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“Shh…, my darling,” Rhaenyra sauntered the length of her chambers in an attempt at soothing her wailing babe, bopping her up and down in her arms. Daena was a loud youngling, who resented being separated from her sire for too long. Even her mother’s soft motherly touch could not stem her plaintive, sorrowful cries. The pained song that came forth from her lips would be enough to make any mother’s heart shatter.
It mattered not who held her: her mother, her grandsire, her cousins, her brothers, the maids. None could mend the broken heart of the girl of barely twelve moons, who wished to be held by her father.
Rhaenyra would have resented the girl’s yearning for Daemon if the princess did not understand all too well herself. There was none whose presence she preferred than the Rogue Prince, so of course, their daughter would much be the same.
Aemon, Maelys and Valarr had been silent babes. The first had learned to self-soothe quite quickly. Her father had once joked that he was Daemon come again, for his brother had been the same. Maelys, who was born two years after his elder brother, had been more or less the same, though her beautiful boy did enjoy himself to his mother’s touch.
The youngest of her sons was only a full sunturn older than her firstborn girl, conceived during a night of passion when the two parents had been unburdened from their children by their grandsire, who had wished to spend the night with them all.
Rhaenya had found herself surprised at how swiftly her kingly father had taken to becoming a grandfather, even if at the time he had still resented a tad who had begotten her with child. The Princess of Dragonstone could mayhaps even claim him to be a greater grandsire than he was a sire.
Their sons admired Daemon above all but were truly attached to their mother’s hip, if not in the training yard or the dragonpit. Rather than allow the maesters of the Red Keep to see to their studies, Rhaenyra did so herself, with the aid of the Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena, as well as her own maester, Gerardys, brought forth from Dragonstone.
Training at arms belonged to her lord husband and the Sers Harrold Westerling and Laenor Velaryon of the Kingsguard. Despite their age, Aemon and Maelys were growing ever proficient at wooden swordplay and the three men could not remain quiet about it, boasting of the boys’ skill to anyone who could bear to hear their bragging.
At nine sunturns of age, Aemon was growing taller and broader. He was still a bit off from becoming a man, but he did already take after his father in two major areas: the utter disregard for anything non-Valyrian and an ego fit for a dragon. When the Prince beat his younger brother or anyone else he would crow and at times even mock. Ironically, it had been Daemon who had put a swift end to their firstborn’s ever-growing arrogance.
Her husband had confessed that as a young boy, he never had many friends, bar Viserys, for his youthful arrogance had always alienated those around him, and he had no intention of allowing their children to do that to themselves.
It was that devotion to his kin that defined Daemon more than anything. It was what had led to their vows upon the beaches of Dragonstone, in the presence of only their cousins and closest allies after the catastrophe that was her betrothal to Laenor.
It had been more than a decade since that cursed evening, where her sworn shield had killed her then-betrothed’s lover and friend, and her uncle had brutally slain the man in front of all, which had another Kingsguard raise his sword toward the Rogue Prince – Ser Willis Fell – and subsequently lose his head.
Now, even a full ten years later, men and women still whispered of the rage her uncle had exhibited when Ser Criston had dared to set his sights on her, slandering her and humiliating her for all to see—airing his resentment at her unwillingness to become a pauper with him across the Narrow Sea.
Two of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms had fallen to a dragon, who had stood in the midst of all, splattered in the blood of the slain men.
If not for her father collapsing, Rhaenyra was sure her uncle would have continued with his slaughter that eve. Luckily for their foes King Viserys had been weakened already and watching his younger brother kill two of his royal guards in defence of his daughter and heir had him crumble in front of their guests.
For days Daemon had sat by his brother’s side, to the annoyance of the maesters, who had declared his presence a cloying distraction. The prince had vowed that nought would happen to King Viserys whilst he sat at his side.
Grand Maester Mellos dared to petition the queen of all people to intervene but the new Hand of the King, steadfast and true to the king and his wishes, had deferred to the Princess of Dragonstone, who in turn had denied the grey rat.
Daemon remained at his brother’s side, ever vigilant, and was there still when he awoke from his fever.
Barely a day after, a grieving Ser Laenor Velaryon petitioned the king, asking to become a Kingsguard to honour his lost love. Many had whispered about what was spoken between the Velaryon heir and the king, as the latter lay in his sick bed, but none truly knew anything but that it ended with the youngest knight in history joining the sworn brothers of the Kingsguard.
Lord Corlys had ranted and moaned at the king’s unilateral decision to uplift his knightly son but it had been Daemon’s loud dismissive voice that had the man retreat. Not even the Sea Snake was foolish enough to anger the Rogue Prince after his display at the betrothal banquet, barely a sennight prior.
In the moon after what the Citadel had dubbed the Prince’s Wroth, many remained in the capital in the hopes of succeeding Ser Laenor Velaryon, a dragonrider and great-grandson of the Conciliator, as the Princess of Dragonstone’s new betrothed and thus the future King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.
During that moon, at the urging of her uncle and the surprisingly kind Princess Rhaenys, Rhaenyra started paying attention to which of her potential consorts saw her merely as a pathway to the throne.
Lord Jason Lannister had announced his betrothal to young Lady Johanna Westerling only three moons before Rhaenyra’s betrothal had been announced. As House Westerling of the Crag was amongst the lions’ most powerful bannermen, he was hesitant to put his name forward. His more studious brother, Ser Tyland, had no such qualms, taking advantage of the vacation and his brother’s inability to do so. However, Rhaenyra was not fond of the man’s sanctimonious and haughty tone whilst speaking with her, and thus mentally dismissed him.
From the Reach, several had thrown their names in the king’s hat, amongst which the heirs to Horn Hill, Three Towers, Goldengrove, Ashford and Longtable, and the Lords of Starpike and Blackcrown.
Lord Peake, who boasted regularly of possessing three distinct lordships, was especially insufferable. Despite having two male heirs, he insisted he could still sire a great future king on her—of the likes of the Greenhand. His ancestor, he had mentioned mayhaps half a dozen times.
Those had been his actual words—to sire a king on her—as if she was a womb for him to invade with his dusty and vile Andal seed. Rhaenyra had been aghast and had swiftly ensured the man was barred from her presence at all times.
Several others had put their name forward, from all over the Seven Kingdoms. Even the Northern houses seemed interested in supplying House Targaryen with their next royal consort.
Some of the Reachmen and Rivermen had been pleasant but not quite what Rhaenyra wished for. She had been gladdened that many of them had insisted their loyalty would remain strong, even if they were not chosen, amongst which the Blackwoods of Raventree Hall and the Rowans of Goldengrove—two powerful and ancient houses.
The most surprising one had been Lord Maynard Greyjoy, who had been oddly kind and softspoken for an Ironborn, and who had put forward his martial son, Dalton, who was far less pleasant.
The Princess of Dragonstone had expected the new Hand to put his heir forward but it seemed Ser Harwin was not an option. Daemon had explained to her that the Lord of Harrenhal was a man of true honour, who would refuse to actively use his exalted seat at the king’s side as a way to lift up his house and better their fortune.
They had never spoken of it even once during the Moon of the Suitors. Their night in Flea Bottom was ignored by both in favour of not upsetting the recovering King Viserys and risk having Daemon banished from King’s Landing and the Red Keep once more.
No, a détente between niece and uncle had been silently reached. Better to keep the peace, if only for a tad longer for Daemon’s presence had kept the vultures at bay. None was feared quite as plenty as Prince Daemon Targaryen.
During the moon of his recovery the king had refused any visitors besides his brother, his eldest daughter and his Hand—bar Ser Laenor the day he had been named to the Kingsguard.
Not even his consort and their children had been allowed entrance—to Alicent’s chagrin, who had ranted and moaned all over the keep, even to the Lord Hand, who had told her the king’s word was law and he had told them he wished peace and quiet.
The Hand’s wording had set off the queen once more but all chose to ignore her.
Battle lines had been drawn and for the first time since her father had wed her former lady-in-waiting and treacherous friend, it had felt to Rhaenyra she was winning. With Ser Otto Hightower banished and her uncle returned, the Princess of Dragonstone believed she had a true chance of establishing herself at court as the sole and undisputed choice to succeed her father.
It had taken longer than she had expected before her father had summoned her to his chambers to speak of a successor as her betrothed. Though he cloaked it as an intimate supper between father and daughter, king and heir, it had not taken long before the subject changed to whom she had wished to wed.
It had surprised her even more when her father had not outright exploded when she had squared her chin and declared her uncle to be her preferred husband and consort. Instead, he had ended the conversation and the two had suffered one of the most awkward dinners she had ever gone through.
It was years later that she discovered what had happened next. Rather than summon his brother and exile him from the city, as he would have done in the past, he had called for his cousin, the Princess Rhaenys, Lord Strong and Lord Beesbury, in that specific order.
Her almost good-mother had told her that it was she who had beaten some sense into her father by telling him that if Daemon had wished to be king, he would have had the Conqueror’s crown on his head by now.
Her uncle attracted men. They flocked to him and they would have flocked to his banners if he had slain his brother and usurped his throne. Instead, Daemon had supported his brother while said brother had done little to deserve such undivided loyalty.
Lord Strong had declared that by betrothing her to Prince Daemon, the king might unify their claims and strengthen her own. There could be no question about dragonriders if they wed and procreated. Their heir would be a pureborn Targaryen and would no doubt have a dragonmount of their own.
The support from the wise Master of Coin had been the least surprising of all. All knew of his secretive soft spot for the youngest of King Jaehaerys’ grandchildren. He had openly declared her uncle the only true choice for a Targaryen consort. Daemon had the same name as her, so there was no conflict there, and he had no interest in governance, so he would not attempt to usurp any power or influence. Add to that his status as the foremost warrior within the Seven Kingdoms in the last quarter century at least, and her father had nought to say in response.
However, King Viserys would not be King Viserys if he did not show some weakness. After another sennight of seclusion, he had summoned Daemon and her to his chambers and had given them his tentative blessing to wed but had declared he could not insult the lords in such a matter again, so he had asked them to elope. Daemon had wished to rant but it was Rhaenyra who had calmed his dragonlike rage and had told her father they would wed in the way of their ancestors on Dragonstone.
A day later they did so. In the presence of Daemon’s preferred Valyrian priest, Maester Gerardys, Laena, Laenor and Rhaenys, they had exchanged blood and ancient vows and had become one.
A week later a letter had arrived from the capital stating that the king recognized their marriage and would keep her as his heir but that she and her husband should remain at Dragonstone for the foreseeable future.
Which had not been that long. Eleven moons after they had wed Rhaenyra gave birth to Prince Aemon Targaryen, named after the first rider of Caraxes and of course, Princess Rhaenys’ father. The Lady of Driftmark had felt so honoured, that she had wept in front of all, to the amusement of Daemon and her own family.
The king had travelled to Dragonstone with his court, including a heavily pregnant Alicent, and had celebrated with them the birth of his first grandchild, as well as the boy’s egg hatching—giving way to a stunning silver-coloured hatchling. At a grand feast, he had named her beautiful boy the Prince of the Stepstones, a new title to denote the heir of the heir. Unsurprisingly, it had been her uncle-husband, with the aid of Princess Rhaenys and the Master of Coin, who had convinced her father to do so. No doubt to annoy Alicent, who had already looked pained at her son’s egg hatching for none of her children had the honour, and who smiled sourly at the king’s proclamation of her grandson’s new title.
Not longer after that, the young family had been welcomed back to the Red Keep, with both Daemon and Rhaenyra taking up advisory seats upon the Small Council, expanding its numbers to nine. Though Daemon had no interest in his seat, at Rhaenyra’s command, he was present at every council meeting. They would stand together against any outside influence.
It seemed like the next nine years had gone by in such a hurry. Her father’s health had bettered under Gerardys’ all-seeing eye, the rift with their Velaryon kin had been mended with time, and their family had only grown with time.
Maelys had been born two years after Aemon—a much beloved spare, which had only pushed Alicent’s brood further down the line of succession, enraging the queen consort, who had ranted about it for moons, Rhaenyra’s spies had told her.
They had chosen to have no more children—two sons was plenty for them both, but the Gods had other plans for them for two years prior, the princess had yet another son, whom they had named Valarr, after one of Daemon’s favourite Valyrian philosophers.
Upon yet another babe joining their household, the two changed their minds and ten moons later they had welcomed their first daughter, Princess Daena, who was named after her father, at Rhaenyra’s insistence.
During Rhaenyra and Daemon’s decade of marriage, Alicent had two more sons herself, Aemond and Daeron, and especially the former was close to his mother. Aegon regularly trained with Aemon and Maelys and seemed to have built at least a tentative familial bond with them, if not with his elder sister. Helaena found herself gravitating toward their uncle, who took the young girl under her wing, to Alicent’s horror. Mayhaps she feared her daughter might go her sister’s way and fall in love with the Rogue Prince, which had amused both the man and his lady wife.
The Velaryons had returned to court with Laena having become Rhaenyra’s chief lady-in-waiting. The rider of Vhagar had been formally named Corlys’ heir and had wed her cousin Daeron. The softest and kindest of her uncle Vaemond’s sons had worshipped the ground she walked on and had given her three children: Rhaena, Monterys and Alysanne, the last of whom had meant her death in the birthing bed.
With the Velaryons on their side, Rhaenyra had strengthened her position at court immensely.
The Kingdoms had known relative peace in the decade Daemon and Rhaenyra had been wed. There had been some minor skirmishes in the Riverlands—home to many brigands, but Daemon had taken over the security of the realm, if only informally so, and had sorted out those struggles fairly swiftly with the aid of his lady wife.
The largest issue had been the rise of a new Vulture King in the Dornish Marshes. In the year twenty and one hundred after the conquest, there had been several attacks on Marcher lords and their keeps and lands by a man denouncing both the Targaryens and the Martells. Nightsong, Blackhaven and Harvest Hall had been sacked, and even Stonehelm had not been spared.
The brutality displayed by the Dornish outlaws had forced the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands to ask for aid from the Iron Throne, which had come in the form of Prince Daemon Targaryen and ten thousand men.
Though Daemon had used great strategy against this Vulture King and his allies to put a stop to their reign of terror, it had been his skills of diplomacy that had awed many. Rather than attack Dorne in retaliation, the Rogue Prince had taken counsel from his beloved wife, as he always did, and had met with Prince Qoren Martell in the hopes of finding common ground. Eventually, the two had declared an alliance to quell any discontent and exterminate their common foe. It had led to a bettering in the relationship between the Iron Throne and Dorne and had increased Daemon’s standing at court, which had delighted Rhaenyra and annoyed Alicent and her allies.
Lord Boremund Baratheon had been particularly grateful and had granted her husband a grand tract of land in the Dornish Marshes, which had been dubbed Summerhall, on which the past six years a keep had built, completed only three moons prior, which held the same name as the dominion it ruled over.
Located in the foothills of the Red Mountains, close to the border of the Reach, east of the Cockleswhent and southeast of the Blueburn, Summerhall had been built as a grand pleasure and summer palace.
Though it was meant merely as a gift to denote House Baratheon’s appreciation for the prince’s aid, Rhaenyra had made sure it also became a strategic advantage against any future foes by building barracks for soldiers, as well as several small towns, thus ensuring it had a permanent military and trade presence. Daemon’s informal command of the City Watch had come in handy for a thousand veterans had readily taken his offer to move to the Stormlands and defend his new keep, allowing for new and younger men to repopulate the City Watch.
Because the keep was located in the mountains, it had been easy to have a dragonpit carved into the stone to house their famed mounts. There had already been natural caves, which had to hallowed out a tad more to house the largest of their wyrms.
A moon after the gift from House Baratheon had been accepted by her lord husband, Daemon had returned to court a conquering hero with trade agreements with Dorne in his satchel and the head of the latest Vulture King on vinegar under his arm. The king had openly declared his brother the Crown’s greatest champion and had named him Prince of Summerhall—with Maelys as his heir for he was bound to be the next royal second son.
Though there had been many loud voices praising her husband, Rhaenyra knew that some of the Reach houses had been angered by the growing relationship with Dorne and House Nymeros Martell. The conflict between the fallen Kingdom of the Reach, ruled by the now-extinct House Gardener, and the Principality of Dorne was rife and the relationship between them was even more volatile than the one between Dorne and the Stormlands, which said quite a bit.
Soon, the court would make their first sojourn to Summerhall, staying there for the next six moons, to the Queen Consort’s annoyance. At least nominally Alicent was the premier lady at the Red Keep but Summerhall was Daemon’s and thus Rhaenyra would command its staff and organise feasts and tourneys despite it becoming a temporary royal capital.
The royal court travelling to Summerhall fell perfectly with the Hand of the King’s decision to step down from his duties on the Small Council. Lord Lyonel Strong had seen a dip in health and wished to return to Harrenhal to teach his heir, who had wed Lady Sabitha Vypren only six moons prior, all the ins and the outs of governing their wealthy lands and holdings.
Lord Strong had been a loyal Hand, who had done all to advise the king as neutrally as possible. Rhaenyra had found him to be an honourable man, who could take his place in the gallery of great Hands of the King.
The vacancy in the office had many scrambling for any scraps of power they could get their hands on. Ser Tyland’s eyes had grown greedy and envious upon Lord Strong’s announcement, as had Lord Wylde’s. Her father had told her how Alicent had even suggested her father be returned to the office, which he had laughed off, angering his consort.
None of them knew a new Hand had already been chosen—though with a delay. In the decade since his daughter had wed his brother, her father had finally found it in him to appreciate the man who had him crowned king, and as such he had offered the office to his brother at long last.
Who had promptly refused.
“Mamamamama,” Daena babbled in her ear, interrupting Rhaenyra’s thoughts.
The Princess of Dragonstone cooed and placed a soft kiss on her daughter’s head.
Even from behind the closed chamber doors, Rhaenyra could hear the ruckus that signalled her sons’ pending arrival.
As one her three sons crashed through her door, Aemon carrying Valarr on his back. Her heir and his younger brother were loudly arguing about something while her youngest son was pulling on Aemon’s hair.
“Vhagar is the oldest dragon of them all!” Maelys insisted.
Rhaenyra wished to roll her eyes in utter exasperation for since her beautiful boy had claimed her late friend’s mount, he had been unable to speak of anything else.
The claiming of the Queen of Dragons had nearly caused a conflict between the Iron Throne and House Velaryon—a relationship Rhaenyra and her husband had done their best to heal. The same day her beloved cousin had been laid to rest in the presence of her kin, young Prince Aemond had been caught on the beach by a patrolling guardsman. When discovered why he had been on the beach in the midst of the night, Rhaenys had become incensed and had banished the king and his family from Driftmark, declaring the young prince’s actions the most grievous of insults.
Though there were tentative plans to betroth Aemon and Rhaena, thus making one of Rhaenys’ granddaughters queen, in the meantime Laena’s children were not yet allowed to have a dragon egg, or even claim a mount. Though Corlys had protested his grandchildren being deprived of what he had claimed to be their heritage, both the king and Daemon had remained steadfast on the issue—only Targaryens were allowed to fly a dragon.
Rhaenyra had assured Laena and Daeron that if Rhaena were to wed Aemon, as they had planned, she could claim a mount if only to ensure they had both a king and queen who were dragonriders.
None could have thought that Laena would perish at the tender age of seven and twenty, leaving behind a heartbroken husband and three grieving children, as well as a dragon that had lost now her third rider in only a century.
It had been at Rhaenys’ insistence that they either have Maelys try and claim Vhagar, or have the oldest dragon alive contained to Dragonstone, where none could get to her.
Astonishingly, it was Daemon who had been wary at allowing his son of only seven name days near the mastodon of a fire-breather. Luckily for all, Vhagar had immediately taken to her son, taking him on her back without much fuss. So, much like his mother, Prince Maelys Targaryen first flew his soul mount at the tender age of seven.
“What exactly are we arguing about now, boys?” Rhaenyra asked.
“Your stupid son believes that being older is the same as being faster and stronger,” Aemon sneered at his younger brother.
‘So much like his father, that one,’ Rhaenyra did not voice her thought for her heir would probably take it as solely a compliment.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear, “Your stupid son?”
None had heard Daemon creep through the open door. Both her sons had snapped to attention. Their backs ramrod straight and any further quarrel dying upon their lips, while Daena jumped up and down in her arms.
Her lord husband was a warm father but he was also strict when need be, and her sons knew that arguments between brothers were taboo to the Rogue Prince.
Aemon squeezed his hands into tight fists and lowered his gaze to the ground, “Iksan vaoreznuni, kepa [I apologize, father].” Their eldest hated it when he disappointed his father.
Daemon hooked his finger underneath Aemon’s chin and slowly raised it so the boy was able to look into his eyes, “No need for apologies, little dragon. Just don’t forget that he is your brother and we are family.”
“I am sorry, Maelys,” Aemon turned to his brother slash best friend.
Maelys gave his brother a cheeky smile, “You are forgiven, but only if you admit Vhagar is the fastest.
Before Aemon could respond, Daemon did, “You should not ask your brother to lie, princeling. We all know that Caraxes is the swiftest.”
Maelys harrumphed at that, even though Daemon was not wrong.
“You mean Syrax, my love,” Rhaenyra piped in.
Daemon rolled his eyes and grabbed Daena from her arms, lifting her high in the air, to the babe’s delight, “Whatever you say, darling.”
There was nought that could bring a smile to her husband’s face quite as much as their children’s laughter.
“We should ready ourselves for supper,” Rhaenyra raised her eyebrow at her husband, while he cooed at their daughter.
“Yes, we should,” Daemon retorted upon seeing the expression on her face, “Boys, go get ready. Your maids will be ready with your baths by now.”
Aemon handed Valarr over to one of the maids and guided his younger brother out of the chambers to their own, where they would bathe and put on fresh tunics.
“She will have a conniption,” her husband laughed, placing a soft lingering kiss on the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
“Good,” Rhaenyra removed her necklace and walked to the ensuite, where the maids were preparing their baths.
Daemon sniggered, “You are evil, woman,” before catching her lips in a passionate liplock.
If Rhaenyra put a little more sway in her hips as she walked from her husband, none would ever know.
───※ ·♛· ※───
Most eves, Rhaenyra and her brood chose to eat amongst themselves, having commandeered one of the dining halls in Maegor’s Holdfast for themselves. More often than not her husband either joined them or chose to eat with his Hand. Once in a while, Helaena joined them as well. The girl was oddly enamoured with her father’s brother, which truly disgusted the Queen Consort. Daemon Targaryen was not to be trusted with their daughter, she knew. He would corrupt her as he corrupted Rhaenyra. Turning her from a life of piety and service to one of sin and greed—usurping her own brother’s birthright.
Even that night, with the entire Targaryen clan supping together at the command of their patriarch, Helaena insisted on sitting near her uncle, so she could chat with him and only him. For every bite she took of her goose or her boar, five minutes were spent conversing about Prince Daemon’s travels and the many exotic animals he had seen.
Alicent was truly disgusted. Helaena always flinched from her touches but Daemon’s were fine? At times, she had even seen her lean into them as if she enjoyed them.
Meanwhile, Aegon and Daeron spent the family feast laughing with their two eldest nephews, ignoring Aemond, who sat at the table with a long face, denoting his sour mood. Aemond did not particularly like either Aemon or Maelys and the feeling was seemingly mutual.
Of all the children that resided at the Red Keep, Aemond was the sole one without a dragon. A few moons after his ninth name day, Aegon had bonded with a beautiful golden baby dragon, whom he had named Sunfyre. It had galled the queen to know that it had been Daemon and Rhaenyra who had aided her son in claiming the young dragon.
Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre—once flown by the Queen in the East—also with the aid of the Rogue Prince and his whore wife, while Dearon had been the sole child of hers that had hatched his dragon. Her youngest had toddled around with his egg until he was two until it had unexpectedly hatched, bringing forth a beautiful blue hatchling—named Tessarion after some heathen goddess from the Targaryen’s cursed ancestral lands.
Of course, Rhaenyra’s children had dragons themselves. Aemon’s egg had hatched when the boy was barely a few days old, bringing forth a dragon he had named Arrax. Prince Maelys had claimed Vhagar underneath Aemond’s nose, which had invoked a deep sense of hatred toward the boy from both mother and son. The whore’s two younger spawn had their eggs hatch in the cradle as well, which had made Aemond feel ever so inferior.
All-in-all, with Syrax, Caraxes and Meleys added to that tally, their foes outnumbered them in both numbers and strength.
Her father had kept up correspondence over the years through letters delivered to either the Grand Maester or Ser Tyland—their most important ally at court. In one of Ser Otto’s latest letters, he had told her to convince the king to allow Aemond to travel to Dragonstone, so he may claim Vermithor or Silverwing—the mounts of the Conciliator and the Good Queen respectively.
She had been denied.
No matter the begging and pleading, her husband had kept his resolve. The king had claimed that since Aemond was the sixth in the line of succession, there was no immediate reason for him to claim a dragon.
It had been the Rogue Prince’s smirk that had told her that her husband’s refusal was his doing. Daemon did all he could to make her life miserable. Scheming and manipulating those around him to suit his whore wife’s unnatural cause. Though Ser Harwin had remained Commander of the City Watch before he departed for Harrenhal with his father and expecting bride, all knew it was the prince who held their true allegiance.
More than once Alicent had tried to bring this to Viserys but the king had rebuffed her on every single occasion. His brother had planted his claws deep inside him and without her father to mitigate the Rogue Prince’s dangerous influence, the king’s weak mind had succumbed to Daemon’s foul plotting.
All the more reason that her father had to return to the capital. Lord Lyonel’s departure had allowed her to try and convince Viserys to summon Ser Otto Hightower back to King’s Landing and retake the seat which had been stolen at Rhaenyra’s command.
For the first time in well over a full sunturn, Alicent had slipped into the king’s bed. If it was carnal pleasure that would convince him, the queen consort would gladly offer it to Viserys, even if it galled and disgusted her.
A sudden clinging made her attention move from her inner musings to the king, who had used his knife against his crystal goblet to get everyone’s attention.
“Welcome, family. It fills me with pride and joy to see my children and grandchildren together, enjoying the fine meal prepared. Our house is growing with every turning of the sun,” her husband held out his arms, taking the cooing Princess Daena from her mother’s arms, “Our youngest will one day be as beautiful as her mother, of that I have no doubt. Mayhaps she shall steal from her the epithet of Realm’s Delight.”
Alicent flinched at her husband’s praising of his eldest daughter for it was something he never did of her children.
“Ser Laenor tells me that Aegon has developed a great skill for the bow and arrow,” still with his beloved granddaughter in his arms, the king turned his attention to his oldest son, who should for intents and purposes be his heir as well, “He assures me that one day he shall be one of the finest of archers the Kingdoms have ever seen.”
“Hear, hear,” Prince Daemon raised his goblet to his nephew, who grew red at being singled out. The Rogue Prince was followed by his two sons and then his wife, before all joined in.
Viserys smiled at his son before turning from him once more, “I also hear that Aemon is to be the Lord Commander’s squire.”
“Yes, grandfather,” the Prince of the Stepstones nodded, “I am looking forward to learning a great deal from Ser Harrold.”
The king gave a deep belly laugh, “Like father, like son. My brother, your father, also once served as Ser Harrold’s squire.”
“Mayhaps I shall be as great a warrior as he one day.”
The prince in question gave his son a deceptively soft smile, “Of that I have no doubt.”
Not even Alicent could deny that the man loved his wife and children. Too much one might even say.
“Our house strengthens evermore,” the king handed over his granddaughter to his daughter once more, before clearing his throat, “You must all wonder as to why I summoned you all to sup with me.”
None spoke, and yet Alicent felt an unforeseen pit of uncomfortableness and fear settle in her stomach. The last time her husband had made an unexpected pronouncement, Rhaenyra’s heathen wedding to her uncle had been formally upheld by the Crown, thus dashing Alicent’s hopes of having the whore displaced in favour of the rightful heir.
“After a decade of honourable service to the King and Council, Lord Lyonel Strong has returned to Harrenhal, leaving me without a Hand. It has been almost three moons without a Hand of the King, and this has to be remedied swiftly. The Seven Kingdoms should not be without a Hand too long. Nor should the King.”
Alicent grabbed her goblet tightly, nearly cracking the crystal. She had not expected Viserys to make a choice this hurriedly. She barely had been able to plant the seeds for her father’s return to the capital. She hoped that the few sprinkles had been enough to water those seeds left behind during her late-night visits to her husband’s bedchamber—filled with Viserys’ thrusting and groaning.
“I have long thought to bring this family closer together once more,” her husband shrank into a pit of self-hatred, “I know the fractures amongst our kin have been my fault. As a king and as a father I have made many errors but I vow to you all that those times have passed. A new era has come to our esteemed house.”
Alicent allowed herself to feel some hope. If her husband was truthful about wishing to heal the fractures created amongst them, he could do nothing better than clean the underserved blemish on her father’s honour by allowing him to return to his rightful seat around the Small Council table.
“The reign after mine will be one of firsts for we shall have the first queen regnant in the Kingdoms’ history. I shall not be here to witness it but I do not doubt that Rhaenyra will be ten times the queen that I was a king.”
Alicent was fuming but kept herself composed, if barely. Why did her husband always have to make everything about Rhaenyra?
“I have spoken extensively with those closest to me and I believe that there is only one true choice for Hand of the King.”
The queen hoped that the hope she felt was not visible to any.
“I shall announce it at the council meeting in the morn and then in the afternoon to the court during petitions, but as my family, you deserved to know first. Much as my grandfather believed, I believe that the heir should always have a seat at the small council table,” Alicent felt the dread creeping up her spine, “As such I invited the Princess of Dragonstone to the council chambers a decade ago. Now, it is time for her to take up governance as Hand of the King.”
The king’s pronouncement led to congratulations from the whore’s sons and her husband. Even the queen’s eldest two children dared to raise their glasses to her.
Alicent clenched her jaw so tight, she feared she might shatter her teeth, “Are you certain this is wise, husband? Your health is not what it once was, and the Kingdoms will need steady and experienced governance.”
The bane of her existence narrowed his eyes at her, “And who might provide us with that steady and experienced governance, Lady Alicent?” the disdain was clear to all but those present chose to ignore it.
It had been more than a decade and it seemed like none batted an eye when her good-brother dishonoured her by calling her a lady, rather than use her honorific, or even when he spat out her name and made sound like the most distasteful word that had ever slipped past his lips.
“I had no one in mind, good-brother,” Alicent’s hand twitched when Daemon’s lip curled in disgust, “Though there are many well-suited to the role—Grand Maester Orwyle for example. Or Ser Tyland, who has sat on the Small Council for nigh four and ten years. Should the king have need for a friend, my father remains a loyal servant of the Crown.”
A snort from both husband and wife now, “Your father is a loyal servant of his own interests. He shall never step foot in the capital again, lest my hand becomes a tad itchy and Dark Sister gets to whet her appetite.”
Luckily for the queen consort, her husband showed some semblance of a spine, at long last, taking the pressure off her after Daemon’s violent threat toward her beloved and pious father.
“That’s enough, Daemon,” to her surprise, the prince bowed his head in supplication, while her husband turned to her, “Rhaenyra has sat on the Small Council for nigh a decade now and is bound to succeed me, as Aemon is to succeed her,” Alicent hated how Viserys ruffled the boy’s hair with great joy and fondness, giving him affection he never did her children, “She is the only true candidate in my mind.”
“Thank you, father,” the whore smiled at her husband, pretending to be an innocent little lamb. Well, Alicent knew better. It may have been a decade since the Rogue Prince brutally killed an honourable man and received no punishment for it, but the Queen Consort had not forgotten Ser Criston Cole’s sacrifice. He had shown her the truth and it had cost him his life and his honour. Besmirched as it was after death by the king and council.
“Still…” Alicent tried but was interrupted by the second youngest of Rhaenyra’s brood of abominations, who threw a fist of mashed potatoes at her Daeron, who scrunched his nose in disgust, potato dripping from his forehead.
The Queen Consort would have said something if both her husband and daughter had not started laughing alongside the princess and her ungodly husband and children, which resulted in Prince Daeron laughing himself.
If Alicent said something now, she would be scolded by her husband. No, she would not allow such a humiliation to befall her. Instead, she allowed that ball of fiery rage deep in her belly to poison her mind, infecting her every thought.
Rhaenyra always received everything while Alicent and her children were discarded. A seat at the small council table? Of course, she did. Even though no woman should ever have a place at it. Women may not rule, but they may guide the men who do. Away from violence and sure destruction, and instead toward peace.
Rhaenyra desired more. Turning away from the laws of Gods and men. Away from the teachings of the Seven-Pointed Star.
Upon the Princess of Dragonstone and her husband receiving advisory seats, Alicent had asked for one of her own but had been rebuffed by her husband, who claimed that she had more pressing responsibilities. The queen consort had no idea what those were because Rhaenyra had pulled to her many of the queen’s duties, including the royal purse and the education of the royal princes and princesses. It mattered little that those were Alicent’s children—Viserys had been insistent.
When Daeron had been born, Alicent had proposed to her husband that upon his third birthday, he be sent to Oldtown to foster under her uncle, but the king had denied her. She knew it had been Rhaenyra and Daemon who had turned her husband’s mind for he had been open to the idea the first time she mentioned it during the latter stages of her pregnancy.
Even motherhood had come more easy to Rhaenyra. Her children adored her, as did Aegon, Helaena and Daeron.
Luckily she still had Aemond. No matter how much Daemon tried, her little soldier man could not be wrenched from her side. He saw right through them all. Especially Daemon and his eldest boy.
Prince Aemon took great joy in besting her son on the yards, as well as in their studies. Aemond was a bookish young man but when he had a training sword in his hand, and yet Rhaenyra’s boy did all he could to appear better than his uncle in both his studies and his swordfighting.
Aemond had learned all the noble houses of the realm? His nephew also knew the knightly houses. Aemond had managed to become more than competent in High Valyrian? Aemon could speak it fluently.
Alicent knew it was yet another one of Daemon and Rhaenyra’s attempts at humiliating her. They enjoyed boasting of their talented sons at court, thus pushing hers to the background.
Not that it truly mattered for the queen consort did not doubt that Aemond would only grow stronger and swifter, more intelligent and erudite with time. He would soon surpass that monstrous abomination born of incest.
If only her lovely boy had been born first. Aemond would make a fine king, she knew. Dutiful and pious as he was. Hours at a time he spent under Septon Eustace’s tutelage, while Aemon never even stepped foot in the royal sept. Nor his parents for that matter.
Much like Daemon, his son worshipped the heathen gods of their fallen empire. It had disappointed her how the Rogue Prince had managed to seduce Rhaenyra to abandon the True Gods. But then again, nothing should have surprised Alicent. Her former friend-turned-stepdaughter was a vile creature of lust and ambition, which had only been accented by her devilish uncle.
All around Alicent, children laughed and even her husband had joined in the merriment. Only the queen and her second son sat at the supper table stonefaced and distant, ignoring the joyful and the happy.
Princess Helaena was playing along with her half-sister as she was teaching her hellion the names of fruits on the table, sounding out the words.
“Ap,” Rhaenyra held an apple in front of Daena’s face, “uhl.”
The girl tittered with laughter and proceeded to butcher the word, “Appa.”
Alicent’s daughter clapped for her niece, telling her how good of a girl she was and kissing her cheeks.
If only she knew how little Rhaenyra thought of her.
At the behest of her father, six moons prior, Alicent had suggested a betrothal between Aemon and Helaena be announced, and even though Viserys had been overjoyed, Rhaenyra had outright refused. The insult had worsened when instead her stepdaughter had offered Maelys as a husband for her daughter. As if Alicent would ever have her daughter wed a second son without titles, land and gold to his name.
Then, Alicent had attempted to betroth her only daughter to her eldest son, which had been denied as well. When having grown furious with any lack of say in her children’s future betrothals and education, she had been told that her children were dragons and as such their matings should not be decided upon by someone who was not a dragon.
Matings, as if they are beasts. It had infuriated the queen consort but she had little true power that remained to her, and her lord husband rarely listened to her any more. Preferring the silky manipulations of his brother and daughter to the truthful and genuine advice of his gods-fearing queen.
Alicent’s internal thoughts were interrupted by Prince Daemon standing from his chair and walking to his wife and daughter, going to his knees beside them, holding up a peach in front of the young princess’ face.
“What is this, hatchling?”
Rather than answer her father, the princess snatched the fruit from his fingers and held it in her own small hands, before bringing it to her mouth and slobbering on its fuzzy exterior.
Rhaenyra laughed at her uncle-husband, as did Helaena, before kissing her daughter’s head, “Peach, Daena,” she tried to explain to the girl before sounding it phonetically, “Peech.”
Helaena soon joined in, “Peech. Can you say peach?”
Just as the princess opened her mouth the peach fell from her hand and rolled across the table, leaving the babe’s spittle behind, before falling on Alicent’s lap, who instantly jumped up in disgust.
Before Alicent could even voice her annoyance and revulsion at her gown being coated in the brat princess’ salivation, the girl in question pointed towards her and shouted, “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch,” she kept repeating that horrid word, saying it perfectly.
Besides the princess’ repeated babbling, none spoke for a few counts before the Rogue Prince broke out in loud laughter, followed by Alicent’s son.
Aegon guffawed at his own mother’s humiliation, clutching his sides.
It was not long before all started sniggering and howling.
Alicent’s face grew bright red, “Ugh,” and yet nothing more came out of her mouth than unintelligible sounds of disgust and annoyance before she threw down her napkin and stormed from the dining hall, Aemond following closely behind her.
In the distance, the mortified queen consort could still hear the loud laughter of the bane of her existence—Prince Daemon Targaryen, as well as Rhaenyra’s parting shot at her, “Out of the mouths of babes.”
‘Gods, she hated this family.’