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Chapter Text

A great wail sounded in the princess’s chambers, clamoring through the doors and tumbling down the corridor in a cascade of agony. Saera Targaryen had received horrid news— unspeakable news. Words so shocking that once they were spoken, her ears rang so loudly she couldn’t hear anything that came after. Echoes of voices called out to her, but the only thing she could focus on was the heaving of her chest.

A sudden splash of clarity washed over her. Action was necessary. Duty demanded things. Anger spouted to drive her.

With ragged breath and tattered composure, the princess glided into the hallway. Her handmaids, Madelynne, Joanna, and Maerie, stumbled to follow. Madelyn and Joanna had no trouble, both being young and nimble. Maerie, a grandmotherly type, trickled in behind them with great effort.

Saera’s footsteps were light and quick. Her shoes sounded sharply against the ground nonetheless. Other sharp footsteps thundered at the other end of the corridor.

“Princess!” Ser Henry Payne called out. Joanna all but yelped from behind Saera. The princess’s sworn shield was tall and broad with well-kept, short black hair. He’d been attending to an errand for Ser Criston Cole when he got wind of the tragedy.

Saera’s nephew Lucerys Velaryon was dead, killed by her brother Aemond Targaryen on dragonback. Ser Henry knew he had to find the princess before she got to Aemond. The knight would pity One-Eye if his sister happened upon him now.

“Ser Henry, I require company to visit my brother. Escort me?” Saera asked though it was hardly a request. A fierce command had disguised itself as a polite question.

The princess turned and smiled weakly at her maids, dismissing them. They bowed lowly. Rising one by one, they left in succession. By the time Madelynne had risen to leave, Ser Henry had reached Princess Saera. His hand instinctively came at rest at her elbow— a respectful brace meant to check the well-being of the woman he swore to protect. Madelynne still smiled knowingly before taking her leave. Tight-lipped and ferociously loyal, she was.

“Princess.”

“Ser Henry.”

"My deepest sympathies."

Saera tried to smile. Her eyes were wet. Her cheeks and freckled nose, tinged red. Gleaming pieces of hair fell from their posts along her long, auburn braid. If not for her melancholy, she may have looked as if she just returned from the skies— the skies her darling nephew had been ripped out of. The princess’s lip quivered.

“I must speak with Aemond, Ser,” Saera spoke, desperately trying to regain her composure. The knight reached up, brushed a stray tear from her face, and nodded helplessly. Henry turned on his heel and walked with the princess in silence.

“Syz azantys iksā,” she finally spoke, her voice almost a whisper. She taught Henry bits and pieces of High Valyrian in exchange for bits and pieces of weapon-wielding. The young man was as honorable as he was handsome— a good knight and fierce friend by all accounts.

“I swore an oath to you, my princess. I intend to always keep it,” Ser Henry replied, dismissing the princess’s praise.

Saera hummed noncommittally, stifling herself for a moment. A sniffle and shaky breath followed. Her throat felt tight. She wanted nothing more than for all of this to be a bad dream. She wanted Luke to be alive. She wanted her mother’s precarious obsession with the parentage of Rhaenyra’s children to cease. She wanted her one brother beheaded and the other jousted from the throne. She wanted— perhaps, what Saera wanted was of no concern to gods or men.

Scalding anger flared in her stomach again, prompting her to quicken her step. Ser Henry matched stride wordlessly. The pair tore through corridor after corridor, occasionally passing frazzled castle keepers and servants.

“Princess, do you wish for council?” Henry asked finally, a silent plea in his voice.

“I wish to talk sense into my brother,” Saera said evenly. “Then, I wish to address the small council to convince them to send me on dragonback to Dragonstone so that I may negotiate the terms of this needless qualm.”

“I believe you wish to grieve, my princess,” Ser Henry said softly, grabbing a light hold of Saera’s wrist. The princess stopped and faced him. Her knight often had a deep frown etched into his features. He seemed by nature a sad man but not a miserable one. However, his usual solemn countenance had been replaced with a truly agonized one. Saera felt her heart break further.

“My grief may be multiplied if I do not act swiftly,” the princess whispered. “I worry for Helena. See if you can get word of the Queen’s state. I fear they may not let you attend to her directly.”

Ser Henry nodded, scooping up Saera’s hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles. The princess smiled, sighed, and shooed away his affection.

“Mind yourself, Ser Henry. If I haven’t made my way to the council chamber before the next hour, come find me. Otherwise, I’ll see you at the King’s table,” Saera instructed.

“As you command, my princess,” Ser Henry responded, dipping his head in a brief bow. Then, the knight marched off.

An icy bout of grief whirled in Saera’s gut as her sworn sword disappeared down the end of the hallway. Luke was dead. A chilling tragedy. Luke was dead. There would be fire and blood.

A crazed sort of anger now took a steadfast hold of Viserys’s second-born daughter, leaving no room for the coldness of sorrow to creep back in. The princess had not even realized that her feet were carrying her toward the dragon pit— toward where Aemond presumably was to be found. He must face justice, Saera thought to herself as she traversed the downward spiral of stairs. Aemond must atone, and her mother and that plotting council must be made to see their own recklessness.

The princess kept her mouth shut when they usurped her sister’s throne. She comforted Helena and saw to it that Rhaenys happened upon an escape route and escort. Perhaps, Saera should have mounted Volaerys just as her cousin did Meleys and prevented all of this mess in the first place. Saera knew it would not have been so simple, and yet, she found herself feeling inexplicably guilty.

Before her guilt could swallow her whole, Aemond found his way into Saera’s view. There he stood, tall and slender with his silver hair freshly windswept. No dragon keepers were in sight— as were no dragons.

“Mandia,” Aemond cooed at his big sister as she approached. “I‘ve been expecting you.”

“Mittys iksā,” Saera spat, striking the second son hard across his scarred face. A foolish little boy playing foolish games with dire consequences. “Murderer. Kinslayer. Have I not tried with you?”

“As I recall, you did not encourage justice when those bastards took my eye. So perhaps, you have not tried hard enough,” Aemond smirked.

Saera growled in frustration. Still, he moans over settled wrongs, she internally lamented. Her head shook slowly as she appraised her brother. “You take life from the flesh and call it justice?”

“I call it mercy, Saera.”

The princess laughed bitterly and cursed under her breath. Now was not the time for false decorum. Too many mistakes have come in the hours after the usurpation, perhaps the usurping itself was the first. Her nephew was dead. War loomed heavily. The princess pinched her brow.

“Did you mean to kill our nephew?”

Aemond stood silently, gazing at his older sister with an unreadable look in his eye. Tears began to well in Saera’s intact pair. Her jaw ticked, and her fingers trembled as her brother tried to toy with her. A long, harrowing silence. Dire thoughts formed in the princess’s mind.

Aemond looked forlorn in this light. The dire thoughts festered.

Saera struck Aemond again, this time with the back of her hand. He staggered as she scrambled after him, taking ahold of his tunic collar and yanking him up straight. “Answer me, fool! You wanted an eye but swallowed up the body! Did your dragon forgo your command, brother, or have you lost all sense?” Saera shouted.

She pulled him closer, her face boiling just inches from his as she scolded him. “You are no monster, are you? I have not raised you to be some bloody thirsty beast!”

Now it was Aemond’s turn for anger. “I could have you killed for your insolence,” he seethed, his tone venomous.

He pushed Saera away from him in a show of unexpected strength. Her face contorted in an unsavory mix of agony and fear. She did not want to believe her baby brother had grown into what he’d become. The prince grabbed Saera roughly, wrapping a hand around her neck as she squirmed.

Saera’s voice strained against her brother’s palm, “You’ll kill me as you’ve killed Luke? What will Rhaenyra do to you when she comes for the throne, I wonder. She’ll have received word that you killed her baby boy and her beloved sister.”

A gritty laugh sounded at the back of Saera’s throat as Aemond squeezed. Her hands squeezed his wrist just the same. “Careful, brother dearest. Have I not been your protector?” Aemond loosened his grip, pushing his elder sister away from him as if she were dinner scraps. One-Eye glared at her distastefully, but Saera could see right through him.

“It was an accident, was it not?” the princess croaked. “Or did you mean to start a war? Did you intend to lead us into battle for blood and glory, you stupid boy? You ought to know better!”

“I could be king one day,” Aemond bites out.

“Taobe urnen, dārion dāri,” the princess seethed. I see a boy, not a king. Aemond lifted his hand to strike her.

“Raise a hand to her again, and you shall lose the hand, my prince!” Ser Henry shouted. Two knights of the Kingsguard stood at his back. Henry, tall and dark, wore a lethal expression upon his visage.

“A siblings’ quarrel, my good sers,” Princess Saera assured them. “Forgive us, is the small council to start soon?”

“They await Prince Aemond’s presence, princess,” Ser Goddrick, a kind and formidable elder knight, replied.

An overly zealous smile plastered itself across Saera’s face. “Excellent news, Ser Goddrick. Would you all be able to escort my brother and I to the council chamber?”

“Sister, you forget yourself. You do not have a place at the table,” Aemond spoke, clearly annoyed.

Saera presumed that her dear brother wanted to call her a loathsome bitch for making him face the council. Ser Henry would have his tongue for that, though.

“We will do as the princess wishes, Prince Aemond. Then, we may adjust accordingly,” the sworn shield reasoned to the prince’s dismay. Nonetheless, Aemond obliged.

The Targaryen children walked forward to meet the knights, offering polite nods and smiles as they settled into a group stride. Aemond found his way to the front of the pack with Ser Goddrick and Ser Gerold flanked him. Ser Henry, however, fell to the back to accompany his princess. As they journeyed to the council chamber, Saera tugged her braid loose, running her fingers through her hair to tame it. She brushed at her silky emerald dress and fussed with the fine gold jewelry resting on her décolleté.

The princess noted her sworn shield’s furrowed brow but dared not to question its cause. Finally, it seemed the knight could not help but reveal what plagued him.

“Did he hurt you, Saera?” the protector whispered.

“It matters not, Henry,” she mumbled under her breath such that her words were barely audible.

“It matters to me.”

Saera’s stomach flipped at his words. She was about to further dismiss her sworn shield’s concern when the traveling pack arrived at the council chamber. Instead, she threw Ser Henry a longing look. He offered her his arm. The princess took it gladly as her and her knight surged forward to greet the council.

The princess’s mind raced as she ascended the stairs. Her nephew was dead. Her eldest sister, usurped. Her brothers were growing more monstrous by the moment, and the prospect of a political marriage weighed on Saera’s shoulders. Surely, her mother and grandsire had already contrived a scheme— such was their insidious specialty. Armies of men will fight for the princess’s house in exchange for the princess’s noble womb. A cheering thought.

The absurdity and despair of it all struck Saera again quite suddenly. However, so did the opportunity that had laid itself before her. Rhaenyra would demand a son for a son. Perhaps, the queen who ought to be would settle for a daughter— and her dragon.

Chapter Text

When Princess Saera was younger, her mother would sit with her in the evenings, brushing her hair until it was a seamless sea of molten copper. The Queen was mostly quiet. Saera would chatter occasionally about something she’d read, but the Princess somehow understood the message of her mother’s silence. Alicent had a distaste for the daughter whose appearance reeked of Hightower blood.

While it was abundantly clear that Saera was a product of Alicent Hightower, her appearance alone would not readily suggest Targaryen. However, it would be foolish to dispute her dragon’s blood. 

A large, glittering egg part of a clutch retrieved from Dragonstone hatched months before the Princess was born. The young dragonling guarded the baby Princess’s cradle. Certainly, the little dragon sensed that the little lady was fit to be a rider. 

The Queen was not worried about the lords and ladies of the court disputing her daughter’s parentage. No, Saera’s mother detested the credence her daughter’s visage gave to Rhaenyra’s boys. If the blood of Old Valyria could not be proven insurmountable, then Saera’s elder sister could continue to sully herself and her house— at least, that is how Saera came to understand her mother’s thinking. 

The princess would never presume to fully understand her mother, but she found that over the years, she'd learned the mind of the woman who birthed her quite well. One of the first lessons the young princess came to learn was perhaps the most brutal. Alicent Hightower would punish her at every opportunity. She expected this time to be no different. 

For the first time since Viserys passed, the dowager Queen locked eyes with her daughter. 

“Ah! Finally some good company!” Aegon cheered, smiling in earnest. Saera’s elder brother had clearly gotten lost in his cups. “Where are your manners, my council? The prince and princess of the realm stand before you.” 

The lords around the table looked wearily at one another as they stood to greet Prince Aemond and Princess Saera. The dowager Queen’s face, white as a sheet, remained motionless as she continued to bore holes into her daughter's face. 

“Sit! Sit!” Aegon ushered, waving his hands haphazardously. 

“Your Grace, your sister does not have a place at this table,” Otto Hightower gently reminded the new King. “And given what we must discuss—“ 

“Nonsense, my Lord Hand,” the King laughed, shaking his head at his grandsire. Aegon laughed more as his attention settled on his younger siblings. 

“Aemond, you look miserable! And Saera, my darling sister, you look like you have much to say. Ought we listen to the princess, my great council? Yes? Yes! Very well, on with it.” 

The Princess smiled sympathetically at Aegon, offered a brief curtsy, and firmly clasped her hands in front of her. She could feel her mother’s eyes still glued to her face. Another pair of eyes had planted themselves upon her protectively. Saera had no reason to fear. Ser Henry’s rank afforded him a place in the room. Nothing should befall her with her knight mere paces away. 

“Thank you for your… hospitality, your Grace. I will not take up much of your council’s precious time,” the princess spoke, her voice tight but even-toned. 

Saera noted how the lords regarded her with flat faces and how Aemond’s jaw twitched as she spoke. Her grandsire, who always had a soft spot for her, arched his brow as if to urge her to continue before the floor dropped from beneath her feet.  

“As you all surely know, my nephew Lucerys Velayron has been killed by my brother and his dragon. Rhaenyra likely already feels smited by Aegon’s accession of the throne, so I imagine that the loss of her son will only deepen her wound. I fear that we are walking into a war that will produce no victory regardless of who rises from the ashes.” 

“Excellent. To war then,” Aegon chirped, a smirk evident in his voice. Tyland Lannister’s stomach seemed to churn at the statement. 

Otto shifted in his seat and offered his input carefully. “Your Grace,” the Lord Hand began, “I believe the princess wants to propose an alternative course of action.” 

Aegon frowned but nodded slowly nonetheless. The vein in the dowager Queen’s forehead grew pronounced. Otto once again arched a brow at Saera, prompting her to continue. 

“I am requesting leave to go treat at Dragonstone before Rhaenyra demands a son for—“ 

“Rhaenrya’s son was just plucked from the sky, and you wish to deliver yourself to her?” Alicent questioned incredulously. The room sat in a stifling silence. The air thickened with each passing moment as mother and daughter appraised each other. 

“You paint my sister cruelly, your Grace,” Saera uttered. 

“Half-sister,” Aegon hiccuped. 

“Our sister, all the same, your Grace,” Saera said softly. “If Rhaenyra hadn’t felt wronged before, she certainly feels wronged now. Out of all of us, she holds the most regard for me and Helena, and we mustn’t drag the Queen into this.” 

Alicent’s hands slammed down violently upon the table, startlingly everyone in the room. “No!” she spat. “No, I will not allow it! You are too young and inexperienced as is your dragon—“

“Volaerys is young, not incapable. He’d make a formidable foe if danger happened upon me,” Saera reasoned pleadingly. 

Her mother protested further to which Saera bit back. The princess felt her face getting red and hot tears fighting to spill out from her eyes. Luke was dead. Luke was dead, and Aemond killed him, and no one cared. No one cared about making anything right. Saera knew better than to want them to. 

“Enough!” Otto boomed. Silence fell over the room once again. A small giggle fell from the King’s lips. No one acknowledged this. 

“Ser Henry, please escort the princess back to her chambers,” Saera’s grandsire commanded. “I fear the council has caused her to become quite faint.” 

“At once, my lord,” the knight responded. 

As Ser Henry offered his arm to the princess, she peered over at Aemond. A small smirk curled at his lips, and a victorious gleam shone in his eye. 

Tears rolled freely down Saera’s cheeks as Ser Henry turned away her from the small council and led her out of the room. My father could not have wanted this, Saera lamented to herself. He maintained Rhaenyra as his heir for the better part of his life and fiercely defended her and her children. And now, uncles slay their nephews, and no path to peace is sought by the Greens who occupy Kings Landing. A royal mess. 

“I would take each of their heads for you if you commanded it, my princess,” the sworn shield said. His gentle tone contrasted with the harshness of his offer. 

“Such is why I do not ask, Henry.” 

Chapter Text

The first punishment of note bestowed upon Princess Saera was her name. By all accounts, her great aunt Saera Targaryen seemed like a shameful insult to the House of the Dragon— to be blotted out and never spoken of. A whore, her brothers called the woman. However, they assured their sister they never thought of her so lowly. Their assurances did not spare them from Saera’s venomous glares or elbows to the ribs. 

Alicent Hightower feigned shock at the murkiness surrounding her husband’s aunt. She sighed and spouted nonsense about how she thought it was such a beautiful name. Such a shame, what a pity. 

As King Viserys peered down at the darling babe, he found himself wavering. Perhaps, such a sweet girl would wear the name gracefully— do it well. He obliged his wife’s request to name his second-born daughter Saera. Though, if anyone questioned the choice, her great aunt was not her namesake. 

Queen Alicent was rather pleased. Her firstborn daughter with her auburn would always know some shame. Saera supposed her mother felt like the name would provide some sort of harness to keep her at bay— to ensure that she could not bring any more shame to her house. Though, such distaste for a babe moments old always perplexed Saera. It felt needlessly cruel. 

The second punishment of note was wedding Helena to Aegon. Saera did not wish to take the sacred vows with her elder brother, but as one year Helena’s senior, Saera anticipated carrying the burden. 

Alicent’s adamance about the ordeal was meant to insult her eldest daughter. The Queen reasoned that Helena’s demeanor warranted the betrothal, for not many suitors would find her quirks endearing. Moreover, the poor silver-haired girl deserved the continual protection of a Targaryen princess within the Red Keep. Alicent figured Saera would manage anywhere. Like a weed. 

Queen Alicent assured Saera that she would do well in another noble lord’s home— that she was quite a prize to be won. The praise felt hollow, and yet, the lords of the small council wholeheartedly agreed with the commentary. It made the princess’s skin crawl. 

A great beauty, they said. Well-bred and shapely. A piece to be played when loyalties were needed. What a flattering sentiment! 

Thus, at the age of ten and nine, Princess Saera remained unmarried and childless. Her third punishment. She was unsure whether to be relieved or distressed. The princess longed for a husband and children, but she worried that the wrong lord would take everything from her. She supposed that such was the fear of every young lady. 

Several lords had expressed their affection for the princess over the years to no avail. Her mother would keep her unmarried in anticipation of something that Saera could not imagine back then but could certainly imagine now that Aegon sat on the throne. Of course, the only lord she ever wanted to propose to her didn’t. Well, perhaps, couldn’t is the better description. 

Ser Henry Payne was from a vassal house who held fealty to its Lannister liege lords. He understood that despite his knighthood, his house was not noble enough to make a competitive offer for Saera’s hand. Most of the lords of the realm understood that any attempts for her hand— no matter how grand or how fitting— would be rejected. Suitors for the princess would be sought for by the Queen and her counselors. Until then, fanciful occasions at the Red Keep were merely for well-mannered politicking and a grand time. Thus, the Paynes journeyed to Kings Landing whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

Henry was a pragmatic young lord, but the first time he laid eyes on Saera, he felt anything but rational. She smiled warmly at him and his brother when their father presented them to the Queen and her daughters. Henry wasn’t a knight then, and his brother was certainly the more probable object of Saera’s affections— if any affection was bestowed.  

Henry’s logic was not foolproof, though. The Targaryen princess was quite taken with the younger Payne boy. His strong jaw and nose paired handsomely with his kind eyes. He seemed a bit nervous. All good signs, Saera had concluded. 

The pair danced together at every royal affair, growing more fond of one another each time. If Henry’s honor were not so steadfast, rumors would have festered about how he captured the princess’s attention. He was just a good lad, those at court would say. This was the truth, but of course, Saera’s care for the boy was more than affectionate respect. 

The moment he was knighted, Ser Henry begged for an audience with the princess and her family. He knew he could not marry the princess, and if could not take her to wife, then he would have no wife at all. He dropped to his knees in front of the princess, proclaimed his devotion to her, and swore to protect her until his final breath. 

Although young, Ser Henry was an exceptionally skilled swordsman and rider. He was quite bright and well-spoken, able to calm the most turbulent of waters with only his words. He’d been cutting down men since he was a small boy of ten and two, providing arms to squash small uproars over the years. A fierce knight and a better man. 

Saera liked that he was well-read as did her father. Queen Alicent felt strongly indifferent. 

With her parents’ approval, Saera accepted Ser Henry as her sworn shield. He loved her. She knew this. She worried that his role would prove tortuous. She loved him too, and yet, she could not wed him. She wanted that. She wanted that with every fiber of her being. She often imagined what it would be like to run away with him— to ride atop Volaerys to someplace far away from her family and the mess they continually stirred. 

Unfortunately, at present, Saera was not the only one privy to her wildest dreams. Her mother seemed to anticipate where her daughter's mind would wander. However, the dowager Queen was not concerned over some fantasy of escape. She feared that her daughter would travel to visit Rhaenyra despite the council's command. Even more, she feared that Ser Henry would assist her. Such was his oath, after all. 

The princess was to be guarded around the clock by a set of Kingsguard appointed by the Lord Commander Ser Criston Cole. Ser Criston assured Saera that these were excellent knights. The princess inquired about Ser Henry. The Lord Commander smiled coldly. 

"Ser Henry will ward for me over the next fortnight, Princess. He will not be a part of your guard," Ser Criston explained. 

Saera's chest felt tight like someone had wrapped a fist around her heart. 

A fourth punishment of note. 

Chapter Text

Using the poised negotiation skill of leaning heavily on the weakest link, Saera managed to get Ser Goddrick assigned to her new guard. Of course, the old knight’s appointment was at the expense of that poor white cloak from the Stormlands who happened to find himself at the princess’s mercy. Unfortunately for him, he was easy to needle, and Saera could run a tight stitch. 

The kind knight Ser Goddrick had long, shiny gray hair and a close-shaven white beard. Despite the length of his mane, he kept it taught and secured in a coarse, almost militant braid. When the princess was little, she was thrilled when she noticed his braided hair for the first time. Her eyes widened and the most earnest smile broke across her face. The little princess had also been wearing a braid. Thus, the two of them matched. 

Ser Goddrick hadn’t worn his hair any other way since then. 

In the early morning hours, the old white cloak had alerted Saera’s handmaids that the princess was to attend to cordial correspondence after breaking her fast. The nervous lords and ladies of the realm would love to hear from their darling princess. All letters were to be presented to the dowager Queen so that she could provide the King’s seal. Ser Goddrick instructed further, telling the handmaids to remind the princess to mind herself— quill and tongue included. 

“Princess,” Madelynne implored, “can I not convince you to wear the other gown?” 

“You cannot, Maddy,” Saera said assuredly, making Madelynne huff and look hopelessly at Joanna and Maerie. 

“I’m sure your mother would prefer if you wore one of your usual dresses, Princess. Your attire as of late has been quite… dimly colored.” 

Saera laughed heartily. It was an unusual sound given the present circumstances. The princess had donned black for the past few days. It made everyone around her uneasy. While Saera wore the color in mourning, her handmaids knew that the sudden change in the princess's color palette may make certain members of the court suspicious of their lady’s loyalties. 

Sighing, the princess rose from her cushioned seat to stand in front of the floor-length looking glass. She fussed with her necklace, turning the purple stone at the end of the luxurious chain over in her fingers. She caught a glimpse of her handmaids watching her in the reflection. 

“I’ll wear the emerald shaw, Maddy.” 

“Thank you, Princess.” 

“But I cannot promise to mind my quill. You must send my apologies to Ser Goddrick.” 

The women shared a laugh together as Maddy wrapped the thick emerald fabric around Saera’s shoulders, fastening it with a golden sigil pin. Saera offered soft smiles to her maids before making her way to the door. Her miniature vanguard awaited her. 

Ser Ilynn, the head of the princess’s detail, told her they ought to make haste. He said Ser Goddrick had started ahead to direct the preparation of a table in one of the great chambers. The dowager Queen expected the correspondence handled sooner rather than later. 

Princess Saera walked in the middle of her six guards as they made their way through the castle. The noble gaggle passed a series of maids, bakers, and lords. One after the other, the passersby greeted the princess with reverence to which Saera returned a polite hello. 

Several rat catchers walked by briskly, keeping their heads hung lowly so as to not offend the princess. Their apparent dejectedness made Saera unwell. She managed to catch the eye of one of the rat catchers. She smiled at him kindly, but the far-away look in his eyes did not falter. 

Perhaps that’s why Helena keeps going on about her worry over the rats, Saera thought. Rat trapping seemed like an undesirable job. 

~~~

Saera thought about Helena for the rest of her day. So much so that after she’d finished her daily duties to the crown, she requested that the handmaids bring her nightly needs to the Queen’s chamber. Saera would spend the evening with her sister just like when they were girls. Surprisingly, Alicent had nothing to say about the arrangement. 

As Helena got the twins settled in bed, Saera peaked outside the Queen’s room to check on her guards. However, no one was posted by the doors. In fact, the entire hallway was deserted except for one white cloak who was only passing by. 

“Ser Ilynn!” Saera called out.  “Will you not be standing guard this evening?”

“No, princess,” Ser Ilynn said flatly. “There are other guards posted all around the castle to keep you and the Queen safe, but your men have orders to stand elsewhere.” 

Saera fought the urge to make an ugly face. She drew her lips in a tight line as she held the knight’s gaze. Maybe, if she thought about it with enough fervor, she could set the rat-faced white cloak aflame. 

“Orders to stand where, Ser?” 

“I am not at liberty to say, princess.” 

“Orders from whom then, Ser Ilynn.” 

“The Lord Commander, princess.” 

Saera hummed in odd satisfaction. She lightly tugged at her sleeves to readjust her night dress, smoothing the cream-colored fabric with the palms of her hands. 

“Enjoy the dragon pit, my good ser. I do hope Volaerys isn’t too famished,” Saera said, false concern dripping from her voice. “Goodnight, Ser Ilynn.” 

“Princess,” the white cloak regarded her, bowing deeply before scurrying down the hall like a kicked dog. 

~~~

The princess and the Queen sat in comfortable silence as Saera ran a gold comb through her younger sister’s silver-blond hair. They were two Targaryens who could not look more unalike, and yet, they loved each other in a way only sisters could. Saera did not always understand Helena, but she surely tried. 

“My other eyes can usually see so clearly,” Helaena said quietly, breaking the silence. 

“What is it that they can no longer see, dear sister?” Saera inquired, not bothering to question what “other eyes” her sister was talking about. 

“I have seen many things twice. I saw Aemond close his eye. Twice, it happened. Twice the same way,” Helena explained. “The beast crawls beneath the boards— the rats. But the rats are different each time. The rats bite and kill, and then they bite and meet dragon fire. I see multiple endings of the great story, Saera.”

The princess grabbed Helena’s hand and squeezed, smiling empathetically. “We shall write the good ending then, yes?” 

The younger sister looked at her elder with sorrow. “Would it change anything?” Helena questioned, a sort of plea laced in her words. 

Saera sighed and planted a kiss on the top of her sister’s head. “Ready yourself for bed. I’ll check on the twins.” 

No sooner did Saera make it to the children’s cots than a small, pointed gasp sounded from Helena. Saera whirled around in panic. 

“Just a rat catcher, m’lady,” the raggedy man rushed out. He stood only a few paces from where Helena was frozen in place, fear-stricken. 

Saera took careful steps away from the children’s bed, toward her sister and the stranger. Her heart hammered against her chest as she spoke, “Surely no harm was meant, friend.” She took another step. The firelight licked at the side of the rat catcher’s pointed face. As the princess took her next step, recognition sparked in her mind. 

“You’re the man I saw earlier. Yes, a rat catcher indeed. You’ve all been doing good work as of late, I hear,” Saera said softly. Her voice only wavered slightly when she noticed the blade at the man’s side. 

The rat catcher nodded slowly as if he was straining his muscles against thick mud. The princess smiled kindly, though fear festered behind her eyes. She took another step closer. She was almost within arm’s reach of Helena. 

“Thank you for your service to the crown, friend, but I fear you may have lost your way in the castle’s labyrinth halls,” Saera further diffused the situation. “You are lost, are you not?” 

An animalistic look fell over the rat catcher’s face. Saera’s stomach dropped. His blade was at Helena’s throat. Oh gods. The princess opened her mouth to cry out. 

“Squeal, and I slit her throat!” the rat catcher seethed. A strained noise died at the back of Saera’s throat. His eyes were wild. His smile, wicked. Saera watched a million futures dance horrifically behind Helena’s eyes as the man kept the blade poised at her sister’s neck. A terrifying thought gnawed at the back of the princess’s mind. The children. He’d come for the children. 

Just as Saera began to get her bearings in the dire circumstances, another man entered the Queen’s bed chamber. He was a robust man— large and lardy. He looked gruesome. Another rat catcher turned assailant, Saera wondered to herself. It mattered not. Danger was afoot already. 

The men’s conversation was lost on the princess. The ringing in her ears drowned out any noise. She barely noticed their lips moving. Her eyes were zeroed on Helena, and her mind stood behind her body with her niece and nephew. Saera felt like she was standing three paces to the left. 

There were no guards. She had no sword. The Stranger loomed in the corner of the bed chamber. 

“No noise, eh?” the slimy man holding Helena commanded, removing the blade from the Queen’s neck. Saera stood in place for fear of making the wrong move in the sinister game that was unfolding before her. Moves and countermoves. We may survive yet, Saera determined. Although, her resolve was in tatters. 

The men move toward the children’s cots. The rat catcher prodded Helena forward as well. Saera watched as they spoke to her sister— as they completely disregarded herself. 

Taking gentle half-steps, the princess glided backward at snail's pace. Helena’s distress riddled her face with harsh lines and red blotches. The men pressed on. Saera could not hear what they were saying to her sister. The hot blood in the princess’s ears overpowered the previous ringing. Moving lips still produced no noise. 

Reaching the small sitting area of Helena’s chambers, Saera carefully moved her hand behind her back and bent at the knees slightly to scoop up the heavy, golden comb sitting on the table. Its long, pointed end was no dagger, but Saera figured it was sharp enough to puncture rat catchers if wielded with enough force. 

There was no time for anything else. There was no one else to protect her family at this moment. 

The men had started to move to Jaehaerys’s bed. While Saera floated toward the scene, Helena had side-stepped and scooped up Jaehaera. The sisters spared passing glances at one another. Time slowed. Helena’s eyes fell to the makeshift weapon in Saera’s hands. A silent understanding passed between them. Run, my sweet Helena. Survive, my brave Saera. 

The princess surged forward and lodged the long end of the bejeweled, golden comb into the rat catcher’s neck. Thick, dark blood spewed about the room. The sudden strike shocked both men. The dying one blubbered and croaked as he collapsed awkwardly to his knees. The other stood momentarily paralyzed. 

His blade was no longer at Jaehaerys’s throat, nor was the assailant’s hand at the boy’s mouth. The young son’s crying snapped the other man back into the moment. He growled, accepted his certain doom, and resolved to make the most mess possible. 

The lumbering oaf clamored toward Saera, slamming against Jaehaery’s bed frame in the process. The little prince cried louder. Saera screamed. Someone must hear us, the princess thought to herself. Henry must sense this; Henry will come. 

While the princess was able to evade the attacker’s first swing, she stumbled and fell, dazed and covered in still-wet blood. The man grabbed at her nightgown, tearing it from hem to waistline. She grunted, flailing to kick the lowborn in the knee. 

The man staggered for a mere few seconds as Saera scrambled backward. She wanted to make for the door, but she could not leave her nephew. One dying was far more than enough. 

The princess managed to pull herself back to her feet. It was too late. The man was already on her. He had from behind, swinging the blade meant for Saera’s nephew to her throat. In a movement that shocked the princess herself, she blocked the blade from tearing her throat open. Instead, the dagger met her hands. 

The steel pressed harshly against Saera’s palms, biting and tearing at her flesh. Hot blood poured out against the coolness of the blade as the princess struggled. Searing pain— blinding pain— coursed through her veins. Her throat felt tight, unable to make any sort of cry for help.

Saera jerked violently in retaliation of her gruesome circumstances. The man was larger and stronger than her but not smarter. She would not die to some fool while her nephew lay helpless and scared in the same room. She refused. The assassin pressed harder. The steel deepened its teeth and crushed Saera’s throat, furthering its incapacity. The princess’s anguish came in rolling waves now. All she could do was gasp and twitch. 

She felt the blood rippling down her arms in hot, red streams, soaking the light fabric of her nightgown. She felt her attacker shaking with effort as he continued to cut into her palms. She felt like she was dying. 

No. No, not like this. Helena will not find me and her son dead. Henry. Henry will not find me maimed. 

The princess’s leg flared backward in one swift motion, hooking itself around the back of her attacker’s knee. Using her other leg, the princess slammed her foot against the ground with such force that the pair tumbled backward. The man’s grip on her loosened as did his bearing on the blade. Saera heard the man hit the ground as if he had been at a distance from her. The only sensation keeping her tethered to her current spot was the throbbing of her palms and the man’s chest against her back. 

Despite her agony, Saera turned over quickly, groaning in great effort. With no thought, the princess straddled the man to lock him into place. Her bloodied hands snapped forward, snatching the blade right out of his hands. Blinding pain shot through the girl’s body. Her breathing was ragged, yet her movements remained smooth as she raised the steel into the air. 

A brutal downward strike carved a small crater in the man’s chest from which blood instantly spouted. Raising her hand again, the princess splattered blood across her face. The thick liquid soaked her hair and stained her gritted expression. 

She swung down, causing the man to convulse and croak. Another hole in his chest. She rose up the steel again and again and again. Her assailant’s chest had become a bloody pit. 

Her chest heaved, her face and decollete gleaming with sweat and blood. Her eyes, furious and frenzied, snapped over to the dead rat catcher who lay hideously contorted in a puddle of his own blood. Her gaze softened as she found Jaehaerys, huddled in the wreckage. 

Saera heard distant voices outside the door and a roaring of footsteps and metal. Rising wearily, the princess limped over to her nephew. She left a trickling trail of blood in her wake. 

“Sweet boy,” she whispered to Jaehaerys. “The bad men are gone. Let me take you now.” 

The little prince lifted his arms in the air. Saera bent down shakily and scooped him up, holding him tightly against her person. She took a few cumbersome steps toward the doors before they flew open. 

Ser Henry stood beneath the frame. His brown eyes were wide and frantic. A legion of white cloaks stood behind Henry, including a worse-for-wear Ser Criston Cole and a furious Ser Goddrick. 

At the sight of Ser Henry, Saera’s knees gave way, but the ground did not find her or her nephew harshly. Henry had caught them, softening their descent. The three of them lay crumpled on the ground. 

Henry roared to his fellow knights to fetch the maester, to fetch the small council— to fetch damn anybody who could be useful. A symphony of soft apologies fell from Henry’s mouth as he brushed Saera's hair from her face. She felt the movement of Jaehaerys’s chest against her own. He was alive. She watched as upside down Henry’s face contorted in concern. He was alive too. 

She reached a bloodied hand up to caress her sworn shield’s face. Her palm stung when it met his cheek. Still, she smiled. Suddenly, her vision went dark. She heard someone shout. Then, there was only silence. 

Chapter Text

Henry Payne was an honorable man, and he comported himself as such on the field of battle. However, he was not beyond fighting with unsavory grit. He had slain countless men, and he knew that sometimes, carnage results even from the cleanest of sword swings. Battle wasn’t needlework. It was often ugly. Henry had seen ugly. He was intimately familiar with it, but what he saw in the Queen’s bed chamber was a type of hideous he could have never imagined. 

He saw Saera before anything else. Her face only held a whisper of her usual self. Blood splatters decorated the entirety of her visage, gliding down her neck and chest. Unsettling amounts of red poured from her hands, soaking the sleeves of her evening dress and the back of Prince Jaehaerys’s nightgown. The pained look in Saera’s eyes almost killed Henry. His heart lurched, dragging him toward her. 

As he clamored to grab his princess and her nephew, he thought that nothing could make this moment more horrific. Then, it was as if his senses were blown open. His tunnel vision widened momentarily. There were two dead men in the room, drowning in their own blood. The smaller man lay crumpled and contorted while the other large man lay maimed with a dark red hole where his chest ought to be. It dawned quite suddenly on Ser Henry that it must have been Saera that killed them. Oh gods, it must have been Saera who had to kill them. 

He held her head in his lap. He swore she was smiling at him— smiling like someone who knew they were about to die. Apologies and pleas fell from Henry’s mouth. He hollered for help and shouted commands. She couldn’t die. He should have fought harder for her. He should have been here sooner. He knew something was wrong. Cole put him in the dragon pit with Ser Ilynn and two other lackluster guards. It was pointless. The Lord Commander and dowager Queen were far too worried about Saera leaving the castle that they paid no mind to who might get in. 

While the men stood at their posts in the pit, Henry heard grumbling in the darkness. A dragon’s groan sounded out. All of the knights stood at attention. From the shadows, Volaerys emerged, groaning and crying. He sounded pained. The great white beast and its glittering, bronze accents twisted and turned restlessly. Saera. It took far too long for Ser Henry to convince the other guards to follow him. 

As Saera’s fell eyes shut, Ser Goddrick came forth to retrieve the young prince entangled in the princess's arms. Then, Ser Henry scooped Saera up in his arms and took to the hallway. If the grand maester would not make haste, Henry would. 

It was a cruel night. The maesters labored into the early morning hours to tend to Princess Saera. The wounds on her hands and neck would scar, but she was likely to wake up despite her heavy blood loss. It took every ounce of strength Henry had to prevent his tears from falling. 

Ser Henry was permitted to remain in the princess’s chamber for the evening while every other castle resident ran amuck. Sleep stayed far from him for fear of being slain. Henry’s eyes did not leave Saera once. He counted each time her chest rose and fell. He studied the contours of her face to further commit them to memory. He stared hopelessly at her bandaged hands and the bruises beginning to blossom across her person. 

Light crept into the room soon enough, signaling that the day had come. The bags under Henry’s eyes were heavy, but the weight in his chest felt heavier. There was nothing he could do but wait for his princess to wake.

Hours passed. The day dragged on. Ser Henry remained by the princess’s side. Her handmaids came and went. Maesters checked on her periodically. Yet, none of Saera’s family had come to see her. Henry made note of this. 

Just as Henry was about to internally curse the Greens for their negligence, a great knock sounded against the doors. Ser Henry stood up, straightened his back, and turned to face the visitor. 

“The King Aegon Targaryen!” A white cloak boomed. 

Saera’s brother scoffed and shook his head. He raised a finger to his lips. “My sister is sleeping, ser. Hush,” Aegon said earnestly, though his words rang a bit humorous. 

“My King,” Ser Henry regarded the man, bowing his head slightly. 

“Ser Henry, yes?” Aegon inquired. The sworn shield nodded. 

Aegon hummed and peered at Saera. He approached his sister’s bedside slowly, eyeing Ser Henry with a curious uncertainty. 

“I’m told you saved my sister and my son,” Aegon said quietly. 

“You have been told wrong, your Grace. Your sister saved herself and your son,” Ser Henry spoke truly. 

The King let out a small, breathy laugh. Ser Henry had never seen him so… brotherly. He looked at Saera with so much care that Ser Henry wondered how such a man could ever be as cruel as the chirping around Kings Landing said he was. The knight remained on guard nonetheless. 

Kneeling next to Saera’s bed, Aegon whispered, “Such a feat is only fitting for you, sister. Kirimvose.” 

A strangely comfortable silence fell over the room. Henry felt it most respectful to avert his eyes while the King had a moment with the princess. 

“I reckon that none of this would have happened if you were at Saera’s door last night, Ser Henry,” Aegon said. His voice wavered as he spoke. 

“Trust that I would give my life for hers if it came to it, Your Grace.” 

“I would name you Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I do not wish to don the white cloak.” 

Aegon stood from his place at Saera’s bedside. “Then, I would have you wed my sister.” 

Henry opened his mouth to refuse— to proclaim the common rank of his house and his unworthiness. The King merely raised his hand, halting the knight’s protests. 

“They’ve tried to kill my son, and in their vain efforts, they almost took her,” Aegon lamented, looking down at Saera’s fragile state. “I will return the insult. An all-out war is sure to ensue. I wish for my sister to be safe— to be contented. As I imagine my father would have. I believe you would be a fit husband for her.” 

The King’s words utterly shocked Henry. His voice failed him. He could only nod slowly at the King’s sentiment. 

A small smile snuck onto Aegon’s face; though, his eyes looked dreadfully sad. The crown seemed to sit heavily upon his head. For all the King’s vulgarity, Ser Henry could not deny that he cared for Saera in some strange way. 

“I’ve sent for Ser Goddrick. He will guard the princess while you rest,” Aegon explained, making his way to the door. “And Ser Henry,” the King called back, “I do intend to honor you. Our arrangement stands by order of the King.” 

The doors to the chamber closed softly, and Saera's eyes fluttered open.