Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ivar’s hands ball into tight fists as the boat rocks back and forth. He’s doing much better than when he and his father had initially left Kattegat, but the storm rapidly approaching has his stomach unsettled. It’s a bit of deja vu, truly, considering their journey started with a terrible storm that had knocked him right out of the boat. This time, the Christians don’t even bother to tie him to anything. They have been nothing but cordial to him despite the language barrier, none of them particularly interested in hurting a cripple. However, they were also ignoring him as the water became choppy and the storm finally caught up to them.

Ivar stares, eyes wide as the waves shove them this way and that. He clings to the boat as tightly as he can, but he is but one crippled teen, watching the way the water rises as if it were trying to block out the sky itself. He watches as the Christians around him try their best to steer them through it, but there’s one in the back who has decided to pray to his god. Ivar would find it funny if he could, but he’s a bit too busy trying to keep himself from tumbling out of the boat when the wave finally comes down.

The rush of it hits him hard, and Ivar does his best to hold his breath until they break through. All around him, the Christians are coughing up water, some still doing their best to steer, others leaning over the boat to throw up the water that had just been forced down their throats. Above them, lightning streaks across the sky and thunder comes screaming right after it.

However, it is not the lightning or the thunder that has captured Ivar’s attention. No, it is the next wave that is rapidly approaching, this one even bigger than the one before. He hears the Christians cry out, but whatever it is they’ve said is lost to him as the wave comes falling down on them. Ivar’s grip on the boat means nothing against a wave of that size, and all of the air is knocked right out of his chest as he tumbles into the dark depths of the water. 

Ivar does not know how to swim, cannot, considering his legs, but his arms are strong and so he does his best, fights against the tide that tries to take him. However, it is for naught, as he doesn’t even know which way is up and there is nothing but darkness all around him as the storm rages overhead. He doesn’t see the boat, doesn’t see any of the Christians, all he sees is the deep, dark depths. He still fights though, still slices his arms through the water in a vain attempt to survive. But it isn’t long before his arms tire and he can’t tell if he’s gotten further to the surface or sunk further down.

In despair, Ivar can’t help but wonder if this is truly it for him, truly the end. He didn’t want to die now, not when he hadn’t even proved himself to his father, to Odin. If he dies now, without a single conquest under his belt, Odin certainly wouldn’t welcome him into his Halls. He had wanted to make a name for himself, just like his father had said. His father’s last words to him had been about the future he saw for him, his victories, his conquests sung around the fires for centuries to come. 

Angry, Ivar tries again, grits his teeth against the constant pain of his legs as he forces the useless things to work, to do something, anything, to survive. No one would remember Ivar the Boneless if he drowned before he could even pillage his first village. Be ruthless, his father had said, the whole world will know and fear Ivar the Boneless, he had promised, and yet Ivar was sinking to the depths as a nobody. His mother had said he would die in a storm, and he had thought she meant the one that hit on the way over, unaware that another was waiting for his return to succeed where the first had failed.

Despair and anger made for quite the cocktail but with his legs as they are, as they’ve always been, he knows he isn’t making any progress. His chest burns from the lack of oxygen and his eyes burn from the sea water, but he still tries, he has to keep trying, and when he looks up, he sees something. It's dark, whatever it is, and he’s surprised he’d noticed it at all, and he reaches for it, tries his best to grab it. He hopes that maybe it’s wood from the boat he’d been on. Surely he could use that to swim back to the surface.

He isn’t sure if he’s getting closer to the object or if it’s getting closer to him, but he reaches out for it anyway. His chest aches, his whole body aches, but he knows he won’t be able to hold on for much longer, is amazed he’s held on for this long anyway. When he reaches out to grab the thing, the first thing he feels is…hair? Confused, Ivar does his best to pull himself towards the thing, ends up pulling it towards him, but none of that matters when the thing turns and he realizes that he is holding a person. Their face is young, so very young, and Ivar knows for a fact everyone on the boat had been older than him. How had this stranger gotten here?

Ivar makes to let go of the body, to try and find another way to the surface, but before he can, the boy’s eyes snap open. Ivar is frozen in place when brown eyes meet his, brown on blue, before the boy is reaching for him. Ivar goes to bat his hand away, his first thought that this boy plans on taking him down with him, but the water makes his movements slow and before he knows it, a surprisingly hot hand is wrapping around his wrist. For a moment, all he can feel is confusion at the touch before, against his will, his eyes roll and he goes limp, the water taking the both of them down, down, down.

Ivar’s eyes snap open after what seems like seconds, and the first thing he notices is that it’s raining, hard. He is sitting on something, something big and it’s moving quickly. At first, he thinks he’s back on the boat, doomed to drown again, but a strike of lightning has him realizing that he’s in the sky, amongst the clouds. Before he can even consider freaking out, he hears something, the thing he’s sitting on, lets out a noise that his mind instinctively knows is out of fear. Finally looking down, Ivar sees that he is in, well, he assumes it’s a saddle of sorts, but much too big for a horse. Whatever he’s sitting on is much too big to be a horse, and he realizes that just right under the sound of the storm, he can hear the sounds of flapping, wings flapping.

When he sees the head of the thing he’s on, Ivar can only assume that he’s passed on, that the Valkyrie’s look nothing like the stories describe them. This one must be the one sent to take him to Valhalla, but Ivar realizes very quickly that that doesn’t make sense. He may be a warrior in name, has trained and trained with his brothers for the day he could go on his own pillage, but he hasn’t actually pillaged anything, has not earned his Seat at Odin’s table. Perhaps this one would take him to Freyja’s fields?

Before he could even decide which afterlife he was going to, he hears the cry of a much louder creature, and this one is definitely not afraid. Something like fear curdles in his gut and it takes a moment for Ivar to realize that it isn’t his fear. He is confused, lost, and he’s freezing cold despite the cloak he can see flapping about, but he isn’t afraid. He’s just died, what does he have to be afraid of? However, the fear remains, grows even, and against his will, his head turns upwards.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand what he’s looking for, not until lightning flashes again and he sees a hulking beast of a creature right above his head. The fear he feels increases and he can admit that some of it might be his, because what in the world is that?

Vhagar, a soft voice that Ivar has never heard before supplies. Then, after a moment, a dragon.

Ivar doesn’t even know what to address first, the fact that there’s a massive dragon right above his head, that he’s sitting on a dragon right now, or the fact that a voice that definitely isn’t his own just spoke to him in his own head. After a moment, he decides that the threat is definitely the most important. And it’s clearly a threat, Ivar decides, because the dragon he’s on is so small in comparison, is struggling in the very same storm that the monstrous dragon overhead is easily flying through.

It’s proven to definitely be a threat when the thing turns and lunges right for them, pulling up at the last moment as someone laughs and that’s when Ivar realizes that there is someone on the other dragon, someone is hunting them. 

Aemond, that same voice supplies, my uncle.

He doesn’t even want to touch on that, can’t, when the dragon is suddenly behind them, snapping at their dragon’s tail. His body moves against his will and it’s only when he sees the hands grabbing the reins that he realizes it isn’t his body at all. His hands are larger, more calloused from dragging himself around everywhere and handling weapons every day, and just a bit tanner than the ones moving in front of him. A bit of dread slices through him, mingling in with the other emotions already strumming through this body. 

There isn’t any time to think, not with the way they’re being hunted, and his mouth moves against his will, and he doesn’t understand the words at first. The words aren’t in English, definitely isn’t in Norse, but after a moment, his brain just…starts to understand.

“Quickly!” the mouth on the body he’s trapped in calls, “Turn!”

The dragon under them heeds the order and Ivar feels a mixture of adrenaline and fear shoot through him as they squeeze in between two cliffs. The adrenaline is definitely his, the fear belongs to the body he’s trapped in, and, he realizes after a moment, some of that fear belongs to the dragon. Dear Allfather, he can feel what the dragon is feeling.

Above them, Ivar can just barely hear the uncle’s laughter, and anger builds in his chest, this is certainly his anger, but the body begins to feel it too as the uncle speaks.

“You owe a debt!” the uncle says in that language he suddenly understands, and he doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows the uncle is actually butchering the words, enunciating at the wrong parts, and he realizes that the body feels smug at the knowledge that the man hunting them is terrible at whatever language he’s speaking, “Boy!”  

He can’t even say that right. The voice in his head says, something amused in his tone despite the current situation they were in. Ivar decides that he likes whoever this voice belongs to. 

However, despite the body’s attempt to distract itself, the dragon beneath them isn’t soothed at all, is scared enough that it begins to heat up between his thighs. Ivar doesn’t understand what’s happening, but the body does, and it calls out much too late.

“No, Arrax!” The body calls as the dragon shoots out a spout of fire at the larger dragon as they fly past, “No, Arrax! Serve me!” 

The bigger dragon behind them roars, and Ivar can only watch as the dragon he’s on flies up and up until they’re above the clouds. For a moment, just a moment, Ivar forgets all about the dragon chasing them, forgets that he is most likely in his own death throes as he sinks to the bottom of the sea. Instead, he can only stare at the beautiful sight in front of him. The body seems to agree, thrumming with relief as the sun greets them. It’s so peaceful above the storm, one wouldn’t even think there was a raging storm just beneath them at all. If this was the afterlife chosen for him, to fly above the clouds for eternity, he doesn’t think he’d mind it. 

The body he’s in looks around and Ivar knows he’s looking for the other dragon, but he’s too busy admiring the scenery. This is a hallucination after all, or perhaps his afterlife, he had nothing to fear here. The body finally seems content, and angles the dragon to the left. Ivar has no idea what is in that direction, but he isn’t in control and can only watch as the clouds break and all he sees is teeth, all he smells is rot as death comes for him. Again.

But he doesn’t die. The pain he feels makes him wish he were dead, surely, but as he falls, he realizes that despite it all, he is still in one piece. It isn’t until he’s back under the clouds, rain pelting his body once more, that he realizes that the body is feeling the pain their dragon felt right before it died. 

I’ve failed, the voice in his head thinks, and Ivar can only wonder who he failed that he would be thinking about them as they fall to their second death. As if the voice could hear him and wants him to understand, he suddenly finds himself seeing a woman. Not in front of him of course, but the memory of her floats before his eyes and he wonders for a second if Freyja has finally come to get him. As he looks closer though, he realizes that this woman’s hair is white, not the golden braid that Freyja is known for. 

Instead, this woman has long white hair, two braids delicately tied around her head as if to imitate a circlet. She is wearing a red and black gown and she’s smiling at him, something soft and warm that has the body feeling comfort and happiness. As the feeling surges through him, he feels the body’s eyes water and he realizes that this woman is the body’s mother. 

Suddenly, it makes a lot more sense why the body is thinking of her in its last moments. The body shares more visions with him, most of them containing the body’s mother, but others having other family that the soft voice supplies the names to easily enough, Jace, Rhaena, Baela, the body offers as memory after memory zooms by, Aegon, Viserys, Daemon, and then the memories change, where the previous memories were golden and warm and all things good, these memories are dark and dreary and reminiscent of the storm they’re falling through as the body shows him what had lead to this very chase, Lord Borros Baratheon, the body explains and Ivar will remember the anger there, the resentment. 

Prince Aemond Targaryen, the body offers up the memories of him easily enough, showing a man with an eye patch but also a child, taller than him, that was always sad, no dragon, the body supplies, and the memory changes. He sees the conflict, the way this body, when it was much younger, had protected its brother the only way it knew how, understands now what the uncle had meant when he’d demanded the body cut out its eye in the earlier memory.

He said that it was a fair exchange, the soft voice insists, something petulant and bratty in its tone as it shows him that exact scene, a brutal cut on the uncle’s face, but a smile as he has finally gotten what he’s always wanted. The exact words too, a fair exchange, an eye for a dragon, and yet he had chased this body, this boy into the clouds and killed him. 

It is then that the body hits the water. It hurts, and most of the pain comes from the body’s legs. It amuses Ivar, because even as they begin to sink, the pain only reminds him of his own legs, his bones that constantly ache and snap like twigs at any given chance. In comparison, this truly isn’t that bad, but the body begs to differ as it sinks. 

It sinks faster than Ivar had, and before he knows it, he feels a hand curl into the body’s hair and tug. It’s odd, to see himself from someone else’s eyes. His body’s eyes are wide and bloodshot from the water, the blue so bright it would worry him if they weren’t already dying. His hair floats under the force of the tide and Ivar belatedly realizes that he isn’t the biggest fan of his own haircut, if he ever got the chance to, he would grow it out. Like Hvitserk. 

Gods, he thinks belatedly, his brothers! He couldn’t even imagine what they would think when neither he or their father returns. Ivar hadn’t even been able to tell them who had gotten their father killed, their father wouldn’t be avenged. He doesn’t even want to think about what his mother would do, how she would feel, if she knew that her vision was right.

He isn’t able to think about it too deeply, not when the body he’s trapped in grabs his actual body. He sees the anger on his face, familiar and missed, as he tries to yank his hand back, but the water doesn’t allow him to move as fast as he’d like, doesn’t let him use all the strength he’s built up in his arms over the years.

Please, the boy in his head begs, leaning forward, refusing to let go of Ivar’s hand, please.

Ivar doesn’t understand what the boy is asking, doesn’t even know how he could possibly help considering he’s drowning too, but the boy insists. Shoves more memories at him, of his mother and family, of a crown, a throne. Ivar is thrown for a loop by that one because it was made of swords, but whatever he thinks about it is drowned out by dark, dreary images of a group of white haired, purple eyed individuals, one of them being the one that had killed them, with two brunettes beside them.

Usurpers! The voice insists, and Ivar realizes what’s happening as the boy shows him his mother again, then a crown, then the throne, over and over.

Name them, Ivar finally thinks back, and the boy, the prince apparently, immediately gives them.

Aegon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Tyland Lannister, Borros Baratheon, there’s a moment of silence and then, Larys Strong. Each name is followed by a memory of their faces.

Anything else? Ivar asks, feeling indulgent because he’s dying, he cannot help this child, but he can at least be nice enough to send him off thinking his wishes will be fulfilled. Maybe that will get him to Freyja’s fields considering Odin’s Halls are forever closed to him. Or perhaps she will shun him for lying to a child. Does it even count when he has only seen seventeen winters himself?

My mother is the rightful Queen of Westeros, the voice is young and almost bordering on fanatical, awed, everyone must bend the knee to her.

And those who refuse?

The voice is quiet for a moment, but all the more vicious when it returns.

Then they shall know fire and blood.

Ivar finds himself liking this boy, this prince who thinks only of his family as he dies, and so he finds himself smiling, even if the body he’s trapped in doesn’t copy it. Not even his actual body does anything besides stare, both seeming to wait for his choice.

What is your name, little prince?

I am Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and the heir to Driftmark.  

What a title, Ivar can’t help but think, and doesn’t miss that through it all, the boy, Lucerys, is pleased in a bashful, shy sort of way. His lungs are also burning, and Ivar does not miss the feeling. 

If I get the chance, Lucerys Velaryon, I, Ivar Ragnarsson, the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok and Aslaug Sigurdsdottir, promise that everyone you named will meet the worst fate possible. I will see that everyone bends the knee and recognizes your mother as the rightful Queen. If they refuse, I will see to it that their names will be lost to time, and I have never broken a promise.  

Despite all of the pain, Lucerys’ relief overpowers it all. Something soft and sweet flows between them, and Ivar doesn’t understand what it is, and never gets the chance to find out as Lucerys closes their eyes and lets the tides take them.

Thank you, Ivar Ragnarsson, is all Ivar hears and then, finally, the tide sweeps him away.

Chapter Text

“People think that you are not a threat, but I know differently.”

“You do not think like other men, you are unpredictable, and that will serve you well. Use your anger intelligently, and I promise you my son that one day, the whole world will know and fear, Ivar the Boneless.”

“Everyone will always underestimate you, you must make them pay for it.”

“Be ruthless.”

Ivar is throwing up water before he even knows he’s awake, that he’s even alive. His entire body aches, his lungs burn and his stomach churns as he retches. His throat burns, and the pain just stacks on top of each other as he tips just enough to collapse to the side of the mess. His chest heaves and his legs ache and throb. Surprisingly, his legs are easy to ignore, the chronic pain nothing new to him as he coughs and coughs, rolling to his side to retch again.

When he’s finished, he lays on his back, staring blankly up at the dark sky. He realizes, rather belatedly, that water is lapping at his legs and longer still to fully comprehend that he has washed ashore. When he finally catches his breath, he allows himself to take in his surroundings. There isn’t much, but it’s also completely dark, the moon hanging heavy in the sky. He sees sand, more sand, the sea, and behind him, a cliff. Groaning, he rolls over and gets his hands under himself. He is used to crawling around, dragging his large body wherever he needs to go, but he realizes quickly that this body isn’t used to it at all.

It’s only when he sees the hands, those small hands that he remembers seeing wrapped around the reins of a dragon’s saddle, does he realize why his arms shake and tremble under the body’s weight. He pauses, the body wobbling from exhaustion and pain, but he ignores it, pushes through it. He’s dealt with chronic pain his entire life, in comparison, this was nothing.

Lucerys? He thinks, but doesn’t hear anything in return aside from the sounds of the sea behind him. 

Frowning, Ivar pushes forward, ignores the pain and drags himself around the water he’d thrown up and makes for the cliffs. He doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know if he can trust anyone who might stumble upon him, so he makes for a place to hide. He hates how many breaks he has to take, and blames the body, the owner that has apparently left him alone.

You rode a dragon, he thinks derisively, why is your body so weak?

Again, there’s no answer but Ivar hadn’t been expecting one. He is the only one on this beach, physically and mentally, and he decides not to think about it too long. Instead, he keeps crawling until he finds a small cave, one that he would not have been able to fit in if he were in his original body. This one is a few winters younger, a few winters smaller, and so he is able to drag himself inside. He’s a bit surprised when he realizes that the small entrance opens into a wider cave, but he doesn’t question it. He is out of the water, out of the cold, and he drags himself to the back of the cave before allowing himself to drop, rolling onto his back with the last of his strength, his hands and shoulders aching.

Raising his hands, Ivar turns them, looking at them from every angle. They are calloused, these young hands, but not in the places Ivar needs them to be. These hands are relatively soft, and he knows the prince has never done any form of hard labor. Ivar hadn’t either, as a prince in his own right and a cripple aside, but dragging himself around, sparring with his brothers, and making his own weapons has made his hands stronger. By the looks of things, Ivar can only assume that these calluses are from dragon riding. He would have to break these hands in as soon as possible. 

As he turns his hands this way and that, he can only think about how badly he wants to take a break, just a small one. He needs to get out of these clothes, needs to find a way to warm himself, but he’s so tired, the aches and pains get worse after moving around. He knows he needs to keep moving, because he might be out of the wet and cold, but he could still get sick if he stays in these clothes. However, his lids are heavy and his body aches and Ivar’s new hands drop as he passes out once more.

He wakes what seems to be seconds later to the sounds of wood crackling and popping, to the pleasant smell of burning wood. It doesn’t take long for his brain to sound out the alarm about the fact that there’s a fire near him, warmth near him. In a cave, where he passed out alone. His eyes snap open and he ignores the pain in his body as he rolls away, taking in his surroundings as he prepares to fight.

Whatever adrenaline he feels drains right out of  him when he sees a woman standing on the other side of the small fire she had clearly built. Ivar stares at it, lost as the fire flickers and burns without a hint of smoke. It burns and burns but not a single wisp rises from the burning wood. Confused, Ivar looks at the woman again and goes still, because he recognizes this woman, had almost mistaken this body’s mother as her earlier.

Freyja is unmistakable, towering over him and her hair is in a long golden braid that flows out of the cave entrance he’d crawled in, one that was much too small for someone of her stature. One part of his brain wonders how she’d managed to even get into this cave, but the other part of him dutifully reminds him that Freyja is a goddess and can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants to. He doesn’t know how to greet her, doesn’t even know what to say as she gives him a soft smile and something in him cracks as he blurts out his first thought.

“Why have the gods forsaken me?” Ivar asks, desperation coloring his tone as he continues, “I know Odin’s Halls are forever closed to me, as I have not earned my Seat, but you,” Ivar pauses, and he hates the way his eyes water, hates how emotional he always gets, “You have not allowed me into your fields either. What have I done? Even if I have not been allowed to prove myself to the Allfather, you-”

Whatever he intends to say, whatever he hopes to beg of the goddess is lost to him as she slowly moves towards him, lowering herself next to him as she shushes him. Ivar obeys, because he isn’t an idiot, and watches as Freyja settles in front of him, rearranging her skirts before she’s giving him another smile, this one indulgent and amused almost.

“You have not been forsaken, Ivar Ragnarsson,” Freyja says and Ivar holds in whatever he thinks of that, “instead, you have been Blessed by the Allfather.”

“Blessed?” Ivar asks in disbelief, “I died before I could even earn a Seat, and I may not have heard all of the stories about your fields, but I am quite certain it looks nothing like this,” he says as he gestures at the cave they’re hunkered in.

“You have been given a new chance at life, Ivar, a new chance to prove yourself to Odin and earn your Seat,” Freyja explains and Ivar’s mouth closes with an audible click.

“You have made a promise, from one prince to another, and your gods and his wish to see that promise fulfilled. You said it yourself, you never break a promise. We will ensure that you are not made an oathbreaker.”

Ivar stares, bewildered, at the goddess before him. On the one hand, he certainly believed in his gods and all the awesome power they wielded, Floki had taught him well after all, but he had never considered the fact that they would be so invested in his life. He’s quite sure they had better things to do, but he can also admit that he and his siblings were important. They were the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok after all, destined for greatness. Apparently, Ivar’s gods still wanted him to see that destiny fulfilled even if he was in a different body, in a different world. 

Freyja seems to know exactly when he understands, and her smile widens. Many people knew that Freyja was the goddess of many things, sweet things like love, fertility, passion and life, but tended to forget that she also reigned over battle, death, and justice. Ivar isn’t afraid of her smile at all, basks in it as she leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of his head. It tingles, Ivar realizes, a buzz going straight down to his toes as his body starts to feel almost uncomfortably warm. When Freyja pulls away, Ivar tilts a little, suddenly exhausted, but she catches him before he falls.

“You have been Blessed twice over now, Ivar,” the goddess tells him as she slowly lowers him to the sand, his body limp and heavy as he blinks up at her, “you will heal from this, the path ahead of you is challenging enough, we will not force you to endure the same pains you had before.” 

Ivar’s eyelids get heavier and heavier as Freyja speaks, and he can just barely feel the way her fingers run through his hair, each stroke settling his senses abuzz in a way he doesn’t understand. Freyja doesn’t stop though, and he doesn’t want her to, even if it feels like bees were making a home between his ears. 

“Prove yourself, Ivar, make good on your word and you will earn a Seat in Valhalla when your time comes,” Freyja promises before leaning down to press a final kiss to his forehead, “but do not rush to His Halls. Enjoy this life, embrace who you have become, live, and when it is your time, all of the finest warriors and Odin himself will raise their horns of mead to all your accomplishments in this foreign world.”

“Please,” Ivar says as dark spots enter his vision, his consciousness slipping away, “tell my brothers about father and his last wish.” 

“Your brothers know,” Freyja promises as the young prince, twice over now, drifts off to allow his body to heal, “and you have much more important things to worry about, now that you are Lucerys Velaryon.”

He’s out before he can even think about his new title, his new life and all it entails.

Just one short dragon ride away, Daemon Targaryen receives a raven. He hadn’t been expecting one, and definitely hadn’t sent out any missives that would need a reply. He eyes the raven as it stares back at him, and slowly unties the ribbon from its leg, allowing the scroll to fall into his hand. The raven hops once, twice, towards the edge of his desk before it’s flying right back out. Daemon watches it go, and he gets a little wary because the raven didn’t stay long enough for Daemon to reply, and something about that has his instincts going haywire. He wants, more than anything, to toss the scroll into the fire. That feeling worsens when he turns his hand and sees that it is sealed with the mark of the Baratheon’s.

Where Lucerys was supposed to be meeting with Borros. The Baratheon’s should not have a reason to send a raven with a Targaryen messenger already there. He rolls the scroll back and forth between his fingers and hopes beyond hope that this letter is informing him that a storm has kept his son in Storm’s End for a bit longer than they’d planned. 

But if that were the case, his mind tells him, the raven would not have been able to make it to Dragonstone.

A few minutes have surely passed as Daemon mulls over the scroll’s contents. He knows he could just open it and find out, but something in his heart tells him that he shouldn’t, that whatever he sees will change his life, and not for the better. However, Daemon is many things, but a coward is not one of them. So, he reaches down to break the wax seal, and unrolls the parchment.

The letter is short, brief even, and yet its contents are damning. In it, a scribe for Borros Baratheon informs them that one Prince Lucerys Velaryon left Storm’s End during a storm and that one Prince Aemond Targaryen chased after him. The letter goes on to explain how there was a chase in the sky and they had been unsure of the results until a sailor found a wing, a small pearlescent wing just off the shore of Shipbreaker Bay. The letter tells him that no other remains were found, of the dragon, or the prince. 

The letter gives their condolences, as if their Lord wasn’t the one who had sent his son to his death.

Oh the letter certainly has a sad air to it, a neutrality that doesn’t put the blame on anyone, but Daemon isn’t an idiot, he can read between the lines. The fact that Aemond was there at all pointed to the Baratheons being traitors, and the fact that he was allowed to leave after Lucerys? The fact that the Baratheon’s had not offered Lucerys guest rites at all points to their treason, and Daemon’s fingers curl into the parchment as he seethes to himself. Why was Aemond even there? The Baratheons supported Rhaenyra, were Rhaenys’ kin, and yet a prince had died on their watch? Their son had died over Baratheon waters, and yet they hid behind their cowardice. 

He wants, more than anything, to fly to Storm’s End and show them why the Lords of Harrenhal bent the knee and have kept their knees bent. He wants to toss that idiot Borros Baratheon into Shipbreaker Bay and see if any of his remains will wash ashore. But more than anything, he wishes they had never sent Lucerys there, wishes they had sent Rhaenys instead. She could’ve handled both Aemond and Borros, could’ve walked in and out and had Borros falling over himself to appease her. Instead, they had sent Lucerys and Aemond, the little whelp that had been obsessed with the boy for years, had hunted him and killed him.

Daemon uncurls his fingers and smoothes out the parchment. He reads the letter again, and again, and one more time as his vision blurs and his eyes begin to burn. Lucerys is gone, Lucerys is gone. Gods, Rhaenyra would never recover from this, not from Lucerys. She was still recovering from losing her father and their daughter, losing Lucerys would shatter her. But Daemon cannot keep this information from her, will not, and so he swipes at his eyes and stands. He considers what to do with the letter, wants to burn it, but pushes it into his pocket instead. With his head high and his back straight, Daemon goes to find Rhaenyra.

After this he knows that the war will begin in earnest, that there is zero chance of resolving this conflict without bloodshed now that Aemond has killed Lucerys. Not only had Lucerys gone to Storm’s End as a messenger, an envoy for Queen Rhaenyra, but he had been killed by his very own uncle. There was no coming back from that. Their sweet boy was lost to the tides like a true Velaryon, never to return to them as the Kinslayer returned to King’s Landing. 

He had never given much thought about Aemond, had never cared for the boy overly much. In the beginning the distance was because Daemon was never around, banished from King’s Landing for a time, but after, he had just been too busy with his own family. Now though, Daemon was looking forward to seeing him again, wanted to look the Kinslayer in his odd eyed face as he removed his head from his shoulders.

But for now, Rhaenyra. 

As he gathers himself and prepares to deliver the news, he can only ask that his late lady wife Laena and Ser Harwin keep an eye out for their sweet prince and bring him under their wing and keep him safe until the rest of his family could join him once more.

Chapter Text

Lucerys wakes with a groan, his body hot and achy as he stares up at nothing. Skoll has chased Sol’s chariot across the sky at least six times by now and his fever had broken just two days ago. His entire body aches, his legs in particular, but he knows that the pain is only temporary, which means it isn’t important. Instead, he rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up. 

Freyja’s smokeless fire still burns and he knows with certainty that it will only go out when he is ready to leave this cave. He also knows that his legs are no longer broken, that they are healing much faster than they probably should, and although they still ache from the healing, he knows with the same certainty that he will be able to walk eventually. 

Until that time comes, he still has to get around, so he pushes himself up onto his hands. His arms still tremble, but he grits his teeth and bares it as he rearranges himself so he can crawl out of the cave. The sun is high in the sky, shining through the soft white clouds and Lucerys looks over at the ocean that glimmers a beautiful sapphire. Seeing it now, it’s as if a storm had never happened, and yet he can clearly see the cliffs of what the memories that once belonged to someone else knows to be Storm’s End. Glaring at it, he turns and drags himself the other way. 

He knows, just like he knows where, and what, Storm’s End is, that he has somehow washed up on the island of Tarth. He can only assume that he’s at the very end of it, hence the lack of people or civilization, but he refuses to assume that he’s completely alone. If he were the ruler of an island, he’d have men patrolling at all times regardless of their distance from others. So, he is careful as he drags himself towards the water. Normally, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drink the water, but Freyja’s Blessing makes it clean and drinkable if he just ignores the way his tongue and throat tingles as he drinks it. She is also the reason fish nearly throw themselves out of the water and straight into his arms. 

This Blessing is temporary, Freyja is allowing him a few days to heal, and soon he will have to keep this body alive on his own. He always makes sure to thank her and burns an extra fish in her smokeless fire for her at every meal, even if he knows it will never be enough. Not many can say they’ve been Blessed by Freyja, and he will not be seen as ungrateful.

After drinking his fill, Lucerys crawls away from the water and rests on his stomach, his hands still aching. He ignores it, like he always ignores his pain, and instead focuses. He needs to stand, needs to walk so that he can leave. He has made a promise and now that he has been shoved into this prince’s body, he has to go through with it. And in order to do so, he has to stand up and walk. Each time he’s tried, he crumples right back to his stomach, but he refuses to give up. He could wait until he’s fully healed, but time is of the essence, so he clenches his teeth and starts.

As someone who has never walked before, Iva- no, he is Lucerys now, the boy who was once Ivar, has no idea where to even start. He has seen plenty of people walk and it looks easy enough, certainly, but he has never done it. This body has given him all of its memories and emotions but even it learned how to walk at a very young age and those memories are…weird, hard to understand, so he ignores those. Instead, he starts off small by getting his knees under him. It’s easy to lift himself up on his arms again, but it hurts to bend his knees and his body fights him, it wants to heal, but he is in charge here and so slowly, achingly slowly, he gets one knee under himself. 

It feels weird, he thinks, to have control of his legs like this. His old body had been difficult to maneuver, his legs a dead weight he had to rearrange with his arms. Now though, even if it hurts, his hips obey, his legs do what they’re supposed to do. So, after a couple breaths, he lifts his other knee under himself too and before long, he is on his hands and knees, very reminiscent of a dog. May Thor strike him down if his father was watching over him right now, because Lucerys would drag himself back into the sea and let it finish the job, promises be damned. 

He allows himself to stay like that for a while to just breathe, because while it’s certainly true that his legs are no longer broken, that Freyja Blessed him with a quick recovery, the pain is still there. But it is temporary, nothing compared to the chronic pain he’d endured for almost two decades, so Lucerys ignores it. However, he does find himself with a bit of a dilemma.

He doesn’t know what comes next.

Normally, when he hauls himself up to standing, he has his crutches with him, and his legs definitely do not bend. His legs were usually tied up at the knees to keep them together and to stop them from bending and, potentially, breaking. So, now that he is on his hands and knees, he has no idea what he should do to get up next. Does he throw himself up? Does he try to get one foot flat under him? He doesn’t know, and he can’t help but to laugh at himself as he stays there. Idly, he wonders if he should lay on his back and try to get up that way, similar to how he did it when he was still crippled. But if he did that, he’d have to lay back down and he feels like he’s accomplished too much already to start over.

So, after a moment of debating, Lucerys slowly shifts and brings his right knee up to plant his foot near his hand. It’s odd, but after a moment the position seems sort of familiar, like he’s got something half right. But then, he isn’t sure what to do next. Does he do the same thing with his other foot? Does he push up now? After some debating, Lucerys decides to raise his other foot, and nearly regrets it when he almost tips over face first into the sand. He has to correct himself, and finds his hips going downwards and as he remains still, knees bracketing his elbows, he cannot help but picture himself as a frog. Once again, he is thankful that the beach is empty of people and no ships dot the sea behind him.

Despite the embarrassing pose, he actually thinks this is the closest he’s gotten to standing since he’s started trying to figure it out. It feels familiar, and as he presses his palms into the sand, he realizes that this must be a way to stand, it has to be, since this body doesn’t seem bothered by the position. Encouraged, he pushes with his hands as hard as he can and…immediately falls on his back.

He had forgotten to push with his legs.

Snarling to himself, Lucerys rolls over and quickly gets back into the frog position. He isn’t embarrassed anymore, is instead annoyed as he pushes with his hands and feet this time. For one moment, Lucerys thinks he will fall again, that he’s going to land in the sand and call it quits for the morning, but as he swings his arms out to catch his balance, his legs hold him up. 

He’s standing, he’s actually standing, without his crutches, without anyone there to help. He is standing on his own.

Something that’s a bit like pride and maybe a bit of sadness swells inside him at the notion that he can only stand on his own because he isn’t in his body. This is his body now of course, he isn’t one to obsess over the past, but he thinks he’s allowed to mourn for his past self, for the things his past self will never get to experience. But he can also find some comfort in this new body, this body that can stand on its own despite how scrawny its arms are.

He’s been standing for a couple minutes now, marveling at his balance and the way he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall at all. His legs are strong, sure, and although they ache, he knows they will not give out on him. But then, there is his next dilemma.

Walking.

His old body definitely had more of a hobble, aided by his crutches and the heavy way he leaned on them to move around. Sometimes, when he was really tired, close to just getting to the floor and crawling, he’d just drag one leg and then the other. He remembers the way Hvitserk would watch him do it before sighing and going around to either help him or take his crutches and get him to crawl the rest of the way, depending on his mood and if Lucerys was open to being helped at the time.

Now though, he is alone, no brother to help him, and he doesn’t even need help, not physically at least. Instead, he just needs to put one foot forward followed by the other, and while it sounds easy enough, he finds himself hesitating. It’s a weird internal battle for sure, and Lucerys has to push past the mental block, that insistent niggling in his mind that says he will fall no matter what, and make himself take a step.

He takes a step.

And then another.

And he loses his balance and falls on his side because his steps were definitely too wide, even he knew that. But this time, he isn’t frustrated, isn’t upset at all as he laughs to himself. He’s delighted because although it was just a few steps, he still took them, can take more if he tries again. He drowned after only seventeen winters and he knows from this body’s memories that it had only seen thirteen winters, and it’s hilarious to think that it has taken him thirty winters to learn how to walk. He laughs and laughs and doesn’t even realize when the tears streaking down his face become tears of sadness and lets himself have this moment. He doesn’t know what he’s mourning, doesn’t know if he’s mourning, but he lets himself cry anyway, lets himself have this moment of weakness where no one can see him.

Lucerys can walk now, and that means that he can leave. He can not allow himself any weakness after he leaves this island. He must be strong and fearless until this body’s mother, no, until his mother is sitting on her throne. So he lets himself cry, and after, he will grab some fish for himself and for Freyja and keep practicing until he can look for a way off this island. He will leave and he will find all of the people the original Lucerys named, and he will kill them without mercy. He will go to every single village he needs to and burn every home to the ground and kill every man, woman, and child that supports the usurpers until nothing stands between his mother and her throne of swords.

He will do all of that and earn his Seat in Odin’s Halls. But first, he lets himself cry.

Just one short dragon ride away, Queen Rhaenyra stumbles off her dragon, ignoring the sailors that run away at the sight of Syrax. She can care less about them, has eyes only for the mass of flesh trapped in the netting right on the shore. She cannot even attempt to walk with the grace of a Queen, and instead staggers and stumbles until she falls to her knees in front of what is so clearly Arrax’s wing. It is tangled in the fishermen’s nets and Rhaenyra tugs at them, clawing to get them off. Tears are streaming down her cheeks and blurring her vision as she tugs and tugs until the wing is freed.

She sobs when she uncovers more of Arrax’s remains, her sweet boy’s saddle just barely hanging on to what was left of Arrax’s back. Besides the saddle itself, there is no sign of her sweet boy at all, no body, no clothes, as if he hadn’t been on his dragon’s back at all. However, she knows her boy, knows her son would stay with his dragon to the very end. But right now, it looks as if her boy had never existed at all. No one, from Sharp Point to Rain House, has sent word about Lucerys’ remains washing ashore. Nothing of her son has been accounted for, and it tears at Rhaenyra’s heart as she grips the saddle tight, her cries drowned out by Syrax’s mourning. 

In that moment, both mothers are filled with agony as they grieve for their lost boys, their darling second sons. But only one of them has been given closure. Syrax has seen her son, knows with surety that he is gone. Rhaenyra has not, and it hurts her even more to know that she doesn’t even have anything of her son to burn, to send to their gods to watch over. 

Instead, as she frantically tugs the saddle off, she can only hope that this will suffice for her gods, that his saddle will be enough to grant him passage from the Drowned God’s seas to the flames of the Fourteen. Her sweet boy did not deserve a nameless drowning, and she would do her best with what she had to light his way to those who were waiting for him with open arms.

She will take his saddle home with her and have it burned on a pyre in the way of the Targaryens, and as she loosens the buckles and maneuvers it off of Arrax’s remaining wing, she swears that she will have her revenge. She had allowed her boy to leave under the condition that he would go as an envoy, that he would not fight anyone, and now all she had left of him was his saddle, and half of his dragon’s corpse, the remaining half - Gods she didn’t even want to think about it. But it refused to leave her mind, how her own brother, her son’s uncle, had murdered Lucerys. 

Her sweet, brave boy, who only wanted to make her proud. Clinging to the saddle, Rhaenyra cries with her dragon, lets herself have this moment. She lets herself grieve her boy because she knows as soon as she returns to Dragonstone, she will have to be Queen, she will not be able to mourn her son the way she needs to. So she gives herself the time to do it here. 

And after, well, after she mourns she will face her council with a straight back and her head held high, and she will say all she needs to say. All they need to hear, and the war will begin in earnest.

For her crown yes, but more importantly, for her son.

Chapter Text

Lucerys is still struggling to get a full grasp on walking, but that doesn’t stop him from exploring. Freyja’s smokeless fire was nothing but warm ash when he woke this morning and he knows that despite the pain still radiating throughout his body, it is time to leave. His clothes have dried due to the close proximity to the fire, but Lucerys makes a note to change when he gets the chance. He isn’t too sure that he wants anyone to be able to recognize him as a prince of the nation, a supposedly dead prince at that.

So, with stiff, aching legs, Lucerys begins his journey. He chooses his destination at random, mostly because he figures that since it is an island, he will eventually make his way to civilization. His father had once said that all roads lead to the throne, he can only hope that is true for this island. He switches between short bursts of walking and crawling when his legs ache a bit too much, but he makes good progress. Thankfully, the sand eventually hardens to packed dirt and grass as he moves inland and he’s pleasantly surprised to see an outcropping of trees, the perfect place to get out of the sun and rest.

He isn’t too far from where he started, but the sun has just started to set and Lucerys mulls over if he wants to keep going under the cover of night, or rest. On the one hand, he needs to find a way off this island as soon as possible, but he hasn’t decided if he should try to look for the ruler of this island or if he should try to find a way onto a departing ship. He knows that this island falls under the protection of the Baratheons and considering they’re the reason he was here instead of the prince that had once owned this body, well, it makes him just a little wary to meet any of the Baratheon vassals. 

Which of course, is exactly when he sees three men slowly marching his way. He knows they can’t see him yet, not tucked under the shadows as he is, but they will see him soon enough if they keep heading this way. If he moves now, it will catch their eye and he won’t have enough time to make a plan. He is weaponless and still unaccustomed to this body, and so he chooses the easiest option: he pretends to be unconscious. It’s easy enough to do, and the way he’s already slumped helps him along as the knights amble along. 

He watches them for as long as he can as they approach. Two of them appear to be closer to Lucerys’ age than actual adulthood and the third is clearly the one with the most experience. They seem relaxed, one of the teens nudging the other as they continue their patrol. They are much louder than they should be, confident that there isn’t a threat on this island.

“Think that dragon is fishing over on the tip again,” one of the teens says, and the other one scoffs.

“There’s no way a dragon would come all the way over here for some fish,” he insists.

“It’s him! He comes under the cover of fog but I’ve seen him, I swear it!” The first teen replies, indignant.

“You’d think it would be more interested in Rain House, empty their stores,” the eldest knight grumbles and Lucerys stores that information for later but also inwardly scoffs to himself as he closes his eyes. He is in their line of sight by now and none of them have seemed to notice him. He’s even able to note that while the eldest knight and the indignant teen have swords, the other teen has an axe at his hip.

Perfect.

It is the indignant teen that sees him first, squawking about there being a body, just like he’d squawked about a dragon sighting. Lucerys forces his body to remain lax, limp, as he listens to them approach. Two pairs of feet come his way, one heavier than the other and he can only assume that it’s the eldest knight and the indignant teen.

One of them is stupid enough to crouch in front of him, patting at his face. Lucerys goes along with it, letting his head roll and slumping even further, doing his best to make it seem as if he were truly unconscious. He plays it up, letting his eyes roll when the knight tries again and up close, Lucerys realizes he might actually be younger than he is, with rounded cheeks, and this close he notes that his leathers are a bit too loose. 

Possibly Lucerys’ size. How lucky.

“State your business!” the boy says, loudly, and the teen still on the path sighs as the elder knight pinches the bridge of his nose.

“He’s clearly unconscious, you idiot,” the other young knight says.

“He looks to be of Baratheon ilk,” the indignant knight says, turning his head this way and that, tugging at his eyelid and truly testing his patience.

“Lord Borros doesn’t have any sons,” the eldest knight mutters, “perhaps a Storm.”

Lucerys forces himself not to freeze, because he has several questions, and most of them can be narrowed down to a loud, disbelieving what? It may have been dark beneath the ocean, but he distinctly remembers this body’s hair being brown, not Baratheon black. Even his memories paint Lucerys Velaryon as a brunet with brown eyes to match, a carbon copy of his mother with the exception of the darker hair and eyes.

“Think Lord Borros tossed him out in case his lady wife learned of his deceit?” the indignant knight asks, finally letting his eyelid go and Lucerys tries his hardest not to blink, not yet.

The other two grumble amongst themselves but whatever they see, they must truly think him to be a Baratheon, not the Velaryon he definitely is, but he supposes it’s to his benefit. He hadn’t wanted them to know his true identity anyway, and it would help him in the long run.

“Well, boy clearly wants to live if he made it to our shores. I say we take him back to Lord Tarth,” the indignant knight says.

“Oh, and who’s gonna carry him? You found him,” the other young knight says and the eldest knight hums in agreement.

They argue for a few moments, and Lucerys decides that regardless of their decision, he isn’t going to wherever they want to take him. Initially he had wanted to find civilization, perhaps the Lord, to figure out a way off this island. But things were different now that there was a possibility that a dragon came around often. If he could find it, he was sure he could get it to take him back to Dragonstone. Plus, he needed to figure out what they meant by him looking like a Baratheon.

The knights come to a decision and Lucerys doesn’t so much as twitch when he’s hauled up off the ground, the knight carrying him grunting about how heavy he was. Considering the knight was smaller than him, Lucerys decides that this boy cannot be a knight, the two teens are probably squires. Well, it’ll be easier to kill them considering they’ve already decided to underestimate him.

They don’t even turn and go back the way they came and instead continue their patrol. They keep chatting, mostly about his supposed background, like gossips instead of future knights of the realm. He only tunes in when they start talking about the dragon again. Two of the three seem to really think that a dragon comes here often, thinks the island is a perfect place to find fish. He tries to think about which dragon it could possibly be, and his memories practically surge up to offer him the answer.

A dragon that hides inside fog, prefers fish, and apparently disappears as soon as a human gets close? It could only be Grey Ghost. He’s sure if he could get close enough to the dragon, he could get it to take him back to Dragonstone.

Lucerys does his best to stay relaxed, allows his arms to sway as the squire carries him, and slowly opens his eyes. The squire is trailing slowly after the other two, most likely from Lucerys’ weight, but that’s their fault for carrying him instead of trying to wake him up. Looking down, he takes note of the squire’s sword, a short sword, loosely hanging from his hip. It taunts him, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to grab it from this angle without the boy noticing. 

However, there’s a much smaller knife, a dagger, that glints at him from the boy’s waist, strapped horizontally with the hilt facing to the right. He’s not sure if the boy has it in case of an emergency or what, but a knife is a knife. Unlike the sword, the squire doesn’t notice when Lucerys pulls it out of its sheath, but he does notice when Lucerys begins to show signs of ‘waking up’. 

Before the squire can even alert his companions, Lucerys is shifting as much as he can without tumbling off the squire’s shoulder, and stabbing the dagger as deep as he can into the back of the squire’s head. The angle is off and he can’t extend his elbow as much as he wants to, but the dagger goes deep enough, and the squire goes staggering forward.

Lucerys goes with the movement and lands on his own two feet as the squire collapses, dead. Lucerys doesn’t let go of the dagger, and the wet, sucking sound it makes, as well as the sound of the squire falling, alerts the other two, but Lucerys is already on the move. His coordination still needs some work, but he’s got the upper hand given their surprise, and the second squire isn’t that far away. So, Lucerys lunges forward and curls his free hand into the squire’s hair, jerking his head back so he can press the dagger still wet with his dead friend’s blood to his neck before the knight can even draw his sword.

“Don’t move,” Lucerys orders, pleased when the knight’s hand freezes, mere inches away from the hilt of his sword, “toss the sword,” he says, jerking his chin towards the tree line. The knight grits his teeth, but he obeys.

“The dragon, where does it hunt?” Lucerys demands, and presses the dagger harder against the squire’s neck when the knight doesn’t immediately respond.

“On the tip of the island,” the knight blurts after a moment, and when Lucerys doesn’t let up, he slowly lifts his hand, and points in the direction they were heading in. “There’s a dock over there for our fishermen, on foggy days they say you can see a dragon out on the water. Some say it’s superstition but Dragonstone isn’t too far away.”

Lucerys can tell the man is telling the truth, that he’s worried about what Lucerys will do if he lies. Besides, why lie about dragon sightings? It doesn’t stop Lucerys from slitting the squire’s throat though, letting his body fall at his feet. He will give the knight credit, the man is certainly better trained than his charges, and doesn’t even take the time to mourn before he’s turning and making his way towards the sword he’d thrown. 

Lucerys knows he wouldn’t be able to catch up, not with his stumbling, but it doesn’t matter, this squire had an axe. Rolling him over, Lucerys tugs the axe free from the dying squire and turns towards the knight. He knows he only has one chance at this, has to kill the knight before he can pick up his sword and come charging back. This body definitely isn’t used to fighting despite all of Lucerys’ memories of his past life. He may have the knowledge and the techniques in his head, but it hadn’t been trained into this body. He would work on that after, but for now, the knight.

Cocking his arm back, Lucerys takes a breath, slowly lets it out, and throws the axe as hard as he can. He remembers all of his previous training, knows he’s always excelled at hitting his target, moving or stationary, and had the best aim out of his brothers with the exception of Bjorn. So, he aims for where the knight is going, instead of where he currently is, and is pleasantly surprised when his aim is true. The axe hits the back of the knight’s head and the momentum of it has the knight tipping right over, dropping into the dirt right by the sword he’d tried so hard to get.

Lucerys is no idiot though, his aim might have been true, but his arm strength was still lacking, something he’d need to work on. He highly doubts the knight is actually dead, and so he makes his uncoordinated way over. His steps are closer together now, and he only over balances once, which is what saves his life as the knight rolls over, sword in hand and jabbing into the air where Lucerys had been before he’d tipped over.

The struggle after is honestly embarrassing. The knight is bigger than he is, and stronger besides, but Lucerys is too close for his sword to do any damage. Lucerys only has the upper hand because he’s used to being on the ground, and more importantly, because Lucerys doesn’t give a rat's ass about honor, well, not the Westeros version of it anyway. It also helps that the axe is still embedded in the knight’s head, clearly not deep enough to kill him, but good enough to make the knight sluggish, off center from the pain. In their scuffle the knight doesn’t let go of his sword and focuses more on getting Lucerys off to stab him, trying to create space so he can swing true. Meanwhile, Lucerys lets go of the dagger and goes for the knight’s eyes instead, thumbs pushing deep.

The knight howls in pain as his eyes finally give, bursting around his thumbs and blood gushing as he keeps going, pushing and pushing as the knight struggles. He’s finally let go of his sword, hands scrabbling for Lucerys’, but his struggles slow and finally cease. Panting from exertion, Lucerys pulls his thumbs out of the man’s skull and sits back, letting himself catch his breath. That should not have been as hard as it was. Once he was able to walk properly, his first order of business would be getting his strength back to where it was. Even at thirteen winters he had been capable of holding his own should the need call for it. 

After a couple more breaths, Lucerys pushes himself up, wiping his hands off on the knight’s arms before he’s reaching up to turn the man over. It’s easy enough to pull the axe out of the man’s head, and Lucerys turns the axe this way and that, twirling it before nodding. It wasn’t the best, he could certainly make something better, but it would do for now. The knight doesn’t have anything of true value on his person, and the long sword is a bit too long for him. The short sword the other squire had though, that would be perfect. But first, the bodies. 

It takes a bit longer than Lucerys would’ve wanted to drag all three bodies behind the treeline. He had considered dragging them towards the water, letting it sweep them away, but he doesn’t want them to float off towards another part of the island, alerting people to his presence. So, tucked behind the biggest tree it is. He strips the youngest squire of his clothes and leathers and tries them on. He had aimed for the boy’s head specifically so the leather wouldn’t be damaged, and it’s a good thing he had, because it fit him better than it had fit the squire. Well, at least this body had a decent build, and would probably grow to be as tall as he’d been in his past life, if not a bit taller.

He considers burning his previous outfit, but something makes him stop. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to keep them, but he still folds them up and carries them along. The knight and his companions hadn’t been carrying any bags, so Lucerys wraps his clothes in his cloak and toddles off towards the tip. 

He’s definitely getting better at walking, and barely takes any breaks this time.

Far, far up in the North, Prince Jacaerys is standing on the balcony of the Stark guest’s quarters, a white knuckled grip on the railing as he stares up at the moon. His little visit to the Wall had been cut short after the news, Creagan hurrying him back, but insisting that the young prince at least stay the night. Jacaerys had wanted nothing more than to call for Vermax and fly back home, because, because-

His brother was dead.

It didn’t make sense, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. They had chosen Storm’s End specifically because it was the closest, the safest. Lucerys should have been welcomed, should have been given guest rights and at ease with his cousins. Borros Baratheon was related to them by blood, through Princess Rhaenys herself. And yet, yet-

His brother was dead.

He is angry, so very angry, that his brother has been taken from them, far too soon, and he is too far away to do anything about it. The people of Winterfell are already murmuring about the Kinslayer and he doesn’t even want to think about how his brother was killed, murdered. By Aemond, their uncle. To think, Jacaerys thinks almost deliriously, their cousin sent his brother off to be killed by their uncle. He wants nothing more than to return to King’s Landing, to find Aemond and cut him down, kinslaying be damned. He’d gladly be labeled a kinslayer if it meant his brother’s murderer no longer lived.

But, more than anything, more than the anger, the rage, Jacaerys feels guilty. It had been his idea, he had been the one who suggested sending the dragons, to send Lucerys and himself as envoys. He had been the one to talk his mother down, and his brother had supported him as he always did. He had sent his brother off to his death. All because he had wanted to prove himself, to show that despite the rumors running rampant in King’s Landing, that he and his brothers were, above all else, Rhaenyra’s children. Their eggs had hatched in their cribs, which couldn’t be said for any of Alicent’s children. 

He’d had something to prove, and his brother had died for it. Had been murdered for it.

And it was all his fault.

Chapter Text

After a few days of scoping out the docks, Lucerys concludes that Grey Ghost certainly is hunting around the island. He’s spotted the dragon a couple times, but Grey Ghost was a sneaky thing, used to disappearing as soon as he smelt a human. It was annoying, but Lucerys forced himself to be patient as he laid out fish in strategic points, trying to get Grey Ghost to come closer. It takes a few days and Lucerys has to be on the lookout for any fishermen or knights, but on the fourth day all his hard work pays off.

Grey Ghost may have the perfect coloring for a dragon that likes to hide under the cover of fog, but he’s still a dragon, he makes waves much too big to belong to a curious fish. Lucerys had arranged a little trail that went away from the docks, to a patch of sand that isn’t noticeable in the fog. He hadn’t been too sure how Grey Ghost was getting around because he might be stealthy, but the flap of his wings had to be noticeable. So, he’s both surprised and impressed when a long snout emerges from the water, having scented an easy meal. Considering Lucerys has spent most of the morning getting that easy meal, he’s hoping he smells more like fish than human as the rest of Grey Ghost’s body slides out of the water. 

It’s fascinating to see a dragon up close. Sure his memories contain multiple dragons and he even has an understanding of what it feels like to be near a dragon, but his memories are secondhand, this is the real deal. He can only watch as Grey Ghost’s large wings flap once before resettling. The dragon doesn’t look like it’s naturally aquatic, but it has clearly learned how to swim somehow. It’s no wonder the fishermen were so spooked. 

For a moment, Grey Ghost ignores the fish and instead moves close enough so that it’s completely out of the water before it begins to…steam? Lucerys watches as steam slowly rises from the dragon’s body, and it takes him a bit too long to realize the dragon was drying itself off by raising its own temperature. From memory, he knew that dragons were smart, probably more intelligent than the humans that ruled this land, but something about watching a dragon steam dry itself is a bit hilarious. Especially for Lucerys, well the Lucerys he is now, who has never actually interacted with a dragon firsthand.

Once the dragon is completely dry, it immediately goes for the fish. Lucerys notes the dragon doesn’t care if its prey is dead or alive so long as it’s edible, an opportune hunter. He considers waiting for the dragon to finish, but cannot find it in himself to be that patient. He’s itching to leave this island, and he knows that this is his best chance. Plus, who knows if the dragon would immediately get back into the water or fly off once it's eaten its fill. 

Grey Ghost notices him, but not until he’s close enough to be visible. The smell of fish must’ve worked in his favor, but the dragon is immediately on the defensive. He notices that it doesn’t move away from the fish though. Lucerys raises his hands slowly, tries to give off the air that he is non-threatening. There isn’t much he could do to a dragon as he is, but it didn’t hurt to be respectful. But then, he finds himself a little conflicted on his next step. 

Grey Ghost is a wild dragon, actively avoids humans, which means the two languages Lucerys is now fluent in, including one that is specifically used for giving orders to dragons, is absolutely useless here. 

Well, he decides, body language and tone has always been universal, has it not?

“Well met, Grey Ghost,” Lucerys greets, trying to aim for respect and politeness. He doesn’t know what it means when Grey Ghost rumbles at him, but the dragon doesn’t immediately try to eat or kill him. He also doesn’t leave.

“I am Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Queen Rhaenyra, rider of Syrax,” Lucerys explains, watching the way that large gray eye blinks at him as the prince inches closer. 

“You know Syrax, I’m assuming,” the dragon rumbles and Lucerys pushes on, “and my father rides Caraxes.” There's another rumble here, but Lucerys is close enough to touch the dragon and it still hasn’t actually done anything to warn him off.

“I rode on Arrax,” Lucerys says, and it feels odd to use the past tense for multiple reasons that he cannot reflect on right now, “hatchling of Syrax and Caraxes. My brother, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, rides Vermax, also hatchling of Syrax and Caraxes.” 

“Arrax is…gone. Murdered by Vhagar,” another rumble, lower and throatier, and Lucerys doesn’t know if it’s because he’s finally reached out to touch the dragon’s snout or because of the names he’s mentioned, but the dragon doesn’t do anything else. His snout is hot to the touch, but not enough to burn, so Lucerys doesn’t let go. 

Immediately after touching the dragon, he feels something poking and prodding at his memories. It’s abrasive and kind of painful, the dragon not used to communicating with a human in this way. Lucerys also has no idea how to communicate with the dragon and his memories aren’t helpful since Lucerys grew up with his dragon from the cradle, they’d learned how to communicate before Lucerys had said his first word.

So, Lucerys just finds the memories he needs and offers them to the dragon. He shows him the dragons he knows, shows him Arrax and how he’d died, and then he shows images of flying and what images he has of Dragonmont. He tries to lace the images of flying with urgency and intent, with a question underneath. A crude request for help.

When he pulls his hand away, the dragon is still watching him, and he isn’t sure if he’s won the dragon over, so he tries again.

“I don’t wish to bond with you,” Lucerys says carefully, “I just need to get back to Dragonmont. You can drop me off wherever you please,” he pauses for a moment, tries again, “on land. Please.”

The dragon considers him for a long moment, and Lucerys holds still, forces himself to be patient. After a few breaths of silence, Grey Ghost presses his snout under Lucerys’ outstretched hand and although the intent is still too forceful, makes his head throb, the image of the fish before them is quite clear. Grey Ghost impresses upon him his desire to finish his meal first. 

Well then.

With a huff, Lucerys takes a couple steps back and settles down, needing the break anyway. Grey Ghost rumbles, but moves back towards the pile of fish regardless of the human’s proximity. Lucerys watches, settling his elbows on his knees as the dragon eats next to him. He supposes he would prefer to finish his meal too before helping a random human. He’s a little distracted by the other image Grey Ghost had shown him anyway, and although he knows he shouldn’t be hung up on the fact that he looks different, he can’t help it.

The boy Grey Ghost had shown him looked like him, but with much darker hair, Baratheon black hair, and the blue eyes to match. He knows he hadn’t looked that way before, has memories of Lucerys and had even seen the original for himself before he’d sunk to the depths. He can only assume it was another Blessing from Freyja, and he isn’t sure how he feels about it. On the one hand, his hair and eyes are the only difference, everything else is exactly the same. He knows that anyone who has actually seen Lucerys would recognize him, even if they might have to do a double take. He knows without a doubt that his parents and siblings would recognize him immediately.

It’s everyone else who would assume he was a Baratheon bastard that was the problem.

Lucerys’ initial idea was to present himself before the Lord of this island and request their aid and figure out what to do depending on the Lord’s response. But he had never met this Lord before, which means the Lord most likely wouldn’t believe him. He can only assume that the Lord would’ve laughed him right out of his halls if a Storm bastard had wandered into his home and declared himself Queen Rhaenyra’s dead son. Or maybe he would’ve taken him back to Storm’s End, put him before the cousin that had sent him to his death once before, and Lucerys was not yet ready to see Borros again, especially when he could pass for his illegitimate son. 

On the other hand though, this could work to his benefit. If he let everyone believe he was truly dead, he’d be able to do whatever he wanted to reach his goals. As a prince of the realm, he had an obligation to the people of Westeros, to their safety and general wellbeing. A Baratheon bastard held no such obligations, and he had no intentions of keeping anyone who didn’t bend the knee to his mother alive, let alone safe. He wasn’t particularly interested in running with the idea of being a bastard, had had to deal with such accusations all his life, and really didn’t want to shroud himself in such a rumor, especially once all was said and done and his mother was on her throne. 

It also itched at who he used to be, a son who had always been proud of both of his parents, a son who had never had anyone question his parentage and birthright. However, he doesn’t see the point in outright denying it if people were so inclined to make their own assumptions based on his appearance. Did it even matter if he didn’t intend on leaving any survivors to even tell the tale of their mass execution?

He would think about it later, leaving this island is much more important. 

Flying is…life changing. The memory of the original Lucerys’ last flight is still fresh in his mind but that had been secondhand, flying on Grey Ghost was a completely different experience. Grey Ghost was bigger, for one, and it showed. Arrax had been an adolescent, as old as Lucerys was, but Grey Ghost is definitely an adult. The dragon flies with confidence, likes to dip and dive and lets the tip of his wings slice through the water before ascending into the clouds. Arrax had liked doing tricks too, but Grey Ghost definitely has more experience. He’s less experienced with having a rider, and Lucerys is thankful he doesn’t try anything too intricate considering he’s riding without a saddle. 

The ride is both too short and also never ending. It’s amusing, almost, how close Tarth is to Dragonstone. How close everything seems to be on the back of a dragon. Grey Ghost isn’t even flying particularly fast and yet before he knows it, he can see the massive range of volcanoes that makes up Dragonstone.

After a while of flying, Grey Ghost tilts to the left and Lucerys’ grip tightens as he shifts with the movement. He doesn’t understand why Grey Ghost has angled himself away, but when he hears the distinct sound of a different dragon, he understands why. Grey Ghost may be a large dragon in his own right, but he had no interest in entering a different dragon’s territory. That reedy, whistling cry warns that Caraxes is home on Dragonstone and has zero interest in Grey Ghost encroaching. 

He cannot hear Syrax, and he isn’t too sure how he feels about that. Actively chooses not to think about it.

Instead, he braces himself as Grey Ghost prepares to land. He isn’t gentle about it, and Lucerys is thankful he doesn’t bite through his tongue, even if he almost tumbles right off the dragon’s back. The dragon shuffles its wings around and he knows it tries to actually angle itself so he can dismount, but it’s still incredibly uncoordinated. When he’s on his own two feet, he has to force himself to remain upright. He’s never had sea legs considering his circumstances, but he’s heard enough about it to say that dragon legs are certainly worse. 

When he turns, Grey Ghost is watching him, large head turned at an angle so one large gray eye is watching him. His legs are sore and achy from the ride, but he still ambles over and pats the dragon on the snout, trying to communicate his gratitude upon the large beast. The dragon rumbles but doesn’t try to respond, instead turning away from him. Lucerys has to take a few steps back as the dragon takes off again, immediately disappearing into the clouds.

Once Lucerys is alone, he immediately lets himself collapse, mountainous terrain be damned. His legs hurt and he can’t stand to, well, stand for another second. He lays there, spread eagle, as the soreness radiates up from the soles of his feet. He hates it, hates how weak he is and refuses to acknowledge the fact that the only reason he’s alive at all is because the Gods themselves had decided to keep him that way. He knows he should give himself some slack, that healing takes time and he certainly needs it, but that doesn’t stop him from hating his weaknesses anyway. 

Overhead, he hears more dragons, some he recognizes and some he doesn’t. Grey Ghost has placed him pretty close to the volcano, and he knows that the dragon had made sure he wasn’t in its territory. The dragon may have been nice enough to take him here, but had still been wary of him, hadn’t wanted him to know where its nest was. Lucerys didn’t mind, and is quite thankful considering how warm it is here. 

After about ten minutes, Lucerys rolls over and drags himself up, soreness be damned. His next order of business was finding a nice little cave to hunker down in. He’d practice with the weapons he’d stolen, then find something to eat, and then get some rest.

And in the morning, he’s going to get himself a dragon.

Chapter Text

Helaena’s dreams have been filled with nothing but death and terrors ever since Aemond returned to the Keep. He had been morose, even more withdrawn than usual, and it had gotten worse when Aegon had insisted on celebrating Lucerys’ death with a feast. Aegon was the only one who was unbothered by Aemond’s new title of Kinslayer.

Helaena has not had a moment alone with her brother and, if she were being honest with herself, she doesn’t want to. Her dreams haunt her even in her waking hours and sometimes when she looks at her brother, her nightmares look back at her. 

In reality, Aemond is as beautiful as he’s always been, even if his melancholy haunts his steps. But her dreams show him to be a true terror: gaping holes where his eyes used to be, real and fake, with tears of blood dripping down his face, and his face more muscle and sinew than actual skin. When he speaks to her, his words never carry, because how can one speak without a tongue? 

It is terrifying to say the least, and she struggles to keep her screams at bay every time he turns to her. Thankfully, he’s been spending more and more time in Flea Bottom, taking his horrific face with him.

If only everyone else would do the same. 

Not everyone looks like Aemond, of course, and she has yet to discern the pattern behind who looks gruesome and who doesn’t. Sometimes Aegon looks akin to a raisin, shriveled and blackened by flames. Other times he looks perfectly normal if it weren’t for the dark bruises around his neck. 

Her grandsire has matching bruises around his neck. It takes Helaena a while to notice the missing finger, but when she points it out, her grandsire only shows her both hands, all fingers accounted for. She counts them herself to make sure. 

All of her children look the same, in her dreams and in reality, and when she looks in the mirror, nothing has changed for her either. Her mother also looks the same, but sometimes, very rarely, Helaena will see scratch marks around her mother’s eyes and down her cheeks, all self-inflicted. She knows she’s dreaming when she sees it, and it’s easier to wake herself up.

Most of the knights look the same, and that includes the Kingsguard. She doesn’t know what it says about them, that the Kingsguard are all hale and whole whilst their king looks horrific most days. 

Ser Criston Cole though, he always looks horrible and Helaena hates when she has to see him longer than absolutely necessary. Sometimes, his face is beaten to a bloody pulp, and she has to sit there, finger nails digging tight into her palms, as she watches him walk around, blood dripping from every orifice of his armor. 

Other times, it’s his burnt corpse wandering around the Keep, scorched armor still burning hot. On those days, Heleana stays far away from him lest she get burned. Then there are the few times when she happens to see him on the training grounds, and the remnants of her dreams will take over and she’s forced to watch as four phantom horses run in opposite directions, taking each of Cole’s limbs with them. 

No matter how tightly she closes her eyes or how hard she presses her fingers to her ears, the sight and sound never leaves, not until it’s finished. She sees these visions so often that it’s gotten to the point where she wishes they would just come true already, just so she can escape them. Her dreams normally came when she was sleeping, but as of late, she’s been drifting off regardless of if her eyes are open or closed and despite her ability to see, she has no real control over it. 

No matter who she goes to or who she warns, they all just give her their usual “Yes, Your Grace” kind of smiles and she hates it. Even Aegon waves her away when she warns him of his fate, and so she spends most of her time in her chambers. Surrounded by her children and all the maids who will survive the terrible fate that’s coming for King’s Landing. 

To distract herself, she’s begun practicing embroidery. She likes to settle right in the middle of her children’s nursery, all of them within her line of sight, as she stitches and stitches. She’s been using a lot of black thread lately, but it calls to her, so she keeps requesting for more. Her maids are more than happy to be of assistance. 

She’s distracted by her most recent dream, but it doesn’t stop her fingers from moving. In her dreams, she saw the dead rising from the sea, tethered to this world by rage and vengeance. She watches his journey, the way he seethes and rages and forces the body he’s been given to the very edge, refusing to sit still for longer than absolutely necessary. Death follows this boy, unleashed on anyone who gets close enough, and she knows that he will bring Death to King’s Landing.

She knows him, the boy who haunts her dreams, and yet he is also a stranger. She knows that the boy she once knew, the prince who was always quick to smile, always the first to put on a brave front despite his shaking hands, was long gone, lying beneath the depths and waiting for his family to Light his way and send him off in the ways of the Fourteen. 

In his place is a terror unlike anything Westeros has ever seen. And as she watches him through her dreams, she knows he is only going to get worse. He is searching for a dragon, and there is nothing she can do as the boy in her dreams scales up a hill, his eyes on the sky. 

She trails after him because she knows that her dreams will force her to his side if he gets too far away. The last time that happened, he’d been practicing with his sword and had gutted her without even noticing. 

She’d woken up the entire Keep with her screams.

Thankfully she doesn’t actually have to climb, she has never been to Dragonstone, let alone to the mountains behind it, so her mind struggles to find something to compare it to, and the best it can do is make it akin to climbing the stairs in the Keep. Which makes it much easier to keep up with the prince who is already at the top, staring at something she cannot see just yet.

When she finally makes it to the top, she realizes that the prince is looking at a cave, a big one. It’s clearly lived in, judging by the assortment of carcasses lying about. All of them are picked clean, some broken, some whole, and Helaena’s heart begins racing when she identifies several pieces of armor dotting the cave entrance, most of them blackened from dragon fire. 

She wants to say something, perhaps warn the prince away. Stranger or not, the body belongs to her nephew and she wants him to be well, wants him to be safe. The last thing she wants is to watch him die trying to claim this dragon. Before she can even attempt to see if he’ll be able to hear her, she hears the loud cry of a dragon overhead. 

It startles her so much that she stabs herself with the needle she’s holding, and no matter how hard she tries to hold onto it, the dream slips from her fingers. Back in reality, Helaena sits frozen, and it is only when one of the maids approaches does she snap out of it. 

“Your Grace,” one of the maids call, seeing the blood dotting her finger. 

Startled by her sudden closeness, Helaena drops the hoop she’d been holding, and is startled once more by the sound it makes. There isn’t much she can do when she’s swarmed by her maids, and so she does her best to stay calm. She knows they’re worried despite the small prick, and so she allows them to make sure she’s well, and does her best to keep her frustrated tears at bay. 

When they finally back away to give her space, she sits for a moment and tries to catch her breath. Her finger doesn’t hurt at all, but her heart is still racing. She’s just beginning to settle when she sees a blond little head pop into her line of vision.

Jaehaerys, she realizes after a moment, is standing before her. He gives her a bright smile before offering her hoop back to her. He wants to be praised, she knows, wants to be thanked for his assistance. She has nothing to compare it to, but she thinks her children are a little needier than most, having her as the only parent that’s around. However, she can only stare at her own work, at the massive black dragon she’s stiched across the fabric she had intended to use as a napkin. 

Although she has never seen this dragon, she knows exactly who it is, and why she has stitched it. Her dream might have ended before it was ready, but she had known in her heart of hearts exactly who that terror wearing her nephew’s skin had chosen.

After all, death calls to death, vengeance to vengeance, and there was no better option than the Cannibal, the oldest unclaimed dragon alive, and eater of kin. 

Her screams make her children cry and there’s nothing she can do about it before she loses consciousness.

Back on Dragonmont, Lucerys watches as the Cannibal circles overhead. He’d been keeping an eye on the dragon’s comings and goings, and knew he was returning from a hunt. He figured the dragon would be less inclined to immediately eat him if his meal was still digesting. Considering the dragon’s size, he wasn’t even sure if the dragon could ever have a full stomach. He only has his memories to go on, but he’s quite sure there’s only a slight size difference between the three largest dragons still alive. Then again, it’s hard to measure when the Cannibal tends to eat any and everything that gets too close.

He was looking forward to finding out.

But first, he had to actually claim the dragon. As Cannibal lands, Lucerys recalls the song his father liked to sing to the dragons, specifically Vermithor. However, just like Grey Ghost, Cannibal is a wild dragon and most likely has never learned High Valyrian. It would be pointless to attempt, and he got the feeling he’d only have one chance at this. 

So, with his back straight and his head held high, Lucerys approaches the massive dragon. And Cannibal is truly large, impressively so. His head alone was so large that Lucerys didn’t have anything to compare it to. Arrax had been an adolescent, still small enough that he could wrap his arms around his neck if he tried. Cannibal, on the other hand, if he was smaller than Vhagar, it was only a slight difference. The horns decorating his face alone, mainly the ones curling around his head like a crown, were longer than Dark Sister and they certainly looked sharper. 

The Cannibal notices him quickly, which is to be expected of an animal that large. It turns its head and Lucerys finds himself meeting one large green eye, the pupil narrowing to a tiny slit. Lucerys pauses as the Cannibal’s warning rumble shakes the ground beneath his feet. 

Surprisingly, he isn’t afraid at all. The dragon’s eye is bigger than he is and yet he feels filled to bursting with confidence. This dragon was meant for him, who he is now, he just needs to claim him.  

“Cannibal,” Lucerys says, but isn’t sure what to say afterwards. It had been relatively easy to talk at Grey Ghost, but Cannibal didn’t seem like one to tolerate such things.

Sure enough, the massive dragon turns its head and Lucerys braces himself as the dragon roars at him. It is…unlike anything Lucerys has ever heard before. Arrax’s cries were more like screeches and chirps, the dragon still growing into its own. He’s never heard Syrax roar, the pampered dragon was well taken care of and hadn’t needed to do much besides croon to her rider. Caraxes’ sounds were unique and incomparable. 

The best Lucerys could compare the Cannibal’s roar to was the boom of thunder, as if Thor Himself had made his presence known. But after that, the sound goes to a register Lucerys cannot comprehend, and his ears begin ringing instead. He knows it’s because of his proximity to the dragon, the dark abyss of its mouth right in front of him, but that doesn’t stop him from gritting his teeth, trying to hide the pain it had caused.

It takes him a breath too long to even realize that the Cannibal had stopped, and Lucerys pushes the pain down and grabs for his anger instead. He would not show fear to this dragon, nor would he let it think it had intimidated him, and so when that acid green eye meets his again, he returns the favor, and roars back at him.

Lucerys’ war cry was not like a boom of thunder like the Cannibal’s, nor was it something that could make a man’s ears bleed let alone a dragon, but it was filled with rage and conviction. He’d always had the best war cry amongst his brothers, was always the one to scream his rage for all to hear, and this was no different. When he stopped, he bared his teeth at the massive dragon for good measure. 

For a long moment, the two had a standoff, neither moving, neither blinking, just watching the other. Lucerys’ ears stopped ringing right as the Cannibal huffed, that large eye blinking.

It was Lucerys’ victory.

Pleased, the prince stopped showing his teeth and instead gave the dragon a little bow, because he could be respectful when it was called for. The large dragon rumbled as Lucerys began approaching him, but Lucerys ignored it. He had won their standoff and he would not let the dragon intimidate him. Instead, he got close enough to touch the dragon and reached out his hand, palm down, and waited.

He did not feel the need to talk to the Cannibal. The dragon clearly desired action and Lucerys was here to give it to him, if the dragon wished to accept his suit. So, he let his hand hover and maintained eye contact, unafraid and patient. The dragon’s rumble stopped and Lucerys took that as his cue to finally touch the dragon.

If Grey Ghost’s attempts had been clumsy, the Cannibal’s was painfully forceful, but Lucerys endured. He remained upright as the dragon scoured over his memories, new and old. The dragon greedily took in every detail about his new bonded, and Lucerys could feel his hunger, for everything. His hunger was bottomless and directionless, the dragon wanted to consume everyone and everything. 

And it seemed delighted to gorge itself on Lucerys’ memories, specifically the ones from his first life. He could feel the dragon’s fascination at the differences. More importantly though, he could feel the way Cannibal seemed to like his anger. Considering Lucerys had two lifetimes worth of it, he couldn’t blame him. 

After letting the dragon peruse, Lucerys forced his more recent memories towards the dragon, showing him what he wanted. The things he had planned: the Stormland in ruins, Oldtown burning, and more importantly Vhagar dead.

Of course, the Cannibal was more interested in that part and Lucerys shared his amusement. He felt the way the dragon rooted through his memories, finding the ones of Vhagar and following it up with its own memories of its hunts, specifically when it hunted other dragons. That deep overwhelming hunger lurks under those memories and Lucerys laughs.

“Yes,” he says in agreement, “we will hunt her, and her rider,” he shows the dragon his memories of Aemond and the Cannibal snarls, low and throaty, and there’s an assortment of emotions connected to it that Lucerys doesn’t truly understand, but he knows that with time their bond will be stronger. 

But for now, he gives the large dragon a few pats before he steps away. The Cannibal’s large eye follows him, head tilting to keep him in his line of sight. 

“We cannot go after Vhagar yet,” Lucerys says even though he knows the dragon cannot truly understand his words, but it helps to talk out loud anyway. He knows the dragon gets the gist of it from his emotions and shared memories.

He’s tired for one, had been scaling the mountain all afternoon on the hunt for the Cannibal. He’d had a general idea of where the dragon’s cave was, but he’d never been before. Plus, he’d begun his morning training and hadn’t been prepared for how winded he’d be after just a few hours. But that was fine, he just had to stick with his routine and he was sure that by the time he reached King’s Landing, he’d be ready to fight.

For now, he makes his way towards the Cannibal’s side, and the dragon can obviously tell what he intends to do and lowers himself. Cannibal is much bigger than any dragon Lucerys has been on, but he does a decent job of scaling the dragon’s side. It’s easy to settle onto his back and Lucerys finds some spikes that he can hold on to.

He doesn’t command the dragon with words, he doesn’t have to. Now that they’ve bonded, he can feel the Cannibal’s presence in his head and he knows the dragon wants to fly with him just as badly. So, Lucerys braces himself for the take off, and soon they are in the sky.

Flying on the Cannibal is nothing like flying on Arrax or Grey Ghost. Arrax, despite his youth, was clearly a dragon built for speed. Surely he would’ve grown to be large, but Lucerys highly doubted the dragon would’ve been bulky. Arrax was capable of flips and tricks, and quick turns and dips. Grey Ghost was definitely built for stealth and flew in a way that was almost soundless.

The Cannibal flies like he knows he’s the biggest dragon currently in the skies. He’s definitely built for strength, and wasn’t that lovely - a large dragon with a taste for dragon flesh? Lucerys couldn’t stop himself from laughing, both at the thought and from the adrenaline of riding a dragon. This was only his second flight and already he loved it. 

When they land, the sun is setting and Lucerys can see Dragonstone. The large castle is dreary and yet his body yearns for it. Behind him, the Cannibal watches him, his large head tilted in something akin to confusion. He can feel what Lucerys feels and does not understand the concept of family, doesn’t understand what Lucerys is longing for. 

Lucerys pays it no mind, and does his best to push the longing back. It belongs to the body and the memories he’s been given. He doesn’t truly know the family this body misses, and although he knows he loves them, it isn’t with the intensity that has this body wanting to run straight to the castle.

Straight to its family.

“We cannot,” Lucerys says, even though he knows that the original Lucerys is long gone, that it is only his emotions and instincts that linger, “not if I am to give you the revenge you have asked for. If I return now, the Queen will never let me leave again, let alone go through with your revenge.”

His voice is choked up when he finishes and Lucerys hates it, hates the way his eyes burn with unshed tears, tears he will not allow to fall. His body is sad, it wants, more than revenge, to return to its mother’s embrace. To its brothers. But that is not what was asked of him. 

So, Lucerys turns away from Dragonstone and instead unties the cape containing the prince’s outfit.  He does not have a pyre for him, and doesn’t have the time to get one. He still does his best, and settles the clothes onto the ground. He folds the cape as neatly as he can and sets it on top before glancing up at his dragon.

The Cannibal is already watching him, and Lucerys shows him what he wants, shows him the memory of Visenya’s funeral. The dragon lifts its head and Lucerys takes a step back as Cannibal complies, and Lucerys watches as the red and black clothes of the Targaryen prince is enveloped in white flames. 

He stands vigil until the flames go out, with a quiet Cannibal carefully watching over his rider. It is late into the night when Lucerys finally turns away, but he doesn’t go far. He forgoes a meal and instead settles against the Cannibal’s large bulk. The dragon is beyond warm, heat radiating off the dragon in a way that would’ve been painful for anyone who wasn’t a Valyrian. It doesn’t bother Lucerys at all, comforts him actually, and he crosses his arms as he closes his eyes. Tonight, he will rest and pray to his Gods for the life lost and for the family that surely mourns him.

And in the morning, his journey will finally begin, starting with the cousin that had sent him to his death.

Chapter Text

Ever since Prince Lucerys left Storm’s End with Prince Aemond following hot on his heels, Lord Borros Baratheon has not had a full night’s sleep. He has tried everything, from milk of the poppy to lying with his wife several times in hope of exhausting himself, but it never works. When he does sleep, his dreams are filled with horrors of his own design. 

No one says it to his face as Lord Paramount of Storm’s End, but he hears their whispers. They blame him for Prince Lucerys’ death. He can see it in their eyes when he passes, can feel it in the air when he goes about his day. Even his Lady wife looks at him differently, but she keeps her thoughts to herself, ever loyal to her Lord Husband regardless of her personal thoughts.

It doesn’t change the fact that they think him a Kinslayer, that by sending the prince away instead of granting him full guest right, he had sent the boy to his death. To even be called a Kinslayer when whispers of his true parentage still lurk in the darkest corners is preposterous, and yet he cannot escape it. Not even in his dreams.

So, once again he finds himself walking through the halls of his home while everyone else sleeps peacefully. The sun has yet to grace them with their presence and yet Borros’ dreams refuse to let him rest. He’s haunted by a foolish boy who, instead of returning to his mother’s arms, had stormed into Borros’ halls despite Vhagar’s presence. 

He had never met the prince before he’d come into his halls with a message from Rhaenyra, and hadn’t ever felt the need to meet him. What the royal family got up to in King’s Landing was none of his business, but even he had heard the rumors of Jacaerys and Lucerys’ true lineage. He didn’t necessarily believe every rumor that was spread, but the way Rhaenyra had married her uncle immediately after her late husband’s death spoke volumes. 

He waves the thoughts away and continues his mindless wandering, waiting for a suitable time to break his fast. Eventually, his legs carry him to the courtyard and he ignores the guards near the entrance even as they straighten their backs as they greet him. The sky is dark, both from the early hour and the perpetual clouds that hang over Storm’s End. At the very least it hasn’t started raining, so Borros walks further out with no real direction in mind.

He thinks then of his daughter and the deal he’s made. He’d only found out after half of a dragon’s corpse had washed up on his shores what his daughter had said to Aemond. To think, his own daughter had had the gall to taunt a prince, sending him into a rage so strong he’d kill his own nephew for it. He was the true Kinslayer. Regardless of who Lucerys’ father was, his mother was Rhaenyra Targaryen. Borros didn’t think himself to be a Kinslayer, but no matter how you look at it, Aemond surely was. And yet, that is who he had sided with, who he had promised his daughter to. 

There was no going back from that, so Borros moved forward. Or at least, that had been the plan until he heard the loud sound of banging from the gates. Frowning, he turns to his guards, who have already moved closer, hands on their swords. It is much too early for anyone on duty to be awake, let alone making such a ruckus. He highly doubts any guards changing shifts would be this loud either. 

He’s too far away to hear what the commotion is about, but his guards stand at the ready as the gates finally open. Borros isn’t sure if he should be relieved or annoyed when one of his own men tumbles in, tripping over his own feet. He hits the ground hard but that doesn’t deter him at all, especially when he sees Borros standing there.

“Lord Borros!” The guard cries as he shuffles over.

“What is the meaning of this?” Borros demands as the man damn near crawls to him. 

“Dragon!” The guard cries, and it’s so loud that it echoes in the silence of the courtyard.

Everything that happens after, happens so quickly that Borros cannot even try to think about if the dragon is friend or foe. 

The guard, who was still on his knees, turns over and points at the sky and as if summoned, the ever present clouds break open and a massive black dragon surges down, white flames already aimed at his gates. The screams of his guards is what kicks Borros into motion.

Terror fills him as he quickly backpedals towards the tower as those bright flames burn down walls that have never once fallen. They do not fall now, no they melt, as the dragon’s great wings flap and it continues to burn everything it sees. The guards at his side trip over themselves to get him inside, but Borros is barely at the tower doors when the massive dragon lands and a young voice calls out.

“Borros Baratheon, if you touch that door, I will burn it down with everyone still inside!”

His people are inside the tower, his wife and daughters - all of whom have probably woken up to the sounds of destruction. So, Borros stops and turns to face this unknown threat. He does not know any black dragons, definitely has never seen a dragon this massive that wasn’t Vhagar. Where did this dragon come from? Who was its rider? And why did they come to Storm’s End? All of these questions cycle through Borros’ mind as the rider dismounts. His men don’t even try to raise their weapons, not when one massive green eye watches them so closely. 

Gods, the dragon is so large that its hind legs crumbled the remainder of the gate that hadn’t turned to sludge from its flames. It’s hard to look away from the main threat, but a gasp from his right has him looking down at the rider that has stopped just a few paces away from them. Once more, Borros’ brain attempts to comprehend what he’s seeing and fails.

The boy before him is clearly Baratheon, there’s no way he could be anything else. The shocking blue eyes and black hair point at Baratheon roots and yet Borros has no idea who he is. In a moment of weakness, he can only wonder if this is some lost Storm. He knows he hadn’t been faithful to his wife, had attempted to get an heir some way or another after his son had passed in his crib, but none of the women he’d laid with had ever reached out to him about a child. And yet before him stood a Baratheon, with a dragon.

“Borros Baratheon,” the boy says, and the venom in his voice has Borros’ heart racing, because this lost Storm despises him. 

Behind him, he hears the doors to the tower open and out spills the off duty members of his garrison along with his lady wife. Tucked close behind her are their daughters, and Borros grits his teeth as they all stumble to a halt upon seeing the destruction and its cause that seems perfectly content to stay where it is. 

“Oh, lovely, you’re all here,” the boy says, completely unbothered by the armored men that were now present. 

“Who are you?” Borros demands, and can’t tell if he hopes the boy is his bastard or not.

“Now that just hurts my feelings, Borros, why don’t you take a closer look?” the boy offers, stepping closer as he says it.

His men, valiant and brave, raise their weapons but the low rumbling of the dragon has Borros raising his hand, a silent command to be still. He’d much rather get out of this alive and intact. His walls were a lost cause, but he could still save his people. Hopefully.

He decides to give the boy another look over, and the boy allows it, beckons him closer even, although Borros chooses to remain where he is. Upon first glance, the boy definitely seems like a Baratheon and perhaps Borros is a bit too hopeful. It’s the sharp inhale from behind him that has him turning. His daughter, Maris, is staring at the boy like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes are wide and her face pale as she quickly ducks her head down, dropping into a low bow.

“Oh, you remember me don’t you,” the boy says, and it is certainly not a question.

Maris shakes like a leaf in the wind and doesn’t speak, keeping her head down. Her sisters seem to understand, but it is his wife that speaks, clearing up Borros’ confusion.

“Prince Lucerys,” Elenda says, and it strikes Borros right to his core, “we were told that you had,” she pauses then, and everyone present knows exactly what she had meant to say, Lucerys especially.

“Perished?” the prince offers, and although his tone is perfectly polite, it’s his eyes that give him away.

Those were Baratheon eyes, and not because of their coloring, but because of the rage in them. The prince is angry, and everyone present knows why. 

“Fear not, Lady Caron, I am only here for those who have wronged me,” Lucerys says, and behind him, his dragon rumbles.

At first, Borros had assumed it was a sign that the dragon was about to engulf them all in dragon fire, but they all turned to see his garrison behind the dragon, staring at the massive creature. They all look bewildered, staring at the sludge and stone that was once the walls of Storm’s End, and the massive black dragon that has turned one large eye at them. 

The dragon rumbles again, and even from where Borros stands, he can feel the heat coming off the dragon in waves. His men tremble, but they stand tall and proud, ready for whatever the dragon will unleash. However, the dragon merely snorts out smoke on his men, turning its head as if he couldn’t be bothered to eat them. 

The men of his garrison stare blankly, soot stained, armor a little warm from the heat of the dragon, but whole and alive. Unburned and uneaten, they turn in confusion to the prince, who is the only one amused by the situation.

“Come,” the prince says, beckoning them closer, “don’t worry. No harm will come to any who bend the knee and pledge their fealty to the rightful Queen.”

His declaration rings throughout the courtyard and Borros’ hands curl into fists as the men who’d been behind him, who had stood strong before the might of plenty of other foes, immediately take a knee. He watches as every single one of them takes a knee until it is just Borros, his wife, and his daughters who remain standing. 

No, he realizes with trepidation, three of his daughters have knelt, Maris is the only one who remains standing. The poor thing hasn’t stopped trembling and her fists are curled tight in her skirts, but she remains upright. His wife does not say a word, but she also doesn’t bend her knee and only looks at him, waiting. Cassandra, Ellyn, and Floris don’t say a word as they bow their head.

“Isn’t this a lovely picture,” Lucerys says, but the smile on his face is wrong, is nothing like the young prince he’d heard about.

Then again, he had sent that young prince to die, and something had managed to come back.

“Now, I do believe it’s time to pass judgment,” the prince starts, and no one says a word to the contrary, “I came to you, Borros, as an envoy and yet I died in your lands.”

“That had nothing to do with me,” Borros insists, “it was between you and your uncle.”

“You gave me guest rights, did you not?” Lucerys asks.

“I did,” Borros agrees.

“And you acknowledge the fact that Aemond wanted to do me harm?”

“I do,” Borros says, already knowing where the prince was heading next.

“And yet you sent me away, with Aemond heading off right after me,” Lucerys says.

“I didn’t know he would chase you, he is your family,” Borros insists.

“We,” the prince hisses as he steps closer, blue meeting blue, “are family, and you still sent me away. You could have done anything else. You could have offered me sanctuary, you could have made him stay, you could have even, and I hate to say this, sent me to your church where they could offer me sanctuary under the protection of the Seven. But you didn’t! You told me to leave, to return to my mother, in the middle of a storm, with an enraged Aemond right on my heels. You sent me to my death Borros Baratheon and I want you to admit it. I want you to say it. ”

“I did not-” Borros tries.

“Say. It.” 

There is a long silence then, as Borros and Lucerys stare each other down, the people around them quiet as a mouse as the dragon above them keeps watch. Borros knows there is nothing he can do, and he knows with an unmistakable certainty that he is going to die regardless of what he says, so he comes to terms with the truth. He knows his men have all taken a knee because they believe it too. Perhaps if he faces his nightmares, his Gods will take him in.

“I did send you away,” Borros admits slowly, carefully, “there were other things I could’ve done. Other things I should’ve done. I did not think that Aemond would actually hurt you, but that doesn’t change the fact that I made you leave, and I didn’t stop him from following you.”

“Name your crime, Borros Baratheon,” Lucerys says, and there’s something bright and focused about his gaze that makes something in Borros quail. Death is looking him in the eye, and Borros cannot meet its gaze.

“I have committed the sin of Kinslaying,” Borros says, ignoring the way his wife and still standing daughter call for him.

“And what is the punishment for Kinslaying?” Ah, there it was.

“Death,” Borros says, closing his eyes.

“But you aren’t dead!” His wife tries, but the prince ignores her, his gaze never leaving Borros.

“I stand before you, Borros Baratheon, as judge and executioner. I name you guilty of the crime of sending Prince Lucerys Velaryon to his death and I name you Kinslayer.”

If anyone has any questions about the prince’s decision to speak in the third person, the dragon carefully watching over him keeps them quiet. Floris looks at the prince with open curiosity but remains silent as the prince continues. She had only seen the prince for a few moments during the feast celebrating her betrothal to Aemond Targaryen. Although this boy has accepted Maris calling him Lucerys, he does not act like the prince she saw before. He stands with a raw confidence the prince hadn’t had. He’d been brave standing before her father and Aemond, but she had seen the way his hands shook after passing off the Queen’s letter. 

This boy is not nervous at all, has probably never been nervous. She says nothing of her observations, fears the retribution he would bring if she pointed out her doubts of him being the actual prince. She, unlike her sister who had caused all of this, knew which side was the right side.

“I will allow you to choose Borros,” Lucerys says as Borros finally meets his gaze again, “death by dragonfire,” the prince says gesturing towards his dragon, “or you can jump,” he says, pointing towards the closest cliff, now visible due to the destroyed wall.

“How do you wish to meet your end, Lord Borros?” 

Chapter Text

Cassandra watches, perfectly still, as her father stares at the boy that has returned from the dead. Cassandra had not been present when Prince Lucerys had come to Storm’s End for the first time, and looking at the boy before her now, well, she doesn’t even think he is the prince her father had sent away. That prince, according to the rumors, had brown hair and brown eyes. The only thing that really pointed to him being royalty was his coloring, and his dragon. His dragon who had been small and pearlescent pink. His dragon who had washed up on their shores, half of its body missing and no rider in sight.

The dragon he has now is massive, the biggest dragon she’s seen up close. She had never seen Vhagar, the dragon had remained outside of their gates when Aemond had come. Now though, this massive black dragon has destroyed walls that had been erected by her ancestors. Now, it was nothing but sludge and pebbles, the large dragon’s tail occasionally knocking down even more of the wall without even seeming to notice. If it kept doing it, their bridge might even get destroyed and then they’d truly be bereft.

However, none of that is more important than the way the boy is staring at her father. Despite being a Baratheon, she has never seen anyone so angry, so filled with rage. This ghost, this lost Storm, whoever he is, is filled to bursting with rage, and she knows that should she stand with her mother and father, he will burn her to cinders without a second thought. 

He wants to burn her father, she can see it. He wants her father to choose to burn, and he wants to watch. She glances up at her father and sees the way that he trembles and shakes. She has always thought highly of her father, despite his inability to read and write, until he had decided to side with the usurpers. She could see the benefits, sure, in choosing the ones currently on the throne, but she wasn’t an idiot. They had taken the throne from its rightful ruler, that clearly meant they didn’t care for the laws set in place by those that came before them. That meant that any seat was for the taking, including her own father’s seat. How he couldn’t see that was beyond her. 

More importantly, as a woman, to see her father stand with those who would not allow Rhaenyra to rule simply because of her gender spelled bad things for her family. Her father had no sons, only four daughters. By that ruling, someone else would take over if her father could not have a son soon. Considering Floris’ betrothal, it looked like Storm's End would go to Prince Aemond, and considering he was willing to kill his kin, Cassandra couldn’t say that things were looking good for the future of Storm’s End.

So, she waited quietly with everyone else for her father to speak, to make his choice. Cassandra knew her father would burn regardless and resigned herself to his fate. He had chosen this route, and although no one could’ve expected Lucerys to return, if this blue eyed hellion was Lucerys at all, but the massive dragon behind him pointed to him being connected to the royal family regardless of if he was the prince they had thought lost to the Sea. 

Her father is standing tall and although she knows he is afraid, his voice is clear when he speaks. 

“Although I chose to ignore it when you came as an envoy, we do share Targaryen blood. I may be Salt and Sea, but I am still Targaryen,” he pauses and Cassandra watches as he curls his hands into tight fists, “I choose fire.”

The prince smiles then, and he steps forward, moving until he’s standing right in front of Borros. Her father is a tall man and yet Lucerys manages to make it seem like he is taller, as if he takes up much more space than her father. His smile is terrifying, and it promises immense pain as he holds out his hand. 

“I almost wish I could respect you for that, cousin,” Lucerys says and makes no moves to lower his hand even when Borros doesn’t acknowledge it, “I am of Salt and Sea myself, you’d think we’d bond over that. But you chose the Kinslayers, and for that, I can never forgive you. Ah,” Lucerys says when it becomes obvious Borros doesn’t understand why he’s holding out his hand, “your ring, if you’d please.”

Cassandra’s mother gasps but Cassandra watches, takes in the way her father shakily passes over his ring without a word. It seems like he doesn’t have the strength to say anything else, as if he’s used all of his strength to choose his end. The prince takes the ring and steps away, moving towards his dragon. Cassandra is watching so closely, so intently, but she does not see or hear Lucerys give the dragon a command. He doesn’t say anything nor does he make a hand signal. All he does is step out of range and the massive dragon is opening his mouth.

“Step back if you would,” Lucerys calls, almost pleasantly, and the knights quickly shuffle out of the way, Cassandra and her siblings following until it is just her father. 

Despite their distance from the dragon, they all feel the temperature change as white flames flicker in the dragon’s mouth. In the end, Cassandra cannot watch, has to turn away as her father burns. She does not cover her ears like Maris and Floris, but she thinks that they can still hear his cries. Ellyn watches, her eyes wide and dry as their father is enveloped in flames so bright and powerful that their father dies rather quickly. After a while, they realize the sound they’re hearing is the fat bubbling and burning.

A guard behind them turns and vomits.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over, and Lucerys moves closer, apparently unbothered by the sight and smell of Borros’ burning corpse. Instead, he’s tossing the Baratheon signet ring between his hands as he approaches them, and the way he smiles at them is terrifying, but no one moves.

“Now, for the matters of succession,” Lucerys says and Cassandra stiffens. 

She wonders if Lucerys will name himself the Lord Paramount of Storm’s End. He has a few brothers, perhaps he will choose one of them to take over. They would certainly deserve it, after their betrayal. However, the prince surprises them all when he tosses the signet ring at Cassandra, who hastily does her best to catch it.

“I have no intentions of stealing your seat,” the prince intones, “I am paving the path for the rightful Queen and it would go against everything she stands for to take what isn’t mine. Instead, you will pledge your fealty to the rightful Queen, in writing, you will say that you'll forever remain loyal to her cause and her reign and the reign of whomever she chooses after her. Your grandfather supported my mother, and your lineage will continue to be loyal to Rhaenyra Targaryen and every Targaryen she puts on the throne until the end of time. Every Lord you choose, regardless of their gender, will pledge their loyalty to whatever Targaryen is set to rule King’s Landing. Do we have an agreement?”

Cassandra stares at the signet ring in her hand, much too big to fit any of her fingers, and can’t find the words to respond. She had never thought she would be the Lord Paramount, and yet he had clearly tossed the ring to her, not to her mother, not to any of the knights, but her.

“You are asking for our blind loyalty?” her mother asks, and Cassandra whips her head around, curling her fingers tight around the ring.

“I am not asking,” Lucerys responds calmly, but he hasn’t looked away from Cassandra, and is surprisingly patient.

“You are demanding our loyalty?”

“I,” Lucerys says slowly, as he turns towards Elenda, “am not speaking to you. I have not forgotten that you have not bent the knee and I intend to deal with you soon enough. Lord Paramount, the decision is yours.” Cassandra jolts a bit at the title, because he’s using it to address her, a woman, with ease. “I am asking for a binding contract, yes, but if there is anything you desire, you need only speak with my mother after she is on the throne. Then, you may make your demands and we can come to an accord. But right now, you are not in good standing with the Queen, right now, you need to agree to my terms and pledge your loyalty to the rightful Queen.”

Her mother is beside herself and she’s talking, but Cassandra cannot hear it. Instead, she stares into Lucerys’ eyes and knows what she must do. She knows that even if she chooses not to agree, that she will die, that the prince will burn her home to the ground, but she also knows that if she agrees, the seat is hers. The seat that she had always wanted as the firstborn, knowing she’d never get it because she was a woman, and yet here it was, offered to her on a silver platter. The other option was death, certainly, but did that really matter when the best option was something she had always wanted?

She squeezes the ring tight and finally allows herself to stand, meeting the prince’s gaze as the Lord Paramount of Storm’s End. Her mother’s words die in her mouth as she stares at her, as everyone stares at her.

“I, Cassandra Baratheon, Lord Paramount of Storm’s End, pledge my loyalty to the one true Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen. I swear that I and every Lord that follows after me will pledge their loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra and whomever she chooses as her heir, regardless of their gender, from now until the end of the Baratheon line. Whatever the Queen or her heir needs, we will provide,” Cassandra promises, and watches the way everyone stares at her, aside from her mother, in awe.

“Perfect,” the prince says, “oh, I would recommend that you send word to my mother that you stand with her,” Lucerys says almost thoughtfully before turning to Floris, who goes still under his bright gaze, “and I suggest you break off your engagement. Prince Aemond is an usurper and I would hate for you to be a widow so young.”

“It will be done,” Cassandra says, and the prince nods, turning away.

Cassandra almost relaxes before the prince pauses, turning around. He laughs a little as he claps his hands.

“I almost forgot!” he says as he points at Maris, “Dear cousin, jump or burn?”

Maris drops to her knees so fast it almost gives Cassandra whiplash as her sister immediately begins crying and begging. The prince hums to himself and approaches and Cassandra watches as he crouches before her sister’s crying body. He doesn’t touch her at all and just tilts his head, watching the way she grovels.

“Cousin,” he says after a moment, and waits until Maris looks up. Her eyes are wide and wet and she’s got mud all over her chin and forehead. She’s already pleading with him, apologizing, saying that she had not meant for her words to upset Aemond the way they had. Lucerys merely shushes her and once she’s quiet, he tilts his head to the side and says, ever so softly, “Jump or burn?”

On her other side, her mother drops to her knees and pleads with the prince who doesn’t look away from Maris’ face.

“Please, your highness, spare my daughter. She’s just a child, she didn’t know any better,” Elenda insists.

Lucerys ignores her and Cassandra realizes that that is her punishment for now until the prince decides to deal with her. 

“Either you pick, cousin,” Lucerys says, and Cassandra knows that mentioning their relation is another tactic he seems fond of using. Considering how well it works, she cannot judge him for it, “or I’ll pick for you.”

“Jump!” Maris shouts over her mother’s pleas, “I’ll jump.”

Nodding, Lucerys stands and steps away, giving Maris enough time to stand. Their sister does, and Cassandra doesn’t look away when Maris turns to look at her pleadingly, but she doesn’t offer her aid either. Her sister had been stupid to egg Aemond on and Cassandra knew she was the reason Aemond had charged out after Lucerys. Her father had been wrong to send the prince out, sure, but it was Maris who had ignited Aemond. Ellyn and Floris also remain quiet, and so Maris stumbles towards Lucerys.

“Ah, bring Lady Caron, if you would,” Lucerys calls over his shoulder.

At Cassandra’s nod, a guard steps forward and grabs her mother by her elbow. Cassandra meets her mother’s gaze as well, and although she will certainly miss her mother, her mother hadn’t bent the knee. Her mother had chosen to side with the usurpers, the same ones that would have kept her from doing anything of use for their people. Cassandra planned on being on the right side of history, her parents and sister could be cliff notes, but Cassandra was going to be Lord Paramount and that was all that mattered.

So, it is with a stiff chin that she watches Lucerys lead her mother and sister to the cliff, stepping over the pieces of the wall that hadn’t burned away. He stops a few paces from the edge before turning to his mother and sister. They’re much too far away now for Cassandra to hear anything, and although she knows there is nothing she can do for them, that she wouldn’t do anything for them, she also doesn’t want to see them die. Her sisters clearly feel the same way as they all remain where they were. She’s almost thankful the prince hadn’t insisted on them following.

Instead, she watches, almost as if she isn’t there at all, as the prince speaks to them. She cannot hear what he says from this distance, but whatever it is, has his sister crying anew. By her body language, Cassandra knows she’s begging again, but the prince doesn’t seem to care as he gestures towards the water below. Her mother has pulled Maris into her arms but it doesn’t save them at all. She may not be able to hear their pleas, Maris’ really as her mother’s lips are pressed tight together, but even she begins to scream at some point during their fall. 

The prince doesn’t even watch it happen, seems beyond disinterested as he turns and comes back as if he hadn’t ordered them to jump at all. He looks completely unruffled and still ignores the pile of ash that had been Borros Baratheon. Instead, he once again stops in front of Cassandra, and he once again addresses her as Lord Paramount.

“Lord Paramount,” he says as if he has absolutely no issue with the new Lord of Storm’s End being a woman, “I know that things will be difficult from now on and I know that you will spend quite a bit of time rebuilding. However, I do hope that you will still allow me to take a few of your knights with me. Not a lot, just any that would be interested in coming with me,” Lucerys explains.

Cassandra knows she has no right to ask considering she has just promised she would provide anything the Queen asks for, but she gets the feeling that this is not the Queen that is asking.

“What do you plan to do next?” she asks, and is surprised when the prince actually answers, although he does wave his hand a little, as if it’s no big deal.

“Oh, I plan on visiting everyone that has chosen to side with the usurpers and I am going to remind them why they should’ve bent the knee,” he pauses here and glances at the people who have bent the knee, “but I will not give them a chance to change their mind. I know that you all disagreed with Borros’ choice, but there are those out there who wholeheartedly believe that my mother does not deserve the crown, and so I have decided that they do not deserve to live to see her reign.” he even shrugs a little, as if he were commenting on the weather.

“Well,” Cassandra says after a moment, as she realizes that the prince before her is absolutely insane and she’s thankful she’s survived him, as she turns to the guards that are still behind her. “If anyone would like to go with the prince, I will not stop you,” she says, because there really isn’t much to say to hearing someone plan to wipe out half of the country.

“Of course, you will be able to return anytime you wish,” Lucerys says, “but know that this is not an escape from your Lord Paramount being a woman. I am going on this journey to put my mother on the throne. If I hear any of you say anything against that, I will feed you to my dragon.”

Despite that terrifying threat, and the terror that was the prince’s entire visit, fifteen of her men decide to go with the prince. It doesn’t take long at all before he’s gone either, the prince wishes her luck and speaks with the men he’ll be taking for all of five minutes before they’re grabbing the bare essentials and leaving. Cassandra is actually a bit stunned as they move quickly, before the prince is getting on his massive dragon and disappearing. The prince has clearly given the fifteen men instructions because they’re quickly leaving and before she knows it, it’s just Cassandra, her sisters, and the remaining guards of her garrison.

By the gods, her garrison.

Cassandra turns and she gives her first order as Lord Paramount.

“Someone, fetch me some parchment, I need to send word to Queen Rhaenyra!”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra steps into her council room, eyes far away and still red from grief. Her council paused in their conversation, all eyes turning to her. She doesn’t see any of them, not really. There’s a ringing in her ears that’s been there ever since Daemon told her the news. It’s gotten even louder after finding Arrax’s remains and so if anyone speaks to her, she doesn’t hear it as she rounds the table. She comes to a stop at her seat, but chooses to stand, staring at the doors she had just entered moments before. 

She knows what she wants to say, there’s only one thing she needs to say. She wants Aemond, and she wants him as soon as possible. Dead, alive, it didn’t matter. All she wanted was the knowledge that he would be taken care of, a monster that would no longer hurt any of her children. She wants war, wants to destroy the Hightowers for everything they’ve done. For allowing her father to rot in his bed while they stole her throne. For causing her so much grief and stress that she had ended up miscarrying her precious daughter. 

For killing her son, who had gone to the Storm lands as an envoy. 

She makes to say it, opens her mouth to issue the order that’s been tumbling around in her brain for days now. Bring me Aemond Targaryen is on the tip of her tongue when the doors to the council doors fly open and one of her men stumbles in. He quickly rights himself when all eyes turn to him, but he pays them no mind, eyes on her as he lifts his hands, showing a rolled up piece of parchment.

“Your Grace, a message from Storm’s End,” the man says and it manages to quiet the ringing in Rhaenyra’s ears.

“Storm’s End?” Daemon asks, brows raising as the rest of the council members exchange glances.

For a long moment, Rhaenyra does not want to take the parchment. She can only assume the worst considering the last message they had received from them had been the death of her sweet boy. She wonders now if they’ve managed to find his body, if she will have something to burn and send off to her Gods. 

She’s aware that all eyes are on her again, and so she cannot be a grieving mother, she must be a Queen. With that thought in mind, she beckons the knight closer. He obeys and even though Rhaenyra wishes he would walk slower, he’s by her side in moments, offering the parchment to her with a bow.

She takes it, thanking the young knight without really seeing who it is. She’s much more distracted by the wax seal, unmistakably Baratheon. Rhaenyra forces her hands not to shake as she breaks the seal, unrolling the letter, and she reads.

To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men,

First, I would like to apologize for the shortness of this letter, but I needed to send it as fast as possible. Now, I would like to start off by acknowledging our betrayal. My grandfather has always been loyal to the Targaryen bloodline as was his father before him and so on and so forth. If my grandfather were alive now, the Storm Lands would have been yours without question. It was only Borros Baratheon who refused to kneel, and his punishment was swift and merciless.

Rhaenyra pauses in her reading, blinking rapidly as she rereads in disbelief. Borros was punished? Was Borros dead? Grandfather? Borros has…he has only had daughters…she pauses and keeps reading. 

Before his end, he acknowledged our relation to the Targaryens as well as his wrong doing. By sending Prince Lucerys away he caused a tear that we feared would never be mended. However, as the new Lord Paramount of the Storm Lands, I will attempt to mend that tear by pledging my undying loyalty to the rightful Queen: Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Should you need anything, from men to rations, or even blacksmiths or tailors, anything at all, please know that we, your loyal servants, are yours to command. When next we meet, I hope to see you on the Iron Throne. 

Yours,

Lady Cassandra Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Storm Lands

Rhaenyra stands there for a moment after reading, her mind racing and trying to fill in the gaps. Borros Baratheon was dead, and his daughter had taken on the title of Lord Paramount. She’s never met Cassandra Baratheon, but she knows she’s the eldest of the Four Storms. She knows next to nothing about her and yet here she was, pledging her loyalty without question.

“Your Grace?” one of the members of her council asks, but Rhaenyra doesn’t say a word and instead looks at the letter again.

At the bottom is a single line, one that looks as if it had almost been crossed out before being written again, slightly smaller and a little messy. The handwriting is different as well.

One we thought recently lost to the sea has returned with a black terror.

Lost to the sea? Did they mean? They couldn’t possibly mean?

Rhaenyra’s knees weaken and she has to sit in her chair as Daemon and Jacaerys hurriedly move to her side, their concern for her evident. Rhaenyra doesn’t say anything and instead passes the letter to Daemon. Daemon, aware of all the eyes on him, reads the letter aloud. To his credit, he only pauses once, at the very bottom, he stutters over lost to the sea before finishing.

Then, it is completely silent, everyone staring in complete disbelief. Rhaenyra doesn’t doubt that it isn’t even about a woman declaring herself not just a Lord, but Lord Paramount. No, what was more important to everyone in that room was the line that had nearly been crossed out. 

For the first time in weeks, Rhaenyra actually felt hope again because her son was alive.

“Wait,” Jacaerys says, the first one to break the silence.

“A black terror?” 

Ser Gendry was a Storm bastard who had worked hard to join the Baratheon Garrison. He had worked for years, knowing he would never make much of a name for himself considering he was a bastard. He had thought for sure that he would have spent the rest of his life guarding the round tower and the Lords and Ladies within.

Or at least, that’s what he thought until a prince they all thought dead broke through the clouds on the back of a massive black dragon. Then, he thought that he was as good as dead. He’d lived an ok life, had never gone without, had a good collection of friends and men he trusted at his back.

But he had lived, the prince had only punished those who had refused to bend the knee. Gendry had no issues with bending the knee because, in the end, the royal family was none of his business. All he knew was that King Viserys had named Rhaenyra his heir and had never changed his mind. With that in mind, what else could he call the current man sitting on the throne besides usurper? It certainly looked like he was usurping since he definitely wasn’t Viserys’ heir. 

So, Gendry had bent the knee and pledged his loyalty. And now, well, now he was listening to the screams of men and women burning in their homes. The prince had shown no mercy for the people of Stonehelm. In the dark of night it was hard to see the prince’s massive dragon, but his white flames clearly illuminated all the burning bodies that almost looked like they were dancing. 

All Gendry had to do was cut down anyone that had managed to get out of the ring of fire that had simmered down to a normal orange. Not many made it that far, not with those white flames that were hot enough to turn many to ash. 

It was fascinating.

The other men with him had no problems cutting down anyone who got too close either. They had been talking amongst themselves on the way over, wondering what kind of terrors the prince intended to bring to the traitors of the realm. 

Ser Gendry is quite sure that even if they had thought the prince would start by trapping them in their own homes, the actual sight of it couldn’t compare. A house to their left finally succumbed to the flames and came crumbling down and all Gendry could do was laugh. 

Dragons truly were gods.

Above them, they heard the cry of the prince’s dragon but couldn’t actually see it until another spout of white flames shot straight at the temple, the only building still standing at this point. 

It was also where a lot of men and women had barricaded themselves, in hopes that the dragon’s flames weren’t strong enough to destroy it. If you were to ask him, he would always bet on dragon fire.

The temple fell in minutes and the screams that followed were swallowed up by the burning homes collapsing. Dragon fire burns for a while, but the remaining men that weren’t standing at the exits were diligently digging a ditch around the small town, well, half a ditch considering the river on the other side. The prince had asked them to do it so the fire wouldn’t spread too much by the time they got around to putting it out.

He wanted the traitors to burn, he’d told them before flying off, not the trees.

Now that he couldn’t hear or see anyone besides his comrades, Gendry puts his sword away and enters the burning town. The fires are dying out now that there isn’t much else to burn. The white fire could burn stone with ease, but the temperature it had cooled to now was regular fire, no real cause for concern so long as he stayed on the stone path.

Instead, he ventures further in, and when he does happen to stumble upon a charred body or two, he makes sure they’re dead and if they aren’t, he puts them out of their misery. At this point, he can’t distinguish gender at all, can only differentiate children from adults by their height, but it doesn’t bother him. Traitors were traitors and would be treated as such. 

Overhead, he hears the prince’s dragon and he looks up just in time to see the massive dragon land on the temple it had just burned down, further destroying it. If anyone were to visit after this, they would never be able to tell a temple had been there at all.

The dragon is completely unbothered by the flames it landed in, but Gendry watches the way a mere flap of its wings extinguishes the surrounding flames and doesn’t question it. The dragon is sniffing around and Gendry only realizes what it’s doing once it begins eating the nearby corpses.

Well, he supposes as he watches the prince dismount, he’d be hungry too if he spent all evening burning down Stonehelm. It’s not like the corpses would feel it or care.

Lucerys notices him and waves him over. Of course, Gendry hurries over to the man that is basically his Commander at this point, and begins giving his report before the prince can even ask.

He tells him about the ditch their men were still working on, as well as how there weren’t any houses standing, let alone any walls. He also reports on the kill count, notes that with the exception of the small castle by the river, everything else, everyone else, was taken care of. 

Now, all that was left was the castle that housed House Swann. 

Ser Gendry didn’t know much about this House despite the fact that they were loyal to the Baratheons and despite their solitude, they were powerful. Or, Gendry supposes as he follows Lucerys into the castle’s courtyard, they were. Now, he knows that tonight will mark the end of the Swann bloodline.

Just past the smoldering gates was a knight, standing tall and radiant with the Swann banners behind him. He wasn’t alone, but whatever men he’d managed to scrounge up weren’t knights. Considering the brooms and pots they were holding, they were most likely the servants of this castle.

“My name is Ser Byron Swann,” the knight calls and Lucerys pauses, staring. Gendry notes that the prince is staring at the rather shiny shield the knight is holding instead of the knight himself, “and I am the protector of House Swann. Leave now or I will slay you and your dragon.”

Gendry watches as Lucerys’ brows raise before he laughs, a full on cackle that has the servants standing behind Ser Byron shifting nervously.

“Ah, Christians,” the prince says, as if that’s supposed to mean something, before he points upward, “I don’t think he likes the idea of being slayed though,” the prince says, almost teasing.

Ser Gendry watches the horror on Ser Swann’s face as the prince’s dragon opens its mouth, white flames already heating his cheeks. Ser Gendry is more amazed at the size of the dragon, who was still, well, nesting on the temple it had torched. The massive creature hadn’t needed to get up at all, merely moving its large head so it was hovering over where Lucerys stood.

In the end, that shiny shield didn’t stand a chance, nor did the knight holding it. Honestly, Ser Gendry thinks the castle catching fire had been collateral more than anything, but it too burned easily. Well, he supposes as he watches the prince crouch over the burning knight, watching with wide unblinking eyes the way the shield melts onto, and in some parts into, the knight’s skin, at least there’s a river right behind the castle.

Aegon is giggling to himself, taking another sip at his honeyed wine as his men joke amongst themselves. He’s sure his father’s Kingsguard didn’t joke with him the way he did, and he can’t help but wonder if his father wasn’t that great after all. His father’s men were never comfortable enough to make phallic jokes and yet here his were, making merry and entertaining him as he slouched in his throne. 

They’re interrupted by the sounds of the grand doors flying open and Aegon watches as his Grandsire storms in, his face nearly purple in his rage. His knights stumble about, quickly standing bone straight and in perfect formation. 

His Grandsire ignores all of them, instead storming up the steps of the throne, tossing a piece of parchment into his lap. The seal has been broken on it and he can only assume it’s the reason for his Grandsire’s ire. Aegon must stare at it too long because his Grandsire whirls around towards the knights and snaps at them to leave.

Aegon is soothed by the way his knights look to him for a true dismissal and so he gives it, sitting up properly as they go.

“What’s this?” Aegon asks, picking up the parchment but keeping it face down.

“The Baratheon’s have annulled the engagement with Aemond,” Otto snaps, glaring down at him as if Aegon had been the one to do it. “The new Lord Paramount has decided to side with Rhaenyra.”

“The new Lord Paramount?” Aegon asks, bewildered.

“A woman.” Otto snarls, “Borros’ eldest daughter.”

Well. Shit.

Chapter Text

Finding, and consequently burning, Starpike was honestly a bit of an accident. It had been on his list, for sure, but he hadn’t actually known where Starpike was, he just knew it was said to be somewhere in the Dornish Marches. Even the men he’d taken hadn’t been sure where the castle actually was.

So, when he had allowed the Cannibal to land on what he honestly thought was ruins for a bit of a break and immediately heard screaming, well, it wasn’t his fault that the Cannibal’s response was to begin torching his surroundings. Considering Lucerys had let him torch multiple homes and castles in Stonehelm, it would be a bit hypocritical to tell him he couldn’t burn this already ruined castle to the ground.

His men stumble into Starpike, or what was Starpike, looking just as bewildered as Lucerys felt as he stands over who is apparently Unwin Peake, the first son of the now dead Lord Peake. His dragon may or may not have killed the old man in his initial landing. Lucerys wasn’t sure since the Cannibal was still sitting on most of the castle he had thought abandoned.

“Who are you?” Unwin demands and Lucerys frowns, not particularly appreciating his tone. Off to the right is a hulking mass of a man with an axe and a smaller man beside him holding a sword. When Lucerys turns to them, the one with the sword flinches but the one with the axe meets his gaze evenly.

“I have heard that you have sided with the usurper. I am here to ensure you won’t live to regret it,” Lucerys explains, and while he is answering Unwin’s question, he’s still watching the man with the axe.

He isn’t afraid of him, finds that he isn’t afraid of anything considering his companion, but he knows who is more important. The very fact that there’s a rather sour smell coming from Unwin means it certainly isn’t him.  

“My name is Ser Gedmund Peake,” the hulking man rumbles as he sets his axe down beside him, shifting to take a knee, “and I did not agree with my brother’s choice to side with the usurper.” 

Looking the man over, Lucerys turns to his own men, all fifteen who have still chosen to follow him despite seeing for themselves what he planned to do to every town that chose the wrong side. They all are already looking at him, waiting, and so Lucerys turns back to the man.

“Ser Gedmund Peake, should you wish to join me on my adventure, I will allow it. But know that everyone else here will die,” Lucerys says.

The man is quiet for a long moment and Lucerys watches as the man next to him quails a little.

“My Lord,” Ser Gedmund starts, and Lucerys does nothing to correct him, “if it pleases you, I know that Mervyn also doesn’t agree with his father.”

“Mervyn?” Lucerys asks.

“Mervyn Flowers, M’Lord,” says the man with a sword as he bows before quickly taking a knee.

Lucerys looks between the two men, notes the last name and looks back at Unwin who hasn’t said a word.

“I will allow it,” Lucerys starts and watches the way Mervyn begins to relax, “but as I said before, everyone else here will die. That includes this little Lord here,” he nudges Unwin with his foot and the man flinches.

Neither Mervyn or Ser Gedmund say anything and Lucerys smiles, gesturing for one of his men to join him. Gendry, who Lucerys has kind of made his right hand, immediately comes over.

“Get me some rope,” Lucerys says as he steps over Unwin, “and someone who can climb a tree. Round up any survivors!”

About twenty minutes later Lucerys finds himself standing near the tree line with his men, plus Mervyn and Gedmund, a terrified Unwin, and the five remaining smallfolk of Starpike. Gendry is holding the rope out to him while two other Baratheon’s have managed to tug the top of a tree down. They’re straining, but Lucerys knows they will hold it for as long as he needs them to.

So, he gets Gendry to tie one end of the rope to the tree and he moves over to a panicking Unwin to tie the other around his ankles. The man fights, bless him, but Lucerys has been practicing every chance he gets at a break and easily subdues him, sits on him simply because he can, and continues his work, he even hums a little tune Floki liked to sing all the time. When he’s finished, he hops off of the whimpering Unwin and takes a few steps back, gesturing for his men to do the same. Then, he looks to the two men still holding the tree.

“Release.”

The tree goes flying back to its natural state, taking Unwin with it. Unwin screams, but everyone can still hear the sound of his bones snapping from the impact of it. His body continues to swing, but he’s completely limp and quiet. Delighted, Lucerys turns to the remaining victims who are all staring at him in fear. Their eyes are wide and wild, like animals being led to slaughter and Lucerys relishes in it.

“Pull down another tree,” Lucerys says.

His men obey.

Ser Gedmund stares at the men sitting around the fire they’d made, talking amongst themselves as if there weren’t six bodies hanging from six different trees, broken bodies swaying in the wind. Mervyn is silent, pale and drawn, but he takes a bowl when it’s given to him. The men, and he can tell by their height and coloring that they’re Baratheon, raided the houses that were still standing and seemed quite content to make them a meal whilst Gedmund’s home burns and his nephew’s body swings from a tree.

The boy, because he is certainly a boy, is watching over his men, seemingly pleased by their mood. He is the last one to be served and Gedmund isn’t sure if it’s something he had insisted on or if that’s how it went amongst the Baratheons. Did he do it to ensure all of his men were taken care of before him? That couldn’t be possible, not with how barbaric and violent he was. However, here he is now, quiet but pleased, occasionally tossing large chunks of meat into the fire. No one says a word about it, so Ser Gedmund doesn’t either.

Behind them, still sitting on Starpike’s castle, is the boy’s dragon. He hadn’t heard of anyone having a dragon that large, let alone a dragon with white flames. Right now, the massive dragon seems to be sleeping, but Gedmund doesn’t trust it. The occasional rumbles it lets out makes him think the dragon was very aware and would be ready and willing to protect his rider in seconds if necessary.

Ser Gedmund sits, and he ponders, and he thinks. There’s no way this boy is a Baratheon like the others. He could be related as he certainly looks like he fits right in, but his coloring is much too light, too…royal. Ser Gedmund has never met a Valyrian before, but even he knows that only Valyrians have that particular glow to them and, most importantly, have dragons. Considering the massive one behind them, this boy has to be a prince. But which one?

It’s certainly not Aemond. Although his dragon is large, it’s black, not green. That’s honestly the extent to his knowledge on the male side of the royal family. House Peake tended to keep to themselves. If only they had at least remained neutral when the royal letter came, they wouldn’t be having this problem now. As he dives deeper and deeper into his thoughts, the men finish their meals and then quickly stand.

Ser Gedmund watches as they form a circle, with two men getting in the middle. Mervyn looks just as confused as he is, and they can only watch as the two men in the middle immediately start brawling. Ser Gedmund stands, approaching the circle, and notes the way the dragon rider glances at him before continuing to watch his men, arms crossed.

“What’s going on?” Mervyn asks, and a tall, wide Baratheon turns to them, blue eyes bright and fiery.

“We like to mess with the ranks every once in a while,” the man says, “whoever wins takes the other’s position.”

Baffled, Ser Gedmund watches the way one Baratheon tackles the other, holding a small dagger at the other’s throat. Time seems to still, everyone completely silent as they watch, before the Baratheon on his back taps, rolling his eyes. The winning Baratheon jumps to his feet, and he shouts so loudly that Mervyn flinches. Ser Gedmund watches as the winner bares his teeth at his fellows, lifting both hands to gesture for his next opponent. 

“Ah fuck off Gendry, we all know you’re keeping your position,” one of the Baratheon’s outside of the circle shouts playfully, and the others shout wordlessly, just like Gendry had after his victory. 

Ser Gedmund can admit he has no idea why they’re doing it, but it seems to mean something.

The man now deemed as Gendry huffs, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders as he steps out of the circle. Ser Gedmund doesn’t miss how he goes to the dragon rider’s side. The others lose interest in him once he’s out of the circle though, as one Baratheon challenges another and the fight continues on. It goes on like this for at least an hour until everyone has challenged whomever they wanted. 

Ser Gedmund doesn’t know what to expect next, but it isn’t the way the men immediately split into pairs and begin training. He trades looks with his nephew, who already looks like he’s completely given up on understanding the men that had destroyed their home, and so Ser Gedmund turns to the one called Gendry who, as the odd man out, seems content to watch over his men.

The dragon rider has disappeared.

“If I may,” Ser Gedmund begins as he approaches, leaving his nephew behind and noting that he and the Baratheon are of a height. He knows the Baratheons are tall, but even he, Gedmund the Great Axe, honestly hadn’t been expected to be of a height with anyone in the area, let alone at least eleven other men, “what is the plan here?”

Gendry turns to him and gray eyes meet blue as the Baratheon stares at him. At first Ser Gedmund thinks that Gendry won’t tell him because he doesn’t trust him. However, after a few moments, the man simply shrugs before nodding over towards the dragon. When Ser Gedmund turns, he realizes that the dragon rider is with his dragon, one hand placed on the massive creature’s snout.

“We follow wherever he goes and take care of any traitors we find,” Gendry says simply.

“Traitors?” he asks.

“Yes, those who side with the usurper. Our job is to rid Westeros of all traitors to Queen Rhaenyra,” Gendry says, and Ser Gedmund isn’t sure how to feel about the fanaticism he hears in the man’s voice. He truly believes that what’s just happened to his Ser Gedmund’s people is right. 

Ser Gedmund makes sure to keep his expression blank and his tone agreeing as he speaks, “It is true that as the chosen heir, Queen Rhaenyra is the true Queen,” Gendry hums, seemingly distracted as a Baratheon in one of the pairs swings a bit too wide, “If I may, who is the dragon rider that is leading this group?”

“Ah, I forget House Peake rarely leaves the Marches. That would be Prince Lucerys Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra’s second son,” Gendry says.

Ser Gedmund will admit that House Peake doesn’t get out often, but even they had heard news that Prince Lucerys had met his end not too long ago. Gendry must see the disbelief on his face because he laughs, reaching over to pat his arm.

“Our Prince is Blessed by the Gods, both the Old and the New. He returned from the sea with a new dragon and a promise to put his mother on her throne.” that fanaticism is back, as if he truly believes the boy has been blessed by the gods. Ser Gedmund continues to choose the path of least resistance by not saying anything at all and continues to watch the men train.

It would be good to see how strong they were.

Distracted, he doesn’t realize that his nephew has slipped away.

Mervyn Flowers is many things, isn’t even afraid anymore to say that he is Lord Peake’s bastard son, but he isn’t really prone to violence. His uncle had taken him on as his squire, but Mervyn wasn’t particularly good at anything besides the sword. As he watches the men train, he notes that most of them certainly outweigh him. He could probably take on one or two of them, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Watching the Baratheon men had certainly been enlightening, but when he notices the dragon rider, Prince Lucerys apparently, slip into the only structure that’s still standing in Starpike, Mervyn follows.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, and he tries his best to make it seem like he isn’t following the prince. His uncle is distracted by Gendry and the Baratheon men are focused on their training. Even the dragon, as large as it is, has curled even tighter in the crumbling mess that was once Mervyn’s home. He can’t hear the prince’s footsteps, but he knows he’s inside.

Sure enough, when Mervyn steps into the small smithy that had somehow managed to remain standing, the prince is inside. He’s looking down at the furnace which hasn’t burned in quite a while. Mervyn moves forward carefully, quietly, as the prince inspects the furnace. 

“You are either very bold or very stupid,” the prince says, startling Mervyn as the prince turns to face him.

Mervyn notes that he only has an axe at his hip.

“What was your plan exactly? Kill me and make a run for it?” Lucerys asks as he watches Mervyn lift his sword.

“You destroyed my home,” Mervyn spits as he steps closer, “you killed my father.”

“Yes, and now I am going to kill you, slowly, painfully,” Lucerys promises as he grabs his axe, grinning at him.

There’s something wrong.

Ser Gendry looks over his men, and they all look fine. Most of them have taken a break now that their midday meal is approaching. Considering the smallfolk were all dead, they would be making their own meals. There’s nothing wrong with that though, and he knows something is wrong.

He turns, completely ignoring Ser Gedmund as he looks at the massive dragon still sitting on what used to be Starpike castle. The dragon seems calm, but Ser Gendry doesn’t have much to use for comparison. Its wings twitch a little, but Ser Gendry is already looking away, because Prince Lucerys isn’t with his dragon.

He isn’t with his dragon, and he isn’t with them.

Where was their prince? 

Ser Gendry considers the possibility that the prince went off to relieve himself amongst the trees, but something in him tells him that’s wrong. He can’t fight the feeling that something is happening, and finds his gaze slowly moving towards what he had thought was a shed just out of hearing range. Eyes narrowing, Ser Gendry sets a hand on the pommel of his sword before making his way over.

His sudden movement seems to surprise Ser Gedmund, but Ser Gendry doesn’t have time to explain, doesn’t care to explain, and instead heads straight for the shed. He hears Ser Gedmund falling in step with him. Behind Ser Gedmund, his Baratheon brothers follow along, their meal long forgotten.

Just as he’s reaching for the door, hand curling around the handle, he hears a cry, one that has his heart racing. It’s similar to the war cry he and his man have taken from their prince but this one, as rage filled as it is, is also pained.

Yanking the door open, Ser Gendry steps in prepared for the worst. The first thing he notices is that the small building isn’t a shed at all, but a smithy. More importantly though, is the pair standing in the middle. For a moment, Ser Gendry could almost think that the two were embracing, what with how close they were.

However, he has the special privilege of having the prince’s back to him, and so he has a full view of the sword sticking out of him.

“Your Highness!” Ser Gendry calls, nearly washed out by the soundless vocalizations his men make, stepping forward as both the prince and the traitor tip over, the prince landing on top. 

Mervyn apparently still had enough strength to push the prince off of him and Ser Gendry is there before the prince’s back can hit the ground, before the sword sticking out of him can get jostled any further. He doesn’t even notice the axe sticking out of Mervyn’s chest, too focused on trying to hold the prince properly.

“Your highness,” Ser Gendry calls again, looking down at the prince as the other men seize both Mervyn and Ser Gedmund, the latter of whom looks just as lost as the rest of them.

Prince Lucerys’ eyes meet his and for some reason, he can’t help but focus on the way the prince is scowling, as if blood isn’t leaking from his down turned lips.

“I,” the prince says, and his voice is filled with unbridled rage, “am going to burn him alive.”

Before Ser Gendry can even consider responding to that, the prince inhales sharply once, and releases it slowly before he goes limp in Ser Gendry’s arms.

He watches as the prince’s expressive blue eyes go dull and empty. 

Outside, the prince’s dragon roars so loudly that Ser Gendry’s ears begin ringing. 

Chapter Text

Alicent rushes into the council meeting room, noting that everyone else has already arrived. Aegon is sitting at the head of the table and Alicent notes the way he’s squinting and rubbing at his temples.

Of course, she thinks as she takes her seat, Aegon is hung over once again. She notes that Aemond is lurking in the background, lurking in the shadows as the Hand begins speaking.

“We have lost the Stormlands,” her father says, and raises his hand for silence before the others could begin talking over each other.

“I received word that Borros Baratheon has passed,” Otto explains and Alicent places a hand over her chest. She hadn’t known Borros very well, but he had chosen to follow the true King, which meant that he was a good man. 

“In his place, Cassandra Baratheon, his eldest daughter, has taken on the title of Lord Paramount.”

Alicent’s hand curls around her pendant as the men around her freeze, staring at each other in silence. She knew why, of course. The only reason they were here, the only reason Aegon was on the throne, was because they did not want Viserys’ eldest daughter to be on the throne. Everything they had done, the good and the bad, was done to keep order in Westeros. 

A woman in charge would ruin Westeros, Alicent was sure of it. Rhaenyra in particular was not fit to rule. She was childish, selfish, and she refused to respect the Seven. She was, Alicent grimaced a little, a harlot who seduced any man who strayed too close to her regardless of their wishes. Her gaze moves over to Ser Cole who is already looking down, his hands curled into fists. Surely he too was thinking about Rhaenyra and all the ways she was unfit for the Crown.

“What should we do?” Lord Wylde asks, not so subtly glancing at Aemond. 

“Well,” Alicent starts, “as Aemond is betrothed to Floris-“

“The Lord Paramount has annulled the betrothal,” her father cuts in, a deep look of contemplation on his face.

“Surely she does not believe she will be allowed to be Lord Paramount,” Tyland says, brows raised.

“We must send Aemond there to remind them of their agreement, regardless of their father’s passing,” Aegon declares, the violent child that he is.

“We have much more important things to worry about,” Otto mutters, and everyone turns to him as they wait to hear what could possibly be more important than a woman declaring herself Lord Paramount, “Borros was killed by an unknown dragon rider.”

The silence in the room is deafening, but it doesn’t last. Everyone except for Grand Maester Orwyle has something to say. Although he doesn’t speak, Aemond has turned and moved closer to the table, his remaining eye wide. 

“An unknown dragon rider?” Aegon asks, brows furrowed.

“The Lord Paramount called it,” Otto pauses and Alicent can’t tell if it’s intentional or if he really needs a moment to say it, “the black terror.”

For a long moment, besides the sounds of Mervyn struggling to breathe, the tiny smithy in the middle of the Dornish Marches is completely silent. In that moment, Ser Gendry wonders if he’ll live long enough to finish Mervyn off before the prince’s dragon burns down the smithy and everyone in it.

They would certainly deserve it for failing their prince.

Their prince who had landed quite the blow on his opponent. His men barely had to hold him down. No one had touched the axe sticking out of his chest. Instead, he hears the sound of one of his men pulling out their sword, most likely to finish the job. Ser Gedmund tries to struggle, but Ser Gendry pays him no mind. He knows his men will keep him still until it’s time to pass judgment.

Instead, his brows furrow as he stares at his prince. His prince whose hair is turning white. Confused and awed, he watches as a small patch of hair in the front of the prince’s head drains of all color until it is the same silvery white as the Targaryens. He’s never seen Queen Rhaenyra in person, but he has seen Queen Aemma once before, and Lucerys’ little tuft of white hair looks exactly like hers.

“Hold,” Ser Gendry says, and although he doesn’t yell, it’s quiet enough in the smithy that it sounds like he had.

His men freeze, but Ser Gendry can’t look away, much too focused on the way the prince sucks in a sharp breath of air once the very last tuft has whitened. His eyes had not closed when he’d died, because Ser Gendry knows for a fact the prince had died, so just as he got to watch the light in the prince’s eyes die, he gets to see that very same light return with a vengeance. 

With a snarl that sounded much more draconic than human, Prince Lucerys sat up as if there wasn’t a sword sticking out of his gut. He seemed completely oblivious of his surroundings as he curled his hands around the sword and pulled it out with a sound so filled with rage that it rattled through Ser Gendry’s bones and settled somewhere deep inside him. 

“Your Highness-,” he’s pretty sure that was Ser Gedmund but Prince Lucerys ignores him, ignores everyone as he slams the sword down next to him with a growl of rage. 

“Your Highness,” Ser Gendry tries, and pauses when Lucerys whips his head around to glare at him.

He doesn’t seem to recognize him at first, and Ser Gendry waits as the bright shine of his eyes seems to settle to a more, well, human hue as he blinks, his rage settling to a more tolerable level. 

“What happened?” 

Ah. Well. 

“You died, Your Highness,” Ser Gendry offers, “and then. Well. You woke up?” 

Ser Gendry hasn’t dealt with a God before, so he isn’t particularly sure what he would call the prince reviving right before his very eyes. The prince seems unaware that he had ascended to godhood right before their very eyes and instead turns the other way. His gaze lands on Mervyn who hasn’t moved a muscle since the prince had sat up and although Ser Gendry can’t see the prince’s face, he practically feels when that inhuman rage returns.

After that though, he has no idea what the prince says as in his rage, he begins speaking in High Valyrian, but judging by the aggressive way he says it and the way he begins to stand up, Ser Gendry can only assume he’s insulting the man. He is at least polite enough to switch back to Common when he begins snapping out orders.

“Turn the furnace on,” their prince says, reaching down to grab the sword that is still covered in his blood and tossing it towards the closest Baratheon. Said Baratheon admittedly fumbles in the catch but Ser Gendry can’t blame him. He’s also never touched a sword that had made a God either, with said God’s blood on it. Or perhaps that blood didn’t count since the prince hadn’t ascended until after he’d been stabbed through.

Semantics, he supposes.

He’s rather numb as he stands, but that doesn’t sound right. He is certainly feeling something, so full of awe at such an awesome display of divinity that he just doesn’t know what to do with himself. Is he supposed to pray to the prince now? Is that how that works? Or will just following him suffice? Regardless, Ser Gendry had already decided back in Storm’s End that he was going to follow the prince into death if need be, but now that he’s quite certain that the prince can’t stay dead, he’ll just have to stay with him for the rest of his life. 

As he has what must be some form of spiritual awakening, his men have obeyed their prince’s command. The prince himself had stomped over to the door of the smithy and disappeared, most likely to soothe his dragon that had probably felt his rider become a God and therefore chose not to torch the smithy he had been reborn in. 

Meanwhile, Ser Gedmund also seems to be in the middle of a spiritual awakening as he has dropped to his knees and made some type of sign, perhaps the sign for the Seven? Ser Gendry didn’t care about the Seven all that much and didn’t recognize their ways but he highly doubted their godling was part of the Seven at all. He’d have to mention Ser Gedmund’s blasphemy before their prince saw it and decided to do something about it.

Or maybe Ser Gendry would hold his tongue and see what type of punishment their prince would give for it. He was already very creative.

By the time their prince returns, the furnace is going strong, some of the men are already sweating in their leathers. Some of them had gathered a few bits of steel and set it beside the furnace, but since no one actually knows what the prince intends to do, they don’t do much more than that. Ser Gedmund still hasn’t gotten up from his kneeled position and no one seems interested in making him stand. 

Instead, they watch as Lucerys storms back inside, a fierce glare on his face as he strides towards Mervyn who begins struggling anew. 

“Mervyn Flowers, I must say, I hadn’t expected you to land the killing blow,” Mervyn winces here, considering Lucerys was alive and well despite said blow, “But that just means I need to train harder, and for that, I’ll need a new axe.”

The prince reaches out then, retrieving the axe they had all left in Mervyn’s chest. It was a gruesome wound and started to bleed now that there was nothing there to keep it in. Lucerys looked at the bloodied axe, twirling it in his hand before he turns to Mervyn once more.

“You will help me make my new axe,” Lucerys says as he holds out his axe to the same Baratheon man holding the bloody sword. He takes it, a mix of emotions on his face that Gendry is sure everyone else feels.

“If you think,” Mervyn says on a sharp inhale, “that I will help you with anything, you’re insane!”

Immediately after Mervyn’s words, there’s a uniform sound of swords being pulled from their sheaths, stopped only by Lucerys waving his hand, signaling his men to stop. 

“Don’t worry Flowers, all I need is your sword and some kindling,” the prince says.

Mervyn’s eyes widen and Gendry doesn’t think it’s for the right reason, the reason that only Gendry and his fellow Baratheons seem to realize. Instead, Mervyn struggles, trying to move towards the man holding his sword.

“That sword is mine!” Mervyn cries, “It was given to me by Lord Peake himself!”

“Oh, even better,” Lucerys says before he turns, his gaze landing on Ser Gedmund who has yet to stand up. “Do I have your loyalty, Ser Gedmund?”

The smithy is quiet for a moment, aside from the sound of the furnace and Mervyn’s wheezing breaths as he too turns to his uncle, his eyes pleading. Ser Gedmund remains on his knees for another few seconds before he finally stands. He’s a tall man, fits right in with the Baratheon’s, and Gendry can see why he’s called Gedmund the Great Axe. However, right now, he is just a man who has seen a boy die and come back to life in minutes. 

So, Gendry isn’t surprised at all when the giant man bows to Lucerys, ignoring his nephew’s betrayed cries. Lucerys merely smiles and turns back to Mervyn, reaching out for him.

“I’ve never made an axe from a sword,” Lucerys muses as he curls his fingers into Mervyn’s tunic, dragging the man away, “but there’s enough steel around for me to figure it out.”

It finally clicks for Mervyn what the prince intends to do to him, what he had meant by kindling, but it’s much too late. He struggles, but the prince is stronger in his anger, and drags the traitor to the back of the furnace where a Baratheon is already waiting with the door open.

Mervyn’s screams as he burns are haunting, but the Baratheon’s barely pay it any mind. Not when their prince stands in front of the furnace, the white tuft of hair still present as the light from the furnace flickers over his face. 

He dismisses them only when Mervyn’s screams stop, taking the sword that had made him a god as well as his axe from the Baratheon holding it. 

“Eat, rest, do whatever you like. Once my axe is complete, we will go to the next House,” Lucerys says, turning Mervyn’s sword over in his hand, running a finger over the dried blood.

“What House is next, Your Highness?” Gendry asked, more so out of curiosity. He would need something to tide over his men after all. 

The prince turns, and the smile on his face would surely be terrifying if he were older, but at his young age with baby fat still on his cheeks, Gendry finds something in him settling at the expression instead.

“House Wylde,” the prince says before closing the smithy door.

Ah, Rain House. 

He was looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Lord Jasper Wylde smells it first. It’s a sickeningly sweet smell, with a dark undertone of rot. It’s death he’s smelling, and it makes his horse nervous. It makes him nervous, considering his home is just past the trees. The knights behind him shift on their horses, the smell hitting them next, and when they look to him, he swallows his hesitation and pushes forward. After all, he had been the one to request permission to return to Rain House.

It had been weeks, going on a fortnight since he’d heard work from Rain House and it had made him nervous. He knows it takes a while for the messenger hawks to return, but when days had continued to pass and the messenger hawk returned with the same message he’d sent, unopened, he’d known something was wrong. His men knew to respond promptly when he sent word and a chill had gone up his spine when the bird returned, his message untouched. He had immediately gone to the council, asking the King for permission to return to his home with a few knights.

Now here he was, staring in wide eyed horror as he finally saw the stronghold that held Rain House. It is eerily quiet, which isn’t normal at all considering the men he had protecting House Wylde as well as the gaggle of children his wives had given him. There was almost always something going on, even in the dark of night. Now though, there’s nothing, even the wildlife has been silenced.

The stronghold wasn’t that large, it couldn’t be when only one House kept it up and running. But he’d had enough men to take care of it, but the stronghold had been destroyed. Its walls are burned down, only a few bits of the wall still valiantly standing. Further in, the houses dotting the stronghold have also been burned down to their foundation, and only Rain House, tucked at the very back, is perfectly untouched.

There’s no real reason to send the knights ahead of him, not when the stronghold is small enough to see that nothing else is standing. It’s only a matter of figuring out what has happened to the people. Jasper dismounts his horse, the thing already anxious, and gestures for the knights to join him as he approaches his home, his stomach turning as the smell gets stronger.

The smell of death had been present all throughout the stronghold, but when Jasper reaches out to open the door, the smell of rot hits them hard, hard enough that his stomach roils and he has to step away. His stomach clenches and there is nothing he can do to control it as he vomits. 

“My Lord,” one of the knights says, but Jasper waves them off, eyes burning from the smell of death and his own mess.

“We will check inside,” the same knight says and all Jasper can do is nod, wiping at his mouth.

“Gods wept,” he hears shortly after the knights have stepped inside, and then nothing else.

It takes several minutes for Jasper to control himself, and when he does, he covers his face with his sleeve and steps inside. At first, he doesn’t understand what had caused such a response from the knight other than the smell, but then he steps into the living area and sees what they saw.

He had wondered, considering the strong smell of death, what had happened to his men, and now he knows. The inside of his home looks as if a battle had taken place, and his men hadn’t stood a chance. There are bodies strewn all over the room, most of them missing several limbs, others with their stomachs cut open entirely. Furniture is overturned and destroyed and dried blood covers nearly every surface in the room.

The smell makes a lot more sense.

However, none of the bodies belong to his wives or a single child.

“Search upstairs,” Jasper orders, and the men obey.

Jasper steps back outside, and although death is still in the air, the air outside is much better than the rot and decay inside. The maggots alone have Jasper’s stomach turning again. It takes a few minutes, but before long, the knights are exiting the house. All of them are drawn and pale, but they report that there aren’t any other bodies upstairs. It is the very last knight, one that had been knighted recently, who had noticed it.

“I saw,” the boy says, wild around the eyes, “out the back.”

He does not elaborate.

Jasper is hesitant, and he knows he could order the men to go around back, but he is the Lord of House Wylde. He will be the one to see what has become of his family. So, he gives the knights a firm nod and turns, leading them towards the back. He doesn’t know what he expected to see, can’t even truly comprehend what he saw inside his home, but he doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for what awaits in his backyard.

Rain House is settled in the rainwood, hence the name, and Jasper had been quite proud of the mighty oak trees in his backyard, nurtured them with care whenever he was able to come home to attend to his wives and duties. There had been three, one for each of his wives that still drew breath, and he had had them planted in a straight line, evenly spaced. It had been his silly little way of showing that he loved and respected his wives equally, that none of them stood above the other in his regard.

Now, all three had been cut down to stumps, which considering what was on them, didn’t matter. Instead, he stares at the three rotting bodies bent over the stumps, each of them missing a head. Two of the three bodies have rounded stomachs, evidence of Jasper’s love. Jasper falters, unable to look away from the three bodies that had once been his wives, at the stumps that had dried blood on them, evidence of the execution that had taken place. 

Behind him, a knight turns and vomits.

Jasper will blame it on the hysteria, on the momentary insanity, when he thinks that three headless bodies shouldn’t be the cause for a knight to vomit, but then he sees it. Off to the side is a pile, one that seems to have been carefully stacked. He doesn’t understand what it is at first, not really, and he can’t stop himself from stepping closer. 

He will regret his closer inspection for the rest of his life.

It’s a pile of heads, he realizes, all of them in various stages of decay. He hadn’t realized they were heads at first, because they were of various sizes, the smallest one at the top no bigger than a saucer. The heads at the bottom are mostly adult sized, the three biggest heads carefully arranged with a few slightly smaller ones so that the ones stacked on top won’t topple, and each layer gets smaller and smaller, younger and younger , and it doesn’t take long for Jasper to realize who the heads belong to, no matter how unrecognizable they are.

Thirty-two heads. 

Three wives.

Twenty-nine children.

All are accounted for.

Something bubbles in Jasper’s stomach, and this time it isn’t his own stomach acid. He doesn’t have anything left to vomit, and that something takes up all the space inside him. His hands tremble and he cannot help the way his chin wobbles as he stares at his family, or what’s left of them. Besides his wives and the men inside his home, there aren’t any other bodies in Rain House. 

“We will return to King’s Landing,” Jasper says, and almost doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice as he takes in each and every rotting face.

“I want whoever did this, and I want them alive.”

That feeling, he realizes as he turns away from his family, is rage.

“That is a lovely ax,” a soft voice informs him, and Lucerys looks up at the Lady Tyrell, current Lord of the Reach, considering her son is only an infant.

Lucerys turns the ax over, humming softly. It had taken him quite a bit of time to finish it, and he knew it still wasn’t finished, not really. He had worked hard to carve his family sigil into the head of the ax, the three headed dragon glinting at him. That had been easy, engraving axes were easy enough to do if you were patient and careful. It was the handle that had caused him the most trouble, which had kept them in Starpike longer than he’d wanted. However, the handle gleams at him, the runes he’d carved in the metal staring at him. 

It had taken him a while to decide what to engrave in the handle, moreso because it had taken a while to choose which way to write fire and blood. At first, he had wanted it to honor his past while also keeping his present in mind. However, after a while, he realized that his weapon would, hopefully, outlive him and perhaps the meaning would die. So, he had instead gone with a mixture of using his old language, but the Common spelling of Westeros.

It was a bit odd how well it worked out.

Of course anyone from his past would be baffled at the letters he’d put together, but it was close enough that the people of Westeros would know the weapon was meant for a Targaryen. He intended on finding Valyrian steel for the ax head if possible, to really drive it home. For now though, he ran his fingers over the leather he’d tied around the handle and met the Lady Tyrell’s gaze.

“Her name is Helvete,” he says, and continues when she tips her head to the side in polite confusion, “Hel’s punishment.”

The Lady Tyrell blinks and reaches for her tea once more, taking a polite sip. She does not know what to do with this boy, this bloody little thing that had dropped a dragon at her doorstep with several, equally bloody and vicious looking men, and politely asked for guest rights. 

Of course she had given it.

“Hell’s punishment,” she says after setting her cup back down, and the boy, dark haired and blue eyed with a dragon, “I can only hope you don’t intend to invoke that punishment on my home.”

The boy, because he hadn’t made any attempts of introducing himself, although the sigil on the terrifying looking axe and the dragon points to one family, whilst the dark hair, blue eyes, and unbridled rage points to another. The tuft of white is something she’s never seen before, and she can only wonder if this boy is the dirty secret of a Targaryen and Baratheon union. Whoever he may be, she has decided to trust her gut and not inquire on who, exactly, she had given guest rights to. In giving them, she had hoped and prayed for the safety of her people.

“Of course not, House Tyrell has always been loyal to House Targaryen. Your men however, I hear they’re quite divided,” the boy says, and his tone is so polite, pleasant even, that it almost distracts her from the way he can’t seem to stop touching the ax.

It’s the unblinking gaze that worries her more, somehow.

“Although we are the Warden of the South,” Lady Tyrell says after a short moment, “there have always been those who rebel against us because we did not start out as their monarch, like the Starks did in the North.”

“And you have not crushed them, because?” 

“Well,” Lady Tyrell blinks, and realizes quickly that the boy is serious, and wants an actual answer, “although our militia is large, they are also largely untrained. None of them have seen anything bloodier than a tourney. It doesn’t help that our main contender, should we force the Reach to kneel, is the Lannisters. They’ve never liked that the title of Lord Paramount was given to Highgarden.”

The boy hums, and she’s relieved to see he believes her. She hadn’t been lying of course, she isn’t an idiot. She may not know who this boy is, but the dragon lurking outside has her ready and willing to give him anything he’d like. House Tyrell has always sided with House Targaryen, they were the ones to name them Lord Paramount after all. His men may not have Targaryen banners, they don’t have any banners, but the dragon is enough evidence for her.

“Give me half of your men,” the boy says after a while, “and I will take care of the Lannisters.”

Baffled, Lady Tyrell takes a look at the boy. He’s young, he certainly hasn’t reached adulthood yet, and yet he gives off an air of someone capable. Someone willing to do what no one else has the strength or courage to do. Judging by the dry blood, she gets the feeling he has already started doing what no one else is willing to do. It is terrifying, to have this unknown in her home, and yet it is also thrilling to have the very same unknown offering to take care of a problem for her, should she give him her loyalty. 

“It would take a long time to gather half,” Lady Tyrell admits.

“I will take whomever you have here,” the boy says with a shrug, “there’s somewhere else I need to visit before I take care of the Lannisters anyway. Send for the ones closest to Highgarden now and I will get my men to begin training. Send word to the rest to head to Lannisport and I’ll meet with them.”

That wouldn’t be hard, Lady Tyrell thinks. They have plenty of men in Highgarden, and the ones closest could be here in a sennight at the latest. She looks to the young man who is already standing, apparently pleased with their conversation. She decides after a moment that she cannot contain her curiosity.

“If I may,” she starts, and continues on when the boy pauses, “where do you plan to go first?”

The boy turns to her and gives her a look. She doesn’t know what it means and can only hope that whatever he finds is to his satisfaction. It takes a few breaths before he smiles, turning his ax over in his hand.

“I believe the Hightowers need a reminder that they are not the rulers of Westeros. What better way to remind them than to destroy that little tower that makes them feel so high and mighty?”

Lady Tyrell sits there, stunned, as the boy gives her a small nod before he turns and leaves. Oldtown? He’s going to destroy Oldtown? Well, if that doesn’t solidify which side he’s on, she doubts nothing else would. With a sigh, Lady Tyrell reaches for her cup again, needing something to hold to stop her hands from shaking. She isn’t sure if her nerves are from excitement or anxiety, but there’s something fascinating about knowing something no one else probably knows. 

Her family has been loyal to House Targaryen from the start, but it is only now as she watches the young boy leave, that the Lady Tyrell feels actual loyalty towards something other than her own family.

It takes a fortnight for her to learn that the boy driving her men into the dirt every day is Prince Lucerys Velaryon. It only solidifies her loyalty considering the last time she’d heard the boy's name, it had been to inform the Realm of his passing.

Chapter Text

“There have been less merchants coming in from Roseroad,” Hobert mutters thoughtfully.

Prince Daeron looks up at his granduncle, trailing slowly after him. He’d been training all morning and was admittedly a bit sweaty, but his granduncle had asked to see him and so Daeron had gone. He could bathe after and perhaps send for his midday meal before going about his duties. For now though, he hums in acknowledgement. He hadn’t been aware of anything special happening with Roseroad, but considering what was happening in Westeros, it wasn’t surprising.

“Perhaps they’re wary of the skirmishes,” Daeron offers, doing his best not to call it war.

He would not be the one to call it a war, even if that’s what he thought it was, and his granduncle hums in agreement. 

“It’s possible,” he rumbles, “or they’ve been heading for Lannisport instead, taking advantage of their needs.”

“They could’ve been called to King’s Landing, considering,” Daeron offers.

His granduncle doesn’t respond and Daeron doesn’t push it. Instead, he tilts his head up as they approach the Keep. It never ceased to amaze him, the massive lighthouse that has doubled as his home for years. He doesn’t remember much of King’s Landing, but he knows that Oldtown is certainly better. He wonders, as his gaze trails over towards the ships coming and going just behind the tower, if his mother misses it at all. She never says it in her letters, but she does often mention the things she dislikes in King’s Landing, so he can only assume she prefers it here.

Perhaps that’s why she insisted on him staying, even now that he has turned sixteen.

Daeron is startled out of his thoughts when he hears someone scream. At first, he thinks that perhaps there is a thief nearby, as rare as that is, but then he hears the horns. He’s only heard the horns a few times, and his stomach fills with anxiety as he looks up. His brothers hadn’t mentioned visiting, and those horns were only for dragon sightings. 

High in the sky is a dragon, and it has to be big considering it’s pretty far away and yet it looks huge regardless. His heart drops right down to his stomach because he knows it isn’t Vhagar, which means Oldtown is under attack. Daeron turns to his side where his granduncle is standing, just as wide eyed as he is. However, his time as Lord has him snapping out of it quickly, immediately giving orders.

“To the Keep!” Hobert calls as the horns continue.

“Daeron, get to Tessarion!” Hobert orders as knights descend to assist with the anarchy.

He knows there’s no use in talking, not with all of the screaming, so Daeron nods and turns the other way. He is terrified, beyond terrified, but he pushes forward and runs as fast as he can. Overhead, the dragon is low enough that Daeron can see that it’s black. He doesn’t know anyone with a black dragon, but he’s heard the stories of all of the dragons currently alive. The white flames that begin burning all of the ships currently in Oldtown’s walls confirm it.

The Cannibal is in Oldtown, and Daeron is the only one with a dragon.

He runs even faster.

Lucerys sits astride the Cannibal, watching the ships burn. His men have been scoping out Oldtown for days before finally deciding to attack. His main goal was to chase them all to either the lighthouse or the Starry Sept, and he can’t fight the smile on his face as the people below scatter. Oldtown doesn’t have the weaponry to handle a dragon, not like Dorne or King’s Landing, and so Lucerys isn’t worried at all as he attacks. His main concern is making sure he doesn’t burn any of his men, but he didn’t doubt the Cannibal’s abilities.

Instead, he allows the Cannibal to do as he pleases. Oldtown is a large city, the second largest, with people numbering in the hundreds of thousands. He planned on there being none by the time he was finished. None of the Hightowers and those loyal to them deserve to live, and the city deserved to burn. The thought makes him laugh, and some of his amusement must transfer over to Cannibal as the dragon’s next attack seems to burn even brighter.

He almost doesn’t notice the other dragon until the Cannibal tilts to the side, tilting up instead of down. Confused, Lucerys tightens his grip and tips his head over, spotting the other dragon almost immediately. He’s never seen Tessarion before, has never seen Daeron before, but considering no one should know about his attacks just yet, it can only be Daeron.

Grinning, Lucerys pats at the Cannibal’s tough hide.

“Your first real meal!” Lucerys calls, pushing the image to his dragon. The Cannibal lets out a cry of his own, pleased, as he angles back down.

With a war cry of his own, the very first hunt begins.

Ser Gendry swings his hammer down hard on the unfortunate traitor that had tried to open the gates. He knew, distantly, that Oldtown had a City Watch, but their armor dents just as easily as anyone else’s under the force of his war hammer. He’d taken it from the Tyrell armory, had been baffled to see the massive thing there in the House of Roses. No one had questioned him when he’d claimed it as his own, and now, as he swings it at another City Watch guard, he can only shout his victory as the guard’s head slams against the very wall he’d been sworn to protect. 

Ser Gendry swings again and relishes the way the guard’s brain and other bits splatter against the wall. Satisfied, he lets his hammer rest on his shoulder as he eyes the gate. Their prince wanted to make sure no one could escape, and Ser Gendry was going to make sure not a soul left. So, he ambles over to the handle and pushes it down, watching the slow way the gate begins to close once more. His other men, which had once been fourteen not including himself, but now numbering in the thousands, had already cleared up most of this part of the city.

It doesn’t stop him from breaking the switch with his hammer anyway.

Whistling a jaunty tune, Ser Gendry turns and heads further into the city, following the sounds of chaos and destruction. Overhead he can see the Cannibal and the other dragon, a tiny thing in comparison, fighting. The smaller dragon, Tessarion according to their prince, is lean, using its speed to avoid the Cannibal’s fire. 

He doesn’t get to watch much of that fight, not when he has a job of his own to do. The prince wanted the city destroyed, the septs in particular. So, Ser Gendry focuses on that. His men have orders to herd everyone they keep alive to the lighthouse or the Starry Sept, and the others are free to do as they’d like, to destroy what they want.

He thinks, more than being loyal to House Targaryen, that their freedom to do as much destruction as they possibly can is what keeps the men from House Tyrell interested. He knows they’re loyal, and will make sure they stay that way, but he watches the way they fight and destroy with glee and figures that they’ll certainly make it to Lannisport once they begin that journey.

For now though, he kicks open the door to a sept and grins as the men that had followed him swarm the place. The screams are ignored as Ser Gendry swings his hammer, bringing it down without mercy. Bones break, blood spills, and all the while, Ser Gendry goes without stopping. His arms don’t hurt at all as he goes, from home to home, sept to sept, murdering whomever gets too close. He doesn’t touch any septas he finds and only orders his men to grab them and drag them to the Starry Sept.

Stepping out of another house, Ser Gendry shakes as much blood out of his face as he can before he looks back up to the sky. At first, he doesn’t see anything besides the clear, beautiful sky, and he has to squint to see them. He can only assume it is Daeron that had chosen to fly into the clouds, perhaps to keep the Cannibal from destroying the city.

With a laugh, Ser Gendry turns and goes towards his next target, a poor group of City Watch guards that have been surrounded. Daeron can do as he pleases, but whether it’s by the Cannibal or by his men, Oldtown will fall before day’s end.

Tessarion is tiring and Daeron is running out of ideas. His dragon is no match for the Cannibal, and it hadn’t taken long for him to realize the dragon was toying with them. So, in order to give his granduncle enough time, he guided Tessarion up into the clouds, the Cannibal snapping at their heels and occasional spouts of flames. He can only be thankful that Tessarion has been avoiding the Cannibal’s attempts at latching on to him with his hind claws.

He had hoped that by hiding in the clouds, he’d be able to get a better grasp on the situation, but paranoia soon takes over when the Cannibal takes advantage of the clouds as well. He can hear the bigger dragon, his wings are much too large to hide their sound, but it seems to take pleasure in looking for them. He only knows where the dragon is because of its massive shadow over them.

Tessarion’s fear mixes with his own as they slowly bank to the right, being careful of the circling dragon above them. He hasn’t even seen the rider yet, with the Cannibal usually being right behind them or above, and that makes his paranoia worse. Who was insane enough to claim the Cannibal?

Either the rider or Cannibal himself must lose interest in their little game of keep away, because Tessarion jerks to the side without Daeron’s guidance as a plume of flames hit right where they had just been. The flames follow, forcing Daeron to move and order Tessarion to get away. The Cannibal forces them out of the clouds like that, blowing white hot flames at any cloud they pass through until both dragons are visible to one another. Daeron has enough time to see a massive green eye narrow in on him before he’s clinging tight to Tessarion as his dragon dives down.

It is Tessarion’s fear that is guiding them, and no matter what orders Daeron gives, his dragon doesn’t heed his commands. His dragon is terrified, and instinct has taken over as it does its best to get away from the predator that is managing to keep up with them. Daeron isn’t sure if he should be afraid of the dragon that is catching up with them or the water that is rapidly getting closer and closer. 

“Tessarion!” Daeron calls, but the wind steals his words, and all he can do is cling to the reins as Tessarion’s wings finally open.

However, that seems to be exactly what the Cannibal was waiting for. As soon as Tessarion’s wings open, the Cannibal is speeding up, its jaws opening wide. Adrenaline courses through Daeron’s veins as he finds himself so close to the Cannibal that he could reach out and touch the dragon if he wanted to as Tessarion’s wing disappears into the cavern that is the Cannibal’s mouth. 

It also allows him to see the dragon’s rider for the first time.

It is a boy, he realizes as Tessarion cries out in pain, with dark hair and bright, burning eyes. In that second, as the Cannibal jerks its head away, ripping Tessarion’s wing off with ease, all Daeron can think is: What is a Baratheon doing on a dragon?

And after that, he is falling.

Down.

Down.

Tessarion tries to slow their fall with his remaining wing, but they’re too close now, and Daeron closes his eyes and braces for impact as they hit the water. The pain of it, or perhaps the shock, knocks him unconscious as he and his dragon begin to sink.

He hopes, as darkness takes him, that he had given his granduncle enough time for whatever he’d had planned.

Chapter Text

Daeron wakes up slowly, his body aching all over. It feels worse than when he had first started training from dawn to dusk. That was child’s play compared to the aches and pains he feels now. It takes him a moment to push through the pain as he tries to figure out what happened. The last thing he remembered was falling out of the sky and- 

Tessarion!

Daeron’s eyes snap open and the first thing he sees is a woman. Considering her attire, she’s a septa, and she looks terrified. Next to her is another septa, and Daeron tilts his head and realizes he’s surrounded by the women from the Sept. All of them are huddled close in the corner and Daeron turns his head this way and that, taking in his surroundings. They’re in the Starry Sept, and it’s currently being overrun. 

Besides the septas huddled close to him, there are men ransacking the place, knocking over the pews and candles, taking whatever catches their fancy. Daeron shifts some more, his shoulders aching as he tries to sit up, and that’s when he realizes he’s been tied up. He had thought the discomfort was from the pain of his fall, but as he looks, he notes that his arms, forced to bend at the elbows, have been tied up. 

His legs are free, but they ache enough that he doesn’t even consider standing up. 

Instead, he turns to the closest septa who, upon noticing him moving, stares at him with wide, horrified eyes. She doesn’t speak to him, and Daeron notes that all of the septas are relatively untouched. None of them are bound at all, but he can only assume the men running amok and the dead bodies splayed around the room are keeping them docile.

“What is happening?” Daeron asks, “Where is Lord Hobert?”

Daeron will never know if the septa planned on answering him or not, because a loud voice calls out over all of them, making the septas flinch.

“We’ve found him!” that voice shouts, and the men turn towards the dias.

Daeron turns too and his eyes widen upon seeing the High Septon in the hands of some Baratheon brute. The septon looks terrified and although his robes are rumpled, he’s unharmed. The Baratheon raises the High Septon with one hand, and Daeron isn’t sure how to feel about seeing a high power being scruffed like this. A few other men, and Daeron notes that one of them is a Beesbury he’s definitely seen before, come out with a few more septas, tossing them with the rest of the group.

“We have our orders,” the Baratheon says as he sets the High Septon down, “bring in the fire and gather all of their stars. You,” the Baratheon points out a young man, Daeron thinks he’s a Tarly, “grab the prince. You, find the little Hightowers.”

Immediately the large group of men turn and approach the septas. Daeron cannot blame them for their shouts of fear, but all the men do is take their necklaces. Once the septas realize what the men want, they quiet but still flinch and whimper as each necklace is roughly taken from them. Daeron worries for them, but he has much more important things to think about when the Tarly approaches him. He’s not particularly intimidating, to Daeron’s knowledge, the Tarly’s mostly focus on hunting wild game, they’re not fighters. However, it’s the brutish Baratheons and the men they’ve accumulated that has Daeron’s heart racing.

“Prince,” the Tarly says, with no real inflection for Daeron to study, “if you’d follow me.”

It isn’t a question, and it definitely isn’t a request. Daeron has followed his granduncle around long enough to know a command when he hears one. He can at least appreciate the fact that the man doesn’t force him. He instead allows Daeron to stand on his own, and says nothing about his struggle. 

Once the Tarly is sure that Daeron can stand on his own two feet, he turns and leads him out of the Starry Sept. Daeron can only watch as a group of men bring in a large fire pot. He turns his head to watch them set it in the middle of the room, and another group of men bring in a pot to set over it. The Tarly nudges him, and Daeron only gets to see the men begin tossing in the star pendants before he’s forced to turn and follow along.

He’s not sure he wants to know what the men intend to do with them once they’re melted down.

Turning away, Daeron steps out of the Starry Sept and straight into some type of hellscape. Oldtown is burning, has been burning for a while apparently, and the only thing standing besides the Sept behind him is the Keep and the Citadel. Everything else is either burned to cinders already, or in the process of burning. There are men everywhere, and Daeron recognizes a lot of them from being men from the Reach, men that should be Tyrell bannermen. Yet they are all being guided by the few Baratheon men he sees, mostly because they stand a head or so above the rest. 

The Tarly nudges him again and Daeron forces one foot in front of the other and realizes he’s being led towards the Citadel. As they pass, he notes several ships are aflame, but there are a few that are untouched. Those ships are swarming with activity and he realizes that the men are coming from the Citadel, their hands full of books and the like. 

He cannot see the dragon anywhere.

The Citadel is swarming with men and so no one pays him any mind. The men are all talking amongst themselves as they ransack the Citadel, completely unbothered by the burning city around them. The Tarly doesn’t let him dally and instead guides him further in and Daeron recognizes they’re going towards the room where the Conclave meet. He’s never seen the meeting room of course, considering he was nowhere near being an Archmaester, but his granduncle visited the Citadel often and mentioned it a few times.

So, he’s not surprised when he steps into the room and sees the maesters present, but he is surprised to see the men lining the room as well as his granduncle. He doesn’t look hurt besides a bruise near his temple, and if anything, he looks indignant. When Hobert sees him, his face flashes through several expressions before it flattens into blankness. He gives Daeron a look before glancing at a boy that was standing off near one of the windows, apparently content to watch Oldtown burn.

Daeron recognizes the boy as the dragon rider immediately.

“My Lord,” the Tarly says respectfully, “the prince.”

The boy, and really he can’t be older than Daeron, turns and waves the Tarly away. Daeron takes in the dark hair, save for a tuft of white, and the bright blue eyes as the boy approaches. Daeron can’t tell what the boy is thinking, and his expression gives absolutely nothing away as he does a circle around the table. All of the maesters are quiet, watching as the boy reaches the head of the table once more before he stops near one particular maester.

When he speaks, only one man understands him.

“You must forgive me,” Maester Vaegon says in Common, “I haven’t spoken High Valyrian in decades. I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear it from a Baratheon.”

“Of course,” the boy says, switching easily, “I suppose a Baratheon speaking High Valyrian would be surprising. But not nearly as surprising as a Targaryen traitor. You must know about the Hightowers and their usurper,” the boy says, and there’s something off about him, the wideness to his eyes, the way his tone is pleasant but there’s something about the way he watches the maester that worries Daeron.

“Surely you must know that all maesters give up their last names when they join the Order,” Maester Vaegon says, “one could say I was never a Targaryen considering I never had a dragon.”

Something about that statement bothers the boy, Daeron can tell, and when the boy smiles, worry begins to churn in his gut.

“Ah,” the boy says, “is that so? If all you need to prove you’re a Targaryen is a dragon, then why were the Hightowers allowed to spread their treasonous rumors about Queen Rhaenyra’s children? To my understanding, every single one of her children hatched their eggs from the cradle, did they not?”

“The mother was never in question,” Hobert says, but the boy doesn’t look away from Maester Vaegon and acts as if the Lord of Oldtown hadn’t spoken at all. 

“Do you not worry for your nephew at all?” the boy asks, “your grandniece and her children?”

Maester Vaegon sighs, and although the man is certainly old, he looks as if he’s aged at least two more decades at the questioning. 

“A woman is not and never will be fit for the throne. My father knew that, and Viserys should’ve known that. Daemon is,” Maester Vaegon pauses for a long moment, “besotted. His only interest is Rhaenyra and that blinds him from the truth.”

The boy sighs and he looks disappointed as he turns away. He doesn’t say anything at first, instead placing a hand over his face. No one says anything, not with the men watching them so closely, and so they wait until the boy turns back around. When he does, his eyes are blank, and he turns to one of the men who perk up immediately. The boy only holds his hand out, but the man seems to know what he wants as he reaches for an ax Daeron hadn’t noticed before. Considering it had been propped up against the wall next to the man, and considering how big it was, he’d thought it belonged to him. 

However, once the boy is holding it, Daeron doesn’t think it could possibly belong to anyone else.

“I was hoping you’d give me a different answer,” the boy admits, “I had hoped that you would say something about how you were spying for us, I’d even accept if you decided to change your mind. However, I suppose it’s for the best that you’ve given up the name Targaryen. I won’t be accused of kinslaying.”

Despite the nerves and fear, the maesters look amongst themselves, wide eyed. Kinslaying? Baratheons did have connections to the Targaryens for sure, but Daeron was starting to think this boy had a much closer relation. Maester Vaegon seems to feel the same way as he stares at the boy, his eyes wide.

“Who are you?” 

The boy doesn’t answer at first, nodding towards the man closest to Maester Vaegon’s seat. The man approaches and places a hand on the maester’s shoulder, forcing him down so his head is on the table. Maester Vaegon panics, rightfully so as the boy lifts the ax high, but Maester Vaegon is old, nearing seventy years, and the man behind him easily keeps him down.

“My name is Prince Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I sentence you, Maester Vaegon, to death for treason.”

Maester Vaegon’s eyes barely flicker with recognition and understanding before the ax is swinging down.

Daeron has never seen war, has barely turned sixteen and has yet to be knighted. He hasn’t even left Oldtown despite Tessarion certainly being big enough to fly longer distances. So, he can admit to crying out in shock when Maester Vaegon’s head is forcefully removed from his neck.

Things get a bit chaotic after that, as the men who had been content to stay where they were, all step forward and force the Maesters down. A man knocks Lord Hobert down, but pulls him away from the table as Prince Lucerys, dear gods above Prince Lucerys, goes to the next maester. He doesn’t speak to this one at all, just raises his ax and swings it down.

He only stops for the very last Maester, tilting his head and waving the man holding him back. When the maester looks up, he finds himself staring at a bloodied face that is way too close to his own. The maester flinches back and tumbles right out of his chair, but Lucerys follows him, reaching out to grab the chain around his neck.

“Valyrian steel,” the prince says, “a traitor and a thief.”

When he notices the ring on the maester’s hand, the grin on his face has the man flinching away.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

The maester easily gives up the location of his mask and rod, but his head flies just like the others. The prince stops long enough to order one of his men to find the items before he turns to the remaining two members, Daeron and Hobert.

“Uncle,” Prince Lucerys greets, coming to stand right before him.

“What will you do with us? What have you done with Tessarion?”

“Don’t worry uncle, I’m not going to kill you. As you can see, I’d rather not be labeled kinslayer like your dear brother. Tessarion however,” Lucerys pauses and tilts his head, “well, my dragon deserved a treat after working so hard to destroy this city. If you can’t feel him anymore, that must mean he’s gone right? Pity, I was hoping to see the exact moment you felt your bond break.”

Daeron is struck speechless from a coagulation of rage and despair. He had been trying to ignore that emptiness he felt, had tried to believe it was the pain from his fall. To hear that his dragon was dead, had apparently been eaten alive if Lucerys had intended to see exactly when the bond cut off, it was enough to make him want to lunge at the prince. Lucerys could certainly tell, and he merely laughs as he steps around him.

“Come along. The Citadel is large but it’ll burn as easily as the rest and I still have plans for the Starry Sept.”

“My son will hear about this,” Hobert cries as one of the men grab him, “the King will hear of this!”

“Your son?” Lucerys asks, lifting a hand to make the men stop. “Do you mean the wielder of Vigilance?”

Lord Hobert goes eerily still and Daeron stares at the prince.

“On our way here I saw quite a scuffle near Honeywine. So of course I went over, and I was quite surprised to see your men surrounded on all sides. I just had to join in.”

“No,” Hobert says, shaking his head, “my son had plenty of men with him.”

“Yes, and I hear the Tarly’s and the Beesbury’s took a lot of them down before I joined.”

Lord Hobert was shaking by now, but Lucerys didn’t stop.

“Don’t worry, he died valiantly. I promise I’ll take care of Vigilance for him. If it makes you feel better,” the prince offers almost thoughtfully, “House Roxton did their best to fight us off. Ser Jon was quite the adversary.”

The prince pauses and ruffles his own hair with a laugh, confusing Daeron, but he doesn’t dare speak as Lucerys finishes off with, “I wonder if Baela will want Orphan-maker?” as he turns and walks out of the room as if he hadn’t just broken Lord Hobert.

Regardless of if they want to follow along or not, Daeron and Hobert are forced to follow after the prince. Daeron can’t even be bothered to note how the Citadel has cleared out, only a few men going to and fro. A few of the ships he’d noticed before are missing, but the men are still buzzing around the docks. The Keep is still standing as well and Daeron dully notes that it’s been ransacked as well. 

It doesn’t matter, he supposes, as they’re dragged back into the Starry Sept and Daeron finally sees what the men had been melting the star pendants for.

The man that had been guiding him only laughs when Daeron drops to his knees to vomit.

Chapter Text

Aemond finds himself in another small council meeting, arms crossed as he watches the argument happening at the table. Lord Wylde has just returned with rather fascinating news of the decimation of his House. According to him, it had taken him as long as it had to return because he’d checked on Stonehelm on his way back and had found it destroyed as well.

He had made mention of that ten minutes ago and everyone has been buzzing with fear and anger ever since. For two Houses to be destroyed under their noses? Burned down to the dirt by the sounds of things, and they’d found out only because Lord Jasper had been worried about his family. It was insulting really, humiliating, but also, to Aemond at least, fascinating.

Because the reason no one knew about these fallen Houses was because there weren’t any survivors. Aemond was beyond curious to find out who was going around killing every soul they found. He highly doubted Rhaenyra was involved, like Lord Wylde seemed to insist, because for one, she was incapable of such destruction. She was also more focused on keeping control of the land closest to Dragonstone, but Aemond knew even if she wasn’t, she would never even consider killing an entire House down to the last child.

“We must send men to find out what’s going on,” Lord Wylde says, turning to Aegon who has been silently listening, rolling his orb between his hands.

“You said you didn’t see anyone on your way there or back,” Otto asks suddenly, a troubled expression on his face when Lord Wylde agrees. 

“Then whoever had the gall to destroy your House couldn’t possibly be in the Stormlands any longer. I highly doubt they went to Dorne, which means they were long gone before you even started your journey. We are weeks behind if not moons. Have any of you heard a word from your Houses?”

When none of the members say anything of note, Otto frowns, staring at the table in thought. 

“Whoever it is, they must be on Rhaenyra’s side,” Alicent offers slowly, continuing when the others look to her, “perhaps they’re targeting everyone who has sided with King Aegon.”

“I say we take to the skies and find whoever it is,” Aegon says, “we can surely find a group of men ransacking whatever House they come across.”

“Ser Cole’s men are preparing to march, perhaps we could make them check in with each House on the way?” Alicent offers carefully.

The meeting pauses for a moment as the doors open and Ser Gwayne steps inside. He looks a bit harried as he bows just enough to be respectful before he’s hurrying over to the Hand. 

“A raven came,” Ser Gwayne says as he hands the parchment over, “I thought it odd that it was a Citadel raven, but it is addressed to you, Lord Hand.”

Otto says nothing as he unrolls the parchment, but whatever it says has him standing, looking as if he was about to storm right out of the room.

“Father?” Alicent asks, but Otto ignores her.

“There is a dragon in Oldtown,” the Hand says, his tone grave, “Hobert is asking for us to send Vhagar.”

This, of course, surprises the council as they all look to Aegon. There shouldn’t be a dragon in Oldtown besides Tessarion, and there definitely shouldn’t be one big enough to warrant Vhagar. When questioned, the Hand admits that Hobert doesn’t describe the dragon, nor does he mention a rider. 

“We will send Aemond to Oldtown then,” Aegon says, and speaks over Alicent when she makes to interject, “Ser Cole and Ser Gwayne will still make for the Riverlands.”

“You want to send Aemond alone? What about Daeron?” Alicent demands, eyes already watering. 

“He’d get there the fastest,” Aegon says with a shrug, “they only mention a single dragon, Aemond can handle it, if Daeron hasn’t already. You can stop by Honeywine and assist Ormund, they’re close enough to Oldtown to help. You can do that,”  The King pauses and turns to Aemond, a brow raised, “Can’t you?”

“Of course I can.”

“Then that settles it.”

Daemon folds his arms across his chest as he watches Rhaenyra pace back and forth. Things have been going relatively well for them, generally speaking. The Gullet was theirs, firmly blocking all seaborne aid to King’s Landing. The Stormlands are theirs, however that happened, and so they have nothing to worry about on that front. Their children routinely take to the skies and haven’t reported anything strange.

And yet, Rhaenyra cannot settle. He knows she’s worried, that she’s sent several letters to Lady Cassandra and hadn’t received anything useful. The Lady’s letter had been vague, giving her best description of the dragon that had terrified them into pledging to House Targaryen.

They could only be describing the Cannibal, and that had piqued Daemon’s interest. He had even taken Caraxes and visited the Cannibal’s cave, finding it empty. The dragon had been gone for moons most likely, which means they were quite behind on finding whoever managed to claim it.

Daemon wasn’t sure if he believed it was Lucerys like Rhaenyra seemed to. He wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that their son had escaped from Aemond’s clutches. However, if that were the case, Lucerys would’ve done everything in his power to return to them. Especially if he’d been able to return to the Dragonmont to claim the Cannibal. He couldn’t imagine a world where Lucerys wouldn’t figure out a way to return to his mother or at the very least let her know he was alive. 

However, only a Targaryen could claim a dragon, even a wild dragon like the Cannibal. Targaryen’s were magic, down to their bones, and that’s what allowed them to bond with a dragon. He couldn’t picture any other House on a dragon. He’d certainly kill himself before imagining an Andal or a First Man managing to claim a dragon. 

Either the Cannibal had gotten bored of his haunts on Dragonmont and went to terrorize Westeros for a better cave, or there was an unknown Targaryen lurking around.

A very tiny part, the part that loved his family fiercely enough to believe in the impossible, believed it was Lucerys.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon calls, because his initial plan had been to spend time with his lovely wife before he set off for Harrenhal. 

He knows she’s been stressed lately, beyond stressed due to this entire situation. The loss of her father, her daughter, her son, and her crown all in one swoop. It’s been bad news after bad news and the only thing that seemed to keep her going at this point was the need to get her crown and the letter from the Stormlands. He had hoped to ease some of her worries at least for a short while before he went off to gather men for her cause. However, it seemed to be for naught as the Lady Rhaenys’ presence outside Rhaenyra’s chambers was announced. 

Rhaenyra finally paused in her pacing, smoothing her skirts down in a show of nerves before she called for Rhaenys to be let in. Lady Rhaenys strides in, her expression serious and severe and Daemon immediately begins to worry. 

Has something bad happened? Were their children ok? Rhaenyra would not be able to lose another child, and Daemon doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it either. 

“A letter,” Rhaenys says as she offers it to Rhaenyra, “from House Tyrell.”

Rhaenyra pauses and turns to look at him. All Daemon can do is shrug as House Tyrell had decided not to involve themselves in this matter as far as Daemon knew. It had been a blow, considering House Tyrell had always been on their side, but not a huge one since, at the very least, they also weren’t supporting the Hightowers.

Rhaenyra hesitates once more and so he finds himself standing and moving to take the letter himself. Both Rhaenys and Rhaenyra watch him as he unrolls it and he gets the feeling Rhaenys will gut him where he stands if he dares to read it to himself, so he reads it aloud.

“To Queen Rhaenyra, First of Her Name,” Daemon starts, brows raised in surprise as he reads off each of her titles, “I hope that this letter finds you well despite the tension spread across Westeros.”

Rhaenys snorts here and waves for Daemon to continue when he looks at her.

“House Tyrell would like to pledge their loyalty to the one true Queen and denounce all ties to the usurper. As you most likely know, half of our bannermen have unfortunately aligned themselves with the usurper, but the half that remain loyal have been given to your son.”

Daemon trails off, looking up at Rhaenys and Rhaenyra. As far as any of them were aware, all of their sons were here and nowhere near the Reach. He had just passed Jacaerys when he’d come to check in on Rhaenyra. Daemon hurriedly reads on.

“I have had the pleasure of meeting your son, although I had thought him a Baratheon upon our first meeting, but I heard he has been through quite the ordeal. I am unsure of the details so I cannot tell you more. All I know is that by the time this letter reaches you, the prince will have reached Oldtown. Perhaps, considering the dragon he has with him, Oldtown has already perished.”

The rest is the Lady wishing to meet them one day in King’s Landing after Rhaenyra has ascended her throne, but they’re all much more concerned with the last few lines. Lady Tyrell does not name which son, but there can only be one. 

“What did she mean?” Rhaenys says, “She thought he was a Baratheon at first?”

“It can only be Lucerys,” Rhaenyra says, “he’s alive? Why hasn’t he come home?”

“You don’t think he managed to claim the Cannibal?” Rhaenys asks. 

Daemon drowns out their questions, and he finds himself more curious about how Lucerys has managed to get that deep into Green territory without anyone finding out. He’s sure he’d hear something from those still loyal to him in King’s Landing if Otto knew where Lucerys was going. However, all of his sources have been quiet, not having much to report on besides the army they were amassing. But Daemon knew that particular army was for Harrenhal, which is why he needed to leave soon.

He, unfortunately, would have to wait to get the answers he wanted, if they wanted to make sure Harrenhal didn’t fall into the wrong hands. The facts simply weren’t adding up and in the midst of war, Daemon couldn’t afford to go running after what ifs when the Greens were surely making their way to Harrenhal. This could be a plot, House Tyrell is too far away to go check and there’s also the fact that King’s Landing was in between Dragonstone and the Reach. It would simply be too risky to confirm the contents of the letter now.

So, as much as he wants to stick around and watch Rhaenyra and Rhaenys write up a responding letter to Lady Tyrell, he has to press a kiss to Rhaenyra’s head and make for the pit. At the very least, Rhaenyra’s bout of melancholy has waned for a bit, now that she has something to focus on. The letter from Lady Cassandra had been vague but at least Lady Tyrell specifically mentioned it was Rhaenyra’s son, even if the description had been a bit confusing.

Regardless, he hopes that when he returns, it will be to a home that has all of his children in it, safe and sound. If it is Lucerys, Daemon has a lot of questions for him.

Daeron wakes to someone patting his cheek. When he goes to swat at the hand, he startles when his arms refuse to move. It’s then that he remembers what happened and his eyes snap open. The aches and pains from hitting the water comes back as if to remind him of all he’s gone through and lost.

Looking up, Daeron does not scream when he sees Lucerys’ bloody face right over his as the prince crouches over him. Lucerys stops patting his face and smiles at him and all Daeron can do is stare at the blood that has apparently been on his face long enough to dry.

“Uncle, you hit your head kind of hard when you fell,” Lucerys informs him, and makes absolutely no move to get out of his space.

Daeron isn’t going to force him, can’t considering his arms are still bound. But considering the last thing he saw before he passed out was molten hot gold being poured into the High Septon’s mouth, he has no interest in pissing off the boy staring at him. 

“Where are we?” Daeron asks, because it seems like Lucerys had been expecting him to say something.

“On a ship,” Lucerys says as he finally stands up, “don’t know the name though.”

“And Oldtown? Lord Hobert?” Daeron asks as he struggles to sit up.

“See for yourself,” Lucerys says, pointing at something behind Daeron before he turns and moves over towards a Baratheon man with a massive double sided hammer.

Daeron struggles to fully get up without his arms, but when he turns, he nearly falls right back over. He isn’t sure how long he’s been unconscious, but even from this far away in the Whispering Sound, he can see Oldtown burning. What makes it worse is that the lighthouse, the one that had been standing long before Daeron’s birth and should’ve outlived him, is nowhere to be seen. 

Oldtown has well and truly been destroyed.

There is another fire burning towards the cliffs further north, and Daeron knows it can only be Blackcrown. House Bulwer has always been loyal and Daeron knows they would’ve never declared for Rhaenyra. He can only hope that the Seven takes them to a much better place than this hell they’ve all been forced into.

He does not miss the Three Towers still standing tall on the southern cliff.

Daeron eventually turns away from his home and makes his way towards the front of the ship. The men are buzzing about, barely sparing him a glance, and Daeron quickly realizes the men are preparing for something. It becomes more obvious when Lucerys goes right to the edge of the ship and looks up. It doesn’t take long at all before the Cannibal, the very dragon that had eaten Tessarion, comes diving down. It had come from the north and Daeron can’t help but wonder if it had been finishing off Blackcrown without its rider.

The crew members don’t seem nervous at all as that hulking monstrosity continues to lower itself until it’s almost in the water. Instead, they continue moving about, some pausing to watch the prince jump onto the dragon. He scales it with ease and it is only then that Daeron realizes Lucerys has been riding the dragon without a saddle. Baffled, he watches as the dragon ascends, the ship rocking from the movement, before the two are flying up into the darkening sky. 

Something Daeron will never get to do again.

“I’d recommend going below deck,” a voice says from behind him and Daeron turns, heart racing as he finds himself looking up and then up some more.

It’s the man with the hammer.

“What’s going on?” Daeron dares to ask, and forces himself to remain still when the man steps closer.

“War of course. Heard there’s a little Hightower on that island over there. The Prince has already killed five Hightowers today, think he prefers even numbers though.”

“The Arbor has the biggest fleet in Westeros,” Daeron says, too faint to even think about how many family members he’s lost in a single day. 

“Yes, quite a lot of kindling for the Prince to play with,” the man says with a grin, “personally, I’ve always wanted to try their famed peaches.”

There’s a sharp snort and then an even sharper laugh as a woman steps down towards them. Daeron knows she’s a Tyrell and can only watch as the woman joins them.

“We’re about to see more Red and Gold than the King himself and you’re worried about the peaches?” the woman asks.

“Not a wine man,” the Baratheon replies, “but I heard their peaches are the size of a babe’s head. I’ve got to try one.”

“Aren’t you allied with House Redwyne?” Daeron asks the Tyrell woman.

“Prince Lucerys is giving whatever’s left of the Arbor to House Tyrell. I’m sure you’d also choose complete control over the Arbor instead of being allies with House Redwyne if given the chance.”

Daeron has nothing to say to that, and it doesn’t matter considering the cheers that start up behind him. When he turns, he sees it’s because Lucerys has already reached the island, white flames already shooting down at the unsuspecting ships.

“Well, men, the Arbor will be won before nightfall. Let’s hope the wind is on our side so we can at least join in on the fun!” The Baratheon man says.

Absurdly enough, the men give a wordless roar in response and before Daeron knows it, they’re moving around even faster, sails rising in hopes that they can reach the island to join in.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you to go below deck,” the Baratheon man says before he disappears into the mass with a laugh.

Chapter Text

The fire is long gone by the time Vhagar lands in what used to be Oldtown, and the sun is rising on what’s left. Part of the blame for his delay can go to him stopping near Honeywine to check in on his uncle, only to find death and scorch marks everywhere he turned. If his uncle had been there, he was long gone and, most likely, dead. The other half is that, even if he was traveling on dragonback, it still takes time to get from King’s Landing to Oldtown. Vhagar quite enjoyed her breaks and Aemond did his best to care for his dragon.

If Daeron hadn’t been able to handle whatever dragon the Blacks had managed to scrounge up, then Aemond didn’t see the point in rushing if the results were going to be the same.

If it weren’t for the fact that Aemond has visited Oldtown often, he wouldn’t have even known this was Oldtown at all. The mere fact that the lighthouse was missing had Aemond baffled as he stepped further into the wreckage. Oldtown was a massive city, the second biggest right after King’s Landing, and now it was nothing but rubble and bodies.

And there were a lot of bodies.

Aemond passes over them, refusing to see if he knew any of the burnt faces, and instead heads further into the city. Absolutely nothing is standing, not even the citadel, and it is only Aemond’s memory and the Whispering Sound that leads him to where the lighthouse used to be. 

He almost regrets finding it.

The first thing he sees are the bodies, accompanied by ravenous birds here and there, picking at the corpses. By their dress, he can only assume they’re septas. There’s at least thirty of them, all of them on their knees in neat rows of five, with one in front of them all. They were all facing a large pyre and Aemond has to force himself to investigate the septas first. Aemond hesitates for only a moment, but pushes forward and approaches the line, ignoring the birds that fly away as he approaches. He comes around the closest septa and his eye widens as he takes in her face.

Her remaining eye is dull, she’s clearly dead and has been for a few days, but it’s the lower half of her face that catches Aemond’s eye. Her mouth and nose is filled with gold, and by the melted skin surrounding it, he can only assume that it had been poured into her mouth, a painful but quick death. Aemond looks lower down and notes that her hands have been tied together at the wrist, forced into a position of prayer.

Each and every septa in the following rows is in the exact same position, gold plugging their mouths and noses, eternally frozen in prayer. Aemond slowly continues up the line until he stops at the very last one, this one in different robes. He recognizes them as the High Septon’s and he isn’t surprised to see the man in the same state. Both of his eyes have been plucked away by the birds, and the irony of some of them being the citadel’s messenger birds does not escape him.

They’re all facing a massive pyre and it is only now that Aemond’s standing right in front of it does he realize that there are three bodies, horribly burnt bodies, attached to the pyre. He has no chance of recognizing them, but by their sizes, he can assume that two of them were relatively young. Perhaps around his age. The third might’ve been slightly older than Aegon. He doesn’t need to recognize them to realize they’re probably his maternal cousins. Aemond slowly steps around the pyre and freezes, caught off guard by what’s behind it.

Hanging between two poles was Lord Hobert. His arms were tied at the wrist to each pole, but it’s the…the skin also tied to the poles that has Aemond stopping. It’s horrific is all Aemond can really think, as he takes it all in. It takes him slowly circling around Hobert’s body to realize it isn’t skin, but his lungs, carefully pulled out of his back and spread wide for all to see.

His stomach roils and he has to turn away from it, hastily moving past the pyre and the praying septon and septas. He knows he won’t be able to find whoever did this, considering they had had enough time to force the septas into this particular position right in front of where the Keep used to stand tall. Aemond was not going to be the one to dutifully force their bodies into something more respectful. 

There is absolutely no other sign of life besides the birds, no hint of what even happened to Tessarion. Frowning, Aemond returns to Vhagar, climbing up into the saddle. He knows he should probably hurry back home and report on his findings, or lack thereof. However, he wants to be the one to find this mystery dragon and its rider. If he could get rid of them, they could focus on the real threat.

He can only assume they’d be heading for the next biggest threat to Rhaenyra’s reign: Lannisport. The Lannisters were openly in support of King Aegon and definitely one of the main funders. Hell, they had already begun transporting the Crown’s Vault to the Lannisters. If anyone found out about that, there’d be hell to pay. So, when Vhagar takes to the skies, Aemond angles her towards Lannisport. 

His mother will be upset about Daeron, but he’s sure she’ll be soothed when he brings her the head of the dragon that had most likely killed him along with the head of the rider. Whoever they may be, he’s sure they wouldn’t stand a chance against Vhagar’s might.

He does not once consider checking on their allies in the area, let alone the island with the biggest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Not when glory was so close. He could already imagine the songs the bards would sing once he killed whoever managed to leave Oldtown in ruins and paraded their dragon’s head through King’s Landing.

Prince Daeron sits and stares off at the Strait, wondering if he’s experiencing a bout of insanity. They’ve been in the Arbor for about a week and no one has come to his rescue. Daeron is at least seventy percent sure he saw Vhagar two days into his imprisonment, and yet here he was. He’s well aware that he’s a prisoner now, but for the most part, everyone has been perfectly content to ignore him. They even untied his arms.

Lucerys, shortly after killing anything capable of breathing that wasn’t on his side, had locked himself into the smithy and shows absolutely no signs of coming out. Ser Gendry, as the man had informed him after a good laugh when he’d referred to him as ‘the Baratheon with the hammer’, was the only one who went into the smithy to deliver the prince’s meals. Daeron can only assume it’s the fact that the Cannibal occasionally sticks his head into the biggest window the smithy has available that keeps everyone else away. Even then it’s mostly his snout that fits. But Lucerys keeps making him do it so it must be working for him.

Daeron gives the smithy a wide berth regardless, because that green eye watches him when he gets close. He’s only ever really spent time with Tessarion but even he knows hunger when he sees it.

Daeron has seen several ships come and go, perhaps the ones that had disappeared from Oldtown when he’d been carted back to the Starry Sept and saw the horrific things the prince had done to the septas. He still has nightmares about the sounds of it, of the way the gold bubbled and sizzled. The way the septas struggled when the men held them down, Lucerys himself prying their mouths open with the smaller axes he kept on his person. Besides the High Septon, Lucerys had been the one to hold open the mouth of each and every septa, watching, utterly fascinated, until they finally succumbed before moving on to the next victim.

Daeron shudders at the memory and turns away, watching the way everyone moves around.

They’ve created some bastardized schedule that seems to work for them. Daeron doesn’t know how they do it, and he’s quite sure the Baratheons at the very least, don’t seem to sleep at all. Right now, they’re training, with each Baratheon having a handful of men in their care. They seem to be the leaders and Daeron had originally thought it was because they had been with Lucerys the longest. However, the all out brawl for dominance he’d watched the night before proved that these people were just barbarians who thirsted for blood. 

After training, they’d all go to eat and everyone seemed to do their own thing for several hours until after their midday meal, then they were back to training until supper. Apparently Ser Gendry and a few other men had a vested interest in planting the fruit seeds they’d found, under the watchful eye of someone who actually knew anything about gardening, which was mostly the Tyrells who had a vested interest in the Arbor now. Then, they’d finish up any duties they hadn’t gotten to in their free time before some went off to their makeshift barracks and others went off to patrol. 

He knows they’re letting him see this because they know he won’t be able to escape. He is, quite literally, the only prisoner they have. With as many men as Lucerys has managed to gather, there’s no way Daeron would be able to sneak past all of them. He definitely couldn’t man a ship by himself. He had tried talking to a man that had introduced himself as Ser Gedmund, because he had seemed the most levelheaded.

At least, Daeron had thought so until he’d watched him pick up his opponent about the waist and throw himself back, nearly cracking his and the other man’s head right open. Everyone had laughed it off and yet Daeron had never felt more terrified in his life. His mother had told him about Rhaenyra and her children, had called them heathens and other such things, but she had never mentioned this type of barbarity.

No wonder his grandsire had worked so hard to get the Targaryens off the throne. Of course, considering Lucerys’ reaction to Maester Vaegon, Daeron will keep any and all negative thoughts about their family to himself. Lucerys kept insisting he wasn’t interested in Kinslaying, but he had at least two thousand men ready and willing to handle it for him should he even hint at it.

“Little prince,” a voice rumbles from behind him, and Daeron turns, tilting up to look at the man that had approached.

Ser Bran was a rather nice man, if you ignored his inclination for breaking his swords and then immediately engaging in close combat instead of retreating. Daeron can only assume Ser Gendry had assigned him as his keeper, but even then he wasn’t sure. Perhaps they just liked to remind him that they could crush him with their bare hands if they wanted.

There had to be something in the water with these fifteen Baratheons. He’s never heard anything like this about any other Baratheon. Perhaps it was because they were all bastards?

Their insanity was certainly spreading to the others and Daeron could already see the terror that would come with a pretty, svelte Tyrell who was more than willing to gouge someone’s eyes out with their fingers.

“Good Morrow Ser Bran,” Daeron says, mostly because he doesn’t have anything else to say to his jailer.

“Prince Lucerys has called for a meeting. If you’d come with me?”

Well, Daeron decides as he stands up, at least the man is kind enough to form it as a question. He can also admit that he’s curious about what Lucerys had to talk about. Perhaps he wanted to discuss their next move, but Daeron highly doubted his presence would be needed for something like that. What keeps him going is the idea that if he is able to escape, he could give his family this information.

Ser Bran leads him over towards the smithy Lucerys had holed himself up in. Daeron is quite sure that every single man Lucerys has on the island, because some ships have left already, is present right now. He sees Ser Gendry and Ser Gedmund as well as that female Tyrell. There were other women in Lucerys’ army, but she was the only one distinctly from House Tyrell and therefore quite noticeable. 

As if Lucerys knew everyone was present, the door to the smithy opens and the prince steps out. There isn’t anything particularly special about his entrance, nor is he holding anything. The Cannibal is still there, his large head hovering over the smithy now that Lucerys doesn’t need him for, well, whatever he’d needed him for in the first place. 

He stops just outside of the smithy and turns a raised brow to Ser Gendry who merely shrugs, his large hammer shifting with the movement. 

“Well,” Lucerys says, “I hadn’t intended for this to be such a ceremony, but I suppose it’s quite fitting. As you all know, I have found quite a bit of Valyrian steel in Oldtown, more than enough for my ax, so, I decided to make another.”

Daeron can feel the excitement rising, but all he can think about is if the Prince had melted down Ormund’s sword? Or perhaps Ser Jon’s? He’s quite sure the prince wouldn’t do that, but he also doesn’t know how much Valyrian steel the Prince had managed to find. Perhaps the citadel had more, considering they were the ones who made the materials for each archmaester.

“I will preface this by saying that it is not my intention to play favorites, but I do believe that my right hand deserves a reward. At this moment, it is Ser Gendry, and I can’t imagine someone more fitting for the title. He has been with me since the beginning and has been a firm believer in our goal to put the one true Queen on her throne and be rid of the usurper.”

The crowd gives out that wordless war cry they seem quite fond of and Lucerys merely smiles, turning and stepping back into the smithy. When he steps back out, Daeron can’t stop himself from letting out the same shocked sound the others make, but not for the same reason. 

Lucerys is holding an ax, a positively massive ax, much bigger than the one he has. Daeron doesn’t even think the prince would be able to wield it even when he got older. Even the weight end is huge, clearly designed to do as much blunt force damage as possible. The back end of the weight has the Targaryen sigil carefully engraved in it, and the ax has a few letters on it that Daeron can’t recognize. What has Daeron’s heart dropping though, is the handle. The ax and weight are well and good, none of his concern, and the ripples in the metal prove it’s Valyrian steel, but Daeron knows that the handle is different.

He knows, without a single doubt in his mind, that that long, thick handle is a bone. 

A dragon’s bone.

Daeron feels faint all over again, remembering what has happened to bring him here, and what he has lost. Lucerys doesn’t even look at him as he presents the ax to Ser Gendry. No one pays him any mind at all, and Daeron nearly bites through his tongue to keep quiet. He knows he cannot react here, he cannot reach for that truly massive ax and swing with all his might to remove Lucerys’ head from his shoulders.

Not now anyway.

Now, all he can do is watch the way Ser Gendry happily tosses his war hammer to Ser Bran.

“You’ve broken every sword we’ve given you, perhaps you’ll do better with a hammer,” the man says over his shoulder as he hungrily reaches for the ax.

It had been heavy for Lucerys, Daeron knows, because Ser Gendry hefts it up like it’s the perfect fit for him. He swings it a few times and Lucerys smiles even as Daeron’s stomach roils and anger burns in his gut.

“Cannibal helped me make her,” Lucerys says, “his flames made everything more malleable. I’ve been calling her Reave, but you can name her whatever you’d like.” 

“Reave it is,” Ser Gendry says immediately, as if the mere thought of renaming a weapon his prince had made and named was preposterous. Blasphemous even. 

He still hasn’t stopped swinging it around.

“So,” the Tyrell woman asks with a teasing grin, “does that mean that whoever is your right hand gets to wield Reave?”

“I made it for my right hand,” Lucerys says, noncommittal as he shrugs.

That’s all the crowd needs because they immediately begin jeering at Ser Gendry, making promises to beat him at the next challenge. Ser Gendry merely hefts the ax up on his shoulder, just like he used to do with his hammer, and smiles.

“You can try, but you’ll have to take this ax from my cold, dead hands, and even then I might not let go,” he says, sneering goodnaturedly at his comrades who merely laugh and congratulate him.

Daeron, however, plans on doing just that. No one, especially not a Baratheon bastard, deserves to have that ax. 

To have a piece of Tessarion.

Chapter Text

Alicent’s hands are shaking as she paces back and forth in the nursery. Her nail beds are ripped and bleeding and the ache of it is the only thing that settles her. Helaena is settled on the floor with the twins sitting in front of her, playing as Helaena weaves. She doesn’t seem interested in her mother’s distress at all.

Several days had come and gone before Aemond had made his way back with the terrible news of Oldtown’s demise. Her hands shake even more as she recalls how she’d told him he couldn’t find any sign of Daeron. 

He’d recognized Hobert’s remains, as well as Lyonel, Garmund, and poor little Bethany. It was terrifying, what Aemond had described, and Alicent couldn’t even imagine the lighthouse being gone, let alone the Starry Sept. For someone to do something so heinous, so blasphemous, it was unheard of! Already the septons and maesters in King’s Landing were at a loss, demanding Aegon do something.

They were terribly insulted by what had happened to the High Septon and the septas. They didn’t even know what happened to the Conclave considering the Citadel had been thoroughly destroyed. Already the septons had locked themselves in their sept, searching for a sign, and Alicent could only hope they could find a light at the end of such a dark tunnel.

Alicent, in truth, was much more concerned about her son. She was distraught, sick with fear and anger at his disappearance. Aemond had admitted to going straight to Lannisport in hopes of cutting the mysterious dragon rider off, but he had found nothing of note. Besides the small skirmishes happening in the Reach and further into the Westerlands, the Lannisters had been unaware that anything was amiss at all. 

They said that they would be vigilant, but Alicent couldn’t imagine what they could even do to defend themselves from a dragon. Oldtown was nothing but rubble and it was the second largest city in Westeros. If the dragon turned to Lannisport, they would fall just like any other city besides King’s Landing, the only city that had scorpions aside from Dorne. Aemond certainly couldn’t stay since he needed to meet their men in Duskendale, and her father had already ordered him to leave, unable to bear seeing his grandson’s face any longer.

Alicent regrets not pushing for scorpions to be made and shipped to major cities, but it was a bit difficult to get permission from a Targaryen King to make a weapon designed specifically for dragons. So, those particular conversations hadn’t lasted long with Viserys. Even if they started mass producing scorpions now, there wouldn’t be enough time to deliver them, not even considering the fact the people would begin to wonder why they were making so many. It wouldn’t do for the people to realize that the King was losing the very war he had started.

It didn’t help that when Aemond mentioned he hadn’t thought to check in on House Bulwer, and hadn’t even thought about the Arbor, Alicent had lost her cool a bit. She hadn’t acted out, she knew she couldn’t, not when she knew the councilmen were looking for any reason to excuse her from the table. Her father was the one who had scolded him in her stead, but the damage was done.

They had no idea where the destroyer of Oldtown had gone, and now without any leads, Daeron was lost to her. She refused to believe he was dead, the mere thought had her hands moving to her stomach in despair. 

She can’t help but think, as terrible as it is, if this is what Rhaenyra felt when she’d heard about Lucerys’ passing. But even then, Rhaenyra had confirmation her son was dead. There were no signs of Daeron or Tessarion at all, as if the two had never existed in the first place.  

“Daeron will go through many hardships,” Helaena says thoughtfully, and Alicent pauses to look at her daughter, “mostly of his own design.”

Helaena turns then and although she’s looking at Alicent, she doesn’t make eye contact, focusing somewhere near her temple instead.

“It will be a hard lesson, learning what it means to be a Targaryen. You and our grandsire have done nothing but sow discord between us and our cousins and nephews despite our father’s wishes. Daeron will struggle with draining that poison from his veins.”

“I,” Alicent starts, brows furrowing as she dismisses Helaena’s odd way of speaking, “have done nothing but protect you, all of you.”

Helaena merely smiles and turns away, but Alicent doesn’t let it go. Instead, she approaches her daughter and crouches down, tilting her head to make eye contact with her.

“Heleana, you must know that everything I’ve done to get us here was to protect you and your brothers.”

Heleana is quiet for a moment longer before she looks at her mother.

“You will struggle too, when it is your turn,” is all she says as she looks down at the twins who haven’t been paying either woman any mind. Alicent scoffs as she stands, turning away from her daughter.

“I am not a Targaryen, there is no lesson I need to learn.” 

“It is that very mindset that has caused all of this. You married a Targaryen, mother,” Helaena says to her back, “you fell into a Targaryen King’s bed, and yet you forsake everything that made him who he was. Everything that makes us who we are.” 

Alicent doesn’t know what to say. She wants, more than anything, for her daughter to understand her reasoning. She had never wanted to marry Viserys, not really, she was just a pawn in this game, doing her best to keep her family safe. Dragons were much too powerful to exist and Targaryens were much too craven to rule. However, telling her daughter about her youth and the things she’d done to become Queen would certainly ruin Helaena’s innocence. Despite being a mother herself and a Queen, Helaena was sheltered from the truth of the world and Alicent wanted to keep it that way.

So, with a small shake of her head, she leaves the nursery. The small council had taken a small break after Aemond’s news, with her father nearly keeling right over. Alicent had gone to the nursery in hopes of calming her nerves, and yet she found herself even more agitated. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to miss the meeting, so she tucks her hands in her sleeves and heads to the small council room.

Thankfully, Aegon comes in a few moments after Alicent and the meeting begins anew. Her father had been pale earlier, but now, his expression is focused and Alicent knows he’s angry. Oldtown is gone, they have no idea how their allies are faring, and their family is in pieces. She wouldn’t be surprised if the only remaining Hightowers aside from Gwayne were in this very Keep.

“Tell me something good,” Aegon says, pressing his palms flat against the table.

“Our men have secured Duskendale without issue,” Tyland offers slowly, but doesn’t seem to know himself if that’s good news or not, not without a dragon to support them for at least a few days if Aemond pushed Vhagar hard enough.

He had been angry, Alicent knew, when her father had scolded him. She figured that anger would push him to get to Duskendale faster. As far as they knew, Daemon hadn’t reached the mainland yet, Aemond was chomping at the bit to make a name for himself. He would get there in time.

“My brother has sent word as well,” Tyland continues. “He hasn’t seen any signs of a dragon, Tessarion or otherwise.”

“If I may,” Orwyle interjects, “it appears that some Houses have some concerns. While we can only do so much to curb rumors, merchants still travel even in war and word has begun to carry. It is not in our favor.”

“I said good news!” Aegon practically snarls, hitting his fists on the table as he glares at the Grand Maester who raises his hands, palms out.

“We are at war, Your Grace, good news will be scarce. The smallfolk are also wondering about the sept’s sudden isolation.” 

“We’ll figure out a way to curb the rumors,” Otto says, rubbing at his temples, “it is much more important to have a win, something to boost the morale of our troops.”

“We could tell them of the babarity that’s happened at Oldtown,” Jasper offers, but the man looks wane, still grieving his own losses.

“Admitting that Oldtown has been,” Otto pauses and everyone seems to be at a loss for what to say, “destroyed, would surely end with our heads on a pike.”

There is a moment of silence and Alicent allows herself a moment. Oldtown, the second largest city in their kingdom, is gone, all at the hands of one dragon. It only proved how dangerous those creatures were. Alicent can see how useful it would be to tell the people about the way that barbaric dragon rider had tortured septas, the way they’d been found. But that would also mean admitting that Oldtown was gone, and whatever power they would gain from pointing out the mockery of the Seven would be swept away. 

No matter how blasphemous it was, it didn’t seem like a smart move to reveal what had happened just yet.

“I still think I should ride to Duskendale as well. A King should be involved in the wars he starts,” Aegon says, and she can see the way her father’s eye twitches.

“You would definitely turn the tides,” Alicent says, and tries to make her tone soothing, “but we need you here more than ever now that there is a rogue dragon rider. We need you here to protect King’s Landing.”

That seems to soothe him and Alicent watches as he mulls it over, clearly pleased. It always worked to make him feel important. Her father also seems to relax, which finally gives them time to figure out what their next step would be. Building morale and keeping the Houses on their side came first, and so Rook’s Rest would be their main focus.

As much as Alicent hated it, they wouldn’t be able to look for Daeron. But one day, she would find her son and whoever had the gall to destroy her hometown. Then, she would show them why the Hightowers always prevailed in the end.

Jacaerys sighs as Vermax turns, nothing in sight as their patrol continues. He was frustrated, he could admit that, and he wished more than anything that his mother would actually use him, allow him to be her heir. He was meant for much more than patrolling the empty sea. At most he saw his grandfather’s ships, off to the Gullet. 

There were plenty of other things he could be doing. He could be at the Vale, or anywhere in Westeros, getting the Houses to bend the knee. He knew he was capable of it, that he could convince them to support his mother. 

More than that, he wished he could be allowed to visit the Stormlands. He, along with his siblings, wanted nothing more than to chase after the tiny hints at their brother surviving his fall. And not just surviving, apparently making it back to the Dragonmont to claim another dragon.

The Cannibal at that.

He wanted to find his brother, to join him, and prove to everyone that the Targaryens would prevail. They had heard nothing after receiving the Lady Tyrell’s letter and Jacaerys was hungry for more information. It was confirmed now that Lucerys was alive, and fighting. And yet his mother insisted they stay close. Even worse, the council insisted she stay close as well. 

It was beyond frustrating, to know his brother was alive and not be allowed to find him. He knew his siblings felt the same considering their grandmother had found all of them at one point or another sneaking off to the pit. There had been a lot of stern talks but that didn’t stop the siblings from plotting.

Vermax’s low growl has him shaking his head, turning to see what had caught his dragon’s attention. He’s surprised when he sees four ships slowly coming towards them. 

And they had come from the Narrow Sea.

Frowning, Jacaerys grabs the reins and angles Vermax lower, towards the ships. He knows, he knows, he should probably go back to Dragonstone and tell his mother, that would be the right thing to do. The responsible thing to do. However, that would take too much time, so he orders Vermax to fly lower and decides he’ll have to beg his mother for forgiveness later. Besides, the ships are still far enough away from Dragonstone that he could see what banners they flew and still get back to the island in time to warn everyone. 

He decides, as he gets closer, it’s probably for the best that he checked their banners. 

Because as he gets closer, he sees them, big and obvious for anyone to see what they’re flying.

Despite coming from the Narrow Sea, all four ships have House Targaryen banners, and as he gets closer still, close enough to actually see the men, he can see that all of them are watching him already. 

They don’t look afraid at all. 

He isn’t in hearing distance, and he debates on if he should even fly that low in the off chance it turns out to be a trap. However, once they know he’s looking at them, he watches as every single one of them, on all four ships, take a knee wherever they’re standing.

Well then, Jacaerys decides, regardless of where they came from, they have to be allies, and he knows his mother would definitely welcome them. 

He can’t help but wonder as he turns Vermax around, if they might’ve heard anything about Lucerys. He supposes he’ll find out once they arrive on Dragonstone.

Chapter Text

Daeron trudges slowly after the army his nephew has managed to amass. They’d been on the move for a few days now, everyone well rested after their break on the Arbor. Things had picked up after Lucerys and Gendry had returned from Sunhouse. It had been quite fascinating to watch Lucerys negotiate with the Cannibal on letting Gendry ride him. Mostly because Lucerys hadn’t actually said anything to the dragon. Instead, he had placed his hand on the dragon’s snout and stood there for several minutes before the large dragon snorted a plume of smoke at his rider and, honest to the Seven, glared at Gendry before allowing the man to climb him.

That had been fascinating too, because Lucerys didn’t have a saddle for the Cannibal. Gendry had had to figure out a place to sit amongst the Cannibal’s bulk and spikes before the two had set off. Daeron doesn’t know Lucerys’ dragon well, but even he knows the Cannibal had taken off as roughly as it had solely because of the additional rider. 

However, Gendry had made it back in one piece, buzzing with energy when they’d returned two days later. The two had been rather bloody, enough to mistakenly believe that the front part of Lucerys’ curls were red instead of white. 

Now, he had no idea where they were actually going. Well, no, he had some assumptions, but no one seemed inclined to actually confirm their destination for him. They were all nice to him, or as nice as a warband could possibly be. They fed him fairly, didn’t short him on any part of his meals, watered him, and kept his hands unbound. He wasn’t sure if it was because they didn’t know how to treat a prisoner, or if it was because he was a prince of the Realm. Either way, they seemed content to keep him in the middle as they trudged along.

He supposes the only torture was that they rarely stopped. There weren’t enough horses for a group of this size, despite the men Lucerys had sent on boats. However, no one complained when they walked for hours and hours at a time. 

He hated to think it, but it was kind of boring.

After the complete destruction of Oldtown, Daeron had prepared himself to see nothing but death and gore and every other terrible thing that happens in war. However, besides the Arbor, they hadn’t stopped in a single town since. When they did stop to rest, they would get off the road and make camp. None of them seemed even slightly concerned about their noise, but considering the massive dragon, Daeron doubted they needed to be worried about anything.

That was interesting too, the way Lucerys was rarely around when they were on the move. He must talk with his generals, because none of them seem confused about their destination. But for the most part, Lucerys disappears into the clouds and only drops out of the sky when the sun begins to set. Daeron knows he could’ve reached their destination by now and considering the forest near Crakehall is still standing, he clearly hasn’t gone ahead. 

None of his men seem overly concerned about it. When he gathers the courage to ask, they merely crack jokes about not needing supervision. 

He has also learned, shortly after passing Old Oak, that sowing discord amongst the ranks doesn’t work at all. They allowed him the freedom to move about at his leisure and so he had tried a few times to talk with the men of the Reach. He knew the Baratheons and the Tyrells were a lost cause, what with their frankly unnerving loyalty to a boy who hasn’t even reached majority. But he had been rebuffed almost immediately. Any attempts to push further were met with challenges. Actual challenges too, they’d stop the whole warband and everyone would watch as whoever was involved threw down until one tapped out.

He had learned very quickly not to say anything bad about Lucerys or Rhaenyra. His ribs still ached from one such challenge. 

The laughter at how quickly the challenge had ended was really what kept him docile. Considering he had lost to a woman, a tiny whip of a thing that had actually bared her teeth at him like a savage before knocking him on his ass, had made it worse. That and the fact that that woman was mainly part of the group that assisted with the cooking. He’d been beaten by a lowborn cook. 

Other than that, not much actually happened as they traveled. They saw one group of merchants, men who had been quite surprised to see such a large group approaching. Lucerys had been present then, allowing the Cannibal to hunt as he pleased apparently. Daeron had expected something to happen, for Lucerys to kill them and take all their wares.

Instead he’d talked to them for a while and then sent them on their way. 

It was all rather boring, really. Not at all what Daeron had been expecting from a boy that had destroyed Oldtown without a care.

That is, until they get closer to the forest and he sees the men that had apparently been waiting for Lucerys’ arrival. The forest ahead of them is filled to the brim with men hiding in the shadows, only stepping out when the warband is close enough to announce themselves. Just like that, Lucerys’ numbers have doubled and all Daeron can do is watch as they prepare to attack the next city, and not a single soul is aware of it.

Just like Oldtown, Lannisport was about to experience the horrors of Lucerys and their allies wouldn’t know about it until it was much too late.

Rhaenyra isn’t sure what she’d been expecting when Jacaerys had told her ships were approaching from the Narrow Sea. Ships that had their banners no less. So, her expectations had been low, even though she knew deep in her heart she had been hoping her son was on one of them. She knew he wouldn’t be, not when he had a dragon, but a mother would always hope for the best.

So, she’s only slightly disappointed when a ragtag group of people greet her. She can tell they’re all from the Reach and while she might not know exactly which House they hail from, it’s clear that they’re on her side.

When they inform her that each ship is filled to bursting with books and other such treasures from Oldtown, it only confirms it. She has questions, so many questions, but the only one she manages to get over the noises of her youngest children is simple.

“Where is my son?”

The men pause and turn to her before looking amongst themselves. There’s a little over a hundred of them, enough to run each ship. It’s a young man who eventually steps out, and although she can’t be sure, the man doesn’t look to be a day older than Jacaerys. 

“Your Grace,” the boy says, “we’ve been tasked with delivering these treasures to you and to join your ranks if you’ll allow us. But for your safety, we cannot tell you the location of Prince Lucerys. We can only tell you that he is safe.”

Rhaenyra struggles to keep her expression even, to keep her hands still at her side. On the one hand, she is beyond angry at their response, but on the other hand, she’s relieved. The letters hadn’t said his name and had been vague enough that she just couldn’t find it in herself to believe them, no matter how much she wanted to.

For the first time since she’d sent him away, someone has said his name, has finally confirmed that it’s her Lucerys they’re talking about. It’s not a trap to make her leave Dragonstone and make her vulnerable to an attack. It can’t be, not when she watches them unload crate after crate of proof that her son is alive and fighting in her name. 

But that’s what worries her too, that he is out there fighting in her name. He may be winning now, and able to send enough men to present her with the signs of his victory, but he was still her son. Her sweet Lucerys, who must’ve returned to Dragonstone at some point to claim the Cannibal. She wants to understand why he hadn’t returned to them. She even wants to be angry about it, but more than anything, she wants to find him and hold him and never let him go again. 

It’s a terrible concoction of emotions and she can’t even parse through them here, not with a hundred plus men carefully watching her. Most likely waiting to see if she’ll have them beheaded for not giving her the answers she wants. And yet they show no signs of being bothered by that. 

That also begs the question, how had her son found men loyal enough to risk her wrath?

“Is he,” Rhaenyra pauses, trying to find a way to compress all of her emotions into a single emotion before deciding to give up, “is he safe, at least?”

The men laugh, laugh, casting looks at each other and shaking their heads. There’s a story there, a lot of stories there, and Rhaenyra plans on dragging every single one of them out into the open. The man they’d put in charge gives her a rather amused expression and a rather helpless shrug as he answers her.

“Your Grace, you have nothing to worry about.”

Jacaerys stands slightly behind her, one hand on his sword and a look on his face that can only spell trouble.

“I’ve gotten word from the Queen Dowager,” Ser Gwayne Hightower says, hands on his hips as he watches Ser Criston Cole fiddle around with his sword. The man turns towards him, one brow raised.

“Oldtown has been destroyed and no one knows who did it.”

Criston Cole pauses, blinking several times. The words don’t make sense in his mind, not really. He’d never been to Oldtown, but even he knew the place was massive. Whoever had the gall to destroy it definitely couldn’t have done it alone.

“It’s impossible to destroy a city that large so easily,” Criston says slowly, “unless you have a dragon. A large one.”

“And Rhaenyra has several,” Gwayne offers.

Criston scoffs, turning his sword over in his hand. Rhaenyra was nothing more than a whore, he highly doubted she was capable of giving the order to destroy Oldtown. She was a snake, certainly, but she played up her womanly wiles and got men to do the fighting for her. 

“Perhaps,” Criston starts, “she sent Daemon to do it. To get revenge for the death of her bastard.”

Gwayne doesn’t respond at first, shooting him an odd look. Criston was used to such looks after making such treasonous, but true, comments and so he ignores it as he always does. If Alicent’s looks at his harsh comments didn’t bother him, then Gwayne’s certainly didn’t.

“That must mean Rook’s Rest is ours for the taking if Daemon is that far away. He wouldn’t make it in time if we attacked soon.”

“We have our orders to wait for Prince Aemond,” Gwanye says, but there’s no true inflection in his voice on how he actually feels.

“If we attack now, there’s no need for a dragon. Caraxes is our only true worry.”

“Meleys is still on Dragonstone,” Gwayne warns and Criston hums.

He supposes they’d need to wait for Aemond then. He had never seen a dragon in action before, not really, and he’d rather not experience it when the dragon in question wasn’t on their side. Besides, even if Vhagar didn’t use her fire, just her mere presence tended to change people’s minds. He was looking forward to seeing it in action soon, and the fact that Daemon was days if not weeks away only helped him settle and calm.

The people of Rook’s Rest would bend the knee once Vhgar arrived, and eventually it would be Rhaenyra herself, no longer able to seduce anyone to her side, that would bend the knee or lose her head.

He was looking forward to the day he could humiliate her just as she had humiliated him.

Chapter Text

Lannisport is on fire.

Jason Lannister had heard the horns all the way from the Rock and had barely gotten a glimpse of the massive dragon flying over the city before his guards were swarming his chambers. 

Now, they were rushing down, trying to get him to safety. He follows, but his mind is racing with other thoughts. It felt like Prince Aemond had left only yesterday with a warning that Oldtown had been attacked. He had taken it seriously of course, considering they were at war. However, he had never thought he would see the day that someone would successfully attack Lannisport. 

He has men, but only half of his normal numbers. A third of them had been sent to King’s Landing to assist Ser Criston Cole, and another third was off handling the skirmishes happening in the Westerlands and the Reach whilst he and his men had been preparing to head for the Golden Tooth. The discord between the Greens and the Blacks was far reaching across Westeros and he had needed to show the Lannister might while also preparing to face Daemon should he attempt to take Harrenhal.

As his men came to an abrupt halt, he found himself regretting it.

Standing in the hall as if they belonged there, were a group of men he could recognize only by their coloring. Baratheons. There were at least ten of them, and Jason watched in bewilderment as they parted, allowing a young man to step to the front, completely ignoring the Lannister guards that had their swords drawn.

The boy was rather tall, but the roundness of his face pointed to his youth. There was no way the boy could be a day over six and ten. Jason wanted to say he was a Baratheon, those blue eyes were certainly fierce enough, but he had never seen a Baratheon who’d somehow managed to have a patch of white hair before. 

However, as the boy gets closer, Jason finds himself doing a double take, really looking at the boy. The boy looks familiar in a way that itches and aches, an old wound he'd tried his best to forget about. But one couldn’t forget being snubbed by the Realm’s Delight so easily. Jason certainly couldn’t forget how beautiful she had been, even when she had looked at him as if he held no worth. And the boy that was looking at him now, with the same exact expression a young Rhaenyra had graced him with when he’d vied for her hand, was a near perfect replica of her on that very day so long ago during King, then Prince, Aegon’s hunt.

Although he hadn’t spent much time in King’s Landing after that, even he knew that there was only one of Rhaenyra’s many children that looked so much like her. 

And the last time he’d checked, that child had been chased down by Prince Aemond himself, dying to either Vhagar or the vicious waters of Shipbreaker Bay.

“Prince Lucerys,” Jason greets pleasantly, tilting his head enough to be respectful as he waves at his men to lower their swords, “I was under the impression you’d been killed.”

The prince hums as he looks around the castle, and Jason finds himself hit with another bout of nostalgia. By the Seven, he thinks to himself, if he’d been a princess instead- and waves that thought away as the boy finally chooses to meet his gaze.

“Unfounded rumors,” he says, his tone soft and pleasant as he uses his free hand to gesture at the large foyer, “my mother told me once that you’d offered to build a dragon pit for her here. It’s a shame I’ll have to burn this lovely place to the ground.”

“What a frightening thing to say,” Jason says in return, keeping his tone just as pleasant, “I had hoped that Rhaenyra and I were on good terms. We seemed to be on her wedding day.”

The prince tilts his head and gives Jason a look, and Jason can admit he’s a bit rusty on reading Valyrian body language and expressions, but even he can see that the boy is amused by his comment instead of angry. He can certainly work with that.

“If you and my mother were on good terms, you would have bent the knee,” the prince returns, “instead, here you are, sending your men off to fight for an usurper.”

“Ah, but we both know why I must support the King, my brother is on his council after all. I highly doubt your mother would allow him to live were she to win this war.”

“I suppose we’ll never know as I plan on killing Tyland anyway, so destroying everything dear to him seems quite fitting, don’t you think?” the prince inquires.

“It’s quite bold of you to declare your intentions to kill a Lannister in their own home, surrounded by Lannister men.” Jason admonishes, but he still hasn’t gestured for his men to do anything. If nothing else, Prince Lucerys was just like his mother in looks and temperament. 

“Yes, I’m sure it feels terrible to be threatened in your own home simply because you exist,” the prince says, and although his tone is teasing, Jason winces all the same at the knowing glint in those sharp eyes.

Touché, he supposes.

“But that’s enough talk, this castle won’t destroy itself. Jason Lannister,” Lucerys says as he stands straighter, pointing the ax he’d been holding at Jason, “you have committed treason against the Crown and its rightful ruler and for that, I will have your head.”

It had been a long time since Jason Lannister had had to fight for anything more than a tourney. Longer still since he’d had to fight for his life. Yet, as he holds his hand out for a sword, he can’t help but find himself excited. He’d never felt the need to kill a royal, but he could already imagine the titles he’d receive for being the one to actually kill Prince Lucerys.

He was looking forward to his victory.

“Charge!” Ser Cole called as his men rushed into Rook’s Rest.

His men were fearless, buoyed on their righteousness and the knowledge that Daemon was too far away to do anything to them when they were so close to Dragonstone. If they took Rook’s Rest for themselves now, the so-called Queen would be forced to give up sooner rather than later. It was that thought that had them crossing swords with men they had considered allies just a few moons ago. And it is that thought that pushes them forward even as they hear those dreaded horns that could only mean one thing.

A dragon was approaching, and Cole wasn’t sure if it was an ally or an enemy.

All he knew was that it couldn’t be Daemon, which meant this battle was still in his favor.

Or at least, that’s what he thought until he saw what dragon fire was actually capable of. 

He recognized this dragon, and while it wasn’t as terrifying as the Blood Wyrm, Meleys was still a dragon and dragons were horrific in their brutality. His own cries for his men to retreat were barely heard over the jets of flame that crossed the fields the men had been fighting on.

Ser Cole staggered forward, trying to get his men to safety. In his haste, he reached for a man whose back had been turned, and stumbled back in shock when ash tumbled out of the armor as it tipped over. But he couldn’t stick around, he couldn’t allow himself to die here. So, he pushed forward and waved for the men that were still capable to push back into the trees.

He thought for sure that he would not see the end of the day, that he would burn with the others. However, it seemed like the Seven had more for him to do as he watched a shadow fall over Rook’s Rest, one much bigger than Meleys. His men staggered to a stop at the tree line and they all watched as Vhagar returned fire, forcing Meleys away from her original goal.

Cole had thought that with Vhagar present, the battle would surely be theirs. His men stood at his call, all of them watching the skies with wide eyes. They were much too far away for the archers still standing at Rook’s Rest to reach them, but even they were staring at the skies, watching the gods battle.

Whatever hope Cole had begun to feel, whatever glory his men thought would come from this, died brutally when Meleys locked claws with Vhagar and the dragoness struggled to fight back, only getting a few scratches in here and there, trying and failing to bite at Meleys’ neck. Whatever thoughts of victory they had died a cruel death as Meleys forced Vhagar to dive down, her large bulk doing nothing to save her from slamming into the ground.

Meleys flew overhead, roaring her victory as Vhagar stayed down. Cole’s heart was racing and his stomach was churning as he watched, begging, pleading, for Aemond and Vhagar to return to the skies. His men were silent, watching just as intensely as he was as finally, finally, Vhagar shook herself off and slowly took to the skies again.

Cole thought for sure the next battle would begin in earnest, that Vhagar would attack Meleys and be the winner in their next bout. 

Instead, he and his men got to watch as Vhagar turned away, back where she’d came from, and flew away.

Vhagar was leaving.

Aemond was leaving.

The boy with the largest dragon currently alive, was tucking tail and leaving after being knocked out of the sky once.

Cole and his men could only watch as Meleys turned around again. With no other dragon in the skies, she was free to return to her destruction.

Cole raised his hand and called for his men to retreat.

He can’t help but think of all the times Prince Aemond had insisted he’d be more than capable of taking on any dragon rider that tried him. He’d been able to kill Prince Lucerys after all. Now that Cole has seen it for himself, both the capabilities of a dragon and Aemond’s abilities as a rider, he couldn’t help but be thankful that it hadn’t been Daemon that had arrived on the horizon.

Daemon wouldn’t have let them escape into the trees.

But also, Cole thinks as his men, nearly halved after the battle, scurry as fast as they can on whatever horses they have left, at least Daemon wouldn’t have left the way Aemond had.

Jason Lannister stands, not as tall and firm as he had before, panting as he watches his opponent. Lucerys is a warrior for sure, and if things were different, Jason would be proud to knight the boy himself. However, as it stands, the boy has managed to give him several cuts, the most irritating one being right over his brow. The blood dripping down his face made it difficult to keep track of Lucerys, but the prince didn’t seem rushed. Even the Baratheon men seemed more entertained than anything as Lucerys turned his ax in his hand before lunging again.

Jason Lannister was many things, a master hunter, the master of his House, and he even credited himself as a warrior. However, despite the fact that all of the Baratheon men standing in the odd circle they’d formed around them were definitely knights, Lucerys didn’t fight like a knight at all. It was obvious he could care less about honor and valor, he just wanted Jason dead. So, considering his life was on the line, Jason decided to hell with honor.

The boy was a good fighter, but he was still young, and although he was tall for whatever age he was, he hadn’t filled out with muscle just yet. It was easy enough to lift him, taking the brunt of his attack on his shoulder pads, but Jason hadn’t expected him to be as scrappy as he was.

An error on his part.

Both his sword and Lucerys’ ax clattered to the ground as Jason wrestled him to the ground. His armor took the brunt of Lucerys’ punches, but his face was free and the boy relished in hitting him until Jason managed to pin him. 

He relished in that familiar glare.

There were many things Jason could’ve done then. He could’ve made the boy yield, he could’ve turned to his men and ordered them to grab Lucerys and round up his men. He could’ve even ordered the Baratheon men directly. However, he did none of those things, didn’t even consider doing anything other than what he did.

And that was lean down close enough that only he and Lucerys would hear the words he said.

“I’ve always dreamed of having your mother under me just like this,” he informs the prince, watching the way his pupils blow wide as the words register before narrowing into tiny points, “but I suppose you’ll do.”

It is his own fault for not even considering Lucerys would headbutt him.

Jason’s head spins and it takes him too long to realize that it isn’t just his head, that he is actually rolling. It also takes him much too long to realize that what he’s hearing isn’t his own blood rushing through his veins, but the prince, howling with enough rage to drown out whatever pain Jason is feeling.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he feels a weight land on top of him before anything else. He has to blink blood out of his eyes and the first thing he sees is Lucerys. If Jason were more poetic, he’s sure he could say a few lines about the pure rage on Lucerys’ face and how it doesn’t take away from his beauty at all. At this angle, all Jason can see is white hair and bright eyes and for a second he thinks he’s right back at that hunt years ago, offering to build the princess a pit if only she would choose him.

He doesn’t realize that Lucerys is lifting his hand above his head, too distracted by the image of Rhaenyra herself, disgusted with him as she always is, and so he doesn’t realize the prince is holding an ax, a small throwing ax, but no less dangerous as it swings down towards his face.

He dies on the first hit, unable to say anything to the princess, but what is there to say to the woman he’s always carried a torch for? To the woman who had chosen this life of turmoil instead of the life of luxury he had offered? There was nothing to say, and he knew she wouldn’t want to hear it anyway.

Jason Lannister dies in the foyer of his own home, but Prince Lucerys doesn’t stop swinging his ax, or roaring into what was his face, until the Lord Paramount of the West’s head is entirely unrecognizable.

Not even the Silent Sisters would be able to make him presentable if they were given the chance. 

Chapter Text

Daeron is allowed to approach the castle after everything is said and done. Well, the fighting anyway, as he gets closer he realizes that the executions are still taking place. The men are building a pyre in what used to be the courtyard of Casterly Rock. What remains of the Lannister garrison is tied up and heavily guarded as the others work.

Ser Bran nudges him forward and so Daeron is forced to look away from their bloody, terrified faces into the bloody, angry face of one Lucerys Velaryon. The prince has made the step near the front door his throne and is staring off into the distance, angrily, as he idly scratches at his temple with the short end of one of his throwing axes. He doesn’t register that Daeron is there at first, and Daeron doesn’t actually know what to say to someone whose face is entirely covered in blood and other unknown bits that belong inside a body instead of out.

All around them the warband moves around with purpose, most of them taking everything worth anything inside the castle. Those who aren’t ransacking the castle, building the pyre, or watching the remaining civilians and soldiers are rounding up any foodstuffs worth bringing along on their journey. Ser Gendry is standing directly behind Lucerys, rather pristine despite his bloodied charge and the ax Daeron would one day take from his cold corpse.

It is Ser Gendry who nudges Lucerys until sharp blue eyes snap up to meet Daeron’s.

“Ah, Uncle,” Lucerys says pleasantly, and then stares at him expectantly.

“Nephew,” Daeron offers belatedly, and he decidedly ignores Ser Gendry’s cough-laugh.

“You’ve arrived just in time, I’ve decided you and I will fly ahead.”

“I beg your pardon?” The response is immediate, and he looks around to make sure the Cannibal didn’t hear Lucerys, even though he knows the dragon isn't in hearing distance. Ser Gendry doesn’t even try to hide his laugh this time.

“We have a lot of ground to cover,” Lucerys says as he stands up, his hands falling to his sides as he gives Daeron a smile that is most likely meant to be assuring but is terrifying given his bloody face, “I will leave some of my men here, to protect the gold mine that will now belong to the Crown. The rest will take care of the remaining Lannister troops at the Golden Tooth. After that they will continue on to Harrenhal whilst you and I will visit our dear friends in Raventree Hall. I have quite a few questions for our friends.”

A shiver goes down Daeron’s spine, both at the idea of riding the Cannibal and at the threat that is very clear in Lucerys’ voice. More than that though, he finds himself curious, and with Lucerys seemingly willing to talk, he finds himself pressing for answers of his own.

“Why are you telling me this?” Daeron asks before pushing on, “why even take me with you? You could certainly imprison me here.”

“Imprison you? Why would I imprison you?” Lucerys asks in return, tilting his head to the side.

Daeron gives him a flat look, unsure if the prince was messing with him, but Lucerys merely blinks, and for once that terrifying anger is nowhere to be found. All that’s left is curiosity. 

“Well, considering what you’ve done to everyone else you’ve accused of treason,” Daeron starts, and then doesn’t know how to explain the barbarity of the prince’s actions so he just looks at Lucerys and lets his face do the talking.

“Have you committed treason when I wasn’t looking?” Lucerys asks, turning to Ser Gendry who merely shrugs, seeming content to watch the conversation between royals play out. Daeron’s exasperation must be visible because Lucerys laughs, reaching over to pat Daeron’s shoulder. 

His hand is covered in blood and it leaves a stain.

“Relax Uncle, so far all you’ve done is try to protect your family. If that was considered treason then I’d be right on the chopping block with you. Now, I think we ought to leave now. I'd like to greet our friends around sunrise.”

With that, the prince stands and goes around the courtyard, completely ignoring the way his men were tying up their victims to the pyre. It was when he saw a man bringing a torch that he decided to follow after Lucerys, with Ser Gendry on his heels.

Lucerys leads them away from Casterly Rock where the Cannibal is waiting, and at first, Daeron is confused as to why there’s a group of people so close to the massive dragon, but as he gets closer he realizes what they’re doing. There are about ten men standing a safe distance away from the Cannibal, and there’s a massive pile of bodies next to them. The men have been carefully carting the bodies over, tossing them into the pile before backing off. The Cannibal is surprisingly patient as the men finish up and only approaches when the men are out of his way. 

Only then does the Cannibal indulge itself in its evening meal, clearly tuckered out from burning down Lannisport. Lucerys only waves at the men as they return to the castle, and Daeron swears he’d only looked away from the Cannibal for a second and when he turns back, the pile of bodies is gone and the Cannibal is blinking one big green eye at his rider.

His rider who, completely ignoring the fact that the Cannibal was clearly able to eat that much in a single bite, gets close enough to the Cannibal’s mouth to press a hand to the dragon’s snout. A moment passes before the Cannibal is growling, baring his teeth at his rider. Lucerys, who is absolutely insane, simply responds to this show of intimidation by curling his hands around two of the Cannibal’s bottom teeth, and shaking the dragon’s head. Daeron is entirely aware that the Cannibal is much too large for Lucerys to do such a thing, and to see the Cannibal indulging his rider in such a way completely baffles him. The Cannibal grumbles some more, but allows the treatment as Lucerys eventually wanders around to give him a few pats on his jaw.

“Alright, come on,” Lucerys says, and Daeron can only stare into that massive green eye that has narrowed into a slit as it watches him.

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to eat you,” Ser Gendry says from behind him, but the laughter in his voice has Daeron staying right where he is. 

But Lucerys continues to beckon him forward and so Daeron has no choice but to approach, and then stop all over again as he remembers that Lucerys doesn’t use a saddle. The young prince is completely insane and Daeron never gets a chance to forget it. All he can do is watch as Lucerys scales the Cannibal with practiced ease, disappearing quickly over the dragon’s back. Daeron only follows when Lucerys peeks over to watch him.

Scaling the Cannibal is no easy task. Daeron’s dragon had been young and had a saddle that Daeron could get into easily. He had nothing to compare scaling the Cannibal to. Even Vhagar had a saddle, although he had never gotten close enough to her to see it. So, he does his best and can only thank the Seven that the Cannibal doesn’t turn and eat him while he’s in such a vulnerable position.

Instead, he eventually gets to the top and finds a seat in between a few spikes behind Lucerys. It is only when Lucerys turns to him that Daeron realizes he’s shaking like a leaf.

“Don’t worry,” the prince says with a grin, “we’ve figured out the hard way what tricks he can and cannot do like this.” 

“What?” Daeron asks, but the prince ignores him as the Cannibal, without a vocal command, gets up and begins taking off.

Daeron’s cry of “What do you mean by that?” is swallowed up by the flapping of the Cannibal’s wings and Lucerys’ laughter.

Aemond sits in the room he’d been guided to in the sept located in Rosby, glaring down at the floor. He was angry of course, but more than that, he was embarrassed. He had expected to lead his men to victory, to prove his worth and that he would be a much better ruler than his idiot brother. It had been easy to overwhelm Lucerys, to hunt the boy’s dragon down in that storm. Such an easy victory was expected when one was the rider of the largest dragon still alive.

To be thrown so easily to the ground by a dragon much smaller than Vhagar? That had been a blow to his ego and confidence. He had expected his victory to be as easy as the one in Storm’s End. Even easier considering there wasn’t a storm Rhaenys could hide in. And yet, he had been the one forcefully removed from the skies. Vhagar had been the one subdued. 

He knew then that it would be best to retreat.

So here he sits, so close to home but much too embarrassed to return. His mother would be disappointed, surely, and his grandsire would surely be upset that he had abandoned their men. He could hear Aegon’s laughter now, and it had him curling his hands into tight fists. 

He wanted a victory, he needed a victory.

He had even come to Rosby with the intent of making the House bend the knee, but Cole had already accomplished that on his way out apparently. They had welcomed him with open arms and gratitude for Vhagar’s presence. As if her being there meant they would be safe. Normally that would be the case, but it had not been in Rook’s Rest. It had proven that Aemond was still lacking, that he wasn’t yet capable of taking on Rhaenyra’s dragon riders.

He couldn’t possibly return without accomplishing something.  

He had thought about going to Storm’s End and reminding them of why they had pledged to his brother in the first place. However, it was much too close to Dragonstone, and he wasn’t in the mood to go against Rhaenys again. He didn’t want a pyrrhic victory, he wanted his enemies well and truly crushed. But aside from Harrenhal and Storm’s End, he didn’t know what other House had turned coat. He had left behind anyone that would be able to communicate with the Crown and confirm their current standing.

His options were to either find Cole and his men, or return to King’s Landing. Either option wasn’t viable. He had never disappointed Cole before and wasn’t sure what the knight would think, would say to him after he’d abandoned them. His family however, never really cared to see his true potential, not really. He knew he was only important to them because he had Vhagar, and he had used that to his benefit. 

He could do it again, especially if he let Aegon tease him enough for his mother or grandsire to step in. 

Aemond would be heading back to King’s Landing.

There is a dragon circling over Raventree Hall.

At first, when his men had come to him, he had assumed it was the Blood Wyrm. That King Consort Daemon Targaryen was coming to demand Benjicot follow his every command just as his Uncle had. 

Considering his uncle had been beheaded by Daemon, Benjicot didn’t think it would be best for him to follow everything the King Consort said, regardless of his status. The man had been causing quite a mess throughout the Riverlands, and was using House Blackwood to do it. So Benjicot had been ready to stand against the man, regardless of his young age and fresh status as Lord Blackwood, he would do what he had to to protect his people.

However, his men had been quick to tell him that the dragon was black, not red, and much, much larger than Caraxes. 

Benjicot had found himself anxious for a completely different reason then, especially when the dragon finally began to land. However, he gathered his men and went to where the dragon was going, prepared for the absolute worst. The Blackwoods didn’t have the best standing in the Riverlands now, thanks to his uncle’s actions, but that didn’t mean Benjicot couldn’t be respectful to whatever royal that was about to arrive. 

He had no expectations because he didn’t recognize the dragon, and so he was quite surprised when two young men climbed off of the dragon. He lifted his hand, commanding his men to stop, and they all watched the two approach. The two couldn’t be much older than Benjicot, but the one in front carried himself as if he were twice his age. He was tall, as all Targaryen’s were, but any other details he could’ve used to figure out who the young man was were currently covered in dried blood. 

That really didn’t bode well for what the young man could possibly want.

Behind him was a slightly taller boy, with the token Targaryen hair and eyes, but it was clear he was just as confused as the Blackwoods. So, Benjicot dismissed him and instead greeted the first boy as soon as he was close enough.

“Welcome to Raventree Hall,” Benjicot offered, choosing to bow in a way one does towards any member of royalty. 

“You’re not Lord Samwell,” the bloodied boy says, and Benjicot looks to his men who are already looking at him.

“My father died not too long ago, I am Lord Blackwood now, Benjicot Blackwood.”

“My condolences,” the boy says, and continues on before Benjicot can respond, “I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. This is my uncle, Prince Daeron Targaryen.”

The last he’d heard, Prince Lucerys was dead and Prince Daeron was decidedly a supporter of King Aegon. However, with the two princes staring at him expectedly, there isn’t much Benjicot can do besides pushing forward. He gestures for one of his men to step forward and turns to the princes once more.

“I offer you guest rights, Prince Lucerys and Prince Daeron,” Benjicot says, “as Princes of the Realm, you are welcome in Raventree Hall.”

“Before I accept,” Prince Lucerys says, ignoring the man standing in front of him as he instead grins at Benjicot, “I do have to confirm that you support my mother as the rightful ruler of Westeros.”

“Well, considering my father died for her cause and my uncle died for the King Consort, I would certainly hope it’s understood that we recognize Queen Rhaenyra as the rightful ruler,” Benjicot returns, and doesn’t even regret the sarcasm when Prince Lucerys’ smile grows.

“Yes, your father and your uncle were loyal subjects, but I am asking you, Lord Blackwood.”

“King Viserys named Queen Rhaenyra his heir and never once changed his mind. Queen Rhaenyra is the rightful ruler of Westeros,” Benjicot says, shrugging.

Even he, at one and ten, understands a concept that simple.

“Perfect!” Prince Lucerys says, taking the bread offered and tossing the other to Prince Daeron who catches it with a baffled expression on his face. It is an expression the Blackwood men also sport as they watch their Lord speak with the bloodied prince that had apparently come back from the dead.

“Now,” Prince Lucerys says, turning to Benjicot with a much more pleasant, but still slightly threatening smile, “if you wouldn’t mind telling me what my father has been up to?”

Gods, Benjicot thinks to himself, where to even start with that.

He looks the prince over and decides to push his luck.

“Of course, but perhaps after you’ve taken a bath?”

Lucerys raises his brows before turning to Prince Daeron, as if Benjicot were talking about him. The other prince gives Lucerys an exasperated look before gesturing at his, well, his everything. Behind them, the large dragon that Benjicot definitely had not forgotten, snorts. Benjicot decidedly does not consider asking if the dragon understands them and instead gestures for the princes to follow him.

Chapter Text

“You ran?!”

Alicent sighs, a soft sound barely heard over Aegon’s loud laughter and her father’s outrage. Aemond stands at the end of the table, a blank expression on his face as he stares somewhere over Otto’s shoulder, not actually meeting his grandsire’s gaze.

“What of our men?” Otto demands to know.

Aemond does not have the answers for him. Aegon laughs even more, slapping his heavily ringed hands on the table. Alicent takes in the solemn expressions of the other council members and says nothing.

She had not expected these results when they’d agreed to send Aemond out. She had expected him to win, to claim Rook’s Rest with relative ease. Instead, he had turned tail, leaving his men, not even considering his own uncle. Now that Oldtown was gone, they were the only Hightowers remaining and he had abandoned Gwayne and no one had heard from him or Criston in days. 

She wants to head to the Sept, to pray for her brother’s safe journey, but they have shut the doors to everyone in protest. Even she had been turned away, no matter her promises of more donations after everything was said and done.

It was making the people anxious. She had heard whispers, nothing concrete, but enough to make her worry. If they didn’t get a victory soon, proof that they were winning this war, she didn’t even want to think about what the smallfolk would do. Not with so many of their men either dead or stranded in the woods. 

It takes a lot of effort not to rub at her temples, especially when Aegon decides that laughing at his brother isn’t enough. 

“You were so bold,” Aegon crows, “and yet you left after what, a small exchange? I didn’t take you for a coward, brother.” Aegon pauses, lifting a hand to rub at his eye, but there’s a glint in his eye, something that has Alicent saying his name in warning, but he talks over her.

“But I suppose you only won against Lucerys because he didn’t try to fight back, did he?”

“Aegon!” Alicent snaps, for once forgetting to use his title.

But the damage has already been done. Aemond’s eye is narrowed as he tips his chin up towards his brother. The two watch each other, Aegon amused as Aemond’s face reddens. Finally, Aemond relaxes, giving Aegon a small smile.

“At least I have a victory,” Aemond says, and although his expression doesn’t change, Alicent knows he’s pleased by the way Aegon’s smile slowly falls. “What have you done to win this war?”

There is a tense moment of silence that Alicent wants to break. She hates when her sons fight, especially when it’s in front of other nobles. She had done her best to get them to fight behind closed doors, away from judging eyes, but she knows this war has emotions high. She’s almost relieved when Tyland speaks.

“Your Grace,” Tyland starts slowly, and only continues when Aegon looks away from his smug brother, “as you know, we have asked our allies to send us updates every fortnight so that we can keep track of the unknown dragon.”

“Yes,” Aegon says when Tyland is silent for too long, “what of it?”

“Well,” and here Tyland pauses, but Alicent can tell that it isn’t on purpose, Tyland is anxious, worried as he continues, “I have not gotten word from my brother, and the bird I sent has returned untouched.”

Alicent turns to her father first, eyes wide. If Lannisport was taken, that means that a majority of their forces were gone, not to mention the gold mine. Aegon seems to come to the same conclusion as her as he stands so quickly his chair scrapes against the floor. 

“I’ll go and check,” Aegon says, and Otto is already cutting in.

“You must remain here,” her father starts.

“I must ensure the mines don’t fall into enemy hands,” it’s clear that that is the end of Aegon’s sentence but one look at Tyland’s miserable expression has him continuing, “and make sure that House Lannister still stands.”

“It is much too late,” Alicent says, getting Aegon’s attention, “if the bird returned that means no one was there to receive it. The message wasn’t tampered with, the seal was unbroken. Which means that we are too late. If you go there now, it will be just like Oldtown. We would be playing right into their hands and then who would be here when they attack King’s Landing?”

Alicent carefully chooses not to look at Aemond as she uses Aegon’s ego to keep him from running off into the unknown. She doesn’t even know if the seal was broken or not but Tyland nods in agreement as well as the others so she pushes forward.

“If they attacked Oldtown and then went to Lannisport, that can only mean that they’re heading towards Harrenhal, they must be meeting up with Daemon.”

“Then I’ll go to Harrenhal and cut them off,” Aegon says.

“And go against Daemon and whatever troops he’s gathered whilst our men are still lost somewhere?” Otto demands, shooting a sharp look at Aemond who chooses to ignore it.

“So what will you have me do? Watch them come together to attack us?”

“No, we must take this time to prepare,” Otto says, getting nods from the other men, “whatever savages this unknown dragon rider has gathered must surely be wearing down, they’ve done nothing but travel from the very beginning. They surely must be tiring themselves out and I doubt Daemon has managed to bring the Riverlords together.”

“What we must do now is prepare for battle here in King’s Landing. We have the home advantage, we have scorpions, their dragons will not stand a chance against our might. I’m sure that by the time they decide to march this way, Ser Cole and Ser Gwayne will have returned to double our numbers. We will win, if we have patience and faith.”

Otto’s speech has clearly sucked in the others, even Tyland seems less anxious, especially at the mention of the scorpions. Aegon hadn’t seemed pleased at first at the idea of waiting, but even he was eventually smiling and nodding along.

“Very good,” Aegon offers as he turns another amused look towards a silent Aemond, “there will be no running off this time, brother.”

Aemond’s jaw clenches but he says nothing as the council begins to prepare for war in earnest. 

Ser Simon Strong sighs, picking at his stew as the Riverlords chatter amongst themselves. He knows he should listen in considering they’re discussing war plans, but he finds himself beyond exhausted after having so many guests. Harrenhal, although large enough to house many, was still a shadow of its former glory. Even now they had buckets strategically placed to catch the rain water. His old bones creak and ache in the cold nights and he sighs once more, dreaming of warmer climates. Perhaps after all of this, he can visit Dorne, maybe retire there.

Wishful thinking, surely.

He can only watch as Daemon holds his bastardized form of court, but finally tunes in when someone seems to gather their courage, tilting to look at the King Consort.

“I hear there’s an unknown dragon flying over Westeros, terrifying the Greens. Is that true?” the woman asks, and Simon blames it on his old age and the time of night as he simply cannot recall her name.

Daemon is silent for a long moment, purple eyes glinting before he smirks, rolling his shoulders a little. The King Consort has been terrorizing the halls of Harrenhal long enough for Simon to learn a bit about him, and he gets the feeling that Daemon has no idea who this unknown dragon is, let alone who rides it. However, another riverlord cuts in before he can say whatever is on his mind.

“We met some merchants on our way here,” he says, and pushes on when everyone turns his way, “they say that when they came to Oldtown for business, it was nothing but scorch marks and cinders.”

It is silent for a moment as the Riverlords look amongst each other. There was no love for Oldtown, not really, but to hear that it had been destroyed? If that were the case, certainly the King would’ve done something by now, considering his maternal family was House Hightower. Yet, no one had heard anything about it.

“Surely you jest,” one lord says as he rubs at his beard, “if Oldtown has truly fallen, the King would’ve surely done something by now.”

“I’m serious! They said they even met the rider!”

“Oh?” all of the Riverlords pause, turning as one to Daemon who had been content to listen to them until that very moment. Now though, his eyes are sharp as he leans forward, “do tell.”

The lords know a command when they hear it.

“They said he was young, but had thousands of men under his command.”

“Where was he heading?” Daemon asks.

“He was heading away from Oldtown,” the lord starts, “and heading towards Lannisport.”

There’s immediate chatter, lords talking over each other as they deny such a bold statement. Daemon is quiet, having leaned back in his seat as he stares down at the table. Simon finds himself rubbing at his temples, not particularly sure how he feels about Daemon’s silence. He had already been drafting up a letter to send to Queen Rhaenyra about Daemon’s behavior, and he gets the feeling it would be best to send it as soon as possible. 

The King Consort needed to be reminded who the true ruler was, and Simon knew that Queen Rhaenyra would be the only one capable of doing it.

So, he entertains the lords to the best of his abilities and tries to hide how worried he is by Daemon’s continued silence. Eventually they all go their separate ways, and Simon wishes he could head to his chambers, but instead finds himself toddling off to his office instead. He needs to send for Queen Rhaenyra, and he needs to do it fast. 

He’s only just grabbed the letter when one of his men steps into the room. He looks a bit wild around the eyes, and it gives Simon pause, curling his fingers tight around the rolled parchment. 

“There’s a boy outside,” his guard says, brows furrowed, “he wishes to meet you, alone.”

Well, Simon thinks to himself, that is certainly ominous.

“Did he say who he was?”

“Well,” his guard pauses once more and Simon takes in his slightly disbelieving look, the paleness of his face, “he didn’t introduce himself, but his companion called him Prince Lucerys.”

Simon relaxes, laughing a little. It is late, much later than he’s used to, and it doesn’t surprise him that a ghost has decided to visit Harrenhal. Simon had never believed the rumors about the princes’ being bastards, especially not Strong bastards, but he isn’t particularly surprised that this particular ghost has finally decided to visit.

So, he tucks the letter into his robes and nods to his guard to lead him. He has never met Prince Lucerys Velaryon, and has only heard rumors about the boy. For the most part, Westeros only had good things to say about him. Sweet, they said, shy, others whispered after seeing him almost always holding his mother’s hand. Besides rumors of his parentage, there was nothing bad to say about him. Simon had thought the Gods would’ve taken the boy right into their fold, but perhaps it was Lucerys who had decided to stay, considering the terrible way he had passed.

Simon mulls over it as he follows the guard, and is only slightly surprised when he takes him out of Harrenhal. Besides the nightguard, the castle is silent, the riverlords having turned in for the night despite their boisterous conversation. Unlike him, they had a war to plan.

There are three boys standing outside the gates, and Simon’s first thought is that he hadn’t been expecting the dead prince to have company. Despite the many things haunting Harrenhal, Simon had no real knowledge of them and their ways. He had just done his best to turn in early enough that he wouldn’t have to question if what he heard was wind passing through the decrepit walls, or the pained wails of his ancestors. 

“Forgive me, my prince, I wasn’t expecting company so late at night,” Simon offers to the boy in the middle.

He doesn’t need to know which one is Prince Lucerys. He may not have met the young prince, but he’s certainly spent enough time around Rhaenyra to identify her children with ease, especially one that looks just like her. It is dark out, and the guard’s torch can only do so much, but despite the odd coloring, the boy standing before him is Rhaenyra’s son.

“I had planned on getting here earlier, but I had to be discreet,” the prince returns, and that soft, pleasant way he speaks is definitely Rhaenyra as well, “I’ve heard troubling rumors about what my father has gotten up to here.”

Troubling, Simon decides, is much too light a word.

“But first, introductions. This is Lord Benjicot Blackwood,” Lucerys says, tilting his head towards the smallest boy on his right. He looks like a Blackwood, whip thin and sharp eyed. He’s a bit wild around the eyes, and his hair is even messier than his father’s, but Simon gets the feeling he doesn’t always look that way. “This is Prince Daeron, my uncle.”

Simon blinks, taking in the tall boy that is every bit a Targaryen. Light hair, purple eyes, tall enough to make Simon question his age. The Prince looks well, Simon decides, and can’t help but wonder why Prince Lucerys has him. As far as he knew, Prince Daeron was on the usurper’s side. However, right now he looks ruffled and windswept, but completely unharmed as he tilts his head in greeting.

“And I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon, second son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen,” The Prince finally finishes and Simon allows himself to take him in.

Simon had heard that Lucerys had had brown hair and eyes, which had apparently been enough for the world to decide his father was Harwin Strong. However, the boy before him has mostly black hair, with a shock of white in the front that Simon has never seen before. Even more shocking are the bright blue eyes that watch him, and Simon is distinctly reminded of the predatory way Daemon watches him, of the terrifying way Caraxes watches anyone that isn’t his rider.

If there was any doubt in his mind that this boy wasn’t a Valyrian, it is quickly snuffed out by that sharp, assessing look.

“Well met,” Simon offers after a moment, “I am Ser Simon Strong.”

He has other titles, but he knows that’s not why the Prince is here. Sure enough, the boy claps his hands and gives him a bright smile. The boy is beautiful, Simon thinks, feeling a headache coming on, because that smile promises absolutely nothing good.

“If you don’t mind, my friends here have had quite the journey,” Lucerys says, “Benji here has just had his first ride on a dragon and certainly needs some rest, and my darling uncle just cannot function without proper rest.”

His tone is distinctly teasing and the young Lord of House Blackwood just laughs quietly, shaking his head as if he’s used to this kind of talk whilst Prince Daeron gives Lucerys a flat look that the Prince merely smiles at, bright, pretty, and completely terrifying.

“Of course, I can get some rooms prepared for them, and for you, my prince-” Simon begins, already trying to figure out where to place not one, but two Princes of the Realm, before Lucerys cuts him off.

“I’d actually prefer to see my father. Now, if you’d please.”

Well, Simon thinks to himself as he bows and turns, perhaps there was someone else capable of bringing Daemon to heel. Palming the letter in his robes, he sends a quick prayer to the Old Gods that Lucerys will continue to be like his mother and not wreak havoc like Daemon has. 

Chapter Text

Daemon has been at Harrenhal long enough for almost every recently deceased member of his family to give him a little visit and judge him for his actions. It’s been exhausting and slightly terrifying, the predicaments he’s found himself in. It hadn’t been all that bad to see his beloved lady wife, but seeing his brother as he’d been before he’d passed had been exhausting. 

He didn’t even want to think about the things they’d talked about.

More importantly though, Daemon has been at Harrenhal long enough for almost every recently deceased member of his family to visit him, except one.

He can’t tell if he’d been looking forward to a hallucination of his son or if he’d been dreading it. With the news of someone calling themselves Lucerys and not seeing him in his dreams, Daemon isn’t sure what’s become of his son. He wants, more than anything, for Lucerys to be alive, happy and healthy. 

But he also can’t help but take the things he’s heard with a grain of salt. He could care less about Oldtown or whatever city was being harassed, but it just didn’t fit Lucerys’ character. He could see Jacaerys being pushed to it perhaps, if he were at his wits end, his Baela would certainly destroy Oldtown and all their enemies without a second thought. Rhaena, despite her being his calmest child, was still his child. She was certainly Laena’s daughter.

Although Daemon was aware that Lucerys was perfectly capable of protecting his family, the one eyed kinslayer was proof of that, Lucerys was more reactive than anything else. His brother’s life had been in danger and so he had reacted.

Perhaps this could be the same reaction, but on a bigger and much more destructive scale. 

He could understand that, but Lucerys was a lot like Daemon in the way he needed to be surrounded by those he loved and those that loved him. Lucerys clung to his mother so much that for a time they’d considered him to be her shadow. If he wasn’t with her, he was with Jace or the twins or even Daemon himself. For a while Aegon and Viserys thought Lucerys was their father, he was with them so often.

Lucerys was not one that cared all too much for solitude when he could instead spend that time with his loved ones.

Tonight, he wasn’t sure which family member would choose to ambush him. It was never up to him and he still hadn’t figured out what was causing these horrid hallucinations despite Alys’ explanation of Harrenhal being haunted.

He had never put too much thought in ghosts, the dead were dead and had much better things to do than terrorize the living. And yet here he was, prowling through the decrepit halls of Harrenhal with one hand on Dark Sister’s hilt.

He knew that normally this hall wasn’t nearly as long as it was now, and he also knew that the door he finally reached should’ve opened to the chambers he had taken for his own.

Instead, his very next step has him stepping out onto the Isle of Faces. Daemon pauses, staring blankly at the carved faces staring back at him, and promptly turns back around. Of course, the God’s Eye awaits him and Daemon sighs, squeezing the hilt of Dark Sister for comfort.

Somewhere behind him, something laughs. It gives Daemon pause because he knows that laugh, and he knows it well. It’s almost instinctual how quickly he turns to find the source, striding past face after face carved into the trees around him.

They don’t matter, not when Lucerys’ laughter beckons him deeper and even deeper still. He walks and walks and in the back of his mind he knows the Isle of Faces is a small island and yet the sky continues to darken and Lucerys doesn’t seem to be any closer. He considers running, considers calling out for his son. Lucerys was a good boy, a sweet boy, he would come when called. He’s barely made up his mind before a soft voice calls out from behind him. 

“Kepa?”

He turns again and is immediately disoriented and confused. It isn’t because the scenery has changed, he couldn’t care less about whatever beach he’s found himself, but because of the boy standing in front of him. He doesn’t need to do a double take, doesn’t need to swipe at his eyes, as gritty as they are with a lack of sleep. 

He knows his son.

His son who is the same size he’d been before he’d left to Storm’s End so long ago. His son who hasn’t lost the baby fat his mother so adored, that he adored. His son who is smiling at him in that way he always used to. He is still for just a few seconds before he takes one step forward and then another, and in between one step and the next he’s running, reaching out for the son he’s missed so much.

Lucerys’ smile changes to something sad, and Daemon doesn’t understand why until he goes through his son. He comes to a staggering halt, his years as a fighter the only thing that allows him to turn on a dime. Lucerys is gone, as if he’d never been there at all. 

In his place is another boy, a little taller, with a little less baby fat, and a much more confident stance than the shy, sweet Lucerys Daemon knew. Bewildered and a touch angry, Daemon doesn’t hesitate to draw his sword.

“Where’s my son?” he demands, and doesn’t lower his sword even when the boy smiles at him, the very same smile Lucerys had given him just moments earlier.

Instead of speaking, the boy turns and makes for the sea Daemon had been content to ignore. The boy pauses when he notices Daemon hasn’t followed him, and turns to meet his gaze. Purple meets blue and Daemon is once more at a loss when he still feels the way his blood rushes in his veins, the same reaction he has when he looks at Rhaenyra or any of his children.

Dragon recognizing dragon.

That, more than anything, is what gets him to follow. For his own comfort, he doesn’t lower Dark Sister no matter how awkward it feels. Instead, he follows after the boy and doesn’t even bat an eye when the boy steps onto the water and keeps going as if it were land. 

Daemon looks around as he follows after him and he realizes that they must be in the Stormlands, walking on Shipbreaker Bay, which doesn’t bode well for whatever the boy plans to show him. Daemon ignores his gut feeling that he’s not going to like where the boy is taking him and keeps going.

They stop right in the middle as thunder rumbles overhead. Belatedly, he realizes it’s raining but he’s completely dry as is the boy he still has his sword pointed at. 

“Look,” the boy says in Lucerys’ voice, tilting his head up.

At first, Daemon sees nothing besides the clouds, but then he sees it on the next strike of lightning, the shadow of a dragon. 

“I don’t want to see this,” Daemon whispers, so low that the wind sweeps it away, and his body doesn’t obey him and so he is forced to watch. He can only thank the Fourteen that the clouds hide most of the chase.

Until his son falls out of the sky. 

No matter how badly Daemon wants to move, how he wants to run to catch Lucerys, his body stays exactly where it is. The boy stays where he is as well, as Lucerys gets closer and closer, and even closer still.

The splash of water goes right through them as Lucerys hits the water hard enough that it drowns out the next roll of thunder. 

The remaining pieces of Arrax hit the water as well but Daemon ignores it, as whatever had had a grip on him lets him go. He immediately drops to his knees and tries to get into the water, tries to reach for Lucerys, but the water beneath him might as well be solid, his fingers don’t even breach.

Aemond is flying overhead, Daemon knows he is, can hear Vhagar’s wings getting closer but he ignores it. Instead, he watches his son who has stopped sinking. He’s so still under the water, his face almost peaceful. 

“Do you want him to live?”

“Of course I do,” Daemon snaps, agitated as he glares at the boy who has somehow moved closer.

“Even if he won’t be the same Lucerys you know?” The boy asks, innocent curiosity on his face. “The one you love.”

Daemon looks at the boy, and he knows who he is, he does, he knows all of his children down to their very core. But there’s something different about the Lucerys standing next to him and the Lucerys sinking beneath the depths under him. Despite the internal war that he feels over the boy, Daemon will always love his children regardless of the things they’ve done or the things they’ve gone through to survive and come back to him. So, his answer will always be the same.

“You don’t have to prove yourself, Lucerys, I know who you are,” Daemon says, and he feels so tired, thoroughly exhausted as Lucerys gives him a confused look.

“Kepa,” Lucerys says, brows furrowed, “this is your dream, what do I need to prove?”

“I’ve never dreamed of you before,” Daemon pauses and corrects himself, “well, of the current you.”

“You’re dreaming, Kepa,” Lucerys says again as he crouches down, placing his hands on Daemon’s shoulders and giving him a little shake, “wake up.”

Around them, the storm rages harder, and Aemond is still circling, searching. Lucerys looks up, frowning as Vhagar seems to get bigger, closer. He isn’t afraid as he turns away from her to focus on Daemon who is admittedly spiraling as he looks from his drowning son to the one patting his cheek.

“Lucerys,” Daemon says as he looks into bright blue eyes, reaching out to touch the white hair that hadn’t been there before Ae-, before. “I love you no matter what you do, I would hope that you know that.”

“Yes, of course Kepa,” Lucerys says, but it’s got that tone to it, the one Rhaenyra uses when she wants to soothe him. Lucerys had always been good at it too, attached to her skirts as he was. “If you don’t mind waking up before the dream dragon descends, that would be greatly appreciated.”

The words register in his brain and Daemon looks up to see that Vhagar is approaching. Daemon knows he’s dreaming, has known since he’d stumbled through that endless hallway, but the ingrained instincts of a father kicks in and Daemon finds himself standing, Dark Sister in hand, as he steps around Lucerys. 

“Or you could do that too, I suppose,” he hears Lucerys say faintly behind him, chagrined. 

Daemon knows that he’s dreaming, and he’s not sure if that thought is what makes him think he could take Vhagar down without Caraxes. However, having his son behind him makes him determined to make sure Vhagar doesn’t get past him. To make sure that Kinslayer doesn’t finish the job. He’s prepared to make his stand, to swing his sword with all his might to protect what’s his.

Before he can, he feels hands on his back, and he can’t even manage to feel betrayed before he’s hitting the water. When he’d tried to save Lucerys the water had been unyielding, so Daemon had been prepared to get right back up. So he’s caught off guard when he falls into the water.

So surprised that he sits up with a shout.

The first thing he hears is a crunch he knows well, followed by a pained inhale he doesn’t know as well. Immediately after he feels a weight on his lap and that’s what has him opening his eyes and looking down.

Watery blue eyes glare up at him as Lucerys covers his face and that same thrill of dragon recognizing dragon shoots through him as he stares down at his son in the flesh, frozen in shock. It takes Daemon’s mind too long to realize what had happened. But he snaps out of it when he realizes Lucerys’ hands are wet with blood. 

The next few moments are a complete mess, with Daemon reaching for Lucerys as Lucerys tries to roll away from him. However, Daemon is an expert child wrangler and gets a firm grip on Lucerys and tugs him closer, smacking the boy’s hands out of his way. 

Lucerys is still glaring at him, eyes wet and face bloody but he lets Daemon touch his nose and doesn’t flinch.

“I suppose I don’t need to ask if you’re really here,” Daemon says, because despite his own tumultuous emotions, he is still, at his core, an asshole.

“You broke my nose,” Lucerys says, bewildered, and his voice is a nasally mess but Daemon ignores it as he realizes Lucerys’ nose is perfectly fine. The blood has already stopped flowing, but Daemon had certainly heard it break, knew the sound of a broken nose intimately.

Lucerys seems to know exactly what he’s searching for and grins, a sharp bloody thing as he tips his head up in that way Rhaenyra always does when she’s about to say something particularly Queen-ly. 

“My men don’t say it to my face, but they call me Lucerys the Undying. A broken nose is nothing,” he says, proud and pleased as Daemon stops prodding. 

Daemon sits there, with his son on his lap, the lower half of his face covered in his own blood, and doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’s been wanting to see his son since he’d heard the news of his death, and that desire had only worsened after the letters. Now he’s here and Daemon feels the need to cling to his son and cry but he also wants to lock Lucerys in the most secure tower he could find.

Perhaps he could take over Pinkmaiden and hide him there until Lucerys was old and gray. The suspicious look on Lucerys’ face as he begins to lean away lets him know the boy is onto him, so Daemon does what feels natural.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Lucerys Velaryon,” Daemon says, crossing his arms.

Lucerys looks at him in confusion, that haughty look disappearing as a more familiar expression takes over, that of a son who has been caught. Daemon is the one grinning now and isn't ashamed at all to land the well deserved finishing touch.

“Quickly before I send for your mother.”

Daemon relishes the shocked, betrayed expression on Lucerys’ face. No matter how long he’s been gone or how much he’s changed, one thing hasn’t changed at all: Lucerys will do absolutely anything to make sure his mother isn’t disappointed in him.

Daemon has no problems using that to his benefit either.

Chapter Text

The very next morning, Simon Strong finds himself once more surrounded by Riverlords, all of them now that Lord Blackwood was present, along with King Consort Daemon Targaryen and not one, but two, princes of the realm. He had hoped the boy had been a ghost last night, and even after finding out he was very real, he had hoped the boy would be the one to force his father to see reason. 

At the moment, Simon has no idea what the young prince is doing besides watching his father as the Riverlords discuss the current issues. He’s been rather quiet, the prince, and hadn’t acknowledged the bewildered stares the Riverlords had given him upon seeing him there. Instead, he was drumming on the table with one hand and watching Daemon even though he wasn’t the one speaking. The prince finally speaks up when Daemon lifts the cup Alys had given him earlier.

“What are you drinking?” Lucerys asks, cutting off the conversation without a care as Daemon turns to him.

“Just something to calm my nerves,” Daemon offers in return, completely unbothered by the confused silence as Lucerys leans over to take it from him.

He raises the cup and sniffs at the liquid inside under Daemon’s curious gaze and Alys’ watchful one before he hums and sets it down, noticeably out of Daemon’s reach.

“Who made this for you?” 

“My prince,” one of the Lords cuts in, and still manages to power on when Lucerys turns to look at them, “perhaps we should continue with our meeting?”

“Why?” Lucerys asks, brows raising as he looks at the confused and slightly offended faces, “I already have a plan. Surely you didn’t think I came without one?”

“Oh? Pray tell,” Daemon says, and Simon has heard plenty of tones from Daemon since his unreasonably long stay, but he hasn’t heard this one before. He has no idea if it’s good or bad either.

“Simple, you all will wait right here until my men show up. Initially I was going to visit each and every one of your Houses to make sure you were loyal to my mother, so it’s quite convenient that you all are here. You will send for your men, who should be able to get here before mine, and I will do what I can to get them up to snuff, and then we will take King’s Landing. Very simple, really.” 

“If it were that easy, don’t you think we would’ve done that already?” 

“I never said it would be easy, but I do think that there is a bit of confusion here,” Lucerys says, standing up.

Next to him Prince Daeron looks alarmed and Benjicot looks absolutely fascinated as the prince gives the Lords at the table a smile that doesn’t manage to reach his eyes.

“I hope that you all understand that the reason you continue to draw breath is because I believe you to be loyal to my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. If I even get an inkling of doubt that that isn’t the case, then I will burn this castle down with all of you inside it and then I’ll burn down each and every one of your Houses, and end your lines, down to the squalling babes and wandering bastards.”

Despite the many Lords and Ladies dotting the table, the room is eerily quiet as they stare at the boy who is still smiling pleasantly even as he continues.

“My mother will sit on the Iron Throne before the year ends regardless of the decisions made in this room. So, you all can sit here and enjoy Ser Strong’s overwhelming hospitality and be good little Lords and Ladies until my men arrive and the war starts in earnest. Doesn’t that sound simple?”

The Lords look amongst themselves and Simon can tell they’re upset, outraged even at this young boy who didn’t seem intimidated by them at all. It was a drastic difference from the way they’d backed Daemon into a corner, dangling their allegiance over his head and forcing his hand. It is the little Tully that stands to speak.

“My Prince,” the young Lord starts, and the others shuffle about, pleased in the knowledge that Oscar would represent them, “that is no way to secure our allegiance.”

“I do not need your allegiance, Lord Tully, as I am not the one who will rule Westeros,” Lucerys cuts in easily, tilting his head, “for now, I need only for you all to sit right where you are.”

“And if we don’t sit still?” Lord Frey asks.

Lucerys laughs, and his father, who had been watching the entire exchange closely, shifts as Lucerys turns to him and says something to him in High Valyrian that has his father letting out a surprised bark of laughter.

“Lord Frey, I admire your tenacity but it is high time that everyone remembers who my family is and where we come from. I can say and do as I please because I have a dragon who would eat you and your men and still have room for the remaining Lords and their men. Does that answer your question?”

Lord Frey splutters and Benjicot struggles to hold in his laughter as the Lords look amongst themselves. None of them had forgotten about the dragons, but none of the Targaryens in recent times had ever used their dragons the way Lucerys was threatening to use his.

“It would be quite damaging for Queen Rhaenyra’s reign to begin like this don’t you think? With you threatening everyone with your dragon?” Lord Piper asks.

“This would’ve never happened if you all had remained steadfast in your loyalty,” Lucerys returns easily, shutting up the Lords as he shrugs, “I will do what I must to make sure my family survives the usurpers. It is up to you if you want to live long enough to see my mother’s prosperous reign.”

The Lords exchange glances once more, realizing pressuring the prince will not end in their favor like it had with Daemon. It is, once again, Oscar who is forced to speak.

“We have already pledged our allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra, our loyalty is unchanging. You need not threaten us with dragonfire.” 

“Good,” Lucerys says, clapping his hands once as his smile widens. 

Simon thinks that only he and Daemon are the only ones to notice the way Prince Daeron doesn’t relax even as the other Lords sigh in relief, thankful that they hadn’t ended their lineage with this one conversation.

“Now, I plan to do a little patrolling with my father, but first, I’d love to speak with whoever crafted this fascinating concoction for him,” Lucerys says, turning to look at Alys.

Surprisingly, Alys doesn’t flinch under that terrifying gaze and merely tilts her head up. Daemon looks as if he wants to say something but pauses when Lucerys gives him a look. Prince Daeron looks skyward for a moment but seems to remember his Gods have already forsaken him before he looks to Prince Lucerys instead.

The Riverlords can do nothing as Lucerys gives them a perfectly respectful bow before following after Alys. Benjicot quickly follows after with Prince Daeron right behind. Eventually, the Lords look to Daemon who merely stands and grabs Dark Sister.

“Lords,” Daemon offers, his tone filled with barely restrained humor, “Ladies, I do believe this meeting is finished for the day.”

Then he too slips out of the room, and Simon wouldn’t dare say Daemon was skipping, but by the Gods it was close.

When all eyes eventually fall on him, Simon finds himself clearing his throat and looking down at his meal.

“The meat is quite tender today,” is all he can offer up.

“I suppose it is,” the young Lord Tully offers in return, dazed and confused.

“I suppose we should be lucky he’ll be Driftmark’s problem after all of this,” Lord Frey offers into the silence.

It is a unanimous decision to raise their cups and drink to that.

Alys is not afraid, has no reason to fear the boy that follows her into the kitchen, his little pets nipping at his heels. She isn’t afraid when the young prince orders his pets and father to sit out of hearing distance, and certainly isn’t afraid when he places the cup in front of her. 

“You know,” the boy says with a thoughtful expression on his face, “I quite like witches.”

Alys stiffens, glancing over the prince’s shoulder at Daemon. He looks curious, but it’s obvious he can’t hear anything they’re saying. It doesn’t help that Lord Benjicot is entertaining himself by drumming his fingers on the table. Judging by Prince Daeron’s exasperated expression, that’s where Benjicot is getting his entertainment from.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Alys says, “I was merely helping your father sleep.”

“My father doesn’t trust anyone that doesn’t share his blood,” Lucerys replies, “and yet in the short time he’s been here, you’ve managed to gain his trust, and you didn’t even have to sleep with him to get it.”

“I would never-” Alys starts, only for the prince to wave his hand.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Don’t worry, I admire your skills, truly I do. I just don’t appreciate the fact that you’re using them on my father.”

“I’m not doing anything to him,” Alys insists, and frowns when the prince pushes the cup towards her, the red liquid sloshing gently.

“Then prove it.”

With a scoff, Alys reaches out and takes the cup. Her concoctions have never tasted the best, mostly because she had never tried to make them taste good. Whoever she gave it to would drink it regardless. So, she doesn’t grimace at the taste and instead places the empty cup in front of Lucerys, giving him a look.

“Very good,” Lucerys says, and Alys relaxes when he pushes away from her, “now if you’d follow me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alys asks, tense once more as Lucerys gestures for her to follow.

“I don’t know how long it takes to kick in so you’ll just have to stay by my side for the rest of the day so I can watch over the results. My darling dragon is a bit snippy after bringing Benji over. Perhaps Caraxes will allow you to mount him.”

It’s a statement, Alys can tell it’s a statement but his tone raises slightly in question as he turns to Daemon.

“He’s a bit picky about Andals, but he might be a little more accepting of the First Men,” Daemon says, and his tone is distinctly teasing but Alys is well aware it’s towards Lucerys, not her. However, Daemon’s curiosity has been piqued at the last bit of their conversation and Alys had the feeling he’d enjoy interrogating her while on dragonback.

“I’m sure he’ll be more focused on our hunt,” Lucerys says, and Daemon perks right up, almost like a dragon himself.

“I thought you said patrolling?” 

“Well, I’ve already spooked the Riverlords, I didn’t want to tell them what I’m hoping to find.”

“What are you hoping to find?” Prince Daeron asks, and he seems to be the only one besides Alys that’s rightfully unnerved.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Uncle,” Lucerys says, and doesn’t seem to notice the way Daemon frowns, looking between the two of them, “all you have to do is wait here with Benji and make sure the Riverlords do as I told them to.“

“And if they don’t?” the little Lord Benjicot asks, leaning forward as Lucerys passes him.

“Do whatever you like,” Lucerys says over his shoulder, “and if they have a problem with it, remind them that my dragon is always up for a snack.”

Ser Gwayne pants, tucking behind a tree as the large dragon flies upward, its wings blowing harshly against the branches above him. Ser Cole is just as breathless, but his eyes are on the sky, watching for the dragon. It had caught them off guard, and with their men still on the mend, it had been difficult to dive back into the trees before the dragon was in firing range. 

They could hear the dragon above them, and Ser Cole raised his hand for silence as he watched. The men were terrified, but at least they all knew that no matter how badly the patrolling dragon wanted them, its rider would not allow it to destroy the forest they were hiding in. So, it was a matter of playing a waiting game.

They had to wait out the dragon for a good forty minutes, but they all held strong. There was nothing else they could do, any attempts to leave the trees would end in their fiery deaths. After witnessing the terror that is dragon flame, the men were more than happy to do their best to become a tree themselves as the dragon overhead circled and circled. 

Eventually, the rider turns their dragon back towards Dragonstone and Ser Gwayne allows himself a sigh of relief. 

It takes them a while to check on their men, tend to wounds that had managed to bleed through the bandages. Their supplies were low, but Ser Gwayne could only hope that it was enough to get them back to King’s Landing.

If they were able to make it back. The patrols from Dragonstone made their journey last much longer than it should, with them relying on the trees as cover. With no one knowing exactly where they were since Aemond had left them without the protection of a dragon, they hadn’t heard anything and that made them even more cautious. At this point, he could only hope they’d make it back to their King still on the throne.

They had been traveling for another hour or so when they heard it, the sound coming from the back of their group. It had been a choked off sound of terror that had Ser Gwayne and Ser Cole turning. At the back, one of their men was standing still, his eyes on the sky and his face as pale as death. 

After Rook’s Rest, there was only one thing that could terrify a knight like this, but he still screamed anyway.

“Dragons!”

In his hysteria, Ser Gwayne couldn’t help but think: dragons? Plural? But he didn’t have the time to check for himself as his men ran for the trees, praying to the Seven that they would get out of this safely and relatively unharmed.

The Seven must’ve been unable to hear his prayers as for the very first time, a dragon rider finally decided that catching them was much more important than a meager collection of trees.

As the first lick of flames caught, Ser Gwayne and Ser Cole could only wonder if this was finally it for them.

Chapter Text

Ser Criston Cole has seen a lot of things in his life and has done a lot of things in his life, both good and bad. He’s sure most people would condemn some of his actions, but he has found that there’s only a few things he regrets. 

One of those things is agreeing to try and take Rook’s Rest. If he had insisted on staying, he would not have had to see what dragons were truly capable of, the destruction they could cause in mere seconds. He had thought that Rook’s Rest would’ve been the worst of it. It had been a battle and so there wasn’t much to do when their opponent used all of the weapons at their disposal. 

Now though, with a massive black dragon burning down the trees they were hiding in, Ser Cole couldn’t help but think that none of this would’ve happened if he had stayed in King’s Landing, guarding the King as was his duty. 

Instead, he’s corralling his men and trying his hardest to keep them alive. Most, if not all, of his men were hurt in some fashion, but nothing motivated them more than trying to stay alive. Ser Gwayne was at his side, both of them doing their best to find a way to escape.

He wouldn’t call the collection of trees they’re hiding in a forest, it had just been enough for them to hide from the first patrol, so it doesn’t take them long to reach the other side. However, none of his men are able to take a breath of relief, instead they all cry out in surprise and fear as a very familiar nasally cry greets them.

Right in front of them is the long serpentine neck and face of the Blood Wyrm. Ser Cole stumbles into a halt, heart in his throat as the red dragon roars right in their faces. Next to him, Ser Gwayne lets out a harsh breath and Ser Cole can only wonder if this is his first time being face to face with a dragon.

The Blood Wyrm is growling, a throaty thing that the men can feel in their chest, but he isn’t attacking. Instead, he lowers his head enough so they can see his rider. Daemon Targaryen stares down at them, his expression positively gleeful.

“Well met Sers,” Daemon greets pleasantly, as if they aren’t close enough to his dragon to feel its hot, foul breath. 

Behind them, the burning trees crackle and pop and sweat drips down Cole’s armor at the proximity. His men shuffle about and all Cole can do is wonder what his next steps will be. All he can try to do now is keep his men alive.

“Daemon Targaryen,” Ser Gwayne greets, and although he looks confident, there isn’t much strength one can gather when surrounded by death. “We were under the impression you were in Harrenhal.”

Daemon hums, leaning down to pat at the Blood Wyrm’s neck. The dragon lifts his head and lets out that nasally cry of his. It is completely unexpected when a monstrous cry responds from behind them. 

It’s one thing, Cole decides, to stand right in front of the Blood Wyrm and his rider, but another completely to turn and see another dragon, trampling through the burning trees. He had only caught a glimpse of it earlier before it had started torching everything. Now, the massive thing, and it is much bigger than the Blood Wyrm, is putting out the fires it had started with ease due to its mass. 

Behind him, one of his men collapses in shock. Stuck between two enemy dragons, with one that has to be of a size with Vhagar, Ser Cole can’t blame them. 

They can only watch as the massive dragon lowers its head and a boy appears, looking so much smaller than he probably is on a dragon that big. Ser Cole, who knows the royal family better than any other man here save for Daemon himself, has to do a double take. Because the boy that’s looking down at them should be dead, Aemond had confirmed it himself.

And yet, despite the shock of white hair and lighter eyes, he recognizes Prince Lucerys easily enough. How could he not when he had had to watch over them for years before Rhaenyra had run off to Dragonstone with her children. 

The boy dismounts his dragon which apparently prompts Daemon to do the same, and before long, Daemon and Lucerys are standing before them with a woman Cole has never seen before. She seems distracted, staring at the still smoking trees.

“Hello,” Lucerys greets, looking them all over with wide, bright eyes. 

There’s an ax and a bow strapped to his back and Cole does not remember teaching the boy how to use either weapon. In fact, he hadn’t really taught the boy how to use any weapon, and so he can’t help but wonder what the boy had been up to in his time away. 

“You look like you’ve been through a lot,” Lucerys says, “is this everyone?”

“Looks like,” Daemon says, before Gwayne or Cole could consider speaking up, “although you lot are being quite rude, not greeting the King and a Prince of the Realm.”

“The last I checked,” Ser Gwayne says as he looks between the two riders, “the King is back in King’s Landing.”

“And now you’re committing treason,” Daemon says cheerfully.

“I was hoping you’d commit treason,” Lucerys says, “as we don’t have enough room for all of you.”

That, more than Daemon’s cheerful disposition is what makes Cole and his men weary. It’s only Daemon, Prince Lucerys and the random woman, but the two dragons still breathing on them keeps them still.

“I only need the Hightower and Cole,” the Prince says as he turns to Daemon, “how would you like to handle this?”

“You’ve been handling things so far,” Daemon says, crossing his arms, “I’d like to see for myself what you’ve been up to.”

“Once the King hears of this, you do know that they’ll storm Harrenhal and Dragonstone,” Ser Cole says as the Prince pulls out his bow. 

“I think you mean if,” Lucerys says as he approaches.

“What?”

“If the usurper hears of this. I don’t even think he knows what I’ve done to Oldtown let alone that I’ve taken Casterly Rock.”

“You?” Cole says, baffled.

Surely Lucerys couldn’t possibly have taken Lannisport let alone Oldtown. Sure he was a bastard capable of cutting Aemond, but he was soft, and had always been the weakest of Rhaenyra’s brood. However, the massive dragon watching them is probably what had allowed him to do whatever he claims to have done. 

The Prince ignores him, walks straight past him and Gwayne without a care of the swords on their hips. Instead, he eyes the remaining men they have, an excruciatingly low number after the battle.

“By supporting the usurper, you all have been named criminals for committing treason against the true ruler of Westeros. The crime for treason is, of course, death, but I am willing to offer you an alternative.”

Lucerys turns and points, “Antlers is that way,” he points to the south, “Duskendale is that way, which I believe you’ve taken for your own. I will give you a chance to escape.”

The soldiers stare at the Prince, who seems content to stare right back at them, a small smile on his face.

“You can’t possibly think they’d believe you,” Ser Gwayne says.

“Oh?” Lucerys asks, turning to him and tilting his head, “why not?”

Ser Gwayne doesn’t need to say a word as he gestures towards the two dragons caging them in. His expression says it all.

“Ah,” Lucerys says as if he’d honestly forgotten about them. “Don’t worry, they won’t attack. Instead you’ll be trying to outrun our arrows,” Lucerys says, lifting his bow, shaking it a little and Gwayne decides in that moment that he hates the terrible little prince.

“I promised my father we’d go hunting, and so that’s what we’ll do. You can go in groups and if you outrun our arrows, we’ll let you go. Of course I won’t force you, but anyone who chooses to stay will be fed to my dragon.”

It’s not really much of a choice, after that.

Prince Daeron finds himself sitting at the table once more, surrounded by the Riverlords and Benji, with Ser Strong doing his best to keep the mood upbeat. Daeron had assumed they were here to eat, and yet he can’t help but feel like the Riverlords want something from him. 

“So, you must be close to Prince Lucerys,” one of the many Lords asks and Prince Daeron frowns, blaming Lucerys for not getting the Lords to properly introduce themselves.

It was much too late to try for introductions now, so Daeron just looks at the Lord that chose to ask such a stupid question. 

“I am a prisoner of war,” Daeron says, bland, “I’m quite sure his dragon ate my dragon alive.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence before another Lord tries again.

“He doesn’t treat you like a prisoner.”

“Considering he kills everyone he believes to be his enemy, I don’t think he knows how to treat a prisoner.”

The following silence is certainly more awkward and horrified as the Lords look amongst themselves. It is then that Daeron realizes they were probably trying to learn more about Lucerys, perhaps to see if he was serious about the threats he’d made. Daeron scoffs to himself and returns to poking at the stew.

He was getting quite tired of stew, but he couldn’t judge considering how run down Harrenhal was. Ser Strong was definitely doing his best.

The room had been silent for a moment, the Lords clearly trying to figure out a different approach as Daeron prodded at a lump of potato and Benji slurped like the barbarian Lucerys was encouraging him to be, before the doors open and one of Ser Strong’s men steps in.

“King Daemon and Prince Lucerys have returned,” the man clearly wants to say more, but Lucerys pushes right in, dragging someone in after him, as if he couldn’t possibly be bothered to wait long enough for the long list of titles meant to follow their return.

Prince Daeron immediately recognizes his uncle, who in turn immediately recognizes him. It doesn’t help that Lucerys is heading straight for him, that wide eyed look spelling absolutely nothing good for him as the Prince smiles when their eyes meet.

“Uncle,” Lucerys says as Daemon steps into the room with Alys right behind him, “I found a Hightower.”

“So you did,” Daeron says, because he isn’t exactly sure what Lucerys wants from him.

“Do you like him?” Lucerys asks, coming to a stop in front of him and completely ignoring the confused Lords watching them.

“He is my uncle,” Daeron says slowly, just as confused as they are.

“I’m going to kill him,” Lucerys says casually, watching Daeron’s face, “he’s actively fighting for the usurper.”

Well, he supposes that’s true. But Lucerys is still looking at him like he wants to hear something specific and Daeron has no idea what it is. Does he want him to agree that his uncle deserves to die? Does he want him to beg for his uncle to live? It’s hard to tell what Lucerys wants and he doubts anyone but the prince himself knows what he wants Daeron to say. 

“I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind,” Daeron says, and to him, he thinks he’s only stating the obvious but Lucerys frowns at him.

“Do you want to change my mind?” 

“My Prince,” Ser Strong says, perhaps the only one in the room besides Daemon who has the courage to interrupt the weird Targaryen courting ritual happening before their very eyes. “I see your patrol was successful.”

For a second, it looks as if Lucerys was going to ignore Ser Strong completely, as he stares Daeron down for a few moments more before turning to give Ser Strong a pleasant smile. Ser Gwayne is silent at his side, pale and drawn as if he’s seen something truly indescribable.

“Of course it was. We’ve also captured Ser Cole but he was a little less willing than our friend here,” Lucerys says, turning to look up at Ser Gwayne. 

“Apparently they lost Rook’s Rest and had been making their way back to Duskendale. However, routine patrols from Dragonstone made their journey difficult,” Lucerys explains, “is that the gist of it, Hightower?”

Ser Gwayne angles his head in a sharp nod but says nothing. It does not go unnoticed that the knight absolutely refuses to meet Lucerys’ gaze. 

The Lords get more information from Ser Gwayne, who gives it easily enough in rough stops and starts. Despite looking relatively unharmed, if not a little dirty, Ser Gwayne looks spooked the entire time, haunted. This seems to amuse Lucerys and Daemon, which only makes it worse for Ser Gwayne. 

The entire exchange unnerves the Riverlords who, after learning what became of Ser Gwayne’s men, realize that Lucerys is a lot more dangerous than they’d originally thought.

It is only after the young Prince has left, with Ser Gwayne, Daemon, Prince Daeron and Lord Benjicot on his heels do the remaining Lords realize what type of situation they’ve found themselves in.

“He treated those men like they were animals,” Lord Piper says, faint. 

It was hard to imagine, a field filled with dead soldiers who had only done what they were told by those in power. To think, two men had killed them all and left them there, simply because of who they had pledged their allegiance to. 

It was quite the awakening for the Riverlords who thought they still had a chance at controlling the wild Prince. Seeing Ser Gwayne, who had witnessed it all, made the Riverlords realize that Prince Lucerys meant what he had said to them. So in the quiet of such a sobering realization, they all wordlessly came to the same conclusion: If they wanted to live to see the end of this war, they would do as the prince asked.

They could figure everything else out after the war.

Chapter Text

Daemon sits, arms crossed as he watches his son. He couldn’t tell if Lucerys was playing with the Hightower runt or actually trying to spar with him, but either way, the runt was doing his very best to either block the ax coming his way or dodge it entirely.

Considering the fact that Lucerys wasn’t giving the boy any time to lift his sword after swinging it, he seemed more inclined to dodge more often than not.

Pathetic, really. 

But it was more amusing to watch than the apparent lessons Gwayne Hightower was giving the little Blackwood. Completely against his will of course, considering it had been Gwayne himself who’d been dodging that wicked ax before the runt had stepped in.

Lucerys had definitely been toying with the older Hightower.

Daemon just couldn’t figure his son out. In the few weeks he’s been here, his son had been content to harass his prisoners while still managing to treat them well. They were fed and watered properly and none of them had been harmed despite his choice of exercise. Criston probably had the worst treatment, and even then that was mainly isolation. He probably preferred it considering how he often talked down about Rhaenyra and their children. 

Alys was decidedly a prisoner now despite not being locked away like the others. Instead, Lucerys insists on her drinking the concoctions she’d been giving Daemon and watching her spiral. Even now, she was standing off to the side, no longer allowed into her kitchens without supervision, staring off at the tree line with wet eyes. She had yet to tell anyone who or what she was seeing, but she hadn’t caved in and admitted she’d been drugging Daemon either.

On the one hand, Daemon wanted to be rid of her for it, for the way she’d tricked him. He’d been distracted after his argument with Rhaenyra, her words still ringing in his head even as he flew to Harrenhal. He hadn’t had the best judgment and Alys had taken advantage of it. But on the other hand, she had helped him in the end. He had relied on her council for a time and she hadn’t led him astray there. However, he supposes his form of mercy would’ve been to kill her instead of what Lucerys was doing. 

Now, with his head clear, he can’t help but think about how much more violent his son has become. It’s not surprising, not really, considering his family was always prone to violence. It was only Rhaenyra, an absolutely amazing mother, that had kept them from being like Daemon. Like Maegor. Besides, Lucerys had already shown his capability for violence when pushed at a very young age. He was a sweet boy of course, kind to all, but he would always be a dragon. 

He had been the one to cut Aemond so deeply after all.

Of course he had done it to protect his brother, but the fact that he had that protective instinct at all meant that Lucerys was willing to hurt others if it meant protecting what he deemed his. Moreover, Daemon couldn’t possibly imagine anyone coming back from an extremely violent near-death experience peacefully. Daemon wanted to kill half of the Realm on any given day simply because the wind blew too hard, so he couldn’t fault Lucerys for acting on it after getting a second chance at life. 

What he could fault his son for was the teasing looks he was giving that Hightower runt even while swinging an ax at him! 

The Fourteen were doing this on purpose, he knew it. They’d given him his son back in one piece, although perhaps not fully sane, only to shove that runt in his face. He’d mentioned killing the boy once, but Lucerys had disagreed. When pushed to explain, Lucerys only stated that they couldn’t be marked as kinslayers and Daemon could only pray that was the only reason.

Daemon could admit he’d left his family behind in a huff, but as he watched Lucerys pull the runt back up, he couldn’t help but miss his family. Specifically his daughters, Raena would certainly set Lucerys straight. He’d just have to wait to reunite with his family. 

Until then though, Daemon stands and moves towards his son, a frown already on his face. 

His initial goal had been to separate the two, to herd his son off to terrorize someone else, anyone else, but they’re all distracted when Ser Simon comes striding over. Daemon can’t help his brows from raising because this is the first time he’s ever seen the portly man move faster than his unbothered stride. Now though, he looks a bit wild about the eyes as he bypasses Daemon entirely, only stopping when Lucerys turns to face him.

“Your Highness,” Simon says, “A Ser Gendry Baratheon has arrived-,” Lucerys’ eyes light up and Daemon knows whatever else Simon plans on saying falls on deaf ears as the boy turns and strides right off. 

“-we really don’t have enough rooms for the men,” Simon says to Lucerys’ back, his voice trailing off weakly before he turns to Daemon.

Daemon doesn’t have any answers for him either and finds himself amused as Ser Simon visibly collects himself. 

“Well then, shouldn’t we go greet Lucerys’ men?” Daemon asks, not even bothering to hide his smile at Simon’s flat look.

It doesn’t matter anyway, not when little Benjicot shoots off after Lucerys, with Prince Daeron slowly trailing after him. Ser Gwayne and Alys remain, the former staring at Daemon and the latter mumbling under her breath. All Daemon has to do is let his hand rest on the pommel of Dark Sister and Ser Gwayne is immediately moving towards him. Ser Simon takes it upon himself to steer his niece towards the front.

When Simon mentioned not having enough room, Daemon isn’t actually sure how many men he’d been expecting. Lucerys had mentioned he had plenty, more than enough to have plans to head to King’s Landing without taking any men from Harrenhal and the Riverlords. But actually seeing the actual swarm of men, so many that they couldn’t all fit in the courtyard was eye opening. 

He saw men and women from several different Houses, noting all of those who had pledged their loyalty to Rhaenyra and some he hadn’t even considered visiting due its proximity to Oldtown. The swarm, because really Daemon didn’t know what else to call it, was solely focused on what was in the center, and Daemon could already guess who was there. Considering the drastic height differences in the center, Daemon knew that those were the Baratheons. 

It’s easy enough to make his way through the swarm, mostly because they all move out of his way, and Daemon takes in the respectfully bowed faces as he goes. They’re not the cleanest bunch, but Daemon can’t fault them considering their journey. There aren’t really any other signs that they’d been traveling for however long with them buzzing in excitement.

At first, he had assumed they were finally happy to settle down and clean off the weeks of travel, but he quickly realizes as he finally reaches the center that their destination has nothing to do with it. Instead, as he steps around a man that’s even taller than him, and much wider to boot, he realizes they’re all thrilled to see Lucerys again. 

Lucerys is focused on the tallest man, one with an ax that looks even more dangerous than the one Luke has taken to carrying around. As Daemon gets closer, he realizes the man is reporting to Lucerys, telling him about their success in the Golden Tooth and any other small town they’ve come across that didn’t bend the knee and how they’d been able to restock at House Darry before continuing on to Harrenhal. 

It’s fascinating to watch, and Daemon doesn’t mind watching at all. He thinks if it were anyone else, he’d be rather frustrated at the idea of someone else being in charge, but he finds himself beyond proud. The number of men his son has accumulated is massive and it’s clear that every single one of them is loyal to Lucerys.

So, he observes as Lucerys gives his men orders. There wasn’t nearly enough room for them in Harrenhal, but Daemon, and the Riverlords, who had come out upon hearing all of the noise, can only watch as the swarm breaks apart into teams that none of them understand. Instead, Daemon saunters after his son and keeps his laughter to himself as the Riverlords and Ser Simon follow along, watching as in an impressively short time, Lucerys’ men set up camp.

A large group, mainly of the burliest of the bunch, are the ones who set up the tents, with a batch of women darting in between them with ropes that they toss this way and that. Another group breaks off and heads off into the woods. The next group, a mix of women and men, specifically the more slender ones, settle right in the middle of all the chaos, setting pots and pans and the like as a man Daemon decides is Gedmund Peake starts hauling over impressively large rocks.

“What-” Lord Frey starts, faint, “what are they doing?”

“Well,” Ser Simon says, looking just as baffled as the rest, “they’re certainly well prepared.”

There isn’t much else to say as they watch as the men that had gone off towards the forest return with an abundance of sticks, tossing them into the circle of rocks Ser Peake had made. A few of them are tugging logs with them, and since they’d gone into the forest weaponless, Daemon has to assume the trees had already fallen. The men set the logs around the pit they’d made before dispersing into other groups. Everyone was doing something, Daemon decides as a group of particularly dusty men wander off towards the God’s Eye. Ser Simon makes a faint noise but doesn’t do anything to stop them.

Deciding to be productive himself, Daemon moves past the gawking Riverlords and heads towards one of the larger tents. It was one of the first to be set up and Daemon isn’t surprised at all to see his son and three of his men inside, with Lucerys standing in front of a table with a map spread across the top. He’s only a little surprised to see Gwayne there, but the Hightower looks distinctly uncomfortable. Daemon can only assume it’s because of the large man standing right next to him, even if the man isn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention.

“Leaving me out of the war talk, Lukītsos? I’m hurt,” Daemon says in greeting, watching as the men immediately bow to him without question.

“No,” Lucerys disagrees, and then his tone lowers in an imitation of someone as he says, “No war talk before dinner,” before shooting the man to his right a flat look. 

“I do not sound like that, my prince,” the man, who does in fact sound like that, says calmly before turning to Daemon, “Ser Gendry Baratheon, Your Grace.”

“Ser Bran Baratheon, Your Grace,” says the one standing next to Gwayne.

“Lady Miriam Tyrell, Your Grace,” says the young woman standing on Gwayne’s other side and it’s then that Daemon decides she’s the one Gwayne is actually wary of as she rocks back and forth on her heels, smiling pleasantly. 

“That one’s off limits,” Lucerys says to her without turning around, “I have plans for him. There’s one in the cellar you can play with, Benji will show you where he is.”

The young Tyrell bows to Lucerys and then Daemon before she slips out of the tent so quietly that Daemon thinks that if he hadn’t been actively paying attention to her, he wouldn’t have even noticed her leave. Filing that thought for later, Daemon instead turns to Lucerys who seems content to fiddle around with the map, running his finger along the Kingsroad.

Ser Gendry must see the questions on Daemon’s face because he sighs and shifts his weight, “Miss Leona will be quite disheartened if you’re late to dinner,” he starts as he turns to Ser Bran who seems to catch on quickly.

“She had to barter quite viciously at House Darry to get some fancy spices,” Ser Bran intones, and Daemon snorts as the two men guilt his son into submission.

It was nice to see, Daemon thinks as both men herd a put upon Lucerys out of the tent. His son had grown so much, gone through so much, but he would always be kind at heart. He could kill as many men as he wanted and apparently burn down as many towns as they could build, but he could never disappoint a woman he cares about. It soothed something in Daemon to know that some things would never change.

So, it was with a small smile that Daemon followed after his son, watching the way his swarm seemed absolutely delighted to see him as they moved out of his way. The organized chaos of the swarm continued throughout dinner as everyone was served in droves. Daemon couldn’t decide if it was because he was their King or because he was the father of their prince, but either way, they made sure he was one of the first to be served and herded off to where his son was sitting. After that, it looked like a free for all to Daemon, but he knew there had to be a method to the madness since there wasn’t any violence.

At least, not during dinner.

“Men,” Ser Gendry says as soon as he finishes his meal, standing up and turning to ensure everyone was listening, “in honor of returning to our prince’s side, we Generals will accept any and all challengers until sunset. Those who wish to lead the charge into King’s Landing, this is your last chance to take our places!”

Over the loud cheers, Daemon finds himself tilting his head in confusion. Lucerys had told him plenty of things about his men, but he hadn’t heard about something like this. Next to him, the Hightower runt sighs, shaking his head.

“They’re always like this,” the runt says, “they’re insane, each and every one of them.”

“What are they doing?” Daemon asks as the men stomp their feet.

“Sparring,” the runt says, “those of lower rank have the right to challenge their superiors. If they win, they take their place.”

“And if they lose?” 

“Well it depends. When we were on the Arbor they had to run laps around the island, or sometimes they'd be on cleaning duty. The victor decides really.”

“And can anyone be challenged?” Daemon asks as a young man stands, causing the crowd to fall silent.

“Seems like it, but only those of a lower rank can initiate a challenge. It’s no fun if the Generals challenge each other or punch down, I suppose.”

“Ser Bran Baratheon,” that same young man says into the silence, “I challenge you! Will you accept?”

The crowd watches, wide eyed and hungry as Ser Bran stands, leaving his hammer as he places his hands on his hips. 

“I accept, but be prepared to run until your legs fall off if you lose.”

The swarm is fired up by Ser Bran’s response and Daemon wonders if House Darry can hear their war cry from here. He’s certain that Harrenhal hasn’t been this lively since his ancestors paid the castle a little visit and even then he doubted it was this loud. He gets to see, front and center, how well Lucerys’ men have trained and how prepared they are to storm King’s Landing for their prince. None of them, from the non-combatants to the weathered men they’d gathered during their journey, seemed to care that they might not live to eat the fruits of their labors, and yet all of them seemed positively delighted to be right where they were.

It was only an added bonus to see how terrified the Riverlords were of Lucerys’ swarm.

Chapter Text

Helaena looks down at King’s Landing, the city that she is supposed to be the Queen of. The city she has only ventured out into when her mother invited her to pray. She hasn’t gone lately because the Citadel is still protesting and keeping their doors closed. The fact that her mother is allowing it, that her grandsire is allowing it, means that the worst has come to pass.

Helaena knows this of course, what with the nightmares running rampant and keeping her awake. She’s barely been able to get an hour's worth of sleep before she’s waking with a scream. 

Her nephew has been very busy, and the Gods apparently want her to know every little detail, including the bits that haven’t come to pass yet. 

It’s fascinating, she thinks, her dreams had never been this vivid before Aemond went to visit the Baratheons. Before, her dreams were confusing things, bits and pieces that didn’t connect or make sense. She remembers she once had a dream of laying eggs shortly before Aegon had made her childhood bed their marital bed. Or once she’d had a dream of Aegon in Dorne, hiding out in a brothel as lions attempted to sniff him out.

Odd things like that, not the fire and blood that came with Lucerys and his dragon. Now, she dreams of towns and cities burnt to cinders, of families killed down to the very last. Her dreams are incredibly detailed and at this point, Helaena doesn’t even flinch at the grisly, bloody bits. 

Behind her, her door opens and Helaena blinks sleepily. She’s been half awake lately, barely aware of her surroundings. She’s chosen to stay in the nursery with her children, because they were the only ones that remained unharmed in the sleeping and waking world. The nursery was her safe haven from the dead that wandered the halls of the Red Keep, unaware of their fate.

Helaena doesn’t turn towards the door, she doesn’t need to, and she’s much more interested in watching the city. The vines she’d dreamed about were creeping slowly through Flea Bottom, and she can’t help but wonder what her nephew is up to. She doesn’t know her uncle well, but she doesn’t think that Daemon has a subtle bone in his body. Lucerys however, has shown himself to be quite cunning, and all Helaena can do is watch as the rose he’s snuck in sows their seeds.

“What’s caught your fancy now, my dear wife?” Aegon asks when it becomes obvious that Helaena will not acknowledge his presence unless he does something first. He steps closer to her, peering out the window and taking in the city that he now rules over.

“A rose has begun sowing its seeds-,” Helaena starts, pausing when Aegon snorts. When she turns to look at him, she isn’t surprised at all to see his goblet of wine.

“At least someone’s sowing their seeds,” he says into the goblet.

When Helaena doesn’t give him the response he’s looking for, Aegon sighs and sets the goblet down. He shifts his weight, looking skyward as he rolls his shoulders. He never knows how to interact with his sister, as a sibling or as a spouse. It never fails to amuse him to think about how they’d come together in the first place. His mother used to turn her head up at the mere notion of marrying off brother to sister, but the second their sister even mentioned the idea of Jacaerys wedding Helaena, she’d changed her tune quickly. So quickly in fact, that the siblings had little to no idea how to interact anymore. 

Helaena hadn’t changed much, she was as distant as she always was, but now she’d begun hiding up in the nursery. Aegon hadn’t been bothered by it, they’d done their duty as husband and wife and as King and Queen. There was no need for them to lay together and so he hadn’t felt the need to seek her out. His sister was as flat as a board and he preferred more bountiful pursuits. He was only here because their grandsire had been upset ever since Aemond had returned from whatever hole he’d hid himself in.

It had been fun at first, to watch their grandsire rage at the golden child. But Aegon had quickly lost interest when Otto’s ire had started targeting everyone in range. Without Cole here to distract Otto or his mother, the two were feeding off of each other’s negativity and Aegon certainly had no interest in being their target. As King, he could no longer sneak out of the castle, especially now with tensions so high and a war on the horizon.

So, here he was, entertaining his odd little wife.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Aegon sighs, because he really has nothing else to do, “what seeds are being sown? A new bastard eh? A noble sneaking out to play with a cute little barmaid? Fear fucking perhaps?”

“The vines are spreading, sowing seeds with the whispers of past victories that will lead up to the final victory. They promise no harm to the smallfolk that stay loyal to the Crown,” Helaena explains.

“Well of course we won’t hurt the smallfolk. A King cannot rule an empty city,” Aegon scoffs, shaking his head and turning away from his sister. “I knew Otto would figure something out eventually,” he adds on.

Helaena finally turns away from the window and watches her brother’s back. Unlike the rest of them, he prefers to keep his hair short, doesn’t seem to like it when anyone tries to grab him by the neck. It makes the bruise around his neck all the more visible to her. It’s been getting darker and darker as the days grow closer, and she watches the way it darkens now. Watches the way Aegon’s head tilts too far to the right as he moves away from her.

She knows she could say something now, that she could say some of the things she’s heard the Rose whisper in any bar and brothel that will grant her entry. She could even tell him that the Golden Men that guard the city are loyal to one man and one man alone and will grant him entry and join his side once more when the time comes. She could tell him, but she knows he will not heed her words. She looks past him instead, to her children playing happily, completely unaware of the war that was nearly over now. 

Perfectly unblemished, not a single scar or bruise on any of them. Their necks are not broken, and their eyes are still in their heads.

She looks at her children and she keeps quiet until Aegon is long gone.

She has made her choice, had made it a long time ago when she had refused to wear the Queen’s crown. It was their own fault for not noticing.

Aemond sighs, relaxing for the first time under Sylvi’s soft hands. He had missed her in his time away, as she was the only one who actually listened to him. He could tell her anything and knew she wouldn’t judge him for it, would only pull him closer. It had taken ages to slip out of the Red Keep, what with the tight guard schedule and his mother and grandsire sending him sharp looks. 

His grandsire was never happy with any of them, and it had only gotten worse with Aemond in particular when he’d told them what he’d done. His grandsire had no real feelings for Lucerys of course, but he was all about cunning plans and lying in wait for the right time to strike. However, his temper had gotten shorter and even shorter still with each loss and each reported loss. The tipping point was Oldtown, and Aemond returning alone without any idea of where their men were had made it worse.

His mother’s disappointment wasn’t particularly new, but it still stung. It did amuse him though, to realize that this was the most attention he’s gotten from the both of them since the day Lucerys had cut him. He vividly remembers the way his mother had fretted, worried, and raged in equal measure. She’s doing the same now, but Aemond is the cause instead of the victim and it doesn’t feel nearly as nice as it had back then. 

To think, he’d miss the days when he was learning how to navigate with one eye.

Sighing even deeper, Aemond allows himself to sink into Sylvi’s embrace. She doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t ask her to, and instead enjoys the silence. He allows himself to rest in her arms a little longer, noting the setting sun. Eventually he does get up, because even if his family is upset with him now, they’d unleash every knight they have to find him in such worrying times.

Sylvi sees him out and Aemond goes, admittedly taking his time. He goes through the alleys, exiting the Streets of Silk and passes through the Street of Sisters into Flea Bottom. The difference is noticeable but Aemond pays it no mind. He’s armed and even if his face and hair is covered, all he’d need to do is lower his hood and anyone untoward would turn the other way. So, he isn’t in a rush, and in fact slows down a bit. It’s a long walk anyway, getting back to the Red Keep.

There are plenty of people out and about despite the hour. The poor have to work much harder for their keep after all, and Aemond pays them no mind. 

That is, until he hears it.

“Kinslayer, kinslayer, are you afraid? The ghost told us to count your days! The ghost wants your head, the ghost wants you dead!”

Aemond turns, watching as a group of children slip through the streets, laughing as they chant treason, chasing after the one they’ve dubbed the ‘kinslayer’. Whatever verse they’ve made next is lost in the crowd even as Aemond follows after them.

Eventually, he loses the children and can only hear a disjointed, “Smallfolk, smallfolk, don’t be scared! The ghost says the Smallfolk will be spared,” before the little treasonous children are gone, swallowed into the dank filth of Flea Bottom.

Despite his anger, Aemond has to give up on the chase and ignores the looks he gets as he storms away. He finds that now, even with his mother and grandsire upset with him, he’d much rather be in the Red Keep than here. As he storms away, he finds himself bumping into a hooded figure, a woman by her shorter stature. Already irritated, Aemond storms past her and doesn’t much care to see exactly who he’d bumped into.

Behind him, the woman dusts herself off and wanders off in search of another bar to entertain herself in. 

She had plenty of stories to tell and not a lot of time to tell them, after all.

A few streets down, one man looks left, right, and over his shoulder before turning to face his friend.

“You hear about Oldtown?” the man says, his voice low.

“I heard there isn’t an Oldtown,” his friend says, putting space between them when a guard passes by.

In a window above their heads, a prostitute sighs as the man she’s settled on speaks up to her.

“Didja hear that Casterly Rock was destroyed?” the man asks as he passes over the coin she needs to be interested in anything he has to say. She merely hums and takes his hand, guiding him up to her room.

Off in the tavern filled to the brim with men, a barmaid dances between the tables as she delivers what seems to be an endless amount of alcohol as the men chat amongst themselves. They all seem to be talking about the same thing, or something similar.

Oldtown this, Lannisport that, and how the Red Keep is next.

“Doesn’t that mean we’re next?” the barmaid wonders to herself.

“We’ll be fine,” a man sitting at the table next to her rumbles, shocking the barmaid so badly she spills a drink on his companion.

She’s too busy apologizing to hear whatever the man says next. 

In a much seedier part of town, a pleasure slave hunkers down and prays the men visiting tonight won’t choose her. She’s relieved when a pair walks straight past her, too busy talking.

“Heard the Queen Rhaenyra is coming to get her throne,” the first one says.

“I heard it’s her son leading the charge,” the other says.

“Jacaerys is a good lad,” the first replies thoughtfully, “always thought he’d be a good King.”

The two are gone before the pleasure slave can hear the rest, but she finds herself smiling anyway. She remembers the time before Rhaenyra had been named the heir, and the Queen, then Princess, had been the most beautiful person the pleasure slave had ever seen. She knows deep in her heart that Queen Rhaenyra would be better than the man currently sitting on the throne.

After all, she had been one of his many victims. 

One Gold Cloak walks towards the Old Gate with a hooded figure at his side. There are two other Gold Cloaks on either side, standing guard. The first Gold Cloak gives a nod to the other two, who immediately begin opening the gate. They’d been ordered to keep the gates closed until further notice, keeping everyone inside the city whether they wanted to be there or not. However, that doesn’t stop the Gold Cloaks from doing as they please.

No one would blame them for accepting a bribe or two from a noble. Or at least, that’s the lie they would give if asked.

The hooded figure presses a note into the first Gold Cloak’s hand before slipping out of the gate without a word. The figure does not turn back, and the Gold Cloaks do not wait as they begin shutting the gate once more. The three Gold Cloaks nod to each other before the first turns and leaves, heading towards the Gate of the Gods.

They’ve finally gotten word from their King, and it was time to put the plan in motion.

Their King was coming home, and they wanted to be the ones to welcome him and lead the way.

Chapter Text

Ser Criston Cole wakes to cold water being tossed over his face, with a man he doesn’t know standing over him with a bright smile. He sputters, looking from side to side in confusion as he tries to wake himself up.

“What’s going on?” he spits. 

The man standing over him says nothing. He just puts the bucket down and gestures for Cole to follow him. Behind him, Cole can see a group of vaguely familiar men waiting and so he decides to follow along quietly. He’s weaponless and his armor had been stripped off of him shortly after he’d been sent to isolation. Plus, he’d much rather deal with these men than that creepy little Tyrell that had dragged him around for a week, questioning him about Flea Bottom of all places before disappearing.

The little bastard that had captured him hadn’t bothered to do much with him at all. Cole had worried that with the arrival of his barbarians his torture would begin in earnest. He thought that maybe, the boy would come to question him about King’s Landing or persecute him for his actions. However, aside from that Tyrell woman approaching him he had been left relatively untouched. That wasn’t to say that he was safe, but he would much rather be ignored than deal with whatever Ser Gwayne had to deal with.

He’d witnessed Ser Gwayne sparring with Rhaenyra’s bastard and had even seen Prince Daeron several times following the bastard wherever he went. Cole had almost hoped that Daemon would be the one to finally approach him. But the man had seemed content to let the bastard call the shots. Cole had found himself confused, watching them and almost appreciated being locked away from all the wild animals calling themselves Sers.

He doesn’t know what’s changed, but he knows he has no choice but to get up and follow after them. Outside he sees a large number of people taking down the tents that they’d put up for all of the traitors to the Crown. They all seem to have a job and the men lead him around them without thought. Cole doesn’t know where they’re taking him at first until they round Harrenhal, going towards the entrance.

In the front, he recognizes several Lords as well as Ser Gwayne, Daemon, Prince Daeron, Simon Strong, and the young bastard. He knows he could use the boy’s name, but it soothes his wounded pride to refer to him as what he is. No one else seems to have the courage to call him what he is so Cole will have to do it himself.

“Ser Cole, I hope you slept well,” the bastard says when he sees him, “we have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Where are you taking me?” Cole asks when it becomes obvious that the boy doesn’t seem interested in continuing. He does that often, Cole’s noticed, and has decided the boy is doing it on purpose to irritate whoever he’s talking to. Or perhaps to force them to speak to him so his mind games could continue.

“Why King’s Landing, of course. Where did you think I was going to take you?”

Cole decides to remain silent, and he takes in his surroundings once more. There’s an assortment of horses, not nearly enough for the large number of men Lucerys has gathered, but there’s certainly enough to storm King’s Landing. Almost all of Lucerys’ men are ready now, all of them in full gear, waiting for their leader.

It doesn’t escape Cole’s notice that there aren’t any non-combatants present. 

Cole knows next to nothing about their plan and all he can do under such watchful, hostile eyes is to follow when Lucerys beckons. He’s not surprised when he sees a horse with a rope tied around it waiting for him. He is, however, a little caught off guard when he sees Prince Daeron standing next to the horse, holding the reins. He looks just as confused as Cole when their eyes meet, but his expression clears when Lucerys turns to him.

“Uncle, I am entrusting our prisoner to you,” Lucerys says as he reaches for the rope, taking it upon himself to tie Cole’s wrists. 

Cole looks between them, baffled. He’s not sure how long Prince Daeron has been with Lucerys, but he highly doubts the boy has truly turned against his own family, not when it’s his mother and grandsire calling the shots despite whose brow the Crown sits on. He can only assume that the Prince is doing his best to stay alive by keeping the bastard entertained. So far, Cole has mostly seen the two when Lucerys insisted on sparring. 

He wonders, as Lucerys finishes up tying his wrists, if Lucerys has told Prince Daeron his plan. If so, is he testing Daeron, to see if the boy will keep his secrets? Cole and Daeron weren’t close, so even if Daeron was still on his family’s side, he doubted the boy would tell him in such a delicate situation, so if Lucerys intended for this to be a test, he would be sorely disappointed. Then again, the boy is much smarter than Cole had given him credit for. Perhaps there’s something else he wants from this, and Cole isn’t seeing the full picture due to his isolation.

He may be a bastard, Cole thinks as the prince steps away, but he’s as mercurial as every other Targaryen that had come before him.

“I do hope you’ll be able to keep up, Ser Cole,” Lucerys says, smiling up at him in a way that’s vaguely familiar.

He realizes where he’s seen that smile before when the most mercurial Targaryen currently living saunters by, sporting that exact same smile.

Gods, Cole thinks, he’s always hated Daemon and the feeling gets stronger when the man walks right by them without a single word. He doesn’t need to say anything for everyone watching to know exactly how he feels about this. He’s positively delighted to see Cole humiliated like this. 

In that moment, Cole regrets not bashing his head in with his mace way back when.

The moment passes quickly enough when Lucerys turns away to his men, no longer interested in Cole now that he had been taken care of. A few bystanders watch the awkward standoff that Prince Daeron and Cole have as the former mounts his horse. The Prince whispers something under his breath that only Cole catches, but the knight merely huffs out a laugh.

He’ll survive this, and he will see the end of the Targaryen line, starting with Rhaenyra’s bastards.

Ser Gwayne watches the interaction between Lucerys, Cole, and his nephew, and can’t help but wonder what will become of him. King’s Landing isn’t that far on horseback, if Lucerys pushed they could get to the city by morning. However, half of his men weren’t on horseback and would have to pace themselves properly. 

Then again, Ser Gwayne is pretty sure these men have never been taught the meaning of pacing. They would go at the speed their leader told them to and would still be ready for whatever awaited them at King’s Landing.

It makes Ser Gwayne nervous, and the feeling only gets worse when Lucerys approaches him, Daemon right behind him. There aren’t any other horses with ropes waiting for him, he’d checked, and so he has absolutely no idea what the Prince has in store for him.

“Ser Gwayne,” Daemon says, and the Hightower’s nerves worsen at how delighted Daemon seems, “it looks like we don’t have enough horses.”

His tone sounds as if he were truly bothered by that news, but the man doesn’t bother to actually remove the smile from his face. Instead, he moves close enough to place his hand on Ser Gwayne’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. There’s something almost friendly about it, and he understands why when he continues.

“How do you feel about riding a dragon?”

Ser Gwayne refuses to show any type of panic. He’s never ridden a dragon, and has only been close enough to Tessarion to understand why his father wants to get rid of them. He’s never been interested in riding them, and that’s doubled when facing men that are definitely enemies of the Crown.

“I never thought there’d be a day where you’d offer to allow someone to ride the Blood Wyrm,” Ser Gwayne says, trying to make his tone teasing instead of wary.

“Oh, no, no, not my dragon. Someone has to state our demands to the usurpers and I get the feeling they wouldn’t hear me if I were to fly.”

That, of course, makes the feeling in Ser Gwayne’s stomach worsen as he turns to Lucerys, who has yet to say a word. In the weeks he’d been the boy’s prisoner, he’s learned next to nothing about the boy. He’s a sadistic little thing, but that seems to run in the family. He hides it well, behind the childish smiles and laughs, but Ser Gwanye knows there’s something evil in him. Something evil in all of the Targaryens. They were cruel and unusual, weird creations that should’ve perished with the rest of their people. 

But Lucerys specifically was an extremely odd boy. Ser Gwayne had seen him once, before all of this, when he’d been an extension of Rhaenyra. He hadn’t seemed as odd then, not nearly as off as he was now, but that had been before he’d cut out Aemond’s eye. He wonders if he’d smiled at Aemond the way he’s currently smiling at him right before he’d attacked him.

“Don’t worry,” Lucerys says as he steps around him, clearly expecting him to follow, “he hasn’t bitten anyone I asked him not to.”

Contrary to Lucerys’ intentions, that does not make Ser Gwayne feel better about his situation at all.

Flying is a horrifying experience and Ser Gwayne has no idea how the Targaryens do it so often. He knows that part of it is because Lucerys doesn’t use a saddle and so Ser Gwayne struggles to remain sitting when the dragon decides to turn this way or that. But the other part is the fact that they’re up in the clouds when humans belong on the ground. If they were meant to fly, the Seven would have blessed them with wings.

It doesn’t help that despite the dragon’s size, it barely makes a sound as it flies higher and higher. Ser Gwayne knows that King’s Landing is only a day’s ride away on horseback from Harrenhal, but he has no idea what the difference is on dragonback. The Prince had ascended to the clouds before they’d even gotten past Brindlewood, so Ser Gwayne doesn’t even know where they are. 

Even worse is the fact that Lucerys has been quiet the entire ride. Ser Gwayne could care less if the boy didn’t want to talk to him, but the fact that he wasn’t giving any verbal orders to the dragon like Daeron had given to Tessarion somehow makes him feel worse. Is the dragon doing whatever it wants? Are they even going towards King’s Landing? How does Lucerys even know where they are?

It does become clear to him eventually that the dragon is circling, and so he can only assume that King’s Landing is below them. Far, far, far below them. He can only assume they’re much too high for anyone to see them, which must’ve been the plan. However, he still doesn’t know what Lucerys is waiting for. He has no choice but to wait and see and worry about his fate.

Prince Daeron doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. Part of it could be because he hasn’t been to King’s Landing since his mother sent him away as a child. But the other part could be because of the reason he’s returning. The journey had been easy, with them stopping once at Brindlewood. Prince Daeron could only watch as the men split themselves into two separate groups. Daemon and Ser Gendry lead one whilst Ser Bran and Lady Miriam, who’d been waiting for them, lead the other.

Ser Bran and Lady Miriam’s group leave first, pushing off towards Stokeworth and eventually Rosby so they could enter King’s Landing through the Dragon’s Gate. The others, including Prince Daeron and Ser Gedmund, would continue on past Hayford to enter through the Gate of the Gods. 

Prince Daeron remembers asking Lucerys why he’d chosen to split up instead of pushing through one gate before they’d left Harrenhal. The prince had looked at him for a long moment before standing and moving towards the map they’d pinned. 

“The reason why I want to enter through these two gates is simple,” the prince had said as he pointed to a building near the Dragon Gate and another near the Gate of the Gods, “do you know what these are?”

“Barracks?” Prince Daeron remembers answering, mostly out of confusion, but Lucerys had smiled.

“Yes, but whose?”

“The City Watch,” Prince Daeron had responded, just as confused.

“Precisely.”

And Lucerys hadn’t elaborated. Prince Daeron had asked several different questions, most of which were, won’t the city watch alert the Crown? And other such questions. Lucerys hadn’t answered a single one and after Daeron had tired himself out, he’d simply said: you’ll see.

The gates open without a fuss, revealing several men wearing golden cloaks. Daeron tenses, and prepares himself for the worst until all of them bow to Daemon, greeting him as their Commander and King. It is then that Daeron understands.

They’re let into King’s Landing, and the Crown is completely unaware.

Chapter Text

Alicent starts her morning as she usually does, reclined in the bath as her ladies clean her. Her sleep has been terrible lately and she’s surprised to note that for the first time in weeks she had slept throughout the night. There’d been too much on her mind to even consider sleeping well. Her brother, Cole and their men were still missing and after news of Oldtown, all Alicent could think of was seeing a familiar face again. 

The tension had been high in the Keep, what with Aemond prowling around glaring at anyone who looked at him too long. She knew he was upset, knew that he was chomping at the bit to fly to Harrenhal and earn a victory. 

With his current track record neither Alicent nor her father believed he was capable, and so he lurked the halls of the Keep like the dragon he’d bonded with. It was unsettling, but Alicent was much too worried about impending war to soothe her son.

It didn’t help that a small part of her was still upset that he had abandoned Gwayne. By the way he avoided her, she had a feeling that he knew.

Aegon wasn’t taking anything seriously either. His only response to any news of cinders where their allies used to be was to send dragons of their own in retaliation. Her father talked him down of course, reminded him that the news was old and the culprit was long gone. Each and every council meeting was just everyone talking over each other, arguing like children, as Alicent watched. 

She was starting to hate the council meetings and yet she refused to miss a single one. She’d worked hard to get to where she was and she wasn’t going to lose her seat because of what was between her legs.

It was hypocritical and she knew it, but she held firm to her beliefs regardless.

After her bath, she allowed her ladies to dress her up and fix her hair into something regal. There was a council meeting scheduled soon and she fully intended on petitioning to find Gwayne, even if they had to send a few scouts. Their numbers were low and they hadn’t heard from the Lannisters about when their men would arrive. In fact, they hadn’t heard from the Lannisters at all and yet they didn’t have the numbers to go check.

Each messenger bird they sent returned untouched which could only mean one thing.

As much as Alicent wanted to hold out hope that the Lannisters and their men were too busy claiming the Gold Tooth, her raw nail beds and cuticles showed exactly how she felt about their current situation.

Her Ladies eventually finish up and Alicent takes a deep breath before tipping her chin up as she leaves her room. She does her best to put on her regal airs, and does her best to seem unconcerned about the war on the horizon. 

She doesn’t notice anything unusual until she gets to the council room and notices the Kingsguard aren’t at their stations. At first, she doesn’t think anything of it, Aegon tends to be late quite often. However, when she peeks her head in, she sees that the room is completely empty. That is certainly unusual because at the very least, her father makes an effort to be the first to arrive no matter how early he has to wake up. It was a bit of a pissing contest really, but it at least made his schedules predictable. 

Now however, she has no idea where her father is and finds herself flagging down the closest knight she sees. The man looks harried, as if he too had been looking around for someone to help him. He ignores all rules and customs and speaks to her first.

“Your Grace,” he gasps, “Daemon is outside.”

Alicent freezes, curling her fingers into her sleeves as she stares at the knight.

“Outside? Which gate?” She demands, trying to figure out who they could send depending on the distance. Perhaps they could send a few of the Kingsguard to round up the City Watch if they were fast enough.

“He’s down in the courtyard, Your Grace, with King Aegon and the other members of the council. He is making demands.”

Alicent’s brain stalls, and she finds herself standing there for a long moment. The courtyard? The courtyard? Of the Red Keep? Daemon had managed to get inside the Keep without anyone notifying them? She couldn’t even process the betrayal before she was making plans.

“Is Aemond with them?” she demands.

“We cannot find him, Your Grace,” the knight returns, “but a maid claims she saw him head towards the pit earlier this morning.”

Good, that’s good, she thinks as she gathers her wits. Hopefully he would be with Vhagar and they could turn this around. She makes her way towards the courtyard and barely even notices when the knight follows her. She’s just doing her best to prepare herself for what she’s going to see. She hadn’t heard any cries of fear or more specifically, cries of ‘dragon’ so she can only assume that Daemon hadn’t brought the Blood Wyrm. However, she’s learned at a very young age to never underestimate Daemon Targaryen. His dragon was nearby, it was just a matter of when it would show itself.

Alicent isn’t really able to hide her appearance once she arrives, but she does her best to take in the scene to figure out what she can do to help. The first thing she sees is her father and son, both of them surrounded by what remains of their Kingsguard. Otto looks furious, and Alicent isn’t sure if it’s because Daemon has managed to enter the city let alone the Keep without anyone notifying them, or because of the golden cloaks surrounding Daemon and his men the way the Kingsguard are surrounding them. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two because the Golden Cloaks being present means that they had betrayed the Crown. 

Thankfully, Helaena and her children are nowhere to be seen.

Daemon perks up when he sees her, and Alicent takes in his armor and horse, remembering what he’d worn during that tourney oh so long ago. Back when she’d just been a lady in waiting. Back when Queen Aemma had been alive. The men with him aren’t in armor like he is, instead swathed in leathers as if that will protect them from the steel the Kingsguard are pointing at them. None of them seem worried at all to be at sword point.

“Ah, the main usurper has arrived, perfect timing, I didn’t want to repeat myself,” Daemon says, in his normal cheerful tone.

Alicent has never understood him, and thinks he prefers it that way. He was unpredictable in the worst way and all she can do is remember when Viserys used to complain about it. He’d always smile while he aired out said grievances, but Alicent has no reason to smile, not after all they’ve done to keep Westeros safe.

“You all are usurpers,” Daemon says, meeting her eyes before moving on to Aegon, and finally Otto, “and for your crime of stealing the Crown from its rightful owner, you all will be put to death. This is your first and only chance to surrender peacefully.”

His tone is pleasant, calm and even, and Alicent hates everything about it. Daemon is not a pleasant man, and he’s certainly not a calm one. His purple eyes are glittering and he knows that they know that he doesn’t want them to surrender peacefully. He wants chaos, thrives in it, but Alicent takes in the way almost every single maid, knight, and servant of the Crown is present and realizes who he’s performing for. 

“Usurper?” Otto says, always the first to pull himself together, “King Viserys wanted Aegon to ascend the throne, he used his very last breath to announce it.”

Daemon scoffs and the men with him laugh. Alicent notes that most of them are from the Riverlands. She doesn’t recognize them specifically, but she decides she’d rather not see a familiar face at a time like this.

“My brother chose Rhaenyra as his heir and didn’t change his mind for years. Do you really think he’d change his mind on his deathbed?” 

The question is rhetorical, anyone who knows Daemon can tell, but Otto has never been one to bend to Daemon’s rules.

“You don’t have to believe it, but that is what happened. Alicent heard it herself.”

“Ah, Alicent Hightower, your daughter,” Daemon says slowly, as if he thought Otto was an idiot, “who laid with my brother before his late wife’s ashes had even cooled on your command?”

There are several gasps and Alicent forces her face to remain blank even as she curls her fingers tight into her sleeves. Her eyes jump towards her father who doesn’t turn away from Daemon even as he grits his teeth. Aegon, who had seemed perfectly content to watch their family drama be aired out, looks at her but she can’t tell what he’s thinking. Considering his own sins, Alicent refuses to feel guilty even if he decides to judge her for the things she’d had to do for the betterment of the realm. 

“Everything we’ve done, was for the Realm,” Otto says, his voice tight as he glares at Daemon. 

“Oh? And when was that ever your decision to make?” Daemon asks, and his tone is curious enough, but there’s a hardness to his eyes as he leans forward on his horse, “I’ve always warned Viserys about you, about your ambitions. You always had his ear though, but you were also more willing to bend to his whims.” Daemon is quiet for a second and for once, Alicent recognizes that glint in his eye, sees exactly when the idea sparks and catches fire.

“Daemon,” Alicent tries, attempting for a warning tone but, as always, Daemon ignores her.

“Oh Otto, you naughty boy, you taught your daughter your tricks-”

“Daemon!” Alicent snaps, watching the way every eye turns her way.

“Viserys chose Aegon,” Alicent says, meeting his gaze firmly, ignoring his scoff, “he did, he said that Aegon was the prince that was promised to unite the realm,” she admits, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off her chest. Her father looks proud, pleased at her admission. Aegon looks lost, as if the weight that had been taken off of Alicent’s shoulders had been placed on his.

That is, until Daemon snorts, a sound so harsh that it snaps her out of her thoughts, of Viserys in his very last moments, reaching out for something she’ll never see. Daemon is looking at her as if she had sprouted another head, but his brows furrow when he sees her serious expression.

“Oh Gods,” Daemon says as the men around him look on in bored confusion, “you really are an idiot. All of this, because of a Targaryen tale, one that you clearly hadn’t been told in full.”

“What?” Alicent asks, demands, faint.

Daemon ignores her, looking around at all the watchful eyes before sighing.

“I suppose that’s one curse of reusing names,” Daemon admits before he looks at her with something similar to pity, but not quite close, there’s too much amusement for that, “The Song of Ice and Fire is a tale told from King to heir, passed on with the notion that it would be kept between them,” he says pointedly, but considering it’s much too late now, he pushes on, “it is a story about an Aegon, yes, Aegon the Conqueror. Who did, if any of you have missed out on your history lessons, unite the realm.”

It feels like all of the air is knocked right out of Alicent’s chest and all the weight, all the guilt she’s been carrying falls right back on her shoulders. It makes sense, it makes so much sense, and she hates herself for not noticing. However, it’s much too late now, and admitting that this was all because of a misunderstanding would end in a rebellion. With Daemon and his men watching her so closely, she’d rather not have anyone else betray her this morning.

“No,” Otto snaps, “he meant Aegon, this Aegon,”

“What realm is there to unite?” Daemon demands to know, “The only thing this Aegon did was divide it by usurping the crown from his own sister. Also, let’s not forget, if you want to use semantics, my son is also named Aegon. You don’t see me toting him around as the prince that was promised.”

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Daemon pushes on, as if he hadn’t turned Alicent’s world on its axis, “I do believe I was asking you to surrender.”

“There will be no surrender,” Otto says, placing a hand on Aegon’s shoulder, “King Aegon wears the crown as its rightful ruler.”

“Delightful! I was hoping you’d say that actually.”

Then, completely ignoring the tense Kingsguard, Daemon tilts his head up and lets out a sharp whistle. For a long moment, nothing happens until they all hear it:

A nasally cry that everyone in the Keep recognizes.

Alicent flinches, immediately ducking away in case the Blood Wyrm was preparing to descend on the Keep. However, the dragon doesn’t appear, not even when it goes quiet. Alicent doesn’t miss the confused expressions all around, only Daemon and his men seem to know what’s going on. They’ve backed up a little, and Alicent doesn’t understand why until from far away she hears another cry, one she understands.

“Dragon!”

Looking up, heart in her throat, Alicent can only stare at the massive dragon steadily approaching from directly overhead. For a moment she assumes that the dragon is Vhagar, that Aemond had somehow found out about what was happening in the Keep and had come to help. The dragon was certainly large enough to be Vhagar. But that hope dies a cruel death as the dragon gets closer and she realizes that while the dragon that’s approaching is certainly large enough to be Vhagar, it’s the wrong color. This massive monstrosity is black, not green.

The servants around them scatter, but Alicent is frozen, watching in terror. The dragon is too far away to see a rider, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to get low enough to begin burning the Keep to the ground. Instead, it circles once, twice, and then she sees something fall off of it. Confused, Alicent can only stare in a mix of terror and confusion as the thing gets closer and closer to the ground. 

It doesn’t take long for her to realize that it’s a person.

Several people shout in terror when the body finally hits the ground. The sound it makes will haunt her forever, and Alicent can only watch. In the back of her mind, she can’t help but wonder if it was the rider that had fallen off of the dragon, but she thinks that’s much too convenient. Daemon hadn’t seemed surprised and had even backed up a little bit.

This was planned.

As the dust clears, Alicent can’t stop herself from looking, and she hates herself for it. Because she recognizes that hair, a red so close to her own, cut short so his helmet could fit. She recognizes that armor, had seen it both on and off its owner. It had been pristine then, as if it had been his first time wearing it. Now, it’s bent and broken in several different angles, just like the body inside of it.

Her brother is…he is…

“What is the meaning of this?” She hears her father shout, and it takes her a moment to realize that although part of the reason he’s yelling is because of his own anger and anguish, the other half is to be heard over her own screaming.

Whatever Daemon had planned on saying is drowned out by another cry, a dragon this time, and everyone is distracted when they realize that this cry is one they know well.

Vhagar, coming their way from the King’s Gate.

Things quickly devolve into chaos. Daemon shouts something and his men surge forward, Otto says something in response and the Kingsguard push forward, and someone grabs Alicent’s arm. Before she knows it, she’s being pulled back inside as swords clash and dragons cry.

The war has finally begun.

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe that I’m in the sewers,” Daeron grumbles, mostly to himself considering the men with him have trudged through worse without a care. That and Criston is a bit worse for wear after his journey. 

Despite his protests though, Daeron keeps pushing forward. They had broken off from the main group shortly after entering the city. The plan was that Daemon and his group would enter the courtyard and make their demands knowing that Otto and Alicent wouldn’t bend the knee. However, with everyone hopefully distracted by Daemon being there, Daeron and his group could sneak into the Keep and secure it that way.

Lucerys had sulkily offered up the plan after Daemon quickly vetoed the option of putting the Cannibal at one entrance and Caraxes at the other and filling the entire Keep with dragon flame. Daeron had never thought he’d see the day where Daemon was the voice of reason, but he was thankful the man wasn’t nearly as destructive as his son. It helped that Daemon had mentioned Helaena. Daeron had never heard Lucerys mention her before, but he can only assume he’d backed down because Helaena was admittedly innocent in all of this. 

Daeron was starting to realize that Lucerys Velaryon had one weakness: he adored the women in his family. 

So, with the knowledge that Lucerys wouldn’t torch his own home and hoping that all the knights the Crown had left were out with Aegon and their grandsire, Daeron pushed forward. He hasn’t been in the Keep since he’d been a child, but Lucerys and Daemon had drilled him on the map they’d provided him. Dutifully ignoring the rats and filth underfoot, Daeron presses on until he finds the hall he’s looking for. 

Lucerys’ men trudge dutifully after him, not saying a word, although they do snicker a little when Criston nearly slips when a particularly large rat skitters away from them. Nothing particularly exciting happens as they go up to the next floor though. The Keep is barren, he doesn’t even see a single servant on his way up. He’d known that the number of knights the Crown had was low, had remembered the few times his uncle had grumbled about sending his men to the Keep to help. However, he hadn’t known it was this bad. 

Their journey to the nursery is quick and easy. As high up as they are, they can’t even hear what must certainly be happening in the courtyard outside. It makes Daeron wonder if his sister has any idea of the war being raged in her front yard. He supposes he’ll find out in just a few minutes.

The first thing he sees upon stepping into the nursery is his sister. She’s sitting on the floor and it takes Daeron a couple seconds to realize she’s sewing. Right in front of her are her three children, playing with little wooden toys. For just a moment, Daeron feels as if he’s stepped into a completely different world, one where his family hadn’t been so hungry for power. He’s brought back to reality when he notes the maids in the room, all of them pale and terrified as they stare at the men Daeron has brought with him.

At the very least they are aware of what’s happening outside.

The dissonance gets even worse when he realizes that Helaena is humming, and has shown no signs that she’s realized she has company at all. That is, until she starts speaking, eyes still on her loom.

“It’s been a long time, brother,” Helaena says, “come. Sit.”

Well, what else is he supposed to do?

Daeron settles himself down next to his sister, smiling at his young nephews and niece when they look up at him. He’s never met them before, but Helaena has told him about them in her letters. They look like her, Daeron decides, there’s not much of Aegon he can see in them. Behind him, Lucerys’ men step further into the room, two staying near the door as the others spread out. Daeron has been around them long enough to tell they’re not trying to be threatening, they’re keeping their hands away from their weapons, palms open, that kind of thing.

Helaena seems unbothered, but her maids look close to fainting.

“Mother has always loved you the most,” Helaena informs him, “she will believe you if you say you’re Lucerys’ prisoner.”

“Well, I am his prisoner,” Daeron replies easily enough, and only tilts his head when Helaena smiles down at her loom.

“And yet he has ordered his men to take you to the safest place in King’s Landing until the war ends. I didn’t know my nephew treated his prisoners so well.”

“Or,”  Daeron offers in return as he gestures towards Criston, who has been carted off into a corner behind the beds, “he wanted a secure place to store his prisoners so we didn’t sneak off during all of this.”

Helaena hums, but Daeron gets the distinct feeling she knows something he doesn’t. Considering she’s been holed up in here while he was following after Lucerys, it makes him feel a little off balance. He remembers all the things his mother and brothers said about Helaena, but sometimes he wonders if she really does know more than everyone else.

He wants to ask more questions, wants to figure out what she knows that has her so comfortable and unbothered, but the door to the nursery flies open before he gets the chance. For the first time in years, Daeron finds himself looking at his mother. His first thought comes completely unbidden as he takes in her blotchy face and rumpled clothing. He looks at her and can’t help but think how unprepared she looks for war.

Although he’s been in Oldtown his entire life, he knows why this war started, and the exposure to Lucerys’ war band lets him know that it isn’t because of his half sister. His mother and grandsire planned this, and yet his mother looks harried and terrified as if she hadn’t expected the war to come to her. He hates himself for it, and he blames Lucerys entirely, but he finds the situation kind of funny. He wonders, in a way that reminds him of Lucerys, how his mother could possibly think she’d be safe here, how she could make all these plans and plot to set someone of her choosing on the throne without expecting someone to eventually come looking for her? 

It isn’t what he’d thought he’d think about when he first saw his mother, and yet as he watches her expression morph into surprise, he begins to realize just how much he’s changed after being exposed to Lucerys. 

It’s jarring, and yet the feeling settles over him easily and he finds himself once again blaming Lucerys and his general attitude and ability to take seemingly everything in stride. 

“Daeron,” his mother says, voice faint yet filled with so much hope. 

It changes immediately once she realizes that Daeron isn’t alone. Following her realization, Daeron watches, feeling as if he’d been shoved right out of his body, as Lucerys’ men pull their swords followed by the three knights with his mother. 

Because Lucerys’ men are Lucerys’ men, the situation immediately devolves into chaos. Daeron sits there, unable to do anything else as his mother and their men are quickly overwhelmed. Considering Daeron had brought ten men with him and his mother only had the three, things end quickly. Daeron’s just thankful his mother’s men were subdued and shoved in the same corner with Criston.

His niece and nephews remain untraumatized. Confused surely as they huddle close to their mother, but her non-reaction keeps them calm. Helaena, for her part, hasn’t looked up from her loom once. She’s still working on it with fervor and from where Daeron’s sitting, all he can see is orange and red.

“Unhand me!” his mother shouts as Lucerys’ men bring her over to where Daeron, Helaena and her children are, but the men ignore her entirely. 

They aren’t rough with her, and truly they barely do anything after guiding her over. Instead, one of the men gives her a distinctly unimpressed look and quickly returns to his post by the door. One man remains, but he’s the shortest of the bunch and Daeron doesn’t remember his name, but he knows his height doesn’t matter. Surely they chose him as the most unthreatening of the bunch, but Daeron has seen their training routine, all of them are dangerous.

Alicent turns away from the man once it becomes obvious that he isn’t going to hurt her, and immediately turns to Daeron and Helaena. Daeron is already watching her, unsure of what to say to his mother and feeling distinctly at odds with the smallest spark of anger he feels towards her.

“You finally made it,” Helaena says.

“Daeron,” Alicent says, breathless, “you survived. What happened in Oldtown?”

There are a lot of things Daeron can say about Oldtown. Although Lucerys hasn’t done anything to him, he still has nightmares about that church and the melted gold. There’s plenty to say, and yet he says nothing at all. Mostly because Helaena beats him to it.

“It burned,” Helaena says calmly, turning and holding her loom out to Daeron, “just as he will.”

Confused, Daeron looks down at the loom before glancing at Helaena. She’s watching him, but he can’t tell what she’s thinking.

On the loom, there’s someone surrounded by flames. Daeron can’t tell who it is, but judging by the carefully sewn hair, he can tell it’s a Targaryen. 

Just as it clicks in Daeron’s head, they all hear it: the roar of a dragon.

Daeron has only heard that specific roar once, and he knows the war has finally started in earnest because finally, Aemond was here.

There’s another dragon flying above King’s Landing, and it isn’t Caraxes. When Aemond had heard that nasally cry, he’d been near the docks, angry at the world and everyone in it. His mother had practically demanded he stay in King’s Landing, so he’d stayed, but he felt better having Vhagar with him so he’d brought her over.

He couldn’t help but be thankful that he had, because hearing Caraxes after so long had nearly sent Aemond tumbling into the Bay. Now though, he’s flying towards the castle and he’d been prepared to finally meet Daemon in the skies. For years people had compared him to Daemon, and he’d always insisted that he wasn’t afraid of his uncle, that he was better than the washed out prince. He had thought that he was finally getting the chance to prove he was better.

However, the dragon circling the Keep wasn’t Caraxes. Instead, it was a massive black monstrosity and it only seemed to get bigger as Aemond got closer.

The dragon noticed him quickly enough, and Vhagar announced her presence when it became obvious the dragon wasn’t going to run from them. Instead, it turned towards them, long black wings flapping once, twice, before it was heading straight towards them, its returning cry so loud it made Aemond’s ears ring.

Aemond realizes a little too late that the other dragon isn’t going to turn, and fully intends to slam into them, so he grabs the reins and shouts for Vhagar to go up. They still have enough time to pull up and Aemond turns to look down, eyes widening when he finds someone looking up at him.

At first, Aemond thinks it’s a nightmare again, that his nephew has finally decided that terrorizing his dreams wasn’t enough, and that he was going to harass him during his waking hours as well. However, the differences smack him in the face. Blue eyes stare up at him in glee instead of terrified brown eyes. Black and white hair whips in the wind instead of the brown he’s seen so often. 

But despite the changes, he knows it’s Lucerys grinning at him, sitting saddless on a massive dragon Aemond had only heard about in stories. It only confirms it when Lucerys speaks, his tone teasing in a way that’s distinctly reminiscent of that stormy night.

“Qȳbor!” Lucerys calls, drawing out the end before the boy begins to laugh.

Aemond turns this way and that, trying to find Lucerys again. The clouds are too far up for him to hide, but Aemond has to look around Vhagar’s bulk to see the other dragon right on their tail, a hungry glint in those green eyes, as a delighted Lucerys calls out to him.

“Doesn’t this bring back memories, Uncle? If only it were raining.”

Aemond doesn’t have time to respond as Vhagar twists to the side, jostling Aemond. He feels the heat of the flames before he sees them, but Vhagar angles down to get away from it, forced to go away from the clouds they’d been aiming for.

“I’ve learned my lesson about letting you slip into the clouds,” Lucerys informs him, and more flames force Vhagar to turn away, to descend instead.

That seems to be the other dragon’s plan as it twists right after them, its wings closing just enough to go faster. Aemond doesn’t understand its intentions until he hears Vhagar cry out and he realizes what’s happened: the dragon has locked one of its hind claws with Vhagar. 

Somewhere under him, Lucerys is laughing and Aemond grits his teeth and tugs at Vhagar’s reins when he realizes they’re still descending.

“Up, Vhagar, up!” Aemond calls, and can only sigh in relief when she listens, her wings snapping open and flapping hard. 

It’s a tough fight against both gravity and the dragon still locked with her. The other dragon isn’t making it any easier either, but eventually it has to join them if it wants to continue their dance. Lucerys doesn’t seem to care either way, and Aemond can’t hear him shout out any orders. 

Instead, he only knows the flames are coming when it’s already flying past him. The other dragon keeps targeting Vhagar’s wings and Aemond frantically does his best to get her to disengage, to find some way to get the dragon to release him.

They fly in the sky, arcing over and over with the other dragon continuously forcing Vhagar away from the clouds and towards the city beneath them. Aemond is too busy clinging to his dragon and doing his best to give her orders that he can’t even wonder why the soldiers aren’t using the scorpions. He can’t even think about where Aegon is, especially when the dragon finally gets a good bite out of Vhagar’s left wing. 

Vhagar tries, valiantly, to keep fighting, but the other dragon seems delighted by her struggles. It bites and scratches, barely seeming to notice Vhagar clawing at him in return. Aemond’s commands don’t seem to even matter to Vhagar anymore, once she realizes that her size isn’t helping her in this fight.

“Qȳbor, you’re still alive aren’t you?” He just barely hears Lucerys call over the sounds of their dragons clashing. He’s surprised the boy is still holding on without a saddle, but he can barely focus on that thought.

Instead, he finds himself overwhelmed when a bright green eye comes into focus. The large eye narrows into a slit and Aemond finds himself frozen as he stares at it. It takes him a little too long to realize why he’s able to see the dragon so clearly, it’s managed to get a good bite on Vhagar’s neck, and Aemond can do nothing but watch as the dragon pulls away, tearing a chunk of Vhagar’s flesh with it. It’s close enough to where Aemond is that he flinches at the hot blood that lands on him. 

He’s shaking, watching as the dragon returns for another bite, and it’s only then that he realizes that it’s not just him shaking, but Vhagar. She’s trying to get away, trying to get the dragon away from her, but it’s no use, and it only backs off when she shoots flames at it. 

Her jostling along with her flames finally gets the dragon to disengage. Aemond can do nothing but cling to the saddle when he realizes that they’re falling, and fast. Vhagar is crying out, loud enough to make Aemond’s ears bleed. In his own terror, he looks down and realizes exactly where they’re going to land.

The Sept his mother chronically visited until they closed their doors in protest.

All he can do is close his eyes and brace for impact.

Chapter Text

Daemon hates himself for thinking it, but as he presses the sharp point of his sword against his nephew’s throat, he can’t help but wish the boy had at least tried to fight back. He knew the boy had taken lessons from Cole, he remembers Rhaenyra telling him about it. 

However, the boy was drunk more often than not and Daemon had barely gotten to swipe at him before the so-called King toppled onto his ass right in front of everyone. He hadn’t even tried to reach for the sword on his hip. Daemon turns, angling a look towards Otto who, to Daemon’s surprise, looks just as perturbed as he does.

“This is your King?” Daemon inquires, turning his sword to Otto instead, “this is the one you’ve worked so hard to crown?”  

Otto, at the very least, keeps his head tall and successfully pulls his sword. He’s already doing much better than the little usurper. Daemon hadn’t expected Otto to respond at all to his taunting, and he isn’t surprised when the man doesn’t make the first move either. It’s just like him really, he was too used to pulling the strings and getting others to act in his stead. Otto knew how to use a sword of course, but fighting had never been his forte. Oh he had the armor and the sword, but Daemon knows it’s most for show.

Despite all of that, Daemon takes his time with Otto. He knows he could take the man down easily enough, and considering his numbers are higher than the measly knights left in the Keep, he can mess around with Otto for as long as he wants. Plus, he isn’t the main show here, not with the dragons dancing high in the sky. Daemon had been keeping an eye on their progress, not because he was worried of course, but because it was much more entertaining than what was happening on the ground.

It’s interesting, Daemon thinks as he watches Otto jerk away from Dark Sister, lifting his sword to block. Normally in situations like this, it’s Daemon flying high in the skies, torching everything under him, Caraxes’ flames drowning out the cries of fear. But now, he’s on the ground, able to watch the way the dragons in the sky dance with each other.

So, he gets to see exactly when Vhagar stops flying and begins falling. 

Toying with Otto is no longer important, Daemon decides as everyone turns to watch, to witness the end of this war. It’s poetic really, watching the destruction a dragon can cause without even trying. Just seconds ago there was a building that had been painstakingly built to represent the Seven, and now, there was nothing. 

From here, Daemon couldn’t see what else Vhagar had destroyed in her death throes, but he can’t imagine anyone surviving such a thing. 

He doesn’t feel bad about it.

If anything, he hates that a dragon is going to die today, but he knows it’s necessary. Vhagar had been his darling late lady wife’s dragon, and he had hoped that she would choose Rhaena. However, after everything, after Storm’s End, he knows that Vhagar needs to be put down. 

Turning back towards his opponent, he isn’t surprised at all to see that Otto still looks as cool as a cucumber. He can still see the signs though, after observing the man for so long. It’s in the eyes, Daemon knows, and the way he’s standing so still. Otto knows he’s lost, but it doesn’t stop Daemon from gloating about it.

His steps are intentional, well thought out as he quirks a brow at the sword Otto was still holding. Daemon gets the pleasure of watching the way Otto grits his teeth before he drops the sword. Delighted, Daemon steps even closer.

“Was it worth it?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Of course, the man remains silent. It doesn’t matter though, Otto’s lost and Daemon will rejoice in their victory is said and done. For now, he gestures at his men and watches, pleased, as the usurpers are gathered.

All that was left was to wait for his son.

When Alicent first heard Vhagar, she knew for sure that the tides would turn in their favor. Sure, he hadn’t been doing well and had been the reason the war had started in earnest, but he had just been showing initiative. If Aemond hadn’t gone to Storm’s End, the Baratheon’s would’ve pledged to Rhaenyra. The war would’ve gotten worse eventually, what with Rhaenyra refusing to see reason. She had thought for sure that if she could just talk to Rhaenyra, her old friend would understand why she should bend the knee to Aegon. 

After Storm’s End, Alicent had written to Rhaenyra, from one mother to another, in hopes that Rhaenyra would back down so no more children would have to be lost. Rhaenyra had never responded. Alicent wasn’t sure if it was because her message hadn’t reached her, if Daemon had intercepted, or if Rhaenyra truly refused to realize the truth. Whatever it was, Alicent knew that things would’ve gotten worse eventually. It was just a shame that a young life had to be lost.

The men holding them hostage hadn’t stopped her from going towards the window, and so she was able to see when Aemond arrived. It was hard to mistake Vhagar’s large green form for anything else. She had assumed that his opponent would be Daemon, that the Blood Wyrm would be meeting Vhagar in the skies. Instead, a black monstrosity appeared instead, and Alicent was forced to watch as that dragon locked claws with Vhagar.

It was horrifying, watching Vhagar struggle for once. Alicent had thought that a war dragon of her size and age would excel against any opponent, except maybe Vermithor, and she knows that at the very least that monster hasn’t been claimed. So, it was hard to watch Vhagar be overwhelmed like this, to eventually watch her son fall out of the sky.

Her cries were ignored by almost everyone around her. Daeron was watching her quietly, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. He made no moves to try and comfort her and in fact looked quite uncomfortable himself. Helaena had finally put her loom down, but instead of turning to her mother, she reached out to soothe her children, who had begun to cry as well. 

“The war is over, mother,” Helaena informs her softly, shushing one of the twins.

Alicent turns away from the window, rushing towards the door.

“I need to go out there!” she cries, struggling when two of the men grab her, “I need to get to my son!”

Vhagar had fallen from so high up, and had landed so hard. She needed to check on her son, she needed to make sure that Aemond was still alive. He had only done what he thought was best for their family. He’d had the drive that she’d wished Aegon had. She had been disappointed in him lately, sure, but she would always be his mother. 

As she struggles, Helaena turns to watch her, meeting her eyes for the first time in years. Normally, Helaena would look over her shoulder, or perhaps look somewhere near her temple, so it made her question all the more haunting as she maintained eye contact.

“Was it worth it?” she inquires.

Alicent doesn’t have an answer for her.

Aemond comes to with a pained wheeze, every inch of his body sore and aching. His head is throbbing and he quickly realizes it’s because Vhagar landed on her side, and so Aemond is horizontal. When he moves, the chains keeping him in the saddle rattle, but it’s nothing compared to the screams all around him. Groaning, Aemond reaches for one of the hooks that would free him. His fingers slip and slide over the metal and it takes him a while to realize that his fingers are covered in blood.

Frowning, Aemond lifts his hand and stares at it, and it is then that he remembers exactly what’s happening and how he’s gotten into this situation. As if he’d been waiting for it, Aemond hears him.

”Qȳbor?” Lucerys calls, loud and clear, and Aemond finally looks up.

The first thing he sees is green and red. Vhagar’s scales are covered in blood and as his gaze moves further up he sees where the Cannibal had bitten into Vhagar. She’s still bleeding from the wounds, but Aemond knows she’s still alive. Mostly because she’s still moving.

The wing that isn’t pinned under her own mass is flapping uselessly and her long neck is turning this way and that from the pain. She’s dying though, Aemond can feel it, and he knows that a good portion of the pain he’s feeling is actually hers. For some reason, it makes him feel even worse.

“Qȳbor!” 

Blinking, Aemond looks even further past Vhagar and Aemond realizes that Lucerys is there, far enough away that he can’t see Aemond yet through all the rubble and dust, but close enough, and rapidly getting closer. 

Like an idiot, he’d left his dragon further back, and Aemond fully planned on taking advantage of that.

Ignoring his pain, and Vhagar’s as well, Aemond reaches for the reins, curling his bloody fingers around them. Vhagar is still alive, he knows she is, so all he has to do is give her the order.

“Burn him!” Aemond calls, hoping that his dragon can hear him over her own cries. “Burn him, Vhagar!”

Lucerys is getting closer, seemingly unbothered by Vhagar’s cries, and so Aemond keeps repeating himself, and even tries to mentally push the imagery towards his dragon. 

“Vhagar!” Aemond snaps, “Burn him!”

Vhagar finally hears him, but Lucerys hears him too. He can see him, over all of Vhagar’s bulk, and it seems as if time goes still when Lucerys’ eyes meet his. Aemond isn’t exactly sure what he’d been expecting Lucerys’ reaction to be as Vhagar opens her mouth, fire already flickering in her throat, but it isn’t for the boy to laugh.

Perhaps he didn’t mind dying by dragon fire, Aemond thinks, a little delirious as his nephew is enveloped inside Vhagar’s flames. 

Finally, Aemond thinks, it’s finally over. He doesn’t know Lucerys managed to survive Storm’s End, nor does he know how the bastard managed to claim another dragon, but no one could survive being dragon fire.

It doesn’t stop Aemond from watching though, wanting to make sure Lucerys was actually dead. Vhagar’s flames peter off eventually, the dragon’s head dropping weakly. The rubble and the ground in front of her is scorched, and Aemond expects to see ash where Lucerys had been, some sort of mark to show where his bastard nephew had stood.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was Lucerys himself, completely untouched. 

No, Aemond realizes as Lucerys grabs a hold of one of Vhagar’s spikes, climbing up her snout without a care, he wasn’t untouched. Before, his hair had been mostly black, with a few patches of white here and there. Now though, as he scales the dragon with practiced ease, Aemond realizes that his hair is completely white now. If it were long, and straight, he’d look exactly like his mother.

Horrified, Aemon watches as Lucerys gets closer and closer, grinning all the while. Unable to look away, Aemond reaches for the hooks keeping him strapped to the saddle once more, desperately trying to free himself before Lucerys gets to him, but it’s no use, his fear and his bloody fingers work against him.

“Do you need help?” Lucerys asks, and Aemond jerks as he turns.

Somehow, Lucerys has managed to find a way to stand amongst Vhagar’s spikes and bulk. He isn’t shifting about from Vhagar’s death throes, and looks content to stand where he is. Considering he was riding the Cannibal without a saddle, Aemond can only conclude that he’s used to finding purchase like this.

“How are you still alive?” Aemond demands, heart racing as Lucerys places a foot on Aemond’s saddle. 

“I’m Blessed,” Lucerys says, lifting his arm and reaching for the axe strapped to his back.

“Oh, are you going to kill me? Do you want the title of Kinslayer as well?” Aemond asks, suddenly bold in the face of death. “Although I suppose I can’t be considered a Kinslayer anymore.”

“Of course not,” Lucerys says, and he looks genuinely confused, but the axe doesn’t really help his case. “I just want to help you.”

As it turns out, helping him means breaking the chains holding him with his axe. Unfortunately for him, gravity immediately takes hold and Aemond cries out when he goes tumbling, rolling down the rubble and foundation of the building they’d fallen into.

Aemond’s world spins violently and he hits the ground hard, landing on his back. Winded, Aemond stays where he is as the clouds above him spin around and around. He doesn’t know how long he’s there before he hears footsteps, Lucerys appearing in his line of sight.

“Get some rest, Qȳbor, ” the bastard says, blue eyes wide and unblinking as Aemond’s vision swims. The ground underneath him trembles and he hears Vhagar cry out in pain, the sound ending in a gurgle that will stay with Aemond for the rest of his days. “You’re going to need it.”

His bond with Vhagar snaps and Aemond loses consciousness from the pain of it.

Chapter Text

Ser Harrold stood, trying his best to take everything in. He’d always been loyal, had always known that he would die for his King. However, his loyalty wasn’t blind, and Aegon wasn’t his King. He had thought that he would die as a Kingsguard, but after witnessing Lord Beesbury’s death, he had found himself unable to stay at his post. 

In the weeks that followed, he had no idea what he’d expected to happen. He had considered going to Dragonstone and offering his services to Queen Rhaenyra, the rightful ruler, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to leave King’s Landing, to leave the starving people.

Now, he finds himself standing in absolute disbelief. He’d witnessed the battle in the skies, and it had only reminded him of why House Targaryen was meant to rule. Despite the pure destructiveness a dragon could cause, not much had been damaged in the end. The only lives lost were those aligned with the Hightowers as well as the men and women of the cloth that had locked themselves in their sept in protest.

It led to their deaths in the end.

There’s murmuring all around him from the smallfolk. For the most part they all seemed relieved. Harrold had heard the rumors passing through the streets, the songs sung in taverns and brothels about the undying prince. He remembers Prince Lucerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s little shadow.

He’d been a shy little thing, always right behind his mother or brother. Harrold had been devastated when he’d learned of his fate at Storm’s End. All he could think about at that moment was Rhaenyra, the princess he’d watched grow up, and his grief had tripled just imagining how she would’ve felt when she found out. 

So, it was difficult for him to hear those songs, those rumors of mass destruction and murder knowing Rhaenyra’s children the way he did. But he was also a man that has seen what one can do when pushed, when forced to do what was necessary to survive. 

“The Prince is at the gates!” Harrold hears, watching as a group of young men rush towards the Keep.

He can’t help but follow after them.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one that was curious, as before he knew it, he found himself amongst a crowd right before the castle gates. There were several men, a few wearing gold cloaks but most wore armored leathers, all of them were stationed in a way that forced the bystanders to stay away from the gate as a young man stepped out.

Harrold remembers Prince Lucerys Velaryon, of course, he remembered all of Rhaenyra’s children, but even he had to do a double take at the white haired Targaryen that was slowly approaching the crowd, his hands tucked behind his back.

The boy was a little taller than when he’d last seen him, and he had filled out from the scrawny thing he’d been before his mother had taken him and her other children to Dragonstone. Sharp blue eyes stared out at the murmuring crowd, jumping from face to face and pausing at Harrold long enough for the old knight to see a spark of recognition before the boy moved on.

Harrold stared at the young prince, trying and failing to figure out what could’ve happened to result in such a drastic change in his appearance. If Rhaenyra’s children had looked like this from the beginning, the rumors would’ve never been able to leave Alicent’s chambers. 

Behind Lucerys, two men come out of the castle gates, carrying a man between them. His head is covered and no matter how he struggles, the men keep moving until they’re in the center of the circle Lucerys’ men had created, shoving the man down to his knees.

“The war is over,” Lucerys informs the crowd, “the usurpers have been apprehended and are awaiting judgment.”

For a moment, it’s completely silent as the smallfolk look amongst themselves. Harrold doesn’t know who does it, but someone in the crowd hoots and the others follow, clapping their hands and stomping their feet.

Lucerys allows it for a moment, watching wordlessly before he raises his hand. Surprisingly, the crowd quiets, watching as the prince moves towards the kneeling man.

“Queen Rhaenyra will pass judgment on the royal usurpers and their confidantes, but this man was a criminal before he served the usurpers. The Queen Dowager protected him from his punishment, but I will not permit this criminal to live another day.”

The crowd was completely silent, watching as the prince reached for the sack over the man’s head. Harrold immediately recognizes Criston Cole, but he knows most of the smallfolk won’t know who he is. Lucerys makes sure to inform them.

“This man is Ser Criston Cole, he was the Queen Dowager’s sworn shield, a member of the Kingsguard, chosen personally by my mother,” Lucerys explains, his voice still as soft as Harrold remembers it being, making all of the smallfolk lean in, entranced.

“Ser Criston Cole is a murderer,” Lucerys informs the smallfolk, walking towards the crowd, “his very first murder was on the very night my mother’s wedding celebrations began, perhaps some of you have heard of the atrocity that occurred that night despite the attempts to hide it.”

There’s murmuring amongst the crowd, and Harrold watches the way some of them seem to remember what Lucerys was talking about. Harrold doesn’t need a reminder, he remembers that night very well, still remembers Laenor’s desperate cries.

“He murdered Ser Joffrey Lonmouth in cold blood, beat him to death during what should’ve been one of my mother’s happiest days,” Lucerys solemnly takes in the gasps and horrified looks as he pushes on. 

“Ser Joffrey was a cherished friend of House Velaryon, my father’s champion during their wedding celebration, and a knight of House Lonmouth. By all rights, Ser Cole should’ve been stripped of his white cloak there and then, and imprisoned for his crimes. However, Queen Alicent protected him, and House Velaryon was forced to ignore the offense, as well as House Lonmouth and their overlord House Baratheon. As the future Lord of the Tides, it is my duty to see this murderer punished.”

“That sword swallower-” Criston starts, but whatever he plans to say next is cut off by one of the men standing guard next to him as the man grabs Cole by his hair, yanking his head back.

“You will not speak unless Prince Lucerys orders it,” the man snarls, and Cole’s mouth shuts with a click.

“You see,” Lucerys says, turning blue eyes, sharp and focused, “he does not feel an ounce of shame for his crimes.”

He waits for a moment, allowing the smallfolk to shoot appalled looks at the Dornishman before pushing on.

“His second crime was also murder, much more recent than the first. During this war, House Hightower managed to gather plenty of allies, allies that had initially bent the knee and pledged their loyalty to my mother, Queen Rhaeynra. However, there were several notable Houses and individuals that remained loyal to the true ruler of Westeros, even if it cost them their lives.”

It clicks immediately for Harrold, and so he already knows exactly what crime Lucerys is going to bring up. He wonders how Lucerys knew it was Criston, but the retired knight remains silent as the smallfolk whisper amongst themselves, trying to figure it out. Lucerys doesn’t leave them in the dark for long.

“His second victim was Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin and the Lord of Honeybolt,” Lucerys explains.

Dramatics, Harrold decides as the crowd responds exactly how Lucerys had planned, was created by the Targaryens. He had thought Daemon was the most dramatic dragon, but Lucerys was proving him wrong.

“Lord Beesbury, may the Fourteen light his Way, remained loyal to my mother and disagreed with their plan to usurp the throne and so Ser Cole killed him, right in front of my late grandsire’s small council. That’s two counts of murder unanswered for. It is time that he be punished for his crimes.”

“Ser Criston Cole,” Lucerys says, finally turning to the man, “In the name of Her Grace Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, I, Prince Lucerys Velaryon of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, Heir to Driftmark, find you guilty of two counts of murder as well as treason and sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”

Harrold looks at Cole and finds the man glaring at Lucerys, nothing but pure hatred in his eyes. Harrold never understood why Criston hated Rhaenyra and her children so much. Rhaenyra had been the one to choose him to join the Kingsguard and for a long time the two had been close, especially after Aegon’s second name day. However, something happened that had spoiled their connection so badly that Cole had been viciously active in the crusade against Rhaenyra. Although he doesn’t know the reasoning, he can tell that all of that hatred Cole has allowed to fester is about to be unleashed.

“Your mother is nothing but a whore,” Cole spits, “a heathen that seduces everyone around her. We all know a woman isn’t meant to rule, the only reason she’s garnered as many supporters as she has is because she flashes her cunt at anyone willing to stand still long enough.”

Cole keeps going and Harrold gets the feeling that the man wouldn’t be able to stop even if he wanted to. Like a man possessed he spews vitriol about the Queen, uncaring of the way the crowd reacts in disgust and horror. Harrold only has eyes for Lucerys, carefully watching the prince’s reaction.

He knows, perhaps better than anyone present, how deeply Rhaenyra’s children love her, and the lengths they’re willing to go for her. The familial ties in House Targaryen have always been strong, the late King had been a bit of an outlier to the nearly feverish obsession the Targaryens felt for each other. Lucerys might be Laenor’s son, but he’d been raised by the most obsessive and protective Targaryen yet.

Cole’s death would not be pleasant. 

Surprisingly, Lucerys waits until Cole finally stops to breathe, his final words seeming to ring out in the air. It’s eerily silent, the growing crowd pale and faint as they watch Lucerys. The prince is standing motionless, his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side. He stays that way for a beat, and then another, before he’s turning to one of his men.

“Bring me four horses and four cuts of rope,” Lucerys orders, and the man immediately turns and rushes back towards the castle gate.

“I will take this time to warn you all,” Lucerys starts, his back still turned to the crowd, “what I am about to do is not for the faint of heart or those with a weak stomach. Any children present have until the horses arrive to leave.”

Then, he says nothing else, just stands as still as a statue. Harrold is jostled a bit as Lucerys’s words are obeyed, mothers grabbing their children and some elderly turning away quickly. A large majority stay, anger in their eyes as they watch several stable hands come out of the gates, four horses in tow.

Cole is watching Lucerys, that fierce hatred mixing with confusion, but Lucerys doesn’t say a word as he watches the horses approach. The man he’d given the order to returns to his side quickly, a bundle of rope in his arms.

Things happen quickly after that. Lucerys orders for one end of each rope be tied to a horse and once his men complete their tasks, Lucerys approaches Cole and begins tying one end to each limb.

Everyone gets a general idea of what’s going to happen then, Cole included.

“Wait!” The Dornishman shouts, struggling anew as Lucerys steps back. “You can’t do this!”

“Every person here has witnessed you insult the Crown,” Lucerys responds, and there’s no particular inflection to his tone, no real expression on his face, but for Targaryen’s, it’s always the eyes.

And Lucerys’ eyes are filled with rage as he looks down at Cole, the man now spread eagle on his back.

“You are a murderer, an usurper, and you wasted your last words to spew more treason, insulting the Crown,” Lucerys pauses, his eyes darkening as he adds, “insulting my mother.”

The prince takes a few steps back, his eyes never leaving the struggling knight. The crowd is silent, as are the riders awaiting their prince’s command, everyone aside from Cole holding their breath.

The silence holds for a long moment, a heavy weight hanging over them as the prince raises his hand. Cole’s eyes widen and he falls silent, watching the prince’s hand along with everyone else.

Lucerys’ hand drops, and the riders do as they’re bid, each horse going in a different direction.

It is the most brutal execution Harrold has ever seen, and even as some people scream, others cheer. As some turn away, others watch, unblinking.

Harrold is part of the latter, but his eyes are on the young prince. The young boy that had clung to his mother’s skirts at any given chance. The boy who had been too shy to speak in front of the Lords and Ladies way back when.

But also, Harrold realizes as Lucerys orders for a jar to be brought, unflinching when blood lands on him due to his proximity to the carnage, the prince that had cut out Prince Aemond’s eye in defense of his brother.

Thinking of it that way, the smile on Lucerys’ now bloody face is quite fitting indeed. Harrold distantly recalls the saying about Targaryen’s, something about genius and madness and a coin flipping around and around.

He now knows what side that coin landed on for Prince Lucerys.

“I know that times have been hard during this war,” Lucerys says, addressing the smallfolk calmly despite the gore now on his person, “but once my mother is on her throne, things will change for the better. The Crown thanks you all for your steadfast loyalty and perseverance. We know that you didn’t support the usurpers and we will strive to bring prosperity to King’s Landing and Westeros. It will not be easy,” Lucerys warns, making an effort to make eye contact as he continues, “and things will be hard as we fix what the usurpers have destroyed.”

“But one day you will all be witness to the results of my mother’s glorious reign as she leads us towards a better world. She will bring us into a new age and the usurpers will be forgotten entirely. This will be a mere blip in history, their names will not be remembered. But the Crown will remember your patience, the Crown will remember your loyalty, and we will return that loyalty tenfold. One day soon you will notice that your days are easier, your coin purses fuller, the streets cleaner and your households healthier. All we ask for, is what you’ve already given us: patience and loyalty, until the very end.”

Harrold watches as, despite the brutality they all just witnessed, every single smallfolk present cheers, several different iterations of ‘Long live Queen Rhaenyra’ flying around. In the midst of it all, the prince turns and makes his way towards the gates once more.

Harrold watches after the young prince, the way he stands tall, his head held high as the men not cleaning up the mess fall in line after him. None of his men seem the least bit bothered by what they’d just witnessed and Harrold isn’t surprised to see that level of loyalty aimed at a child of House Targaryen. In fact, as he watches, he can’t help but see Daemon there, all the boy was missing was a sword at his hip. 

Harrold allows himself to stay there for a few minutes more, thinking long and hard. He had stepped down from his station, what was a Kingsguard without a King after all. However, the war was over and the Queen was coming home.

Which meant it was time for Harrold to return to his post as well. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra paces back and forth, her mind racing. It’s been days since she’s heard anything from Daemon. She had thought that things were going well at Harrenhal, that her husband was gathering allies and preparing for what would surely be a grisly war. The last she’d heard, he’d been making deals and promises to ensure they’d have enough men for what needed to be done.

However, she hasn’t heard a peep since.

Rhaenys watches her pace silently, but she chooses to remain silent. She knew quite well that nothing she had to say would soothe the young Queen, not when she hasn’t heard anything from Daemon. So instead she offers her company, and waits with her frazzled Queen.

It isn’t long before the door opens, and a young voice announces the arrival of Petyr, the young man that had been put in charge of Lucerys’ men on Dragonstone. Rhaenys still wasn’t sure what House he hailed from and chose not to ask. He hadn’t given a surname when he got around to introducing himself and Rhaenyra had been admittedly more interested in information on her son. 

“Your Grace,” Petyr says as he steps inside, hastily moving towards Rhaenyra who, in her anxious haste, moves to meet him halfway.

“Do you bring news? Is Lucerys well?” Rhaenyra demands, and Petyr quickly soothes her.

“Lucerys is well, Your Grace, more than. In fact, I bring great news,” Petyr says, glancing behind Rhaenyra at Rhaenys, tilting his head in greeting.

“Great news? Will he be returning to Dragonstone?” Rhaenys wonders, but Petyr shakes his head, offering an unsealed letter to Rhaenyra who immediately recognizes the seal.

“It’s from Daemon,” she says softly and Petyr hums.

 “Yes, but Prince Lucerys has given me new orders. I was on my way to relay them to you but a raven arrived. I assume the letter will explain it better than I.”

Instead of elaborating, he gestures for Rhaenyra to read the letter. The Queen hurriedly breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. She knows that the seal belongs to her beloved, but her worries settle when she sees the curling glyphs, the letter written entirely in High Valyrian.

She reads past Daemon’s greetings, his apologies for his long silence and even longer absence. His words are pleased, delighted, and she realizes as she keeps reading, victorious. He tells her that the war has been won, the usurpers apprehended.

He tells her that all of it was done by their son, her Lucerys. 

He tells her that finally, finally, she can come home.

Rhaenyra doesn’t cry, she won’t cry, not with the young Petyr still present. She trusts him because she knows her son trusts him, but she is still the Queen. However, she allows herself a moment to acknowledge that her son is alive and that he was with his father. 

Carefully, she rereads the letter in its entirety, stopping once more at the lines mentioning their son, crediting him and his men. She reads the line that tells her that they were awaiting her return. 

“What orders has my son given you?” Rhaenyra asks as she hands the letter off to Rhaenys, who takes it quickly.

“I have been tasked with sailing to King’s Landing. With your permission my men will take any of the young princes and princesses who are unable to take to the skies.”

Rhaenyra’s first instinct is to decline the offer. Only Jacaerys and Baela would be able to make the flight to King’s Landing, the others either without a dragon or their dragons were too young to make such a flight just yet. In her mind she imagines trying to take Viserys and probably young Aegon with her on Syrax, Rhaenys certainly would take Rhaena with her, but she forces the idea down. Her paranoia was still getting the best of her. The war was over, Daemon himself told her, with a letter in High Valyrian sealed by his personal stamp. 

Her family was safe now.

Biting down her initial response, she gives the young man a smile, nodding in agreement. Her children had sailed before, and with Lucerys’ men she knew they would be safe. She had many doubts, and plenty of fears after all of this, but she refused to think anyone loyal to Lucerys would harm a member of his family. 

Rhaenyra watches Petyr leave, holding herself together as the large door of the council room closes. Then, she turns to Rhaenys, who is already waiting, arms open and eyes filled with understanding. Rhaenyra allows herself to step into the circle of Rhaenys’ arms and allows herself to cry.

The war is over and her son is alive. The usurpers have been caught, and her son, her sweet boy, is waiting for her in King’s Landing. 

Rhaenyra lets herself stay in Rhaenys’ arms for a long time, listening to Rhaenys’ soothing noises for a moment longer before she steps away, a Queen once more. 

“Well,” she says, swiping at her eyes, “let’s not keep the children waiting.”

She knows her children would be ecstatic to learn that Lucerys was well and waiting for them in King’s Landing, and she’s sure they’d all be thankful that the war was over. 

Larys Strong was not having a good time.

He’d been hiding in the secret tunnels ever since he’d heard the dragon overhead. He knows he should’ve cut his losses the very second Aemond returned with his teeth grit and no victories to announce. However, he had allowed himself to hold onto the hope that the Hightowers and their numbers would prevail. After all, knowing how dangerous dragons were, no one truly thought a rider would use them the way Aegon the Conqueror once had.

Larys should’ve known better, hailing from Harrenhal and all, but he had thought Rhaenyra’s bastards to be soft. He fully believed that Daemon was certainly capable of such mass destruction, but he was cuntstruck and followed the false Queen’s every demand.

Larys knew for a fact a woman would never be able to burn down Oldtown.

He should’ve ran when he had the chance, and had made for the exit earlier until he realized the gold cloaks were still loyal to the Rogue Prince. So here he was, hunkered down in the tunnels only a select few still alive knew about. 

It’s been a few days since the war ended. Larys was able to listen to Daemon himself order the royal family to be locked away. He’d taken the tower of the Hand for himself, and Larys had been able to listen in on his orders to send ravens everywhere, starting with Dragonstone. 

That order had been given yesterday, and Larys had been slipping back into the tunnels after grabbing some bread when he heard it, one of the panels opening not too far from where he was. The Keep had been relatively quiet. The guards were still present, as were the servants, but he only ever saw Daemon in the tower of the Hand.

He had yet to see Prince Lucerys, now dubbed the Undying. 

For the most part the servants had been restoring the Keep to what it was before Alicent had donned her dress of war. Down went the tapestries of the Seven, the seven pointed stars were tossed into a pile, and any and all religious items were removed. In their place rose Targaryen banners, motifs of three headed dragons and other such memorabilia.

Gold cloaks and men in armored leathers wandered the halls now, making Larys stick to the tunnels. He had thought he’d be safe there until things calmed down, which is exactly why a thrill of fear shoots up his spine at the sound of someone else entering the tunnels with him.

He knew the tunnels were extensive, he wasn’t even sure how far they went. He was hoping that whoever had joined him hadn’t brought a torch, and that they planned on going in the opposite direction. Keeping absolutely still, he strained his ears to listen.

“You’d think the royal family would seal these tunnels off,” he hears a gruff voice say further up.

“Some of them have been, but they still have their uses,” another voice replies, distinctly feminine. 

Larys hopes, prays even, that the two are a couple seeking to indulge in a bit of play. They keep talking and he can hear them step inside, their steps echoing in the barren tunnels. Quietly, Larys shifts and turns in the opposite direction. It’s not easy for him to walk quietly, not with his foot the way it was, but he hefts his cane up and presses his hand against the wall instead, slowly shuffling away.

The voices and footsteps continue to echo, but they’re growing faint, moving away from him. It doesn’t stop Larys from moving forward as quietly as possible, heading towards the Queen’s wing. The King’s hall was sealed off, but the Queen’s was still there, with an exit in the Queen’s solar. Considering Queen Helaena had refused to change rooms, and the Queen Dowager was currently down in the cells, he was sure no one would be there. 

It takes a while, Larys still hesitant as he swears he hears footsteps every once in a while. But eventually, he makes it to the Queen’s solar. He has to set his cane down to open the hidden panel, and he’s careful to go about it slowly. He figures he can hide in the solar for a while so that the men sent into the passageways will leave empty handed. Perhaps he’ll take the time to eat the bread he’d stolen. The passageways are dark and damp, and Larys navigates it in the dark. Normally he’d bring a lamp with him, but now that he was hiding, he decided to rely on his own memory.

Larys tucks his cane under his arm as he slides the panel closed slowly, holding his breath as it closes with nary a sound. Pleased, Larys allows his shoulders to relax, lowering his cane as he turns. He comes to an immediate halt when he sees a young boy standing at the entrance of the Queen’s solar.

“Lord Strong,” the boy greets, as if he’d been expecting him, “I do believe my father owes me a new bow.”

Larys is frozen, doing his best to figure out his next step. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to be here, let alone a boy that could only be a Targaryen. He’d heard the rumors and even his spies had told him about the changes, and yet he hadn’t believed them until now. Smiling slowly, Larys tilts his head in greeting, mind racing. 

“I apologize, my prince,” Larys tries, “I was waiting for Her Grace.”

“By Her Grace you mean?” Lucerys asks, but there’s a glint in his eyes that lets Larys know the Prince doesn’t care for his response. 

He tries anyway.

“Why, Queen Rhaenyra of course,” Larys says, watching the way the boy’s eyebrows raise, curious. “I have been her loyal servant, spying on the false rulers. I wished to report their transgressions.”

The boy hums, and as he steps further into the solar, Larys realizes that Lucerys is armed. He hadn’t noticed it at first, and decides the large ax must’ve been leaning against the wall on the other side. Now though, it’s the only thing he can focus on. That and the boy’s voice.

“You’re very cunning Lord Larys, I’ll give you that,” Lucerys tells him as he approaches, “but you thought you were the smartest one in this little war and that’s where you failed.”

Larys stumbles backwards, hurriedly feeling for the panel as the boy keeps talking.

“If you had used that cunning for my mother, she would’ve happily taken you into her fold. However, you helped the Hightowers, spying on my family, spreading treasonous rumors,” the boy watches as Larys gets the panel open and makes no moves to stop him as he finishes, “and let’s not forget your worst sin, kinslaying.”

Larys freezes, slowly turning to face the child, who watches him in turn. 

“Am I wrong?” the boy asks after a while.

“I did what was best for the Realm,” Larys responds, strong and sure.

“No,” Lucerys responds easily, “you did what was best for you, the crippled second son. With your father and brother out of the way, you’re now Lord of Harrenhal. You could’ve stopped there I’m sure, but you always hungered for more than what you were owed. But instead of working for it, you stole it, just like the Hightowers.”

“Harwin was a fool,” Larys says, low and biting, “for siding with Rhaenyra.”

“Harwin was loyal and brave, something you will never be.”

“And where is he now? What has that loyalty and bravery gotten him? Dead-” Larys starts but is quickly interrupted.

“Murdered,” the boy cuts in, “burned alive on your orders.”

Lucerys takes several more steps forward and Larys stumbles back in response, falling into the passageway. The Prince stares down at him for a long moment, taking in the way Larys is sprawled.

“What a shame,” he says, “I had been expecting more from you.”

“Oh? I’m truly sorry to disappoint, my prince,” Larys says, reaching for his cane and flinching away when Lucerys steps on it. He kicks it backwards, away from the both of them.

“No,” the Prince says as he lifts his ax, “you’re not sorry. But you will be.”

Panicking and terrified, Larys quickly rolls onto his stomach and tries to drag himself further into the passageway, away from Lucerys. However, he isn’t fast enough, would’ve never been fast enough, and the ax comes down hard on his good leg. 

Larys cries out in pain, his body jerking out of his control as Lucerys swings his ax down again on the same leg, forcefully separating his lower leg from the knee. The sound of it is horrifying and the pain nearly makes Larys pass out. He expects more brutality, for the Prince to continue his attack. However, nothing happens, and Larys, sweaty and in pain, turns over onto his side.

Lucerys is behind him, illuminated from the light of the solar, and Larys must be delirious as he takes in the way the light seems to surround the Prince, giving him an ethereal glow. The boy is still holding the ax, but he isn’t attacking anymore, just watching, waiting, until Larys’ eyes meet his.

Lucerys’ eyes are bright with delight as he watches the way Larys writhes. 

“What?” Larys hisses, forcing his words out over the pain, “too afraid to be named a kinslayer?”

Lucerys blinks, once, twice, before the euphoria that had been on his face shifts into something that has to be confusion. The Prince doesn’t say anything at first, instead looking down at Larys’ leg, cut below the knee and bleeding as Larys himself shakes and shivers from pain and possibly oncoming shock.

“I have an armed guard waiting by every single exit out of these tunnels,” the boy tells him, “my father and I are quite curious to see how far you get, you see.”

“You can drag yourself as deep into these tunnels as you’d like, screaming and begging for help, but none will come. It’s quite fitting don’t you think?”

Then, the boy steps further back and Larys is forced to listen to the way the panel begins to close. Darkness gets closer and closer until it stops, just a sliver of light available as Lucerys peeks back in, just enough for Larys to see his face.

“You will be forgotten, traitor to the Lord and heir of Harrenhal, but your father and brother will be remembered. Their Gods have taken them home where they will be praised for their loyalty and sacrifice. You, however, will be lost to time, unimportant.”

With that, the panel slides closed with a finality that sinks into Larys’ being.

He is alone and dying, all of his schemes, plots and plans for nought. 

Later, when Lucerys and his father go looking, they’ll find that the traitor in the walls hadn’t gone far at all, curled into a ball with his hands over his ears and his face frozen in terror.

Chapter Text

Ser Gendry took in his young Prince carefully. His Prince had many titles, some more official than others, although Ser Gendry preferred the title that the Baratheon troop had given him before it had carried on the winds: Prince Lucerys the Undying.

He had heard plenty of other epithets given to the Prince as of late: the Conqueror Come Again, unoriginal really, the Second Coming of Maegor, highly amusing, the Destroyer of the Faith, Ser Bran’s favorite if you were to ask him. Ser Gendry was quite amused by the more recent one that marked him as Prince Lucerys the Flamewalker. Lucerys himself had snickered when he’d heard someone call him The Heathen.

All of those titles, and all of those accomplishments meant absolutely nothing as the Prince fretted. He was in his chambers watching as the servants prepared his bath. The Prince did bathe regularly of course, but usually he was unbothered by the gore he tended to be covered in by day’s end. Ser Gendry believed that at least part of it was an intimidation tactic.

He was only fretting now because Queen Rhaenyra was on her way. 

In all of his time spent with his Prince, the boy hadn’t actually said much about his mother. He was terrifyingly loyal to her, without question, and was quick to sing her praises and promises that she would bring in a new era. He spoke of the Queen and her reign and how the throne was rightfully hers, but Ser Gendry had yet to hear the boy speak about his mother. 

He knows the Prince loves his mother, achingly, desperately, and maybe a little obsessively. He saw it in how he acted around the older women in his warband, how he obeyed the wishes of his lessers if said lesser was a woman. Now, he sees it in how the Prince hurriedly orders for everything to be cleaned, to make sure the Keep was spotless, without a sign of the violence that had happened within its halls. 

Ser Gendry observes his Prince as the young boy strips himself, uncaring of Ser Gendry’s presence, and immediately sets about scrubbing himself clean.

“You’re nervous,” Ser Gendry notes, smiling when the Prince eyes him warily. Ser Gendry has learned to wait the Prince out, allow him to decide on what he wants to say. His silence eventually bears fruit.

“I want everything to be perfect,” Lucerys eventually mutters.

“You’ve captured her enemies, secured her crown, secured the Lannister vault and mines,” Ser Gendry lists, watching as Lucerys looks down into the tub, silent, “you’re her son.”

“I do not look like her son,” Lucerys says after a few minutes of silence, “my hair, my eyes.”

“Puberty,” Ser Gendry says, deadpan, and relishes the disbelieving look his Prince shoots him. “Very aggressive puberty. Surely the maesters would agree if you asked.”

“How are our prisoners?” Lucerys asks after a while, an amused glint to his eyes that lets Ser Gendry know that he’s at least done something right.

“The Old Hightower keeps demanding to speak to someone,” Ser Gendry reports, “the usurper hasn’t said a word but I do believe he’s more sullen from the lack of wine than anything else. The Queen Dowager hasn’t stopped praying, and Aemond hasn’t woken up yet. His burns have been tended to.”

“My aunt and uncle?”

“Prince Daeron is well, he’s been assisting His Grace with sending letters. They’ve been bonding over their aches and pains. Princess Helaena has been spending her time in the garden with her children.”

“My mother is supposed to pass judgment on the traitors.”

“That she is.”

“I worry that she will spare her old friend,” Lucerys notes.

“Perhaps, but her sons and her father will hang. Her brother and sworn shield are dead, her House almost extinct, and the son and daughter that will live are loyal to you, what more can she do?” Ser Gendry wonders.

“I want her to suffer,” Lucerys says decisively.

”What will you do?”

“Nothing yet, my mother must pass her judgment. But I do have a few ideas.”

The Prince finishes soon enough but his fretting doesn’t stop. Ser Gendry shadows his charge as the Prince checks everything once, twice and is currently working on a third walk around before they run into Prince Daeron.

“Uncle,” Lucerys greets, turning away from the servant he’d been pestering.

“I’ve been told that you need a distraction,” Daeron says and Lucerys misses the relieved expression on the servant’s face as Lucerys follows his uncle.

“Distraction?” Lucerys asks, curious, “what kind of distraction?” 

“My brother has woken up,” Daeron says, turning only slightly to gauge his nephew’s reaction.

“He’s woken up,” Lucerys parrots, “but you’re heading outside.”

“Yes, His Grace went to speak with my grandsire and Aemond issued a challenge upon waking.” Ser Gendry notes that Prince Daeron no longer looks as if he’d sucked on a lemon when he uses the King’s appropriate title.

“The man who has been unconscious for several days, the man with burns from his own dragon’s blood? That man? Who has he challenged?” Lucerys asks.

Ser Gendry watches the way Daeron sends his nephew a flat look and gets to see the way Lucerys’ expression shifts. At first, his Prince looks highly offended, but then it shifts to annoyance.

“My mother is coming,” his Prince says, “she’s likely to arrive before supper and I’ve just bathed. I will not fight him right now,” he decides.

Daeron’s brows raise in actual surprise as he looks to Ser Gendry who merely shrugs.

“You,” Daeron says in disbelief, “are declining a challenge?” 

“My mother,” Lucerys stresses, “is coming.”

“You yourself created the rules, my Prince,” Ser Gendry says airily and doesn’t flinch from the sharp glare immediately aimed his way, “to decline a challenge,” he trails off, but his meaning is obvious.

Lucerys’ glare is hateful, and Ser Gendry ignores it completely considering his Prince was still following them outside, and they were all able to hear voices mixing together.

“If my mother arrives before this challenge ends I will gut you both and hang you to dry on the castle wall,” Lucerys hisses furiously before he storms past them.

The courtyard is filled with Lucerys’ men as well as Daemon’s Gold Cloaks and Daemon himself was standing in the middle of it all without a care. Next to him was Aemond, standing tall despite his obvious injuries. The Maesters had decided that Vhagar’s bulk had protected Aemond from the high fall. Mostly it was soreness, although they’d had to set one of his legs, Lucerys could see the splint from here. 

His arms are bandaged, covering the burns from the splatters of Vhagar’s burning blood. They’d reported that he knew the year at the very least, but that he’d been jostled something fierce during the fall, which explained the stiff way he held his neck.

All in all, he was not well enough to fight a newborn babe let alone Lucerys.

Lucerys stops next to his father, completely ignoring Aemond.

“Father,” Lucerys says flatly, and Daemon shrugs.

“You made the rules, my little dragon. Your men heard his challenge and brought him here.”

“Taoba, I challenge you,” Aemond hisses.

“Qȳbor,”  Lucerys returns as he steps towards the circle Aemond was standing in. “If it were any other day I would rip your throat out with my teeth and gift your still bleeding carcass to my dragon. But today, I have to settle for your submission, due to your extensive injuries that you’re choosing to ignore, it will be easy.”

Aemond says nothing in return, merely holding out a slightly trembling hand and demanding for a weapon. No one steps forward to offer the challenger anything, a few of Lucerys’ men even laugh openly. Lucerys himself is quiet as he steps into the circle, unarmed and frowning, finally addressing his opponent.

“Did the Dowager’s dog not teach you any hand to hand?” Lucerys asks.

Aemond doesn’t respond, but he does drop his hand.

“You are the challenger,” Lucerys says as he begins circling the other prince, “normally the winner exchanges positions with the loser. As you are a traitor and a criminal and I am a Prince of the Realm, that exchange will be impossible. However, should you win, I will grant you a boon.”

“Any boon?” Aemond demands and Lucerys shows his teeth in a way that certainly isn’t a smile.

Aemond lunges first. He is taller than Lucerys, with greater reach, but his weight is distributed unevenly due to the splint and his neck pain and Lucerys steps away easily. 

“I had plans for you, Qȳbor ,” Lucerys admits as he dodges away from Aemond again, ducking around another swipe.

“For after my mother declared you and yours guilty. You’re ruining my plans.”

“You’ve ruined everything!” Aemond snaps in return, “From the moment you cut out my eye, you ruined my life.”

“You were going to kill Jacaerys,” Lucerys returns, swatting Aemond’s hand away from him, “you threatened to bludgeon him and promised the rest of us your dragon’s fire.”

Aemond grits his teeth and growls, swiping at Lucerys again, forcing the boy back towards the ring of the circle. He knew Lucerys was toying with him, and it angered him. His own weakness angered him. It made him less aware of himself, more volatile as he threw caution to the wind and overextended in his next attempt.

Lucerys, who was well rested, well fed, and completely uninjured, saw it coming and side stepped, sighing as Aemond’s leg buckled under him. He knew Aemond was better than this, but he also knew the man was most likely still in pain. No one had given him anything to ease his pain, and he’d been unconscious since Lucerys had cut him out of his saddle.

This was, in truth, unnecessary and rather embarrassing.

Regardless, Lucerys takes advantage of it and kicks Aemond over onto his back. It doesn’t surprise Lucerys to see the pained expression on Aemond’s face. Dropping down on Aemond’s chest, Lucerys ignores the way Aemond wheezes and leans forward, taking in the way his uncle glares at him.

“I know you can do better than this, Qȳbor,” Lucerys says loud enough for everyone to hear, and Aemond grits his teeth almost painfully tight, “but you’re injured and in pain. This is no fun for me at all. You will yield and return to your cell, awaiting punishment. Should Queen Rhaenyra allow you to live, then you may challenge me again. Until then, hold on to that anger until you can use it properly.”

Aemond says nothing, but he holds his breath when Lucerys leans down, his voice lower, only for them. 

“I’ll visit you,” Lucerys says softly, gaze focused solely on Aemond’s lone eye, “after my mother gives her verdict. Whether she decides to place your head on a spike, to hang you for all to see, or she might even take pity on you and make you take the black, but I’ll come to you first, and I’ll take your other eye.”

Aemond’s face, which had been reddening with each word, pales. Uncle and nephew stare at each other silently before, with a snarl, Aemond begins to struggle under Lucerys’ weight, spitting vicious words at his nephew. 

Lucerys stays on top of Aemond for a moment longer, stronger than his uncle in his weakened state. It’s humiliating for Aemond, who gets angrier by the second before Lucerys finally stands, waving at one of his men to take him away.

The challenge was over, and the challenger had failed. 

Daeron approaches his nephew, stepping into his line of sight when Lucerys doesn’t acknowledge him first like he usually does.

“Uncle,” Lucerys eventually says, frowning at him as if he had done something to offend the younger Prince. “Did you enjoy seeing me roll in the dirt with your brother?”

“That’s,” Daeron tries, “certainly one way to phrase it.”

“Did you?” Lucerys asks, turning to face him fully, leaning into Daeron’s space. Used to it by now, Daeron doesn’t move away.

Daeron doesn’t get the chance to answer, which he’s grateful for since he doesn’t think there’s a right answer to such a question. Lucerys asks him odd little questions like that sometimes and after the way he’d bristled when Daeron had commented on his own uncle, he’d decided to just avoid such questions. 

This time, he actually has a reason.

A very large, very golden reason.

A Gold Cloak announces it before he can.

“Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra has arrived!”

He feels Lucerys’ glare leveled on him before he sees it and he carefully takes a step away from his nephew.

“In my defense,” he says as Daemon approaches them, “the fight was over before her arrival was announced.”

Lucerys says nothing, well no, he’s certainly saying un-prince-ly things under his breath, as he turns and heads towards the castle instead of the gates. Daemon reaches Daeron and they both watch the way the Prince disappears inside.

”Lucerys is going to make a cloak out of my skin,” Daeron laments, only half kidding.

“Hm, and I had just started to like you,” Daemon comments lightly, patting his shoulder once before moving away, off to receive his Queen.

Once more Ser Gendry found himself shadowing his fretful charge. He’d returned to his chambers twice now, once to change - he hadn’t had the time to bathe and had wiped himself down before dressing in black with accents of blue, a mixture of both his Houses, and then again to retrieve a key and several rolls of parchment. Ser Gendry knew the key was to the Lannister Vault and he figured the parchment held contracts and other such things of import.

Now, his Prince is wandering the halls. At first he’d seemed prepared to set himself to receive his mother in the throne room, but after eyeing the throne he’d frowned and sauntered right back out. Ser Gendry had then shadowed his charge to the Queen’s wing before Lucerys stopped, eyed his mother’s door before once again turning back around.

He’d finally settled in the council room, rearranging his bounty on the table into something presentable. At first he set the key next to the stacked rolls of parchment, but eventually he’d picked it back up. Then he’d wandered over towards the small table that held the wine usually served during council meetings. He stood there for a moment before returning to the front of the table. 

“My Prince,” Ser Gendry says eventually when Lucerys had wandered all around the room, most likely trying to position himself for his mother’s entrance.

“She will not recognize me if I’m not facing the door,” Lucerys tells him as he turns, leaning against the table so he’d be the first thing she’d see were she to walk in. 

“I’m sure a mother will always recognize her son,” Ser Gendry says.

Lucerys digests this and decides to put the key back down, facing the table. He stands there for a moment longer before his head shoots up and he looks panicked, wrong footed.

“I forgot the sword!” 

Before Ser Gendry can soothe his Prince, and perhaps tie him to one of the many chairs, Lucerys picks up the key once more and heads for the door. Before he can reach it, the door opens and Queen Rhaenyra is stepping inside.

Mother and son freeze when they see each other. Ser Gendry takes in the Queen, who still manages to look regal despite her rather windswept appearance. It was clear to him that she had hit the ground running, determined to see her son before anything else. Her expression is open, her eyes wet, but she doesn’t cry. Lucerys speaks before she can, rushed in his attempts to fill the silence.

“Your Grace,” Lucerys says, curling one hand around the wrist of the other, holding the key so tightly it leaves an imprint in his palm, “Your loyal son welcomes you home. The usurpers have been locked away and only those loyal to you remain.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t say anything in response, taking in every single inch of her son as she takes a step closer. Ser Gendry can tell Lucerys is nervous by his mother’s silence, so he isn’t surprised when his charge, who normally was unbothered by silence, keeps filling it.

“I’ve secured Storm’s End,” Lucerys recounts as Rhaenyra nods once, taking another step forward, “and Oldtown has been destroyed, their treasures secured. I’ve even taken the Lannister mines in your name. I’ve promised the Arbor to House Tyrell,” Lucerys rushes on and Rhaenyra nods again, but Ser Gendry can tell she hasn’t processed a word he’s said, slowly getting closer to her son, “But I’ve taken the Lannister Vault, it belongs to the Crown.”

Rhaenyra is standing right in front of Lucerys by the time he stops, looking down at her son. She watches as he holds out the key to her, carefully, but his hand isn’t shaking. Rhaenyra doesn’t look at the key at all, and when she finally reaches out, it isn’t for the key, but for her son.

Ser Gendry sees just a glimpse of Lucerys’ confused expression before Rhaenyra’s hug tightens and his face disappears into her hold. Despite the many times Lucerys has spoken High Valyrian around him, none of it has ever stuck, so he has no idea what Rhaenyra says to her son. But he can tell from her tone, from the way she presses several kisses to the crown of his head right after that it’s something soft and loving.

Lucerys, who hadn’t been stiff per se, relaxes completely into his mother’s hold, his arms wrapping around her in turn. The key to the Lannister Vault falls to the floor without a care as the two stand there. If Lucerys cries, it’s silent, but Rhaenyra does eventually begin making soothing noises as her son clings to her. 

Ser Gendry isn’t sure if he’s supposed to turn away, but he hadn’t been dismissed and Rhaenyra hadn’t seemed to notice he was there, not until he shifts his weight and her eyes snap over to him. For a moment, for just a second, Rhaenyra looks every bit the fierce dragon she is, her arms curl even tighter around Lucerys and Ser Gendry knows that if she could breathe fire, he would be nothing but a pile of ash and scorch marks on the floor.

Although it’s on an older, more feminine face, he’s intimately familiar with that particular expression and can’t help but wonder how Lucerys could possibly believe that his mother wouldn’t recognize him. 

Quietly, Ser Gendry bows to her, a little afraid that if he speaks it might ruin the moment they’re having. Her gaze moves over him, probing and assessing before dismissing him as unimportant. Ser Gendry isn’t offended at all and simply waits while the two speak to each other, once again in High Valyrian.

Well, Lucerys talks, Rhaenyra can’t seem to stop touching him, cupping his cheeks and pressing three more kisses to his forehead. Lucerys accepts it all, letting her turn him this way and that.

“You’ve grown,” Rhaenyra finally says in Common as the doors open once more and Daemon walks in. Rhaenyra turns watery eyes on her husband.

“He’s grown,” she tells him, “and I’ve missed it.”

Daemon pauses, looking at his sniffling wife and at his dry eyed but flushed son, and then looks to the door behind him. There are three people waiting near the door. Ser Gendry recognizes Princess Rhaenys immediately, and when her gaze meets his, she definitely knows that he’s a Baratheon. 

In front of her are two children, and he recognizes the young man as Prince Jacaerys. He knows the other must be either Princess Baela or Rhaena and decides it has to be the former as the latter doesn’t have a dragon. 

Rhaenyra, still informing Daemon of said changes - specifically the cheeks, has turned enough that Lucerys is visible to the rest of his family. Jacaerys is the first to move, and Ser Gendry watches as Jacaerys almost knocks his brother and mother to the floor with the fierceness of his hug. 

Baela stops at her father’s side for a moment, watching her mother and brother reunite with Lucerys. It’s sweet, she thinks, and it certainly has taken a weight off of Jace’s shoulders. She knows Jace had been hit hard by the news of Lucerys’ death and he had blamed himself for it. Baela had made sure to let him know it wasn’t his fault but Jacaerys always took on everyone’s burdens as his own. After watching for a moment, Baela looks up at her father, who is already looking down at her.

A silent conversation happens between father and daughter ending with Baela shooting an amused look at her father. He adored his family with everything he was and yet situations like this, emotions like this, always made him anxious and uncomfortable. After all, he had nothing to cut down, no corporeal enemy to protect his family from. As the eldest daughter, she supposed it was her duty to help get the ball rolling. Otherwise her mother would stay right where she was until she’d counted every strand of hair on Lucerys’ head twice over.

Baela approaches just as fast as Jacaerys had and Daemon is quick enough to grab his wife before their children go tumbling. Lucerys grunts under the force of it, quickly disappearing under his siblings. Rhaenys approaches but stops next to Daemon and Rhaenyra watching as what was once a massive hug quickly devolves into what appears to be a brawl.

“You have some explaining to do Luke,” Baela hisses, and Ser Gendry gets to watch how his Prince, the one that had burned a good portion of Westeros to the ground, allows his sister to curl an arm around his neck, the other going into his hair, her hand curled into a fist as she rubs it against his head. Jacaerys rolls away from Baela’s wrath, watching his betrothed grapple their brother.

“Baela,” Rhaenys says, and although he’s sure she intended it to sound scolding, the laughter in her voice gives it away.

“Claiming the Cannibal,” Baela exclaims as she wraps her legs around Lucerys’ waist, “taking the Arbor! Without us!”

“Mercy,” Lucerys pleads, but Baela gives no quarter, clinging tightly even as Lucerys goes limp in her hold.

“Taking all the glory for yourself!” Baela howls, indignant in her teasing fury, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“A sword,” Lucerys gasps, and Baela pauses, intrigued, “I brought a sword for you.”

“What kind of sword?” Baela demands of her brother as her family looks on in amused intrigue.

“Valyrian steel of course, only the best for my sister,” Lucerys tells her, cajoling. 

That, of course, wins her over. She releases her brother and allows him to roll away from her. Ser Gendry witnesses the wetness of her eyes that she blinks away, accepting the hand her betrothed offers her. Lucerys is standing on his own for a second before Rhaenyra has him again, tucked in between her and Daemon. Lucerys doesn’t seem to mind and Ser Gendry thinks that’s probably for the best since Rhaenyra doesn’t appear willing to let him go anytime soon.

“Now,” Rhaenys says now that everyone seems a bit more settled, “why don’t we talk about your exploits in length.”

The others sober up a bit at Rhaenys’ words but Lucerys doesn’t seem to mind. Ser Gendry steps away from the council table as the others take a seat. Rhaenyra takes her usual seat, Daemon settles where the Hand usually sits as Jacaerys, Baela and Rhaenys take the other seats. Lucerys pauses long enough to grab the key he’d dropped before looking at his family.

He takes in their open, welcoming expressions, and he tells them what he’s been up to since his fall.

Chapter Text

“You are hiding,” Daeron hears his sister say in greeting, “why?”

He’d been sitting peacefully in the garden, watching the sun’s journey across the sky. But now, he turns and takes in his sister. She’s seemed a lot more at ease these past few days. He remembers whenever his mother mentioned Helaena in letters, it was always about how she tended to stay in her rooms. Now though, she’s almost always tucked away in the garden, showing her children whatever insect she’s found. 

Daeron isn’t the biggest fan of any bug, but today Helaena seems content to sit and bask in the sunshine. She’s also apparently feeling talkative today.

“I’m not hiding,” Daeron says, but the amused smile she gives him shuts him right up.

“Are you afraid?”

“Of being sentenced to death? Absolutely.”

“Lucerys wouldn’t kill you, I think he likes you.” 

“I’m certainly a form of entertainment for him,” Daeron says, recalling Lucerys’ behavior around him, “but if Rhaenyra decides I’m to be executed,” he doesn’t need to finish.

“Her Grace wouldn’t do that to Lucerys,” a voice says from behind him, startling him so badly he nearly falls right out of his seat.

Turning, Daeron takes in the young girl behind him, trying to calm himself down. Rhaena Targaryen stares down at him, her expression pleasant in a way that reminds him of Helaena, but it’s the eyes that let him know she’s amused by his fear. He notes the satchel on her hip and eyes the pink egg inside before he’s looking up to meet Rhaena’s eyes once more.

“Lady Rhaena,” Helaena, the traitor, greets rather happily. Daeron gets the distinct feeling his sister had known they weren’t alone and had chosen not to say anything.

“Princess Helaena,” Rhaena greets in return, smiling softly, “may I borrow your brother?”

“He’s all yours,” Helaena says, but there’s a spark there, a note that makes Daeron wary. However, he doesn’t have much of a choice considering he’s pretty sure Rhaena outranks him now. As far as he knows, Rhaenyra is waiting for all of the Lords and Ladies, new and old, to make it before she announces what is to happen to his family. 

Daeron stands slowly, looking at his sister who merely gives him that far away look he thinks is now a ruse before she’s turning to her children. Betrayed once more, Daeron can do nothing but turn to Rhaena who is still watching him with a small smile on her face. There is nothing threatening about her, and yet Daeron is terrified as he follows after her.

She is silent for a long time, leading him further into the garden, and as they go further in, Daeron’s nerves worsen. It’s been a few days since Rhaenyra returned to King’s Landing with her family returning shortly after. No one else has arrived yet, although he’s heard mention of Lord Corlys working his men to the bone so he can see Lucerys for himself. He hadn’t been there when Rhaena and Rhaenyra’s other sons returned so this is his first time meeting her and he can’t help but wonder why she wants to see him of all people.

He worries that she’s taking him so far away to be rid of him. He can still see one of the many balconies in the Keep along with a few men standing guard, but if she did choose to hurt him they wouldn’t be able to get to them fast enough. Considering most of the men were either loyal to Rhaenyra, Daemon, or Lucerys, he highly doubted they would help him either. If that was her plan, it definitely seems like something a daughter of Daemon Targaryen would do. Even then, he still follows her and waits until she’s ready to speak.

“Your father walked through this garden with my mother once,” Rhaena says suddenly, and Daeron turns to face her. “When my grandparents insisted they marry.”

Daeron had heard that there had been a lot of tension after Queen Aemma died as the Realm tried to get the King to remarry. He’d heard that Laena had been the best choice despite her young age. Daeron understood duty and all it entailed, but he had been thankful that he wasn’t in his father’s place.

“If he had married my mother, none of this would’ve happened. Westeros would not have been at war with itself,” she continues before smiling, “but then I suppose none of us would’ve been born.”

“My grandsire would’ve found a way,” Daeron says, because Otto Hightower was as cunning as they came. He would’ve figured something out eventually. Rhaena hums but switches tactics.

“Do you believe that only a man should rule?” Rhaena inquires.

“I don’t see how my opinion matters, I’m quite sure Her Grace will relieve me of my titles.”

“You are as much a Hightower as you are a Targaryen,” Rhaena informs him, “and you and your sister will be the very last Hightowers once Her Grace gives the order. That is why your opinion matters. Regardless of what title you may or may not have, your name will always carry weight. I simply wish to know where your loyalties lie.”

“Do you really think she would let me live?” Daeron asks, mostly because all he knows of his eldest sister is what he’s been told. 

“Of course, Lucerys has vouched for your innocence,” Rhaena says, as if it were that simple.

“Lucerys has kept me as his prisoner, let his dragon eat mine, and used Tessarion’s bones for an ax.”

“And yet here you are, alive, unbound, and he has done nothing to harm you since your initial encounter,” Rhaena replies quickly, giving Daeron pause. “You have been to the cells only of your own free will. You were a prisoner for a day at most.”

Daeron wants to say something in return, wants to prove that he was Lucerys’ prisoner the entire journey. However, aside from their first and only battle, Lucerys has done nothing to hurt him. Sure he’s pestered him plenty, and has whisked him off to wherever he felt like letting the wind take him, but Lucerys hasn’t even seriously threatened to kill him. Daeron is very aware of how much Lucerys enjoys threatening people.

“You know,” Rhaena muses after a while, “my mother didn’t want to marry your father, as I’m sure your own mother didn’t truly want to marry your father, not for love anyway.”

Daeron’s brows furrow, but if he’s learned anything after being in Lucerys’ company, it’s waiting for someone to finish their thought.

“Lucerys and I were betrothed at a very young age, to soothe my grandsire's ire,” Rhaena informs him, “while I do love Lucerys and I will do my duty as his wife and future Lady, the blood of the dragon runs strong.”

Rhaena gives him a meaningful look that is completely lost on him. The phrase means nothing to him, and so he has no idea what she's trying to tell him. He can only assume it has something to do with their family, but Rhaena says it as if an explanation isn’t needed. When he looks at her, possibly to ask her what she means, she only smiles at him. He’s seen that smile before and he gets a distinct case of deja vu when Rhaena leans into his personal space.

“My father wanted me to scare you off, you know?” Rhaena says, watching the way his face gradually reddens as she gets closer, “but I think Lucerys’ idea sounds better.”

“What was Lucerys’ idea?” Daeron asks, holding himself carefully still as Rhaena backs away. She doesn’t answer him, of course, and instead gives him another smile as she turns away, tucking her hands behind her back.

“Wait,” Daeron calls after her, “what was Lucerys’ idea?”

Her soft laughter floats back towards him and Daeron can’t help but think his life is going to get a lot harder. Daemon had made it seem like his darling Rhaena was the calmer sister, more docile, but Daeron gets the feeling that Rhaena is simply better at hiding her mischievous side. He has absolutely no idea what that means for him.

Lord Paramount Cassandra Baratheon, and by the Gods she was still getting used to that title, takes the knee before Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen happily giving her vows. Queen Rhaenyra is practically glowing as each and every Lord and Lady renew their vows and swear fealty. 

She’d been nervous when her sister had brought her the letter, thinking the worst had happened. However, she’d been delighted to learn that the war was over and the Crown was asking her to come to King’s Landing to witness Queen Rhaenyra’s ascension. It had called for everyone to be present, or at least, everyone that was left. Cassandra is sure she isn’t the only Lord aware of the missing Houses.

However, no one says a word about it, not with Prince Lucerys Velaryon standing off to the side of the Iron Throne along with his siblings. The Targaryen-Velaryon's were certainly as intimidating as they come. King Daemon was the closest to his Queen’s throne, one hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister as he watched everyone closely, his purple eyes glinting. Next to him was Crown Prince Jacaerys, standing almost exactly like his father. The sword he was resting his hand on, if the whispers meant anything, was Vigilance. It was quite fitting, she decided, as he watched the crowd as intensely as his father.

Next to Jace was his betrothed, Princess Baela and while she had her hands at her sides, Orphan-Maker was still a visible threat to all who would attempt to ruin her mother’s day. Next to her was Prince Lucerys, his ax was strapped to his back, but many had heard the stories of how he used it by now. Princess Rhaena was at his side, and although she didn’t have a longsword or an ax like her family, the small pink dragon curled around her shoulders was more than enough.

Rhaenyra’s younger children were in the front row with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, watching their mother with bright, proud eyes.

Thankfully everyone present knew this was meant to be a joyous occasion, and although there wouldn't be a tourney, the people seemed just as content with the public execution scheduled for the afternoon and a feast in the evening. After all, the ones on the chopping block were the usurpers. They just had to get through the pomp and circumstance first, and Cassandra was beyond happy to return to her place as the next Lord took the knee.

There are several men who are made Lords, those the most loyal to Queen Rhaenyra’s call to arms. It’s a pleasant surprise to see Ser Gendry and Ser Bran, but she’s only heard of Ser Gedmund. Regardless, the men were rewarded for their service and granted land to call their own. Considering the amount of land now available, there was plenty to go around. Ser Gendry and Ser Bran insisted on something small so that they could remain at Lucerys’ side, but Ser Gedmund was pleasantly surprised to be named the new Lord of Casterly Rock. 

There was no mention of what would become of Oldtown, but the Lady Tyrell seemed rather delighted as she eyed her new neighbor. Cassandra got the feeling Oldtown would get quite the revamp once Lady Tyrell got her hands on it.

Eventually the ceremony ends and Cassandra is guided out with her sisters right behind her. She takes in the familiar faces, most look relieved and she knows why. Dragons have been flying freely overhead since Cassandra had arrived, a reminder to all still breathing that it is because Rhaenyra wills it. Cassandra can only assume the dragons have been doing it long before she’d arrived because the small folk don’t seem bothered at all as they celebrate and cheer for their Queen.

Cassandra dutifully follows the crowd, and she can’t help but wonder if King Viserys had expected any of this to happen. She’s had plenty of time to think since Prince Lucerys had swept through Westeros with nothing but a dragon and, in her humble opinion, Baratheon fueled rage, and she can’t help but think that if King Viserys had stepped down and guided Rhaenyra through her first few years of ruling, this would’ve never happened. She’ll never say it out loud, let alone in King’s Landing, but King Viserys had played a large part in this war by remaining on the throne and letting the Queen and his Hand do as they pleased.

She knows it doesn’t matter now, especially as she takes in the courtyard that had been set up for the execution of the usurpers. The platform is empty, with nothing but a cement block in the center. The crowd surrounding the platform grows as the Lords and Ladies take their places and Cassandra is a little relieved to see that she’s been placed near the back. 

“My Lords and Ladies,” Queen Rhaenyra says as she walks onto the platform, Daemon hot on her heels, “I know it isn’t ideal to start my reign with an execution, but there is only one punishment for high treason. Otto Hightower, as you all know, has served Westeros for years, decades even, and yet his true intentions were made clear when he sent his daughter to my father’s chambers the very night my mother, the beloved Queen Aemma, was laid to rest.”

Rhaenyra is quiet for a moment, her expression solemn as she looks down. She composes herself quickly, looking out onto the crowd once more.

“It was his plan to make Alicent Queen with hopes that she would give birth to a son, despite my father’s decision to name me heir. As Hand, his job was to serve the Crown and yet he only served himself. For that, we will have his head.”

She gestures then, and two guards pull a man who must be Otto Hightower towards the block. Otto’s head is covered by a sack and Cassandra finds it rather fitting actually. Otto had worked so hard in the shadows, using his position as Hand to garner more power and wealth. The crowd watches as Daemon draws Dark Sister, approaching the block as Otto is shoved down onto his knees. He struggles, Cassandra notes, but the guards don’t seem to notice as they force his head down.

She does not permit him any last words, and Daemon’s sword swings down with practiced ease.

“Aegon Targaryen has committed several crimes,” Queen Rhaenyra says as Otto’s body is moved, the sack containing his head remains, “he was a vile, cruel boy, forcing himself on any maid that caught his eye. He took the crown that was never meant to be his. For his crimes, we will have his head.”

Aegon struggles much more than his grandsire, but he is just as unsuccessful. His sack is damp, and there’s something dripping onto his chest. Cassandra decides not to look into it too much, as his head quickly rolls towards his grandsire’s.

Cassandra highly doubts anyone would be interested in his last words. Perhaps he would call for a final drink. Either way, the Realm will never know.

“Aemond Targaryen,” Queen Rhaenyra announces as the final man is brought onto the stage, “along with supporting Aegon, was accused of Kinslaying. My son, Prince Lucerys, was sent to Storm’s End as an envoy and Aemond attacked him, with intent to kill. He believed he had succeeded, we are thankful that he was wrong. Although he did not kill his own kin, he wanted to, and so a Kinslayer he remains. Accursed is the Kinslayer,” Rhaenyra says, echoed by all that watch as Aemond is lowered to his knees.

“Hm, I thought he was taller,” Floris whispers after Aemond’s head rolls.

“Perhaps he seemed taller because of how intimidating he was,” Ellyn offers.

“Perhaps,” Floris says, but she doesn’t seem to believe it.

High up in the highest tower the Keep has, Alicent stands at the window, watching as her father and her sons are killed. Rhaenyra had chosen not to kill her, and had instead had her sent up here where she could witness her family go extinct. 

You will be sent to the Silent Sisters, Rhaenyra had told her, cold eyes taking in what used to be her closest friend, they will be all that’s left of the Seven in Westeros. Perhaps you will find comfort in it.

Comfort? Comfort! Alicent was a Queen, and had helped maintain peace and prosperity in Westeros. She had been doing her duty of ridding the Realm of the evil that was House Targaryen and their fire-breathing monstrosities. She had believed that if she did her duty and did what was best for the Realm, the Faith would prevail in the end. And yet here she stood, after spending moons in the cells waiting for the Lords and Ladies to come and watch, as all of her hard work went up in flames. 

She had thought that she would be rewarded for being the one to root out the Targaryens and their queer customs. Her father had insisted they were doing the right thing, that allowing Rhaenyra to be crowned would tear apart the Seven Kingdoms, that brother would turn against brother, Houses would clash, a Queen ruling Westeros would bring about their ruin. She had been doing what was best for everyone, and what had it gotten her?

A clear visual of her loved ones being beheaded.

It feels as if she’d been crying for days, and she has to force herself to turn away from the window. The room she’s in is quite opulent considering her imprisonment, and she can’t help but think it’s another jab being taken at her. It seemed like something Rhaenyra would do.

She doesn’t get much time to think about all the things Rhaenyra was capable of, more distracted by the door opening. She knows her room is guarded, knows that Rhaenyra and her bastards have weeded out anyone of the Faith. Her ladies were long gone, she isn’t even sure what happened to her loyal servants. Even her living children had abandoned her, Daeron unable to even say a word to her, just quietly watching as she was taken away.

She doesn’t recognize the woman that steps in. She looks young, perhaps the same age Alicent had been when this had all started. The girl doesn’t make eye contact with her, merely dips her head down and sets a box on the drawer near the bed. It’s a medium sized box, and Alicent can’t even possibly guess what’s inside of it. The girl doesn’t respond when she asks either, and Alicent is alone once more. Alone with a box.

She ignores it for a time, worried that perhaps Rhaenyra has decided to poison her, lying about sending her to the Silent Sisters. But before long, she begins to believe that the girl had brought her a change of clothes. Down in the dungeons they’d taken her out a few times to change and relieve herself. Perhaps they’d brought her a few pairs of gowns now that she was the only prisoner left.

She’s relieved for the distraction, and she removes the top of the box, setting it off to the side. At first, she doesn’t understand what she’s looking at, and her brain stalls. It takes her a very long time to realize that inside the box is Aemond’s face, carefully carved off of his head. His eye, the flesh one, is carefully placed in the hole, but considering the skin of his face is flat inside the box, it bulges out grotesquely. 

The side that once held a jewel is empty, the sapphire gone. 

The guards burst in at the sound of Alicent’s hysterical screams, and they look at each other in confusion. They only step in and restrain her when she begins scratching at her own eyes. Her wails echo down the stairs of the tower as one guard orders for the other to send for a maester.

At the bottom, Lucerys tosses the sapphire orb in his hand just once before he pushes off the wall he’d been leaning against, a satisfied smile on his face as he returns to his family.

Chapter Text

Ragnar Velaryon was barely two name days old when his great-grandsire walked into the sea and didn’t return. His grandmother, Rhaenyra II had told him plenty of stories about his great-grandsire, the great Lucerys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and the victor of the great war. There were many names for the war, as no one could settle on just one. His favorite was the War against the Faith, with the Fourteen Flames becoming much more popular along with the Old Gods. 

However, his favorite part was always about what happened after, as he was a bit of a romantic at heart. How Lucerys had married his great-grandmother, Rhaena Targaryen, Lady of the Tides, and had three children, all daughters. The eldest was Ragnar’s grandmother, Rhaenyra II, followed shortly after by the golden twins, Rhaenys and Daenys. Lucerys had ships made for each daughter, and sailed with them when they reached their majority, taking to the seas for an entire year before returning.

“Wasn’t Lady Rhaena lonely?” Ragnar remembers asking his own mother, who had smiled at him and told him about Daeron Targaryen, and how he never left his Lady’s side whenever the sea called Lucerys away.

“He loved you,” his mother, Daella Velaryon, would always tell him, “When you were born he’d been so happy. He loved his daughters dearly of course, but he’d always wanted a boy.”

“Why?” Lucerys II, his youngest brother had asked, “Didn’t he already have an heir?” Jacaerys II, Lucerys’ older twin brother chirped.

“Yes, my mother was always his heir, but he had always looked forward to a son so he could name him Ragnar. You were named in his honor,” his mother told him, kissing Ragnar on his forehead. “It was as if he’d been waiting for you.”

Ragnar isn’t sure how true that is, but he vaguely remembers his great-grandsire doting on him. He’d spent a lot of time with his family, near the end, encouraging them to see the world for themselves. Then one day, early in the morning, just a few days after Rhaena had given birth to a tiny little girl named Aslaug, a few guards had seen him leave the castle, heading towards where his dragon Vidar, formally known as the Cannibal, liked to rest.

Some think Lucerys had mounted Vidar and let the dragon take him away. Others think that Lucerys had allowed Vidar to kill him, a dragon rider’s death. 

But Ragnar remembers his great-grandmother’s reaction that day. She had been sad, yes, but she hadn’t been surprised. She’d told him once that the sea had tried to take Lucerys before the war, and it had failed as it hadn’t been his time. This time, he had gone willingly, after accomplishing everything he had set out to do.

She never mentioned it again.

It’s been eighteen years since then and Ragnar is finally returning home after spending the past four years out at sea. Part of that was because he’d always loved traveling, but the other half was the more important part. He’d spent the past four years traveling the world, making a name for himself to complete the first trial his great-grandsire had left behind.

The trial to become the wielder of Helvete.

The first trial was to see the world and make a name for oneself. They couldn’t go and burn down half of Westeros like Lucerys, not when the Seven Kingdoms were finally united. So instead, the Targaryen-Velaryon family had turned towards the sea and what lay beyond it. Rhaenys II, Lucerys and Rhaena’s second oldest daughter, had sailed for Pentos and had built a life for herself there. She’d returned a few times, and no one had understood why until it had been announced that she and Willem Blackwood, Benjicot Blackwood’s son and heir, were to be wed. She ended up having three children with her Lord Husband: Benjicot II, Laenor, and adorable little Saera, her only girl.

Daenys, Rhaenys’ younger twin, was sent to Dorne. They had quickly learned about Lucerys’ exploits and with more dragons than ever, had decided that marriage was the best option for peace. Daenys had married one of the many princes there, settling in with ease. Eventually, she gave birth to twins, Olyvar and Jocelyn. His older cousins preferred the arts over battle and so they hadn’t been interested in the trials.

His uncle’s children, on the other hand, were certainly more interested. King Jacaerys Targaryen and Queen Baela Targaryen had several children. Their first son was Daemon II Targaryen, unsurprisingly, followed quickly after by two pairs of twins: Visenya and Viserys III, and Aerea and Aegon IV. As if they were fated, Daemon II married Ragnar’s grandmother, Rhaenyra II and stepped down from his position as Prince of Dragonstone to be at her side. 

It had been all the rage back then, a prince choosing not to take the Crown, but if one were to ask Daemon II, he’d say something about being allergic to politics, like his namesake. In truth, during their own trials, Rhaenyra II had won the right to wield Helvete and Daemon, upon witnessing her claim Vidar, had decided then and there that he would be at her side until they met their end.

King Jacaerys and Queen Baela had taken it well, and soon after Crown Princess Visenya had been following after her father with Aerea and Aegon IV trailing after her. Queen Visenya had taken the crown a few years before her father passed. King Jacaerys, like his mother before him, had been wise enough to step down and aid the new ruler for a while, allowing her to lean on him until she was ready. Queen Baela passed first, with King Jacaerys following shortly after. 

Viserys II, Rhaenyra I’s son, had been Jacaerys’ Hand and had stayed as Hand for a few years after, eventually stepping down and assisting Viserra Targaryen, second daughter of Jaehaera and Viserys III build confidence in aiding the Queen. 

Ragnar wasn’t particularly worried about Joffrey Velaryon’s lineage as he had married into House Arryn and all of his children had taken on that surname. They would always be welcome of course, but only those of House Targaryen and Velaryon could take on Lucerys’ trial. 

Helaena’s sons, Jaehaerys and Maelor along with Rhaenyra I’s Aegon had joined the Kingsguard. Jaehaera’s other daughters, Rhaella and Vaella had found their calling in Essos and showed no interest in returning to Westeros beyond the occasional visit to their sister. They’d left shortly after Helaena had passed peacefully in her sleep and hadn’t looked back since.

That may seem like a lot of family for Ragnar to tend with, but thankfully there were a few amongst the bunch that couldn’t participate. Naturally the Queen and King couldn’t compete in the trial because they had to stay in Westeros and they were set to wield Blackfyre and Dark Sister. Aerea and Aegon IV had been given Orphan-Maker and Vigilance. 

While Daemon II was certainly quite spry for his age, he had already attempted the trials once and lost to his now Lady Wife, which meant he couldn’t try again. Not to mention he'd never give up Abraxas, the tiny red offspring of Caraxes and Syrax that had hatched for him just a year after Rhaenyra's trial. His uncle and aunts could try if they wanted. His mother was the oldest of four, but Gaela, Baelon, and Alyssa were currently somewhere in the Summer Isles, the last he’d heard. They wouldn’t make it back in time for the Claiming, even on dragon back, and had sent ahead their apologies and well wishes.

His father, Lyonel Baratheon, son of Gendry Baratheon, wouldn’t be able to compete, and Ragnar’s twin brothers were simply too young. At two and ten neither of them were even close to ready for a voyage. Besides, he knew mother was holding onto Dawn, which was the Valyrian steel dagger Lucerys had gifted Rhaena after they were wed, for Jacaerys II.

Also, one of the hardest parts of the trial was the very last part, and most if not all of his family wasn’t willing to do it. There’s a reason why his grandmother had been the second wielder of Helvete, right up until she’d taken her last breath several moons ago. And that’s because the wielder of Helvete must also claim Vidar and to claim Vidar you must make a sacrifice, one most dragon riders weren’t willing to do.

Vidar could only be claimed by one willing to give up their previous dragon.

It is known that Vidar, formally known as the Cannibal, was not Prince Lucerys’ first dragon. He had lost his beloved bond mate, Arrax, before the war. He had come to the Cannibal, filled with rage and pain and demanded the dragon accept him. Although Vidar hadn’t been the one to eat Arrax, he had taken the young dragon’s place, taking the bond for himself.

So, if one wanted to wield Helvete, Hell’s Punishment, then they had to be the rider of Vidar, named after an unknown god of Vengeance. 

Rhaenyra II had been the only one willing, and that was because unlike her siblings and a majority of her cousins, her egg didn’t hatch in her cradle. It had remained warm and so she had kept it at her side for years, keeping it at her hip or in a fire in hopes that it would hatch. She held onto that hope during her voyage, and took care of the egg as she made the journey to Vidar’s cave, and loved that egg even as she presented it to the massive mount that had once been her father’s. 

Ragnar had been three when his grandmother had passed the trials.

He’s twenty now, and finally making his way up to Vidar’s cave. His grandmother had been an amazing woman, living up to her own namesake. Most of his family had come to Driftmark to see Rhaenyra II off, and although it had been a day filled with mourning, Ragnar had been happy to see his family. He’d been gone for four years after all, and had missed his grandmother’s last days. Despite that, his family had welcomed him home with open arms, his mother in particular pulling him close and pressing several kisses to his forehead.

He won’t say it aloud, not until he’s claimed Vidar, but he had been delighted to see his aunt. Aslaug was Rhaena’s youngest daughter, a happy surprise for nearly everyone or so he’d been told considering Rhaena’s age by the time she’d announced her pregnancy. However, her birth had been successful and although he doesn’t remember it, he’d apparently been present to see her shortly after. His mother informs him every time, amused by his blushing, that he’d been the first thing little Aslaug had seen, opening her eyes for the first time in his arms.

He knows Aslaug is his twin flame, just like Rhaenyra and Daemon, both the older and the younger, and he plans on asking for her hand after he’s claimed Vidar. It’s what fuels him as he climbs higher and higher, the cerulean egg in his satchel a warm, yet heavy weight on his hip. His egg had never hatched, but it hadn’t bothered him much. There were more dragons than ever now, and even though Syrax hadn’t taken another rider, she’d been content to return to Dragonmont and lay her eggs. 

Eventually, Ragnar reaches the top where Vidar resides, and he gives himself a moment to take it all in. He had always dreamed of this happening, of being worthy enough to wield Helvete and ride Vidar. The mere thought of it is what made him so keen on traveling the world and making his family proud.

There had been a time where his family had almost died out, where their numbers had thinned to just one household, but now they were expanding rapidly. Ever since Queen Rhaenyra had effectively pushed what was left of the Seven out of King’s Landing, the women in his family have been having successful births, and twins were more common than ever in their Houses. 

There were more dragons than ever too. They had unchained their dragons, allowing them to find nests wherever they pleased and recommissioned the dragon pit to create a place of learning for the smallfolk. Now, their dragons were growing and so were their bonds. At first, it had only been Daemon who could summon Caraxes with a thought, but as King’s Landing and Westeros in general became more accepting of the Fourteen, all of House Targaryen and Velaryon found it easier to reach out to their dragons through their bonds. 

Ragnar was looking forward to bonding with Vidar. He’d asked his grandmother what it was like once, but she had simply smiled at him and told him he’d find out one day if he really wanted it.

Well, that day was today.

Vidar was a hulking beast, all spikes and black, black, black, and two points of green. The dragon stares down at him, that large green eye narrowing as smoke curls around bone white teeth. Taking a deep breath, Ragnar takes the first step towards his destiny. He would conquer Vidar just like his grandmother and great-grandsire before him. He will be the third wielder of Helvete and the future Lord of the Tides with his dear aunt as his Lady. All of that will be his and more after he takes his next step, and another after that. 

And after his final step, his final trial, well, his life would finally begin in earnest.

Chapter Text

Seven Devils edit

See me in a crown edit

MY FAVORITE EDIT

For fun