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Chapter Text

Since the death of her mother, Rhaenyra has been plagued by a series of monstrous dreams. In these dreams, she sees herself engulfed in dragon flames, with the desperate screams of a young boy, her son, echoing in her ears. He watches her, reaching out in vain as the flames consume her. 

 She knows, deep in her bones, that he is her son. Her baby and he is gone when the flames reach her eyes. 

Rhaenyra is then forced to watch as her family’s words come to life around her, flames licking up the sides of great keeps, the stone walls crackling and blackening under the intense heat, blood staining the ground. 

 Her horror mounts as she witnesses the great beings, the very symbols of her house, crumble into ruin, a sight that pierces her heart with a deep sense of loss.

 How? 

 How has her house, their pride, fallen so hard? 

 Then she sees. She sees all. 

 The past, her mother’s death in the childbed. 

 And the future, her responsibilities, Alicent’s betrayal, her subsequent marriage to her father, and the children from her union. Then come her sons, her brave little boys with dark curls and big hearts, dead within two years. These were the children she bore from her union with her father, a marriage that was more political than personal, and the betrayal of her closest friend, Alicent, added another layer of complexity to her already tumultuous life.

 First came fire and then blood. 

 Her legacy left in ash and ruin. 

                                                                                              ****
Then she wakes. 

 Rhaenrya lurches forward, bile rising. “My Princess!” Annora, her dear maid loyal to the end, rushes to her side. Rhaenyra can feel the hands upon her, running through her hair, touching her clammy skin, sending further bile up her throat. 

 The thought of hands against her after what those men did to her makes her sick. 

 She pushes Annora’s hands from her and stands on shaky legs. “I am well. I am well.” She sits heavily by her vanity. She sighs, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Her appearance appears somehow younger than she remembers. Her cheeks are full of girlhood fat, and freckles dot the bridge of her nose, those leaving as she ages. 

 She is so young and so alone. 

 Who can she trust? Enemies within the keep surround her. She needs to get ahead quickly. 

“Will you deliver a message to Lady Rhaenys? I would ask to break fast with her.” She turns to Annora.

 Summoning Rhaenys to her will do Rhaenyra no good. Like all Targaryans, Rhaenys is a proud woman, and their last interaction wouldn’t endear Rhaenyra further to Rhaenys. Going to Rhaenys will at least assuage her hurt pride, showing her cousin that she can listen and learn.

 “Of course, my Princess.” Annora quietly bows, leaving Rhaenyra. 

 The truth does not matter, Rhaenyra…only perception! 

 She understands now what her father meant. The court doesn’t care what the truth is or what the lies are. They care for the drama, the salaciousness of the unknown. It is worse for a woman; once there is a stain, as untrue as it may be, it will never be removed. It shall follow the lady until her death. For Rhaenyra, it was a death sentence. The moment that she chose to follow Daemon into the brothel, her fate was sealed. It gave legitimacy to the rumours that Alicent spread when she was pregnant with Jacaerys, damning her reign before it began. 

 This time, she cannot Alicent to win. 

 In her dreams, Rhaenyra was a fool. She thought that the words wouldn’t prevent her ascension and that they were merely whispers, empty words to placate the courtiers’ boredom.   

 Rhaenyra twists a ring, scowling at the thought of her lady-in-waiting… Alicent, dear Alicent.

 Her heart aches at the thought of her betrayal. Out of all of this, Rhaenyra thought that she could trust Alicent, her closest friend and confidant. 

 How could she betray Rhaenyra like this? Lying to Rhaenyra that she was the Sept praying for the Queen’s soul, all the while visiting her father in his chambers. 

 “My Princess?” Comes Annora’s hesitant voice, her dark brown eyes wide with concern. 

 Rhaenyra hums, pulling her thoughts to the present. 

 It’ll do her no good to wallow in the dreams now. 

 “Yes Annora?” 

 “The Princess Rhaenys has accepted your invitation, shall I aid you in dressing?” 

 It is astonishing that a royal princess is left alone with merely a single maid. That cannot be right. 

 Until now, Rhaenyra was in her mother’s household. All her maids, her Septa, and even Alicent were under the purview of her mother’s control. What’s going to happen to her now? 

 Now…now, Rhaenyra is alone. 

 “Yes. Fetch me something simple, please.” 

 Annora bows and disappears without another word. 

 She swiftly returns with a simple black gown. The gown and kirtle are both deep black, with grey embroidery adorning the fabric. Rhaenyra stares at the gown unhappily, as it is a constant reminder of her mother’s death. She dresses silently, choosing a simple moonstone pendant and earring set in the colour of Arryn blue, honouring her mother, not desiring any of the frivolities she’s become used to. This act of simplicity in her dress is a reflection of her mourning and her desire to distance herself from the courtly life she’s accustomed to.

 “Thank you, Annora.” Rhaenyra winces at how hoarse Annora’s voice sounds. She can see Annora frown slightly, but the expression smoothes over quickly. Never before has Rhaenyra felt the distance between their stations than at this moment. 

 Ser Criston stands to attention when Rhaenyra exits her rooms. “Princess?” 

 Rhaenyra almost throws up at the sight of him. Kingmaker. No matter what happened between them, his retaliation was to murder Lord Beesbury, a man who had been nothing but loyal to the crown and crown a usurper. 

 She needs to get him away from her as soon as she is able without suspicion. 

 “I am to break fast with my cousin, Ser Criston.” 

 “Of course, princess.” 

 Rhaenyra hides a grimace as she feels the weight of his eyes settles on her back. Before, she didn’t mind the feeling, and she even welcomed it for a moment, but now it sends disgust rattling up her spine. 

 The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast are silent as Rhaenyra walks through them; the court had been unofficially suspended whilst the King grieves. 

 Well, unofficially. Rhaenyra damn well knows that Otto Hightower is enjoying this newfound freedom to do whatever he wants, taking advantage of her father’s grief. 

 The thought of her father turns his sadness into anger. How dare he mourn for Mother. He was the one who ordered her death…Rhaenyra shuddered. Childbirth has always frightened her, seeing her mother hobbled by her duty, each babe draining more and more of her strength, but her father’s actions…she did not have the words to put into existence how it furthered her horror. How could he do this? 

 Rhaenyra pushes the thoughts from her mind and forces a docile smile on her face, directed at the Driftmark guards in front of Rhaenys’ door. “Good day, sirs.” 

 “Princess.” They inclined their heads as they let her pass. She nearly sighs in relief when Crison takes up his position at the door. He didn’t want to at first, protesting that as her sown shield, he ought to be in the room with her; Rhaenyra shuts down that idea as soon as it leaves his lips, assuaging him that no harm would come to her while dining with her cousin. There is no way that she wants him in there.

 “Princess, I was not expecting such an invitation this morning.” Cousin Rhaenys’s voice is chilly yet polite, and Rhaenys inclines her head in greeting. 

 “Cousin Rhaenys. Where is your Lord Husband and children?” 

 “Coryls is campaigning for support in the Stepstones, and the children are gallivanting off in the keep.” Rhaenys gives a bored wave, sitting in an almost overly ornate chair. These chambers were always kept for the Velayrons, so Rhaenyra assumes that this comes from Corlys’ personal collection, given that even her father doesn’t use such ostentatious furniture. Lord Corlys does have taste to rival the Lannisters. 

 Rhaenyra follows Rhaenys’ suit and takes a seat across from her cousin. 

 The meal consists of an assortment of flaky pastries, porridge with cinnamon, a platter of cooked meats, and fried tomatoes.

 The room is silent except for the scraping of cutlery against plates. Rhaenyra tries to enjoy the food, but it settles painfully in her stomach. This will not be a comfortable conversation.  

 “Might I inquire why you wished to dine with me, cousin? We are not close enough to warrant this spontaneous visit.” 

 Rhaenyra sighs and puts down her spoon. She makes deliberate eye contact with Rhaenys and then casts a gaze at the servants around them. Unlike her father, no matter how well-meaning he was, Rhaenys caught the silent ask. 

 “Out, I wish to speak with my cousin alone.” 

 The servants bowed and left without another word. 

 “So?” 

 Rhaenyra sighs once more. She cannot afford to be cowed; dragons are not cowards. “You told me recently that the men of the realm would rather put it to torch than let a woman rule, and I disregarded your advice. For that, I am sorry. You were trying to warn me, and I looked down at you.” 

 She closes her eyes, steeling herself for what she’s about to say. “My father is weak, and I need help.” 

 Rhaenyra wants, so badly, to relish in the astonished look that graced the face of The Queen Who Never Was, but she needs to stay the course.

 “And you believe that I am?” 

 “You are the first-born grandchild of Jaehaerys; you were educated to assume the throne by some of the best. Despite being named heir, I have yet to be given the same opportunities. My father will remarry soon; I am not ignorant. As you told me, soon, she shall have a son, and the lords will be clamouring to name him heir in my place. I need help, cousin, please.” 

 She can see Rhaenys hesitating and silently curses. This is not good timing. Right now, Coryls is presenting Laena as the next future Queen Consort. Rhaenys is forcing herself to choose between a future grandson and Rhaenyra. 

 “My father won’t choose Laena, cousin.” 

 “No? Why not? She is of the noblest blood, the blood of the dragon, and comes from the wealthiest houses in the realm. What better bride is there?” Rhaenyra can see Rhaenys’ pride begin to swell. 

 “Alicent Hightower has been visiting my father’s chambers at night in her late Lady Mother’s dresses,” Rhaenyra said, dropping her eyes to the plate in front of her. 

 The tension in the room is palpable. 

 “My daughter is being pushed aside for her?” 

 “Do you think I like this? My lady-in-waiting is debasing herself with my father after the death of my mother,” Rhaenyra snaps, slamming her hands on the table and rattling the dishes, annoyed that Rhaenys is getting mad at her. She likes this even less. “You want to talk about being humiliated? What will the realm think of me when they hear the news?” 

 Rhaenys purses her lips, anger still simmering in her eyes. “And how have you become are of Lady Alicent’s trysts?” 

 Rhaenyra scoffs. “What kind of lady would I be if I didn’t know where her employees are?” 

 The look that she receives tells Rhaenyra that Rhaenys doesn’t believe her. 

 “Fine.” Rhaenyra sighs. She folds her hands in her lap, casting her eyes downward. “Do you believe in our family’s magic, cousin?” 

 “You’ll have to be more clear. Do you mean our bond with the dragons?” 
 
 Rhaenrya shakes her head. “Before the doom, many noble families of Old Valyria rode dragons. I am speaking of the dreams, cousin. The dreams that allowed Daenys to see the doom and help her family escape.” 

 “Are you telling me that you have Dragon Dreams?” 

 “Believe my claims or not, cousin, I do not care. That is not the matter at hand.” 

 “It’s not?” 

 Rhaenyra gives her a tired glance. “Not right now. The Dreams showed me the truth. My father never learns the correct lesson from his mistake, and it will continue to affect the realm long after his death.” 

 She can tell that Rhaenys won’t come back to the dreams at a later date; she can see the curiosity burning in her eyes. “And what does Laena have to do with your father’s decision making?” 

 “He married my mother when she was one-and-ten, and he bedded her too early. My mother lost many children because of that, and then, eventually, her life. No matter how noble and wealthy Laena’s house is, or how much this marriage will fix the tensions between our families, you being passed over for the crown during the Great Counsel, and his indifference towards the situation in the Stepstones, insulting Coryls’ concerns over the situation, my father will only think of her age. He will think this as a favour to you, sparing her from this marriage. He won’t think to wait a couple of years until her body is ready. He will want to choose someone of a more appropriate age.” 

  Rhaenys tuts, scowling at Rhaenyra’s explanation. “And with Otto in his ear and Alicent in his chambers. It will not take much to figure out who his bride shall be.” 

 In the Dreams, Rhaenyra had no plans for her succession to the Iron Throne. Now that she has the foresight of what Otto plans, she will not allow him to succeed. Once, when she was younger, she believed in the laws of the realm, not wanting to stoop to Alicent’s level. Now, she knows what she must do. 

 She needs to succeed; she cannot allow the Dance to happen again, and gods know what Otto will do if he gets his blood on the throne. She needs to cut them down before they can even stand. 

 “I can’t believe how far our house has fallen,” Rhaenys mutters—Rhaenyra grunts in agreement. 

 “This is why I’ve asked to meet you. I need help, cousin. I don’t know what to do.” 

 Rhaenys purses her lips in consideration. 

 Rhaenyra starts eating, her stomach twisting at the tension brewing. She slowly forces bite after bite of her porridge down.  

 After a couple of moments in silence, Rhaenys speaks up. “There are a few things that I can believe you must take care right away.” 

 “Hmm, what are those?” 

 “Your marriage.” Inwardly, Rhaenyra cringes. She knew that this issue was going to come up soon. It’s awkward with Rhaenys around. “And gathering allies. Often that comes with marriage, but it can come in other forms.” 

“What other ways can you gain allies?” She sounds so childish that it makes her cringe. Despite having those dreams, Rhaenyra can’t help but feel like a total shield in front of Rhaenys.  

 Half the realm rose in defence of her claim due to their oaths to her father, but that still did not stop Otto from staging a coup. 

 For a brief moment, Rhaenyra can see unfiltered pain on Rhaenys’ face. “Your mother really should’ve been the one to educate you, not me. I am sorry child.” 

 Rhaenyra puts her spoon down and drops her hands to her lap to hide their trembling. She hates it when people mention her mother. 

 “Marriage alliances bind two families together and, hence, are the strongest. Some, like the North, their oaths are strong enough. Not everyone can forge a marriage alliance with the Royal family. Instead, they send their children to join the royal household to show their allegiance. Occasionally, the crown will take wards from quarrelsome families to ensure loyalty.” 

 In the dreams, Rhaenyra didn’t have ladies; she never truly cared to have their companionship. Alicent had ladies, all of them from the Reach if she remembers correctly. Rhaenyra only ever had Elinda Massey, who acted more as a governess to her boys than a lady-in-waiting. 

 “I see. I should focus my efforts on building my household then. It is too early for marriage talks. My father won’t allow it.” She wasn’t pressured to start looking for a husband until she was five-and-ten. 
 Rhaenys’ hesitant look returns. Rhaenyra knows that Coryls wants a marriage alliance, especially after Laena gets rejected in favour of Alicent. On paper, Laenor would be the perfect husband. It would merge Rhaenys’ claim with Rhaenyra, and it would tie the only other dragon-riding family back to the crown. Unfortunately, unless Laenor can give her trueborn heirs, their marriage won’t work. 

 She will not repeat the same mistakes that her dreamer self did. 

 “Cousin… I would take Laenor in a heartbeat. He is my best marriage candidate, but…” Rhaenyra doesn’t know how to bring up the situation delicately. 

 Rhaenys sighs. “Yes, his preferences, I understand. Your dreams, they showed you, didn’t they?” She sounds so defeated. 

 “Laenor and I wedded due to a scandal on my part. Neither of us was truly prepared for what our positions demanded. He couldn’t preform his duty.” 

 She doesn’t want to demean Laenor; she loved him, not in the way that a wife should love her husband, but as friends. He was a comfort to her soul. 

 “I will speak with Laenor.” 

 “If you think that is wise. I believe that I should look for other spouses as insurance.” Rhaenyra picks up her spoon again and begins eating again, her stomach settling a little as a weight lifts from her shoulders. She didn’t want to ostracize one of her few allies in the keep, but she couldn’t hide this fact. If she was to marry Laenor again, they needed to be smart about it.  

 “That is wise. But for now, let us focus on forging alliances.” 

 “Cousin… shouldn’t we focus on Otto and Alicent?” Creating alliances is all good, but shouldn’t they focus on sabotaging Otto’s schemes? 

 Rhaenys gives her a wicked grin. She reaches across the table and grips Rhaenyra’s wrist. “Don’t worry, I will take care of it. Focus on your ladies.” 

 “I will.” 

Chapter Text

 Rhaenyra sits at her desk, writing as much as she can remember about the dance, the names of her allies, the names of those against her, and key events that she needs to turn in her favour.  

 Other than her father’s marriage to Alicent, the next big event is Aegon’s second name day, where Otto will start to gather allies for Aegon’s cause at the hunt. 

 She has plenty of time to start gathering allies. 

 Rhaenyra starts to go through her letters, marking down potential names. Many of them are hopeful ladies wanting to join her household. A moon ago, Rhaenyra had ignored the letter, content just to have her Alicent and no one else. In the dreams, even after Alicent’s betrayal, Rhaenyra never expanded her household. She was never taught to have these ladies, even if she didn’t want them. It was a sign of the royal family’s prestige to be surrounded by courtiers and ladies. The Royal family, as much as her parents tried to hide it from her, was a political machine. To be isolated like that… it almost seems intentional. To make Rhaenyra dependent on Alicent. 

 Her writing stops as the thought strikes her: has Alicent been reporting back to her father this whole time? Were they ever friends, or was she just using Rhaenyra? 

 Rhaenyra puts down the quill and picks up the next letter. 

 She blinks at the seal, a lilac stamp with a falling star and sword embossed on the wax. Who in House Dayne had any reason to contact her?

 She breaks the seal and skims the content. 

 Right; Lady Eymlie Dayne. She approached Rhaenyra at the start of the tourney. While that version of Rhaenyra didn’t care about politics, she could still tell that Emylie Dayne was an ambitious woman. She didn’t approach Rhaenyra for Rhaenyra but because she was a princess. Back then, she hated it, but now Rhaenyra can respect it. Emylie Dayne didn’t hide her ambition, unlike others. 

 But after what happened that day, Rhaenyra completely forgot about Emylie Dayne. 

 Dorne stayed out of the Dance, so Rhaenyra didn’t know what motivations Emylie had. She’s a complete unknown, and yet she’s applied to be one of Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting. 

 Rhaenyra stares at the letter, weighing the pros and cons. Having Dorne on her side would ostracize parts of the Reach and the Stormlands. While she didn’t want to write them off as a complete cause, they didn’t side with her in the Dreams, would anything she did persuade them to join her, or would they simply side with Aegon because he had a cock like Grover Tully. 

 Dorne is, at least, familiar with female rulers. If having a Dornish lady as one of her ladies ensures that they’d fight for her, why shouldn’t she take Emylie on as a lady? 

 Well, she should at least meet the Lady Dayne first. 

           **** 

 Emylie's hope for Kings Landing was meagre, and the reality she found was a bitter disappointment. Her mother had sent her in hopes of gaining better relations with the rest of Westeros. Initially, the city seemed to be a sparkling fairy tale, much like the stories her governess used to tell her, filled with handsome men and fine jewels encrusted on Myrish lace. But as she delved deeper, the city's flaws, such as the stark contrast between the opulence of the Red Keep and the poverty of Flea Bottom, the pervasive corruption, and the constant power struggles, became more pronounced, leaving her disheartened. 

 The King is weak; his inaction is a source of frustration. Despite the defiance of naming his daughter his Heir over the tradition of his brother, he’s done little else to shore up her succession. This realization only added to Emillei's disillusionment with the ruling family. 

 The princess is not much better; however, Eymlie can excuse her. She is young and just lost her mother less than six moons ago and suddenly had a responsibility that she’s never trained for thrust onto her shoulders. Her father should’ve at least sent for maesters to aid her in her training if he wasn’t going to do it himself. 

 Emylie never had much like for the Hightowers of Old Town; given the proximity of Starfall to the city, they competed for trade and prestige, and perhaps she’s a little bitter that Queen Visyena burnt Starfall in retaliation for them attempting to burn down Old Town again. However, despite her initial dislike of the Hightower house, any goodwill that she might have had with them plummeted once she witnessed Otto Hightower’s power firsthand. For a second son, he rose quite admirably, but just by watching him strut around the Keep; one would think he is the King, not King Viserys. 

 In an attempt to curry favour with the royal family, she’d applied to be a lady-in-waiting to the Princess. The Princess is coming to an age where she needs more than one companion, and for someone in her position to only have the daughter of a second son as her lady is an insult to the royal family. The princess is thirteen, so it was understandable that she’d be under the purview of her Lady Mother, but now that the Queen has passed, it was time for the Princess to create her own house. Emylie, driven by her and her house’s ambition, saw this as an opportunity to gain favour and make a mark in the royal court. 

 Given the historical tensions between Dornish and Targaryens, Emylie never expected a response from the Princess. So, when she received a missive from the Princess inviting her to a luncheon, Emylie was utterly flabbergasted, her disbelief palpable in the air. 

 She chooses to represent her house colours when meeting the Princess. Her kirtle is a pale cream, and the skirt is embedded with silver thread. The gown was a lovely lilac brocade with sleeves that started past below her shoulders and were so wide that they almost kissed the ground. To complete the dress, it is lined with silver trimmings. To complete her dress, she chooses a pearl-incrusted snood and a matching string of pearls; all farmed from the coasts of Starfall. 

 These pearls were the start of a project that she worked on with her grandfather as part of her training to be the Heir to Starfall. Small beads were planted within oysters to help form a naturally forming pearl to be read-made for use in jewellery. While Starfall can grow enough crops to sustain themselves along the banks of the Torentine, they cannot grow enough to profit from it. Emylie and her grandfather had come up with several plans to revitalite the economy, and their pearl business has been a success, especially with Lys and Volantis. 

 Emylie bids her maids farewell and heads to the Princess’ solar. 

 “I greet Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne and the Lady of Dragonstone.” Emylie bows into a deep curtsy in front of the seated princess, her respect for the Princess evident in her every move. 

 She wonders why the Princess is alone with merely a maid and her sworn shield, Ser Criston, who looks like he would rather Emylie anywhere but here. Surely, she ought to have, at least, Lady Alicent with her to ensure that if Emylie is hired, they can converse.  

 The Princess is like a wraith come to life. Her gown is severe black with a pale blue trim, denoting her mother’s birth house. This causes her pale skin to faintly glow and her hair to faintly glimmer like silver. The choice of her mother's house colour in her attire could be a subtle political statement, a reminder of her mother's influence even in her absence. She looks like a goddess who has come to life even at thirteen years of age. 

 Emylie’s father was from Volantis; her parents’ marriage was due to a trade deal, but he never had the same aura that the Princess exudes. Her sharp lilac eyes stare Emylie down in a cold, featureless mask. Emylie, in turn, feels a mix of admiration and intimidation in the presence of the Princess, a stark contrast to her usual confident demeanour. 

 “Lady Dayne, please sit.” The princess gestures for Emylie to sit opposite of her. Between them is an elegant spread of finger foods and delicate-looking cakes. 

 Emylie slowly rises from her bow and sits opposite the Princess. “I thank you deeply for the opportunity, your Highness.”

 The Princess gives her a tightlipped smile, which doesn’t continue to her eyebrows. “Tea?” 

 “Yes, thank you, your Highness.” Princess Rhaenyra gestures for a maid to come to prepare the tea. Emylie casts a critical eye on the maid. A keep’s servants can tell one a lot about the lord and their family. If a lord is too cruel, then fear is evident on the servants' faces, whereas if a lord is too lenient, a servant will become emboldened to do as they wish. This maid looks at ease in the princess’ presence as she pours, a favourable sign towards the princess’ composure as a lady of the Keep. 

 Emylie takes the cup with a small thanks, settling into the silence. 

 Perhaps it is a little petty, but Emylie doesn’t wish to speak first. It gives the opponent an advantage over the conversation. 

 Out of the corner of her eyes, she can see the princess grit her teeth in annoyance. “I must admit, Lady Dayne, that I am surprised to see any Dornish in the city.” 

 Emylie hums noncommittally. “We are a wary sort. However, when I heard that the Heir to the Iron Throne was a woman, I just had to come to witness it for myself. There are so few female heirs I believe we ought to, at least, be cordial with each other.” 

 That seems to get the Princess’ attention. “You’re your father’s heir?” 

 “My mother’s,” Emylie corrects gently. “My uncle died before he had any children, leaving my mother as my grandfather’s heir.” 

 “My condolences.” 

 Emylie didn’t know her uncle well; he died when she was five.

 “My condolences to the Queen, your Highness. I cannot imagine a world without mine; you are much stranger than I ever could be.” Her mother isn’t the kindest mothering figure, but she’s been a constant presence in Emylie’s life, and she doesn’t particularly want to think of a world without her. 

 That breaks the Princess’ facade and a flicker of pain dances across her face. “Thank you, Lady Dayne. I miss her every day.” 

 “I have only heard good things about the Queen, the realms mourn with you.” Sure, Emylie only heard good things about the Queen, about her sweet disposition and her attempts to maintain peace in the woman’s court despite her frail condition. Still, she’s heard how the King forced pregnancy upon pregnancy upon the woman, not allowing her body to heal from the pregnancy. The men of the world may not see this as cruel, but Emylie hates the King for what he did. It was a particularly unique form of torture. 

 The princess briefly smiles at the comment but returns to her forlorn expression. 

 Perhaps not everyone. 

 Emylie has heard the rumours of a young maid visiting the King unattended at night. 

 “I will ensure that my Lady Mother rests easily in the afterlife, knowing that she did her duty to provide the Iron Throne it’s heir.” 

 “Your familial piety is impressive, your Highness.” 

 Princess Rhaenyra cocks an amused expression. They sip their tea in terse silence for a few moments. 

 “Is that why you are here, Lady Dayne? Piety to your family? Becoming Queen Consort would ensure the Dayne’s place in Westeros.” 

 Emylie is stunned into silence for a moment before a bark of laughter slips out. She winced internally when she saw the annoyed look of the Princess. It may be amusing to Emylie, but to the Princess, it is a valid concern. How many women must be approaching the Princess in order to gain the favour of her father?

 “My Princess, what good is borrowed power as a Queen Consort when I am to wield outright power of my own? It may be a rise in station, but I would only have power if I am in my husband’s favour, and then it would be gone when he passes despite how many children I bear him when his daughter, you, rise to the throne. It is a fleeting power and not one I am interested in.” 

 Emylie allows the Princess to register her words for a second before continuing. 

 “Besides, what lord would want a Dornish on the throne? I am not blind to the dislike.” 

 “And yet, despite your admission that lords would not like a Dornish in the Keep, you expect me to take you on as a lady?” 

 “My Princess, I assume that I would not be the only lady you take on. Thus, the burn ought to be soothed by the presence of others. I mean, do you not have a Reach lady currently employed? The Lady Alicent Hightower?”

 She can see the Princess’ pinched expression return. 

 Has something happened between the Princess and her long-time companion? 

 The princess's expression smooths over in a second, and she returns to her schooled expression, yet she still appears undecided.  

 “With me as a Lady-in-waiting, you shall be the first Targaryan to welcome a Dorne into the kingdoms, and through me, you have the support of the Western half of Dorne. You could be the monarch who ends hostilities with Dorne.” 

 Princess Rhaenyra does look like she likes the idea of being a trailblazer. 

 “I am surprised that Dorne wishes to fold so quickly into the rest of the kingdoms.” 

 “It not that we wish to fold, but it is a matter of practicality. No matter how much we trade with Essos, we are weak. We share the land with the rest of the kingdoms and with the ever-looming threat of dragons, we understand the need for better relations with the rest of Westeros.” 

 “I see.” 

 Ser Cristion doesn’t; he further scowls at Emylie's response. He has the appearance of a Dornish man. There is no way that the King would allow for a Dornish in his Kingsguard; perhaps one of his parents is Dornish and the other from the Stormlands or Reach.   

 Emylie is unsure of what else to say to endear herself to the princess. 

 “And, what do you get out of serving me? You said that you will wield power yourself as the Heir’s Heir.” 

 Emylie daintly shrugs. “Trade connections, familial prestige, and perhaps a husband who will not mind a woman as the heir.” 

 If she was hired successfully, she could bring some of her people into the Keep and establish some eyes and ears. 

 “There is no eligible men in Dorne?” 

 “There are.” In fact, Emylie has considered many potential suitors for her hand, the most prominent being her distant cousin, second cousin or whatnot, Alektor Ullr. However, since she already has a good relationship with the Ullrs, her grandmother was a Ullr, and she wishes to find someone who will give her a better alliance. If her husband agrees to her proposal, then after she has her Heir, maybe she’ll take Alektor as a lover. “But it is best to keep my options for the time being. Who knows who I will find.” 

 Rhaenyra hums and continues to drink her tea. “You speak of what you can gain, Lady Danye, but what do I gain from you?” 

 Emylie grins. She hears Rhaenys Velayron speaking through the Princess. She wishes to meet the famed Queen Who Never Was someday. 

 “Other than my Dornish relations, which you will have access to, I am well-versed in economics and sums, both Westerosi and Essos, which I will help aid in your charitable endeavours. Because of my education in the economy, I know my gems and fabrics and will be able to ensure that you are looking the best and are up to date on the trends of the kingdom. And, I am passingly able to do the womanly arts: singing, dancing, and sewing.” She is good at both collecting rumours and spreading them, but she’s going to keep that close to her chest for now; she’s also decent with a dagger; her brother refused to allow her to leave Starfall without knowing how to defend herself. 

 Princess Rhaenyra places her finished tea on the table in front of her. “You have told me a great deal, Lady Dayne. Will you allow me some time to absorb all that is said today?” 

 “Of course, Princess. I merely serve at your pleasure.” She places her now-finished tea down and stands. She curtsies deeply and beams at the princess. “I hope to hear from you soon, my lady.” 

 She stands and leaves the Princess’ chambers. 

 It seems she’s done all she can; now, it is up to the Princess to decide what to do. Emylie hopes that she comes to the correct conclusion. 

                                                                                                  ****

 What an audacious woman! Rhaenyra already likes her. Beauty, with glossy black hair, pale skin that Rhaenyra would never think to see on a Dornish, and deep purple eyes, combined with ambition, will allow her to go far. 

 Emylie is right on the count; the lords of the realm wouldn’t allow for a Dornish on the throne, so Rhaenyra doesn’t have to worry about her becoming Queen. 

 She’s half toyed with approaching the Dornish on her own, but Lady Dayne’s ambition led her to come here on her own. 

 “My Princess, I strongly urge you to reject the lady,” Criston implores. 

 It takes everything in Rhaenyra not to slap him. How dare he insert himself.

 “Why not, Ser? She already comes with experience that I need for my household, she is quick and clever, by anticpiating my needs before hand.” 

 “She is Dornish, my princess! They are vile and manipulative to get what they want.” 

 Rhaenyra hid a scoff; it wasn’t just the Dornish who did such things. At least they did it outright instead of hiding behind a veneer of fake kindness.  

 “Is not better to achieve peace with the Dornish without bloodshed? If all it takes is to bring Lady Dayne into my household, I do not see the disadvantages.” 

 She wants to laugh at Cristion’s anguished expression. Part of her wants to hire Emylie Dayne solely because Cristion hates her. 

 “The Dornish are perverse, ignoring the teachings of the Seven Who Are One and doing what they wish, taking lovers outside of their vows and siring bastards without care.” 

 Rhaenyra waves him off, exasperated with his zealousness. While it is true that inviting Emylie Dayne could insinuate that she behaves recklessly despite her station, Rhaenyra believes that the pros outweigh the cons. Maybe she can speak with Lady Dayne about her possible reputation and find ways to mitigate the fallout. 

 Lady Dayne is an heir outright, which lends further legitimacy to Rhaenyra’s claims. If this does endear Rhaenyra to the Dornish, then she will have another ally against the eventual Greens that she didn’t previously have. 

 Lady Dayne herself seems to be an asset. She is ambitious—Rheanyra cannot deny that—but Lady Dayne’s ambitions can work in her favour. If she knows how to work the court to her favour, and thus her liege lady’s, then it would be a benefit to get the court on Rhaenyra’s side faster than the Greens'. 

 However, Rhaenyra doesn’t want to isolate herself from potential allies because of Lady Dayne. 

 If Emylie agrees to it, then she could be presented to the court as a Lady-in-waiting after some of the others. 

 So, who else?

 She already has Aunt Amanda from the Vale; she approached Amanda as her chief lady-in-waiting right after she met with Rhaenys before Aunt Amanda left King's Landing to return to the Vale. So Rhaenyra should pick someone from a different kingdom to ensure she doesn’t favour another. 

 Lord Strong has two daughters who are around Rhaenyra’s age. It would be good to cultivate a relationship with the man. Compared to Otto, Lyonel Strong is the best Hand her father had. During his tenure as the Hand of the King, he didn’t try to advance his house’s ambitions; he just tried to uphold the King’s Justice. 

 This time, Rhaenyra will have to make sure that he doesn’t die. The dreams didn’t tell her how he and Harwin died, but Rhaenyra is sure that Alicent and Layrs had something to do with it. 

 Decided, Rhaenyra will speak with Lord Lyonel as soon as she can. 

 The North was loyal to her despite no blood ties; she should reward them somehow; it’s a shame that the Starks didn’t have any daughters right now. Hmm, that’s another thing that Rhaenyra’s going to keep an eye on. Bennard Stark will be slow to release power to his nephew. Maybe a place for his eldest in the princess’s household will help. His eldest is nearing his tenth name day in a few years. But she needs someone now. She needs a daughter of a respectable Northern house who is close to her age. 

 “Please leave me, Ser. I wish to be alone.” 

 “But, princess—” 

 “Do not make me repeat myself, ser. I do not like my orders being questioned.” Rhaenyra berates her previous self for allowing Criston so many liberties. At least she hasn’t slept with him yet. 

 “Of course, princess.” She pointedly ignores Criston’s pleading eyes as he leaves. 

 He must’ve enjoyed being called kingmaker in her dreams, probably stroking his cock along with his fucking ego. How dare he think that he can defy the orders of the Princess? 

 In between searching for ladies, she should find a way to gently remove Cole before Alicent comes to power to ensure that Alicent has one less arrow in her quiver when the time comes. 

                                                                                          ****

 Rhaenyra slams into awareness. She sits in bed, blinking blearily, trying to figure out what woke her. 

 Seconds later, a piercing wail reverberates through the thick stone walls. 

 What in the Seven Hells? 

 Rhaenyra stumbles out of bed, pulls on a heavy robe and shuffles over to her door, only to be met with an unpleasant surprise—which wasn’t even the surprise that she was looking for. Criston is the one guarding her door. They haven’t spoken since Emylie Dayne’s interview, and any time he’s guarded her, he’s been sullen and awkward, and Rhaenyra hasn’t been bothered to correct it. 

 “What’s going on?” 

 Criston grimaces, and Rhaenyra is sure that it’s not directed towards her. “Unsure, my Princess. We should remain here for your safety.” 

 “It’s coming from the king’s quarters.” Rhaenyra disregards his suggestion, picks up her robe’s skirts and hurries towards her father’s rooms. 

 What if something happened? 

 Images of a bloody bed spring into her mind.

 She can’t become an orphan this quickly! 

 In the centre of the forming crowd is a maid crying, her words mumbling together as she begs for forgiveness. 

 Rhaenyra skids to a stop, her heart pounding in her chest as she stares at the maid. 

 What’s going on? 

 “Who is causing such a racket?” Rhaenys’ voice is loud and clear as she marches up to the assembled crowd. Rhaenyra isn’t sure if Rhaenys was actually in bed or merely pretending. Her dark Baratheon curls are pulled into a tight braid, and a heavy robe is pulled over her night shift. Coryls is right behind her, hot on her heels, and looks just as displeased as Rhaenys. 

 “My lady!” The maid cries. “Forgive me! I…I was merely on my way to deliver your message to the King when—” the maid trails off, casting guilty eyes toward Rhaenyra’s father. 

 Her father stands stunned in the doorway, clad only in his sleeping robes, looking like a child caught with sweets he shouldn’t have. Rhaenyra wants to slap him; he is the King! He should be controlling the situation, shutting this down before it gets worse. But her father is weak and a fool. 

 “Well? Get on with it!” Corlys snaps.  

 “I–I accidentally knocked over the Lady Alicent exiting the King’s chambers!” 

 Oh. 

 This is Rhaenys’s doing. 

 Rhaenyra wonders how much Rhaenys had to coach this maid because she is delivering quite a performance. Her compassionate cries clear the maid of any wrongdoings and further clear the Velaryons; Otto won’t be able to punish the Velaryons when he hears of this. Speaking of Otto, it is a blessing that the Tower of the Hand is very far away from Maegor’s Holdfast. There is nothing he can do. 

 There’s a stifled gasp riffling through the crowd as everyone’s eyes snap to the figure hiding behind the King, a certain lady named Alicent wearing a daring dark blue dress. While wearing such a mature dress as a maiden isn’t a crime, it is certainly eyebrow-rising, especially for someone who is known for her demure and pious nature. 

 There was no one accompanying them aside from the Kingsguards, who were merely at the door. 

 It was clear to all the nobles, servants and knights gathering to watch the blubbering maid that they were alone inside the King’s chambers in the middle of the night, alone and unaccompanied. 

 “Come, ser Criston, I wish to return to my chambers.” Rhaenyra turns from the scene. 

 “Of course princess.” Rhaenyra can see from the corner of her eye that Criston’s giving Alicent a disgusted look. 

 Rhaenyra can’t help but grin. 

 She leads Criston back to her rooms, and just as she enters, she turns back. “Thank you…for looking out for me.” 

 It disgusts her to say these things to the man who usurped her and killed Lord Beesbury, but until she can remove him politely, she ought to tread carefully around her. 

 He gives her a little bow. “It is merely my duty, my Princess.” 

 “Still, I thank you.” She flashes him her courtly smile and slips back into her room.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra gets ready for the day. If Rhaenys hadn’t slipped her the message about when the small council meeting was to take place, Rhaenyra wouldn’t have known. It’s not to take place until the early evening…probably so Otto has time to spin the narrative to his side. 

She dresses for the day, chooses a black dress with muted golden embroidery along the bodice and gold trim along the colour and the bottom of the shortened sleeve, which only reaches to her mid-elbow with a dark red chemise also adorned with golden thread. 

 Annora simply gathers Rhaenyra’s pale silver-gold hair into a simple plait and covers it with a black hood and veil. 

 She doesn’t normally wear hoods, as she dislikes the style, but she’s using the hood to make a statement. 

 Rhaenyra sends Annora away, asking her to bring Cole to her. 

 It’s time to ‘clear’ the air between them. The longer she lets it fester, the more likely Cole will go running towards Alicent…well, maybe not. He seemed pretty disgusted at Alicent’s actions last night. 

While the man repulses her whole body, Rhaenyra has to admit that he is a good swordsman and he will become the Commander of the Kingsguard in the future. He’s good enough that she can’t afford to ostracize him. 

 “You called for me, my princess?” Cole asks, the door swinging shut behind him. 

 Rhaenyra forces bile down and smiles. “Ser Criston, I would like to apologize for my attitude the other day…” Rhaenyra puts on her most remorseful expression, the one that she used to put on when she tried to get out of trouble with her parents. She sighs, albeit a little dramatically, and looks up at him through her eyelashes. “There’s been so much happening the past couple of moons; I–I thought I had it under control, but, obviously, I didn’t. So, I am sorry.” 

 She can see the blush fanning across his dusky skin. “M–my princess, it is alright.” It is comical to see a famed Kingsguard reduced to such a stuttering mess. 

 “No, it’s not, ser Criston. You were only speaking up for my safety.” Rhaenyra feels like she’s laying it on thick, but Criston is eating it all up. 

 He ducks his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “Thank you for understanding, princess. Does this mean that you will refuse the Lady Dayne’s proposal?” 

 Rhaenyra sighs dramatically, trying to look forlorn. “I am not sure, ser. While I understand why you are worried, if Lady Dayne remains here, in the capital, essentially a hostage, it will hinder the western half from rising against us. It will cripple Dorne. Ser Criston, I wish to keep men like you, who’ve so fought bravely, from having to do it again.”

 “Princess, you are too kind. I still worry…” 

 “She will not be alone in her tasks; she will always be paired with someone I trust and will be monitored.” It’s not too far out of the scope of what is expected of a lady-in-waiting. It is easier to do tasks in a pair, and well, Rhaenyra doesn’t trust Emylie. “Beside, will you not be there?” She teases lightly. 

 He sighs. “Fine.” 

 “Thank you for understanding, ser Criston.” She gives him a courtly smile, which makes his blush return slightly and tries to shove down her anger. He is not in a position to dictate who she will take as a lady. “Have a good day, ser Criston. I hope you get some rest after the events of last night. 

  He bows. “Thank you, my princess. I hope you rest well, as well,” he says softly as he heads out. 

                                                                                                                                                       ****

 As Rhaenyra prepares to leave, she takes a moment to study herself in the mirror. She still looks like she’s deeply in mourning. Rhaenyra wants the council to remember despite whatever her father has done, her mother, the Queen, died less than six moons ago. She wants them, mostly Otto, to remember that whatever political bullshit they pull, they are doing during the mourning of the Queen for the last decade. Her mother will not be forgotten. 

 Thankfully, today, the guard is Ser Erryk. She didn’t know why he chose her claim in the Dreams, but she is eternally thankful for his dedication. She is grateful for him and Harold Westerling; it soothes her to know that she has allies on the Kingsguard. 

 Rhaenyra hurries to the small council determined not to be late. 

 She is surprised to see Alicent in the chamber. She’s practically wilting in the farthest corner, away from the enraged Coryls. It makes Rhaenyra wonder what happened in the corridor after she left. Even the other members of the council keep their eyes trained on the table; no one wants to brave the sea snake’s anger. 

 Sir Harold Westerling, the Commander of the Kingsguard, silently stands guard inside the council room. When Rhaenyra enters, he gently inclines his head to her and then returns to watching the squabbling lords. 

 “Rhaenyra, dear! What are you doing here?” Her father’s face is blotchy, and he’s sweating heavily. 

 “I heard that there’s a council meeting, father. I thought that you would need your cupbearer.” She gives him her best smile even though she wants to shake him silly. 

 Why can’t her father operate as a king without leaning on Otto? 

 Why can’t he see why Alicent was visiting him at night? 

 Why? 

 Rhaenyra wants to cry. For a man who claimed to love her mother, he’s been so cruel to her. Why couldn’t he see that she was an heir enough before he forced another pregnancy on her mother’s weakened body, which he caused?

 Why? 

 Why does he have the audacity to do these things when he screams at her about perception? 

 “Heard?” Otto snaps her out of her anger. He looks enraged… no, enraged isn’t a good term; he looks frazzled. “How’d you hear about this? The meeting was called at the last minute. Who—” He breaks off, looking around the room, his eyes lingering on Lord Beesbury and the Velayrons, desperate to find out who told her. 

 She gives Otto an odd look as if she’s confused as to why she shouldn’t hear about a council meeting. “The maids are talking about nothing else. I thought I was merely forgotten in the haste of what’s happened.” 

 Rhaenyra quite enjoys how constipated Otto becomes. 

 “What…Rhaenyra dear…what…have you heard?” 

 How she longs to slap her father in the face! How dare he act like the victim when he is currently victimizing her mother’s memory! 

 Rhaneyra frowns, looking from Otto’s sickly pallor to her father’s sweat-soaked form to the reddened faces of the other members of the council. 

 “A maiden….found in my father’s chambers… not even six moons after my mother’s death.” 

 While she hesitates on the first half of the sentence, she deliberately emphasizes the second half. She doesn’t care if her father sleeps with another; he is a man, after all, but she wants the Lords to remember her mother, and they are insulting her memory. 

 Rhaenyra’s eyes slide from Otto’s face to where Alicent is trying to hide herself from the crowd. She forces a gasp as she makes eye contact with Alicent, as if Rhaenyra just noticed her. 

 Compared to what Alicent was wearing last night, her chosen gown was a conservative black and grey with a high collar, no jewelry, and a hood hiding most of her auburn curls. Rhaenyra’s eyes drop to Alicent's hands, which are torn to shreds. At this moment, Alicent resembles a skittish horse, panting and shaking with a wild look in her eyes. 

 “Yes, dear cousin, it seems that your father’s mourning period has come to an end early,” Rhaenys says drolly, her eyes never leaving Viserys. “Though, I suppose, husband, we have little to be offended about.” 

 “Whatever do you mean?” Coryls puts his hand on Rhaenys’s, which is resting on his shoulder. 

 “It seems that the king has yet to announce his new marriage to anyone! Even his heir was neglected to be informed.” She laughs scornfully at her cousin’s face. 

 “I–I have not taken anyone to wife, cousin.” 

 “Oh? Then what was the Lady Alicent doing in your chambers?” 

 “I–” Rhaenyra has never seen her father so at a loss for words. 

 Rhaenyra knows that her father understands enough that if he says the wrong thing, he’s going to condemn Alicent to a mistress, which would ruin any marriage prospects in future. Her prospects were already low since she was the daughter of a second son, no matter how much prestige being the Hand to the King might earn Otto. If he ever loses that title, he’ll have only what his bother allows him to fall back on. 

 “I shall be taking Lady Alicent to wife to spare her this dishonour.” 

 Rhaenyra keeps her blank as the room breaks into utter chaos. Rhaenys reddens with incredulity. Rhaenyra warned her, but it seems that Rhaenys didn’t take her warning seriously. She’s holding out hope that Viserys wouldn’t choose the worst possible outcome. Coryls looks enraged that his bloodline was passed for the throne again. Lords Bessburt and Strong keep tripping over each other to speak; none of what they are saying is remotely positive. Even Otto and Mellos, Otto’s dog, have a hard time swallowing her father’s announcement. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, the great-great-grandson of the conqueror, is marrying the daughter of a second son who was not even a Lord Paramount. 

 Rhaenyra looks over to Alicent and knows immediately that it was a mistake to do so. Alicent is paler than a sheet, looking like she’s about to faint. For a moment, Rhaenyra is transported back to her youth, before her mother’s death, where Rhaenyra’s biggest worry was escaping her septa and finding Alicent so they could eat cake in the Godswood. She mourns the different paths they’re taking. 

 She falters in her resolve, remembering the Alicent before her marriage. 

 Can she doom her friend to her father’s ambitions? 

 But—

 Alicent is a lady-in-waiting in the Royal Household, first, technically, under her mother’s care, then Rhaenyra’s. If Alicent didn’t want the marriage her father set up, Rhaenyra could stop it. A lady-in-waiting’s mistress has the power to stop or arrange marriages for them. 

 Why didn’t Alicent come to her?

 “Enough!” 

 Rhaenyra hides the instinctual flinch her body produces at her father’s yell. She looks around the room; the lords of the council all look like petulant children. 

 “I will be marrying the Lady Alicent Hightower; that is the end of this discussion.” 

 Coryls slams his hands on the table and stands. “This is yet another insult that the Crown has levied against house Velaryon. You will have to find another Master of Ships,” he snarls. He storms from the room, and Rhaenys follows soon after but stops first to give Viserys the most disappointed look that Rhaenyra has ever seen. 

 The door slams shut behind them, and the whole room is deathly silent. 

 Her father sighs, slumping in his chair. 

 “My lords, might I suggest something?” Rheanyra asks sweetly. 

 “Go on, Rhaenyra.” Her father waves at her dismissively. Rhaenyra bristles at the treatment but forces herself to relax. 

 “I believe the marriage announcement ought to be delayed.” 

 “And why is that, Princess?” Rhaenyra can hear Otto’s sneers behind the veneer of niceties. “The King’s marriage is a state affair. If his line is weak then the realm suffers.” 

 Rhaenyra smiles placidly back. “I am aware, Lord Hand. I am not asking for my father never to remarry, merely delay in announcing given that it’s been barely five and a half moons since my Lady Mother’s death in the childbed.” Her tone is icy despite the smile left on her face. Everyone but Otto stiffens at the mention of her mother. “Many in the realm would not appreciate the king’s flagrant disregard of the mourning process.” 

 “Rhaenyra—dear–” 

 She ignores her father as she continues to stare Otto down. “Besides, Lord Hand, if my father, who is still in mourning, rushes to announce his new wife, would it not give credence to the rumours? I thought that you’d want to protect your daughter’s honour.” 

 “We didn’t do anything, Rhaenyra!” Her father’s face is shiny with sweat. 

 “I understand Father, but truth matters not, only perception when it comes to the crown.” 

 Her father wilts at her words. 

 “The Princess has a point, your grace. It is hardly appropriate for you to announce your new marriage while the mourning period is still in action. The Faith will not be pleased, especially with the rumours surrounding the nuptials.” Mellos’ flinty eyes skitter past Otto’s as he agrees with Rhaenyra. 

 “It will also be a grave insult to Arryns. You’d potentially cause a mass economic crisis if you offend the Vale, and they pull their support, sire,” Lord Beesbury cautions. 

 Father dabs his forehead with a stained handkerchief, and worry lines deepen on his forehead. 

 “The King needs not to worry about his line so badly that he forsakes the mourning period. His heir, Princess Rhaenyra, is hale and approaching, and if we need to, Lady Rhaenys and her children can be welcomed back into the line of succession.” She can always count on Lord Strong to prevent Otto from trying to find loopholes. 

 “Yes, yes. Rhaenyra’s suggestion is prudent, and I will follow.” 

 “Your majesty!” Otto protests. 

 “Enough Otto. I will not disrespect Aemma’s memory. The marriage will be announced in moon.” 

 “Is there anything else on the agenda?” Rhaenyra asks, trying to hide her grin as Otto stutters as he tries to come up with a counterargument. 

 “I believe that is it, my princess.” Lord Beesbury gives her a wry smile. 

 “Father, with your blessing, may we adjourn the meeting?” 

 “Yes. The meeting is adjourned. I–I need time to think.” Her father stood, his face a mess of emotions. It would be nice if her father had taken back his marriage announcement from Alicent, but she didn’t think that he would. 

 “Wonderful. Shall I see you for dinner, Father? I have a few things that I wish to speak to you about.”

“Of course, dear.” He gives her a tired smile and shuffles out of the room, Ser Harold following him quickly. 

 Rhaenyra ignores Alicent, who is attempting to get her attention and turns towards Lord Strong, hurrying to catch up to him. “Lord Strong, you have two daughters, do you not?” 

 He blinks at her in mild confusion. “Yes, my princess?” 

 She grins brightly. “Wonderful. It seems that I am in need of new ladies-in-waiting, and I was wondering if one of your daughters would consider joining my household?” 

 Rhaenyra ignores Alicent’s sharp intake and the tears forming in her wide doe eyes. “Princess! That is very unbecoming of you!” Otto’s face is beet red. 

 Rhaenyra turns to face him, her face a mask of innocence. “What’s wrong, Lord Hand? It is hardly proper for my father’s intended to serve me, and it is even less proper for a Princess to go without a lady.”  

 “I–I….It is discourteous to speak about my daughter in that tone when she is present!” That is a weak protest. But whatever, Rhaenyra knows where to pick her battles. 

 “I see. Forgive me, Lady Alicent.” Her tone lacks the familiarity that she once had with Alicent. 

 “It’s fine, R-Rhaenyra.” Alicent’s eyes drop to her hands, the cuticles picked bloody. The room falls silent, everyone staring at her incredulously; even her father looks displeased with Alicent. Rhaenyra had allowed her to use her name when they were on their own, but not in a setting such as this. “I–I mean, Princess Rhaenyra.” Alicent mimics a proper curtsey and then goes back to mimicking a column. 

 Rhaenyra hums and turns back to her conversation with Lord Strong. Thankfully, he understands her meaning and continues as if they were not interrupted. “Unfortunately, my eldest, Jayne, is just married, but I shall send for Eleanor.” 

“Thank you, Lord Strong, that shall be most agreeable.” 

 Rhaenyra looks behind her as the doors to the council meetings slam shut. She catches a glimpse of Alicent’s ashen face, and she can’t bring herself to care. Alicent may be innocent now, but Rhaenyra can remember every rumour and every disparaging comment that she made about Rhaenyra and her boys. She remembers the bitter, scorned woman who demanded the eye of a child, and Rhaenyra can’t bring herself to care anymore. 

                                                                                                                                                                                        ****

Since the death of the Queen, Annora has taken it upon herself to try to lessen the burden on the shoulders of the young princess. There is little she can do, but Annora ensures that she refreshes her drinking water daily and pesters the rather willing kitchen staff with treats that Annora hopes will uplift the young princess’s melancholy. 

 It is a cruel thing for a young girl to be without her mother in such a cruel world. 

 Annora has known the Princess since she was a squalling little being and has watched her grow up into a lovely little girl. She is a touch willful and a little spoiled by her parents and uncle but always respectful of her parents. She remembers how the Princess used to sit with her mother when she was bedbound by her pregnancies and entertain her with fanciful tales. 

 She cannot say that she agrees with the King’s decision to name his daughter his heir, for it is a cruel path that he’s set her on. The world will be cruel to a woman in power, and they will be quick to strip her of her dignity given the chance. But Annora is merely a servant in the Red Keep, so she will help the Princess in the ways she can. 

 When the princess returns from the council meeting, Annora sets upon the princess, plucking the jewels from her body and helping her undress. It’s not until the princess is sitting at her vanity and Annora is brushing out her beautiful silver-gold hair that the princess comes back to the present. 

 Annora has noticed that the princess has developed a habit of not being entirely present when she’s alone in her rooms. It’s gotten worse since the Lady Alicent was found in the King’s chambers. 

 That little hussy! Annora always thought that Lady Alicent was a good, pious girl who was a good influence on the slightly wild Princess. 

 How wrong she was! Annora mourns for the Princess and her lost relationship. 

 “Are you aright, my princess?” Annora asks softly. 

 “Hm?” In the mirror, Annora can see the Princess snap out of her fugue and look up to Annora. Annora feels bad for displacing the Princess’s thoughts. 

 “Yes, I’m fine. Just lost in my thoughts.” She gives a thoughtful little hum. 

 Annora steps back, finished with the Princess’s hair, pulling it into a neat plait and bows. 

 The Princess stands, looking around the room. In the room, other than them, were Tanda and Willow, both assigned to clean the Princess’s chambers. Like Annora, Tanda and Willow have known the Princess since she was a little babe and hold a fondness for the girl. 

 “Were–” The Princess clears her throat, looking a little misty-eyed. “Were any of you aware of Lady Alicent’s treachery?” 

 “No! I hadn’t a clue!” Annora protests, aghast at hiding such a thing from her lady. Both Tanda and Willow shook their heads. 

 The Princess’s lovely violet eyes fill with tears. “It—it’s just how long has this been happening? How could I’ve been so unaware? She was my friend.” Her voice breaks; she grips her hands tightly, twisting one of her rings. 

 Oh, this poor child. 

 Annora wishes she could embrace her, but she is aware of her station and cannot break customs. 

 “My lady…” Tanda looks hesitant to open up. 

 “What is it Tanda?” The Princess’s tone is soft and welcoming. 

 Tanda shares a concerned look with Willow. “Well, there’s been some rumours…I did not take them seriously, given Lady Alicent’s reputation…but there were some murmurs about her wandering the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast towards the Royal apartments late at night after you’d gone to bed. They stared not long after the Queen passed.” 

“I see,” the Princess murmurs. 

 “Shall I fetch you some spiced tea, Princess?” Annora cuts in, desperate to get the Princess’s attention away from the ninny. 

 “Yes, thank you, Annora. That would be lovely.” 

 Annora courtesies and slips out the door. She hurries towards the kitchens, not wanting to dawdle any longer than necessary. She must tell Barra, who serves in the Tower of the Hand, how heartbroken Lady Alicent has made the Princess and not to give her any special treatment anymore! 

Chapter Text

In the end, Rhaenyra didn’t get to have dinner with her father that night, but nearly two weeks after. The Red Keep was in a whirlwind of activity due to Otto going on a warpath trying to suppress the rumours of Alicent, the sole lady-in-waiting to the Crown Princess, being found in the King’s Chambers and the Velayrons making their very dramatic exit from the Keep, and the rush to find a new master of ships. 

 Rhaenyra is only truly upset about Rhaenys’s leaving; she is one of the few people in the Keep that Rhaenyra can trust. 

 Thankfully, Lord Strong was very helpful, and Rhaenyra has several trustworthy names that she wishes to add to her household. Obviously, Eleanor Strong, but Lyonel also put forth Roysn Frey and Lyarra Manderly to join her ladies and Geremy Tully to her personal knights. 

 She is a little reluctant to send for Rowlf Tully, worried that he may have the same feelings about a woman in power as his sire. Still, Lyonel assures her that Rwolf is a fairly amenable young man, and she trusts Lyonel’s character judgment. Besides, Grover’s grandson, Elmo Tully, defended her claim until her son sat on the throne. 

 But now that she has a semblance of a household, she requests that she and her father have dinner together so they can discuss it, along with several other conditions she has. 

 His answer comes back almost immediately, but Rhaenyra is not very surprised. Her father seems desperate to remain on her good side after the death of her mother, the expulsion of Daemon from court, and the taking of her Lady.

 Once again, Rhaenyra chooses to dress in black; this time, she chooses a muted steel blue gown that nearly hangs off her shoulders with black and dark grey brocade and a black underdress. The elbows and the shoulders of her dress are cut out, causing the underdress to puff out a little. The sleeves, the borders of the gown, the collar, and the bottom of the bodice are formed of the same intense black and grey brocade. 

 She accessorizes her outfit with a belt made of pearls and sapphires set in silver backings and a matching necklace. To finish the outfit, Rhaenyra slips on a simple set of pearls. 

 Annora does her hair in a low bun with a braid wrapped around the base. 

 Rhaenyra watches Annora in the mirror, her heart aching. It should be her aunt, Amanda, helping her dress, but until the King signs off on the contract and it’s sent to the Vale for cousin Jeyne’s signature, Amanda cannot tend to her due to several internal Royal policies and to ensure that the crown is not favouring one house over another, even if the house is related to the Royal family. 
 
 “Thank you Annora.” 

 “It is always a pleasure, my lady.” 

 Rhaenyra gives her a tired smile before heading towards her father’s chambers. She gives a nod to Ser Arryk…or Ser Erryk; even with the dreams, it’s difficult to parse the two. The deaths of the twins darkens her heart. There was so much senseless slaughter. 

 She doesn’t even know why Arryk chose Aegon’s side or why Erryk chose hers. 

 This time, she hopes to convince both of them to side with her and avoid their tragedy. 

 “The Princess Rhaenyra,” One of the twins announced her as he opened the door to her father’s chambers. 

 Rhaenyra can hear her heartbeat in her ears; this’ll be the first she’s entered her parents’ chambers ever since her mother died in them. If she peeks into the ajar door to the Queen’s rooms, she’ll see the bed that her mother was butchered on. 

 Everywhere she looks, she sees traces of her mother and is violently reminded that she’ll never see Rhaenyra grow or meet her grandchildren. That mere thought makes her want to burst into tears.  

 Thankfully, her father is an adjoining solar, where his model of old Valyria is kept. 

 When Rhaenyra was younger, she loved looking at the model and asking her father about the various buildings he’d had the masons construct; now, she hates it. It symbolizes his ineptitude as a King.  

 “Rhaenyra dear!” Her father puts down what he is holding and opens his arms for a hug. 

 She forces a smile and accepts his hug. She’s always wondered how one man can be so oblivious. “Hello, father.” 

 “Come, I have everything prepared.” He ushers Rhaenyra over to a small table laden with food.

 He is uncharacteristically nervous, and Rhaenyra doesn’t bother to try to assuage his nerves. She merely sits and accepts wine from a passing maid. 

 “My child, I wished to explain…, well, my decision.” 

 “Yes. Your decision to allow a young maiden in your rooms, unaccompanied in the middle of the night, who happened to be my sole lady-in-waiting.” 

 Her father sighs dramatically like he is the aggrieved party. “Yes, it was…improper of me to…allow that to happen. Do you see why I must marry her?” 

 Rhaenyra stares at her goblet, her eyes burning as she wills herself not to cry. She hates him—she hates him so badly—why must he keep taking things from her and then turn around and berate her for not being understanding? 

 “I–Alicent is caught up in…these rumours. I must do what is honourable.”

 Honourable? There is nothing honourable about this! 

 If he were truly honourable, he would’ve sent Alicent back to her chambers the moment she came knocking. 

 “I understand.” Her voice comes out harsh and scratchy. 

 He beams, oblivious to the fact that she is moments from tears. “Thank you, dear. I knew you’d understand.” He pats her hands and dives into his leg of lamb. 

 Rhaenyra lets the room fall silent, occasionally picking at her meal, not that hungry. 

 She waits until the meal is finished, and the servant brings out a platter of small cakes and another bottle of wine, this time a bottle of spiced wine from Lannisport. She sips her wine, ignoring the cakes as she fears she might throw them up from the tension in her stomach. 

 “I am in need of new ladies.” 

 Her father nearly drops his ornate goblet, part glass with a gold rim. He hides his cough and nods. “Yes, yes. Do you have any in mind? I’m sure Otto can recommend a few.” 

 Rhaenyra would rather burn in seven hells than have any ladies that Otto recommends. All they would do is spy on her. 
 She delicately clears her throat. “No offence to the Lord Hand, but what does he know about selecting ladies?” 

 Her father guffaws, slugging back his goblet and swallowing the rest of his wine. “You raise a fine point, my dear.” 

 “I, actually, have some potential ladies.” 

 “Oh?” 

 “Well, I’ve already asked Lord Strong, and he is amenable to sending for his youngest daughter. Aunt Amanda has already agreed; we are merely waiting for your approval.” She ignores the visceral flinch he gives at her aunt’s name. She is a visible reminder of his previous wife. “I’m also considering Lyarra Manderly. And…” She sighs. “The Lady Dayne has requested to join my household.” 

 Her father is visibly startled at the last name. “You’ve chosen one from separate kingdoms. That’s good; it will show that you do not favour one over the others.” 

 Rhaenyra nods; that was her consideration. She wants to show that she’s thinking of everyone. 

 “But the last one, dear…” 

 “I understand, father. But I think that the risk outweighs the benefit.” 

 He frowns and gestures to her to continue. “Explain.” 

 Rhaenyra takes in a deep breath and sets down her glass. “Lady Dayne of Starfall will essentially be a hostage. She is well-connected in Dorne; I asked Lord Strong to confirm this. Her grandmother is a Ullr, and Lady Dayne’s cousin was fostered at Starfall, so they are close. Her brother is betrothed with the Heir of Yronwood, and her youngest brother is betrothed with the daughter of Lord Qorgyle of Sandstone. Those four houses make up the Western half of Dorne and won’t raise their banners if the Heir of Starfall is a hostage, thus crippling Dorne’s military power.” 

 Rhaenyra pauses to take a breath and takes a sip of her wine. 

 “Further, Lady Dayne is the Heir of Starfall even if she has two younger brothers. Her position adds further legitimacy to my claim, and it will help us diplomatically with Dorne. There have always been hostilities with Dorne of some sort, but if I, the future Queen, show that I am that I am reasonable, perhaps I can prevent more hostilites from out breaking.” 

 Not that Rhaenyra thinks that they would. Bandit kings waged the second and third Dornish wars, not Dorne as a realm. Even the fourth war wasn’t waged by the realm, just Prince Morion and a series of sellswords. It was truly only the Conqueror’s war that the realm of Dorne was involved in. However, the death of Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes still casts a long shroud of distrust. 

 “If I were to take her on as a lady, I was planning on introducing her later, after my other ladies as not to offend the rest of the realm, thinking that I do not care for the rest.” 

 “And do you think that the Lady Dayne will be understanding of this plan?” 

 “She is acutely aware of her position in the Red Keep, and I do nothing think that she’ll complain.” 

 “Good. Your reasoning is sound, and I do not object to this plan. When you are finished writing the contracts, send them here, and I will ensure they are delivered. Are there any other ladies you have your eye on? You’re missing a couple of regions.” 

 Rhaenyra sips her wine, contemplating her words. “Obviously, I don’t think that I’m going ask an Ironborn.” That’s worse than having a Dornish lady. She’d completely lose several regions. 

 Her father laughs for a couple of moments, having to wipe tears from his face. “Yes. Yes. That is certainly a wise decision.” 

 She gives him a wry grin before continuing. “Both Aunt Amanda and Cousin Rhaenys suggested I request one of the Baratheon girls. I don’t think Lady Cassandra is a good fit, both due to being, until the foreseeable future, she is the Heir of the Stormlands and her, rather, willful personality.” 

 “Isn’t the Lady Dayne an Heir?” 

 She shakes her head. “My apologies, I erred earlier. She is her mother’s Heir, the Heir’s Heir.” 

 Her father hums in understanding. “I see. So will you ask the younger Baratheon girls?” 

 Rhaenyra is reluctant to ask. She knows that it is prudent to get the Stormlands on her side, but the Four Storms…they weren’t directly responsible for Lucerys’ death, but they were certainly a cause. 

 “I would like to speak to them before I make any decisions. I trust Lord Lyonel’s judgement about his daughter’s character, and the Northern nobles are respectable to a fault.” 

 “That is a smart move. But I do think that the Baratheons ought to be considered. I fear they may still be smarting over Rhaenys being passed over…again.” 

 And who’s fault is that? Why is Rhaenyra always stuck cleaning up after his messes? 

 “I will consider it. Though, I have no idea who to choose from, the Reach or the Westerlands.” 

 “My dear, why don’t you ask Otto? He is well informed about the Lords of the region.” 

 She forces a placid smile as her nails dig into her glass. “I will consider your suggestion,” she forces out. 

 “As for the Westerlands, I am sure that there is a respectable lady in the extended Lannister family that would be happy to join you,” her father prattles on, oblivious to her anger. 

 “Their pride has pride, father,” she cautions. 

 “Rhaenyra…” She hates that condescending tone he gives her. 

 She holds up a hand. “I do not make that comment lightly. I worry that a lady from their family will have difficulties taking orders when they are used to being the ones in charge. Further, an arrogant, prideful lady is not the image I wish the realm to have of me, and my ladies are an extension of me; at least, that’s what Mother taught me.” 

 It is a little bit of a low blow; seeing her father’s wince makes her regret it for a moment, but Rhaenyra despises the idea of having a Lannister in her entourage. 
 
 “Very well, you know best.” 

 Rhaenyra preens at the compliment. The boost in her confidence fuels her to continue. 

 “Lord Strong has also suggested that I ask Lord Tully for one of his sons to join my Household guard.” 
 That is another thing that Rhaenyra has to do. She cannot reasonably rely on the Kingsguard, not when half of them followed Aegon. She’ll have to find competent guards; perhaps if she goes on tour, she can look out for competent knights. 

 “Not a bad idea. I have heard good things of all three of them.” 

 Rhaenyra nods but continues. Her reasons for coming are from over. “There are a couple of other things that I’d like to ask.” 

 “Very well. Tell me.” 

 “I wish to manage my household independently.” 

 Rhaenyra’s heart sinks when she sees her father frown. “Those duties traditionally fall into the purview of the Queen.” 

 “Father… it’s humiliating.” She can feel the blood rush to her cheeks at the memory of her alternate self arguing with Alicent over the amount of coin she is allotted to pay for her seamstress. “She used to help me dress, father! Now I am supposed to go begging her for money to pay for my ladies and I’s dresses?” 

 He is silent for a moment, and Rhaenyra is worried that he might dismiss her concerns. 

 “I see…” he sighs deeply, rubbing his face. “Yes, I understand what you’re saying. I’ll speak with Beesbury, or maybe Lyonel on how to divvy up the the Royal accounts.” 
Success! Rhaenyra could’ve cheered, but she still has a couple more points she needs to discuss with her father. 

 It’s even sweeter knowing that Otto won’t be able to argue if he goes to Beesbury or Lord Lyonel. 

 “If it’s not too much, I’d like to stop being the council’s cupbearer and join as a member.” He frowns at her request. “Father, how am I supposed to gain the respect of the lords of the realm if I continue in a subservient role? As the first Queen Regent, I need to start earning goodwill. Besides, both grandsire and great-uncle Aemon joined the council proper when they were young so they could learn their duties.” 

 Her father bursts into laughter; she knows he means well, but the action still stings. “When did my darling little girl grow this wise?” 

 Rhaenyra falls silent, trying to get her annoyance under control. “So?” 

 “Of course!” 

 “Thank you, father!” She gets up and hugs him, her annoyance from a moment prior gone. He happily hugs him back. 

 “Is there anything else that you desire?” He asks in a teasing tone. 

 Rhaenyra clears her throat and sits down. “I wish to be officially named Lady of Dragonstone. I know it’s a technicality since the Heir is automatically named as ruler of Dragonstone, but I thought that having the title in writing would allow me to govern the island so I can gain some experience before coming of age.” 

 “You can gain it here!” Her father protests. Gain what? Otto does all the actual ruling. 

 “I don’t mean to move there completely, father,” she teases and then sighs. “There is a certain type of experience that you get ruling at that level. I want to show the realm what you already know, that I am worthy of the role, and I believe managing the affairs will show the Lords.” 

 This is the worst ask yet; she’s not going to mention the idea of going on tour, at least not until after the wedding. 

 Her father might not see the importance of being named Lady of Dragonstone, but Otto and the rest of the realm will. Dragonstone will be hers. 

 The first chance she gets, she’s going to get rid of Alfred Broome. 

 “Only if you agree to spend the majority of the year here. I–I cannot imagine a world without you by my side, Rhaenyra.” 

 “Of course, father. I do not wish to be parted either.” She reaches over and grasps her father’s hand. “I just wish to show the might house of Targaryen.” 

 He gives her a watery smile and pats her clasped hands. “I know you will.” 
      ****
 Amanda Arryn has made it this long in court by not being a short-tempered idiot. She’d come with her sister to court to guide and help her get her feet as the Heir’s, and later King’s, wife. Amanda has seen the rise and fall of ladies within the court and has ensured that she did nothing to hurt Aemma’s position. Amanda’s strict rules for herself stayed after Aemma’s death, but it seems these days that the gods are testing her patience. 

 There is a certain peace to the thought of becoming a Kingslayer. 

 After what he did to her sweet sister makes Amanda want to carve him up the way that he ordered Aemma. 

 But she cannot. If Amanda were to do such a thing, then the Vale would suffer even if their new Queen were their blood. So, the only recourse that Amanda can do is to ensure those who dare usurp her sister’s rightful place as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

 The Hightowers…. The very name causes a terrible taste to rise in her mouth. 

 Ever since Amanda came to King's Landing, Otto Hightower has tried to limit the power of the Vale lords who came with Aemma; hells, he tried to curtail Aemma’s power as Queen.

 Disgusting slime. 

 Amanda sips her wine, ignoring every instinct she has to hurl the dainty glass as far as she can. In Aemma’s absence, and now in Rhaenyra’s minority, Amanda ran the women’s courts set up by Aylsanne. 

 Sometimes, women did come with actual grievances, but many of the courtiers in the Keep came to gossip and complain about their husbands while they talked about current events. 

 Today’s session is about the most salacious thing that’s happened in a long while: Lady Alicent Hightower was found unaccompanied in the King’s chamber. 

 During his tenure as Hand of the King, Otto Hightower made his fair share of enemies, and they were quick to tear him down in any manner.

 “Such a strange thing to happen, don’t you agree, Lady Arryn?” Lady Butterwell looks slyly to Amanda. As it stands, due to her blood ties with Rhaenyra and Jeyne, Amanda is the highest-standing Lady of the court. 

 “It is strange, I must admit. I never expected Lady Alicent to act in such a manner. She always came across as an unassuming and demure lady.” Amanda needs to be careful of what she says; Otto will do anything to remove his dissenters. 

 “Indeed. She never struck me as such a sly creature, but appearances can be deceiving. She is truly her father’s daughter.” Lady Florent cut in, laughing derisively. 

 Since the Targaryens arrived, House Florent and House Hightower have jostled for power within the Reach, leading to a love-hate relationship between the two. Otto, as the second son rising to such power, has not endeared himself to the current members of House Florent. 

 Lady Redwyne scoffs. “You all speak of such certainty that this did happen. Lady Alicent is a pious girl. If the actions do seem peculiar for the Lady, perhaps they are not true?” 

 “Lady Rhaenys and Lord Coryls have left in insult and withdrawn their petition for Lady Laena’s bethroal, claiming that it is due to the King’s proclivites regarding Lady Alicent. My maid told me that she spoke one of the Velyaron maids and she claims that she saw Lady Alicent in a lady’s dress in the King’s chambers and that’s what caused the Velyaron’s to withdraw their petition,” Lady Darklyn argues. 

 “Otto has been rather silent on the matter. He’s been very proactive in the past about these slights against his house.” Lady Casswell hums in consideration. 

 Amanda puts down her goblet of wine with an audible clack against the table. The ladies fall silent, looking at her. “It does not matter if it is true or not. It is the perception that I am worried about. The realm looks to the Red Keep for their morals. If young ladies hear of this, I worry that they will follow the trend and end up in their lord’s bed in an attempt to seduce him for her or her family’s gain. If a girl of Lady Alicent’s piety does such a thing, what does that mean for the girls who have less scruples?” 

 That causes the ladies to titter nervously in agreement. 

 “I am surprised that the Lord Hand has not sent Lady Alicent to the Silent Sisters yet, or at least, back to Oldtown.” Lady Florent sips her wine, glancing slightly to where the Tower of the Hand rests. 

 “What do you think, Lady Dayne?” Lady Redwyne smirks at the woman. “I hear that you Dornish people do not adhere to the same morals as us in the rest of Westeros.” 

 Amanda wonders if Lady Redwyne is attacking Lady Dayne’s heritage in an attempt to get the conversation off of Alicent. The Redwynes and the Hightowers are very intertwined with various marriage pacts. Amanda glances at Lady Dayne, interested to hear how she’ll respond. Her niece told Amanda that she was planning to bring Lady Danye into her household. If she reacts poorly, Amanda will recommend that her niece does not. 

 Lady Dayne puts down the tart she was eating, dabbing at the corners of her mouth before clearing her throat. She looks Lady Redwyne square in the eye as she begins. “It is true we do not adhere to such the same standards of morality that other parts of Westeros do. Seducing your lord for his favour is not frowned upon entirely. Though most women rather dislike it as it reduces us to a mere object for men to play with. However, no woman who is willing to go that route would act as Lady Alicent did.” 

 “And why is that Lady Dayne?” Amanda asks, intrigued. 

 “If a woman attempted to seduce her lord less than five moons after his wife’s death, she would be chased out of Dorne for her lack of respect for the wife and her impropriety.” 

Amanda looks over to Lady Redwyne. She looks properly annoyed with what Amanda assumes is Lady Dayne’s lack of an outburst. 

 “I’d forgotten about that. How heartless of Alicent to attempt such a thing after the Queen’s death.” Lady Darklyn sighs. “I heard that after Lady Hightower’s death, the Queen took the girl under her wing. What a way to repay her.” 

 Lady Caswell clucks her tongue. “Imagine attempting to seduce your friend’s father. How is the poor Princess?” She looks over to Amanda. 

 Amanda sighs heavily, moulding her face into a forlorn expression. “My poor niece has barely left her chambers after her mother’s death. I worry that Lady Alicent’s betrayal will cause her to retreat further into them.” 

 Rhaenyra hasn’t been isolating herself due to Alicent’s treachery in planning the creation of her household and creating different ways to solidify her claim.

 But these ladies do not need to know this. 

 “The poor dear. I cannot imagine what she is going through.” 

 Amanda hides her grin behind her glass. Perfect. There is little sympathy directed towards Alicent Hightower; her allies in the Keep are dwindling by the moment. By the time she is married, no one in the Keep will side with her, and Amanda knows that’ll happen. Lady Rhaenys informed Amanda personally about the King’s latest folly. After the marriage announcement is delivered, Amanda will have to assemble another lady’s court and ensure that Rhaenyra has the Red Keep firmly in her grasp. 

 Otto Hightower thinks he’s won by inserting his daughter as Queen. Amanda is going to show him the one aspect that he’s overlooked in his scheming if it’s the last thing she does.

Chapter Text

With the wedding preparations beginning in earnest, Rhaenyra feels like she’s been running around like a chicken without a head. Because, of course, most of the preparations fell to her as she’s one of two members of House Targaryen. Her father happily plays event planner when the mood strikes him, but many come to Rhaenyra, despite being a child, for the logistics of her father’s demands. 

 Thank goodness for her Aunt. As soon as it was possible, Rhaenyra sent the contract to the Vale, and cousin Jeyne signed it with the same promptness. The contracts were also sent to Dorne and the North. Lyarra will be arriving with the Northern contingent for the wedding, and Eleanor is already on her way. 

 Emylie, on the other hand, is left in a state of limbo; she won’t be a visible lady-in-waiting until Rhaenyra’s name-day celebration. Rhaenyra hopes that the wedding will provide her the chance to find more ladies. 

Rhaenyra feels bad; Emylie is unashamed of her heritage and has accepted blow after blow with a smile on her face…but how much longer can she endure these slights against her? 

 “My Princess.” Emylie curtsies.  

 Rhaenyra invited Emylie to a small luncheon just to gauge her mood. Amanda, of course, joined them.

 “You’re wearing black,” Rhaenyra notes. It was a simple black gown with a dark purple kirtle adorned with pearl and amethyst accessories. 

 She didn’t expect everyone to wear black during her mother’s mourning period, as not everyone in the castle knew her mother. After the appropriate first month, she was fine with the courtiers going back to their normal wardrobes. 

  “Yes. It was my mistake during our first meeting. I was so excited to represent my house that I disregarded my Princess’s feelings. I have since corrected and adhering to the mourning period.” 

 Rhaenyra can see Emylie’s allegiance written plain across her face. 

 Of course, with her father’s upcoming nuptials, which, at this point, has become an open secret in the Keep, her mother’s mourning period has become weaponized. 

 “Thank you. It heartens me to see your kindness.” 

 Emylie curtsies again before joining Rheanyra and Amanda at the table. 

 Amanda and Emylie fall into a pleasant but benign conversation about how Emylie is settling into the Keep. Rhaenyra wants to join them, but she’s just so tired. Tired of planning a wedding for a woman that Rhaenyra truly hated. She just wants to throw up her hands and be done with the whole affair, but she cannot. Because if the wedding is terrible, it will only put House Targaryen in a bad light. 
 
 Looking over to Emylie, Rhaenyra’s heart clenches. The whole Keep sees her in a bad light despite being nothing but kind, according to Annora and her other maids. 

 “How can you stand this?” Rhaenyra blurts. 

 Emylie pauses and tilts her head in confusion. “What do you mean, your Highness?” 

 “Everyone is looking at you like you're a villain. Even when you legitimately applied to be a lady-in-waiting, you cannot proudly stand by me until I’ve selected all my other ladies. How can you stand this?” 

 In the dreams, that Rhaenyra felt troubled by the weight of Alicent’s whispers. She lashed out when she couldn’t stand it anymore. 

 Emylie sighs and puts down her fork. “I will admit, this experience is humbling. Going from a vaulted noble to a despised courtier. It is hard sometimes, but I knew this would happen before I came to the Red Keep, and I still chose it. If something comes easily in the world, then it is not worth it.” 

 Rhaenyra considers Emylie’s words in relation to her own position. She understands what Emylie is saying, but to say it with a smile…is insane. She tells Emylie this, and Emylie snorts in laughter while Aunt Amanda gives Rhaenyra a reproachful look. 

 “My grandmother is a Ullr, my princess. Do you know what we in Dorne says about them?” She asks. 

 Rhaenyra shakes her head.

 “Half of the Ullers are half-mad, and the other half are worse,” Emylie quotes, looking a little misty-eyed. “I suppose I inherited my Lady Grandmother’s madness.” 

 “That is rude to say that of your Lady Grandmother,” Amanda warns. 

 Emylie wickedly grins, winking at Rhaenyra. “I am aware, Lady Amanda, but it is hard not to repeat it when she says it herself.” 

 Rhaenyra giggles along with Emylie at Aunt Amanda’s defeated look. 

 Rhaenyra’s soul feels a little lighter, laughing with Emylie. She didn’t fully trust Emylie or any of her future ladies, and part of Rhaenyra didn’t think that she’d ever, not with Alicent’s betrayal, but it is still nice to have some camaraderie with someone her age. 

 “So, you’re okay with not being one of my ladies until my name day?” 

 Emylie grins wickedly. “Of course, don’t worry, My Princess. It’ll give me time to come up with a great gift commemorating your kindness in letting me join your ladies.” 

 “You don’t need to do that.” 

 “Lady Emylie is correct. Dorne views them as separate from the Iron Throne; the courtiers will expect a certain level of grovelling from Lady Emylie as a “thanks” for overlooking the inherent blight of being Dornish. If she doesn’t, the houses that are inherently loyal to the Targaryen will feel slighted,” Aunt Amanda argues. She examines Emylie under a critical eye. “The bigger the better, understand?” 

 Rhaenyra is reminded of when she chose Cole over the other knights while selecting a new Kingsguard. Despite being the victor over Uncle Daemon in the Heir’s Tourney and being one of the few knights to witness war, the other knights were angry because someone less noble was chosen. 

 “Of course, Lady Amanda. I know just the gift. It is merely a matter of securing it.” 

 “And have you secured a gift for the wedding celebration?” 

 “An impressive selection of Dornish Red vintages for his Majesty. And for her future Highness…” Rhaentra suppresses a giggle at Emylie’s eyeroll. “An ample chest of pearls from our pearl farming business and two bolts of Dornish silk. They’re a lovely saffron and a bright orange, which the Martells favour.” 

 Rahenyra quirks an eyebrow; saffron would completely washout Alicent’s complexion. Alicent is better off with cooler-toned colours or cool pinks. It is interesting that Emylie would choose those colours. 
 
 “Are those adequate gifts for a Royal couple?” Emylie looks over to Aunt Amanda. 

 “From a territory that is not a Paramount and is not historically known to be rich, it is adequate.” 

 It seems that Emylie wants to be solely adequate in terms of her relationship with the King and Alicent. Emylie nods and returns to her lunch. 

 Rhaenyra picks at her lunch; her mind pulls back to all the preparations that she still needs to do. The list seems never-ending, especially how brilliant her father wants to be, egged on by Otto, no doubt. She dreads the upcoming ceremony, and anger pools quickly in her stomach at the thought of her father. In the dreams and now, her father claims he loves her mother but is planning to remarry in less than a year. It does not make sense. He has yet to bring up the topic of her mother with her; it’s like he’s fine with forgetting her. But what is Rhaenyra expecting? Her mother died, each pregnancy taking more of her strength than the last because he did not value her. He cared more for a potential son than her mother. 

 “Emylie?” Rhaenyra asks as a plan forms in her mind as she looks over to her lady. 

 “Yes, my Princess?” 

 “Can you get a message out without it being intercepted?” 

 Aunt Amanda looks alarmed. “My Princess, what are you planning?” 

 Emylie grins. “Of course; give me a few days.” 
                                                                                                                                                                    ****
 Eleanor watches the growing blob, which is the Red Keep, grow larger and larger and with every step her wheelhouse takes, her heart sinks further. She didn’t want to be a lady-in-waiting to the Princess, but her father commanded it, so Eleanor must do as he bids. She does not hold it against him; he is trying to ensure that she and her siblings receive good matches and make sure they do not repeat the mistakes of their ancestor, Lucamore Strong, and remain in the good graces of the Royal Family. 

 She sighs heavily, leaning heavily against the wheelhouse. She misses the green of Harrenhall and the misty mornings where everything is covered in a thin blanket of dew. 

 It’s silent and peaceful there, even with the rumoured curse. Not compared to King's Landing, where everything seems to happen. 

 Larys wrote to her, glee evident in every stroke, telling her how the Princess’s sole lady-in-waiting, Alicent Hightower, was found in the King’s chambers alone without any chaperone and that he was marrying her! 

 Eleanor isn’t even in King's Landing, and she has a headache already. 

 The worst part about going to King's Landing is that it will take forever for her messages to Willem to be delivered, and it will be difficult for him to come to visit her. 

 “Davos?” She sticks her head out of the wheelhouse, looking for the captain of the guards. 

 “Yes, cousin?” Davos is one of her Uncle Simon’s sons; it makes Eleanor feel better that a family member is joining her on this trip. 

 “How much longer until we reach King's Landing?” 

 Davos squints, looking up to the sun and then to the growing city. “A couple hours, at most, my lady.” 

 “Could we stop so I may change?” Eleanor is wearing a simple woollen dress and a heavy clock for travel. There’s no need to dress for court if the only people who are going to see her are her guards and her maid, Tansy. But now that she’s going to be introduced to the princess, she needs to look her best. 

 “Of course. Let me send men ahead to scout a place for you to change safely.” 

 “Thank you, Davos.” Eleanor closes the window to the wheelhouse and leans back in her seat. 

 “Are you excited, my lady?” Tansy asks. 

 “I’m exited to see my brothers,” Eleanor mumbles, closing her eyes. She’s thankful that Tansy doesn’t push the issue. She’s sure that the Princess is kind; none of the letters she’s received from her father and brothers said anything against the Princess, but she cannot help but worry. 

 Eleanor lets her mind drift off, her body swaying in time with the Wheelhouse. She wonders what Willem is doing today. Is he mourning the fact Eleanor is gone? She would’ve if he were the one going to King's Landing. 

 She feels time slip by as her eyes grow heavy. She’s been on the road for nearly two weeks, and she is sick of it; she’s so tired. 

 “Cousin?” Davos gently knocks on the side of the Wheelhouse. 

 “Yes, Davos?” 

 “We will stop in a matter of moments. There is a small grove up ahead that is suitable.” 

 “Thank you, Davos.” Eleanor sighs. 

 Slowly, the whole carriage grinds to a stop, and Eleanor takes her first steps out of the wheelhouse in hours. She wonders if the journey would be more bearable if she were able to ride her horse instead of sitting in the Wheelhouse the whole time; reading can only alleviate the boredom for a small amount of time. 

 She follows Tansy to where she will get changed. Tansy fusses around, pinning a great sheet up to allow Eleanor some privacy as she changes and gets her clothes ready. 

 This whole pageantry makes Eleanor feel like a trussed-up sow getting ready for auction. 

 Her courtly dress is reminiscent of her family’s sigil. Her kirtle is deep red, and the gown is soft grey with blue embroidery on one side and green on the other. The gown’s sleeves puff out around the shoulders and ends around her biceps. It has a deep collar going down to her midsection and ends with a belt; the skirt flairs out from under the belt, showing off the kirtle. 

 Tansy pulls her wild curls back into a low bun tucked into a silvery hairnet.

 Eleanor isn’t a fan of jewellery, but she suffers through Tansy passing her a pair of small emerald earrings and a necklace of a mix of small rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. However, she admittedly refuses to wear any bracelets or rings as she cannot stand the feeling of things around her hands and wrists. 

 Davos lets out a low whistle as Eleanor appears, grinning wolfishly at her. “Wow, you finally look like a lady!” 

She gives him a hand gesture that a gently bred lady should not know, causing him to cackle as she marches up to her Wheelhouse. 

 As the journey starts again, Eleanor shifts her seat, trying to get comfortable in this dress. She doesn’t have many courtly dresses; it was never truly a need at Harrenhall because who the Seven Hells would want to come to Harrenhall, so she’s never felt comfortable in them. The bodice is constrictive against her torso, making sitting very uncomfortable, and the soft silk of the gown makes it difficult to sit without slowly sliding down. 

 Eleanor spends the rest of the trip fidgeting, trying to get comfortable, ignoring her gnawing dread, and ignoring the growing smell of King's Landing. 

 Finally, her carriage stopped. Eleanor waited until Davos opened the door before scrambling out. She is so sick of that damn Wheelhouse. 

 Eleanor looks around, trying to spot either of her brothers or her father, but she can’t find any of them; they must be busy. She does see Princess Rhaenyra waiting for her at the top of the steps. 

 “My Princess.” Eleanor curtsies, peeking up through her lashes. The Princess is shorter than Eleanor, but that is not surprising given that Eleanor inherited her father’s height and has delicate features. Her pale yet rosy skin, silver-gold hair, and pale lilac eyes make the Princess look ethereal. The Princess is wearing a black and gold dress, and with a sinking feeling, Eleanor realizes that she’s still mourning her mother.

 Should Eleanor have worn black in solidarity with her new liege lady? 

 “Please rise, lady Eleanor.” 

 Eleanor slowly rises from her curtsey and briefly looks over to the lady accompanying the Princess. She is around the same age as Eleanor’s father, with dark brown hair greying around her temples and widow’s peek and pale blue eyes. 

 This must be Lady Amanda; her father told Eleanor that the princess had asked her aunt to become her chief lady-in-waiting to ensure that the younger girls learn their roles properly. 

 “Lady Amanda.” Eleanor gives her a very short curtsey, and Amanda inclines her head back. Eleanor turns back to the Princess. “Thank you for allowing me to join your ladies-in-waiting, my Princess.” 

 “It is my pleasure. Both your father and brother, Harwin, are very kind people, though I have yet to met your other brother, Larys, but I am sure he is as kind as well.” 

 It is probably good that the Princess has yet to meet Larys. Larys cares; Eleanor spent many of her young years toddling after her brother and knows him quite well. It is just……well, he is not like Harwin. 

 “Thank you for your kind assessment, my Princess.” 

 “Come! Enough with the boring talk; let me show you the keep!” Princess Rhaenyra loops her arm around Eleanor and pulls her towards the Keep. 

 Eleanor stumbles a little at the initial contact but follows the Princess into the Keep. Lady Amanda walks a few steps behind, allowing Eleanor and the Princess to acquaint themselves without the presence of a mother figure. 

 She tries to retain what the Princess is showing her, but her mind is whirling around, trying to understand the layout of the Keep. 
 
 “So, Eleanor, what did you like to do?” The Princess asks. 

 “Oh, well…I like to read. Larys likes to tease me on my preferred genre. See, he’s always been fascinated by history and the natural world, whereas I’ve always enjoyed romance.” 

 “There’s nothing wrong with romance! My mother used to read Florian and Jonquil to me when I was younger, and it is one of my favourite memories with her. Though, I suppose it’s more of a legend than a romance tale,” the Princess muses, sharing a fleeting grin with Eleanor. 

 “The great thing about literature is that stories can cross multiple genres. Florian and Jonquil is also one of my favourites,” Eleanor confides. She knows it’s illogical, but if Florian and Jonquil can find love despite Florian being lowborn, then maybe she and Willem can find happiness. “Sometimes, I like to write my own stories.” 

 “Really?” 

 Eleanor nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes. One of my best works, according to my Uncle Simon, is one set in old Valyria about two shepherds, Daegon and Chlea, who fall in love and then realize that their birth parents are nobles. I like to think it’s my best, but my only readers are my family, and I cannot tell if my uncle is humouring me or not.” 

Rhaenyra shares a giggle with Eleanor as they round the corner into the Godswood.  

 The Godswood are nothing like the ones at Harrenhall; something is lacking about them. The air does not have the same kind of heaviness, and Eleanor doesn’t feel the same presence as if someone were watching her. 

 The emptiness actually makes her miss Harrenhall more. The protection that the Godswood gave her is gone. Eleanor freezes when she hears a shout coming from the other side. 

 Hurrying up to the Princess is a young, auburn-haired woman in a grey and blue dress, followed by a duo of maids. “Rhaenyra!” She cries. 

 The laughter dies in Eleanor’s throat. Did…did this woman just call the Crown Princess by her name? Who was she to act so brazenly? 

 “Rhaenyra, please!” The girl begs. “Please, listen to me!” 

 Eleanor looks over to the Princess, unsure of what to do. Then she looks over to Lady Amanda, who looks ready to murder someone. 

 “I didn’t do anything; you have to believe me! I was….” she trails off, her eyes landing on the linked arms between the Princess and Eleanor, and her face turns white. 

 Oh…this must be Lady Alicent Hightower. 

 Well, this is uncomfortable. Eleanor gently untangles herself from the Princess and gives her a shallow curtsey. “Greetings, Lady Alicent Hightower. I am Eleanor Strong of Harrenhall. It is a pleasure.” 

 “Oh…yes. Hello. Rhaenyra, please…I don’t know what I can do to convince you!” Tears streak down Lady Alicent’s face. 

 That’s it? Lady Alicent might be the intended of the King, but she is still not the Queen yet. Eleanor is the daughter of the Master of the Law, the lord of Harrenhall; Eleanor is of the main line of her house. She ranks higher than the daughter of a second son. 

 Eleanor looks over to the Princess, who has gone still, whether in anger or another emotion that Eleanor can’t tell, and her pale complexion is ruddy with blush, and then to Lady Amanda, who looks even angrier than the Princess. 

 “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Alicent. However, the Princess and I have plans to formalize my position as a lady-in-waiting. Perhaps you and the Princess can finish the conversation at a later date?” 

 Eleanor doesn’t intend to sound rude, but Lady Alicent has crossed all levels of proprietary, and the Princess is clearly in a state of disarray that Eleanor needs to step in for her. 

 Lady Alicent continues to ignore her, continuously pleading with Rhaenyra to listen to her. 

 “The Lady Eleanor is correct. It would be rude to leave her in a state of limbo after she’s just arrived at the Red Keep. If you excuse us, Lady Alicent, the Princess must be off.” Lady Amanda stepped closer, her pale blue eyes turning cold. 

 The colour that returned to Lady Alicent as she pleaded with Rhaenyra drains as she comes under the fire of the cold Lady Arryn. 

 “Yes…of course.” Alicent stepped back, allowing Eleanor and the Princess to pass. 

 Cautiously, Eleanor wraps her arm around the Princess’s and gently tugs at her so she’ll move. The Princess follows after Eleanor without any resistance. Thankfully, Lady Amanda knows the way to the Princess’s chambers, so getting the Princess there is easy. 

 Eleanor leads the still-distressed princess to her couch while Lady Amanda hustles around, eventually pressing a cup of warm tea into the Princess’s hands. 

 A few moments later, she can see the Princess return to her mind. She sighs heavily as she places her drink on a small table. “You must think me a poor liege lady, unable to handle such a small situation.” 

 “Rhaenyra…” Lady Amanda leaps to her niece’s defence, but Rhaenyra shakes her head to stop Lady Amanda. 

 “My lady. I cannot imagine the pain you are suffering.” Eleanor doesn’t begrudge the Princess one bit. If Tansy were found servicing her father right after Eleanor’s mother died, Eleanor… well, she wouldn’t know what she’d do, but she certainly wouldn’t be as composed as the Princess was. 

 She is pretty sure that Tansy would be bald by the end of the moon if that happened.  

 And since Larys has yet to tell her that the Princess viciously attacked her former lady, Eleanor thinks that the Princess is handling this remarkably well. 

 She tells the Princess this, and the Princess lets a bark of unladylike laughter. 

 “I had thought about it,” she confesses. 

 “See, you have more restraint than I, my Princess. There would be no thinking, only doing.” That causes the Princess to dissolve into more giggles. 

 The Princess’s expression falls sombre as she twists a ring on her finger. “I don’t know what happened,” she admitted, slowly teasing out the words. “I saw Alicent and just froze. I was so angry and betrayed. So many things went throught my mind, that I couldn’t decide what to do…and I just did nothing.” 

 Princess Rhaenyra looks like she’s on the edge of tears…angry that she did nothing? Eleanor isn’t sure what the Princess is upset about and, thus, doesn’t know what to say to comfort her. 

 “You are young, sweetling.” Lady Amanda sits next to Princess Rhaenyra, tentatively wrapping her arms around her niece. “Your reactions are unpolished. It will take time to become accustomed to playing this game.” 

 “I promised myself that this time would be better…that I wouldn’t let myself falter in front of her, not again,” The Princess mutters. 

 Eleanor shares a look with Lady Amanda, both of them unsure of what the Princess is referring to. 

 “We’ll work on it, sweetling. Come, let’s have a lie-down. You’ve been working since dawn.” Lady Amanda gently cajoles the Princess to her chambers with minimal protest. 

 Eleanor sits awkwardly, waiting for Lady Amanda to come back. Should she leave? Eleanor feels like she should leave. The Princess is obviously utterly overwhelmed and needs some space. 

 She straightens in her seat when Lady Amanda comes back. Lady Amanda sighs and sits next to Eleanor. “I am terribly sorry you had to deal with this on your first day, Lady Eleanor.”

 “The Princess is overwhelmed, it is clear that she is need of aid. That is the purpose of a lady-in-waiting, and I am pleased that I was selected to ease this burden.” 

 Eleanor will do her duty as dictated, just like her father and brothers do, and she will do it to the utmost degree. 

 “What a perfect courtly answer.” Lady Amanda gives her a shrewd smile. She pats Eleanor on the leg and stands. “Come now, child, let me show you your rooms, and then I can take you to your father and brothers; I am sure they are excited to see you after so long.”

 “Thank you, Lady Amanda.” Eleanor stands, gives the older woman a small smile, and follows her out of the solar, glancing back to where the Princess is sleeping, hoping that she’s alright. 

 She is being very strong for a girl of three-and-ten.

Chapter Text

It hurts to look at Eleanor sometimes; she has the same curls and nose as Harwin, and if Rhaenyra closes her eyes, she could pretend that Eleanor is the daughter that she and Harwin had in another life. Rhaenyra doesn’t partially want children, but she’s always been partial to a potential daughter or a little sister. Eleanor would’ve fit in well with her boys. 

 Rhaenyra hopes that she can remedy her awkwardness in the upcoming days; it was certainly a way to introduce Eleanor to life in the Red Keep. 

 The three of them, Rhaenyra, Aunt Amanda, and Eleanor, were well into their luncheon when there was a small knock. 

 Aunt Amanda sighs heavily, placing her goblet down and hurrying over to the door. 

 Rhaenyra leans back, trying to see who it is. There are very few people who can so brazenly knock on her door. All courtiers, unless expressly given permission, were forbidden from coming to her rooms. Other than their dinner, her father is content to ignore Rhaenyra as he struts around, planning his wedding. The most likely person is Alicent or Cole, neither of which Rhaenyra wants to talk to. 

 “My Lady.” Aunt Amanda comes back, arching an unamused eyebrow. “The Lady Dayne has arrived with the jeweller you requested.” 

 What? 

 Rhaenyra frowns in confusion, she didn’t ask Emylie to bring one. Why would…OH! 

 She nods to Aunt Amanda. “Do let her in.” Aunt Amanda nods and hustles back to the door. 

 A second later, Emylie emerges from the door with a bright smile. She dips into a deep curtsey; the bodice of her gown is dangerously low. Rhaenyra wonders if she’s using her cleavage as a means of distraction today.

 “My Princess. It is my pleasure to introduce you to Edric Dayne. He is my, several times removed, cousin.” Edric Dayne looks like the typical Dornish, with dark hair and eyes, an olive complexion, and truly an impressive mustache. He is dressed in a riot of colours that even Rhaenyra, who is fond of bright patterns, finds a little garish. While his doublet is bright, the cloth is well made, luxurious even. Across his chest lay a thick golden necklace with swirling golden strands and interwoven jewels. At the bottom, turquoise gems dangled off it like tears. 
Rhaenyra’s never seen a necklace like that. She wonders where he got it. 
 “A pleasure.” Rhaenyra holds out her hand. 

 “No, no, my princess, it is my pleasure! You are truly stunning, more than the stories ever said.” Edric takes Rhaenyra’s hand and places an egear kiss on it. “I have just thing!” He impatiently waves a hand, and a young boy, likely his apprentice, comes trotting up with a small trunk, placing it on the table. He pops the lid open, showing off his collection. Rhaenyra can see various necklaces, earrings, rings, bracelets, and even tiaras with bright metals and shining gems. 

 “This one, I believe, suits the princess quite well. It is a delicate golden tiara with a sunburst and a bright ruby in the middle, with dark amber shards radiating out from the sunburst. 

 It’s pretty, but Rhaenyra’s heart isn’t in it. 

 Whenever she shops for jewellery, Rhaenyra needs to be drawn to something special. This piece lacks that. 

 Emylie coughs delicately. “Edric, as stunning as your pieces are, that is not why we are here.” 

 “Yes, yes.” He waves her off. “But I can kill two birds with one stone. Besides, I will be needed, yes?” Emylie rolls her eyes, looking fondly at her cousin.

 Aunt Amanda narrows her eyes suspiciously. “I believe I have heard of you. You’re that jeweller who is specializes in foreign goods.” 

 Edric gives Aunt Amanda an exaggerated bow. “That is me, madame; you have me at a misfortune, for I do not know your lovely ladyship.” 

 “Amanda Arryn.” Aunt Amanda holds out her hand, and Edric graciously presses a kiss to her hand. 

 “Ah! You must be Lady Strong; it’s a pleasure.” Emylie grins brightly at the baffled Eleanor.  

 Oh dear, poor Eleanor. She must be so confused right now. “Eleanor, this is Lady Dayne. She is set to become one of my ladies,” Rhaenyra introduces them. 

 Eleanor’s brows knit together as something calculates in her mind; a second later, her face clears. “I see, you need someone from the Stormlands and the Reach first.” 

 Rhaenyra is glad to see that Eleanor catches on quickly; she has Lord Strong’s mind. Rhaenyra nods. “Exactly. That does not mean Emylie doesn’t have her uses in her current position.” 

 “It just means the Lord Hand doesn’t have his eyes on me yet.” Emylie winks at Eleanor, whose startled expression smoothes over and is quickly replaced with calm understanding. She turns back to Edric. “Edric, stop attempting to woo the lovely Lady Amanda. She is very far out of your league.” 

 “You ruin my fun, dear cousin,” Edric whines. With a small nod and a dramatic sign, Edric picks up a necklace and launches into a deep explanation of the piece. 

 Emylie gestures for the apprentice to come forward; he obediently trots forward, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “M-my Princess.” He gives her a clumsy bow; Rhaenyra can’t help but smile at the boy. The boy couldn’t look more than eight, maybe nine; childhood fat still lingers on his cheeks. 

 Emylie crouches next to the boy, “Alton, this is Princess Rhaenyra. She has a message to pass on to her cousin, Lady Rhaenys. Do you think you can do this?” 

 “Yes, my Princess! I swear I will follow whatever orders you have!” He looks bright-eyed and eager to please. 

 Rhaenyra chuckles at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Thank you, Alton. That reassures me to hear.” Rhaenyra gestures to Aunt Amanda to fetch the scroll for her. She’d hidden it at the bottom of her jewellery box. Amanda quickly returns, handing Alton the small scroll; he tucks it into a hidden pocket for safekeeping.  

“Are you sure that you should send Alton? Wouldn’t Ser Edric be the better fit?” Eleanor asks, nervously looking at Alton. 

 “Don’t worry about me ma’am! No one pays attention to me!” Alton chirps. 

 “Ser Edric is too obvious.” Aunt Amanda flickers a look over to Edric, who dips into another monologue about a different piece. “Lady Rhaenys doesn’t bring jewellers to High Tide. If he were to approach her, then someone would notice. The Princess aims to be discreet. Ser Edric is going to Driftmark, correct?” 

 Alton nods. 

 “Then it is a simple job of slipping away and handing it to Lady Rhaenys while Ser Edric plays the distraction.” 

 “You are correct, ma’am! That’s what we planned.” Alton’s cheerfulness is apparently contagious because Aunt Amanda spares him a small smile as she slips him a small pastry. He takes it with a bright grin. 

 Emylie claps her hands and stands. “Edric!” 

 Edric stops serenading the air and nods. He puts away the bracelet he swapped the necklace with and closes his trunk with a flourish. He gives Rhaenyra a bow. “I offer other services, my Princess, if you are ever are in need of them. I shall put special priority on my cousin’s liege lady. With your leave?” 

 Rhaenyra nods. “You are dismissed. Thank you, Edric. And thank you, Alton.” 

 Alton’s grin has yet to waver. “If the Princess Rhaenys has an answer, I will be sure to return with it promptly!” Rhaenyra wants to coo and pinch his cheeks.  

 “I’m sure you will!” 

 Emylie ushers her cousin and his apprentice out of Rhaenyra’s rooms. The moment she closed the door and spun around, Rhaenyra, Eleanor, and Emylie burst into giggles. 

 “I’m sorry, my lady. My cousin…well, he’s eccentric.” Emylie shrugs, her shoulders still shaking a little. 

 “He is a delight, and I do enjoy his wares. Perhaps I will call upon him again, in future.” Rhaenyra shrugs. 

 “What other services is he talking about?” Eleanor asks. 

 “Yes, I would like to know what he was referring to, as well.” Aunt Amanda returns to her seat next to Rhaenyra.  

 Emylie groans and slides into a seat; she quietly thanks Eleanor, who passes her some wine. “He shouldn’t have. He’s grandsire’s creature more than mine. I doubt he’ll be pleased, but whatever.” She waves a hand in dismissal. “Grandsire helped cousin Edric set up shop here in King's Landing. In return, he passes on interesting tidbits he hears. Noble ladies and their maids are so free with their words when all that is present is the shopkeep.” Emylie clucks her tongue in displeasure. 

 Eleanor hums, finishing her wine. “A clever idea. No one suspects a mere shopkeeper of passing messages.” 

 “And!” Emylie wiggles her eyebrows at Eleanor. “His wife is a former lady of the night who still keeps in contact with her friends. He hears all the juicy gossip.” She cackles when Eleanor turns bright red. 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips. Is Edric in line with Myseria? If memory is correct, she returned to King's Landing after Daemon left her on Dragonstone and then promptly started selling secrets to Otto. 

 She didn’t trust Myseria, not one bit. The Dreams showed her that part of Rhaenyra’s fall was the growing paranoia instilled in her by Myseria. But that does not mean that Myseria isn’t useful. Rhaenyra can’t stomach the thought of Myseria whispering in her ear, but if she can get her information, that would be most useful. 

 Rhaenyra will have to talk to Emylie about this sometime soon. 

 “Lady Dayne,” Aunt Amanda admonishes. 

 “Sorry,” Emylie mutters. Rhaenyra wants to giggle at how Emylie’s ears turn pink and how she sulks like a child after some mild reprimand. 

 “Thank you for setting this up,” Rhaenyra thanked her. It would’ve been difficult to get a message out to Rhaenys; she is monitored constantly, and the worst thing is that Rhaenyra doesn’t know who Otto’s creatures are. 

 “Anything for my lady.” Emylie grins. She turns back to Eleanor. “Terribly sorry that this was your first meeting of me. I wanted it to be a little in a less chaotic manner.” 

 Eleanor shrugs, smiling at Emylie. “I quite enjoyed it. Your cousin is very…gregorious.” 

 Emylie laughs, nodding vigorously. “That’s one way to put him. He has a way of stealing the show.” 

 Let’s just hope that it works on Driftmark. 

 If it does, then Rhaenyra might use this method again if need be. 
      ****
  With Corlys away at the Stepstones and Laenor soon to follow him, the running of Driftmark has fallen to Rhaenys, settling around her like a heavy wool cloak. She’s spent the vast majority of the past fortnight in Corlys’s solar, so she’s enjoying a warm afternoon in the gardens. Right now, she’s having tea with her mother in their favourite spot. 

 Her mother had returned to Storm’s End after Father’s death, but Rhaenys supposes that it doesn’t take very long for people to get tired of Borros. Rhaenys is thankful that her mother came to live with her. The children were young, and frankly, Rhaneys had been overwhelmed with their care. 

 Now that the children are older and require less attention, it’s nice to enjoy quiet afternoons with her. 
 Rhaenys has cursed the gods for several things, including the death of her father and the loss of her throne, but she’s thanked the Stranger for not taking her mother. 

 She cannot imagine what Rhaenyra must be going through. 

 Rhaenys cannot stay in King's Landing for long, a mix of bedding to run Driftmark and not having the stomach to deal with Otto Hightower for long, but perhaps her mother might be amenable to relocate for a time to teach Rhaenyra what it means to be Queen. At least she has Amanda Arryn to guide her. 

 “How is Laena fairing?” Mother asks. 

 “She’s taken to locking herself in her chambers.” Laena was humiliated; it was not that she wanted to marry Viserys, but the act of him passing her over, the best candidate for the role for a woman serving his daughter, caused Laena to question herself and her worth. 

 Rhaenys worries about what’s going to happen when the realm knows. Laena won’t be able to leave Driftmark without people talking behind her back, wondering if she has any deficiencies. It might affect her marriage opportunities. 

 “Poor dear.” Her mother hums sadly. 

 Rhaenys’s thoughts were interrupted when a bush rustling caught her attention. 

 The gardens were too well maintained for an animal to have snuck in and made its home there. Rhaenys shares a concerned look with her mother. 

 “Sorry, miladies!” A small boy comes tumbling out of the bushes. 

 Rhaenys analyzes the boy; despite the dirt of rolling around in the gardens, the boy looks well groomed, and his clothes look well made but not expensive. 

 “Hello, young one.” Mother smiles at the boy. 

 The boy smiles back and falls into a deep bow. “I am very sorry to disturb your tea time, miladies.” 

 “What has brought you here?” It was rather bold of such a young boy to sneak into Driftmark’s gardens. Rhaenys is already a little fond of the boy. 

 The boy rustles around in his tunic, producing a small scroll. “The Princess Rhaenyra has asked me to pass on a message, Lady Rhaenys.” 

 Rhaenys tentatively took the scroll from him and unfurled it. Rhaenys recognized Rhaenyra’s lilting Valyrian. In an effort to win praise from her favourite uncle, Rhaenyra had copied how Daemon interpreted the language. As much as he claimed he didn’t, some of the words he used were colloquiums that weren’t present in the language. 

 Essentially, Rhaenyra was asking Rhaenys to spread the message to the rest of the realm, or at least their allies, to wear black to the upcoming royal marriage in honour of her mother. Rhaenyra cannot do it since she is under constant watch, and her position would suffer if it were to be discovered that the Crown Princess was trying to undermine her new stepmother. 

 The announcement was to go out in a matter of days, so Rhaenys would have to work quickly before people started making the journey to King's Landing. 

 Rhaenys briefly thought it over; Lady Jeyne would do it in a heartbeat, for she is an ardent supporter of Rhaenyra due to her blood. Uncle Boremund won’t be pleased with the announcement as his blood, through Rhaenys, will be passed over for the crown again, and so he’d acquiesce to the request fairly easily. The Starks, if they decide to come, would probably follow suit. Rhaenys doubts that the Tyrells would be pleased that one of their bannermen is gaining more prominence than them and would side with Rhaenyra given enough incentive, but Rhaenys doesn’t know if they would risk the King’s wrath. Rhaenys further doubts that the Lannisters would be of any help. The Tullys wouldn’t, Lord Grover sided with Viserys in the Great Council, and Rhaenys doesn’t think that they’d side with the Princess, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t those in the Rivermands who would side with Rhaenyra. And in the Crownlands, it is divided. 

 Still, the outright support of at least two lord Paramounts, tentative support from another two, and many minor houses in the Riverlands and the Crownlands is a good start. 

 Rhaenys supposes that she will have to deign herself to play messenger. 

 “Are you to return to the Red Keep?” Rhaenys asks. 

 “Yes, milady! Lady Dayne told me to send a message as soon as Uncle Edric and I returned!” Ah, it seems that Rhaenyra had taken the Dornish woman into her service. Last Rhaenys heard, she was still considering the consequences. 

 “Well then, could you tell the Princess that I will do as she asks?” 

 “Certainly! If there is anything that you wish to pass on, Uncle Edric has a stall in Spicetown for the sennight and we are staying at Manical Lobster.” 

 “Have a safe journey.” The boy has a face that seems to draw mothers towards him as Mother fussed over him. 

 “May the tides bring you home swiftly.” Rhaenys inclined her head. 

 “Thank you, miladies! I am again sorry for disrupting you!” He bowed and scampered off. Rhaenys will have to address this lax security with her guards. 

 Both of them watched as the boy disappeared into the bushes. Rhaenys sighs and puts down her wine. “It seems I have some letters to write. Will you join me?” 

 She’ll write to Jeyne Arryn, then Lady Massey so she can spread the word across the Crownlands, and maybe Lady Blackwood. The Blackwoods supported Rhaenys in the Great Council, so she hopes they’ll support Rhaenyra. She’ll visit Uncle Boremund in person and then check in with the Starks; those two need an in-person visit. 
      ****
 Jeyne Arryn had never met her Aunt Aemma, but letters from Amanda told Jeyne of a soft-hearted and kind woman. There were only a few women in positions of power throughout the Realm, hells, Jeyne could count them on the one hand, and to lose a kinswoman in a position of power in such a manner is horrific. 

 The Princess, too, is a kinswoman, Jenye’s first cousin, and now she’s been robbed of her mother and her protection. 

 Aunt Amanda stayed in King's Landing to help her niece, but there was a limit to what Amanda could do for Princess Rhaenyra. Jeyne, who is a Lady Paramount, has more options. 

 When Jeyne received the message that Lady Alicent Hightower was alone found in the King's Chambers, she laughed. The pompous fool Otto Hightower must be cursing the gods. But when she received the marriage announcement that the King was marrying Alicent Hightower, Jeyne shattered the carafe of wine she was holding in surprise. 

The King is a fool to insult the Paramounty, where the majority of wheat and barley is grown, but the rest of the Realm will understand the consequences. 

 The letter from Princess Rhaenys proves to be interesting. Lady Rhaenys is writing on behalf of Princess Rhaenyra to request that Jeyne and her entourage wear black to the wedding as a protest against the timing of the King’s wedding and his match. 

 Why not? 

 The Vale has no love for the king. The only person Jeyne sees potentially protesting is Lady Rhea. Jeyne is sure that Lady Rhea would protest doing anything that profits a member of the Royal Family.  

 Jeyne doesn’t want to go to the wedding; she would prefer to protest in the comfort of her home by abstaining from the festivities. 

 But this…this is entertaining.  

 Jeyne reaches for a fresh parchment and her quill. She has several letters to write. No Vale Lord will arrive in the capital with a speck of colour in their clothing. 

 Maybe she should contact the Mootons and the Darrys; the Princess won’t receive any help from the Tullys, not when Grover is still their Lord Paramount, so Jeyne should help where she can. The Blackwoods, too, maybe, but Jeyne doesn’t have contact with them like she does with the Mootons and Darrys. 

 Jeyne will have to think on that more. 
            ****
 Winterfell doesn’t get many visitors from the south, so when Princess Rhaenys appears, a blot of red against the endless grey of the sky, Rickon Stark becomes intrigued. He does not pay attention to new down South, but he does know that there are only two red dragons: Princess Rhaenys rode one and Prince Daemon the other, and with Daemon fighting in the Stepstones, it is only logical that it is Princess Rhaenys coming for a visit. 

 What does the Queen Who Never Was want with the Starks? 

 “Princess.” Rickon bows his head to the lady after she lands. Beside him, Cregan bows solemnly for a boy his age.  

 “Lord Stark, forgive my unannounced arrival.” Princess Rhaenys inclines her head. 

 “It is forgiven.” Rickon is more interested in why the Princess has come rather than proprietary. 

 “Come join us, Princess Rhaenys, in partaking of a meal of bread and salt,” Cregan pronounces his words slowly and deliberately. Rickon is absurdly proud of Cregan’s decorum; the lad has barely left the nursery, and he’s acting more like a lord than many lordlings that Rickon’s met. He knows that his son is burning with curiosity, wanting to ask all sorts of questions about dragons. Rickon wagers that his most burning question is if he can ride Meleys; Rickon has had to stop his son from trying to ride everything. 

 “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Cregan. I shall enjoy this meal.” 

 Princess Rhaenys follows them into the great hall, where a meal of bread and salt is already waiting for them. 

 “Cregan, go find Master Ellric for your lessons.” 

 “But—” Cregan looks between Princess Rahenys and Rickon, clearly wanting to spend time with his newest interest. 

 “Now, Cregan.” 

 Cregan sighs like this is the hardest thing in the world. “Fine,” he wallows, stomping off. 

 “Forgive my son, Princess.” Rickon guides Princess Rhaenys to his study. 

 “None taken. He reminds me of my Laena, although with far more patience.” The Princess gives him a melancholic smile. Rickon shudders at the thought of Cregan, who has less patience but the same amount of curiosity. 

 Rickon crosses his study to pour Princess Rhaenys a cup of spiced wine to warm her, which she enthusiastically accepts. 

 Rickon sits at his desk with a great sigh. The cold is wreaking havoc with his knee. “Now, tell me, Princess Rhaenys, what can Winterfell do for you?” 

 “You’ve heard the King is remarrying?” Rickon is thankful that the Princess gets right to the subject instead of using flowery court speech; he does not have the time nor the patience.  

 “Yes.” Rickon has many thoughts on the King’s marriage. Unlike other great lords, Rickon does not care that the King didn’t bother hearing other marriage proposals. The main Stark branch doesn’t have any women to offer as candidates, and the North takes care of themselves. However, Rickon is displeased that the King is forsaking the mourning period. To choose a bride this early must mean they were courting soon after Queen Aemma’s death or doing something worse if the rumours are to be believed. 

 “Are you attending?” 

 “No. I cannot leave Winterfell; there’s been an increase of wilding attacks. Lord Manderly is attending in my stead. Why?” 

 Princess Rhaenys sighs, and Rickon notes the dark circles under her eyes. “I will be plain. The Princess and I are enraged by the King, and we wish to show it during the wedding. I had hoped to ask for your support.” 

 “By doing what, exactly?” 

 “Reminding the King that the realm still remembers and mourns Queen Aemma.” 

 “You want to wear funeral attire to the wedding?” That sounds like the petty southern politics that Rickon doesn’t want to get involved with. 

 Princess Rhaenys inclines her head in agreement. “Princess Rhaenyra does; the rest of the Velayrons and I will not be in attendance, for the King showed great disrespect to my husband and my daughter. We will not be celebrating.” 

 “If–” Rickon sighs, wondering why he is entertaining this notion. “If I do agree to this plan, what does the North get out of this? It seems we are merely angering the King.” 

 Rickon wonders if it is possible to anger the King. King Viserys, from what Rickon can remember, was desperate for everyone to like him that Rickon doubted he’d be tempted to call them out on their behaviour. 

 The Hand…the Hand would notice and punish the North. 

 “You swore to follow Princess Rhaenyra, did you not?” 

 “I swore to her claim, yes. Not follow her like a murmmer.” 

 Princess Rhaenys drinks some of her wine. “Lady Jeyne Arryn has already agreed to this, as have several River and Crown Lords. You will not be singled out if that is what you are worried about. And I’m sure Lady Arryn could be persuaded to reintroduce northern relations to the Vale after she sees the devotion the Northerners show her cousin.” 

 That is not a bad offer. 

 The Reach is too far for food or grain to arrive in a timely manner, but the Vale is close enough that it would be feasible. The journey between Heart’s Home and White Harbour is doable.  

 Rickon doesn’t expect any help from Grover Tully either; he is a bit of a miserable old man who wasn’t pleased when the North sided with Rhaenys in the Great Council. 

 “And by showing your support to the Princess, I am certain that she will be more receptive to any concerns brought to her by Lyarra Manderly regarding the North.” 

 Rickon is fond of Lyarra. Until the birth of Medrick a couple of moons ago, she was the heir presumptive, and it showed. She is a clever girl who has shown an understanding of what the North needs. It may not be a seat on the Small Council, but at least there will be a Northern presence at King's Landing. 

 Still, Rickon is hesitant. He does not feel entirely comfortable using Queen Aemma’s passing like this. 

 “I cannot believe that one’s death can become so poltical,” Rickon grumbles. 

 “You do not approve of Princess Rhaenyra’s plan?” 

 “I approve of the King’s marriage even less. Starks honour their oaths, Princess Rhaenys, even the ones made in our vows. King Viserys is forsaking his.” The Old Gods and the Faith of Seven have many different philosophies, but one of the few things they agree upon is the vow between spouses. Taking a second spouse after the death of the first is allowed, but so long as it is done in an appropriate manner, lest it insult the soul of the deceased and their family. It seems the King has forgotten about this. No wonder the Arryns are angry.

 “Rhaenyra is not doing this lightly, Lord Stark. She is worried.” 

 “About what?” 

 “Alicent Hightower is a rather meek creature, but her father isn’t. The moment that the King and Lady Hightower are married, Lord Hightower will begin to plot his line’s ascension. Whether it be the King’s wishes or not.” 

 That is a grave accusation. 

 Rickon leans back in his chair, steepling his hands together. “You believe that?” 

 Princess Rhaenys gives him an unimpressed look. “I have spent enough time in the Red Keep to understand Lady Alicent. She is lamb, holy, uncaring of anything but her Seven. The fact that she ended up in the King’s chambers is unusual for her character…” 

 “...unless it was planned by someone else. And who would benefit more than the Hand? I understand.” 

Rickon does not like this foreboding. Will the Lord Hand make oathbreakers of them all purely for his gain? 

He sighs heavily. “I admit defeat, Princess. I am utterly swayed by your reasoning.” 

 “And here I thought Northerners did not like the ‘flowery’ speak of the south,” Princess Rhaenys teases. 

 Rickon holds up his hands in defeat while the Princess chuckles. 

 “I will send a missive to Lord Manderly and his entourage.” 

 Princess Rhaenys grimaces for merely a moment before her mask sharpens again. “I can fly to White Habour if that eases your workload, Lord Stark.” 

 Rickon waves her off. “Thank you for the offer, Princess, but there are some other matters that I would like to discuss with Lord Desmond. Besides, I may be wrong, but I do believe that you have other errands.” 

 “I am to fly to Storm’s End to treat with my uncle.” 

 Impressive, Princess Rhaenyra has the support of nearly half the realm already. 

 “I hope your flight is uneventful.” 

 Princess Rhaenys shares a grin with Rickon; both of them know that the worst thing is an eventful journey. 
      ****
 It is not every day that a dragon appears on the horizon, so when the cries of ‘dragon’ went up, Boremund headed to the entrance of Storm’s End. 

 If he squints, he can see a faint red, and he grins widely. 
 “Dear niece!” He holds out his hands for a hug once the dragon safely lands. His niece, despite being a fully grown woman with two children of her own, embraces Boremund happily. 

 “Hello, Uncle. You’re looking hale.” Rhaenys lets go of Boremund, grinning. 

 “Of course I do! I am a Baratheon,” Boremund guffaws at his niece's exasperated look. “Come, let’s get some wine in you.” 

 Rhaenys follows him without complaint. 

 It wasn’t until they were in Boremund’s solar, seated and sipping wine, that Boremund brought up the reason for Rhaenys’s visit. He believes that he was a good uncle to Rhaenys. Still, their relationship does not include unprompted trips by his niece to visit him, especially since Jocylen moved to Driftmark to keep her daughter company. 

 “What has brought you to Storm’s End?” 

 Rhaenys drains her wine and places her glass down. “The King is remarrying.” 

 Boremund scowls; he’d gotten the raven earlier, and he was not pleased. Once again, his niece and her family have been slighted by the Crown. For a daughter of a second son, of all people! “I am aware.” 

 Once Borros had the raven read to him, he exploded in anger, and Cassandra, too. Both of them are incensed that they didn’t have the chance to present Cassandra to the King as a potential bride. Everyone thought that Laena would become the Queen, so no one bothered to present their daughters. Borros is angry at the lost prestige of being the father of the Queen. Then, when Cassandra heard the news, she became incensed that she had missed out on the chance of becoming queen. 

 Truly, sometimes Boremund wondered how those two were related to him. 

 “What of it?” 

 “The Princess is…displeased with the King.” 

 Boremund snorted. “Displeased, that’s one way to put it. I would too if my mother had married my manservant,” he grumbles. 

 Worst of all, the girl had been caught in the King’s Chambers. What was the King thinking about marrying her rather than having her banished to the Silent Sisters? 

 Rhaenys spares him an exhausted smile. “It is less his choice of a bride, but do not discount her anger on that topic, but more due to the timing of the wedding.” 

 Ah. 

 “Yes. I can see why the Princess is displeased.” Boremund is waiting for his niece to get to the point. 

 “She is wondering if you will join her in protesting this decision.” 

 Boremund is half inclined to take the offer. He is not pleased that the King looked over House Baratheon while looking for a Queen. He is not delusional like Borros and understands that the King might not have taken Cassandra as a bride, but there is still honour in the suggestion. Cassandra’s marital prospects would’ve increased afterwards. 

 However, what does House Baratheon get out of following the Princess and potentially earning the ire of the King and his hand? 

 “By?” 

 “Demonstrating to the King that the realm still remembers Aemma.” 
 “You want us to wear black at the wedding.” 

 Rhaenys inclines her head in confirmation. Boremund sighed, his body slumping in his seat; he slugs back the rest of his wine. “Rhaenys, dear niece, do you know what you are asking of me? Without anything in return?” 

 Rhaenys purses her lips. “What would you have me give you? The Stormlands, unlike the North, doesn’t need any trade agreements that I can feasibly allow.” 

 “I have three granddaughters, and rumour is that the Princess is gathering members for her household.” 

 “I cannot make decisions for Rhaenyra’s household without her input.” 

 “The Princess never met Lady Eleanor Strong nor Lady Lyarra Strong and yet allowed them into her household.” 

 “Both Eleanor Strong’s father and brothers are well known for their stalwart passion for their duty, and of all accounts, Lady Eleanor has inherited the family trait. And have you met a Northerner who broke their oath? Uncle, can you say the same for Cassandra or Maris?” 

 Boremund winces; Rhaenys has a point. He loves his granddaughters, but he is not blind to their faults. It is formed from being simultaneously spoiled and neglected by their parents. Borros is determined to have a son, and Elenda’s desperation to appease her disappointed husband. Both girls have become wilful and demanding. Maris, at least, has inherited some form of intellect and as long as her sharp tongue is trained out of her, she could be of use to the Princess. 

 “You have a point,” Boremund concedes. He pretends not to notice Rhaenys preens. He pours himself some more Arbour gold; he offers more to Rhaenys, who gladly accepts. “The Princess is aiming to collect a lady from each region, yes? “ 

 “Yes…” Rheanys squints, trying to find Boremund’s angle. 

 “In return for the Stormlands supporting the Princess, I want her to consider Maris as a lady before any other in the Stormlands. I can understand her reluctance, but I will not have House Baratheon ignored again by the Crown.” 

 “I will pass on this offer to the Princess. Will you bring Maris to the wedding?” 

 “Yes. Cassandra, too, as she is the heir apparent for the time. Now, who else is in this foolheardy plan?” 

 It isn’t entirely foolhardy; Otto Hightower ought to be brought down if he thinks that he can get away with this without displeasing the rest of the realm. He has really overreached this time. The King might still believe in Otto’s pleasantries, but the rest of Westeros knows what kind of creature he is. It is prudent for the Princess to take a stand against him. 

 Boremind bets Storm’s End that the moment that Alicent Hightower pops out a son, Otto will be campaigning for a change in succession. 

 “You will not be alone. Both the Vale and the North have joined us, as have the Crownlands, and 
the majority of the Riverlands, last I checked my letters.” 

 “The Westerlands?” 

 Rhaenys grimaces. “I am unsure; they didn’t vote for me during the Great Council, and I find it difficult to believe that Jason Lannister would choose to support a woman’s claim.” 

 Yes, that is essentially what this boils down to. Princess Rhaenyra’s claim or a potential unborn son. 

 “Hmm, you have a point. What about the Tyrells? I doubt they are pleased that the Hightowers are gaining more prestige.” 

 The Reach might not break into armed fights like the Riverlords while jostling for power under a weakened Lord Paramount, but the ever-ebbing and flowing of courtly warfare in the Reach makes Boremund’s headache. 

 The Tyrells only run the Reach in name; typically, the Reach's true power lies between the Hightowers, the Florents, the Redwynes, and the Fossoways. Right now, at least from what Borumend’s been able to decipher, the Hightowers and the Redwynes are in alliance, leaving the Florents at their mercy. The Fossoways have been in decline since the previous Lord Tyrell, who was married to Florence Fossoway, who everyone knew was the Master of Coin in all but name, passed away. 

 “The Florents, too. I doubt they’re pleased,” he notes in an afterthought. 

 Rhaenys grimaces again. “I will have to take your word, uncle. I am unfamiliar with these men and don’t know where their loyalties lie.” 
 “And you don’t want to risk Otto knowing, making sure that he doesn’t put a stop to this protest,” Borumend ends the thought. “Yes, I understand. I will reach out to my friends in the Reach. See what I can deduce.” 

 “Thank you, uncle.” 
      ****
 “Brealla!” 

 Brealla rolls her eyes at her brother’s voice and returns to her embroidery. What now? Ever since their parents went to the Red Keep and Gareth was left in charge, he’s been so high-strung.  

 Gareth stomps into her solar with his wife, Malora, quickly behind him; both of them look ashen yet angered.

 “What’s wrong?” Brealla asks, concerned that something is wrong, and she sets aside the dress that she’s embroidering. 

 Was it mother or father? Are they okay? 

 “The King is remarrying!” 

 Oh. Brealla sighs, relaxing immediately; their parents are fine. Gareth is overreacting again. “So?” she asks, moving to pick up her work. 

 “He’s marrying Alicent Hightower.” 

 Who? Well, the King marrying a Hightower is bad enough news, but who the hell is Alicent? Brealla frowns, trying to remember who Alicent Hightower is. She isn’t a member of the main branch; Brealla’s had them all memorized since she was a little girl. 

 “The Lord Hand’s daughter.” 

 Brealla frowns even harder, trying to recount the Hightower lineage. “Isn’t he the younger son of the previous Lord Hightower?”

 “Yes!” 

 What in the Seven Fucking Hells? 

 “Wasn’t Lady Laena Velyaron presented as a bride?” The girl is twelve, not the greatest age for a girl to get married, but the King probably wouldn’t consummate until she was fourteen. 

 “She was. According to Mother, Lady Alicent was found in the King’s Chambers while the King was discussing marriage with the Velayrons. To cover up her ‘ruined’ virtue, the king decided to marry Lady Alicent.” 

 Brealla watches as Gareth paces the length of her solar, getting worked up each lap. 

 “She has been disgraced and, she’s to become the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?” Brealla demands.

 “Yes!” Gareth throws up his hands. 

 “Has the King lost his mind?” 

 “Best not to insult the King, Brealla.” Malora sits next to Brealla, picking up the dress that Brealla is working on. 

 “Still!” Brealla huffs, sinking into the cushion of her chair as she tries to wrap her mind around what the fuck is happening. Out of every maiden in the realm, the King chose her? “What does the Princess think about this?” Brealla jolts up, remembering the only other member of the Royal Family.  

 “According to Lady Leonetta, who got this from Lady Arryn, the Princess’s aunt, the Princess is inconsolable and has barely left her rooms.” 

 “I can imagine…” Brealla sighs. “I’d be channelling all Seven Hells if Father was found with some tossy less than half a year into mother’s mourning.” 

 “That’s not why she’s upset,” Gareth interjects. 

 Brealla frowns at her brother. Why wouldn’t the Princess be upset with her father if that were not the case? “Lady Alicent used to be the Princess’s lady-in-waiting.” 

 Fucking typical scheming Hightowers, trying to weasel their way into the highest seeds of power. 

 “Gareth!” 

 Gareth jolts out of his pacing, turning to face Brealla in confusion. “Yes?” 

 “Can you write to Mother for me?” 

 “.......why?” 

 “Because she likes you better, obviously.” 

 “Again, why?” 

 Brealla has the sudden urge to slap her brother. “I want to go to court to see if I can become the Princess’s Lady-in-waiting.” 

 “Do you think that wise?” Malora asks. 

 “You’ll be leaving home. Permanently.” Gareth frowns. 

 “Gareth, I am nearly six-and-ten; I’ll be married soon anyways. If I go to court, at least, I can work for our family’s interests that way.” 

 There is no way that the Princess will take whatever the Hightowers have planned lying down, and Brealla wants to be there to put those smug little asses in their place and remind the rest of the Reach who really should be running the Reach. 

 Gareth squints at her, trying to figure something out. In the end, he shrugs. “Fine, I’ll write to her.” 

“Thank you!” Brella launches out of her chair, hugging him. 

 “Gross.” Gareth pushes her off, grumbling as he does so. “Don’t ever do that again.” Brealla laughs happily as she dances back to her spot. 

 She is going to give Alicent Hightower all Seven Hells. 
   

Chapter Text

After Medrick was born, Lyarra has been at a loss. For as long as she can remember, she was the heir to White Habour. She had septas and maesters to educate her about what she needed to know, and she spent most of her free time at her father’s feet, learning about trade and lordship; now, her maester was reassigned to her brother’s upcoming education and her time with her father ended. She was once the heir to White Harbour, the biggest trade port in the North; now, she’s a powerless girl ready to be shipped off to whatever lord offers the best advantage to her father and shut away in her husband’s keep. 

 So when the Princess sent an invitation to her father about asking for a daughter to join her ranks, Lyarra jumped on the chance. 

 Being a lady to the Princess isn’t the same as being an Heir, but it is better than being shipped off…even if the situation in the Red Keep is volatile. 

 This whole farce is an obvious power grab constructed by the Hightowers, plain to see to everyone but the King, apparently. 

 Her Father doesn’t want her to go, worried that she’ll become a target to the Princess’s enemies. Lyarra knows that he means well and that his search for a husband for her wasn’t out of anything malicious but to ensure she’s protected and looked after. But all the reasoning in the world can’t help that kernel of anger she holds deep in her chest. 

 Lyarra might’ve lost her heirship, but she’ll fight for the Princess’s. Maybe one day, another girl in Lyarra’s position won’t have to deal with the crippling anguish that comes with realizing that your father only cared about you being a placeholder for a son that’ll maybe exist one day. 

 Lyarra looks at the Red Keep in disgust. Around her, servants are scurrying around, desperate to finish the wedding preparations before the date. 

 What a terrible look for the King to have such a rushed wedding. 

 Everyone is already talking about how the Future Queen might be pregnant already. 

 While Lyarra is destined for the Princess’s service, she and her father are representatives of Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, and the Princess is the only one here to greet them at the steps of the Great Hall. 

 Lyarra is six-and-ten with the experience of being her father’s heir from the moment she could walk; it’s a far cry from the small three-and-ten girl standing in front of Lyarra, who was just named Heir, and it shows. 

 Despite her attempts, Princess Rhaenyra fidgets nervously with her rings while Father’s entourage is assembled for greetings. Behind her is a tall, older woman with dark hair and a grim expression, as well as a young woman with tight curls and full womanly curves. 

 Perhaps it is presumptuous of Lyarra, but since Father was sent in Lord Stark’s stead to act for him, wouldn’t the King want to greet a delegate from one of the Kingdoms? What else does he do all day? 

 “I greet the Crown Princess of the Iron Throne.” Father sinks into a deep bow, and Layrra follows him with a curtsey, keeping her eyes on the ground despite her burning curiosity for her new liege lady.  

 “Welcome, Lord Manderly; I hope your journey was swift and pleasant.” The Princess’s voice is clear and pleasant. 

 “It was, my Princess.” 
 
 “Please rise, Lord Manderly.” Lyarra follows Father’s lead, her eyes darting between the Princess and her father. Until commanded, Lyarra is to remain silent as she is merely a child of the Lord of White Harbour and no longer his Heir. “I thank you for coming to join us for this celebration.” Lyarra could see her wince at the last word.  

 “It is our honour to be invited, my Princess.” 

 Lyarra tunes out the next couple of minutes of pleasantries, not caring for the fake conversation. 

 “Your quarters are in the tower behind the Great Hall. Lady Lyarra, you have quarters in Maegor’s Holdfast benefiting your station as one of my ladies. However, if you wish to stay with your Father during his stay, I can arrange rooms for you.” The Princess turns to Lyarra with a questioning gaze. 

 Lyarra gives her a shallow curtsey. “As long as I am able to dine with my father while he is still here, the chambers in the Holdfast are more than adequate, my Princess.” 

 “Wonderful. Shall we have a luncheon tomorrow with the rest of the ladies to acquaint ourselves? 

“I look forward to tomorrow, my Princess.” 

 “Jasper shall show you and your father to his quarters, and when you are done, Lady Lyarra, Annora will guide you to your chambers in the Holdfast so you may rest.”  

 “Thank you, my Princess. Please send our regards to His Grace, the King.” Father bows again, and the Princess inclines her head and lets them unpack in peace. 
                                                                                                                                                                    ****
As Lyarra stands in front of the doors to the Princess’s chambers, she banishes all nervousness from her body. It does her no good to be fawning over some emotions like some child. 

 Surprisingly, the Kingsguard, who appears to hail from Dorne, announces Lyarra and opens the door when the Princess calls for her. 
 
 Lyarra drops into a curtsey, waiting for the Princess to bid her to rise.

 “Welcome, Lyarra. Please sit.” The Princess gestures for her to take a seat. 

 Tentatively, Lyarra takes a seat next to one of the Ladies, Eleanor Strong, if Lyarra isn’t mistaken. 

 Lyarra takes stock of the other Ladies. Next to her is who Lyarra believes is Eleanor Strong, clad in a forest green and black dress with simple yet tasteful jewels, who looks vaguely uncomfortable to be there; she must be still getting used to her position. Then there is the older lady clad in all black like the Princess. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe hairstyle with a black hood and velvet veil. This must be Lady Amanda Arryn, the former Queen’s sister. Lyarra can see similarities between Lady Amanda and the Princess’s face. 

 However, the last lady, seated on the left of the Princess, confuses Lyarra. She’s a tall, slender woman with deep black hair and dark eyes that seem to shimmer purple. Her pale skin nearly matches the Princess’s complexion. She’s clad in purple and black with ropes of inlaid pearls around her neck, waist, and ears. 

 Who is she? 

 As far as Lyarra is aware, the Princess only has three Ladies, including Lyarra. 

The Princess stands, her lilac eyes trained on Lyarra. “Welcome, Lyarra. Everyone, this is Lady Lyarra Manderly. Lady Lyarra, this is Lady Eleanor Strong, my aunt, Lady Amanda, and this is Lady Emylie Dayne.” 

 Dayne? Since when did the Iron Throne have a relationship with Dorne? 

 It seems that Father’s spies aren’t doing their job well enough. 

 There’s a smattering of hellos from around the table. 

 “Now that you’re here, Lyarra, I thought that we should go over duties and what to expect in the upcoming months.” The Princess’s mouth twists into something sour. She takes in a deep breath before moving on. “I am still searching for future ladies, so that is the first order of business. I would like you three…” she looks between Lyarra, Lady Eleanor, and Lady Amanda. “To gauge the aptitudes and attitudes of Reach and Westerland ladies. I don’t want someone who isn’t prepared to be loyal to me.” 

 Lady Eleanor frowns. “What about the Stormlands?” 

 “For his support, Lord Baratheon requests that I regard Maris Baratheon for the position before I look at anyone else. She’s to attend the wedding.” 

 “Regardless, you should consider other ladies. Johanna Swan is a good candidate. Her family holds the power in the South. While I don’t discount Lady Maris’s age, Johanna is older and likely more mature,” Lady Amanda cautions. She sits rigidly in her chair, peering at them with a tight expression. 

 “Lord Boremund is old. His son, from what Father told me, has no love for female heirs. If Lady Maris is in your household, he might be less inclined to go against you,” Lyarra advocates. 

 The Princess seems to consider both sides. She gives a delicate shrug. “Regardless, we cannot do anything until I can judge Lady Maris’s aptitude. Are there any options for other regions?” 

 Lady Eleanor frowns, tapping her nails against the table. “I am unsure about the Westerlands. Unless you somehow remain on good terms with the Lannisters, I think any Lady you gain may become a detriment.” 

 “Any Westerland or Reach Lady that you have, you have to be prepared to have them spy on you for their family’s interest,” Lady Dayne warns, languidly resting in her chair without a care in the world. 

 “Are you spying for your Grandsire?” The Princess mildly teases Lady Dayne, but Lyarra can see the question in her eyes. 

 Lady Dayne shrugs. “No.”

 Lyarra frowns at the comment. “Why are you here then? Dorne doesn’t like the rest of the Kingdoms.” 

 “Power and prestige mostly. There’s a chance I might find a husband who’ll give Starfall better connections. And well, given our history, there’s a chance that a conflict with Dorne is going to erupt. I would like to attempt to mitigate the damages.” 

 That’s a lot of reasons, and most of them don’t give the Princess trust in Lady Dayne. But the Princess doesn’t seem unsettled. 

 “Back on topic girls.” Lady Amanda coughs slightly. 

 “Right, so, any options?” The Princess asks.

 “The Tarlys have a daughter. She is around the Princess’s age,” Lady Eleanor offers. 

 “The Rowans voted for Lady Rhaenys; I think they’d be loyal,” Lyarra puts in her opinion, though she doesn’t know if the Rowans had a daughter. 

“Since the death of Lady Alerie Hightower née Florent, the relationship between the Florents and Hightowers has crumbled. Right now, the Rewynes and Hightowers are allied, but the Florents are just as old and probably know who else is disgruntled with the Hightowers’s sudden rise to power. And I know for a fact the Florents have an unwed daughter.” Silence settles around the room as everyone looks at Lady Dayne. She looks bewildered at their reaction. “What? Starfall is closer to the Reach than Sunspear. We pay attention.”

 Lyarra should speak with Lady Dayne about the situation in the Reach and later with Lady Eleanor about the Riverlands. Those Paramounties are the most chaotic and split. It will be the battleground for allies. 

 The Crownlands too. Perhaps Lady Amanda would know about the climate there. 

 “Lady Florent was aghast with what Lady Alicent did,” Lady Amanda adds thoughtfully. 

 The Princess nods, putting down the wine she was occasionally sipping on. “So, currently, we are looking at Lady Maris and the Florent girl as options. And keeping our ears open for any Westerland girls.” 

 “What about the Crownlands?” Lyarra asks. 

 The Princess purses her lips. “I’d like keep the position open. I would like Lady Laena to join us.” 

 Lyarra and Eleanor look at each other and wince. There is almost no way that the Princess is going to get Lady Laena. Lady Laena was a candidate to be Queen, and there’s no way that the famously proud Lord Corlys would allow her such a demotion in rank. 

 “Very well, but in the event that Lady Laena will not join us, you should find another lady to fill that spot.” Lady Amanda is firm on this despite the Princess’s scowls in her direction. Lyarra will look for Crownland girls during the feast.

 “Fine,” Princess Rhaenyra mutters. 

 “With that settled, we should move on to your household proper.” Lady Amanda looks around at the rest of the table. 

 “Yes,” Princess Rhaenyra sighs. “Very well. Ladies, I hope it does not come as a surprise, but I have appointed Lady Amanda as my chief lady-in-waiting since she has the most experience out of all of us.” 

 Makes sense; Lyarra has no idea what to do as a lady-in-waiting, and Lady Amanda has been at court the longest. 

 “Most ladies don’t hold a direct position. However, Aunt Amanda and I thought that having a more defined position would help your transition to the Red Keep. Emylie and Lyarra, both of you had economic training in lieu of your heirship training, so I would like you to take over the position of my steward. As part of Alicent's betrothal agreement, she cannot touch the Princess’s household or her accounts. Once my father signs the edict that I am the Lady of Dragonstone, I plan to transfer the bulk of my accounts out of King's Landing so that they are safe. I would like you two and Lady Amanda to oversee this transfer. Further, in your position, you would be in charge of my charitable causes. I would like to restart Queen Alyssane’s projects after the wedding and my name-day.” 

 “It is my honour, my Princess, to handle these tasks that you’ve entrusted with me.” Lyarra is grateful that the Princess has given her a position in which she could excel. 

 “You are wise to want to start charitable works, Princess. Smallfolk doesn’t care who is in charge so long as they feed them. I’ll start reaching out to my contacts to see what they need.” 

 “Good.” Rhaenyra nods her head. “Eleanor, I’d like you to be incharge of my jewels. While we’re on tour, which I hope to go on within the next two years, you’ll be tasked with ensuring their safety, and their general upkeep. And I’d like for you to be incharge of my correspondence. Unfortunately, I cannot trust that my mail isn’t being monitored, so I am in need someone trustworthy to ensure that they’re not tampered with. If you need an extra set of hands, pull either Lyarra or Emylie.” 

 “Yes, Princess.” Eleanor nods; there’s a gleam in her eye. “I will ensure that your messages are safe.” 

 “Lady Amanda, for now, will primarily focus on my hair and wardrobe and will ask if she needs help.”

 “Who will help you organize feasts, and balls, and such?” Eleanor asks, frowning. 

 Princess Rhaenyra purses her lips, not having considered this. “Since the Princes has yet to inherit Dragonstone, she’ll be helping organize events here at the Red Keep. Most responsibilities in this manner are bestowed to the Queen and the small council. Duties will be handed to the Princess as they see fit. We will deal with that when the day comes,” Lady Amanda cuts in. 

 The Princess nods. “Yes. With the expectation of the wedding, since Lady Alicent is yet to be Queen, the duties are handled by the Queen. Further duties will be handed out when we reconvene after the wedding, hopefully with new ladies.” 

 Thank goodness Lyarra has some middling talent in organizing get-togethers, but Northern nobles have wildly different tastes than Southern nobles. 

 “Now. I have a small council meeting. I will let you ladies gossip in peace. I will speak with you all later.” The Princess stands, and the rest of them follow suit, curtseying as the Princess and Lady Amanda leave.

 Lady Dayne grins at Lyarra and sashays over. “So, I have some ideas for businesses that I think the Princess should invest in, and I’d like your opinions.” 
                                                                                                                                                                    ****
 In Rhaenyra's opinion, there was no need for a small council meeting. They’re going over the finer details of the wedding. She’s sure that Otto is just holding a meeting to gloat. 

 She arrives early, clad in her black mourning garb, and waits for the rest of the council to show up. She lingers at the entrance, not sure where to sit. This is the first time that she’s attending, not as a cupbearer.

 Lord Strong was the first to arrive, around the same time as Rhaenyra did. He gives her a deep, respectful nod before returning to his papers. Lord Beesbury shows up not long after Lord Strong; he chats happily with Rhaenyra for a few minutes, the conversation dying out when Master Mellos shuffles in. Rhaenyra still can’t look him in the eye after what he did to her mother. 

 Now, they’re waiting for Father and Lord Otto to appear. It appears that both of them care little for small council meetings. 

 “Rhaenyra, darling.” Father is in an exuberant mood as he enters the council room. Ser Harold Westerling takes up his position by the door. The Commander of the Kingsguard does have a spot on the council, but Ser Harold chooses to remain standing. 

 Rhaenyra grits her teeth and smiles. “Hello, Kepa.” She presses a kiss on his cheek. 

 “Come, join me.” He guides her to the table and ushers her to sit next to him…the seat that Otto usually occupies. “I don’t want you too far from me,” he confides. 

 She gladly takes his offer, ignoring Mellos’s sputtering. Lords Strong and Beesbury don’t offer a protest at this new seating arrangement. 

 Otto comes in moments later, arms full of parchment, uncaring that he is late as if he were the king and they must wait for him. He stops when he reaches the table, cold, dark eyes glittering with anger when he sees Rhaenyra. “You’re in my seat, princess.” His last word is polite but cold. 

 “That’s my fault, Otto. I told Rhaenyra that she may join us, and what better position for the Crown Princess than next to King?” Her father butts in, unaware or uncaring of Otto’s impertinence. 

 “Indeed, Prince Aemon and Balon sat next to the Good King when they were the heirs.” Rhaenyra has to hide a giggle at Otto, who’s trying to hide his anger from Lord Strong. 

 “I see,” he grits out. 

 “Otto, why don’t you sit next to Mellos? Perhaps a change in seating will invigorate this council.” 

 Otto grinds his teeth but does as directed. He drops his stack of papers on the table, staring at Rhaenyra. It’s a petty victory but one she enjoys nonetheless. 

 “Now. Is there anything that we ought to discuss before finalizing the wedding preparations?” Her father asks. 

 Obviously, the Stepstones is out of bounds; her father tires of hearing of the subject, and the lack of a Master of Ships cripples that effort. 

 “Yes,” Otto drawls out, his eyes never leaving Rhaenyra; shivers run up her spine at his look. “Your Grace, I have some news about the Princess that I believe you ought to hear.” 

 What? 

 Rhaenyra shares a confused look with Lord Beesbury. 

 Cold sweats run down her spine. Had Otto found out about the plan? 

 “Lord Hand, this is hardly a matter of the small council,” Lord Strong protests. 

 “She is the Crown Princess; all activities she participates in are a matter of the Crown.” She feels disgusted at his oily voice and his continuous stare. 

 “God ahead, Otto.” 

 Rhaenyra wants to jump up and shake her father. He is just letting Otto do what he wants. She looks at Lord Strong and Beesbury, as well as Ser Westerling. None look pleased with Otto’s newest scheme. 

His lips curl into what could be considered a smile. “I have been alerted that the Princess invited an unknown man to her chambers. Forgive me, Your Grace, for not reporting it earlier; I was investigating the man’s identity.” 

 Of course, her father eats it up. It’s perfectly crafted for her father, the scandal about his closest family member and the simpering pleading from a servant of the Crown that makes her Father feel important. 

 Rhaenyra has to hold back a laugh. This is almost too similar to the brothel incident. It seems that what Otto enjoys most is trying to tear down young girl’s reputations. 

 “I find this accusation highly unusual, Your Grace,” Lord Strong objects. “The Princess, so far, has been endearing to the Faith’s mourning policies most devoutly. This is completely out of character for her from the last couple of months.” 

 Ser Harold clears his throat. “If I may, this is out of character as a whole for the Princess. Skipping lessons to fly her dragon is one matter, but is something else entirely.” 

 “Regarless,” Otto interrupts silkily. “The matter has been brought to my attention, and as Lord Hand I felt I must bring it up.” 

 Ser Harold looks outraged on Rhaenyra’s behalf. 

 Rhaenyra looks at her father, and her heart sinks; he doesn’t seem to believe her. 

 “This is grave news. Rhaenyra, do you have anything to defend yourself?” Father asks.

 She unclenches her hand under the table from the fist that it’s made. 

 “Of course.” She gives her father a reassuring smile before turning to Otto. “Lord Hand, these accusations are most serious. Threatening the sanctity of the Royal Family.” 

 “I am merely a servant of the Crown, princess. It is my duty to give the King the truth, even the ugly ones,” he simpers. 

 Rhaenyra resists the urge to roll her eyes. She cannot burst out in anger trying to defend herself. She needs to be cool and collected. “Then you shall be pleased to know, Lord Hand. That the visit you refer to is rather innocuous. See, the man you refer to is a merchant who peddles exotic wares from around the world. My aunt informed me of this trend of visiting him. I merely wished to see what he offered. I indeed invited him to my chambers, for I did not want to go out into King's Landing, but I met him in the company of Lady Arryn and Lady Strong.” She inclines her head to Lord Strong, who nods back. “It was done for the sake of propriety, I assure you. I did not think that it is not a good look for the Princess to be buying frivolous items while she is still mourning her mother. I had wished to buy a piece for my new Lady Stepmother as a welcoming gift to the family, but I did not see anything that caught my eye, so don’t worry, Lord Beesbury, I did not bankrupt the treasury.” 

 Lord Beesbury grins in response. “I thank the Princess for not startling my old nerves.” 

 She’ll have to thank Lady Emylie for having Edric monologue about his pieces. It’s a perfect cover. 

 As clever as Otto can be, he is easy to read if one knows him well enough. Right now, Rhaenyra can see him panicking. He’d expected her to lash out at him in anger, proving her guilt, like Daemon. After all, her uncle was the Targaryan family member with whom he fought the most…and Rhaenyra is known to emulate her uncle whenever she could.  

 Rhaenyra turns to her father. “I’m so sorry, father. I did not mean to tarnish our Royal name even further.” She relishes seeing Otto suppress a flinch at the reminder of what his daughter had achieved for Rhaenyra already. “I know that perception only matters to the rest of the realm. But I swear, nothing happened! I was in the company of my ladies the whole time. If you wish, I could summon Lady Arryn and Lady Strong, they can give testimony. Ser Cole too, he was guarding the door and saw the merchant come with his wares. His apprentice was there too! And, Lady Dayne, you see the proprietor is a cousin, so I thought it nice that she may visit him without having to venture into the city proper.” Rhaenyra feels like she’s laying on the flustered act a little too thickly. Thankfully, her father isn’t the brightest man in the room. 

Her father hesitated for a moment. “Otto, my dear friend, tell me, what else did your source tell you?” 

 With the entire room looking at Otto, he is very slowly crafting what he is going to say. 

 “My source informed me that a strange man was wandering the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. While inquiring further, I discovered that the man had entered the Princess’s quarters. None of the servants I interviewed knew who he was.” 

 “And yet none of them brought up that he was tottling around a trunk of merchandise? Along with his apprentice?” Lord Bessbury inquired, looking confused. Lord Strong doesn’t look persuaded either. 

 “They were rathered worried for the Princess’s reputation, Lord Bessbury. It must’ve slipped their minds.” 

 “What about Annora? Did you speak with her?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 “Who is this, Princess?” Otto gives her a look of disdain. 

 “My lady’s maid. Surely if you were interviewing the servants in Maegor’s Holdfast, wouldn’t you wish to speak with the maid who personally attends me?” 

 Otto looks as if he was caught sucking a lemon. 

“Otto, I understand that you look out for Rhaenyra as if she is your own, but next time, before you come to me with an accusation, you ought to fully capture the details. Such a thing could derail Rhaenyra’s reputation. Rumours fly easily if we are not careful.”

 The room stills. There’ve been so few instances of her Father admonishing or disagreeing with Otto that Rhaenyra can see the shock on the other councillors' faces. Otto, too, looked flustered under his calm composure. 

 “That is wise, Your Grace.” Lord Strong coughs. “Look at what happened with Princess Viserra.” 

 Rhaenyra isn’t sure what happened with her great-aunt, for it was merely a rumour that she stripped naked in her Grandsire’s chambers. Queen Alyssane was forced to make a hasty betrothal for her after what happened. No one has told Rhaenyra if the rumours were true or not. 

 No Targaryan would admit a slight against their House’s honour. 

 “Yes, Your Grace.” Otto grits his teeth. He turns to Rhaenyra and inclines his head. “Forgive me, princess. I acted out of turn.” 

 Despite wanting to gloat and shove his mistake in his throat, Rhaenyra accepts the apology. “I understand that you merely were looking out for me. However, I would like to know the name of the person who brought this to your attention.” 

 There are several suspects in her mind: the maids, Criston, and Lady Emylie. There’s no way that Amanda would sell her out in any form, and Lord Strong and, by extension, Lady Eleanor, are not in hand with Otto.  

 In all likelihood, it was probably Criston. He might not have done it maliciously, but he might’ve let it slip to someone who went tattling to the Hand. 

 “Princess…” the condensation oozes off Otto’s body. “My informant came to me in confidence. I cannot break their trust.” 

 “That may be so, Lord Hand. But I cannot rest easy knowing that those in my employment are speaking about my private life to outside sources, no matter how benign they may be.” 

 There is an uneasy silence in the small council room as Rhaenyra stares Otto down. 

 Her father coughs, putting down his wine. “Rhaenyra is right, Otto. While there is an expectation of being watched when in the Royal Family, Rhaenyra should be able to rest in her chambers without fearing being watched.” 

 Otto grits his teeth, but with the whole council and her father against him, he is forced to give up a name. 

 It’s a junior maid, but Rhaenyra is sure that she wasn’t cleaning Rhaenyra’s chambers that day. She purses her lips and vows to ask Annora to look into this matter. 

 “Now,” her father says, slapping the table and looking around the council. “Anything else?” 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra never realized how often her father chose to throw these lavish events until she had to plan one. Seven days of festivities…that is too much, even for Rhaenyra’s standards. She can understand Beesbury’s bemoaning about the state of the treasury…she hopes that by the time she becomes Queen, there will still be a treasury. 

That is not to say that she doesn’t enjoy feasts and tourneys.

 Jousting, despite the blood and the violence, never fazed her. When she was younger, and Daemon was still in her father’s good books, he sat with her one tourney and explained all the work and training that goes into one joust and how one wins. It makes the jousts extra exciting to watch. 

 It’s hard not to like balls and feats. The chefs of the Red Keep can create the best dishes from all around Westeros and even parts of Essos. She always enjoys dressing up for balls, music, and dancing. 

 But now, these events do not have the same joy that they once did. 

Likely because now Rhaenyra cannot simply enjoy a feast or a tourney but must politick to ensure her survival. 

 “The lady Jeyne Arryn,” Ser Erryk announces as Rhaenyra is still getting ready for the feast. Aunt Amanda is doing her hair, and if Rhaenyra closes her eyes, she can picture it as her mother. 

 Rhaenyra shoots up, a grin spreading across her face. She didn’t get to meet her cousin until her very disastrous wedding to Laenor in the dreams. Now, she gets to meet with Jeyne much sooner. 

 Unlike Rhaenyra, Jeyne’s been in power for as long as she can remember. She’ll have plenty of experience to pass on to Rhaenyra. 

 “Let her in please, ser Erryk.” 

 “Cousin!” Rhaenyra grins. 

 “Princess.” Jeyne curtsies, keeping her eyes trained on the floor. 

 “Nonsense. Come join me.” Rheanyra reassured Jeyne, patting the empty chair beside her. Sometimes, she hates the confines of Royal etiquette. 
“Thank you, cousin.” Jeyne shares a brief smile with Rhaenyra as she sits next to her. “Hello, Aunt Amanda.” 

 “Hello to you too, Jeyne. You are looking hale.” 

 Jeyne is looking amazing. Like many that Rhaenys contacted, Jeyne is wearing black. The gown is black with velvet details with wide bell sleeves that are slit at the elbow with attached forearm sleeves, allowing for them to drape elegantly around her. The outer gown and sleeves are lined with soft, shimmering moonstones. The kirtle and the middle section of the bodice are a beautiful midnight blue that, in dim lighting, looks almost black. Silver falcons dance around her bodice. 

 “Thank you. It is a comfort to be around so many of my kin.” Jeyne offers them a sincere smile. 

 Rhaenyra’s heart pangs at the reminder there are so few Arryns left. Despite their dwindling numbers, Jeyne’s life and inheritance have already been threatened by her cousin Arnold. If the future plays out as it did in the dreams, Arnold will try again; Rhaenyra should find a way to secure Jeyne’s position even more before it happens. 

 Arnold is merely a claimant; he doesn’t currently have a lordship; maybe if Rhaenyra offers him a place in the Red Keep, it’ll keep him from contesting Jenye’s position. But it might put him on Otto's path. 

 “All done, my dear.” Amanda steps back. 

 “Shall we, cousin?” Rhaenyra holds out her arm. 

 There’s a devious glint in Jenye’s eyes as she takes Rhaenyra’s arm. “We shall.” 
                                                                                                                                                    ****
 Alicent feels like throwing up. She resists the urge to pick her hands bloody; her father had been quite cross when he found out that she still lowered herself to such an unseemly habit. Her maids, a bridal gift from His Grace, scurried behind her, trying to get her ready for the welcoming feast. 

 There are to be seven days of celebration; tonight is the first of many dazzling entertainments. 

 Alicent looks at herself in the mirror. She can hardly recognize herself. Her auburn hair is shiny thanks to the hair oils from Essos that Viserys had given her, carefully curled around the heavy golden crown embedded with white and red pearls. Her dress is the finest thing that Alicent has ever worn, and it is made of white and gold silk and heavy with golden decorations. 

 She ought to be happy, right? Whenever Rhaenyra was given gifts by her parents and her uncle whenever he crawled back into the King’s good graces, Alicent stood to the side, watching, burning with envy that she shouldn’t have. 

 What would it feel like to be the one to receive the gifts? The adoration and excitement of receiving such treasures? Rhaenyra took the gifts for granted. 

 Rhaenyra took the attention for granted as if it were something she owed. Now, Alicent will take over the position, and she’ll accept it with grace and demurely like Seven Who are One demands of women. 

 If only the rumours hadn’t spread so much. 

 In the mirror, she can see the maids continuously shoot her glances, torn between sympathy and disdain. Even the Septa that had been attached to her father’s household did not counsel Alicent on what is to come. She only speaks to Alicent when demanded, and it was in cold, clipped tones. 

 Alicent was only doing her duty. Why can’t Rhaenyra see this? She was doing what her father told her to do. 

 How had the rumours gone from Alicent providing companionship to a briefed widow to her having a non-existent child? 

 She wants to cry. 

 All she was doing was her duty. 

 “It’s time.” Her father appears in her doorway, his face impassive, yet Alicent can tell that he’s displeased.

 She inwardly cringes. He is always displeased with her, no matter what she does. What else can Alicent do? She’s marrying the King! The King! That ought to please him.

 Alicent lifts her skirt and takes her father’s arm, silently following him to the Great Hall. 

 “Lady Alicent of House Hightower. Betrothed to King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!” 

 While this is the correct term to address Alicent, along with the smattering of ‘my lady’ from the guests milling around her, it causes Alicent to frown. Before the King had been coronated, everyone, servants, ladies, and nobles alike, had taken to calling Queen Aemma ‘queen.’ 

 Why weren’t they affording her the same respect? 

 Her father also notices the disrespect, and his anger radiates, causing Alicent to cringe further into herself. 

The Great Hall had been transformed for the event. The decorations made the event almost joyful, if not for the looming Iron Throne behind the Royal Table. 

 She didn’t notice it at first; she was trying not to trip on the stiff, more womanly heels that, despite all her attempts to break in, she could still barely walk in, but once seated, she began to notice it. 

 The room was deathly silent. Alicent looked around, and her stomach plummeted. The hall was filled with black. 

 Some of the guests chose to don their house colours, but many wore the black of mourning with their colours woven in, like the Masseys of Massey’s Hook. 

 Alicent desperately looked around. Almost half, if not half, of the guests, were wearing black or more subdued colours. The crownlands were utterly drenched in black. The Lannisters wore their red and gold with pride, looking at the rest of the hall with disdain. Their bannermen, too, wore their colours, however, in a much more subdued manner. 

 It’s unsurprising that the North was wearing black. The dour lords of the North never enjoy the finer things in life. 

 Grover Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and his family wore his colours with pride, sneering at his bannerman who sported black. That gives Alicent hope. At least there is someone there who supports her. 

 However, her hopes are crushed when she sees the Baratheons, led by the old, wizened Lord Boremund, wearing only half of their house colours. 

 Her heart sinks when she sees the sickly Lord Tyrell wearing black slashed with green and gold. Several of her fellow Reachmen, clad in black, glaring at her with impertinence. 

 Alicent looks to her father, confused and balks. He looks apocalyptic at the masses in front of him. She peeks over to her betrothed. King Viserys looks uncomfortable with the display in front of him. 

 “Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne, and Lady of Dragonstone. Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. Lady Amanda Arryn of the Eyrie, Lady Eleanor Strong of Harrenhall, and Lady Lyarra Manderly of White Harbour.” 

 The doors crack open, and any hope that Alicent had now crumbles. 

 Rhaenyra, clad in soft blue and white, is a lone, vibrant figure in a sea of black. 

 She looks magnificent. 

 The soft blue of the gown accentuates the pale, unearthly beauty of her complexion. The glittering gold trim and diamond pattern of the golden applique on her white puffed sleeves make her softly brushed silver-gold hair, delicately placed in a hairnet of gold and pearls, shine even brighter. 

 Alicent looks over to King Viserys, and when she sees the mist in his eyes, realization curdles in her stomach. 

 Rhaenyra looks like Queen Aemma. 

 She grits her teeth underneath her smile as Rhaenyra glides to the Royal table. “Father.” Rheanyra smiles so sweetly at him. Her smile tightens when she looks over to Alicent and her father. “Lady Alicent, Lord Hand.” 

 “Rhaenyra.” 

 “Come sit.” King Viserys gestures for Rhaneyra to join him on his left. 

 Alicent hides a smug smile as Rhaenyra sits. The left is a lesser honour than sitting on the King’s right. As the soon-to-be Queen, she sits upon more power than the Princess. 

 Once Alicent is crowned, she’ll set things right. After the death of her mother, Rhaenyra has become unwieldy. She’s not a bad girl, spoilt, but Alicent is fond of her. Perhaps after Alicent gives birth to a boy, the sibling the Rhaenrya always wanted, and the whole heir nonsense put behind her, they can be friends again. Alicent will arrange a nice betrothal for Rhaenyra, Jason Lannister, maybe, or Myles Tyrell, and they can raise their children together like Alicent always dreamed. 

 Her smug feeling lessened when Jeyne and Amanda Arryn were seated next to the Princess instead of ushered to a lower table. 

 Alicent looks to her father again, still fuming with silent rage, and then to King Viserys. He gives her an encouraging pat on the arm. “The Arryns are kin to the Crown Princess; they are to be given the honour of benefiting their station. And it will smooth over any ruffles that this marriage has caused.” 

 The Arryns should know their place, Alicent thought sourly. The King’s marriage is his prerogative and his alone. They are Viserys’s servants, not the other way around. 

 King Viserys stands and clears his throat. “I… I welcome you all to King's Landing. I hope you enjoy the celebrations of the newest royal union. My… my marriage to… to Lady Alicent Hightower.”
 
 The hall falls silent save for a few whispers. 

 Her father raises his hands and claps. A few hesitant members of the audience follow his lead, but the clapping slowly petters and dies out as no one else joins in. The room is still for a few moments before a couple of members of the audience seek out food and drinks. 

 Why? Tears spring to Alicent’s eyes. This is supposed to be a happy occasion! Marriages are supposed to be happy and good, something blessed by the gods! She doesn’t get it. She tries to catch Bethany Hightower’s eye, her younger cousin, or Patrica Redwyne’s, one of Lord Redwyne’s daughters and a good friend of Alicent’s when she was young, but both girls were looking everywhere but at Alicent. 

 She is going to be Queen, Alicent reminds herself. 

 She will face this with a stiff upper lip and show the realm that while she might be the first non-Targaryen Queen, she will be just as good. 

 Alicent can imagine being called the Good Queen reborn. 

 She’s going to be Queen, and she’s going to remake the realm. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra suffers through the masques in the afternoon and minutely enjoys the feast. The mingling portion of the evening begins. 

 She claims a flute of arbour gold and walks among the crowd. 

 Rhaenyra is satisfied to see the crowd still sporting black, but some colour is creeping back in. 

 Alicent is having little success, flittering from noble to noble. 

 She spots Lady Emylie reigning over a crowd of foreign courtiers and curious young nobles from the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale. Rhaenyra didn’t know where to put Emylie. Technically, Dorne is considered part of the realm, according to the Crown, but the rest of the realm and Dorne don’t consider them as part of the realm. Rhaenyra had to put her with the rest of the foreign courtiers. She felt bad for doing so, but Lady Emylie didn’t seem to mind, happily going off, winning their hearts. 

 Lyarra is off to the side, giggling with other young maidens. Well, the other young ladies are giggling, and Lyarra is observing them with a cool eye. Other than her soft blonde hair, Lyarra is the embodiment of a Northern lady. 

 Eleanor is dancing with what seems to be a Blackwood boy and sporting a rather large grin. 

 All three of her ladies were sporting dresses the same shade as Arryn blue and silver, with their house colours embroidered in. The four of them, Rhaenyra obviously included, are a spot of colour amongst the darkened crowd. 

 “Lady Rhea!” Rhaenyra stumbles, surprised to see the woman, who is technically her aunt. 

 Her memories of Lady Rhea are few and far between. Daemon always described her as ugly, but Lady Rhea is comely in her own way. Her dark curls are pulled out of her face, showing off her lovely dark eyes and tanned skin from hours of being outside. The Rhea, according to Daemon’s descriptions, is a hulking beast of a woman, but Rhea is slender yet muscular. Her black and bronze dress, embroidered with little runes throughout, shows off her slender waist but strong hips. 

 She is quite elegant. 

 “Princess.” Lady Rhea inclines her head; she isn’t overtly friendly but not discourteous. 

 In the past and in the dreams, Rhaenyra always thought so little of Lady Rhea, taking Daemon’s side rather than Lady Rhea’s. But looking back on both their situations, they’re a lot alike. They’re both women whose husband mocked their positions by having extramarital affairs. Sure, Laenor didn’t mean to undermine her, but his relationship with Qarl made her the laughingstock of court.

 “How are you, Lady Rhea?” 

 Lady Rhea snorts inelegantly, sipping her flute of wine. “You don’t have to stay, Princess. My marriage to your uncle doesn’t necessitate friendly conversation.” 

 “I don’t particularly care about my uncle at the moment, Lady Rhea.” 

 Lady Rhea purses her lips. “Yes, I suppose. Heir For a Day, a rather impertitant comment.” 

 “Yes.” Rhaenrya had forgotten that particular comment. Her issues with Daemon come from what Rhaenrya saw he’d do in the future. That is an issue that Rhaenyra doesn’t want to think about right now. 

 “Lady Jeyne.” Lady Rhea nods hello as Rheanyra’s cousin emerges from the crowd, along with Amanda. “Lady Amanda.”

 “Rhea, Princess.” Jeyne nods hello. 

 “Acutally, Lady Rhea, cousin, this applies to you as well, I wished to ask you about what it’s like to be a ruling lady.” 

 Lady Rhea scoffs, downing the rest of her drink. “Men will always find something to criticize about you. Learn to deal with it and move on. Stop wasting time thinking about why they think of you.” 

 “That is to say, you do need to keep an ear out for the public opinion,” Jeyne interjects softly. “Silk and gold are all well and good, but armour yourself in iron and stone, Rhaenyra. You cannot break for the vultures will descend on any precieable weakness.” 

 “The court thrives on tearing down those on top. You need to surround yourself with allies,” Amanda cautions. “You’ve done admirably so far.” 

 “Is this how you weathered my uncle’s treatment?” Rhaenyra asks Lady Rhea. 

 She chortles. “No. I let that pathetic creature ruin his own reputation. He bitches and whines and makes a fool of himself while I come out unscathed, only seen as the poor scorned wife. Sometimes, it is better to allow your opponent to make their grave rather than you working to make it.” 

 Rhaenyra thinks back to the council session where Otto embarrassed himself, trying to ruin Rhaenyra’s reputation, and agrees with Lady Rhea’s assessment. 

 “I’ll speak with my father, Lady Rhea, and see if I can grant you an annulment.” 

 Lady Rhea scoffs again, crossing her arms, glaring at the direction of the King. “If your wonderful uncle cannot gain this, what makes you think you can?” 

 “My uncle knows how to provoke my Father’s anger. I know how to provoke his heart. My Father is a sentimental man. He wants my uncle to settle down and have children like he did, but my uncle is not the type to settle down. If I bring up that you are desiring an annulment based on the lack of heirs produced for your line, it’ll be hard for my Father to refute.” 

 “Isn’t that why he wanted to marry the Lady Alicent, to secure his line?” Amanda snipes, glaring at the Royal table. 

 “Fine, I’ll hold it to you.” Rhea laughs. 

 Rhaenyra stays with Jeyne and Rhea and chats for a couple of minutes before leaving to socialize with the rest of the Lords and Ladies of the realm, success blooming in her chest. She leaves Amanda to catch up with her fellow Valemen. 

 It’s a little thing, but Lady Rhea could so easily be turned from Jeyne and the Vale by Otto’s honeyed words and their shared hatred for Daemon. 

 Rhaenyra silently pledges to write to Rhea to keep an eye out for Arnold and the Gulltown Arryns. They share a border so that it won’t be too much trouble for Rhea. 

 Before she can find one of her other Ladies, Rowlf Tully appears in her vision. He deeply bows. “My Princess, I must thank you for the honour of being accepted into your household.” 

 Right. Rhaenyra forgot that she had asked for Rowlf to join her household. She still gives him a sweet smile. “I must thank you, Ser Rowlf. Lord Lyonel has spoken highly of your skill, and I am pleased to see you’ve accepted my offer.” 

 His face flushes, his red cheeks clashing horribly with his freckles and bright red hair, and his face in a bright grin. “I shall treasure that compliment greatly, coming from the father of Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones’ himself!” 

 Rhaenyra grins at his cheerfulness, which is so very unlike his Father. “I am excited to welcome you into my household knights, but after the wedding. It is a time to celebrate, and I am not in need of you at the moment.” 

 His face brightens. “Thank you, my Princess. I had hoped to join the jousts but was unsure if you wanted me to join your household immediately.” 

 “I hope you enjoy the jousts, but I must warn you, Lady Eleanor has told me that Ser Harwin wishes to compete as well.” 

 “Ah, I had worried. Nonetheless, it will be entertaining to participate. Have a good evening, my Princess.” He bows once again and slips back into the crowd. 

 Rhaenyra laughs softly, watching as Rowlf disappears. He is such a cheerful young man, she thinks that she’ll enjoy having him in her employ.  

 “Princess!” 

 It seems that Emylie has finished holding court and is happily making her way to Rhaenrya with a silver-haired man in tow. 

 Emylie does a shallow curtsey before taking Rhaenyra’s arm in hers. “Princess, I’d like for you to meet Drako Rogare, son of the magister Lysandro Rogare of the Rogare Bank.” 

 Drako Rogare bows and takes the offered hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Rhaenyra.” 

 Rhaenyra smiles wanly at him. “I am surprised, good Ser, that you chose to come to the wedding of the man whose brother you are currently at war with.” 

 Beside her, Emylie winces, clearly having forgotten about the Stepstones. Rhaenrya isn’t too cross with her; the topic of the Stepstones is a subject that’s been all but banned from court. 

 Drako grimaces before his handsome face turns back to a pleasant smile. “Yes, well, the Iron Throne is not at war, just his brother.” 

 “You’re not wrong. I still think that my Father would not be pleased.” 

 “I counselled my Father against sending men to open war with the Iron Throne potentially. He is the magistrate of Lys, my Princess, but we are in alliance with Mry and Tyrosh. It’ll cause Lys quite a bit of trouble if we back out of an alliance. For what, a civil relationship with the Iron Throne?” 

 “Fair enough,” Rhaenyra sighs in defeat. “Why are you here, Ser Drako?” 

 “What wouldn’t a man wish to meet the future Queen of the Iron Throne?” 
 
 “So you merely wanted me for my title, not my sparkling personality.” 

 “Your personality is certainly a benefit, my Princess, but does the world not revolve around such business ventures?” 

 “You are not wrong. What business do you wish to pursue? I do hope that is not a new section of the Rogare Bank. I may be the Princess, Ser Drako, but I do not have the authority to allow this, even on Dragonstone.” Rhaenyra sips at her wine, watching the man’s reaction. 

 “I understand, but it not what we wish.” 

 “Ser Drako was speaking to me about the new trend in Lys. It seems that Lysani nobles, and to some extent, Volantis nobles, enjoy jewellery made of volcanic glass since it is such a rare find. Volcanic glass, my Princess, may know better by its other name, dragonglass.”

 “Dragonstone does have an excess of dragonglass,” Rhaenyra agrees easily. She does like the idea. She’d like Dragonstone to have income that doesn’t come from the Iron Throne. And if things do go as the Dreams predict, she’s going to have to start hoarding wealth. 

 Having one of the members of the Triarchy on her side would be beneficial. Breaking them would give the Greens one less ally. 

 “I see our partnership is already blossoming wonderfully. 

 “I’ll have to discuss this with Dragonstone’s maester.” She hopes that he understands what she’s inferring. 

 “Of course. I would be less impressed with you, Princess, if you didn’t. Leaping blindly is foolhardy.” 

 “And what do the Rogare’s want in return?” 

 “Merely a small percentage of the profits. We’ll invest the capital and the Princess is welcome to use our ships for transport at a discounted price.” 

 “I could just use the Velyaron fleet. After all, I wouldn’t commence business until the Stepstones mess is finished.” 

 “You are more than welcome too. Lord Corlys is a valued partner.” 

 Rhaenyra grins at his easy nature. The deal almost seems too sweet; she’s tempted not to take it, wary of any traps. The Rogares, after all, married her son to one of Lyasndro’s daughters, putting their blood on the throne. 

 “I cannot agree to anything this instant. But this information does interest me. Thank you, Ser Drako, for bringing this to my attention.” 

 While Drako demures and speaks the easy lines of court etiquette, Rhaenyra watches his face for any signs of duplicity. She is not settled when she doesn’t find any. 

 Drako bows once again and moves off to his next business partner. She represses a giggle when she sees him approach Lord Manderly. 

 “Do you believe him?” Rhaenyra asks, turning to Emylie, whose head dips close to Rhaenyra’s, trying to keep their conversation private. 

 Emylie watches Drako attempt to woo Lord Manderly. “I believe in his greed. The Rogares are attempting to overtake the Iron Bank of Braavos. To do that, they need to remain in power and have the capital to do so. Controlling the market for luxury goods in Lys is a step in that direction.” 

 “This partnership could backfire if we’re not careful.” 

 “Hm, yes. However, I believe that it would be through shipping fees, if anything. But if you’re desperate enough, you have the Velyaron fleet or, if need be, the Manderly fleet. I shall contact Grandsire and see what he knows.” 

 “That would be good.” 

 Rheanrya glances around the hall, checking in on the rest of her ladies. Aunt Amanda is still following cousin Jeyne, talking to Lord Manderly, who’d escaped Drako, probably talking about Northern trade with the Vale. Both parties seemed enthused about the discussion. 

 Eleanor was no longer dancing but in deep discussion with her brother Larys, at which Rhaenyra hid a shiver. She’d met the Lord Confessor a few times before the Dreams began, and he always unnerved her. His actions within the Dreams made her dislike of him prominent. She’ll have to find a way to deal with Larys, hopefully without upsetting Eleanor too much. 

 Lyarra has taken up dancing. 

 “What’s wrong?” Emylie notices Rhaenyra freeze when she notices certain figures making their way through the crowd. She peeks at the figures and frowns. “Who are they?” 

 “The Lannister twins. Fuck.” 

 “Oh?” 

 “Despite a long-standing betrothal between the Lannisters and the Westerlings, Lord Lannister has yet to fulfil the contract in hopes of securing a Royal marriage despite moving his mistress to the best apartments in Casterly Rock.” 

 “Ah. I see. What about his brother?” Emylie’s eye wanders to Tyland Lannister. 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips. Tyland Lannister would be a valuable ally. Or at least, she’d like to have him remain neutral if the Dance ever happens. The Lannisters might still join, but Tyland was one of the few members of the Greens who had brains instead of just sheer audacity. 

 “Tyland Lannister, the new Master of Ships.” 

 “Hm, do you want him gone or on your side?” 

 “Ideally, on my side, but realistically, neutral to me.” It’d be nice to isolate Otto on the small council. 

 “I shall see what I can do. My Princess.” Emylie winks, curtseys, and then sashays towards the Lannister twins. 

 Rhaenyra watches her go fondly, shaking her head as she dips towards Eleanor. 

 “My Princess.” Eleanor curtseys as Rhaenyra approaches, ostensibly hiding from the Lannister party. 

 “Lady Eleanor. It’s a pleasure to see you enjoying the party.” Rhaenyra grins, sipping her wine. 

 Eleanor moved on from talking to her brother to another young man. Rhaenyra doesn’t recognize him; he isn’t wearing anything on his doublet to signify his house or his allegiance. 

 “My Princess, this is Alador. He is a playwright from Reach, which my uncle has sponsored several times. I must admit, I was surprised to see him here.” 

 Alador bows deeply. “It is an honour to meet you, Your Highness. It was an unexpected pleasure to be able to afford such an invitation.” 

 “I was speaking with Alador about his newest work. Lord Blackwood hired him to write a play concerning the origins of the feud between the Blackwoods and the Brakens.” 
 
 “Oh? I’m familiar with the feud, but hearing them fight through means of art is new.” 

 “It is a familiar concept in the South, though it has begun to travel north. Reachmen find physical fighting far too barbaric and enjoy fighting through words. Of course, many of them would rather export their ‘fighting’ to experts than do it themselves.” 

 “How clever, I would’ve never thought of using a masque as a battlefield.” 

 “Well, it pays.” 

 Rhaenyra laughs at his bluntness. 

 “Alador’s contract with Lord Blackwood is coming to an end, and he is looking for a new patron.” 

 “If you procure me some of your works, I will consider your patronage.” Alador bows and scampers off. 

 “I did not mean to presume, My Princess, but you ought to expand your contacts,” Eleanor shuffles closer to Rhaenyra, keeping her voice low. 

 “You’re not wrong. I am isolated. And this is a pastime for nobles to patron artists. Can you vouch for his skills?” Rhaenyra maintains a low tone. 

 “Mhm. Uncle Simon and I were quite pleased with his works.” 

 Rhaenyra hums, considering Eleanor’s words. “Alright, what sorts of works would you think would benefit me?” She is curious about what Eleanor would suggest. 

 Eleanor takes a moment to consider this. “Stories about a benevolent queen; evil step-mothers is always a hit and relevant to your situation, oh! Maybe the story about the Amethyst Empress, who was overthrown by her brother.” 

 These are all good suggestions, but Rhaenyra is hesitant about painting Alicent as a villain. She knows that Alicent can become. Alicent hides her anger and spite behind her duty and piety. But…Rhaenyra looks over to where Alicent is awkwardly talking to a group of nobles. She looks entirely uncomfortable under the heavy fabric of her dress.

 “I’m not sure if I feel comfortable with the step-mother plot. She’s merely a pawn in the grander scheme.” 

 Eleanor taps her flute of wine, pursing her lips. “What about an evil father-in-law figure? Or a scheming advisor?” 

 “Perphas we ought to wait on the scheming advisor figure. We don’t want to draw his eye. But the other ideas are good. I like the idea of the Amethyst Empress. It is thematically relevant. Or at least, will be if Her Majesty gives birth to a son.” 

 “I’ll write up a quick script and share it with Alador. Maybe he knows other writers who’d like to work with the Princess,” Eleanor muses, her eyes sliding off into the distance as she ponders the possibilities. 

 “I shall leave you to your composing,” Rhaenyra teases. 

 Eleanor hums, giving her an absent curtsey, and wanders away towards her Father. 

 Now, there is one lady left to check in with. After she checks in Lyarra, Rhaenyra will likely do one more lap of the Great Hall and then retire for the evening. 

 Lyarra is standing next to the drinks table, talking quietly to a young woman. 

 “Princess Rhaenyra.” Lyarra dips into a deep curtsey. The woman follows Lyarra’s lead, echoing Lyarra. “May I introduce, Lady Brealla Florent?” 

 Florent? Rhaenyra eyes the young lady. Her auburn hair, a few shades lighter than Alicent’s, is pulled back into a conservative hairstyle, capped with a black triangle bongrace. She’s tall and lithe, clad in a black dress trimmed with ermine fur and red little foxes dancing through leaves along the skirt.

 Rhaenyra had no idea that Rhaenys had reached out to the Florents. In fact, she’d written off most of the Reach as a lost cause, much like the Westerlands.  

 Brealla is all delicate features with a slender nose and soft eyes. She looks practically doll-like next to the sturdy Northern features of Lyarra, with sharp grey eyes and a long face that almost all Northners have. 

 “Greetings Lady Brealla. It must be exciting to see your cousin married.” 

 “Second cousin, My Princess.” Brealla’s sweet voice hides a sharp tone. 

 “Still.” 

 Brealla shrugs. “I’ve never met the Lady Alicent. It is pleasing to see her married, as it is for all young maidens. Though, the Royal court is all that I have imagined, and more.” 

 “Are you wishing to remain in King’s Landing for long?” 

 “As long as I am able to, My Princess. I am turning six-and-ten soon, and my parents are looking for marriage prospects. I’d like to remain until I am no longer able to.” 

 Ah.

 Rhaenyra looks over to Lyarra, who shrugs. 

 Having a Florent in her house would put the Hightowers in check, especially since the Florent heir married a Tyrell. 

 But can Rhaenyra trust her?  Her distrust of Emylie has just abated; she had hoped that she would have some time before starting the cycle all over again. 

 “Well, I hope that your parents will allow you to remain. King’s Landing has some beautiful sights.” 

 “The most stunning view is seeing your golden lady in the mornings. She is stunning.” 

 “Truly. Dragons are magnificent. I saw Lady Rhaenys’s lady, Meleys, the Red Queen, once, and she is magnificent and terrifying at the same time,” Lyarra chimes in. “I went hunting once and came across a bear in the woods. It was awe-inspiring seeing such a majestic being in their domain. It gives me the same feeling seeing Syrax. Not that she’s a bear, my Princess.” 

 Rhaenyra laughs at Lyarra’s flustered state. “No worries, Lady Lyarra, I understand your comparison. And thank you for the compliment. I would tell my lady, but I fear that her ego would grow too large.” 

 Lyarra and Brealla giggle, and Rhaenyra glows on the inside. Alicent never liked talking about her dragon. She avoided the Dragonpit as much as possible. 

 “Tell me, Lady Brealla, who did the embroidery for your dress? It is stunning.” 

 Rhaenyra isn’t lying. The foxes on the dress look so real. 

 “I did! Thank you, my Princess. My brother likes an audience to complain, so I learnt to keep my hands busy while he exhaustes himself.” 

 “A value skill indeed.”

 They break into giggles again. The air feels light and free. 

 Brealla curtsies. “With your leave, my Princess, I wish to speak with my mother about my upcoming stay in King’s Landing.” 

 “You may go and tell your mother hello from me.” 

 “With pleasure.” Brealla breaks from her curtsey and slips from the conversation. 

 “She approached me, My Princess. She seems quite disenfranchised with the Hightowers despite their previous relationship.” Lyarra offers without being asked. 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips. 

 She’s never bothered with the Reach before. Anything she gleamed from the politics of the South was from Alicent, and Rhaenyra now didn’t trust anything that came from her lips. 

 “I would like you to watch her, spend time with her for the rest of the celebrations, and see if you can figure out her true motives.” 

 “Yes, my Princess.” Lyarra curtseys. 

 Brealla would certainly keep the playing field even in the Reach if Rhaenyra could secure their allegiance. Thanks to Lord Beesbury, Honeyholt is hers, and if Rhaenyra remembers correctly, house Mullendore declared for her, too. That’s two of Hightower’s vassals. If she can get the Taryls and the Blackbars on her side, then she can isolate the Hightowers by land. The Velyaron fleet could choke out the Redwyne fleet. And! Otto won’t be able to contact the Tricarchy if Rhaenyra maintains a good relationship with Lys.

 Rhaenyra hopes that she can trust Brealla. 

 She supposes only time will tell.

Chapter Text

Things haven’t gotten any better for Alicent. Despite supposing to be the centre of the event, being that she is the bride, the whole realm’s attention is on Rhaenyra. Alicent used to love this about Rhaenyra, how she draws the room to her side, but now a tendril of envy curls low in her gut as she watches Rhaenyra gracefully enchant the room in her soft Lapis blue dress, encrusted with silver and moonstones. That’s the only colour that Rhaenyra’s been wearing the whole celebration.   

 Why can’t Rhaenyra see that what Alicent is doing is for the good of the realm? She doesn’t want to marry the King; he is old and far from dashing, but she’s doing it because of her duty to her father and the realm. Sometimes, in her dreams, a man who looks like Criston Cole but of good, noble standing would be the one crowning Alicent with a crown of sweet-smelling flowers and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her lips.

 Alicent watches in displeasure as young maidens from across the realm surround Rhaenyra as the menfolk prepare to ride out for a hunt. As the only unwed maiden of the Royal family, the task of entertaining the young women fell to Rhaenyra. The role wasn’t given to Alicent, who is still a maiden, despite what everyone is saying, because as the future Queen and Queen Mother, she needs to entertain the older ladies. 

What makes it worse is Lady Jeyne Arryn, sitting on Rhaenyra’s right, looking rather haughty for a seven-and-ten woman and still unwed. As Lady Paramount of the Vale, her marriage offers would be never-ending, yet she remains unwed for some nefarious reason. 

 Perhaps she ought to be less prideful and fulfill her duty as the Seven dictate, Alicent thinks sourly.

 As Alicent sits, half listening to the women complain about their husbands and children, she spots a flash of red. 

 Her brow furls when she catalogues the woman’s features and the crest of the man next to her. A fox on a field of ermite. A Florent! 

 Alicent hastily stands, murmuring her apologies to the ladies around her, and hastens to the young lady with her cousin, Bethany, and her other lady, Lady Mina Bulwer, following behind her. Father is working hard to gain ladies for Alicent. Many of the requests that he’d sent were denied. Even those who Alicent thought would say yes. 

 Lady Florent would be invaluable to her Household. She’d have someone from both her father’s and her mother’s sides. 

 She scowls slightly when she sees Lyarra Manderly standing next to her, wearing blue like the rest of Rhaenyra’s ladies, a signal of their allegiance. Her scowls deepen further when she sees Lyarra’s black riding attire. It is very uncouth for a lady to ride with the men.

 Lyarra notices Alicent coming first and nudges the young lady. They both give Alicent shallow curtseys. “My lady,” they murmur. Alicent grits her teeth; she should be referred to as ‘my Queen,’ but no one has corrected the dissenters yet. 

 “Hello.” Alicent tries to smile brightly at her cousin of a form. She’s not sure how they’re related yet. 

 “Greetings, my lady.” 

 “I presume you are Lady Florent?” 

 The girl curtseys again. “I am surprised that someone as important as you, my lady, would know who I am.” 

 “There’s no need for such formality, Lady Florent; we are kin, after all. And, of course, I would know. My mother was a Florent.” 

 Lady Florent, her soft brown eyes, something that Alicent sorely missed while living at the Red Keep, blinked confusedly. She stares at Alicent as if Alicent had something unpleasant on her gown. 

 “Is there something wrong, Lady Florent?” Alicent asks, fidgeting with her nails. 

 “There is nothing wrong, my lady. It just…it’s been some years since anyone in house Hightower has called a Florent kin. I’d forgotten that the Lord Hand had married my father’s cousin.” Alicent feels her face flush at her sharp words. 

 Bethany inhales tightly. Alicent glances quickly at her, and Bethany looks like she’s going to fight Lady Florent.

 “It is an egregious mistake to forget our kin, but I hope we can fix this moving forward,” Alicent says sweetly. 

 Lady Florent looks amused at Alicent’s words; Alicent doesn’t understand what is funny about her earnest words. “If you say so, my lady,” she demures. Lady Lyarra purses her lips, looking amused. 

 “What an interesting choice of dress, Lady Florent.” Bethany casts a disapproving look at Lady Florent’s dress. 

 Alicent’s stomach rolls when she fully casts a look down at Lady Florent’s body. She’s wearing a black gown, cinched at the waist with slits in the side, showing off soft blue trousers and leather boots. 

 Black, she’s wearing black. Alicent wants to cry. 

 Lady Florent bats an eye at Bethany and drops her eyes to the floor. “It is hunting garb, Lady Hightower. Lady Lyarra has offered to take me hunting. You know the saying, ‘when in Essos’.”

 Bethany sniffles, still looking disapproving. “I understand that, Lady Florent,” she says derisively. “I meant the colour. Last I checked, House Florent doesn’t have black as a house colour.” 

 Bless Bethany for stepping up for Alicent.    

“Forgive me, my lady,” Lady Florent demures to Alicent. “But with so many people wearing black, I merely thought that it was the dress code of the event.

 Alicent’s face flushes as all eyes look over to her. Should she scold Lady Florent? No, she wants her to like Alicent. “It’s fine, Lady Florent. You were unaware.” 

 “Thank you for your benevolence.” Alicent gets the feeling that Lady Florent is being sarcastic. 

 “You said you were going hunting?” Alicent squeaks out. 

 “Oh, yes! Lady Lyarra is quite knowledgeable about the bow and has offered to show me the basics. I am ever so grateful.” 

 “You honour me, Lady Brealla.” Lady Lyarra smiles at Lady Brealla, who smiles back. Alicent tries to bury the kernel of envy blooming. Why does Lady Lyarra get to smile at Lady Brealla like that but not Alicent? Alicent is her kin, not Lady Lyarra. “It’s a pleasure to know that there are other ladies who enjoy the hunt.” 

 “It is such a strange phenomenon; ladies enjoying hunting,” Mina scoffs. While Alicent appreciates Mina trying to stand up for Alicent, she’ll have to scold her in private later. She is being too discourteous. Though she doesn’t know much better, she is only a child, having her eighth name day only a few moons ago. Alicent feels odd being around such a young girl, but it’ll give her some opportunities to learn how to be a mother before her children come. 

 Lady Lyarra looks over to Mina with a cool eye, decidedly unimpressed. “We in the North value ladies with practical skills rather than ladies who merely know how to sit, spend money and try to look pretty.” 

 Mina blushes furiously and moves to retort, but Alicent stops her. There’s no need to get into a spat with such an unimportant lady. 

 “I hope you enjoy the hunt, Lady Florent.” 

 There’s no need to acknowledge Lady Lyarra. 

 “Thank you, my lady.”

“Will you stay long in the Red Keep?” Alicent asks, desperate to regain the conversation. 

 Lady Brealla shrugs. “I am in the middle of negotiations with my mother.” 

“Well…I hope we can spend sometime together, after the wedding.”

 There’s a tight pinch in Lady Brealla’s face before it smooths over. “We’ll see.” 

 They lapse into an awkward pause where Alicent struggles to find what to say, and Lady Brealla doesn’t bother before Lady Lyarra deigns to rejoin the conversation. “We ought to get going. The hunt begins soon. My lady,” she curtseys cooly. 

 “Hunt well,” Alicent chokes out. 

 “My lady,” they chorus and head out. Alicent picks at her fingernails, trying hard not to cry. 

 “What bitches,” Bethany huffs. 

 Alicent gasps at the coarse language. “Bethany!” She admonishes. 

 “What? They were being extremely rude to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I can’t tell if they’re more stupid or more bitchy.” 

 “Cousin, I–I appreciate your support, but you cannot speak so coarsely! Let them discredit themselves. Their actions will speak for themselves. We shall come out victorious with our dignity intact.” 

 “As you say, My Queen.” Bethany curtseys but grins. Alicent is right. The Seven Who Are One have ways of showing the realm the disgusting facades that many nobles hide. “Shall we return to the shade?” 

 “Let’s.” They go back to where the women are meant to be, sitting in the shade, waiting for the menfolk to return. 

 As they march back to the pavilion, Alicent catches a glimpse of Rhaenyra. She is still sitting with her crowd of adorers, grinning brightly. Sitting next to Rhaenyra is a tall, dark-haired girl in a black and purple gown. Alicent has seen this girl before; her father cautioned Alicent from interacting with her, lest her reputation fall even further because she’s Dornish . 

 Oh dear. 

 Alicent should bring this up with the King. He’d be most distraught to see his daughter like this. 

 That thought settles her stomach. Rhaenyra likes to hold her grudges, but Alicent will do what she always does: protect her. 

 Yes, Alicent will make sure that Rhaenyra remains the proper princess she ought to be. 

                                                                                                                                                                                              ****

Maris is so nervous. She knows that the only reason she was brought to the King’s Landing was to give a good impression on the Princess, so she’ll take Maris on as a lady-in-waiting. Grandsire told her to be on her best behaviour and keep any remarks to herself. It’s not like Maris doesn’t want this opportunity; the idea of returning home with Cassandra makes Maris feel ill. Neither Father nor Mother helps the matter very much. Both are too preoccupied with having a boy to really care. Only Grandsire really likes Maris. Which is why she knows he’s gone to certain lengths to set up this opportunity, and she’s not going to squander it. 

 Maris is young—she turned ten two moons ago—and probably not the most qualified candidate for a Royal lady-in-waiting position, so she has to hope that her pedigree and determination will help her win this position. 

 For the first few days of the celebrations, Maris hung back and watched the Princess, trying to find an in when well-wishes and sycophants didn't surround her. 

 Finally, Maris watched the Princess break away from the terrifying Lady Arryn, whom Father hates, ranting that she ought to do what’s ordered of her and take a husband. Maris likes Lady Arryn, thinking that she’s cool, but is terrified to talk to her. Not that the Princess isn’t…but Maris has to do this. 

 Maris trotted up to the banquet table, where the Princess was examining the treats. 

 “Greetings...my Princess.” Maris winces at the squeak of her voice, her face flushing. What a horrible first impression. She quickly falls into a curtsey. 

 The Princess pauses, her solemn lilac eyes lingering on Maris. “Greetings, Lady Maris. How are you enjoying the festivities?” 

 “They are longer than any I’ve attended at Storm’s End. I enjoyed the joust, though!” She liked it because Father lost. He always claims that he is the best fighter in the realm, boasting that he could win against Prince Daemon if Prince Daemon stopped cowering and stood and fought him. She believes that Father is full of shit.  

 “Yes, I quite understand. Despite growing up here, sometimes I find the excess revelry tiring.”

 “Grandsire says that we ought to temper our desires to make the celebrations all the more sweeter. I just think that he’s just being stingy.” 

 Maris flushes with pride when Princess Rhaenyra laughs brightly. 

 “My Princess.” Another woman approaches the Princess and curtseys. Maris looks at her. She has a long, bony jaw but sharp, dark purple eyes. “Who is this?” 

 “Maris Baratheon.” Maris curtseys. “And who do I have the honour of speaking with?” 

 “Emylie Dayne.” She curtseys. 

 A Dornish? That’s so interesting; Maris has never met one before. Her father always complains about them but never explains anything to her. Her mother gets tight-lipped and tells Maris that it is a topic that is not suitable for a young lady.  

 Maris looks between the Princess and Lady Dayne, wondering what the relationship is between them. They look like friends. Did Lady Dayne have the same thought as Maris and is seeking to join the Princess’s household?

 Is Maris too late?

 No. The Princess needs the Stormland’s support. Grandsire told Maris that the Lord Hand is angling to get his grandson on the throne since the King has no sons, and the Princess is trying to retain her Heirship. 

 Even if Lady Dayne is looking for a position in the Princess’s household, there’s no way that the Princess would ignore a girl from Lord Paramount’s house. There aren’t many, and those who are are already married and less inclined to join a maiden princess’s household. 

 “Greetings, Lady Dayne.” Maris attempts to get her wild heart under control. Everything is fine.  

 Lady Dayne peers at Maris, her eyes scanning her face, looking for something that Maris is unsure of. “For a Baratheon, you are being very polite to to your sworn enemy,” she comments mildly. 

 “You must think very highly of yourself.” 

 Maris winces as she looks over to the older girls. There’s a pause, and then Lady Dayne barks with laughter. “The little fawn has teeth. I like her.” 

 “You are quite bold.” Princess Rhaenyra arches an eyebrow. 

 “Forgive me, My Princess. My mother laments my sharp tongue. I will endeavour to eliminate this problem.” 

 “Nonsense!” Lady Dayne says cheerfully. “A sharp tongue is a wonderful skill to have. You just need to learn how to hone it properly. You don’t bring a knife to fight a dragon. Uh, theoretically, of course, my Princess.” She glances over to the Princess, who sports an unimpressed expression and winces. The princess merely rolls her eyes. “I will happily educate you, little fawn, if you so wish.” 

 “I’d gratefully take you up on those lessons, Lady Dayne, only if you stop calling me little fawn.” 

 Lady Dayne laughs, a warm, reverberating laugh. “You have a deal, my Lady.”  

 The Princess coughs slightly, drawing their attention back to her. She gives Maris a welcoming smile. “Lady Maris, I am sure that you already know this, but your Grandsire asked that I consider you for one of my ladies.”

 Maris nods. “He told me the same thing. That it would be a good move on my part to situate myself within your household.” 

 “Do you want to be in my household?” 

 Where else would Maris go? Back to a cold home where her closest friend is her Grandsire? Where she couldn’t escape her tormenter? Sure, if Maris accepts, then she’ll have to face the horrors of court, but when isn’t she? She’ll have to learn to do better, but she’s willing. 

 “There are other candidates, if you don’t,” Lady Emylie drawls. 

 “Like who?” Maris doesn’t like how her heart quickens at the suggestion. 

 “My ladies brought up Lady Johanna Swann. Or your cousin, Lily Caron.” 

 Maris scoffs. She hopes that it's a poorly timed jest.

 “Oh? You disagree?” The Princess asks. Bollocks! Maris straightens and brushes back a loose lock of hair. 

“Forgive me, but yes, my Princess.” 

 “Why’s that?” 

 “Well, both House Swann and Caron are Marcher lords, my Princess. If Lady Emylie is to join your Household as a diplomatic tactic to win over Dornish attitudes, then you will need Ladies who are tolerant of the Dornish. Any Marcher lord will have a longstanding hatred for them.”

 “Clever little thing.”

“It’s not clever, Lady Emylie. It’s basic knowledge of my homeland.” 

 She bristles when she sees Lady Emylie laugh at her outburst. “Clever girl.”

 The Princess smiles softly, nibbling on a candied lemon she’d stolen from a cake. “Your Grandsire also putforward to your sister, Lady Cassandra, as a candidate.” 

 Maris knows that, trying to hide the kernel of anger flaring in her stomach. It makes sense that Cassandra gets an offer. She’s the firstborn; she takes precedence over the secondborn. It’s stupid that Cassandra gets precedence when she doesn’t even care. 

 “It is Grandsire’s responsibility to look out for both of his grandchildren.”

“Do you not think that Cassandra should get the position?”

 No. Definitely not. She’s a flying cu…no, no. The tang of blood fills her mouth as she bites her tongue to stop the retort on the tip of her tongue. She takes a deep breath in, calming herself. “My sister is currently my father’s heir, despite his protestations, my Princess. She may be younger than you, but Grandsire has begun looking for a bridegroom suitable to be her consort and her training. If you take her on, she’ll have to leave within a few years. I, however, do not have such prospects.” 

 “Is this why you want to join my household?” 

 “In part, my Princess. It is true; my prospects are low back in the Stormlands. But…” Maris trails off. She doesn’t know how to put it into words that Maris would do anything to avoid going back to a cold, hopeless castle. “There are very few ways for a woman to succeed in Westeros, my Princess. I’d like to marry one day, but before then, I’d like to be able to do something without worrying about my father or husband’s permission.”

 Maris doesn’t add that Grandsire is ailing. Within the next couple of years, her only bastion of kindness will disappear when he passes. Maris wants to be long gone before that happens. 

 The Princess will arrange Maris’s marriage when the time comes. Hopefully, Maris will be able to have input. She does not want Father to be in control of her marriage. 

 Lady Dayne sniffles. “You Westerosi are so strange with your customs.” 

 “Dornish Ladies don’t need their father or husband’s permission?” 

 “Please.” Lady Dayne scoffs. “If anything they ask our permission.” 

 “Yes, yes. You Dornish are so superior.” The Princess rolls her eyes at Lady Dayne, who grins unrepentantly. 

 Maris wonders what it's like to be free of the chains that hold her down and to live in a world where she doesn’t have to worry about Father. 

 Would she be like Lady Dayne, bold and unafraid? She seems so confident; Maris can see her taking on Cassandra and Father without fear, and she can see Lady Dayne winning . 

 “Well, Lady Maris, it seems I have something to discuss with Lord Baratheon.” The Princess offers Maris a rare smile. 

 It takes her a second for the words to hit Maris; then, her face breaks into a wide grin. “Thank you, my Princess. You will not regret this!” 

 “Come, little fawn, let’s meet the rest of the ladies.” Lady Dayne gestures for Maris to follow her. 

 “My Princess.” Maris quickly curtseys and hurries after Lady Dayne. “I thought I told you not to call me little fawn,” she hisses. 

 “Courtly lesson number one: never let anyone know your discomforts. It’ll always be used against you.” 

 Maris scowls at her. She could’ve just told Maris that without calling her that stupid nickname. 

 “Ah, lesson number two, don’t drink to excess at court functions. You debase yourself.” Lady Dayne’s lips curl in displeasure when she spots Lord Connington making a fool of himself. “Though, I hope that this won’t be a concern to you for several more years.”

 Maris thinks back to her father and silently agrees. He always looks so stupid when he drinks so much; his face gets all red, and he starts acting incoherently. Maris knows that when he starts acting like that, it is time to hide. Normally, he ignores Maris unless necessary, but when he drinks, he’ll rip her to shreds. 

 Grandsire hates it when her father drinks. He always lets Maris hide out in his solar, and she likes those nights the most. 

 From her watching, Maris knows that the Princess retrains herself from excess alcohol, at least at court events, which is better than Father’s attitude. In the distance, Maris can see Father with alcohol in his hand. 

 She’s going to be free of him. She’s going to be free of Cassandra and her mother. 

 Maris can’t wait. 

                                                                                                                                                                           ****

 Despite the rest of the celebrations being sub-par so far, Rhaenyra was excited for the jousts.  Her hopes are sorely dashed. The jousts are……underwhelming. 

 The last joust is still fresh in everyone’s minds, and their responses are muted, at best. Murmurs and musicians attempted to get the crowd going, but there was really no cheering for the participants when they were announced. 

 Rhaenyra makes her way to the Royal box and greets her father. “Father. Lady Alicent, Lord Hand.”

 She gets mild responses back, except for her father, who jubilantly welcomes her to the Royal box. 

 “I’ll need five seats for my ladies.” She informs a passing servant. She’d asked Jeyne to accompany her to the Royal box, but Jeyne denied it, saying that despite their blood relation, it would show too much favouritism to one Paramount. Sitting with Rhaenyra at the welcoming feast was acceptable, but anything more after that borders on favouritism that the other Lord Paramounts would hate. 

 So Jeyne went off and joined the other Lords of the Vale, Rhea sitting next to her with a tight face of concentration as Lord Melcolm discussed something with her. 

 “Still expanding your household, Rhaenyra?” Father asks as she takes her place. 

 “Still?” Otto asks.

 “Of course.” Rhaenyra smiles blithely at Otto. “I am the Heir to the Iron Throne. It would do the Crown a disservice if I didn’t have an adequate household. I aim to have a lady from every region.” 

 “Expect the Iron Islands.” Father chortled. 

 “Yes, expect the Iron Islands,” Rhaenyra agrees. 

 “If you need, Princess, I can recommend a great many young ladies from the Reach.” Otto gives her an oil-slick smile. 

 “That’s what I told her!” Father laughs, happily guzzling his wine.

 Rhaenyra smiles politely, just barely stopping herself from pummeling Otto. How dumb does he think she is? She’s not going to fall for that scheme again. “Don’t worry, Lord Otto, I am already considering a lady from the Reach. You ought to be more concerned about finding ladies for your daughter.” 

 Alicent, who was sitting in between her father and Rhaenyra’s father, flushed a bright red and looked down at her hands, where she was mercilessly destroying her cuticles. 

 “Oh? Who who might be this lady be?” There is a gleam in Otto’s eyes that Rhaenyra is not a fan of. 

 She is suddenly thankful for Brealla’s distaste for Hightowers; she can’t wait for them to meet. 

 The usher clears his throat. “Lady Amanda Arryn of the Vale, Lady Lyarra Manderly of White Harbour, and Lady Brealla Florent of Brightwater.” 

 “Wonderful, they’re here!” Rhaneyra says with genuine excitement. She can see the despair etched into Alicent’s face as it’s announced that one of her kin is sworn to Rhaenyra’s service. She also gets great pleasure in seeing her father squirm. He knows that Aunt Amanda joined Rhaenyra’s household after Mother’s death, but this is the first time the two of them have been in such close proximity. 

 Aunt Amanda, Lyarra, and Brealla make their way to the front. 

 “Your Grace.” Aunt Amanda curtseys and does not bother to look at Alicent or Otto before sitting quietly in the second row, allowing the younger girls to join Rhaenyra in the front. Aunt Amanda told her that she just didn’t like jousts; Rhaenyra thinks that she’s trying to give the girls time to bond without the designated adult bothering them. 

Lyarra and Brealla came up with their arms entwined and curtseyed together. Somehow, they’d become fast friends already. “Father, I’d like for you to meet Lady Lyarra Manderly and Lady Brealla Florent. I invited her along to see how she’d fare with the rest of my ladies.” Rhaenyra says cheerfully. 

 Lyarra likes Brealla, so Rhaenyra is giving her a chance. This meeting is a sort of test; Rhaenyra wants to know how Brealla will act towards the Hightowers. Lyarra told Rhenayra about the spat that Brealla had gotten into at the hunt, but Rhaenyra wanted to see it in person. 

 “How wonderful! I am glad to see Rhaenyra making more friends. She’s been so lonely as of late,” Father commented. Beside him, Alicent flinched violently. That’s right, feel remorseful for what you’ve done, Rhaenyra thought maliciously when peering at her former friend. 

 “It is a blessing to be able to remain at the Red Keep, your Grace,” Brealla says, smiling brightly. 

 “Otto, wasn’t your wife a Florent?” Father asks. 

 “Yes, she was.” Rhaenyra wants to roll her eyes at how obvious Otto is being. 

 “I am saddened to hear of the passing of one of my kinswomen,” Brealla demures. “If I had known when it happened, I would’ve come to King’s Landing to mourn alongside my cousin. Alas, I was never informed of the funerary processions." 

 Alicent’s shoulders hunch down at the comment. 

 “I am surprised at your position, Lady Florent. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable serving your kin?” Otto eyes Brealla. 

 Lady Brealla smiles sharply. “It was not my decision, Lord Hand. I merely do what my parents decide for me. They believed that I would have better marriage prospects serving a Princess, rather than a Queen.” Her eyes slid over to Alicent, and despite her smile, Brealla’s eyes were cold and unforgiving. It is clear to everyone, except the King, that Brealla’s parents didn’t want her to serve this Queen. 

 Otto’s face turns beet red, picking up on Brealla’s undertone. He opens his mouth to retaliate when Father cuts in. 

 “It makes sense. No offence, dear,” Father says, patting a bright red Alicent’s hand. “But I am sure that Rhaenyra will soon be flooded with suitors vying for her hand. Any lady around her would surely garner attention from the flock of young men. Your parents were quite right in sending you to Rhaenyra’s service. And she’s my darling princess. I know you’ll enjoy being in her service.” 

 It is amazing to see how blind her father is sometimes. Rhaenyra knew already how bad he was, but seeing it again made her want to giggle.

 “I already am, my King. It fills my heart with delight that the Princess recognized my talents. I worried that I would be passed over for someone inferior .” 

 “Father, Lady Brealla did the sitch work on her dress all by herself,” Rhaenyra comments, showing off the embroidered edges of Lady Brealla’s gowns, trying to lessen the tension Brealla’s words brought. 

 “Marvelous work. My Aemma, she was a talented embroider,” Father sighs happily, being pulled back into his memories. Alicent’s face turned into a lovely shade of puce.   

 “What about you, Lady Lyarra? Are you enjoying King’s Landing?” Father asks, ignoring Otto, who opens his mouth to speak again. 

 Lyarra grins and bobs her head. “I am. I’ve already made several friends, your Grace, and I am quite excited to witness my first joust.” 

 “First joust, you say?” 

 “Yes, my King. Northerners have little patience for tourneys.” 

 “Northerners aren’t even knights, they can’t participate in tourneys.” Alicent sniffs, a scowl emerging at the thought of a warrior not being a knight.

 Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “The Blackwoods are not knights, and they are allowed to participate in tourneys. The Crown has made exemptions for those who follow the Old Gods.” 

 “Between the Ironborn in the West and the wildlings from the north, Northerners have little taste for violence outside actual combat, my Lady,” Lyarra said dryly, raising her eyebrow, taking no offence of Alicen'ts callous comment.  

 Alicent scowls further, but before she can say anything, Father cuts in again. “Wildlings, eh? I thought the watch was on that.”

 “The Night’s Watch is underfunded and undermanned, my King. They do not have the resources to occupy all of the castles along the wall. I believe they defend about ten of the six-and-ten castles along the wall. It’s surprising the North isn’t crawling with Wildings.” 

 “Did you know of this Otto?” Father asks, looking curiously at Otto. Rhaenyra, too, is curious. 

 “I did not, your Grace,” Otto simpers. 

 “That’s surprising because the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch has written to every Northern house for recruits. I would think he would write to his overlord as well.” Rhaenyra chokes on her wine at how blunt Lyarra is. She is getting whiplash from Brealla’s sweet court speak to Lyarra’s blunt Northern manners. 

 “Hm, that is worrisome. Otto, why don’t we speak on this later. After the wedding!” 

 “Of course, your Grace,” Otto grits out, glaring at an unbothered Lyarra. 

 Not that Rhaenyra doesn’t mind Lyarra’s blunt attitude, but she is worried that Otto is going to go after her now that she’s humiliated him. Rhaenyra should counsel her on holding her tongue a bit more. Or at least softening the words she uses. How Rhaenyra is missing Emylie’s sensibilities right now. 

 A quick glance at Aunt Amanda confirms that she’s thinking the same thing. 

 “Lady Amanda, do you know where the others are?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 “Lady Eleanor stopped by the tents to wish her brother good luck on the joust. As for the other one? I am unsure, likely still with her parents, my Princess.” 

 “Lady Eleanor Strong of Harenhall and Lady Maris Baratheon,” the Usher announces, and Rhaenyra arches an eyebrow. Speak of the Stranger, and he shall appear.  

 “Greetings, your Majesty.” Eleanor curtseys, and Maris follows hastily, dropping into a clumsy greeting. 

 “Hello girls! My, my, Rhaenyra. You’ve assembled quite a group. Just the Westerlands left, eh?” 

 “Yes, Father. Since the main Lannister branch doesn’t have any girls, I’m afraid I will have to widen my search.” 

 Rhaenyra smiles distractedly at her father as she watches Otto and Alicent star at Maris Baratheon. It’s amusing how similar they look, their faces a fetching shade of purple. Other than their shared eye colour, they do not look alike, and Alicent favours her mother. It is in moments like these that Rhaenyra is truly reminded that they’re father and daughter. 

 Both are reminded of how far her connections are spreading. She can’t wait to see how they react when they see she has yet another child of a Lord Paramount in her household. 

 Eleanor and Maris quickly take their seats. Eleanor chooses to sit next to Lyarra, joining in their whispering, and Maris sits next to Rhaenyra. 

 “I am glad that your parents were amenable, Lady Maris.” 

 “So am I, Princess.” Maris’s dark eyes look more relieved than excited than anything. Rhaenyra can’t blame her. Anyone who had Borros Baratheon as a father would be relieved to leave his household. Even Lady Elenda didn’t seem particularly pleasing. Brealla whispered to Rhaenyra that Lady Baratheon was fond of simple and quick solutions rather than fixing long-term symptoms. Rumours said that Lady Baratheon was considering sending Maris to a mother house. 

 No wonder she was so angry in the Dreams. While this version of Maris is snappish and quick with her tongue, it’s nothing that some education will smooth over, and Emylie seems up to the task. 

 Gods know that Rhaenyra was like that when she was younger before she was forced to grow up. 

 Rhaenyra gives her hand a quick squeeze and turns to Eleanor. “Lady Strong, do you think that your brother has a good chance of winning today?”

 Eleanor sniffs primly. “He thinks so. I hope he gets knocked off his horse, lest his ego becomes unbearable.” 

 The box dissolves into giggles, and the girls laugh even harder when Lord Strong, sitting next to Aunt Amanda, sighs loudly, “Please don’t encourage harm to your brother, Eleanor.” 

 “It’s unseemly to wish ill on your family, Lady Strong.” 

 Eleanor flushes angrily, staring at Alicent. Rhaenyra just closes her eyes, sighing. It’s like Alicent believes that if she’s upset, everyone must be. No one can be happy around her. Was she always like this? 

 “Nonsense!” Father interjects cheerfully. “Daemon and I grew up like that. It is just siblings, my dear.” 

 Rhaenyra watches Alicent, wondering if she’ll inject about how Daemon is a horrible example, but it seems she still wants to remain on Rhaenyra’s father’s good side and slumps her seat. 

They settle into watching the jousts. 

 Gwayne, Alicent’s brother, trots up to the stands and grins brightly. “My sweet sister, might I ask for your honour?” 

 Alicent smiles brightly. “Of course. I hope that it brings you luck, brother.” She tosses her wreath of grey and red silk flowers, a mix of her birth house and the one she is marrying into, and on her way back, she looks incredibly pleased with herself.  

 Unsurprising. Knights asked for the favour of higher-ranked ladies, and before her impending marriage, Alicent was the daughter of a low-ranking second son. Unless they were hedge knights, not many asked for Alicent’s favour. 

 SerGwayne is a decent jouster—not the best, but not the worst. If he plays carefully, he could potentially win the joust.

 Rhaenyra hopes he loses horribly. 

 She watches with mild interest as the first jousts go on. 

 Unfortunately for Rowlf, who secured the favour of a blushing Lady Mooton, his first opponent was Harwin, who mercilessly knocks Rowlf off his horse. Rowlf tumbled into the dirt. A second later, he pops up, covered head to toe in dirt, grinning brightly, laughing with Harwin as he comes over to help him up. The crowd swoons over the two friends. 

A smattering of giggles rings out, which draws Rhaenyra back into the present. Ser Harwin is coming up to the box. 

 “Gracious Princess Rhaenyra, will you oblige this lowly knight’s dream and give me your favor?”

 Rhaenyra’s heart speeds up unwillingly; Harwin isn’t trying to seduce her, or at least, she’s hoping that he isn’t because that would be very awkward for her if she turned down his advances, and his sister is her lady. 

Thankfully, Criston is on guard today, so Rhaenyra doesn’t have to worry about him getting offended that she didn’t choose him. 

She grins and tosses her wreath of black and red silk roses onto his offered lance. “I hope this blessing carries you to victory, Ser Harwin.” 

 “I shall ensure it, my Princess.” The crowd titters at the proclamation, cooing over the famous ‘Breakbones.’

 “Your brother is fairly vicious,” Lyarra comments mildly, watching Harwin unhorse a Baratheon knight. Maris watches with unholy glee while her father looks thunderous at his knight’s mistake. 

 “Mmh. He’s called Breakbones for a reason, Lady Lyarra,” Eleanor teases. 

 The final match is announced, with Ser Gwayne and Ser Hawrin, the Queen’s chosen champion, and the Princess’s. 

 Rhaenyra watches as the two knights charge at each other. The crowd is tense with anticipation. In the first round, Gwayne’s lance barely lands, while Hawin’s lance slams into the centre of Gwayne’s chest, sending Gwayne tumbling into the dirt. 

 The crowd bursts into cheers, though it’s subdued cheering, breaking the morbid silence that cloaked this event. Many of the lords and ladies look conflicted about cheering. 

 “My Princess, there is no crown worthy of your beauty, but I hope that this paltry substitute will do. Please allow me to crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

 Rhaenyra wants to laugh. It’s bad enough that her champion bested Alicent’s, but he’s crowning Rhaenyra during Alicent’s wedding. It is respectful for the champion, during a wedding joust, to crown the bride as the Queen of Love and Beauty, but it’s not customary. 

 The only thing that would make Otto froth at the mouth more is if Daemon was the one crowning Rhaenyra. 

 Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra can see Eleanor mouth the words. Ah, Eleanor must’ve educated her brother on what to say. It’s nice to see two of the Strong siblings on her side, but a quick look at SerLyonel behind her father tells Rhaenyra that he wasn’t informed of his children’s plans. 

 “Thank you, Ser Harwin, for your kindness. You do me a great honour.” Rhaenyra bows her head as Harwin places the crown of sweet-smelling flowers on her head. 

Chapter Text

The grand Sept is hot and dusty; Rhaenyra squirms a little, trying to relieve the tension. The fabric of her dress weighs heavily against her skin in the sweltering heat of the afternoon. 

 Her Father occasionally glances over at her, expressing guilt and other unreadable expressions. Rhaenyra looks at him unimpressed. 

 Does he expect her to be happy on the day that he is marrying her oldest friend? 

 Does he expect her to be happy when she’s all alone in the family section? When Daemon is off fighting while he rolls around in luxury without a lick of guilt. While the Velayrons are insulted and banished from King’s Landing? 

 Does he think Rhaenyra a fool? 

 At least she has Aunt Amanda with her. Rhaenyra is sure that her Father only agreed to this request so that the Royal Family doesn’t look pathetic with only one member in the audience. 

 The rest of her ladies were scattered throughout the Sept, sitting with the other lords and ladies from their respective regions. Rhaenyra isn’t even sure if Emylie was invited to the actual ceremony; Rhaenyra wasn’t in charge of the invitations. 

 Rhaenyra could see Maris scowling next to her older sister, who had an equally impressive scowl, albeit for completely different reasons.  

 The only thing that lightens Rhaenyra’s mood is the abundance of black in the audience. For the first time throughout this whole celebration, she is wearing black. She wants to continue to wear blue, but Aunt Amanda cautions Rhaenyra against it. 

 It’s one thing to wear blue as a protest during the celebrations, but it might prove disastrous for the actual event. The wedding might be about her Father and Alicent, but the focus is on Rhaenyra, so her moves would be more criticized. Otto could easily spin the tale of a bratty princess trying to spurn her new Lady Stepmother. 

 The joust and being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty is already treading into dangerous territory. 

 So, Rhaenyra is wearing black and red—well, it’s more black than red. It’s a heavy black brocade gown encrusted with Dragonglass and rubies. The bodice is a heavily embroidered version of Syrax entwining herself around Rhaenyra’s torso. The sleeves were long enough that they reached Rhaenyra’s thighs. The kirtle and the attached sleeves were blood red with black brocade. The sleeves were bound tightly with glittering Dragonglass bracelets. 

 The worst part of the dress, the part that she regrets commissioning, is the collar. It’s a deep red gauzy fabric that expands from her shoulders and is fastened at the neck with a choker similar to the bracelets but with added gold and red details. The collar frills at the neck, tickling her jaw. The fabric is cut where her bodice ends in a small triangle, showing off her growing assets. 

 But her protest is not forgotten. She’s wearing her mother’s crown, a simple onyx and ruby tiara with gold spikes shooting out. Her earrings, crafted by Edric, match the style of the crown. 

 Perhaps the crown is why her Father keeps giving her guilty looks. Good. 

 She tried to downplay the colours in the dress, but she felt awkward going to a wedding in full mourning attire, so she allowed for more highlights to be added. 

 It seems that the rest of the realm had the same misgivings; most had their House colours sewn in some manner. 

 Rhaenyra discreetly twisted one of her heavy rings, wanting to get this stupid ceremony over. 

 Was it Alicent or Otto who made everyone wait for the bride to show up? Rheanyra had come with her Father, passing out coin with her ladies to the smallfolk who gathered to watch the procession, so it’s not like Rhaenyra has been here for long. 

 Finally, the doors creak open, signalling that Alicent is here. 

 Rhaenyra sighs and stands with the rest of the crowd, looking at the Sept’s entrance. 

 Alicent, guided by her Father, began the walk down the aisle. She looks decidedly uncomfortable in her wedding gown. She’s wearing an off-white cream dress and a pale gold kirtle with white dragons embroidered along the gown, dancing around tower motifs. Along the collar of the bodice, large bronze dragons circle her collarbones, and the draping sleeves are crimson red. Her hair is intricately woven into a bronze headpiece, which is essentially a bunch of bronze spikes welded together and a roaring dragon at the base. 

 It’s not a bad outfit. Rhaenyra would consider wearing it; however, it’s so out of step with what Alicent wears normally that Rhaenyra can tell she’s deeply uncomfortable, and it shows. She walks with an unsure gait that makes the walk take forever. 

 There are a few scattered murmurs throughout the Sept as Alicent walks down the aisle.

 When Alicent spots Rhaenyra, a brief scowl flickers over her comely features before returning into a serene smile. 

 She must still be mad that Rhaenyra declined the invitation to help dress her for her wedding. It’s tradition for the female members of the groom to help the bride prepare for her wedding, and since Rhaenyra was the only female Targaryen member. 

 Otto was incensed that Rhaenyra shot down this demand during a ‘family’ dinner, but her Father dismissed Otto’s demands that Rhaenyra attend to his daughter. Apparently, it would be too much for her young self to attend to her Father’s new bride as she’s still mourning her mother. 

 Otto was also mad that Rhaenyra kept wearing blue, but Rhaenyra argued that it was just a colour, one that complimented her complexion very much. 

 Her Father, who lacked any understanding of courtly subtlety, sides with Rhaenyra. 

 Once Alicent reaches the high altar and faces her Father, Rhaenyra stops paying attention. The High Septon, being dragged there by Lord Hightower, begins the long, flowery speech that accompanies southern weddings. 

 A nudge from Aunt Amanda pulls Rhaenyra into the present when the handfasting begins. 

 The High Septon studiously wraps Alicent and her Father’s hands together, proclaiming them husband and wife. Rhaenyra cringes when the High Septon pronounced that the King may kiss his bride; Alicent looks to be five seconds away from hurling. Father must’ve not noticed it as he presses a chaste kiss to her lips. 

 Rhaenyra is sympathetic to Alicent’s plight. Being married to a man old enough to be her Father is what Rhaenyra is most terrified of. Or being married to Jason Lannister and being humiliated by his continual preference for his mistress over his Lady Wife. 

 She, Aunt Amanda, and, unfortunately, Otto follow Father and Alicent out of the Sept and into waiting wheelhouses for them. As the newlywed couple, Father and Alicent were sequestered into an open-top wheelhouse, and the rest of the family was pushed into another. 

 Rhaenyra deftly ignores Otto and turns to the waiting crowd. She happily waved as some servants that she’d recruited earlier were handing out more coin. 

 Both Emylie and Lyarra pushed her to go, in Rhaenyra’s opinion, overboard with the money; their whole performance was getting the smallfolk to like her. Eleanor agreed with them, pointing out Queen Alysanne’s still-shining reputation, despite some of her less-than-stellar choices, because of her attention to both the nobles and the smallfolk. Eventually, Rhaenyra agreed and went with the whole performance.   

 Aunt Amanda is a silent but comforting presence by her side as Otto watches Rhaenyra with calculating eyes. Rhaenyra tries to ignore him and focuses on waving to the cheering smallfolk. 

                                                                                                                                                                  **** 

 The concluding feast of the wedding ceremony is about as fun as the opening ceremony, meaning it’s horrid. 

 There’s a troop of minstrels playing music. Still, despite how cheerful the music is, the atmosphere remains dense and heavy. 

 What everyone is murmuring is where Alicent is. 

 She’s the guest of honour. The new Queen and she can’t even deign to show up? 

 Rhaenyra giggles at the displeased mutters around her. “I wonder what is keeping Her Majesty,” Jeyne mutters. Aunt Amanda tuts disapprovingly at Jayne’s tartness but doesn’t scold her, given that she, too, is rather displeased with Alicent’s actions. 

 “Queen Alicent Hightower, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!” The Usher announces, and the crowd silences. 

 Alicent comes slowly, strutting in with her head held high. She looks around the room with contempt in her eyes. 

 Rhaenyra arches an eyebrow at Alicent. She changed in the few short hours between the wedding and the feast. 

 She is no longer wearing her wedding dress but a deep ruby-red dress with burgundy brocade and low-hanging sleeves showing off her bare arms. What stands out is her neckline, which deviates from her traditional conservative necklines. It’s a low scoop neckline, showing off her chest. The front is laced together like a corset, and she’s not wearing an underdress, showing parts of her navel. 

 Her hair is done up in Valyarian flight braids, pulled tight against her scalp despite Alicent never having gone flying in her life. The complexity of the braids is lost in her dark, auburn hair. Atop her head is a gold and red crown with seven stars, referencing her apparent piety, mounted along pikes shooting out of the crown.

 Alicent is trying to send a message, much like she did in Rhaenyra’s dream, but this time it’s different. She’s trying to portray herself as the matriarch of House Targaryen, a Queen of the blood. 

 Rhaenyra wonders if Otto put Alicent up to this, or did she think of this all by herself? 

 A quick glance at the dais told Rhaenyra that Otto didn’t plan this. His displeasure radiated off of him. 

 Beside her, Jeyne sniggers beside Rhaenyra; Rhaenyra turns and gives Jeyne a silent question. “Red might be one of the colours of House Targaryen, my Princess, but it is associated with the lord’s mistress, especially at his wedding.” 

 “Girls,” Aunt Amanda hisses at their giggling. 

 Combined with the rumours that Alicent was sneaking into the King’s chambers to provide him ‘comfort’ and her brazenly wearing red at her wedding, it is tantamount to proclaiming her ruined virtue, no matter if she bleeds tonight. 

Rhaenyra spots Eleanor, in between her brothers, whip out a small notebook and scribble something down; she must be recording the event for Alador and his friends to spread around. Larys then nudges her, and Eleanor slips her notebooks back into her dress. 

 Alicent finally made her way up to the dias, pressing a kiss to Father’s cheek and settling down in her seat. 

 The crowd remains silent as Father stands, goblet in hand. He clears his throat and gives them an awkward smile. “I would like to…thank you all for coming and celebrating my marriage. I would’ve thought that the next Royal marriage would be my daughter’s, Princess Rhaenyra. But, here is to my new wife, Lady Alicent Hightower!” 

 Muted cheers scatter throughout the hall. Rhaenyra takes a sip of her wine, prepared to have several more once the toasts start. 

 A second later, after Father sat, Alicent stands, goblet in hand. She smiles tersely; this must be taking up more courage than she can muster at the crowd. “I, too, would like to thank everyone who came to celebrate my wedding. I am grateful to see how many dear friends have shown up to celebrate this achievement.” The hall grows tense, people looking around at each other, sensing her underlying meaning. Alicent takes a deep breath, the hand holding the goblet shaking slightly, “I would also like to thank the Seven who are One for blessing this marriage, and I hope the many sons we have in the future.” 

 There’s some confused clapping from the audience and the harsh whispering scattering across the hall. 

 Father, enamoured with his new bride, claps enthusiastically. 

 Rhaenyra taps a bejewelled finger against her goblet, and a second later, she, too, stands. She wasn’t going to let Alicent get the last word. She holds up her goblet, and with a cheerful smile, she toasts the couple. “I would like to congratulate my Father and his new bride. After my mother’s death, it felt as if I lost both my parents, but seeing him with you, Lady Alicent, it is like new life breathed into him. I know you will satisfy my Father well, as you always executed your tasks well when we shared lessons.” 

 Rhaenyra speaks with such cheerfulness through clenched teeth that both her Father and Alicent give her a bright, thankful smile. The comment has gone over their heads despite having mentioned her mother and Alicent’s former employment. A couple of people seem to understand her references if the smattering of hushed sniggers indicates anything. 

 “What in the Seven hells prompted you to do this?” Aunt Amanda hisses as Jason Lannister drunkenly gets up to give a toast. 

 “I couldn’t…it felt like a fucking dig at my mother, I couldn’t allow her the last word.” Rhaenyra twisted one of her rings, unable to look at her. 

 Aunt Amanda’s face softens, but she still looks displeased. “The Hand certainly noticed, you will have to be on your best behavior. Do you understand?” Rhaenyra nods, ashamed. She shouldn’t have done that, she was already pushing boundaries with this whole plan, but she just couldn’t allow Alicent to get away with that shit. 

 She remains silent as the toasts go on, each of them becoming bawdier than the next. Rhaenyra braves the Great Hall until some of the Lords start calling for the bedding. She quietly excuses herself, not wanting to be around for this. With Aunt Amanda by her side, Rhaenyra quietly heads to her rooms.

Chapter Text

Life after the wedding, thankfully, went back to normal despite a Keep full of nobles. Rhaenyra goes to her lessons with Maris and Eleanor and greets either Ser Criston, Ser Erryk, or Ser Rowlf. 

She felt bad that a son of a Lord Paramount had to stand guard outside her rooms. She was taught to respect anyone from one of the great houses, and yet he was relegated to standing in front of a door. But, as he cheerfully put it, all he has to do is stand in front of a door for a few hours and have a great reputation at court. It was a win-win since so little had access to the Crown Princess. Plus, she’s seen how he watches Brealla when they come into contact. 

 Rowlf is a little strange, far from the taciturn nature of Ser Erryk or the intense personality of Criston, but she likes his cheerful nature.

 Perhaps when she gets a few more personal guards, she won’t feel bad as he won’t be so lonely. She’d make him captain of her guards, being the son of a Lord Paramount and all. 

She then goes into her quarters to find the rest of her ladies working on their own projects. 

 Lyarra had gone to Lord Beesbury and gotten a detailed ledger on Rhaenyra’s accounts and Dragonstone’s coffers and spent many afternoons pouring over the ledgers, trying to understand the flow of income and where best to invest it.  

 Emylie was going through Rhaenyra’s closet and trinket room; Rhaenyra didn’t have a good term for that room, filled with expensive fabrics and jewels that she’d gotten as gifts, most of them coming from Daemon, and valuing the worth of everything she’s accumulating. Sometimes, she draws Brealla into this task, and the two of them often argue over the popularity of one such thing or another. 

 When Rhaenyra introduced the two, she was worried about how they’d react. Half of the time, she can’t tell if they like each other or fully hate the other woman. In the same breath, they’d insult the other and then savagely compliment them. 

 When she is not fighting with Emylie, Brella spends most of her time embroidering and learning the ins and outs of court. 

 Aunt Amanda spends most of her time chatting with the older ladies at court, listening for anything of value that might slip. 

 “So…” Maris draws out as she joins Brealla on the couch, picking up her discarded work. “What’s next?” 

 “What do you mean?” Brealla asks, arching a perfect eyebrow at Maris. 

 Under the scrutiny of the older girls, as both Lyarra and Emylie raise their eyes, questions brimming in them, Maris flushes a splotchy red. “It’s just… I thought that we’d be doing more, given…well….” She glances uncertainly at Rhaenyra. 

 Before Rhaenyra can speak up, Eleanor hums thoughtfully, sitting next to Lyarra. “There is not much we can do. While the Princess is certainly astute enough to join politics already, most heirs don’t enter the political world until they’re at least four-and-ten. Even King Jaehaerys spent much of his minority on Dragonstone. He did receive courtiers, but that was not until his later years.”    

 “Lady Eleanor is right. Reputation is a large quantifier of political clout, especially for women. The Princess needs to be seen as a spotless, hard-working young lady. Going to classes and the Sept goes a long way in building her reputation,” Aunt Amanda instructs. 

 Rhaenyra gives Maris a small smile. “I can’t be seen doing continuous drastic events, or else the Hand will become suspicious. The incident at the wedding can be chalked up to mourning my mother rather than a rallying cry. We need to be sneaky about these things.” 

 Rhaenyra’s heart flutters in her throat. She doesn’t like showing her cards lest the last shreds of her trust be destroyed. She can’t stand the paranoia pushing itself around the crevices of her mind. She feels horrible admitting it, but she’s worried that someone in this room is going to rush to their parents once they break and spill all of Rhaenyra’s remaining secrets. 

 “The Lord Hand’s hackles are certainly up. It is best to stay quiet for the time being,” Brealla muses. 

 “Besides, little fawn, there are ways to help the princess that don’t involve grand schemes.” Maris scowls at Emylie for the use of her despised nickname. Emylie laughs at Maris’s scowl. “Don’t worry, I can teach you.”  

 Lyarra frowns. “While we can’t do anything overt, is there nothing that we can do to solidify the Princess’s position? We don’t know when the Hand will attempt to retaliate.” 

 “Otto probably wouldn’t do anything until Alicent is pregnant. Or if her popularity is still low until a boy is born. We can use that time to shore up my reputation, and after my birthday, we can start getting my name out in public. I’ll have Dragonstone in my possession by then.” Rhaenyra hopes that having something familiar around her will abate some of her feelings of paranoia. 

 “Otto Hightower is an ambitious man, not an impatient one. Alicent’s position is weak, and given her popularity and rumoured ruin, it would be easy, legally at least, to put her aside. Do not let his inaction lull you into a false sense of security,” Aunt Amanda cautions. 

 “How is Dragonstone in your possession?” Lyarra asks, brows furling. 

 “It is written and sealed. Dragonstone is mine and will be passed down to my heirs perpetually.” 

 “Good.” Lyarra nods. 

 Next to her, Emylie is frowning, her eyes lost in thought. 

 “Have something to share, Lady Emylie?” Brealla sniped. 

 “Why a boy?” She murmurs, barely paying attention to the rest of the discussion. 

 “Because it’s Andal tradition.” Brealla rolls her eyes. 

 “But the Princess is Valyarian. The whole royal family is Valyarian. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism proves that the Faith doesn’t see Valyarians the same as Andals, so why should the Valyarians be expected to conform to the rest of Andal tradition?” Emylie asks. 

 “How does Dorne handle female rulers? I thought most lordships, including Starfall, were already standing when the Rhoynar came?” Lyarra asks.

 “They were. In fact, they were mostly Andal lords. Dornish culture is a mix of Rhoynar and Andal customs, and equal primogeniture is one of them. How they accepted it….hmm.” Emylie trails off, going back into deep thought. She then abruptly starts scribbling down something on a spare piece of parchment. “I have some research to do. Princess, does the Royal Library contain texts about the Sept’s history?” 

 Rhaenyra blinks, unsure of the answer. “I would assume so. Either the Royal Sept or the Grand Sept would have records.” 

 “Wonderful.” 

 Everyone watches as Emylie intensely scribbles her thoughts down. 

 Only Eleanor braves Emylie’s wrath and peers at the parchment, nods quietly, and then returns back her seat.

 The room falls into confused silence. None of the other girls had anything else to say. Brealla had gone back to her work, and Eleanor pulled out her notebooks, copied Emylie, and started scribbling down some of her thoughts, but probably from a different train of thought.

 “I’m going flying,” Rhaenyra says, suddenly fed up with everything, the plotting and scheming, pretending everything is fine, when one of Otto’s lackeys conveniently loudly speaks about the sordid details of her father and Alicent’s married life thanks to an overly loud Reach noble. “Would any of you like to come meet Syrax?” 

 Syrax should meet her new ladies so she doesn’t react poorly to them in the future, and, well, Otto has already tried to discredit Rhaenyra; it’s made her take her ladies everywhere with her now, so she has a reliable eyewitness on her behalf. 

 All of them, save for Aunt Amanda, who has met Syrax and politely declines to go again, look incredibly excited at the prospect of meeting a dragon. 

 “You should limit the number going, princess,” Aunt Amanda suggests. “You do not want to overwhelm your dragon.” 

 “Er, right…” Rhaenyra ponders how she’ll make it fair. “I suppose we go in order of who joined my household.” 

 Everyone looks to Emylie. She looks up, eyes wild. A second later, her intense look fades, and she composes herself. “I shouldn’t go. Technically, I’m not a member of your household.” 

 They agreed that Rhaenyra’s acquisition of Emylie, despite having acquired a lady from the Stormlands and the Reach, should be after her birthday. Emylie and Aunt Amanda worried that the southern nobles would react negatively to Emylie joining so soon after Lady Maris and Brealla joined. Rhaenyra feels like it’s all bullshit, and now that she has all her ladies, Emylie should be allowed to join her out in the open and not sulk around in the shadows; she, like all the other ladies, is a trueborn noblewoman, she ought to be able to enjoy the benefits. 

 “You joined first,” Rhaenyra argues mullishly. 

 Brealla scoffs, turning back to her embroidery hoop. “I heard you came crawling, begging to join the Princess.” 

 “What? Like you didn’t? You showed up at the Red Keep, seeing everyone wear black and immediately hopped on the trend, hoping the Princess would spare you a moment of her attention,” Emylie sniped back, looking unbothered. 

 Brealla rolled her eyes. “It worked, didn’t it?” 

 “Pathetically so.” 

 “Girls,” Aunt Amanda admonishes tiredly. 

 Emylie sighs again. “My Princess, I am touched that you are thinking of me but I am fine. I shall enjoy Lady Syrax’s presence at a later date.” 

 “Fine…” Rhaenyra agrees. She pauses for a moment, trying to think of something to mollify her raging indignity on Emylie’s behalf. “But, if you wish, you shall be the first to ride Syrax when she is big enough.” 

 Emylie’s normally composed face breaks into a soft grin. “Thank you, my princess. You are terribly kind.” 

 Rhaenyra smiles, the weight lifting in her chest. “Alright, Eleanor. Would you like to join me?” 

 Eleanor looks up in surprise but grins nonetheless. “I would love to.”  

                                                                                                  ****

 “Oh, she’s lovely,” Eleanor cooes softly when they reach the Dragonpit and spots Sryax coming up from her lair, guided by the Dragonkeepers. 

 Rhaenyra fluffs up in pride at the praise for her lady. Sryax is a lovely golden bronze with peach-orange frills along the top of her neck and membrane. She reminds Rhaenyra of a sunset. 

 Syrax spots Eleanor, a new, unknown person and rears up in displeasure. “Sryax, lykirī. ” Sryax huffs in displeasure but doesn’t calm. “ Lykirī ! Sryax, raqiros ! Raqiros !” That calms Sryax down; she’s no longer rearing up in displeasure but is still shifting uncertainty; the Dragonkeepers dance out of the way of her agitated wings. 

 Rhaenyra takes Eleanor’s hand to show that she is not a threat but a friend and makes her way to Sryax. Eleanor’s face pales at the proximity, but she resolutely keeps marching, keeping up with Rhaenyra. 

 Syrax tenses, her bright eyes watching Eleanor make her way over. Her body goes bone tight when Rhaenyra places Eleanor’s hand on her snout, calmly soothing Sryax in high Valyarian. 

 “Thank you, Princess…I never thought that I would have this honour. She is absolutely stunning.” 

 Rhaenyra can hear the hesitance in her voice. “But?” Rhaenyra prompts. 

 Eleanor flushes, stepping back from Sryax, who’s becoming flustered again. “I know very little about Dragon growth, only what my brother and Maester told me, but isn’t she a little small?” 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips. Eleanor isn’t wrong. During the Dance, despite being an adult Dragon, Sryax was one of the smaller ones. This was part of the reason many of her war councillors didn’t want Rhaenyra going into battle. “You’re not wrong. I cannot say that I am an expert in Dragon growth either. I have always assumed that different Dragons have different growth patterns.” 

 “Well, it’s just…” Eleanor looks a little hesitant. “One of my cousins he is fond of animals and has a theory concerning growth. He believes that if animals are grown without constrictions, they grow larger than their counterparts who grow in cages.”

 Rhaenyra has grown uncomfortable with the Dragonpit ever since the Dreams. Her family’s legacy is buried under rubble because they couldn’t escape, and her darling Sryax is facing the same issue and dying because of it. 

 She purses her lips, thinking over Eleanor’s suggestion. “I’ll bring it up with my father. I know dragons on Dragonstone live unchained. The same on Driftmark.” 

 “You are also the only dragon rider in King’s Landing. Surely that can help as well?” 

 Rhaenyra shrugs, unsure. “Dreamfyre also lives here.”

 “If it pleases you, I shall write to my cousin to see if he has research to help you with your case.” 

 “That would be very helpful; thank you, Eleanor.” 

 She smiles sweetly at Rhaenyra. “Have a wonderful flight, my Princess.” 

                                                                                                                     ****

 The princess has begun to grow into a magnificent young woman, and Criston is pleased to serve such a wonderful mistress. She has such a kind heart, even forgiving that tart, Queen Alicent, when she did something so horrific to her mistress. He can’t believe that her wrongdoings allowed her to become Queen; the Seven must be horrified. 

 Criston is convinced that the Princess's past suffering at the hands of the Queen is the sole reason for her decision to include Lady Dayne in her household. A Dornish! The Princess's tender heart is a cause for concern; he fears that others, like Lady Dayne, will exploit her. 

 She’s just like one of those Dornish snakes, luring people in with brilliant hues and diminutive size, and once their guard is lowered, they’ll strike. 

 He wouldn’t let the Princess repeat her past mistakes. Throughout the wedding festivities, he was a vigilant guardian, his eyes never leaving Lady Dayne. 

 He watched her glide from group to group, twisting the fools around her slender, adorned fingers. He didn’t know what she promised them, but he knew that it was nothing good. 

 “Ser Criston.” A soft voice breaks him out of his musings. He’s guarding the Princess’s door, arriving to replace Ser Erryk a few hours ago. 

 Approaching the Princess’s chambers is Lady Dayne. 

 Criston holds back a sneer. He’d heard fools moon over the supposed beauty of Lady Dayne, but she’s nothing remarkable. Her face is long and bony, her cheekbones sharpy jutting out, causing her nose to appear larger. At least her mouth is lush and plump; men did like such a thing. Her eyes are the worst; they’re the deepest purple, and they’re constantly analyzing what’s in front of him. 

 Queen Alicent is a horrid woman, but at least she has the sense to dress modestly, and the final ball is not included. Perhaps that is why it took everyone so long to clue in that she is nothing more than a whore. 

 “Lady Dayne.” 

 “I wanted to speak to you if you do not mind.” 

 Of course, he minds, but Criston cannot say that to one of his mistress’s ladies. So he humbly bows his head. “You may.” 

 “Ser Rowlf, do you mind giving us a few moments?” Lady Dayne asks Criston’s companion softly. 

 Ser Rowlf gives Lady Dayne a jaunty nod. “I suppose I could do a lap or two around the halls.” 

 “Thank you, Ser Rowlf.” He grins and whistles as he walks down the hall. 

 Ser Rowlf is yet another creature that endlessly annoys Criston. The second son of Lord Tully was introduced into Rhaenyra’s household not long after the wedding ended. It grates on Criston’s nerves that it was no longer believed that he could guard the Princess safely by himself. 

 Maybe if the King hadn’t named her Heir, then there wouldn’t be so much attention on her, needing fewer guards. 

 Lady Dayne hesitated for a moment before taking in a deep breath. “I know that you have little reason to trust me, Ser Criston, and I wish to settle your nerves. Princess Rhaenyra has taken pity on me, and I wish to repay her by any means.”

 “Lady Dayne, do you know why I do not trust you?” 

 She inclines her head softly. “It is along the veins of our ‘Dornish bravery.’ The rest of Westeros sees us as manipulative snakes ready to plunge a dagger into the backs of our masters merely to advance ourselves in court.” 

 Criston readies himself to respond in the affirmative when Lady Dayne’s description defines what Queen Alicent did down to the finest details. She broke the Princess’s trust, causing the Princess to refuse to leave her rooms for days, drowning her sorrows with her tears. Her lovely lilac eyes were bruised red from crying, and despite it all, the Princess still put on a brave face every day, trying to go on with her life. 

 And suddenly he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t really say that just the Dornish were like that, making him a hypocrite, as both of them know what the Queen did to gain her title. 

 “Rest assured, Ser Criston, I do not want to advance myself in court; I like being a lady-in-waiting to the Princess. She is a very kind mistress.” 

 Of course, she’s kind. It’s the Princess. She’d never do anything to endanger someone else. 

 “As a lady-in-waiting, negative sentiment directed towards my mistress is reflected upon me as well. I came to King’s Landing to both serve the Princess and find a good husband. I will not be able to fulfil this objective if the court sees me as a lying harlot.” 

 True…

 Criston gives Lady Dayne some credit for trying to fulfil the role of a noblewoman appropriately despite her heritage. 

 “I understand that we will not be friends, but I hope that we can work together, at least, to protect our lady.” 

 His lady. Lady Dayne shouldn’t have the honour of calling the Princess her lady. 

 “Fine,” Criston bites out, only because he knows that the Red Keep is not welcoming the Princess currently. He didn’t want to have to deal with yet another problem.

 Lady Dayne gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Ser Criston; it’s a comfort to have your seal of acceptance.” 

 Criston grunts, eyes scanning the hall for any wandering servants. “Do not misunderstand this trust, Lady Dayne. I am only accepting your presence because there are worse influences for the Princess than you.”  

 He had already heard about the incident with the Lord Hand misunderstanding the meaning of the merchant’s, who is Lady Dayne’s cousin, visit to the Princess. The Princess is lucky that the Lord Hand and her father were so understanding and didn’t accidentally let this spread. It could’ve ruined the Princess. Unlike the Dornish Lady Dayne, who probably doesn’t care much for her virtue, the Princess’s virtue must be protected at all costs. 

 “I understand.” Her voice is quiet. 

 He glances over to her; her head is slightly bowed, and her hands are clasped together. At least she looks properly chastised. 

 “Be better than the last lady-in-waiting, Lady Dayne, and I won’t have any issues with you.” 

 Lady Dayne scoffs. “Please, she’s merely a pawn in the grand scheme.” 

 A pawn? Criston arches an eyebrow at her, sending her a silent question. 

 “Ser Criston,” Lady Dayne sighs. “She was known for her demure and pious nature and then suddenly shows up in the King’s Chamber?” 

 On instinct, Criston opens his mouth for a rebuttal but closes it because she’s not wrong. He hadn’t been on the job long before this scandal erupted, but he thought that he knew Lady Alicent well enough to agree that she preferred to be in the Princess’s shadow, happily trailing after her to their shared classes. Her actions with the King were out of the ordinary to her standard personality. 

 But who would push the Queen to enter the King’s chambers? Someone would have to put that thought in her ears to encourage her. 

 “I only voice this thought, Ser Criston, because I am worried that whoever did this is coming for the Princess. If the Queen gives birth to a son, then the Princess’s reputation is at stake.” 

 As lovely as the Princess is, Criston doesn’t think that she should become Queen Regnant. 

Already, the stress has been hard on her. No, she should not have to worry about politics; instead, she should be tending to her future children and adorn herself with the most beautiful fabrics and gems. 

 But his duty is not to dictate the Princess’s actions. He is to protect her no matter what she does. 

 “Thank you, Lady Dayne, for the warning. I’ll be sure to keep a stronger eye out.” 

 Lady Dayne curtsyes. “I am merely doing the duty requested of me. Good day, Ser Criston.” 

                                                                                                                                         ****

The first ladies’ court after the wedding is very advantageous. Amanda smiles at the rim of her wine. Unlike most ladies’ court days, there was a sudden influx of ladies from across the realm. It is a perfect opportunity for Amanda to scope out allies for Rhaenyra. Beside her, Jeyne is casting a critical look around the ladies under her bored expression, and in the distance, Lady Emylie is sitting among other foreign courtiers; normally, these courtiers wouldn’t be invited, but since the Red Keep is hosting them for the Royal Celebrations, it would be rude not to invite him. Rhaenyra, Maris, and Eleanor are at their lessons; Brealla and Lyarra should be here, but they are currently entertaining the younger girls while Rhaenyra is indisposed. 

 “It was such a beautiful sight,” Lady Redwyne waxed lyrically about the wedding, ignoring the fact that they were trying to discuss the newest trend in art: a risqué style from Essos where sculptures carved their subjects nude or semi-clothed.  “I was worried that I wouldn’t live to see the next Royal Wedding, but I was worried for nothing!” 

 That is clearly a dig towards Rhaenyra and her status as a maiden. Amanda has to take a steadying breath to avoid snapping at Lady Redwyne. Rhaenyra is still too young to be bedded. Amanda has a lot of problems with the King, but at least he learnt from bedding her sweet sister too early. 

 “It was enjoyable,” Lady Emylie agrees. Amanda shares a look with Jeyne, wondering where Lady Emylie is going with this. “But, there is something that I am confused about, if I may?” 

 “What is it, Lady Dayne?” Amanda asks, playing along. 

 “Everyone made such a stir about the Queen wearing red. Forgive my ignorance, but why are people so shocked over a colour?” 

 At this point, Amanda shouldn’t be surprised. 

 There’s a pointed silence in the crowd as Lady Emylie brings this up. Ladies’ court is supposed to be about the realm, just like a regular court. Often, they touch on subjects created due to gossip, but they don’t spend their sessions gossiping if it can be avoided, but the Seven know that they often spiral into meaningless gossip despite best efforts. 

 Jeyne clears her throat, setting down her wine. “It seems that Her Majesty wanted to announce to the Realm that she was the new matriarch of House Targaryen.” 

 “Is she not?” Lady Emylie’s face is a perfect replica of innocence. “Forgive me for my ignorance. It seems that there are still some nuances that I am missing.” 

 “You are forgiven, Lady Dayne, as your people are ruled under a principality and don’t have this,” Lady Florent assures her. 

 It’ll be a shame when the Florents leave the Red Keep; Lady Florent is very sharp. Amanda hasn’t told her that Lady Emylie is on their side, but she grabs onto chances when she can.

 “A Lady can marry the King but cannot marry the Royal name. She will retain her father’s name. Take my dear aunt, Queen Aemma. She was queen for years but still retained the last name Arryn. The Queen is still a Hightower, and it would be best if she remembers that.” Jeyne rolls her eyes at the obvious power play. 

 “It seems quite rude to do that when the only child of House Targaryen is the Princess, especially when she lost her mother so recently.” Lady Corbray tuts. 

 “The poor dear. The Keep has become so morose as of late; everyone is in mourning with her.” Lady Fell dabs at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. “Everywhere she goes, she’s dressed in black. 

 “She was wearing a very fetching blue at the wedding,” Lady Peake snaps, absently rubbing her swollen belly. 

 “Is the Princess supposed to wear mourning garb to her father’s wedding?” Jeyne asks. “What bad luck that would be. It would be wishing ill on her father.” 

 “And why did you wear black then, Lady Arryn?” Lady Peake scowls at Jeyne. “Are you wishing ill on the King and his marriage?” 

 “The Princess may be my cousin, Lady Peake, but I am not kin with the King. I was able to mourn my aunt without having to worry about the King’s future.” Jeyne is a wonderful Lady, but she has always lacked patience, much like her father. Amanda idly wonders if the Princess’s temperament came from the Arryn side of her family instead of the Targaryen, despite both House’s temperaments skipping Aemma, as everyone thought. 

 Lady Baratheon, who is sitting next to Lady Redwyne, sets down her wine. “We ought to be more forgiving; the Queen is inexperienced but determined. I, for one, am delighted to see that quality in the monarchy.” Ladies Peake and Redwyne murmur their agreement. 

 “Yes, determined. What an interesting way to put it, Lady Baratheon.” Jeyne flashes a dangerous grin at Lady Baratheon. 

 Lady Baratheon scowls at Jeyne, glaring at her. A lower-standing lady would’ve balked at the wife of the Lord Paramount, but Jeyne is a Lady Paramount in her own right, higher than Lady Baratheon, meaning that none of Lady Bartheon’s prestige holds power over her. 

 Towards the back, Amanda can see Emylie watching the proceedings with hawkish interest. Her innocuous comment has highlighted the division in court. 

 Amanda is surprised that no Westerland lady hasn’t put forth their opinion; they seem content watching the proceedings. She supposes that Lord Lannister’s infatuation with the Princess is well known, and the Westerland nobles probably don’t want to get on the bad side of a potential wife of the Lord Paramount. 

 Lady Baratheon’s position is not a surprise; Amanda is a little disappointed but not surprised. She’s written off the Redwynes ages ago. It is shocking that the Peakes side with the Hightowers. Otto and Lord Peake both want power. Currently, Otto monopolizes most of the power in the Red Keep, and Amanda would’ve thought that Lord Peake would oppose him, attempting to take power on his own. 

“Your Majesty!” 

 Everyone stands, and curtseys as Queen Alicent makes her way into the gardens where they’re holding court. Beside her, Lady Hightower follows with her nose in the air. It is curious to see the Queen sporting a red kirtle under a dress of white and grey silk. Amanda sees that she’s still trying to make a statement. 

 “Greetings, Your Majesty,” Amanda intones.  

 The corners of the Queen’s lips turn up. “Greetings. I heard that the ladies’ court was taking place, and I thought I would visit. I was surprised to learn that the ladies’ court was ongoing without the Queen’s presence.”

 Several ladies in court shifted uncomfortably. Yes, traditionally, the Queen runs the ladies’ court, but often, Queen Alyssane was on tour or bedridden during her pregnancies or in old age. Aemma couldn't hold court because of her condition, so she delegated this to Amanda, who reported back to Aemma. Other ladies looked annoyed at the Queen’s ire. Married for less than a sennight, and Queen acts like this, with no respect for the ladies of the court. 

 “Forgive us, Your Majesty,” Jeyne’s voice is sickly sweet. “But we thought since you were so determined to fulfill your duties that it was unwise to disturb you.” There were a few scattered giggles from the assembled ladies. 

 Queen Alicent forces a brief smile. “That’s understandable. His Majesty and I, after all, were focused on making the heir to the throne.” She briefly touches her belly.

 “You mean, an heir. The Heir to the Iron Throne is the Princess Rhaenyra.” Jeyne arches an eyebrow at the Queen.

 Queen Alicent flushes red at her mistake, especially when a few ladies start whispering. “Yes, my mistake. Forgive me,” she simpers. “It’s been a tiring sennight.” She waves a hand, and a chair is placed next to Lady Redwyne. The queen settles into her seat as Lady Hightower stands behind her. 

 It's amusing to see Lady Hightower stare them down imperiously when she’s the one standing like a common servant. 

 “Now, what were are you discussing?”

 Amanda clears her throat before anyone else can. “The current trend that’s migrated from Essos, sculptors call the trend ‘ideal nudity.’ Apparently, some artists have taken inspiration from Old Valyria and are creating works of art where the subject is in the nude.” 

 The Queen wrinkles her nose. “Not to…demean the artists, but isn’t it an improper subject?” 

 “Improper? How so?” Jeyne is one of the few women in this group who can reasonably stand against the Queen. Lady Baratheon could, as well, but from what Amanda has seen, she won’t. 

 “It is best not to portray immodest topics in art, lest we offend the Seven.” 

 “But the Red Keep is filled with Valyrian works of art. Are you saying that the Conquerors and their kin are immodest?” 

 Amanda hides a grin behind her wine as Queen Alicent flounders. “N-No, of course not.” 

 “Then the nudity of this current trend isn’t immodest?” 

 “No!” the Queen takes in a deep breath before continuing. “As the Faith decreed, Valyrians are not subject to the ideals of the Andals. We are Andals and ought to remain faithful to the Seven. We should not scorn their light by bathing in sin for petty trinkets.” 

 There’s some unhappy murmuring from the ladies. Most older ladies were not pleased to be lectured about propriety by a six-and-ten girl caught up in a scandal. The rumours before the marriage could be excused. The newest batch of rumours is that the Queen didn’t bleed during the consummation, leading many to believe that Queen Alicent was giving the King ‘comfort’ before the marriage. 

 “Is nudity a sin?” Lady Emylie asks. Everyone looks over at her, and she taps her chin in thought. 

 “Of course it is!”

 “Adultery and sex outside of marriage is considered a sin, but is the act of being naked a sin in itself?” Lady Emylie asks, ignoring the Queen. 

 “Hm, you may have a point, Lady Dayne,” Lady Florent mildly agrees. “Too often, we equate being nude with sex. But for the life of me, I do not think that nakedness is a sin. After all, the Seven govern our bodies. Are we saying that the work of the gods is inherently sinful?” 

 “I have seen Statues of the Maiden depicted as a nubile young woman, her…assets prominent given the thin dress she’s sporting,” Jeyne adds. “Surprisingly, I’ve seen the Warrior depicted in such a way. I asked the man who commissioned the painting, and he told me that it was to portray the fear that men going to battle have, having to face an enemy in such a weakened state, and that they can persevere despite the disadvantage.” 

 “How long was his sword?” One lady calls. 

 Jeyne winks in the direction of the call. “ Very long,” she quips, ignoring the Queen’s indignant gasp. The group dissolves in laughter; married ladies love bawdy jokes. 

 “We are to dress modestly to ensure we do not invoke the lusts of the opposite sex,” Queen Alicent argues. 

There are a few incredulous looks sent towards the Queen. After all, she was found in the King’s Chamber wearing a gown that a maiden, especially one as pious as the Queen, shouldn’t be wearing. Jeyne snorts at the statement, earning a dirty look from Lady Hightower. 

 “Lust is a sin, yes, but why is it on the other person to prevent someone from sinning? And why would a body made of stone inflect lust? It simply portrays us in our natural form.” Lady Emylie asks. 

 “I’m not surprised you have this attitude, Lady Dayne. Given your Dornish heritage,” Lady Hightower sneers at Lady Emylie. 

 “My Dornish heritage?” Lady Emylie asks, a mild look of surprise gracing her features. Amanda is quite amused at the look, for she knows it’s all a disguise. The real Emylie Dayne is not as deceptively innocent, but her act has caught a couple of ladies’ sympathies. Lady Emylie has tricked many people into thinking she’s a simple-minded girl looking for a good husband. It’s quite convincing. 

 The Queen sniffs. “The Rhoynar have many ideals that are not compatible with Andal customs.”

 “But…Your Majesty… I am an Andal.” 

 “It is a sin to lie, Lady Dayne.” Lady Baretheon glares at Lady Emylie. “We all know our histories. The Rhyonar invaded Dorne and settled it for themselves.” 

 Lady Emylie blinks. “Well, yes. That part did happen, but have you all forgotten that several Andal adventurers made Dorne their home before the Rhyonar? My ancestors settled the Kingdom of the Torretine around the same time that your ancestors created their kingdom, Your Majesty, long before the Rhyonar, and they followed the Faith of the Seven…because they were Andals.” Lady Emylie’s face is soft, and she gives the Queen a confused look. 

 The Queen looks displeased at Lady Emylie’s lecture. She stands, discarding the wine brought to her and gazes coldly at the group. “I think that this group has strayed from its intended purpose if this is what it discusses. I think that it would be best if we did not convene for a while. I do hope that you will take this time and pray to the Seven for your forgiveness.” She brushes off her skirt and marches off without another word, Lady Hightower following quickly. 

 All the eyes turned to Lady Emylie, whose eyes had gone shiny. She sniffles, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.  “Forgive me, my ladies. I only meant my words in an academic debate. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Her voice wobbles, and she buries her face with her hands. 

 “Don’t fret, dear,” Lady Fell assures her, moving over and embracing the woman. 

 Amanda didn’t think Lady Emylie was truly sorry for what happened; she thought she meant every single second the Queen was here. Amanda knew that the Queen valued the Faith but to this degree? It’s unsettling how fast the Queen became angered at an opposing opinion, and dismissing the ladies in such a fashion is ill-advised. It hasn’t yet occurred to the Queen that she shouldn’t be focusing on gaining power over the maidens of the court but on the married ladies, as she is now in their stage of life. The disrespect of ignoring and belittling established ladies will cause her downfall. Amanda can see it already: the displeasing pursed lips of some of the women, the sympathetic looks shooting towards Lady Dayne, and even Lady Baratheon looked disgruntled at being dismissed like that. 

 “It’s alright, Lady Dayne. You did not mean your words; it was a mistake. Who amongst us hasn’t erred before?” 

 Lady Dayne sniffles pathetically. “Thank you, Lady Arryn, that is very kind of you.” 

 “Do you think the Queen means it?” Lady Florent asks quietly. “The ladies’ court has been happening since the Good Queen formed it.” 

 There are a few murmurs. None of them wanted to be just married ladies; many of them gained influence through the ladies’ court. 

 “I’m sure that the Queen will be merciful. I will speak with the Princess about asking her Father and Queen to be lenient.” 

 “Thank you, Lady Arryn.” Lady Fell brightens at Amanda’s suggestion. Even the surly Lady Redwyne looks mollified at the suggestion. 

 Honestly, Amanda wants more ladies’ court sessions with the Queen. If this is how the Queen is going to act, Amanda will have no trouble collecting influence. It’ll make finding allies that much easier. After several long years of conducting these sessions, Amanda understands that soft, honeyed words are better than a firm grasp; these women want to be heard and to feel important so that all the pain they went through to raise the next generation of Lords is worth it. Perhaps the Queen will learn this, but by the time she learns this, it’ll be too late.  

Chapter Text

Spending evenings with her ladies has replaced meals with her father, as he’s become very interested in his new bride, and Rhaenyra can’t bring herself to care. She should, the Hightowers, have swooped in and taken the last bits of her family from her, but here, in her solar, Rhaenyra can’t help but feel more relaxed than in the presence of her father.

She’s curled up on the sofa, trudging through a thick tome of the realm’s laws recommended to her by Lord Lyonel, the others scattered around the solar occupied by their own hobbies. Aunt Amanda had drifted over to Brealla and Maris to work on their embroidery, and Eleanor and Lyarra were sitting at the table, writing in their respective notebooks.

Emylie is off somewhere. She’s been absent for the past couple of days, and Rhaenyra idly wonders where she is.

She nearly jumps out of her skin in shock when the door slams open. Brealla even curses when Emylie comes rushing into the room, a wild grin etched across her face. “I found it!” Rowlf trailing behind her, his face a mask of confusion.

“Lady Dayne!” Aunt Amanda scolds, clutching her chest. “For a lady who is trying to rehabilitate the image of the Dornish, you are acting quite uncouth.”

“I am very sorry, Lady Amanda, Princess.” Emylie curtseys, her wild grin still unrepentant.

There’s silence for a heartbeat before Aunt Amanda’s stern facade fades, giving way to a rather amused grin, and she pats the spot next to her. “Well, do tell us. It’s terribly uncouth for you to leave us in the dark.”

Rowlf, ever dutiful, goes over to where the drinks rested and pours Emylie a glass of sweetened wine and then one for himself. She accepts the wine gratefully, taking a large drink.

Rhaenyra puts down her book, holy engaged in whatever Emylie is about to tell them. Everyone else follows suit, putting down their projects, eager to learn what Emylie’s been so secretive.

Emylie smooths down her skirt and daintily sits next to Aunt Amanda. “Well, when we were talking about the hypothetical son and the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, it got me thinking.”

“A rare occurrence,” Brealla mutters. It tells Rhaenyra a lot about Emylie’s state of mind when she merely flaps a hand at Brealla before continuing.

“Anyways, then Lyarra asked how the Andal Dornish dealt with female heirship, and honestly, I didn’t know. So I went looking. By the way, my Princess, the Royal Library has little information on Dornish history, so I had to send a raven to Grandsire. Essentially, the Dornish bowed to Nymeria’s rule because she conquered them, and she married Mors Maretll, but her daughter, Lady Allyria Martell, didn’t have the same protections. So, to prevent the Lords from declaring for Lord Vorian Dayne, her youngest child but only son, as Andal tradition dictates, she wrote to the High Septon and asked for an exception. Lady Allyria wasn’t a follower of the Seven, but many of her Lords were. In return for her conversion, the High Septon declared that Dorne, due to the influx of Rhoynish settlers, was exempt from the rule that sons come before daughters.”

Lyarra frowns, tapping her quill against the table. “That’s very similar to the arguments used in the Doctrine of Exceptionalism.”

Emylie nods, the manic look still in her eyes, while Aunt Amanda purses her lips, thinking over Emylie’s tale.

“Why wasn’t I taught this? My Septa taught me about Dorne and Nymeria’s conquest.” Rhaenyra asks.

“I wasn’t taught it either, and I was given a very strong theological background,” Brella adds, looking terribly confused.

Emylie shrugs. “I can only assume that it was because it was seven hundred years ago; that’s why it might’ve been forgotten. And, well, equal primogeniture isn’t as shocking as the right to being able to sleep with your sibling.”

Rhaenyra snorts at Emylie’s bluntness while Maris breaks into unrestrained giggles. “Yes, I can understand that.”

“You should speak to the High Septon, my Princess.”

“Pardon?” Rhaenyra blinks in confusion.

“That’s not an awful suggestion. Lord Hightower then wouldn’t be able to have a ‘lawful’ reason to usurp the throne,” Lyarra adds.

“It might backfire,” Eleanor argues. “The High Septon and the Hightowers are typically very close.”

“While the Hightowers and the Faith enjoy a friendly relationship, the situation that you’re describing, Lady Eleanor, only really applies when the High Septon is a Hightower. Unlike the Citadel, which largely depends on the donations of the Hightowers, the Faith operates independently, thanks to donations from across the realm, not just those from the Hightower. As far as I know, there are a few Hightowers in the Most Devout, but the current High Septon is from House Tyrell.”

Rhaenyra sighs, rubbing her forehead. This is just like the Kingsguard all over again. The Kingsguard, Maesters, and Septons were all supposed to give up their last names and house pride when they entered their respective positions, but even then, politics still rage widely.

“Must I say this again, pardon?” Rhaenyra asks.

“You should speak to the High Septon, my Princess, about expanding the Doctrine of Exceptionalism,” Emylie explains.

Rhaenyra groans, leaning back on her couch. “I’ve never been particularly religious; I don’t think that the High Septon will expand the doctrine. Especially if the Queen gives birth to a son.” And if the future goes as the dreams go, then Alicent will become pregnant soon, and it’ll be Aegon.

“That’s why you go now, while public sentiment is against the Queen and there is no other heir,” Rowlf pipes up.

Everyone blinks in surprise and looks over to Rowlf. They had forgotten that he was in there, standing silently at the back. He flushes bright red and ducks his head.

“He’s right. You should go sooner rather than later,” Lyarra agrees.

“And it doesn’t matter if you’re particularly religious; there are ways to circumvent it. You’ve been going to the Sept recently, right?” Emylie asks.

“Yes. It’s not a religious thing; I was just trying to annoy Alicent.” Rhaenyra kept going to the Sept, trying to remind Alicent that no matter how hard she tried, Rhaenyra would be there and that Alicent cannot escape what she did even if she prayed until her knees were black and blue.

Emylie waves it off. “It still can be used.”

“How?” Maris asks.

At that, Emylie falters, looking contrite as she looks at Aunt Amanda and Rhaenyra. She sighs heavily. “Well, your youth helps. You could argue that, yes, you weren’t the best. But after your mother’s passing, you realized that life is short, and you want to ensure yours…and your mother’s souls are protected in the afterlife.”

Rheanyra sighs. “We’re using politizing my mother’s death…again.” She should’ve realized that this would happen. She’s proud that she and Rhaenys were able to pull off the stunt that happened at the wedding, but the whole time, it left a bitter taste in her mouth. She loves her mother and wishes that she could let her rest in her afterlife, not constantly dragging her mother’s memory into politics again and again.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Aunt Amanda speaks up for the first time in a while. She looks stricken at the suggestion but continues. “Unlike your father, you’ve been following the directives for mourning, avoiding jewelry, shunning societal events, and attending the Sept. In the eyes of the Faith, you are a shining example to all young maidens.”

“That’s all well and good, but what do I have to offer the High Septon?” Rhaenyra asks. “I don’t have unlimited funds like the Hightowers or have the political clout to interest the High Septon.”

That sours the mood immediately. Aunt Amanda frowned, her expression clearly showing her heavy thoughts. Lyarra and Eleanor duck their head, focusing on their papers.

“You don’t have to make an offer if you feel that the High Septon won’t reciprocate. Having a good relationship with the High Septon, I think, would be enough of a deterrent. Maybe when you’re older and have more sway, you could offer then,” Emylie offers.

“I suppose if the Lord Hand sees that you go to the Sept, and act piously, and even having a relationship with the High Septon, he wouldn’t be able to discredit you. It would be a buffer,” Maris pipes up.

Emylie beams at her young pupil. “Exactly!”

“Even if the deal with the High Septon goes south, you still have the public image of being a righteous young woman.” Unlike certain people goes unsaid. Leave it to Lyarra to be practical.

This sounds so exhausting. Rhaenyra wishes that she doesn’t have to do this all over again. “Alright, how would I go about getting a relationship with the High Septon?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Well, start visiting the Grand Sept instead of the Royal Sept.” Aunt Amanda gives her a wry grin.

“If someone asks, just merely bring up the fact that you want the people to see their future Queen instead of remaining a blank figure that people can project their anger onto,” Eleanor adds.

“You should wait before calling on the High Septon to make it seem that you aren’t there just to curry his favour. Maybe call for him on your second or third visit to pay homage to the Faith,” Brealla says.

“And when you do speak with the High Septon. Give him the spiel about your soul,” Emylie waves a distracted hand. “Then, after speaking of some time, allude to your worries about being the Heir. I would suggest drawing out the meetings and leave him questioning. Then, during a second or third meeting, bring up your worries about the Lords of the Realm. Say how you are flattered that your father thought that you’re good enough to be the Heir, but you’re worried about the stability of the realm since many men won’t bow to a Queen. If asked, say that if, and only if, your father, the head of your House and your King, asks you to step aside for a younger brother, you will gracefully relinquish your position, but until then, you want to ensure that the realm stays together, and what better way then to ask one of the pillars of society. And then slyly mention the modification of the Doctrine.”

Rhaenyra groans, taking in Emylie’s words. It sounds like such a complicated matter. She prefers just outright bribing the High Septon.

“You should manufacture some dissonance towards the Queen before speaking to the High Septon to make him more amenable to the Princess,” Rowlf adds.

Brealla makes a noise of agreement, nodding at Rowlf, which has the benefit of turning him red. “I could write to my brother. My sister-in-law is the High Septon’s niece. She could disguise her message to him by updating him on the goings-on in Reach, adding that there are a lot of negative opinions about the Queen, and people are worried about what the Hightowers will do to the general peace of the Reach if they secure a royal grandson. The High Septon is very worried that armed conflict might break out.”

“What shock, Reach lords returning to their base instincts,” Emylie mutters.

“At least we don’t poison our enemies,” Brealla snipes.

“Lady Brealla, if we poisoned our enemies, then you wouldn’t be here anymore.” Emylie sniffs in disdain.

“I’m an enemy? Don’t you have more important things to deal with than little old me?” Brealla bats her eyelashes at Emylie.

“So you agree that you’re unimportant?” That baffles Brealla into silence, which Emylie considers a win.

Rheanyra ignores their bickering, trying to mull over the semblance of a plan. She’s worried that if the High Septon offers to intercede and provide a modification, he’s going to want something in return. What would he want? Probably a position in her household to ensure that the Faith has her ear.

Can she stomach that? Knowing full well that whatever Septa is put in her household would report to the High Septon?

She can’t do it.

“Dear, what’s wrong?” Aunt Amanda asks.

The low conversations come to a soft end as everyone looks over to Rhaenyra. “If the High Septon agrees…” her voice is hoarse. “Then he’ll want something in return. The only thing that I could offer is having a Septa in my retinue. Aunt, I—I can’t have her here, knowing she’s reporting back to the High Septon.”

“Sweetling.” Aunt Amanda takes her hand, squeezing it in comfort. “If that happens, we’ll do everything we can to make sure she doesn’t pry. But we don’t have to do it if you do not want to.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, and the hot pierce of tears strings her eyes. “No. You’re not wrong; I need to consolidate my position, fast. The High Septon is a good idea.”

“What if she was your instructor?” Lyarra asks softly.

“Hm?”

“You already have a Septa in your retinue, your instructor, Septa Marla. If the High Septon wants a Septa of his choosing, why don’t you replace Septa Marla?”

It’s not a half-bad plan. Rhaenyra was never fond of Septa Marla, but at least it’s the devil she knows instead of the devil she doesn’t know.

“I’ll consider it. I suppose I have to meet the man before I acquiesce to his demands.”

Rhaenyra wishes the Dreams had shown her what kind of man the High Septon is. The thought of entering the unknown is daunting to her. Who knows what he wants from her? And the effort that she’s going to put in just to get the chance to be on his good side is exhausting.
****
Despite it being Tyland’s first council meeting, he can sense the tension already, and he’s not pleased. Obviously, the Princess and the Lord Hand are on opposite sides; the animosity is palpable. It only takes a few moments of observation to tell that Lord Beesbury is fully on the Princess’s side and Grand Maester is on the Hand’s. Lord Strong tries to remain neutral but often ends up siding with the Princess, but that is due to him disliking the Lord Hand rather than truly siding with the Princess.

Apparently, the Princess joined the council properly recently and is trying to wrest power away from the Lord Hand, which displeases him greatly.

Grand Maester Mellos is unsubtly glancing at Tyland, trying to get Tyland to side with the Hand. But why should he? If the Hand spouts good ideas, then Tyland will, but honestly, Tyland can see through the clever lines that he’s weaving. The trade deal he’s proposing only benefits the Reach and limits the rest of the region’s ability to trade. At least the Westerland focuses mainly on mining indevours and won’t have to worry about the Hand’s attempt to crush the Vale, affecting the rest of the kingdoms on the way.

Seriously, what does the Hand have against the Vale?

The King either doesn’t notice or care about the tensions in the room, smiling stupidly at everyone.

“Now that is done, anything else?” The King asks as the Lord Hand tidies his papers.

“There is one thing that I wish to talk about,” the Princess slides sweetly in before the Hand can dismiss them.

“What is it, Rhaenyra?” The King asks.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Lady Rhea during the wedding, and she brought up the topic of her marriage to Uncle Daemon and a possible annulment. She asked me to pass the request along to the King. And since it’s a Royal marriage, I believed that it was necessary to bring it up here.”

Tyland gulps down the wine, trying to avoid the tension in the room.

Prince Daemon’s contemptuous marriage with Lady Rhea is very well-known in the realm; his actions leading up to the marriage, his comments about the comeliness of women in the Vale, and the numerous paramours he flaunted.

Honestly, Tyland is surprised that Lady Rhea is just now asking for an annulment.

“Rhaenyra, dear, I know that you’re fond of your Uncle, but I thought that his actions on Dragonstone would…curb your enthusiasm for helping him. Your great-grandmother personally set up this marriage for him. Don’t bring Lady Rhea into this.”

The tension grows stiffer as the other lords of the council peer down at their notes. The Princess remains still, and anger flashes in her eyes.

“I am not doing this to aid Uncle Daemon, Father.” The Princess’s tone is frosty enough that the ever-unobservant King cringes at her tone.

“The King is right, Princess. Prince Daemon already flaunts proprietary while married; you cannot begin to think of the debaucherous deeds he will enact once freed.”

“So, Lady Rhea is to suffer these indignities for the sake of what, Lord Hand?” She stares Lord Hightower down. “My uncle has shown that he does not care about what happens to his Lady Wife, so what does being married to a woman he despises do to curb him?”

“His marriage, Princess, prevents him from pursuing the hand of someone else and bringing further shame to the realm.”

“He’s always been fond of you, Rhaenyra. If he’s unmarried, then there is nothing to prevent him from trying to marry you. I worry that he’ll do whatever to marry you.”

The Princess rolls her eyes. “Do you think I am ignorant, Father?”

The King recoils, looking ashamed. Tyland wonders how the realm hasn’t fallen apart yet under the King’s governance. If Tyland spoke to his father, Lord Lambert, like that, he’d be beaten black and blue.

“No, of course not…”

“I am aware that my position of Heir of the Iron Throne came because the Lords of the Realm were unhappy with Uncle Daemon being heir. Further, Father, why would I want to debase myself with the man who toasted to my brother’s death, and extension, mother’s death?”

The room plunges into heavy silence as the King attempts to regain grasp of the conversation.

Lord Otto quietly watches the proceedings with his lips pursed, displeased at being ignored as the two Royals fight.

“I am asking for an annulment because Lady Rhea is quickly approaching the age where she is no longer able to bear a child to term safely. The marriage between my uncle and her has produced no heirs, to the point where it is widely believed that it was never consummated. Father, are you willing to allow Lady Rhea’s line to die out because you want Uncle Daemon to conform to a marriage he despises? You, of all people, should know the importance of marriage and ensuring that there are enough heirs in the line of succession. Why are you punishing someone innocent for Daemon’s transgressions?”

Tyland wasn’t in King’s Landing when the King announced that he’d be taking Lady Alicent to wife, but he can only imagine the bounds of the Princess’s anger. He’d heard of the Targaryen’s legendary anger.

King Viserys winces. “Rhaenyra, of course.”

“So, you can see why Lady Rhea wants an annulment, can’t you, father?”

King Viserys rubs his brow in frustration.

“Why don’t we see if the rest of the council thinks, Princess?” Lord Hightower cuts in.

The Princess shrugs. “Fine. Let’s put it up for a vote. Lord Beesbury?”

“If both parties wish to have an annulment, I do not see why there ought to be a council vote.” Unsurprisingly, the elderly Master of Coin doesn’t see an objection. Unless it has to do with the treasury, he rarely inputs his opinion.

Tyland glares sourly at the Master of Coin; he wishes that he could have that position instead of the rather useless position of Master of Ships. He, a Lannister, would be better at managing the realm’s finances than a Beesbury.

“Lord Strong?” Lord Hightower asks.

Lord Strong leans back in his chair, pondering the question. He speaks a few moments later. “The Vale is still displeased that King has forfeited Queen Aemma’s mourning and Prince Daemon is not well-liked in the Vale; releasing Lady Rhea from her marriage would garner some sorely lacking goodwill.”

Tyland can see Lord Hightower gritting his teeth at Lord Strong.

“I, for one, am against this,” Grand Maester Mellos interrupts, wheezing slightly. “If we dissolve the marriage binding the Prince to the realm, then what is to stop him from replacing the Crabfeeder if he wins, terrorizing the Kingdoms?”

“I thought the Crabfeeder wasn’t the Kingdom’s issue? Isn’t that why Lord Valyeron and my uncle are at the Stepstones instead of the Royal fleet?” The Princess cuts in dryly.

Tyland sours further at the mention of the Stepstones; he is aware that he only gained this position because Lord Velyaron vacated it after what the King did and went to fight in the Stepstones.

As the Master of Ships, Tyland had to look at the Stepstones and how they were affecting the Realm. Despite what the Hand says, the Realm would be better off without the Crabfeeder. At least the Stormlands would be happier. Lord Boremund was rather unhappy with the raiders when Tyland spoke to him about the situation.

Idly, he wonders what Dorne thinks of the Crabfeeder and the Triarchy. There’s a Dornish delegation at the Keep led by the Lady Dayne. Maybe he can get Dorne to agree to side with them, for this situation, at least, and then bring it up to the King…without the Hand’s interference.

What was he thinking? The King is practically married to the Hand, the Queen being a mere mouthpiece for her father.

Tyland wonders if the Hand told his daughter to disband the ladies’ court or if it was his daughter failing to claw out some power of her own.
Grand Master Mellos sullenly glares at the Princess. “It is unwise to sever the Prince from the realm, in my opinion.”

“What about you, Lord Tyland?” The King asks.

Everyone turns to Tyland. If he sides with the Hand, then they risk being deadlocked.

Tyland takes a deep breath in, considering the situation.

If Prince Daemon gets his annulment, he is free to marry again, this time to someone who could provide him with an army. Since the King refused to marry Lady Leana, Lord Coryls would be looking elsewhere for a husband for her. The brother of a King might not be what Lord Coryls is aiming for, but that brother could easily become King since there is no Royal son. With Prince Daemon’s obvious desire for the throne, shown by his comment disregarding the death of his nephews, and Lord Coryls’s bitter resentment of being cheated out of a throne, it would not be difficult to imagine an attempted usurpment spearheaded by the two of them.

On the other hand, what’s to stop Prince Daemon from doing it now? He could easily just promise to marry Lady Laena after he becomes king and dissolves his own marriage. If they grant the annulment now, then the Vale may be more proactive in preventing or helping stop the rebellion instead of staying out or declaring for Rheanyra.

Tyland doesn’t think that he has to worry about Prince Daemon charming the Princess into his bed, given her apparently growing distaste for the man.

At least the Princess understands her place. She was not elevated because of her brilliance but because the Lords of the Realm didn’t want Daemon Targaryen near the throne. She would not court disaster if it meant losing her position in succession.

If the King declines the annulment, then the Vale is going to know immediately. The Princess is going to tell Lady Rhea, Lady Amanda Arryn is in the Princess’s service, and Lady Jeyne Arryn is known to join the Princess in the gardens after her lessons. And they’ll know that Tyland was the dealbreaker. This could affect the Westerlands if Tyland didn’t play this carefully.

From across the table, Lord Hightower was staring Tyland down, silently demanding him to side with him. This entitlement rankles Tyland; he will not blindly follow the Hand. He has his own opinion and will consider both sides. If the Hand wanted a mindless minion, he should have recommended someone different. A Lannister is not a sheep.

“I think that it may be in our best interest to grant the annulment,” Tyland says slowly, trying to piece what he wants to say together. “The Prince does not care for his wife, and if he had any desire to prey upon the realm according to the Grand Maester’s fears, I do not believe that having a tie to the realm through Lady Rhea would stop him. The Princess is correct; Lady Rhea should not be subjected to the indignities that Prince Daemon is forcing on her. Since she is the Head of her House, and Prince Daemon is merely her consort, he has failed his duty and besmirches the honour of House Royce. If the genders were reversed, the High Septon would’ve granted the annulment the moment Prince Daemon took a paramour. However, there do need to be restrictions on Prince Daemon’s future marriage. As the head of his House, you can dictate his marriage and place certain clauses in the dowry contract. If he doesn’t get your permission to marry or if the clauses aren’t met, then I propose that any children he has be removed from the line of succession and are not given the title of Prince or Princess.”

Everyone turns to the King, waiting to hear what he has to say after everyone has submitted their opinions. The King sighs, finishing his wine. “I see your thoughts on the matter. Otto, Mellos, I understand your reluctance, but Lord Tyland and Rhaenrya both give good points. I…I do not wish to subject Lady Rhea to not being able to have children. Rhaenyra, I will grant this annulment on the condition that you begin attending dinners with Alicent and me once every sennight.”

…That is incredibly condescending. Tyland blinks incredulously at the demand, then over to the Princess; she is rigid with silent anger.

Was the King just going to grant this annulment anyway, without input from the rest of the council? What if the rest of the council said no? To the Princess, it seems that the King is only humouring the Princess’s attempts to get into politics. Tyland understands her anger. Jason acted as such with Tyland at times, believing that since he was the firstborn, he knows better than Tyland.

“Fine,” the Princess grits out. “If that’s all, Father.” She nearly spits out the word, rising and curtsying to her father. She doesn’t wait for him to respond before stalking out of the room.

King Viserys opens his mouth but snaps his mouth shut, unsure of what to say.

Lord Beesbury groans and stands. “I think that we ought to adjourn for the afternoon, my King, before stronger tempers flare.”

“Yes…I think that it’s wise.”

Tyland follows the example of the other councillors, saying his goodbyes before slipping out of the meeting room. He didn’t want to listen to Lord Hightower complain that Tyland doesn’t follow his lead.
****
Rhaenyra walks arm-in-arm with Jeyne through the gardens, their ladies trailing behind them. Unfortunately, Jeyne’s close friend, Jessamine, didn’t join her at the wedding. “I’m sorry that I could not spend more time with you during the wedding, cousin,” Rhaneyra apologizes.

She really does feel bad about this, especially when Jeyne came to support her specifically, despite all the disrespect that the Vale lords felt after her mother’s death. Without a protector there, Otto had replaced them with his lackeys, sending them back to the Vale. The most worrisome is Lord Reyne’s promotion to chamberlain. She learned her lesson from last time, and she needs to get her hands on the treasury.

At least Lady Fell still controls the crown’s jewels.

Cousin Jeyne pats Rhaenyra's arm, smiling laxly at her. “Don’t worry, dear cousin. I was sufficiently occupied. At least the Crown members their relationship with the Arryns.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t say that she had to fight for Jeyne and Aunt Amanda's position next to her. It’s not often that members of their house marry outside of it, but when they do, actions are taken to ensure that the non-Targaryen relatives are held at arm’s length. With her Father’s inclusion of Otto at the High Table, Rhaenyra immediately countered it with the Arryns. They are her kin and ought to be celebrated.

“When I am Queen, cousin, I will properly honour the Arryns, for it gave me my mother, and that’s the sweetest gift one could ever have.”

Jeyne sighs. “I never knew my aunt very well. It was dangerous for me to leave the Vale, but even from a distance, she protected my claim. We did not exchange letters often, something that I truly regret, but whenever I did receive one, her kind words always soothed me.”

Rhaenyra smiles sadly. Jeyne grew up without a mother, and she can see her mom stepping in and trying to pass some kindness and wisdom along. Her mom wanted as many kids as she could, but thanks to the fickleness of the gods, she only had Rhaenyra. Truth be told, she could see her mom trying to adopt and care for Jeyne if she wanted it. There wasn’t much of an age difference between them, but that wouldn’t stop her mom.

“When I was younger, Father and Uncle Daemon liked to argue who was my favourite, but they were always wrong. I loved my mom more than both of them.”

“I don’t know what child likes their uncle more than their mother.” Jeyne rolls her eyes. They share a giggle.

“Speaking of Queens, I heard you caused quite a commotion recently.” Rhaenyra grins at her cousin. Aunt Amanda had to come to Rhaenyra with her head bowed and apologize for what happened. Rhaenyra noticed that Emylie pointedly did not apologize and asked for Rhaenyra’s help reinstating the ladies’ court.

Rhaenrya never really cared much about the older ladies of the court; the memory of the elderly Lady Redwyne during Aegon’s second name day celebration comes to the surface, but if Amanda thinks that this is worth it, then Rhaenyra endeavours to help her. She adds this to her mental list of things she needs to talk to her father; at least the dinners will provide somewhat useful.

Jeyne tosses her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. “It’s not my fault that the Queen doesn’t like weaponry. I find them quite fascinating, though, I don’t think that I’d ever wield one.”

“No? I’ve heard from a reliable source that they’re quite fun to play with.”

“Oh? From who? Lady Dayne?” Jeyne wiggles her eyebrows. Rhaenyra pauses, unsure if Emylie has participated in bedsport before. The Dornish don’t put much emphasis on a woman’s purity.

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes at her cousin. “I’m not divulging my secrets, cousin.” She holds out for a moment before they both dissolve into giggles as they round a corner.

Jeyne’s giggles end abruptly when they see who else is in the gardens with them. Rhaenyra spots Lord Reyne’s daughter at the front of the cluster of other Westerland maidens as they sit and enjoy a luncheon. They spot Jeyne, giggle and start talking among themselves. Rhaenyra tries not to pay them much mind, but then she hears them whisper about Jeyne’s supposed deformities, each more elaborate than the last, and her failure as a woman because of her deformities.

Rhaenyra cocks her head and looks at Jeyne. She can tell that Jeyne is hurt but is putting on a careful mask to hide it. It’s basic survival knowledge that marching over to the gossipmongers to shut them up will fan the flames even more. Jeyne is resolved to ignore it, but Rhaenyra won’t stand for it. Lord Reyne may have gotten the position of Chamberlin, but that doesn’t allow his daughter to act like she rules the Red Keep and have free reign to mock a Lady Paramount, the cousin of the Heir of the Iron Throne; honestly, the nerve of the girl!

Rhaenyra looks over to the group, and she doesn’t think that they noticed her.

She subtly adjusts her and Jeyne so that they are walking towards the group.

“What are you doing?” Jeyne hisses.

“Trust me,” Rhaenyra whispers, gently squeezing her arm as they draw closer. The whispers grow louder as the girls watch Jeyne with critical eyes.

Lady Reyne laughs loudly, pretending that Jeyne wasn’t there. “I think that I would die of embarssement if I were eight-and-ten and unmarried! I hope that by that age, I’d have at least a son for my Lord Husband.” She turns to smirk at Jeyne, and her face drops when she sees Rhaenyra on Jeyne’s arm.

Rhaenyra arches an eyebrow at Lady Reyne. “That’s rather rude,” she states mildly.

“Princess Rhaenyra!” The girls scrambled out of their seats, curtseying deeply.

She looks around the group with a critical eye; honestly, she is disappointed. Most of the girls look contrite at being caught but do not gossip about Jeyne. Lady Reyne looks embarrassed and not guilty. She doesn’t allow them to get out of their curtseys; she likes watching them try to hold them.

“I had hopes, Lady Reyne, about your father being elected at Chamberlin of the Red Keep. I thought that since he showed such respectability, you might be a good candidate to be a Lady-in-Wainting. But I see that I was wrong. It a such a shame,” she lies boldly through her teeth.

Lady Reyne’s face flushes an ugly colour. “I apologize, my Princess, for my unsightly comments.”

Rhaenyra gives her an unimpressed look. “Jeyne Arryn cannot marry any random Lord like you can, Lady Reyne. Like me, her marriage must be considered carefully as it will be her line that continues House Arryn.”

“Of course, my Princess. I am very sorry that my comments sullied your ears.” She can see on Lady Reyne’s face that she hates having to apologize to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra wonders if she should mention this to her father. She hopes that Lord Reyne is smarter than his daughter. Maybe, like Lord Tyland, Lord Reyne is more practical. The one thing that she can count on with Westerland nobles is that they look out for themselves.

As she takes one more look at the group, trying to catalogue those present, she notices one of the girls. She’s on the taller side, with Lannister golden hair and green eyes, but she's clad in shimmering blues and greens. She looks distinctly unimpressed at the other girls. Well, there’s at least one girl here with an ounce of brains.

“I hope that you will reflect on your actions. Have a pleasant remainder of your afternoon,” Rhaenyra dismisses them and pulls Jeyne along with her.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Jeyne whispers, looking over her shoulder at the ladies.

Rhaenyra sniffs in outrage; she remembers the ugly, cold feeling of being the subject of ridicule, and she will not have her cousin be subjected to the same thing she did. “I abhor people like that. What is the point of being royalty if you cannot use your title?”

Jeyne shakes her head, giving Rhaenyra a tired smile. “Thank you for standing up for me, cousin, but you ought to not denounce nobles like that. You will lose allies.”

Rhaenyra grips Jeyne’s elbow, scowling at the ground. “I do not like to dismiss an entire region, but I don’t think that anyone from the Westerlands will follow me. The Lannisters control their bannermen well, and I highly doubt that Jason Lannister will declare for me.”

Jeyne sighs. “You’re not wrong, cousin, but in your position, you cannot afford to anger the other nobles.”

“So, I’m to sit silently while lesser nobles insult my allies?” Rhaenyra snaps, anger ruffling around her edges.

“It is difficult, dear cousin, but you must have a stiff upper lip, or else you run the risk of falling victim to their ploys,” Jeyne cautions. Rhaenyra grinds her teeth in frustration; Jeyne’s right. She did fall victim often enough in the Dreams because she reacted to Alicent’s ploys in anger and frustration.

“I will admit that you are not wrong, but I will argue that with Lord Reyne’s newly minted position, Lady Reyne is angling to gather her own power within the court while Alicent and I are fighting, and since the Westerlands will side with a male heir, it’s simple enough math to deduce that Lady Reyne will join hands with Alicent. I’m trying to eliminate players.”

Jeyne nods, her eyes blank as she registers Rhaenyra’s words. “Hm, it’s not a bad argument. But, you just wanted to scold those girls, didn’t you,” she teases.

“I can do two things at once.” Rhaenyra sniffs haughtily.

Jeyne throws her head back and laughs. She pats Rhaenyra’s arm. “The best leaders in history are wonderful multitaskers.” They share a grin as they make their way back to Maegor’s Holdfast.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

When Aunt Amanda woke Rhaenyra up on the morn of her name day, Rhaenyra wanted to go back to bed. This is the first name day without her mom. Rhaenyra thought that since she survived her father’s wedding, she’d be able to get through her name day, but Rhaenyra was wrong. Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes as she gets dressed, wishing desperately to have her mom there, pressing a kiss to her forehead and telling Rhaenyra that she’s proud of her. She wants her mom so badly. 

 She’s brushing the tears from her eyes when she walks into her solar. 

 The rest of her ladies were there, breakfast already spread on the table and presents stacked around the room. She’s sure that some are from her ladies and the rest probably from Daemon. Rhaenyra should figure out what to do with them. She no longer feels comfortable accepting things from Daemon. 

 She knows that he loves her, but over time, it became perverted. In the Dreams, his love for her is intertwined with his hate for her father and Otto. He loves her, but he hates them more. There were many ways to interpret what happened at the brothel: he genuinely wanted to show her pleasure, or he wanted to get back at her father. But all Rhaenyra can think of is that he left her. He left her in Flea Bottom, in a city that she’d never spent time in, a city where Otto had spies everywhere, a city where she could easily be killed. It was pure luck that she ran into Harwin, and he got her back safely. 

 Daemon wanted to get back at Father and Otto, and it nearly killed Rhaenyra. 

 She should try to figure out what to do with Daemon. 

 That’s a job for another day. Today, she has to prepare for tonight. There’s a feast planned for her name day, and everyone is going to get her favour by dosing her with useless trinkets. At least tomorrow’s ball will be better. Dancing can intercept politicking.  

 “Congratulations, my Princess.” Eleanor smiles kindly at Rhaenyra. 

 She gives her a terse smile. “Thank you, Eleanor.” 

 Everyone sits after Rhaenyra, picking up on her tense mood. She eyes Emylie, wondering what she has planned for tonight; she’s been tightlipped about her public display. 

 Next to Rhaenyra is a small bowl filled with what looks to be entirely candied lemons and nearly laughs. “That is from us, the staff, my Princess,” Annora explains. “Had to bribe the pastry chef for them.” 

 That startles a wet laugh out of her, imagining the prim Annora trying to haggle a bowl of candied lemons from the dour pastry chef. 

 “Thank you, Annora.” Rhaenyra wipes the forming tears from her eyes. 

 “Anything for you, my dear.” Annora squeezes her shoulder and bustles off, doing her duties. 

 Maris nudges a small present wrapped in fabric toward her. “I hope you have a good name day, Princess.” She flushes and ducks her head, eyes warily flickering towards her. 

 Rhaenyra smiles sadly. She’s freaking out the poor girls around her with her sadness when all they’re doing is trying to be supportive of her. She feels terrible. “Thank you, Maris.” 

 She unwraps the gift and finds herself holding a dagger. And Rhaenyra thinks, what a Baratheon gift. The hilt is shaped to vaguely represent a dragon with the crossguard forming wings like Dark Sister’s, and the blade itself is elegantly inscribed with dragons in flight. 

 “It’s beautiful.”

Maris beams at Rhaenyra, appreciative that she likes the gift. 

 Rhaenyra wonders if Lord Boremund had commissioned the dagger for her right after Rhaenys left Storm’s End in preparation for Maris becoming her lady. 

 Brealla goes next, showering Rhaenyra with several bolts of fabric, organza, gauze, and raw silk in a variety of different shades of red, from pastels to a deep ruby red. An appropriate gift for a lady who doesn’t know Rhaenyra well enough. And, pleasingly enough, a new set of riding clothes. 

 Rhaenyra listens as Brealla regales her of the arduous process of trying to get information out of the Dragon Keepers on what a dragon rider needs for riding. Apparently, her Old Valyarian is not as good as she once believed. 

 Emylie produces a book on economics, and Rhaenyra almost wrinkles her nose at the book topic when she reads who the authour is. She traces the name of her near-forgotten great-uncle, Archmaester Vaegon, one of the last members of House Targaryen. 

 Maybe she should talk to Rhaenys about trying to get Vaegon on her side. She wonders if it’s worth it. 

 Emylie’s other present is a steel dragon bracelet. The bracelet twirls around Rhaenyra’s wrist, with one end pointed up, in the shape of a wing, and the other pointed down. 

 “It’s Valyrian steel, my Princess, from Volantis.” Rhaenyra grins at the bracelet. There’s so little of her culture’s heritage that it gladdens her heart every time she finds a piece. 

 Eleanor gives her books as well, but this time, they’re all fiction works from across the world. From a quick glance, Rhaenyra can see a volume of stories from Braavos, Qohors, Pentos and a slim volume from Volantis. 

 Lyarra’s gift is similar to Maris’s; she gives Rhaenyra an artfully crafted bow. Rhaenyra had offhandedly mentioned that she would like to learn archery at one point, as Lady Rhea had told Rhaenyra that the men of the Realm would respect her more if she learnt a martial talent. Rhaenyra had no qualms believing that she’d make a terrible swordswoman, so archery was thought of as an alternative. 

 Aunt Amanda went last; she dictated that servants bring a closed trunk next to Rhaenyra. 

 Hesitantly, Rhaenyra cracks open the trunk. Inside, packed to the brim of the trunks, are a bunch of dresses. She rustles through the trunk, looking at the dresses. Some of them are evening gowns designed for formal events; others are sewn to be casual gowns. 

 Rhaenyra looks up to Aunt Amanda. 

 Aunt Amanda clears her throat. “Your mother…well…” She closes her eyes, clearly in pain. “She worried. Every pregnancy. She worried that she would not live to see you age. She wanted you to have something from her even as you age if she wasn’t still around. We made these with her, hoping that it would assuage her worries. I wish I that I never had to see them again, but…” She trails off, looking unhappy at the dresses. 

 This time, Rhaenyra doesn’t bother hiding her sadness. She clutches one of the dresses, a lovely spring green piece that resembles what she likes to wear for her daily events, and bursts into tears. 

 It’s so unfair! She wants her mom, one of her special hugs, and so much more. 

 Why did her father take her mom away from her? 

 She wails, falling to the floor, still clutching her dress. Fat, hot tears dripped down her face.

 She can’t believe that her mom had to worry about never seeing Rhaenyra again. She was the Queen! She should’ve been pampered and rescued away from any danger! 

 “Oh, my sweet darling.” Aunt Amanda comes over and sweeps Rhaenyra into a tight hug. Rheanyra closes her eyes and tries to pretend that it’s her mom hugging her. But it was wrong. Nothing felt the same. 

                                                                                                                                                                        ****

Rhaenyra really doesn’t want to go to the feast tonight. She spent the rest of the morning alternating between crying and apologizing to the rest of her ladies. She’d been nearly inconsolable for the rest of the day. She was supposed to have lunch with her father but had to cancel because of how bad her state was. 

 She didn’t want to go to the feast, celebrating something that she felt she shouldn’t. It’s not worth it, not without her mother there. 

At least she has part of her mother with her. Her dress was one of her mother’s creations. The older version of Rhaenyra preferred black and red and more daring looks to assert her dominance, which is what Rhaenyra based most of her wedding looks on, but mom always preferred more romantic silhouettes. The dress is a soft periwinkle with a sweetheart neckline embedded with diamonds and pearls, trailing down the sides of the bodice and ending at a sharp point in the middle. The skirt was slashed at the sides, with a soft lilac colour peeking out. The sleeves were a seethrough gossamer that parted in the middle, showing off her pale arms and reuniting at the wrist.

 Brealla flutters around Rhaenyra’s face as Aunt Amanda does her hair. It is nothing dramatic, just soft waves with a few gems woven in; Emylie had cryptically told her not to wear a crown. Brealla wants to add some cosmetic powder around her eyes to hide the redness, but Rheanyra waves her off. She’s not ashamed to have reddened eyes. She’s upset and won’t be cowed by expectations. 

 Once everyone is finished getting dressed, she schools her face into a blank, regal expression and marches on. 

 She’s neither late nor early but perfectly on time. 

 She takes her place at the head table with her Father. Aunt Amanda and Cousin Jeyne take their positions beside her. On the other side of the table, Otto sits smugly. Cousin Rhaenys sits next to Otto, and she looks less than pleased with the arrangement. Surprisingly, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon sits between her daughter and her grandson. Laenor looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here, and Rhaenyra can’t blame him. 

 The only person missing from the table is Alicent. 

 “Where’s the Queen?” Jeyne whispers. 

 “Don’t know. Haven’t laid eyes on her all day,” Rhaenyra grumbles. 

 “Rheanyra, darling. I haven’t seen you all day. You look terrible.” Father looks at her worriedly. 

 Well, maybe if her Father hadn’t killed her mother, she wouldn’t be so upset, Rhaenyra thinks venomously. 

 “I had a difficult morning, Father. It’s my first name day without Mother. It’s been hard for me.” 

 Father put his hand on Rhaenyra’s, giving her a watery smile. “Your mother would be proud of the young woman that you’ve become.” 

 Obviously, Mother loved her. She used to try to push Rhaenyra into studies that a normal Princess wouldn’t bother learning unless she had an interest in it, like economics and agriculture. She must’ve seen something in Rhaenyra that Rhaenyra hadn’t. Rhaenyra just wishes that her Father could’ve seen that potential before he killed her mother. 

 “Thank you, Father.” Rhaenyra hopes that her smile is convincing enough. 

 He pats her hand again and then stands with his goblet in hand. “Friends, I welcome you again so soon after the last festivities…” The hall breaks off into mild titters of amusement. “To celebrate the name day of my darling daughter and heir, Rhaenyra.” 

 The hall breaks into actual applause this time; the effect is thunderous, drowning out everything else. Rhaenyra smiles and waves to the rest of the crowd. 

 “When she was younger, in the days leading up to her name day, she used to approach her mother and me with a whole list of things she wanted. This year, she told me that she only wanted one thing. So, my dear, I present to you, Dragonstone!” He handed her a piece of rolled-up parchment. 

 Rhaenyra takes it and furles it. She scans the text quickly, assuring herself that Dragonstone is legally hers. 

 She’s less than pleased with how her father presented her wish, framing it as a childish fancy rather than a serious request. At least, now, Dragonstone is hers and her line’s. Otto will be deprived of the legitimacy that Dragonstone gives. 

 She smiles widely and embraces her father. “Thank you, Father, for such a considerate gift.” 

 There’s a soft coo emanating from the crowd, and Rhaenyra wants to roll her eyes. They’re so easily persuadable.

 Rhaenyra settles back into her seat, discretely passing the title to Aunt Amanda for safekeeping.

 It’s going to be a long couple of hours as every single noble here has the opportunity to come up and present their gifts to her. 

                                                                                                                                                                         ****

 They’re finally nearing the end of the list; just the Westerlands left, and Alicent still hasn’t shown up for the feast. Rhaenyra wonders if she’s sick or something or if she’s protesting Rhaenyra’s name day. Is it a repeat of the wedding? Rhaenyra snickers at the thought; it verily backfired on Alicent that she’d have to be crazy to attempt it again. A quick glance to Otto tells Rhaenyra that he’s not pleased either. 

 “And where is the Queen?” Jason Lannister asks. 

 “It seems that my wife is still getting ready.” Father grimaces. It seems that he is not happy that Alicent is missing the feast. 

“This is why men wage war because women would not make it in time for battle.” Jason laughs heartily at his joke. 

 Neither Father nor Otto looks particularly pleased with Jason’s candour. 

 “Thank you for the gift, Lord Jason; it is beautiful.” Rhaenyra swiftly ignores the jab, looking down at the necklace he’s given her. It’s gaudy, not beautiful. It’s a massive golden piece of a dragon with emerald eyes. It looks more like a thick collar than a necklace, and she’s not sure if it’s supposed to represent Syrax or if it’s just in the Lannister colours. 

Jason puffs up in pride; it’s so obvious how to manipulate him. He chats for a few more moments, dropping hints that he is still unmarried. Everyone ignores his blustering, and he finally moves on. 

 Just as the last few lords approach, Rhaenyra gets nervous. Emylie said that she’d be here, but she couldn’t see her anywhere in the line. Did something happen to her? If she can’t make it, when would be the next time that she could publicly announce her loyalty? 

 “Queen Alicent Hightower!” The herald announces. 

 The room hushes as Alicent comes waltzing into the hall. She’s returned to her conservative appearance, though her dress is still a deep red. Unlike most gowns, where the skirt begins around the hips, this dress flares out around the waist, like the dresses that pregnant women wear. 

 Rhaenyra thinks back to the Dreams; Alicent gets pregnant around this time, though Rhaenyra could’ve sworn that it was later than her name day. Though, she did announce that she was a couple of months along last time. So, she could be pregnant with Aegon at this time. 

 Cold drips down her spine. 

 Aegon. 

 Is this what she’s announcing? Is Alicent pregnant with Rhaenyra’s murderer? 

 Rapidly, Rhaenyra’s mind fills with ideas on how to get rid of the baby. She could give Alicent tea laced with moon tea or have her take an accident down the stairs. Babies at this stage are very delicate. 

 Rhaenyra fights very hard not to let disgust grace her face. What was she thinking? Stooping so low to become a kinslayer? What would her mother think of her? 

 No. 

 Rhaenyra will win her throne fairly. If Aegon or any of her brothers oppose her, the Wall and Night’s Watch are great at dealing with dissenters.

 She needs to get a fucking grip. 

 “I have a gift for the Princess that I’d like to announce.” Rhaenyra wants to cringe at the fake sweetness dripping from Alicent’s mouth. 

 “Go on…” Father looks hesitant at allowing this very unorthodox manner. 

 Alicent places her hands on her belly and smiles coyly at the Royal table. “Rhaenyra, my Husband…I am happy to announce a new member of House Targaryen.” 

 Fucking knew it. 

 Beside her, Jeyne hisses in anger. 

 Rhaenyra eyes Alicent warily. She wonders if Alicent is being genuine with her announcement or trying to steal the spotlight. 

 Ever since she found Alicent in her father’s chambers, Rhaenyra has had a hard time trying to figure out what Alicent’s deal is. The younger version of Alicent in the Dreams was wide-eyed and earnest, trying to rehabilitate her relationship with Rhaenyra, and it wasn’t until the brothel incident that Alicent turned her back on Rhaenyra. 

 Now, Rhaenyra doesn’t know. Alicent has tried to talk to Rhaenyra, but since the moment that the wedding started, she’s been distant, giving Rhaenyra displeased looks. It can be explained that Rhaenyra’s actions might’ve waned on Alicent’s feelings for her or that the scandal of her betrothal made her try to grasp onto whatever power she has and is incidentally ruining her relationship with Rhaenyra. 

 A few people in the hall gasp at the revelation, and Rhaenyra keeps herself calm. The Greens won’t be able to use her reaction against her. 

 Rhaenyra forces herself to smile and stands. She joins Alicent at the foot of dias, grasping Alicent’s hands in hers. Alicent stumbles back, her eyes wide at Rhaenyra’s unexpected reaction. 

 “Oh, this is wonderful news!” Rhaenyra says sweetly. “I’ve always wanted a little sibling to spoil! I really hope that it’s girl!”

Alicent’s doe eyes remain wide, and she looks around the Hall like a skittish animal. “Y-yes. I always wanted a little girl.”

 “Oh, Alicent! I must thank you so much. You’ve made my father so happy in the short time you’ve been married, and you’re giving me a little sibling to spoil!” 

 “I–I’m glad.” 

 “How far along are you?” 

 Rhaenyra can feel everyone's eyes on them. She continues to smile brightly despite the loaded question, pretending to be the well-meaning Princess. 

 “A–a month.” 

 Rhaenyra gasps, covering her mouth with her hands. “How do you know? Mother always found out when she was few months along?” 

 She hides a wicked grin behind her hands. Even if Alicent finds a decent answer, everyone is going to be thinking that this child was conceived out of wedlock. 

 “W-Well, I admit. Perhaps, I was a little over-zealous about checking. Like I said, I always wanted kids.” Alicent tries to recover. 

 There it is! 

 No matter how much Alicent and her allies try to protest, everyone is going to think that this child is a bastard. 

 “I completely understand!” 

 Rhaenyra was saved from further making a fool of herself when, out of the corner of her eye, the herald stepped forward. “Lady Loreza Uller of Hellholt and Starfall, and Lady Emylie Dayne, Heir Apparent of Starfall.” 

 About time. 

 Rhaenyra drops Alicent’s hands and turns to see Emylie guiding an older woman down the Great Hall. This must be Emylie’s grandmother. 

 Emylie, like always, looks stunning. She’s wearing a lavender and cream dress with gold embroidery at the collar and hem, twin capes, a delicate golden belt with shining silver stars, and matching earrings. Her hair is pulled back into an artfully messy bun with a silver crescent moon. Her makeup is done to give her an innocent glow. 

 Her grandmother is in a purple and red dress, a mix of her maternal house colours and the one she married into, with a high collar. 

 “Princess Rhaenyra.” They both fall into a curtsy. 

 Alicent sulkily slinks to the table, cushioned between her husband and father. 

 “Oh, please, get up. Don’t injury yourself on my account.” Rhaenyra is truly worried that she might harm Emylie’s grandmother. 

 Emylie winks at Rhaenyra as she helps her grandmother right herself. 

 “Thank you for your kindness, Princess.” 

 “I thank you, Lady Uller. You had no reason to join us today, but you came anyway.” 

Lady Uller grins, and Rhaenyra is struck by how similar Emylie is to her grandmother. “You have bestowed such kindness onto my granddaughter, Princess, that it requires a gift in return.” She gestures for some of her servants to come forward. 

 Every occupation of the Great Hall watches them with bated breath. 

 This is unprecedented. 

 Dorne was always invited to great events as a show of neighbourly compassion, but every time, House Targaryen is rebuffed by their neighbours. 

 The servants lurch forward, carrying a heavy trunk. Rhaenyra hesitates. She opened a trunk this morning, and it destroyed her. She worries about what this is going to do to her. 

 She warily casts a glance over to Emylie, who nods encouragingly. 

 Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, unlatches the trunk and throws it open.  

 She pulls out the occupants. She frowns at what she’s holding, trying not to freak out that she’s holding a skull. 

 Her heart thuds painfully against her chest. 

 She looks up to her father, who looks deeply confused and worried. 

 “Bones?” She asks, her voice shaky. 

 “The bones of your ancestor, Princess. The bones of Rhaenys Targaryen.” 

 Holy shit. Rhaenyra looks back at her father, and he looks as equally gobsmacked. 

 Aegon the Conqueror had petitioned to get the bones of his wife back, but the Ullers at the time refused to give up their prize. It wasn’t until several years later that some of the bones of Meraxes were sent to King’s Landing, but the Ullers still lorded over their victory to the Targaryens.

 She can’t believe that Emylie managed to get her hands on something so special. 

 “My granddaughter told me that it is Targaryen custom to burn their deceased with Dragonfire. I will not apologize for the actions of my ancestors, Princess, but I will correct their mistakes. Everyone should have the right to rest properly in the custom of their house.” Lady Uller looks frail and tired, but her voice is hard and strong, watching Rhaenyra with a critical eye. 

 “My Lady, this gift…” Rhaenyra chokes up, looking at the skull of her ancestor, one of the conquerors. “I-I cannot thank you enough.” 

 “Take good care of my granddaughter, Princess. She is the future of our house.” 

 Rhaenyra grins brilliantly at Emylie, who sends her a bright smile. “She shall be received with the greatest honours there are.” 

 Emylie untangles her arm from her grandmother's and takes a small, flat case from one of their attendees. 

 “My Princess,” she intones with a slight musical voice. “I am pleased to see that you enjoy the gift from the Ullers, but may I present to you the gift from the denizens of Starfall?”

 “Of course,” Rhaenyra stammers. There’s more? 

 Emylie opens the case and elegantly removes a crown, passing off the case to the servant next to her. No wonder she ordered Rhaenyra not to wear a crown. 

 “Princess Rhaenyra, Heir to the Iron Throne, I would like to present to you the crown of Rhaenys Targaryen, the first Queen of Westeros. It is my pleasure to pass on the crown from one Queen to the next.” Emylie lifts the crown, and Rhaenyra crouches slightly to allow her to crown her. 

 Emylie’s unsaid words were evident; she meant Queen Regent. Both Rhaenys and Visenya sat on the Iron Throne and passed council when Aegon wasn’t in King’s Landing. Rhaenys, by technicality, was the first Queen and Rhaenyra is following in her footsteps.

 “Thank you, Lady Dayne and Lady Uller. You’ve given not only me but the rest of House Targaryen closure on this painful memory. I hope that you are able to enjoy the merriment of this evening.”

 Emylie and her grandmother curtsy once again. “It is on rare occasions that a Dornish is welcome in King’s Landing. I shall have to experience as much as I can so I am able to brag to my friends when I return.” 

 Rhaenyra laughs at Lady Uller’s quip as Emylie gently guides her grandmother off. Rhaenyra delicately places Rhaenys’s skull back in the trunk and gestures for one of her servants to collect the trunk. 

 Ser Erryk steps closer to her, waiting to follow the trunk to ensure its safekeeping. 

 Rhaenyra almost glides back to her seat. 

 Her father lets out a chortle when she sits. “I cannot believed I was one-upped at my own daughter’s name day celebration!” 

 Rhaenyra gives an earnest grin, still giddy of the attention. “Please don’t be saddened, father. Dragonstone is still very important to me.” 

 “Thank you for cheering up your old man, my dear. May I see the crown?” 

 “Of course!” Rhaenyra plucks off the crown and passes it to her father. 

 Rhaenys’s crown is similar to Aegon the Conqueror’s; it’s constructed of Valyarien steel and inlaid with large rubies at the base. While the Conqueror’s crown is large and imposing, the frame of Rhaenys’s crown is more feminine, with the twisting metal wrapping around the rubies and shooting up into the sky. It’s still intimidating but clearly shown to be crafted for a woman. 

 “It’s beautiful,” Father murmurs. 

 On his other side, Alicent scowls at the crown unhappily.

 “I’d like to go to Dragonstone as soon as I am, Father. To familiarize myself with my seat and to put Queen Rhaenys to rest properly.” 

 Father purses his lips but eventually sighs. “I cannot keep you from leaving. You will come back?” 

 “Why would I not?” Rhaenyra asks, pretending to be scandalized. If it were up to her, she’d leave and not spend her time loitering in King’s Landing, but the Dreams showed her the folly of doing that. It allowed the Greens to take control of the treasury and the small council. “King’s Landing is my home. No matter what, I shall return home.” 

 Father gives her a grateful smile before returning to admiring Rhaenys’s crown. 

 “We ought to give the Daynes and Ullers a reward. They have returned such a significant piece of history.” Otto eyes the crown in her Father’s hands with undisguised glee. 

 Father laughs and waves a hand at Otto. “Oh, there’s no need, Otto. Rhaenyra has already welcomed the Lady Dayne into her household.” He pats Rhaenyra with a free hand. 

 Otto sours at the notice, clearly wanting to capitalize on Emylie’s popularity. 

 Rhaenyra smiled sweetly at Otto. “After what happened at the last Ladies’ court, I went to speak with the Lady Dayne to ensure that there’s no hard feelings between our two houses. She was quite distraught, you see. While speaking with her, I found her to be quite enjoyable company. When I found that she was the Heir to her family’s Lordship, I felt a sense of kinship and wished to extend an offer to join my retinue on a permanent basis.” 

 The nice thing about her agreement with her father is that Rhaenyra finally got him to agree that it was best not to tell anyone, including Otto, that a contract was sent to Starfall a long time ago to ensure that there were no ruffled feathers. If there is one thing that her father likes, it is peace, and she is willing to let it go. 

 This was a perfect cover story that had her father nodding along. Otto forces a smile; Rhaenyra can see it clearly on his face. “That is very kind of you, Princess.” 

 “But Rhaenyra, I saw her speaking to you during the wedding,” Alicent speaks up, her brown eyes wide in confusion. 

 Rhaenyra shrugs. “That is true, but I spoke to many people during the wedding. After awhile, everyone tends to blend together.” 

 Father laughs uproariously. “Ah, yes, one of the downsides of such events!” 

 “I did not have a true conversation with her until recently.” 

 “And then she decided to gift you with an invaluable treasure?” Alicent doesn’t look like she believes Rhaenyra’s explanation. 

 “It is truly a momentous time. Never before has there been a Dornish lady-in-waiting. This is the closest we’ve gotten diplomatically with them. Surely, you can understand why the Daynes and Ullers would like to ingratiate themselves with us.”  

 Alicent purses her lips, still not quite believing what Rhaenyra is telling her. “She’s been at court an awfully long time before being approached.” 

 “I imagine that it took some time to acclimate to the Red Keep, and I can hardly blame Lady Dayne for being looked over during all the hubbub of the last few months.” 

“I–” 

 “Enough, Alicent.” Father sighs. He looks tired again. Was Father tired of Alicent that early in their marriage in the Dreams? Rhaenyra can’t remember. “Lady Dayne is a noblewoman, the heir to her seat, and should be treated with respect. 

 “Yes, Husband.” Alicent demures, looking put out. 

 Rhaenyra never truly thought about how Alicent would react to Emylie. On some level, Alicent wouldn’t accept Emylie because of their personalities. Emylie may present as innocent and demure during court events, but she’s audacious enough that Alicent’s ‘humble’ and ‘subservient’ attitude would clash. 

 Rhaenyra didn’t even factor in Emylie’s Dornish heritage. During their childhood, Alicent never spoke ill of the Dornish as many of the Reach would, but Rhaenyra is learning lots of new things about Alicent that she never wanted. She hums quietly, filing this information away for later, and takes a sip of wine. Hopefully, this evening will come to an end soon.

Chapter Text

Laenor wishes that Mother allowed him to stay on Driftmark with Leana instead of having to go to the Red Keep for cousin Rhaenyra’s name day. Laena is so lucky that Mother allowed her to stay at Driftmark. 

They didn’t go to the King’s marriage because of how the King treated Laena during the betrothal period; he’d hoped that Mother would keep her distance for cousin Rhaenyra’s name day, too, but it seems Mother has thrown her weight behind Rhaenyra’s claim. 

 With this ferocity, Laenor knows that there’s a betrothal looming on his horizon. 

 Laenor scowls into his wine as he watches the dancing go on before him. He really doesn’t want to be here. 

 “Stop scowling,” Mother hisses. 

 That just makes Laenor scowl further at his mother, and in turn, she scowls back. “Children,” Grandmother Jocelyn scolds the both of them. 

 Laenor ducks his head, ashamed. Grandmother Jocelyn hasn’t been to the Red Keep since Grandsire passed, and he didn’t want to muck up her first event back…but he just feels like it’s stupid to attend an event like this when he’s going off to join his father in the Stepstones. 

 Just the mere thought of the Stepstones makes his stomach curdle. He’d hoped that Mother would prevent Father from summoning him due to his age. But Laenor comes of age in less than a year, and as the only male Dragon Rider other than Daemon and as the Sea Snake’s Heir, he has to participate, or else Laenor risks being labelled as a coward or worse . 

 “Why don’t you ask a Lady to dance, Laenor?” Grandmother pushes him. 

 “Yes, Grandmother.” Laenor hides a sigh. He’d seen many hopeful girls look at him as they passed. Laenor doesn’t like politics, but he knows that as his father’s son, he is one of the most eligible bachelors in the Realm. He puts down his wine and leaves the safety of his imposing mother; no young lady wants to approach the Queen Who Never Was and enact her ire. 

 He chooses Lady Manderly, a quiet lady, who was watching the dancing with a bored eye instead of one of the girls practically shoving her assets in his face. 

 He can see the oldest of the Baratheon girls, Cassandra, scowl at his choice. 

 Lady Manderly doesn’t speak much during their dance, and Laenor is thankful for it. He knows from sneaking his mother’s missives that Lady Manderly is one of Rhaenyra’s ladies. He asked her to dance so she wouldn’t flirt with him. His betrothal isn’t set, but there isn’t anyone else for Rhaenyra anyway; at least, that’s what Mother says. A lady won’t flirt with their master’s intended, hopefully. 

 They end the dance, and before he can escape the dance floor, he finds himself in the arms of Lady Dayne. 

 “My Lady.” Laenor bows. 

 “Ser Laenor.” She falls into a graceful curtsey. 

 Ever since Lady Dayne appeared in the Great Hall for Cousin Rhaenyra’s name day feast, Laenor has not stopped thinking about her. Not in the way that the other men in this hall are probably thinking. 

 How Laenor wishes he could marry her. He’s heard that the Dornish were more accepting of his…affliction. He could see it now; they’d be married, but as a partnership, she’d be free to take lovers if she wanted to, and they could fulfil marital duties. Laenor would happily take any children she bears as her own. 

 That’s if she wanted this. Lady Dayne is stunning and probably has many suitors vying for her hand. What could Laenor give her? 

 That’s if Father would ever allow that. And he wouldn’t . Not with Rhaenyra still unwed and Laenor being the best candidate, but Laenor could dream.

 “Just Laenor, please. I’m not knighted yet, nor I’m a lord.” 

 Lady Dayne cringes. “I never know what to call people here. Titles are less strict in Dorne.” 

 “Ser is a good guess for most. But please, just Laenor. I’m not much anything right now.” 

 “Only if you call me Emylie. It feels weird to be on the same pedigree but being the only one called by her title.”

 Laenor chuckles and acquiesces. “Alright. We’re similar enough in station that my mother wouldn’t murder me for being discourteous.” Emylie laughs and agrees. They lapse into awkward silence. Laenor wants to engage with her; she seems pleasant to talk to.  

 “You made quite an entrance yesterday.” 

 Emylie gives him a crooked smile. “I only learnt from the best.” 

 “Is that a dig at my father, milady?” 

 “Of course not!” She gasps in obvious niceties. It makes Laenor laugh. “I merely used tried and trued tactics established by fine Lords such as your father…and the Lannisters.” 

 Laenor dissolves into a fit of chuckles. “I don’t think that my father would appreciate being compared to a Lannister.” 

 Emylie shrugs dainty, and Laenor twirls her while trying to suppress a grin, her light purple skirts flaring out as he does.  

 They fall into a sort of tense silence. Laenor isn’t sure how to continue their conversation. It’s fun talking to Emylie, but he’s not really in the mood to continue a conversation. 

 “May I ask why you’re morose?” 

 Laenor shrugs. “Despite it being an event for a pleasant cause, it is difficult to find joy when I am to leave for the Stepstones soon.” 

 “Ah. Yes. I can see why you’re on edge.” 

 Laenor laughs bitterly. “On edge. What a quaint way to put it.” 

 “Oh, hush.”  

 “What does Dorne think of the Stepstones?” 

  Emylie takes a moment to consider this. “I am not entirely sure. I’ve been in King’s Landing for most of the time that the Stepstones have been an issue. But from what Grandsire has told me, Dorne is rather split. The Prince wishes to stay neutral but is twitchy with having dragons so close to Sunspear. Other nobles are not pleased with pirates raiding their borders.”

 “Do you think that the Prince will make a treaty with the Triarchy?” 

 “He might. I don’t think that he’ll join them, but something that would prevent them from attacking Dorne in return of not joining your father and Prince Daemon’s efforts.” 

 Well, that’s the best that Laenor can hope for. Trying to get Dorne to side with Targayrens is close to impossible. 

 “Grandsire, at least in his last raven, was considering the merits of joining your father, but I haven’t heard anything since.” Father would be thrilled with Laenor if he managed to persuade an extra ally to join. The problem is that Laenor just doesn’t know how to charm Emylie to his side. He was never good at it, unlike Laena. Emylie waves a hand. “Enough of politics. What a dreary topic for such an occasion.” 

 Laenor laughs and agrees. “Forgive me. It’s been heavy on my mind for some time.”

 “I can imagine.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Now, would you do me a favour and spin me towards the left.”

 “Of course.” Laenor does it without much complaint, curious to see what the Lady has planned. 

 He does a dramatic twirl, feeling lighthearted. Emylie isn’t paying attention to him anymore. Instead, she’s looking over his shoulder, eyeing someone in the crowd very intently. It kind of makes Laenor feel like he’s intruding on something.

 When he spins her around, he sees who she’s looking at: Lord Tyland Lannister. 

 “Really, a Lannister?” 

 Emylie shrugs the best she can do while dancing. “The Princess wants him on her side, and well, he’s easy to look at.” 

 She’s not wrong. Most Lannisters are rather comely, with shining gold hair and bright green eyes. Tyland Lannister definitely fits that description. Laenor does prefer more muscular men, and Tyland fits into that bill with his tall build and strong jaw, framed by his artfully tussled hair and high cheekbones accentuated by his close-shorn beard.

 “I can appreciate his looks, but he’s a Lannister .” Everyone knows what a Lannister is like: prideful and arrogant, even the most humble of the lot. 

 There’s a slightly terrifying glee in her eyes. “I like a challenge, and, well, he’s pretty and smart. How many men are like that?” She raises an eyebrow at him as if daring him to challenge her assessment. 

 Laenor laughs, “I shall leave you to your sport, then. I hope you are successful.” 

 “Oh, I will be. It’s merely a matter of time.” Her eyes drift over to Tyland again, watching him with hooded interest. 

 When he peeks over at Tyland, he can see Tyland eyeing Emylie with interest. 

 “Please keep me in the loop. I am very interested to see if this works out.” Laenor means it. It’s rare to see a woman this open about this side of her personal life, and Laenor is curious to see if it’d work. 

…he also would like to know if the Lannister arrogance transfers to their skill in bedsport. 

 He’s especially interested in Tyland’s case. He is quite pretty. 

 “I’ll consider your proposition. It is highly inappropriate for a lady to talk about such things with a man,” she teases. 

 “It’s also discourtious to use your current dance partner as means to attract someone’s attention.” 

 She laughs, and Laenor does a twirl in front of Tyland, allowing Emylie to catch Tyland’s eye once again. “You drive a hard bargain, Laenor. You win; I shall keep you informed of any salacious details that might arise.” 

 “What wonderful news.” 

 And what perfect timing. The dance comes to an end, and Emylie allows Laenor to guide her off the dance floor. It would be rather forward if Emylie were to stay, waiting for Tyland to ask her. He must seek her out first. 

 “Lady Dayne.” Mother inclines her head in greeting as they approach. “Has my son been treating you well.” 

 Emylie shares an amused look with Laenor; if treating her well means helping her seduce another man, then yes, he is. “Your son has been the most perfect gentleman.” 

 “Truly?” Mother raises an eyebrow. 

 “Dear, don’t be cruel. Laenor is a wonderful young man,” Grandmother scolds her daughter. 

 “Princess Rhaenys.” Emylie dips into a curtsey. “Lady Baratheon.” She curtseys again to grandmother. Laenor likes her; not many people pay their respects to Grandmother despite being the widow of a Prince. “I have not had the chance to extend my greetings this eve. It’s been a pleasure to dance with your kin and an even greater pleasure to meet you.”  

 “I was unaware that I am worthy of these greetings.” Mother’s tone is wry in a way that Laenor knows that she’s trying to test Lady Dayne. 

 Emylie blinks for a moment. “You are the King’s kin, a Princess of the Realm, my Lady, and one of the remaining Valyarian houses; how are you not worthy?” 

 “Not many would agree.” 

 “The Princess does, and that’s all that matters to me.” Emylie sniffs imperiously. “And due to my Dornish heritage, it already makes me a pariah; what’s a little more?” 

 There’s a tense pause as Laenor watches Mother train an unimpressed look on the Lady. Emylie stands tall with her shoulders back, watching Mother back with an equally unimpressed look.  

 Grandmother chortles, breaking the tense silence, as his mother gives Emylie an amused grin. “You may relax, Lady Dayne. I am aware that you are in service to the Princess.” 

 Truly? 

 Well, Laenor supposes it makes sense with the great show she made in the court yesterday. 

 Without his input, his eyes trail over to where Rhaenyra is holding court with the rest of her ladies. She looks resplendent this evening, donning a gown of red and bronze along with Queen Rhaenys’ crown on loose flowing silver locks. 

 The King and Queen are nearby. The Queen’s pregnancy announcement was a joke—even someone as separated from politics as Laenor can see that. Announcing it at the Princess’ celebration was a pathetic attempt at garnering power. It would’ve worked if Emylie and her grandmother hadn’t appeared, stealing the attention away from the Queen. 

 Emylie deflates a smidgen and then grins brightly. “I’ve heard many things about you, Princess Rhaenys, but no one warned me about how spine-shivering your stare is!” 

 Grandmother laughs harder. “Yes, my Rhaenys is quite impressive. I’m unsure where she gets it from; her father wasn’t that terrifying, and I certainly don’t think that she got it from me.” 

 “Even in Dorne, we heard of the impressive stature of Lady Alyssa Velayron, championing her son’s claim against King Maegor. She is your mother, is she not, Lady Baratheon?” 

 Laenor thinks Emylie is trying to get on Mother’s and Grandmother’s side and laying it on a little thick, but they seem to drink in the compliments. 

 “Ah, I suppose that mother’s stalwartness might’ve skipped a generation,” Grandmother muses. 

 “Skipped a generation?” Emylie scoffs. “I would say that you’ve inherited some of your Lady Mother’s character as well, Lady Baratheon.” 

 “My Mother stood against King Maegor until her son gained his throne. My daughter’s throne was taken from her.” 

 “Did you not fight for your daughter’s claim?” Lady Dayne asks. Laenor feels very left out of the conversation, watching Grandmother and Lady Dayne volley statements at each other. “Unfortunately, the Lords of the Realm did not see the same qualities in your daughter as you did, Lady Baratheon.” 

 Mother chuckles lowly. “You have certainly mastered the art of honeyed words, Lady Dayne.” 

 “Honeyed words? I merely speak the truth.” 

 “How fortunate.” 

 “I also have the honour of serving alongide your kin, Lady Baratheon.” Emylie flashes a smile at Grandmother.

 “Cassandra?” Grandmother’s brow furles. 

 Lady Dayne softly shakes her head. “Lady Maris, my Lady.” 

 “Has it been working well? Uncle Boremund was worried about Maris’s compatibility.” Mother asks delicately. Compatibility: Laenor wants to laugh. He’s heard of the exploits of the two Baratheon girls; compatibility is not what he’d be worried about if he was grand-uncle Boremund. 

 “She is young and a little rough around the edges, Princess, but she is clever. She’ll catch up in no time. I am confident she’ll blossom wonderly.” 

 “Is she here?” Grandmother asks, her eyes drifting around the hall. 

 “Unfortunately, she’s already retired for the evening. This is not the atmosphere for a young lady, no matter who she’s serving.” Lady Dayne casts a reproachful eye on the crowd beyond their little circle. 

 “Well, I am to be in King’s Landing for some time. I am sure that I will be able to meet my niece at some point.” 

 “Ah, well met, Lady Dayne,” Mother’s voice breaks through the conversation. 

 Laenor looks over to see the elderly Lady Dayne slowly approaching them. Laenor can see some of the familial resemblance in the slope of their noses and the angle of their jaws. And despite Lady Dayne’s eyes being a lighter hazel and Emylie’s being a deep purple, he can see the same shrewdness in them. 

 “It seems my granddaughter has abandoned me.” The elderly lady sighs dramatically. 

 “Oh, grandmother, do not think so sourly of yourself,” Emylie chides, laughing softly at her grandmother’s antics. “I was merely paying my respects to the Princess’ kin.” 

 “No need to soften the blow, darling. I understand you young people wish to enjoy yourself without having to worry about us elders.” 

 “Grandmother!” Emylie scolds, a faint blush appearing. Her eyes dart over to Mother nervously, who looks amused with the whole situation. 

 Grandmother laughs with Lady Dayne. “It is a sad day when even our grandchildren go off seeking adventure, leaving us behind,” she commiserates. 

 “Grandmother, you still have a grandchild at home.” 

 Lady Dayne wrinkles her nose. “I would hardly classify Kevah as a child, my dear. More like a trial sent from the Seven to test my patience.” 

 “Are not all children?” Mother asks. 

 “Mother!” Laenor exclaims. He meets Emylie’s eyes, and they silently commiserate about their family. He desperately hopes that his mother will not start telling stories from his childhood. 

 “I do not know where my daughter found that one. I would fear that it was a wildling that she snuck home if I hadn’t been there for the birth.” 

 “Baelon had the same feelings when Daemon was born. He bit his father mere days after being born.” Grandmother elects a snort from Mother and a wheezing laugh from Lady Dayne. 

 “Laenor.” A soft voice startles Laenor out of his commiserating. He spins around and spots his cousin standing in front of him. 

 “Princess.” He bows; the rest of their entourage curtseys in greeting. 

 “Would you like to join me for some fresh air on the terrace?” She asks, looking rather nervous. 

 The dread looming at the back of his mind is forcefully shoved to the front of his mind. Any discussion with Rhaenyra is going to be about their marriage. A topic he so desperately tried to avoid this evening. 

 “O-of course, dear cousin.” He holds out his arm, and she takes it. 

 He leads her to the lit terrace, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the Great Hall. A few other groups are out on the terrace, grouped widely apart, talking in quiet terms.

 Rhaenyra sighed heavily and leaned against the railing; Laenor occupied the spot next to her, leaning against the railing, too. Her lady, a woman with red hair and clad in blue, and a Kingsguard, not Sir Criston, thankfully, Laenor’s heard stories about his devotion to his charge, and it makes him uncomfortable around him, stop far enough away that if he and Rhaenyra spoke quietly, they wouldn’t hear them, but close enough that no one could accuse the Princess of impropriety. 

 “I assume that this about our impending marriage?” He asks tiredly. 

 “Yes. I’m sorry, Laenor.” Rhaenyra has a tired expression. “You are the only viable candidate, and well…” She screws up her face in annoyance. “Eventually, my father is going to want to bridge the gap between our families.” 

 Laenor gives her an incredulous look. The King had that chance when Laena was presented to him as a potential Queen. 

 “I know,” she grumbles and then sighs heavily. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you are the only Valyrian man that I can marry, given I’ve completely closed the door on my uncle.” 

 The venom in her voice makes Laenor not want to ask what happened. 

 “My father won’t let another insult to House Velyaron go by,” he agrees. 

 “Laenor…” she sighs again, looking much older than four-and-ten. She winces as she tries to form her thoughts into words. “I know that we share similar preferences in matters of taste, given that we both prefer roast duck to goose.” She eyes him, trying to get him to understand. 

 Unfortunately, Lanor gets the analogy all too well. He did try to hide his care for Joffery, but it seems he did not try hard enough. “It’s not a matter of trying, cousin,” he mutters sullenly, cheeks flushing bright red.  

 She gives him a tired smile. “I know. And I would like to say that I am deeply sorry about this. This is not the union you wanted.” 

 He’ll never get the union he wants. Even if, for some reason, he doesn’t marry Rhaenyra, he’ll still be expected to marry and have children. It is his duty to Driftmark. “Thank you, cousin.” The tension in his chest unravels a little bit. 

 “Laenor…I need trueborn heirs. Do you understand? I cannot afford for my children’s heritage to be questioned.” 

 The thought of having to perform his marital duties sickens Laenor. He’s tried, in the past, very hard to be…well… normal. Since the King’s refusal, Mother has been trying to get him to perform with women as if she had been privy to this knowledge beforehand. 

 “Forgive me, cousin, for asking, but are you certain that your father will keep you as his heir if the Queen produces a son?” 

 Rhaenyra’s lips press into a tight line, angry that this has to be asked. “I am sure.” The resoluteness in her voice tells Laenor that he shouldn’t question her. 

 “Alright…I will endeavour to work on trying to enjoy goose.” Laenor swallows heavily; the words feel burdensome. His mother had spoken to him after they returned to Driftmark after the botched betrothal. He’s tried a couple of times laying with whores with mixed success. His mother promised to look into finding something to help him. It was extremely embarrassing to have that conversation with his mother. 

 “Nothing will be expected of you for a while, Laenor. Even if the betrothal is created tomorrow, it will be a long one. I am not ready to bear children, and I think that my father is nervous as well for the consummation.” 

 “I am leaving for the Stepstones soon,” he adds softly. 

 She gives him a weak smile, looking rather faint. “Yes, that too. Who knows how long it will take for the Stepstones to resolve itself? When I go to Dragonstone, I will speak with my lords. I’ve asked my ladies to speak with their fathers to send aid, but I cannot guarantee anything.” 

 “Any help will be grateful.” 

 She takes in a deep breath, trying to rally herself. “I will also need a husband who will help me in this game, cousin. I c-cannot do it alone.” 

 Laenor feels his stomach drop. He looks away from his cousin and her admission of weakness. For all of his life, Rhaenyra has always portrayed a sense of ferociousness, like a true dragon. Seeing her admit this weakness is rather nerve-wracking. 

 Can he play the game? He never learnt how to. Mother never thought that he’d marry back into the main line of the family, so she never bothered to teach him like she did with Laena. It looks like yet another thing he has to learn. 

 “I know you have someone you care about. I will not ask you to break it off, as that is too cruel, but I do ask that you ensure your discreetness. Once we are married, anything you do is reflected on me.” 

 “I-I understand,” he whispers. At this point, it might be better to just break it off with Joffery. 

 “I’m sorry,” she whispers. He looks over and sees her eyes filled with tears. 

 “Cousin, this is not your fault. I understand my duty. Besides, I’d rather it be you I marry, the cousin who I’ve always admired, than a stranger. I-I’ll speak to my mother and see what advice she can offer.” 

 Her smile grows fonder. “Just focus on the Stepstones for now.” She squeezes his hand in reassurance. Laenor smiles and nods, swallowing tightly. Rhaenyra pushes herself off of the railing and straightens her skirts, sighing as she does. “I’m going to go back in.” 

 “Take care,” Laenor says hoarsely. 

 Rhaenyra gives him a look of pity before gliding back into the Great Hall. 

 Laenor sighs and runs a hand through his hair; tonight has been a lot. It’s a confirmation of everything that he thought was going to happen and an eye-opener to how bad it is. 

 At this point, he doesn’t know what’s worse, going to the Stepstones or staying at court. 

 He doesn’t know what made Rhaenyra so sure that her father would keep her as his Heir, but if the Queen gives birth to a son, then the Red Keep will become a warzone. He should speak to Mother about this; she and grandmother will know what to do. Should he get Rhaenyra some courting gifts? Would it be appropriate to do so from the frontlines? 

 Gods, he needs to talk to Joffery. 

 Laenor sighs heavily at the thought. At least Joffery won’t be blindsided about this. They’ve already discussed what’s going to happen to them once Laenor reaches six-and-ten. 

 Maybe if he asks Rhaenyra to take Joffery on as a knight, Joffrey will have some time to integrate himself into court before Laenor returns. But the thought of not having Joffery there next to him while fighting makes Laenor’s heart ache. He doesn’t know what to do. 

 A burst of laughter breaks Laenor out of his musings. 

 He looks up and finds Tyland Lannister stumbling out onto the terrace, a bottle of wine clutched in his hand. At least he thinks it’s Tyland. It’s a little hard to tell the twins apart in the dim lighting. 

 The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Tyland or Jason drunkenly stumbles over to him. 

 Great. 

 “Ser Laenor! Why the long face? Everyone is talking about how close you and the Princess have become. Don’t tell me that the Princess rebuffed your advances?” He pauses and then laughs at his joke. 

 “Lord Tyland. Pleasure,” Laenor says dryly. 

 Tyland gives him a very nice but very lopsided smile and then an exaggerated bow. He can see why Emylie wants to mark Tyland as hers. 

 “The Princess didn’t rebuff me.” Laenor figures it’s safe to say. The betrothal isn’t set, but who else would Rhaenyra or her father choose?

 “Ha! I knew it. I told Jason that he was wasting his time, but he wouldn’t listen to me.” Tyland sighs in the manner that all drunken men do and joins Laenor against the railing. “So? What’s got your jerkin in a jerk?” He sniggers at his joke. It seems that Tyland is the rambunctious type when drunk.  

 “I am leaving for the Stepstones soon. I–I am going to miss…” Laenor trails off, looking into the Great Hall. 

 If his mother were in his place, she’d be already planning how to use her departure to her favour, but Laenor has no idea what to say. 

 “Ah, young love.” Tyland sighed, probably thinking that Laenor was going to say his cousin’s name. He took a swig of his wine and offered it to Laenor. 

 Laenor accepts it without thinking. He winces at the bitter taste but swallows the wine without complaint. 

 Tyland’s jovial attitude is subdued by the time Laenor passes the wine back to him. His green eyes dulled with thought…and wine. “Does your father have an estimate on the campaign length?” 

 Right, Tyland is the new Master of Ships; he’d have an interest in the Stepstones even if the King or the Hand don’t think that it’s an issue. Laenor sighs. “His last letter to Mother told her that the pirates are well situated within the island’s caves. Even with Caraxes and Seasmoke, it’s looking to be a long campaign.” 

 Tyland swears loudly and takes a longer drink. 

 “Congratulations on your position, by the way,” Laenor offers as Tyland gives him the wine. 

 Tyland arches a confused eyebrow at him. Laenor shrugs; he doesn’t care that Tyland got the position. Laenor is upset with the King for ignoring his father’s warnings, making Laenor help resolve it. But his father resigned, and Tyland got the position fairly. 

 “Better you than Lord Redwyne. That’d be three Reach lords on the council. Not exactly fair on the rest of the Realm. Besides, my father worked alongside yours several years back to help with the Ironborn problem. He had nothing bad to say about him, and I hear that you take after him. The Realm will be in good hands.” Laenor can see when Tyland ruffles his metaphorical feathers at the praise. Even the most humble Lannister has one crippling weakness. 

 Sure, Laenor is laying the flattery on a little thick, but if he’s going to be Rhaenyra’s husband, he needs to get a foothold in court at some point.

 “It seems we both have big boots to fill,” Tyland says wryly. Despite drinking so much, Tyland is fairly coherent and business-oriented. It’s a little impressive.  

 “Indeed.” Laenor sighs. 

 They sit for a few moments in silence, enjoying the cool night air. 

 “I see you were dancing with Lady Dayne earlier.” Laenor has to smother a laugh. Emylie’s plan is working already. 

 “Mhm. She’s a very good dancer.” Laenor wonders what to say to help Emylie. He’s not very good at describing what’s desirable about a woman. 

 “I saw. You seemed in an intense discussion.”

 Laenor rubs the back of his neck. “We were talking about the Stepstones, actually. Her Grandsire is becoming worried about the pirates raiding their coasts. She wanted to know what I know about the situation.” 

 “The Daynes are thinking about joining your father? What about the rest of Dorne?” 

 “I don’t know. Lady Dayne would know better,” Laenor lies. He’s lying for a good cause. Maybe that will get Tyland to speak with Emylie. 

 “Hmm.” Tyland contemplates Laenor’s words. “Maybe I shall.” Success! Laenor internally cheers. He did something right! 

 Laenor grins, taking a final swig of wine, still not used to the bitter aftertaste before standing. “I should return; my Mother is probably wondering where I am. It was a pleasure talking to you, Lord Tyland.” 

 “And to you, ser Laenor! I wish you luck on the Stepstone.” Tyland holds up his wine in a salute. 

 Laenor waves goodbye before slipping into the Great Hall. He takes a deep breath in, trying to steady his nerves. He has the bad feeling that he just committed himself to something much worse than he predicted. 

 He squares his shoulders and marches over to his mother, steadfastly ignoring the dread creeping up his spine. 

Chapter Text

Otto paces back and forth in his solar. Everything was not going as he had planned. With the former Queen’s passing, he saw his opportunity. For too long, he laboured as the second son, clinging onto scraps that he could steal from others. Now, with the King in mourning, Otto conveniently placed his daughter in the King’s sight. 

 The King is a simple man, and Otto is forever grateful for this. He wants the simplest outcome that makes the problem go away as quickly as possible. 

 And Otto used it to his advantage. Alicent becoming Queen meant that he would have power over the future Heir, as the girl is too simple to raise an heir properly. 

 But everything started falling to ruin because of that blasted maid. Otto snarls at the thought. What reason did she have to go to the King so late at night? He tried to raise this objection, but the scandal of his daughter being found in a compromising position drowned out his words. 

 Now, despite being Queen, his fool of a daughter has no power or respect in court. 

 Now, it’s the foolhardy, absent-minded Princess who retains the power in the Keep. 

 It galls Otto to hear how the courtiers whisper in admiration for the Princess, who retained a stiff upper lip in the wake of her servant’s, as if Otto’s line doesn’t descend from Kings themselves, betrayal. Pathetic. 

 Alicent’s announcement made things worse. The Realm should be celebrating the creation of a new heir. But her pathetic attempt to get attention from the Princess made her look like a fool. 

 What woman announces her pregnancy after only a month? 

 Now, the Realm believes the silly rumours. Otto prays that this is a girl so that his next grandchild is assuredly a trueborn son. 

 If Otto knew that his daughter was going to become this much of a fool, he would’ve taken over her education instead of letting his wife care for her. 

 Worst of all, the Princess managed to secure the loyalty of the Daynes. Otto had seen the Dayne girl sniffing around court since the death of the former Queen. He didn’t give her much mind because she was of little consequence. No one trusted a Dornish. Yet somehow, she managed to worm her way into the graces of the Princess. Now, the Princess has the power of the Western half of Dorne with easy access into the Reach. 

 He needs to do something about Lady Dayne’s presence. Perhaps a well-needed letter ought to be sent to Sunspear. Otto doubts that the Prince of Dorne would be pleased to see one of his subjects engaging with the enemy. That should curb the Daynes' ambitions. 

 He will need to keep an eye on the Princess’s other ladies. He worries not for the Strong girl or the Baratheon one. Lyonel acts as if he serves the Realm and only the Realm. He will not want his daughter to act solely in favour of the Princess, and Borros Baratheon is disgusted at the idea of a woman in charge. 

 He’s already agreed to give his eldest daughter to Alicent’s household. 

 Amanda Arryn is weathered up and old but still possesses enough of a threat that Otto will need to silence her as soon as possible. 

 The Manderly girl is a thorn, but she can’t do much. Northerners dislike partaking in politics. 

 What truly galls him is the Florents. How dare they? They are pathetic scraps of a House clinging to a long-dead lineage that doesn’t even start with the main line of House Gardner. It’s pathetic that they think that they can ‘fight’ against the Hightowers. He’ll have to remind them of their position.  

 Otto’s lip curls into a sneer. He’d underestimated the Princess. He didn’t think she was very devious, but it turns out he was wrong. 

 He doubts that she has the brains to pull off the stunt that happened at the wedding. It was likely the Velyarons or, worse, the Arryns who orchestrated the mess. Besides, Otto monitors the Princess’s mail. There was no way that she could’ve gotten the message out without him knowing about it. 

 Alicent huffs. The girl has become so arrogant since becoming Queen; she should be thanking Otto for her rise in station. 

 At least one of his children, Gwayne, is somewhat competent. He’s standing silently at the door, watching them with a calculating eye. 

 “I don’t see why you’re so upset, Father.” Alicent rubs her brow, acting like a forlorn mother despite being merely a month along. “Welcoming Lady Dayne into her household will only cause Rhaenyra trouble. I understand that you are worried for her reputation, but at this point, I think we ought to let her learn the consequences of her actions.”

 Otto ceases his pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You foolish girl, can’t you see the significance of the Princess’s actions?” He demands. 

  “What?” Alicent snaps, her face flushes in indignation. “How is allowing someone with questionable morals and a savage history beneficial to Rhaenyra?” He scowls when he spots her picking at her nails, the nail beds shredded into a bloody mess. Such juvenile actions for a married woman act upon. 

 He should’ve shaken some sense into her some time ago. 

 “You foolish girl!” He yells. “This irrational hatred blinds you.” 

 Alicent flushes in anger, her hands ball into fists. The action displeases Otto even more. How dare she get angry at him when he is doing everything in his power to ensure his family’s legacy?

 “Lady Dayne,” he sneers, pacing again. “Not only gives the Princess the might of Starfall but the entire west of Dorne!”   

 The Daynes weren’t the most powerful of the Dornish houses; historically, that would go to the Yronwoods. But the current Lord of Starfall has increased his political capital, becoming the head of an emerging coalition of the western Dornish nobles, with ties across Essos from his mercantile business. He could’ve easily secured a match between his house and the Martells. Why he hadn’t, Otto couldn’t tell, other than not wanting his Heir to be tied to a different house. 

 Why the Dornish insisted on equal primogeniture, he has no idea. The Lord has a perfectly able grandson engaged to the Heir of Yronwood. Most lords would kill for that. Fools. The lot of them. 

 But, the Daynes had enough capital to pressure the rest of Dorne into siding with the Princess. 

 Otto is reluctantly impressed with the savyness of the Daynes. The Princess would be a perfect puppet for them. She would be so grateful to have their support that she’d cave in on any demand of theirs if she’s anything like her father. She could easily make them the Lords of Dorne. 

 “Why does it matter?” Alicent snaps, slapping her hands against the table, standing in frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gawyne snap to attention, warily watching the two of them. “My Husband is the one who chooses his Heir, and I must stand beside him. It matters not if this babe is a boy.”

 Why does it matter? Why does it MATTER? 

 Otto stares at his daughter in incredulity. Gawyne stiffens, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. 

 Has she not been paying attention at all? 

 Otto allowed the Princess to become the Heir because Daemon Targaryen would do anything to ensure his position as the Crown Prince, especially if it’s Otto’s grandson in his way. He merely used the Princess as a shield for his grandson. 

 It doesn't matter what the King thinks. It’s tradition for the oldest son to become his father’s Heir, not the oldest child. They aren’t Dornish. The rest of the lords would riot if the Princess became Queen. 

 It seems that he needs to reeducate his daughter. 

 It matters not that she is the Queen. A father never stops teaching his children. 

 The slap connects before Otto can fully process what he did. 

 His hand tingles from where it meets Alicent’s cheek. A faint pink spreads across Alicent’s cheek. Perhaps she’ll listen to him now. 

 It was perhaps a little ill-advised to strike another man’s wife, but the King wouldn’t notice, and this brat needed a wake-up call. 

 Despite the Princess steadfastly ignoring her, refusing to help Alicent dress for her wedding or pour the symbolic wine for the couple, Otto had wanted the girl punished for her impudence, but the King continued to spoil her; Alicent still held out some girlish hope that she’d reconcile with her childhood friend. 

 He’ll have to break her out of this silly habit.

 He resists the urge to scoff as Alicent’s eyes weld up with tears, and she sinks to the floor, clutching her cheek. 

 He curses his late wife for spoiling their daughter and encouraging such morals to fester in her mind, stopping her from seizing power in front of her. 

 “It all matters, you idiot child! Do you think that if you give the King a son, Rhaenyra would allow him to live? She’ll put him to the sword the moment she gains power. He is a threat to her throne! And now she has half of Dorne under her thumb,” he snarls. 

 He has doubts if the Princess will order the death of his grandson herself, but her allies will not allow him to live, leaving a threat to her throne. Someone will give the order, regardless of the Princess or not. 

 The Velyarons will be the first to call for his grandson’s head. Old bitter Rhaenys will see this as payment for her supposedly stolen throne, and Coryls will stop at nothing to ensure his blood gets on the throne, either through marriage to his sword swallower son or a grandchild. The Arryns will not be far behind. 

 Alicent looks at him in horror, as if she refuses to believe what he prophecies. 

 Otto wants to slap her again for her continued foolishness. Why can she not see the dangers ahead? 

 “Now, stay quiet and don’t make any waves. We cannot afford another stunt like you pulled with the ladies,” he orders. 

 He can salvage the situation if she just behaves. The court will forgive her in time if Otto keeps stressing that she’s young and excited about doing her role. Thank goodness the King has already forgiven her. That’ll make things much easier. 

 Once a son is born, the court will change sides. Otto knows this. 

 “I’m the Queen. I cannot just turn a blind eye when I see immodesty!”

 Otto curses his late wife again. Alicent’s stupid piousness has gotten in the way again. The stupid old biddies don’t care about the Faith, they just want to feel important. And now, thanks to Alicent’s actions and the Princess saving the day, the women of the court love Amanda Arryn. It’ll be difficult to wrest the position from her now. The women will eat whatever Amanda Arryn feeds them and go spouting it at their husbands, poisoning their minds against the rightful ruler of Westeros. 

 Otto raises his hand to educate his daughter once again. She will listen to him, no matter how long it takes. 

 Gwayne steps in front of Alicent, levelling his father with an unimpressed glare. 

 He’d forgotten that his son was in the room with them; he’d been so focused on getting his words through his thick daughter’s skull. 

 “Enough, Father. If you hit her hard enough, it’ll leave a mark, and people will question it. We cannot afford to have you sent back to Oldtown.”

 Otto narrows his eyes at his son; he underestimates him. 

 His eyes flicker over to his daughter, still clutching her cheek. He doubts that he hit her hard enough to leave a bruise, but Gwayne is not wrong. It is in a highly visible place, and if Otto somehow left a bruise, people would question who struck the Queen. 

 The King would have to do something about this, even if Otto was the one doing it.

 Going back to Oldtown would damper his plans. 

 “Fine,” he spits. “Make sure that she behaves.” 

 Otto spins on his heel and marches out of the room. If Gwayne wants to deal with his pathetic excuse of a sister, then fine. Otto has better things to do with his time than babysit.

                                                                                                                                                 ****

 Alicent can’t bring herself to rise. She remains collapsed on the floor, unable to summon the strength to get up. The soft blue of her old gown that she’s wearing, desperately trying to cling to her childhood, spirals out around her. 

 “Come, Ali.” Gwayne helps her up, settling her back in her chair. He sighs and settles next to her, holding her hand as she sobs without abandon. 

 “I don’t know what I am doing to upset him! I’m only trying to help my Husband,” she wails. What else is she supposed to do?   

 Gwayne squeezes her hand. “I know, Ali, but things aren’t as straightforward as the Septa’s make it seem. There are a lot of people who don’t like our family in King’s Landing. Father just doesn’t want you to get hurt, and it makes him act out like that.” 

 Alicent wipes her eyes in vain, and tears continue to fall out. “I–I know. All he’s been looking out for me, and is trying to do the best for the Realm. I just—” She doesn’t know how to voice her concerns properly. She thought the wedding was supposed to calm things down and make him happier, but it just seemed to displease him further. What did she do? All she tries to do is be dutiful; there’s not much else she can do. 

 “Things will calm down in time. Just make sure your little one is healthy, okay?” 

 Alicent nods, wiping her eyes again. “Okay.” 

 “Do you want me to get your ladies?” He asks, concern evident in his eyes. 

 She doesn’t want to face Bethany or Mina and have to keep her pain away from them. The mere idea of showing them an unseemly face makes Alicent shudder in revolution. She can’t afford to be weak. There are too many people in court who’d be happy to capitalize on her pain. 

 It makes her wish to be Rhaenyra’s Lady again. Alicent didn’t have to worry about these petty grievances. No one cared for the little Princess’s lady-in-waiting, and Alicent was able to lament in peace. 

 No one looked at her. 

 No… that’s not true. There was one who looked at her. Daemon Targaryen. Whenever he came waltzing into the Red Keep, his eyes would find her, and his lip would curl into a vicious smirk. He scared her as a child, but Alicent bravely clung onto Rhaenyra’s hand and followed them, ensuring that she’d be there when Daemon eventually broke Rhaenyra’s heart by leaving.  

 She was flattered when he asked for her favour during the Heir’s Tournament, thinking that he finally saw the real her. 

 It wasn’t until afterwards, when she heard two girls gossiping, that the reality sunk in. 

 Daemon didn’t want her; he wanted to humiliate her father and chose to make a fool out of her in the process. Why else would a Prince ask a lady like her for her favour? 

 Ah. She sees what Gwayne is trying to tell her. Her father has many enemies from trying to run the Realm, and they cannot touch him, but they will do everything to dishonour Alicent and ruin him through her. 

 “Ali?” Gwayne prods. 

 Alicent blinks, returning to the present. “Yes, please send for them. Thank you, brother.” She pulls on a mask, but Gwayne still looks displeased. Is it not good enough? Alicent will have to be better. She is Queen; she cannot afford to be sloppy. 

 She will be better, and she’ll start by rooting out those who wish ill on the Princess. Then her Husband will be happy with her, and then her father will be proud. 

 “Are you sure?” 

 Alicent smiles at Gwayne. “Yes, thank you brother.” 

 He gets up slowly, tension tight across his shoulders and heads to the door. Alicent watches his back, wondering if he’ll stop as Father does at the door, turn around, and cut her to her bones with his words. They are needed words, but they hurt nonetheless. 

 But Gwayne doesn’t stop. He quietly leaves her solar, and Alicent stares down at her now abandoned honeyed milk. 

 She wishes that he had stopped. It would’ve given her direction, at least. 

 Alicent sighed heavily, hand drifting to her stomach once again, allowing herself this moment of peace before Bethany and Mina arrived. 

                                                                                                                               **** 

With all the excitement dying down, the nobles of the Keep were packing up to return to their keeps. The rest of her ladies were off spending the last couple of days with their families. Emylie’s grandmother left almost as soon as she arrived, stating that the climate didn’t agree with her. It was a flimsy excuse, but Rhaenyra granted it just fine. Rhaenyra absconded to her room with Emylie and Eleanor, trying to get some time alone. 

 The amount of whispers clinging to the Keep was driving Rhaenyra up the wall. She couldn’t help but compare it to when she had Jacearys in the Dreams. She remembers the weight of the whispers on her shoulders. 

 Rhaenyra is used to being the centre of attention; after all, she was the King's only child, but after Jacearys, it was different. 

 It was torture. Thinking about it makes Rhaenyra want to crawl out of her skin. 

 It’s still torture; Rhaenyra can’t stand it. But it’s an effective weapon, she has to admit, and she wants to be on the right side of it before Alicent wises up and tries to use it for her smear campaign. 

 She’s heard some people say that Alicent was drunk on power by trying to cancel the ladies’ court.

 It’s not a good look for the Hightowers. 

 People were starting to see that the Hightowers were power-hungry leeches. Rhaenyra can only hope that this will lessen Otto’s grip on the government. 

 Rhanyra looks over to Eleanor, curled up on the couch, reading through sheaves of parchment with a furrowed brow and wonders if Larys will still side with Alicent. Rhaenyra understands that Larys has some resentment towards his father and brother, but from what she’s seen, he’s close to Eleanor. 

 Would he act against his youngest sister? 

 She doesn’t know what to do to get rid of him from the board without hurting Eleanor. 

 She sighs heavily, yet another thing she has to figure out. 

 She tugs at her hair, mulling over what to do next. There are charities that she could pick up, but that would require some political standing to enact. The Small Folk of King’s Landing won’t trust her if she just appears out of the blue. 

 She is sure that the community leaders will just see her actions as disingenuous. She wants them to think that she does care for them so that they won’t be swayed by someone who offers them more. She wants their loyalty. 

 To do that, there is a massive list of things she needs to accomplish. 

 She groans in frustration when her loose braid starts to unravel. 

 “Here, let me.” Emylie bats Rhaenyra’s hand away and slowly undoes her braid, her slender fingers pulling gently at Rhaenyra’s curls. She stops for a second to retrieve a hairbrush. 

 Rhaenyra closes her eyes, tilts her head back, and enjoys the feeling of someone brushing her hair for her. 

 It’s peaceful. 

 The thought strikes a cord in her. 

 Rhaenyra hasn’t had peace in a while. She’s been trying to get ahead of Otto and the Greens for the past couple of months, and she’s run herself ragged. 

 She wanted to humiliate Alicent more somehow, to get back at her for slithering into her mother’s bed, but while Alicent isn’t the shame of society, she isn’t doing well. She’s not well-liked. 

 Rhaenyra has already highlighted tensions between her Father and Alicent, and many Lords and Ladies now dislike her. Not even mention that everyone believes that the child Alicent is carrying is a bastard. Rhaenyra hopes it's Aegon in Alicent’s womb, and then the long-awaited son of the King will be born a bastard. No one will want to follow him. 

 Now that the stage has been set, Rhaenyra has to continue the momentum. 

 But right now, she wants to enjoy the peace without worrying about the next issue. 

 “Emylie?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 “Yes, my Princess?”

“Will the Prince of Dorne act against your family once it becomes known that your grandmother returned such precious items and that you serve me?”  

 The thought has knawed at Rhaenyra every now and then. How would the rest of Dorne react to Emylie? 

 Rhaenyra peeks an eye open at Emylie; she looks amused at Rhaenyra’s expression. “My gifts, my Princess, were the war treasures of the Ullers. The Martells cannot dictate what they can or cannot do with them.” 

 “How did you get them to give up the bones?” 

 Emylie’s grin grows larger. “My great uncle and his son died fighting bandits when my cousin was younger. As a result, he ended up being fostered by my Grandsire and grandmother. He and my brother, Eanon, became quite close. He is quite dutiful to his family.” 

 That cannot be enough to sway him to join in on their scheme. 

 Emylie sighs, looking a little repentant. “There are many Ullers, my Princess. In the early years of his lordship, Qyle leaned heavily on Starfall’s support. He fully knows that one of many of his cousins would be just as loyal to my Grandsire if he helped them gain a lordship. The remains of your ancestor, a closely kept secret of the family, is a paltry comparison to keeping his life.” 

 Rhaenyra squirms a little in her seat, knowing that her gift was a result of a threat. 

 “Don’t feel guilty, my Princess. This is what it means to rule; it’s a lesson that you need to learn. Grandsire might’ve used an underhand tactic to get what he wanted, but he calculated the odds and found that the advantages were worth it. We are hoping that the Royal family’s favour will protect us, and by extension the Ullers, if there is war.” 

 “Do you think that there will be war?” 

 Emylie shrugs. “At the height of his reign, King Jaehaerys was able to put a stop to Prince Morian’s foolish war within a day. My ancestor’s victory against Queen Rhaenys was a fluke; I can admit that. Sooner or later, there will be a day when there is a king with less scruples than your great-grandsire and father, who will finish what the conquerors did.” 

 Emylie’s hands don’t falter as she responds to Rhaenyra; they are light and delicate, expertly twisting her hair into braids. She chuckles softly when Rhaenyra hums contentedly.

 That is unsettling. Rhaenyra now can see why the Dornish are wary of them. They must be worried that once Daemon is done in the Stepstones, he’ll turn his eye to Dorne. She can see what Lord Dayne is worried about. 

 Rhaenyra has seen what happens to Westeros in the Dreams; the destruction and sheer brutality nauseate her. She’s pretty much doing the same as Lord Dayne, trying to prevent the razing of his home.  

 “And the Prince won’t get angered at your Grandsire for sending you here?” 

 Emylie huffs at the mere thought of the Prince getting angry. “The politics in Dorne is complicated, my Princess. The last Prince…well… he was much like your father.” 

 “Inefectual?” Rhaenyra asks wryly. 

 Emylie shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. “He enjoyed the leisurely pursuits in life. Content to let the Realm run by itself. Because of his lack of care, the Western nobles entered into a sort of informal coalition.” 

 Rhaenyra didn’t know that the Martells didn’t have an iron grip on their vassals. She always thought that they were like the North, or the Westerlands, strongly united under their liege. 

 “Why?” 

 “The Red Dunes separate us, my Princess. It is difficult to cross the desert, and the Dornish navy is non-existent. We were left to our own devices, and those lords are distrustful of the current Prince. There are currently two members of House Martell, the Prince does not have any children, so they are weak. And well…” Emylie sighs. Rhaenyra peeks at her; Emylie looks tired. “The Prince’s sister is… she cares little about the Realm and even less about the feelings of lords and ladies. Despite our shared heritage, the Daynes were one of her favourite targets. It got bad enough that the Prince had to step in and apologize…publically. So, it’s understandable in the eyes of the Realm that I went and found someone better to serve.”

 Emylie's voice has an undercurrent of anger, a trace of past hurt.   

 Rhaenyra doesn’t press; Emylie will tell her when she’s ready. 

 There’s a gentle knock at the door. “My Princess.” 

 Rhaenyra wants to groan in frustration. Right, Criston is still an issue. Thankfully, with her added guard of Ser Erryk, Ser Arryk, Rowlf, and William, Criston isn’t on rotation as often. 

 “What is it, Ser Criston?” Rhaenyra asks, closing her eyes and rubbing her brow in an attempt to soothe herself. She wants one day to herself. Is that too hard to ask? 

 Criston clears his throat. “There is a message for Lady Dayne.” 

 Rhaenyra peeks an eye open, looking up at Emylie. Emylie’s brow is furled in confusion. This isn’t something that Emylie had planned for. 

 Rhaenyra straightens, making herself look presentable as Eleanor and Emylie did as well. “Come in, Ser Criston.” 

 The door creaks open, and Criston walks in, followed by a young boy. Criston looks displeased at the interruption, and the boy looks terrified. It’s not the same boy as before, Alton, but someone that Rhaenyra has never seen before. 

 The boy shakily bows to Rhaenyra and then holds out a scroll to Emylie. “A-a message, milady, from your cousin,” Rhaenyra notes a thick Flea Bottom accent, though he is thoroughly scrubbed clean and wearing the uniform of a servant in the Keep. 

 Has Emylie been getting her own people into the Keep? 

 Emylie gratefully takes the scroll from the boy, giving him a bright smile. “Thank you, Davos. Are you and Alton still getting along well?” 

 The boy nods. 

 “Wonderful. Next time that you go to see him, can you ask his father to place an order for me?” 

 The boy nods again. 

 “That’s all, dear. It's best you run off, back to your duties,” Emylie gently dismisses him. The boy bows to her and then takes another deep bow before scampering off. 

 Rhaenyra, Criston, who hasn’t left for some reason, and Eleanor turn a quizzical look to Emylie. Emylie pays them no mind as she scans the scroll. Her face gets a pinched quality that tells Rhaenyra that it’s not a good message. 

 “Everything alright?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 Emylie purses her lips and looks up to Rhaneyra. “My Princess, do you know where Lady Velyaron may be? There is something I must discuss with her.” 

 What? 

 Rhaenyra frowns at the abrupt change in conversation. Then, she frowns deeper when she thinks of where Rhaenys may be. 

 They hadn’t left; Rhaenyra knew that. Lady Jocelyn wanted to spend some time at the Keep, which had been her home for many years before departing. Rhaenys would likely be there with her mother, or maybe she’s watching Laenor train. There aren’t many who Rhaenys would call friends in the Keep. 

 “Try the garden of the kingdoms in the Stormland section. Cousin Rhaenys told me that Lady Baratheon used to enjoy spending her days there.  If she’s not, then maybe Lady Baratheon may know where she is.” 

 “Thank you, My Princess.” Emylie curtseys under Criston's hawkish gaze. “May I take my leave?” 

 “Of course.” 

 Emylie hurries out of the room, leaving them in an awkward silence. 

 Criston had not taken that as his cue to leave, but instead, he chose to linger inside Rhaenyra’s rooms. Rhaenyra doesn’t like this; only Eleanor is here to prevent anything. She knows logically that Criston doesn’t have any motivation to hurt her right now, but she can’t get the image of him killing Lord Beesbury out of her mind. 

 She focuses on keeping her breathing calm as Criston continues to remain in her rooms. 

 Why is he here? 

 What does he want? 

 Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker over to Eleanor. Elanor picks up on Rhaenyra’s uneasiness and watches Criston like a hawk. 

 She’d prefer to do this with more of her ladies here, but Rhaenyra can’t take his presence here any longer. 

 She can’t trust her back to a man who could easily betray her. 

 Rhaenyra forces a fake smile as her heart beats loudly in her chest. “Sir Criston, I have a favour I’d like to ask.” 

 “Anything, My Princess.” 

 She curls and uncurls her hand, trying to keep herself calm. 

 She takes in a deep breath and trains her eyes on his shoulder, refusing to look him in the eye. She hopes that her nervousness helps sell her act. “I’ve lost many siblings, Sir Criston. A–and I am worried. The Queen has……garnered a lot of attention recently. Not all of it positive.” 

 “I see…” he trails off, looking at her with an expression she can’t interpret. 

 “Would you do me the favour of looking after the Queen? Just until she’s given birth!” Rhaenyra adds the last part hastily when she sees him looking like he’s about to object. 

 “And then you’d like me to watch your sibling?” He asks, not looking pleased. 

 Eleanor shoots Rhaenyra a warning look, silently telling her that Rhaenyra is getting very close to falling to ruin. 

 Rhaenyra can understand that this would be a step down in the eyes of the Kingsguard. Going from protecting the Heir to the semi-disgraced Queen to an infant. 

 Rhaenyra drops her eyes, trying to look abashed like Emylie does when she’s putting on a ruse. “I know it sounds silly; I–I just worry. I don’t think that my heart could take it if I lost another sibling.” 

 “Princess…” 

 She doesn’t really know how to convince Criston correctly, but she assumes, from the Dreams, that he was a conservative man who liked it when a woman stayed in her traditional role. He followed Alicent happily for years. 

 “Please, Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra hates having to beg, but she makes her eyes big and sort of teary-eyed. 

 He sighs heavily, all resistance fleeing his body. “I understand your worries, My Princess. The Queen has garnered a lot of attention recently.” He sounds entirely displeased at that. “It is very kind of you to worry about your sibling. I shall protect them with my life.” 

 “Oh, thank you, Sir Criston!” Rhaenyra claps her hands together in genuine joy. Finally! She’s getting rid of this blight. She couldn’t believe how easy it was. If Rhaenyra were living in her dream world, Criston would be tossed out without his white cloak, but this is a good second. 

 “I shall keep an eye on the Queen, ensuring no unsavoury characters convince her to do anything detrimental.” 

 Oh, this is even better. 

 Rhaenyra hadn’t even asked Criston to spy on Alicent for her, yet he’s offering out of his whole volition. She doesn’t think that Alicent will ever get Criston on her side. 

 “Do you mind informing me if you think someone is acting untoward to my sibling? I have so few family members….” Rhaenyra trails off, batting her eyelashes at him. 

 “Of course, My Princess….Lady Dayne has pointed out to me that the Queen had the idea of…visiting your father implanted in her mind by someone else. My vow as a Kingsguard ensures that I must keep the Royal Family safe. From any threats.” 

 Wow. Rhaenyra can only blink at Criston’s devotion. She has to remember to thank Emylie when she gets back. 

 “Thank you, Ser Criston, truly. I can rest easy knowing my sibling is safe from outside harm. I’ll speak with Ser Harold about changing shifts. I will ensure that Ser Harold knows that this isn’t a demotion or anything, just a favour.” 

 Ser Criston bows. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, My Princess. If there isn’t anything else, I shall return to my post.” 

 “There isn’t.” Criston inclines his head and leaves without a further word. 

 Once the door is fully shut, Rhaenyra slumps in her seat. She can’t believe she pulled it off. She’s free of Criston. A giddy laugh escapes her. 

 “I can’t believe you did that,” Eleanor hisses, rushing over to Rhaenyra. 

 “Same,” Rhaenyra whispers back. 

 “May I ask why?” Eleanor murmurs. 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips. So far, Criston hasn’t done anything wrong; he just makes her uncomfortable. “He is…intense. I feel as if I cannot be entirely relaxed in his presence, but there wasn’t any other way for me to get him away, lest I dishonour him and create an enemy.” 

 Eleanor nods thoughtfully. “I have seen him watch you, My Princess. I didn’t know if it was my place to say. I tried not to leave you alone with him, in case…” she trails off, unsure what to say. Criston is…unsettling, but he’s still a member of the Kingsguard. There’s a certain hesitancy there to insult someone in such a prestigious position. 

 Rhaenyra understands Eleanor’s hesitance. It’s hard to come into a situation and try to point out a problem without getting ostracized. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Eleanor, for looking out for me even when we weren’t that close. 

“It’s my role, my Lady. But I do it now with pleasure.” Rhaenyra grins and pulls her into a hug.

 It feels good to have one less thing on her shoulders. Soon, Criston shall be gone, and Rhaenyra won’t have to worry about him. 

 She wonders what made Emylie leave in a hurry. She supposes she’ll find out soon. 

                                                                                                                  ****

 Rhaenyra’s guess was right. Emylie can see Lady Rhaenys and her mother strolling through the gardens. She feels bad for interrupting their lovely afternoon, but the sooner her mother and Grandsire get a response, the better. 

 “Lady Dayne,” Lady Baratheon notes Emylie’s appearance. 

 “Good morn’ my ladies.” Emylie curtsies. She can feel her heart beating heavily below her breastbone. This is her first real task as her mother’s Heir. She, alone, has to strike a deal with the Velyarons. It is rather nerve-wracking.

 “Come to seduce my grandson further?” Lady Baratheon teases. 

 Emylie lets out a polite chuckle. “My, my, Lady Baratheon, is that what you see me as?” She gently shakes her head. “Besides, my lady, if anything, your grandson is quite the charmer.” They share a laugh, which causes some of her anxiety to die. 

 Lady Rhaenys smoothly arches an eyebrow. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Lady Dayne?” She asks. 

 Lady Rhaenys still makes Emylie nervous. Everyone knew that the person running Driftmark was Lady Rhaenys. Lord Coryls is known for his adventures and treasure-seeking, but Lady Rhaenys is the backbone. 

 Cool and stalwart, running her seat with ruthless efficiency. What young Heir doesn’t want to be like Lady Rhaenys? 

 “I am here to inquire if the Velyarons have any means of accessing sunken ships.” 

 Less than a sennight ago, one of their vessels, heading to Volantis, was attacked by the Crabfeeder and sunk with its cargo still intact. The two crates of pearls, created by their pearl farming business, were worth close to 60,000 gold dragons. It’s a significant blow to their yearly earnings, plus the added costs of purchasing a new ship and training new sailors will put them in the red for the year. 

 Emylie doesn’t want to think about what it might do to their relationship with their partners in Volantis. Shipping their products overseas carries a certain risk, but this is a devastating blow. It might end their pearl farming business, which is still in its infancy, and Grandsire might be forced to abandon the project. It has the potential to be incredibly lucrative—that’s if the product makes it there. 

 This whole debacle isn’t even factoring in the cost of the raiding parties emanating from the Stepstones. So far, Sandhall is the only one of their properties that’s been raided. There, thankfully, weren’t many casualties, but a good section of the port was burnt, and Grandsire was sponsoring the rebuilding efforts. 

Coastline towns near Hellgate Hall and along the Sandstone shore have greatly suffered thanks to the Crabfeeder. 

 The only reason why the Prince hasn’t acted against the Triarchy is because Sunspear is closer to the Stepstones than Starfall. If the Triarchy wins, then Sunspear is doomed. So, the Prince is fine with maintaining ‘peace’ while his subjects are suffering. 

 “It depends on where the ship sank.” Lady Rhaenys sighs, bringing Emylie back to her original train of thought. 

 “Mm, off the coast of Lemonwood, I believe. Some of our sailors were able to make it to shore. It’s how my family learnt of its demise.” 

 Lady Rhaenys purses her lips and nods. “It should be salvageable, but with most of our manpower focused on the Stepstones, we won’t be able to help Starfall in reclaiming their sunk cargo.” 

 Emylie thought that would be the case. 

 The paper stashed in her dress feels like a hunk of lead. If she makes this deal, then she’s dooming men to their deaths. 

 She wasn’t lying to the Princess when Emylie told her that she needed to learn the price of ruling. It’s not easy being a lord, and it would be a hundred times harder as the Queen of Westeros, but there is a difference between theory and practice.

 It’s easy for Emylie to make these sacrifices, leaving her home and culture behind to forge a path into Westeros, but it’s very different when it comes to sending men to the battlefield. 

 “Lady Dayne?” Lady Baratheon gently asks, bringing her back to reality. Both Lady Baratheon and Lady Rhaenys are looking at her expectantly. 

 Emylie hitches in a breath and squares her shoulders. She can do it. 

 “My Grandsire has authorized me to be able to make a contract with the Velyarons in regard to retrieving our cargo. In return, we will pledge our swords to Lord Coryls’s cause.” Emylie’s voice trembles only a little, which makes Emylie feel a little proud of herself. 

 “You are pledging to fight a war just to get cargo back?” Lady Rhaenys asks. 

 Emylie shakes her head. “Partially. The Crabfeeder has been terrorizing the Summer Sea coast, and my Grandsire is getting restless. The contents of that ship were meant to help rebuild part of Sandhall. The point of the contract is to have insurance; that our men do not die in vain.” It’s odd that his men are attacking Dornish settlements. Emylie would’ve thought that the Triarchy would want the Prince to think favourably of them so that he wouldn’t join the Velyarons. Maybe the Triarchy thought Dorne would never join a Westerosi lord? Or they’re confident enough to think Dorne won’t retaliate due to a lack of navy and a weak Prince? 

 “And if we cannot retrieve the items for you?” 

 Emylie thought back to the letter. Her Grandsire wanted the full worth of the pearls repaid to them by the Velyarons if they failed, but mother told her that she should negotiate something lower because campaigns take time and there was no guarantee that they would be able to find the ship afterwards. 

 “Seventy percent of the value of the cargo paid back.” 

 “I thought that the Crabfeeder was attacking you, wouldn’t your men be going regardless?” 

 “The raids, at least in our territory, are not frequent, and we can build defences; thus, our men would remain at home. If we have a guarantee that we’d get money back on this investment, then we’d be more willing to send aid.” 

 Send aid that the Velyarons desperately need; that part went unsaid, but the meaning was conveyed. 

 And if Starfall sends aid, there’s a higher chance that the Qorgyles and the Ullers would send men as well. With aid, there is a higher chance that the war will end sooner. 

 Lady Rhaenys’ lips pursed in thought. “Fourty-five percent,” she counters. 

 “Sixty-five percent.” 

 “Fifty.” 

 “Sixty.” 

 “Fine. Sixty percent.” That is roughly the price of one of the crates. It’ll be a loss for them, but they’ll get rid of the Crabfeeder, so it’s not an entire loss. Grandsire won’t be thrilled, but Emylie thinks that he’ll understand. If they do only get sixty-five percent of the value of the pearls, there is a chance that through this endeavour, the Velyarons would be more open to doing business with them. 

 Lady Baratheon smiles at Emylie. “You are shaping up to becoming quite the Heir, young lady.” 

 Emylie gives her a tight smile. “Thank you, Lady Baratheon. Though I wish this business could be done without my people’s blood on the line.” 

 Lady Rhaenys sighs. “It is unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances, but regardless, I am pleased to have met you, Lady Dayne. Princess Rhaenyra is lucky to have you.”

 “It is I who is lucky, my Lady, for there are no other heirs in Dorne who have such a broad list of friends like I. Also, before you leave, you may wish to speak to Lord Manderly. His daughter has told me that he has expressed concerns about the Stepstones. The Arryns, as well. I do not know if they’ll send soldiers, but they may send resources. Though, I don’t like Lady Rhea will.” 

 Lady Rhaenys snorts. “I dare say that Lady Rhea will hope my cousin perish. Thank you for the information. I will speak with Lord Manderly after I draw up a contract for our business venture.” 

 She straightens her gown and looks at her mother. “Will you join me, Mother?” 

 Lady Baratheon gives her daughter a light grin. “Go have fun playing politics, my dear. I’m going to continue on my stroll. Will you join me, Lady Dayne?” She asks. 

 Emylie jolts in surprise. She isn’t sure. She should return to the Princess and give her the news, but it would be rude to decline; Lady Baratheon must want something from her. She gives Lady Baratheon a rueful grin. “I gladly accept.” 

 “See, dear? I have company. Shoo.” Lady Baratheon waves Rhaenys off. Rhaenys chuckles and acquiesces to her mother. She walks off without another word. “Come, Lady Dayne.” Lady Baratheon holds out her arm for Emylie to take. 

 Emylie takes her arm, and they start walking. 

 Emylie watches Lady Baratheon out of the corner of her eyes. She seems at ease, taking in the dense greens of the Stormland climate. 

 She forces herself to keep walking, her body burning to ask Lady Baratheon what she wants. 

 “How are you settling into the Red Keep?” 

 The Red Keep is like Sunspear and Starfall, just on a grander scale. Emylie found her place fairly easily; she fulfilled the role of an innocent yet exotic foreigner well. It’s easier to work when she understands her role. 

 “It took some time, but I’m settling in well. The Princess is very kind,” she partially lies. 

 Emylie is tired of having her culture and home insulted by people who have a lower standing than her. Her forefathers were Kings, and her bloodline comes from Nymeria herself, yet she has to act subservient to those with a lower standing simply because she’s Dornish. 

 “I’m glad that you have the Princess. Though, I would like to warn you, Lady Dayne. Siding with the Princess will put a target on your back.” 

 Yes, Emylie knows that. Even a blind man could see the tensions between the Queen and the Princess. “I understand. Thank you for the warning, Lady Baratheon, but this is the case for all courts?” 

 “It is,” Lady Baratheon agrees. “But for you, it’s different. The other ladies have backing. My great-niece and Lady Arryn have Lord Paramounties backing them; Lady Strong’s father and brother protect her from being ruined. You, Lady Florent and Lady Manderly are noble girls but do not have the same kind of protection. When the fighting starts, who do you think they’ll go after first?”  

 Emylie avoids looking at Lady Baratheon, her heart in her stomach. 

 On some level, she knows that she’d be the first, but it still hurts. She already had an inkling of how Ser Criston acted towards her. 

 “I know.” She steels her voice. 

 “Will you be able to handle it?” 

 Emylie stirs in anger. She didn’t come here for no reason. Of course, she can handle it. 

 “Even with what happened in Sunspear in your mind?” 

 Emylie stops and stares at Lady Baratheon. How did she know? Logically, she knows that Sunspear is probably full of Westerosi spies; hell, Emylie has several of her own spies in the Red Keep, but no one has mentioned that since she came here. The Princess didn’t even know. 

 Lady Baratheon chuckles wryly. “The King may not be as concerned about Dorne as his Grandsire was, but my brother still retains his old habits.” And then he probably told his sister. 

 Emylie scowls at the ground. “My experience in Sunspear has strengthened my spine, not weakened it.” She learnt how fickle friendships can be and to always be on your guard. 

 “That’s good. You’re going to need it here. Your pageantry at the Princess’s name day has helped and hindered you.” 

 They’ll see Emylie as a competitor and then seek to tear her down because she’s a competitor. 

 Emylie painfully clears her throat and nods. “Thank you for the warning, Lady Baratheon,” she says because she didn’t forget her courtesies. 

 “Aemon always wanted to shake up the old hornet’s nest. He greatly admired the Dornish decision of equal inheritance.” Lady Baratheon sighs. “He’d be so thrilled to meet a young woman like you.” 

 She always wondered why Prince Aemon and his wife only had one child. Perhaps he wanted to ensure his daughter got the throne. 

 Emylie wonders what Westeros would look like if Prince Aemon were to become King and his daughter after him. It would be remarkably different, that’s for sure. Emylie would end up being a Princess’s Lady. 

 Maybe she wouldn’t have to force a smile when men belittled her position. Stupid cunts. When she first came to King’s Landing, Emylie thought that she could weather the distrust of the Lords, but she’s tired. At least the Princess happily allows Emylie to stir shit. 

 “Ser Lannister, what a surprise to meet you,” Lady Baratheon’s drawl pulls Emylie out of her thoughts. 

 Emylie’s head jerks up and meets the eyes of Lord Tyland Lannister. 

 Shit. 

 She’s not in the mentality to string along the Lord in the manner that she had planned. 

 It doesn’t matter that he joined the Small Council, everyone knew it was because Lord Hightower wanted another loyal dog on the council, Emylie has heard plenty of rumours about the Lannister ‘humility.’ She figured he’d be easy to manipulate.

 Tyland gives them a jerky bow, giving Lady Baratheon a fleeting smile. 

 Emylie evaluates the man in front of her. Unlike what she expected, Tyland isn’t surrounded by a posse of young lords like his brother but on his own, arms filled with ledgers and scraps of parchment. 

 His clothing is more subdued than the current Westerland trend, but that’s not saying much, considering his tunic is a deep velvet-red brocade with a heavy chain of golden disks spread across his chest. Considering that Emylie saw his brother wearing an all-gold outfit, she thinks this is downright modest for a Lannister. 

 Red suits him. It brings out the pink of his skin tone and makes his golden hair shine brighter. 

 “Lady Baratheon, a pleasure. And Lady Dayne…” His soft green eyes flicker down, taking in all of Emylie. It makes her feel exposed in a manner that she does not often feel.

 She’s wearing a soft pink overcoat with gold embroidery, a white dress underneath, and a heavy belt made of large metal disks laced together. She’d thrown a shawl, stitched in the pattern of flowing feathers, on before she left and had forgone jewelry and doing her hair, letting it fall in loose waves down her shoulders. She wasn’t as composed as she’d like, reverting back to the fashions of her home instead of the current Westersoi trends. 

 “...you are a welcome sight,” he finishes as he takes her offered hand and presses a kiss to it. Emylie flushes at the compliment. 

 “If your usual sight is dusty tomes, Ser Lannister, then I dare say that it is not much of a compliment,” she chides gently. 

 “Yet it is the best I can offer at this moment.” 

 His eyes have not left hers, causing her stomach to curl at the attention. 

 “What brings you here, Ser Lannister?” Emylie asks. Beside her, she can see Lady Baratheon give Emylie an amused expression. She thinks that Emylie is interested in Tyland, which she is not. 

 “Ah, I was speaking to the Lord Hand about some particulars of some of Lord Coryls’ decisions. I am currently on my way back to my office."

“Very admirable of you.” Emylie smiles brightly at Tyland, trying to get him to relax around her. The first thing to manipulate someone is to gain their trust. And what better way to get the trust of a Lannister than appealing to their ego? 

 “Admirable?” He asks. 

 “Mhm. I have met many lords who cannot accept help from others and prefer to stew in their ignorance. It is a strong man who can accept help from others.” 

 That seems to hit the mark as Emylie watches Tyland puff out his chest a little. “How gracious of you, Lady Dayne.” He shifts the items in his arms to one side and holds out his arm. “I was meaning to speak to you, if you do not mind?” 

 Emylie looks over to Lady Baratheon, not wanting to offend her, who looks delighted. “I do believe that two young, unwed nobles ought be chaperoned. I shall walk a few paces behind.” She gives Emylie a wink, causing Emylie almost to flush again. The upper tips of Tyland’s cheekbones turn a lovely pink, and he avoids her eyes.  

 It’s not like that! The Princess is worried that Tyland’s presence would upset the balance in the small council, and Emylie offers to keep Tyland in check. It’s only beneficial that Tyland is comely. 

 “Then I gladly accept, Ser Lannister.” Emylie takes his offered arm, and they set off. 

 Emylie stoutly tries to remain collected; she hasn’t had any time to figure out lines to give Tyland. She is running blind and greatly dislikes it. 

 They walk in silence for a few moments; Emylie enjoys the warmth from his side. 

 Tyland clears his throat, and Emylie glances at him. “I had been meaning to speak to you awhile now.” 

 “And you only chose to speak to me after I became the Princess’s lady?” She teases. Tyland fumbles, sputtering out excuses, clearly not expecting Emylie to say that. “I only jest, Ser Lannister. I understand that it must’ve taken time to get used to your new office and the festivities too.” 

 Tyland coughs. “You certainly have a sharp wit, my Lady.” 

 “Ah, forgive me. I inherited it from my grandmother.” 

 “I remeber her from the ball. A sharp tongue indeed.” 

 Emylie snorts. “A kind way to put it.” Tyland gives her a wry grin. 

 “I must say, you made quite an impression. I was very impressed with your display.” 

 Emylie grins and flicks her hair over a shoulder. “Thank you. I knew that I needed to make it memorable, so I decided to copy the Lannisters’s motto. Go big or go home.” She really hopes that Tyland hasn’t spoken to Laenor, lest he finds out that she used the same line on him. 

 Tyland is stunned for a moment, merely blinking at her, then bursts into a deep belly laugh, causing Emylie’s stomach to twist pleasantly.  “I am pleased that even in Dorne, my family’s wealth is well known.” 

 “Everyone knows about the Lannister’s wealth, good Ser. You’d have to live under a rock not to.” Tyland grins at her quip. It really is that easy. All she needs to do is talk about the Lannister gold, give him a few compliments, and he is all hers. 

 “I should hope so. We’ve mined enough gold to put the Iron Bank to shame.” 

 Emylie resists the urge to roll her eyes and continues to smile. He would be a catch if he were not arrogant like his brother. She suffered through one conversation with him and wanted to throw herself into Blackwater Bay. 

 “Ah. We are getting off topic. I meant to speak with you about Dorne’s position in the Stepstones.” 

 That’s unsurprising; he is the Master of Ships, after all. The fact that he is speaking to her instead of being the Hand’s little minion drastically improves her opinion of him. 

 Emylie hums as she thinks of what she wants to say. “Offically, the Prince is staying out of the war.” 

 Tyland purses his lips, almost in annoyance. “I would’ve thought he would be displeased with the Triarchy inching so close to his home.” 

 She gives him a grim smile. “That is the problem, my Lord. He is worried they will sack Sunspear if they win against Lord Velyaron and the Prince.” 

 “And the Lords?” 

 “At the moment, those along the Summer Sea are being raided, and are displeased with the Prince’s inaction. I suppose you know the feeling all too well with being so close to the Iron Islands.” 

 “Yes.” Tyland sighs. “It is a difficult position to be in. At least Casterly Rock is far from the raiders. How are the lords dealing with the raidings?” 

 “No seat has been attacked as of yet, but Saltshore and Lemonwood sit on the water. I do worry for them, and countless Small Folk settlements have been destroyed along the coast. I suppose you wouldn’t have any tips on dealing with raiders, would you?” She bats her eyelashes at Tyland, putting on a sickly sweet smile. 

 “I shall put together some advice for your grandsire.”

 Emylie will have to look at what Tyland comes up with before sending it to her family. They have enough to deal with outside of having to listen to arrogant Lannisters. 

 “To go back to your question. The Lords themselves are restless, but none have officially joined the Sea Snake’s campaign.” 

 “But some are considering it?” 

 Emylie hums, not wanting to tell him that her Grandsire was about to raise his army and, along with it, probably come with the swords of Sandstone and Hellholt. He hasn’t officially joined yet; it feels like counting chickens before they hatch. 

 Tyland looks contemplative, and they fall into an easy silence as they walk. Emylie glances behind her quickly, and Lady Baratheon arches an eyebrow, silently asking Emylie why she’s choosing to talk about this when she is supposedly trying to charm Lord Lannister. 

 Emylie rolls her eyes and turns back to Tyland. 

 “It turns out I, too, have a question that I’d like to ask if you do not mind, Ser Lannister.” 

 “Of course.”

 Emylie smiles brightly, sliding her hand along his forearm. “As you might know, being on the Small Council, but the Princess is attempting to acquire a lady from all the different regions. She has had some…trouble determining a lady from the Westerlands. I was wondering if you had any opinions.” 

 She isn’t sure what the Princess is doing for the Westerlands, but she wants to get Ser Tyland’s opinion of the girls in the Westerlands. It’ll be good to get a rough standing of the other houses within the Lannister ranks. 

 She patiently listens as he lists all available Lannister cousins, second cousins, and so forth, resisting the urge again to roll her eyes at him. Having a Lannister cousin as, essentially, a hostage won’t stop Jason Lannister from siding against the Princess. But if they get a girl from a strong enough house in the Westerlands, it might hinder any attempts. 

 “Mm, your cousins are all well and good, mt good Ser. But what of the other girls from the Westerlands?” 

 Tyland scowls at Emylie. “What’s wrong with a Lannister?” 

 Emylie sighs, trying to figure out what to say. “Ser, your cousins may bear the name Lannister…” That’s all they can offer. Many of the girls that he listed didn’t have riches or lands, nor did they even have a good standing in the Westerland ranks outside of being somewhat related to the Lord Paramount. “...but the Princess is looking for ladies who can offer more than just their last names. She is going to be the first Queen. Her ladies cannot survive on one thing. You and your brother are very kind to your extended family, but if something horrible were to happen, and there was a new Lord Lannister, he may not be as kind to the rest of the family and may cut them off. It would not be a good look for the Princess.” 

 He takes in her explanation with an even deeper scowl. But then it smoothed out back his regular handsome face with a small huff of frustration. “You are not wrong.” 

 Emylie giggles. “It must pain you to admit that.” 

 Tyland rolls his eyes, but his face settles into a gentle smile. “Even I can admit when I am wrong now and then.” 

 “If you say so,” Emylie demures, which causes him to scoff. Her face stretches into a grin. 

 Tyland hums, his face going contemplative. “Ordinally, I would propose Lady Reyne, but I heard that the Princess is displeased with her conduct.” 

 “Mm, yes. Unfortunately, Lady Reyne allowed her father’s position to get to her head, believed she was free from scrutiny, and attacked Lady Arryn’s character. The Princess does not have much family left, Ser Tyland, so, understandably, she is protective of what remains.” 

 “You are not wrong. I do wonder what Lady Reyne was thinking; much of the Westerland’s trade is with the Vale. It would not do well to insult our partners.” Emylie wonders if Jason Lannister thought similarly to his brother. It would be most interesting to spin that narrative, sowing dissent between the enemy. Unfortunately, her contacts haven’t made root yet in Lannisport. 

 “Youthful arrogance, I presume. It is not every day that one’s father becomes the King’s chamberlain. I would beg you to have clemency on Lady Reyne; I believe the tongue lashing she received from the Princess and her father has been punishment.” 

 Honestly, Emylie doesn’t care if Lady Reyne is punished or not. She just wants Tyland to think kindly of her. 

 Tyland grunts, scowling slightly. His brow is furled in concentration. Emylie idly wonders if he looks like this while in bed, intensely concentrated on the task at hand. She’s reminded of Alektor briefly before she banishes the thought from her mind. 

 “My next recommendation would be Lynora Lannister of Lannisport.” She is better than the landless cousins, that’s for sure, but her father is merely a mayor of a city, not a lord of a seat. “But if the Princess does not wish …” he screwed up his nose at the thought of the Princess passing over a Lannister. “For her, then I would select Celessa Serrett. Her mother is a Lannister.” 

 “Serrett? Forgive me, but I do not know much about them.” Emylie vaguely knows that their shield is a peacock, and that’s it. They’re not a notable house, in her opinion. 

 “They sit on Serrett’s run; it’s a river that flows to the Mander, and how we do trade with the Reach. They’re a good house, loyal.” 

 Hm, well, they’re merchants. Emylie can work with that; that means Celessa should have a working knowledge of what’s trending and the prices of various wares in the South. Lyarra has a good head for numbers, giving Emylie a run for her money, but she never cared about trends or anything south of the Neck. Emylie can roughly guess prices and trending items in the Seven Kingdoms, but it’s fundamentally different from the Dornish market, and, well, Starfall works in the exotic luxury markets. 

 “And what of the Lady herself? Any specific traits? Talents?” 

 Tyland blinks. 

 Emylie rolls her eyes. “Good ser, the Princess has standards for her ladies. To better serve her, ladies should have an area of expertise.” 

 “And what’s yours?” He asks. 

 Emylie bats her eyes at him, giving him a coy smile. “Well, I have contacts across Essos and Dorne, which is more then what any lady can give her. I’m trained to be my mother’s Heir, thus giving me an understanding of sums, ruling, and anything else an Heir needs. But mostly, I am an Heir. A female Heir. I offer the Princess insight into a world that she was never prepared for.” 

“And Lady Maris?” 

 Emylie hands that to him. Maris is too young to have an area of expertise. “She is young, yes. But she shows a great knowledge for her age of anything related to clothing: sewing, embroidery, fabrics, you name it.”  

 He hums, his face screwed up in concentration. He is taking this more seriously than she predicted. 

 “I do not know,” he says unhappily. It must pain him to admit his inadequacies. “I shall rectify this error. And draw up a list of other maidens for the Princess and their strengths. I would tentatively put forth Joanna Westerling, but my brother, if he can ever be convinced that the Princess won’t choose him, is planning to marry her. She would have to leave court once wed.”  

 “Hm, well, I thank you for your conviction, Ser Tyland, and I’m sure the Princess will be grateful as well.” 

 “I do serve the crown in anyway possible.” 

 “So, I should be seeking you out when there is a problem?” Emylie teases. 

 Tyland pauses their stroll and takes her hand in his. “I would be honoured if you thought of me, my Lady.” He presses his lips along her slender fingers. His brilliant viridian eyes linger on hers as he does. “Alas, I must be off. I hope that I shall see you soon.”

“Have a good day, m-my, Ser Tyland,” she squeaks, feeling her face flush, all the while cursing herself for being so weak. 

 She watches Tyland go, knowing that she should return to the Princess, but she is unable to move from the spot, watching as his golden hair slips into the distance. 

 “Never thought that I’d see the day where a Lannister is charming.” Lady Baratheon appears beside Emylie. 

 Emylie squeaks, her face flushing fully bright red as Lady Baratheon cracks a smile. “It’s not like that.” Emylie drops the hand she was holding and straightens her dress. “The Princess merely wants to ensure that Lord Tyland is sympathetic, that’s all.” 

 “Ser Tyland, now, eh?” Lady Baratheon looks delighted at the gossip Emylie is currently generating. Emylie curses herself for being so sloppy. Proper decorum is to refer to other nobles by their title and last name if a speaker is unfamiliar with the other. Generally, once the other person gives their permission for their first name to be used, the last name can be dropped. Allowing herself to call Lord Tyland by his name out loud is a significant breach of decorum. 

 She is such a fool. 

 “Relax, girl. I will not spill your secrets. It’s rather cute to watch. Though…” Lady Baratheon’s piercing blue eyes root Emylie to the spot. “Remember, this is not Dorne. Casual affection different here.” 

 “I know.” Emylie’s voice is hoarse. She’s been chased from one court; she has no desire to do it again. The high she’s been chasing ends abruptly, and Emylie feels like she is doused with icy water. 

 “Good, come. I am feeling peckish. Let’s rescue my grandson and have tea.” Emylie takes Lady Baratheon’s arm and soundlessly follows her. 

Chapter Text

Alicent’s heart is beating in her throat as she walks through the Godswood. Rhaenyra still haunts the Godswood after her lessons, something that makes Alicent’s heart aches at the reminder of her childhood. Still, she marches on. 

 She needs to talk to Rhaenyra. This is important. 

 It’s easy to find Rhaenyra; she still visits the heart’s tree to study after her lessons. She’s still wearing black; the sight makes Alicent’s heart heavy; why can’t Rhaenyra support her marriage? A loose curl has come undone from her braid, and Alicent’s hand itches to reach out and tuck it back in. 

 Alicent trembles when she sees Lady Baratheon and Lady Strong perched on the roots of the heart’s tree alongside Rhaenyra. 

 How dare they! This is her place with Rhaenyra, not theirs. 

 It hurts to be apart from her. Alicent thought of Rhaenyra as her sister, and having to see her around the Red Keep but not being able to reach out and touch her kills her. The worst is when Alicent sees Rhaenyra at the Sept. She’s surrounded by her ladies, often Lady Florent, who should’ve been hers, and Alicent can’t figure out why. Why didn’t Rhaenyra go with her? What did her ladies have that Alicent didn’t? Why was she only going now?

 Alicent comes to a stop. Bethany and Mina are behind her, and she clears her throat. Rhaenyra barely looked up before going back to her book while her ladies got up and curtseys. Alicent is glad that neither Lady Dayne nor Lady Arryn is with Rhaenyra. 

 She glances over to Ser Cole and quickly drops her eyes before he can feel their weight on hers. It is unfair that Rhaenyra gets to keep him as her Kingsguard. Alicent bets that Rhaenyra can’t fully appreciate his chivalry. 

Alicent is displeased with Rhaenyra’s cavalier attitude, but she swallows her frustration and smiles. “Rhaenyra. May I talk to you?” 

 Rhaenyra looks up, her pale lilac eyes staring into Alicent’s face. Alicent shivers; her stare is eerily reminiscent of her uncle’s. No one looked Alicent in the eyes anymore; their heads bowed in deference. 

 Rhaenyra must see Alicent’s earnest desire to help her because she closes the book she was studying and stands. She passes her book to Lady Strong and marches over to Alicent. 

 Alicent takes in a calming breath. Rhaenyra is young and spoiled, not always able to help herself. Once Alicent gets the bad influences away from her, Rhaenyra will see the error of her ways. 

They set out, heading towards the gardens, and Rhaenyra gestures for her ladies to follow her. “I-I’d like to speak in private, Rhaenyra.” Alicent keeps her head up, not showing anyone her nerves. 

 Rhaenyra quirks an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Alicent, but I have found that it’s best to err on the side of caution and keep my ladies with me at all times. Apparently, seemingly innocuous interactions can be spun into something scandalous.” 

 Alicent involuntary flushes. She knows what Rhaenyra is referring to. Her Father had a right to bring such things to the King; a strange man had entered Maegor’s Holdfast. What was Alicent’s Father supposed to do? Ignore it? Worse of all, Lady Dayne had a hand in it all. 

 “Fine.” Alicent juts out her chin determined not to allow Rhaenyra to win the upper hand. A proper Queen needs to know when to be flexible and when to be firm. 

 They walk for a few moments as Alicent tries to sort out what she wants to say. 

 “I see that you have amassed quite an assembly of ladies,” Alicent starts. 

 “Mhm. As the Heir to the throne, I believe it necessary to have the year of all the Seven Kingdoms.” Rhaenyra doesn’t bother looking at Alicent as they walk. Her shoulders are notably stiff; perhaps she understands the severity of her actions. 

 “A noble goal.” 

 Rhaenyra hums in agreement as they continue to walk, twiddling with a thick ring on one of her fingers. 

 Out of the corner of her eye, Alicent can see that damned curl still loose. She itches to tuck it back in… for the sake of proprietary. 

 “Still, Rhaenyra. I can’t help but worry about the……quality of character your ladies seem to posses.”

 Rhaenyra stops and stares at Alicent. In the corner of her eye, Alicent can see the ladies milling around a few paces back. Both of Rhaenyra’s ladies look intrigued by the conversation. 

 “What do you mean?” Rhaenyra’s voice is cold. 

“Rhaenyra…” Alicent sighed; she’d hoped that Rhaenyra would at least remember their Septa’s lessons about keeping appropriate company. It doesn’t look good for the Royal Family to be seen with such a low-class company. Rhaenyra can’t even see the harm that some of her ladies are pushing her towards. Alicent has to make the Red Keep safe, lessen the load on her Father’s shoulders, and ensure that her child grows healthy. She takes in a deep breath before barrelling on. “Some of your ladies aren’t of adequate character to be a lady for a Princess. Now, I know you’re excited to explore what it means to be a princess, but you must be critical of your choices. I think it best that perhaps you ought to relieve some of them.” 

 Rhaenyra stares at Alicent, her eyes wide. Triumph fills Alicent’s bosom; finally, she’s getting across to Rhaenyra. 

 Alicent clears her throat, thinking over Rhaenyra’s ladies. “Let’s see; Lady Strong is fine, her Father is on the Small Council, that’s good and she has an overall good reputation. Lady Baratheon has a robust lineage. There are some worrisome rumours about her conduct, but she’s young and that can be smoothed out. Lady Florent can stay too. I haven’t heard anything bad about her. However, Ladies Dayne, Arryn, and Manderly have to go, I’m afraid.” 

 Rhaenyra stands there, blinking at Alicent. Oh, dear, was this too much for her? “What?” She demands. 

 Alicent sighs in disappointment again. “Rhaenyra. Lady Dayne is Dornish .” Rhaenyra looks like she doesn’t understand. “It’s an insult to the rest of the girls in the Seven Kingdom that you chose someone who’s not even a part of the realm. It’s unsightly, and she’s entirely uncouth. It’s not a good look for her. And Lady Manderly was quite rude to me during the festivties. If she can’t maintain courtly standards, which she hadn’t, I’m afraid that she’ll have to return North. Lady Arryn is quite old to be a lady-in-waiting to the Princess, don’t you think? I believe that she’d be much happier returning to the Vale with her niece. Maybe a Septa would be good? The Good Queen had one.” 

 Alicent wants Lady Arryn gone. She didn’t even try to stop her niece from uttering such filth during the ladies’ court. That’s not even touching the fact that she thought she could hold ladies’ court without her. She’s grown complacent and fat with the power indirectly given to her thanks to Queen Aemma’s indisposed state. It’s time to correct that. 

 “No.” 

 What? 

 Alicent blinks incredulously at Rhaenyra. Can’t she see that she’s being duped? “Rhaenyra, I must insist on these changes.” 

 Rhaenyra huffs and almost stomps her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “No, I’m not dismissing my ladies just because you say so. The King has approved everything.” 

 That’s not saying much. Alicent will stand by her husband; it’s her duty, after all, but she can admit that while kind, her husband is not the sharpest mind, and Alicent worries that one day someone will take advantage of his soft nature. 

 “Rhaenyra…” Alicent sighs. “I can help you find ladies if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

 Rhaenyra can come across as brash despite having a good heart, and that might scare off some prospective ladies, but Alicent can fix that! 

 “I said no, Alicent,” Rhaenyra snaps, frustration marring her alabaster skin. 

 “Fine.” Alicent squares her shoulders and further stiffens herself. She doesn’t like the idea of using her Queenly status against her friend, but she apparently has to. “As Queen, then, I order you to send these ladies home. I obviously see that you cannot be trusted to select your own ladies.” 

 She was not expecting Rhaenyra to bark out a laugh. Alicent waits, puzzled, as Rhaenyra keeps laughing. Alicent shuffles from foot to foot, wondering what’s so funny. It stretches into an uncomfortable silence. 

 “I was wondering when you’d try to abuse your privileges.” Rhaenyra crosses her arms, glaring at Alicent. 

 “Rhaenyra, what in the world are you talking about?” Alicent is very confused by Rhaenyra’s reaction. 

 Out of the corner of her eyes, Alicent can see Lady Strong and Baratheon staring at them. Alicent can feel her shoulders tighten at the scrutiny. Why are they staring at her? She’s trying to do what’s good for Rhaenyra! She’s letting them stay.   

 Rhaenyra stops laughing and stares at her with dead eyes. “Did you not read your betrothal contract?” 

 “No?” Why would Alicent do that? That’s what her Father’s for. He takes care of that sort of thing; that’s what fathers are supposed to do. 

 “The betrothal contract states that the Queen has no right over the Princess; that is under the purview of the King and the King alone . That means you cannot dictate what to do with my allowance, my education, my marriage, or the arrangement of my ladies.” 

 No. That cannot be. Dread slithers down her spine, leaving an icy wake. Alicent is the Queen. She’s the one who is supposed to make sure that Rhaenyra doesn’t do something foolish. How is she supposed to do that when she has no control over Rhaenyra’s life? Why didn’t her Father spot that when the contract was written? 

 “See, I knew that you’d pull something like this, trying to control my life while making it seem reasonable. You are not my mother; you do not get to order me around!” 

 “Rhaenyra, be reasonable, I’m trying to help you!” Alicent sputters, her eyes nervously flickering over to where their ladies are waiting for them. 

 If she doesn’t defuse Rhaenyra’s outburst, they’ll hear, and Bethany will report this back to Alicent’s Father. She doesn’t want to burden her Father; he’s so busy running the realm that she’d just add to his work. 

 “And what do you know? You’re two years older than me and can’t get any of your own ladies!” Rhaenyra snaps. 

 “T-that’s not true,” Alicent argues, face flushing heavily. She can get her own ladies… it’s just her first choices were busy, either getting ready to be married or caring for ailing family. That’s completely different. And Rhaenyra is the one who stole Lady Florent from her! 

 “I had hoped, Alicent.” Alicent’s hearts ache for the pain in Rhaenyra’s voice. There are tears in her lovely eyes. “I had hoped that you wouldn’t do it, but you continue to fucking surpise me.” 

 Alicent’s lip trembles as tears well up in her eyes. Rhaenyra’s figure swims in front of her as Alicent tries to hold back her tears. 

 What did Rhaenyra expect? 

 “Rhaenyra…please, I’m just doing my duty. I–I need to look out for the well-being of my husband’s family.” 

 “No! You’re just a whore who climbed into my Father’s bed while my mother’s blood was still wet and is trying to lord it over me.” Rhaenyra screws up her expression and vigorously rubs at her eyes. “You were supposed to be my friend, and then I find you trying to fuck your way into being Queen.” 

 No! That’s not what happened. She was just trying to help the King. She loves Rhaenyra, but she has to know that what she did was for the betterment of the realm. Why can’t Rhaenyra see that? 

 All that Alicent is doing is to help the realm. She can’t help it that Rhaenyra is making bad choices. 

 If she needs to, then Alicent will take power for herself. The Seven early set her on this path to ensure the reformations that are so clearly needed. She’ll guide them into the Seven’s light. 

 “Now, if you excuse me,” Rhaenyra sneers, fury in her eyes. “I have places to be.” She gestures for her ladies to follow her as she marches off without observing the proper courtesies. 

 Lady Strong and Baratheon follow her command and scurry after Rhaenyra, disgust evident in their eyes. 

 Alicent is too frozen to do anything about it. 

 She’s just trying to protect Rhaenyra! Why can’t she see that? Why is Rhaenyra being so cruel? 

 Alicent sniffles, trying to hide her tears. She cannot believe that Rhaenyra is rejecting her advice like this. 

 She tried to be nice about this issue, but Rhaenyra refused to listen! She doesn’t understand the wickedness of those around her; Alicent is trying to protect her.

 Before Bethany and Mina can come over, Alicent composes herself. She doesn’t want Bethany to report back to Alicent’s Father about her state. He’d be most displeased to see that Alicent is losing her composure in such a public place. 

 Fine. If Rhaenyra didn’t want to listen to Alicent’s well-meaning advice, then that’s fine. She won’t do Rhaenyra the favour of speaking to her about her mistakes so she can quietly correct them; Alicent will just take them to her husband. 

 She wonders, nastily, how long Rhaenyra is going to last in her position as Heir if she keeps acting like this. 

 She is a simpleton if she doesn’t take Alicent’s obviously better suggestions. 

 The Seven won’t allow her to ascend the throne if she surrounds herself with degenerates and scum. 

 She doesn’t know if Father is right about Rhaenyra. She is…uncertain… If Rhaenyra would stoop to that level, Alicent now understands that it doesn’t matter if it’s Rhaenyra who orders the death to her so, but someone on her side will, and Rhaenyra is too blinded by her greed to see that. 

 It hurts her heart to see Rhaenyra fall like this, but until she realizes that she has a problem, Alicent can’t help her. 

 It’s sad, really, to see how far she’s fallen. 

 “My Queen.” Bethany and Mina rush over. Bethany fusses over Alicent as Mina steps back, her dark eyes flickering to where Rhaenyra and her ladies left. “You poor thing. I can’t believe how rude the Princess was.” 

 “I’m fine, Bethany.” Alicent tries to wave off her cousin’s concerns. 

 Alicent can’t remember the last time someone fussed over her. Father had more important things to do than fuss over her silly emotions, and her husband, as kind as he is, was not good at recognizing her feelings. She supposes that Gwayne looks after her, but he is a man. He doesn’t understand emotions. It’s kind of Bethany to do so.

 Bethany huffs, crossing her arms. “She was entirely out of line with her reaction. You were merely doing her a favour. Her mother spoiled her too much. I can’t imagine allowing a Dornish into the retinue of the Heir. The Lords must surely be upset with that decision.” 

 “It doesn’t look good for Her Majesty to be seen meddling in the Princess’s affairs so soon after the wedding. People might see it as her trying to dominate the Princess. There are already whispers of a growing competition between Her Majesty and the Princess because of what happened at her birthday,” Mina whispers.

 Alicent looks at her, horrified. Mina flushes bright red and shuffles to hide behind Bethany, who is scowling at her. 

 She doesn’t want to dominate Rhaenyra or some other silly thing. She just wants to maintain proper decorum, and it’s not her fault that Rhaenyra refuses to follow it. 

 “I’m sorry, You Majesty!” Mina squeaks. 

 Alicent waves her off. Mina is just a child; she doesn’t know any better. 

 She sighs tiredly. Her energy has seemingly been sapped from her bones, as her son requires so much of her energy. 

 “We need to get ahead of the rumours.” Bethany looks over to Alicent at her for confirmation. 

 Alicent rubs her forehead. Should she? If she’s seen meddling with the rumours, it’ll just make her look more incriminating, and Father will be even more displeased. 

 Her cheek tingles with phantom pain as her mind returns to his anger. She doesn’t want to displease him further. He told her not to make any waves.

 If she takes the high road, then she is doing what her Father demands of her, and the rumours should eventually die out. 

 Right? 

 That’s what her Father said before her wedding. Though, it didn’t. Alicent is still getting side-eyes from the courtiers. 

 There’s no doubt that Rhaenyra or someone close to her is going to start spreading lies about Alicent trying to help Rhaneyra. Things will get bad if Alicent doesn’t step in. But how? 

 She picks at her nails as she thinks. What to do? 

 Oh. 

 Alicent is a fool. 

 Viserys is weak against his daughter, but he understands the weight of the court’s perception. That’s why he chose to honour Alicent after the whole kerfuffle of her being found in his chambers. She’ll speak with him and warn him about the potential trouble Rhaenyra’s ladies could have. 

 Yes. She’ll do that. 

 She meant to speak to him after the wedding about Lady Dayne’s presence around the Princess, but she’d forgotten after everything. 

 “I’ll speak with the King about this. Assure him that I merely meant to help,” Alicent assures Bethany. “Once the court learns of only my desire to help, the rumours will die down.”

 Bethany sniffles, scrunching up her nose. She looks adorably young when she does that. Alicent is so glad that she has Bethany here. “You should tell the King about what the Princess said about you. She shouldn’t go unpunished.” 

 Alicent hums, and a fresh batch of tears springing to her eyes. Yes. Rhaenyra cannot go unpunished. She must learn. Alicent understands that she is upset, but she cannot act like a wilding; she is a princess. 

 “Yes.” Alicent nods. “Let’s retire to my rooms, and go over the facts.” 

 Bethany heartily agrees, while Mina looks hesitant. Alicent purses her lips at the younger girl. She’s trying to be patient with the girl, truly, but Alicent can’t help but see a sort of disconnect between them. Alicent had scolded her for her actions during the weddings, and now Mina’s whole personality has drastically changed. 

 Alicent thinks that it might be best for Mina to return to her family. The stress of court is clearly overwhelming for the young girl. Unfortunately, Alicent couldn’t let her go until she got more ladies. 

 She’ll talk to her Father. He won’t want an incompetent lady in her ranks. 

 So, Alicent leads Bethany and Mina out of the Godswood with her head held high. Rhaenyra won’t take her power from her. 

                                                                                            ****

 Eleanor feels like she’s flying, something that she’ll eventually learn how it’ll feel, as she joins Brealla and Maris in the gardens with Alador. 

 She can’t believe that the Princess is actually interested in the arts and she’s helping produce a play! Alador had sent her a copy of one of his plays, and she’d been editing it to add tidbits about the court so the viewers would connect with the play more and slowly chip away at their enemies’ reputations. 

Today, they’re doing their final read-through with Brealla and Maris’s added presence so they can spot mistakes that Eleanor and Alador missed. 

 The play is rather innocuous: a Small Folk boy from the fictional kingdom of Biyla, loosely based on Meeren, finds a lamp with a spirit that grants wishes and meets the Princess of the kingdom, who left the safety of her palace to explore the city beyond. The two fall in love, and despite their love, the Princess’s Father tries to force her to marry his scheming advisor’s son. The Princess and her lover end up exposing the advisor’s crimes. As thanks, the King allows the couple to marry. 

 It’s a very sickeningly sweet play that Eleanor is sure the people will like. It’ll plant the seed of doubt in everyone’s minds about Otto’s place alongside the King. The Hand already has a lot of enemies; it’s just giving them an outlet to express them. 

 Lady Amanda doesn’t like this plan. She is worried that the Hand is going to find something wrong with it and retaliate. Eleanor does concede that there’s merit to Lady Amanda’s concerns; there’s a lot of hate for the new Queen, but the Princess hasn’t actually done anything to encourage the hate except for her lashing out when the Queen tried to dismiss some of the other ladies. 

 “Do you think that it would be too on the nose to have Miklaz and his son, Marrigo, wear green the entire time?” Brealla hums, reading through the play. 

 “Green, my lady?” Alador asks. 

 “It’s the colour that the Hightowers light their tower when they go to war. It’s to summon their vassals,” Eleanor explains. “And, yes, I think it would. Keep you voice down!” They’re in the gardens. Technically, it’s a section that’s discouraged to use unless you’re in the Royal family or their household, but who knows who is lurking around.  

 “Even if we don’t explain the reasoning, just putting them in the colour?” Brealla presses. 

 Eleanor thinks that it’s a step too far. She doesn’t want anything connected to the Hightowers in the first stage of this plan. If they catch on too early, then the Hand will definitely want to shut them down. 

 “I think that it’s a good idea,” Maris pipes up. 

 “Why is that, my Lady?” Alador asks. 

 “Well, they don’t have to be wearing full outfits of green, but only sections, so it’s not super obvious.” Maris bites her lip, her eyes scanning something on a page. “If we want to create suspicion, then we need to associate something that they’d use with evil, long before they even start using it. The villains in the plays all need to be sporting green in some manner.” 

 “Do you think they’d declare war in such an obvious manner?” Eleanor asks. The Hand is a clever man, so surely he wouldn’t want people to catch onto what he is doing. 

 Brealla shakes her head. “Unless you are blatantly familiar with the history of the Reach, it’ll just appear as a colour.” 

 “But we are used to colours representing meaning in fashion,” Eleanor argues. “Just look at what the Queen did during the wedding.” There is a scene in the play where the advisor’s son, Marrigo, wears the colours of the Princess’s house, blue and white, to convey that he is the next ‘head’ of the ruling house, not the Princess. 

 “Yes, but since Green isn’t typically used in the Hightower colouring, I don’t think the meaning will connect.” 

“Why don’t we just make the house colours of the advisor green, so there’s a reason why he’s wearing it? If anyone complains, then they’ll be seen as trying to hide something?” Maris asks. 

 Eleanor blinks and then smacks her head. “That is a good idea, Maris. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Alador, can you make a note somewhere to ensure that the advisor’s sigil has something to do with green? Like a tree?” 

 “Yes, my lady.” Alador ruffles through his papers to find one covered with little notes and rushes to jot the idea down. 

 “My, my, what’s this?” Their heads snap up to the new voice. Walking into the gardens is a cluster of young women. 

 Eleanor recognizes Bethany Hightower, Mina Bulwer, Lady Reyne, with dusty blonde hair and high cheekbones, and, surprisingly, Cassandra Baratheon. There’s one other lady that she doesn’t recognize. She’s a Lannister by the looks of it, with the classic bright gold hair and green eyes. 

It seems that the Queen was able to expand her ladies. It is amusing to note that she could only get girls from the Reach and the Westerlands. Cassandra looks very displeased to be surrounded by the other ladies. 

 “Ladies.” Brealla doesn’t bother getting up. She continues to lounge in her seat, sipping her wine. Bethany purses her lips at the disrespect. 

 Is it really disrespect? They are on the same noble level. Maybe the Queen’s ladies were higher since they serve a Queen and not the Princess, but Princess Rhaenyra is the Crown Princess, putting her roughly on the same level as a Queen Consort. 

 Eleanor shuffles the pages together to hide the contents of the play. 

 “I can’t believe that the Princess’s ladies are out galavanting with a man unaccompanied.” Lady Reyne smirked at Alador, who wilted in his seat. 

 What was her name? Eleanor purses her lips, trying to remember the names of the current Reyne family. 

 Oh! Right, it’s Genna. 

 It’s bold for the Queen’s ladies to say that the Princess’s ladies are unaccompanied when the Queen, not the Princess, caused the scandal.

  “Are we really unaccompanied?” Eleanor asks, confused. William Royce and Rwolf are keeping watch right next to them, and Tansy and the other girl’s maids are serving them. “We’re literally surrounded. 

 “I’m surprised that you are tossing accusations around so easily, Genna Reyne, given that you were publicly scolded by the Princess,” Maris snaps. 

 Genna Reyne’s face flushes as she scowls at Maris. “The Princess and I merely disagreed, Lady Baratheon, that’s all.” 

 Maris scoffs. “If a ‘disagreement’ means being called out publicly for insulting a Lady Paramount, sure.” 

 Genna Reyne opens her mouth to send a retort, but loud snorting stops her in her tracks. All eyes swivel to Cassandra. She raises a dark eyebrow at the eyes watching her. “What? It’s true,” she snaps. 

 The Lannister lady scoffs. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Her eyes flicker predatorily to the papers in Eleanor’s hands to Alador. 

 “I’m not surprised that you don’t recongize patronage, Lady Lannister, given that you’re a Lannister of Lannisport .” Brealla sneers at the woman. 

 “Why you—” Lady Lannister steps forward as if to strike Brealla, but Bethany Hightower pulls her back before she takes like two steps.  

 Brealla calmly and unflinchingly remains seated and finishes her wine. She makes eye contact with Bethany. “It’s ironic, really. The Queen berates the Princess for having unseemly ladies, yet her own act like this. Though…” she sighs heavily and stands. “Apparently, the Queen does like to take in strays…” She sneers at the ladies again. “To see if they can be, hmm, rehabilitated. I don’t know if she’s been successful in that regard.”  

 Bethany Hightower, Genna Reyne, and Lady Lannister look as if they want to slap Brealla, while Cassandra Baratheon snorts inelegantly again, and Mina Bulwer looks like she’s going to be sick. 

 “Come girls, let’s go. The gardens are beginning to bore me.” 

 Eleanor quickly scoops up their work as Alador and Maris hurry after Brealla, leaving the Queen’s ladies behind. 

 Once they’re far enough away, Eleanor turns to Alador. “Will this be enough?” She asks. They’d gotten through most of the play, but she still worries.

 Alador nods. “It should be, my lady. I shall make an appointment closer to the debut in case there is anything I need to speak to you about.”

 “Good, good.” 

 “With your leave, I shall be off.” Alador bows and hurries off. Eleanor wishes that she could do the same, but she’s forced to continue following Brella. 

 Eleanor stares at the back of Brealla’s head. She seems pretty eager to jump into the fight against the Queen, perhaps a little too eager. Eleanor worries her bottom lip as the thoughts mill around. Did Brealla join the Princess’s household just to cause chaos? Is she trying to ruin the Princess’s reputation? She is a Florent, and wasn’t the Queen’s mother a Florent?

 Hm. Eleanor should talk to Larys; he’d know the answer. 

“Maris, did you know that your sister joined the Queen’s household?” Eleanor turns to the younger girl. 

 Maris shakes her head. “It must’ve been recent. I doubt it’s voluntary, Father must’ve agreed for her. Cassandra was very displeased when she wasn’t selected to be the next Queen.” 

 “That’s an interesting dynamic…” Brealla trails off with a hum, her brows furling in thought. 

 Maris snorts, eerily like her sister, though Eleanor is sure that she wouldn’t like the comparison. “You’re telling me. The Queen is going to be ripping her hair out by the end of the week.”

 “Do you think that she’d be willing to help?” Eleanor asks tentatively. 

 “Probably not. I think she’s upset that the Princess chose me instead of her. You’d think with her attitude, she’d get it. But no, I think that she’s going to make herself a nuisance to everyone.” 

 That just makes Eleanor groan and rub her forehead in frustration. This is going to be exhausting to deal with.

Chapter Text

 The summons came around the time that Rhaenyra predicted. She sighs and signals for Eleanor to follow her. She doesn’t bother dawdling; the poor page is trembling with anxiety, an indicator of her father’s temper. 

 Oh well. 

 It was worth it, calling Alicent a whore. 

 The rest of the Holdfast is quiet as Rhaenyra makes her way to her father’s apartments. A few people are watching her as she goes by, mummers about the Queen’s newest tantrum surrounding her. 

 Even if Rhaenyra gets punished for this, Alicent hasn’t gained any allies in this foray.

 She meets Criston’s eyes, and he looks vastly displeased. His face is a courtly blank, but his eyes are blazing with anger. The rest of the Kingsguard is going to hear about this once it’s over. 

 And in the future, if Rhaenyra keeps this course and Alicent keeps up her attitude, the future Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is going to be on her side. Rhaenyra would like to see Otto try to take the Red Keep from her without the Kingsguard. 

 “Lady Baratheon.” Rhaenyra stops short in front of her father’s chambers. Maris told her that her sister had joined the Queen’s household after encountering them in the gardens. 

 Cassandra slouched against the wall with her arms crossed, scowling heavily. She was no doubt angry that Alicent had left her outside like a mere servant. 

 “Princess.” With great effort, Cassandra heaves herself off the wall and curtsyes. 

 “I see that you joined the Queen’s ladies. Congratulations.” 

 Cassandra scowls and crosses her arms. “My Father seems to think so.” 

 Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Borros didn’t have his father’s political insights, but he was still smart enough to hedge his bets and try to remain as neutral as possible until the very last second. 

 Rhaenyra lingers for a second longer, trying to brace herself for the tantrum that her father is going to throw. 

 “May I ask something?” Cassandra asks. 

 “Of course,” Rhaenyra demures. It is obvious that Cassandra doesn’t want to be here, so it takes a little effort to extend some kindness. 

 “Why did you choose my sister?” She demands, anger blazing in her eyes with something deeper. 

 She’s hurt, Rhaenyra supposes. She’s hurt that Rhaenyra chose Maris instead of her, and now she’s forced to serve Alicent. Rhaenyra can only imagine how Cassandra feels. Maris hates her father, and she’s the second child. It must’ve been hard on Cassandra, receiving the brunt of her Father’s anger and disappointment for not being born a boy. 

 Rhaenyra sighs. “Lady Cassandra. I didn’t choose you because your Grandsire had indicated that he wanted you to remain in the Stormlands so he could begin your education as the Heir Apparent.” 

 That was somewhat of a lie. Boremund didn’t want Cassandra to leave, considering her personality and general entitlement. Rhaenys did tell Rhaenyra that Boremund was considering starting to educate Cassandra in hopes of tempering her attitude. 

 “I am sorry if you feel passed over. It was not my intention.” 

 Cassandra is stunned. She blinks rapidly as her mind tries to comprehend the situation before her expression returns to its familiar scowl. “Of course….bastard,” she mutters angrily. She huffs and stomps a slippered foot. Her eyes flicker up to Rhaenyra. “You better go in; your Father is very angry.” She’s trying to pretend to sound casual, but Rhaenyra catches the soft warble at the end of her words. She doesn’t show it like her sister, but she is afraid of her father. 

 Rhaenyra sighs again, not really wanting to face her father. “Yes, I suppose he is. Please stay here, Lady Eleanor.” She gestures for Eleanor to stay. 

 She squares her shoulders and marches in, half paying attention to Ser Harold announcing her as she tries to keep her heartbeat even. 

 Alicent is there, wearing all red, her eyes flickering with triumph. She has her hand on Father’s shoulder as he sits reclined. 

 He looks old. Rhaenyra saw how he aged in the Dreams, rotting from the inside. She’d hoped that he’d be more resilient in the present, but his gaunt features told Rhaenyra already. He is beginning to die, a slow, insidious death that’ll take years, and it’s begun.

 “Father,” she addresses him, ignoring Alicent. 

 “Rhaenyra.” He sighs heavily. “I thought that you were better than this.” 

 “It’s alright, husband,” Alicent coos, brushing his hair from his face, acting like the dutiful wife. 

 Rhaenyra merely arches an eyebrow at the pair. Gods above, they were made for each other. She is so sick of them. 

 “Your mother would be so ashamed at how you acted,” Father bemoans. 

 “I think that my mother would be ashamed to see that her husband, whom she’d been devoted to for two-and-ten years forsake her mourning period,” Rhaenyra snaps, anger simmering in her veins. How dare he. “She would be further ashamed that her husband disregards the needs of their distraught daughter, to seek comfort from a girl whom she watched grow up.” 

 “Rhaenyra!” Her father snaps. 

 “I only speak the truth, Father.” Rhaenyra keeps eye contact. She is not afraid of him. 

 “She is my wife!” 

 “Yes, I am well aware. She seeks to remind me at every waking moment.” She rolls her eyes. 

 “It matters not. You are the Crown Princess of the Iron Throne, you cannot act like a mannerless child. There is a level of decorum that you must retain, no matter what you are feeling.” 

 Rhaenyra purses her lips, ignoring the triumphant look Alicent gives her. “You promised me, Father. You promised that she would not interfere in my life, that I would not humiliated in this way. I trusted you, and yet, the moment that she bats her eyelashes at you, you fold. Does your word mean nothing?” She is aware that her voice is rising, but she cannot find herself to care. 

 Viserys blinks and snaps his mouth shut. Alicent is clearly panicking, looking at her husband, eyes wide, silently pleading with him. “What do you mean?” His voice cracks. 

 “Oh, did your devoted wife not tell you?” Rhaenyra glares at the quivering man before her, angry that she has to defend herself. 

 “She said you call her a whore and had ‘fucked’ her way into being Queen.” 

 Rhaenyra scoffs, rolling her eyes. Of course, Alicent would only tell her father what suits her narrative. 

 “It seems that Her Majesty has forgotten some important details,” Rhaenyra sneers.  

 Alicent must’ve noticed a shift in the air as she dropped her knees, looking up at her husband with wide eyes. She clutches his hand tightly. “Husband, I merely wished to speak to the Princess about some concerns I had about her household.” She certainly learnt how to manipulate her Father quickly. 

 “Is this true, Rhaenyra?” Viserys looks up to Rhaenyra. 

 Rhaenyra merely crosses her arms. “No. Your wife ambushed me in the Godswood after my lessons to talk about my ladies. When I told her that I wasn’t going to dismiss any of them, she then tried ordering me to. She said, and I quote, ‘as Queen I order you to send these ladies home. I obviously see that you cannot be trusted to select your own ladies’. That doesn’t spound like talking to me about concerns. You promised me, Father.” Rhaenyra hates that her eyes well up with tears at the end. 

 Why can’t he be on her side? She’s his child, his Heir. He’s supposed to protect her. 

 Viserys sighs heavily, rubbing his face. But he doesn’t do anything; he just sits there. 

 “Viserys, husband, please,” Alicent pleads. “I am your Queen; that must mean something!” 

 “You are only Queen because my Father didn’t want your honour to be sullied, Alicent, or have you forgotten?” Rhaenyra snaps. Alicent flushes an ugly puce colour, malice filling her eyes. 

 “Rhaenyra!” Her Father yells. She rolls her eyes at him again. Seven Hells, she’s getting tired of this conversation. He then sighs once more because that is the only action he can take. “Rhaenyra, can you not listen to what advice Alicent offers?” 

 “She told me to dismiss half my ladies!” 

 “I’m only looking out for your well being, Rhaenyra!” Alicent wails. 

 “You told me to dismiss my Aunt! The one person from my maternal family I have left in this court! I am sick and tired of being told to forget my mother just to make you feel better!” Rhaenyra yells, her hands curling up into fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. 

 “What about the other ladies, Rhaenyra?” 

 Rhaenyra blinks at the sheer audacity of her father. “I am not dismissing any of them. You and their lieges have signed all of the contracts. What am I to tell the Lords when they ask about their daughters being discharged from my service? ‘Sorry, I can’t have your daughter in my household, despite her excellent lineage and service, because the Queen is uncomfortable?’ How do you think the Lords of the Realm will think of the Royal Family?” 

 She sees her Father wince as her words hit. No matter what Alicent spews now, it won’t work because if there’s one thing that her father wants more than family harmony, it is the respect of the Lords of the Realm. 

 “Lady Dayne isn’t even from this realm!” Alicent hisses. “It is an insult to all the other girls in the realm that you picked a Dornish instead of them. 

 “She’s right, Rhaenyra. Wouldn’t it be a good compromise to release Lady Dayne instead all the ladies?” Her Father wearily asks. 

 “Have you forgotten what the Daynes and Ullers have given us?” Rhaenyra snaps. She cannot believe how spineless he is. “It spits in the face of their generosity! It doesn’t matter if they’re Dornish; the rest of the world knows what sacrifice they have given to ensure Lady Emylie’s place in my household. You are making an oathbreaker of me!” 

 He flinches at her anger, but Rhaenyra doesn’t care anymore. He can be an oathbreaker for all she cares; let him rot in hell, but he will not force her to break hers. 

 “If you didn’t want her around, then you should’ve told me ages ago when I first brought the offer to you! Now if I release her, it’ll worsen relations with Dorne, and close the door on any diplomacy we could achieve with Emylie here! Hell, it’ll probably drive them to join the Triarchy! Or have you forgotten where your brother is? Who do you think will be their first victim if they are humiliated in such a manner? Do you really want Uncle Daemon gone that much?” 

 “Enough!” He roars, standing up, glaring at Rhaenyra, knocking aside Alicent’s trembling hands. 

 Finally, he shows some fucking spine. She unflinchingly keeps eye contact with him. 

 “Enough, Rhaenyra. You did not have to speak of such things.” He shakes his head and turns to help Alicent up. 

 Does he think that she wants to? Speaking of such horrors in the universe will multiply their chance of coming true, but he is pushing her to fight for her rights as the Heir. 

 “I am merely speaking the truth, Father.” 

“You have made your point,” he grumbles. 

 Has she? He doesn’t seem to be getting it. “I don’t care if you want to play happy family with her, but keep her away from me. She is not to interfere with the matters of my life or household.”

 “You cannot talk like that to me!” Alicent snaps, her hands in fists trembling in anger. “I will not allow you to trample over everything that the Gods built with your pretty little foot because you’re a spoiled brat! You will respect me because I am your Queen!” Alicent was practically yelling at the top of her lungs at this point; no doubt those in the halls could hear her rant and rave. 

 “I’m not doing anything! You’re the one who’s ignoring your betrothal contract for a petty power play!” 

 “Viserys!” Alicent turns to her husband, eyes pleading. 

 But her Father sighs, not falling for her trick and finally accepting the truth. “Rhaenyra is not wrong, my dear. You aren’t allowed to change Rhaenyra’s household. While I understand that you are worried, Rhaenyra has raised perfectly valid points about her ladies. Until they do something, they cannot be dismissed.”

 It’s about fucking time! 

 “I refuse to be in a castle with such a spoiled brat!” Alicent yells, stomping her foot.

 “And you’re nothing but a leech, trying to bully me into doing whatever you want!” Rhaenyra yells back. There are a lot of other words Rhaenyra can use on her, but she’s not angry enough to let them loose in front of her father. She’s getting close, though, really close. 

 “Rhaenrya…” His tone is a warning. But what is he threatening her? 

 “I am your Heir! Your daughter! And you ask me to bend to her like a servant.”

 “And she is my wife! What would you have me do, Rhaenyra? Forsake my wife for my daughter? Or do I forsake my daughter for my wife?” 

 “You’re the one who decided to take a new wife! You didn’t have to take a wife if you wanted companionship! I’m sure that Alicent would’ve offered her time regardless!” 

 “If you cannot respect my wife, then perhaps you should spend some time away from King’s Landing!” 

 “What? You’re exiling me like Uncle Daemon? You’re so pathetic! No wonder he can’t stand being around you if this is what it means to be your family. I don’t blame him!” 

 “Enough! Say one more word, Rhaenyra…” he threatens. 

 “Or what?” She yells, anger clawing at her very being. How dare he act like this when Alicent is the one disrespecting the memory of Rhaenyra and her mother! “You’ll disinherit me like you did, Uncle Daemon? Or marry me off to a man twice my age, like great-grandsire Jaehaerys did with great-aunt Viserra? Look at how well that happened! Do you want the blood of yet another family member on your hands, Father?” 

 She can see the fury in his eyes. 

 Good. Maybe he’ll finally act like a dragon is supposed to instead of this weak-willed worm!

 “Get out!” He roars. 

 “With pleasure!” She matches his tone. 

 Rhaenyra storms out of her father’s solar, anger simmering deep in her veins. She is so sick of this fucking place. 

 She’s tired of having to watch her words, her actions, everything. 

 She’s tired of defending her actions, fighting off Otto’s attempts to discredit her and Alicent’s attempts to undermine her. The Red Keep is supposed to be her home. How can she call this place her home if she feels she can never let herself relax? 

 Worst of all, she’s tired of her father. She’s tired of his blindness, allowing for villainy to foster in the stones of their home and of him going back on his word, forcing Rhaenyra to fight for what was promised. 

 “My Lady?” Eleanor asks, tentatively reaching out for her. 

 Rhaenyra scowls and shakes off her hand. She doesn’t want to be touched right now. She feels that if she’s touched, she’ll explode. She’ll become her house’s symbol and rain destruction down on the Red Keep, on those deserving and undeserving. 

 Cassandra and Criston watch her with heavy eyes, no doubt hearing what transpired. 

 Rhaenyra can’t stand it. Their eyes are like ants crawling up her skin. 

 “Let’s go,” Rheanyra mutters, pushing herself to move. 

 Eleanor follows her without complaint, and they make the short trip back to Rhaenyra’s apartment in silence. 

 The door slams shut behind her, and Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, tears swimming in her eyes. 

 Fuck! 

 Motherfuckers! 

 Rhaenyra sniffles, desperately wiping her eyes. She hates this! She hates them! 

 “Rhaenyra?” Aunt Amanda approaches. 

 “I fucking hate them.” Rhaenyra seethes, still not relaxing under her aunt’s arms. “I hate them! He refuses to punish her after such a blatant violation and yet is ready to hate me with a mere look from her!” She buries her head in Aunt Amanda’s shoulder; vicious tears pour from her, soaking the fabric below. 

 Why is he turning from her?

 What did she do? 

 Aunt Amanda quietly rocks Rhaenyra, trying to soothe her. “It’s hard, I know, to have your father take a new wife and take her side.” 

 Rhaenyra stills because Aunt Amanda does understand her anger. Her father’s new wife was her age when they married. Sure, Grandmother Dealla was a feeble girl from all accounts, but she was still a Princess and the wife of Amanda’s father. There’s no doubt that Rodrick Arryn took his wife’s side when there was conflict between her and his children. 

 Rhaenyra sniffles and clings to her aunt. “What do I do?” 

 She sighs, a sound laced with pain and frustration, her hands gently brushing through her hair. “Unfortunately, my dear, I cannot give you any advice that would bring your father back to your side. All I can say is to forge ahead and not lean on him because he won’t be reliable.”

 Rhaenyra frowns. She doesn’t want to lose her father. Despite her anger towards him, she loves him. He’s her father. How can she just let him go? 

 “I’m not saying to destroy your relationship, dear. You can still love and cherish him, but just understand that in difficult times, you shouldn’t lean on him.

Rhaenya nods, slowly extracting herself from Aunt Amanda’s embrace. Aunt Amanda’s normally gentle face is hardened with sorrow. She takes Rhaenyra’s hands in hers and squeezes them to remind her that Rhaenyra isn’t alone. 

 “Thank you,” she whispers. 

 She looks up and sees the rest of her ladies failing to hide that they were eavesdropping. Rhaenyra’s face burns in embarrassment. She can’t believe she broke down in front of them again. 

That’s so embarrassing. 

“Father might’ve banished me to Dragonstone,” Rhaenyra mutters. 

 Aunt Amanda sighs again. “That is rather…abrupt. We did have plans to go, though…” She purses her lips in slight annoyance. 

 “I know.” Rhaenyra scowls. She did it in a moment of anger but doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t want to be in the Red Keep anymore. She wants her father to suffer, to remember why she left every single day. 

 Thankfully, her ladies take her word for it and jump to action without a single order. 

 “The court is going to wonder why you left,” Lyarra muses, tapping her nails against a table. 

 “It’ll be easy to spin it to our narrative.” Brealla grins, sharing a mischievous look with Emylie. 

 “Mhm. We need to let people know that the Princess is leaving because the Queen tried to mess with her household and is rather……distraught. And that she’s offering to leave to ‘graciously’ give her father space to come to terms with what happened because it coincidentally coincides with her having to settle affairs on her new seat. If someone asks you, it’s not because she’s been exiled from court for insulting the Queen, you understand.” Emylie looks over to Maris, Eleanor and Lyarra. “Good.” She gives a nod. “Brealla, I assume you’ll speak to your mother. I’m sure that she’d love to hear what happened.” 

 “Of course, Mother is going to wonder why Lady Arryn is absent from ladies’ court. I’ll speak with her ahead of time so that she’s able to share with the other ladies, just to ensure that no one panics.” 

 They share a grin that if Rhaenrya weren’t on their side, it would make her shiver in fear. 

 “Lady Amanda, when you are not overseeing the packing of the Princess’s belongings, would you be so kind as to write to your niece? I’m sure she’d be interested to know what’s happening in her cousin’s life.” 

“I think it would be best that we wait until we are at Dragonstone. The Grand Maester has many appointments to cover and doesn’t have time to ensure his apprentices aren’t satisfying their curiosity,” Aunt Amanda disagrees. Now that they’re Rhaenyra’s ladies, it’s certain that Otto is reading their mail. Rhaenyra doesn’t want to take the chance to see if Otto uses the contents of Aunt Amanda’s message to his advantage to kick Rhaenyra while she’s down. 

 Emylie waves her off. “We can give Davos messages that Edric can mail.” 

 Aunt Amanda can’t argue with that, so she nods in acquisition. 

 “Eleanor, the play should still go on. Is it good enough for Alador to do it without further input?” Brealla asks. 

 “Hmm. It should. We got through most of it.” 

 “Good. Write a message to Alador and inform him of what’s going on and to start production of the play.” 

 Eleanor nods, heading to one of the makeshift desks and pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment. 

 “Lyarra, would you be so kind to meet with Lord Beesbury? I would like to empty my accounts here at the Red Keep,” Rhaenyra instructs, finally shaking off her fuge. She’d like to get to Dragonstone as soon as possible. 

 “Do you think that necessary, Rhaenyra?” Aunt Amanda asks. 

 Rhaenyra scowls. The accounts of the Royal Family are under the purview of the Queen; technically, Alicent’s contract is supposed to bar her from messing with Rhaenyra’s money. In the Dreams, Alicent didn’t go as far as messing with her accounts, but who knows what she’ll do now? 

 The further Rhaenyra gets from the starting point of her Dreams, the less she can rely on them. But she can take what she learnt from her mistakes and apply them to what she does now. 

 “I didn’t think that Alicent would try to mess with my household, but look at where we are. I don’t want to tempt fate. Oh, Lyarra, could you also speak with Lady Fell, as well? She’s in charge of the Royal jewels. I’d like to take anything that belonged to my mother and, if possible, anything from the conquerors and Queen Alysanne’s crown. If you’re asked, tell them that I’d like to take them back to the conquerors’ home, as I’m doing with Queen Rhaenys. Lady Fell might allow it, but if there’s pushback, send them to me.” 

 She doesn’t think that she’s technically allowed to take these things, but who is going to stop her? Her Father? He’ll allow it if it means getting back in her good graces. 

 Rhaenyra remembers that Criston crowned Aegon with the conqueror’s crown, and Aegon wore the conqueror’s armour to battle. She refuses to let that happen again. She won’t give Alicent any legitimacy to crown her son. The world will see that Aegon is nothing but a usurper.

 She refuses to let Alicent get her hands on her family’s relics. Alicent can crow as much as she wants, but Rhaenyra doesn’t believe one bit that she’d respect Rhaenyra’s family legacy. She’d use it to her advantage. Rhaenyra will protect her family’s legacy even if her father won’t.  

 “Yes, my Princess.” Lyarra curtsyes. 

 “Aunt Amanda, could you charter a ship for us? Actually, can you see when the Velyarons are leaving? Perhaps they would be kind and extend an offer.” Since Jocelyn Baratheon came with them and all of their attendants, Rhaenys had to have a ship prepared for them. It would save them some effort.” 

 “I shall see what I can do.” Aunt Amanda nods, then steps over to the desk to start her own letter. 

 “Emylie, is Lysandro Rogare still at court?” 

 “I believe so.” 

 “Would you speak to him and invite him to join me at Dragonstone so we may discuss the Dragonglass buisness?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 “Of course. I shall pass the message on right away.”  

 “Um, what about me?” Maris asks, her big eyes looking around the bustle of the room. 

 Rhaenyra pauses, not sure what to do with Maris. She’s younger than what Rhaenyra wanted for a lady; most skills she’d need to help haven’t developed yet. And since the others have tasks to do before the packing starts, Maris is kind of at a loss to do.

 “Maris, do you think your sister would appreciate some company right now? She was outside the King’s solar and heard everything. I’d like to speak with her before we leave.” Eleanor asks, passing her letter over to Emylie. 

 “I did apologize to her about not choosing her as a lady, telling her that I thought she was to start her heir training,” Rhaenyra offers. 

 Maris had scowled at the mention of her sister but then nodded. “Her ego’s been assuaged, so she’d be receptive to an audience.” 

 “Wonderful, Tansy!” Eleanor waved to her maid and then asked her to track down the whereabouts of Cassandra Baratheon. 

“Well, I don’t know if this is the right time or if there’s ever going to be a right time, but I have news,” Emylie cuts in dryly, accepting Amanda’s letter as well. 

 “You’re marrying Mushroom and leaving court?” Brealla asks, her tone hopeful. 

 Rhaenyra stifles a giggle as Maris and Eleanor both laugh. 

 “Why? You upset that I’m taking your lover with you back to Dorne?” Emylie lightheartedly snaps back. 

 The face that Brealla makes gets even the taciturn Lyarra to snort. 

 “What’s your news, Lady Emylie?” Aunt Amanda cuts in before Emylie and Brealla continue their fight. 

 “As of three days ago, my Grandsire has officially joined the Sea Snake in his campaign along with my cousin, Qlye and his men.” 

 Rhaenyra’s stomach swoops out from under her. If she had listened to her father and dismissed Emylie, then there is no doubt in her mind that those raised soldiers would switch sides and go against Uncle Daemon and Lord Coryls to protect the reputation of their Lady. She is so thankful that she listened to her gut instead of her father. 

 “Does this have to do with your desire to seek out Lady Velyaron a few days ago?” Eleanor asks. 

 “Mhm. Mother and Grandsire wanted insurance that we’d get recompensation after everything before officially joining.”

“And Lord Uller?” Rhaenyra hesitantly asks. She does hope that Emylie’s grandsire didn’t threaten Lord Uller into joining a war. It’s much different than getting him to give up a bunch of bones. 

 Emylie sees Rhaenyra’s hesitance and grins. “The Crabfeeder and his men have attacked several settlements around Hellgate Hall, my Princess; I’m surprised that my cousin waited this long if I’m being honest. I know for certain that some of his subjects are chomping at the bit to fight. I’d be surprised if Alektor isn’t there already.” 

 Rhaenyra has no idea who Alektor is, but Emylie’s explanation assuages the guilt eating away at her. 

 That reminds Rhaenyra that she needs to summon her lords. It would also be best if Rhaenyra could find someone from one of their houses to take on as one of her household guards or maybe as a squire to one of her guards. If not one of her guards, maybe she could recommend a few men to positions on Dragonstone or a minor position in her household, like a page boy or something. 

 She doesn’t recall what positions are currently open on Dragonstone. 

 Oh, speaking of guards. She needs to tell Ser Harold that she’s taking Ser Erryk with her. Maybe Ser Arryk as well? In the Dreams, her Father gave her two Kingsguards to go with her wherever she went. 

 Criston isn’t going to be pleased that she’s leaving without him. Oh, well, sucks to be him. 

Chapter Text

“Rhaenyra, what is this?” Her Father asks. Rhaenyra looks up from where she’s observing her servants loading her trunks into carts to go the harbour. 

 “My things, Father. I am leaving for Dragonstone.” 

 She arches an eyebrow at how pale he gets. From behind his shoulder, Alicent looks vindictive, and her ladies behind her look triumphant, save for Cassandra, who merely looks bored with everything. 

 They think that they’ve achieved something by ‘running’ Rhaenyra out of King’s Landing.  

 Otto is lurking on her father’s other shoulder; the rest of the small council members are dragged along with him, looking disgruntled. They must’ve been in a meeting with her Father when it was announced that Rhaenyra was leaving. 

 Lord Tyland isn’t looking at Rhaenyra but rather looking over to the cluster of her ladies and their maids, who were bundled up and ready for the sea. Emylie had stolen Lyarra’s silver rabbit-fur ushanka hat and paired it with a heavy lavender wool coat lined with fur and a matching muff. She looked miserable; earlier, she’d admitted to Rhaenyra that the boat ride to King’s Landing was horrendous because she was freezing and had not adequately understood how cold the weather on Blackwater Bay could get. It’s going to be colder now on Dragonstone and the open sea as the cooler months settle in; Rhaenyra hopes that Emylie and Brealla will be able to handle the weather. The others she’s not worried about, especially Lyarra, who’s only wearing a light travelling cloak. 

 She blinks innocently at her father as he struggles for words. “Father, you told me that I was not welcome in King’s Landing presently. I am merely doing what you requested.” 

 From the look on his face, yes, he did think that she was bluffing. It angers her for some reason; he thinks that just because he likes to go back on his word, Rhaenyra will do it, too. 

 “I…uh…Rhaenyra, I admit, I spoke hastily, in a moment of anger. Don’t you think that this is a little hasty?” He asks tentatively. 

 Several of the lingering nobles had come out when the whole production started and were now watching this scene with blatant curiosity. 

 Rhaenyra stares at her father cooly, channelling her inner Visenya, helped by the fact that she’s wearing her riding leathers. “I do not think it hasty, Father. You had explicitly promised me that your wife would not meddle in my affairs, and when she tried to dismiss my ladies without a legitimate reason, she faced no repercussions. When I became rightfully upset, you’re the one who told me that I’d be better off not in King’s Landing, and frankly, I agree. I do not wish to be someplace where the offenders are not punished.” Her voice is clear and loud, travelling over the quiet courtyard. 

 “Rhaenyra, please. You’re just overreacting,” Alicent says with a tense smile, her eyes shooting daggers at her. “I’m sorry that your feelings got hurt. I just wanted to help, that’s all.”

 “Your intentions might’ve been good, but regardless of what you intended, you still overstepped. I understand that my father didn’t punish you, clearly, due to your inexperience and lack of understanding of your duties, I have decided to remove myself from the Red Keep so that you are not tempted to do it again.” 

 The whispering of the gathered nobles has gotten louder. 

 Alicent is clearly struggling to keep her mask as she continuously forces a light smile onto her face while glaring at Rhaenyra. “How considerate of you,” she grits out. 

 “You seem to be taking a rather excessive amount of luggage, My Princess. How long do you plan to stay at Dragonstone?” Otto asks. Rhaenyra can hear the glee in his voice. 

 She shrugs delicately. “I am not sure. However long it takes for the Queen to understand the limits of her duties, I suppose. I have taken the liberty of transferring some of my belongings to Dragonstone for safekeeping .” 

 She doesn’t bother telling her father that she’s emptied her accounts; he’ll find out eventually. Lord Beesbury will probably bring it up at some point, or Alicent will try to mess with it. 

 “What belongings, Rhaenyra?” Father asks. 

 “No need to trouble yourself, Father,” Rhaenyra dismisses him. “I’ve also spoken to Ser Harold, and he’s allowed Ser Erryk and Arryk to join me. I hope that you don’t mind?” 

 “Of course not,” Father agrees without hesitation, still looking bewildered.  

“Ah, cousin, Laenor, and Lady Baratheon, are you ready to depart?” 

 Rhaenys, being followed by Laenor and her mother, comes marching over in her flight leathers. Her dark curls were pulled back into severe braids, and her sharp purple eyes swept over the assembled crowd, narrowing when she spotted Alicent and her stupid seven-pointed crown. 

 “Yes. Our things have been loaded onto the ship; we’re waiting for you and your ladies.” 

 “Wonderful. The last of my things are being loaded at the moment. And all my ladies are ready to go.” 

 “W-what’s going on?” Father asks, sweat dripping from his brow. 

 “Rhaenys is kind enough to allow me to use her ship, so I did not have to bother with charting a boat. Wasn’t that kind of her?” 

 “Yes, it’s kind of her,” Father stammers out. 

 Rhaenyra gives him a terse smile and presses a kiss on his cheek. “Take care, Father. If I am not back before your wife is due to give birth, I shall be back when she does go into labour. I don’t want to miss the birth of my dear sister!” She hopes that it’s a girl this time and not Aegon. It’ll be hilarious to see Alicent’s face. 

 “Of course. Safe travels.” Rhaenyra smiles brightly at her Father’s inability to put his foot down. She turns to the assembled crowd. “I do hope that I’ll be able to host you at Dragonstone soon. I’d love to have you all! Take care!” 

 Her ladies, along with Lady Baratheon, climbed into the provided wheelhouses, setting off to the harbour. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra joins Rhaenys and Laenor in their wheelhouse. 

 Rhaenyra sighs happily as she sits. She thinks she conveyed her meaning well enough to the crowd. 

 Rhaenys waits until the wheelhouse starts moving before turning on Rhaenyra. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I was born into a dangerous game, dear cousin.” 

 “Yes. But there are ways to play it safe, Rhaenyra. You are throwing caution to the wind.” 

 “What can the Hightowers do? Alicent is disliked enough in the city that any sort of rumours that appear about me will be attributed to her jealousy; no one is going to believe her. This is the first ‘official’ retaliation that I’ve done.” 

 Rhaenys purses her lips, not liking the situation, but doesn’t have enough evidence to contradict Rhaenyra.

 “I’m sorry that I haven’t spoken to you in a while,” Rhaenyra apologizes. 

 Rhaenys waves her hand. “You’ve been busy. I cannot deny that. And frankly, so have I. Besides…” she trails off, looking over to Laenor unhappily.  

 That’s right. Laenor is leaving for the Stepstones, which is probably the moment he lands at Driftmark. Rhaenys probably wanted to spend time with her son before he was shipped off to war. Rhaenyra knows that Laenor would be fine, at least in the future she’s seen, but Rhaenys doesn’t. 

 “I’d like to invite you, Laenor, and Laena to Dragonstone for Queen Rhaenys’ funeral. It’s your right as Targaryens and Velyarons; people forget that the conquerors were also Velyerons. I’d be honoured if you came.” 

 “I’d like to, Mother.” 

 Rhaenys threw her hands up. “I was not going to deny you this. It is a momentous occasion for our family. Coryls can wait. Are you inviting anyone else?” 

 She hadn’t, but maybe Rhaenyra should. “Hm. What about my vassals? I am going to ask them to join Lord Coryls. It might soothe the blow to be invited to such an exclusive event.”

“I…I did not know that you were sending soldiers,” Rhaenys admits. Rhaenyra knows from experience that it takes a lot to get Rhaenys flustered. She feels kind of proud that she was able to achieve that. 

 Rhaenyra shrugs. “My Father may not see the importance of the Stepstones, but I do. Much of Dragonstone’s economy is based on our meagre shipping industry and maritime exploits. Besides, without my realization, many of my ladies’ families are getting involved,” she says dryly. Honestly, she’s surprised that Lord Boremund hasn’t joined yet; his region was taking the most hits. 

 Besides, she wants this war over and done with for more selfish reasons. She has business reasons, which she has not told Rhaenys about yet.  

 If she does help Lord Corlys, then he’d be more willing to let Laena join her ladies despite his anger at the betrothal rejection. 

 And there is a Daemon. She doesn’t trust Daemon anymore to have her best interests at heart, but he is still her uncle and fought for her claim until the bitter end. She hopes that he’ll at least have a better ending this time. 

 “I think it would be a good idea. Especially with the Celtigars; everyone forgets that they’re of Valyarian decent as well,” Laenor agrees with Rhaenyra. 

 “I also thought about inviting the Masseys, since they were also originally the conqueror’s bannermen.” 

 “A solid plan. It would not bode well if you excluded them from the ranks of the conqueror’s bannermen,” Rhaenys agrees. “You should try to ensure the loyalty of the crownlands; it would be a mistake to anger your direct neighbours.” 

 Rhaenyra nodded; most of the crownlands declared for her in the Dreams, with the exception of Rosby and Stokeworth. She can forgive them, somewhat, for bending the knee as their lords were in King’s Landing at the time of the coup. However, unlike Lord Darklyn, who was beheaded for his support for Rhaenyra, she won’t lean on them for support. 

 “I was also going ask for knights or squires to fill my ranks. That would be enough, right?” 

 Rhaenys snorts. “I think that’ll be enough, Rhaenyra. Do not forget that you are their liege lord; they serve you, not the other way around.”

 Rhaenyra bristles at the tone. “It doesn’t hurt to be kind, Rhaenys. They are the foundation of my support.” 

 “That’s not what I meant, Rhaenyra. There is a line between being a good liege and catering to your vassals. Those sworn to Dragonstone might be your only vassals at the moment, and you might want them to like you and are doing this with good intentions, but once you establish this pattern, it will become difficult to shake, and when you do inherit the throne, if this pattern of embellishing the relationship with Dragonstone vassals continues, then the other vassals of the realm will get upset.” 

 Rhaenys doesn’t mention that Rhaenyra has already seen the results; just look at her Father’s approach to governance. There are increasingly larger amounts of disgruntled lords mad at the Hightowers. 

 Rhaenyra feels like a child being scolded, and she hates it. She slouches in her seat, fiddling with her gloves. 

“Right…I’m sorry, Rhaenys,” Rahenyra apologizes, trying hard not to mumble. “I took my anger out on you, and I shouldn’t have.” 

 She feels the weight of Rhaenys’ eyes on her and suddenly understands how her father feels when dealing with Rhaenys…and feels some pity for him. 

 “You’re under a lot of pressure, Rhaenyra. It’s understandable that you might react negatively, right, Mother?” Laenor puts a hand on Rhaenyra’s, giving his mother a weighty look. 

 Rheanyra is appreciative of Laenor. He’s different from the Dreams; he’s young and bright, without the sorrow of Joffrey's death hanging over him. And he’s compassionate, an earnest man who just wants to help. This time, Rhaenyra is certain that Joffrey is going to live; she’s dealt with Criston so that he won’t attack Joffrey again in such a brutal way this time. Rhaenyra doesn’t know what Laenor and Joffrey want, but there is going to be an opening for Joffrey in her knights. 

 Would he like to be the knight assigned to her children? Or would he see it as an offence? 

 Rhaenyra hates to admit it, but she doesn’t know Joffrey well, but she wants to give him a good life. 

 There’s a tense moment as they wait for Rahenys to respond. She gives them a shrug, leans back and crosses her legs. “No harm done. You are young and learning. At least you are learning,” she mumbles. 

 Unlike her father…yes, Rhaenyra gets her underlying meaning. 

 She’s thankful that Rhaenys is understanding; it’s exhausting feeling inadequate. 

 She knows that she has a lot to catch up on; most Heirs start their training from birth, and coming into the game so late is humbling, to say the least, and frustrating. She should know these things, and everyone expects her to know these things, but she doesn’t.  

 Her Father doesn’t understand and doesn’t care. Why should he? He wasn’t supposed to be King, but he’s doing just fine with minimal training……at least, according to him. 

 Leanor continues to hold her hand in reassurance as they make their way to the Dragonpit. It’s nice to have that assurance. Laenor is like the calm waters of the sea; on a good day, you can watch the tranquil water twinkle and shine, mesmerizing passersbys.   

 But it does remind Rhaenyra that she should talk to Rhaenys about ways to help conceive. That’s going to be her biggest hurdle. 

 When they finally reach the Dragonpit, some of the tension in her bones settles. She can feel her lady calling for her, excited to reach for the sky. 

 Rhaenyra grins and darts out of the Wheelhouse, Leanor hot on her heels. She knows that he feels the call, too. Rhaenys follows at a slower pace, but Rhaenyra can see the tension syphoning from her shoulders. She’s excited, too. 

 There’s nothing more intoxicating than the lure of the open sky. 

 Syrax roars in appreciation as Rhaenyra scrambles up; she’s as impatient as Rhaenyra is. Rhaenyra can feel Syrax’s excitement thrumming through their bond. 

 “ Sōves, Syrax!” Rhaenyra calls. 

 Sryax trills in excitement; the ground shakes as she prepares for flight. 

 Rhaenyra whoops as Sryax launches herself into the air, spreading her great golden wings. Despite the crisp air, Rhaenyra is warm as she presses herself to Sryax’s body, the heat from her scales invigorating her cooling body. 

 Rhaenyra laughs as she guides Sryax into doing barrel rolls and dives. There’s nothing more freeing than flying. 

 A familiar screech tells her that Seasmoke is in the air. She looks over her shoulder and sees Laenor flying toward her. 

 His grin is wild and free, the gems and flakes of gold woven into his braided hair glint in the sunlight. He is like her; they are meant to be in the air. 

 Seasmoke weaves through the air, playfully nipping at Sryax as he passes. Sryax grumbles but moves as Rahenyra urges her to keep up with her friend. Together, they dance through the air, playing as they wait for Rhaenys. 

 She pulls into the air moments later, Meleys screeching as she dives past Seasmoke and Sryax. 

 Rhaenyra shares a look with Laenor, and at the same time, they both urge their mounts to follow Meleys, trying to catch up with the famed speed of the Red Queen. 

 King’s LLandingspeeds past them in a matter of moments, and soon they hit the open water. 

 Rhaenyra pushes Sryax to go lower, enjoying the sea spray from the waves. 

 Ahead of them is the Merry Dragon, carrying their luggage, servants, Rhaenyra’s ladies, and Jocelyn Baratheon. 

 As she flies past the ship, Sryax tilts her body so that one wing dips into the sea. This rattles the boat and elicits shouts of admiration from the passengers and crew.

 Rhaenyra laughs as Sryax preens at the attention and urges her to climb, rejoining the other dragons in the sky. They’re flying to Driftmark first to collect Laena and allow the ship to catch up to them. Though Rhaenyra suspects that they won’t have to collect Laena, there’s no doubt that with Rhaenys and her brother in King’s Landing, she wouldn’t seize the opportunity to hunt down Vhagar. 

 Who would look down on Laena, after all, if she commanded the Queen of the Dragons, the last living dragon of the conquerors? 

                                                                                                   ****

 “Is that Vhagar?” Laenor yells over the wind as they approach Driftmark. Ahead of them is a large hill resting near the town of Hull. 

 Rhaenyra cackles; she was right! Laena seized the opportunity that the lack of supervision gave her and went to bond with Vhagar. 

 She’s proud of her friend, but it worries her. House Velayron now has three dragons to the two of House Targaryen. Then, whoever Laena marries will have Vhagar at their disposal. Rhaenyra knows that her friend wouldn’t go against her, but the implication is still troubling. 

 Perhaps in her betrothal agreement, she can request some stipulation that prevents others from using Vhagar. 

 Whatever. That’s a problem for later. Coryls won’t betroth Laena while he’s still at the Stepstones, and Rhaenys will understand the problem that Rhaenyra is facing. 

 “Mother!” Laena waves as they land their dragons. “Laenor! Cousin!” 

 “Congratulations Laena!” Rhaenyra cries as she slips from Sryax. She pulls Laena into a tight hug when she reaches her. 

 “Isn’t she beautiful?” Laena laughs. “Finally, she’s mine!” 

 Laenor nearly pushes Rhaenyra out of the way to get to his sister. “She’s an ugly bitch, but it’s still fucking amazing!” He tackles her into a hug, picking her up and twirling her around. 

 “Hey!” Laena scolds, trying to squirm out of his grip. 

 “Language, Laenor, please.” Rhaenys sighs; it sounds like it’s a longstanding argument. 

 “Now you don’t have to take me, Mother!” Laena cheers. 

 “You are not getting on that dragon until I say so, am I clear?” Rhaenys demands. 

 Laena deflates and sighs heavily. “Yes, Mother,” she mumbles. 

 Rhaeny’s severe expression softens, and there’s a shadow of a smile. She cups Laena’s face in her hands. “Congratulations, my dear. I am very proud of you. Vhagar is a fine mount.” 

 “And, when you can fly her, we can go together!” Rhaenyra’s ladies are wonderful, and they’ve helped her so much, but nothing compares to being able to fly with someone else. Demon and Laenor are going to be off in the Stepstones, and Rhaenys will be too busy managing Driftmark, so Rhaenyra desperately wants Laena to join her. 

 Laena gasps and turns to her mother. “May I, mother?” She pleads; her deep blue eyes, which she inherited from her father, are wide with pleading. 

 Rhaenys rolls her eyes fondly at her daughter. “I believed that you were going spend most of your time at Dragonstone with the Princess and her ladies regardless of what I tell you. Now, let us have a quick lunch so we may catch the Merry Dragon by the time it reaches Dragonstone.”  

 Laena grins brightly at her mother, then turns to Rhaenyra, looping their arms together. “Tell me everything about your ladies!” 

 On their way to High Tide, Rhaenyra told Laena everything she knew about her ladies: where they were from, their talents, their fashion styles, and other notable things from their time together.

 “I can’t believe that you got a Dornish lady to join you!” 

 Rhaenyra laughs. “If anything she convinced me to join her.” 

 “Man, I can’t wait for you to meet Emylie. Do you know what she gave the Princess for her name day?” Laenor swoops into their conversation. 

 Rhaenyra would be jealous of her lady getting so close to her future betrothed this quickly if she didn’t know that Laenor preferred men. 

 “Oh, what did she give you?” Laena looks back to Rhaenyra. 

 “The bones of Queen Rhaenys and her crown. We are having a funeral ceremony for her once my vassals are able to make the journey.” 

 Laena’s eyes widen, and she nearly gasps in shock. “That’s so cool!” 

 “Mhm. I had no idea that she was going to do that. Is was…” Rhaenyra trails off, not sure how to accurately describe the euphoria she felt when Emylie crowned her. 

 “She one-upped the Queen, who announced that she was pregnant.” 

 “No!” Laena gasps. “That bitch.” 

 Rhaenyra laughs as Rhaenys shoots her daughter a look, telling her to mind her words. 

 “It sounds like you have ladies from almost every region, except the Westerlands and the Crownlands,” Laena notes. 

 “If you wanted, Laena, I’d love to have you as one of my ladies.” The choice was between Laena and Elinda Massey. Rhaenyra loves Elinda. She stayed by Rhaenyra’s side throughout the war and championed her cause in any way Elinda could, but Elinda is like currently seven. It is too young for Rhaenyra to justify taking her from her mother. 

 “Mother?” Laena nervously looks over to Rhaenys. 

 Rhaenys sighs. “I would like to say yes, but I am unsure how Corlys’ pride will take this.” 

 “I didn’t even want to be Queen,” Laena mutters, kicking the dirt. 

 “Would he acquiesce with a betrothal between Laenor and I? I hadn’t planned on setting anything in motion, but there isn’t much difference between now and just kicking it down the line.” 

 “Perhaps. I shall speak with him. Just enjoy your time with Rhaenyra, dear,” Rhaenys assures Laena. “Now, let us forget our worries for the moment and enjoy lunch.” She gives the three of them pointed looks before seating herself at the head of the small table set up in the gardens for them. 

                                                                                                                        ****

 Rhaenyra’s heart grows the closer Dragonstone gets. She’s home. Dragonstone was a bastion for her in the Dreams; it was her safe haven when the Red Keep became too overbearing and Alicent’s cruelty grew. 

The thick black stones stand starkly apart from the glimmering colours of the setting sun. It’s imposing to those who don’t understand the history seeped into its stones. 

 It’s dark and a little dreary, yes, but Rhaenyra’s mind is filled with warm hallways covered in thick tapestries, looking for secrets. There’s a sense of tranquillity there that Rhaenyra never found in the Red Keep, even before she was the Heir. 

 She can’t wait. 

 She directs Sryax to land in the main courtyard. She lands with a trill and leaves without a second thought after Rhaenyra slides off her back. 

 “Princess Rhaenyra, Heir to the Iron Throne, Dragonstone is yours.” Ser Robert Quince, the Keep’s steward, gets on a knee and bows. Rhaenyra faintly smiled at the man who’d been so loyal to her, but then her smile dropped when she spotted Alfred Bloome, the captain of the guards, among the crowd. 

 He’s still loyal now, but the moment that he sees a chance to seize power, he’ll turn on her without a second thought. There’s a chance that Otto might be employing him; Rhaenyra wouldn’t put it past him. She doesn’t know why Deamon didn’t get rid of him when he was occupying the castle. 

 “Thank you, Ser Quince. I do hope that you received my letter about the number of rooms needed. And have my ladies arrived, or have I beaten them?” She asks as she hears Laenor get off of Seasmoke. 

 “We did receive your letter, my Princess, and aired the rooms accordingly. I have not seen your ladies yet, I am afraid.” 

 “No worries. Given our luggage, it is a slower journey. Oh, I do have some crates that need to be sent to the treasury post haste. Would you do that for me?” She asks. She estimates that over half of the crates were to go to the treasury; her accounts have accumulated a fair amount of gold these past months, coupled with the treasures she managed to get out of the vaults…there’s a lot. 

 There’s a trill as Meleys descends into the courtyard, her heavy wingspan sending wind scattering across the courtyard. 

 Rhaenyra wanted to take some of the dragon eggs with her but decided not to risk her luck. That project will wait for her when she returns. 

 “With your leave, I shall escort them personally, my Princess.” 

 “Thank you, Ser Quince. It is most reassuring.”

 There’s a deep roar, and for a moment, the sun is blotted out as Vhagar flies past; a deep roar rumbles, sending vibrations through Rhaenyra; she’d followed them from Driftmark, somehow knowing that her rider wanted her to follow her. 

 Rhaenyra sighed as there were a few strangled yelps from the men around her. “And if someone could send a message to the dragon keepers that Vhagar will be roosting on the island for some time and it would be appreciated if they could ensure that she gets enough, that would be wonderful.”

 “O-of course, my Princess.” Robert pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at his forehead. “You’d think that spending my life on the island, I would become used to the dragons.” He sighs heavily. 

 Rhaenrya smiles at the man. “You are much braver than some men I’ve met, Ser Quince. You didn’t immediately faint at the sight of Vhagar.” 

 “Aw, draft.” Ser Robert was saved from responding by the approach of her ladies. Maris trots up on her slender grey mare, scowling slightly. “We were hoping to beat you here.” 

 Rhaenyra grins at her. “Yes, there is very little that can beat dragons. But you did an admirable job.” 

 Maris still scowls slightly and jumps from the back of the horse, the rest of the ladies following suit, albeit a little more gracefully. Lady Baratheon slips from her horse and wanders over her daughter, greeting her grandchildren with quiet glee. 

 Aunt Amanda hurries up and takes stock of Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra wishes to soothe her aunt, wiping away the pinch between her brow, but she’s always been a little nervous about Rhaenyra flying…just like her mother. “Worry not, Aunt. I’m fine. I was in amiable company the entire time.” 

 “Hmp.” Aunt Amanda scowls but turns and gives Rhaenys a curtsey. “Thank you for flying with my niece, Princess Rhaenys, Ser Laenor, Lady Laena.”

“It was my pleasure, Lady Amanda. Rhaenyra is shaping up to be a wonderful rider.” Rhaenys looks amused at Aunt Amanda’s worry. 

 Rhaenyra looks over to the rest of her ladies. They are in several different stages. Eleanor looks unruffled by the travel and looks up at Dragonstone with an interested eye. No doubt, she’s going to be raiding the library as soon as she can. 

 Lyarra is undisturbed, likely due to growing up with sailors, and is watching the men unload the carts, directing them where they’re supposed to go. 

 Brealla and Emylie look miserable. Brealla is being assisted by a groom, trying to get down from her horse, looking rather ill. Rhaenyra takes it that Brealla doesn’t cope well on ships. Emylie is shivering violently despite her furs, still not adjusting to the cool temperature of the island. 

 Rhaenyra intertwines her hand with Laena’s and looks over to the girls. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Laena Velaryon. I hope she’ll be able to join us…… in an official capacity, at least.” 

 “Greetings, Lady Velaryon.” They coursed, curtsying with various successes. 

 Laena grins brightly. “Hello! I’ve heard such great things about you from Rhaenyra. I hope we get along well.” 

 There are some tentative smiles from the group. 

 Rhaenyra claps her hands. “Great. Welcome to Dragonstone, everyone. I know it’s a little dreary looking, but I promise that the Keep is amazing. Why don’t we go freshen up and then get together for dinner?” 

 She can see Emylie and Brealla perk up at the mention of baths. 

 “I’d like to ensure the safe keeping of your belongings, my Princess,” Lyarra says. 

 “Surely the Keep is safe enough, my Lady,” Robert Quince interjects. His eyes fall to the merman sigil on her cloak and brightens in recognition. 

 Lyarra gives him a polite smile. “I’m sure it is, Ser. But old habits die hard, I suppose. My father always instructed me to see things to the end. Would you acquiesce to this silly habit of mine?” 

 “Of course! It is not a silly habit at all, Lady Manderly. Is this all going to the treasury?” He gestures to a rather alarming pile of crates. 

 Lyarra hums and looks over the crates and then at the list that miraculously appeared in her hands from somewhere. “I believe so.” 

 She hangs back as Robert begins ordering the men around them. 

 As Rhaenyra turns, she catches the look on Alfred’s face. It’s hard to mistake the greed lining his face. 

 She shivers at the look and silently resolves to do something about him soon. She does not feel comfortable with him inhabiting her castle. 

 “Come, darling. Let’s get you into a bath.” Amanda ushers her into the Keep, the rest of her ladies trailing behind, with their maids trailing behind them. It’s an amusing sight, this parade of women looking around the castle with wide eyes. 

                                                                                                                  ****

 Mina Bulwer is eight years old and stuck in the worst possible place. At first, she’d been apprehensive about becoming a lady to the Queen. She’s eight! She doesn’t know what to do. 

 Then, she got high off of her position; she learnt her lesson about that pretty quickly. It doesn’t matter that the Queen or Bethany is rude to the ladies of the court, but when Mina does it, she gets berated by the two of them about ‘manners’ and ‘properity.’

 Fine. 

 But when she tries to improve and tells the Queen how the court will react to her actions, she is dismissed because she is a child. 

 Mina can’t win. 

 So she shuts up and just tries to survive.

 She’d ask to go home if the Queen’s family weren’t her father’s direct overlord and would definitely get in trouble with the Hightowers if she resigned. 

 Mina hates her life; she just wants to go home. She wants her mom. 

 It only gets worse when the Queen hires Genna Reyne and Lynora Lannister. They’re so mean. It’s different from how the Queen and her cousin are mean to her; they’re condescending and mean, making Mina think everything is her fault. 

 Genna and Lynora are just mean and vicious. They don’t care about pulling punches; they’ll insult Mina right to her face, not caring that Mina is a noble girl herself! Hell, she’s probably higher in rank than Lynora; her father was only the Lord of a city. At least Mina’s father owns lands. 

 Mian’s one saving grace, if she can call her that, is Cassandra Baratheon. Cassandra is rude and entitled, but more importantly, she doesn’t want to be here. She’ll call Genna and Lynora bitches to their face, and they can’t do anything because Cassandra is a Baratheon. 

 Everyone in the Queen’s household knows that she needs any scrap of legitimacy she can get her hands on. 

 The Princess has ladies from two, two, Lord Paramount families, a Florent, a daughter from a member of the small council, a Northerner, which is insane since they never come south, and a Dornish lady. A Dornish! No matter how much the Queen scowls about Lady Dayne, it’s an incredible grab for the Princess. And rumours around the Keep are that she’s hoping Lady Velayron will join her! 

 Yeah, compared to the Princess, the Queen has horrible ladies, so no matter what Cassandra Baratheon does, the Queen can’t fire her. 

 Cassandra doesn’t like Mina, and that’s fine. Mina can handle that, but she’s not overtly rude to her. Mina can trail behind her, offering to do her hair when there’s nothing else to do and other petty tasks. 

 She hopes that Cassandra will see her as useful and that her general aura will protect Mina from Genna and Lynora. 

 They’re currently sitting in the gardens, enjoying a surprisingly warm day, working on clothes that they’re donating to the Sept. 

 Mina gets that it’s a good thing that the clothes are given to the Sept, but she doesn’t understand why the Queen is going through the Sept. 

 The people aren’t going to know that it’s the Queen doing it. She’s getting no recognition. 

 Mina’s not going to bring it up. The last time she did that, she got yelled at. 

 She probably knows the answer regardless. The Queen is going to spout something from the Seven-Pointed Star about pride and that they shouldn’t do charity solely for the recognition, which is fair; she’s right, but Mina wishes that someone would recognize her charity so she’d stop getting dirty looks. 

 Mina grumbles as she pulls at her sewing. 

 She’s not very good, but she’s only had about two years of experience. Her mother started educating her on this topic recently because she’s eight. 

 Genna sneers at Mina’s work. “You’d think that the Queen would expect more talent from her ladies.”

Mina glowers but says nothing. There’s no point in fighting. She ignores Genna and tries to continue her work. 

 “Well, she’s a Bulwer. They’ve got more pressing things to deal with than the higher points of etiquette.” Lynora laughs, her golden hair shining in the sun. 

 Mina wants to pull it out in the most painful way possible.  

 What a bitch. Mina is of a better pedigree than Lynora. She heard that Lynora’s grandmother was lowborn. 

 The Queen and her cousin are ignoring the rest of them, trying to—well, Mina isn’t sure what they’re trying to do. 

 “She’s eight, you morons. I’d bet half of my dowry that you two couldn’t even sew two pieces of cloth together at that age.” Cassandra sneers back. Mina is grateful for Cassandra’s limited support. 

 She’s not even sewing. She’s just sitting there drinking and eating, goading Genna and Lynora. 

 “Maybe you could help Mina, then Lady Cassandra,” Genna says sweetly with an undercurrent of malice. “Since you’re so good.”

“Nah. Don’t want to.” Cassandra shuts Genna down rather effectively. Genna glowers at Cassandra, angry that she didn’t fight back like she wanted her to. 

 “Cassandra, why aren’t you sewing?” The Queen asks sweetly. 

 “Mh, because I don’t want to?” Cassandra rolls her eyes. 

 Mina can see the Queen grit her teeth while trying to retain her sweet facade. “Why not? Don’t you want to help those less fortunate?”

“Only if I get credit. It’s stupid that the Sept gets all the credit when I’m the one doing the hard work.” 

 “It’s not stupid, Lady Baratheon.” Mina can see that it’s getting on Bethany’s nerves, having to be polite to Cassandra. “We are ensuring that the Faith and the Royal Family have a good relationship.” 

 Cassandra snorts. “Yeah. The Royal Family really does need help repairing the relationship with the Faith, after everything that happened.” She eyes the Queen and her growing belly. 

 The Queen insists that she and the King didn’t lay together until after her marriage, but Mina doesn’t believe her. 

 Mina would have a lot more respect for the Queen if she just admitted it, and she’s sure that others would be, too. No one likes a hypocrite. 

 Lynora tosses her blonde hair over a shoulder. “I’m just glad that the Princess is no longer in the city. It’s much quieter since she left.”

 It’s quiet because the Queen isn’t trying to interfere with the Princess’s life. 

 “Hm. You’re right, Lynora. It’s been quieter. I’m just thankful that I don’t have my eyes assaulted by Lady Strong’s nest that she calls her hair.”

Lady Strong is always kind to Mina whenever she sees Mina. 

 It’s Lady Manderly who scares Mina. 

 Mina made the mistake of insulting Lady Manderly during the wedding; her father told her to side with the Queen and not get on her bad side, so when the Queen was upset with Lady Manderly, Mina thought she was doing the right thing.  

 But Mina has never heard of a noble woman going hunting with the men. It sounded so odd to her that she couldn’t help but comment on it. She regrets it now. 

 The Queen titters but doesn’t tell Genna to stop. “She looks very much like her brother and her Father, I suppose. The Strong features are very prominent.” It’s a gentle chide not to insult Lady Strong so openly. 

 She might not be a daughter or aunt of a Lord Paramount, but she’s well protected, not just her father. Her brother became Commander of the City Watch after the Prince left, something that Mina knows the Queen is upset about given that she wanted her brother to be given the post, and her other brother, Mina, gets shivers thinking about him, somehow got a position in the Royal Mint. 

 She doesn’t understand why the Queen is being so nice to Genna and not Mina. 

 Mina isn’t the one who thought it would be a good idea to insult Lady Arryn openly in the Princess's earshot. 

 “Not to mention Lady Manderly’s brutish figure.” Genna giggles. 

 Mina looks over to the Queen, wondering if she’s going to reprimand Genna for insulting Lady Manderly, but the Queen doesn’t do anything. What? Mina scowls at her work. 

 “If we’re talking brutish, then we have to talk about Lady Dayne. Lynora, I heard that your cousin was found on a walk through the gardens with her.” 

 It seems that Genna’s cruelty doesn’t stop her from attacking her allies. 

 Lynora flushes. “My cousin…” Lord Tyland was barely related to Lynora; Mina knows that there hasn’t been a marriage between the Lannisters of Lannisport and the main lineage in the last couple of generations. “I’m sure he has his reasons for having to resort to speaking with Lady Dayne.” 

 Genna opens her mouth to retort, but Cassandra cuts in. “For the love of the Seven, could you please stop talking about Lady Dayne? It’s getting tired. Besides, why do you even hate her? The Westerlands never had any contact with Dorne. If anyone gets to hate her, it’s me.” 

 “The Daynes tried to burn Old Town; I’d say I have the better excuse to hate her,” Bethany snaps, finally getting into the conversation.

“And Queen Visenya retaliated, or have you forgotten? Since then, the Dornish have left the Reach alone, unlike the Stormlands. Stop playing the fucking victim. The Vulture Kings like making our lands their playgrounds, or have you forgotten?” 

 Surprisingly, Bethany shuts up. Mina’s not surprised; Cassandra is well and truly angry at this point. It’s curious; technically, Cassandra is her Father’s Heir, but everyone knew that he was hoping for a boy, so why would a girl, who’s spoiled and cares more for her looks than anything else, react so strongly about this? Going by everything that Mina knows, Cassandra shouldn’t care, but she does. 

 “Why don’t we discuss something else?” There is a bitter edge to the Queen’s soft suggestion. By the way, she’s glaring daggers at Cassandra, and Mina understands why. 

 Mina clears her throat, cringing slightly when they all look at her. “There’s a new play that the Rhaenys’ Men troupe are debuting.” The acting troupe was named after the first Queen in honour of her love for the arts. They’re based in the Fireglass theatre located near Visenya’s Hill, in the rich section of the city. “I hear it’s about a place in Essos. I’m interested to see how they adapt the location into a play setting.” 

 She tunes them out as they happily chatter about the play, thankful that the tension has subsided and that she can get back to her work. 

 A glint of white catches Mina’s eye, and she looks up. The Queen’s new sworn shield, Ser Criston, stepped into the garden to replace Ser Willis Fells. 

 There’s a soft coo from Genna and Lynora. Ser Criston’s handsomeness was well appreciated in the Red Keep. It’s hilarious, really, that everyone hates Lady Dayne but falls over for Ser Criston. 

 She can see the Queen preen when Ser Criston steps closer. Seven above, her crush is insanely obvious. Though, from the distaste apparent on his face, Ser Criston isn’t as enamoured with the Queen as she is with him. 

Mina thinks that it’s quite nice of the Princess to ask Ser Criston to watch over her unborn sibling. Mina overheard Lady Dayne talking to Lady Florent about the sitch. From their conversation, Mina learnt that neither lady was pleased giving up such a valuable knight, but she couldn’t say anything in the face of the Princess’s worry for her sibling. 

The Queen likes going to the Great Sept, and it worries Mina that the people of King’s Landing will do something to harm the unborn royal. Having Ser Criston there will definitely protect the future royal.

 Mina wishes that she had a sibling like the Princess, who was willing to fight for her.  

 She hates being at the Red Keep. She wants to go home. She wants her mom. Mina wants so much, but deep down, she knows that she’s not going to get it because her father is afraid, and he told Mina that she can’t come home under any circumstances lest she offend the Hightowers. 

 So, she’s stuck here, in a Keep where everyone hates her, surrounded by ladies who think she’s a stupid little girl, and her closest ally is a girl who can barely tolerate her presence. 

 Mina hates her life.

Chapter Text

 When she receives her vassals and the Masseys, Rhaenyra is seated at her throne. Her ladies stand at attention on her left, and the Velyarons are to her right. 

 She’s wearing a black gown for her mother and Queen Rhaenys and for her House. It’s a heavy black gown, made for the chill of Dragonstone, with a red kirtle and black Mryish lace appliqué. There’s gold embroidery running around the seems of the dress. The gown’s sleeves are cut at the bicep, allowing them to drape down her body. The red sleeves from the underdress are pinned tightly to her wrist with golden cuffs. 

 It’s an older dress, found in Rhaenys’ chambers, given to the wife of the Heir. So it could’ve been any of the previous Queen’s dresses. Rhaenyra doesn’t think that it was her mother’s; she didn’t often wear the colours of House Targaryen since she was technically not a member, instead favouring the palette of her maternal House. Maybe it was Alyssane’s or Alyssa Velyaron’s, but Rhaenyra likes to think that it was Queen Rhaenys’s old dress. It gives her a sort of power, embodying the late Queen. 

 It’s certainly not Visenya’s. All of Visenya’s belongings remain in her chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower. No one has inhabited her chambers since she passed; no one wanted to test the veracity of the rumours that Visenya placed curses on the room. 

 Her look is sealed with Rhaenys’ crown perched high on her head, gleaming for the world to see. 

 Rhaenyra gazes at the faces of the lords and their families as they enter the Great Hall. They all look nervous but curious. 

 She gives them a courtly smile. “Welcome, my lords, to Dragonstone. I hope that your journey here was pleasant.” 

 “It was, my Princess.” Lord Bartimos Celtigar bows. “We are incredibly grateful for your hospitality.” 

 Rhaenyra smiles at her one-time ally. Although he wasn’t the greatest Master of Coin—in fact, Rhaenyra refuses to give him the position again—considering he turned the populace of King’s Landing against her, he is still her ally, and she is grateful for every last one of them. 

 His Heir, Clement Celtigar, stands next to his father. He is roughly around Rhaenyra’s age, perhaps a year or two older, and is burly as a full-grown man. She’s not entirely pleased with how he’s eyeing her. 

 As a Valyarian man, he technically has a better chance of marrying her than the rest of the lords, but he doesn’t hold a candle to Laenor…or Daemon at this point. 

She’d hoped that Clement could join her household knights, but she isn’t sure if she wants that anymore. She just got rid of Criston; she doesn’t want another lovesick knight following her. 

 There’s the general scraping and bowing that lords are supposed to give to a Princess. Rhaenyra looks around at the small group and spots a young Elinda Massey. She looks incredibly nervous to be here. Her eyes dart around, drinking in the sight of the welcoming chamber of Dragonstone, and she clutches her mother’s skirts. 

 Rhaenyra thinks briefly about one of Alicent’s ladies, Mina Bulwer. She can’t be much older than Elinda. She wonders how Mina is dealing with being away from her mother. 

 Rhaenyra turns back to the lords. “I hope that the accommodations are to your liking, my lords. Why don’t you take some time to freshen up, and then we can convene for dinner.” 

 There’s more scraping and bowing, and the lords and their families shuffle out. 

 She sighs and stands, brushing down her skirt; there is much to do before dinner. 

 Rhaenyra hums as she adjourns to her solar; Aunt Amanda and Rhaenys join her as they plan for the evening while the rest of her ladies, along with Laena and Laenor, scatter for the time being. 

 Really, they were going over what Rhaenyra had planned for the evening, so Rhaneyra was bored out of her mind. 

 Dinner wasn’t that much better. She sat at the head of the table with Aunt Amanda and Rhaenys on her right and her lords on the other. It was a debate as to who got to sit next to her on the right. 

 Aunt Amanda argued that it should be one of her lords but couldn’t agree on who it should be. Rhaenys argues that it should be Lord Massey. He wasn’t technically her vassal, and she should be overtly thankful that he accepted her request. 

 Rhaenyra agrees with Rhaenys, and thus, Lord Massey sits next to her during the meal. He’s a pleasant man, and Rhaenyra doesn’t mind the conversation with him. He actually reminds Rhaenyra of his daughter a fair amount. 

 The meal is pleasant, and she can’t help but bask in the warm glow of the hall. The atmosphere is wildly different from that in King’s Landing, where it’s always stilted and awkward, with courtly manners. Here, Rhaenyra is able to relax and enjoy the evening. 

 That is until after dinner, when Rhaenyra, the lords, Rhaenys, and Aunt Amanda retire to one of her solars—the official business one, not the one her ladies have taken over—for politicking. 

 She waits until they are seated and sipping on some Dornish red before jumping into work.

 “Once again, I thank you all for coming to Dragonstone.” She smiles brightly at them. 

 “It is an honour, my Princess, but may I ask why the Masseys were invited?” Lord Gormon Massey asks. 

 Rhaenyra puts down her wine. “The Masseys were originally the vassals of the conquerors; I felt that it was only right to invite you, to honour the dedication that your house has given mine throughout the centuries.” 

 Lord Gormon puffs up in pleasure. 

 “However, there are a few things I would like to discuss before we move on to the celebration.” Rhaenyra doesn’t know how to frame the funeral. It is supposed to be a sombre event, but there isn’t anyone alive who knows Rhaenys, so there wouldn’t be anyone mourning her passing. The event is more of a celebration of putting Queen Rhaenys to rest than a funeral. 

 “Oh? Like what, Princess?” Lord Elyas Sunglass asks, looking intrigued. 

 “Firstly, as I am sure you’ve heard at this point, I am expanding my household. I am looking for knights of good standing to join my House. I thought it prudent to speak to my vassals before seeking out other knights.” 

 She looks over to Aunt Amanda, sitting at a small table, quill poised. Aunt Amanda acts as her scribe, writing down what transpires later so Rhaenyra doesn’t forget what’s discussed. And seeing her bolsters Rhaenyra’s confidence.

 “Not ladies?” Lord Gormon asks, looking put out. 

 “My Lord, Elinda is seven . I believe that is far too young an age to separate a girl from her mother.” 

 There is a faint wince in the room as Rhaenyra brings up her mother. 

 “Lady Baratheon just reached the age of ten,” Lord Gormon argues a little mulishly. Rhaenyra thinks it’s more about protecting his honour than actually wanting to put Elinda in her household. 

 “Lady Baratheon has a contentious relationship with her parents. She came to speak to me personally. I do not think that your daughter has the same relationship with you and your wife as Lady Baratheon.” 

 There are some muttered agreements; anyone who’s met Borros understands what Rhaenyra is insinuating. No one really wants to be around the man. 

 “Fine.” Lord Gormon sighs. “Besides, I don’t think Joclyn would appreciate it anyways.” 

 “It is best to listen to your wife, Gormon…” Lord Davos Bar Emmon chortles. “You wouldn’t want to return to an icy keep.” 

 “Besides,” Rhaenyra politely interjects. “I would like to have a lady from each region to ensure that I am not playing favourites, and I have asked Laena Velaryon to join, pending her father’s approval.” 

 Lord Gormon nods, still looking a little upset; there’s no contesting Laena. She’s Rhaenyra’s cousin, not just a Velaryon. If anyone was going to join her entourage, it’s Laena. 

 “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Massey for excluding you. But, in concession, in a couple of years, if one of my ladies has left my household, Elinda will be the first candidate I consider. Though, I do not give any guarantees.” 

 Rhaenyra doesn’t know what’s going to happen with her ladies in a couple of years. There is a likely chance that one or two of them will leave to marry and go with their husbands to their new Keeps. Depending on Emylie’s Grandsire’s health, she might leave to help her mother stabilize Starfall. 

 That codifies Lord Gorman, as Elinda is currently his only child. He can’t offer anyone else to Rhaenyra’s household. 

 “Now, Lord Bartimos, Lord Elyas, and Lord Davos, are there any candidates that you would like to put forth?” 

 “I would put forth my son, Clement, my Princess…” Lord Bartimos trails off, looking conflicted at two warring thoughts. Rhaenyra understands; Lord Bartimos wants to please Rhaenyra by adding his son to her household instead of a random Celtigar in order to not insult her by offering someone from a ‘lesser’ branch of his House. On the other hand, there is probably an anxiousness to give up his only child, not knowing when he’ll see his son again. 

 “But he is your Heir, and you wish to keep him relatively close. I understand.” 

 He gives her a relieved look. “I’d recommend Arthor. He’s one of my cousins. He is good with a blade and squired under the current Lord Tarth when he was a lad.” 

 “And I would recommend my second son, Davos. He was recently knighted, serving Ser Walton Frey. He’s a little impatient, but he’ll grow out of it under a steady hand,” Lord Davos offers.  

 “And you, Lord Sunglass?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 Lord Elyas sighs and shakes his head. “My eldest just turn seven-and-ten and is squriering under Lord Darklyn. If you are amenable, my Princess, my second son, Duncan, just turned four-and-ten, and I am looking for a knight for him to squire under. Are any of your knights looking for a squire?” 

 Rhaenyra currently has only two knights, William and Rwolf. She’s not sure how knights work or what the minimum age is to take on a squire, and both knights are in their early twenties. 

 “I am not sure, if I am honest, Lord Sunglass. But I will ask them. If not, like Lord Massey, when your son reaches his knighthood, he’ll be considered a candidate for my household.” 

 He bows his head. “Thank you, my Princess.”

 “I would like to see the skills of your candidates first hard before I assign them to my households, but I trust your judgements, my Lords.” 

 Lord Bartimos bows his head. “I shall send for Arthor.” 

 “And I shall send for Duncan!” Lord Davos jumps in, not wanting to be outdone by Bartimos. 

 She inclines her head. “Thank you, my Lords.” 

 Rhaenyra takes a sip of her wine and then clears her throat. “There is a second reason why I’ve asked you here.” 

 She looks over to Rhaenys, trying to figure out what to say. It’s not easy to ask her lords to go to war. Even in the Dreams, when Rhaenyra was forced to go to war, and her crown was stolen, she found it difficult to order men to their deaths essentially. 

 She takes in a deep breath. “As you know, Lord Coryls has gone to the Stepstones to root out the Crabfeeder. I am calling my banners and sending aid to Lord Coryls and my uncle. Lord Massey, I know that I cannot order you to raise your banners, but if you do send men, I will be eternally grateful.” 

 The room falls deathly silent; Lord Bartimos and Davos glance over to Rhaenys. 

 “May I ask why you are joining, my Princess?” Lord Elyas asks. 

 Rhaenyra rubs her brow, expecting this question. “While our mercantlie business is not as strong as Driftmark’s, the war is still affecting us. And while I understand why my Father doesn’t want to throw the entire Realm into war, but the Stormlands are suffering. The sooner the war ends, the better.” Rhaenyra pauses, looking at her hands. “I know this may be selfish, but my uncle is down there. There are so few Targaryen’s left, I cannot stomach loosing one of the few members I have left.” Her voice is soft, childlike. Rhaenyra curses herself for sounding so weak. 

 Lord Bartimos laughs, not in a harsh manner. “I suppose it won’t help that Lord Coryls is there and Laenor is soon to follow.”

 Rhaenyra shrugs, her eyes darting over to Rhaenys and back to Lord Celtigar. “Yes. Lord Corlys may not be my family, but he’s my cousin’s husband and my friend’s father.” 

 Lord Gormon sighs, running a hand through his greying hair. “I cannot give you a definitive answer yet, my Princess, but I shall think upon this request and discuss it with my councilors.”  

 “I understand, thank you, Lord Massey.” 

 “The swords of Crackclaw point are yours!” 

 Lord Bartimos’s reaction is rather expected. He’s the type of man who wants his liege’s favour and will do what’s asked of him to gain it. Rhaenyra will have to monitor that. 

 Lord Davos and Elyas follow suit, albeit less enthusiastic. 

 “I thank you, my Lords. Since Lady Rhaenys is handling the shipment of more Velaryon soldiers, I shall leave it to her to coordinate with you.” 

 Rhaenys nods in gratitude. Then she turns to the lords and asks, “How soon can you summon your men?” Her body is rigid, and her eyes are sharp and gleaming with satisfaction. 

 Rhaenyra settles in her seat, listening to Rhaenys and the lords barter and compromise about logistics and the cut of the war chest. 

 Surprisingly, it’s interesting and boring at the same time. Even after becoming the Heir, her father hasn’t thought of educating her on the means of warfare and the logistics of waging war. But at the same time, it’s exhausting listening to the same arguments several times with minor adjustments.  

 Eventually, as the hours grow late, Rhaenyra is able to escape the meeting. 

 Aunt Amanda and Rhaenys stayed as the conversation drifted from the war effort to more casual topics. Rhaenyra didn’t want to drag her aunt away from finally having conversations with people her own age instead of children. 

 She yawns, her jaw cracking as she plods towards her rooms. 

 She’d taken the chambers of the Lord of the Castle, meaning that Aegon had once lived in these chambers. Rhaenyra is a little giddy at the history woven into the room. But it wasn’t just Aegon in there. Her great uncle Aemon once lived in these chambers, and her Grandsire, Baelon, as well. 

 “What do you think of the Stepstones, Ser Arryk?” Rhaenyra asks, looking over to her guard. She was finally able to spot a difference between the two brothers. Ser Arryk had a small scar along the left side of his cheek, causing his beard to not grow at that patch. 

 Ser Arryk blinks, confused that she spoke to him. “I do not think I am qualified, my Princess, to speak on this subject,” he demures. 

 He is frustratingly like his brother. Neither of them was partially chatty.  

 “You are a Kingsguard, Ser. You’ve spent countless hours learning about combat and warfare, not to mention shadowing my father while he goes about his duties. Surely, you’ve come to your own conclusions. I have yet to start any martial training and would like to seek the opinions of those in the field.” 

 Ser Arryk looks displeased at having to continue to talk. He sighs, hand gripping his sword as he looks ahead. “Having to result to combat should be the last possible resort. Diplomacy should be wrung dry before swords should be raised. That being said, my Princess, men like the Crabfeeder never listen to Diplomacy. They seek to fill their own comforts at the expense of others. Those men should be put to the sword, immediately.” 

 Rhaenyra tries to put his words into the context of the Arryk of the Dreams, the one who killed his brother to get to her. Did he think that she was like Crabfeeder? That she was a gluttonous monster? 

 She tucks her hands under her arms, frowning. 

 She didn’t want to be the Crabfeeder; her father declared her his Heir, and Aegon was the usurper, not the other way around. Is it just because she’s a woman that she’s put in the same category as the Crabfeeder? 

 “I’ve distressed you, my Princess. Please forgive me for daring to do such a thing.” There is panic in Arryk’s eyes. Had he taken Criston’s dismissal differently than she had planned? Criston assured her that he told his brothers that he was doing it as a favour. 

 “No, no,” Rhaenyra assures him. “I was merely trying to…understand your stance. I’ve never been taught these things. While I understand that it’s necessary, I find that ordering someone’s death jarring.” 

 It’s disconcerting how easily lying has become for her. Well, it was a half lie, a misdirect. Still, it’s disconcerting. 

 He nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. “It is a fine line to walk, my Princess, especially when you are in the position that you currently are.” 

 Rhaenyra agrees. She knows that the Crabfeeder needs to be stopped, but the thought of death makes her stomach recoil a little. She supposes that she’s glad that Deamon was in charge of this. His stance on the world is more black and white. 

 “Thank you for your insight, Ser Arryk. It’s been invaluable.” Rhaenyra hopes that he can tell that she’s being sincere. 

 She has little patience for the Green supporters. Arryk is the exception to this rule, though her desire to help Erryk rather than his brother is a reason for this. 

She wants to understand Arryk better so she can avoid his and Erryk’s fate in the future. There’s no love lost between Rhaenyra and her younger siblings, but she remembers the pain in Erryk’s voice when he told her that his brother had joined the Greens. There’s no doubt about it: they loved each other, and having to kill each other was the most cursed way to end their lives. 

 She wants to change that. 

 Ser Arryk inclines his head, clearly telling Rhaenyra that he’d reached his quota of words for the day.

 “Good night, Ser Arryk.” 

 He inclines his head again, and Rhaenyra closes the door behind her with a soft click. 

 Emylie and Lyarra are waiting for her in her chambers, eager to hear the result of her discussion. The war directly affected them.

 Rhaenyra finds it amusing that they’re trying not to jump her mere moments after she enters her rooms. She can see them holding themselves back as they help her out of her gown. Emylie takes the crown and delicately places it on a waiting cushion. 

 “How’d it go?” Lyarra asks quietly, breaking first. Both ladies are aggravatingly patient, but Lyarra is the impatient one between the two of them. Emylie waited moons for Rhaenyra to respond. 

 “The lords have declared their support. Unsurprisingly, Lord Massey didn’t declare outright. I think he’ll send men eventually.” 

 Lyarra nods, unfastening the last hook of her gown, letting Rhaenyra slip out of the heavy fabric and plod over to her vanity. 

 Emylie steps up and starts unbraiding her hair. Her face is screwed up heavily with concentration, but her hands are shaking with each braid. 

 “Is everything alright, Emylie?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 “I’m fine.” She deflects, keeping her eyes on Rhaenyra’s hair. “I merely learnt that my brother is leading our host to the Stepstones.” 

 Oh? Emylie didn’t talk about her family often, and when she did, it was in reference to her Grandsire or mother and, on occasion, her grandmother. Rhaenyra doesn’t think that Emylie had ever mentioned siblings. 

 If Emylie is her mother’s Heir, then any of her siblings would be younger than her. Rhaenyra doesn’t know if sending a five-and-ten-year-old as a commander of a host is a good idea. 

 “I was unaware you had a brother, Emylie,” Lyarra says, coming over to organize Rhaenyra’s messy jewellery box. 

 “I have two. Kevah is the baby……Eanon is my twin.” Emylie looks pained. 

 Oh, that must be worse. Rhaenyra, obviously, doesn’t have a twin, but she’s heard of the bond that twins have. Emylie must be very worried about her brother’s safety.  

 “I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra takes her hand, feeling guilty that she’s indirectly causing Emylie’s pain. 

 Emylie gives her a pained grin and starts brushing Rhaenyra’s hand. “I should’ve expected it. Grandsire preaches leading by example, and since he is too old to lead the men, it would fall on the next available Dayne male.” Which would be Emylie’s twin. “At least he has Alektor,” she muses. 

 “Who’s Alektor?” Lyarra asks. 

 Emylie mentioned him some time ago but never explained who he was. 

 “A pain in my ass,” Emylie jokes. Lyarra snorts, and Rhaenyra gives her a half smile. “He is an Uller relative, a cousin. We grew up together. Him, Eanon, and Qyle were thick as thieves as children. One of the best spearmen that I’ve ever seen. He’ll look after Eanon.” 

 The last part didn’t seem directed towards Rhaenyra and Lyarra, but she was trying to reassure herself. 

 “Forgive me, my Princess. I got carried away,” Emylie apologizes, indirectly telling Rhaenrya that she was done talking for the night. 

 Rhaenyra accepts that and stands to get ready for bed. She slips on a nightdress and fuses with a few last things before she retires.  

 “Goodnight, girls.” 

 “Goodnight, Princess,” they chorus, curtseying and then leaving her room. 

 Rhaenyra sighs heavily, sitting on the bed. Her body is exhausted from the day. On the surface, it didn’t seem like much happened, but this is her first foray into politics outside of her petty attempts to dishonour Alicent. 

 She groans and flops onto her bed, her hair fanning out beneath her. 

 Politics are exhausting. 

 She can’t believe that people make it their career. It’s Rhaenyra’s duty; she didn’t choose this, but by the Seven, she’s going to conquer this obstacle.  

                                                                                                                              ****

 Rhaenrya feels the sharp wind biting against her skin as she stands on the ragged cliffside overlooking Blackwater Bay. The day is bitter and overcast, with harsh wind battering against the castle walls. It’s midday, but it feels as if it’s early in the evening already. It is an utterly fitting day for a funeral. Rhaenyra hides a shiver despite her thick wool dress. The harsh wind burns in her throat. 

 The maester did warn Rhaenyra that there’s a chance of rain today. 

 Behind her, Rhaenyra can see the grim faces of her lords, ladies, and Velayrons. All of them are clad in deep black and watching Rhaenyra take charge. Beside her, Syrax trills, sensing the uneasy heaviness in the air. 

 Rhaenyra looks down at the artfully crafted stone sarcophagus where Queen Rhaenys rests. 

 Valyarian burials are speedy affairs; her ancestors preferred a quick and intimate ritual, much like their weddings, rather than the long-drawn-out rituals of the Seven. Rhaenyra has only been present for one funeral of the Faith of the Seven, Alicent’s mother; it made her deeply uncomfortable. She doesn’t understand why the Faith wants to drag out the whole thing, exposing the body to the mourners and digging into their grief even more. They should put them to rest as soon as they can instead of parading them around like a sick puppet show.  

 Rhaenyra takes in a deep breath and turns to the assembled crowd. 

 Speeches are not common in Valyarian funerals, but Rhaenyra feels it appropriate. 

 “We are gathered here today to put to rest Queen Rhaenys, one of the three conquerors, the matriarch of House Targaryen. She died alongside her dragon, Meraxes, in a way that any dragon rider would be proud of. It has taken a long time for Queen Rhaenys to return home, but I hope that this final action will put her troubled spirit to rest.” 

 There are whispers that Visenya cursed her and her siblings’ names when she was younger. Rhaenyra never thought these to be true; they were just the reaction of bored nobles, but some part of her now believes them. 

 Countless Aegons have died; even the ones who did survive, her brother and son, met pitiful ends. The Rhaenys of her family, too, had bad endings. There was Rhaenys, the sister-wife of Aegon the uncrowned, who lived with constant tragedy. In the Dreams, Rhaenys dies at Rook’s Rest in a gruesome manner, and Rhaenyra, who was named after the first Queen, dies in Dragonfire. And Visenya…her darling Visenya… Rhaenyra tears up at the thought of what happened to her baby girl. 

 With this action, some part of her hopes that Visenya’s angry curse would lessen now that her sister was properly put to rest. 

 “My Princess, may I?” Emylie steps forward. 

 Rhaenyra frowns, wondering what Emylie has to say, but allows her to stand beside her, hoping that it’s not a curse against the former Queen. 

 Emylie takes in a deep breath to steady herself. “Queen Rhaenys is a controversial figure in my homeland, but I have always admired the woman. She was steadfast and brave. Even when she faced certain peril, she did not waver. Dorne may curse the dragons for what they did to our lands, but we will always respect stalwart warriors. I beseech the spirit of the Queen to accept my apologies for not returning her to her proper resting place sooner. I hope that she rests easy in the afterlife.” 

 There’s some low murmuring from her lords at Emylie’s words, but Rhaenyra is thankful. Emylie could’ve easily cursed Rhaenys for her actions against her lands. Like Nymeria, who is praised for uniting Dorne, Emylie understands why Rhaenys and her siblings acted and doesn’t hold it against her. 

 “Thank you, Lady Dayne. For all that you’ve done for my family.”

 Emylie curtsies and falls back into line. 

 Rhaenyra then turns back to Queen Rhaenys. “Syrax!” Syrax perks up with a questioning coo, and Rhaenyra can’t help but smile at her lady. “Dracarys !” She directs Sryax to the former Queen with a slight nudge through their bond. 

 Sryax trills and opens her mouth. Rhaenyra watches as brilliant gusts of dancing red and orange engulf the sarcophagus. 

 It doesn’t take long for Rhaenys’ bones to burn.  

 Soon, Rhaenys’s ashes will be interred between her siblings and the conquerors will be reunited. 

 She watches as servants collect the remaining ashes and bundle them into a Dragonglass urn carved to look like a dragon. She sends Lyarra to ensure that the ashes are interred properly. 

 Rhaenyra turns back to the crowd. “Come, let us celebrate this momentous occasion!” 

 This is not a standard affair for a Valayrian funeral, but again, it is less of a funeral and more of a celebration of the return of these bones to their proper place. 

 Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze travelling over to the rocky seascape, fixing them due south. She wishes that Daemon could’ve been here for this. 

 But, so long as he holds out, and none of the actions she’s taken so far have affected the Stepstones, help should be arriving soon. The sooner he is off the Stepstones, the better. 

Chapter Text

 The Stepstones are hell. The moment he arrived, Laenor wished he could be back on Driftmark; hell, he’d even take King’s Landing at this point. There’s little food, despite the supplies that Mother sent, and even less water. Bathing is the least of his worries, but he still can’t help hating that he couldn’t clean himself properly outside of a once-in-a-blue-moon sponge bath. 

 The only good thing to come out of the Stepstones is that Father couldn’t care less if Joffery disappears into Laenor’s tent at the end of the night. 

 His good mood is still running high after the arrival of their reinforcements, the Dragonstone vassals, and the news of a tentative betrothal between Laenor and Rhaenyra. Mother sent that letter ahead of time so she could sweeten Father up and let Laena join Rhaenyra.

 Laenor is not jealous of his sister getting what she wants. He’s happy for her. He’s happy. 

 Laenor sighed, running a hand through his dirty braids, reading himself for another day. 

 He spots Daemon emerge from his tent, looking as grimy as Laenor feels. 

 So far, Laenor has tried to avoid Daemon. It’s a bit of an open secret that Daemon hates his wife and desires a Valyarian bride. The only person available to fulfill his desires is Rhaenyra, or Laena, Laenor supposes, but it’s an open secret that Daemon wants to marry back into the main branch of the Targaryens. And since the King won’t allow the marriage, Laenor is the next available option, which must piss off Daemon. So, Laenor is trying his best to avoid him, so the chances of Daemon wanting to skewer him with Dark Sister are low. 

 Unfortunately, as the only Dragon riders, both of them are given similar roles, meaning Laenor has to interact with Daemon……often. 

 “My lords!” One of their scouts comes running up. That gets everyone’s attention. Great. “Ships from the west!” 

 West? 

 That’s weird. 

 Laenor frowns; most attacks come from the east or the south, from the rest of the small outcroppings of islands. They occupy Bloodstone, the biggest island, and Craghas Dhahar occupies Denmaiden, southeast of here and close to the shore of the Disputed Lands. 

 Wait. 

 West? That’s the direction Dorne is in. 

 Shit! 

 “Wait!” Laenor cries, interrupting his father’s and Daemon’s half-assembled war council. He turns to the scout. “The ships? Did they have flags? What’s the sigils on them?” 

 The scout frowns, trying to remember. 

 Laenor is too impatient to wait for the scout to remember. “Were they purple with a white sigil?” 

“Some.” 

 “What’s the other one?” 

 “Um, red and yellow?” 

 “Laenor! What’s the meaning of this?” Father snaps. Uncle Vaemond lurks behind his father’s shoulder, scowling at Laenor. 

 “The ships, they’re coming from Starfall! I’m sure that they’re here to join us.” 

 “How can you be certain, boy?” Uncle Vaemond scowls. “They’re Dornish.” He turns and spits on the ground as if he’s trying to wash out the taste of the word. 

 “I spoke to Lady Dayne at King’s Landing! She’s set to join the Princess’s household. She told me that her Grandsire was considering joining us. The Crabfeeder has been raiding the southern shores of Dorne,” Laenor panics explains, uncomfortable with the eyes on him. 

 Father scowls; he’s not angry, Laenor can tell, but rather thinking. “Truly?” He asks Laenor. 

 Laenor nods empathetically. 

 “She’s joining Rhaenyra?” Daemon growls, anger flashing in his violet eyes. 

 Oh shit. Daemon looks downright pissed at the thought of having someone so dangerous close to Rhaenyra. In the distance, he can hear Seasmoke send a warning growl at Daemon. He’s going to kill Emylie if he gets the chance. The entire time that Laenor’s been here, whenever the topic of the Queen and her family came up, Daemon sours and Caraxes screeches and screams his displeasure in the distance. 

 “Enough, Daemon,” Father snaps. He turns back to Laenor. “Lady Dayne confirmed this?” 

 “She told me that the Dornish nobles were upset with the Prince’s inaction against the Triarchy raiding their shores. She hadn’t confirmed it then, but she did tell me that, at least, her family is considering joining. I swear.”

 Father nods. “Fine, stand guard, but be ready to attack at any moment,” he orders the assembled men. There’s a flurry of movement as the soldiers scramble to move. 

 Within moments, the soldiers stand at attention; Seasmoke and Caraxes screech in unison and land on the beach with a heavy thud, shaking the ground and sending the sand flying everywhere. 

 Laenor climbs onto Seasmoke’s back, not bothering to strap himself in as he sees the ships emerge on the horizon. He manoeuvres Seasmoke to rest on a low-lying cliff facing the docks. 

 Father, Vaemond—ugh—and Daemon stand in unison at the front of the makeshift dock, waiting to greet whoever gets off the ships. 

 Laenor could see a small rowboat drop into the water and slowly make its way over to the dock. 

 “Lord Velaryon! Prince Daemon!” One of the men cheerfully calls out to Laenor’s father and Daemon. 

 The rowboat docks, and three men climb out. The first man is a slender blonde with dark brown eyes. He wears the sigil of a yellow salamander in a green flower on a red background. Laenor doesn’t recognize the sigil; it must be a lesser house. 

 The second man is a young man with shockingly dark hair, sickly pale skin, and off-putting pale blue eyes. He is wearing the yellow and red of House Uller, and a massive spear is strapped to his back. His eyes flicker to Daemon, then to the Dragons, narrowing further, and then back to Father; he looks displeased at being here. 

 The one in the centre looks like a stereotypical Dornish man with windswept dark hair, sunkissed skin and dark eyes. Laenor’s eyes travel down to the sigil on his chest, a falling star and sword on a field of lavender. He then snaps his gaze to the sword strapped to his side. 

 Is that Dawn, the mythical sword of house Dayne? Laenor’s hand itches to see it. 

 He must be one of Emylie’s relatives. A brother, perhaps? 

 “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” Father demands. 

 “Ser Eanon Dayne. Grandson of Lord Mors Dayne, lord of Starfall, protector of the Torrentine.” Ser Eanon holds out a hand to Father. 

 Father inclines his head and takes Eanon’s outstretched hand. “It is a pleasure, Ser Eanon. What brings you to Bloodstone?” 

 “Ah! I have something for you.” Eanon reaches into a pouch and produces a rolled-up scroll. He hands it over to Father. 

 Father frowns and takes the scroll. 

 The beach is deathly silent as Father reads the contents of the scroll. He swears so loudly that Leanor almost falls off Seasmoke. “36,000 dragons?” He demands. 

 Eanon shrugs amiably. “That’s if you’re not able to retrieve the crates. Be thankful, Lord Velyaron, my Grandsire wanted the full amount, but Mother and my sweet sister managed to talk him down to 65 percent.” 

 Father scowls but doesn’t argue. 

 “So what, you’re just joining us?” Daemon demands, sliding off with Caraxes, stalking up to the assembled men, hands gripping the pommel of Dark Sister. 

 “Mhm.” Eanon doesn’t look fazed at Daemon’s anger. “The Crabfeeder burnt down Sandhall and sunk some very important merchandise, to say the least.”

 The Uller man bars his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “That’s not even touching on what he did to our territory, Your Highness.” Laenor shivers at the derision the man spits into Daemon’s title. 

 “And why isn’t the Prince joining us?” Daemon’s voice is oily with condensation. 

 “Why isn’t the King?” The Uller sneers back. 

 He has a point…not that Laenor would ever agree in Daemon’s earshot. 

 “Alektor,” Eanon cautions, sensing the fury emanating from Daemon. Alektor obeys and remains silent, still garing at Daemon. Eanon turns to Father. “Forgive us for joining so late, Ser Velyaron, but the men of Starfall and Hellholt are yours to command. The lords of Dorne will no longer wait for the Prince to determine his stance on the war when our people are suffering. We may be the first to join, but I am certain that Lords Gargalen and Dalt will soon see the advantages of going on the offence rather than remaining on the defence. My Grandsire thanks you for the initiative and your cooperation.” 

 Daemon scoffs at the speech, but Ser Dayne ignores him. It is a feat to achieve to ignore a man such as Daemon. Father frowns thoughtfully. “How many men have you brought?” 

“Between our two houses, our host holds close to eight thousand. Though, due to the circumstances of this campaign, we’ll defer to your judgment, Lord Velyaron.” 

 That mollifies Father because he nods along. “Send for your men, Ser Dayne. I shall ensure that there is space for them. You and the other commanders will be invited to the war council to get you up to date.” 

 “Thank you, Lord Velyaron. Terrence, please send the signal.” Eanon gestures to the silent third member of their party. 

 Terrence nods, pulls out a small compact of Mryish glass, turns, holds it up so the sun streams through it to the lead ship and starts waving his hand through it in irregular beats. 

 Now that the threat is effectively over, Laenor slides off Seasmoke and directs him away from the beach. He sees that Daemon has yet to send Caraxes away. Laenor rolls his eyes at the obvious power play. 

 He stands off to the side as the Dornish start to unload. The process is lengthy and boring as the ships are pulled closer and soldiers are ferried to shore.

“What’s so funny?” Joffrey slides up to Laenor, his hot breath lingering on the shell of his ear. 

 “Look at Uncle Vaemond.” Laenor jerks his head towards his uncle. Vaemond is scowling and speaking rapidly to Father. He looks very displeased……is he angry that he has to share the glory now? 

 Joffrey laughs softly. “I can’t believe that the Dornish are on our side. Never thought that I’d see the day.” 

 Laenor tries not to frown; Joffrey doesn’t sound entirely pleased at the thought. He is a Marcher and has a bad relationship with the Dornish. Hopefully, he’ll be able to push through it. Combined with Daemon’s…antics, father’s expectations, and war in general, Laenor does not have the time to ensure Joffery’s goodwill with their allies. 

 The two of them retreat to the command centre, away from being underfoot. They grab some bland stew and claim a spot by one of the fires, embracing the warmth that washes away the damp. 

 After some time, Laenor notes Ser Dayne and his friend winding their way into the command centre, where they are discussing something animatedly. 

 “Ah! Ser Velyaron, correct?” His face lit up in recognition; Laenor was a simple man, and he could not help but feel his heart painfully patter at the sight of a handsome man smiling at him. 

 “Indeed, I am Ser Velaryon; welcome to Bloodstone, Ser Dayne.” 

 “Eanon is fine, Ser Velaryon. How is my dear sister fairing at the Red Keep? Her letters are ever sparse.” Ser Dayne takes a seat next to Laenor while his friend, Alektor, lingers in the back, watching them with hooded eyes. 

 “I’ve only spoken to her briefly, but she seems to have won my mother over…and my grandmother. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ser Tyland Lannister is added to the list at this point.” 

 Ser Dayne snorts, his nose scrunching up in amusement. “Sounds like her. It is pleasing to hear that she is thriving.” 

 From his post, Alektor rolls his eyes. “As if there were any doubts,” he mutters. 

 “For such eager participants, you lot seem to be rather uninterested in helping your men.” Daemon saunters up, hand loosely gripping the pommel of Dark Sister, suspicion heavy in his eyes. 

 Great. Laenor was going to have to play mediator. At this point, Father better give Laenor the lion’s share of the war chest. 

 “Prince Daemon. It’s a pleasure.” Ser Dayne’s polite smile remains affixed despite Daemon’s poor attitude. “I’ve heard…many stories of your adventures.” Daemon sneers in response. Alektor’s, still silent, hand wanders to the shaft of his spear, scowling at Daemon. 

 “Yes, I’m sure that the Dornish, unlik some, appreciate the spice of adventure. It is such a great shame that the rest of Westeros cannot participate in that appreciation.” 

 It has been less than an hour, and Daemon is already proselytizing about folding Dorne into the rest of Westeros. Laenor doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

 He doesn’t even think that Daemon wants Dorne to join the Seven Kingdoms, Laenor is pretty sure that he’s just doing it to be an ass. 

 “I suppose.” Ser Dayne shrugs. “I have never thought of it in such a manner. Although it would be difficult to share such appreciation. We have such a unique culture that it wouldn’t mesh well with the rest of Westerosi culture. You are rather known for your conservative nature.”

 “Perhaps you could educate the rest of Westeros.”

 Alektor snorts loudly and clearly. He doesn’t even flinch when Daemon's piercing gaze lands on him. ““The moment that we dare to think impure thoughts, your dear subjects will clutch their pearls in fear. Although….I heard the new Queen was chosen due to the amount of time on her knees, doing things that make even us Dornish blush.”

 Laenor catches Joffrey’s eye and winces. He’s not sure how Daemon’s going to react. He might take it well, given that Alektor is shitalking the Hightowers. 

 “Amusing. And who are you to speak of my brother’s choice in brides?”

 Daemon doesn’t even like the Hightowers. Why is he defending them? Laenor commiserates with Joffery while Ser Dayne looks unimpressed. 

 “Ser Alektor Uller, Prince Daemon.” 

 “Uller, eh?”

 “Hm.” Alektor’sexpression doesn’t falter. Laenor tenses as he watches the scene play out. Alektor, on the other hand, isn’t bothered; he merely raises an eyebrow at Daemon. 

 “I heard all Ullers are mad.””

 “And I heard Targaryens are sister-fuckers. Your point?”

 Laenor is going to be sick. 

 Daemon is going to kill one of their allies, and there’s little Laenor can do. 

 “You have some balls of fucking steel, Uller. ”Daemon claps his hand on Alektor’s shoulder. There’s a tense moment before Daemon drags him closer. “Say that shit again, and I’ll skin you navel to groin, understand?””

 “m sure you’ll try.” Alektor pats Daemon’schest and untangles himself, looking unconcerned. 

 He pointedly sits next to Ser Dayne, not sparing him a glance. 

 “That's an odd spear.” Daemon didn’t let up, trying to get a reaction out of them. “I was unaware that Ullers were known for their spearwork.”

 “We make an expectation for this spear.”

 Daemon looks confused, eyes drifting to the spear. 

 Alektor’s grin is predatory as he leans closer. “I thought that you of all people would recongize the material, Prince Daemon Targaryen. ”

 Laenor freezes and examines the slender weapon. It is entirely coal-black with red leather wrapping. 

 It’s black. 

 A black spear from the only house in recent history to kill a dragon. Seven fucking above.

 Laenor ccan’tbelieve that Alektor is admitting that his spear is made from the bones of Meraxes in front of fucking Daemon Targaryen. Is he insane? 

 Laenor shares a bewildered look with Joffrey. This wasn’t what Laenor expected; he knew that there would be some growing pains between the two groups, but he never expected this. 

 “Pretty bold from a coward who hides in his caves.””

 “And yet, we were still good enough to fell a dragon.”

 “Pah. Everyone knows it was a lucky shot.”

 “Even the great Aegon the Conqueror gave up on us. What makes you think that you can defeat us?” Alektor sneers. 

 Joffrey and Laenor watch the two men exchange insults, terrified that the exchange will end in actual blows. Ser Dayne looks exasperated, as if this is a common experience. 

 Ser Dayne cleared his throat, drawing their attention to Ser Dayne. “Good Sers, let us not forget that we are on the same side; the Crabfeeder preys upon both our people. He would be pleased to see this.” He casts a derisive glance at the quarrelling men. 

 Both of them look abashed at Ser Dayne’s gentle admonishment. 

 “Alektor, why ddon’twe check in with Terrence?. He’s likely waiting for us to claim our spots. Ser Laenor, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My sister speaks favourably of you.”c He smiles at Laenor as he passes.  

 Alektor scowls, looking like he wants to continue fighting Daemon, but he acquiesces to Ser DDayne’sdemand. He sulkily follows Ser Dayne to where the Dornish are staying. 

 The moment that Eanon and Alektor are out of earshot, Laenor whirls on Daemon. “Are you insane?”

 Daemon shrugs languidly, sharply grinning. “He is rather interesting.””

 He’s fucking crazy. Laenor doesn’t want to be around him right now. “Come on, Joff, llet’ssee if Father has anything that needs done. I’m sure there’s something.” He pulls Joffrey’s tunic and marches them away from Daemon. 

 Fucking crazy Targaryens.

 Laenor can’t believe that he’s going to be marrying into this family. 

                                                                                                                                                   ****

Daemon’salways been a light sleeper, but since he’s arrived on Stepstones, it’s gotten worse. Insistent tugging from his bond with Caraxes pulls Daemon from his sleep, hand already gripping Dark Sister. 

 “What’s happening?” He yells as he dashes out of his tent. 

 The dawning sky is alight with fire, and the ground is littered with bodies. 

 “We’re under attack!” Eanon Dayne yells, appearing at his side, his sword glowing at his side. He tackles the man approaching him, driving what seems to be the fabled ancestral sword of the Daynes into the man's stomach down to the hilt. “They’re coming from the east, from the Skull Isles!”

 Daemon snarls, slashing at the nearest foe, slicing through his worn leather armour like butter.

 It’s just like the Crabfeeder to resort to such petty tactics. 

 In the distance, he can hear Caraxes screech in rage, Seasmoke echoing his displeasure. 

 Daemon looks around. 

 They’refucked. 

 The men were sleeping when the attack signalled, and they came tumbling out of their tents in their skivvies and swords, whereas the Tirarchy soldiers were armoured to the teeth.  

Caraxes is perched on a small hill above camp, but between Daemon and Caraxes is a hoard of soldiers, and Daemon needs to get to Caraxes to drive the men off. 

 Fuck. 

 Daemon looks over his shoulder at the camp and scowls. 

 Craghas and his men approached the inlet, where they set up camp from the east, closing off the only exit. The camp is tucked into a rocky outcropping, shielded on three sides, and has a small entrance guarded day and night. 

 It was a risky place to set up camp, but considering the type of man that they’re fighting, Daemon and Coryls believed it best to chance the risks in order to gain protection. 

 But it also means that they’re cut off from the ships moored in a neighbouring inlet. 

 Fuck. 

 Dark Sister whirls in Ddaemon’s hands, turning men into bodies as he joins the fray to defend the camp. 

 He is trapped. He needs to get to Caraxes to help the fight, but he cannot leave camp. He is one of the few who has a fighting chance of keeping the camp in one piece. 

 “Prince Daemon!” The Dayne boy yells, pushing his way through the throng to stand shoulder to shoulder with Daemon. It’s amusing how his shiny sword acts as a beacon. “Get to your dragon! We can hold the line!”

 Daemon gives him a curt nod, booking it towards Caraxes, incessantly tugging at their bond. 

 He lets out a yell as he plunges Dark Sister into the man in front of him. 

 “Get down!””

 The wind is knocked out of Daemon as he slams into the rocky ground, and he can feel the sharp rocks digging into his back. He gasps in pain, trying to wiggle free. 

 Daemon hears shrieking and whistling noises, and seconds later, the soft sand of the island is littered with arrows. 

 The figure above him snaps into view, and Daemon is greeted with the icy blues of Alektor Uller. His face, streaked with dirt and dulled blood, is impassive. 

 ““ome on.””Alektor urges, pulling Daemon up. Alektor grunts in pain, stumbling back but barely pausing to snap off an arrow shaft lodged between his pauldron and chest plate. 

 Daemon gets to his feet, shakes off Alektor’s assistance, andd takes off; Caraxes gets closer, screeching and snapping at anyone who comes close. Alektor is hot on his heels, protectingDaemon’ss back as they climb the hill. 

 His spear flashes in the light as he spins and deflects the oncoming blades, parrying them and slashing back. 

 Not much farther! 

 Daemon is gasping in exhaustion and pain by the time he reaches Caraxes. He scrambled up the saddle’s ladder. 

 He doesn’t bother strapping himself in; there’s no time. 

 ““rince!””Alektor calls out to him. 

 Daemon looks down, eyebrows raised. 

 “Secure your ships!” Alektor yells. “Our ships have scorpions. We can stand on our own!” 

 Daemon nods. “Tell Laenor!” He yells back. He doesn’t bother to see if Alektor responds. ““Caraxes, sōves! ”

 Caraxes screeches in anger and pushes off the ground. Daemon clings to his saddle for dear life. Caraxes’s wings toss the men closest to him onto the ground. 

The ground rushes under Daemon’s eyes as Caraxes flies. On the ground, he spots Coryls and Laenor fighting to maintain the line. 

 The Dayne boy and his men are not too far away, Dawn gleaming in the morning light. 

Daemon spots the deluge of smaller ships barricading their entrance to the water. Daemon guides Caraxes toward the ships, aiming to maroon those on the island. 

 “Dracaryes!”” he familiar rumble fills DDaemon’sears as Caraxes readies himself. 

 Below him, Daemon can see the archers stationed on the boats aiming for Caraxes. He curses and flattens himself in the saddle as that shrieking whistle alerts him to the volley of arrows. Caraxes shrieked in annoyance as arrows pelted his body; luckily, Caraxes’s scales were too thick for normal arrows to pierce. 

 Sharp pain slices through him, but Daemon pushes past it. 

 Blood-red fire spews from Caraxes’s gullet, bombarding the boats without mercy. Caraxes screeches in triumph as they rush along the water, picking off the smaller boats. 

 He can hear the men below screaming as they rush to the water. 

 Daemon loops back, scanning the beach. Their men were too entwined for Daemon to get a clear shot. 

 Fuck. 

 He pulls Caraxes to the right, sending them back over the water. He circles the Velyaron ships, burning those daring to get too close. 

 The Dornish ships, like Alektor told him, were holding their own. Daemon watches as one of the Dornish ships slings a scorpion bolt into the hull of one of Craghar’s ships. 

 He looks over his shoulder, scanning the horizon. The sight fills him with dread. 

 It’s not just a small raid; it's a full-on attack. It’s as if Craghar got a warning when the Dornish joined them. 

 They’re not prepared for such an attack. 

 There’s a trill, and Seasmoke is in the air, rushing to reach Daemon.  

 Daemon pushes Caraxes to join up with Laenor. “Laenor!” He yells. 

 His eyes were wide and fearful. Right, this is his first raid. No wonder the kid is scared shitless. 

 “The ships!””Daemon yells, gesturing at the horizon. 

 Laenor looks to the horizon and swears so filthily that Daemon is surprised that Rhaenys hasn’t sewn his mouth shut. 

 Seasmoke and Caraxes fly alongside each other, weaving through the arrow volleys, alternating fire attacks. 

 It’s not good enough. 

 Daemon can’t risk Laenor, untrained and hopeless in war, getting too close to the ships. He doesn’t have the experience needed, and Daemon isn’t wearing armour. 

 They need to pull back. 

 They can form a barricade back at the beach, preventing too many ships from coming at once. 

 “Daemon!” Laenor yells, gesturing eastwards. 

 Daemon frowns and looks to where Laenor is gesturing. More ships descend upon them. 

 Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

 “Keep an eye on them!” Daemon gestures to the ships they’re already fighting. He’ll deal with the newcomers. 

 ““n it! Seasmoke, Dracarys !” Seasmoke screeches, and a burst of fire spews forth. 

 The wind whistles in his ears, and Daemon pushes Caraxes towards the new ships. He flies low to the water, sending the sea spray flying everywhere. 

 Caraxes screeches, bursting past the lead ship, rattling the ship from the force of the wind.  

 Daemon nearly falls off Caraxes in shock when he sees the sigil. A white merman on a teal background. What the fuck are the Manderlys doing down here? 

 Whatever. 

 Daemon pulls Caraxes, who screeches at the sharp yanks and flies back to Laenor. They aren't the current problem. 

 Caraxes circles around the Triarchy’s ships, dodging arrows as Daemon looks for an opening, spewing bolts of fire in anger. 

 “Daemon! They’reretreating!””

 Laenor’s right. Craghar’s ships are turning, fleeing the fight. They’re fine fighting dragons, but what’s making them flee?

 Daemon frowns and looks down. The Manderlys! They’re approaching Craghar’s ships and opening fire on the fleet. 

 “Fall back, Laenor!””Daemon orders. Laenor nodded, pulling tightly at his reins, pulling Seasmoke back. 

 Daemon waits until Craghar’s ships are retreating before turning back and heading to camp. He dreads thinking about the damage done. He looks over his shoulder, seeing the Manderly fleet following him. He frowns, unsure of what the Manderlys are planning, but diverts his attention back to the issue at hand. 

 “Ninkiot, Caraxes! Ninkiot!” 

  Caraxes shrieks and dives to the ground, crashing into the ground and crushing several men under him. 

 He slides off Caraxes’s back, stumbling as he does. The moment his feet hit the ground, he stumbles, the excitement of the morning wearing off. His knees can no longer support him, and pain seeps into his skin. 

 Fuck. 

 He can barely force himself to move off CCaraxes’s swarming body. He wobbles but manages to take a step, but his second step doesn’t go so well. 

 Daemon closes his eyes, bracing himself for impact. 

 Strong arms wrap around his body, hauling him to his feet. Daemon lifts his head, and Alektor’s pale face remains impassive, grimy, and blood-stained. However, a furl on his brow indicates his concern. 

 “I’m fine,” he grumbles. 

 “Fine, my ass.” Alektor rolled his eyes, tugging Daemon towards the medics. 

 Presumptuous ass. 

 Daemon struggles for a moment, trying to escape AAlektor’shold, but gives up after a second; he needs to see the medic anyway. 

 Alektor’s body is warm against Daemon’s. 

 It’s nice. It’s been so long since he’s had a body against his……not since Myseria.

Daemon scowls at his weakness.  

 “You look like shit.””Alektor dumped him on an upturned crate. 

 Daemon grunts, pain throbbing through his body. He takes a breath and looks around. Some people look a lot worse than him. At least he’s still alive; that’s better than a lot of men here. He looks down at his nightshirt, which is stained a deep pink. 

 “Daemon!” Coryls comes marching over, Vaemond and Laenor at his shoulder. He looks…well, it isn't the right word, but he looks alive and enraged. “What the hell happened?””He demands. 

 Daemon takes a look around camp and scowls. Around him, he can see his men picking up bodies, both from the Triarchy and their own, trying to bring order to this shambling farce of a camp while medics run wild between the wounded, trying to gauge who to help first. His mouth upturns when he spots the cooks. At least they have their priorities set. 

 “I don’t know,” Daemon rasps; it hurts to talk. “Think Craghar got wind of the Dornish joining us. It was an eintre fleet out there.”

 “Fuck,” Coryls swears, rubbing his brow. Daemon hums in agreement. 

 “The Manderlys are here.”

 “What?” Vaemond demands. 

 Laenor nods emphatically. ““It's the reason the Crabfeeder’s fleet retreated. Guess they couldn’t deal with dragon and naval assault at the same time; don’t know what they’re doing out here.”

 Coryls looks contemplative. 

 ““Oh, good. You’re alive.””Alektor looks over Laenor’s shoulder. Daemon looks up and sees the Dayne kid marching over. He looks worse for wear; there’s a deep cut gouging his cheek, and it looks like it’s going to scar heavily. Dawn is held loosely in his hand as he staggers to a stop. 

The kid grunts and drops onto the ground next to Daemon. His legs are slashed to bits; he must’ve been caught in a volley. They’re worse than Daemon’s, given that he had Caraxes protecting him. 

 “Why are you wearing armour?””Vaemond demands. 

 Daemon squints. That’s why Eanon looks so weird, and the same goes for Alektor. They’re among the few in armour. 

Daemon certainly didn’t think that the Dornish were out to double-cross them; he’d seen the panic in the Dayne boy's eyes this morning and anger in Alektor’s visage as he helped Daemon to Caraxes. 

 Eanon gestures to Alektor. “Blame that paranoid ass,” he mutters, dropping his head between his knees. 

 Daemon watches the kid with faint pity. This must be his first combat experience, much like Laenor’s. He does not seem to be handling it well. 

 Alektor, on the other hand…Daemon looked at the man out of the corner of his eyes; Alektor looked unfazed as he stared down his friend. 

 “You’re alive, aren’t you?” Alektor snaps. “Is it paranoia when it is true?””  

 Eanon gives Alektor an obscene gesture. Alektor rolls his eyes and sits next to Daemon, shucking his armour. 

 Daemon watches as layer by layer slips off. Alektor's pallid body is a net of crisscrossing faded scars. The arrow protruding from his shoulder is loud and red, and a trickle of blood runs through the rivets of his lean body. Fuck, that looks bad. 

 “My Lords, the Manderlys are docking!” One of the men comes running up. 

 This day can’t get any weirder. 

 Daemon struggles to get up, leaning heavily on Dark Sister to do so. His knees are still weak from exhaustion. He should be there to greet the Manderlys. The Dayne kid follows suit, looking a little green himself. 

 “For fuck sake.””Alektor groaned, puttering around Eanon and Daemon, displeased that they were moving as if they were more injured than Alektor. 

 Daemon ignores him and pushes himself to move. Laenor slows, raising a questioning eyebrow. Daemon waves him off. He’s not that invalid. 

“Greetings my Lords, Prince Daemon.””A burly man wearing the sigil of house Manderly calls cheerfully. 

 “Greetings, Ser,” Coryls greets, looking puzzled. 

 “I was unaware that the Manderlys had business this far south.””Vaemond crossed his arms, glaring at the man. Daemon rolls his eyes. Nothing ever pleases him. 

“We do! Our Lord, Ser Desmond, has raised his bannermen in support of your war, Lord Velaryon.””

 “I was unaware that the Crabfeeder was interfering with Northern trade.” It’s like Vaemond wants all the help given to them to go home. Does he want them all to die? Daemon was one second away from throttling the man.

 Does the North have business in the South? 

 Daemon can't think of is the North producing anything worthwhile. Except for ice. Can ice last this long to produce? Because Daemon knows that it would be a lucrative business. Maybe he’ll proposition Lord Stark after the war. That’ll be a nice sum of profit. 

 ““ot entirely. But my dear niece has pleaded with my brother to send aid on behalf of the Princess. See, Princess Rhaenyra gave my niece the unprecedented honour of joining her household. An honour not given to the North since, well, the Good Queen reigned.””

 Did Rhaenyra get a northern lady? Hmm, that is a much better choice than that witch of a Hightower. 

 “We are…grateful…” It must hurt Coryls to admit that he needed help. ““..that you arrived in such a timely manner.””

 “Aye.””The Manderly giant nodded, his doughy face becoming grim, thinking of the attack he’d help thwart. ““We would've been here sooner, Lord Coryls, but we had to stop in Runesport to pick up supplies that Lady Arryn had given us.””

 Daemon has to take a couple of seconds to comprehend what the Manderly spawn just said. Runesport? The Arryns? Last Daemon checked Lady Arryn wanted his head on fucking pike. TThat’snot even considering that his Bronze Bitch actually helped in something that hhe’sa part of? 

 What kind of fucking sorcery is going on? 

 “Speaking of which, Prince Daemon, I have something for you.””The Manderly knight pulls a scroll out and hands it to Daemon. 

 He warily takes it and unravels it. 

He, unfortunately, does not recognize his wife's handwriting anywhere. It’s a short note. 

I hope you die a free man. 

The next sheet of parchment is a letter, signed by the High Septon……granting an annulment……between him and the Bronze Bitch. 

 The ground spins from under Daemon. 

 What. The. Fuck. 

 Did Viserys actually allow it? And why? 

 He sure knows it’s not so he can marry Rhaenyra; Daemon overheard Coryls crowing when the Dragonstone knights appeared at the fact that there’s going to be a marriage between Rhaentra and Laenor. 

 Daemon……Daemon needs to sit down. 

                                                                                                                                                      ****

 Qoren Martell stares at the letter in his hand, exhaustion creeping into his bones. Mors Dayne and Qyle Uller went to war without his permission, but there isn’t much he can do to penalize them. 

 What can he do? Put tariffs on their imports into Sunspear? What imports? They hardly trade in Sunspear anymore. Raise their taxes? He supposed he could do that, but that would just cause more discontent between him and the Western lords. He can’t justify pushing harsher taxes on them when they’re trying to rebuild settlements destroyed by the Triarchy. He can’t justify punishing them for joining a war that will help protect their lands. 

 But he can’t join, not when the Triarchy is breathing down his neck. Dorne doesn’t have an official navy. Sure, some of his lords have private ships, but nothing compares to the might of the Triarchy. 

 He can’t subject his people to that. 

 After his father’s lack of care for the lords, Qoren needs to keep a better handle on them, which means not putting a massive target on their backs. However, that comes with the downside of not being able to do anything against the Triarchy attacks. 

 It grates on his nerves that the Triarchy can just attack his people without recourse. But what is Qoren to do? Ally with the Targaryens? His lords would revolt and put Ashara on the throne, and Seven help the world if she ever became Princess of Dorne.

Unfortunately, his best option is to weather the storm and help rebuild where he can. He tried giving Lord Dayne and Uller money to rebuild, but he was soundly rebuffed. 

 Well, he can’t blame them. 

 House Martell hasn’t exactly been kind to the Western lords in recent generations. 

 And that brings Qoren to his next issue. He stares at the letter in front of him, sealed without a sigil. Emylie Dayne has become Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen’s lady-in-waiting, and house Dayne is throwing their support in the succession crisis of the Iron Throne behind Princess Rhaenyra. 

 Qoren groans and drops his head on the table, electing a resounding thud. 

 He doesn’t want to be drawn into the politics of the Iron Throne. Dorne resisted the Dragons, and yet the Daynes are running to them? Even the Ullers? Qoren had hoped that the Ullers, at least, would balk at such a fact, but hhe’dforgotten how dependable Qyle is on the Daynes. 

 Now, whoever this anonymous writer is wants Qoren to retaliate against the Daynes on their behalf. He has half a mind to think that it’s from the Hightowers. Who else would be mad enough at Emylie joining the Princess’s household—in such a dramatic manner as Emylie is wont to do—to write to Qoren, all but begging him to punish the Daynes?

 Once again, Qoren is stuck between two impossible choices. 

 It’s not like he can’t blame the Daynes for going to a different Princess. If only Ashara had kept her fucking mouth shut, Qoren wwouldn’thave this problem. But thanks to her inability to keep her nose out of his business, the Daynes no longer have any respect for him. Now, hhe’sjust thankful that they aren’t trying to cede from Dorne. What makes matters worse is that Emylie is the perfect bride for him. None of the Western lords or even the Marchers, except for House Wyl, act against the DDayne’sapproval, and with Jaida Yronwood betrothed to Eanon Dayne, they now control over half of Dorne. Qoren could’ve easily gotten the Western lords back under control if he had wed Emylie, but now they hate his family even more. If he doesn’t act fast, then he might be the Martell who loses half of his territory, and the Daynes become kings…again. 

 Firstly, Ashara needs to be dealt with. SShe’sold enough to be married, obviously to someone completely loyal to Qoren, maybe Cletus Jordayne or Mors Toland. Once she’s out of the way, Qoren can get back to reintegrating himself with the Daynes. This means ignoring the war that they’re waging, hoping the Triarchy doesn’t blame Qoren, and praying to the Seven that Mors Dayne sees that this is a good match. 

 If the Targaryens do win the Stepstones, maybe Qoren should go and treat with them; when he does, he’ll send the Daynes. He’s sure that Emylie would like to see her family again. 

With that settled, Qoren returned to the issue of the Triarchy. Given the presence of a Mryish Magister in his court, he couldn’t do much, but there had better be something he could do to help the Daynes. He does want them to like him. 

He’ll have to think about it more. 

He fucking hates being the Prince sometimes. 

Chapter Text

Lyrarra wanders Dragonstone’s Godswood, a book of northern folktales tucked under her arm. She doesn’t keep the faith of her homeland, retaining the religion of her forebears, but when she was younger, she used to spend her afternoons in the Godswood, exploring, trying to find the secrets of the strange northern religion of the people she was meant to rule over. 

 Recently, Lyarra has felt rather homesick. 

 She didn’t feel it at first, but since their arrival on Dragonstone, she’s keenly felt the absence of her home.

 The Godswood here at Dragonstone is a little unimpressive. However, Lyarra can’t fault that; so little of the population down south practice the religion, instead relegating the Godswood in their keeps to fancy decorations. 

 It angers her a little to see such magnificent religious centres debased to mere trinkets for selfish Lords to brag about. 

 Lyarra walks along copses of ash trees, hawthorns and red oaks, all trees found in salty climates and struck with a sense of familiarity. The woods back home look remarkably similar, save for the lack of snow blanketing the ground. 

 She slowly makes her way to the centre of the Godswood, enjoying the feeling of being back in familiar territory. She smiles as she hears the birds sing and twitter through the air. It’s nice to be away from the…development…of the Keeps. 

 Lyarra hums a soft tune as she rounds a clump of trees following the set path to the centre of the Godswood. She wonders if there will be a Weirwood or a Heartwood. 

 She pauses when she hears the soft, unmistakable sounds of a child crying. 

 Lyarra frowns and debates the merits of backing away and not interacting with whoever is there. Lyarra is many things, but she is not nurturing. 

 Lyarra frowns and peers from behind a tree. Great, she can’t leave now.  

 “Maris?” Lyarra asks, stepping out of the shadows. “What’s wrong?” 

 Maris looks…pitiful. Her dark curls are in disarray, and her eyes are blotchy and red. Her deep red dress—likely one of the Princess’s old gowns—is rumpled and mudstained. She’s been growing like a weed the past couple of months, and they’ve had to re-hem all of her gowns. That's odd since Maris is usually so good with her clothing. 

 “Nothing.” Maris wipes her eyes, scowling at the ground. 

 Lyarra hides a groan. She’s not good at this! Why couldn’t it be Lady Amanda or Eleanor? They’re better at emotions. 

 Lyarra plods over to Maris and sits next to her. “Obviously, something is wrong, Maris. Hiding it won’t do anything to change it. So, spit it out and make yourself feel better.” 

 Maris glares at Lyarra, but Lyarra ignores it. Maris’s lower lip wobbles, and she starts crying again. Lyarra takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

 “Do you worry, Lyarra, about what your future husband might be like?” Maris’s voice is quiet. 

 Ah, Lyarra understands this worry well. When she was still her father’s heir, she was protected by her title. Her husband would be the consort, not the other way around. He couldn’t do anything without jeopardizing his position in the Merman’s court. Now, Lyarra isn’t protected the same way. 

 Her father doesn’t understand. He wants her to marry so she’s protected and has a source of income, but he doesn’t understand the danger of marriage. Her husband has absolute control over her, and if he doesn’t like her, she’s in danger. 

 “Yes. I do. But as a lady-in-waiting to the Princess, we do not marry unless she allows it. Is your father pressuring you?” 

 She nods glumly, pulling a crumpled letter from a pocket. “Grandsire sent me a letter, warning me that Father is considering marrying me to some Myrish noble for some trade agreement,” she wails. Fat tears roll down her face. 

 Lyarra is surprised. Westersoi nobles rarely wed outside the continent. And, well, southerners don’t really…like…people outside their respective regions. That’s not to say that Northerners are much better. Her family are still considered outsiders by the ancient houses despite being there for centuries. 

 “Don’t stress, Maris. The Princess won’t allow this.” 

 “But eventually, the Princess won’t be able to deny my father!” 

Lyarra sighed; Maris usually catches onto things quickly. She’s a clever girl, but she’s just not getting it. 

 “Maris, have you had your moon blood yet?” 

 Maris went from sobbing to a blushing red. “What?” She practically screeches. 

 “Yes or no, Maris?” 

She shakes her head vigorously. “No! Why?” Her face is a blotchy mess, and she’s nearly hysterical at this point. 

 “Look, most girls get their moon blood around three-and-ten. After that, they, theoretically, are able to conceive. However, Maesters urge fathers not to wed their daughters until after six-and-ten. If your father persists, the Princess can argue your retention for several more years because of your circumstances. That’s already a six-year worry-free window. By the time that you’d normally be wed, the Princess is likely to a have a bigger household, even children, by the way. Though you’re a bit young, we can place you into an important role, like the Princess’s children’s governess or something equivalent. That way your father can’t get mad at you or the Princess for keeping you in King’s Landing because he’d have the glory of having his daughter as the future monarch’s governess. In that time we can look for a man who is suitable enough in the position and that you like.” 

 Maris blinks as she tries to register what Lyarra just dumped on her. “H-how did you work that out so quickly?” 

 “Because it’s my plan. Roughly.” Lyarra shrugs. She worked it out as soon as she got to the Keep. 

 Being a lady-in-waiting isn’t for forever. The ladies are expected to find a spouse and settle down. There are cases where the spouse works in the Red Keep, allowing the lady to remain, but the lady has to receive her husband’s permission first. Or there are women like Lady Amanda, who remain unwed and at her mistress’s side. But that only works if the lady is partially close to her mistress through family or bond. 

 Lyarra likes the Princess well enough, but they’re not close enough for her to be an exception. 

 She needed to find a way to keep her unwed and at court. When the Princess mentioned her potential betrothal at one point, Lyarra jumped on that. If she could convince her father to allow her to remain long enough for the Princess to have a child, she could potentially stay as a governess. She’d intimately know how the Princess operates and how she’d like her children to be raised. 

 Lyarra and Emylie are the most qualified because of their heirship training, but since Emylie does have plans to return to Starfall eventually, Lyarra is left with the job. 

 “I can’t take your plan! I–I’ll have to think of something else!”  

 Lyarra shakes her head fondly at the girl. “Maris, as sweet as that is, I think it best we work with this for now. My relationship with my father is vastly different than yours. I don’t want to be wed; my father means well, and when selecting a bridegroom for me, he will consider my opinions, and I can work from there. Your father, on the other hand, won’t be as kind. Take the chances offered to you, Maris. They might save you in the future.” 

 Maris pauses and looks down at her hands. “You’re right. Father won’t be kind. Grandsire will block this marriage as long as he can, but he’s old and falls ill often. I can’t bank on him forever.” She sighs despondently. “I suppose I should talk to the Princess.” 

 “We shall talk with her together.” Lyarra pats Maris’s hand. “She’ll understand, Maris.” 

 “I hope so,” she mutters. 

 “We won’t let you suffer, Maris. What’s the point of being a part of the most powerful woman’s retinue if we cannot prevent things like this?” 

 Maris’s lower lip sticks out in a pout. 

 Please don’t start crying. Lyarra can’t deal with more crying. 

 “What’s your dream man?” 

 That’s out of the blue. Lyarra is a little taken aback by the question. She doesn’t want to get married anymore now that she doesn’t have the appropriate protections. 

 She hums, considering her requirements. “Well, I’m a Northerner, so we value strong dependable workers over anything flashy. I wouldn’t want him to be someone extravagant. Just seeing the costs for the Princess’s clothes alone makes me loose my mind.” 

 She knows that it’s the price of being royalty…in the South. You can’t appear dishevelled and have to have a certain pomp to your outfits lest the people think you’re blowing off your responsibilities. Plus, the Princess likes buying from local merchants, supporting the economy in her own convoluted way. What’s the point of having wealth if she doesn’t use it? They don’t have to worry about famine or the weather in the same ways the North does. 

 At least the Princess doesn’t require Lyarra to follow the same dress code. Any time she does need jewels for a certain event, the Princess happily lends them. 

 It’s odd being the only Northerner in court. Back home, she’d be considered fashionable with her disk brooches, beads, expensive furs, and well-dyed wool; here, it’s considered lowly.

 “What else?” 

 “Well, he’d have to respect me. I know in the south, the customs are different, but up north, winter doesn’t differentiate between men and women. We all put in the same effort to survive; our roles are just different. Women do manage the household but also keep the accounts and ensure there’s enough food. It’s not for lack of ability; every Northerner knows the prowess of the women of Bear Island. It’s just… we are built differently.” Lyarra’s hand drifts to her stomach. “If a region loses enough women, then they are screwed for the next generation. We can afford to loose a few men.” 

 “That is so morbid.” 

 Lyarra shrugs. “That’s winter for you. Anyways, so long as my husband respects me and my knowledge, we’d be happy.” 

 “What? No looks or desired lengths?” Maris wiggles her eyebrows at Lyarra. 

 Lyarra snorts; where did this girl pick that knowledge? “No. We aren’t fussy. Looks have little to do with survival.” 

 “Wow, I never realized the North is so……practical.” 

 “That’s one way to put it. Why do you ask?” 

 Maris kicks her legs, looking to the ground. “Just considering my options. Lord Stark has a son who’s not much younger than I. I wanted to see what sort of things a Northerner finds attractive. Plus,” she shoots Lyarra a conspiracy grin. “You’re so tightlipped about what you like, I wanted to know.” 

 Lyarra rubs her brow, astonished at Maris. It’s true; the other girls do gossip about what they like. Eleanor is utterly infatuated with a Blackwood boy and won’t consider anyone else. Brealla wants a pretty boy; Leana wants someone talented in bed. And well, Emylie likes…Tyland Lannister. Why, Lyarra has no idea. He’s an arrogant toerag. 

 “Not that I’m trying to dash your hopes, Maris, but the Starks, or the North in general, don’t marry outside the region often. My family is the expectation given our origins and trading.” 

 Her mother was from Maidenpool. 

“I’d suggest looking at Myles Tyrell; Brealla has nothing but kind things to say about him. She knows best, her sister-in-law is his sister. Or well, whoever Lady Arryn appoints as her successor might be an option. You’ve met the woman. She’d refuse to let anyone…indecent become Lord Arryn.” 

 “I suppose.” Maris looks down. “I just wanted to get as far away as possible.”

 “The Riverlands might be an option too. Lord Grover is an asshole, but his sons seem reasonable.” At least Rwolf is. But he’s in love with Brealla. Or at least, has a hard-on for her.  

 “I don’t want a ginger as a husband.” 

 Lyarra barks out a laugh. Maris looks so utterly offended at the idea of having a Tully as a husband. She giggles for a few more moments. “My point is, Maris. There are a lot of reasonable options out there that your father wouldn’t object to. I’d be happy to help you.” 

 She promised herself when she came to King’s Landing that she’d do everything in her power to help prevent the Princess’s inheritance from being taken away, but she can divert some of her time to helping Maris. 

 “Thanks, Lyarra. Your sisters are lucky to have you.” 

 Lyarra pauses, her stomach swooping low. She hasn’t spoken to her sisters in ages. She wasn’t partially close to them; there’s a decent age gap between them. Most of her childhood was taken up by her training. It was only after the death of her mother that Lyarra started spending time with them, talking to them through their grief and telling stories about their mother. After her brother was born and her position was usurped, Lyarra distanced herself from her family, jumping on the first opportunity to get away. She supposes that in her anger towards her father, she hurt her sisters. Lyarra should write to them. 

 “Thank you, Maris. I would say your sister is lucky to have you, too, but she’s…” 

 “She’s a bitch.”

 Lyarra laughs again. She can always count on Maris to make her laugh. “Come, little sister. Let’s go and get something to eat.” She loops her arm through Maris’s. She should get her out of the cold. Storm’s End has a warmer climate than Dragonstone despite all the storms. Besides, Maris isn’t even wearing a proper cloak. The dress she’s wearing isn’t good protection from the elements! Lyarra won’t allow her to get sick. 

 Maris allows Lyarra to pull her back to the kitchens without complaint. 

                                                                                                                          ****

 “Hello, Maester Gerardys!” Eleanor cheerfully calls out to the Maester. She comes in three times a day after breaking her fast, luncheon, and dinner to check for letters. She got into the habit while at the Red Keep, but she’s continued the habit since they’ve come here. 

 She doesn’t mind as she likes Maester Gerardys. He’s a friendly man who is always happy to talk to her about the mysteries of old Valyeria. He’s one of the few Maesters that Elanor has met who forged a link in the Higher Mysteries. It’s no wonder he got assigned to Dragonstone. This must be a dream come true! 

 “Greetings, Lady Eleanor! How are you this morn?” 

 “Quite well! How are the ravens?” Eleanor looks around at the squawking birds. They give her a slight discomfort. 

“Well, enough. Squawking like usual. Here are the letters. Please tell the Princess and Lady Baratheon to ensure that they’ve finished their readings. Our lesson this afternoon will be on the topography of the Riverlands. You are not help.” He gives her a hard glance while passing over a basket of letters. 

 Eleanor shrugs; she’s pleased not to have to visit that part of her childhood again. “I am more than happy too. Take care, Maester Gerardys!” She waves as she skips down the steps, the basket swinging as she does. 

 As she makes her way to the informal dining room, she ruffles through the basket. 

 Amanda has a pile of letters from ladies across the realm, which is no surprise. She’s well established at court, and with the bruhaha of the last ladies' court, everyone wants her ear. 

 Brealla has some letters from her family and some friends in the Reach. 

 Unfortunately, Maris doesn’t have many. Eleanor assumes that one is from her Grandsire; apparently, he’s the only worthy one being called her family. Eleanor doesn’t recognize the sigil on her second letter. 

 Emylie has a few letters from her family and one from one Ser Tyland. Eleanor can’t wait to tease her about this. She cackles as she continues to ruffle through the stack.

 Lyarra, like Maris, doesn’t get many letters, so Eleanor is surprised to see one stamped with the sigil of the Manderlys. Eleanor thought that she wasn't on good terms with her father. 

 The Princess, unsurprisingly, has a veritable mountain of letters. Most of them are from sycophants who want to get in her good graces. The rest are either from the King trying to get back into the Princess’s good graces, Lady Rhaenys, or Lady Jeyne. Eleanor does see one from Lord Beesbury in the stack. 

Eleanor has some herself. There’s one from Willem that Eleanor slides into her dress for later. She’s got one from Harwin, Larys, and Jeyne! She’s been wondering how Jeyne’s been doing. Harwin told her in his last letter that Jeyne was pregnant. 

 The letter from Larys is unsurprising. She did ask him to keep an ear out for the play’s reception. Larys always knows what’s going on; his letters home to her tell her all about the current gossip. She hopes that she can utilize his intrigue for good. 

 “Letters!” Eleanor cheerfully calls out as she enters the dining room. “Sorry, Laena, there’s nothing here for you.” 

 Laena shrugs, her silver curls bouncing at the action. “It’s alright. The only person who’d write to me is my mother, and she was here merely days ago.” 

 “Emylie, you’ve got something from Lord Tyland,” Eleanor calls out, waving the letter in front of her. 

 Emylie snatches the letter from Eleanor’s grasp and sits down. “If you have to know, it’s advice from Lord Tyland about what to do with raiders. The Iron Islands have been a nuisance in the Westerlands for years. They know how to help their coastal cities.” Her words would be more convincing if her cheeks weren’t tinged pink.

 “Sure,” Brealla teases. The whole room bursts into giggles. “Emylie and Tyland sitting in a—auk!” Emylie scowls, tossing a bread roll at Brealla’s head with surprisingly good accuracy.  

 Eleanor rolls her eyes at the scene as Lady Amanda raises her eyes to the heavens as if asking for patience. 

 She settles into a nice breakfast of honeyed toast, porridge, and tea. 

 “Emylie?” Brealla asks sweetly. 

 “What?” 

 “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he single?” 

 Emylie looks up from slicing her pear. “If you attempt to flirt with Eanon, I will personally assist his betrothed in hunting you down for sport, no matter how loyal you are to the Princess.” 

 Eleanor looks over to the Princess, who looks like she’s about to burst into giggles. 

 Eleanor shakes her head in disbelief. It seems their relationship will never get better. Though, Eleanor does wonder why Brealla insists on poking Emylie. 

Should she bring this up to the Princess? 

No, it’ll just worry her further.  

 Eleanor hums, enjoying the chatter of the breakfast washing over her. Eleanor doesn’t join in but instead watches Maris read the letter with a furrowed brow. Her last letter made Maris burst into tears, according to Lyarra. She catches Lyarra eyeing her too. Honestly, fuck Borros Baratheon. 

 Eleanor should write to her father…no, that could easily get intercepted. Eleanor should talk to him in person when she gets back. Surely, he would know what to do to help Maris get out of an unwanted marriage. Or maybe she should speak to Larys? He’s clever enough to know how to help. 

 After her meal, she thinks she’ll go to the library and look through the books on Valyarian history. 

 Actually, she should look into dragon growth. She spoke briefly with the Princess about her cousin’s theory, but it would be nice to have some hard proof the Princess could show the King. Maybe the Dragonkeepers would know where to look. She’s better at reading and writing High Valyarian than speaking. Maybe Emylie could help? Didn’t she say that her father was from Volantis?

 She’s so lucky that she doesn’t have to attend lessons. This allows her to focus more zealously on her projects. 

 She hums happily, finishing off the last of her tea. “With your leave, my Princess.” She curtsyes. The Princess waves her off, and Eleanor happily leaves the room, skipping off to the library. Larys would be so jealous of her having such intimate access to all this knowledge. 

He he he. She can’t wait to hold it over his head. 

                                                                                                                   ****

 Rhaenyra is settling into Dragonstone well. It’s kind of quiet. Rhaenyra partially wants to hold a ball or a tournament, mostly to spite Alicent, dragging the court away from the Red Keep. But at the same time, she doesn’t want people to invade her personal Keep. 

 She flicks through great-uncle Vaegon’s book, bored out of her mind. Around her, Maris and Brealla look as bored as she feels. Eleanor disappeared somewhere, probably to the library. 

 The rest of her friends are off somewhere, terrorizing their intended targets. At least Laena is with Vaghar, strengthening their bond and not freaking out her poor vassals like Emylie on the warpath of collecting gossipmongers. 

 “My Lady!” Lyarra hurries into the room, slamming the door open hard enough that it bounces against the wall, curtseying quickly. 

 Oh?

 Rhaenyra straightens, curious at Lyarra’s excitement. 

 “You are needed in the Great Courtyard.” 

 “Alright, alright.” Rhaenyra stands, putting down her book. Maris and Brealla follow behind, excited to see what’s got Lyarra flustered. 

 She heard their voices before she saw them. 

 “This place is as dreary as I remember.” Came a male voice. 

 “If you cannot be kind, at least be considerate.” Came a female voice. 

 “I am being considerate. It is a dreary place. The people will feel better if they live in less……desolate Keeps.” 

 There’s a heavy sigh from the man’s female companion. 

 Rhaenyra grounds the corner and first spots Amanda, who looks rather bewildered. She looks over to Rhaenyra with wide eyes and tilts her head at the two visitors. 

 Quizzically, Rhaenyra looks over to the couple and stops dead in her tracks, taking in their purple eyes and silvered hair, as well as the Septa’s garb contrasting with the dull greys of a Maester’s robe. 

 No way! 

 “Great-uncle Vaegon! Septa Rhaella! It’s such an honour to host you here at Dragonstone!” Rhaenyra hurries forward, dropping into a curtsey, her heart pounding heavily as she drinks at the sight of her distant relatives. 

 Septa Rhealla is an elderly woman with a heart-shaped face, snow-white skin, and heavily hooded eyes. These features make her appear kind and approachable. Heavy laughter lines deepen her face. She holds herself with a grace and softness that Rhaenyra could never hope to achieve. 

 Great-uncle Vaegon is the complete opposite of Septa Rhaella. While he shares the same hooded eyes as Septa Rhaella, he doesn’t evoke the same kindness. His sharp magenta eyes pin Rhaenyra in place like a butterfly in a Maester’s study. The rest of him is full of sharp edges with thin lips and a hooked nose. 

 He looks utterly displeased, and Rhaenyra can’t tell if that’s aimed at her or it’s just his general attitude. Considering the stories she’s heard about him, she believes it to be both. 

 “Greetings, young Princess.” Septa Rhealla curtsyes. 

 “Please, no formalities. Our relation may be far apart, but we are still kin. I will not have you stand on ceremony with me!” Rhaenyra grasps Rhealla’s hands. She’s pleased to find a thick, hearty warmth pulsating beneath the surface. 

 Rhealla smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening. “You are very precious, young one. I can see why your father elected you to be his heir.”

 Rhaenyra ducks her head shyly, eyeing Vaegon from the corner of her eyes. He doesn’t look more displeased than usual. 

“So, you’re Dealla’s granddaughter.” 

 Rhaenyra tries not to bristle, but it’s hard. She remembers what great-uncle Vaegon said about her grandmother and her children. Although she’s never met her grandmother, she still feels proud of her lineage. “Yes. The daughter of Aemma Arryn.” She eyes him, daring him to mock her mother. 

 He seems pleased with her reaction. “You certainly have more bite than her. Though, it’s a pity how she died.” He shakes his head. 

 ……she wasn’t expecting that. She casts a glance over to Amanda, who’s looking guilty at her feet. 

 She knows that Aunt Amanda’s relationship with her grandmother wasn’t the greatest. By the letters that Great-grandmother Alyssane and her mother preserved, Dealla was fond of Amanda and her two brothers. She wonders if Aunt Elys ever regretted being so harsh with Grandmother Dealla. 

 “Thank you, great-uncle. May I ask why you and Septa Rhealla have ventured so north?” 

 Rhealla smiles. “High Septon Argrave asked me to come to assist you. He was concerned with the lack of care given to your station. This one…” She casts an amused glance over to Vaegon. “Heard that I was coming and insisted on coming.” 

 “No specialized Maesters were contracted to assist in the heir’s training. I greatly dislike the lack of care given to the Heir. It’s sloppy. Father would be very disappointed.” Vaegon scowls heavily. He kind of reminds Rhaenyra of a grumpier version of Lyarra. 

 “Will this attitude change when the Queen pops out a son?” Rhaenyra doesn’t want to play happy family with Vaegon if he’s just going to leave her the moment that Aegon is born. 

 “Bah! A child from Otto’s line isn’t worthy of the crown. No matter how smart or clever the boy might be, he’ll only be a puppet for his grandsire’s desires. The ruler of Westeros should not have these biases. Only focusing on what’s best for the realm, not what they can do to line the pockets of their favourites.” It’s somehow possible to frown deeper. Rhaella giggles at her cousin’s expression. 

 “Thank you for the opinion, great-uncle.” Rhaenyra rubs her brow, her head spinning as she tries to wrap her mind around this afternoon. “Would you like to continue this conversation inside after you freshen up?” 

 “That sounds like a wonderful idea; thank you, Rhaenyra.” 

Rhaenyra turns to Aunt Amanda. “Could you locate Lily and ask her to air out some rooms for Septa Rhealla and great-uncle Vaegon, as well as draw a bath for them so they may freshen up?”

Aunt Amanda nods and leaves without argument. 

 “Lyarra, could you find Ser Quince and ask his help in locating Eleanor, Emylie, and Laena? Actually, when you do find Laena, could you get her to fly to Driftmark quickly and fetch Cousin Rhaenys? I’m sure she’d like to be here for this.” Plus, it’ll save her time from telling Rhaenys about it if she’s just there. 

 “Rhaenys?” Vaegon asks. 

 Rhaenyra nods. “She’s been a great help. I do not get to see her often, but when I do, she gives me valuable advice.” 

 “And what advice has she given you recently?” 

 “To shut up and stay out of view for a bit so the Hand doesn’t get the urge to smother me in my sleep.” She gets a reluctant snort out of Vaegon while Rhealla just shakes her head. 

 “My…lady…lord,” Lily, the head maid, comes hurrying into the courtyard, clearly confused as to what to call them. They’re members of the royal family, as denoted by their silver hair and purple eyes, but they’ve chosen professions that have them shed their titles. She curtsyes. “If you follow me, I shall guide you to your rooms.” 

 “Thank you. A long hot bath will certainly settle these bones. Don’t you think Vaegon?” 

 “I’m not old, ” Vaegon grumbles. 

 “Yes, dear.” Rhaella pats his arm. “You’re a very spry young man.” 

 “That’s not condescending at all,” he grumbles. He turns to the servants encroaching on them. “Be careful of these. They’re precious.” 

 Maris steps forward. “I can watch them, good ser, to ensure nothing happens.” 

 Rhaenyra is quite proud of how steadfast Maris is; great-uncle Vaegon isn’t the easiest to face, and his appraising gaze over Maris isn’t helping. She stands tall and proud. “A Baratheon?” He asks. Maris nods curtly. “Boremund is clever enough….Borros…” 

 “My father isn’t known for his cleverness, good ser. It’s fine if you say it plainly.” 

 Vaegon manages to look less dour than usual, looking vaguely amused. “You are a clever girl. You’ll go far. Do see if my things are handled correctly.” 

 He sweeps off, following Lily and Rhaella into the castle. 

 Rhaenyra lets out a heavy sigh, slumping over. “They’re certainly a lot,” Brealla offers. Rhaenyra lets out an exhausting laugh. That’s putting it lightly. She feels like a dragon ran her over…twice. 

 “Can you ask the kitchens to prepare a spread for eleven?” Rhaenyra asks wearily; her retinue is getting too big. She should think about hiring another cook. Since Dragonstone isn’t occupied most of the time, they run on a skeleton crew; she can only imagine the strain on the servants now. 

 “I can, but do you think everyone will want to join?”

 “You don’t think?” 

 “Not to disparage the others, but Maris probably won’t enjoy the meeting; it’s probably going to be politics. While she understands the current powerplays, she’s not enthused about participating. Same with Eleanor. Both of them are more into the arts. At the same time, Laena hasn’t expressed much interest in it either. Emylie and Lyarra, on the other hand, will be thrilled about meeting Archmaester Vaegon, so they’ll be there.” It goes without saying that Aunt Amanda will be there. She goes where Rhaenyra does. 

 “And what about you?” 

 Brealla shrugs. “I dislike politics, but given my family and position, I’ve been thrust into the position whether I like it or not. My marriage will be political. I’ve come to accept that I must deal with it.” It’s kind of sad how accepting Brealla is of a lack of romance in her future marriage; Rhaenyra’s accepted it, but she’s the Heir to the Crown; Brealla should have more leeway than her. 

 “You don’t have to come if you want a break.” 

 Brealla shakes her head. “No. I am the foremost expert here on Reach politics. It’s best that I go so we don’t have any issues relaying information.” 

 “Good point. I’ll speak with them. Still, ask the kitchens to prepare enough.” 

 “Of course. Will you be in your solar?” 

  “The official one. Yes. Can you tell the others where I’ll be? And that if they don’t want to attend, they’re free not too.”  

 “Will do.” 

 Rhaenyra waves her off and heads up to the nice solar, Arthor trailing silently behind her. Rwolf and Willam were pleasantly pleased with Arthor’s talents, and Willam agreed to take Davos on as a squire. She’s happy that she was able to please her vassals. Currently, she thinks that William and Davos are in the training yard, away from the hubbub. She wishes that she could do that.  

 The halls around her are filled with servants rushing to ensure that the new guests are properly cared for and their rooms adequately prepared. 

 She’s pleased when she could slip into the official solar without interruption. 

 Rhaenyra selects a random book and settles into a chair, waiting for everyone to join her. 

 “Princess! Is it true?” Emylie appears, scaring Rhaenyra badly enough she drops her book. 

 “Is what true?” 

 “Is Archmaester Vaegon truly here?” She looks better than Rhaenyra expected. Ever since she heard that her brother was leading the Dornish forces, Emylie has been rather stressed as of late. Now she looks like a personal dream has come true. 

“Er…yes?” 

 Emylie has stars in her eyes. “Truly? I read his treaty on the Mryish economy, the one about how they should be focusing on their mines instead of their agricultural pursuits because silver is constantly in demand as consumers would buy more silver as long as they can afford to, thus increasing revenue! It was a masterwork. No wonder he became one of the youngest Archmaesters!” 

 Rhaenyra blinks, and Emylie’s words are finally registering. “I hadn’t realized you were a fan of my great-uncle.” 

 “Grandsire implemented some of his suggestions from a desert tropics: an economy a few years back, and it’s boosted our income greatly! He’s truly a master economist.” Emylie clears her throat and settles into a seat, looking vaguely embarrassed. Rhaenyra hides a smile at her excited state. 

 “So I take it that you’d like to stay for the discussion.” 

 “Of course!” 

 Brealla and Lyarra arrive at the same time; they quietly take a seat, selecting books themselves as they wait. 

 In the end, Eleanor and Maris seem to have elected not to attend, along with Laena, who promptly shoved her mother into the solar, still in her riding clothes, and then disappeared, probably back to Vaghar. 

 “This is a surprise.” Rhaenys flops into a chair, accepting the tea that Brealla offers her. 

 “Mhm. I can’t believe it, to be honestly.” 

 The door creaks open, and Aunt Amanda is herding Rhaella and Vaegon into the room. “Lady Rhealla, Uncle Vaegon.” Rhaenys eyes her uncle with displeasure. 

 Ah. Rhaenyra had forgotten that Vaegon was the one who suggested the Great Council. 

 “Niece, you are looking well.” Vaegon acknowledges his niece as he helps Rhaella settle onto the couch. He sits next to her. 

 “Why are you here, uncle?” 

 “Right to action, you havn’t changed.” 

 “Neither have you.” She glares at him. 

Vaegon sighs heavily, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I will not apologize for the council, Rhaenys.” Rhaenys leans back and scowls. “It was the best advice I could give him at the time. I am rather upset with how it paid out.” 

 “Yes, striping me of my inheritance  is rather upsetting.” Rhaenys rolls her eyes. 

 “Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra interjects softly. Rhaenys huffs and crosses her arms. 

 “I am upset at how it humiliated you; I did not think of that. Father always spoke about how our house needed to be strong, but after the Great Council, I heard about what the Realm called you, and it angered me that he did nothing. You had the qualities to be Queen, and I believed Viserys could’ve as well. He was Baelon’s, after all. After Father asked me, me, to take the throne, he asked who should inherit. You may be my niece, Rhaenys, but Viserys is also my nephew. It was not my place to pick. Both of your fathers were Crown Prince, both had a good claim.” 

 “You thought I could be a good Queen?” Rhaenys asks, sounding much younger than she is. 

 “Mother and Aemon put much effort into educating you. Father made a mistake passing you over. Especially with Viserys now.” He scowls. 

 “Viserys the Peaceful,” Rhaenyra mutters into her teacup. 

 “Yes. It is admirable,” Vaegon has difficulty spitting out the word. “To wish for peace. But it seems that Father didn’t educate him that keeping the peace requires a firm hand. Not to mention the disgrace he’s put our house in, marrying a woman he disgraced.” 

 Whoops, it seems Rhaenyra destroyed any positive opinion Vaegon had of her father. 

 “So you don’t have an opinion on what sex the monarch has?” Rhaenyra asks. 

 Vaegon waves a hand. “Mother was the one who helped Father with most of the lawmaking. She arguably did just as much as Father. Sex doesn’t matter. So long as they’re competent.” 

 That’s in line with what Rhaenyra knows about her great-uncle; he values competency more than anything. No wonder he disliked Dealla so much. 

 “And what about you, Septa Rhealla? I know the High Septon requested this, but surely he could’ve picked someone younger? Not to disparage you, but it seems unlikely that a woman your age would agree to such an exhausting job?” 

 “You are aware that after Rogar Baratheon was removed as Hand, he wished to usurp my cousin, no?” Rhaenyra nods. “Well, the Lord Hightower of then thought it wise to teach me about the world and politics. As one of the few remaining grandchildren of the conquerors, I was invaluable. He did not wish me to fall into a trap where I might be used. When I heard of you, my dear, without your mother and alone in the Red Keep, it reminded me of my youth. I was given a chance to learn to protect myself; I would like to extend that guidance to you.” Rhealla takes a sip of her tea with a twinkle in her eye. 

 “Thank you, Rhaella. I cannot truly thank you enough.” 

 “Besides, my Princess, the Queen has tried meddling in your household before. It’s known in the Keep that you’re not a fan of your current Septa, but if you attend the lessons with the Septa that the High Septon recommended, it’ll be difficult for the Queen to argue that you aren’t diligent enough in your studies and to the Faith. That way, she can’t argue about getting a Septa placed in your personal retinue. Further, she can’t dismiss the Septa that the High Septon recommended and replace it with someone loyal to her. Not with the level of clout she has,” Brealla points out. 

 “Hm, very astute…” Vaegon eyes Brealla. “A Florent?” 

 “Yes, ser. How’d you know?” 

 “You have the Florent ears.” Brealla scowls, tucking her ears under her hair.  

 “House Targaryen is small right now; if you return to the Red Keep with some of the few remaining members of the house, it’ll show the realm that the rest don’t support the Queen and her reign,” Emylie offers. 

 And with Daemon off in the Stepstones, Rhaenyra doesn’t have another member of House Targaryen on her side. Rhealla and Vaegon can offset the balance. 

 “I’m not going back to that inspired place,” Vaegon snarls, pouting slightly. “I shall be remaining on Dragonstone. You will be coming back to Dragonstone, correct?” He eyes Rhaenyra. 

 “Every few moons, if I can,” Rhaenyra agrees. “I plan to substitute some of the lessons that Maesters at the Red Keep provide me with hands-on management of the Keep and the island.” 

 “Good.” Vaegon looks pleased, at least, his version of being pleased with Rhaenyra’s response. “A good lord does not defer their work to their servants. You are now the Lord of the castle; you should be keeping track of the island’s well-being. When you do spend time here, I shall instruct you on matters of the economy and ruling. I’m sure the Maester here can help you with the other subjects.” 

“I will speak with Maester Geradrys and inform him. Thank you, again, great-uncle, for coming.” 

 Vaegon waves her off. “Now that your education is covered, I would like to move on. Why are you at Dragonstone? I would think you should be consolidating your power in the Red Keep.” He looks down at her, frowning. 

 Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Aunt Amanda frown. She took the news the worst, worried about what it would do to Rhaenyra’s reputation. Rhaenyra sighs as Emylie, Brealla, and Lyarra giggle softly. “After my Father was found with Alicent, I asked him to install provisions in her betrothal agreement to prevent her from messing with my household. She ignored it, and then she went to complain to my father about it… I…might’ve…called her a whore in his presence, and he technically banished me for it even though he took back the moment I was leaving.” 

 Out of all the things that Rhaenyra expected Vaegon to do, she was not expecting him to laugh. “You are certainly Alyssa’s granddaughter. Well, that is something we will have work with.” 

 “Actually, the talk in the Red Keep is relatively positive towards the Princess. Everyone is on her side after we spread the rumours that the Queen interfered because she was trying to flaunt her status over the Princess as she did at her wedding. But I wouldn’t count on that support lasting if the Queen gives birth to a son,” Emylie softly argues. 

 Vaegon looks over to Emylie for the first time, and Emylie snaps to attention. “You must be the Dayne everyone is talking about.” 

 “Yes, ser!” 

 “You certainly know how to grab everyone’s attention.” It sounds like an insult from Vaegon’s mouth, causing Emylie to wilt for a moment. Rhealla jabs him in the side, and he sends her glares but relents under a silent eyebrow fight. “Rumour is your Grandsire started a business creating a form of parchment not using animal parts, but plants. Am I correct in assuming that you were a part of this creation?”

 Emylie brightens again. “Some, Archmaester. Mostly in the testing process, though. I’d be happy to speak to you about the production if you’d like.” 

 Rhaenyra can see a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “I would like this,” he eventually agrees. 

 “This is lovely and all, but we should be focusing on creating strong, lasting allies rather than a greater number of weak allies,” Rhaenys cuts in, sending a mild chastising look to her uncle. “Rhaenyra, you did mention that you wanted to host something at Dragonstone.” 

 Rhaenyra swallows her groan and nods. “I did, but I am reconsidering. It feels disrespectful to have a ball when I asked my lords to go join the war in the Stepstones.” 

 “Hm. That could drive a wedge between you and your vassals. But on the other hand, it would allow people to see Dragonstone. No one has truly seen the island in many years,” Rhaenys voices both sides. 

 “I think it is best to wait. Rhaenyra sent her vassals to war; to the rest of the realm, it’ll be seen as something frivolous and childlike if she ‘changes tune,’ so to speak, and throws a courtly event,” Rhealla says. 

 “And we’re trying to portray the Princess as someone mature. Maybe when they return, we can hold a celebratory ball? We can select someone who fought valiantly and celebrate them,” Lyarra offers. 

 “It’s a good point,” Brealla agrees. 

 “Hm,” Vaegon grumbles. “Specifics can be dealt with later.” 

 “Yes, great-uncle Vaegon,” Rhaenyra mutters. 

 “Goodness, my sister should've called for you ages ago. Getting Rhaenyra to settle in for lessons was a war all on its own.” Rhaenyra almost forgets that Aunt Amanda is there. She’s been silently watching the whole scenario. 

 “Aunt…” Rhaenyra whines, blushing. Aunt Amanda smirks at Rhaenyra’s blush. 

 Vaegon scowls. “I don’t do children.” 

 “We know.” Rhealla sips her tea, ignoring Vaegon’s glare. 

 “Why don’t we break for the afternoon?” Rhaenyra suggests. Rhealla is starting to lag, and she can see Emylie, out of the corner of her eye, start to fidget, dying to talk to Vaegon about his work. Lyarra seems interested as well. 

 “I think it might not be a bad idea.” Rhaenys groans and stands. “I could use some lunch. Rhealla?” 

 “Yes, I could use some food. Thank you, dear.” Rhealla takes Rhaenys's outstretched arm and allows her to be guided out of the solar. 

 “I would like to hear about that parchment process.” Vaegon stands, and Emylie happily follows suit, Lyarra not long behind. 

 Rhaenyra sighs, leaning back in her chair. She can’t believe that both Vaegon and Rhealla showed up. Thinking back to the conversation that she had with the High Septon, he did allude to sending her help. She can’t believe that this is what he meant. She should send him a letter or something thanking him. She murmurs thanks when Aunt Amanda presses a cup of tea into her hand, her mind still swirling over the conversation. 

                                                                                                        ****

 Tyland is growing to hate Small Council meetings. All they do is argue about the most inconsequential things; it’s, frankly, exhausting. Add in that the King is moping that his daughter is on Dragonstone; it makes everything worse. 

 The Hand is using the Princess’s absence to get away with things she would’ve stood against. 

 This meeting’s topic: the Stepstones, again. But with the new added flavour of the Hand becoming increasingly irate about other lords joining. 

 Tyland's headache is growing from listening to the Hand. A commiserating glance tells him that Lord Beesbury, too, is feeling the effects. 

 He doesn’t know what the Hand is trying to do, as telling the king that his beloved daughter is a criminal and ought to be punished for sending her vassals to war isn’t the best way to win over the man. The Princess is one of the few subjects that the man is incredibly stubborn about. Tyland can tell from the King’s face that he’s going weary of the topic but can’t find it to stop his Hand. 

 “Is it even illegal?” Tyland cuts in, desperately trying to stop the Hand. 

 The Hands blink, pausing in his rant. “Pardon?” 

 “Is it even illegal for the Lords of the Realm to raise their armies without the permission of the King?” Tyland asks. When the Ironborn strike, no one waits for the King’s permission; they raise their armies immediately. Aegon the Conqueror once declared that the first law of the land shall be the King's Peace, and any lord who goes to war without his leave shall be considered a rebel and an enemy to the Iron Throne. On the surface, it appears to refer to all kinds of war, but within the context, it mainly refers to internal warfare and preventing nobility from waging wars against each other, not external affairs. 

 “Of course it is!” The Hand seethes. “They’ve gone to war without the King’s permission, putting the Seven Kingdoms in the sights of the Free Cities.” 

 That’s an exaggeration. 

 “Surely the Free Cities, Lord Hand, know the difference between the Crown joining the war and a few Lords joining,” Lord Beesbury argues. 

 “Daemon Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon are both there. The Symbols of House Targaryen fly freely among the Stepstones.”

 “The Prince is well known for his flagrant disregard for the rules, and Laenor Velyaron is his father’s son. It makes sense for them to be at the Stepstones. The rulers of the Free Cities aren’t idiots, Lord Hand. They can parse the subtilities. In fact, during the wedding, I had the most illuminating conversation with the son of the Lys Magister…” 

 “We’re getting off-topic,” Tyland cuts in. He would like to know more about Lys's relationship with the rest of the Triarchy, but he wants to end the meeting as soon as he can. “Lord Strong, is it illegal?” 

 Lord Strong, who had been silent thus far, frowns as he considers Tyland’s words. “Strictly speaking, no. The downside of how the Conquerors formed the Seven Kings allowed for the regions to be largely decentralized, and allowed to govern as they see fit. There’ve been multiple instances of Lords raising their bannermen without seeking the permission of the King. The Stormlords again the Dornish Marchers, the Lannisters with the Ironborn, the Northerners with wildlings and the Ironborn, the Vale against the mountain clans.” 

 “There is a difference!” The Grand Maester proclaims. “Those are examples of when the Lords are attacked first! It is in defence of their home. This is clearly an offensive war, protecting shipping claims!” 

 “It’s not truly offencive anymore,” Tyland hums. “Lord Baratheon sent word that the Crabfeeder’s men have begun raiding their coastal settlements. They’re even attacking Dornish settlements along the coast of the Sunset Sea, and they were neutral and didn’t even join until they were attacked.” 

 The King looks a little pale. “Dorne has joined the war?” 

 Tyland shakes his head. “No, your Majesty. The Prince is still officially maintaining neutrality in the war, but the Daynes and Ullers have joined, and I hear that Lords Gargalen and Dalt are considering joining, too.” 

 “They clearly joined because Lady Dayne is the lady-in-waiting to the Princess. They are trying to curry favour!” The Hand exclaims. 

 Tyland thinks about the last letter he received from Lady Dayne. He could tell that she was afraid for her brother’s life after learning that he was being sent to lead their host, and she was reluctant to send her people to war. 

 “The Daynes did not join until the Crabfeeder sunk a Starfall merchant ship carrying cargo worth 60,000 gold dragons bound to Volantis meant to be used to help the citizens of Sandhull rebuild after the Crabfeeder burnt it to the ground,” Lord Strong cuts in smoothly. 

 They look to Lord Strong in surprise. Tyland knew the bare minimum, given that Lady Dayne spoke to him a little about it, but he didn’t know that the Crabfeeder sunk 60,000 Gold Dragons’ worth of cargo. No wonder the Daynes were so ready to join. 

 Lord Strong shrugs. “Lady Velayron spoke to me about the contract that she was crafting with the Daynes to ensure that it was legally sound. I was privy to the context. Lord Tyland is correct, however. This is becoming less about the original purpose of the war and more about preventing the Crabfeeder and his men from hurting the realm further. I understand if Your Majesty still does not wish to join officially, as it would minimize the target on the rest of the realm, but it would be foolhardy to penalize those participating, lest we create discontent amongst the Lords by punishing those who wish to see an end to a man harming our citizens.” 

 “The Manderlys have not been affected,” the Hand argues. “They’re only joining because the Princess asked.” 

 “They could have trade routes that far south; we don’t know that,” Lord Beesbury argues, looking mildly amused. “Then it would be about defending trade routes. Which, might I add, you did not have an issue with Lord Hand when the war first started.” 

 The Hand glowers at Lord Beesbury but can’t refute that. 

 “I can not blame Rhaenyra for wanting to help Daemon,” the king cuts in. “I won’t stop her from helping him. As Lord Strong said, it’s not illegal for Lords to raise their bannermen to fight private ward.” 

 Tyland doesn’t like how the King speaks about his daughter. Yes, this reeks of the princess trying to help out her uncle, but… he doesn’t know. It just feels wrong. The King made her his heir; can he not support her like a Lord with his heir is supposed to? The Princess is inexperienced and lacks any sort of real training, and the King is doing nothing to help her. How does he think that this will work? Both her father and grandmother trained Lady Velyaron, and she was still passed over for her male cousin. 

 It galls him to see the King be so cavalier about succession. 

 Would he do this with a son? 

 It frustrates Tyland. 

 Actually……it reminds him of Jason. He was so sure that he’d succeed that he didn’t bother to study, unlike Tyland, who had to learn to ensure that he had a place in this world. It angers him that they take these chances for granted. 

 The Hand gapes at the King, and Tyland wonders why he’s so surprised. The king loves his daughter; he’s not going to punish her. 

 Tyland even heard that the Princess called the Queen a whore, and wasn’t punished. 

 Though, he heard that the Queen tried to dismiss half of the Princess’s household. 

 He thinks that both of them are absurd, and this got out of hand. He hopes that if the Princess remains heir, she’ll grow out of this childlike hatred. He doesn’t want to deal with these bouts of anger from his liege and tries to cater to them so as not to invoke their anger at him. 

 He continues listening to the rest of the council scrabble about a new set of taxes, something his job has nothing to do, and is happily packing up his things at the end of the session when the Hand stops him. 

 He waits until the rest of the council members are gone before rounding on Tyland. “What do you think you’re doing?” He hisses. 

 Tyland’s hand clenches into a fist, anger thrumming in his veins. “My job,” he snaps back. 

 “Your job is to take my side. Why do you think that I brought you here!” 

 Tyland grits his teeth so hard that he can feel them reverberating through his skull. He is a Lannister, a descendant of a King; he is not this man’s minion. 

“I, in case you have forgotten, Lord Hightower was selected to be Master of Ships. I will not let my performance become lacklustre because you are spouting terrible ideas. If you want my support, then come up with something clever.” Tyland collects his things and storms out. 

 How dare that man! 

 He has no right to boss the brother of a Lord Paramount around like he’s some vassal! The Hand is not the king, and it would be best if he were to remember that and to have some fucking humility.

 At least the Princess understands humility. Her allies, at least, understand the importance of the Westerlands. 

 The Hand makes Tyland want to join the Princess out of fucking spite. 

 “Oh, Lord Tyland.” Comes a breathy voice. 

 Seven fucking damn it. He knows that breathy tone. He forces a polite smile. “Lady Reyne, a pleasure.” 

 He doesn’t want to be here. He’s disappointed with Lady Genna; she assumes too much, thinking that she’s owed respect and gravitas without putting in any work to cultivate that respect. Her father is a nobleman, yes, and some respect is owed to her station, but she fails to comprehend that other noble girls have good fathers and are owed the same respect. Some of her comments are even directed to women higher in station than her.

 “Oh, cousin!” 

 Lynora Lannister is also someone he dislikes. Jason is happy to consider anyone with the last name Lannister his family, thinking that the more, the better. Tyland privately disagrees. The Lannister lustre will disappear if they include everyone, making it seem exclusive no longer. 

 The Lannisport Lannisters haven’t produced anyone talented enough for the main branch to notice in ages. It annoys him to no end that they get to use the reputation that Tyland’s father cultivated without helping maintain it. 

 He had hopes for Lynora at the beginning, but she wasn’t producing the results he wanted.

 Tyland’s gaze flickers over to the other two ladies. Cassandra Baratheon looks displeased, but that’s not surprising. Her younger sister is in a more glamorous position as the Princess’s lady while she’s in the Queen’s household. 

 He thinks it’s stupid of Borros to discard his daughter in such a manner. He has no brother, nephew, cousin, or son to take the role of Heir. Whether he likes it or not, for the time being, Lady Cassandra is his heir. He should be training her in case something happens. If not, they’re going to get yet another incompetent Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Tyland can’t believe that Boremund allowed this.  

 The last lady shouldn’t even be considered one. She’s a child. Tyland doesn’t even think she’s reached ten, and yet, is here. He can see the tremble in her tiny body, but she continues to watch her spine stay straight. 

 It’s pathetically amusing that the lady he most respects in the Queen’s household is a child. 

 “Lady Lannister.” Tyland inclines his head. Lynora pouts upset that he denies their familial relationship. They’re not cousins.  

 “Did you come from a council meeting?” Lady Genna asks. 

 “Yes.” 

 “Were you speaking about the Stepstones? I can’t believe that the Princess did such such a thing. Sending her men to war against the wishes of her father, the King. How boorish.” Lady Genna tsks. 

 Did she not learn her lesson when the Princess scolded her for talking badly to Lady Arryn? Does she want her father to lose his position? Because if the King hears about this, he’s not going to be pleased with the Reynes. 

 “The King thinks that it's admirable that the Princess wishes to aid her uncle.” It’s amusing to see Genna’s face twitch and then her mental scramble to come up with something somewhat flattering about the Princess. 

 “If you excuse me. I must be going.” Tyland inclines his head and hurries away from the conversation. Genna and Lynora look disappointed, while Cassandra looks amused at their distress. If he didn’t exit now, he’d be trapped in a pointless conversation for ages. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with them right now. The anger of Otto treating him this way is still lingering in his bones. He knows that if he tries to stay and force a polite conversation, he’s going to make one of them cry, and he doesn’t want to hear anything from Jason. 

 He retreats to the chambers provided to him and sighs. He waves off Caster, his manservant, and retreats to his study. He pours himself a healthy goblet of spiced honey wine and collapses into his seat. 

 The small council meetings drain him beyond belief. 

All it is is petty arguing. Tyland wishes he could've been alive during the Old King’s reign, and Septon Barth was Hand. It must’ve been amazing to hear the discussions and insights of the esteemed members. 

 On his desk, he spots his half-finished letter for Lady Emylie. 

 His lips curl up in a half smile as he picks up. He bets if he told her what happens at the small council meetings, she’d be doubled over in amusement. She’s rather clever with a biting wit. 

 Tyland has always enjoyed girls with sharp tongues and clever eyes. He abhors having to talk with dull girls, nattering on about inane topics like the weather; when he was younger, he always pictured himself with a girl who shares a similar intellect and interests. 

 Jason had laughed at him during the ball for the Princess’s name day. He found it hilarious that Tyland, second in line for the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, was mooning after a Dornish woman. He told Tyland continuously to just fuck her and get her out of his system. Then, he went on to list the advantages of taking a Dornish to bed. 

 At first, he’d agreed with Jason; she’s Dornish, after all. Weren’t all their women loose and willing to throw themselves away? But that shy, hesitant smile she gave him when he asked her for a walk tells him that he’s wrong. That, combined with the cleverness he spots lurking in her eyes, makes Tyland infatuated with her. 

 He realized it when the Princess was, loudly, making her departure from the city known. Lady Emylie was wrapped up in so many layers and fur that it made him smile fondly at her. That small moment struck a cord in him. It’s one thing to enjoy a moment with her in a revealing evening gown but another to think of her fondly when she’s covered head-to-toe in wool and fur. 

 It’s silly, something that probably dissolve eventually, but there’s no harm in humouring his infatuation for the time being. It’ll, at least, make life at court bearable. 

 It’s a shame that the moment he realized his fondness for her was right when the Princess was leaving. 

 Fate is truly a cruel mistress. 

Chapter Text

 When Rhaenyra first introduced Laena to the other girls, she was nervous. She’s never had many friends. There weren’t many noble girls at Driftmark; those who were there were her cousin’s wives and were busy with their children or other duties. When she spent time at the Red Keep, she spent most of her time with Rhaenyra and Alicent or with Laenor. 

 It’s sufficient to say that she’s not used to other girls—which sucks! 

 Laena can’t believe that she didn’t pester her father to let her visit Rhaenyra or the other girls sooner! 

 Leanor is sweet and all, but he doesn’t care about girly things enough to entertain her. He had Joffery and the other squires to hang out with. 

 “Can you show me how to stitch that?” Laena asks Brealla. She loves Brealla’s style of embroidery and wants to learn how to do it so she can embroider Vhagar onto everything. 

She’s going to show the world the might of Laena Velyaron. She’s not just the girl that the King passed over; she’s the girl who claimed Vhagar, the Queen of the Dragons. She’s the daughter of Coryls Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen. She’s not going to hide any longer. 

 “Of course!” Brealla smiles brightly, making room for Laena on the couch. 

 Laena likes Brealla. She’s somewhat, in Laena’s opinion, overlooked in the group. She’s determined but quiet about it. With all the other boisterous personalities in the group, she tends to fade into the background. But there’s passion in her quietness. Laena can tell by how excitedly she speaks about her craft as she explains how to make this design. 

 “Would this work the same on velvet and wool as it does silk?” It’s cold on Driftmark most of the time, so Laena tends to lean towards thicker velvet or expensive wool. Silk doesn’t help much against the sharp winds of the sea. She favours thicker fabrics.  

 She’s not the greatest at embroidery. Grandmother Jocelyn tried to teach her when she was younger, but Laena never saw much interest. 

 Until she got Vhagar, now she has the need to showcase her dragon to the world. 

 Brealla ponders the question. “Velvet and wool are thicker than silk. You can’t have light designs with running stitches, as they may disappear into the velvet's nap. Instead, you should choose designs with medium complexity.” 

 “Is velvet and wool common in the Reach? It’s a rather heavy fabric.” 

 “During the winters. Though, it remains pleasant enough during during the autumn months for heavy linens and maybe some wool. But we’re lucky. I don’t think I’d ever be able to survive in the North.” 

 Laena snorts. “I know. I don’t think I could either. The Reach sounds beautiful.” 

 She wants to travel the world. Her father told her so many stories about the world that she wants to see it for herself. Westeros holds so many hidden secrets that she can’t wait to uncover. She wants to see the rolling green hills of the Reach and the sweet-smelling flowers. The golden dunes of Dorne, and even the frozen tundra of North.

 She hopes that her future husband will want to travel with her. 

 “It is. From Brightwater Keep, you can see the both the Honeywine and the Sunset Sea. And there are orchards and fields all around with fresh fruit and flowers. In the autumn the trees turn beautiful shades of orange and red, making the world glow.” Brealla smiles at the fabric in her hands, thinking of her home. 

 Laena has only spent her autumn months on Driftmark, where the world turns different shades grey. 

 At least Dragonstone is cool. The castle is grand and holds the history of ancient Valyria. And Laena loves going playing with the Hatchlings after flying with Rhaenyra and Vhagar. 

 “I’m jealous. The Reach has some of the best artists and bards. It’s not a surprise given that the land is so beautiful.” 

 “Doesn’t Driftmark attract artisans from across the world?” Brealla asks. 

 “Yeah. It’s not the same, you know? I want to feel pride about my people’s accomplishments in the art world. The artisans that come are from Essos, not here. It’s kind of like a window, you get to see other’s culture, but you’re not apart of it.” 

 “Hm, I think I get it.” 

 Laena sighs. “I can’t believe how well Emylie holds herself in court. I’d be a wreck if I were sent from home to a nation hostile to me.” 

 “By the Seven, I know! And she never talks about why!” Brealla puts down her work. Laena feels bad for gossiping about one of her ladies, but Emylie is such a mystery. “I think it has something to do with the Prince of Dorne. Or maybe his sister?” 

 “I wonder what the Prince is like.” 

 “If you ask Emylie, she’ll call him an apathetic man with a nice face.” Leana isn’t sure if she believes Emylie’s version of the man. There’s a certain derision in her voice when she speaks of the Martells, speaking of a feud that Laena doesn’t want to touch lest she gets drawn into it. 

 “Would you want a husband who has a nice face but generally doesn’t care about the world?” 

 Brealla scoffs. “No. Then it would mean that he wouldn’t care about me. I want my husband to be able to make me happy.” 

 “Yeah, happy.” Laeana wiggles her eyebrows at Brealla.  

 She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. I’m not going to be doing all the work in the relationship.” 

 “You’re lucky you didn’t have to marry the king.” Laena shudders. Sure, she would’ve been Queen, but she would’ve been stuck in a marriage with a man twice her age, forced to make children. It would’ve mended the insult of her mother being passed over for the crown, but Laena saw how her mother was relieved when Laena wasn’t forced to marry the King. Her parents had a decent age gap, but her mother chose her husband. Laena wouldn’t have a hand in it. She would like the chance to choose her husband when the time comes. 

 On the other hand, she wasn't pleased with all the gawking and staring that followed her when she came back to Driftmark, and people asked if something was wrong with her. 

 Now, Laena has the chance to show the world that she’s better than Alicent Hightower. 

 “Believe me, I know.” Brealla shares a commiserating look with Laeana. 

 The door to the solar opens, and Emylie and Maris walk in to discuss something. “Once you’re done that, you move the answer to this column,” Emylie explains. 

 “That makes no sense,” Maris mutters, scowling at the page in front of her. “Whatever.” She tosses it onto a table and collapses onto a chair across from Laena. Emylie follows suit more gracefully.

 “Lessons going well?” Laena asks, commiserating. Since coming to Dragonstone, she doesn’t have to attend lessons. Mother told her that Laena had learned most of what she could and that she now needs to learn how to apply it in person.  

 “I’m learning how to balance a household, and it makes no sense,” Maris grumbles. “Emylie’s trying to help.” 

 “You’re doing great, Little Fawn. No one expects you to get it on the first try,” Emylie gently scolds. Maris’s scowl gets deeper, and Laena isn’t sure if it’s because of the nickname or her frustration with her current lesson. 

 Laena can’t help but giggle at Maris’s grumpiness. 

 Brealla glances over at them before going back to her work. “For once, Emylie is correct. Who would’ve known?” 

 Laena and Maris make eye contact and roll their eyes at the same time. Laena or the rest of the girls know where this petty fight began. The best guess that Laena can come up with is them ‘continuing’ their homeland’s hatred for each other in the tamest way possible. 

 “I’m consistently right, Brealla.” Emylie barely casts her a glance. “It’s not my fault you’re slow on the uptake.” 

 “Emylie, have you heard anything from the Stepstones?” Laena cuts in, stopping the retort on Brealla’s lips. Her mother doesn’t really speak to Laena about the war. It hurts her, Laena can tell, to read the reports about the Stepstones, having to be reminded of how her father passed. Having to speak to Laena about what her father and brother are going through would probably kill her. 

 She could ask Rhaenyra, sure. She’s interested in the Stepstones, with Daemon and Laenor down there, but Laena doesn’t know. Emylie’s brother leads the Dornish host, and she gets the worry that Laena feels. 

 “It’s as good as it can be on a war front. I hear your brother is making a name for himself.” 

 That’s good, that’s very good. Laena can’t wait for the war to be over and for her to see her father and Laenor in person again. 

 She hates this war. She hates that the King isn’t getting involved because it doesn’t affect the Realm. It obviously does! Just because her Father’s shipping routes are the most affected doesn’t mean that other Lord’s shipping routes aren’t. And now the Triarchy is raiding the Stormlands! 

 Laena supposes that if she had become Queen, she could influence the King to send aid, but she hasn’t, so she’s going to have to learn how to gain power and influence outside of that position. She’s sick of her Father having to put himself in danger to help a man who doesn’t even care about him. Ironic, given that the King is the one spouting all the nonsense about them being ‘family’, and they should think of the Red Keep as ‘theirs.’ What utter bullshit. 

                                                                                                                                                                       ****

Lyarra spends most of her days in the treasury, trying to organize it; it’s a total mess. She’s not that surprised; the last Lord was the King, and she’s not terribly impressed with his work. Though, she has to give him some leeway. No one really resided on Dragonstone since the Old King lived there in his minority. 

 She decided to split the treasury into three sections. The island’s income, the Princess’s personal coffers, and the artifacts’ room. 

 The artifacts’ room is the easiest to deal with. All the jewels, crowns, some gowns, and historic pieces that the Princess brought from King’s Landing, as well as those that remained on Dragonstone, are brought out, polished, and set up for display. King Aegon’s and Queen Visenya’s armour is set up in display sets in one of the corners. 

 In one corner, there’s a collection of rolled-up bolts of fabrics, tapestries, and carpets, all various gifts for the Princess. 

 Most of the Princess’s favourite jewels are in her dressing rooms, but King Aegon’s, Queen Rhaenys’s, Queen Alyssane's, and Queen Aemma’s crowns are displayed alongside most of Queen Aemma’s favourite pieces.  

 The Princess’s coffers are likewise easy to deal with. Lord Beesbury and his men, his little bees, Lyarra laughs at her cleverness, are stalwart and trustworthy, so she doesn’t have to go through the chests and ensure that the Princess was given the correct amount. Her total income for the year is five hundred gold dragons. Lyarra told the Princess that she should get half in Gold Dragons and the other half in smaller coin. The Princess chose to get the second half of her income in silver stags and some bronze stars as they’re the most circulated coins. Though, it would be amusing to see if Lord Beesbury could find enough pennies and groats for the Princess. 

 Dragonstone’s income is a different matter. Ser Quince clearly did his best, but he’s the first to admit that he’s not the best with the organization. 

 The main problem that Lyarra is facing is that most of the income is in other forms than coin. The ledger provided to her told her that it was largely the lords who paid in coin and, surprisingly, the fishermen as well. Merchants tended to send half of their taxes in coin and the other half in various products. The shepherds and cattle farmers to the east sent livestock, and the miners of the north typically sent iron ore. 

 She’s had to spend various hours cross-examining the entries to ensure that some of the missing products, like the merchant’s wares, were transmuted into coin and not simply vanished. 

 With little oversight from the Lord of the Castle for the past decade or so, Lyarra is sure that someone must’ve taken the chance and liberated some of the taxes. 

 Some of the numbers aren’t making sense. 

 She could ask Archmaester Vaegon to check to see if she’s missed anything, but she doesn’t want to bother him when he’s taking on the responsibility of educating the Princess. But then again, when the Princess does start to take over the estate management, and this discrepancy is still there, Lyarra might get in trouble. 

 So, she decides to go to Emylie, the only other girl who has some training in estate management and the ability to solve this puzzle. 

 “Are you corrupting my maid?” Lyarra asks dryly, walking into one of the minor solars of the Keep, where the rest of their personal maids spend their free time. Emylie is sitting at the centre of a rough circle, gossiping with the maids. Her maid, Beth, is sitting there working on some mending. She gives Lyarra a jaunty wave once she realizes that she doesn’t need anything and goes back to her work. 

 “I’ll have you know, maids are the best source of gossip.” Emylie sniffs imperiously. The moment is ruined when she adds: “Other than laundresses, sorry girls.” 

 “Whatever.” Lyarra rolls her eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

 Emylie sighs dramatically, bidding her friends farewell and following Lyarra out into the hallway. She grumbles, pulling her shawl tightly across her shoulders. Emylie has added thicker winter attire to her wardrobe, but she still snags some of Lyarra’s warmer clothes. “What’s wrong?” 

 Lyarra hands her the ledge, and by the time she’s done reading and Lyarra finishes explaining her worries, Emylie is frowning heavily. “It does sound like someone is embezzling.” 

 “So what can we do?” Lyarra asks. 

 “Honestly, nothing.” Emylie rubs her brow. 

 “Nothing?” 

 Emylie shrugs helplessly. “The problem is that there’s no concrete evidence. If we accuse someone, they can argue it wasn’t them, and we’d have nothing to refute the argument. The best option that I can think of is to tell the Princess and wait until the next taxation day to see who tries to access our stores.” 

 Lyarra scowls; she wants to solve this and then go to the Princess. It’s just putting more worry on her shoulders. “Are you sure?” 

 “Well, even if we did have suspects, we can’t search their residences or their finances without evidence, and if nothing turns up, which I suspect it won’t, it doesn’t look good for the Princess. I’m sorry I can’t offer something else.” 

 “It’s not your fault,” Lyarra sighs, waving her off. “I just don’t want to burden the Princess.” 

 “I get that, but unfortunately, we can’t do much else. Want me to come?” 

 “Sure.” 

 Emylie nods, and they start heading towards the official solar. It’s where the Princess and Maris take their lessons and where the Princess receives visitors. If Lyarra remembers correctly, it’s an economics lesson, meaning Archmaester Vaegon is going to be here. That makes her cringe with nerves. The man is rather intimidating. 

 “Look, there’s Eleanor.” 

 “Hm?” Lyarra peers through the window that Emylie is pointing at. They see Eleanor hurrying through the courtyard carrying an impressive stack of books. “I’m surprised that she hasn’t devoured the library yet.” 

 Emylie laughs, the corner of her eyes crinkling a little as she does. “I’m excited to hear what her next play is going to be. I heard the first one was a success.”

 Lyarra hums in agreement. 

 “You know, Dragonstone is a little dreary, but I quite like the place,” Emylie comments. 

 “I like that it’s out in the countryside,” Lyarra agrees. She was getting so sick of the Red Keep. 

 “It’s fucking cold.” 

 “You think everything is cold.” 

 “I dare you to come to Dorne and see how you deal with the heat,” Emylie grumbles good-naturedly.

 “No thanks. King’s Landing is as far south as I go.” 

 “Coward.” 

 Lyarra shoves Emylie. She squawks and pushes back. Emylie isn’t much of a fighter, but like Lyarra, she had the bare minimum training that Heirs are supposed to receive, so Lyarra is a little more comfortable roughhousing with her, even if Emylie doesn’t really partake in martial arts anymore. 

 Emylie gets in one last decent shove and then knocks on the door to the solar. 

 The door is wrenched open, and Archmaester Vaegon’s sour expression appears. “What?” He demands. 

 Lyarra snaps to attention, instantly reminded of her old Maester. He was a bitter man. 

 “Forgive us for the interruption, Archmaester. But Lyarra and I have found something that I believe that you and the Princess ought to see.” 

 “Come in. I shall see if this matter is worth the interruption.” 

 Lyarra ignores the bite in his words and walks into the solar, Emylie beside her. 

 “Lyarra, Emylie, what’s the problem?” Princess Rhaenyra asks upon spotting them. Maris wasn’t in this lesson; despite her protestations, it was deemed too advanced for her. 

 “Princess.” Lyarra curtsyes. “I was doing an inventory of the treasury and came across this discrepancy.” She hands over the ledger. 

 She points out what she found and explains it to the Archmaester and the Princess. Both of them have matching frowns as her explanation winds on. 

 “Unfortunately, I don’t know who’s doing this. I’m sorry, my Princess,” Lyarra apologizes. Shame licks at her face as she’s unable to help further.  

 “There’s no way to know who's been accessing the vaults. It’s not Lyarra’s fault,” Emylie argues. 

 The Princess gives them both a kind smile. “I’m aware. I don’t blame you, Lyarra. Without your campaign to clean up Dragonstone’s vaults, we would’ve never noticed this.”

 The Archmaester is reading the ledger. “This is well organized. I did not expect this from a girl your age. What’s your name?”

“Lyarra Manderly, Archmaester.” 

 “Manderly, yes, that explains it.” The Archmaester flips through a few more pages. Lyarra can feel her face flame up with the compliment. Anyone who deals with trade and the economy knows about Archmaester Vaegon. He’s popularized some of the best theories. 

 Emylie grins, nudging Lyarra. Lyarra grins back. She gets it. 

 “Who has access to the vaults?” He asks. 

 “Hm. Myself, the Princess, Ser Quince, and, oh, Ser Broome,” Lyarra lists out. When she speaks Ser Broome’s name, the Princess visibly flinches. Neither Emylie nor Lyarra points it out, but they share a concerned look. Who is Ser Broome to make the Princess fearful?

 Even if this man isn’t the perpetrator, he definitely needs to be looked into. 

 “You are remaining on Dragonstone, correct?” Lyarra asks. 

 “Yes, why?” 

 She pulls out the vault key from her dress. “If you do not mind, ser Archmaester, I believe it best that you take over management.” 

 “Hm. I suppose I do not mind a project.” The Archmaester takes the key from Lyarra. He turns to the Princess. “We shall end here for the day. I wish to look into this further. Go ride your dragon or whatever you do.”  

 The Princess grins and skips over to Lyarra. “Will you teach me how to shoot? I’d hate for the present you gave me just to gather dust.” 

 “Of course!” 

 “Should I change?” Lyarra looks at what the Princess is wearing. It’s a fine wool dress. It would be fine to train in, but Lyarra didn’t want to ruin such a nice dress. 

 “Why don’t you change into your riding leathers?”

 “Mh, probably a good idea. I’ll meet you in the training yard!” She disentangles from Lyarra, heading off to her chambers. 

 Lyarra heads to hers. She doesn’t bother changing but picks up her bow and leather brace. She then goes to the armoury to find a brace for the Princess. 

 “What are you doing down here?” A tall, reedy man looms over Lyarra as she looks through her options. His dark eyes darted up and down her body. She doesn’t recognize the sigil stamped on his gorget; it looks like a bird of prey devouring a snake. He must be a knight of the castle, but she doesn’t recognize him. 

 She spares him a glance, scowling at the man. She doesn’t like how he looks at her. “Why does it matter?” She snaps. 

 “It matters, girlie,” he sneers at her. “Because I am in charge of the upkeep of the castle’s armoury, and I don’t want little girls mucking it up.” 

 Great. He’s one of those men. 

 “I doubt I could muck it up more than it already is.” She casts a disapproving gaze around the armoury. 

 He steps closer, looming over her, and her hand drifts to the knife she has hidden in her dress. She matches his scowl. “For your information, I am selecting something for the Princess,” she informs him coldly. He flinches at the mention of the Princess. “If you have a problem with it, then I suggest you bring it up with her.” 

 She grabs the bracer, one built for a squire she was evaluating, and storms out of the armoury. Rage is boiling in her veins. 

 “Lyarra, what’s wrong?” Rhaenyra asks as Lyarra stomps into the training yard. 

 “Some fucker in the armoury had a problem that a girl spreading her girliness in his armoury.” 

 “Oh?” The Princess doesn’t look pleased. “What did he look like?” 

 “Tall, sullen-looking, and his gorget has a bird eating a snake, I think.” 

 The Princess scowls, plucking at her bowstring. “That’s Alfred Broome.” Him? Well, at least Lyarra has a face to put to his name. She should update Emylie on this. No doubt Emylie went hunting for information on the man. 

 “Ugh. Well, now we have more incentive to look into him. If he can’t properly bow to his liege, that’s even enough evidence to look into him further.” 

 “I suppose.” The Princess doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks further troubled. 

 “Do you think that he might be…uh…building a tower?” Lyarra tries to be subtle with her reference. 

 The Princess snorts at the attempt but then sobers up. “Maybe. I’ve only spoken to him a handful of times, but something about him makes me uncomfortable.” That’s not the whole truth, but Lyarra accepts it for the time being. 

 “It’s your castle. You can dismiss courtiers if they don’t make you feel comfortable.” 

 The Princess doesn’t look convinced but then waves it off. “He’ll slip up eventually. Especially if great-uncle Vaegon is on the hunt.” 

 “He did look displeased.” 

 “I think that’s just his usual expression.” They laugh as they make their way over to the archery pits. 

 Lyarra stops and holds out the brace. “First things first, put this on. It’s to protect your arm against the bowstring. Put it on your non-dominant hand.” 

 The Princess nods and slips on the bracer. Lyarra hands her the bow and instructs her to pull back the string. She watches as the Princess practices. 

 “You’re pulling back with your arm; use your shoulder and back muscles.” 

 The Princess adjusts her stance. Once Lyarra thinks that her stance is good enough, she hands the Princess an arrow. 

“Nock the arrow and hold it between your index and middle with the hand not holding the bow. Rest the top of the arrow shaft against your index finger holding the bow.” After Lyarra is satisfied that she’s holding the bow, she tells the Princess to pull it back. 

 It takes her a couple of tries, but the Princess is able to pull back the bowstring decently. 

 “After you draw the bowstring, you need to find an anchor point on your cheek. You do this in order to align your eye with the arrow and aim at the target. For recurve bows, you’d pull your index finger to the corner of your mouth or your chin, depending on what’s better for you.” 

 The Princess pulls back the arrow, aligns it correctly, and shoots. 

 The arrow makes it halfway to the target.

 The Princess drops the bow and scowls at the target. “That was pathetic.” 

 Lyarra shakes her head. “Don’t be discouraged, Princess. This was the first time that you’ve ever used a bow. The Master-at-arms in White Habour used to tell me that it takes a thousand attempts to perfect a strike and a thousand shots to perfect the bow. Don’t discourage yourself.”

 Her scowl lingers, but she takes another arrow and nocks it. Lyarra takes it. Learning a new skill at this age and perfecting it when everything seems too much is daunting. At least the Princess doesn’t give up. 

 “What do you think of the business plan that Emylie’s been drafting?” The Princess asks. 

 “About the dragonglass business?” The Princess nods. Lyarra thinks that Emylie's plan is a good one. The Rogares plan to buy around 50 pounds of dragonglass for the initial venture at a slightly discounted price of the current market price. They couldn’t agree on a price at the moment as the markets fluctuate over the seasons. The Princess refuses to do business with them until the war is over to prevent her from unintentionally helping the Lys fight her uncle, so the business is put on a slight hold. 

 Drako Rogare is planning on visiting Dragonstone for an inspection of the quality of the dragonglass, though Lyarra doesn’t know what good his visit will do. She doesn’t think that he’s a master artisan and can actually judge the quality of the stone, but she supposes he wants to feel included. Emylie is putting together a rough draft to present to him so he can take it back to his father. 

 “It’s generous terms. I think that you should put in a clause that allows you to renegotiate the terms after about five years.” 

 “Why five?” The Princess asks, going for another shot. This one does make the distance but doesn’t manage to hit the target. She huffs and tries again. 

 “That’s roughly the time it takes for someone to gauge if a new business is to succeed or fail. If the dragonglass business is worth it by that time, you’ll have to consider the renegotiations. Plus, by that time, you might be married, and the Velayrons would like to give you a better rate. This way, you’re not locked into a potentially unfavourable contract.” 

 “Hm. Good point. I’ll ask Emylie to add it in.” 

 “You should bring Laena or Lady Rhaenys into the negotiations. They’d know the market price for luxury goods.” 

 “Not you?” The Princess teases. 

 “Ha. Fuck no. Excuse my language, my Princess. But we deal mostly with common goods, such as foodstuff, wool, and iron.” Lyarra laughs along. She knows fuck all about luxury goods. The most ‘luxury’ the North gets is their bead and amber jewelry. 

 The Princess nocks another arrow. This time, the arrow hits the very edge of the target. “Yes!” the Princess crows. 

 “That’s great!” Lyarra cheers. 

 “No wonder Uncle Daemon is so grumpy all the time, if it takes amount of effort just to hit the target, can’t imagine what it’s like for melee combat.”

 Lyarra snorts. “It’s a wonder that any men are cheerful. Combat training is rough.” 

 “You’ve learnt?” 

 “Just enough to defend myself. There’s the expectation of our lords leading the vanguard in times of battle. That they fight and die like any common man. Wildings and Ironborn don’t care. As a future heir, I needed to learn combat. I don’t think any of the other lords expected me to go into battle, but it’s custom.” 

 “Isn’t White Harbor safe from the Ironborn and Wildings?” 

 “Pretty much. There’ve been a few lucky Wildlings who got that far south. Still, it’s custom. The North isn’t big on change.” 

 “Yet they still support a woman for the throne.” 

 “That’s because oaths are the most important foundation of our culture. To be an oathbreaker is to be no man at all.” 

 The Princess sighs. “I wish the rest of the realm thought like that,” she mutters. Lyarra agrees with that sentiment. It’s frustrating coming south and having to relearn how to be a noble lady, to fit into Southern standards, to lie with a smile and ignore the barbed words. Sometimes, she just wants to deck the people who insult her. 

 She appreciates the reprieve at Dragonstone, away from the rest of the court. She’s not excited to go back; she vows to appreciate the time she has left here. 

                                                                                                                                                                    ****

 When Maris isn’t attending lessons, she spends a fair amount of time in the library, though not as much as Eleanor. It’s a nice, cozy room despite the large windows overlooking the Dragonmont. She likes to curl up in a cozy armchair with a book. Sometimes, she gazes out the windows, watching the volcano and finds one of the dragons flying around. She’s spotted the dancing golden frame of the Lady Sryax and the hulking bronze frame of Vermithor flying alongside the slender silver dragon, Silverwing. She hasn’t seen Vhagar, but that’s because Lady Leana spends most of her days flying, apparently trying to make up for lost time, and according to Laena, she wants to be a better flyer than her brother by the time he gets back from the Stepstones. 

 Once, she saw the massive black shadow blocking out the pale light of the sun. She’s heard rumours of the wild dragon, Cannibal. A massive black beast with sickly green eyes and fire who enjoyed the taste of his own kin. A Maegor in dragon form. 

 “What’cha doing?” Maris nearly jumps out of her skin as Eleanor comes and drops into an armchair next to her. 

 “Watching. You can see the dragons sometimes. They’re beautiful.” 

 “I know.” Eleanor gazes out the window. 

 The Princess is out flying. Maris can tell because when Sryax is by herself, she has this lazy gait when flying, whereas when the Princess flies her, she’s direct and flying with a purpose. 

 “Where is everyone?” Maris asks. 

 Unlike at the Red Keep, where they spend most of their time in the Princess’s solar, everyone is spread out. Maris can usually find them, but there are a few spots where they haunt the most. 

 Emylie spends her free time with the maids, learning the secrets of the island. Brealla is in the solar or gardens when it’s somewhat nice out. Maris is either in the library, at lessons, or in the gardens with Brealla. Eleanor hardly leaves the library; Eleanor co-opted one of the tables for her books. It’s harder to find Lyarra, as she likes to be outside more often than not. Laena is always flying, which Maris is a little jealous of, or going back to Driftmark to check in with her mother. The Princess is either out flying, at lessons or in her study. 

 The only person that Maris has a hard time tracking down is Lady Amanda. 

 Ever since they’ve gotten to the island, she’s slipped away. She’s present at mealtimes or in the evenings when they gather together for an hour or so. 

 “Here and there. No idea where Lyarra is, but Emylie and Brealla are in the solar, and the Princess and Laena are out flying.” 

 “And Lady Amanda?” Maris is worried for her. She’s a very nice woman. Not that Maris likes to admit it, but when they first came to Dragonstone, she had a lot of nightmares as the place freaked her out. She always went to Lady Amanda for comfort, as Maris knew she wouldn’t judge her. 

 “She’s in the Sept.” 

 “The Sept?” She doesn’t think that Lady Amanda is particularly religious. She only goes when the Princess does. 

 “Maris…” Eleanor sighs. 

 Oh. She’s mourning. The Princess was allowed to mourn publicly after her mother’s death, but Lady Amanda had to remain firm and composed for her niece since her father didn’t seem interested in consoling his daughter. But now they’re in Dragonstone, away from court, she can finally mourn for her sister. 

 “Should we do something for her?” 

 “I think she’d appreciate some time alone. Septa Rhaella is with her.” 

 Maris nods, glad that Lady Amanda has someone to lean on. 

 Her great-aunt, Lady Jocelyn, told Maris that she could write to her if she ever needed help. It’s weird to think of Laena as her cousin, and Maris wonders if she should write to her to see if she could talk to Lady Amanda. She could use more support. 

 Well, she’ll write to Lady Jocelyn to ask if there’s other advice she could give Maris. She’s determined not to be the girl, bitter and depressed, that she was at Storm’s End. 

 Eleanor ran a hand through her hair, grumbling when it caught on a knot. Maris can sympathize. Her curls aren’t as intense as Eleanor’s and Laeana’s, but she still has to maintain a level of care. Cassandra used to tease her for it. 

 “Want to go explore with me?” 

 “What?” Maris asks. 

 “Explore! Come on, I’m bored.” 

 Maris hums. She doesn’t want to; she’s comfortable. 

 “Please?” Eleanor bats her eyes at Maris. 

 Maris groans. There’s no way Eleanor is going to let up. She’s as stubborn as Cassandra when she wants to be. “Fine,” she whines. She puts down her book and follows Eleanor out of the library. “Where are we going?” 

 She doesn't like the look in Eleanor’s eyes. “I want to check out Visenya’s apartments.” 

 “What?” Maris snaps. “Are you crazy? Dowager Queen Visenya put cruses on all of her things! I would think that someone who lives in Harrenhall would be wary of curses!” 

 Eleanor scoffs, dismissing Maris. “Please. It’s precisely because I grew up in Harrenhall I’m not worried. It’s not cursed. It’s just a half-melted castle.” 

 “What about the houses that went extinct holding the castle?” 

 “Maris, House Qoherys went extinct because of rebels, House Harroway because King Maegor was an asshole, and House Towers because the Lord was an improvised child. Doesn’t have anything to do with the castle.” 

 “What about the rumours of King Harren and his sons haunting the Kingspyre tower?” 

 “They have the same credibility as the rumours of King Maegor haunting the Red Keep. Because Harrenhall is so big and has a troubled history, there are large sections that aren’t used, leading people to ascribe strange occurrences in the unused parts of the castle.” 

 “How can you be so dismissive? We serve a lady who has a giant dragon!” 

 “Yeah, and I’ve met the dragon. I haven’t seen hide or hare of ghosts in the six-and-ten years of living there.” 

 Maris grumbles; there’s no way that Eleanor is changing her mind. She gets Eleanor's logic, but she doesn’t like it. She supposes that she could take a look. If something does happen, she can just go to the Princess. She’s a Targaryen, so she’d be able to undo the magic, right? 

 She cautiously follows Eleanor up to the Sea Dragon tower, flinching at the sight of the Hellhound and Wyvern gargoyles. Why did the Targaryens of the past like such creepy decorations? 

 Eleanor pulls out an old key and slides it into the lock. 

 Maris tenses, waiting for something to happen, when she pushes open the door. But as the moment stretches out, it becomes apparent that nothing happened. 

 “Coming?” Eleanor asks. 

 She doesn’t want to, but Maris nods. She takes a cautious step into the room. When a vengeful curse does not strike her down, Maris peers around the room. 

 It’s unsettling. The room looks like someone had just stepped out and never returned. The walls are thick stone, and deep red Valyarian tapestries depict images that make Maris’ ears burn. The furniture is deep walnut, complementing the tapestries.  

The covers, a deep navy blue with gold stitching, in the massive four-poster bed were rumpled and pulled back like the owner had just gotten out and hadn’t bothered to make the bed. There’s a thick maroon robe flung over one of the armchairs. 

 Various books were scattered around the room, concentrated around the small desk situated under the small window.

 Maris wasn’t sure what she was expecting from Queen Visenya’s rooms—maybe sacrificial circles, herbs and other witchy things scattered around, or even the skull of one of her enemies—but it seemed so normal. 

 Weirdly normal. 

 It’s not the spooky witch’s lair that Maris was expecting. 

 “Hun.” Eleanor looks around, evaluating the space. “It’s normal.” 

 “Mhm. You’ve had your fun. Can we go now?” 

 “Come on.” Eleanor shakes her head. She makes a beeline to the books, no surprise there. Maris wanders over to the dresser; the floor creaks under every step, causing Maris’ shoulders to hunch together tightly as she walks. 

 She feels very unwelcome. 

 She’s peeking at the small bits and bobs that people tend to collect over their lives. There’s a wicked-looking dagger with something stained on it that she refuses to touch. 

 But her eyes wander over to a cushion nestled on top of the dresser. 

 Resting on the black velvet cushion is a nasty-looking crown. It’s made of Valyrian steel, much like the other conquerors', but it is shaped very differently from the other crowns. Both King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys’ crowns are shaped in the traditional form for crowns: a thick band with spikes jutting up. 

 Queen Visenya’s crown looks nothing like that. 

 It’s a thick band of Valyrian steel with three thick spikes jutting up on each side, curling slightly, giving the wearer the effect of having dragon horns. Nestled in the middle of the crown is a thick ruby the size of a gold dragon. 

 If there was anything that Maris thought might be cursed, it’s that crown. 

 Should Maris tell the Princess that there’s a priceless historical artifact in this room? 

 Nah. Queen Visenya wouldn’t be happy if it’s moved. 

 Maris continues to putter around the room, her heartbeat in her ears the longer that she stays. There is the curiosity to open the drawers and poke through them, but Maris really doesn’t want to tempt fate. 

 “Find anything?” Maris asks, wandering over to the front of the room, ready to leave. 

 “A lot of books on Valayrian religion. Some of the rituals are kind of disturbing.” Eleanor is flipping through one of the books. 

 “See! I told you! Sorcery!” 

 “A religion isn’t sorcery. Imagine if someone said that about the Seven.” 

 That’s different! The Seven don’t want their practitioners to partake in blood sacrifice or other creepy magic stuff. 

 Eleanor frowns as she reads the book in her hands. She flicks to a different page. The frown gets deeper as she reads further. 

 “What’s wrong?” 

 “I think this is Visenya’s diary. There are a few mentions of Rhaenys, but it’s hard to tell; it’s written in High Valyrian. I’m having difficulty understanding the prose.”

 Maris can’t believe that Queen Visenya did something as mundane as keeping a diary. 

 “What are you doing?” 

 Maris screams at the unknown voice, spinning and flailing her arms in the manner that she’s seen some knights do. 

 There’s a grunt of pain as Maris’s fist comes in contact with something fleshy and solid, and Maris’s vision comes back. 

 Standing in the doorway, clutching her face, is a girl with a familiar set of curls. 

 “Oh no, Laena! I’m so sorry,” Maris blubbers. She feels the hot sting of tears appears. She steps forward, wanting to help her but stopping at the end, unsure if Laena wants her help. 

 Laena laughs; it’s a little strangled as she pokes at her face, wincing slightly. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you. You must’ve been freaked out hearing me whilst in Queen Visenya’s room. Nice punch.” 

 “I am so sorry.” Maris can’t believe that she hit her cousin! It’s a thing that her father would do, not her! 

 “Maris, it’s fine. Besides, the Maester’s cell is right above us.” Laena waves her off. “But what are you doing?” 

 “Eleanor wanted to explore.” Maris sends a glare over her shoulder. 

“Sorry, Maris.” Eleanor looks apologetic, joining their little group, still holding Queen Visenya’s diary. “I suppose I got a little carried away.” 

 “A little ,” Maris grumbles.

 “What do you have there?” Laeana asks, looking at the book in Eleanor’s hands. 

 “Queen Visenya’s diary. Do you think you could read it?” Eleanor asks, handing it over. 

 Laena hums and takes the book. She opens it at a random page and starts scanning the words. The longer she reads, the more concerned she gets. “That’s odd. Visenya was convinced that she had something to do with Rhaenys’s death.” 

 “How?” Maris asks. Queen Rhaenys died in Dorne, kingdoms away from her siblings. 

 “Hm. I’m not certain; I don’t understand all the words. But it has something to do with a fertility ritual?” Laena squints as she tries to decipher the words. 

 “How would that have to do with Queen Rhaenys?” 

 “Maester Geradys told me that magic, especially the kind that the Valyrians used, has a balance. Every act you take, there’s a reaction. Say, performing a ritual to bring in a new life into the world that wasn’t planned by the gods…” Eleanor trails off, looking a little sick. 

 “The consequence would be taking away a life already alive, making it even worse, it’s a life so intimately intertwined with the caster,” Laena finishes, looking faintly queasy. 

 This is why Maris doesn’t fuck with magic! 

 The three of them start to migrate toward the Maester’s cell to help Laena with the spreading bruise across her eye. Maris takes a second to lock the door. They pushed their luck, but Maris didn’t want anyone else to walk in and curse or anything. 

 “She mentions her guilt when she looks at Aenys.” 

 “Do you think that’s why Maegor waited until his brother died?” Eleanor asks. 

 “It’s a posbility. I doubt he would’ve done anything without his mother behind him. If she felt guilt for allowing Aeny’s mother to die, she might’ve not wanted to ruin her sister’s legacy.” 

 “Does the diary actually say that, or are you imprinting your own thoughts onto a person?” Maris rolls her eyes at them. Maester Geradys tells her that she cannot assume things without having the evidence to back them up. Right now, all they have is a half-translated diary that was just found. She would think that the older girls would remember that. 

 Both of them look contemplative as they enter the cell. 

 Maester Geradys tuts at them when he spots Laena’s face. He tuts even further when Maris explains where they are. 

 “Do you think Visenya felt guilt, Maester Geradys?” Maris asks after Eleanor explains. 

 “People often forget the conquerors were human, just like you and I.” Maester Geradys starts dabbing something weird smelling on Laena’s face. “They’re not infallible gods. They make mistakes and feel just as us. Visenya could easily have felt guilt while thirsting for the throne.” 

 Maris catches the look on Eleanor’s face and tries not to roll her eyes. “You’re going to be writing a play about this, aren’t you?” She asks. 

 Eleanor shrugs. “I think that it would be interesting to work with Visenya’s psyche.” 

 “And the anti-usurpation is going to be very overt.” Maris shakes her head in amusement. 

 “That’s the beauty of art.” 

 “Ooh! Can I help?” Laena asks. “It sounds like fun!” 

 “Well, my High Valyrian isn’t the greatest, so I’d welcome any help when it comes to translating the diary.” 

 Laena grins brilliantly. “Wonderful!” 

 “Lady Velayron, stop moving,” Maester Geradys scolds. Laena slumped over and let Maester Geradys fuss over her. 

 Maris sees Eleanor’s composing face and decides to let her be. She volunteered to help with the last play, and it was exhausting. Eleanor would rewrite sections when she didn’t like one sentence. She’ll help with costumes, but she’s staying out of the rest of it. 

 Laena can subject herself to that version of insanity. Maris is going back to reading and dragon-watching. At least there, she won’t have to worry about being cursed. 

                                                                                                                                        ****

 Rhaenyra cheers alongside Syrax as she dives toward the ground. There’s nothing better than feeling the wind through her hair as Sryax bursts through the air. 

 “ Ninkiot! ” 

 Syrax trills and aims for a small spot at the base of the Dragonmont. The landing is smooth and graceful. If there’s one thing that Syrax is good at, it’s her landings. 

 “ Let her cook her own meat,” Rhaenyra instructs one of the Dragonkeepers. Syrax has a problem with not being able to hunt and cook for herself. Since she grew up in King’s Landing with Rhaenyra, she never learnt to hunt and care for herself. It got worse throughout the years when the Dragonkeepers just started cooking it for her. 

 In her Dreams, that Rhaenyra never saw a problem with it, but Rhaenyra wants Syrax to be independent. She doesn’t want Syrax to have to depend on the Dragon Pit anymore. Once they get back to the capital, she’s going to argue with her father to let Syrax fly free. 

 The Dragonkeepr nods and leads the goat to Syrax. 

 Syrax gives Rhaenyra a quizzical look as if asking why her meat wasn’t cooked.

 “Syrax , dracarys. ”  Rhaenyra gestures to the goat. It takes her five times to get Syrax to cook her food. This is certainly a problem. 

 “ She is growing. ” A Dragonkeeper comments. 

 “ She is. I am pleased with her growth rate. She’s grown a fair amount since we came.”  

 Rhaenyra hadn’t noticed it at first, but she’s had to readjust Syrax’s saddle and reigns recently. The problem is that Rhaenyra can’t tell if that’s a natural part of Syrax’s growth or if it’s because of her freedom. 

 “ Do you think that she’ll get any bigger within the next two moons? ” She asks. The earliest Alicent can give birth is in the next two moons. Rhaenyra did say that she’d be back for the birth. 

“ It’s hard to say. Dragon growth is irregular. ” He strokes his short beard in contemplation. “ Though, if you keep pushing her stamina and have her hunt her own food, she might grow.” 

  That’s what Rhaenyra thought; it’s nice to hear it affirmed by someone else. “ Thank you for speaking with me.” 

  He nods in gratitude and hurries off to his next task. 

 Rhaenyra heads to the hatchling pen, curious to see what dragons have hatched recently. 

 “Great-uncle! It’s a shock to see you out here. I assumed that you were not a fan of dragons.” She grins when she sees Vaegon. 

 He scowls at her before returning to watching the pen. “I see that rumour is still running,” he mutters. 

 “What do you mean?” Rhaenyra asks, stopping beside him and watching the little hatchlings run around inside. 

 Instantly, she spots Sunfyre, Aegon’s golden beast. She thought that the sight of the dragon would fill her with rage, but instead, she just felt pity for the dragon. The version of Sunfyre that killed her was a crippled, dying beast forced to attack her by his master. He was treated like a tool rather than an intelligent creature who chose to bond with Aegon. Honestly, she doesn’t know who taught Alicent’s children about dragonlore, but they did a poor job. 

 The Sunfyre is a cheerful little hatchling in the present, squawking and playing with the others. He’s free from the burdens of the war, and Rhaenyra would like to keep it like that. 

 “I was different from my brother, great-niece. I oft found myself wondering why. It’s difficult to be different. When Grand-Maester Elysar started making noises that I would be good for the Citadel I gave up trying to be like my brothers. That included dragon riding.” He scoffs. “Besides, I do not think there were many dragons around without riders. I did not wish to be humiliated again .” 

 Rhaenyra understands his frustration. Grandmother Alyssa wasn’t known for her great kindness and tact, and Grandsire Baelon, from what she’d heard, did little to discourage her. He must’ve felt so alone in the Keep. 

 “I do not mind dragons. In fact, they are incredible beasts, unique to the world. It was just not for me.”

 “I’m sorry.” 

 “It’s not your fault, great-niece. Do not apologize for it.” 

 Rhaenyra bumps her shoulder against his. “You were a child, great-uncle. Your actions didn’t justify such a humiliation, and you deserved an apology. Since you never got it, I’m apologizing to you for my grandsire and grandmother.” 

 She thinks of Aemond, bitter and angry from his brother and nephew’s teasing about his lack of a dragon. She thinks of the monster he became, fine with killing Lucerys and Rhaenys and burning the Riverlands. She’s seen what that resentment can become, but instead of taking his anger out on innocents, Vaegon made himself a master of his profession. One of the youngest Archmaesters in the Citadel. It might be corny to say, but she’s proud of him. 

 He looks flummoxed, but a second later, his expression softens. He didn’t smile, which is not what Vaegon does, but Rhaenyra can tell he’s pleased. 

 There’s a small yip as a hatchling comes over to investigate the two newcomers. Rhaenyra smiles at the hatchling’s excitement. The hatchling is cute, with mottled orange-pink scales and three nubby horns, one in the middle of its forehead and two at the base, which are a dark purple colour. Rhaenyra is reminded of a sunset when looking at the hatchling. Bright orange frills decorate its cheeks. 

 She grins when its bright orange eyes train on Vaegon. “I think this one likes you.” 

 Vaegon scowls as the hatchling wiggles through the pen’s wire slates, latches onto the edge of his robe and tugs on it like a puppy. He nudges it off of him with his foot, but the hatchling just tries to tackle his foot, gnawing at his shoe with its baby teeth. 

 He sighs heavily, leaning down, and finally pulls it off of his foot. It curls around his hand, looking up at Vaegon with its big orange eyes. “Lothsome creature,” he says rather fondly. The hatchling yips and bites his finger. 

 He puts the hatchling back in the pan. The hatchling whines, trying to get back out. 

 “Are you sure you don’t want a dragon?” She asks. 

 “I am much too old for one. I am content with watching.” 

 There’s a certain wistfulness in his tone that Rhaenyra doesn’t comment on. Instead, she leans on the pen and stays there in silence with him. He doesn’t seem to want to talk, so Rhaenyra doesn’t engage. 

 There’s a peace here that she doesn’t achieve often, and since she’s leaving for King’s Landing soon, she should appreciate every chance of peace she gets. 

Chapter Text

 Moving this much while she’s pregnant isn’t a good idea, but Alicent is restless. Grand Maester Mellos told her to remain seated as much as possible in order not to upset the babe. While she respects his opinion, she has a burning desire to go pray. 

 As the day grows closer, she grows worried. Her mother delivered healthy babes; Alicent remembers all of the dead babes that Queen Aemma delivered and worries. She doesn’t want that for her child. 

 With Bethany’s help, she wobbles down to the Royal Sept to pray. She wants to pray to the Mother for a safe birth. 

 When she steps in, the Royal Sept is empty. The silence hangs heavy as Alicent makes her way to the statue of the Mother. The light from the afternoon sun spills into the Sept, encasing the statues of the gods in shadows. It’s eerie. 

 Bethany helps her to her knees so she can pray. She lights the candles at the feet of the Mother and bows her head in prayer. 

 She’s so scared of birth. She wishes that her mother were still alive so she could turn to her for comfort. She won’t have her mother beside her, and it makes Alicent weep. Who else will be in there when it happens in childbirth and will comfort her? Bethany won’t join her; it’s not proper for a maid to attend to a woman in childbirth. She’s got no one. Her aunt Lynesse is too far away from the Keep to get here in time. She’s so alone. 

 Alicent sniffles, dabbing at her eyes, but eventually composes herself. 

 Once she’s finished her prayers, Bethany helps her to her feet again. 

 The door creaks open, and to Alicent’s surprise, she spots a man in Septon’s garb that she doesn’t recognize. “Forgive me, but I don’t think we’ve met, good ser.” She narrows her eyes at him. 

 The man bows. “I am Septon Godric, Your Majesty. I’ve been placed in charge of the Royal Sept.” 

 “What about Septon Eustace?” Alicent demands. 

 “He’s been reassigned, Your Majesty.” 

“Reassigned?” She snaps. Why did no one tell her? She’s the Queen; she should know who is in charge of the Royal Sept. “On whose authority?” 

 “My Queen,” Bethany mutters, silently telling her to be quiet.   

 No! Alicent is tired, and a child is pressing up against her stomach. She wants to know who did this without her permission. Septon Eustace was one of the few allies she’d managed to gain at court, and she’s not going to let him go without a fight. 

 He’s one of the few people who can see her plight and help her instead of shunning her like everyone else. 

 He’s one of the few who doesn’t fall for Rhaenyra’s lie of being good and virtuous. He can see the danger lurking in and around her. 

 He can’t be gone. 

 “It was the will of the High Septon, Your Majesty.” 

 Alicent falters; she can’t go against the High Septon. Curses! “And why wasn’t I informed of this?” She demands. 

 “I cannot say. The High Septon informed the King of this change.” 

 She scowls. Of course, they withhold this information from her. Viserys wouldn’t think to tell her because it’s not important to him, and her father wouldn’t deign to tell her. Why would he? She’s more his servant than the other way around. 

 “I see,” she says stiffly. 

 “I hope to be able to serve you well in the future, My Queen.” He bows as Alicent marches past him. 

 She’s angry and frustrated, tears well in her eyes. She cannot go against the High Septon and cannot have Septon Eustace returned to the Royal Sept. One of her allies is gone, and there’s nothing that she can do. 

 She’s powerless. Even as a Queen, she’s powerless. 

 She hates this! 

 Alicent doesn’t know if Rhaenyra was involved in this, but if she is, Rhaenyra will regret it. 

                                                                                                                                                                             ****

 The nights on the Stepstones are strangely peaceful. The Crabfeeder and his men don’t attack in the dead of night, as the waters are too treacherous. The night is pitched black, and the water reflects the inky darkness of the sky. The stars shine weakly down on them. 

 The only lights are the small fires scattered throughout camp; the men huddled around them, desperate for warmth. 

 Daemon watches the men around him relax for the evening. He’s too tired and irritated to join in the carousing. The day hasn’t gone as he wanted; they haven’t gained any ground today. They’re stuck at an impasse with the Crabfeeder, and it irritates the hell out of him. 

 There’s one near to him, filled with levies from the Crownlands. He spots a few sigils that he recognizes. 

 He pays them no mind, content to ignore them, focused on soaking up the scant few moments of peace he has down here until he spots the familiar pale figure heading in their direction, in the direction of the officer’s tents. 

 There’s a distance between the commander’s quarters and the rest of the rank and file. A pitiful distinction of rank. These men were meant to serve as the guards for the commander’s quarters. 

 One of the men, speaking with the candour of a native King’s Landing, leers at Alektor. “Look, here, boys, we have the Lordling’s favourite plaything.” 

 Fools. 

 Daemon huffs. 

 He’s seen Alektor fight. It’s a shame that the Uller sigil doesn’t have a scorpion on it because Alektor is one in human form, small but lethal. 

 Alektor pauses, his pale eyes reflecting the light of the fire, staring down at the man in silence.

 Some of the other men at the fire shift uncomfortably in their seats, watching as Alektor just stands there, evaluating his opponents. 

 One of the man’s companions takes Alektor’s silence for the opposite of what it is: submission. He chortles and slaps his friend on the shoulder. “What, you want a piece of the little Lording Dayne’s personal whore?” 

 The first one leers at Alektor. “I might. He’s so skinny that he could pass a girl. You think Lord Dayne will let me have you, boy?” 

 “If so, I’ll take second watch .” 

 There’s a small tick in Alektor’s jaw that alerts Daemon that the men are in trouble. 

 As quick as a lunging snake, Alektor grabs the hair of the man closest to him, the friend of the first man, and slams his face into the hot coals of the fire. 

 The putrid smell of burning hair reaches Daemon’s nostrils as he moves to separate them; this cannot end well. He needs to stop them. The screams arrive seconds later as the man thrashes under Alektor’s unrelenting grip. 

 “Gentlemen, what’s going on?” He saunters up to the fire, making his presence known. Alektor pulls his hand away; Daemon spots red creeping up his arm, but Alektor remains silent. 

 The man scrambles out of the fire, his face a mottled red; his friend scrambles to his feet to defend his friend. “Y-you!” he gasps, his face withering with pain. He stumbles to his feet and points a shaky finger at Alektor, who remains silent. He sneers in retaliation, watching the men like a predator watches its prey.

 Daemon turns to the angry soldiers. He points to the first one. “Take your friend to the med tent. If I hear anything about this, I ensure that your commanders know what you said to a highborn. ” 

 There’s not much he can do. There’s no court-martialling in this pathetic dump of an army; the best he can do is to go to their commanding officers and let them know what their men are up to and have them assigned to the worst possible position. 

 They scramble off, one supporting the other. 

 Daemon turns to the rest of the men. “Same goes for you, do you understand?” He snarls. 

 The men nod and book it, dispersing into the night. 

 Alektor yanks his hand out of Daemon’s grasp and scowls at him. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

 “A thank you would be nice.” 

 “You didn’t help me.” Alektor sneers. Irritation coats his expression. He turns to go back to his tent. 

 “Then what was that?” Daemon snaps, anger rolling in his veins, grabbing Alektor’s shoulder, forcing him to look at him. Is it really that fucking hard to acknowledge? All he wants is a little credit. “Do you think about what would’ve happened if I didn’t interfere?”

 “I’m not some fucking damsel you need to save, my Prince.” Alektor uses a mocking tone when saying Daemon’s title, but Daemon tenses when the title rolls off Alektor’s lips. 

 Alektor uses that confusion to yank off Daemon’s arm and stomp off. 

 “I am aware,” Daemon growls, hurrying after the man. “But even you would have difficulties with that many.” 

 “For fuck’s sake!” Alektor stops and whirls on Daemon with such force that he actually steps back in shock. “You moron! It wasn’t about winning the fucking fight!” 

 “Then what was it? Your fucking pride?” Daemon snaps. “We have fucking better things to do than deal with your weak ego. Maybe I should’ve let those men treat you like the whore you are.” 

 Alektor’s swing was fast enough that Daemon didn’t have a chance to block it. 

 The force of the punch sent him staggering back, one hand going to his nose and the other going to Dark Sister’s hilt. Alektor may amuse him, but he’ll fucking cut him down if need be. 

 Alektor’s figure swims in his teary eyes, being punched in the fucking nose hurts, as the guy stomps over. “This isn’t about fucking pride. Not everything is about it; it’s fucking survival.” 

 Daemon snarls, launching himself at Alektor. He can feel Caraxes’s rumble deep in his chest, matching his anger. 

 No one gets away with attacking him. 

 Daemon can see himself reflected in Alektor’s eyes as he slams into the other man. 

 They go tumbling into the dirt below, grappling, clawing and gnashing at each other’s skin as they try to gain the upper hand. At one point, Daemon elbows Alektor in the face in retaliation for his busted nose. 

 Their bodies flush together as they writhe together in the sand. 

 Alektor scrambles on top, his lips curling into a vicious grin, teeth painted in red, as he pins Daemon by his wrists. 

 Daemon bumps his hips into Alektor’s, jolting him into letting go of Daemon.

 Before Alektor can regain his balance, Daemon has his arms wrapped around his middle, trapping one of his feet and rocking him over to one side, allowing Daemon to push himself up. His legs rest on either side of Alektor, pinning him under Daemon. 

 Daemon pins Alektor to the ground, a hand wrapped around his throat, preventing Alektor from moving. “Aw, was your fucking pride hurt?” Alektor rasps. 

 Daemon falters, guilt rushing through his veins. He’d attacked Alektor in the same way that those men did, despite trying to stop the harassment. He— fuck. 

 Alektor’s vicious grin reappears as he can feel Daemon’s guilt. “Not so high and mighty now, are you?” 

 Pain blossomed in his ribcage as Alektor’s knee slammed into it. Daemon groans but doesn’t put up a fight as Alektor pushes him off. 

 He grunts as his body hits the rocky turf and doesn’t bother to get up to resume the fight. 

 Alektor remains where he’s lying, staring at the stars.

 “Fuck,” Daemon groans. 

 There’s a sound that sounds suspiciously like laughter, and then a cough overtakes it. Alektor sighs. “You don’t understand, you know. You—-” He sighs again, a painful and laboured sound. Daemon grunts, telling him to keep going. “You’re a prince. No matter what your relationship with your brother is, you’ll always be a prince. Your title protects you. Me, on the other hand? I am a grain of sand amongst ten thousand others. There’s nothing protecting me.”

 Alektor falls silent, his eyes watching the heavens as if it would give him the answers he wants. 

 “Every scrape I gain is hard-won and easy to lose. Someone from our host must’ve told them, and now, everything I achieved is gone. They think that I am Eanon’s plaything he brought…” 

 “And you showed them that you wouldn’t roll over like a dog on command,” Daemon finishes, understanding now. Alektor’s place in the world is weak as a Sand. The moment that the others knew, the odds would be against him. The show of power and bloodthirstiness is his armour. No one would fuck with him if it meant getting their face burnt off.   

 Daemon huffs, crazy fucker. 

 “You’re an Uller, you know? No one can take it away from you now.” 

 “Not in the way that it matters. The Prince might say that I am, but the rest of the region knows better. For fuck’s sake, the Prince only did it appease my ne…Qyle, in hopes that he’d stop siding with the Daynes.” 

 “Did it work?” 

 “Fuck no.” Alektor laughs, but sobers up. 

 They fall into restless silence, watching the heavens and listening to water slam against the rocks in the distance. 

 Daemon can feel the pain, both physical and mental, radiating out from Alektor and is unsure of what to do. He knows that words cannot soothe the balm on Alektor’s soul; frankly, nothing can. It is a brand that he’ll carry for the rest of his life, just like Viserys’s rejection. Unlike Alektor, Daemon is lucky; his brother rejects him, but his name has power. Alektor doesn’t have that protection. Daemon’s seen what the world can do to men without protection, the horror that ravages Westeros despite Viserys’s protests. It’s an ugly and twisted thing…and he just added to it—fuck! 

 Daemon groans and sits up, resting his arms on his knees. 

 He can see Alektor eye him curiously. 

 “Come with me, I can do something for that hand.” 

 Alektor raises his burnt hand and examines it. “It’s fine,” he dismisses Daemon. “It’s my non-dominant anyways.” 

 Daemon rolls his eyes. Crazy fucker. He slaps Alektor’s thigh. “Come on.” He stands, his knees creaking as he does. Fuck, he’s getting old. 

 Alektor groans, and stumbles to his feet. 

The walk is silent, both of them too wrapped up in their misery to bother making small talk. The scuffing of their boots against the rocky shore rings in Daemon’s ears. 

 He pushes Alektor onto the rickety bed as he lights a small candle and hunts for his burn cream. “You know, if you wanted me in your bed, you could’ve just asked.” Daemon rolls his eyes at Alektor’s suggestive tone. 

 “Shut up.” Daemon sits next to Alektor. He takes Alektor’s hand and uncorks the ointment. 

 They’re silent as Daemon smears it across the blistered flesh. 

 “I thought you Targs are supposed to be fire-repellent,” Alektor says, admiring the patch job in the dim light. 

 “We’re not. It’s a myth.” 

 “Hun.”

 The silences are getting harder to ignore. 

 Daemon corks the bottle, tucking it away. “Ignore the others. You wield the spear of Meraxes. She wouldn’t allow any schmuck to use her,” he tells Alektor.

 Alektor laughs. “I thought you didn’t believe in Dawn’s magic.” 

 “I don’t.” 

 “Yet you think that my spear has some mystical powers?” 

 “The magic of Old Valyria is real and present in our dragons. It lingers even after their death. Meraxes was ridden by one of the conquerors, and dragons are particular about their bondmates. Do you think that she would let someone unworthy wield her?” 

 “Fucking ego-centric Targaryens.” Alektor rolls his eyes. He sighs and leans against Daemon. Daemon freezes at the contact. 

 He is not used to touching; being a royal requires a certain decorum. After a certain age, Daemon was not allowed to seek comfort. Viserys left him in the dust a long time ago. Sure, he could get affection from whores or Myseria, but it’s a fleeting empty feeling. He knows, deep down, that they don’t mean it, and it’s only bought. And Rhaenyra…sweet, Rhaenyra. She loves him in the pure way that children know how to love, and it’s addicting . 

 Alektor’s casual affection confuses him, and Daemon greatly dislikes confusion. 

 Why? Why is he relaxing in Daemon Targaryen’s presence right after they fought? Had he just forgotten it? If so, why? 

 Daemon is a fighter; he always has been. From the moment he showed talent with a sword, it was his destiny to be House Targaryen’s champion. The one they send to quell the flames of war. If not, what use could he be? Father told him that he was supposed to be Viserys’s protector, his shield in war. He knows that he has become a monster born from his duty and Viserys’s rejections, and yet this man is so unguarded around him, uncaring about the blood on his hands. It baffles Daemon; not even his brother was that relaxed with him. 

 Daemon closes his eyes, letting the warmth linger. 

 The warmth worms its way into his bones, weakening the armour Daemon has built. He hates it, yet is grateful for the affection. 

 He doesn’t know what is going through Alektor’s mind to act so carelessly around a Prince, but Daemon is…thankful…for the Dornish’s lack of frigidity compared to the rest of Westeros. 

Alektor is strange yet…useful. Daemon can see why Eanon insists on having the man around.

He doesn’t say a word to the other man, worried that speaking might break the strange spell cast on them. Alektor is audacious, but Daemon will continue to allow it so long as he can…benefit from it.

                                                                                                                                                                                      ****

 Tyland scowls at the letter in front of him. He’d written to Jason, advising him to act, at least, neutral towards succession, warning him that, yes, a son, in theory, might be better than a daughter succeeding, but given all that Tyland’s witnessed already, he doesn’t think it applies here. 

 It grates on his nerves to admit it, but any son born of the Hightower lineage would not serve the realm well. 

 He’s seen the Queen blunder her way through the castle, allowing her anger and biases to dictate her actions instead of rational thoughts. And he’s seen how the Hand strut through the Small Council chambers, oozing entitlement. After all his years at the top, he’s forgotten that the Small Council is meant to guide and advise the King, not usurp him in all but name. 

 Any son raised between the two of them will not be competent in the long run. He will not learn to stand on his feet, forever cursed to lean on his advisors. A King is weak if he doesn’t learn, and this boy won’t learn.  

 He tried to tell Jason this, in veiled terms, lest the Hand learned to read Tyland’s letters, but Jason doesn’t understand. He’s not here, in King’s Landing, watching this destruction with his own eyes. He doesn’t think. For Jason, his thoughts do not expand beyond the Westerlands and the impact his actions can have on the rest of the Realm. Trying to maintain the dignity and power of the Lannisters is good, but dignity means nothing against the wrath of the realms. 

 Why can’t Jason see that Tyland is trying to help him? He hates that his brother is ignoring his good advice. 

 What can he do to get Jason to listen to him? 

 Tyland drains his goblet of Arbour Gold and sighs. 

 Ah! That’s it! Jason is much like the King. He doesn’t like criticism. To gain his confidence, Tyland needs to find a way to make it seem like Jason is the one to have this idea. 

 He reaches for a fresh piece of parchment and scribbles out a letter to Dake Swyft, the Westerland’s tax collector and friend of both Jason and Tyland, to speak to Tysha, Jason’s favourite mistress, and Johanna, too, just in case. Jason needed to understand that they should practice neutrality until it is proven otherwise. 

Tyland sighs, pouring more wine. He misses his father and his wisdom; he’d know what to do in this cluster fuck of political mess.

Chapter Text

As King’s Landing comes into view, Rhaenyra’s stomach plummets further. Not even the joy of riding Syrax could alleviate the dread. She left Dragonstone this morning, her ladies having departed several days before her, fond farewells following them. Laena had flown back to Driftmark and would come for the celebration of a new member of the Royal Family. 

 Rhaenyra so desperately wanted to stay on Dragonstone longer, where she could fly without constraints and be at ease, tucked away from the harsh realities of the world. 

 She doesn’t want to go back. Even if Alicent is in disgrace, the moment that she births a son, several of Rhaenyra’s allies are going to desert her. They say that they’re going to side with her, but will they truly? Some like the comforts of tradition, and Rhaenyra’s reign will usher in new uncertainties.  

 What’s worse, Alicent will regain some prestige by being the Queen by giving the King a son, and Otto is going to rub it in Rhaenyra’s face. She remembers him and his brother calling Aegon a ‘conqueror in his own right’ when he was two. 

 What shit is he going to pull this time?  

 Syrax notices her distress and trills warily. 

 Rhaenyra sighs and pats Syrax, trying to put her at ease. It’s not Syrax’s fault that she’s upset. 

 It’s times like these, when she’s flying alone, that she wonders how Uncle Daemon is doing. The war in the Stepstones, without Rhaenyra’s interference, would last over two years. But now that she’s interfered, she has no idea what’s in store for him. 

 She closes her eyes, feeling the wind whip through her as she tries to compose herself. She can’t allow herself to be weak anymore. She must be strong. 

 Rhaenyra guides Syrax towards the Dragonpit, distaste bubbling in her stomach. She wants to let Syrax roam free like on Dragonstone, but she has to wait for her Father’s permission.

 The pit of dread in her stomach grows bigger when she spots the figure in the Dragonpit. Her father had come to wait for her. 

 Rhaenyra slides off Syrax once she’s settled. Syrax looks at the chains and loudly protests. 

 It’s breaking her heart to force her lady back into chains. Syrax whines as Rhaenyra strokes her snout. “ I know, dear girl. Will you do this for me? ” Rhaenyra pleads. Syrax whines. “ I will speak with my Father to free you.” 

Deep in the caverns of the Dragonpit, she can hear Dreamfyre’s muted roar. 

 Syrax finally acquiesces, and the Dragonkeepers manage to get Syrax into her chains. Rhaenyra turns towards her doom. 

 “Father.” She doesn’t know how to approach. Is he angry? Is he happy that she’s back? 

 “Rhaenyra!” He holds out his arms, and Rhaenyra allows him to pull her into a hug. For a moment, Rhaenyra closes her eyes and pretends to be a child again. “I see Syrax is restless.” 

 He’s nervous. Syrax is his go-to topic when he’s trying to broach a conversation, when he’s too nervous to broach the topic he wants. 

 “Yes.” Rhaenyra pulls away, looking at her lady’s retreating back. “She’s grown accustomed to living free on Dragonstone. She dislikes being confined and chained.”

“Well, she’ll have to become accustomed to the Pit again. It’s for her safety and the citizens.”

 “Is it? Great-grandsire and great-grandmother kept Verimthor and Silverwing at the Red Keep,” Rhaenrya says, following her father into the wheelhouse. She really shouldn’t be having this conversation now, not when she doesn’t know where she stands with her father.  

“Silverwing and Vermithor were adult dragons who knew not to attack people.” 

 “And Syrax will?” Rhaenyra huffs. “Father, it took me several tries to cook her own food. And you think that she’ll attack people out of the blue?” 

 Father groans, running a hand through his hair. “Rahenyra, can we not?” 

 Rhaenyra slumps. She didn’t want to fight him, truly, it’s just……it’s easy to fall back into these patterns. 

 “How’s Alicent?” No matter what their relationship is, the thought of a woman dying in childbirth makes Rhaenyra sick. 

 “Grandmaester Mellos has her on bed rest.” 

 Rhaenyra nods; Grandmaester Mellos recommended that her mother do the same when she was nearing the end of her pregnancies. She turns to look out the window, avoiding her father’s eye. 

 There is so much that Rhaenyra wants to say to her father, but she’s scared to start the conversation. It’s like flying without securing herself, one sharp turn, and she’s tumbling through the sky. 

 The wheelhouse creaks and groans as it makes its way through the streets of King’s Landing. 

 “I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra’s voice cracks, breaking the discomforting silence. “For acting that way.” Her words are half-truths. She’s still angry that her father did nothing to stop Alicent from interfering with her, but she's sorry for hurting and ignoring him. She feels like her actions are childish and impulsive, running off to Dragonstone for several moons. 

 Maybe it was the right thing to do, but Rhaenyra is unsure. 

 She’s laying her repentance on thickly, at least for her, in hopes that he’ll lower his guard around her, just like how Emylie taught her. 

 “The blood of the Dragon runs thickly in you, dear.” Her father gives her a kindly smile. “I do not hold it against you. If you’d like, we can return to this conversation at a later date.” 

 Rhaenyra nods. “I would, thank you, Father. After the birth.” 

 “Yes. The whole court is on edge.” 

 She can imagine. The last time a Queen was pregnant, she died.  Now, everyone is looking to see if the child the Queen brings forth will supplant Rhaenrya’s position. 

The wheelhouse falls silent again, but this time, the silence doesn’t give her a heavy, cloying feeling. There’s a lighter feeling in the wheelhouse; the tension is still there, but it’s dissipated a little. 

 Rhaenyra leans back in her seat, returning to watching the residents of King’s Landing. 

 She hears the clatter of her ladies before she makes it out of the wheelhouse. She steps out, stretching as she does. 

“Father, there is someone I’d like for you to meet.” Rhaenyra pulls her father over to her ladies. 

Rhaella looks up from her conversation with Aunt Amanda and smiles kindly at her father. “Greetings, Your Majesty.” She curtsies. 

 Rhaenyra looks over at her Father; she can see the recognition dawning in his eyes. “Father, this is Septa Rhealla. The High Septon was kind enough to send Septa Rhealla to help me prepare for the future.” 

“Welcome!” He looks utterly enthralled at having another member of House Targaryen in King’s Landing. “It is wonderful to have you here. The High Septon told me that he was sending some new members to the Sept, but I did not know it would be you!  I wish I had known about you coming beforehand; I would’ve had quarters prepared for you in the Holdfast.” 

 Rhealla smiles kindly at Father. “Thank you for the offer, Your Majesty, but I must decline as I am a Septa. The quarters in the Sept will be just fine.” 

 Father looks put out but nods. “I understand. Shall we have dinner together after you’ve settled? You must have some wondrous stories. It is truly a pleasure to have you here.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I would be most pleased to sup with you.” Rhealla curtsies once again. “Now, if you do not mind, Your Grace, I must speak with the Septon.” 

 “Yes, yes. Take your time to settle in.” Father grins. 

 Rhealla nods before moving off.   

 Father turns back to Rhaenyra, his awkward compose returning as he faces Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra arches an eyebrow at her father, more amused than anything. “Shall I see you for dinner, Rhaenyra?” Father asks. 

 “Of course, Father, let me freshen up first.” 

 He gives her a grateful smile, and Rhaenyra turns away, instructing them to freshen up and relax after the journey. They disperse gratefully, chatting amongst themselves as they make their way to the tower they occupy. 

 Aunt Amanda lingers by Rhaenyra, clearly wanting to talk. 

 “Walk with me, aunt?” Rhaenyra holds out her arm. 

 She gratefully takes it, and they set out walking. Aunt Amanda sighs. “I’d like to apologize, dear.” 

 “For what, aunt?” 

 “For not being there. I was adrift whilst at Dragonstone, unable to complete my duties.” 

 “Aunt,” Rhaenyra sighs. She doesn’t hold it against her. She let Aunt Amanda grieve in peace at Dragonstone; Rhaenyra didn’t need her at Dragonstone like she does at the Red Keep and was happy to let her come to terms with Mother’s death at her own pace. “You don’t need to apologize. Since Mother’s death, you’ve taken care of me admirably. You shouldn’t feel guilty for taking some time to process what happened.” 

 In fact, Rhaenyra felt guilty for not being able to comfort her Aunt, but she is not good at comforting. Uncle Daemon calls her a dragon, passionate and proud. She hasn't yet learned the softness of womanhood that everyone tells her about. 

 “Still…you are a child who lost her mother, without her father….” Tears well up in Aunt Amanda’s eyes. Rhaenyra wonders if Aunt Amanda sees a reflection of herself in Rhaenyra and is trying to do what she wanted someone to do after she lost her mother. 

 Rhaenyra misses her mother fiercely, but truth be told, with all the memories jammed into her mind, the loss of her Mother feels distant sometimes, like an old wound healed but aches on bad days. 

“That’s true,” Rhaenyra concedes. “But you lost your sister, someone you helped raise from birth. I want you to be able to grieve without interruption. Please allow me this.” 

 Aunt Amanda stops and cups Rhaenyra’s face. “My darling girl, your mother would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.” 

 Rhaenyra’s heart flutters at the pure endearment in her words, and tears well up at the conviction of them. She’s so thankful that her aunt decided to stay here in King’s Landing, a place that has only brought trouble to her sister. 

 She feels grounded, knowing that Aunt Amanda is here for her and only her. There’s no other agenda at play. Her tears tremble on her eyelashes. 

Even though it’s not her mother in the birthing bed, Rhaenyra feels sick. There’s like a smog coating the Red Keep that’s pressing down on her ribcage, making it hard to breathe. She can’t believe the past version of her had so many children. How could she when she knew what killed her mother? 

 “Come, let’s get you to your bath.” Aunt Amanda, sensing her distress, directs her to start walking again. 

 Rhaenyra follows her, her mind frozen as the last moments she had with her mother play within her mind. Is Alicent thinking of that moment, too? Is she worried that she’ll become like Rhaenyra’s mother, just another royal woman suffering for the realm? 

                                                                                                                     ****

 Alicent’s labour started sooner than Rhaenyra expected. She’s been back less than a moon when she’s summoned to her father’s solar, the cries of Alicent echoing through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. 

 It’s late, nearing the hour of ghosts, when the screams started. Alicent must’ve started labour hours ago, but is merely reaching the actual birth. 

 “Father,” she murmurs upon entering. 

 He looks as wrecked as she feels. She can’t summon the energy to be annoyed with him.  “Rhaenyra.” She doesn’t fight the embrace he wraps her in. 

 “Come.” She sits in as he fusses around, trying to make himself busy. She accepts some wine from him but doesn’t drink. 

 “Should we call for Septa Rhealla?” Rhaenyra asks. It would be nice to have a buffer between them right now. Rhaenyra is feeling particularly tense and would like to avoid another fight. 

 “It is late; let her sleep.” Father dismisses her. Rhaenyra scowls but doesn’t argue. 

 The screams echoing through the walls make Rhaenyra flinch. How many times has she listened to her mother go through the same thing? Images of her siblings flash through her mind as she clutches the wine tighter. 

 Would this child end up like the rest of her siblings? 

 The small urns decorating the family’s mausoleum are the only reminders of what her mother died for. 

 Bile coats her mouth as she tries to force the images away. 

 “Have you thought of names?” Rhaenyra’s voice cracks as she asks her father, trying to break the heavy tension in the room. 

 “Aegon, if it's a boy. Alicent asked to name the child if its a girl.” 

 Predictable. Rhaenyra makes a face at the name, remembering how her brother of the past ruined their family name with his entitled nature. 

 “You dislike the like the name Aegon?” Her father asks. 

 Rhaenyra needs to measure her words carefully. She can feel the volatility within her rearing up. “Mother had an Aegon; do you remember Father?” From the stunned expression, he forgot. Mother named all of her dead siblings. “There have been many Aegons in our family. How many of them survived?” 

 He looks ill, thinking about all the lost Aegons in the family. 

 “I know it sounds like some silly superstition that the name is cursed, but I…worry.” 

 In truth, Rahenyra feels guilty for wanting this potential Aegon to die in his crib. He did nothing wrong to her, but he is a threat. 

 What’s wrong with her? 

 She rubs her forehead, trying to banish those thoughts. 

He’s a child. 

She hopes that this child is a girl, not a boy. Then Otto wouldn’t be able to use her against Rhaenyra. She’d have some time to get these horrible thoughts out of her mind. 

 “...yes…” The word comes out strangled and panicked. “I understand your worry, Rhaenyra.” 

 “The Lord Hand, Your Majesty,” Harold Westerling calls. 

 “Ah, yes, Otto, do come in.” 

 “Your Grace.” Otto bows when he walks in. He spots Rhaenyra, and there’s a slight sneer on his placid face. Great. Rhaenyra really should’ve expected him to be here. “My Princess.” 

 “Hello, Ser Otto.” Rhaenyra winces as the screaming gets louder. Her nails dig into her palms as she tries to calm her beating heart. Even Otto looks rattled at the sounds. 

 Alicent will be fine. She survived four births before. 

 “We were just discussing names, Otto.” Father passes the wine to Otto. 

 “Oh, I thought we agreed on Aegon?” Otto’s eyes slid back to Rhaenyra, displeasure evident. 

 “Yes, but Rhaenyra raised a good point. The other Aegons in our family have not…historically…been well.” 

 “It’s mere superstition, Your Grace. What other name would showcase your family’s glory?” 

 “My mother’s Aegon died, Ser Otto. Same with my uncle, Aegon. And my great-uncle. And my great-great-uncle, Aegon the Uncrowned was violently murdered by his uncle. Perhaps is best not to name my brother this.” 

 Otto purses his lips, trying to find a rebuttal to Rhaenyra’s statement without seeming like he doesn’t care for his grandson and is planning treason. 

 A particularly loud scream reverberates through the thick walls. Rhaenyra clutches her head, murmuring half-memorized prayers to the Mother to stop this madness. 

 “What about Jaehaerys then?” Otto asks, looking a little green. 

 “Hm, that is not a bad idea, Otto.” 

 Instead of getting legitimacy from the conqueror’s name, Otto tries to get power from the name of the Conciliator.  

 “Rhaenyra?” Both of them look over to Rhaenyra. 

 “I’m sure great-grandsire would appreciate the honour of having my brother named after him. But I’m not sure I want to be reminded of him every time I talk to my brother. Do you, Father?” 

 “Come now, Princess. Surely, you are exaggerating.” Otto dismisses her. 

 Both look over to her Father. He looks like he’s mentally debating the name. “It would be…odd,” he says diplomatically. 

 “If my brother is named Jaehaerys, then he shall have a heavy legacy to live up to; that’s cruel to a young boy.” She can see her father resonate with her words. He’s the king after Jaehaerys, and having to shoulder his legacy and continue his hard-earned peace weighs heavily on him. It’s worse that he actually fails to uphold his grandsire’s legacy by allowing Otto to trample over him. “As his elders, shouldn’t we do what we can to ease his path?” 

 “That’s very……mature of you, Princess. It seems like your time at Dragonstone has given rise to some wisdom. ”  

 Rhaenyra shrugs. She feels bad for the child; he hasn't even been born yet, and they’re debating what his life will be like. 

 She looks over to her father to see what his opinion is, but he’s deep in thought, ignoring the two of them. Rhaenyra is happy to go back to ignoring her father and Otto. She draws up her knees to her chest and waits. Waiting is the worst part of this experience. 

                                                                                                                                        **** 

 Everything hurts; her legs tremble even though she’s sitting. Alicent reclines as the maids around her shuffle around, cleaning up the room. 

 She can’t take her eyes off the bundle in the wetnurse’s arms, the tuft of silver hair and glittering purple eyes. 

 Her emotions war within her as she continues to stare at him. She did it. She did her duty; everything that the courtiers said about her now means nothing. She did what Queen Aemma couldn’t do. She gave birth to a Prince. 

 But as she continued to watch the long-awaited prince, her Aegon, she couldn’t find the maternal spark she had been told would develop when her child was born. She went through everything, all that pain and ridicule for him? 

 She’s tired. Everything hurts. 

 She doesn’t want to look anymore. 

 “Your Majesty, the King, and the Hand wish to enter,” a midwife informs her as the wetnurse hands back Aegon. The babe fuses as Alicent tries to hold him properly. 

 Alicent sighs, trying to ignore Aegon’s cries; of course, Viserys wants to see his firstborn son, and her father wants to see his grandson. “Let them in,” she allows. 

 The door creaks open, and Alicent spots Viserys’s silver hair come in as she looks down at Aegon, trying to calm the fussing baby. 

 What is she doing wrong? 

 Why isn’t he calming? 

 Why?

 “Husband,” she greets him tiredly. “Come meet our son.” 

 “Look at you…” He coos, taking the bundle from her arms. Without her son in his arms, Alicent can feel the fatigue in her trembling arms. 

 She tired.  

 She wants a bath. 

 She wants this spectacle to be over. 

 “...Prince Aenar of House Targaryen.” 

 What? 

 Alicent frowns, looking at her husband. “Pardon me, husband? Aenar? I thought that we decided on Aegon.” 

 Viserys sighs, unable to look her in the eye, and keeps his eyes only on the child in front of him. “We did,” he concedes. “But Rhaenyra made a good point about how the Aegons in our family perish young.” 

 Of course, it was Rhaenyra. Alicent spots her lingering at the doorway with a silver shawl over a loose light blue dress. She couldn’t just let Alicent have this one thing? Is she that spoiled that she couldn’t part with a name ? 

 Alicent looks pleadingly at her father. She’s the one who gave birth; shouldn't she have a say? Her son is healthy and strong! He won’t die weakly like the others. Like Aemma’s. 

 He just shakes his head, looking disappointed. It appears that he attempted to retain the name, but Rhaenyra refused it. 

 How dare she! 

Alicent seethes silently. 

 “Why Aenar, Your Majesty?” Father asks, resigned.  

 No! He should be fighting for Aegon, the name for a King! 

 “Aenar Targaryen was the father of Daenys the Dreamer, the one who was forewarned of the Doom. If Aenar had not listened to his daughter, then House Targaryen would’ve been lost along with all the other Dragon Lords. It’s thanks to him that we exist today. I give this name to my son so he may help his sister usher House Targaryen into a new future.” 

 Alicent glares at Rhaenyra, who looks properly contrite. She not only stole her son’s name but then persuaded her father to give him a name that helps her cause? 

 Aegon is a prince! The throne is his by tradition and birthright. The only thing preventing him from having it is his sister. Alicent cannot do much; it’s the wife’s job to support her husband, no matter where he stands, but this is unfair! Why can she not have a name? 

 “I see.” Her voice comes out cold, but she’s too tired to care. She looks at her father again, pleading with him to do something. 

 Her body aches, and the name she wanted was ripped away from her. 

 “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we ought to let my daughter rest. It’s been a long day for her.” 

 She could cry. Her father is the only one who understands. What would she do without him? 

 “Ah, yes. Sorry, my dear.”

 Viserys tries to hand Aeg–no–Aenar to Alicent, but she waves him off, directing him to hand him to his wetnurse. She needs a bath and some sleep. Aeg–Aenar will be better off with his wetnurse. 

 He looks disappointed that she doesn’t take their son, but what does he know? She’s the one who pushed him out of her. 

 She sullenly watches as the wetnurse takes her son out of the room, ignoring Viserys, her father, and Rhaenyra as they shuffle out of her room. 

 Bethany hurries in, directing her maids to set up her washing station. Clearly, Bethany notices that Alicent is in distress as she squeezes Alicent’s hand while helping her undress and whispers. “Don’t you stress anymore; I’m here to take care of you.” 

 Alicent gives her a brief smile, silently thanking her for supporting her when no one else would. 

 She sighs as she slips into the hot water, which soothes her aching body. She tilts her head back, letting her body relax. Bethany is too good for her; she wishes that the others would take some cues from her and start treating her like the Queen she is. 

 She’ll give Rhaenyra one last chance. If she gracefully gives up her claim to the throne for her brother’s, now that there’s a male heir and she’s no longer needed, allowing the natural course of action to happen, Alicent will consider letting her back into her good graces. If she throws a fit again, then Alicent doesn’t know if she can allow Rhaenyra back into her life around her little brother. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra looks at her younger brother, swaddled tightly in her arms, nearly three moons old and still alive. Just merely looking at him causes so many conflicting emotions to bubble to the surface. 

 There’s no doubt about it; this is Aegon, her former brother. She remembers what he looked like when he was a babe. The picture of his squabbling, pinched face is imprinted in her mind forever; she will always be able to recognize him as the physical product of Alicent and her Father’s betrayal. 

 Rhaenyra continues to gaze at the sleeping baby in her arms as conflicting emotions blaze in her mind. Unlike Sunfyre, she doesn’t have that rush of pity for him. His life with Alicent and Otto wasn’t good; Rhaenyra understands that, but he still chose to act upon his worst desires. After the death of Lucerys, he felt a feast in his brother’s honour, like celebrating a kinslayer is a worthy action. He killed her; he got Jacearys killed with his alliance with the Triarchy. It does not matter that Otto might’ve engineered many of the events during the dance; he was still complicit . 

 She hates him. She hates him so much. What’s worse, Aenar is Aegon. 

 Aenar is new and innocent, but when she looks at him, she sees the face of her killer. 

 How can she care and love for a brother when she’s reminded of her death? While Aenar is Aegon, he has yet to make those mistakes. He can be saved and given a better life. But how can she save him when she hates him? When she looks at those violet eyes and soft silver tufts, her heart breaks, and the two conflicting sides get worse. 

 She’s reminded of Baelon, her sweet baby brother who died far too soon and wants to protect him, but then remembers that he isn’t Baelon or any of her other dead siblings, and resentment blossoms in her heart. 

 She hates that she can’t be decisive about her feelings toward him.

 If only she could make up her mind!

 She places Aenar down in his crib, done with her visit. 

 Until she sorts out her emotions, she can only stomach short visits. 

 She pauses for a moment, looking at the soft blue egg, Otto had wanted the egg she put in Baelon’s crib, that fucker, sitting next to his crib. Rhaenyra wonders if it’ll hatch for him or if Sunfyre will be his intended mount again. 

 “Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra inclines her head to the knight in front of the nursery. He’s taken to her request rather faithfully; it’s a little unnerving, to be honest. 

 Being assigned to watch the nursery of a supposed bastard wouldn’t be appealing, especially to someone like Criston. Rhaenyra does wonder if his anger towards her children was less because of their disputed heritage and more the fact that they weren’t his. 

 “Princess.” He bows. 

 “Has my brother been comfortable?” 

 “Only the best for the prince.” He looks displeased, probably believing in the rumours of Aenar’s bastardy. 

 “Of course!” Rhaenyra says sunnily, enjoying Criston’s displeasure. “And his mother?”  

 Criston shrugs. “Spent most of her time with either her ladies, father, or brother.” 

 That’s not unexpected. Who would want to seek out a disgraced Queen? Father might be blind to how his wife conducts herself, but the rest of the realm isn’t. 

 “Though, my Princess…after the Hand visits the Queen, he leaves angry, and I hear her crying.” 

 That’s concerning. In the Dreams, Otto doesn’t start pressuring Alicent to go against Rhaenyra until Aegon’s second name day. It seems his plans have accelerated with Rhaenyra’s interference. This is troubling. 

 He might start pressuring her father to agree to marry Rhaenyra sooner. She has to wait until Laenor gets back. 

 She has an idea why Otto pushed for Laenor, but he might try to push for her to marry one of his supporters…like Jason, who’d actively try to undermine her within their marriage—unlike Laenor, who left her alone.  

“Thank you, Criston.” 

 “Should we do something, my Princess?” Criston looks uncomfortable. “She’s the Queen after all.” 

 Rhaenyra shrugs helplessly. “Unfortunately, a Father getting into an argument with his daughter isn’t cause for an investigation. I doubt Alicent would cooperate. There’s no evidence. Keep an ear out, maybe there’ll be something that we can use.” 

 He still looks unhappy but acquiesces. “I shall do as you command.” 

 She bids goodbye to Criston and wanders. 

 Her mind is still heavy with turmoil. She doesn’t know what to do with Aenar. She doesn’t want this life to turn out like the last. She was given these dreams for a reason, and she’s not going to waste them by acting like her old self. 

 Part of the changes she needs to make is how she treats her siblings. 

 But how? Since Alicent gave birth to Aegon, does that mean she’s going to give birth to the rest of her children? Will Rhaenyra have to look at Aemond and see her son’s killer? 

 She can’t. 

 She truly can’t. 

 Aegon, perhaps, she can deal with. It was her whom he killed. But Aemond? He killed an innocent boy acting as an envoy. He killed Rhaenys and Daemon. 

“Rhaenyra, dear. What’s wrong?” 

 It seems that her wandering has taken her to the Sept. Rhaella’s old but warm lavender eyes are soft with concern. 

 “Septa Rhealla.” Rhaenyra trembles. Will she be able to help? The High Septon asked her to help Rhaenyra. Will she judge Rhaenyra for these thoughts towards her brother? 

 “Come, come. You look dreadful.” Rhealla ushered her into the Sept. She leads Rhaenyra into an alcove at the back of the Sept where the Septons and Septas must reside. 

 Rhaenyra sits as Rhealla puts some water on for tea, unsure of what to say. 

 “Now, tell me, what’s wrong?” Rhealla pushes a soothing cup of tea into her hands. 

 “A-am I a bad person, if I hate my brother?” Rhaenyra’s voice cracks. 

 “Why do you hate your brother?” Rhealla settles across from Rhaenyra. 

 Rhaenyra scoffs, looking down at the amber liquid. “Why wouldn’t I? The moment the lords know that he’s going survive past his cradle, I’m going to lose support because he has a cock. ” 

 Rhealla hums, not looking like she believes Rhaenyra. “Yes. That is true, but that’s not it, is it? This dislike of your brother runs deeper than the throne.” 

 It all goes back to the throne, doesn’t it? Otto pushed Alicent to Father for the throne. Alicent lost her love for Rhaenyra due to her position. But Aenar isn’t his mother or Grandsire. Even then, the old Rhaenyra knew that he didn’t hate her because of the throne. “I—resent him because Alicent could achieve something my mother couldn’t—and I resent him because every time I look at him, I’m reminded how my friend went behind my back for power, and I no longer recognize who she is.” 

 “Your anger is not towards your brother but his mother. To you, Aenar is not a child but a symbol of your betrayed feelings. It is made worse because you are worried that your father will no longer see your worth and give the throne to Aenar. You are worried that he’ll choose his new family.” 

 “I know!” Rhaenyra wants to tell her about the conflict between the two brothers in her head. Aegon symbolizes what has happened, not what will happen. “I know it’s not right, but I can’t stop these feelings. It’s like it’s gnawing at my soul. Am I a bad person?” 

 Rhealla places a gentle hand on Rhaenyra’s. “You are not a bad person, Rhaenyra.” 

 Rhaenyra sniffles, wiping her eyes. “What do I do? How can I overcome this hatred? I don’t want to hate him.” Hatred is easy; it’s what drove their house apart. There is some wisdom to her father’s approach. Wanting them to get along is a noble goal, but he did nothing to facilitate the mending of the two sides of the family. 

 “Feelings like resentment and hatred don’t fade easily. Your feelings are understandable. There is a difference, my dear, between actions and thoughts. You visit your brother correct?” Rhaenyra nods. “You are kind to the boy?” She nods again. “And you are planning to continue being kind to the boy?” Rhaenyra nods again. “There you go.” 

 Rhaenyra gaps at her. “Just that?” 

 Rhaella sighs. “You can’t force these feelings away, dear; they will fade in time if you do not feed them. So long as you do not hurt the boy and do not take your frustrations towards his family out on him, there is not much else you can do. When you feel angry at him, take a deep breath and disengage.” 

 Rhaenyra scowls, but in her heart, she knows that Rhaella is right. There is no magical cure for her anger. It’s comforting to know that she isn’t wrong to feel resentful of the babe. Her previous Septas scolded her that her anger wasn’t ladylike and she needed to grow up. They would be aghast if they could hear her thoughts. 

 “Are you sure?” 

 “You are not the first child to gain a step-mother and half-sibling, dear. These feelings are common. And I believe made worse due to the magic in our veins.” 

 Rhaenyra peeks at Rhealla, curious. 

 “Yes, I may be Septa, dear, but I still feel the dragon’s blood call. It takes practice to remain calm.” There’s a deep sadness ingrained in her; Rhaenyra thinks about what Rhaella’s life entailed. If anyone was justified to fall under the call of the dragon’s blood, it’s Rhaella. 

 “Do you feel it now?” 

 Rhaella pauses, considering Rhaenyra’s question. “In a way. On our way to King’s Landing, I felt, hm, impatient? Though that could just be the boat. I am old and do not enjoy the sea.” 

 The Dragonkeepers told Rhaenyra that Dreamfyre has been acting rather restless as of late.

 Rhaenyra hates to deprive Heleana of Dreamfyre, the poor girl had a hard enough life with Aegon as a husband, but it sounds as if there’s a call between Dreamfyre and Rhealla, Rhaenyra can’t ignore it. 

 “Rhealla, would you come someplace with me?” Rhaenyra asks. It’s a paltry offering compared to the kindness Rhealla has shown her, but she wants to do something for the elderly woman. 

  Rhealla looks intrigued. “An adventure? Well, it’s not as if I have anything pressing to do. Come, whisk me away, dear one.”

 Rhaenyra grins, looping her arm with Rhaella’s. Despite her age, there’s still a spark of adventure in those eyes. 

 Finding a wheelhouse to get to the Dragonpit takes longer than Rhaenyra would’ve liked, but they’re soon off.

 Surprisingly, Rhealla doesn’t pepper Rhaenyra with questions, unlike what Rhaenyra would’ve probably done in her place, but is calmly watching the streets. Flea Bottom elicits a pursed expression from Rhealla as they lumber past. Flea Bottom is one thing on the massive list that Rhaenyra needs to figure out what to do with. 

 The people of the city, primarily from Flea Bottom, rioted against her after she seized control of the city. Rhaenyra and her council handled it poorly. Both Rhaenrya and her father neglected this part of the city. 

 Ironically, Daemon is the one who has done the most for Flea Bottom in his family, and his methods are questionable at best.

 “The Dragon Pit?” Rhealla asks, eyeing the massive structure. 

 “Trust me."

 Rhella gives her an odd look but doesn’t question it. 

 One of the Dragonkeepers hurries over to Rhaenyra as she steps out. “ Shall we bring out Syrax, Your Grace? ” 

 Rhaenyra shakes her head. “No, we shall be visiting Dreamfyre. ” 

“ Dreamfyre? Are you sure this is wise? ” 

Rhaenyra gestures to Rhealla. “This is the daughter of Rhaena Targaryen, the first rider of Dreamfryre. It is her right as her daughter to speak to the last vestige of her mother. ” The Dragonkeeper frowns but doesn’t stop her from guiding Rhealla towards the pits. 

 She stops in front of Dreamfyre’s lair. There’s a low rumbling as the massive she-dragon rises from her slumber, her sharp eyes watching them in anticipation. Rhaella gasps sharply as Dreanfyre appears. “Rhealla, you remember Dreamfyre, don’t you? Your mother’s mount.” 

 “ Oh, hello, my old friend. ” Rhealla reaches a hand towards Dreamfyre. Her Valyrian is rough at the edges, but her pure glee makes up for the lapses. “ You are as magnificent as I remember. ” 

 There’s an appreciative rumble, and Dreamfyre pushes her snout against Rhealla’s hand. Rhealla smiles, stroking her scales, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. Rhaenyra looks away from the tender moment.  

 “The Dragonkeepers say that Dreamfyre has become restless since I returned to the city.” Rhaenyra eyes Rhealla, trying to prod a realization out of her silently. 

 “I am no dragonrider, Rhaenyra.” Rhaella says, partially resigned but also scoldingly, as her hand is still on Dreamfyre’s snout. 

 “Dragon bonds do not equate to Dragonriders. Many of us take to the sky, but there are other ways that the bonds can form. I’m sure Dreamfyre would appreciate some company from an old friend. Wouldn’t you, Dreamfyre,” Rhaenrya coos at the dragon. 

 There’s a soft trill from the dragon, pushing her snout further towards Rhaella. 

 Rhaella sighs, looking up at the last piece of her mother. “I……would not object. Us old women ought to stick together, shouldn’t we, dear? ” 

 Rhaenyra doesn’t know what Dreamfyre sends through their bond, but it makes Rhaella smile sadly, her tears slipping down her face. 

 It’s said that Rheana used to visit Rhealla once a year after Aerea’s death, and Rhaenyra wonders what they used to talk about. Would Rhaena take her daughter on flights? Did she hope that Rhealla would leave the faith? Rhaenyra doesn’t know if she could give up one of her children like that. 

 Did Rhealla ever want to join her mother and take to the skies like her ancestors? Or did she feel as if she needed to remain in Oldtown, in service to the people who protected her twice from the machinations of ambitious men? 

 Rhaenyra watches, feeling like an intruder, as Rhaella and Dreamfyre continue a seemingly one-sided conversation. 

 “I’ll be with Syrax, if you need me, Rhaella.” Rhaella barely spares Rhaenyra a glance as Rhaenyra leaves the Dreamfyre’s lair and makes her way to Syrax’s, feeling satisfied after seeing the two of them reunited. 

                                                                                                                                                                         ****

 Alicent makes her way over to Viserys’s chambers with Aenar in her arms, being peaceful for once. She has to stop herself from scowling every time she hears his name. Father told her that she needed to get the king back under her influence, and since the Grand Maester forbade her from entertaining her husband at night, she was barely three moons out of her pregnancy, so Alicent decided to bring Aenar to him, hoping the king would be pleased to see his first living son. 

 “My Husban—” Alicent trails off when she walks into his room. Standing next to her husband is a wizened Septa examining Viserys’s model of Old Valyria. 

 She knows that husbands seek out…alternative means of pleasure while their wives are forbidden from servicing them, but this? Alicent silently prays to the Seven that this isn’t the case. 

 “Forgive me, I did not know that you had company,” Alicent apologizes. 

 “Ah, Alicent!” Viserys grins, seeing her. “I would like for you to meet Septa Rhaella. The High Septon has assigned her to the Royal Sept to help Rhaenyra, and now Aenar, with any…spiritual struggles.” 

 Rhaenyra? Spiritual? 

 Please. The only reason why she’s at the Sept now is to convince the Lords that she’s this obedient, pious girl. Alicent bets that once she’s no longer heir, she’ll stop going—-no, that’s too harsh, Alicent should be pleased to see Rhaenyra going to the Sept. 

 Alicent then looks over to the Sept and notes the unique amethyst shade of her eyes. 

 Rhealla? Alicent wracks her mind, trying to remember any Targaryens named Rhaella. Unfortunately, history wasn’t her strongest subject, unlike Rhaenyra, who could glance at a page once and recall its content. It irritates Alicent that someone that talented doesn’t care about exercising them. Alicent always had to make sure Rhaenyra was paying attention in class. 

 Alicent still doesn’t know who Rhaella is. But she grins nonetheless. “Welcome to the Red Keep. Forgive me for not knowing you’d be coming. I would’ve had rooms set up for you.” 

 Septa Rhaella shakes her head. “Thank you, Your Grace, but the rooms at the Royal Sept are enough for me.” 

 “O-of course.” Alicent feels her cheeks redden. She’s a Septa! They reject the trappings of luxury. How foolish of her to forget that. 

 “Need not worry, dear.” Viserys claps a hand on her shoulder, sending shock waves through her still sore body. She wants to snap at him for such a thoughtless action. “I did the same thing.” 

 Septa Rhealla lets out an amused hum. “Why don’t we sit, Your Majesty. Your wife has just given birth, it must be hard on her to remain standing.” 

 “N-no! I’m fine, truly!” Alicent flushes even brighter when their eyes turn on her. She can’t believe that someone she just met has read her so thoroughly. It must be because of the birth. In her arms, Aenar must sense her displeasure and start mewling. Alicent wants to cry. She can never get him to stop once he starts.

 Why can’t she? 

 “Here.” Septa Rhealla takes Aenar from Alicent’s hands and directs her over to the seating area. “No need to be harsh on yourself. You are recovering. Your Majesty, would you join us?” The Septa gives Viserys a pointed look. 

 He fumbles his words and hastily makes his way over. 

 Alicent looks over to the Septa, cradling Aenar and is jealous. How can an unmarried woman be so good at handling an infant? It’s unfair. 

 “Rhealla has been telling me of her memories of the Red Keep and how it’s changed over the years.” 

 It makes Alicent nervous, no, that's not the right emotion, but some twisted, negative emotion of Septa Rhealla, who is able to gain Viserys’s friendship so easily. It’s absurd; Septa Rhealla isn’t going to seduce Viserys. Alicent wishes that these emotions she gained during pregnancy would go away. She’s so tired. Aenar has sapped so much from her. 

 She should be pleased to have someone of the Faith so close to her family. Alicent takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, determined to appreciate the unexpected boon in her presence. 

Chapter Text

Whenever he could, Tyland tried to spend some time after luncheon in the gardens, enjoying the fresh air. There are many issues with the Royal Fleet and court in general, and to avoid pulling his hair out in frustration, he carefully plans out time for himself to relax. 

 It is normally effective unless he is bombarded by young maidens seeking his favour. 

 It’s been worse than usual, given the new prince’s birth sent many young maidens into a frenzy, and due to the tourney and feast to take place to celebrate the Prince’s birth, lords across the Realm and their maiden daughters are filling the Red Keep. Tyland can’t imagine how distraught Lord Beesbury must be at the King hosting so many expensive celebrations within the year. Thankfully, the Princess decided against any celebration, really, while the realm is still worried about her brother surviving his cradle years. Tyland, of course, sent gifts along to the Princess turning five-and-ten worthy of House Lannister, but there was no feast in her honour this year. 

 He sighs heavily, ducking behind a tree as he sees Genna and some Westerland ladies heading in his direction. 

 As they pass, he hears the snickers of the girls, and their voices are low enough to murmur that he can’t pick out what they’re saying. However, he can sense that the conversation is becoming heated. 

 Tyland groans and steps out of his hiding spot. The honour of the Westerlands has never been so low before. He thought that the Lord Reyne would wise up and scold his daughter for her impropriety after Tyland tipped him off to her behaviour, but it seems she never got the lecture or has ignored it. 

 She has yet to understand that she isn’t infallible, even with the Queen’s protection. The Queen doesn’t hold much power in court; thus, Genna doesn’t hold any power. 

 If she angers the right person, like the Princess, again, she won’t just dishonour her family but the whole of the Westerlands. 

 Tyland should try to mitigate the damage before it gets too out of hand. 

 He clears his throat as he enters the clearing. His words fall when he sees the target of Genna’s scathing remarks. 

 Lady Emylie Dayne and Lyarra Manderly stare Genna down with matching, unimpressed expressions. 

 He, well, he knew that the Princess and, thus, her household were back in King’s Landing, but he, rather foolishly in hindsight, had prepared himself for his next meeting with Lady Emylie. It has been some time since he last saw her in person, and she is as comely as his memories of her portray her. 

Her pale, creamy skin glows against the dark blue and silver accents of her dress. Her glossy, dark hair is styled in an elegant manner, with silver hairpieces sparkling within her dark locks. He can see the clear annoyance in her lovely dark eyes. 

 He clears his throat louder, and everyone’s eyes turn to him. 

 “Oh! Ser Tyland.” Genna brightens when she spots him. 

 Lady Emylie looks at Tyland with a cool expression, looking faintly pleased to see him. 

 “What an unlikely gathering. I did not think that you ladies had much in common.” Tyland gives Genna a significant glance. 

 There’s a faint scowl on her lips, but she pushes it away in order to paste a courtly smile onto her face. “I was merely congratulating them on returning to King’s Landing, after spending so much time away.” 

 “It was merely six moons, Lady Reyne.” Lady Manderly arches an eyebrow. “I was unaware that is considered a considerable amount of time.” Tyland doesn’t think that she catches on to Genna’s underlying manner.

Genna gives her a tight smile. “For an absence from court. Many things can change in such a time.” Tyland isn’t sure what Genna is referring to; the change in social power from the Princess to the Queen has happened. However, the birth of a son might change that statement. Well…sure, the King has a son, but no one knows if he’ll survive his childhood, and if he does survive, word is that he’s a bastard. Either way, Tyland isn’t sure if the Queen can seize power. 

 “Yet, it seems it hasn’t. I feel right at home like I never left.” Lady Emylie gives Genna a condescending smile, stating what Tyland feels. 

 “Yes, well, you seem to have made yourself right at home rather quickly.” One of Genna’s lackeys, Tyland, is certain that she is the younger daughter of Lord Banefort, snaps back.  

 Tyland clears his throat again. “We should all be thankful that the Red Keep is accommodating, Lady Banefort. I imagine the hardships of leaving one’s home would be much worse if the Red Keep was not considerate to all who come to make it their home.” 

 Lady Banefort flushes at his admonishment, and Genna looks displeased that he’s not aiding her. 

 He used to think that Genna was smart, seriously considering her a potential bride. She does have a considerable amount of wit and beauty until she came to the Red Keep, and he sees how uncouth she acts. Any wife of his needs to have a certain amount of proprietary, and Genna is squandering any chance he gives her. 

 She does not see the folly in her actions. In the end, the King might choose Prince Aenar as his Heir, Tyland isn’t sure if he should be glad that there’s a prince or not, but that does not diminish the hold the Princess has on the Red Keep. Even if she marries Leanor Velayron, she’ll likely still reside at the Red Keep, the King is rather sentimental and will still leave the court in her hands. 

 The Queen has fallen so far in such a rapid manner that it’ll be difficult for her to wrest power away. 

 The Hand dominates the political sphere; Tyland suspects that Lord Chester reports to the Hand even though Lord Prester suggested him. It is a surefire way to become unpopular, only to have lords from one region as aides. The other regions would become displeased at their exclusion, so Tyland picked Lord Chester and now regrets the choice. But the Princess dominates the social sphere, especially with Lady Arryn now taking control of the Ladies’ court once again. 

Aggravating the Princess’s ladies would not help Genna’s position in the Red Keep. 

 “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Ser Tyland,” Genna demurs. She turns to her friends. “Come, let’s visit the markets and find something for the tourney.” She ushers them off with one last significant look at Tyland. 

 Tyland ignores it. 

 He sees Lady Emylie turn to the maids accompanying them and whisper, “Next time you see your friends, please inform them of Lady Reyne’s continued lack of decorum. Her continued desire to insult anyone she sees fit. Including members of the Princess’s Household.” The maids nod vehemently while Lady Lyarra just rolls her eyes. 

Tyland, as a rule, doesn’t like those who play this game. He finds them untrustworthy, but he cannot begrudge Lady Emylie for this retaliation. For moons, he’s heard whispers about Lady Emylie’s virtue and her worthiness of a place next to the Princess. The whispers have the same malicious glee to them that Genna’s words do. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one spreading it. 

 Once he sees Genna disappear, he sighs heavily. “I ask you to forgive Lady Reyne for her words.” 

 “I’ll consider it.” Lady Emylie looks amused. Tyland accepts that’s the best he’s going to get from her. 

 He turns to Lady Lyarra. “I would like to extend a word of thanks to you and your kin for sending aid to the Stepstones, my Lady.” He really wishes that the King would get involved; Lord Boremund has been sending increasingly frequent letters asking for aid. Tyland would like to lessen the Baratheons’ ire. 

 Lady Lyarra quirks an eyebrow, a rather expressive movement in her rather generally solemn face. “I shall pass on your words next time I write home, Ser Lannister.” 

 “May I ask why the Manderlys joined? I did not think that you had business that far south.” 

 “We don’t. Most of our imports come from the Riverlands or the Vale.” 

 Tyland has experienced one true winter in his lifetime, lasting around two years, and he cannot begin to fathom how much effort it must take to survive in a land constantly covered in snow. Northerners are truly odd. 

 “The North does not involve itself in Southern politics, but it does not mean we wish to be ignored. The war is a means to gain some prominence in court. My family is uniquely situated for this task.” 

 Thinking over the council sessions, Tyland has to admit that he cannot remember if they’ve actually spoken about the North at all. 

 It is rather careless of them to forget. 

If… if Tyland is able to secure the interests of the North, then they’d be beholden to him. There’s the old adage that a ‘Stark never forgets his oaths,’ and the Starks have a strong control over their vassals, like the Lannisters. Tyland would then have a strong influence in court by securing control over two regions. 

 A quick glance at Lady Emylie reveals that she has easily read him, as her eyes twinkle with amusement. 

 “I am still looking for aides, Lady Manderly, and your family is well known for their seafaring abilities. Would your Father be inclined to join my council?” 

 Lady Lyarra gently shakes her head. “With my younger brother still in his infancy, I doubt my Father would like to leave White Harbour indefinitely. My uncle, Torrhen, would be a suitable alternative if you are amenable.” Tyland shrugs; he doesn’t mind the alternative. “Unfortunately, he’s at the Stepstones, so his appointment would have to be postponed.” 

 Tyland does not mind that at all. He’d welcome a battle-experienced aide. And he feels more at ease without worrying about whether his aide is going to sell his secrets. He doubts anyone could pay a Northerner to break from their liege.  

 “Wonderful!” Lady Emylie cheers. Her excitement is genuine for her fellow lady. 

 Tyland’s attention is drawn back to his original distraction. “Lady Emylie. It is a pleasure to see you once again. Forgive my excitement.” 

 Lady Emylie sighs dramatically, her amusement clearly glittering in her eyes. “It seems that I am forever cursed to come second to you. Alas, Ser Tyland, it seems that your work shall come before even your wife!” 

 He quite likes the way that she says his name……and his neck flushes a little when she speaks about his future wife. 

 “All I am able to do is offer my forgiveness.” 

 Lady Emylie sighs loudly again but boldly wraps her arm around his. “I shall endeavour to find a way to forgive you.” 

 He feels her warmth pressed against his side, and the words stutter in his throat as she smiles up at him, her plush pink lips stretched into a soft curl. It is utterly distressing to be this affected by one’s beauty.

He clears his throat. “I thank you for your kindness. May I ask, how does your brother fare? Your last letter spoke of your worries for him.” 

 He cannot imagine the pain of losing Jason. He’s a pain on a bad day and a little daft at times, but he is Tyland’s brother. He’s Tyland’s other half. Father told them to protect each other when he was gone. To lose him in battle in a war that he initiated would destroy him. The guilt must be eating Lady Emylie up. 

 Lady Emylie sighs, her good humour vanishing. She looks to Lady Lyarra, who gives her a small nod, and Lady Emylie pulls him along on a walk, heading towards the castle; Lady Lyarra follows behind at a distance. 

 “I have not heard much, bits, really, from messages from my Grandsire and to the Princess. He seems to be doing fine, well, as fine as you can be at war. My knowledge of warfare is limited, but the war seems to be progressing well.” 

 “I wish I could do more, but the King does not feel it safe to act,” he apologizes. He feels ineffectual because he is unable to do anything about them. 

 “I know,” she mutters glumly. “Thank you for your thoughts, Ser Tyland. They’re most appreciative. It’s difficult to express them with the other ladies. They may have brothers, but……” 

“They’re not twins. Yes, I get it. It’s difficult to be one.” 

She grins, pleased that he understands. “Now, may we move on to more cheerful topics? War is rather dour.” 

 “Of course. Please tell me if this is too forward, but I have invited Lady Serrett to the tourney as her brother is set to join my aides.” 

 “It is not.” Lady Emylie shakes her head. “Rather, I thank you for the initiative. But, please do remember that the Princess may not choose Lady Serett.” 

 “I understand.” Tyland hopes that Lady Celessa will be chosen. Sadly, Jason has failed at charming the princess, preferring to attempt to charm his way into her bed rather than act in a manner benefiting an heir and their future bannerman, so Tyland has to turn to other means to get close to the Princess. A lady in her house would certainly benefit. He stressed to Jon Serrett that Celessa ought to be on her best behaviour when, in King’s Landing, the Princess does not want someone lacking in manners. 

 The Lannisters have not been in favour since King Aenys, and right now, it’s the time to seize the chance to move up in the court. 

 While the man irritates Tyland to no end, he needs to remember to control his temper around Otto Hightower. Falling out of favour with the Hand doesn’t help, as Jason so reminds him. Though he seems to have let go of the grudge after Tyland gives him some of the best vintages he has on hand as a means of apologizing. 

 If he can get on the Princess’s good side as well, then the Lannisters have secured a position regardless of which party wins. 

 “What’s the Westerlands like, if you do not mind me asking. I’ve heard so much of the homeplaces of my fellow ladies, but little of the Westerlands.” 

 If Tyland is frank, other than its exceptional mines, it’s a lot like the Vale. He is proud of his home but not ignorant. Still, he’s happy to talk about it. “Mining is a large part of our culture. Thus, the Smith is portrayed more prominently than the other aspects of the Seven.” 

 “You know, I’ve always wondered what causes certain metals to form.” Lady Emylie hums, looking thoughtful.  

 “What do you mean?” 

 “I just wonder what conditions must be met for, say, gold to form. Do you need certain weather conditions? Certain stones? Can you determine what sone is hidden by the plant life around it?” 

 Tyland stares at the woman on his arm in astonishment. “I-I, honestly, have never thought about what causes metals to grow.” Such a query should be something that lords like the Lannister should think about, but Tyland has not spared it a thought before. The mines were there, and all Tyland had to think about was how to profit off the gold appropriately and funnel coin from the mines to other projects. 

 He’s never had to think about looking for a new vein and its signs. 

 “Well, there’s a fair bit of mountains around Starfall, and I’d like to see if we can find anything useful to mine or quarry but I have no idea how to begin the project.” 

 That sounds like quite an interesting project. Tyland has to admit that he’s a little jealous. 

 “Well…” Tyland scrapes over anything and everything he knows about mining. “I suppose you’d have to look for a land surveyor. They’d probably have the necessary knowledge to find metals or stone. From there, I am not sure.” 

 Lady Emylie hums. “Well, that’s a project for when I return to Starfall.” 

 Tyland’s heart lurches at the thought of her leaving King’s Landing. “If you’d like, I could look for some information for you.” 

 “Oh, no, Ser Tyland, I don’t want to take away your precious free time,” Lady Emylie protests. 

 He shakes his head. “It’s not taking away my time, my Lady. Now that you’ve put the thought in my head, I must see if I can figure out this puzzle.” The Lannister way of life depends on their mines; if he can figure out a way to find new mines or veins, then his family will be set for generations. He cannot believe that Lady Emylie has given him such a topic to research! He knows she’s clever, but it’s still a surprise. 

 Lady Emylie laughs, making a soft tinkling sound, and she smiles softly. “Well, if you insist, I won’t discourage you.” 

 He smiles and takes her hand in his. Her hand is soft and warm as he presses a soft kiss to it. “I hope to please you, my Lady.” 

 Her pale face flushes a rosy red, and her words, always so carefully crafted, slip a little. Tyland is exuberant to see that he affects her in the same manner that the mere thought of her does to him. The Dornish are known for their seductive nature, no matter if the Lady is virtuous or not, but he must admit that Lannisters do well themselves. 

 She huffs, looking rather pleased. “You must be careful, good Ser, or else you’d cause a maid to injure herself for falling for your looks.” 

 “Oh? You think I am comely?” 

 She rolls her eyes, still looking amused. “I will not needlessly inflate your ego, Ser. I am sure that there are enough willing to do so.”

 He likes Lady Emylie, enjoying their talks and banter, but is wary of allowing it to progress further. She is a noble lady, yes, but not one of the appropriate rank for Tyland. She is a bit of fun for him to indulge in before he finds a suitable wife. 

 Though seeing the entrance to Maegor’s Holdfast draw nearer, he realizes that he doesn’t want the conversation to end. He rather likes her way of thinking. 

 “I hope that we can continue conversing in the future. Your mind is a curious thing.”  

 “Well, Ser Tyland, I hear that you spend your luncheons in the gardens. I suppose I will just have to hunt you down.” He likes that she’s listening for information on him. He thinks it shows that she is interested. 

 “I look forward to seeing you in the future, my Lady.” 

 Speaking with her makes Tyland think in ways he hasn’t been challenged before. He has to look at the puzzles she presents in a completely different manner, making him feel like a child again, experiencing the euphoria of learning for the first time. 

 She grins brightly, her eyes squinting with pleasure. “I hope that I’ll see you soon, Ser Tyland.” 

 She pulls her hand away from him, and Tyland is already lamenting over the loss. He mumbles something in return as he watches Lady Emylie rejoin Lady Lyarra, and they head back to the Red Keep together, heads bowed together as they whisper. 

 “---Platonic my ass,” Lady Lyarra hisses through silent giggles. 

 Lady Emylie shoves Lady Lyarra in response, but that causes her to giggle harder. 

 Tyland watches them retreat with a wry smile. He likes that despite the rigid air she cloaks herself in, Lady Emylie is affected just like him. He chuckles and turns to head to his office, buoyed by the memory of her blush. 

                                                                                                                                                                  ****

The whole court had one topic for the past moon: Prince Aenar. Several subtopics included the sudden change in his name—apparently, the Queen had been dead set on the name Aegon since the beginning—and his early birth. Lyarra thinks it’s stupid—babies come early all the time—but as Emylie says, people like gossip. 

 Unfortunately, as she is in the Princess’s household, many ladies come to her, asking her for her opinion and the Princess’s thoughts. 

 It annoys her to no end.

 She already wants to return to Dragonstone. Her one joy is knowing that her father is bringing Ros and Sarra to the tourney to celebrate Prince Aenar’s birth.  

 She ends up going into the training yards to get some practice in and take her anger out on the targets. 

 It’s early in the evening, and most knights have finished their training for the day, so when Lyarra arrives, it’s fairly deserted. 

 Lovely. 

 She stations herself at the farthest corner and starts practising. 

 There’s a certain joy in feeling the burn in her muscles if she pulls back the bowstring for too long, and the snap of the bowstring against her armoured arm. Of course, there’s always the excitement of hitting the target. 

 A soft chuckle pulls Lyarra from her focus, causing her to miss her shot. She swears, annoyed with her interruption. 

 “Ser Harwin,” she speaks the man’s name cooly. 

 “Ah, forgive me, Lady Manderly. You merely looked so much like a fox on the prowl that I couldn’t help myself.” 

 Well, at least he didn’t call her a wolf, which is typical for men flirting with her. They think that because she’s from the North, she wants to be compared to a wolf.

 “I take it you’ve seen a fox on the hunt then? If so, that’s impressive for a man of your stature.” She’s tired of Southern men trying to flirt with her. If she’s going to marry someone, she wants to marry a Northman. 

 His grin is big and goofy, reminding Lyarra of his sister. “Perhaps I was exaggerating a tad, my lady, but I felt I must come up with something clever under such a scrutinizing gaze.” 

 He’s honest for a Southern lord. 

 “Flattery will not get very far, good ser. I have little patience for sweet words with empty meanings.” 

 “They may be sweet, my lady, but they are not without meaning. I saw you at the hunt during the Royal wedding. It was magnificent.” 

 Lyarra remembers that hunt. She’d gone to the extreme, testing Brealla’s conviction to join the Princess. The Princess did not need for a delicate Southern girl who couldn’t get her hands dirty. What impressed Lyarra was that after she’d taken down a rather impressive stag, if she may say so herself, Brealla had gone to help her with claiming the stag without a second thought. 

 Ser Harwin was right; it was magnificent. 

“I saw you, too, during the tourney. You are a fine jouster.” He’d won, after all. Lyarra doesn’t give her compliments easily. 

 He ducks his head, a slow grin flittering across his face. “Thank you, my lady. Perhaps during the next tourney, I could have the honour of carrying your favour.” 

 “Perhaps.” 

 Giving a knight a favour is a form of courting, rather harmless in the long run, but Lyarra is wary. She doesn’t want to lead him on, giving him a false idea of her intentions. Men with bruised egos are dangerous, and she is in a precarious position. The Hand will do anything to discredit the Princess, and her ladies are a liability if they do not act properly. 

 His bright smile makes her squirm. She doesn’t like the idea of disappointing someone so earnest with his expression.

“May I escort you back to your rooms?” 

“You may.” Lyarra doesn’t need an escort, but she ought to be polite. If Ser Harwin were to speak ill of her, his words would carry weight, being the Lord Commander of the City Watch and his father on the Small Council. 

 Though, she likes to believe she’s a good judge of character. Ser Harwin has a temperament similar to his sister's. She doesn’t think that he would act against her as a means of retribution, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite. 

 “Do all women in the North hunt?” 

 “Some. My father encouraged the hobby as I was his heir and thought that a martial talent would endear me to our vassals. Do you hunt as well?” She asks as she moves to gather up her embedded arrows. 

 Ser Harwin makes a face that suggests he does, but perhaps not the greatest. The corners of Lyarra’s mouth twitch in amusement. He cannot keep a secret. “I am…passable.” 

 “Oh, merely passable? Well, I suppose being the Lord Commander requires different a skill set.”

 “Big and intimidating. With some modecome of brains in there as well,” he japes in good humour. 

 Lyarra smiles. It’s a good sign if a man is able to be self-deprecating in front of a woman. It means that he is more likely to listen to criticism from others. It’s not always true, but it’s still a good sign. 

 As they cross the courtyard with the tower of the Hand looming in her peripheral vision, Lyarra feels a set of eyes on her; while not unusual, being a lady to the Heir, she shivers at the intensity of the feeling. If wrong, it is as if a Shadowcat is hunting her. 

 Without turning her head, she scans the courtyard. 

Tucked in a shadowy corner is a man. He appears a few years older than Lyarra, but the shadows on his face make him look gaunt, and the cane he leans on ages him incredibly. 

 She knows him. 

 Well, knows of him. Eleanor speaks fondly of both her brothers, the loud and boisterous Harwin and the disabled yet incredibly clever Larys. 

 There’s no doubt in her mind that the man giving her such a hateful look is Eleanor’s second brother, Larys. 

 What had she done to warrant this hate? She’d never met the man before. 

 She pushes down a shiver and focuses back on Harwin. He seems to have picked up on her disease. 

 This may sound arrogant, but perhaps he is upset that Harwin is courting her first? Lyarra feels like it’s a bit of a stretch. She’s never met Larys, barely even recognizing him, but at least she and Harwin have some common interests. 

 It isn’t until she reaches the safety of Maegor’s Holdfast that Lyarra relaxes. 

 Why does she have to deal with all the creepy men? Seven Dammit! 

                                                                                                                                               ****

“Maris.” 

 Maris nearly jumps out of her skin, tumbling out of her chair. She hadn’t heard anyone sneak up on her. She crashes onto the ground, wincing slightly as her elbow digs into the hard grass. 

 She squints; the figure above her is shadowed by the sun. She sighs when she realizes that it’s Cassandra, who looks distinctly unimpressed. Maris sometimes envies Cassandra's beauty, with her heart-shaped face and full lips. Cassandra is starting to show that she will be tall and curvy when she’s fully grown. Next to her, Maris’s square jaw and prominent eyebrows make her feel like an ugly duckling. She doesn’t get why Cassandra’s good looks are wasted on her. 

 They haven’t spoken, not truly, since they became ladies. She doesn’t know how Cassandra feels about Maris getting into the Princess’s household instead of her. 

 “Cassandra.” Maris stands, brushing her skirt. “Why are you here?” 

 “Apparently, making a fool out of myself.” Cassandra sits at the small table that Brienne, her maid, has set up for Maris to do the work Septa Rhealla assigned her. Cassandra peeks at Maris’s embroidery and makes a face. 

 Maris snatches it back, scowling at her sister. “Seriously, why are you here?” She has better things to do than listen to her sister make fun of her. 

 “To give you a warning, dear sister .” 

 Maris scowls, not liking Cassandra’s tone. “And why in the known world would you give me a warning?” 

 “Maybe I don’t like my family being made a fool of,” Cassandra snaps. “Do you even care if your actions have repercussions on the rest of us?” 

 “That’s rich coming from you!” 

 “The world has already given up on me; they expect nothing from me! You, on the other hand, still have value. And if you don’t listen to me, that value will plummet. The rest of us Baratheons become less valuable in return.”

 Maris’s mouth snaps shut with an audible clack. She thinks about Grandsire’s letter, and if she doesn’t act carefully, then there’s no escaping Myr. 

 “Now that you understand.” Cassandra sneers. She huffs, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. Maris really wants to slap her. “I’m sure you’ve gotten this from the Princess or the ancient Lady Arryn, but stop going places alone. ” 

 Maris is literally just sitting in the gardens doing her work! 

 “Oh, stop giving me that look, Maris.” Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Those assholes that lick the Queen’s ass don’t care that you’re doing nothing; they’ll twist it in whatever manner they want.” 

 She’s not wrong. Since they’ve returned, Maris has picked up on some unsettling whispers. Thankfully, many of them are about other courtiers, but some upsetting ones are questioning the virtue of Emylie and Lyarra. There’s none about Maris yet. 

 “I’m a Baratheon! They’re fools to act in such a manner.” 

 “Genna Reyne attempted to publicly humiliate the Warden of the East in front of a crowd of noble girls and the Princess. What makes you think that your last name will protect you if they’ll do that to an actual lord,” Cassandra snaps. 

 “If you don’t like them, then why did you join them?” Maris snaps. Fuck the Queen, and fuck her cronies. And fuck Cassandra for joining them!

 Cassandra’s eyes flash dangerously as she stares Maris down. “Do you honestly think that I, the Heir to the Lord Paramounty of the Stormlands, would want to join the household of a whore who got her position by crawling into the bed of that man? Do you understand how that reflects on my eligibility? No, Father was the one who gave me away; I’d rather be back in the Stormlands learning how to become heir then here.” 

 It’s weird to think of Cassandra as the heir to the Stormlands. She doesn’t act like one. 

 Father wouldn’t teach her how to be an heir, but Father’s dumb as bricks. Grandfather might’ve seen the value; after all, Lady Jeyne wasn’t supposed to become the Heir. Who knows if Father will perish before there’s a son? 

 “Fine,” Maris mumbles. She has a point, even if Maris doesn’t want to admit it. 

 Cassandra sighs dramatically and stands. “Keep my words in consideration, sister.” She sashays off without a word, leaving Maris behind. 

 Maris looks down at her work, scattered across the table, and sighs. Looks like she’s going back to the solar. 

Chapter Text

“ Sōvēs, Syrax.” Syrax trills in excitement, her heavy wings sending dust across the Dragonpit as she launches herself up. 

 The pressure of a flight takeoff is hard against her skin, and Syrax pushes herself to reach greater heights. 

 It lasts mere seconds before she levels out, and Rhaenyra can see the orange tiles of King’s Landing zipping by. 

 Strapped against her chest, Aenar squeals with glee as the cool breeze tousles his hair. 

 He’s reached six moons, the age that her Father, Uncle Daemon, and she went on their first ride. 

 She can feel spring creeping into the air. 

 She gave him a sad smile. He was truly a Targaryen, and his love for the open skies was as apparent as her children’s. She vows to take him out on Syrax more—him and his siblings. Her feelings for them are still as muddled as ever, but she’s going to try to be better, to be a better sibling to them. 

 Rhaenyra guides Syrax to take gentle dives and turns, delighting Aenar even more. Then, they head slowly toward the Red Keep. 

 Aenar giggles, waving an arm that made it free. 

 The flight is short, just to the outer courtyard of the Red Keep. Syrax lands gracefully, and Rhaenyra slides down, cradling Aenar in her arms. 

Her Father is waiting for her with a large grin, while Alicent looks mutinous. She argued heavily with Rhaenyra about taking Aenar for his first flight. It saddens Rhaenyra that she has to fight for her siblings’ culture. She would’ve thought that Alicent, who grew up with Rhaenyra, would understand the meaning of taking a Targaryen for their first flight. In the end, it doesn’t matter because her Father nearly wept when Rhaenyra offered. 

 Behind the King and Queen are the Lords and Ladies of the realm, who look at Syrax with awe. She even spots Rhaella in the crowd, next to Aunt Amanda. 

 Rhaenyra unstraps Aenar from her chest and holds him out. She grins. “House Targaryen has yet another Dragon rider!” 

 There’s an exuberant cheer from the gathered nobles. 

 Alicent hurries forward, plucking Aenar from Rhaenyra without a look at her. 

 “ Go hunt,” she instructs Syrax. Syrax roars, showing off, and then takes off, heading towards the Kingswood. 

 She sees her Father’s disapproving look, and she matches it with an unimpressed look. She’s been trying to talk to him about letting Syrax fly free, but he’s been ignoring her attempts to have a civil conversation. So, she’s taking it into her own hands. 

 Before he can reprimand her, there’s a deep, rumbling roar, followed by a lighter but still fierce shriek. 

 Rhaenyra whips around and sees the deep green of Vhagar and the bright red of Melyes descending on King’s Landing. She grins at the sight. She wasn’t sure if Rhaenys would come or not. She’s pleased that Rhaenys decided to come. Rhaenyra wants to present a united front to the rest of the Realm. 

 Rhaenyra won’t allow Alicent and Otto to demonize her or the Velyarons. The Realm will see that they’re kind and loving, doting on the younger generation and that it’ll be the Greens who will become the cruel, despicable usurpers. 

 “V-vhagar?” 

 Whoops. Rhaenyra knew she was forgetting something. She’d forgotten to tell her Father that Leana claimed Vhagar. She bets, vindictively, that her Father regrets not marrying Laena now. 

 “Ah, it seems that Laena was successful. She spoke to me about wanting to try claiming Vhagar.” Rhaenyra fibs her words. She knew that Laena wanted to try to claim Vhagar before it happened. 

 “Oh?” Her father sounds strangled. 

 “Mhm.” Rhaenyra turns to Lord Reyne. “Would you send a wheelhouse to the Dragonpit and some horses to the docks? I’m sure that Cousin Rhaenys sent along servants to help tend to them.” 

 “O-of course, my Princes.” He bows and scurries off. 

She sees Genna scowling at the sight of her father being ordered around. 

 She catches the look on Otto’s face and cringes. It’s his plotting face. It’s not good for his plans to have to counteract Vhagar now. The rest of the dragons are much younger, their scales weaker, but Vhagar is ancient. There’s no way that she can easily be brought down. To get Vhagar out of the way, Laena has to die, like in the Dreams, or she’s married to one of the houses that support the Greens. 

 The only one that she can think of that has the right amount of prestige, which Corlys would want, is the Lannisters. Though Rhaenyra cannot see any advantage of the Velyarons joining hands with the Lannisters. Maybe Daemon will come back and sweep Laena off her feet like last time—without having to kill a man. The thought sours Rhaenyra’s mood a little. It matters not, she thinks; she’s made her bed with Laenor.  

 “You ought to get the Dragon stink off you, Rhaenyra.” Father smiles at her. 

 Rhaenyra smiles in return. “Yes, I am sure that the Lords wouldn’t appreciate it. If you don’t mind.” Her father waves her off, and Rhaenyra heads to where Aunt Amanda and Brealla are waiting for her. 

 She follows Aunt Amanda out of the courtyard, subjecting herself to the torture of her Aunt’s beauty regimen. 

                                                                                                                                               ****

Emylie follows the Princess into the Royal box for the start of the tourney. She takes a seat behind the Princess as the Lady Arryn, the Lady Paramount, not Lady Amanda, and Laena sit in the front with the Princess.  

 Lady Amanda chose to sit next to Lady Rhaenys, on the Princess’s side of the box, and they were talking in low enough tones that Emylie couldn’t pick up on. 

 There are a few other lords and ladies in the Royal box, and she spots Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong together. Eleanor is sitting next to her father and beside a man who looks like her. It must be one of her brothers. 

 Emylie sits on her lonesome, fiddling with her favour. 

 It’s ridiculous to have made one. She doubts that anyone will ask for hers. Maybe one knight will, out of pity or attempt to curry favour with the Princess. It wouldn’t be genuine. 

 “May I join you?” 

 Emylie looks up and smiles. “Lady Jocelyn! Of course!”

 She’s grateful for the company. The rest of the girls are off with their families. The Princess decreed that, since today is about family, in the loosest sense of the term, they should celebrate with their family. Emylie gets the play; the Princess wants to be seen as kind and virtuous like the Good Queen. Which is a nice sentiment, but none of Emylie’s family is in King’s Landing.

 If Lady Jocelyn hadn’t asked, Emylie would’ve had to sit alone. She doesn’t mind, not really; she plans to use this opportunity to showcase to the lords, many of whom hold positions subservient to the Small Council and are invited to the Royal box, how cruel the Queen’s ladies are and how the Queen does nothing to correct their behaviour. 

 While Prince Aenar is only six moons old, most of the Realm is waiting for the King to change his succession. Since he has yet to do so, and the Princess seems convinced he won’t, Emylie is operating on the assumption that the King won’t. Now, it means that Emylie’s current goal is to ensure the loyalty of the noble servants in the castle and remove any who are loyal to the Hand. Showing them how the Queen treats the guests of the Red Keep will divide them, telling Emylie who she needs to get rid of. 

 She supposes she can still accomplish her goal with Lady Baratheon. 

 Emylie smiles at the older woman. “I am pleased to see that you decided to attend the tourney.” 

 “Laena was insistent on us coming.” Lady Jocelyn’s eyes crinkle when looking over at her granddaughter. 

 “Of course!” Emylie forces a fake smile. “Today is about family, is it not?” 

 There’s an amused glint in Lady Joceyln’s eyes. “I suppose it is. Tell me, how is your friendship with Ser Tyland going?” 

 Emylie laughs, trying to hide the faint blush appearing at the tip of her cheeks. “Lady Jocelyn!” She acts in mock offence. “We have barely spoken, yet you ask for such intimate details?” 

 “So there is intimate details.” Emylie rolls her eyes at the laughter in the older lady’s tone. 

 Truth be told, Emylie isn’t sure how she feels. Sure, Ser Tyland is attractive and seems to reciprocate her flirtations, but she doesn’t know. He is a Lannister; they’re not known for their humility, and any man who marries her will have to either give up their last name or acquiesce to having their children take her last name. She doesn’t know if he’d be willing to submit to her as a woman does to her husband. 

 If he doesn’t, then, well, Emylie will have to look elsewhere. 

 “He’s…been a comfort since my brother left. There are not many who understand the closeness twins have and the worry you form when they are not by your side.” It’s hard to explain how Eanon is her other half without it sounding like they’re partaking in a form of incest. 

 She immediately feels like she put her foot in her mouth when she sees the pain in Lady Jocelyn’s eyes. Emylie forgot that Prince Aemon died in battle, and she must be reminded of him. 

 She sighs heavily and nods. “It’s a painful worry. It’s pleasing that you have a confidant.” 

 Emylie smiles sadly, upset that she had hurt Lady Jocelyn. “He’s been very kind.” 

 “So you are well, here, at court?” 

 Emylie understands the underlying ask. Is she coping with the harsh reality of being the Princess’s lady? 

 When they returned from Dragonstone, Emylie was greeted with a slew of rumours floating around. Most were talking about her potential love life, though she wasn’t surprised. Edric had passed them all on. 

 From what she’s seen, she doesn’t think that anyone other than the Queen’s allies really believes them. She’s worked hard to maintain a chaste, almost innocent appearance since she’s been in King’s Landing, and people believe it. She even attends the Sept for an hour every morning to sell her character.  

There were many rumours, but most of them were short-lived, meaning that no one took them seriously. 

 Since she’s gotten back, in retaliation for Lady Reyne, who defiantly was the one spreading the rumours, she’s worked hard to ensure the members of the court know of Lady Reyne’s arrogant, unladylike behaviour.  

 This rumour has gained traction, given that she actually acts like this. 

 “Yes. The Red Keep has become much like a second home to me.” 

 Lady Jocelyn nodded, looking pleased. “For that, I am pleased. The Red Keep was my home for such a long time; I would hate for it to have changed.”

 Emylie smiles. It’s a little odd to see someone other than her brother and grandparents, and Alektor, who she supposes ought to be on that list as well, to be happy that she’s well. It’s not like she’s very close to Lady Jocelyn. 

 “King Viserys the First, his Queen, Queen Alicent Hightower, and Prince Aenar Targaryen!” 

 They all stand as the King ambles into the Royal box. The Queen follows in afterwards, trying to look haughty. It has middling success. Her ladies follow after her, along with Septa Rhealla, holding a grumpy-looking Aenar. 

 Emylie can see her anger when she spots the Princess sitting with Laena and Lady Arryn. 

 “Rhaenyra, where’s your ladies?” The King asks as everyone sits. 

 The Princess flashes a bright smile at her father. “Today is about celebrating the newest addition to our family, Father. It would be cruel to have my ladies sit here with me when their families are in the crowd. Many of them haven’t seen their families in over a year!” 

 The King laughs, and Emylie can see his fondness for his daughter in his eyes. “You remind me of your mother.” 

 The Queen certainly doesn’t like that comparison. She scowls as she daintily sits. Emylie would be sympathetic to the woman being ignored by her husband for his dead wife if she hadn’t tried to aggressively dismiss Emylie simply because she’s Dornish. 

 Emylie hides a smile behind a glass of wine that was served. 

 She half-listens to the King giving a speech to commemorate the occasion, and then sits down as the herald calls out for the first competitors. 

 “Ser Tyland Lannister,” Ser Harold Westerling announces. 

 Emylie peeks over her shoulder and blinks when Tyland comes in. He quickly bows. “Forgive me for being late, Your Grace.” The King waved off Tyland, and he quickly took a seat by Emylie. She brushes it off as she’s sitting towards the back, as she feels a little singled out without having any family with her. 

“I would’ve thought that you would be celebrating with your brother, Ser Tyland.” Emylie smiles, ignoring the smug feeling radiating from Lady Jocelyn. She’s going to have to deal with her all over again. “You were very pleased to hear that your brother was going to be attending.”

 Tyland smiles, and Emylie fidgets slightly to prevent herself from ducking and blushing like an innocent maid. “Jason is holding court currently. I thought my time may be more productive if I were to come here rather than staying.” He nods to where Emylie can see Jason Lannister loudly talking to a bunch of lords around him. Next to him, a young woman with dark hair listened to him with a bemused expression.    

 Emylie grins. “You know, not every waking moment has to be productive. Some moments can be used for pleasure.” 

 “Pleasure?” He smirks, looking rather mused at her choice of words. 

 She flushed at how he took her words. “You know what I mean.” 

 Damn, this man for having the ability to make her fluster so easily.  

 “Lady Baratheon.” Tyland nods to Lady Jocelyn. 

 Lady Jocelyn looks amused. “Ser Lannister.” 

 Genna Reyne notices them and scowls. Emylie notices the vicious look in her eyes and prepares herself to start crying. “You must be so disappointed, Lady Dayne, that your family can’t make it,” she simpers. 

 Beside Emylie, Tyland looks like he’s getting ready to respond to her. She gently kicks him, silently telling him that she’ll take care of it. 

 Emylie stops herself from rolling her eyes and nods along, seemingly agreeing with her. “Indeed I am.” She sniffles. Never before has she been glad to be able to cry on demand. “My brother is rather fond of tourneys. It’s a shame that he cannot come participate in one of the grandest ones I have seen.” 

Surprisingly, she catches the king's attention. He turns to look at Emylie and says, “Oh, does the Prince hold tournaments often?” This is the first time the King has addressed her. The pressure of maintaining his good humour is worse than with the Prince.  

 She smiles, ignoring the hateful looks that the Queen and Genna are giving her. The Princess looks over, intrigued. 

 “There have not been many since the Prince’s Father passed, Your Grace,” she demurs. “However, my Grandsire holds a celebration every spring to thank the Mother for her blessings of fertility. It’s a tradition in my home that dates back to the time we were Kings. There’s always a tourney during the festival. My brother used to attend every joust. When he was knighted, he was so excited that he was finally able to participate.” Kevah has inherited her brother’s fondness for tourneys, too. She’s besieged by them.

 The King laughs. “It sounds like Daemon when he was younger. Why couldn’t he attend?” 

 Emylie is amused at the Queen’s pinched expression at the mention of the Prince. And she’s also very exasperated with the King. Emylie shares a befuddled look with the Princess. “He……he’s at the Stepstones, Your Grace. He leads the Dornish host.”

 There’s a painful silence as the King, along with the rest of the box, winces at her words.  

 Lady Arryn looks like she’s about to burst into giggles. 

 “Forgive me, Your Grace.” Emylie drops her eyes to the floor. “I have soured the mood.” 

 “No, it’s alright, young lady.” 

 If there’s one thing the King hates, it’s upsetting people, especially young women. He’s acting right as she wants to. 

 Emylie gives him a watery smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I—it’s just that I miss him terribly.” Her tears fall easily. 

 “I imagine. With Daemon down there, it shall be over swiftly.” 

 “Thank you for your comforting words, Your Majesty.” He brightens at her words and turns back to watching. 

 Emylie shoots Genna a victorious smile, and she scowls back. She settles back in her seat, basking in her win next to Tyland. 

 “Lady Strong!” A knight comes riding up to the box. His sigil is a mix of black and red with a white tree in the centre and black ravens along the border. “I humbly ask for your favour.” 

 “I thought House Blackwood doesn’t have knights,” Emylie mutters. 

 “The Blackwoods and those who follow the Old Gods are given special dispensation to participate in tourneys,” Lady Jocelyn murmurs. 

 “He doesn’t have much of a chance, though,” Tyland interjects. “None of them are well trained in jousting. He must be doing this to impress Lady Strong.” 

 Emylie eyes Eleanor, who has skipped to the front and tosses down a wreath of red, green, and blue flowers onto the lance with a brilliant smile. In contrast, her father looks displeased at the interaction. “I think it’s working.” Tyland and Lady Jocelyn hum in agreement. 

 It’s a shame. The Blackwood boy doesn’t last long on his horse, as Tyland predicts. He’s unhorsed after the third turn, landing painfully on the dirt. 

 “Willem!” Eleanor cries. 

 She flees out of the box as the Blackwood boy is carried out. Lord Strong sighs and jerks his head to where Eleanor fled to his son. 

 His son sighs and clambers to his feet, following his sister’s dramatic exit. 

 Unfortunately, the excitement is too much for little Prince Aenar, and he wakes up wailing. Septa Rhaella has to leave quietly with the Prince. 

 The next few jousts were nothing terribly interesting. She does take note of who asks for a favour and files it for later investigation. 

 She sees that Maris was asked for hers. It’s someone from House Morrigen, one of her father’s vassals. Maris clearly doesn’t enjoy the ask. It’s an obligation from the knight rather than a genuine ask. 

 Emylie fiddles with her favour, looking at the purple and soft grey silk, her heart sinking every time a knight asks someone else for their favour. She knows that, realistically, not every lady would get an ask, but she can’t help but feel unlucky. 

 A hush falls over the crowd as Harwin Strong comes trotting into the arena. Everyone is wondering who he’ll ask for a favour. He’s the champion from the last tourney; every girl wants to be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, and he’s the best chance to get it. 

 Emylie thinks that he might choose the Princess again. 

 “Lady Lyarra Manderly, would you give me the greatest honour of giving me your favour?” He calls out. 

 Or not? 

 When she sees Lyarra in the crowd, her face flushes with embarrassment, and two girls who look like Lyarra cheer. Emylie assumes that they’re her younger sisters. Lyarra eventually, with a self-conscious smile, tosses down a ring of sea-green and white flowers. “Joust well!” she calls. 

 Harwin gives her a vicious grin and turns his horse around to face his opponent, Ser Tarbeck. 

 “Is your brother not joining the lists, Your Majesty?” Lady Arryn asks, smirking at the Queen. The memory of Harwin knocking Ser Hightower into the dirt is fresh in Emylie’s mind, and she hides a smile.

 The Queen stiffly looks at Lady Arryn. “No. My brother has other matters to attend to.” 

 “Such a shame. I would’ve loved to see him joust again.” The Princess and Laena giggle at Lady Arryn’s comment. 

 Ser Harwin knocks Ser Tarbeck off easily. Is it really that surprising that he’s moving up so quickly? He’s known as ‘Breakbones’ for a reason. 

 What’s surprising is that a certain Ser Caswell is coming up to the Princess. The Reach knights who jousted so far have asked for other Reach ladies, many of them tentatively on the Hightower side. 

“My Princess! Please give me the honour of carrying your favour!” 

 Emylie leans forward, considering the man. Lord Caswell is one of Lord Beesbury’s aides. Unlike the Riverlands, where the consensus is split, not many from the Reach have publicly displayed their position with the Princess, other than the Florents. Having a knight, most likely his Heir, ask for the Princess’s favour instead of the Queen’s signifies to the Realm that Lord Caswell is beginning to choose his position in this game. 

 She peeks at Lord Caswell, and he doesn’t look upset with his family members’ actions. 

 Emylie has yet to fully understand who the aides of the Small Council members are siding with, but it’s not surprising that one of Lord Beesbury’s aides, ardent in his support for the Princess, is choosing his side. 

 The King smiles at her daughter’s joy as she tosses down her favour. He then goes back to his conversation with the Hand. 

 Another Reach Knight comes to the Royal box. “Lady Hightower! May I request your favour?” 

 Emylie squints, not recognizing the sigil. “Jon Roxton,” Lady Jocelyn mutters. “Not known for his sunny disposition.” 

 Tyland snorts on her other side. “That is a rather kind way of putting that, Lady Baratheon.” There’s a loud cheer when Ser Caswell knocks Jon Roxton off his horse. Indeed, not known for his sunny disposition. However, Lady Hightower doesn’t look pleased at the loss. 

 The crowd gasps when the next knight comes into the arena. 

 Emylie recognizes that sigil, a golden rose on a green background, anywhere. She watches as the knight trots towards the Royal box. He’s a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, with floppy brown hair and kind eyes. 

 The crowd waits with bated breath as they wait to see who Myles Tyrell, the Heir to Highgarden, will ask. 

 So far, despite his handsome demeanour, Myles Tyrell has shied away from court, and the eager women want his hand in marriage. This is rather unprecedented. 

 And, whoever he chooses could show Emylie who the Tyrells would side with. She would think a Lord Paramount wouldn’t want to be upstaged by one of their bannermen. 

 “Lady Laena Velyaron, I-I would ask for the greatest blessing one could receive. May I have the honour of wearing your favour?” Laena is certainly a pretty girl. It would make sense for her to have male suitors lining up to court her. Emylie just wonders if the Tyrells have an ulterior motive for Ser Tyrell approaching her. She’s somewhat in line for the Throne. 

 Laena beams at the man. She gets up and tosses her favour onto his lance. “I look forward to your joust, Ser Tyrell!” 

 Other than Ser Harwin, Ser Tyrell is one of the few who has a chance at winning. Apparently, the Tyrells can afford to host tourneys all year long in Highgarden. So it’s no surprise when he knocks his opponent off their horse easily. 

 The last of the preliminary rounds comes up. 

 Emylie can hear Lady Reyne and Lannister start to giggle. Her grip on her favour tightens as she focuses her eyes on the Princess. She and her cousins are giggling together at Ser Tyrell’s proclamation. 

 Emylie knows that the Queen’s ladies' pointed giggles are directed towards her. She could see Genna glancing over to her and then back to Lynora.

 Lady Jocelyn takes her hand in hers, gently squeezing it, reassuring Emylie that she’s here. 

 “It’s such a shame if you don’t get chosen during tourneys,” Genna simpered loudly. She’d given her favour to Ser Lefford, the son of the current Lord. He won his joust. 

 “Oh, I know.” Lynora copies Genna’s tone, sending a smirk in Emylie’s direction. She gave hers to Lord Hawthorne. He lost his joust. 

 Lady Jocelyn squeezes her hand again, and Emylie tries very hard to ignore them. She dislikes that their words do hit. She likes the feeling of giving someone her favour, the euphoria of being seen and told that she’s pretty and wanted. It’s stupid to rely on someone for that validation, but Emylie is only human. 

 Next to her, Tyland grumbles, looking displeased. “Ignore them, my Lady. Knights seek out those familiar to them. It is not a blight against you.” 

 She smiles at his attempt to comfort her. “I’m aware, my Lord. Thank you for your kind words.”

 The last pair of knights comes into the arena, and Emylie pauses when she sees the sigil on one of the knights.

 A black gate on a field of yellow. 

 What is a Yronwood, of all people, doing in King’s Landing? And why hasn’t Emylie heard of this? 

 Wait. A Yronwood outside of Dorne? Jaida’s uncle, Davos Yronwood, was exiled when her father became the Lord of Yronwood. This must be his son. What’s his name? Right! Gyles Yronwood. 

 She’s very shocked to see him here. 

 “Lady Dayne! May I humbly request your favour?” He calls out. 

 Emylie smiles at the earnest man in front of her. He looks like he just reached knighthood. 

 She stands and makes her way to the front of the box, gently tossing her favour onto his lance. “It’s always a pleasure to see a fellow countryman, Ser Yronwood! I wish you luck!” 

 “It would be my honour to crown you, Lady Dayne!” He wheels his horse around, trotting to the centre. 

 She ignores the scowl radiating from the Queen’s section and returns to her seat next to Tyland. 

 “Do you know the knight?” Tyland leans forward; his eyes narrowed at Ser Yronwood’s retreating back.

 He is closer to her than what is good etiquette. 

 Emylie arches an eyebrow at him, ignoring her rising blush. If Emylie were a little more self-absorbed, she’d say that Tyland almost looks……petulant. She tucks a loose lock of hair behind an ear and smiles coyly at him. “Why do you want to know?” She drops her voice to a low, teasing tone, feeling self-conscious that Lady Jocelyn is likely listening. 

 She grins when his nose scrunches up slightly. He looks like a puppy that ate something sour. It makes her want to pinch his cheeks. “I was…merely…unaware that you made such a connection in such little time.” 

 Emylie giggles. “Ser Tyland. I’ve been at court for nearly two years. That’s suitable enough time to create such a ‘connection,’ as you say.”   

 His sour look returns. 

 She can’t help but laugh. “Relax, Ser Tyland. Ser Yronwood and I are only tangentially connected. His cousin is betrothed to my brother. Besides, I ought to back my fellow Dornish. No one else will.” 

 “How gracious of you.” His sulkiness still lingers.

 She can feel his fingers rest atop hers. He does not acknowledge the touch, but Emylie lets him continue. It’s good to have him wanting her. It’ll be easier to get him to do what she wants. 

 It’s a little cliché to say that time slows down, but it does when Gyles approaches his opponent, his lance slamming into his shoulder between his pauldron and chest plate. 

 The crunch when the knight slams into the ground is deafening. 

 Emylie stands, cheering for Gyles along with a stunned crowd, clapping as he does a victory trot.

 The flush of victory is heavy in her breast when she sits down; even the glowering of Genna and Lynora can’t get rid of it. Tyland’s pout makes her glow grow. Her grin grows even larger. 

 Today is going very well. 

                                                                                                                                              ****

 Rhaenyra lounges next to Laena and Jeyne, actually enjoying the tourney. She didn’t think that she’d enjoy a celebration based around one of Alicent’s children. But having Jeyne and Laena around to gossip with makes it bearable. 

 “Who do you think it’s going to win?” Rhaenyra gestures to the two Knights. She pauses when her eyes land on a man adorned with an ornate sigil of two swans facing each other. 

 Something niggles at the back of her mind. 

 She can’t put her finger on why it’s important. 

 It’s the sigil for House Swann of Stonehelm. The man wearing it is older but still fit; presumably, it's lord. 

“Lord Swann has ventured to King’s Landing because his heir died fighting bandits in the Marches. His wife died giving birth to his second son, Byron, but he caught the Shivers recently. The prognosis is good, but Lord Swann has no other heir save for a brother, hence the need for a new wife. I hear that he has a thing for blondes,” Emylie tells Rhaenyra quietly, appearing silently at her shoulder.

 That makes sense, but there’s still something that she’s forgetting about House Swann. Byron Swann, the second son, did try to kill Syrax during the Dance, but that’s not it. She is surprised to hear that he’s close to dying in this timeline. She wonders what has changed. 

 “I am surprised Lord Swann has decided to attend,” Jeyne mutters on Emylie’s other side. 

 “Why’s that?”