Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

95 AC

The night stretched endless, thick with shadows and the coppery scent of blood that hung heavy in the still air. But the YiTish girl on the narrow cot, despite it all, could not help the faint smile that touched her lips. She had done it. Against all odds, she had survived her labour, early as it came, and though she had been alone—utterly, wrenchingly alone—now she was no longer. Now, she had company. The warmth of the small life cradled in her arms was a salve to her wounds, though her limbs felt cold, her breath growing more shallow with every rise and fall of her chest.

She knew something was wrong. It should have hurt more, shouldn't it? Yet the pain had receded, leaving in its wake only a numbing peace. But for a brief moment, none of that mattered. The babe—her babe—lay nestled against her breast, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the grime-smeared window onto the child's cherubic face. A girl. She had a girl.

The mother wept. Silent, tearless sobs shook her frail body as her gaze locked onto the child's mismatched eyes—those strange, lovely eyes, inherited from each of her parents, that opened to meet her own. The first thing the babe saw was her, and that was enough.

The child squirmed, her mouth stretching wide in a wail that pierced the silence, as though she, too, could not bear her mother's sorrow. Shuddering, the girl pressed trembling fingers to her daughter's lips, her heart breaking at the thought of stifling such a tiny, innocent voice. But silence was needed, if only for a little longer. The world had yet to intrude, yet to tear them apart. Tomorrow, the men would come. Tomorrow, they would take the babe away, and the girl knew they would drag them down paths of separation and pain, as men often did. But for tonight, in this fragile cocoon of starlight, they belonged to one another.

When the babe fell silent once more, the girl drew her closer, planting a tender kiss on her blood-smeared cheek. Her lips brushed against the warmth of shared life, tasting the mingled iron of their blood, still tethered together by the cord that bound mother to child. She had not yet cut it, and she would wait. There was still time.

"Zilan," she whispered, the foreign tongue slipped from her lips like a sacred secret. "My darling Zilan."

No one would ever know her true name. No one would ever call her by it, and in that way, a piece of the babe would remain hers, and hers alone—a quiet defiance against the world that sought to claim everything. It was a mother's right, after all, to name her child in the fleeting moments before others could lay ownership. Outside, men would boast of lineage, of bloodlines and heritage, but in the hushed sanctuaries of motherhood, a babe belonged to the woman who bore it, who bled for it, who would die for it.

"Zilan," the girl murmured again, and the child cooed, as if answering her, as if agreeing to the secret pact between them.

More tears flowed down the girl's cheeks. She had never thought it possible, not for her. Not a daughter of her own, one that did not belong to the church or the High Priest, not like she had. She dared to hope—just a little—that if the gods had any mercy left, they might spare this child. If they had even a scrap of pity, they would let her escape the same fate that had ensnared her mother. The babe had been born of love, after all—an impossible one, yes, but love nonetheless. Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps because she did not come from corruption, she would be spared the poison of their bloodline. 

Tomorrow, someone would arrive—her captors or her saviours—but either way, they would take her away. Tonight, the young mother whispered prayers to every cruel and indifferent deity that her daughter would find her father, that he might protect her from those who would twist her into something unrecognizable. She did not expect him to keep the child; she knew him better than that, but at the very least, he would see her safe. If only—if only the babe could reach him in time.

With what remained of her strength, the girl reached for a blade of obsidian, jagged and cold in her grip. Her hands shook as she severed the cord between them, the final tie of flesh and blood that had made them as one. Then she cut three tallies into the skin just above her own heart—the blood for this next task had to be fresh, unsullied—and used it to paint the babe's already carmine skin with symbols, mouthing the words to a familiar incantation. Both a blessing and a curse; a tether that would last several lifetimes. This child would return to her, and in another plane of existence, she would be able to keep it. It was the only useful thing she had learned from the High Priest. He had bound her to him in wretched selfishness, but she liked to believe she did it to her daughter out of love alone. 

The reasons did not really matter in the end. Blood did not betray blood, and as the threadbare sheets beneath the entwined bodies grew sodden with crimson gore, the young mother stuck her bloodied thumb into the infant's mouth to suckle. Let her consume, and be consumed. let them be one. 

Soon, the sun would rise, casting its golden light upon the room. It would reveal a dead mother and the blood-crusted babe still clinging to her bosom, its small body pressed close as if seeking the warmth that had long since left the girl's cold limbs. The child would cry out again, hungry and afraid, but the mother would not rise. She would not wake to kiss her daughter's cheeks or whisper her lost name.

And so the name would fade, forgotten like the girl who had bestowed it, swallowed by the silence of the dawn.

Prince Viserys Targaryen stood in the opulent chambers of Crown Prince Zhong Ren, gaze locked onto the man before him who held a small bundle in his arms. The room was grand and richly decorated, adorned with silk tapestries and gilded statues, but all Viserys could see was the desperation in his friend's tear-streaked face.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, cloying and sweet, but there was a heaviness to it that weighed down on their shoulders. This was his second time accompanying the Sea Snake to the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, and he had spent a pleasant few months enjoying the lavish hospitality of the emperor and his oldest son, but now on the last day before his journey home, he had been blindsided. He had never seen the YiTish prince like this. In the years since they had struck up their unlikely friendship—born of diplomacy and strengthened by shared letters, gifts, and mutual respect—he had always known Ren as poised, dignified, and composed. Yet here he was, pleading, his face streaked with the unmistakable remnants of grief. His long dark hair was in disarray, and he was still in his robes from the night before, as if he had been cloistered in his chambers all day. 

"Ren, I cannot. This—this is impossible."

Ren's grip on the babe tightened, his knuckles going white as he lifted it closer to his chest, as if shielding her from some unseen threat. His voice cracked, but his resolve did not falter. "I am not asking you as a prince, Viserys. I am asking you as a friend. As a father. You are a father too, you understand. Please, take her with you."

"I cannot."

"You must know how difficult this is for me. You have a daughter, do you not? The girl must be three by now. How would you feel if you had to send her away? But you would do it if it meant protecting her?"

Viserys blinked, the refusal dying in his chest. The reminder of his child was an effective tactic, and immediately he thought of Rhaenyra, with her starkissed curls and wide innocent eyes. His heart clenched at the thought of sending her away, of parting with her under such dire circumstances. Yet here was Ren, a man who had always seemed unflappable, begging him to take his child across the seas.

"You were not even married, last I heard," he argued, trying to regain some semblance of control over the conversation.

Ren shook his head. "I was not. I didn't even know until it was too late. I—" He trailed off, his eyes lowering to the child in his arms, her hand peeking out from the swaddling, reaching blindly toward her father.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face, Viserys sighed. "So, it's a bastard, then? All this fuss over a mere bastard. How do you even know it's yours?"

The YiTish prince's face softened, his gaze filled with something bordering on reverence as he looked down. "Of course she is mine. How could she not be? Look at her. She has my eyes, Viserys. And her mother's lips. I know she is mine as surely as I know my own name."

"That doesn't change what she is, Ren. She is a bastard."

Ren's response was immediate, his tone rising with a fervour that surprised him. "She is my daughter—the only daughter I will ever have. The shamans have read my fate in the stars. They have declared it. I will only have sons. Five concubines and sons aplenty, much to the satisfaction of my father. But she—she is my only daughter. I cannot forsake her."

Viserys almost rolled his eyes at his despair. Oh, what must that be like, to be told that you would have all the sons your heart desired? 

"And yet, here you are, asking me to take her away from you. To a foreign land, no less," he scoffed. "You're no different from the lords back home who send their bastards away to avoid scandal. Is that what this is? Sending her off so no one will ever know she existed?"

"No!" Ren's spoke in an urgent whisper now, his eyes darting to the door as if expecting someone to overhear. "No, Viserys. I am not abandoning her. I am protecting her."

"Protecting her? From what?"

"From those who would harm her. From those who would see her as a—something to conquer...because of her blood. I do not know the extent of it, but this is all I have been told, that she cannot remain here. We are too close to Asshai, too close to those who dabble in the dark arts. She would not be safe here."

Viserys recoiled, his lips curling into a sneer. "So you bedded a sorceress, then? Is that how this happened? Some dark magic tricked you into her bed?"

Ren's expression turned stricken. "I did not bed her. I loved her. I was going to marry her."

"You fool!" the Targaryen spat. "You know our duty comes before all else. You knew you were betrothed since birth. We are not free to marry for love!"

"I...I could not help it."

"So you deluded yourself into thinking you could escape your fate?"

"I know my duty." Ren's shoulders slumped. "I know I am to marry another. But my daughter, Viserys... I must protect her."

"And you think sending her away with me—across the Narrow Sea, to a place where she will have no one—is the way?"

"She will have you. You are the only one I trust. If my betrothed or her family knew of her existence, they would have her killed. My family might even do the same, for the sake of the succession. The throne of Yi Ti is a prize that invites doom, for sons and daughters alike. My girl would not survive here, and I do not wish a life of bloodshed and a death of indignity for her."

Viserys was silent, the words settling over him like a shroud. He thought again of Rhaenyra, of how he would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe from the dangers of the world. Could he really refuse another father's plea, knowing exactly what it would feel like if his girl was the one in danger?

"You ask too much of me."

Ren took a step closer, his eyes pleading. "I know it is a great burden. But you have a castle, a home, a family. She would be safe with you. Raise her as you see fit, but please, take her."

"And what am I to say to my wife?"

"Your Lady Aemma is a good woman. Tell her that the babe is an orphan or even a stray you took pity on. Tell her she has no other home, no one to call her own." As he spoke, fresh tears streamed down the crown prince's face, as if it physically pained him to declare such things about his child, one he cherished above all else. How cruel to say that she had no one to call her own, when he would spend the rest of his life missing her. 

Viserys looked down at the babe Ren placed in his arms, her small face peeking out from the blankets. She was so small, so fragile, and yet there was something unmistakably familiar about her. She had one of the YiTish prince's eyes, and she was unmistakably his daughter. Viserys knew this as surely as he had known that Rhaenyra had been his from the first moment he had held her. 

"And what of her mother? What became of her?"

Ren's face crumpled again. "She is gone, I am told. I did not even...I do not know when, or how, or where. All I know is her child—our child, who was brought to me only this morning."

"I—I am sorry. For what it's worth, I am sorry for your loss."

And he meant it. He could not imagine the pain the crown prince must be feeling, losing both the woman he loved and his daughter. If Aemma and Rhaenyra were no longer in his life, he would not know what he'd do. 

"How do you expect me to care for the infant during our journey back to Westeros? It is a long one, you know this."

The YiTish prince looked up at him with a glimmer of hope, and momentarily his face transformed with relief, reminding him of how young he truly was. Fatherhood was a heavy tribulation for the strongest of men, and Ren was just a boy. A few weeks shy of eighteen, he was a few years younger than Viserys himself, and close to the age the Targaryen prince too became a father to a daughter. 

"You will take her?"

"I will take her Ren, but how am I to care for her."

"She would have a nursemaid of course. I would not expect a prince to know how to care for an infant."

"And if she does not survive the journey? Children are fragile creatures, and the sea has a way of extinguishing even the most experienced of soldiers."

"My girl is strong," Ren brushed a thumb down her cheek. "She will survive it. If you take her away from here, she could survive anything."

"You seem far too certain."

"I have to be. What other choice do I have?"

"Very well," Viserys relented. "I shall take her. I shall take her to Westeros. Only the gods know what my wife and my father, not to mention the entire court will say and the king himself will say, but for you, I shall do this."

The dark-haired prince let out a shuddering breath, his relief palpable. He took his companion's hand and grasped it tightly. "Thank you, my friend. You do not know what this means to me."

"I do it for the sake of the camaraderie we share, and the hospitality you have showed me. I swear to care for her as my own, to raise her as she would have been, had you been able to raise her."

"Then let me swear an oath to you too. Yi Ti will always welcome you and your kin with open arms, and should your daughter, or any of your blood, ever need assistance, I will be the first to answer the call."

Viserys snorted. "Yi Ti is terribly far away, Ren. I doubt you would even hear of our troubles all the way here in your gilded palace."

"But I shall do my best."

"You know, my prince, such alliances are built on marriages and exchanges of far greater value."

"Nothing is of greater value than my daughter, Viserys. Nothing at all."

"Your heart has always been your weakness. It shall be your downfall."

"But as long as it still beats, it shall be indebted to you."

Viserys looked down at the babe again, fast asleep now, despite the commotion around her. "What is her name?"

"I do not know."

"You do not know your own daughter's name."

"Her mother gave her one, no doubt," the prince looked ashamed. "But I was not there to hear it, and I will not dishonour her by giving her another. Her true name shall remain the one uttered by the woman who birthed her, but you may name her in the customs of your people if you wish. Or perhaps you might give that honour to her next mother, the next woman who will raise her."

If the occasion was not so sombre, the Targaryen prince would have chuckled. His companion had always been an idealistic romantic, which was a misplaced trait in the future emperor of an empire as vast as Yi Ti, but this is how they had come to be friends after all, both of them much preferring the parchment scent and ink stains of a library and histories of mankind to the gruelling politics of ruling. 

Maybe they were both imbeciles, concocting plans and scheming for a future neither of them would live to see, but the vows made in friendship would never be forgotten, carried forth in the blood of their offspring. 

The sea, a never-ending stretch of grey and blue, seemed as endless as the thoughts that plagued Viserys Targaryen's mind during the voyage home. The Sea Snake's ship groaned and creaked beneath him, its wood swelling with the saltwater mist, but all his focus lay on the tiny creature nestled in the cabin below—a fragile, fretful babe who had yet to know peace.

When she was not crying, she lay in eerie stillness, her breaths shallow, her skin chalky and pallid. Zhong Ren's insistence that his daughter possessed strength had begun to sound like a desperate father's delusion to Viserys. The girl spent more time wracked with fever than in good health, and none of the ship's maesters could explain her ailments.

Viserys had tried to reason through it. Logic was something he usually prized—he was no fool swayed by sentiment. He could see a path as clearly as anyone: conceal her birth, silence those who knew of it, and see the babe sent to some distant part of the realm where she might be safe in obscurity. The nursemaid Zhong Ren had sent with her could be paid handsomely, bribed into silence, and kept away from court. The babe could disappear, just as so many others had before her.

Yet, for all his supposed wisdom, he knew he could never do it. He was not ruled by logic, but by something far more perilous. He had a father's heart—accompanied by a father's weaknesses— and in that heart, he had already made room for the child, despite how ill-advised such feelings were. Every time his gaze fell upon her, he thought of Rhaenyra safe in Westeros. The two girls had the same small hands and the same curious eyes that, when open, seemed to peer into the deepest corners of his soul.

And so, the child became his charge. The thought of her being raised in a forgotten corner of the realm, her birth a secret lost to time, unsettled him. No, bastard or not, Ren's daughter was still a princess by blood, and she would be raised as such, in front of his eyes so he could honour his oath to protect her. He had already begun to fashion a narrative. He might even declare her his own—naming her Waters, as was the custom for bastards born in the Crownlands. She would not threaten his future son, when the gods blessed him with one, for she was a girl, and girls, in the eyes of the Westrosi court, were rarely seen as a danger. But she would have a life, a future, one that honoured her regal father.

The journey felt longer than it had ever been, the sea a hostile, unrelenting companion, but Viserys found unexpected solace in the small joys that the babe brought. Her wails had, at first, driven him mad with frustration, but as the days turned to weeks, there were moments when she laughed, a sound so pure it pierced the haze of his thoughts. And when she smiled, albeit fleetingly, it stirred in him something he could not name.

By the time they reached the shores of King's Landing, he had made up his mind. The city's great towers loomed in the distance, a familiar sight, and yet he knew that nothing would be the same after he set foot on its soil again. His decision had already been cemented, whether it had been born on the turbulent seas or in those rare, quiet moments with the child. The bond was formed. The girl was his, in spirit if not in blood, because she was also Ren's.

When they finally docked, the Targaryen carried the child himself, a sight that shocked every onlooker at the port. The streets hummed with the whispers before he had even left the docks. Prince Viserys with a babe in his arms? It was an image none could fathom, and yet here it was, plain for all to see. The rumours swept through the city like wildfire, making their way to the Red Keep before he could even begin to explain.

And how could he explain that on that long, arduous voyage, the girl had slithered to rest between his ribs, just as Rhaenyra had? How could he explain that it no longer mattered whose decision it was—his or hers—because they had chosen one another?

Aemma would understand. His gentle wife always forgave him, even for his gravest errors, and he hoped she would do so again. 

Aemma Arryn lay listlessly upon her chaise, the world around her distant, muffled, as if it were happening behind a veil. Grief pressed down on her, heavier than the swollen belly she had carried for nine long months, heavier than the loss that now hollowed her out. The linen beneath her fingers was cool, but nothing could soothe the burning in her chest, the searing emptiness that filled her womb. She had not yet turned her eyes toward the bed—the one where her blood had soaked through the sheets three nights ago, where her babe had slipped away from her before she had named it.

The maids had done their best. The bedclothes had been changed, the stains scrubbed away, but the loss remained—festering like an open wound that refused to heal. Another child gone, another grave added to the catacombs of her heart.

The quiet of her chambers was broken only by the occasional whisper of footsteps beyond her door, but those, too, faded into nothingness. Until, at last, came the news she had been dreading. Your husband has returned.

What would she even tell him? That she had failed yet again, that she had not brought forth a son, but a corpse? And then there was rage as well, because where had he been? His voyage had taken him across the Narrow Sea, and while he had been away, Aemma had bled and bled and bled. She had almost died, had begged for him in her feverish delirium, but he had not come. 

She heard the door open before she saw him. 

"Aemma, I—"

But she could not bear to hear him speak. The tenderness in his address was like a knife twisted into the wound that had already wrung her dry. She stood, though every muscle in her body protested, though her legs trembled and her abdomen throbbed with the ghost of the life she had carried. She stood because her wrath demanded it. Because her desolation was too vast to bear alone, and someone had to answer for it.

Viserys took a step toward her, cradling Zhong Ren's child as if she were the most delicate thing in the world, as if she would break with a breath. He looked at his wife with confusion, but she would not meet his gaze. She could not. Not yet.

"I hear you have sired a bastard."

He flinched as though struck, lips parting, words struggling to form, but he spoke with the kind of earnestness only a man who still hoped for forgiveness could muster.

"It is not—Aemma, I have not—"

"Do not lie to me!" Her voice cracked, the tears rising unbidden, threatening to spill over. She shook her head, blinking furiously to keep them at bay. "You owe me the truth, at least. You owe me the truth when you have been gone for so long, while I—" Her breath chafed in her lungs as the words tangled within her malfunctioning vocal cords. 

"I am sorry...I—"

"We had a babe....we had a babe, and it—"

Viserys leaned forward, his eyes widening in hope, in fear. "A son?" The question, full of yearning, hung in the air like a prayer. Had the gods finally granted him the son he had so longed for, the reward for his loyalty to another man's child? But if that was so, why did his wife look as though the gods had cursed her?

"We had a girl."

Aemma watched the hope drain from his face as she spat the words at him, her outrage too raw to temper. "Another little girl, Viserys. And she died—she died before she ever took her first breath. She died without you. While you were away on your grand adventures with Lord Corlys, it was your father who arranged the funeral, who sent her off. Not you!"

The prince reeled as if struck. His mouth opened and closed, words faltering, failing. "A girl?" he whispered. "You were—Aemma, I didn't even know you were with child. You never mentioned it in your letters."

"Because I thought you would return before the birth! Because I did not wish to worry you while you were gallivanting across the Essos. Because despite everything, despite your absence, I still cared for the well-being of my lord husband, even if he cares nothing for mine."

"No...no, that is not true. I—"

"Then why have you brought home a bastard?" The words were like venom on her tongue. She saw the hurt flash across his face, but she did not care. Not at this moment. She was too angry, too broken. Even as she spoke, there was a part of her—a cruel, vicious part—that wanted to seize the child, to fling her from the window, to rid the world of her, to punish Viserys for his betrayal.

But as she stepped forward to reach for the babe, her husband did nothing to stop her. He simply stood there, as if he knew in his heart that she could never do such a thing, knew that despite her fury, she could not harm the innocent child.

And he was right. The moment Aemma's eyes fell upon the infant—so eerily still, with dark silken hair and delicate and distinctly YiTish features—her irritation faltered. She had been around enough children to know that this one could not have been older than a few moons, the length of a single sea voyage. It was as if the tiny creature before her had somehow siphoned away all the hatred she had in store, and instead, what arose was sorrow so deep it stole the breath from her lungs.

A sob tore from her chest, raw and guttural, and before she knew it, her legs gave way beneath her. She sank to the floor, clutching the child as if it were a lifeline, her body wracked with the kind of torment that left no room for dignity. She wept, her tears soaking into the babe's swaddling, the sound echoing in the quiet of the chamber. The walls seemed to close in around her, and for a moment, she was drowning. 

These were tears of resignation, not just despair, because the child in her arms was unlike the deformed babe she had birthed only days ago—a babe who had existed just long enough to remind her of the gods' cruelty. Another tragedy in a line of misfortunes, another wound carved deep into her heart. Yet this new thing was different, healthy where hers had been frail, with skin like alabaster and hair that swallowed all light and gleamed obsidian.

Perhaps it helped that this little girl bore none of Viserys' telltale features. There was no proof of his indiscretions on her face, no unmistakable sign that this was the fruit of his wanderings. The babe's eyes—one a vivid blue like the skies that blanketed the Vale, the other a dark charcoal—held no malice, guilt, or shame. She was untouched by the transgressions of her father, too young to understand the cold world she had been born into, and as Aemma gazed upon her, she found it impossible to summon any loathing.

The babe did not answer any of her unspoken demands—how could she? She was too young to speak, too young to even understand words, but she understood a mother's heartache almost too well, and her lips parted, her screeching cries an echo of Aemma's. 

Without thinking, as though guided by some unseen force, she pulled the child into her chest, but neither mother nor babe would cease their keening. Meanwhile, Viserys stood over them helplessly, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by the grief he had not known. His heart was heavy with the knowledge that he had never even seen his daughter, that she had died while he was away chasing the winds, but there lay a greater despair in knowing that his chance of having a son had slipped away once more. 

 "Why does she not quieten?" Aemma lamented. "Why will your cursed babe not be silent?"

It was a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered, but Viserys—fool that he was—tried anyway. "I am told she is a colic babe. She has been like this ever since I have known her."

"And her mother?"

"...Dead I am told."

"Did you see her? Were you with her when she..."

"The babe is not mine, Aemma, I swear it."

"You word means very little to me right now, lord husband."

"I swear she is not—I would never dishonour you in such a way—I—"

"Stop it! Please, I am begging you, stop it!"

The child's shrieking had finally halted, a momentary calm in the storm, and Aemma pressed her lips against her temple. 

"Give her to me."

"What?" Viserys was startled at her demand. He expected her to send the child away, to want her banished to Winterfell, or some further corner of the realm. 

"Give her to me. You have made a mistake, but she should not suffer for it. Legitimize her, give her your name, and then give her to me."

It was fate—cruel and merciless, as fate often was—but fate all the same. The gods had taken one babe from her arms only to place another in them, and who was she to deny this chance? She was a mother who had lost her daughter, and here was a daughter who had lost a mother. Was there a pairing more divinely entwined than the two of them? This child was not hers by blood, no, but in the ways that mattered, in the ways that transcended lineage and the whims of men, she would be hers nonetheless. 

"To legitimize her would mean—"

"I will forgive you if you give her to me."

The thought seemed almost absurd the moment it formed—how does one withhold forgiveness from a prince? As if her absolution mattered in the great design of things, as if a man like Viserys truly needed her permission. He was born into a world where power bent to his will, where men could sire as many bastards as they liked without fear of reprisal. She had heard tales far worse than her own—a lord husband taking his mistresses under the same roof as his wife, or worse, the endless parade of wives butchered in their husband's pursuit of an heir, a son.

Viserys had not done that. Not yet, at least, she thought bitterly, but the truth still stung her—despite his fervent prayers and wishes for a son, despite the years of disappointment, he had not turned to another woman for a wife. Perhaps she ought to be grateful. There are far worse fates for wives in this world.

But gratitude, like forgiveness, felt like a duty she was expected to bear, and Aemma found herself unwilling to carry it. She had grown weary of carrying dying things. Her chest tightened with all the things she was supposed to feel, all the quiet sacrifices a wife was meant to make. She should have been able to forgive him. Duty demands it, she told herself, as she had been told since she was a girl. A wife bears her husband's sins as she bears his children, and remains silent through it all.

There was a part of her that wanted to believe him, to take his word as truth. After all, he was a prince—he had no need to lie. If the child was his, he could have said so, declared it openly, and what choice would she have but to accept it? Women endure, she reminded herself, though the words felt like ash in her mouth. Such was her lot in life. 

Even if she did believe him, what difference did it make? She could forgive him a thousand times over, and it would not fill the empty cradle, it would not bring her any of her dead children back.

Later that very night, Aemma paced the nursery, her feet moving in time with the rocking of her new charge. The hour was late, and the warmth of the fire flickered faintly against the walls, casting shapes that danced around the room. She held the infant close, feeling the small rise and fall of her chest, the weight in her arms both comforting and unbearable at once. There had been an additional cradle prepared for this day, an extra space made for the child she had long hoped for, and the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. Another empty cradle. Another funeral pyre. 

Aemma swallowed the lump in her throat. It had been her smoothest pregnancy yet—no pain, no complications, no ominous signs to warn her that this time would end like all the others. Even the maesters had spoken with hope, but hope was a fragile thing, easily broken. At least the bed would not go to waste now, and Rhaenyra would finally have a companion to share her room with. 

Her firstborn toddled after her in agitated steps, her small face scrunched with frustration. The three-year-old had always been willful, a child born with fire in her veins, and she refused to go to bed without her mother's lullaby. It was long past her bedtime, but Aemma could not bring herself to sing with the bawling babe in her arms, whose cries pierced the quiet of the nursery, echoing off the tapestried surroundings like the shriek of some unseen creature. The midwives had offered to take the child, to dose her with opium as they did with restless babes, but Aemma refused. She could not let her daughter out of her sight, not even for a moment. What if she vanished the moment she let go?

She had nursed her, rocked her, whispered every soothing word she could think of, but the child refused to be calmed. Even now, she whimpered like a drowning kitten, trembling as if some unseen force was squeezing the life from her. Earlier in the day, Aemma had discovered strange markings on the infant's skin—three scabbed-over tallies above her heart, and peculiar symbols burned into her shoulder blades. The sight of them had filled her with cold dread, and though she should have summoned a maester, she didn't. She was too afraid—what if they took her away? What if this child, like the others, was stolen from her before she could hold her properly? Before she could love her?

Finally, the babe's cries quietened and she grew still in Aemma's arms. The woman sighed in exhaustion, sinking onto the divan near the cradle, her limbs heavy and aching from the endless hours of marching. Rhaenyra, sensing the moment, quickly climbed into her mother's lap, curling against her side with a possessive need that only a child could have. She pressed her face into Aemma's chest, her small hand gripping the fabric of her pale blue nightgown as if she too feared being forgotten in the wake of a new sibling. 

The door creaked open, and Aemma tensed instinctively, praying it was not Viserys. She wasn't ready to face him—not tonight, but when she looked up, it was not her husband who entered the room, but his father. Baelon Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, was a loud and boisterous man by nature, but tonight he moved with an almost comical caution. He lingered in the doorway, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the nursery floor, his eyes scanning the room as if he were unsure of where to step.

Rhaenyra was the first to react. She lifted her head from Aemma's bosom, her violet eyes lighting up as she caught sight of him. "Grandsire!" she cried, wriggling from her mother's grasp and rushing toward him.

Aemma winced, immediately glancing down at the babe in her arms, half-expecting the disturbance to wake her once more, but the child remained mercifully asleep.

Baelon scooped his granddaughter into his arms with the ease of a man accustomed to handling children, his large hands gentle as he pinched her cheek with affection. "It seems my son has caused quite the commotion," he remarked.

When his daughter-in-law began to rise, out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne, Baelon shook his head quickly, offering her a placating smile. "No, sit, Lady Arryn. You've gone through enough these past few weeks."

Despite his words, Aemma stood anyway, her spine stiff with the weight of her grief and duty. She tipped her head compliantly, though her eyes remained guarded.

Baelon's gaze shifted to the azure bundle in her arms and his brow furrowed in disapproval. "Is that it? The creature my son brought home?"

Aemma's gullet burned with bile at his choice of words. The creature. It was not the first time the babe had been referred to in such a way, but hearing it from him struck her harder than she expected. She nodded, unable to find the words to defend the child.

The older man stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. For a long moment, he stood there, as if contemplating what to say, his lips pressed into a thin line. "You should not keep her. It would only bring you pain."

Before she could respond, the babe stirred, as if sensing the tension in the room. Her eyes blinked open, the faint light from the fire reflecting off the strange hues, and the Prince of Dragonstone froze. His earlier warning was forgotten as the child sniffled, the first hints of a wail building in her throat. And then, with a low, incredulous laugh, Baelon spoke again, though this time his voice was softer, tinged with something that sounded almost like nostalgia.

"She has Alyssa's eyes," he murmured, his fingers twitching at his side as if he longed to reach out and touch the irises himself to assure himself that they were real.

It was a lie, of course. Alyssa's eyes had been green and violet, and the babe bore no resemblance to the woman he spoke of, but in his perpetual mourning, he saw what he wanted to see—an anomaly that was an echo of a woman he had loved fiercely, long ago.

"Have you named her?"

The question caught Aemma off guard. She had never really thought about it. Fathers often named their children as was the custom, but she had refused Viserys that right. A babe always belonged to their mother first, and though Aemma had not bled for this one, though she had not carried her for nine agonizing moons, she was her mother. 

"Naerys," she whispered, thinking of the name she would have liked to have named her dead daughter. "She will be called Naerys. Naerys Targaryen."

If Aemma had her way, she would be Naerys Arryn—a complete erasure of Viserys's infidelity—but that name would remain in her heart. It was enough for her to be Naerys. Just her Naerys. 

Instead of the yowling that was expected from her, the babe babbled gleefully, as if in agreement to this arrangement between them. And from that moment forward, Naerys belonged to Aemma Arryn, her lady mother, her eventual queen, her goddess in mortal flesh.

Chapter Text

99 AC

Aemma Arryn sat in the royal stands, the relentless sun bathing the tourney grounds in a golden, oppressive light. She dabbed at her brow with a lace handkerchief, her movements slow and methodical, as if trying to ward off the heat as much as the clamour that surrounded her. The thunderous clash of metal upon metal echoed across the field, each strike sending a dull pulse to her temples. A sigh escaped her lips as her eyes drifted over the crowd, searching for distraction, or perhaps simply a respite from the tumultuous atmosphere.

Her gaze settled on her husband, the king, seated regally behind her. Viserys wore the crown easily, his expression a blend of ease and pride as he observed the tourney held in his honour. At his right sat their daughter, who seemed absorbed by the spectacle, though her role as his cupbearer left her more attentive to her father's needs than the knights on the field. At just seven, Rhaenyra had already become a constant shadow to the king, following him at the table, at court, and now at tourneys. 

On the king's left sat his Hand, Otto Hightower, in quiet observation, his posture impeccably composed as he watched on with a reserved interest. His daughter, Alicent, was seated beside Rhaenyra, the two girls occasionally whispering and giggling amongst themselves, sharing in some private jest that made them oblivious to the fierce competition before them. The bond between the girls had formed swiftly, almost immediately after the arrival of the Hightower children at court last year, but although Alicent seemed to be enjoying herself, Aemma could not help but notice the way she picked at the skin around her nails absentmindedly, a distressing trait in someone so young. 

The girl's brother, Gwayne, seated beside Otto, was far less inclined to disguise his unhappiness, and his face was serious as he watched each knight with careful study. His eyes tracked every movement, every lance that shattered, every horse that stumbled, and for a fleeting moment, the dark cloud of grief that had always hovered over him lifted. 

No child should have to endure such grief, the death of a mother, and no mother should be forced to part with her child. 

Aemma's hand instinctively drifted to her flat belly, the ache of old losses settling into her bones. Two more miscarriages had come and gone in the years since, each one stealing something from her, leaving her emptier than the last. Today, for the first time in a long while, her womb was mercifully still, yet, the emptiness was not a reprieve; it was a hollow reminder of what she had been denied.

Her lap, too, was empty—a sight she was unaccustomed to. Usually, it was occupied by her youngest, who at four years old still clung to her like a second shadow. Rhaenyra might have followed Viserys at court, but Naerys followed her, and at tourneys especially, the little girl delighted in sitting upon her knee, tucking her head into the folds of Aemma's skirts, hiding from the loud world around them, and a tender smile curved the queen's lips at the thought. 

Regret tugged at her heart for having left her behind in their chambers, but the journey to Maidenpool had been long and arduous, especially for an easily unsettled child such as Naerys, who had remained restless for most of the trip. When they finally arrived, she succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep in Aemma's arms, and waking her now to attend the tourney seemed necessarily cruel. However, leaving her alone seemed even worse, but Aemma's presence here was required, as the king's wife was expected to be on display for all the realm to see.

Her thoughts turned inward as the din of the tournament receded to a distant murmur, her mind returning to her musings. Aemma took solace in caring for Naerys, in the quiet moments where she could soothe her to sleep, silencing her cries with a gentle touch. There was something deeply satisfying in feeding and dressing the girl herself, even as she grew older. It was as if Naerys were her very own little doll, a creature who needed her as much as Aemma needed to be needed, as opposed to the fiercely independent Rhaenyra. 

Sometimes, if Aemma closed her eyes and let herself believe it; she could pretend that Naerys was hers, a child sent by the gods as compensation for the ones that had been taken. It was a comforting illusion, one she grasped to more tightly than she should have. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of fabric beside her and glanced up to find Princess Rhaenys watching her with amusement dancing in her lilac irises, her lips curved in the faintest of smirks.

Following her gaze, Aemma's eyes settled on the knight approaching the royal stands on horseback, lance in hand. His gaze was fixed on her, and as their eyes met, he cleared his throat, then dipped his head in a bow—an impressive feat considering he remained seated upon his steed. "If I may be so bold, Your Grace," he called up, his voice steady but carrying a hint of nerves, "might I ask for your favour?"

Aemma blinked in genuine surprise. It had been years since anyone had asked for her favour—more likely no one ever had—and the request stirred something deep within her, something that had long lay dormant, like a relic of a girlhood she had never truly experienced. Married off as a child to a prince, she had never been courted, never known the thrill of being wooed with flowers or tender words. Viserys, though amiable, had not won her with romance or grand gestures, and their marriage, like so many others, had been a matter of duty and politics.

And now, here was this knight—handsome, sharp-featured, with an earnest gaze that sought her out across the field—asking for her favour as if she were still a young maiden, as if the years of motherhood and loss had not etched their toll upon her, making her haggard and hideous. She was not delusional enough to believe she still retained the charms of her youth, because then why else would have Viserys strayed? The notion embedded its barbed thorns into her heart, deeper every day, especially as Naerys grew, for such a beautiful child could only have been birthed by an even lovelier mother, and how could Viserys have resisted such a woman, when all his own wife did was weep and give him more dead children. 

She hesitated, glancing sideways at her husband, unsure of what his reaction might be, but the king, ever jovial, only grinned broadly, his expression one of amusement rather than disapproval. 

With a smile that felt oddly foreign on her lips, she reached for the wreath of flowers she wore, plucking it from her head. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tossed it forward, watching as it sailed through the air, spinning slowly before it hung neatly onto the knight's lance. The crowd around them erupted into polite applause, and the knight bowed his head once more. She recognized him now—Ser Loran Darklyn, and if memory served her correctly, she thought she might have seen him somewhere in the Vale as a child. His face was pleasant, his bearing noble, and though she knew little of him, the sincerity in his eyes struck her deeply.

"Ser Darklyn, is it?" Rhaenys snickered beside her. "I dare say you've caught his eye, my queen."

Aemma flushed, her cheeks warming as she settled back into her seat. "He is a gallant knight asking favour from his queen, nothing more."

"Of course, nothing more. And I am certain my eyes must be failing me if I spied him looking at you as if you were the Maiden herself."

"I'm hardly the Maiden, princess." Aemma twisted her garnet ring around her finger, the carmine jewels digging into her skin as she did so. "I've birthed more dead babes than I care to count, and bid farewell to more than I wish to remember." Her expression dropped, but Rhaenys reached out and squeezed her hand gently.

"That doesn't mean you can't still be admired," the older woman reassured. "Let him crown you Queen of Love and Beauty; it's not as if my cousin, the king, is capable of such a feat anyway. You deserve a little joy."

The thought of being bestowed such a title seemed laughable, and Aemma already had two sources of immeasurable joy in her life, but as the matches continued, and Ser Loran unseated knight after knight, she found herself watching with renewed interest.

"You're quite taken with him now, aren't you?" Rhaenys remarked with a chuckle, raising a dark eyebrow as Aemma leaned forward slightly in her seat to get a better view of the next joust.

"It's been so long since I've seen such skill on the field," the queen returned, trying to sound nonchalant. "He is quite remarkable."

"Remarkable indeed. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were rooting for him."

"I simply appreciate his talents."

Her cousin laughed, the sound rich and full. "Oh, my darling Aemma."

As the final match approached, the young queen scarcely noticed when Rhaenyra and Alicent slipped away from the stands, so engrossed was she in the unfolding spectacle, and when, at last, Ser Loran Darklyn emerged victorious, the entire crowd rose in applause.

The king called him forth into the royal stands to receive his victory laurels, and the dark-haired knight surprised everyone by raising the wreath toward Aemma right after. 

"To Queen Aemma Arryn," he declared. "The fairest in all the realm, and to whom I dedicate my victory."

The crowd cheered, and Aemma found it all incredibly bizarre. She had not expected this—not the flowers, not the title, not the weight of all those eyes upon her, but for a moment, she was more than just a grieving mother, the dutiful wife unable to keep her husband's interest—she was simply a woman admired.

As the tourney grounds began to clear, and the guests retreated to their pavilions or the castle, she finally allowed herself to relax, her thoughts immediately turned to her daughters. Her girls would have fun with the wreath that adorned her brow now, and she would enjoy watching them make it a part of their games, but as she scanned the stands, her brow furrowed in concern. Rhaenyra was nowhere to be seen, and panic tugged at her heartstrings, the familiar anxiety that all mothers felt when their children were suddenly out of sight.

"They must be around here somewhere," Rhaenys comforted, noticing her concern. She looped her arm through Aemma's, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Do not fret, Your Grace. Children will be children. If my Laena were here, she'd be right in the thick of it, causing trouble alongside them."

"You should have brought Laena and Laenor along, princess. It would have made the day far more enjoyable."

The older woman chuckled, patting her hand as they began to make their way back toward the castle. "The journey would've been too much for them. Far easier to bring Meleys alone, but perhaps next time." 

"Yes, next time. Rhaenyra is very fond of her."

"As Laena is of her," Rhaenys agreed with a wink. "Perhaps they take after their mothers."

Chapter Text

106 AC

Viserys Targaryen stood before his wife once more, his head bowed as though the weight of the crown bore down on him, heavier than ever. He could not meet her gaze, at that piercing look of abject disappointment which never ceased to unmake him, even now when he was king of the Seven Kingdoms. It felt the same as before, long ago, when he had been only a prince—her husband, nothing more. 

Before speaking, he cleared his throat, as though repeating the words might change their meaning, as if Aemma had not already heard his earlier attempt to convince her, had not already refused with a look that would have silenced any man.

"Lord Stokeworth has asked for Naerys' hand in marriage."

The queen's face tightened, her brow furrowing. "He is a widower of considerable age, Viserys. You cannot be serious."

"Not for himself," the king hurried to add, "but for his youngest son."

"His youngest son is still ten years older than her!"

Viserys faltered, the argument dying in his throat as she smoothed an unsteady hand over her swollen midsection, and he felt the first flicker of fear ripple through him. His hand instinctively reached out, but he stopped, hesitating, and only when she did not push him away, he helped her lower herself back onto the bed.

"You must be cautious, wife," he murmured, as if that might placate her. "You carry the prince of the realm within you. You carry my heir."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, a gesture meant to be tender, but the expectation in his words crushed the moment. She stiffened, resisting the urge to recoil from his touch. It was all anyone spoke about now, about the heir, about the prince she would birth, as if he would come out of her wielding a sword and wearing the conqueror's crown upon his brow. All the maids and servants hovered about her, not as if she herself was something precious, but simply a vessel for valuable cargo. It made her akin to one of the Sea Snake's ships, guarded because of the goods they carried. 

"You cannot be sure that it is a boy." Aemma exhaled, forcing calm into her body, her tone unaccusing but resigned, exhausted from the years of bearing his hopes only to see them shattered by death.

"I am certain this time," Viserys insisted with the fervour of a man who had come to believe in his own illusions. "It has to be. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I dreamed of it."

The queen closed her eyes, her lips pressing together into a thin line. She often wondered what his dreams truly meant. Were they divine whispers, sent from the gods to hint at futures unseen, or were they simply the echo of his deepest desires, conjured up by his aching heart? She sometimes dreamed too, of a life far away from the bustling corridors of the Red Keep, far from the dead babes who haunted her every breath. In her dreams, she took her daughters and fled to the Eyrie, to the mountains where the winds could carry away her grief, where they were happy and well-loved, unencumbered by the burdens of the crown.

Dreams were nothing more than the longing to make real what could never be. She had learned it long ago, but perhaps her husband, for all his imperial sagacity, had yet to do so. 

"You cannot marry her off," she finally spoke, trembling with the fatigue of having to plead for yet another piece of herself. "Please. All I do is for you—this," she gestured at her own body, "is for you. So do this one thing for me. Do not give her away." 

Viserys's heart twisted with guilt, yet it was quickly rationalized away, buried beneath the duties of the crown. This was what Ren would have wanted, wasn't it? For his daughter to be wed and live well as any other princess. Naerys would be cared for, and Lord Stokeworth was a loyal man, a stalwart member of his council. Surely his son would be the same. 

Otto Hightower had told him as much—that the realm would begin to whisper otherwise, to question his strength, especially with no heir. They might wonder about the bastard girl, about the honour of the king who could not provide a son but clung to this child who bore nothing but shame.

Perhaps if Naerys were sent away, Aemma's dismay would fade too. Perhaps she would cease to look at him with that sorrowful gaze, even after all the corpses she had brought forth, each one a painful reminder of their combined failure to give the realm what it needed. Yes, he had no other choice. Naerys must be wed, must be sent away to make her own family so that he might finally have peace with his own.

"She is a child."

"Childhood is often an illusion," Viserys replied, the words not his own but Otto's, echoing in his mind like a refrain that could justify all the things he didn't want to confront. "Especially for the likes of her."

She is old enough to know what she is, Your Grace. She will agree to the match readily. The queen has spent these past few years far too focused on the girl. Perhaps if she were sent away, your wife might be able to produce the much-needed heir. 

Aemma's eyes hardened, her lips thinning in disapproval. "The illusions of childhood are necessary. A child should not be denied joy simply because we know it will not last. She is a child. My child. Viserys, please."

She is my babe. I  have not asked you for much these past years, only this. 

Almost as if he could read her mind, the king ran a frustrated hand over his face. "She is no longer a babe, Aemma. Were you, yourself, not eleven when we wed? And look how happy we have been, how content."

His cadence was lower now to appease her, as if that would lessen the blow, but she had learned long ago that even the softest blows could bruise, and this was no exception. Her bones ached inside her distended figure, but it was something else that ached within her. Her very soul, raw and tender like the first spring blooms, seemed to wilt in the coldness of his words.

Aemma longed to scream at him, to let the storm inside her heart rage. To ask him where their marriage had left her—with him finding comfort in another woman's arms, and her left to mourn alone. He would never see how her happiness had withered under the relentless march of duty, of failed pregnancies, and of the eternal pressure to deliver him an heir. But she could not, would not, scream at her king, so all she did was beg. 

"Viserys, please. Regardless of her age, she is my babe. Do not take her away."  

"She is not even yours, wife. Mayhaps, you will find something else to occupy your time, especially now that we shall have a new babe to tend to, to coddle as you do her."

The king felt the sting of guilt for dismissing Ren's daughter in such a manner, but he was resolute. His wife should not be focusing on a child that was not hers, but rather her own babe who was due to be born soon. Nonetheless, he did not miss the way she flinched at his words, her mouth dropping open a little. 

He dared to say Naerys was not hers. The child she had nursed at her breast, held close to her chest, felt stir in her arms in the quiet hours of the night—how could she not be hers? The girl she had carried in her arms—if not her womb—for far longer than just nine moons. The notion that Viserys, the man who had sired her, could so easily dismiss that bond sent a pang through Aemma's chest, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, the familiar taste of defeat bitter on her tongue.

She had long ago come to terms with her place in this court, in this world where she had but one purpose. She knew it, and yet sometimes she mourned for the child she had been, no older than Naerys now, when she had been plucked from the Eyrie and thrust into this gilded cage. Her mother's fate had been her own, and her mother's grandmother's before her—women with royal wombs, destined to die giving life. She knew too well what it meant to be so young, thrust into the role of wife, mother, and queen. She had bled for Viserys, suffered for him, and now he would ask the same of her girl.

In that very battlefield she entered with each passing year, Aemma knew her time would come. One day, she too would fall as her babes had, for the grave seemed to claim them all, leaving her to wonder when it might finally take her as well. She feared for her daughters, dreading the thought that the same cruel fate might be woven into the fabric of their lives. If this curse of maternal death and broken bodies was passed down through blood, then her daughters were bound to suffer as she had. Even Naerys, who had not been born of her flesh, would not be safe from this dark inheritance. 

"You must take your midday repose now. The day has been long and the maesters have prescribed ample rest," Viserys squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. 

"You must ask her!" Aemma blurted desperately. "You must give her a choice."

"Of course."

Otto had assured him that consent was practically guaranteed. He was the girl's sire, her father, and most importantly, her king, and she would not dare deny him this. 

"You must ask her and not compel her, Viserys. You must tell her that she has a choice, and only if she agrees will I give my blessing. A girl cannot be wed without her mother's blessing."

The king flinched at the raw emotion she displayed, but his resolve did not waver and he was kind enough not to point out the obvious mistake in her statement. "I will ask her," he promised, his voice as smooth as the silk that draped their bed. "But rest, Aemma. You must not concern yourself with this. You carry our next king."

Her hands instinctively went to her belly. Another child, another hope for a future that might never come. The dreams her husband had spoken of so often, dreams of sons and crowns and thrones, felt distant to her now. To dream was to wish for something out of reach, and she had learned to keep her hopes tempered.

"And the marriage," she implored, her determination a faint echo of its former strength, "it must not be consummated until she is older. Much older."

Until she is older than I was. Until I am certain she will not share my fate. 

Viserys hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly, but he relented with a sigh. "Of course, my queen. The Stokeworth boy will wait. He will have no interest in a child, not until she has grown and flowered. He probably has appetites for companions his own age for now."

Aemma swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, closing her eyes to retreat into herself, to the tranquil darkness where her thoughts could not betray her. She didn't want to watch him leave, didn't want to see the broad shoulders of her husband—her king—turn away from her once more, leaving her alone with her indignation.

For a moment, she allowed herself to dream again. Perhaps Rhaenyra, fiery and fierce Rhaenyra, would be stubborn enough to sway her father's will, or perhaps Naerys would surprise them all and deny his request. Then she'd be free to be a child, to laugh and play for a little while longer. She also dreamed of a world where babes did not die in their mothers' arms, where wives were not vessels for their husbands' ambitions, and where she herself might have been more than just the womb of the realm.

Outside the door, a faint shuffle of footsteps sounded, and unbeknownst to Aemma, a Yitish maid lingered just beyond, her ears pricked, her mind already working, like a predator-sensing weakness, knowing that even kings and queens could bleed.

The light filtering through the stained glass windows of the Grand Sept was a kaleidoscope of colour, casting its fractured brilliance onto the smooth marble floor, and the air inside was heavy with the scent of incense, swirling in hazy tendrils above the altar, where a cluster of candles flickered. Naerys shifted uncomfortably on the cold stone, her knees pressed into the unforgiving floor where she had been kneeling for what felt like an eternity, though in truth, it had likely only been several minutes. Yet time seemed to stretch in the silence, broken only by the rustle of robes and the occasional sigh of a breath taken in deep contemplation. 

She had run through her list already, asking for things big and small, important and trivial. First, she prayed for her mother's health, her words hurried and full of unspoken fear. There was another babe on the way, and Naerys couldn't bear to think of her mother's heart breaking anew if something went wrong. Her next words were for her sister—beautiful, wild, and unburdened by anything. After that came the other things with less enthusiasm, as if she were shy about asking for them: for the gods to help her find Rhaenyra's lost brooch, for the next game of Cyvasse against Ser Harrold Westerling to go in her favour, and for her mother to let her stay up late enough to watch her sister's midnight rides on Syrax.

And then, she ran out of things to say.

Naerys' fingers drummed against her thighs, her gaze darting around the vast space. The intricate carvings on the pillars caught her eye, each one telling its own story, and the Seven glared down at her from their high perches, stern and unmoving, their judgment written in the shadows of their marble faces. She felt minuscule beneath their watchful gaze, her earlier prayers now seeming childish and inconsequential. Surely, there were far more pressing concerns in the realm than a lost piece of jewelry or a silly game of strategy. She sighed, her impatience growing with each passing second.

Beside her, Lady Alicent Hightower knelt in direct contrast, the epitome of piety. Her hands were clasped in a perfect imitation of their septas, with her head bowed low in reverence. Not a single movement betrayed discomfort, and in the dim light, her face appeared ethereal, the faint glow from the candles casting her features in delicate relief. Naerys, by comparison, felt like a restless child. Her fidgeting hands and roving eyes disobeyed the comportment expected in such a place, and though she tried to mimic the older girl's posture, her limbs ached, and her mind refused to settle.

Eventually, Alicent's gaze lifted, her eyes knowing as they found Naerys. An indulgent smile played at the corners of her lips, the kind that came with understanding the youthful impatience of someone who had not yet learned the art of serenity.

"I would not have forced you to accompany me, had I known you would be this agitated, princess."

"You didn't force me, my lady. It was this or... going with my sister to see Syrax." 

"Would you not have preferred that?"

"I've already done it several times, but I've never been inside the Grand Sept. And..." the princess hesitated, her tone growing more sheepish, "I've lost her most favourite brooch that she lent me. I don't have the courage to face her until I find it."

An incredulous giggle escaped Alicent, a sound so out of place in the solemn space that it almost startled her. Hastily composing herself, she pressed her lips together, her amusement subdued but not entirely gone. "I can help you look for it if you'd like. After we're finished, of course."

Naerys offered a hopeful smile, though her next words were spoken with a certain nonchalance. "That's all right. I asked your gods for help. Maybe they'll find it for me."

Alicent nearly let out another chuckle, but managed to suppress it, knowing it would echo far too loudly. There was something endearing about the younger girl's faith in the divine's willingness to help with such a negligible personal matter, and it reminded her of herself, because what else was there to hold onto, if not the gods? 

"Very well, princess," she conceded indulgently. "But if you wish, you may wait for me outside. I wouldn't want you to inconvenience yourself any further on my account."

In truth, Alicent's offer was as much for herself as it was for Naerys. The girl's squirming was beginning to distract her from her own prayers, and she valued her moments of reflection too much to let them be interrupted any longer.

Naerys brightened immediately, the prospect of escaping the stifling stillness too tempting to resist. "Yes, my lady, as you wish."

With a stifled groan, she rose to her feet, her knees aching. She rubbed them briefly with a wince, before turning towards the grand entrance, her footsteps echoing lightly in the expanse. 

Outside, the air was cooler, the breeze a welcome reprieve from the atmosphere within the Sept, and Naerys paused at the top of the stairs, stretching her limbs, her eyes closing briefly as she savoured the freedom of movement. The city lay sprawled before her, bustling and alive beneath the late afternoon sun, its noise a distant hum compared to the noiseless sanctity she had just left behind.

Tipping her head back, she squinted at the vast, cloudless sky, hoping to catch sight of Syrax's golden form streaking across the heavens. It was a silly notion, of course—Rhaenyra could be anywhere above the city or even beyond the horizon, but they liked to make a game of it, and every time her sister took to the skies, Naerys sought her out. 

Her reverie was abruptly broken by a voice.

"Looks like she got you too."

Startled, Naerys turned and saw a boy leaning casually against the cool stone wall near the entrance. His auburn hair glinted in the sunlight, framing an undeniably handsome face, and his blue eyes—brilliant and clear as the gems her mother wore on her wrists—seemed to sparkle with amusement.  Caught unaware, she ducked her head shyly, her gaze dropping to the stone beneath her feet as if it might open up and conceal her.

In the Red Keep, she could usually let her hair fall over her face, obscuring her incriminating eyes, but today, her mother had insisted on braiding it back—much to her frustration, and she felt terribly exposed, the cool air brushing the back of her neck like a taunt.

She swallowed nervously, gathering her wits, and chanced another glance at the boy. He was still looking toward the Sept, his expression one of amused indifference, waiting, no doubt, for his pious sister. The sun gilded his features, making him look noble, but there was something relaxed about the way he stood, arms loosely crossed over his chest, that made him seem approachable.

Naerys felt her pulse accelerate. Why did she suddenly feel so silly? This was not a momentous occasion. It was just... Gwayne Hightower. She had seen him in the Red Keep before, spoken a word or two perhaps in the company of their respective sisters. 

The boy repeated himself, his tone probing. "My sister, I mean. Looks like she managed to drag you to the Sept with her. I was wondering which of you she'd bring first."

Avoiding his gaze, Naerys shook her head. "She did not have to try very hard, Lord Hightower," she replied, a bit too quickly. The words sounded stiff in her mouth, and she winced inwardly. Did she sound as awkward as she felt? 

Gwayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, as if the formality made him uncomfortable. "Gods, no. That's my father, not me." 

Naerys' fingers twitched, an instinctive need to pick apart the threads on her sleeve overtaking her, and she dared to glance up at him once more, just in time to catch an odd, almost imperceptible expression that made her falter. Was he annoyed? Did she ask too much?

"Are you here to pray?" 

Damn her stupid mouth. Here she was asking more. 

The muscle in Gwayne's cheek twitched again, and for a moment, she feared she had said something wrong. A brief wave of panic washed over her. Maybe he believed her a simpleton for babbling on so, but instead of answering right away, he simply shrugged, his gaze lingering on the Sept's entrance.

"Just here to see my sister, that's all."

He almost felt guilty at the crestfallen look that crossed the princess's face, because the truth of the matter was not something he wished to elaborate on. Though he did not hold onto the Seven with the fervour expected of him—much to his sister's dismay—he did try. Today he was trying, except he hadn't even managed to make his way inside, but at least he had made it to the threshold. Alicent understood. She was devout enough for both of them, she liked to joke, and on most days that was enough. 

Naerys' relief was short-lived, for at that moment a dragon's shriek echoed from above. Syrax. Heart leaping in her chest, her eyes widened in surprise, and she instinctively bobbed a curtsy, the motion rushed and clumsy. Then she hurried down the Sept's steps without so much as a farewell.

A mix of exhilaration and mortification coursed through her as she nearly stumbled over the last step, resisting the urge to hike up her skirts to her knees, for it would have been terribly undignified, and she could still sense Gwayne's presence behind her. Had he noticed how flushed her cheeks had become? Had he seen the way she fumbled her words? Gods, she hoped not.

The brief exchange replayed in her mind repeatedly, and her breath hitched as she imagined what Rhaenyra would say when she found out—there would be no end to her sister's teasing. But even as the humiliation settled in, there was a childish part of her that felt giddy, her heart doing an inexplicable somersault.

She had barely made it halfway down the steps when she heard Gwayne calling after her.

"Leaving so soon?" His tone was laced with amusement, and the girl felt her cheeks flame anew. She could feel him beaming before she even turned around, making her contemplate the notion of sprinting down the stairs and out of sight. 

Eventually, though, she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder, trying to summon some semblance of composure. Gwayne had pushed away from the wall and was now strolling toward her, hands casually tucked into the folds of his cloak. There was a certain smugness to the way he moved, like he was already fully aware of his effect on people—though perhaps she was giving him too much credit.

Naerys willed herself to remain steady. "I didn't want to disturb you further."

The older boy raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a slight smirk. "Disturb me? Princess, you were hardly a disturbance. If anything, I was starting to think I had scared you off."

"Not at all! I—" She trailed off. Why did speaking to him always make her sound like a blundering idiot? She quickly shifted her focus to her shoes, pretending there was something incredibly interesting about the cobblestones beneath her feet.

Gwayne laughed, and though it wasn't a cruel sound, it flustered her all the same. "You're quite terrible at lying, you know," he jested, folding his arms across his chest as he stopped in front of her. "It was impossible not to notice the way you practically fled. Do tell me what terrible tales my sister has regaled you with regarding my behaviour. I promise I am not as appalling as she might have led you to believe."

Naerys felt utterly trapped by his playful smile. "I—I wasn't fleeing," she stammered, though it was clear from his expression that he didn't believe her for a second. "It's just... Syrax. I thought... I thought Rhaenyra might be nearby."

His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in conspiratorially. "Ah, of course. The dragon. How could I forget? I'm sure you were simply eager to see your sister, and not, say, escaping a horribly awkward conversation."

"Awkward conversations seem to be my trademark," the princess muttered to herself, and though she hadn't meant for him to hear, Gwayne snorted at her words. It was the last straw, and she fisted the fabric of her dress, ready to make a run back to the Red Keep, dignity be damned. She had already embarrassed herself enough, so what was a little more? 

Seeing her at a loss for words, the Hightower boy's smile softened slightly, and he stepped back, giving her space. "You look like you're about to run away again."

"I...was not."

"That's not how it looks like from over here."

Naerys raised her chin defiantly, her bashfulness forgotten in the face of an argument. "Mother says that a lady should not run from problematic matters."

"Oh?" Gwayne snickered. "I am the problematic matter then?"

"Yes—no!"

Several moments of cumbrous silence later, the boy relented. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just... you make it too easy."

"I do not."

"Ah, and you have a penchant for arguing."

"I do not—never mind," the princess huffed, much to his amusement. "I shall be heading back now, my lord."

"Won't you thank me for this extremely enlightening conversation before you go?"

Naerys shot him a scowl, his self-importance bleeding into his words, making her forget her initial embarrassment entirely. "I've had better conversations with the cook's dog, actually."

"Dear gods, I was not aware that dogs spoke." Gwayne raised a hand to his lips to feign surprise. "And do tell, what revelations do they impart to you."

"You are mocking me."

"I assure you, I am entirely sincere, princess."

Naerys' lips twitched into a smile despite herself. "Liar."

"Calling a young lord a liar? How improper!"

When she dropped her gaze to the floor in mortification, Gwayne's tone became sincere, and he gave her a bow. "Shall I walk you back? Or would you rather flee before I have a chance to poke fun at you some more?"

"I think I've endured enough for one afternoon, thank you very much. And you must be here to escort your sister when she is done. That is why you are here in the first place, are you not?"

"My sister will be here," Gwayne smiled fondly when he glanced back at the Sept. "You must not be familiar with her prayers, but they can go on for quite some time. I shall return for her and she would still not be done."

"Dear gods, her poor knees."

"I wonder the same thing myself," Gwayne agreed as he began to lead her in the direction of the Red Keep. "I shall spare you—for now, but only if you let me walk with you."

"You already seem to be walking, without need for my permission," Naerys pointed out. 

"Yes, so hurry along and join me, won't you?"

The heavy doors of the Red Keep groaned as they closed behind her, and Naerys felt a wave of warmth sweep over her. The air inside was cooler but the faint spring in her step remained from her encounter. Her fingers toyed with the fabric of her gown as she ascended the stairs to her chambers, distracted by the giddy thoughts racing through her mind. There was a lightness in her that she rarely felt—she was glad Rhaenyra hadn't seen the exchange, already imagining her older sister's sharp wit at the expense of her obvious, childish infatuation.

When she reached her destination, her mood dimmed slightly upon seeing Fei waiting inside, her figure standing near the window with her back turned. The Yitish woman was as motionless and her presence was almost unnerving in its quietness. Naerys had known Fei her entire life—eleven years of being cared for by the strange woman who had accompanied the king all the way from the distant Golden Empire. Yet despite that, she never quite knew how to feel about her. Fei's eyes were sharp, too sharp, and though she was sometimes kind, there was something in the way she spoke that made her uneasy, as if she knew things Naerys did not. Things she could not understand.

Hearing the princess's footsteps, the maid turned and bowed deeply, her hands clasped before her in that way she always did, one more custom she couldn't quite shake off. Fei's deference toward her felt wrong, misplaced, for Naerys was no trueborn princess. Just a bastard, and yet, Fei bowed as if she were someone of far greater importance.

"Look what I found, princess." 

It was Rhaenyra's brooch—the one she had lost, and Naerys' face brightened instantly, her earlier unease forgotten in her excitement. She hurried forward, taking it from Fei's outstretched palm and turning it over in her hands, examining it carefully. 

"Thank you!" she exclaimed in relief. "Nyra will be pleased. I thought she'd tear the whole castle apart—and then me—looking for it."

The corners of Fei's lips lifted slightly. "The princess will be grateful," she concurred. Then, after a brief pause, her tone changed, becoming almost pondering. "You are to be married soon."

Whether it was a mere idea or a declaration she did not know, but Naerys froze, the brooch slipping slightly from her fingers. The lighthearted joy that had buoyed her minutes ago drained from her entirely, leaving her cold, and she forced a weak, breathless laugh, hoping to dismiss the remark as nonsense. "Married? No, you must be mistaken. My sister is older. It will be her turn first."

Fei's expression didn't change, but there was something sharper in her eyes now, something that made Naerys feel vulnerable. "The princess is the king's firstborn. He would not be in as much of a hurry to be rid of her."

Rid of her? 

The words hit like a physical blow, striking a chord deep inside the false princess, a chord that trembled with insecurity, fear, and the bitter truth she often tried to ignore. She had always known her place, always understood that she was different—less than—but hearing it spoken so callously left her reeling. Her father had never said such words to her, never treated her like something to discard., but Fei's words made it real in a way that no amount of judgmental gazes or gossip ever had.

She did not even think to dispute the woman's credibility, because her statements were a mere echo of the truth she knew deep in her tainted marrow. Of course, her father wanted to be rid of her. Surely, he too had grown tired of all those who questioned his honour, all on her account. Perhaps she should be grateful that he wanted to do so by marrying her off, instead of having murdered in her bed. 

Her mother might have laughed at her thoughts, telling her that she had been letting the castle staff share far too many sordid tales. 

Fingers tightening around her sister's ornament, she stammered, "But... Mother wouldn't allow it. She just wouldn't."

"It is the queen's wish. I overheard them speaking myself."

Oh.

"You would not be foolish enough to believe that she of all people would be opposed to the concept," Fei continued firmly, like someone scolding a fretful child. "She isn't even your mother."

The words, delivered with such cold certainty, tore through Naerys, and her eyes filled with tears almost instantly, blurring her vision as she stared down at the trinket in her hands. She isn't even your mother. The phrase repeated itself in her mind, each time more painful than the last. She had always known this, of course, but to hear it spoken so bluntly felt like a slap to the face, stripping away whatever comfort she'd managed to find in her tenuous place within the royal family.

Fei watched the tears spill down Naerys' cheeks with a hardened expression. She felt an urge to seize the melancholy child by the shoulders, to shake the sorrow from her slender frame and awaken her to reality. How could this delicate creature—the same bloodstained infant, veiled in the remnants of her own caul, that Fei had peeled off her mother's corpse—have grown into such an inept of what she might have been? A brittle mockery of the woman who had carried her. Though Fei had always believed that the High Priest's lineage would breed strength, she found herself wondering if the blood had run thin after all.

"I do not want to marry," Naerys spluttered. "I do not want to leave everyone behind. Perhaps if I speak to Fathe—the king—"

"And what will you say to the king, princess? Will you beg him to keep you? When he has already kept you longer than anyone expected? Do you not understand how fortunate you are? What is done with bastards in the real world?"

Naerys flinched, feeling pathetic. Of course, she knew what happened to bastards, had heard the stories in court. She had always been aware of the precariousness of her position, but it still made her nauseous.

"You must go."

More slipped down the girl's cheeks. "I do not want to."

"You have to."

"But I..." Naerys' voice cracked, her gaze dropping to the floor as tears slipped down her cheeks. "I don't want to go."

Fei studied the girl—a near-perfect reflection of the past, and it frustrated her to no end. "The queen is pregnant."

"I know," the child responded with a hiccup.

"She has raised you for years now, though you are not her own. You must be grateful."

"I am."

"The king is eager for the babe as well. They both grow tired of the reminder you present—the king, for the mistakes he wishes to forget, and the queen, for the sins she is forced to forgive him for, over and over. You understand, don't you, princess? You must leave. At least for a time."

Naerys did not speak, too busy listening to the way her heart splintered repeatedly, every word a barbed wire wrapping around her lungs, suffocating her. She wondered briefly if the woman was lying, but what reason would she have to do so, and in her childish naivete, she could not find it in herself to doubt her claim. 

Fei, sensing her surrender, continued. "You must allow them to be a family, especially with the new child. The king is convinced it will be a boy—an heir, and the queen will have him to nurture, to love. She will tire of you soon enough. Best not stay past your welcome."

There it was—the undeniable truth. Aemma Arryn had never made her feel unwanted, and neither had her sister, or even her father. They had been nothing but compassionate and loving, the way they might have been to one of their own blood, but they did not live in a vacuum and were not safe from the scandals of the court. Now that she would no longer be needed, would they finally change how they behaved?

The girl is obedient, at least. That is something. 

Fei could already see the deference in her downcast eyes, the way she swallowed the poison handed to her without protest. Good. The seeds of insecurity had been sown long ago, and now they bore fruit without much effort on Fei's part. She had her own reasons for wanting Naerys gone, far away from Aemma Arryn's watchful gaze, reasons that reached far beyond the girl's role as a reminder of the king's indiscretions. 

"Do you see now?" A hint of false sympathy crept into the older woman's tone. "It is for the best. You will be spared the hearsay and might even find peace away from all this."

There would never be peace for the likes of her, but who was she to deliver that blow as well? 

Naerys' lips parted as if to argue, to plead, but no words came.

"When the king asks for your consent, what will you do, child?"

"I...shall give it," the dark-haired girl conceded, though the words were dragged through her gullet with great difficulty. 

Fei smiled then, a proper satisfied smile. "Wonderful....and a reminder."

"Not a word of this to anyone else. I know," Naerys mumbled as if reciting something from memory that she had said far too many times. 

Later that night, when the castle had fallen into stillness, Naerys sat before her mirror, the glow of a single candle casting a flickering light over her weary form as she worked a comb through her tangled hair. The strands snagged in the teeth, made rough by her earlier frustration when she had yanked the pins from her braids with all of the grace expected from a mongrel like her. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of melted wax and the lingering warmth of a hearth fire long since reduced to embers, but she dared not call someone to relight it. 

Just as she was reaching to blow out the last candle and surrender to the oblivion of sleep, a knock sounded at her door. It was measured, like the person behind it was accustomed to restraint, so it could not possibly have been her sister. Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and in waddled the queen herself, her hand resting protectively atop the gentle curve of her stomach.

Aemma's face, usually serene, was drawn into a frown, her lips pressed thin. "Imagine my disappointment," she began in reprimand, "when my youngest did not visit me as she always does each night."

Naerys stiffened where she sat, her hand frozen mid-motion, the comb still caught in the muddle of her dark hair. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to meet the woman's gaze through the reflection in the mirror. The queen's eyes were shadowed with something she could not name—something that made her heart ache all the more, and she mumbled an apology.

"I am sorry."

The girl felt the familiar sting of guilt as she realized how far her mother had come just to see her. The queen's own chambers were on the opposite end of the castle, far removed from this lonely, forsaken wing that Naerys now called home. It had been the king's decree to move her here, after her nightly terrors grew too disruptive—screams that echoed through the Keep's corridors, fits of thrashing that shook her bed until the sheets were soaked through with sweat and tears. Here, at least, no one would hear her.

Rhaenyra always tried to soothe her, making light of the situation with her usual charm. "You're special, Naerys," she'd said, "special enough to warrant being assigned an entire sector of the castle, while the rest of us have only our chambers."

She was a good sister, as far as sisters went, and she spent every free moment she had in her company so that it would not become too lonely, but the princess had many friends and many who vied for her attention, and eventually Naerys' wing began to feel like an exile. And as if that was not enough, she would be sent even further away now. 

Aemma shuffled over to the bed, her movements slow and laboured, and with a sigh, she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress, her expression softening as she beckoned to Naerys. "Come here, child."

The girl hesitated, her limbs tense with the desire to refuse, but her heart, burdened by both affection and guilt, would not allow her to disobey. She rose from her chair, the comb dangling precariously from her head, and moved to sit cross-legged in front of the queen. Aemma's hand reached out, tenderly picking at the knots in her hair with nimble fingers, and the touch was far too maternal. For a moment, Naerys allowed herself to lean into it, closing her eyes as her scalp was massaged with care whenever the queen pulled too hard.

"Doesn't Fei help you get ready for bed?" Aemma asked in concern. "Where is she tonight?"

Naerys remained silent. How could she explain the bitterness that festered in her heart—the revulsion that had grown at the sight of her maidservant for the time being? She would forgive her eventually, but for now, she was allowed her peevishness. 

"You're unusually quiet tonight, Naerys. Is something the matter?"

Shaking her head, the girl blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, grateful that her back was turned so that her mother—no, not her mother—couldn't see the turmoil on her face. But the compassion in Aemma's voice, the affection laced in every word, sent an indescribable pain through her chest. It was a cruelty she couldn't name, this love the woman claimed to have for her—this pretense of maternal devotion. How difficult it must be for the queen, to love the living reminder of her husband's betrayal, but how easy it was for Naerys to love her in return. 

How she wished, more than anything, she would cast aside the mask of affection, speak plainly, and send her away without pretense. Then it would be easier. Then she would not miss her so much, even as they sat here together. 

When she had finished, Aemma nudged Naerys lightly as if nothing were amiss. "Go fetch your book, will you? Perhaps we might pick up where we left off last night."

Her silence was becoming harder to maintain, and Naerys stood, her limbs rigid, and crossed the room to retrieve the worn book from her desk, handing the volume to the queen without a word. Aemma took it with a smile, her fingers brushing over the pages as though it were an old friend.

She had always been a good mother. Even at her young age, Naerys understood that few in her position would have made such an effort. The queen had learned the customs of Yiti for her, studied their lore, and read to her from books filled with strange and foreign tales. She had told her of all the gods—the Drowned God of the Ironborn, the convoluted Valyrian deities, and the Seven who reigned over Westeros. She spoke of them all, but most fondly of the Lion of Night and the Maiden-Made-of-Light, the gods of a birthright neither of them understood, but ones Aemma tried, nevertheless, to learn for her sake.

"And which god are we praying to tonight?" Aemma's words floated into the air, a question meant more to soothe than seek an answer.

"The Lady Alicent prays to the Seven. Who do you pray to?"

The queen's breath caught in her throat for a moment. How could she tell her daughter the truth, that she had long stopped praying to any god at all? What was the point when they had never listened? She had prayed once, fervently, with the faith of a young bride and the desperation of a grieving mother. She had begged for mercy, for reprieve, for life—only to find herself left wanting, her prayers unanswered.

"Never mind about me, sweet girl," she murmured, patting Naerys' cheek. "You pray to whoever brings you the most comfort."

If only that were true, the girl thought bitterly. She would have prayed to Aemma herself if it were, or to her sister, for they were the only ones who brought her solace, her very own Mother and Maiden, and the only ones who warranted such devotion. 

But that made the pain all the more unbearable, and her face crumpled immediately, her chest constricting as fresh tears welled in her eyes. The dam finally broke, and when she dissolved into quiet sobs, her mother pulled her close. 

"I am sorry."

Aemma's brow furrowed with concern, and she pressed three kisses to her temple. "Whatever do you have to be sorry about?" 

Naerys shook her head, unable to speak the words. How could she apologize for something as fundamental as her existence? How did a child apologize for being born, for the sins woven into her bloodline like an endowment she could never shake?

The queen herself was beside herself with worry. She had lied to Naerys. She hadn't told her about the marriage, about the plans that had already been set in motion, the arrangement that would send her away, perhaps forever. But tonight, even when the truth hovered so precariously between them, she could not bring herself to shatter the fragile peace that remained.

Not tonight. Not yet.

"Shhh," she cooed instead, holding her daughter close. "I am here. I will always be here, my darling babe."

She wished that it could be true, that she could hold her girl forever, but even as she whispered her reassurances, Aemma knew the truth. Her words were nothing more than the kind of lie mothers told their children to make them feel safe, even when the world was anything but. 

But surely, everything would turn out for the better. Naerys would act like the child she was; she would throw a tantrum like she had every right to and Viserys would be defeated and everything would turn out alright.

Chapter Text

106 AC

Two weeks later, Naerys sat in the queen's chambers, hands folded delicately in her lap as the handmaidens worked at her hair with mechanical efficiency. Their fingers tugged and twisted her pin-straight locks into intricate braids, pulling too harshly, and their combs caught in knots without pause. Her scalp throbbed with every tug, but she remained still, her expression placid, the discomfort swallowed into the quiet depths of her resolve. They were not like her mother, who would pause and apologize when she hurt her, murmuring soft words as her fingers worked through tangles. Only Fei showed any gentleness but when her eyes met hers in the mirror, offering a wordless expression of approval, Naerys avoided her gaze, preferring instead to focus on her mother, who reclined on the bed with her feet propped up, a pillow clutched to her chest like a shield.

Aemma Arryn watched Naerys with such a distraught expression, that it became too difficult to bear, and eventually, the girl dropped her eyes to her own lap, to the sapphire ring her mother had given her. The azure stone, far too large for her slender finger, spun loosely as she distracted herself with the motion, watching the glint of the jewel catch in the pale morning light.

She tried not to think about her conversation with her father two days prior, tried to suppress the quiet gnaw of guilt that festered in her chest. The king had spoken with such kindness, his voice gentle as he sought her consent. But it was only another burden—heavy with expectation and veiled duty. How could she have denied him? The man who had raised her, who had given her everything when, by all rights, he should have discarded her as a forgotten mistake? She had said yes, of course. How could she not? Her guilt had no place here. 

Meanwhile, Aemma could only bear witness with a kind of silent agony that filled her lungs, thick and suffocating, but refused to release into words. She had expected something—tears, a fit of anger, perhaps even rebellion—but Naerys had done nothing of the sort. She had simply bowed her head in obedience, and now, that very compliance twisted her grief into something more venomous. For the first time in many years, the queen found herself loathing her husband. What had he said to her daughter? Their conversation had been brief, but he had walked from Naerys's chambers with a satisfied smile as if the wheels of his plan turned as he pleased.

Aemma closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in her chest when suddenly, the door to the chambers flew open with a sharp bang. Wincing, she braced herself for the inevitable tempest. Rhaenyra had been uncharacteristically quiet these past few days, her absence noted by everyone in the Red Keep. Silence from the princess was dangerous—like a storm gathering on the horizon, dark and swollen, waiting to break. And now, it seemed, it had arrived.

The girl strode into the room, her silver-gold hair wild and her face carved in a fearsome scowl. Her eyes swept over the handmaidens gathered around Naerys before she barked, "Out! Leave us."

Her command cracked through the air like a whip, and for a moment, the maids faltered, unsure whether to obey the princess or remain in deference to the queen. Before they could act, Aemma interjected firmly.

"Your father has requested that your sister be ready by this afternoon. He wishes to speak to her before the ceremony."

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with a barely suppressed rage, but she said nothing, her hands clenching at her sides. The maids, casting uncertain glances between the queen and the princess, hesitated before ultimately acquiescing to the queen's authority and continuing their work. 

Then, without warning, the princess stepped forward, and the maids instinctively stepped aside as if caught in the pull of her gravity. No one anticipated the suddenness of her actions or the ferocity with which she reached for the ivory veil they had been affixing to the young bride's head, and Naerys winced, her scalp stinging as the pins were ripped free, dragging loose strands of hair along with them. From her place on the bed, Aemma gasped, her exclamation taut with protest, but neither daughter paid her any mind. 

If Rhaenyra was the sun, radiant in her molten fury, then Naerys was her moon, pale and trembling, sustained by the light her sister provided. But in the face of that rage, the younger girl seemed to shrink, dimming as though eclipsed, and she sat frozen, her gaze lowered, unable to meet her sister's burning eyes.

"You are a child, not a bride. Stop pretending!" Rhaenyra hissed as she gestured to the veil that now lay discarded at their feet.

Naerys's response was barely more than a whisper. "Like what?"

Without hesitation, Rhaenyra grabbed her hands and knelt before her, eyes wide with an earnest plea, her tone softening to something raw and aching. "Like this, Naerys. Say no. Please, just say no. Act like a menace—scream, throw something, refuse! Father cannot drag you to the altar if you resist, I'm certain of it."

At this, Aemma scoffed from her place on the bed, the sound bitter. She would not put it past Viserys to do such a thing. It is what was done with his own brother; dragged at just six-and-ten to marry the Lady of Runestone. At least her Naerys would not be asked to perform her wifely duties like he had. 

Rhaenyra shot to her feet to turn on their mother. "Mother, you must stop this! I have spoken to Father, but he won't listen! He cannot send her away, he cannot!"

"Rhaenyra..."

"You must tell him that he cannot. He will listen to you. Who else if not you?"

"You think I have not tried?" Aemma massaged her temples, feeling the beginning of a headache. "I have done all I can."

"Then do more!" Rhaenyra turned back to Naerys, her indignation giving way to desperation. "Please," she begged once more. "Say no."

Naerys shook her head, her fingers fidgeting with the sapphire ring. She thought of Fei's warning, of the king's benevolence cloaked in expectation. How could she greedily continue to accept his goodwill without repaying it, without becoming the offering he had implored for? 

Tears stung at her eyes, threatening to break the composure she clung to like a fragile shield, but before they could fall, she stood, wrapping her arms around Rhaenyra's waist in a forlorn embrace, burying her face in the leather of her sister's riding habit. She smelled of fire and brimstone, of the early morning breeze that still clung to her after her daily rides. The polished gold clasps of her tunic dug painfully into Naerys's cheek, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath as Rhaenyra sighed, her irritation dissipating into something mournful. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around the younger girl, resting her chin atop her head. 

"Why will you not refuse?"

Naerys shook her head against her sister's chest, her words barely audible. "I cannot disobey Father, Nyra. You know I cannot."

The older princess pulled away, her hand still wrapped tightly around her wrist, as if the physical connection could anchor them both to each other. For several heartbeats, she stood there, her brow furrowing, as though making some unspoken decision, and then, with a determined nod to herself, she began to pull Naerys toward the door.

"Where are you taking her, Rhaenyra?" Aemma demanded apprehensively. "Your sister is not finished with her preparations yet."

"Away," Rhaenyra responded without looking back.

"But the wedding—"

"It can wait! Everything can wait. I have things to say to my sister, and if none of you will leave us," her gaze swept around the room, her eyes aflame with defiance, "then I shall take her with me."

Without waiting for a response, she pulled Naerys through the door, her stride long and purposeful. The instant they were out of sight of their mother, her pace quickened until it became a full-fledged run.

By now, their fingers had entwined, and though Naerys struggled to match her sister's pace, she lifted her heavy skirts, hoisting them to her knees to free her legs. The decorum ingrained in her scolded her inwardly—her stockings, on full display, might scandalize any who happened to see, but, for once, those small anxieties seemed to slip away, overcome by something almost liberating. Running through the labyrinthine corridors and spiralling stairways of the Red Keep with Rhaenyra felt a little like the childhood that seemed to be slipping away from her. It was as though the years had melted away, and they were once again children playing chase through shadowed halls, laughing as they slipped from the watchful eyes of duty.

When they finally burst through the castle's grand doors and onto the open grounds, Rhaenyra slowed her pace, leading them toward the towering Dragonpit that loomed ahead. Naerys pulled her hand free just as they reached the entrance, and she stood there, bent slightly at the waist, panting as she tried to catch her breath. Her pristine skirts, still gathered in her hands, were now clutched tightly in fear that they might trail on the ground, staining the delicate cream-coloured lace with dust and dragon dung.

"Well, come on then, don't stop now," Rhaenyra urged impatiently.

Naerys frowned, her forehead creasing in confusion. "What are we doing here?"

"We're leaving."

"What? Why are we leaving? Where would we even go?"

"Anywhere!" Rhaenyra's voice was breathless, her excitement palpable. "We can fly across the Narrow Sea. Essos, Sothoryos—wherever we want! We could explore the ruins of Zamettar or see the forgotten cities of Gorosh. I know how you love the histories, and now you shall see it with your very own eyes. We don't have to stay here, Naerys. We can leave now."

A laugh—half shocked, half incredulous—escaped the younger girl, her hand flying to her mouth as the sound spilled forth. "Nyra, you're not making any sense."

But her sister wasn't listening, and she continued almost feverishly. "We can take Syrax and go right now. Be whoever we want. You don't have to do this. You don't have to marry some oaf, spend your life on a birthing bed, bleeding for a man you don't even know. You don't have to die!"

Naerys flinched, her lips pulling down with a tremble. "You think I'm going to die?"

Rhaenyra froze, and then her face flushed in embarrassment as she scrubbed a hand across her eyes. She could not—would not cry. She would not let her sister see how much this bothered her. 

"Answer me," Naerys probed again. "Am I going to die?"

"No...I—I...it seems that I am going about this all wrong. I am sorry."

"You did not answer my question."

"I do not wish to."

"Then why say such a thing...why—" Naerys's breath hitched, her throat clogged with the beginning of a sob. "How could you say such a thing? You're supposed to make me feel better. You're supposed to tell me that it won't be so bad, and that I'll be alright."

Rhaenyra shook her head resolutely. "I will not lie to you, or ply you full of false promises like Mother and Father. I do not wish to lure you into a false sense of comfort. I want you to run away with me, so let's just go."

Her words hung in the air between them, shimmering with possibility, and Naerys's heart ached with the temptation of it all, the wildness of the dream that her sister was offering her. A life untethered, free from the suffocating expectations that had always been draped upon her shoulders like an invisible shroud. But then her immutable reality crept back in, and she shook her head, trying to explain. 

"We cannot. You know we cannot."

"You will be trapped in a castle far away from everyone you love and made to squeeze out heirs for him."

"Stop it!"

"It is true. I know it. Have you not heard the tales?"

"Mother said that he is the youngest son, and will inherit nothing," Naerys insisted, though her voice was small as if she was unsure of her argument. "He will not need heirs so I will not need to bed him...ever, she said."

Her sister scoffed bitterly. "You think inheritance will stop a man? Mother is lying to you. They are all lying to you. Men do not need a reason to sire children. Their greed for lineage, their hunger to see their own blood walk the earth is all the reason they need."

"Stop...please. I do not wish to hear it." Naerys dropped her skirts and clapped her hands over the ears. "You are being cruel."

"I am being truthful! This is why we have to leave! This is a fate neither of us deserves. You think Father will stop with you? Who knows what idiot he has planned for my betrothal?"

"I cannot leave."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed, frustration blooming across her face. "Why not?"

Naerys opened her mouth, but no words came at first, her hands waving in the air, grasping for an explanation that she couldn't quite articulate. "I don't know... Mother, Father, everyone! What will everyone say? We cannot just—just run away!"

"Who cares about everyone else? We'll write to Mother so she does not worry. And Father—well, I'm angry with him, so perhaps we won't write to him for a time, but if you want to, we can. Just say yes. Come with me. You and I forever, we will never tire of each other the way husbands and wives do. Please."

Looking into her sister's violet eyes—those same passionate eyes she had always admired—Naerys felt momentarily hypnotized. She wanted to believe her so badly. To believe that they could run away and be free, and part of her did. She believed in Rhaenyra, and her determination to bend the world to her will, but it was the world she did not trust. She knew the truth of things, as much as she wished otherwise.

"I'm sorry, Nyra, you know I cannot. I do not have the same freedoms you do."

Rhaenyra's expression faltered, and for the first time, Naerys saw the despair beneath the bravado. There was the raw, unspoken fear of a sister who wanted to protect her, but also longed for her own escape, and in that moment, it felt as though the sky had fallen, as if the sun had forever turned its face away.

"Then make me a promise?" she finally stated. 

Naerys gave her a watery giggle. "You've never let me say no to any of your requests."

"You're saying no to me right now. You are saying no and breaking my heart."

"I am sorry, sister."

"You're not allowed to die."

"Rhaenyra...."

The princess winced. Her little sister had used her full name, not the childhood moniker she always used, and it was even said in that same disapproving tone their mother used.

"I mean it, Naerys. You are not allowed to die. You are not allowed to bear his children and die in the process. You cannot let him kill you."

"Is this your way of making me feel better?"

"Yes. Now swear it. Swear that you'll tell me if he lays even a single finger on you, and I'll feed him to Syrax."

"Then you'll be in big trouble."

"You know I'd do it for you. Just say the word, and I'll do it."

"Nyra..." Naerys began.

"You have to promise me."

"Okay. Okay, I promise."

Rhaenyra nodded. "Good. Now let's go."

"Go?" Naerys yelped as Rhaenyra began to drag her through the familiar caves of the Dragonpit. "Where are we going?"

"On a ride, where else?"

"I—I can't do that. My dress will be ruined, and I'll smell like dragon!"

Rolling her eyes, the older girl exaggeratedly mimicked the motion of hoisting her skirts up to her waist. "Your dress will be just fine. And besides, you're blood of the dragon, Naerys. Your husband would be a fool to be offended that you look like it."

"Father says I should work hard to please my new husband."

Rhaenyra stopped in her tracks, turning to her with a fierce look. "No! No, you must not." She glanced around at the grime and soot that clung to the walls of the Dragonpit, as though considering whether she should smear her sister's face with it, to cover the innocent radiance that might make her too desirable. "Perhaps I might give you another haircut."

Naerys's face paled at the thought. "Oh no, not again!"

"It would do the trick. Mother would be furious. She'd confine me to my chambers, and she'd do the same to you as well for allowing me to do it. It would be perfect, and maybe this time I'll actually bald you."

"I don't want to be bald!"

"If I do it well enough, your husband would be repelled. Let him be so disgusted that he stays far away from you. Best he never lays a single finger on you."

"Have you... have you seen him?" Naerys asked hesitantly. 

"He is hideous."

"Oh."

The younger girl's grimace deepened. Sensing her sister's worry, Rhaenyra relented, amending her statement with a sigh. "Well, not hideous. Just... mediocre. Another unremarkable man, irrelevant, and certainly not worthy of my sister."

For the first time in what felt like weeks, a small giggle bubbled out of Naerys's throat, and she playfully swatted at Rhaenyra's arm. "Surely you jest."

The princess's lips curled into a smirk. "What I can say for certain is that he's most definitely not to your tastes."

Naerys blushed, suddenly shy. "I have no tastes. I don't care for such things."

"Willem Stokeworth does not have the red hair you seem to be so fond of."

Stiffening, the YiTish girl avoided her sister's knowing gaze. She nodded hastily, clutching onto the safest answer. "You are right. I adore Lady Alicent. Oh, how I shall miss her."

Rhaenyra let out an exasperated huff, swatting her playfully on the shoulder again. "Alicent is my friend, and she is not who I speak of."

Naerys shrugged, but the lightness of the moment had already faded. She withdrew slightly, suddenly feeling like a child caught in a secret game she didn't wish to play anymore. The mention of her childish infatuation with a certain Hightower boy sent a hot wave of shame through her. What an utter fool she must seem. What an utter fool everyone must think her. And if he ever found out, if he ever knew—he would surely laugh, dismissing her as simple-minded.

"It does not matter."

Rhaenyra's teasing smile faltered. She could see the shadows creep back into her expression, and with it, the weight she always carried and the fear of being seen. 

"It does matter," she whispered, retaking Naerys's hand, her demeanour fierce with affection. "It matters because you matter. You deserve to be with someone who sees you, and cares for your wellbeing. Not someone who only wants what they can take from you."

"It's not like I have a choice, Nyra. What else am I supposed to do?"

Rhaenyra's jaw clenched, her expression steeled with defiance. "I have a choice," she declared, but there was an unshakable conviction in her tone. "And if I have to carve that choice out for you too, then I will. You are my sister, and you deserve more than what they would give you. More than what any man would ever dare to think you're worth."

The wedding ceremony was a sombre affair, a lavish facade that could hardly mask its stark simplicity. It was a union of a bastard daughter and a youngest son, a pairing that warranted no grandiosity, and the guests murmured quietly, a far cry from the lively banter that normally accompanied such occasions. No amount of gold-threaded banners or fine musicians could dispel the gloom that hung like a suffocating fog over the hall.

The only ones who seemed determined to uphold the pretense of joy were the king, his Hand, and the groom's own father. Their smiles were too wide, too practiced, the forced cheerfulness clashing with the solemnity of the moment. The king's laugh rang hollow each time he attempted to lighten the mood, and though Lord Stokeworth clapped in time with the music, there was no mistaking the undercurrent of tension in his posture.

The queen, pregnant and pale, sat with her hands protectively cradling her swollen belly, her lips remaining curled into a tight grimace, too weary or unwilling to muster the energy required for a smile. Those in attendance would assume her sour expression was due to her taxing condition, but those who knew her best could sense a deeper discomfort as she stared ahead, unseeing, lost in thoughts far removed from the ceremony.

The eldest princess, on the other hand, made no effort to mask her displeasure. Her scowl was fearsome, carved into her features by a deity of war, and her knuckles whitened where she gripped the arms of her chair, as though she might leap from her seat and tear apart anyone who dared speak to her. She radiated hostility, a wild, untamed dragon ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

And then there was the bride herself, standing at the front of the room like a child in borrowed clothes, draped in finery that did not belong to her. Her gown, though exquisitely crafted, did little to hide the dirt-smudged along the lacy edges of her skirts, remnants of her recent absence that no amount of hurried cleaning could erase. The dim lighting softened the roughness of her appearance, but to a discerning eye, the imperfections were obvious. Her veil had been hastily thrown over her dishevelled, windswept hair, a testament to the maids' frantic attempts to make her presentable after her older sister had returned her just minutes before the event. She looked lost in the voluminous layers of silk and taffeta that dwarfed her small form.

Standing beside her husband, Naerys kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the floor, as if by refusing to look at the gathering of nobles, she could distance herself from the whole occasion. The Septon droned on, but the words flowed over her like a meaningless tide, and she felt detached from it all, her mind numb, save for the warm, clammy pressure of her husband's hand clasped around her own. Her other hand twitched at her side, fingers rubbing absently against the silky fabric of her dress as though seeking some relief from the tension winding through her body.

Her husband—Willem Stokeworth—looked just as miserable as she felt, though there was no comfort in that shared misery. She snuck a glance up at him, Rhaenyra's words ringing in her ears. He was unremarkable, just as her sister had said. His dark hair hung in uneven waves around his face, brushing against his shoulders in a way that gave him an unkempt, half-hearted appearance. His eyes, dark and half-lidded, seemed glazed over, lost in some distant thought—or perhaps dulled by the alcohol that clung to him like a sour perfume.

He reeked of drink, and Naerys found herself stifling the irrational urge to tear off her veil and throw it in the Septon's face. Her father was marrying her off to a drunkard, a man who couldn't even be bothered to show up sober to his own wedding. Resentment surged within her, mingled with despair, but she forced it down, focusing instead on the repetitive motion of her fingers against her gown. 

The formalities seemed to drag on endlessly, but at last, there was a shift in the Septon's tone. Naerys realized with a start that the man had stopped speaking, and it was only when she saw Lord Stokeworth elbow his son sharply in the ribs that she understood it was his turn to act. Willem scrambled to follow the ritual, his movements clumsy as he fumbled with the cloak that bore the sigil of his house. He then peeled the Targaryen cloak from Naerys's shoulders and replaced it with his own, the fabric falling heavily against her back.

As his fingers brushed her skin in the process, his young bride flinched, a subtle but unmistakable recoil that did not go unnoticed. Willem's dark eyes flickered with frustration, and beneath his breath, he muttered a string of curses meant only for himself.

He swore at his father, at the gods, at the situation that had led him to this moment. A drunkard and a bastard—what fitting punishment this was, a farce to match the shame he had brought upon his family. He glanced at the girl out of the corner of his eye, his lip curling slightly. She was pitiful, nothing like the sultry YiTish whores he had tasted in the brothels across the kingdom, with their painted eyes and practiced smiles. 

The princess was none of those things—a legitimized bastard with a noble name, but still a child. At least if she were older, there might have been some entertainment in bedding such an exotic creature, but as it was, she was no more than a lamb being led to the slaughter. Besides, there was no amusement to be found in a bride who looked ready to faint at the first sign of her husband's touch, and in truth, Willem found the whole ordeal repulsive. He had no shortage of women who practically begged for a place in his bed. 

He could feel his father's eyes on him, watching, judging, as if this marriage were some grand lesson in restraint. Father thinks this will tame me, he thought bitterly, biting back a sneer. But how could this fragile creature tame anything? It was a punishment, plain and simple.

Let this be a reminder, the older man had said. Her shame is yours now, as yours is hers. Don't forget it.

As the Septon finished the rites, Willem's mind wandered far from the solemn vows he was supposed to take seriously. His fingers tightened slightly around his young wife's as the ceremony drew to a close, not out of affection, but out of a simmering frustration that had no outlet, purposely ignoring the way she squirmed uncomfortably in his hold. 

The hall erupted in polite applause, but all Willem wanted was to drown himself in another bottle of wine and forget the day entirely, and when Naerys glanced up at him, searching his face for some sign of reassurance, he only stared straight ahead, his expression a mask of barely concealed contempt. 

She would find no comfort here. Neither of them would, and the silence that inaugurated their marriage was a prelude to an eruption, waiting to spill its molten fury across the brittle veneer of duty.

At the grand table, Naerys sat demurely with her spine rigid, though one hand still compulsively scrubbed against her dress. The feast following the vows was lively and exuberant, but it felt miles away. The hall, with its high arches and brightly burning torches, was awash with merriment, and the guests danced, laughed, and toasted her health, but none of it reached her. The music was too loud, the clinking goblets too jarring, and the smell of roasted meats too rich, turning her stomach into knots. Even the weight of her own gown felt unbearable, the scratch of lace against her skin like a thousand tiny claws.

Naerys's breath was shallow, her every inhale restrained, as if she feared that even the smallest movement would cause her to shatter. The pins in her hair, tightly wound to hold up her veil, dug into her scalp with cruel precision, and as the night wore on, her husband showed less and less interest in pretending this was anything more than an obligation.

Her eyes drifted to the dance floor where Willem Stokeworth spun yet another woman in his arms. His laughter echoed faintly in her ears, indulging in revelry as though he were a guest at someone else's wedding, not the groom.

And then, of course, there was the matter of her departure. It had been made clear that they were to leave that very evening. She could still hear his cold words, dripping with disdain: "There will be no bedding ceremony, but we leave for Stokeworth castle tonight. There's no point staying here." No point indeed. What, after all, did Naerys matter to anyone?

Her chest tightened at the thought. She wasn't ready. How could she be? The Red Keep had been her home, her world, her sanctuary—her last remaining connection to everything familiar. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind, let alone to be taken to a place that was as foreign to her as her husband. 

Her left hand moved faster now, more aggressively, as if the friction might somehow ground her, while her right spun her mother's sapphire ring in dizzying circles. Around and around it went, the familiar movement offering a brief distraction. 

Around and around, aroundandaroundandaroundandaround—

Then, without warning, it slipped from her grasp, flying off her finger and tumbling to the floor. Naerys's pulse quickened as she watched it roll away, disappearing beneath the table and then kicked out into the hall by someone's pirouetting foot. She made to stand, her body moving on instinct, but stopped short when she saw where the ring had gone. It had rolled into the far edge of the room, a place that suddenly seemed darker than it should have been. The corners of the hall were thick with shadows that felt... wrong, as though they were watching her, waiting.

Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, and a cold dread washed over her. It wasn't just the ring—everything about this night felt wrong. She didn't want to be here anymore. More than anything, she wanted to run. Run from this room, run from this wedding, run from the future that awaited her beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

"Naerys, darling," her mother's voice cut through her spiralling thoughts like a balm. Aemma Arryn reached out and gently grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to the present. "What's wrong, sweetling? You don't look well."

Naerys blinked, realizing how tightly she had been clenching her fists. Her nails had dug into her palms, leaving angry red marks, but she shook her head, trying to force a smile. It came out weak but it was something. After all, it wasn't like she could tell her mother that the dark had suddenly grown teeth. 

"I'm fine, Mother," she lied, but the queen wasn't fooled. The older woman's keen eyes searched her daughter's face with concern, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, her lips pressing a tender kiss to her palm.

"You've been fretting all night, sweet girl. You don't have to go through with this, you know. You can still refuse. All you have to do is say the word, and your father will understand. We all will." She squeezed her wrist lightly, offering a lifeline. "You can sleep in my bed tonight. You'll be safe. There is still time."

For a moment, Naerys felt as though she might crumble right then and there. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. How desperately she wanted to accept that offer, to crawl into her mother's arms and pretend that none of this had happened. 

The anger that followed the grief was startling, and she yanked her hand from Aemma's before fleeing, her steps hurried as she hurried out into the hallway she had seen her ring get kicked into. Let the dark sink its teeth into her, let it drink and drink from her, and maybe along with her blood, it might rid her of the well of sadness she harboured too. 

Outside in the dim corridor, she fell to her knees, her fingers blindly sweeping the polished floor in search of the lost ring. The flickering light from the great hall barely reached this far, leaving her in the hazy embrace of shadow, where her desperation only deepened. The cold stone beneath her fingertips was unyielding, smooth except for the occasional groove or crack where she feared her mother’s precious ring had slipped, and her panic only rose. 

Her hands, trembling now, traced every line, every curve, but found nothing. The whisper of her gown against the floor seemed deafening in the quiet hallway, and though she could be grateful that the newly cleaned surface had saved her dress from the dust, her mind was far too consumed with frantic thoughts to care. 

And then she saw it—or thought she did. A glimmer near the wall, something small and shiny caught in the crack between the stones. Hope surged through her like a wave, and without thinking, she wedged her finger into the narrow crevice, feeling for the ring. But instead of the cool metal she longed to find, something sharp sliced into the tender flesh beneath her fingernail, and she recoiled with a gasp of pain. The skin tore, blood welled up, and it was all too much.

Naerys collapsed back against the wall, her hands shaking as she stared at the thin line of blood pooling beneath her nail. The pain was nothing compared to the ache in her chest, the weight that had been building inside her, threatening to break free. Her knees pulled to her chest, and she clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the muffled sounds of laughter and music that seeped from the great hall. Her shoulders quivered with silent sobs, and though she tried to swallow it all down, the despair clawing up her gullet, one shuddering wheeze at a time, refused to be tamed.

It felt like hours passed, though it was only moments, before a hand settled on her shoulder. The young girl flinched, her tear-streaked face lifting to see two figures standing over her—Rhaenyra and Alicent. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes blazed with fury, her jaw tight as she took in her sister's dishevelled form. She muttered a curse under her breath, already spinning on her heel to march back toward the great hall, her silver braid whipping behind her like a banner.

Alicent, however, knelt beside Naerys, her expression soft with pity. There was something almost maternal in the way she reached out, though her own youth betrayed the fact that she was hardly more than a girl herself. She handed her something small, the dull gleam of silver and blue catching the low light. It was Aemma’s ring, pressed into her palm.

"I was looking for you," the older girl mumbled. "I thought you might like this back."

Naerys’s face crumpled at the sight of the object. The tears she had tried so hard to stifle began to fall freely once more, her chest heaving with quiet sobs. She clutched the ring in her hand, her knuckles turning white as she held it close to her heart, as if it were the last thing anchoring her to the world.

"I don’t want to leave," she choked out, her voice breaking. "I don’t want to go. Why are they sending me away?" Her words tumbled from her lips in a broken rush, each one soaked in fear and anguish. "I don't misbehaved, I don't talk back, I try to be good, so why don't they like me anymore."

"Naerys...that's not—"

"I don’t like him at all! He looks mean, and he drinks, and I—I don’t want to go away with him."

Her words were a desperate plea, not directed at anyone in particular but spoken into the void, where they would surely be lost, but telling Alicent felt safe. Naerys didn’t want to burden her mother, not when she was with child, and Rhaenyra's volatility would only make things worse. She did not wish for her sister to fight the king or anyone else on her behalf. 

No, Alicent was the safest person to confess to, a girl who could do nothing to change her fate. It was a relief to spill her thoughts to someone who would not—could not—intervene, who was equally as powerless. 

For her part, the Hightower listened patiently as Naerys’s words dissolved into a tangled mess of incoherent blubbering. When she could no longer speak, she reached forward, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, her touch delicate.

"The gods will reward you for your patience," Alicent hummed soothingly, though there was an undercurrent of resignation. "If your lord father has willed it, you cannot deny him, but you can pray. If no one else listens, the gods do. They will love you all the more for your suffering." Her fingers gently traced the outline of the seven-pointed star onto her palm, a silent reminder of the faith that was supposed to bring them comfort in such times.

"But…" Naerys whimpered as she fought to control the rising tide of panic. Her ribcage closed around her thundering heart, and the air seemed to thicken as she struggled to find her words, each one snagging in her throat. "But—I don't want to suffer!"

What good was any sort of love if the price to be paid was in agony? 

Alicent squeezed her hand again. "I am sorry. Truly, I am. Perhaps you might try to close your eyes and count to ten. My mother used to say it would help." 

It was one of the last things she could still recall of the woman who had birthed her, but Alicent had never been a very good pupil of that particular lesson, and her own hands bore the evidence of that—her cuticles a torn and bleeding reminder of her anxieties. Perhaps Naerys would prove herself to be a better student. 

"You might also recite the names of the Seven. It will summon them to your aid, remind them of your patience."

Naerys hiccupped again, her breathing still ragged as she tried to follow her advice. She closed her eyes, though the darkness behind her lids did little to quiet the storm inside her. Still, she counted, one breath at a time. 

The Father. The Mother. The Maiden. The Crone. The Warrior. The Smith, and the Stranger.

And then when that did not help, she recited the names of every god her mother had told her about. Perhaps one of them might show her some compassion and pluck her from her circumstances.

R'hllor, the Weeping Lady of Lys, the Maiden-Made-of-Light. 

And then...Nyarlathotep.  

The last one she did not recognize. In fact, she had never heard of him at all, but the name emerged from the recesses of her mind all the same, clearer than all the rest, as if something other than her own voice whispered it into existence. It was the name that brought her least comfort, her blood turning thick and viscous in her veins as she compulsively repeated the name over and over, unable to stop. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

Naerys walked through the darkness, but it wasn't walking—not exactly. Her bare feet sank into the syrupy floor beneath her, every step dragging through the muck like wading through treacle. The nightgown she wore clung to her legs, soaked in something slick and warm, trailing behind her like a shroud. She couldn't see, but that was almost a relief, and the pitch blackness was an escape from whatever strange things cracked and squelched beneath her soles. She didn't want to know what they were. Her right arm was stretched out to the side, fingertips brushing the walls, which were just as sticky, just as wrong. 

She was back in the labyrinth. Always back in the labyrinth.

The air was stifling, thick as if it had weight, and every breath she took felt like inhaling soot. There was no breeze, no noise beyond her slow, trudging steps and the constant dripping of something unseen. Her feet ached, but she could not stop. She never could. The labyrinth did not allow it. Some nights were merciful. Some nights, she would wake before she reached the center before she could see what waited for her there, but not today.

So she dragged her feet like a child avoiding punishment, unwilling but unable to disobey, and the hallway wound on endlessly, its serpentine path curving and curling into itself. On and on, until finally, she arrived at a cavern.

A dim light, pale and sickly, filled the chamber, and Naerys flinched as it seared her eyes after so much time in the dark. She blinked, tears stinging as she adjusted, but the smell—gods, the smell—hit her like an anvil. The cloying stench of rot and decay wrapped around her, sinking into her skin, her dress, her very bones. She could taste it in the back of her throat, metallic and rancid, as though she had swallowed the death that hung in the air.

She knew what would be waiting, and she didn't want to see it. Instead, she let her gaze wander to the walls, searching for the source of the light, though she already knew she'd find none. It didn't matter. The glow came from everywhere and nowhere, a cold illumination that seeped from the stone like an infection, festering.

And still, she didn't look at the figure. She didn't want to.

But her eyes betrayed her, and slowly, with a deep, sinking dread, she turned toward the center of the chamber. There, standing in the midst of the room, was the thing. He wore the dull, shapeless grey robes of a maester tonight, though the hood was drawn over his head, over a face that wasn't a face, hiding a man who wasn't a man. He was too smooth, too featureless, like a blank slate where a person should have been, and his arms were folded across his chest, his head cocked like he was waiting for her to speak, to apologize, to beg.

Naerys never knew what for. 

The figure moved, taking a step toward her, and that sound—the one that always came, like nails against stone—echoed in her skull before she even heard it. Her teeth clenched, her innards knotting as the dreadful clicking reverberated through her mind. His feet were always hidden but he had to have been shod, for nothing else could have explained that abysmal noise.

When he stepped aside, Naerys's breath hitched in her throat, the sob she had swallowed earlier clawing its way back up. For weeks now, she had been spared this sight—this dreadful, inescapable nightmare—and for a fleeting moment, she had foolishly believed she might be free of it. But the gods sought to punish her for a sin she knew not of, and there it was, laid out before her, as clear as the terror that gripped her heart.

Behind the man was the bed, and in it, a woman lay once more. The faceless woman, as familiar to Naerys as her own name, and though her features were just as blank as his, she was unmistakable. Her skin was nearly translucent, an eerie veil of flesh that barely concealed the network of veins and blood vessels beneath. It was like looking through a shroud in the face of death itself.

But what Naerys hated the most, what sent a shudder of revulsion through her bones, was the grotesque swell of the woman's belly. Discoloured and bloated beyond recognition, it stretched the skin so tightly that inky veins spiderwebbed across it, a cracked mirror reflecting something unspeakable. It was as though some corruption had taken root there, poisoning the life that might have once grown inside.

Naerys despised this part the most.

In the past, she had made the mistake of watching what came next, back when she was far too young to have known better, but she had learned her lesson well. And so when the grey-robed man raised his taloned hands like a predator above the woman, the princess squeezed her eyes shut. 

Even when the clamour began—the wet, sickening rip of flesh tearing, the sharp crack of bone snapping—she kept her eyes closed, clenching her fists so firmly that her nails bit into her palms, but it did nothing to dull the grotesque noises. The sound of chewing, slow and deliberate, filled the space around her, but it wasn't just in the room—it was inside her head. Viscous, slurping, monstrous. Each bite echoed in the hollow of her skull, and she could have picked the very coils of her brain apart, but she would still not be rid of it. 

Naerys pressed her hands over her ears, her fingers digging into her scalp as if she could block out the horror that crawled beneath her skin, but it was useless because it was everywhere. And still, she refused to look.

The woman's whimpers had turned to sharp, agonized screams, high-pitched and inhuman, as though something was being torn from her very soul. It sounded absurdly similar to a butchered pig, or rather, a pig that was just about to be butchered, in those mere moments when the executioner's blade hovered just above its jugular. The sort of sound that existed in the space between flesh and steel, and Naerys trembled harder, as though her own bones were being ground down. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

Then something nudged her.

She shook her head. She wouldn't look. She couldn't. She refused to.

The nudge came again, more urgent, and the woman's screams grew more unbearable like they were coming from everywhere at once, and Naerys could no longer dissociate.

Her eyes snapped open, and she gasped. The faceless man was now towering over her, his smooth, featureless face tilted downward. The chewing hadn't stopped though, but his face, as always, lacked any mouth, and his chin was slick with crimson gore, the blood glistening in the sickly light, dripping in slow, lazy rivulets down his neck, while some of them landed onto her cheek. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He had no eyes—no lashes, no eyebrows, nothing at all—only those smooth indents where they all ought to have been, and yet she felt him scrutinizing her. His gaze branded her skin and it took every ounce of her strength to keep from looking away. To keep her eyes locked on those haunting hollows and not on the carnage that still played out behind him.

But then he leaned forward, slowly, so slowly, until his mockery of a mouth was hovering just above her forehead. Then, with her mother's blood still on him, he pressed that flat skin to hers with a deliberate motion.

The sounds grew louder. The gnashing of teeth against flesh—it was all around her now until it was deafening, and the woman's screams reached a crescendo. When the faceless creature's touch stained her forehead, Naerys could feel it too—the pulsing, writhing masses beneath his robes, the creatures that squirmed beneath his skin. They pressed against her, writhing, alive and yet not, each movement an assault on her senses.

The woman screamed.

And Naerys screamed too.

She screamed and screamed, but no matter how hard she did, nothing escaped her lips, and yet her guttural squeals joined the ones already in her head, another pig to the slaughter. She could not pull away. The entity held her in place, almost grinning as the living things inside of him pressed closer, their forms sliding beneath her hands, beneath her own skin, slithering and tearing and tearing—

And then—

Nothing. 

Naerys woke up screaming, or at least she thought she did. Her body convulsed with the effort, her chest heaving, throat raw, but no sound crawled past her gullet. The silence that greeted her was suffocating, but it was a modicum of mercy too, for her head had gone quiet, and in the absence of the massacre, she burst into tears, finding her voice at last as it escaped in pitiful whimpers.

And then, just as she thought she might drown in her sobs, gentle hands reached out, cradling her. She didn't resist, allowing the arms to pull her into a familiar embrace, burying her face into the softness that beckoned her, desperate for comfort. It was not her mother's touch—not the warmth she longed for with every breath—but it was the closest thing she had now in this cold, foreign castle so far from home.

"There, there, sweetling, you've been so brave," Fei crooned, her fingers massaging the girl's temples in a rhythm she knew all too well, calming the racing thoughts that tangled inside her head. Naerys hiccupped between sobs, still whimpering like a wounded dog, clinging to the maid as if she were the last tether to sanity in the alien world.

The chambers around her were familiar—though only as familiar as anything could become in three moons. Three moons. That was how long she had been here, how long she had been wed to Willem Stokeworth. And yet, thankfully, the man had never set foot in her room, never even returned to Stokeworth Castle since their hasty wedding, leaving his young bride alone to wrestle with her troubles. A blessing in disguise, and it was such a blessing that Fei had longed for—solitude, away from the watchful eyes of Aemma Arryn, the perfect opportunity to confirm her worst suspicions.

With a tired sigh, the older woman smoothed Naerys's unbound hair away from her sticky cheeks, wiping away the evidence of her misery with a handkerchief. The girl's breaths came in ragged little gasps, as if her lungs had forgotten how to function, and Fei clucked sympathetically. 

"What did you see, Princess?" she asked carefully as if to a skittish animal.

But Naerys could barely comprehend the question, her mind still swimming in the fog of the dream. She shook her head, blabbering incoherent nonsense, her lips trembling with the effort to speak. Fei wiped her eyes again, her grip insistent.

"Princess, what did you see? You have to tell me so I can help you."

Naerys shook her head again, more frantically this time, her eyes squeezing shut as if she could shut out the memories with sheer willpower. But the hideous mouth with no lips still smiled from beyond. 

"Make it stop," she croaked hoarsely. "Please, please, please, make it stop. I don't..."

"Who was it? Who did you see?"

"He... he doesn't..." He did not like to be spoken of, this much she knew. 

"Princess!"

"I don't want to... please."

She was hysterical now, as if a dam had broken inside her, and she began to weep in earnest.

"Mama," she wailed, her voice breaking on the word. "I want Mama. Please, let me go back to her. Please, I want Mama."

Fei sighed, her patience thin but masked beneath her usual veneer of calm. Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled out a small glass vial, holding it up to the princess's trembling lips even as she resisted. 

"Here," she murmured, almost affectionately. "It's alright. We can try again another time. Or you can tell me what you remember when you feel like talking tomorrow."

Naerys shook her head, the tears still spilling over her lashes. "I don't want to. Make him stop. Please."

"I can't do that if you won't tell me who he is."

Although it was only a mere formality, to confirm what she already knew, and if it was as if she feared, then there was no escaping fate. The Haunter only ceased when he was paid in full, and that was impossible. The debt their bloodline owed was far too great. 

Fei pressed the vial more insistently to the Naerys's lips, and eventually, she parted them, obediently swallowing the carmine liquid. It slid down her throat with a bitter tang, tasting faintly of rust and something darker, something she did not want to dwell on. But it helped. It always helped, even as the voice in her head called her a hypocrite repeatedly for reasons she didn't understand. The pressure in her chest eased, the grip on her lungs loosened, and her breath came a little easier, though she still felt as though the very marrow had been sucked from her bones. 

Perhaps, one day he would drink her dry too. What would happen to her then? Would she become a part of him—it? Already it lived inside of her, scraping the walls of her thoughts, clawing, whispering in the hollow chambers of her skull.

Whatever Fei had been feeding her each day, it kept her silent, at least. The Stokeworth family had not yet complained of her nightly outbursts, and Naerys wasn't sure if that was something to be thankful for. The concoction made the dreams far worse, more vivid in nature, and with every sip, she remembered more than she wanted to.

Sapped of her energy, she slumped back into her handmaiden's arms, allowing her to card fingers through her tangled hair. She had stopped crying, though every now and then, another plaintive mewl slipped out unbidden, prompting the older woman to press another kiss to the girl's temple and if Naerys closed her eyes, she could pretend it was Aemma Arryn's warmth that enveloped her instead. She did not close her eyes though, fighting against the pull of sleep even as it beckoned more invitingly with each passing moment. She could not sleep, she could not, she would not, she—

The Devourer could never be disobeyed. 

When the darkness claimed the princess once more, her breathing grew slightly more agitated, but it was nowhere as severe as before, and Fei smoothed a furrow between the child's brow. 

"I am sorry sweet girl."

And then she looked up to the heavens, eyes tracing the elaborate carvings on the high ceiling of the chambers, murmuring a prayer to another who deserved an even greater apology. 

Sister, I am sorry. 

The Devourer could never be denied. 

Naerys was a creature of habit, and the next morning she stood before the heavy doors of Lady Stokeworth's chambers as she did each morning, her fingers curling in the folds of her cerulean skirts. As the elderly Lord Stokeworth's wife had long since passed, the title of lady of the house fell to his oldest daughter-in-law, Cecilia, and Naerys often spent her time in her company. It was a strange habit for a being of solitude such as her, but she found that in polite company, the thing in her head was more prone to behaving. 

The dim light of the hallway barely reached the deep grooves of the wooden doors, but she knew the room beyond well, and the faint knock she gave was almost drowned by the oppressive silence, but soon enough, a young, bright voice responded. 

"Come in!"

Cautiously pushing the door open, the princess stepped inside. Sunlight flooded the spacious room, spilling over the cold stone floor and illuminating the embroidered tapestries that hung from the walls. Arielle Stokeworth, Lady Stokeworth's daughter, was only a few years older than Naerys, was seated by the window, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw her. She waved, her fingers fluttering like a bird's wings, and her hair shone like spun gold in the morning light. 

By the fireplace stood Lady Cecilia herself, her hand trembling as she raised a flask to her lips, her other arm cradling a bundle to her stomach. Her face was pale, drawn with the weariness that Naerys could recognize from the shadows she had witnessed constantly under her mother's eyes.

The princess curtsied quickly, her gaze flickering nervously between the mother and daughter. "Is... everything alright, my lady? Are you alright?"

Arielle, far too eager to speak, answered before her mother could. "Mother is with child again."

The words startled Naerys, and she blinked, her surprise clear as she processed the information. Lady Stokeworth could not possible have recovered from her last labour which had come to pass only days after her arrival at Stokeworth castle, so how could she be with child so soon?

"With child... again?"

Arielle rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yes, again. And she's not happy about it. Frankly, neither am I. Five brothers are more than enough for one household, don't you think?" She winked at the princess, who remained rooted in place, too stunned to reply.

"Arielle," her mother began in warning.

"I need no more siblings, especially now that I have you as a sister," the girl added lightly. "So it makes sense that Mother does not wish to be with child again."

Naerys barely managed a nod. "I wouldn't want to be with child either..."

Arielle snorted, and the princess immediately regretted her words. Her eyes flew wide, and her hands darted to cover her mouth as though she had just uttered the most forbidden of thoughts. had she truly just said that out loud? What a fool she was, what a pathetic fool. Surely all the sleepless nights were addling her mind. 

However, Lady Cecilia only flashed her a wan smile, though her expression was tinged with something sadder. There was no reprimand, only weary acceptance in her gaze.

"I...I am sorry my lady." Naerys bobbed in another curtsy, avoiding looking at the older woman. 

Cecilia set the flask aside, exhaling slowly. "Nothing to apologize for princess, it's just a little something to help with the pain," she explained, though there was no need for excuses. Naerys, in her innocence, only nodded obediently, her eyes flickering with concern.

There was a brief, awkward silence as Lady Stokeworth hesitated, her eyes lingering on the child's slight form. She didn't know how to say what she wanted to say, but it needed to be said—this girl was in her care, after all, and she had a duty to her. Why she was even younger than her own daughter, and if she did not protect her, she would surely wither under this new union of hers. 

"If you ever..." she trailed off, the words she had been rehearsing catching in her throat. The idea felt absurd, to warn a girl so young, but she knew all too well the cruelties of the world. "If you ever feel ill, you must come to me first. Won't you, princess?"

Naerys blinked, confused. "Father says one must visit a maester if one is ill..."

"Yes, well... that may be true in the Red Keep, but here, at Stokeworth Castle, you must come to the lady of the house first. For all matters, including your health. Before you seek any maester."

Though she could not fully grasp the intention behind the well-meaning words, Naerys nodded. There was no point in questioning the rules here. She hoped though, that she would not have to visit Lady Stokeworth for such matters. She already had enough sickness of her own—to worry about these things. 

Cecilia nodded, a little relieved. "Good. We'll keep you safe here, princess."

The woman silently prayed that the princess would be spared from those horrors for as long as possible, that she would not be forced into the same fate so soon. She would do what she could. Moon tea could be prepared swiftly, and if taken early enough, it was effective. But for now, she would settle for this small comfort, hoping that her brother-in-law kept his distance, just as he had so far. Naerys deserved a few more years of virtue before the cruelty of womanhood descended upon her.

Arielle stood from her perch by the window, beaming as she sauntered toward them. "Are you here to challenge me to another game, princess?" She raised a defiant eyebrow. "I should warn you, I've been getting rather good."

The younger girl smiled shyly. "Yes, well... if you have the time to spare, I would very much like to see how you've improved."

From where she had settled on her bed, Lady Cecilia let out a warm laugh. "I doubt my daughter has improved much since you saw her yesterday."

Arielle groaned dramatically, shooting a mock glare at her mother. "Mother! You're supposed to be singing my praises."

Cecilia rolled her eyes, a hint of amusement in her expression. "Perhaps you might ask your brothers for that courtesy. My singing days are long over, I'm afraid."

"Never!" the girl declared, folding her arms. "We cannot encourage Robert's singing habit any more than we already do. I fear soon his head will grow far too large to fit through the castle doors."

At this, Naerys giggled, the exchange between mother and daughter reminding her very much of Rhenyra and the queen's bickering, and though it warmed her heart it also sent another pang of homesickness through her. 

Then, Arielle reached out to take her hand, a gesture as natural as breathing for the other girl, but Naerys flinched instinctively, pulling her arms behind her back before she could stop herself. Her skin felt too raw, her nerves frayed, and the simple act of being touched without warning sent a cold shiver down her spine. Would she feel the writhing masses under their skin when their hands met? Or would they sense the purification within hers instead? 

The Stokeworth's face flickered with hurt, a brief crack in her bright demeanour, but the emotion was wiped away quickly by another wide grin as she led the princess toward the table by the window where their game board was already set up. "Come on then," she continued cheerfully. "We'll see if I can finally best you today."

Naerys followed, though her steps were hesitant. Anxiety began to coil in her chest, tightening with every moment of silence that passed. Arielle had looked hurt, hadn't she? Was she angry now? Did she hate her? Her mind spiralled as she took her seat, her thoughts tangling into a messy web of doubt and fear. Perhaps she had ruined everything. She was careless with both her words and actions today. What if she had driven away the only friend she had managed to make here? What if the girl thought her strange or ungrateful? She did not want to be strange or ungrateful. She was trying to be good. 

Arielle reminded her so much of her sister, jubilant and excitable, always full of life, but Naerys found it hard to return that same energy, hard to match her brightness with that same fervour. She tried, she was trying, but it never seemed to be enough. It was as if there was a barrier between her and the world—a thick, invisible veil that dulled her senses and kept her apart, no matter how hard she reached for connection.

Her heart raced, her stomach twisting into knots, but then, just as she felt she might unravel completely, Arielle glanced up and winked. Her expression was encouraging, as though the earlier moment hadn't even registered with her.

"There," she challenged, moving her first piece across the board. "I've already got you cornered."

Naerys exhaled slowly, the tension easing just a little. She wasn't angry. She didn't hate her. At least for now, the friendship seemed intact. She could breathe again, if only slightly. She was trying to be good.

"Let's see about that," she retorted, focusing on the game. Her hands trembled slightly as she moved her own piece, but she willed herself to stay calm, to stay present, Ser Westerling's teachings echoing in her ears as she tried to imagine all the different ways the game could progress, and what the odds were for each possible move. If she made a decent attempt, his voice overtook the creature's briefly. 

This was good. This was working. This is exactly what she needed, a distraction to forget, for a little while, about the horrors that waited for her at night.

"You're deep in thought," Arielle remarked. "Shall I be afraid that you will defeat me once again?"

Naerys shrugged nonchalantly. "We must wait and see, my lady. Nothing is certain."

"Oh quit it, you know you're going to win."

"Well..." the princess's lips twitched. "You truly are getting better though, I promise."

"Liar!"

"I...a lady does not lie."

"Yes, but children lie all the time. My own brothers do it far too often." 

Naerys scoffed, "I am not a child!"

Arielle raised an unimpressed brow at her to tease her further. "Shall we stand and compare? Why, you're littler than my younger brother."

"Mother says being short of stature is indicative of a noble character." Naerys lifted her chin obstinately, finally meeting her companion's viridian gaze. But then, as if she remembered her own mismatched one, she dropped her eyes back to the game board, lips tilting downward. 

The Stokeworth girl leaned over the table, her arm outstretched, fingers ready as she made to flick the princess's forehead in a gesture that was painfully reminiscent of Rhaenyra herself. But just before she made contact, she pulled away, flicking the air above her forehead instead, taking care not to make contact with her skin. 

"Yes, you are certainly very noble indeed," she conceded good-naturedly. "Now let us finish the game and then perhaps you can teach me how to finally conquer your pawns."

"A lady never reveals her secret either."

"Why you—"

"Remember your manners with the princess, Arielle," Lady Cecilia interrupted sternly. "She is not Robert with whom you can squabble at free will."

"But Mother, she is my friend," Arielle glanced expectantly at Naerys. "Are you not, princess?" 

Naerys's cheeks bloomed scarlet and she ducked her head shyly, simply nodding. It was astonishing, but it made her happy. For someone to refer to her as their friend, there was something oddly reassuringly about it, to be acknowledged, for her sentiments to be returned. She just hoped she did not spoil it through some foolish action. 

Dinner that evening was a jubilant affair, brimming with warmth and noise that seemed to fill every corner of the Stokeworth hall. The old patriarch, slouched in his chair at the head of the table, dozed with a gentle wheeze, oblivious to the chaos around him, while Lady Cecilia sat beside her husband, Arthur, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, sharing an amused exchange that only years of marriage could cultivate, and surrounding them were their children, each caught up in their own world.

Their youngest two, twins with impish grins, were in the midst of a resolute battle, peas flying between them like arrows. Meanwhile, the eldest, Robert, puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride, trying—and failing—to command the table's attention with a new song he had picked up from one of his many uncles.

The song, however, was a rather bawdy affair, much to the amusement of said uncles, Arthur's seven brothers, who were all present save for one. Robert struggled through the more scandalous parts, doing his best to omit the colourful expletives woven into the lyrics, his face scrunching as he tried to find more suitable words to substitute. His uncles egged him on, stifling their sniggers while the boy carried on, determined to impress with his tuneless rendition.

They were all here except for Willem Stokeworth, Naerys's own husband.

Meanwhile, the princess sat among them, eyes flitting from one person to the next, trying her best to appear engaged. Yet there was a part of her that stood outside of the scene entirely, as though watching it all from a distance.

Without her husband here, she could pretend. She could pretend this was normal. That she belonged here. The unspoken ease that passed between every member of the family—they were things she had never known, but in this moment, she could imagine that this was her life. That she would sit at this table years from now, surrounded by these same people, and that it wouldn't be so bad.

She looked around at them, at the easy smiles and the laughter that flowed without restraint. The kindness of Willem's brothers, the polite respect from the household staff, even the intrepid curiosity from the children—all of it was more than she had hoped for. Yes, she could grow accustomed to this life.

But no matter how much she tried to immerse herself, her mind couldn't help but draw comparisons. Dinner in the Red Keep had always been a more sombre affair. Silence often reigned unless it was a formal occasion, in which case the Lord Hand, his children, or some other highborn noble would join them. And even then, the conversations were careful, deliberate—words chosen like weapons or shields. The camaraderie of the Stokeworths was foreign to her, and yet... she missed the familiarity of those dispassionate meals in King's Landing. She missed her family. She missed her mother who would allow her to pass off her vegetables to her plate, and her sister who conveyed scandalous gossip to her in hushed resonance. 

"Leave it to Willem to miss tonight's dinner as well," Arthur grumbled, his tone one of mild irritation, and it pulled Naerys back to the present. "I haven't set eyes on the man since..." He paused, his eyes softening with a brief glance in her direction. "In a long time."

The room fell quiet, and the young girl could feel their eyes on her, pitying looks that made her skin prickle. She stared down at her dish, her fingers gripping her fork a little too tightly as she tried to busy herself, counting the peas scattered across her plate. One by one, she counted, again and again, until one pea slipped off the edge of her plate, rolling away from her. She almost wished she could follow it, crawl under the table and escape the burden of their sympathy.

"Well, I for one, am grateful," Arielle chimed in from beside her. "I enjoy spending time with the princess, and if Uncle Willem were to come back, I wouldn't be able to do that anymore."

Her words drew a chuckle from a few of her other uncles, but her father was less amused. He turned a stern look toward her. "She is not here to be your companion, darling. The princess is here to be his wife. I am certain she yearns for the presence of her husband."

Naerys felt the meagre bites she had taken churn in her stomach, threatening to make a reappearance. Yearn? She most certainly did not yearn for that drunkard idiot. 

Arielle, ever irreverent, rolled her eyes. "Then we can pretend that she is here as my wife instead, so she can enjoy my company instead of his."

Robert, who had been silent for a moment too long, snorted into his drink at his sister's comment, prompting her to flick a pea at him, hitting him square on the cheek.

"Oi!" the older boy protested, wiping his face with a scowl.

Arielle grinned in triumph. "Perhaps you'll think twice before snorting like a pig at the table!"

The table erupted into raucous laughter once more, but the stiffness in Naerys's shoulders did not dissipate, and then the heavy wooden door creaked open, drawing all eyes to the figure who stumbled in. 

Speak of the devil. 

Willem Stokeworth's dishevelled state was impossible to ignore—his tunic rumpled and half-tucked, the hem caked with dirt, his hair a mess of oily strands falling into glassy, red-rimmed eyes. The smell of sour ale clung to him like a second skin, and the sagging slackness of his posture spoke of hours spent in the taverns or, worse, with questionable company.

"Ah, it seems as though my absent brother has finally made an appearance," Arthur muttered sharply, echoing the thought that was undoubtedly on everyone's mind.

The jovial atmosphere was snuffed out as quickly as a flame caught in a gust of wind. The oldest Stokeworth brother pinched the bridge of his nose, his features tight with the strain of frustration, while his wife pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. Their elderly father still dozed blissfully unaware at the head of the table, but there was no mistaking the tension that now pulsed through the room like a physical force.

Arthur shot another glance at his youngest brother. "By the gods, Willem, get yourself cleaned up before Father sees you in such a state."

Willem's glazed eyes scanned the table, a lazy sweep that passed over everyone present without recognition. When his gaze briefly grazed Naerys, he didn't linger, and she couldn't decide whether to be relieved or insulted. He hadn't even noticed her.

"What's the point?" he slurred, leaning heavily against the doorframe, one boot barely holding him upright. "Father'll find some reason to fume and punish me, even if I do. Makes no difference."

"Then do us all a favour and don't give him any more reasons. Not tonight."

Willem's lips twisted into something between a sneer and a laugh, though it lacked any real humour. "It can't be helped, brother. We can't all be as..." His eyes swept over Arthur's family with a venomous glint. "...as perfectly pretentious as you."

Naerys felt the insult land like a slap, despite the fact that it wasn't directed at her. The mood had soured beyond repair, and Arthur's mouth set into a grim line as he lifted a hand to wave dismissively. 

"We'll speak about this another time, Willem. Perhaps when you're sober and better able to articulate your grievances. Now go—before Father wakes and sees you like this."

The inebriated man complained under his breath, too garbled to catch, before pushing off from the doorframe and stumbling out, his footsteps uneven as they sounded down the hallway.

Arthur himself stood abruptly, tossing his napkin onto the table with a controlled snap. His face was thunderous, the weight of being both brother and head of the family apparent in his stiff posture. "Apologies, everyone. It seems dinner is over."

Without further prompting, the Stokeworths began to disperse, chairs scraping the stone floor as the servants moved to clear the remnants of the meal, but Naerys remained in her seat, her body frozen with a sudden, creeping dread. Willem had returned. Would he come to her chambers tonight? The thought made her irrevocably ill. If he did, she knew she could not bear it. She had heard the sordid tales of what husbands expected of their wives, but simply the thought of him demanding such things from her made her want to run back to the faceless chewing creature in her head and take her chances with it instead. 

As if sensing her distress, Arielle and Cecilia approached, the daughter brimming with enthusiasm while her mother carried the delicate grace of someone who knew when to extend kindness.

"Would you like to sleep in Arielle's chambers tonight, princess?" Lady Stokeworth offered carefully. "My daughter has grown quite fond of you, and it might be best to let my brother-in-law sleep off his... excesses in peace. He won't disturb you there, and you will be happier for it."

The older woman was kind, but Naerys could see the shadow of worry lurking just behind it, the thinness of her patience. Even in this seemingly welcoming home, she felt like an outsider, her role as the household wretch's wife a tenuous thread that no one truly knew how to hold.

Arielle, meanwhile, was practically bouncing with excitement. "It will be ever so much fun, princess! We may stay up as late as we wish, and I can show you my drawings."

"You must let the poor girl have her rest," her mother clicked her tongue in disapproval, guiding the two girls to the opposite end of the castle. She had already noticed the dark stains under the young princess's eyes, the plum-coloured bruises almost far too damning on someone so young. 

"But, Mother—"

"No more arguing, Arielle. You may show the princess what you like, but then if she wishes to go to bed, you must let her. You shall have all of tomorrow with her, and the rest of your days, since neither of you is going anywhere any time soon. Rest while you are still young and life allows you the privilege."

"You are being dramatic, Mother."

"I assure you, sleep is very difficult to come by the older you get." Lady Stokeworth tugged on her daughter's ear playfully. 

It was a phrase Aemma Arryn liked to employ as well, when she wanted her daughters to obey her in such matters, but Naerys still hesitated, her fingers clenching and unclenching. The thought of sleeping in a foreign room filled her with unease. She had already struggled to adjust to her chambers here, and every night had been a battle to stave off the nightmares, the ones that left her gasping for breath in the dark, her heart racing as though someone had pressed invisible hands to her throat. If she slept in Arielle's chambers, surely the girl would notice the restless tossing, the half-stifled gasps as she fought to wrench herself from the grip of her dreams. The very idea made her want to throw up.

But both mother and daughter seemed insistent, and Naerys didn't want to disappoint them. More than that, she didn't want to risk running into her husband in her own chambers. No, it was better this way. She could manage a sleepless night. Perhaps if she stayed awake until dawn, she could rest during the day when the creature was less oppressive, when the sunlight chased away the worst of his appetites.

Finally, she nodded. "Okay...if you are certain I will not be an inconvenience."

Arielle nudged her gently. "Oh, you could never be an inconvenience. In fact, you should try being one every once in a while."

Cecilia placed a calming hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Let us not corrupt the child with your proclivities, Arielle."

"Yes, Mother."

"Good girl, now go prepare your room for the princess. I'll escort her shortly."

The girl darted off, leaving Naerys alone with Lady Stokeworth, who watched her with a thoughtful gaze. "You needn't worry, princess. Willem will be too far gone to cause trouble tonight, but should you ever need anything... you need only ask."

Naerys forced a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Chapter Text

106 AC

Willem Stokeworth's return to his ancestral seat brought a heavy burden upon all who dwelled within its stone walls, but none more so than his wife. Her chambers, once a solitary refuge far from the bustling heart of the castle, had become defiled by his presence, as they were now deemed theirs. In the weeks following his arrival, Naerys found herself intruding upon scenes that left her recoiling with revulsion: her husband sprawled across their bed, taking his pleasures with a maid or a whore, his debauchery laid bare. There was no semblance of shame, no effort to conceal his wicked indulgences—he did not even bother to shut the door, delighting in the humiliation it caused her and the scandalous sounds that carried easily through the cold, unyielding stone.

It was only then that Naerys understood why the chambers were so far removed from the rest of the household, hidden away in a corner of the castle like a secret too shameful to bear. It seemed they had long been set apart, to spare the Stokeworth family from his deeds. In the past, when she alone had occupied the chamber, its remoteness served to shield them from the worst of her nightly fits, but now, with Willem’s return, her sanctuary had been stolen from her, and there was no retreat. And worse of all, she could no longer impose upon Lady Cecilia’s kindness or Arielle’s hospitality for more than a night or two at a time for they would son begin to wonder at the bruises that littered her arms as she pinched herself repeatedly trying to stay awake. 

So, Naerys took to seeking her rest in the oddest corners of the castle, folding herself into the shadows like a bird tucking its head beneath its wing. The library became her usual hiding place, where she could nestle amongst the dust-laden tomes, and on one desperate night, she even ended up in the straw of the stables, only to be nearly discovered when her fitful cries startled the horses, causing a clamour that drew the stable hands. She could not return there, and her choices dwindled with each passing day. Sleep became an enemy; she avoided it as the shadows beneath her eyes deepened and the restless creature in her head scratched insistently at the walls of her skull, demanding to be let out.

When word came of a revel in the city, Naerys felt a wave of relief wash over her like cool water. The entire Stokeworth family would attend, Willem most eagerly of all. He had always been a man of bawdy entertainments, and Lady Cecilia assured her that such occasions kept him away until dawn more often than not. Though Arielle had pleaded for her to join them, her eyes alight with the anticipation of dancing and laughter, Naerys declined, her exhaustion far too heavy a shroud for any joy to pierce.

Perhaps tonight she would get to sleep in her own bed, and perhaps the creature would take pity on her and allow her to rest. 

She watched from the castle window as they departed, the torches flickering like fireflies in the twilight. Only when the last of their carriage wheels faded into the distance did she dare return to the chambers that were once her own, hoping, against all the cruelties of fate, that tonight might be different.

The room was much as she remembered, and yet so altered by Willem's presence. The scent of wine clung to the air, mixed with a faint hint of perfume that wasn’t hers. The sheets were rumpled, the bed curtains half-drawn, and a goblet lay tipped on its side upon the dresser, its contents long since soaked into the floor. She moved quietly about the room, straightening what she could, as if the act of tidying away the disorder might somehow dispel the lingering taint of his depravity.

Then, she turned towards the bed and paused, staring at the tangled heap of stained linens, feeling her stomach roll with disgust. She should have called for the maids to clean up, but she did not wish to disturb their rest when the hour was late, so with a weary sigh, she set about pulling the sheets from the bed herself, the fabric spilling to the floor in an ivory cascade. Her hands trembled as she stripped away the bedding, leaving only the bare mattress behind. It was a futile gesture, but at least she might be able to rest tonight without the scent of strangers clinging to her pillow.

She settled upon the mattress without bothering to fetch fresh linens, curling herself into the smallest shape she could manage, her nightgown doing little to keep away the chill. As she lay there, the ache in her head deepened, a steady throb just behind her eyes. She had grown so accustomed to these nights, to the dread of losing control, of waking to find herself convulsing upon the cold stone floors with blood on her tongue and tears streaking her cheeks, but it still terrified her. 

Despite her desperate hope, tonight was no different, and Naerys wandered again through the ever-twisting labyrinth, its walls warping and contorting in that familiar disorienting dance. She could hear the squelch of flesh being torn, the distant echoes of cracking bones—a gruesome rhythm that pulled her forward against her will, down those endless corridors that always seemed to end in darkness. And there, at the labyrinth's heart, awaited the faceless figure, ravenous and ceaseless in its gluttony, devouring and devouring with an even greater ferocity than before. It tore through the carnage with terrible precision, its movements grotesquely methodical, and the bodies it mangled now bore shapes too familiar, yet disturbingly unrecognizable in their twisted disarray.

The creature wore maester’s robes still, though the fabric seemed to writhe like a living thing, as if it had become part of the meat it desecrated. The once-healer’s garb hung as a perverse mockery, stained and darkened by the work of hands that were not meant for this. It wielded those hands now not to heal, but to maim and shred, to slice and rend until there was no semblance of human form left within that hellscape. The pile of fragmented femurs and shattered ribs became an indistinguishable mire of muscle and blood, yet amidst the chaos, the only recognizable thing was the thin shift of pale blue, tattered and soaked in crimson, lying half-buried in the entrails.

Naerys could not look away. The sight of it seemed to anchor her to the nightmare, and yet, the edges of the world remained mercurial, melting into one another like candle wax under a flame. There were flashes of things she could not quite grasp—golden scales, sapphire butterflies, and verdant flames; a distant crying, like the bleating of a lost lamb; and the sickening scrape of steel grinding against bone. It all swirled around her, merging into a dreadful symphony that rose and fell with the creature's ghastly feast. Its jaws moved with a terrible rhythm, ripping through tissue with a wet sound, and its maw opened wider and wider still, swallowing the world whole.

But it was when she drew nearer that the horror reached its peak, drawn by some unseen force as the faceless figure finally turned towards her. Its robes unfurled in a movement almost tender, a parody of some forgotten intimacy, and she saw, though she wished not to, the vermillion-streaked claws that glistened beneath the tattered sleeves. They reached for her, but this time there was no cruel mimicry of a kiss pressed upon her brow, and instead, they pressed insistently against her lips, forcing them apart with a dreadful gentleness.

A putrid, coppery taste flooded her mouth as the creature shoved some gristly morsel between her teeth—raw and freshly torn from its latest conquest. The sickening taste of the macabre feast mingled with her sour breath, and she gagged, choking on the remains of whatever horror it had fed her. The edges of her vision darkened, and still, the hands did not relent, the faceless being shoving and shoving until she could feel the slick tendrils of madness clawing at the back of her throat.

She tried to scream, but only a gurgle escaped as he leaned closer, and she thought she heard it whisper, though its nonexistent mouth never moved, a soundless voice seeping into her mind like a poison, drowning her in the terror she could neither name nor escape. 

That was how Fei found her, two hours later, after cleaning up the mess she had happened upon downstairs. Naerys was still huddled by the railing, her small form curled up as if trying to make herself disappear entirely. Tangled strands of dark hair fell in a veil over her face, nearly engulfing her like some eldritch creature of the void, and only her azure eye, luminous with unshed tears, shone like a beacon in the darkness. Her body was tense, rigid with some unspoken dread, as though awaiting an attack that had yet to come, but when she lifted her head and caught sight of Fei, the fierce, unnatural stillness melted away. She became a child once more, her limbs softening, her expression crumbling into a look of desperate relief as she gazed up at her maid, wordlessly pleading for comfort.

Fei rushed to her, pulling the girl into an embrace, the fabric of her gown wrapping around Naerys like a protective cocoon. She gently smoothed back the wild tangle of hair, her touch tender as she examined the child for signs of harm. The bloody patch of scalp behind her ear, where clumps of hair had been torn away, and the bruises darkening the skin of her left hand did not escape her notice. Yet Fei did not speak of these things. She only pressed a kiss to each wound, as though her lips might carry some healing balm, and allowed the girl to whimper and shudder against her.

“Shhh, sweet girl, shhh,” she murmured, rocking Naerys gently. “It has all been taken care of. You need not worry. You need not fear anything now.”

Naerys pulled back, her gaze wide and uncomprehending. “I… I… oh gods, I think I… is he—?” Her composure was tremulous, a thread unravelling with her guilt.

Fei shook her head and kissed her temple again, her lips brushing over cadaver-old skin. “He was a drunkard, darling girl. Fell off his horse and broke his neck. It was a pitiful end, but it was not your doing. They shall find him come morning and be none the wiser.”

“No,” the girl whimpered, a raw edge of hysteria in her voice as she pointed past the stairwell. “Horse? What horse? You don’t understand, I… it was me, I—”

Fei tightened her grip on her shoulders, her dark eyes firm. “It was not,” she repeated, her tone brooking no argument. “There is nothing you need to worry your head about, princess. Nothing at all. You are fine. You can go home now. You will get to see your mother.”

The mention of her mother seemed to shatter whatever fragile hold Naerys had managed to keep on herself. She shook her head frantically. “Mother… Mother will hate me. For what I’ve… what I’ve done. She will think me a—a monst—a murderer.”

Cradling her face in her hands, Fei sighed. She had not expected such a thing to have happened so early on, but she supposed it could not be helped. 

“She will never have to know. You had no choice. Sometimes it is necessary.”

“I did. I did, and I killed him,” Naerys choked out, finally putting words to her cursed confession. “Oh gods, I killed… no, no… I am—”

“I’ve had to do it too,” her maid interrupted calmly, as if sharing a mundane truth rather than a terrible revelation. “Sometimes the gods give us no choice.”

Naerys recoiled as though struck, her eyes wide with horror. Her breath hitched in her throat, and the scream that tore its way out was scarcely louder than a frenzied whisper. “I don’t want to hear about the people you’ve killed!”

And that horrible hunger was gone too, even though she had eaten nothing, and the meagre contents of her stomach had already been emptied at the scene of her crime. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

Just as Fei had assured her, Willem Stokeworth was found sprawled in the stables at dawn, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his corpse slumped amidst the stale stench of ale and straw. The whispers came as swiftly as the morning light, painting him as the hapless casualty of drunken clumsiness—another young lord lost to the bottle's whims. And, oh, the pity that spread through the hallways for his young bride, so newly wed, a widow barely three moons after her vows. The Stokeworths, draped in sombre hues, ushered in the tide of funeral rites and offered condolences that made Naerys sick with each utterance. Every sympathetic murmur, every bowed head weighed upon her, a reminder of her own crime and the part she had played in their loss. Yet her drawn, miserable appearance seemed only to strengthen her in-laws' conviction that she was deep in grief, rather than guilt.

At last, Lady Stokeworth took her pallor and silence as signs that her sorrow was too great to bear in their household. It was decided that the princess would fare better if sent home to her family, to mourn where familiar faces might soothe her wounds. Naerys accepted the suggestion with a muted nod, grateful in some dim, desperate way to escape those walls and the accusing shadows they seemed to hold. When the time came for her departure, it was Arielle who embraced her most fervently, with tearful affection and promises that she would find a way to visit soon enough and for the first time Naerys felt true sorrow, for this girl had been the only friend she had ever made on her own, a friend that wasn't her sister or made in relation to her sister.

The journey back to the Red Keep was a lonely affair, with nothing but the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the cool winds of early dawn to accompany her. Yet, in that long stretch of silent miles, Fei's words proved true again. There were no more dreams—no spectral visions twisting her sleep, no morbid cravings staining her subconscious. In fact, she found all her appetites sated, strangely enough, and she could not stomach a single morsel of food. She found solace in the oblivion, sleeping more in those few days on the road than she had in years, every time she woke to Fei's knowing gaze, she felt a little more like herself and a little less like a haunted creature, though that added an additional layer of horror. 

Was murder truly that easy to recover from? What sort of monster did that make her if a few nights of rest was all it took to forget? 

She had killed him hadn't she? Or had he simply slipped and fallen over the bannister all by himself and she had only watched. Was that not equally cruel? She found that she couldn't quite remember the details of that night, only the insatiable hunger for something intangible and then nothing. 

Nonetheless, the physical proof of her experience could not be as easily erased, and her scalp still ached where her dead husband had plucked a fistful of her hair. Her fingers though, she kept tucked beneath the billowing sleeves of her mourning gowns. He had broken two of them, and not even the best of Fei's salves could soothe down the discoloured skin, though the maid refused to let her see a maester for it. 

They reached King's Landing under the shroud of night, slipping through the darkened streets and shadowed gates with little fanfare. Naerys had expected no grand return—she was now both a bastard and a widow—but as she entered the Red Keep, she felt a twinge of disappointment at the absence of any welcoming voices. Only Fei's footfalls echoed alongside hers in the vast, empty corridors, leading her back to her chambers in silence—a return so quiet it felt like slipping back into the pages of a forgotten book, the world having already moved on without her.

Suddenly, a shout echoed through the hallway. Naerys turned, startled, just in time to see a streak of silver—bright hair flashing in the moonlight—rushing toward her. In the next instant, she was swept up into an embrace she knew all too well, arms encircling her tightly, a tangle of familiarity that smelled of lemon cakes and faint, smoky dragonfire. For once, Naerys did not stiffen or recoil; instead, she melted into the hold, lifting her uninjured arm to grip the back of her sister's tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as if afraid she might let go. Tears, the first since Willem Stokeworth's passing, rose unbidden, blurring her vision as she pressed her face against Rhaenyra.

The older girl was almost reverent as she confessed into her hair. "We were told you'd arrive tomorrow, but I saw you coming. I was on Syrax, and I saw you coming—I knew you'd be here sooner."

A faint sniffle from Naerys made her draw back slightly, her keen eyes squinting in the dim corridor, a thumb instinctively brushing the moisture from her sister's cheeks. Her gaze softened in concern as she took in her trembling form, her eyes wide with alarm.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is everything alright?"

Naerys's face crumpled further, Rhaenyra glanced around, a frantic edge in her eyes as if she might wake the whole of King's Landing to discover what had wounded her sister so. Gently, she wrapped an arm around the younger girl's shoulder, guiding her to the sanctuary of her own chambers where a few candles cast an inviting glow. Only when they were alone did Rhaenyra finally take in the details she'd missed in the haste of her embrace: the furrowed brows and the way the girl clutched her hand close to her chest, as if cradling a wound.

"Sister..." she questioned.

"You didn't... you didn't visit," Naerys hiccuped. "You promised you would visit. You didn't come a single time."

The words sank like stones, and Rhaenyra's face fell, her head dipping in shame. She had promised—and now, she had become a liar.

"I... I'm sorry."

"You promised. Why didn't you come?"

Kneeling before her sister, the older princess's hands reached out, looking up into her face with pleading eyes. "I wanted to, I swear it. I truly did. But Father said I mustn't. He said it would make you more homesick, that you should spend the first few moons learning to be a wife."

"Well, I didn't. I hated it. I hate being a wife. I just want to stay here and be your sister."

"Oh," Rhaenyra blinked, her brow furrowing. Of course, her sister hated being a wife. She was her sister, after all, and the older girl hated the idea of it all too; being someone's wife, forced to push out heir after heir for an ungrateful man. She almost thanked the gods that the oaf had died before her sweet Naerys was forced into a fate like their mother. "I know he was a drunkard fool, but was he cruel?"

At the mention of her husband, the younger girl flinched and Rhaenyra saw in her bearing, a flicker of wrath she rarely ever saw from her timid sister. This prompted her to reach out, taking her left hand carefully and turning it over to trace her fingers along the bruises that marred her pale skin, her gaze narrowing as she took in the swollen, reddened knuckles.

"What happened?" she demanded.

Naerys drew her hand back swiftly, tugging her sleeve back down. "It's nothing," she muttered, looking away. "My lady's maid says it's already healing."

Rhaenyra's hand moved from her sister's arm to her shoulders, grasping her tightly, her gaze steely and fierce. "Yes, but what happened? Who did this to you?"

"Nobody."

"It has to be somebody."

"It...wasn't. It just happened."

"Do not lie to me, sister!" Rhaenyra's grip tightened. "You barely go outside and you don't have a dragon to ride. All your hobbies involve you just sitting around. Things like this don't just happen. People like you don't just fucking break their fingers."

Naerys bit her lip to prevent them from trembling and forced a shrug. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course, it matters." 

"It doesn't. It's fine."

Rhaenyra's voice hardened in frustration, fury igniting in her eyes. "It matters because when I have a name, I'm going to feed them to Syrax." She shook Naerys more insistently. "Now, tell me."

But Naerys shook her head, eyes cast down. "It's okay. You'll just get in trouble with Father."

And besides, there's nothing left to feed Syrax. 

Rhaenyra's expression softened, her initial anger tempered by a pang of guilt. In obeying their father's command to keep her distance, she had not been there when her sister needed her most. She couldn't help but feel she had failed, but she owed it to Naerys to make amends—and that meant getting a name, no matter how many times she had to pry, though she had a sinking suspicion she already knew. Inebriates like Willem Stokeworth often had reputations, and she had never known of a man who was kind when he drank. 

"You must tell me, sister," she coaxed again. "I thought we agreed a long time ago not to keep things from each other."

Naerys's shoulders tensed, and a strangled sob escaped her. Oh, if only Rhaenyra knew of all the things she kept to herself, of the creature she kept leashed so desperately. She couldn't bring herself to answer, so instead, she threw her arms around her neck, burying her face in her shoulder, her bruised hand tucked between them like a relic she could neither bear to release nor reveal. The lie she held in her silence was bitter and every fibre of her being resisted unearthing it here, in this sanctuary of sisterhood. For if she told Rhaenyra the truth about Willem Stokeworth, if she dared lay bare the monstrous thing she had become, the veil between them would be rent irreparably.

The memory was faded and full of holes in her mind, but she remembered the way terror unspooled his defences, exposing something vulnerable within him. She remembered her own hands, trembling yet decisive, as they hovered inches away, refusing to pull him back. She remembered the taste of him too, coppery and potent, the stain of his fear tangling with her own, wrapping itself around her like a serpentine noose. It was this part that curdled her stomach most, this perverse flash of satisfaction that had shivered through her as his blood slicked her tongue—equal parts revolting and ambrosian. 

If her beloved sister—so bright, fierce, and loyal—ever learned of this ravenous thing within her, she would cease to exist. For as long as they had lived, Rhaenyra had seen her as something delicate, something to shield, as if Naerys were spun of glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. She couldn't bear for that image to fracture. To show her that the sister she cherished was not someone who needed protection but rather something who was capable of sacrilegious horrors.

It would mean shattering the trust Rhaenyra had so freely offered, and for what? To ease her own conscience, to purge her guilt? No, she could not bear the cost of that truth. She could not bear the look of disgust or horror that might stain her sister's face, could not stand to have Rhaenyra look upon her as if she were an aberration rather than a sister.

So she pressed herself deeper into her embrace, clinging to the illusion, selfish and silent. Because more than redemption, she wanted to be loved. She wanted Rhaenyra to look upon her with the same unwavering adoration, even if it meant carrying this secret to her grave. In her sister's arms, she could still be the Naerys Rhaenyra believed her to be, the mild girl with no teeth and no appetite for flesh. 

Rhaenyra on the other hand stiffened in surprise at her actions. Naerys was rarely the one to initiate touch, reserved in her gestures, but when she did reach out, she felt the weight of it like a plea. She drew her little sister close, wrapping her arms around her with a fierce protectiveness, her jaw set as she silently vowed to find out who had hurt her, even if she had to ask their mother to coax it from her.

For now, though, she understood her need for solace and she began to guide her toward her bed. "You'll spend the night here with me, then. I haven't seen you in so long—I won't be denied your company now."

Naerys hesitated, looking up with a glimmer of longing. "And Mother? Is she... is she alright? Where is she?"

Rhaenyra sighed, brushing a dark lock of hair from her tear-streaked face. "She's abed. The babe has been difficult, I'm afraid. Let her sleep, won't you? I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see you in the morning."

When her younger sister opened her mouth to argue further, she swiped her thumb across her damp cheek, giving her a look that left no room for debate. With a quiet nod, Naerys fell silent, allowing her sister to tuck her into bed and then slide in beside her, pressing a final kiss to her temple. She could feel the pull of sleep, of blissful empty sleep lulled by the reliable presence of her sister's embrace, but she resisted. She could not sleep just yet. 

That is how Naerys found herself in the corridor outside her mother's chambers, much later that night, having slipped out when her sister's breathing had grown heavy and rhythmic. The darkness was still, but she still felt the familiar hum of dread stir beneath her skin. It was the kind of fear that had plagued her for moons now, though she could not fully name it; only that it was cloying. She pressed a hand to her chest to calm the frantic drum of her heartbeat as she stood there, half-afraid to enter and half-determined not to leave. Just a quick look, she reminded herself, clutching the thick wool of the mourning gown she was still clad in. She would peer in only briefly. She would look at her mother, and perhaps then, she might silence the memory that lingered, of the dream where the faceless maester had feasted upon her ribs, feeding her morsels she could neither spit out nor refuse.

In that dream, horror was woven into her very marrow, but tonight, she whispered to herself that it was done. Her oaf of a husband was gone. Surely his death was the omen she had sensed. It had to be, and her family would be safe now; there was no more horror left to endure.

When Naerys finally eased the door open, it yielded without a sound, and she slipped inside on light feet. The moon bathed the room in a silvery glow, casting her mother's slumbering form into an ethereal light. She lay still, the frown upon her brow betraying the discomfort that even sleep could not smooth away, and for an instant, Naerys felt the urge to crawl beneath the covers, to press herself into the warmth of her side as she had done when she was small, to bury her face in the well-loved scent of lavender and feel once again that all-encompassing comfort of being held. But she restrained herself; her mother's sleep was troubled enough, and the babe's restlessness already robbed her of true slumber.

Instead, she knelt beside the bed, folding her hands before her in the posture of a prayer. She watched Aemma intently, her breath shallow, as if even the sound of it might disturb her mother's sleep. Though her legs soon ached and her fingers tingled with numbness, she did not shift. The aching stiffness was a penance she embraced willingly, a small price to pay to stay by her mother's side, to keep vigil over her through the night.

In the quiet moonlight, Aemma's features had softened, their beauty distilled into delicate lines and gentle curves. Naerys' gaze traced her face with a mixture of longing and admiration, lingering on the elegant sweep of her nose and the graceful arc of her jaw—both mirrored in Rhaenyra, whose proud, high cheekbones and radiant smiles bore their mother's unmistakable beauty.

Sometimes, she wished fervently that Aemma were her true mother. If she could claim the woman's blood as her own, perhaps she might have inherited that same enchanting expression, that effortless grace that seemed to surround her mother like a second skin. If only she had inherited her blood and not the rot of whatever had birthed her, she would have been a better person. She could have been good and noble like her sister. 

Her mother's beauty felt like something sacred—a light that shone even in times of hardship, radiating perseverance, and she harboured the impossible wish that she too could look in the mirror one day and see a reflection of Aemma's loveliness staring back. But for now, she was content to watch, to commit every detail to memory, each trait she admired. 

Then, as the minutes stretched on, Naerys realized how very much she resembled the worshippers in the sept. She knelt there, hands clasped beneath her chin, her gaze mirroring the serene fervour she had so often seen in Alicent Hightower's quiet devotions. Yet here, beside her mother, this felt somehow truer, more holy, than the chill of that silent cavern ever had. Perhaps this was her altar, where she knelt as a supplicant, her heart more sincere than it had ever been, her very spirit quivering with piety.

Was this not the reverence one was supposed to show the gods? Was there a god more deserving of it than one's mother?

The faintest sigh escaped Aemma Arryn's lips, and Naerys watched intently, searching for any sign of pain. In the sepulchral quiet of the chamber, she spun stories in her head to keep herself awake, fables of faraway histories that her mother used to tell her. Perhaps she would do this night after night, she decided, until her mother was safely delivered from the peril of childbirth, until the new babe was cradled in her arms and the worry line disappeared from her brow.

Aemma awoke to the insistent, almost demanding kicks of the babe within her, the dull ache combined with the burning morning light on her face pulling her from slumber. With a groan, she opened her eyes, only to be greeted by her slumbering youngest daughter. Naerys had curled up beside the bed, her head resting on her folded arms, lips slightly parted in sleep. A dried sliver of drool marked her cheek, and Aemma couldn't help it when her lips lifted in contentment as she wiped it away.

Just as she was about to wake her, the door creaked open, and in stepped her husband, his expression startled at the rare sight of her smile—a smile that, to his dismay, dimmed but didn't disappear entirely upon his entry. In the past three moons since Naerys had left home, his queen had only grown more withdrawn, more melancholy, and his heart ached with the knowledge that Otto's advice had been wrong. Seeing Ren's daughter curled up on the floor, her dark hair spilling around her like a shadow, filled him with regret. In that moment, she was a spectral reflection of her true father, who also had a penchant for drifting off in the oddest places, his long hair spilling across the pages of ancient scrolls during their nights in Yiti's grand libraries. Ren had always fallen asleep first, head bowed as if in prayer over the books, lost in dreams while Viserys kept reading by his side.

Viserys had written to him, informing him of Naerys's impending nuptials, but he had received no reply. It felt like another silent condemnation of his choice, another sign that his old friend would not have approved. Nonetheless, he consoled himself with the thought that the letter might not have reached him yet, or that Ren, now emperor of Yiti, would have been too busy to receive news of a daughter he barely knew when he was surrounded by his many true-blooded sons. 

With a sigh, he settled on the edge of his wife's bed and, hesitantly, ran a hand over Naerys's head, watching as her breathing remained even. He felt the weight of Aemma's sharp glare, a warning that made his hand pause, almost flinch, but he continued, attempting a lighthearted tone.

"Rhaenyra did say she would be back early, but I didn't realize she'd be here."

"Where else would she be?" Where else if not at my side?

He swallowed, forcing a smile to his lips. "I only hope she didn't disturb your rest. Her... fits wouldn't be good for the babe."

Aemma ignored the comment, lifting Naerys's limp hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, which had taken on a deep blue-purple hue. "She's been a silent lamb, poor dear. Not a sound. I hadn't even realized she was here until I woke up."

Viserys nodded, guilt flickering across his face as he looked away. "Perhaps I might call for a maid, have her taken to her own chambers. She deserves the rest."

"No! Let her stay. The gods know I need her with me as much as she needs to be here."

There was a brittle silence, and the king's face softened. "I... care for her too."

"You do not act like it, Your Grace."

Her words stung as much as the title did, a truth he didn't want to hear, but he accepted it with a quiet nod. "I am sorry. My actions have caused you pain, endangered the babe, and for that... I am sorry."

Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on her swollen belly, but she tensed at the touch, an ache settling in her throat. He was speaking of the future heir again—of the child yet to arrive. And while a tremor of weeping threatened to rise in her chest, she held it back, feeling as if her heart was a ship tossed against sharp rocks. The closer she got to the impending birth, the more his focus seemed to hone in on the babe she carried rather than the children they already had. 

"I do care for her," Viserys repeated, "and I am glad she is home. Perhaps you'll feel better too now that she's here."

"Rhaenyra must be particularly happy," Aemma responded. "She was terribly upset when you forbade her from seeing her sister."

"Yes, our eldest makes her displeasure known quite openly."

The queen's eyes drifted down to where her daughter lay, her hand still in her grip. "Our youngest does not."

Viserys chuckled, attempting lightness. "I suppose I should thank the gods for one obedient daughter, at least."

Aemma turned her gaze up to him, her expression unwavering, and whispered, "Then make me a promise."

"If it is within my power, I shall do my best, Aemma." Her husband leaned forward to brush his lips against her temple apologetically.

"Do not wed her off again."

Viserys paused, his mouth half-open with a reply that seemed to evaporate under her gaze.

"You do not need to," Aemma continued, words clipped and trembling at the edges. "Not truly. She is not... she will not yield any fruitful alliances. Do not force her into another union."

His frown deepened, and he found himself searching her face, trying to understand. "She chose it. I gave her a choice, and she said yes."

"How does a child refuse her father when he is also her king?"

Viserys's shoulders stiffened, and he looked away, his expression torn. "But I only asked. I did not mean to compel her."

"Look!" Aemma thrust Naerys's bruised hand toward him in accusation. "Look at what they did to my girl. Promise me it will not happen again. To either of our girls. You must promise to protect them above all else. You must give them a choice in all matters. Naerys's next husband must be of her choosing, if she wants it. And if she does not..." Her voice lowered, pleading, "...then you must leave her be."

Viserys felt the weight of her words, the inkling of truth in them, and he could not deny it. Naerys, with her features so unlike his own, would never be accepted as a bargaining tool, never welcomed with open arms by a great house seeking ties with Targaryen blood. The very shape of her eyes, her uncanny colouring, bore no semblance to him, not enough for any powerful alliance to hinge upon her lineage.

He nodded slowly, unable to deny her plea. "I promise."

Aemma let out a long, exhausted sigh. "I hope you keep it."

"This time, I shall. Even Rhaenyra may choose her own husband, when the time comes."

"She doesn't wish for marriage, that one."

"I know," the king's smile was doting. "What difficult girls we have."

"Rhaenyra will learn," Aemma replied with a sorrowful wisdom. "Her royal blood will teach her the lesson in time. I only hope it is painless." Her gaze shifted downward to Naerys, thumbing her cheek. "But this one... she'd make a fine Septa, don't you think? She'd enjoy the silence and the peace of the worship."

Viserys snorted, breaking into a grin. "Only if it is at your altar."

That finally drew a weary chuckle from his wife and it was like the sun had finally shone down upon him after weeks of a storm. In truth, he had always been a little envious of the quiet reverence Naerys reserved for her. As Ren's daughter, he had expected her to carry her father's same fondness for him, especially after the journey back to Westeros when as a babe she'd seemed so entranced by him. He had thought himself the favoured parent, but over time, he saw it was Aemma who held her heart, the same way she held Rhaenyra's, for although the older princess followed him like a shadow and enjoyed their spirited discussions, it was her mother she pledged herself to truly. 

Then again, he couldn't blame either of them. No one in all the Seven Kingdoms could help but love Aemma Arryn.

Hours after the king's departure, Naerys's eyes fluttered open to find herself tucked into bed by her mother's side. A steady breeze played across her face—Aemma waving a fan languidly in her direction, keeping the midday heat at bay. The room was dim; the curtains were drawn, muting the sunlight, and the air was filled with the faintest aroma of lavender and fresh linen.

The queen smiled down at her. "Good morning, my dearest love. Finally awake, are we?"

Naerys scrambled upright, eyes widening. "Morning?"

"More like afternoon, darling. Why so startled?" Aemma giggled. 

The girl's face fell, a shadow of disappointment passing over her features. "I fell asleep?"

"You did. And you slept so well too. No bad dreams, I hope?"

Naerys shook her head, though the guilt curdled in her stomach like spoilt milk. She had meant to stay vigilant, to watch over her mother—yet it seemed her mother had been watching over her instead.

Before she could dwell on her disappointment, Aemma pressed something warm and fragrant against her lips. She flinched, the gesture unsettling her, recalling more macabre mouthfuls forced upon her, but her mother only pulled away with a frown. 

"It's just a tart, Naerys. Your favourite." She held it up again. "I thought you might be hungry when you awoke. This is the longest I've ever seen you sleep."

The scent of apples and buttery pastry filled her nose, and as Naerys hesitantly licked her cracked lips, the sweetness clung to her tongue, chasing away all memory of rust and rot. 

Aemma smiled encouragingly, holding the tart out once more, and this time, she accepted, chewing as the sweet, rich flavours blossomed on her tongue. She felt no hunger, though she knew she hadn't eaten in days, but the joy in her mother's eyes was more than enough to quench her parched soul. 

The queen's countenance turned mischievous as she took a bite herself, rubbing her belly with a wink. "Shall I get someone to bring us more? I'm afraid I've eaten the rest of them. The babe makes me ravenous. Your sister already shares your father's taste for lemon cakes, but you, my sweet girl, have my preferences."

Naerys only shrugged, wriggling back down to lay beside her, snuggling close, taking care not to press too hard; always so careful with her. 

Aemma chuckled and thumbed her cheek, teasing, "Clingy, aren't you? One might assume you are the babe we all await."

The girl shrugged again.

With practiced ease, her mother's hand began to sift through her hair, drawing a contented hum. The simple rhythm was a comfort older than she could remember, but when her fingers reached the back of her daughter's left ear, Aemma froze, pausing over a small, irritated patch of bare scalp.

The queen knew every line, every strand of both her daughters' heads by memory, and this patch was new, something she hadn't felt before. She knew she should probe but, for now, chose to hold her silence, and instead, she pressed a kiss to the tender spot, feeling Naerys relax beneath her touch.

"You're safe now, my darling girl.

Naerys's voice came muffled through the bedclothes. "Can I stay with you?"

"Of course. You may stay with me forever if you wish it." Aemma wrapped an arm around her side.

Naerys peeked up at her, a slow grin pulling at her lips. "Promise?"

"Of course."

"You better not break your promise."

Aemma gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"Never. And you cannot start now!"

"I shall not, my little babe."

The child lifted her head, her cheeks flushing as she grumbled. "I am not a babe."

Aemma's smile deepened as she tucked the sheets around them both, her fingers tracing familiar paths over her daughter's brow. "My grown child of eleven, and yet always my babe. I named you, I fed you, I bathed you... of course, you are my babe. You may stay with me, always."

"And is she your only babe?" came a whine from the doorway where Rhaenyra stood, a plate of confectionaries balanced in her hands, her smirk catching the light that spilled through the drapery.

Aemma chuckled affectionately. "Of course not. How could I ever forget my first?"

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, setting the plate down on the bedside table. "And I brought offerings, too," she announced grandly.

"Bribes more like. You know your mother's appetite for them these days."

The queen stretched out one arm, and her older daughter slid onto her free side with an ease born of years of familiarity. She picked up one of the tarts and, with a cheerful wink, popped it into her mother's mouth. Then, reaching over her, she gave her little sister's ear a tug.

"Oi, you! I thought I told you not to bother Mother while she was resting. And then imagine my surprise when I wake up to find you gone."

Naerys stuck her tongue out peevishly. "I did not bother her," she argued, glancing up at Aemma for support. "Tell her, Mother."

Aemma swallowed chewed thoughtfully and nodded in agreement, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "It's true. She was perfectly well-behaved. Don't go bullying your sister, Rhaenyra."

"I am not bullying her!"

"You are, Nyra. Now go away—it's my turn to spend time with Mother. You've had her all to yourself these past few weeks."

Rhaenyra shook her head, folding her arms with stubborn resolve. "You can't make me go away, and I shan't. She was my mother first."

"She was not!"

"She was. I am older, aren't I?"

"But that is not fair!"

Aemma burst into laughter, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she reached out to pull both girls close, smothering each in kisses. "There's more than enough of my time to go around, my darlings. No need to squabble over your old mother."

"You're not old, Mother!" Naerys exclaimed. 

"Am I not? Are you quite certain?" Aemma rotated her wrist and winced when the sound of her bones creaking filled the air. "I feel as old as King Jaehaerys himself."

"Enough jesting, Mother," Rhaenyra quipped. "You are not nearly that old. You have many many years to go before you get there."

"The babe has aged me far more, I assure you."

"And it shall age you even more after it arrives. Best use your time to rest now."

"But you have to promise to spend time with us even after the babe comes," Naerys added. 

"Yes, Mother. I shall not have you stolen away by yet another tiresome child," her sister agreed, giving her a faux sneer. 

The queen let out a drained sigh. "I imagine your father will keep himself occupied with the new babe, as he seems most eager for its arrival, so your poor mother shall remain all yours."

"All the better for us," Naerys beamed. 

"What if it's a girl?" Rhaenyra inquired. 

Her sister nodded. "I'd like another sister."

"Something wrong with your old one?" She raised an eyebrow. 

"She's mean to me sometimes. My next sister will be sweet and gentle."

"Are you saying I'm not sweet and gentle?"

"No, you are not, Nyra."

"Why you little—"

"But I like you better that way," Naerys interrupted, making her fall silent. "Who else would threaten to feed people to their dragon for me."

"You did what?" Aemma's voice rose in disbelief.

"Well," Rhaenyra hurried on quickly to avoid the subject, "I say, our new sister shall be bold and fierce, and we will call her Visenya. You'll see."

"But if she is not, then do I get to name her?" Naerys protested. 

Rhaenyra relented with a petty flick to her nose. "Very well, but we must wait and see. What would you name her anyways."

The dark-haired girl shrugged. She didn't have any particular name in mind, but she was eager for the babe, mostly for it to be finally out of the way, because then her mother would be safe and well. She couldn't care less what the babe was called or what it was like if she was being honest. But if she really thought about it, she imagined her new sister would be compassionate and mellow like Aemma Arryn. Yes, their new sister would be just like their mother. 

Perhaps she might call her Elaena. She did not know where the name had come from, she had probably overheard it from someone, but it seemed fitting. A sweet name for a sweet girl. 

Another truth if she was being honest with herself. She did not want a brother. She knew her father desired one above all else, but she hoped it wouldn't be a boy. Boys turned out cruel sometimes, and she didn't want to think about her brother growing up to become a man like Willem Stokeworth. No, it was better not to have a brother at all, than to have one who was wicked and liked to hurt people, or worse, a drunken disgrace to their noble mother. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

In the heart of the godswood, sunlight seeped through a canopy thick with ancient leaves, splintering into flickering dapples that swayed over the dark, verdant boughs. The air lay heavy, rich with the damp breath of earth and bark, an oppressive shroud draped over Naerys's skin. She knew her sister sat far from her now, tucked into Alicent Hightower under the shade of the heart tree, yet laughter drifted as if carried by invisible tendrils through the air, thin and fleeting. Even at this distance, she could feel it; Naerys felt everything—the sighs of the old, knotted trees, groaning under the weight of years; the murmur of leaves stirring above and below; the faint, pulsing crawl of hidden life in the soil, churning and burrowing, their serpentine undulations echoing faintly in her blood, as if they writhed beneath her very skin. All of it mingled with the damp, sticky warmth that clung to her like another layer of fabric. Beneath her mourning gown— the cloth of midnight woven to bind her to the grief she ought to feel as a widow—the heat seeped through her pores. Her gauzy veil had been long discarded, likely claimed by some creature of the wood who found in its threads a new refuge.

But none of this dissuaded her. With her skirts hiked high above her knees, she clung fiercely to the rough bark of an ancient elm, feeling the branches stretch around her, their leafy fingers brushing her cheeks as she ducked below them. The dark wood scraped at her palms, tearing the skin, but she held on, eyes blazing with resolve as they fixed upon her quarry: a gaunt, hollow-eyed cat crouched just a branch away. It had in its jaws a small, downy creature—a bundle of fluff that quivered, letting out faint, fearful squawks.

Far below, the earth spun away beneath her; yet Naerys leaned forward, fingers outstretched as she bared her teeth in resolve, inching closer to the hissing creature and daring it to relinquish its prize.

From below came a sudden exclamation of her name, piercing through the quiet of the godswood, and Naerys's fingers slipped. In a startled flurry, she dropped her skirts, the fabric catching on the bark as her foot twisted precariously. Her stomach lurched as she nearly lost her footing, scrambling to throw her free arm around a higher branch, pressing her cheek tightly against the tree's rough trunk to steady herself. A second call echoed from below, this time sharper with concern, and she dared a glance down to find a head of familiar auburn hair catching the sunlight, the strands gleaming almost crimson. Her gaze met a weary, cerulean one that held an unmistakable shadow of worry. The recognition set her cheeks aflame, and she quickly turned her face back to the tree, the bark scraping her skin as if punishing her for her folly.

"Are you alright, princess? Do you need any help?" came Gwayne Hightower's voice, edged with urgency.

Naerys gave a quick shake of her head, her lips pressed together in stubborn silence.

"Are you quite sure? You look like you might need assistance."

But his voice startled the cat she had been stalking, sending it darting a few branches higher with a hiss. Naerys muttered a choice expletive under her breath—a word she'd heard flung around the Red Keep kitchens—before releasing a sigh of frustration. Then she gathered her skirts once more, planting her foot on the next branch and preparing to climb after her elusive prey, only for her intruder to interject again.

"Princess, you will fall. You must come down at once."

She flashed the older boy a glare, simmering with irritation. "I do not need coddling, Lord Hightower. I am in the middle of something rather important."

"Again with the formalities? I thought we were beyond this, princess. My father is the lord, not I." His mouth quirked in a half-smirk, as if suppressing laughter. "And what urgent matter might you be engaged in, that requires such daring?"

Her breath puffed with exasperation. "I'm trying to..." She waved her arm toward the cat, which sat crouched above her, its wary eyes narrowed as it watched her every move.

"Might I lend my assistance?" Gwayne offered, though humour still laced his tone.

"I doubt it. You would frighten her away."

"And you seem to be doing a fine job of enticing her?"

"Be silent!" the dark-haired girl snapped, but when she extended her hand again, the cat lashed out, claws raking across her fingers, before it leapt with a yowl toward freedom. 

"Princess!"

Naerys yelped, drawing her hand back to press it against her gown as she watched the cat bound downward, alarm flaring in her eyes. "Don't let it escape!"

Gwayne jolted at her request but, with a quick reflex, managed to reach down and scoop up the squirming creature before it could make its escape. He held the indignant thing in his arms, looking up at the princess with a questioning gaze, as if uncertain whether to laugh or to console her as he watched tears mist in her mismatched eyes and the flash of crimson welling in the lines of her palm.

Eventually, his amusement won, his expression turning into a more open grin. "Now, do you need help getting down?"

"I do not," Naerys huffed, still gripping her injured hand to her chest. Gwayne's expression made her cheeks flush all the deeper, but she kept her gaze on the cat—anything to avoid meeting his observant eyes.

"I must admit," the boy began again, "I never took you for the tree-climbing type. Or are you a knight in disguise, gallivanting about looking for those in need?"

"My sister is the knight," Naerys muttered, thinking of Rhaenyra's bold willful ways and her dreams of riding to battle in glory. "I am...not nearly as awe-inspiring."

"Oh, but you are. Who else would climb such treacherous heights to save a pitiful creature."

"It's hardly treacherous, my lord. The cat was about to eat that poor fledgling. And I didn't ask for your help."

Gwayne chuckled, adjusting his hold on the wriggling cat. "Ah, but had I not intervened, you'd be here all afternoon, hissing at her like a scorned spirit."

The princess flushed, giving him a cross look as she landed on the ground beside him and dusted off her skirts. "I was not hissing." She folded her arms, her lips pursed. "And if I was, it was only because it—" she pointed to the cat, now relaxed and blinking in the boy's arms— "decided my fingers looked like fine prey."

"It seems to like me just fine. The problem must lie in your approach."

"I did not—"

At her tempestuous intonation, Gwayne took a step backward, his grin widening. "Fear not, your bravery shall be sung about in ballads all the same."

Naerys glared at him. "I'll have you know it's better than sitting idly, as I'm sure some of us are accustomed to."

"You wound me, princess," the Hightower boy feigned a gasp. "I am quite capable of heroics when called upon. I just tend to avoid perching in trees and fighting clawed creatures when there's more reasonable ground beneath my feet. I am a rational young man after all."

"Rational? I doubt that's how anyone would describe you." She paused, looking up at him inquisitively. "How did you find me here in the first place?"

"I was looking for my sister," Gwayne began, attempting to hand her the cat, which immediately hissed and shrank back into his arms. "She often visits the godswood with the princess, but I seemed to have been... distracted by your cries for help."

"I was not calling for help!"

Undeterred by his jabs, Naerys stood on her tiptoes, reaching for the small, feathered bundle clamped between the cat's jaws. After a few tries, she managed to pry the creature free, cupping it in her hands with furrowed brows as she brought it close, examining its delicate form with intense scrutiny.

Her companion tilted his head, watching her carefully. "Are you quite alright?"

"I am. But I'm not quite sure about her."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Her?"

"Yes, her," Naerys replied, her tone unyielding. "She's hurt, but I wouldn't know how to fix her. Perhaps I should take her to Mother."

"Or you might take her to the aviary instead. The keepers there could help."

"Will they know how to fix her?"

The older boy hesitated, not wanting to dash her hopes even when it was apparent that the creature would not survive long. "They look after all sorts of birds there," explained. "From the ravens that carry messages to the king's own hunting birds. Surely they'd know."

It seemed convincing enough and Naerys turned on her heel, before she was stopped by another one of his inquiries as he called after her.

"And where exactly are you going?"

She looked back, eyes clear and almost scolding, as if the answer should have been obvious. "To find Nyra, of course. I don't know where the aviary is. How would I know where to go?"

Gwayne snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "I could accompany you, if you wish. To make up for... not rescuing you from the tree earlier. No need to bother the princess, or my sister for that matter."

Naerys glanced away, suddenly hesitant. She too did not wish to interrupt her sister's time with Alicent, knowing how particularly fond she was of their moments of solitude, but to intrude upon Gwayne's time seemed even worse. At least Rhaenyra could be bribed with candied lemon slices and sweet cakes. 

Gwayne shrugged with an easy smile as if he sensed her denial before she even uttered it. "It's not as though I have anything more productive to do with my afternoon. It would be my honour."

 "If... if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, Lord Hightower."

"Only if you stop calling me by my father's title, princess."

As they wove through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep and into the sunlit courtyard on the other side, the quietness between them deepened, and with it, Naerys's thoughts returned in waves, filling the spaces where her words had gone silent. It was strange—how easy conversation had been back in the godswood, where only the trees and leaves bore witness to her. Now, with the bustling halls around them and courtly eyes flitting their way, she felt her mouth dry up.

Each time a maid or a young noblewoman passed, there came a chorus of giggles, whispers that floated past her in delicate fragments, as though she were the unwelcome curiosity in their gaze. She couldn't help but notice how Gwayne drew their attention, his striking charm weaving him effortlessly into the hearts of those who found his occasional presence at court a rare treat. He cradled the cat still, a protective arm beneath its form, and the sight of him—so gentle and determined—drew eager eyes and laughter, luring one lady after another, each stopping to pet the cat and exchange light banter.

Naerys tried to make herself small, but she felt conspicuous at his side, an ugly contrast in the periphery of his grace. He was all smooth elegance, and each person he greeted received his good-natured jests, leaving them with cheeks pink and sighs barely concealed. Unlike his sister, he did not live year-round in the capital; Oldtown had nurtured him for most of his life. He was a rarity in King's Landing, and his allure spread like fire through the court's gossip-hungry halls.

And she, was... what, exactly? A bastard girl draped in the colours of mourning, following along like an afterthought, an invisible shadow trailing a young lord too kind to leave her behind.

She knew she should not care, should not dwell on her inadequacies, but her mind gnawed at her, unwilling to release her from the endless loop of self-doubt. She glanced at Gwayne again, catching a side-long view of his concerned expression when he looked at her. For a brief moment, her chest ached, for there had been a time when that might have inspired in her something close to hope. She had indulged in a childish affection for him, entertained the fantasy of kind words and glances, but now, all her hopes felt faded, snuffed out like candles in the sept that had been left too long unattended.

An ugly little mongrel. 

That is what Willem Stokeworth had called her. And why would Gwayne think differently? He was a man. Why would he ever look beyond her birth? And gods forbid he found out what she really was? A murderer with monstrous appetites. 

The whispers and laughter of passing ladies only reinforced her belief. Why would he see her, a lowly bastard, as anything more than an obligation, a duty to the crown and nothing more? Surely, his presence here was just altruism, a polite escort that she would mistake for something else only to be reminded of her foolishness later. She clasped her hands tightly, fingers curling against the delicate bones of the bird she held, bracing herself against the hollowness growing in her chest.

Focus on the bird, she told herself.

A voice cut through Naerys's reverie. "You seem to be in a hurry to leave me behind."

Startled, she turned back to see that, somewhere along their walk, she had strode ahead without noticing, her steps brisk, almost as if an unconscious eagerness to put distance between them had taken over her. Now, Gwayne trailed a few paces behind, though he quickly closed the gap, his gaze steady, a small smile playing on his lips as he asked, "Trying to run away again?"

Caught off guard, Naerys could only shrug, her composure wavering when he reached for her hand. She felt her breath hitch, the warmth of his touch against her wounded palm too intimate, too much, and she pulled her hand back swiftly, tucking it beneath her sleeve as if it had burned. She barely registered the flicker of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it, only to reach calmly into his pocket and retrieve his handkerchief.

"Your hand is still bleeding," he noted insistently. "If you won't see a maester for it, you should at least keep it clean. Who knows where your bird has been?"

Wide-eyed, the princess looked up at him, startled but reluctant, her injured hand remaining hidden beneath the folds of her dress. With a sigh of mild exasperation, the boy crouched down, gingerly preparing to set the cat on the ground, only to hear her urgent plea.

"Don't let it go!"

He straightened, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh? And why is that?"

"It...needs to be taken care of too," she murmured, casting her gaze downward. "After. It's probably hungry."

With a chuckle, Gwayne shrugged, then reached up to lift the creature to his shoulder, where it perched comfortably, its tail swaying in time with his stride. With ginger fur that was a dull imitation of the boy's own auburn curls, the sight was so absurd that Naerys couldn't help a timid giggle.

Gwayne caught the sound, eyes brightening, and without a word, he extended his hand to her once more, expectant. "Well, come on, then?"

"I'm fine!"

Her companion's eyes narrowed playfully as he feigned deep seriousness. "You know, the maesters of Oldtown once treated a man with infected blood. A gruesome sight. His entire body swelled up—turned the colour of a dead fish." His lips twitched as he fought against laughter. "I'm afraid you might suffer the same fate, if you don't let me wrap it up."

Though he exaggerated, he saw his words sink in as intended, and Naerys's hand shot out immediately. With great precision, he took her scratched palm and began to wrap it in the silken cloth, his fingers working with a practiced delicacy. It was easier to busy himself with this task, all the while pretending not to notice the bruised knuckles or the crooked fingers.

They troubled him, as did the silence that accompanied them, but he could hardly imagine someone intentionally hurting the reserved princess. Perhaps it had been an accident—a fall, or some mishap she was too stubborn to admit. Yet, there was a hesitation in her every movement, a trepidation colouring their interactions that had not been there before on his previous visits to King's Landing.

Just as his fingers finished securing the makeshift bandage, Naerys pulled her hand away, her fingertips leaving his hold as if his touch had become suddenly unbearable. Before he could speak, she had already turned, striding ahead, her slight figure moving quickly enough that he had to jog to catch up.

Gwayne watched her with a mixture of amusement and concern. There was something both endearing and puzzling about the way she kept her distance, that hesitant shyness as she skittered forward, avoiding his touch as if it could turn her to smoke. He didn't mind it, but he wished she would linger just a moment longer, if only to reassure himself that her injury was nothing more than the incidental clumsiness of a child. He would ask his sister about the matter, for surely she would know. 

Hours later in the late afternoon glow, the queen's chambers were awash in a mellow, golden haze. Shadows from the tall, arched windows crept across the floor, mingling with the tapestry of flowers and broken stems that lay scattered around Naerys like remnants of a sunlit meadow. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed petals—primroses and lilies, with an occasional hint of lavender where stems had broken under her weaving hands.

The girl herself sat cross-legged, her brow furrowed as she bent over her work, fingers steady but lined with tiny red pricks from the stubborn thorns. The crown of flowers in her hands was a tangle of yellows and reds, and the green silk handkerchief tied around her left hand caught her eye now and then, sparking a quiet thrill that she tried her best to quell. 

The calm of her task was broken only by the heavy weight of the tabby cat sprawled across her lap with all the contented ease of one who owned the place. It had finally taken a liking to her after a visit to the kitchens and, smitten with her offered scraps, had followed her ever since. The day's other creature—the little bird she had attempted to care for—was back in the aviary now, much to her chagrin, but the keepers had insisted that she could not possibly care for a fledgling falcon all on her own. 

It had brought her a measure of joy to learn that the chick was a falcon—a creature of her mother's bloodline. At Aemma's insistence, a dragon egg had once been set in Naerys's cradle as a babe like a dormant promise—a symbol of the power she was supposed to awaken, to become. But it never hatched. It had remained lifeless, as though it, too, saw her as something less than worthy of her father's blood. A hidden truth she carried, an unspoken shame. She was no dragon, only a girl of fragile roots and clipped wings, bound to the Targaryen name by lineage but unwelcomed by its fire.

But if the little falcon could learn to trust her, perhaps she could be an Arryn, like her mother. Each day she would visit the bird in the aviary, she decided, and let it know her face, so that it too would claim her as its own as Syrax had claimed Rhaenyra. Then she might belong—if not to the fire, then to the sky in some way. 

Above her, the queen reclined on her chaise, watching her daughter with a lazy smile as her maids fussed around her, plumping cushions and tidying her skirts. She stretched languidly, the gentle swish of her gown blending with the sound of fanning feathers as she let her gaze fall on Naerys.

"Sit up, child." She tapped her shoulder. "Don't hunch like that. You'll give yourself a crooked back, and believe me when I tell you, back pain is quite a nuisance."

But Naerys only curled down further, determined to master the two recalcitrant stalks in her hand, as if sheer willpower could coax them into place. "I've got it, Mother," she mumbled, biting her lip.

"Would you like me to help?"

"You'll hurt yourself. The thorns are quite prickly. I'll make you another one if you like—if you've not had enough already."

Aemma lifted the overflowing pile of flower crowns in her lap with a theatrical sigh. "If you make me any more, Naerys, I fear I shall drown in them." She laughed, a light sound like bells.

Naerys rolled her eyes, unable to hide her grin. "You would not, Mother."

"I very well might."

Before the girl could reply, the tabby in her lap stirred, stretching out with a satisfied purr that pushed its paws right into the crown she'd been weaving, tumbling the petals into disarray. The sight was so absurdly sweet that Naerys couldn't even muster irritation. She scooped up the cat instead, cradling it against her chest as it nestled into her, eyes half-shut with sleepy contentment. It was still very lean, and she could feel its bones shift beneath its skin. She would need to feed it more. 

The queen's gaze softened as she watched. "Might you let me finish that for you, dearest? Or else you'll never complete it in time."

Naerys laughed, glancing down at the wrinkled, half-crushed creation in her hands. "The tourney is tomorrow, isn't it? I have until then, if only this creature would let me be."

Her new charge simply yawned, its paw draped lazily across her lap as if it had every intention of staying put. 

The door creaked, and Naerys looked up to see her sister slip into the room, a familiar brightness in her eyes as she tiptoed carefully across the foliage-strewn floor. Rhaenyra moved with her usual tenacity and took a seat by their mother's feet on the chaise, gathering her hand with a playful squeeze. Behind her, Alicent lingered in the doorway, dark hair framing her face. She inclined her head politely to the queen but kept her distance, a hesitant reserve that set her apart from the others. Still, Rhaenyra's presence was enough to bring liveliness to the air.

"And what have you two been up to all morning?" the princess asked. 

Aemma smiled indulgently. "Your sister has been making garlands for the tourney," she said, gesturing to the growing pile on the floor.

"Oh? Is that so?"

Naerys nodded, setting aside her sleepy tabby and rising to carefully select one of her finished projects—a wreath of yellow primroses and lavender—and walked toward Alicent. Her dress shed a trail of petals as she walked, leaving a floral path in her wake, and the Hightower girl looked taken aback when Naerys offered it to her. Her eyes widened briefly before she accepted it with sincere gratitude, running her fingers over the lavender blooms before her gaze drifted to the princess's hand, noting the handkerchief wrapped around it and recognizing the Hightower sigil embroidered on the fabric.

"Oh, did you hurt yourself?" she inquired.

Naerys's cheeks flushed as she shook her head hastily. "It is nothing."

Alicent studied her for a moment longer, a gentle worry lingering in her expression. "Are you quite sure?"

The princess nodded, glancing away. "Don't tell Nyra."

She dreaded her older sister's reaction, still remembering the commotion she had made about her broken fingers. She could be fiercely protective, and Naerys didn't want her fussing any more than she already did. Alicent nodded in understanding, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.

"I shall pray for you," she consoled in a whisper meant only for her. "May the gods grant you recovery."

Meanwhile, Naerys's tabby, evidently feeling neglected, padded over to Rhaenyra and began pawing at the hem of her dress. The Targaryen princess let out a delighted laugh and bent down, scooping up the creature with gentle hands to examine it, tracing a finger over its soft fur as the cat purred in contentment.

"And who is this little mischief-maker?" 

Naerys shrugged. "He has no name as of yet."

"Well then, we should give him one together. Let us put your High Valyrian to the test, shall we? See how you've been faring with your lessons."

A good-natured huff escaped the younger girl as she returned to her spot on the floor, and the cat leapt from Rhaenyra's lap back to Naerys, curling up on her dress with a possessive purr, as though it had chosen its true home. 

"So...where's mine, sister?"

"Where's your what?"

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at her feigned ignorance. "Where's my garland? If Alicent gets one, I assume you made one for me too."

"Still working on it," Naerys explained sheepishly, showing her the mess of red marigolds and roses that had come undone. 

"And yours? Don't tell me you didn't think of making one for yourself?"

"I did, but it's not for the tourney."

"Oh? What else could it be for then?"

Naerys pointed at their mother's head which was crowned with a circlet of pink and blue—peonies and forget-me-nots. 

"That's not a favour," Rhaenyra declared.

"Yes, it is," her sister argued. "Favours are for luck, so I give mine to Mother so she can have all my luck,

"That is not how it works, Naerys."

"How would you know?"

"I just do!"

"And besides, what else would I need a favour for?" Naerys scoffed. "It's not like anyone's going to ask for it."

"Naerys you never know—"

"And I won't be going! It'll be too hot and bothersome for Mother to attend, and I can't leave her."

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to refute her claim, but then thought better of it, recalling her reason for venturing into her mother's chambers in the first place. 

"Did you sleep?" she demanded, fixing the queen with an admonishing look.

"Yes, Rhaenyra, I slept."

"How long?"

"I don't need mothering from my own daughters," Aemma protested. "Naerys here does enough, always hovering."

Rhaenyra nodded in approval at her younger sister. "Well, who else will hover if not us? All your attendants only focus on the babe. Even father, all he can talk about is his new heir. Someone has to attend to you."

"Naerys makes sure I sleep. Why the silly girl never lets me out of her sight"

"As she should." Rhaenyra reached out to tug on a lock of her sister's unbound hair, and the younger girl ducked away with a scowl. 

"Don't touch my hair!" 

Rhaenyra gave her a wink and waved her hands in the air, scissoring her fingers to mimic the motion of a pair of shears, at which her sister scooted even further away. 

"Do not tease your sister, Rhaenyra." Aemma nudged the girl with her foot. "And do not make too big a fuss over me. It is simply the way of things. You will lie in this bed soon enough. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

A muscle in Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as she shook her head resolutely. "I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle in glory."

"The childbed is our battlefield, darling girl."

Naerys's hands stilled at their words. She was not Rhaenyra, not built for the grand, roaring battles that her sister fantasized about. But she was also not made for the sort of war her mother described. That battlefield was even more foreign to her, a place she refused to call her own, for she had long known that path wasn't meant for her. 

She remembered watching her mother grow heavy and weary with each child that never lived, her once-familiar form changing, the lines of her face etched deeper with each pregnancy. She would swell until she was a stranger to herself, her body pushed to the very edge of what it could bear. She'd heard her cries echoing through the halls, and watched her waddle, gasping for air and wincing with each step. She had seen the blotches and discolorations that appeared like some creeping illness and the hair that fell out in clumps, seemingly lost forever to the toll of bringing forth a child. 

The labour itself was a nightmare she could hardly fathom. The whole castle always held its breath when the time came, and she remembered the bloody stains on the sheets, the hollow eyes of the queen when it was over—an expression emptied of strength, emptied of peace as the Silent Sisters were summoned to prepare another who had not survived. The whole scene was monstrous to her, raw and violent, nothing like the tranquil image the septas liked to spin of maternal sacrifice. 

No, Naerys knew she wanted nothing to do with it. She'd rather be left as she was, unbothered and complete. Even the thought of a child after birth, with its endless crying, its need to be coddled and soothed at all hours, repulsed her. She knew she could never endure sleepless nights rocking an inconsolable babe, nor did she want tiny, grasping hands clawing at her, demanding every ounce of her time and patience. It was hypocritical of her perhaps—Fei had said she had been an unsettled child prone to fits of shrieking—but Aemma Arryn was a saint for putting up with her. Naerys was not a saint. 

The thought of her own skin stretched too tightly over her bones, her belly rounding out like some grotesque fruit, her veins darkening and rising up along her limbs, bloated and unnatural, was horrific, and the idea of a growing life consuming her from the inside made her shudder. It was as if she'd be surrendering her own form, her identity, her very self, to something that demanded all her strength and left her empty once it clawed out of her.

At least her husband was dead, releasing her from the looming expectation of motherhood. Perhaps now she would be left in peace, spared from whispers of heirs and the burdens of the cradle. She just wanted to be happy and free. She just wanted her mother to be happy and free.

"We have royal wombs, you and I," Aemma continued, oblivious to her younger daughter's inner turmoil. 

"Only you and I?" Rhaenyra scrutinized her choice of words and the queen stilled. "Not Naerys?"

Aemma looked down at the dark-haired girl, her eyes narrowed in perusal, and it unnerved Naerys. Could she see inside her head? Could she pick her way through the mess that was her mind and decipher her vile thoughts? Did she know that she had committed even worse actions? Did her mother no longer love her? Had she finally grown sick of her?

Although Aemma Arryn could not penetrate her daughter's thoughts, she knew something seemed to be bothering her, something she refused to share and it saddened her. Perhaps after the babe came and she was in a better state of rest, she would pry it out of her, but for now she could only pat her head in a gesture of maternal comfort, offering what she could even with the secrets between them. 

"Yes, well I suppose Naerys too," she conceded in response to Rhaenyra's question. "But you know how she is. She has no mind for such things."

"Well, neither do I!"

"Perhaps you might break the news to your father then, if you feel that strongly about it," the queen advised. "Now go take a bath before you attend his council meeting. You stink of dragon"

Rhaenyra threw up her hands in exasperation before standing to stretch her arms above her head. "Look after Mother, Naerys," she warned, shaking a finger in her sister's face sternly, which Naerys swatted away. 

"I always do, Nyra. Now go, before Father reprimands you about your constant tardiness."

Chapter Text

106 AC

Naerys lay adrift on her bed, limbs sprawled wide and head tipped back over the edge so her unbound hair spilled like an inky river toward the floor. She had been this way for over an hour, suspended in a strange, almost trancelike silence, the blood pooling in her skull until her pulse throbbed at her temples. She felt it, deep and steady, pressing behind her eyes in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat, a distant reminder of the world around her. And yet, she remained still, neither opening her eyes nor shifting from her place. She was listening.

The sounds crept around her from every corner, and even though her mind drifted in and out of focus, she could sense them, woven into the air like gossamer threads too fine to touch but impossible to ignore. They had revealed themselves only since her return from Stokeworth—a cacophony that seemed to rise from the stone walls themselves, faint murmurs from distant places that somehow reached her in these quiet chambers. She couldn't precisely hear them, not as one might listen to a conversation or a song. No, it was more like the way she was aware of her own pulse, the gentle hum of her blood through her veins.

Below, the kitchen maids shuffled about with brisk, precise movements as they prepared for the tourney's accompanying feast, their footsteps like whispers against the cold stones. The maesters were somewhere too, their murmurs barely there but laced with concern as they fussed over the angry, spreading sores that mottled her father's skin. Then, farther off in the depths of the Red Keep, her mother lay restless in her bed. Naerys could feel the low rustle of bedclothes, an erratic sound like a brush of air just past her ear. The sounds curled around her, half-phantom, half-real, filling her with a strange, prickling awareness that seemed to be growing stronger each day. Fei said that she had to learn how to tune them out or she'd never be able to function properly, but the woman had not elaborated further on how exactly Naerys was meant to accomplish such an impossible task. 

Still, none of it compared to the creature—no sound was as bad as the creature's had been, and she foolishly hoped that if he hadn't made himself known for so long, he would stay away forever.

It was the morning of the tourney, a grand event to celebrate the new babe—a brother, if the gods had listened to any of the fervent prayers that rose from every corner of the realm. Naerys had no intention of attending, despite her sister's cajoling, despite the promises of marvels on the field and talk of Alicent's brother's rumoured prowess. She already knew what folly would await her there, knew better than to stir her own mind with illusions it could not afford. No, she would not fall prey to that today. Her place was beside her mother.

But the sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. She knew it was Rhaenyra long before her sister's shadow stretched across the chamber floor. With a sweep of motion and a grin too broad for such an early hour, the Targaryen girl burst through the door, her arms laden with silks and a determined gleam in her eye, as if she already knew how the day would unfold. The door swung wide, the clang echoing in the quiet of the room, and Naerys winced, the cacophony of sounds now crowded by her sister's radiant energy. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, as though closing herself to the older girl's entrance might somehow make her disappear, but Rhaenyra was undeterred. She leaned forward at the waist, coming level with Naerys's face that dangled off the bed. Naerys felt her resolve falter and cracked her eyes open, just a fraction, to find Rhaenyra filling her vision with all the radiance of a rising sun.

The Targaryen was already dressed, her crimson gown vivid and opulent in the early light, glowing like a ruby against the muted walls. Even at this early hour, she seemed prepared for the day's festivities, her expression eager, and her smile spread wider as she caught Naerys's eye, holding up a gown of pale blue with a flourish.

From the doorway, one of the maidservants—a sombre, older woman Rhaenyra had swept along in her exuberance—spoke up condescendingly. "The princess cannot wear that. She is still in mourning."

The girl's eyes flicked sideways, and she rolled them theatrically. "My sister has been draped in those dull gowns all week. A little colour will brighten her, and besides, Mother will like it, too." She turned back to Naerys with a wink. "I told the seamstress to make you something new for the tourney when she came to take my measurements a few weeks ago."

"You couldn't possibly have known I'd attend," Naerys finally murmured, though her gaze lingered on the dress despite herself.

"Oh, nonsense! As if even your scum of a husband could keep you from Father's tourney. Of course, I knew you'd attend. And it's in your favourite colour!" She lifted the dress higher, letting it catch the light, and her grin softened into something almost pleading. "Please, Naerys. At least try it on. Just let me see how it looks. I had a very specific vision of you in mind, at least let me see it realized."

Naerys frowned, but the pull of her sister's petitions was a force she could seldom resist, and with a resigned nod, she allowed Rhaenyra to help her to her feet, already aware that resistance was futile. The entourage of maids the older princess had brought with her sprang into action, each one as orchestrated by Rhaenyra's whim as puppets on strings. They poked and prodded, tightened and loosened until Naerys was lifted from her cocoon of grief and draped in elegance. It felt strange—wrong, even—to be wearing anything but the sombre reflection of her crime, but Rhaenyra's excitement was relentless, her hands fluttering about like a conductor guiding a grand symphony.

As her sister finally stepped back to survey her work, Naerys caught sight of herself in the mirror, and she barely recognized the person who stared back. Rhaenyra always dressed to command attention, with diamonds glittering on her bodice, her attire a cascade of rich jewel-toned velvets and intricate Myrish lace. But the gown she had chosen for Naerys was thankfully far less flamboyant, and more to her tastes. 

It was a deep robin's egg blue, inspired by one of their mother's beloveds from years past, a style she had worn before her most recent pregnancy forced it back into storage. The neckline was a modest, raised collar of white lace, crafted to mirror the graceful lines of Rhaenyra's own, and the silk sleeves tapered at the wrists, their edges embroidered with opalescent seed pearls. The bodice was adorned with subtle but intricate embroidery in silver threads, trailing like ivy across the fabric, and the skirt flowed freely, layers of diaphanous fabric giving the dress an airy quality that swayed with each step, faintly reminiscent of springtime.

For the first time in weeks, Naerys felt less like a creature and more like a girl. 

Her hair had been braided and wound around her head in a similar style to her sister's, the crown of dark plaits exposing her errant eyes, making her flinch away from the reflection, her gaze landing instead on Rhaenyra's necklace. Raising an eyebrow, she turned to face her sister with a knowing look.

The older princess, sensing her curiosity, instinctively raised a hand to her neck, fingers brushing over the trinket. Then she huffed, "You can't borrow it!"

"Now I certainly must, seeing how you're so attached to it."

"Naerys!" 

The girl only chuckled, though her curiosity was piqued. She was certain the necklace was new. As sisters, they shared a habit of rifling through each other's things, and she was sure she'd never seen this piece before. It was beautiful—a design of interlocking circular disks, with silvery ripples etched into each one, like drops of water frozen mid-motion—telltale signs of Valyrian Steel.

Rhaenyra turned to the maids, waving them away until they slipped quietly from the room, and as soon as they were alone, the confident smirk she had worn shifted into something shy and half-bashful, a rare expression that incited curiosity within Naerys. 

"Which eager yet foolish man has bequeathed you a token of his affection this time, sister?" she asked, her tone half-mocking, half-amused. She could only assume it was another knight or a young squire, all hoping for a chance to claim even a sliver of Rhaenyra Targaryen's goodwill.

But her sister's voice dropped to a whisper. "I know what you're thinking, but it was no knight or squire this time."

"Then pray tell, who was it?"

"Uncle has returned to King's Landing," Rhaenyra revealed with a glint of satisfaction, a secret pleasure she could barely keep contained.

"That does not answer my question—wait is he the one who—"

But the older girl pressed on, eager to forestall further questioning. "He brought you something as well." From the folds of her dress, she withdrew a jewelled pin—a falcon wrought from dark, gleaming metal, its wings unfurled as if frozen mid-flight and feathers inlaid with tiny sapphires.

Naerys's eyes widened, her breath catching. "You cannot be serious."

"Oh, I am. Perhaps you might thank him the next time he graces us with his presence."

The girl stared at the opulent gift, feeling a surge of disbelief; such a grand token seemed far too ceremonious for one such as her, but Rhaenyra, undeterred, simply fastened the ornament to the front of her gown. 

Naerys found herself unsure of what to think about their uncle, and she realized, with a faint pang of embarrassment, that she didn't really know him at all—she could hardly remember ever speaking to him directly. He was courteous enough to their mother, and undeniably kind to Rhaenyra, who harboured for him the sort of childishly unnoticed affection she recognized. 

It seemed to her that Daemon was...well, alright, though her father seemed endlessly vexed with him, perpetually simmering with some silent irritation whenever his name arose. But wasn't that just the way of siblings? She and Rhaenyra certainly knew how to annoy each other well enough.

And yet, the present was puzzling. He had always brought novelties when he returned to the Red Keep, one for each of the two sisters, though there was one curious difference. Rhaenyra's gifts seemed carefully chosen—elegant, glittering pieces of jewelry that reflected her tastes and demands, but Naerys's had always seemed more...absentminded. Odd little tokens, as if selected in a hurry or with the notion that she was still the squalling babe his brother had brought home from distant shores. It was as though, in his mind, she had not truly aged, her growth frozen at a stage he barely recalled, or maybe it was because she did not make demands like her sister did, and in that way, he knew as little of her as she did of him. 

That was why the falcon was an odd choice. Did he somehow sense her quiet yearning to integrate herself fully into her mother's bloodline, and had granted her a symbol of her house? Or was it something less flattering—a jest at her dubious heritage?

"He knows of your fondness for birds," Rhaenyra muttered, breaking through her musings. "Told me to congratulate you on your newfound freedom."

At that, Naerys's lips twisted ever so slightly, a hint of bitterness at the mention of her so-called freedom and the unspeakable acts she had committed to achieve it. Yet she remained silent as Rhaenyra tucked away errant hairs and smoothed her hands over the folds of her skirts, her gaze sharp and appraising, until finally she stepped back with a satisfied nod, proud of her work.

"You're ready for the day now," she affirmed brightly. Placing her hands on Naerys's shoulders, she steered her toward the door. "Come, let us go show Mother. She will adore it."

For a fleeting moment, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls her sister used to dress and play with as children, moulded to Rhaenyra's liking and paraded about. But somehow, she didn't mind. She cherished being the sole object of her older sister's attention, yet, a selfish, sudden fear flickered in her heart—what if, when the new babe arrived, this closeness faded? What if her sister's affections drifted toward the child, the true-blooded sibling?

The thought unsettled her, and she held Rhaenyra's arm just a little tighter as they walked, clinging with a quiet desperation she could scarcely name.

In the queen's chambers, Aemma Arryn reclined against a cascade of pillows, the morning's exhaustion etched faintly on her face. Yet, the sight of her daughters bursting in without a knock lit her weary features with a serene smile. Before Naerys could scramble onto the bed in her usual impetuous way, Rhaenyra caught her by the arm and yanked her back with an exasperated sigh.

"Stay still!" she commanded, brushing a hand down the girl's dress to smooth out invisible creases, her lips pursed with irritation.

Naerys simply hummed in nonchalance, her cheeks bulging as she chewed on the remnants of stolen treats from the kitchens while Rhaenyra swatted at her, dusting away the few stray crumbs with a glare.

"Honestly, you're impossible," she muttered before hauling her closer to the bed where their mother watched bemused. Once they were before Aemma, Rhaenyra spun her sister in a dizzying circle, her hands firm on her shoulders as she announced, "Mother, doesn't she look marvellous? No more of those drab tablecloths for her."

Aemma chuckled at her daughter's dramatic flair and nodded indulgently. "You've done well, Rhaenyra. She is lovely."

Her smile grew as she reached out a hand, and Naerys eagerly broke away from her sister's grasp to take it, climbing onto the bed as if seeking sanctuary. Aemma's fingers then brushed over her cheeks, where the faint bulge betrayed her hoarded snack, and with a giggle, she pressed her thumbs into the little swell.

"Swallow, sweet girl, or you'll choke," she chided, brushing crumbs from her lips. "We don't want you getting sick today."

Naerys grinned, puckering her mouth in mock defiance as she finished chewing, then swallowed with a pronounced gulp. She sat back, pouting for effect. "Nyra didn't let me have breakfast!"

"There's no time for breakfast," Rhaenyra snapped, folding her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. "We must be at the tourney field immediately. Don't you want to see everyone come out?"

"I do not!"

"You have to. I told Alicent we'd meet her."

"Then you go meet her," Naerys said with a shrug, nestling closer to their mother.

"Naerys, stop being childish!" 

Aemma snorted, her mirth spilling over in a quiet laugh. "Your sister is a child."

"She's too spoiled," Rhaenyra grumbled, rolling her eyes. "You coddle her far too much."

Naerys beamed mischievously and wrapped her arms around their mother, sticking her tongue out at her older sister. "Mother enjoys it, don't you, Mother?"

Rhaenyra's expression twisted into a sneer, and she mimicked her in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice, drawing out each word with theatrical disdain.

The queen shook her head as she patted her youngest child on the back. "Enough, girls. Rhaenyra, stop teasing your sister, and Naerys, behave."

Nonetheless, Naerys's impish delight remained undimmed. "See, Mother sides with me."

"I am surrounded by traitors!"

"No one is betraying you, Nyra. You are being dramatic."

"I am not!"

Aemma nudged her daughter gently, urging her off the bed. "Don't you girls have a tourney to attend?"

Naerys shook her head. "I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay here with you."

"It is you who is coddling me now. I can spend a few hours by myself, my love."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed immediately, her gaze flickering to her mother's face, concern writ plain in her eyes. "She's right. Maybe we should stay with you. What if the babe comes today?"

The queen beamed through the faintest clench of her teeth, her hand drifting instinctively to her rounded belly. She could feel the babe stirring, shifting heavily within her, a reminder that the maesters had declared the time was near—any day now—but she refused to burden her daughters with such thoughts, especially not today. This day was meant for their enjoyment, for laughter and revelry, not worry and waiting.

"You will return from the tourney," she stated firmly, "and I will still be here. So go, my darlings, and have a good time on my behalf. You know how I adore a tourney, so enjoy it for me. And when you return, you must tell me everything. Who came out victorious, who competed against whom, all of it. I want every detail."

"Can't you just come with us?" Naerys's glower deepened. 

"Don't be silly, sister," Rhaenyra cut in with the imperious tone of an older sibling. "She can't be out in the stands, in the heat, in her condition. She needs to rest."

"You sound like Father!"

The older girl's mouth opened, a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but their mother lifted a hand to cut her off. "Enough arguing, girls. You're giving me a headache. I will be just fine. The two of you don't need to keep your eyes on me at all hours of the day."

"I'm still not leaving," Naerys refuted stubbornly.

Aemma softened, leaning down to press three tender kisses to her temple before beckoning Rhaenyra closer to do the same to her. "My brave, beautiful girls. My sun and moon, the two of you are."

And it was true, especially as she scrutinized them now—both dressed in matching updos, their features set in identical, petulant scowls—she could not help but marvel at how similar they appeared, despite looking nothing alike. 

"Take care of each other, won't you?" she began with an unexpected note of gravity. "Be good to one another. Be kind, be honest, be loyal. Do not argue, and do not let the world come between you. You must be each other's greatest support. If you have ever loved me, then you must love each other most, no matter what."

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, the weight of her mother's words scraping a wound open in her chest, raw and ugly. What had begun as a lighthearted morning had suddenly turned sombre, the gravity of the queen's impending labour settling like a shadow over them all, and no one understood better than her eldest daughter, the danger each of her pregnancies presented. 

Perhaps Naerys was right. Perhaps they should forgo the tourney and stay here, curled up in their mother's bed. Surely she wouldn't mind their presence, even if it meant delaying her rest. Surely each moment spent in her company before the babe arrived to distract her from them would be a moment well spent, and their father couldn't very well contest their reasoning. 

But as Rhaenyra wrestled with the thought, Aemma forced her lips into one final smile, her hands nudging her daughters toward the door even when every part of her screamed to drag them back, to crush them against her breast and bind them there, as if by sheer force of will she could fuse their flesh to hers once more. If it came to it, she might have swallowed them whole, burying them under her skin, encasing them in the viscera that had first nurtured their lives. There was no safer haven for a child than the cradle of its mother's womb. Even her lost babes, stilled before their first breaths, had been untouched by the world's cruelty until they were plucked from her, lifeless and small, offered up as empty shells for her king's ambition.

Her daughters were hers in every sense of the word. Their blood was her blood, even when it was not; their very existence had once been carved from her own body, and as the babe within her twisted and kicked, she knew in the marrow of her bones what the maesters had only guessed: today was the day. The child in her belly would demand its due, tearing through her like a blade through flesh, and she could only pray it wouldn't be the world's next casualty.

"Go now, my loves. Your father will want you by his side on such an important day, and I shall be right here waiting for you when you return."

But as they walked to the door, their steps reluctant, the sight clawed at her like talons raking across her ribs. The air between them was thick with finality, as if unseen hands were wrenching them from her grasp, leaving her raw and exposed, and their silent acquiescence was worse than screams, each step scraping through her tender, beating heart.

I will not see them again. 

The thought came unbidden, curdling in her mind like milk left too long in the sun, putrid and choking, impossible to ignore. She tried to swallow it, tried to dismiss it as the paranoia of a woman heavy with child, but the feeling rooted itself far too deeply. 

She was afraid. She was so deeply afraid. For them, and for herself. 

As the door closed behind them, the room felt hollow, emptied, as though they had carried pieces of her very soul away with them, and the babe inside her writhed with wilder frenzy, a reminder of the toll her body was soon to pay. Blood would be spilled before the day was done, and whether it would be hers, her child's, or both, she did not know. Only one certainty remained—she had sent her girls away to spare them the carnage, but the ache in her chest was as agonizing as any open wound.

"Stop pulling me, I'm coming," Naerys whined, dragging her feet in resistance as Rhaenyra stormed ahead, her hand a firm anchor around her wrist, tugging her toward the tourney grounds. 

The older princess halted abruptly, turning back to fix her with a knowing glare. "You're not," she countered. "The moment I let go of your hand, you'll run back to Mother."

"I will not!" 

"Do not lie. Lying is a sin." Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Alicent who trailed behind them with her brother, imploring her with a tilt of her head. "Tell her, Alicent. Tell my sister that the gods shall punish her if she tells lies."

Alicent raised a hand to hide a smirk. "You must not use the gods in your petty quarrels, Rhaenyra."

"And besides," Gwayne added with a wink, his eyes darting between the two sisters like a spectator at a game, "you never know when they might be listening."

"Surely the gods have nothing better to do if they are listening to our conversations," Naerys muttered plaintively as she tried to wrestle away from Rhaenyra. "I feel ill, Nyra. I think I ought to lie down."

"You feel ill because you swallowed five sweetcakes without chewing," her sister retorted. "I told you to slow down."

"You did not! You told me to hurry up."

"I didn't mean for you to make yourself sick. Come now, Father will be expecting us. We are expected to attend."

"He will be expecting you, not me."

Sensing the weight of the moment, Alicent attempted a gentle interjection. "Perhaps one of the participants will ask for your favour," she coaxed. "Won't that be fun?"

"No, thank you," Naerys replied bluntly. "I do not care for knights, and I hate the sun. I want to sleep."

Rhaenyra grinned, a teasing glint in her eye. "Alicent is right. Someone might catch your fancy. And who knows? They might even ask you to dance at the feast tonight, but how would they do that if you don't attend the tourney? You must give them the chance to see you."

"I do not like dancing either, makes my feet hurt."

"You just haven't found someone you'd enjoy it with."

"Mother said she would after she recovers from the babe. I don't need anyone else."

Rhaenyra paused, momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered. "Very well then," she declared, pivoting toward Gwayne with a mischievous expression. "If no one else can convince you, surely we can count on dear Ser Hightower here."

Naerys's eyes widened, her brows shooting up in surprise. The young Lord Hightower was a knight? She had never known. He seemed far too juvenile, though possibly, that was how things worked. It wasn't as though she understood the intricacies of knighthood or the requirements to become one. Perhaps Rhaenyra would become one next. 

Gwayne, however, was quick to balk. "But I was going to wear my sister's favour!" he protested, glancing at Alicent for support.

Alicent, however, turned to him with a glare, elbowing him in the ribs with a swift jab. 

"Ow!" he exclaimed, clutching his side in indignation.

"You'll certainly not be wearing it today," she retorted with the kind of brazen authority only a sister could muster. 

"You can't do that!" Gwayne complained, his tone climbing in pitch as though he was the younger sibling. "I always participate with yours! You can't alter tradition."

"Two tourneys can hardly be counted as tradition, brother. You have not participated in any more than that."

"It does not matter, it was your token that delivered me victory."

Alicent cleared her throat, biting her lip to smother a smile. "Victory, you say? I distinctly recall you losing both of those tourneys."

"Well, you recall incorrectly," Gwayne fumed, eyes darting around to ensure no one had heard. 

"I assure you, I have an excellent memory."

"You do not, sister."

"Come now, Gwayne, not having my favour this one time shall not bring doomsday upon you."

Gwayne threw his hands up in defeat. "You do not know that. And besides, Father will be watching, and it is my first tourney of such significance."

Alicent's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you tell me about that one in Oldtown for our uncle's name-day celebration? Surely that was—"

"That was not nearly as momentous!"

"You are being childish, brother. Do try and act more chivalrous, now that you're a knight, or we shall have to find someone to strip you of the title."

In his peevish state, Gwayne failed to notice how the younger princess's face fell further at his adamant refusal. It wasn't as though anyone had demanded it of him, but the way he recoiled at the mere suggestion of asking her struck a nerve. A flicker of hurt passed across Naerys's face, a shadow too fleeting for most to catch—except Rhaenyra, who saw everything. Her jaw tightened, a subtle herald of words unsaid, but Naerys sensed them rising and imperceptibly shook her head. Before her sister could object, Naerys quickened her pace, towing her along as though she were the one now leading, desperate to escape the discomfort of the moment.

As Naerys darted past him, Gwayne's gaze flickered to her hands. She gripped the folds of her dress tightly, twisting the once-smooth fabric until it wrinkled between her fingers. The sight pricked at his conscience. He hadn't meant to be unkind—surely, she would understand. His refusal was not born of cruelty but of habit, a ritual as ingrained in him as the motions of wielding a sword. His sister's trinkets had always brought him luck, a talisman against failure, and today, of all days, he needed that luck more than ever.

Every visit to King's Landing was another chance to prove himself, another opportunity to show his father that Oldtown was shaping him into the son he ought to be. Not just a knight, but a man of worth, of promise, the kind of son he might one day hold in regard—not unlike the way he held Alicent. Gwayne did not begrudge his sister her position as their father's favoured child, but he often wondered what it meant to bask in Otto Hightower's light—a pale and flickering thing that could just as easily scorch as illuminate. To be their father's chosen was not unlike standing on the edge of a blade: precarious.

It was a fate that glittered, but Gwayne had yet to decide if it glittered like gold or the sheen of steel before the plunge into unsuspecting flesh. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

The tourney grounds were an assault on Naerys's senses. The sun blazed unforgivingly overhead, baking the air until it felt thick enough to choke on, and the crowd was a sea of bodies, each movement sending waves of noise and heat rolling toward her. The unrelenting sound of thousands of voices cheering, laughing, and jeering all blended into a single, oppressive cacophony that made her ears buzz, and the stench of sweat, stale ale, and trampled grass clung to her nose, making her stomach churn. She could feel the scratchy fabric of her starched collar digging into her neck like a thousand tiny needles, and she tugged at her mother's sapphire ring, worn on a delicate silver chain, as if the cool metal might ground her.

Her eyes darted around, unable to settle. The flutter of banners, the gleam of armour catching the sunlight, the blur of knights preparing in the lists—all of it made her head swim. She tried to focus on her father behind her, droning on about his future heir, but his words turned to meaningless static in her ears, and her focus fractured into a hundred shards.

And if she was being entirely honest, she didn't care for his words at all. She still hadn't forgiven him for marrying her off to Willem Stokeworth, and his lack of acknowledgment of her sulking only deepened the wound. If her own father would not recognize her anguish, where did that leave her? He had not so much as asked her how she was or what her life had been like during the past few moons.

"Queen Aemma has begun her labours!"

At the king's final statement, Naerys shot to her feet as though the cushion beneath her had burst into flames, her motion drawing her sister's alarmed gaze. Rhaenyra reacted swiftly, clamping a hand around her wrist and wrenching her back down.

"What are you doing?" she hissed through clenched teeth as Viserys concluded his speech and the knights took to the field.

Naerys sat rigid, her chest heaving, her pulse roaring in her ears until it drowned out the deafening cheers of the masses. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came. She couldn't meet Rhaenyra's intense gaze, couldn't explain the panic clawing at her insides like a caged beast desperate to escape.

Something was wrong. Something was already wrong. The screaming had begun. 

"You cannot leave now!" her sister snapped, nails digging into her skin through the silken fabric of her sleeves. "Do you know what that would look like? The king's daughter, rushing off on a day like this? We have a duty to stay—for him, and for Mother."

Naerys shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. She couldn't stay. She had to go. She had to see her mother, to make sure she was all right. The thought of sitting there, helpless and ignorant, while the queen faced the dangers of childbirth alone sent icy dread flooding through her veins. Her thoughts spiralled, each one tangling with the next: What if something went wrong? What if she—what if she—

Every scenario multiplied until the familiar warmth of Rhaenyra's hand felt unbearable, crawling over her like something alive and undulating. She pulled against her, but the older girl held firm.

The tournament grounds erupted into life, the first clashes of lance against shield reverberating through the air, capturing the attention of everyone except Naerys. Mercifully, their struggle went unnoticed by most. But not Alicent, who leaned forward from Rhaenyra's other side.

"Is she alright?"

"She's feeling unwell, I think," Rhaenyra responded uncertainly, turning to look at her. "Naerys is always like this when it comes to Mother, you know how she can be."

Alicent gave the young girl a smile she hoped was reassuring. "Her Grace will be perfectly fine, you'll see. She's done it before, hasn't she, and has made a full recovery every time. This shall be the same, and she would want you to enjoy yourself today."

Then, in an attempt to distract her further, the Hightower thought of something else. "Have you heard about Lady Roslyn of House Staunton?" she began conspiratorially. "They say she's to be betrothed to Ser Cedric Flowers—just as soon as he earns his knighthood. Can you imagine? It's as though they're rushing her into it."

Rhaenyra's brows shot up, her grip still unyielding, keeping Naerys anchored. "Ser Cedric? Isn't he the one who fell from his horse in the practice yard last week?" she asked incredulously, making Alicent giggle. "Gods, they might as well marry her to the stable boy! At least he knows how to stay on a horse."

Alicent smiled faintly, a hint of colour rising to her cheeks as she continued. "And that's not the worst of it. The seamstresses say Lady Elinor has been wearing dresses two sizes too large, probably hiding a swollen belly."

"Lady Elinor? But she's barely seen in public! Who could it be?"

"Oh, that's the scandal. They're saying it's one of her maester's assistants. Someone lowborn, no less."

Rhaenyra pressed her free hand to her mouth, her expression a mix of horror and delight. "She's risking her family's entire reputation for that? Most fathers would have her locked in a tower if she ever—" She broke off, suddenly glancing at Naerys, whose eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

Despite her sister's silence, the Targaryen girl tightened her hold, as if she feared Naerys might vanish the moment she let go. Meanwhile, Alicent, noticing the tension, placed her hand on the girl's bouncing knee, her simple gesture stilling it. At least if she was helping to assuage someone else's anxieties, she did not have to dwell on her own.

"And did you hear about Lord Byron's wife?" she probed again. "She's been sneaking into the sept every night with one of the novices."

"Oh, you would know, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra snickered. "Since you're there all the time."

"I am there to pray!"

"I never said you weren't."

"And besides. I have only ever seen them sit and talk until the candles burn down."

The Targaryen princess let out a chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief. "Talking? That's what they're calling it now? Next, you'll tell me she's reading to him from The Seven-Pointed Star.."

"She does that too!"

"It's strange though, isn't it? I wonder if Lord Byron knows or if he simply pretends not to."

The two girls exchanged a look of shared amusement, keeping up their amicable chatter to bind their young charge to their present reality, but Naerys's focus remained elsewhere. Every muscle in her body was clenched, her breath shallow and uneven. Each piece of gossip was a distant murmur in her ears, and she wanted to wrench herself away from their combined touch and retreat to the silence of her chambers. She wanted it to be quiet so badly, but her mind gave her no reprieve. 

Gwayne Hightower sat rigid in his saddle at the edge of the tourney field, his knuckles tight around the reins as his horse shifted beneath him, sensing his nervous energy. His heart thrummed in his chest, a quickened tempo that he both dreaded and cherished. These moments—caught between terror and exhilaration—were why he craved the lists. The anticipation, the razor's edge before the calm focus that settled over him once the tilt began, was a sensation like no other.

Through the narrow slit of his visor, his gaze fixed on the royal stands. His sister was seated beside the king's daughters, and though the distance was great, he recognized the nervous fidgeting of her fingers. He knew what she was doing—plucking at her cuticles until the skin split and blood surfaced in tiny crimson beads. He had seen the aftermath enough times to know, and the sight stirred something unnameable in him: a mixture of protectiveness and unease.

It was their mother's habit, a ghostly echo from a time he could barely recall. He remembered the flick of her hands, the soft murmur of her voice, and how she'd wring her fingers raw when she thought no one was looking. But surely Alicent had been too young to remember her. How, then, did she manage to mirror her so exactly? It was as though the essence of their mother had imprinted itself on her, a fragment of a woman Gwayne struggled to piece together in his memories.

His attention faltered as movement in the stands caught his eye when the youngest princess jolted upright. Whatever the king had just said—Gwayne hadn't been listening—had clearly shaken her, and yet both Rhaenyra and Alicent held her down to her seat.

Before he could dwell on it further though, a shadow fell across him. He turned, and his breath caught in his throat. There, astride a warhorse as black as night, was Daemon Targaryen, his lance pointed in Gwayne's direction.

Despite the barrier of their helmets, Daemon managed to exude an air of casual disdain, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders and his mouth curved into a smug, knowing smirk. Through the opening in his visor, his lilac eyes gleamed with predatory amusement, and though they were seated at equal heights, the Rogue Prince had a way of making the young Hightower feel impossibly small, as though he loomed over him from some unreachable peak.

"For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!" the herald announced.

Gwayne swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he allowed himself a fleeting glance toward his father, seated among the high lords with an air of unshakable authority. He could feel the man's scrutiny, the subtle shake of his head, and the barely perceptible downturn of his mouth that spoke volumes. It was an expression Gwayne had come to know well—an anticipation of failure before the match had even begun. The sting of it, though familiar, burned anew, a reminder of the endless expectations he never quite met.

He had known this moment might come, but the reality of facing Daemon—dragon rider, war veteran, and Targaryen prince—felt insurmountable.

Steady yourself.

As the Rogue Prince spurred his horse to the far end of the field, Gwayne guided his mount toward the royal stands with measured deliberation. The crowd blurred into a faceless mass, and his chest tightened as he approached the railing where his sister sat. He had intended to ask Alicent for her wreath. It was expected, and she had always been his most steadfast supporter, but as he opened his mouth, the words that tumbled forth were not what he had planned.

"If I may be so bold as to ask for the second princess's favour."

The words lingered in the air, surprising even himself. For a moment, he wondered why he had spoken them. Perhaps it was the sight of Naerys, trembling and frantic, that had moved him to act, an impulsive urge to offer her some distraction from whatever torment plagued her. Or perhaps it was his own yearning to step out of the shadow of familial expectation and try something—someone—different. Let Alicent's favour grace another knight; she deserved better than a brother whose victory was anything but assured. Knights seeking favour often sought wives too, so maybe his gentle sister would finally be courted by someone kind before their father could offer her up to whoever he deemed worthy enough.

At first, it seemed as though Naerys hadn't even registered his request. She remained frozen, and it was Rhaenyra who nudged her forward, whispering something he couldn't hear. The dark-haired princess's wide, startled eyes finally settled on him, and the flush that rose from her throat to her cheeks was immediate and vivid. She stared at him, as though searching for words, and the moment stretched, almost unbearably. It might have been endearing if his impending doom hadn't been looming right there.

Lacking a wreath to offer, she finally reached up, fumbling for one of the blue ribbons woven into her intricate braid. The motion was tentative, as though she wasn't entirely sure of herself, and with trembling fingers, she tied the ribbon around the tip of his lance, the silk trailing delicately in the breeze. Once done, she stepped back and offered a small, awkward bow.

"I wish you luck Ser Gwayne."

He inclined his head in gratitude, swallowing the knot of nerves lodged in his throat. "Thank you, princess."

The odds, however, were not in his favour.

The first charge brought a collision of lances that thundered through the air. Gwayne's weapon splintered against Daemon's shield, shards flying in all directions. To his astonishment, Daemon's lance suffered the same fate, and for a fleeting moment, hope surged in his chest. Perhaps this would be the day he defied expectations. The day his father would not turn his back in disappointment.

But hope was a fragile thing.

The second charge came like a storm. The Hightower leaned into his mount, his focus narrowing to the point of his lance aimed at the Rogue Prince. 

Then it happened.

Daemon's lance dipped in a sudden, deliberate motion, the polished wood aiming not for his opponent, but for his horse's legs. The world twisted violently as the impact struck, sending Gwayne's horse crumpling beneath him with a sharp, pained whinny.

The fall came too fast.

One moment he was surging forward with all the momentum of his steed, and the next he was airborne, the saddle slipping out from beneath him as he hurtled toward the unforgiving ground. He landed hard, face-first, with a sickening clash of steel and flesh. His helmet flew off, leaving his unguarded face to scrape against the coarse dirt of the tourney grounds. Pain seared across his cheeks, the gritty earth tearing into him.

He lay there a while, the weight of his armour pressing him down, every inch of his body throbbing. The groan that escaped him was ragged, equal parts frustration and pain. Lifting his head, he managed a fleeting glance toward the stands. His father's bearing was as he feared—a stony mask of disapproval, while Alicent's tearful, aghast face pierced him far more than Daemon's lance ever could.

His horse's pitiful neigh broke the air beside him, and Gwayne let himself drop back down, his vision blurring against the swirling dust. The humiliation burned just as hotly as the pain in his body. This wasn't a defeat. It was a spectacle. A calculated, ruthless display by the Rogue Prince, and he was the unwitting object of his ire.

The crowd roared, some in shock, others in cruel amusement, but Gwayne only heard the pounding of his own blood in his ears as he was dragged away to be tended to.

The match between Gwayne Hightower and Daemon Targaryen was the only one Naerys paid attention to—or at least tried to. She squinted down at the field, struggling to focus as the blinding sun glared off polished armour, adding to the building pressure between her eyes. 

The creature was back, or so it seemed.

It slithered into her mind like a shadowy serpent, discordant and shrill, just beneath her thoughts. And gods, the screaming. That was the worst part; a disembodied voice that howled inside of her, wailing for something she didn't even know how to give. Her temples thrummed, and she wanted to dig her nails into her very skull, to carve her way through to the unrelenting itch buried deep within her brain, unreachable and maddening.

Then, the match ended in an instant.

Gwayne's horse seemed to have crumpled beneath him, and the young knight was flung violently to the ground. Naerys flinched, vaguely aware of the collective gasp of the spectators, but her concern for the Hightower boy was smothered by the violence inside her own head and the overwhelming scent of copper that had nothing to do with the injured knights. 

Meanwhile, the Rogue Prince pranced triumphantly around the field, revelling in the cheers of the spectators as he came to a stop beneath their stand, his satisfaction palpable even at a distance. Naerys's gaze flickered toward her sister, who turned to her with a fierce glare that served as both warning and command: Stay put.

Then both Rhaenyra and Alicent rose, clasping hands as they made their way to greet the victor, while behind them, a quiet commotion had broken out as Otto Hightower leaned in close to the king, their hushed conversation lost to the clamour. Naerys could not focus enough to hear what they spoke of, but when her father rose to leave, she leaped at the chance. 

She stood immediately, her movements hurried, and though she avoided looking at Otto Hightower, she could feel his gaze on her, appraising and heavy. It lingered too long, as if he were dissecting her intentions in that calculating mind of his.

She didn't wait to find out what conclusions he drew.

Her feet carried her swiftly out of the stands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she scampered through the nearest exit. Her intended destination had been the queen's chambers, but a sliver of guilt nipped at her heels and led her down an unfamiliar path instead. She moved toward the tents behind the tourney field, where the maesters were tending to the wounded. The air was thick with the tang of sweat and blood, the mingled groans of injured knights cutting through the bustle. She hurried past men peeling off layers of armour and tunics, the clatter of metal on wood accompanied by colourful profanities and ribald remarks about the day's matches—or the ladies in the stands.

Naerys kept her gaze firmly on the ground, her hands raised to shield her ears. Every noise grated against her nerves, amplifying the crawling beneath her skin. She quickened her pace, focusing on finding the one she sought rather than dwelling on the murmurs that followed her, some carrying the queen's name, others Rhaenyra and Alicent's. The words brushed against her like nettles, and though she wasn't one to pick fights, she dared not linger. The creature fed on chaos; she feared what it might do if it caught even a whisper of provocation.

At least the hunger had not made itself known yet. 

Lucky for her, she spotted him soon enough. Though he had discarded his armour, Gwayne Hightower's hair caught the sun like polished copper, a beacon among the drab tents. He sat grimacing on a splintered wooden bench, his jaw tense and shoulders hunched. A maester hovered beside him, dabbing at the angry scratches that carved across his cheek, and the collar of his tunic was stiff with dried blood, the carmine shade crusting the fabric like an accusation. But it wasn't the wounds that made her falter. It was the look on his face.

He saw her, and his demeanour darkened even further.

Naerys froze several paces away, her fingers instinctively picking at the edge of her sleeve, worrying the small pearls sewn into the fabric. What had she come here for? She tried to recall the reason, but her thoughts skittered like dry leaves in the wind. To check on him, of course, so she could ease Alicent's worries later. But to ask if he was alright seemed ridiculous; anyone with eyes could see he was not. Perhaps that was why he scowled at her so, as though he could see just how much of a fool she was.

Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

"Are you alright?"

She winced immediately. Of course, he wasn't alright. The evidence was written across his features, and she cursed herself inwardly for her lack of forethought, her lack of composure, for speaking at all. She turned to leave, but then he spoke. 

"My thanks for your concern, princess," Gwayne remarked sarcastically, his tone harsher than intended, "However, perhaps you might refrain from giving any favours out to anyone else in the future, considering the sort of luck it has brought me."

He shouldn't have spoken. He knew that the moment the words left his mouth, and the bitterness surprised him, but the indignity of the day had left a rancid taste in his mouth. Then, under his breath, he muttered, "I should have just asked for my sister's like I always do."

Unfortunately for him, Naerys heard every word.

She had her back turned, so he couldn't see her face, but a stillness settled over her that sent a flicker of regret through him. He should have apologized immediately. It was beneath him to speak with such disregard for another's feelings, and no doubt Alicent would have his head for treating the girl so cruelly.

But right now Gwayne Hightower was not just a knight sworn to honour and chivalry; he was also a young man nursing a bruised ego and the stinging shame of a very public defeat, before the eyes of every notable house in the Seven Kingdoms. And who had bested him? Not just any man, but Daemon Targaryen—uncle to the girl now standing before him.

His pride had been trampled into the dirt of the field, and with it, his hopes of earning even a modicum of approval from his father. The sting of Otto's inevitable scorn was sharper than the scratches on his face, and he could already picture his curt dismissal.

Gwayne's face pulsed repeatedly, the wounds from the match burning hotter with every passing moment, and his vanity couldn't help but dwell on the marks they would leave behind. It put him in a foul mood, a mood that latched onto Naerys as its first and only victim. The sight of her had been an unexpected affront, particularly the faint whiff of pity in her gaze. It was all too much.

He opened his mouth, whether to issue another scathing remark or an apology, he didn't know, but before he could decide, the girl whirled around.

Her expression stopped him cold. He had never seen her like this before, with her lips curled into a scowl, and her glower pinning him in place.

"It was Daemon you were up against," she returned contemptuously. "Do not blame me for your performance. All the luck in the world cannot compensate for a lack of skill"

Gwayne blinked, stunned.

Naerys's words cut through the haze of his anger, leaving a deep and sudden silence in their wake. For a moment, she looked as though she might say more, but then her countenance hardened and she ground her teeth to dust instead. His words had hit a nerve she wasn't prepared to face. The allegation, veiled though it was, had struck the tender, festering spot between her ribs where her deepest insecurities lay, but for him to voice it aloud, to confirm her worst fears, sent the creature reeling, its teeth bared, ravenous for a new morsel. 

The last straw came when the maester tending to him turned to face her and Naerys mouth dropped open. 

"You should not be here, princess," the maester began kindly enough. 

But he had no face. He spoke with a mouth that was not a mouth, attention drilling into her through indents in his face where his eyes should have been. 

"Your place is not here," he repeated.

"Princess...you are bleeding." Gwayne stood hastily, reaching out to her. His initial resentment was replaced with immediate concern for her state, but he did not seem to sense anything wrong with the maester. 

Naerys did not respond, and belatedly she became conscious of the scarlet stream dripping from her nose, only when she tasted the foul taste of metal on her lips. Absentmindedly, she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve, staining the bright fabric, and then, with her eyes still on the eerily smooth face of the grey-robed man before her, she hiked up her skirts, and turned on her heel. She didn't care for Gwayne's startled call after her or the way the other knights stared as she swept past.

She needed to see her mother. She needed her mother to smooth over her raw edges, to kiss her and tell her all the things she wanted so badly to believe about herself. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

Naerys's head throbbed like a drumbeat, a searing furnace behind her eyes that worsened with each step toward the queen's chambers, and by the time she reached the great oaken doors, her vision had begun to swim. The king's faint murmur beyond the threshold was the only solid sound, but even that could not drown her mother's keening whimpers that seeped through the thick wood. They were muffled out here, but within her mind, they were deafening. 

The Kingsguard stood sentinel at the door, their faces grim, and the youngest of them shifted uncomfortably as he caught sight of her. Her nose had begun to bleed again, a steady trickle staining the cuff of her sleeve as she pressed it tightly against her face, while her other hand fisted her gown.

"I wish to see the queen," Naerys declared, summoning every bit of fierce composure she had studied in her sister. 

"Princess," the sympathetic knight greeted her with a bow of his head. "Her Grace has begun her labours. The king has instructed that none disturb her."

"Please...I must see her, I need to..."

The knight's face softened, but he denied her request all the same. "When the babe is born, you may see her. She will wish to be with you then, but for now, you should rest. You do not look well. Shall I send for a maester?"

"No!" she snapped, sharper than she intended, her entire frame oscillating with the effort it took to stop herself from launching herself right at them. What good would that do her, if she kicked and clawed and bit her way through them? They would think she was having one of her fits and simply haul her back to her chambers on the other side of the Red Keep where she would be even worse off than she was now. 

The cacophony in her head grew and she swayed where she stood, her legs feeling like reeds. The knights exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them stepped forward, his hand half-raised to steady her, but she flinched. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway and around the corner, eager to get as far away as possible from their scrutiny. 

She would have to find another way, then, and for once, she was grateful that she had allowed herself to be caught up in Rhaenyra's schemes as a child. It was the only reason she knew what she knew now. Several hidden passageways wove through the underbelly of the castle, and though Naerys was unfamiliar with most, her sister—who had learned from their uncle—seemed to know them well.

Naerys considered returning to the tourney fields to fetch Rhaenyra but then thought better of it as she began to drive her hands across the cold stone wall, heedless of the still-sticky blood staining them. When her fingertips brushed past an invisible spot, there was a faint creaking, and a carved panel of the wall swung inward.

The space beyond was pitch dark and musty, the acrid scent of mildew pricking her nose. She sneezed, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of fear. She did not like the dark. It had always loomed too large in her imagination, an endless void waiting to swallow her whole. It was where the devourer did his best work, after all, but there was no time to hesitate, and she stepped through the opening with a deep breath, sliding the panel shut behind her. The faint light of the corridor vanished, and a suffocating blackness enveloped her, making her feel like she had sealed herself inside her own tomb.

When her outstretched hand swept against dusty cobwebs, she froze, her breath hitching and her heart hammering in her chest. The silence was oppressive, her own breathing the only sound besides the steady wailing in her mind. 

Inside these walls, the noises of the outside world had disappeared entirely, as though the castle had ingested her, and she was walking through its hollow veins. Each step echoed faintly, and the damp air smothered her, but she was compelled by the clamour in her head that served as a compass, growing louder with each blind corner and turn. The passageways had begun to feel disturbingly familiar, too much like the endless corridors of her nightmares, weaving until they inevitably led to something monstrous. Her gait was the same too, laboured as if she trudged through something viscous, pulled by an invisible string that bit into her very sinew and dragged her toward her destination. 

She felt foolish stumbling through the dark like this. What did she expect? That the channel would miraculously lead to an opening in her mother's chambers? That she could slip inside unnoticed by the king and her myriad of attendants to be by her side? She didn't know, but she had to try. Surely, the queen's room was important enough to warrant a path. 

The sound in her head became serrated, but she still clung to it until the tunnel eventually led her to a dead end. Desperation scraped at her composure as she pressed her twitching hands against the uneven wall, searching for a hidden catch or seam that might open a panel. However, her efforts yielded nothing but silence, and claustrophobia began to creep in instead. She hadn't realized how narrow the space had become, pressing closer until it was barely wider than the span of her arm. 

But she knew she was in the right place. Her mother's muffled moans drifted from just beyond, faint but unmistakable, and the screaming in her head had fallen eerily silent, granting her a reprieve now that she was so close.

This passage didn't lead directly into the room; instead, she noticed a narrow slit carved into the stone—a spyhole, rough and irregular, intended for someone much taller. She strained onto her tiptoes, stretching her short stature to its limits, but even jumping barely brought her closer, and the slit remained just out of reach.

For a fleeting moment, she considered retreating, returning the way she had come, but the thought was unbearable. She couldn't leave—not without seeing her mother, without reassuring herself that she was still safe and well. She just had to see.

Curiosity has always been your undoing. 

Ignoring the mirthful voice, she traced the jagged contours around her. Bits of stone jutted out here and there, though none seemed sturdy enough to offer a proper handhold, but when her gaze strayed back to the spyhole, an idea began to form. If she pressed her back against one side and her feet against the opposite wall, she would be able to shimmy her way upward.

The first few attempts were pathetic as she slipped and wavered, landing on the floor with a muffled thud, frustration bubbling in her chest, but she refused to give up. Gritting her teeth, she steadied herself and tried again, over and over, until the gods took pity upon her. 

She had managed to push herself up, inch by agonizing inch, though the jagged stone tore at her dress and bit into her skin, leaving streaks of grime in its wake. Her legs wobbled from the effort, and her back ached from the awkward angle, pressed just below the opening, but she paid it no mind. Twisting her neck as far as it would go, she craned her head toward the slit, straining to catch even the smallest glimpse of the room beyond.

Finally, when her gaze aligned with the opening, she forgot all her discomfort, frozen in place as if she too had become part of the stone that formed this place. 

The king knelt at the queen's bedside, his fingers clasped around hers as though she were the last relic of a dying god, held with the reverence of a penitent seeking salvation. Naerys, stupid girl that she was, mistook the hunger in his grip for love—a father's love, a husband's love—a thread of hope she dared to cling to. Surely not all husbands were cruel and wicked, not all husbands wished harm upon their wives. Hers had just been an unhappy coincidence, but her father was nothing like Willem Stokeworth.  

Foolish child. She was always mistaking things for what they were not, cursed to chase illusions that crumbled to ash at the touch.

Around them, the maesters and midwives circled like vultures drawn to the stench of decay, their movements frantic, their whispers like the rustling of wings over carrion. Sweat glistened on Aemma's brow, her face a mask of agony, but their useless dabbing did nothing to staunch the tide of her discomfort. When Maester Mellos gestured the king to the far corner of the room, Naerys strained to hear, thankful for once for her uncanny gift, because though they spoke in hushed tones, the words reached her ears as if whispered directly into them.

Mellos's face was a study in apprehension, the lines etched into his weathered features deepening as he spoke. But then, his gaze shifted, sliding past the king to land directly on her. It was as if he could see past the layers of stone between them, right into the very marrow of her. And see her he did, with eyes that were not eyes, only smooth unmarked skin stretched taut over the indents in his skull where the organs would have rested. His mouth too, though it continued to form words for her father, no longer existed. No sound should have come from him, but it did, and all Naerys could do was stare.

Then he grinned that lipless smile she had come to associate with depravity. 

The girl blinked, and the world righted itself. Mellos was himself again, whole and unremarkable, speaking to Viserys in that grave, even tone, but her heart continued to pound as if she had glimpsed something even the gods would turn away from. 

"There is a choice," the elderly man revealed. "During a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to decide. To save one... or to lose them both."

Viserys stiffened, his breath catching in a sharp inhalation, but Naerys didn't understand yet. Nonetheless, the implications swirled like a storm cloud over her father's expression, dark and foreboding.

"There is a technique," the maester continued cautiously, "taught at the Citadel. We could save the child. It would involve... cutting directly into the womb to free the infant. But the blood loss..."

He trailed off, letting the words hang in the air like a noose, and the king exhaled. "Seven hells, Mellos."

His gaze drifted to the queen's prone body with an unreadable expression, and something inside Naerys began to flounder, halfway between a prayer and a plea. Why did he falter? Why did he stand there, like a dithering fool confronted by two equally unbearable choices? There was no choice. There was only her. Her mother, the mother of the realm, the woman Viserys Targaryen claimed to love beyond measure.

This man was her king and her father, something that should have granted him twice as much wisdom. He was supposed to know what to do, to make the right choice, the noble choice. Some part of her still believed it—naive, needy Naerys that she was. It was the belief of a child who had not yet learned that fathers could betray the very things they claimed to hold dear.

She swallowed hard, her thoughts tumbling into a frenzy. He had betrayed her before—sold her hand to a drunkard, and perhaps she had deserved it. She was, after all, only the filthy proof of his transgressions. But her mother...

Aemma Arryn was the woman he loved. The woman he praised before the court, before the gods, before all the realm. He would not fail her, would he? Surely, he could not. The dying thing in her chest flailed harder, a parched thing waiting to be quenched by the words she wished she could rip from his gullet. 

The choice should have been obvious—should have been. Why did he not fall to his knees, weeping, begging Mellos to save his wife? Why did he not grab the maesters by their robes, commanding them to do whatever it took to spare her life?

To cleave her mother's womb, to spill her blood like that of a slaughtered lamb—how could such a thing even be considered? Why was it taking so damn long?

Then he spoke and the dying thing died, but that sinister creature inside Naerys prevented her from looking away. She knew she should have, but her muscles locked into place, her neck so skewed that it would ache for days after, yet still she did not look away. 

"You can save the child?"

Maester Mellos looked like he had anticipated the king's choice. "Yes, Your Grace, but we must either act now or leave it with the gods."

But as they walked toward her mother with a new predatorial purpose, Naerys was reminded, not for the last time, that there were no gods, only men scrabbling for slivers of immortality. 

The world around Aemma Arryn had dissolved into a haze, the edges of reality dulled by the lingering fog of pain and the meagre comfort of milk of the poppy. They had given her just enough to temper the agony, though in her mind it was far too little. She had wanted to laugh, to weep, or to rage when the maester let a paltry few drops fall onto her tongue—an insult to the monumental affliction tearing through her. Had he ever known the torment of childbirth? Of course not. No maester had, and yet they lorded their knowledge over her like scripture.

But now, her mind had quietened, lulled by the drug into a deceitful serenity. Viserys had returned to her side, his lips brushing her wrist with an almost frantic tenderness, and she recognized the look in his eyes as contrition.

"They're going to bring the babe out now," he muttered, and Aemma felt a flicker of something—a laugh she could not summon, a rebuke that wilted before it could take form. 

How reassuring. As if they haven't been trying for hours.

But she didn't have the strength to say it, so instead, she nodded, the motion small and weary, her compliance as mechanical as a porcelain doll's.

"I love you," Viserys whispered, the words heavy with meaning she couldn't quite grasp.

She wanted to believe him, to hold onto the fraudulent leash of his devotion, but before she could let her thoughts linger on his confession, the energy of the room shifted. The maesters and midwives moved in unison, and the pillows beneath her head were pulled away, leaving her neck strained. And then came the hands—cold, clinical, invasive—gripping her ankles, dragging her lower.

A chill slithered over her skin as they lifted her damp chemise, exposing her swollen belly to the frigid air. The sudden vulnerability jolted her from the insidious calm of the poppy milk, and her pulse quickened as she turned to her husband for an explanation.

His hands remained on hers, their pressure warm but insufficient against the icy dread unfurling in her chest, and his empty reassurances dissolved into ash before they could reach her.

"They're going to bring the babe out," he repeated, and this time his drivel struck her fully. 

What could they possibly try now that they hadn't already?

Rough hands pried her fingers away from her belly, pinning her arms to the bed. The strength of their grip made her limbs quiver, and panic surged through her veins like wildfire, consuming the last vestiges of composure the opioids had granted.

The truth of it was simple and stark: she was afraid. Every birth terrified her, the spectre of death always lurking at the edges of the room, but this was far worse. This fear grated her lungs and whispered things she did not want to hear.

Her eyes locked onto Viserys's again, but his gaze betrayed him. He looked at her not with hope, but with mourning, a sorrow she recognized from the funerals of friends and kin, a grief reserved for the dead.

What sort of man mourned the living?

The maesters spoke around her, but their words blurred into a meaningless hum. She wanted to fight, to break free, to demand the truth, but really, she knew it already, felt it in the grinding of her bones and the twisting ache in her womb. She was not yet dead, but the room had already begun to treat her like a corpse.

Feeble whimpers spilled from her lips, and Aemma felt the childish urge to call out for her mother—a woman she had never known, a caricature she had conjured in childhood dreams. In those dreams, her mother was amicable, her disposition as soft as the clouds that clung to the mountains of her first home. A mother's love, she had always imagined, was a shield that stood between her child and the cruelties of the world. A father's love, by contrast, was a whetstone, grinding the child against the harsh truths of life until they were shaped to his will.

Her father had been the one to give her to Viserys after all, binding her life to his ambitions with the unyielding hand of duty. And now, in this cruellest of moments, she faced the bitter irony: most mothers stood by their daughters in labour, offering whispers of solace, but she, a queen of the Seven Kingdoms, had nothing but the sterile presence of maesters and the treachery of her husband. Draped in silks and crowned in gold, she could command an army of servants, but not the comfort of a mother's touch. 

How strange that one could never truly outgrow the need for a mother. Even now, in her final moments, the absence haunted her, and with it came guilt. Soon her daughters—fierce, precocious Rhaenyra and sweet, timid Naerys—would feel this same ache, this same absence.

Her mind splintered further when Maester Mellos raised a scalpel in her direction, its edge catching the chamber's dim light like the gleam of a distant star. Cold steel drifted closer, and terror sank its talons into her, making her thrash wildly, a fragile butterfly pinned beneath a giant's thumb.

"No! No, no, no—no!"

The words tore from her throat, her distress filling the air like the keening of a dog about to be put down, but they were deaf to it. A woman's denial meant little in the face of a man's resolve after all. 

Her daughters—they could not leave her daughters without a mother. Who would braid Rhaenyra's unruly hair and wipe soot from her cheeks after a day of reckless riding? Who would rouse Naerys from her nightmares and lull her back to peace with songs? 

No! No, no, no, nononononono.

"I'm making the first incision, Your Grace."

Just as the maester began his morbid task, Aemma tried one last time to beseech her heartless husband. 

"Viserys please."

It was a futile plea against the inexorable. A mother was meant to be a living barrier, and yet, what good was she now? What use was a mother who could not even hold her ground against death?

They were not just taking her life—they were stealing a mother from her daughters.

But deep in the marrow of her, lay a simpler truth: Aemma Arryn did not want to die. She was scared, she did not want to die, and as the blade kissed her skin, her thoughts shattered into a kaleidoscope of memories. 

In her last moments, as she unravelled completely, it was not the din of the chamber she heard but the rustle of wind through the Vale, and her final thought contained only the azure sky of the Eyrie, vast and eternal, as if even the Stranger could not touch the place where she had once been free.

He had said he loved her. Even now, Naerys could hear her father's repeated droning, as if it would stitch together the agony of what was being done to her mother. She wanted to turn away and shield her eyes, but something held her captive.

Incorporeal fingers wrapped around her jaw to hold her head in place, and skeletal appendages peeled her eyelids back so she could not blink, so she would not miss a single moment. Whatever force it was wanted her to see it all. No, it demanded she see, carving the scene into her memory like an artist etching agony onto the canvas of her mind.

Her mother's screams filled the chamber, worse than anything she had ever heard. It was no longer the echo she could banish as a figment of her imagination, but a terribly real sound that everyone else bore witness to as well. She was pleading for help, for mercy, for someone to save her, but no one did, not even the girl who loved her most, right in front of her but still too far away to be of use. 

Her captors held her down, their hands seizing her wrists and ankles as though she were a prisoner and not their queen. Their faces were blurred as if Naerys were seeing them through water, yet their incriminating hands were abominably visible. 

The scalpel parted Aemma's flesh as easily as silk, exposing layers of muscle and gore that poured in a flood that seeped into the sodden bedding. The metallic tang filled the air, mingling with desperation as she writhed, her cries becoming incoherent once agony overtook her.

The king apologized again, professing his undying love, but he was just another one of her tormentors, another shackle in the apparatus of her suffering as the maesters plunged their hands into her womb. 

Naerys squirmed but could not look away. 

They reached into her mother's sacredness, desecrating her as the scullery maids did the pigs before a feast, probing as if searching for treasure in a grave. All for the sake of something that did not even exist yet.

Then the scene splintered before her, half reality, half dreamscape. 

In one, the brutal truth played out: the butchery, the carmine-slicked hands, the gaping wound that was Aemma Arryn. In the other, the maesters' gazes found her, past the tapestries that concealed her hiding place, and their mouths stretched into wide grins. Then with their hands still buried in her mother, they began to eat.

Their mouths worked hungrily, their featureless faces smearing with cruor, and the sound of chewing filled her ears. They devoured the queen, piece by piece, while still smiling at Naerys with those aberrant faces, never looking away from her. 

She wanted to cry, to burst through her confinement and wrestle the beasts away from her mother, but all they allowed her to do was watch as the two realities bled into one another, physical horror mingling with monstrous, dreamlike absurdity.

When Aemma Arryn's voice ultimately reduced to a ragged whisper, then utter silence, Naerys felt something inside her fissure. She did not even hear the caterwauling of the babe they had managed to pry out, or maybe she did, because, for a single foul moment, she wished that it would die too. 

And soon it would. 

In time, the queen's chambers emptied, the commotion fading with the king's retreat to trail after his new heir. What remained was a grim stillness that blanketed the room like a shroud. Aemma's lifeless body lay abandoned upon the sheets soaked with her ichor, robbed of breath and dignity, save for this fleeting moment of solitude. Soon the maids would scrub away the horrors, and the Silent Sisters would arrive to prepare her for the pyre, but for now, the room was a tomb, holding only a mother and her daughter.

It was then that Naerys lost her courage.

Her legs, unable to hold her up any longer, gave way, and her toes slipped from their fragile grip against the wall. She tumbled gracelessly, the impact jarring her ankle with a crack. There was pain of course, pulsing and immediate, but it felt far too distant, and the only thing she could think of was the grotesque symphony in her head: crunching, tearing, slurping.

She pressed her hands over her ears, desperate to block it out, though she knew it was futile. It wasn't real—it couldn't be real. It wasn't coming from the room, silent now in the aftermath of slaughter, because it was inside her.

Naerys squeezed her eyes shut, practically vibrating with fear as she chanted to herself.

"It's not real. It's not real. Please, let me wake up. Please."

But even in darkness, she saw it. The visions continued behind her eyelids—hands wrenching flesh, teeth devouring sinew. She opened her eyes with a start, gasping for air, and that was when she saw him.

The faceless maester stood before her now, his sleeves soaked crimson. He towered impossibly close, the hem of his garment brushing against her feet in a mockery of her attempt to retreat. Nevertheless, Naerys scrambled backward, her palms thudding against the walls, but the narrow passage offered no escape.

His hood was thrown back, and though the shadows should have obscured his features, she saw him perfectly. Or rather, the lack of him. His face was smooth, save for the smeared red where a mouth should have been. Blood dripped from the concave approximation of his lips, straight onto her forehead. 

Naerys whimpered as his skeletal hands reached toward her. "Please....please let me wake up. Please...Mama. I want Mama."

The creature did not answer. Its fingers, cold as death, pressed against her stubborn lips, probing at their edges even as she clenched her mouth shut, shaking her head in denial as tears streamed unchecked down her face.

"No. No, no, no, please..."

But its grip only grew stronger, pinching her lips apart and forcing its way between her teeth to wrench her jaw open with unholy strength. Naerys's resistance disintegrated, and with it, her silence.

She screamed.

A coppery taste flooded her mouth, as the thing bled directly into her, or maybe it was forcing her to partake in its macabre feast. She screeched again, even as the sound ripped her throat raw, even as her lungs burned begging her for reprieve. She did it over and over until the room spun and reality unfurled like the ribbons of her mother's skin had.

Her assailant beamed as if her suffering was the answer to a question he'd long pondered. He was testing her perhaps—just how far could he push her before she went truly mad? And gods, the taste was unbearable, searing her tongue, coating her teeth, sliding down her throat like molten iron.

When the maids returned to the site of Aemma's undoing, it was as if they had walked into a scene torn from some cursed tale. They whispered of walls that wept in mourning for their fallen queen, the chamber quaking with unnatural echoes, not unlike her final cries, reverberating through the air in warped mimicry.

Worse still were the jarring sounds of slamming, like some tortured being trapped within clawing for escape, seeking vengeance beyond its prison. None who fled could fathom the source of the unholy racket, and they certainly could not have imagined that it was caused by the youngest princess.

Naerys, after all, was supposed to be at the tourney with her sister. That was the common belief, one quickly proved wrong when the news of the queen's death spread. The nobles began to gather in grim procession for funeral preparations, but even when the girl failed to appear among them, there was no search conducted. She was often not where she was supposed to be, and in the grand scheme of things, no one cared for her whereabouts.

It was Daemon Targaryen who found her, though not intentionally. He had begun the hunt only to appease his distraught niece, for there was little he could deny Rhaenyra. However, instead of looking for Naerys in the obvious places, he slipped into the labyrinth that wormed its way through the Red Keep instead. Perhaps he did so to escape the spectacle of grief around him, or perhaps it was merely a habit, the lure of hidden passageways offering him solace. 

It was by chance alone that he found the girl.

At first, he did not even recognize her, the curled phantom in the flickering torchlight. Her eerie stillness was broken by the occasional twitch, but it was the sight of her hands that made him stop. One of her palms was clamped between her teeth, and upon closer inspection, he saw that she had chewed right through the skin. Her mouth glistened with the remnants of the cardinal mess, and she seemed to be sucking on the still-fresh wound, bizarrely reminiscent of children when they sucked on their thumbs for comfort. 

Daemon watched the girl with narrowed eyes when she finally registered his presence, and her frantic attempts to inch away from him pulled an irritated curse from his lips. She was already backed against the wall like a cornered beast, and her wide, unfocused gaze stirred a familiar disdain within him. 

How was it possible that something like this had sprung from the bloodline of kings? Theirs was a lineage forged in fire, and even Viserys’s dead wife, only half Targaryen, had possessed bones of steel beneath her courteous demeanour, a resolve that could not be bent once she set her mind. 

But this child was not fire, nor fury, nor steel. There had to be something wrong with her; Daemon had known it from the moment Viserys stepped off that ship, cradling her as though she were some precious thing. Even then, she had lacked the flush of dragon’s flame, her cheeks a shade too grey, resembling something freshly unearthed.

Her arrival had, at least, been good for a laugh. Daemon had relished the spectacle of noble Viserys returning from foreign lands with a bastard in tow. Their father had been apoplectic for weeks on end, and the court’s whispers had been even more condescending. Men sired bastards all the time, but for his brother to bestow the Targaryen name upon his instead of trying to hide her away was as scandalous as it was comical. For once, the Rogue Prince was not the target of the realm’s appraisal, and he had this peculiar little wraith to thank for that.

Fleetingly, he considered leaving her here to whatever disease she was plagued with as she scraped her fingernails against the ground, trying to dig her way out of existence. But even the Daemon Targaryen had a conscience, or at least a semblance of one.

There was Rhaenyra, for one. She would never forgive him if he left her sister to rot in some dark corner of the Red Keep. Aemma, too—sweet Aemma, whose kindness toward him had remained steady despite his brother’s tempers—would have wanted her safe.

And then there was Viserys. Dutiful, loyal Viserys, who had done what so few men ever dared. He had not abandoned the girl to preserve his reputation. Instead, he had raised her as his own, brought her into his court and given her his name. Bastard or not, the king had made her part of their family. Daemon couldn’t fathom why, and he thought him a fool for it, but that did not matter.

What mattered was that he cared for his brother in ways he could never properly express. He had rebelled against him, raged against him, but Viserys was also the only person in the whole world whose approval he thirsted for. And for that reason alone, he could not abandon the girl now, no matter how much her pathetic nature annoyed him. 

With a heavy sigh, he grasped her free hand with uncharacteristic gentleness and pulled her up. As she stood, his light fell upon her dress, and a familiar ornament winked up at him. The falcon pin was dotted with blood, but it was unmistakable and he used his sleeve to wipe it clean. All the while, his niece said nothing, allowing him to lead her out, except she now had an obvious limp. 

"Seven, fucking, hells." 

With another exasperated groan, he tucked his torch into one of the brackets that lined the stone walls and hoisted her into his arms. The tunnels had grown wider, giving him ample room to do so, and Naerys offered no resistance, though her teeth remained embedded in her hand. Daemon scowled at her, trying to pry it out, but she recoiled and the way her eyebrows furrowed, he had a feeling that she would begin to squall if he tried any harder. 

"Have it your way then, you stubborn child," he spat gruffly. 

It was faster this way, instead of waiting for her to drag herself forward on what appeared to be an injured ankle. She was dead weight in his arms—even a sack of potatoes might have moved around more, but at long last, they managed to reach her chambers. 

Inside, Rhaenyra was waiting, still in her tourney dress, though it was crumpled and smeared with the residue of her grief. Her hair was dishevelled and she sat curled at the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest and her red-rimmed gaze fixed distantly on nothing at all.

This was as close as the princess dared to come to her mother—this room that the queen had frequented. To step into a dead woman's chambers now felt like trespassing on the final remnants of her life, and her own room was too lonely, so here she had come, seeking solace in the space her sister called her own.

When Daemon entered, the creak of the door startled her. She jolted upright, her face collapsing in a mixture of relief and despair. For a moment, she looked only at him, gratitude softening her expression, until her eyes fell on the bedraggled child he carried, and that was enough to shatter her composure entirely.

When her uncle set Naerys down, Rhaenyra didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees and pulled the girl into a fierce embrace, her sobs coming in great, heaving gulps as she buried her face in her shoulder. 

She doesn’t know. She couldn't possibly know.

Naerys had likely run away from the tourney, bored or overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd, and it was now her duty as the older sister to deliver the awful news. It had to be her. 

But how could she say it, when the mere thought made her want to weep? How could she put words to a truth that even she could not bear? Only hours ago, their mother had been with them, laughing as they had shown off their finery. She had promised to listen to every detail of the tourney when they returned, to share a lively evening of stories and smiles.

It was supposed to be a good day.  A day of celebration. And now...how could she tell her? 

Rhaenyra's thoughts spiralled faster, consumed by all the things she could never again say to her mother, so she did not even entertain the possibility that the little girl she sought to shield had already witnessed the worst of it. Lost in the haze of her own woe, she did not notice the blood that spilled from her sister, or the ravenous way she sucked on her own skin, entirely unaware of the world around her. 

Before she could find her words, a knock interrupted them, revealing Fei and Maester Mellos, summoned by Daemon to tend to the young princess. At the sight of them though, Naerys blanched, her eyes widening with the first flicker of sentience since she had been found. A faint sound escaped her throat—too garbled to be called a word, but too human to be dismissed, and her sister's head snapped up instinctively. 

The self-mutilation, the spectral look in her eyes—it was too much for Rhaenyra to comprehend, and she beckoned the maester closer, her voice thick with alarm.

“Gods, what have you done to yourself? You must be treated at once.”

Naerys shook her head, her movements jerky as she scurried behind her sister, clutching her dress and pressing her face against the fabric as if it could hide from view. She refused to meet Maester Mellos’s gaze, even as the aged man approached tentatively. 

“Come now, Naerys,” Rhaenyra coaxed, sniffing back her tears as she tried to reason with her. “You’re hurt. How did you even—”

She reached for her hand, attempting to pull it away from her mouth, but the dark-haired girl's jaw remained firmly locked. The taste of copper was revolting in her mouth, but it was the only thing that kept her silent. The rhythmic pulsing was a strange sort of comfort, and it also kept away the creature that danced at the edges of her vision, always threatening to force its wicked morsels past her lips. Better to gag and choke on her own blood than to swallow the vile offerings of her nightmares.

This was still the dream. It had to be. She was trapped, and though Daemon and Rhaenyra were new additions, fabricated by the devourer's twisted games, surely it was just another elaborate scheme to lure her into… what, she didn’t know. But she only had to wait. She would wake soon, and her mother would be there to banish all remnants of dread.

The next few moments unravelled far too quickly.

Too aghast by her sister's mental state, Rhaenyra thrust her toward the maester, and the girl's taciturn protests turned to jerking motions of defiance instead, as he pried her hand away from her mouth. His abrupt intake of breath mirrored the revulsion on everyone else's face when they noticed the lesion—a jagged gap where a chunk of flesh had been torn away.

But then Naerys glanced up at him, and he had no face.

Blank and smooth like a wax effigy, he loomed before her, and the dam she had painstakingly built to keep her terror contained ruptured, and the screams erupted once again, filling the room with a terrible urgency. 

The maester tightened his grip, renewing his efforts to subdue her as Naerys thrashed violently. Her shrieks didn’t cease, their sharp crescendo alarming everyone, and it took more than Mellos alone to wrestle her writhing form back into bed. Daemon stepped in, scooping her flailing limbs into his arms to deposit her beneath the covers, while Rhaenyra hovered close, her face pale as she murmured soothing words. Together, they held her down as her presumed healer brought a small vial to her lips, forcing cloying liquid into her mouth that turned her stomach. 

And then, there was nothing.

Chapter Text

106 AC

The hours bled into one another, or perhaps it was days—time had become meaningless for Naerys—until eventually she was dragged from her bed to be shrouded once again in the oppressive weight of black. It was her second funeral of the week, but she was just as unaware of her surroundings as she had been at the first. They had plied her full of mind-numbing opiates again, perhaps fearing that she would cause another commotion, but her ignorance was far from blissful. Her world swayed, blurred at the edges as she was passed from one attendant to another, until finally, she found herself beneath the late evening sky.

The sun, in its last moments of descent, cast feeble rays that kissed her with no warmth, leaving her bones as cold as the sepulchral timber nearby. The nobles gathered around her were silent, their collective breath held in reverence or discomfort, but Naerys saw none of them—only the two forms before her, swathed and still.

Her gaze caught on her mother's figure, her lips trembling with unspoken demands to undo the cocoon of linen that obscured her face from view. Already she was beginning to forget the precise hue of her eyes, or the side of her face that creased more when she smiled. The caricature laying out here could not possibly be her mother then, she decided. The woman she knew loved the softness of silks and the whisper of fine-spun threads. Surely, she would abhor the scratch of the planks beneath her, this wooden bier that would soon be devoured by flame. 

When Naerys's knees threatened to give way and she swayed on her feet, her sister's hand steadied her. Rhaenyra's fingers were manacles around her own bruised ones, and though the pain was sharp, the young girl welcomed its ability to ground her. Who needed the other more? It did not matter. They stood as one against the cruel whims of the gods, clutching each other with the kind of ferocity born only from shared loss.

"They're waiting for you."

Daemon's hushed tone broke Rhaenyra out of whatever trance she had been lost in, and as she stepped forward, her sister's grip tightened. 

Don't.

When the older girl looked down, Naerys shook her head imploringly. She knew what would happen now. Rhaenyra was the only one who could perform the final rites, to give the command that would sever all ties and steal away their mother, once and for all. She couldn't let her do it. 

Rhaenyra paused, her lips twisting into a half sneer. "I wonder if, during those few hours that my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

She spoke High Valyrian, her complaint meant only for her uncle and sister to hear, and Naerys's gaze locked onto the hunched figure of their father. His face bore the deep lines of mourning, a furrowed brow that seemed carved into his very skull, and she had to restrain the feral urge to claw at it, to rake her nails down that sorrowful mask and demand: Who do you mourn, truly? Was it the woman he had butchered, or the pathetic carcass he had mined from her body, a useless babe, gone before it could live?

Her thoughts corroded the inside of her head, acrid as bile, because she knew the answer already. He had proven where his heart lay when he gambled her mother's life on the altar of his ambition. In the end, he had lost his precious son too, and there was a grim satisfaction in it. If they were to mourn their mother, then let him mourn, too. Let them all drown in their collective misery.

Beside her, Rhaenyra shifted, trying to step forward, but Naerys clung to her still, her fingers like talons digging into her arm. Only Daemon could pry her loose, his grasp anchoring her to his side as her sister was finally allowed to carry out the grim task required of her, while the young girl continued to glare at the king. 

Just as intended, he felt the smothering weight of her distaste, and when his eyes finally found hers, he winced. Such smouldering hatred did not belong on the face of his borrowed daughter, and Viserys found himself almost startled. She had always been a mild little thing, a perfect echo of her father, gentle in her manner, but now, she looked as though she would spring at him, ready to maul, were it not for Daemon's iron grip tethering her in place.

The venom in her odd eyes unsettled him, and for a moment, he wondered if his fears had been correct all along. His brother had said he'd found her near the queen's chambers—too near. How much had she heard? How much of Aemma's anguished screams had echoed in her young ears, rattling her fragile mind? Perhaps the madness of that morning had already taken root, festering within her like a sickness. He resolved to speak with her later, to ease whatever fears the experience had instilled within her. Ren would have expected at least this much from him, and he had been an inattentive father long enough. 

Yes, he would try and soothe both his girls, to remind them that though the gods had taken one, they still had a parent left in him. But then, Rhaenyra's voice broke the fragile stillness, and Viserys's thoughts turned to ash along with the corpses. 

The fire devoured all. His beloved wife, his almost heir—both lost to the irrational will of higher beings. He stared as the smoke twisted upward, carrying the last remnants of Aemma's serenity into the heavens. And then babe—his son, this time, a son—was gone, too.

Most men sired sons with ease, scattering their seed across the realm like careless farmers, but Viserys, who had been faithful, who had held his duties above all else, was denied. Why? What flaw had the gods found in him, to punish him so mercilessly? He had loved Aemma, honoured her, never strayed into the arms of whores or mistresses like others, like his own brother. Did that not make him worthy? Did he not deserve a son, an heir to carry forth his noble legacy?

As the inferno before him roared, he felt the answer in its glow. Smoke stung his eyes, but the tears that fell were not for his wife alone. They were for himself, for all that had been denied him, and for the bitter realization that even now, he remained an inadequate man begging for scraps at the gods' table.

Gwayne Hightower watched the flames falter as the sun sank, its descent painting the sky in muted gold and dusky lavender. The sight tugged at something deep within him, a chord struck by memory. All funerals bore a sameness, a ritual of farewells cloaked in solemnity, and this one was no different, yet it stirred echoes of another.

His mother's funeral. He had been younger then, a child ill-prepared for such a monumental loss. The details of that day were a scattered mosaic in his mind, fragments preserved in peculiar clarity. The scratchy tunic they had dressed him in, the way his sister had gnawed at her fingers until he'd had to pull them away, again and again, fearing she'd leave nothing but bone. And most vivid of all, the fleeting image of his father—a man he had always believed to be unfeeling—looking defeated. It was the first and last time Otto Hightower had donned such an expression. 

That night, Alicent had retreated to the sept, seeking solace in prayer beneath the gaze of their mother's gods. Gwayne had followed, reluctant but honour-bound by the need to be there for her. It was the first night she'd spent there—the beginning of her piety—and the last he ever would. Since then, the sanctity of such spaces had felt hollow, their promises of peace unfulfilled.

Now, as the funeral grounds began to clear, he stayed behind. His gaze shifted to Rhaenyra, who was attempting to coax her younger sister away from the pyre. The older girl's movements were weary, her grief etched in the sag of her shoulders, her hands trembling as she reached for Naerys, but she would not be moved. 

Ultimately, the princess's patience waned, and she turned to Alicent, whose hand she took in a silent gesture of surrender. Together, they retreated toward the Red Keep, their figures swallowed by the growing shadows. Gwayne watched them go, pitying the stoic girl who stood alone before the glowing embers of her mother's final resting place.

For a moment, he considered stepping forward to offer his condolences, but who was he to say anything to her? He had butchered their last conversation, flinging words he did not mean, all because his pride had been wounded, and though he longed to apologize, he didn't think he had the appropriate words for it. 

He shifted on his feet, glancing toward the looming walls of the Red Keep in the distance. His father had already informed him of his decision—Gwayne was to return to Oldtown immediately—and though the prospect of home should have filled him with relief, it only infused him with dread. It was not the journey itself, but the dismissal. His father's orders had been curt, devoid of acknowledgment for his efforts, no matter how flawed. The still-healing scrapes on his face bore testimony to his failures during this visit, yet they had not earned the man's reproach or praise. Only indifference. 

Very well then, he would go. Yet his departure felt incomplete, laden with a sense of abandonment. If only he could take his sister with him. During his visits to the Red Keep as a child, he had pleaded with her to return with him, but neither of them dared to act upon their childish yearnings and bring the matter to their father's attention, so year after year, Gwayne was sent back to be raised by their kin while Alicent was kept at Otto's side. Regardless, the Red Keep could not be the place for her—it seemed to devour joy, swallowing even the brightest spirits whole. She belonged in the serenity of Oldtown, in the halls where they had grown, in the comfort of a home that had once been theirs together.

Suddenly there was a faint crash as the wooden pyre collapsed in on itself in haphazard intervals, and Gwayne caught Naerys's movement before he registered what she was doing. Her arm was outstretched, reaching toward a jagged chunk of charred wood that had tumbled from the pile, and though she didn't pick it up as he feared, she didn't lower her hand either. 

For a moment, he hesitated, rooted in place by uncertainty, but the potential for disaster—a princess burning her delicate fingers, succumbing to whatever strange compulsion grief had planted in her—spurred him forward. He crossed the space between them in a few long strides until he was at her side.

Then, without warning, the words he'd been keeping at bay for so long lurched from his lips, raw and unformed. "I am sorry."

Naerys flinched at the sound, her body stiffening as if he'd struck her. She had been utterly oblivious to him, but here he was, his apology hanging in the air, unanswered. 

Somewhere in the dark, Fei was watching. This much at least, Naerys knew, feeling her presence as surely as she felt the heat licking at her fingertips. Fei always watched, her hawkish eyes tracking every gesture, every fleeting impulse. She rarely intervened, but she was always there, and she wondered if the woman was waiting for her to finally pick up what she was reaching for. 

Waiting to see if she would obey the voice. Waiting to see if she would pick it up and stuff it in her mouth. 

The suggestion lingered, grotesque in its simplicity, and she felt the faintest twitch in her jaw. Fei would enjoy that, wouldn't she? To watch her shove the lump between her teeth, to see her flesh sear and blister. It would prove whatever theory she had been nurturing, the one Naerys had yet to unravel. 

Her hand wavered but did not drop. It would be a relief. If the ember burned hot enough, it might scorch away the part of her tongue that remembered the gelatinous sludge the maester had fed her in the dark. The briny taste lingered even now, and she struggled to swallow the memory, her stomach churning. Perhaps it would purge her. 

Cleansing by holy fire. And what was more holy than a funeral's blaze? 

She inched closer and Gwayne's hand shot forward instantly, his fingers curling around her wrist with a firm, urgent grip. He used more force than he intended, dragging her a few steps away from the hazardous heap.

"Careful!" he barked, gaze darting to the hem of her dress, half-expecting to see it catch a stray spark and burst into flames.

Naerys finally looked at him then, her countenance more irritated than frightened, something halfway between defiance and disdain, and for a moment, Gwayne faltered. If she disliked him before, she must loathe him now. By the gods, he had just manhandled a princess, and the enormity of his mistake crashed down on him, loosening his grip as he released her hastily, stepping back as if burned himself.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't— I wasn't thinking. I—"

The girl's fists curled tightly at her sides, but to his relief, she made no more moves towards self-destruction, making the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. 

"I am sorry, you...for your mother."

For a moment, Naerys was motionless, her frown deepening. Then, her eyes began to glisten, tears welling up despite her best efforts to hold them back.

No one had said that to her. Not like that. The courtiers and lords had offered their polished condolences for the queen, for Viserys's wife, for Rhaenyra's mother. But no one had told her that they were sorry she had lost a mother too. Even one of her own maids had dismissed her earlier fit as improper. 

The queen wasn't her mother to mourn. 

It was as though she had no right to grieve, and the entire kingdom expected her to bear it with the same quiet dignity that held her father and sister together. She hated them all for it, and the voices in her head thrived in that rancour. They slithered through her thoughts like eels in murky waters, hissing their approval whenever her anger flared. It delighted them when she wanted others to hurt as she did, to feel their ribs crack with despair, their stomachs blister with the acid like hers did. They whispered promises of satisfaction too, if only she would consider the violence they offered.

Their suggestions were far more depraved than anything she could ever conceive on her own—or so she hoped. The ideas skulked into her consciousness like maggots in rotting flesh, burrowing deep and leaving trails of filth. They spoke of things no child, no human, could accomplish, each notion more macabre than the last, but she couldn't help but wonder: were they simply figments of her fractured psyche, or instruments of some darker force, poised to act if she dared loosen their leash? 

She did not know where that leash began or ended, or who held which end of it. Nevertheless, they pleaded incessantly, and it terrified her; the serpentine hisses and guttural clicks amongst the myriad of noises they filled her with. Some had no lips while others had too many sets, as if overcompensating for some other fundamental thing they all lacked. Their skin was both parchment and leather, splitting to reveal pulsing sinew beneath, and sometimes, they turned themselves inside out, but sometimes they turned her inside out too until she begged them to set her right again. 

They enjoyed games above all else. 

Naerys could feel their presence against the confines of her skull, clawing at the fragile bone as if they might tear free. It was tiresome, being their unwilling warden, and sometimes when she spoke, she was afraid that it would be their blackened limbs and puckered hooves that would distend instead of her voice. 

Gwayne broke through her spiralling thoughts as he bent to look her in the eye, and though she wanted to snap at him to leave her alone, she didn't dare to open her mouth. 

"I owe you an apology for my behaviour, too," he added sincerely, oblivious to her predicament. "I spoke harshly when you didn't deserve it. My defeat wasn't your fault—it was a lack of skill on my part." He scoffed, the sound rough in his throat. "I've been blinded by my pride."

Naerys shrugged, the movement subtle but dismissive. He was wrong. He had been right the first time.

Bad luck. That's what he'd called her. And wasn't she? She had been right there when her mother was slaughtered and devoured. An ill omen; he'd just seen it before anyone else had. Perhaps she should have tolerated Willem Stokeworth a while longer. Perhaps if she had stayed away, her mother would be alive. 

She did not tell the Hightower boy any of this, of course. She couldn't trust herself yet, not knowing if someone else would speak on her behalf if she tried, so instead she simply turned and trudged back toward the castle. If she lingered any longer, she might have acted on the next impulse tapping insistently in the back of her mind—to step into the ashes herself and be carried away to wherever they had taken her mother.

It was indisputably futile of course, but her youthful naiveté shielded her from this truth. Naerys was no dragon, and when the Stranger came to claim her, it would not be with the familiar warmth of fire, but the frigididity of her lonely lineage. 

Naerys spent the following days in solitude, retreating to the faraway confines of her chambers and bolting the doors against all intrusion. Whether she sought to shield herself from the judgement of the world or protect them from the horror of herself, she could not say, but both were in vain. The lords of the realm gathered like carrion birds around the newly widowed king, their propositions honeyed with false condolences, eager to thrust their daughters into the place her mother had once occupied. Their ambitions reached her regardless, uttered directly into her ear rather than her father's.

At least she had the freedom to disappear, a luxury not afforded to her sister. Rhaenyra remained the king's constant shadow, his cupbearer and ornament, a spectator to the schemes woven around them. They spoke of alliances and heirs as if she were no more than a decorative chalice left unattended on a banquet table, relevant only when called upon to refill their cups. Naerys, by contrast, was allowed to macerate in her delirium, her isolation granting her no respite from the growing madness she struggled to tame. 

Each night, she woke screaming and drenched in cold sweat, her mouth smeared crimson, her nightgown and hands streaked with the same damning colour, and the sutures in her palm torn open anew. The metallic tang adhered to her tongue, but she told herself the blood was hers, that the missing patches from her lips were her own doing. It was a lie she clung to as tightly as her shredded sanity. No barred door could prevent her feet from finding their way into the bowels of the Red Keep and she would often wake in unfamiliar corridors, the walls glistening and the air thick with a fetid smell that both turned her stomach and made it ache with a hunger no feast could satisfy. 

Unbeknownst to her, her fevered descent rippled through the castle like an infection. The rational minds of the court attributed the unease to the queen's unfortunate end, but the signs were there for the few who could recognize them. There were the anomalous sightings, of course, the worst of them sending Maester Mellos tumbling down the grand staircase, resulting in two broken wrists. When he was carried back to his chambers, all he could do was recite passages from the Seven-Pointed Star repeatedly, murmuring about the unsanctified thing he had seen in the dark. 

The dreams came next, creeping into the minds of those who had attended Aemma Arryn on her birthing bed. Maesters, midwives, and maids alike awoke with their sheets tangled around their legs, their faces pale as milk. They spoke of grotesqueries looming over them, with carmine-slicked hooves and beaks that split into mandibles. 

The tragedy had unmoored their minds, they collectively decided, hastening the king to choose a new wife so that the Red Keep could finally have something to celebrate, freeing them all from the miasma that permeated the air. Not a single one of them thought to suspect that the root of their misfortune was the girl who sat alone in her chambers, gagging and retching as she choked down the unholy things that wormed across her tongue, or that the creatures who plagued them drummed a tune of approval as they pirouetted around her. 

Tonight was the same, though mercifully, the princess was in her chambers when Fei went to check in on her. She lay sprawled on the floor beside her bed, her dark hair unbound, her nightgown crumpled and smudged with charcoal and ink. Scraps of parchment were strewn around her in a chaotic halo, each adorned with her sketches—the amorphous shapes of her nightmares spilling out onto the page. Her hands at least, were stained grey rather than red.

"The hour is late, princess. Why are you awake?"

Naerys stirred sluggishly, her sticky lashes clumping together as she blinked up at the woman. "I do not wish to sleep. I do not know where I will wake up."

She waited for Fei's reaction, bracing herself for the storm. On some nights, she would shout, while on others, she would cradle her, sobbing like Naerys's torment was her own. There was no predicting which version of her would emerge, and she wasn't sure which she preferred; her fiercest protector or her harshest critic.

With a sigh, the older woman sank to the floor beside her. "You have to forgive them, princess."

Naerys shrugged, feigning indifference, though the words sent the beasts hissing in disapproval. She didn't answer, instead lowering her head to mutter conspiratorially. "They do not like it when I do not sleep, did you know that?"

Fei nodded. "I know. They feel closest to you when you sleep."

Her gaze drifted to the scattered parchments. With a grimace, she picked one up, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it might bite her—her sister's had sometimes. The creature drawn on it had webbed feet curling beneath a twisted torso, its face a blend of features that seemed almost mortal, almost familiar. She swore under her breath, crumpling the parchment in her fist. The late queen's practice—having the girl sketch out her visions in the hope of understanding her better—had persisted since Naerys was a babe. Fei doubted its value; giving form to such abominations only made them more real, giving them power over you. Nonetheless, she could not deny Aemma's effort, even when no one would have blamed her for forsaking her husband's bastard. 

"You've gotten better," she admitted reluctantly, waving the scrap at Naerys with forced levity. "Perhaps you might put your skill to something prettier."

The girl's lips curled into a faint, joyless smile. "I thought you didn't like my scribbles."

"I do not. They're heinous. But they wouldn't be if you chose more appealing subjects."

"I don't think they'd like that very much."

"I'm sure they would not."

"They like the drawings, though." Naerys paused then, listening for something, and then an absurd giggle burst out of her. It wasn't as if the apparitions sat demurely to pose for her sketches like the nobles did for their commissioned portraits, but the notion of them mimicking the living was morbidly comedic. She drew them mostly from memory, but at least they approved of her caricatures. Their amusement was always more welcome than their malevolence.

Fei's patience snapped, and she seized Naerys by the shoulders.

"It isn't about what they might or might not like," she hissed. "It is about you. You. It is you who has hold of their leash, not the other way around. Act like it, child!" Her grip tightened briefly, then softened as she added, "This is why I'm telling you. You must forgive them all. You must forgive your father. You can not let them feed off your malice."

Naerys yanked herself free and retreated across the floor, her hands scrubbing her face and smearing charcoal streaks into her pale skin. Did she even understand what she was asking of her? Did she grasp the depth of the sin she wanted her to forgive? Of course, she did. Fei always knew everything, and yet she asked anyway.

"The king is a good man," the Yitish woman went on. "You must forgive him. Do you know how much he suffers? What he sees when he closes his eyes?"

Naerys's lips curled into a snarl. "Good! It is what he deserves." Her breaths were ragged, panicked bursts, her chest heaving as her thoughts teetered on the edge of the forbidden. "You know what he did!" 

Fei moved closer, crawling across the mess of parchment. "And what of you? Is this what you deserve? You suffer threefold. Whatever affliction he endures, you pay a worse price for it. Will you not forgive him, if only for your own sake?"

No. 

She deserved every ounce of her suffering, bearing the guilt of the queen's ruin like a parasite. But perhaps she didn't need to say it aloud—Fei knew, didn't she? She always knew.

The woman cupped her face in both hands, her palms feverish against Naerys's wet cheeks. "Oh, my sweet girl," she hummed soothingly. "You have to forgive him. You have to forgive them all. You have to forgive yourself. People like you do not have the luxury of holding grudges. It will hollow you out. It will devour you, too."

"Let them. As long as they are all miserable."

Two sets of hands cradled her now—one tender and supplicating, the other spectral, making opposing demands. 

"Your father will visit eventually, and he will ask for your understanding. You must give it. Lie to yourself if you must, lie to them, and forgive. You cannot hold a grudge. You cannot desire things. You must be good, and kind, and patient. Saintly even. You can afford nothing less."

You must devour your father. We must gorge on his misery. 

I am so very hungry.

The girl's scowl darkened. Why should she have to be agreeable? Where had that gotten her mother? The famine within her roared in triumph, surging with her defiance, and then she crumpled to her knees with a groan. 

Fei caught her before she hit the ground, holding her tightly, whispering prayers into her hair. She spoke in a foreign tongue, but the words came to Naerys like echoes from a forgotten dream, their meaning carved into the marrow of her being. She recognized all the names too, gods long forgotten by most, except for her. How did one forget what one saw every day? 

D'endrrah the Divine, mistress of mirrors. Ny-Rakath, the goat-fiend. Nug and Yeb, the hooved twins who liked to play tricks, and Psuchawrl with the beak and an appetite for eyes. 

Fei only called upon the minor deities of the pantheon, not daring to commune with their master. It was a force of habit rather than a true orison, because even she wasn't foolish enough to believe that they'd be so easily dismissed. Her experiences did not allow her to be foolish, and for the umpteenth time, she considered doing what her sister should have done all those years ago. 

The princess's chambers were already strewn with cushions; there was one right here within arm's reach. It would be easy enough, though perhaps not as effortless as smothering her own girls had been, but easy enough. Eleven-year-olds were harder to subdue than babes, but it was not impossible. 

A babe merely startled, its cries muffled swiftly into silence, its tiny limbs twitching with the confusion of a life snuffed too soon. But a grown child? She would thrash, her thin arms clawing at Fei's, her legs kicking out in frantic protest as the world betrayed her once again. There would be a wet, rattling final exhale.

And then, stillness.

Everything would stop; Naerys would deflate, her body collapsing inward, indicative of the empty vessel it had always been. Her eyes—proof of her mother's betrayal—would glass over, and her burdens would be lifted at last. 

No one would know. No one would care. Their cursed bloodline would end with a rustle instead of a reckoning. The world would turn, indifferent, as it always had, and Fei would have done her part—cleansed her hands of their shared sin.

But her arms refused to move.

The thought crumbled into ash as she looked at the girl sprawled on the floor, her hair blanketing Fei's lap reminiscent of a spider's gossamer web. Who would have ever suspected what she housed inside of her when she looked like that, suckling the open wound on her palm like a fledgling needing to be weaned? 

Weak. Like her father. 

But then again, there were worse fathers to embody. At least she was not wicked like Fei's, wicked like she would have been if he had sired her. What sort of man sired his own daughter's children? The worst sort. So perhaps for all her foolishness, at least her sister had accomplished something Fei herself could not. She had chosen to escape, even if she had died for it, and not for the first time, Fei found herself envying the dead woman—girl, she had only been a girl. 

Instead of asphyxiating her niece, she pulled something from her pocket and started to peel it, the juices running down her wrist and filling the air with a citrusy scent. 

Eleven-year-olds were harder to kill than babes, not just because they resisted more, but because they lived more too. They had time to nestle into the corners of your heart, weaving themselves into your soul. Naerys had burrowed into hers like a thorn, impossible to remove without tearing herself apart in the process, and in the end, Fei could not do the very thing she had scorned her sister for. 

My darling, you will suffer. But you will live. At least for now.

When the woman pressed something spongy to Naerys's lips, she recoiled, thinking it another phantom offering of poisoned sweetness. But it was only a lemon slice, its pale flesh yielding under the press of her teeth, the sourness startling her out of her stupor. Nectar spilled from her chin in thin rivulets, sticky and sharp, a fleeting distraction as Fei continued her prayers, infusing her desperation into every syllable. 

The beings within the princess stirred, sneering at her efforts. The prayers were nothing to them, an impotent charm against the yawning chasm they embodied, the eternal master they served. But the cloying tartness cut through the bile rising in her throat, momentarily halting the curdling roil of her insides. Her nursemaid pressed another slice to her lips, and Naerys took it obediently, the citrus a welcome respite from the copper she was often fed in times like this. 

You will suffer. But you will live. A sacrifice is not yet needed. 

The king called for her the very next morning, just as Fei predicted, and Naerys found him in the stables, his shadow stretched long against the pale morning light. The scent of hay and damp wood mingled with the earthy musk of horses, and Viserys looked tired—his face more hollowed than she remembered, the grooves etched into his brow and cheeks like hatching on a map. He regarded her cautiously, his comportment unreadable, and she, in turn, avoided his gaze.

She was practicing patience just as Fei had instructed, a lesson in forgiveness, but Naerys was not a diligent pupil—never had been, and every time she looked at him, she thought of her mother's forlorn invocations.

"I did not think you would accept my invitation." 

Naerys shrugged.

Viserys hesitated before continuing. "Walk with me. Your attendants tell me you haven't left your chambers in days. It is unbecoming of a girl your age, you will only become sicker. You must allow the good weather and sun to lift your spirits."

The girl kept her eyes on the ground, her lips pressed into a thin line. The pantheon hated the sun. She hated the sun.

"Will you not speak?" he then demanded with the faintest hint of frustration.

She swallowed. "...I...apologies, Your Grace." The words felt mechanical. 

Your Grace. She never called him father like Rhaenyra did. There had always been a ravine of formality between them, and now it seemed unbridgeable.

Viserys stepped closer and placed something on her head. She stiffened at the touch as a wreath of wilted peonies and forget-me-nots settled on her hair—the crown she had made for the queen to bring her luck. 

"You left this in her chambers. She would want you to have it back."

Naerys tried not to flinch as his fingers brushed her hair, nor when he patted her head in what could only be described as a forced mimicry of paternal affection.

"She loved you very much," he added. "More than I expected her to." 

But he didn't stop there—he never did, pressing on, in an attempt to fill the decaying space between them with something alive. Taking her hand in his, he traced his fingers over the fresh linen bandage.

"You are always getting hurt. I am sorry I cannot shield you better. With Rhaenyra... I do not have to try as hard. If something displeases her, she makes it known. I sometimes forget that you are not her."

What was he asking of her—what did he expect? Did he want her to rage at him, to scream and hurl accusations, to strike him for all the pain he had caused? Naerys wanted to. The words were a morsel in her throat, but she swallowed it down like she swallowed everything. He was still the king and her father, and that made him her god. 

Her skin still crawled when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, the gesture a parody of tenderness. Fei's warning echoed in her mind. She had to forgive him. But it was hard. Gods, it was so hard. His kindness felt like a blade hidden in velvet, a lie too steeped in expectation, reminding her of the kindness he had once shown her mother—and what little it had amounted to in the end. She had begged for her life, and he had denied her even that. 

"I loved her very much, you know. Aemma—she was the only one I ever loved." 

If that is love, I pray it never finds me.

"She is angry with me, I think," he finally confessed. "Though I cannot imagine one so kind as our beloved queen to be angry. But she must be. She is all I see these days, and she is always angry."

He did not tell her of the creatures that stalked his dreams, or the fact that they wore his face. He did not speak of the nights when he dreamt of himself ingesting her whole. Or of the nights when reached into his own throat to pull his scorched and blackened son out of his stomach, still tethered to his screaming mother by a gruesome cord of flesh. He spared her those tales, but she already knew, for they were shown to her first. 

When Naerys met his gaze, he seemed hopeful and she searched his face for a reason to release him from his torment. He seemed sincere enough, as sincere as a man like him could be. She remembered how, on rare occasions, he tried. When he sat Rhaenyra on his knee to tell her tales of Old Valyria, he allowed her to loiter in the doorway. He never invited her to join them, but he never sent her away either, and in this way, he always tried to be an adequate father. Not good, but adequate, and Naerys tried to be grateful because it was more than she deserved. 

There were things she could forgive. She could forgive him for the moments he spoke as though he forgot she was his. She could forgive him for the careless slights, the overlooked hurts. She could forgive him for Willem Stokeworth and the way he had dismissed her as a trifling inconvenience. She could forgive all his wrongs against her, but she could not forgive him for her mother. For not letting her live. For not choosing her life over a damned son.

"Then why did you do it?"

The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them, and the voices snickered in chorus to mock her audacity.

Viserys did not look surprised. Instead, his expression was resigned, as if he had been waiting for her to finally speak aloud what haunted them both. He thought of his brother's jest: "Scurrying around in the walls like a rat outside the queen's chambers, she was, your bastard." He hadn't believed it then, but now he had proof.

"Whatever you heard..." he faltered, searching for some way to deny the truth.

"I saw it," Naerys interrupted. If he was going to have her executed for the truth, so be it. "I heard you. I saw you all."

"Then I am sorry, truly. For a child to witness such a thing...I have failed you as your guardian. It seems I have been failing at a great many things."

For a moment, the king's gaze drifted to somewhere beyond. He wondered what Ren might have said, had he known how little Viserys protected his daughter. How he might have reacted to the knowledge that his child had borne witness to such a harrowing scene? Even Rhaenyra would not have been able to endure it, and she was far sturdier. 

"You must not have told Rhaenyra," he scrutinized her cautiously, probing for a confirmation that would absolve him of further guilt. "She grieves, yes, but she does not have your..." He paused, searching for the right word, fumbling with the inadequacy of language to describe whatever rankled within the girl before him. Finally, he settled on, "...patience. If she had known, she would have said something. She would have—"

He broke off, and he visibly shuddered. He knew his eldest too well. She was a tempest, wild and unrelenting when provoked. There was no telling what she would have done if she learned the truth, of the wretched choice he had made in the name of duty. She would never understand the necessity of it, the inevitability of sacrifice.

"You cannot tell her," he declared firmly, his gaze locking on Naerys. "It will only amplify her grief. You do not want to be the cause of more pain, do you?"

Naerys stiffened, her nails biting bloody crescents into her palms. A surge of indignation rose in her chest, and she wanted to spit in his face, to sink her teeth into the veneer of authority he wore so poorly. How dare he? How dare he suggest that by speaking the truth, she would be the cause of her sister's pain? As if it wasn't his fault entirely. As if his hands weren't stained with the blood of the woman she loved. How dare he pretend he was blameless?

Viserys, oblivious or willfully blind to the fury simmering just beneath her surface, shifted his tone. He became almost cajoling then, trying to barter for her silence.

"I am sorry for the business with the Stokeworth lad—truly, I am. I did not know that he would perish so soon,  but I swear it will not happen again. You are free to remain unwed for as long as you wish. I will not force another union upon you. The queen, in her wisdom, reminded me that your station does not require you to forge alliances, and so I made her this promise, one I repeat to you. You may live as you please. Become a Septa if you like."

He leaned closer furtively. "Only grant me your understanding of this matter," he urged, "and swear to me in return that you will never speak of this. Let us put it behind us."

He punctuated his request by leading her deeper into one of the nearby stalls, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder to prevent her from fleeing. Here the light filtered in through the gaps in the wooden slats, painting it a soft gold as he took her hand to gently place it on the muscled neck of the horse within. 

The beast's coat shimmered in the pale light, a dappled grey so luminous it seemed almost molten silver. It was velvety beneath Naerys's palm, warm and alive with the steady pulse of a heartbeat.

Another bribe. 

"She's yours if you'll have her," Viserys beamed. "Named Quicksilver, after the great mount of King Aenys. Your egg never hatched, did it? Though if I recall correctly, it never seemed to bother you. Well, now you have a steed as fine as any dragon. I think you'll quite enjoy riding."

He paused, stroking the horse's mane wistfully. "You remind me of someone else who did. Finest equestrian I ever knew."

Naerys's lips twitched, the beginnings of a scowl. Did he speak of her mother—her real mother? He had never mentioned her, not once in all her years under his roof, but surely, there must have been something to her that had drawn him, some essence that had passed to Naerys herself. For all his claims to have loved Aemma Arryn, he had betrayed her all those years ago too.

And now Naerys wondered if he refused to speak of her birth mother because he had betrayed her too. Or was it worse? Had her mother willingly abandoned her, allowing her to be carried an entire continent away, her existence erased from one life and smudged into another?

"Your sister is to be named my heir." The king was still speaking, his tone a mixture of pride and solemnity. "Let us make sure this new honour is not tarnished for her, hmm?" He reached out and patted her head again with practiced familiarity, though the gesture felt more like a master mollifying a neglected hound. "Let us help leave her grief behind so she may prepare herself for this great task."

Daughters were like dogs really, in the way they always came scrabbling back with an unquenchable appetite for approval. 

Naerys looked up at him, her visage carefully neutral, but the battle inside her raged fiercely. She had been warring with herself since that fateful night, and now, at last, she made her choice. The conflict ended, but she couldn't tell who emerged victorious. Victory was not meant to taste this acrid.

She could never forgive him, but he was still her father, still her blood—more than anyone on this forsaken side of the world—and for that alone, she owed him something. For her very existence, she owed him obedience.

And so she obeyed.

Chapter Text

106 AC

Naerys stood at the threshold of her sister's chambers, an unmoving shadow in the dimly lit corridor. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of myrrh and crushed roses, mingling with the faint trace of warmed beeswax from the many taper candles illuminating the chamber. The maids fluttered around Rhaenyra like moths to a flame, as they prepared her for the looming coronation.

One laced up the back of her elaborate gown, pulling the fabric taut to fit the princess's frame, while another dabbed ground alabaster onto her skin with careful strokes, painting her into the very image of a queen. Red ochre was pressed to her lips, turning her mouth into a blooming scarlet rose, and from her place by the window, Alicent Hightower observed in silence, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Rhaenyra's ladies-in-waiting also occupied the chamber with familiar ease, each one settled into their respective roles. Lady Beatrice Arryn hovered closest, in that affectionate manner that was wholly hers, her fingers deftly working a bejewelled comb through the princess's pale tresses. An elaborately embroidered headdress lay on the vanity before them, waiting to crown the newly arranged locks. Behind them, Lavinia Strong and Edith Celtigar occupied the great bed, engrossed in a game of cards. Lavinia lounged carelessly, one leg bent over the other, recounting some bawdy tale she had overheard from the servants belowstairs. Edith, by contrast, sat with her spine perfectly straight, her lips pursed in a manner that betrayed both concentration and disapproval, her dark brows drawn together as she pondered her next move.

Lady Elinda Massey was with them too, content to drink in the atmosphere as a spectator, her back resting against Edith's in a display of ease, while Edith, for all her usual rigidity, made no move to shift away.

The scene was a tapestry of companionship, woven with threads of duty and devotion. It should not have felt cozy, not with the sombre air of the occasion or the tragedy of the days past lingering like a spectre at the edge of their merriment. And yet, there was something comforting about their presence as they filled the chamber with the hum of laughter, dulling the edge of grief momentarily. 

"You won't believe what I heard in the kitchens this morning," Lavinia was saying conspiratorially. "Apparently, the head cook caught the new scullion girl in the pantry with Ser Roger Waters—and his squire!"

Edith gasped, scandalized. "Lavinia!"

"Oh, hush, Edith. It's a good story." The brunette Strong waved a dismissive hand before dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. "There she was, skirts hitched up to her thighs, pressed up against the salted pork, and the squire—get this—was helping hold her steady."

Beatrice chuckled, though she kept her focus on Rhaenyra's hair. Edith, however, looked positively affronted.

"How do you know these things?"

Lavinia grinned. "Because, dearest Edith, I have ears. And I listen."

"You inhale gossip as if it were liquor." Edith shuffled her cards with undue aggression. "Honestly, skulking about the kitchens like a common gossipmonger—"

"Oh, I don't skulk," Lavinia interrupted. "I happen to have friends below stairs, thank you very much. And they tell me things because I am a delight."

"A delight?"

"A vision," she amended. "Now, as I was saying, Ser Roger's squire was positively enthusiastic in his assistance. Holding the girl up while Ser Roger did his work. A real team effort. I daresay it was the most camaraderie the Kingsguard has seen in years."

Alicent gaped at her. "The Kingsguard? Are they not under oath to keep chaste?"

"Yes, my sweet Lady Alicent, but never have I seen one who truly adhered to his vows. I suppose we all have our vices, and Ser Roger's are squires and maids." 

"I will never eat salted pork again." Edith looked ready to faint.

"That's a shame. They were pressed right against the best cut." Lavinia sighed dreamily. "Honestly, I should take my meals in the kitchens more often. The entertainment is leagues better than whatever dull feasts we suffer up here."

Elinda clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "You are incorrigible."

"And yet, you all adore me. Where else would you get your gossip."

Across the room, Rhaenyra, who had thus far only nodded along in distracted silence, let out the faintest huff of amusement. It was small, barely there, but Beatrice caught it. She smiled tenderly, smoothing down a strand of silver hair before pressing a kiss to the princess's temple.

Lavinia grinned triumphantly. "Ah! See? Even the princess finds me amusing."

"That was not amusement," Edith insisted. "That was sheer exhaustion."

"Edith, your cynicism wounds me." Lavinia placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "Shall I fetch a scullion maid and squire to carry me to my grave?"

"If it means you'll stop speaking, then by all means!"

"You never let me have my fun! But never mind that, there is another tale I've been dying to tell you all."

"Gods help us all."

"The gods have already blessed you by placing me in your life." Lavinia tapped her fingers against her chin as if deep in thought before snapping them together with a wicked grin. "Ah yes, where was I— the rat-catcher and the brewer's daughter."

"The what?" Elinda wheezed.

Alicent glanced up briefly from her place on the chaise, a glimmer of amusement in her gaze. She turned as if debating whether or not to feign distraction, but in the end, curiosity won out, as it always did with the girl's tales.

"You see," Lavinia continued, relishing the attention, "the rat-catcher—young enough, stringy fellow, smells of mildew, ghastly breath, but very skilled in his trade—has a rather improper arrangement with the brewer's daughter." She paused for effect. "She provided him with... certain favours, and in return, he made sure the rats were never a problem in her father's storehouses."

Elinda blinked. "That's... practical."

"Practical? Elinda, it's disgusting," Edith interjected, her expression caught between horror and reluctant intrigue. "Who in their right mind—?"

"She was a businesswoman at heart. What's a little... sacrifice, in the name of keeping the ale clean?" Lavinia smirked. "Besides, I hear she was quite taken with him. Thought him rather dashing."

Alicent wrinkled her nose. "The rat-catcher?"

"The very same, my lady."

Edith shook her head in utter disbelief. "I refuse to believe anyone could find a rat-catcher dashing."

"Well, perhaps 'dashing' is the wrong word. But she was overheard sighing over his capable hands."

A beat of silence followed before Elinda mumbled, "Capable of what, exactly?"

Alicent coughed into her sleeve to disguise a sudden, startled laugh and Beatrice clicked her tongue for the umpteenth time.

"Elinda Massey!" Lavinia sat up theatrically with a gasp. "Did you just encourage this conversation?"

The girl turned pink, looking down at her lap as if regretting her contribution immediately. "I—I only meant—"

"Admit it, sweet Elinda, you're fascinated." Lavinia waggled her brows.

"I am horrified," Elinda corrected, but the corners of her lips twitched in a way that betrayed her.

Her gaze met Alicent's across the room, and they shared a moment of camaraderie, an understanding between two girls who were more accustomed to observing than participating. Elinda chewed her lips to suppress another laugh, while Alicent was unable to contain hers.

And Edith, who had no patience for any of it, simply groaned into her hands. "I cannot believe I am trapped here with all of you."

"But you love us, don't you darling," Beatrice remarked, matter of factly.

"I tolerate you."

Meanwhile, Naerys lingered in the doorway, an outsider looking in, feeling an unexpected pang of loneliness settle deep in her chest. She did not know why she had come—Rhaenyra did not need her company when she had so many others, and yet, she could not bring herself to leave either. It was beginning to get far too desolate in her own chambers all the way in the most secluded wing of the castle, and she did not wish to accept companionship from the beings who extended their malevolent offers. 

Beatrice was the first to notice her.

Her sharp eyes darted to where Naerys lingered, and she lifted a hand, beckoning her forward. But when the younger girl shook her head uncertainly, Beatrice simply nodded in understanding.

With a final deft twist of her fingers, she secured the last of the golden filigree pins into Rhaenyra's elaborate coronet of braids, turning to the rest of her audience to draw their attention by clapping her hands. 

"I believe the princess has a guest to attend to, so we must take our leave. We will see our most esteemed lady at the ceremony."

A chorus of groans rose in protest.

"Oh, come now," Lavinia drawled from the bed, stretching lazily before rolling upright. "Just when I was about to tell my best story yet."

"Gods have mercy, we shall leave right away," Edith muttered, already standing.

Lavinia smirked but made no further protest as the girls rose one by one, offering their final words to Rhaenyra. Edith and Elinda dipped their heads respectfully, while Beatrice placed a kiss on her knuckles before stepping aside. Alicent lingered several moments longer, wrapping her arms around her in reassurance.

They filed out in a rustle of silks, and just beyond the threshold, they came upon the aforementioned guest still sulking in the shadows.

Elinda and Alicent offered her small waves, while Edith did not spare her so much as a glance. Then Lavinia swept past in a flourish of vermillion skirts, reaching out to pinch the girl's cheek, snickering at her startled expression.

Naerys resisted the sudden urge to bite her fingers. 

"Interesting tales, weren't they, little princess?" Lavinia purred, oblivious to the danger her bejewelled digits were in, winking before Edith hauled her away with a reprimand.

"Do not corrupt the child with your vulgarities!"

"Even children must have stories!"

Naerys glowered, rubbing at her cheek, but before she could so much as open her mouth, she was pulled into a crushing embrace. Beatrice smelled of lavender and faintly of the aviary she liked to spend so much of her time in, her warmth familiar and steady as she pressed her cheek against the forget-me-nots braided into the young princess's hair.

"Your sister will be just fine," the Arryn murmured, drawing back just enough to cup her face between her hands. "Both of you will be just fine. You're the queen's brave, beautiful girls. Of course, you're going to be all right."

Naerys wasn't sure she believed her.

With the others gone, the room was suddenly too quiet. Rhaenyra stood in the center, a vision in crimson and gold, her gown embroidered with the sigil of her house, her hair woven more intricately than any diadem of Valyrian steel. Yet for all her finery, for all the careful hands that had adorned her in the trappings of power, she looked lost—her eyes distant and unfocused, as if she had drifted too far from herself and could not find the way back.

It had been weeks since the funeral, weeks since they had last stood in the same space, and now Naerys felt painfully inadequate by her side.

The older princess blinked once, twice, then startled, as if only just realizing she was no longer alone.

"Naerys?" Her voice was hoarse, as though she had not used it in days.

"Yes...Your Grace."

The title slipped out of her mouth almost instinctively, the difference between them even greater now. The bastard and the queen-to-be.

Rhaenyra's face was a hairsbreadth from crumpling until she remembered the hours that had gone into painting her in the colours of her title, so she settled for pressing her lips together.

"Is that...is that what it's going to be like from now?" she asked. "I am still you sister, am I not?"

Please let me remain your sister, even if I am meant to be queen. It is one title I cannot relinquish.

Naerys had always thought Rhaenyra invincible—too bold, too bright, too fierce to be shaken by anything, but now, though she was a girl dressed as a queen, she carried the heart of an orphan, lost in a world she was meant to rule.

"I did not mean—I only wanted to—" she began, but the words caught in her throat. What could she even say? That she was sorry? That she had missed her? That she had wanted to come sooner, but the memory of their mother's chambers paralyzed her every time she tried to leave her corner of the Red Keep. "You look like—"

"Like a queen?" Rhaenyra finished bitterly, lifting her chin, though lacking the conviction of her usual defiance.

"Yes, that too."

"What were you going to say then?"

"Nice. I was going to say you look nice. Pretty."

Like Mother. Far too much like Mother. 

Rhaenyra's breath hitched, as she searched her face for something—reassurance, comfort, absolution? Whatever it was, Naerys did not know if she had it to give.

"You should hate me," the younger girl finally acknowledged, uttering the words she had come here to say. "I haven't been a very good sister to you."

"Naerys—"

"But father told me about his decision and I...I wanted to be the first to pledge my oath to you," she interrupted, dropping to her knees with one hand clasped over the sore tallies etched above her heart. The incisions pulsed raw, even after all these years and the voices called her a liar, but she refused to heed them. 

Her older sister let out a breath—something close to a laugh but too hollow to be called one. "You haven't been a good sister? Then I have been an even worse one. I am sorry I didn't come to see you either."

The truth was, Naerys's outburst the night of their mother's passing had frightened her. She'd seen her have fits before, of course, but that particular one was awful; the way she clawed at herself, and bit into her own skin like a creature of the night. But that did not excuse the fact that she had abandoned her to her grief. They were meant to stand together during such a time, united in their loss. And the sight of her little sister kneeling before her so reverently shattered whatever composure she had remaining.

She knelt to her level, cradling the girl's face almost desperately. "You'll forgive me, won't you? I am sorry for not coming to see you. I am sorry for not asking how you were—your maid tells me you haven't been taking your meals. I am sorry for not making sure you were alright. And for not telling you about Father's decision myself."

Naerys shrugged off her hands. Far too many people were touching her face today, and it was irritating. But at her sister's crestfallen expression, she gingerly wrapped her arms around her waist, pressing her face into her sternum. She rarely initiated such close contact, so when she did, Rhaenyra revelled in the sporadic gesture.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Nyra. It must have been difficult for you too."

Rhaenyra felt a single tear slip down her cheek and onto the dark strands below. "That's right, do not call me Your Grace. I am your sister. For you, it will always be just, sister." 

Your Nyra. 

The ceremony to name Rhaenyra as the king's heir was a grand affair, with nobles from every corner of the realm gathering to bend the knee and swear their oaths. A great spectacle, fit for the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

And yet, it changed nothing.

Rhaenyra was still treated as little more than a child, called upon only when some lord's cup needed refilling. The men of court certainly humoured her, but they swatted away her ideas as though they had been suggested by a simpleton. Even now, months after being named heir, she had been dismissed from the Small Council's chambers like an errant girl who had overstayed her welcome, sent instead to preside over the selection of the newest Kingsguard knight.

If the matter had been of any real importance, she might have cared more, but as it was, she stood upon the viewing dais, shoulders slouched, gazing at the men before her with thinly veiled boredom.

One after another, the knights stepped forward, standing stiff-backed in their polished steel while Lord Commander Harrold Westerling droned on about their so-called accomplishments—minor skirmishes in the marches, modest tourney victories, the occasional instance of distinguished service on some dull patrol.

None of them impressed her. She had not expected them to.

In the far corner of the balcony, Naerys sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, her back resting against the cool stone wall. She had no real interest in these proceedings either, but her sister had cajoled her into coming, and she had learned by now that it was easier to relent than to argue. At the very least, she had company.

Beside her sat Joanna Westerling, golden-haired and sun-kissed, her braid already unravelling from the wind. She had returned to King's Landing that very morning, fresh from Lannisport, where she had spent the past half-year visiting her mother. As Ser Harrold's ward, she resided in the Red Keep with him, but her presence had been rare as of late. 

Naerys had missed her. Joanna was hers. 

Not Rhaenyra's first, like Alicent and everyone else was. Not one of the ladies-in-waiting who flitted around her sister like dutiful courtiers. Joanna belonged to her alone.

Now she was back, and with her, Naerys felt like she was something resembling a girl—not quite, but a close enough imitation. 

It was almost comical, how much had happened in the time she had been gone. Naerys did not even know where to begin.

She had been married.

She had been widowed.

She had lost a mother.

She had gained a brother—for a few fleeting moments.

Her sister was heir to the throne.

And yet, she remained the same useless child she had always been. So, she supposed, some things did not change. But she did not say any of this, content in the quiet companionship offered to her.

Joanna herself was stretched out comfortably, one foot propped over the other, sprawled as if she had forgotten—or simply did not care—that they were in the presence of the Lord Commander, The Lord Hand, and Heir to the Iron Throne. In fact, every time Ser Harrold paced past them, he was forced to step over her legs, and yet she made no move to shift, grinning slightly when her uncle let out a huff of disapproval.

Her deft hands worked through the thick rind of an orange, her nails stained as she tore it apart. Juice welled at her fingertips, trailing down the creases of her palms and perfuming the air around them with the sharp scent of citrus. Once the fruit was stripped bare, she split it into halves, the pale membrane clinging stubbornly to the glistening flesh beneath. Then, she turned, pressing one half into Naerys's waiting hand.

"I know that you favour lemons, you odd creature" Joanna teased. "Yet I fear you must make do with this instead."

Naerys lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I have no cause to complain."

She reached for it, but Joanna drew back, slipping her free hand into the pocket of her tunic. With a triumphant little hum, she retrieved a neatly folded handkerchief and, with the same care one might show a precious relic, laid the orange slices upon it before offering them anew.

"We cannot have the princess's hands sullied with fruit juice," she chided.

"You are being dramatic."

The girl's expression softened. "Someone must mind you. I have neglected my duty too long, but no more. Now that I have returned, I shall be most vigilant."

Naerys scowled, a retort forming on her tongue. "You do not have to mind me. You are not my nursemaid or my moth—"

The words halted mid-sentence. Silence stretched between them, and she stared down at the fruit she held, her vision blurring as the pieces turned to indistinct golden smudges against her palm.

Joanna's brow twitched as if in silent understanding. Then, without hesitation, she plucked a slice from the princess's palm and raised it to her mouth.

A peace offering. A distraction. A kindness.

Her voice was purposely light when she continued. "Shall I tell you of the jest I played upon Lord Jason Lannister whilst I was away? Never in my life have I heard my mother rail so fiercely. She is quite convinced her brother shall never forgive her, though I told her he would recover soon enough."

Naerys nodded, and Joanna popped a slice of orange into her mouth, licking the lingering juice from her thumb with all the grace of a common street rogue rather than the niece of the Lord Commander. She chewed thoughtfully, then leaned back to tilt her face toward the open air.

"Oh, you would have loved Lannisport," she sighed, tucking her hands behind her head. "The sea was a shade of blue brighter than sapphires, and the gulls cried so loudly at dawn that not even a dead man could sleep past sunrise. My uncle swears it is the finest city in the realm, though I suspect he simply enjoys how the smallfolk part like waves when they see his emblazoned cloak."

The princess gave a quiet hum and her companion began drumming her fingers against her knee as she began the comical tale.

"It was a simple thing. I only wished to see if Lord Lannister's vanity might ever be dented. The man preens like a cockerel, strutting about Casterly Rock as though the gods themselves formed him from gold. You should have seen the way he ogles himself in his looking glass—it's a wonder he did not attempt to kiss his own reflection. I pity his future wife, she will have to compete against him for his own attention."

"You sound as though you loathe him?"

"On the contrary, princess, I adore my uncle with all my heart. I only sought to take him down a peg."

She leaned in conspiratorially, her golden braid slipping over her shoulder. "I had the good fortune of overhearing that he ordered a set of new doublets made—costly things, no doubt, embroidered with lions and rubies and whatever else he thinks will make him look more noble. The seamstress was near tears, for when he went to inspect her work, he declared that the gold thread was not gold enough."

Naerys gave a quiet snort, shaking her head.

"So," Joanna continued, "I paid a visit to the woman myself and ever so kindly offered to make some alterations to one of the doublets before it was delivered."

"What manner of alterations?"

The girl's grin turned wicked. "Well, first, I had the rubies swapped for garnets. The man would not know the difference if you pressed them into his very palms. But the true jest was in the stitching."

"Oh no..."

"Oh yes." She clasped her hands together, brimming with satisfaction. "Upon the lining of the doublet, in the finest, most delicate needlework you have ever seen, I had the seamstress embroider the words: 'A lion by name, a peacock by nature.'"

Naerys blinked. Then, despite herself, an incredulous giggle bubbled up. "And the seamstress obeyed you? Surely she should have known better."

"Oh, you know how persuasive I can be. And the best part—it was not even I who revealed it! He donned the doublet for a feast, and all was well until he took his seat beside my lady mother, who happened to notice a stray thread along the seam. She plucked at it, pulled the lining forth, and—well. The entire high table bore witness to my handiwork."

"Not your handiwork," Naerys pointed out dryly. "You couldn't embroider if your life depended on it. I pity the poor seamstress."

"I ensured she was well compensated for her troubles. And my uncle is not cruel, he knew who was really at fault."

"Then it is you who is cruel!"

"And yet the gods still suffer me to walk the earth," Joanna quipped. "My mother nearly killed me. I believe she said something about sending me to a sept to atone for my sins, but I cannot say I was listening closely."

"I do not know whether to be impressed or horrified."

"It doesn't end there, of course. My mother was in such a state after the doublet incident that she declared I was henceforth forbidden from all manner of mischief. Which, by her definition, includes swordplay. 'A lady of your standing has no need for such brutish pursuits, Joanna,'" she mimicked, pitching her voice into an exaggeratedly prim tone. "'You bring nothing but shame to this house with your antics, and if you do not correct your ways, I shall see you betrothed to Lord Matthos Reyne, who is old, fat, balding, and afflicted with gout!'"

"Surely she did not say that."

"Oh, but she did," Joanna shook her head in mock lament. "It was meant to strike fear into my very soul, I suppose, but I should sooner take the black than wed such a man."

"Even you cannot join the Night's watch, Joanna. Now, you sound just like my sister."

"What choice would I have had? Can you even imagine? Forced to sit at his side and simper demurely as he prattles on about the price of wool or whatever dull thing occupies his mind—gods, I would fling myself from the tower first. The minds of men are exceedingly dreary."

Naerys did not respond, something in her heart withering. She could imagine. It had nearly been her own life. Would she have had to sit beside Willem Stokeworth for the rest of her life, listening to him prattle on about wine and women and other vulgarities? He was not old, fat, or even balding, but repulsive all the same.

She did not have the luxury to rebel like others did, to deny her lord father when he came demanding that she fulfill her duties.

"A tragic end for our dear Joanna," she managed to say half-heartedly. "Defeated at last by a dreary old man."

Joanna pressed a hand to her chest as if wounded. "A most undignified fate, indeed. My father, bless his heart, had to cajole her into leniency. 'I cannot have my only child unskilled in swordplay,'" she said in a deeper voice, imitating the man with dramatic solemnity. "'What if she is set upon by brigands? Or must one day defend her honour?'"

"And did that work?"

"Not without quite the row. They went at it for half the night—her accusing him of indulging me too much, him saying she must allow me some liberties, lest I go mad with boredom. It was a battle for the ages, truly. But in the end, well... what can they do?" She grinned, stretching her arms out lazily just as Ser Harrold shot her a peevish glance. "They cannot help but indulge me. I am all they have."

The princess studied her for a moment, the lighthearted air between them shifting ever so slightly. She knew, of course, that Joanna spoke the truth—her parents adored her, even when she drove them mad with her antics, and for the first time, she felt a spark of envy. Aemma Arryn was the only person who ever spoke for her unselfishly, without opportunistic motives. What would become of her now? Her sister's new position already burdened her with other responsibilities, so who would advocate for Naerys's freedom when the king forced another match upon her? He had promised he wouldn't but he had also promised to love and protect his wife, so Viserys Targaryen's word meant very little.

"You are very loved," she murmured after several moments.

Joanna glanced at her, something flickering in her eyes before she smiled. "I know." She bumped her shoulder lightly. "And so are you, you know. Even when you are sulking in dark corners like a forgotten spectre."

"I do not sulk."

"You do, but prettily. A rare talent, I daresay."

Just then, Rhaenyra's bold declaration interrupted them. "I choose Ser Criston Cole!"

She addressed Ser Harrold first, but her gaze skimmed her sister as she beckoned her forward with a tilt of her head. "Naerys, come look. He is the only one here who has known real combat. He has seen it in the Stormlands."

Naerys could not care less, and she was unwilling to move from her position, content in her disinterest. But Joanna nudged her forcefully enough that she had no choice but to rise.

Shooting the smug girl a disgruntled look, the younger princess stepped forward, moving to peer at the aforementioned man over the railing. Ser Criston Cole stood tall, his dark eyes locked onto Rhaenyra's as she peppered him with questions about his experience. He answered with the measured confidence of a man who had seen blood spill upon the earth, who had felt the weight of a sword strike true. Earnest, perhaps. Sincere, even.

"I do not like him." The words came as a series of ominous clicks from inside the girl's skull. 

"You do not like anyone," echoed two others. The twins. 

Naerys simply wished they'd stop bickering where she could hear them. They were terrifying enough when they clamoured to be fed the flesh of her kin, but they were even more unnerving when they indulged in whatever mimicry of civil conversation this was. 

Nevertheless, D'endrrah had given her decree, so the man's fate was sealed. Naerys did not like him either, then.

"Perhaps he will be amusing to torment?" Another scraping sound. Her head began to throb. 

"Only if he deserves it." Naerys shuddered with revulsion. "Please. Only if he deserves it."

"He will, fledgling. Eventually."

And so he would, because D'endrrah was never wrong. 

The faint trace of amusement Joanna had coaxed out of her vanished, her expression settling into something hard. Naerys did not reveal her doubts—Rhaenyra would not listen to her—but she would not feign approval either.

Her sister bent toward her, voice lowered, though the pride in it was unmistakable. "He asked for my favour at the tourney. And he defeated Daemon. Father will be pleased to have such a capable man join the ranks."

Naerys's grimace deepened. That tourney. The one meant to celebrate their father's greed and their mother's death. She had not lingered long enough to witness Ser Cole's skill firsthand, but she knew well enough that she had no desire to do anything that might please the king.

She did not bother to whisper when she replied, "I do not like the look of him."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened. The man was not ugly by any measure. 

A sharp smirk twisted Otto Hightower's lips at her words, though he masked it quickly as he interjected, "There may be a kernel of wisdom in the young princess's words. Let us not be hasty. There is no doubt that Ser Criston is a fine warrior, but the other houses who have presented themselves today are important allies to the crown. Perhaps we might consider one of them?"

Naerys grit her teeth. She did not appreciate being used as a pawn, least of all by men who wished only to further their own aims. She turned on her heel to leave, unwilling to remain part of a discussion she had no care for. As she passed Ser Harrold, she paused briefly, glancing up at him.

"Will Joanna and I see you for our cyvasse game this evening, Ser?"

The Lord Commander patted her head with the same paternal fondness he always had, his craggy features softening. "If I can spare the time, princess, I shall not miss it for the world. We must see which of you is the more skilled player after so many moons of negligence."

The dark-haired girl left without another word, while Joanna hurried after her retreating figure as they wove through the adjacent hallway. 

"You cannot cast a man aside simply because his appearance displeases you," Joanna chided, with a lilt of teasing. "Not every knight can be as comely as your fair Ser Hightower. I have scarcely been back half a day, but have already heard the ladies of court whispering about him—and his unfortunate luck at the tourney."

Naerys did not pause, nor did she take the bait her friend so eagerly dangled before her. "I am not dismissing him because of the way he looks," she replied curtly. "I simply do not like him."

There was something about the man that set her teeth on edge, though she could not name what. And then, of course, there was D'Endrrah's judgment. Who was Naerys to argue? The Mistress of Mirrors dealt in prophecy as well as she did in deception, understanding the nature of men and creatures better than most.

Further down the abyss of her mind, Nug and Yeb had begun yet another dispute over which shiny trinket they might coax their unwilling host to swallow. She felt them like oil through her veins, and she swallowed hard, trying not to empty the contents of her stomach as she ignored their bribes.

But Joanna had not let up about blasted Gwayne Hightower, her way of keeping her friend tethered to more pleasant matters rather than letting her drown in her ever-deepening grief.

"They say the young knight sought your favour," she mused, casting Naerys a knowing glance. "A most gallant gesture, was it not?"

"Sought your favour and scorned you for it."  Yeb coiled around her thoughts like indignant ivy. "We should eat his shiny hair for such insolence."

"His hair is not shiny enough, we should eat his eyes," Nug countered. 

Naerys clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to gag. She hoped her creatures would return to their incoherent howling as before. It was somewhat more tolerable than this attempt at amiability. 

Her countenance soured at the mention of Alicent's brother. He was long gone now, likely despising her. She told herself she did not care, that she had long since tired of being disappointed by men. Viserys, Willem, Gwayne, Criston Cole. They were all the same. 

She exhaled sharply, sparing Joanna a sidelong glance. "If I ever need a knight, I shall call upon you, Ser Westerling. You shall suffice."

Joanna smirked, puffing up her chest dramatically and flexing an arm that had seen far more mischief than battle. "Will you knight me too, princess?"

"If you wish it, I don't see why not. If my sister is to have a sworn shield, perhaps you can be mine."

"I'll train extra hard for you then! Would you like to come watch me train?"

Naerys could not quite suppress the twitch of her lips even as another parasitic notion invaded her. "Perhaps."

"She has shiny hair. Perhaps, we ought to eat—"

"Be silent!"

Chapter Text

106 AC

It was on one of her nightly wanderings between the veil of sleep and the cruel edge of waking that Naerys found herself loitering before her father's door. But perhaps it was not his door she sought at all, but the late Queen's beside it. Perhaps it was a thread of grief that drew her there, some ghost-tether that hadn't yet snapped. Or perhaps it was the voices.

She was barefoot, draped in her nightclothes and swaying faintly as if pulled by tides no one else could feel. Time slithered past her unnoticed. It could have been hours or mere moments. Her mind had grown poor at counting such things at this hour.

She was waiting, but for what, she couldn't say. 

When the king's door opened, light within bled out into the corridor, warm and yellow and terribly alive. The woman who stepped through was none other than Lady Alicent Hightower, and she paused, startled. Her shoulders stiffened, and her expression was halfway between guilt and alarm.

She was not in her usual colours. Gone was the pale blue she donned when frolicking in the Godswood with Rhaenyra and her ladies-in-waiting. Tonight, she wore a deeper green. The neckline was a touch lower, the sleeves more fitted, as if sewn for someone who'd outgrown girlhood while no one was watching. Candlelight kissed the silk, and Naerys thought, absently, it suits her.

Alicent's cuticles were a familiar sight as always, stained faintly with blood that no doubt still tasted of iron beneath her teeth. The older girl opened her mouth as if to speak, to offer an explanation, or to lie, but what explanation would suffice?

Before she could summon a word, a voice echoed from inside the chamber.

"Is someone at the door?"

There was a brief, clumsy shuffling from within, then the king himself appeared, eyes bleary and robe hastily drawn over his nightclothes. At his arrival behind her, Alicent flinched imperceptibly and took a measured step away from him, inching toward Naerys until they stood side by side.

Naerys did not move. She merely watched, head slightly tilted, expression distant as if viewing a painting come to life. Or a play. Or a dream. The whispering chorus in her mind rushed forth, parsing what she could not. They were already drawing their conclusions in overlapping tongues, layering implications upon inferences until the truth began to sour.

"He smells of shame and longing. Give me his gaze and I will taste it."

Not for the first time, Naerys fantasized about plucking her father's eyes from out of his skull. But then his gaze softened when it landed on her, warm with paternal concern, and she found herself faltering. 

"The hour is late, child. What are you doing out of bed?"

Naerys inhaled sharply. No, she still could not stand him. She could not stand the pretend tenderness. 

Viserys's brows furrowed as he stepped closer, robe dragging unevenly over the floor. He looked younger tonight than he had yesterday, as if energized by some earlier interaction. His crown was absent, but the weight of it hung about him, slumping his shoulders.

"Naerys," he repeated, more gently now. "Are you well? Have you had another one of your dreams? Shall I summon a maester for you?"

When she did not respond, Alicent cast her a sidelong glance. 

"I was headed to the sept," she spoke up, smoothing the fabric of her gown with trembling fingers. "Perhaps... the princess would like to accompany me."

It was both an invitation and an escape route; a lifeline thrown into the brittle tension, and both girls understood it for what it was.

Viserys blinked, as if only now remembering Alicent's presence, or perhaps just grateful for her tact. He had never been fluent in the language of girlhood.

"Yes. Yes, that would be well." He gave a weary smile, directed at no one in particular. "A quiet prayer always helps in moments like these." He looked to Naerys once more. "Go with Lady Alicent, child. She will ease your thoughts." 

As she eases mine, he almost said aloud. 

The halls were quiet at this hour, and the flame from Alicent's lantern flickered along the walls, casting the young queen-to-be in candlelight. Her slippers made no sound, but Naerys could hear her breath, measured, almost rehearsed.

"It's a clear night tonight," Alicent noted, attempting small talk. "You can see the stars from the sept's windows. I used to watch them with my mother when I was younger, although the skies of Oldtown were clearer than they are here in King's Landing."

Naerys said nothing, though her jaw remained clenched. What she wanted to say clawed at the roof of her mouth, all the same. 

He will ruin you.

She wanted to warn her. To speak plainly. To tell the girl who still smelled faintly of sweetcakes that men like her father devour without meaning to. That warmth from a dying man was just smoke—residue and nothing real. That he had already wasted one wife and was not above wasting another. 

But she didn't know if the words would come from a place of concern or hostility. There was no denying the seething thing that writhed inside her whenever she caught glimpses of Aemma Arryn's absence being filled. 

"Do you always walk the halls at night?" Alicent asked. "I've seen you, sometimes... just before dawn. I thought perhaps you were praying."

Naerys shrugged. She supposed she was praying. If praying was communion with the gods, she was always praying. 

"When I was younger, I used to believe that the gods were louder at night," Alicent continued, eager to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Like they whispered more freely when the world was quiet."

"They do."

Naerys spoke with such conviction that her companion flinched. 

"You make it sound as if you've heard them, princess."

"I have."

"Perhaps you might share your secrets when we reach the sept?" Alicent's fingers picked at her own skin. "I, too, would like to hear them. Truly hear them, even if just once."

Naerys did not have the heart to tell her that the gods who spoke to her were not the sort she'd want to hear. 

"I used to pray for my father, too. That he would sleep, and wouldn't stay up reading so late by candlelight. He always said the realm rested on tired shoulders. Sometimes I think... the king must feel the same."

It was the wrong thing to say, because the princess scowled, and Alicent wondered if that was why she was being so frigid. Surely she was suspicious of her presence in the King's chambers. She felt panic claw up her throat. Would she tell Rhaenyra? The king had asked to keep the visits a secret from his eldest daughter. And besides, it wasn't as if Alicent frequented his chambers on her own accord. She had never been able to deny her father's demands, and if he told her to keep attending to the grieving widower, then she had no choice but to obey. 

The secret thrummed against her ribs, begging to be let out, but it was all she could do not to shake the little princess and plead with her to keep it to herself. 

"You must miss your mother, princess."

That, at last, earned some recognition, and Naerys's hands twitched. Alicent faltered. Another wrong thing to say. She wished she could take it back.

Naerys watched her companion's fingers intensify in their picking frenzy, the skin near her thumbs a landscape of half-healed wounds. Without a word, she reached out and wrapped a hand firmly around one of Alicent's, enclosing it in her own. The movement was neither tentative nor especially gentle, simply deliberate. A command disguised as kindness.

Alicent froze.

Rhaenyra had once said her sister was a prickly thing, more winterthorn than rose, intolerant of touch, even from those she loved. And yet here she was, standing with all the stiffness of a marble effigy, gripping her hand with unwavering certainty. She didn't know whether ot be alarmed or flattered to be one of the few exceptions ot her rule. 

Her fingers were freezing, though. It was like joining hands with a corpse. 

For all her court-trained poise, Alicent didn't know what to do with this sudden closeness from someone not usually known for it. Regardless, she squeezed the princess's hand in return, as if she could press a little of her warmth into that frost-bitten skin.

Perhaps the little girl did not hate her after all. 

She looked small for her age. She had made it past eleven, but was far shorter than Alicent or Rhaenyra had been at that age. Her face was still round with the ghost of childhood, but her eyes seemed ancient, like they did not belong on her face.

She looked like a girl born from sorrow, and within her, Alicent remembered losing her mother, too. Something gentle welled in her chest, and she clung to it as she began to speak, her voice purposely brighter, as though cheerful memories might disguise the ache behind her ribs.

"When I was little, my brother and I used to visit the gardens behind the Starry Sept. There's a terrace there that faces the Honeywine, and when the sun sets, the water turns to molten gold. I always thought it looked like something out of a tale. We'd sneak honey pastries from the kitchens and eat them in secret. The maester always scolded us for the crumbs, but we never cared."

Naerys nodded to indicate she was listening. 

"Perhaps Father will let me visit again someday. If he does, maybe you and Rhaenyra could accompany me. Though I suppose she may be too busy with her duties as heir now. Then, perhaps it would be just us. Just you and me."

Her fingers gave Naerys's another light squeeze.

"My brother would take great delight in showing us the city. Gwayne always liked playing the role of tour guide more than he liked listening to anyone else, mind you. He once spent an entire afternoon convincing a visiting lordling that the dome of the Starry Sept was made from crystallized dragon glass. I think the foolish man believed him."

"Do you have many memories of your time in Oldtown?" 

Alicent sighed wistfully. "I don't remember much. It feels like a story someone else told me. Or a dream I didn't mean to wake from."

Naerys nodded. 

"It always smelled of lavender there, did you know? The dried kind. Bitter-sweet. The maids hung bundles over the hearth to keep the insects out. I didn't like it much then, but sometimes now... I think I'd give anything to smell it again." She smiled faintly, eyes cast down. "Isn't that strange?"

"It's not."

"What's strange is how little we remember. Just scraps. A colour. A laugh. The warmth of the sun on a specific step. The smell of the wind in late summer. I try to hold on to those. Some days it feels like all I have left of back then are the fragments."

That sounded relieving to Naerys. Perhaps given enough time, she, too, would forget the atrocities of her childhood. Perhaps time would muffle her mother's helpless final shrieks until she forgot their cadence entirely. Perhaps time would straighten out her crooked finger, and she would not remember the feeling of Willem Stokeworth crushing it, or the taste of his foul blood. 

"I suppose we all become someone else, eventually," Alicent mused. 

There was nothing Naerys wanted more than to become someone else. 

"Gwayne still writes, thankfully," the older girl remarked after a pause. "He's been busy these days—training or patrolling or some such thing—but when he does, he always writes the same way. But I can tell when he misses us. He'll write more about the weather or how the birds are making noise outside his window. It's the kind of thing you only notice when you're lonely."

She fell quiet for a moment, and the corridor narrowed, leading to the entrance of the sept. 

"He told me the other day that the flowers are blooming early this year in Oldtown. The river smells sweet, and one of the Citadel bells cracked during morning prayer. But it's difficult to imagine the world you left behind, piecing it together from secondhand words. He also told me the new scribe's apprentice has a stutter, and they've gotten a new cook. No one else would inform me of these things. No one else would think they matter, but he tells me anyway."

Naerys's earlier grudge against the Hightower boy softened slightly. "He sounds like a good brother."

Alicent flashed her a grin, the kind she usually directed at Rhaenyra, and she found herself basking in its warmth. 

"He certainly is when he wants to be," she snickered. "Sometimes I think he writes more for me than himself. Like he knows I'm forgetting and wants to make sure I don't."

The air inside the sept was fragrant with melted tallow. Light from a dozen flickering candles painted the walls in a gentle amber, and the faces of the Seven gazed down from their towering perches with unblinking eyes.

Alicent moved gracefully through the sacred space, kneeling before the statue of the Mother to light a small wick. Bowing her head in earnest devotion, she glanced expectantly at Naerys, willing her to join.

Naerys hesitated before dropping to the floor beside her, the hem of her night-robe catching stray ash. But while Alicent's head bent low in prayer, the young girl tilted her chin up, scrutinizing the statues watching her.

The Father, stern and judging. The Mother, tender and sorrowful. The Smith, solid and strong. The Maiden, sweet and idealized. The Crone, veiled in secrets. The Warrior, triumphant and defiant. The Stranger, black-robed and faceless.

She wondered if Alicent could hear them. Did they speak to her when she prayed to them? Did they whisper prophecies to her, or was her devotion met with indifference? 

The response within her skull was immediate, as it always was.

"If the Seven could talk, they'd've told her that dress makes her look like a boiled radish."

The voice was Nug—or perhaps Yeb. It was hard to tell them apart unless they both spoke at once. Which they usually did.

"Don't be cruel," came the twin echo, far too pleased with themselves to sound remotely contrite. "She's perfectly sweet. But her gods are as deaf as they are juvenile."

"She has the appearance of someone expecting to hear angels," muttered another, rough as gravel. "But if she truly heard her gods, she would not kneel so serenely. She would tremble and bleed."

"True. That is not the face of someone holding communion with divinity. That's the face of a girl thinking about pastries and flower oil."

Naerys closed her eyes as the throbbing in her temple intensified. The voices never stopped, but she wondered if they became more incorrigible in the sept. It was probably blasphemy of some sort to visit a place dedicated to the worship of foreign deities.

The next voice was warm with false saccharine. "Some hear gods. Others only hear themselves and call it prayer. What is worship but madness performed prettily?"

A low grating sound answered, the rustling sound of moving flesh, wet and hungry.

"Silence is peace. But it is also ignorance. Ignorance is not blessed, and p eace is for the fools and the dead."

Naerys gritted her teeth. The inside of her skull pulsed like an overfilled bladder ready to burst.

"Perhaps you might learn some of her devotion. Perhaps you might feed us like she feeds her gods with empty words. The complete and utter absence of doubt."

"The absence of doubt is not the presence of faith. It is merely the lull before the drowning."

Their voices overlapped now, one devouring the other, an argument of tones and textures. Cold fingers pressed behind her eyes, clawing at the corners of her vision. Her shoulders tensed as a fresh wave of conversation swelled within her, each creature jockeying for dominion, some cruel, others indifferent, some merely amused.

All she could do was sit there and listen. A spectator in her own mind.

Creatures or gods, who could tell? Although Naerys knew in the marrow of her bones that they had to be gods. What else could they be?

And really, what was a god?

Someone who could make things happen, perhaps. Someone whose word was not mere sound but command, whose will bent the world to shape. By that logic, her father was a god, was he not? Viserys, first of his name, king of the realm, ruler of dragons and men. When he spoke, laws changed. Fates were altered. Men were executed, betrothed, and exalted.

Yes. That was good enough.

Then, so too were the creatures who'd made a home in the crevices of her mind. Or perhaps not quite a home. Naerys doubted they truly resided there. They were too vast for that. Too immense and endless to be bound by a mortal skull. 

There were seven of them.

Seven, like the Seven of the Faith. But while the statues of the Faith stood mute as graves, hers spoke. Hers were sentient. 

She was certain of five of them. Five distinct personas, each bearing a shape and a name whispered in the twilight spaces between sleep and nightmare, when fitful shivers made her bite her own tongue.

Nug and Yeb were two sides of the same coin, always tumbling over each other. One was laughter, the other mischief, but both of them were thieves. They delighted in nonsense and mimicry, but they'd steal her very name from under her tongue if given the chance. 

D'endrrah had a thousand forms, none of them her own. The mistress of mirrors had a voice like lullabies and thorns, and she was why Naerys refused to look too long at any reflective surface. 

The third member of her pantheon smelled of rot and spoke like a weary grandfather. Ny-Rakath was just as ancient as the rest of them, she supposed, but he was the only one who did not bother to disguise it. Inexplicably, he was also the only one who felt safe. Or at least predictable in his displeasure.

Most well-mannered of them all was Psuchawrl, who addressed her like a lady of the highest station. He used grandiose titles she did not understand, but his desires were perhaps the most grotesque. He brought her whispers from every corner of the Red Keep, whether she wanted them or not, and in exchange, he fueled within her an inescapable hunger. 

These five she had become acquainted with, and sometimes she deluded herself into thinking she understood them to some degree. She knew them not in the way one knew a person, but in the way one knew a house full of doors. She'd learned the feel of certain keys and the sound behind certain thresholds.

But she did not understand the thousand-masked one. He who winked and blinked and sneered at her from the faces of passers by, who wore her skin and did as he pleased without permission. He seemed to hold the most contempt for her, though she could not imagine what she might have done to invite his displeasure. He was simply a glutton for her misery. 

Nyarlathotep. She'd heard his name only once, said in passing by one of the others, though it seemed he held power over them even. 

And then there was the last one. She did know its name. It never spoke, but it was there, both at the edge of her consciousness and the center of everything. It observed her the way the sea watched the shore, impassively, with a kind of divine indifference. It frightened her most of all, because its apathy rang louder than any scream or insidious whisper. She felt its presence most keenly when the world went still, and even the rest of the pantheon quietened. She felt it when its gaze scraped leisurely across her spine like frost.

There were seven of them in total, and she'd once tried to draw parallels between them and the gods of the Faith. But it was a futile task. The Crone, the Warrior, the Stranger. There were no such neat domains among her beings. 

Her gods were chaos, clothed in speech and smoke. Some days, they felt unreachable, and others, they felt more like people than deities. People so ancient their memories had folded into myth, so deeply entrenched in their being that time itself had ceased to pass for them. They had personalities. Tempers. Favorites. Biases. 

They were tenants.

Yes. That was it.

Tenants in an old, creaking abode that had long outgrown them. And Naerys was their unwilling landlady. Their skull-shaped manor and their shrine of flesh and fever.

The next night found Naerys seated—if not entirely by choice—at the King's table.

It was a private supper in Viserys's solar, a candlelit affair meant to be familial, though there was little warmth to be found in the chamber. The long table stretched between them like a moat. Viserys sat at one far end, while Naerys was placed on the other end, tucked beside Rhaenyra as though she might otherwise escape.

Silence bloomed like mould in the corners of the room, but Naerys, for her part, paid it no mind.

She was hungry. And though her true appetite would have made the castle cooks clutch their aprons in alarm, she made do with what she had. The roasted poultry on her plate was well-seasoned and lavishly garnished, yet it tasted no better than ash to her tongue. Nonetheless, flesh was flesh, and her gods, fickle as they were, delighted in the replacement meat.

Her jaw moved with mechanical diligence, and the feast blurred around her. Quail, glazed carrots, spiced wine. She scarcely noticed any of it.

Stab. Chew. Swallow. 

Across the table, Viserys marvelled at her. His child by name, if not by blood. So little of Ren seemed to live in her sometimes.

His beloved old friend had been a man who disdained meat almost religiously, preferring the seasoned roots and roasted squashes of his homeland. But Naerys? There wasn't a single vegetable on her plate. No carrot, no beet, not even a pea. She'd pushed them all aside scornfully, a small horde of green exiles collecting on the rim of her dish.

It almost made Viserys laugh. He too had a fondness for poultry and meats, much to his maesters' approval. 

She eats like a dragon, he thought. Perhaps the blood is not so far removed after all.

He glanced at Rhaenyra, who had begun delicately spooning another helping onto Naerys's plate, taking great care to flick aside the scattered peas one by one. She did it with the ease of a practiced hand, a ritual between sisters.

He cleared his throat, finally breaking the heavy hush. "Well, it seems I must thank you, Rhaenyra. You've nearly doubled your sister's supper by the spoonful. She'll outgrow you in no time."

Rhaenyra grimaced. "She doesn't need to outgrow me. If she grows to be the size of other children her age, I'd be grateful enough."

Naerys blinked slowly, uncertain if it was an insult or a jest.

"I mean, how am I supposed to argue with her properly if she looks like a doll someone sat at the wrong table? The court will think I'm victimizing a toddler."

Naerys scowled. "I am not a toddler."

Viserys barked with laughter. "She is a child, Rhaenyra. You mustn't argue with her."

Rhaenyra scoffed, feigning offence. "She's my sister first, and sisters argue. It's practically our sacred rite." She gave Naerys a theatrical nudge. "But it's a bad look for me if she looks too young to handle it. Imagine Ser Criston watching us bicker. He'd assume I'd lost my mind."

Naerys's frown deepened at the mention of her sister's new sworn shield, and Viserys hastened to the next topic of conversation. 

"Did both of you ride today? The weather was good, or so I was told."

"No," Rhaenyra replied. "Naerys had lessons. Septa Ysadora has taken a liking to assigning her extra verses from the Seven-Pointed Star."

"Has she?" The King turned his gaze to the younger girl. "What did you learn today?"

Naerys met her father's stare with an unreadable expression. "The Maiden weeps for the loss of innocence, and then she looks away. The Stranger's embrace is inevitable."

Viserys blanched after a beat. "Ah...that is a rather solemn interpretation."

Rhaenyra glanced at her sister with a frown. "I don't remember that from any of my lessons."

But Naerys had already returned to her meal, indifferent to the shift in mood. 

"You eat like my father used to," Viserys tried again. "We used to joke that he had a second stomach hidden somewhere for roasted quail. You seem fond of it, too."

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement. "When you were just a babe, Mother used to mash it with apples—utterly disgusting by the way. And you'd never eat unless she fed you herself."

At the mention of the queen, Naerys stilled again, and her sister's eyes misted as she recalled the memories. 

"Mother coddled you far too much. She even sang to you while she fed you. I remember. It was one of her songs about the Vale. Though I can no longer recall the words." 

"Yes, your mother had a beautiful voice. The way she'd sing to you girls—she could have pacified even Balerion if he'd lived long enough to hear her."

Rhaenyra glanced around the table. "It is nice to talk about her for once. We haven't spoken much... since."

"A regret of mine. We should be free to speak our minds to one another."

"You are the king, Father. You can say whatever you'd like. Who would dare stop you?"

Viserys glanced at Naerys, gauging her reaction before he uttered his next words. "I am sorry it has been like this. I loved your mother very much."

Rhaenyra's eyes were wet when she nodded. "As did I. I only wish..."

It was a stupid wish. If her mother had been alive, she wouldn't have been named heir to the Iron Throne, yet she wondered all the same what the late queen would have thought of her new position. Would she have been proud of her? Perhaps she would have been happy. Perhaps if her father had named her heir earlier, then he wouldn't have driven the woman into an early grave in his pursuit of a son. 

"Your mother's absence is a wound that will never heal. Without her, the Red Keep has lost a warmth that I dare say it will never recover."

"It pleases me to hear you say this, Father. To know that I'm not alone in my grief." Rhaenyra glanced at her sister, who was still preoccupied with her dinner. "It has been lonely without anyone to share the burden with."

"I wish I had known better what to say to you girls in the aftermath." Viserys steepled his fingers together, as if mustering the courage to broach a sensitive topic. "But I know you both understand what is now expected of me."

Naerys sneered at the peas on her plate, clutching her fork so tightly, it was a miracle it didn't snap. 

Rhaenyra's expression was equal parts devastation and acceptance. "The King must take a new wife. I know."

"And you must know, I could never replace your mother."

Liar.

"I thought it only right that I tell you both first," Viserys went on, struggling to break the tense silence. "I know this may be difficult, but the realm must have a queen."

"Didn't it?" Naerys snapped suddenly. "Didn't it have one already?"

"Naerys..."

She couldn't meet his eyes, not when all she wanted to do was scoop them from the hollows of his skull and sink her teeth into them. Make him shriek like her mother had on her deathbed. A wave of sickness rolled in her gut like seawater curdling over rotting meat, and the mound of quail and rich gravy in her stomach turned to stone. 

"This is not about forgetting her, child, but ensuring stability for you both, and for the realm. You know I loved her."

"He guts her memory with honeyed words. He butchered her like a lamb and now dares speak of love?"

"Love, he says. A king's love lasts only until it is inconvenient."

" Did his hands not sign her death warrant?"

Naerys's temples vibrated as the cacophony rose once again. Her skin prickled with cold, and across the table, Rhaenyra's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

"I do not intend to replace you as my heir," Viserys turned to address his older child. "But you are my only heir, Rhaenyra, and our line is vulnerable, too easily ended. By marrying again, I may begin to ensure that we are better defended."

"Against whom?" 

"Whomever may dare to challenge us. But I do not wish to make us estranged."

Rhaenyra stiffened, a forced mask of indifference sliding over her features. "You are the King, and so, your first duty is to the realm. Mother would've understood this, just as I do."

Naerys wondered if her sister would have been so understanding if she knew the truth. If she knew how their father had practically begged the maesters to carve Aemma open like a duck at dinnertime. And now he was going to do the same to another woman. She hoped all his future sons were stillborn too. She hoped every child he sired with his new queen would be stillborn, or sickly, or soulless. She hoped they'd rot in the cradle, or rot in their beds thereafter. She hoped he'd rot from the inside out. She hoped—

She let the wicked thoughts curl around her like smoke from a pyre, hot and choking and sharp with grief. She let herself curdle in the vile resentment that festered beneath the hollow of her ribs. There was no shame in it tonight.

"Will it be Laena Velaryon?" Rhaenyra asked hesitantly. "That is what the court has extrapolated. Lord Corlys is your Master of Ships, and she is the eldest daughter of the wealthiest house in the realm. She would make the most advantageous match, for the good of the realm."

Viserys gave a thoughtful smile at her suggestion. He was proud of her for already thinking like a future sovereign. She was a smart girl, but he did not have the heart to tell her that he had already decided on his bride-to-be. 

Naerys's frown grew deeper. 

Psuchawrl was demure when he chimed in, yet his pleasure oozed between the words like warm slime. "It does the mind good to exorcise fantasies. A cruel thought is not a sin. It is a possibility. A prayer in reverse."

And why should she not loathe the king? Why should she not curse every future child who would come into this world swaddled in silks and lies, born from a woman who was not Aemma Arryn? 

"Let them choke on the same cord that nourished them. Let their skulls collapse under the weight of their father's rotten legacy. Let their eyes remain shut. Let them be born screaming and never stop. Let them rot in gold."

It was her mother's voice that uttered these grotesque thoughts, and Naerys flinched, standing abruptly from the table. Viserys and Rhaenyra glanced at her in alarm. 

"It will not be Lady Laena, though, will it, Your Grace?" she forced through gritted teeth, glowering at the king. 

After all, it wasn't Laena Velaryon who spent hours in his chambers listening to him prattle on about his stupid stone sculptures. 

Before he could placate her, Naerys turned on her heel and fled the room, pressing her hands into her eyes to alleviate the pressure building there. The predators within her skull chorused in gruesome approval. 

"That's it, sweet girl," cooed Yeb, with Aemma's gentle lilt. "You're doing so well, aren't you?"

"We knew you had it in you," echoed Nug, still using her mother's voice.

"What a lovely scream she made back then. Would you like to hear it again?"

And she did hear it. But it wasn't just a sound. It was texture and colour and the feeling of hot blood down her legs, of panic splashing across damp stone, of hands holding her down in love and death. 

Naerys had wandered her way down one of the empty corridors of the Red Keep, and she crouched down, trying to fold into herself to escape what lived within her. 

Mimicry was their forte, and there was nothing the twins enjoyed more than tormenting her with their ability. As of late, they'd found Aemma Arryn's voice to be most effective. Yeb echoed her final pleas as the midwives held her down, while Nug crooned the lullabies she used to sing during happier times. 

A dichotomy of suffering, both comforting and haunting. At least this way, she knew she'd never forget the sound of her mother's voice for the rest of her life. 

Back in the king's chambers, Rhaenyra watched her father. He looked older than she remembered. Nonetheless, his softness did not dull her resolve.

"What did she mean when she said you will not wed Laena?" she demanded. "Is she not the most obvious choice?"

Viserys did not look at her at first. He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine like it might offer a clearer answer than he could. Then he gave a weak shrug, a gesture too nonchalant to be honest.

"The small council has not yet decided. Your sister is just... easily upset. It is nothing to concern yourself about."

The princess stared at him, lips parting in disbelief. She wanted to press. You are the King, she nearly snapped. The small council is not your master. But the words lodged in her throat, swallowed by the weight of knowing.

He had already made up his mind.

The council had opposed him when he'd named her his heir, but he'd forged ahead with that decision, regardless of their wishes. Now he played coy, leading her to believe it was them who held power over him. It could only mean one thing: he had chosen this as well.

He wanted a new wife, a mother for the realm, if not for them. A replacement had already been found.

It had only been a few moons since Aemma Arryn's passing, and already the space she had left behind was being rearranged for someone else. Lady Laena Velaryon was a dear friend, but the thought of being her stepdaughter left a sour taste in Rhaenyra's mouth. She hoped Naerys was right after all. She hoped the king would marry some unknown lady of one of the great houses and leave her friends out of his plans.

She rose suddenly, and the movement startled Viserys.

"I shall let you take your rest, Father. And I shall see to my sister."

Then she was gone, storming through the corridors of the Red Keep. Finding Naerys was no difficult task. The girl was a wraith, but Rhaenyra had always known where to look. It was instinctual, this tether between them. 

She found her near their mother's old chambers as expected, though Naerys might have been a ghost for how still she stood. Her back was to the corridor, her face nearly pressed to the stone wall, hands pinned flat at her sides. She looked, absurdly, like she was being punished.

Face the wall and reflect on your sins, the septas always said when they were cross. Rhaenyra had spent enough time in that pose to recognize it instantly. It would've been amusing if it weren't so strange.

"You look like the Septa Ysadora caught you skipping lessons again," she jested, placing a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. 

When she resisted, Rhaenyra turned her insistently, expecting the usual sulking frown or a sarcastic jab. But what faced her was something else entirely.

Naerys's left eye—her blue eye—had ruptured like a petal in bloom. It was still the colour of a clear morning sky, but within it now swam two ovoid pupils, impossibly conjoined yet drifting in tandem, like twins submerged in a sea of milk. Her other eye remained unchanged, starkly benign in its charcoal simplicity. 

When she spoke, it was in their mother's voice.

"Go away."

Aemma Arryn had never spoken so coldly. She had been gentle to a fault, even when discipline was due. So the contempt that rolled off her sister's tongue, mirroring the late queen's articulation, struck Rhaenyra like a slap, and she physically recoiled.

Then Naerys blinked, and just like that, she was herself again. Eyes dull and solemn. Just a girl with tear-wet lashes and lips chewed to a bloody pulp as always. The chill in the corridor did not explain the cold that clung to her, but she looked heartbreakingly normal.

Without thinking, Rhaenyra pulled her into a fierce embrace. She needed the touch to steady herself. She needed it to remind her what was real. And she was grateful when Naerys did not resist. She rarely did when it came to her. 

"Let's go riding," the older girl murmured against the crown of her head. "It's been a while since I've taken you out on Syrax."

"The hour is late."

"Since when have you cared about the hour? I know you have no plans of going to bed."

Naerys's response came out muffled and indecipherable against Rhaenyra's chest. 

The princess pulled back to look into her sister's mismatched eyes. "Father says you've got a new horse, but you haven't so much as looked at it. I doubt you'd let me give you a lesson at this hour, but you can at least accompany me on Syrax."

She didn't wait for a reply before striding toward the Dragonpit, yanking Naerys behind her like a puppet. 

Chapter Text

106 AC

The next morning, for the first time in what felt like ages, Naerys found herself beneath the open sky. The sun glared over the stone walls of the Red Keep, gilding every corner of the courtyard. She squinted into its brilliance, unused to the light. Even in the shade of the colonnade, the world felt loud and too alive.

Joanna Westerling had insisted on dragging her out, her demeanour so full of command that she could not refuse. They sat on one of the stone perches at the edge of the training ground, just far enough to be out of the way but close enough to hear the grunts and clashing of wooden swords. A game of cyvasse lay set up between them, but neither girl had moved a piece in several turns. Naerys sat cross-legged, chin tucked into her palm, her fingers idly tracing the shape of one of the game pieces. Joanna, meanwhile, was not even pretending to be interested in the board, her green eyes locked on the training yard with envy so potent it almost shimmered.

"It's not fair, you know."

Naerys didn't answer right away, but she didn't have to. Her friend was never one to keep her thoughts to herself for long.

"Both of my uncles think it's scandalous that I want to train. As if picking up a sword might cause the moon to fall from the sky." She kicked at the stone wall in front of her with a pout.

"And that would be terrible indeed."

"Ser Harrold says I'm too young, which is ridiculous, because some of those squires are as young as I am." She gestured broadly at the sweaty, gangling boys across the yard, then leaned closer and muttered, "And not nearly as clever."

Naerys glanced at her sidelong. "You are very clever. Perhaps too clever. It would be cruel to expect those poor boys to keep up."

Joanna huffed, clearly not finished. "And then there's Ser Tyland, who doesn't even listen. Says it's unseemly. Unseemly! As if I'd bring shame to his house by being able to defend myself. I don't see why he should be so bothered when my father doesn't mind. I told him he should be more worried about serving as the king's Master of Ships than about where I swing a sword. He turned so red I thought he might pop like a grape."

"You are very good at making people angry."

"It's a gift," she nodded proudly. Then she slumped forward, her elbows on her knees, long sun-burnished curls falling across her cheek. "If only he'd just go back to Lannisport. Then I could work on convincing Ser Harrold. His opinion can be altered, I'm sure of it."

Naerys turned her eyes back to the board, the pieces blurry in her periphery. She didn't mind the clamour of swords, the bright cries of fighters locked in faux combat, or the barked orders of the knights. It was all noise, but ordinary noise. It dulled the roar in her skull for once.

"Perhaps you can train when you're older," she suggested weakly, although Joanna was already a few years her senior. "Then I'm sure you'll be able to beat them all."

"How much older do I need to be? This is atrocious."

Naerys's gaze drifted toward one boy who'd just been knocked onto his back and was lying in the dust, wheezing. "I think you could beat that one now."

Joanna snorted. "I know I could. That's Luthor Beesbury, Lord Beesbury's grandson. He's always wheezing. His nose whistles when he breathes."

"Perhaps he ought to visit a maester. You mustn't make fun of him like that."

"Oh, my sweet Naerys, he deserves it, I promise. He tried to write me a love poem."

"He can write?"

"If you can call it that." Joanna swayed in an exaggerated swoon. "'Thy eyes burn bright as wildfire, thy hair as flaxen as a lion's hide, thy form—'" she gagged theatrically. "'—as fair and full as—' I swear to you, Naerys, he rhymed 'hide' with 'inside.' I almost threw myself off the battlements."

Naerys narrowed her eyes. "Oh no, what did you do to the poor boy instead?"

"I slipped his letter under my uncle's pillow. Now Ser Tyland thinks he has a secret admirer at court who is enamoured with him. I daresay he has started to keep his hair more tidy these last few days."

"You'll have to produce more letters if you want to keep up the ruse."

"What a brilliant idea! And here I thought you didn't know how to have fun." 

Joanna leaned back on her elbows, one boot swinging off the edge of the perch as she resumed eyeing the boys in the training yard with a mercenary sort of interest. Her grin was wicked now—familiar territory.

"See that one?" She jerked her chin toward a tall boy with a shock of red hair, currently fumbling with his shield as a brunette boy battered at him with a dulled longsword. "He thinks he's descended from Garth Greenhand. He keeps slipping flower petals into his sparring partner's helms. Says it's symbolic."

Naerys glanced at the boy, trying not to think about the only other red-haired knight she knew. "He looks like he's about to faint from standing."

"Exactly. I asked him if he watered himself every morning." Joanna chortled again, then tilted her head toward Naerys. "What about you? Did you have any lessons today?"

"I did. I skipped them."

"The gall! The scandal! What will Septa Ysadora say?"

"She'll weep into her scrolls. And now you are an accomplice. I skipped to play cyvasse with you."

"Mother above, I am an accomplice." The Lannister girl looked vaguely pleased with herself. "I always hoped I'd commit a crime one day. I imagined it would be something nobler—freeing a prisoner or striking a knight. But skipping lessons is a fine start."

"You did free a prisoner," Naerys deadpanned. "My septa's sermons are a life sentence."

Joanna beamed at her. "Truly, what are friends for?"

A cool breeze danced through the colonnade, and for a moment, Naerys let herself bask in the simplicity of it. The light still stung her eyes, but it was the good kind of sting. The kind that reminded her her skin was her own.

Somewhere far off within the dark corners of her skull, the voices murmured in their thousand-year tongues, but for now, even they were quiet. Perhaps they were giving her a moment's respite after the hellish nights they'd subjected her to for the past few weeks. 

The sun had inched higher, throwing gold on the courtyard stones, when a trio of boys broke off from the practice yard and made their way toward the girls. Their tunics were half-unlaced, faces red and glistening with sweat from sparring. They seemed closer to Joanna's age, bearing the swagger of boys who had begun to notice they were no longer children, and the confidence that came from steel in hand and eyes upon them.

The tallest among them—a lean creature with a crooked grin and curls like tarnished bronze—strode up first. "Ladies," he said, offering a lopsided bow. "Surely the gods themselves must be playing games today, for I see not one but two glorious maidens before me today."

Joanna looked up just as he reached for her hand. Without waiting for her reply, he took it and pressed a kiss to the back of it with a practiced flourish.

"Richard," the girl greeted him mockingly as she snatched her hand back. Then, with great theatricality, she wiped it on her skirts and shuddered. "Now my fingers shall rot and fall off. What a tragedy."

The other boys howled with laughter, and Richard clutched at his heart as if mortally wounded. "You wound me deeper than any blade could."

Naerys said nothing, but she didn't miss the pink staining her friend's ears, a betrayal of the breezy disdain she tried so hard to affect. She had also noticed, of course, how many glances Joanna had tossed toward this particular boy all morning. Their game of cyvasse had been a ruse from the start.

The second boy, round-faced and shorter, with a missing tooth and freckles across his cheeks, doubled over. "You deserved that," he chortled. "Every time, she does this, and every time you think this'll be the time she swoons into your arms."

"I live in hope, Darran," Richard lamented.

The last boy—slender and dark-eyed, with a thoughtful air about him—gave Naerys a respectful nod. "Princess, you'll have to forgive my friends. We've been hit in the head a few too many times today."

"She knows," Joanna chimed in. "We've been watching you all morning."

Naerys blinked at him, surprised to be addressed at all. "It's all right."

The third boy grinned at her. "I'm Elias Redwyne. That's Darran Tully, who's incapable of thinking, and Richard Strong, who's incapable of shame."

Darran gasped in offence. "I do not! I think plenty. Like right now, I'm thinking... how come Jo never lets me kiss her hand?"

"Because she has taste," Richard grumbled.

Naerys held back a smirk. It was very clear where her friend's tastes and interests lay. Before she could utter her observation, a sudden familiar weight landed in her lap. The kitten she'd found months ago had attached itself to her, and now it leapt up from the sun-warmed stone to coil into her, a purring bundle of fur. She reached down automatically, stroking behind his ears, letting the purring soothe the strange pressure that often lingered at her temples when she was around too many people.

The boys' gazes darted to the cat immediately.

Elias crouched slightly. "Is this the infamous beast? The one who nearly scratched Maester Orwyle's face off last week?"

"Twice," Joanna declared proudly. "Once for trying to trim its claws, and once because—well, because it felt like it."

Naerys ran her fingers over the cat's spine, and after a pause, said, "Marmalade is not particularly fond of the maesters."

"Good judge of character, then," Elias winked, and she felt her cheeks warm at the unexpected conversation. 

"What kind of name is Marmalade?" Darran inquired, wrinkling his nose.

Elias answered before she could. "Well, clearly that's what he looks like. Orange. Sweet. Untrustworthy."

Naerys bit back a laugh, but it slipped out anyway, a shy sound that made Joanna glance at her in pleasant surprise.

"Well, it seems that our outing today has been a success if it's put you in a good mood," the girl cheered. 

Elias leaned forward a little. "Does your cat let anyone else near him?"

Naerys shrugged. "...if he likes you enough."

"Ah, like Joanna then," Richard snorted. "Temperamental and prone to clawing."

Joanna rolled her eyes. "At least I don't shed on every chair I sit in."

The boys chuckled again, and Darran flopped onto the stone beside them with exaggerated exhaustion. "I'm dying of thirst, here, Jo. We should be served drinks for our entertainment."

"You've done nothing but yell and flail about with wooden swords. If you want refreshments, fight a real knight. Defeat my uncle and you'll have all the fruit pies you like. I will make sure of it."

"You expect me to challenge the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to a duel. You must be mad. I can barely keep up with Richard."

"And Richard's a peach," Elias pointed out. "He bruises so easily. Hardly any competition."

"I do not!"

"Come spar with us, Jo," Darran beseeched. "I need a partner who won't cry when I knock him on his arse."

Joanna raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that. I'm pretty sure you cried last week when I knocked you off your feet with a broomstick."

"I did not!"

"You did."

In response, Darran threw himself dramatically into a sprawl, leaning heavily into Naerys's shoulder as if she were a pillow, while simultaneously kicking his dusty boots up onto Joanna's lap with a contented sigh.

"Mmm, perfect. I live here now," he declared.

Naerys stiffened, uncertain what to do with the weight slumped against her. Her hands hovered awkwardly, caught between pushing him off and protecting Marmalade, who had hissed once, then decided to ignore him completely.

"Off!" Joanna barked, shoving his feet off her lap. "You smell like horse sweat!"

Darran made a wounded sound. "My dear Jo, I thought we were friends!"

"We were, and then you assaulted my dress with your boots. And don't lean on the princess like that." She leaned forward to dust off Naerys's shoulder where the boy had made contact.

"Oh no, have I offended our solemn little princess?" he snickered, peeking up at her with an exaggerated pout.

Naerys said nothing, but her unimpressed stare was answer enough.

"She's probably considering if it would be worth the scandal to have you beheaded," Richard drawled.

Before Darran could further proclaim his innocence, his friends each grabbed one of his arms and heaved him off his seat.

"Unhand me! Brutes! Ruffians! You would drag an injured man from his perch? You would—"

"You're not injured," Elias interrupted.

"My pride is very fragile."

Richard dropped him with a thud. "Not fragile enough."

While Darran scrambled to his feet, grumbling, Richard slid into the seat beside Joanna and stretched his legs out comfortably, giving her a sideways smirk.

"Miss me?"

"You are tolerable only because you removed him."

Naerys flinched when Elias settled beside her, but unlike Darran, he kept a respectful distance, not even brushing her sleeve.

He offered her an apologetic grin. "He gets like that around people he likes. I promise he means no harm. Just a surplus of limbs and poor judgment."

Marmalade, as if sensing a gentler presence, leapt from her lap into Elias's, curling up without a second thought.

"Well. I've been chosen," the boy murmured reverently. "Does this make me royalty?"

"You're his throne now," Naerys chuckled. 

"A sacred duty. I shall not fail him."

"Why does he get to sit?" Darran whined, pointing accusingly at Elias. "Why do you all get lap cats and pleasant company, and I get exile like some flea-ridden dog?"

"Because you are a flea-ridden dog," Joanna replied sweetly, tossing a cyvasse piece at him.

Darran caught it with exaggerated grace. "You wound me again!"

Richard sneered. "Don't mind him, princess. He'll tire himself out eventually. Like a child denied sweets."

Naerys echoed his laughter, the corners of her mouth quirked as the boys' attention drifted back to Joanna, whose wit kept them all bickering with the ease of old friends.

Every few minutes, Richard's gaze would slide back to the Lannister girl, and she, thinking no one noticed, would glance his way too. The princess watched the play unfold like a story, content to observe. She didn't quite know how to be part of such easy camaraderie just yet. 

It was entertaining enough to listen to Richard regale them with tales of his latest adventure. 

"So there I was," he was saying, "cornered by a rabid goose in the Godswood. My sword—tragically—was nowhere to be found, and I was armed with only a plum tart."

"A plum tart?"

Richard nodded solemnly. "The last of its kind, princess. A culinary masterpiece. The head cook had made it herself. She gave it to me as thanks for retrieving her—wait, what was it? Oh yes, her ornamental goose combs."

"Those aren't real," Joanna said, rolling her eyes.

"Swear on my honour—"

"You don't have any honour."

"True," the boy admitted with a grin, "but if I did, I'd swear on it. Anyway, this goose must have sensed I had the tart. It charged. Wings flapping. I feared for my life."

"Did you drop the tart?"

He gawked, scandalized. "Drop it? Joanna, please. I ate it."

"You ate your supposed weapon?"

"I made a tactical decision," Richard replied loftily. "Better to die with plum on my tongue than live in shame. And besides, it distracted the beast long enough for me to scale the garden wall. Shirt torn. Pride in ruins. Tart gone. But I lived."

Joanna gave him a look, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "You are an absolute fool."

"A charming one, though."

"Debatable."

"Come now, if you didn't enjoy my stories, you wouldn't be listening so closely."

"I'm only listening to ensure you don't rope Naerys into your ridiculous lies."

"Lies?" he exclaimed again. "How dare—princess, you believe me, don't you?"

Naerys, without looking up from Marmalade, murmured, "I'm not sure a tale about a goose and a plum tart is very believable."

Joanna cackled. "The princess is wise beyond her years. Unlike some I know."

"And yet here you are," Richard countered smugly. "Sitting with a known rogue. Letting him corrupt your ears with stories of geese and desserts."

"Only because if I don't supervise you, you'll turn the training yard into a farce."

Richard leaned in a touch closer. "You like my farces."

"I tolerate them."

"That's practically affection coming from a Lannister."

"I'm only half Lannister!"

The brunette boy caught the flush of colour in her cheeks, and his expression softened. "Then I suppose it's the Westerling half I'll have to win over next."

Before Joanna could give him the scathing retort no doubt forming on her tongue, a voice cut through the air.

"And here I thought my brother was supposed to be hard at work training!"

They all turned to see Lavinia Strong striding up toward them, skirts swaying with purpose. Her dark hair had been twisted into a sleek braid down her back, and though her expression was vaguely amused, her sharp grey eyes were fixed squarely on Richard.

"What are you doing up here, causing a ruckus?" she demanded. "Get back to training before Ser Harwin spots you nattering like a washerwoman."

"You wound me, sister. We were discussing the political symbolism of geese."

Lavinia made a swift grab for his ear, but he ducked and scrambled back toward the yard with an undignified squawk. The other boys hooted as they followed suit, offering quick waves.

"Farewell, Lady Joanna! Princess! May we meet again under more favourable circumstances."

Lavinia rolled her eyes and huffed, hands on her hips as she glowered at her brother's retreating form. "He'll be missing teeth soon if he keeps dodging drills to chase girls."

Then she turned her assessing gaze to the two girls on the bench. "If the boys ever get too annoying, feel free to kick them. You have my permission."

Joanna snickered. "You say that like I haven't tried."

"Try harder." Then her tone shifted as she turned to Naerys. "Princess, your sister is looking for you."

Naerys straightened hastily. "Is something wrong?"

Lavinia hesitated, avoiding her probing gaze. "...Best you hear it from her. Come along."

Naerys turned to Joanna. "I'm sorry for not finishing the game. Please keep an eye on Marmalade while I'm gone."

"Don't worry about it. Go find the princess. I'll set the game pieces back up and win by default."

Inside Rhaenyra's chambers, the drapes were drawn against the late morning light, dust motes clinging to the beams of sun that managed to slip through. The room, usually perfumed and warm, felt like a tomb.

The princess herself stood by the arched window, her hands resting on the ledge, her knuckles white. Her hair was loosely braided, coming undone at the ends. She did not turn at the sound of the door opening.

Not wanting to linger any longer than necessary, Lavinia deposited Naerys with all the urgency of one delivering a live raven and not wanting to be pecked for her trouble. She gave a hurried curtsy and slipped away down the corridor hastily.

"Lady Lavinia said that you called for me," Naerys said meekly.

Her sister did not move, so she glanced uneasily around the room. The gilded mirror near the wardrobe caught her eye, and she flinched. Her reflection was wrong again. That same grotesque double-pupiled creature stared back at her, lips unmoving, head tilted unnaturally, as though her reflection was not mimicking her movements but waiting to act on its own. It wore her face, but it was not her. At least she hoped not. 

She looked away.

When Rhaenyra finally spoke, she sounded hoarse. She'd been crying. "His Grace, the king, has decided to take a new wife."

Naerys stiffened, and her response came out more scathing than she intended. "I know that. Were you not the one expressing your understanding and encouraging him in his decision only last night? I don't see why it bothers you now—"

She cut herself off, and the air left her lungs.

Of course.

Her words trailed into silence as the realization struck. It wasn't the idea of marriage that wounded Rhaenyra. It was the choice.

"Well, do not stop speaking now," the older girl urged bitterly. "What were you saying? Tell me what you think. Tell me that it's my fault for encouraging him. That I brought this on myself because I was too blind to see, or too stupid to know what he meant when he asked for my approval."

She whirled, and her cheeks were streaked with dried tears, her lips swollen as if she'd been chewing on her words to keep from screaming. 

"I shouldn't have told him I understood! I shouldn't have told him to go ahead. I should have told him no. That it was too soon. That no woman, no girl, could ever replace our mother."

Naerys swallowed hard, her guilt a blade caught in her throat. Another secret she had kept from her sister. 

"...Who...who is it that he's decided to marry?"

Rhaenyra's expression turned sharply toward her, narrowing in suspicion. Her words were almost accusatory. "You do not know?"

"...No."

But, of course, she did. The voices had told her long before Viserys ever could. She had seen it in the way Otto Hightower walked taller in the hallways. She had seen it in her father's eyes. 

They were both men who steered girls across the game board of life, the strings wound tightly around their throats like marionettes on death row. 

Before Rhaenyra could respond, the others bloomed like decay behind Naerys's eyes.

They mimicked her father's voice perfectly: the tired tremor of it, the practised sorrow, the hollow ache pretending at love.

"I intend to marry the Lady Alicent Hightower."

The words echoed with eerie clarity, as though the king were in the room with them, standing just behind her shoulder.

"I intend to marry the Lady Alicent Hightower."
"I intend to marry the Lady Alicent Hightower."

Over and over. Louder each time. A dissonant chant. A knife twisting deeper with every repetition.

"I intend—"

Naerys winced and brought her hand up to her temple. She didn't dare speak aloud—Rhaenyra would worry—but inside her skull, she screamed.

Enough. Please stop. Stop. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to—

They sniggered; that twinset of shrill amusement and guttural glee. Nug and Yeb delighted in her discomfort. One high and lilting like a harpsichord in disrepair, the other low and booming like a drum struck in a crypt. They did not obey. They never obeyed when she was soft. Fei had said she needed to learn how to be more stern in her commands. 

It didn't matter. She just wanted out of this room, out of this conversation, out of her skin. She wanted to be back on the sun-warmed stone by the courtyard, with Marmalade purring in her lap and Joanna grumbling about her uncles and training and winning cyvasse. She wanted the comfort of laughter that didn't ring like madness.

But she was here, and her sister was watching her.

"He intends to marry Alicent."

Hearing it aloud, not in mimicry or an echo, but from her sister's wounded lips, broke something in her. Inside her chest, something hot began to bloom.

Hatred.

She had desperately wanted to delude herself. To believe that her father was noble. That he grieved their mother, even if he was the cause of her demise. That he honoured her memory. That he was simply lost and weak, but still decent.

But no.

He was a liar. A coward. A butcher. 

He had taken their mother's life in pursuit of a son. Now he had taken her sister's dearest friend for the same reason. And it was all for nothing. 

Alicent Hightower was the daughter of a second son. She stood to inherit nothing. Otto Hightower was a grasping, scheming nobody who wormed his way into the small council like a slug. He stood to inherit nothing, too. 

Yet Viserys would elevate them, all while lecturing Naerys on duty. On sacrifice. He had told her to marry Willem Stokeworth for the good of the realm, because it was her responsibility. But where was his responsibility?

If he truly cared about the good of the realm, he would have married Lady Laena Velaryon. That would have bound House Velaryon and the richest fleet in the realm to him. Any fool could see it. Naerys did not have a head for politics like her sister was expected to, but she was not stupid.

She knew a betrayal when she saw one. All her grief curdled into venom, and she swallowed it, allowing it to carve a burning path down her gullet. 

Her father had betrayed them all.

The twins had altered their song now, repeating the words Viserys had said to her when he coerced her to marry the Stokeworth fool. 

"It is the solemn duty of a daughter to serve the realm through the bonds of marriage."

"Sacrifice is the virtue of those who love their kingdom. Through sacrifice, we achieve peace."

On and on and on.

"Duty. Sacrifice. Alliance."

"Duty. Sacrifice. Alliance."

Naerys glowered at the floor. She could feel her sister's gaze, the silence stretching between them, but she didn't speak. She couldn't.

Inside her mind, the twins danced, flitting in ever-tightening circles like wasps trapped in glass.

How dare her father shirk his own duty now? How dare he marry for comfort? For whatever affection he no doubt held for the young Lady Alicent. For a pretty, pliant face. He, who had extolled her duty with such reverence.

Naerys wanted to scream, to tear at her ears so she could no longer hear the screaming, to let something monstrous burst forth and level the world around her.

But she didn't.

She stayed still. The haunting words continued to batter her skull, but her face did not move, except for the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. 

Perhaps her father would dream of screams tonight, too. Perhaps the late queen's shrieking would reach his ears in the quietest moments, when his new bride turned away from him in sleep. Perhaps he would wake drenched in sweat, heart pounding, haunted by her laughter and the agony of a dead woman's stare.

And if it cost her mind, her soul, the fragile peace she scraped together each morning?

So be it.

She would pay the price. She welcomed the price. She was hurt, and all she knew how to do with hurt was hurt back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered after several long minutes, and Rhaenyra frowned. 

"Whatever are you apologizing for?"

Everything. How did a girl apologize for existing?

But mostly, Naerys was sorry for festering in her thoughts. She was a selfish sister, to be so blinded by her own grief that she did not stop to consider how this must have affected Rhaenyra. She, who had so much more responsibility resting on her shoulders. She should have been more mindful. She needed to be more considerate. She couldn't succumb to the rage. 

Chapter Text

107 AC

True to his word, Viserys Targaryen married Alicent Hightower before the first green buds of spring unfurled across the capital. It had been a lavish affair, marked by the chant of septons and the ever-watchful eyes of a court half eager to welcome a new queen and half disappointed that she had not come from their own house. Nobody stopped to consider the bride herself. A girl who had once laughed in sunlit gardens now stood at the altar with a mouth taut in a smile stitched by duty.

And less than a year later, the king was blessed with the son he had so desperately craved.

Aegon, he was named, after the Conqueror. His arrival did not split the skies. No storms cracked the windows, and no ill omens heralded his birth. There were no screams of agony echoing through the Red Keep as there had been for Queen Aemma. No bloodbath or funeral pyres. Just the whimpering of a child, whole and alive, his mother spared.

That did not mean King's Landing was free from tragedy, and Naerys saw it most clearly in the new queen. She watched from afar, and sometimes from up close, as the last glimmers of Alicent's light guttered out, week by week. Friendship after friendship withered into silence, and the tender bond she'd once shared with Rhaenyra—those girlish affections and shared giggles in the Godswood—turned to frost. Their laughter never returned. 

But what haunted her most was the dreadful swiftness of it. No sooner had the wedding vows been uttered than Alicent's belly began to swell. The childbed was a constant shadow, and Alicent's hands paid the price. Her fingertips were always torn, and her nailbeds raw. Her fingers trembled when she held her embroidery, the thread stained pink in places, but no one mentioned it aloud, of course.

Naerys's dreams changed, too. Where once she had watched her mother's final moments play in a gruesome loop, now she dreamed of Alicent. But from her womb spilled vipers, their scales glistening and their mouths open in hissing fury. They slithered across the chamber, and everything they touched burned—stone, wood, and flesh. The visions were so vivid, she often woke with the sting of smoke in her lungs.

She became haunted by a certainty—it would happen again.

When the queen's time came, she insisted on being in the birthing chamber, and Viserys, eager to keep her placated, allowed it. He was indulging her more than usual, and she was willing to take advantage of it. She had stood motionless among the maesters and midwives, half in dread, half in resolve.

If her father condemned another woman—this one merely a few years older than herself—to bleed out in the name of sons and legacy, then so help her, she would let Psuchawrl slurp out his eyes like sweet wine, consequences be damned.

Mercifully, no blood sacrifice was demanded that day.

Aegon came easily. A lusty cry, a mop of pale hair, no writhing vipers, no flames licking at the tapestries. Just a helpless boy.

She had tried to hate him. She had wanted to hate him. She resented his safe birth and his mother's quick recovery. She resented how the gods had seen fit to spare Alicent when Aemma had been torn apart. She resented the babe's mewling cries and his warm, living breath. She resented that the cost of her mother's life had bought her nothing.

But the anger didn't last. Not when she looked into Alicent's eyes and found nothing there. Not joy, or triumph, or even pride. Just the hollow gaze of a girl who had given the king everything, and was still alone. Naerys had never seen anyone look more like a ghost while still breathing.

It was even more difficult to hate the babe. She had certainly tried. She had entered Alicent's chamber night after night with her heart bristling, all sharp edges and old wounds. But somehow, by candlelight, her edges had dulled.

Now, like many nights before, she found herself crouched beside the cradle in the dead hush of midnight. Aegon lay curled in swaddling blankets, his chest rising in slow, sleepy rhythm. His thumb had worked its way to his mouth, wet and wrinkled from hours of suckling.

Only a few paces away, his mother was curled up on the window seat, her night robe slipping off one shoulder, and her breath fogging the glass pane. She had fallen asleep seated upright, her head slumped to the side as if she hadn't had the strength to lie down properly. Exhaustion clung to her like a burial shroud.

Naerys watched her for a moment. There was a deep well of pity in her that surprised even herself. Pity for the girl who wore a crown that had broken her mother, for the girl who had no maternal hand to hold during childbirth.

She told herself that was why she came each night. Out of pity. Because she, too, had once known what it was to feel abandoned in a gilded cage, to be handed off like chattel and left to rot in rooms that were not home. She knew what it was to be so chokingly lonely.

But there were other reasons too.

She had overheard the whispers in the halls, Red Keep maids with their veiled warnings and sharp tongues: Now that the king knows she's fertile, he'll keep her with child always. A true queen bears sons like clockwork.

The greed of men knew no bounds. 

So night after night, she sat vigil beside her bed, and Alicent, with no other companion, welcomed it. If Naerys were here, perhaps the king would stay away. Perhaps then she might have some semblance of peace. A few nights where her hands could rest, and her womb wasn't eyed like a field to be sown.

Naerys looked down at her brother again, trying not to think of the shameful thoughts that had plagued her in the past. In those first few days, the creatures in her skull had been the loudest, whispering temptation through her bones and licking at her hatred.

Snuff him out and save your sister. Snuff him out and spare the realm his future rot.

Sometimes she would imagine her hands pressing down over his tiny face, soft as rose petals. The thought alone made her stomach churn. She hated herself for even letting it flicker through her mind.

She could not do it.

Worse, she had begun to love him.

Wasn't that the worst betrayal? Would her mother hate her for it? For loving the boy Viserys had murdered her to have? Would she hate her for loving the son of the woman who had replaced her?

Naerys didn't know, but she could not help it.

Perhaps it was because the babe looked nothing like the king, despite the fools of the court who fell over themselves to say otherwise. All that talk of "a strong chin" and "a kingly nose"—lies to satiate Viserys's already bloated pride.

No, the child looked like Rhaenyra.

Naerys had never known her sister as a babe, but when she looked at Aegon, it was as if some old memory had been invented for her. Cherubic cheeks, tufts of silvery gold hair, eyes that shimmered amethyst when they caught the light. A ghost of Rhaenyra as she might've once been.

And Naerys—fool that she was—loved him all the more for it.

It would have been easier if he'd been monstrous, but he was only a babe, and the realm would burn for him one day.

Just then, as if spurred by the wicked cyclone of her thoughts, he stirred, his bright irises clouded with confusion before his tiny face crumpled. A thin, breathless sound hiccupped from his throat, the prelude to a wail.

Naerys flinched and glanced toward the window seat in alarm, but Alicent had not stirred. However, her brother's sounds grew louder, his arms flailing beneath the wool of his blanket. After several moments of hesitation, she made a decision. 

Her hands were still awkward with the weight of him, but she managed to lift him from the cradle without jostling him too much. Then, she sat herself back on the floor, folding her legs beneath her so that if he slipped, he'd fall into her lap.

"There now," she whispered, "don't cry. There's no need for that."

She rocked him in her arms, mimicking the movements she'd seen the nursemaids use, her body remembering even where her mind faltered. 

Miraculously, he settled. His mouth closed, and his little fingers curled around the lace at her sleeve, the storm passing as quickly as it had begun. His eyes blinked up at her, glassy and round. Then his mouth opened again in a string of disjointed babbles.

His wet gurgles of nonsense might have been endearing if they didn't rise in volume with every syllable.

"Shhh, hush, hush, please," Naerys murmured, urgently glancing over her shoulder, but the queen did not stir. She looked carved of wax, as though sleep had melted her into the windowpane.

Aegon, unbothered, babbled louder. He was beaming now, reaching up with grasping fingers that clutched at the air, as though searching for faces to smile at, hands to tug, someone—anyone—to see him.

Naerys hushed him again and kissed his forehead. It was damp with warmth. He smelled of milk and linen and that sweet, musky scent unique to babies. He was so easy to love. A creature who didn't understand hatred yet, and didn't know what it was to lose or betray or be betrayed. He only knew warmth.

She liked that about him. He was mostly a happy child, soothed by the smallest gesture: a finger for him to clutch or even a glance in his direction. But he was also clingy, always squirming to be closer. He craved affection the way plants craved the sun.

And wasn't that, too, a kind of sadness?

Alicent stirred to the soft babbles of a babe. Her babe.

The notion felt foreign. She had a son now. A healthy boy. Already a few moons old, his cheeks had grown round, and his limbs strong. The realm celebrated him as a miracle. A blessing, without the price that had claimed the last queen.

But to Alicent, he was still a stranger.

Sometimes, when she held him, all she felt was misery, gnawing through the spaces where joy ought to have bloomed. The court said she should be happy. The septons praised her as if she had been plucked by the gods themselves to deliver the next king into the world. But all she felt was emptiness.

Even now, hearing his cheerful sounds, her first emotion was dread. Guilt, even.

He looked more and more like Viserys each day. He didn't have her hair or her eyes. No sign of her passed down in his tiny face. He wore the king's face, which only made it harder, because that also meant he wore Rhaenyra's face, the friend who now would not even speak her name.

Her son bore the twin reflections of the two people who had left her behind, and her grief deepened in his presence. His laughter sometimes sounded like a taunt.

Worst of all, he was the first proof that her body was no longer hers.

She had felt it ever since her belly had begun to swell. The maids and midwives had hovered around her then, but Alicent had known the truth. They did not care for her, only for the life she carried. The boy she might bring.

She had heard the whispers about the previous queen, of course. The king's desperate decision and its horrific aftermath. It haunted her. Every time her ankles ached and her back spasmed, she had wondered: would they cut her open too, if it came to it? Would they let her die?

Sometimes she thought it might have been worse to bear a girl. Other times, she thought it might have been worse to bear a boy, knowing they would choose him over her. Either way, she would have lost.

Even now, with the birth behind her, her mind was not her own. Her thoughts frayed with terrifying ease. She cried without knowing why. Her chest seized with panic for no reason at all. She hated being touched. She hated being alone. The days felt thick and colourless. The nights were worse, waiting for the king's inevitable summons to his bedchambers. 

When the maids smiled at her, she wondered if they cared only because she had borne a prince. Would they still bring her sweet milk and warm cloths once she'd served her use? Were they simply preparing her for the next birth?

How many sons would she have to give the king before he deemed her a worthy gamble? Would it be two? Three? Seven? Would she be expected to bear him a small army before she was finally seen as more than a convenient womb? After all, he had spurned House Velaryon for her. He had cast aside wealth, fleets, and dragons for a Hightower daughter with no greatness to pass to their children.

All she had was herself, and so she owed him that. 

Alicent's fingers drifted to the seven-pointed star at her neck, cool against her clammy skin. A relic of her mother. She wished she had her mother now. There were some sorrows only a mother could soothe. But her mother was gone, and so she prayed to the Mother above instead, begging for strength. For the grace to love her own child, to see him and not feel rage, to hold him and not lament all that had been taken from her. To forgive herself for resenting him.

He hadn't asked to be born. He was just a hungry boy who looked at her like she was the sun, and it reminded her that the sun could scorch as well as nourish. 

Naerys's voice interrupted her thoughts, remorse shadowing her face. "I'm sorry., I didn't mean to wake you. I think he's gone back to sleep. Do you want him?"

Alicent shook her head. No, she did not want to hold him.

The younger girl nodded solemnly and placed the babe back in his cradle with surprising care. She lingered there, a moment too long, hands adjusting blankets that didn't need adjusting, before stepping back. She stood awkwardly then, still in her day dress despite the late hour, her hair loose and a little mussed at the ends.

Alicent, weary of the silence and herself, tried to force a smile. "I don't think I've ever seen you sleep. Shouldn't you get some?"

"Not tired...but you must be. Would you like me to read to you again?"

Guilt flared in the queen's chest. The princess had taken to reading aloud passages from the Seven-Pointed Star to her on sleepless nights. It rarely soothed the ache in her bones, but she let her do it because being alone was so much worse.

Still, it felt selfish. This child was also a daughter without a mother, and Alicent could not shake the thought that perhaps Naerys hated her for taking Aemma's place.

"I'm sure your sister wonders where you are. You needn't stay here every night, you know." 

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

Naerys's face fell, eyes shuttering as though a door had been closed from within. "Do you...Would you like me to leave? If you wish to be alone, Your Grace, I will not disturb your rest."

Alicent sat up quickly, her hand twitching at her side as if to reach for her, but she didn't. "Do not call me that," she snapped, more desperate than she intended. "Everyone treats me like the queen and has forgotten that I was Lady Alicent Hightower first. It hurts. Rhaenyra's silence, most of all. Don't do that to me, too. Don't stop calling me by my name. If you do, I'll forget entirely that she existed."

Naerys blinked. Then, she stepped forward cautiously, picking up the Seven-Pointed Star from a low table beside the cradle and coming to sit on the floor. Her legs folded beneath her, her head tilting up to watch the queen. 

"My sister asks about you," she admitted, thumbing open a random page. "She wonders how you're doing."

Alicent's lips curled bitterly. "If she is so worried, she should come and ask me herself."

There was venom in her voice, but it was old hurt, too.

"And besides," she added, looking out the window into the dark, "I doubt the princess of the realm has much care for me. She has her ladies-in-waiting to amuse her. I am sure I am not particularly missed."

Naerys wanted to argue, but she didn't. She wanted to say that Rhaenyra cried in the night too, grieving a storm bottled up in a cage too small to hold her. That she, too, was hurting. But what good were those words? Pain didn't erase pain, and grief wasn't a competition.

Instead of replying, she bowed her head and began to read, even if it gave her a headache to do so.

Ny-Rakath, most elderly in his eternal irritability, grumbled darkly in the recesses of her mind. "Blasphemy," he hissed for the thousandth time, "Empty words for hollow idols. The rot of soft men worshiping softer gods."

For the love of all the gods, soft or not, be silent!

She was learning to respond in kind when they were especially menacing, even if it did little good. 

The others were no kinder. A dozen laughing voices rising in jeers and mockery. 

"Shall we kneel too, little priestess?" 

"Pray harder, maybe the Mother will save you from your bleeding skull." 

"Tell us when her gods answer back, if they still have tongues."

She ignored them all, enduring the dull ache behind her eyes, the pressure of old things seething at the name of the Seven. She bore it because Alicent found comfort in these verses, and comfort was a rare, precious thing in the Red Keep. If this was the small part she could play in caring for Rhaenyra's dearest friend, she would do so without complaint. Until her sister managed to pull herself from her anguish and come to check on the girl herself, Naerys would bear it.

It was a decent distraction from her own mourning. 

Across from her, the reluctant queen closed her eyes and simply listened.

If she concentrated hard enough, she could pretend it wasn't the princess reading, but her mother. Her mother's tender voice reading to her from the same book on cold nights in Oldtown. It was foolish. Naerys had never met Alyrie Florent, and could not possibly know the shape of her words or the rhythm of her breaths. Yet somehow, the cadence was there. In the quiet turns of phrase, and the near-musical way she paused at the end of verses. It was eerily familiar.

Sometimes, Alicent didn't even have to pretend, and for a moment, she believed it truly was her.

They were interrupted by a knock.

It was tentative, but her entire body stiffened at once. Her hand tightened reflexively on the edge of the window seat, and for a terrible heartbeat, she wondered if she could vanish into the stone walls.

Then, Naerys snapped her book shut with a crack, rising to her feet with all the fury of a barely restrained tempest. It should have alarmed Alicent, but it made her exhale with relief. 

It was absurd. The girl was half her size, but the way she moved soothed something feral in her chest. She had begun to expect the ritual of it. The first time it happened, she had been too stunned to speak. The second time, she wept once the door had closed. By the third, she'd started waiting for the knock with a strange sense of hope, praying to the gods that the child at her side would forever remain there. 

The young girl crossed the room in a few swift strides and yanked open the door. Alicent did not hear what was said on the other side—only the echo of a squire's wheedling voice as he tried to explain the purpose of his visit. 

"She is resting," Naerys practically snarled. "She is recovering. You are not to disturb her again tonight."

There was a muffled protest, but she refused to budge.

"Then inform the king that she has had a long night tending to his son," she continued scathingly. "And if he finds this unsatisfactory, he may hear it from me directly."

A long silence followed, and then the footsteps retreated in haste. The door quietly closed, and Naerys returned, her mouth tight with residual anger.

Alicent swallowed and dared to speak. "...Was that... was it a summons? Perhaps I should..." Her eyes flicked down, shame hot in her cheeks. "You... mustn't disobey the king."

The princess tilted her chin, the gesture impossibly regal despite her rumpled dress and unkempt hair. "My father need not get whatever he wants whenever he wants. Septa Ysadora says that patience is a virtue. Even kings must learn it."

That drew a startled laugh out of the young queen. "You are certainly more receptive to your lessons than your sister is."

It was strange, all the different shapes that strength could take. Some days Naerys looked like a bird made of glass, but on days like this, she seemed ten feet tall, and Alicent remembered exactly whose blood ran in her veins.

She was Rhaenyra's sister; blood of the dragon, even if she didn't look it. And she could do the one thing Alicent herself could not. 

She could deny the king.