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Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE:

“The King is dead.”

The news is quick, delivered by a servant he’d paid well to keep his activities hidden. He thanks the boy with a gold dragon and a threat to cut out his tongue if he’s ever seen near the Red Keep again. 

It was a threat Aegon knew well.

His father had spat it out at him enough times when bringing up his nephews. Those ‘three strong boys’ were never mentioned again after the events of Driftmark, although Aegon and Aemond had both made a vow to kill Lucerys Velaryon if either got the chance. 

Aegon finds his personal decanter of Dornish Red and pours himself a drink. 

The King is dead. 

His father finally succumbing to the illness he’d borne since the death of his first son. 

Baelon.

Aegon downs the Dornish Red in mere seconds, pouring himself another glass and swallowing it just as fast.  

He was no fool to the position he found himself in now.

He could see his grandfather and mother huddled around the small council table, deciding the fate of the realm for him and his sister and brother with no care for their wants. 

Their desires. 

Aegon had never desired the throne. He saw it cut his father to pieces, what little sanity the man had left leaking out in rivers of royal blood. 

How many times had Aegon himself stared at that chair, wondering if it would shred him too. 

Wondering if it would drive him mad like Maegor.

Besides, what power was there to be gained from an iron seat surrounded by carrions waiting for corpses?

They would poke and prod and knead him until he was nothing but bone, skin flayed by the demands of the people. 

By the demands of the Lords and Ladies he already could not stand. 

Aegon was no King. 

He was hardly a man. 

A drunken fool, more like, his grandfather sneered. 

Then make me a fool, He’d asked, his mother’s eyes wide at the request. Give Rhaenyra the crown and let me be. I have no need for it. No desire for it. I will not challenge her. 

His mother pales at his words and his grandfather grows red with rage. 

Together it is a queer sort of pink, the same color that tinges Helaena’s cheeks when he takes her to bed with him. 

You cannot say such things, his mother hisses, grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him until his neck aches. If anyone hears you it will be our heads on pikes, decorating the halls of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name. 

Is that not what everyone wants? He asks. 

He sees his mother deflate at his words, shoulders slumped as if bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

Aegon cannot bring himself to understand why when her husband is the King. 

With Rhaenyra crowned, they will be free to leave. 

Grandfather and mother reuniting with Daeron in Oldtown, where Helaena can enjoy the soft summer sun and the spiders that haunt the gardens. 

He and Aemond can fly to Essos on Sunfyre. Together they will explore the Doom of Valyria, and maybe even find Aemond a dragon. 

It is the very next day Aemond’s eye is cut out and he claims Vhagar for himself. 

He downs another cup. 

Aegon watches as Rhaenyra threatens to torture his brother and his father demands the tongues of anyone daring to question the legitimacy of her sons. 

The King stares directly at the Queen when he says that. 

His scarred head lands on Aegon and Aemond, Helaena hiding in the shadows of the flames with a quiet defiance. 

Everyone knows father. Just look at them.

Aegon knows in this moment his father has never loved him and never will. 

Not in the way he loves Rhaenyra.

Not in the way a son should be loved. 

It is Rhaenyra who can do things without consequence. Rhaenyra who sits atop in Dragonstone with her husband and bastard children. It is Rhaenyra who will descend upon King’s Landing with Syrax and Caraxes and take the throne, eliminating any threat in her way. 

He wants to believe his half-sister won’t do it. 

That she will be merciful.

After all, what kind of ruler wishes to start their reign out as a kinslayer?

But his mind flashes back to Driftmark. 

To Aemond’s stitched up face and Helaena’s flinching. 

The decanter is nearly empty at this point, the Prince slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the wide open chambers before him. 

The King is dead. 

The Queen is coming. 

And Aegon intends to be long gone before she arrives. 

Aemond made a much better figurehead anyway. 

He takes little with him as he tears down the green and golden drapes, tying them together at the ends. A trick he’d learned from years of escaping his chambers, Helaena often helping him in exchange for whatever bug he brought back from his night out.

They were always spiders. 

They’d crawled into his cups or his bottles after he’d passed out on the streets, the Gold Cloaks unceremoniously dragging him back to the Red Keep to face the wrath of his grandfather. 

He finishes off the decanter and grabs a bottle of Arbor Gold. 

The sweet wine is not as effective at dulling his senses as the bitter reds from Dorne, but it is far more abundant. 

His cousins grow it after all, and he knows his mother has a fondness for it. 

It reminds her of home. 

The bottle of wine is all he takes with him on his journey, stuffed into a bag with silver to sell and pay his way to Essos. 

Or perhaps he should flee to Dorne and drown himself in their bitter wines while he still could. 

It would not be the first time a Targaryen has gone missing behind the Red Mountains.

The red of the sun begins to peek through the clouds of King’s Landing, a warning of how little time he truly has left. 

Aegon sniffed his clothes and gagged. 

He grabbed several other shirts and pants and stuffed them into the satchel, padding the wine carefully so it wouldn’t break when he jumped. 

He hears whispers in the hallway and the rush of slippered feet. 

The servants know. 

And soon the rest of the kingdom will too. 

He hurries his steps, tying end over end before one barged into his room and caught him in the act, no doubt reporting him to his mother. 

He throws it over the balcony when the door creaks open.

He whirls around to face the intruder. 

It is one of his sister’s girls. 

She is Dornish, he notes, long black hair falling in waves to her waist, olive skin shimmering in the newly risen sun. 

Her face is pretty. Oval and soft with high cheekbones that do not come from Dorne. He does not recognize her beyond that. 

Her eyes are dark, with something reflected deep within that he cannot see from his position on the balcony.

She is lithe and small, a lack of proper food and drink contributing to her thin waist and shoulders. 

Despite this, she looks like every woman he’s ever taken to bed. 

Hips and breasts hidden underneath the layers of fabric she was forced to wear, a starved girl with clever footsteps and curves to show she grew up well even if it were before her time in the palace. 

As a man he should be drawn to the curves of her body, yet, all he can focus on is her face. 

Her eyes meet his, an unreadable expression as her gaze moves from the clothes on his bed, to the empty decanter, and finally back to him. 

This is it. He thinks. 

She will call for someone. His sister, his brother, the Queen. 

And Aegon will be forced to bear the weight of usurping his own sister’s birthright because it was meant to belong to him. 

A firstborn son is always meant to be heir.

He will be the first of his kind to reject that claim. 

He stares at the handmaiden, as if daring her to do so. 

She surprises him by closing the door and refusing to say another word. 

Aegon jumps to freedom. 

Reyna hides behind a pillar as she watched the Targaryen flee further into the maze of hedges and fountains. 

Her stomach dropped, chest heaving at the thought of what awaited her if the Queen were to find out. 

The castle was in a state of disarray at the sound of the King’s death, and it had only been Dreia and Tansy’s whispers which had saved her. 

There were rumors of servants being locked up, forced into the Black Cells to ensure no word of the King’s Death reached the city. 

Talya, who’d told them the news, had already been escorted there by the Lord Confessor. 

Reyna sticks to the shadows and dark corners of the Red Keep, careful to avoid heavy footsteps and clanking armor.

She does not know if Dreia or Tansy have escaped, nor if they’ve been taken.

She slips through a door known only to a few, the comfort of the passage engulfing her in relief.

But the Lord Confessor knows these tunnels almost as well as she does, and her footsteps are quick and airy as she moves through the stone passageway, a spiral staircase descending into the depths of the Red Keep.

Talya had shown her these passages so long ago, and Lacey herself had been forced out through them by Lord Jasper Wylde after he’d paid her with gold dragons and moon tea.

She thinks of her friend in Flea Bottom, surrounded by the appetites of men, and how long it’s been since they’ve last seen each other.

They’d each come seeking more than what they were given.

And still they remained under the thumb of those higher than them.

The sound of footsteps returned and Reyna continued to scurry, boots moving from stone to earth as she turned down a corner into another passageway.

The smell of King’s Landing grew stronger as she moved further, the sloshing of the Blackwater in her ears.

She’d barely walked more than ten paces when she heard a familiar voice through the walls.

“You’re sworn to protect the king,” Ser Otto Hightower’s anger was hidden beneath carefully constructed words, but Reyna heard the hiss with each breath.

“He exploits his authority to order me away, then evades me, my lord.”

She recognized the voice of Ser Erryk Cargyll, one of the many Kingsguard always stationed outside Prince Aegon’s rooms.

He was her least favorite along with Ser Steffon.

Their lewd looks and haughty laughter always seemed to follow her, especially when the two men were deep in their cups as they usually were.

“I believe he may have left the keep,” Ser Erryk continues, his voice low, “Secretly gone into the city.”

“And no one was there to witness it?”

Reyna’s stomach dropped, the lump in her throat growing at Ser Otto’s words.

Now she knew the other reason they were rounding up the servants.

“Find him,” Ser Otto commanded, “Take no one but your brother.”

The Hand of the King paused, as if contemplating something else entirely.

“And remove your white cloaks. No one can know who you are or what you seek…including the Queen.”

Reyna quickened her steps, breathing heavily as she ran through the corridors of the Red Keep, a shadow on the wall for those who didn’t know better.

The sound of the Blackwater grew louder, the smell of Flea Bottom growing stronger, and her heartbeat pulsing faster.

She didn’t want to think about what would happen to her if the Hand or the Queen found out she’d seen the Prince escape.

It brought up images of her head on a pike, displayed to the smallfolk as a cautionary tale of a girl who’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The earth beneath her feet turned to mud, and Reyna picked up her skirts as she strode through the sewers, so used to the smell of piss and shit her eyes didn’t even water anymore.

She’d barely taken a step out into the sunlight when a flash of gold entered her vision.

She ducked behind the wall.

The Kingsguard made Reyna uneasy, but the gold cloaks terrified her.

She’d heard stories from Cicely, who’d lost her brother to them in the years before Princess Rhaenyra was named heir.

Prince Daemon had marched through the streets of King’s Landing like a general conducting war, punishing every man and woman he saw fit.

Cicely’s brother had been caught stealing a purse off a nobleman who’d refused to pay him for the sword he’d commissioned.

When the noble demanded Cicely in return, her brother had taken the sword and run him through.

A second son of a second son, she’d said. No one of any importance, except to the prince.

The Gold Cloaks had taken both before the Targaryen Commander, who’d heard the story and simply said,

You should have let him have your sister.

Cicely was then forced to watch as Prince Daemon took the bloodied sword and slit him neck to navel.

Reyna peered from behind the wall, hoping the streets were clear enough so she wouldn’t be spotted. 

A hand wrapped itself around her mouth and she screamed. 

“Quiet!” A voice hushed, slurred and stinking of wine, “Do you want to get us killed?”

Reyna found herself staring into the pale lilac eyes of Aegon Targaryen. 

He pushed her against the wall, his hand tasting of dirt and sweat and Arbor gold. 

They watched silently as another troop of Gold Cloaks passed by the alley and Aegon drew closer.

The men paid them no mind for there was nothing to look at. 

To them, it was just a man having his way with a woman. 

It happened every day in Flea Bottom, why would today be any different? 

When she was sure the cloaks had gone, she pushed the prince away. 

“Get off me,” She muttered, going to wipe her mouth with her overdress when she remembered where she’d come from. Instead she used her hand and made a mental note to stop by Ivy’s before returning to the Red Keep. 

Aegon huffed as he stumbled on his feet, pulling his hood closer, “Ungrateful bitch.”

Reyna shrugged off the insult. 

She’d been called far worse in her lifetime.

“What exactly am I supposed to thank you for?” She asked, making her way through the hovels and shacks of Flea Bottom, “Putting my life in more danger than it already is?”

“You should be grateful I stepped in at all,” Aegon shot back, his face red, although Reyna wasn’t sure if it was from anger or drunkenness, “The Gold Cloaks would have brought you to the Queen or Lord Larys, who would have cut out your tongue after he’d wrenched the truth from you.”

Reyna rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the knot growing in her stomach. 

Some part of her knew the prince was correct, but she’d lived four years in King’s Landing without help and she wasn’t about to let some spoiled dragon brat tell her what to be grateful for. 

“You’re so certain they care about some maid haunting the Red Keep?”

Aegon smirked, “They will once they learn she let the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms escape.”

Reyna froze, turning to face the Targaryen. 

Mischief danced in his eyes and hers grew dark. 

“The word of a prince is a powerful thing,” Aegon closed the space between them, breath hot on her skin. She resisted the urge to gag, "After all, who would believe the words of a Dornish whore?"

She moved to strike when Aegon caught her wrist in his hand. 

Despite his inebriated state, he seemed to have some wits about him.

“Striking a highborn is a punishable offense,” He recited with a smile, pale lilac looking between her and her wrist. 

A beat stood between the two of them.

She almost thought he looked mad.

“And yet here I am ready to lose my hand for it,” Reyna spat back, gaze hardening to stone. 

Prince Aegon laughed. 

He dropped her hand and leaned back against the wall, trying to keep himself upright, “Bold," His eyes darted up and down her figure, "Not many people would defy a prince so openly."

"Not many princes are worth defying," She shot back, massaging her wrist. 

He stared at her, the smile on his face fading, "Get me out of King's Landing and you can keep your hand." His eyes dipped to her breasts and back up to her face, "As a reward for your...boldness."

"Don't you have a coronation to attend?" She asks, the prince's eyes darkening.

Reyna stared at him, trying to decipher the look on his face when she realized. 

He was headed toward the Dragonpit. 

Toward his dragon.

Her lips tugged with a small, dry smile. 

"Unless the future king has other plans--"

"Watch your tongue," He snaps, jaw set and esophagus bobbing up and down, "whore." He spat, and Reyna's stomach clenched, "You will help me," He demanded, "As your King commands it."

She scoffed in indignation, "Of course, Your Grace," Her voice was flat and even, eyeing the man with revulsion. Reyna gave a mock curtsey, pulling out her shit-stained skirt as if she were a noble lady instead of a lowborn's bastard, “Is that all?” 

The prince stepped closer and she took a step back.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close, bicep caught in his grip.

She could feel the heat of his breath on her neck, the pads of his fingers through the cotton of her chemise. 

His eyes raked her body, poking his tongue through wine stained teeth. She waited with bated breath as he leaned in close, his other hand moving up and gently grazing her cheek. 

It was smooth, soft from the lotions and herbs nobles bathed with.

He smelled like none of them. 

Aegon drank her in greedily, eyes glazing over with a lustful look Reyna had seen plenty of times before. 

Disgust curled in her stomach, blooming into full-blown repugnance when he let out an involuntary belch, the stench of wine directly in her face. 

She was halfway to forming some witty comment when he collapsed at her feet. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO:

Reyna stared at the man in a heap at her feet.

The Crown Prince was face down with his ass in the air in the streets of Flea Bottom, just a few paces away from where the sewers emptied into the Blackwater Rush. 

It was as if the gods were playing a cruel jape. 

Prince Aegon himself commanding her to commit treason and help him flee to Essos. 

On his dragon. 

She was just grateful he was talking about Sunfyre the Golden and not…

Reyna craned her neck, hoping she wouldn’t see what she was expecting to see. 

It appeared to be a true drunken stupor after all.

He mumbled something about wanting his mother before Reyna rolled her eyes and placed him on her shoulders, the Targaryen remarkably light in her arms.

His hood fell forward, obscuring his high cheekbones and silver hair from the masses. 

She stepped back into the shadows as the sound of metal footsteps echoed through the alley. 

Her chest pounded, eyes scanning the area for a place to run.

If they stayed here the Gold Cloaks would be the least of her problems. 

The winding streets of the slum were familiar to her as she slipped through abandoned stalls and stepped over bodies beginning to wake from their cups. Most of the men had been pickpocketed, cucked, or fucked, but all of them reeked of wine and ale. 

Or perhaps that was just her traveling companion, she sniffed. 

The man’s habits were well known to the servants of the Red Keep, with the Queen shuffling their positions nearly every day to ensure the Prince would not look upon them more than once a sennight. 

After the sheer amount of pawing and groping they were subjected to, The Queen refused to let any female servant into his chambers. 

The alleys grew lighter and chatter filled the streets, wooden spoons clinking against wooden bowls as the inhabitants picked up their bowls of brown.

Reyna’s stomach churned. 

The smell was bad enough. Or perhaps she’d become spoiled in the Red Keep, where the scent of the kitchen was always a mixture of the sage and rosemary used in Mariel’s dishes. 

The man on her shoulder did not smell like sage and rosemary, nor a bowl of brown. 

He reeked of something much worse.

She wondered how long he’d been indulging himself before he’d noticed her. 

Whether he’d simply stumbled out of a whorehouse at the right time, or deliberately went looking for her. 

She shook the thought from her head. 

Reyna stopped before a wooden door underneath an image of a spool and thread and knocked. 

A girl with dark eyes and hair opened the door, a disapproving look on her face. “Seven hells, Reyna,” Her narrow eyes widened at the figure hanging from her shoulders. Their gazes met once more. 

“What trouble have you gotten into this time?”

The girl before her was shorter and thinner than Reyna, but her coloring was northern. Except for her eyes, which were the dark brown of a Dornishwoman who’d found herself wandering in lands she shouldn’t have. 

Ivy of White Harbor was not actually of White Harbor, but it was where her father served as a steward before marrying her mother and starting an inn at the crossroads.

Reyna’s lips twitched upward, “Pleasure to see you too,” She cut through the pleasantries, peeking through the open door to see Lacey sitting at a table with a cup of tea in her hands.

Something dark clawed at her stomach.

“I see nobody decided to tell me about the reunion,” Reyna spoke sharply. She crossed over the threshold, inviting herself in as the prince’s feet dragged behind her.

“How were we supposed to contact you?” Lacey butted in, standing up from her seat. She was dressed in all the splendor a whore received, with fine silks and jewelry draped across her thicker figure, “Walk up to the Red Keep and knock?”

Reyna cocked her head and stared.

The Reach girl had always been more of a friend of convenience than anything, but she’d foolishly hoped their years in the capital together had changed things.

Clearly they hadn’t.

Ivy crossed her arms over her tunic, the blue color complementing her dark trousers “It’s nice to see you though, even if it’s…” She stared at the body slumped against Reyna’s shoulders, the Prince’s pale hair poking through his hooded cloak, “Why exactly are you here?”

Reyna threw Prince Aegon’s body to the ground.

Both girl’s eyes widened in shock. 

Lacey pinched her brow like a woman of forty instead of a girl of eight and ten.

“Mother above, when I said you needed to set your sights higher, I didn’t mean fucking the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The blatant accusation smoldered within her, stoking a fire she’d long forgotten about. 

Some part of her wondered if Lacey was one of the whores the prince had called to his bed the night before. 

The thought made her head spin.

“It’s King now, and I didn’t–”

“King?! Are you mad–”

“Oh gods,” Ivy’s eyes looked ready to fall out of her skull, staring at the drunken noble on her floor and turning back to Reyna open-mouthed. Her head kept moving back and forth and back and forth until it landed on Reyna again, “You’re with child aren’t you?”

She barely had time to form a rebuttal.

“Reyna, I cannot be an accomplice to treason, you know I’m not built for it–”

“If she is with child it will be the luckiest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms,” Lacey shot out faster than a whip, “The mistress of the King–”

“Seven hells, I’m not pregnant!”

Her shout silenced both girls and caused the prince to groan in response.

“And do you truly think I would keep it if it were his?” 

Both women traded shameful looks before turning back to their friend. 

The lump in her throat grew larger, knotting itself into something unable to be swallowed or undone. 

She gulped in a breath.

“I have…however, gotten myself into a bit of a…situation.”

Lacey and Ivy leaned in expectantly.

Reyna swallowed and confessed what she knew.

“Dead?” Lacey’s eyes grew wide, mouth dropping open.

Ivy began to pour herself a cup of ale and collapsed into a chair, “Oh gods, we’re fucked.”

She plopped down across from the northerner, elbow resting on the table with her head in her hand. 

“I thought he would live forever.” Lacey paced the wooden floors, pink silks dragging themselves behind her. 

Reyna stared up at the blonde with an incredulous look, “He was half a corpse Lacey, it’s a miracle he didn’t die sooner.”

“He did always look ready to keel over at any moment,” Ivy admitted.

King Viserys had his good days, but they were rare to be found after the Princess’s departure to Dragonstone. 

She’d taken the last of the dragonfire with her, people would say, leaving the King an ashen shadow in her wake.

The moments Reyna would walk in and gaze upon his rotting flesh and peeling fingers were the moments she understood what they were talking about.

When King Viserys wore his mask, the castle was happier for it. 

“Do you think it was the Queen?” Lacey asked, eyes wide with intrigue.

It was no secret there was no love lost between Queen Alicent and her husband, but she didn’t think the woman was capable of murder. 

She recalled the affection of which she spoke of the Princess, the careful way she tucked her husband to bed and cleansed his wounds.

If she truly wished to kill the King, she would not have put that much effort into ensuring his survival.

A strict and spiteful missus she may be, but a murderer she was not.

“I don’t think so,” Reyna interjected, “Besides, she had no reason to kill him. Without him, she’s no longer the Queen.”

Lacey sighed and stared at the hooded man beneath her feet, “And now we’re left with a drunk for a King.”

It was an open secret Otto Hightower had no plans to crown Rhaenyra queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And truth be told, no one really minded.

The Princess had rarely paid attention to them, and everyone agreed the city was better off without Prince Daemon at the helm of the Gold Cloaks. 

If the cost meant having a whoremonger on the throne instead of a lunatic, the people would choose a whoremonger every time. 

Especially when it came to dragons.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Ivy said, the slightest hint of optimism dying as she caught sight of the drunken prince, “Princess Helaena at least is kind, and always takes time out of her day to visit with us, and Queen Alicent–”

“The Queen couldn’t even keep her own stepdaughter in check, let alone her son,” Lacey snapped, the northern girl growing quiet at the sudden change in temperament, “Grow a brain Ivy, or have you forgotten–”

“He doesn’t want to be King,” Reyna’s jaw snapped into place, tone even and glaring daggers at Lacey as her words pierced the air. 

The implication hung between them all and realization dawned on both girl’s faces. 

Reyna inhaled sharply, “He asked me to help him escape to Essos.”

The exhale was quick, hissing through gritted teeth. 

“Now help me hide him before the Kingsguard come looking.”

The words rendered her friends speechless.

The three girls all turned to look at the sleeping Targaryen on the freshly sweeped floors of the shop.

Reyna stood up, hand gripping tightly to the edge of the chair, “Lacey…”

The golden haired girl turned to her, worry creasing her delicate features. Reyna had always thought it rather ironic the unwanted daughter of a Septa had inherited a beauty to tempt men into sin.

“You know the best places to hide in the city, surely you must have an idea of where he can sleep this off.”

Lacey let out a sigh as her gaze flickered from Reyna, to Ivy, to the Prince now decorating the floor.

She chewed on her lip, scraping away the skin while her brow furrowed in thought. 

“Promise me you’ll leave us out of it.”

The words cut through Reyna like a knife, splitting her chest in two.

Lacey’s bright blue eyes churned the color of a storm, “Whatever the prince promised you….Ivy and I want no part of it.”

The knot in her stomach churned, weighing her down.

Reyna forced herself to nod. 

"I promise."

The blonde sighed and gestured for them to follow her.

The girls were quick and within minutes, Reyna had changed out of her smelly dresses and into something much more suitable for the task they were about to undertake.

Reyna and Ivy grabbed each end of the Prince, covering him in blankets to make him appear sickly. The fact that he was already passed out and pale from drunkenness helped quite a bit.

Lacey returned after stepping next door to speak with her Madame, explaining that her services would be unavailable for the day.

The woman in charge was apparently a miserable woman from Yi-Ti, who demanded an extra hour of Lacey’s time when she returned.

“Lady Misery, we call her,” the blonde whore exclaimed with a frown as she led them through the back alleys of Flea Bottom up toward the Grand Sept, “All pent up because her Lord tossed her away for some bitch from another house.”

It was always the high lords who tossed them away, Reyna mused, staring down at the man in her arms. It did no good to play their games, for they would be stripped of everything soon enough.

Whether title, land, or life, it would all be taken from them eventually.

It always was when they played their game of thrones.

Reyna stared up at the skies and sent a prayer to whatever gods were listening.

She wasn’t sure how long the trip up to the Grand Sept took, but she did know that the sun was beginning to rise high in the sky by the time she finished.

Sweat dripped down her back, and Reyna reminded herself to wash her clothes when she returned so they would last.

And no more trips to the sewer unless absolutely necessary , Ivy had chided after handing her several pieces deemed “too gaudy” for a noble to wear.

The skirt fell in faded colors resembling a sunset, with a yellow embroidered bodice to accompany it. It landed just above her ankles, giving her plenty of room to maneuver.

Reyna finally felt like herself again, instead of stuck in clothes that she was forced to wear every day as a handmaiden.

The girls grabbed a quick cup of ale at one of the many taverns near the Sept before swearing each other to secrecy and going their separate ways so as not to draw undue attention to themselves.

Ivy slipped through the cracks like she always did, unnoticed, while Lacey drew attention wherever she went, keeping the men’s eyes off the other two.

Reyna hummed on her way down the Street of Sisters, busying herself with faux smiles and pleasant greetings as the merchants passed by.

Some knew her and stopped for a brief conversation, while others knew of her and did little else but smile.

A flash of gold here and there unsettled her stomach, but she simply waited out the men passing by before continuing on her way.

She’d hardly taken a step onto the Street of Silk when she stopped in her tracks.

A pair of men were staring at her, trading whispers.

They wore the same clothes as the smallfolk, and perhaps they would have blended in better if not for the single black eyepatch over his right eye. The man beside him carried himself the way Reyna did, hunched and small and trying to blend in as much as he could.

She recognized the man as one of the only other people of Dornish descent in Westeros.

Ser Criston Cole blended in with the smallfolk around him, his white cloak nowhere to be found.

But the one-eyed man had done little to conceal his appearance beyond placing a black cloak over his leather doublet and bringing the hood around his silver hair.

Prince Aemond carried himself the way most Targaryens did, with an air of self-importance given to him by the gods and their dragons.

It was the first time Reyna had ever gotten a good look at the one-eyed prince outside of his trips on Vhagar.

He was tall and lean, with sharp features and an even sharper eye.

She thought he looked more like a prince and future king than the drunk she’d hidden under the altar of the Grand Sept.

But she was no fool.

She knows why the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a prince of the realm are wandering the streets of Kings Landing in disguise—albeit poor ones, but that was neither here nor there.

Prince Aemond’s eye landed on her.

Her breathing stopped.

He’d recognized her.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her veins as she began to chart a course to freedom.

The prince leans down and whispers something to Ser Criston that Reyna can’t hear.

She bolts.

The girl is quick on her feet and used to running, but the men are taller and larger and push past her obstacles with little help.

Ser Criston follows behind her, keeping pace but falling behind whenever she turns a corner or ducks behind a merchant cart.

It is the Prince that worries her.

He is quick and lithe and she barely makes it to the Muddy Way when she’s pushed against the wall, wrists tight in his grasp.

“Where is he?” Prince Aemond demands, his singular eye scanning her face.

Reyna writhes against his touch, his right hand tougher and more calloused than his left, yet both are still smooth and soft.

There is no cracked skin nor dirty fingernails, and his scent wafts through her nose.

He smells like the sea.

He smells like Dorne.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” She spits in his face, his eye dark as it meets hers.

“My brother,” Aemond continues, pressing her deeper into the stone, “He’s gone missing, and something tells me you know where he’s hiding.”

Reyna grits her teeth and steels her jaw, Aegon’s threat in the back of her mind.

They would cut out your tongue after wresting the truth from you.

She knows they would do far worse if the Queen found out she’d helped hide her son the day he was supposed to take the throne.

She is a servant, a bastard at the whims of men more powerful than her.

She cannot say no to a Prince, even if it means forfeiting her life.

That was what her station dictated.

But what about when those Princes contradicted each other?

“I am just a maid, my prince,” She spoke carefully, her tone even, gaze still focused on the man’s marbled face, “What use would Prince Aegon have for me?”

Aemond’s eye drifted down her frame before meeting her gaze once more, “More use than you might believe.”

Her stomach twisted.

“Besides, what do you gain from protecting him?” the one-eyed prince asked, curiosity dancing in his gaze.

My life. She answers silently, but the prince doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Unless he’s promised you something else entirely. A title, lands…” His lips twisted upward in a smirk, “A place at court.”

It takes all her strength to shove the prince off and into an abandoned stall across the way.

He is stronger than his brother and she does not have the advantage of inebriation when it comes to him.

His words set a fire blazing under her skin, the implication clawing at her insides until it forced its way out by shoving him aside.

Prince Aemond almost looked impressed.

“He has promised me nothing,” Reyna snaps, defiance swelling in her chest, “It is my life I am protecting, not the prince.”

“Then it is your life we will give you.”

Reyna and Aemond turned toward the new voice, Ser Criston striding forward with a sense of purpose.

The man now held himself like a knight, all semblance of disguise gone.

She stared at him, his unmistakable Dornish features sending her stomach curling at the thought of where she’d come from.

She wondered what House his mother came from or if she, like Reyna, was a bastard who’d charmed her way into marrying a steward.

Perhaps his mother had known hers.

“The Queen will not have your head, nor your tongue,” He continued, sending a stern look Aemond’s way. 

The prince looked put out by the knight’s words.

“You will be able to keep your job at the Red Keep as the maid to Princess Helaena, and perhaps even see a rise in pay.”

The lump in Reyna’s throat returned.

How long had Ser Criston had his eye on her?

“Or if you would like,” Ser Criston continued, hands placed behind his back, “We can ship you back to Dorne with several months advance in a purse and a promise to let you be for the rest of your life…however long that may be.”

Shipped back to Dorne.

Back to the waters of the Summer Sea and the rush of the Torrentine.

To the Red Mountains and an endless summer.

Back to Lady Dayne and her disdainful looks around every corner.

But in Dorne she was free from the whims of Kings and Princes. In Dorne, she could catch a ship to the Summer Isles or Lys.

In Dorne she could be free.

“Granted,” Ser Criston sauntered closer, his face dropping into something more serious, “All of this is dependent on if you know where Prince Aegon is. Otherwise, your life truly is forfeit.”

Reyna weighed her options.

It was clear which path she should take.

But she needed insurance.

“I want it in writing,” She demanded, “If I take you to where the Prince is, I want a letter promising no harm will come to me…or my family, including the women who helped me.”

Ser Criston and Prince Aemond shared a look.

“You have my word,” Ser Criston answered, “And that is not something I take lightly.”

Without another word, Reyna escorted them to the Grand Sept.

The light burned.

Aegon hated it.

He turned his cheek to the cool stone floor he’d found himself on, and silently thanked the Dornish girl for finding him someplace comfortable and cold to soothe the boiling temperature that always followed his hangovers.

His relief was cut short when he was wrenched into the light once more. “No!” He screamed, recognizing the harsh grip on his shoulders…and what it meant, “No…no, agh!”

His shouts echoed off the wall of the cool chambers, panicked eyes catching sight of the lit candles and the shadowed statues.

It is a horrific reminder of where he now stands, trapped on Visenya’s Hill under the eye of gods who’d never given him a second thought.

He cursed that Dornish whore for putting him in a place ripe for the capture.

“Where is she?” He yelled, half-drunk and slurring his words until they sounded coherent enough to his own ears.

They never did. 

“Where is she?!”

“The White Worm sold you out,” Ser Erryk speaks with a half-smile, “For a price.”

“And why have you paid it?” The words come naturally to him, seeing double as the twin Kingsguard knights tightened their grasp.

He stares between the four men in his vision, as if he may see a glimpse of his mother in them.

His father never wanted him, never liked him.

It was Rhaenyra he wanted until his miserable, lonely end.

If anyone would understand that, it would be the woman who’d brought him into this miserable existence. The woman who’d never wished for him to be King in the first place. 

The faces of the seven stared at him from all corners. 

Fear burned in his stomach and suddenly he was sixteen again, crawling into bed beside his mother after watching the maester stitch up his brother's broken flesh and his sister call for his head. 

“I want my mother,” He slurs.

Ser Arryk stares at him with a matching half-smile, “Your grandfather, the Hand, will meet you outside the city walls.”

The words send him running.

Feet beat against the stone and marble of the Grand Sept, echoing a familiar refrain he’d held in his head since he’d abandoned the Red Keep.

Not me.

Not me.

Not me.

He hopes his pleas are enough to carry him to Essos.

To Braavos or Pentos where he can waste his life away a sour drunk with no expectations, no responsibility. Just wealth and drink and enough cunt to keep him happy until he dies with his cock in a beautiful woman. The woman he conjures in his mind is Dornish.

He thinks she has purple eyes.

His feet disappear out from under him.

Ser Arryk pins him beneath his muscle, “You flee what other men die seeking, Aegon.”

His head pounds in rhythm with his heart.

It craves Arbor Red and Dornish bitters and a cup of ale to wash it all down with.

His stomach churns as the twins pull him up from the floor, dizziness threatening to overcome him.

The feeling is familiar and he thinks if someone pokes him the alcohol will come spilling back out.

Bells toll, a ringing in his ears as he’s forced into the burning light.

Two hooded figures enter his vision, he thinks he recognizes them as Ser Criston and his brother.

A glint of steel flashes across his vision.

“I do regret this friend.”

He flees once more.

Step by step, one by one, he is faster than Aemond, but Aemond is taller.

That damned Hightower height is once more his downfall as his brother pounces, chin knocking against the stone of the streets as Aegon goes tumbling down.

He hears the singing of steel, Ser Criston and Ser Arryk fighting over who will deliver the lamb to the slaughter, over who will crown the new King and gain the prestige that comes with it.

He shouts, he screams, he begs.

But his brother has wormed his way atop him once more, just as they did when they were children.

Aemond is victorious as Aegon finds himself pinned beneath his brother’s leaner frame.

“I was hoping you disappeared.” Even his own kin cannot keep the disappointment from leaking through.

First his father, then his mother, and now his brother and sister.

And yet still they toiled to put him on a seat that he was never meant to have.

Some part of him hoped the rumors were just rumors.

That his damnable father managed once again to elude the jaws of death.

He remembered one night when Ser Erryk had brought him to his father’s chambers after a late night excursion to the Street of Silk once his betrothal to Helaena had been finalized.

Sixteen and already the drunken fool his grandfather prophesied, Aegon had slumped down in a chair across from his rotting father as he yelled at him and demanded he get his life together, the way a man of his station was expected to.

You are a prince of the realm for seven’s sake!

I am not your heir father, what does it matter what I do?

You are a Targaryen, boy, and I will not have you sully our house with brothels and drink. Your tastes lie far from duty, but it is high time you served the realm, for both gods and men.

The gods gave me a sister to wed, He’d spoken wryly, anger still rumbling in his stomach, and I will take her to wife as every good lord does.

Aegon…His mother had stepped in, something akin to grief in her face. It was not the first time he’d disappointed her, and it would not be the last. Your father–

My father simply wishes I’d never been born.

Watch your tongue boy or I will have it cut out.

And you will be without heir until my sister pops out a new child to replace her bastard sons.

He’d earned a slap across the face and a ringing in his ears.

If by some miracle or design, Rhaenyra and her children do go missing, then I will simply deny you the crown and outlive you all. You will never seat the iron throne, boy, I promise you that.

“Is our father truly dead?” was the only thing to leave Aegon’s mouth.

Aemond rolled his eye, “Yes and they’re going to make you king.”

He could hear the resentment in his brother’s voice.

The words that had gone unspoken between them since his wedding to Helaena.

It should be me.

The son who reads. The son who fights. The son who cares.

Claimant of the largest dragon in the world.

It should be me on the throne and you in the pits of Flea Bottom.

Aegon spat in his brother’s face.

It gave him an opening but it didn’t last for long.

“No!” His scream was guttural, another plea to the gods who abandoned him the minute he was born, “Let me go!” Aemond’s arms wrapped around his neck. Aegon wondered if he was going to kill him.

“I have no wish to rule!”

It was the first time he’d vocalized the thought. A weight lifted from his chest.

“No taste for duty!” He echoed his father’s words, “I’m not suited!”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Aemond grumbled, grasp tightening until Aegon felt the wind leave his stomach.

His brother’s words sparked the last of the dragonfire in his veins.

It was his last plea.

His last chance.

He breaks from his brother’s grasp enough to turn around and grip his face, fingernails digging into the skin with a desperation he didn’t know he possessed.

He almost thinks he spies a glimpse of ebony hair out of the corner of his eye.

“You let me go,” He begs, voice cracking, “I will take Sunfyre and fly away, never to be found.”

Aemond stares at him blankly.

He almost thinks he’s considering it.

Brother…he begs silently, please.

Let me go.

He can see the wheels in Aemond’s mind turn, the idea of him ruling the throne simmering underneath his skin.

King Aemond Targaryen, first of his name.

Aegon imagines his brother on the iron throne while he rots away in Pentos. It is almost enough to provide him relief.

Blood pounds in his temples, his brother’s grip weakening slightly.

A hand grips his neck, foreign and familiar at the same time. 

The smug voice of Ser Criston Cole pierces his thoughts.

“The Queen awaits.”

It would be months before Aegon forgave his brother for his hesitation. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE:
A CROWN FOR A KING

Unease hung in the air as the coronation bells rang out. 

The morning of a King’s coronation was typically a cause of celebration, but this was no ordinary coronation. 

Instead three girls were sitting in the shop of a seamstress waiting for a blow they weren’t sure would come. 

Dark circles stained the undereyes of Reyna, Lacey, and Ivy, each burdened from a lack of sleep. 

Most of the night had been spent waiting with bated breath for the Gold Cloaks or Kingsguard to knock on their door and take their heads. 

Ser Criston seemed to have kept his word. For the most part.

The manse beside the shop was still smoldering. 

“They burned us out,” Lacey had spat as she’d crawled through the window, soot and ash decorating her porcelain skin. “Lady Misery was nowhere to be found.”

And she wouldn’t be, Reyna mused, taking another gulp of ale.

If the White Worm knew what was good for her, she would have fled the city long before they smoked her and her spiders out. 

And now Lacey was under the thumb of a new Madame.

A woman from the Westerlands named Malina, and while she was Westerosi, it didn’t make her any less miserable. 

As for Ivy, she was half-asleep on three new dresses she’d made overnight. A nobleman had promised her more than a week’s wages of gold dragons if she managed to deliver three new garments for his wife and two daughters for the coronation. 

In dire need for money, she’d agreed.

Promised to a blacksmith, Ivy needed to save as much as she could if she wished to be married before winter. So she’d slaved the night away, Reyna and Lacey stepping into help whenever they could. 

All of them knew how to work with a needle on some level, but their stitches weren’t as neat as Ivy’s. Several kirtles had to be sewn together before the bells of the church chimed, all delivered to the noble house before the wheelhouse left the Red Keep. 

It wouldn’t do to look like a commoner the day the King was crowned. 

Reyna narrowed her eyes at the brocade and chiffon they were stitching together, knowing the noble family would wear it once and then it would rot in a chest never to be worn again. She wondered what it would take for her to finally be able to wear such finery without dirt or blood or sewage staining it. 

Even Lacey was not exempt from the blemishes of Flea Bottom, her silks needing to be washed near daily or risk stinking of the seed of men.

The apartment was awash in the orange of the sunrise when they finished the kirtles. Thankfully, all laborers were given a day of rest when the realm welcomed a new king.
“Coronation day is a day of rest,” Ivy parroted the Seven Pointed Star, her words muffled by the fabric, “And gods do I need it.”

“We all do,” Lacey poured herself a drink and downed it just as fast, whistling low outside the window. 

A boy with pale silver hair peeked his head through the window, where he’d been patiently waiting for the package Ivy had hired him to deliver. 

The girls wrapped up the dresses and paid him with a silver stag and off he ran. 

When he returned, his pockets were several coins heavier and Ivy gave him three gold dragons to spend on himself. 

“You’re too nice,” Lacey snorted, shaking her head as she slipped out of her pink silks into a pale green cotton dress, the color complementing the golden locks threaded with red. The garment hugged her thicker figure tightly, the slope of the neckline showing the barest hint of her chest.

It was a far cry from what she typically wore, but Reyna thought it fit her better. 

It was the style of the Reach, and Lacey looked more herself in plain cotton and woolspun skirts than the silks she’d been forced to drape herself with. 

Ivy sighed and began to tie her hair into a braid, “He deserves something nice,” She walked over to her shop, turning the sign from open to close to prevent any more last minute orders, “Besides, what else is he supposed to do today? I won’t have any more orders for at least a week.”

Lacey rolled her eyes, “He’s a child, he’ll find something to do.”
“Exactly,” Ivy smiled, “He’s a child.”

“And we all know how we feel about children,” Reyna chimed in, sharing a knowing look with Lacey as she began to comb out the knots in her hair.

Ivy inhaled sharply and began to wrap herself in her tunic, “Just because you two wish to remain miserable, lonely spinsters for the rest of your lives, doesn’t mean I do.” She studied her feet, pink dusting her cheeks, “I want a family, a large one.”

“And you shall have it,” Reyna engulfed her friend’s hands in her own, a slow burning erupting in her chest, “I predict we will soon see a house filled with children, each more talented and beautiful than the last.”

“Let us hope they look like their mother then,” Lacey chimed in, chuckles echoing through the kitchen, “As pleasant as your betrothed is…I’m sorry to say he’s not very easy on the eyes.”

Ivy’s shoulders shook, but she said nothing to dispute the girl’s point. 

The red tinge of her cheeks and the spread of her lips betraying her happiness to the girls. Neither of them had ever seen their friend so in love. 

“Then let us hope the day goes by quickly,” Reyna smiled, “So we can finally get to planning the merry occasion.”

“The High Septon never does anything quickly,” Lacey rolled her eyes, “Hopefully the Hand provided him suitable compensation for a quick coronation.”

Reyna’s stomach churned and twisted, mind drifting to the gold lining her pockets and the promise Queen Alicent had given her once she’d returned to the castle.

“The crown thanks you for your service, Reyna. I will see to it personally.” The Queen’s auburn hair encircled her like a halo, the sun illuminating the fine beadwork and embroidery of her gown. Reyna’s eyes dipped to the gold glint of the seven pointed star. “Now go, be with your family on this blessed day.”

She couldn’t very well tell the Queen her family was dead.

At least those who mattered were.

And those who didn’t had declared her dead long ago.

She was nothing to anybody anymore, and even the ravens her father and brother sent her were not enough to detract from the constant ache in her chest.

Her hand flew to the last name day present she’d received. A silver pendant her father had commissioned from the finest jewelers in Myr.

Carved out of pure amethyst, a lone star sat between her breasts, as a reminder of where she came from.

It was a reminder she wore often, if only to remember the nights spent before the war of the Stepstones broke out and her father was called back to Dorne out of duty rather than love.

Of glass merchants and performances in a village she could no longer recall.

Whatever memories she held were of her mother, a golden skinned, dark-haired woman with a voice like honeywine and a smile as bright as the sun.

The only home she remembered was Starfall, a tall whitestone castle with rushing water and lavender banners flying high with a sword and a falling star. 

Some days, she thought the necklace resembled Dawn.

Silence stood between the three girls, each contemplating the hand before them and wondering if they were truly better off with a drunk on the throne instead of a woman.

It was certainly better than Daemon, she thought.

“I suppose we better get going,” Reyna spoke solemnly, all three girls refusing to meet each other’s gaze. “Earlier means better seats.”

Lacey chuckled. A rueful, sour thing that turned the air bitter.

She didn’t need to say what they were all thinking.

If the rumors were true and King Viserys named Aegon heir with his last breath, he’d ensured his legacy would be one of violence, not peace.

Twenty years he’d named Rhaenyra heir, and suddenly with his last breath he’d revoked it. 

He'd left the smallfolk a cunt for a king, and felt no remorse for it.

There’d been no sightings of dragons though, and Reyna supposed she should thank the gods for that at least.

If Princess Rhaenyra had been made aware, she either didn’t care or was rallying her forces.

Reyna hoped it was the former, if only to grant the people of King’s Landing some much needed peace.

“Let’s be on our way then.”

Ivy’s words cut through the tension and suddenly the three of them were on their feet, ready for the day to be over. 

They all smelled of sweat and ash and smoke with only Lacey having changed out of her clothes from the previous day. 

Ivy’s tunic and trousers were nearly worn through, the commission providing little time for her to patch them up before the coronation. 

And while Reyna was wearing the newest clothes out of all of them, she still felt naked in some ways. The bodice over her chemise was a pale imitation of armor, embroidered with roses and hyacinths and violets while the skirt swished just above her ankles. 

Clothes cast off by nobles for being too gaudy, too vulgar. A constant reminder of her status wherever she went.

They were no ladies of the court. 

So why did it feel like a sword was hanging over their heads, waiting to crush them all?

High lords do not care for the smallfolk, little star , a voice rang in her head, So long as they move their cyvasse pieces, we are simply pawns in their game. Do not do yourself the disservice of imagining you will be anything more.

Smoke lingered in her lungs as she stepped out into Flea Bottom.

The crowds were already beginning to gather toward the Dragonpit.

The three girls marched down the Street of Sisters, using their knowledge of alleys and shadows and dark corners to place them toward the front of the crowds. Once they reached Rhaenys’ hill, however, they were forced to remain in place.

Gold Cloaks were stationed at every alley, merchants torn from their carts and pushed into the crowds, the threat of their swords enough to deter rebellion.

Bodies pressed against her, bumping and knocking into one another with little apology, just grunts and groans of confusion as the crowds continued toward the Dragonpit.

“Why won’t they let us pass?” Ivy whispered in her ear. “Surely they realize some of us know the city better than them right?”

Reyna bit down on her lip, “It’s to keep us in one place,” She uttered, the lump in her throat growing bigger, “To ensure none of us reveal the coronation before they command it.”

“He’s a Targaryen,” Ivy spoke candidly, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice, “The whole realm must know of it by now.”

Reyna said nothing.

She’d heard of plots in the Red Keep, mentions of usurping the throne, all she put out of her mind at the time because the King was adamant.

Princess Rhaenyra would succeed him.

There was no disputing that. Until he’d chosen on his deathbed to upend that claim. 

And Reyna did not have the patience to listen to men complain about centuries of tradition being passed over. What did succession matter when she was starving?

When her friend was forced to work herself for the bone?

When the three of them were forced to sell themselves to the upper classes just to see the next morning?

Who cared about the King?

Who cared about the Queen?

So long as dragons were at bay and summer was long, there was no need to pay any attention to rumors of usurping or plots made in secret.

But Reyna wasn’t sure how long dragons would be kept away, and winter is coming.

The chill in the air as she stepped into the Dragonpit all but confirmed it.

She grasped at her necklace.

“People of King’s Landing!” Otto Hightower’s voice echoed off the dome of the structure, surveying the crowds with a serious expression, “Today….is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful…is dead.”

The crowd erupted into gasps and murmurs. 

The three girls looked at each other, not an ounce of surprise on their faces. 

They were the only ones other than the royal family to know the truth of this farce.
“But it is also the most joyous of days!” Otto’s baritone rumbled in her chest, his frown turning upward into a victorious smirk, “For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish,” He paused, letting the audience soak in his words, “That his firstborn son, Aegon…should succeed him.”

The murmurs stopped for a brief moment, silence hanging over the crowd. 

It was only when a man she recognized from the Street of Steel clapped his hands together it was finally broken. 

The crowd burst into rapturous applause, shaking the very ground beneath her feet. 

Reyna furrowed her brow. 

She hadn’t thought the smallfolk cared one way or another for Aegon. 

But now here she was. 

People on all sides cheering on the prince, from the depths of the Flea Bottom the top of Visenya’s Hill. 

Lacey and Ivy were agape with equal confusion. 

“Is this–”

A yell broke through the noise and people scrambled behind her. 

Reyna found herself shoved forward, pressing against bodies directly in front of her. They continued to push until she slipped through the cracks and ended up near the front.  

Lacey managed to stay somewhat near their original position, but Ivy was pushed further back. 

Reyna’s first thought was that someone had attempted to stop the coronation, but the flash of the gold cloaks cleared her head. 

They marched down the aisle they’d made, forcing people to the sides as their Captain bellowed out orders with each movement. 

A head of silver dressed in green appeared out of the shadows. 

Ser Otto’s voice grew muffled in her ears as Reyna stared at the man before her, looking less like a drunk and more like a lamb headed to a butcher’s block.

The swords of the City Watch sliced the air behind him, barely missing the prince’s head as he strode through the mob, eyes forever gazing above him.

The Queen stood unflinching, hands crossed and dressed in her favored greens, the glint of the seven-pointed star catching in the sun. 

Tear tracks stained her son’s porcelain face, and Reyna’s chest clenched. 

It is a blessed day. 

He was headed to his own death. 

And it seemed like he was the only one who knew it. 

He paused at the bottom of the steps and turned to meet her gaze. 

Something unknown and foreign pressed against her eyes, threatening to drop.

Aegon’s eyes shone and his throat bobbed. 

She’d never felt pity for someone so high above her until now. 

As a reward for your boldness. 

The gold hung heavy in her skirts. 

He turned away.

It felt like a lifetime before he finally kneeled before Septon Eustace.

“May the Warrior give him courage.”

Reyna’s breath hitched.

“May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield.”

Her throat began to close up. 

“May the Father defend him in his need.”

She needed to leave. Now. 

“May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.”

Reyna pushed her way through the tides of people, unshed tears burning her eyes as the blood rushed to her head, heart throbbing in her chest as she began to push her way back toward the entrance. 

Ser Criston’s voice echoed in her skull, but she was too far to hear it. 

“Let the Seven bear witness!” 

She stops, inches away from the door, as if something compels her to turn around and stay for one last moment. Even as her stomach crawled with a begging to be let go. 

Sweat dripped down her back. 

“Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne!”

The crowd breaks into murmurs once more, with whispers of dragonfire and death around every corner. 

She turns as they announce his name.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon.”

The drums pound in victory. 

“Second of his name,”

BOOM!

“King of the Andals and the First Men,”

She thinks it sounds like thunder. 

“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Silence falls over the crowd once more. 

The wind blows through an open window. 

The bells ring out. 

No one is willing to make the first move.

Ser Criston cuts through the silence. 

“Aegon the King!”

His gaze meets hers once more. 

Lilac meets violet, the yawning gap between them seemingly growing bigger with each chime of the bells. 

His face is lined with the desperate want for approval. 

Her stomach churns, pain bursting across her chest as she watches the man who would be king stare directly at her, wondering if she will be the first or last to kneel. 

She lowers herself into a deep bow, arms spread wide. 

It is a mockery of every noble woman who came before her. 

His face shifts and the crowd erupts into applause. 

She hears them cheering his name almost as loudly as they cheered for Viserys. 

It is only when she turns to leave once more she is struck with a memory of the night before the Prince escaped. 

Helaena had been restless, refusing to dress for bed as she stayed sitting on the seat beside her window, staring out at the Dragonpit as if she expected it to burn. 

The dragon has crushed the butterfly and swallowed the stars.

Reyna had shrugged it off as part of the Queen’s unusual behavior. Placating her by placing Jaehaerys and Jaehaera’s cribs near the end of her bed. 

“Dragons are powerful things, my princess,” Reyna had said, pulling the covers back and tucking the children away, “But even their maws are not big enough to swallow the sky.”

Helaena smiles at her, a queer thing that makes Reyna feel as though the Princess is not truly looking at her, but through her. 

“My brothers would say otherwise.”

“Your brothers ride the largest dragons in the world, my princess.”

“And yet still they do not listen. Not like you do.”

The pale girl had taken Reyna’s hands in her own then, clasping them tightly until fingernails broke skin. The Princess leaned in, suddenly serious. 

“You hear the rats in the tunnels, the dogs in the kennels, and the spiders in the garden. The dragons heed your words where none else would.”

Her lavender gaze is intense, sending a chill down Reyna’s spine. 

She pulls Reyna in close, breath hissing against her ear. 

There is a beast beneath the boards. 

The world erupts.

Dust and debris obscures her vision. 

She tastes iron on her tongue and dirt on her lip. 

When the ringing in her ear subsides, she can hear it clearer than anything else she’d ever heard before. 

Her chest thrums, blood rushing through her veins. 

But it is there, as clear as the bells of the Grand Sept. 

A dragon’s roar shakes the stone beneath her. 

Shadowed wings block her vision of the dais, the animal’s footsteps thundering through the halls of her cage, each accompanied by a larger and more ferocious shriek than before. 

Everybody flees. 

Reyna’s legs shake as she pulls herself up off the ground so as not to get trampled, brick and debris flying as the dragon’s tail sweeps through the common folk like a hammer to a nail. 

Her eyes fly across the heads of the crowd, searching for those she’d been separated from. 

Ivy…

Lacey…

Her friends were closer to the front, closer to the dragon. 

She pushes against the grain, calling out their names as she rushes around the edges of the pit, screams and shrieks echoing in her head. 

People throw themselves over the higher balconies or attempt to break the rough iron fencing placed around the edge to keep the dragons out. 

It is not enough. 

The dragon tramples them all, and those it doesn’t trample each other as they begin to run for the doors. 

“Open the doors!” Someone shouts. 

Reyna does not recognize the voice amidst the chaos. Her throat closes up as she scans the bodies, searching for a glimpse of pale green and golden hair, or the flash of a blue tunic and a long braid. She sees naught but red when the dust clears. 

Scales the size of her hand armored the beast in a scarlet brighter than any dye she’d ever seen and the shadowed wings became war banners as the sun passed through the leathery skin, bathing the royal family in crimson. 

Spikes dotted the base of her neck, growing larger and thicker until they almost resembled tusks, a natural deterrent from anyone except the one who would claim her. 

Reyna’s eyes sting as she stares up at Meleys the Red Queen and her rider, a Targaryen princess who should’ve sat the throne instead of her cousin. 

Princess Rhaenys doesn’t even spare her a second glance. 

“Open the doors!”

She cannot wrench her gaze from the beast above her. 

Its steps thunder in her chest as it moves closer to the dais, Reyna mere inches away from it.

It does not turn to look at her though. 

Instead, its slitted eyes remain focused on the would-be usurpers, chittering like a lion about to devour its prey. 

The royal family stands above her to her right, the Queen stepping in front of Aegon while Prince Aemond and Ser Criston ready themselves for battle against the dragon. 

The Princess Helaena simply stares.

Reyna wondered if this would be the last thing any of them ever saw. 

She refuses to look away. 

Meleys bellows out a shriek that bursts her eardrums and echoes in the back of her mind, warm spit hissing against her skin as she stares down the maw of the she-dragon, waiting for it to devour her whole. 

Fly, Meleys, she hears Rhaenys whisper in Valyrian, and the two turn on their heel and flee. 

Reyna finds herself staring after them in horror and awe, their shadows disappearing on the horizon. 

The world is silent once more. 

“Reyna,” A voice chokes, and she turns to see who it belongs to. 

Lacey sits on her knees, the pale green of her dress torn to shreds, her face covered in grime and dust and debris. Reyna’s heart drops into her stomach when she sees the torn piece of cotton in her hand. 

Her eyes drop to the ground, blood staining the stone red. 

A cornflower blue peeks out from beneath the rubble. 

No.

She rushes to her friend’s side, the word dripping from her mouth like poison from a blade. 

The two clear the rubble as best they can, but find their strength little and their exhaustion too much. 

Come on. She pleads, a silent prayer to the gods above, straining to remove the bricks and stone which have wrought death upon King’s Landing.

“Come on!” She yells, nails cracking as she digs deeper, blood staining her knuckles and scraping her fingers until they are raw. 

She thinks she hears her name being called. 

But she cannot stop. 

She will not stop. 

“Reyna!” 

It is the voice of her Queen. 

Alicent stands there in all her finery, eyes dotted with unshed tears as her two sons stand behind her, both unable to take their eyes off the scene before them. 

Reyna’s eyes burn.

She locks gazes with the newly crowned King, jaw set as her throat thickens. 

It is enough to send Aemond and Aegon marching forward, Lacey watching with a quiet curiosity hidden behind her tears. 

The two Targaryens wrench the bricks free, revealing a head of black hair. 

No. 

No, please. 

She crawls forward, bare knees scraping themselves against the harsh stone. The pain feels like a dull ache compared to what writhes in her chest. 

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the figure and a sob leaves her lips as she turns it over. 

Ivy’s blank face stares up at her in horror. 

“No–” Lacey cracks beside her, collapsing on Reyna’s shoulder.

Ivy must have been caught in the onslaught, her right arm missing from her shoulder, no doubt crushed underfoot. 

It is– was her sewing arm, she thinks. 

Blood oozes out of the wound onto the stone floor and where once there were rosy cheeks and tanned skin, there is a pallor as ghostly as the full moon. 

Dried blood lingers near her temple, where she was no doubt knocked unconscious after Meleys erupted from the earth. 

The fear remains etched on her face. 

Reyna stares at the remains of her friend, trying to recall the last thing she ever said to her. 

She couldn’t even remember. 

The lump in her throat breaks, eyes squeezing shut as hot water burns her cheeks. 

It turns her hot, clutching Ivy’s body to her chest as Lacey sobs beside her, the scene playing over and over in her mind once more. 

The dragons had done this. 

The Princess who’d never even spared her a glance. 

Who held no care for the people of Westeros but only for the games they played. 

It was them who’d taken her mother from her.

It was them who’d taken her friend from her. 

She would not let them take anything else. 

Reyna’s breathing is heavy as she stares over the trail of bodies Rhaenys left in her wake. 

A scream shreds her lungs.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR:

The wind chilled her to the bone. 

The only warmth felt from the flames of the candles surrounding the makeshift altar they'd created.

They hadn’t had time to dig enough graves for all who’d died in the Dragonpit, so they’d simply gathered the bodies and placed them to be wheeled to the Grand Sept.

They piled the bodies on top of each other, Ivy’s one of the last to be placed.

It had been Lacey and Reyna who’d made the effort, her blacksmith love also having perished in the onslaught.

At least they’d died together, she thought, a bitter taste on the edge of her tongue.

On one side of Ivy lay a graying woman who’d seen more than enough death and war to last a lifetime.

Reyna recognized her from the Street of Seeds, a kindly woman who’d always managed to sneak Reyna a few extra morsels from her shop when she stopped by on her errands.

She thought her name may have been Alys.

The last body to be placed was a girl no older than seven, thin blonde hair matted with dried blood. Her eyes closed as if in an endless sleep that she would soon wake up from.

She’d lost count of the bodies piled beneath them, although she caught a glimpse of the pale hair of the blacksmith who’d eagerly asked for Ivy’s hand and slipped a metal band around her finger with the promise of a true ring once they were wed.

Reyna had never met him.

But she knew his father was a well-known smith who’d treated Ivy as his own daughter.

He stood across from her, wife in arm, their little daughter buried in his leathers.

His name was Hugh.

His son’s had been also.

Wooden crates and leftover straw were packed between the couple in a makeshift pyre, forever separated in life and reunited in death.

A poor altar for their souls but one nonetheless.

A dark-skinned man stepped forward, dressed in the robes of the begging brothers of the faith, his bowl rattling around his neck.

His name was Lazarus, a man of the faith who’d grown a following for his penchant for giving his profit back to the people, blessing them as they suffered.

“It is not easy to say goodbye to those we love,” He began, arms folded across his plain wool robes, “Especially when they have been taken from us so cruelly and unjustly.” Lazarus paused as he passed the young girl, tears shining behind his eyes, “This morning the Mother smiled upon her children, ushering them into a new era. An era of peace. Tonight, they find it in the Father’s great hall.”

Lacey sniffed beside her, eyes glassy.

Reyna wrapped her arm around her friend.

They were all they had now.

“I wish we could spend a day to properly mourn for each and every lost to the dragons,” Brother Lazarus shared a rueful smile with the crowd, “But that is impossible.

These men, these women…these children. They are our fathers, our daughters and sons, our mothers and wives. They are our friends. And their lives were snuffed out like a candle in the dead of winter.”

Reyna simply stared ahead, barely registering the words of the begging brother. Her thoughts were fuzzy and she couldn’t tear her gaze from the ashen body of Ivy of White Harbor.

“But rest assured, tonight they are feasting. Eating from a table that never ends, drinking from a cup that always fills. Whatever comfort you can salvage from this day, know that their lives are greater now than they ever were here.”

How was she meant to get word to Ivy’s mother? Her father?

How was she meant to tell them their daughter had died long before she was supposed to?

Our Ivy’s smart as a whip and twice at pretty , Reyna remembered Ser Alyn of White Harbor telling her with a wink. Got her mother’s beauty, brains and a talent with a needle to match.

She’s going to make something of herself, Myanna of Plankytown had spoken, serving Reyna up a plate of boiled chicken with a spice often missing from Westerosi food.

Mark my words, one day our little girl will be known as the best in Westeros. Even the Queen will be wearing her dresses.

Mother, Ivy had chided, thirteen and redder than a tomato, The Queen has her own dressmakers.

Aye, and you’ll be one of them, Ivy’s father jumped in. I can see it now, the Queen Alicent holding service for my daughter, naming Ivy of White Harbor as her personal dressmaker.

The girls had giggled then and talked the night away with dreams of what awaited them in King’s Landing. Back when the capital was a place of hope and longing and not a pit of death and despair.

A sob wracked her shoulders, piercing the silence.

It was followed by the murmur of the crowd as she was ripped from the memory and back to the present.

Lacey shoved her arm off to get a better look at what the crowd was mumbling about, brushing the tears from her eyes as she craned her neck.

Her answer came with the sight of a wheelhouse, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard contrasting with the dark night that had descended over the city.

Queen Alicent stepped out first, dressed head to toe in black mourning clothes, the ever present seven pointed star hanging from her neck.

Reyna furrowed her brow, the crowd sharing in her confusion.

The Princess was next, pale skin and silver hair marking her a ghost among men, a dark veil pulled over her gaze. She stared up at the Sept, clinging tightly to the one-eyed prince who’d descended beside her.

Reyna swallowed.

Prince Aemond didn’t look like he’d changed at all. Black leathers matching the mourning clothes of his mother and sister.

The last to exit was the Hand of the King himself, still dressed in the green of his house but much less vibrant, a dark cloak swinging from his shoulders with each step.

It was a path the royal family often traveled on the seventh day of the week, lighting their candles in prayer to the gods.

Ser Criston shut the doors of the wheelhouse and Reyna found herself deflating.

The crowd parted, kneeling as they strode up Visenya’s hill, only two heads of silver hair among them.

Reyna wasn’t sure why she was disappointed.

A dragon’s shriek pierced her ears and gold streaked across the sky.

The crowd ducked, gasps and screams going up until they were free from the shadows of its wings.

The ground shook beneath her feet as the dragon landed in front of the doors of the Sept, its scales shining a molten gold in the red of the candlelight.

The pink beneath its wings glowed a soft magenta and it let out another shriek.

Reyna’s back erupted into chills.

It almost sounded like a mourning call.

Two large horns jutting out from the corner of the dragon’s eyes obscured his rider, but everyone knew who it was.

The King swung down from Sunfyre the Golden’s saddle, the conqueror’s crown still atop his head.

The clothes he wore now were black, a faded gold thread stitching the image of a three headed dragon across the front of his doublet.

His silver hair seemed to glow, the same ghostly color as his sister’s, the candlelight illuminating the circles under his eyes and the cut on his cheek.

Lykyiri, Sunfyre. He uttered in High Valyrian, These people mean you no harm.

The dragon obeyed Aegon as if it were only a dog, sitting back on its hind legs. The seven pointed star hung above the golden beast, framing it in a holy light as the full moon rose behind him.

The King dipped his head at Brother Lazarus, coming to stand beside his mother, brother, and sister in front of the pyre, the doors of the Sept looming high above them.

“Forgive the interruption, Brother,” He spoke solemnly, and Reyna almost believed he was sincere, “Please, do continue.”

Brother Lazarus stared at the silver-haired man in shock, eyes flickering between the King, his sister-wife, and the Queen.

“Of course, Your Grace, although perhaps if you were to say a few words…”

Aegon’s gaze flew to his mother, then to the pyre, then back to his mother.

Reyna’s breath caught itself in her throat when his eyes finally met hers.

“We would be honored,” Queen Alicent stepped forward, taking her daughter’s hand in her own. The princess tensed until Prince Aemond stepped forward with her. The Hand stayed in the shadows.

Aegon tensed as his mother drew near, mouth drawn into a tight line.

“The people are the lifeblood of this kingdom,” Alicent began, a prickling exploding across Reyna’s chest at her words, “It their hands that keep the wheels turning, their breath which keeps us afloat,”

Solemn faces stared out at the woman, a rare bite to her voice the people had not heard before.

“Today we bled…and tonight we mourn.” Alicent choked as she caught sight of the girl on the pyre, “For those whose lives were taken from them too quickly and too hastily before the gods could intervene. For our family…” 

Reyna felt the Queen’s gaze land on her. 

She stared back into deep brown eyes through the flames. 

“For our friends. May the Father above judge them justly. And May the Mother above…offer them mercy.”

Shoes shuffled against the gravel and Helaena stepped forward, her veil pulled back to reveal her ghostly face to the crowd. 

Her eyes scanned the pyre with a furrowed brow and downturned lips, hand coming to rest on Ivy’s forehead.

“May the Stranger guide them home.” She spoke softly, yet her words rippled through the crowd, strangled sobs and low sniffs heard in the silence. 

“May the Stranger guide them home.” Brother Lazarus repeated, the crowd murmured the prayer in unison. 

The begging brother reached for the torch at his side. 

“No.” Prince–King Aegon’s voice cut through like a dagger in the night. Reyna still felt the heat of his gaze upon her. 

She does not think it has left her face. 

The command in his eyes is clear. 

Stand back. 

Brother Lazarus dips his head in respect, and forces the crowd back another several feet. 

“Sunfyre,” The King calls out with a confidence she has never seen from him except when defying his mother and father. 

The dragon lets out a whistle of acknowledgement, and Reyna knows what is coming next. 

Aegon stares at the altar of bodies before him. 

Alicent and Helaena each take a step back. 

Aemond remains. 

Reyna clenches tight to Lacey’s hand, the torn shred of fabric pressed between their palms. 

“Dracarys.”

Golden flames engulfed her vision.

Alicent Hightower does not pretend to know the inner workings of her eldest son's mind.

Since he crawled out of her kicking and screaming, Aegon has always been a troubled child, although some part of her recalls when he was not as sour and grim as he was now.

When his smiles were bright and his eyes were wide. Like hers had once been.

It had been the slow curl of a father’s lip, the upturned nose of a half-sister’s anger, the crushing breath of a grandfather’s sigh.

All this had turned her once sweet boy into the creature that hung in the shadows, drowning himself in Arbor Red.

Blood spurts from her fingertips as her own self-examination slips past her.

She makes a mental note to write to her cousins in the Reach, demanding more gold than red, for she knows Aegon is less likely to lose himself in his cups with the sweeter wines.

She wishes he would cut himself off entirely, but the Maesters believe him to be too far gone.

“To force him into withdrawal at this stage would be paramount to murder, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle said with a frown, “It is better to ease him off it with lighter ales and sweet wine, once he has grown weary of the taste, then we can begin the process.”

Alicent stares at the Maester with a furrowed brow, their faces betraying the thoughts they do not say.

It is a temporary fix.

Both of them know Aegon would sooner die than give up the drink.

She sees it in the tremor of his hand at the small council meeting, spinning the king’s marble to keep busy. It is in the dark circles which line his lilac eyes–so much like Rhaenyra it almost hurts to look at them directly–which flicker between the members of his council as if any one of them could lunge at him and slit his throat.

Alicent would have Ser Criston cut them down before they reached him.

Her body is still trembling from facing down the maw of Meleys, her skin hot from the Red Queen’s breath.

And the way she’d seen Sunfyre’s breath burn that little girl and Reyna’s friend to ashes…

A chill ran down her spine as the doors of the small council chamber closed behind her.

“The first order of business is to begin preparations for Lord Beesbury to be sent back to his house,” Her father spoke from beside the King’s chair, Aegon refusing to look anywhere but the marble within his hands. “His position of course will be filled by Tyland Lannister, who has so graciously offered a generous donation to help aid the war.”

“It was the natural course of action,” Tyland’s words were almost as honeyed as her father’s. “A show of support from the West for their new King.”

Silence met his words.

Alicent inhaled sharply.

“We thank you for your service, my lord,” She responded, lips twisting up into a tight smile. “ I am sure your donation will go a long way in the preparation of Viserys’s funeral—”

“My Queen,” Orwyle looked toward her father before his gaze moved back to her, the silent language of Hightower and Maesters present for all to see,  “I do not believe it wise to bury the dead so quickly.”

Alicent’s stomach dropped.

Her furrowed brow deepened at the Maester’s words. “The customary waiting period is seven days, Grand Maester,” She shot back, voice flat and commanding, “We must begin preparations if the people wish to—”

“The people are mourning their own dead,” her father spoke up, placing his marble in front of him, “To ask them to throw that aside in favor of the King, it is…distasteful.”

Alicent stared in shock, a fuzziness impeding her thoughts.

A murmur of agreement echoed through the chamber, “It is far better to wait, to let the pain of the Dragonpit subside. We will mourn Viserys here, just as they mourn their own there.”

“A private ceremony, Your grace,” Maester Orwyle admitted.

Gods above was she never to be free of this chain? This festering wound that refused to heal?

The last twenty years she’d performed her duty, promised to bury him like the Valyrian Dragonlords of old he loved more than his own children.

Let her bury his rotting corpse and be done with it.

“Where exactly will this private ceremony take place, Grand Maester?”

The council turns to face the King.

It is the first time her son has spoken since the coronation.

He raised his gaze to the older man, expecting an answer.

Orwyle clears his throat and turns to his new King, “The Royal Sept, Your Grace. The Silent Sisters have wrapped and cleansed his body, all that remains is to inter his bones beneath the Iron Throne.”

An Andal funeral for a Targaryen King.

Promise me this, my darling wife, even now his words echoed in her mind, do not let them bury me under that ugly chair they call a throne. Send Vhagar or Dreamfyre to burn me, so that I may yet join my ancestors on Dragonstone. A true Targaryen funeral for a true Targaryen king.

“Viserys wished to be buried on Dragonstone with his father. His wife, his son.” Her voice wavered, edging ever so slightly to madness, “Surely you do not plan to deny him that?”

Her father sighed, “Your Grace, if we were to send Viserys’s ashes to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra might see it as a slight, she may even be tempted to–”

“To what?” Aegon let out a chuckle, a bitter and sour thing that sent Alicent’s stomach curling, “To take her throne? Her birthright that I stole?”

“You did not steal it, Your Grace,” Otto’s tone never wavered, always placating, always the chessmaster placing the pieces on the board, “It is yours by law, and your father wished for you to have it, but the Princess Rhaenyra may not be so understanding–”

“She would have to put you, your sister, and your brothers to the sword, Your Grace” Ser Criston interjected, “Not to mention your heir Jaehaerys and your daughter, Jaehaera.”

Aegon’s gaze darkened at the mention of his children.

It was a strange thing to see him grow attached to a child he’d been given at six and ten, with Helaena only four and ten when she gave birth.

She was younger than Alicent ever was and still she doted on those children as much as the scorpions and spiders that she brought in from the garden.

“If she believes there is even a threat to her claim…” Otto’s words hung in the air.

Alicent stared between her father and son, steel settling in her jaw.

“She cannot know father is dead then,” Aegon finally said, catching up with the rest of the small council.

Alicent buried her hands in her skirts.

Silence met the King’s words.

His head swung from Orwyle to Otto, a rueful smile tugging on his lips.

“A private ceremony it is” Aegon affirmed with a smile, “Let him rot in the Sept under the eyes of the seven. He was more Andal than Targaryen anyway.”

“Aegon…”

“Mother…” His tone was chiding and playful, a mockery of Alicent’s own. She swore she saw something dance behind his eyes.

Alicent knows she will not win.

Her battle with her children is one she must tread lightly on, for the wrong move could have him preaching death instead of mercy.

The small council stares between the King and the now Dowager Queen, wondering which the realm will bow to now.

Ser Otto clears his throat and the meeting presses on.

“The next order of business,” He places a silver stag in the middle of the table, “House Baratheon of Storm’s End. Now that Rhaenys has fled, it is very likely they will declare for Rhaenyra.” He meets Alicent’s gaze with one of cold emerald, “We must ensure that does not happen.”

“Lord Borros has four daughters,” Alicent chimes in, the wheels in her mind already setting the plan they previously discussed in motion, “Aemond will fly and treat with the Storm Lord, offering him a royal wedding in return.”

“It must be under the eyes of the Seven,” Grand Maester Orwyle speaks up, distaste in his mouth. Alicent knows the man is right. Valyrian customs were not as welcomed outside the capital, especially with noble families who did not agree with the Targaryen tradition. “We must show the people we share in their faith.”

The poor man had never forgiven Viserys for marrying Aegon and Helaena in the ways of Old Valyria.

Alicent didn’t blame him.

She’d done it to placate Viserys after her actions on Driftmark, wincing as she watched her little girl cut herself open and drink the blood of her brother before taking him as husband.

It still made her queasy when she thought about it too much.

“And if Lord Borros refuses?”

A contemplative silence meets Ironrod’s words.

Alicent glared at the Master of Laws.

“Aemond is of age and he is a Targaryen prince,” She snaps, indignation simmering underneath her skin, “If having him for a son-in-law will not convince Lord Borros, perhaps staring down the mouth of Vhagar will.”

She did not like to force one hand with dragons, but she was confident a marriage would satiate the old Storm Lord. After all, it was enough to calm Viserys once Rhaenyra had been sworn to Laenor.

She thought she spied a smile on her father’s face.

“What of Dorne?”

It is Aegon who asks and Alicent blinks in surprise.

No one steps in to answer his question.

Ser Criston fidgets with his sword behind him.

The King stares out at his council, still expecting an answer.

“Where do their loyalties lie?”

“With themselves, Your Grace,” Otto replies with a vicious bite, as if entertaining the very idea is offensive to him, “With all due respect, Dorne holds nothing but sand and vipers. Your efforts are best spent on garnering support here in Westeros.”

Aegon’s hands flop to the arms of the chair, slumped back as he shrugs, a careless gesture he’d been granted in childhood and never grown out of.

“And yet they have the only means to kill dragons.”

Otto shared a look with the other members of the council, ‘We are…working on that, Your Grace. The smiths are drawing up plans for a scorpion as we speak—”

“Surely they must have some daughter Aemond can wed and bed,” Aegon continued as if his grandfather never spoke at all. Alicent hung her head in her hands. “Probably show him a good time too.”

His laughter echoed off the walls.

Alicent kept her eyes glued to the table as the small council traded apprehensive looks.

“The Princess Aliandra is but ten and two, Your Grace,” Orwyle interjected, “Her flowering is still imminent and by then your sister—”

“Half-sister” Aegon corrected.

Orwyle nodded, swallowing his words, “By then, it is entirely likely she will have won the Stormlands to her side. She has five boys, three with no betrothals.”

“Which is exactly why Aemond must promise himself first,” Otto said, placing a gold dragon next to the silver stag,.

“Rhaenyra’s two sons are already betrothed to their stepsisters in order to keep the Velaryons in line,” Alicent chimed in, recalling the closeness of the Targaryen girls and the plain-featured boys, “She will not risk Lord Corlys’ ire by breaking those. Nor Princess Rhaenys’.”

It was a shame, truly.

The girls were more Laena than Daemon.

It was almost shocking how much they resembled their late mother. Baela was practically a mirror image of the woman. They deserved better than to be married off to two bastards.

Perhaps she should have offered a proposal between Baela and Aemond when she had the chance.

Alicent shivered at the thought of Daemon’s child forever tied to her son.

Both wild and impulsive, they would raze the Seven Kingdoms and leave naught but ashes in their wake.

“Let us ensure it,” Lord Jasper Wylde pressed, “Send Aemond to Lord Borros, and cut off her chances, root and stem.”

Aegon slammed his head against the back of his chair, letting out a defeated sigh.

“To Storm’s End then.”

Alicent could almost see the moment the world landed on top of him.

He stares at his mother long after the small council meeting ends, unspoken anger curdling in his throat at the sight of her.

And yet it fades the moment her eyes land on his.

He wonders if she gets it from his grandmother, a woman he had never met and never will. A Florent who’d been lauded as cunning as his grandfather, but it had been said she’d held the heart while his grandfather held the head.

He wonders which one his mother is now.

When he was younger he’d watched her fight and argue and yell with a passion that had slowly dissipated over the years, worn down after years of placating a man who refused to acknowledge her.

All the nobles say he resembles Viserys or Jaehaerys.

“A great likeness. Sure to bring forth another great Targaryen dynasty.”

His mother always pinched her lips and smiled tightly at the words.

Sometimes when he looks in the mirror he spies a glimmer of brown in his irises.

It disappears just as quickly.

He wonders if there is a world where he is born a Hightower instead of a Targaryen, with deep brown eyes and red hair. A world where his mother looks at him and sees herself instead of his father.

He still would have no inheritance to his name.

He would still have a schemer for a grandfather.

But perhaps the look in his mother’s eyes would resemble the one Helaena wears when she plays with the twins instead of the one she wears now.

For all his faults, he cannot bring himself to hate her.

Not in the way he despises his father.

Her constant push toward mercy is aggravating to say the least, and she has spent the last day and a half forcing him to present terms to the cunt across the bay.

A sister who never cared for him.

His mind conjures up a time when she’d saved him from accidentally wandering too far into the Dragonpit. He puts it out just as quickly.

There is no sister but the one he wed. No family but the one he has now. To think of Rhaenyra as something other than a challenge to his throne would mean weakness. And he already had enough fools in his court without adding himself to the litter.

It is the main reason he does not let his mother rule him anymore.

He will not let her make a fool of him.

Like his grandfather had done with his father.

Viserys had been a fool. A peaceful, mad fool who’s eyes were always focused on the past to pay much attention to the children at the foot of his throne.

And now it seems the realm was paying for his lack of attention.

War brewing as the Houses gathered, each clamoring for favors and alliances while they could.

Aegon has never been prepared for war.

He had never been prepared to rule.

Never invited to a small council meeting nor taught the delicate push and pull between King and subject.

Despite this, he knows an independent kingdom with no loyalty to dragons is dangerous.

The same way he knows a bastard born in the streets of Flea Bottom with silver hair and violet eyes was dangerous.

A pale-hair held no name, no loyalties, nothing to lose but his life.

Targaryens, however, were always in the position to lose everything.

It is safer to be without name. A freedom granted to many but enjoyed by a few.

“Are you mad?” His mother asks with a scoff.

He's lost count of how many times she’s asked him that question.

He still does not know the answer.

“Sending Aemond to Dorne? With Vhagar? They would be shot down before they hit the Boneway!”

His mother’s anger still makes him quake with unbridled shame.

She stands from her position at the council table and begins to pace, “I was foolish to think a crown would give you some sense.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” The question had been posited by every Targaryen King since Aegon the Conqueror, and still the house of the dragon could not seem to bring the desert kingdom to heel. Aegon often thought of his mother as the smartest woman he’d ever known–not that he’d known many smart women–but even she could not come up with a suitable answer to his question.

“Dorne is a problem for another day,” Alicent asserted, fingers tugging on her black skirts, clutching her hands together like she usually did when she’d come to a decision. “Right now you need allies and Aemond must be sent to Storm’s End.”

Aegon let out a sigh.

His mother froze where she stood and exhaled.

He recognized it.

The sound of reluctant disappointment which would soon be followed by a lecture.

“You are no longer a boy, Aegon.”

He rolled his eyes. Gods, women could be so predictable at times.

“Right now Rhaenyra does not see you as a legitimate threat, but once she learns of your father’s death that will all change–”

“Would you have made her Queen?”

The question weighs on his mind, and yet he cannot bring himself to regret the moment it leaves him.

His mother blinked.

“What?”

Aegon shifted in his seat, a damnably uncomfortable chair he’d never been invited to sit in, no matter how clear his father’s schedule was.

He was a first born son who’d been disinherited and told to be content with it.

His children would receive nothing.

Helaena and his brothers would receive nothing.

The only possessions that were theirs by right were their dragons, and even then it had only been Sunfyre and Tessarion who’d hatched.

Helaena and Aemond had been forced to fend for themselves, and both had paid the price for it. 

He’d convinced himself he hadn’t wanted the throne, what was his by Andal law, but when he stood in the Dragonpit and watched the crowds cheer his name…

It was more intoxicating than any wine he’d ever tasted. 

He wanted to get drunk on it until he was mad. 

Aegon stared at his mother, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought of his sister sweeping in and taking it all from him. 

It was the first time he’d felt useful in a long time. 

The first time he felt more than a waste of space. 

More than the drunkard and failure his family all believed he was.

It was the first time he felt loved. 

A pair of violet eyes attached to a bowing smirk appeared in his head.

“If father hadn’t changed his mind,” He choked, suddenly growing hot in his velvet doublet, “Would Rhaenyra be sitting here now instead of me?”

His mother sighed and collapsed back into her seat, head in her hands, “Aegon–”

“You wish she were here now don’t you?” His voice catches in his throat. He needs to know his mother is on his side. He needs to know that he is not alone. “That she was crowned instead of me.”

She stares up at him and his hope is shattered.

The look in her eyes was all the confirmation he needed.

It was the shame of a mother who did not love her child.

The resentment of a woman who’d lost her childhood companion the minute he began to form in her belly.

Something deep in Aegon’s gut curled, stirring a feeling he’d almost forgotten he’d possessed.

It snaked its way up into his chest, squeezing tightly around his heart.

The pressure behind his eyes burst.

“Aemond will go to Storm’s End,” His voice was flat, his throat growing thick with unshed tears, “He will take one of Lord Borros’s daughters to wife as you so requested, and when he is done he will return home and take his place at my side.”

His mother couldn’t even muster the energy to utter a word against him.

“He and Vhagar are both needed here, to keep my half-sister and uncle at bay.”

Wood scraped against marble as he stood up from his seat, the tightness still in his chest.

His hand ached for wine or ale.

Something to ease the dryness in his throat, something to taste other than the salt of his own tears.

Aegon had always known his father did not love him.

For years he believed his mother capable of the same until she’d sent out her sworn shield and her favorite son to ensure Aegon was crowned.

To know it was never truly what she wanted…

That the inheritance of her oldest son was never a thought in her mind….

He wanted the warmth of a cunt wrapped around him, the dizziness of drinking until the world disappeared from view, anything to cease the tightness in his chest and the knotting of his stomach.

He wanted his whores, his wine and his dragon.

Not necessarily in that order.

“Ser Criston told me you spoke to the Dornish maid who hid me underneath the Sept.”

His mind has been filled with the thought of her since his coronation.

The smirk that crossed her full lips as she bowed at the back of the Dragonpit, the first sign of acceptance from the smallfolk.

He wondered if it would be the last.

Her scream echoed in the back of his mind, a violent thing that shook the ground beneath him.

“Yes,” Alicent cleared her throat, removing her head from her hands. She still refused to look at him. “Reyna…she’ll be setting off for Starfall soon, I imagine.”

Starfall?

The curves of her face appeared in his mind, recalling how her skin had glown golden in the light of the pyre, swallowed by the ebony black of her hair.

He’d tried his best to wrest any information about her from Helaena, but all she knew was that she was Dornish and she was very good at her job.

His sister was fond of her, and the whole castle knew how much Helaena detested change, especially in her staff.

Reyna. He tasted the name on his tongue.

It was a traditional Targaryen name, yet from what he’d seen in the books, it was not spelled the same.

His mind drifted to the way her lips felt under his hand, the arch of her sloped brows as she threw his words in his face.

He imagined tracing every curve of her body until he was finished. Her face as he bent her over and took her like one of his whores.

She’d probably stab him in the neck for even trying.

He laughed.

To his mother he probably looked mad.

Reyna…

He turned to Ser Arryk Cargyll, “Take a group of soldiers to the harbor.”

“Aegon–”

“Find her and have her brought to me immediately.”

He paid no attention to his mother’s words, conjuring the serving girl in his mind’s eye as if he could make her appear through sheer will.

“We promised her we would let her go–”

“Your King,” He emphasized the last word, “commands it.”

He stared directly at his mother as he said it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE: 

The sight of white and gold sent a shock of fear through her. 

There were only two reasons for a Gold Cloak and a Kingsguard to approach a commoner in the middle of the streets of King’s Landing and neither were good. 

Reyna’s heart jumped into her throat as a man she recognized as Ser Rickard Thorne approached her with the hulking silhouette everyone in Flea Bottom had learned to avoid. 

His name was Eryth.

Reyna had heard horror stories from every whore, tavern keep, and merchant from across the city, all saying the exact same thing.

He beat a whore so badly she never returned to work. 

He threatened to take my cock unless I promised him free drink.

All I asked was for my wares to be returned, he took the thief’s head instead. 

A vicious, savage man, the only person more feared was Prince Daemon himself, and now he was headed directly towards her. 

She knew better than to run. 

She only hoped her mother and Ivy were there to greet her when the light of her candle was snuffed out. 

“Good day, Sers,” Reyna dipped into a small curtsey, eyes pinned to the ground, trying not to look either of them in the eye. 

The hilt of their swords gleamed in the bright sunlight. She wondered if the glint of steel would be the last thing she ever saw. 

“You’ve been summoned to the Red Keep.” Ser Rickard was an older man of age with Ser Harrold Westerling, his black hair streaked with grey and cut tight against his head. It almost matched the silver of the Kingsguard armor. “We’ve come to see you there safely.”

Reyna furrowed her brow. 

“I no longer work for the Red Keep,” She corrected, the gold in her pockets still weighing her skirts down. “The Queen released me after the coronation.”

The news had come through the silver haired messenger boy, a scroll written in fine, cramped handwriting thanking her for her leal service and releasing her of it following the events of the dragonpit. 

“Did you hear us, girl?”

It was the first time she’d heard the Gold Cloak speak, voice forceful and grating as he grasped tight to the hilt of his sword. 

Reyna took a step back, knot tightening in her throat. 

Ser Rickard held out his hand to stop the giant of a man, disapproval wrought into his face. He turned toward Reyna, features shifting into something more sympathetic. 

He’d known her for as long as she’d been serving Princess Helaena and always had a smile and a kind word for her. It was he and Lord Commander Westerling who’d always treated her with a kindness most of the Kingsguard lacked, stopping by the kitchens to discuss history and adventures across the continent or inviting her into the White Sword Tower to give her a tour. 

She wondered where Ser Harrold was now.

He’d been dismissed the same time she had. 

Her eyes flickered toward the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where fishmongers were bringing in their fresh catches and selling them for a copper star each, the cheapest prices in King’s Landing bar none. 

The ship the Queen arranged for her sat tied to a dock bearing no sigils, just the white sails of a trade ship bound to Oldtown before stopping at Starfall. 

“The order does not come from the Queen, m’lady,” Ser Rickard spoke solemnly, as if he’d regretted the task he’d been given. 

Her stomach dropped at his words. 

If the Queen was no longer giving the orders, that meant the summons came only from one person. 

A face of silver hair appeared in her mind and her skin erupted into goosebumps, feeling her own heartbeat accelerate at the thought of appearing before it. 

She wondered what would happen to her if she refused. 

The lump in her throat refused to disappear even as she tried to swallow it. 

“Then I am honored,” She pushed through gritted teeth, speaking the honeyed words she’d learned from watching the nobles at court. Too many times she’d seen tongues taken and bodies beaten for speaking the wrong words in the wrong way. 

She did not know if King Aegon would be any different than the sour, spiteful and irritable prince she’d come across half asleep in his cups, but she supposed she would now find out. 

Perhaps the crown had given him a sense of purpose. Or perhaps it had exacerbated the madness that already existed within. 

What was the saying?

When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin and the world holds its breath to see where it lands. 

She thought it’d first come into being when Maegor the Cruel killed his own nephew in the battle of the God’s Eye, but others thought it originated even further back in the Century of Blood. 

When Daenys the dreamer took to Balerion and rode to Dragonstone to wait out the Doom of Valyria, her brother Gaemon only following when his father Aenar demanded he listen or die screaming in the flames. 

At least, that was the story told amongst the merchants and smallfolk in Essos, the story her mother had told her many a time to lull her to sleep. 

Which one King Aegon proved to be would be answered long after she was gone. 

The walk from the docks to the Red Keep was one she had taken many times before when sent to fetch fish and porters for Mariel and Cicely. 

But the walk from the Great Hall to the King’s chambers was one she had only made a few times. 

King Viserys had been an exceedingly private man, a trait which had grown more prevalent the sicker he’d gotten. 

Now Aegon resided in those chambers, with his wife and sister a few doors down in the former chambers of Queen Alicent. 

Eryth had been left behind in Flea Bottom, and Reyna found herself flanked by Ser Rickard and Ser Arryk, the only two Kingsguard knights left from the reign of King Viserys.

Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon were on Dragonstone with the other half of the royal family, while Ser Erryk had disappeared following the coronation. 

The bronze doors stretched above her, the visage of the three heads of the dragon sending a chill down her spine. 

Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes on one side, Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys on the other. 

It was meant to be intimidating, the wrought iron handles built to resemble the bodies of the wyrms they rode, obsidian lining the doors with the history of House Targaryen engraved across the frames. 

They opened up into an expansive room draped in red and black.

Although she could see most of it had been removed, green and gold rising to take its place. 

“Your Grace,” Ser Rickard Thorne obscured her vision, but she could still see the old King’s model of Valyria.

It had remained untouched. 

“Your guest has arrived.”

Ser Rickard stepped aside, revealing a very drunk prince with the Conqueror’s crown tipped to one side on his head, a cup of wine in one hand and an unsheathed Blackfyre in the other. He stood by one of the hearths, the fire already burning out.

“Ah! There she is,” Aegon hiccuped, a cruel smile spreading across his face, something dancing in his lilac eyes. “The Savior of the Realm, the Kingmaker ! The great Reyna of Starfall.” His bow mocked her, treating her like a lady of the realm when she was anything but. It was a jape she knew well, but hearing it from a King didn’t make it hurt any less. 

He held out his goblet, lips curling into a smirk.

“Drink with me.”

The door shut behind her.

She thought she saw a bout of regret cross Ser Rickard’s face. 

Ser Arryk didn’t even give her a glance.

Her heart plunged into her stomach. 

“I am not thirsty, Your Grace,” She spoke with an even tone, betraying nothing as she stood stone faced by the door, hands clasped behind her back.

Aegon laughed, “I did not offer you water,” He placed his goblet down and poured another glass, the wine a deep scarlet.

She wrinkled her nose as the scent of the arbor wafted past her.

“I am a King now, and you put me on the throne,” He held the glass out toward her, Blackfyre dangling carelessly at his side, rubies glittering in the sunlight. “You deserve a celebration. Drink.”

It was not a request. 

His eyes scanned her figure. 

The smart thing would have been to grab the goblet and drown her sorrows with him.

To sink into her cups and let the pain which had been lingering in her chest overtake her. 

It would appease the king and it would allow her to wallow once more. 

The way she had every night since the Dragonpit. 

There were rumblings amongst the smallfolk of justice being denied. 

For if Princess Rhaenys could kill hundreds and go unscathed, what would Rhaenyra bring down upon them? 

There were a few beggar brothers who’d come to see the dragon as an omen. A punishment from the gods for crowning the wrong king. But it was Brother Lazarus who spoke louder than them all, preaching death to dragons and a restoration of the faith of the seven. 

Most of the people agreed with him. 

He cared little for omens and Targaryen dreams. People had been killed and he, like most of King’s Landing, was angry. 

If there was any doubt the smallfolk had about their new King, it was extinguished when Meleys erupted and killed hundreds in wanton destruction.

Yes, it would have been smart to join the Prince in his revelry. 

But she was in no mood for it. 

“No.”

His face dropped, lilac hardening into stone, “No?”

She felt the cold grip of Valyrian steel against her neck.

“I could have you killed for defying me.” His face was stone but his voice wavered. The way it had the morning he disappeared, “All it would take is one sweep of the blade and your head would decorate the walls of the castle before you could refuse me.”

He stumbled, dropping Blackfyre to his side and leaning on it for support. The blade nicked her neck and a single drop of blood dribbled down the blade, as sanguine as the rubies decorating the hilt. 

He gulped down the goblet he’d just poured, slamming it on the table. 

The faces of her mother and Ivy flashed across her mind.

“You’d have to stop stumbling first.” 

Her voice was cheer and laughter, but her legs shook, hands balling themselves into fists with white knuckles. 

The King’s gaze remained focused on hers. 

The circles around his eyes are the same dark purple reflected in his irises, heavy and hollow. The familiar tracks of tears streak his cheeks.

Bitterness stirs in her chest. She wishes she was someone higher, someone with enough power to take the King by the throat and knock some sense into him. 

He holds all the power in the realm. 

He holds access to all the knowledge in the world. 

He has a dragon. 

And still he weeps and moans and squanders it all on drink and whores. 

To have the power of a god at your fingertips and waste it all…

He raises Blackfyre to her neck once more. 

The tip of the blade wavered. 

The King laughs. “You’re funny,” He almost sounds genuine in his compliment, but the slurred words make Reyna wary, “I like funny.” 

The sword drops behind her and he pulls her close, entrapping Reyna in the grasp of the Valryian blade.

His hands wrap around her waist and pull the sword taut against the laces of her bodice, a wicked smile stretching across his face as his fingers play with it. She swears she can feel the edge of the blade press into her skin. His eyes remain focused on hers. 

She refuses to turn her gaze away. 

Lust glitters in his eyes and for a moment she wonders if he’ll slip his hand under her skirts and take her by the fireplace. 

Something rumbles in her abdomen at the thought, but her mind is too busy focusing on the King towering above her to pay attention to what it is. 

She wants to pull away but knows she cannot. 

There is no other reason for a King to summon a maidservant to his chambers. 

And she will not be able to say no. 

Either she will be coerced or she will be forced. 

For who could say no to a King?

He releases her and she almost thinks she spies restraint in his face. 

Breath returns to her lungs. 

He gestures to the seat across from him with Blackfyre, picking up his goblet from the table. 

“Sit.” 

It is an order. 

She did as he commanded. 

He slouched down beside her. 

His gaze was now firmly locked on the burning embers of the fire in front of him, as if seeing something in the flames no one else could see. 

“He never liked me.” 

She didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. 

“It was the one constant I could rely on. The sky was blue, my sister would be heir, and my father would go to his grave despising my very existence,” He drained the cup and reached for another, “A wastrel, unworthy…I’m sure he threw in a few more choice words. Usurper probably added to the list.” 

Reyna focused her gaze on the floor. 

A rueful smile crossed the King’s face, “And then my mother gave me a crown and called me King.” He poured himself another cup, draining it just as quickly. The smell of Arbor Red clung to him like perfume. 

Reyna resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. 

“Defended me from a dragon,” His laugh was as sour as his temper. His lips dropped into a scowl. “Out there, they call me Aegon the Usurper.”

Bitterness coated his words like a poisoned knife, digging deeper into his lungs with each breath, “I’m sure my father is laughing from the depths of the Seven Hells.” 

Aegon sets his jaw and Reyna finally summons the courage to look at him. 

He is paler than the grave with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes from a lack of sleep and an overindulgence of wine. 

He reminds her of the ghosts believed to wander the halls of Starfall, a shell of a man with his insides scooped out and replaced with a responsibility he’d never asked for. 

A puppet with his strings cut.

“It was all a lie,” He mutters into his cups, taking another gulp, “I can see it in their eyes. None of them wish for me to sit on that throne, to bear the crown they plotted to place on my head. My grandfather wishes for my father back and my mother…” A bitter chuckle escapes his lips, “My mother wishes for the days of her childhood companion. When I was still a dream in my father’s mind and not the miserable wretch I am now.”

Reyna is unsure how to respond. 

Aegon snapped his head to face her, tear tracks shining in the light of the dying embers. 

“I am miserable am I not?”

It takes her a moment to realize he expected an answer. 

Reyna stared at the man before her. 

He was ill-tempered and bitter and wretched in every sense of the word. His silver hair shone in the fading sunlight, an ethereal beauty to him that seemed to grace the face of every Targaryen past and present. With high cheekbones and wide eyes that seemed to shift colors with his temper, perhaps she would have thought him cut from marble at one point. 

The perfect image of a Targaryen prince.

There were many who’d once held such ideas about him before he’d revealed his true nature. 

Yes, miserable fit him, she supposed. 

Hair cut to his shoulders, uneven and jagged as if he’d taken the shears to it himself, his tunics unbuttoned to reveal the ragged undershirt she suspected he’d been wearing since the night he ran. 

Aimless was a more apt description. 

“Permission to speak freely, Your Grace?”

Aegon raised his brows and took another sip of his cup, gesturing for her to proceed.

Somehow it didn’t calm the storm brewing inside of her.

She leaned forward, hands clasped together with pinched lips. “I don’t think you have ever known true misery.”

He narrows his gaze, as if searching for a lie that is not there.

Anger flashes in his face and Reyna wonders if he will take Blackfyre to her head himself. 

“And you are so certain of this?”

“I am certain a King can always carve out his own pleasures, whereas people like me have to find what little they can.”

Aegon dismisses her with a scoff, but she can see the words dig into his skin, writhing like leeches in his bloodstream. “You speak of things you know nothing about.”

“It was not you who buried friends and family outside the Grand Sept.” 

Her words are biting, teeth sharpened on the whetstone of grief, tears threatening to spring to her eyes. She forces them back down with a gulp. The boldness spurring her on has practically placed her head on the chopping block already, but the King does not seem determined to call for justice quite yet. “And it is not you who will suffer the most should the realm go to war.”

His gaze shifts to something pensive and Reyna wonders if this is the last thing she’ll ever see.

“So, no, I do not believe you are miserable, Your Grace.” Reyna picks at the threads of her skirt, refusing to meet his gaze, “Wretched, maybe, but not miserable.”

The chuckle that left his lips was unlike anything she’d heard. 

It almost brought a smile to her face. 

“You’re quite good,” He downed the rest of his cups and the fire of his gaze came to land on her once more, drifting down to her lips for a brief moment, “You almost had me believing it.” Aegon lifted his goblet in mock cheers, “To Aegon…the Wretched.”

She knows she has crossed a line. But something inside of her is pleased.

Pride surges in her chest. 

The smallfolk had been at the mercy of nobles and kings alike for far too long, if it was to be death for her regardless, at least let her try and slap some sense into this wastrel of a King before she lost her head.

Still, the instinct to survive kicks in. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” He cuts her off with a sigh, “I’m afraid you are right. My mother and sister share your sentiments. It is why they keep pushing me to peace rather than war.” His exhale blows a lock of silver hair out of his eyes, “The soft hearts of women often prevail in situations like this.”

An involuntary chuckle escaped her lips.

The King creased his brow.

“I have not known many soft women, Your Grace,” Reyna admits with a smirk, hands still playing with her skirts, “Most are all too happy to cut out the throats of others over an insult rather than make peace with the offender.”

Her mind flew to memories of Starfall.

Lady Dayne’s curled lip and Septa Elsabeth’s wrinkled nose.

The cramped quarters they’d forced her in and the harsh names thrown at her like they were in Westeros and not Dorne. 

But Lady Dayne hailed from the Reach and had brought her horrid Septa with her, and thus the blooming garden of love she’d been promised had been trampled under her foot and withered in the shadows.

She thought of Myr, where she recalled her mother fighting with a fierceness she’d passed down to her daughter. A knife in her hand as pirates attempted to sack their village and take what little they held dear.

She remembers seeing the mangled body of one tied to a cross in the center square, crabs ripping apart his skin while the bright teal of his robes was stripped and sold for lots.

No, women were not soft. At least, not the ones Reyna knew.

Aegon eyed her curiously.  

She found herself staring back. 

What did he see when he looked at her? Was he a cat playing with his food before devouring it? Or perhaps he was like every man who laid eyes on her. 

Only searching for what was under her skirts, what she’d already given away before she’d even set foot in King’s Landing. 

It was a feeling she knew well. 

She recalls the hands around her waist, the pads of his fingers digging into the layers of fabric, playing with the laces as if he could untie them at any moment. 

Reyna has sold herself before, and she does not wish to do it again. 

His eyes wander a little too low and she wishes he would just get it over with. The King flexes his hand and reaches for another cup of wine, downing it and averting his gaze. 

Her hands moved up to grasp her pendant. 

She slid it back and forth, wondering what her father would say if he could see her now. 

A whore in noble’s clothing, Lady Dayne had called her one day. Her best bet is to seduce a great lord and provide him with the same pleasure she’s provided me. 

She snatched her hand away. 

“Where did it come from?” Aegon asked with a slight slur to his words, his voice low as the goblet hangs from his side. She creased her brow. He blatantly stared at her neckline. “Your necklace.”

Oh.

“Myr.” She answers curtly, trying not to think about the circumstances that warranted its creation. Her back still ached from the incident. “My father commissioned it for me on my nameday.”

“Dornish?”

She nodded. 

“A Dayne?” 

Her silence was answer enough. 

“That’s why my mother was sending you to Starfall. To send you out of her sight and out of my mind.”

Something in her gut churned at his words. 

Aegon sighed and took another gulp of his cups. Not as deep than his previous ones, but still substantial. 

Perhaps he was like the lords Lacey told her about. 

The ones who had to get drunk enough to stick their cock in a woman they didn’t know. 

It takes the guilt off their shoulders, Lacey had said with a roll of her eyes. Convinces them they’re still right in the eyes of the gods. 

“I didn’t call you here to fuck you,” He speaks as if reading her thoughts. Despite the sincerity in his voice, she's not sure she believes him. He always sounds as if he’s one word away from some lewd joke. 

Reyna chanced a drink from the goblet he’d poured for her, “Is that not always why men call Dornishwomen to their chambers, Your Grace?”

Drunken laughter spilled from his lips. 

“Are the men of Westeros so transparent?”

“Only when it comes to matters like these, Your Grace.”

His laughter makes her smile, and Reyna's fear is assuaged for a brief moment until he turns to look at her. 

Want gleams in his eyes. It is the same gleam he wore the day of his coronation, right before the world erupted into applause and debris. 

A lust for acceptance, a lust for appreciation. 

A lust for love. 

The crackling of the fire is all that stands between them now. 

He slumps back in his seat.

“You Dornishwomen are as infuriating as you are tempting,” He mutters under his breath.

Reyna resisted the urge to laugh.

She wasn’t about to tell him why she agreed to head to Dorne in the first place. 

Spice traders from Myr often stopped by Starfall on their way from Oldtown, and for the right price, they would take on extra cargo. 

It was the only reason the gold was still burning a hole in her pocket. 

Her gaze wanders to the open window facing the Narrow Sea, and she thinks she spies the white of a trade ship. 

“What is it like?’

The question catches her off-guard. “Your Grace?”

His eyes moved back to the flames, “Dorne. Some say it is a pit of vipers and scorpions waiting to strike at your heel. Others tell me it is the most beautiful place in the Seven Kingdoms. I do not know which to believe.”

Longing stings in her chest, the thought of home cooling her blood and stemming her nerves.

She recalls little of the castle itself. It is made of the same white stone as the High Tower but draped in lilac and silver as opposed to gold and green.

When she dreams of home she dreams of the rush of the Torrentine, the blistering winds of the Red Mountains and the Summer Sea. She dreams of the soft sand beneath her feet, the frogs and fish swimming beside her as she jumps from the crag into the depths. The water is cool enough to refresh her, yet warm enough to lounge lazily in until the sun bathes the island in pink and lavender.

She has never been outside of Starfall, but her sister would tell her stories of Sunspear and Hellholt. How their castles spiraled high until they pierced the bluest of skies, the most delectable fruits ripe for the picking.

Ester had brought home a bushel of blood oranges and lemons from Lemonwood one day and they’d feasted until Lady Dayne caught them on the terrace, her nose wrinkled in disgust like it always was when Reyna was around.

But then the memory shifted and she imagined the golden sands and beautiful oases that waited outside the white walls, wondering if one day they would swallow her whole.

All this she tells the King, who looks at her as if she’d pulled open a treasure chest, a hint of a smile tugging on the edge of his lips.

It is easier to tell him things when she imagines he is someone else. 

A drunk at a tavern or a cook in the kitchen.

Anything but a King who could have his way with her at any moment.

She tells him of the waterfalls that flow endlessly into the Summer Sea, taller than any mountain and more powerful than any dragon.

She tells him of the glass merchants who craft lamps and jewelry that project rainbows on the wall if the light hits it just right. Of candlemakers whose scents burned of jasmine and amber and bergamot. Of the river rafters who took brave souls through the rapids for a price, crowning them King or Queen of the Torentine afterwards like her ancestors of old.

His smile returns  and he has abandoned the wine completely by the time her story comes to an end.

It is a curious thing, she thinks, to hold a King’s attention so fiercely.

His rapt gaze sends pink to her cheeks and she falters as her eyes lock with his.

They are no longer darkened steel, but a soft lavender, much like his sister’s. It is the color of the sun as it sets over Starfall, she thinks. Of the hyacinths that decorate the trellises of the Dornish garden, of the crocuses and asters that grow in the spring following a hard winter.

She wonders if his children share the same eyes.

He does not look the lustful man who hungered for her earlier. 

Instead, he resembles a boy. 

It is a stark contrast from the bitter man she’d grown used to.

She does not realize the two of them have been staring at each other in silence until the creak of the bronze door interrupts her thoughts. 

Reyna stands up immediately, nearly hitting the King in the face as she does so.

The Queen is silhouetted by the dying rays of the sun, her mouth tight as her eyes dart between Reyna and her son. He does not turn to look at her.

“There you are, Reyna.” She says with a smile of formality, voice steady and sure with each word. Her black mourning robes have been quickly replaced by green velvet and gold cuffs. “Ser Criston has been looking for you. The ship is prepared to leave whenever you are ready.”

“I did not dismiss her, mother.” Aegon’s foul mood has returned and he grabs a bottle and begins to pour.

The Queen eyes her son with disgust before shaking her head. She took a step toward Reyna in casual defiance of the King’s decision. “Come, I will have Ser Criston escort you–”

“You will go no further.”

The steel of Blackfyre stood between the two women, Aegon’s slurred words puncturing the air like the edge of the blade he wielded.

“Aegon,” the Queen’s tone shifts to something more chiding, a frown crossing her lips, “Reyna has served us well these last few years, she deserves to go home and reunite with her family.”

Aegon wobbles on his feet as he stands. “And you have agreed to this?”

The question is directed at her.

Reyna opens her mouth to reply but finds herself cut off by the Queen.

“She has lost enough Aegon, surely you do not mean–”

“Oh, but I do,” Aegon’s words are sharp, a blaze in his eyes as he aims the words directly at his mother. A tug of war the two have been playing since coronation day, Reyna assumes. Perhaps even beyond that. Aegon remains steadfast. “She is a servant of the crown and she belongs in the Red Keep.”

“No she is not,” Alicent crossed her hands over her skirts, chin lifted high as she stares at her son with a disapproving sigh on her lips, “I released her this morning.”

Aegon scoffs, taking another gulp of wine as he stumbles over to the mantle above the hearth.

For a brief moment there is nothing but silence, the Queen shifting her gaze from the King to Reyna. Her shoulders slumped, frown deepening as the sun began to set behind her.

“Come, the captain is waiting–”

“No, no, SHE’S MINE! ”

The wine glass shatters against the wall.

Reyna trembles at the sound of his voice, stomach sinking at his words. 

To call her whore and take her as his own was one thing, but to be called his…

To be at his beck and call not as a whore but as something else entirely…

It is a thought she is not allowed to entertain. 

A thought she cannot entertain. 

Not if she wishes to live.

“Aegon, she is no longer under our employ, we cannot force her--”

“Then you will find a place for her.” He orders, Blackfyre pointed directly at his mother. The warmth of the man who’d asked about her home is gone, replaced with the cold callousness of a King. “As Helaena’s handmaiden, as yours, it does not matter.” He turns to her with wildfire in his eyes.

It is not the steel from before. Nor the jolly of a drunken man looking for a laugh.

His hands are swift and Reyna stumbles back, the stone of the hearth digging into the skin of her back.

Blackfyre is tossed aside carelessly, but Reyna once again finds herself staring down the edge of a Valyrian steel blade. 

This one is wrought in dragonbone and bronze, a single glittering ruby matching the one on Blackfyre’s hilt. Its dark blade gleams with a hunger, and she almost thinks she can see something written into the steel. 

Aegon presses it to her neck, hovering less than an inch above the skin.

His gaze burns with a wild rage, darkened by his mother’s presence. 

His hand presses into her shoulder, gripping the skin as it pressed her further into the mantelpiece behind her, the heat of the fire lingering near her skirts. 

She can smell the wine on his breath, see the shine in his eyes as he clenches his jaw with something akin to determination. 

Or perhaps it was the stare of a fanatic, she wasn’t sure.

“If she will not abide by it then I will have her head instead.”

The threat hangs in the air.

It is the same one he made earlier, but this time Reyna knows her wit will not save her. 

She has pushed too hard, gone too far, and she is now at the King’s mercy.

Her pulse continues to race.

The gods are waiting to see where his coin lands.

So is she.

Alicent stares at her son with pleading eyes, all sense of decorum gone. Instead, she shakes at the sight unfolding before her.

“Put down the blade, Aegon.” She orders.

He does not listen.

The knot in Reyna’s chest grows tighter.

“Your Grace,” Her voice cracks as the words slip through her lips, saltwater teetering near the corner of her eye. “Please."

The dagger drops from his hands.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX:

Alicent stares in shock at the girl before her, a thousand thoughts echoing in her mind, the scene they’d been escorted from at the forefront of it all. 

The handmaiden’s grip tightened around the seat of the chair, staring at the fire with an expression Alicent knew well. 

Her son has never listened to anyone for as long as she’d known him. Her father, the Grand Maester, even she herself could never truly break through his drunken stupor long enough to get him to care. 

On some rare occasions Helaena would talk some sense into him, but Aegon had always been…Aegon.

But with one word from a girl he barely knew and suddenly the dagger was gone from his hand, asking Ser Criston to escort her and his mother to their chambers.

It was a worrying scene. One she was glad to be privy to. 

Alicent examined the bastard girl before her, trying to decipher how she could have achieved such influence with her son in such a short amount of time.

She’d heard tales of a Dornish beauty in the halls of the Red Keep, but she’d assumed it was the exaggerations of servants, spinning stories to make themselves seem more important than they were.

Now she sees what they mean.

Long black hair tumbled about her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist. It has a gloss to it Alicent never sees amongst the smallfolk, as if more effort has been put into it than the rest of her. Perhaps it has.

It is tied back with a lone blue ribbon, curls soft and weighted as they frame her face.

But it is the eyes that captivate Alicent, and it is the eyes she suspects are the reason her son is so enraptured.

A haunting violet deeper than any Targaryen, in some lights they almost look black. But she sees the doe-eyed look wrought onto her face, the amber of the flames illuminating the irises until she is sure amethysts are staring back at her.

A beauty lost in the sands of Dorne.

What might have been gained if she’d been trueborn and not a bastard?

Alicent remembers the scandal as well as anyone.

Eskander Dayne’s death in the Stepstones had sent ripples through Westeros, the promise of tying Starfall to the Reach nearly lost when his brother Emyr returned with a refusal on his lips up until the last of his sisters was taken by pirates and sold to Lyseni slavers.

There’d been rumors he’d been so quick to accept because Lady Myriam Oakheart was already pregnant with Lord Eskander’s child There’d also been rumors Lord Emyr had arranged for the kidnapping and murder of his sister and brother himself, to steal their inheritance and take his brother’s lady wife as his own.

The truth was revealed seven years later, when a lone trade ship arrived at the port of Starfall from Myr, carrying with it spices and a little girl with the same dark hair and violet eyes as their liege Lord.

It had been a slap in the face to Lady Myriam, who’d given birth to her third child by then.

Only one looked like their father.

“I fear I must apologize for my son’s behavior,” Alicent choked out, arms crossed as she stood above the girl, a frown beginning to form on her face.

“He won’t let me go, will he?”

Alicent’s chest nearly split in two at her words. She recognized them as ones she’d said in prayer to her mother a thousand times, hoping the King would choose someone else, anyone else.

The Queen let out a sigh. “No.”

The girl nods in slow disbelief, the realization of her words dawning over her. 

“I am truly sorry, Reyna,” Alicent means every word that leaves her, a feeling she has not recalled since her days in the godswood with Rhaenyra, “I did not mean for this to happen.”

The bastard girl wipes her cheeks and straightens her back, “It’s quite alright, Your Grace.”

The words are practiced, near recited as she forces herself up out of the chair and into a small curtsy, “I suppose I better head to Queen Helaena’s chambers to dress her and her children for bed.”

Alicent sweeps the girl into her arms without a second thought and for a brief moment she imagines Helaena in her place, a comfort the girl refuses even on her worst days.

Some days, Alicent believes Helaena prefers the company of her husband to her mother. 

She tries to avoid the tightening in her chest on those days. 

But Reyna sinks into the embrace, arms grasping tightly to each other across Alicent’s shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

Something primal stirs in her stomach.

She tears herself free and grabs the girl’s shoulders, just as her father did before he’d been sent back to Oldtown for telling the truth. 

Prepare Aegon to rule or cleave to Rhaenyra for mercy . 

Reyna is not nearly as weepy,

Alicent does not think she had seen the girl shed a tear since the night at the Dragonpit. 

“Listen to me, he will not touch you, understand?” 

The girl’s brow furrows. 

It only strengthens Alicent’s resolve.

She brushes a spindle of hair away from Reyna’s collarbone, gently placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

Alicent swallows down the bile forming in the back of her throat when she realizes her father did the same thing to her the day of Aemma’s funeral. 

“He is the King,” is all the girl says in response. 

Alicent’s heart breaks. 

But you are not his, she wants to say, even though she knows the words will ring hollow. 

Because she is his. 

She became his the moment he raised a sword to her, threatening to kill her if she left.

And he became hers the moment her plea for mercy left her lips. 

The influence of a whore is a powerful thing , her father had told her the night Daemon stole an egg from the Dragonpit. For it is man alone who is guided by his lesser impulses, subject to the mewling cunts of women rather than the sane minds of those around him. 

He’d later apologized for the vulgar language, but maintained the truth of the statement. 

“Do you know the price for being the King’s favorite?”

Reyna nods, gulping down her fear with a steel jaw. Alicent spies a glimpse of resilience she wishes she still had. 

But the years had worn her down, and taken all her strength with it. 

All that remained was her rage and her spite and her faith. 

“Good. That is why I will make you the Queen’s.”

Confusion laced her brow. 

Alicent pressed on. 

“Your duties will switch every day between me and Helaena. It will be taxing, but it will remove you from his sight. And I have faith you will fulfill every expectation.”

Silence stood between the two women. 

For a brief moment Alicent thought she saw a glimpse of relief cross the girl's face.

“I’m honored, Your Grace.” Reyna dips her feet into a curtsy, stepping out of Alicent’s grip. Her shoulders are red when she steps free. 

Alicent forces herself to inhale slowly but surely. 

She is not confident her moves will be enough to deter Aegon’s advances but it is better for both him and the realm if Reyna disappears into the shadows. 

Let her return to her life before catching the eye of the King.

Let her remain who she is before the world warps her beyond recognition. 

“Return home and pack your things. You will be moving into new chambers on the morrow.” 

Reyna dips her head and moves toward the door. 

Alicent blinks free of the trance she’s been locked in since she arrived. 

“And Reyna…”

Her voice is commanding, stopping the girl in her tracks and forcing her to turn back to the Queen. 

Her breath catches and she swears she sees her younger self stare back at her. 

“I expect you here, ready to dress me and Helaena before we break fast. Understood?”

The girl bobbed her head and disappeared from view. 

She fell into her old routine quicker than expected, waking before sunup to answer the chime of the bells dressed in the green of her livery. 

Reyna tied the segmented sleeves shut and slid the bodice over her chemise with ease, braiding her hair back with the blue ribbon she’d stolen from Ivy’s shop before it was boarded up and sold along with the rest of her fabrics. 

Reyna and Lacey had taken what they could carry, stuffing skirts and velvets and bodices into bags with needle and thread to make themselves. The ribbon had been one Ivy wore in her hair often, typically tying her braids off with it to keep them from unraveling. 

Now Reyna wore it in her own.

A sore replacement for her lost friend, but a comfort nonetheless. 

She’d been given new dresses befitting her station as the Queen’s handmaiden, hemming the green skirts until they reached her ankles. It provided her more mobility when she moved between Alicent’s chambers and Helaena’s. 

She learned quickly that while Queen Alicent preferred the later hours of the day, Helaena was up with the sun, often choosing to ride Dreamfyre before breaking her fast with the rest of her family. 

“You’re back!” The Targaryen girl had engulfed Reyna in a hug when she’d returned to dress her the morning following her confrontation with the Prince, eyeing every corner for a glimpse of silver hair and rubies accompanying it. 

Helaena, she’d learned, preferred familiar faces over unusual ones, and since the coronation, all of her previous maids had disappeared. 

“Mother says Lord Larys is behind the new change,” Helaena had explained, rocking back and forth on her feet as Reyna moved to dress her for the day, “Whispers of treachery and betrayal in the keep.”

The Targaryen girl was smarter than most people gave her credit for, many of the servants believing she had inherited the madness of the dragon, but the simple truth was Helaena preferred to observe. Keeping to herself rather than drawing attention.

Most of the Targaryens preferred that, Reyna had learned. 

The only one who truly loved any attention showered upon them was Aegon and Rhaenyra. 

She could still feel the kiss of steel against her skin. 

Helaena slipped into the light blue silk Reyna had prepared for her, nightgown abandoned on the bed. 

The Queen had no shortage of split skirts to slide trousers underneath for when she wished to ride her dragon, but she always preferred the lighter blue ones that could double as a true gown when she wished. 

“It is simply more practical,” She’d said when Reyna asked, “The breeches are constricting, but I’m not about to make you wash three different petticoats when I go riding.” 

Besides, all Reyna had to do was ensure a patterned skirt and her garters and stockings were ready when she returned, which Helaena assured her she could put on herself. 

The Queen didn’t like it when her servants touched her legs or stomach.

Neither Queen did. 

The bodice of the riding habit resembled a gown she’d seen the Targaryen wear many times, with bejeweled dragonflies fastening the silks across her chest. The layered brocade reminded Reyna of the fabric she’d stolen from Ivy’s shop, and tears threatened to spring to her eyes as a memory came forward. 

“You truly mean to make your own wedding dress?” Reyna had said, staring in awe of the Myrish lace and Pentoshi silks Ivy’s mother had imported from Essos.

Lacey was holding the fabric up against the fogged up looking glass, only putting the garments down when Ivy smacked her hand away from the dress frame. 

“It will be more practical,” Ivy spoke with pins in her mouth, laying the fabric on the frame to try and figure out which pattern she wished to use. Reyna could see the wheels in her friend’s brain begin to turn, hair pulled out of her face with the blue ribbon she always wore. “Besides,” She said with a wry smile, finally pinning the lace in a way she was happy with, “I know what I like, and I know it will be high enough quality for me.”

Reyna shook her head, always in awe of Ivy’s ability to make the best of her situation. It was an envy she felt often.

Her and Lacey shared a look.  

“And it means I can make your dresses if either of you get married.”

“Then I demand you use these silks,” Lacey teased, grasping the leftover fabric and wrapping it around her body, “For I plan to marry a wealthy Pentoshi Magister and live my days forever on the coast.”

Laughter pierced the air and Ivy shook her head.

“Then Alize can finally use her brother’s boat to ship you two out of this shithole.”

The girls chuckled at the whore’s words, but Reyna knew there was truth to it. 

“I think Alize will be too busy in Braavos,” Reyna interjected with a wry smile, “Wasn’t there a Sealord who had his eye on her?”

Girlish giggles left the manse, people on the street turning to face the noise as it floated through the air. 

“Then I shall have to make her one too.” Ivy’s smile widened and she began to sort through fabric, pulling out dark blues and purple velvets, “The wealth of Braavos is not to be taken lightly after all. She will need to be dressed richly to stand out among those dressed brighter than her.”

“Oooh, yes,” Lacey’s eyes glittered as she caught sight of the rich fabrics, slipping through her fingers like gold dragons, “Alize will wed a Sealord, I will wed a Magister, you your Blacksmith, and Reyna–”

“Will be living as a wealthy merchant in Myr,” Reyna wrapped a shawl of teal Myrish silk around her shoulders, flicking the excess behind her like a cape, “Where men will beg and plead for my hand, but I shall only give it to one who can make me laugh.”

“Well that won’t be too hard,” Ivy tossed an embroidery hoop at her head. 

Reyna dodged it with the grace of a water dancer, a scoff of mock indignation on her lips.

The girls’ eyes shone with mirth.

Lacey placed a crown of Myrish lace in Reyna’s hair, “It is said the Prince of Myr has a better sense of humor than most.”

She tore the crown from her head, “Oh please–”

“Our Reyna?” Ivy placed a hand to her chest, eyes wide with teasing laughter on her lips, “Royalty? My apologies Your Highness,” the Northern girl bowed deeply, her ribbon falling to the floor. “I suppose I shall have to dress you in gauze and satins fit for a Queen.”

“Oh, no that won’t do,” Lacey plucked bright reds and pinks from the bin. Reyna rolled her eyes as the girls began to hang the fabrics on her body, “A Princess deserves organza and taffeta, with a gold chiffon layer to tie it all together.”

“This Princess would tear all those to shreds,” Reyna shook her head, but something bloomed in her chest at the thought. She’d never believed herself lucky enough to marry, but Lacey and Ivy’s jokes almost made her long for it. Besides, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know how beautiful she was. 

It was almost a joke between the four of them at this point. 

“So, what do we have?” Lacey’s smile grew wide, “A Sealord, a Magister, a Prince and a Blacksmith. I believe we have done very well for ourselves.”

The girls erupted into giggles and the memory faded into inky blackness. 

“Are you alright?” Helaena’s voice was floaty as it echoed through her thoughts, a glimpse of concern in the girl’s lavender eyes. 

Reyna brought herself back to the present, and she thought it ironic Helaena was the one bringing her out of the clouds rather than the other way around.
“Sorry, Your Grace–” Her gaze dipped to the ground.

“--Helaena.” Once again the Queen lets herself overcome her fear of touch to grasp Reyna’s hand in her own, an earnest look in her bright eyes. “You have certainly known me long enough to call me such things.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks, trying to ignore the jittering in her stomach at the informality of it all.

“Helaena,” Reyna sighed, leaning into the softness of the Targaryen’s hands, a sense of calm rushing through her. “I’m afraid I was lost in thought, I apologize.”

“I understand,” She smiled softly, “You have lost someone close to you, it cannot be easy to return to life how it was. When father died–”

The door creaked open and Reyna dropped her hands to her skirts, interrupting whatever the Princess was going to say next. 

A tall figure in black leathers strode into the room. 

“Aemond!” Helaena smiled as her younger brother entered the room, Reyna thought she saw the prince’s lips tilt up as well, “There you are, I was beginning to worry you had forgotten about our flights.”

“Never, sweet sister,” Prince Aemond responded in kind, his voice as always, affectless. Although sometimes she could hear the slightest bit of affection when he talked to Helaena. It was small, but it was there nonetheless. “Vhagar would grow lonely without Dreamfyre for company,” He grasped his sister’s hands in his own, pressing his lips to the back of them, “And so would I.”

Helaena didn’t flinch at the sudden gesture, nor pull away like she did with anybody else. Instead her smile grew wider and her eyes shone.

“Did you hear?” Helaena stepped closer to her brother, as if sharing a secret only the two of them possessed, “Reyna has returned to the Red Keep. Mother said it was all Aegon’s idea.”

Aemond bristled at the mention of his brother, sharp gaze landing on her with a tilt of his head, “Did she?” He hummed. Reyna felt as if she were a horse being inspected for market, “I had heard mother hired back some of our old staff, but I didn’t know our dear brother was involved in it.”

It was either this or the sword, Reyna’s practiced restraint was the only thing keeping her mouth shut.

She’d tried in vain to forget about the blade of Valyrian steel pressed against her neck, but she saw it every time she closed her eyes. Every time a head of silver hair marched through the hallways, dressed in green and flanked by a group of eldest sons.

Most of whom Lacey had been visited by at some point or another.

“It was the King’s command,” Reyna forces a smile on her face, picking up Helaena’s gown and robe to be washed and mended later in the day.

“Hmm,” Aemond’s eye continued to remain focused on her.

The King’s brother was the most unreadable of the Targaryen children, his lack of an eye making it difficult to see past him inside his head. Everything Reyna knew was surface level, hidden under a layer of dark shadow not even Helaena’s light seemed able to penetrate. 

She always tried to give the younger Prince a wide berth whenever he’s around. 

Aemond never tore his gaze off her, a smirk decorating his lips. 

Until Helaena pointed out they were already a few minutes behind schedule, and Dreamfyre was terribly temperamental when it came to sudden changes in routine.

As was Vhagar, it seemed, because Aemond didn’t say another word to her as he escorted his sister out of the Red Keep, black and blue walking side by side.

Reyna allowed herself to breathe and began to prepare for when Helaena returned. 

These past four years in the Red Keep had taught her a manner of things, specifically how particular both Queens were.

Helaena’s bath always had to be piping hot, sprinkled with lavender and lemongrass. The same scent as her soaps and lotions.

In fact, Reyna could practically recite the list of the Queen’s preferences from memory if asked.

She preferred blues and yellows to greens and reds.

Gold to silver.

Lose hair to tightened braids.

Silks vs velvets.

Front fastens instead of back laces.

Layered necklines over deep ones. 

Reyna knew each and every habit of the Princess turned Queen, which is why she suspected Helaena had been so happy to see her when she returned. The change in staff meant having to learn it all over again, with mistakes made and Helaena drawing inward when they were.

The princess never snapped, nor appeared angry, but the tightness of her lips and the frigid posture said all that needed to be said.

The servants were usually sent away with a curt “thank you” as Helaena took it upon herself to correct the mistakes made.

Thankfully, Dreia and Tansy seemed to have been kept on as well, which meant Reyna wasn’t the only one with intricate knowledge of the Queen’s preferences.

The Dowager Queen, however, was a different matter entirely.

Talya was nowhere to be found, which meant Reyna was the highest ranking handmaiden in her household, a thought that both terrified and thrilled her.

Her knowledge of Queen Alicent was much less expansive, although she’d shadowed Talya a few times before she was dismissed.

Green was the favored color, every servant in the castle knew that much, but her movements, her routine, it changed often. One day she would prefer silver to gold. Others a low neckline to her higher ones.

Some days she preferred to dress more in the style of her homeland, with tight waists and bell sleeves. Others, she preferred the elongated silhouettes and draped layers of Westeros.

It made it difficult to wait on her, although Reyna was slowly learning the ropes.

The Dowager Queen always took a bath the moment she woke up, which meant Reyna always drew hers before Helaena’s, giving the water plenty of time to cool to a lukewarm temperature.

Roses and lilies were her scents of choice, a far cry from her daughters.

But today was one of the days where Queen Alicent’s routine had changed. 

None of her servants were to be found, but seeing as Lord Larys was currently overseeing staff changes, Reyna didn’t think too much of it. 

She’d simply draw the bath herself. 

The washroom was empty when she entered, warming the water by the fire as she prepped the soaps and lotions for the Queen. Reyna bent down to grab the water when she heard it. 

A soft moan hanging in the air. 

Reyna was used to sounds of pleasure. One could hardly grow up in King’s Landing or Dorne without it. 

But she’d never heard of the Queen partaking in such things.

Many of the servants liked to joke she was saving herself for one of the gods. 

But it was there.

Unmistakable. 

Curiosity tugged at her stomach, drawing her further into the room, hiding behind the screen Queen Alicent used to dress. 

She was short enough to use the whole screen as cover, the two figures in her gaze growing more defined. 

One was certainly the Queen, with her long auburn curls bouncing up and down. She leaned against one of the posters of her bed, moaning faster and harder as the second dug his head further between her legs. 

The head of hair that came up to kiss the Queen was dark and curled at the man’s shoulders. 

The two turned and Reyna gasped as she caught sight of his profile.

“Stop,” Queen Alicent whispered, suddenly tense. 

The two figures turned to face the direction of the screen. 

“Stay here, Your Grace.” The husky tones of Ser Criston confirmed Reyna’s suspicions. 

The pitcher of water slipped from her hands and she ran. 

Aegon was growing tired of his grandfather’s constant meddling.

He thought once he was King, the man would finally let him be, but no. Instead he felt the desire to criticize every decision, every thought he voiced. 

It was bad enough when it happened in the small council, but in front of the very people who’d been witness to his coronation? In front of the people who smiled when he gave into their requests, who thanked him and fell at his feet for granting clemency?

It made him look weak. 

Like his father. 

Pliable, malleable, easily convinced. 

He would ensure the people did not view him as such. He needed a title, something easy to remember and quick to say. 

Martyn Reyne had been quick to offer his services. The red lion was quick to do anything he could for Aegon, which some days was more a nuisance than a blessing. 

He was glad to be rid of them, for all he wanted now was a trip to the Dragonpit.

Aemond and Helaena had snuck out just after dawn, but Aegon was once again forced to attend to matters he had not been prepared for. 

Sending missives to Storm’s End and the Vale and the North. All in the hope of bolstering a claim he never should have had. 

A claim he never wanted. 

He’d finally picked out the rest of his Kingsguard, choosing Eddard’s brother Marston Waters and a hedge knight from the Reach known as Ren Flowers. 

Allegedly he was a bastard of Bitterbridge, the Lady Caswell finding comfort in the arms of a Yi-Ti spice merchant after her first husband’s death in the Stepstones. 

Her second now hung from the walls of the Red Keep, a reminder of the cost of swearing allegiance to his half-sister. 

His grandfather had chastised him in front of the Kingsguard as well, telling him it was bad form to name so many bastards to such high positions. 

“No one knows how to fight better and harder than a bastard,” Aegon spoke sharply, recalling how many times Eddard had pummeled him and Martyn into the dirt, “When the time for war comes I will need men who aren’t beholden to their honor. Men who know what must be done to win.”

“Your Grace,” His grandfather always said his title with such disdain, “Passing over legitimate sons for the whelps of their mothers…it does not help your cause. It emboldens those with no claim, those who believe they can usurp the rightful heirs.”

Aegon turned to his grandfather with an arched brow. 

Ser Otto went silent. A rarity Aegon welcomed. 

The days where his mother and grandfather were silent were days Aegon felt like himself again. 

Instead of pushing and pulling and begging him to take one road over the other. 

He buried his nails into his skin at the thought of the last time he’d seen his mother. 

He never apologized, but he came crawling to her once he’d come to his senses, claiming the madness of drink had overtaken him. 

She’d simply looked at him and informed him she’d done as he asked. 

It was the closest the two would ever get to forgiveness. 

“My nephews are welcome to take the white cloak,” Aegon snapped at Otto with a wry smile, “It’s the highest position bastards like them will ever hold.”

“Your Grace–”

“In fact,” Aegon turned to the Grand Maester, smirk growing wider, “Put it in the terms as well, surely they would jump at such an opportunity.”

He said nothing more as he strode away from the inner courtyard, leaving his grandfather to plan the investiture of his new knights. 

There was a part of him that relished in the way his choice would get back to Rhaenyra and her sons, a cruel jape that would tempt them to finally fly off that damned rock. 

Bastards in white mocking the bastards in black. 

He let out a giggle as he rushed down the steps connecting Maegor’s Holdfast to the rest of the Red Keep. 

He’d barely taken a step forward when someone ran into him. 

Aegon grasped tightly to the figure that accosted him, ready to punish them for being so careless until he caught sight of the ebony hair and violet eyes that haunted him. 

“Your Grace,” Reyna bowed her head in deference, panting like she’d just ran a league. 

Aegon’s brow furrowed. 

The girl’s golden complexion had gone paler than the whitestone tower but her skin was warm under his touch. 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Her breathing was heavy, chest moving up and down as she struggled to find the words. It was rather fascinating really, how easily flustered she became. 

His lips twitched upward. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t see where I was going,” She brushed away a curl which had fallen free from her braid, tied back with a ribbon he could easily reach.

It made him want to pull it free and grasp the curls in his hands.

He wondered what her reaction would be. 

Would she kick and scream as he tilted her chin up to face him, or would a look of pleasure cross her face, a moan following after?

His cock stirred between his legs at the thought. 

Reyna stared at the hallway behind her. It led to the Tower of the Hand, where his mother now resided. From the look on her face, she had just been witness to something scandalizing. 

Or perhaps she’d had the displeasure of running into Ser Otto.

He did have quite the ability to turn even the most steel-willed servants into a whimpering mess if they caught him on a bad day. 

And Aegon had made it his mission to give his grandfather as many bad days as possible. 

It was his own pride and ambition which had put Aegon on the throne, so he would make the man pay for it. 

Besides, it’s not like Ser Otto was doing anything worthwhile these days. It provided a little more excitement in the Red Keep as they waited to hear back from Storm’s End. 

But if his grandfather was the reason Reyna shook the way she did now, then Aegon simply had more motivation to make his Hand’s life miserable. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I must be going.” 

Aegon stepped in front of her path, smirking. 

He watched as the fear left the handmaiden as quickly as it had come, a familiar expression crossing the Dornishwoman’s face. 

His smirk grew into a smile then, the handmaiden glaring at him as she crossed her arms. 

She was weary of him, but Aegon was just getting started. 

“Does His Grace plan to pull another knife on me?”

The bite in her words surprised him, but he found it stimulating. 

“Not that particular one,” His words made her blush and his heart skipped in his chest. 

It felt good to laugh again. It felt good to have someone who made him laugh again. 

Jace and Luke always laughed at his jokes, even egged him on when he was too afraid to say them aloud. It had been their idea to come up with the Pink Dread, but Aegon’s to deliver it in the Dragonpit.

He winced at the memory, recalling Aemond’s crestfallen expression and violent outbursts following the incident. 

He still carried a scar on the back of his shoulder. 

His hand flexed near the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger.

The only remnant of the love his father supposedly bore for him. 

It was a poor decision to hold her beneath it, but he had no other choice. He’d called her there to bed her, but once she started speaking he found himself hypnotized by her lips and the words that left it. 

He simply couldn’t let her leave. 

Not when she made him feel…like that. 

You’re not miserable. Not yet. 

“I’m jesting,” He saved with a smile, hands lifted up in surrender. Her gaze softens. Pleasure fills his chest. “Come, I have something to show you.”

“Your Grace–”

“--Demands that you come with him at once,” Aegon finished for her, earning him a scoff and an arched brow. 

Reyna shook her head, a quiet defiance in her gaze as she did so. He found it deliciously irritating. 

He supposed she thought of him the same way. 

The outspoken serving girl who’d pushed him away in the alleys of Flea Bottom was in there somewhere. It may have been buried underneath the rubble of the Dragonpit with her friend, but Aegon was determined to bring it to light again. 

And he knew just the way to do it. 

“I have duties to fulfill, your mother–”

“My mother has plenty of handmaids,” He waved her concerns away, her plump lips scowling at his words. “Your King has need of you now.”

She eyed him, gaze drifting between his legs before moving back up to his face. 

He tilted his head with a teasing smirk.

The edges of her lips tilt up into a smile, “How many other serving girls have you made that proposition to?”

The laugh that leaves him is something he hasn’t felt in years. 

“A few,” He leans in, “But you’re the only one that matters.”

Her eyebrows raise and he knows she can see right through him. 

“And I gather you’ve said that to how many ladies over the last year?.”

His stomach flutters at her words, biting down on his lip as he drank in her figure. 

It had been a long time since he found someone to verbally spar with. 

These days it was either anger or genuine frustration, the last person to truly entertain his jests had been his nephews, who could never take as good as they could give. 

“No ladies, but maidservants are easy to please.”

An incredulous laugh left her lips and Aegon smiled. 

“Are we?” She tipped her chin up at him, a glimpse of that outspoken girl appearing under the grief-stricken mask she wore. 

He wished to see more of it.

His smirk widened into a full smile, “Only when it comes to matters like these.”

His echo of her words makes her laugh, a small thing that sends his heart skipping again. 

Aegon couldn’t resist closing the space between the two of them, breath hot against her ear as he asked, “Have you ever ridden a dragon?”

The look on her face was almost enough to make him burst into genuine laughter. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Dragonpit was just as big as she remembered it.

Reyna followed Aegon through the passageways of the Red Keep, this one opening up behind his father’s–or rather his chambers now. 

“I discovered it my first night,” He admitted, handing her an old cloak she’d never seen him wear, “Apparently Maegor had designed one entrance in and out of his rooms only, and they don’t connect to any others.” His eyes had lit up, dimmed slightly by the lack of sleep, but still brighter than they’d been in the past few days, “I later learned, it’s because it connects to the Dragonpit.”

He spoke as if sharing knowledge lost to history, because as far as Reyna or anyone else in the Red Keep knew, it was. 

No one had known the secrets of the Red Keep except for Maegor Targaryen, who’d beheaded all of his stoneworkers, builders, and masons. His secrets had died with him, except now the man who bore his father’s name had brought them to life again. 

His hand is soft against hers as he leads her through the passageway, the rush of the Blackwater beneath them as they crossed a narrow bridge. 

Something churns in her gut, but curiosity hooks behind her bellybutton, spurring her forward and clasping the King’s hand with a renewed interest. 

It would be the death of her, her father used to say. 

There had been many days Maester Wyllis discovered her in one of the many nooks and crannies in Starfall, a stern look on his face before calling Hobb or one of the other servants to come deal with her. 

She’d be covered in dirt and grime and scrapes from her adventures, and Hobb would simply sigh and carry her back to the servant’s quarters to be washed and cleaned. 

But she knew the man held a soft spot for her, for he always asked what part of the castle she’d managed to chart, and what she’d found hidden behind the walls. 

Her favorite place to hide was the Palestone Sword, where the remnants of the Kings of the Torentine were placed. 

It was taller than the rest of the castle, with a large spiral staircase that took ages to climb, always leaving her out of breath when she reached the top. And once she did, she was greeted with gleaming silver and pale lilac, the emblem of House Dayne on every wall and window. 

Stained purple glass decorated the windows, illuminating the room in an ethereal glow. It was a color Reyna had never seen in her life, and was never like to see again. 

In the center a dais held the ancestral crown of the Kings of the Torentine, glowing amethysts and diamonds covered the purple velvet, the edges lined with the same iron that had forged Dawn. It was as big as her head, and she knew if she was ever to wear it it would send her toppling to the ground with its weight. 

King Vorian Dayne had been the last King to bear the Palestone Crown, the blood of his knights still staining the white feather which held a glowing single sapphire in the middle of it. 

It was the most beautiful thing Reyna had ever seen until she caught sight of the greatsword behind it. 

Forged from the heart of a fallen star, Dawn was as tall as her father, although the man had never wielded it. The steel never dulled, despite having been forged nearly thousands of years ago by the very first King of the Torentine. 

The Sword of the Morning, he’d styled himself, and every knight who’d wielded it since had followed suit. It’s blade was paler than milkglass, almost as pale as the white marble she now stood on, it’s hilt still gleaming with the light of the sun. 

The sword itself glowed with light, as if the stars themselves were woven into the metal. Reyna wondered if one could light up the night with such a blade. 

Blood spurted from her fingers as she pulled her hand from the blade, the edge as sharp as the day it was made. 

“You’ll get yourself killed if you’re not careful.” Her father spoke with a smile. 

She turned to see him standing beside the silver armor of the Sword of the Morning, the Dayne sigil burned into the breastplate. It was undented and unused, with no stains to be found. 

Unlike her father’s leathers, which had seen far too much battle to remain untouched.  

“I just wanted to look at it,” Reyna had said in self-defense, studying her feet as her father approached her. He shook his head and swept her into his arms, leading her around the halls of the Palestone Sword perched on his hip. 

He explained the history of House Dayne to her then. How their ancestor tracked a falling star to the mouth of the Torentine, building Starfall in its name.

It was a story she knew well, having heard Maester Wyllis and her mother tell it a thousand times, although the Maester’s was more historical and her mother’s was more fantastical. 

“Do you know why we keep these remnants of the past, Reyna?” He’d asked her then, violet eyes much like hers searching her face for clues. 

“Maester Wyllis says its to remember where we came from,” She spoke quietly, playing with her skirts which were much too small for her at this age. But they’d been cast-offs from Ester once she’d grown out of them, and they were the only ones she had for now. “He says if we forget the past we are doomed to repeat it.”

“Maester Wyllis is right,” Her father groans as he sets her on the ground, kneeling until he is at eye-level with her face, “But it does not do to dwell too much on the past. Despite our storied history, our eyes should always be focused on the future. What comes next. This way we know which way the winds are blowing and we can adjust our sails to match.”

“But what if we don’t know which way the wind blows?”

Her father broke out into a small chuckle and ruffled her hair. 

“Then you adapt where you can,” He’d answered, “The greatest sailors are not the ones who sail away from the storm, but into it. They are the ones who chart the way, the ones who follow the stars to places never explored before. Dane the Navigator was one such sailor, and he led our house to greatness.”

It was a false name, Reyna knew. 

The founder of their house had never written his name down in the history books, it had been Ser Davos Dayne who’d created the myth of Dane the Navigator. A man who’d charted the seas and landed at the Torentine in search of a star. 

It made for a better story anyway. 

The wind swept up her hair as they continued down the path to the Dragonpit. 

Reyna held tightly to her braid, tugging on it as they grew closer and closer to the roars and shrieks of the beasts. 

Aegon’s hand was still in hers. 

Her mouth longed for water, hands sweaty as he continued to pull her along, his smile growing wider. It was a sight Reyna was unused to. 

The Targaryen man had always been ill-mannered, ill-tempered and as tempestuous as the beast he rode. There was little excitement in his eyes unless he’d been looking for a maid to bed or a bottle to drink. And one way or another, he always found what he was looking for. 

She remembered Dreia telling her about the moment Aegon had fucked her, lifting up her skirts with a smile as his teeth sank into her skin, making her forget about the treason she was committing. 

He was sweet to her afterwards, Dreia explained, twirling her hair with a sigh, treated her as well as a whore deserved, and who else could say they’d fucked the heir to the Seven Kingdoms?

Reyna’s skepticism won out, but Dreia seemed half in love and enjoyed the experience, so there wasn’t much she could say on the matter. 

She supposed when a prince asked you into their bed, one could hardly say no. 

He has a way with words , Dreia said. He made me feel special, wanted…seen . 

Perhaps that was what he was doing with Reyna right now. 

I wanted to be loved by him. I wanted to believe he could love me back. 

But then why hadn’t he tried to get her into bed with him yet? Why didn’t he just demand she undress and let him fuck her like any other man would? 

Why was he taking her to see his dragon? 

Curiosity stirred in her abdomen and she found herself wanting to peek inside the King’s mind to see what he was thinking. 

When he was the prince it was obvious, but now he hid behind the same smiles and pleasantries as everyone else. Sometimes when he spoke, she even thought she heard the voice of Ser Otto. 

He still drank and fucked and laughed, but there was something else to him now. Something Reyna wasn’t quite able to name. 

The floor of the pit had been lowered, revealing the ramp the dragonkeepers used to escort the dragons back and forth. 

But there were no dragonkeepers to be found and Aegon was pulling her further and further. 

Torches hung on either side, illuminating the stairs deeper into the pit. The dome stood tall above her, unreinforced and overseen by artisans from Volantis and Tyrosh, larger than anything in the known world. 

“Wait here,” Aegon ordered, and Reyna was too much in shock to fight against him. 

She’d refused to come to the structure following the coronation, although she could see the dragonkeepers had cleaned every inch of it, ensuring there were no remains of the incident. 

A new layer of concrete and mortar had been placed over where Meleys erupted from, the blood washed away, leaving nothing behind. 

An animalistic shriek pulled her attention back to the ramp. Her eyes widened at the sight greeting her.

Molten gold dripped from the dragon’s scales, matching the colors of the sunrise. What she once thought was magenta was in iridescent pink lining his wings, shimmering like the glass lamps of Starfall with each movement. 

She now understood why Sunfyre was known as “the Golden.” 

Even his horns, which twisted out above his eyes in the same beaten gold and iridescent pink as the rest of him, appeared elegant and ethereal. The mix of colors reminded her of the Palestone Sword, and how the light would bounce off the silver of the Sword of the Morning’s armor, or how it would illuminate Dawn high on the wall, turning the colors of House Dayne into the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

Aegon stood with a smile as bright as his dragon, the animal nuzzling his head between the King’s neck and shoulders. Sunfyre stretched his wing around Aegon with a low growl before knocking the Targaryen to the ground with a nudge of his snout. 

“I know, I know,” Aegon chided himself, bright laughter echoing off the empty walls of the Dragonpit. It sounded like nothing Reyna had ever heard from the King before, “I should have come sooner, I’m sorry.”

Sunfyre let out another whine and placed his head on Aegon’s lap, letting out a snort of affection. 

The Targaryen’s fingers dug underneath the dragon’s scales, petting him and scratching him as if he were a dog instead of the most powerful beast of the known world. 

Reyna could only stare. 

The drunken prince she’d grown used to had transformed into something else entirely, face flushed with the youth of a child instead of the weight of the man he’d been forced to become. 

It was as if the past few days had all melted away and he was simply a boy with a dragon. 

Something tugged at the edge of her open mouth. She almost thought it felt like a smile. 

Her damned curiosity spurred her forward, boots scraping against the dirt of the dragonpit and alerting Sunfyre to her presence. 

The dragon immediately stood at attention, hunching his shoulders with a growl as his talons came to rest a mere few feet before her. 

His head stood the height of her body, not nearly as large as Vhagar or Meleys, but still a behemoth to her. 

Her body trembled, half in fear, half in excitement. 

The warmth of his breath washed over her, blowing her hair back as he let out a roar. 

“Lykiri, Sunfyre,” Aegon stood up and brushed his hands over the dragon’s scales, “Lykiri.” 

The dragon did as he commanded, not needing to be told twice. 

Her stomach fluttered as she took another step forward, her father’s words ringing in her head. 

You will get yourself killed one day. 

Dragons had never fascinated Reyna, not the way they did others. They were remnants of an empire drenched in the blood of slaves and innocents, ready to burn anyone to a crisp simply for disobeying. 

They were creatures to fear. 

The reason the Rhoynar, her ancestors, had fled to Dorne. 

But as she stood before one, she could only stare in barely contained wonder and awe. 

“Come,” Aegon gestured to the side, but her feet remained in place, gaze fixated on the beast above her. She could feel the King’s gaze on her, his silver hair shimmering in her periphery. “Are you afraid?”

She shook her head, mouth still agape. 

Words refused to form at the base of her throat, and knowing full well her arm could be eaten off, Reyna stretched out her hand to close the remaining feet between her and Sunfyre. 

His snout was hot to the touch, nostrils flaring as he leaned into her palm, nuzzling her gently. 

He purred beneath her touch, the sound rumbling in her chest and shaking her from head to toe. 

Her lips widened into a smile as she turned to meet Aegon’s gaze. 

It hadn’t left her face. 

He stared at her with the same look of wonderment and awe she’d shown the dragon, but there was something else dancing in his eyes. The lilac color turning the soft shade she recognized from the night she told him of Dorne. His mouth has styled itself into a pleased grin, and a laugh shakes her shoulders as she pulls away. 

Sunfyre stares at her with expressive blue eyes, the color of the sea on a sunny day. He lets out a pleased snort and turns back to his master.

“There’s that boldness I remember,” Aegon says with a teasing lilt in his voice, brushing his hand over Sunfyre’s scales with soothing words of High Valyrian. He takes her hand in his once more and brings it to the dragon’s neck, the power of flame pulsing underneath her hand as Sunfyre chitters happily. 

It does not escape her how much bigger Aegon’s hand is than hers. 

Her stomach dances. 

She misses the warmth when he pulls it away. 

Sunfyre dips his wing before Aegon can command him, the King using the limb as a lift to climb atop his dragon saddle. It’s a meager thing with the Targaryen sigil burned into the leather and two horns in the place of reins. 

He turns to her with an arched brow when he finally situates himself atop the beast, “Well, are you coming, Reyna of Starfall?”

Her heart drops into her stomach. 

“What?” the word comes out with a squeak, Aegon smirking as he held out his hand.

“Surely you didn’t think I dragged you all this way just to meet my dragon?”

Sunfyre lets out a squeak similar to her own. Reyna thinks it sounds suspiciously like laughter. 

She stares up at the King with a beleaguered expression, eyes and mouth wide at his request.

“I don’t–I don’t know how to ride a dragon, Your Grace.”

“Nobody does,” Aegon shrugs, “Until they ride a dragon.”

His hand stretches out toward her, an expectant look on his face. 

She doesn’t know what to think. 

In a matter of days, the man before her has gone from an ill-tempered prince to a demanding king to something else entirely. She wants to call it childish and perhaps it is, but it is the lightest she’s seen the King in her four years at King’s Landing. 

He has a way with words . Dreia’s voice echoes in her mind. 

Your curiosity will be the death of you. 

The voices are drowned out by Sunfyre chittering beside her. 

Something hooks behind her stomach and she grasps Aegon’s hand. 

He places her in front, legs splayed on either side of the saddle as her skirts bunch up between her legs. She suddenly knows what Helaena means when she says she prefers leggings to ride in. 

Aegon belts the both of them to the dragon, his arms on either side of her as he grabs the saddlehorns with a smirk. 

“Soves.”

The dragon lunges forward and the ground disappears beneath her.

Reyna screams.

Aegon laughs. 

Her hands tighten around his on the saddlehorn, grasping white knuckled as Sunfyre rises higher and higher, the ground growing smaller and smaller. 

The noise is deafening, each wing beating out a thunderous clap as Aegon’s arm wraps itself around her waist, holding her tight against him. 

Sunfyre dives and Reyna’s stomach goes with him. 

The golden dragon twists through the parapets of the Red Keep, letting out a shrill cry that shook Reyna’s bones, drawing the attention of every man, woman, and child in the area. 

She spies two spots of green and a white cloak near the Tower of the Hand, barely able to make out the look of shock on the Queen’s face as Aegon bursts into laughter behind her. 

Sunfyre laughs alongside him and pulls away, higher and higher until the Keep is merely a speck on the horizon. 

Aegon tightens his grip as she falls back into him, gripping tightly to his arm as Sunfyre continues his climb. 

“Higher, Sunfyre.” Aegon calls out over the sound of thunder, her ears popping as they burst through the cloud cover, the golden dragon piercing the clouds like an arrow hitting its target. 

He dives once more, the ground coming up quickly to meet them and Reyna is sure this is how she dies. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself for impact. 

It never comes.

They float for a brief moment and Reyna’s stomach settles. 

Sunfyre’s wings even out as he glides through the air, wind flapping through the membranes like the sails of a ship. 

It steers the pair toward the horizon, and when Reyna opens her eyes, she is surrounded by blue on all sides. 

The Narrow Sea stretches out before her.

Sunfyre releases a shriek that startles a ship bearing the sigil of House Velaryon, tilting to the side until he is nearly perpendicular, wing skimming the tops of waves as he soars through the ships as if they were nothing more than training obstacles. 

Aegon grins as he steers Sunfyre through the ships once more with ease. It is effortless, and Sunfyre needs little instruction as his wing tilts again.

Waves mist against Reyna’s face and she grips tight to the horn as she leans closer to the edge, pushing slightly away from Aegon’s grip. 

Her boot hooks itself into the leather loop of the saddle and she uses the momentum to reach out. 

Fingers skim the top of the Narrow sea, waves rippling out at her touch. It sprays across her face, drenching her in the cool waters of the deep. 

She breathes for what feels like the first time since she left the ground, her reflection staring up at her in the water. 

It is the sight of a baseborn girl from Dorne–hair rippling behind her and tangled from the wind–on the back of a dragon.

She stares out over the ocean like a captain hanging from the rigging of a ship as Sunfyre steadies, parallel to the waves, molten gold reflected in the sunlight. 

He lets out a triumphant roar. 

Reyna throws her head back and laughs.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hears her mother and Ivy laughing too.

They float in the air for what feels like hours, although Reyna knows it has only been a few minutes. 

Aegon pulls a wineskin from a bag on the edge of the saddle and takes a swig, offering it to her in what seems like a sign of good faith. 

She stares at the opening with a skeptical brow. 

“Drink,” He orders, hand still outstretched, “It helps with the air sickness.”

As if on cue, her stomach churns again, breakfast threatening to re-emerge. 

She gulps down arbor red, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste. 

But she finds Aegon is correct, and the drink helps calm her stomach as Sunfyre continues to circle the capital. 

“Feel better?” He is no longer grinning, but a smirk decorates his face. Reyna rolls her eyes but finds herself nodding. 

She shoves the wineskin back into his hand and turns back toward the front, hand reaching out to pet the back of Sunfyre’s neck. 

He lets out a happy shriek and ducks down closer to the sea, Aegon’s hand returning to her waist once again before the dragon steadies.

Something in her stomach flutters. 

“Careful,” Aegon’s voice is laced with something she doesn’t recognize. She almost thinks it sounds like concern, “Sunfyre has a tendency to get excited, one wrong move and you’ll go splattering to the ground below.”

Reyna found her lips twisting up into a smirk, “Are you saying you’d miss me, Your Grace?”

Aegon scoffed, but even he couldn’t hide the teasing smile tugging on the edge of his lips, “It’s purely for my own benefit.” He takes another sip of the wineskin and puts it back in the saddlebag, “I would be murdered in my sleep if Helaena found out I accidentally killed her favorite handmaiden.”

The pair shared a small laugh, a comforting quiet settling over the two of them. 

Reyna finds herself pleased by Aegon’s assertion of his sister’s love for her. 

To know someone would miss her if she disappeared, even if it’s her employer, it makes her smile. 

“At least the last thing I’d see would be from the back of a dragon.” Her voice is teasing, stomach fluttering as the King laughs behind her. 

She finds herself leaning back, the sturdiness of his chest providing enough of a wall to sit against. 

She swears she hears his breath hitch, but she chases the thought away before it can take root. 

His heart beats in time with her own and his chin finds place atop her head. 

She cannot tear her gaze away from the outstretched water and rising sun before her. 

The sky is painted a soft pink, blue bleeding through the clouds like spilled water on parchment. 

Despite the wind creating goosebumps on her skin, this is the warmest she’s felt since she left Dorne. 

“I thought this a suitable alternative to beheading,” Aegon’s voice is small, trembling as he forces the words out like a jest. He tenses slightly.

She isn’t sure how to respond at first. 

Reyna knows better than to expect an apology from a King, especially for one as low as her, but the thought tingles in her chest. Her mind conjures up an image of Aegon grasping her skirts and begging her not to go, a thousand sorry’s dropping from his lips before she takes them in hers. 

Fear seizes her for a brief moment. 

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t entertained the idea before–every serving girl has–but it is the first time it comes to her unbidden. 

The other times were innocent secrets shared between girls, a fantasy conjured up by children’s games and the knowledge there were no other eligible men on the castle grounds. 

It was never meant to extend beyond that.  

But then his hands found her waist and he’d taken her on the back of a dragon. 

He held a knife to her throat and threatened to behead her until she stayed. 

Aegon stiffens behind her. 

“It is. Although I can understand why a man would go to such lengths to keep such a diligent worker.” The lie comes to her easily, forming on her tongue without hesitation, “A King especially, it would be hard to let go of someone he trusts.”

Aegon relaxes against the saddle. 

So does Reyna. 

“So, you understand why I had to…”

Reyna turns to face him, her smile not reaching her eyes. Her chest twists at the hopeful expression on the King’s face and a glint of dark steel flashes across her eyes, “Of course, Your Grace.”

The artifice tastes sweet and relief swirls in Aegon’s eyes as he leans back. She almost thinks she spies a tear. 

Her own heart is racing, but her body is flooded with something new entirely upon seeing the impact of her words on the King. 

A lust for love. A lust for acceptance. 

A lust for understanding. 

All the Targaryen children have it, she thinks. 

Helaena is sweet and kind, but Reyna is sure she hides a quick wit and mind behind all that sweetness. Something no one except her brother sees. There’s a gleam in Helaena’s eyes in her chats with Aemond that disappears when she meets her mother for breakfast or Aegon visits to ask about Jaehaerys. 

The childish innocence Aegon bears around Sunfyre is the only time she’s ever seen the King truly happy, and even Aemond’s darkness fades when he talks strategy and warfare with Ser Criston. 

In every other instance it swallows the Targaryen children and the small light they’ve allowed themselves to have.

Being a shadow means she is able to observe what others do not. 

Watching as the walls between the Targaryen-Hightowers rose higher and higher and the threads connecting each of them grew more and more frayed until they finally snapped. 

But here, up in the skies, her words draw a little bit more of that light into the cave Aegon has hidden himself in. It excites her and her body erupts into a thrilling shiver.  

The sun disappears as two shadows appear reflected in the depths of the Narrow Sea, one much larger than the other. 

Reyna lifts her gaze to the skies.

Aegon sighs. 

“My siblings seem to have found us.”

Dreamfyre approaches first, the bright blue of her scales the same color as Helaena’s dresses, silver lining her wings and horns. The she-dragon is bigger than Sunfyre by quite a bit and belts out a teasing roar, which the golden dragon returns in earnest.

“Having fun, brother?” Helaena trades a smirk with her brother-husband, High Valyrian hiding that teasing wit Reyna knew she possessed. 

She was silently thankful her mother and father encouraged her to learn the language at such a young age. The bastard Valyrian in Myr had been her first language before learning Common, and it was easy to pick up the intricacies of High Valyrian once one knew the basics. 

“I was until you showed up.”

A much larger roar belched across the waves, green and bronze flanking the other side of Sunfyre. 

A monster from her childhood flies beside her, larger than anything Reyna had ever seen. 

Compared to Vhagar, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre are flies to be swatted, the monstrous behemoth bearing its teeth in a savage grin. 

The she-dragon is slower than her companions, but it does not make her any less terrifying. 

Visenya Targaryen had been everyone’s favorite conqueror growing up, although Reyna found herself preferring the stories of Rhaenys and Meraxes. But a warrior queen wielding Dark Sister on the back of the largest dragon in the world was a fairytale for many young girls. 

Even Ivy and Lacey had preferred Visenya to Rhaenys. 

Reyna’s smile died at the thought of her friend.

She tugged on the end of her braid. 

“Come now, brother,” a rare smile appears on Prince Aemond’s face as he locks eyes with Helaena, “It’s not every day you take a whore dragonriding.”

Reyna stiffens and Aegon tenses behind her. 

“Aemond…” Helaena chastises, an apologetic look on her face as she meets Reyna’s gaze. 

The one-eyed prince smirks, “On Sunfyre that is.”

“As opposed to your hoary old bitch?” Aegon fires back, his ill temper returning at the sight of his brother. 

Silence stood between the two princes for a brief moment until Aemond let out a tight laugh. 

His single eye turns to Reyna, his smile unnatural on his chiseled face. 

“Naejot,” He flicks Vhagar’s reins and the dragon breaks away with a groan, Helaena and Dreamfyre following after. 

Aegon’s mood sours and he turns Sunfyre back toward the Red Keep. 

His mother and his Hand are waiting for him when they return. 

Disapproval is etched upon their faces, his grandfather looking at Reyna with something akin to disgust. 

It makes Aegon’s blood boil. He suddenly understands why his Uncle hated him so much. 

Ser Criston stands a few paces behind his mother, eyeing the pair as they enter the courtyard of the Red Keep. 

Aegon doesn’t bother using the secret passageway again, and this time it is Reyna who leads him through the alleyways of King’s Landing, her hand in his as they trade laughter and smiles and she tells him of Dorne. 

Her face is alight as she speaks of the traveling minstrels and the spices used to season their foods. It makes Aegon’s mouth water.

“I almost became a minstrel myself,” She says with a wide smile, the happiest he’s ever seen her. The blue ribbon lingers tantalizingly within his grasp and he has to stop himself from yanking it out. She smells of wildflowers and oranges and he gets a whiff every time she draws near. 

It’s almost as intoxicating as the Arbor Red. 

“To think I could have hired you as my personal bard,” He jests, his chest dancing in victory as he draws another eye roll and a smile from the handmaiden. “I still could, you know.”

She throws her head back and laughs, just as she had on the back of Sunfyre, “And your court would be all the worse for it.”

It is a melodious thing Aegon cannot get enough of, and it is almost enough to make him forget about the sight that awaits him as they pass underneath the bailey, golden dragons on either side of them. 

Reyna goes quiet and she falls into a deferring curtsy. 

“Mother.” His voice is flat and affectless, like it usually is when he is about to get scolded. He briefly meets Reyna’s gaze before turning back to the welcome party. 

He refuses to acknowledge his grandsire. 

Reyna keeps her eyes low to the ground, and Aegon is wondering if she is suddenly wishing she’d fallen from Sunfyre’s saddle after all. 

“Where have you been?” Alicent directs her question at Aegon, but her eyes flicker to Reyna for a brief moment. It’s the same lecture he’s come to expect from the woman. “The small council has been waiting on you.”

Aegon scoffed, leaning to the side with a shrug, “I was out on Sunfyre.”

“With a maidservant?” The low timbre of Ser Otto’s disapproval reverberates in his chest and Aegon tenses at the implication. 

It is the same one Aemond made while flying and it burns in his chest. 

He does not know why. 

It is not as if he hadn’t had his way with maidservants before. They were usually all too eager to climb into his bed and lift their skirts for a Targaryen prince. And if they weren’t a little convincing was all it took and they crumbled in his fingers. 

But he knows what his grandfather and brother point at, what it meant for a King to take a lowborn handmaiden on the back of his dragon. 

Even if she was noble, they would have come to the same conclusion. 

It was a symbol, he could practically hear his grandfather say now, preemptively rolling his eyes. His mind wanders to his namesake and his sisters. 

They defied the rules of gods and men, why couldn’t he?

“The King can do as he likes.”

It is what he says, but the court knows it is no real truth. His father was not above tradition, product of a true Targaryen marriage he was, otherwise Aegon would not be standing here this very moment. 

“I suspect the King would like to explain himself then,” his grandfather’s words made his stomach curl, clenching his hands into a fist. The Hand of the King had a habit of making Aegon feel six and ten again, a child to be scolded and chastised and kicked until he submits. 

Sometimes he can still feel the ache in his sides. 

It only serves to add to the disdain he’s felt for the old man since childhood. 

“Not particularly,” Aegon tosses out carelessly. He almost thinks it's something his Uncle would say. 

Something inside of him is pleased at the thought. 

Otto heaves a sigh and turns to Alicent. 

Her gaze is more forgiving, although he supposes it must be because of the handmaiden behind him. Much like Helaena, his mother has grown fond of the girl. It is a unique talent she possesses, to turn every Targaryen and Hightower into a puddle at her feet. 

He wonders if she even knows of the power she holds. 

An alluring bastard of a girl, he thinks, lips twisting upward as he recalled their flight. 

His mother’s disapproving sigh brings him out of it, and his mood sours as it does. 

“Ser Criston,” she turns to the knight, as she has often the days following his father’s death, “Please escort the King to the small council chambers. I will see to the handmaiden.”

His Lord Commander of the Kingsguard does as he’s bid, forever the loyal sword at the Dowager Queen’s side. 

Aegon steps between him and Reyna, hiding the girl from view. 

“Your Grace–”

“But a moment Ser Criston,” He taunts, stomach fluttering at the pursed lips and creased brow of the knight before him. His mother and grandfather squirm as Aegon turns on his heel and takes Reyna’s hand in his own, pressing it to his lips as if she were a noble lady he was courting and not a bastard of Dorne. 

It is for his own pleasure, for the knowledge of pissing off his grandfather even further. Playing the gallant knight to her Queen of Love and Beauty. 

A crown of red roses would look lovely against the nightshade of her hair, he thinks for a brief moment, before tossing the thought aside. 

An idea he’ll save for the next grand tourney. When Aemond marries, he thinks. If he marries. 

“Until next time, my lady,” He drags the title out, still holding tight to her hand. Something flickers in her eyes at the words.

The pleasure in his chest expands. 

The ribbon lays there against the green of her dress, cornflower blue and just within reach. 

He restrains himself before he can act on the urge, following Ser Criston into the Red Keep.

Otto Hightower is not far behind. 

It isn’t until he enters the small council his good mood is well and truly ended by the news Grand Maester Orwyle brings via raven.

His sister has styled herself the one true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

It is enough to boil his blood and ruin his day with one fell word. 

Dark wings, dark words, his mother always said. 

The small council bickered and dithered as they always did, but Aegon stewed in freshly made anger. His hand grasps for the wine and he downs it all. 

“My half-sister and uncle are traitors,” He spat, slamming the goblet down on the table, his marble with it. The men on the small council turn to him with wide eyes. Good. “I want them attainted, I want them arrested, and I want them dead.”

The room goes silent. 

He almost thinks he sees his grandfather smile. 

“Your Grace–”

Aegon clenches his jaw at the sound of Orwyle’s voice, shutting his eyes in frustration. 

There was always something else. 

“Perhaps we send terms first, brother should not war against sister–”

“And how do you feel about the Black Cells, Grand Maester?” Aegon lifts a brow in jest, leaving the man to wonder whether he truly meant it, “I’m sure we can find you one, along with the rest of the traitors.”

“Your Grace, I simply meant–”

“My whore of a sister has declared herself the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” 

Ser Criston’s words lingered in the back of his head and he pictures his family’s bodies on display outside the walls, his little boy and girl among them. 

His blood boils. 

Nightshade and violet joins the colors swirling in his head. 

“The time for peace is over.”

“The Grand Maester is right,” His mother has finally joined the room, a pallor to her face that wasn’t there before. The council turns to face her, Ironrod and Tyland Lannister standing up straighter in her presence, The Dowager Queen crosses her hands over her skirts and saunters forward, chin high in the air. 

“Rhaenyra can call herself whatever she likes, it does not change the fact that you are the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms.” She stops at the opposite end of the table, glaring at the council. “Send her terms, let the people see the mercy of their king, of brother to sister.” 

He felt himself wither under her gaze.

“No man is as accursed as the kinslayer.”

Aegon collapses to his seat and gives in once more, missing the scent of oranges and wildflowers.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT

The perfumed scent of the whorehouse was unusual to Aemond. 

It filled every room on the Street of Silk, cheap vanilla choking the breath from his lungs as it snaked into his chest and squeezed every last drop into his veins. 

It made him want to gag. 

Naked bodies of all shapes and sizes were strewn across the chaises and floors of the brothel. Whether it was women sucking the cocks of men or men thrusting themselves further into the cunts of women, Madame Sylvi had something for everyone, he supposed. 

Silver-haired girls seemed to be in short supply these days, traded instead for long dark locks and bronzed skin. It seems his brother’s preferences had made themselves known. 

He sneered at the sight, his singular eye scanning the crowd of bodies for the woman he was searching for. A sick twisted need to say goodbye before he committed the rest of his life to a floozy to satisfy his mother’s ambitions. 

Let no one say Aemond Targaryen was not a loyal son and brother. 

Some strange part of him still felt connected to the Madame. The woman who’d been his first. Not that he’d ever give Aegon the satisfaction of knowing of his…attachment. 

But even as he scanned the rooms of the brothel, the woman was nowhere to be found, it was as if she’d disappeared into thin air. 

“May I help you, Ser?” A musical voice floated through the air, as sickly sweet as the perfume that now clung to his clothes. 

Aemond turned, catching sight of a pair of bright blue eyes that almost matched the color of the one beneath his mask. Golden waves draped her shoulders, a thin thread of red glimmering in the candlelight. Her gaze shifted to one of brief surprise before she dipped into a curtsy. 

“My prince,” He recognizes the teasing lilt to her voice. It makes his stomach burn. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

A silk robe drapes itself around her neck, it’s open front hiding nothing from view. 

Aemond’s gaze dips down, cock stirring at the sight of her breasts hanging lazily from her figure. They are full and tempting, but it is not pleasure he seeks tonight. 

At least not of that nature. 

“Where is Madame Sylvi?”

He does not frame it as a request. 

The girl’s lips tilt upward into a smirk. If he squints, he thinks it may resemble Helaena’s. 

“Did you not hear?” That teasing lilt never leaves her voice, and he wonders if it is merely an act or a permanent state of being for the whore. Her eyes scanned his body, lingering on his manhood for far longer than he was used to. “After the coronation she took what little gold she possessed…and fled.”

Something inside Aegon twists, heat rising to his cheeks at the situation he’s suddenly found himself in.

He does not know why he feels the urge to suddenly slice through each and every curtain until the whores lie in a pile at his feet. 

It would make him feel fierce again. 

Like the Targaryen he was. 

His stomach churned as the whore’s smile grew wider, finger playing with the golden chain around her neck. No doubt a present from some fat lord who grown tired of fucking his wife. “I recognize you.”

Aemond’s stomach drops. 

He has not felt so naked in nearly four years, yet the whore has undressed him without so much as touching his laces. 

She tilts her head and scans his frame once more, biting down on her lip. “Madame Sylvi was your first, wasn't she?”

He knows his silence is answer enough. 

He hates it. 

He hates feeling weak. Especially under the gaze of women. 

The only woman who has ever made him feel that way was the bitch mother of bastards, demanding he be sharply questioned after her bastard son took out his eye. 

His skin crawls at the memory, pain splitting across his cheek. 

The sapphire rubs against his nerves as his bad eye twitches, an uncomfortable itch bursting across his face and down his side. 

The whore stares at him with victory in her eyes, a playfulness he’s spied in Aegon dozens of times. 

“Welcome back, Prince Aemond.”

His jaw clenches at the title, grinding his teeth together at the sharp laugh that punctures the air. 

It is more a giggle than anything and it sounds like his bastard nephews the day they presented him with a pig for a dragon. 

“She took you in here didn’t she?” The whore slips past him and he gets a whiff of her scent. She smells like roses, but not like the cheap ones used in the brothel perfumes. It smells like the ones his mother uses. It smells like Highgarden and Oldtown. The robe has an open back as well, showing off the curves of her waist and ass, a coy smile thrown over her bare shoulder. 

“I was only a girl, but she instructed me to watch.” 

He expects malice in her voice but that familiar bitterness is nowhere to be found. He finds himself yearning for it. 

She pivots on her foot for a moment, as if looking for something. Her gaze stops on him once more, stormy blue meeting pale violet. 

“Right there,” Her smile had faded slightly, “Said it would be my final lesson. For once you’ve learned to seduce a prince, there’s nothing left to teach you.”

Aemond tensed under her touch, but he did not pull away, hating how his stomach yawned in pleasure at the sensation of her fingers on his laces. 

Her breath was hot and he caught a whiff of roses once more. 

“And then I watched as she didn’t even fuck you,” Her brow creased and Aemond’s throat tightened, “Just sat and listened, comforting a young boy who’d lost his eye.”

He tossed the bag of gold dragons on the table beside them. 

She arched a brow at the pile. 

“For your silence.” He orders.

Her chuckle is mirthless and she pulls her robe open further. 

Aemond hates the way he can feel the blood rush to his cock at the sight of her, hates that her hair is gold and not silver or red, hates her teasing smirks and coy smiles, hates the way she would feel beneath his grip, soft and pliable and subject to his every whim. 

Most of all, he hates how badly he wants to suck her teats. 

Every woman is an image of the mother. Cole’s words echo in his mind. 

Clearly the Andals had never met a whore. 

“I am yours, Prince Aemond.”

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

She tilts her head, disbelief flashing across her face at his words. He thinks its the first real emotion he’s seen from her this evening. “Do you need to?”

No. He asserts. No he does not. 

Aemond closes the space between them and fists her golden waves, pulling down until she is a good head below him. 

She does not flinch at the gesture, instead her eyes gleam and she bites down on her full lips. 

He takes them in his own. 

It’s embarrassing how hard he gets with such little effort. He shoves the robe off Golden Hair until it pools around her feet, slamming her into the pillows below. 

Her figure is laid bare for all to see and he drinks it in hungrily. 

Aemond draws the curtain shut and begins to untie his laces. 

A knock at her door drew Reyna out of the stupor she’d been in for the last several minutes.

She turned her gaze from the delicately painted ceilings of her chambers to face the intruder, softening when she realized who it was.

“You should know better than to sneak up on a Dornishwoman, Ren.” She wants to be playful, but the events of the day weigh on her, and she finds herself weary of pretty words and half-truths.

The hedge knight leans against the door with a cocksure smile, black curls falling in his face. Even here in the capital he refused to tie it up, instead letting it shag around his shoulders like a wild animal.

“I knocked,” Ren Flowers spoke with the same teasing lilt Lacey did, a practice Reyna learned originated from the Reach. “Couldn’t stand to see you moping. It’s bad form really, especially from the Queen’s handmaiden.”

A pillow hit him square in the face.

“I can only imagine the consequences you would face for being so impertinent.”

He dodged the next one expertly.

Ren’s smile widened and he stepped across the threshold and further into her chambers.

They weren’t grand by any means, but they were a market improvement over the cramped spaces in the servant’s hall. Reyna was still getting used to the space she’d been granted.

The dusty stone of the red keep surrounded her on all sides, frescoes of House Targaryen decorating the ceilings. The one she’d been staring at was of Rhaenys the Conqueror on the back of Meraxes, dragonflame threatening to engulf the castle of Storm’s End as Argillac Durrandon refused to surrender.

The mural of the Last Storm covered the entire ceiling, stretching until it reached the hearth opposite her bed. Right above it was Aegon and his sisters, forcing the Kings of the Vale, North and Riverlands to bend the knee.

The rest of her chamber was spacious and larger than anything Reyna had ever been gifted. Even at Starfall.

A single window opened up into the courtyard, providing a way to spy on the comings and goings of the lords and ladies of the court.

It was closer to Helaena’s quarters than Alicent’s, and as such was dressed in blues and golds rather than the deep green the Dowager Queen favored.

The blue reminded her of Dreamfyre, still unable to believe she’d ridden a dragon that morning. A small smile tugged at her lips.

She relived the memory every time she closed her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Reyna turned to ask the knight, who was currently standing before her in a brown tunic and loose shirt showing off his chest. His white cloak and armor was nowhere to be found.

Ren smirked, “I have been given leave by Ser Criston. He will be guarding the Queen Dowager from now on.”

Reyna tensed at the mention of the kingsguard and the Queen, recalling her earlier conversations with both of them.

“About what you saw this morning—”

“I saw nothing, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s eyes had widened in surprise, but Reyna remained impassive, refusing to let anything show on her face.

The woman had eyed her like she was hiding something else up her sleeve.

“You do know no one will ever believe you if you tell them.”

It wasn’t a kind suggestion.

Reyna stared directly at the Queen, worry dancing behind the brown hues.

“I’m not sure what you are referring to, Your Grace,” Her stomach curled at the words, chest tightening at the thought of what awaited her if she was caught. It was the same fate that awaited her if she spilled the Queen’s secrets. “All I saw this morning was the Queen sleeping soundly and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard standing dutifully at his post.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in realization.

Reyna resisted the urge to smirk. It would do no good here. Starfall had taught her there was a time and a place for her wit, and facing down the paranoid gaze of a woman in power was not one of those times.

Plus, not that she would admit it, but she didn’t mind Queen Alicent. She was a kind enough employer, and what she chose to do with her time as a widow was none of Reyna’s business.

Besides, she was more worried about her sworn shield than the Queen herself.

The Queen had simply thanked her with a look before warning her of the consequences of allowing herself to dream too high above her station.

Ser Criston, however, was a different matter entirely.

She’d only ever interacted with the man once. Until earlier that morning that is.

“You there.”

Reyna stopped in her tracks, placing Helaena’s laundry on her hip.

He didn’t even have the decency to call her by her name. Although she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Power does curious things to people after all.

The knight held a reserved anger often seen in the halls of the Red Keep and there wasn’t a soul alive that didn’t know of the events at Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding feast.

A man pummeled to death for seemingly no good reason.

“Ser Criston,” Reyna had bowed, although not nearly as low as she would with the royal family, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His grip tightened around her bicep and he pulled her into the shadows.

The steel of his gauntlets dug into her skin. She almost thought she would bleed from his grasp.

“You would do well to remember where you stand,” His low growl rumbled in her chest, “You are here by the grace of Queen Alicent, not the King.”

“Funny, that’s not how I recall it happening.”

She rips her arm out of his grip. The skin stings.

Perhaps it is because she knows where he comes from that it is easy for her to slip back into her defiant ways. Or perhaps she’s simply tired of everyone trying to intimidate her into silence.

How many times have these high lords played their game of thrones and left the smallfolk to suffer?

How many more must be trampled underfoot for them to understand they only have power because people like her let them?

Ser Criston’s jaw clenched, hand flexing near the hilt of his sword.

Reyna reached into the pockets of her skirts and pulled out a scroll dotted with the red and black wax seal of House Targaryen.

“Upon the safe return of Prince Aegon, second of his name, Ser Criston Cole and Queen Alicent Hightower do hereby swear by the faith of the seven, to protect, ward, and guard the life of Reyna Sand of Starfall. For as long as she is in their service, no harm shall come to her or her family. The gods as my witness, this I do swear.”

The color drained from Ser Criston’s face.

Reyna let victory dance openly on her face. “You swore a vow to the gods, Ser Criston. You said your word was not something you take lightly. Does that still apply here?”

He grasps her braid and pulls, Reyna wincing in pain at the tufts of hair she knew were being pulled out.

His face is stone, bitterness gracing his Dornish features, yet she can see the Stormlands rumbling within him.

The chuckle he lets out is sour and mirthless, as if finally realizing the game she was playing.

Even with madness in his eyes and anger wrought into his jaw, Reyna comes to a startling realization.

Ser Criston does not scare her.

Not in the way the Targaryen princes do.

Not in the way Aegon does.

“You may have caught the eye of the King, but you’ll never be anything more than his whore.”

Reyna tilts her lips upward.

“And you the Queen’s.”

He throws her against the wall.

Ren draws her out once again with a gentle touch to her shoulder. 

The pain still lingers, but it is much duller thanks to a salve her mother taught her to make whenever she played too roughly with the other merchant’s children. 

The other servants used it after whippings, often claiming it was the only thing that kept them from crying out in pain with each movement. 

Reyna herself had only been whipped once, but it hadn’t been at King’s Landing. 

“You alright, Rey?” 

She nods, relishing in the soft calluses of the hedge knight, a sore comfort she’d been lacking since the Dragonpit. 

Lacey had all but disappeared and it was nice to have a friend again. 

“Dare I ask why you’ve suddenly decided to visit me under the cover of darkness?” She teases, relishing in the safety it brings her. She tries not to think about the fact that she hasn’t seen Aegon since the dragon ride that morning. 

It always sends her chest twisting in ways she despises. 

Ren smiled and handed her a cloak, “I managed to talk to Cicely about giving you the night off. Apparently she believes it is long overdue.”

She stares at the thick wool in his hands, fingers tentatively wrapping around the fabric. She’d long changed out of her livery, settling for a simple skirt over her chemise with a belt to keep it all in place.

Something in her gut yawned at the offer. 

Gods, how long had it been since she truly enjoyed herself? 

Too long, her mind whispers.

As long as she returned before sunup, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t indulge herself too much, just enough to truly remember what it felt like to enjoy life in Flea Bottom. 

The way she had before the coronation. 

Reyna wraps the wool around her shoulders and takes Ren’s hand with a smile. 

“I ship off to Storm’s End tomorrow.”

Lacey takes a gulp of her cups as Prince Aemond continues to speak. He has done nothing but speak for the last thirty minutes. 

The first hour was at least semi-enjoyable, letting him fuck her the way most men did before spilling his seed on her back. All in a day’s work, Sylvi would say. 

That was before she’d sailed off to Essos, leaving Lacey to fend for herself. 

Cunt. 

It didn’t take much for the Prince to quiver in want. She’d practically seen the outline of his hard cock the minute he laid eyes on her. Beautiful, tempting, and utterly bored.

His musings hadn’t helped in regard to the last one. 

She didn’t know how Sylvi had put up with it. But he’d paid her well, and she wasn’t about to turn away a patron, let alone a Targaryen Prince. 

But gods, she wished he would shut up about the damn dragons of old Valyria. 

She forced her mind to go blank, as it would with some of the other Lords who visited. Typically when they called out their wife’s name during sex instead of hers. 

“How exciting,” Lacey forces herself to turn to the Prince with feigned interest, schooling her features into the same teasing look she’d practiced in the mirror. It had a way of making any man fall to pieces. 

Prince Aemond was as still as marble. 

He scoffed, “That’s not the word I would use.”

“Then what word would you use?” Her tone is the same one she’s used for the last hour and a half, and she almost wished they hadn’t finished so fast. 

His sapphire eye unsettles her.

That is the point, she thinks, to make one uncomfortable when they meet his gaze.

“I am but a pawn to be moved about the board,” He muses, affectless and emotionless, but she does not miss the clench of his jaw and the tensing of his shoulders. “It is I who ride Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world, I who took up the duties my brother so miserably failed at.”

His brother the King.

The man she helped hide in order to protect her friend and fulfill her mistress’s wishes.

And where was Lady Misery now?

She knows what he wishes to hear, but she does not know how he will react.

There were some who said he threatened anyone who so much as whispered a word of treason. The loyal hound at King Aegon’s side.

“Your brother is lucky to have you,” She says instead.

He goes as still as the Stranger.

“To have a man so well-suited to his duties at his side. One who does not shirk the responsibility he has been given…it is a rare gift you have bestowed upon your brother.” Her words drip with honey as they leave her lips, laying down beside him once more. Her hand traces his spine, the Prince relaxing under her touch.

Lacey wonders who he imagines she is.

His sister? His mother?

Perhaps the woman he originally came searching for.

Her fingers freeze at the nape of his neck. He tenses once more.

“I do hope he appreciates what he has.”

The Prince scoffs, “He would be a fool not to.”

He leans his head underneath her chin, reclining against the plush pillows and soft blankets strewn about the private room. “I would make a formidable opponent for anyone.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She purrs, hand moving from his neck to his hairline, gently pushing the silvery wisps away from his forehead.

“If that bastard hadn’t taken my eye…”

It is the first real emotion she hears out of him. True, unadulterated anger, directed at a boy of four and ten across the bay. She still does not know what skirmish could’ve justified the taking of a Prince’s eye, but clearly Lucerys Velaryon was a beast of his own.

The prince balls his fist, his good eye hardening into dark amethyst to complement the sapphire beside it, “I’d be as good as any of them. I’d be better.”

Lacey knows on this matter, she must keep her mouth shut. Men do not seek out whores for their opinions, after all.

“My nephew knew it. That’s why he came after me. I was always bigger than him, stronger than him, but I was never a threat until I claimed a dragon.” The candles flickered. “Lord Strong and his elder brother loved to torment me. Thought they were better than me because their bitch mother birthed dragons for their cradles. It was only after I claimed Vhagar they truly saw what I was. What I could become. I was better than them. I was better than all of them. What’s a dragonseed next to the blood of the dragon?”

Lacey’s stomach churned.

His words were treason in every way, yet the whole of the kingdom knew they were true. The threat of losing their tongues had been enough to placate the smallfolk when King Viserys reigned, but Lacey knew better than to get comfortable. The moment one let their guard down was the moment they lost their heads.

“I’m going to kill him the next time I see him.”

The prince’s words turned Lacey’s blood cold.

“I made a promise to the Stranger that night on Driftmark. A solemn vow I plan to keep.”

“You’d be labeled a kinslayer, my prince,” Lacey chances his ire with her words, but something deep in her gut is unsettled by the scene she just witnessed.

“Then so be it.” Prince Aemond is hot from anger and if it weren’t for his body pressed so close to hers, Lacey wouldn’t even know he was breathing. “You know what my father said when we returned home that night?”

Lacey stayed silent.

“He took me to the royal treasury, showed me the crowns and rubies and jewels of House Targaryen. Then he turned to me with the stench of death and said, ‘here boy, this is where we will find a suitable replacement for what you have lost. Any jewel you wish, it shall be yours from this day until your last.”

Lacey held her breath as he moved from her side, back turned to her.

His body was not what she expected a Prince to look like. He was lean and thin, no fat to be seen on his bones. If there was, it clung to his muscles, reluctant to let go. In some lights, she almost thought he looked frail.

What little dinner she’d had threatens to come back up when the prince turns around to face her.

“I chose this,” the sapphire glittered in his hand, “Like Symeon Star-Eyes in the Age of Heroes. My father even claims it belonged to him.”

The gem was perfectly cut, small divets in the rock dotted with dried blood and mucus from his socket.

His gaze moved over to her, and a chill ran down her back.

It is a strange feeling, she thinks, to stare the Stranger in the face and know he is not coming for you.

“But I shall have an even greater replacement once my vow is fulfilled,” He says, something akin to a smirk crossing his lips, “He shall have no need for his eyes, for I plan to claim them once his life has been ended. One to be gifted to my mother, as a thank you for her righteous indignance the day I lost mine. The second, well…” Lacey watched in horror as he gently placed the sapphire back into his head, blinking the gem into place with a wince, “He owes me a debt.”

Lacey’s heart plummeted into her stomach as he turned back to her.

“Now, I believe my gold earns me an extra hour.”

The thought of saying no had never been more terrifying.

Aegon’s smile dies the minute his mother walks into the room. 

He’d been sitting with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, watching them play with the carved horses and dragons Viserys had commissioned for their first name day. Aegon longed for the day they were old enough to go down to the dragonpit, when he could teach them how to sit the saddle and watch their expressions as they successfully managed to get a dragon to listen to them. 

There’s nothing like it, he’d tell them. 

Jaehaerys looked up at him with a wide smile, handing him the carved horse with an expectant look on his face. 

Aegon chuckled and let out a whinny, tickling the skin underneath his son’s chin.

Jaehaera promptly smacked him in the face with her clay figurine of Meraxes.

“Ow,” He over exaggerated the wound, but his daughter simply stared at him, her pout matching Helaena’s when she got angry. 

A rare occurrence Aegon never hopes to witness again. 

Most servants had trouble telling them apart, especially when Jaehaerys wore his hair down instead of braided out of his face. 

Helaena found it worrying.

Aegon found it hilarious. 

“Protecting your brother are you?” He asks his daughter.

She mumbles something about dragons being stronger together, no doubt one of the many teachings from Septa Alara. It brings a wistful smile to his face. “Good, you two must look out for each other,” He hands the horse back to Jaehaerys, who immediately begins to zoom about the room.

“Jae, wait!” Jaehaera calls after her brother, nearly tripping over her skirts to catch up to him. 

Aegon chuckles and shakes his head.

They are the only good things he has ever made, he thinks. Although he’s sure most of it comes from Helaena. His sweet-faced, patient sister who makes sure they attend their lessons and takes them through the gardens. 

Jaehaera is already developing an interest in the cocoons near the rose bushes. 

Like mother, like daughter, he supposed. 

Jaehaerys is the one who takes after him, at least that’s what he chooses to believe. Endlessly curious with a habit of interrupting important meetings with shenanigans and misadventures.  

Yesterday he’d waddled into the throne room during petitions and attempted to climb the steps. Instead of sending him away, Aegon simply laughed and placed him on his lap.

“The future heir to the throne should get to know the people,” He’d explained, drawing smiles and laughter from the crowd. 

It always felt good to make them smile. 

Very few petitions were answered, but Aegon didn’t care. 

“Hurry, we need to leave before the doom comes,” Jaehaerys jumped on Helaena’s bed, pushing the covers into a shape resembling a dragon’s saddle, grasping tightly as he packed Jaehaera behind him, “nayjoot Balerion!”

“Naejot,” Aegon corrects with a smile.

Jaehaerys’s face turns red and he nods, clearly embarrassed by his mispronunciation. He goes silent again.

Something twists in Aegon’s chest.

Footsteps break his interest and he turns to see his mother enter the room.

The nursemaid bows and quickly escorts Jaehaerys and Jaehaera out of Helaena’s room. His sister leaves with them, silently embroidering in the corner the entire time. 

He hates how quiet she is. 

Silently observing while she works on whatever blanket or skirt or dress she’s focusing on for the time being. 

Helaena doesn’t even spare him a glance as she leaves the room. 

The only thing that makes him feel better is that she doesn’t look at their mother either. 

Aegon slumps in the chair as the door shuts behind them.

His mother stands in the doorway, staring at him like he did something wrong again. 

Not for the first time, he wished he was back on Sunfyre.

“What is it this time?”

Alicent frowned. 

“Do you truly have no idea?”

He shrugged. Of course he knows what this is about. He’s known this was coming since he returned from the small council meeting. That doesn’t mean he plans to give his mother any more satisfaction than she already has. 

It is bad enough hearing it from his grandfather. 

“Aegon, you are the King,” She says it the same way she scolds him, like he is a child with no idea of the responsibility he holds. Sometimes he still felt like a child wearing the body of someone older. He wasn’t sure he ever truly aged the same way his siblings had. 

Aemond and Helaena were all seriousness, bearing the weight of duty. That was the beauty of being the son no one cared about, he thought, you could get away with almost anything. 

Except now he was King and he could get away with nothing. 

How he wished he was in Aemond’s place right now. 

And he’s sure Aemond wishes the same thing. 

“You cannot go on like this,” It is the same lecture he’s heard a thousand times, the same lecture his father used to give before he gave up on his firstborn son. Except this time, his mother’s patience seems to finally be wearing thin. 

He braces himself for the slap. 

It never comes. 

Alicent sighs, “I do not know how to explain to you the depth of your responsibility, so I will simply remind you of it.” Aegon tenses as she sits next to her, placing her hand on his. The gentleness of her touch surprises him. “You are the King.”

The words sink into his skin. 

“These dalliances and trysts were acceptable when you were a prince, but people expect more of you now.”

“I never wanted this.” The words leave him faster than he can stop it, and he watches his mother’s gaze soften. 

“I know.” His mother’s grip tightens, but he does not tense at it, “But you would have been forced to it regardless. Even if you’d given up your claim, the lords would have rallied behind you and crowned you anyway. Rhaenyra knows as well as I do that killing you and your siblings is the only way she could have a legitimate claim.”

His stomach sinks. He always suspected there were other motives behind his mother’s hastiness to crown him, but hearing the truth from her lips is always harder when he wants no part of it. 

“But father named her heir.”

“Yes, he did.” Something flashes across her face, it almost looks like regret, “And the lords of the realm will never accept her. Not while a trueborn son lives.”

Aegon has always felt pressure weighing on him, but this was something else entirely. The others he could shrug off or pass to Aemond and Helaena, but this...this was on his shoulders and his alone. 

“Your grandfather and I knew this, as did your father, that is why he changed his mind. He would not subject Rhaenyra to that, and neither will I.” 

He envies the conviction in her voice, a welcome change to the apathy and reluctance she’s borne since the coronation. It almost reminds him of Driftmark. 

“You are my son.” Her hand cups his face and he expects her to assail him in some way, to beat the truth into him like she’d tried so many times before, “And Rhaenyra has declared you a traitor to the realm. All of us. You, me, Aemond, Helaena…you know what happens to traitors.”

Aegon nods.

“That is why we must stop this war before it starts.”

A fear he has not dared to speak is slowly crawling in his skin and up his bloodstream, threatening to choke him in his sleep. 

He is the King. 

And he has stolen his sister’s birthright. 

There is no other option. 

“I will send Grand Maester Orwyle and grandfather,” He chokes out, steeling his shoulders for what is to come. He wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes he had a cup in his hand and a whore in his bed. 

His mother brushes his hair behind his ear with a small smile. 

Something inside Aegon is pleased at the affection. 

Queen Alicent stands up and brushes her skirts before turning back to him once more, “Be careful, Aegon. A tryst is one thing, but taking her on a dragon…” 

His eyes dip to the floor. 

“People might assume she is more than what she is. People like Daemon or Rhaenyra.”

“Mother, she’s not–”

“It does not matter what she is, Aegon,” Alicent sighs, but it is not one of disappointment, “It matters what they think. If they perceive a weakness–”

“They won’t.” His voice is sharp and laced with poison at the thought. 

She simply sighs and leaves him with his thoughts. 

Something beats against his chest at his mother’s words.

He is not weak. 

He will not be weak. 

“Mother is right you know.”

Aegon jumped as his sister appeared in the doorway. The cloth she’d been embroidering hung folded over her hands and a pensive scowl decorated her face. Aegon arched a brow as his stomach sank.

If Helaena was agreeing with their mother, then the second coming of the Doom wasn’t far behind.

“Did you see it in a dream?” He wagged his fingers and grabbed a glass of hippocras. It was the only wine available to him now that both Arbor and Dornish Red had mysteriously disappeared from his rooms. His chest twisted as hurt flashed across his sister’s eyes.

“Aemond listens to my dreams,” Helaena picked at the bits of string around the silk, “I don’t know why you don’t.”

“I don’t understand them,” Anger boiled his blood at the mention of his brother. Helaena was always bringing Aemond up in conversations that didn’t involve him. Discussing their rides on Dreamfyre and Vhagar, their time strolling through the gardens, even the conversations the two would have about the realm.

They never invited Aegon to any of those.

He was always alone. Always left behind even by those who were supposed to love him unconditionally.

He tasted bitterness on his tongue and licked the remaining wine from his lips.

Helaena stared him with an arched brow, “Would you really listen to me if I explained them?”

Aegon bit down on his cheek, clutching the wine glass tighter until it almost felt like it would break from the pressure, “I would try.”

The lie was forced out through gritted teeth, the two siblings refusing to look at one another.

A strained relationship made worse by the circumstances of their marriage, neither Aegon nor Helaena wished to spend any more time together than they had to.

He’d sired a child on her and been lucky to have been given twins.

A boy and a girl who would carry on the Targaryen dynasty through the throne and through marriage.

His duty was done and the two would never share a bed again.

A preferable arrangement for them both.

Helaena had her bugs and Aegon had his dragon.

And then his father had to go and die and name him heir. Making him suffer from beyond the grave.

A King needs heirs, his mother said the night of his coronation. Do your duty and make some.

And so he had, but both him and Helaena agreed if nothing came of it, there would be no more trying for quite some time.

It was only for their mother they committed such acts, both spending several days in the Sept afterwards to atone for their sins.

Aegon had never been a religious man, but taking his sister to bed made his stomach churn and squirm until he was certain everything he’d consumed would come spilling out of him. He’d slept with several women, had plenty of bastards in the city, but nothing made him feel quite so...depraved as sleeping with his wife.

Unclean and in need of atonement.

His wedding night was the first time he’d understood what it felt like to be judged in the eyes of the gods.

Aegon stares up at his sister, the space between them cavernous. Neither of them had ever figured out how to fill it.

“What did you see?”

Helaena bites her lip and her eyes remain fixated on the cloth in her hands. It’s black and green silk reminds Aegon of a funeral shroud, but he knows better. There will be no shrouds for Viserys. Nothing but the wraps of the Silent Sisters. He’d seen to it.

“I saw rats.”

Aegon narrows his gaze.

“Rats? That’s it?”

Gods, if this was what his sister dreamt about no wonder she was afraid of her own shadow.

“No, but…” Helaena stared out the window overlooking King’s Landing, “Dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread.”

She stared at him like the words meant anything.

“For fuck’s sake, Helaena, I need more than—”

“It’s what I saw the night Aunt Laena died.” Her voice was sharp and tight, and Aegon swallowed. “The night before Driftmark. I saw a tapestry being woven by a woman with a pair of dragonwings. Rats ate the green thread and she had to finish the tapestry with black.”

Her words washed over Aegon like a bucket of ice cold water after a hangover. If they were meant to provide clarity, they were doing a terrible job.

“And you believe this dream is foretelling the fate of the war?”

Helaena bit down on her cheek. “I don’t know. I tried consulting father afterwards, but he dismissed it as a nightmare. But last night, I saw the woman again.”

Aegon furrowed his brow, refusing to believe his brother put up with this nonsense. But it was a better alternative to being alone, and perhaps there truly was some useful information hiding in their sister’s addled mind.

“Her throat was cut and her blood stained the green threads of the tapestry. Her dragon wings had been torn from her back and ripped to shreds. The rats fed on her bone corpse while a severe storm ripped the tapestry in two. I thought that was the end of it, but…” His sister trailed off, eyes clouding over as she stared into the fire.

It was an expression Aegon knew well.

“But?”

“I looked at the tapestry. I saw you with the Conqueror’s crown sitting on the Iron Throne, with Rhaenyra atop the Dragonstone throne with father’s crown. I saw Vhagar ripping two dragons to shreds, I saw rats running away with Jaehaerys’s head, I—” She stifled a choked sob with her hands. 

Aegon’s anger resurfaced.

Helaena blinked away unshed tears and turned to look at her brother, “At the end of it all, I saw thread weaving the tapestry back together. A woman with a babe on her hip standing before a kneeling congregation, green and black at her feet.”

The flames flickered and Helaena snapped out of her trance.

Aegon could only stare.

This was what his sister had been dealing with in her nights alone? Nightmares straight out of the Age of Heroes? Forced to bear witness to scenes even Aegon himself wouldn’t wish upon her.

He reached out to touch her hand and she pulled away.

“War is coming, Aegon,” She said, her voice barely above a whisper, “If there is any way to avoid it, we should.”

He couldn’t even form words to comfort her.

He didn’t even know what to say in response to what she’d just told him.

It was a gruesome scene she’d painted, but the first instance had already come to pass.

Aegon, crowned on the Iron Throne.

Rhaenyra, crowned on Dragonstone.

What else had she seen?

Footsteps echoed in his ears as Helaena moved to her chambers. She stopped in the doorway connecting the nursery to them and turned with a furrowed brow.

“Promise me you won’t scare her away.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Reyna,” Helaena spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I like her, and you’ve already taken too many of my maids from me.”

“As I recall, it was your idea to let me sleep with them.”

Her nose crinkles in disgust at the reminder, “I wasn’t talking about that, you dolt.” A spool of thread whacked him in the face.

“Ow!” He whined.

Helaena crossed her arms and screwed her lips into a scowl, “I meant like what you did with Tya.”

Realization settles over him at the reminder of the river maid.

“I didn’t do anything with Tya.”

“Except get her pregnant and force mother to marry her off to a man twice her age.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later, besides I paid for their house anyway.”

“Only because mother threatened to take away rides on Sunfyre if you didn’t.”

“Do you have a point?”

Helaena inhaled sharply. He could see the disgust in her eyes, the swirling hatred she shared with the rest of the family for a drunk wastrel who was better off dead than on the throne. It must eat at them that Aegon was born first and not Aemond.

“I see the way you look at her,” Helaena tilted her head and arched her brow, “You don’t take just anyone on Sunfyre. All I’m asking is that you treat her better than you’ve treated me. She’s already dealt with enough and to add the affections of a King on top of that—”

“You presume too much.” Aegon snaps, taking another sip of wine.

“Do I?” Helaena smirks victoriously at his words.

It makes his stomach churn, and he tries not to think too hard about the implication of her words. The Dornish girl has been haunting his thoughts since the night he ran, earlier still as he recalls the scent of wildflowers in the Red Keep long before he truly met her.

She was a shadow, a bastard forever relegated to the outskirts of society, never truly bearing the responsibility of a trueborn noble.

How freeing.

He imagined what her life must have been like in Dorne, with the Summer Sea on all sides as she ran through white sands and blue waters, the love of a father always within her grasp.

Perhaps he would take her back one day and she would show him the hidden parts of her childhood, her hand in his as she pulled him through white stone halls and blooming gardens, the symphony of her laughter forever playing in his ears.

Helaena’s footsteps disappear, and Aegon finds himself alone once more.

A pair of purple eyes appear in his mind.

He reaches for another glass of wine. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE:

Taverns were alight with music and merriment as Reyna and Ren made their way through the streets of the city. Ale spilled down their clothes and sweets stained their mouths but it was the closest Reyna had come to truly enjoying herself after the Dragonpit. 

A twinge of guilt hangs in her chest, but she quickly drowns it in ale and dancing as people she recognized greeted her with smiles and laughter.

It seemed when it came to the bowels and streets of King’s Landing, nothing had truly changed when passing the torch from Viserys to Aegon. 

A good sign, she thought with a wry smile as Ren ambled into their fourth tavern for the night. 

Drums and fiddles filled the air, a bawdy tune sung by the patrons while the barmaids delivered more rounds to drunk men intent on getting drunker. 

Reyna was greeted with hugs and affirmations, each wishing her condolences or exclaiming how happy they were to see her. 

“I spied some Velaryon ships in the bay this morning,” one of the patrons muttered. Reyna and Ren took their seats near a man she recognized from the Street of Steel. He was a black haired man with arms larger than even Ser Breakbones, covered in grime and sweat from the day, “Rumor has it they’re going to start blocking all trade to and from King’s Landing.”

“Come now, Wyl, where did you even hear that from? The fishwives?”

A large guffaw erupted at the man’s words, but Wyl remained stone-faced and serious. 

Reyna recognized the white-haired man who’d shrugged off the warning. His name was Ulf, a former man-at-arms of Dragonstone who’d been fired for his penchant for drinking. 

Now he surrounded himself with men who indulged in the same habits he did, preaching a manner of things only a fool would believe. 

“Laugh all you want, Ulf, but there’s a war coming,” Wyl warns, steel in his eyes, “And us smallfolk will be caught in the dragon fire when it does.”

Ulf shook his head with a hearty laugh, “Speak for yourself, a noble bastard is no smallfolk, especially one of such royal blood.”

That piqued Reyna’s interest, and even Ren perked up in his inebriated state. 

“I’ve still yet to see proof of your so-called royal blood,” Megga the barmaid called out from the floor, leaning on a chair with a smirk, “All I see is a drunkard who still owes me for his tab.”

Another hearty laugh echoed off the walls, Ulf’s large belly shaking with each breath. 

“Oh, Megga, you truly are a treat.” 

Megga’s smile never reached her eyes, and disappeared just as quickly. 

Reyna shook her head and took another gulp of ale, washing down the distaste in her mouth at Ulf’s implication. 

He was too old to be Prince Daemon’s bastard and everyone knew of King Viserys’ and King Baelon’s fidelity to their wives. 

It more likely he was blowing smoke out his ass, just like the dragonlords he claimed to be related to. 

No doubt another rumor he liked to preach in order to make himself appear higher than he was. 

“You’re a new face around here.” The slurred words and splashing ale sent Reyna on edge as Ulf plopped himself down at the table. His eyes drank her in hungrily. Most men’s eyes did. “What’s a Dornish girl doing so far from home?”

Her nose wrinkled at his words. 

“Oy,” Megga called out with a terse brow, “Leave her alone, Reyna has better things to do than to mingle with the likes of you.”

Ulf’s eyes lit up at the sound of her name, “Reyna? Are you uh…” He sent a wary look over his shoulder, fully aware of the people now listening, “You know?”

She and Ren shared a look. 

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” She sneered.

Ulf stuck his tongue between his teeth, playing with one of the many rings decorating his fingers, “It’s just…Reyna’s a very Targaryen name, and with eyes like yours–”

She laughed at the implication. 

He pawed at her hand. She tore it away.

“People like us, we have to stick together–”

“I am no Targaryen,” She spat, jaw clenching at his insinuation. The thought of being part of that mess of incest and familial problems made her stomach churn, the alcohol she’d consumed threatening to come back up. “And I would be very careful with your words, Ser. I don’t think our new king would take so kindly to them.”

Ulf let out a laugh. It wasn’t hearty like his earlier ones, but curt and short. Like someone had told him the sky was green rather than blue. It was a laugh of arrogance. 

“Our new king won’t last long,” he gestured for another round, Megga rolling her eyes at the man, “His older sister, my niece, will take her rightful place soon enough.”

It was Reyna’s turn to laugh. 

Ren’s eyes grew wide. 

“You’re not seriously claiming to be the bastard son of Baelon Targaryen? The Brave?”

Ulf merely shrugged, a cocksure smile on his face. 

Reyna leaned in with a smirk, eyes tracing the weathered features and wrinkled skin of the man before her. He was no Targaryen. And he certainly was no Baelon the Brave. 

She’d seen both Prince Daemon and King Viserys, and Ulf resembled neither of them. 

His white hair better resembled the sails of trade ships than the silvery light that inhabited the locks of the royal family.

Flat as opposed to ethereal. 

“If you’re Baelon’s son, then I must be the daughter of Rhaenys the Conqueror.”

His grey eyes gleam. “With looks like yours?” His smile makes her skin crawl, “perhaps not a daughter, but a great-grandaughter. We never did find out what happened to her after her dragon was shot down.”

“Some even say her dragon survived,” Ren spoke up from beside her, “Flew across the Sunset Sea never to be seen again.”

Ulf guffawed, “Meraxes surviving a scorpion to the eye? That would be a sight to see. Her skull is in the bowels of Dragonstone.”

“And you’re so sure it’s Meraxes then?” Ren smirked, picking apart a loaf of bread to help soak up the alcohol in his stomach, “Not one of the other dragons Dorne undoubtedly shot down?”

Ulf didn’t know what to say to that. 

Reyna knew Ren was blowing smoke out of his ass. 

There were no other dragons Dorne shot down. Although some of the smallfolk believed Meraxes survived the bolt, and it had been Rhaenys who’d been killed rather than her dragon. 

The truth was buried in the sands of the Hellholt, along with the Conqueror Queen. 

“Alas, I was born in Myr, not Dorne,” Reyna spoke, silencing the conversation of Targaryens and their bastards, “I do not believe any Targaryens made their way that far.”

Ulf continued to stare at her, that same gleam in his eyes, “That we know of.” He placed a gold dragon on the table, “M’lady, Ser.” 

He left with a hearty laugh on his lips. 

“Miserable git,” Megga shakes her head as she scoops the dragon into her apron, “All he does every day is drink my liquor and waste his breath telling ridiculous stories he picked up from some fool or madman.”

“He seems like a delight,” Reyna rolls her eyes.

Megga sets down two pints of ale with a smile, “On the house.”

Reyna arched a brow at the woman. 

Ren was already gulping down the pint with a grateful smile, but Reyna knew better. 

Nothing was ever truly free in King’s Landing.

“In exchange for?”

Megga’s cheeks turned pink, like she was a blushing girl and not a grown woman who’d managed the Open Ship for the last ten years. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Megga,” Reyna sighed, tossing her hair back and downing another gulp of ale, “What is it this time?”

The barmaid shot a look over her shoulder, a new bartender with straw hair and blue eyes throwing looks Reyna’s way. 

Blood rushed to her cheeks, although she was certain it was just the ale causing it. 

“He wishes for a song,” Megga clarified, something dancing behind her eyes, “heard whispers of The Dornish Nightingale and requested to hear her sing.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname. A terrible, droll title bestowed upon her by a minstrel in the Reach who’d consumed too much wine. 

He heard her sing ‘Alysanne’ once and was apparently moved to tears. 

He’d since gone from town to town and region to region spouting the tale of the Dornish Nightingale. 

It made for quite a good song, after all. 

“Did he have any specific requests?”

Megga nodded toward the fiddlers, a familiar drinking tune echoing off the walls. 

Reyna chuckled at the choice of song, a cruel irony but one she couldn’t help appreciate. 

And so she opened her mouth and began to sing. 

By the time her rendition of ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ ended, the rest of the tavern was singing along with her, swinging their cups in tune while groups began rounds. 

The crowd erupted into raucous applause.

The Red Keep was silent when she returned. 

Stars still hung in the sky with no sign of the sun appearing anytime soon. Good, that meant she could get some sleep before Helaena and Alicent called for her. 

Reyna had sobered up after a good meal and another round of ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ but Ren had passed out in the tavern with his hand wrapped around another pint. 

Megga had promised to look after the Reach knight and thanked her with a silver stag.

The server who’d requested the song, however, had thanked her with a kiss and a promise to see her again. 

It was a queer feeling, being the object of someone’s affection, but she allowed herself to enjoy it while it lasted. Lacey would tell her to have fun even if the feeling swirling in Reyna’s gut disagreed with her. 

The gentle tap of a cane brought her out of her thoughts, and Reyna suddenly found herself face to face with the Lord Confessor himself, Larys Strong. 

“It is rather late for a maidservant to be wandering the castle I would think,” His voice was soft and unassuming, as if he were a man simply looking out for the wellbeing of others instead of the man in charge of questioning the King’s potential enemies. 

Reyna bowed, eyes glued to the floor, “Forgive me, my lord, I was simply returning from a visit to the city.”

Lord Larys hummed, searching her figure for a lie. 

She peeked through long lashes, coming into contact with a pair of eyes the color of the icy north. They were not the comforting blue of the sea, nor the storms that hung over the keep on spring nights. They were a color Reyna had only heard in stories told around the fire to scare young children, myths from a thousand years ago passed down from the First Men.

Reyna shivered. 

Lord Strong’s lips twisted upward wickedly. 

“I see. You often go into the city then?”

She swallowed. “No, my lord, I went at the request of Ser Ren.”

“Ah, I see. And where is Ser Ren? I did not see him outside the Queen Helaena’s rooms.”

Fear creeped into her veins, heart pounding against her chest.

Or perhaps that was simply the headache she’d developed from the ale and cider she’d consumed. 

Her skin crawled under the gaze of the Lord Confessor, who simply stared at her with his hands wrapped around his cane, the golden firefly glittering in the torchlight. 

His smile never wavered. 

It suddenly struck Reyna that she was once again in the darkness of the Red Keep, far away from any chambers or open areas of the castle. 

Ren had lead her through the dungeons, telling her of a shortcut through Traitor’s Walk, just past the entrance of the tower containing the dungeons. 

He’d been exploring, he said, and had found a quick way to Flea Bottom through the bowels of the castle. 

Perhaps she should not have been surprised to have met Lord Larys in his domain. 

She straightened her back, attempting to appear more confident than she felt. 

“He desired to continue, I, however, needed my rest.”

“Yes, to be handmaiden to both Queens, I can only imagine the strain you have been under.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall, hulking shadows accompanying them. 

The hairs on the back of Reyna’s neck stood up. 

“Quite an honor after being dismissed so suddenly.” 

Her stomach churned at the Lord Confessor’s words, lump in her throat growing bigger until she could not swallow it anymore. 

“I only do as the Queen bids, my lord.”

“And yet you speak as if you were raised higher than what you are,” His words sting, bitterness twinging in her chest at the dismissal of her circumstances. Despite her birth, she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and the Lord of Starfall. Had things been different, she would have never left Dorne. “Literate too, if the servants here are to be believed.”

The shadows took another step forward.

Reyna gulped, recognizing the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes in the candlelight. 

“The White Wyrm has a preference for pretty things with even sharper minds, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Her breathing grew shallow at the mention of Lady Mysaria, a woman whose spy network had all but been eradicated following the burning of her manse. 

Reyna forced herself to remain impassive, as if she’d never heard the name whispered in secret, as if she’d never been approached by Lady Misery with a deal of her own. 

“I would not know, my lord,” She choked out the words, voice small. 

His foot dragged, cane tapping against the marble floor.

Reyna took a step back.

Hands larger than her face grasped her shoulders. 

The man whose grasp she’d stepped into was the tallest shadow of the lot, his face mangled by burns and scars, an eye sealed shut from the injuries. The one that remained was as pale and colorless as his skin. 

He did not speak. 

None of them did. 

The black gate of the dungeons opened up to a small room containing only a chair and a black pouch on the table beside it. 

A single candle burned beside it, the only source of light in the darkened place. 

The table itself sat atop a wooden door with a single iron handle, unable to be lifted unless the table itself was moved. 

Reyna froze when she caught sight of leather cuffs on the arms and legs of the chair. 

Lord Larys leaned against the table, a smile still plastered on his face. 

“I am told you share a fondness for water.”

Another shadow stepped forward, slamming an iron tub down in front of the chair. 

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her body moved against her will, using all her strength to push against the man whose grip dragged her forward. It was a useless effort, but it was the only thing she could do. 

Her voice was stuck in her throat, blocked by the knot that tangled her vocal chords, strangling screams and cries before they could leave her. 

The more she struggled the tighter the man’s grip became, until she was finally forced into the chair, restraints digging into her skin until they drew blood. 

Her reflection was warped by the murkiness of the Blackwater, the smell wrinkling her nose and sending the alcohol in her stomach churning. 

No more trips to the sewers unless absolutely necessary. 

“Do not worry,” the gentle tone of the Lord Confessor sent her spine shivering, “It will all be over soon.”

He pulled a cloth from his robes, the fabric embroidered with green and gold. “Hopefully one round will be enough for you to come to your senses.” He dipped the cloth into the tub. 

When he pulled it back out, it dripped with mud and silt and sewage. 

Reyna gulped. 

“It would be a shame for the King to lose one as pretty as you.”

Muffled and strangled and with little else left, she screamed. 

No one heard it.

“My lady?”

The voice is far and away, an echo in your mind that doesn’t exist. Your hand clings to the star dangling around your neck, shaking and shivering as the water of the Rush clings to your skin and drips down your back. 

The only sound you hear is the pounding of blood in your head, the thrum of your heart beating a war drum as the water drops onto the stone floor of the Red Keep. 

Somewhere, the squeaking and scurrying of rats in the halls joins the cacophony. 

You still feel the water in your lungs, the taste of mud and sewage in your lips when they pulled the cloth away, only to strangle you once more. 

“My lady are you quite alright?”

How long have you been here? How long has the water slid down your back and chilled your bones? You want to breathe but the cloth is still there, choking the air from your lungs. The only breaths you take are shallow and short.

The candle flickers. 

You say nothing. 

The sun’s rays poke through the window. 

You say nothing. 

The voice calls your name, but you cannot react. You do not react.

The last time someone has called your name was in the darkness of a room with shackles and water and the clacking laughs of men without tongues. 

The voice belongs to a crownlander, a man with silver armor and a white cloak staring down at you with fear in his eyes. Or maybe concern. Or maybe something else entirely. 

The fog in your brain impedes your thoughts and everything you thought you knew blends together in a mirage you conjure up. 

Your throat chokes. 

Your breath shakes. 

You sink deeper and deeper until you wish you’d drowned in the Blackwater. 

The clank of armor settles beside you. 

You turn and the disbelieving gaze of Ser Arryk Cargyll stares back. 

He tears his cloak off and wraps it around you. You shiver, but the chill goes away. Your hands cling to the white fabric, silk slipping through your fingers. Too rich for you. 

Too nice for you. 

You have never worn anything like this and you never will. 

You shiver again. 

“I must go to bed,” You say, finally able to force something other than breaths past your lips. The cloak slips from your shoulders and the chill returns. 

Ser Arryk stands in protest, “My lady–”

“I am no lady, Ser,” Your eyes shine with freshly shed tears. You do not know how long you have been crying. “Lord Larys had proven that.”
The cloak wraps around your shoulders once more. 

Your feet tremble, legs shaking. 

You force yourself to take a step, but the strength has been lost.

You fall into darkness. 

Somewhere, deep inside your mind, you think you hear the shriek of a dragon. 

Aegon is roused from his sleep with a knock on his door. 

He groans as a headache splits behind his temple, sluggish and stumbling with every step he takes. The world outside is still dark and he lets out a moan of anguish. 

“Come.” He barks from the edge of his bed, wondering what was so important he deserved to be awoken before the sun came up. 

He wonders if he can make it treason to interrupt a King’s sleep. 

The shriek of a dragon echoes in his ears. Perhaps Vhagar had spotted some of her prey on the opposite side of the Narrow Sea. Or maybe his brother has taken her out for a late night ride again. 

He has been disappearing as of late. 

It is infuriating to say the least. 

The door opens and Aegon finds himself staring at Ser Arryk Cargyll. 

“Your Grace.”

“What was so important it couldn’t wait until…” Aegon’s words freeze on the edge of his lips when he sees what the Kingsguard carries.

A dornish girl, dressed in a simple shirt and skirt, dripping as if she’d been thrown off the cliffs into the Blackwater. 

Adrenaline surges through his veins and his head pulses with something other than drunkenness for once, twisting around his chest and squeezing it tightly. 

“I found her in the halls like this, Your Grace,” Ser Arryk is gentle with her and if Aegon had all his wits about him, he probably would have been able to hear the concern in the knight’s voice.

“What happened?” His voice is low, dripping with a poison he has not yet tasted. 

It is insatiable. 

“I do not know, Your Grace, but the lady did say something about--” 

A moan escapes Reyna’s lips and Ser Arryk rushes forward, eyes scanning for a place to lay her down. 

Aegon removes his sheets and allows the knight to place her on the featherbed. 

She whimpers, flinching as she draws Ser Arryk’s white cloak closer to her. 

Aegon finds he cannot look away from the sight before him. 

Her hair sticks to the sheen of her pallid skin, her breaths quick and shaky as they leave her lips. It does not sound like the soft laughter he’d heard that morning on Sunfyre, nor the breathless awe when they’d arrived in the Dragonpit. 

His hand hovers over her shoulder, stopping only when he sees the bloodied marks around her wrists, the red liquid staining the back of her head. 

Someone had held her down. 

He turns to the Kingsguard, jaw clenching and eyes blazing. 

“What. Happened?”

Ser Arryk gulps when he catches sight of the wound. “I do not know, Your Grace.”

“It is your job to know!” He bellows so loud it is certain to wake the castle. 

The girl beside him does not stir. 

“With all due respect Your Grace, she is not–”

“She is my mother’s handmaiden and the Queen’s trusted confidante,” He grabs his father’s dagger from its perch and points it directly at the Kingsguard, “I would advise you to rethink your words, Ser Arryk.”

The knight swallowed. 

Reyna convulses under the white cloak, strangled noises puncturing the air.

She gasps for breath, coughing violently as she hacks out a pool of water directly onto the featherbed. 

“Bring the Maester,” Aegon orders. 

Ser Arryk can only stare. 

“NOW!”

The knight’s footsteps disappear as quickly as they’d arrived. 

His mother’s words echo in his head. 

It does not matter what she is, it matters what they think. If they perceive a weakness…

A weakness, his chuckle is sour and rueful, chest squeezing tight as he watched the serving girl spasm and convulse, coughing up more water every couple minutes. 

Something throbs behind his eyes and his chest burns, as if he’d downed wine too fast to keep up with his breath. 

People like Daemon and Rhaenyra…

He wants to tear the city apart until he finds out who did this. To fly Sunfyre across the bay and subject his sister and the cunts of her court to his golden flames until they die screaming. 

He knows she has done this. 

He knows it cannot be anyone else. Whether it was Daemon who subjected her to it, or one of the many spiders the White Wyrm has cultivated. 

He knows both have a certain penchant for violence, and if word of his attachment had reached their ears…

The crash of the table he kicks interrupts his thoughts. He tears Blackfyre from its scabbard and swings. The glass candles and stone dragons crumbled under his swings, grip tightening as the Valyrian steel cut through the mantlepieces and paperweights as if they were never there to begin with. 

The blade slashes through one of the remaining black and red tapestries still hanging in the room, slicing it in two.

The three heads of the dragon fall to the ground. 

“Aegon.” His sister stands there with Ser Arryk and the Maester, purple eyes wide at the destruction he has carved out. They land on the girl on his bed and Helaena’s expression shifts to one of sympathy. 

She nods and Grand Maester Orwyle rushes to the bed, milk of the poppy in hand along with his other tools. 

The links of his chains grate against Aegon’s ears and he crumbles into his sister’s arms. 

She cringes at the touch and he knows she wants to pull away. 

It is the same tension he feels when he takes her to bed. It is the reason he seeks the comfort of his impulses in other women. 

Shame stirs in his gut and he pulls himself free. 

“You cannot tell mother.” His voice is hoarse. He wonders if he has been screaming. 

His sister stares at him in disbelief. 

“I won’t.” 

She pulls him back into her arms, humming a Valyrian lullaby under her tongue. 

She awoke to the sound of storms over King’s Landing. 

Rain tapped a hasty staccato rhythm against the windows, the song rousing her from sleep. Her lungs ached as she rasped for breath. 

The events of last night flooded over her, drowning her in memories of cloth pressed against her face and water filling her lungs until black spots danced in her vision. 

A reprieve was granted for only a few minutes before she was dunked back under once more. 

The Lord Confessor had asked her many questions, but the only one he was interested in was where her loyalty lied. 

Did you serve Mysaria? 

No. 

Have you ever reported on the King or Queen?

Never. 

Who is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?

King Aegon, second of his name. 

He’d thrown her out and left her to die, until she’d crawled her way back up Traitor’s Walk into the courtyard of the Red Keep, collapsing next to one of the pillars as darkness threatened to overtake her. 

She thought she’d spied a glimpse of silver hair, or the sapphire blues of Dreamfyre. 

She sank further and further, until only feathers surrounded her. 

When she woke, green and gold coated her vision and the sprawling floors of the King’s chambers extended out before her. 

Reyna jolted up from her position, shedding the white silken covers and swinging her feet towards the ground. 

She barely made it a single step before she tripped over a body underneath her shoes.

The head of silver hair stirred, eyes bleary from sleep until they landed on her. 

“Oh, it’s just you,” Aegon muttered into his arm, which was currently draped over the stairs leading up to his bed. Reyna stared at the man, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. 

Had what she’d seen last night been real?

Had Aegon found her and brought her here? Had he finally fucked her after she’d been subjected to Lord Larys’s questioning?

Her stomach curled at the thought.

She knew the wondering was worse than the knowing. 

“Did we…”

“After you drowned? No.” He groaned into the pillow under his head, pretty face snoring away with no thought to what she endured. 

It made her scoff. 

“So, you know…”

“That you drowned in the Blackwater? Yes,” He reluctantly pulled himself up and blew out a sigh, “The Grand Maester managed to pump the water out from your lungs,” Aegon stretched out a yawn, still dressed in his clothes from the day before, “He left you….something for the pain I’m sure.”

He gestured wildly with his hands and Reyna stepped toward the cup on the King’s table. 

Steel clanged against her boot and Blackfyre went skidding across the floor, carelessly tossed aside. 

Aegon was muttering something to himself in High Valyrian. 

She heard some kind of expletive and something about Helaena before he wiped his face with his hands. 

Reyna stared at the murky concoction and wrinkled her nose. 

It smelled worse than the streets of Kings Landing, and she wasn’t even sure that was possible.

Still, she forced it down with a gulp, fighting the urge to vomit it back up. 

The pain in her lungs subsided, and her legs steadied underneath her. 

“Are you alright?”

Aegon’s voice made her jump and she turned to find the King directly behind her. 

The sleep was gone from his eyes, examining her like she was something fragile, like one wrong move would break her. 

His hand hovered over her cheek, shaking as the tip of his finger kissed her skin. It was the gentlest she’d ever seen him. 

A shiver erupted across her skin at the touch, breath catching in her throat as his eyes flickered down to her lips and then back to her gaze. 

How long had it been since she’d been touched?

Since she’d been wanted?

Truly, deeply, wanted?

Reyna cleared her throat. “I am fine, Your Grace, simply…recovering.”

He scoffed, lavender gaze clouding over with disbelief, “You were fortunate Ser Arryk found you when he did.” His hand traces a line down her throat and collarbone, fingering the fabric of her chemise.

He is restless, she realizes. 

“The Grand Maester says another minute and you would have been dead.” His voice hitched, slightly hoarse. She wonders if the dragon she heard shrieking was just him.

His words crack against her skin, sending her head spiraling. 

She is taking in as much information as she can, the night lost to her after Larys threw her out of the dungeons. 

Somehow she woke up in the King’s Chambers. And somehow Ser Arryk found her and brought her there. 

And yet her head was still on her shoulders. 

Her hand grasped at the necklace that hung between her breasts. 

Aegon’s jaw clenched at the sight of the scars left from the restraints. 

His nostrils flared like the beast he rode, breathing as ferocious as Sunfyre’s. His hand snatched her wrist like it had the day he’d run, but this time he was not stopping her. 

This time the power was in his hands. The way it always had been. 

“Who did this?” His voice is low, an undercurrent of violent rage simmering below the surface. This is the Aegon she recognizes, the violent man who will have his way and damn the consequences. 

She stares through long lashes to find dilated pupils awaiting an answer. 

His touch is gentle, caressing the fresh wounds the way he would a child’s scrape. 

It is a strange thing indeed, to be the object of a King’s affection instead of his ire. 

To be the one holding a man’s fate in her hands. 

With one word she could end Lord Larys’s life, his head taken by the same King’s Justice he commanded with such disregard. 

Reyna’s gaze narrowed slightly, flickering down to the pinched lips of the man before her, heavy breaths the only sign of restraint. 

She opened her mouth and the door flew open. 

Aegon’s roar of frustration made her flinch. 

“Was I not clear in my instruction?!” His voice exploded off the walls, an angry blaze all directed at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, “I am not to be disturbed for any reason, Cole.”

He spat out the knight’s name as if it were a curse.

Ser Criston looked unfazed. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” The Lord Commander’s gaze came to rest on her, a slight smirk crossing his features as it did. 

Reyna pulled her hand free from Aegon’s grasp. 

“Your brother Aemond has returned from Storm’s End.” 

Aegon snapped to attention, “And this is a pressing matter because?”

Ser Criston fidgeted in his armor, hand flexing against the hilt of his sword. “The small council has called an emergency meeting.”

“Whatever for?”

“The Prince Lucerys is dead.”

Aegon blinked, surprise flashing across his face.

“We are at war, Your Grace.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN

The small council erupts into chaos while Alicent sits at the head of the table, simply observing.

Her father sits beside her, head in his hands as the men around them yell and scream about what disasters await them now.

She has never seen her father this angry.

He is still as stone, but the face hidden in his hands is red, knuckles white as they grasped the remaining hairs on his head, threatening to pull them out.

Alicent stares at the sight before her.

Her one-eyed son sits at the opposite end of the table, rolling the marker under his palms. A smirk decorates his face. It reminds her of Driftmark. It reminds her of the night Viserys died, when he called the Princes bastards and shoved them to the ground with little help.

The right side of his face twitches and some part of Alicent hopes it hurts. A fitting punishment for the situation he’d now left them in.

“We just finished sending terms to Dragonstone, now it looks like we were deceitful in our intentions—”

“Perhaps we can salvage this still, say it was an accident—”

“Oh yes, an accidental kinslaying, that will go over well in the eyes of the gods—”

“We all know how volatile Vhagar can be, let us simply say—”

“What? The heir of Driftmark and future Lord of the Tides simply flew into Vhagar’s mouth?”

“It is better than the alternative—”

“Perhaps if we could find Prince Lucerys’ bones, an offer of peace can be made—”

“Rhaenyra would be a fool to treat with us after this—”

“Lord Borros is looking—”

“We are at war—”

“Enough!” Alicent flinched as her father bellowed out the command. His chair scraped against the floor, the dying rays of sun illuminating his face long enough to see the anger blazing in his eyes. Emerald wildfire set upon each and every member of the small council. The men cowed before Ser Otto Hightower, the man responsible for the last 30 years of peace, scrambling to fill their seats and set their markers in position.

His glare found itself on his grandson, lip curling in disgust before turning toward the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Ser Criston,” Her father sounded as if he was using every bit of energy to restrain himself, “Where is the King?”

The doors opened up and the small council stood, all except for Aemond, who never took his eyes off Alicent.

Aegon strode in with a renewed light in his eyes, which only brightened when he caught sight of his brother.

“There he is! Aemond the fierce!” Alicent’s stomach sank as Aegon clapped his brother on the shoulder, massaging his neck for a brief moment, “Slayer of Bastards, The Demon of the Skies!”

Aemond’s lips twisted upward into a small smile and Aegon grabbed a flagon and began pouring himself a cup of wine. As if coming up with the idea on the spot, Aegon snapped his fingers, “A celebration is in order, and what better way to introduce my new cupbearer?”

Alicent grimaced as her son moved back towards the door, her heart sinking further when she saw Jaehaerys step into the small council chamber with a flagon in his hand and a wide smile on his face.

Her father massaged his brow.

“Go on Jaehaerys,” Aegon’s smile was as bright as the sun, “Just like we practiced.”

The boy waddled forward, pouring the Arbor Red into the cup by Aemond’s hand. He then took a step back and looked at his father who nodded with a smile. 

“All hail Aemond the fierce!”

Aemond’s smile grew wider, “Why thank you, nephew, coming from the heir to the throne, that's high praise.”

Jaehaerys shot a toothy smile at his uncle and placed the flagon on the table, leaving as quickly as he’d arrived. 

The doors shut and Aegon slid into his chair at the head of the table, Alicent moving next to her father. 

The two exchanged looks.

Otto stared at his one-eyed grandson, disgust creeping across his face, “What have you done?”

Aemond looked unperturbed. “I settled a debt,” His eye swept across the small council before landing on Alicent and Otto. 

A shiver erupted down her back. 

Otto shook his head, hands on his hips and a glare pointed at Aemond, “You have cost us victory.”

“Aemond killed a dragon,” Aegon interjected, bristling under the weight of his grandfather’s gaze, “He evened the odds. Now the Blacks have one less piece on the board.”

“And every. reason. to attack. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?” 

Silence descended over the small council chamber and no one dared to look at one another. 

Alicent’s chest twisted.

Aemond had described in detail how he’d gone after Lucerys, tailing the boy’s dragon until he was nearly on top of him. 

“I even let him believe he got away.” His laugh had been cruel, unfeeling, nothing like the sweet boy she’d doted on and comforted after Driftmark. Nothing like the boy she’d loved. 

Instead it was the coldness of a man she no longer knew. A man she had raised. 

It echoed in her mind, haunting her thoughts.

She wondered if it was the last thing Lucerys Velaryon ever heard. 

Alicent remembered Rhaenyra giving birth to the bastard. It had been when the two were at their most strained and Viserys had decided to hold a Tourney to celebrate their seventh year of their marriage. 

Alicent had shown up in her favored green dress, while Rhaenyra had chosen a black one.

But like her mother before her, Rhaenyra had gone into labor as the joust began. However, it was Alicent who was by her side, who helped coach her through the tough birth while Elinda Massey stood at the edge of the bed ready to catch the babe. 

The rush of lances and the whinnies of distressed horses rang up from the tourney yard as they announced Ser Harwin Strong to fight against Ser Criston Cole. 

Rhaenyra had grown more distressed, spewing expletives in all manners of impropriety as she pushed the boy out.

When Alicent caught sight of the pale skin and brown hair, her stomach had sunk even further, for now she knew the truth. 

“Would you like to hold him?” 

Tears marched down her cheeks at the memory, feeling the soft spot of the bastard boy in her hands, the gentle way he cooed as he was placed in the Queen’s arms. But most of all, she remembered the proud smile on Rhaenyra’s face, the gentle way she looked at her son, as if he truly were the light of her life. 

Alicent couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at any of her children that way. 

But at that moment, her children were gone. There was no King, no Queen, not even a Princess. 

There was simply Alicent and Rhaenyra and the boy they’d brought into the world. 

Luke’s boyish giggle rang in her ears once more. 

“Mother, have mercy on us all.” She prayed aloud, clutching tight to the tiny seven pointed star around her neck. 

Otto shook his head while Alicent hung hers in her hands. 

Her sons were silent, unable to utter a single word in their defense. 

“What’s done is done,” Aemond muttered, drawing the attention of the small council once more, “The debt has been paid.”

“You fool,” Otto spat. No one dared contradict him. “You have only lost one eye, how could you be so blind?”

Aemond’s smile faded, replaced by a marbled frown and a glare to match. 

The smugness he’d worn since his return disappeared at his grandfather’s words, and Alicent squeezed her eyes shut in a wince. 

“This will not go unanswered, whether by the gods or Rhaenyra herself,” Otto pinched his brow once more, shoulders weary from holding up the realm, “You’ve cursed us. Kinslayer! ”

Alicent inhaled sharply, the weight of the Hand’s words falling over them like a funeral shroud. 

Kinslayer. 

That is what they will call them. 

That is to be her son’s legacy. 

To be cursed by the gods for his recklessness and impulsivity. 

Or perhaps it was a curse upon her for bringing him into this world in the first place. 

For failing him at Driftmark. 

For the kindness she still wished to extend to Rhaenyra even after she’d ordered Aemond to be sharply questioned. 

Even as she knew her children would die the moment she touched down in King’s Landing. 

Or perhaps her true sin originated next to the crumbling structure of Old Valyria, her father’s books in hand and her mother’s dress clinging to her figure. 

Perhaps the gods weren’t cursing her son at all. 

Perhaps they were cursing her. 

“The Prince is right,” Lord Jasper spoke up, the creases in his forehead deepening with each passing word, “What’s done is done, now we must begin to make preparations in case Rhaenyra wishes to retaliate.”

“Prince Aemond and Vhagar will patrol the city,” Otto spoke with certainty, letting Aemond know it was not a request, “To keep our enemies at bay.”

“I will station a guard outside the King and Queen’s room at all times,” Ser Criston spoke up, Alicent snapping to attention at the sound of his voice. 

“Ser Ren will make a fine sworn shield for Queen Helaena and her children, and Ser Arryk has been far more attentive than his brother when it comes to the well-being of the King. I will remain outside the Dowager Queen’s offices in case they decide to attack her directly.”

Otto nodded his affirmation, “A fine plan, Ser Criston,” He turned his gaze away from Aemond, who was currently stewing in his own thoughts. Alicent refused to look at him. “I will offer up my household guard as well, to provide relief for the Kingsguard whenever possible.”

“Thank you, My Lord Hand.”

Aegon clanked his marble against the table, “And what of her spies in the Red Keep?”

The room went silent.

Alicent choked down the bile building in her throat, “Lord Larys has assured me–”

“Lord Larys is wrong.” 

Aegon’s jaw clenched and Alicent spied cornflower blue near the edge of his cuff. He pulled the sleeves of his tunic down. “Helaena’s handmaiden was attacked last night, which means at the very least they’re aware of our movements and who we confide in.”

Otto exchanged a look with Alicent, slowly descending back into his chair. 

Aemond’s interest was renewed at the topic of conversation. 

“And you know this…”

Aegon’s eyes flickered over to Grand Maester Orwyle, “Ser Arryk found her on the beaches of the Blackwater.”

Otto’s narrowed gaze never left her son. Aegon’s remained focused on the table. 

Alicent turned to the Grand Maester for an explanation. 

“The Kingsguard brought her to me, Your Grace, and I informed the Queen of her condition.”

Alicent squinted at the man, “Her condition?”

“Water in the lungs, Your Grace,” Orwell confirmed, “Pressure near her mouth and nose consistent with forced suffocation. If it was Daemon and Rhaenyra–”

“There’s no if,” Aegon snapped, marble clattering from his hands, “It was them, I know it.”

Alicent chanced a look at her father. 

He was still focused on Aegon. 

Alicent watched her son’s hand shake as he poured himself more wine, muttering under his breath in High Valyrian. 

The wine disappeared down his throat and Alicent’s chest twisted. 

“Forgive me, My Lords.”

Alicent’s pulse raced, head turning with the small council to see Larys Strong leaning against his cane, having been privy to the entire conversation. 

She sighed. 

As Lord Confessor he was entitled to a seat, but he rarely used it. 

Instead he preferred to stand in the corner near the door, just out of sight, yet able to hear everything. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear the discussion surrounding Queen Helaena’s handmaiden.” His cane clacked against the floor, foot dragging with every step, “As you know, I have spent the last week interrogating the staff, ensuring their loyalty to the new King,” The Strong Lord bowed his head Aegon’s direction, eyes flickering to the floor for a brief moment. “The one called Reyna was one such handmaiden. She assured me she has no interest in loosening her tongue.”

Alicent winced at the turn of phrase, hand grasping her neck as the urge to bite her nails surged in her stomach once again.

“Out of caution, I had her followed.”

“You what?” Aegon’s growl echoed off the walls. 

Larys ducked his head in deference once again, “Only for safety, Your Grace. I know how…fond the Queen is of this particular handmaiden. And it is lucky I did, otherwise I would not have been able to alert Ser Arryk in time.”

Aegon slowly sat back down in his chair, eyeing the Lord Confessor. 

Alicent stared between the two men, brow furrowed as she tried to decipher what Larys’ goal was. 

In all likelihood it had been Larys who had taken Reyna to the Blackwater instead, so what did he gain by convincing Aegon it was Daemon and Rhaenyra?

A small smile tugged on the edge of Larys’ lips, but he kept his gaze to the floor, “Thankfully, I was able to learn who was behind such a heinous act.”

Aegon leaned forward, turning an eager ear to the man before him. 

Alicent swallowed. 

“Who?”

Larys pried open the door and two figures dressed in the plain robes of the Lord Confessor’s attendants. Two other figures were forced on their knees, Alicent’s hackles rising as she recognized the faded green cloth beaten and ripped from days in the Black Cells. 

The other was a Gold Cloak, beaten and bloodied and torn to shreds by whatever horrors Larys had inflicted on them.

The figures removed their hoods. 

The Gold Cloak’s eye was bouncing out of his head, blood dripping down his neck and staining his gold cloak crimson. His armor has been hacked to pieces, bent and discarded like shingles on a roof. 

His features were so mangled, Alicent couldn’t even figure out who it was. 

But the other…

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat. 

Talya’s blue eyes were wide, blackened from her days in the cells, a rag stuffed down her throat to keep her quiet. Bruises decorated her once porcelain skin, vibrant hair dripping an even darker red from a wound on her forehead. 

“Your Grace!” Her muffled cries twist at Alicent’s heart, snaking around it and squeezing it until she is sure every last bit of mercy has left her. 

She chokes on her own nausea, spitting up dinner into her mouth. 

Alicent keeps it shut though, and simply turns to Larys expectantly. 

The man is always calm. Face as blank as a canvas, betraying nothing of the turmoil she knows resides inside. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Her throat is thick as she forces the words out, refusing to look at her former lady-in-waiting. 

“Exactly as I said, Your Grace,” Larys does not meet her gaze, instead looking only at Aegon, whose hands have now curled themselves into tight fists, nostrils flared as he glares at the lady-in-waiting. “I discovered these two wandering the castle.” 

Talya’s frightened gaze moved between Aegon and Alicent. 

“I thought it odd, they were not with Her Grace or patrolling the city. And then once I found out about Reyna, well…” Larys did not avert his gaze, chin leaning atop his cane, “The pieces all fell into place.”

“You’re sure these are the ones?” 

“The Lady Talya confessed to being a spy for Prince Daemon’s paramour. Admitted she’d been grooming Reyna for that same purpose, only when the handmaiden refused….well, she had to resort to other means.”

Talya shook her head, tears gathering in pools near the edge of her eyelids. Her muffled cries were impossible to decipher, but Alicent was still waiting for an explanation. 

She had already known about Talya. 

So why was Larys making such a scene?

Aegon’s chair scraped against the floor, footsteps slow and sure as he began to make his way over to the doorway. 

“The Gold Cloak was one of the many still loyal to Prince Daemon. It did not take long for him to confess to holding the poor girl down himself. According to him, the Lady Talya had promised he could…’have his way with the Dornish dog’ when it was done.”

Alicent stared at the back of her son, his shoulders tense with a dark fury. His breathing was the only sound in the room, deep and heavy. His chest heaved with each breath and his hand found itself around the hilt of a rubied sword. 

“It is rather fortunate Ser Arryk happened upon the handmaiden before any damage was done.” Larys’s words were carefully chosen, his eyes never smiling when his mouth did. His voice always the softest in the room, never floating above a whisper.

It chilled Alicent to the bone. 

Aegon’s fingers tapped against the hilt of Blackfyre as he stared down at the alleged perpetrators. 

Talya had the good sense to avert her gaze. 

The man beside her, however, simply puffed out his chest and spat. 

His head tumbled to the floor. 

Aegon wiped the blood from the blade, staining his velvet doublet red. 

Her heart pounded and Otto Hightower stared curiously at the scene, trying to decipher the moves his grandson was making, as well as the Lord Confessor. 

“Do you know the punishment for betraying a King?” 

Talya nodded. 

“Good.” 

A breath of silence punctured the air.

Aegon squatted down until he was face to face with the handmaiden, a cruel smile stretching across his lips. It resembled Aemond’s too well. 

Talya’s wide eyes met the King’s, despair clouding the blues until they resembled the thrashing waves of the Blackwater and the pellets of rain that pounded against the window, breaking up the silence when no one else would.  

“Yours will be far worse.”

Alicent watches, frozen, as Talya is dragged out of the room kicking and screaming, her last pleas of desperation dying on her lips. 

The doors shut and silence falls once more. 

The Prince was waiting for her when she arrived.

Lacey hadn’t even had time to change into her robe before Malina caught her bicep and informed her she had a visitor. 

“He requested you personally,” The woman eyed the back room with a wary look in her irises, “He’s been there since we opened. Refuses to see anyone else.”

Lacey had creased her brow and removed her cloak, hanging it up in the changing room before moving through the brothel, passing the endless rooms of lords and common men alike seeking pleasures they all felt regardless of status. 

“My prince,” She bows low, refusing to look him in the eyes. 

Aemond Targaryen hums thoughtfully, his clothes already discarded on the floor, manhood on full display. 

He is not impressive, but Lacey keeps that thought to herself. 

The last thing she needs is her head on a pike because she insulted a prince. 

“Come,”  He orders, and she can hardly say no. Another bag of gold dragons was placed on the table. Lacey plastered a sweet smile on her face and settled down onto his lap, her skirts bunched up around her thighs. 

She wore no smallclothes and could feel the Prince’s stiffness between her legs, hips slightly rocking back and forth. 

Aemond’s hand grasped her hair and pulled back. She forced a moan from her mouth. 

The Prince loved to pull at her hair. He loved being the one in control, loved telling her what to do.

His free palm wrapped around her throat, choking the breath from her. 

A throaty laugh escaped her lips. 

“Did my prince miss me?”

It was something only a whore could say. Anyone else would be run through for the insolence, but this was what she was paid to do, to provide pleasure to men higher than her and in return she would be showered with silks and jewels and gold. 

Lacey pictured her mother dropping dead if she ever found out what had become of her poor, innocent little girl. But it was she who condemned her to this life. 

Ever since she’d been dropped off in the whorehouse in Tumbleton, Lacey was meant to be everything the Septa who bore her despised. 

Beautiful, desirable, the kind of woman Kings and Princes and Lords wished to have in their beds instead of their tedious wives. 

She was meant to climb her way to victory by making men pay for it, by pleasuring them and granting their deepest desires even if they didn’t know what it was yet. 

Prince Aemond desired control. 

He wanted to see her on her knees, sucking the length of his cock until it swelled, spilling the salt of his seed onto her tongue. 

His eye rolled back as she slid her tongue around the tip of him, using her hand to squeeze and pull when she came up for air, licking his stickiness from her lips and sucking it off her fingers. 

She never once broke eye contact. 

“Yes,” He moaned, desire glazing over his face as she wiggled her pinky between her lips, rolling her tongue over it. 

She pulled it free with a loud pop!

His gaze darkened and he pushed her against the lone table, gold dragons spilling out behind her. He pulled her legs open and thrust his fingers in deep.

She disguised the wince as a moan of pleasure, the stroke of his fingers slowly drawing the wetness from her folds. Nails dug into the muscle of his shoulders, soft noises following his desperate grunts and groans with each thrust. 

Lacey squeezed his hips with her thighs, straddling the prince as he became rougher, a smirk curving his lips like a scythe. 

She grabbed his cock and tugged, feeling the proof of his pleasure in her palm. She moved faster, then slower, then faster again, each stroke causing him to spasm at her touch, grasping the edge of the table to steady himself. 

“Losing control, my prince?” Her teasing lilt drew his ire, and the feel of his fingers nearly crushing her throat forced an exhale from her lips. She ran her tongue back and forth as his good eye widened, a hungry glint reflected in it. 

“Call me King,” He demands, voice low. It reminds her of silk. 

The request is treason, but the gold slips through her fingers, cold and heavy and she dreams of Pentos. Of the manse she would one day own with baths bigger than the Red Keep and so many servants she wouldn’t know what to do. 

She dreams of the men who would flock to her feet, begging for a taste as she sent them away with a laugh and a bushel of grapes. 

The fantasy sustains her as Aemond’s thin fingers press against her windpipe, nearly choking the air from her. She forces another moan from her mouth, relaxing her muscles under his touch. 

When she opens her eyes, they gleam with wanton desire. 

“Apologies,” She chokes out. She’s become an expert at disguising her pain through whines and whimpers, “My king.”

He crumbles and takes her lips in his own. 

The kiss is as rough as the rest of him, tongue wandering aimlessly as he paws at the mounds under her silken dress. 

It takes one pull from him to rip the garment in two, breasts spilling into his palms. 

The gasp that leaves her mouth is genuine as he twists her nipple, burying his face between her chest. 

His lips suck at her skin and she knows she will be red tomorrow, “My king,” She utters, hoping the moniker will earn her more gold for her troubles. 

Gods know she’ll need it after this. 

She whines as he tongues her teat, rimming the nipple before taking it in his mouth. Warmth blooms in her abdomen, hand fisting his silvery hair like she was pulling ghost grass from the lands of Asshai. 

His grip tightens and he returns the favor. 

Her back arches with a small cry, his nibbles sending a dart of pleasure through her veins, the sensation bursting into a fuzziness that impeded her thoughts. 

It stung her chest every time the Prince ravished her with his lips. 

Lacey’s legs wrapped around his waist and he came up for air with a wicked smile. 

He rips the dress from her frame and thrusts himself hard and deep.

Pain splits Lacey in two and she bites down on her lip to avoid crying out. The coins rattle beneath her and she squeezes her eyes shut, the manse in Pentos appearing in her mind.

She has already chosen the color of the carpets and tapestries, specially woven from Myr and Lys and draped in every room. 

Deep purple and bright teal, the colors she will wear with reckless abandon, a shot of ochre and gold fringing the edges. 

Golden chandeliers hang in the foyer, with wide open doors and windows that show off her wealth to the masses. 

There will be no dragons. No whores. And most importantly of all, no silver-haired Princes.

She forces an arch to her back as a cry escapes her lips. 

There is more effort put into this one than others. Control is important to the one-eyed prince, and so is his masculinity. If he wants to believe he truly brought a whore pleasure in this miserable life then let him believe it. 

It was not entirely untrue, although she will admit the suckling of her breast was the only enjoyable part of the evening. 

His seed spills down her legs, followed by shallow thrusts and the hunch of his shoulders. He convulses for a few more minutes before finally pulling out. 

Lacey pushes out heavy breaths, the Prince’s eyes remaining fixated on her breasts as they moved up and down with each inhale and exhale. 

Strands of golden hair decorate the floor alongside the dragons he’d given her. Her heart sinks at the sight of the pink dress now in shreds. It was one of her favorites. 

“I believe you owe me a new dress, Your Grace,” She figures she must play the role he’d asked her too until he is done. And he is never done until he has spilled the worries that plague his mind. Aemond waves her concern away and she gestures for a servant to bring them wine. 

“My mother has plenty that will suit you,” He smiles and leans back into the blankets, limp and disheveled. 

Lacey lets out a gasp of delight, hand flying to her chest as she hops off the table and plasters her body to his. 

“A dress of the Queen’s? Your Grace, you are too kind.”

Aemond hums, a small smile tugging on his lips as his gaze raked across her body.

Sweat clings to him like the mists of the harbor, chest heaving as his hand gently came to caress her cheek. The left side of his face twitched, causing him to wince. 

His eyepatch was still on his face. 

“Here,” Her tone was suddenly serious, sympathy stinging her chest as her hand grazed the skin beneath the patch. 

The Prince’s breath hitched at the sudden contact, but he made no effort to move. 

Lacey’s fingers peeled the soft leather from his face, tossing the patch aside as she came face to face with the shining sapphire. 

When she moved to pull away his hand cupped hers, keeping it in place. 

His gaze softened under her touch and something stirred in her chest.

“I killed him. Just as I said I would.”

Lacey didn’t know what to say, so she kept her mouth shut. 

He grew pensive, nuzzling her hand before pressing a kiss to the palm, “I thought I would feel different.”

“Your Grace, I cannot presume–”

“Aemond.”

Lacey gulped. 

“Aemond,” His name was ash in her mouth, “I cannot presume to know the heart of a Pri–King. But I am sure it will pass.”

The lies dripped like honey, a sweet concoction to dull the senses so she could slip away unharmed. His brows knit themselves together. “You killed your own kin. I do not think that is an easy thing to accept, even if he tormented you.”

His gaze dipped to the floor and he leaned his head in her neck, the rest of his body curled up in her arms. “I lost control. I hesitated and Vhagar made the decision for me.” Fingers raked through her hair, balling it in his fists, “I must not lose control again.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Lacey swallowed, gently rubbing the back of his neck like a mother to a child, “And you won’t. You are Aemond Targaryen,” She pulls him away and holds his head in her hands, determination reflected in his sapphire eye. She is disheveled and red, but Lacey does not turn away as her hands squeeze the side of his face. 

If this is her only chance to talk some sense into a Prince, then she must take what she can. 

She parrots something she’d heard Lady Misery say once, “Rider of Vhagar. The One-Eyed Prince.” Her chest heaves, nerves curling tightly in her stomach as his eyes glaze over, “All of us whisper your name in reverence. Aemond the Fierce. Aemond the Bold. Boys wish to be you, girls wish to be with you,” She lowers her gaze, playing the role of the blushing maiden under his touch. His chest swells, “If you cannot control your dragon, what hope do the smallfolk have?”

Want flashes in his gaze and he kisses her once more. 

It is tender and slow, sealing her lips shut as he sinks into her touch, finger tracing her jaw. 

Lacey is surprised to find herself kissing back. 

“You never answered.” 

Reyna turns and catches sight of the King silhouetted in the doorway. His shoulders are weary and the circles around his eyes have grown larger in her absence. 

Lightning flashed across the windows and she spied a splatter of blood against the velvet green of his robes. His hand flexed near the hilt of Blackfyre, but his eyes remained fixated on her. 

“Answered what, Your Grace?”

His steps are slow and deliberate, like the thunder approaching the keep. 

Lightning flashed once more and Reyna began to count. 

One one-thousand…Two one-thousand…three one-thousand….

Aegon was nearly on top of her, the tip of his finger tilting her chin up and forcing her to look at him. His other hand grazed her collarbone, following the shape of her body until it snatched her wrist, a thin bracelet of blood around it. “This.”

Reyna’s breath hitched. 

One one-thousand…two one-thousand…

His breath was hot against her skin. 

“Would it have made a difference if I did?”

Wildfire burned in his eyes, the lilac darkening to indigo at her words.

Her knees buckled but Reyna forced herself to remain standing, chin defiant as she watched Aegon’s brows knit themselves together.

She took his bloodied hand from around her wrist and opened his palm to the sky. Her finger traced his lifeline, short and broken in two before her gaze met his again. Blood stained his fingertips, tucked into his bitten down nails. She didn’t know if it was his or the man he killed.

Aegon bit down on his lip, eyes flickering to her mouth. “I took his head.”

She imagined Lord Larys’s face presented to her on a silver platter and her lips curved into a smirk.

The whole castle had learned what happened in the small council chambers. Or at least, the servants had, and what the servants knew the rest of the castle would soon learn.

But Lord Larys was still standing, which meant Aegon had beheaded someone else for his crime.

“But I never told you who.”

“You didn’t need to.” Aegon’s eyes softened and he took a strand of hair in his hands, rubbing the raven tresses between his fingers. 

Reyna’s mouth was dry and she wet her lips to try and satisfy the gaping urge in her stomach whenever his hands kissed her skin, the hunger that rumbled at the thought of his lips against her neck. A gentle touch as blood smeared across her complexion. 

She gulped. 

“So why does it matter to you that I never answered?”

His mouth flapped open and shut in an attempt to form a reply, but nothing came out. In any other circumstance she would have laughed.

It was rare to see a King speechless, especially from the words of a bastard. 

It made her smile. 

Aegon’s brow furrowed deeper and he blew out a sigh.

“What if I’d told you it was one of your own council members?” She stepped out of his grasp and clasped her hands behind her back, “Would you have cut them down then?”

She watched as he grabbed his palm, massaging the skin between his thumb and forefinger before twirling the signet ring around his pinky. 

Her heart thumped in her chest, but still she waited. If she was to be entangled with a madman, then she must first see how mad he truly was. 

“Was it one of them?” His gaze darkened, hand stilling.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

‘Neither did you.”

They stare at one another and Reyna smirks as Aegon exhales through gritted teeth. 

Victory dances in her chest at the thought of frustrating the man, but it is short lived as his gaze darkens once more. 

“You are the King,” She utters, hands dropping to her side, “And you cannot afford to lose any support.”

“I can if they are threatening…” He trails off, wiping a hand down his face. 

Reyna lifts her brow in a challenge, her boldness spurring her on even as fear coursed through her veins, “What? Serving girls?”

His mouth flapped open and shut with no response. 

“That is what I am, Your Grace,” Reyna’s voice trembles from the storm brewing in her chest, “I am no Queen, nor a noblewoman with a large castle or money to offer the crown.” He grew speechless once more, eyes dipping to the ground in shame. 

It was a strange thing, to see the most powerful man in the world act like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the pastry jar. 

Reyna shakes her head, a rueful smile on her lips. “I cannot command a King anymore than dragons can command the skies.” She looks at the man before her, his shoulders slumped and silver hair hanging limply around his shoulders. It’s grown a bit since the coronation, and is nearly all the same length. She finds she misses the jagged cut he once wore. “To pretend I can is treason.”

He studies the floor beneath him, rocking back and forth on his feet the same way Helaena does when she’s restless. 

“I never wanted to be King,” Aegon gulps, creasing his brows together as the weight of his words descends upon him, “To sit that throne is to be accursed in every way. Maegor knew it, my father knew it, but still they put me there to be paraded around. A trophy to wave in victory when all is said and done.”

“So prove them wrong.” Reyna shrugged.

Aegon’s head snapped up to meet hers, “That’s it then? Your great command is to prove everyone in my life who has ever seen me as a failure wrong?”

“You could always throw yourself from the Red Keep, but that doesn’t seem quite as productive.”

He snorts and warmth blooms in her chest again. 

“You’re insufferable.” He mutters.

Reyna shrugs, “So are you.” She’s come to recognize the amusement gleaming in his eyes, “You would have liked Myr. No dragons, but plenty of alehouses and brothels to entertain oneself.”

His eyes twinkle at her words, taking a brief sip of wine, “Alas, the gods made me a Targaryen.”

“A shame.” Her words are teasing, drawing a giggle from the King as he leans back with a wide smile on his face. 

Quiet settles over them.

He blinks.

“Reyna, I–"

“Don't, Aegon.”

He froze as his name dropped from her lips and her eyes widened. 

It didn’t matter how friendly he was with her, there was no excuse for a servant to call a King by his given name. It was a serious breach of manners and conduct. One worthy of punishment. 

She wondered what he would do first.

Would he bend her over and take what was his or would he wait until she was dead and bleeding out in his arms? She’d heard of men so perverse as to violate the graves of the women who’d killed themselves to escape their grasp. 

Her gaze flickered to the Valyrian steel dagger that hung on his hip. 

He moved forward.

She moved back. 

His hand snatched her wrist with frightening speed. Pain shot up her arm and pooled into her chest at the soft grip tightening around her skin. 

It felt wrong to have something so unblemished graze her scarred arms, like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole, and yet she couldn’t help but melt under his touch. 

Warmth buzzed in her ears, the King’s wide-eyed gaze softening as he reached across the cavernous gap she’d created.

“Say it again.”

Her heart thrummed. 

Reyna swallowed. 

“Say what?” She choked out, playing the innocent serving girl who was at the whim of the King. 

Aegon wrenched her wrist, causing her to stumble directly into his chest.

His arms wrapped themselves around her waist to catch her, the lightning illuminating a wry smirk on his face.

Desire danced behind the lilac fire of his eyes, his stare following the curve of her body before landing on a gaze slightly darker than his own. 

She could finally see the colors that glimmered in his irises, brown and blue swirling together to create the soft tourmaline Reyna saw in her dreams more and more often. 

It was the color of royalty, the color of power. 

And it was all focused on her. 

“My name,” His whisper tickled her skin and her knees buckled. The sweet scent of hippocras wafted through her nose, punctured by the bitter notes of Dornish Red. 

She wondered when his smell had become as intoxicating as the wine he drank.

Reyna forces herself to remain standing.

His grip tightens, playing with the strings of her laces once again. Like he did the first time he called her here. She’s certain with one pull she would come undone, a heap at his feet like every serving girl who came before her. 

“Aegon.” Her breath hitches and his lips capture hers. 

Warmth pools between her legs and she grips his hair between the spindles of her fingers. The king devours her, tongue grazing the roof of her mouth in a way that draws a moan from the back of her throat. His hand lodges it deep within the roots of her braid and tugs, forcing her neck into a position to better fulfill the insatiable way his lips explore her own, refusing to take any breath but hers. 

She is used to the fast and filthy way he draws the cries of pleasure from whores and servants, the sounds of wood scraping against the marble floors filling the Red Keep. 

This kiss is like the ones from the songs. The ones her mother would tell her about when she’d asked for a love story to lull her to sleep. 

Reyna had long forgotten about the myth of true love’s kiss, but his lips are almost enough to bring the dim hope back to life again. 

Her thoughts leak from her ears, replaced with the thumping of her heartbeat, the sound resembling the call of war drums.

She melts.

Even iron gives way to flame eventually. 

When he pulls away, Reyna is insatiable, the ache in her core growing larger at his absence. 

Their foreheads touch.

Shallow breaths are all that stand between them and it takes every bit of restraint Reyna possesses to stop from helping herself to more. 

A kiss from a King is acceptable, a kiss from a serving girl was laughable. 

He was being kind. She was reaching above her station. 

Fingers twist her hair and she forgets to breathe. 

They let go as thunder rattles the windows once more. 

Aegon snaps from whatever trance she had put him in, his smile fading into something akin to regret. An apology dangles on the edge of his mouth and Reyna wraps it in her own again.

It could very well get her killed, but if she is to never kiss him again, she would gladly take her chance while she has it. 

Hers is soft and quick, chaste enough to fulfill the longing in her chest before she pulls away. 

It is an affirmation. A way to tell him she wanted no apology for his actions. 

Reyna swallows the lump in her throat as her hands caress Aegon’s cheeks, eyes scanning her for a lie she has not told. He is looking for artifice, something he can point to and claim trickery before the eyes of the gods. 

For the moment he is not a king and she is not a servant. 

He is simply a boy desperate for love and she is a girl accepting what she’d always denied herself. 

The two share an easy laugh, Aegon’s eyes brightening at the sound.

It disappears with a knock on the door and Reyna pulls away.

It is Aemond who enters without permission, staring between his brother and her as if he’d stumbled upon veins of gold within the mines of Casterly Rock. 

His lips curled into a smirk while his good eye lingered a bit too long on Reyna for her taste.

“Pardon the interruption, brother,” His silky voice made her skin crawl, “Grandfather has requested an audience.”

Aegon tensed, dropping Reyna’s hands with a snarl as he turned to face his brother, “Did the Hand mention why this audience was so important?”

Aemond hummed, turning his gaze back to his brother, whose back was still turned against him. “No, but he did seem to believe it was quite urgent.”

“Yes, well the Hand seems to believe everything is quite urgent these days,” Aegon muttered, his jaw twitching at the thought. “One would think him…” He trails off, playing with the golden band around his little finger, “Tell the Lord Hand to wait in his chambers, I will meet with him soon.”

Aemond nodded and turned to leave, only stopping when Aegon spun on his heel to face him. 

“Aemond.” 

The one-eyed prince stopped in his tracks, meeting his brother’s gaze with a wry smirk. 

Aegon straightened his shoulders, looking more a King than he had in days past, “You did well. Killing Luke…” He swallowed. Reyna’s heart dropped into her stomach at the mention of the late Prince. 

She had not heard how he had died, but now she knew. 

Of course it was Prince Aemond. The boy who’d lost an eye to the prince that night at Driftmark. Every servant knew the tale. 

The only person she knew who’d borne witness to the aftermath was Alize, who was fourteen at the time and had been granted the honor of being Princess Rhaenys’ cupbearer due to her resemblance to her late daughter. 

“It was ghastly,” Alize told her one night, “I was forced to help the Maester clean it all up afterwards, but all anyone could talk about was the Queen Alicent attacking Princess Rhaenyra.” 

Reyna tried to picture the scene playing out in front of her, where a boy of seven attacked a boy of ten and suffered no consequences for it. 

She wondered if the Prince took his eye in retribution, or if he simply let the boy go blind before feeding him to his dragon. 

Aegon stepped forward and clapped his brother on the shoulder, “It was a good beginning. Now the realm sees the true blood of the dragon has prevailed.”

Reyna thought she spied a smattering of pride in Aemond’s face, his lips curved up into a smile. 

“Thank you, brother.” 

Reyna gulps as his gaze lands on her once more. 

Chapter Text

The Red Keep came into view as The Mermaid’s Kiss steered through the lapping waves of the Narrow Sea. Salt clung to the cloak of a dark-skinned woman of one and twenty, dark eyes narrowing at the sight just off the starboard of the galley. 

“Steady men!” Allard called from the deck, her first mate already spotting the teal and white banners that blocked their usual passage into the city. 

“Hoist the colors!” Alize of Hull called, loose black curls blowing in the breeze, waves shaking the galley back and forth. 

Her men followed her orders without hesitation, throwing up the banner of House Velaryon they’d been given on their excursion to Braavos. The Sealord’s son presented it as a gift in the hopes of courting her, claiming he’d ripped it from the mast of the flagship of Lord Vaemond Velaryon.

She wasn’t sure how much stock she’d placed in the boy’s stories, but the banner had provided safety when the rumbling of war was on the horizon. 

Addam’s missives had brought nothing but doom, although he did tell of a grand story when Alyn dragged the body of Lord Corlys back to shore after he’d suffered a near fatal wound to the neck. 

Her brother had waxed poetic of Alyn’s actions and how he was sure it would garner the Lord’s attention like they’d been hoping for since their birth. 

Alize wasn’t quite so sure. 

It was bad enough she’d been forced to play cupbearer to his Valyrian wife, but if her brothers got caught up in whatever conflict the dragon house was currently entrenched in, she’d never forgive him. 

He’d abandoned them long ago.

Until he needed them to fulfill his dream of glory and legacy. 

A legacy they’d been denied since they came into this world kicking and screaming. 

“Drop the anchor!”

“Dropping anchor!” 

She joined Allard on the deck as the metal scraped against the sea floor, lodging her mother’s galley in place. 

“Please tell me you know what this is about.” She arched a brow at the Braavosi, a common sellsword who’d become one of her constant companions since she’d began her travels. He was a slight man with a head of dark curls and mismatched eyes and he was the most loyal man she’d ever encountered. 

All of her crew was. 

Allard crossed his arms with a frown, creasing his tanned forehead as the Velaryon ship drew closer. Alize noticed they were bearing the colors of House Targaryen as well. “It looks like a blockade, a way to stop trade from going in or out of the city.”

Alize huffed and rolled her eyes, “Great, another obstacle we don’t need.” She turned to the rest of the crew, “Gather up the cargo! Have it sorted and ready to be presented!” The crew scrambled at her instruction, dipping below decks to grab the foods, spices, and fabrics she’d spent the last month gathering from merchants from Essos and Dorne. 

Higher prices, but worth more when sold to the noble houses. 

The dyed fabrics of Tyrosh, for example, were often sought after by those in the Crownlands, as a way to make them stand out among the lesser factions. 

But the food and wine from Pentos and Dorne were valuable amongst the smallfolk. They did not have the luxury of gorging themselves on spiced wine and roast pig, so the cargo she brought in often led to a bigger payout among the merchants of King’s Landing. 

But if there was a blockade to the city…

The wooden ramp slammed against the rail of The Mermaid’s Kiss and the familiar march of steel rang in Alize’s ears. 

The man in charge was dressed head to toe in teal leathers, his dark skin and white hair betraying his allegiance. Alize caught sight of a familiar face behind him, trying to disguise her smirk. 

The Velaryon Captain faced Allard with a stern brow, surveying the cargo before him. “Is this all?”

Alize knew better than to speak up. 

In times like these it was better to allow men to believe Allard was in charge instead of a slight girl of one and twenty who’d been working a ship since she could walk. 

“Yes,” Allard’s smooth voice was always welcome when it came to the gruff knights and seamen of Westeros. It had a feminine quality that managed to soothe even the most fragile of tempers. “Of course you and your men can check below decks if you desire.”

Alize shot a look at Addam over the man’s shoulder, the siblings sharing a silent conversation as the man weighed his options. 

“No need, you will have plenty of that when you get to Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone?”

The Captain looked down his nose at her, as if he’d suddenly noticed her existence. “Yes, by the orders of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, all ships are to be redirected to Dragonstone until further notice.”

Alize squinted and crossed her arms, “And did the Queen give a reason for this?”

The Captain scoffed indignantly and set his jaw, “She is the Queen, she does not have to–”

“And yet my orders came from a King.” Alize knew she was playing with fire, but the sight on the Captain’s face tickled something in her stomach. 

He sputtered out something indecipherable and Addam burst into barely concealed laughter behind him before he stepped out of turn. 

“What my sister means to say,” Addam’s eyes shone with the same mirth that rattled her bones, “Is that she has been far from home these past few weeks.” He clasped her shoulder and pulled her close, “You’ll forgive her Ser, for the Captain of the Mermaid’s Kiss has not been privy to the family squabbles that plague the nation.”

The Velaryon let out a sigh and nodded toward the rest of his crew, sending a warning look at Addam before marching back to his war galley.

When they were finally alone, Alize smacked her brother in the chest. 

“Ow, what was that for?”

“For not telling me we had a new Queen, barnacle.”

Addam rolled his eyes at his sister’s nickname, massaging his pec. “We don’t. Not really. Lord Corlys declared for the Princess instead of the King, so we’re left fulfilling his wishes.”

“Ah yes,” Alize spoke bitterly, crossing her arms across her billowing white shirt, ignoring the pain splitting in her chest, “The wishes of a Lord who refuses to acknowledge our existence.”

Addam stayed silent, and Alize continued to sulk. 

She replayed his words in her mind, creasing her dark brows as they settled on a phrase he’d glossed over. 

“Wait, you said Lord Corlys pledged fealty to the Princess instead of the King.” 

Addam winced.

Alize grasped tightly to her brother’s arm, refusing to let go, “Addam…do not tell me he did not kneel for Daemon–”

“Not Daemon, Ali,” Addam sighed, wiping his shirt over his face, “King’s Landing crowned Prince Aegon in your absence.”

“So what? We have two monarchs now?” 

Addam shrugged, “Right now we serve the Queen. Which from what I’ve heard seems to be the better end of the deal.”

Alize stared at her brother, indignance curdling in her veins, “My friends are in King’s Landing. Reyna, Ivy…Addam, how am I supposed to get them out?”
He refused to look at her. 

Her stomach sank like the anchor beneath the waves. 

His silence answered the question for her. 

“There’s been sightings of a dragon across the Narrow Sea.” Helaena’s words make Reyna’s ears perk up in interest. “The Dragonkeepers do not recognize it, so they believe it to be one of the wild ones from Dragonstone.”

“Do they normally fly this far south?” Reyna adjusts her position beside Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the former unable to stop talking about his recent excursions to the small council. He’d since taken to grabbing one of his father’s pitchers of wine and pouring goblets for Reyna and Helaena, a wide smile on his face when he managed to do so without spilling a drop.

Helaena smiled at her son as she continued to embroider, but every so often, her eyes would dart to the walls, as if expecting them to open wide and swallow her whole. “It’s not unusual, but it is something to worry about, grandfather says.” Reyna eyes the silken cloth Helaena has been working on since the coronation, a visage of dragons entwined with one another extending out from her hands.

A much smaller dragon was being devoured by a larger one, while waves roared beneath them.

“He believes someone has claimed it and is using it to scare Vhagar.” Helaena’s eyes remained forever focused on the black fabric on her lap, pulling the silk threads tight before tying it off. The girl screwed her lips into a tight frown, brows creased in worry. “It is not the dragons I worry about.” Her eyes flickered to her children, hand coming to rest on her belly, “It is the rats.”

Her gaze moved to the walls once more.

Reyna swallowed.

She’d heard rats scurrying about last night, their squeaks echoing through the halls as they sniffed around corners and hid in the shadows.

A crash pulled both women from their thoughts.

Jaehaerys stood there with wide eyes and a tear-filled expression, mouth flapping open and closed as he met his mother’s gaze. Glass littered the floor around him.

“Jaehaerys!” Helaena called, sweeping the boy into her arms and checking his hands for any injuries, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Reyna sprung into action, grabbing several washcloths and mopping up the water that was now stretching across the marble floor toward the Myrish carpets. Her heart ached at the sight of the intricate designs and woven patterns. She wished she remembered more of her mother’s homeland.

“I’m sor-sorry,” Jaehaerys stuttered, hiccupping as tears began to stream down his face, “I couldn’t find father’s wine, so I used water.”

Helaena sighed, sharing a playful look with Reyna before turning back to her son with understanding in her eyes. “It’s alright, but you need to be more careful next time.”

“Your mother is right, my prince,” Reyna swept the glass shards on the damp washcloth, careful to avoid cutting herself, “Glass is dangerous, and can cut as quick as a knife.”

Jaehaera peered over the King’s model of Old Valyria, curiosity in her gaze as she stared at the scene before her.

“But I am the heir to the throne,” He muttered under his breath, chewing on his thumb, “Father says I must get used to danger.”

He said the words as if they were told to him a hundred times.

Helaena rolled her eyes, a deep frown tugging on her lips, “You will not have to deal with the danger your father mentions for quite some time yet,” The Queen placed the boy back on the ground, far away from the mess he’d made. Helaena placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, sweeping away the silver locks with a fond smile, “Now go, I think Jaehaera needs an Aegon to her Visenya.”

The boy’s face lit up and he rushed over to join his sister, who promptly smacked him in the head with her toy dragon.

Reyna resisted the urge to laugh.

Helaena shook her head as Reyna wrapped up the glass and tied the washcloth off with a small smile.

“Handfuls, the both of them,” Helaena rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the fondness in her voice, “I will need a Dragonkeeper of my own if the next one takes after Aegon as well.”

Reyna froze, feet stuck to the floor as she eyed the Queen’s belly. Suddenly it all made sense.

Why she was with the Grand Maester the night before.

The soft caress of her belly confirmed it.

But yet, the Queen did not look happy. “Mother believes it will be a boy. But I am hoping for a girl.”

“Helaena—”

“I did question whether or not I should rid myself of it,” The girl had retreated inward, worry reflected in lavender irises as she sat back down to embroider.

Reyna sat beside her, the words pulling on her heart.

“But then I thought, no that would be treason, and even if Aegon didn’t care, mother would and so would grandfather, and Aemond loves being an uncle so—”

“Helaena…” Reyna grasped the girl’s hand in her own. She did not pull away. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, “It is okay to not want a baby.”

Her shoulders tensed and her lip quivered, anxiety surging through her veins at the thought. Reyna knew guilt was curling in her stomach, choking the life out of her. She’d experienced it herself once.

“I am a mother,” Helaena’s gaze dipped back to the garment she was making, “And I am the Queen, it is my job to provide healthy heirs for the King.”

The words were practiced, like Jaehaerys’. A teaching from a Septa or Queen Alicent, and one Helaena had heard many times if the recitation was any indication.

Reyna’s lips tilted up in a sad smile, “You have provided two perfectly healthy and wonderful heirs to the throne already. Do not fault yourself for not wanting more.”

A comforting quiet fell over the two women, Helaena shooting Reyna a grateful look before turning her gaze toward the window overlooking the city. Her hands fell to her lap, embroidery forgotten as a soft smile crossed her face.

“There’s been more Velaryon ships than usual,” Helaena creases her brow into a thoughtful expression, “No wonder grandfather thinks the dragon is on their side.”

Reyna’s stomach churned at the thought of war on the horizon. Wyl’s words came back to her in a flood of memories, “The streets say Lord Corlys has blocked all trade to and from King’s Landing. A dragon certainly would help with that.”

“But then how will the people get food?” Helaena turns to her with worry in her eyes.

Reyna shrugs, “They won’t. I’m sure they intend to starve us out until we turn on one another.”

It was the plan Targaryens had thought to use in their first Conquest of Dorne. Burn the crops, block the roads, and starve the people until it was nothing more than a wasteland they could step in and save from destruction.

But the Dornish were clever, they’d prepared for such a plan and had hidden stores of food for weeks. A practice leftover from Winter. All that was left for them to do was take down the dragons, which they did with ease.

Helaena frowns and she calls the nursemaid over, thanking her for taking care of the children as she stood up, embroidery abandoned on the seat of her chair.

The nursemaid nods, and Reyna struggles to recall her name. Her memory has failed her today, and she hates it. She is thrown off by the weight of Jaehaerys colliding with her, his arms wrapped tightly around her leg.

“Feel better,” He says with a smile. Reyna’s breath hitches when she sees how much it resembles Aegon’s. She gently wraps her arm around the boy and squeezes.

“Take care of yourself, my prince.”

He waddles out behind Jaehaera with a giggle.

Helaena turns to her, eyes twinkling an opalescent sheen as the storm clouds began to break, “Do you know Dreamfyre is big enough to saddle two?”

For the second time that week, Reyna is riding the back of a dragon. 

It is the freest she has ever felt, the wind rippling through her hair as Dreamfyre lets out a cheerful call. 

Helaena’s dragon was a bit more accepting of Reyna as her rider, greeting her with a nudge of her snout after purring in Helaena’s arms. 

Helaena herself wore an expression Reyna had only seen a handful of times, laughter on her lips as she talked to Dreamfyre in High Valyrian, reacting to every growl and grunt as if the dragon had said something funny in response. 

The three of them flew over King’s Landing and Dreamfyre came to a stop beyond the castle walls, nuzzling her rider gently as Helaena dismounted. 

Reyna was still getting used to sliding off the dragon, and her skin burned as her skirt rode up and the scales dragged against her leg. 

Dreamfyre let out an annoyed roar. 

Reyna apologized with a scratch and High Valyrian, and Dreamfyre seemed content enough to forgive her. 

The Narrow Sea stretched out before her, still on the coast of the Crownlands as Helaena began to walk through the long stalks of grass and crops, smile widening as she caught sight of the beetles and wasps flying by. 

“Your Grace!” An older man with a weary brow and a straw hat bowed, a boy no more than eleven by his side. Tufts of gray hair stuck out from underneath the hat, sweat shimmering on his forehead, “Forgive me, I was not expecting you–”

“It’s alright, Fern,” Helaena’s voice was soft and placating, an earnestness in her gaze as she looked around the farmer’s field, “Your field is looking much better than it was a month ago.”

The man’s face reddened, “Thanks to the efforts of Your Grace, the fertilizer you cultivated nearly saved the crops.”

Pink tinged Helaena’s cheeks, but Reyna could see the pride in her face. “I shall have the royal gardeners bring you more then, with winter on the horizon, we count on you more than ever.”

The old man’s gaze dropped, his face twisting into a frown at her words, “If the blockade worsens, my Queen, I’m afraid we may find ourselves short for the season.”

“Have you begun stockpiling already?”

Ferb nodded and gestured toward the wheelbarrow he was hauling, stalks of grain and wheat and vegetables piled high. “The crops aren’t the problem, Your Grace, it’s the cattle.”

Reyna turned to see a herd munching away at the weeds, a delicate ecosystem in the balance. 

“We rely on feed from the Reach, but with the trade routes blocked…”

“You need more from the Riverlands,” Helaena finished, a pensive expression on her brow. Fern nodded, a sigh dangling from his lips.

“We have enough to last through summer, but if war comes…”

Fern stared at Dreamfyre, his throat bobbing up and down at the beast. 

Dreamfyre chittered out a smile. 

“I will talk with my husband,” Helaena looked disgusted at her own words, but swallowed it for the sake of the farmer, “For now, ration what you can and I will see what we can do.”

Relief flashed across the farmer’s face. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Helaena and Reyna continued like that for the rest of the day, flying from farm to farm to check up on the people’s needs, Helaena promising the families she would try her best to resolve their issues. 

One farm was dealing with an overabundance of pests, Helaena promised to breed more pollinators to remove them. 

One farm’s chickens had mysteriously been going missing, Helaena helped latch the gate and advised them to keep an eye out for anything strange. 

Reyna’s chest swelled with a newfound respect for the Queen. It had been her sweet nature and kind heart which she’d grown to appreciate in the first place, but seeing her interact with everyone and get her hands dirty when she didn’t need to was almost enough to make Reyna fall in love with her. 

The sun was setting by the time they returned to the Red Keep. 

“I wonder what color it is,” Helaena practically leans over the edge of the balcony gardens, squinting out at the Narrow Sea where the wild dragon was currently roaming. It had nested in a cluster of islands not far from Vhagar’s resting place, circling the skies like a vulture searching for prey.

Vhagar let out a low bellow as the dragon circled, as if calling out to the wild animal in welcome.

The dragon itself was still too far away for Reyna to make out any other features except for the wings and horns, which seemed to match Vhagar in size.

It was probably a trick of the light, she reasoned. No dragon was as large as Visenya’s, not since the Black Dread had fallen ill and succumbed to old age.

“I’m going to say silver,” Reyna chanced a guess, elbows digging into the dirt and brick of the gardens.

Helaena’s eyes brightened but they never left the dragon, “Oooh, I like that. I was going to say black like Balerion.” She shielded her gaze from the setting sun and squinted, “With red horns and plates. Targaryen colors.”

“Then I shall say purple horns and plates,” Reyna shot back with a smile, “To represent my house.”

The two girls giggled as they shared a look.

“I wish Dreamfyre had gotten closer,” Helaena whined, still gazing out to sea as the dragon let out a chirp in response to Vhagar’s soft roars. “It is strange, usually she has no fear of wild dragons but this one…”

Reyna recalled their flight back to the Red Keep, basking in the glow of the sun as Dreamfyre moved swiftly and steady through the skies. She’d allowed the clouds to wrap around her like fists, white tendrils misting across her face as they descended.

Helaena looked like a different person in flight, with eyes bright and smiles wide. It was the look she got on her face when she found a particularly interesting bug. The look she had on her face as she helped the farmers plant and till their soil. Helaena was not made to be a queen, Reyna thought, but she was well-suited to it.

A sharp roar startled Dreamfyre, the blue dragon yelping as the much larger shadow of the wild dragon began to grow closer.

Dreamfyre steered out of the way before the dragon overtook them, nearly sending Helaena and Reyna toppling into the sea below.

“Lykyri!” Helaena called, brushing her hand against Dreamfyre’s neck, muttering comforting words in High Valyrian as the she-dragon averted course toward the Red Keep.

She’d dropped them off at the edge of the balcony gardens, where they’d remained even after Dreamfyre abandoned her rider for the Dragonpit.

“I’ve heard there’s one who devours its own kind,” Reyna spoke with a furrowed brow, trying to see if she could make out any other features of the dragon, “Perhaps that is why she was so afraid.”

“The Cannibal never leaves its nest,” Helaena spoke matter-of-factly, like she was discussing the nesting habits of spiders, “My brother tried to claim it once on Dragonstone and he was almost burned alive.”

“I thought the King was born with Sunfyre?”

Helaena laughed, “Oh, no, not Aegon. Aemond. He was obsessed with claiming a dragon, even tried with Dreamfyre at one point.” She stared up into the skies and closed her eyes, as if she knew exactly where her dragon was located.

“I don’t think Aemond is sweet enough for Dreamfyre,” Reyna teased, drawing a smile from the Queen, “She needs a rider to match her temperament, and the Prince needed a dragon to match his.”

Helaena laughed in agreement, nodding her head as the two girls abandoned the balcony and began to walk toward Maegor’s Holdfast.

The Queen rattled off the exact stories of how each of her siblings claimed their dragons, with the exception of her youngest brother Daeron in Oldtown. His dragon had been with him since the cradle and was growing bigger and bigger each day.

Helaena had been the first to claim hers, or so she said. Her father would tell her stories of Rhaena Targaryen and the missing dragon eggs and Helaena always believed she would go to Essos one day and retrieve them.

“Dreamfyre still sits in the Dragonpit,” Viserys had told her, “The mother of dragons mourning the loss of her children.”

The story had tugged on Helaena’s heartstrings and she’d asked Aemond to sneak her out that night. It was the only time she’d ever done so, at least until she discovered the secret passageways.

“Aemond attempted to claim her earlier,” Helaena spoke fondly, face glazing over as she became lost in thought, “But I simply wanted to comfort her. I brought my embroidery and sat beside her, telling her all about how once I had a dragon of my own I would fly to Essos and find her children and then we could raise them together.” A dreamy expression clouded her eyes, “She didn’t eat me so I came back the next day with my bugs, sorting them as Dreamfyre watched. The next thing I knew she was letting me climb her back to try and match the color of a beetle with the color of her scales.”

Reyna simply stared at the girl with an open-mouth.

Surely it wasn’t that easy to claim a dragon, right?

“Sunfyre, however, has been Aegon’s since he was born.”

Helaena recited the story as if from memory, the Dragonkeepers often citing it as the most unusual occurrence they’d seen in history.

The very moment Aegon was born, Sunfyre hatched from a gleaming golden egg and the Dragonkeepers would swear the dragons first cry came the same time as the Prince’s.

She wondered how much Ser Otto had paid them to say that.

Her mind wandered to the silver-haired king. The lilac in his eyes blazing like wildfire when he’d caught sight of the scars around her wrist.

She wondered what he would do if he ever learned about the ones decorating her back.

Reyna pictured the darkness clouding his sunken gaze, the clench of his jaw and the soft caress of his hands against the tissue.

It sent a shiver down her back.

She could still feel the trace of his fingers against her skin, the press of his lips against hers.

Her mind screamed for more.

It wished to feel his touch on her waist again, the relaxed chest against her back as they rode through the skies. The want was a viper, snaking its way through her bloodstream and into her core, legs aching from the thought of feeling his hands on her once more.

It was a desire she knew she had to squash in its infancy, but her mind kept returning to the moment in the Dragonpit, his hand clutched in hers as he brought it to meet Sunfyre.

To the moment in his bedroom, when she’d uttered his name and he looked as if she’d granted him a glimpse of the heavens. 

She’d understood then why Kings and Queens got drunk on power.

It was intoxicating, holding someone’s life in her hands.

To know the lengths a king would go for her, the lowest of lowborns.

She’d almost uttered Larys Strong’s name then, just to see what he would do with the man.

And then Aegon had disappeared and all she was left with was shame.

Reyna stared at her hands, a faint line of red encircling her wrists all that remained from her time with the Lord Confessor.

The Maester’s remedy had healed most of the tissue, but they still ached from the restraints.

She’d taken to rolling her wrists together to alleviate the pain.

The crack of her joints made her laugh. Only seven and ten and yet she was an old woman with creaky bones and splitting pain in her muscles.

Since she’d returned to the Red Keep, there’d been no shortage of chores to complete, with Cicely taking over as head of staff in Talya’s absence. But Helaena always managed to distract her from one or the other, whether with talk of dragons or her brother-husband.

That same girlish gleam appeared in her eyes whenever they discussed Aegon, and Helaena tended to ask questions that Reyna didn’t necessarily feel comfortable answering.

Much like she was doing now.

“Do you notice how much happier Aegon seems after the coronation?” Helaena pops a strawberry from one of the bushes and offers it to Reyna. She denies it, her stomach still unable to keep food down, “The world isn’t as heavy, I don’t think.”

Reyna does not say anything in return, the implication of Helaena’s words hanging heavy on her shoulders.

“Of course, it doesn’t take much to make him happy,” A slight bitterness coats the Queen’s voice, eyes clouding over in thought before returning to the moment at hand. She links arms with Reyna, flashing a smile, “But it is nice to see him so cheery these days. Reminds me of when we were children.”

“He has a crown, Your Grace,” Reyna’s smile didn't reach her eyes, nerves pooling in her stomach as she watched the Queen pluck a bud of Dragon’s Breath. Helaena’s gaze softens. “I imagine that would make anyone happy.”

Helaena turns to her with a small smile and gently places the flower behind Reyna’s ear.

It is blood red, the color of House Targaryen against her ebony black tresses.

Her hair hangs loose, Ivy’s ribbon lost to the depths of the Black Cells no doubt. It is a thought that squeezes her chest until she thinks it will burst.

Her eyes remain dry though, and she is unsure if it is a good sign or not.

“There,” Helaena pressed her hands behind her back, smile growing wider, “Now you have one too.”

Her stomach flutters at the words, nerves tightening into a knot in her gut.

The rushed sounds of footsteps and armor draws their attention to the keep, the Hand appearing with a fresh-faced Ren by his side.

“Your Grace,” Ser Otto huffs, relief flooding his face as his pale eyes scan Reyna with faint disgust. Ren doesn’t even look at her. She ignores the pain blooming in her chest, “Thank the gods you are safe.”

“Of course I am, grandfather. There are no rats in the garden.”

Ser Otto’s smile is placating, nodding stiffly as he tries to digest Helaena’s words.

She’d been discussing rats more often these days.

“Of course, Your Grace,” The Hand dismissed her words with a wave of his hand, “But perhaps it is best if you stay in the castle until further notice, to avoid any encounters with...rats.”

Helaena turned pensive at her grandfather’s words and let out a sigh of agreement, following her sworn shield back into the walls of the Red Keep.

Reyna’s stomach dropped when she realized she was suddenly alone with the Hand of the King.

A knowing smirk darkened his face, “You’ve found yourself in quite the position haven’t you?” His voice made her skin crawl, “Handmaiden to the Queen, companion to the King…”

Ser Otto leered at her, and Reyna forced herself to remember her manners when it came to dealing with men like this.

It was always better to play the fool, her mother said once. A man will always believe himself to be the most intelligent in the room. Play into that, and you may find yourself privy to secrets others wouldn’t dare share.

“I am just fulfilling my duties, Lord Hand,” Reyna dips into a low bow, courtesies dripping like honey from her tongue, “If the King and Queen summon me I can hardly say no.”

Ser Otto’s chuckle is mirthless, lip curling up in disgust as his eyes lingered on her Dornish features.

The brown of her skin, the black of her hair, even the shape of her nose.

“A loyal dog then.”

The insult made her hackles rise, but she forced her face to remain impassive.

“Forgive me, my lord, I must return to work.”

She’d hardly taken a few steps when the Hand called out to her again.

“Your mother’s death was a terrible tragedy.”

Reyna froze, breath caught in her throat.

“A merchant of Myr would have made a lovely bride for Lord Dayne, even more so than the Lady Oakheart.”

Her blood ran cold, the knot in her stomach growing tighter and tighter until it threatened to tear her in two.

She could almost see the smirk on the Hand’s face growing wider.

“A pity the marriage was set aside. To make you a Dayne, instead of a Sand…perhaps you would have had true power at this court.”

Reyna turned, certain the shock on her face gave everything away.

Ser Otto’s snide smile all but assured her suspicions. “You would have been well suited for it. It is a shame Prince Daemon got his hands on her first.”

Bile filled her throat and the pressure behind her eyes broke.

“You’re lying,” She choked on the words as her throat grew thick, the hot-blooded anger of Dorne coating each word in a venom directed at the Lord Hightower, “My mother—”

“Your mother was the sister of the Crabkeeper,” Ser Otto spoke matter-of-factly, hands crossed across his velvet green tunic. His face betrayed nothing. “By all rights Myr belonged to her following his death, and to have her pregnant with the Lord of Starfall’s child…” Ser Otto’s eyes gleamed, “Prince Daemon could not allow any further plots to ripen.”

The weight of his words crushed her.

It wasn’t true, she told herself.

While her father always told her of her mother’s death, Reyna always held the tiniest sliver of hope she had fled to Asshai. Now that last flicker of hope had been stamped out under the heel of Ser Otto Hightower, and if he was to be believed, it was Prince Daemon who’d dealt the final blow.

Her blood boiled, hand flexing back and forth as she stared across the Narrow Sea, the wild dragon releasing another roar into the sky.

“Of course, I shouldn’t keep you from your duties,” Ser Otto tilted his head, pale eyes shining with victory, “Please do pass on my condolences to your father. My nephew and he were always such close friends.”

Reyna swallowed and turned to face the Red Keep.

As she passed under the walls, a shock of red hair caught her gaze and her breath hitched.

Reyna clasped a hand to her mouth in horror.

There, towering above her on one of the many spikes, sat an all too familiar face.

Eyes gouged and face flayed, the crows pecked at Talya’s remains, their caws echoing in the courtyard.

The waters of Blackwater Bay were choppier than usual as Alize’s ship docked alongside Dragonstone. A man with a long beard dressed in silver and white examined her stores before determining she wasn’t a traitor. 

How he came to that conclusion, she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to complain as he escorted her and her men off their ship and onto the island. 

It was there she caught sight of several sailors and sea captains who’d set up their own camps on the beach, ships still docked in the harbor since they’d been re-routed. 

Alize’s stomach sank, but she kept her head high and her face blank. 

The Princess Rhaenyra would be more than forgiving, she hoped, once she told her of her friends’ plight in the capital, but the only dragon she saw flying around was the blood red wyrm of Prince Daemon.

The doors to the keep opened and Alize was finally face to face with the Rogue Prince, his eyes wandering up and down her figure before landing on her face. 

“What is this?” He snarled, hand fisting the ruby encrusted hilt of Dark Sister. “I asked for a captain.”

Alize quirked a brow and folded her hands across her tunic, “Captain Alize Waters of the Mermaid’s Kiss at your service.”

Prince Daemon’s sneer sent her blood boiling.

“A woman,” The Rogue Prince broke into a smile as his eyes drank in her figure. Alize simply crossed her arms and tilted her head, black-brown eyes boring into sharp lilac. “And a bastard. How foolish of me to assume the Siren would be anything less.”

Alize’s tongue curled at the moniker, gifted to her in birth by a father who’d only stopped by when he’d heard her mother was close to death. She pursed her lips and shrugged it off, although the memory still stung from time to time. She could never truly shake anything off.

Not the way Reyna and Lacey could. They could handle insults and spats with the grace and dignity of the ladies they’d been born from.

Reyna was cooler than the desert after sundown, never truly revealing anything unless she knew she could trust them. Only then did a sliver of sun poke through and reveal what lay behind the hard, glossy armor she’d constructed around herself.

And Lacey was as thorny as the roses of Highgarden and just as sweet-smelling too. Soft and beautiful and unassuming, all it took was one pluck of her petals and they would bleed to death from the sharp pricks of their fingers.

But Alize was salt and sea.

Her anger crystalized into rock in her veins before the violent waves washed them free. She was wild and boundless, a storm on its way to wreck whatever stood in her way. And right now, it was Daemon Targaryen.

The man was a good thirty years older than her, with a reputation to match the dragon he rode. He craved blood almost as much as he craved younger girls, sailors often said, and if you twisted the right way, he would disregard all sense of law and order to fulfill his own personal ambitions.

Some even said he’d been hoping for war. So his wife and nephew would perish in the onslaught, leaving Daemon Targaryen the sole heir to the Iron Throne.

If Rhaenyra was Fire. Then Daemon was Blood.

“Does my prince mean to do anything else except insult me?”

“King.” He snarled. “I am the husband of your Queen, you will address me as such, I am—”

“Her consort.” Alize retorted, a wry smile stretching across her face, “But that does not make you the King.”

Daemon’s eyes widened and the only sound that could be heard was the small cough of the Maester beside him.

Allard smirked beside her. “Now, should I repeat the question, my prince?”

His jaw clenched and his grip tightened on the Valyrian Steel sword, but Alize remained impassive. She’d dealt with far worse beasts than Daemon Targaryen, most in the bowels of Flea Bottom and Hull. She was no stranger to monsters, and she’d slayed them all.

“I need someone who knows the ins and outs of King’s Landing,” He admitted, walking toward the carved map of Westeros which stood in the middle of the hall. “I hear you have friends there.”

Alize’s stomach clenched. “I do, but—”

“Excellent,” His hands sorted through several papers until he found what he was looking for. “That means you can get in and out without being seen.” He rolled up the parchment and sealed with black and red wax, stamping it with his signet ring, “Your ship of course will have to remain here—”

“Are you suggesting I walk to King’s Landing—"

“We’ll provide you with a rowboat—”

“Ah, I see, that makes everything better.”

The vein in Daemon’s head was growing larger and larger, threatening to break the skin and burst. Alize almost wanted to laugh.

 He tossed several bags on the table, gold dragons scattering across the Riverlands. The hot coals burning beneath it almost made it look as if the region was aflame. “Your payment. You’ll get the rest of it, and your ship, when the deed is done.”

Alize narrowed her gaze at the bags of money, arms still crossed as she surveyed the man before her. “And if I refuse?”

Daemon’s eyes bled wildfire, blazing violet flames as he bared his teeth and clenched his jaw. “You seem to be under the impression you have a choice.” His voice was as cold and harsh as the Shivering Sea. “You don’t.”

Alize’s arms dropped to her side and she gently popped the knuckles of her left hand, joints aching with pleasure.

She lowered herself into a bow, black cloak dragging across the stone floors of the keep. The prince’s lips curved into a triumphant smile.

That was the thing with beasts. They liked to play with their food.

A good hunter will let them chase it into a trap.

An even better one will let them think it victorious before delivering the killing blow.

Alize had no desire to kill a Targaryen, not when it looked like they would bring themselves to extinction, but if Daemon wished to play games, then she would indulge him. It was far more profitable and far more fun.

Her instructions were simple.

Wait until nightfall and deliver the scroll to a Gold Cloak named Eryth.

Then, when he eventually brought her to meet with one of his accomplices, she would present them with one bag of dragons. The second would be given to them upon completion of the task.

What the task was, Alize was not privy to, but she found herself lacking curiosity when it came to it. She had no care for intrigues and games between noble houses, so long as she was paid handsomely when all was said and done.

Her crew would remain here until she returned. As collateral. 

When she’d finally gathered her wits about her, three days had passed and Princess Rhaenyra returned to Dragonstone, granting her leave.

“You must be Captain Waters,” The Targaryen was waiting for her on the beach, hands folded over a black riding cloak and her dragon at her side.

Alize didn’t think she looked like much of a Queen.

Her pale purple eyes were sunken into her face, betraying a lack of sleep and red rims. A wooden horse was clutched tightly in her hands, as if it were a rope keeping her ashore. She swayed back and forth on her feet and Alize wondered how long it would be before a tidal wave came and swept her out to sea.

Alize bowed. “Your Grace.” The glimmer of an unshed tear shone in the firelight. “My condolences on the death of your son.”

The woman bit down on her cheek, lavender hardening into stone. She’d heard of the Prince Lucerys’s death following her conversation with Daemon. It was all anyone would talk about now.

Both him and his dragon disappeared above Stormbreaker Bay, and rumors abounded that Vhagar was seen flying away unharmed, his one-eyed rider victorious.

Aemond Targaryen was called kinslayer now. A sin neither gods nor men would forgive and a curse that would follow him the rest of his days.

But that was not enough to satiate the Queen and her consort. 

Rhaenyra nodded in silent understanding, but Alize could see the anger burning beneath her carefully constructed façade. It threatened to tear apart an entire kingdom. “It is my understanding you have friends in King’s Landing.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“They would be welcome here,” Her voice is flat, as if she doesn’t truly believe the words she’s saying, “It would be a shame, I think, for them to be in the city when I take it.”

The veiled threat doesn’t escape Alize’s notice.

I am offering you mercy, Rhaenyra’s gaze says. A chance to escape the carnage I will unleash upon my enemies. All you have to do is bend the knee or burn.

A cloaked figure appeared from the shadows and stepped into the boat.  

Rhaenyra’s smile never reaches her eyes, “When you reach the capital, do give Queen Alicent my regards, I have missed her dearly these last few weeks.” A shiver erupted down her spine, “And I so look forward to seeing her again.”

Alize choked on her words as they turned to ash in her mouth, watching the Queen’s retreating figure with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

The wind turned cold and the scent of death lingered in the air.

Chapter Text

A week after his kiss with Reyna, he finds her in the godswood with a prayer on her lips.

She’s been avoiding him. He can feel it.

It’s driven him near to the point of insanity. She spends her days tending to Helaena and the children, and when she’s not, she’s providing company to the Dowager Queen.

His mother has seemingly changed her tune regarding the bastard girl from Dorne, and has gained a new confidante.

The full moon hangs over both of them, her black hair cascading down her back like the ichor of the gods they rode, a sliver of moonlight illuminating the laughing purple eyes he saw in his dreams.

A wraith come to haunt him.

To teach him mercy and love with the power that stretched from her fingertips, calloused and rough from a hard days work, yet they were as delicate as the leaves that fell from the Weirwood tree. Aegon wasn’t quite sure this wasn’t a dream either.

The touch of her lips was a phantom that followed him, teasing his chest and stomach and head until it was replaced with the bitter longing for a woman he could never have.

A woman who had showed him more kindness and honesty in two weeks than he’d had in his entire life.

She does not kneel before the Old Gods. Nor does she speak any hymns or prayers.

She simply stands before the heart tree with a look of awe wrought into her face.

The ribbon tucked into his pocket itches for its owner. But like everything good in his life, he refused to let it go.

Aegon’s shoulders hunch at the thought of disturbing her peace, but he stands there and watches as she continues to stare, and the urge in his chest is too strong to ignore.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Reyna flinches at the sound of his voice and drops into a curtsey. “Your Grace, I did not see you there.”

When she straightens up, Aegon feels the air leave his lungs. 

It is like looking at a statue, he muses. A bud of dragon’s breath dangles lazily between the tresses of hair, and he finds himself wanting to rip it from its ebony garden and consume it. He notices she doesn’t say his name.

He tries to ignore the squeezing in his chest at the thought. 

Perhaps it is a good thing, a voice akin to his mother’s echoes in his mind, there is no guarantee you wouldn’t simply take her right then and there for all the gods to see.

His lips curve into a smirk at the thought. He thinks if she speaks her name again, he may finally give into the urge to fuck her.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask me one.”

The quick remark makes him smile.

“I asked if you were avoiding me.”

“No, you said I was avoiding you.” Her lips curl upward into a smirk that resembles his own, mischief dancing behind her eyes. It nearly draws a laugh from his lips, “And a statement is not a question.”

“Very well then,” Aegon presses his hands behind his back and saunters forward, eyes flickering toward the red flower in her hair, “Are you?”

She arched a brow, “Am I what?”

He rolled his eyes and blew out an irritable sigh. Gods, she was infuriating. Too clever for her own good. Her smirk grew wider until it spilled out into a symphony of giggles. Aegon thought it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

Her skin glowed gold in the soft light of the godswood, and for a brief moment Aegon wondered if she wasn’t some angel sent to correct his course or perhaps, she was sent from the seven hells to tempt him into even deeper sin than he’d already committed.

It died quickly and was replaced with the bitter cold of silence.

He tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

Her breath hitches.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The question sends the sharp point of an arrow through his chest, and he wonders if she can see the weeping wounds she’s left him with. “What?”

“For…” Her voice dies and she swallows the nerves in her throat. “For what happened the night of Prince Lucerys’s death.”

The kiss.

He almost bursts into bellyaching laughter. But the fear on her face stops him.

Aegon steps forward. Reyna remains where she stands.

He can feel the rush of her heartbeat, the arch of her back as his hands wrapped themselves around her waist, playing with the strings keeping her bodice tight. He could untie them in an instant she would be unable to say no.

Her breath catches as his lips drew close to hers, parting slightly.

“No,” He whispers, blood rushing between his legs at the feeling of her dress beneath his hands, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “I’m not going to kill you.”

The sensation of his lips on hers sends his body erupting in pleasure, his hand grasping at the back of her head as he pulls her in close. She kisses back and Aegon swears he sees the heavens. He is ravenous, teeth gnawing into her lip as their bodies move in sync with one another. He tastes oranges and smells wildflowers and he presses deeper, fisting her hair.

A moan leaves her lips.

He pulls away and her teeth sink into his lip, drawing blood as she tries to pull him back in. His cock lengthens at the gesture, want burning in her eyes as her breaths grew ragged. 

Reyna leans in and he leans away, a smugness he hasn’t felt in years filling his chest. He feels himself harden at the way her pants become heavier, jaw clenching in a valid attempt to hold back a moan. 

Goosebumps erupt on his skin as he teased her, leaning in enough to give her hope before biting the air before her lips.

He wants to hear her moan again. 

“You know what I want.” Aegon mumbles with a smirk, voice low. Reyna sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. He still tastes iron from where she drew blood. 

“Aegon…” 

Muscles tense in his abdomen. Gods, he loves the way she says his name. Her hands grasp the edges of his hair and squeeze, fingernails scratching against his neck. 

“Aegon, please.” The plea sends his world spinning and he slams his lips to hers. His hands collide with wood and Reyna melts into the trunk of the heart tree. 

Her hands moved to cup him but he swatted them away. 

She was finally at his mercy, and he was not about to let her get off that easy. It doesn’t take long to find the hem of her skirts, when he does his chest dances in victory. Her thighs quiver at his touch and he pushes the fabric further and further until her skin is fully exposed.

It takes every muscle in Aegon’s body to keep from crying out. 

His hands graze her skin and she shudders, the sensation coaxing a soft moan from her mouth. 

“So needy,” He teased, rubbing circles on her inner thigh as his other hand pinned her waist to the tree. “And here I thought you were supposed to be a whore.”

She takes his lips in hers and drags her tongue along the roof of his mouth. The motion is almost enough to make him burst right then and there, blood rushing between his legs as she sucks the flesh of his lip.

He thrusts his hand into her.

She’s soaking. 

“Wet already? Now there’s a good girl.”

Reyna grips his head and forces his lips to her breast, the strap of her bodice hanging lazily from her shoulder. With one swift move he could push it down and swallow her whole. 

His fingers disappear within the warmth of her cunt and he begins to stroke. 

Satisfaction burns through Aegon with each stretch of her folds, her whimpers soft and sweet like the rest of her. He bites down on her breast, sucking the flesh between his teeth before soothing the swollen spot with a roll of his tongue. 

“More,” She gasps. 

He smiles and nibbles at her neck, stroking faster and faster until he can almost feel the clench of her cunt now slick with desire. He pulls his hand out before she can finish and leaves a swollen nub of skin red and angry. 

Her eyes darken, amethyst glittering in the silver of the full moon. Aegon’s lips curve into a wicked smirk and he licks her juices from his fingers, dragging his tongue along each length before taking it in his mouth. 

When he reaches the middle finger, she grabs his hand and plunges it into her mouth. His stomach yawns in hunger with each pop of her lips. The Dornish girl drags her teeth along his middle finger, canines bared like a feral animal ready to bite it off. 

She sucks it clean and leans against the trunk of the tree, shoulder bare and breasts nearly spilling over her green bodice. 

Heat stirs in his cock and he moves to kiss her again. He meets the pointed edge of Valyrian steel instead. 

A laugh escaped Aegon’s lips. His father’s dagger has disappeared from his side. 

“Clever.”

Reyna’s smirk sends adrenaline pumping through his veins, “Serves you right.” Aegon’s muscles twitched in pleasure as she moved the dagger closer to his cock, the flat of the blade pressing against the appendage. “I think you’re harder than I am.” She purrs. 

He sucks in a breath as the blade turns. The world around him turned hazy and melted into nothing but black and purple and silver, a swirl of colors reminiscent of a dream.

And he’d had many dreams like this. 

Those wine colored eyes staring back at him as she stroked him with the edge of the blade before shearing off his hair. She’d whisper in his ear and call him hers, reciting the vows of the seven as she rode him like she’d ridden Sunfyre. 

I am yours, and you are mine. From this day until my last day. 

His dick twitched, the snap of his laces breaking the soft silence they’d found themselves in. Reyna dragged the blade up the length of his shaft, tracing his abdomen before the point found the apple in his neck. 

His vision sharpened and the world blurred around her. She was a bastard holding his own knife to his neck. She could kill him and save the realm from war. But he knew she wouldn’t. She was his, for better or for worse. 

The thought excited him. 

“Are you going to kill me?” He parroted her words, drawing her eyebrow into her hairline as she shook her head. 

Heavy breaths shook her chest, and Aegon drew his gaze to the breasts poking free from her bodice. The damn laces were still tied. 

She sucked the skin of her swollen lip, as if trying to taste him. A chuckle escaped his lips. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Reyna whispered, moving the tip of the blade underneath his chin.

He slid his tongue between his teeth, feeling the wetness of precum soak his breeches. It was as if he was four and ten again, exploring the body of the White Wyrm as she ordered him to devour what he could while he had the chance.

But Reyna of Starfall was no whore. 

She was something else entirely, lust dancing behind the violet hues which had entranced him the night he’d run from his duty. Oh how the gods loved to torment him. 

If he’d been born a bastard, he would have spirited her away with him. 

Escaped to Starfall and lived their days with cloves of cinnamon and bushels of oranges, a veil of Myrish lace obscuring those haunting eyes until he’d ripped it from her hair on their wedding night, along with the rest of her clothes. 

She fists the cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer. His body spasms with desire. 

“But the insolence of Kings needs to be punished,” A wicked smile curves her plump lips and Aegon’s moans slide down his throat, “Especially for making one wait so long.”

Her words are treasonous but the ache in his legs makes all rational thought leak from his mind. 

He pictures her with a rubied crown atop her head and the prickle of desire rushes through his veins. 

If she’d been trueborn he could have made her his Queen. 

Reyna drags him with her to his knees, never breaking her gaze. 

His nose finds her breasts and she pushes him deeper, the bone of her bodice cutting a thin ring around his throat, but the pain disappears into the slow ache of pleasure electrifying his veins.

He thinks he could die in such a position, his face buried in the mounds of flesh while she dragged her nails against the nape of his neck, the cold steel of the dagger sending a shiver down his spine.

Aegon nearly curses the gods when he comes up for air, forced back with the pull of his hair, blade still tilted beneath his chin.

“Now,” She smirked, the moonlight illuminating the spark of mischief alight in her eyes, “Is that all, Your Grace?”

The force of her push sends Aegon falling back with a thump against the weirwood root. 

His skin burns. 

Reyna leans back and spreads her legs.

The sound that leaves his mouth sounds like something he’s heard from Sunfyre. Half dragon-half man as he snarls and presses forward.

She twirls the knife, daring him to move. 

Aegon never could resist a good taunt. He grabs her ankles and pulls until she’s beneath him, dagger sliding across the wet grass of the godswood. His hands bind her waist to the ground, breath hitching as his knees pin hers. Her gaze burns. 

He nearly comes from the way his hands mold her to the exact position he’s looking for. A whine slides past her teeth and he bares his. 

“There’s a good girl.” He barely has to try to get her wet. His hand massages her nub but she is already slick with desire, breasts rising and falling with each pant of her breath. His thrusts are slow, sliding inch by inch until the warmth of her walls fold around him. 

A part of him wants to leave her there, stuffed full of him as she waits for the friction and pleasure he’ll continue to deny her. 

She squirmed desperately as he pulses back and forth but never moves more than a few inches. It’s delicious. He starts slow and then fast and then slow once more. 

The denial is pure agony for the woman beneath him and he can almost taste the moan dangling on the edge of her lips. 

He pulls out moments before it escapes. 

Reyna’s eyes flash and her jaw clenches. Victory sings in his chest. All these weeks of her teasing and laughing and dancing around him, she is finally within his grasp, and the desire he’s spent months wondering about is present in each of her features.

His cock hardens as she grasps the top of his hair and pulls. 

“Now, what did I say about the insolence of Kings?”

Aegon smirks, “Perhaps some groveling is in order, my Queen.”

The title thrills her, he can see it in her eyes, and his lips grow wider at the realization. Something deep and hidden blooms in his chest and sinks down into his stomach, twisting and turning until it finally settles into a thought he’d briefly considered time and time again, but tossed it aside until his last conversation with Helaena. 

His teeth suck the inside of her thigh, moving slowly inch by inch, coaxing soft sounds from her mouth he previously only dreamt of. 

Aegon dives in as he does in all things, head first. 

Reyna nearly cracks in two as he does. 

Finger grip the soft curves of her thighs, pale silver tendrils meeting a golden canvas as honeyed nectar drips down his chin. 

He comes up for air and is immediately drowning in sweetness once more as plump lips wrap around his own. Their positions change and Aegon is roughly and quickly pushed up against the trunk of the Heart Tree while Reyna’s thighs straddle his hips. 

I could die like this, he thinks with a smile. Blood rushes straight to his cock, fondled in expert hands as he slides between her once more. 

She thrusts, slow and sure, and then faster, then slow once more. 

His laugh is mirthless with each stroke. 

It’s a dangerous game the two play, this back and forth they have. Power moving from one then another, rough and volatile and yet somehow more pleasurable than any whore he’d ever had falling at his feet. 

To be tossed around and teased with, to be constantly on edge until the point of release…Aegon was finding he rather liked being in this position. 

But like everything else, he couldn’t let her know she’d won. His hands wrap around her hips, keeping her stuffed and squirming until he can see the darkness in her eyes, the bite of her lip in the pale moonlight, until they move in perfect tandem and he’s the one dictating the rhythm. 

Slower then faster, then faster, faster, faster–

He collapses against the trunk with a final shudder and she falls to his chest, spasming and shaking from the pleasure coursing through her veins, the ends of her ebony hair tickling his bare chest. 

Aegon watched it rise and fall with his own breath, and she slowly pulled herself free of him and snuck her legs between his thighs. 

He takes it in his hands, slowly twirling it around each finger, desperately inhaling the scent of wildflowers. The waves cascaded with each ripple of his hand, rubbing the strands between his thumb and forefinger. The silver of the moon never even reached the black tresses, instead they swallowed the light. 

He wondered if anything would be able to penetrate the cloud of darkness he held in his hand, or if he was doomed to forever chase the shadows she walked in.

Forever the one forcing her to stay, instead of having her do it of her own free will. 

As if she would stay with him willingly if she had a choice. 

But tonight she’d chosen him, and he would ride that high for as long as he could. 

He rips his wineskin from his hip and gulps down the hippocras, soothing the thirst in his throat. He offers it to Reyna, who looks at it with a smirk. 

It reminds him of the look she gave him when he did the same on the back of Sunfyre, and his chest dances. 

Her eyes flash to the full moon above them and she curls closer to him, softening as his hand moves to cup her waist. She swipes the wineskin with a smile, taking a gulp and hanging it back to him.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to drink with a Dornishman on the night of the full moon?” The corner of her eyes crinkled, “They say we turn into shadowcats,” She let out a playful hiss and Aegon’s heart stopped.

Here in the illuminated spell of the moonlight, he could only stare at the woman before him. 

Her sheet of nightshade coats her shoulders and curls past her breasts, providing the illusion of modesty when there was none between them anymore. Her skirts are stained and her shirt hangs loosely around her waist, freshly torn from their efforts, but here, in the light of the godswood, Aegon thinks she looks as much of a Queen as his mother. 

Maybe even more.

He knows in this moment, he cannot let her go. 

She is like one of the frescoes that decorate the walls of the Red Keep, complete with a haunting violet gaze that would never leave him alone. 

An image of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera with matching black hair flashes in his mind. 

“Aegon?” She stares at him with a small smile and wide eyes like a doe’s, “Is everything alright?”

His breath hitches.

“Marry me.”

“Marry me.”

The words force her to silence. She stills and stares at the naked man before her, a figure of clay in her hands. He is a fragile man, Reyna realizes as her hands brush against his cheekbones. If his brother is marble, he is porcelain, brittle and cracked and delicate. 

One wrong touch would send him crumbling, and she is the one who holds the power to ruin him or remake him. 

Power, she chuckles to herself. It is a curious thing. 

She recalls an old Myrish riddle, often told amongst sorcerers and priestesses.

Three great men sit in a room–a king, a priest, and a rich man–between them stands a common sellsword, each man bidding the sword kill the other two.

Reyna never discovered the answer, until now. 

Rich men can buy armies, priests can call upon the power of the gods, but kings…Kings ruled the realm. And Kings were often ruled by the counsel they kept. 

The Queen by their side, the Hand at the table, the whore they confided in.

Her chest twists.

She would be no queen. 

She would be a mistress, a whore to be summoned at the whim of powerful men. 

There would be no power for her to wield, except behind the curtain of their bedroom. Besides, Aegon already had one wife, and it hurt her heart to think of him tossing Helaena aside so carelessly. 

Especially since she was with child. 

“No,” She stammers out. His gaze fell. “I won’t be your whore, Aegon. Nor your plaything.” She moves to clothe herself when his hand finds her chin and tilts it up to meet his gaze. 

Soft lilac pleads with hardened amethyst, the same but different as he brings their foreheads together. Desperation wrings his face and heat returns to Reyna’s abdomen. “I never said you would be.”

The words are just enough to make her hope. 

The implication of his words make her stomach drop and she realizes she is now the sellsword, facing a power of which she has only dreamt of. 

A bastard with nothing to her name, no family legacy to stand on or dynasty to offer. Except here she is being given a chance, a moment to take the exact power others would kill for. The power the Princess was currently threatening war over. 

That throne was a curse, everyone knew that, but yet…

Wasn’t it worth it?

She’d seen what Queen Alicent was able to do when King Viserys was rotting at his bedside, heard the tales of Good Queen Alysanne, saw how the smallfolk responded to Helaena caring for their crops, for their livelihoods.

Her dreams were dashed once more when she remembered who truly ran the realm. Otto Hightower would never let a bastard, let alone a Dornish bastard sit next to his grandson on the throne. Nor would anyone else Aegon kept by his side. 

What he was asking was a fool’s errand. 

And she would not tie herself to a fool. 

Her chest panged in disappointment at the conclusion and she wondered why she was having such a difficult time refusing him. 

He was arrogant and insufferable and every bit as dangerous as the rest of his family. But the rush of riding on a dragon fills her veins once more, the taste of his lips on hers, the softness of his unblemished hands on her beaten skin. A touch she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in years. 

She recalls the wildfire in his eyes when Ser Arryk brought her shaking frame to him, his declaration that he would find whoever placed a hand on her and kill them. 

The knot behind her abdomen pulsed while the buzz of desire shot through her veins and squeezed her chest. 

Aegon grasped her hands in his and brought them to his lips, “Reyna of Starfall,” He murmured her name like a prayer. It was almost enough to make her wet again, “I am yours, and you are mine.” Her stomach fluttered as his lips brushed her palm, “For as long as my wretched bitch of a sister will let us be.”

His sister. 

The Princess Rhaenyra. 

Queen, if Ulf’s rumors were to be believed these days. 

She would be positioning herself directly in the line of fire, subject to the whims and wiles of a family either destined for greatness or fated for folly. 

Viserys was neither. 

Rhaenyra is the latter. 

Does that make Aegon the former?

Her chest thrummed as his hand wrapped around her palm. He grasped a rubied ring from his finger and slid it over hers. Two dragons intertwining in perfect harmony. 

Reyna’s breath hitches as his eyes meet hers. 

The same crystalline tourmaline she’d pictured in sleepless nights and wicked daydreams, his pupils blown wide like a dog’s waiting for a command. 

A loyal dog then. 

Ser Otto’s words echoed in her mind. 

No, Aegon Targaryen was not destined for greatness, she realized. But neither was she. 

The truth was, the feelings that had been taking root since his coronation day were now beginning to expand and grow further inside her chest, until he stole each breath, caused each laugh, shared each smile. 

In another life, perhaps they would have met each other on the beaches of Dorne, sharing oranges and lilacs and basking in the endless sun of Starfall. 

In another life, she was a Princess and he was a Prince, and neither of them were forced into circumstances beyond their control. 

The iron weight of the ring felt like a chain around her neck. 

Married to a King. 

Selfish, and half-in-love, her lips parted into a shy smile. 

“Yes,” She gasped. “I will marry you.”