Highness, you ought to rest," Jesma gently placed a hand on the grieving prince's shoulder.

"I need to be with her," Viserys whispered. "I can't leave her alone."

"I can take your stead. You have been up all night," the lady insisted.

After a little more prodding, Viserys acquiesced, but when he lay in his bed, rest evaded him for hours. Without his awareness, he slipped into sleep. He dreamed of his son born with the Conqueror's crown, surrounded the sound of thundering hooves, splintering shields, and ringing swords. When he placed his son upon the Iron Throne, the bells of the Grand Sept tolled, and all the dragons roared as one.

Viserys woke, still wounded by the loss of his child, but now more hopeful for the future. Life came with pain, that much was true, but there was love and joy and promise as well. Aemma would survive this loss, they all would.

Rhaenyra woke shortly after her father, after spending all night with Alicent and her cousin Jeyne Arryn. After her parents had suddenly left the great hall, Grandmother Daella had charge of them and had permitted them to stay up for as long as they liked. Ignorant of her mother's woes, Rhaenyra did not think twice when Daella ushered them into Jeyne's bed to sleep, in a different wing of the castle from where the royal family stayed.

She noticed that the mood in the castle had changed, from celebration to mourning. Even her grandmother, who always seemed upbeat, looked at her with a downcast gaze.

"Is something the matter?" she asked Daella as a servant placed before her a bowl of porridge sweetened with berries and honey. Alicent and Jeyne eat with them.

Daella said softly, "Your mother lost her babe last night."

"How did she lose him? He's inside her."

"The gods took him."

Rhaenyra thought on it a moment. "Like they took Grandfather Baelon?"

"Yes," Daella nodded. "I'm sorry, sweetling. It appears you won't be getting a new brother or sister, at least not for now."

Rhaenyra scowled, angry tears forming in her eyes. Alicent placed a comforting hand on the princess's arm and Jeyne took her hand. "But I wanted one! Father and Mother were so happy, and now they'll be sad."

"Don't worry about them," Daella went to her and kissed her forehead. "Your parents are strong. They will be sad, but they'll try again. You won't be their only child forever."

"Can I see Mother?" Rhaenyra asked, pushing her spoon through her porridge without eating.

Daella considered it. "I shall ask if it is possible. For now, finish your breakfast."

Despite her friend and cousin coaxing her to eat, Rhaenyra had no appetite.

Princess Alyssa entered the room soon afterward, clearly crestfallen. "Rhaenyra…your mother is well. But her babe…"

"I already told her," Daella interjected.

Alyssa looked to her younger sister, then to her granddaughter. "She's feeling well enough for visitors. Would you like to see her?"

"Of course!" Rhaenyra jumped from her seat and Alyssa took her into her arms. Alyssa brought Rhaenyra to Aemma's chambers. Viserys and Jesma sat by her bedside, the former gently stroking his wife's hair. The little princess hopped onto the bed and wrapped her arms around her mother.

"Is the babe really gone?" Rhaenyra asked anxiously.

Aemma gave a pained expression, "I'm sorry, my little love. He is."

"Take heart, Rhaenyra," Viserys added. "We will try again once your mother gets better."

"And I'll get to be a big sister?"

"You'll be the best big sister in the Seven Kingdoms," Daella smiled.

A little while later, Jaehaerys asked for leave to enter Aemma's chambers. "I would like to speak to my grandfather alone."

The elderly king sat on a chair beside his granddaughter and kissed her hand. "You have my most sincere condolences, my dear girl. As does Viserys."

"Thank you, Grandfather." Aemma replied softly. "Do not worry overmuch. The maesters say I should recover soon."

"I know," Jaehaerys answered. "However, it took several years for you to conceive Rhaenyra. As wonderful a child as she is, she alone cannot secure our line."

"Viserys and I will try again," Aemma stated firmly. "We are still young enough to have many more children, if the gods see it fit."

"I do not doubt you will strive towards your duty, but whether you succeed in accomplishing it is another matter. There are those who would take this for an omen of your husband's reign. The Velaryons, above us."

"Well, those people are wrong," Aemma cried, her voice shaking slightly.

"Mayhaps," Jaehaerys noted. "But your mother struggled to bring you into the world, and nearly lost her life in the attempt. The labor had damaged her so severe that afterward she could have no more children."

"It wasn't like that with Rhaenyra," Aemma feared where her grandfather was taking this conversation.

"Who can say for certain?" Jaehaerys looked at her with large, sad, purple eyes. "You must think me cruel, to bring you such concerns so soon after the loss of your child."

"No," Aemma replied without thinking.

Jaehaerys clasped her hands once more, "If I could guarantee you the birth of a son, I would do so in a heartbeat. But, if the time should came that you realize you are unable to fulfill this task, you must be willing to do what is best for the kingdom."

"What do you mean by that?" Aemma whispered, filled with dread.

"It may be unnecessary, and I hope it is unnecessary, but if you cannot give Viserys a son, you must allow him to set you aside and take another to be his wife. Rhaenyra would remain legitimate, of course, and you would receive your dowry and all due honors as a Targaryen and Arryn." At her horror-stricken face, Jaehaerys hastily added. "Do not worry overmuch, it may not came to pass. It grieves me to burden you with the thought when you have yet recovered, but the day will some that you will not have me to solve your problems. I must impart my wisdom to you while I still can."

Aemma silently nodded her understanding, even as a steady stream of tears ran down her face.

Chapter Text

Alicent stood outside the door to the king’s chambers clutching her storybook, her fingers drumming nervously against the leather cover. “We should not disturb him,” she whispered to her friend.

“You worry to much,” Rhaenyra replied easily.

“Why can’t you do it? You’re his great-granddaughter.”

“Because you read much better than I do. And you have a prettier voice.”

Alicent blushed at the compliment. It was true that she had taken to reading and writing quicker than other children her age, though Rhaenyra easily outdid her in sums. She hadn’t known Rhaenyra thought her voice was pretty.

“Great-grandfather will be happy for our company. He just stays in bed all day and hardly anyone comes to see him now.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Alicent conceded. She thought highly of Old King Jaehaerys, and it saddened her to watch him slowly wither away.

Age was cruel to Jaehaerys. His beloved wife Alysanne and his best friend Septon Barth had predeceased him. Men he'd known for decades were gradually replaced by young strangers and eventually he felt lost and alone within his own court.

Always a hale and hearty man in his youth, his strength at last began to fail him. In the weeks following the great council, he came to rely on a cane, and within a year he could not leave his bed save for brief moments. The mind that had once created a uniform set of laws by which to govern a vast realm, now could not remember the current date half the time. Some days he mistook Viserys for Baelon, or Aemma for Saera. Other days he did not react at all those in his presence.

As the old king's life drew to an ignoble end, Otto steadily assumed more of his responsibilities. Viserys sat the small council in his grandfather's stead, but more often than not he left matters of governance to the king's hand. Few doubted Ser Otto's wits or skill, but many found his manner arrogant and insolent, especially Daemon. The two men completed for influence over the Prince of Dragonstone, while the king lay forgotten in his chambers, as though he were dead already.

“Any you’re good at reading stories. I’m certain it’ll make him feel better,” Rhaenyra continued.

Septa Maegelle opened the door to her father’s chambers and saw the two six-year-old girls standing before her. “Good evening, Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Alicent. What brings you here at this hour?”

Rhaenyra looked expectantly to Alicent. “We, I mean, I, I wanted to read to him, to keep him company. If that’s alright,” Alicent stammered. “Rhaenyra said I should.”

Maegelle smiled fondly at them both. “That is very kind of you. You may stay an hour, but afterward you must allow him to rest. He’s not been feeling well.”

“Thank you, Aunt Septa!” Rhaenyra chirped. She took Alicent by the wrist and yanked her inside.

The king rested in his bed, awake but quiet. Maegelle had covered him in a thick woolen blanket took ward against the night’s chill. Beneath it he looked small and frail, the bones of his face visible under his diaphanous brown skin. His hair and long, thick beard had been neatly combed. A small brazier at his bedside burned cedar and lavender, masking the scent of sickness.

Alicent’s heart ached with pity.

Rhaenyra went up to him without hesitation and kissed his hand. “Hello Great-grandfather. Alicent and I came to see you.”

Jaehaerys turned his head toward her, his eyes filled with astonishment, “Saera? Does your mother know you are here?”

“I’m not Saera, I’m Rhaenyra. Viserys and Aemma’s daughter.”

“Ah,” Jaehaerys sighed, regain lucidity. “Yes, Saera is gone, you are Rhaenyra. Forgive me, sweet girl, my mind wanders.”

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra squeezed his hand affectionately. “Alicent came to read to you.”

“Hello your Majesty,” Alicent greeted.

“Hello Alicent. I would like a story.”

Maegelle placed two chairs beside her own and gestured for the girls to sit. The chairs had been built for adults, and the two little girls wiggled awkwardly to seat themselves. Their legs dangled above the floor. As Alicent opened her book, Maegelle took up a pair of needles and continued knitting a blanket. When Alicent opened the storybook, it opened on the tale of Symeon Star-Eyes, the ancient warrior who had lost both his eyes in battle and replaced them with star sapphires. Even without his sight, he proved to be the finest warrior in all the realm. She smiled, for it was one of her favorite stories.

Alicent real aloud from the book, as Rhaenyra listened with rapt attention. Maegelle never looked up from her knitting, but her expressions showed that she also enjoyed the story. When Jaehaerys close his eyes partway through, Alicent felt disheartened. She was too embarrassed to not to finish, especially not with Rhaenyra silently urging her on, so she continued with the sad tale of the blind warrior who met a tragic end at the Nightfort.

“Thank you for that story Alicent,” Jaehaerys croaked, his eyes now opening. Alicent was started to hear him and now realized that he had been awake and listened the entire time. “You read very well for your age, and you have such a lovely voice.”

Alicent blushed bright pink with delight. She knew she would hold the compliment close to her heart for a long while afterward. “It was my honor to read to you, your Majesty.”

“Well then,” Maegelle set down her needles. “You girl ought to prepare for bed. It’s getting late.”

“Alright Aunt Septa,” Rhaenyra conceded. She kissed her great-grandfather on the cheek. “Goodbye Great-grandfather. I’ll see you again on the morrow.”

Jaehaerys smiled at her with glistening purple eyes. “Goodbye, my dear little girl. And take care, Lady Alicent. It warms this frail old heart to see how close you two are. True friends are hard to come by in this world, I fear.”

With that, Maegelle ushered the girls out of the room with a last “Goodnight.”

When she returned to her father’s bedside, his mood turned somber. “Daughter, will you have Viserys summoned?”

“Now? The hour grows late, Father. Can it not wait until morning?”

“No, I sense it must be now.”

Maegelle sighed deeply and complied with her father’s request. When Viserys appeared in the doorway, she whispered in his ear, “Do not dawdle. He needs his rest.” She retook her seat and her knitting, while Viserys greeted Jaehaerys and took the seat that Alicent had just vacated.

“You have need of me, Grandfather?” Viserys asked.

“Myself? No. I merely need to impress upon you the duty you owe to the realm and the cost of failing that duty.” Jaehaerys’ eyes were like two amethysts cutting directly in the prince.

Viserys stiffened, his eyes darting to his aunt. “Should she…” he trailed off.

“It makes no difference,” Jaehaerys replied. “Explain it to her fully at another time, if you think it prudent.” Maegelle looked up, realizing they were speaking of her, but did not interrupt. “I have made a great many mistakes during my reign, and oftentimes I did not realize it until the time to correct them had long past. It will be the same for you, as it was for my father and grandfather. We are only men.

I wonder now if my attempts to keep the realm united under a strong leader have done naught but divide it. I can feel the fractures, small and faint tonight, but ready to tear open once I am gone. I will never know for sure. I will not be there to repair them. That duty falls to you, my grandson.

Viserys, I know you doubt your abilities. You did not have the privilege to be trained for rule since your birth. But remember that I was once like you. I was my father’s youngest son; I never thought the crown would pass to me until Maegor the Cruel raised his iron hand to crush anyone who stood between him and the throne. Even now, if I could surrender my crown to see my brothers one last time, I would do so without hesitation.

But I cannot. The past is past, and there is naught that can change it. All that is left is the future, the threat that comes steadily marching for us all. The House of the Dragon must stand together to face what is to come. Keep your friends close and make friends where you have foes. Ensure that our line continues, to fulfil the Song. Above all, keep the realm united. I remember the rebellions that ignited when my father took the throne, each kingdom trying to break off. You must never allow that to happen again. Westeros must not be allowed to tear itself apart.

The future fast approaches and you must be ready to meet it.”

Then he stopped, eyes drooping and chest breathing heavily as his speech had drained him of strength. Maegelle froze in astonishment, struggling to make sense of her father’s words. She looked to her nephew, watching carefully for his reaction. Viserys sat there in stunned silence, his hand trembling. “When the time comes, I will be ready, Grandfather,” he vowed in a shaky voice.

Jaehaerys nodded faintly, then gently slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Chapter Text

"Father, Mother told me to call you down for dinner," Criston called as he entered the small office in which his father conducted his work. The room was well lit, with a dozen candles scattered here and there. Stacks of ledgers and reports occupied every available surface, and the air smelled strongly of parchment, ink, and smoke.

Erion Cole finished scratching out some report as he looked up at his son. "Is it so late already? I fear I have lost track of the hour." He set aside the parchment and quill and rose to join his son at the doorway. Erion's pale green eyes looked upon Criston warmly, but there was an anxious quality to his expression that he could not mask.

"Is aught amiss?" Criston asked as they descended the tower steps.

"I suppose you shall hear of it sooner or later," Erion sighed. "The Conciliator passed in his sleep not long ago, and now his grandson is king."

"He…died?" Criston gasped. King Jaehaerys had always seemed as much part of the world as the sky and trees. The boy had never known another king, nor had his father. What sort of man was Jaehaerys Targaryen's heir?

"All men die someday Criston, you are old enough to know this," Erion scolded lightly. "Dragons too. Balerion the Black Dread, the mount of our new king, died the same night. Can you imagine it? A dragon king without a dragon?"

"That sounds rather sad," Criston noted.

They reached the great hall and took their usual places above the salt, with the rest of their family. Criston's mother, Marita, sat with her other children. Criston, at four and ten, was the eldest. Magnus, the youngest, was still a babe at their mother's breast. Between them were Rosey, Nico, Honnah, the twins Arnord and Amselm, and Lissel. When Criston sat down beside his mother, Lissel hastily squirmed out Marita's lap onto his. Criston smiled and gave his baby sister a soft kiss on the cheek.

The Coles of Blackhaven clung to the lowest rung of nobility. As the youngest son of the Baronet of Bellpit Point, Erion had no land or fortune to call his own, and so took a position as the head steward of Blackhaven, in service to Maxim Dondarrion. Erion married the daughter of a commonborn knight for a respectable dowry, fathering five sons and three daughters upon her. Marita's family hailed from a large market town on the coast of the Sea of Dorne, which had changed hands between the Dondarrions and Wyls half a hundred times. From her, Criston had inherited his tawny complexion, deep brown eyes, and easy smile.

"Father, is there going to be a war?" Arnie asked curiously, his little legs swinging under the table.

"Old Bill said there would be because the king's dead," Ammie added, referring to the castle's master-at-arms.

Erion held back a frown. "Stop listening to Old Bill. He just likes to cause trouble."

"Let us pray to the Father and Maiden that King Viserys ascends the throne without conflict," Marita remarked calmly as the serving men began to place their meals before them.

The talk of war rang in Criston's ears for days afterwards. As was true for most young boys, the prospect of war excited him. Though the kingdom had faced a few short conflicts during the old king's reign, Westeros had been mostly peaceful since the death of Maegor the Cruel. The same could not be said of the Marches. Dornish raiding parties harassed the border with increasing audacity, and every few years the Marquis of Blackhaven had to send men to defend his lands or those of his neighbors.

One day, I'll be among them, Criston thought with anticipation. A chance to prove himself, to show that he was more than just the son of a humble steward and a common woman with Dornish blood.

And he had the skill at arms to make that hope a reality. Though still two years from manhood, Criston had made the training yard of Blackhaven his own little kingdom. No boy his own age could best him in sword, lance, or morningstar. Even a few of the grown men struggled against him in combat. The whole castle knew of his prowess and fearlessness. Even the marquis had paused on the upper walkway overlooking the yard to observe Criston's training more than once.

A moon after the old king's death, the marquis received a raven informing him that Princess Alyssa and Prince Daemon, mother and brother to the new king, would be stopping at Blackhaven for a sennight on a royal progress throughout the kingdom. Due to all the preparations required, Erion had no spare time for his family and Criston took time from his lessons to assist. On that scheduled day, Criston's heart flipped at the sight of two red dragons flying toward them and landing outside the castle.

The first to arrive was Meleys, a she-dragon with scarlet scales and pink membranes, accented with copper horns and claws. Criston was surprised and confused when her rider, Princess Alyssa, dismounted. There stood a tall, muscular woman wearing amour and a sword belted at her hip. She had a long, plain-looking face, with big ears and a nose that had clearly once been broken. Her braided hair was dirty blonde, her skin light brown. Apart from her unusual eyes, one violet and one green, she looked…common. Not at all how he imagined a Targaryen to look like, much less the king's mother.

Shortly afterward, her younger son joined them upon Caraxes. That dragon was a darker shade of red than his companion, with a slender body and elongated neck. The prince was a beautiful young man several years older than Criston, with long silver locs falling down his back and sly violet eyes. He looked exactly as Criston thought a Targaryen ought to. Taller than his mother, Daemon moved with the grace of a practiced warrior. Like the princess, he dressed in armor and carried a sword.

"Lord Maxim Dondarrion, Marquis of Blackhaven," Princess Alyssa greeted. "My son and I are grateful for your hospitality."

"Your honor us with your presence, your Highness," the marquis simpered. "Blackhaven shall always be at the crown's service."

The marquis entertained his royal guests lavishly, to Criston's discomfort. Though the Dondarrions were a wealthy house with sweeping tracts of lands, the frequent raids meant a large share of their earnings had to set aside for arms and fortifications. Should his purse begin to run slim, the marquis would have to raise taxes and fines to compensate. Suddenly Criston was grateful that the Targaryens were only staying a sennight.

The morning after the welcoming feast, both Targaryens arrived in the training yard before dawn to test their mettle against Blackhaven's men. "Word has it that you marchmen are the fiercest warriors in the realm," the prince announced. "Prove it."

Each morning Daemon sparred against the finest knights the castle had to offer. When he won, he was very smug. But when he lost, which was nearly as often, he took the defeat with good cheer and treated the victor to a drink. Sometimes Daemon would sit with Old Bill in the armory listening to tales of battle. The men warmed to him quickly and the boys gazed at him with wide-eyed admiration, Criston among them.

The princess, however, received a very different reception. The first morning, none of the men would dare strike her, a lady of royal blood. Instead, she settled for sparring with her son when he was not otherwise occupied. Her agitated demeanor told Criston that she was fully aware of the uncomfortable stares her armor and sword garnered. When this occurrence repeated twice, she stopped coming.

The morning before the Targaryens were set to leave, Daemon called out to Criston. "You, steward's boy. I've heard you're quite skilled for your age."

Criston, startled, answered back, "I-um-yes your Highness."

Daemon tossed him a blunted sword and walked to the center of the yard.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Criston felt nervous facing an opponent. The prince was not invincible, he knew from watching, but the nonchalance in his demeanor and the sharp confidence in his eyes still gave Criston pause. He steeled himself and took a stance opposite the prince.

Their swords hissed with each strike. Though Criston was tall and strong, Daemon exceeded him in both regards. Furthermore, the prince was fast. For each blow Criston dealt him, Daemon answered with two. They danced around each other for several minutes, until Daemon landed a harsh blow on Criston's left shoulder that knocked him in the ground, flat on his back.

"You lasted longer than I expected," Daemon praised as he extended a hand to his fallen opponent.

He was just testing me, Criston realized. His lungs burned from exertion, but he managed to get out a polite, "Thank you, your Highness," as Daemon lifted him to his feet. Criston shuffled to a bench on the margins to catch his breath, watching with a curious mix of pride and irritation as Daemon faced his next opponent.

Chapter Text

Daemon couldn’t wait to get out of Oldtown. The painted smiles and empty flatteries of the Hightowers had made his skin crawl. As he promised his brother, Daemon did his best to keep out of trouble despite his disdain for anything associated with Otto Hightower. Viserys’ reign stood on shaky ground with his dragon dead, so he along with their mother had to project strength on his behalf.

His mother, to his dismay, was charmed by Oldtown and House Hightower. During their fortnight in the city, Alyssa had gladly partaken a hunt hosted by Lord Hobert, prayed in the Starry Sept with Lady Lynesse, and visited her brother Archmaester Vaegon at the Citadel. She had even asked to explore the mysterious labyrinth that had been carved into the foundations of the Hightower, though their hosts denied her.

When at last the morning of their departure came, Daemon mounted Caraxes quickly and without fuss. The Hightowers had seen them off, along with Vaegon.

“I shall give Gael your regards,” Alyssa told Vaegon as she prepared to leave.

“She would be better served having some of my sense,” he replied bluntly.

Alyssa glared at him without much heat. By now she was well accustomed to her little brother’s acid tongue and well aware there was little should do to change it. With a parting smile to the Hightowers, Alyssa mounted Meleys and followed her son into the sky.

Oldtown looked beautiful high up in the clouds, to Alyssa’s view. The city encircled the mouth of the Mander, with buildings straddling both sides of the river as well as the islands of the Whispering Sound. The Hightower itself stood proudly upon Battle Isle, a tall white sword rising high above everything around it.

Alyssa and Daemon followed the Mander north to Highgarden, where another of the princess’ siblings resided. The castle rested on a large, broad hill beside the river where the oceanroad met the roseroad. Three massive white walls ringed the massive castle, with a briar maze between the outer and middle walls. Perhaps they will let me see this one, Alyssa thought. She and her son landed outside the castle.

Their escort brought them up to the castle on horseback to be greeted by her youngest sister and new goodbrother, the Duke of Highgarden. Gael carried her newborn babe in her arms. She looked thin and washed-out, and her eyes were ringed with dark circles. Matthos Tyrell stood beside his wife, but something about his smile felt off.

“Sweet sister,” Alyssa greeted, kissing Gael’s cheek. “Goodbrother. Thank you kindly for welcoming us into your home.”

“Highgarden is yours, your Highness.” Matthos replied. “My sister and my nephew.”

Daemon rolled his eyes and walked past the duke. “Gael,” he kissed his aunt on the forehead. “It’s so lovely to see again.”

“Hello Daemon, you look well.” Gael replied warmly. “This is my son, Edgard.”

Edgard Tyrell had the smooth, indistinct features all babes of that age did. His hair was brown, like his father’s, but tightly curled like his mother’s. He had many of Gael’s features, save the large brown eyes of the Tyrells.

“Hello cousin,” Daemon cooed.

“How fares our family?” Gael asked.

Daemon reported, “Your brothers and sister are still in mourning for Grandfather, in their own ways. Viserys is utterly devastated from the loss of Balerion, but Aemma and Valerion are comforting him. Rhaenys… gods know how she truly feels. And you, Gael? How are you taking it?”

Her answering smile was pained. “I am healing. At least I have my son for comfort.”

Matthos stepped in, “Nephew, why don’t you and your mother take a moment’s rest. You both must be tired from your flight.”

After a short nap in their new chambers, Alyssa and Daemon joined Gael and her family for a feast. The constant parties were beginning to wear at Daemon patience, especially when hosted by insufferable dolts like the Duke of Highgarden. Alyssa handled the feast with a great deal more ease, where she danced with several of Lord Tyrell’s cousins and bannermen. Throughout the progress, a few lords chanced to express interest in courting the princess. Though she was near the end of her childbearing years, she was the mother of a king. One glare from Daemon sent them scurrying.

Aside from frightening his mother’s would-be suitors, Daemon closely observed how his aunt interacted with her husband. Jaehaerys had wed them a little less than two years ago, to ensure his last child was taken care of before he died. Daemon found little affection between them, even a hint of resentment from Matthos toward Gael. As if he has any right to find fault in her, Daemon thought contemptuously.

Lord Tyrell held dominion over the entire Reach, of the most prosperous regions of the kingdom, but his pedigree left much to be desired. The Tyrells came to power only after Aegon the Conqueror burned their previous kings, the Gardners, and gave them Highgarden in return for their obeisance. Prior to that, the Tyrells were the hereditary stewards for House Gardner. His title of duke might make Matthos one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, but he ought to count himself fortunate that the late king had deemed him worthy of a Targaryen princess.

Shortly before noon the next day, after taking a little more time to observe Gael’s new life in Highgarden, Daemon strolled in the duke’s solar uninvited.

“Ah, Nephew,” Matthos was startled by the prince’s appearance, but adapted well. “I trust you enjoyed last night’s feast.”

“It wasn’t the worst I ever attended,” Daemon shrugged, barely masking his disdain. Matthos was seated at his desk, and Daemon draped himself on one of the nearby couches. Matthos’ jaw clenched at the casual disregard Daemon showed him. “Though, Gael seemed less satisfied even than I. Care to explain that?”

“She has no cause for complaint. I treat her well enough,” Matthos replied coolly.

Daemon stood up straight, his disdain turning to anger. “Well enough? Have you forgotten that you were honored with the hand of a princess?”

“Honored?” the duke’s face reddened. “House Tyrell has been a loyal vassal of House Targaryen for a century, and in return you paid us in false coin!”

“What false coin?” Daemon demanded.

Matthos' face turned ever redder. “You didn’t know? Gael came to me despoiled. Her body bore the marks of giving birth.”

“She has another child?” Daemon froze in astonishment.

“A bastard,” Matthos hissed. “She eventually confessed, after much questioning. I suppose your grandfather thought I ought to be satisfied with any Targaryen bride, even one that had been tainted by another man.”

The duke rose from his desk and began pacing furiously. Daemon, still coming to terms with the news, watched without moving. “I am not unaware of my family’s history. We were never kings, we never conquered anything. But that does not make us worthy of such shame, for me, a duke, to be asked to take another man’s leavings.”

“You would do well to remember that you are speaking of my aunt,” Daemon warned. “Who is as dear to me as a sister.”

Matthos sighed deeply, and he sank back in his chair. “You don’t understand the position I find myself in. You don’t feel the contempt my vassals hold for my house. Old families, with more distinguished histories. The Hightowers want my title, the Florents want my castle, a dozen lords and knights want my wife. They all believe they have a better claim to those things than I do, that I am merely the scion of upjumped stewards. If this were known, the humiliation would stain my house's legacy for generations to come.”

“What happened to the child?” Daemon asked. “How old is it?”

“It is a boy, four or five years old now, I believe. Gael told me that her mother ordered a servant to give him to a motherhouse in King’s Landing, claiming the mother had perished in childbirth and the father had no interest in him.”

Daemon felt a strange twisting sensation in his gut. Several years ago, Gael had gone to Dragonstone for half a year to recuperate from an illness, or so she claimed. “Who was the father?”

“A passing singer, she said. He abandoned her shortly before she learned of her condition.”

There are a hundred of those in King’s Landing, Daemon thought, assuming he is even still in the city. “Listen carefully,” Daemon drawled. “I shall make you a bargain. I will ensure that no one will ever know the truth of this child’s parentage and from this day forward, you will treat Gael with nothing less than complete reverence. If not,” he placed his hand on the pommel of Dark Sister, “I shall find her a husband who will.”

Chapter Text

As Yorkwyck’s Glory sailed into Blackwater Bay, Rhea kept her eyes to the sky watching out for her husband’s dragon. She guessed that he would return either to King’s Landing or Dragonstone after the stunt he pulled at Runestone, though knowing Daemon’s nature, he could have gone anywhere. Her veins filled with nervous energy as her ship sailed past the Dragon Isles, their jagged peaks standing starkly against the horizon. She noticed something flying nearly the tallest volcano. Its color and shape confirmed to her that it was Caraxes.

“M'lady, would you wish to change course for Dragonstone?” the captain asked her.

Rhea did not move her eyes from the striking red creature, “No, captain. We shall continue to King’s Landing as planned.” She had no desire to confront her husband just yet, though she was certain he had seen the bronze and black sigil of House Royce on her sails.

The only other person she’d find on Dragonstone was his uncle, Prince Gaemon, still hiding from court out of shame. Gaemon was a kind man, though unimpressive as far as Targaryens were concerned. Rhea only had so much patience for his bottomless self-pity.

When the ship at last docked, Rhea entrusted to the unloading of her belongings and placement of her household to her steward before going ahead on horseback with only two knights and a maidservant to attend her.  Rhea misliked cities, as a rule, and kept her days at court to a minimum. But because of the latest indignity her estranged husband had saddled her with, she had no choice but to beseech his brother for help.

King Viserys saw her in the privacy of his solar, for which she was grateful. When she entered the room, he rose from behind his desk and embraced her warmly. Rhea awkwardly hugged him back.

“What has happened for you to return to court so suddenly? Is Daemon well?”

“Goodbrother, Daemon is quite pleased with himself, but all is not well in our marriage.”

Viserys led her to a settee near the fireplace. “Well, what has he done now?”

Rhea took a deep breath to hold in her anger before the king. “Daemon brought his natural son to Runestone. He disgraced me in my father’s hall, before my vassals. Then he flew off into the night, abandoning me once more.”

“Daemon sired a son?” Viserys gaped. “When was this?”

“Only a fortnite past,” Rhea answered. “The child is five years old. He shamelessly flaunted how he broke our marriage vows and spat upon my honor for all to see. You must do something to reign him in.

We have been wed seven years, yet he refuses to consummate our marriage, denying Runestone an heir of my body. He ought to have defended and supported me in my labors, yet instead he scorns me and gives others leave to do so as well. I face enough adversity as a woman ruling in her own right without a feckless and unfaithful husband besmirthing my name. Compel him to repent for his misdeeds against me. Send him to Runestone to honor his duties as a husband.”

Viserys hesitated. “I…I need to hear Daemon’s side of things.”

His response annoyed Rhea. “What is there to hear? Has he given me a child to rule after me? Has he shown me the proper respect to which I am owed? Daemon has failed in every obligation and done so without discretion or shame.”

“If you are so miserable with him, why do you not seek a dissolution of your marriage?” Viserys asked. “With no consummation or heirs, it can be granted. I imagine you both will be better off for it.”

Rhea recoiled as though he had struck her, her face turning white. “Marriage must mean something different to you Valyrians, but to my people it is a sacred bond between man and wife than can only be undone by the gods themselves, when one or both have been taken from this world. As little as I like it, my soul is bound to his and will be until death parts us. I will not entertain such an insult, such sacrilege.”

She thought again of Prince Gaemon. He had failed to consummate his marriage to his older sister Viserra. After a year she accused him of impotence in open court and beseeched their father to dissolve their marriage. An examination from the grand maester confirmed her claims, and so her request was granted. Princess Viserra then remarried Tymond Lannister, the Duke of Casterly Rock. She bore him twin sons and a daughter who were celebrated and adored in the Westerlands as their duke’s dragon-blooded heirs. To many in the Vale, including Rhea herself, Gaemon remained Viserra’s true husband and her children by Tymond were regarded as glorified bastards.

Alarmed by the horror on his goodsister’s face, Viserys apologized. “Forgive me, I meant no offence. I am only concerned for your and my brother’s happiness.”

“If I may be honest, Goodbrother, as a king you ought to be more concerned with correcting his conduct,” Rhea said stiffly. “His behavior reflects poorly on you and yours.”

With a grimance, Viserys replied, “You have the right of it. What would you have me do with the child?”

“As you please. It matters little and less to me so long as he never sets foot in Runestone again,” Rhea answered.

The following morning, Daemon landed Caraxes at the Dragonpit, with his son in his arms and his brother’s summons in his pocket. His mother had came to greet him.

“Mother, meet your first grandson!” Daemon beamed, proundly placing his hand atop the head of a boy that clung to his leg. “His name is Vaeryn.”

Alyssa pursed her lips. He had her mother’s dimples, her father’s nose, and her husband’s smile. His white gold curls and indigo eyes bespoke his Valyrian heritage, and the sandy brown of his complexion had surely come from her Velaryon foremothers. But Alyssa knew he wasn’t truly her grandchild. She had helped her mother tend to Gael, her poor foolish little sister, during her secret pregnancy.

“Why did it take you so long to inform us that you had a child?” Alyssa asked, trying to keep her voice light.

“Am I not entitled to bit of privacy? I am a man grown.”

“Perhaps, but you will still be my son no matter how old you get.”

“He is old enough to leave the orphanage, so I took him.”

“His mother?” Alyssa pressed.

“Dead. No one important,” Daemon shrugged.

He is lying to me, Alyssa thought in dismay. He thinks I do not know.

She looked at the boy again and he shrank under her gaze. So much like Gael. Surely Daemon had learned the truth somehow, perhaps from Gael herself when they visited Highgarden a few moons ago. Was he protecting her or did he have some scheme in mind? Alyssa saw no benefit to opening that wound, so she merely sighed. “Hello Vaeryn. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Vaeryn timidly replied, “Hello my lady. I am honored to meet you.” He spoke in the bastardized form of Valyrian used by the common folk, shaped over the years by the Common Tongue, the local tongues of the Crownlands, and the trade talk of sailors. Westerosi Valyrian and High Valyrian were still near enough that they could understand each other’s meaning, albeit not every word.

Once the carriage brought them to the Red Keep, Alyssa took her nephew – her grandson now – by the hand. “I shall settle Vaeryn in while you speak to your brother. Your wife is here and I doubt she’ll be eager to see him.”

Daemon nodded. “As you wish, though I doubt we’ll be here long.”

“My dear,” Alyssa’s tone turned seriously. “I understand there is little love between you and Rhea and that pains me, but can you not at least attempt a reconciliation? Partnership, if not love? Surely you must know what benefits this marriage brings to our house. An alliance with one of the most powerful houses in the Vale, a title and keep to pass onto your trueborn children.”

“Children that would be Royces, not Targaryens,” Daemon sneered. “Subserviance to that bronze bitch, doing her bidding and chasing after her enemies like a dog. Grandmother made too many concessions on my behalf and I do not intend to make any more.”

“Your brother’s reign is not yet stable. The last thing he needs if for you to stir trouble.”

Daemon was stunned by her chastisement. He had always been close to his mother and she was often the first to forgive his long list of offensives. Did she now favor Viserys simply because he had been crowned?

“In that case, I ought not to keep the king waiting,” Daemon replied coolly. He turned abruptly and marched out, leaving Alyssa wondering why her words had upset him so much.

Daemon has always been temperamental, Alyssa thought with resignation. Vaeryn looked surprised and confused, even a little scared. His new father had left him with a stranger in a strange place. “Worry not sweetling,” Alyssa cooed as she took him into her arms. “Give him a little time and he’ll back, same as always.”

Chapter Text

Aemma always found peace in the sept. The familiar scent of burning candles, their flames flickering against the polished limestone walls. The thick woolen rugs cushioning her knees as she knelt to pray. The gentle flood of whispered prayers from the other worshipers around her. Her daughter by her side, her ladies-in-waiting attending her, and her white knight, Valerion, standing behind her to keep her safe.

Rhaenyra knelt to her right; her eyes focused on the hundreds of tiny flames resting on the altar. Aemma pushed back a loose curl from her daughter’s brow, looking down at her fondly. Rhaenyra was growing up quickly, but she was still so young, only seven years old. Her little princess did not yet appreciate the power of the gods. She and Alicent had to be kept separate during morning prayers, otherwise they would whisper and giggle to each other for the entire hour. When she is older, she will understand, Aemma thought to herself.

On her left knelt Jesma and further along was Alicent. Lady Jesma was a Redwyne by birth and the niece of Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. A handsome woman of two and thirty, she had the orange curls of her house, lighter and more vivid than her daughter’s auburn locks.

“How good to spend a morning in congress with the gods!” Jesma said merrily after Aemma had been silent a long while. “I feel ready for the day’s labors. And you, your Majesty?”

“I am well, thank you,” Aemma replied with a slight smile.

The queen turned her eyes from her lady-in-waiting to the holy statue of the godly aspect they worshipped. Aemma knew her as the Lady, though others called her the Mother, the Wife, the Nurse, or the Nurturer.  Northmen called her the Magdis and Ironmen called her the Rock Wife. Whatever name she took, she was the fount of mercy and love. She blessed families with sons and daughters, brought peace to the home, and protected women and children.

The statue had been craved of marble in the likeness of her ancestress, Queen Rhaenys. When King Aenys had raised the royal sept decades ago, he commissioned statues of the Seven Who Are One with the faces of those he had loved best. The Lady had the face of his mother and the Lord his father, Aegon the Conqueror. The Maiden was his eldest daughter Rhaena and the Smith was his loyal advisor, Grand Maester Gawen.

Aenys had made the Warrior as his younger half-brother Maegor and the Crone as his aunt and stepmother Queen Visenya, unaware that they both would betray him after his death. Maegor, with the aid and encouragement of his mother, seized the throne from his brother’s sons, killing the two eldest in the following war. After Maegor’s death, his only surviving nephew ascended the throne. Jaehaerys refused to pray to statues with the faces of his brothers’ murderers, so he had them replaced. The Crone was now his own mother, Alyssa Velaryon, and the Warrior was his eldest brother, Aegon the Uncrowned.

I beg you to deliver upon me a son, Aemma prayed, even just one. A strong, healthy son to take his father’s throne. A son who will honor me as Aenys honored Rhaenys and Jaehaerys honored Alyssa.

Her grandfather’s words still rung in her ears. Try as he might have to soften them, they hit her like bricks. To accept such disgrace would destroy her, to sully the sanctity of marriage would condemn her, but if she failed in her duty as a wife, perhaps she deserved it.

The hour of worship drew to a close. Valerion extended his hand to help Aemma to her feet. She found comfort in the feel of his hands in hers, strong and solid and calloused from years of practice. Hands that could protect her.

As Aemma and her party left the altar of the Lady, Jesma fondly recounted a story from her girlhood of the time her sisters had lost her in the woods on a pilgrimage to the First Sept. Maegelle, who had been praying at the altar of the Crone, joined them.

“Are you well, Niece?” Maegelle asked after the typical greetings, placing her hand atop Aemma’s.

The question was beginning to wear on Aemma, but she only said, “As well as I can be. When I am recovered, my lord husband and I shall try again. Do you perchance know where he might be? I did not see him during morning prayers.”

“He is still attempting to negotiate terms between Prince Daemon and the Countess of Runestone,” Maegelle answered in a disapproving tone.

“I see,” Aemma sighed. “Lady Jesma, kindly take the princess along with your daughter to the schoolroom for their lessons.”

“It would be my pleasure, your Majesty,” Jesma curtsied.

Aemma kissed Rhaenyra on the brow. “I shall see you shortly, sweetling.”

“Alright Mother,” Rhaenyra replied. “Goodbye Aunt Septa and Uncle Val.”

Aemma and Valerion stepped out of the royal sept and crossed the bailey to Maegor’s Holdfast. A cold wind blew strongly against her, mussing her hair. Her uncle pulled her closer, tucking her into his white cloak for warmth.

“The Citadel will send a white raven to mark the coming of winter before long,” she mused. The past autumn and summer had each lasted only two years, and she hoped this winter would be similarly brief.

“Doubtless,” Valerion agreed.

Once inside Maegor’s Holdfast, the queen requested entrance to the king’s solar and was granted it.

“Please come in with me,” Aemma requested of Valerion. He obliged her.

There, Rhea sat brooding by the fire and Daemon started angrily out of a window. Viserys sat on a settee looking anxiously between them both. None looked as though they had slept the night before. When they noticed her and her knight, Viserys rose from his seat and warmly greeted them.

“I have just come from morning prayers. Is aught amiss?” Aemma asking, hoping they had reached some agreement by now.

“Ah, you needn’t worry about our impasse,” Viserys replied awkwardly.

“Mayhaps, but I am glad to be of service if my abilities suffice,” Aemma said, taking her husband’s soft hands in hers. “Please, tell me what troubles you.”

They did, though Daemon and Rhea both sneered at each other as they recounted their complaints. Viserys did not have much to add, except to remind his brother and goodsister to be civil. Aemma already knew of the problem, for Daemon and Rhea’s mutual antipathy went back to the very beginning of their marriage, but she was glad to know the particulars of this latest spat. She had met Daemon’s natural son only once before, for though he had been living the Red Keep for the past three days, his timidity was such that he kept from view as often as possible.

“Might I make a few humble suggestions to resolve your dispute?” Aemma began. “The purpose of your marriage is to bind House Targaryen and House Royce; however, this alliance ill serves its purpose if you both despite each other. I cannot in good conscious suggest a dissolution of your marriage, for to do so would go against the will of the gods, but I believe it would be beneficial for you to live apart from this day forward.”

Rhea and Daemon both grimaced.

“My love,” Aemma said to Viserys, “Did you not say that Lord Buckwell was getting too old to perform his duties as Master of Laws? I think it prudent to let the man rest and give his position to Daemon. Your court is sorely in need of his youthful vigor.”

Daemon’s eyes glittered as he looked to Viserys, “Truly?”

He would seize the chance to serve at his brother’s side, like their father had for Uncle Aemon. A seat on the small council would grant him the power to safeguard Viserys and the interests of their house. The King’s Hand might hold a higher position, but as Master of Laws Daemon would have a greater opportunity to chip at Ser Otto’s influence. And besides, it was time past time someone recognized his talents.

Viserys, merely glad that his wife was taking the problem in hand, smiled in relief. “Indeed. That is a splendid idea. Who can I trust more than my own brother?”

Aemma did not forget Rhea, who was scowling. “Rhea, you are a treasured part of our family. As the wife of a prince, you ought to be known as a princess and treated as such. Husband, I request that you grant our goodsister the courtesy title Princess of Runestone for the extent of her natural life, after which her heir shall be a count or countess as custom. She may even name a Kingsguard as her sworn sword, any of her choosing, save the Lord Commander.”

Rhea considered this. Aemma’s terms would be better than having Daemon around, befouling her life. A courtesy title did not come with formal power, but the prestige behind it would send a clear message that she was favored by the crown. A Kingsguard of her own would protect and support her as Daemon should have and would do so with more honor and chivalry than her husband was capable of. The awe and respect afforded to the white knights could stay the hands of those would seek to trample her.

“Your suggestions entice me, I must confess, but what am I do for heirs?” Rhea asked.

Daemon’s relaxed demeanor tightened; his eyes turned sharply to Aemma.

“Whether you and Daemon have a child of your shared blood is a matter between you and the gods. Otherwise, your younger sister Lady Tessra inherits after you, correct? If you are willing, your eldest nephew shall come to King’s Landing after his twelfth nameday to squire for my husband. Your eldest niece shall accompany him to court and serve as a lady-in-waiting for my daughter. If your sister or her issue inherits Runestone from you rather than your own issue, they shall take the name Royce and the crown shall pay one part of three of their inheritance tax. Do these terms satisfy you, my dear Goodsister?”

“They do,” Rhea nodded. “Your wisdom is a credit to Lord Rodrik, gods rest his soul.”

Aemma smiled at those words, her softening at the mention of late father. She caught Valerion’s glance, noting how impressed he seemed with her. Perhaps she was not incapable of fulfilling her role as a wife. She could aid her husband and bring harmony to her family. Still, she thought to herself, when will I have done enough to prove myself worthy of a son?

Chapter Text

“It’s so pretty,” Alicent cooed as she fed a bit of a bloody meat to the white raven. The bird had arrived from Oldtown only hours early and beads of morning mist still clung to its snowy wings.

Rhaenyra gently ran a finger down its tail, “Your Excellence, why does the Citadel send white ravens when the seasons turn? Why not a normal raven?”

“It’s tradition,” Grand Maester Runciter answered with a smile. He was a big man, nearly six feet tall and heavyset. His fingers were swift and nimble, and his eyes were as sharp as needles despite being nine and seventy years of age. “White ravens are cleverer than other birds and their presence is a sign of good fortune, of long summers and short winters.”

“Do you think we’ll get snow this winter?” Rhaenyra asked. “I think that would be lovely. My lady mother says the Mountains of the Moon are always topped with snow, even in the hottest summers.”

“We might, though trust me girls, it is better we don’t.” Runciter finished his formal report on the climate and looked up from his desk to face his young guests, folding his ink-stained hands over his large, sagging stomach. “I hazard to guess you will not enjoy winter, my princess. You were born in the spring and weaned in the summer. All you’ve known is sunshine and prosperity. Winter is the time of icy wind, lean bellies, and quiet contemplation. Do you understand me, sweet child?”

“Not really,” Rhaenyra admitted bluntly.

Runciter laughed softly. “Honesty becomes you, princess.” He called for one of his junior maesters and tasked the young man with sending his report to the Citadel. “Times will change. You and Lady Alicent ought to enjoy the outdoors while you still have the chance.”

At those words, Rhaenyra looked out of the window to see a silver-gray shape gliding through the air. Laenor had taken flight on his dragon Seasmoke for the first time a sennight ago and now he could hardly keep off him. An idea came to Rhaenyra, and she smiled. “I think we shall. Good day, your Excellence.”

She pulled Alicent out of the room, who repeated “Good day, your Excellence” without knowing what her friend had planned.

Ser Harrold stood on the other side of the door, awaiting his charge. “Has the grand maester satisfied your curiosity?”

“He has indeed,” Rhaenyra replied brightly. “I shall like to go to the Dragonpit now.”

“Did you not visit Syrax only yesterday?” Ser Harrold asked.

“I did, but she gets terribly lonely without me. Besides, I wish to speak to my cousin Laenor, and he is currently flying above the city. Soon he will return to the Pit the stable Seasmoke.”

Seeing no objection to the princess’s request, Ser Harrold sent a messenger to inform the king, queen, and hand of their daughters’ whereabouts and escorted her and her friend to the desire location.

King’s Landing encompassed three tall hills, each named for one of the conquerors. The Red Keep sat atop the tallest of them, Aegon’s Hill, overlooking Blackwater Bay. Rhaenys’ Hill and Visenya’s Hill lay further inland connected by the Street of the Sisters, the former hosting the Sept of Remembrance and the later hosting the Dragonpit. Princess Rhaenyra’s carriage started down the King’s Way and turned on the Street of the Sisters, careful to avoid the worst of the city’s slums.

The Dragonpit was the largest building the city and one of the largest in all of Westeros. Created to stable the mighty dragons of House Targaryen, the complex sprawled the upper portions of Visenya’s Hill and continued for several levels underneath the earth. It had massive bronze doors through which the dragons could enter and exit and a stunning dome of colored glass that flooded the interiors with light.

While the older dragons preferred the lower portion of the Pit, the eggs and younger dragons stayed on the top levels. Only four adult dragons currently called the Pit home: Grandmother’s Meleys, Uncle Daemon’s Caraxes, Aunt Rhaenys’ Dreamfyre, and Uncle Valerion’s Nahevor. However, there were several younger dragons under the care of the dragonkeepers. Rhaenyra watched with amusement as a vivid turquoise drake and a modest gray-green drake hissed at each other over a leg of lamb. Alicent shrieked and fell over when a tiny amber hatchling with burgundy crests and horns flew past her, close enough to muss her hair. Rhaenyra paused to help her friend to her feet.

The dragonkeepers brought forth Rhaenyra’s beloved mount, Syrax, named for a Valyrian goddess. Rhaenyra’s departed grandfather Baelon the Brave had placed Syrax’s egg in her cradle when she was born, and it hatched for her after half a year. Syrax had orange eyes and dandelion yellow scales covering a long, lean body that had been built for speed. Her horns and crests were tawny, and the membranes between her wingbones were a pale cream color.

“Syrax, come to me,” Rhaenyra commanded in High Valyrian. As the dragon approached, Alicent scurried back in fear. “She won’t hurt you,” Rhaenyra assured her.

“I’d rather be here,” Alicent squeaked.

Rhaenyra pressed herself against Syrax’s body, lavishing in her warmth. “Have you been good, my sweet girl? Of course, you have. You’re the best dragon in the world.”

Syrax stretched and spread her wings, gently fanning Rhaenyra.

The set of bronze opens slowly opened, which Laenor was near to completing his flight. Rhaenyra grinned, her body brimming with anticipation. When the gates opened fully, the wild blue sky beaconed. Laenor landed Seasmoke just outside the door, with his younger sister Laena strapped behind him. Several of the dragonkeepers went off to attend them.

“Kneel,” Rhaenyra commanded Syrax in High Valyrian, and the dragon obeyed.

“What are you doing?” Alicent asked.

Rhaenyra quickly scrambled onto Syrax bareback and shouted, “Fly!”

Her cry alerted the dragonkeepers to her plan, but they were too late to stop her. Gripping tightly on the bony protrusions in her dragon’s crests, Rhaenyra laughed in exhilaration as Syrax took to the sky. She and her dragon looped high around the Pit, Syrax’s wings gliding through the afternoon air with ease. Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight of the city on dragonback. The early winter wind early sliced straight through her coat, but she was too enraptured to care.

Below her lay the narrow, crooked lanes of Flea Bottom and the brightly painted brothels of the Street of Silk, the massive walls surrounding the city, with the Old Gate and the Dragon Gate protruding from them. The Red Keep looked spectacular from this height, with its towering walls of crimson limestone and copper roofs shining in the sun. Beyond, the Sept of Remembrance glittered from atop Rhaenys’ Hill, adorned with a glass dome and seven towers. She could see the Blackwater Rush cutting through the city like a dark ribbon before emptying into Blackwater Bay, each side lined with docks and boats and a rainbow of sails fluttering in the breeze.

Rhaenyra soared above the city until she noticed Syrax beginning to tire. After landing through the same door that they had left from, Rhaenyra slid down from her back. She pressed kisses and words of love all over Syrax’s face. As the dragonkeepers led both dragons away, Seasmoke nuzzled his snout against Syrax’s neck and back in a show of affection.

“You should not have done that,” Alicent said disapprovingly.

Ser Harrold moved forward to inspect the princess for injuries and found shallow cuts all over her hands and legs where they had rubbed against the dragon’s scales. “Had Syrax been an older dragon with tougher scales, you would be bleeding all over,” he scolded. “Was this your plan all along?”

“Do not be overly harsh, Ser Harrold,” Laenor said lightly. “The princess only did as was natural for her. She is the blood of the dragon, after all. Only seven years old and already the youngest dragonrider among us. I am proud of you, Nyra.”

Rhaenyra beamed up at him. “Your praise means much to me, Laenor.”

Only a few moons shy of twelve, Laenor stood nearly as tall as most men grown and proved to be strong for his age. The greybeards of court would say he bore a striking resemblance to King Jaehaerys in his youth. Laena, two years her brother’s junior, shared those features, but that was where their resemblance stopped. While he had the brown eyes of their father and the black hair of their mother, Laena had the lilac eyes of their mother and the silvery hair of their father.

Laena looked longingly at Syrax. “You are fortunate, Cousin, to have bonded to such a creature.”

“You could claim a dragon too,” Rhaenyra suggested. “You have much Targaryen blood as your brother.”

Harrold corrected her, “It is for the king to decide whether Lady Laena may be permitted to claim a dragon.”

“Indeed,” Laena said stiffly. “Enough of my concerns. It is past time we returned to the castle. You, dear cousin, have much to explain to your father and mother.”

Chapter Text

Gaemon rode through the iron and bronze doors of the Red Keep with trepidation and sped off to his usual chambers in the Astrology Tower, hoping that he could avoid anyone until he’d had the time to take a breath. He dismissed the maidservants inside. After stripping off his coat and boots, he settled into a chair beside the fire.

Head tilted back against the chair, snow melting in his honey blond hair, Gaemon let his exhaustion seep into his bones as the flames warmed him. Others take Viserys, he thought to himself. His nephew had insisted on having the entire family winter with him in King’s Landing. Despite Dragonstone being a short boat ride away, Gaemon had put off coming as long as he could. Viserys may be a patient man, but he would not tolerate outright disobedience.

An hour later Gaemon’s eyes fluttered opened. He straightened in his chair, stretching his stiff limps. Outside, the sun had begun to set, the golden-orange light slowly fading from the room. Gaemon rose and called a maidservant to inform him if supper was ready. After receiving confirmation that it was, he quickly cleaned himself and made his way down to the great hall. He greeted his family with as much grace as he could muster. Viserys hugged him close, saying “It is good to have you back Gaemon.”

Unfortunately, Gaemon’s station demanded that he sit on the raised dias in the front of the hall, where the remaining courtiers could stare at him and laugh over his every move. He sat next to his grandniece Rhaenyra, who spoke endlessly about her dragon Syrax. She eagerly showed off the faint scars on her hands from riding Syrax bareback and giggled recalling how shocked her parents had been to see them. Rhaenyra had a lively temperament, one better taken in small doses.

Viserra and her children sat on the other side of the table, and Gaemon tried his best to avoid them. All these years later her rejection still stung as sharp as a needle. The gods were merciful to keep her husband at Casterly Rock overseeing the end of the harvest and the wellbeing of his people. Gaemon could not make it through the winter, however long it lasted, listening to more of Tymond’s cruel japes. Still, he felt greensick looking at the three beautiful children Viserra had borne, children that he had failed to give her. Jason, Tyland, and Marlessa, each as golden haired and green eyed as their sot of a father.

Daella had come down from her mountain with several members of the Vale’s nobility, chief among them her stepdaughters, Ladies Elys Melcolm and Amanda Corbray. Gael brought her son Edgard and her infant daughter Alys from the comforts of Highgarden, surrounded by her husband’s kinsmen. Even Vaegon was not exempt, having traveled with their youngest sister and her babes, no doubt a miserable experience for all involved.

Alyssa and Maegelle kept at court to advise Viserys, Valerion served on his Kingsguard, and Daemon had recently been made his Master of Laws. Rhaenys lived in the city only because her husband had been named Master of Ships, a paltry apology for the dismissal of her claim. She would rather be on Driftmark, he knew, just as he would rather be on Dragonstone. Instead, he had been forced to answer his nephew’s summons and left charge of the island to his castellan Maenor Qoherys until spring.

With more than half the court wintering in their own lands, King’s Landing was almost bearable. Viserra was gracious enough to avoid his company whenever possible, and her precious little lion cubs followed suit. His other kinsmen engaged with him from time to time, though only Rhaenyra ever sought out his company. A bright and curious child, she seemed determined to solve the mystery than was her elusive granduncle.

It half relieved, half pained Gaemon that his family knew to keep their distance, lest they unwittingly stir up one of his foul moods. Deprived of his preferred distractions on Dragonstone, Gaemon contented himself with perusing the royal library. A handful of times he would find the king present and they would discuss their respective findings.

Being born when his mother had seen seven and thirty namedays, Gaemon was closer in age to his nephews and nieces than his eldest siblings. He was only four years older than Viserys. For the first few years of Viserys’ life, Gaemon had been more of an older brother than an uncle. Then Alyssa gave birth to Daemon. Once Viserys had a true brother, Gaemon fell to the wayside.

That is where I have always been, Gaemon lamented as he sat in the library, watching Viserys read an ancient tome of Valyrian history, his own book pulled over his face but ignored. On the wayside. The fourth son in a family with a surfeit of heirs. Not as dutiful as Aemon, nor as bold as Balon, nor as intelligent as Vaegon, nor as chivalrous as Valerion. Half a man, unable to satisfy a woman or sire children. A prince of dragon blood who had failed to bond with any dragon. Outdone even by a little girl. What place was there for him but Dragonstone, to keep the heirlooms and artifacts from collecting dust as his siblings and their offspring brought glory to their name?

“You’re brooding again,” Viserys noted, pulling Gaemon from his morose thoughts.

“Aren’t I always?” Gaemon countered dryly.

Viserys hesitated for a long while before asking, “Did you read much on Dragonstone? The ancient texts? Perhaps…those concerned with prophecy?”

“When I had time,” Gaemon replied, setting down his book. “I confess, I had more interest in tales of battle than in prophecy.”

“Do you believe in it?”

“Prophecy? We are here, are we not?” Gaemon shrugged. “If not for Daenys’ warning, our forebears would have perished in the Doom with the other dragonlords. Since when has she been a favorite of yours?”

“Not her,” Viserys confessed quietly. “Aegon the Conqueror.”

“The Conqueror didn’t have visions,” Gaemon frowned.

“He had a vision,” Viserys explained, “One that he passed down to his sons, then his grandsons, then to me.”

Gaemon listened as Viserys revealed the secret the old king had told him years ago, after he was chosen by the great council. “Who else knows of this?”

“My mother and Aunt Maegelle,” Viserys replied. “I rely heavily on their counsel, so I thought it best to tell them.”

“Then why tell me? I doubt I can be of much use to you,” Gaemon frowned.

“Gaemon, you sell yourself short,” Viserys moved closer to him. “You have done a fine job of administering Dragonstone in my stead and keeping its contents in good condition.”

“I’ve been hiding on Dragonstone,” Gaemon hissed, abruptly standing up. “Do not pretend that I fulfil some greater purpose than that.”

“Then permit me to grant you one,” Viserys responded. “My duties as king do not allow me the time to research what threat we face, or to study the nature of Aegon’s dream. I wish to entrust that task to you.”

Gaemon felt the urge to refuse, but the genuine expectation in his nephew’s eyes stopped him short. He could not remember the last time he’d been trusted with anything. After taking some time to think about it, Gaemon answered that he would.

With his new duties laid out to him, Gaemon began with the writings of his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror. The first dragon king had written nothing of this dream, nor any other dreams he might have had. In fact, Aegon’s writings were brief and straightforward messages, observations, and commands, all concerned with the practical matters of taking and ruling his realm. To Gaemon, Aegon did not seem like the sort of man to take interest in anything he could not see, hear, or touch.

When that well dried up, Gaemon turned to the most famous of their family’s seers, Daenys the Dreamer. She had written a massive tome of her visions titled Signs and Portents. The original rested on Dragonstone under careful supervision, but the royal library kept a copy. Gaemon spent weeks pouring over it, taking notes on each vision and trying to decipher their meaning. To his dismay, Daenys’ work seemed like the scrawling of a madwoman. White shadows dancing among the trees, a crow with three eyes flying above a white wooden throne, fiery wolves swimming in a green sea. Nonsense. Eventually the words ran together, and Gaemon put the book away in frustration.

He truly was useless.

But he could not bring himself to quit. Viserys had trusted him, and deep down he wanted to be worthy of that trust. If the threat was to come from the North, perhaps he ought to learn more about those lands. There was not much, mostly documents concerning law and trade, a few history books on the Kings of Winter, and a collection of folk tales for children. He learned a great deal about the importance of White Harbor’s wool exports and Walton Stark’s use of calvary, but he doubted it would be of much interest to his nephew.

Then one afternoon, Rhaenyra skipped into the library, with the Hand’s daughter in tow, just as he was about to skim through the book of northern folk tales. “Hello Uncle Gaemon. What are you reading?”

“Just some stories from the North,” Gaemon admitted.

“May we listen?” Without waiting for an answer, Rhaenyra perched herself on the chair next to his and waited expectantly, her amethyst eyes warm and eager. Gaemon could not hold back a smile. The princess was too bold for one of her sex and station, but her sweetness and charm endeared her to everyone regardless.

“Very well,” Gaemon agreed.

The other girl, Lady Alicent he remembered, took a seat next to the princess.

He read for them the folklore of the North, tales of the kings and wildlings, skinchangers and woods-witches, children of the forest and giants beyond the Wall. The stories were older than his family’s dynasty, some claiming to have been set to pen during the dawn of days. As he read, Gaemon felt more uneasy as some of the passages felt familiar, though he had never read this book before. Where had he read them? There was something he had missed.

The sun had begun to set when Queen Aemma entered the library seeking her daughter. She smiled softly when she saw Rhaenyra and Alicent slumped in their seats, contently listening to Gaemon as he finished the tale of Gaven Greywolf and his battle with the King of Winter.

“Thank you, Uncle, for keeping the girls entertained,” Aemma said, kissing him softly on the forehead.

“I could hardly refuse as request from my princess,” Gaemon replied.

“Well, it is nearly time for dinner,” Aemma stated. “Girls, come with me to wash up. Gaemon, will you be joining us?”

“I’m afraid I have other matters that require my attention. I shall take my meal here in the library.”

Aemma was confused but decided not to press the matter. She and the girls bid him goodbye.

Gaemon ate a quick supper of beef stew and hot bread, before pouring himself into his research once more. He opened the book of folk tales and took note of what had felt familiar to him. Then he compared them with the notes he had taken previously. He found several instances where the wording of the folk tales resembled some of the ramblings in Daenys’ book.

It was a small, thin thread, not proof of anything, but it was the first true lead he’d found thus far.

Chapter Text

Viserra emerged from her pavilion, bracing herself as a cool breeze fluttered past her. She breathed in the forest air, sweet and clean. Above, the sky stretched blue and clear like the expanse of some great sea. Though it was still winter, the weather had been lovely for the past fortnight, and the court chose to take advantage of it while it lasted.

Marlessa emerged from the pavilion after her, eyes bright and alert. “Mother, may I seek out Lady Romilda Staedmon? She offered to show me the different flowers that grow in the kingswood.”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. You need forge a closer bond to your cousin Rhaenyra while we are still here.”

“But Mother, she’s a child,” Marlessa complained.

“She is only two years your junior,” Viserra rebuked softly. “You should be as a sister to her.”

“I believe she is quite content with Alicent Hightower in that role.”

Viserra replied sternly. “Sweetling, I will suffer no argument from you. Go to the princess.”

“Yes Mother,” Marlessa acquiesced. She pulled her coat tighter around her and went off toward the royal pavilion. Rhaenyra stood in the doorway of the pavilion laughing with her friends and her other cousins. She greeted Marlessa with a hug and allowed her into the group.

Satisfied, Viserya walked over to a firepit where several of the other ladies warmed themselves up.

Jesma greeted her brightly, “A fine morning, my lady of Lannister. We were wondering when you would grace us with your presence.”

“A fine morning indeed, Lady Jesma,” Viserra greeted back. “Might I inquire as to the progress of the hunt?”

“The scouts spotted a herd of red deer near Kent’s Valley just before dawn, and the hunters have given chase. Your boys are among them.”

“What welcome news,” Viserra remarked as she seated herself beside Gael, who shared her red lambswool blanket.

Across from them, Aemma leaned beside Amanda, both draped in a blue blanket. If not for Aemma’s darker skin, one would not be able to tell they were only half-sisters. They both had petite frames, their facial features were much the same, and at a distance Aemma’s silver-gold hair and indigo eyes were not too dissimilar from Amanda’s sandy blonde hair and deep blue eyes.

“Especially for my lady stepmother,” Amanda laughed lightly. “She despises hunting but adores venison.”

“The day has dawned so splendidly,” Aemma noted. “I dare to believe that spring shall arrive before the year is out.”

“You are too optimistic, your Majesty. There are warm spells every winter,” Gael’s goodsister Yvetta Crane scoffed.

“Would you wager that?” Aemma asked with a twinkle in her eyes. Yvetta replied that she would, and they spent a quarter of an hour debating the terms of their wager.

Two hours past noon the hunters returned triumphant, nearly the entire herd had been taken. Alyssa and Daemon had each taken five hinds, and the Hightower brothers had several fawns. But the man of the hour was Jason, who had felled the stag leading the herd, a massive beast that appeared to weigh at least thirty-five stone.

Viserra walked through the crowd to embrace her son. “I’m so proud of you,” she said earnestly, holding his face in her hands. She could barely hear herself above the triumphant barking of Prince Daemon’s prized staghounds.

“You ought to be,” Viserys came up to them and slapped Jason on the shoulder. “He is a worthy hunter and gifted with a lance.”

The hunting party returned to the Red Keep in high spirits, especially Viserra. With their larders replenished, they could afford to feast modestly that night. Marlessa eagerly listened to Jason’s tale of taking down the great stag, while Tyland moped that nobody seemed impressed that he had taken three hinds himself. To appease him, Marlessa requested gloves from the skin of one of his hinds.

Viserra waited a few days before she invited Viserys for tea. Her nephew arrived in good spirits, until she made clear the purpose of the invitation.

“I have it on good word that at least three young dragons are expected to survive the winter,” Viserra began, taking a sip of her tea.

Viserys’ smile stiffened. “The dragonkeepers do their best, but that is for the gods to decide. It’s curious, isn’t it, that even the most powerful beasts are so fragile when they are young?”

“It was such a shame that my children never received dragon eggs for their cradles,” Viserra continued. “My husband would have spared no expense for their care.”

“Viserra, we’ve been over this,” Viserys warned. “Dragons ought to remain within House Targaryen.”

“Do not my children have Targaryen blood?” Viserra glowered. “Do not I?”

“Indeed, but their name is Lannister, and their loyalty belongs to Casterly Rock, as does yours.”

“I fail to see how that is a concern. Surely you do not suspect your own family of intending to act against you.”

Viserys finished the last of his tea, contemplating his response. “I have no doubt of your loyalty. Rather, I am concerned about the potential conflict that dragons might cause among us. Grandfather once told me that too many dragons were as dangerous as too few.”

“Father was wise, not infallible,” Viserra scoffed. “He permitted Rhaenys to keep an egg for her son, and now the Velaryons have Seasmoke as well as Dreamfyre. Why should Laenor be the exception?”

“That is true,” Viserys admitted, shifting in his seat. “But only because Uncle Aemon wanted it for his first grandchild. Grandfather could not bear to rescind the last wish of his firstborn son; for all he was a king, he was a father foremost. Had he lived…” Viserys did not finish the thought.

Aemon had no sons, but he had made it clear that he expected his daughter to rule after him, and her issue after her. The decision to name Baelon as Jaehaerys’ heir over Rhaenys had come with much controversy. Some lords believed that any male claimant ought to come before any female claimant, but there were others who balked at the idea of their younger brothers supplanting their own bloodlines, even if that bloodline flowed through a daughter. Viserys knew deep down that his late uncle would have despaired to see him seated on the Iron Throne, and the thought of it twisted his guts into knots.

“And in any case, Grandfather forbade Rhaenys from taking an egg for her second child because one dragon outside House Targaryen’s preview was one already one too many.”

“Do you have any considerations of your own, Nephew, or are you content to spend your entire reign walking in my father’s footprints?” Viserra replied contemptuously. Viserys flinched, and she twisted the knife. “With dragons, my children and I would only support and strengthen your reign. Why would you rather weaken our house? Dreamfyre and Seasmoke together would take down Caraxes and Syrax is no match for either of them. If even Rhaenys is not inclined to use her dragons against you, who will? Why are you determined to believe the worst of us? When your daughter comes of age and has children of her own, will you deny them as well?”

Her questions overwhelmed him. It took a moment for the king to get his bearings. “I cannot hand out dragon eggs to the whole realm,” he cried.

“No one is asking you to,” Viserra countered. “I merely want to give me and my children our birthright. It is not for you to deny us of the dragon blood a chance to bond with dragons.”

“If a dragon chooses a rider, that is out of my hands, but I am king and I have every right to whether a child receives a dragon egg.”

Viserra knew that now she couldn’t push her nephew any further. “Alright. It is as you say.” Viserys leaned back in his seat, flustered. She placed her hand over his and continued, “I wish for no conflict between us, Nephew.”

He nodded, his breathing becoming steady. “I understand. The dragon blood runs hot in you, and you wish only the best for our family.”

“Always,” Viserra promised. “Distribute the dragon eggs as you please and allow the dragons to decide.”

Chapter Text

Dusk had fallen by the time Viserys had finished his duties for the day. The Citadel had sent a white dove early that morning, signaling the beginning of spring, and he had called for a masquerade ball to be held in celebration. His Master of Coin may have despaired about the cost, but he remained undeterred. The court met his proclamation with enthusiasm; some even asked that he give enough time for their family and friends to travel from where they had wintered.

Aemma's response had been a subdued, "I wish spring had come sooner."

His sweet queen had fared poorly this past winter. Their continued efforts to create an heir had yielded nothing, for Aemma had suffered two miscarriages in close succession. In both instances, the babes in her womb were so unformed as to be but wads on blood and flesh on her sheets. It was the wrong season, Viserys reasoned. Giving birth in winter set fate against the child. Spring was the time for new life and new beginnings, and they would have better fortune now. The winter had been mercifully brief and mild, only lasting a little over two years, and the smallfolk believed that foretold a prosperous spring.

Aemma and Rhaenyra had already supped for the evening by the time Viserys was free, so he ate with Ser Otto, who had similarly been working late. As the years went by, the king found himself relying on his Hand more and more. Ser Otto was learned and prudent; ever patient and reliable. The sole blotch was his persistent enmity with Prince Daemon. Hardly a council meeting passed without some discord between them, but for now their conflicts were tolerable. After finishing supper and bidding Ser Otto a good night, Viserys went off to his final appointment.

He walked up the tall stairs of the Star Tower by torchlight, keeping an unhurried pace as he rose into the sky. The tallest structure in the castle, it had been built by King Aenys so that he could have an unobstructed view of the stars at night. Whilst he lived, Aenys wrote several books on astronomy up this tower. They had been moved to the royal library after his death. Since then, the Star Tower had been used as a residence for courtiers and guests.

The young king found his uncle standing on the highest balcony, where their antecedent had once traced the stars. Night painted the sky black and deep blue, with scattered points of light abound.

"I hope you will pardon my tardiness, Gaemon," Viserys greeted. "I had a great many tasks to complete with the confirmation of spring's arrival."

"There is no need for such, Viserys, you have actually come at an opportune hour," Gaemon responded. He nudged Viserys to the railing of the balcony and gestured toward the sky. "Tell me what you see."

Viserys studied the stars and constellations before him for a moment, then answered. "The Mother's Spindle has appeared, for today is the first day of Mothersmoon. There lies the Stallion, and Symeon's Eyes yonder. And the Ice Dragon, of course."

Gaemon nodded. "The Ice Dragon is a steadfast friend to all travelers, for its eye always leads north. I wonder if that was by design. I have spent this past winter laboring over the task you bestowed upon me, and after two years I believe I have exhausted what wisdom I might have found in this castle. However, there is a place that I believe I can find the answers we seek."

The king's eyes glowed with excitement. At long last, his uncle had made progress at deciphering Aegon's dream. "Name it and I shall send you there with whatever implements you require."

"North. As far north as I can reach."

"That comes as no surprise, from there Aegon said the threat would come."

"I mean to tour the North this spring, visiting the northern lords in their castles and learning what I can of their lands. More likely than not, the northmen know something we do not. And to conclude this tour, I shall go to the Wall and do the same with the Night's Watch."

The Night's Watch was an old and hallowed institution, tasked with guarding the northern border of the realm for centuries beyond counting. The first watchman stood atop Brandon's Wall even before the Valyrians tamed dragons if the stories could be believed. A solid block of ice rising seven hundred feet in the air, the Wall stretched three hundred leagues from coast to coast. It shielded the Seven Kingdoms off from the harsh, untamed lands that wildlings and monsters called home.

"A sensible plan," Viserys praised. "Upon your return I want a detailed report of all you saw and learned. The North is a vast place with a long, rich history. I do not believe a Targaryen has gone there since your mother toured it many years before your birth. We have neglected that duchy for far too long."

Gaemon paused, looked at his nephew, then responded carefully. "I do not intend to return. I think it prudent for me to take the black at the conclusion of my tour."

Viserys was taken aback. "Gaemon, such a commitment is not necessary. You will always have a place at court or on Dragonstone, whichever pleases you. You may return North if needed, but if you join the Night's Watch, you can never leave."

"Someone among us must stay north to gauge the threat the Conqueror foresaw, and I am the best candidate," Gaemon argued. "I have neither titles nor glory to renounce, no wife or children to set aside, no future to surrender."

"You have me," Viserys whispered. "You have our family."

"That is why I must go, to protect our family and the realm."

"I would suggest you take some time to consider what you would be giving up."

"I came to this decision more than half a year ago," Gaemon confessed. The two men stood on the balcony unmoving, the air silent but for their gentle breathing.

"Is there nothing I can say to sway you from this course?" Viserys pleaded at last.

"Say you know the answer to Aegon's prophecy," Gaemon joked weakly. They both chuckled softly.

"Serving in the Night's Watch is an honorable calling," Viserys gave in. Some unnamed emotion rose up in his throat, but he kept himself composed as he embraced his uncle, "You shall make our family proud."

They spent another half hour watching the stars and discussing Gaemon's plans, before finally deciding to retire for the night. Viserys returned to his apartments feeling subdued and contemplative. He had always been fond of Gaemon and the thought of his uncle spending the rest of their lives on the other side of kingdom unsettled him. When he shared the prophecy, he had not expected it to lead to this outcome. Yet, he would not force Gaemon to remain if his heart was truly set on the Night's Watch.

Viserys took off his crown and studied it. The band of gold was heavy, inlaid with seven large, circular gems that glittered softly in the candlelight. Each gem represented one of the kingdoms that Aegon the Conqueror sought to take: a sapphire for the Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers; an onyx for the Kingdom of the Storm; a ruby for the Kingdom of the Rock; an emerald for the Kingdom of the Reach; a pearl for the Kingdom of the North; a moonstone for the Kingdom of the Mountain and Vale; and a sunstone for the Principality of Dorne, the only one to slip through Aegon's fingers.

Seven kingdoms, millions of lives, every one impacted by the decisions he made as king.

Chapter Text

In the cool, predawn darkness, Criston readied himself for battle. It was the moment he had dreamed of from the day Old Bill had put a wooden practice sword in his hand and sent him after the other little boys. He had trained hard all his life, impressing his lord and elders and even a prince with his strength and skill. He had no fear of what would come on the morrow, only excitement.

A moon past, scouts from House Caron had reported movement from bands of Dornishmen north of the Prince’s Pass, one of only two passageways through the Red Mountains. Few had to guess their intent, to attack and raid towns and villages in the Marches. The Marquis of Nightsong rode in force to curtail them but had suffered heavy losses in the resulting battle. The Dornishmen, battered but not broken, had turned northeast near Blackhaven.

“Criston, my son,” Marita entered the bedchamber he shared with his younger brother, who had been helping him don his armor. Her left hand carried a flickering candle, and her face carried an expression of worry. “Nico, will you give us the room?”

Nico obeyed, leaving Criston with their mother. She studied him in his armor for a while without saying anything, her dark brown eyes gleaming with tears.

“I find it difficult to accept that you are now a man, that’s the nature of mothers,” she confessed. “But you are a man, and that position comes with a cost. I have spent a day and night praying that the gods see you safely through your first battle.”

Criston replied, “You have seen me in the training yard, Mother. Have faith that I shall return to you.”

She gave him a pained smile. “You are not the first person to say those words to me. Take this,” she pressed something small and hard into his palm. When he opened his first, he saw an iron pendant in the shape of a hammer. “Keep this on your person at all times, and the Smith shall give strength to your arms and armor, to keep you safe.”

He put the pendant around his neck and swore, “This shall not leave my possession until I ride back through the walls of Blackhaven.”

At first light, the Dondarrion host marched off to battle. They were led by Lord Maxin’s eldest son and heir, Ser Ryman Dondarrion. Criston shamelessly eyed the sword sheathed at Ser Ryman’s hip; a Valyrian steel sword named Sure Strike, which the Dondarrions had passed from father to son for generations. What he would give to one day wield Valyrian steel himself.

With plain but well-made steel in his hand, Criston fought from the middle guard, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men and boys he had trained with all his life. Though his morningstar never missed its mark, no amount of training could have prepared him for the reality of battle. If he slipped only once he had much more to lose than just his pride. The foemen who charged at him with their spears would not stop if he yielded, they meant to kill him. The stench of blood, sweat, excrement, and smoke threatened to overwhelm him. The screams of wounded and dying men beat against his ears, pounding as hard as a drum, screaming for their lords, their gods, their mothers.

Criston smashed his Morningstar into the skull of a Dornishman so hard, the weapon slipped from his grasp as the foeman collapsed onto the bloody field. He barely had time to comprehend what had happened when another Dornishman came at him with a sword. Criston dodged just in time and pulled out his own sword.

He and his opponent stood opposite each other. The other man stood tall and proud in battered glory. Above his bloody, dented copper armor, his black surcoat bore a white skull with a golden crown. A knight of House Manwoody, Criston acknowledged. Two green boys, Nico’s age or younger, flanked him, one bearing the blue hawk of House Fowler and the other bearing the black portcullis grill of House Yronwood.

Criston and Manwoody began their duel. The world shrank down to the movement of their swords, the ringing when steel met on steel. Dornishmen typically favored speed and agility in battle and therefore armored themselves lightly. As quick and slippery as eels, they were, but a single well-placed blow could ensure victory. Criston watched his opponent with razor-sharp patience. When he at last found an opening, he stuck as quick as lightning, driving his sword in Manwoody’s side, down to the hilt.

The Dornishmen broke under House Dondarrion’s might, their host scattered as they desperately fled. The Dondarrion men chased after them, taking many captives. Criston captured the two squires accompanying the fallen Manwoody, who he later learned had been named Ser Emlyn. The boys, Maddock Fowler and Gyles Yronwood, would be taken back to Blackhaven as hostages, to be ransomed back to their families for punishing sums.

There, right on the battlefield, Ser Ryman called Criston forward, “Kneel, Criston of House Cole.”

Criston did as he was bid, heart pounding as Ser Ryman held up his sword, Sure Strike. He had never been this near to Valyrian steel. The blade was so dark as to nearly be black, save for the silvery ripples that swirled within it like frozen smoke.

Ser Ryman placed Sure Strike on Criston’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Bowman, I charge you to fight with honor and courage.” Ecstasy radiated through Criston’s body as Ser Ryman transferred the sword from shoulder to shoulder with each vow. “In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to defend the weak and innocent. In the name of the Father, I charge you to uphold justice and order. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to show compassion and mercy. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to embrace diligence and honesty. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to heed wisdom and prudence. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to reverence life and death.”

Criston’s pride overwhelmed him. He had slain an enemy warrior in battle for the first time, proving himself a man. Rather than being set off to the side, he had received recognition for his achievement. Upon their return, Criston saw his family standing up on the ramparts of the outer wall. He held up the iron hammer pendant so that his mother would know that he had kept his word.

Chapter Text

The mask Aemma chose was beautiful. A full-face mask of fine Yi Tian porcelain, edged with silver leaf and topped with bright blue feathers. The lips had been sculpted into a charming smile and painted crimson. Her maidservant tightly secured the mask’s white silk ribbon behind her head and added a heavy cloth-of-silver veil that framed her face and fell down her back. Finally, she placed a silver and sapphire diadem upon her brow.

Valerion came to collect her shortly before the ball began, dressed handsomely in his Kingsguard whites albeit without a mask. Despite being the youngest of his brothers, he had always been the tallest and strongest since his coming of age, proving himself time and again on the tourney grounds. Aemma remembered how happy she had been when he joined the Kingsguard a decade ago, knowing that her favorite uncle would always be there to protect her.

Aemma entered the antechamber to the great hall on Valerion’s arm, where her husband waited for her. Viserys’ costume matched hers, save that it was red, black, and gold to contrast her blue, white, and silver. A cloth-of-gold mantle sat on his shoulders and his mask only covered the top half of his face, leaving the rest of his mouth free. Atop his head he wore their grandfather’s multi-colored crown.

Viserys kissed her hand and said, “You look radiant, my queen.” The mask fitted too close to her mouth to allow her to speak, so she instead nodded in acknowledgement.

Entering the great hall, they were met with thunderous applause from their courtiers and guests. Aemma had been at court too long to be unaccustomed to all the attention, but that did not mean she enjoyed it. She was grateful that Viserys had chosen to host a masquerade ball, so she did not have to smile.

Though the maesters said her body had healed from her miscarriages, her heart had not. She thought about her lost children daily, and about her one living child growing less optimistic about her pregnancies as time wore on. How she wished she could shield Rhaenyra from this!

Aemma wondered how long Viserys and the realm would tolerate her failures. Her ladies reported to her the gossip whispered behind her back: she, like her mother, was too weak to bear a son; the gods found her lacking as queen; her womb would curse them with Daemon the Rogue King. Late at night, her grandfather’s words continued to echo in her ears.  

As the night wore on, she danced first with her husband, then Daemon, Ser Ryam Redwyne, her nephew Arwyn Corbray, and his young son Leowyn. To keep her mind occupied, she made a game of trying to guess who hid beneath which mask. She had correctly deduced the identities of Lord Royce Blackwood, Lady Serra Grafton, and Ser Derys Bar Emmon. Before she could guess the man in a jade mask dancing with her mother, he opened his mouth, and she recognized his voice as that of Bartimos Celtigar. Before the ball was halfway through, Aemma had spotted each of her close kin, save Uncle Vaegon, who had returned to the Citadel was soon as he was permitted, and…who else?

Viserra and her children.

That was odd, as Viserra loved balls and feasts. Aemma wandered through the great hall trying to take stock of all the masked attendants. Lady Fyona Melcolm, Lord Jordon Belmore, Dame Myranda Scales, Ser Qillian Tyrell, Ser Steffon Crane, and his wife Lady Yvetta... She must have circled the room at least thrice before Valerion asked what the matter was. She gestured for a pen and parchment and when it was delivered, she wrote “Viserra”.

Valerion’s eyes widened in realization and muttered. “She is not here. Nor her children.” He sent a servant to check Viserra’s rooms.

Soon Viserys noticed them standing to the side, trembling with nervous energy. “Is aught amiss?”

“Have you seen Viserra or any of her children here tonight?” Valerion asked.

“No,” Viserys answered. “But I’m sure they’re here somewhere.”

“If they were here with us, we would have recognized them by now,” Valerion argued.

The servant returned and reported that Viserra’s rooms were vacant. She and her children had left the castle shortly before the ball began, none of them wearing masquerade costumes.

Viserys now looked worried. He took Valerion aside and whispered something in his ear. Then Valerion quickly left the great hall.

What was that? Aemma wondered. Viserys returned and began to take her toward the center of the great hall. She tugged back, repeatedly tapping his arm in hopes that he would explain what had just happened.

“If I am wrong, and I hope I am, there is nothing to worry about,” Viserys said tiredly. “We ought not to cause a scene.”

Aemma acquiesced and continued the ball as though nothing was wrong, though she couldn’t take her mind off the peculiarity of Viserra’s absence. The ball went on well into the early hours of the morning. Exhausted but unable to sleep, Aemma left the great hall as soon as the final dance had concluded. Her maidservants stripped her of her elaborate costume, soaked her aching feet in a basin of warm water, and brought her a hearty meal, as she could not eat in her mask.

Her nephew Vaeryn, now serving as her husband’s page, came to her chambers to inform her that Viserra and her children had been located and returned to their chambers. Aemma threw on a dressing gown and made her way over. What she found there made her heart skip a beat.

Marlessa stood in the center of the room grinning ear to ear as she placed a bit of raw meat in front of a small drake. Its scales were the color of amber, with burgundy horns and crests, and a golden underbelly and membranes. The drake opened its mouth and breathed fire onto the meat, charring in black before eating it.

“Good evening, Neice,” Viserra greeted innocently.

Aemma forced her attention to her aunt. Viserys and Valerion stood behind her, both looking as upset as Aemma felt. “I missed you at the ball,” Aemma said calmly.

Viserra shrugged. “As I said before,” she looked briefly to the men. “My children were eager to visit the Dragonpit and I was powerless to deny them.”

“And to claim dragons?” Aemma pressed.

“Things happen unexpectantly,” Viserra smiled. “I understand that you worked hard to be a good hostess, and rest assured no disrespect was intended. Why, we hadn’t even noticed we missed the ball until my dear brother came looking for us. I’m certain it was lovely.”

“It was,” Aemma replied in a tight voice. Her eyes turned to the twins. “Did you claim dragons as well?”

“Yes, Cousin,” Jason answered.

“They were too big to bring to the castle, though,” Tyland added.

Aemma took a deep breath, feeling dead on her feet. “Well, what else can I expect from the blood of the dragon? I’m just happy that you are all well.”

Viserys took her elbow, “The hour is late. We should all go to bed and discuss this in the morning.” Aemma had no choice but to accept this.

When she woke up that afternoon, Aemma found herself summoned to her husband’s solar. She ate a quick, simple meal and dressed plainly before answering the summons. She was the last to arrive, after Aunt Alyssa, Aunt Meg, Ser Otto, Valerion, and Daemon. Viserys sat at his desk, looking as though he had not slept at all that night.

Aemma and Valerion gave their accounts of the night before. From Valerion, Aemma learned why Viserys had known to find Viserra and her children in the Dragonpit. He had caught them just after Tyland had claimed his dragon, before Viserra had a chance to claim one for herself.

“Lady Lannister’s insolence cannot go unanswered,” Ser Otto proclaimed.

“I may have given her the impression that her actions were sanctioned.” Viserys confessed, abashed. “I once told her that though I would not give her children eggs, I had no control over whether the dragons chose to bond with them.”

Aemma closed her eyes in frustration.

“She knew that her actions went against the king’s will, elsewise she would not have done it under the cover of night while everyone was occupied with the ball,” Ser Otto countered. “Her guilt is beyond doubt.”

Aunt Alyssa agreed. “Ser Otto is right. The Lannisters have coveted our dragons since the days of the Conquest. It is trouble enough that the Velaryons have Dreamfyre and Seasmoke.”

“What do you intend to do to our sister and her children?” Aunt Meg challenged. “It is not as though you can undo the bond her children have formed with their dragons.”

“For one, they must be removed from the city as soon as possible and forbidden from returning here or to the Dragon Isles.” Aunt Alyssa said. “Viserra must not be given a chance to claim a dragon herself.”

“You speak of her as though she is an enemy,” Viserys shook his head. “She is our kin and blood.”

“She belongs to the Lannisters now,” Ser Otto noted. “And she has been shown to prioritize their interests above the crown’s.”

“Whatever else she may be, she is still a Targaryen,” Daemon spoke up. “It is only natural that she wants dragons for herself and her children.”

Ser Otto argued, “She may be a Targaryen, but her children are not. How long will it be before the Sea Snake demands a dragon for his daughter? Or Matthos Tyrell for his children? The old king set a dangerous precedent by permitting Princess Rhaenys an egg for her son, we must nip this vine in the bud before it chokes us.”

“It is not up to you to decide who ought to be permitted a dragon, Hightower,” Daemon snarled.

“Enough!” Viserys ordered. “I will command that the Dragonpit before closed unless I have given my expressed consent, but I will not condemn mine own cousins when they have done nothing to act against me. I will not invite mistrust and infighting to this family based on speculation.”

Aunt Alyssa frowned, “The queen must claim a dragon as well, to keep things in balance.”

“Me?” Aemma asked, shocked. Though she took pride in her Targaryen blood, she had always thought of herself more as an Arryn. Did she have enough fire in her veins to dare such a thing?

“You are half falcon, half dragon,” Aunt Alyssa scoffed. “It is past time you found your wings.”

Aemma felt warm with all the eyes in the room upon her. She looked at Viserys, finding his eyes filled with expectation. Was it not her duty as queen to help him ensure the realm stayed at peace? She swallowed hard. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Valerion rode ahead of the royal carriage flanked by his Lannister nephews, wishing he were inside with his nieces. He held no ill will toward the boys, but by the gods they were annoying. Jason had spent half the ride boasting of his exploits with a baron’s daughter, while Tyland repeatedly interrupted to pester Valerion with questions about dragons. They argued frequently over trivial matters. Perhaps he was being uncharitable. They were only seventeen years old, barely more than boys. He had once been their age, and he along with Gaemon, Viserys, and Daemon had behaved little better.

And besides, they had Viserra for a mother and Tymond Lannister for a father. He loved his sister but couldn't ignore her faults. Viserra was proud, sly, and greedy. Her stunt on the night of the masquerade ball had proved that. She was also the true power behind House Lannister; Tymond was often too drunk or too busy wenching to think of advancing his family’s interests, so that task fell to her. At times Valerion pitied her sister for being tied to such a pathetic man, but then remembered how much power and riches she had accumulated through her marriage into one of the foremost noble houses in the realm. Viserra sat upon a mountain of gold doing as she pleased.

His niece Marlessa’s dragon, named Honeyglass for the amber sheen of his scales, flew above them. He danced through the trees and landed on rooftops all the way to the Dragonpit, never straying far from his mistress. It would be years before he was large enough for Marlessa ride, though. When the small party arrived at the Dragonpit, Marlessa hopped out of the carriage at lightning speed and called for Honeyglass in her native Westerlands language. Valerion found his irritation abating at the sight of her joy and wonder when the dragon arrived.

“He obeyed me!” Marlessa exclaimed in the Common Tongue.

“No, my lady, he did not. He sensed that you wanted him and came to you,” Valerion explained, “but he did not understand the command you gave. When the dragonkeepers aid you in training your dragons, they shall do so in High Valyrian, for that is the language dragons are inclined to heed.”

Jason frowned. “Can’t we train them in our own language?”

“Do you find the traditions of your Valyrian ancestors lacking?” Valerion asked sternly. “If you have any pride in your dragonblood, it should hardly be any trouble to use High Valyrian.”

Aemma placed a hand on his shoulder. “Peace, Uncle. The boy is only asking.” She turned to Jason and smiled kindly at him. “Come now Cousin. I wish to meet your dragon.”

As they entered the Pit, the dragonkeepers opened the cages of the twins’ dragons. Tyland’s came first, a stunning, half-grown drake about the same size as Syrax, with shimmering turquoise scales and a golden underbelly. Her horns and claws were golden as well, while her membranes were sea green.

“I named her Seabright!” Tyland told Aemma proudly. “She’s the same color as the waters beyond Casterly Rock.”

“It suits her,” Aemma complimented, fiddling with her rings.

“That one is mine,” Jason proclaimed as the second drake came forward. Less striking than her sister but noticeably larger, she had pale, gray-green scales, a tan underbelly, and tan membranes, with horns and claws that seemed to be carved from solid jade. “Jadeclaw. She’s as fierce as a lord’s mount ought to be.”

“In that regard, she certainly matches you,” Aemma replied, causing Jason to preen under her attention.

She signaled to the dragonkeeper to begin their lesson and went on her way. They would teach the Lannister children basic commands to control their dragons before their long journey back to Casterly Rock. Three of the senior dragonkeepers would accompany the Lannisters home, to continue training and caring for the dragons.

 Aemma had heard it all before. Though she had never been inclined to claim a dragon for herself, one could not spend a lifetime in the company of dragonriders without learning a thing or two.

Valerion followed Aemma deeper into the Pit. Her eyes fixed on the cages where the young dragons rested. Some appeared strong and ready to fly, others seemed unlikely to survive. Valerion wondered if Aemma might prefer one of the dragons that laired on the Isles, like Vermithor or Silverwing.

At last, one dragon caught her eye. A she-dragon that, according to the dragonkeepers, was one of the few hatchings to survive the previous winter. Now she was growing into a strong, healthy drake. Her coloring reminded Aemma of her Arryn heritage: sky blue scales with horns and claws the color of moonstones. Her underbelly was white, as were the membranes between her crests and wingbones. Aemma approached the cage, gazing longingly into the creature’s stormy gray eyes. A beaming smile came to her lips.

“This one,” she stated firmly.

At her command, the dragonkeepers opened the cage. The dragon leaped into Aemma’s arms, nearly knocking her over. “Goodness!” Aemma exclaimed. “They’re heavier than I thought.”

Valerion said to her, “We should take her flying.” Aemma looked confused until he gestured toward Nahevor’s cage.

Valerion’s dragon was his oldest and closest friend, one that he claimed when he was only ten years old. Nahevor was all white and pale gray save for his enormous, vivid blue eyes. A fitting mount for a knight of the Kingsguard, in hindsight.

As dragonkeepers uncaged Nahevor and opened one of the outdoor gates, Valerion grasped Aemma’s hand to reassure her. The Lannisters noticed the commotion and left their lesson to watch. Aemma’s drake leapt out of her arms and flew around Nahevor’s head. The older dragon did not seem to mind, for he continued his way out of the cage without reaction.

“Kneel!” Valerion commanded in High Valyrian.

Nahevor obeyed, allowing the dragonkeepers to saddle him with practiced ease. Valerion climbed atop his mount and extended his hand to help Aemma up. He noticed the Lannisters watching with glee and excitement, no doubt thinking of the time they would be old enough to ride their own dragons. Aemma settled behind him, her blue drake perched on Nahevor’s scaly white shoulder.

“Fly!”

Nahevor took a running start and launched into the air, beating his powerful wings with great force as he sailed upward. Valerion never tired of being in the sky with his dear companion. The sight of King’s Landing beneath him, the rush of wind in his hair, and nothing but the clouds above him.

Only now, Aemma was with him. Typically, she rode behind Viserys on Balerion, but she had not been a dragon since Balerion’s death. What a novel feeling, to be truly alone with Aemma, her arms wrapped around his middle and her joyful, unrestrained laughter in his ear. In the Red Keep they were surrounded by other people all the time, servants and guardsmen and courtiers and their family. And her husband.

He took Nahevor past the Red Keep and over Blackwater Bay. A few of the sails below stopped to look up, especially those from ships with foreign sails. The sky was bright and vibrant that day, the same color as Aemma’s drake. The little dragon clung to Nahevor with her claws, but his scales were so thick and hard with age that he didn’t notice. Not wanting to overwhelm the younger dragon, Valerion kept the flight brief and returned to the Dragonpit after a few minutes.

When Nahevor landed, Aemma’s dragon chirped happily and flapped her wings. She made such a sweet image, Valerion couldn’t help but smile. He turned to Aemma, “She’ll need a name soon.”

Aemma grinned at him, “She already has one. Skyshield.”

They returned to the Red Keep once the children had finished their lesson, this time with Skyshield flying above the carriage while Honeyglass remained in the Pit. When they reached the castle, Aemma’s mother and sisters were already waiting to greet her. Elys and Amanda could not take their eyes off Skyshield, but Daella only saw her little girl.

She ran forward and threw her arms around Aemma. “My dragon queen,” she gushed. Daella held her daughter’s gaze, then finally looked up at the blue and white dragon circling above them. “Your father would be so proud of you, as would your brothers.” 

The new dragon drew attention from all, and courtiers came swarming from every direction to praise their queen for her acquisition. Valerion kept them at a distance as he escorted his queen to the Small Council chambers with Skyshield perched on his shoulder.

Viserys stood up and beamed when he saw his wife’s dragon. “She is lovely, my dear. You deserve such a dragon.” He moved to kiss Aemma on the cheek, but Skyshield shrieked at him. “And protective as well,” he chuckled.

“Yes, well done Neice,” Alyssa added as Valerion helped Aemma in a chiar. “But there is an important matter I must bring up, that of Rhaenyra’s marriage.”

Aemma stiffened. “Marriage? She is ten!”

“And you were eleven when you wed my son,” Alyssa pointed out. At the horrified look on Aemma’s face, Alyssa softened her tone. “I understand that you were too young, but Rhaenyra will not remain a girl forever. In a few years she will begin bleeding. She need not marry now, but we must consider the value of her match to the stability of the realm.”

“What are you proposing?” Viserys asked.

“As it stands, there are three branches of this family with dragons. We have five, of which two have yet to reach full maturity, Syrax and this new one.”

“Skyshield,” Aemma supplied.

Alyssa nodded. “Syrax and Skyshield. The Velaryons have Dreamfyre, the second oldest dragon in the world, and Seasmoke, who Laenor already rides regularly. And now the Lannisters have three drakes. The number of non-royal dragons matches that of the royal dragons, which puts us at a disadvantage because our attentions would be split.” Viserys was about to speak, but his mother stopped him. “I know you do not think them disloyal, but we ought to prepare for the worst.”

“And you would use my daughter for this purpose?” Aemma frowned.

“She is a princess, this is her purpose,” Alyssa snapped. “Viserra’s intentions are murky, but Rhaenys and Corlys have made theirs clear: proximity to the throne. I propose betrothing Rhaenyra to Laenor. The match is worthy of her and would bring two dragonriders into the fold.”

Viserys sat back in his seat, considering the merits of this match. “The Velaryons are wealthy and influential, and they come from Valyrian stock. Laenor has no serious deficiencies that raise concern and is already fond of my daughter.”

“My love,” Aemma interjected. “I wholeheartedly agree with your mother’s concerns, but I fear we may be acting in haste. There is no telling how circumstances might change by the time Rhaenyra is old enough to wed.”

“Here’s one way they might change: the Lannisters and Velaryons may join forces,” Ser Otto countered. “A marriage between Jason and Laena would be a tempting prize for Lord Corlys. The Lannisters are second only to the Velaryons in wealth and have a mighty fleet of their own, to say nothing of how many bannermen they command. We cannot wait for them to realize what a threat they would pose to the throne if they were to combine their strengths.”

Aemma’s face crumpled. “I find no fault in your reasoning, your Excellence,” she replied in a small voice.  

Maegelle spoke up, “Laenor is a good lad, and I am confident that Rhaenyra will find happiness with him. They can wed when Rhaenyra comes of age, or a few years later if that pleases you better. A betrothal will bind the Velaryons to us regardless. She must marry eventually, and better for her that is someone familiar and trustworthy. They may even come to love each as you and the king do.”

Viserys’ thoughtful expression lifted into a beaming smile at the comparison. He looked to Aemma, his eyes beseeching her to acquiesce. Aemma did not look reassured in the slightest, but she nonetheless consented to the plan. If Viserys willed it, the match would go through whether she liked it or not, and it would save her much discomfort in her marriage if she went along with whatever her husband wanted.

Chapter Text

“Vaeryn Fyre and Owain Bourney, you two are next,” Ser Rolland Hollard barked.

Vaeryn had been watching his cousins Rhaenyra and Laena spar under his grandmother’s instruction. Upon hearing his name, he gripped his wooden sword and walked to the center of the yard at a brisk pace. He arrived before Owain, who was punished for his slowness with a clout on the ear. It had not taken Vaeryn long after arriving at the Red Keep to learn that Ser Rolland was a harsh and unsentimental teacher, though perhaps that was necessary for a castle master-at-arms.

Ser Rolland towered over the two boys at six and a half feet tall. His entire body was thick with muscle and covered in scars, and his hands were as hard as stone. As a young knight, he had fought against the Myrmen on Tarth, helping Prince Baelon avenge the death of his older brother, Prince Aemon. Now, he had wrinkles around his eyes and streaks of gray in his hair, but Ser Rolland was no less fierce.

Vaeryn took his position against Owain and struck first. Though Owain had begun training a year earlier, Vaeryn managed to remain on the offense for most of the spar. A few moments later, he knocked the sword out of Owain’s hand, winning the match.

“Owain, I’ve told you time and again that you need ferocity behind your strikes. You’re as dainty as a girl,” Ser Rolland criticized. “Vaeryn, your swordsmanship is adequate, but you waste your strength trying to overpower your opponent. You’ll need skill and cunning to defeat a foe stronger than you and for now you lack both.”

“Yes Ser,” Vaeryn accepted staidly.

“As if a bastard needs to learn how to play dirty,” Owain sneered.

Ser Rolland raised an eyebrow at Owain’s barb but did not chastise him. “Off, you two. You’re done for the day. Gwayne Hightower and Roger Corne, you’re next.”

Vaeryn bowed to Ser Rolland and began to leave the yard. As he passed Gwayne’s brothers, Trystane and Percy, one of them tripped him, sending him to the ground.

“Watch your step bastard,” Percy laughed. Trystane laughed along with him.

Vaeryn grit his teeth and ignored them. As he pushed himself up, Grandmother noticed the commotion and turned toward them.

“Are you alright Vaeryn?” she called.

“I am well, your Highness,” Vaeryn called back awkwardly, brushing the dirt off him. Why did she have to yell it clearly across the yard for everyone to hear? Trystane and Percy had stopped laughing, and turned around to pretend they were paying attention to Gwayne’s spar. Vaeryn left the yard in haste, and she followed him.

“The Hand’s sons again?” Grandmother guessed.

“It matters not, Grandmother,” Vaeryn replied, using the more familiar title now that they had a measure of privacy. “If not them, it would have been someone else.”

“Are you certain you do not wish to talk to your father about it?”

“What is to talk about? Lots of boys are just arseholes. Besides, there are only two foreseeable outcomes: him viewing me as weak or confronting the Lord Hand. Neither is desirable,” Vaeryn explained. “If it pleases you, I would like to return to my chambers to wash up before breaking my fast.”

Grandmother sighed, “As you wish sweetling.”

In his chambers, Vaeryn washed with cold water, quickly ridding himself of the dirt and sweat from the morning practice. As he dressed, he received an invitation to eat with his grandaunt Gael and her children, which he eagerly accepted. Apart from her own children, Aunt Gael favored him over his trueborn cousins.  She would often invite him to spend time together, despite the disapproval of her Reach court. One time she had even taken him and his father into the city to watch a mummer’s show. Unfortunately, the Tyrells were due to return to Highgarden in a few days and it might be years before he saw her again.

He climbed up the stairs to Aunt Gael’s chambers in the Tower of Beauty. The late Queen Rhaenys and her son King Aenys had both been great patrons of the arts, and here they had hosted numerous painters, sculptors, musicians, poets, and craftsmen during their lifetimes. As the Duchess of Highgarden, Aunt Gael had the loveliest rooms, full of the fruits of their labor.

The dining room where they broke their fast was decorated with a vivid mural commissioned by Queen Rhaenys in honor of her parents, Lord Aerion Targaryen and Lady Valaena Velaryon. It depicted them reaching out to each other on the beaches of Dragonstone, him standing on the black sand and her coming out of the sea. Lord Aerion had the same silver-gold hair and purple eyes as his descendants, but his skin was as pale as ivory, like his Valyrian ancestors. Lady Valaena’s ancestors had come from the Valyrian colonies in northern Sothoryos, passing along their dark skin and full lips. Aunt Gael favored that piece above all over; she said it made her feel as though their forebears were watching over them.

Vaeryn sometimes wondered if they bothered watching over the bastards.

It was a small gathering in Aunt Gael’s chambers, just her, Vaeryn, Edgard, and Alys. His little cousins were four and three years old, old enough to talk but not old enough to say anything interesting. As they ate their breakfast, Edgard and Alys dominated the conversation with a passionate argument about whether dogs were better than horses. Vaeryn and his grandaunt listened patiently. They had the same quiet nature, and neither felt the need to speak for its own sake. In that way, they had spent many hours together in comfortable silence.

“I am sad to be quitting King’s Landing, but it is necessary,” Aunt Gael said to Vaeryn wistfully. She turned to her children, “Your father wants us back in Highgarden as soon as possible. He misses us dearly.”

“Is Father nice?” Edgard asked. A boy of four, he had spent half his life in King’s Landing. He probably had dim memories of his father, if any at all, but that wouldn’t matter much because he was soon to meet the man again.

“Yes, my dear, he is very nice,” Aunt Gael answered. “And he loves you and your sister so much.”

Vaeryn wrestled with his envy. Edgard and Alys would be regaining their father, but he would likely never regain his mother. She was a mystery. His first memories were of the orphanage, being one of the scores of children cared for tired, overworked septas. They had nothing to tell him, the few snippets of time they had to pay him any attention. His father had taken him in but would tell him nothing about his mother.

He was grateful to his father for taking care of him. Vaeryn could have been forgotten in the bowels of the city, and it would have made no difference to anyone. Now he had his own chambers in the castle, fine clothes, good food. He trained to be knight, so that he could serve his king with honor. His family loved him well enough, though he was no one’s favorite apart from his father and Aunt Gael. But despite everything his father had given him, a part of Vaeryn still resented the man for his disregard for Vaeryn’s mother.

Many people at court looked down on him for being a bastard and for the lack of courtly grace he had exhibited when he first came to the castle, a product of his rough early years. It chafed him, but he could not complain. If he caused trouble, his father or his uncle the king might consider him a lost cause and send him back to where he came from. So, Vaeryn kept his head down. He studied, trained, and stayed out of the way. One day he would prove himself worthy of his elevation.

“I wish I could take you with us,” Aunt Gael admitted as she took his hand and squeezed it slightly. “But my husband would never permit it. And besides, your place is with…your father.”

“Your words are kind, Aunt Gael,” Vaeryn smiled sadly. “I shall miss you when you leave.”

Her eyes grew misty. “And I you. You’re so good, Vaeryn, I can’t help but be proud of you. I’m so happy Daemon brought you home, elsewise I never would have met you.” She pulled him into the long, soft hug, pressing her face atop his head. Vaeryn could have sworn he felt her tears dripping into his hair.

Chapter Text

Laena loved to fly; it was only a pity she didn’t have her own dragon. Above Blackwater Bay, seated behind her mother on Dreamfyre, she loved the feel of the wind in her hair and the fresh coolness of the upper air. Laena searched the clouds for her brother and found him when he brought Seasmoke lower and briefly circled around Father’s ship.

“He should be more careful,” Mother noted, though it was hard to hear her above the wind whistling in her ears.

Laena squeezed tighter on her mother’s middle to show that she understood, though secretly Laena knew she would probably be more daring with her dragon than her brother, if only she had one. Perhaps the king would permit her to claim a dragon of her own once she became Rhaenyra’s goodsister. After all, he let the Lannisters have dragons. Laena hoped that if she claimed a dragon, it would be large enough to already carry her, so she wouldn’t have to wait years for it to grow, like the queen did.

The volcanoes of the Dragon Isles eventually came into view, their tall peaks still topped with snow despite the arrival of spring. Driftmark, the closest island to King’s Landing was the largest island in the chain, though it had the smallest and least active volcano. Beyond lay Dragonstone, Crab Isle, Cloudpeak, and Merling Haven. From high in the air, Laena watched as a menagerie of ships from around the world sat in Driftmark Harbor as their crews loaded and unloaded them with cargo. Wine from the Arbor and Dorne, spices from the Summer Isles and the Jade Sea; Yi Tian silk and Myrish lace; jewels, ivory, ebony, silver, and gold from every corner of the known world.

Laena felt fortunate to have been born a Velaryon of Driftmark and the daughter of the Sea Snake. Her father had seen more of the world than any man living and had brought a piece of his travels back home with him. He had opened Westeros to trade with far-flung lands and beckoned foreign merchants to his ports. With nine peerless voyages across uncharted water, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Count of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides, became the most legendary man of his age. Laena never tired of hearing his tales of adventure; the fascinating people he had met, the strange cultures he had encountered, the perilous trials he had braved.

Someday she would mount a dragon like her mother and travel the world like her father, Laena vowed to herself. Perhaps she would even find lands that were still unknown and bring their secrets back to Westeros with her.

Dreamfyre landed on a clear field across the causeway from High Tide, while Seasmoke followed closely behind. They dismounted the dragons and mounted horses before crossing the causeway into the castle. Father would arrive later that day once his ship docked. At the castle, they were greeted by Uncle Vaemond and his lady wife, Gaeva Galaris of Merling Haven.

“Hello Brother, Sister,” Mother greeted. “It has been an age.”

“It is good to have you all home again,” Uncle Vaemond replied. “And congratulations to you, Nephew, on your betrothal to the princess. You shall do our house a great honor.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Laenor replied.

“There is someone we wish for you to meet,” Aunt Gaeva summoned a maidservant, who came carrying a clothed bundle that squirmed and whined. Aunt Gaeva took the babe and held him up with pride, “This is Daemion, our firstborn son.”

“Congratulations!” Mother exclaimed. Aunt Gaeva placed the babe in her arms and she smiled. “What a strong, healthy little boy. A wonderful addition to our family.”

Laena and Laenor took turns holding their new cousin before their uncle and aunt led them into the castle.

“There’s someone else here to see you,” Uncle Vaemond told them as they walked into the great hall, where the cooks had already begun to prepare a meal from them.

Sitting in the hall was her lady grandmother, Jocelyn Baratheon. Tall and striking in her youth, age and heartache had whitened her black hair, wrinkled her brown skin, and sloped her strong shoulders. She held onto an ornate oak walking stick tipped with a golden head that she now needed to use to keep her balance. Her eyes though, were as dark and sharp as always.

“Hello, everyone,” Grandmother greeted.

“Mother! You didn’t tell us you were coming from Storm’s End.” Mother ran over to Grandmother and pulled her into a tight hug.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Grandmother responded. “Laenor, I heard the good news and wanted to give my congratulations in person.”

Laenor looked embarrassed by the attention. Yes, marrying the king’s only child was a matter of great importance, but he clearly disliked the attention it brought him. “Yes, thank you Grandmother.” He dutifully walked up to Grandmother and hugged her.

“The Great Council was a disappointment, but we can now right the wrongs of the past,” Grandmother beamed.

“The king and queen may yet have a son,” Mother warned.

“Aemma is a lovely woman,” Grandmother waved dismissively, “But she’s a mouse like her mother, not a dragon. I take no pleasure from her hardship, but I am realistic. The matter of succession will come down to Rhaenyra or Daemon, and he is unpopular enough among the highborn to put his claim in question. When that time comes, Rhaenyra will be our ticket to power.”

The talk of succession had clearly spoiled Laenor’s mood, though he was too dutiful to say so aloud. Laena went to him later that night, after most of the castle had gone to bed. She found him sitting on cross-legged one of the ledges and took the place next to him.

“Grandmother is certainly something,” Laena said lightly.

“What if I mess up again?” Laenor muttered. “I failed to convince the Great Council to name me king against Viserys. Now Rhaenyra is in the same position Mother was in, a daughter against a brother. Everyone is acting as though I’ve accomplished something by being betrothed to the princess, but I haven’t.”

“You cannot blame yourself for what happened,” Laena comforted. “You were a child then. And Daemon is not like his father or brother. The Small Council is against him and while he may be popular among the lowborn, the highborn have much less warm feelings toward him. Besides, we can’t even be sure the king and queen won’t have a son, so there’s no use worrying about it now.”

“You know they’re not going to stop, right?” Laenor said somberly. “Father and Grandmother.”

“Yes, I do,” Laena admitted.

Chapter Text

Thank the gods he went North at the beginning of spring because that meant it would be years before he had to face a northern winter. Before his tour, Gaemon had known three things about the North: it was very big, very empty, and very cold. He hadn’t been prepared for how true that was until he saw the endless stretches of moorlands covered in heaps of melting snow. The Duke of Winterfell had casually mentioned that it might still snow even in the summer, albeit not to the same severity as a winter storm. This statement shocked Gaemon and his honor guard, composed of southern knights and lordlings with no chance of inheritance.

But there was beauty in the North as well, that could not be denied. House Manderly held dominion over the mouth of the White Knife, the widest and longest river in the North and a vital route of trade. When he stayed with Dustins, they showed him the expansivive barrows where their ancestors had been laid to rest. The Starks had the Wolfswood, a dark, untamed forest that spread out for a over a hundred miles. The stunning fjords of the western coast were the pride of the Glovers. The Boltons walked him through the Lonely Hills, so quiet and mysterious as to have come from a campfire story. He had scaled the Grey Cliffs with the Karstarks, marveled at the glassy depths of Long Lake with the Umbers, and braved the treacherous peaks of the Lower Frostfangs with the mountain clans.

No two of these noble families were quite the same – the Boltons more macabre than the jovial Manderlys, the Ryswells more quarrelsome than the affable clansmen – but they were much alike in their proud but prudent nature. Winter beset them with more cruelty than it did their southern neighbors, thus the Northmen developed a special tolerance for hardship and aversion to frivolity. Scarcity dogged their steps. Preparations for the following winter persistently occupied their minds. The Northmen had songs, games, and humor, but fewer hours with which to enjoy them. Consequently, they earned a reputation for being austere, grim, and coldhearted. In Gaemon’s estimation this assertion was reasonable, but overstated.

And they all had stories. The Northmen loved few things more than to sit before a roaring fire with horns of ale in their hands and old stories in their mouths. Stories from the Conquest and the Age of Heroes and the Dawn Age. Told to them by their fathers and grandsires, by their mothers and wet nurses. Of fierce battles, of tragic love, of bloody betrayals. The Thousand Years’ War, The War of the Wolves, the War Across the Water, the Feast of Skane.

According to the Northmen, the first Brandon Stark built Winterfell, the Wall, Storm’s End, and the High Tower of Oldtown. Brandon the Shipwright burned his own fleet in grief for his father, Brandon the Shipwright, who sailed far in the Sunset Sea and never returned. Brandon the Champion succored House Manderly after they were driven out of the Reach, entrusting them with task of guarding the mouth of the North’s principal river, the White Knife. 

Gaemon set it all to pen. He would make a fuller attempt to study them when he had settled into life at the Night’s Watch and correspond with Viserys regarding their possible significance. This activity garnered either interest or suspicion from his hosts. The Northmen often kept to themselves, especially after the Conquest, and were thus unaccustomed to observation from outsiders. Gaemon, having no unworthy intentions, gladly handed over his work for their inspection and accepted their input if they deigned to provide it.

Unlike most in the south, the majority of Northmen worshipped the old gods, rather than the Seven. None of the families he stayed with were open to discussing the details of their religion with one who did not follow it, though some permitted him entry into their godswoods. Southerners had godswoods as well, a shadow of the First Men’s influence, but the southern godswoods more often functioned as quiet gardens rather than as places as worship. Godswoods in this part of the kingdom were larger, wilder, and more powerful in a way Gaemon could not articulate. When he looked into the eyes of the heart trees, he knew deep in his bones that something was watching him.

A handful of northerners worships the new gods, chiefly the Manderlys and their vassals. Their city White Harbor boasted the Sept of the Snows, the largest sept north of the Neck, gleaming with massive stained-glass windows and silver-coated marble statues of the Seven. Most new god worshippers lived along the coasts and had absorbed the faith of the southerners they traded with.

They gave the Seven different names than what the Southerners used; save for the Maiden, who used that name north and south of the Neck. The Father and Mother were called the Magnar and Magdis, derived from the words for “lord” and “lady” in the Old Tongue. Instead of the Warrior or the Knight, they had the Horseman, for they oft claimed that their First Men ancestors were the first to use calvary. Instead of the Smith or the Farmer, they prayed to the Shepherd for the maintenance of their huge herds of sheep, the primary source of meat, milk, and wool. The Crone was instead called the Witch, as the Northmen had long trusted wood-witches to cure them of disease, protect them from curses, and foresee the future. The Stranger, master of thresholds and mysteries, was known only as the Other for reasons Gaemon had yet to decern. When he asked, the Northmen refused to speak of it, for to do so would bring them ill fortune or even death.

After a year of slowly making his way through the North, Gaemon finally reached Brandon’s Wall. The Wall rose seven hundred feet into the air and could be seen for miles. The massive sheet of ice that seemed to split the world in two and, in sunlight, it shone like glass set before a flame. Gaemon eagerly wished to see what lay beyond it from the stories he’d been told: wildlings, giants, and children of the forest; direwolves, shadowcats, and snow bears; the Haunted Forest, Milkwater River, and Upper Frostfangs.

But first he had to go to Castle Black, the headquarters of the Night’s Watch. It was not a true castle for it had no walls but Brandon’s. The Watch’s only enemies lay to the north. Its stone towers and timber keeps stood tall and strong, and they were in the process of refurbishment. The watchmen who greeted Gaemon’s party, their soon-to-be brothers, dressed in tailored black uniforms of boiled leather, fine wool, thick furs, and polished chainmail that gleamed in the silvery sunlight.

The Lord Commander approached them. He was a tall, strongly built man with long, wavy brown hair going to gray and a thick beard that obscured half his face. “Welcome, Prince Gaemon of House Targaryen, and your noble companions. The Watch has not forgotten the grace and generosity that your mother Queen Alysanne displayed when she visited the Wall fifty years ago, gods rest her soul. It is our honor to have you here.”

“Thank you, Lord Commander Hightower. I hope you will be pleased to know that your nephew Ser Otto and his wife Lady Jesma both speak highly of you and send their regards.”

“I am,” Runcel Hightower smiled. “Come, let’s get out of the bloody cold.”

The black brothers helped his men unload their belongings and move them into the castle. Five large chests of gold that Viserys had shipped North as a gift to the Watch were taken to the vaults, as well the gifts the northern lords had bestowed on Gaemon. Their remaining provisions went to the kitchens, their horses to the stables, and their personal effects to the barracks; save for Gaemon’s, for he would take residence in the King’s Tower.

Gaemon and his party spent a fortnight in training before they were initiated in the Watch. They had all received training at arms in the south, and it was more a matter of assessing their strengths and making them accustomed to the harsh conditions of the far north.  On the fifteenth day, they gathered in Castle Black’s small sept and spoke their vows.

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

Dressed in their new black uniforms, the men entered the Shieldhall. Build of dark stone and oak, and large enough to host two hundred men, the long, large hall was the eating quarters of all noble and knightly brothers, while the smallfolk eat in the common hall. Heraldic shields lined the walls, a rainbow of sigils from every part of Westeros.

Gaemon took his shield, featuring a red three-headed dragon breathing fire on a black field and handed it to First Steward Zackery Reyne. As Reyne placed the Targaryen shield upon the Wall, Lord Commander Hightower handed Gaemon a new black shield, the shield of a man of the Night’s Watch. The ritual was repeated for each of Gaemon’s new brothers. Ser Taelys, youngest son of Dragonstone’s castellan, surrendered his shield bearing the flaming skulls of Qoherys. Ser Osmund, the three trees of Wendwater. Ser Ilyn, the lamb and cup of Stokeworth. Ser Kentley, the red sea lion of Manning. Lord Julius, the seven stars of Sunglass. Lord Richard, the ram's head of Rambton.

Different shields, representing different histories and allegiances, now out of their possession. All they had now – all they needed now – was the black.

Chapter Text

Most people considered Harrenhal a frightening and cursed place, but Harwin loved the castle’s character. The rooms dwarfed any other in the Seven Kingdom, the towers pieced the sky like twisted black swords, and its godswood was a forest onto itself. Harwin spent many spare hours exploring the grounds of the castle and the secret nooks scattered throughout, yet even so he still discovered something new in his wanderings. The mazelike corridors often confused guests, but Harwin knew them as well as his own face. He was born to be Harrenhal’s lord, a seat as massive and impressive as himself.

That is why he felt appalled when his father accepted the position of Master of Laws on the king’s small council and insisted on dragging him and his siblings to King’s Landing with him. Harwin had asked to remain under the care of Uncle Simon, who was now castellan, but his father had replied, “You are my heir, not his. You will learn to rule from me.” He knew he should have been happy that his father had earned such a prestigious position, but he couldn’t help feeling angry that he had to give up his home because Otto Hightower had convinced the king to move his brother to the position of Master of Coin.

If Larys shared Harwin’s reluctance, he did not show it. Harwin noted that his little brother solemnly expressed his negative emotions, instead maintaining an air of calm acceptance whenever things went wrong for him. From an early age Larys barely reacted to cruel japes about his clubfoot, and so it fell to Harwin to silence his brother’s bullies. With his fists, if need be. If they encountered the same derision at court, Harwin was prepared to defend Larys as he always had.

His younger sisters Elinor and Catelyn – Nelly and Kitty – on the other hand, were ecstatic. Nelly could not stop talking about the balls and tourneys she would surely enjoy, and Kitty had ordered a whole new wardrobe worthy of a lady of court. In this, Father indulged them, for the past few years had not been kind to the girls and they needed something to raise their spirits. His daughters had been born to his third wife, the only one he had married for love after having an heir from his first and a spare from his second.

Harwin’s mother had been Lady Norma Crakehall, a cheerful and friendly woman from what he had heard. He never knew her himself, for she had died of a bad tooth when he was babe. He had a few, scant memories of his first stepmother, Lady Annabelle Bolton. She had been a quiet, serious figure before she drowned, and Larys had undoubtedly inherited her temperament.

His second stepmother, Lady Selima Upcliff, had been the one to raise him. She had been married once before, but her sons had each died before they could walk, so she opened her heart to Harwin and Larys as thought they were her own. She was no more intimidated by Harrenhal than Harwin was and had lent an eager ear when he wished to ramble about whatever topic interested him that day. Last winter, a brief but violent illness took her away from them. Shattered by the death of his love, Father decided he would not marry a fourth time.

Another reason Harwin did not wish to leave: all his fondest memories of Mother Selima resided at Harrenhal.

Yet, despite Harwin’s reservations, the Strongs packed their belongings, selected a group of retainers and servants to accompany them, and made their way to King’s Landing. While Father directed their party and ensured the proper delivery of their belongings, Harwin kept his siblings occupied and tried to make the journey less of a trial.

The city was crowded and noisy and stank abominably for miles beyond its walls. The Red Keep looked like a child’s toy compared to Harrenhal, though Harwin had to admit it had been solidly and handsomely built. He kept those feelings to himself. His sisters giggled and squealed at everything they saw, and he did not want to dampen their spirits. Larys, as always, was difficult to read, but Harwin did not think that was of much concern.

The Strongs received spacious, richly furnished chambers on the top level of Maegor’s Holdfast. After taking a day to settle in, they dined with the royal family and small council in the queen’s ballroom. The king greeted them warmly, taking time to thank Father for taking the position on such short notice. The queen, heavy with child, introduced them to her daughter Princess Rhaenyra. Despite being the king’s brother and now the Master of Coin, Prince Daemon did not attend the dinner, almost certainly his way of expressing his displeasure with the change. Elsewise, the evening passed comfortably. By the time dinner concluded, Father had eased into the king’s circle and his sisters had swiftly befriended the princess and the Hand’s daughter.

Later that night, as Harwin changed into his nightclothes, his father requested to see him. He found Father sitting in front of the hearth in his new solar with a small flagon on the table beside him.

“Would you enjoy some hippocras after dinner?” Father offered as soon as Harwin was seated. He answered yes, and a manservant poured his glass. “Harwin, I want to thank you for your conduct thus far.”

“Thank me?”

“I can tell this change has not been easy for you, yet you have borne it well. You never complained, even when I denied your request to remain with Uncle Simon, and supported your siblings while I made the preparations. Especially Nelly and Kitty. Gods know how it relieves me to see them smile again.”

“I only did as a firstborn son should,” Harwin shrugged.

“Accept the praise, my boy,” Father chuckled. Then his mood become more thoughtful, “I never told you much about my older brother, Wayland, did I?”

“I know of him, but not much.” Harwin replied.

“He was much like you, my son.”

“Big and strong?”

Father answered, “Kind. Steadfast. Devoted to Family.”

“Well, I am those because you and Mother Selima raised me to be,” Harwin replied.

“Yes, we did,” Father contemplated. “As a boy, I admired him greatly for how assured and patient he always was, even when things were difficult. He was only three years my senior but felt thrice as wise. Will you permit your father a moment of sentimentality?”

“Of course,” Harwin said, not sure what to expect. It was not often they sat together sharing such feelings.

“I never expected to have any of this. Titles, wives, children. It was all meant for Wayland. I had been at the Citadel for three years and forged six links for my chain before my brother’s death. That year saw an outbreak of grippe sweep across the Riverlands. Your mother survived it, but my brother did not. And I, who by then had hoped to become an archmeaster in the study of law, found myself torn from my studies and drop in my brother’s place. Sometimes, I wonder if the realm would be better served with Wayland in Harrenhal and myself in Oldtown, but I suppose it’s not my place to question the will of the gods. He is gone, and I must try to fill the space he left behind.”

“Well, in my view, you’ve filled it quite well,” Harwin stated. “You are a good lord, and more importantly a good father.”

Father smiled broadly, “Harwin, in two moons, you shall be six-and-teen, a man by law and custom. I have high hopes for the kind of man you’ll become.”

Harwin and his father sat by the fire for another hour, drinking and enjoying each other’s company, before going to bed. This conversation would rest in the adolescent boy’s mind for a long while afterward.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra woke in the middle of the night with a persistent pain in her lower belly that made it impossible for her to sleep. As she lifted her head from the pillow, the child noticed a strange dampness between her legs.

“Alicent,” she moaned in pain. “Wake up.”

The other little girl grumbled slightly as she turned and opened her eyes. “What is wrong, Rhaenyra? Did you have a nightmare?”

“My belly hurts so badly. Please get the maester,” Rhaenyra begged. “It hurts.”

Still only half-awake, Alicent stumbled out of bed and felt her way to the door. She found the door to the servants’ quarters by memory and commanded the first maidservant she saw to fetch one of the castle maesters for the princess. The maidservant, Livy, hastily lit a candle, and when the light struck Alicent realized for the first time that her nightclothes were stained with blood.

Fear jolted her fully awake. Alicent checked herself for injuries for half a second before realizing that the blood must have come from Rhaenyra. She raced back to Rhaenyra’s bedchamber with another maidservant, Sara, at her heels.

“Oh Rhaenyra!” Alicent cried as she threw open the door. Now illuminated, the scene horrified her. Her best friend lying prone on the bloodstained bed, clutching her torso in pain. “Do something!” she commanded Sara.

“There’s no need to panic,” Sara said to Alicent in a patient voice. “Her red flower is blooming, that’s all.”

“What does that mean?” Rhaenyra demanded. “I feel like I’m dying!”

“You will not die, your Highness,” Sara assured her. “Your flowering is a sign that you will soon be able to bear children. It is messy and painful, but such is as the Mother wills it.”

“No,” Rhaenyra shrieked. “I don’t want to bear a child! I don’t want this. Make it stop right now!”

“My sympathies Princess, but only the Mother can stop your bleeding,” Sara apologized. “And that won’t be for many, many more years.”

Rhaenyra growled and threw a pillow at the wall in frustration. “I hate this!”

“You are not alone in that sentiment,” Sara replied. “But fear not, in time it will seem less like a nightmare and more like an inconvenience.”

A few minutes passed and Livy returned with Maester Jesson, who proclaimed the princess perfectly healthy upon examination. The maidservants ushered Rhaenyra and Alicent into a bath to wash away the blood as their bedchamber, bedsheets, and nightclothes were thoroughly cleaned. After they had redressed, they were given instructions on how Rhaenyra was to remain sanitary as her flower bloomed. Maegelle arrived to find the girls sitting together as Rhaenyra drank a special tea that was meant to sooth her pains.

“Aunt Septa, the worst thing just happened to me,” Rhaenyra complained. “My flowering. What an ill-suited name for such an unpleasant experience! I woke up in pain and covered in blood. There’s nothing flowery about that. I thought it was dying until the maidservants explained it to us. This is a curse!”

Maegelle gasped in surprise, both because of the timing of her grandniece’s womanly flowering and the force with which she denounced it. “You have my sympathies, sweetling.”

“Holy Sister, may I ask something about the flowering?” Alicent waited for the septa’s nod before posing her question. “My mother told me that the flowering occurs when a girl becomes a woman, though that is all she would say. How can Rhaenyra become a woman before me when I am older? Should not I have flowered first?”

“Rhaenyra is now a maiden, but she won’t truly be a woman until she turns six and ten. As for why she flowered so young, the Mother does not explain why she gives her gifts to some sooner than others.”

“I’d be happy to switch places with you if it were possible,” Rhaenyra muttered.

Maegelle looked at Rhaenyra sadly, then said to Alicent, “Please give us the room, dear.”

Alicent curtsied and complied with the request.

“Now I’m supposed to marry Laenor and have children,” Rhaenyra lamented. “Or try to, like Mother. And there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. I’m afraid, Aunt Septa.”

“Your marriage to Laenor will not take place until you come of age, five years from now.”

“Then what’s the point of flowering now? I must bleed every month for five years for nothing, and then I must bleed in the childbed.”

“That is the way of the world. Men shed blood on the battlefield, women shed blood in our beds.”

“You bleed as well? Even though you vowed to never have a husband or children?”

Maegelle nodded. “Worry not. When you are fully grown, you will be able to handle the trial of childbirth safely.”

“Mother is older than me, but she’s never safe when having babes,” Rhaenyra noted sadly. “None of her babies lived except me, and everyone worries for her health when she is carrying one.”

“It is a misfortunate I pray you never experience,” Maegelle wrapped her arms about her grandniece and pulled her close. Rhaenyra readily accepted her comfort. “I came here to tell you something important: your mother has just gone into birthing chamber.”

Rhaenyra pulled back, her eyes wide with horror, “Now? She is having the babe now?”

“Yes. Elsewise she’d be here with you now, rather than me,” Maegelle replied.

Rhaenyra gritted her teeth and began to breathe more quickly. Tears began to form in her eyes as she remembered her mother’s past two miscarriages, and the stillbirth she had at Harrenhal. Once she thought she’d been getting a little brother, but he never drew breath when the midwives pulled him from her mother’s body. Something was certain to go wrong again. It would hurt her mother so much to lose another babe, and worse, her mother’s wellbeing was at risk as well. Rhaenyra paced around the room, stifling her sobs.

“Sweetling, I understand your worry, I am worried about them well, but working yourself into a frenzy will not help your lady mother,” Maegelle cautioned.

“Then what can I do to help her?”

Maegelle gently took the girl’s hands, “Pray with me. Prayer is the only weapon we have that will aid her in this battle.”

The day passed in a suffocating quiet, broken only by the queen’s screams growing louder as the labor progressed. No one in the castle feared more for her fate than her daughter, who also dealt with the blood and pain of womanhood, albeit on a smaller scale. That, in a twisted way, made Rhaenyra feel a little closer to Aemma. The sun had peaked shortly before the screaming stopped and one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting arrived in Rhaenyra’s chambers to relay the outcome.

“Thank the gods, Princess,” she stated with a beaming smile. “Your lady is well and just given birth to a beautiful, healthy little boy. You’re father’s heir.”

Tension melted off Rhaenyra’s shoulders. She wiped her tears as Maegelle led her to the birth chambers to meet her new little brother. Only her parents were inside, so Maegelle allowed them privacy. Viserys walked slowly around the room, looking down at the bundle in his arms with the largest smile Rhaenyra had ever seen. Aemma lay on the bloody bed, ashen and exhausted but alive, a gentle smile on her lips as she watches her husband and son.

“Mother, I heard the good news,” Rhaenyra burst in.

Both parents looked at her, eyes full of joy and love.

“He lives,” Aemma was so tired, her voice came out as a croak.

Viserys walked over to her and placed the bundle in her arms. Rhaenyra looked into the face of her baby brother, the sweet little boy her mother suffered for years to bring into the world. He was so small and fragile and pink, this future king.

“What is his name?” she asked.

“There ought to have been a King Aemon, and now there will be,” Father answered proudly.

“Hello Aemon,” Rhaenyra greeted the child in her arms. “I’m your big sister.”

Chapter Text

Life at the royal court had begun to shift more and more as time passed, and Alicent despaired of it. The betrothal between Rhaenyra and Laenor Velaryon had been put in place a few years earlier, but now that Rhaenyra had flowered, the matter became more serious. Princess Rhaenys would fly Rhaenyra to Driftmark for several days every few weeks so that she would become more familiar with the island and its people. Otherwise, Rhaenyra would now spend her mornings serving wine to the small council, now that she was her father’s new cupbearer. After training, lessons, and prayers, she would visit her new brother in the nursey.

Gone were the days Alicent had Rhaenyra all to herself for hours on end. Other young ladies stuck to her side; as her father explained, they hoped to gain influence through their connection to the princess. Laena became a lady-in-waiting for Rhaenyra as she would one day marry her brother. The queen had also installed Elinor and Catelyn Strong as additional companions to the princess.

Finally, Julia Hunter had joined Rhaenyra’s circle of highborn companions. She and her brother Barristan, the king’s squire, were the niece and nephew of Princess Rhea Royce, who had married Rhaenyra’s uncle Prince Daemon. Julia was of an age with Alicent and Rhaenyra, her brother a year older. They both had the classic Royce look: stern features, thick black hair, and dark brown eyes. Julia’s temperament did not match her appearance, for she was a cheerful and lighthearted girl. Alicent knew little of Barristan, for he kept to the king’s side.

However, Alicent’s place in Rhaenyra’s bed remained constant. At the end of a long day, they each other and could talk without interference from others. It was on one of these nights, Rhaenyra asked, “What is Oldtown like?”

Alicent took a moment to answer. “To be honest, I hardly remember. I was so little when we came to King’s Landing. I think I remember my nursey, but not much else. My parents have told me about the High Tower, the Starry Sept, and the Mander, and I can see them when I close my eyes. But I’m sure if those are true memories, or just my imagination.”

“I would like to see Oldtown,” Rhaenyra yawned. “Grandmother Alyssa and Uncle Daemon visited once, and she liked it more than he did.”

“Perhaps we should,” Alicent beamed. “You could meet the rest of my family and we’d have a lovely time.”

Rhaenyra had already fallen asleep. Alicent smiled fondly, tucked her friend in, and got under the covers herself.

The following day, as she ate luncheon with her family, she posed the notion of visiting Oldtown to her parents.

“A sound idea,” Father said, “But such a trip would have to wait. The king and queen are still adjusting to having a new babe, and it is doubtful they would have comfortable letting their daughter take such a long journey without them. When the time is right, I will raise this notion to the king.”

Alicent contented herself with that answer and continued trying to adjust to the changes in her life.

At the same time, a rather curious development began to occur between Vaeryn Fyre and Barristan Hunter. Circumstances beyond their control had positioned the two boys in opposition to each other. The former was Prince Daemon’s bastard son, whose very existence irked his estranged wife, Princess Rhea; the latter was that same lady’s nephew and presumed heir. Many would assume that some conflict would fester between the boys, yet to everyone’s surprise, the exact opposite happened.

As they were both the king’s squires, their duties brought them in proximity. Viserys made it known that he disliked conflict, and so upon meeting they each resolved not to trouble the other.

Barristan had expected the worst of Vaeryn. His Aunt Rhea sometimes complained of her troublesome, wayward husband and he assumed the son would be the same as the father. Or rather, worse, for he had often heard it said that bastards were cruel and brutish by nature. They were born outside the union of message and lacked the blessings of the Lord and the Lady. Yet, Vaeryn was quiet, dutiful, obedient, and prudent, everything his father was not. Barristan struggled to understand this, that despite his tainted blood, Vaeryn carried himself as well as any trueborn prince, while Prince Daemon acted as he’d been told to expect bastards to act.

Confusion gave way to curiosity. Barristan wanted to know more about the oddly (in his eyes) courteous bastard. Vaeryn had been uncertain whether to accept the hand extended to him; he feared opening himself up to deception and further ridicule. Eventually, he began to spend a little more time talking to Barristan after training in the yard, taking horse rides with him outside the castle, and eating meals with him. Barristan was bright, charming, and vivacious, making it difficult for Vaeryn not to grow attached. Vaeryn had never had a genuine friend before, and his growing bond with Barristan both excited and unsettled him.

King Viserys delighted to see his young squires getting along so well, especially since Vaeryn had been a rather lonely boy beforehand. The rest of the court found their friendship strange, but harmless. Prince Daemon would sometimes mutter about “the Vale boy” always spending time with his son, though he never made any effort to get between them. Daemon did not have the easiest time understanding the boy he had taken as his own, but he understood that Barristan filled a space in Vaeryn’s life that he couldn’t. For that reason alone, did the Rouge Prince tolerate this friendship.

Regardless, the novelty of this friendship lastly very briefly before the court’s attention focused once more on the youngest prince, Aemon. The long wished-for heir was the pride of his father and the joy of his mother. The king could barely hold a conversation without his son, so happy he was that the prophecy he had received at Harrenhal had finally been realized. The weight in Aemma’s chest lifted now that she had averted the fate her grandfather had laid out for her, should she fail to bear a son. She loved and treasured him, her son, who came to free her from fear and shame. The grief of losing her other children never went away, but Rhaenyra and Aemon made her strong enough to carry it.

In the face of this adoration and praise, Aemon was the same as any other child his age. He ate, slept, and grew as other babes did. He turned his head at the sound of his mother’s voice, tugged on his father’s hair, giggled when his older sister held him, and dozed off when his grandmother sang him lullabies. Weeks turned into months, and nothing seemed amiss. The Targaryens felt at ease knowing that Viserys finally had a son to succeed him. Hopefully, Aemon would grow into a manhood and be ready to accept the crown when his father passed.

Hopefully.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had to thank Ser Otto for convincing her father to permit her to journey to Oldtown. Unlike his grandparents, who were famous for their royal progresses throughout the realm, Viserys often remain in King's Landing, enjoying the splendor and pageantry of court. Harrenhal, the Eyrie, and Storm's End were the only places outside the Crownlands she had ever visited. She and her retinue took a carriage south on the Roseroad until they reached Bitterbridge, and from there they took a swift riverboat down the Mander. Alicent accompanied her, of course, as Oldtown was her place of birth, as well as Laena, Nelly, Kitty, and Julia. Aunt Septa acted as their chaperon.

They passed fields lush with grain and orchards yielding fine fruit, sunlit plains and grassy hills. The blush of spring suited the Reach quite well, for there was nowhere in the duchy that they were not enveloped in the scent of a blooming wildflowers, forming a thick, multicolored carpet as far as the eye could see. When the party stopped at Highgarden, the duke and duchess hosted them with warmth and enthusiasm. Edgard had gone to Red Lake to serve as a page for his uncle, Ser Steffon Crane, leaving Alys to rule to the roost. Aunt Gael had borne two more children since Rhaenyra last saw her, a little girl named Giselle and a baby boy named Lyam. She beamed when Rhaenyra noted that Lyam bore a striking resemblance to Aemon and said she hoped the boys would become friends when they were older.

The fortnight spent in Highgarden gave Rhaenyra time to observe her grandaunt's marriage. As of late, she had been thinking more and more about her own impending marriage to Laenor Velaryon. Rhaenyra had just turned four and ten, only two years away from coming of age, and had taken to studying marriage with more care and interest than the lessons assigned to her. Lord Matthos attended to her grandaunt's every wish and whim, and she had nothing but love and adoration for their children. If this marriage could yield happiness, perhaps Rhaenyra's could as well.

Afterward, they reached their intended destination: Oldtown, the oldest city on the continent, and previously the largest before King's Landing outgrew it. Oldtown had been destroyed and rebuilt countless times in its long history, and this latest iteration boasted a sea of stone: massive stone walls encircling the city, streets paved in cobblestone, stone houses and septs and shops and of course, the High Tower itself. The seat of the Hightowers rested upon Battle Isle in the Whispering Sound, its beacon burning bright for miles. The lower levels contain a black stone labyrinth. When Rhaenyra tried see this labyrinth for herself, Lord Hobert laughed and said that her grandmother had tried to do the same things years earlier. The same response remained unchanged: the labyrinth was forbidden.

Apart from that boundary, the Hightowers were naught but accommodating to Rhaenyra, if a little overbearing. She couldn't step in any room without someone asking how she liked the city or if she needed anything. But Rhaenyra took it all in stride, for they were her beloved Alicent's family. The Hightowers had prepared a field on the outskirts of the city for Syrax to stay and brought her the finest goats and cattle to eat. Rhaenyra felt amused by the way the Oldtowners gawked whenever she flew on her dragon; the people of the Crownlands had long grown accustom to the sight of dragons overhead.

Alicent felt remarkably at ease in Oldtown despite leaving when she was a young child. Perhaps some old memories remained buried inside her, for the salty spray of Whispering Sound made her feel like a little girl again. Alicent became reacquired with her many cousins, though she remained closer to the friends she had grown up with in King's Landing. As dearly as she loved them, Alicent felt a little out of step with her Hightower relatives as her upbringing had been notably different to theirs. She had blushed when her cousin Ormund pointed out that she no longer spoke the Common Tongue like an Oldtowner, but like a Kingslander instead.

"That's because she is a Kingslander," Rhaenyra had scoffed. That statement had made Alicent feel a little ill at ease, but she just changed the subject.

All seemed to be going well, until early one morning when a raven arrived from King's Landing. Dark wings, dark words, Hobert thought as he summoned the princess to his solar.

Recently roused from sleep, Rhaenyra wore a robe haphazardly thrown over her nightgown and a silk wrap covering her hair. Her eyes were half-lidded with tiredness as she said, "Good morrow, my lord. Why do you have need of me at such an hour?"

"Apologies for waking you, your Majesty. A message has arrived from your father and...I am truly sorry. Your brother, Prince Aemon, has passed away."

Rhaenyra blinked in confusion, "What?" Hobert handed her the note. Her fingers trembled as she took the scroll and unfolded. There, in her own father's pen, were the words that would haunt her for years to come. Aemon had fallen ill and despite the diligent care of the maesters, he took his last breaths in their mother's arms.

No, not again, Rhaenyra thought was growing horror. Not another of her little siblings gone. She thought back to how happy she had been when Aemon was born, the relief and joy of her parents. Memories flashed before her eyes: holding him in her arms, watching his unsteady first steps, hearing him gleefully cry "Neewa!" when she entered his nursery. Rhaenyra had last seen her brother the day she departed for Oldtown, covering him with kisses as he wrapped his chubby little arms around her neck. Aemon, so sweet and happy and lively, how could he be gone? Her poor mother, her poor father. What had they done to earn such a cruel fate?

Tears threatened to spill and a sob worked its way up her throat. "Excuse me, my lord," Rhaenyra croaked. She did not wait for his response before she ran out of his solar. Rhaenyra hardly noticed the alarmed looks from those around her as she flew through the halls, into her borrowed bedchamber, and fell to her knees weeping. Her ladies came to her side at once.

"Nyra, what happened," Alicent cried as she wrapped her arms around her crying friend. Laena knelt beside them and placed a comforting on her cousin's shoulder. Nelly, Kitty, and Julia knelt a little further away, wanting to be near her, but not overcrowd her. As the young girls whispered comforting words to Rhaenyra, Septa Maegelle gently took the note from her grandniece's hand. When she read it, tears sprang from her eyes as well.

A pall overcome the Seven Kingdoms. In Oldtown, the entire city wore black to mourn their prince, and the beacon of the High Tower turned violet in his honor. The High Septon ordered that seven hundred candles be placed at the Wayfarer's alter in the Starry Sept so that they might guide the little prince's soul to a peaceful afterlife. Old women wailed in the streets, and mothers brought their young children to be blessed by the septons.

Plans were made to return the princess to her parents as soon as possible. She would fly back to King's Landing on Syrax, briefly stopping at Highgarden and Bitterbridge to catch some rest. Her retinue would follow behind in the same manner they had arrived. Rhaenyra would have preferred to take Alicent with her, but Syrax was still too small to carry another passenger, especially for such a distance.

The morning of her departure, Rhaenyra gave the Hightowers a heartfelt farewell and thanked them for their hospitality and condolences. After hugging her ladies goodbye, Rhaenyra went to the outskirts of the city ahorse, escorted by Septa Maegelle, Archmaester Vaegon, and half a dozen Hightower knights. Syrax had been fed a few hours earlier so that she would enough energy for the flight.

Maegelle pulled Rhaenyra into a long, warm hug. "Stay strong, my dear. Things are difficult now, but all troubles must end eventually. Be a good girl for your father and mother. I will be there for you soon. I love you."

Rhaenyra wiped a stray tear, "I love you too, Aunt Septa."

"Let us hope the queen bears another son soon, and that this one lives," Vaegon said, "I don't believe the Seven Kingdoms will survive Daemon taking the throne."

Rhaenyra recoiled, "My parents are still grieving."

"They are the king and queen, they cannot allow grief to distract them from their duty. Nor must you. If the Sea Snake has any sense he'll push the king to marry you to Laenor upon your return so that you may bear a son in your mother's place. Whether he succeeds is another matter, for bearing a son did not ensure his wife's ascension."

Maegelle squeezed Rhaenyra's hand reassuringly, "You ought to leave now while the weather is still clear. Send Gael and her children my love."

Rhaenyra sulked as she mounted Syrax and took to the sky. As they flew far enough away to be but a yellow blur in the sky, Maegelle glared at Vaegon.

"Did you not have a single kind word to give a child who just lost her only brother?" Maegelle hissed at her brother.

"Useless platitudes are not my idea of kindness," Vaegon scoffed. "She needs to prepare for what is to come."

Maegelle sighed. "Once, when we were young, you said there was value in brutal honesty. That was why you were always so harsh toward Daella. Now I realize that you value brutality more than honesty. You weren't trying to help Daella then, just as you aren't trying to help Rhaenyra now."

Vaegon's expression was stony. "Judge me however you like, I know the truth of my intentions. Do you think I lose sleep over people's opinion of me?"

"Sometime I wonder if you sleep at all," Maegelle lamented. She mounted her horse and rode away as quickly as she could, leaving her brother behind.

Chapter Text

The return to Highgarden pained Rhaenyra. She had melted into Aunt Gael's gentle embrace, only to be driven to tears once more when she looked at Lyam, the boy who looked some much like Aemon. She wished her cousin no harm, but grief made it difficult for her to be around him. Fortunately, Uncle Daemon arrived at Highgarden a day later to escort her the rest of the way home. There was something soothing about flying alongside another dragonrider, an connection that no one else in the world could understand. After stopping at Bitterbridge for the night, the pair returned to a city draped in black.

Uncle Valerion met them at the Dragonpit with an awaiting carriage. Rhaenyra noted the sorrow in his deep blue eyes as he greeted them both and gave her his condolences. Inside the castle, Rhaenyra asked for her father, but Uncle Valerion replied, "He has asked to be alone, princess. When he is ready, he will send for you."

"And my mother?"

With a heavy heart, Valerion led his grandniece to the nursery, where Aemma sat in a rocking chair clutching Aemon's favorite blanket to her chest. Aemma rose and wiped her tears when she saw her daughter. Rhaenyra ran into her mother's arms, and for a moment, they simply stood in a tight embrace, comforting each other.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Rhaenyra muttered.

"Don't blame yourself," Aemma smoothed back her daughter's silvery curls, "You couldn't have known."

"The last time Aemon saw me, I was leaving him."

Aemma took Rhaenyra's face in her hands, "Don't think like that. He knew how much you loved him, and he loved you as well. Alright?"

Rhaenyra nodded, tears streaming down her face.

They spent the rest of the day together, helping each other through their pain.

The following morning, Viserys summoned them both to his solar. Grief had worn him down as a river wears down a stone, Rhaenyra thought as she took in his haggard appearance. "My girls," he sighed as he took them both into his arms. "Rhaenyra, I'm glad you're home safe."

"Hello Father. I'm sorry for Aemon."

"As we all are," Viserys agreed. "You didn't deserve to have your brother taken."

The royal family took time out of their schedules to enjoy each other's company, slowly healing from the loss together. Viserys began leaning on his brother more and more, while Rhaenyra found herself growing closer to her bastard cousin. Vaeryn had gifted her a puppy whelped by his father's favorite bitch, who she named Blossom. He taught her how to take care of the spirited little creature, which filled the lonely hours she would have otherwise spent wallowing in sadness. Vaeryn is now the nearest thing I have to a brother, Rhaenyra realized.

One day, Aemma summoned her daughter to her chambers and said, "My dear girl, come fly with me." Leaving Blossom in Vaeryn's care, Rhaenyra accepted her mother's request.

Skyshield had grown large enough to ride in the years since Aemma had claimed her. Despite having ridden with others, Aemma still found herself nervous when she took the skies herself. Not today however. For the first time, Aemma felt entirely still as she flew Skyshield to Dragonstone along with Rhaenyra on Syrax. They soared through the clouds together, side by side. For a while, the cavernous grief inside Rhaenyra quieted, and she felt nothing but the peace and satisfaction of a moment alone with her beloved mother and their cherished dragons. Too quickly, the peaks of Dragonstone came into view and before long they landed on its black sand beach.

A small, somber welcoming party had been assembled to escort them to the castle. Ser Maenor Qoherys would have arranged a modest feast in their honor, but Aemma had written ahead to inform him that such effort was not required, for she and her daughter would not linger long. After a hearty dinner in the privacy of Aemma's chambers, she took Rhaenyra down to the crypt in the lower levels of the castle.

Guided by torchlight, Rhaenyra took in the sight of the rows and rows of urns placed on basalt loculi. Small plagues named the owner of each urn: Jaehaerys and Alysanne, Aegon and Visenya, even Daenys the Dreamer. They were made of gold or silver, some were even Valyrian steel. The oldest urns, the ones that had been taken from Valyria before the Doom, were engraved with pictures and glyphs. The newer ones were ornamented with gems and precious metals. Aemma stopped in front of a loculus with a new, polished urn of white gold and sapphires, and tears began to stream from her eyes.

"My brother doesn't belong here," Rhaenyra whispered, correctly guessing who the urn belonged to.

"No, he doesn't," Aemma agreed. "But he is here, and we can't have him back. Am I cursed? I have only ever asked for the Lady's mercy, and yet she scorns me."

"You deserve none of this, Mother," Rhaenyra stated. "You're a wonderful wife, mother, and queen."

Aemma squeezed Rhaenyra's hand, "I love you Rhaenyra, so much, and I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"I hadn't only failed the realm, but you as well," Aemma whispered. "Your father wanted to wait until the matter had been settled, but you deserve to know. Your marriage to Ser Laenor Velaryon has been preponed. You will wed by the year's end."

"What?!" Rhaenyra cried.

"I'm sorry, my love, but the Velaryons and Baratheons have been insistent. Right now, you are your father's only child, which means you have a strong claim to the throne."

Rhaenyra shuddered as she remembered Uncle Vaegon's cold words. "But it won't work! If Father has no sons, then Uncle Daemon is the heir, not me. Aunt Rhaenys was passed over for her male kin, surely they must now it means nothing if I wed Laenor sooner rather than later."

"They will make it mean something. The Velaryons are invaluable allies, and the Baratheons are a great power. They will not hesitate to ensure we remember that."

"What are you saying? That they will try to make me queen so Laenor can be king?"

"Lord Corlys is nothing if not ambitious, and Lady Jocelyn has fought to protect her offsprings' rights for many years. They are hoping that your father and I do not have another living son, and will instead settle for either you or your son by Laenor. Your father is certain, without a doubt, that his son will succeed him and so we are trying yet again to conceive."

"Do you want to try again, Mother?" Rhaenyra asked softly. Aemma's miscarriages were not something they spoke of often. "I know in the past...What do you want?"

"I want...I want this to be over," Aemma admitted. "Do you remember when we went to Harrenhal?"

"A little," Rhaenyra replied. "I remember that you lost a babe there."

"While I lay in bed, still bleeding, my grandfather came to me and set that if I failed to provide the realm with a male heir, that I should allow you father to set me aside for another woman." Rhaenyra became so angry, she didn't know how to respond. Aemma continued, "His words have haunted me every since. I don't want to try again, but I must. It is my duty. My honor is on the line."

"Father cannot do that you," Rhaenyra cried in disbelief. "He wouldn't. He loves you."

Aemma gave her a pained smile. "I want to believe you're right, but love isn't all that matters to a king. Your father and I maintain a delicate balance. He may set me aside for a woman who can give him sons, but that would lead to conflict with the Vale. Few lords wish to see Daemon ascend the throne. Your father plans to remove him as Master of Coin due to complaints from his small council, though he is loathed to. If your father has no sons, either by me or another woman, the Velaryons surely will pit you against your uncle."

Rhaenyra clenched her jaw at the thought of being made Uncle Daemon's enemy. "What do you think the Velaryons would do if you have a son, and he grew to manhood?" she asked.

"The most desired outcome would be that they wed your daughter to him, provided you have one, or a daughter of Laena's. But that leaves Daemon with nothing, especially since he has no desire to sire a trueborn child upon his wife by which to claim Runestone. And then there are the Lannisters to consider. We can only guess what Aunt Viserra's intentions are, acquiring power for herself and her children more likely than not, but she has proven herself underhanded and untrustworthy. Gods preserve us, so many egos and only one Iron Throne."

"I hate this," Rhaenyra hissed.

"So do I," Aemma admitted softly. "But sometimes we must live with the things we hate. Especially us women."

Mother and daughter stood in the crypts a while longer, thinking of the past and dreading the future together.

Chapter Text

The months leading up to her wedding filled Rhaenyra with dread.

Her mother was newly with child and this pregnancy had been troubled from the start. Aemma became violently greensick every single morning, and she had no energy with which to carry out her queenly duties, duties that instead fell to her aunt Alyssa. Rhaenyra struggled to watch her mother's poor state knowing that she would share the same fate in the near future.

Shortly after the announcement of their upcoming wedding, Laenor had taken Rhaenyra aside.

"I take no pleasure in admitting this," he said as they walked through the castle gardens. They were far enough away from the other courtiers to speak freely, while remaining within sight. "But as my bride this concerns you directly, and I wish for no secrets to lie between us. My nature is inclined toward my own sex, rather than yours. I care for you very much, but I do not believe I can ever desire you."

"Thank you for your honesty," Rhaenyra replied awkwardly.

Laenor grimaced, "Regardless of our personal feelings, we shall be required to produce an heir. And a spare, likely. I cannot promise that the process will be pleasurable, but I swear that I will never hurt you."

Rhaenyra turned away from him, scowling. "Fine," she said in a clipped tone.

"Have I offended you?" Laenor asked.

"No, not you, I just..." Rhaenyra looked back at him. "You are a lovely person, Laenor, but I don't want to marry you. I don't want to marry, at all. Half the time I think of flying off on Syrax to parts unknown, but I don't want to leave my mother behind. I cannot stand the thought of becoming pregnant and having to give birth when it's brought my mother naught but suffering."

"It brought her you," Laenor pointed out. "And you are the greatest joy in her life."

Rhaenyra's expression softened. "That is kind of you to say. I suppose if I have no choice in the matter, it's better that it's you."

"Rhaenyra, I sympathize with you. Your fears are well-grounded. But we must have an heir." Laenor looked uncomfortable and slightly guilty. "I have tried to...to lie with women. To ensure that I could perform my marital duties. My efforts have not gone well. I beg that you be patient with me, more patient than Aunt Viserra was toward Uncle Gaemon."

"Oh," Rhaenyra realized. Though it had occurred before her birth, Rhaenyra had heard stories of how Aunt Viserrra had publicly shamed her brother for his impotence and demanded a dissolution of their marriage. Now she was the Dowager Duchess of Casterly Rock, and he had taken the black to escape the humiliation. "I would never do that to you Laenor, even if we never have children."

Laenor did not relax. "If we never have children, it would reflect poorly on us as well as our families. I will not force you, but please consider the position we are both in."

"I have considered it," Rhaenyra snapped. "All I've done is consider the implications of this match. The pressure placed on me to subject myself to the childbed knowing it threatens my life. I didn't asked for any of this."

"Well neither did I," Laenor replied. "I never wished to marry either, to be made to lie with a woman I don't desire. But so long as we are tied together, please work with me to make this marriage a success. My family has been snubbed enough times, and I don't want this to be another humiliation they must tolerate."

Rhaenyra sighed. Despite her dread, she truly felt bad for Laenor. "I understand. But promise me this: once I have borne your heir and spare, we stop lying together. If I miscarry more than once, we stop lying together. I will not place myself at risk any more than is strictly necessary."

Laenor thought on the matter, and nodded, "Very well. I swear by the Seven and the Fourteen, I will abide by your conditions."

The day of her wedding approached faster than she liked. Lords from across the realm flocked to King's Landing for the festivities: her kin from the Vale, Laenor's kin from the Stormlands, their aunts and uncles and cousins from their scattered corners.

A fortnight before the anticipated date, Jason, Tyland, and Marlessa Lannister made a spectacular entrance on their dragons. Jadeclaw was a little smaller than Seasmoke, and Seabright was still about the same size as Syrax. Honeyglass was by far the smallest of the three, only just large carry to Marlessa aloft. The residents of King's Landing gaped at the sight of three unfamiliar dragons circling above the city seven times, unsure of their intentions. Then they landed at the Dragonpit, and the worry dissipated.

When the Lannisters greeted the royal family, Jason kissed Rhaenyra on both cheeks and said, "How you have blossomed, my dear cousin! I daresay I have never felt more envious of another man than the moment I laid eyes upon you, the fairest flower in the realm."

Tyland showed more restraint. "Congratulations to both you and Laenor. It is unfortunate that we have not been able to see each in a while, for we are sorely happy to share in this celebration with you. Our mother was unable to travel, but she sends her regards."

"Truly," Marlessa added with a subtle smile. "I pray you and your groom experience the same joys that your mother and father have."

Rhaenyra forced herself to remain calm, "Your kind words are greatly appreciated, cousins. Please, feel at home."

Too quickly, the day of the ceremony arrived. Rhaenyra and Laenor married in the Sept of Remembrance, for the Royal Sept was far too small to house all their guests. She wore the maidencloak Grandmother Daella had worn when she married Grandfather Rodrik many years: a heavy drape of black velvet studded with rubies and garnets in the shape of their family's three-headed dragon. Grandmother Daella had shed a tear when she placed it on Rhaenyra's shoulders, and Rhaenyra had no choice but to say that she loved it and was proud to wear it.

Father escorted her to the alter where Laenor stood waiting, looking about as nervous as Rhaenyra felt. Perhaps he truly does dread this as much as I do, she thought. Uncle Corlys stood just off to the side, as proud as a peacock. Aunt Rhaenys smiled, but her expression was much more sedate than her husband's. Mother stood next to them, trying her best to look happy. Her pregnancy had no yet been publicly announced, and her belly was still flat enough that no one could tell just from looking at her.

Despite her reservations about the marriage, a part of Rhaenyra wished Aemon could be here.

When they reached the alter, Father removed her maiden cloak and stepped back that Laenor could replace it with the bridecloak. It was blue silk, the Velaryon seahorse embroidered in cloth-of-silver with a massive aquamarine for its eye. Between the speeches, the prayers, and the vows, the ceremony dragged on and on. Rhaenyra had the vows pounded into her since she was eleven, and could recite them in her sleep if need be.

"May the Father ensure harmony and fidelity between us. May the Mother bless us with many sons and daughters. May the Warrior protect us in dark and stormy times. May the Maiden preserve our pure and honest love. May the Smith craft a bright future for us and our children. May the Crone guide us toward goodness and away from evil. May the Stranger permit us a long, happy life together. By these Seven Who Are One, I swear from today, for as long as we both shall live, that I shall be yours and you shall be mine. In peace and in war, in sickness and in health. We shall eat from the same plate and drink from the same cup. Where you live, I shall live. Where you go, I shall go. Your blood shall be my blood, your joy shall be my joy, and your sorrow shall be my sorrow."

Septon Nathon raised his crystal high above his head, bathing them both in rainbow light. Rhaenyra noted that the heartfelt expression on his face seemed honest. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he intoned. "I do solemnly proclaim Ser Laenor of House Velaryon, heir of Driftmark, and Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the Realm's Delight, man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

The bride and groom shared a passionless, but affectionate kiss that was met with a roar of cheers.

The wedding party and guests return to the Red Keep for the celebrations. Uncle Corlys had reached into his deep pockets and pulled out a lavish twenty-one course feast, complete with an army of singers, musicians, mummers, acrobats, jugglers, pyromanceres, and even a trained tiger from the far east that performed tricks on command. The finest vintages in the realm flowed freely from flagon to cup, Dornish Red and Arbor Gold and Volantene Red and Lysene White. The happily drunken guests gorged themselves on hot pademain crusted in herbs and lathered with cream cheese; freshly hunted venison and boar; massive aurouches that been fattened for weeks; slow-roasted swan, heron, and crane; herring, salmon, and trout caught from the Blackwater, along with oysters and crabs; lemon cake, apple cake, cream cake, and smokeberry pie drizzled in honey.

Rhaenyra had no appetite. At the start of the feast she accepted a bite of pigeon pie from her new husband - she had a husband now - and in turn fed him one, but only because that was expected of them. After managing half a bowl of dolphin stew and three glasses of mead, Rhaenyra could consume no more. She took to the dance floor, first with Laenor, then her father, her goodfather, her uncles and cousins, save Vaeryn. She had approached him, but he bashfully rejected her, saying it would be unseemly for a bastard to dance with a princess, especially on her wedding day. Then with the most prominent lords and knights in attendance, accepting their empty flattery and pretending to pay attention to what they said.

The guests presented her and Laenor with an array of exquisite gifts, but Rhaenyra was stressed to appreciate them. The only gift that caught her attention were a pair of Dornish sand steeds given by Ser Nymor Dayne on behalf of his goodbrother, the Prince of Dorne. A graceful blood bay stallion for Laenor and a proud black mare for Rhaenyra.

"The Dornish have seen how our family and dragons have multiplied," Laenor whispered in her ear. "It makes them nervous."

Night eventually fall. Rhaenyra shuddered as Jason drunkenly called for the bedding. All too quickly, a horde of men came upon her. Someone stripped her bridecloak from her shoulders. She turned to find it in the hands of Vaemond Velaryon, Laenor's uncle. Someone else stripped her left glove off her hand, and she nearly tripped when someone else yank off her shoes. When she had centered herself enough to focus on the men stripping her, Rhaenyra noted that Jason had pulled down her stockings and placed a kiss on her knee. Cousin Leowyn, Aunt Amanda's eldest grandson, laughed in her ear as he ripped apart the fastenings of her corset. Robin Tully tore off her skirt, leaving her in her petticoats.

Just as she started to become overwhelmed, Uncle Valerion parted the rowdy men and lifted her into his arms. "Are you well?"

"No," she squeaked.

He smiled sympathetically as he carried her to the bedchamber. She only had on her shift and innermost petticoat, with her right stocking hanging precariously from her foot. Uncle Velarion placed on her on the bed in the chamber she was to share with Laenor, kissed her forehead, and left her alone.

Laenor arrived shortly afterward. The ladies at the feast and taken his doublet and shoes, but left his undershirt, breeches, and stockings. "Well, they were certainly enthusiastic," he joked weakly, though his tone betrayed some discomfort. "Are you ready?"

"Just get it over with," Rhaenyra hissed.

Chapter Text

The Wall was weeping, Gaemon noticed. Thin ribbons of dew slid down its icy surface. The Wall never truly melted, but this was a good indicator that summer would soon be upon them. The four years of spring he had spent on the Wall had been colder than any winter in the Crownlands. He hoped this summer would last just as long. Winter is Coming, the Starks warned, but it would not come for a while.

Today he would led a ranging north of the Wall, accompanied by Ser Taelys Qoherys, Ser Kentley Manning, Ser Fredrik Toland, and Ser Paul of Misty Moor. Ser Fredrik, a Dornishman, had been sent to the Wall after a succession dispute among his kinsmen a decade ago; he had supported the wrong cousin. Ser Paul had once been a hedge knight, but a string of misfortune fifteen years earlier had driven him north for the promise of a bed and a full table.

"M'lord, your horse is ready," Marc brought Banner to him, fulled tacked up and burdened with supplies. The young steward was a common lad of four-and-ten, having joined the Watch at the age of five because his parents had too many mouths to feed. Rich or poor, young or old, innocent or condemned, the Watch turned no one away.

"Good, thank you," Gaemon answered. "Inform the First Ranger that we are soon to depart."

Marc nodded and marched to the Lord Commander's tower.

Gaemon took Banner's reins and walked to the entrance of the tunnel where his brothers waited for him.

"He finally shows his face," Fredrik japed.

"Good morrow to you as well, Freddy," Gaemon replied, unfazed. He greeted his other brothers, and they examined their supplies and equipment one last time as they waited for their superiors to see them off. Their mission was not expected to be particularly exciting, but half a hundred things could go wrong in the untamed far north. They needed to prepare for the worst.

"My lord," Taelys said. "The weather should be in our favor for at least another two days. It's unlikely we'll experience another snowfall in this warmth."

How life on the Wall twisted one's notion of warmth, Gaemon though wryly. "A prudent observation," he acknowledged.

As the watchmen finished their inspection, First Ranger Umber approached. Isak Umber stood taller than almost every other man in the Watch. With his broad chest and powerful arms, he cut an intimidating figure as he marched toward them. He wore his dark brown hair long, and his beard as well. At forty, the First Ranger was only a few years older than Gaemon but had been on the Wall more than thrice as long. He had joined once his father died and his eldest brother become the Lord of Last Hearth.

First Ranger Umber addressed Gaemon in a brusque tone, "What is the current status of your mission?"

"Five able men fully prepared and willing. We have five horses, our arms and armors, and enough previsions to last a month beyond the Wall. I estimate that this ranging shall take three sennights if all goes as planned."

"Then I'll expect you back in five, southerner," First Ranger Umber scoffed.

By now Gaemon had learned it better than to let his commander provoke him. "As you say, my lord."

First Ranger Umber looked over the other men. "Try not to get killed," he told them, before walking away.

Gaemon mounted Banner and rode ahead of his companions. The Watch's garrons were a short, sturdy horses, sure-footed on the ice and covered in thick coats to protect them from the bitter winds. Ahead of them sat the heavy oak door to the main tunnel leading to the other side of the Wall. Behind it were the three iron grates and dozens of murder-holes lining the ceiling. He was no stranger to the lands beyond the Wall, having served as a ranger since he took his vows four years earlier, but his skin always prickled when he crossed the threshold.

The team conducted their typical patrols on the north side of the Wall for the first sennight, before moving on to their true objective. They followed the ranger's roads, the familiar game trails carved out by watchmen long dead, further north. The haunted forest swallowed them whole, but Gaemon felt no trepidation. In the past four years, he had learned the names of every tree, flower, bird, and beast that called this gloomy wood home. He knew the hills and valleys and streams, and only had to look up at the stars to find his way through. And he had crossed swords with men and women who knew the forest better than any watchman.

Gaemon and his men reached the village ten days into their ranging. A dozen one-room houses huddled together beside the stream bed and encircled the common pasture where the wildlings kept their animals. Two young boys, one of whom Gaemon recognized, had been fishing in the stream. When they saw the rangers approaching, they quickly gathered their catch and fled into the one of the houses.

Unperturbed, the rangers continued until they reached Inga's place. Gaemon walked to the entrance of the little wooden house and announced himself in the northman's tongue.

"Come in, dragon prince," Inga croaked. "What do you want now?"

She and her daughter Valdis sat in the center of the room mending clothes. Inga was a petite woman in her sixth decade. The deerskin shawl on her shoulders seemed to envelop her small frame. Her long gray braid clung to a few strands of black, and a spiderweb of wrinkles folded her skin. The gods had taken her sight years ago, but her hands remained strong, quick, and clever. Valdis, near in age to Gaemon, was taller and stouter than her mother, with black hair and a pretty but expressionless face. Unlike her mother, she did not know the northman's tongue, only the old tongue of the First Men. Valdis did not look up from her work to acknowledge the rangers.

"Same as always," he said. "A roof over our heads and some of your wisdom."

"And what am I to have in return?" Inga replied, as usual.

"We will share our meat and mead. A new axe - my brother Harley told me of the one that broke. A new pair of daggers for your grandson," Gaemon briefly pictured Sylas running from the stream with his friend, "three pairs of boots, and a shadowskin."

"Shadowskin?" Inga reached out her hand expectantly.

Gaemon handed her the pelt of the shadowcat he had slain, skinned, and butchered four moons earlier. Black as midnight, with white stripes. Shadowcats were fearsome creatures with wickedly sharp claws and curved fangs. They solemn attacked men, but this one had been starving after three broken teeth made it difficult for her to hunt her preferred prey. She had hoped Gaemon would be a easier target, to her regret.

Inga carefully threaded her fingers across the long, thick fur. "Since when are kneelers so generous?" she asked suspiciously.

"We expect you to be as generous with your information," Gaemon answered. "Unless you are not inclined to make the exchange. In which case, we shall gather our belongings and trouble you no further."

"Of course, I see," Inga laughed. She turned to Valdis and said something in the old tongue. Valdis' placid expression gave way to anger as she argued with her mother. Though far from fluent, Gaemon had sufficient knowledge of the old tongue to know Valdis was warning against further entanglement with the Night's Watch. One word stood out: greedy. Inga turned back to him and said in the northman's tongue, "The shadowskin. Nothing more."

"What is the shadowskin worth?"

Inga's smile was razor sharp. "I know of a man who has the notion that one day soon, he'll be king beyond the wall."

The rangers paused and looked at each other. Every so often, some wildling chief or warrior got the idea to unite the disparate tribes and bands who inhabited these frozen lands. Inevitably, they would march on the Wall, intent on crushing the Watch and pillaging the lands to the south. This was very thing soft of thing the watch had been founded to prevent.

"Of course, he doesn't want you crows to know about that just yet," Inga continued. "I don't know much else - honestly - but it certainly is interesting, wouldn't you say?"

"What is his name?" Gaemon demanded.

"If he has one, I haven't heard it," Inga shrugged. Her ease contrasted with the anxious strain on Valdis' shoulders as she tried to focus on her sewing.

She's lying, Gaemon knew. The old woman told them all she was willing to, at the moment, but there was more she was hiding. Dealing with Inga was always a pain, but a cooperative wildling was an asset the Night's Watch could not afford to lose. "Very well. We shall spent the night, and be on our way."

Chapter Text

Alicent gently tugged on the sleeve of her dark blue dress. Only had a day had passed since the formal mourning period for her mother had ended, and she did not yet feel ready to start wearing color again.

So much had changed in the past year. Prince Aemon's death had thrown the kingdom into despair. The marriage between Rhaenyra and Laenor's marriage had brought a spark of hope for all but the bride and groom. As Rhaenyra's closest friend, Alicent was privy to the discomfort the young couple endured for the sake of their family's expectations. Queen Aemma had announced that she was with child shortly after the wedding, though the pregnancy had left her frail and sickly.

Only a little while later, Mother had fallen ill. It began with a mild, but persistent cough. They had all assumed she would recover before longer, but instead her condition rapidly deteriorated. By the end, Lady Jesma lacked the energy to speak or open her eyes. Alicent had never felt more helpless than when she knelt at her mother's bedside, holding her hand as she breathed her last, troubled breaths.

Alicent took a breath to center herself. It was hard to keep moving on without her mother, but she had no choice. Alicent had duties to fulfill and a future waiting for her.

She break her fast with her family that morning in his solar. Her rooms in the Tower of the Hand had gone oft unused in the past, but with Rhaenyra now a married women, she shared her bed with her husband most nights. Not her best friend.

"Are you well this morning?" Father asked sincerely. She noticed that although her father had set aside his mourning blacks just as she had, but the grief in his eyes had not faded.

"As well as I can be," Alicent admitted quietly. "And you, Father?"

"Good," he said, though he did not sound it. An awkward moment passed before he continued, "Your mother wished for nothing more than your happiness. I think it would behoove you to find the joy in your life once more. That would honor her memory more than anything else."

Alicent gave him a small, grateful smile, "Then I shall endeavour to do so."

Gwayne, Trystane, and Percy arrived, freshly washed after a morning in the training yard. They ate their meal together with light conversation, though they were all painfully aware of the unfilled chair at the table.

By the time Alicent had reached the royal sept for morning prayers, Rhaenyra had already gathered with her ladies. Her best friend came over to embrace her, "How do you fare? I know the mourning period is officially over, but..."

"I am managing," Alicent admitted. "I still miss my mother, but my father thinks I ought return to normal life."

Whatever "normal" meant these days. Rhaenyra, despite being slightly younger, was a woman wedded and bedded. Though it had been more than half a year since the wedding, Rhaenyra was not yet with child. Alicent could not imagine Rhaenyra as a mother, for she was still so young. They both were. It had been surreal to witness her friend's childhood be abruptly cut short by the machinations of the court, only to herself be cast into the throes of grief.

Mother had died so soon after Rhaenyra's wedding that Alicent had almost entirely missed the start of her friend's marital life. The day after the wedding, Rhaenyra had confided in Alicent that the bedding ceremony had been awful and humiliating. She would not talk about the bedding itself, saying that she had promised Laenor to honor his privacy. Alicent understood the duty wives owed their husband, but she couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy that Laenor now had a claim over Rhaenyra that Alicent could never challenge.

Then Mother's health declined, and such petty jealously went to the back of her mind.

Once more, Alicent pulled herself from her dark thoughts. "I need to pray," she whispered.

Alicent walked over to the alter of the Mother, and stared up into the lovely gaze of Queen Rhaenys. Tears threatened to spill as she remembered the many mornings spent kneeling with her mother praying for the goddess' protection and blessing. When she was little, she didn't understand the purpose of prayer. Mostly she had just wanted to talk with Rhaenyra. But the heartache caused by her mother's death had brought her to knees over and over again. Now when she prayed, she felt her mother's love envelop her, and she that the gods carried her prayers to her mother. That had been Lady Jesma's final gift to her.

A tall figure approached her from the last. Alicent turned to see her granduncle, Ryam Redwyne. Instead of his Kingsguard armor, he dressed plainly in brown and dark green. He was getting older, she noted, his fiery red gone mostly to white and deep wrinkles lined his face. The death of his dear niece had aged him, Alicent thought as a lump formed in her throat. He was still strong despite his age.

"Uncle Ryam, are you well?" Alicent asked softly.

"Worry not for me, dear girl. This old heart has weathered many storms. Uncle Ryam's eyes glistened with tears. "You are the very image of your mother, blessed with her kindness and piety. And you are as prudent and dutiful as your father. The best of Redwyne and Hightower."

Alicent could not help but hug him. She and Uncle Ryam lit two candles and prayed before the Mother together. The heavy sensation in her chest slowly began to dissipate as she prayed. When Alicent looked to her granduncle, he seemed to be in better spirits as well.

"I have found prayer rather soothing as late," Alicent admitted. "I feel my mother with me when I stand before the Mother's alter."

Uncle Ryam smiled fondly at her, "Jesma will be with you always. You and your brothers were the best parts of her life, and her love for you will transcend her death."

"I believe that. Father says that I would honor her to continue living, rather than to remain in mourning."

"He is right," Uncle Ryam nodded. "You have a whole life ahead of you, though it hurts that your mother will not be there to see it." He glanced to where Rhaenyra and the others stood waiting for Alicent. "Go with your friends; they will be a great comfort to you."

Alicent kissed her granduncle on the cheek and bid him farewell. When she regained their friends, she heard Nelly and Kitty chatting happily about a tourney.

"A tourney?" Alicent asked with a tiny glimmer of excitement.

"My father's idea," Rhaenyra answered.

Laena added, "The king is certain that the babe in Aunt Aemma's belly will be another son, and he plans to celebrate the birth of his new heir with zeal."

"I have the same hope," Alicent noted, her mood lightening further. She turned to Rhaenyra, "After everything they've been through, the king and queen deserve some respair."

Rhaenyra's amethyst eyes softened with love and gratitude, "Then let us hope these tragedies are at an end."

Chapter Text

This tourney is an unnecessary expense, Alyssa thought wryly as she watched from the royal box. Especially less than a year after Rhaenyra's lavish wedding.

She had managed to talk her eldest son down from his more ostentatious ideas, but he would not budge on the notion of riotous celebration to accompany the birth of his new son. Without much evidence toward the belief and with much against it, he was certain that the babe in Aemma's belly was a healthy son. He sat at the center of the royal box with the most content expression on his face, not a worry in the world. Alyssa hoped that for her gooddaughter's sake and the sake of the realm, that his assumption would prove correct.

Aemma had begun her labors the night before and would likely produce the child by the end of the day. Her mother and sisters had remained in the city to care for her during the pregnancy, and all three of them had opted to remain in the birthing chamber with her as the tourney commenced. Aemon's death had left her unsteady on her feet, and this lasted pregnancy had left her still more delicate. The poor girl could not handle another blow, Alyssa feared.

Once, many years ago, Alyssa herself had lost a child. A little boy named Aegon, who had fought so hard to stay in this world, but was forced to leave them just short of his first nameday. Alyssa had nearly died shortly after giving him birth. Her brush with death had terrified Baelon so deeply, that he could not stand the thought of risking her life in the childbed once more. When they had first married, Alyssa had promised to give him an army of sons, but he insisted on releasing her from that promise. Viserys and Daemon, two healthy, happy, loving little boys, were more than enough for him.

Daemon had a boy of his own now (although Vaeryn was not truly his), but Viserys was not satisfied with what Aemma had given him. Doubtless he loved Rhaenyra, but she could not inherit his throne. Poor Aemma had been so hard on herself regarding her poor fertility.

At least she had seen her only child safely married. Aemma had been against the notion of Rhaenyra marrying before the age of six and teen, but her fears had proved unfounded. Laenor was a caring and gentle husband, and the alliance with House Velaryon had stabilized the realm. For now.

The fly in the ointment was Rhaenyra's continued melancholy. She had not yet recovered from the loss of her little brother, and marriage had done little to lift her spirits. If anything, it had worsened her stated. She had been sullen during the entire wedding and snappish the morning after. More than once, Alyssa had overheard her granddaughter complain that her parents had tossed her into a cage and given the Sea Snake the keys.

Rhaenyra and Laenor cared for each other, that much was plain to see, but there was no spark of desire between them. At the time of the betrothal, nothing had seemed amiss, but as Laenor grew to manhood, it became apparent that he did not have a young lord usual tastes. Whether this would affect the conception of children remained to be seen. Pity stirred in Alyssa's chest when she observed the state of her granddaughter's married, to know that Rhaenyra would never experience the joy being sharing her life with a man she loved with all her heart.

Alyssa thought back to her own wedding with a bittersweet smile. She had known for her entire life that she and Baelon were meant for each other. Alyssa could not remember a time before Baelon. She had been raised from birth to be his wife. Her mother used to tell her that she found follow him around since she could walk, to his annoyance. After the gods had ripped him away from her, Alyssa had felt a immense chasm open within her. Who was she without him?

She had no shortage of suitors when her mourning period ended, but Alyssa did not entertain a single one. Even now, years after his death, she still belonged to her brother. If the impossible happened and she found a man who matched Baelon, Alyssa would still refuse him. To be with another man would be a betrayal of Baelon's devotion to her. She was his sister, his wife, his widow, and the mother of his sons, and she did not wish to be anyone else.

Lord Boremund Baratheon, Duke of Storm's End, approached the royal box to request the favor of their shared niece. "I would humbly ask for the favor of the Queen Who Never Was."

Rhaenys smiled as she placed the crown of flowers upon Boremund's lance. Corlys, beside her, gave Boremund a knowing look.

It made Alyssa's stomach turn. All these years later, and these stubborn fools still nursed their bruised pride. She loved her niece and nothing would ever changed that, but her father had clear that Baelon and later Viserys were meant to succeed him on the Iron Throne, not Rhaenys. The king's word was final, yet Rhaenys and her supporters had argued against it, forcing Father to call a great council to settle the matter. No swords were raised when Viserys was affirmed as heir, thank the gods, but the coolness between their branches lingered. Alyssa had hoped that Rhaenyra and Laenor's marriage would heal the rift entirely, but although the crown could now depend on Velaryon dragons and ships, Rhaenys was clearly ever going to let the slight lie.

Upon Viserys's crowning, Alyssa found new purpose in preserving Baelon's legacy. She had intended to mold Viserys into the king his father should have been, but her son was set in his ways. He heeded her counsel, often, but there were too many others whispering in his ear. Alyssa did not dislike Otto, despite his enmity with her younger son. Sometimes, they even agreed on matters on governance. However, she felt uneasy with the extent of his influence over her older son. More often than not, Viserys would look to his Hand for approval on his decisions, like a boy seeking a pat on the head from his father.

If only he had Baelon's confidence, Alyssa lamented. He ought to sit the throne, and he would have been as great as Father, if not greater.

Daemon rode onto the field, to the deafening roar of the crowd. His tenure as Lord Commander of the City Watch had won him great love from the commons. Since coming into the office, Daemon had whipped the formerly listless city watch into a small army. Armed them, trained them, draped cloaks of gold upon their shoulders so that all would know them by sight. The goldcloaks, as his men had come to be known, prowled the streets each night harshly punishing any crime they saw - or suspected. To the honest folk, the goldcloaks were their protectors, and Daemon had made them so.

Though such conduct was unbefitting of a prince, Daemon walked among his goldcloaks as though he were one of them. Many a night he could be found drinking in the taverns and winesinks of Fleabottom or basking in the attention of the slatterns on the street of silk. Daemon had always been drawn to the pleasures of life, and neither his wife nor child nor offices had dulled his tastes, Alyssa noted with fond exasperation.

Her son chose to match against Gwayne Hightower, the eldest of Ser Otto's sons. The boy was seven and ten, new to knighthood; Daemon was nearly twice his age. The ended when Daemon knocked Ser Gwayne's horse to the ground and sent his young opponent tumbling into the ground. Alyssa shook her head. The move was permitted, but ill done. Daemon approached the royal box and requested the favor his Ser Gwayne's sister, Lady Alicent, to further annoy their father. He perhaps would have asked for Rhaenyra's favor, if she had not already given it to her husband.

Everything seemed to going well, until Alyssa noticed Otto whisper something urgently into Viserys's ear. Her eldest son's content expression fell to worry and fear. Her heart beat heavily in her chest. Something must have happened to Aemma, or the babe, or both. That is the only thing that could have rattled him so severely, so quickly. Alyssa followed Viserys as he rose from his seat, uncaring of the whispers that began to swirl around them and praying to any god who would listen for a safe and successful birth.

Chapter Text

The world seemed to tilt sideways when Otto whispered in his ear, "The grand maester says the queen's labors have go awry. You are needed in the birthing chamber immediately."

Without a word, Viserys rose from his seat and went to his wife as swiftly as his legs could carry him. Uncle Valerion stood outside her door. The sheer terror and helplessness on his uncle's face made Viserys' blood run cold. Viserys did not say a word to Valerion before barging into the room. He found his dear Aemma laying in bed, groaning and whimpering in pain, clutching Aunt Daella's hand so tightly she might have snapped it off.

"What is happening?" he demanded.

"The infant is in breech, Your Majesty." Grand Maester Mellos explained solemnly. "All attempts to turn the babe have failed."

Viserys hardly understood what that meant, only that something was wrong. Knowledge of birthing was the domain of women and maesters.

Aunt Daella must have recognized the look of confusion on his face, for she said, "The babe cannot come out because it is the wrong position."

Aemma's screams cut into him. "Do something for her!" Viserys cried, hoping someone knew how to help his wife.

"We've given her as much milk of the poppy as we can without risking the child," Mellos told the king. "Your queen is a strong woman. She's fighting with all her might, but it may not be enough."

"No!" Aemma cried, still straining in the arms of her mother. Aunt Daella stroked Aemma's sweat-soaked hair, whispering gentle platitudes in her ear.

"Aemma," Viserys went to her, kneeling at her bedside opposite of his wife's bed. "Aemma, I'm here. I'm here. You'll be alright."

"Your Majesty, if you would," Mellos took him the far side of the room and whispered. "During a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make... an impossible choice: to sacrifice one or to lose them both."

Viserys shuddered at the grand maester's words. Only hours before, he had been brimming with hope, so confident in his vision of a son to success, born with the crown of Aegon the Conqueror.

Mellos continued, "There is a chance that we can save the child. A technique is taught at the Citadel, which involves cutting directly into the womb to free the infant. But the resulting blood loss..."

"Seven hells, Mellos." Aegon's song, the prophecy of the icy doom to come from the North. He needed to preserve the Targaryen line to protect the kingdom, but at the cost of Aemma? He felt lightheaded. "You can save the child?"

"We must either act now or leave it with the gods."

Viserys thought of his great-grandmother, Alyssa Velaryon, who had been cut open to save the babe who became Jocelyn Baratheon, bride of Aemon and mother of Rhaenys. From my blood comes the Prince that was Promised. The dagger at his hip had never felt heavier than it did in that moment.

"We must," he could barely move his mouth to say the dreaded words, "We must save the child."

He turned back to Aemma's back, and his stomach dropped at the sight of her being comforted by her mother and sisters. If they knew what he intended, they would fight to stop it. They would curse his name until their dying breaths. "Aunt Daella, Elys, Amanda, I regret that I must ask you to clear the room."

"She needs us," Elys hissed.

"At this stage, your presence does the queen more harm than good," Mellos interjected, sparing Viserys from having to explain the situation to them.

Viserys stood there as if in a trace, as a knight forced his goodmother and goodsisters from the room so that Mellos could see to his grisly task. He knelt at his wife's side, taking in her frightened and confused face one last time as he took her hand in his.

"My love, I don't understand. What is happening?" Aemma pleaded.

"It's alright." Shame burned white-hot in his chest. "They're going to get the baby out now. Don't be afraid."

Viserys saw Aemma's lips move to screaming "No! No!" but he had become deaf. A red tide flowed from Aemma's belly as the grand maester cut her open to remove the babe, but somehow the room did not smell like blood or anything at all. It was as if he had become a ghost, a passive observer unable to sense the world around him.

Then the babe cried out, and the realization of what he had done crushed him with the weight of the Dragonmont. "My love, my love I am so sorry. Oh my Aemma, I should not have, no. Please Aemma, don't leave."

But she had already left.

"Congratulations, your Majesty. You have a son." Mellos announced solemnly. The babe cooed softly in the grand maester's arms.

"It's a boy?" His dream had come to pass, but the cost was higher than he ever expected to pay.

"A new heir, your Majesty. Had you and the Queen chosen a name?"

"Baelon," Viserys answered. For his late father. Would his father have done the same to his mother, in his position? He would not imagine Baelon the Brave using the woman he loved so cruelly, so what did that make him? "Anyone who speaks of word of what happened in this room shall have their tongues removed. The queen died in childbirth, that is all that need be said."

The Grand Maester and midwives all bowed their heads and answered, "Yes, your Grace."

"Send for my daughter...Not here. In my solar. She must meet her brother."

Viserys sat in his solar looking down at his son. Baelon, so small and frail, carried the future of their dynasty upon his tiny shoulders; Viserys carried the weight of Aemma's death upon his. She had never seen him, the son they had prayed for so many years, the son he had killed her for. She left this world without even that comfort, only confusion and betrayal and pain.

"Father..." Rhaenyra's soft, worried voice nearly made his eyes overflow with tears. What was he to say to her? How could he tell her that he had killed her mother? That her sons and daughters would never know their grandmother?

As the silence dragged out, she reached an understanding. "Oh," she gasped and began to weep openly. She sat down next to him and cried into his shoulder. Still holding Baelon, Viserys lowered his head so that his brow rested upon the crown of her head.

Some time passed, and Rhaenyra composed herself enough to look him top to bottom. Only now did it occur to Viserys that he had not thought to change out of his blood-spattered clothes before meeting his daughter. How careless was he with Rhaenyra's feelings! Shamefaced, he looked to Baelon, still sleeping peaceful.

"I've been told his name is Baelon," Rhaenyra ventured.

Viserys forced himself to speak. He must answer his daughter; he owed her that and more, more than he could ever repay. "Yes. Your brother. I...your mother..."

"I understand, Father," she whispered.

No, she did not understand. Whatever she pictured, the truth was a thousand times worse. Viserys steeled himself to confess his dark deed, but with one look into his daughter's tearful amethyst eyes, his resolve crumpled like parchment. The thought of Rhaenyra hating him for the evil he had done to Aemma cut like a strike from Blackfyre. And Baelon, once he was old enough to know the truth...

"May I hold him?" She could have asked for his kingdom and in that moment he would have given it to her.

Rhaenyra rose to her feet and took Baelon into her arms. Her tears had resumed, softer and more quiet, and a sad, faint smile graced her lips as she took a turn around the room. She had a fondness for children, that was plain to see. And she would make a fine mother someday. He hoped Laenor would prove to be a worthy husband and father, a man better than Viserys himself, who would never treat Rhaenyra as he treated her mother. Viserys once thought himself a good man, but a good man would not have done as he had. Was there a good man to be found in the Seven Kingdoms?

"Father," Rhaenyra's voice was high and worried, breaking him out of his melancholy contemplation, "There's something wrong with Baelon."

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra returned from the funeral hollow and exhausted. She had wept ceaselessly since learning of her mother's passing. The tears only fell harder after her little brother, who had yet to see his first sunrise, drew his last breaths in her arms. She had cried until she cried herself dry, and there was nothing left inside of her.

The funeral had been torturous to endure. The sight of Grandmother Daella breaking down at tears as her only child and grandson burned in front of her was one Rhaenyra would never forget. Her Arryn aunts had been biting and hostile toward her father the entire time, for he had forced them from the birthing chamber before her mother died. "We should have there with her!" Aunt Amanda had lamented over and over again.

Father was so lost in his own grief that he had spoken a word to her since the tourney. He locked himself in his chambers day and night, doing only gods know what. It hurt that her father had shut her out, but at least Rhaenyra was not entirely alone. She had her friends, and her husband, and her extended family to mourn with. Alicent had long her own mother not very long ago, so she understand Rhaenyra's grief better than most. Rhaenyra was exceptionally grateful for her best friend's comforting words, and she sent a prayer in thanks to her great-grandfather for bringing Alicent into her life.

"Your Highness," Julia asked as Rhaenyra and her ladies finally reached her chambers, "Is there anything we can do for you?"

"No, but thank you," Rhaenyra muttered. "I would like to retire for the evening. Has anyone seen Lady Alicent?"

"Her father called her to the Tower of the Hand," Kitty answered.

Rhaenyra did not think much of it. "I see. Laena, will you share my bed tonight? I don't want to be alone." She needed the comfort of friendship, and if Alicent could not be with her, she wanted her cousin and goodsister.

"Of course, Nyra," Laena squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Her favorite maidservant, Agathe, undressed her and prepared her for bed. Afterward, Laena sat her down in front of her vanity and prepared her hair. They looked so much alike, she and Laena, like sisters. The same brown skin and silvery curls, full lips and purple eyes.

"Are...are you well, Laena?"

"Me?"

"My mother was your aunt and Baelon was your cousin. This is your loss too."

"Oh Rhaenyra," Laena finished wrapping Rhaenyra's hair. "You are sweet to think of me. I am well cousin, rest assured."

With that, they went to bed, Rhaenyra and Laena curled up in each other's arms with Rhaenyra's dog Blossom dozing peacefully at their feet.

Morning came, and with it came a summons from the small council. Otto Hightower had called a meeting on account of some urgent matter, and as the king's cupbearer, it was Rhaenyra's duty to attend. The last thing Rhaenyra wanted was to pour drinks for her father and his men. She would much rather remain in her chambers with her friends, but Laena had dressed her and urged her out the door.

The morning sunlight cast a soft glow into the small council chamber as the king's advisors entered, each wearing mourning blacks and solemn expressions.

"It brings me no pleasure to bring this report before you, your Majesty," Otto began. "But this intelligence must be brought to your attention. Last night, several hours after the funeral for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, gods rest their souls, Prince Daemon bought out a pleasure house along the street of silk where he was seen celebrating with officers of the City Watch and other friends of his."

Rhaenyra's breath caught in her throat. Surely Daemon could not rejoice at the deaths of his own cousin and nephew.

"Impossible!" Grandmother Alyssa cried angrily. "He loved Aemma as a sister and never dishonor her that way."

Withstanding the heat in her glare, Otto responded, "I have three credible witnesses who can support my accusation."

"Credible?" Grandmother Alyssa scoffed. "I shall be the judge of that."

"It shall be no trouble for me to bring them forward for your determination," Otto promised. "That is not where the concern ends. In this midst of this depravity, Prince Daemon raised a mocking toast to his late nephew, styling him 'The Heir for a Day'. Such conduct appalls all decent men, and the prince must answer for it."

The other members of the council looked stricken, Grandmother Alyssa more than the rest. Aunt Maegelle began to weep.

Father sat at the head of the table in stunned silent. A grim scowled formed on his face and his hands balled into fists. "I will deal with my brother," he growled.

Uncle Corlys began, "Your Majesty, if I may-"

"I SAID I WILL DEAL WITH HIM!" Father roared. The room seemed to shake from the force of his rage. Rhaenyra had never seen her father so angry in all her life. It frightened her.

Uncle Corlys recoiled, then nodded silently.

In a more restrained, but still angry voice, Father announced, "The meeting is adjourned. All of you, get out."

Rhaenyra wasted no time obeying her father's commander. She left arm-in-arm with Aunt Maegelle, noting that Grandmother Alyssa had gone with Otto.

"I can scarcely believe the Hand's account, but he is too sensible a man to make such an accusation without proof," Aunt Maegelle sighed. "Daemon has never made a secret of his impropriety, but this goes beyond the pale."

"Uncle Daemon wouldn't...I don't want to believe that he would do that," Rhaenyra frowned.

"None us want to believe it," Aunt Maegelle cupped Rhaenyra's cheek. "My poor niece, such misfortune has fallen upon our house, and upon you especially. But you are no longer a child, and do not have the luxury of denial. You must see things as they are, not as you wish them to be. However your father chooses to deal with Daemon, it will have consequences for us all."

Rhaenyra took a moment to consider her grandaunt's words. "Without Baelon, Daemon is my father's presumed heir, something my father will not be happy about it."

"Meaning..." Aunt Maegelle pushed.

"My goodfather will seize upon this moment to convince my father to name me as heir." Rhaenyra twisted the aquamarine ring Laenor had gifted her. "And he will be inclined to so, to spite Uncle Daemon. It will be more important than ever that I have a son, now that my mother..." She could not finish the sentence.

"Yes. You have a difficult road ahead of you, but you need not walk it alone. I will be there with you every step of the way, to guide you and keep you safe," Aunt Maegelle promised. Rhaenyra threw her arms around her grandaunt, thankful for her reassurance and loyalty. Aunt Maegelle hugged her back fiercely, her hand cradling the back of Rhaenyra's head. "I shall always be there for you."

Much later than night, when Rhaenyra would normally be asleep, Ser Harrold summoned her for an audience with her father. She followed Ser Harrold to the undercroft where Balerion's skull rested. A thousand candles flickered in the dark cavern, casting an strange glow on her father's tortured expression. She knew why he had called her.

"Father," Rhaennyra announced herself.

"Balerion was the last living this to have seen Valyrian in its prime, before the Doom wiped all trace of its greatness and its horrors from the face of the earth, leaving a smoking ruin behind. When you look at the dragons, what do you see?"

A test, Rhaenyra assumed. She looked up at Balerion with melancholy. She remember her father taking her upon the great, old dragon's back and soaring with her for hours. Balerion's very name cast fear into the hearts of men throughout the world, but Rhaenyra had never been afraid of him. He had been part of the family - their pride, their power, their protector. Now he was just a skull laid to rest deep beneath the castle. What made her father different than the First Men and Andal kings who had ruled bits of Westeros before Aegon the Conqueror took the continent for himself?

"I see...us. Everyone says the Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, but they say that because of our dragons. Without them, we're just like everyone else."

Father seemed satisfied with that answer. "The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They are a power men should never had trifled with, one that brought Valyria its doom. And, if we don't mind our own history, it will do the same to us. A Targaryen must understand this to be king - or queen."

Rhaenyra steadied herself. Queen. Not a consort like a mother, but a ruling queen. Rhaena had been the eldest child of Aenys the Kind, yet her younger brother Aegon had been named heir ahead of her. He would have sat upon the Iron Throne, if Maegor the Cruel had not slain him first. Aegon the Uncrowned left behind twin daughters, Aerea and Rhaella, but it was his brother Jaehaerys who succeeded Maegor. Once Jaehaerys had a son, his nieces were swiftly forgotten. Aunt Rhaenys had been the only child of the heir to the throne, yet it was her cousin, Rhaenyra's father, who now ruled the kingdom. At every step, every female claimant had been swept aside, regardless of how strong her claim. Would Rhaenyra someday join their company?

"I'm sorry, Rhaenyra," Father lamented. "I've wasted the years since you were born wanting for a son. But you are the very best of your mother. I believe, as I know she did, that you could be a great ruling queen. Daemon was not made to wear the crown, but I believe that you were. This is no trivial gesture, Rhaenyra. A dragon's saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm."

"Then it is a good things that I'm not alone," Rhaenyra gave him a small smile.

"Yes. Laenor and his family will protect your claim with the ferocity that is in them," Father answered. "But there is something else you need to know, a secret that has been passed through our family for generations. Each king had informed his heir, though others may know of it as well. My mother knows, as do Aunt Maegelle and Uncle Gaemon. You've learned about the Conquest since you were a babe, same as all children. What drove Aegon?"

"Ambition. He saw a land full of riches, where his people could spread their wings for the first time since losing their home."

"Yes, but that was only a part of it," Viserys explained. "A small part, I think. Aegon was a Dreamer, like Daenys before him. And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. It is to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant north."

"North?" Rhaenyra gasped. "Uncle Gaemon..."

"That is why he joined that Night's Watch. To study the lands beyond the Wall, so that we might know the threat coming for us."

"And what threat is that?"

"Aegon saw a terrible darkness rising at the ends of the world, a winter the likes of which have never been seen before, growing until it swallows the whole world in its depths. Beyond that, we do not know what we face, but it clear that there must be a light to extinguish the darkness. The light of dragon fire."

Rhaenyra's heart beat faster as the implications of her father's words caught up with her. The Targaryens were meant to save the world? That was why the Conqueror had claimed the realm and built the Iron Throne? And she was to join that legacy?

Viserys unsheathed the Valyrian steel dagger and wrapped her fingers around the dragonbone hilt. "Whenever this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros will have to stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne, someone strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and dark. Aegon called his Dream "The Song of Ice and Fire." You must promise to now carry it and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra..."

Chapter Text

Vaeryn's sharp, quick footsteps echoed against the stone floors as he stormed down the hall. As if in a daze, he burst into his friend's chambers. Barristan, startled by the intrusion, had been enjoying tea with his sister, Julia. She gave a frustrated little sign, and her vexation seemed to wake Vaeryn.

"My apologies," he stammered. "I have not been myself these last few days. I...wished to speak with you, Barry."

The Hunter siblings eased themselves, remembering Vaeryn's losses. His Aunt Aemma had filled the place of his absent mother, and her sudden death had left all of House Targaryen in anguish.

"I shall give you two the room," Julia excused herself.

After she left, Barristan offered Vaeryn a cup of tea, which he accepted. "My father has gotten himself disinherited."

Barristan could not say he was surprised. Prince Daemon, ever the rouge, enjoyed pushing the boundaries of what was considered appropriate. There were many at court who feared what would happened if he became king. Still, he did not say this to his friend. "Do you wish to talk about what happened?"

Vaeryn grimaced, "According to Ser Otto, my father was caught celebrating in a brothel."

"Celebrating what?"

It took a moment for Vaeryn to answer. "The certainty of his ascension as king."

Barristan's low opinion of his aunt's husband sank further. "Beastly. I'm sorry, he's your father, but..."

"I understand," Vaeryn brushed that aside. "It's just that...everything is going wrong all at once. Aunt Aemma, then Baelon, now my father. And before all that, Aemon's death."

"I wish there was something I could do to make this better," Barristan replied sympathetically.

"Thank you, but I doubt it," Vaeryn lamented. "My father wasn't just disinherited, but exiled as well. The king ordered him to return his wife at Runestone."

"Why should Aunt Rhea be punished as well?"

That got a short, dry laugh from Vaeryn. "She has my sympathies."

"What do you plan to do?" Barristan asked.

Vaeryn leaned back in his chair. "Remain at court. I still have a place as my uncle's squire, and your aunt made it quite clear that I am never to set foot on her land."

Now it Barristan's turn to grimace. He could not fault Aunt Rhea for her reaction to learning of her husband's bastard, especially since he refused to give her trueborn children of her own, but deep down he wished she turn her ire solely on Prince Daemon rather than Vaeryn. Even when Barristan had explained to her that Vaeryn was nothing like his father, her antipathy toward Vaeryn did not abate. Their friendship annoyed her.

A thought then came to Barristan. "If your father's been disinherited, who shall be your uncle's heir?"

"Rhaenyra," Vaeryn answered wistfully. "She delivered the news to me herself. Rather awkwardly, I must say."

"That should be interesting," Barristan huffed.

Vaeryn's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean by that?" he challenged.

"I mean no insult to your beloved cousin," Barristan reassured him, "but the realm will not welcome a female ruler with open arms, as Princess Rhaenys learned. The Vale will stand behind her, myself included, and the houses of the Narrow Sea more likely than not...but the rest?" Before Vaeryn could form an answer, Barristan continued. "Does it bother you?"

"That Rhaenyra is now heir instead of my father? Either way, my place in the succession remains the same, which is say, I still have none," Vaeryn answered. "That my father will be exiled? Of course it does. I owe everything to him. It feels remiss to enjoy the comforts of court without him present."

Barristan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "He fulfilled his obligation to care for the child he sire, as many man of honor would have done."

"Most lords would have sent me to a motherhouse and paid for my keeping, or fostered me with one of their bannermen. My father brought me into his own household and raised me at his side."

"That he has," Barristan conceded. Tentatively, he added, "Though he has steadfastly refused to answer your questions about your mother."

The air chilled. "Yes," Vaeryn admitted. "If he has done so already, he certainly will not be inclined to do so now."

"Why do you think he keeps her a secret?" Barristan wondered.

"It couldn't be shame, for my father has none."

"I can't argue with that."

"He has never shown any consideration for her, not even to speak ill of her," Vaeryn muttered. "I can't make sense of it, and it drives me mad."

"Perhaps you could try to find her yourself," Barristan suggested off-handedly.

"My father has despoiled maidens as far as his dragon can fly," Vaeryn tried to reign in his bitterness, "And frequented the street of silk longer than I have been alive. It would be like finding a pearl in the ocean. If I were to ask his whores if one of them were my mother, they would all say yes in hopes of getting close to royalty. Whores are not known for their honesty."

Vaeryn drained the last of his tea and placed the cup back on the table. Barristan considered his friend's situation more carefully.

"Are you sure it would behoove you to learn the truth about your mother?" Barristan questioned softly. "Perhaps there is a good reason Prince Daemon does not speak of her. Perhaps it would better for you to dream of what she might be like, rather than to know what she truly is like." After several minutes passed without a reply from Vaeryn, Barristan retracted his statement. "Forget I said anything. What do I know about these sorts of things?"

"I just want to know if she cared about me." Vaeryn stared out in front of him, not looking at anything in particular. His voice came dangerously close to cracking. "If I ever mattered to her at all."

The sorrow in his friend's voice pieced Barristan. Vaeryn rarely showed when he was hurting, as matter of pride. In all their years of friendship, Barristan had never seen Vaeryn cry, yet now his indigo eyes threatened to spill over.

"You matter to a lot of people," Barristan reassured softly. "Your aunts and uncles, your grandmother, Rhaenyra. Your father, for all his faults. And me, most of all."

A single tear ran down Vaeryn's cheek, but a genuine smile had formed on his lips. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, sincerely.

Chapter Text

It was the hour of ghosts by the time Alicent finally left the king's chambers. The halls were silent and empty, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The secrecy and half-truths of the past several days had left her feeling as though her entrails were twisted into knots. Despite her unease, she had obeyed her father's order to comfort the king after his wife's funeral. She had hoped it would only happen once, but instead, her father pushed her to spend more and more time with the king. Viserys had been far more receptive to her than she had expected. The interest in his eyes made her feel strange and awkward, but she stayed her tongue.

As she crossed a loggia, Alicent turned to look at the night sky. Bright twinkling stars scattered across a ink-black spread. What was she doing here, sneaking through the castle like a thief? Her father had given her orders, and the king wished for her company. She had no choice but to obey. Should she tell Rhaenyra? Could Rhaenyra help her out of this situation, or would she be angry at her? Perhaps nothing would come of this, now that Rhaenyra was heir to the throne, and eventually she could put this behind her. As if it had never happened at all.

"Ali?"

A thrill of fear spread through her. Alicent twirled to find Laena slowly walking toward her. Laena had dressed in a light summer nightgown with a sheer robe, her silvery curls loose. Alicent was painful aware of the more womanly dress she had worn at her father's urge, unlike what she usually wore.

"Hello Laena," Alicent replied, desperately trying not to sound as guilty as she felt. She had been caught, and now Laena would expose her. Rhaenyra would hate her, she would be shamed before the realm, her father would be disappointed.

"What are you doing out here so late?"

"I was running an errand for her father." That was not entirely false.

Laena seemed to accept this answer. She looped her arm around Alicent's, pulling her close as they continue walking together. "I had trouble sleeping, and I thought a walk would clear my head."

"What is it that troubles you?" Alicent asked.

"What doesn't?" Laena signed. "I miss Aunt Aemma."

"As do I," Alicent replied genuinely, guiltily. She has been dead for only a few weeks, and I'm already seeing her widower.

"And this whole mess with Daemon has only made things more tense. If there's a silver lining to all this, it's that Rhaenyra will be queen."

Alicent couldn't disagree. She had never taken her father's animosity toward Prince Daemon very seriously, but even she knew that the king's brother had crossed a line. Better the Realm's Delight than Lord Fleabottom. Despite being half her uncle's age, Rhaenyra was by far more dutiful and responsible. She had been training to the Countess of Driftmark since she was a little girl, and married Ser Laenor without complain despite her reluctance.

"And she'll be a good queen," Alicent replied sincerely. "She'll have us by her side."

Laena smiled at that. The two friends continued walking together in a comfortable silence. Alicent hoped Laena would think nothing of their odd little excursion. She dropped Laena off at the Velaryon's wing in Maegor's Holdfast before climbing to her own chambers in the Tower of the Hand.

Father had waited up for her. He sat in his solar surrounded by nearly burnt-out candles, his books and scrolls. Alicent always through her father seemed so wise and learned. It was no wonder he had risen to be Hand of the King, trusted to advise the king on matters of governance and enforce his will.

"How was your visit with the king?"

"It went alright."

"Just alright?"

Alicent faltered for a second. "He seemed to enjoy my company, but he's still very sad about Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon."

"Of course, a deeply tragic loss," Father nodded. "What did you two speak about?"

"He lamented that the Arryns are planning to leave court soon. They have already been here longer than planned, and need to return to the Vale. They're all quite angry with him because of what happened to Aemma."

"Her death was the will of the gods. Viserys had nothing to do with that."

"He admitted to me that he sent her mother and half-sisters from the room just before her death, and in their grief, they directed their anger and sorrow toward him."

Father looked troubled by this news. "A family divided is such an unfortunate thing. I certainly hope the king will be able to reconcile with his late wife's kin soon."

"As do I," Alicent agreed. "Especially for Rhaenyra's sake. She's caught in the middle of all this. I fear that I've not been a very good friend to her as late...because of my..."

"Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts, my dear," Father interrupted. "Rhaenyra is a resilient girl, with many loving friends and family to see her every need. Besides, she is quite focused on her husband and her studies. It is no great trouble if you are not attached at her side at all hours. Your friendship will surely survive it."

Alicent did not relax. "I trust that you are correct, Father."

"You know I would never steer you wrong, don't you?" His eyes gazed directly into hers in a rather uncomfortable way.

"No, never," she averted her eyes. "It's just that..."

Father sat up straight, and the sudden coldness of his demeanor froze her lips shut. His silence demanded her to finish.

"Rhaenyra would not be happy if she knew I was visiting her father without her knowledge," Alicent rushed out.

"Are you insinuating that I have sent you to do something wrong? Something worth the princess' anger?" His voice was frighteningly calm.

"I only meant..."

"After you just told me that you trusted my judgement? Do you think I have no regard for you?"

"I'm sorry," Alicent squeaked. "I should not have doubted you."

"Go to bed, girl," Father dismissed her. "The hour is late, and I can't have you sleeping through your lessons. I'll deal with you another time."

Tears were already forming in Alicent's eyes as she left for her own bedchamber, feeling even lower than ever. She just wanted to be a good daughter and a good friend, but now it seemed that those two roles were in conflict. As she lay in bed snuggled under her blankets, Alicent tried not to think about why her father insisted on having her visiting the king night after night. Or why the king was always so happy to receive her.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra stood like a status as Laena straightened the garland of golden sigils hanging from her neck. Once satisfied, Laena stepped back so that Alicent could place a ruby-studded tiara upon her head. Her hair had been elaborated braided and pinned into an updo. This gown weights nearly as much as my wedding dress, Rhaenyra mused as she examined herself in the mirror.

"You are a vision of beauty and power, princess," Nelly gushed. "The lords of the realm shall surely be eager to bend the knee to you."

She did not feel certain of that, but Rhaenyra smiled at her friend regardless. "Thank you, all of you. I'm not sure how well this will go, but I'm fortunate to have your support."

"You have nothing to worry about," Alicent reassured her. "You are well-loved by the nobles and the commons alike. Who wouldn't want you as heir?"

"Westeros has never had a ruling queen before," Rhaenyra pointed out.

"There's a first time for everything," Julia replied.

A maidservant interrupted them. "Your Highness," she curtsied, "Ser Laenor is without and wishes to speak with you in private."

Rhaenyra consented to the request. Her cousin walked in dressed fine blue, sea-green, and silver attire befitting his Velaryon heritage. Laenor acknowledged her friends as they politely exited the room.

"Do you feel ready?" Laenor took her hands in his.

She was growing accustomed to her marriage, which bothered her. She did not like addressing Laenor as her husband, nor her newfound duties on Driftmark, and especially not the trouble of conceiving an heir. There was no joy in it for either of them. They performed their marital duty during the window of time she was likely to conceive, but most of the time Laenor was not able to finish inside her. The practice of reporting the outcome of her monthly courses became more familiar, but no less uncomfortable. The only benefit to this match was that Laenor was a gentle and supportive husband, even if his spine was not as straight as his sword. He readily bowed to the demands of his elders and urged her to do the same.

"Does anyone ever feel ready for moments like?" Rhaenyra remarked. Although her tone was dry, she squeezed his fingers for reassurance.

A deep sadness appeared in her cousin's eyes. "Please take this seriously. The fate of Westeros changes today."

"I am taking it seriously," Rhaenyra replied defensively. "And I shall be the model heir from this moment forward."

Laenor extended his arm. "The model heir can hardly be late for her own investiture."

Rhaenyra accepted his arm and allowed him to escort to the great hall. Her father's face shone with pride as she slowly marched toward the Iron Throne, standing resplendent before the lords of the realm and her extended family. At the front stood Laenor's parents, grandmother, and granduncle. Uncle Corlys and Lady Jocelyn practically burst with smugness. All their scheming and preparation has finally paid of, Rhaenyra mused. She buried her resentment.

The Vale party had lingered in King's Landing only for her: Grandmother Daella, Aunt Jeyne, Aunt Elys and her son Paul, Aunt Amanda and her son Arwyn and grandsons Leowyn and Corwyn. Aunt Rhea had come with her sister Tessra and goodbrother Gavin, the parents of Julia and Barristan. The Velaryons and Baratheon were more loyal to each than either of them were to Rhaenyra, but the Vale was hers. The lords and knights of the Vale mourned her mother, adored her grandmother, and respected her grandfather. Moreover, their honor compelled them to shield and aid a scion of the Eyrie. They would be her truest allies.

Her eyes then turned to Aunt Meg, whose expression was a mix of happiness and concern. Grandmother Alyssa did not look happy, but Rhaenyra attributed that to Uncle Daemon's exile. He was Grandmother Alysaa own son, after all, and the one she had always been closest to. Her sweet cousin Vaeryn, in contrast, looked entirely at ease and nodded supportively when Rhaenyra caught his eye.

The frosty Lord Rickon Stark, the haughty Lord Ragnar Greyjoy, the elegant Lord Grover Tully, among others. Her Lannister cousins watched her and Laenor with unsettling blank expressions. Their mother remained quietly banished from King's Landing, but her presence lingered in the air like a strong odor. Aunt Gael had arrived with her husband and eldest son, who had by now grown taller than her. Rhaenyra smiled when she saw Alicent's uncle, Lord Hobert Hightower, remembering his kindness to her years earlier. But something about his demeanor felt off to her, and Rhaenyra considered talking to Alicent about it later.

The one face Rhaenyra did not find in this crowd was that her uncle Daemon. Instead of going to Runestone as commanded (to the relief of his wife), he had flew away with his whore to parts unknown. Rhaenyra wondered if she would ever see him again, if he had an explanation for his conduct. If he would have been willing to kneel to her, swearing to her as his future queen. Would her beloved uncle someday be the one to contest her rule?

Half the men in this room are waiting for me to fail, Rhaenyra noted. The thought of taking commands from a young woman seems absurd to them.

The rest of the day crawled along slowly. Each lord, lady, and knight knelt before her and recited the vows one by one. Rhaenyra's back and shoulders began to ache from the strain of having to stand still for hours, but not once did she waver. She kept her fingers clasped together rather than twirl and fiddle with her rings, as she was wont to do. Summer had come in full force and her ladies had dressed her in layers of silk, but Rhaenyra barely even sweat. She tolerated the discomfort, kept her breathing steady, and look each noble in the eye as they pledged themselves to her claim.

This is only the beginning. Claiming the throne was one matter, taking and holding it were challenges in themselves, both Aunt Rhaenys and Aunt Meg had warned her. For that, she needed the all-important male heir. Remember this almost made Rhaenyra lose her composure. She imagined herself sitting in bed, as her mother had the last time she saw her. Round with child, in pain, frail as parchment, with death breathing over her shoulder.

No one will protect me from my mother's fate, Rhaenyra lamented as a deep pit of dread opened inside her belly. If I died in childbed, they would be sad for a moment and then expect the same of whatever young girl has recently flowered.

No, not today.

When the ceremony at last concluded, Rhaenyra would have torn her attire piece by piece without her ladies there to calm her down and carefully undress her. Both Alicent and Laena slept beside her that night, and they did not shame her when the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Chapter Text

Viserys had not had cause to enter the Dragonpit in many years, not since Balerion had gone to sleep and never awoke. Though he had no desire to claim another dragon, deep in his heart it pained him to see his kinsmen and kinswomen atop their own mounts, a freedom that he would never know again. But now, a new and sharper pain pierced through him as he gazed into the eyes of Skyshield.

Aemma's dragon, whom she had bonded with down to her very soul.

The dragon's large blue eyes were full of grief and rage. The day Aemma had died, the dragonkeepers reported that Skyshield had let out an ear-piercing scream and thrashed the bars of her cage. It took days for her to calm down, but when she did, she had refused to eat. Eventually, she began to accept food again, but her spirits never rose.

Only now did Viserys have the courage to face what he had done to her. He could still remember the day Aemma had claimed her, the warmth and joy of her smile, the pride in her eyes. She had loved her dragon dearly, and the feeling was mutual. He felt that perhaps Skyshield had loved Aemma more than he had.

She had never done anything to harm her.

"I miss her so much," Viserys told the dragon. Skyshield only snarled at him. Yes, he deserved that. "Do you..." What was he doing, talking to a dragon? It was not as though she could answer him. Viserys pressed his hand over his heart. "Do you still feel her? Is there still some piece of her within you?"

Nothing had ever filled the hole Balerion's death had left inside him; it something he had learned to live with. Why would it be any different for dragons? Surely Balerion must have mourned Daenys the Dreamer, Aegon the Conqueror, and Aerea the Wanderer - perhaps even Maegor the Cruel as well. Skyshield had centuries ahead of her. How much more heartbreak would she be forced to endure?

He stood in front of Skyshield's cage until the first tendrils of dawn began to seep inside the Pit.

"Your Majesty, you have a meeting with the small council this morning," a dragonkeeper reminded him. "The carriage is waiting for you."

Viserys nodded, dismissing the dragonkeeper. After several moments, he squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, and said to Skyshield, "I'm sorry."

At the castle, he was bathed and new clothes were laid for him. The formal period of mourning had ended, but Viserys did not yet wish to give up his blacks.

As he walked toward the small council chamber, Corlys intercepted him. Viserys had no doubt what his kinsman wanted. For months, the Count of Driftmark had been pestering him for permission to launch his fleet against the Triarchy. His forceful pushes for war wore upon the king's patience. Corlys' son may have wed Viserys' daughter, but that did not mean Viserys felt compelled to grant him his every desire.

Truthfully, he did not understand why Lord Corlys made such a fuss over the ongoings of some pirates. Though Driftmark was losing some ships, the crown could easily compensate him for the lost revenue. The cost of going to war against three of the Free Cities far outweighed the value of what was stolen.

"If this is a matter that you wish to bring before the small council," Viserys cut Corlys off before he could begin, "then do so. But do not bring it up now."

Corlys nodded, but Viserys could see the annoyance in his eyes. Viserys tolerate his impertinence without rebuke, not only because they were kin, but also because the marriage between Laenor and Rhaenyra held great importance to the realm.

Laenor was this fine a godson as any man could ask for. He was gentle and caring toward Rhaenyra and had lovingly comforted her through the worst of her grief. It was well past time the gods blessed them with a child. He could think of no other couple who deserved one more. His daughter would surely make a splendid mother, and her husband as good a father. Why, then, had it been more than a year since their wedding without even the shadow of pregnancy to settle the matter?

Though he tried not to think about it, a part of Viserys feared that Rhaenyra might suffer from the same affliction that had tormented his precious Aemma for so many years.

"Your Majesty," Otto said solemnly, "It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you that Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, has passed away in his sleep."

"He was finest knight of his generation," Viserys responded. "May the Warrior keep him and may the Mother comfort your family in your grief."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Otto bowed his head.

"The Silent Sisters are preparing his body for burial," Uncle Valerion added. "He shall be sent home to the the Arbor with all honors befitting his station and service."

"Good. Ser Valerion, as king, I name you his successor. I have no doubt that you are fit to carry out the duties of Lord Commander."

Uncle Valerion's face changed into a strange expression, one Viserys could not name. "With all due respect, your Majesty, I must declined."

A ripple of shock went through the small council chamber. What sort of man would refuse such an offer?

"You decline?" Viserys asked.

"My pardons, your Majesty. I believe Ser Harrold Westerling to be more suited for this role than I. If it pleases you, I would earnestly recommend that your grant him this honor in my stead."

Viserys did not know what to do make of this, but he acquiesced. "As Ser Harrold was formerly my daughter's sworn sworn, that position now goes to you."

Uncle Velarion's face relaxed for the first time, and he gave a respectful bow. "As you command, so shall it be done."

Otto, who had watched these proceedings with interest, made another statement. "That is all well and good, but the Kingsguard must have seven sworns among its ranks. I have taken the liberty of selecting a group of exception knights, from whom your Majesty may select a suitable replacement for Ser Ryam."

Before Viserys could responded, Corlys interrupted to talk about the Stepstones once more. "My lords, your Majesty, we do not have time for such frivolities. The Triarchy grows stronger by the day, and who can say how long they will be content with picking off my ships."

"What would you have us do, Lord Corlys?" Viserys let his annoyance slip into his tone.

"Take the Stepstone by force of arms, burn out the Crabfeeder, and put an end to the Triarchy's encroachment on our waters!"

"You speak of war far too lightly," Viserys scolded. "Especially war with the Free Cities. The cost would beyond reason, both in coin and in blood."

"The war is coming to us," Corlys insisted. "The Triarchy is testing our resolve, and we are showing them weakness! They will escalate if we allow it. What reason does the Triarchy have to fear us? The king allows his own brother to seize Dragonstone, a seat that rightfully belongs to his daughter and heir, without so much as a scolding!"

"Don't you dare bring my brother into this!" Viserys hissed. "He will be dealt with in time."

"In time," Corlys scoffed. "And how much longer will you Craghas Drahar to spill the blood of Velaryon sailors?"

"I am acting within reason. I have already sent envoys to Pentos and Volantis to establish common cause."

"You have dragonriders, Father," Rhaenyra interrupted, speaking for the first time that morning. "Send us."

Laenor looked surprised by her bold declaration, but he recovered quickly and added, "We are ready to set flight at your Majesty's command."

"At least the princess has a plan," Corlys smiled proudly.

Otto stated, "Perhaps there is a better use of her talents? Such as selecting Ser Ryam's replacement?"

"Indeed," Viserys agreed. He sent Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Otto from the small council chamber to complete that task.

Grand Maester Mellos spoke up, "Your Majesty, this is another matter of the kingdom's security that needs to be dealt with, that of your bloodline."

"The king has a daughter who is of age and married," Corlys stated. "His bloodline shall continue through her."

"Though your son, you mean," Beesbury muttered.

Ignoring the interruptions, the grand maester continued, "Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor are both young, healthy, and clearly fond of each other. There is not clear reason why the princess has never once been pregnant. It is my suspicion, given what it taught at the Citadel about fertility, that one or both of them may be incapable of producing children."

"That is absurd!" Corlys cried. "They have not been given enough time."

"I pray for the princess to have a healthy child, just as you do Lord Corlys," Mellos replied, "But the fact of the matter is that more than a year has passed since the wedding. Most couples their age would at least be expecting their first child by now, if not already successful in bring one into the world. For the stability of the succession, it is my recommendation that the king remarry and produce additional children who might follow after the princess in the event that she does not produce an heir of her own body."

The words hit Viserys like a hammer. Remarry? After the unspeakable betrayal he had inflicted on Aemma, what right did he have to accept another woman's hand? He briefly thought of Alicent, remembering her sweet eyes and soft smiles as she comforted him through his grief. At the same time, he shuddered at the thought of his daughter enduring the same misery as his late wife. Continually trying in vain to bring forth a child, coping with miscarriages and stillbirths, risking her life in the childbed for the sake of her duty...

"I shall take your words under advisement," Viserys muttered.

"We have an alliance," Corlys stated coldly.

"I have not forgotten," Viserys replied. "Rhaenyra is my heir, and no circumstance will change that. Any further children I might will come after her and her issue in the line of success, this I swear."

"As you say," Corlys averted his eyes.

Viserys suddenly felt weary and the wound on his back began to sting. Nothing was ever easy for a king: that was the message Aegon the Conqueror had intended to sent when he crafted the Iron Throne. The sharp edges threatened to turn the person sitting upon to shreds if they dared to relaxed while sitting up on. But even when he was not sitting the thrones, Viserys felt a hundred blades all around him, each aimed directly at him.

Chapter Text

Most men preferred the sword. It possessed a certain elegance that caught the eye: the gleam of the sun on its edge, the arc of lifeblood drawn from a foe's flesh. Others appreciated the practicality of the lance and spear and halberd, the wicked bite of the axe, or the unyielding force of the warhammer. Criston found himself drawn to the morningstar. A frightful weapon, morningstars were uncommonly used due to the difficulty of their use, yet Criston had made it his signature weapon. It took years of practice and more bruises than he cared to admit, but he had mastered the weapon. Every warrior in every castle in Westeros had trained to fight against sword and lance, but few knew what to do when Criston swung his morningstar against them. In the heat of battle, those precious seconds of confusion meant the difference between life and death.

Criston still remembered that day when he was four and ten, as clearly as though it had happened yesterday. Lying on his back in the dirt as Prince Daemon loomed over him, smug and untouched. No one would ever best him like that again, he had promised himself. Criston kept that vow when he managed to enter the lists for the Heir's Tourney and, by chance or fate, he was set against the Rogue Prince. The roar of the crowd dimmed as he concentrated all his efforts into avenging his wounded pride.

Prince Daemon had only grown fiercer in the intervening years. Criston had anticipated that. They traded devastating blows, only this time Criston managed to match his opponent in speed and dexterity. A brief moment of arrogance on Prince Daemon's part granted Criston his long-awaited victory, to the delight of the crowd. He forced himself to remain humble, not to show-boat as the prince had done.

Standing tall in his unadorned amour, Criston approached the royal box. Several members of the royal party had already left for some reason, but the princess and her ladies remained. Princess Rhaenyra, the heir to the throne, was the most beautiful woman Criston had ever laid eyes on, but she had already bestowed her favor onto her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon. Lady Alicent Hightower, daughter of the Hand of the King, had given Prince Daemon her favor before the match, but she must have forgotten him when she smiled at Criston. So, he instead turned Lady Laena Velaryon, daughter of the Master of Ship and cousin to the princess. Lady Laena obliged him, sweetly lowering a ring of blue and white hydrangeas onto his lance.

The deaths of Queen Aemma and her newborn son overshadowed his victory.

He paid his respects as custom demanded, and returned to Blackhaven with the winner's purse. Criston gave the lion's share to his parents and divided the rest among his siblings. He was nothing if not a dutiful son. Although Criston was the firstborn son, no one expected him to follow after his father as the steward to Lord Dondarrion. That place now belonged to Nico, while Criston walked down the path of the warrior.

Yet, despite the reputation he had garnered, Criston found that his station at Blackhaven had hardly moved. They all knew his worthiness as a knight, but father's profession and his mother's blood still held him back. Lord Maxim may boast of Criston's victories to all who were willing to listen, but he would never invite him to sit on the great hall's dais, not matter how many foes he slew or tourneys he won.

Criston gradually increased the intensity of his training. He put more force behind his strikes, he handled his weapons with greater speed, he studied the vulnerable places in armor. If not for the prince's inflated ego, he might not have won that duel. No matter how strong he was, there was someone stronger. There was someone faster, more clever, more vicious. He needed to be prepared when he faced this man.

Scarcely half a year had passed before the Hand of the King sent a summons to Blackhaven requesting that Criston return to King's Landing to be considered for a position on the Kingsguard. Criston wanted to rise in the world, but even he had not anticipated that his assent would come so quickly. The white cloaks were the most prestigious brotherhood of knights in the Seven Kingdoms, the role models that all little boys from Winterfell to Oldtown dreamed of becoming, their names remembered through the generations. Men would know him forevermore, Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard.

Although his father had it beamed at the news, his mother showed more reservation. The Kingsguard swore a solemn oath to devote their lives to the king. If he joined the kingsguard, he would never be able to marry a woman or to father any children. His life would no longer be his own. But why have a wife and children just so they could be a looked down upon for his humble origins? With a white cloak upon his shoulders, no one would ever look down on him again.

Now he gazed up at the mezzanine where stood the heir to the throne, her husband, and the king's top advisor. Princess Rhaenyra had grown no less lovely than when he had first laid upon her. She wore a simple dress of white and red linen with her silver-gold ringlets pulled back. Criston had been told that Valyrians had purple eyes, but he had never been close enough to the princess to discern her eye color. Ser Laenor he remembered dimly, but Criston made note of how close they seemed.

To his left and right stood knights of the old blood: Caron, a powerful house from the Dornish Marches, with whom Criston was very familiar; Mallister, the shield that guarded the Riverlands from the Ironborn; Corbray, who were the princess' own kin through a half-aunt; Tarth, who had ruled their beautiful island since the dawn of days; Crakehall, known throughout for their great strength and fearsome tempers; and Tarly, another powerful marcher house and hailed as some of the greatest warriors in the realm. Who were the Coles, compared to the likes of these?

The princess listening impassively as each man boasted of his lineage, character, and exploits, hoping to impress her. She politely thanked each of them for their service to the crown, before stepping back to discuss her choice with the two men beside her. Their discussion seemed unremarkable at first, but then the princess appeared to be arguing with the Lord Hand. They continued whispering at each fiercely as they reached some sort of resolution. Those few minutes felt like some of the longest of his life. He knew he could best any of these spoiled lordlings who never seen a true battle in their lives, but would the princess sense it? At last she returned, and all the candidates stood a little stiffer. The next time she opened her mouth, one of their lives around change forever.

"Good sers, I wish to thank you all once more for your service to the realm, and for answering our summons with haste," the princess began. "I did not come to this conclusion lightly, for you each have proven your worth as knights. Unfortunately, there is only space enough for one man."

Criston beat quickly and shallowly. Was he mad for believing he had a chance, that the princess would choose him over men with centuries of glory behind their names? No, otherwise he never would have been selected as a candidate. There were countless knights in the Seven Kingdom who would do anything to stand where he stood at that very moment.

"Ser Desmond Caron, I hereby offer you a position as a knight of the Kingsguard."

The air left Criston's lungs. It took every ounce of self-control to smother his fury and disappointment and humiliation. Why had the royals brought him all the way to King's Landing just to reject him in front of all these noble knights? Did they expect him to return to Blackhaven hanging his head in shame? Criston was a real warrior who had fought and bled on the battlefield, while Ser Desmond led from the rear and only ventured out to capture a single poacher in peacetime.

"Your Highness, I must express my most sincere gratitude," Ser Desmond replied. "I shall serve your father with dignity, honor, and courage."

"Well stated, Ser Desmond. Ser Rymun Mallister, Ser Fredrik Corbray, Ser Kenneth Tarth, Ser Illyn Crakehall, Ser Adrien Tarly, and Ser Criston Cole, I thank you for your time. Regretfully, I cannot offer you a place on the Kingsguard, but I sincerely wish you all the best."

Her well-crafted words did little to sooth Criston's wounded pride.

Once they were dismissed, Criston return to his borrowed chambers with a black cloud hanging over his head. He changed out of his armor as the servants began to pack his belongings. His greatest opportunity for glory had slipped between his fingers before he'd even had the chance to grasp it. To his great shock, the princess called on him less than a hour later.

Gone was the ice-cold judge that had determined his fate, replaced with a pretty and kind young woman. Now, Criston could see that her eyes resembled two pieces of amethyst. They gazed at him warmly, cutting through his discontent. Ser Laenor and Ser Otto were not with her. Instead, the princess was flanked by her granduncle, Ser Valerion, and the Hand's daughter, Lady Alicent.

"Ser Criston, I hope I have not called a bad time," she greeted after brief introductions.

"Not at all, your Highness," Criston replied, wondering what she was doing here.

"I have an offer for you, one that you may accept or reject at your pleasure," the princess answered. "My lord father has named Ser Valerion as my sworn shield, but my dear friend has been left without such protection. Her well-being is quite a concern to me, especially since she is a lady of my own household. It would ease my mind greatly if you would accept a position as her sworn shield and ward her from danger."

Against his better judgement, a well of hope spring further in Criston's chest. The princess could not name him to the Kingsguard, but she had invented an excuse to keep him in King's Landing. He bowed respectfully, "It would be my honor."

Chapter Text

"You are pushing the king too far," Rhaenys warned.

"He is pushing me too far," Corlys scoffed. "If he does remarry, his second wife will not settle for having her children as spares. Either he's lying or foolish."

They waited for Viserys in the royal gardens, the world around them lit brightly from the summer sun. A dull pain went through Rhaenys' heart as she remembered picking flowers from this very spot for her father when she was a little girl. How she missed him.

Viserys arrived on time, though he seemed somewhat distracted. Rhaenys noticed that he wore black gloves despite the warmth. "Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys," he greeted.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, your Majesty," Corlys stated. "Despite the tensions between us, we are still a family, bound by both blood and marriage. And in the best interest of our family, I thought it prudent to discuss the matter of your remarriage."

Viserys' face fell, and Rhaenys knew at once they had lost him.

"Let us not waste our breath," Rhaenys stated. "Any sons you sire will be in competition with Rhaenyra, and by extension, any children she has with our son."

"I have decreed that she is my heir, and I will not go back on my word," Viserys replied. "I did not make this decision lightly. If Rhaenyra had a child of her own, I would not even consider it, but the fact remains that she is currently one standing between Daemon and my throne."

"There is a solution that resolves all of our concerns. If you were to marry Laena–"

"You go too far," Viserys interrupted. "You have a place on my council, you force the issue of the Stepstones at every meeting, your son is wed to my daughter, your children will sit upon my throne, and yet you want more. What else would you have of me?"

Rhaenys squeeze the cuff of her husband's sleeve, willing him to remain calm.

"I keep your city safe from the pirates that sail the Narrow Sea," Corlys retorted. "My ships fill your coffers. My men keep your trade route opens and thriving with every beat of their oars. And this is my reward? We are left to fend for ourselves against the Triarchy and now you are throwing away the alliance that protects you from the Lannisters."

"Our alliance remains intact," Rhaenys interjected. "Do not let your tempers get the best of you, both of you."

"I have duty to House Velaryon," Corlys stated coolly.

"And I have a duty to the realm," Viserys replied.

"Your duties need not be in conflict," Rhaenys reminded them. "Set aside your pride and find a solution that pleases you both."

"I have already done so," Corlys insisted.

"Oh truly?" Viserys scoffed. "A redundant marriage alliance is in the best interest of the realm?"

"If the king finds my proposal lacking, it should fall to him to propose a better one," Corlys snarled. "I believe I have been at court too long. Driftmark solely needs my leadership. If it pleases you, your Majesty, I would like to return home."

"I believe some time away from the machinations of court would do you much good, my lord," Viserys nodded stiffly.

Rhaenys sighed in frustration. "As you say, you Majesty. Laenor, of course, will remain here with his wife. But we shall be taking Laena with us."

"With any luck, we'll find her a worthy suitor before long," Corlys sneered.

"I shall pray for your success," Viserys deadpanned.

The Velaryon returned to their chambers; Rhaenys, dejected by the disastrous meeting, Corlys furious at the king's dismissal. They summoned Laena, Laenor, and Rhaenyra and informed them of what happened.

Laena felt relieved that her father's attempt to wed her to the king had failed. She liked Viserys well enough as an uncle, but she could not imagine having him as a husband. Despite this, she understood that her family's standing had taken a hit. Weaking the alliance between the Targaryens and Velaryons could only cause problems further down the line.

Reluctantly, Laena said, "Mayhaps Rhaenyra could speak to her father and convince him to change his mind?"

Rhaenyra grimaced, "I can try, but I doubt he'll listen. I have barely gotten a moment alone with him since my investiture and when I do, he seems uncomfortable with me."

This admission alarmed her goodparents, especially Corlys. "His commitment to your inheritance is slipping, despite what he claims. He played us for fools."

"I know my cousin, and he is not nearly as deceptive as you believe."

"Not deceptive: weak," Corlys corrected. "I should have known better than to rely on him to advance our family. We must make our own way in the world, as we always have. If the king will not defend the Seven Kingdoms from the Triarchy, I must do it myself."

"This is my fault," Laenor lamented. "If I had been able to give Rhaenyra an heir, the king would not consider remarrying."

Rhaenys placed a hand on his shoulder, "We know you have always striven to do your duty. We do not blame you for what happened."

"Besides," Corlys added. "Its not your fault that the king is weak-willed fool."

"I shall politely ask that you not speak of my father that way, Uncle," Rhaenyra snapped.

"It is the truth," Corlys replied. "Do not close your eyes to his nature. That will not serve you well when his young new wife is whispering in his ear to put her son on the throne."

Rhaenyra bristled, but acknowledged the truth of his words.

Before leaving for Driftmark, Lord Corlys attended one last small council. He walked into the chamber standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhaenyra and Laenor, presenting a united front. To their surprise, Ser Otto had brought his daughter Alicent with him. However, the tension between Corlys and Viserys distracted everyone from her presence. Rumors of a falling out between the two men had been swirling for days, and the other council members were curious to see if they held any validity.

Their suspicions were confirmed when Corlys announced that he would be resigning as Master of Ship and returning to his home. In his resignation, he recommended Ser Qarl Grafton of Gulltown as his successor. An able seaman and heir to House Grafton, he was a vassal of Rhaenyra's maternal family, and likely to be loyal to her. Viserys, the image of cold politeness, said he would the recommendation under advisement.

At the end of the meeting, Viserys dropped a piece of news that the Rhaenyra and the Velaryons had been dreading. "I have decided to take a new wife. I intend to marry... the Lady Alicent Hightower..."I have decided to take a new wife. I intend to marry... the Lady Alicent Hightower."

Chapter Text

"Rhaenyra, slow down," Laenor beseeched her.

Undaunted, the princess continued to stride down the hall with single-minded purpose. "Uncle Daemon is squatting on my island and the crown has yet to do anything about it," she said hoarsely.

Laenor grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her toward him. "We both know this has nothing to do with Daemon. Think for a minute before you get yourself hurt."

She tore his hand away. "I am the heir to the Iron Throne and Dragonstone is my birthright."

"You're angry at your father and Alicent, so now you're running off to do something reckless," Laenor scolded.

"I don't want to talk about them," Rhaenyra hissed.

"I know you don't, I just want you to calm down before you do something you regret." Laenor placed both hands on her shoulders, firmly but gently. "You have every right to be angry, but you must not let that anger control you. Say you go to Dragonstone, what then? You and Syrax cannot face your uncle and his dragon alone."

"Good," Rhaenyra stated. "Seasmoke could use the exercise." Once more, she escaped Laenor's grasp and continued marching toward the side entrance.

"I am not volunteering," Laenor huffed.

"Well, you're certainly not going to stop me," Rhaenyra shot back.

Feeling defeated, Laenor made no further efforts to hold his wife back, but he opted to go to the Dragonpit with her to ensure she did not endanger herself further. Rhaenyra climbed onto Syrax and flew her to Dragonstone at such a punishing pace that Laenor feared for the dragon's endurance. He tailed behind on Seasmoke, preparing to protect his wife should things take a turn for the worse. Her anger and Daemon's ruthlessness were a troubling combination.

As they descended on the island, they saw Caraxes lying on the beach and a silver-haired figure that could only be Daemon walking toward him. Rhaenyra dove Syrax on the black sand several yards away and leap off her saddle to confront her uncle. Laenor urged Seasmoke on. The two Targaryens on the beach were already arguing by the Laenor reached them.

"So nice of you to finally join us, nephew," Daemon greeted sarcastically. He eyed Seasmoke cautiously. Though Laenor and Rhaenyra outnumbered him, Daemon had far more experience on dragonback than either of them individually. Caraxes let out an anxious hiss, likely sensing the tension between the humans.

"Daemon," Laenor acknowledged as he walked over to stand by Rhaenyra.

He could tell by the fire in her eyes that her fury burned bright as ever, but he could also tell by the twist of her mouth that she had at last begun to rethink her decision. That was promising.

"You have caused much pain and embarrassment to our family," Rhaenyra picked up from wherever her earlier conversation with Daemon had left off. "You mocked the deaths of my mother and brother, your own cousin and nephew."

"Is that what our dear Lord Hand told you?" Daemon sneered.

Rhaenyra answered, "What else was I to believe? You never explained yourself!"

"I shouldn't have to!" Daemon roared. "I am your uncle. The blood of the dragon flows in me as does in you. My son is as a brother to you. I stood by your father's side for years, I have served the realm in three different offices. And yet despite all that, you still doubt me! If you cannot trust your own family, there is no-one in the world you can trust."

"I am to trust the man laying claim to my birthright?" Rhaenyra tried to sound unaffected, but her voice shook despite her efforts.

Daemon studied her for long while without responding. At last, he slowly walked toward her, hand outstretched. A sad, thoughtful expression came to Daemon's face, and Laenor could feel himself letting his guard down. What was he so worried about? Cruel jokes were one things, but surely Daemon would not stoop so low as to harm his young niece. He loved his family, even if he did not always get along with them.

Once closer, Daemon gently lifted Rhaenyra's chin. "You'll get yourself killed acting like that. Now tell me, who is it?"

"What?" Rhaenyra stammered.

"Who has my brother chosen to marry? Only he could have riled you up so much, and what greater insult than announcing which lady shall birth your replacement?"

Rhaenyra wrenched his hand away, "Alicent." She almost choked on the name.

Daemon let out a low sigh. He gazed out at the open water in the direction of King's Landing, disgust and disdain evident. "Damn him the seven hells, that sly old fox. I'm truly sorry, Rhaenyra. I know you care for that girl."

"I don't need your pity," Rhaenyra replied, though there was no longer any true anger in her voice. Laenor put his arm around her, and she leaned on his shoulder. "You can't stay here, Uncle. My father has banished you to Runestone and is thinking of ways to remove you."

His expression gave nothing away. "You won't have to worry about me much longer. I have a few things to settle here on Dragonstone, and then I'll be on my way," he said.

"Y-your really leaving?" Laenor asked. "Just like that?"

"We're being played for fools," Daemon answered bitterly. "In-fighting serves everyone but ourselves. Nephew, you have good on your shoulders. Keep your wife out trouble. Both of you, remember what I said: trust family before anyone else."

"Where will you go?" Rhaenyra questioned.

"I'll figure something out. Take care of yourself, Niece, Nephew. And look after my boy."

"You needn't ask," Rhaenyra replied in a shaky voice.

Laenor was relieved that the episode ended without violence, but he couldn't deny he was sad to Daemon go. He made Rhaenyra turn to him. "We're going back to King's Landing, and you need to face Alicent. I say this for your sake, not hers."

Rhaenyra's expression held nothing but dread, but she did not ague. They mounted their dragons in silence and began the short flight back from whence they had come.

Chapter Text

Syrax fell over in exhaustion she finally made it back to her stable in the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra's heart prickled with guilt after exerting her loyal steed to her limits. She spent nearly an hour petting her dragon's scales as an apology and ordered the dragonkeepers to increase her portions that week by half.

Laenor waited patiently at the entrance as Rhaenyra finally emerged from the Pit. "Thank you," she murmured. Her husband hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. They returned to the Red Keep, bathed, and retired to their chambers.

The next morning, Rhaenyra requested that Alicent join her for breakfast. Alicent arrived pale-faced and red-eyed, her fingertips freshly torn. The sight made Rhaenyra's stomach turn, but she made no move to help her friend.

"Good morning," Alicent greeted hoarsely.

"Please sit," Rhaenyra answered. The girls sat across from each other for several moments, neither touching the lush spread of food that the servants had laid before them.

"I'm so sorry," Alicent let out. Her eyes began to glisten. "I didn't think…I didn't want…Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not," Rhaenyra struggled to keep her voice level. "I feel angry and confused and humiliated. My father and my best friend, but I was the last to see it."

"I…I understand that it's a shock," Alicent's fingers clenched. "Your father's announcement was…not well done. He should have told you in private first."

Rhaenyra moved right past Alicent's statement. "The crown gains little from your marriage to my father, which means something must have happened for him to choose you. Something happened and you didn't tell me."

Alicent flinched, for she knew the accusation with true. "I want to tell you, but I couldn't."

"Did you sleep with him?" Rhaenyra demanded.

"No!" Alicent went red with horror. "No, I swear upon the memory of my mother that I am still a maiden. It was nothing dishonorable. I only went to visit him, to speak as friends."

"As friends? If it wasn't dishonorable, why couldn't you tell me?"

"My father commanded me not to speak of it." Alicent worried what would happen to her father when she revealed his part in this, but she felt too horrible to lie to Rhaenyra any further.

"I trusted you!" Rhaenyra cried. The wall of anger broke, revealing a heartbroken girl behind it. Rhaenyra began to weep into her hands. Alicent rose from her seat to comfort the crying girl, but Rhaenyra shoved her away. "Don't touch me, traitor!"

"Please understand," Alicent begged. "I never wanted to hurt you. I had hoped nothing would come of it."

"You hoped…" Rhaenyra wiped her tears as she took a moment to get her emotions under control and analyze the situation. "How soon was it?"

"Pardon?"

"How soon after my mother's death did you begin to seduce my father?" Rhaenyra snarled.

"I wasn't trying to seduce him," Alicent insisted, her tone becoming panicked.

Rhaenyra laughed joylessly, "And yet he has made you his bride! How soon Alicent? Tell me!"

Tears flooded Alicent's eyes as she answered, "The evening of her funeral." She was drowning in guilt and shame.

"Daemon was right," Rhaenyra whispered. "You've been playing me for a fool all this time."

"That's not true! I don't think you're a fool."

"I understand now why he hates your father so much," Rhaenyra sneered. "You Hightowers are all snakes, even worse than the Dornishmen. At least they don't pretend to be our friends."

"I am your friend," Alicent pleaded. "I know I have broken your trust, but it was not by my design. My father commanded me! It is my duty to obey him."

"And the next time your father commands you to betray me, you will obey him again," Rhaenyra retorted. "Get out of my sight."

Alicent turned and fled from the room in tears, barely taking note of Ser Criston chasing after her. She had known Rhaenyra would be upset, but this was worse than she had feared. Her dearest companion had renounced their friendship and framed Alicent as the villain. A traitor, a liar, a seducer...

Before long, Alicent found herself at the godswood. It was usually a place of comfort for her, but right now all she could think of were the long hours she had spent here with Rhaenyra.

"My lady, what has distressed you so deeply?" Ser Criston asked, easily catching up with her.

"I do not wish to speak of it," Alicent replied.

"I thought you'd come here eventually," a familiar voice said.

Alicent looked behind her to see Laena sitting on the roots of the weirwood tree. She leaned with her side against the trunk, her head resting against the pale white bark.

"Hello, Laena," Alicent answered. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Alicent wiped her eyes and smoothed down her hair. "Ser Criston, please give us some privacy."

He bowed respectfully and left the two girls alone.

"I suppose now I have an idea about that errand your father sent you on," Laena drawled.

Alicent felt as though a heavy stone had been dropped in her belly. She'd nearly forgotten that night. "Then you understand it was not my idea," Alicent blushed.

"I thought I understood you." Laena's voice held no anger, only sadness. "I never imagined that you, of all people, would turn against Rhaenyra."

"I have not turned against her. I...I was compelled to do something that...was not in her best interest. But I never meant to hurt her."

"I want to believe that," Laena nodded. "So, what happens now? You give birth to a son, Rhaenyra loses her status as heir, and all this will have been for nothing?"

Alicent wasn't sure how to answer. "There's no guarantee that I will have a son."

"Then your marriage will have been for nothing," Laena pointed out. "And your family will never be satisfied with that. Queen Aemma labored for nearly two decades."

"Whatever happens now is no longer in our hands, if it ever was to begin with." Alicent grew ever more troubled by Laena's downcast expression. Losing Rhaenyra's faith had been terrible enough, and she didn't want another one of her friends to hate her. "Are you angry?"

"I'm concerned," Laena admitted carefully. "About Rhaenyra. She's my friend, my cousin, and my sister. I want to protect her."

"Protect her from what? Me?" Alicent replied incredulously.

Laena rose and walked toward Alicent with unhurried, measured steps. "That remains to be seen."

Chapter Text

Viserra watched out of the window, arms folded across her chest, as Jadeclaw and Seabright sailed through the clouds toward home. She never tired of the sight of her children atop their dragons, though in her heart of hearts she could not help but envy them. If only she'd had a few more minutes in the Dragonpit, she would have claimed a dragon for herself. Her birthright, near enough to touch when it had been ripped away by her nephew. And then he had the audacity to impose a soft exile on her, making it clear that she would never again be welcome at court.

She ordered the kitchen staff to prepare a hearty meal for the sons once they arrived and waited them to traverse the internal pathways and tunnels within Casterly Rock. As soon as Viserra saw her sons, she knew that things had not gone as they hoped. Jason pressed his lips together in annoyance, while Tyland's shoulder sagged.

"Mother, it's good to be home," Jason greeted, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. "When we arrived at the Eyrie..."

Viserra interrupted him, "Will anything change by morning?"

"No..." he answered.

"Then we can talk about that after you've had a change of clothes and some food in your bellies," Viserra said.

She waited patiently in her solar until her sons had bathed and redressed. Once they joined her, the servants brought up a hearty beef stew, piping hot bread, two flagons of hippocras, and an apple tart. Viserra had little appetite, but she accepted a slice of tart at Tyland's insistence.

Viserra allowed her sons to recount their diplomatic mission with the Arryns, although she had already guessed the result. They told her of how her older sister Daella had grown ever more fearful and recluse since the death of her only daughter. Despite being constantly annoyed with Daella when they were children, Viserra did not have a heart of stone. Losing a child was the most unthinkable horror a mother could endure.

"Her Grace Lady Jeyne rejected the match," Tyland confessed, anger and embarrassment coating his words.

"It's such a shame," Jason scoffed. "They are so well suited to each other: she's a boring and pretentious as he is."

"Do you not take anything seriously?" Tyland scolded his brother.

"What reason did she give?" Viserra asked Tyland, ignoring Jason's jest. "You are the son of a duke and a princess, the grandson of our previous king! You ride a dragon above the clouds! Surely she must know the advantages such an alliance would bring her? What force could compel her to reject you?"

"She cited concerns that the crown could not look favorably upon the match," Tyland explained. "Its alliance with the Velaryons clearly indicates that our cousin, the king, worries what intentions we have in claiming dragons for ourselves, especially since you yourself are not welcome at court."

Jason said, "In truth, it should not have been surprising that Lady Jeyne was too frightening to accepted this marriage. She wishes for safety and quiet, to remain above the conflicts of others."

"And besides," Tyland added. "Lady Jeyne bares great loyalty to our shared cousin. If she suspects that we plot against Rhaenyra, that might have influenced her decision."

"Plotting," Viserra spat in resentment. "You did nothing but take what was yours by right. The dragons themselves accepted you! Who is my feckless nephew to say otherwise?"

"He's the king," Jason deadpanned.

Viserra glared at her eldest. "He assaulted our honor and humiliated us before the realm. Twenty years ago, maidens throughout the realm would do unspeakable things for the chance of marrying a dragonrider - and now the Maiden of the Vale dares to reject one? Why, because it would upset Alyssa's little fool? I can see no greater shame than spending the rest of our lives dancing to his whims."

Jason and Tyland became uneasy.

"What to you meant to do about it, Mother?" Tyland asked. "Surely you cannot mean war? The royal family outnumbers us in both dragons and ships with the Velaryons at their back. And the Vale would likely support them, as well."

"I know," Viserra sighed heavily. "I want justice, not blood. Recklessness gets us nowhere, but that doesn't mean we must accept that offense that has been inflicted on us. Viserys is not a man of war. If we can push him hard enough, he will bent to our wishes."

She leaned back in her chair, mentally running through the list of eligible ladies for her son. Jeyne Arryn had been the ultimate prize, a duchess ruling in her own right, who could pass her birthright to Tyland's children. The Starks did not have a daughter of an appropriate age, nor her little sister Gael, nor the Baratheons. The Martells would never agree to a match and the Greyjoys were more trouble than they were worth. Among the ducal houses, that left the Tullys; Lord Grover had a daughter a few years younger than Tyland and the Riverlands had grown prosperous under the long peace.

But if Jeyne Arryn had rejected such a prestigious match, what confidence did she have that Grover Tully would not?

As she pondered this situation, Maester Ullrik requested entrance into her chambers. He knew better than to bother her with trivial things, so Viserra allowed him inside.

"Apologies for my intrusion, your Grace," he bowed. "A raven has arrived from King's Landing."

Viserra rose and snatched the latter from her hand. She traced the seal imprinted on the red wax for a moment. It was better not to hope... She opened the letter and quickly read through the contents.

"That idiot!" Viserra laughed raucously.

Both Jason and Tyland were startled by the abrupt shift in their mother's demeanor. She handed Tyland the letter with a smug smile.

"Cousin Viserys has betrothed himself to Alicent Hightower," Tyland gasped.

Jason asked, "One of Lord Hobert's daughters?"

"No, his niece," Tyland corrected. "She is one of Rhaenyra's close friends and the daughter of the King's Hand."

"That can only mean that he had no intention of his daughter succeeding him," Viserra exclaimed. "Why remarry if not in hopes of at last producing a son? Oh, Rhaenys and her Sea Snake must be furious."

"But why are you happy about that?" Jason wondered.

Viserra was in too good a mood to brought down by her son's slow wit. She gently cupped his face and smiled, "As soon as Lady Alicent pops out a son, the Velaryons and Arryns will become estranged from the crown. Lady Jeyne may have fewer qualms about marrying your brother. Wait, the Sea Snake might even consider him for his daughter now! We can built an alliance strong enough to humble Viserys. His own daughter wouldn't defend him."

"You plan seems rather...ambitious," Tyland hesitated. "Lady Alicent might only bear daughters or even be barren."

"You raise a good point," Viserra conceded. "Let's not count our chickens before they hatch. But if this development is any indication, Viserys is unlikely to be difficult opponent. Go on to bed, my dear boys. Everything is going to be just fine."

Chapter Text

As Viserys set down Lord Beesbury's report on the available funds for his upcoming wedding, he noticed that sun hanging low in the sky. Such was often the case nowadays, with all the necessary preparations to be made in addition to his usual responsibilities. He stood up and stretched to get his blood flowing again. His youth behind him, staying still for too long now caused him great discomfort.

"Your Grace, your Lady Mother is without," a manservant announced.

"Wonderful, let her in."

Alyssa walked into the room with sad eyes and downturned lips. Her face was lined with wrinkles made more prominent by her dreary expression. Streaks of gray-white now decorated of her dark blonde braid. He was struck, then, by the unpleasant realization that his mother was getting older as well.

"I must speak with you," she stated. "Have you the time?"

"Of course, I always have time for you," Viserys replied, before commanding the manservant to bring his mother a chair beside his. Alyssa didn't speaking right, instead taking a moment to study her eldest son.

"Why are you marrying Alicent Hightower?" she finally asked, her eyes boring into his.

"There is no better candidate. She is comely, well-mannered, and of fine blood."

Alyssa scoffed, "You are describing half the highborn girls in the kingdom."

"She makes me happy. In the worst of my grief, she comforted me."

"Comforted you in what way?" Alyssa's voice became cold and sharp.

"Do not think so lowly of me," Viserys defended. "I am a man of honor and Lady Alicent is a respectable maiden."

"I know the Velaryons offered Laena to you, and you snubbed her. Why else would Corlys and Rhaenys quit the capital so abruptly?"

"Every family has disagreements. Our relationship shall mend in time – faster when Rhaenyra and Laenor have their first child."

Alyssa did not look convinced. "Pretending to not know the implications of your actions is unbecoming of a king. You shall soon have a young bride capable of bearing you sons."

"No, this again," Viserys shook his head. "I have declared that Rhaenyra is the heir to the Iron Throne, and my word is law. Do you know what placed Lady Alicent above all the rest in my eyes? She is my daughter's closest and truest friend, and before long they will be family. If there is one person I can be certain would never betray Rhaenyra, it would be her."

"A friend and a stepmother are two different things," Alyssa warned. "Does Rhaenyra approve of this match? And how can you confident that Lady Alicent will prioritize Rhaenyra above her own children, her own sons?"

"Because she is good," Viserys insisted. "She is honest, fair, and humble. And she would never do anything to hurt Rhaenyra."

"I pray you are correct," Alyssa signed.

"What would you have me do? Rhaenyra is my only child, and I need spares if, gods forbid, something were to happen to her. The maesters believe she may not be able to bear children of her own, and I do not want her to suffer as Aemma did. Daemon has no trueborn children, my other relations are tried to different houses, with interests of their owns."

"Do you believe the Hightowers have no interests?"

"Otto has always placed the needs of the realm above his own," Viserys stated firmly. "The same cannot be said for the rest, least of all Aunt Viserra."

"Speaking of her, I have received from Daella concerning Jason and Tyland. They visited the Eyrie not too long ago, with the intention of arranging a marriage between the latter and Jeyne."

Viserys clenched his fist. "So, they are to marry?"

"She rejected him," Alyssa shrugged. "But there are others who will be enhanced by his dragon and his family's gold. Perhaps even Corlys."

"Thank you for informing me, Mother." Viserys muttered. "I shall think on it."

"You have sense, so use it."

"There's nothing I can change at this point. I have already announced my betrothal to Lady Alicent. Turning back at this stage could mar her reputation, and she doesn't deserve that. Corlys has already returned to Driftmark and the Lannisters already have dragons."

"If it's any consolation, the Vale is clearly still loyal to you," Alyssa offered.

"Loyal to Rhaenyra," Viserys corrected. Then, more pained, "To Aemma's memory."

Alyssa's face dropped at the mention of her late niece. How unfair for someone so kind and dutiful to die at such a young age. "How has Rhaenyra been coping?"

Shame come to Viserys' face. "I…I don't know."

"Have you not spoken to her at all?" Alyssa was incredulous. "You are her only remaining parent! She needs you."

No, she doesn't, Viserys lamented. I am the monster who killed her mother. What comfort could she find in me?

Noting the tortured expression on her son's face, Alyssa made her voice gentler. "Do you think I don't understand how difficult it is to face one's children alone, while in mourning? After the love of one's life has gone? I speak from experience: she needs to know that you are there for her. Everything in her life has changed so quickly, and there are more changes yet to come. Just talk to her."

"I will, I must," Viserys conceded.

Alyssa reached out and cupped her son's cheek. "Things have changed for you too. I see your pain, my sweet boy, and I know you have good intentions. It would be good for you as well, to open yourself up to your daughter."

A tear slid down his cheek. Only his mother could make the king feel like a child again. "I miss her so much," Viserys' voice broke.

Alyssa rose from her seat and enveloped him in her arms, her cheek resting against the top of his head. "You bear a heavy burden, but you do not need to carry it alone. I am here for you, as is Maegelle. Gaemon remains your faithful stalwart, despite the distance. Most importantly, you have Rhaenyra. She loves you dearly, and all she wants is to be a worthy heir to your legacy."

"Rhaenyra matters most," Viserys agreed. "Thank you. I'm not sure what I would do without you, Mother."

Alyssa pulled back and tilted his head up so that he could look her in the eyes. A warm smile graced her lips, suddenly making her seem much younger, the mother from his childhood memories. "Let us you do not have to find out for a long time."

Chapter Text

Maegelle comforts Rhaenyra on the day of her father's wedding.

Maegelle found her grandneice in her bedchamber preparing for the wedding. Always mindful of the impression she made at court, Rhaenyra had chosen a gown of pale blue samite threaded with silver. Her hem, sleeves, and collar were made of cream Myrish lace. She wore a large moonstone ring on her right forefinger and a sapphire on her left. In short, the princess had armored herself in Arryn imagery in anticipation of her father's remarriage.

The aging septa's heart felt heavier at the sight. Rhaenyra was growing into a beautiful young woman, regal and commanding in her mother's colors. Even more so than at her own wedding, when she was still a frightened child playing the role of a woman. Yet there was a painful reason behind her choice of attire.

"Look at you," Maegelle tries not to get choked up. "My princess."

Rhaenyra's face softened and her shoulders relaxed. "Might I have a moment with my aunt?" The other ladies granted them privacy.

The two women sat together on the settee. "I'm not sure I can do this," Rhaenyra confessed. She sounded like she was about to retch, which contrasted with how confident and assured she outwardly looked. "The thought of my father with Alicent makes me sick to my stomach."

"It will happen whether you wish it to or no," Maegelle advised. "When things are outside your power, worrying over it makes no difference except to wear you down."

"That does not reassure, Aunt Meg," Rhaenyra replied.

Maegelle pursed her lips and took a different approach. "Have you spoken to Alicent about this at all?"

"Once," Rhaenyra explained. "She told me that she visited my father at the command of her father, that she never had any intention of harming me or supplanting my mother. Even if that were true, what difference does it make? She's still going to marry my father, and if the gods are cruel she will have the son my mother could never provide."

"Then let us pray they are kind," Maegelle offered.

Twirling the moonstone ring round and round on her finger, Rhaenyra sat on the edge of the bed. "Things between us will never be the same, myself and Alicent."

"The only person who feels worse about this, right now, is Alicent," Maegelle stated. At Rhaenyra's disbelieving scoff, she continued. "Have you ever dreamed of marrying a man closer in age to your father than to you?"

"She's going to be queen," Rhaenyra sneered.

"Did Alicent ever come across of ambitious or grasping to you?" Maegelle countered.

"Why are you defending her?" Rhaenyra demanded. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side. I'm your niece, not her!"

"I am trying to make you see reason, my dear," Maegelle placated. "Do not make an enemy where you can have a friend."

"Friendship requires trust," Rhaenyra replied. "I trusted her, and she betrayed me. She may not have wanted to, but she did. How could we ever be friends again? Especially once she has borne my...my father's son."

"You seem awfully certain that she will," Maegelle noted. "We were once certain that...it matters not."

"Everything's falling apart," Rhaenyra smiled without mirth. "Everything's gone to waste. Might as well prepare for the worst."

"That's an interesting way to describe the birth of your potential brother."

Rhaenyra had the grace to look away, staring down at her hands as she now twirled the sapphire ring. "You promised to help me. Is this your idea of helping?"

"What is your idea of helping?" Maegelle challenged. "Do you expect me to drag Alicent out of the sept by her hair?"

"Of course not," Rhaenyra conceded. "But you're not making me feel any better."

"Because that's not what I promised to do. I've told you before: you must see things, not as you wish them to be. For good, or for ill."

"What am I not seeing?" Rhaenyra grew more exasperated. "Alicent is a traitor and she's marrying my father and she'll one day bear a son who'll take my inheritance from me. What have I missed. Please tell me, Aunt Meg; you seem to have a second set of eyes."

"Alicent's actions have cut you deeply, but she's not the one you ought to be worried about. It's here her father."

"She takes her orders from him, so what difference does it make?" Rhaenyra asked. "She's an extension of his will."

"She still cares for you and regrets your estrangement. Removed from her father's influence, the queen would be a... valuable ally to you."

"Please still being so naive," Rhaenyra complained. "What woman would ever chose a childhood companion over the chance of making her son king?"

"Alicent is not that avaricious and you know it," Maegelle replied.

"No, I don't!" Rhaenyra cried. "I don't think I know her at all. Aren't you listening? She betrayed me! This break cannot be mended."

Maegelle wiped a stray tear that had fallen from her grandniece's eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not nearly as good as my father at fostering conciliation. I apology, my dear. You and Alicent had such a beautiful friendship, and I despair seeing it shattered by the machinations of court. Perhaps I cam too optimistic. I do believe that healing is possible for you both, because neither of you is at fault for the circumstances you find yourselves in, but I cannot return things as they were. If you will not forgiven Alicent, I cannot turn your heart for you. All I ask is that you be mindful of her troubles, and treat her with a touch of grace. This is her father's doing, not hers."

Rhaenyra dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "You made me cry right before a wedding," she said with forced levity. "That's bad luck, isn't it?"

"Oh, Rhaenyra," Maegelle came over closer and rubbed the younger woman's back.

"I will take what you said under consideration," Rhaenyra sniffled. "But I cannot promise the results you seek."

"I know, you're hurting and what I'm asking of you seem unreasonable."

"Even Alicent still wants to be my friend, her loyalty will remains with her father, first and foremost," Rhaenyra lamented. "And I not have the power to remove him as Hand."

"No, you don't," Maegelle agreed. "That's why you needed to be clever to achieve your desired ends."

The time for the wedding was fast approaching, and at this stage there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. But Maegelle knew that this was only the beginning of another struggle, but the end as Rhaenyra feared.

Chapter Text

The weeks leading up to her wedding filled Alicent with dread.

Viserys was not a bad man, but nothing about him drew her to him. As a girl, Alicent had dreamed of a dashing knight crowing her the queen of love and beauty and whisking her away to his castle. Instead, she was marrying a sad, old man. In every one of their interactions following Queen Aemma's death, Alicent had listened to his worries and soothed his hurts. She was honored that he trusted her and enjoyed her company, but it was dull and tiresome work.

Overnight, her lifelong friendship with Rhaenyra had shattered and crumbled into dust. Her closest friend refused to speak to her and struggled to even look at her. Rhaenyra's scathing accusations and harsh words were more agonizing than a hundred lashes. Despite Alicent's pleas for understanding and forgiveness, the princess had steadfastly refused to acknowledge them.

The ruin of her friendship with Rhaenyra had also made her friendship with the other girls awkward and uncomfortable. Laena now became sullen in Alicent's presence, though she had not rejected her as harshly as Rhaenyra has. Nelly and Kitty were still cheerful whenever they saw her – so long as Rhaenyra was not around. Julia had been sympathetic – her aunt was unhappily married to Rhaenyra's uncle, after all, so she understood the difficult position Alicent was in – but she remained firmly on Rhaenyra's side.

Alicent could not remember ever feeling so lonely. And yet, despite this loneliness, she was surrounded by people. Courtiers were always stopping in the halls to wish her well on her upcoming nuptials, slyly hoping to gain her favor once she became queen. She had seen Rhaenyra's handling such empty flattery when she was named heir, but never imagined having to do the same. Alicent fumbled her words in such cases, hoping to neither raise nor disappoint their expectations.

Her family, both the Hightowers and the Florent, descended upon King's Landing like a hoard of locusts. She had little time herself, between the various giggling female cousins pulling her this way and that, managing the gown and maidencloak she was to wear during the ceremony, how to style her hair and which jewels to wear. Her male cousins were content to mingle among the courtiers and flirt with noblewomen seeking a link to their future queen.

Not long after the Hightowers arrived, her Uncle Hobert and Aunt Lynesse sat her down for a long talk about the expectations that would be placed upon her once she became queen. They explained to her how she now bore the responsibility of representing their house before the realm and giving birth to a male heir to ensure their power. House Hightower's future now rested with her, and she couldn't to anything to jeopardize that.

It made Alicent want to cry.

She had never asked for any of this, but it was being forced upon her regardless. Once a living son came out of her, her betrayal of Rhaenyra would be complete, and every horrible thing Rhaenyra had screamed at her would be validated.

"Ser Lorent Marbrand or Ser Steffon Darklyn?" Aunt Lynesse snapped.

Alicent, startled, blushed when she realized she didn't know what her aunt was asking, having been lost in her own thoughts.

"You need to choose a new sworn sword," Aunt Lynesse repeated irritably.

"But Ser Criston has been a good and loyal knight to me," Alicent replied. "I have no complaints against him."

Her uncle and aunt both looked at her incredulously. Uncle Hobert stated, "As queen, you cannot have a Dornishman lurking behind you – least of all one of common origin. The princess did you a great insult by assigning such a man to you."

Alicent clenched her hands into fists within the silk of her dress. Assigning Ser Criston to protect her had been the last gift Rhaenyra had given her, before everything went wrong. His shadow cast beside hers was proof that Rhaenyra cared for her, wished to keep her safe.

"He isn't…no…she wanted to protect me," Alicent pleaded. "Ser Criston has seen combat. He's a tested and true knight, that is why Rhaenyra chose him for him. She only wanted to protect me."

"You were merely a plaything she kept around to entertain herself," Uncle Hobert scoffed, "and even has come to an end."

Alicent couldn't stop herself; she burst into loud, ugly sobs. Her uncle commanded her to stop, and her aunt attempted to calm her down, but neither were able to. At last, they called for her father to talk sense into her, but Alicent couldn't stand to listen to him either.

Eventually, she ran out of tears. She remained seated in her uncle and aunt's chambers being lectured to by the three adults, but their words barely reached her ears. She sat there pale and silent and empty, until they finally allowed her to go to bed. She did not allow herself to see the nasty look her uncle gave Ser Criston when he began escorting her back to her chambers.

"My lady, my inquire what ails you?" Ser Criston asked, his voice as gentle as a feather.

"My family believe I ought to take another sworn sword," Alicent's voice trembled with guilt for some reason. "I do not want to."

Ser Criston looked uncomfortable, "Do not be so troubled on my account, my lady. I will remain in your service for as long as you command."

"But I cannot keep you. I must obey my father and uncle," Alicent lamented.

"A daughter obeys her father, and a lady obeys her lord," Ser Criston nodded. "Just as men obey their queen."

Alicent was startled by his declaration, for it had never occurred to her that she would have the power to command the patriarchs of her family. It seemed so backwards, unthinkable, that she, a mere girl, could wield power over the men who had ruled her life since it began. Ser Criston must have noticed her hesitation, because he did not push the matter any further. He simply delivered her to chambers safely, as he had been instructed.

Alicent got hardly any sleep that night.

Chapter Text

Alicent felt suffocated. Her female relatives surrounded her on all side, judging and priming every inch of her body. Her wedding gown was a thing of beauty, elegant yet opulent, made with layers of ivory silk and cloth-of-silver. They draped a maiden cloak around her shoulders, the fabric forming the shape of the tower for which her family was named and dripping in gems. It felt like a yoke.

"Today is the beginning of the rest of your life," Aunt Lynesse said, sounding uncharacteristically sentimental. "How I wish your mother could be here, to see you like this. A queen in the making."

Tears came from Alicent's eyes. What would her mother think of this? Would she be proud that Alicent had secured such a position for herself? Sorrowful over the distress her only daughter was experiencing?

"None of that, my dear," Aunt Lynesse's voice grew softer. She pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed away the saltwater that had begun to spill over Alicent's cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Alicent sniffled. "I didn't mean to."

"It's hardly a wedding if the bride sheds no tears," Aunt Lynesse hummed. Where had this kind, softer version of her aunt been hiding for so many years? "You're not the first, and you'll hardly be the last. You look so much like your mother."

Alicent tries not to flinch, remembering that her father had told her those very same words not too long ago, the night he had commanded her to comfort the king. The night that had taken her life down a path she did not want to walk. How much further did she have to walk? What was waiting for her at the very end?

"I still remember how nervous Jesma was when she married your father," Aunt Lynesse took Alicent's hands in hers.

Their hands are very similar, pale and soft from lack of use, as with most noblewomen. They don't swing swords or shoot arrows, like the men (or some of the Targaryen women). They don't chop firewood or scrub dishes, like the common women.

"Nervous? But… she loved him."

"Oh yes, of course she did, eventually," Aunt Lynesse replied. "At the time, she was a Redwyne of the Arbor, securing her family's future by marrying a Hightower of Oldtown. They had only met twice in person before their wedding, but it all worked out in the end. The love came later, but it come."

Never before had Alicent considered that she might come to love her soon-to-be-husband. In her mind, he was foremost the king, then Rhaenyra's father. She had never seen him as simply a man. Once they were married, Alicent supposed, she might come to see him in that light. This, however, did not ease the tensions weaving its way through her body. Even if she believed it were possible to love the king, Rhaenyra would only grow more enraged at any closeness between them, seeing it as evidence that Alicent had been plotting against her.

What could she possibly do to regain Rhaenyra's love and trust, without hurting her own position or jeopardizing her family's fortunes?

Alicent moved through the wedding as if in a distant dream. A stranger took her father's arm as he led her down the aisle, and the voice that swore vows to her now-husband did not belong her to. The sept burst into raucous applause when the king kissed his bride, but that did not wake Alicent.

It was the sight of Rhaenyra, stiff and stern. She was decked out head to toe in the colors of House Arryn, the colors of the previous queen, the colors of her mother. Alicent felt tears threatening to fall. Rhaenyra looked so beautiful, yet hostile. Had Visenya, Rhaenyra's childhood hero, looked this way to her sister Rhaenys, when Aegon announced his intention to wed them both?

The young, new queen retreated back to her dream. She smiled prettily when looked at and answered politely when spoken to, but Alicent was gone. She could not stand to be here, pretending as if her life had not fallen apart. As if she were happy that any of this had occurred. That she had wanted to marry the king and become his queen even if it meant betraying her dear, beloved princess.

The was a Targaryen bride cloak wrapped around her shoulders, but Alicent had made no effort to look at it. She was not a dragon, not like Rhaenyra, and she didn't think she would ever be one. Dragons were fierce and brave and strong - she was the exact opposite.

In the future, Alicent would look back on this wedding and not remember a single thing. She would not remember who had attended (save Rhaenyra, of course); nor what her dress looked like; nor the dishes that were served at the feast. She did not remember which her new female kin – it might have been Princess Alyssa, it might have been Duchess Gael, it might have been Septa Maegelle – who had attempted to offer words of comfort and acceptance. She would not remember how scared and hopeless and alone she felt. Because she did not want to remember. She did not want to exist in this moment any longer than she had to.

Alicent did not remember what happened after the wedding because she did not want to remember. Bad enough that it had happened; worse if she had to relive it. She only remembered thinking: Is it like this for all women? Is this what made Rhaenyra so miserable all these months? Why have the gods seen fit to make this union necessary between men and women? No, place to question the will of the gods. They had made it so, and so it was.

As Alicent lay beside the king, she prayed that the gods would grants her the mercy of only making her bear daughters. Rhaenyra would love a little sister; a little sister would not threaten her claim to the throne. She knew she ought to be pray for a son to take the throne after his father, but Alicent just wanted the politicking to end as amicably as possible.

She was Alicent of Houses Hightower and Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had never asked to be made queen, but queen she was made.

Chapter Text

High Tide stood silent. While the rest of the kingdom toasted to their king and new queen, there were no celebrations on Driftmark. No flowing flagons of wine, no well-wishes on behalf of the royal family. A rainstorm had swept through earlier in the afternoon, leaving the island clean and fresh, but damp and cold. The Velaryon's maidservants were put to work lighting and maintaining fires all throughout the castle, their warm glow illuminating the vast array of treasures the castle's lord had amassed.

Laena always found solace in the Hall of Nine. It served as a monument to the far-flung lands her father had once sailed to, every inch displaying evidence of his travels. A stunning silk tapestry from Yi Ti, embroidered with the visage of a long-dead emperor. The stuffed head of a Lengi tiger, bearing white knives in its mouth. An elaborate mask from Asshai, sculpted from gold and encrusted with sapphires.

She lay on a beat pelt before the fire, slowly pouring over a book of Valyrian poetry. She sounded out each rune, stumbling over the more archaic, less common runes. Her mother, sitting on an armchair close-by, listened intently to Laena's progress and would correct her mistakes with gentle interruptions.

Laena had scarcely turned the page when her father entered the room. Her eyes fell to the letter enclosed in his hand, her face tightening with trepidation. Men found the Sea Snake a difficult man to look in the eye, but Father did not intimidate her. He had been trying to marry her off since dragging her back to Driftmark with him, and Laena made no secret of her lack of enthusiasm.

Father greeted Mother with a kiss on the cheek and smiled approvingly at Laena's choice of reading material. "I have received a raven from Prince Daemon. He shall arrive within a fortnight."

The serene expression on Mother's face soured. "To see his dear cousin?" she challenged.

Father took the seat opposite Mother's. "Laena, dear one, you've read enough. Shall you not prepare to retire for the night?"

Unwilling to be sent away like a little girl, Laena sat up. "The hour is hardly late. Certainly not late enough for you, it seems."

A soft glare entered his eyes. He was annoyed but not angry. "It is late enough for you, child."

"Am I still a child in your eyes, Father?" Laena asked. "Girls my age have been made wives and will soon be mothers, as I'm certain you are aware."

"Laena, please," Mother warned. "For the sake of quiet in these halls."

Laena looked between her mother's anxious expression and her father's impatient one. It would be her no good to push either of them further. She marked her place in the book and set it aside. "Good night, Mother, Father," she kissed each of her parents on the forehead.

Laena returned to her bedchamber in the east tower. She went through the usual routine of preparing for bed, though she was not the least bit tired. She put away her jewelry, changed into her night clothes, and had a maidservant prepare her hair. Laena lay in bed for several minutes with her eyes closed, but her mind would not quiet. Soon she gave up trying to sleep and wandered to the balcony overlooking the sea.

Below, black water engulfed them, the waves singing their never-ending lullaby. Across, she could see the torches lit along the windows of Castle Driftmark, which had once been their house's seat until Father built High Tide. Above, the full moon and stars looked down upon them. As was true for every mariner's child, Laena knew each star by name. Those stars had kept her father safe for many years and always led him back home, no matter how far away he sailed. Perhaps, somedays, they might lead her home.

Father built High Tide on a tidal island. At low tide, a causeway connected it to the rest of Driftmark. At high tide, the sea cut them off from all else. Laena's life felt much the same way, as of late. The machinations of her parents and grandmother pulled her this way and that. Alicent's betrayal of Rhaenyra and marriage to the king had shaken her. Even now, Laena scolded herself for not noticing Alicent's odd behavior and warning Rhaenyra.

Now, she had to content with whatever her father was plotting with Daemon.

The stillness of the night was broken by a loud, low growl followed by the flapping of massive wings. It took a moment for Laena to recognize that those sounds were being made by a dragon. But which? Surely it could not have been Mother riding Meleys, for she was downstairs with Father. Laenor and Seasmoke should have been in King's Landing with Rhaenyra and Syrax. Daemon and Caraxes were not due to be at High Tide yet.

Laena's eyes widened as she took in the sight of Vhagar sailing through the sky. The last of the Conqueror's trio of dragons, she had grown graceless in her old age, yet she had grown massively. Her size alone made her instantly recognizable.

The young lady on the balcony could not tear her eyes from the sight of the dragon in front her. She gripped the railing hard as she leaned as far as possible, trying to get closer even by a miniscule. Her heart began to race, and blood rushed through her ears.

What a sight, Laena thought that is a dragon.

Laena stands there watching the dragon fly away until she disappears into the darkness. If only it were daytime, and Laena could water her for a little longer. If only it were her dragon, and Vhagar would never fly away from her. Yes, she could claim Vhagar for herself, couldn't she? Laena had no dragon and Vhagar had no rider. The blood of old Valyrian flowed through her veins thanks to be her mother and her father, and her ancestors had ruled the skies for generations untold. Why should she be left out? Already, Laena could picture herself riding Vhagar across the known world, like Jaenara Belaerys and her loyal Terrax.

Sleep did not come easily to Laena Velaryon that night.

Chapter Text

Viserys almost regretted the return to his duties as king, but he knew he could not neglect the needs of his people much longer. A week following his wedding, he and his new bride had enjoyed a peaceful honeymoon on Dragonstone, away from the trials and stresses of court. Alicent had never been to Dragonstone before, so he had delighted in giving her a extensive tour of the castle, its grounds, and the town that slumbered in its shadow. She drew the line at visiting the rocky ridges of the Dragonmont, citing fear that a dragon would pop out of its many tunnels and devour her whole. In this, he indulged her.

Alicent, so lovely and tractable, had melted the worries off his shoulders like gentle spring sunlight. She listened with rapt interest as he rambled about the history of the castle, just as she had listened to him recount ancient Valyrian history while sitting beside his model. There was no passion between them, but he had never expected there to be. Aemma was and always would be the love of his life, but Alicent proved to be a suitable balm to his loneliness and melancholy.

All too soon, their reprieve came to an end, and they returned to the city as king and queen.

He entered the small council chamber, feeling as though time had undone itself. Married or widowed or remarried, the procedure of governance remained the same. His counselors rose upon his entrance, bowed their heads, and waited for him to take his place at the head of the table before seating themselves.

“Ser Otto,” he began, “Has anything meaningful occurred since my departure?”

“Your Majesty, allow me to begin my congratulating you on your recent marriage. I speak on behalf of this council and the realm when I wish you and your bride a fruitful and peaceful life together.”

Viserys thanked the Lord Hand for his kind words and signaled for him to continue.

Otto’s shoulders stiffened and his lips pulled down into a stern frown. “That being said, I regret to inform you that the situation in the Stepstone has escalated to dangerous and unprecedented heights. Your own kinsmen, Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys, have declared their intent to make war upon the Triarchy – without the crown’s leave. They are marshalling forces on Driftmark as we speak.”

“If they wish to cause trouble elsewhere, leave them to it,” Viserys answered, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. His brother and cousin had been sought to cause him difficulty these several months, and he would rather that they wear themselves out fighting the pirates than return to court like darkening storm clouds.

“Your Majesty,” Otto protested, “They believe themselves accountable to no one. Allowing such a precedent to stand endangers the stability of the realm.”

“The realm is more stable than it has been at any earlier point in its history,” Viserys countered. “The land is peaceful, the coffers are full, the lords are compliant, and the commons are happy. Daemon and Corlys galivanting around the Stepstone will not change that.”

“I must agree with the Lord Hand, your Majesty,” Alyssa interjected. “Their actions reflect on the crown.”

“In whose name did they declare war?” Viserys asked his mother.

“Their own,” she answered. “But they are still subjects of the crown. If you do not stop them, you are telling the world that you condone their actions.”

“And perhaps I do condone it?”

“I would not advise this course of action,” Otto stated.

“If I may speak freely, your Majesty?” Laenor requested. Viserys granted him leave to speak, ignoring how Otto rolled his eyes. “Has this council not been previously warned that the Triarchy is a threat to our shipping lanes? That numerous houses are feeling the effects of their levies and abductions? If Daemon and Corlys wish to solve this issue themselves, without bringing the realm itself to war, how will it benefit us to stop them?

“How indeed,” Viserys agreed. “War will be good for Daemon. It will keep him out of trouble.”

Otto and Alyssa both looked skeptical but seeing that their king had set his mind toward this course of action – or rather, inaction – they conceded to his wishes. The remainder of the meeting passed by with little incident. Theirs was a quiet realm, though all in that room suspected that this condition might change once Corlys raised his sail toward the Stepstones and Daemon raised Dark Sister against the Triarchy.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Viserys walked up to his daughter and goodson. Rhaenyra had been uncharacteristically quiet during this meeting. Instead, Laenor, usually the quieter of the two, had spoken up.

“It would please me greatly if you both would join me and Alicent for luncheon today,” Visery invited. “We are family, after all.”

Rhaenyra carries a polite, but blank expression on her face. “Forgive us, Father, but Laenor and I have previous arrangements that we must keep. Perhaps another time.”

“You must at least join us for dinner tonight. Unless you are planning to leave King’s Landing.”

At this, Rhaenyra faltered. “Dinner then,” she conceded stiffly.

“We would be happy to join you and the queen,” Laenor added. With that, they said their goodbyes and parted away from the king.

Viserys thought about his daughter’s odd behavior as he ate luncheon with his bride in her chambers. The servants had moved Alicent’s belongings into the queen’s chambers during their honeymoon. She had bestowed Aemma’s belongings to Rhaenyra, which his daughter tearfully accepted. Viserys believed that Rhaenyra would accept Alicent as a stepmother and queen, given the long history of friendship they shared, but instead Rhaenyra had become cool and distant.

“Rhaenyra and Laenor will be joining us for dinner,” Viserys told Alicent.

“Lovely,” Alicent smiled. “Though I admit, the thought makes me a little nervous. It shall be my first time hosting as queen.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” he replied. “They will not judge you harshly, and this shall be good practice when you are to host important guests.”

Alicent nodded obediently. 

“Is all well between you and Rhaenyra?”

“It…is…an adjustment for the both of us,” Alicent answered quietly.

“Do you that, in time, she will come to accept our marriage?”

“That is my wish, your Majesty,” Alicent looked down at her hands.

“Mine as well,” Viserys noted. They finished the rest of their meal in silence.

Chapter Text

When one rode a dragon, horses had a diminished appeal, but even Rhaenyra could admit that the Dornish sand stead was a unique and exciting mount. The horses gifted to them by House Martell tore through the countryside with alarming speed, prompting stares and points from the smallfolk working in the fields on either side of the otherwise quiet road Rhaenyra and Laenor raced along. The Kingsroad, Goldroad, and Rosby Road were far too highly trafficked for such an excursion, so they opted for one of the small roads that led to a market town inland. Rhaenyra did not remember the names of the road or the market, for they were insignificant to her.

Laenor brought his stallion to a gradual halt and shouted for her to do the same. Rhaenyra noticed, but stubbornly persisted in pushing her mare forward until her husband was out of sight. Only then did she begin to slow. Breathing heavily, Rhaenyra leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Joy's mane. Laenor had named both horses; Joy for her gentle and cheerful disposition, and his own mount Champion for his noble bearing.

"Do you suppose I ought to turn back?" Rhaenyra asked Joy. Joy gave no answer except to toss her head in excitement, sending the silky strands of her mane flying into the young girl's face. Rhaenyra laughed and turned towards home.

Just as she began picking up speed, Laenor appeared yonder. She had Joy maintain that pace so that she could talk to Laenor as they went back the way they came from. Dornish sand steeds were said to be able to run a day, night, and another day without tiring, and from the looks of things, neither Joy nor Champion seemed overtaxed by the recent exercise.

"I won," she smiled weakly, as she took in the fond but exasperated look on Laenor's face.

"For a heartbeat, I thought you'd keep heading west until you reached Casterly Rock," Laenor noted.

"What is there for me in Casterly Rock?" Rhaenyra scoffed. "The Lannisters are obnoxious, and our cousins are the worst of them all."

"I only meant that you've gotten in the habit of running off on your own," Laenor replied lightly. "I imagine you are not excited to dine with your father and stepmother tonight."

"Ugh, don't call her that!" Rhaenyra hissed.

Laenor sighed, "She is your stepmother."

Rhaenyra gave an exaggerated gag before calming down. "Yes, Alicent is my stepmother now, as much as I hate to acknowledge it." she conceded. "What am I to do Laenor? Before the wedding, Aunt Meg suggested that I attempt to reconcile with Alicent, but the thought of trusting her again makes my stomach turn."

"It’s hard to say. Whatever progress you make in your relationship will always been jeopardized by the possibility of her son, but I don't think antagonizing her will do you any good."

"Are you suggesting I do nothing?"

"Doing nothing can hardly be worse than making the wrong decision."

"It pains me to look at her, to even think of her," Rhaenyra admitted hoarsely. "I cannot attend this dinner. I cannot pretend that everything is already while she's sitting my mother's chair."

"Are you going to avoid her for the rest of your lives, then?" Laenor challenged.

"Indeed," Rhaenyra replied with mock confidence. Her tone returned to contemplative. "If she does have a son...even if she has a daughter, I cannot imagine her being the mother of my sibling. A sibling young enough to be my own child, born to the former friend who betrayed me. What am I supposed to do with such a child?"

"I wish I knew how to help," Laenor replied. "Do you wish to skip the dinner. We could claim that you are not will."

"I cannot cower from her," Rhaenyra stated with a lightning quick determination that caught Laenor off-guard. Of perhaps he should not have been surprised: he had wed a dragon, and dragon breathed fire. "I'll not have men and woman snicker at my expense, laughing about how I'm scared off...my new stepmother."

That felt better, Rhaenyra realized. Anger felt better than sadness, and spite felt stronger than heartache. Laenor sensed this about her too. But how far would that carry her, he wondered.

"No one thinks you a coward, but do not antagonize her unnecessarily," Laenor repeated. "Right now, she wants your favor. If she wanted something else, she could make life very difficult for you. Well, more difficult than it already is."

"It doesn't matter what she wants," Rhaenyra corrected. "She claims she didn't want my father to marry her, and yet he did. She may claim she doesn't want her possible son to take my throne, but it will happen regardless. Unless I stop him."

"I don't suppose you have a plan in place to prevent that?"

Rhaenyra grimaced. "It is one you will not like. I...know you've been trying...to help me produce an heir...and I appreciate your efforts." She briefly paused when she saw the discomfort on Laenor's face. "I like it no more than you, and I dread climbing into the childbed as my mother once did...but it is becoming unavoidable. Whispers have reached my ears that half the court believes me to be barren."

"Are you saying that you want a child now?" Laenor wanted to confirm.

Rhaenyra pursed her lips. "I don't want my birthright to slip through my fingers, lost because of Otto Hightower's machinations. I don't want this all to have been for nothing. If that requires that I must have a child...a son... then I have no choice but to accept it."

A stormy look overtook Laenor's face, and Rhaenyra began to second-guess her statement. Excluding the problems in the bed, he was the best husband she could have hoped for. Loyal, supportive, stable. He saw her as both his friend and future queen, not a trophy or tool for his own power. She knew their nights together were more torturous for him than for her, even if the desired pregnancy would have greater stakes for her.

She knew that in asking him to continue, for the sake of her bloodline and hold on the throne, she had hurt him.

"I understand," Laenor said through clenched teeth. She said his name, intending to say more, but Laenor interrupted with, "We're expected back at the castle soon." He sped off on Champion, leaving Rhaenyra behind. He had never done that before.

Chapter Text

Her father's chambers were largely unchanged, but for the scale model of Old Valyria that he had begun to sculpt. Rhaenyra noted its presence with lukewarm interest before turning her attention to more pressing matters. Despite what Rhaenyra predicted, Alicent did not sit in the chair Aemma once occupied, but rather the one across. Rhaenyra wasted no time in claiming her late mother's seat, between her father and husband.

The food looked and smell splendid, but Rhaenyra feared that she would not keep anything down due to the way her stomach churned with raw emotions. Anger at Alicent, disgust toward her father, guilt for the way she had treated Laenor. She took a nibble here, a sip there, and sent back nearly full plates.

"Rhaenyra, is everything alright?" Alicent asked delicately. "You don't seem to have much of an appetite this evening."

A part of her was tempted to say "Yes" and ask to be excused, but Rhaenyra clenched tighter to her anger and spite. "It is nothing for which you need concern yourself... stepmother."

Alicent flinched at the title, and her eyes dropped to her plate. "I only wish to help you."

"I don't need your help! You've done enough," Rhaenyra snapped.

Father looked between the two girls with a frown upon his lips, but then he put on a jovial face. "Rhaenyra, Laenor, I hear you both went for a ride on your Dornish horses. Are they as fast as the singers claim?"

Rhaenyra froze, but Laenor answered smoothly. "Indeed, Uncle. Champion is the swiftest and more sure-footed horse I've ever had the pleasure of mounting. Joy is a fine and high-spirited animal. We have already written to House Martell to thank them for such a generous gift."

"That was abnormally kind of them," Viserys nodded. "Perhaps it is a sign of improvement in their relationship with crown. I had not expected such a gesture from them."

"Yes, people are full of surprises," Rhaenyra agreed, with a edge in her voice. "You may believe someone to be trustworthy, only to learn that their loyalty is as a delicate as lace."

"In which case, one must look to the one who tore the lace," Alicent muttered. Rhaenyra held her in a hard, cool look. Alicent maintain eye contact for a silent minute, before she look down at her food again with her mouth tight in obvious displeasure. Rhaenyra won the challenge, but it left her feeling no better. She glared out the window.

Viserys watched the exchange in utter confusion and with increasing discomfort. Laenor interrupted by asking the king how he had enjoyed Dragonstone. Eager for a change of subject, Viserys went on a long speech about the castle and its history, lamenting that he hard little time to enjoy its unique qualities before having to return to the Red Keep. There were several old scrolls and books he had taken to read in his spare time, and he promised to show them to Laenor and Rhaenyra one day. But then Viserys made the mistake concluding his speech by stating how much he had enjoyed his honeymoon, to his daughter's revulsion.

"I believe marriage agrees with me," Viserys smiled warmly at Alicent. Rhaenyra felt as though he had grabbed her heart and begun to squeeze. "I feel better now than I have in weeks. Alicent has been a wonderful companion, and I am most fortunate to have her."

"At least this nonsense benefited someone," Rhaenyra spat.

Viserys' face dropped at the venom in his daughter's voice. He had thought of all the marriage candidates he could have chosen from, Alicent would be the most appeasing to her, seeing that they were such close friends. A stepmother she could trust...except not anymore, Viserys realized with alarm.

Loyalty as a delicate as lace, that was what Rhaenyra had said. Had Rhaenyra interpreted Alicent's marriage to him as some sort of betrayal? The tension between them was impossible not to see. No, this had to be a misunderstanding of some sort, something they would work through eventually. They both needed time to adjust to the new situation, and once they were settled, things would return to normal.

Throughout exhausted with the awkward evening, Rhaenyra finally said, "Thank you for dinner. If it pleases you, Laenor and I shall take our leave and allow you both your privacy."

Noting that his daughter and wife both seemed anxious, Viserys nodded and said, "Goodnight, my dear. We shall see you on the marrow."

As they made their way through the castle, Laenor took Rhaenyra's hand and gave her sad, sympathetic smile. Rhaenyra struggled to smile back. It did lift her spirits somewhat to know that her husband was no longer angry with her, but the disastrous dinner still weighed heavily on her. Once they reached the privacy of their chambers, they collapsed into the bed together, arms around each other.

"I should not have left there on your own," Laenor apologized. "It was unconscionable to abandon a lady, my wife, in the countryside to find her way back alone. I promised to remain at your side."

"Apology accepted. And I'm sorry for what I said earlier," Rhaenyra sniffled. "I should not have pushed you to do something that hurts you, when I myself know how that feels. From now on, you should not feel any obligation to share my bed."

Laenor kissed the top of her head. "I'm not angry with you Rhaenyra. I understand your situation, truly, I just..."

"You don't have to explain yourself," Rhaenyra assured him. "I'll think of something else."

"But what are you to do for heirs?"

"I don't know," Rhaenyra admitted. "As much as I hate the thought of Alicent's potential son taking the throne promised to me, I will not force you to give me children."

"If only I were like other men," Laenor lamented.

"You would not half a kind and loyal and trustworthy as you are," Rhaenyra teased. "Don't be so hard on yourself. I wouldn't change anything about you." She could rest a little easier after reconciling with her husband.

Chapter Text

The dead man had no eyes. Two dark holes, thickly crusted over with blood, gazed into nothingless. Gaemon found himself wishing he could say what color the eyes had been, wished he had anything to tell him that what he now stared at had once been a man. Someone's son, someone's brother, perhaps someone's husband or father.

He thought of Balerion's skull resting beneath the Red Keep, surrounded by candles and regularly cleaned by servants. Viserys would spend hours down there talking to his dead mount when melancholy gripped him. But for all his splendor, the old dragon was no less dead than this ragged, nameless wildling.

"Another one?" First Ranger Umber asked as he approached. Gaemon nodded. "That's the fourth in as many months."

Wrinkling his nose, Gaemon more closely examined the remaining flesh on the head and found that it had similar marks to the others. "This appears to be the work of the same perpetrator, my lord. Why do you suppose he's doing this?" Or she, that was a possibility. Wildlings put blades in the hands of their daughters as well as their sons. His older sister and nieces would be considered far less exceptional up here than in the south.

"Who knows why those savages do anything?" Umber shrugged.

It was likely nothing more than a local dispute among warring clans, but Gaemon could not forget Inga's warning: I know of a man who has the notion that one day soon, he'll be king beyond the Wall. He did not share his suspicion with the First Ranger, however, because he was not in the mood to endure any more of the man's cruel mockery.

"Well, are you planning to kiss it, or what?" Umber huffed impatiently.

Gaemon tore his eyes from the eyeless face, leaving the corpse lying in the snow. He remounted his horse Banner and followed his commander back to the place they had set up camp only a short distance away. Their brothers awaited them in the back of the cave, where Harley had set up a fire. Taelys had taken stock of their remaining provisions, noting that they had just enough to return to the Wall but would need to live off the land if they were delayed for even a day.

On account of Gaemon and Umber's excursion into the forest, Harley offered to take the first watch. Gaemon felt as though he had scarcely laid down his head before Taelys shook him roughly and complained that he always slept too deeply. Though prickly from his restless sleep, Gaemon did not utter a word of complaint.

He sat by the fire, whetting his sword. It was well-made, but no Valyrian steel. House Targaryen had three such blades in its possession. Blackfyre, carried by Aegon the Conqueror and every king after him, regardless of their prowess in battle. Dark Sister, carried by his older sister-wife Visenya, always handed down to greatest warrior of that age if not the king himself. Nightingale, the dagger carried by the younger sister-wife Rhaenys, though she was no true warrior like her older siblings. After her death at Hellholt, Prince Nymor Martell had returned it to King's Landing as proof of her identity. The singers claim that King Aegon carried it day and night until his own death many years later.

Before that, once King Aegon had taken the Seven Kingdoms for his own, he had visited the Night's Watch upon Brandon's Wall several times. One such time, King Aegon had gifted a Valyrian steel sword to each commander of the Night Watch's castles; eighteen at the time, for Deep Lake had yet to be built. Lord Commander Hightower carried a sword named Obsidian bequeathed to him by his predecessor, Lord Commander Mortimon Bracken.

As a boy, Gaemon had been baffled by King Aegon's generosity. Now, he knew better. Whatever threat stared down at them from the north, Valyrian steel would surely provide an advantage.

Even before the Conquest, most of the Valyrian steel that entered Westeros had flowed through Dragonstone, earning an obscene amount of gold for House Targaryen. Every noble house, regardless of culture or religion or language, wanted to get their hands on that rare and peerless metal. Valyrian steel was lighter yet stronger than any other metal known to man, and it held an impossibly sharp edge no matter how long or how hard it was used.

The Starks of Winterfell owned a giant beast of sword named Ice; too large to be effectively wielded in battle, it served more to impress and intimidate their foes. The Arryns had named theirs Talon in reference to their sigil, the eagle. When Orys Baratheon wed Argella Durrandon, he had allowed her to name the sword he had used to slay her father: Fury. Rose Thorn had belonged to the Gardeners until Aegon the Conqueror gifted to the Tyrells for their surrender, along with the castle of Highgarden. Even the Dornish, with their many grievances against the Valyrians, could not resist Valyrian steel's allure, shown by House Martell's ownership of a sword named Heaven's Eye.

The Lannisters had lost their sword Brightroar after King Tommen II attempted to plunder Valyria's smoking ruins, only to fall victim to the Doom himself. His descendants have spent the intervening years attempting to buy the Valyrian steel swords of other, lesser houses, but all would sooner sell their own children into slavery than part with their swords.

The Ironborn, being proud pirates, never bought Valyrian steel swords: they took them in battle. House Greyjoy boasted of their ancestor Karlon the Ghoul slaying an archon of Tyrosh in single combat and returning with the deceased's longsword, to later be renamed Nagga's Daughter, held high overhead. When the Ironborn conquered the Riverlands, they had stolen every Valyrian steel blade they found find, a humiliation that the riverlords would likely never forgive. Some, such as House Tully's Devotion, were eventually recovered, but many remained on the isles to this day.

Gaemon raised his head when he thought he heard something outside of the cave. His instincts screamed at him that they were not alone, even though he saw nothing to warrant his apprehension. Better to be an overcautious fool than a dead one, he decided. Though he would have preferred Taelys or Harley, they had already done their duty for the night, and so he woke Umber instead.

"I believe something is outside this cave," Gaemon explained. "I need you to keep watch over the others while I ensure that our parameter is secure."

"Fine," Umber spat, rising from his bedroll.

Gaemon readied himself, took up his newly sharpened sword and a burning torch, and stepped out to brave the bitterly cold night. As he reached the mouth of the cave, he noticed a figure – a person – standing there, their back to Gaemon. The person stood eerily still, uncaring of the snowflakes swirling in the wind. Gaemon said nothing, only watched.

After a long while, the person – was that thing really a person? – turned to face him. Its features were difficult to make out in the night's darkness with only Gaemon's torch for illumination, but the watchman knew exactly what he was looking at.

The corpse, the dead man with no eyes, his ravaged face bearing the same marks and the same blank expression. A horrible, beautiful blue light shore from the empty sockets. By some miracle, Gaemon remained standing upright, though he was frozen in horror and confusion. He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. Dead men didn't walk. Unless that wasn't a man anymore.

The dead man – thing, creature, monster – stared at him sightlessly for what felt like a hundred years, turned away once more, and disappeared into the forest.

Chapter Text

Gaemon stood at the mouth for a length of time he would not be able to recall later. Just stood there staring into the icy darkness, half-hoping that he was still asleep, lost in a dream, that what he had seen had not been what he had seen. At last, his wits returned to him. He drew a shuddering breath and retreated to the inner chamber of the cave – his sword unsheathed.

Umber, feeding firewood in the flames, studied Gaemon as he returned to his post. "You look as though you've seen the Other itself." When Gaemon said nothing in response, Umber continued. "You drew your sword, but didn't use it. You may be a southerner, dragon prince, but you're neither stupid nor craven. What did you see out there?"

"Why do you call it the Other?" Gaemon asked, surprising them both.

"What does religion have to do with this?"

Gaemon's breathing grew a little more stead. "When I came North for the first time, I asked and received no answer. I think I need them answer to understand what I just saw."

Umber's lips twisted into a grimace. "They aren't your gods. They don't care about you, and you have no business knowing the secrets."

"As I've been told before," Gaemon replied wryly. "Even if you will not tell me, do you know the answer yourself? Were you told?"

Umber returned his gaze to the fire. "Scrap of it told to me by my wetnurse. Scary stories meant to frighten children into obedience."

"If they were just stories, you all wouldn't be so concerned about telling a stranger," Gaemon pointed out.

An uncomfortable silence prevailed so several long minutes. Gaemon looked back at the entrance of the cave, as cold and undisturbed as an old tomb. He forced himself to finally sheath his sword, his grip on the pommel tight to keep his hand from trembling. Gaemon took a spot across the fire from Umber. The humble flames gave his eyes a place to rest.

"What did you see out there?" Umber repeated softly.

"The corpse from earlier," Gaemon answered. He did not lift his eyes.

"You went back there?"

More silence.

"No," Gaemon admitted. "It came here."

"Look at me, Gaemon," Umber's tone was demanding, even as his voice grew even softer. "If you're lying, I'll rip out your entrails and feed them to you, understood?"

"You're not worried I'm lying," Gaemon guessed. "You're worried I'm telling the truth. Elsewise, you'd just laugh in my face."

More silence.

"I first heard the stories as a boy," Umber began, his face reddened with emotion; his lip curled in a grimace. "From my wetnurse to begin with. Parts of the stories floated to me during this conversation or that. Demons once ruled the world with armies of dead men at their call. Children take the stories at face value and adolescents think the stories are embarrassing and children. When a man is old enough to have some grey in his beard, he comes to understand there's something to those scary old stories."

Gaemon listened intently, "I think it would be best if you told me when we return to Castle Black. I would like to include it in my writings."

Anger flared within Umber, "Forget it. I'm acting like a fool. Don't wake me again until my watch, unless you think we're in imminent danger."

Whatever spell had overcome the First Ranger had been broken, leaving behind the surly man Gaemon had come to know. He shouldn't have said anything, Gaemon scolded himself. He knew some of the northern families he had stayed with during his tour had been offended by his work, and he should have known better than to assume that Umber wouldn't be. If not that, then perhaps he simply didn't want his name written down among the stories of dead men walking.

Gaemon watched silently as Umber tucked himself back into his old bedroll. He may never again be able to speak so future with Umber, but what he had gotten out of the man might be enough to point him in the right direction. Still, when he tried to picture himself sitting at his writing desk, telling Viserys of icy corpses marching down on King's Landing, it seemed too absurd.

Viserys might accept it regardless, or he might now. His beloved nephew kept up their correspondence, but as of late his letters had become shorter and less frequent. Between his new heir and his new wife, he must have found it difficult to devote much attention to his far-flung uncle.

If he told Lord Commander Hightower, would be the man believe him? Likely not, Gaemon reasoned. Viserys was expecting news of something unnatural and sinister from the far north on account of King Aegon's dream, but the Lord Commander had no such premonitions to help assuage his disbelief.

In that moment, exhaustion hit Gaemon like a punch from an angry drunk. He would see the dead man when he closed his eyes – that haunting, eyeless face with two glowing blue lights shining through the darkness. It had…seen him? It had known he was there, yet it left him unmolested. What had it wanted? Why had it spared him? Where had it gone to? Were there more of these dead men walking through the forest at night, leaving questions and whisperers in their wake.

Gaemon cursed himself for his weakness and hesitancy. There he stood, a man with years of experience under his belt, yet when faced with this unknown entity, he had stood there frozen like a frightened little boy. His hands tightened around the pommel of his steel sword. He was not worthy of Valyrian steel, at least not yet. He made a vow that if he ever encountered the creature again, or anything else of that sort, he would take action.

The night wore on without further incident. When the time came for Umber's watch, Gaemon woke him but said nothing. Umber was no more eager to talk about what had happened earlier than night. They carried on with their duties as though everything was normal, but Gaemon knew that Taelys and Harley could sense the tension between them. As they prepared to return to Castle Black, Gaemon felt increasingly uneasy, anxious, and uncertain.

Chapter Text

"Your Grace," one of the new junior maester offered him a letter. "This message has arrived from the Night's Watch."

Viserys took the letter, reminiscing fondly of his uncle. "Thank you," he dismissed the junior measter before breaking the black wax which sealed the parchment. As of late, Gaemon's letters had grown briefer and scarcer. As a sworn brother of the Watch, his duties often took his into the frozen wastelands beyond Brandon's Wall for days or weeks at a time. When he was not ranging beyond the Wall, he was overseeing the activities of the junior rangers and training new recruits.

My honored nephew, he wrote, I request only for a scrap of your patience and understanding. You are sufficiently familiar with my character to know that I would never intent to deceive or mislead you, much less in regards to a matter as serious as the one I shall expound henceforth.

This opening filled him with unease. His letters with Gaemon were typically trusting and casual, but now he pleaded for Viserys to believe his word. What reason did he have not to? What had happened to trouble his uncle so thoroughly? Viserys took a moment to collect himself and then carefully read through the rest of the letter.

Viserys felt something cold creep up his spine as he absorbs Gaemon's words. A dead man rising in the depths of a frigid storm? Such a thing was difficult for him to imagine. He searched his mind for any reference to the dead returning to life, but his memories left him empty-handed. Had Gaemon truly seen what he thought he saw? Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps...

No, this sort of thinking was precisely why Gaemon had opened his letter as he had. It sounded absurd, mad. But Gaemon was a loyal and honest man. If he did not believe it down to his very bones, he never would have set pen to parchment. Viserys decided to set aside his skepticism and put his faith in Gaemon. His uncle had chosen a life of service thousands of miles from home to prepare for the threat their ancestor had foreseen. He would not dishonor that sacrifice by doubting him.

But for now, Viserys did not know what to write back. This was something he had never been prepared for. How did one go about battling a dead man? How could one kill something that was already dead? He decided he would read through the Valyrian histories once more with this new encounter in mind. Although Gaemon had scoured those books and scrolls many years before, they hadn't known what to look for. There was every chance they had missed something vital.

"Your Majesty, Grand Maester Mellos is without" the manservant told him. "He has news to impart."

"Send him in," Viserys accepted. As he awaited the maester arrival, he carefully put away Gaemon's letter.

Grand Maester Mellos bowed once he entered the king's presence. Where his predecessor Runciter had been tall and fleshy, Mellos stood shorter than most men and was as lean and hard as a dry old stick. Most days he wore a prim scowl on his face, so it surprised the king to see his grand maester with a satisfied smile.

"Grand Maester, I presume you have some important news to impart?"

"Indeed," the old man smiled calmly. "Important and felicitous news, your Majesty. It is my great honor to inform you that both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra are with child. If the gods are merciful, the queen shall deliver your child in seven turns of the moons, and the princess shall delivery your grandchildren not much later. I brought the news to you first, as is due to you."

Happiness and relief bloomed within the king, as though he had been drowning and had just taken his first breathe of air. The two most important women in his life were both with child, and by the beginning of the new year, he would father once more and a grandfather for the first time. He could already imagine it clearly in mind: Rhaenyra sitting to his left and Alicent sitting to his right, each bouncing a healthy babe in her lap. They had been close since they were girls, and before long they would embark on the journey of motherhood together. He knew things had been...strange between them lately, but this would cement them as family.

"Shall I inform the queen and princess posthaste, or do you wish to make the announcement yourself?" Mellos asked after giving the king several minutes to absorb the news.

When Viserys remembered Mellos, and through Mellos remembered Aemma, his mood abruptly turned dark and cold. There was no guarantee than either girl would be any safer in the birthing bed than Aemma had. He had known the childbed was battle all women must face - safe for septas like his Aunt Meg - but he had tried not to think about that. The matter was out of his hands at this point. They would each have to enter the childbed, one after the other, but at least they wouldn't be along like his precious Aemma had been. He still felt ashamed that he had forced her mother and sisters away, though he dreaded the thought they might learn the truth of what happened in that room.

"You Majesty, is all well?" Mellos asked tentatively.

Viserys left his thoughts and returned to the matter at hand. "Yes," he nodded. "This is wonderful news, I am...overwhelmed with emotion. Um...I-I think it best that you delivery this news to them. Such matters are not my area of expertise. Together, I think. Inform them together! With Ser Laenor present of course. He is the father of one of these babes."

"It shall be done as you say," Mello promised. With the king's permission, he took his leave.

Viserys' shoulders sagged when he was alone once more. Dead men stalked the dark forests of the far north while he child and grandchild were due to be born. He had to unmask the threat in the prophecy to safeguard his family's future. He brought out Gaemon's letter, read through it once more, and took his pen.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra had an inkling what her father wished to speak of when he summoned herself and Laenor to his chambers. It had been nearly three weeks since she ought to have bled, but her bedsheets remained clean. The maesters had been keeping a close eye on her moonblood since she wed. With all the attention paid to her womb, she of course knew the signs to watch out for.

Discomfort stabbed her belly when she walked into her father's chambers and saw Alicent already waiting with him. Father and Alicent sat together on the settee, though it did not appear that they had been talking. She had expected this conversation to be awkward enough without her former friend present. As Father seemed determined to force them back together, Rhaenyra made no complaint except to let a small groan escape her lips.

Father rose from the settee and enveloped her in a joyful hug. Pushing her worries out of her mind, Rhaenyra hugged him back. When they pulled apart, she took a second to study him. He had been steadily a little weaker and less steady over the last few years, she'd noticed, but now he seemed as spry and energetic as he had when she was little. His expression was that of childish excitement mixed with nervous uncertainty.

The news must have been what she thought.

Father gestured for Alicent to rise and join them, which she did swiftly and gracefully.

"Grand Maester Mellos delivered wonderful news to me earlier today. Rhaenyra, Alicent, the maester has confirmed that are both with child. In seven turns of the moon, this castle shall be graced with two princes or princesses, or perhaps one of each."

Although Rhaenyra was aware of the changes to her own body, although she had been worried about what would happen if Alicent's belly began to increase, the news somehow still came as a shock to her. At least now her poor husband would have justification not to share her bed. Soon she would have both an child and sibling, become both a mother and a sister. Depending on whether to gods chosen to give Alicent a son or daughter, the latter might become a rival for the throne.

Rhaenyra noticed that Alicent had tore the skin around her cuticles. She never did seem to shake the habit. It confirmed to Rhaenyra that Alicent was genuinely as nervous as she seemed.

"B-both?" Alicent stammered, her voice lacking any of the happiness emitted from her husband. Her fingers trembled and her eyes grew moist. Despite everything, Rhaenyra could not suppress the well of pity building up inside her. Alicent didn’t want this anymore that she did. But what Alicent wanted didn’t matter so long as Ser Otto lurked in the shadows.

"You are a little further along, according to Mellos' calculations, but the babes should be born close together," Viserys explained. "This is most welcome news, is it now?"

"Yes, of course," Rhaenyra answered, though the words felt like a lie as soon as they left her lips. This is what she had wanted, in a way. She had lived in the shadow of the birthing bed for as long as she could remember, but she had wanted to secure her own bloodline – her mother's bloodline. It was for her duty, for her birthright, for House Targaryen and House Velaryon.

Yet, it was hard for Rhaenyra to truly feel happy about her pregnancy. Mostly, she just felt uncomfortable and scared. Why was it so hard for her to accept things as they were? Countless women before her had done it. Had they felt as she did now, only taking care to hide their trepidation?

She thought of her mother, bravely smiling through her last pregnancy despite the physical and emotional anguish it put her through. The last pregnancy which had taken her life.

“The news is a welcome relief,” Laenor told his goodfather. He sounded the most genuine out of all of them, for reasons only Rhaenyra knew.

The Iron Throne now had an heir, but of a spare? What of Driftmark? Rhaenyra had promised Laenor she would not hold him to his husbandly duties. After the misery they both endured to create just this one child, Rhaenyra fully intended to keep that promise. Perhaps Laenor would not mind allowing Laena’s issue to inherit after him.

“If all goes well, I shall be the happiest man in the Seven Kingdom before long,” Father smiled.

If all goes well, Rhaenyra repeated bitterly in her mind. All had gone horribly wrong for her mother.

“Husband,” Alicent’s wobbly voice pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts because they could go down a dark road. “Might I have a word alone with Rhaenyra?”

Father’s expression grew even brighter, if that were possible. “Yes, certainly. Come, Laenor, let us speak man to man.”

Rhaenyra admitted to herself that Alicent’s move was rather clever, despite her annoyance. As soon they were alone, Rhaenyra was confronted by Alicent’s large, sad eyes and adorable pout.

“Are you truly so determined to hate me?” Alicent asked.

Rhaenyra countered, “It is only a nature response to your betrayal.”

“What must I do to earn your forgiveness?” Alicent pleaded. “Not for my sake, but for the sake of our children. I don’t want the division between us to affect us. Cannot you think of how awful it would be for them to grow up in a family whether their mother and sister, or mother and…step-grandmother…are estranged, and they feel compelled to choose sides?”

“They will be forced to choose sides not by me, but by your father!”

“Well, you are doing nothing to remedy the situation!” Alicent snapped. “You refuse to allow what has been broken to be repaired! What sort of queen behaves like that?”

“I…you…” Rhaenyra scrambled for a good rebuttal, “What can you do to fix this? How you can you stop your father from seeking to put his own blood on the throne when your yourself admit that you are compelled to obey him.”

“Marry my child to yours,” Alicent offered. “If one of us has a son and the other a daughter.  If not, we can keep trying until we achieve it.”

Rhaenyra did not want to admit to Alicent that she and Laenor had no intention of trying for another child. She still did not trust Alicent, but the flame of her anger had begun to flicker, especially in the face of such a solution. Her father would love it, Laenor would like it, everyone else would consider it a logical and sound match. Rhaenyra wished she understood how she felt about it.

“I miss you,” Alicent’s voice broken, and something inside Rhaenyra snapped.

“I will consider it,” Rhaenyra hastily replied, then fled from the room so before her emotions got the best of her. She did not even give Alicent a chance to respond, leaving her friend-turned-stepmother alone in her father’s chambers.

Chapter Text

The news that the princess and the queen were both with child shocked Rhaenys, particularly the latter. Despite the encouragement of herself, her husband, and her mother, Laenor and Rhaenyra's marriage had been barren for long, she had given up hope of her son becoming a father. Part of her wondered if the child was truly his, though she felt guilty for her suspicions. Rhaenyra had done nothing to warrant such distrust. For years she had served and studied at Rhaenys' side, absorbing what was expected of her as the future Countess of Driftmark, despite her bouts of sulking.

But Rhaenys knew her son was...different. In Old Valyrian, his preferences would have been considered unremarkable and no great impediment to his political position. Things were simply done different. Matters of state were put to a vote between all free landowners - though in truth, the dragonlords held all the power, with a representative of each noble family being chosen to reside in the capital city and cast the ballot. As such, power was not reserved solely for one child, whether son or daughter. If they were still in Valyria, Laenor would not have borne the weight of carrying the Velaryon bloodline.

Valyria was gone, and he bore the weight.

Rhaenys penned a letter to her husband on the Stepstones. There was a change had already heard it from others, but she did not wish to put that to chance. Each day her Corlys remained in those wretched isles dig into her. Corlys was a still strong and lively, but he was no longer a young man. A million different things could take him away from them in the chaos of battle.

Daemon, her dear, foolish little cousin was placing his own life at risk as well, though he had at least his dragon to protect him. Rhaenys remembered how he had arrived on High Tide, her cousin had walked into the Hall of Nine and, with little small talk to ease them into the conversation, Daemon had suggested the war. It look little to convince her husband, but even Rhaenys remained skeptical. Many night, the men had poured over maps and letter, deciding the best manner in which to conduct their campaign. Once Rhaenys knew without doubt that the war would take place regardless of her thoughts, she contributed what she could to their plans.

They had intended for Rhaenys to remain on Driftmark and rule in her husband's stead while he warred against the Triarchy, but now that Laenor's wife was to have a child, Rhaenys could not longer stay away from court. With Vaemond fighting at his brother's side, with his sons still children, Rhaenys placed the responsibility for Driftmark's continued care upon her goodsister, Gaeva. Gaeva was a sweet, but sensible woman. Rhaenys took Laena upon Dreamfyre and they return to the royal court.

"Mother, do you think I will ever have a dragon?" Laena had asked as she approached Dreamfyre. "I feel the need for my own mount bubbling within me until it comes time to burst, as though I am a geyser of flesh and longing, rather than stone and steam."

"If it is meant to happen, it will happen," Rhaenys had answered with a tight smile. She wanted her daughter to be happy, but she knew that claiming a dragon would only entangle Laena further into the political turmoil that was slowly - but surely - festering. But was she not already entangled, Rhaenys wondered as Dreamfyre lifted into the sky. Yes, but dragons always complicated matters further.

After returning Dreamfyre to the Dragonpit and taking a carriage to the Red Keep, Rhaenys and Laena reunited with the other part of their family, a family that now included Alicent Hightower. Rhaenys studied the girl critically, though Laena looked at her with a soft, sad gaze.

"It warms my heart to have my dear cousins returned to us," Viserys greeted them. "Especially in light of such happy news."

Even as Rhaenys hugged her younger cousin, she felt a flare of irritation. He had predicted that they would return to court once Rhaenyra became with child, and they have proven him right. "It is my one regret that my husband and your brother could not be here with us. May the gods preserve them and put an end to this war before long."

Once Rhaenyra's pregnancy was confirmed, Viserys had set aside a wing of Maegor's Holdfast for his daughter's household. Rhaenys and Laena received their own chambers there. A feeling of discomfort stirred inside Rhaenys at the realization that Alicent must now occupy the Queen's Bedroom, which had one belong to her sweet cousin Aemma and her formidable grandmother before her.

Once they had settled in, Laenor and Rhaenyra hosted a dinner just for the four them. Laenor wrapped his arms around both his mother and sister. Rhaenys felt contentment for the first time in a while, nestled between her only two children. Afterward, she had hugged Rhaenyra tightly. To her surprise and panic, Rhaenyra went from a calm to weeping after a moment in her arms.

Rhaenys tried to comfort Rhaenyra as she had done for her own children, but only seemed to make Rhaenyra cry harder. Laenor gently separated them, held Rhaenyra in his own arms, and guided her away. With his wife weak with emotion, Laenor had to help her into a chair. Rhaenyra, half-bent over, continued crying until she regain control of herself a few minutes later.

"Rhaenyra, are you alright?" Laena knelt in front of her goodsister, pure concern written all over her features. Rhaenys had no idea what had provoke such a reaction from her.

The princess shook her head, a tremble shaking her words, "I want my mother. I wish my mother was here. I'm sorry, I know I'm being ridiculous, but seeing you again Aunt Rhaenys, I want my own mother."

Of course. Rhaenys felt a little guilty for not considering it earlier. Her niece was soon to embark on one of the most challenges journey of womanhood without her mother at her side. We are only granted one mother in this life, Rhaenys mused. They did their best to comfort Rhaenyra, who was growing increasingly embarrassed by her outburst.

"I'm sorry your mother isn't here," Rhaenys soothed her, "But I am."

Chapter Text

Alyssa reached the Dragonpit first, but that was hardly a surprise. Although Meleys and Syrax were both built for speed, the older princess had been flying for thrice her granddaughter's lifetime. Rhaenyra followed close behind, careful to draw Syrax into a slow, stead descent. Being with child made her mother cautious than before, but she could never deny herself of her greatest passion: flying atop Syrax. It had taken nearly a moon of arguing with Viserys - Alyssa supporting her granddaughter the whole time - before he permitted Rhaenyra into the Dragonpit, but even then he had severely restricted the amount of time she was permitted to stay aloft.

"I rode upon Meleys until three weeks before your birth," Alyssa had told her son, "And I returned to the dragonsaddle less than a fortnight afterward."

Two dragonkeepers assisted Rhaenyra as she dismounted her dragon. Rhaenyra's belly had begun to show, but it was not so large as to impede her flying. Still, everyone handled her delicately.

"I hope you enjoyed your flight, Rhaenyra, Goodmother," Alicent greeted them both, her hands resting on her own growing belly.

It is still strange to hear her call me that, Alyssa thought. "Indeed. Outpacing my granddaughter never grows tiresome."

"For one of us," Rhaenyra grumbled as she walked over to them. "Thank you for waiting, Alicent."

"No need for that," Alicent smiled. She tentatively held out a hand, which Rhaenyra slowly accepted.

Over these last three moons, the court bore witness as the two girls slowly, awkwardly reconciled. Viserys was beside himself with happiness, especially since Rhaenys had returned to court to watch over Rhaenyra, bringing Laena along with her. Nothing was truly as comfortable as they once had been, but this was enough to assure her son that everything would be alright.

Alyssa knew - and the court suspected - that Rhaenyra and Alicent planned to betroth their children from the childbed to fully heal the rift. Naturally, the royal court hoped for one boy and one girl, though opinions varied one whether Rhaenyra or Alicent should birth the son. In the minds of most, the future marriage was a sure thing. But the gods could be cruel, and she would not relax until she saw her future descendants walk out of the sept, hand in hand, with her own eyes.

Rhaenyra allowed Alicent to lead her to the carriage.

"Are you feeling well, Alicent?" Alyssa asked. "The babe?"

"All is well," Alicent replied politely. "By all indication the babe is healthy. Though...I admit to feeling greensick every morning."

"That is normal, and it will pass," Alyssa assured her. "Have you experienced the same, Rhaenyra?"

"Sometimes, if I eat anything too heavy or rich," Rhaenyra admitted. "But otherwise, nothing seems amiss."

"Good. Let us hope it stays that way," Alyssa nodded. She leaned her head back against the wall of the carriage and listened as the girl made harmless small talk, gossiping about Lord Foolish's haughty manners and giggling over Lady Unimportant's garish fashion choices. Gods, they were so young. Alyssa was not naive enough to believe all was fixed between them, but this was a start. It was all she could hope that her little sister Viserra did nothing to tear at this tentatively healing friendship.

No, Viserra would do something. Viserra always did something. They just had to be ready for it when it happened.

Alyssa peered out of the carriage window. She had taken this route more times than she could count, and before long Rhaenyra and Alicent's babes would be taking it as well. The girls had run out of things to talk about, something that had rarely occurred before their estrangement. They were at lease trying, or rather, Rhaenyra was trying. Alicent had begged and pleaded and cried until Rhaenyra gave her a second chance. But once broken, certain things can never be made fully whole again. Like herself, since her Baelon died.

No sooner than they had arrived, one of Alicent's cousins had come to fetch her. "The queen has a full schedule today," she said as she whisked Alicent away.

Rhaenyra grimaced, but did not protest this. She turned to her grandmother and said, "Thank you for today. I know you have many duties to attend to. We haven't flown together in a while, and I appreciate it."

Alyssa kissed her forehead, "You only need to ask, my precious girl. Come, we ought to get into our baths before we befoul the entire castle."

The rest of the day carried on as normal. After her bath, Alyssa took a light meal and began reading over her son's plans for the Night's Watch. Based on what her younger brother Gaemon had reported, he wished to provide additional arms and equipment to the Watch. In addition, he tried to come up with an enticing proposal to convince more young men to join the Watch of their own accord.

In the days before Aegon the Conqueror, the Watch replied heavily on involuntary recruits. The Seven Kingdoms had once been just that, seven independent kingdoms, and each one hated the other six. There had always been war happening somewhere, and the winners would force the losers into service upon Brandon's Wall in exchange for their lives. From kings to lords to knights to common men-at-arms, the Watch gladly took them in.

When Aegon made Westeros his own, he put an end to such fighting. His first law was the King's Peace, decreeing that any lord who went to war against another without the express leave of the king would be condemned as a rebel and traitor to the realm, and would thus be declared an outlaw. The Watch's steady stream of recruits ran dry, until the folly of his first son and the madness of his second saw many men being led north in chains. Since her father's time, however, the kingdom has been too peaceful to necessitate wartime recruitment.

Serving in the Night's Watch was considered an honor, but it was not one most men would take if they had other options.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Maegelle requested an audience in her chambers. Perhaps my younger sister could offer insight, Alyssa considered. But, any thoughts of the Night's Watch were quickly set aside when Maegelle announced, "Tyland has been betrothed to Lord Tully's daughter."

Viserra always did something.

Chapter Text

Tyland looked in the mirror, fighting down the greensickness that swirling in his belly. Weeks of negotiations and months of planning had led to this moment. Even so, it felt as though his mother had hushed the somewhat proceedings, practically bullying the aging Lord Grover into compromise after compromise. He'd had hardly any time to court his bride, only meeting her in person once before, just as their betrothal was finalized.

On the other hand, it was not as though a longer courtship would have done him much good. For reasons known only to themselves, the gods had not seen fit to bless Tyland with the smooth tongue and easy manners that his twin possessed. Jason could charm any maiden from the Pendric Hills to Cape Wrath and had used this talent for less-than-honorable means since he became a man…even risking the wrath of his wife, Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lady Camilla Tully ought to count herself very fortunate indeed, to have a husband what was not bold enough to break his vows.

As a bride, Lady Camilla had much to recommend her. The last remaining of Lord Grover's many ill-fated children, the whole of the Riverlands knew and adored her. Furthermore, her mother, Lady Margaret, was a Crakehall, and thus the Westerlands had cause to look upon her fondly as well. Her mother's late sister, Lady Norma, had been the first wife of Lord Lyonel Strong, presently Master of Law on the king's small cousin. His eldest son and heir, Ser Harwin, was her cousin.

Beyond the strategic value of the match, Lord Tyland knew nothing of the woman he would wed before the night ended. She presented herself as all noble ladies were taught: pleasing and demure, poised and graceful. Even his sister managed to pull off the act. This marriage, like Tyland himself, was not of her choice. How long before he knew what was truly in her heart? Or would his wife remain a stranger to him always?

A sharp, loud clap startled him. Tyland flinched and turned to see his twin leaning in the doorway with an amused smirk.

"You're doing that again," Jason sighed.

"Doing what?"

"Thinking too much."

Tyland scoffed, "That's your fault. I must think for the both of us."

"And apparently, I must fuck for the both of us," Jason countered, his tone never loosing its teasing quality. "You should have taken me up on my offer. I hope poor Lady Camilla can stomach the disappointment."

"Are you here simply to torment me?" Tyland replied.

"Tonight, or in general?" Jason japed. His expression softened. "My little brother is becoming a man. Is it so strange that I want to see him off?"

Tyland relaxed. "No, I suppose not. Thank you for coming."

"If you should ever need advice about women or marriage, I will tease you for an hour and then give it to you gladly."

Tyland laughed at that, half-grateful and half-ruefully. Jason's marriage to Jeyne was tolerable to both parties but by no means happy. She seethed over his many affairs – not out of jealously, but out of embarrassment – while he claimed that her shrewishness had driven him from her bed. It rather reminded Tyland of Cousin Daemon's marriage to Rhea Royce. But while Daemon remained childless, Jeyne was presently carrying a babe in her belly for Jason. A grandson would make Mother the happiest woman alive.

"Do you think this will work out well for us?" Tyland asked softly.

"Lady Camilla definitely appears more congenial and trackable that my Jeyne, though I admit that's no. t much of a feat."

"I don't mean the marriage. I'm referring to Mother's movements. She was so certain that the Velaryons would abandon Viserys over his marriage to Alicent, yet the break is already mending. Those at court whisper that Alicent and Rhaenyra have some sort of pact to marry their children. I fear she is walking us into something we can't easily walk out of."

"Mother would never endanger us," Jason responded, his tone serious now.

"Not knowingly nor willingly," Tyland said, "But she is not infallible, and this world is not forgiving."

"Gods," Jason rolled his eyes. "Now you've gotten me doing."

Tyland took the hint and moved on to lighter topics. He was still greensick.

Despite the bridegroom’s misgiving, the wedding went quite smoothly. Tyland felt a lump in his throat as his bride marched down the aisle on her father’s arm. Lady Camilla had the bright blue eyes, thick auburn hair, and high cheekbones of the Tullys, as well as the tall stature and hearty constitution of the Crakehalls. Camilla stood near the average height of a man, only seeming short in comparison to Tyland, who himself was quite tall. A splash of freckles dotted her face, a flaw that added a strange charm of her features.

Tyland could not turn his attention from her all evening. What was he meant to do with her, this stranger, for the rest of their lives? He knew he was expected to bed her frequently, sire heirs upon her, defend her from external harm, use her connections for his benefits and allow her to use his. But beyond that? On the average day, in the mornings during breakfast, in the evenings before bed, in the quiet periods of one’s life, what was he to do with her?

When the time came to consummate the marriage, Tyland tries not to show how awkward he felt as the ladies in attendance pulled at his clothing, giggling all the while. The crowd was too thick and too vigorous for him to clearly see how Lady Camilla fared. Before long, they shoved into the bedchamber prepared for this very purpose, alone and half-naked.

Never before had Tyland seen a woman in such a state of undress. He was the man, the one who was supposed to take charge and make a woman of her, to show her how their duties were performed. He knew the mechanism, though he never done it himself. Perhaps he should have accepted Jason’s offer when he had the chance.

“My lord, is aught amiss?” she asked, her voice steady and calm.

Realizing he had just been standing there, staring at him, Tyland scrambled for an answer. “I am merely enraptured by your beauty.”  Hopefully, she did not notice the nervousness in his voice. “When we are alone, you may call by my name.”

“It pleases my to hear you say that, Tyland,” her answering smile was warm. “And it would please me greater if you called me ‘Milly’, as my father and nephew do.”

This was getting off to a promising start, Tyland noted. He took Milly’s hand and led her to the bed, hoping he did embarrass himself that night.

Chapter Text

Alicent was tired of being pregnant. She knew it was her duty, the duty she had vowed to uphold during her wedding, but that did not mean she had to enjoy a minute of it. Her belly swelled a little more each day, until she could no longer move as she once had. Maidservants flanked her at all times, prepared and eager to fetch things for her at a moment's notice. Her energy drained from her quickly, her appetite changed, her moods shifted like the tides. She could not go more than a few hours without needing to make water. Doing anything and everything became twice as difficult.

But she could not complain: Rhaenyra was going through it all with her. The time came that even Rhaenyra knew she could not fly on Syrax any longer - to her father's relief - though she still made certain to visit her beloved mount often. Rhaenyra hit her pregnancy milestones shortly after Alicent did, and she was happy to impart her experiences to her friend.

Yes, they were friends again, Alicent thought blissfully. Slowly but surely, she was knitting their friendship back together stitch by stitch. Her father told her it was good to keep the princess close, but not to rely on her too much. This advice confused Alicent, but she tried her best to keep it out of mind.

Princess Rhaenys had been respectful thus far, though by no means was warm. Although her aloofness was understandable, given that she and her husband had hoped to wed their own daughter to the king. Alicent could not miss the irony that Princess Rhaenys had treated her more like family before she joined their family for true. Although Rhaenyra’s other ladies had been content to welcome her back as though nothing had happened, Laena still looked at Alicent was cautious, appraising eyes.

There was no one more grateful for the progress of their relationship than her husband, Rhaenyra's father. He could scare go longer than a day without doting on them both, remarking on the bond they had shared since childhood, or dreaming of what adventures their children would share.

When her father suggested a feast be held in honor of Alicent’s child, Viserys looked stricken. He quietly replied that he wished to wait before both children were born alive and well before making any such plans. Alicent wanted to sink into the floorboards from embarrassment. How could her father have forgotten the ill-fated tourney meant to celebrate Baelon’s birth, only to them become his funeral, and that of his mother?

Rhaenyra had not said anything during this exchange, but she did glare at Alicent’s father as though she wishes to wring his neck. Alicent could hardly blame her, knowing that Rhaenyra had been the one to hold poor little Baelon in the final moments of his brief life. Knowing that Rhaenyra had lost every sibling who had once rested in her mother’s womb.

Every morning and evening, Alicent lit a candle to the Mother Above and begged for the safe delivery of her child and step-grandchild.  She had to trust that the gods were listening and guiding her toward the best path, even if it was hard to see from her perspective. Rhaenyra did not put nearly as much trust into the gods – at least, not in the Seven – so Alicent made sure to pray enough for them both.

One evening, Alicent tried to sleep, but found that she could not get comfortable in any of the limited positions she was able to move in. Giving up on sleep, she struggled out of bed with the intent of taking a brief walk. But, just as soon as she had made it to her feel, she felt something burst within her. Liquid splattered onto the ground from between her legs.

She inhaled sharply. That was the very thing the maesters and her female kinfolk had warned of her. The babe was coming. Choking down her nervousness, Alicent roused her maidservants. She commanded one to inform her husband, another to inform the grand maester, and the rest to help her back into bed.

Not longer after her waters broke, the cycle of pain and release began. Alicent had done her best to mentally prepare for the pain of childbirth, but the struggle was worse than anything she had endured previously. She tried to savor the respite she received in between her pains, but instead just found herself dreading the rest of the ordeal. At least her goodmother had been kind enough to warn her that she would likely soil herself, because that was something she would not have anticipated on her own.

Alicent thought she understood what it meant to give birth, but all the advice and warnings paled in comparison to the real thing. What had surprised her the most was the feeling of being trapped. She had not chosen to marry, nor had she chosen to be with child. The birth came without her input, and she couldn’t just walk away from her. The child was coming, and Alicent’s life came to a halt until the birth was complete.

The sun rose of the horizon and climbed higher into the sky while Alicent labored to bring the king’s child into the world. She had wanted to get through it on her own, not wishing to burden or inconvenience anyone – least of all Rhaenyra, who had was having a child of her own soon and had only tragic experiences with her mother’s birth. But in the end, Alicent’s fear and pain and loneliness won out.

“I want Rhaenyra,” she begged no one in particular, “Please, please, I need her here. I can’t do this alone!”

Rhaenyra was at her side at a moment’s notice, heavy with child herself. Her hand trembled as she grasped Alicent’s, and her voice shook as she whispered reassurances in Alicent’s ear. Alicent’s heart leap at Rhaenyra attempts to comfort her – truly, things were as they should be.

Rhaenyra did not leave Alicent’s side once during her labors. Alicent could not longer track time, all she cared about was delivering her child and being with Rhaenyra. She did not know the time, or anything happened outside her room.

At least, her child entered the world. Alicent collapsed on her pillow, covered in sweat and blood and other things she dare not name.

“Congratulations your Grace,” a midwife told her. “You have a son.”

Had Alicent not been so exhausted, she might have been able to realize the implications of that.

Chapter Text

He looks just like Baelon, Rhaenyra could not help but notice as she held her new both. Gods protect him, she thought, fearing that he would share his older brother's fate. She could not forgot the sight of poor little Baelon struggling to breathe in arms. The most intelligent maesters, most pious septons, and most caring midwives in the kingdom had been powerless to save his life.

Alicent has collapsed into an incoherent heap, her auburn hair tossed haphazardly around her pillow. She panted heavily, but the tightness in face had finally loosened.

“There, almost done,” Rhaenyra soothed her. “All that’s left is the afterbirth.”

Alicent groaned, “I nearly forgot about that.” No sooner than those words left her mouth did the afterbirth begin to leave her body. Less dramatic, but no less disgusting than the other parts of childbirth. Alicent was too tired to be embarrassed.

Rhaenyra gave her stepmother a moment to rest before asking, "Would you like to hold him?"

The midwives helped Alicent into a sitting position, and then Rhaenyra transferred the babe to her arms. Alicent's face made the strangest expressions as a whirlwind of emotions stirred within her. Tears began to well in her eyes. "He's so...he...A son. My son." She burst into tears. Rhaenyra took back possession of the babe, allowing Alicent to curl into a ball and weep.

“May the Mother bless you, your Majesty,” Grand Maester Mellos told her. “I have sent a page to inform his Majesty of the birth of his son and heir.”

Alicent’s crying stopped sharply, her head snapping upward to stare at Rhaenyra with horror. Rhaenyra did not return her gaze. She glared at the grand maester with enough venom to fell an aurochs.

“G-give us the room,” Alicent stammered before the situation could escalate.

“Your Majesty, it would be most unwise to leave you so soon after childbirth,” one of the midwives protested.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered to Alicent’s exhausted form, but the queen only repeated her demand. The grand maester and midwives obeyed.

Once they were alone, Alicent looked at Rhaenyra beseechingly. “I do not support this; you understand that, don’t you?” she whispered hoarsely. Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath. She had always known that the birth of a son would challenge her position as heir. She knew that Alicent had no more control over her child’s sex than Rhaenyra had over her own child’s sex. “Yes, I know.”

“You’re still the heir,” Alicent continued. “Your father has not stated otherwise.”

“I know,” Rhaenyra repeated. She looked down at the child in her arms, her half-brother. If the child in her was a girl, he would eventually become her goodson as well.

One of the midwives timidly poked her head into the room. “I beg your pardon your Majesty, this king is without these chambers and is anxious to meet his son.”

Having no cause nor authority to deny him, the girls acquiesced.

Viserys glided into the room with a large, watery grin on his face. “Rhaenyra, were you present for the birth?”

“Indeed, Father,” Rhaenyra confirmed. “Alicent asked for me, and I came to offer my support. I presume you have been informed of the sex of the child.”

“Yes, a son,” Viserys nodded. Now he turned to Alicent, “You have been most dutiful and valiant, my dear wife.”

Alicent blushed happily at the compliment, thankful that her ordeal had not gone unnoticed. “Thank you, my lord husband. You have chosen a name for him?”

“Your father recommended the name ‘Aegon’ to me, in honor of the Conqueror. I think it is a splendid choice,” Viserys answered.

Rhaenyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes in annoyance. It was naked attempt to make the boy seem more kingly, one that she couldn’t believe her father had not recognized.

“Were there any other recommendations made?” Alicent asked, hoping the dread in her belly did not reach her voice.

“Yes, several,” Visery waved his hand. “But I like ‘Aegon’ best of all of them. Seeing him now, he seems suited to that name. He shall indeed become Prince Aegon of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Alicent surrendered before Rhaenyra had a chance to make any arguments against the name.

Oblivious to his daughter’s turmoil, Viserys only gazed upon her and Aegon with love and contentment: his only two living children together, his daughter holding his son. At last, he asked to hold his son. Rhaenyra could never deny him – not her king, but her father.

A part of her felt guilty for it, but a sliver of resentment and worry flashed through her heart as her father held his newborn son in his arms, looking like the happiest man this side of the Narrow Sea. What is a daughter to a son, when it came to inheritance? He had expressed no desire to remove Rhaenyra as heir, but would that change now that he had seen and held his son, given him the name of their greatest king?

“My dear son,” Viserys cooed. “My sweet little boy.”

“He is rather sweet,” Rhaenyra admitted. “We ought to give him to his wet nurses soon, before hunger sours him. And allow Alicent the chance to eat and rest. She worked so hard for so long.”

“You speak with such compassion,” Viserys told her. “Your gently heart shall serve you well when you are queen.”

Both girls let out a small sigh of relief at the same time. Despite the birth of his son, he still viewed Rhaenyra as his heir. The rest of the realm will follow suit, Alicent hoped. Rhaenyra felt tears tease the edge of her eyes as she realized that her father truly believed that she was meant to rule, that she was a worthy heir and as good as a son in his eyes.

Buoyed by her renewed confidence, Rhaenyra kindly ushered her father from the room and took charge of caring for Alicent and Aegon. She sent her brother to the nursery with a kiss on his forehead, ordered a bath for Alicent, ordered that a hearty meal be prepared specifically for her, and began preparation to clean to queen’s bedchamber. In the meantime, she readied her mind to face the childbed herself in a moon’s turn.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra delivered her child as scheduled by Grand Maester Mellos all those moons ago, with no more trouble than Alicent had delivered Aegon. Alicent remained at her side throughout the whole ordeal, along with Aunt Rhaenys, who insisted upon being the first to meet her son’s firstborn. At the end of her arduous labor, Rhaenyra emerged the mother of a son.

Uncle Corlys had already decided that the child would be named Jacaerys if male, despite both parents having their own ideas about their son ought to be name. However, the head of House Velaryon reserved the right to name all children born into his family. Aunt Rhaenys was indeed the first to meet Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, though Alicent was a close second.

When at last Rhaenyra received her son, she took a long moment to examine him. Her heart swelled as she took in his tiny features. His amethyst eyes, so much like her own. A tiny nose like his father’s. Little tufts of hair the color of white gold.

“He looks like my father,” Aunt Rhaenys complimented, almost glowing with pride and affection. “Same nose and chin, just like Laenor.”

“He shall be very handsome when he grows up,” Alicent agreed.

Soon afterward, they permitted the menfolk to enter the room and meet the little prince. Laenor wept upon holding his son for the first time, and Uncle Corlys said he already had the makings of a fine king. Rhaenyra’s father beamed with joy, declaring that Jacaerys would share a wetnurse with his uncle, Aegon.

For the following two moons, Rhaenyra’s focus rested on her son, ensuring his health and comfort. Even with the aid of the wetnurse and maidservants, Rhaenyra found herself overwhelmed caring for her son, carrying out her duties as heir, and recovering from childbirth. She had been amply warned of the pain of childbirth, but she found herself unprepared for the pain of recovery. Her womanly parts still ached from the stretch, her womb often spasmed despite being empty, and she continued to bleed periodically for weeks afterward.

She was grateful to have Alicent, grateful that they had mended their friendship. Alicent was always quick to share her own experiences and commiserate with her. Their promise to raise their children together was coming to fruition, with Alicent spending as much time with Jacaerys as Rhaenyra did with Aegon. Still, there was an unavoidable problem now that they had each borne a son, rather than one son and one daughter as Alicent had planned.

Rhaenyra brought up one evening, after leading Alicent to the godswood after dinner so that they might have a modicum of privacy.

“There can be no marriage between our children,” Rhaenyra sighed, “They are both boys.”

“We can try again,” Alicent offered. “Wouldn’t it nice if we both had girls the second time? Your daughter could marry again and mine could marry Jacaerys.”

“If you would have a daughter, I’d be very happy if she married my son,” Rhaenyra answered. “But Laenor and I have already agreed that Jacaerys shall be our only child.”

Alicent’s face fell. “I don’t understand. How could you come to that conclusion? Forgive me for being morbid, but tragedy often strikes those with great promise. I shall not lecture you on your own family’s history, but surely you understand the need to supplement heirs.”

“I do,” Rhaenyra grimaced. “But as much as Laenor and I both adore our son, the process of creating him took its toll on us both. We can’t go through that again.”

“B-but it’s…it’s your duty,” Alicent stammered. “To your houses, to the realm.”

“Our duty was to produce an heir, and we have done so,” Rhaenyra answered. “As your friend, I ask that you speak no more of my son’s possible demise, especially when his life has only begun.”

No wanted to upset her friend further, Alicent nodded. But inside, Rhaenyra’s words stirred a whirlwind in her mind. Had it been Rhaenyra’s choice, or Laenor’s. It must have been Rhaenyra’s. Marital duties were always much more difficult to endure for the wife, as her own experiences and the jokes of her older kinswomen could attest. How was Rhaenyra able to convince Laenor to stop?

That night, the king called his wife to his chambers.

When Prince Jacaerys reached six moons of age, a bright and happy babe steadily growing stronger each day, the king at least felt secure enough in his survival to host a tourney in honor of his family’s newest additions. He did not feel the need to outdo the previous tourney, given its tragic ending, but he wanted to demonstrate to the realm his happiness and pride regarding the births of his son and grandson.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were the focus of everyone’s adulation, if for no other reason than because the princes were too young to attend the festivities and were thus kept in the nursey the whole time. The girls dressed in complimentary dresses of red and black with matching gold jewelry, presenting a united front before the realm. Rhaenyra sat at his right hand, Alicent at his left.

At the commencement of the tourney, Viserys rose. He thought of the speech he had given before, how blind and arrogant he had been.

“My loyal and steadfast subject, the gods, in their mercy, have blessed House Targaryen with two princes born to us this year. The first, my son Prince Aegon Targaryen, by Queen Alicent. May the gods preserve him. The second, my grandson Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, the firstborn son of my daughter and heir Princess Rhaenyra.”

Immediately, Viserys felt the mood shift. He knew they were expecting him to declare Aegon his new heir, but he had already made his decision, and he would stand by it. He did not turn his eyes away from the shocked crowd, though he could almost the tension radiating from his Hand. He pressed on, “Though I hope that day does not come for many more years, Prince Jacaerys will eventually rule this realm after his mother and myself. Prince Aegon will stand by his side as a brother and friend. This is a joyous, that we have the pleasure of these wonderful princes among our midst. Now, let that tourney begin!”

Chapter Text

“Your Grace, supper is prepared,” the maidservant announced softly.

Gael found that she had no appetite, but she knew the children would worry if she did not eat. She nodded toward the maidservant in acknowledgement, deciding to finish one more chapter before placing her husband in his sister’s care.

Matthos’ health had begun to decline two moons ago. At first, it seemed that it might be a minor illness, one that would pass with enough rest and medicine. But instead, he grew steadily worse, each day sapping a little bit of his strength, like a woodworker whittling away at a chunk of wood. A fortnight ago, he had been taken to bed and had not risen since. Most of the time he slept, but even when he awake, he seemed hardly more alert than he was asleep.

The head maester and his junior maesters had been diligent in their care. Matthos’ duties as Duke of Highgarden had been divided between his wife and his sister, Yvetta Crane. His heir, Edgard, was but a boy of eleven, soon to be twelve, and far from being prepared to shoulder such a burden. Presently, the lordling squired for his uncle, Steffon Crane, Marquis of Red Lake.

Gael knew her husband would die before long, was resigned to that fact, and dreaded facing her children as she told them of their father’s demise. It was both a mercy and an agony that she would not be present when Edgard learned it. Her goodbrother Steffon was a gentle and patient man, thank the gods, and he had lost his own father only a few years earlier. He would know the right words to say to comfort her son.

She finished the chapter from her copy of Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood. Matthos had developed a passing interest in the histories of Valyria and its colonies several years into their marriage. It was never something he devoted himself to, but it kept his mind busy in the moments he lacked anything else to occupy his time. Gael hoped he enjoyed listening to her recount the Fall of Mardosh; hoped that the words reached him, as morbid as they were.

She rose from her seat and placed the book back on the shelf. She let her hand linger on the spine, breathing in the grounded scent of parchment and leather. A knot formed in her throat.

“Who’s there?” A weak voice muttered.

Gael returned to his bedside as quickly as her feet allowed. “Matthos? My lord, it is I, your lady wife.”

Her husband’s skin was a sickly grey, covered in a sheen of sweat. He let out a few shallow breaths, then turned to face her. His eyes took a moment to focus on her face.

She would lose him; she was certain of that now. Gael forced herself to smile and kissed his brow. She did not fear catching his sickness, for she was the blood of the dragon and the fire in her veins burned common illnesses away.

“Oh Gael,” he breathed.

“Don’t worry,” she tried to sooth him, “All is in hand. The children are well – they will be well. Do not trouble yourself.”

His eyes were bright and sharp for the first time in weeks, “I misjudged you.”

She remembered his reaction to learning of her bastard son, the coldness he had shown her early in their marriage. Then, one day, he began to treat her civilly. They nurtured that civility into a genuine partnership, and then a friendship. He did not make her heart beat faster like the songs, but she did love him in her own fashion.

Her lord, her husband, the father of her children.

“The past is the past,” she forgave. “Rest now, my lord.”

Gael stayed with him until Yvetta arrived to look after him. At the sight of Gael’s face, Yvetta began to cry.

“I’ve made peace with it,” Gael stated simply, “Be with him.”

Yvetta pulled Gael into a tight hug and sobbed for several minutes. When Yvetta regained control of her emotions, Gael set her down next to Matthos and let the siblings have some privacy.

Gael bottled up her grief and returned to her chambers to eat with her children. Alys, Giselle, and Lyam were quiet and somber this evening, as if they could sense that pallor of death hanging over the castle. She would not show them the depth of her feelings – they were too young for that – but nor would she pretend to be happy. They were strong enough to survive this loss, but she knew that survival was not always easy.

She thought back to the deaths of her own parents, so long ago. They had each slowly succumbed to old age in front of their loved ones, just as Matthos was succumbing to his illness. What a cruel fate, for both the living and dead, to prolong the suffering of those to who could not remain.

“Mama,” Alys asked. She had the bright blue eyes of her grandmother, Gael noted sadly. “Will Papa be alright? He’s been ill for a long time.”

“No, my little lamb,” Gael confessed. “He will not.”

Alys did not ask more, and Gael did not answer more. They all ate their meal without enthusiasm and get prepared for bed. Gael, now dressed in her nightclothes, had been about to fall asleep in her bedchambers, but at the last moment, she realized that she did not want to be alone tonight.

She quietly made her way to the nursery, where Lyam lay in bed awake. He reached out for her, and she held him close. Taking her son by the hand, she then went to the bedchamber her daughters shared. Neither of them was asleep either. Gael didn’t have to say a word before both Alys and Giselle removed themselves from bed and went over to her. She placed a gentle kiss upon each of their brows. Gael led her children back to her bedroom, and the four of them went to bed together.

Her husband died the next morning.

Chapter Text

Daemon grew to hate the Stepstones more with each miserable day he spent there. For certain, he did not regret taking off and joining Corlys' private war. Anything would be better than sulking at court standing helpless as the Hightowers wrapped their vines around his brothers - or worse, returning to the Bronze Bitch of Runestone and enduring her stony silences.

Still, the Stepstones remained as repellent as ever. In the dawn of days, a land bridge had connected southwestern tip of Essos to the southeastern tip of Dorne. As the ancient tales claim, the Children of the Forest sought to stop the First Men from encroaching upon their lands by shattering the Arm of Dorne with their secret spells, leaving behind a scattered collection of barren, windswept islands between the Narrow Sea and Summer Sea. The Stepstones had been a haven for pirates, outlaws, and escaped slaves ever since.

Daemon was not quite a green boy, but he had not yet been blooded when he step foot on the Stepstones. Westeros had known a long peace since his grandfather was crowned, broken up only by a smattering of unconnected skirmishes and a laughably futile invasion attempt by Prince Marion Martell, which his grandfather had squished before it would truly begin. He had only been two years old when Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar turned the prince's fleet into kindling with little effort, and he had grown up with the notion that this represented war for Targaryens.

The Stepstones had proved him wrong. The natural terrain of the islands acted against them, offering shelter to the Triarchy sailors. The Triarchy knew the islands' perils and secrets better than Daemon and the Velaryons did, and they were ruthless in pressed that advantage. He could not simply mount Caraxes and swept over their camp with dragonfire, for there was no open to burn. The Triarchy hid in the islands' many cave and swamps, often rotating their location.

But they had no trouble finding Daemon's camp. Their latest ambush had come so quickly and suddenly that Daemon hadn't had enough time to reached Caraxes (certainly the intended outcome). Daemon and his men were able to beat back the Triarchy until they fled, scattered, but few were left unscathed by the incident.

Daemon's brooding came to a halt when Corlys entered his tent. The Snake Sea had taken temporary leave of this war to attend the birth of his first grandchild – with the king’s blessing. His back was a little straighter than the last time Daemon had seen him, his face having lost the tight lines of anger their last defeat had left on him. He seemed a man reborn, rather than an aging warrior being dragged through an endless conflict.

"You look well," Daemon greeted. He gestured for them both to sit at the table in the center of the tent and summoned a squire to pour them each a glass of wine.

"And you look as though you've seen better days," Corlys sat down and eyed Daemon's left shoulder, which had been bandaged with fresh linens not a hour earlier.

"Ah, that," Daemon glared at his injury, "A gift from one of our Tyroshi friends. It might have pieced my neck had the bowman not been tackled to the ground. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, who I knighted myself once I had recovered enough to stand."

"I am passingly familiar with House Lonmouth for they are sworn to the Baratheons. I presume he is one of the younger sons."

"I did not think to ask," Daemon replied. "How fares my son?"

"Vaeryn is well," Corlys gave a small, polite. He didn't elaborate further, and Daemon was all but certain that Corlys had not paid the slightest bit of attention to anything but the situation of his own house.

"How is Rhaenyra? How is her child?" Daemon asked, knowing at once what must have satisfied his cousin's husband.

Corlys beamed, looking even more animated than he had when he first entered, "She delivered strong, healthy boy named Prince Jacaerys. He is the very image of the late Prince Aemon, gods save his soul. Your niece is recovering well, and your brother is beside himself with the joy of having a grandson." Daemon did not think Viserys was the only one to feel that way.

"And the other one? The Hightower whelp," Daemon pressed, his tone curling in disgust. He had still not forgiven Viserys to allow Otto Hightower's daughter to entrap him. The sensible thing would have been to marry Corlys' own daughter, Laena, or else remain unmarried.

Mother had never remarried after their father's death. She had no shortage of suitors but regarded them with no more than polite dismissal. She was as loyal to Father after his death as she had been when he was alive.

"A boy as well," Corlys confirmed Daemon's worst fear. "Prince Aegon, they named him."

"Gods save us when Hightower takes the realm in hand," Daemon spat.

"Your brother has chosen to retain Rhaenyra as his heir. He made that unambiguous during the tourney he held. He announced before the realm that my grandson would be king someday."

"When has Hightower ever taken my brother's wishes seriously?" Daemon stood angrily, irritating his wounded shoulder. "He leads him around as a milkmaid steers a cow."

"Have I ever claimed to believe otherwise?" Corlys raised an eyebrow. "Rhaenys and I have discussed the threat posed by the new queen and her father since the king announced his betrothal. Even if Rhaenyra refuses to heed our warning."

Daemon froze, "What do you mean? She despises Alicent."

"She did," Corlys nodded, "But the queen found a way to mend their friendship back together again. Rhaenyra adores her little brother, and the queen spends much time with Rhaenyra's son."

Anger and disgust solidified in Daemon's heart. Had she really forgotten the warning he imparted to her on Dragonstone? Rhaenyra was but a girl, he reasoned, and her heart was too soft for her own good. What other schemes had the Hightowers stewed in his absence? He would not abandon his position in the Stepstones, but now more than ever he wished to be done with the war and return to court, regardless of whether or not his brother wanted him there.

Chapter Text

Uncle Viserys was in high spirits, Vaeryn noted as the royal party began setting up in the Kingswood. He had ordered a royal hunt to celebrate the second namedays of the young princes and spared no expense on the festivities. His uncle has always enjoyed feasts and balls and hunts, and the decades-long prosperity of the realm had permitted such lavish spending. Vaeryn was often at his uncle’s side and had grown to know his tastes well.

Vaeryn arrived at the campgrounds ahead of the royal carriages. He spotted the Tyrell banners draped over one of the tents and smiled to himself. This would be one of Aunt Gael’s first outings since the death of her husband, and he was happy she had chosen to spend it with her Targaryen kin. Her duties as the Duchess Regent often kept her busy, so he looked forward to spending time with her.

His aunt emerged from the Tyrell tent as Vaeryn watched. She had grown older and stouter since he last saw her, but her spine remained as proud and straight as always. A true Targaryen princess, however many years she spent living in the Reach. The greens and gold of her attire did not change the dragon’s blood running through her veins.

His cousins emerged and stood at her side. Edgard, still not yet a man, had been the Duke of Highgarden since his father’s passing. Though much of the responsibility for ruling the duchy fell upon his mother, the Duchess Regent, with assistance from his paternal aunt and uncle. Alys was a young lady on the verge of maidenhood, her eyes seeming older than her years. In a few years she would suitors standing outside her door, but for now she remained a child.

Vaeryn would have approached them on the spot, had the royal carriages not arrived at that moment. He dismounted his horse and moved aside to make room for his royal uncle’s carriage. Uncle Viserys emerged with a charming grin, waving his right hand in greeting. Vaeryn’s eyes dropped to his uncle’s left glove, where the last two finger pouches lay flat and empty. His uncle’s health had been deteriorating slowly over the last few years, though he was loath to admit it before the royal court. The last infection had begun in his fingertips, and those fingers had had to be removed. Though never a shabby dresser, Uncle Viserys had learn to use his lavish wardrobe to distract the courtiers from his physical ailments.

The queen followed her husband out of the carriage, already pregnant with her second child. Her enormous belly made moving difficult and awkward, so she needed the assistance of two handmaidens to disembark. If Alicent had any reservations about traveling so close to the end of her pregnancy, she would not have shared them with Vaeryn. The two of them had never been close. On Vaeryn’s end, it was due at least in part to the poor treatment he had received from her brothers in his boyhood. On the other hand, Alicent had never harmed him directly. Rhaenyra loved her as a sister, not dissimilar to the way she loved Vaeryn as a brother. Ironically, her own brother she loved as a nephew.

His grandmother exited next. Even as she aged, she was still a formidable and imposing woman. Her purple eyes softened as two nursemaids emerged from the carriage, each with a babe in arms. She kissed Jacaeys on the forehead and before taking Aegon into her arms.

Rhaenyra and Laenor rode in on their brilliant sand steeds, which were smaller but more beautiful than any of the other horses in attendance. They greeted the rest of the family as Rhaenyra took her son into her arms. Alicent walked over to them and kissed both Rhaenyra and Laenor on the cheek.

As Vaeryn watched the exchange from the sidelines, he thought of his father. The War in the Stepstones dragged on year after year. Both sides were taking losses without much to gain. Laenor had discussed joining his father in battle, proving himself a heir to Driftmark, but Rhaenyra had refused him each time. She did not want him to leave and risk his life while their son was still so young, especially not after the way their Tyrell cousins had lost their father at a tender age.

There were also political ramifications to consider. All this time, Uncle Viserys had maintained that the war was of Father and Uncle Corlys’ making and thus did not fall under the responsibility of the crown. How would it look if the heir’s husband were to join the fighting? Would that be seen as a declaration of the crown’s intent to send its own men into the Stepstone’s? Approval of Daemon’s actions?

“My dearest nephew,” a familiar voice called to him. “What has you so troubled?”

Vaeryn turned to see Aunt Gael smiling softly at him. He could not help but smile back at her.

“I am happy to see you, dear aunt,” Vaeryn greeted her. “I am merely worried for my father.”

“As well all are,” Aunt Gael agreed. “Daemon is strong and fierce, but he is still a man. None of us thought this war would last a long as it has.”

“I apologize for troubling you. How do you and your children fare? Are the accommodations to your liking?”

“We are all well in the regard. Viserys is a generous host, as always. I think it is good for the children to enjoy some recreation with their Targaryen kin. May I trouble you to spent time with my Edgard? He admires you greatly.”

“It is not trouble at all. I love my young cousin well,” Vaeryn answered, though he found his aunt’s words difficult to believe. What qualities did he possess that the Duke of Highgarden would admire. He was but a bastard, a squire in the king’s household. Of course, he did not say so aloud to his aunt. He merely hoped he had some comfort or wisdom to impact onto young Edgard.

Chapter Text

Alyssa watched with sympathy as a maidservant helped Alicent onto a settee. The poor girl grew winded so easily this late into her pregnancy, and the carriage ride had certainly not helped. Other ladies from the Reach took to her side, fawning over the swelling bump that held another prince or princess. Alyssa had been relieved when her grandson and great-grandson had been safely delivered. Perhaps the gods had taken pity on their family at last.

Sweet little Aegon had not left her arms since they arrived in the Kingswood. While his nephew was loud and bold, Aegon was a quiet, sensitive child. He loved attention - that was plain to see from the way he lit up whenever someone smiled at him - but he wasn't always sure how to get it. Viserys showed affection to his son at times, but the pressures of ruling took time away from him. And when her son had time to himself, he preferred to spend it on his models and books than anything else.

In contrast, Alicent spent most of her hours with her son, even taking on mundane tasks that most would consider beneath a woman of her status. But Alicent always seemed so stressed and tired half the time she spent caring for Aegon; the half, she seemed blank and empty. Alyssa had seen such women before, who seemed to have the life sucked out of them after they gave birth.

She had half a mind to walk over there and over her gooddaughter some comfort, but before she had the chance, she was approached by Ser Otto and Lord Hobert. Although Ser Otto towered over his elder brother, Lord Hobert carried a much stronger presence. It was rare for her son's Hand to be overshadowed by anyone.

“Your Highness,” Lord Hobert began smoothly, “Might we trouble you for a moment of your time?” Alyssa saw no reason to deny them, so she agreed.

“Perhaps it would be best to place the young prince in the care of his wet nurse?” Ser Otto suggested. Once more, Alyssa found nothing strange about this request and did as she was bid.

She and the Hightower brothers took a walk through the camp. Lord Hobert asked a series of mundane questions to pass time, things that he could have learned from speaking to his brother. Alyssa deduced that he wished to speak of more serious matters once they were out of earshot of everyone else. Before long, they were just outside of the camp; close enough to be seen, but too far to be heart.

“Allow me to get to the heart of it,” Lord Hobert stated, “I am concerned regarding the rights of my great-nephew.”

Alyssa was only surprised that it had taken him a year to broach the subject. Perhaps he assumed that Viserys would change his mind. “My son has made his thoughts on the succession perfectly clear.”

“His thoughts are irrelevant,” Lord Hobert hissed. “There is a natural order to succession, which he has flagrantly violated at Aegon’s expense. He is the king’s firstborn son, and he is to be satisfied with receiving nothing? It is an injustice.”

“Rather, it is Rhaenyra who you believe should be satisfied with nothing?” Alyssa challenged.

“Sons receive from their fathers and daughters receive from their husbands,” Ser Otto argued. “Rhaenyra has already married into the wealth and status of House Velaryon, yet she wishes to be treated as both son and daughter. Her insistence on taking her brother’s inheritance is nothing more than self-interested greed.”

Alyssa glowered at them, “Mind your tongue when you speak of my granddaughter.”

Ser Otto winced, “Forgive me, your Highness, I speak too harshly.”

“You speak of self-interest and greed as though you have nothing to gain from making your kin the next king,” Alyssa noted.

“He is your kin as well, yet you show no concern for his rights,” Lord Hobert argued. “I understand that you love Rhaenyra dearly, but Aegon is no less your grandchild than she is. What of your duty to him?”

“And one must consider the wider implications for the realm,” Ser Otto continued after his brother. “Every portion of the realm agrees that a son comes before a daughter. Allowing Rhaenyra to ascend the thrones jeopardizes the position of every lord with an older sister. We owe it to our vassals to prevent such confusion and conflict.”

Before Alyssa had time to form a response to the many arguments they posed to her, Lord Hobert added, “Your niece Rhaenys views this as her triumph over Baelon.”

Everything else dimmed in importance in Alyssa’s mind compared to the insult against her late brother-husband. “How can that be so? Rhaenyra is his granddaughter, Jacaerys is his great-grandson. They are of his line!”

“When the Old King, in his wisdom, named Baelon as his heir, Princess Rhaenys felt slighted on account of her sex.” Ser Otto explained, “She may have been Prince Aemon’s only child, but she was a daughter, not a son, unfit to inherit. She carries that resentment toward your husband to this very day and revels in the fact that Rhaenyra, a girl, has the been named heir ahead of her brother.”

“If Baelon were alive today, would be insist on allowing his granddaughter to inherit over his grandson,” Lord Hobert asked. Alyssa knew that answer was “No”, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. The looks on their faces informed her that they already knew this as well.

“We make no commands of you,” Ser Otto concluded, “This is a troubling topic, one that we did not raise likely. You have much to consider, regarding your family, the realm, and the legacy of your husband.”

“Apologies for any distress we might have caused you, Your Highness,” Lord Hobert added.

Without bothering with a proper goodbye, Alyssa marched back to camp alone, her head swimming with the many arguments with which they had bombarded. She tried to steady herself, to wipe the turbulent emotions from her face. When she returned to the royal tent, she spotted Rhaenyra and Rhaenys standing together in the corner, the older woman whispering something into the young girl’s ear.

Chapter Text

The hunt was meant to get them away from the catfighting of the court, yet the catfighting had followed them into the kingswood, Rhaenyra observed with more than an ounce of annoyance. As the queen and heir, Alicent and Rhaenyra were expected to host the ladies of court during the royal hunt, and most of them continued to throw subtle jabs at them and each other, no different from how they behaved in the halls and courtyards of the Red Keep. They could not even take a few days to just have fun, Rhaenyra thought glumly.

Alicent had always keep better at managing such people, and Rhaenyra was glad to her friend's clever yet polite tongue. Aunt Rhaenys would occasionally lean over and whisper an explanation or proper response in Rhaenyra's ear when she looked ready to say something that might hurt her standing at court. Rhaenyra tried to be a good heir and had taken lessons on proper courtly etiquette for years, yet her first impulse was still to be combative and sarcastic toward those she misliked. And there were a few courtiers who seemed to make sport of testing her temper.

Not to dissimilar from her Uncle Daemon, who she had not seen in years. She had seen him since the day on the beach, after he'd squatted on Dragonstone and claimed Baelon's egg. When he had warned her against every trusting a Hightower. Sometimes, Rhaenyra's guy twisted with great discomfort when she imagined how Daemon would react to discovering that she and Alicent had mended their friendship, much less that Ser Otto remained Hand of the King and their sons were raised together.

"I would like few things more than to join my husband and father in hunting for game," Rhaenyra sighed. She had been so annoyed when the men went off into the forest without them.

"Our place is here waiting for the men," Alicent added gently. Rhaenyra looked at her with a slightly annoyed expression but did not indicate whether or not she agreed with the sentiment.

Jacaerys - Jace as the family called him - began to grow restless in her arms, which Rhaenyra took as a sign that he was bored as she was.

"It seems it is time for someone to be let down a nap. Would you like to see your nursemaid?" Rhaenyra cooed to her little son, fawning over the little crease in his brow that signaled his irritation. "I'm sure she'll be very happy to see you."

"I can take him," Rhaenys offered, standing up and extending her arms to reach her grandson. "I would just like to have a few moments with him before I place him in bed."

"Thank you, Aunt," Rhaenyra beamed. “I think I'll take Joy and catch up with my father and Laenor, wherever they are. She is undoubtedly swift enough to reach them, and I know the basics of tracking."

"Rhaenyra, you can't go into the forest alone!" Alicent explained. "You are a noble lady."

"Take Ser Erryk with you, and I shall place him next to Aegon for a nap," Rhaenys suggested, to which Rhaenyra beamed.

She kissed Jace's chubby cheek before handing him to his grandmother. Rhaenys did a brief twirl. Jace let out a surprised hiccup at the sudden motion, to the amusement of his family. "I'm sure you would prefer your own bed, but promise me that you will cause your grandmother too much trouble?" With one last smile to Alicent, Rhaenyra merrily went off to mount her sand steed and join the men hunting.

Unlike her niece, Rhaenys did not miss the carefully disguised envy lurking beneath Alicent's eyes. "Do you enjoy hunting, your Majesty?"

Alicent, startled by the question, looked up at her and answered, "O-oh yes. Many of the hunts I have attended have been pleasant."

"I don't mean attending a hunt; I mean hunting. Tracking an animal to confront and kill it."

The polite smile on Alicent's face slips a little. "In that case, I have never been truly hunting. It is not...the most appropriate use of a lady's time."

"Do you think any less of Rhaenyra for engaging in it?"

Alicent shook her head, "The princess is high-spirited; has been since we were little girls. The dragonblood makes her different from other women, like her grandmother."

"Aunt Alyssa is certainly unique among her peers, though whether that comes the dragonblood or some other force, I cannot say."

"The dragonblood allow you and your kinfolk to do things other women cannot," Alicent muttered, wrapping her arms around her large belly. She was so young to be made a mother twice over, Rhaenys though with pity. Such a small thing to be carrying children, not too unlike Aemma.

But where the Arryns had been largely removed from the machinations of court, preferring to rule the Vale from atop their mountain, the Hightowers were deeply embroiled in them. With each sly comment or calculating look from Otto, Rhaenys saw the foundation of Rhaenyra and Alicent's relationship shift just a little, the a few grains of sand being washed away by a wave, something she was fairly certain the girls themselves had not noticed.

For minute, Rhaenys wondered if she was overreacting. Alicent had persisted so long to regain Rhaenyra's love and trust. Would she really do anything to jeopardize that? Especially over mere jealousy? Rhaenys decided she would not take any chances with her niece, son, and grandson's future. She would not accuse Alicent of anything she hadn't done wrong, but she was keep her eye on the queen. Alicent had always seemed to timid and biddable, but that did not mean she could never become dangerous.

Rhaenys smiled kindly at Alicent and replied, "The gods give each of us our own gifts. Now, if it pleases you, your Majesty, I ought to set Jace down for a nap."

"Yes, of course," Alicent touched her index finger to Jace's warm little hand. "He shall keep his uncle company."

Chapter Text

The king could not have chosen a finer day for a royal hunt if he attempted, Vaeryn noted as he rode alongside his young cousin. The day was warm without being oppressively hot and a gentle breeze blew past them. Fluffy white clouds kept the sun in check without turning the sky overcast. While Uncle Viserys and his huntsmen searched for signs of the white stag, Vaeryn was content to simply enjoy Edgard's company.

He tried to tread carefully, seeing how the boy had so recently lost his father. Edgard was a kind, sensible sort of boy, curious about the different trees and flowers found in the Kingswood rather than the fields near Highgarden or the forests surrounding Red Lake. Vaeryn found no difficulty in indulging the young lord's curiosity, having spent many hours in these woods with his father and uncle since he was younger than Edgard was now.

A dull tightening came to his chest at the thought of his father. Prince Daemon had been at war several years now, making little progress in rooting the pirates of the Triarchy from the Stepstones. His father had left him under the supervision of his uncle, far from the battlefield. One the odd occasion, Vaeryn wondered how it would feel to stand at his father's right hand as they faced the foreign foes, to prove himself in battle and earn a knighthood at his father's hand.

He wishes Barristan were present to offer some advice, or simply words of comfort, but he good friend had gone to visit his aunt several weeks earlier. It was all but certain that Barristan would inherit Rhea Royce's lands and titles. Therefore, he was spending more and more time learning to rule at her side. Barristan had a future, while Vaeryn would hardly see himself doing more than he was already doing, serving the king and awaiting his commands.

No, he was being fanciful. He was dreaming above his station.

Vaeryn returned his attention to Edgard, who had grown quiet and solemn during his contemplations. The boy was nearly all-Targaryen, save for the brown of his hair and eyes, gifted to him by the late Lord Matthos. The rest had come from Aunt Gael. How nice it must feel to know for certain where every part of you came from.

"Cousin Vaeryn," Edgard startled him by speaking. "Do you oft worry about your father?"

"Hardly a day goes by that I do not worry about him," Vaeryn admitted.

"I pray you do not take offense to this, but I wonder how it can be that your father lives while mine is dead," he hastily. "I do not wish ill on the prince. I just don't understand. He has been fighting a war for years and outlived my father, who remained safe in Highgarden."

Vaeryn's eyes softened. There was no spite or envy in the young boy's words, only the confusion and hurt of a grieving child. "The Gods judge men in way we do not understand. The Stranger summons those we least expect and spares those we do. It will do you little good to try to make sense of it. Queen Aemma was a kind, gentle, and pious lady, cared for and doted upon by the king. Yet, she is no longer with us either. That is a part of life we must all learn to accept, for we neither change nor control it."

Edgard's face crumpled. "Does that mean my mother and siblings could die at any time? My aunt and uncle?"

Vaeryn hesitated. "It is unlikely, given that they are young and in good health, but no impossible." He didn't want to be dishonest, but he feared that he words might do more harm than good. "Worrying about what might happen will keep you from enjoying the life in front of you."

"I think understand," Edgard replied quietly.

Somewhat awkwardly, Vaeryn reached out and patted him on the head. "You'll understand when you are grown. I used to hate it when my wetnurse told me that same, but she was right, nonetheless. Some things simply take time."

"I pray you have not already caught the stag without me!" a bright voice rang through the woods. Startled, they saw Rhaenyra trotted toward them on her beautiful, black sand steed, Joy. "Cousins."

Edgard inclined his head, "Your Highness."

Rhaenyra tsked, "I greeted you as my cousin, not as the Duke of Highgarden. I expect you to respond in kind."

"I-I apologize, Cousin Rhaenyra," Edgard stammered.

"That's better," Rhaenyra smiled sweetly, her words a touch softer. "You need not be so nervous around me. We are kin."

"Where is Jace?" Vaeryn asked, noting that Rhaenyra was solely accompanied by the Kingsguard Ser Erryk Cargyll. Ser Erryk nodded to them in greeting but said nothing.

"With his grandmother," Rhaenyra answered. "I could not stand to be in that tent a minute longer, so she took him off my hands for a moment. How goes the hunt?"

Edgard began explaining the findings of the royal huntsmen, sometimes sneaking glancing toward Vaeryn, silently asking if his recounting was correct. Vaeryn smiled at him encouragingly each time.

"Thank you, Cousin Edgard." Rhaenyra looked ahead of them to where her father joked and laughed with several of his courtiers, waiting for the huntsmen to return with news of their game.

"Ser Otto hopes to find the white stag," Edgard supplied. At Rhaenyra's confusion, elaborated. "He mentioned it earlier: that a white stag had been seen in the Kingswood twice in the past three moons. He hopes to find it. My uncle, Ser Stephan, once told me that the white stag was seen as holy by the first men; that it was sent by the gods to choose the man who was worthy to be king."

Rhaenyra's lip twitched, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And Ser Otto hopes to find it? Well, we'll just have to find it first."

"Cousin, I believe this course of action is ill-advised," Vaeryn replied.

"You are free to remain with the rest of the party if you do not wish to follow me," Rhaenyra shrugged before guiding Joy elsewhere into the forest.

Vaeryn and Ser Erryk look at each other hopelessly before following after the princess, with young Lord Edgard trailing after them.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra traversed the forest with Vaeryn on her left, Edgard on her right, and Ser Erryk guarding the rear. My own little hunting party, she thought. The decision to search for the stag herself had been an impulsive one, driven by her anger at realizing what Otto was truly after, but she couldn't turn back now without feeling foolish in front of the others. She, Vaeryn, and Ser Erryk at least had enough experience in these woods that they could safely return Edgard to his lady mother by day's end.

Her young cousin Edgard was a sweet, sad boy. He talk a little about his father and how he missed him. Rhaenyra's heart ached with pity for me. Her thoughts turned toward her own father, who inched deeper into poor health with each passing day. She didn't know how much time she had left with him, whether he would live to see her son become a man. Hearing of Edgard's grief made her worry for her father more than she usual did.

A part of her felt a twinge of envy toward Edgard, not for the loss of his father, but for the surety of his claim. There were many at court who doubted that she would succeed her father, rather than her half-brother, despite the king's own degree declaring her as heir and his continued insistence of her status. Her own allies did not take her heirship as certain and constantly lectured her about her courtly etiquette or pushed her to befriend annoying courtiers with influence and power.

Edgard was still a child, yet no one questioned his right to inherit Highgarden. He didn't have to simper and cajole and prance around like a trained monkey from the Summer Island in hopes of having his claim recognized.

Deepening the irony, his lady mother rule his duchy in his stead and would do until he reached the age of majority. The realm recognized that women were just as capable of ruling as men, elsewise they would be barred from acting as regents, yet still placed women behind men in lines of succession. Aegon the Conqueror had allowed his sister-wives to sit up the Iron Throne beside him and rule with near equal authority. Her great-grandmother, Good Queen Alysanne, had been her great-grandfather most valued advisor. So, why was Rhaenyra doubted on the basis of her sex?

As night threatened to overtake them, they found a secure spot and set up camp for the night. They would return to camp in the morning and apologize to Aunt Gael for running off with her son the entire day. No sooner had their camp been set up, Edgard curled up on his pallet dozed off. He must have been exhausted for some time, but never complained, Rhaenyra noticed. Ser Erryk and Vaeryn divided the watch between themselves, with Vaeryn taking the first watch. While Erryk went to bed beside Edgard, Rhaenyra stayed up a little longer to talk to her cousin in confidence.

"Do you believe the realm will ever accept me as their queen?" she asked in quiet voice.

"I don't know," Vaeryn admitted honestly. "I saw our grandmother talking to Ser Otto and Lord Hobert. I don't think they noticed me. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, but she seemed distressed by it."

"Do you think they were trying to recruit her for their cause?" Rhaenyra asked. "She is my grandmother and she loves me. She trained me to fight herself!"

"She's Aegon's grandmother as well," Vaeryn pointed out. "I don't know what they said, but that would be my guess."

"Grandmother Alyssa hates being told what to do," Rhaenyra stated. "If what we believe is true, she'll just resent them for trying to control her. I have no fear that she will support Aegon's claim."

"Hopefully it won't come to that," Vaeryn looked in the flames and then back at Rhaenyra. "For what it's worth, I will always support your claim and accept you as queen."

Rhaenyra gave him a tearful smile, "That is worth everything to me," she answered truthfully. Rhaenyra leaned her head against his shoulder as they took in the fire's warmth.

After a few moments enjoying each other's company in silence, Rhaenyra and Vaeryn were disturbed by the sound of something moving in the forest. At the same time, Vaeryn reached for his sword while Rhaenyra reached for her dagger. Their hands stilled as a great white stag slowly strode into the clearing, confident and elegant. The stag walked about 20 yards ahead of them, beginning at one end and stopped halfway. It turned its' massive head with majestic antlers in their direction.

When Rhaenyra looked into the creatures eyes, she felt an unnameable emotion stirring in her chest. Her eyes once more began to glisten, not from sadness, but from hope and reverence. She understood now why the white stag was considered a holy being. Vaeryn could not take his eyes off the beautiful animal, but in the back of his mind he wondered if this was just a coincidence or evidence that Rhaenyra truly had the gods' favor.

It might have prudent to hunt the animal down, to bring back some proof of its existence and the meaning it had for Rhaenyra's claim, but they couldn't. Neither could even entertain the idea of killing and butchering something to glorious and innocent. After a long while, the stag turned away from them, and continued on its path. Rhaenyra and Vaeryn watched it go with no regrets in their hearts.

The next morning, they did not tell Edgard or Ser Erryk what they had seen the previous night. It felt special, something that had happened just for them. They joined up with the main hunting party not long afterward, and watched with deep distress as the king took several tries to kill to a common brown stag. Rhaenyra felt affirmed in her decision to spare the white stag - inflicting such cruel on it would have cursed her.

In private, Rhaenyra received a lecture for running off into the woods without informing her father where she was going. She smiled at him with false sweetness, her admiration of him dimmed by what she had witnessed in the forest that morning, and promised not to do it again.

Chapter Text

Viserra stood on the balcony of her bedroom watching the dragons. Jadeclaw, Seabright, and Honeyglass often roosted within the spent mineshafts under the Rock, but they would often come out to soar above the castle, city, and sea. A team of architects and masons were hard of work building a second dragonpit for the west atop a large hill half a league from the Rock. They had created enough room for their current number of dragons, but for now her children’s mounts seemed to prefer to empty caverns worn away long ago by the sea and mines.

Over the years, the people of Casterly Rock and Lannisport have grown accustomed to the sight of dragon overheard. But, Lannisport saw visitors from all over Westeros and the known world who had only heard tales of dragons. Jason, Tyland, and Marlessa lived to fly, and took to wing at every opportunity afforded to them. The Pride of the West, they were called.

Jadeclaw and Seabright began to snap at each other, which was nothing new for them. Sisters often argued, as Viserra was quite familiar with, so she never worried.  After a few moments, Jadeclaw won the brief altercation and flew toward the underground caverns with Honeyglass behind her. Likely to coil together. Seabright flew above the Rock itself, to the hills that lay beyond. In a few days they will return to flying together as though nothing had happened.

Satisfied, Viserra returned to her desk and continued sorting through letters requesting her daughter’s hand. Every unwed lord in the Westerlands sought her out, to the surprise of no one. She felt insulted that Lord Jasper Wylde would dare ask for her daughter’s hand when he was twice widowed with a dozen children already. Marlessa’s sons would never inherit anything from him. She also dismissed the suit of Ser Unwin Peake, the heir of Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove. Though an ancient house, the Peakes often found themselves short of coin and friends.

The most tempting often came from Lord Borros Baratheon, her cousin through her grandmother’s second marriage. The Baratheons were wealthy and powerful, with the ancient blood of the Durrandons running through their veins. Borros was, by most accounts, a rather stupid and blusterous man. Perhaps not the most pleasant partner, but surely one Marlessa could use to her own ends.

 Viserra would not make a decision yet, not until she heard back from King’s Landing regarding the birth of her first grandson. She rose from her seat and went to the nursery. There she found her two goddaughters with their children. Jeyne was encouraging her daughter younger daughter Cerelle to walk toward her, while her older daughter Tyshara played with a nursemaid. Milly, as Camilla preferred to be called, sat on a nearby settee cradling her newborn son in her arms, Tyland’s first child.

Her goddaughters greeted her warmly, and Tyshara abandoned her nursemaid at the sight of her grandmother. She ran up to her, and Viserra happily picked the little girl up. Tyshara was nearly three years old, her younger sister just over a year old. Both had the classic Lannister look: curls of gold and sharp green eyes. Tyshara was bold and fearless, even being as small as she was, while Cerelle seemed much more nervous, often crying over the smallest things. Jason and Jeyne were trying for more children, for Jason had to have a male heir of his own. It annoyed him that his younger brother had sired a son first.

Kylian was a hearty and healthy boy who grew stronger every day.  A well-formed and adorable child, he had strawberry blond hair – the gold of the Lannisters tinted with his mother’s auburn – and bright blue eyes. Livelier than his reserved, sober parents, he cried and laughed and whined loudly, at all hours, only quieting when he was tired, as well the case now. He opened his eyes to whine a little, before closing them against and resting his cheek against his mother’s arm.

“As there been any change?” Viserra asked Milly, turning her eyes to the brazier in the corner of the room.

“I-I don’t believe so,” Milly replied. “I am not knowledgeable about such things.”

“Grandma, when will I get my dragon?” Tyshara asked, her emerald eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Soon, my little lady,” Viserra promised, looking down at her eldest grandchild with fondness. “When you are grown, you shall soar through the air like your father, uncle, and aunt. That is my gift to you, your sister, and your cousin – the blood of the dragon.”

Tyshara smiled and hugged Viserra tighter. As she gently patted the back of her granddaughter’s head, Viserra gazed upon the small clutch of dragon eggs that rested atop the braziers. Seabright had lain them a few days before Kylian’s birth, after coiling with Honeyglass. The dragonkeepers had dutifully cared for the eggs as their vows demanded, and gods willing they would hatch before long.

No without bitterness, Viserra eventually accepted that becoming a dragonrider would not be her fate. The circumstances were against her. There were no adult dragons she had access to, and by the time a hatchling grew large enough to carry her, she would not be strong or healthy enough to manage flying. But she would be damned by the Lord of the Seven Hells himself if she did not ensure that her offspring would have dragons of their own.

The Targaryens would hate it, but Viserys was not bold enough to threaten war. Especially not with the turmoil brewing within his own halls. Her father, longer before she was born, had been prepared to wage war against the Narrow Sea when Elissa Farman had stolen through dragon eggs from her aunt, Queen Rhaena. Such a war never became necessary, for the eggs did not hatch and were lost to the sands of time.

Viserys was not half the man that Father was. He would worry about the implications and try to compromise, sit indecisively as his councilors argued the best course of action, but he would not raise a sword against her. He was born and raised in peacetime, and he hoped to die in peacetime as well. He had barely lifted a finger to help his brother and goodfather in the Stepstones, declaring that it was Daemon and Corlys’ war, not the crown’s.

Viserra intended to take every inch he gave her.

Chapter Text

The air in the small council chamber was still with horror. Dragon eggs, the greatest source of House Targaryen's strength, had been laid by a family outside of their control. Valerion carefully watched the reactions of everyone in the room. His eldest sister, Alyssa, clenched and unclenched her hands over and over again. Lord Beesbury had gone as pale as milkglass, while Otto Hightower reddened like an apple. Viserys sat at the head of the table, one hand clenched over the other to stop the trembles, while Rhaenyra watched him with tense, worried eyes.

They had been worried when Viserra's children had claimed their dragons, but they had foolishly never anticipated that she would claim even more dragons than those three. Another dragonriding family, more dangerous than the Velaryons, who currently had no eggs of their owns, only the cradle eggs given to Little Jace by his Targaryen mother.

"I believe," Viserys cleared his throat. "It is past time to bring the Lannisters back into the fold."

"We cannot be certain of what Viserra will do if she is welcomed back," Otto warned.

Alyssa glared at him, "We know for certain what she'll do if she isn't."

Against this, Otto had no argument.

"Princess Alyssa," Viserys addressed his mother. "I command you to fly your dragon to Casterly Rock and to act as my envoy. Discern what the Dowager Duchess wants of the crown and report back to me as swiftly as the winds carry you."

"My loyalty belong to you, but I fear I am a poor choice," Alyssa replied. "Viserra has never listened to me, not since we were girls. Our temperaments are...incompatible." She ignored Otto rolling his eyes, and continued, "Ser Valerion would be a much better choice. He knows her as well as I do, if not better, and he can withstand her temper much better than I can."

"I am at your service, your Majesty, always," Valerion offered.

Viserys looked between then and huffed, "So be it."

Once the meeting adjourned, Valerion made the proper arrangements for his flight. He mapped out a route that he and Nahevor would take: from King's Landing, spending one night in the town of Stony Sept in the Riverlands (he did not want to stop somewhere in the Westerlands), and then continuing on to Casterly Rock. One of his pages informed the dragonkeepers to prepare Nahevor for the flight, including feeding him a hearty dinner of aurochs. He brought with him only the necessities of travel.

Since becoming a Kingsguard, it was rare for him to ever travel on his own. Nahevor was glad to spread his wings and soar across the kingdom, following the Blackwater northwest until the walled town of Stony Sept appeared among the hills that bordered the Westerlands. He landed Nahevor in a broad river valley near town. They had been flying all day, and the sun was beginning to set.

Not long after he set out for the town on foot, a party of a dozen torch-bearing men rode forth from the town to meet him. The leader of the party introduced himself as Ser Imry Banks, the mayor of Stony Sept, and presented him with a horse saddled for his use. Velarion thanked Ser Imry for his hospitality and followed the mayor back to his home. The people of Stony Sept may be unfamiliar with dragons, but they knew what it meant to see one flying overhead and landing near their walls.

Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives had occupied Stony Sept once during the War of Conquest. From there they had drawn their battle plans against the two kings who had combined their forces: Loren I Lannister, King of the Rock, and Mern IX Gardener, King of the Reach. The townsfolk, even those who had not taken part in the battle themselves, would have not doubt seen the fury that the dragonlords unleashed upon the Lannisters and Gardeners at the Field of Fire. It had been the only time during the war that all three Targaryens had flown their dragons into battle together.

The field had been dry from lack of rain and overgrown with tall grasses. Careful of the wind so as not destroy their own men, the Targaryens had unleashed dragonfire upon their foes on the ground. The two rival kings had unknowingly marched their armies into the gates of the hell and sealed the fates of their respective kingdoms. The people of Stony Sept would have not soon forgotten the mass of burned corpses rotting outside their walls for weeks.

King Mern had perished in agony, as well as the entire male line of House Gardener. His holdings were given to House Tyrell, who had welcomed Aegon with open arms, while his granddaughters became prizes for Aegon's loyal supporters. Now, it was the Tyrells who had the blood of the dragon in their veins.

King Loren had escaped with his life, in exchange for swearing House Lannister's surrender and fealty. When Queen Visenya visited Casterly Rock, she remarked how such a castle would have held out against dragonfire. History did not say how Loren, now reduced to the Duke of Casterly Rock, reacted to her statement. He probably felt like the greatest fool alive. Mayhaps that was the queen's intention. Now, it was the Lannisters who had the blood of the dragons in their veins, three living dragons roasting outside their walls, and dragon eggs in their children's cradles.

"I intend to continue my journey at first light," Valerion explained to Ser Imry over supper. "I do not wish to impose on your any more than necessary."

"Your consideration is appreciated," Ser Imry smiled. He was stout and strong man, with features that were at once homely and endearing. "And give my regard to your sister, the Duchess of Casterly Rock, as well."

Valerion was caught off-caught.

Ser Imry continued, "I do not know the reasons for your sudden travels, not do I believe that it my right to pry. We may not have our ears pressed to the door of your royal chambers, hoping to catch whispers of gossip, but we are not deaf. Stony Sept has prospered under the realm of your grandfather and nephew, and all we hope for is that our present condition is maintained. We remember what dragons can do."

"I understand," Valerion replied, trying not to choke on his words. He hoped that Viserra had more sense than her late husband's ancestor.

Chapter Text

Viserra had just stepped out of a bath when her maester reported sightings of a white and grey dragon flying toward the Rock. She knew that her nephew would soon send a dragonrider to treat with her after receiving news of her grandson and dragon eggs. She had expected it to be Alyssa, for Viserys had an old habit of hiding behind his mother's skirts, but Valerion was a reasonable alternative.

The aging duchess took her time to dress, debating how she would greet her brother. He was dull but sensible and had spent nearly his entire life in the royal court. Extravagant raiment would neither impress nor intimidate him. She eventually settled on a plain dress of pale green linen, forgoing any jewelry. Negotiation and reconciliation and elevation of her house, that was the plan she had brooded on all this time.

The visit being unannounced, she ordered the servants to prepare a meal and a room for Valerion at a punishing pace. Let it never be said that Viserra Lannister was a poor hostess, even to those who so rudely barged into her home without warning.

When Valerion finally arrived, Viserra sent her sons to greet him at the castle’s main entrance, while she remained in the Family Den with her goddaughters and grandchildren. Knowing her brother, he would want to speak to her privately before raising the issue with Jason. He did not take Jason seriously, though Jason held the title of duke. She would of course speak to him in private, but it would have to be on her terms.

He entered into the Family Den behind Jason and Tyland, still wearing his traveling clothes.

“So good to see that you are well, dear little brother,” Viserra rose and kissed him on both cheeks. “I am happy to receive you in my halls.”

Cerelle gazed up at him with wide eyes and ran to greet him, "Uncle!" she cried gleefully as she clung to his leg.

"Indeed, I am," Valerion smiled softly.

“That is Cerelle,” Viserra introduced, “And there is her older sister, Tyshara. And this little sweetheart is Kylian, Tyland and Milly’s first child.”

Tyshara gave him a shy, clumsy curtsey. “Hello Uncle.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tyshara. Neice.”

Tyshara continued. "May I meet your dragon? Grandmother says I will have a dragon too someday!"

Viserra noticed the conflicted look in his eyes, slight slump of his shoulders. He had come here on the king’s orders to either scold or threaten them, only for her granddaughters to remind him that they were all still kin. 

Valerion hesitated. "If your mother allows, I shall let you meet him."

For the next few days, Viserra denied her brother the private audience he had clearly been sent to have with her. She always claimed to be occupied by other duties, leaving him to spent time with her sons or their children. If it bothered him, he did not show it. She suspected that he was likely taking the opportunity to scope out her home and family for his report back to the king. She would keep his information limited. Their servants and retainers were steadfastly loyal, and their secrets would not slip out so easily.

He did fulfil Tyshara’s request to allow her to meet Nahevor. Jeyne grimaced as Valerion lifted Tyshara into his arms so that she could touch Nahevor’s snout, but she did not intervene. She was gradually growing accustomed to the Lannister dragons, though Nahevor far outmatched them in size.

“Will my dragon be that big someday?” Tyshara asked Valerion.

When he hesitated to answer, Jason spoke up, “Oh course, dearest. A big and beautiful as any other in the realm.”

That night, Valerion demanded entry into Viserra’s chambers. She kept him waiting for two hours just to aggravate him further.

“You know why I’m here,” Valerion stated when she at last sat them down at the desk in her solar. His deep blue eyes were stern and stormy.

“At our nephew’s command.”

“At our king’s command,” he corrected. “And do no play innocent.”

“If I am not innocent, of which crime am I guilty?” Viserra challenged.

“Uncle Daemon told me about Elissa Farman, once. It was a year or two before he passed away,” Valerion began. He was referring to the Daemon Velaryon, the late Count of Driftmark. Their grandmother Alyssa’s brother, who had served as Master of Ships and Hand of the King for their father and for whom their nephew, the Rogue Prince, was named.

“He told of our father’s rage against Elissa for stealing the eggs and against his own sister, Queen Rhaena, for failing to prevent the theft. He was prepared to wage war against the Free Cities, should one of them succeed in hatching a dragon. A war that would paint the Narrow Sea red with blood. If that was cost of preventing Valyria’s rebirth, he was willing to pay.”

“Viserys is not the Conciliator, however much he likes to think of himself as such,” Viserra shook her head.

“And you are not Elissa Farman,” Valerion snarled. “You are worse. You did this to your own family.”

“My family?” Viserra gasped incredulously, “Are the fruit of my own womb not my family?”

“Our father’s gravest mistake was dissolving your marriage to Gaemon,” Valerion continued. Viserra scoffed, but he continued. “He should never let you out of the fold. Neither you nor Gael. There is a reason the Targaryens always married brother to sister: to keep the bloodline pure and to keep dragons within the bloodline.”

“Our father’s mistake set me free,” Viserra gloated. “It gave me the power and honor I deserve, a keep of my own, my wonderful children and grandchildren.”

“If you had stayed with Gaemon, Father would have allowed you to claim a dragon,” Valerion answered coldly. “Now he’s freezing to death half a world away, and you must remain on the ground like everyone else.”

Viserra’s face fell as her brother struck her deep insecurity, as surely as he struck his foes in the yard. “Get. Out.” She hissed with as much venom as she could muster.

“No,” Valerion rebuffed. “I am the king’s messenger, and I will delivery the message entrusted to me. You have two granddaughters; the king has a son and grandson of similar age. A betrothal between them would mend this rift…and correct the mistakes of the past. If not, other measures will have to be taken.”

“Fuck you!”

Valerion turned to leave, “The king eagerly awaits your answer.”

Chapter Text

The dragon was calling put to her, and Laena would surely go mad if she did not answer it. She feigned a headache so that she would be able to retire early. Mother was so busy that she scarcely noticed anything was wrong. Her father remained at war with Uncle Vaemond and Cousin Daemon. Hardly anything on the battlefield changed from day to day. Uncle Vaemond's sons Daemion and Daeron were far too young to join that fighting, a fact that they resented. Aunt Gaeva had her hands full raising with their father so far away, but even then, she took the time to assist Mother in running Driftmark in the absence of their husbands. 

When she was certain that her absence would not be noted, Laena snuck out of her chambers, past the castle grounds, and toward the call of the dragon. 

Driftmark was larger and more fertile than Dragonstone, but its volcano was smaller and less active. Dragons would often come to Driftmark to feed, but most preferred to lair in the burning caverns within Dragonstone.

Laena had plotted her escape for weeks, hiding her supplies beneath a loose brick in the walls of her chambers. She had bought a plain woolen dress, voluminous black hooded cloak, and sturdy boots. Hopefully no one would assume she was anything but a shepherd girl.

In addition, she brought with her a bag with enough provisions to sustain her for least four days. When she had decided to do this, Laena limited herself to searching for the dragon only three days, and the fourth day she would return him to face whatever punishment her mother saw fit.

It took less than half a day for her to find Vhagar – or rather, for Vhagar to find her. The great giant flew overhead and landed a hundred yards from the spot Laena had been hiking. Once upon the ground, she looked straight at Laena, as if she had been expecting her. It took nothing more for Laena to change course and face the dragon head-on.

Everything in her body told her this was the right thing to do, the thing she was meant to do. She wasn’t scared or nervous; rather, the closer she got, the more excited and euphoric Laena became. Vhagar, the Queen of Armies, the last living dragon from before the Conquest. She kept her eyes locked on the dragon’s eyes the entire time. I am yours and you are mind, she thought.

Eventually, Laena reached her dragon. Without a moment’s hesitation, Laena climbed onto the long ropes that trailed down from her saddle. Vhagar stretched her back and flapped her wings. The force of such a minor gesture was magnified by immense size, but Laena held onto the ropes with all the strength her to avoid being swept away. She continued pulling her up until she reached the saddle and finally mounted her new steed.

Laena held fast to Vhagar’s saddle as the great dragon launched herself into the sky. Age had made her clumsy on land, but she still rules the skies as she had in the days of the Conquest. Laena’s tummy flipped, but she giggled as Driftmark grew smaller beneath her. There was nothing but her, and Vhagar, and the clouds.

No longer would she rely on her mother or brother to reach these heights. She and Vhagar would be together for life, and the wide world was within their reach. Her dreams of exploring faraway lands grew brighter and clearer as her Vhagar began to circle the island. She could visit all the places her father had and all the places he had not.

Vhagar’s sudden roar shook her from her daydreams. Laena searched around and noticed Seasmoke flying toward Driftmark. Why had Laenor come home? Laena commanded Vhagar to return to the ground, pressing her will against the dragon’s until Vhagar obeyed her.

Laena landed Vhagar on the other side of the causeway leading to High Tide. She saw her mother standing on a balcony overhead, looking directly at them. It was too far for Laena to see her face, but something told her that her mother was proud of her. She waited for Laenor to join her. Thankfully, Vhagar had no interest in antagonizing Seasmoke; she just rested lengthwise on the beach, her massive tail gently swaying in the shoreline.

“I knew you would claim a dragon someday,” Laenor greeted. He smiled at her, but his eyes were tight with worry. “I just never imagined it would be this one.”

“It is good to see you again Laenor, but you seemed troubled, brother,” Laena noted.

Laenor held out his hand for her, “Let’s go into the castle. This is something I ought to share with both you and our mother.”

When Laena and her brother returned to the castle, Mother was waiting for them.

“Your scared me half to death with that stunt,” Mother scolded Laena, though her lips were twitching into a smile. “Vhagar, of all dragons.”

“It wasn’t really a choice,” Laena replied, “It was something I had to do. My blood compelled me.”

Mother face softened, “I know, sweetling. Laenor, has something happened at court?”

“Let us get inside and I’ll explain everything,” Laenor replied. Once they were settled in Mother’s solar, Laenor shared with them the trouble circumstances with the Lannisters. Not only did they three dragons, but their dragons were also now laying eggs. A new line of Lannister dragons out of House Targaryen’s control.

“The king hopes to remedy this with marriage. Jason Lannister’s daughters are now betrothed to Jace and Aegon. The former shall marry the elder daughter, Tyshara, and latter shall marry her younger sister, Cerelle.”

“I wonder how many generations that compromise will last,” Rhaenys remarked in a dry, cynical tone. “The damage has already been done. House Targaryen, House Velaryon, and now House Lannister all have dragons. Laena has just claimed the largest living dragon in Westeros, which will certainly trouble the small council even further.”

Laena pouted, torn between indignation and guilt. “She wanted me to claim her!”

“I do not doubt that my dear girl,” Mother replied, “But my cousin’s counselors do not understand such things.”

“In several years, when Aunt Gael’s children are grown, they might get their hands on dragons as well.” Laenor noted. “Our ancestors fled from Valyria… only to recreate it in the west.”

Laena grew somber as she thought of the stories that she had read of the infighting among the Valyrian dragonlords – the forty noble families who possessed dragons. They compete fiercely for control over their sprawling empire and the riches that poured into it from their many colonies. Tales of bloody murder, unthinkable betrayals, and devastating wars filled her mind.

“That is not all,” Laenor continued. “Aunt Viserra insisted on returning to court as her granddaughters’ guardian. The king has granted her request.”

“Oh, seven save us,” Mother rose from her seat in exasperation. “Or the gods of Valyria, if they hear us from so far away.”

Laena wondered if the gods would even intervene if they could hear them.