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Chapter Text

Author’s Note: Please Don’t Panic (But Maybe Panic Just a Little)

Heads up, dear readers — big changes are coming. Over the next few weeks (or months, depending on how much coffee we consume), you’ll start to see updates to Heirs. Yes, the fic you thought was done is back from the dead — but this time, with purpose!

We’re diving into a full-scale overhaul we’ve affectionately named A Song of Retcons and Rewrites. What began as a light prose polish quickly turned into:
“Wait, we need to fix the timeline… and the character arcs… and maybe everything else, too.”
It’s all in service of telling a sharper, stronger, and more emotionally satisfying story. Full explanations will follow once the dust settles.

Don’t worry — War will continue updating as usual. But if Heirs suddenly starts popping up in your inbox again, don’t be alarmed. Or do. A little panic is healthy.

And if you’re wondering why I keep saying “we”: I’m not using the royal we (tempting, though). My long-time beta has officially been promoted to co-author, TooManyNameOptions (please send thoughts and prayers). We’re now tag-teaming this madness. He’ll be taking over Maegor, Aemon Steelfyre, Rhaenyra, and a few surprises. I’ll handle the rest. Sometimes we even swap kids to figure things out — so if you notice a shift in tone, that’s probably us co-parenting plotlines.

What to Expect:

• The timeline is shifting: the new setting will be 120/121 AC. Unlike dear ol’ George, who complained about not advancing the story five years forward, we ran into the problem of needing to move the story five years backward. Funny how these things take a mind of their own…

• Several chapters will be rewritten or expanded, mostly everything that happened between 103 AC (with Aegon II’s death) up to the aftermath of the Stepstones. Then we’ll return to the “normal” chapter flow. There’ll be some notable changes along the way — for example, more insight into why certain characters (like Alicent and Rhaenyra) are doing what they’re doing, all with the goal of making future events hit harder.

• Some POVs are being streamlined or cut. (Farewell, Visenya :’(). Mysaria’s adventures will likely appear later in a separate fic or interlude.

• Character arcs are being rebuilt — both sharpened and expanded, so motivations and emotional payoffs land better across the board.

• And yes — we’re absolutely pretending this was the plan all along.

Logistics:

We’re currently finalizing the full outline for War before diving into Heirs rewrites. When the time comes, the revised version of Heirs will be removed and reuploaded under the same title (maybe after summer — TBD). We now have a working timeline, clarified character ages, and all the behind-the-scenes chaos that makes us feel less like unhinged authors and more like mad scientists.

Thanks for sticking with us — and welcome (back) to The Dragon’s Heirs. Let the rewriting commence.

Chapter Text

House Targaryen: A three-headed dragon breathing flames, red on black.

• "Fire and Blood"

Seat(s): Dragonstone, the Red Keep

Founder(s): Aenar Targaryen.

House Targaryen in 103 AC

• King Jaehaerys I (34 AC - 103 AC) - married in 50 AC Queen Alysanne (36 AC - 100 AC)
  • King Aegon II (51 AC - 103 AC) - married in 72 AC Lady Meredyth Sunglass (52 AC - 84 AC)
    • King Aerys I (74 AC) - married in 91 AC Rhaenys Targaryen (74 AC)
      • Prince Aemon (94 AC)
      • Prince Aenys (97 AC)
      • Princess Aelyx (101 AC)
    • Prince Daeron (77 AC) - married in 97 AC to Lady Rhea Royce (80 AC)
      • Gunthor Royce (98 AC), nephew of Rhea, their adopted heir and son.
    • Princess Vaella (78 AC) - married in 92 AC to Lord Viserys Skyfyre*
      • House Skyfyre*
    • Prince Maegor, a.k.a. Ser Aegor (81 AC)
  • Princess Daenerys (53 AC) unmarried.
  • Prince Aemon (55 AC - 92 AC) - married in 70 AC to Lady Jocelyn Baratheon (54 AC - 102 AC)
  • Prince Baelon (57 AC - 101 AC) - married in 75 AC Alyssa Targaryen (60 AC - 85 AC)
    • House Skyfyre*
  • Princess Maegelle (62 AC - 96 AC) unmarried. Septa.
  • Prince Vaegon (63 AC) unmarried. Archmaester.
  • Princess Daella (64 AC - 82 AC) - married in 81 AC to Lord Rodrik Arryn.
    • House Arryn*
  • Princess Saera (67 AC) - married in 84 AC to Lord Corlys Velaryon, separated in 94 AC, owner of a pleasure house in Lys.
    • House Velaryon*
    • Valarr (96 AC)
    • Atarion (98 AC)
    • Mysaria (100 AC)
    • Haegon (103 AC)
  • Princess Viserra (71 AC) - married in 88 AC to Gaemon Targaryen (73 AC)
    • House Dragonfyre*
  • Prince Valerion (77 AC) - married in 97 AC Lady Tessa Manderly (80 AC)
    • House Steelfyre*
  • Princess Gael (80 AC) - unmarried.

Dragons:

- King Jaehaerys: Vermithor.

- Prince Aegon: Cannibal.

- Prince Aerys: Silverwing.

- Princess Rhaenys: Meleys.

- Prince Daeron: Arrax, young dragon.

- Prince Aenys: Sunfyre, young dragon.

Their Cadet Houses:

House Skyfyre: Two crowned dragons, crimson and bronze face to face, intertwined tails, over a red field.

• "We soar above"

Seat: Stormwatch Castle, located in the Stepstones, at Bloodstone.

Founder(s): Prince Baelon ‘the Brave’ Targaryen and his sister-wife Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

• Lord Viserys Skyfyre (77 AC) - married Princess Vaella Targaryen, sister of King Aerys I.
  • Lord Vaelon (93 AC)
  • Lady Rhaenyra (98 AC)
• Lord Daemon Skyfyre (81 AC), Knight of Grey Gallows.
• Ser Aegon 'the Younger' Skyfyre (84 AC)

Dragons:

- Lord Daemon: Caraxes.

- Lady Rhaenyra: Syrax, young dragon.

House Steelfyre: A steel-gray dragon with seven red stars, on a white field with a black border.

• "Iron will, iron heart"

Keep: Ironkeep Castle, located near Moat Cailin, around the bifurcation of the White Knife.

Founder(s): Prince Valerion Targaryen and his wife Lady Tessa Manderly.

• Lord Aemon (98 AC)

Dragons:

- Prince Valerion: Grey Ghost.

- Lord Aemon: Seasmoke, young dragon.

House Dragonfyre: Per saltire: two heavy golden chains crossing between (clockwise) Harrenhal, a teal dragon, a silver cup with wine, and a purple dragon over a violet field.

• "Dragonfire purifies."

Keep: Dragon’s Rest Castle (formerly), located near the ruins of Harrenhal; Harrenhal (current).

Founder(s): Prince Gaemon Targaryen and his sister wife Viserra Targaryen.

• Aelor Dragonfyre (93 AC)
• Rhaena Dragonfyre (95 AC)
• Visenya Dragonfyre (98 AC)

Dragons:

- Prince Gaemon: Dreamfyre.

House Velaryon: A silver seahorse on sea green.

• "The Old, the True, the Brave"

Keep: High Tide (current), Castle Driftmark (formerly).

Founder(s): Unknown.

• Corlys Velaryon (53 AC) - married in 84 AC to Princess Saera Targaryen. They separated in 94 AC. Never remarried.
  • Laena Velaryon (92 AC)
  • Ser Laenor Velaryon (94 AC)
  • Addam of Hull (95 AC) - bastard of Lord Corlys.
  • Alyn of Hull (97 AC) - bastard of Lord Corlys.
• Vaemond Velaryon (55 AC) - Unknown wife.
  • Daeron Velaryon (90 AC)
  • Daemion Velaryon (93 AC)

House Baratheon: A black stag on a golden field.

Orys's personal sigil: A crowned winged stag in crimson breathing fire, over a black field.

• “Ours is the Fury”

Seat(s): Storm’s End

Founder(s): Orys Baratheon and Argella Dundarron

• Lord Boremund Baratheon (52 AC - 103 AC) married to Princess Aerea Targaryen (42 AC - 93 AC)
  • Borros Baratheon (77 AC)
• Jocelyn Baratheon (54 AC - 102 AC) married to Prince Aemon Targaryen (55 AC - 92 AC)
  • House Targaryen.

House Arryn: A sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon, on sky-blue.

• “As High as Honor”

Seat(s): The Eyrie, Gates of the Moon

Founder: Ser Artys Arryn

• Rodrick Arryn (44 AC - 94 AC) - first unknown wife.
  • Lady Elys Arryn (61 AC)
  • Lord Elbert Arryn (64 AC - 97 AC)
    • Older sons (dead by 97 AC)
    • Lady Jeyne Arryn (94 AC)
  • Ser Ronnel Arryn (66 AC - 97 AC)
    • Arnold Arryn (97 AC)
  • Lady Amanda Arryn (68 AC) - a septa
• Rodrick Arryn married to Princess Daella Targaryen.
  • Lady Aemma Arryn (82 AC)

Chapter Text

FROM THE RECORDS OF THE ROYAL ALMANACK

Compiled in the Reign of His Grace Jaehaerys First of His Name of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men
By the hand of the Grey-Septon Osfryd, Keeper of the Sacred Calendar and Member of the Holy Order of the Wisdom Seers.

"To rule a realm is to rule its rhythms." — Queen Alysanne

In the present age of peace and glory, the Royal Court observes a ceremonial cycle of Seven Sacred Seasons, each governed by one of the Seven Who Are One. This calendar, devised under the blessed guidance of Queen Alysanne, brings divine structure and splendor to the year—ordered not in accordance with the common concerns of harvest or frost, but with the higher principles of law, love, valor, wisdom, and grace.

The learned septons teach us that time itself is sacred, and that mortal endeavors prosper when aligned with the divine will. Thus does the Crown submit its ceremonies to the eternal rhythm of the Seven, that the realm might be governed in righteousness and the court conduct itself in harmony with heaven.

Below is set forth the ordering of the year as it is kept within the hallowed halls of the Red Keep:

Season of the Father

Moons 1–3 | The Father Above | Solemn, structured, diplomatic

The year begins under the stern yet loving gaze of the Father, He who judges justly and governs with wisdom. This season governs all matters of law, renewal of bonds, and the righteous ordering of the realm.

Sacred Observances:

• Day of Judgment (1st Moon): Royal oaths renewed; decrees issued with the Father's blessing
• Royal Confession (2nd Moon): Lords and ladies make formal confession before septons; political pardons granted in mercy
• Justice Month (3rd Moon): Appointments of judges and officials; weighty legal matters brought before the Crown
• The Father's Scales (End of 3rd Moon): Public trials for grave crimes; evidence weighed in solemn ceremony

Season of the Maiden

Moons 4–5 | The Maiden Fair | Playful, poetic, romantic

The Maiden's gentle influence awakens love and beauty in the court. This season celebrates innocence, courtship, and the sacred bonds between man and woman.

Sacred Observances:

• Maid's Blessing (Start of 4th Moon): Young maidens blessed in public feast and sacred rite
• Vigil of Innocence (Mid-4th Moon): Maidens keep all-night prayer vigil in the royal sept
• The Petal Procession (Start of 5th Moon): The city adorned with flowers; peak of betrothal season
• The White Rose Festival (5th Moon): Unmarried ladies garbed in white; ceremonies of purity
• The Maiden's Ball: Sacred courtship through dance and masquerade under blessed candlelight

Season of the Warrior

Moon 6 Only | The Warrior Bold | Proud, festive, martial

The briefest yet most glorious of seasons, when the clash of steel and thunder of hooves fill the court with righteous vigor. All matters of honor, courage, and martial prowess are celebrated under the Warrior's banner.

Sacred Observances:

• Blessing of Blades (Start of 6th Moon): All weapons consecrated by septons ere the tournament
• The Warrior's Fast: Knights abstain from food for three days, breaking fast only after first combat
• The Warrior's Tourney (Mid-6th Moon): The year's grandest tournament in the Warrior's honor
• Knighting Day: Squires of noble birth elevated; the royal guard reviewed and honored

Season of the Mother

Moons 7–8 | The Mother Above | Joyful, familial, generous

Under the Mother's loving aspect, the court celebrates the sacred bonds of family, the blessing of children, and the nurturing of all life within the realm.

Sacred Observances:

• Milk and Honey Feast (Start of 7th Moon): Expectant and new mothers honored with sacred foods
• Harvest Wedding Tide (7th Moon): Most auspicious time for noble marriages
• Mother's Grace (8th Moon): Prayers and blessings for fertility and children
• Adoption Rites (8th Moon): Sacred ceremonies for legitimizing natural children and formal adoptions
• Heirs' Day (8th Moon): Public naming and blessing of heirs before the assembled court
• The Seven Cradles (End of 8th Moon): Seven symbolic cradles blessed for the realm's continued prosperity

Season of the Smith

Moon 9 Only | The Smith Divine | Industrious, practical, creative

The Smith, who forged the world and all within it, is honored through celebration of honest work, craftsmanship, and the sacred act of creation.

Sacred Observances:

• Forge Day (1st of 9th Moon): Craftsmen, scribes, and builders present their finest works
• The Great Mending (9th Moon): Court-wide day dedicated to repairing relationships, tools, and structures
• Maker's Market: Royal fair displaying tools, inventions, and the pledging of apprenticeships
• Apprentice Oath Day: Young craftsmen swear sacred oaths to their masters before the assembled court

Season of the Crone

Moons 10–11 | The Crone Wise | Quiet, reflective, scholarly

As the year wanes, the Crone's lantern guides the court toward contemplation, learning, and the honoring of accumulated wisdom.

Sacred Observances:

• Night of Seven Candles (10th Moon): Seven candles lit for each aspect of the divine; wisdom shared among the learned
• Crone's Night (End of 10th Moon): Sacred silence observed by candlelight throughout the court
• Moon of Memory (11th Moon): Ancient histories read aloud; wills written and witnessed
• The Scrollkeeper's Vigil (11th Moon): Maesters and septons copy sacred and important texts through the night
• Ancestor's Table (11th Moon): Empty chairs set at feast for departed family members

The Veil of the Stranger

Moon 12 Only | The Stranger Unknown | Somber, reverent, veiled

The most sacred and feared of times, when the boundary between life and death grows thin. The court observes profound reverence for the mystery of death and the unknown.

Sacred Observances:

• No great ceremonies are held during this moon
• Marriages are postponed until the Father's season returns
• The dead are honored with particular devotion; the dying are attended with special care

It is written that those who pass from this world during the Stranger's moon walk more swiftly to whatever lies beyond.

The Sacred Rythm of Daily and weekly Observance

Beyond the great seasonal celebrations, the faithful court observes these regular devotions:

Daily Observances:

• Threefold Prayer: Dawn, midday, and dusk calls to worship
• Sacred Meals: Certain foods forbidden during holy periods

Weekly Observances:

• The Seventh Day Rest: Court business ceases; only prayer and holy contemplation permitted
• Monthly Confessions: Private confession to septons on the first day of each moon

Quarterly Observances:

• Sacred Oils Ceremony: Anointing of sacred objects and worthy persons with blessed oils
• Tithing Ceremonies: Public donation of wealth to support the Faith's works

Annual Observances:

• Blessing of the Crown: Royal authority re-consecrated each new year
• Festival of Lights: Winter celebration with seven-branched candelabras
• Days of Atonement: Periods of fasting and repentance
• Charity Months: Obligatory giving to aid the realm's poor and orphaned

The Sacred Duties of Crown and Court

The Faith teaches that rulers and ruled alike must submit to divine law. Thus the Crown maintains these holy obligations:

Justice Sacred:

• Debt Forgiveness: Periodic erasure of debts, that none may be crushed by worldly burdens
• Protection of Orphans: Special ceremonies and protections for the parentless
• Seven-Day Fasts: Courtiers renounce earthly pleasures in devotion to each aspect of the divine

Worship Made Manifest:

• Incense Offerings: Different sacred scents burned for each aspect of the Seven
• New Moon Prayers: Each lunar cycle begins with special devotions
• Full Moon Meditations: Contemplative services under the Crone's particular blessing

Thus ends the sacred turning of the courtly year, ordered in accordance with divine will and ancient wisdom. May the Seven Who Are One guide the realm through each season with justice, mercy, courage, love, honest work, learned counsel, and acceptance of the great mystery.

Let all who serve the Crown observe these holy times, that the realm might prosper in righteousness and the court conduct itself as befits those who rule by divine grace.

Set down at King's Landing by the Grey-Septon Osfryd, Keeper of the Sacred Calendar, in the Sixty-Second Year After Aegon's Conquest, under the reign of His Grace Jaehaerys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Chapter Text

The Heirs of the Dragon: A Chronicle of the First Century

— by Maester Lucian of Oldtown and Princess Helaena Tyrell nee Targaryen.

[From the joint preface:]

This work represents an uncommon partnership between chain and crown. Maester Lucian brought to this endeavor his training in historical method and access to the Citadel's archives; Princess Helaena contributed the testimonies of those who lived through these events and the perspective that only blood can provide. Where we have disagreed—and we have disagreed often—we have noted our differing interpretations rather than seeking false consensus.

Truth demands nothing less.

Much ink has been spilled chronicling the later reign of King Jaehaerys I, with my fellow maesters devoting countless pages to celebrating the first Targaryen Century as an age of wonder, prosperity, and reconciliation.

We write with a different purpose.

It is not our place to judge the past—such judgments come easily to those who inherit the fruits of earlier labors. Rather, we seek only to chronicle the events that precipitated one of the gravest tragedies to befall the Seven Kingdoms...

The first century of House Targaryen’s rule dawned in a blaze of hope, divine favor, and renewed vows of fealty. Lords great and small journeyed to King’s Landing to stand beside the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne, as the realm marked a momentous milestone: one hundred years of Targaryen dominion over the Seven Kingdoms, and fifty-two years of King Jaehaerys’s reign—the longest in our recorded history, as we set quill to parchment.

Never had House Targaryen appeared more magnificent than during the first moon of 100 AC, when King Jaehaerys opened the Season of the Father with traditional ceremonies at the Sept of Remembrance atop Rhaenys's Hill. There, surrounded by his surviving children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, both Crown-Septon Gawain and the King himself delivered speeches that witnesses described as touched by divine authority. They proclaimed how the Gods had blessed not only Aegon the Conqueror's unification, but continued their favor through the royal family's abundance: thirteen children born, nine still breathing; fifteen born grandchildren; and the newest generation—from Prince Aegon's line came Princes Aemon and Aenys, while Prince Baelon the Brave's had sired Lord Vaelon and Lady Rhaenyra. The future of the dynasty seemed unshakeable.

Yet those present noted subtle tensions beneath the celebration.

Though Prince Aegon had returned to court after his decade of "service" in the realm and beyond—which his detractors termed exile—the relationship between king and heir remained strained. They didn't quarrel as much as in previous years, but members of the Small Council—Grand Maester Allar being one of them—kept brief yet amusing notes whenever King and heir disagreed on some topics. It is said that Prince Baelon’s presence as well as the Queen’s had managed to dull their prickly edges.

Still, multiple accounts point out that during those days of jubilee, father and son presented a united front, their past grievances seemingly buried. Many heard the King's voice break with pride as he spoke of his eldest son, the child who had nearly died at birth, while the spectacular aerial display by Princes Aegon and Baelon—mounted on the fearsome Cannibal and mighty Vhagar—delighted the assembled court.

The Season of the Mother brought new joy with the announcement that Princess Rhaenys, daughter of the late Prince Aemon and wife to Prince Aerys, was again with child—her fourth pregnancy.

For nearly the entire year, the House of the Dragon basked in prosperity and security. Yet as the maesters remind us, fortune's wheel turns ever onward, and in the Season of the Crone, on the third day of the tenth moon, beloved Queen Alysanne departed this world to join her ancestors in the realm eternal.

Maester Lucian writes: Her funeral at Dragonstone broke with ancient precedent in ways that would prove prophetic. Rather than a single dragon providing flame for the pyre, each of her surviving children bore torches lit by the breath of the realm's nine adult dragons: Meleys, Vhagar, Caraxes, Dreamfyre, Silverwing, Vermithor, and even the once wild dragons Cannibal and Grey Ghost.

Princess Helaena adds: Crown-Septon Gawain’s private journals, long thought lost, describe the ceremony thus: "Never had I witnessed such unity of purpose between beast and rider. It was as if the dragons themselves mourned the Good Queen's passing." The symbolism could not have been more deliberate—or more ominous. This would be the last time dragonfire would serve such unified purpose.

In the aftermath of the funeral rites, Prince Aerys, my grandfather, finally claimed Silverwing as his mount, to considerable relief within the family. Many had quietly questioned whether the prince possessed the dragonlord's gift, having reached his majority without bonding to a beast.

Maester Lucian: This bonding precipitated lengthy discussions between the King and his sons regarding the regulation of dragon-riding—conversations that, by all accounts, tested the three men's patience considerably.

Princess Helaena: "Lengthy discussions" proves a masterful understatement. Lord Beesbury, then serving as Master of Coin, described to his son on his private correspondance how the Small Council was held prisoner for an entire day and a half while father and sons argued. "We broke our fast, took lunch, and supped—all within those chambers. Neither prince nor king would yield ground, and neither would dismiss us to continue their quarrel in private."

From these heated deliberations emerged what history knows as the Dragonstone Edicts—formal laws governing who might attempt to claim a dragon, under what circumstances, and with whose permission. Most significantly, these laws elevated Princess Daenerys to the Small Council as the Crown's first Advisor on Draconic Affairs—later known as the position of Mistress of Dragons, granting her unprecedented authority over matters touching on dragons and their riders.

The year 101 AC began auspiciously with the birth of a daughter to Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaenys, completing their family. Prince Aegon, his mourning for his mother concluded, celebrated the arrival of his second granddaughter, Princess Aelyx, with great fanfare and evident joy. Despite winter's grip upon the realm, it was remembered as a year of good fortune.

Maester Lucian writes: Yet what followed—and it pains me to chronicle these events that would prove the turning of the tide—brought great tragedy to the House of the Dragon.

During the festivities for the Warrior in the sixth moon of 102 AC, Prince Baelon the Brave, Lord of the Stepstones and Hand of the King, perished of what the maesters termed a "burst belly"—a sudden affliction that knew neither cure nor prevention. The Prince had returned from hunting in the Kingswood with his elder brother, as was their custom in recent years, when the sickness struck without warning.

Princess Helaena adds: Grand Maester Runciter's own notes, preserved in the Citadel's archives, describe Prince Baelon's final days with clinical precision: "The prince first complained of sharp pains in his lower belly upon breaking his fast. By midday he could not stand, and by evening fever consumed him. For five agonizing days he fought the affliction—his strength legendary even in suffering—until finally, on the fifth dawn, he was gone.” There was nothing mysterious in his passing—save perhaps the cruelty of it.

None grieved Baelon's passing more deeply than Prince Aegon and their siblings, Princess Daenerys and Prince Valerion. Many observed that King Jaehaerys's own health began to falter thereafter, for Baelon—valiant, dutiful, and ever loyal—had long been his most beloved son.

Maester Lucian: Yet whispers of poison soon stirred through courtly halls. There were those who claimed that Prince Aegon, long resentful of his younger brother's favor, had orchestrated Baelon's death to claim the title of Hand for himself.

Princess Helaena: Such whispers began, predictably, within the detractors of Prince Aegon. To this day, it is hard to say who started these whispers, but they found eager ears among those who remembered the princes' youthful estrangement, though none who made such accusations had witnessed the brothers' reconciliation in their later years.

Maester Lucian: Archmaester Orwel, in his Treatise on Targaryen Discords, later described the years 102 to 104 AC as a "slow duel masked in courtly ritual," yet his writings—composed nearly half a century after the fact—lean heavily on hearsay drawn from partisan sources.

Princess Helaena: In truth, such accusations collapse under scrutiny. I have read the letters exchanged between Princess Daenerys and Archmaester Vaegon during this period—correspondence that paints a far different picture. The deaths of their respective wives, Lady Meredyth Sunglass and Princess Alyssa, had forged a bond of shared sorrow between both Princes Aegon and Baelon. Princess Daenerys wrote to her brother: "They sit together in the evenings now, sharing wine and old grievances alike. Age has made them brothers again in ways youth never could."

Maester Lucian: Were there tensions between two strong-willed men? Certainly. Yet whatever divisions had once separated them paled before the brotherhood they forged in their later years, strengthened by the betrothal and subsequent marriage of Aegon's daughter Vaella to Baelon's son Viserys.

Princess Helaena: I suspect many accusations originated from later detractors seeking to further blacken Prince Aegon's already tarnished reputation—a reputation earned through decades of youthful excess rather than fraternal murder. The truth, as ever, proves less dramatic than the rumors.

With the realm still reeling from this loss, King Jaehaerys named Prince Aegon as his new Hand. And as the year 103 AC dawned, a troubling reality became apparent: for the first time in decades, father and son found themselves alone to counsel, to debate, and—tragically—to quarrel without the moderating presence of Prince Baelon or Queen Alysanne.

The stage was thus set for the conflicts that would follow.

Chapter Text

3rd Moon of the Crone 81 AC

Otto Hightower was eight years old when first he met the Prince of Dragonstone. From shining Oldtown at the mouth of the Honeywine, up the Rose Road to ivy-covered Highgarden, across leagues of fields and orchards, his father had taken him and Hobert to the capital of King’s Landing. A sprawling metropolis, half again large as Oldtown at a fraction of it’s age, the city had seemed a wonder to a young boy with all it’s smells and sights and wonders, foremost among them the Red Keep atop Aegon’s High Hill. As they rode through the bustling, stinking city, Hobert had regaled Otto with everything he knew of the great city and it’s great castle.

“Dragons live there,” Hobert whispered, leaning over in his saddle. “Great, slavering lizards that breathe fire and can swallow a man whole! I saw one once when you were little. It came to the Tower with the king and they fed him a whole ox everyday!”

“The king?” Otto asked.

“No, not the king, stupid! The dragon! The king and his family are dragonriders.”

“I know that. Everyone knows that,” Otto had muttered, though truth be told, he’d never given it much consideration. “How do you think he did it?”

“Ate the oxen?”

“No, not the dragon, stupid! The king! How do you think the king rides the dragon?”

Hobert had punched him in the arm for that. Otto had shoved him back, but before it could escalate further, Father had ridden down the column to glare down at his sons.

“Enough,” he hissed. “This is not Oldtown. We are here to see the King, and the Prince of Dragonstone, and gods know how many other Targaryens have mustered for this. I will not be shamed by childish antics for which one of you is far too old, and the other far too sensible,” Otto preened at the unintended compliment, but Hobert’s face burned red. “You are Hightowers. Conduct yourselves appropriately.”

And with that, he wheeled his horse around, and rode back to the head of the column with Mother.

After a moment of silence a beat too long, Hobert cleared his throat and continued as if there had been no interruption. “Father says it’s cause the Gods made the king and his family special. They’re Valyrians and that means they can ride dragons and do other things normal men can’t do.”

“Like what?” Otto asked.

Hobert looked thoughtful, he never had much of a head for the maester’s lessons. “Well they hardly ever get sick for one. And lots of them have silver hair and purple eyes and it’s only the Valyrians that have those,” he made a face. “And the High Septon says it’s alright if the brothers marry the sisters.”

“Why?” Otto asked. He didn’t have a sister, but if he imagined Hobert in a dress, that was close enough. And he couldn’t rightfully imagine marrying Hobert.

“I dunno. Because they’re holy or something,” Hobert shrugged. “But the queen is the king’s sister, and their brother — he’s dead now— married their other sister, and their grandfather married both his sisters.” He leaned in whispering conspiratorially. “But Father told me the King’s eldest son, the Prince of Dragonstone, straight refused to marry his sister. Instead he ran off and married a Sunglass.”

“Is that bad?”

Hobert laughed. “That’d be like if I went and married a Beesbury, though I supposed it’d be even worse if I were a prince. The king was proper mad and Father says he doesn’t like his son too much. Says they fight all the time and that his brothers are always having to clean up his messes,” Hobert grinned at him. “Though I suppose that’s what little brothers are for, eh?”

Riding into the courtyard of the Red Keep, Otto was surprised to see a welcoming committee waiting for them. A tall, lean man with silver hair dressed all in crimson silk the color of blood. His cloak, black as a raven’s wings, was pinned at the breast with a three-headed dragon, wrought in silver. At his side, a tall woman in matching colors was whispering in the ear of a silver haired boy not much older than Otto. The woman, his mother no doubt, had mousy brown hair and seven white stars embroidered along the hem of her crimson gown. This must be the Sunglass woman, Otto realized. Which makes him the Prince of Dragonstone.

The party said nothing as Father dismounted from his destrier. He paused to guide Mother down from her palfrey, before turning to the Prince and sinking to a knee. Otto and Hobert hastened to follow suit, while Mother dipped into an elegant curtsy. After a moment to observe the proper decorum, the Prince spoke. “Well met, Lord Hightower. Please, rise.”

Father and Mother rose gracefully, and the Prince moved to shake Father’s hand as Mother and the Sunglass woman —Princess!— clasped hands and kissed each others cheeks. “Thank you, Your Grace. It’s always a pleasure to visit the capital. Truly, it is a sight to behold.”

“If only it weren’t also a smell to behold,” the Prince said wryly, and Otto was inclined to agree. A day’s ride out, Hobert had half-convinced him the smell meant that he was dying. “I have told the King time and again it’s only a matter of time before the Blackwater is renamed the Shitwater. Barth agrees, but Father is too focused on his roads to pay us mind.”

“Enough, husband,” The Princess chided gently, but her eyes sparkled merrily. “Our guests have traveled too far to hear you complain so readily.”

“I’m no stranger to such talk, Princess,” Father said with a chuckle. “We’ve records from the founding of Oldtown that tell of much the same problem. I’ll send you a copy, and it may help with your plight."

“Much appreciated, Lord Hightower,” the Prince nodded. “But Meredyth is right,” he beamed at her, ”you didn’t come all this way to hear me wax eloquent on the smell of shit. On to better things. Introduce us to your boys.”

Father pulled Hobert and Otto forward, his earlier anger gone. “My heir, Hobert, four and ten. And my youngest, Otto, just turned eight.”

The boys bowed low and the Princess smiled.

“This is our heir, Aerys,” she said, ushering the silver haired boy forward. He had tried to fade into the background while their parents had greeted one another, to no avail. He was taller than Otto, but he had a pleasant demeanor and shook Hobert and Otto’s hands readily enough.

“Hello,” he said with a shy smile, and Otto smiled back.

“You must be tired after your long journey,” the Prince said. “We’ve prepared rooms for you in Maegor’s Holdfast,” Princess Meredyth gave her husband a sharp look, and he returned it, just as fierce. “It’s a name, Meredyth,” the Prince said, tone brittle. “Father takes no umbrage living in the man’s castle. It’s been over thirty years.” Meredyth’s gaze was sharp, but silent.

Father chuckled nervously, and Mother winced. The boy, Prince Aerys, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, and Otto sympathized. The bloody reign of Maegor the Cruel was well remembered in Oldtown —thousands of Warrior’s Sons had been put to the sword on the steps of the Starry Sept itself, and Father’s aunt, the Lady Ceryse, had been one of Maegor’s brides. After a tense moment between husband and wife, the Prince looked back to Father.

“Apologies, my lord. You likely have even less desire to hear us squabble.”

“Nonsense, my prince. Pay us no heed,” Father said smoothly, any hint of nervousness gone.

“Regardless, your rooms are in the Holdfast. Come.”

The couples linked arms and strode side by side through the massive arched doors leading into the Red Keep, chatting amiably. Behind them, the children trailed in their wake as an army of servants and grooms descended on the courtyard. Hobert rushed ahead to listen in on the adults, leaving Otto to talk with Prince Aerys. Having overcome his initial shyness, he was doing so animatedly.

“I squire for my Uncle Aemon. He rides the dragon Caraxes. He’s not as big as Father’s Cannibal, but Cannibal was a wild dragon for years and years. Uncle Baelon says in time he may grow as large as Vhagar herself. Do you squire for anyone?”

“Not yet. I’ve been serving as my father’s cupbearer for the last year, and soon I’ll start studying at the Citadel.”

Aerys’s eyes widened in fascination. “I’ve got an uncle studying at the Citadel. Are you going to be a maester?”

Otto laughed. “No, no! But Father means for me to earn a few links in a chain so I can better serve our house. History or law maybe? My family has always sent their younger sons to study at the Citadel, so they can one day serve their elder brothers.”

“I see!” Aerys said, eyes sparkling. “Maybe Father will send my brothers to do the same. I’ve got two —Daeron and… and the baby. Plus my sister Vaella.”

“Are they here now?” Otto asked, and Aerys nodded.

“They’re little, so they’re all in the nursery right now. Some of my cousins and my aunts and uncles are there too. There’s loads of them, but you’ll meet everyone after the ceremony tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Ceremony?” Otto scrunched his brow. Hobert hadn’t said anything about a ceremony.

Aerys shot a look ahead at their parents before leaning in to whisper. “Father is presenting my baby brother to court for the first time tomorrow. Then there’s supposed to be a big tourney to celebrate, so lords and ladies from all over have come for it. All my uncles and aunts, the grown ones I mean, have come too.”

Something in his mood had shifted, but Otto didn’t know what. “I like tourneys,” he offered after a moment.

Aerys licked his lips, eyes darting back to his father. “Yeah, me too.”

Supper with the Prince of Dragonstone and his family that night had passed by without further incident. The adults, and Hobert obviously trying to join in, had clustered at one end of the table, drinking copiously and laughing merrily, leaving Otto and Aerys sitting together. He enjoyed Aerys’s company, and the prince seemed to return the sentiment, so they had conferred quietly at their end of the table, swapping tales of Oldtown and the Citadel in exchange for vignettes regarding dragons and the Red Keep. More than once, Otto caught Father and Prince Aegon watching the pair of them with obvious approval.

When at last they had begun to part ways, Father had grasped the Prince’s hand and said, very solemnly, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” The Prince had responded with his rakish smile, and bid them good night. Father had not smiled back and seemed troubled the entire way to their rooms.

Now, standing in the throne room, Father looked positively grim, but Otto was hard pressed to notice. There were so many people here, all for a baby? He saw the lion of Lannister and the merman of Manderly, the stallion of Bracken and the stag of Baratheon, the shield and runes of Royce and the golden rose of Tyrell. And of course, the dragons.

Guardsmen lined the throne room, crimson cloaks standing in stark contrast to black plate, their helms in the shape of dragon’s wings. Massive banners bearing the three-headed dragon adorned the walls and hung behind the jagged, misshapen monstrosity that was the Iron Throne. The King’s children mingled throughout the hall, silver hair shining in the sunlight. Prince Aemon, the Master of Laws, and Prince Baelon the Brave, newly named Lord of the Stepstones, had made a circuit of the room making greetings, but now huddled in quiet conference with the Princesses Daenerys and Alyssa. More than once, Otto saw the group direct their gazes towards their elder brother.

Prince Aegon stood apart with the entirety of his family. Princess Meredyth, head held high, Prince Aerys with his lips firmly pressed together, and children younger still. Small, clever Daeron, who had bragged to Otto of his skill with numbers though he was yet five, and Vaella who had asked to hear tales of the Reach. And in his mother’s arms, the baby that all were here to see. Prince Aegon stood ramrod straight, eyes never leaving the Iron Throne. The King’s throne. But there was yet no king.

Finally, after what seemed hours of waiting, the massive double doors opened, and the herald cried out, “King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

And then there he was - the King. Tall and commanding, though he was near fifty name days old, he strode into the hall, arm in arm with the Queen, as the gathered nobility of Westeros sank to their knees. Behind the royal couple trailed a wan, kindly faced man in a septon’s robes. The infamous Barth, Hand of the King. Otto couldn’t take his eyes off the man.

With a kiss for his wife, the King turned to ascend the steps of the Iron Throne. Septon Barth stood at the base to the King’s right hand, as the Queen glided gracefully into a chair on the left. Her children surrounded her in short order —Princess Daenaerys whispering hurriedly into her Mother’s ear as a young girl, no more than two, pulled away from a nurse to climb into the Queen’s lap. At last seating himself on the Throne, the King called, “Rise, my lords.” The crowd rose from their knees, and the King smiled down beatifically.

“Long have I reigned, and much have we accomplished in these years. But I would be remiss if I did not say my greatest pride lays in the children the Queen, my dear Alysanne, has brought into this world. Truly we are blessed —thirteen children alive and well, to carry on the Conqueror’s Legacy. Thirteen children with strengths and talents as varied as they come. Thirteen new pools from which the Blood of the Dragon flows strong.” The hall erupted into cheers and applause and the King basked in it for a long moment. He raised his hand, and the crowd quieted.

“The gods have blessed my children all. I have been a grandfather now for seven years,” he smiled at Aerys, standing between his parents, “but every time word reaches me of a new Targaryen born to this world, I am filled with pride anew. Son —” he gestured to Prince Aegon, “come forth.”

Prince Aegon stepped forward with his wife and children to stand before the throne. He paused as he took the sleeping child from his wife’s arms and locked eyes with her. A moment passed between the two, words unspoken, until at last Princess Meredyth gave a slight nod and relinquished her hold. Prince Aegon turned back towards the throne, bundled form in his arms.

With a flourish, gentle but still dramatic, Prince Aegon unswaddled the child for all to see. Otto knew fairly little about babies, but could confidently say this was indeed a baby. Small and pink, with a shock of silver hair on his head. “Your grandson, Your Grace.” Prince Aegon said. A series of murmurs and platitudes of affection rippled through the hall.

The king smiled, larger than ever. “Today, we gather to welcome the latest addition to my family —the Prince of Dragonstone and his wife, Princess Meredyth, have blessed the Queen and I with another grandson. One that will surely go down in history for his bravery, or his thirst for knowledge, or mayhaps his piety. Tell me, my son, what is his name?” A choked gasp came from the King’s left, and Otto’s eyes flicked to the Queen. She had gone very pale, eyes locked on her eldest son.

Aegon took a deep breath, and Princess Meredyth put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Then voice clear and resolute, “Maegor.” The king’s smiled vanished and the hall quieted into absolute silence.

“What did you say?” The King said, voice now dangerously low.

“Prince Maegor of House Targaryen,” Aegon repeated, back straight, chin held high. “Named for a king. A cruel man, yes, but one who laid the foundations for what you have built today. A true dragon, if nothing else.”

The King was heaving on his throne. Great, deep breaths and his fists were clenched on the pommels of the swords that served as armrests. Even from this distance, Otto could see blood flowing from his white knuckled grip. “You… you dare…” he started to hiss when a woman broke from the crowd.

She was tall and imperious-looking, wearing the gold and black of House Baratheon, but with a large necklace showcasing a black dragon carved from obsidian. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun that displayed a burn scar running from her cheek down the side of her neck. The King’s niece —Princess Aerea— who had claimed Balerion and survived the horrors of Old Valyria, if Hobert was to be believed.

Otto barely had time to blink. The Princess moved like a thunderclap —one moment regal, the next, fury incarnate. She pulled her arm back and punched the Prince of Dragonstone full in the face. “Bastard,” she hissed.

Chaos erupted.

The Prince rolled with the punch, but the infant in his arms jolted awake and began to wail. Princess Meredyth stepped around her husband, reared back, and slapped Princess Aerea in turn. The Queen and King both began yelling admonishments —Alysanne at her niece, Jaehaerys at his son— as Lord Baratheon rushed forward to pick up his wife and carry her away, literally kicking and screaming. Prince Baelon came down the steps at his brother, gesticulating wildly, cursing loudly. The crowd erupted into frenzied conversation, gasps, and jeers in equal measure.

“SILENCE!” Septon Barth roared, and the crowd quieted. He turned to the cadre of white knights arrayed below the throne. “Lord Commander —clear the hall.”

Armored knights descended from their posts to shepherd the crowd of onlookers. Otto was pressed between his parents, but turned to watch over his shoulder as father and son, brother and sister, aunt and niece, erupted into renewed shouts.

With a creaking thud, the doors closed and silenced the turmoil that had consumed the House of the Dragon.

That day twenty years ago was burned into Otto Hightower’s memory. The screaming, the recriminations, his Father and Mother gathering behind closed doors with Lords Royce and Tully, as he and Hobert shared a silent meal. Aerys arriving, weeping, saying his father and grandfather had shouted themselves hoarse, before the Prince of Dragonstone had stormed out and taken flight to Gods’ knew where.

Then came the tourney, a much more somber affair than originally anticipated. Princess Meredyth and her children were denied access to the royal box and sat instead with her Sunglass kin. Prince Baelon, bearing his mother’s favor, was the crowd favorite, resplendent in black and crimson armor. His popularity was only matched by a mystery knight in eclectic, mismatched armor — the Knight of Scraps, he called himself. When the two faced each other at the final tilt, the crowd roared in approval. Baelon seemed the destined victor, when, to the astonishment of all, the enigmatic competitor unhorsed Baelon on the first pass and went on to name Princess Meredyth Queen of Love and Beauty. Then, the knight had unmasked himself to be none other than Prince Aegon, spat at the foot of the royal box, and ridden off as the King shouted after him and the Queen wept.

The First Quarrel, as it came to be known, was merely the beginning. Prince Aegon spent many years away from court, traveling the length of Westeros and across Essos as it suited him. He annihilated a Dornish invasion fleet off the coast of the Stormlands the night before his father and brothers moved to do the same. He crippled the heir of Honeyholt in a joust the night before Princess Saera’s wedding to Lord Corlys Velaryon. He brokered advantageous matches and wardships for his children without so much as a “by your leave” further earning the King’s ire.

Never gone long enough to be forgotten, he returned sporadically —to kiss his mother, vex his father, and then retreat to his self-imposed exile in Pentos or, on occasion, Dragonstone. He buried several siblings and his wife, and saw two of his children married, before at last he and his father had appeared to make amends and the Prince of Dragonstone had returned to Westeros fully.

And in all that time, Otto Hightower had served. As link between King’s Landing and Oldtown. As companion and confidant to forlorn Prince Aerys. As trusted pair of eyes to the wayward Prince of Dragonstone. When at last they had reconciled, the King had placed greater and greater trust in Aegon over the succeeding years, and now with Septon Barth dead he had been named Hand of the King. True, he had been preceded by the deceased Prince Baelon and the incompetent Ser Ryam Redwyne before that, but the fact remained he had finally earned his place back in the King’s favor. Otto served, and as his patrons rose, he rose with them.

He was Prince Aegon’s steward now. Head of the Prince’s household, serving as his voice in his absence. “Hand of the Hand,” he had boasted to his wife Helen. He was being groomed for the Handship one day soon, and it was all in danger of falling apart.

King and heir had entered the throne room alone near dawn. It was now well past midday, and the shouting had yet to cease. Standing before the throne room once more, Otto was reminded all too well of that day, so long ago. Muffled shouts echoed through the heavy oaken doors, and he could only wring his hands nervously. Ser Ryam Redwyne stood guard, face betraying nothing, but Otto could not fail to notice how his grip constantly shifted on the hilt of his sword and the the sharp glances over his shoulder whenever the shouting increased in volume. Thrice now he had dismissed curious courtiers from approaching the throne room, but Otto was sure that rumors had already taken flight.

Without warning, the door swung open, slamming into Ser Ryam’s back. He stumbled forward, almost taking Otto down with him, and another white cloak moved to assist him. Prince Aegon stormed out of the room, yelling over his shoulder. “Old fool!” he sneered. “’Wise King’ indeed. Mayhaps, if you had half the wits the gods gave a turnip!” He stormed away as the king stopped at the doors.

Otto scurried after his master as the king, no longer quite so tall, but still with a commanding presence, face apoplectic with rage, roared after him, “Get out of my sight! Damn you! Vain, greedy, cruel boy! You are unworthy! Of my throne! Of the responsibility you demand I entrust to you!” He turned to Ser Ryam, chest heaving, “Find Baelon. Find Gaemon. Find… find my sons. I must speak to them.”

Ser Ryam’s response was lost as Otto hurried to catch up to Prince Aegon. Even at fifty years of age, his stride was long and unbroken, and he was moving, swiftly, towards the courtyard. “Damn fool. Damn fool.” He muttered again and again.

“Your Grace, please!” Otto fumbled for words. “What’s happened? Where are you going?”

“There are things that I must see to.”

“What things?”

“Questions. Questions that need answering.”

“But, my Prince, Lord Hand, I don’t understand.”

Aegon threw open the doors to the courtyard, and rushed down the bottom of the steps. He put fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp shrill whistle. He turned to look up at Otto, their positions reversed from when they had first met all those years ago. “Neither do I, Ser Otto.”

A dragon’s roar broke the afternoon air as a great shape swept over the castle walls and lowered in the courtyard with a thud. Great green eyes burned from scales black as coal as teeth the size of swords parted to give it’s master a greeting hissss.

The Cannibal.

At a spoken word, the massive dragon lowered itself to the ground for the Prince to clamber into the saddle. Fastening the harness tight around his waist and looked down to Otto. “Write to my children. Write to Daenerys. They’ll want to know what’s happened. Serve in my stead, Ser Otto. I will return as soon as I am able,” he cracked his whip, spoke a command, and the dragon took off with a roar, leaving Otto Hightower, and the onlookers that had rushed to gather, covering their eyes from the sudden updraft.

The dust settled, the roar faded, and the courtyard emptied. Otto stood alone, heart hammering in his chest, the echo of royal fury still ringing in his ears. What the fuck just happened?

Chapter Text

2nd Moon of the Father, 103 AC

When the summons reached her, Daenerys was nestled in the quiet tower library, paper and parchment spread around her. The logbooks of Dragonstone’s dragons filled the room with the faint, musky scent of old ink—a scent she found almost soothing. Her wrist ached from hours spent tallying the lineage and diets of the younger dragons, the latest nestled eggs.

Her mind was distracted by the last tangled correspondence she had had with Septon Barth. She sorely missed the old Hand. His letters were filled with warmth and sharp wisdom, each missive offering revelations that led only to new mysteries.

The abrupt knock at the door startled her from her thoughts. A servant stepped in, bowing low, and handed her a folded parchment, its wax seal pressed with the three-headed dragon of her house. “Your Grace, a summons from King’s Landing.”

Daenerys took the message, expecting her brother’s precise hand. Yet the script within was not Aegon’s; instead, the careful, slanting lines belonged to Ser Otto Hightower, Aegon’s steward—and, rumor whispered, perhaps the next Hand of the King.

The words themselves told little, but their urgency pierced straight through her:

Prince Aegon bid me summon you to King’s Landing at all haste. He and the King quarreled bitterly —of what I do not know —and the Prince has left the city for parts unknown. The King has since fallen ill —I fear his time may be soon.

She read, then stopped, her heart drumming faster. There was more, but she did not need it—because in those sparse lines she heard the dread unspoken.

Daenerys closed her ledger, with a resounding thud. “Please inform the docks that I’ll be departing for the Red Keep at once. Cancel my engagements until further notice.”

The servant blinked, startled by her directness. “Your Grace?”

Daenerys stared at the shadowed window, the horizon shimmering with the uncertainty of the future. A week, a month, ten years… She schooled her features and replied with gentle firmness, “I will send word as soon as I am able. Alert the Red Keep that I intend to arrive in half a day—by tomorrow morning, if winds permit.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

When the servant had left and Daenerys was alone, she allowed herself the briefest moment to close her eyes—gathering herself for the storms to come. The old, familiar ache of duty and trouble settling on her chest like a leaden weight.

Her arrival at the Red Keep confirmed her deepest fears: the confrontation between King Jaehaerys and Prince Aegon had been fierce, loud enough to be heard halfway down Maegor’s Holdfast and when it had ended, the King had fallen into a fitful, almost senseless sleep from which the maesters could not wake him.

Ser Ryam Redwyne found her soon after she arrived, looking worn and anxious. He told her what he’d witnessed: Jaehaerys and Aegon had met alone in the throne room. There had been shouting, louder and angrier than usual, ringing down the halls for hours. When the doors finally swung open, chaos spilled out with them.

Father and son had boiled out cursing each other for all the court to see. Prince Aegon had left in a fury, leaving Jaehaerys calling out for Baelon —a son lost a year past— and Gaemon, as though their mere presence would set things right. Shouting at ghosts only he could see, the King had gasped, clutched his chest and fallen.

It struck Daenerys profoundly—her father had always been sharp-minded, but now seemed lost to things no one else could see. Perhaps this final quarrel had worn him down, or perhaps eleven years of peace were all the gods would spare them before demanding their price.

She found Ser Otto Hightower standing outside the royal chambers, shoulders tense, jaw set as though bracing for another crisis.

“Ser Otto,” she greeted.

“Princess Daenerys,” he said, bowing in deference.

She fixed him with a steady look. “No one’s closer to the truth of what happened than you, I suspect.”

He managed a grim smile, shaking his head. “If only that were so, Princess. Only the King and Prince Aegon know all. The rest of us make do with scraps and whispers.”

Daenerys gave a short, joyless laugh. “Gods be good,” she muttered. “Did he left you any instructions?”

Otto Hightower shook his head. “Nothing beyond summoning you back here and his sons.”

She nodded. “Have they arrived?”

“Prince Aerys is on his way back from Sweetport Sound with his family. Prince Daeron is expected by the morrow, winds willing.”

“He took Arrax, then?” she asked.

Otto nodded, resignation in his eyes. Daenerys exhaled, letting herself feel the weight of it all. “And Prince Maegor?”

“At the time of the… incident the young prince was riding in the Kingswood with Princess Gael. Most likely they’re in the Tower of Hand.”

Daenerys reached out and laid her hand briefly on Otto’s arm—a silent gesture of thanks and command. “You’ve managed things well, Ser Otto. Please oversee my brother’s affairs. I’ll see to the King.”

He lingered, as if searching for the right words, but in the end simply nodded and left.

Daenerys steeled herself before the great doors, then pushed them open, walking into the hushed, uncertain gloom that shrouded her fading father.

When a week came and went, Daenerys began to doubt Aegon would ever return. None of her ravens had been answered. She hesitated to send more—each unanswered message not only stoked fear, but invited questions. Whispers. Speculation.

How did a man like Aegon—let alone one mounted on a dragon the size of the Cannibal—simply vanish?

She stared out the window as clouds bruised the horizon. Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave them alone, father and son. Perhaps she should have remained at the Red Keep, choking on the damp and the smoke, playing nursemaid to two grown men who never stopped warring like children.

What would Mother have thought of this? What am I meant to do now?

She was in the solar with Aegon’s sons and Rhaenys. In the last few days, a hundred stories had sprouted up at court—some claimed Aegon poisoned the king. Others insisted Jaehaerys had disinherited his eldest, or worse—that Daeron was a bastard and Aerys not far behind. Scandal bred easily in the Red Keep, and Daenerys feared how quickly it might spread beyond the walls.

Aerys slouched in the chair, rubbing his face. Both he and Rhaenys had taken their dragons to gather as much knowledge as possible without raising suspicions. “Lord Merryweather says he saw him go west a few days ago. Hightower’s people swear the Cannibal was seen near the Citadel.”

Daenerys offered, “Maybe he met with Vaegon?”

Aerys shrugged, drained. “If he did, it wasn’t for long. He came and went like the wind. Otto might know, but…”

“At Massey’s Hook,” Rhaenys added, “they saw the Cannibal flying east, maybe across the Narrow Sea three days ago. Seems he’s been everywhere and nowhere at once.”

They fell silent until Daeron, idly spinning a ring, said, “If he’s across the Narrow Sea, maybe Pentos? He always disappears to that manse when he wants to think. Did you write there?”

Maegor raised a brow. “You think he’d go back? He left it to the whore.”

“Language, Maegor. She remains your aunt.” She chastised him. “Your father left her the manse, yes. But he always said it should be a place he could return to, if needed. A place untouched by crowns or courts.”

The room simmered with worry as they mulled over possibilities.

“He’s impossible,” Daeron muttered, running a hand through his unruly curls. “Worst timing for a game of hide and seek.”

Aerys snorted, chin propped in his palm, as Rhaenys gave his shoulder a steadying squeeze. “At his age, he ought to be getting fat and doting on his grandchildren, not galavanting across the world.”

“He’s always been restless, sick with wanderlust,” Daenerys allowed herself a smile, thinking on her brother and the freedom he had gained the moment he and the Cannibal found each other. An odd bond that one, Septon Barth always wondered how it had happened.

If Baelon still lived, he’d have flown Vhagar to haul Aegon back by the scruff, while Aemon would have lectured him until his tongue turned dry. Now there was only Gaemon’s scheming, Valerion’s earnest youth, and cryptic Vaegon—

A realization struck her. Daenerys rose suddenly. “I need paper and a quill.”

“What is it, Aunt?” the boys asked in chorus.

She smoothed her skirts, already striding to the door. “A hunch. If I’m right, it might change everything.”

“Mayhaps is time we bring everyone into the fold. We are not enough and some help could be—” Aerys started.

“No.” Daenerys’s tone brooked no argument. “No one can know about this—do you understand? Not a word, not even to Vaella or Viserys. The fewer who know, the safer we are. If word gets out, it could mean the ruin of our house. Think—how would your Uncle Gaemon react to this? Or those lords still nursing old grudges against your father? Until we know where your father is, you say nothing. If anyone asks, you’ll tell them he’s on the king’s business, that’s all. They’re used to shouting and squabbling—don’t give the court more to whisper about.”

They nodded, Daeron looking the most doubtful, but none protested further.

“Keep me informed of any new developments.”

The four looked at each other, uncertainty in their faces but nodded along. She closed the door behind her.

It was late when the glassy, flickering shadow of Vaegon materialized before Daenerys in her candlelit chamber. The dragonglass candle’s dark glow left her brother’s features strangely hollow.

“Brother, I hope I’m not disturbing you with my request,” she said.

Vaegon’s lips barely moved, his expression courteous but empty—something he reserved for people, or moments, that vexed him most. “Your message was rather pointed, sister. I made time, as you asked. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

Daenerys cut to the chase, her gratitude brittle. “Do you know where Aegon is?”

He traced a finger lightly over the heavy links at his throat. “Perhaps.”

She blinked, incredulous. “Perhaps? Are you truly so unconcerned—or are you just playing games? Father is…unwell.”

He offered an artful little shrug, chin tilted high. “I suspected as much. Another quarrel, was it?”

Her voice cracked under pressure. “You’re the only one who might find him. Please.”

He sighed. Then, against what seemed his better judgment, he relented. “Aegon has been presented with questions only madmen or kings dare ask.”

“What kind of questions?”

A pause. A flicker of something behind those indigo eyes. She noticed the way he worked his jaw.

“The kind we were raised never to answer. The kind that live in fire.”

Daenerys stiffened, brow furrowing. “Prophecy?”

Vaegon looked away. In the candlelight, his profile warped into something otherworldly. “Let him walk that dream until he wakes. Or burns.”

“Will he return?” She whispered.

“In due time.”

Daenerys’ control broke. “Father is dying. Aegon left after another fight, just like before, and now the court sees patterns in the dust.” Her voice shook. “He should be here, by his bedside, at the end. He was there for Mother—”

“This is different,” Vaegon said, quiet and final. “Aegon is… occupied.”

“Occupied with what? Where is he?”

Vaegon blinked. “Send a raven. A brother lives in the North. Speak to Valerion.”

The edge in his tone had sharpened—was it irritation, or something darker?

“When all is said and done, let me know,” he said. “Until then… do not summon me with questions that have no answers.”

There was a softness beneath the words—regret, perhaps—but Daenerys heard only dismissal.

“Vaegon!”

He was already fading, like mist pulling back from stone.

“Until next time, sister.”

The candles flickered. The shadows fell. And Daenerys was alone with the silence.

Valerion’s raven arrived sooner than Daenerys expected, and the relief was so sharp she almost wept.

I spoke with Aegon. He is well and at the Wall. He’s been speaking with the Night’s Watch, bothering the Lord Commander at Castle Black, and now he’s at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I’ll see he returns with me.

“The Wall?” Aerys echoed, looking lost as he paced the floor. “So the rumors were true—father was disinherited and—”

“Don’t say that, Aerys Targaryen,” Rhaenys cut in sharply, giving him a hard look. “We don’t know what’s happened. He could have gone for any reason.”

“Some reason,” Aerys muttered bitterly. “That’s what he always says—off for ‘some reason’, and we’re left guessing—”

“Enough.” Daenerys didn’t raise her voice, but the command in it silenced the room. “If he’d been sent to take the black, Valerion would have said so. His letter mentions no vows, no cloaks. He’s in the North. That’s all we know.”

Aerys let out a heavy sigh, all the fire gone. “Now what?”

“Now we wait for Valerion to bring him back,” Daenerys replied quietly. “And pray your grandfather wakes before then.”

And yet, it seemed as if trouble couldn't just simply wait for them to figure things out.

Viserra and Gaemon swept into the Red Keep like silk and shadow. Viserra insisted to every soul that their arrival had been long planned, but no one believed it—not even the children. Her three little ones followed in eerie, perfect formation as she descended from her carriage, smiling like a cat who'd scented cream.

“Dearest sister,” Viserra said as she took Daenerys’s hands, “surely we’re always welcome. This is our home too.”

Daenerys smiled, matching charm for charm. “Always welcome, Viserra. Though I wish your arrival were less... dramatic.”

“Oh?” Viserra tilted her head, feigning surprise. A small, knowing smirk touched the corners of her painted lips.

They walked through the Keep like it belonged to them. Daenerys tried to maintain the fiction of routine, but she felt the shift—the scent of blood in the air. When Gaemon joined them, tall and composed, she had already decided to keep the truth blurry.

Gaemon was neat, sharp-featured, his hair long and straight. He always looked ready for court, never a hair out of place, never a word wasted unless he meant it to burn. He stood beside Viserra as Daenerys began.

“Father is ill,” she said, smoothing her skirts as if smoothing over chaos. Viserra’s eyes widened, an imitation of concern so perfect it almost fooled her. Beside her, Gaemon rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, together presenting the perfect portrait of grief and solidarity.

They had always been twin shadows—inseparable, even before Gaemon turned his back on the septon’s robes and was discovered tangled with Viserra in silken bedsheets. Or perhaps it was she who tempted him first… with those two, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Mother have mercy, what happened?”

Why does everyone ask me that, and why do I still have no answer that satisfies? “We don’t truly know. He and Aegon were speaking in the throne room. After, Father asked for Baelon, and you, Gaemon—and then simply... collapsed. He hasn’t woken since.”

Gaemon’s brow creased in elegant disapproval. “Another quarrel, then. That’s the only tune this Keep seems to know.”

If she lied, the truth would be halfway across the castle by dusk—and neither Gaemon nor Viserra were fools. Best to keep it ambiguous. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. Aegon left on urgent business for Father shortly after, and now he’s stuck wherever he went.”

“Where?” Gaemon asked, voice mild. Too mild.

“Somewhere.” She smiled faintly. “But he’ll return soon.”

Viserra made a humming sound, the kind that made Daenerys want to strike her. “Your loyalty to Aegon is… commendable, dear sister. But deeply misplaced.”

Daenerys’s smile sharpened. “Someone must be loyal to him.”

Gaemon let a wry smile slip. “At two-and-fifty, you’d think Aegon would grow tired of making everyone chase his shadow, but here we are, with Father on the edge of death—”

“I never said father was dying,” Daenerys replied quickly.

Gaemon’s eyes glittered. “You didn’t have to.” A beat passed. Then, softly: “You hear the wind howling, sister. Don’t pretend the storm hasn’t broken.”

“I won’t let you turn this into a game.”

“Who said anything about games?” He glanced toward the closed door, as if he could materialize the shape of the Iron Throne before them. And himself sitting upon it. “When the king dies and his heir is… elsewhere, someone will have to hold the realm together.”

“And you think it should be you?” Daenerys asked, too sharply.

He smiled, like a blade unsheathing. “I think it shouldn’t be left unattended.”

He bowed, perfectly cordial. “I’ll send word to Harrenhal.”

Viserra placed a manicured hand on Daenerys’s arm. Her touch was cold and fragrant. “Have you written to Valerion?” she asked sweetly.

“Not yet,” Daenerys lied.

Viserra sighed, theatrical and light. “He should be prepared, don’t you think? When Father joins Mother and the rest.”

She turned, glancing at her children. One small flick of her fingers, and the three fell into step behind her, flawless and silent.

“Come, darlings,” she cooed. “We mustn’t meet our royal cousins looking like we’ve been traveling.”

She smiled at Daenerys, like a dagger slid between ribs. “Do rest, Dany. You look so... tired.”

Once the doors shut behind them, Daenerys let her mask drop. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the table’s edge.

Then, quietly, she cursed.

The days dragged by, each one heavier than the last. No word came from Valerion or Aegon. And King Jaehaerys, once the great reconciler, slipped further into shadow—his breath shallow, his presence fading like smoke in a drafty hall.

His daughters kept vigil.

Gael sang soft lullabies as she caressed his hair, talking about everything and nothing at all. In private she had told Daenerys she hoped to wed soon and expected he would wake up long enough to give his blessing.

Viserra, for all her earlier venom, held his hand, bringing her three children to sit quietly beside their dying grandfather. She hardly spoke, and seemed more focused on memorizing his face than giving any words of comfort.

Once, Daenerys passed the chamber and saw young Alicent Hightower seated by his bed, reading softly from Septon Barth’s treatises, as if the right words could coax his soul back into his body. As if wisdom alone might mend what time had broken.

Only once did Jaehaerys open his eyes, and the names he spoke—Aegon, Saera—broke something inside her. She wrote to Saera, out of duty more than faith. She hadn’t come home for their mother’s death; she would not come now.

But Daenerys prayed. Foolish, stubborn, unshakable. She prayed for Aegon to walk through the doors, to kneel beside their father’s bed, to speak whatever words needed saying before it was too late.

But he never came.

And when Jaehaerys Targaryen, First of His Name, passed into shadow at the start of the Maiden’s season, the Red Keep held its breath.

There were no tolling bells, no cries of mourning. Only the hush of heavy fabric and soft footfalls, the muffled sob of a chambermaid, the creak of a door left ajar. The great keep had never felt so still.

Daenerys sat beside him still, his hand in hers, as if she could hold his warmth inside her palm and will it back. But the hand had gone cold hours ago. She just couldn’t let go.

Her brother was nowhere to be seen. The crown lay unclaimed. And the silence that followed was not peace.

It was the breath before the scream.

And then, with grim predictability, the vultures began to circle.

Chapter Text

1st Moon of the Maiden, 103 AC

It was the middle of the night when the messenger came to his solar — really, Prince Aegon’s solar — summoning him to the King’s chamber.

Otto was not surprised —sleep-deprived, but not surprised. Jaehaerys had lingered on the Stranger’s door for two weeks now and in that time, he had prepared himself for this moment. Still, it came as something of a shock when Otto arrived at the King’s bedchamber, Silent Sisters already preparing the body for removal, to find Princess Daenerys and Prince Gaemon engaged in a shouting match.

“You had no right to go through my correspondence!” Daenerys was saying, her finger pointed in her brother’s face. “No right, Gaemon!”

“And you had no right to keep it from us!” Gaemon spat back with equal fervor. “He’s at the Wall, Dany. You know what this means.”

“I ‘know’ no such thing. You read Valerion’s words — Aegon is at the Wall, yes, but he has not joined the Night’s Watch. Valerion is likely there now to bring him home!”

“Bringing him home.” Gaemon sneered. “What good will that do, when it seems we must immediately hang him for an oathbreaker?“

Daenerys’s slap came at blinding speed, hard enough to stagger Gaemon, though he was a head taller. “Never say such a thing again, Gaemon. Never. I will not stand for it.”

Gaemon’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Otto was sure he meant to strike her back, but then he took a deep breath, visibly calmed himself, and said, “My apologies, dear sister. I overstepped.” Daenerys searched his face for a tense moment before giving a curt nod. Gaemon smoothed his hair and continued, “Whether you like it or not, we do have something of a situation here.” He glanced pointedly towards the bed. The sweet perfumes of the Silent Sisters drifted through the open door. Daenerys followed his gaze.

“Father is… Father is dead. Putting aside why he is at the Wall, Aegon is not here. The realm cannot be without leadership. As the eldest surviving son of the King, I will serve as regent until the matter of succession can be settled.”

“No!” Otto found himself blurting. His arrival had gone unnoticed, and both siblings started before turning to face him. Otto swallowed at the dual intensity of their lilac gazes before continuing. “If you truly have doubts as to the legitimacy of the ascension of Prince Aegon, it would be inappropriate for you to serve as regent, Prince Gaemon. It could send the wrong message to the realm.”

Gaemon’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you Lord…?”

“Ser Otto Hightower.”

“The steward?” Gaemon sneered. “Awfully presumptuous of you.”

“Aegon’s steward,” Daenerys corrected primly. “And for these last weeks, acting Hand of the King.”

Gaemon’s cold eyes looked Otto up and down, and he snorted derisively. “Indeed. And what counsel do you have to offer, Lord Hand?”

Otto straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “The Small Council has deliberated on this matter,” He said. “Obviously, we prayed for the King to return to good health, but we thought it prudent to name a regent to serve while he convalesced. Given that the worst has come to pass, it is the will of the Small Council that, as the eldest present child of King Jaehaerys and as a duly appointed member of the Small Council, Princess Daenerys serve as regent until Prince Aegon returns to the city.”

A beat of silence — interrupted as Prince Gaemon scoffed at the same moment Princess Daenerys said, “I would be honored to accept.” Gaemon whirled on his sister.

“You must be jesting.”

“In matters of state? Hardly, little brother,” she turned to Otto. “Thank you, Lord Hand. Please convene the Small Council at first light so that we may ensure my brother does not return to his kingdom in chaos.”

Otto inclined his head respectfully. “It will be done, Princess Regent.”

“Do you hear yourself, man?” Gaemon sputtered. “Princess Regent?”

“Saying it with a sneer doesn’t make it a rebuttal, Gaemon,” Daenerys said coolly. “Pick your jaw up off the floor. I’m sure Viserra will want to know of Father’s passing — you should see to your family.”

Gaemon’s mouth twisted — whether in rage, disbelief, or disgust, Otto could not say. But for a heartbeat, he looked like nothing more than a young boy being chastised by his elder sister yet again. Then, he schooled his features, gave his sister a short bow, shot a hateful glare at Otto, and stormed from the hall. When at last he disappeared around a corner, Daenerys let out a sigh and let her shoulders slump. “Damnation.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, long enough for Otto to wonder if she might cry. But when they opened again, they were dry. “Shall I begin drafting the announcement of the King's passing, Princess Regent?” he asked gently.

Daenerys’s head snapped towards him. “I mislike being excluded from such an important discussion. My Father may have been dying, but I am not one to shirk my duties to the Small Council.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Otto coughed, “but I may have… exaggerated the subject matter of which the Small Council most recently discussed.” Her face froze, and for one terrifying second, Otto thought she might strike him. “Given the stakes at hand, it seemed prudent to stymie Prince Gaemon’s aspirations. Regent is but a short step from King, after all.”

Daenerys watched Otto for several silent seconds, eyes thoughtful. With a wan smile, she said, “You have made an enemy today, Ser Otto.”

“Hardly my first, Your Grace.”

“But perhaps your most dangerous. He will not forgive your… stymying, was it? Will the Council agree to this?”

Otto inclined his head. “I have them well in hand. "We can count on their support," Otto said smoothly. He hoped it still rang true. He’d made promises, called in favors, and crossed more than one line in the past fortnight.

“Good, good,” Daenerys said absently, turning back to the bedchamber.

“Your Grace, there is one matter of some importance. Lord Stokeworth writes of a small host — some two hundred men — marching down the King’s Road. They fly the banner of House Dragonfyre.”

Daenerys sighed again. “I expected as much. Gaemon and Viserra mean to benefit from this situation any way they can. A show of force—or fealty, depending on the outcome—will only serve to elevate them.”

Otto cleared his throat. “House Buckler sends word of Lord Baratheon moving north up the Kingsroad in some haste. And a great number of Velaryon ships have been spotted leaving Driftmark.”

“My Father’s body isn’t even cold yet, and my family is set to tear themselves apart,” Daenerys said with a bitter laugh. “Has there been any word from my brothers?”

“None, Your Grace. If you’ll forgive my… presumptuousness, I sent word some five days ago to the castellan at Dragonstone, as well as Lords Darklyn and Rosby — a thousand men-at-arms should arrive in the city on the morrow, at last estimate.”

“Are you so certain it will come to violence, Lord Hand?”

The Silent Sisters at last exited the room, the wrapped body of the King balanced on a stretcher between them. Otto made the sign of the Seven — fingers to heart to mouth to brow — as Daenerys did the same.

“If the Gods are merciful, no,” Otto said as Jaehaerys, First of His Name, was carried down the hallway. “But I think it best we be prepared for any eventuality.”

Whether it was the Gods' mercy, good fortune, or simple common sense, the city did not immediately break into war in the following days.

Ravens flew across the realm, announcing the death of King Jaehaerys as his body was laid in state in the Red Keep’s sept. His grandsons — Prince Aerys and his two brothers — and Prince Gaemon took turns standing vigil, while Princess Viserra led her sisters and nieces in sewing the funeral shroud.

Lords Velaryon and Baratheon arrived with all the pomp their stations dictated, but offered deepest condolences at the King’s passing. Prince Gaemon’s men took up residence in the Street of Silk with nary a comment from the Lord of Harrenhal. And word was sent, again, to the nascent Ironkeep, and the realm carried on with only a slight undercurrent of tension in the air.

Perhaps most troubling of all, Prince Aegon Skyfyre had arrived with Lord Corlys Velaryon. Polite and unassuming, the youngest son of Prince Baelon had recently attained his knighthood from Ser Vaemond Velaryon and expressed his intent to represent the interests of his House until his elder brother arrived.

Seated in the Small Council chambers, two weeks after the King’s passing, Otto found himself once more a witness to an argument between members of the House of the Dragon. As always, the topic of conversation had drifted back to the erstwhile Prince Aegon.

A storm raged outside, claps of thunder and lightning punctuating the high tempers that permeated the room.

Princess Daenerys, as befits the regent, presided at the head of the table, Otto seated at her right hand. Arrayed around them in uneasy truce were the many branches of House Targaryen; those present in the city anyway had gathered in the room. Somewhere along the way, battle lines had formed — to Otto’s right sat Prince Aerys and his wife Rhaenys, his brothers Daeron and Maegor, and Princess Gael. Across from them—Prince Gaemon and his wife Princess Viserra, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Aegon Skyfyre, and Lord Borros Baratheon.

“We cannot continue delaying the funeral, Daenerys,” Princess Viserra said, for the umpteenth time. “If we do not act soon, Father will begin to smell.” She waved her hand as if to disperse an odor. “It is entirely unbecoming for a dragon, let alone a king. The Silent Sisters, blessed though they be, are not miracle workers,” She sighed wistfully. “Mayhaps if Maegelle were still with us. She always had a talent for making something lovely out of death.”

“That was unkind,” Princess Gael said with a scowl. She was sitting next to Prince Maegor, slightly too close to be considered appropriate, though attentions were directed elsewhere. Curious.

“How so?” Viserra said with a coy smile. “I said nothing untruthful, kitten.”

Gael’s cheeks colored. “Don’t call me that!”

“Enough, Viserra,” Gaemon cut in. “Don’t tease the poor thing.” Maegor stared daggers at his uncle, but he ignored him to turn to Daenerys. “She’s right, though. We cannot delay the funeral indefinitely. Aegon is still lost to the wind, there’s been no word from Baelon’s other boys, Vaegon is still too far away even if he left the moment Father died, and Saera values matters of the quim more than the heart these days.” Corlys Velaryon bristled at that. “Aerys and Silverwing can light the funeral pyre.” He nodded to his nephew, who straightened in surprise.

“A generous offer,” Daenerys said. “Suspiciously so.”

Gaemon smiled modestly. “Father would find it poetic for Mother’s dragon to see him off. I have ambitions, dear sister, but I’m not cruel.”

At that comment, the mood soured again, and Baratheon grumbled, just loud enough to be heard, “Like father, like son.”

“What was that, cousin?” Diminutive Prince Daeron said, leaning forward in his seat.

“Nothing.” Borros bit out, glaring balefully across the table at his cousins.

Princess Viserra rolled her eyes and said, “We only wish to preserve Father’s dignity, Daenerys. I implore you — have him moved to Dragonstone so that we can make appropriate preparations.”

“I cannot leave the city,” Daenerys said emphatically. “Aegon could return any day now.”

“Father’s place is on Dragonstone, with Mother,” Gaemon said, almost gently. “Have Hightower —” he shot a glare at Otto, “— rule in your absence. Then we can all leave together.”

Daenerys closed her eyes, thinking. After a moment, they opened, “Very well then. We will depart for Dragonstone on the morrow. All of us — together. Once Father has been laid to rest, Daeron —” she looked to her nephew. “— will fly North to meet with Valerion and retrieve Aegon.”

“That will not be necessary.” A droll voice called out. The gathered House of the Dragon — and Otto — turned to see Prince Daemon Skyfyre standing in the open doorway.

He was handsome, if not quite beautiful in the way Prince Gaemon was. Shining silver hair hung loose around his face, dripping rainwater onto the floor. Save for a helm, he was clad head-to-toe in enameled crimson armor, shaped with dragons and flames. In his hand, he held a smoky gray sword, Dark Sister — the second Valyrian steel blade of House Targaryen. He was smiling.

“Brother… what are you doing?” Aegon asked slowly, eyes flicking to the open door. There were no Kingsguard in sight.

“I am here to claim the throne for our brother, Viserys,” Daemon said. “He is, after all, Grandfather’s heir.”

“How’d you come to that conclusion?” Daenerys asked, hands gripping the armrests of her chair.

“It’s simple: your brother and his line have been disinherited. The whole realm speaks of nothing else,” Daemon said, grin widening. “As the eldest son of Prince Baelon, Grandfather’s preferred heir, Viserys is next in line for the throne.”

Otto tore his eyes away from Daemon, from the sword, and looked around the room. Daenerys was stone-faced, while Aerys had gone pale. Rhaenys had bared her teeth, hands balled into fists, and Daeron had his eyes locked on the sword. Maegor had put a hand on the trembling Gael’s shoulder and seemed poised to rush his cousin. Borros looked confused, Corlys mildly piqued, and Prince Gaemon and Viserra almost bored. Prince Aegon watched his brother with wide eyes.

“Baelon has been dead over a year now, nephew,” Prince Gaemon said mildly. “And Father made no such pronouncement, to my recollection.”

“His last coherent moments were to name Aegon unworthy and call for my father. That says it all.” Daemon said with a smirk.

“He also called for me, I am told,” Gaemon pointed out. “And as son of a King, I would think my claim stronger than any grandson’s.”

“Fifth son,” Daemon sneered.

“I am what I am, Daemon,” the Prince said simply.

“Enough!” Daenerys snapped. “We are not having this discussion. Aegon is Father’s heir, and I am regent until he returns.”

“Perhaps we should put it to a vote!” Daemon said brightly. “All in favor of Viserys?” he raised his hand jovially, and looked around the table, a faux pout marring his features. “All opposed?” He raised his sword and leveled it to point across the table at his aunt.

Dead silence.

“It seems the ‘yays’ have it,” he grinned.

Maegor’s fingers flexed — not subtly — as if gripping for the hilt of a knife he did not have. Daeron’s hand had casually snaked under the table, gripping the knife Otto was sure he did have. Aegon Skyfyre looked from the sword to his aunt and back, looking sick, but remaining silent. Daenerys’s face twisted in undisguised, absolute rage, and Viserra chuckled, taking a sip of her wine.

A new voice, dry and faintly amused, cut through the rising tension. “Well, this is interesting.” Every eye—including Daemon’s—swiveled to the door again.

Standing in the doorway, flanked by Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Harold Westerling, stood Prince Aegon Targaryen. At his side towered Prince Valerion, youngest son of the late King and Queen, looking ready to tear Daemon in half. The room had gone silent.

“Uncle,” Daemon said, face gone slack, some of his bravado gone. “You look… tired.”

“I look like hammered shit,” Aegon grunted, and Otto couldn’t help but agree. Aegon looked wrecked: his silver hair was hacked unevenly close to his scalp, his beard was days old and uneven. His nose had been broken recently, and one of his eyes was bruised around the socket, the white shot through with crimson.

He walked into the room, rain-soaked boots squelching, shouldering past Daemon as if he were nothing. He dragged out a chair and collapsed into it, groaning low.

“Tell me what your plan was, boy. You walk in the room, sword in hand, and say ‘My brother is King now’ and you expect them to just accept it?” Aegon laughed, low and mocking. Daemon’s face turned red. “So dramatic. So stupid.”

“I imagine I arrived just before my boys here—” he gave a nod to Princes Maegor and Daeron,”—shoved that pretty sword up your arse. If you managed to leave the Red Keep alive, it’d be with more blood on your hands than even your brother could forgive. Then the illustrious reign of King Viserys I would begin with you hanging from the gallows — remembered only as a pompous, kinslaying shitheel. Now put that blade away before I shove it up your arse.”

Next to his handsome, armored nephew, Aegon looked more like a lowborn street tough or perhaps a butcher. Despite the armor and the sword, despite the thirty years between them, Otto felt that in that moment, Aegon had made no idle threat. Without a word of protest, Daemon sheathed Dark Sister, obedient as a beaten dog.

He leaned back in his chair, pointedly dismissing Daemon, who remained rooted to his spot, blinking in incredulity. Valerion stepped to the side, looming like a thunderhead alongside the white cloaks.

“Isn’t it good to be home?” Aegon announced to the room. “My arse is little more than ground meat from all the flying I’ve done.”

“And where have you been flying, brother?” Princess Viserra said.

“Oldtown to start,” Aegon grunted. “Dragonstone after that. Pentos for a moment. Then to the Ironkeep and the Wall.”

“Why were you at the Wall?” Gaemon asked, leaning forward.

Aegon stretched his legs and yawned. “I wanted to take a piss.”

“You—what?”

“I have taken a piss into the Narrow Sea from the eastern shore of Dragonstone, the Summer Sea from the southern shore of the Arbor, and the Sunset Sea from the western shore of the Lonely Light. I decided it was time I pissed off the edge of the Wall into the lands north of it. Complete the set.”

“Is this a jest to you?” Daenerys asked, mouth agape. “Father is dead. We had no idea what happened. Why did you leave? Why were you at the Wall? When you were coming back. Why didn’t you come?!” She exhaled, the last question almost a sob.

Aegon’s eyes softened as he looked at Daenerys. “I would’ve flown through storm and shadow, Dany. If I’d known—you know I would.” Otto noted the rare candor in the prince’s voice.

Aegon’s focus shifted to the rest of the table. “But the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—a Blackwood, if you can believe my luck, is a petty shit. He never saw fit to pass on your summons. It wasn’t until Valerion came to the Wall himself that I understood the gravity of the situation.” The prince’s voice tightened. “Father and I quarreled, yes, but he set me a task—one I had no choice but to see through at the Wall. It wasn’t for jest.”

The air grew tense. Otto observed as Aegon’s gaze swept the room, his tone now edged with bitterness. “But what I do find amusing is this: I return to find my siblings”—his gaze fell on Gaemon and Viserra—“and my nephews”—a careless wave toward Daemon, still silent—“squabbling over my throne like dogs with a stolen ham.”

Aegon’s eyes fell last on Corlys Velaryon and Borros Baratheon, voice edging into incredulity. “Their justifications I can halfway understand. But tell me, what the fuck are you two doing here?”

Corlys cleared his throat, “My children are grandchildren to the King. If there is a question about the succession, I have every right to make sure their voices are heard.”

Aegon snorted a laugh. “Father always thought me an arrogant sod, but Saera was for sure disinherited. Did you know she had yet another bastard recently? It took you ten years to plow what appears to be a fairly fertile field. Are you quite sure my niece and nephew are yours? I’d hate for you to expend so much effort on someone else’s get.” Corlys flushed red, but Aegon continued. “Saera sends her love, by the by. She’s opened a new brothel in Pentos — The Tenth Voyage, she calls it. Quite popular to hear her tell.” Corlys made to respond, but Aegon turned to Borros next. “And you, boy? What’s your excuse?”

Borros stiffened, caught off guard. “I am the son of Princess Aerea Targaryen.” He lifted his chin a touch too high for Otto’s taste.

“I know exactly who your mother was,” Aegon replied, voice flat and cold as steel. “And?”

“My grandfather was Aegon II. My claim comes before yours—or anyone’s!”

Aegon looked bored. “How old are you again, Lord Borros? Feel free to take off your boots if you need must count your toes.”

Borros scowled. “Six and twenty.”

“The day I was born — the day she tumbled down the line of succession — was the last day I fucked your mother. Suffice to say, I don’t think you’re one of mine.” Borros began to sputter, but Aegon plowed through him. “And as for your grandfather—‘Aegon the Uncrowned,’ as history remembers him, never sat the Iron Throne. No kingship from that line, sorry to say.”

“And as for the rest of you —” he cast a a look over his shoulder at Daemon, looking more and more like a chastised child, and at his siblings who wore identical blank expressions, “If Father had indeed seen fit to disinherit me, the throne would pass to Aerys, my son. And if by some chance my entire line had been disinherited, I do believe our dear Rhaenys is next in line as the eldest child of Aemon. Would that not be in accordance with Andal laws of succession, Ser Otto?”

Otto steepled his hands. “A sound interpretation, Your Grace.”

Aegon’s grin flickered, predatory. “Convenient, then, that Rhaenys is mother to my grandson. No shuffle of lineage puts any of you”—his finger jabbed the air—“on my throne.” He turned to look at the towering Valerion, silent until this point. “Do you think we should continue this discussion in the Dragonpit, or have I made my feelings on the matter clear, little brother?”

“Transparently,” he rumbled, a slight northern lilt to his deep voice.

Silence. Valerion loomed behind Aegon like an unshaken fist. The Cannibal like an unseen one. After another tense moment, Princess Daenerys stood from her seat, raised her wine glass, and said, “Hail, Aegon King.”

Chapter Text

1st moon of the Maiden, 103 AC (fourth moon of the year)

Aegon’s return—though shadowed by rumor—brought a rare sense of relief to Daenerys. The court, so long poised on the knife’s edge of uncertainty, finally exhaled as he swept into the city.

As if hunted by the Stranger himself, her brother wasted no time. He strode straight to the Iron Throne—bruises from his mysterious voyage still fresh upon his face—and settled himself with a boldness bordering on provocation. Courtiers and servants soon whispered that his manner was no fit performance for a grieving son, but he was deaf to such judgment.

With the kingdom’s eyes upon him, Aegon announced sweeping changes—fresh appointments, newly named officers, and hints at further reforms in the months and years ahead. He confirmed Ser Otto Hightower as Hand of the King, and charged him to rule while the royal family withdrew to Dragonstone for a sennight, to honor their patriarch’s passing without intrigue or distraction.

The proceedings moved swiftly—too swiftly, Daenerys thought. She sensed in Aegon’s briskness an urgency not just to mark his reign, but to suffocate rumors before they grew too large, both in court and across the realm.

At Dragonstone, Viserys and Vaella were waiting for them. The Lord of the Stepstones and his household had traveled straight to the castle, avoiding any further delay. But no sooner had Viserys spotted Daemon and heard news of his brother’s latest spectacle at King’s Landing, than the two Skyfyre brothers disappeared behind closed doors. According to the steward, raised voices echoed through the halls for the better part of an hour. By the following morning, Daemon had come to her private solar, a package in hand, looking more a whipping boy than the smug young knight who had pointed a sword at her scarcely five days earlier.

“Aunt, if I may…” Daemon began, eyes fixed anywhere but on her. Daenerys almost smiled despite herself; after twenty-two years, she doubted she would ever hear the infamous last words—“I am sorry”—pass his lips. Sometimes she suspected he didn’t even know how to form them.

She glanced at the package in his hands. “And what’s this?”

Daemon cleared his throat, an awkward tension in his posture. “A small token. For… how things unfolded before. I acted as I thought best. But if it brought you any distress…” He hesitated, jaw working stubbornly. “I hope we can move past it.”

Daenerys accepted the token with a cool, steady hand, her gaze unimpressed. “Let’s be clear—this is the only time I let such nonsense pass unchallenged, Daemon. You won’t have another.” She met his eyes, her voice level but edged. “I know what you are, and I love you nephew. But do not test me further.”

He nodded, silent and chastised, and took his leave before she could say anything further.

The funeral itself, somber and rain-lashed, passed without further incident—perhaps because everyone sensed just how far the new head of House Targaryen would go to enforce his will. Once the affair had been concluded, Aerys asked about his eldest son, Aemon, seeking permission for him to try for a dragon. Daenerys considered it carefully, and at dawn, she led three generations of Targaryens to the dragonpit. By midday, Aemon—second in line to the throne—had claimed Vermithor as his own.

During those rainy days at Dragonstone, Aegon held council with his sons and Rhaenys in his solar. Daeron and Maegor were excused early, Rhaenys lingered until she at last left to tend to their children, leaving King and Heir together behind closed doors. Daenerys’s prayers—uttered in the quietest moments—were that father and son would refrain from turning council into a battlefield. Her spirit was worn thin by too many tempers and too much grief.

When all was said and done, the royal family returned at last to King’s Landing.

Valerion departed for the North, but not before embracing Daenerys tightly and giving Aegon a warning—half jest, half threat. “Send for me if trouble finds you. Just — please — don’t ever come back North while I still draw breath. I’ll be dealing with your mess at and beyond the Wall for years to come.” Aegon only grinned, his bruised face still painted in splotches of black and purple, but made no argument.

Viserra and Gaemon retreated back to Harrenhal, outwardly defeated, but Daenerys knew their pride would soon mend and the plotting resume. Gaemon, ever theatrical, made a show of bending the knee to Aegon publicly. The oaths he swore were correct, but seemed as if by rote and gave the feeling of a private jest only Gameon knew. To her surprise, Aegon let it pass.

“He knows who wears the crown,” Aegon said later, half to himself. “That is enough.”

Daeron was quick to make his departure as well. When Aegon tried to press him to stay, Daeron only grinned and shook his head. “A month chasing your shadow across the realm is more than enough for one year, Father. I find I rather enjoy the peace back at Runestone—both my wife and the sheep included.”

Aegon snorted, feigning offense. “One must wonder which of the two misses you more.”

Daeron’s laughter was gentle, but sincere. “If you ask my wife, I think she’d claim it’s the sheep. But if it still worries you, know that I’ll miss you too. Occasionally.”

With the beat of dragons wings and clatter of carriages departing, the castle finally grew quiet, and Daenerys, for the first time in weeks, felt some peace. With the distractions and quarrels gone, maybe—just maybe—she and Aegon would at last have the conversation both had put off for too long.

She found him at the window in his solar, gazing out with his back to the door. The bruises had turned to yellows and greens, making him seem both aged and endlessly weary. As Daenerys stepped beside him, Aegon neither turned nor greeted her, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the glass.

“Aegon, a word, if you’ll permit.”

He did not look away. “Do you hear them playing?” His voice was distant, almost lost in its own reverie.

Daenerys paused, her question caught on her tongue. “Who?”

He pressed a finger to the window, pointing toward the lush garden below. “The children.”

She followed his gesture. Down at the private garden, Aegon's grandchildren: Aemon, Vaelon, Rhaenyra, Aelyx, and Aenys tumbled through the grass with the Hightower children, their laughter drifting upwards on the breeze. Their mother's sat together, smiling at the chaos. Aelyx clung to her mother’s knee, a doll cradled in her arms. Aenys, ever the mischief-maker, chased Otto Hightower’s youngest son while Vaelon played the heroic knight defending the child. Little Alicent, skirts bunched in her fists, balanced herself atop a stone bench, her giggles wringing real merriment from Rhaenyra and drawing Aemon, for once, into their circle.

“Since Hightower came to court,” Aegon murmured, softer now, “my grandchildren seem less alone. There are so few their age at the Keep… I’d forgotten what it sounded like, that cheerful din of a large family.”

She studied his face, noting the deeper lines etched on his face, the weary shadow beneath his eyes. “You could ask Vaella and Viserys to stay,” she suggested quietly.

Aegon shook his head, shoulders heavy. “Viserys is needed at the Stepstones. Vaella… she’s built her world there. I won’t pull her away.”

Daenerys risked a sigh, her voice gentle but insistent. “Aegon, what you did—disappearing the way you did—”

“I’m fixing it, Dany,” he said, almost to himself, gaze still lost beyond the window. “I never meant to be gone so long, but… Everything is coming together now, better than I ever dared hope.”

“It had to,” she countered, her irritation surfacing despite herself. “The realm nearly broke apart in your absence. It was left to the rest of us to keep it whole. That is always how it is, Aegon: you vanish, chaos follows, and you return as if none of it touched you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then make me,” she snapped, the ache in her chest bleeding into her words. “Father asked for you before he died.”

Aegon scoffed at that, face turning slightly toward her. “To berate me one last time, no doubt. As if I were still a boy to be chided.”

“No,” Daenerys said, her voice softer, grief deepening her tone. “He truly wanted you near. At the end… gods, he even called Alicent ‘Saera.’”

Aegon gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “His failures clustered round his bedside—how poetic.”

“Aegon—” her voice cracked.

“No, enough.” The words were sharp, biting. He faced her fully now. “I have no regrets about my last words to him, Dany. He was a fool, stubborn to the end. I’ve stopped chasing his love. He denied me in life—I will not let his memory rule me now.”

She shook her head, eyes shining. “You don’t mean this, Aegon...”

He dragged a hand across his face, fingers pressing at his temple as if bearing an old pain. “I do. My penance, if there must be one, is to do better for my sons—Aerys, Daeron, Maegor. The realm will know Maegor for who he is. No more half-measures.”

Daenerys reached for him, enclosing his hands in her own. “Brother…”

With a sudden, aching tenderness, Aegon drew her into an embrace. For a moment, just a moment, she was a girl again, tucked into his arms. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “He wronged us both, Dany. I’ll fix what I can—but don’t ask me for more than that. Not even now.”

She nodded, head resting against his chest as the storm in them both quieted.

He eased back, as she searched for his face where she saw a wry ghost of his old self flickering in his eyes. “Will you ever tell me what truly happened that day?” she asked quietly.

His lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Perhaps. If you ever catch me in the proper mood. But now—”

He raised his voice toward the shadows, suddenly sharp as a drawn blade. “Stop lurking, Vaegon. If you mean to haunt us, at least have the decency to show yourself.”

For a heartbeat, Daenerys thought he was raving; then, from the far edge of the room, her younger brother Vaegon stepped reluctantly into the light. His outline, vague in the darkness, resolved as the light of the day caught the planes of his face—equal parts uncertain and sullen.

“How long have you been there?” she asked.

Vaegon gave a shrug. “Long enough,” he said, voice dry.

Aegon’s expression turned stern, his tone shifting like a drawn blade. “Good. Then you’ll stop eavesdropping and do something useful.”

Vaegon raised a brow. “Am I a dancing bear to caper about as you please? Shall I sing you a song perhaps?”

Aegon hardly blinked. “If your King commands it, you’ll sing The Bear and the Maiden Fair until your voice gives out. There are matters at hand — put aside your sulking for once.”

Daenerys cut in, glancing between the two. “Vaegon, why didn’t you come for Father’s funeral?”

He flicked his eyes to the floor. “Didn’t feel fit for it,” he said, blunt as ever. “But I was there, if you must know.”

She gave him a wry smile. “It doesn’t count if you’re hiding behind candle smoke and old books,” she teased gently. He managed the ghost of a smile in return.

“Delightful family reunion,” Aegon interrupted, voice thin with impatience. “But now that you’re both here, we’ve no more time for idle pleasantries. There’s work to be done.”

Vaegon’s mood soured again. “I already told you—”

Aegon raised a hand, cutting him off. “Spare me. If you truly intended to refuse, you wouldn’t have revealed yourself. Let’s not pretend otherwise, little brother.”

Vaegon narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Daenerys turned to Aegon. “What’s all this about?”

Aegon exhaled, settling against his desk with the air of someone explaining a tedious sin. “My supposed gallivanting wasn’t for pleasure, nor exile, despite what half the realm believes. When I passed through Oldtown, Vaegon here was good enough—begrudgingly, I think—to point me where I needed to look. I found what I’d hoped for, but not in the way I expected.”

“Care to explain?”

He gestured to his bruised cheek, lips quirking. “The First Ranger of the Night’s Watch is a cruel man, with a foul temper but he was a kitten compared to some of the Wildlings I met.”

Daenerys’s eyes widened. “You went beyond the Wall? Have you lost your mind, Aegon? You could have died!”

“I didn’t, thanks to Valerion.” He flashed a crooked grin, as if discussing a trivial court matter rather than a brush with death. “Having a brother who looks half a giant helps at the edge of the world.”

Vaegon dismissed the tale with a huff. “Well, did you find what you were after or no?”

Aegon scratched his jaw. “In a manner of speaking.”

Daenerys’s brow arched. “Vaegon said you were chasing prophecies. Is that what this is about?”

A loaded look passed between the brothers. Daenerys held up her hands. “You needn’t share what you’re not willing, but I would know—does this all tie back to that?”

“In some way, yes.” Aegon glanced away from Vaegon, meeting Daenerys’s eyes. “You still have Barth’s letters, Daenerys? Aerea’s writings? Daenys’s dream records?”

Daenerys nodded. “They’re at the library of Dragonstone. Protected—hidden from all but me.”

Aegon dipped his head. “Good. That’s where it starts. When Father named you Mistress of Dragons, he didn’t just mean feeding hatchlings and counting eggs. That title might’ve started as pageantry, but now it’s the only damn thing keeping this legacy from turning to smoke.”

He rapped his knuckles against the desk, sharp and impatient. “We’ve spent generations taking old stories as if they were holy scripture from the Seven-Pointed Star. Doesn’t matter what Father actually said to me—what matters is why he thought he had to say it. My time at the Wall, sorting through the filth and useless records from Castle Black to Eastwatch, taught me one simple truth: we are halfwits. All of us.”

Vaegon’s face tightened, but he held his tongue. Aegon kept going, voice flat, honest. “I’ll admit it, I don’t know the first damned thing about magic—never have. I ride one of the greatest monsters ever hatched, and I still don’t pretend to grasp how any of it actually works. And as for that precious ‘bloodline’—Father never shut up about how miraculous my survival was, how I’m some sign of the family’s so-called exceptionalism. Never mind their incest, their self-worship; all just excuses to keep marrying brother to sister and acting like that made us special. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism? It’s horseshit. Every house on both sides of the Narrow Sea claims history steeped in magic, destiny, omens. We’re not unique in that regard.”

He slouched back, disgust plain. “And what about you, Vaegon? After all that time buried in the Citadel’s vaults and breathing in centuries of dust—did you ever find anything close to an answer? Or is it all still just riddles in the end, never meant to be understood?”

Vaegon considered. “The Higher Mysteries were never meant to be clear. That’s their nature. Treated as such.”

Aegon scoffed. “There’s got to be some sense behind it, otherwise, what’s the point?”

Vaegon rolled his eyes. “I won’t argue metaphysics with you, Aegon.”

Aegon smirked. “Too bad. I want you to approach magic the same way you’d dissect a dull Citadel treatise—write it down, question everything. What’s real, what isn’t, what’s pure nonsense. Gods forbid the day comes someone else burns the world trying to force a dream to come true.”

Vaegon snorted. “You’re not the first fool to try giving order to chaos, Aegon.”

“So why do you gather it all?” Aegon challenged, irritation mounting. “What good’s your post at the Conclave if all you do is hoard knowledge without end?”

“I collect and collate. My goal isn’t control, it’s to make sense of what’s there—when sense can be made,” Vaegon replied, as if teaching a particularly stubborn novice.

“And you think I’m asking for more?”

“It sounds,” Daenerys interjected, “like you want magic itself to give you answers.” Her brothers stopped squabbling and looked at her. “I’ve pored through thousands of words from Septon Barth, from Daenys and Aerea. None of it fits together. Most of Barth’s work raises more questions than it solves. Aerea’s writing—all half-madness and lost tongues—leaves us doubting what any of it means.”

She frowned, the weight of her position apparent. “I’m no maester, Aegon. I doubt I’m fit for the task at hand.”

Aegon shook his head, rare earnestness gleaming. “That’s where you’re wrong. Both of you.” His breath left him slow. “Look at the two of you—” He pointed to Daenerys, “You see what others can’t. You worked with Barth for decades, found patterns and reasoning instead of bowing to old ghosts. Who else predicted, after all those failed hatchings, that my grandson would bond to Vermithor?”

That caught Daenerys off guard. “I just paid attention. Careful observation’s all it was. I’m no expert.”

Aegon managed a proud smile. “That’s still more than most of us, Dany. You’ve the mind and patience for it.” He turned to Vaegon. “And you—you spent half your life unearthing secrets, haven’t you? You knew of Father’s secrets before he so much as hinted them to Aemon or Baelon. You connect threads even the other maesters miss.”

Vaegon rubbed his eyes. “Do you understand what you’re doing, what you’re asking?”

“A bloody codex of lost magic, and you’re playing coy? Come on, Vaegon — don’t tell me that doesn’t make your cock twitch.”

Vaegon’s expression hardened. “No. My years with Archmaester Othar taught me to steer clear of these… mad pursuits. Prophecy is a sword without a hilt, Aegon; grasp it, and you’re only cutting yourself. I want no part of it.”

Aegon stepped in close, his voice gravel. “Then why the mask and rod? For vanity?”

“This isn’t about vanity.” Vaegon drew a shaky breath, passing a tired hand over his face. “What you’re asking could be dangerous in the wrong hands. There’s a reason Valyria fell, and it began with men who believed they could master the abyss.”

“Then you choose your bloody successors!” Aegon was starting to lose his patience. “What are you so afraid of?”

Vaegon’s voice sharpened. “That’s precisely what haunts me. I know too well what happens when someone convinces himself he holds all the answers—when he stops listening, stops questioning, thinks himself the final judge. Father never trusted you with this, not fully. Why should I? Why should I trust Aerys after you, or Aemon after him, or whoever sits that chair when we’re dust?”

A flicker of pain crossed Aegon’s face, quickly buried beneath disdain. “Fuck you, Vaegon.”

“Enough.” Daenerys’s voice broke through, steady as stone. She stepped between them. “What Aegon’s asking isn’t prophecy, not really. He’s asking for light in the dark—to make sure those who come after us can at least see their own feet, ask their own questions, understand what danger looks like before it claims them. For as long as we live, we guide; we steer the boat. And when our time comes, we pass on what we’ve learned, with every caution and warning we possess. That’s all we can do, Vaegon. None of us can close the door forever. But we can try.”

Vaegon had turned around, hands clasped behind his back, as if he was contemplating whether to remain or to flee.

Daenerys spoke again, softer but still sure. “What you fear isn’t nothing, and I share it. But closing our eyes, pretending none of this exists, would betray everyone who came before—and everyone yet to come.”

Aegon’s mouth curled into a thin, brief smile. His gaze found Vaegon’s rigid form, back still to them. Vaegon asked, subdued, “And what if the Doom overtakes us, as it did before? What if it’s meant to?”

Aegon’s gaze didn’t falter. “Then it does. But let it be said we faced it, eyes open. Let no one call us blind or complicit.”

Vaegon gave a long exhale, shoulders slumping under his dark robes and nodded. Daenerys clasped her hands. “Very well. Whatever this is—whatever it costs, or brings—we’ll do it.”

Aegon nodded, and this time it was slow, solemn.

“Good,” he said softly, and the single word carried the weight of a beginning.

Season of the Warrior (sixth moon of the year)

Two moons had passed since then…

Day after day blurred together for Daenerys, filled with ceaseless labor and the scratch of quill on parchment. If she wasn’t reading, annotating, or assembling scattered scraps of lore, she was marooned in the Small Council chamber, locked in debate and decision. Returning to Dragonstone was unthinkable; the work at hand was simply too sprawling to leave, even for a night.

She had never resented hard work, but lately it gnawed at her—unremitting, bone-deep.

Pausing, Daenerys allowed her violet eyes to drift from the half-filled page. She set the quill aside, stretching her aching fingers, and let herself listen to the hush that had settled over the capital. Midnight cloaked the city in rare stillness, a brief respite from the daily tumult. She eased back in her chair, relishing the faint crackle of her joints.

I’m not getting any younger, she mused, a wan smile flickering as she wondered if her parents had felt just as worn at the end of their days. Sometimes it seemed like she’d been working for thirty years without pause—always pushing forward, never allowing herself true rest.

Her gaze fell again on the unfinished parchment before her. This could wait until morning, she decided. Exhaustion was fertile ground for mistakes, and a clear mind would serve her better. Once Vaegon supplied the missing details, she would revisit the work with a fresh eye.

Just as she gathered herself to rise—

Knock, knock.

Daenerys’s head snapped to the side. The urgency in the knocking was unusual, sending a chill darting through her stomach and quickening her pulse.

“Come in,” she called, her voice rougher than she intended—just tired, she told herself.

The door opened to reveal her chambermaid, pale as milk, with Ser Clement Crabb looming behind her, his armored arm steadying the door. Daenerys rose instinctively, a frown creasing her brow. An odd, familiar dread coiled in her chest—like she’d lived this moment before.

“Your Grace, the Hand of the King requests your presence in the King’s chambers,” Ser Clement announced, his tone rigid, but his eyes uncertain.

“What’s happened?” Daenerys breathed, her body already moving—shawl clutched in hand, feet carrying her closer before she knew it. Her gaze locked on the trembling maid, who seemed to shrink beneath it.

The maid’s lips trembled. “Your Grace, the King…” Her voice broke; she swallowed hard, fighting for composure. “His Grace is…” She shook like a leaf, and Daenerys felt the tremor echoed within herself. “He is dead.”

The heavy doors to the King’s chambers parted, drawn back by silent, white-cloaked Kingsguard. Night’s chill had crept inside while half the candles still burned, their dim light casting the sprawling room into a macabre spectacle of shadows and whispers.

Daenerys knew this room as well as her own. She had spent countless days here—watching her father confide with trusted advisors, seeing her mother at his side. It was here she’d last seen him, where she’d taken her turns with niece, sisters, and the Hand’s daughter so the King would never greet death in loneliness.

But the chamber had changed since then. New tapestries from the Free Cities shrouded the walls. Swords and spears had replaced the old trappings; tiny portraits of her brother’s family watched from all sides, and the skull of a young dragon now brooded over the hearth. The old bed—once tucked in the darker left corner—had been moved to the sunlit windows on the right.

A shiver ran through her. She remembered, all at once, why she had come.

Near the fire, Grand Maester Runciter and Ser Otto Hightower whispered together, their words muted by the hush of death. She hesitated to speak, but it was Ser Ryam Redwyne’s proclamation that cut through the stillness:

“The Princess Daenerys.”

Both men stopped, gazes swinging to her.

“Where is my nephew, the Prince of Dragonstone?” Daenerys demanded, her voice tightly held.

“He has been summoned, Your Grace,” said Ser Otto with careful control. “But I thought it best you… prepare, before the others arrive.”

She pressed her lips to a resolute line.

“Take me to him,” she said.

The Grand Maester nodded, leading her and Ser Otto into the solar. There, behind a drawn curtain, was the King’s bed. “Ser Hadrian Sunglass found him, Your Grace,” the Grand Maester explained gently. “The King was asleep at his desk, mid-way through a letter. When Ser Hadrian tried to rouse him, he felt only cold.”

King Aegon looked almost peaceful—almost. To a stranger, he might have been asleep, but Daenerys saw the faint tension that lingered on his brow. She wondered if death had pained him, if The Stranger had been cruel. A single tear traced down her cheek as she gazed at him, taking in this last, impossible moment: her friend, her brother, the man she had loved and leaned on. Gone, leaving only emptiness behind.

Their parents had feared for so long the idea of outliving him, she remembered. Now, he had outlived them—but not by much.

I am the last of us, she thought, fingers trembling at the necklace he once gave her for her twelfth nameday. Now she was the oldest; Daella, Alyssa, Aemon, Maegelle, Baelon, and now Aegon—all lost, one by one, leaving her to shepherd the next generation. She wondered how she would tell the others, who she would summon first to the Red Keep. She wanted desperately for someone to hold her, to weep these years of sorrow from her bones. Was this how her mother had felt, each time the circle grew smaller? Daenerys realized, with cold certainty, that grief would never become easier.

The voices of Grand Maester Runciter and Ser Otto Hightower reverberated in Daenerys’s mind, muffled by exhaustion and grief. She forced herself to listen, to focus.

“This is… truly unprecedented,” Grand Maester Runciter murmured, hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves. “King but for three moons.”

“No evidence of poison?” Ser Otto pressed. The Grand Maester shook his head.

“None that I see. His heart simply failed him. A drawn out poison would have been noticed before now. A swift-acting poison would have left more evidence. Age claims even the strongest among us.”

Daenerys watched in silence as the Silent Sisters began their solemn work over her brother’s body. At last, she found her voice, hollow and distant to her own ears. “We must inform the realm at once. Two Kings lost in a single year—Seven Hells.”

“Is haste wise?” Ser Otto countered gently.

She nearly laughed, bitter and raw. “We cannot hide his death, Lord Hand—not for long. And my nephew’s coronation must proceed, even if his father was meant to wear the crown longer.”

Runciter inclined his head. “In light of what transpired after King Jaehaerys’s death… perhaps we ought consider a different course. Would you not agree, Lord Hand? Your Grace?”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing. “What are you suggesting, Grand Maester?”

They stepped aside, leaving the Silent Sisters to their mournful duty. Still the cold clung to her.

Ser Otto spoke, voice grave. “With King Aegon’s death, the old disputes will resurface. Some will claim this is divine punishment—an unworthy son struck down. There are those—Prince Gaemon, Ser Daemon, Lords Velaryon and Baratheon—who’ll see this as an opening.”

“There’s nothing to contest,” Daenerys snapped. “Aegon sat the Iron Throne and ruled as King — I don’t care if it was for three moons or thirty years. His heir is clear: Aerys succeeds by law and by the gods’ will.”

The Grand Maester’s eyes darkened. “The King was never crowned, Your Grace. Some will claim this makes his rule illegitimate, along with who knows what other grievances. To preserve the peace, perhaps we should let them be heard?”

A chill seized her. “I will not entertain that madness. It’s treason! Andal law is firm—”

Ser Otto lifted a placating hand, but the gesture grated. “This is not only law, Princess, but legitimacy—perception. I do not doubt Prince Aerys is the rightful king. But to smother treasonous murmurs, and silence those with ambitions for the throne, we must address it openly. King Aegon himself would have preferred to end these whispers—decisively.”

Daenerys closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is to be discussed only with the Small Council and the princes—no one else. Send word: the King has died. Ravens to every great house. When Aerys and the council are assembled, we will consider this idea—no sooner.”

She was no fool, she had seen it before—and it was the very first thing she tried to avoid during Aegon’s absence. If they entertained it now, who was to say it wouldn’t happen again the next time the realm grew restless?

Both men bowed solemnly. The door opened again, and Daenerys’s gaze fell on the bewildered faces of Aerys and Maegor. The weight of it struck her: nothing would ever be the same.

Her voice rang clear, resolute as steel:

“The King is dead. Long live King Aerys, First of His Name.”

And all in the room bent the knee.

Dawn crept over the Red Keep, its light pale and uncertain, as the Silent Sisters came to take King Aegon’s remains for the last rites. The hush of the stone corridors felt heavier with each footstep. Aerys and Maegor had offered to stand vigil with her, to keep the silence at bay, but Daenerys needed only solitude for her sorrow. Her grief was a private thing.

“Rhaenys and Gael must be told,” she said quietly, brushing trembling fingers across her eyes. “Write to Daeron and Vaella as well. I’ll join you at the Small Council once… once this is finished.”

They left her at the threshold, the chamber suddenly vast, filled only by the echo of her heart.

She moved to Aegon’s old desk, where his last letter still lay—unfinished. The ink trailed off partway through a line meant for his late wife, her once dear friend, Princess Meredyth. Since her death some twenty years ago, Aegon had made a habit of writing to her —news of the children, pleas for advice, perhaps bad poetry. Aegon shared his words with no one, for he burned each letter upon completion. Daenerys traced the familiar, hasty script, letting her tears fall freely, heart breaking at each new word.

My dearest Meredyth,

I wish you could be here with us. With me. I fear I may not manage to be what is expected of me. Dany put so much of her faith in my twilight years; I wonder if my change of heart has come too little, too late. You should be here, to serve on my council, to let Dany rest, if only for a little while.

Our children have given me so much joy. I believe you would've been proud of what they've become in spite of me. The eldest married and with children. Only Maegor left; and I hope soo—…

She was wiping her tears, the world narrowed to the single candle burning low before her, when she felt a subtle change in the air—a distortion, a drop in temperature, a flicker in the shadows. Vaegon’s presence manifested as it always did, quietly, as though he’d always been there, just unseen.

She didn’t look up. “How long, Vaegon?” Her voice was a ghost. “How long did you know?”

He sighed—a sound as old and tired as the stones of the Keep themselves. “Long enough, Daenerys. It... It’s always been this way.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “And you never told him?”

“What could I have said?” His tone was gentle, not defensive. “What good comes of knowing the hour of your death—other than torment? When I see the end is coming for one of us, I grieve them before the world does. It is the only gift left to me. The rest must find their own peace, in their own time.”

Tears welled up anew. “But he deserved to be ready. He deserved a warning, time to say his goodbyes, to leave things in order—” to bid me farewell, at the very least, hold me and kiss my forehead as he always did.

“No one is ever ready, sister. Not truly. Death does not become easier with foreknowledge. If anything, it becomes a heavier chain.”

She finally looked at him, seeing the lines of fatigue etched between silver brows. “Was the talk of this ‘Great Council’ your doing? Is that your warning to the living now, Vaegon?”

He offered the smallest of smiles—a brief, human thing that slipped through the cracks in his usual reserve. “The storm has been gathering since long before Father left us behind. Too many heirs and too many wounds left to fester. If not now, it would have come just the same—sooner, later, what does it matter to time?”

Daenerys felt every year of her age pressing upon her weary bones. “So, what now?”

“Now, we do as Aegon wished. As he commanded.” He stepped closer, voice softer, steadier. “We do what honors the realm. And this family—our blood,” he said, almost with a smile. “The gods spared you for a reason, Daenerys. Don’t waste their mercy.”

He turned to go, then paused. “I’ll meet you soon, sister.” A heartbeat passed. “Rest, if you can.”

She managed the smallest nod, clutching her brother’s letter to her heart. They both knew she wouldn’t rest.

Chapter Text

Moon of the Warrior, 103 AC (Sixth Moon of the Year)

To all members of the Blood of the Dragon, near and far—

With the untimely death of King Aegon before his coronation, our house faces a trial unlike any before. The whispers of claim and counterclaim—of pretenders, grievances, and ambitions—can no longer be allowed to fester.

The realm has enjoyed five decades of the Old King’s peace, and our house stands mightier than at any point in memory. Yet, even the strongest tree may be split by storms born of silence and pride. To safeguard both crown and kin, I hereby summon all who would press a claim to the Iron Throne to attend a Great Council at Harrenhal on the seventh day of the First Moon of the Season of the Crone.

This Council shall be the first—and last—of its kind. Any who believe their blood, their birth, or their right grants them claim shall be heard, before the assembled lords of Westeros and before the judgment of history. Each will have their say.

Come prepared, not only with proof and lineage, but also the wisdom to heed the Council’s final ruling. The heir chosen by the Council shall be recognized by all with honor and loyalty. Any who refuse the outcome will be named not rivals, but traitors to the realm and to their blood.

Let none mistake this Council for a contest of chaos or a call to arms. It is not weakness that assembles us, but strength—the strength to seek peace over war, to choose legacy above pride, and to preserve our house for the generations yet to come.

You are invited to make your case.

Once spoken, let your truths and your fates be bound by the will of the realm.

Let no one claim they were denied a hearing.

May the Gods grant us clarity in these days of uncertainty.

Princess Daenerys Targaryen, Princess Regent and Mistress of Dragons

High Tide

The summons arrived on a grey morning, sealed with the three-headed dragon. Corlys Velaryon turned the parchment over in his calloused hands, feeling the weight of the wax more than the words.

A chance, he thought. Finally, a chance.

When Saera fled to Essos—abandoning him and their children to become the realm's most notorious scandal—King Jaehaerys had offered nothing but cold dismissal. Corlys had begged for an annulment, only to be waved away like a lowly petitioner. "A son and daughter, both healthy. What more could you want?" the Old King had said, as if duty fulfilled was happiness earned.

Easy words from a man blessed with thirteen children and a faithful wife, Corlys had thought bitterly.

The years since had been a special torment. Whispers followed him through every hall—the great Sea Snake, cuckolded by a princess turned whore. The shame clung to his house like salt stains, impossible to scrub clean.

And the doubts... Gods, the doubts had festered like infected wounds. Were Laenor and Laena truly his? Had Saera's appetites begun before she fled? He'd built fleets around his certainty, amassed wealth to prove his worth, but proof meant nothing when the world delighted in your humiliation.

Even his bastard sons—Addam and Alyn, sired on a shipwright's daughter—had become twisted reminders. Born to erase his doubts about fatherhood, they only fed the realm's mockery. Look how the Sea Snake seeks to prove his virility with a lowborn fishmonger.

Prince Aegon's cutting words still burned: Are you quite sure my niece and nephew are yours? I’d hate for you to expend so much effort on someone else’s get.

But now... now everything had changed.

Vaemond entered without bother for courtesy, folding his arms across his chest, suspicion etched into every crease of his weathered face. “You mean to press Laenor’s claim.”

“No, that’ll be a fools errand.” Corlys Velaryon set the summons down with deliberate care, his voice calm but steel beneath. “Regardless of his mother’s circumstances, he is still low on the succession line. But I am one of the richest men in the Seven Kingdoms—perhaps the richest. If I cannot have Laenor wear his grandfather’s crown, then whoever does sit the throne will owe it to me.”

Vaemond arched a brow, weighing every word before scoffing. “So you fancy yourself a kingmaker. But tell me, brother—who would you wish to see beholden to our house?”

Corlys shrugged, a glint in his eye. “Aerys and Viserys—only two in truth. Aerys’s son is near Laena’s age. Only a fool would spurn both her blood and her gold. As for Viserys, his daughter could suit Driftmark well enough. Either match ties us to the royal line. And if the Stepstones thrive, so does our house—for generations.”

“Brother…” Vaemond’s voice held old weariness, decades of watching Corlys chase legacy with stubborn pride. “Making a spectacle will only feed the whispers.”

“Let them whisper.” Corlys’s fist clenched on the tabletop. “I’ve weathered their mockery—endured every jest about Saera’s actions. The realm owes me this. Compensation, for every slight and snub at court.”

“And if you lose?” Vaemond pressed quietly.

Corlys gave a steely smile. “Then at least my children are bound to the one who wins. House Velaryon emerges stronger for it—either way, our legacy is tied to the dragon’s line. I will not slink away from this chance like some whipped hound.”

Vaemond watched him a moment longer, then sighed, all protest wrung out. “I’ll see the men readied for Harrenhal.” He paused at the threshold, turning back with a pointed look. “Try not to drag us too deep into the mire, brother.”

Corlys’s jaw tightened, but he replied coldly, "Mind your tongue, brother, or you may find it shortened.”

Storm’s End

“Send for Swann, Connington, Caron, Mertyns, and Fell,” rumbled Lord Borros, hefting his sword belt with a grunt as if the matter were already settled.

Maester Ronnel wrote carefully. “Mayhaps we should consider as well Lords Tarth, Grandison, Estermont and Dondarrion.”

Borros scoffed. "Idiots. Why care about them? Half of them can barely swing a sword, and the other half spend their days counting coppers like merchants.”

"Well, Lord Tarth has good standing with Princess Rhaenys after her father's death—"

"Bah! Rhaenys is just a woman. When push comes to shove, the realm will need real men to fight the battles. That's where I come in."

Ronnel bowed his head, swallowing his retorts. Patiently, he continued, “Grandison and Estermont stood loyal to your lord father, and Lord Dondarrion commands Blackhaven — a keystone in the Marches. Shunning him would be... unwise, my lord.”

Borros made a show of thinking, scratching at his chin. “Dondarrion… Ronnald, aye? Met him as a boy. Slick tongue, barely trusted him then. And Estermont’s dead, isn’t he? Little green girl’s the lady now.” He shrugged. “Grandison can come. Tell him to meet us on the road to Felwood.”

A small victory. “If I may, my lord,” Ronnel pressed on, “what is it you intend at Harrenhal?”

“To stake my claim!” Borros grinned wolfishly, raising his cup. “As is my right. My lady mother was Aegon the Second’s eldest, wasn’t she? It’s plain as daylight: now she’s gone, and the usurper Jaehaerys, I am the rightful king. Once these lords hear the truth, they’ll come flocking.”

Ronnel set down his quill, voice barely above a whisper. “But, my lord… succession is seldom so simple—”

“It is simple!” Borros slammed his cup, froth spilling. “Eldest child, then their eldest. My mother, then me. Gods, even a stableboy could follow that.”

The tension in the chamber thickened, Borros’s small eyes boring into the maester. Ronnel wiped dampness from his brow, forcing himself to speak.

“My lord, forgive me, but if matters were as plain as you say, we would not be gathering men for war.”

Borros glared, nostrils flaring. “You’re a maester, Ronnel. Mind your ink and letters, let me mind blood and steel. The Baratheons – royal through the women, from Argella Durrandon to Aerea Targaryen, straight to me! I’ll make them see.” He puffed up, then grinned slyly. “Or perhaps, to tie up the line neat as a bow, I’ll wed… the silver-haired lass. What’s her name?”

Ronnel fought not to roll his eyes. Silver hair hardly set a Targaryen princess apart, but of those of age, there could be only one he meant. “Princess Gael, my lord?”

“That’s her. I’ll wed Gael, settle the question for good. Jaehaerys’s line honored, all this wrangling ended.” Borros gulped deep, clearly pleased with himself. “There — that’s wit for you. Now, who else did you say?”

Ronnel sighed, quill scratching helplessly as he returned to his list.

Stormwatch

The Silver Fool cut a swift path through the choppy waters as they entered the Bay of Crabs. The journey had been slow and fraught with the perils of winter seas, but now, as the waters stilled around them in the sheltered bay, Aegon felt as he could breathe easily now.

Still, the atmosphere aboard the ship had been heavy, suffused with the true purpose of this journey. His good sister, Vaella, had been —as Viserys had predicted— utterly inconsolable. She tried for a cheerful façade, but she tended to fail and spend most of her time reminiscing about the past, her memories of her father and a life that Aegon struggled to relate to.

Vaelon and Rhaenyra had done their best to comfort her, offering small distractions and snippets of childish humor, but their efforts faltered against the weight of her sadness. After a time, they too had grown weary of the grief they couldn't mend. One by one, they joined Aegon on deck, finding solace instead in the fresh air and the endless, restless expanse of the sea stretching out before them.

Daemon had wisely avoided the worst of Vaella’s mourning, retreating to the skies atop Caraxes. But his absence didn’t erase the tension—he’d already made his feelings known before they had even left the Stepstones, adding yet another layer of discord to their journey.

Aegon tried not to think too hard about the moment when it all unraveled.

“Give me the sword,” Viserys had ordered, his voice sharp and unyielding.

“It’s mine,” Daemon had shot back, his tone closer to the one he used whenever Father punished him. “Father gave it to me.”

Viserys’s jaw clenched. “Daemon, I will not be made a fool by you—again—and certainly not before every noble in the Seven Kingdoms. I won’t ask you again. Give me the sword.”

A tense silence had stretched between the two brothers as they locked eyes. But at last, Daemon had unbuckled the sword belt with exaggerated reluctance. He dropped the blade into Viserys’s waiting palms with just enough force to sting.

“Happy now?” he’d sneered.

“Ecstatic,” Viserys replied flatly, his tone laced with dry irritation. He sighed, as if willing himself to patience, then squared his shoulders and met Daemon’s gaze. “Now listen to me. I want you to follow us. We will arrive at Harrenhal together, as befits our House.”

“You’re too slow,” Daemon snapped. “Caraxes could cross the distance twice over before you even set foot off this ship—”

“We are to arrive together,” Viserys repeated firmly. “Your niece and nephew will need someone’s attention with Vaella in mourning and the chaos that will be Harrenhal. I’ll need someone to distract them. You can make yourself useful for once in your damn life.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Am I to be your court fool, then?”

“In a way, yes,” Viserys replied, shaking his head. But his voice softened, and he added quietly, “Do this for me, Daemon. Please. That’s all I’m asking.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and for a rare flicker of time, Daemon actually seemed like he might consider it. But then his tone turned sharp again. “Fine. But will you at least consider my words?”

Viserys groaned. “I’ve already answered you. That crown was never meant for Father, and it was never meant for me.”

“But the realm will decide,” Daemon pressed, leaning closer now. Aegon could see the shift in his posture—a predator closing in. “The people want a King worthy of the name of our ancestors, and what better than a Skyfyre King? Not Aerys. You. Think of it, Viserys—Vaella would shine as Queen, and Vaelon would follow in your footsteps. Our branch of the family could restore what has been lost. Gods, we could even stop entertaining those ridiculous notions of tying the main branch to ours and allow Rhaenyra to marry Vaelon, as was intended.”

Another long silence. Viserys’s eyes flitted to Aegon, who tried his best to appear deeply engrossed in organizing last-minute ship arrangements.

“You’re both very sly,” Viserys muttered finally, his tone heavy with irritation.

Daemon’s smirk was wolfish. “Will you at least consider it?”

Viserys was quiet for a moment, then his voice dropped, measured and careful. “If—I repeat, if—the lords of the realm see fit to crown me, I would accept the burden not out of ambition, or out of any desire to please you, but out of duty to our family and the realm. But the moment I am discarded, as I expect to be, you two will abandon this treacherous talk. Do I make myself clear?”

Daemon gave a nonchalant shrug. "Fine. As long as you allow me to try."

Viserys paused, thinking, before giving a single reluctant nod. "Aegon?" he called sharply, forcing Aegon to stop his feigned busyness long enough to turn and offer a sheepish smile.

“I’d much rather see you crowned and be a prince again,” Aegon replied. "I am far more suited to it than Maegor ever will be." He paused, then said with a smirk. "I suppose Daemon should get his title back too."

Viserys rolled his eyes so hard Aegon half-expected them to stay that way. “You’re nine-and-ten and still petty as if you were still ten. Start acting your age, Aegon.”

And now, as the Silver Fool docked at the harbor of Saltpans, Aegon let his gaze linger on the shoreline, where Ser Meribald Cox waited to receive them. The small town sprawled ahead, rain-slicked and drab.

Aegon’s heart burned with excitement, the words Daemon had spoken ringing in his ears. This wasn’t just for Viserys, though their older brother carried the figurative crown of their schemes. It was for the House, for restoring their rightful legacy, and—if Aegon let himself admit it—just as much for himself.

With Viserys at the helm, they could carve out their place in history, reclaim what had been usurped by men too weak to fill the throne. Aegon, the drunk. Aerys, the spineless fool. Maegor, the brute. They’d all fall aside, cast from the narrative of the Seven Kingdoms like the failures they were.

Aegon squared his shoulders, a sharp grin tugging at his lips as the salt wind whipped through his hair. Plan or no plan, this was their time.

Harrenhal

Vaegon stood in the middle of the Great Hall of Harrenhal, watching workers and servants scurry from one end to the other like ants in a disturbed nest.

The place was enormous—built not for men, but giants. Then again, Harren the Black had never been mistaken for a man of reason. The walls stretched impossibly high. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw… no, not faces, but echoes. The smell of burnt stone lingered in corners that hadn’t yet seen fire. The whole castle reeked of fresh mortar and ambition, a monument to folly that perfectly reflected his siblings' natures.

Something nagged at him. He had never paid much attention to Harrenhal before—knew it only as a cursed ruin squatting like an open sore in the heart of the Riverlands. But when he had prepared to travel here, he found himself unable to pierce the veil of darkness that shrouded it in his visions. During their trip here, Loras had suggested that perhaps it was Harren’s curse acting as a veil over the castle. Vaegon wasn’t so sure of that theory.

"I have to confess, when Viserra told me you'd actually accepted the invitation, I nearly called her a liar.”

Vaegon turned slightly, just enough to glance at the intruder.

Gaemon stood there, dressed in ostentation. His doublet, embroidered with golden thread, clung to him in a way that emphasized wealth rather than utility. He wore his silver hair tied low, immaculately neat, and a smug smile that struck Vaegon as oddly familiar—Alyssa’s smile, though stripped of warmth and brimming with arrogant confidence.

“What do you make of our humble home?” Gaemon pressed with a grin, stepping forward until he stood beside him. He tilted his head, not meeting Vaegon’s glance directly but with just enough suggestion of intrigue to make himself appear magnanimous.

“A mighty undertaking,” he said simply, each syllable carrying the flatness he reserved for conversations he wished to avoid.

Gaemon laughed, setting his hands on his hips in a dramatic pose as if surveying his masterwork. “A mighty task for a mighty son! Wouldn’t you agree? Although…” his voice shifted slightly, that same grin still lingering, “I suppose you never bothered to notice what any of us were capable of. Did you, brother?”

Vaegon raised an eyebrow at him, a slight but deliberate gesture of disinterest. If Gaemon thought himself as grand as his namesake, Vaegon could not muster the energy to care. To him, Gaemon was a sibling in name only, tethered to him by Targaryen blood but separated by distance, age, and an overwhelming irrelevance.

He turned his attention back to the construction before him. "Where did you find the coin for such an enterprise?"

"Harrenhal sits on fertile lands, and the passage of goods from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms can fill a man's coffers—if he knows how to manage them properly." Gaemon's smile turned razor-sharp. "Too busy with scrolls and star charts to trouble yourself with the weight of real stone, I suppose.”

"I never took you for an administrator," he said, letting the faintest hint of surprise color his tone.

Gaemon's eyes narrowed slightly. "No, you never took me —or anyone else for that matter— for much of anything, I recall. Just another spare prince, cluttering up the Red Keep. How terribly shortsighted of you."

Before Vaegon could decide whether to respond or laugh, silk rustled behind them. "My, my, Vaegon. It is always such a pleasure to see you. We missed you for father’s funeral."

Vaegon suppressed a sigh. His day, and perhaps the reminder of the year, was dragging already. “I had things to attend to.”

Gaemon rolled his eyes theatrically. "Don't waste your breath on him, Viserra. Our learned brother has always preferred the company of books to family." His gaze flicked back to Vaegon with lazy malice. "However, I am curious to know whose brilliant idea this was. The steward’s, perhaps? Or have the grey rats finally shown their teeth?”

"If you are asking if I was involved," Vaegon said, his voice carrying just enough edge to suggest he was not entirely defenseless, "then the answer is a plain yes, Gaemon. Though I'm sure you have theories about my... motivations."

"I have a few," Gaemon said, his smile turning predatory. "Care to listen?"

"Really?" Viserra's eyebrows rose with theatrical surprise, smoothly cutting across whatever Gaemon had been about to say. "How... proactive of you, dear brother. Daenerys's letter made it seem as though it was entirely her conception. Though I suppose she wouldn't want to admit she needed help from—"

"From her brother with enough years of experience in matters of statecraft?" Vaegon interrupted smoothly. "How shocking that she might value such counsel."

The comment landed exactly where he'd intended. Viserra's smile faltered for just a moment.

Good. Perhaps that will end this particular—

"And since when are you so preoccupied by worldly matters, brother?" Gaemon asked, examining his hands with studied disinterest. "Wasn't it you who said you preferred to remain at the Citadel rather than play any political games? What changed your scholarly heart?"

The question was well-aimed, Vaegon had to admit. Trust Gaemon to remember an offhand comment from years past and weaponize it now.

"She asked," Vaegon said with a slight shrug. "I obliged."

"How... kind of you," Gaemon drawled.

"The final decision," Vaegon continued, pressing past the provocation with clinical precision, "was the Small Council's and the Princess Regent's. Better to address the matter at hand. Daenerys informed me of what transpired during Aegon's return, but I confess myself curious about the local perspective."

The siblings exchanged a look—something passed between them, quick and knowing.

"Oh, there's so much to discuss," Viserra purred, changing the topic and moving to rest her hand on Gaemon's arm. The gesture was possessive, territorial. "But surely such weighty matters can wait? You must be exhausted from your journey."

"Indeed," Gaemon agreed, his voice warm with false concern. "We can continue this conversation somewhere more private, brother. Your servant there—" he glanced dismissively toward the corner, "—or is he an acolyte? I can never tell with your scholarly types—can take refreshment with the other servants."

Vaegon's gaze flickered to Loras, who sat absorbed in sketching the hall's architecture. The young man's charcoal moved with focused intensity, capturing every detail. When Vaegon looked back at Gaemon, his expression was perfectly controlled.

"Perhaps later," he said. "I wish to wash the dust of travel from myself first."

And to think, without your constant interruptions.

"Certainly, certainly," Gaemon said, offering his arm to Viserra. "Do make yourself at home, brother. After all—" his smile widened with calculated malice, "—we're all family here."

As they departed, Viserra's laughter echoing off the walls like silver bells, Vaegon remained motionless.

He felt slightly unnerved by the enormous space around him. It was as if the shadows did not move the way they should.

He would speak with Loras tonight. Something was buried in Harrenhal—he felt it in the mortar, the stone, the wrongness of the air. And not all of it had been put there by men.

Pentos

"Princess, your correspondence has arrived."

Saera didn’t stir from her chaise on the terrace. She swirled her wine—Dornish red, sharp and sun-warm—as her children played among the garden planters. The Pentoshi winter was mild enough that Haegon napped in nothing but a cotton wrap, and Valarr was already barefoot and shouting about levers again.

She accepted the bundle of letters with a sigh. Likely more squawking from Westeros—Daenerys weeping about another dead sibling, Corlys subtly begging for her to return, someone reminding her that she was still disinherited.

The last letter, though, caught her eye. King’s Landing. The seal was heavier. The wax darker.

She opened it with a flick of her silver blade, skimmed the lines—and let out a sharp laugh.

“Well. That didn’t take long.”

Her brother was dead. Not even half a year on the throne. She reached for the second envelope. Smaller seal. The Small Council.

She read, then reclined deeper into her cushions. A Great Council. Oh, how delicious.

“Valarr,” she called, still holding the parchment.

Her eldest appeared moments later, all gangly limbs and eager eyes. "Yes, Mother?"

She gave him a slow, considering look. Gods, he really did look like a young Jaehaerys. Or Aegon. Or perhaps just enough like them to unsettle everyone at Harrenhal. She smiled.

"How’s your contraption coming along?"

“Almost finished!”

“Good.” She smiled. “How do you feel about a voyage?”

His eyes went wide, hopeful. “With you?”

“Not this time, darling. But perhaps you and Atarion. Mysaria’s still too little. And the baby...” She waved vaguely in Haegon’s direction. “He doesn’t travel well.”

Valarr paused, then nodded with solemn gravity, as if she’d offered him a crown.

“Go fetch Perenno, tell him to come see me.”

He kissed her cheek and darted away.

Saera sipped her wine and turned her head back to the direction of the sea, letting the salt breeze tousle her hair.

She had no interest in thrones or councils. But the very idea of her name being whispered through castles again—Did you hear? Saera sent one of hers—was simply too good to resist.

She’d let the lords squabble. She’d watch the chaos unfold. And perhaps, if she played her part well, someone would even thank her for it.

She laughed softly to herself, already reaching for parchment.

The Ironkeep

"Tessa!" Valerion paced the length of their bedchamber like a caged wolf, his hands fumbling uselessly with the garments laid out across the fur coverlet. The room still held the morning chill despite the fire crackling in the hearth, and pale winter light filtered through the narrow windows of the Ironkeep’s new stones.

His last trip south, he hadn’t bothered with finery. Aegon hadn’t given him time. Just a cloak, a sword, and half a breath before they were off—racing toward the edge of the world. His brother had been alive then. Desperate. Half-mad.

And now...

Now he was to attend his funeral and pretend a Great Council wasn’t just another war dressed in silk.

"Tessa, woman, for the love of the Old Gods and the New, where is my—"

She appeared in the doorway, walking with the careful grace of a woman well into her pregnancy. Her braided crown sat slightly askew, and the curve of her belly preceded her as she held up the black doublet he’d been searching for.

"I swear true, Valerion Steelfyre, if your head weren't fixed proper to your shoulders, you'd not find that either," she said, her voice carrying that familiar cadence of the North, words clipped and honest as winter air.

He offered a sheepish smile as Tessa batted his fumbling hands away and took over with brisk efficiency, fingers flying over the silver clasps of the black doublet.

"Can't say I'm fond of this style on you," Tessa said, adjusting his collar. “Whatever happened to your riding clothes?”

“Doesn’t it remind you of our courtship and wedding?” he teased.

She squinted. “I don’t remember what you wore. Just how you looked when it hit the floor,” she said with that bold laugh of hers, the sound echoing off the stone walls and making him laugh every single time. Her expression sobered as her hands stilled on his chest. "Must you be going, then?"

“He was my brother,” Valerion said quietly. “Whatever they say, I must be present. If I don’t, I’m complicit by silence.”

She exhaled, worry written plain across her face. “You’re the truest of that whole cursed lot.”

"And yet it seems I'll be stating that truth publicly, over and again, maybe till the end of my days and some years after," he replied, his voice heavy with resignation.

Tessa sighed as her hand moved to rest on the curve of her belly beneath her woolen dress. "Just see that you're back before this little one decides to come calling. Winter babes come quick and fierce, like their fathers."

Valerion covered her smaller hand with his own, feeling the subtle movement of their child. "Wouldn't miss it for all the gold in Casterly Rock, even knowing you'll be hurling whatever comes to hand at me during the birthing."

Tessa's cheeks pinked as she chuckled, the sound softer now, more intimate. "Aemon was a big babe, came into this world howling like a proper northman, and I've no reason to think this one'll be any smaller or quieter."

“I’ll return as soon as I am able, and if you send for me before things are over, I’ll simply excuse myself.” Valerion pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair—woodsmoke and pine needles. "This child will be magnificent, fierce and true, just like their mother."

The Bloody Gate

"Shall we come with you?" Aemma asked, her breath misting in the cold mountain air as Lord Yorbert Royce examined the provisions his men were loading onto pack horses.

They had spent the entirety of winter at the Bloody Gate, watching snow pile against the ancient stones while ravens brought news of the realm's troubles from below. The isolation had been peaceful, if lonely. Jeyne stood beside her outside the keep's main hall, all of nine years old and still small for her age, absently playing with the embroidered hem of her woolen shawl. The child's restless fingers picked at the delicate stitching—a habit that made Aemma bite back the urge to remind her not to fidget with her clothes.

"No need for that, my lady," Yorbert said without looking up from his inspection, his weathered face impassive. The years had been kind to the Lord Protector of the Vale—his back remained straight, his voice firm with authority. "Best if you see to Lady Jeyne's lessons while I sort this business at Harrenhal."

Aemma felt her frown deepen, though she kept her voice carefully respectful. At one-and-twenty, she had learned when to pick her battles. "Your good son and daughter could perfectly well represent your interests. Surely my presence would be... appropriate even essential, given my blood."

She didn't need to specify which blood she meant. Everyone knew her parentage, knew the claim that ran through her veins like liquid fire.

"Oh, and they will represent my house well enough," Yorbert replied, finally turning those keen grey eyes upon her. There was something in his expression—not unkind, but immovable as the mountains themselves. "But I am standing in place for Lady Jeyne as her Regent and Lord Protector of the Vale, as is my duty and right."

The words were matter-of-fact, obvious even. So why did they rankle so? He was not her jailor, not exactly. But every ‘no’ sounded the same after a while.

"I'll send word once this Great Council business is concluded. You needn’t trouble yourself with this affair," he added, mounting his destrier with the easy grace of a man who'd spent more years in the saddle than most men spent drawing breath.

Aemma watched him ride through the gate with his retinue, the sound of hoofbeats echoing off the narrow canyon walls until they faded into nothing. The silence that followed felt heavier than the mountain mists.

"You said you were going to insist on going," Jeyne whispered, tugging at Aemma's sleeve with mittened hands. Her young face was pinched with disappointment—she'd been excited about the prospect of seeing Harrenhal, of witnessing history in the making.

Aemma sighed, the sound carrying more weariness than her years should have held. She wrapped her arms around herself against the biting wind. "I told him my thoughts."

"No, you didn't, Aunt," Jeyne said with the blunt honesty that only children possessed. She leaned against Aemma's side, warm and solid. "You were polite. What do you think will really happen at this council?"

Aemma gazed down at her young niece—though Jeyne felt more a sister, really, given how they'd been raised together after Aemma's mother died and her actual siblings were too old to care for her. The girl's blue eyes held an intelligence that reminded Aemma uncomfortably of her own reflection.

"I think we are going to see many things change," she said carefully, "just for them to return to how they were before. The same names, the same games, the same power in the same hands."

Jeyne tilted her head, dark hair spilling from beneath her hood. "Isn't that a good thing? If things stay the same?"

"That depends on who you ask, little bird."

"What do you think?" Jeyne pressed, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, as if she were asking something dangerous.

I think it could be an opportunity, Aemma thought, if only I were there to see what happens. To be seen. But those were dangerous thoughts, the kind that got people killed or exiled.

"I think it's a shame we're not going," she said instead, forcing a smile as she straightened and brushed snow from her skirts. "We'll have to content ourselves with secondhand accounts and whatever gossip the ravens bring. Come, let's get inside—it's freezing out here, and Maester Benfred will have my head if you catch cold on my watch."

As they walked back toward the keep's entrance, Aemma couldn't shake the feeling that Lord Yorbert's decision to leave her behind had been about more than protecting a child's education.

Runestone

Rhea found Daeron exactly where she expected him to be: on the eastern wall, savoring the faint red of the morning sun as it crept over the mountains. An apple was in his hand—half-eaten, his usual breakfast. He always swore it tasted better out in the open air.

Sometimes she wondered what grand thoughts ran through that sharp little head of his when he stared out across the Vale. Other times, she reminded herself that this was Daeron, and most likely he was imagining something utterly ridiculous.

He turned as he heard her approach, hazel eyes squinting against the morning light. A lopsided smile spread across his face, his cheeks stuffed with unchewed apple. It was hardly the sight of a Prince of the Blood—more like some mischievous boy caught stealing from the orchard.

“Finally awake?” he asked, his tone light and teasing as always.

“You let me sleep for once,” she countered, stepping to the wall to stand beside him, looking out into the quiet expanse of the mountain range.

“I thought you were exhausted after last night,” Daeron replied innocently.

She arched a brow, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Exhausted? Hardly the tumbling of our wedding night, little Wyrm.”

He nearly choked on his apple, breaking into laughter that lit up the stillness of the courtyard. “Better still, it was me trouncing you at throwing axes yesterday. You keep underestimating my talents, but I have a good eye.”

Rhea rolled her eyes, but against her will, a soft chuckle escaped her. “You simply got lucky, that’s all.”

Daeron leaned closer, his smirk still in place. “Asking for a rematch, my lady? I warn you, I’m a sore loser.”

“And an even worse winner,” she quipped, straightening as she felt the weight of the letter in her hidden pocket. Her smirk faded. It was better to waste no time. “Daeron,” she said, her voice more serious now.

She rarely ever called him that, almost always favoring her teasing nicknames—little prince, wyrm, fool if she felt particularly tender. Her use of his given name made him pause.

“What’s this?” he asked as she extended the letter toward him. The smile faltered on his lips when he saw the broken seal. “I told my father to leave me in peace for a while. He’s entered that age where every damn letter is about… grandchildren…”

His words faltered as he noticed her expression, then dropped as his eyes scanned the letter.

He read in silence, and Rhea caught the subtle shifts in his body: his jaw tightening, the faint twitch of his mouth as he folded the parchment slowly. His apple laid forgotten atop the stone rail. He didn’t speak right away—and when his fingers drifted down to his wedding band, spinning it absently as if searching for some anchor, her stomach tightened.

“Daeron—” she started, but he raised a hand, a quiet gesture asking her to wait.

He turned his face from her, his shoulders stiff as if he could hold himself together through sheer force of will. She saw it though—the way his lips parted to speak, then closed again.

When he finally turned to look at her, his hazel eyes caught hers… and failed to hold their usual brightness. “Shit,” he mumbled, eyes dipping back to the folded letter in his hand. His breath hitched, the weight of realisation settling over him.

“Ah, gods…” His voice cracked as he spoke the words. “Rhea. I’ll miss him so much.”

Before she could respond, he stepped forward, his arms wrapping around her as he buried his face against her shoulder. Her chest tightened at the sudden embrace, and she felt the weight of his grief as his body trembled, the soft sound of his tears muffled against her.

She wordlessly placed her hands on his back, holding him close as his grief spilled out.

Chapter Text

Otto hit the ground with a thud, mud filling his mouth before he could draw breath. He made to rise, but found that the squelching, sucking mud held him fast. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fist coming and just barely turned his head so that it merely grazed his cheek. Pulling free of the mud, he rushed his overextended opponent, and tackled him.

It was like hitting a brick wall. The larger, older man met Otto’s charge with a lowered shoulder, a mild grunt of effort, and a vice-like headlock that held Otto fast. A knee drove into Otto’s stomach, knocking the air from him again—then an elbow crashed down onto his back, then another, then another knee for good measure.

As the knee connected with his stomach, Otto put all his effort into charging forward while the man was off balance. They tumbled into the mud in a tangle of limbs, as Otto slipped free of the headlock. Straddling his opponent’s chest, Otto desperately rained blows down on his face, hoping that the all consuming mud would keep him down. But it was not to be.

With a bark of laughter and a grunt, the man bucked his hips and sent Otto flying over his head, burying his face in the mud as he crashed. Before he could even begin to stand, Otto felt that iron-grip grab him by the boot and haul him backwards. The crook of an elbow snaked around his throat and began to tighten with alarming strength.

The world began to darken, sounds began to fade, and just as his vision blurred into nothingness, a clear voice cut through the haze, “That’s enough Roddy!”

The grip slackened, sweet air filled his lungs, and the raucous roar of cheering northmen pierced the fog that was Otto’s mind.

Otto blinked, coughing and wiping muck from his mouth, as Lord Roderick Dustin climbed to his feet, grinning wide through split lips and bloodied teeth.

“I think you broke my nose, Hightower!” Dustin laughed, extending a muddy hand. Otto clasped it, smothering a groan as Dustin hauled him upright and into a crushing bear hug. The watching crowd of Northmen roared, stamping and hooting their approval.

Pulling apart, Roderick — Roddy — turned to the lean, wolfish man that had ended the fight. “You ‘bout ready for him m’lord?”

“Aye.” Lord Rickon Stark said, grey eyes narrowed, calculating. “Let’s see what the man has to say.”

Blessedly, Stark allowed Otto to clean himself of most of the mud that caked him. Plenty was still in his hair, his boots, and a dozen other nooks and crannies where mud should never be allowed. Cradling a hot mug of mulled wine, Otto Hightower sat opposite Rickon Stark in his solar. Harrenhal, even in it’s somewhat reduced size under Prince Gaemon and Princess Viserra’s stewardship, had wings upon wings of guest chambers, solars, stables, barracks, and every other room needed to house a traveling court for long periods of time.

Harrenhal was the only castle in all the Seven Kingdoms large enough to host those summoned by Princess Daenerys. For a month now, lords and ladies from all corners had been coming to make their voices heard in the matter of the succession. The Northmen had only arrived two days ago, and with luck, Otto would be the first to meet with them.

“So,” Lord Rickon began, setting his mug down with a clunk, “you’re the messenger are you? You speak for Aerys Targaryen?

“I speak for Prince Aerys, yes. I served as Hand of the King for his father and he means to keep me on in the role.” Otto bowed his head graciously.

“Assuming he wins the vote.”

“He will win,” Otto said. “I aim to ensure it.”

Stark grunted noncommittally, watching Otto with fingers steepled. After a moment, he asked, “Why are you here speaking with me, and not your would-be king?”

Otto was ready for this. “With respect, Lord Stark, I had not expected to speak to you today. Your steward informed me that you would not be taking any visitors until you had time to recover from your journey south. I intended to speak with Lord Dustin today.”

“You did more than just speak with him. Isn’t that right, Roddy?” Stark called to Lord Dustin, who was lounging on a chaise off to the side. He hadn’t cleaned the mud off himself, and had all but ensured that the expensive looking furniture was destined for the burn pile. He hadn’t even bother to put a shirt back on.

“That he did,” Dustin grunted. “There’s a bit of fight in this one. Not just some pampered southerner.”

“I told my steward to refuse visitors to see what you would do,” Stark said, returning his attention back to Otto. “You are not the first to seek me out.”

Otto’s stomach twisted. “Who else has come to see you?” he asked, voice casual.

“Daemon Skyfyre tried last night. Steward refused him, same as you, and he stormed off soon enough. Didn’t deign to meet with any of my bannermen — so he’s free to fuck off back to his side of the castle.”

Otto nodded, hiding his relief. “His loss. Lords great and small, are meant to have a say in matters here.”

“No doubt,” Rickon said. “But I mean for the North to vote as a bloc.”

Otto fought a stab of irritation. “Truly?” This complicated matters substantially.

“I said so didn’t I? Am I not Lord of Winterfell?”

“Unquestionably. But, does that not go against the point of this… pageantry?

Stark waved a hand dismissively. “Pageantry means little to me regardless.” He raised an eyebrow. “Does my plan worry you, Ser Otto?”

Otto sat back, considering. He could lie — obfuscate and downplay his true feelings on the matter. Wrap his words with innuendo and give Stark neither affirmation nor denial. But that’s not how Stark wanted to play the game. He had moved past that.

The first test had been to refuse him entry. The second had been his wallowing in the mud with Roddy Dustin. This was the third.

“Moderately so,” Otto admitted. “I only had expectations of securing a handful of Northern votes. Prince Aerys is an unknown factor in the North. And King Aegon, may he rest with the Gods, was not well-liked by your people.”

“He pissed on a heart tree,” Dustin called out, voice firm and flat; not a trace of humor in it.

“A regrettable incident,” Otto winced. “But one done in his youth after a considerable amount of drink — not that that’s an excuse. And he spent the last years of his life seeking to make amends. Has not Prince Valerion been a stalwart vassal?”

“He has,” Rickon allowed.

“King Aegon’s idea — a loyal bannerman of dragon blood sworn to the Stark of Winterfell. Favorable economic ties between White Harbor and King’s Landing. Prince Aerys means to continue his father’s policies to unite the North and the South in more meaningful ways.”

“What if we just want to be left alone?” Dustin asked, eyes narrowed. He had sat up from his recline.

“Will you say the same when winter comes again? I studied history and economics at the Citadel, Lord Dustin. Would you like to know, on average, how much more grain is sent North every winter now than before the Conquest? How many head of cattle? Or perhaps how many men are last seen “going hunting?” Otto’s voice grew firmer. “The difference is not trivial… You know this, Lord Stark. The age of isolation is gone, and clinging to it is folly. I offer you stability, coin, and the king’s gratitude—all to secure your people’s future.”

Stark said nothing, grey eyes calculating. Finally, he nodded. “All you say is true, Ser Otto. We bent the knee to the Dragons and have prospered ever since” His face twisted. “Except this business with the New Gift, perhaps. But now I have options to consider, and I mean to do what is best for my people.”

He leaned forward, smiling wolfishly. “Corlys Velaryon and Gaemon Dragonfyre both have deep pockets. Don’t think I mean to be bought for cheap.”

Otto smiled back. “King Aerys expected nothing less, my lord.”

When at last he returned to his rooms, Otto immediately called for a bath. He was tired and sore beyond all reason, and absolutely filthy. His negotiations with Lord Stark had taken up most of his day, and he didn’t even know if he’d been successful. As he left the Northern quarters, he had seen Lyonel Strong, a petty lord in service to Prince Gaemon, engaged in throwing axes with Lord Umber.

Sinking into the steaming waters of his bath, Otto sighed in relief. The warm water soaked into his aching bones, chasing away the chill in the air. Though relatively mild, it was still winter, and Otto had grown up much further south than this.

Since arriving at Harrenhal near a month ago, Otto’s days had been frantic. From dawn to dusk and beyond, he had met with lords and ladies from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. At his busiest, he had gone hawking with Lord Fossoway, had tea with Lord Connington, dinner with Lady Tarbeck, and ended with drinks with Lord Darklyn, all in a single day. He made bribes and promises. Exchanged pleasantries and threats. Gave orders and insinuations.

All in the pursuit of putting Aerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne.

In a scant three days, the assembled lords of Westeros would cast their votes on which son of the Dragon would ascend as king. Otto needed their votes. So he worked. As did others.

For every door he entered, he seemed to pass Lyonel Strong departing with a sly remark and a knowing look. For every success, Daemon Skyfyre waited like a bad memory. The pace was relentless, the outcome still in doubt. Too much to do, and far too little time.

As he laid his head back to relax, the door opened to admit his wife, Helen Redwyne. She was dressed for evening drinks — a stunning gown of deepest emerald, gloved arms laced with grape vines. Her unruly, auburn hair done up in the latest fashion of the Vale.

She was absolutely stunning.

“Father and Uncle Ryam had lunch with Lord Florent today. They say he has agreed to vote for Aerys in exchange for a betrothal between my nephew Victor and his daughter, and for his heir to squire for Uncle. Beesbury seemed swayed, but Lady Redfort tells me he’s now hedging towards Gaemon. Call that one uncertain.” She crossed the room in three quick strides, settling in a chair opposite Otto’s tub. “How did your meeting with Stark go?” She asked with a smile.

“It was… dirty business,” he said, groaning as a knot in his shoulder loosened.

Helen quirked an eyebrow, “Otto Hightower, was that a jape?”

“I told you at our wedding I would endeavor to make you smile everyday. Since this is the first I’ve seen you today, I decided I must act hastily.”

“Consider me flattered... though I expect better tomorrow.” She chuckled warmly. But then her face sobered. “So, truly, how did it fare?”

“Good. I think.” Otto grunted. “Stark’s demands weren’t wholly unreasonable, and I think we settled on an amicable accommodation. But Strong was there again, and he seems to have found a few sympathetic ears. Stark says they mean to vote as a bloc, but I got the sense he hasn’t quite convinced the others of that.”

Helen hmmmed and sat back in her chair. “I am hawking with Lady Manderly tomorrow. I’ll see what influence we can exert.”

“I’ll take the Tarly dinner—if you’re willing to endure the Crakehall social hour.” Otto offered.

“And you’ll cover the Corbray breakfast?” Helen countered.

“Done.”

She grinned, warmth lighting her tired face. “Thank you, dear.”

He returned her smile, but sobered in short order. “Where are you off to next?”

“Drinks with Lady Fossoway. See if I can tie that knot.“

“Good. Good.” Otto leaned back again and closed his eyes. After a moment, he heard a rustle of silk, and felt Helen’s arms wrap around his exposed upper chest as she knelt to rest her head on his shoulder. For a moment he sat in silence, simply existing in the moment with Helen.

“Talk to me,” she murmured.

“It will be close,” he admitted. “I worry that we’d be better off if we had just crowned Aerys and just ignored any naysayers. And now that we’ve started this path, I fear we may yet lose.”

Helen was silent for a moment, then asked, “We could switch horses? With the support we have, we could see Viserys crowned instead.”

“You would have me betray Aerys?”

“If that is what is best for our family? Yes,” Helen said bluntly.

Otto chuckled. He had always admired her forthrightness. “I’ve considered it,” He admitted. “But the odds aren’t in our favor. Viserys isn’t a sure thing even with our added support and the backlash to our public image would be difficult to overcome in a timely manner. Best stay the course.”

“As you say. Besides, Rhaenys would feed you alive to her dragon, and I’d rather not have to see her killed.” Helen pulled away and began to head for the door.

His eye cracked opened at that. “You would avenge me?”

She paused, hand on the door handle and looked back with a wry smile. “If I cannot engineer your salvation, then vengeance will suffice.”

“Ha!” He barked a laugh. “I do not doubt it my dear. But I’ve no intention of being a dragon’s supper just yet.”

Standing before the entrance to the Great Hall, Otto took a deep breath to calm himself. The last three days had made the thirty before it seem quaint. The bargaining was done. The promises made.

It was time.

Prince Aerys paced nervously, wringing his hands, while Princess Rhaenys stood imperiously at his side, her face a mask of cool dignity. “Tell me again, Otto,” Aerys said, his voice a pinched whine.

“We have the lead. Prince, that is Lord, Viserys trails behind, but not by a comfortable enough margin by my estimation. Prince Gaemon has a surprising amount of support, but not enough to win. Corlys Velaryon has gathered a few to his side, but some of his shine tarnished when the boy showed up.”

Aerys let out a laugh that was more a cackle. “Aunt Saera’s bastard — Valarr was it? Delightful little shit, isn’t he? Especially how he makes Corlys’s face turn so purple.”

Otto coughed delicately. The child was certainly precocious, but it was poor manners to mock Lord Corlys’s situation. “Indeed, Your Grace. Neither Gameon nor Corlys have near enough support to win, and are surely waiting to see which way the wind blows. With their supporters, either one of them would secure our victory, but if both choose to go over to Viserys, it comes down to the few remaining whose votes are undecided. It could get… close.”

“Damn it,” Aerys groaned, pulling a small, lacquered box from inside his sleeve. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a week.” Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, lips tightening in disapproval, but he just rolled his eyes. “You know it helps calm my nerves, darling.”

He opened the box to reveal a fine, purple powder. Taking a pinch, he inhaled it up a nostril, eyes shut tight. After a moment, he coughed, opened his eyes and turned to Otto. “Would you like a taste, Otto?”

“No, thank you, Your Grace. I do not partake in—?”

“Corlys brought it from Qarth some years back. It’s called stardust — made from the same leaves the warlocks brew their shade of the evening from. Does wonders for the nerves.” Otto kept his face neutral, expression deliberately unreadable. Not now. Not when the hall is waiting. Please.

“Does it help?” he asked softly, the question of an old friend, not as Hand.

Aerys offered a crooked grin. “Enough to keep my hands from shaking when I take the crown.”

To his credit, Aerys did look remarkably more relaxed now. No sense delaying further. “Shall we enter, Your Grace?”

Aerys offered his arm to Rhaenys, who took it gracefully, flashed a winning smile, and said, “Let’s win me a throne, Ser Otto!”

Chapter Text

“… and this part here is a pulley,” the boy explained, his High Valyrian colored by the lilt of Lys, proudly setting a small wooden catapult on the table between them. “Mother says they can help build things, but I like watching when they throw rocks far and fast!”

Daenerys knelt to his level, her own reply in crisp Valyrian. “Have you seen one working, Valarr?”

He shook his head, a spill of bright silver hair swinging. “Not yet! Mother took me once to see a man show replicas! But do you have one here? Mother promised that, if I asked properly, I might see it.”

A smile crept to Daenerys’s lips before she could stop it. “War machines like those are only for soldiers, Valarr. But perhaps a maester could show you books with illustrations—and if you like, I can send you home with stories of ancient sieges and great engines. Would you like that?”

His violet eyes widened with delight. “Thank you, Princess! Did you hear, Atarion?”

The other boy was more interested in cakes than catapults, his feet swinging under the vast chair. Before Daenerys could coax an answer, the door creaked open. Vaegon entered, silver hair framing his sharp-edged face and one brow arched in silent inquiry.

Suppressing a knowing grin, Daenerys addressed Valarr gently. “Valarr, I must confer with your Uncle Vaegon. Would you mind spending the morning with your Aunt Gael? She’d love to show you the sept and the gardens—and you might coax her into a treat from the kitchens.”

Valarr considered, glancing between Daenerys and the door. “Alright. Come, Atarion. Let’s find Aunt Gael—and maybe Master Perenno too.” The boys’ voices, slipping into singsong Lyseni, faded away as they hurried past Vaegon and his apprentice, who returned their hasty goodbyes with a shy salute.

Vaegon sniffed dismissively as the children left. “Playing nursemaid today?”

Daenerys’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Charming boys—one would never expect it of Saera, yet Valarr can hardly stop boasting of her.”

Vaegon’s response was dry, yet tinged with humor. “Who’d have guessed Saera to dote?”

Saera’s sons, and the letter that accompanied them, had left Daenerys both infuriated and amused. In the message, Saera requested Daenerys welcome a group of Pentoshi and Lyseni friends, who would escort her eldest sons to court. Saera excused her own absence with a short note: “Just given birth. Winter’s no time for a squalling infant to cross the sea.” Valarr — introduced by the unctuous Master Perenno — had instantly reminded Daenerys of a young Maegor. Whenever seasoned courtiers glimpsed them, she saw the start of quick gossip, and the hushed comparisons to old portraits of her own father.

“She claims Valarr, and perhaps Atarion too, are Aegon’s bastards.” Daenerys had remarked to Aerys, Daeron, and Maegor one evening. “A fiction, and a flamboyant one, but just for show—part of Saera’s little plot to needle Corlys some more."

Aerys had groaned loudly whilst Daeron had turned ashen with outrage at the implied insult to his mother. Maegor had laughed aloud, finding it all a splendid jest, and had taken to referring to the boys as valonqar.

On the fifth day at Harrenhal, Saera’s so-called friends had introduced her sons to a hall full of scandalized lords. Had Saera herself been there, Daenerys suspected she would have reveled in her own spectacle. Truth be told, Daenerys hadn’t forbidden it partly because she was too exhausted to care, partly to watch Corlys Velaryon go purple with outrage, and perhaps—though she’d never admit it—for the sheer mischief of unsettling such a rigid, fractious assembly. Since then, Daenerys made a point to shepherd the boys out of the limelight, entertaining them as she would her other nieces and nephews, drawing on that well of patience she saved for family crises and bored children alike.

“Sometimes,” she murmured, “I wonder what sort of woman Saera’s become across the sea. And I find I rather like her this way—unpredictable and amusing, certainly—but at arm's reach."

Vaegon didn’t answer, instead shrugging as he crossed to the hearth. His young acolyte slipped into the chair recently vacated by Atarion. “Loras, you’re here to learn,” Vaegon said, voice cool.

Daenerys softened her tone for the young man. “Would you care for some tea, Loras?” She shot Vaegon a pointed look. “Ignore him; it’s my offer.”

The young man blushed. “T-thank you, Princess. I’d like that.”

She poured three cups from the fragrant pot, handing one to Loras and setting another by Vaegon’s elbow. “What brings you, brother? Something weighs on you.”

He drifted to a frost-glazed window, staring out at new-fallen snow. Despite the cut of his robes—richer than any maester’s but plain for a prince’s—he looked tired, careworn. “The Archmaesters grow restless. I’ve just left a meeting with Grand Maester Runciter and Archmaester Cressen. They worry what precedent all this sets.”

Daenerys’s lips flattened. “We’ve already chosen this path and must see it through. What exactly troubles them now?”

“That the Iron Throne could become an elective seat,” Vaegon replied, brow furrowed. “That today’s council might open the gates to lords voting on succession whenever they please.”

She nodded, slow and tired. “I can speak to them. Ser Otto Hightower will make our case plain—this is unprecedented, caused only by unique tragedy. After this, the line returns to Andal law: son after father, or daughter if a son is wanting. No more debate.”

“Still, the idea of it unsettles them. My candor offends, and they think me ‘compromised.’” He managed a sardonic twist of lips.

“Are you not?” she teased, prompting an eyeroll.

He turned back to the window, his posture growing distant. “What do you make of Harrenhal, Daenerys?”

She grimaced. “Too vast, too ostentatious—and too cold for my liking.”

Vaegon nodded, gaze unfocused. “Have you felt anything… strange?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “No… should I have?”

Loras closed his book with a soft thud, and blurted out, “His Eminence has had insomnia. And nightmares.” He flinched at Vaegon’s sharp look.

“That's enough, Loras. If you're not going to read your assignment, then perhaps your time is better spent amongst your peers,” Vaegon said, voice clipped.

Loras stammered, “Your Eminence—”

“Go on now, Loras.” Vaegon interrupted. “I need privacy with the Princess Regent.”

Crimson, Loras bobbed a hasty bow and made for the door. “Yes, Your Eminence. Thank you for your kindness, Princess.”

“We’ll see you at council, Loras.” Daenerys smiled.

Vaegon’s frown was deep. "Next time you want to participate in a conversation Loras, then do so. Don't eavesdrop — listen." Loras bowed, still flushed and fled.

She raised her brows at Vaegon. “That’s one way to school an apprentice.”

He almost smiled. “Archmaester Othar was less forgiving. He would've had me cleaning chamber pots till the Hour of the Bat. I favor a different approach.”

True amusement bubbled from Daenerys’s lips, her first genuine laugh in moons. “I never took you for a teacher. What changed?”

He shrugged, as if embarrassed. “Loras came with a recommendation—a fifth son of some Reach lord, unimportant in the great scheme of things.”

“And?”

A ghost of pride, barely there: “He’s clever. Forged five links in three years, and more wit than most his age. Reminds me of myself—when I still thought the world could be made orderly.”

Vaegon had always struck her as severe, cold, implacable. But in their shared time under Septon Barth, and now as adults, she’d glimpsed the rare, hidden gentleness beneath the hard edges—a kind of quiet, careful decency that surfaced when least expected.

Now, as her laughter faded, she watched him scan the shadows, tension etched in every line of his posture. Ever since arriving, he seemed perpetually unsettled.

Vaegon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Aerys will win,” he said. “But it will come at a price.”

“A Dream?” Daenerys steepled her fingers. Vaegon nodded, his expression tight.

“I saw him crowned,” he murmured. “And then I saw his son’s hands stained with blood. And then everything shifted—slipped out of focus. I can’t see the rest, not truly.”

Daenerys frowned. “You think Harrenhal’s curse meddles with your dreams?”

“Maybe.” Vaegon pinched the bridge of his nose. “The visions come more often here, but they’re tangled—they fade before I’m properly awake. I try to pin them down, writing in the night, but it’s always nonsense by morning. I want to leave this place.”

Daenerys watched Vaegon, thoughtful. “I remember something Aerea wrote in her half-mad ramblings—about places overrun with magic, like they were too thick to breathe. Not her words, but close enough." She paused, considering. "You’ve said before that Harrenhal holds more than one kind of magic, and that you couldn’t see well beyond the Neck.”

Vaegon’s jaw tightened as he stared back out the window. “The Children of the Forrest... The Isle of Faces,” he muttered.

“You want to go? Maybe it could ease your mind, figure things out.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile flickering and dying. “We’re forbidden. I’d drown before I ever set foot there.”

“Why?”

His gaze darted around the room, suddenly wary. Without a word, he strode to the corner and drew the heavy tapestry, touching the wall.

“Vaegon?”

He raised a thin finger, eyes sharp. We’re being watched, was the silent warning. She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ll go supervise Gael and the children, please do not be late for supper. It’ll help us all to spend some time together.”

Vaegon exchanged a meaningful glance before nodding and making way outside of the chambers. Suddenly, she felt a shiver run down her spine and she trailed behind him. She also wanted to leave Harrenhal as soon as possible.

Aegon had once told her of what war was like. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Friends dying, enemies surviving against all odds. The terror that you might be next. The battlefield was hell, he had said. Beautiful, glorious hell.

Now, some thirty years later, those words came to Daenerys unbidden, because the Great Hall of Harrenhal had become a different kind of battlefield — one of soft-spoken threats and shouted promises. Of rivalries and alliances. Of power, and the shifting weight behind it.

The Lords of the Realm had gathered, and the jockeying was at an end. Today, they would choose their King.

Valerion, as expected, had refused any claim from the start, declaring that his interests lay with Winterfell and that the only voice he honored was that of the Stark. He had no intentions of claiming a throne that wasn't his to covet nor to oppose his liege lord. His speech had been candid and direct.

From what Daenerys had gleaned during whispered conferences with both Aerys and Otto Hightower, it was clear that in the days leading up to the council, Gaemon and Lord Corlys Velaryon had each sought to turn votes in their favor—seeking alliances, brokering promises— all in the goal of casting support for their preferred candidate. The effort had not gone unnoticed. Among the Riverlords, especially, discontent festered at Gaemon’s prompt dismissal from real consideration—fifth son was the phrase repeated in hissing councils and shouted from the farthest benches, a bitter refrain that spoke to old affronts and clear snubs.

Lord Grover Tully and his closest allies were wary of the Lord of Harrenhal and his friends, and were willing to follow Aerys as loyal subjects to House Targaryen. Or so Otto Hightower claimed.

Master Perenno had delivered Saera’s latest flurry of proposals, each more outrageous than the last. She paraded her amassed wealth from the Free Cities and Slaver’s Bay—villas in Lys, merchant fleets in Volantis, a sapphire-studded palace somewhere along the Rhoyne—and offered a generous share to any who might lend support to her sons. There was even mention, half in jest and fully provocative, of an island "modestly larger than Driftmark" as a gift, meant as much to enrage Corlys Velaryon as to tempt the grasping.

Across the hall, the more devout and law-bound lords—her own brother Valerion among them—could barely conceal their disdain. The so-called Queen of Whores might as well have spat at their feet.

Daenerys was grateful the children had not been present for that display. When the matter was raised, she made the ruling clear, her voice ringing with the finality of law and memory:

“Princess Saera was disinherited the day she refused to return to her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon. Any children of her blood—bastard or legitimate—are barred from succession, as decreed by the late King Jaehaerys and confirmed by then-Prince of Dragonstone, King Aegon II, and then-Hand of the King Prince Baelon. Nothing has changed.”

And so, with challenges fallen and minor claims set aside, the contest for the Iron Throne coalesced at last around a single fractious point: Prince Aerys, firstborn son of the firstborn son, heir to King Aegon II—a prince many lords deemed weak-willed and unmartial, while others praised his studious nature and claimed his ascension should never have been brought into question.

Opposite him stood Lord Viserys Skyfyre, eldest son of Prince Baelon, charming, courteous, a peacemaker by instinct. To some, Viserys's even temper was balm for a battered realm, but some whispered the man was craven and prone to gluttony. That he had been the last rider of Balerion the Black Dread impressed some, but just as many pointed out the old dragon had died not a year after Viserys claimed him—a sure sign that he was never meant for greatness.

Daenerys found herself perched on the royal dais, Gael’s fingers knotted tightly in hers, prayer beads slipping through their joined hands. On her right, Rhaenys sat rigid, her face a mask of iron calm.

“We should never have agreed to this farce,” Rhaenys muttered, shaking her head, voice pitched low. “I told Aerys, but—”

“It’s done, Rhaenys,” Daenerys replied, squeezing her hand gently. “The board is set, and we've played every piece we can for your claim. All we can do now is watch the game play out.” Rhaenys’ lips thinned with worry. “Do you trust Daeron?”

Rhaenys allowed herself a brief, wry smile. “No. But Lady Rhea swears he could charm the feathers off a raven if it suited him, and I witnessed him trounce Otto Hightower in debate more times than I care to remember.” Her gaze flickered to the opposing dais, where the Skyfyres gathered calm smiles on their faces. “It’s him I mistrust. Words as sweet as honey, knives concealed beneath.”

Daenerys exhaled. “We will see.”

The low hum of tension deepened as Grand Maester Runciter rose, his gravitas immediately commanding attention. He spoke as if his words were amplified by the ancient stones, echoing through the impossibly high vaults of the hall, so all could hear him.

“My lords and ladies, princes of the blood, and honored guests from afar,” he intoned, his voice clear and ringing, “We have reached the final day of these momentous deliberations. Every voice bearing a claim has been heard. Now comes the hour of decision: who among these princes shall rule, and to whom will the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee?”

The air shivered with excitement and anxiety as murmurs swept through the gathered lords and ladies.

“The last speakers will now come forward to make their closing arguments on behalf of their claimants. I call upon Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, Knight of Sorrows and consort-apparent of Runestone. And Ser Daemon of House Skyfyre, Knight of Grey Gallows.”

As Daeron rose, Daenerys caught the subtle squeeze of comfort as his hand slipped away from his wife’s. Daeron himself stood apart from the glittering image of their house: smaller than his kinsmen, with neither the silver-gold mane nor amethyst eyes. Wry, sharp-eyed, perpetually tousled, he seemed born to be overlooked by strangers—until he spoke.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, standing before them with a thin, knowing smile, “after all these days of wheels within wheels and whispered bargains in dark corners, you must be near exhaustion—and more than a little bored.” A few nervous titters broke out, though many faces remained stony. “So let us be plain: we should not even be weighing this—a king’s right as ‘obvious as daylight’.” He swept an open hand toward the dais, where Aerys sat uncomfortably between Otto Hightower and Rhaenys. “Since the days of the Andals, the laws of succession have held firm: a son follows his father. No shadow of doubt should cloud that truth here, not now.”

A loud voice broke the hush, rising from the Blackwood ranks. “But there is doubt!” The lord called, lip curled in challenge. “Prince Aegon was never crowned. He never truly ruled!”

Daeron inclined his head, acknowledging the objection with a gracious tilt. “He sat the Iron Throne,” he replied, voice crisp, hands clasped behind his back as if teaching quarrelsome squires. “Decrees were issued in his name. His seal and sign bore the burden of the realm. To rule is not always to wear a crown, but to act as the realm’s steward—that he did.”

“Briefly!” came a sharp retort from the stormlander benches, thick with derision. “Three moons, then gone—dead in the middle of the night!”

A ripple of harsh laughter swept through the benches before being cut short by an icy glare from the Hightower men.

Unfazed, Daeron spread his hands, voice tightening just enough to command attention. “Yet those three moons saw peace kept, judgments rendered, and knees bent."

Another voice, softer but urgent, piped up from the Reachmen. “If he was so worthy why did Jaehaerys speak so harshly of him, call him unfit?”

Daeron smiled almost pityingly—as if coaxing a slow-witted child. “My grandfather loved his quarrels more than most lords love their wives. There was not a soul at court who did not hear father and son clash often and loudly. But when the realm needed peace, it was Aegon sent to treat with mountain chiefs, to burn Morion the Mad at sea, to parlay with Essos when others would not even try. Even through grief—through loss more bitter than any of you can know—he served the realm, marred by scandal, perhaps, but unbowed by sorrow.”

A low rumble of dissent. Somewhere, a Vale lord shouted, “We take the word of the King who sent him away!”

Daeron snapped: “The King who welcomed him back! Who named him envoy, peacemaker, heir. My father did not return as a castaway, but as a son, a trusted hand.”

A snort from the Westerlands. “Trusted hand? Maybe once all other options were expended — Barth, Baelon, Ser Ryam Redwyne for fuck's sake.”

That one stung. Daeron’s fingers clenched behind his back, his composure cracking for half a breath before he pressed on.

“Shall the son pay for the sins of the father?” he challenged, voice sharp as a blade’s edge. “Is this the council of lords, or the court of old grudges? Speak then of Prince Aerys—your true king. A scholar by nature, taught by the Conciliator himself, knighted by beloved Prince Aemon, tempered in service and study, not in indulgence and vice.”

A ripple of approval stirred, scattered voices calling their agreement, though still pierced by mutters of dissent.

He pressed forward, grasping at lineage. “Shall we forget that he rides Silverwing, as the Good Queen did? That he has sired heirs strong in both blood and bone? Would Queen Alysanne, may the gods keep her, have called him unworthy?”

The hall erupted into low hisses and sharp whispers, like a rising wind stirring restless leaves. Supporters and naysayers alike were growing more animated, leaving the prince adrift.

Daeron’s jaw tightened, and when he tried to speak again, his words were swallowed by the growing tumult. His gaze cut toward Otto Hightower, sharp and expectant.

And then—Daemon stepped forward.

No call for silence. No need. He thrived amid the uproar.

He began to clap, slow and deliberate. “Touching, cousin. A stirring speech—no doubt well-rehearsed in front of your flock.” He tossed a pointed grin toward Rhea Royce, met only by her unflinching, stony gaze.

Laughter. Nervous, uneasy.

Daemon turned, addressing the assembled lords. “But tell me, my lords—why should we care what Good Queen Alysanne, blessed though she be, once said of Aerys the Weakling? What does it matter what the dead believed, when it is the living who shape history, who get to choose?” His gaze swept the hall. “Isn’t this why the Princess Regent gathered us? To decide who shall rule—or maybe to expose the ruin that Aegon of Dragonstone left behind? Even dead, the man vexes us at every turn! Haven’t you all had enough of this farce? Are we here to preserve the realm of the Conciliator, or watch his failing son’s line drag us all to ruin?”

“My father, Prince Baelon the Brave,” he pressed on, gesturing grandly, “never hid behind maesters' scrolls. He rode Vhagar before most of you could name your own banners. Hand of the King, defender of the realm—when the Stepstones burned, when pirates raided your coasts, did you call for Aegon? Or Baelon?”

From the Stormlands: “It was Baelon we trusted!”

From the Crownlands: “But Baelon is gone!”

Daemon didn’t miss a beat. “Then let his legacy live in his blood.” He threw an arm toward his brother. “Lord Viserys—who rules the Stepstones, who fills your coffers with gold from the East. How many of your ships sail safe today because of him? How many of your daughters wear jewels from Lys or Volantis, bought with his trade?”

A murmur of grudging agreement from the Lords of Lannisport.

But a voice from the Riverlands cut through, angry as thunder: “And how long before Viserys sells the crown for lamprey pie and a finer cup of wine?”

Daemon turned, slowly, dangerously, to the source. "My brother would rather spill wine than blood, Lord Bracken, but I assure you I have no such compunctions. Mind your tongue."

A hush.

Daemon let the silence stretch, clearly relishing the discomfort. Then, more softly, almost mockingly, he spoke: “My dearest cousin was too ashamed to admit it, but his father was seen at the Wall after the Old King’s sudden illness. Am I wrong, Lord Blackwood?”

A man cloaked in raven-feathers, sitting opposite Lord Bracken, stood and replied, “You are correct, Ser. My cousin, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, wrote to me personally.”

Daeron groaned, audibly. “Are we doing this again, Daemon?” He turned to Lord Blackwood, exasperation in every line of his face. “My lord, this is pointless. From the first day, it’s been proven—my father never took the black, took no vows. There are more witnesses than candles in this hall.”

Daemon’s smile was knife-sharp. “Is that so? So you’re calling Lord Blackwood a liar now?”

“I’m calling you a fool and a liar, Daemon. It’s no wonder you keep pissing on my father’s grave, desperate for scraps after the argument’s already been lost.”

A few lords sucked in their breath. Daemon only grinned wider, taunting. “Come now, Daeron, is that the best you can do? When you speak of witnesses, do you mean Prince Valerion? A man with so little spine he wouldn't even speak for his own claim?”

All eyes turned to Valerion, standing beside Lord Dustin and Cerwyn. He folded his arms, jaw set. “If you mean to question my courage, nephew, perhaps you shouldn't be afraid to say such to my face. Or perhaps we should take this to the training yard? ”

Daemon gave a snort. “Did your master give you permission to speak, dog? If Stark lets go of your leash—”

The simmering tension finally cracked. Shouts and wagers rippled through the hall as men called for a fight. Grand Maester Rucinter rose, robes trailing, and thundered for order.

“My lords, enough!”

Daemon shrugged, feigning indifference. “The rumors spin, and the stories linger. Aegon the Quarrelsome’s life was scandal made flesh.”

Daeron scoffed, his patience snapped. “You want scandal, cousin? Shall we air yours as well? How many here know your grandest exploit—storming the Red Keep, sword in hand, to threaten our Princess Regent, your own blood?” He swept a hand, drawing every gaze from Daemon to Daenerys.

The hall broke into murmurs and gasps; gazes shifted anxiously between Daemon and Daenerys.

She lifted her chin—not from arrogance, but pride—though cold sweat prickled at her brow. Daemon looked at her, eyes hot and angry, but also tinged with shame.

“I have witnesses—a great many,” Daeron pressed, unflinching. “If you’re alive today, it’s only for the love she bears you, cousin. Remember her mercy, for had you succeeded in your feeble attempt to crown your brother, your head would be decorating the Red Keep’s walls.” His gaze slid to Viserys. “Isn’t that right, Lord Viserys?”

Viserys stiffened, his face flushing with shame or fury—it was impossible to tell. His fists curled white atop his knees. She could see his moustache tremble with discomfort.

“Yes…” he muttered, barely louder than a whisper.

Daeron was merciless. “Speak up, cousin. Would you have shown the same mercy Daemon never did?”

But before Viserys could answer, Daemon strode forward, looming. Scene and sight—Daemon, lean and tall, glaring down at thick, small Daeron, who looked up undaunted—might’ve brought laughter, if not for the tension that bit at every nerve. The Kingsguard tensed, hands lowering to sword hilts.

Neither prince wore visible arms, but Daenerys remembered Daeron once maddeningly claimed 'you can never have too many knives, Aunt.'

Then a new voice rang out—calm, papery, slicing through the tension like a bell in the fog. An Archmaester, hands lifted high.

“Enough.”

Slowly, unwillingly, the assembly fell quiet, like wolves forced from a carcass.

“The Lords will deliberate,” the Archmaester intoned, almost weary. “And may they do so in wisdom, not in wrath.”

She couldn’t stand to hear the final vote. She stood up, touching Rhaenys’ shoulder.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

“I need fresh air,” she said kindly. “Meet me at the Sept when this is over.”

Vaegon focused on the room ahead, his face as still as stone as the Lords deliberated. The absence of Daenerys had not escaped notice—it was murmured in hushed tones among the family still gathered.

“Where did she go?” Aerys asked, as he had approached the high table, after engaging in an artificially pleasant talk with the Arhcmaesters and Grand Maester, his voice barely above a whisper and jittery. For all his attempts at subtlety, the tension pulled taut across his face was impossible to miss.

“To pray, most certainly,” Vaegon replied, his tone neutral, almost dismissive. He did not bother to look at the younger man, his gaze fixed resolutely forward.

Vaegon sat apart from the family now, placed among the other Archmaesters. It was a deliberate separation, one designed to avoid further discourse over his presence here. He had heard enough on the road from Oldtown—accusations whispered like venom. Some claimed he was meddling, a Maester who refused to relinquish the pride of his Targaryen blood.

They were not entirely wrong. He cursed Aegon still, quietly, for putting him in this untenable position. But his inner wrath was reserved for himself—for allowing the man to not only pull him back into the family’s web but to buy his loyalty outright.

His fingers tightened over the arms of his seat. He inhaled sharply, trying to dispel the weight pressing against his chest as he let his gaze trace the clear lines that divided the realm before him.

He already knew the outcome, clearer than most dreams. Aerys was to win—that much was certain. That dream had been sharp, the kind that left no room for doubt. But then there were the other dreams, the ones that left questions instead of answers, doubts instead of revelations. He could not see the aftermath.

Perhaps that was why he hated his dreams most: they showed him triumph, then left him stranded at the precipice.

The lords still had an hour or more to deliberate, their voices rising and falling in argument before the voting commenced.

Daeron’s speech was... acceptable. Convincing, even—if one ignored how his sharp disdain grated against his audience instead of charming them. The boy had talent, yes, but not the tact required for this particular stage. By contrast, Daemon Skyfyre had spoken in fewer words, his argument sharper, more grandiose. Fewer threads, fewer complications. There was a simplicity to it, one that even Vaegon, in his pragmatic distaste for all this, could admit was effective.

Daenerys had confided in him beforehand how much had been sacrificed to weave every thread, to pull every string, to bind every loose knot into place. Favors called, coffers emptied, debts incurred—all to construct this farce of an outcome.

And still, the hours dragged. His watered-down wine tasted like vinegar to him, though he drank from it absently, the motions a distraction more than a comfort. Beneath his robes, his fingers curled together tightly, hiding the small tremor in his hand. He stared down into his cup as the din of voices continued around him, clattering against his ears like the clattering of swords against shields.

Finally, Archmaester Cressen, who bore the bronze ring and rod of history, raised his staff, calling for order. The sound rang across the chamber, silencing the lords, the whispers, the restless movements.

“Let us begin,” the Archmaester intoned, his voice echoing through the tense hall. "The North speaks first.”

A cold draft stirred the banners overhead and Vaegon stiffened. Was it the wind—or something else, watching?

Lord Rickon Stark rose. "House Stark and the North speak for the line of Aegon. Our vote is for Prince Aerys Targaryen."

A low murmur rippled through the chamber—not surprising, but heavy with significance nonetheless.

"The Vale of Arryn!" Cressen called.

Lord Yorbert Royce stepped forward, his hand resting intentionally on the ornate pommel of his sword, the Valyrian steel blade Lamentation. "The Vale stands with Prince Aerys, firstborn of the firstborn.”

Some cheers erupted from his bannermen, but suddenly Lady Hunter’s voice rang out from the benches. "House Hunter votes for Viserys!"

The hall froze for a beat before a ripple of shock and noise surged through it like a rising tide.

"The Vale's voice is—" the Archmaester began, but Lady Hunter cut him down with a sharp bark: "Split! The Vale is split! We have no single voice!"

The roar of competing cries was like a clap of thunder.

"Split vote!"

"Count it separate!"

"The Lord Regent’s word holds!"

"Not today, it doesn’t!"

The Grand Maester leaned in, whispering to the Cressen. After a tense pause, the staff struck the floor with a crack, calling the room to silence. “The Vale Lords must present, then, their split voices!”

Lord Yorbert Royce exchanged looks with his peers and Vaegon watched how the group argued amongst themselves. Royce had gambled on a clean outcome, it seemed, and this turn of events seemed to displease him greatly.

They rose one by one, Waynwood, Grafton, the Arryns of Gulltown, Sunderly, Corbray, Redfort, Belmore and minor lords voted one way or another, amongst cheers and jeers. When Lord Royce voted in both the name of House Arryn and House Royce someone in the crowd — Lord Corbray — had complained and Rhea Royce stood amongst the Royal Family dais.

“House Royce of Runestone votes for Aerys Targaryen.” No flourish, nothing beyond a flat delivery.

Vaegon found the whole thing oddly amusing.

"The Reach!"

Lord Tyrell stood, calm and collected, though his presence seemed to loom larger than the hall itself. "House Tyrell casts its voice for Prince Aerys."

Relief began to ripple through the Aerys faction—but not for long.

A younger lord from the Reach rose sharply. "House Peake stands for Viserys!"

More gasps. A storm of voices rose into chaos as bannermen from the Reach hurled shouts of loyalty—or disdain. This time, the Archmaester had to strike his staff against the floor twice to restore order.

Other Reach Houses threw their votes for Viserys, but they were the minority. Vaegon assumed the hard toil of Otto Hightower had won them the region.

"The Stormlands!"

Lord Borros Baratheon did not so much rise as erupt. "PRETENDERS, THE LOT OF THEM! I AM THE RIGHTFUL HEIR OF AEGON THE CONQUEROR! ROYAL THROUGH QUEEN ARGELLA DURRANDON AND PRINCESS AEREA TARGARYEN!”

A coterie of Stormlanders erupted in response, pounding their fists against the tables in thunderous approval. But they were the minority and even some of Borros's bannermen groaned in exasperation.

Vaegon, seated with his usual detachment, spared only a glance at the Archmaesters’ faces as they soured with disdain. Across the hall, lords and ladies stifled laughter behind their hands, though a few openly smirked.

Finally, Grand Maester Runciter raised his hands and waited for the hall to quiet. He spoke with deliberate patience, the sort often reserved for unruly children or fools.

“Lord Borros,” he began calmly, “your mother had no claim to the Iron Throne.”

“But she did! She—”

“The Princess Aerea, much like her sister, Septa Rhaelle, was dismissed by their mother, Queen Rhaena, and excluded from the line of succession,” Runciter explained, his voice even, though the pitying tone beneath it was unmistakable.

Borros opened his mouth, but the Grand Maester pressed on mercilessly, every word cutting like a blade.

“King Jaehaerys once considered Aerea his heir before the birth of Prince Aegon of Dragonstone. But with each new child born to King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, Aerea dropped further and further in the line of succession. Furthermore,” Runciter added with a deliberate pause to let the final blow land, “even if Princess Aerea had been restored to the succession after that, she married your father, Lord Boremund Baratheon, without the King’s leave. It was, therefore, a morganatic marriage.” His voice hardened. “Any child of that union is not and will never be recognized for succession to the Iron Throne.”

A stunned silence fell over Borros, his face coloring in outrage, each word from Runciter landing like a warhammer on his fragile pride.

When the silence shattered, it did so gloriously. The Stormlords erupted into chaos—thundering voices clashing as men and women squabbled at the humiliation of their lord. If the Reachmen had been loud and unruly, requiring repeated calls for order, the Stormlanders went further. They were finally subdued only when the guards of Harrenhal stepped in, their presence grim enough to quiet all but the most boisterous.

At last, the votes were cast, though the process was slow, sullen, and punctuated by curt jabs between rival Stormland houses.

Borros Baratheon himself refused to speak. His face burned scarlet, his chest heaving with poorly restrained fury. Sulking like a chastened boy, he abstained from the vote entirely, muttering under his breath about his mother, his rights, and the injustice of it all.

Vaegon observed this final indignity with mild amusement.

"The Westerlands!"

Lord Tymond Lannister rose slowly, a smirk curling his lips. "The Rock votes for Prince Aerys. For stability... and silver."

The jeering came full force this time, hissing from across the hall. "Selling your votes, Lannister dogs!"

And so it went, over and over. Some lords were loud, others direct, up and down, left and right, most voiced their grievances alongside their votes and Vaegon mused how much of this fractured realm would Aerys manage to fix or further break.

“The Iron Islands!” Cressen continued, as a small gap of calm whispering took over the hall.

Lord Greyjoy had risen, speaking a clipped guttural Common twisted by the sharpness of the Iron Tongue, declaring for Viserys with the blunt pride of a man who cared little for crowns unless he wore them himself. He had even boasted that, had he wished, he would have challenged for the throne—and gods help them all if he had.

For once, the hall found unity in outrage. Lords and ladies of every shore turned their fury on a common enemy, voices clashing until, once more, the guards of Harrenhal had to be involved. Regardless, the Ironborn group seemed to enjoy the chaos they had created, smiling smuggly on their little corner.

“And finally, the Riverlands!”

When the Riverlands were called, something caught Vaegon’s eye. Movement. Gaemon was whispering amongst certain of his bannermen, quiet words exchanged, faces shifting from resolute to hesitant under his gaze.

Vaegon arched an eyebrow. What are you playing at, Gaemon?

Lord Grover Tully stood tall, hands on his sword belt. "House Tully stands with the true king. We cast our vote for Prince Aerys!”

Cheers rang through the hall, overpowering the jeers. Before the sound could settle, a second voice cut through.

“We of Harrenhal join our voices with our liege lord.” Declared Prince Gaemon, face oddly pleased. “House Dragonfyre… recognizes Aerys Targaryen as the rightful King.”

Behind Vaegon, the maesters whispered in a frantic hum.

The hall began to tremble under the weight of the building tension. The Archmaester raised his staff, silencing the crowd as seven pairs of eyes—Vaegon’s included—watched Grand Maester Runciter deliver a slip of parchment.

Vaegon barely glanced at the numbers being passed along to the Archmaesters. The tally itself meant little to him. What held his attention was Gaemon.

His brother stood a few tables away, too smug by half, speaking smoothly to his bannermen and trading faint smiles among his peers. Vaegon’s stomach tightened at the sight. Gaemon’s eyes flicked toward him suddenly, catching him in their grip, and winked in acknowledgment.

It reeked of triumph. He felt the blood rise in his cheeks and clenched his teeth, pressing the swell of unease deep into his gut. Gaemon had been angling for the Throne the moment he realized there was a path to reach it.

And Daenerys—pragmatic and keen-eyed as ever—had claimed in private that Gaemon would have made sure their brother Aegon never returned from the Wall alive, had circumstances favored him.

So why, in the Father's name, the sudden change of heart? What was Vaegon too blind to see?

A sharp voice dragged him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“The counting has concluded!”

Archmaester Cressen’s words rang out, crisp and final. Behind him, the other Archmaesters rose with solemn gravity, lending the moment the weight it demanded.

“Prince Aerys of House Targaryen,” Cressen intoned, “follows in the footsteps of his father and ancestors.”

The hall seemed to hold its breath, suspended by the moment of silence that followed.

And then—it shattered.

A thunderous roar of cheers erupted from one side, while bitter shouts and the slamming of fists perforated the other.

Aerys rose slowly, as though the weight of the crown had already settled on his shoulders. His face was taut with shock, eyes wide as Otto Hightower triumphantly strode forward.

“All hail King Aerys, First of His Name!” Otto’s voice thundered above the chaos, his tone carrying all the certainty of fate itself. “King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

As the room erupted into frenzied celebration and outrage, Vaegon sat back in his seat, tucking his hands into his robes.

And so it begins.

Chapter Text

“Well done, Ser Otto! Well done!” Aerys said, rising from his seat. Their wine goblets met with a clank, precious Arbor gold spilling over the side.

They were in Aerys’s solar — the King’s solar. Otto had only just arrived back to King’s Landing, and already Aerys had cleared out his father’s affects and made the place his own. Jaehaerys had favored simple, tasteful decoration. Aegon had bordered on spartan, the only decoration a painting of Prince Morion’s Madness. Aerys did neither.

A great tapestry of Targaryen history dominated the wall. Vivid depictions of dragons, flames, and silver haired, purple-eyes demigods stretched from Aegon the Conqueror to Daenys the Dreamer and beyond. Marble busts of every Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne loomed behind the King — any supplicant to sit where Otto sat now would be faced with a row of unblinking amethyst eyes boring down on them.

Fine furniture carved from weirwood in the shape of dragons and inset with silver bore goose-down cushions of purple silk. The crystal chandelier sparkled and refracted the flames from the mother of pearl fireplace. Myrish rugs of finest quality made a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns across the floor.

And Otto had just spilled wine on it.

“Damn,” he said.

“Oh, leave it.” Aerys laughed. “If the cost of a kingdom is a bit of spilled wine on the rug, I count it a bargain well struck!”

“Seven Kingdoms, if we’re being technical Your Grace,” Otto said innocently.

“Don’t be cocky, Ser Otto.” Aerys grinned, shaking a finger in mock seriousness. “At that price I may have you find me a few more.” He looked to the bottle on the desk. “Though it’d be a damn shame to waste such good wine.”

“I’m sure Lord Redwyne could spare his King a few bottles.”

Aerys’s face split into a wide grin. “His King. I’m still getting used to it, but it is capital to hear! Just capital!”

Otto laughed. Genuinely. Joyfully. He had labored so long for this very moment, and not only for the spectacle of the Claimant’s Parade, as folk had begun to call it. Years spent studying at the Citadel, earning his spurs. Years making himself indispensable and well-respected. Years of work, with years ahead.

“To Aerys Targaryen! The First of His Name!” Otto raised his goblet.

“To Otto Hightower! Hand of the King!” Aerys answered, raising his own. The toast this time was much more controlled, for it was well-practiced.

They had begun the ritual when they were boys, drinking watered down wine from wooden cups. Now they were men, and they drank the finest wines from the finest goblets, sipping in contented silence.

“This really is damn good wine,” Aerys said, picking up the bottle. “What vintage did you say it was?”

“18 AC,” Otto said. “The year my great-grandfather visited the Arbor. It was a gift from Helen’s father at our wedding.”

“That’s right!” Aerys snapped his fingers. “I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t let us open it at the wedding feast! I damn near had you arrested for treason! Good on the Redwynes, old chum! I certainly know how to pick them!” He gave a salute.

Otto barked a laugh. “As I recall, you bade me court Alyrie Florent.”

He gasped in offense. “Only for a moment! How was I to know she had a stutter?”

“I asked her what river flowed through Ashford and she said the Cock-cock-cockleswent!” Otto guffawed.

“Cockleswent!” Aerys bellowed laughing, slamming his fist on the desk. The wine sloshed around again, but thankfully refrained from spilling further. He wiped a tear from his eye, and said. “Good times. Good times. Shall we get on with it?”

“But of course, Your Grace.” Otto said, inclining his head. “The realm never sleeps.”

Otto unrolled a parchment and cleared his throat. “You have the floor, Your Grace.”

“Always taking notes, Ser Otto.” Aerys smiled and clapped his hands. “On to business then! My Small Council!”

“Hand of the King?” Otto asked, quill poised.

“I was thinking Lord Reyne. He’s got a capital quality about him and his wif— oh, don’t look at me like that! Of course it’s you!”

Otto let loose his breath in a strangled gurgling chuckle. I thought my heart stopped.

“We did this together, Ser Otto. It will be as we’ve schemed since we were children. I will sit the Iron Throne, and you’ll… do all the rest.” He smiled sheepishly and then nodded his head. “When we are through here, I want you to send word across the realm and to Essos — I want you to bring me the finest painters, masons, glass blowers, whatever skilled artisan you can find! My grandfather left the kingdoms his roads, and I will leave them works of art.”

“I will see it done, Your Grace,” Otto said with a small smile on his lips. “Though an undertaking such as this will require our coffers are well managed.”

“And you are absolutely right on that. Who do we have for Master of Coin?”

“Lyman Beesbury has served your grandfather ably in that capacity these last years. It would not be impractical to keep him on.”

“Beesbury voted for Viserys, so he can buzz off back to Honeyholt.” Aerys flicked a hand at an imaginary bee for emphasis. “Besides, it is a new time for new men! Nobody old enough to be my father, let alone my grandfather!”

Otto scratched a note down. “Duly noted.”

“I want Daeron to take on the role. He’s always had a knack for counting coppers, and I would not waste his utility counting sheep or whatever it is he does at Runestone. We may have to suffer Rhea more frequently, but I’m willing to pay that toll if I’m drunk enough.” He took a long drink of wine for emphasis.

Otto continued writing as his mind worked. It was not a bad choice by any means. Prince Daeron did indeed have a knack for “counting coppers” and it would serve to further tie the Vale to them. Lady Rhea Royce was something of an imposition — caustic, over-mighty, and imperious in Otto’s opinion — but Prince Daeron would brook no word spoken against her. With luck, she would prefer to stay at Runestone.

“A sound choice, Your Grace,” Otto said, and meant it.

“Master of Ships? I promised that to your goodfather didn’t I?”

“You did, Your Grace. Lord Redwyne was instrumental in locking down support along the shipping lanes. We also agreed for him to take on Lord Lannister’s son, Tyland, as an apprentice.”

“Right. The Sea Snake will stew at that, but that’s what he gets for trying to sit the fence. Master of Whispers?”

“The Queen has thoughts on that one, actually. She means to offer the post to a Braavosi information broker — one Maryros Ostys. His skills come highly recommended from multiple sources and it could serve well to grant the Queen this one thing.”

“As if I need bribe her to get her in my bed? You do her a disservice, my friend.” Aerys chided, gently. “If Rhaenys had been born with a cock, they may very well have picked her over myself or Viserys. I mean for the Queen to have a voice in my council, at least equal to yours. If Rhaenys has done the research, then damn it, why are we continuing to talk about it? Send for the man with all haste.”

Otto pursed his lips, displeased at that stipulation. But it afforded an opportunity to address a matter that had been weighing on him. “If what you say is true, then I must echo the Queen's pleas and ask you to reconsider your plans for your children.”

Aerys’s face soured. “It’s a good idea, Otto,” He whined, rubbing at his temples. “Betrothing my children to Viserys’s shows my goodwill — that I am gracious in victory. It will tie the Skyfyres back into the royal line and silence any more bellyaching.”

“It rewards borderline treason, Your Grace. It gives your biggest detractor too much power.”

“Viserys is my friend!” Aerys snapped, offended.

“I was referring to Ser Daemon,” Otto said.

Aerys grimaced. He was silent for a moment, as if he was carefully considering Otto's words. “You may have a point there. Fine! Aelyx will marry Vaelon — I will not be swayed there — and we’ll table the discussion about Aemon and Rhaenyra. Does that satisfy you?”

Hardly. “Acceptably so, Your Grace.”

“Since I know you won’t let me name Viserys Master of Laws,” Aerys grumbled, “I thought to offer the post to Uncle Gaemon.”

Otto fought a flash of irritation. “Is that wise, Your Grace?”

“Gracious in victory, Otto! Gaemon saw the light in the end, and voted my way — a gesture that grants a reward, I would say. My father sowed too much division amongst the Blood of the Dragon, and I mean to bind the wounds closed.”

The words suddenly felt heavy between them, the old merriment quickly replaced by a sense of foreboding. He put his quill back on the desk, as Aerys’s face soured and he exhaled, deflating slightly in his chair. “Well, might as well deal with this now, right?”

He looked pointedly at the closed door. Otto followed his gaze and nodded, as Aerys slid the lacquered box from his sleeve. Taking a rather large pinch of stardust, he called “He may enter, Ser Ryam!” And inhaled the inky powder with a shudder.

The door opened and the voice of Ser Ryam Redwyne announced from the hall, “Prince Maegor, Your Grace.”

Tall and broad, Maegor filled the doorway as he crossed the threshold. He was dressed plainly, if richly, except for the embroidered lily over his heart. His huge, scarred knuckles clenched and unclenched unconsciously as he gave Aerys a respectful bow. “You sent for me, my King?” Ser Ryam trailed in after him, taking up position at the door.

“Brother!” Aerys called jovially. “Come in! Come in! None of that “king” business here! We’re family!”

“As you say, Your Grace.” Maegor responded flatly. Aerys’s face twitched at that, but he said nothing, instead he smiled.

"It's been a mad season, hasn't it? But we've won this war, and now to secure the peace..."

“I would hardly call the Claimant’s Parade a war,” Maegor said, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s an expression, brother.” Aerys rolled his eyes. “I swear, you and Father. Whatever. I’ve won the throne, and now it’s time to make sure I keep it." He paused, then grinned. "And I've a task—an honor, if you will—for you."

Maegor's jaw tensed. "What sort of honor?"

Aerys waived airily. "A marriage arrangement. Part of the bargain that brought the North to our cause. A lord with only daughters, proud lineage. It suits you, I think."

“Who? Where?” Maegor said through clenched teeth, voice dangerously low. Behind him, Ser Ryam calmly placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Aerys met Maegor’s gaze without flinching and said. “Lady Robyn Mormont. Of Bear Island.”

Maegor huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Bear Island? Are you jesting?”

“No.” Aerys said defensively. “As I said, it was part of the deal that won me the North. I thought you’d be happy.”

“Why in the Gods name would that make me happy?”

“Have you seen the Mormonts? I thought you’d appreciate a wife that’s more—” he gestured broadly at Maegor. “—like you. Besides, Lord Stark tells me, well Lord Stark tells Otto who tells me, that the wildlings have been growing bolder in past years. He’s certain it’s only a matter of time before they mount a major offensive.”

“I’m to fight wildings for you?” Maegor asked archly.

“As Lord Marshal of the Gift! Do you like it? It’s a title I came up with.” Aerys grinned. “You, and your future children, will take stewardship of the lands grandmother gave to support the Night’s Watch. You will administer the lands south of the Wall, so the Watch can focus on the lands North of it, and if the day comes that the Wildlings cross it.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “My steel fist will be there to meet them!”

“Was this your idea, Ser?” Maegor turned to Otto, eyes narrowing, and Otto shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Don’t look at him like that!” Aerys snapped. “It was my idea. Again, I thought you’d be happy. Don’t you remember those bandits in the Kingswood a few years back? You handled them so—” Aerys fumbled, moving his hand about indecisively.

“Effectively?” Otto offered.

“I was fishing for a word more candid than brutal.” Aerys replied. “The point being, I want you there to show those savages that here be dragons!” He punctuated the final words by jabbing his finger into the desk.

“The Northmen or the Wildlings?” Maegor asked flatly.

“Whichever answer suits you, little brother.” Aerys waved a hand dismissively.

Maegor pursed his lips, placed a hand over his heart, and said, very formally. “Though you honor me, I am afraid I must decline my King’s request.”

“Request.” Aerys repeated, voice growing cold. “I didn’t “request” anything, little brother. I gave you a command, and you spat in my face.” His expression lightened, remarkably quickly. “But I am not entirely unreasonable. I have another option for your consideration. Ser Harald?” He called.

Ser Harald Westerling swept into the room, a package in his hands. He set it on the desk, gave his king a bow, a nod to Prince Maegor, and left the room just as quickly as he’d entered, his white cloak billowing behind him. Aerys gestured at the package. “Go on. Open it.”

Maegor stepped forward, eyes wary. With trembling hands, he gently unwrapped the package, freezing as he saw what was inside. Pristine, with the earthy scent of fresh wool, a white cloak stared up at Maegor’s horrified face. A three-headed dragon wrought in silver lay atop the folded bundle.

Maegor recoiled slightly. “I don’t want this.” He whispered, voice rough with shock.

“Grandfather thought it an excellent idea when I first broached the subject to him.” Maegor’s head snapped up at that. “And I mean to be a king more in his vein, than Father’s.”

“Father told me I could marry Gael. He said he would talk to Grandfather about it,” Maegor said, voice still hollow.

“Oh, that? They did talk, clearly, and the upset of it killed Grandfather. Bravo on that score.” Aerys sniffed, and Maegor flinched. “I know what Father told you, but I cannot countenance that. I have plans for our dear Gael.”

Otto was surprised to hear the deep rawness of Maegor's voice, as he asked: “What plans?”

“I mean to offer her hand to Aegon Skyfyre.” Maegor’s face paled. “It expends a minimally useful piece in a manner that maximizes her utility — it will indebt Daemon’s biggest supporter to me without granting him more power.”

A politically canny move, Otto was not afraid to admit. He had been surprised when Aerys had first broached the idea.

“Minimally useful.” Maegor repeated, face coloring, fists clenching once more. “Gael is more than that.”

Aerys waved his objection away with a flick of his wrist. “I know you’re sweet on her, but be realistic here. She comes with no armies, no lands, no dowry but what I give her. This is the best use for her.”

“She’s not a… a horse to be bartered with.” Maegor snarled. “And neither am I.”

“The pair of you are whatever I damn well tell you to be. I am the King, brother.” Aerys said with a somber smile. “I have given you two promising choices. Which is more courtesy than others are afforded.”

“Piss on your courtesy. I won’t do it.”

“You have no other options.” Aerys drolled, as if explaining it to a slow child.

“I could stay here. Reorganize the City Watch.” Maegor said, voice growing desperate.

“That is beneath a Prince of the Blood.” Aerys scoffed. “And besides, I already have plans for that. Baelon’s by-blow — Ulf, was it, Otto?” Otto nodded. “I mean to appoint him to the role and have him clean up the City Watch.” He nodded in self-satisfaction.

“Then I will leave. I will go to Essos.”

“And take Gael with you? With what coin?” Aerys barked a laugh.

“Father had accounts set up for us with the Iron Bank,” Maegor said quickly. Too quickly. “I have funds.”

Aerys shook his head. “Those are my accounts now brother. I have no documentation stating that any amount of that money belongs to you. You’ll have to make your own way in the world, because if you leave Westeros, you will do it without any support from me or Daeron or Aunt Daenerys or anyone else you’re wracking your brain to think of.”

“Gael—”

“—will stay here.” Aerys interrupted. “I will not allow you to abscond with a Princess of the Blood to be your whore in Essos.” He raised a hand at Maegor’s outrage. “Your wife then. But answer me honestly: is the wife of a sellsword any sort of life to subject her to?”

Maegor remained silent, lips moving soundlessly as he tried to speak only to catch himself.

Aerys leaned back, voice mellifluous and infuriatingly calm. “I intend for the realm to flower with beauty and art. And you, brother, have three ways to see it: by letter, if you serve me as Lord Marshal of the Gift in the arms of your she-bear; by sight, if you wear the white cloak and stand sentinel over our House; or by rumor on foreign shores, as a sellsword guarding cheesemongers or brothels in Essos. The choice is yours.”

Aerys leaned forward, voice iron, “But you do not leave this room until you decide.”

Maegor stared at his brother for a moment, jaw slack, then with trembling hands, he picked up the white cloak.

Aerys’s face split into a wide grin. “Excellent choice brother! Truth be told, I thought Lady Robyn was a bit mannish even for your taste. We’ll have the swearing in before the whole court by the end of the week. You have until then to see to your affairs.” Aerys gave a curt nod of dismissal, and began to drink deeply from his wine goblet.

Maegor remained rooted to the spot, clutching at the white cloak like a drowning man. “Not Aegon,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Anyone but him. Please.”

Aerys set his goblet down with an annoyed huff and watched Maegor behind steepled fingers. After a moment, he spoke, “I will make use of Gael as I see fit. It’s for the best, brother, trust me.” He paused, considering, “I think Grandmother had the right of it all those years ago. I don’t want dark and depressing things hanging like a specter over my reign. Do you take my meaning… Ser Aegor?”

Prince Maegor flinched as if struck and eyed his brother with open-mouthed disbelief. Aerys waited in silence, expectant, until at last Ser Aegor said hollowly, “As his Grace commands.”

Aerys clapped his hands together, smiling in triumph. “Capital!”

Chapter Text

Second Moon of the Crone, 103 AC

Eleventh Moon of the Year

The ceremony felt more fitting for a burial than for a Kingsguard’s investiture.

The cold, steady hush of the sept pressed in from all sides. All week, Gael had pleaded with Daenerys to intercede—to speak, to change Aerys’s mind. Yet Daenerys, for once, found herself at a loss for words or arguments. This wasn’t something that she could simply undo, nor for Gael to stubbornly fight on her own.

It reminded Daenerys of the day Gael had won her right to sleep alone: her first taste of freedom, claimed not long after Maegor came to court. The same stubbornness gleamed in her now, sharper, sadder, unrelenting. A woman's want, not a child's.

Gael and Maegor had clung to each other in those final days—every hour, every hushed moment, and even, the servants informed her, through the night. Daenerys wondered if, like Gaemon and Viserra before them, Gael might try the unthinkable, forcing the matter as scandalously as only Targaryens ever could. But the chambermaids assured her that the bedsheets were always untouched, no sounds spilled beyond their voices.

Daenerys found herself unsure whether to feel relief, or a deeper, aching sadness.

Gael, stubborn and mournful, had pressed for changes to tradition. She wanted to cloak Maegor herself, not simply to stand witness, but to claim her place at his side. Ser Ryam Redwyne had blustered that it was improper—unheard of—but Gael had won Rhaenys’s support, and at last, the old knight relented.

Now, they stood together as the vows were spoken; Daenerys watched with a tight ache in her chest. Gael was clad in mourning black, face pale, her eyes set on Maegor, who gleamed in Kingsguard white. When the vows concluded, she lifted the cloak with trembling fingers, fastening it to his pauldrons with a practiced ease that spoke of careful study. How many times had she rehearsed this moment in private, learning each clasp and buckle?

When complete, instead of stepping aside, as custom demanded, Gael seized Maegor’s face and kissed him. Not with decorum, but with wild, open-mouthed passion—a kiss that sent gasps and nervous titters like sparks through the assembled lords and ladies. Daenerys felt laughter tremble in her chest, tempered only by shock.

Gael lingered for one heartbeat too long, then broke away, trembling as she returned to Daenerys’s side. When Daenerys took her hand, she felt the girl’s fingers shaking, saw tears shining in Gael’s eyes. Across the sept, Aerys’s expression had gone storm-dark with warning.

Maegor lingered dazed, red rising in his ears, as the ceremony staggered on.

At last, the command from Ser Ryam Redwyne: “Rise, Ser Aegor of House Targaryen. A Knight of the Kingsguard”

Gael frowned, glancing sharply at Daenerys. “Aegor? Did he—” Then, realizing, she shot an angry glare toward Aerys. “Oh, Maegor…”

Daenerys lowered her gaze, guilt gnawing at her heart. She should have done something—should have fought harder for her nephew—but the right words had eluded her. The bitter clarity of it all felt painfully familiar, so much like what had happened with Daella before.

Maegor and Gael might yet forgive her. She would never find the words to forgive herself.

Aerys awaited her at the end of the corridor that unspooled toward the Red Keep’s gardens, a golden figure haloed by morning sun. The crisp late winter air carried the scent of the last roses, but warmth lingered on the flagstones. He wore silks of gold and deep red, an effortless grace in his posture, a smile as radiant as any prince from an old song. She noticed he had started growing facial hair, a faint silver moustache, unlike his father who always bore a clean shave face. Daenerys could not deny that, in this moment, her nephew looked every inch the luckiest man alive—a truth she could not, in fairness, dispute.

“You seem in fine spirits today, nephew,” she greeted, a faint frown tightening her face.

His smile only widened. “How could I not be? Everything unfolds as if touched by the gods themselves.” He offered her his arm, which she accepted with an arch of her brow. Together, they turned down the sunlit path as courtiers dipped their heads in deference, the soft hush of trailing silks dusting the morning air.

“What do you make of the Red Keep’s gardens, Aunt?” he asked.

She walked in measured silence, considering. “They are well-tended. Pleasing enough, I’d say.”

“Pleasing?” Aerys echoed. “And the gardens at Dragonstone?”

Daenerys’s smiled slightly at the memory. “Wild, unpredictable—there’s a certain poetry to the brambles and winds there. As children, your father and I, we lost whole summers to those gardens. There was a freedom to the place. Beautiful because it refused to be tamed.”

His gaze turned wistful, almost hungry. “Isn’t it curious, then, that we live in what may be the most ugly and uninspired castle in the realm?”

She paused, surprised by his candor. “I have never thought the Red Keep ugly. Practical, perhaps. A bit severe at the edges. But… ugly?”

Aerys leaned in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush. “Dearest Aunt, in my travels—in the letters I’ve received from far lands—I have glimpsed wonders: palaces across the sea where artistry and ambition walk hand in hand. Here, Aegon and Visenya built with practicality in mind, not beauty. King Aenys was swallowed by troubles, and Maegor stamped his cruelty into every stone. My grandparents mended the wounds of the realm, but never erased the scars of Maegor’s walls. Five decades of peace have been gifted to us. Is it not time, at last, for the Targaryens to build something for the soul as well as for the sword?”

Daenerys lingered in silence, studying her nephew’s face. “And what do you imagine, Aerys?”

He answered, voice dipping lower, as if confiding a secret: “A court that endures, Aunt. Not just in the histories of war, but in the beauty that makes men draw breath and remember their humanity. Let them say: after all the fire and blood, we built something worthy of peace.”

Daenerys arched a brow, unable to suppress her skepticism. “A lofty pursuit, especially for a new king. Do you truly believe this is where you ought to place your attention right now?”

Aerys’s gaze sharpened, but his smile did not falter. “And where else, if not on beauty and vision?”

“The realm, the family,” she said, voice measured. Her next words came with caution. “Aerys—what you did to Maegor…”

A flicker of discomfort crossed his face, tightening the mask he wore so well. “I did what I had to. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary.”

She regarded him steadily. “You stripped him not only of his choice, but of his name.”

He shook his head. “That was Grandfather’s insistence, I just happened to agree. A court should be beautiful—but order is its first symmetry, Aunt.”

“Your grandfather was wise, yes, but blind too—especially when it came to family matters.”

Aerys’s expression hardened, but he tried to hold onto his charm. “Surely you don’t believe I’m in the wrong?”

She gave him a sad, level look. “I do. Gael is not just bereft; she’s wounded, and deeply, by this. Maegor too, though he’ll never show it.”

Aerys’s patience thinned, shadows flickering in his eyes. “Must you cast me as the villain? It’s not as if this was all my grand design. Remember Grandmother’s way with Gael? She kept her as delicate as spun glass—at times, I think she’d sooner have seen the girl cloistered among the Silent Sisters, or taken into the grave with her. As for Aegor—Father’s stubbornness doomed them both. If he’d been a tad more tactful, Grandfather may have come around in the end. Might even still be here.”

Daenerys didn’t argue. He pressed on, almost as if to convince himself: “I’m trying to set things right, to offer Gael a life as wife and mother, a life her parents never let her imagine. My brother on the other hand…” Aerys hesitated, breaking into a strained smile. “You remember when Father returned with Valerion from the North? How terrifyingly big he is? A blessing my little brother happens to have a scowl that could freeze the Seven Hells.”

“It wasn’t force that kept Valerion close, but trust and choice. That’s why he followed your Father. Maegor and Gael love one another. She wants him—not Aegon Skyfyre. And there were better alliances.”

Aerys’s voice hardened. “Aegon is Daemon’s right hand, and unwed. If Daemon secures him elsewhere, he’ll strengthen his own hand against the realm. I didn’t act from spite. I discussed it all with Rhaenys before I took it to Otto or the rest. I did what needed to be done.”

Daenerys shook her head, full of sorrow. “And yet, you might have found a gentler way. You might have listened to their hearts.”

Aerys scoffed. “Gael’s little drama? She hopes for scandal, perhaps to shame me, or force my hand? Let her. She can wear her mourning blacks to her wedding for all I care. If it offends the Skyfyres, all the better. It was meant to. That’s why Rhaenys lent her aid—one final act of rebellion, nothing more.”

Daenerys exhaled long and slow, studying the boy who had once run to her in tears, now grown sharp, political, and unyielding. “And Maegor?”

“He’ll do what’s required, as always. And he’ll move on, Aunt. These childish attachments never last.”

She stopped on the path, forcing him to look at her. “It isn’t childish, Aerys. They’ve been friends, perhaps more, since your father returned from Essos. If he yielded, it wasn’t from lack of feeling.”

Aerys averted his gaze, suddenly distant. “We can’t always have what we want, can we?”

Daenerys felt the full weight of her years in that moment—wisdom unheeded, old wounds reopened. “You are king now, and I must respect your word. But as your aunt—and the oldest living Targaryen—I advise you: You may enforce obedience, but beware the cost. You have made an enemy today.”

Aerys let out a short, humorless laugh. “Am I to take Maegor's brooding for rebellion then?”

“It’s all you have left of him. He’ll never betray you, but I would not count on his goodwill either — if you ask him to bring you a cup of wine, it won't come poisoned, but expect it to be warm and of the wrong vintage."

Sunlight filtered through the trees, speckling them in golden-red. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Aerys’s shoulders slumped. “I hear you, Aunt. But I cannot turn back—not now. If I did, they’d call me weak, or worse: unworthy. And besides, it's not as if he fought very hard. So much for his love.”

Daenerys watched the boy she’d helped raise, heart aching for what was lost, and what could never be mended.

“Very well,” Daenerys replied, her voice gentling just a shade, though the ache of what had passed lingered beneath her words. There was nothing more to be done; perhaps, in time, Aerys’s choices would prove merciful for Maegor and Gael. She took a breath, shifting the conversation: “Now, about your Small Council appointments—”

Aerys shot her a sideways glance, a flicker of mischief in his gaze. “You disapprove?”

“I understand the reasoning, but Gaemon’s nature troubles me. Beware those who seem most loyal, Aerys. Sycophants are a dangerous sort.”

He grinned, youthful and unbowed. “Father always claimed you had the truest sense of us all, Aunt. But I do know Gaemon. My hope is that—with the right hand guiding the family—House Targaryen will mend its rifts at last.”

She smiled with a hint of old sorrow. “That’s an admirable goal. Still, tread warily.”

Aerys nodded, quoting with familiar pride, “‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer.’ Grandfather’s wisdom, still worth heeding. Rhaenys will sniff out plots before they sprout, and with Otto beside me as Hand, I have no need to fear shadows, Aunt.”

Daenerys smiled, conceding the point. “Nevertheless, I’ll be watching your uncle—and Viserra.”

Aerys let out a soft laugh. “Ah, but Viserra won’t be taking up residence here. Rhaenys made that a condition—I have little say in the matter.”

Daenerys nearly laughed aloud. “Should I start running things through Rhaenys before I come to you, then, Your Grace?”

He grinned with that unmistakable mischief, the same glint she’d seen long ago, in his Father’s smiles. “Perhaps you should! I did promise her a crown the day our courtship began, and I mean to keep my word. I want her to rule as Grandmother did: a Queen in truth, not just in name. Her word will be law. But on the rest, Aunt—let me be King, and spare my wife and my Hand from your scrutiny.”

Daenerys chuckled, good-natured and finally at ease. “As you wish. As for the children—”

They walked on, their talk drifting to kin and coronations, to hopes for peace and the work yet to come. For the first time in many moons, Daenerys allowed herself to relax, letting hope take root amid the lingering doubts.

Daenerys stood before the Iron Throne, her gaze tracing the savage lines of its forged metal—a monument of melted blades, every angle a challenge, every shadow a warning. How could anyone yearn for that brutal seat, knowing what it demanded from those who dared to claim it? The Conqueror had designed it to draw blood, and Daenerys often wondered if that lesson had ever truly landed.

Aerys’s coronation had been, by all accounts, a triumph. He had surpassed even Aegon’s grand designs, crafting a spectacle that dazzled the court. The new king moved through ceremony with practiced ease: appointing his council, delivering stirring speeches, and drawing raucous cheers as he crowned and kissed Rhaenys, boyish and bold. Aemon was named Prince of Dragonstone; Aelyx’s betrothal to Vaelon Skyfyre was set, to be solemnized when the children came of age.

By rights, everything was unfolding precisely as Aerys intended. And yet, Daenerys felt unease settle deep in her bones—a whisper that all this beauty and order might be brittle veneer, ready to fracture at the first true test.

She missed Aegon terribly, with a longing that no celebration could ease.

“Lost in thought, sister?” Gaemon’s voice unfurled softly behind her.

She turned, masking surprise with a slight smirk. “Gaemon, you must be pleased.”

He came forward with a flash of his familiar, boyish grin, hands tucked behind his back as he eyed the Throne. “You say it like it’s a crime, Dany. Shouldn’t you be glad your stubborn brother finally saw sense?”

“I am only surprised it happened so easily. It’s unlike you to yield.”

He shook his head, a slow, thoughtful gesture. “When Aegon lived, I swore fealty knowing my role: to care for our house, to keep the line strong. Now, I see more clearly than most—Aerys is a better foundation for peace than Viserys ever could be. I am no friend of Daemon’s endless dramatics. The realm needs steadiness, and Aerys… well, he is at least solid granite compared to shifting sand.”

A real laugh spilled from Daenerys; it warmed the space between them. “You forget, I knew you in swaddling clothes. Sometimes I think I understood you better than even mother did. Will Viserra be coming to court?”

“You know she's never cared for King's Landing. She means to take a pleasure barge up the Trident and feast in every castle from Oldstones to Maidenpool. And someone must stay at Harrenhal.” Gaemon flicked his hair with princely vanity. He pointedly did not mention Rhaenys had forbidden her presence.

“And your children?”

He gave a careless shrug. “For now, they’ll remain with her. But if this talk of marriages drags on, I might send Visenya for Aemon’s hand—should one still be available.”

“Not Rhaena?” Daenerys teased.

“Rhaena and Aelor were promised the day she first drew breath. Some traditions are worth holding sacred.”

She nodded, their eyes drifting back to the Throne.

After a beat, Gaemon spoke, his tone shifting: “I want my son to claim a dragon, Daenerys.”

She regarded him carefully. “And why should I agree?”

He bristled slightly, but kept his tone measured. “Every branch of the family has its dragons. Valerion has two, Skyfyre has two—and yet I, fifth son or not, am left with only Dreamfyre. My place is not so low as all that.”

She pursed her lips. “There’s no guarantee a dragon can or will be claimed, Gaemon. Even putting aside bloodlines, dragons choose as much as men do.”

He leaned in, eyes sharp with the same cunning that once won him his wife. “Then let us not decide it now. A swift visit to Dragonstone—before Gael’s wedding, perhaps. My Aelor will try, and you’ll judge his worth.”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “It is not up to me to measure that worth, brother. If he’s worthy, a dragon will choose him. If not, then I suggest bring another one of your children. Mayhaps Rhaena?”

He smiled, softer than before but with steel underneath. “I expected nothing less, sister. I know you’ll guard the dragons as fiercely as Aegon once did. Still, remember this—” He paused, tone gentle but threaded with warning. “We are kin, and I want nothing but peace between us. But do not mistake my affection for surrender. If you endeavor to make an enemy of me, I will not hesitate to do the same for you.”

A silence passed. Then, Daenerys smiled, touched his arm lightly, and turned back toward the doors.

“Then let’s be allies, Gaemon. The realm will not survive a house so divided—not again. I’ll meet you for tomorrow's Council meeting.”

She turned around to leave, to see her sister, to speak with her nephews, to tend to children and her endless, endless work.

Chapter Text

Last moon of the year (Veil of the Stranger), 103 AC

The Gates of the Moon

The Mountain Council was an ancient tradition in the Vale of Arryn.

According to the Chronicles of the Vale by Archmaester Harodon, the practice dated back to the Andals—when the mountain kings of old gathered to speak for their petty kingdoms, debating war and peace, law and blood. Some maesters claimed it was even older than that: a relic of the First Men, wrapped now in Andal trappings.

Aemma did not trouble herself over such debates.

The origins of the council mattered far less than its current purpose, here and now: to choose. The most powerful lords of the Vale—Redfort, Hunter, Corbray, Waynwood, Belmore, Royce—had gathered to fill a void.

Not to declare war. Not to crown a king.

But perhaps the next best thing.

Lord Yorbert Royce, the Lord Protector and Regent of the Vale, had died quite suddenly. Quietly, too, though the implications of his death now echoed across the mountains. The Mountain Council had been convened at the Gates of the Moon, where the Vale’s court waited for winter’s snows to melt, binding them to the lowlands before their return to the Eyrie high above.

Aemma Arryn sat in representation—if one dared to use such a word aloud—of both Lady Jeyne and House Arryn itself. Her presence was a mere courtesy: she was tolerated, not welcomed—a sweet-faced girl playing at politics, silks and sighs draped over a chair too large for her.

Two weeks she had endured this. Two weeks of smug looks and polite scorn, of honeyed insults spoken just loud enough for her to hear. Every lord in the chamber assumed she was meant to sit down, smile, and say nothing. She could almost hear their thoughts: what could a nursemaid know of power?

And yet, as she sat amongst these painted peacocks, studying them with mild, unblinking eyes, she had learned one thing very quickly.

The high lords of the Vale were all dimwits.

No decision had yet been reached. The great houses of the Vale circled like wolves over a fresh kill, each arguing over who among them deserved the regency. But they all agreed on one thing: it must not fall to Prince Daeron Targaryen.

He was not hated for his incompetence—far from it. His work concerning the mountain clans, carried on from his father’s previous efforts, were practical. Too practical, many thought, an insult to the Vale’s honor. Ever since King Aegon, then Prince of Dragonstone, had determined the savages that roamed the mountains were a missed opportunity worth entreating, the whole Vale of Arryn, more or less, had aligned itself in one common thought: barely veiled contempt to the late king, and lip-service at best to House Targaryen as a whole.

It was no mystery why Prince Daeron’s name made the lords grit their teeth. He did not carry himself like a man who needed their approval.

And Rhea Royce, the newly minted Lady of Runestone? The less said of her, the better.

Aemma stifled a yawn behind her hand as Lord Redfort droned on about honor and precedent, his voice as dry as over-salted bread. She did not mean to look, but the wine jug glinting near the center of the table offered a very tempting thought. A brief fantasy of throwing its contents in his ruddy, self-satisfied face.

Ah… but that would end the meeting, however satisfying.

Her attention sharpened, as another figure rose, cutting through Redfort’s meandering speech.

“Thank you, Lord Redfort,” said Lord Jaime Corbray, his sharp smile cutting like dawnlight. “Your perspective, as always, is thoroughly appreciated. But I believe the time has come to stop dancing about the matter.” He gestured as he spoke, smooth and certain—an air of authority that claimed he knew things others did not. “After yesterday’s discussions, I believe we have at last reached what I might call an… agreeable consensus.”

Aemma frowned. Private discussions? That defeats the whole point of this council, my Lord…

And yet, as she glanced around the round chamber, she saw the current shifting steadily. Pleased nods and quiet murmurs spread between the gathered lords. A satisfaction tinged with something conspiratorial.

She dared a glance at Prince Daeron—but he was watching them warily, his furrowed brow betraying his surprise. Rhea Royce’s mouth had twisted into a scowl, her grey eyes flashing with open contempt. Being sidelined is not nice. I suppose I know how that feels.

Lady Hunter stood next. Average in every way save her smile—so bright one could almost forget the poison hidden beneath it. She turned that smile on the gathered company and spread her hands. “Lord Corbray and I met with the majority of our fellows last night and have come to an agreement. It pleases me to announce that, for the first time in a century, we have chosen someone from within House Arryn to serve as Regent of the Vale. A woman of exemplary virtue, intelligence, and beauty.”

Aemma blinked.

She could feel her pulse hammering in her ears as Hunter kept speaking.

“A lady who has shown inestimable loyalty, standing firm in the face of grief and misfortune, guiding the life and future of Lady Jeyne through uncertain waters.”

No. No, it couldn’t—

“With the firm support of this council, she will guide us through this time of uncertainty. Rise, Lady Aemma Arryn. The Mountain Council has chosen you to be Regent of the Vale.”

Me?

The room tilted sharply. She hardly felt herself rise, her knees trembling slightly even as her face betrayed nothing.

She could feel all of it. The narrowed focus of Daeron’s hazel eyes. The cold disdain rippling off Rhea’s. The biting whispers at the edges of the chamber. Everyone had their eyes on her now.

She inclined her head slowly—a graceful acknowledgment—though her heart pounded in her chest. She turned her face to the council, her expression as soft and unassuming as ever, and curtsied deeply.

“Thank you, my lords. I am honored.”

She sat in Lord Yorbert’s solar—her solar now—as the Old Crow poured thick red wine into two slim silver cups.

Lord Jaime Corbray reclined lazily before her, the leathers of his chair creaking faintly as he leaned back. A petulant half-smile crossed his lips, the sort a father might reserve for a too-clever daughter—indulgent and just a touch patronizing.

“Congratulations, my lady,” he said, offering her one of the cups.

Aemma accepted it with grace, inclining her head just slightly, her fingers brushing the cool metal. “I’m not certain I deserve such an honor,” she murmured, her eyes floating briefly over the tapestries, the desk, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth.

The room felt heavier now than it had a week before. So much power had passed silently into her hands, yet it still seemed as though every shadow, every quiet scrape of wood on stone, carried traces of Yorbert Royce’s presence. As though he lingered, watching.

“Oh, no need to be modest,” Corbray chuckled, swirling the wine in his cup and taking a generous sip. “You were the obvious choice.”

Obvious? She did not let her expression flicker, though the word amused her. “Were I so obvious,” she said softly, “I wonder why Lord Yorbert never saw it.”

Corbray’s smile widened faintly. “A question for the gods, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, her tone sweet but empty.

Corbray leaned forward slightly now, the silver rim of his goblet clinking faintly against the wood of the table as he set it down. “Lady Regent of the Vale at one-and-twenty. A rare honor, my lady—and a daunting task. But you’ll rise to it, I’m sure.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I only speak the truth,” he said, his voice almost jovial. “And, speaking of truth, might I ask an honest question?”

Her fingers brushed the edge of her cup. She offered him the faintest smile. “You may ask.”

“As regent…” He paused, as though weighing his next words. “Are there any plans for your hand?”

The question was blunt, but expected. She allowed herself a soft gasp, feigned bashfulness. “My father…” She looked down at the cup in her hands. “He passed before anything could be arranged. And my siblings…” A quiet sigh. “They had other priorities.”

“No small tragedy, indeed, for a lady of your pedigree to remain unwed for so long,” he sighed dramatically. His voice shifted, becoming almost bashful, though his wolfish grin betrayed him. “I must confess I’ve given the matter some thought. If I may speak plainly, I would consider offering you my hand.”

Aemma raised a brow and tilted her head. Lord Jaime Corbray had children older than her, and was twice widowed already…

“Such an arrangement,” Corbray pressed, his tone carrying the rehearsed weight of older men accustomed to dominating conversations, “would ease the burden of regency. I mean no insult, of course, but a young woman alone… well…” He spread his hands as if the next words were self-evident. “It’s a daunting task. Lonely. Dangerous, even. You’re unwed, your position precarious… A husband would provide you and Lady Jeyne the protection you need.”

“Protection?” Aemma echoed sweetly, as though mulling the concept over for the first time. She straightened her posture ever so slightly. “Tell me, my lord—what, exactly, do we need to be protected from?”

Corbray faltered for a moment, then smiled weakly, a shade too indulgent. “Why, the burden of governance, of course. Having a man’s presence—”

“A man’s presence,” she repeated, nodding thoughtfully as she cut him off. “You’re so very right, my lord. I have been considering such matters of late.” She made her way toward the large desk standing at the head of the room, her stride calm, measured, deliberate. She reached for a parchment among the scattered papers and opened it with careful fingers. Her expression shifted slightly as she peered down at it, feigning curiosity.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes at the page as though puzzling through the words. “I’d almost forgotten about this. A letter from my cousin, Lord Viserys of House Skyfyre…” Her lips curled faintly as she continued, her voice slow and measured. “Something about offering his brother, a Ser… Daemon Skyfyre, I believe? To court me during his visit to the Vale. How interesting.”

Corbray froze, his hands tightening around his armrest. “Daemon Skyfyre?”

Aemma glanced at him, her smile brightening—too bright. “Oh, yes. He should be here in two moons time, I seem to believe,” she said, her tone almost girlish. “And his dragon, of course.” She tilted her head, beaming at the older man. “What do you think, my lord? A man such as he, a fierce warrior and rider of dragons—surely Lady Jeyne and I need little more protection than that?”

His unsettled expression delighted her, though she hid her satisfaction behind a careful mask of sweetness, trailing her fingers lightly across the parchment as if lost in thought.

“A dragon is an… unusual fit for the Vale,” Corbray managed, his voice tight. “Perhaps too bold, even reckless. A ruffian ex-prince who knows nothing of our mountains—hardly the shield you and Lady Jeyne need.”

Aemma tilted her chin and hummed thoughtfully, tapping her chin as she approached him. “Oh, you’re absolutely right, my lord,” she said, nodding as if in agreement. “Why, he knows nothing of our ways. I’d have to teach him so much.”

Corbray’s frown deepened as he leaned forward. “Or,” he said sharply, “marry someone who already knows the Vale. Who understands its history — its strengths and weaknesses.” His voice pressed harder now, less an offer and more an imposition.

Aemma stilled. Her frustration sharpened like a dagger beneath her skin, though she let none of it show in her features as she slowly turned her gaze back to him.

“You are rather bold, my lord,” she began quietly, her voice soft. “But one might think…” She let her words trail off deliberately, her smile curling faintly at the corners. “… that you are curiously insistent on this matter.”

The stillness of the room suddenly felt taut, heavy.

Corbray frowned deeply as though disliking the insinuation. “I beg your pardon?”

Aemma’s smile widened, almost childlike now.

“Oh, I was only thinking—well, rather listening." Her voice was lilting, a note of feigned innocence. “Haven’t you heard what the people have been saying? Poor Lord Yorbert. To come back from Harrenhal as he did, such a terrible chill…” Her voice lowered slightly, her deliberate pacing unsettling. “And after your… disagreement in this very solar… well, there are those who wonder.”

Corbray froze, his spine straightening. “Wonder what?” he asked tersely, his voice now unnaturally tight.

Her smile softened further, spilling into her eyes, which widened faintly as though she were merely being whimsical. “Oh, nothing much. Simply whether the strain of your argument may have worsened his condition. It’s such a common plight, isn’t it? Stress kills, you know.”

The silence dragged between them, thick with tension as her seemingly idle comment struck its target. Corbray’s jaw clenched, and she saw it—the flicker of bewilderment, discomfort, and slow-building anger. “What are you implying, my lady?”

Still smiling, Aemma feigned surprise at his reaction, her voice turning lighter again. “Oh, my. I meant no offense, of course. I’ve no doubt your intentions were entirely noble. But you’re right, my lord—having a man here in the Vale, perhaps even one as bold as Daemon Skyfyre, will certainly keep us all quite… safe.”

Corbray stood sharply, fixing her with a withering glare. “You tread a dangerous line, Lady Arryn,” he said coldly.

Aemma met his glare without flinching, her sweet smile never faltering. “The line has always been dangerous, my lord,” she murmured calmly. Then her tone slipping into something colder, cutting. “But it is strange, wouldn’t you agree? Lord Yorbert Royce—a man some still called strong as an oak—dies of a chill just a sennight after you demanded my hand as though it was your rightful due, and stormed out for all the Gates of the Moon to see how aggrieved you were.” She cocked her head as though studying him. “Shortly after, my good lord, you return, now so eager to ensure that I, the object of your desires, become regent of the Vale. I imagine I hardly need to point out how oddly convenient this all seems.”

“You are grasping at nonsense, girl.”

“Am I?” she answered lightly, gliding closer toward him as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen. “So convenient, in fact, that I wonder how my cousins, Lord Viserys and Prince Daeron, might take such a story. Do you suppose the Lords of the Weeping Peninsula might overlook such… troubling coincidences as well? There is another dragon there, small, yes — but equally dangerous to those without such. I wonder how well such a story would settle in King’s Landing itself. After all,” she said, her tone softening into a near lament, “why would sweet, defenseless Aemma dare to speak such falsehoods?"

Corbray’s jaw clenched hard, his visible composure hanging by mere threads. “The lords humor you, Lady Aemma,” he said finally, sneering. “But you’re nothing but a lonely, forgotten nursemaid playing politics. Marrying me it's the highest peak you’ll ever climb.”

Her mask fell as she scoffed. Good, now they were removing the gloves.

“Clever words, my lord,” she said, her voice cool. “You were very astute in raising me to this position—it would be unbecoming of me not to commend you for it. But if you thought, for even a heartbeat, that I would be some pliable pawn, pushed and discarded at your will…” She tilted her head, her gaze pinning him in place like a hawk circling prey. “Then it seems I’ve done a remarkable job convincing you all that it might be so. I wonder if that should frighten you more.”

For the first time, Corbray hesitated.

And Aemma seized it.

“I will have no trouble out of you, Lord Corbray,” she said softly, her voice still velvet-smooth but now as immovable as granite. “You will smile, nod, and lend the weight of your name to my cause. You will serve as my liaison to the high lords — second only to myself. You will be useful. And in return, I will forget these ugly little suspicions, these whispers about ambition and overreach. But should you choose to test me…” Her tone darkened, her gaze narrowing as her sweetness sharpened into steel. “…you’ll see how quickly a grieving woman’s tears inspire acts of chivalry, no matter how misguided, in these lands. How a single word whispered in the right ear could drown a man’s fortunes in the icy waters of the Bay of Crabs.”

Corbray’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his breathing shallow.

Aemma let the silence hang for a moment longer, her expression softening almost imperceptibly as though to ease some of his discomfort. “I do wonder,” she mused quietly, her voice weaving a delicate thread, “how my dashing new… guest… will react to the idea of his future bride being threatened after all she has endured.”

At that, the crack spread through Corbray’s certainty like wildfire. His knuckles whitened as they clenched the back of the chair, his mouth curling into a sneer. “You little bitch,” he spat finally, his voice low and trembling with contained fury.

Her smile widened faintly, her amusement unguarded now. “Now, my Lord, that's no way to address the Regent of the Vale and a Lady at that. Let us be friends, after all,” she raised her cup to him. “I both owe you and own you, Lord Corbray.”

Then, with a muttered curse and a sneer of disgust, he turned sharply and stormed out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

The room swelled with silence, the air seeming to exhale in his absence. Then, slowly, gracefully, she reached for her wine and sank into the high-backed chair, a delicate smile curving her lips.

“Not bad for a nursemaid,” she whispered, raising the cup to her lips.

Chapter Text

First Moon of the Crone, 104 AC

Stormwatch

“Are you certain of this, Viserys?”

Vaella stood behind the delicate YiTish panel doors as her maids finished dressing her. Over the years, they had all grown accustomed to Viserys and his habit of intruding whenever the mood struck him.

“Vaella, how can you doubt me?” Viserys asked, tone full of confidence. “I am not just certain—I am determined. It’s high time the man was wed, and for once I didn’t have to fight tooth and nail for the victory.”

Vaella sighed, glancing at her reflection as her maids tied the last of the laces and arranged her silks. She swept her hair up in a Free Cities style while a maid fastened the pins. “Isn’t it enough that my brother is married to Lady Rhea Royce? We have trade and good standing with the Weeping Peninsula, enough to open the rest of the Vale of Arryn.”

Viserys’s face—plump from too many desserts, as she was fond of telling him—appeared around the panel, silver moustache twitching with a half-smile. “You look lovely, wife. But no, it is not enough. If, gods forbid, something were to befall your brother, our ties there would be tenuous at best. Vaelon would have no cousin, no certainty.”

“They’re still young, perhaps—”

Viserys shook his head briskly. “Rumor has it that your brother's Bronze Bitch —don't look at me like that, I've seen him say it to her face— is barren. And now that they've adopted that boy, they've all but confirmed it. I'm sure Vaelon and what's-his-name will grow to be fast friends, but that is not enough. Blood will always be a stronger bond than mere friendship.”

"Gunthor," Vaella corrected, "is Rhea's kin. Her cousin died of the same chill that claimed her father, and she is all he has left. And Daeron loves them both. He says no other woman would put up with his mad ways, and I happen to agree. Gunthor will grow to be—"

“You know I am in the right, Vaella,” Viserys interrupted, settling beside her and taking her hand. “But that’s besides the point.” She pursed her lips, but listened to Viserys. “Wasn’t it you who said Daemon’s restlessness comes from having no proper purpose? Aemma Arryn is a fine choice of bride. She is Lady Regent of the Vale — her affairs and household will be more than enough to keep even Daemon busy. And if the Mother is kind, perhaps a brood of children to keep him content.”

Vaella suppressed a smile—Daemon had never struck her as a man who even recognized the shape of contentment.

“And what, then, shall we make of Aemma Arryn?”

“I thought to ask you that.” Viserys squeezed her hand encouragingly. “You’ve met her more than once, haven’t you?”

Vaella considered. “Twice, perhaps. Once as children, when our father took us to see Lord Rodrik—before Mother passed. Aemma was just a babe at the time. The second was at Daeron’s wedding at Runestone, but she practically blended in with the furniture—she hardly left an impression.”

Viserys looked thoughtful. “So, you think it a mistake?”

She shrugged, a wry smile on her lips. “Daeron has written about her. He always has opinions about everyone. My brother claims others think her meek, obedient, but that she’s sharper than she seems, no shrinking violet—a true Targaryen, despite her mother.”

“My father always claimed Aunt Daella was an oddity—poor woman was terrified of my mother.”

Vaella laughed softly. “I would not call myself a timid woman, but even I remember being in awe of Princess Alyssa. Your mother was formidable, my dear.”

Viserys shook his head, grinning. “That she was. Still, if Aemma has survived cousin Daeron’s scrutiny, I doubt she’ll be easily cowed by Daemon.”

“Perhaps. Still, I pity any woman who must keep step with him.”

“Now, now, Vaella. I think the Claimants’ Parade taught him humility at last. Maybe he’ll even behave himself, going forward.” He kissed her cheek, departing with a spring in his step. “I’ll see to the children, so we can depart as soon as you’re ready.”

Vaella released the breath she’d been holding, her chest easing only once Viserys’s footsteps had faded down the corridor. She loved her husband with a devotion that surprised even herself at times. But love did not blind her to his faults. Viserys was indulgent, indecisive, and far too forgiving—especially of his brothers. Those blind spots, she reflected, had become the source of her most persistent headaches.

She’d married Viserys at four-and-ten, expecting to be another pleasant face in the tapestry of the great House. She had braced herself for a life lived in the margins, comfortable but unremarkable. But by the time Vaelon was born, not a year later, it was painfully clear she had become, for better or worse, the matriarch of the Skyfyre branch. Uncle Baelon, for all his wisdom and martial prowess, lacked feminine grace, as Aunt Daenerys liked to remind her. “Baelon’s best isn’t so different from your father’s best,” she had once said, dry as autumn leaves, “and your cousins are more wildling than prince.”

And so, for five relentless years, Vaella poured her energy into making sense of the chaos—taming not just the unruly halls of Stormwatch but also the brood of spirited, often unmanageable relatives that came with it.

Uncle Baelon had once laughed, saying his household needed a woman’s hand after Princess Alyssa’s early passing—the kind of care no man could provide. He’d beamed with genuine relief when Vaella accepted Viserys’s suit, as if she could stitch together what death had scattered, as if she herself might be the balm and compass to set them all in order.

How she missed Baelon’s laughter. And her father’s barbed wisdom, always cloaked in love. In her darkest moments, she confessed to her father how she wished, prayed even, for Viserys to have the iron in him to lead, or failing that, for Baelon’s guiding hand to have lasted long enough to shape his son’s will. Her father’s answer returned to her unfailingly:

“If neither the gods nor Baelon’s tutelage could stiffen that man’s spine, nothing will. He’s your burden now, sweetheart—and a heavy one at that. I counted the pastries he took at his last feast.”

She’d never dared repeat it, but the memory buoyed her through many a hard season. His wit was a comfort, the closest thing to candor and wisdom she’d ever known.

Alone now, it fell to her to manage the family and the Stepstones' pressing matters, large and small.

Her maids watched quietly from across the gilded tiles, waiting for their lady’s word. “Send any urgent business to the Eyrie in preparation for our arrival,” Vaella instructed, gathering her composure. “We’ll make Runestone our next sojourn, perhaps linger there the next season, maybe half the year.”

The head maid nodded briskly. “Shall we make any other arrangements in your absence, Your Grace?”

“Just keep me apprised of any changes,” Vaella said, standing.

As she crossed the threshold, leaving her maids to their swift, quiet business, Vaella let her gaze linger on the outer towers framed in the gathering dusk. Stormwatch would be remembered for years to come as Baelon's legacy. Built from memories of Valyria—its shadowy corridors, cruel winds, red-gold stone walls—it was both a monument to Valyrian dragonfire and a testament to Westerosi resolve.

Hauling itself up from the black rock of Bloodstone, ramparts twisted toward the darkening sky, crowned with parapets like interlocked dragon wings and tails. At dusk, the place shimmered like molten flame, and ships miles out would see how the fortress blazed against the horizon—the unmistakable signal that House Skyfyre ruled here, holding back the world.

But Vaella’s touch had softened the austerity inherited from her uncle. The receiving hall was a marvel: marble and mosaics in crimson, gold, and lapis formed sweeping, sinuous designs along the walls and floors, dragon motifs entwined with the seven-pointed star, reminders that faith and fire dwelt side by side. Arching ceilings boasted fretwork inspired by the palaces of the east, sunlight filtering through tracery windows to paint the great space in ever-shifting light.

But its heart, the hallmark of Vaella’s reign, was the tapestry that dominated the central wall above the black marble dais—a work that had consumed her for years. She had woven it herself, thread by painstaking thread: her father, fierce and regally aloof atop the Cannibal, unleashing cleansing dragonfire upon the Martell fleet. The tapestry was bold, explicit—a memory of war, meant as warning and legacy both. She’d waited many years to display it; Prince Baelon, for all the love he professed for her father, had despised the image. Only after his passing did Vaella dare to hang the tapestry where all who entered Stormwatch would witness it.

No one could walk these halls and forget their history—nor who had shaped it in peace and in war.

End of the Second Moon of the Crone, 104 AC

End of the Eleventh Moon of the Year

The journey to the Eyrie had been a long and winding affair. Even before this trip, Vaella often felt that she spent more time on the road or at sea than settled in her own chambers at Stormwatch. The place that was supposed to be her home had become almost a dream, slipping further into memory with each shift of port or mountain pass.

Still, there had been small, unexpected mercies along the way. Aegon, usually so withdrawn and brooding, had managed to abandon his stormcloud moods for once. He wandered down to the lower deck to speak with her, lingering in conversation longer than his habitual five phrases. It was a rare pleasure—one she wished would happen more often, though she knew better than to hope for miracles. Aegon was never one for idle chatter, except in the company of Daemon—then, nothing could shut him up. They had even played doublets and he had let her win twice.

Daemon had, unsurprisingly, chosen to travel primarily on dragonback. He scorned sailing, called the whole experience beneath him, but Aegon had confessed the truth to her — Daemon Skyfyre, self-proclaimed dragonlord, knighted at an exceptionally young age, got seasick. Together, she and Aegon had delighted in making sly japes about it just within earshot.

When at last they reached solid ground, Vaelon and Rhaenyra alternated between riding with their father or their uncle. Though Vaelon was old enough now to ride alone, Rhaenyra frequently insisted on sharing his saddle, sometimes in a fit of pique. Vaella had put her foot down often, for safety’s sake—it wasn’t wise for two children to command a horse together, no matter their moods. There were tantrums, of course. Rhaenyra, in her current tumultuous age, fought for every little thing.

Lately, she had taken it into her head that she should fly to the Eyrie atop Syrax, side by side with Daemon. Every discussion became a battle, and any lack of argument became an invitation to provoke. Vaella loved Rhaenyra dearly—would never claim otherwise—but raising her was nothing like raising Vaelon, whose temperament had always run smooth and amicable.

He alone seemed to possess the gift of calming Rhaenyra when she was worked into a fury.

Vaella remembered, as brightly as yesterday, the day Vaelon ran barefoot from the nursery to her solar, climbed straight into her lap, and announced—out of breath in excitement—that he had dreamt he was to have a sister. For months, he told every visitor to Stormwatch —be they ambassador, kin, or once, the crew of a fishing vessel— how he'd foreseen his sister’s birth, and how she was destined to be the realm’s most beautiful, her name already chosen.

Viserys had indulged him, naturally. He’d wished for “Visenya,” but Vaelon held fast to “Rhaenyra,” and he had won. When Baelon argued for a dragon egg in his granddaughter’s cradle, it had been Vaelon who solemnly set the fated egg beside her—Syrax’s egg—and since then, the siblings had become inseparable, as fiercely bonded as any she had ever known.

That was something Vaella had to give the Skyfyres: their family bond. Grief could have made Baelon's sons rivals, but instead, it made them shields for one another. They loved with a ferocity matched only by their loyalty and protectiveness. Though she clashed with Daemon or Aegon at times, she couldn’t deny the depth of their devotion. Sometimes, witnessing it, she almost envied them.

Her own brothers—Aerys, Daeron, and Maegor—had always felt more distant to her. In her mind, each of them inherited a sharp piece of their father’s character.

Aerys possessed Aegon’s loftiness, but without aim or anchor: sometimes gifted with wit and gentle introspection, other times swept away by his own grand, performative dreams. Vaella liked him best in small doses, the way one enjoys morning sunlight before the heat overwhelms.

Daeron, by contrast, bore their father’s fierce opinions and razor-edged barbs. He had inherited not just the tongue, but the indignant sense of justice—a mischief tempered by a biting humor that filled rooms with laughter, outrage, or both. Vaella found his stories irresistible, even if she sometimes winced at their sharpness.

As for Maegor, he was all duty and gravity: the straight-backed honor of Aegon without the lighter, self-aware humor their father could harness. Once a prickly, restless boy, Maegor had grown into a plainspoken, capable knight. He never hid from consequence, nor delighted in spectacle; she always found him to be the most steadfast, though never quite at ease in her world of tapestries, music, and courtly games.

She remembered the chaos the days Maegor vanished from their Pentoshi manse, intent on chasing birds, or the time he fell asleep in a cupboard, found snoring among bundles of flour and cane after an exhaustive search that had seen her father throw one magister into the harbor.

For all his rough edges and temper, he could be genuinely funny. Often, he would chime in with a remark so absurdly serious that she’d burst into helpless laughter and Maegor would delight to be the cause of her mirth.

Yet for all these moments, true closeness had eluded them.

Aerys and Daeron had once seemed inseparable—thick as thieves when the mood suited them. Still, Vaella knew Aerys often preferred the company of Otto Hightower’s careful schemes, while Daeron thrived among Mountain Clansmen or fencing words with Rhea Royce rather than home.

As for Maegor... Maegor had been close to Princess Gael. Very close. At times, Vaella wondered if marriage talks had been quietly underway, only for Aerys, in one of his inspired moods, to write Viserys and arrange Aegon’s betrothal to Gael instead. After that, everything soured.

As far as she knew, during her trip to the Ironkeep, Gael caught a chill from which she never recovered. Uncle Valerion’s grief-stricken letter soon followed, telling of her death, and a formal mourning passed through their household. But then—

Something happened at her funeral.

Something no one would talk about.

Even Rhaenys—who usually told her everything—refused to say a word.

Now, as they approached the majesty of The Eyrie, she decided to set those thoughts aside and focus on what awaited them atop the mountains.

The Eyrie

The wind in the Eyrie’s garden was keen and invigorating, threaded with the chill of distant snow and the tang of bare stone. Despite the early spring, it still felt rather cold and she had burrowed herself inside her pelts while she admired the perfect lines of the mountains looming on every side—breathtaking in their severity, almost vertiginous in their grandeur.

She heard her steps before properly setting eyes on her. Lady Aemma Arryn approached, movement measured, eyes cautious. Less a social encounter and more like a woman assessing a threat. She was no storybook beauty, but there was an austere elegance in the definition of her cheekbones—a kind of beauty shaped by the harsh wind and thin air of the Vale, one Vaella recalled seeing in her good sister Rhea Royce as well.

Aemma’s hair, startlingly pale silver-white, gleamed rare even by Targaryen standards, framing a solemn face and deep blue eyes that seemed to reflect the skies above. She stood taller than Vaella, but when she allowed herself a smile, her reserve softened, and her beauty grew warm—unexpected and genuine.

She greeted Aemma warmly, holding out her hands as was her custom. “Lady Aemma,” she began, letting gentleness infuse her voice, but not too much—Aemma did not seem the type to trust honeyed tones. “My brother confided that you dislike when people assume too much ceremony. I must say, I’m the same—I prefer truth without all the trimmings.”

Aemma blinked as if caught of guard, before smiling and Vaella found she liked her already.

“Prince Daeron has always relished his little observations,” Aemma replied politely.

“Nothing unkind, you needn’t fear that.” Vaella assured her, linking arms as they began to walk the garden’s frost-dusted paths. “Though my brother can’t resist embellishing. Boredom, perhaps. And Lady Rhea—his dear wife—only encourages him. Quite frankly, I think the two of them deserve each other,” she said it with a conspiratorial smile, and caught the spark of amusement in Aemma’s eyes.

“I’ve met her plenty of times. She is... dry, as well as sharp.”

Vaella laughed, tossing her head. “As parched as Dorne, that one. I never quite believed their ‘love match’ was anything more than a contest of wit. But perhaps all marriages are, beneath the surface.”

Aemma’s answering smile was thoughtful, not naive. “I suppose affection hides where we least expect.”

“Believe me,” she quipped, “as Daeron’s sister, I consider it a matter of honor not to peer beneath the surface.” She passed Aemma a mischievous glance, savoring the sound of her laugh in return. “But let us speak of more topical things. Viserys tells me you have... apprehensions about this match.”

Aemma’s eyes sharpened, voice dropping its polite mask. “Anyone would, surely.”

“Oh, certainly. I grew up with Daemon. Had my father ordered me to marry him, I might have fled to the Silent Sisters.”

Aemma’s brows rose. “He is that terrible?”

Vaella suppressed an exasperated smile. “He is... not a simple man. Not like my Viserys.” Her voice fell conspiratorial. “Daemon is a dragon, through and through. Unpredictable, wild. I imagine you’ve already seen Caraxes.”

Aemma nodded. That singular sight—Daemon atop the Blood Wyrm—had been a legend come alive and not, Vaella guessed, one easily forgotten.

“You’ll find taming the dragon easier than the rider.” Vaella confided, savoring the laugh this earned her.

“I will not pretend Daemon is someone he is not,” she said plainly. “He can be loyal, fiercely so, but rarely gentle. If he cares for someone, he will face down the world for them unflinching. When he finds himself a purpose, he is almost single-minded in seeing it accomplished."

“And if he has no purpose?”

“Then you must decide,” Vaella said softly, “which of his fires you can bear—and which can be turned to your advantage. I wish someone had said the same to me when I married.”

A moment of companionable silence grew between them, the high wind scattering crystal shards of sunlight in the garden’s ice.

Breaking the silence, Aemma offered a small but genuine, “Thank you.”

“If I can offer counsel,” Vaella said as they turned back toward the warmth of the Eyrie’s inner halls, “let it be this: Daemon cannot—will not—be caged. If you want peace, don’t build a home around him. Build him a battlefield.”

Aemma’s lips curved in a half-smile, as if the challenge appealed to her. “Most ladies are told to tame the beast, Princess.”

Vaella grinned, lively mischief returning to her. “And most ladies become footnotes in their husbands’ songs. Try sparring instead.” She winked, and caught a flash of laughter in Aemma’s eyes.

As the conversation drifted to lighter things—Rhaenys at the Red Keep, gossip about Runestone, the labyrinthine politics of the Stepstones and the Free Cities—Vaella found she felt unexpectedly at ease. She liked Aemma Arryn: the shrewd way she measured words, her unwillingness to play the victim, and her subtle humor kept well-guarded beneath frost and duty.

She was, Vaella decided, exactly the sort of woman the Skyfyres needed—perhaps, even, the sort the Targaryens had too few of.

As the day slowly turned, Vaella squeezed Aemma’s arm, while they made their way back inside. “We are not easy to live with, we Skyfyres. But we are unyielding in our loyalty to those who choose us. I hope you see that, in time—despite all Daemon’s roaring and dramatics.”

Aemma nodded, her clear blue eyes fixed on Vaella in an unspoken ‘thank you’. Vaella felt a rare assurance settle in her heart. If this was to be her new sister, she would not mind in the least.

First Moon of the Maiden, 105 AC

Fourth Moon of the Year

Runestone

Rhaenyra clung to Vaelon’s hand, her eyes wide as saucers as she eyed the boy across the yard—a lanky, wild-looking thing, all sharp elbows, knees scraped raw, a crooked nose set sideways on his face, and black smudges of soot smeared under each eye like some fierce mountain wraith. Vaella felt her protective ire rising. Gods be good, she thought, if her daughter woke screaming because of Daeron’s feast, her brother would sorely regret it.

The chill of Runestone had barely settled into her bones before Daeron swept them straight into his latest pageantry. The court bustled with celebration, yet nothing to do with the imminent marriage of the Lady Regent of the Vale to Daemon—a match swiftly negotiated and now only three moons away. It had more to do with… whatever it was Daeron and Rhea tended at the Weeping Peninsula and the Mountain Clansmen.

Her husband and good brothers had taken the decision to linger at the Eyrie for the festivities, and it fell to Vaella to lead Vaelon and Rhaenyra down the winding, mist-wreathed roads to Runestone, keeping her promise to spend more than a few days alongside her brother and let the Skyfyre brothers get in whatever sort of trouble they wished to without her chaperoning the whole thing.

The household that greeted them was new and it soothed something in her: her brother, Daeron, newly-named Consort to House Royce; ruling at the side of his wife, Lady Rhea; and their newly-adopted heir, Gunthor Royce.

Gunthor was just around Rhaenyra’s age, only a handful of moons older. He was, at first glance, rather plain: brown hair, brown eyes, a missing tooth, and a scattering of freckles—his face alive with energy even as he fidgeted under the attention. Vaella had quietly reminded Vaelon and Rhaenyra to greet him as cousin and kin; adoption, the Faith taught, was no less binding than blood, and Daeron’s affection was law in this house.

She watched as the three children took to each other without fuss. Gunthor—who preferred the moniker “Thor”—quickly drew them into the rough-and-tumble play of the mountain clansmen’s brood, making all of Runestone’s stony courtyard their kingdom.

As laughter rang out, and Daeron moved among guests with his customary flourish, Vaella found herself surveying the patchwork crowd—the blend of Vale nobility and wild mountain folk, half-familiar, half-strange. It was truly a peculiar sight.

She caught Daeron in the act of stealing a honeyed fig and raised an eyebrow. “What in the name of the Seven is all this, Daeron?”

Her brother, shorter than even most women, with wild brown curls and hazel eyes that danced between amusement and mischief, only grinned. “End of harvest,” he replied cheerfully. “We trade with the Mountain Clans—sometimes children for squiring, sometimes tools, always food and news. These are the ones who’ve been here through the season, or across at Ironoaks. Lady Waynwood’s quite enchanted with the notion now that she’s widowed; claims her halls are brighter for a few noisy Howlers under her roof.”

Vaella regarded him, arms folded. “Why do you even bother? I thought the other Lords of the Vale hated all this.”

Daeron looked ahead, his grin subdued by a wistful smile. “Oh, and they do. Every harvest I keep this custom, I gain a new foe among the Vale’s old blood. But Father left me a charge here. I’ll see it through, whatever it costs me. And old Yorbert Royce bid me not abandon the work just because I was to be part of Aerys’s Small Council.”

He gestured for her to walk with him; she fell in step, eyes drifting to the children at play. With fearless energy, Gunthor beckoned Rhaenyra into a laughing circle of mountain children, filling the yard with wild, uneven joy. Soon, Rhaenyra’s wariness faded, replaced by giggles and shrieks as Gunthor led a chase across the flagstones. Vaelon, meanwhile, found himself introduced to the other young squires.

Vaella felt a gentle relief settle in her chest. “There’s one worry quieted—Rhaenyra won’t have to hide behind my skirts after all.”

“She’ll have the run of the place by supper. Reminds me of Maegor when he used to play with the street urchins back in Pentos,” Daeron sniffed, looking at the children.

“Who reminds you of him? Gunthor or Rhaenyra?”

“Why not both?” He grinned and she laughed.

“How does the Lord Consort of Runestone enjoy all this responsibility?” she asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

“It’s not unlike running the keep when Yorbert was about the Vale regency’s business,” he admitted, glancing at Rhea who was talking with a mix of clansmen and knights, and whose presence seemed to draw his whole posture a bit straighter. “Difference is, now my wife terrorizes my ledgers with far more scrutiny.”

Vaella smiled. “So you mind the coin, she minds your pride.”

“Just as it ought to be,” he replied, and for a moment his jest was soft and longing. Then he made a face, rubbing his brow. “As for the scoundrel nesting at the Eyrie—let’s hope he finds that view never tires. For everyone’s sake.”

Vaella gave him the flat, practiced look reserved for brothers with long memories and short tempers. “Couldn’t hurt to patch over old wounds. For once, try civility.”

“Guest right shields him, not my goodwill,” Daeron said flatly, exhaling as if it cost him dearly. “Why is it me who has to keep the peace and not him?”

She laughed softly. “Because you’re my older brother. A prince. Master of Coin. And—unlike Baelon’s brood—your best usually is better. Or so I like to think.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, wry. “You know Father never let Maegor and me forget that we failed to stop Daemon’s little pageant.”

Vaella’s sigh was all bone-tired affection. “No, I never thought he would. But I can’t say he was wrong, either.”

They walked the edge of the bailey under a bright, cold sky, wind tugging playfully at Vaella’s hair. “Aerys wrote me Aenys will soon squire here,” she noted, glancing at Gunthor now running with the other children, trading shouts in the odd, rough-mannered dialect of the hills. “Aemon is already squiring with Maegor. When will you return to King's Landing?”

“Once Aemma’s wed. It falls to me, as next of kin and witness,“ Daeron answered. “Rhea’s not especially pleased, but she’ll hold Runestone together without my help, I am certain.”

“So you’ll be flying from one place to another? Quite the eventful season.” Vaella gave him a skeptical look, half teasing, half sharp. “Why you, not Aerys?”

“He claims vertigo now. Or shame, depending on the day,” Daeron said, with a snort. “Blames the winds, or the state of his nose.”

Vaella turned to look fully at her brother. “What happened? No one says anything straight, and I’m tired of being left in the dark.”

Daeron’s stride slowed, his jaw clenched, shoulders squaring against the sharper wind. He let out a slow breath and shrugged, as if setting down a stone.

“Ella, you’re better off asking Maegor. But know this—Aerys spoke too freely after a cup too many and some stardust, and our little brother lost his temper. He had cause, I’ll say that much. The rest’s not my story to tell. If Maegor wants it kept, you respect that and let him keep it.”

She made a small, scandalized noise. “Stardust?”

Daeron gave a crooked, conspiratorial grin. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know. Aerys doesn’t even try hiding it, and half the court partakes these days.”

She was about to press further when a burst of laughter erupted across the yard. A mountain clansman with a booming voice was spinning a wild tale, punctuating his story by tossing a pouch to the ground—sending up a harmless puff of smoke that sent the children into gales of laughter.

Lady Rhea arrived just then, cutting a deliberate path through the courtyard. She wore practical bronze and gray, her hair in a loose braid, eyes sharp. In her bearing was a dry, stubborn regality that gave nothing away—but when her gaze fell on Daeron, a softness crept around her mouth.

“Princess Vaella,” Rhea said, nodding, her voice matching the mountain’s clipped understatement. “Wyrm, Ser Gerold Grafton is on the hunt for you—claims you owe him a tally or two.”

Daeron scowled, one hand rubbing his temple. “He can’t count to ten unless there’s wine at stake. You're the Lady here, my Bronze Bitch—can’t you save me just this once?”

Rhea’s lips twitched. “You insisted on minding the coin, dear fool. You said pretty things clouded my judgment.” Her tone was bone-dry, but Vaella could spot the endearment in the way she looked at him—even when calling him a fool.

With an exaggerated sigh Daeron grinned, all bravado: “If I let you handle the ledgers, this house would be draped in Braavosi silks and pauper’s at the same time.”

“I’ll handle your sister as guest, and you handle Ser Gerold.” Rhea’s eyes flicked to Vaella.

Daeron reached to squeeze Rhea’s hand. “Duty calls, sister. Don’t let Rhea badger you into backing a new tapestry.”

“I happen to be interested on Volantene marble,” Rhea shot back, unexpectedly winking.

Daeron gave her a bewildered look as he strode off, flanked by his oversized guards and muttering about coin and frivolities, as Vaella and Rhea watched their wards at play—Gunthor, Rhaenyra, and Vaelon swept along in the wild dance of spring among the stones.

“My condolences on your father’s passing, Lady Rhea,” Vaella offered, softening her tone. Loss, she knew, left its mark on even the most practical lady.

Rhea gave a careless flick of her wrist. “He lived long and well—no tragedy in it. But thank you all the same, Princess. I hear you’ve met our famed Lady Regent. What do you think of her?”

“I like her.” Vaella shrugged, honesty her shield. “Lady Aemma seems clever, poised, a touch stiff perhaps—but she’s walked a hard road. I think circumstances hardened her more than ambition did.”

“I don’t like her.” Rhea’s gaze darted about the courtyard before she answered, voice lowered. “She played the Mountain Council like fools. And now we're to endure four years of her regency. I don’t trust the angle she plays—or this business of petitioning for a dragon.”

“Petitioning?”

Rhea looked at Vaella. “Didn’t she approach Lord Viserys on this matter?”

“I recall it was the other way around, negotiations had begun during Harrenhal, discussions with your late father… he never mentioned it?”

Rhea’s lips were almost invisible by how tight she was keeping her mouth. Vaella wanted to touch her, as a sort of comfort, but she suspected the woman wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, so she kept her hands to herself. “Regardless, Daeron has Arrax,” Vaella pointed out, a hint of humor in her voice.

“Arrax?” Rhea snorted. “You’ve seen that little lizard. More decor than disaster. Daeron’s teeth are sharper than the dragon’s. However, the lizard is prettier to look at.”

Vaella gave a tired, genuine laugh. “I doubt Aemma will cast out a niece for power’s sake, even with Caraxes by her side. And soon enough, she’ll wed Daemon, bound for the Stepstones—under my husband’s eye. With luck, my Vaelon may claim a dragon soon enough and keep the rest in check.”

Rhea regarded her sidelong, lips pressed tight. “Faith in luck or gods tends to end poorly, your Grace. Not advice your brother and I follow.”

Vaella’s smile turned rueful. “Rhea, be frank with me. What is Daeron hiding?”

“Hiding?” Rhea lifted an eyebrow in mild challenge.

Vaella gestured broadly at the gathering before them. “I seem to recall my father and yours were infatuated with the Mountain Clans. I assumed it was just diplomacy when things threatened to turn ugly, but now Daeron speaks of regular trades and squiring.”

Rhea crossed her arms, eyes calculating. “That’s just it—this is diplomacy. Exactly as before.”

Vaella’s expression grew skeptical. “Is that all? Hosting them here every season? Gunthor seems to be picking up their dialect, for what reason?”

Rhea raised a placating hand. “Princess—Daeron keeps me out of most of whatever this is, and what my father taught me has always served well enough. I learned a few things when it all began, and I choose to keep to them. Nothing here’s cause for alarm.”

Vaella pressed further, her tone sharpening. “And what about what happened at Dragonstone? Were you there?”

Rhea shook her head. “I had too much else to mend after my kin died. Besides, I don’t meddle in Daeron’s affairs. He says it’s nothing, so I take him at his word. If you’re so worried, you ought to spend more time in King’s Landing. But Daeron says all’s well, and so it stays.”

Vaella nodded, resigned. “My thanks, Lady Rhea. It seems I must journey to the capital before returning to Stormwatch.”

Rhea barked out something like a laugh, her eyes flicking to a sudden scuffle near the stables. “Gods spare you the city, Princess. I’ve a hundred squabbles to settle and not enough hours left in the day. If you’ll excuse me—my clansmen will have each other’s heads over a bale of sheep’s wool if I don’t step in.”

With military efficiency, Rhea marched off, bellowing orders and untangling the feuding Stone Crows from irritable Moon Brothers. Vaella watched with reluctant admiration, then turned back just in time to see Vaelon and Gunthor racing toward her, Rhaenyra trailing behind with a string of yellow-flecked beads.

“What have you found?” she asked, warmth threading her words.

Rhaenyra beamed as she held up her treasure—a rough amber pendant. “A boy gave it to me. Says it’s lucky, blessed by the Hunter.”

“The Hunter?” Vaella echoed, puzzled.

“Their name for the Smith,” Gunthor broke in, proud of his knowledge. “Same luck, different faces.”

Vaelon, eyes bright, lifted his own necklace. “He says we’ve got to keep them for luck.”

Vaella smoothed a strand of hair behind Rhaenyra’s ear, letting the moment fill her heart. “Come,” she said softly, “let’s grab something warm inside the keep. I, for once, had my fill with today’s intrigue.”

Together, they walked toward the keep, the sounds of Runestone—laughter, argument, the crash and chant of Vale and clans—fading gently behind them. For a little while, peace lingered at their heels. And if it came with laughter and mismatched jewelry, it was all the more precious for that.

Chapter Text

Veil of the Stranger, 103 AC

Last Moon of the Year

Harrenhal

Harrenhal had rarely been a name conjured up when one thought of revelry in the Riverlands. It was a place tied more to hauntings and hardship than pleasure or pageantry. But Viserra, with her characteristic extravagance, had spared no expense.

The grand celebration was officially in honor of her nephew, a façade openly declared to the assembled lords and ladies under her roof. In truth, it was something far more personal. It marked the rise of Gaemon—and, by association, her own. The arrangements were already underway for Lyonel Strong and his dull little brood to take over Harrenhal’s dull little affairs in her absence. She could hardly wait to escape.

Still, she worried. Gaemon had a concerning tendency to mingle too freely with lesser men, swearing up and down that Lyonel was more than a useful tool. And then there was Visenya… trailing after the Strong daughters and their dullard brother like a bitch in heat. It grated at her — Visenya should have far grander aspirations. At least she doesn't have eyes for the cripple.

Finishing the last, delicate brushstrokes of rouge along her cheeks, she caught Gaemon’s reflection in her mirrored vanity as he entered her chambers unannounced. The tightness of his expression was as plain as the silver trim on his coat.

“What troubles you, brother mine?” she asked with bored curiosity, dabbing at her lip tint with precision.

Gaemon lingered by the door, straightening his doublet of deep blue velvet. He cleared his throat, a rarity for him, and smoothed his cuffs. “I’ve received a raven from King’s Landing.”

Her eyes flicked up to him briefly in the mirror, her lips quirking. “Working already? Aerys has always been a lazy bastard…”

“You will not join me at the Red Keep,” he said simply.

She froze, the brush halting midair. Slowly, she set it down, her gaze locking with his reflection. A moment later, she burst into a peal of laughter, sharp and bright. “You must be jesting, Gaemon.”

He didn’t smile. “Rhaenys forbade it,” he replied, his tone careful. “If I am to serve as Master of Laws, I am permitted to bring a small retinue of armsmen, my household… but not you.”

The laughter died on her lips. Gracefully, she rose from her chair, the soft rustle of her skirts undercutting the crackling tension as she turned to face him, her expression sharp and venomous. “That bitch! How dare she?! I am a Princess of the Blood! I could have been Queen!”

“I imagine that’s precisely the reason why you’ve been barred,” Gaemon replied dryly, although a sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

She scoffed, furious, beginning to pace the room. “After everything! All the toil and trouble we endured for those ingrates—and this is how they repay us? Does she really think I still have designs on fucking her fool of a husband?!” Her voice sharpened as her hands clenched into fists. “She can keep Aerys! Let her warm his bed for all I care!”

Gaemon chuckled lightly, stepping closer with his unshakable calm. “Jealousy,” he quipped, “is such an unbecoming sight on a Queen, wouldn’t you agree?”

She rolled her eyes in irritation but stopped her pacing, facing him with a look that might have frozen fire. “What am I supposed to do now, then, Gaemon? That castle was Father’s. I grew up there! I shall write to Daenerys—she’ll make Rhaenys see reason.”

Gaemon sighed, stepping forward with that familiarly patient air. He reached for her, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “And what would you tell Daenerys, love? That Rhaenys won’t let you play in her dragon pit? Dany has her hands full as it is.”

Viserra scoffed. “Always busy with other people’s get. It is not my fault since she refused to marry and have her own children; she now has to play nursemaid for Aegon’s brood and whatever other damn children at the Red Keep.”

Gaemon gave a small exhale, half exasperated sigh, half amusement. “I seem to recall we used to belong to those ‘damn children’, sister.”

Viserra huffed. “You know perfectly well of what I am talking about, Gaemon.” She crossed her arms, looking around. “I have to be at the Red Keep, Gaemon. Why are you letting yourself be trampled like this? Fight for my place at the table, too!”

Gaemon exhaled heavily. He tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching into a familiar, sardonic expression. “No.”

“No?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Do you agree with that bitch? Am I to believe you are betraying me, now, after everything I have done for you!?”

“I do not agree with Rhaenys,” he said firmly. “I find it as unjust as you do—wrong, even—to relegate someone like you to a quiet corner. But”—he paused, his voice softening as he moved closer—“tell me, dearest Viserra, who will tend to the task of amassing our reputation across every corner of the Riverlands? Who will make friends and forge alliances at every feast, tournament, and trivial wedding?”

Reaching out, he gently lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. A small, knowing smile played along his lips. “You’re the heart of our efforts, my love. And you cannot play that role easily from the Red Keep, with Rhaenys and Daenerys watching you every step, can you?”

Her sharp tongue faltered for a moment, her narrowed eyes searching his face. “And what of you, Gaemon? What will you do in my absence?”

“I’ll play my part,” he said smoothly, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her forearms, his touch deliberate, calming. “I’ll send news, just as you’ll send yours. We’ll work together, no matter the distance. What’s a few leagues to a man with a dragon and a woman with knowledge such as yours?” He stepped closer, hunger flickering behind his steady eyes.

She snorted, unable to suppress the faint smile curling her lips. “You do know how to please me.”

“Would you have expected less?” He replied with playful elegance. “Now, shall we begin the feast?”

He extended his arm to her, his expression warm but with a glint of mischief.

Viserra slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, her feline smile full of charm and wicked intent. “Let us, husband. After all, there’s work to be done.”

Second Moon of the Maiden,

Fifth Moon of 105 AC

Harrenhal

“How are you and your wife enjoying your time under my roof?” Viserra asked casually, sipping from her goblet as she observed Daemon over the rim. She leaned back in her chair.

“I must confess,” she continued with a sly smile, “I was downright thrilled when I heard you finally tied the knot, dear nephew. I’d begun to think you’d remain a sullen bachelor for the rest of your days.”

Daemon let out a faint sigh, irritated by the conversation already. “Viserys saw fit to drag us all into his little pageantry of domestic bliss,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Harrenhal is fine, I suppose.”

'Fine?' She fought a stab of irritation. “Tell me,” she said instead, pretending to sound curious, “is Aemma still fussing about her moonblood?”

Daemon stiffened at the question, his casually bored mask cracking for just a moment. His eyes narrowed sharply at her, a flicker of warning in his gaze. “Aemma is tired, the trip from the Eyrie was long*,*” he responded, the edge in his voice unmistakable. “That’s all.”

“Tired?” Viserra repeated, feigning innocence as she raised her brows. “Tired of hurling half the furniture in the castle at your head? Or tired of sending you to sleep in the solar like a chastened pup?” She couldn’t resist a low chuckle as she watched him bristle, his pride visibly smarting.

Before Daemon could open his mouth to retort, she added with a soft, mocking coo, “If the two of you were indulging in the pleasures of the bedchamber, I’m sure half the Riverlands would know. But as it stands…” She trailed off.

Now it was Daemon’s turn to smirk, though there was no humor in it—only anger barely restrained beneath the surface. “I would think you're ready to get preachy, if I didn’t know the sort of woman you are, Aunt.”

“Of course not,” Viserra replied breezily, waving her hand as if brushing off the idea. “I’m here to tell you—tell your sweet falcon not to fret over her empty cradle. In due time, she’ll give you two boys—healthy, strong. The future of your family and the realm.”

He watched her silently for a long moment as Viserra swirled her wine. Finally, Daemon laughed. Harsh and sudden, like a blade striking stone. “I always knew you were an ambitious little shrew,” he said through his laughter. “But to try and play at being some sort of witch?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Has Harrenhal dulled your wits, aunt?”

Viserra tilted her head, unbothered by his ridicule. If anything, she felt amused. “What do you know of Dragon Dreams, Daemon?” she asked.

“Dragon Dreams?” he echoed with a snort. “Nonsense. An old thing, long dead. A useful tool to send idiots to their deaths, thinking it part of some grand adventure.”

Viserra giggled, tilting her head back in a laugh soft as bells, her silver hair catching the sunlight streaking through the windows. “Daemon, you are as stupidly predictable as ever,” she said, rising from her chair with languid ease.

She stepped toward the window, looking out over the vast expanse of Harrenhal’s lands. The sun was bright, chasing off the chill.

“Dreams made us kings.” Viserra said softly, as she stared out over the battlements of Harrenhal.

Behind her, Daemon scoffed, sharp and dismissive. “Do not make such a fool of yourself, Viserra. Dragons made us kings. Don’t tarnish that fact with your nonsense.”

Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch him with the corner of her gaze, and she smiled—not warm, not kind, but with the satisfaction of someone who knew far more than him. “Dragons made us dangerous. But dreams? Dreams gave us fire.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his boredom palpable. He gestured toward her lazily with his goblet. “Viserra, I have better things to do than listen to whatever this is. If you mean to say something, say it.”

Viserra exhaled, turning fully toward him now, her chin held high as she walked back into the room. “Do you think we’d have avoided Valyria’s fate by sheer luck?” Before he could interrupt, she pressed on. “If not for a little maid who dreamt of the end of her world, you and I wouldn’t be here now, sitting in this drafty castle and having this conversation.”

She gave an airy little shrug, as if the enormity of her claim was inconsequential. “Aegon the Conqueror may have used Balerion to win his crown and forge his throne, but he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Daenys the Dreamer. You wouldn’t exist, and I wouldn’t exist, and—”

Daemon cut her off with a wave of his hand, taking a long swig of wine. “Enough,” he muttered irritably. “You do love the sound of your voice.”

Viserra raised a brow, folding her arms as a faint smirk played across her lips. “Do you want certainty, Daemon? Fine. Things are heating up in the Stepstones—isn’t that true?” She cocked her head. “The Three Whores are getting bolder, and it won’t stop at what little rocks they’ve already claimed. Their greed will drive them to bleed the Narrow Sea dry, no matter how many times you or Aegon try to scare them off. No matter how many ships you send, or if you fly Caraxes day and night, they will come for the Stepstones—in truth. That much is certain.”

Daemon snorted lightly, unimpressed. “And? You aren’t telling me anything that every drunk bastard in King’s Landing hasn’t already muttered into his tankard.”

She smirked wider, inching closer. “Let me put it plainly. Before the year is done, Aerys will come for a proposal to see his second son married to Jeyne Arryn and strip away all the careful power you two have worked so hard to secure in these past moons. While the Triarchy breaks tidal waves over the Stepstones, your House will face decisions it’s not prepared for.”

She continued. “Vaelon, your sweet little nephew, will be presented with a chance to claim a dragon. And do you know what will happen?” She leaned in slightly, her voice softening to a near whisper. “Nothing. No beast will take to him. No egg will hatch. And the black mark of that failure will haunt him—and you—because the world will see his lack of a dragon as an omen. A harbinger.”

Daemon’s faint smirk faltered, though he masked it quickly, resting his head on a clenched fist as he studied her with dry amusement.

“Pay heed to Lord Swann,” she added. “Especially his stingy pockets. He may not be a friend, but he has kin you would do well to entreat yourself to. Her friendship could be... useful to you. For now,” She stepped back, crossing her arms. “Consider it advice, not prophecy, if it makes you feel better.”

Daemon scoffed again. “Is that all? Throwing riddles about greedy bastards from the Stormlands and decisions I could make blindfolded? Do you have any idea what I am, Viserra?”

Her reply was immediate, cutting. “Yes. That’s why I waste no time flattering you. If you want those boys—and the future you keep pretending you don’t crave—then live up to the dragon you think you are.”

He rose abruptly, glaring as he raked a hand through his hair. “Viserra,” he said coldly, “bother me no longer with your fairy tales and children yet to be born. And stay out of my wife’s affairs. Harm her in any way, and I will have no mercy.”

She hummed, barely acknowledging the threat, then tilted her head with a faint smile. “We will meet again by the end of the year, nephew,” she said lightly. “And oh, what a joy it will be to host you once more.”

Daemon stormed out without another word, and Viserra let out a satisfied sigh, sipping from her goblet as she turned back to the window. The sun was still shining over Harrenhal, the spring wind warm against the stone.

Chapter Text

Day of the Father Above,

First Days of the Year 107 AC

Saltpans

Aegon made his way through the bustling port, a smile already on his face as Vaelon called, “So, he enlisted you, too?” His nephew stood proudly, hands firmly on his hips, grinning all the while. The warm spring sun cast golden highlights on their hair.

“Why so surprised?” Aegon called back, a grin spreading across his face as he reached Vaelon. “I was his first recruit—the very first. What’s a fool’s errand without me, after all?” He ruffled Vaelon’s hair fondly, laughing as the boy ducked. “Truth be told, I was expecting another year or two of peace for myself. Maybe we’d see Daemon playing house for a while longer—let the man wrangle babes and experience some much-needed domesticity before he grew bored of it all.”

Vaelon shrugged, dimples forming as his sly grin widened. “I think we both know Uncle Daemon isn’t exactly one for…” He paused, putting on an exaggerated air of consideration, “…stillness.”

“Now, young squire, is your knight letting you speak of him like that?”

Vaelon made a dismissive motion with his hand, chuckling. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But I am sure you agree with me, don’t you, uncle?”

Aegon let out a low laugh. “Vaelon Skyfyre, you’ve been spending far too much time around scoundrels and ruffians. You’re already picking up all our worst habits.”

“And who could blame me?” Vaelon countered, smirk firmly in place.

Aegon chuckled softly, studying his nephew—barely more than a boy, yet already growing into his potential. At four-and-ten, Vaelon’s lanky frame had begun to fill out, and he carried himself with the self-assurance of a green boy.

“I’ve not even said anything scandalous,” Vaelon added with a grin, his dimples deepening. “Yet. But let’s be honest—half the Vale’s already whispering about Uncle Daemon’s antics, and they’re not exactly subtle or wrong.”

Aegon arched a brow, amused despite his efforts to sound chastening. “Careful, Vaelon.”

“Oh, come now,” Vaelon replied with a dramatic scoff, his smirk still firmly planted. “Uncle Daemon told me himself! Said he couldn’t keep ‘importuning’ Aunt Aemma at the Eyrie. Apparently, my father gave him actual work to focus on instead.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, though his lips quirked upward in the faintest hint of a grin. “And you believed that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Vaelon shot back, adopting a mock-serious expression. “Father always says he needs some purpose, and whatever he sent him to do seems to be in line with that. After all, there are limits to how long someone can stay cooped up in the Eyrie trying to—well, you know.”

Aegon barked a laugh before clapping Vaelon lightly upside the head. “One of these days, that sharp tongue of yours is going to land you in trouble.”

“Probably,” Vaelon replied breezily, unfazed. “But not today, I think.”

Aegon swung an arm around his nephew’s shoulders, and together they walked, Vaelon happily filling the silence with stories of his latest exploits. He spoke animatedly of his time spent traveling, from the rugged heights of the Eyrie to the windswept halls of Runestone and the slow descent to Saltspans before the year’s end. He barely paused for breath as he recounted how Aenys Targaryen, his young cousin, had begun his squiring under Prince Daeron and the knights of the Weeping Peninsula.

Aegon listened, though mostly out of courtesy. The doings of the Targaryen princelings never much interested him, but Vaelon poured such enthusiasm into his tales that Aegon was content to let him talk.

Eventually, they reached a modest inn nestled by Saltpans’ riverside market. The smell of fish mingled with the faint tang of damp wood hanging in the air.

“You’re staying here?” Aegon asked with an arched brow as Vaelon gestured toward the inn.

“Just for the night,” Vaelon replied. “Uncle Daemon is inside already. Been waiting for you, said you’d feel just at home. The plan is to leave before dawn—first light—for Harrenhal. After that, Raventree Hall, and the rest...” He trailed off with a shrug. “Well, whatever Uncle Daemon decides, I suppose.”

Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Of course. There’s never an end to it when Daemon’s in charge.”

Vaelon grinned. “Never dull with him, at least.”

“‘Never dull’ could be the family’s battle cry when it comes to him,” Aegon muttered, his tone dry. Still, he turned toward the inn, resigned but without resentment. He’d long ago learned that when Daemon came calling, it meant trouble—but it also meant purpose.

With Vaelon leading him to the door, Aegon sighed deeply, already anticipating the start of what would no doubt be a long, eventful trip.

And wrong he wasn’t.

Their slow journey through the Riverlands had been anything but the leisurely roam of a traveling court. Every stop, every route, every word exchanged had been deliberate, carefully planned—a pilgrimage of politics, so to say.

The story they told was simple and, for the most part, honest. They’d say that Daemon was following their father’s example, that when they were children, Prince Baelon, following the example of the Old King, had made it a point to travel the realm often, visiting as many lords as time and seasons would allow. Great and small, middling and mighty—it had mattered to their father that they were seen, that they heard him, and that he, in turn, heard them. “To be seen is essential,” Prince Baelon had clarified in private many times over, “for a people who never see their king begin to forget who sits their throne.”

It had stuck with Daemon. Yet as he’d explained to Aegon in private, his reasoning went beyond simple appearances or politeness. “Pay attention next time we sit in a lord’s hall,” Daemon had said. “You’ll see for yourself.”

Their journey began with a brief sojourn at Harrenhal.

Here, their aunt, Princess Viserra, presided over a court that was both shrewdly efficient and marvelously extravagant. Despite his expectations to the contrary, she and Daemon seemed to get on well, but he was hard-pressed not to call his brother’s behavior demure. The whole thing left him struggling to understand.

Vaelon, for his part, adapted to their surroundings seemingly without effort. He took a keen liking to Lord Lyonel Strong’s children: Harwin, two years Vaelon’s elder, carried an easy grace about him, his reputation for martial prowess as striking as his steady temperament. With Lyonel’s daughters—Janna, Leona, and Jorelle—Vaelon traded pleasantries with his usual youthful charm. The youngest, Lyonel mentioned, studied at the Citadel, well on his way to earning a maester’s chain.

Encounters with the children of Gaemon and Viserra, however, proved less harmonious. Aelor was flippant, his dismissive attitude toward Vaelon bordering on insolent, but to his credit, Vaelon let the slights roll off his shoulders. Rhaena and Visenya, for their part, were polite enough, their civility calculated but distant. They spared him time for conversation, though warmth was noticeably absent.

After Harrenhal, their march continued along the River Road, their destinations calculated to touch every holdfast of significance within reach.

Their next stop was Riverrun. Lord Grover Tully treated their visit as an unwelcome obligation—not outright rude, but his disdain was thinly veiled. His heir, Ser Abelard Tully, proved more receptive. Having a Blackwood wife likely helped; through her, he had extended a more cautious courtesy. The hospitality was warmer, if only slightly, and while the lord himself kept them at a formal distance, Daemon managed to extract small moments of genuine civility from the heir.

At Raventree Hall, they were greeted by Lord Blackwood with the sincerity of an old friend in one of the few warm welcomes they would receive in the Riverlands. Lord Blackwood’s son, Ser Samwell Blackwood, had become rather close to them over the years. The visit felt like a reprieve—meals shared with laughter, stories exchanged beneath the towering heart tree of their godswood.

But it was also here that Daemon’s meaning became clear. Toward the end of the feast, one of Lord Blackwood’s vassals spoke up—a squat, broad-shouldered man with a nose red from drink—and griped about the king.

“There’s peace, aye, and we’ve seen peace near all our lives, thanks to the Conciliator,” the man said loudly. “But what I haven’t seen—not in all these three years—is King Aerys. Not once since Harrenhal has he come down to see us. Dragons are meant to be seen, you say? Then tell me what I’ve seen! His grandfather spent more time in his dragon’s saddle than in that cursed chair!”

Many had nodded in agreement, hushed voices that didn’t dare openly agree. It made Aegon uneasy to see Daemon say nothing, and simply meet the man’s indignant gaze with a quiet, neutral smile.

One night, as they prepared to move farther north toward Seagard, Daemon finally voiced the true extent of his plans to Aegon.

They were standing on the battlements of Fairmarket under a star-scattered sky. The air was cool and pleasant, carrying with it the faint tang of the Trident nearby. Between them, the blue smoke of sunleaf curled lazily upward in the moonlight as they both smoked from their pipes. Aegon leaned on the stone parapet, exhaling a trail of smoke as he listened to the distant sounds of the town stirring below.

“What have you made of our travels so far, little brother?” Daemon’s voice broke the silence, calm yet probing, his words carrying the weight of a question already half-answered.

Aegon glanced at him, then looked back out over the battlements. His response came slowly, measured, as he dragged from his pipe. “Interesting, I suppose. But tell me—are you simply collecting grievances against Aerys? Or is this one of your foolish schemes?”

Daemon snorted, shaking his head. “Foolish? Come now, Egg, give me some credit—I needn’t scheme to see what’s unfolding. You’ve heard the lords and ladies well enough, haven’t you? The whispers are growing louder, the discontent getting harder to ignore. Even you can’t be deaf to it.”

Aegon exhaled, smoke curling lazily in the moonlight. “Daemon, we’ve walked this path before, and it’s led to nothing. If you’re hoping to sway Viserys, you’re wasting your time.”

Daemon sighed, loud and theatrical, as if the burden of explaining the obvious weighed too heavily on him. “Aegon, please. I didn’t drag you to this gods-forsaken corner of the realm for counsel in stating the obvious.” He turned to face him fully, his expression sharp beneath the light of the moon, as he gestured with his pipe. “I brought you here because this time, we can actually do something about it. But only if you get your head out of your ass long enough to listen.”

Aegon quirked an eyebrow, pipe still clamped between his teeth. “Then enlighten me.”

Daemon leaned on the parapet, his hands idly tapping the stone as his words sharpened. “This isn’t just the ramblings of a few disgruntled lords. At the Vale, nearly every lord, lady, and knight I spoke to had a poor opinion of Aerys and his court—Otto Hightower, Prince Daeron, the foreign spymaster. They see them as nuisances, more concerned with their own indulgences than ruling the realm. Aemma can barely stand Daeron, let alone the Bronze Bitch,” A surprising amount of venom there, “and here in the Riverlands,” he gestured broadly to the land around them, “the whispers have turned into loud complaining. Wouldn’t be surprised to hear them yelling soon.”

Aegon waited, letting Daemon’s words hang in the air, inviting him to continue.

“I paid Borros Baratheon a visit before meeting you,” Daemon continued. “Do you know who’s been keeping him company?”

Aegon frowned. “Rhaenys?”

Daemon nodded, taking a draw from his pipe, the ember flaring briefly. “But not to smooth tensions. No, she went to remind him of his obligations—of their shared blood and whatever nonsense she thought might flatter him.” He smirked. “It was a disaster. She treated him like a fool, and he responded as the fool he is, demanding a dragon for himself or, failing that, a Targaryen bride. She laughed in his face and left him to rot in his rage. The man's aching for war, Aegon, but the Crown barely notices him, and it only makes him angrier.”

“And Aerys?” Aegon asked, though he already knew the answer.

Daemon barked a laugh. “Locked away in the Red Keep while Rhaenys and Hightower rule the realm. So ashamed of the beating the Monster gave him, he hardly lets anyone see him unless absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, his court is overrun with foreigners—mages, Red Priests, alchemists, madmen.” Daemon’s lip curled in disgust. “He can’t even keep his own people from falling into ruin. Stardust? Milk of the poppy refined into something far worse? He’s turned the city of our father into a cesspit of decadence.”

Refraining that neither he nor Daemon were exactly strangers to decadence, Aegon asked, “And… what, exactly, do you plan to do about it?”

Daemon grinned, a wolfish glint in his eyes as he leaned closer. “Show them what it means to have someone who cares. Someone who listens. Someone who acts. While Aerys presides over his hall of fools, we will remind the realm what a true dragon looks like. They didn’t believe me at Harrenhal. But I’ll show them.”

“You’re sailing into a storm you can’t control, brother.”

“Must it always be about sailing with you?” Daemon asked with a soft laugh, tapping his pipe against the stone wall. “This isn’t about control, little brother. This is about planting seeds. Aemma has found me fertile ground in the Vale, and Viserra has plowed rocky ground into something useful. All it takes now is to reap the harvest.”

”A charming metaphor,” Aegon said dryly. “Though I know none of you have so much as ever touched a plow, much less planted seeds, but it’s generally a bad idea to weigh your grain before it grows.”

Daemon balanced and made to respond, but Aegon stopped him. “And where does that leave us? Are we bound farther north now? To kiss the frozen asses of the Starks?”

Daemon scoffed. “No. The North is… another beast. I’ve no patience for their grim solemnity just now.” His tone shifted, lighter now, as he glanced sidelong at his brother. “But tell me—are you still friendly with the Ironborn?”

“Define friendly.”

Daemon smirked wider, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the rough battlements. “You know—cordial. Mutual interests. Or perhaps something more primal? Sea people don’t have… mating calls, or something of the sort?” He made a crude gesture.

Aegon nearly choked on a lungful of smoke, laughing against the rim of his pipe. “I’ve crossed paths with Arthur Goodbrother twice on the Narrow Sea; he and a handful of others like him are more interested in building real ships than just raiding skiffs. As for Lord Greyjoy—he’s not exactly fond of me or that particular line of thinking, but he seems to be turning a convenient blind eye.”

Daemon arched a brow at that. “Convenient how?”

“Convenient enough for commerce to happen, people openly discuss and even arrange marriages with Greenlanders. Lord Greyjoy is old, sick, and probably tired of fighting every small slight against his pride. And let’s be real: Greyjoys never waste energy fighting battles they haven’t decided outright they'll win.”

Daemon chuckled low, taking a slow drag off his own pipe. “I still can’t believe you took up this habit.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad—”

“Last time I saw you, I couldn’t get the stink of sunleaf off me for days. Aemma complained for hours about it, and now you’ve got me doing it.” He shook his head in mock admonition.

That only made Aegon snort, near giggling as he leaned into the battlements. “Worse than you stinking of dragon? The woman has peculiar tastes, to say the least.”

Daemon shoved him lightly, though he couldn’t hide his grin. “I want you to pay a visit to your Ironborn friends.”

“Oh? For what? Fashion advice?”

“For information,” Daemon said smoothly, tapping ash off the edge of the wall. “Ask them what they’re doing with their fleets these days—when they make those little ‘seasonal tributes’ or whatever it is they do to their rocks when they aren’t raiding or sulking. You know, the usual.”

Aegon sighed, exhaling a soft plume of smoke that curled into the night air. “Oh. Oh.”

“Ah, you got it now, don’t you?”

“Are you mad, Daemon?” Aegon blinked. “This isn’t… we are not ready!”

“But of course we are, Egg. You’ve earned your spurs for this very moment, don’t you? Every time you sail your ship along the Stepstones, you keep on telling yourself that now is not the time. And I tell you, it is time.”

Aegon shook his head. “Is that what this pageantry is about? Even with friends from across the whole of Westeros, we can’t stop the piracy, let alone win the war it’ll cause. Not with just Caraxes and the small fleet we have; we need ships — Velaryon ships. And Corlys Velaryon seems more content to count his coffers than spend them.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “But what if we could get the Velaryons to commit? Fully.”

Aegon frowned. “The Sea Snake isn’t moved by empty promises—or even the broader idea of free commerce. He needs something real—something that appeals to both his purse and his pride.”

“Like a marriage, perhaps?” Daemon asked casually, his tone innocent but his expression anything but.

Aegon blinked. “Between whom?”

Daemon nodded thoughtfully, smoke trailing from his lips. “Viserys has refused to consider Vaelon for anyone except Aerys’s brat—and Rhaenyra as well, for that matter. But a little bird told me that Gaemon and Corlys have already begun whispering about a betrothal between Laenor and Visenya.”

Aegon stiffened slightly, interest piqued. “And Laena?”

Daemon turned to him fully, the corners of his lips twitching upward in that sly, knowing grin. “No letters from Stormwatch lately? You must be slipping.”

Aegon frowned now, his eyes narrowing. “I assume you’ve been keeping yourself informed.”

Daemon shrugged. “I know a thing or two.”

“Why would Corlys arrange a marriage for his only daughter with a third son?” Aegon asked, tapping the edge of the pipe against the stone—a flicker of unease in his tone.

“Because that third son could one day secure control over the Narrow Sea and be just as rich as he is,” Daemon said simply, letting the words hang between them. “And that third son also happens to be his favorite nephew and a far better option than letting poor Laena waste away as no one’s bride.”

Aegon looked below, feeling the unease creep on his chest. “She’s what, thirteen?”

“Fifteen,” Daemon corrected smoothly.

Aegon bit down on the mouthpiece of the pipe, mulling it over in silence. “I was already betrothed once—”

Daemon waved a hand dismissively. “A farce. That conveniently ended in tragedy. I hope you sent flowers back to King’s Landing.”

Aegon slumped against the wall, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I still feel guilty about Gael—that was a cruel twist of fate. She didn’t even want the match to begin with.”

“Perhaps not,” Daemon said lightly, the smoke curling around him as he waved Aegon’s guilt away like an irritating fly. “That match was a trap—one laid before Aerys truly lost his wits, I’d wager. But you’re free now—to choose, or to be chosen. And I seem to recall Laena being quite fond of you.”

“She was a child,” Aegon rebuffed with a snort. “We barely even spoke back then.”

Daemon shrugged again, a glint of mischief returning to his eyes. “And yet, they do say the brooding, mysterious types always carry a certain… appeal.”

Aegon chuckled at that despite himself. “So, war it is, then?”

“Oh, war, little brother,” Daemon replied, his grin sharpening. “The sort of war that will make Aerys and his sycophants tremble to their very toes. And to make that happen, we’ll need friends. Big ones. Small ones. Even the Ironborn.”

Aegon sighed, looking out into the night. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Daemon.”

“If we don’t,” Daemon replied, “we’ll make sure they think we do.”

The Day of the Smith,

Ninth moon of 108 AC

Surrounding woods of Starpike

Aegon took a long swig from his waterskin, letting the cool liquid chase away the dryness in his throat. He wiped his chin with a gloved hand, brushing away the stray droplets that stubbornly trailed along his jaw. The ache in his muscles and the heat of the afternoon left him feeling drained, but it was exhaustion he welcomed—a weariness born from honest exertion.

“Uncle, save some water for the rest of us!” Vaelon’s voice called out as his mare closed the distance between them, hooves landing with a soft thud against the forest trail.

Aegon turned and arched a brow. “What have I told you about sneaking up like that, boy?”

Vaelon grinned, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Maybe to keep doing it?”

Laughing, Aegon nudged his stallion closer, bumping his nephew’s mount playfully. The two horses jostled briefly before settling, their riders breaking into unrestrained laughter as they continued at a leisurely pace through the small patch of forest.

“I think we’ve lost them,” Vaelon said after a moment, casting a glance over his shoulder toward the empty path behind them.

“Thank the Gods for that,” Aegon groaned, rolling his shoulders. “If I had to endure another word from Unwin Peake, I may have started considering throwing myself to the Mander.”

Vaelon barked out a laugh. “What’s the matter, Uncle? Surely you loved his endless talk of friendship, status, glory, and fame.”

Aegon mock-shuddered. “I’d rather face a pack of wolves without a sword than listen to Unwin Peake for another moment.”

Grinning, Vaelon closed one eye and adopted an exaggerated tone of haughtiness, eerily mimicking Lord Peake. “My Lord, the Gods betrayed us the day your sire passed away in such a manner. Clearly, the hand of Aegon the Quarrelsome at work!”

Aegon threw his head back, laughing loud enough to send a few birds scattering from their perches in the trees. “Gods, you’re far too good at that. I blame Daemon—he’s had you strapped to his saddle for so long you’re starting to sound like him!”

Vaelon smirked. “Well, I’m still counting the days until he lets me stay somewhere for more than five minutes. Or, I don’t know, gives me normal squire training—like Cousin Aemon gets with Uncle Aegor.”

Aegon groaned dramatically, throwing an exaggerated look of horror Vaelon’s way. “Will you tell me again how much you hate gallivanting across the Seven Kingdoms? Because I don’t recall you complaining when you boasted about wanting to kiss a maid in every kingdom!”

Vaelon let out a snort, rolling his eyes. “Sure, and I still plan on that—what, I’m supposed to just stop now? But, in all fairness, you’d think I could still manage that and maybe get a season or two to breathe at a proper castle. We’ve been doing this for almost two years. The life of a hedge knight does not suit me.”

“And yet,” Aegon teased with a grin, angling his horse a little closer to Vaelon’s as they rode through the dappled light spilling through the canopy above. “We’ll likely be doing this for three more. If not longer.”

Vaelon sighed loudly, tipping his head back to glare up at the streaks of sunlight piercing the treetops. “Aren’t you tired?”

Chuckling, Aegon shifted in the saddle, leaning slightly toward Vaelon. “Maybe you’ll be less tired with a dragon.”

The boy stiffened just slightly, a faint flicker of annoyance flashing across his face. “Oh, not you too,” Vaelon muttered, shooting Aegon a side-eyed glance. “I thought you’d get it, being dragonless and all.”

“I do, I do,” Aegon replied quickly, holding up a placating hand. “But you’ve barely said a word about it to me, so I figured it might be worth pressing the matter a little.”

Vaelon inhaled deeply, rubbing at the reins of his horse. “Fine, you want to know? Let me save you the trouble.” He looked straight at Aegon, his gaze flat but steady, his voice stronger than his earlier grumbling. “I’m not mad about it. Or sad. Or disappointed, or whatever else Daemon has been telling himself these past five moons. I’m not jealous, I’m not pining—I’m fine with not having a dragon.”

Aegon raised a brow slightly but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Vaelon shifted in the saddle. “Maybe… maybe when I was five or six, sure, I wanted one. Every other kid in the entire bloody family had an egg—or a hatchling—or had already set their sights on a big scaly beast. I was jealous. Hells, I remember being furious when Syrax hatched from the egg I gave her, even though it had been mine to begin with. But now?” He shrugged and gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t care anymore.”

He met Aegon’s gaze. “Father always says I don’t need a dragon to be a good lord or knight. And you know what? Even Aemon gets it. He’s been more understanding about it than half the bloody court. But the rest of them? It’s ridiculous. Aunt Daenerys gave me that sad, pitiful look last time we were in King’s Landing, and I’ve heard those whispers—the ones with the tone like I’ve been cursed or something.” His voice rose just slightly, still charged with the frustration of it all. “I don’t want their pity. I don’t need it. I don’t need a dragon.”

Silence lingered after his words. Aegon finally smirked, his sharp lilac gaze locking onto his nephew’s. “If you’re so fine without a dragon, then prove it, boy.”

Vaelon blinked. “What? What do you mean?”

Aegon nudged his horse forward, the beast snorting as it picked up speed. “Show me how fast that horse can go. Or are you going to let an old man like me leave you in the dust?”

It took only a heartbeat for Vaelon to spur his mount after him, laughter bursting freely from his chest as he chased his uncle through the trees.

“Where have you two been?” Daemon’s voice cut through the hum of the camp, sharp and laced with impatience as Aegon and Vaelon returned to where the captured venison was being dressed for the evening feast.

“Chasing hares,” Aegon answered casually, nodding toward Vaelon’s saddle, where three plump hares dangled from the leather straps. Their mottled fur was streaked with blood, a testament to a swift hunt.

“You got them yourself, Vaelon?” Daemon judging with the scrutiny of a knight, not an uncle.

Vaelon straightened in the saddle, a touch of pride glinting in his hazel eyes. “Clearly, Ser Daemon. Though this one”—he gestured to the hare on the far right—“came from his bow.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a half-smirk as they dismounted and handed their horses off to the waiting servants. “Aegon’s, huh? Let me guess—neck, not the eye?”

Vaelon grinned. “Neck.”

Daemon snorted. “He’s always been sloppy with his aim.”

“Sloppy but lethal,” Aegon muttered dryly, falling into step with the other two as they made their way toward the banquet tent.

The brief camaraderie between them fractured as Vaelon’s carefree grin slipped into a frown. His tone, once light, now carried an unease that made Aegon glance sideways at his nephew. “Do we have to spend dinner with Lord Peake?”

Daemon didn’t stop walking, but the sharpness of his tone was hard to ignore. “He is our host, Vaelon. Yes, you’ll join us. This is a lord’s responsibility, something you’ll have to stomach when your time arrives.”

“I don’t like him.” Vaelon’s voice had flattened. “There’s something about him that’s… wrong.”

Daemon sighed loudly, a sharp hiss of air that betrayed his mounting impatience. His jaw tightened as he turned fully, fixing Vaelon with a pointed stare. “By the gods, what is this now? Another one of your bad feelings?”

The boy didn’t flinch, nor did he look away. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, lilac clashing with hazel. Aegon, trailing a step behind, faltered. This was uncommon.

“They’re not nonsense,” Vaelon said firmly, his grip tightening on his belt. “You think they’re just nightmares, but I told you—” He paused, uncertainty flickering in his face, before continuing boldly, his voice softer but no less determined. “You know it, Uncle. You’ve seen it, too.”

Aegon froze mid-stride, frowning as he glanced between his nephew and his brother. He opened his mouth, his words cautious and deliberate. “What in seven hells are you talking about, Vaelon?”

“Nothing.” Daemon’s voice cut through the moment like a sword through flesh. He waved a hand brusquely as he turned away, refusing to look at Vaelon. “Coincidence, that’s all it was. Don’t let your imagination run riot. It’ll upset your wits.”

Vaelon’s face burned with frustration, bright spots of color blooming over his cheeks. “But coincidences don’t just—”

“Enough, squire!”

Daemon’s voice cracked like a whip. His boots struck the ground sharply as he walked, his back stiff with tension, his shoulders squared against whatever loomingly uncomfortable truth Vaelon seemed intent on forcing into the open.

Vaelon’s mouth opened as if to retort, but it quickly snapped shut under the weight of the glare Daemon cast him over his shoulder. Aegon had known his brother long enough to recognize the steel behind his words—Daemon could command the room or battlefield with tone alone. And yet… There was something else there now, buried beneath the layers of defiance and frustration. Hesitation? No, something colder, something more gut-wrenching. Fear.

“If you so desperately want to avoid dining with our host, then by all means, you’ll be cleaning my saddles tonight. All three. That includes Caraxes’ tack. I want every blade, sword, and knife in my tent gleaming by sunrise. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Vaelon muttered through clenched teeth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Ser Daemon,” Vaelon bit out.

When Vaelon said nothing more, Daemon turned sharply on his heel and began striding toward the lord’s tent. His tone was clipped as he called out over his shoulder. “Don’t be late, Aegon. Unless you’d like to muck stalls alongside the lad.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand but said nothing, watching as his brother disappeared into the main tent. Only then did he step closer to Vaelon.

“Vaelon…” Aegon said softly, tentatively placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He half-expected him to shrug it off, but to his surprise, Vaelon didn’t move.

“It’s fine,” Vaelon replied, his voice hurried and brittle. “He’s right. It’s nothing.”

The weight of that single word lingered in the cool air, and Aegon frowned as he watched his nephew stare into the distance. But the boy’s knuckles remained pale from the tension in his grip, and Aegon thought—not for the first time—that there was far more to Vaelon than met the eye.

“What you said to Daemon...” Aegon began quietly, but Vaelon flinched at the name, cutting him off.

The boy’s gaze snapped up to meet Aegon’s, wide and resistant, before flickering down again to where his uncle’s hand still rested on his shoulder. Vaelon chewed at his lip for a moment, as if wrestling with some unspoken conflict. Then he exhaled softly, as though resolving himself to speak.

“Do you know how to fight with your other hand?” he asked abruptly, the question seemingly out of nowhere.

“What?”

“You know,” Vaelon continued, hazel eyes now fixed on the ground as if avoiding further questions. “Your non-dominant hand. Have you ever trained with it?”

Aegon snorted, surprised into a small chuckle. “Of course not. Who in the name of the Seven would bother with that nonsense?”

“Aemon told me Uncle Aegor learned.”

That made Aegon pause briefly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, he let out a soft breath, ruffling Vaelon’s silver-gold hair and lightly pushing the boy forward to nudge him toward their tent. “Well, I’m not Aegor. I don’t need to do such a thing, lad. Maybe this hand”—he flexed his sword hand with a grin—“is sloppy with an arrow. But give me a blade, and you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.”

Vaelon laughed, the sound quiet but genuine. Some of the shadow seemed to lift from his face, his posture loosening as he glanced back up at his uncle. Aegon felt a flicker of relief at seeing his nephew’s easy humor return, even if only briefly.

First Moon of the Crone, 108 AC

Tenth Moon of the Year

Storm’s End

The hall buzzed with merriment, light spilling from towering candelabras as music and laughter carried through the air. Aegon groaned softly, pushing away his plate, feeling impossibly full—and uncomfortably aware of just how much he had eaten.

The feast sprawled on endlessly, a tribute to Lord Borros Baratheon’s wedding to a Caron lady, with every dish a louder proclamation of the hunt’s success the day before. The tables bulged with roasted meats, herb-crusted fowl, and rich pastries that seemed designed to test a man’s endurance.

Aegon leaned back in his chair, forcing himself to take a cleansing breath. He had spent much of the last two years trailing Daemon across the Seven Kingdoms, leaping from one celebration, hunt, or misadventure to the next. He felt more like a wandering minstrel than a prince of the realm, constantly swept up in his brother’s wake. He had once thought Daemon’s marriage to Aemma might anchor him, but instead, wedlock seemed to have only stoked his brother’s restlessness.

“I will not sit idly in the Eyrie while Aemma manages the regency,” Daemon had declared once. “I go to her when she needs me, and if I overstay my welcome, she sends me away soon enough.”

Aegon had quipped—perhaps too dryly—“Which seems to be often,” only to have Daemon laugh and clasp his shoulder as though he had made the cleverest jest of the day.

Now, as Aegon scanned the noisy, bustling hall, he wondered what madness had possessed him to eat so much in the first place. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice at his side.

“Aegon, what a pleasure to see you.”

Turning to find Lord Corlys Velaryon standing nearby, cup of wine in hand, Aegon offered a tight smile. The Sea Snake had a knack for appearing just when one’s mind was drifting.

“Lord Corlys,” Aegon greeted. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Corlys’s lips curled in a genial smile. “I believe we will be seeing each other quite often.” The words struck him enough to feel heat creeping to his cheeks.

“Laena’s come as well?” Aegon asked, eager to divert the conversation.

Corlys cleared his throat and nodded toward the dance floor. “Over there,” he said, gesturing with his cup of wine. Sure enough, Laena’s silver hair gleamed in the candlelight as she spun gracefully across the hall, caught in the carefree whirlwind of the dancing. “She insisted she attend. It’s hard to deny that girl anything when she wants it.” His wry tone softened the admission before his gaze returned to Aegon. “And judging by your face, I take it you’re as restless as Daemon these days. When was the last time you had your boots on the deck of a ship, hmm?”

Aegon exhaled, his laugh dry. “Long enough that I’ve nearly forgotten the feel of salt under my nails.”

“Ah,” Corlys grinned knowingly. “That long, eh? When did this traveling circus start?”

“Ever since the pirates took Johanna Swann and the Triarchy started sharpening their knives,” Aegon replied with a shrug. “But Daemon’s ‘social’ agenda has kept both of us thoroughly occupied. Just a moon ago, we were at the mercy of the Lords Peake and Tarly, hunting everything with a pulse during the season.”

Corlys chuckled, swirling his wine. “And is Daemon’s ‘agenda’ just another way to say he’s quarreling with his wife?”

Aegon gave a small, helpless shrug. “Not from what I gather. Aemma’s been buried under the duties of regency lately—handling the mess left behind by some Vale lords and arranging a marriage pact for her niece. Daemon claims he doesn’t want to disturb her.”

“Daemon, respectful of his wife’s work? I never thought I’d see the day.” Corlys smirked. “Is it fear that finally tames him?”

Aegon laughed, the sound easing some of the tension in his chest. “Gods know, if anyone could make Daemon stop and think, it’s Aemma. But no, I think he’s honest. Daemon’s restless, and Aemma’s buried in responsibilities—and she seems glad enough to let him disappear for a while when he gets in the way.”

Corlys nodded sagely before tilting his head and asking, not unkindly, “And why does he drag you along, Aegon?”

Aegon hesitated, glancing over to the crowded dance floor where Daemon now twirled their good sister, Vaella. She wore a polite smile that fell short of true cheer, letting herself be spun about with more grace than enthusiasm. Viserys had also been invited to what felt like the wedding of the century, or at least that’s how Borros had boasted the previous evening.

“Maybe out of habit,” Aegon said finally, his voice quiet. “I’ve always followed my brothers, haven’t I?”

Corlys appraised him for a long moment, his eyes sharp and thoughtful, before giving Aegon a brief clap on the shoulder. “It’s good to be loyal, Aegon. But think on it—there’s no shame in choosing your own path someday. Not even for a man who loves his brothers.”

Aegon met his gaze, unsure how to reply. He glanced back at Daemon, his shoulders unconsciously stiffening.

But before the knot of unease could take root, a flash of silver and blue broke into the corner of his vision, sweeping toward them with an energy as bright as sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

“Laena,” Corlys greeted warmly, turning as his daughter approached with an open, dazzling smile. Her hair was slightly disheveled from dancing, strands of silver sticking to her temples from the heat of the hall, but she looked delightfully unbothered by it all.

She turned her attention to Aegon, and before he could process what was happening, her fingers had already wrapped around his hands. “Has my father been boring you with his endless chatter?” she teased, her boldness catching him so off guard he felt warmth creeping up his neck again.

“N-not at all,” he stammered, trying to summon some subtlety to his response. “He’s been—”

“And what if I have, daughter?” Corlys interjected, arching a brow and smirking playfully. “Will you chastise me for speaking to your dear cousin?”

“I might,” Laena quipped without hesitation, shooting her father a teasing grin. “Especially if you don’t let this fine young man join me for the next set of songs on the dance floor.”

Aegon opened his mouth, fumbling for a polite decline. “I—I don’t dance, actually—”

“No excuses,” she cut him off, flashing a look that dared him to try again. Her grip on his hands tightened slightly, warm and firm—an invitation he could neither retreat from nor refuse.

Corlys chuckled under his breath, stepping back as if to signal his concession. “Aegon, my advice is to surrender now. Laena doesn’t take ‘no’ very lightly.”

And, indeed, resistance was futile. If Aegon harbored any hope of escaping, it was extinguished the moment Laena tugged him toward the center of the hall. The shimmering crowd of lords and ladies seemed to blur as he followed her, his head too wrapped in the moment to think straight.

As they joined the throng on the dance floor, the music surged, a sprightly tune played on pipes and drums that seemed to make the whole hall come alive. Aegon stumbled at first, awkwardly trying to follow the steps, but Laena didn’t seem to notice—or, if she did, she simply didn’t care. Instead, she laughed lightly, guiding him with practiced ease.

Her movements were effortless, her gown swirling with an elegance that made her seem as though she had been born to command every dance floor she touched. Aegon, by contrast, felt clumsy and self-conscious, but her boldness was infectious, and he found himself smiling despite his initial reluctance.

“See?” Laena said, her voice cutting through the music as she grinned up at him. “You can dance just fine.”

“Only because you’re dragging me along,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a small, genuine smile.

“You’re welcome,” she shot back cheekily, spinning in a way that caught the light on her gown, shimmering against her movements like waves under the sun.

And as the dance carried him into the crowd, with music and laughter surrounding him, Aegon felt himself loosening—just a little, forgetting, if only for a moment, the weight of questions that had lingered so heavily moments before.

Chapter Text

Second Moon, Season of the Father

The Red Keep, 109 AC

Otto finished reading the report, his mouth flattening into a thin line. He muttered a curse under his breath once, then scoured the parchment a second time, eyes narrowed. The words refused to change. He read a third time, willing the words to be different, but it was of no use. He cursed again.

“You seem displeased, Ser Otto,” Maryros Ostys commented idly, inspecting his fingernails, demeanor calm as a cloudless day.

“How reliable is this information?” Otto asked, voice hoarse.

“Extremely so.” Ostys smiled, directing his attention to Otto for the first time. “Expect a public announcement within a fortnight.”

Otto drummed his fingers on the desk, mind racing. “Not much time to counteract them,” he murmured.

“With due respect, Lord Hand, I don’t think there’s anything to be done,” the Braavosi said, leaning forward. “Not without appearing reactionary and tyrannic.”

Otto exhaled heavily, settling back in his chair. Fatigue pressed upon his shoulders, weary and familiar as an old wound. He could scarcely remember the last time he had slept soundly, perhaps not since the chaos at Harrenhal five years ago. He loved the job, but hadn't expected so little sleep... And as always, the presence of Maryros Ostys heralded more sleepless nights to come.

He exhaled, his mind made as he rose from his chair. “You can brief the Small Council on the morrow, but until then, not a word to anyone. I will inform the king immediately .”

Ostys gave a sidelong glance out the window where the evening shadows were already deepening into true night. “You best hurry, then. His Grace has a busy schedule.”

Otto walked briskly through the halls of the Red Keep, passing servants and nobles alike, hastening out of his way with respectful bows. He paid them no mind. Such deference was his due, earned through years of labor and maneuver—and they were but the natural order of things.

Soon enough, Otto had arrived at the King’s dressing room. The familiar forms of Ser Harald Westerling and Ser Clement Crabb stood sentinel at the oaken door.

Otto inclined his head in a brisk but polite greeting. “The king is within?”

“He is, my lord,” Westerling said, brow furrowing. “What’s happened? You only ever come here when there’s bad news.”

Otto waved a hand dismissively. “You'll have the full account from Ostys at tomorrow's council. For now, I must speak with His Grace now.” Westerling nodded, but Otto sensed a tinge of displeasure. Since the death of Ryam Redwyne shortly after the Claimant’s Parade, Ser Harald had served ably as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Otto appreciated how seriously he took his duty.

“You best hurry then,” Clement Crabb said. “His Grace has a busy schedule.”

Otto felt a stab of unease at the sudden déjà vu, but smothered it as Ser Harald opened the heavy oaken door and announced, “The Hand of the King to see you, Your Grace.”

“Yes, yes—send him in, would you!”

Taking a steadying breath, Otto swept into the room past the two knights. The door closed behind him with a solid thunk as Otto stopped and gave a shallow, but sufficiently respectful, bow. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. I have news of great import—”

“Oh, spare me the ceremony, Otto,” the King interrupted. “You only come to see me at this hour when you have bad news. Take a seat, have a cup of wine, and let's have it out.”

For the first time, Otto looked properly at Aerys: reclined on a plush chair, pipe clenched between his teeth, above a crooked nose that had never healed quite right. A heavy bottle of wine, two goblets on the table at his side, and an ornate bowl of crushed red leaves completed the tableau. The king gestured to the vacant chair, expectant. Otto obliged.

“So,” Aerys said, keeping his pipe clenched in his teeth, “What seems to be the problem today?” He poured a second glass of wine and offered it to Otto, who took it with a grateful nod. He suspected he would need it.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Lord Ostys,” Otto began. “We've finally got confirmation of some... most concerning rumors.”

Aerys said nothing, watching Otto patiently. He exhaled as thin smoke drifted out of his crooked nose to drift around his head.

Otto took a sip of his goblet and steeled himself. “Corlys Velaryon’s son is set to marry Lady Visenya Dragonfyre. And his daughter will wed Ser Aegon Skyfyre.”

“Is that all?” Aerys asked with a cough, unimpressed.

Is that all? “The web of alliances being built right before us is dangerous, Your Grace,” Otto explained patiently. “Daemon Skyfyre has visited four kingdoms in the last three moons. Seeking out both old allies from the Claimants’ Parade and new.”

“He has a dragon, you know,” Aerys said dismissively. “Such a thing is easy in that case.” He grabbed a pinch of leaves from the bowl, packing it into the pipe.

Swallowing a stab of irritation, Otto continued, “His meetings were not idle chatter. It is clear now that Ser Daemon and Lord Corlys mean to invade the Stepstones in full force. This is more than wanderlust; it is a prelude to war.”

“And? The Stepstones are ours by right, Otto, what of it?”

“In theory, yes,” Otto allowed, “but in practice? House Skyfyre controls Bloodstone, Grey Gallows, and a handful of other islands. The Free Cities and the Dornish remain entrenched on the others.”

“Slavers, pirates, and rebels, you mean,” Aerys grunted as he set a brand to his pipe. The fresh leaves ignited with a pop, and Aerys sucked at the stem.

“An oversimplification, Your Grace. The Stepstones are of such strategic importance that no one nation has ever been allowed to control them all. Neither we nor the Free Cities would ever stand for it. Prince Baelon was wise to only go as far as he did.”

“Meaning he left the job unfinished,” Aerys observed dryly. “We have let the matter fester for too long. I see no trouble in cementing our control, then."

Otto took another sip of wine. “If Ser Daemon means to take control of the entire island chain, it will draw the wrath of the Triarchy — not pirates and privateers working for them clandestinely, but their full military might. That is not a war that can be won.”

“We outnumber them, and our dragons—"

“Your Grace, the Three Daughters are much closer than any of our bases of naval power, except for Stormwatch,” Otto said with a grimace, trying hard not to sound condescending. This was both his friend and the King, but his patience was fraying at the edges. “Their ships are larger and faster than any we can field outside of the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets. But the battle won’t be decided solely at sea — each island will have to be taken and held independently, and they are so infested with tunnels and caves, dragons will be of minimal use, even if we had enough to dedicate solely to a single island each. The amount of time, money, and men required to win control of the entire island chain is staggering. It is a complicated situation, Your Grace.”

Aerys was silent for a long moment, puffing his pipe in thought. So long it made Otto uneasy. Had he gone too far? Was this the end of his tenure as Hand?

“Complicated,” Aerys echoed finally with a gentle smile. “You and Rhaenys always use that word ‘complicated' when you think I won’t understand. But I understand perfectly, my old friend, I just don’t agree with you.”

“Apologies, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.” Otto said, and meant it, lowering his head deferentially.

Kingship these last five years had not weighed as heavily on Aerys as the Handship had on Otto. Nine out of ten times, Aerys would attend his Small Council meetings, listen politely but distantly, ask a few perfunctory questions, and then defer to Otto and Queen Rhaenys’s judgment. It was an arrangement that suited them all well enough. As long as Aerys had time and funds for his own personal projects, he cared little for the day-to-day running of his kingdoms.

But once in a while, Aerys would become oddly determined to go his own way and could not be swayed. Unfortunately, it seemed, today was one of those days.

“None taken, Otto. Let Daemon have his little war. Let Corlys pay for it. You always prattle on about how those two are dangerous, so worst case scenario, they waste time and money and blood, and are weaker for it.”

“What if they win?” Otto asked, leaning forward intently.

Aerys frowned, scrunching his broken nose. “You just said they couldn’t win.”

“It’s… complicated,” Otto said lamely.

Aerys barked a laugh. “It will be fine, Otto. The people have been itching for a fight since that business with Joanna Swann. Daemon is a fine warrior, even Ma—” Aerys stumbled, “—Aegor thinks so. If he is successful in winning control of the islands for true, do you know what happens?” Aerys leaned forward, “They fall under the rulership of his brother and my sister. And one day, when my nephew succeeds Viserys, my daughter will be Lady of a united Stepstones. Daemon may win some battlefield glory, but he’ll gain no more power.” Aerys sat back, pipe between his teeth, smiling as if he had just been delivered a present, all pretty and wrapped.

“That is… an optimistic version of events, Your Grace,” Otto said carefully. “The whole situation makes me uneasy. Especially if Prince Gaemon means to marry his daughter to Corlys’s heir.”

Aerys rolled his eyes. “You insist on double-checking the man’s work. Have you found errors or mistakes during his time as Master of Laws?”

“No, Your Grace.” Not for lack of trying.

“Has he demonstrated disloyalty to his King?”

“No, Your Grace.” Because the slippery fucker hides it too well.

“Do you have a legitimate argument as to why the Crown should not allow these marriages to go through?”

“No, Your Grace.” Beyond common sense?

“There you have it,” Aerys said with a grin. “We keep our hands clean of the whole affair in the Stepstones, but if needed, Gaemon is our way in. Simple enough.”

Simple, he says. Otto wanted to scream, to make Aerys understand the treacherous ground they were heading towards, but instead he nodded demurely. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“Capital!” Aerys looked over his shoulder for the now vanished sun and swore quietly. Standing, he dumped the contents of his pipe in a silver ashtray. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to join me for the ritual tonight, Otto? I’m told this one will be eventful.”

Otto kept his face carefully neutral. When Aerys had assumed the throne, he had commanded Otto to bring him artisans from all corners of the world to populate the Red Keep, the city, and the realm beyond, still with works of art — statues, tapestries, paintings, stained glass, the list of wonders was seemingly endless. But all too soon, Aerys’s interests had expanded to include artisans of a different variety.

The first summoned had been a woodswitch that lived near Riverrun. According to Lord Tully, she had cured his father of gout and gone on to prophesy the number of children he would one day have. Aerys had brought her to court to read his fortune, even providing quarters for her within the Red Keep itself. Though Otto had resisted the idea, Aerys and Queen Rhaenys, surprisingly, had been firm in the decision. Otto had acquiesced, for what harm could one old woman do?

But then came the others. A pair of red priests from Volantis, a Green Man from the North, a septon from the Vale purported to have raised a man from the dead, and so on. Before long, an entire section of the keep was devoted to Aerys’s odd collection of sorcerers, hedge-wizards, and holy men. They promised to tell Aerys of future events, or of knowledge long lost. To keep him healthy and his family safe. To teach him how to Dragon Dream, or to guarantee each and every dragon egg would hatch.

The worst part of it all, some of them seemed to be more than just charlatans. Fighting an involuntary shudder, Otto realized belatedly that he had been silent for far too long. “No, thank you, Your Grace. I have much work to attend to.”

“Suit yourself.” Aerys shrugged. “But you will miss a rare feast. Turtle stew from the Great Rhoyne to start, and Benerro’s chosen steed for a sacrifice is magnificent—you should see the beast, truly. Torrhen believes a pinch of weirwood leaf might help me glimpse something—if not in the flames, perhaps in sleep."

Madness. “I truly do wish you the best luck, Your Grace, but again I must decline.”

Aerys smiled and clapped Otto on the back as they walked to the exit. The doors swung outward at their approach, and Aerys and Otto parted as they crossed the threshold — Aerys to the right, Otto to the left, back the way he came. The Kingsguard moved in lockstep behind Aerys, and before too long, they were out of sight.

Otto scarcely had a chance to gather his thoughts before a voice, languid and smooth, called out, “May I join you for a moment, Lord Hand?”

Otto froze in his tracks as Prince Gaemon, leaning unseen against a pillar, appeared in the shadows. “Of course, my Prince,” Otto said cautiously. “I was just on my way back to the Tower of the Hand.”

“But of course,” Gaemon said, stepping up casually. “The work never ceases, does it?”

“Indeed not.”

“I’ve been quite busy myself,” Gaemon commented, falling into step beside Otto, “but it seems I will have to take a leave of absence soon. Dearest Viserra will need help planning the weddings after all.”

“Weddings?” Otto asked innocently.

“Oh, don’t be coy.” Gaemon chided, “It’ll be all over the realm soon enough, but surely our Braavosi friend has made you aware.”

Otto said nothing.

Gaemon continued, certainly delighted to hear the sound of his voice. “My children, Aelor and Rhaena, to each other, Corlys’s boy to my Visenya, and his girl to Aegon Skyfyre. Three prime matches to keep the Blood of the Dragon flowing strong. We mean to combine the weddings into one at Harrenhal before the year is out. It promises to be a spectacular affair.”

Begrudgingly, Otto admitted that it most likely would be. Corlys Velaryon was the richest man in all of Westeros by a comfortable margin, and Houses Skyfyre and Dragonfyre were by no means lacking in funds either.

“And then on to the Stepstones?” Otto asked bluntly, pulling to a stop. Gaemon stopped as well, face a mask of casual mirth. Like he knew all the secrets, and Otto none.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said after a moment. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal after all. The Stepstones hardly border my domain, perhaps Corlys has something in mind, though?

“Don’t be coy,” Otto echoed.

Gaemon’s smile sharpened. “Careful now, Hightower. We wouldn’t want you to have occasion to miss the wedding now, would we?”

Otto’s throat tightened, but before he could respond, Gaemon’s smile returned to that sickeningly friendly, almost-sneer he usually gave Otto, “Well, I must be off. I’ll see you at tomorrow’s council meeting. I’m sure it’ll be eye-opening.” And without so much as a by-your-leave, he spun on his heel and was gone.

Otto remained behind, standing in the middle of the corridor, mind working. A new front had just opened up, but it was not one he was wholly unprepared for. First, he needed to speak to Helen — get her input on the situation — then he had work to do.

Chapter Text

Season of the Maiden

The Red Keep, 109 AC

“You’re not coming?” Alicent asked, her brow furrowing. Rhaenyra was still dressed in her riding gear, and the faint scent of dragonfire lingered on her clothes.

Rhaenyra spun toward her, a skip in her step and a wide grin lighting up her face. “My parents and Vaelon arrived yesterday,” she said, practically bouncing on her heels. “I thought it would be nice to spend time together. Besides,” she hesitated for a moment, her good cheer returning a beat later. “I don’t feel like dancing tonight.”

Alicent carefully schooled her expression, keeping disappointment at bay. “You were the one insisting we go together,” she said lightly, brushing imagined lint from her sleeve.

“I know,” Rhaenyra admitted with a small pout, “but… I haven’t seen my parents in such a long time. Besides, they are to tell me everything about the preparations for Uncle Aegon's wedding! You are not upset at me, right, Alicent?”

“Of course not,” Alicent replied, voice even.

Rhaenyra giggled. “You are making that face that tells me you are. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Alicent shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’re incorrigible, Rhae. Does this mean I’m to go alone? You know Aelyx won’t be allowed to stay for long.”

“What if I convince my parents to convince the Lord Hand to let you come to Harrenhal?" She gasped in realization. "Everyone will be there. Maybe we can find you a husband."

“I am fairly certain my mother has already coerced my father into going. No need to involve Lord Viserys, yet." She chuckled, despite herself. “Enjoy your evening, Rhaenyra.”

With a dazzling smile and quick hug, Rhaenyra took off towards the royal chambers where Lord Viserys and Princess Vaella awaited her. Sighing softly, Alicent turned on her heels and began her own, solitary walk back to the Tower of the Hand.

Once within the familiar confines of her father’s chambers, Alicent sank into her favorite cushioned chair by the window, a well-loved book resting in her lap. She thumbed through its gilded pages idly, but her thoughts wandered. The idea of attending the ball nudged persistently at her mind, though it was weighed down by the unmistakable hesitance of going alone.

She wasn’t particularly shy, but she also didn’t feel like arriving looking for people to talk to. It always felt easier to arrive in a small group, maybe a companion, and from there, things simply presented themselves.

Her quiet musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching voices. Familiar laughter, bright and unrestrained, echoed down the corridor. Soon, the door opened to reveal her mother, Helen Hightower, walking arm-in-arm with her father. Helen’s auburn curls were carefully kept in the style of the Crownlands: braided and pinned high, her face glowing with mirth as she swatted her father’s arm playfully, before her eyes fell on Alicent.

“Otto, didn’t you say we’d be alone?” Helen teased. “You promised: no children hovering to police our every move tonight.”

Otto stopped in his tracks, his sharp gaze flickering to Alicent and arching an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Alicent. Shouldn’t you be readying yourself for the ball this evening?”

Alicent shrugged lightly, keeping her tone measured as she carefully flipped a page in her book. “I was planning to,” she said. “But Rhaenyra decided to dine with her parents instead, and Princess Aelyx won’t be allowed out for the night.” She brushed her thumb against the edge of her book, the sigh that followed barely audible. “So I thought it better to stay here with you, if you don’t mind.”

Otto’s expression tightened. “You should mingle with other courtiers,” he said pointedly. “Avoiding public gatherings reflects poorly on our House, Alicent. Opportunities to engage with your peers should never be dismissed.”

“I wasn’t avoiding anything,” she countered, sitting up straighter. “I just thought my time would be better spent preparing for tomorrow’s lessons—”

“Your lessons can wait,” Otto interrupted, his voice even but firm. “You have responsibilities beyond study. Your reputation, the House, and your future depend on how you present yourself. A strong standing among your peers will do more for you than anything you’ll find in a book.”

Alicent licked her lips. “I know, Father.”

Helen rolled her eyes theatrically and plopped into the seat beside Alicent. She looped an arm around her daughter with exaggerated warmth, pulling her into a playful embrace. “Honestly, Otto, you make mingling in court sound like preparing for war,” she quipped, tucking a stray curl behind Alicent’s ear. “But,” she added with a sly grin, “I have to agree with your father—for once. Tonight, I had planned for a quiet evening alone with him.”

“What is it that I cannot join you?”

Helen laughed, brushing off her daughter's tone. “We’re married, my dear. We’ve earned the right to some secrets.”

Alicent made a face, ready to protest, but the look her father gave her and then Helen’s voice cut her off before she could formulate the words.

“I don’t want my beautiful daughter sitting here moping like a sulking septa. Wear that lovely blue gown —the one with the gold trim. You’ll look stunning, Alicent.”

“The green gown will suit her better,” Otto countered abruptly from where he stood, pouring a cup of wine. His tone softened unexpectedly as he turned back. “But, yes. Make an impression while you still can. Word of a Hightower’s grace travels far. And you never know who might take notice.”

Helen raised her brows in mock surprise, leaning toward Otto with a smirk. “By the Seven, was that a compliment?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed faintly as he handed the cup of wine to Helen, but the glimmer of affection beneath his usual sternness didn’t escape Alicent’s notice. “Perhaps you’re rubbing off on me,” he admitted dryly.

“Perhaps!” Helen chirped with a bright smile before turning her focus back to her daughter. She took Alicent’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Go on now, my love. And don’t forget—I’ll be expecting every last detail tomorrow morning.”

For a moment, Alicent hesitated, her thumb brushing the spine of her book. Then, with a faint but determined smile, she set it aside and rose from her seat.

“Yes, Mother,” she said softly.

Helen stood as well, beaming as she pressed a kiss against Alicent’s cheek. Otto nodded in silent approval, his sharp features easing just slightly.

“You’ll be wonderful,” Helen called out as Alicent made her way to the door. When she looked back one last time, she saw her mother’s warm smile, her laughter echoing faintly in her mind. Even her father’s expression seemed gentler, softening in the glow of Helen’s radiance.

And as the door closed behind her, Alicent resolved to go and dazzle the court—just as her mother would.

“I heard you danced with Vaelon,” Aelyx mused aloud, her small fingers struggling to thread a needle. She furrowed her brow as the stubborn embroidery refused her efforts, muttering something sharp under her breath in High Valyrian. Alicent suspected the words were far from appropriate for an eight-year-old princess, but as with so many things when it came to Aelyx, she let it slide.

“Rumors do travel quickly,” Alicent replied dryly, her focus turning back to the embroidered flowers she was finishing. The needle slipped cleanly through the fabric as she added the last detail. “Yes, I danced with him. He seemed eager for company. For the record,” she added with mock solemnity, “I have no intention of stealing him away from you.”

Aelyx snorted unladylike and scowled as the thread snapped apart again. “I'm almost tempted to let you have him,” she muttered. “He can be preachy as a septon, and he’s as insufferable as a maester.” Her frustration finally reached its breaking point as she flung the embroidery hoop to the floor with a huff. “I hate this dreadful thing! Alicent, come. Let’s walk. I can’t sit here any longer.”

Before Alicent could protest, Aelyx was already on her feet, gesturing imperiously for her to follow. Sighing, she set her thread aside and rose from her seat. “You’ll never improve if you don’t practice,” she pointed out, straightening her skirts.

“I’d rather ride a dragon,” Aelyx declared with a dramatic shudder, skipping ahead of her. “Besides, what could I possibly need to improve? Embroidery won't matter when I become Lady of the Stepstones, planning banquets and social gatherings.”

Alicent smiled despite herself, reluctantly trailing behind the girl as they crossed the solar.

“Did you see my brother yesterday?” Aelyx asked.

She blinked at the unexpected shift in topic. “No. He didn’t come to the ball.”

Aelyx stopped abruptly, turning on her heel to face her, her small face pinched into a frown. “Why not?”

Alicent shrugged. “I’m not your brother’s keeper. Perhaps he was at the yard, training.”

Aelyx groaned in frustration, tossing her hands up. “Father told him he had to be there! The entire point was for him to spend time with Rhaenyra and actually show his face beyond the council chamber or the training yard for once!” She stomped her foot. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re even related. If it were Aenys, he’d have been at the ball from dusk ‘til dawn! But Aemon? Nooooo. Mother Above, he’s impossible!”

Alicent had to bite back a laugh, schooling her features as Aelyx ranted with all the dramatic flair of someone thrice her age. She must have learned it from Aenys, Alicent thought, letting the girl vent.

“Well, Rhaenyra wasn’t there either,” Alicent offered gently as they passed a group of courtiers on their way towards the castle yard.

“She wasn’t?” Aelyx asked, her ire momentarily replaced with surprise.

“No. She didn’t feel like dancing. Apparently, she spent her evening with her parents instead.”

Aelyx scoffed. “Fine. Rhaenyra’s loss, I suppose. Do you know where she is now?”

“If I had to guess, I’d wager she’s at the Dragonpit,” Alicent replied after a moment's consideration.

Their conversation paused as the faint sound of clashing steel reached their ears, growing louder as they approached the training yard. Aelyx’s excitement was evident as she broke into a jog, her dark hair flying behind her. She climbed atop the wooden rail that bordered the field, scanning the knights and squires practicing below.

“Aemon!” she called, her voice slicing through the clang of steel. Several heads turned toward her, including a knight with silver-blonde hair and an unimpressed expression.

Ser Aegor Targaryen approached, clearly annoyed by the interruption. Unlike his usual garb as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, he wore a plain tunic today, a delicate lilac flower embroidered near his heart. Even so, he carried himself with every bit of the seriousness and precision his position demanded. Alicent fought not to squirm under his glare.

“He’s training,” Aegor said, his tone clipped as his pale brows furrowed. “Leave him be.”

Aelyx, undeterred by her uncle’s exasperation, smirked mischievously at him. “He promised Father he’d be at the ball last night, and he lied! You always say lying is bad—especially for a future knight! Lady Alicent says he’s been hiding here since yesterday.”

“So?” Aegor arched a brow.

Aelyx tilted her head, planting her hands defiantly on her hips. “So, Father will be angry. And if you don’t fetch him for me, Uncle, I might have to tell Father you let him skip the ball, too.”

Aegor’s face twitched as he seemed to fight an amused smile. “Do you think I care what your father thinks, little one?"

Aelyx scrunched her face, sticking her tongue out, and laughing all the same. “Oh, come on, please? It’ll only take a moment. I won’t bother either of you for the rest of the day—and! I’ll bring you those honey-roasted almonds you always grab from the kitchens.”

“You mean you'll steal them? I don't care for sweets. Least of all those stolen by the likes of you.”

“Odd. You didn’t say that last time,” she countered cheekily.

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath that made Aelyx giggle triumphantly. With a resigned gesture, Aegor motioned toward the squires practicing nearby. One of them halted mid-swing, turning toward them with a hard expression. Prince Aemon.

He approached, his silver hair damp with sweat and his face as stoic as ever. He also wore a simple tunic; whatever practice they were carrying didn’t require him to be in his training gear. Alicent froze as he drew nearer, her nerves prickling with unease.

“Good morning, brother,” Aelyx greeted him sweetly, though her smile was all mischief. “How was the ball last night?”

“Loud. Overcrowded,” Aemon replied, his voice flat. “Why are you here?”

“Don’t lie,” Aelyx shot back, crossing her arms. “Everyone knows you weren’t there.”

Aemon shrugged, unmoved. “It makes no difference.”

“It does when you gave Father your word,” Aelyx bit out, her tone sharp, though her grin lingered. “A little bird told me that someone wanted to dance with you.”

Heat flushed Alicent’s cheeks. She fought the overwhelming urge to drag Aelyx away before more was said, but her feet stayed rooted.

“I have no interest in dancing with Rhaenyra,” Aemon replied coolly, his words curt. “And she wasn’t even there.”

“You’re so oblivious.” Aelyx groaned, hopping off the rail in one graceful motion. She turned on her heel, heading back toward the gates. “Will you at least come to the banquet tomorrow? Someone’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Who is this ‘someone’?” Aemon asked skeptically.

“You’ll see,” Aelyx replied with a sly grin, her tone singing with mischief. She paused to glance over her shoulder, a gleam of wicked amusement in her eyes. “Oh, and look! Lady Alicent Hightower is here. You remember her, don’t you? Or you only remember those you spar with daily?”

Alicent’s stomach sank as Aemon’s piercing gaze landed on her. She managed a quick curtsy while her cheeks burned scarlet. “G-good day, my prince,” she stammered.

Before she could humiliate herself further, she turned and hurried after Aelyx, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Seven save me, she thought, heat still prickling at her skin.

The banquet was an intimate gathering—the Royal family, their Skyfyre kin, and the Hightowers, graciously included, at the high table. Mother sat further down the table between Queen Rhaenys and Princess Vaella, engaged in polite conversation. Her father, as always, held the King’s right hand, while Lord Viserys took the left. The three men appeared at ease, their hearty laughter echoing over the clink of goblets and the soft murmur of courtiers.

Dinner was drawing to a close when Alicent's evening had taken an unexpected turn.

She had been seated with Vaelon earlier in the evening, whose bright laugh and warm humor had made the hours pass with ease. But Aelyx, spirited as ever, had quickly commandeered both Vaelon and the attention of those seated nearby, leaving Alicent to shift beside him quietly—alone but for Prince Aemon at her right.

Aemon, of course, had offered her no complaints about the sudden change in arrangements. He seemed at ease in silence, methodically cutting his roast duck while the murmur of courtiers and occasional burst of laughter from the other end of the table filled the room.

Alicent couldn’t decide if his quietness was comforting or unnerving. Aemon’s presence was so composed—deliberate even—that it made her hyper-aware of her own small movements. She found herself straightening in her chair, adjusting her cutlery, even tucking an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear, all for fear of seeming unkempt under his watch. Not that he even looked at her. His pale silver head remained bowed over his plate, every movement carefully measured.

Still, it was impossible not to notice him. Aemon’s stillness had a weight to it, a gravity that drew her focus despite her better judgment. And the more she tried to ignore him, the sharper her awareness grew.

Stars Above, don’t stare… Finally, unable to bear the silence between them any longer, her voice broke the stillness. “Is the food to your liking, Your Grace?”

Aemon froze for a split second, his knife pausing mid-cut. He turned his head slightly toward her, his sharp features unreadable. “It is,” he replied simply. Then he glanced back down at his plate.

Alicent frowned inwardly at his bluntness. That’s it? She glanced toward the other end of the table, where Vaelon, Rhaenyra, and Aelyx had returned to their playful laughter. They seemed so at ease, so vibrant, so unlike the dour tension that hung between her and Aemon now.

And yet…

She tried again. “Do you ever enjoy these dinners?” she asked, her tone lighter this time—teasing, almost.

This time, his lips twitched slightly, something resembling a smile threatening to emerge but never quite forming. He didn’t look up. “Only when the company is interesting. Do you?”

Her brows lifted slightly at the question—or was it the faint trace of wit behind it? “Sometimes,” she answered honestly. “When I’m not moved around like errant furniture in search of more interesting company.” She gestured toward Vaelon’s end of the table.

Aemon’s gaze flickered briefly toward them, but he did not comment. He gave the smallest shrug. ”I am fairly certain my cousin has his fair share of girls stealing his every thought. But, if the daughter of the Hand of the King wishes to join them, by all means.”

She chuckled. “Are you sending me away?”

Aemon looked at her as if for the first time, but said nothing, his lips still twitching in that half-formed smile. They descended into silence again, but this time it felt less heavy. Alicent still noticed every movement of his, from the precise way he reached for his goblet to the faint furrow of his brow as though lost in thought.

And it was precisely when that tension had steadied into something manageable that the incident occurred.

Aemon’s hand reached for his goblet in the same instant Alicent reached for hers. Their fingers brushed briefly—cool against warm—and Alicent startled, her grip faltering. Before she could recover, her goblet tipped, and dark red wine spread in an unforgiving swath across Aemon’s black tunic.

“Oh—oh no!” Alicent gasped, mortified. “I—I’m so sorry!” Her hands scrambled for her napkin, fumbling in her haste to blot the spill. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” Aemon’s voice, though calm, had an edge to it, clipped and taut. He reached for his own napkin, handling the mess with the same cool precision as everything else he did.

Alicent froze, her hands hovering uselessly over the table, her cheeks burning as the weight of her own clumsiness sank in. “I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he repeated, his tone softening just enough that her embarrassment stung a little less. His dark eyes lifted to hers briefly, meeting her gaze for the first time that night. “Really.”

The exchange was brief, fleeting, but it left her breathless. She sank back into her seat, her hands twisting in her lap as the hall around them seemed to whirl blissfully unaware of her mortification. Her only consolation came in the form of Aemon’s composed silence, as though he had decided, without ceremony, that the incident would not exist between them.

By the time dessert gave way to music and the first dancers moved onto the floor, Alicent wasn’t sure whether the heat in her cheeks was from mortification or something else.

“I heard you’ll be leaving for Harrenhal soon, to represent the King at the weddings,” she ventured, trying to move away from the previous awkwardness.

Aemon’s hand stilled briefly as he gave up cleaning his doublet. He looked at her. “I will.” His tone was clipped, out of habit rather than harshness. “We’ll be accompanying Princess Daenerys. Will the Hand’s household be joining the retinue?”

“My mother insists upon it, so I expect we will,” Alicent replied, smoothing a non-existent crease in her sleeve. “My uncle will attend as well.”

Aemon nodded but offered nothing more. His gaze turned forward, fixed somewhere unknowable. She felt emboldened and tried once more.

“Do you think there’ll be a tournament?”

He blinked, as if the question had drawn him back from some distant thought. His sidelong glance was measured but not unkind. “Doubtlessly. Prince Gaemon and Lord Corlys Velaryon do enjoy flaunting their wealth.”

“Will you participate?” The words left her lips too hurriedly, and she winced as soon as they were spoken. Her cheeks burned at the unintended sting of her own question. At six-and-ten, Aemon had yet to be knighted—something the court whispered about more often than most things, and that some had begun to consider a failure on the Prince's part.

“If there’s a squires’ tilt,” he replied flatly.

The conversation dissolved once more into an awkward silence, its tenuous thread severed too cleanly by his tone. Alicent scanned the hall in desperation for a way to escape her own blunder, her pulse quickening as embarrassment spread hot over her skin.

The music began to swell, drawing courtiers from their seats to the polished floor. The lively notes carried through the air, and couples paired off effortlessly. Alicent found herself watching as the dances began.

Beside her, Aemon sat noticeably still, his back perfectly straight, his jaw faintly tight. His dark gaze lingered just long enough on the dancers to make Alicent wonder what his thoughts might be. He didn’t look jealous, exactly, but there was a guarded tension in his expression that piqued her curiosity. A realization struck her.

“You don’t like dancing,” she said at last. From the way his brow twitched faintly, her words had struck true.

His lips pressed into a line. “A waste of time,” he replied curtly.

Alicent turned toward him with a soft, playful smile. “Is it that you don’t like it, or that you don’t know how?”

His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and direct. She held his stare, tilting her head slightly, the teasing edge in her open expression daring him to respond.

When he finally did, his words were deliberate. “Any swordsman worth his salt knows how to dance,” he said evenly. “I simply have no appreciation for it.”

Her grin unfurled, unbothered by his sharpness. “Usually, people don’t enjoy dancing because they haven’t found a good partner,” she countered. “It’s like sparring: when your opponent is worthy, the duel becomes… fun.”

He tilted his head just slightly, considering her. “And if I joined you, would I be entertained—or bored?”

Alicent blinked, startled by the bluntness of his words. But then, realizing the faintest edge of humor beneath them, her grin widened. “What if I made it into a wager?”

Aemon arched a brow, his interest piqued. “A wager?”

“If you hate it, I’ll polish your armor,” she offered lightly, though her heart pounded at her own audacity. She braced herself for dismissal, for him to swat away her words as frivolous.

Instead, his lips twitched. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll owe me a second dance at the next ball,” she said, surprising herself with her audacity.

There was a pause, a long one. His gaze lingered on her face, as though weighing her words—not just for their meaning but for some unknown quality buried within them. Then, slowly, Aemon rose and extended his hand toward her.

“Don’t bother polishing my armor,” he said, the smile finally breaking. “If this bores me, you will come saddle Vermithor, Aelyx says you dislike dragons.”

“I mean no disrespect.” Alicent’s heart leapt as she took his hand and allowed him to guide her toward the dance floor.

“None taken.” They met in the middle, he greeted her, and she curtsied back, and then they moved with the music.

He was a bit stiff, she realized, clearly uncomfortable with the attention and the movements. He avoided looking at her, but every time they met on the steps, she noticed there was a faint redness on his neck, a pale blush, perhaps? Or the heat of the room. She found it in her to tease.

“They say Targaryens don't feel the heat.”

Aemon arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You are blushing, around your neck.” The redness gained more intensity as laughter escaped her, the kind that slipped out unbidden, warm and genuine. “At least pretend to enjoy yourself, my prince. We wouldn’t want to disappoint our audience.”

His jaw tightened, and she noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what this is to you? A performance?”

“We perform every day of our lives, my prince,” she returned lightly, her smile glimmering as she added, “But tonight this is your stage, not mine.”

Aemon glanced down at her, his eyes dark and contemplative. She felt her breath catch under his gaze—not because of its intensity, but because of the unexpected softness beneath it.

“Not mine, either,” he said simply, though he said nothing more.

The music quickened, drawing his attention back to their steps. Alicent followed easily, her movements fluid as the melody rose and spun them into a series of sweeping turns. Aemon’s grip steadied her deftly as they moved together, his earlier stiffness giving way to a more natural rhythm. What had begun as a formal routine now felt like something closer to harmony.

“I won’t let the court think you’re suffering,” she offered in a whisper, her voice playful but kind.

A faint huff of air escaped him—not quite a laugh, but something close. “They aren’t blind.”

“Nor are they deaf,” she shot back, her grin widening at his subtle reply. “Mind what you say, lest they think I’ve bewitched you.”

He shook his head, faintly but noticeably, and the smile finally broke free, his grip tightening just slightly as they entered another sequence. “Bewitch me? No,” he said. “Outpace me, perhaps.”

“Oh?” Alicent leaned in with mock anticipation. “Am I to take that as approval?”

“You may take it as you wish,” he said, and she felt proud to see the smile hadn’t quite vanished. “You haven’t bored me, at least.”

A thrill sparked low in her chest at the admission. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze as they crested into the final turn. “Yet the wager was to entertain you,” she reminded, her breath hitching as their movements slowed with the music. “I will say I did well, if you are smiling. Or must I still prove myself?”

He stopped, his hand briefly lingering at her waist as they came to a halt. He stepped away then, bowing with a sharp precision, though his expression as he regarded her lacked his usual austerity. The long silence that followed was more charged than any crowd’s gaze.

“You may take the win,” he said. His pale brows arched slightly—not imperiously, but in quiet challenge. “But if you seek another wager, know this: the stakes will be higher. The next dance will need to leave me doubly entertained.”

Alicent’s lips parted faintly in shock. Was this teasing she heard?

“I accept,” she answered, smiling widely.

Before she could revel in her small victory, Vaelon appeared beside them, his easy charm practically radiating from him. “May I, cousin?” he said, gesturing to Alicent with a grin. “Lady Alicent owes me a favor—a dance, at the very least—and I believe you owe one to my sister.”

Without waiting for Aemon’s permission, Vaelon gently but decisively took Alicent’s hand while guiding Rhaenyra’s to Aemon.

For a brief moment, Aemon looked at Alicent, and she could almost hear an “until next time” before each one turned their separate ways. Yet, his words echoed softly in her head.

Chapter Text

“Aerys, you should be there.”

Daenerys walked the length of the dragonpit with her nephew, a small hatchling curled languidly around her shoulders for warmth. Aerys had come to see Silverwing, ostensibly for a leisurely flight, but Daenerys noticed—again—how he ended up declining to take his dragon to the skies.

“Should I?” Aerys replied, a shrug rolling through his richly embroidered shoulders. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head bare—no crown today, only her nephew without adornments.

Daenerys exhaled softly. “You’re their king, their nephew—cousin to all three couples. You have responsibilities—”

“That’s why Rhaenys is going,” he interrupted, that familiar dry edge in his tone. “She said she wants front row seats to Viserra’s latest spectacle, or at least to sniff out what’s brewing underneath all the smiles. My children will be there too. You’re always saying Aemon spends too much time at the Red Keep or Dragonstone. Well, I took your advice—he’ll go, and so will the others.” He flashed a crooked smile, his broken nose lending him a rakish, half-sinister air.

He’d once been the most handsome man at court—still was, perhaps, except for that nose, forever crooked after the Grand Maester’s best efforts failed to set it right.

“You know perfectly well what I meant, Aerys. Must I remind you how well I know you by now?”

He laughed, coming to a halt, serenity in his mismatched smile. “Just as well as my mother, perhaps even better than my father ever did. But I have my reasons for staying behind.”

“Oh?” Daenerys arched an eyebrow. “And what exactly are those?”

Aerys made an elaborate show of spreading his arms. “I’m told it’s no small risk, bringing Silverwing to a place as gloomy—so many dragons and old grudges gather at Harrenhal.”

Daenerys fought back an eye roll. “If Vaegon said ‘be careful,’ it wasn’t a prohibition, Aerys.”

“It was sound advice. And honestly, they don’t need my blessing to make a mess of things, do they? You’ll all manage fine without me.”

She reached up, fingers brushing the hatchling’s smooth brow as it dozed, radiating heat against her neck. Daenerys tried a different tack. “Your siblings will be disappointed.”

“Will they?” He sounded genuinely curious now. “Vaella was glad for a little time in the capital before she left, but she's never felt at home here. Daeron claims he’s learning my face better than his wife’s—and frankly, that’s an improvement. And… well. He will be happy for some time apart, I suspect. They don’t need me hovering over them. And honestly,” he added in a softer voice, “I’d rather not go either.”

She observed him for a long moment before nodding. She touched his arm. “Do not go into hiding, Aerys. They may be complicated, but they are family. All of them.”

“And that’s what makes them all the more dangerous, my father used to say,” Aerys chuckled softly. “I trust my envoys will do an adequate job in my place.”

Moon of the Warrior

Sixth Moon of the Year, 109 AC

The feast, like everything in her siblings' domain, was not merely lavish but truly decadent—an overabundance of rich food and finer delights. Platters of succulent meats, exotic spices, and garden-fresh vegetables circled the crowded table, while the wine never ceased flowing. Lively music lifted above the low murmur of voices, and Daenerys felt a bittersweet warmth settle within her as she looked around.

Once, another hall had rung with laughter and jests shared by all thirteen children of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne—a chorus of siblings, united and inseparable. Tonight, that number had diminished to only three: Gaemon, Viserra, and Valerion. Yet the table was far from empty. Nephews, nieces, their spouses and children filled every seat—three generations of Targaryens, Skyfyres, Steelfyres, Dragonfyres, and those brave or foolish enough to marry into the bloodline.

At the head sat Gaemon, lord of his hall, presiding over the feast with characteristic exuberance. Beside him, Viserra surveyed the gathering with the satisfied air of a woman who found herself being the Queen of her hall, if not of the kingdoms. Their children—Aelor, Rhaena, and Visenya—sat nearby, the brides and groom of tomorrow's triple ceremony looking variously excited, nervous, and resigned.

Valerion occupied the opposite end with his wife, Tessa Manderly, bouncing little Daenys on his knee while young Aemon Steelfyre tried valiantly to sneak pastries when his mother wasn't looking.

Daenerys sat centrally, strategically placed between potential powder kegs. To her right, Maegor wore courtly finery rather than his white cloak—a concession she'd extracted with gentle insistence.

"You're not on duty when you dine with me, Maegor. Be my nephew tonight, not my shield."

He'd grumbled but complied, and now sat deep in conversation with Daeron about Westerosi smiths, periodically glancing at the others with the expression of a man cataloging everyone's deficiencies.

To her left sat Rhaenys, Queen Consort, composed and regal despite her husband's conspicuous absence. Beside Rhaenys sat her children: Prince Aemon, serious and watchful; Aenys, who kept whispering asides that made his younger sister Aelyx giggle; and Aelyx herself, wide-eyed and delighted by everything.

Further down, Viserys and Vaella sat with their own children—Vaelon, who'd inherited his parents’ easygoing nature, and Rhaenyra, who seemed more interested in the musicians than the meal. Beside them, Daemon sat with his wife Aemma Arryn, whose steely composure had briefly cracked when Daenerys greeted her with tears in her eyes, remembering sweet Daella.

Daemon's younger brother Aegon—soon to wed Laena Velaryon—sat between Daemon and Gunthor Royce, Daeron's adopted nephew, who looked thoroughly bemused by the entire affair.

Rhea Royce, miracle of miracles, had also made the journey.

"And how, pray tell, Lady Rhea, did my brother manage to drag you here?" Vaella had asked earlier, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"They ganged up on me." Rhea had gestured dryly toward Daeron, Gunthor, and Aenys. "Three against one. Hardly sporting."

Daenerys had laughed. "Outmatched by those boys—the worst of the lot, I daresay. Well, I'm glad to see you under happy circumstances for once, Rhea."

"Likewise, Princess," Rhea had replied, though her tone suggested she was reserving judgment on just how happy these circumstances would prove.

Now, as platters circulated and cups were refilled, Daenerys surveyed the sprawling table and marveled at the sheer improbability of it all. So many dragons, so many egos, so much wine.

What could possibly go wrong?

Gaemon's booming voice rose above the din, scattering a dozen conversations at once.

"A moment, if you will!" he called, and the hall hushed, expectant. He raised his cup, grinning broadly. "To family! To blood! To the three unions we celebrate tomorrow—may they be as fruitful as they are fortunate!"

A chorus of agreement rippled through the table. Cups rose, wine sloshed. Daenerys lifted her goblet, catching Vaella's eye across the way. Her niece's smile was warm but edged with something knowing.

"To family," Viserra echoed from beside Gaemon, her voice honey-sweet as she set down her cup with deliberate care. "Though I confess, it does feel rather incomplete without dear Aerys in attendance."

The comment landed like a stone in still water.

Rhaenys, cutting her meat with precise movements, did not look up. "The king is occupied with matters of state."

"Occupied?" Viserra tilted her head, silver hair catching candlelight. "With what, exactly? Surely the realm can survive without its king for a fortnight? Is that not what his Hand is for?" Her eyes flicked languidly as if she were to manifest Otto Hightower inside the room.

"The realm survives because the king attends to his duties," Rhaenys replied evenly, though her knife scraped a little harder against the plate. "A king cannot be everywhere at once."

"One would think," Viserra continued, reaching for her wine, "that he might make an exception for his own family. Unless, of course, his other obligations proved more pressing."

"Careful, Aunt," Rhaenys said softly, her violet eyes lifting at last. "The king sends his queen and his children in his stead. That should suffice."

An uncomfortable silence rippled outward from the exchange.

Gaemon cleared his throat loudly. "Well! Aerys has much on his shoulders, I'm sure. We're honored to have you here, dearest niece—and the princes and princess, of course."

"Yes, yes," Valerion added quickly, raising his cup. "To Queen Rhaenys!"

The toast was echoed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Maegor muttered something under his breath that made Daeron choke mid-sip.

Viserys, ever the diplomat, leaned forward. "Uncle Gaemon, the preparations you've made are extraordinary. Harrenhal has never looked so—"

"Garish?" Viserra supplied sweetly. "Oh, I know what they say in the capital. 'Gaemon and Corlys are gilding a cursed ruin.' Let them whisper. We've made this place remarkable."

"I wasn't going to say garish," Viserys protested mildly.

"But you were thinking it." Viserra took a long drink. "They all are. Aren't they, Rhaenys? What does the Red Keep whisper about us these days?"

"I don't traffic in gossip, Viserra."

"How wonderfully above it all you are." Viserra's smile was sharp now. "Tell me, what other topics do you claim beneath your notice? Do they whisper why your son has yet to earn his spurs? Or perhaps what new debauchery your husband will make the latest fashion?"

"Viserra." Gaemon's voice held warning.

But wine had loosened tongues, and old resentments were crawling to the surface.

"Is it true the king broke his nose falling down drunk?" Gunthor Royce asked, with all the tactlessness of youth.

The table went silent.

Daenerys closed her eyes briefly. Oh, sweet boy. Why?

Rhaenys's face could have been carved from marble. "My husband was injured in the training yard. That is all anyone needs to know."

"The training yard?" Viserra's laugh was bright and cutting. "Is that the party line now?"

"Enough." Daeron snapped, voice low and tight. "This is a celebration, not an inquisition."

"Why not both?" Daemon leaned back in his chair, talking for the first time and swirling his wine with an easy smirk. "We're all pretending everything's splendid while tiptoeing around what everyone already knows."

Vaella shot him a warning look. "Daemon—"

"What? I simply state a fact: one half of this table cannot stand the other half. And we're gathered here playing at unity while the king himself can't be bothered to leave his wine cellar?"

"Perhaps," Aemma said quietly beside him, "you've had enough wine yourself, husband."

Daemon ignored her. "Or perhaps, our dear Aegor could illuminate us as to what happened."

"Careful." The word came from Maegor, cold and flat. He hadn't raised his voice, but something in his tone made Daemon pause. "You weren't there."

"Neither were you, apparently," Viserra said archly. "Or were you? I confess, the stories vary so much."

Maegor's jaw tightened. He set down his cup with deliberate care, his knuckles white. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Daenerys recognized the look in his eyes—the one he wore when he readied himself for violence.

"The king," Valerion cut in, gruff voice even, "has his reasons for not attending. As does the queen for representing him. Perhaps we should all respect that and move on."

Daenerys noticed the glare exchanged between Valerion and Daemon, who sneered, raising his cup in mock salute to his uncle. Daenerys exhaled softly.

Rhaenys's expression softened, just slightly. "Thank you, Uncle." Then she turned her violet gaze on Daemon, her expression pleasant, her tone honey-sweet. "Though I confess, cousin, I'm curious—what is it everyone's supposedly thinking? Do enlighten us. Surely a man of your... directness... wouldn't leave us all in suspense."

Daemon's eyes narrowed. He knew a trap when he saw one. His wife and brothers saw it as well. But wine and pride made him step into it anyway.

"Only that perhaps the realm deserves a king who can stand upright long enough to attend his own family's celebrations," Daemon said, pushing back from the table slightly. "Or is even that too much to ask?"

Rhaenys's smile didn't waver, though her eyes went cold. "I see. How fortunate for the realm, then, that my husband has such... concerned family members. Tell me, do you practice this speech often? Or does the wine simply make you bold?"

Down the table, Aemon's lips twitched—the barest hint of a smile. Beside him, Aenys looked as though he was fighting not to grin outright. Even young Aelyx sat straighter, chin lifted slightly.

Gaemon groaned softly. Valerion covered his mouth, though whether to hide amusement or dismay, Daenerys couldn't tell.

Rhea Royce whispered to Daeron, "About bloody time someone puts that prick in his place."

"I know," Daeron murmured back. "Small wonder he avoids the capital since Father died."

The remarks were not as quiet as intended, perhaps deliberately, and Daemon flushed crimson. "I need no wine to speak truth—"

"Truth?" Rhaenys laughed, soft and cutting. "Is that what you call it? How interesting. I call it rudeness masquerading as honesty." She tilted her head, still seated, still composed. "But please, continue. I'm sure everyone would love to hear more of your insights into my marriage."

“So defensive, dearest niece.” Viserra leaned forward, eyes bright with wine and malice. “You are amongst family, if there’s trouble in paradise…”

Rhaenys's gaze shifted to her aunt, cool and assessing, but Daenerys noticed the flush on her chest. "Strange. I wasn't aware your own marriage was such a sterling example that you felt qualified to judge mine. But then, I suppose being so far removed from noteworthy events leaves minor nobility with naught else to do but project."

The silence that fell was absolute.

Viserra's face went white, then red. Gaemon's hand moved to his wife's arm. "Rhaenys—"

But Daemon, already on his feet, snarled, "Your husband is a drunk who can't even—"

"Daemon." Viserys's voice cracked like a whip.

But Daemon was past listening. "—hold his wine without falling on his face!"

Aemon rose, hand going reflexively to his waist where a sword would normally hang. "Sit down, Ser."

"Or what?" Daemon challenged. "You'll defend his honor, squire? When was the last time you saw him sober?"

Aenys stood as well, younger and angrier. "That's our father you're—"

"Sit. Down. All of you."

Daenerys's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the rising chaos like a blade. Heads turned. Daenerys rose slowly, surveying the table with the weight of her decades. "We are here to celebrate weddings. To witness new unions, new beginnings. If you cannot manage civility for one night—let alone a fortnight—then perhaps you should all ask yourselves what that says about you."

Shame flickered across several faces.

Daemon remained standing, breathing hard, until Aemma tugged firmly at his sleeve. He sat with poor grace.

Rhaenys took a delicate sip of her wine, her expression serene once more—though Daenerys caught the flash of satisfaction in her eyes.

The queen had gotten exactly what she wanted: Daemon looking like a fool, while she remained above reproach. Across the table, little Daenys began to cry softly. Valerion immediately scooped her up, murmuring comfort.

Rhea Royce leaned toward Daenerys and muttered, "And people wonder why I stay in Runestone."

Despite everything, Daenerys nearly smiled. The silence stretched, awkward and thick.

Finally, Daeron raised his cup, his voice wry. "I do so love family gatherings."

A few scattered chuckles broke the tension. It didn't vanish, but it shifted—became something bearable.

Daenerys exhaled slowly and sat back down. Maybe Aerys was right, after all.