Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was it; this must be how dying felt. The soft strands of her silver-gold hair clung to her skin, glistening with sweat and the Crown Princess hunched over with a low, guttural moan. The muscles in her abdomen clenched and tightened, another wave of pain sweeping over her small frame.

‘The childbed is our battlefield,’ her mother’s voice echoed in her ears. It was a memory long past, yet one that had haunted to her throughout her years, since the fateful day Aemma Arryn has been slaughtered in her birthing bed. Now she was in the same position, bent over her bed as she rode through another wave of pain. When would it end? Why was it taking so long? How much more could she bear?

“It will not be long now, Rhaenyra,” the soft voice of Laena Velaryon soothed her, Laena’s gentle hands massing her lower back. Rhaenyra nearly sobbed in relief as the wave passed and she collapsed to her knees. “You are doing so well; it will not be much longer.”

“You don’t know that!” Rhaenyra snapped, frustration building again as she was maneuvered to a leaning position. The silver-haired beauty that was her cousin didn’t respond, just squeezing her hand gently. A sob forced itself out of her throat and Rhaenyra ran her hand through her hair in grief. So many Targaryen’s lost to the childbirth, she was going to be next. Her fear was coming true, it had been too long. A day of labour, the pain growing with every hour that passed. A brunette swept into her vision, dark wavy hair pulled up into a crown of braids and out of her freckled face.

“Do not despair, my Princess, many women have been in the birthing bed for much longer than this and come out with a bright and healthy babe,” Lady Charis Oakheart encouraged. She was the second lady-in-waiting Rhaenyra had taken following her tour, Lady Laena being the first many years before. She was older than the others, at five and twenty. Rhaenyra merely growled in response, another wave building from deep inside of her. She picked up the words ‘Come now to the bed’ as they gathered her up, with gentle hands and moved Rhaenyra to the bed. The vague noises of the ruckus were filtering through the door, and a midwife, picked with great care by Rhaenys Targaryen, came over with a fresh basin of warm water.

“Let us check your progress, Your Highness,” the older woman stated, rinsing her hands in the fresh water and moving to the end of the bed. Yet another indignity she must endure. Rhaenyra’s thoughts had darkened as the hours wore, but she leant back and steeled her expression as the Midwife’s hand went under her nightgown. A calm smile fell onto her face, and she gave a curt nod to the Crown Princess. “It is time, this babe is ready.”

“Wha?” Rhaenyra gasped out, before another contraction ripped through her. She felt her ladies come behind her, propping her up. The urge to bear down forced its way through her, and despite the bone-deep exhaustion she felt, she pushed with all her might. Words of encouragement were filtering through her mind, yet the searing agony overtook them, and her entire body felt like it was on fire. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, all the air being swept from her lungs.

“Nearly there, my dear.”

Her mother’s voice rang in her ears and Rhaenyra inhaled with a cry. Mother, please… please be with me… A final push and suddenly, the world went white. Her entire body sagged, and the sharp bawl of a new baby pierced the air. Rhaenyra gasped for breath and opened her eyes.

“A boy, Your Highness. A strong and healthy boy!” The midwife proclaimed. Rhaenyra almost wept in relief. Then the cramping started again and the handed her son over to one of her Ladies. “That’ll be the afters.”

Moments later, when her tangled silver-gold hair had been pulled back and her brow wiped clean, Rhaenyra was propped up in her bed with pillows, reaching out for her new son. With a smile, Laena gently placed the babe in her arms, wrapped in a bundle of blankets. He was crying fiercely, lilac eyes squeezed shut, his small fists clenched as he adjusted to new, colder temperatures outside the safety and warmth of Rhaenyra. She swept the blanket from his head and beamed at her son, running her fingers gently over the silver curls that adorned his head.

A true Valyrian Prince.

--

“I cannot continue to do this, we cannot continue on in this manner!” Rhaenyra snapped, throwing her hands in frustration. Rhaenyra paced her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast while Laenor sat with his head in his hands. Over the years, the chambers had undergone significant changes, including the addition of seating areas to accommodate her ladies-in-waiting. A fire blazed in the towering stone fireplace, providing the sole source of light for their conversation. Rhaenyra's complexion was pale from exhaustion, and her eyes were shadowed as she gravitated towards the warmth, resting her hands on the mantle.

The usually sharp lilac eyes of Rhaenys Targaryen followed her with sympathy, lips pursed. Rhaenys was not unaware that this would be a possibility that her son would be unable to rise to his duty and provide an heir for Rhaenyra. It had been her greatest reservation, and her greatest fear, when agreeing to the match between the two, yet Corlys had been steadfast. She had observed, and requested her daughter watch over the couple also, the troubles they experienced evident. With each failure to conceive, the increasing pressure from the King and his Wife, and the whispers of the nobles at the court, Rhaenys and Laena had both seen the couple begin to crumble. Rhaenyra had begun to wither, losing weight and dark shadows developing under her eyes. Her skin was losing sallow and her hair losing its usual shine. Laenor was no different, looking defeated and burying into his cups and, if rumours were to be considered, his knights. Rhaenys stood, her hands clasped to her front, looking between her daughter-in-law and son.

“What is the problem, specifically?” Rhaenyra turned to her sharply, a flush blossoming over her cheeks. From embarrassment or fury, Rhaenys was not sure, but Rhaenyra marched over to her table and poured a goblet of wine.

“He cannot… he cannot spill his seed with me.”

It was so quiet that Rhaenys almost didn’t hear her, but Laenor did and groaned, reaching for his own wine. The Queen who Never Was closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the wave of uncomfortableness at the conversation to pass. When Rhaenyra approached her after her coronation, she had been reluctant to offer her support and guidance and yet somehow, she was still here, trying to figure out yet another blow to Rhaenyra’s succession. It had been 5 years of battling rumours, teaching the girl how to be the heir where her father was failing, guiding her to learning about the laws, the finances and the management of a kingdom and most of all, encouraging her to build alliances.

“What methods have you tried?” Rhaenys asked, and Rhaenyra groaned in frustration, snapping a sharp ‘Everything!’ at her. Eyebrow raised, Rhaenys allowed the girl’s sharpness to roll of her. Having anticipated a problem like this that may occur, Rhaenys had taken to researching in her library. It had been complex, as many traditional texts shied away from the act of child making and rearing, yet she had found some texts on the implantation of seed without the input of the male. While they were Volantene in nature, and the results were somewhat sparse with references to magic tinctures and potions, there had been evidence that in some cases it was successful. As she explained this, she could see light starting to appear in Rhaenyra’s eyes and Laenor’s jaw hung open slightly.

“It will not be easy, nor simple. It will require dedication and attempts on every eve; however, it may give you the results we require,” Rhaenys stated. Rhaenyra gave a slow nod and glanced at Laenor. He stood at her gaze, taking his hand in hers and then turning to his mother with a newfound determination.

“We can do it.”

--

The process was not straightforward. Rhaenyra experienced significant discomfort during the months she attempted to conceive, and she believed Laenor shared these feelings, the embarrassment of handing seed over to her ladies. She had to undergo a procedure where her legs were elevated by ropes attached to her bed canopy, positioning her pelvis in a way that increased the likelihood of the seed taking root. After three turns of the moon, she began experiencing sickness like no other. Initially, Rhaenyra kept this to herself for several weeks until she missed two consecutive moonblood. Only then did she inform Laenor, Rhaenys, and subsequently, her father.

Viserys had been overjoyed, hosting a feast in their honour. It had been 14 courses of pheasant, vegetables and fish that Rhaenyra had barely been able to eat, while Alicent had watched her with a suspicious eye. They had endured the japes, the comments on ‘Finally!’ and Corlys had smacked his son on the back in pride, oblivious to their struggles.

Rhaenyra let out a soft sigh as she pulled herself from her reverie, bouncing the small bundle in her arms. Her son had drifted to sleep, his chest rising and falling with small snores. A smile fell upon her lips as she gazed at him. He had Laenor’s nose, her almond shaped eyes. While not as dark as his father, his skin was darker than her own, complimented by the silvery curls atop his head. Rhaenyra couldn’t stop staring at this tiny bundle, her heart swelling in her chest with love, the hustle and bustle of the chamber around quietened to a distant din.

“My sweet boy,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “I shall protect you and cherish you and I shall ensure no harm ever comes to you.”

Rhaenyra gently kissed the boy’s forehead as the doors to her chambers were opened, allowing Laenor Velaryon to enter. A look of joy adorned his face as he approached her, exclaiming, "A boy!" while being quietly reminded by her Ladies-In-Waiting to lower his voice. Rhaenyra smiled warmly, inclining her head as he drew nearer.

“The little Prince is sleeping, Laenor, we must not wake him,” Rhaenyra teased and Laenor practically glowed at her as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"May I?" he asked, and she chuckled, shaking her head.

"There is no need for you to request permission to hold your son," Rhaenyra stated. She carefully handed the infant to Laenor and took a moment to lean back and observe her surroundings. The chamber around her was a testament to House Targaryen. Banners adorned with dragon heraldry hung from the stone walls, their rich reds and blacks a stark contrast to the grey stones. The room was spacious, filled with a warm, soft glow emanating from the numerous sconces and the large stone fireplace that dominated one wall. The fire crackled and danced, casting flickering shadows that played upon the faces of the ladies-in-waiting bustling around the room. They attended to their tasks with a practiced grace, their whispers and rustling skirts adding to the symphony of quiet activity. Plush seating areas were scattered throughout the chamber, inviting and comfortable, draped in velvets and brocades of deep reds and golds. The grand canopy bed, where Rhaenyra now rested, was the focal point, its posts intricately carved with dragon motifs, hinting at the family’s storied history.

Rhaenyra eyes drifted back to Laenor as he gently cradled their son, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and contentment. 

“He is beautiful, Rhaenyra. He was worth all this,” Laenor whispered, unable to draw his eyes from the small babe. Rhaenyra beamed, placing her hand gently in his arm. Laenor knew he had not made Rhaenyra's journey an easy one. She had endured much because of him—the whispers, the rumours, the court's relentless scrutiny from the moment they wed. The court was a breeding ground for intrigue and malice, where every gesture and word were dissected and twisted into new forms of gossip. Rhaenyra had faced venomous glances and thinly veiled insults, every day a battle against the toxic atmosphere that sought to undermine her. Despite all that, as he marvelled at their newborn son, a sense of fulfilment settled over him.

He had feared that the weight of their responsibilities would shatter them, but in this moment, holding their child, all doubts seemed to dissipate. He glanced at Rhaenyra, who smiled softly, her eyes filled with a serene strength. Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered to the future, where her son would grow up amidst the grandeur of their house, learning the ways of courtly life and the burdens of leadership. She vowed silently to shield him from the treacherous politics that had plagued her own path. Laenor handed the baby back to her, his eyes reflecting a rare vulnerability.

"We will make this work, Rhaenyra. For him," he murmured. She nodded, her grip tightening around the tiny bundle as if drawing strength from the new life they had brought into the world. Together, they would uphold the legacy of House Targaryen. In the quiet of their chambers, amidst the flickering firelight and the distant hum of the castle, an unspoken agreement was forged. They would protect their son, and in turn, he would be the symbol of their resilience and strength. The future was uncertain, but with each other's support, they would face whatever lay ahead.

As the newborn prince slept peacefully in his mother's arms, the world outside Rhaenyra’s chamber seemed, for a moment, less daunting and more hopeful.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra barely felt she had chance to breathe, before the doors to her chambers were knocked and the youngest of her Ladies came shuffling over. Her gentle blue eyes were concerned, her brow furrowed. Her usual delicate, soft features were tightened into a grimace as she approached them, hands clasped tightly.

“Your Highness, her Grace wishes to meet the child,” Elinda said softly. Elinda Massey was a gentle, yet fierce soul. Her hair, a light brown shade like honey, was styled in a half up, half down manner and soft whisps of hair framed her heart-shaped face and her dress, normally impeccably kept was still bloodied from assisting her in her labours. Rhaenyra grimaced, exchanging a glance with Laenor, who looked equally frustrated.

“Well, we must not keep the Queen waiting,” Rhaenyra replied, tension seeping into her bones. Barely free from the grime and blood of giving birth, she handed the baby to Laenor. His grip tightened protectively around their son as he stood, ready to follow her lead. Laena and Charis moved towards her, and she stood as they fussed. Her silver-gold hair was smoothed once more and wrapped into a loose plate by Laena, Charis wiped her skin of any new sweat and grime, and the pair slipped a loose gown up her arms, over her soiled nightgown. Rhaenyra took the time to steel herself, as a knock came more insistently at the door.

“Please tell them I will be but a moment,” Rhaenyra spat, and Elinda hurried to the door to pass on the instruction. Taking her son back from Laenor she seethed quietly. “It will do no good to let her have the power. We have done naught wrong; our son is a true Valyrian.”

Laenor pursed his lips and held his arm out to her as she drew a deep breath. She winced with each step but steeled herself as the moved through the doors to the dimly lit corridors. She could still feel the blood seeping down her leg, pooling under her feet with each step. The air was thick with the weight of expectation, and she could hear the bells as they rang to announce the birth of her son. Each gong felt like it was ripping through her, mocking her and the eyes of the court followed her as they came to the bottom of the stairs.

“Fuck,” she cursed under her breath, and Laenor took a deep breath.

“Let her come to us, this is ridiculous,” he seethed, and Rhaenyra shook her head.

“We must show strength, no matter the cost. Help me walk,” she whispered. The steps sent piercing pain through her, and she strengthened her resolve with each one. She would not be cowed; she would not be broken by this. She was Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Crown Princess, Heir to Dragonstone and the Iron Throne. She would persevere and she would protect what is hers.

Finally, they reached the Queens quarters, and they waited as Ser Criston Cole announced their arrival. The derision and contempt in his eyes were only matched by the hatred that flared in Laenor’s. The silver-haired man had not forgotten nor forgiven Criston for the brutal slaying of his paramour. It was a memory that plagued his nightmares, and the pain had only begun to lessen after two years. No number of knights or lusty boys in Flea Bottom filled the hole in his heart, yet Rhaenyra did her best to provide support and be his friend.

As they were announced, she shuffled her son and kissed the top of his head. Laenor’s hand was on the base of her back, guiding her into the room. The tension felt like a physical weight on her, attempting to steel her breath and she rallied against it, refusing to bow.

The Queen turned from where she gazed out the window, her dark eyes cold. The once soft and delicate features of Alicent had turned sharp and refined as she had grown into a woman. Her hair, a striking auburn tumbled down her back in thick curls. As always, she was immaculate, the very image of what a queen should look in an emerald-green silk gown with golden leaves embroidered along the hem. It had a modest neckline, with pearls and emeralds sewn into the fabric as small flowers on the golden vines. Long caped sleeves flowed down her arms, over a tighter fitted sleeve. With the setting sunlight at her back, she seemed almost luminous, graceful and dignified.

Rhaenyra tried to not feel humiliated by her state of dress, by the lack of preparation that marked her appearance, yet the fire of the dragon ignited within her. She straightened her back, holding her son close, and met the Queen's gaze with unwavering resolve.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her chest. “May I present to you, our son.”

The Queen’s gaze flickered over the child, a shadow of something unreadable crossing her features before she composed herself. She stepped down from the window and glided over to them, a terse smile on her face.

“You should be abed, Rhaenyra, you should be resting,” Alicent chided, and Rhaenyra had to fight a scoff at her faux concern. Alicent’s dark eyes moved over the baby, and Rhaenyra could see the slight furrow in her brow and confusion. It appeared as almost a flash before she clasped her hands at her front.

“I appreciate your concern, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone measured, “However, I wished to ensure you had the best view of our young prince.”

Rhaenyra made sure to give a deliberate view of her son’s silvery curls, his darker skin as Laenor kept his hand on her back, trying to hide his distaste.

“Of course,” Alicent said, her voice sounding strained. Her eyes lingered on the child for a moment longer before she turned her attention back to Rhaenyra. “He is indeed a handsome boy.” The queen's smile was thin and did not reach her eyes.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy and palpable, as if the weight of their shared history hung in the air between them. Alicent's fingers twitched, a barely noticeable sign of her discomfort.

“Is there anything you require, Rhaenyra?” Alicent asked, her tone now colder, more formal. “Any assistance we can provide?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her grip tightening on her son. “No, Your Grace. We have all we need.”

Her words were steady, but the underlying tension was unmistakable. It was broken by the doors swinging open, and Viserys Targaryen entered, his once-regal presence becoming more diminished by age and illness. His silver hair, once a crowning glory, had begun to thin and lose luster, cascading over his shoulders in wispy strands. His face bore the marks of suffering and endurance. His eyes, a pale violet that was more frequently clouded with pain and fatigue, where nonetheless bright with excitement and joy.

“My sweet daughter! Let us see our new prince, my new grandchild. You have blessed me so this day,” he bellowed, and Rhaenyra smiled weakly at him as she handed him the small child. He took the baby with delicate hands, pride glowing across his pale features. “We shall have a feast! The bells shall be rung every hour on the hour for seven days!”

Rhaenyra watched as her father held her son, his frail body seemingly invigorated by the presence of the newborn. She beamed, yet her insides felt ready to collapse and she glanced to Laenor beseechingly.

"Father, I am glad you are pleased," Rhaenyra said softly.

Viserys looked up, his eyes shimmering. "Pleased? My dear, I am beyond pleased! This is a day of joy, a day that will be remembered for generations!"

Alicent's face remained impassive, though a slight tightening of her lips suggested she was far from thrilled. She nodded curtly; her hands clasped tightly together. "Yes, it is a joyous occasion," she echoed, her voice lacking the warmth that her words suggested.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Laenor interjected, his voice steady and composed. Rhaenyra leaned more into him, feeling her legs begin to cramp. She knew there would be a pool of blood under her feet when she moved. "I do believe it would be best for the Princess and the Prince to be abed and rest until the celebrations, however.”

“Oh, of course! To bed with you, my dear, we shall celebrate once you are rested,” Viserys handed her son back to her, and she shuffled him gently into her arms, trying to avoid putting pressure on her breasts. They were already swollen and tender, and they protested the fabric of her shift with a fiery passion.

“Oh, before you depart, Princess, what have you chosen to name the young prince?” Alicent asked, her lips in a tight smile, her eyes calculating. Rhaenyra looked at Laenor, who rose an eyebrow at her, giving her the floor.

“Jaehaerys. He shall be Jaehaerys Velaryon, until the day he takes the throne,” Rhaenyra stated, her tone challenging.

Viserys' eyes sparkled with pride and nostalgia at the name, a reminder of his grandfather sparking joy in his heart. "A fine name for a strong prince," he declared, his voice filled with emotion. "May he be a just and good king, just as his namesake."

Alicent's calculating gaze flickered for a moment, but she maintained her composed façade. "A fine choice," she conceded, though the words seemed to taste bitter on her tongue.

As Rhaenyra and Laenor began to make their way out, she held herself together with as much grace as she could. Her steps were slow and deliberate, each movement sending jolts of pain through her tired body. Laenor's supportive arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. As they walked, she handed Jaehaerys to Laenor

The corridors of the Red Keep seemed longer than ever, but Rhaenyra found strength in Laenor's steady presence beside her. When they finally reached her chambers, her Ladies rushed to assist her. Charis tutted over the younger women, with an almost motherly gaze. At only nineteen, Rhaenyra welcomed the attention and fussing as she was tucked into her soft linens, onto the goose feather mattress. Laenor gently placed the sleeping Jaehaerys in the cradle beside her, taking a moment to admire his son before turning his attention back to Rhaenyra.

“You should rest, my dear,” he said softly as he sat at the edge of the bed. He reached for her cheek and held it in his hand. Rhaenyra sighed and leaned into it, her violet eyes closing momentarily. Laenor took the moment to truly regard her, take in the other-worldly beauty of his wife. She had changed in the two years they had been married, the youthful wit and vigour she had once possessed making way to a commanding strength and intensity. She was no longer nervous or unsure at court. His mother had made sure to teach her never to show any weakness in the presence of snakes and vipers first. Yet in this moment, she was once again soft and young, and he loved her. Not as a man loves a wife, but as his family.

“I feel both exhausted and yet at full attention,” she whispered, but he could see the sleep heavying her eyes. He dropped his hand and clasped her small hand in his own. The political machinations of the court were as relentless as the tides, always seeking to undermine and challenge their position. “I can already feel the wolves circling, Laenor. I feel like I am watched at every circle, and your mother has yet to return to court.”

“And we shall defend and rebuke every attack, but to do so, you must be at rest. This has been a taxing day,” Laenor soothed. Laenor's voice was a soothing balm to her frayed nerves as he gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Rhaenyra nodded, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment. The weight of her responsibilities and the constant vigilance were taking their toll, and as she settled more comfortably into her pillows, she felt a fleeting sense of peace. Her son was close and safe, and she was cared for by her Ladies.

As her eyes closed, she felt Laenor’s weight shift from the bed and heard him whispering softly to Jaehaerys. It soothed her soul as she drifted off, a smile gracing her lips.

--

Her sleep was disturbed by a sudden shift of weight on her bed, and she blinked blearily at the face of her curly haired younger brother bouncing on her bed. His silver locks were wild, and his violet eyes were wide with wonder and mischief. The four-year-old was vibrant with joy as he saw her wake.

“Nyra! You’re awake!” he exclaimed joyfully. Rhaenyra sighed with a smile and reached out to ruffle his hair. How she missed feeling the same joy this boy glowed with. The young boy’s excitement was barely contained as he clambered closer. “I wanted to see you!” he declared, his voice filled with innocent enthusiasm. Rhaenyra glanced at the cradle, where her son still slept peacefully, undisturbed by the commotion.

“Well, you found us,” she said softly, pulling her brother into a gentle embrace. “But you must be quiet, my little dragon. We don’t want to wake Jaehaerys.”

Aegon nodded solemnly, his wide eyes reflecting all the seriousness his young heart could muster. “I promise, Nyra. I’ll be very quiet.” He sat back, putting a finger over his lips as he whispered ‘Shh’.

Rhaenyra's heart swelled with affection. The bond she shared with her brother had taken a moment to nurture, Rhaenyra initially sceptical of befriending him when Rhaenys had urged her to, yet she could not help but be overtaken by his exuberant nature. He was so light and full of joy, untainted by the mechanisms of court. He was never allowed into the Great Hall, into the wider court, due to his mischievous ways. A child had no place in court, her father had pronounced the few times it had been attempted by Alicent.

“I apologise, your highness, he ran past me before I could stop him,” Charis huffed, looking a tad out of breath. Her usually neat braided her had come loose, obviously the chase had been more exuberant than the lady was willing to admit. Rhaenyra shook her head, raising a hand.

“It is no bother, I had intended to visit with Aegon today,” she responded with a gentle smile. Aegon beamed at her as she released him from her arms and scooted to the edge of her bed. “Where is Lady Laena?”

Aegon followed her eagerly, his eyes flicking to the cradle. Charis smirked, smoothing down her burgundy wool skirts, embroidered with maroon vines along the hems. Unlike Laena and Rhaenyra, the older woman tended towards a much more muted style of dress, as the second daughter of the Noble Oakheart house. A simple leather girdle bound her waist, with golden buttons embossed with leaves the only precious metal she wore.

“She is off shadowing Ser Harwin Strong, again,” Charis responded with muted joy, and Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, so she was indeed serious about her intentions to marry him," Rhaenyra remarked thoughtfully, to which Charis responded with a light hum. Meanwhile, Aegon, seemingly impatient, approached the cradle and peered over the edge on his tiptoes.

“It would appear so; I am unsure if he is aware of her intentions.”

“I have no doubt he is,” Rhaenyra smiled, and stood to pick up Jaehaerys. The baby moved slightly as she picked him up, briefly unsettled from his sleep being disturbed, but soon calmed down against her. She waved a hand to Aegon. “Come now, byka zaldrīzes, come meet your nephew.”

Aegon clambered back onto the bed, his face bright with joy. He sat on his knees next to her, peering at the bundle in her arms. With a delicate touch, Rhaenyra lowered the baby just within Aegon's reach, overseeing his movements with a watchful eye. Aegon extended a tentative finger, softly tracing the curve of his nephew's tiny hand, a wonderstruck expression lighting up his features.

"He's so small," Aegon whispered.

Rhaenyra laughed softly. "He is, but he will grow quickly. Just like you did."

Charis, still standing by but busying herself by tidying the linens, took in the tender scene with a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"Do you think he will like dragons?" Aegon asked, his eyes never leaving his nephew's face.

"I'm sure he will," Rhaenyra replied, brushing a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "He has dragon's blood in his veins, after all."

A comfortable silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the baby's gentle breaths and the faint rustling of the fire in the hearth. Charis, sensing the need for privacy, bowed slightly. "I shall leave you to your family time, your highness."

"Thank you, Charis," Rhaenyra replied, her voice warm with gratitude. As the lady-in-waiting exited the chamber, Rhaenyra turned her full attention back to Aegon and her son, feeling a rare and precious contentment settle in her heart.

“We shall teach him all about the dragons, won’t we, Aegon,” she whispered and Aegon nodded quickly.

“And we can take him flying!” Aegon exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. Rhaenyra chuckled.

“Yes, we can take him flying. He will be a true dragon,” she responded, placing a hand on his head as she rocked Jaehaerys. Aegon looked back at the boy, nervousness suddenly overcoming his face.

“Will Jae-Rys like me?” he whispered, and Rhaenyra blinked at him. “Hella doesn’t like me, she cries all the time. And Momma gets mad at me when she sees me. What if Jae-Rys doesn’t like me?”

Rhaenyra felt her heart break for the young boy. It was no secret that Alicent found her eldest child’s energy and exuberance frustrating. She was raised on the premise children should be seen and not heard, and anything other than this was affront to her. The rare times that Rhaenyra had seen Alicent with Helaena, the two-year-old girl had been in tears, bawling in frustration. How could one not adore this boy?

Rhaenyra reached out, gently taking Aegon's hand in her own. "Jaehaerys will adore you, Aegon. You have a kind heart, and he will see that as he grows. Helaena is just very young, and some children cry more than others. It doesn't mean she doesn't love you. And you know, I love you very, very much. And I am always right, so you should believe me."

Aegon bit his lip, his eyes searching Rhaenyra’s for reassurance. She smiled at him gently, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. He glanced back at Jaehaerys, who remained blissfully asleep in his mother’s arms. "I will try, Rhaenyra. I promise."

Rhaenyra smiled; her eyes filled with affection for both boys. "That's all I could ever ask for. Now, why don't we let Jaehaerys sleep? We have plenty of time to teach him about dragons and flying."

“Can we go to the gardens? The flowers are very pretty now!” Aegon beamed and Rhaenyra kissed the top of his head.

“I cannot today, Aegon, I am sorry. But I promise that we will in just a short while,” she assured him. Aegon pouted for a moment, before he nodded and clambered down from the bed.

“Okay! I’m going to find nanny and see if she wants to go!”

Rhaenyra watched as Aegon bounded out of the room, a quiet chuckle in her throat. Jaehaerys stirred slightly in her arms, and she gently rocked him back to sleep, humming a soft lullaby. He settled easily and Rhaenyra sighed in relief, the promises of flying and gardens lingering in her thoughts.

--

Alicent paced her solar, resisting the impulse to fidget with her fingers. It seemed incomprehensible. She was convinced that the child would not possess the Targaryen traits, yet somehow the Princess had delivered a Velaryon-appearing bastard. Her father will be enraged. Alicent muttered quietly, her gaze scanning the room as she searched for an explanation. There must be a reason. Rhaenyra must have discovered an alternative means to produce a baby with such features. Laenor’s preferences were widely known. Alicent paused in thought. Driftmark harbored numerous silver-haired bastards, and Rhaenyra had spent considerable time there following her marriage. She could have had her way with any one of them.

That had to be it. She had found a loophole, there was no way the babe could be true born. It had to be a plan that she and the Queen that Never Was concocted. A dark thought passed her mind. If Rhaenyra could be a temptress to pone as honourable and true as Ser Criston, then she would have no qualms with taking a bastard to her bed.

The more Alicent thought about it, the more certain she became. She couldn't let this deception continue unchecked, but she did not have any proof. She would have to investigate thoroughly, pull her resources and find evidence of Rhaenyra’s indiscretions. If she was to show the realm the truth of Princess Rhaenyra, she would need to build an unassailable case. The integrity of the throne was at stake. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more damning than the last.

With a final glance around her solar, as if drawing strength from the familiar surroundings, Alicent straightened her posture. The quiet resolve in her eyes was a stark contrast to the turmoil within. She would not rest until the truth was laid bare, and her children were safe from the toxicity that was Rhaenyra Targaryen.

A sudden knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. The deep voice of Ser Criston followed, the door opening a rack as he gazed into the room. He has the darkest eyes... A treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind, and she quickly stamped it down.

 "It is time for the Small Council, my Queen," he announced respectfully, keeping the dark eyes on her face, never straying along her form the way the leches at court tended to. Alicent took a deep breath and turned to her mirror. She had to ensure that there was not a hair out of place. Her dress was made of emerald velvet, with the bodice featuring gold thread embroidery in floral patterns around the neckline and down the sleeves. The neckline had small pearls, and the long sleeves were cinched at the wrists with gold cuffs set with emeralds. The skirt was designed to fall to the floor with a hem that matched the gold thread embroidery on the bodice.

"Thank you, Ser Criston," she replied, and she smoothed her gown, the fabric whispering against the floor as she moved towards the door. Alicent had only recently begun to attend the Small Council, her input key in upholding the values of the Seven in the Red Keep. She had already started to shift some of the more… vulgar… tapestries from the halls, replacing them with more modest pieces of work depicting the Seven. Gradually, she would convince Viserys that her father was best served at court, providing her support. He would be able to put Aegon on the right path.

Entering the council chamber, Alicent's gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of each member with a calculated calm. She took her seat, her posture regal and composed. As the discussions commenced, her thoughts occasionally drifted back to the secrets she needed to uncover.

“Firstly, your Grace, I would like to offer my sincere congratulations on the birth of your grandson. I await the day I have my own grandchildren to dote upon,” Lyonel Strong, Hand of the King said, raising his goblet of wine to Viserys. The King beamed with pride.

“Yes, and what a fine Prince he is,” Viserys responded warmly. Congratulations erupted from the other members of the Small Council, each raising a goblet to Viserys. The King turned to Alicent. “Alicent, I would request that you bring together the celebrations for the arrival of the new Prince. It should be a momentous occasion!”

Alicent felt her heart stutter. Not only was she subject to this absolute disgrace of a bastard in her court, but her husband also expected her to throw celebration for his arrival. She swallowed her distaste, a tight smile falling upon her lips. “Of course, my husband. It would be a pleasure.”

“If I may, your Grace, we have had an exuberant year with celebrations and the projects taken on by Her Grace and the princess… and what with the Princess Helaena’s second birthday celebrations and the celebrations for Your Graces fifth wedding anniversary. We must consider of the coffers…” Lord Lyman Beesbury cut in; concern etched onto his older features. Viserys frowned at his Master of Coin, ready to argue, but Alicent took her moment.

“I think what our good Lord is suggesting, is a more intimate affair, my husband. It is the Crown Princess’ first child, and it is not yet guaranteed the babe will… thrive,” Alicent was careful with the last word, saying it lowly for only him to hear. “It may be ore appropriate, until the babe reaches two years. If anything were to happen to the babe, Rhaenyra would be devastated. Think of the Tourney.”

Viserys frowned and a shadow fell over his face, recalling his beloved Aemma. The series of lost children gradually broke his heart and ultimately claimed the life of his esteemed wife, even as the realm rejoiced over the birth of a Prince. Both the Prince and their Queen were taken from them. He sighed and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes… yes, you may be correct, my dear. A family celebration might indeed be the most appropriate course of action.”

The tension in the room eased slightly as the council members nodded in agreement with the Queen's suggestion. Alicent allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. This was the subtle art of ruling, the quiet power that she wielded with precision.

“Your Grace, we need to discuss Prince Daemon. He has been gone quite some time,” Lyonel Strong raised, moving to the next order of business. Viserys waved a hand.

“There is nothing to discuss. He has chosen to abandon his duties and gallivant in Pentos, away from his family,” Alicent pointed out sharply, annoyance falling onto her features. Viserys looked perturbed but nodded slowly in agreement with his lady wife.

“My brother has chosen his path; he has ignored any summons for nigh on a year now. Let him continue his adventures if it brings us peace at court,” Viserys waved a hand, dismissing the topic. As the meeting continued, the discussions shifted to matters of trade and security, before finally adjourning. Alicent rose gracefully, as her husband made his way towards the door of the Small Council Chambers. He paused at the doorway and turned to her, a bright smile on his face.

Alicent returned his smile cautiously, knowing in the back of her mind what he was going to suggest. He had been requesting her company more frequently over the last two moon, and while the evenings themselves were pleasant; she quite enjoyed talking on the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, listening to his almost gossiping nature; she had never found the ability to enjoy what followed. May the Mother guide her…

“Oh, my dear. I should like to have dinner this evening.”

“That would be lovely, Your Grace.”

Chapter Text

A gentle breeze drifted through the tranquil sanctuary of the Godswood. Situated within the high walls and the extensive grandeur of the Red Keep, the Godswood remained calm and quiet, with the majestic weirwood tree standing tall and prominent at its centre. The blood-red leaves of the pale tree rustled in the breeze, as the sun cast its light upon King's Landing. Birds chirped harmoniously, and the gardens were bloom with flowers in reds and oranges. Rhaenyra found solace, often retreating to the shade of the weirwood to gather her thoughts and seek comfort in its ancient presence.

With the soft scent of jasmine, heather, and freshly trimmed grass in the air, Rhaenyra took a deep breath and settled against the roots of the old tree. She was taking a moment before the Small Council, as her responsibilities as Crown Princess, Heir to Dragonstone, and a mother left her few opportunities for such breaks. Her ladies were dismissed to other duties and Jaehaerys was with his father, who had decided to walk the battlements and show their son the sea. Although two months had passed, Rhaenyra still observed the baby's small fingers grasping hers and his wide violet eyes observing everything around him with awe.  A gentle smile fell on her lips as she though of her son, pride swelling in her chest.

Granted, I wish he would sleep more. Although, on occasions she desperately required rest, she saw happy to summon the wetnurse to ted to him. While Jae was not on the same level as Helaena when she had been a babe, he was not always the most settled of children. When something upset him, he would eagerly and loudly let her know.

Her fingers brushed the Valyrian steel pendant at her neck, gifted to her years before by her uncle Daemon. I miss you, Uncle. The thought weighed on her heart, creeping into her mind when she was at her most calm. Her uncle, whom she would expect to be her most steadfast supporter, had all but abandoned her at court. He had left the night of her wedding to Laenor on the back of Caraxes, barely sparing her a glance as she was bound to another man. Her initial rage at his abandonment had long since waned, but the hole it left in her heart remained. Her reverie was broken by the approach of Ser Steffon Darklyn, his hand resting on his sword.

“Princess, it is time for the Small Council,” he said, his voice respectful yet firm. Rhaenyra nodded, rising from her spot with a grace that belied the heavy burden of her duties. She brushed down the skirts of her gown.

The gown was an elegant piece made of luxurious black and maroon velvet, tailored to fit her figure perfectly. The structured bodice and dramatic cape-like sleeves featured subtle dragon-scale detailing with gold and crimson undertones. The off-the-shoulder neckline was adorned with intricate gold embroidery depicting golden dragons in flight and bared her delicate, pale neck. Similar dragon details embellished the hem, showcasing dragons in motion. Her waist was accentuated by a maroon sash, complemented by a golden three-headed dragon broach at its centre. The gown was designed for a Targaryen princess and enhanced her almost ethereal beauty. I will not be caught in anything other than my best state.

She cast one last, longing glance at the weirwood tree before turning to follow Ser Steffon. The cool shade of the Godswood was replaced by the warmth of the castle halls, and the sounds of nature gave way to the bustling activity of the Red Keep. Members of the court bowed as she passed, and Rhaenyra retained a regal poise as they crossed through outer courtyard, Ser Steffon maintaining a close step as they passed merchants delivering goods and wares; petitioners arriving to appeal to the court and noble ladies and lords milling about in conversation.

Her steps stalled as they approached the doors to the Small Council. The Queen glided towards them; her hands clasped at her front. She was deep in conversation with Ser Criston, the structured skirts of her gown brushing the grown as she walked. In stark contrast to Rhaenyra’s own gown, Alicent’s was a deep green velvet, with a high neckline and delicate golden beading. Long sleeves were fitted to her arms, and there was a hint of green and gold embroidery in pattern of flames along the wrists. As always, a star of the Seven sat at her neck in gold and Rhaenyra held back a sneer at the sight of it.

Ever the pure and faithful Queen, aren’t you? Rhaenyra thought but composed herself promptly and acknowledged her former Lady-In-Waiting with a slight nod. The Queen offered her a restrained smile.

"Rhaenyra, you appear to be in good health," Alicent stated formally in greeting. Giving her own tight smile in response, Rhaenyra gave her thanks. She could not say the same for Alicent. Her usual beauty had a pallor to it, and discomfort seemed to dog her as she stood. Ser Criston and Ser Steffon each stood several paces behind the Queen and Princess, eyeing each other wearily.

“I am, Your grace,” Rhaenyra response. The air around them was thick with tension, and not for the first time, Rhaenyra missed the easy friendship she had used to have with Alicent. A time when life had seemed simple, when all she had wanted was to fly away with her best friend on the back of Syrax and eat cakes. And then her Lady-In-Waiting, the daughter of a second son with no lands or gold, her supposed best friend and only companion, had married her father. A mere year following her own mother’s passing, Alicent Hightower became Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The betrayal had run deep, yet Rhaenyra had endured and under the tutelage of Rhaenys, she had done her best to mend the fences and not antagonise, fought the urge to scream and cry every day. Alicent had both kept her distance and tried to regain the friendship that she had destroyed, and at time Rhaenyra had felt the urge to give in.

“I am glad you are home; I find I have few friends lately.”  

“I’ve missed you too.”

She had been so full of hope that they could overcome the challenges, and their friendship would prevail. Alicent was not trained to be Queen, she was still learning, and they could have learned together. That had been ruined by Alicent’s father and the rumours he had spread of her apparent indiscretions.

--

Rhaenyra returned to her chambers through the secret passage, her heart racing with apprehension and fear.

"He left me; how could he abandon me in the Street of Silk?"

Unfamiliar with the route home and navigating paths and tunnels she had not traversed before that evening, Daemon had deserted her in Flea Bottom, leaving her feeling frustrated and fearful. Ser Harwin discreetly safeguarded her journey back into the Red Keep, as she had observed him twice behind her. A sob almost escaped her lips as she removed the street urchin’s attire and donned her cotton nightgown. Rhaenyra pulled out the pins securing her silver-gold hair atop her head and collapsed onto her bed, pressing her face inter her pillow.

"How could he just leave me like that?" she murmured. It was an immense risk, one she knew Rhaenys would have reprimanded her for had she been at court. Rhaenys had spent years advising her to avoid drawing attention, to avoid taking risks, and to act prudently. Nevertheless, the temptation to spend time with her uncle had been overwhelming, her curiosity had prevailed, and now she found herself in her room, weeping into her pillow. That was how she drifted into unconsciousness, distressed and in tears, curled into a ball around her pillow.

A hand gently shook her awake, prompting her to open her eyes to the gentle and refined face of Lady Charis, who was looking down at her with concern.

"My Princess, you must awaken. The Queen is summoning you," she urged softly. Rhaenyra blinked away her drowsiness and moved into a sitting position. As soon as she was upright, Charis swiftly approached her wardrobe, selecting a golden gown adorned with maroon dragon embroidery for the princess to wear.

"Why?" Rhaenyra inquired, still disoriented, as Lady Laena approached, elegantly dressed in blue and silver, and began brushing her hair and pinning it up.

“Apparently, the King was rushed into a meeting with the hand in the early hours of the morning. Daemon has been summoned to the Great Hall,” Laena explained quickly, and Rhaenyra’s violet eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly. Laena pulled her to her feet, and wiped her face with a warm damp cloth, removing sleep from her eyes. Charis moved over, pulling Rhaenyra’s arms into the belled sleeves of the golden gown. Rhaenyra grunted slightly as the laces on the back of the dress were tightened, trying not to cough when Laena powdered her face.

“We must go there; we cannot allow my father to banish Daemon once more,” Rhaenyra stated urgently. Laena responded by shaking her head, causing her thick silver curls to bounce.

"You cannot, Rhaenyra. The Queen has summoned you to the Godswood. We must proceed with urgency," Charis admonished, causing Rhaenyra to flush. She was perplexed and questioned the unfolding events. Had she been discovered? Had she been seen outside of the keep? Throughout the journey to the Godswood, Rhaenyra anxiously twisted the rings on her fingers, accompanied by Ser Criston and her Ladies. Upon arrival, she instructed them to remain at the entrance. Before the large tree stood Alicent, adorned in a red and black gown detailed with golden and black dragons. As Rhaenyra approached, the auburn-haired woman turned to face her, her expression severe.

"What transpired last night?" Alicent inquired, her voice stern. Rhaenyra halted.

"What do you mean?"

"My father has raised some serious allegations concerning you," Alicent stated. Rhaenyra swallowed, her lips pursing. Alicent’s nose raised slightly, looking down at her. “Were you with your uncle?”

“I haven’t seen my uncle in years, he took me into the city, to show me the people and have fun,” Rhaenyra responded tightly, her brow furrowing. Alicent strode towards her, expression stern and she stood her ground, raising her chin.

“Tell me the truth of it, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra frowned, feeling fury spike in her. She tampered it, as she responded. “You father has accused me of something? That I drank wine? Left the castle after dark? Be plain with your accusation, Alicent.”

“That you fucked Daemon in a pleasure house,” Alicent spat, her eyes alight with disdain, a sneer falling onto her face. Rhaenyra felt her stomach clench and she despaired at the face her once friend was giving her. Her mouth fell open and she spat how vile the accusation was. “Is it, you Targaryen’s do have queer customs, and Daemon certainly knows no limits”

The disgust on her face threw Rhaenyra. She had always known that Alicent judged the Targaryen’s for their customs, yet still she had married into their house. To have her come outright and say it though, while accusing her of something so vile shocked her. Not just levelling insult to her but tarnishing her entire family. If this was to be spread, Rhaenyra would be ruined. Rhaenyra took a step backwards, steeling herself and her expression. A coldness towards Alicent swept through her that she had never felt before.

“Your Grace, you must know I would never bring such shame and dishonour upon my house. It is disgusting gossip,” Rhaenyra retorted with venom. Alicent scoffed.

“My father is no gossip!”

“H has been misled. He could not have witnessed such a thing, as such a thing did not happen,” Rhaenyra’s back was ramrod straight, doing her best to project dignity and confidence. She would not be cowed by these rumours. Alicent did not falter.

“He was told –“

“Told? Who made these claims to your father, Alicent?” Rhaenyra questioned. To have such an accusation and not even based upon the hand’s own vision. Alicent remained silent, and Rhaenyra turned, clenching her fist. Fury rose within her. “I am the Crown Princess, heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms. To make such claims, to question my virtue is an act of treason.”

“I do not know specifically. He reported it to the King. I overheard.”

“So, you are accusing me of sickening slanders that you did not even have reported to yourself. You overheard and have taken them as truth?” Rhaenyra gazed at her in disbelief, and Alicent took a step towards her, the older woman’s face cracking.

“I only wish to help.”

“I do not need your help, Alicent, for nothing happened. We drank in several taverns, he took me to see a show. It got late, I wished to return, he wished to continue… As my escort, I had no choice but to follow,” Rhaenyra explained. Alicent looked down in confusion, before looking back at her.

“In a brothel, Rhaenyra.”

“I was a spectator, I did nothing. My virtue and my honour are intact,” Rhaenyra snapped. “Daemon sank into his cups and abandoned me to go with his whores. Yes, I should have known better, but I am a maiden still.”

Alicent turned, her hand going to her face as she covered her eyes. She took a deep breath before facing Rhaenyra.

“It was foolish of you to place yourself in such a position where your virtue could ever come into question,” Alicent scowled. “The King exhausts himself finding you a good match, and you have all but spat in our faces in refusal. If the lords were to think that you had been sullied… it would destroy not only your own reputation, but that of this family.”

You’re one to talk. The thought crossed Rhaenyra’s mind swiftly. “I regret it. I cannot say more than that.”

Alicent pursed her lips, clasping her hands at her front.

“Very well,” she said, and then she turned on her heel and strode from the garden. Only once she was out of sight did Rhaenyra let go of the breath she was holding, her shoulders slumping. Who was she to judge her? Rhaenyra’s virtue was not in question. Yes, they had kissed, and he had touched her in ways no one ever had before, but her maidenhood was unbroken.

--

The chain of events that night had triggered; Otto’s dismissal from court, her father sending her the moon tea, Criston Cole professing undying love to her and her having to reject him, his sudden loyalty to Alicent; they had driven a wider and wider wedge between Rhaenyra and Alicent until it felt there was no returning from them. The friendship was broken beyond repair, leaving only cold animosity and judgement from Alicent.

Rhaenyra indicated the door to the council.

"After you, Your Grace," she said, her smile restrained. Alicent slightly pursed her lips and raised her chin before walking through the doors held open by Ser Criston into the Small Council chambers. Rhaenyra composed herself with a deep breath before proceeding. Upon her entry, Lyman Beesbury and Lyonel Strong acknowledged her with a nod, and she seated herself beside Lyonel. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Alicent quietly whispering with the Grand Maester.

“How fares the young prince, my Princess,” Lyonel asked kindly. Rhaenyra gave him a soft smile, before responding that the babe was well and thriving according to the Maesters.  “That is excellent news.”

Before the conversation could continue further, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber. King Viserys entered, and his gaze swept across the assembled council members, and a weary yet genuine smile touched his lips.

"Good morrow," Viserys greeted, his voice carrying the weight of his kingship. "I trust we are all well."

The council members rose from their seats in respect, and Rhaenyra and Alicent offered curtsies.

"Your Grace," Rhaenyra responded, observing her father with a mixture of affection and concern.

Viserys made his way to his chair, seating himself with a slight wince that did not go unnoticed by his daughter.

"Let us proceed with the matters at hand," he said, gesturing for the council to be seated.

As the discussions resumed, Rhaenyra couldn't help but steal glances at her father, noting the lines of fatigue etched upon his face. Despite the tension between them, she felt a pang of worry for his well-being. She resolved to speak with him later, to offer her support and seek his counsel. As the conversation moved to the food stores, Rhaenyra spoke up.

"Your Grace, my lords," Rhaenyra began. "On the discussion the food stores, I propose we consider building additional greenhouses within King's Landing. This would allow us to grow our own produce, ensuring a consistent supply of fresh food and lessening our dependence on The Reach and the Vale, especially as winter approaches."

The council members exchanged glances, some nodding thoughtfully. Lyonel Strong leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Greenhouses, you say? It is an ambitious project, but it could indeed offer significant benefits."

Rhaenyra continued, "By using the knowledge of our Maesters and the skilled labour available within the city, we can construct greenhouses that sustain various crops throughout the year. This would not only prepare us better for the harsh months ahead but also bolster our independence."

King Viserys regarded his daughter with a proud yet contemplative expression. "You have given this much thought, Rhaenyra. It is a sound proposal."

With a slight nod, Rhaenyra concluded, "Indeed, Your Grace. If we begin this project promptly, it could be operational in time to benefit us before the next winter sets in."

The room fell into a hush as the council members pondered the proposal, weighing its merits and challenges. Viserys, seeing the potential wisdom in his daughter's suggestion, said, "Let us deliberate further on this. In the meantime, draft a detailed plan for the greenhouse's construction and present it at our next meeting. Beesbury, work with Rhaenyra to deliberate the costs of such a project."

“The next order of business, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and Lord Corlys Velaryon are due to return to court in two days, how goes the preparations for the feasts in their honour?” Viserys asked. Alicent spoke up, her hand twirling her sphere in it setting.

"Your Grace, I have organized a seven-course feast accompanied by musicians for dancing. The accommodations in Maegor's Holdfast are also ready,” Alicent responded, and Viserys inclined his head in acknowledgement. A small smile fell onto her lips, and she reached for her husband’s hand. “I also have some news of my own to share with the Council. I am with child again. The Maester confirmed it this morning.”

Rhaenyra’s heart shuttered and she sat up straighter. Is she fucking joking? She bit back the curse she wanted to spit, and gave a strained smile as the other council members offered their congratulations. Viserys beamed at his wife, proclaiming his joy at her news. Alicent turned to Rhaenyra, her eyes daring her to say something.

“This is excellent news, Your Grace. My sincerest congratulations,” the words were flat as they left Rhaenyra’s mouth. Alicent gave a tight smile in response before turning her attention back to Viserys.

“If I may, dear husband, with each child I find myself missing my own family so. It is hard enough to not have my mother to share these experiences with, but with my father away from court… The children are missing out on the love and support of a true grandfather. I would request that we write to him and request he return to court, to provide me with support,” Alicent broached carefully. Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. Of course, she would try to angle this to get her father back in King’s Landing.

Viserys eyes flickered between his daughter and wife. The Small Council had not been privy to the full details of why Otto Hightower had been banished from Court, so Alicent raising this in the Small Council was an intelligent move. He could not outright refuse her without a justified reason, which would in turn bring shame upon his sweet daughter. And to be honest, as the time had passed, he found himself missing his old friend and confident. He would not be retaining the position of Hand; he would merely be visiting with his daughter. Viserys took a long drink of the wine in his goblet, eyeing his council members over the rim. If he rejected the request of his pregnant wife, he would be seen as unreasonable at best, and cruel at worst.

“I believe a visit from Lord Hightower would be beneficial for her Grace, my King,” Grand Maester Mellos said, speaking in support of the Queen. Viserys glanced at his daughter, who remained quiet throughout. Rhaenyra sat with her back straight, her face set into a neutral expression as she rolled her sphere under her fingers. Her eyes were cast down at the table, but she raised them when she felt his gaze. He could read nothing in her shuttered expression and turned away from her gaze to his wife. Alicent’s dark eyes were wide and expressive, pleading with him to grant her this wish.

“Yes, well… if he wished to visit, he may,” Viserys cowed to the pressure from his wife, and she beamed at him. Grasping his hand in hers she gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Thank you, Your Grace, I will write to him," Alicent replied gratefully. The tension in the room was palpable, each member of the council acutely aware of the delicate power play unfolding before them. Viserys's mind raced, considering the ramifications of granting Alicent's request. He knew that Rhaenyra's silence was a strategic move, the decision weighed heavily on him, torn between his duty as a king, a husband, and a father.

Rhaenyra's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as she watched Alicent seize yet another opportunity to solidify her influence over the king. She could feel the eyes of the council members shifting between her and Alicent.

Alicent's smile was a picture of triumph, though it was veiled in the guise of gratitude. Rhaenyra knew better; she saw through the façade. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and the discussion moved on to other matters, the tension slowly dissipating. Rhaenyra maintained a composed exterior, contributing to the discussions when necessary but largely remaining an observer.

As the meeting ended, Viserys rose from his seat, signalling the end of the session. Alicent stood after, ready to follow her husband. "That shall do for today," he said, his voice weary yet authoritative. "We shall reconvene tomorrow to finalize the preparations for Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys's return."

The council members stood and began to disperse after the King departed, murmuring amongst themselves about the day's proceedings. Rhaenyra lingered for a moment; her eyes fixed on the sphere that was designated for her, before she took a deep breath and left the room.

She would make do; she would survive this blow. Her father may have put her at risk with this decision, but she would not be cowed.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon stood at the railing of the Velaryon ship, her fingers tracing the ornate railing absentmindedly, as it approached the bustling harbour of King’s Landing. Already the smell felt like it was sticking to her skin, and she silently cursed the Small Council for the lack of care given to the great city. The sun cast a golden glow over the shimmering waters, a deceptively light scene for what she knew to be a pit of vipers and snakes. Her lilac eyes narrowed as she took in the familiar cityscape, a frown settling onto thin lips.

She was ever the refined and graceful Princess of House Targaryen, in a deep blue gown, the colour of the midnight sea, adorned with intricate seahorse embroidery that seemed to dance with the sway of the ship. Her hair, a cascade of silver and black strands, was woven into elaborate braids. The braids were adorned with delicate silver clasps, glinting in the sunlight, a subtle testament to the wealth and status of her family. Rhaenys carried herself with an air of unquestionable authority, every inch the Queen who Never Was, unmistakably regal.

As the ship drew closer to the docks, she steeled herself for the inevitable courtly intrigue awaiting her. She was not surprised to see the lineup of Targaryen’s – and not quite – awaiting her ship at the harbour. Rhaenys spied Laenor, Rhaenyra and Laena instantly, all three dressed in Velaryon blue and silver, adorned with pearls and diamonds with intricate seahorse detailing.

Her eyes were draw to a small bundle of fabric in Rhaenyra’s arms and Rhaenys’ heart skipped a beat, despite her poise. That’s my grandson, my first grandchild. The thought made her beam with pride, both in the grandchild and in her son and Rhaenyra. It had not been an easy journey for them, and they had produced something great for their efforts. This child was the future of their house, and she would do her dammed best to ensure his safety and security.

Even if they named him after her seven-forsaken grandfather. The thought crossed her mind bitterly, yet Rhaenys had to admire the gall and forethought of Rhaenyra. Naming her first-born son and heir after the supposed greatest King of the Seven Kingdoms? It had been a move of political ingenuity that Rhaenys had been proud of.

She was not surprised to see Prince Aegon holding onto Rhaenyra’s hand, a clear distance between him and his mother, nor Helaena in Laenor’s arms. They cut quite the picture of a perfect family; the two young children happily settled with their older sister.

Along side them stood the King himself, and Rhaenys rose an eyebrow at the state of her cousin. He was put together well, yet she could see the age and fatigue creeping into the man. Alicent Hightower held onto his arm, dressed in a stunning, yet modest, velvet green with gold embroidery. Her chin was held high, yet Rhaenys could see the annoyance -and was that fear? - on her features as her dark eyes flit to Rhaenyra and her children.

The sight of familiar faces and the imposing Red Keep on the horizon brought a sense of nostalgia, tinged with trepidation that she refused to show on her refined features. This return to court was not merely a homecoming; it was a step back into the political maelstrom that she had deftly navigated for years.

As the ship's gangplank was lowered, Rhaenys took a deep breath, readying herself for the monumental tasks ahead. She cast a glance at the tall and imposing figure of her husband, Corlys, whose reassuring presence offered a modicum of comfort. He gave her a knowing look and held his arm out to her. They cut a powerful image of resplendent glamour and wealth, an entirely intentional move on their part. Let them see that House Velaryon would not be cowed, nor mocked. Together, they descended, their footsteps echoing on the wooden planks of the dock.

The welcoming committee awaited them with an air of rehearsed formality. Flags bearing the coat of arms for both House Targaryen and House Velaryon fluttered in the gentle breeze. Amidst the crowd, familiar faces stood out, each with their own blend of anticipation and guarded expressions. Viserys dropped Alicent’s arm as they approached, holding his arms open to his cousin and her husband.

“Cousin! It has been too long, we welcome you back to King’s Landing,” he announced happily, beaming at them. Rhaenys gave him a thin-lipped smile in response.

“Yes, cousin, we are pleased to be back, even for a short time,” Rhaenys replied, and the emphasis was placed on short. Viserys faltered for a moment but carried on with the greetings. Rhaenyra stepped forward with her small bundle, capturing both Corlys and Rhaenys’ attention immediately. Pride overflowed on Corlys’ face as Rhaenyra smiled carefully.

“May I introduce you to Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, your grandson,” she said gently. The weight of the name, Jaehaerys, hung in the air, a palpable reminder of the Great Council and the throne that Rhaenys’ had taken from her. Her heart swelled with a mix of emotions as she gazed upon her grandson, his tiny features so full of potential and promise. Corlys, beside her, barely contained his emotions, reaching out to stroke the babe’s cheek with a tear in his eye.

Rhaenyra and Rhaenys exchanged quiet, meaningful glances before turning their attention back to the present. The King, having concluded his warm welcome, shifted ever so slightly, signalling the end of the formalities. He motioned for them to follow, a procession forming as they made their way towards the awaiting carriages. Rhaenyra, Laenor and Laena all climbed into the same carriage, Aegon and Helaena following them into their carriage, their innocent laughter a brief respite from the tense atmosphere.

The streets leading up to the Red Keep were lined with curious onlookers, whispering and pointing as they took in the grandeur of House Velaryon’s arrival. As they approached the entrance, the grand doors of the Keep swung open, revealing a welcoming committee of courtiers and guards. Their arrival in the Outer Courtyard was heralded with trumpets, and the sight of the Red Keep’s opulent interior greeted them as the grand doors to the Great Hall were swung open. Viserys led the way, his demeanour one of practiced royalty, though shadows of weariness clung to him. Alicent remained by his side, her expression a mask of composed politeness.

Rhaenys took in the familiar surroundings with a mixture of nostalgia and wariness. This was her home once, and though much had changed, the essence of the court remained the same – a place of hidden agendas and whispered secrets. She cast a glance at Corlys, who met her gaze with a reassuring nod. Viserys turned to address the gathered courtiers and nobles.

“House Velaryon has returned to King’s Landing, and we are honoured to have them among us once more,” he proclaimed, his voice carrying through the hall. A polite cheer and applause came from the attending nobles. “In light of the arrival of House Velaryon and to celebrate the birth of the Heirs’ Heir, we shall be holding seven days of feasts and a tourney, to which you are all welcome. Let us enjoy and celebrate this joyous moment together!”

Rhaenys inclined her head in acknowledgment, her expression composed. This was merely the beginning of their stay, and she knew that the days ahead would be filled with challenges and opportunities. As the assembly dispersed, she turned to her children with a soft and gentle smile, opening her arms to them.

“My children, how I have missed you,” she said gently. Laena glowed as she moved swiftly to her mother, giving her a tight hug. Corlys had already snatched his grandson from Rhaenyra, his dark eyes full of awe and wonder as he gazed at the boy. Jaehaerys had begun to fuss, his violet eyes starting tear and Corly almost cooed at him, swaying him to calm him. “How have you fared?”

She cupped her daughter’s soft cheek in her palm, stroking her thumb across the high cheekbone. Laena smiled softly, deep violet eyes sparkling with joy at her mother’s presence.

"I have decided upon a husband," Laena declared with confidence in her voice. Rhaenys blinked in surprise, turning to Rhaenyra who shrugged sheepishly as she attempted to steal her son back from his grandfather. Corlys looked over at them, surprise evident in his handsome features, still managing to avoid Rhaenyra’s grasps.

“Who, my dear?” Rhaenys asked, and Laena smiled brightly. Without a thought of decorum or appearances, she raised her arm and point to the door.

“Him!”

The entire parties’ heads spun to the direction Laena pointed; to the entrance of the Grand Hall at the tall and imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong. He stood with broad shoulders and towering over the nobles. His had rested on the ornate hilt of his sword at his belt, dark brown eyes running over the hall vigilantly as he watched the royal family and those around them closely. Rhaenys ran her eyes over him, studying him closely. Harwin had strong, rugged features and cut an impressive image in the polished armour of the City Guard. His golden cloak was pressed to perfection and not a hair was out of place, dark curls held tightly back in a half knot. Oh, he is very handsome. The thought strayed across her mind. He reminded her of her own husband when he was younger.

“Did you know about this?” Laenor whispered to his wife, who smiled slyly in response. Laena turned back to her mother.

"I have decided to marry Ser Harwin. He is a loyal knight, the first-born son, and the Heir to Harrenhall. I believe he would be a suitable partner, and he has agreed to court if you approve of my decision,” the seventeen-year-old woman stated, her hands clasped tightly at the front of her gown.  Rhaenys rose her eyebrows sharply, mirroring her daughters’ posture. While she admired her daughters drive and passion – most of the time – Rhaenys found herself exasperated at the girl’s lack of tact.

“I believe that is something that your father and I shall discuss with the Lord Hand. You should not have broached this subject with Ser Strong prior to official introductions, Laena,” Rhaenys admonished, her voice low and sharp. A light flush bloomed on Laena’s sharp features, and Rhaenys could see her readying herself to argue with her mother. Rhaenys held a hand up to silence her. “However, as you have already taken is upon yourself, we shall open communication with the Lord Hand and Ser Strong to deliberate this further. In the meantime, you will not engage with Ser Strong without the appropriate chaperone. Am I understood?”

Laena’s eyes narrowed as she considered her mother’s words, before she gave a sharp nod.  Rhaenys had to fight the urge to sigh deeply and looked to her husband.

“I believe we should retire to our rooms for respite, ahead of the evening festivities.”

Corlys coughed, handing Rhaenyra back her son. “Yes, I agree, my love.”

Rhaenyra finally reclaimed her son, cradling him close as she watched the exchange with interest. As the family began to disperse, Laena remained where she stood, her posture stiff and eyes still fixed on her mother, determination burning in their depths.

“We shall speak more on this later, Laena,” Rhaenys added softly, her tone gentler now. “For now, let us prepare for the evening.”

With a final glance towards the imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, Laena nodded once more before following her parents’ and Rhaenyra out of the Grand Hall, following Rhaenyra to her chambers in Maegors Holdfast. The nobles and courtiers resumed their conversations, the buzz of intrigue and curiosity filling the air as they speculated about the conversation between the Velaryon’s.

As they walked through the corridors of the palace, Corlys placed a reassuring hand on Rhaenys’ shoulder. “She is headstrong, just like you were,” he said with a fond smile.

Rhaenys sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And just like you are,” she replied, leaning into his touch.

--

The moon sat high in the sky as Rhaenyra made her way to the chambers of the Queen who never was. Nerves gnawed at her stomach, and she turned the rings on her fingers compulsively.  The candles lighting the hallway were starting to die down as the evening drew in, most of the Keep’s inhabitants now retired for the evening to their rooms. It was eerily quiet, and Rhaenyra was sure if she listened close, she would hear the rats scuttling about the walls.

The silver-gold haired beauty rose her hand to knock on the chamber’s doors, ignoring the side eye the Velaryon guard was giving her. She had switched from her usual gowns of marron and gold into a simpler dress, one borrowed from her Lady in Waiting Charis. It was a tad too big at the hips and chest, and snug at the waist, but otherwise it made her blend enough to pass the halls without notice. A brown bonnet held her silver locks safely tucked away. Rhaenyra bit her lip, clenching her fist, lowering her hand slightly before she steeled herself and knocked on the door.

There was shuffling from the room, and the heavy door was opened a crack. Rhaenys peered at her through the crack and rose an eyebrow sharply. Something akin to amusement danced in her eyes, as she held open the door wider to Rhaenyra. She had already dressed for bed, a blue and silver robe draped over her shoulders, with a silken nightgown adorning her tall and lean form.

“May I enter, cousin?” Rhaenyra asked gently, still twiddling her rings. Rhaenys seemed to hesitate for a moment, before taking pity on the young woman and stepping to the side to allow her entry.

Rhaenys regarded Rhaenyra carefully, watching her pace the floor of her room as she crossed to a table covered in scrolls and papers. She did not dislike the Princess; however, it irked her to no end how the girl seemed to swan about without a care, failing to pay attention in her lessons, failing to consider that her every move and action was being judged as the Heir. As Rhaenys had said to her only hours before, the realm would rather burn than put a woman on the Iron Throne, and the girl did not seem to understand the precariousness of her position. She was either resigned to the fact she would be passed over, or she just did not care.

And yet… Rhaenyra had sought her out in her chambers, in the cover of darkness. So Rhaenys sat at the table, pouring herself a goblet of wine and enjoying the warmth of the fire in the colder evening. It offered a low, calming light to the otherwise dark room. After a moment, Rhaenyra turned to her, hands falling to her sides.

“You were correct, when we spoke earlier. I have seen it in the court, the way the nobles whisper and watch me, waiting for me to trip. My own father does little to secure my position as Heir and I am at loss of how to move forward. I need guidance, I need backing and I have not been provided the necessary education on how to run a household, let alone a kingdom,” the princess rambled. “Please… I beseech you, Princess Rhaenys, help me. Tell me what I need to do to secure my position.”

Rhaenys took a slow inhale, sipping her wine before setting the goblet down. Rhaenyra watched her like a scared deer, yet there was a fierceness in her eyes that only a true Targaryen could possess. In her youth, Rhaenys had been trained and educated to be Queen. She knew what was required to rule, the political machinations of court and who was to be trusted and who was to be watched.

“Sit, child,” Rhaenys said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. Rhaenyra bristled slightly at being called child yet did as she was told while Rhaenys rifled through the documents on her table. After a moment of looking, she lifted a few loose papers and handed them to Rhaenyra.

“To truly cement your claim to the throne, you must demonstrate your ability to lead and your commitment to the realm. You must be fair, decisive and you cannot show any weakness. No losing your temper, no sarcastic barbs, no missing lessons and flying off on your dragon whenever you wish,” Rhaenys started, her voice calm and only slightly derisive towards the end. Rhaenyra blinked, looking down at the papers she had been handed and the writing scribbled down them.

“It this… is these instructions?” Rhaenyra asked, and Rhaenys smirked.

“I had hoped you would have the foresight to come to me, so I prepared accordingly,” Rhaenys smirked, before her expression turned severe. “You must memorise these pages then destroy them; you cannot let anyone know the work you are doing nor that you are under tutelage.”

“Of course, Princess Rhaenys.”

“The items on these papers are simple but can be complex. The projects that will support you are related to the wellbeing of the people and the betterment of the realm. Enhancing the city defences, rebuilding and repairing the roads throughout the kingdom, establishing education and medical reforms to endear to scholars. You must also keep up with charitable programs, supporting the poor. Improve the conditions in Fleabottom, provide food and shelter. Gain the support of the common folk. Become the Realms Delight they sing about, let them see you as their leader and guardian.”

“How do I do that? Will it enough?”

“It will be a start, and it will endear you to the smallfolk,” she stated, handing her another scroll that held details on Queen Alysanne’s charitable works and projects. Such things had fell to the wayside since her grandmothers passing, with Queen Aemma to occupied to continue them.

“You must forge alliances and grow your household. How you have managed to get by with a single Lady-In-Waiting is beyond me, you should have at least five ladies from different households. They act as your eyes and ears within the Keep and give you important information that you are woefully missing now,” Rhaenys stated pointedly. Rhaenyra flushed, looking down at her lap. “These are not all your failings, child. They are your fathers. In some matters he is a good king, yet when it comes to his own blood…”

Rhaenys trailed off with pursed lips. Rhaenyra looked ready to defend her father but nodded in agreement after a moment of thought.

“You must learn the names and positions of every noble house in Westeros and build relationships. Some may be a lost cause, but there are families that have been neglected by the crown that would be eternally loyal if the proper communications were established,” Rhaenys handed Rhaenyra another scroll with some house names scrawled on it. “Start with the closer regions and expand your reach into the North and South. You should also begin learning to manage a keep, as the Heir to the throne you are now the Princess of Dragonstone. The finances and management of the castle and island are yours; you must take it over and learn to rule.”

Rhaenyra swallowed and nodded, doubt filling her. “It’s so much to take on … What if I falter?”

Rhaenys reached over and took the Princess’s smaller hand in her own, looking her directly in the eyes. “You cannot falter. If you falter, you will be doubted and you will be replaced. You cannot give them a reason to believe you at fault in any way.”

Her gaze softened, as she continued. “You are stronger than you realise, Rhaenyra. You have the fire and heart of a true Targaryen.  And you are not alone. I will provide you support and guidance.”

“I will not let you down, Princess Rhaenys. I will not let the realm down,” Rhaenyra responded, fire in her voice.

Rhaenys watched Rhaenyra. The girl had potential, but there was much to learn and equally much to prove. The realm was in a delicate state and the Princess needed to be the thread that mended those wounds with her leadership.

The room was filled with the scent of parchment and ink, scrolls piled high on the table before them. Each one contained the weight of a kingdom's needs, a heavy burden for shoulders so young.

"You have a journey ahead, one filled with challenges and triumphs," Rhaenys began, her voice firm yet gentle. "The path to ruling is not paved with ease, but with resilience."

Rhaenyra's eyes flickered with uncertainty, yet a spark of resolve began to kindle within them. She knew she needed to rise to the occasion, for herself, for her family, and for the realm. Rhaenys gave a small nod of approval at the sight of Rhaenyra's growing determination.

"Good," she said. "Let that fire guide you but always temper it with wisdom. Seek counsel when you are uncertain and remember that even the greatest rulers are those who listen and learn continually."

Rhaenyra straightened her posture, the weight of responsibility settling more comfortably upon her shoulders. She looked down at the scrolls before her, each one a testament to the intricate web of alliances and responsibilities that awaited her. The task was daunting, but Rhaenys's words had ignited a newfound confidence within her.

"I understand, Princess Rhaenys," Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady. "I will make the necessary preparations and begin my studies immediately."

As Rhaenyra began to peruse the scrolls, familiarizing herself with the names, Rhaenys observed her with a mixture of pride and hope. They worked side by side through the evening, Rhaenys giving strict yet fair instruction and advising who to reach out to, who to avoid walking her through the various projects and initiatives that would endear her to nobles and smallfolk alike.

Chapter Text

Lady Charis Oakheart made her way through the bustling halls of the Redkeep, her hand tightly wrapped around the young Prince Aegon’s hand as he led her towards the gardens from the nursery. His nanny, holding Helaena, struggled to keep up with them with puffed red cheeks and a light sweat erupting along her brow. Aegon was not one to walk anywhere. He liked to run as fast as his small legs would carry him. How she had ended up the young Prince’s near constant companion, Charis would never know.

“Please, stay by his side. I fear for him alone with only the wetnurse to care for him.”

Of course, she did know. Rhaenyra, when the prince was barely out of his wet rags, had given Charis the duty to care for Aegon and subsequently, Helaena once she had been born. She was to be the representation of House Targaryen in a sea of green that surrounded the children. Rhaenyra attempted to spend time with her siblings each day, at least an hour in the nursery, but due to the new baby and her return to courtly duties, she had not been able to visit for over a week. Therefore, Charis had been pretty much constant in the nursery. Much to the griping and annoyance of the Queen. To add insult to the Queens wounds, whenever with the young Prince and Princess, Charis only wore Targaryen House colours.

The current gown she wore was woven from maroon and black velvet that shimmered like dying embers. The fabric clung gracefully to her figure before flowing into gentle folds, pooling softly at the hem where delicate gold embroidery traced swirling pattern. The sleeves, long and billowing, draped from the shoulders, and they swished as she rushed through the halls. At the neckline and cuffs, delicate pearls were sewn into the fabric, the only jewels present on the dress. It was not the gown of a queen, nor that of a princess, but it was one of the finest dresses in her wardrobe, and secretly, she loved to wear it. A pearl headband swept dark brown curls from her face, and Charis regretted wearing it down for once.

The Ladies under Rhaenyra each had their own duties and responsibilities, with additional Ladies due to join the Princess’s household in the coming moons.

Lady Laena, ever resplendent in blue and silver, with a visage that seemed to glow with joy, was nicknamed the “Peacekeeper”. She was tasked with organisation and participation of courtly events, handling the relationships alliances with the influential families and courtiers.

Unofficially, she was a font of information and whispers, gathering secrets and rumours from the court and influencing the nobles in favour of Rhaenyra. She maintained the Princess’s wardrobe with the latest fashions and advised Rhaenyra on the newest styles and she tended to the duties relating to etiquette and protocol and advised on the behaviour and decorum.

Lady Charis was the Mistress of the Robes, the head of Rhaenyra's ladies; She oversaw the other ladies, ensuring all duties were performed efficiently and assigned the tasks and schedules. Charis took on the management and financial tasks of the Ladies, ensuring they managed their budgets for gowns and events carefully and that the Ladies had coin each week for any expenses.  Charis also provided the discreet care and support that one may not normally consider, taking charge in times of crisis and managing delicate situations with discretion.

Lady Elinda Massey, still sweet and childlike at only 12, was the Attendant. She was tasked with the dressing of the Princess, arranging her hair and keeping her presentable through the day. The only exceptions in this case where when Elinda had her lessons, and in large events where multiple ladies were required.

The additional ladies, Lady Jeyne Strong, Lady Eryn Strong and a Lady Genevieve Sunderland, would be joining the household soon, prior to the summer trip to Dragonstone and take over duties relating to correspondence, education and travel.

“We’re here!” Aegon exclaimed happily, letting go of Charis’s hand and running to the lush greens of the garden. Spring was officially in full bloom, with the aroma of sweet jasmine and heather floating on the air. The garden was glorious with reds and oranges. Usually quiet, it was bustling with people, here to visit with House Velaryon.

Charis lingered for a moment, her gaze following Aegon as he darted ahead, his excitement infectious. She turned to the nanny standing nearby, who held two-year-old Helaena in her arms. The little girl, with her silvery-blonde curls and wide, curious eyes, reached out toward Charis with a soft coo.

“Come here, my sweet,” Charis murmured, her voice gentle as she took Helaena into her arms. The nanny looked ready to argue, but Charis narrowed her eyes sharply and bade her leave. She hurried away, most likely to report a complaint to the Queen, and Charis turned to the gardens.

Heleana nestled against her shoulder, her tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of Charis’s gown, playing with the pearls at the neckline. Charis’s heart warmed at the child’s trust and affection as she followed Aegon down the path, her steps measured but unhurried. The boy’s voice rang out as he spotted his sister, Rhaenyra, standing beneath the arching branches of a magnolia tree. Rhaenyra’s gown of silver and black shimmered in the sunlight, and her smile brightened as her eyes landed on Aegon.

“Nyra!” Aegon’s jubilant cry rose above the hum of the gathering, and he ran full tilt into her legs, wrapping his arms around them in a fierce hug.

Rhaenyra barely had time to steady herself before crouching down, her arms enveloping the boy in return. “Aegon, my sweet little dragon,” she said, her voice thick with affection. “Look at you! You’ve grown so much while I’ve been busy.”

Aegon beamed up at her, his face glowing. “I’m big now, like Papa!” he declared proudly, his chest puffed out. “Charis says I’m going to be a knight!”

Charis, now standing a few steps behind with Helaena still in her arms, smiled warmly. “He’s already proclaimed himself the future protector of the garden on our way here, my Princess. The flowers seem to be his loyal subjects,” she said, her tone light with teasing humour.

Rhaenyra laughed, smoothing Aegon’s curls as she cast a glance at Charis. “Has he, now? And I suppose you’ve encouraged this grand ambition?”

Charis inclined her head with mock solemnity. “I could hardly deny the young prince,” she quipped, her eyes sparkling.

Still, there was a hint of warmth in Charis’s voice as she added, “You should have seen his face this morning, my lady. Pure joy at the thought of seeing you again. He misses you fiercely when you’re unable to visit the nursery.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, and she brushed her thumb gently across Aegon’s cheek. “And I miss you all just as much,” she murmured, her voice tinged with emotion. “I thought of you every day, Aegon. But I’m here now, and we’ll make up for lost time.”

Aegon hugged her tightly again, burying his face in her shoulder. Charis adjusted Helaena in her arms, the toddler now watching the scene with wide, curious eyes. Charis leaned down just enough to gently tease Aegon. “Careful, little lord. One day you’ll be too big for hugs like that, and then what will you do?”

Aegon gasped as though scandalized, pulling back to scowl up at Charis. “I’ll never be too big for hugs!” he declared, his voice filled with the certainty only a four-year-old could muster.

Both Rhaenyra and Charis burst into laughter at his antics, and Helaena let out a quiet coo, drawing Rhaenyra’s attention.

“Oh, come here, my little sister,” Rhaenyra cooed at her, voice filled with softness. Helaena was a timid child, and prone to crying fits with unfamiliar people and overwhelming situations. The toddler’s wide, violet eyes darted between the bustling garden and her sister, her little fingers gripping the fabric of Charis’s gown. She pressed her face into Charis’s shoulder, her voice a barely audible whisper. “No…”

Noticing her hesitation, Rhaenyra softened her smile and stepped closer. “Helaena, my sweet girl,” she said gently, her tone soothing and inviting. “It’s just me, your sister. Do you remember?”

Helaena peeked out from Charis’s shoulder, her curls shimmering like spun silver in the sunlight. She hesitated, her little hand hovering for a moment before reaching out tentatively. Rhaenyra didn’t rush her, simply waiting with open arms and an expression of infinite patience.

“You’re safe, my sweet girl,” Rhaenyra murmured as Charis offered an encouraging smile, gently coaxing Helaena closer. “I missed you so much. I’ve thought about you every single day.”

Slowly, shyly, Helaena allowed herself to be passed into Rhaenyra’s arms. Her small body trembled slightly, but as Rhaenyra held her close, the warmth of her sister’s embrace seemed to ease her nerves. Helaena tucked her face into the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck, her soft voice breaking the momentary silence. “Missed you…”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glistened as she cradled the little girl, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. “Oh, my sweet Helaena,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m here now, and I’ll always be here when you need me.”

Charis, watching the tender exchange, smiled gently at the sibling’s affection with each other. Aegon tugged impatiently at Rhaenyra’s skirt, prompting a quiet laugh as she turned her gaze back to him. But even as she teased and played with her younger brother, her arms remained securely around Helaena, the timid girl now nestled peacefully against her sister.

Charis turned to the rest of the garden, her hands clasped at her front as she spied Laena dragging Ser Harwin Strong in front of her parents, insisting they speak with him. The Goldcloak looked oddly flustered, and Charis held back a chuckle.

That poor man would have his hands full with Laena Velaryon once they were married.

--

The clang of steel rang out across the Red Keep's training yard, sharp and relentless as the evening sun danced on the polished blades. Laenor Velaryon adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping warm and slick under his palm. Sweat trickled down his temple, caught briefly in the faint breeze wafting from Blackwater Bay before disappearing into the collar of his tunic. Around him, the yard thrummed with energy—young squires testing their mettle, seasoned knights exchanging thunderous blows, and the occasional bark of a drillmaster slicing through the din.

Laenor moved with the confidence of someone who had seen true battle. He sidestepped his opponent’s heavy swing, the tip of his silver-bladed sword tracing a sharp arc through the air as he spun to counter. The dull thud of a wooden shield absorbing the impact echoed, followed by the scrape of boots on the compacted dirt. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips; his partner was improving, but Laenor was still three moves ahead. His opponent fell to the muddy ground, holding his hands up.

“I yield, I yield,” the handsome man panted, dark hair falling into his eyes. Laenor grinned at him, holding out a hand to bring him to his feet.

“You fought well, Ser Correy,” he stated, flashing him a charming smile.

“Not as well as you, otherwise I wouldn’t have ended up on my back,” Ser Qarl grinned back, with a wink. Laenor paused for a moment, eyeing his previous opponent. Sweat dripped from his brow and his tunic clung to chest. A rather broad chest… He was a very handsome man, and from their conversations and the rumours he had gathered from Ser Harwin, he seemed to sway in Laenor’s direction. They had been training together frequently over the previous months, having built a strong camaraderie of two knights.

Yet Laenor hesitated. Prior to the birth of Jae, he would have gone for Ser Qarl without hesitation. Yet that little boy had stolen his whole heart, and he would not be the one to ever put him in a dangerous position. He knew what his nature was, and he knew the pain and trouble it could cause his little family if he was not discreet. Rhaenyra was not just his wife; she was his best friend. She knew his secrets, his habits. She knew his favourite food was not fish or crab, but pork and she knew that when he needed silence he would sneak out of the castle and stare out onto Blackwater Bay. Rhaenyra knew he had a fondness for Helaena, who reminded him of the babes his mother had lost after Laena, so timid and shy. She knew he liked to sit with the baby and toddler in the nursery during the day, reading to them in Valyrian.

He could never do anything to hurt her, even knowing she would never begrudge him a paramour, a partner outside of their marriage. They had agreed to each pursue their own desires, and while Rhaenyra had kept to herself, Laenor had indulged. But now, with Jae, it felt different, it felt more serious. If he was to take on a new paramour it would have to be a serious relationship, with agreements on both sides on involvement, times of meeting.

And while there was a comfort, a lightness in Qarl's presence, somewhere he could be himself without judgment or pretence, the stakes felt impossibly higher. Jae had given him a stability, a purpose in this world he hadn’t even realised had been missing. For the first time since the Stepstones, he felt he had worth.

That feeling made him want more. He wanted something more permanent, a love as real as the sea he turned to for solace, but how could he ask for that knowing the danger it could put his family in? How could risk jeopardising Rhaenyra’s position and the stability of the family they had created for something so selfish?

“You’re distracted, Ser Laenor, more than usual,” Qarl said softly, as Laenor’s gaze drifted to the twilight sky. Laenor glanced over to him, seeing the concern in the man’s eyes under his casual demeanour. He wanted to dismiss it, to brush it off with some half-hearted jest, but the weight in his chest refused to be ignored.

“There’s… a lot to consider,” Laenor admitted after a long pause. “More than just me. I cannot afford to be reckless.”

Qarl tilted his head, studying him with an expression that was both understanding and unyielding. He knew to what Laenor was referring. His son. And his wife.

“No one’s asking you to be reckless,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have to sacrifice who you are either.”

Laenor lowered his head, scoffing slightly. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a kingdom watching your every move, waiting for a single misstep.”

“And yet here you are,” Qarl said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You came out here tonight, Laenor. You chose to be here. That must mean something.”

Laenor looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt a pang of longing so sharp it took his breath away. Qarl was right. But the question that lingered, heavy and unanswered, was whether he could ever truly have both: the love he yearned for and the life he had vowed to protect.

“I don’t know what it means,” Laenor admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know the stakes have never felt higher.”

For a moment, Qarl said nothing. Then, with a gentleness that caught Laenor off guard, he reached out, brushing a stray curl from his damp forehead. “Then maybe it’s time to decide what you’re willing to risk.”

Laenor closed his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into the touch, and let himself wonder—for just a moment—what it might be like to risk it all.

--

The Red Keep loomed in the shadows, its jagged towers slicing through the darkened sky like the bared fangs of a beast. The gates groaned open, and Otto Hightower rode in silently, the echo of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestones punctuated only by the rasp of the cold spring’s night wind. No banners greeted him, no courtiers rushed to offer their deference. But the silence suited him. Let them sleep. Let them think their games had gone unnoticed.

His face, carved in stone, betrayed nothing, but inside, his blood roared with fury. His influence undermined by fools and opportunists, his daughter failing in her duties as a mother to keep the wretched whore from his grandchildren. He had spent years playing the long game, moving pieces across a board only he could see, and yet here he was, returning to a Red Keep in the dead of the night after being so callously banished by the King.

The guards shrank back as he passed, their torches casting flickering shadows across his face. They dared not meet his eyes. Good. Fear would be his ally tonight.

He dismounted in the courtyard, the reins falling from his gloved hands, and strode toward the castle doors. The chill of the night clung to him, wrapping around his shoulders like a shroud. His boots struck the stone with a deliberate, measured rhythm, each step a statement that he had returned to the Keep.

The halls of the Red Keep were dark, save for the occasional flicker of a dying candle. He preferred it that way. The shadows stretched long and deep, and Otto knew how to wield them better than any blade. As he climbed the narrow stairs to the council chambers, his mind churned with calculated rage. The King. The court. The whore’s household that had ousted him. He would deal with them all in time. Aegon would be king, he just had to be guided, moulded into the perfect image. He was still young enough to be pliant. Otto would have everything back that he had lost.

Pausing at the threshold, he let his gaze sweep over the silent room, smaller than the previous rooms he had possessed as the Hand of the King. His hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, not as a threat, but as a reminder—to himself, to the Keep, to the history that was written in these walls. Power was not given; it was taken. And Otto Hightower was ready to take it back.

Tonight, the Red Keep might sleep. But Otto did not. He had work to do.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra was summoned from her slumber by the gentle hands of Lady Elinda, the small girl smiling at her as the princess woke. Unlike most would believe, Rhaenyra tended to be far from a Princess when she woke. She was grumpy, her hair was wild, and a slight trail of drool was dried into her soft pale skin. She blinked blearily, rubbing her face as Elinda added orange and cinnamon to the hot bath water, she had ready for her. The morning sun cast a warm glow across her chambers, illuminating the intricate dragons carved into the room.

“What time is it?” Rhaenyra asked, swinging her feet over the edge of the grand canopy bed and stretching her arms above her head. Jaehaerys had now moved to a separate chamber in her rooms, under the care of a wetnurse at two moons old. Laenor and Rhaenyra tended to rotate out who stayed with him in the evening, and with Rhaenyra’s increased duties, Laenor took the nights in which Rhaenyra had a more intensive day.

“It is shortly after first light, Princess,” Elinda said softly. Rhaenyra nodded to herself, making her way to the bath. The aroma of orange cinnamon filled her senses, and she sighed happily, stripping from her night clothes and sinking into the steaming water. Like most Targaryen’s, her blood ran hot, and so her baths tended to run hotter also. The door to her chamber opened, and she looked up to see Lady Laena and Lady Charis bustling in, both heading in different directions.

Lady Laena’s looked the very picture of a true Velaryon. She wore an off-the-shoulder down in deep sapphire blue, made of the lightest chiffon fabrics. It looked as though the midnight ocean was floating around her skin, with silver thread embroidered like waves and sea dragons. Long sleeves tapered into cuffs embroidered with Valyrian glyphs in silver and there were belts of silver chains around her waist. Her silver curls were swept into a series of braids with silken blue ribbons entwined. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but observe Laena practically glowing as she made her way to Rhaenyra’s wardrobe.

“We do not have time to go riding today, cousin. We shall have to attempt to go this evening, otherwise I fear the dragons may feel neglected,” Laena said as she rifled through dresses, deciding what Rhaenyra should wear. Rhaenyra hummed in response, rubbing orange scented soap along her arms.

“I am thinking we maybe switch up the colours today, let’s go for a rich red,” Laena continued, and she pulled out an exquisite gown in red and gold. Her eyes narrowed as she looked it over, before she hooked it over the screen for Rhaenyra to change into.

Lady Charis had settled at the table after setting down tea and crisp pastries at the centre. In contrast to Laena, she wore a more modest plum coloured dress. It was a graceful dress, with a boat-neck and fitted sleeves that tapered at her wrists. The bodice was slightly pleated but otherwise had few adornments aside from a silver chain belt at her waist, with a simple oak leaf shaped clasp. Delicate vine like embroidery danced along the hem of the dress and sleeves in silver, and her dark curls were wrapped into a braid at the back of her head.

“Please ensure the gown is practical, Laena, the Princess has a number of engagements today, so she will be on her feet for much of the day,” Charis stated pointedly, not looking up from her notes and agenda. Rhaenyra already felt a headache blooming at the mention of her daily duties. Laena huffed, flipping a curl over her shoulder and resting her chin on her hand.

“I think this gown is practical enough, it barely has a corset,” Laena responded. At that, Charis did raise her head, narrowing hazel eyes on the gown momentarily before giving her assent. Laena beamed, clapping her hands. “Right then, accessories! Elinda, come help me.”

Elinda blinked, looking at Laena and then back at Rhaenyra, who’s hair she was currently braiding over the edge of the bath.

“Charis can braid the hair, she does her own enough, come help me choose accessories,” Laena waved her hand, and Rhaenyra chuckled a little as Charis scowled. Yet, she stood from the table and made her way over, giving Elinda a nod of consent.

“Ooh, I think she would look lovely in the golden tiara! The one with the rubies!” Elinda said excitedly, as she hitched up her maroon skirts, rushing over to where Laena was beginning to dig through Rhaenyra’s extensive jewellery collection. Rhaenyra turned to face Charis with a soft smile, and Charis rolled her eyes back.

“How does the schedule look for today then,” Rhaenyra asked, as Charis braided her hair in the style of Visenya, multiple braids woven into one.

“It’s rather hectic, Princess. You have the morning briefing the Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong shortly. This is to provide updates on the sanitation project and begin the planning for the glasshouses.”

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement as Charis released her hair and held up a bath sheet to wrap the Princess in.

“After this, His Grace has called for a Small Council meeting. He wishes to review the resources currently being supplied by the Reach, as well as discuss the matter of taxes. Additionally, he intends to consider the trade agreements with Pentos and Braavos. Lord Velaryon also seeks to bring forth the state of the Stepstones for the Council’s consideration, that a proper course of action may be determined,” Charis stepped away from her and reached for papers on the table, handing them to Rhaenyra. The Princess sat at the table to take a sip of tea and review them.

“This should be fun… I can’t imagine Lord Corly is going to be willing to make concessions on the Stepstones,” Rhaenyra frowned slightly. “And Lord Beesbury will be even less willing to forsake coin from the treasury for it… I shall have to encourage him to release the funds.”

“Indeed, Princess,” Charis gave her a sympathetic smile. “After the Small Council, we have the messages to tend to from Dragonstone, decrees and the correspondences from the lords and ladies regarding the upcoming tour in summer.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her mind sifting through the tasks. Elinda moved over and began to powder her face, applying a light touch of rouge to her cheeks and coloured powder to her eyelids. Rhaenyra did a continue motion with her hands, conscious that she had spent longer in the bath than intended.

“At the hour of noon, you are to hold petitions, granting an audience to those who seek your judgment or favour. Envoys from the Free City of Braavos will request your presence to discuss the proposed trade agreements. These deliberations are of great importance, touching upon the flow of goods such as silks, metals, and spices. You must also consider terms related to maritime safety and tribute. After the ninth hour, your attention turns to sparring and archery,” Charis continued, stepping aside to allow Elinda to begin dressing Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra let out a deep sigh, wondering when she would be able to squeeze in a ride with Syrax, or visit the nursery. Fighting the urge to rub her temples, she looked at Charis. “After that?”

“The King has requested the family gather for dinner at the lighting of the lamps, then you are permitted to retire for the evening,” Charis finished and sipped her tea, adding an additional splash of milk when she found it too bitter.

Rhaenyra grunted slightly as Elinda laced her in the dress, then moved to the large, gilded mirrors. She swished the gown slightly. It was a rich, vibrant red, made of fabric that lightly glistened. Its silhouette was regal, with a fitted bodice that flattered the figure, accentuated by a delicate golden belt cinched at the waist, its clasp shaped like a roaring dragon. The sleeves mimicked the texture of dragon scales, shimmering subtly under the light. The scaled patterns flowed gracefully into wide, bell-shaped cuffs embroidered with intricate golden designs. The skirt flowed to the floor in cascading layers, each lined with delicate golden thread that caught the light with every movement. The embroidery along the hem resembled flames licking upwards, adding a touch of fierceness to the elegance.

“A stunning choice, Laena,” Rhaenyra smiled at her close friend, who winked playfully at her before clasping a gold, ruby encrusted necklace around her neck. Rhaenyra twisted one of the jewels between her fingers, mentally fortifying herself ahead of the day. Already she felt exhausted by it, and she had only just bathed and dressed. Her eyes drifted to the window, where dark clouds began to approach across the bay.

“It appears a storm is coming in,” she mumbled to herself. Laena followed her gaze, a frown appearing on her lips. A feeling of foreboding fell over Rhaenyra, her chest clenching and her eyebrows furrowing. The tension filled the room, like a heavy weight over the four women.

Nervous energy continued to follow Rhaenyra through the day, and she fought to keep her concentration on her duties. It was only when she sat for petitions, she realised why.

Otto Hightower stood at the back of the Throne Room, his eyes watching her every move. They seemed to pierce her skin, cold and calculating as she listened to the smallfolk presenting their petitions and requests. She swallowed the lump that lodged in her throat, forcing her face into a relaxed expression.

Rhaenyra forced herself to smile, yet rage and anxiety tore at her insides. How could her father have allowed this snake back in court? Did he not realise the position he had put her in, how he had undermined her by allowing him back after he was banished for disparaging her name?

The King hadn’t mentioned Otto’s return at the Small Council, and Alicent had been absent from the Small Council due to fatigue ad sickness from the babe she currently carried. It appeared that this pregnancy was hitting her harder than her previous two, with her bound to her rooms for the second evening of the Velaryon’s visit to King’s Landing.

A crash of thunder made her jump in her seat at the foot of the throne. It was followed by flashes of lightening, and the smallfolk in the court began to mutter, starting to leave swiftly. None wished to get caught in the rain as it began hammering on the stained-glass windows of the Throne Room. Rhaenyra stood and walked forward, her hands clasping at her front. Otto walked towards her, a smirk on his lips.

The thunder echoed again, closer this time, reverberating through the Throne Room as though the very gods were displeased. Rhaenyra stood tall, as Otto Hightower approached with slow, deliberate steps. His smirk, cool and condescending, only stoked the embers of fury already burning in her chest.

"Princess," Otto greeted, his tone dripping with feigned respect. He stopped before her and offered a shallow bow, just deep enough to skirt propriety but no more. "How commendable it is to see the heir to the throne so devoted to her people. The smallfolk must surely sleep better, knowing their petitions are met with such... care." His emphasis on the last word was subtle but unmistakable.

Rhaenyra's fingers curled into her palms, her nails pressing into her skin as she forced a thin smile onto her lips. "Lord Hightower," she said, her voice steady despite the rage boiling beneath. "I was unaware of your return to court. Though I suppose my father’s generosity knows no bounds."

Otto straightened, his smirk widening slightly as though her barbed words amused him. "His Grace is ever merciful," he replied smoothly, his eyes locking onto hers with that piercing, calculating gaze. "He sees value where others might overlook it."

"Others," Rhaenyra echoed, her tone edged with steel. "How fortunate you are, then, to have his favour despite past... indiscretions."

The storm outside roared, rain slashing against the stained-glass windows as the court attendants, sensing the rising tension, murmured amongst themselves and began to filter out. The room grew emptier, the sound of departing footsteps mingling with the hammering of rain.

Otto took a step closer, lowering his voice but not his insolence. "I wonder, Princess, if you truly understand the burden of the crown. Leadership demands patience, wisdom... and allies willing to guide you in times of—shall we say—uncertainty."

Rhaenyra’s lips thinned, her hands unclasping as she fought to keep her composure. The urge to lash out, to remind him of his banishment and her father’s rebuke, simmered just below the surface. But she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

"I assure you, Lord Hightower," she said, her voice colder now, each word measured, "I require no guidance from those who would see me undermined."

For the first time, Otto’s smirk faltered, a flicker of something darker passing over his face. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze scrutinizing her as though searching for a crack in her armour.

"Ah," he said after a moment, his smirk returning, sharper now, "Such confidence. It is... refreshing."

Before Rhaenyra could retort, the Throne Room doors creaked open, and Ser Harrold Westerling entered, his face a mask of professionalism. "Princess," he said, his voice cutting through the tension, "the court session has concluded. The smallfolk have all departed due to the weather."

Rhaenyra nodded, her back stiff as she turned away from Otto.

"Thank you, Ser Harrold." She hesitated, her voice lowering. "Escort Lord Hightower to the guest quarters. Ensure he finds his accommodations... satisfactory."

Otto inclined his head, his smirk never wavering. "Until we meet again, Princess," he said, the words a veiled promise as he turned to follow Ser Harrold.

Rhaenyra remained where she was, her hands trembling now that he was no longer watching. The storm outside raged on, matching the tempest in her heart.

--

The storm continued late into the night, its fury echoing through the stone walls of Rhaenyra's Chambers. The sound of rain striking the windows was almost deafening, a constant reminder of the turmoil both inside and outside the castle. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the rich tapestries that adorned Rhaenyra’s chambers.

Rhaenyra stood by the window, watching the storm with a thoughtful expression. Her ladies-in-waiting moved quietly around the room, attending to their tasks with a practiced ease. Rhaenys and Laenor sat at a polished wooden table, their expressions serious and intent.

"The storm's quite fitting," Rhaenyra murmured, turning to face her council. "Otto's return to court brings a lot more uncertainty.  We need to be able to anticipate his actions."

Rhaenys nodded in agreement, her lips thin as she stared into the fire. She leaned back in her chair, turning to the others in the room. “He is a cunning and dangerous man, but he will not make any moves without purpose. He has been away from the court for two years; he will need time to rebuild his webs.”

“Even so, we should seek allies in the court, those who will watch his movements and report them back,” Laenor added. Rhaenyra sighed. The tension in the room was palpable and sound of rain striking the windows seemed to grow louder, a relentless drumbeat that underscored the urgency of their conversation.

Rhaenyra's gaze flickered to the grand bed where her siblings slept soundly. The storm had made them both restless and scared, so Rhaenyra had instructed Charis to bring them to her chambers. Jaehaerys slept in a crib close to the bed, little fingers scrunched into fists. She twirled the rings on her fingers, pacing the fireplace. Otto’s return was both enraging and worrying, especially given Rhaenyra’s upcoming trip to Dragonstone and tour of the kingdoms. She could not leave her brother and sister alone in the castle with that man, there was no telling what he would do. They were still so young, so she doubted he would harm them, but it was never too early to spill poison into their minds.

"Convincing my father to let my siblings accompany me to Dragonstone will be no small feat, especially if Alicent catches wind," Rhaenyra continued, her voice tinged with a mix of resolve and worry. "We may need to sacrifice our plans to travel in the summer. I cannot leave them behind.”

“Let us speak with your father first, Rhaenyra. We may yet appeal to the sense of family he holds so dear,” Rhaenys responded, with a slight sneer. Rhaenyra and Laenor looked sceptical but allowed Rhaenys the opportunity to develop a solution. “We have time before a decision must be made.”

Rhaenyra sighed heavily and sat down at the table. Laenor gave her a gentle smile, taking her small hand in his larger, calloused palm. The headache that she had been fighting all day was threatening again, and she took a deep gulp of wine.

“I am still required to go on tour of the kingdoms, too much has already been planned to cancel at this time,” Rhaenyra stated. The plans had been clear, one moon at Dragonstone, then a tour through the North, the Stormlands and the Reach. Unlike her ill-fated tour to find a husband, this tour was deliberately designed to build her relationships with the other kingdoms noble houses and solidify alliances.

“We can protect the children while you are on tour, Rhaenyra. You do not need to be concerned,” Rhaenys assured her, exchanging glances with Laenor.

“They are so young though… Maybe we can arrange to take them with us? Claim it the opportunity to bond to my father, give Alicent a reprieve before she gives birth,” Rhaenyra muses. Rhaenys rose an eyebrow. A babe, a two-year-old and four-year-old on tour, in a carriage for Seven knows how long. Even if Helaena was to turn three and Aegon five, it would still make an incredibly stressful journey monumentally more intense.

Rhaenyra, however, looked to have made her decision as she muttered to herself.

“Yes, we shall arrange a larger caravan, to travel with the children. Aegon will be due to start lesson when we return, so we can claim it a trip before, to familiarise him with the kingdom,” Rhaenyra mumbled.

“If that is what you wish, Rhaenyra, we will do what we can,” Laenor soothed, squeezing her shoulder gently. Rhaenyra seemed to sit taller, a stronger expression falling onto her features. Their discussion continued deep into the night, each detail meticulously planned and debated. The fire burned low, casting long shadows that flickered and danced on the walls.

--

The storm was relentless as it hammered the windows of the Queens chambers, fury only matched by the twisted features of Otto Hightower. The room was dimly lit, and Alicent fought to keep from tearing her nails.

“You foolish girl,” Otto hissed, his voice filled with venom. “How could you let Rhaenyra get so close to Aegon? Do you fail to understand the danger you have put him in?”

Alicent’s eyes widened as she twisted her fingers. She felt ready to be sick, her shoulders hurt. She had been carrying tension all day, forcing herself to look at ease in front of her husband and the few guests she had seen. Feigning sickness had been simple, with the confirmation of her third pregnancy, yet she had been unable to avoid her father’s fury. All she had from him over the years were scares letters, reminding her to keep her children safe and now he was returned, in her space, and she remembered how heavy the air felt when she was around him.

“We find ourselves lucky that the rabid dog, Daemon is not at court, furthering his ambition for the throne and burrowing his claws into the King. Yet you have somehow allowed the Whore to latch onto your children and take them from you. And that babe, how has this even been possible, what bastard did she breed with to produce it?” he continued, grabbing her by the shoulders. Alicent stammered, stating it must be a dragonseed from Driftmark, that Rhaenyra had spent time there prior to the announcement of her pregnancy.

“Surely… Rhaenyra may not harm them…”

“You are naive, Alicent, if you think Rhaenyra will do anything but put them to the sword when she takes the throne. You must keep them separated, lest you destroy all our planning,” Otto seethed, and he gripped her shoulders, fingers digging into her soft skin. She squeezed her eyes shut as he shook her and grunted when Otto shoved her onto the lounger in the centre of the room.

“Worthless, worthless. The situation cannot continue. We must begin Aegon’s education for the throne, to ensure he is ready when it is time. Fix your mistake, Alicent, before I am required to fix it for you,” he spat and he stormed from the room, schooling his features. Alicent’s nails dig into her palms, her wide eyes threatening to tear as she pulls herself to a seated position. The torchlight on the walls cast shadows that seemed to mock her, dread filling her as the threats seemed to lurk in the shadows. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find comfort in the warmth of her own embrace, but the chill of fear was unrelenting.

Otto's words echoed in her mind, a relentless reminder of the danger that lay ahead. "Protect your children at all costs." But how could she protect them if she couldn't trust anyone? The weight of her father's warnings pressed down on her, suffocating in its intensity. A sob tore itself from her throat, and she covered her mouth, quickly swallowing her tears.

She could not break; she could not allow herself to fail. Her children needed her to protect them from Rhaenyra’s schemed, Alicent had to tear their bonds at all costs. A knock on her chamber’s door forced her to look up, wiping her face. “Y-Yes?” she called out, and Ser Criston stepped into the room, concern on his face.

“Are you well, my Queen?” he asked gently, his voice deep and husky. Alicent’s lip trembled, and she clenched her hands in her skirts, looking down at her lap. Criston paused for a moment, his brow furrowing, before he closed the door. “If I may, you are in a delicate condition, My Queen. You should not be allowing yourself to be upset in this manner.”

"Ser Criston," she said softly, her voice trembling. She looked up at him beseechingly. "May I speak with you?"

Criston approached her slowly, his expression one of concern as he kept a respectable distance between them. "Of course, my Queen. What troubles you?"

Alicent hesitated, her eyes darting around to ensure they were alone. "I fear for my children," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "My father believes Rhaenyra will harm them once she takes the throne. He says I must keep them away from her."

Criston's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Your father is right to be concerned," he said, his voice low and serious. "Rhaenyra is ambitious and ruthless. She will stop at nothing to secure her power."

Alicent's eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking. "But she is their sister. How could she do such a thing?"

Criston stepped closer; his gaze intense and Alicent wished for a moment his intensity was for other reasoning. "Rhaenyra is not like you, my lady. She is driven by her desire for the throne, and she will see anyone who stands in her way as a threat. Even her own blood."

Alicent's heart ached at his words, the fear and isolation she felt growing stronger. "What should I do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Criston placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You must be vigilant, my lady. Keep your children close and away from Rhaenyra. Trust no one but yourself and those who have proven their loyalty."

Alicent nodded, her heart breaking but her resolve hardening. "Thank you, Ser Criston. I appreciate your candour.”

Criston bowed his head. "I am always here to serve you, my lady.”

--

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow on the home of the Prince of Pentos. The room Daemon had been offered was light and airy, to combat the heat that persevered even into the night, and sheer curtains billowed gently in the evening breeze.

Daemon Targaryen lounged on a plush velvet divan; his eyes half-closed as he considered he next steps. He had been supporting the prince in his ventures between Lys and Braavos, acting as a glorified bodyguard. While Caraxes enjoyed the warmth of sandy Pentos lands, Daemon could tell he was missing Westeros and his home. The red dragon whistled to the ocean whenever he approached, although if Daemon was honest, he missed Westeros also.

He had heard the news of Rhaenyra’s son, his Valyrian features a surprise to all who knew the nature of Laenor Velaryon. His fingers traced the intricate patterns in silk, regret and longing spiking in his heart. It could have been him; it should have been him. He should have been the one to marry Rhaenyra, to sweep her off to Dragonstone and wed her in the ways of Old Valyria. Daemon had almost caved to the desire, dancing with her on the eve of her wedding, seeing her dressed beautifully in white and gold. The gown had been crafted from the finest white silk, with delicate golden filigree depicting dragons in flight across the bodice. Caped sleeves had flowed from the shoulders, made with sheer white gossamer and accentuated with golden embroidery of flames.

She had been the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on, and the urge to take her then and there, in front of the whole court had been overwhelming. Then Ser Criston had attacked Laenor’s paramour, and the spell had been broken. His Princess had been swept away in the crowd, and he had slipped out the doors, his heart hammering in his chest.

He had run away. If filled him with shame, but he had run away and stayed away, for fear of what he would do.  Daemon missed Rhaenyra fiercely; the lack of her presence was a constant ache that he tried and failed to fill. Her fiery spirit, her unwavering determination. But he couldn’t be around her, not without putting her at risk. He had already proved that with the excursion to Flea Bottom, with the embarrassment he caused her. Had he not, he may have been able to convince Viserys to allow him to marry her, with time.

He recalled their last encounter, the way her eyes had searched his, seeking answers he could not give. The unspoken bond between them was a double-edged sword, a connection that brought both strength and vulnerability. Daemon sighed, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. He wanted to be by her side, to protect her, but he knew that his absence was the best protection he could offer.

As he pondered his next move, the soft rustle of fabric caught his attention. A Bravosi whore, her eyes dark and alluring, approached him with a sultry smile. She climbed into his lap, her touch light and teasing. Daemon's thoughts of King's Landing and Rhaenyra faded into the background as he forced himself to focus on the present moment.

The decision could wait. For now, he would enjoy the pleasures of Pentos and the company of the beautiful woman in his arms. The future was uncertain, but tonight, he would live in the moment.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sank into the plush armchair at the centre of her room, her head tipping back as exhaustion overtook her. The newest addition to her household had finally drifted into a deep sleep after what felt like an eternity of wakefulness. Meanwhile, Jaehaerys and Lucerys were occupied with their morning lessons under the guidance of their uncles.

A soft, almost delirious laugh escaped her lips—three sons to her name, and yet it had been over a decade since she had shared her bed with a man. Three children conceived with her husband, though they had not lain together since before Jaehaerys was born.

Yet, despite the legitimacy of her children and the lengths she had gone to secure their births, the court remained rife with rumours. Lucerys carried his father’s colouring, albeit a shade paler than his elder brother. His hair leaned toward a darker silver, straddling a middle ground between her own shade and Laenor's. This had done little to quell speculation; on the contrary, it had only fuelled whispers that she had taken another lover. Of all the fabrications, her favourite was the claim that Corlys himself was the father of her children, stepping in to ensure his bloodline would claim the throne in his son’s stead. That rumour had not been well-received by Rhaenys.

This, however, would be the final time. She and Laenor had come to an agreement: three children, three heirs. They had done enough. At last, Rhaenyra could rest, recover, and focus on raising their family—including the siblings they had lovingly welcomed into their brood.

Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond had grown up intertwined with her children, their bonds forming deeply as time passed. Aegon had stood by her side during each of her pregnancies, though his memories of Jaehaerys and Lucerys's births were faint at best. At four and ten, he was now teetering on the brink of adulthood, armed with a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit. Lessons often failed to hold his interest; he was far more drawn to the freedom of the skies with Sunfyre or the quiet solace of sketching. Caught in an in between space—too old to blend seamlessly with the younger children yet too young to fit among adults—Aegon found his place close to Rhaenyra, who ensured his presence was never overlooked.

Mindful of his future, she had persuaded her father to allow Aegon a role at the Small Council, pouring wine and observing its proceedings. This, she hoped, would help her assess the best position for him in her own Council when her time to rule came. However, it hadn’t taken long to strike Master of Laws and Master of Coin from consideration; his proclivity for extravagant spending and indulgence had made that abundantly clear.

As Rhaenyra eyed the untouched tea and embroidery she had optimistically set aside for a rare moment of quiet, the fragile peace of her chambers shattered when her children burst in, their boundless energy and noise trailing behind them.

“Mother!” Jaehaerys exclaimed, his voice dripping with indignation as he dragged Aemond along by the arm. “Tell Eggy he must come to history lessons with us! He’s skipped the last two!”

Rhaenyra set her tea down with a sigh, regarding the scene unfolding before her with equal parts exasperation and affection. “Jaehaerys, how many times must I remind you to knock before barging in?”

Jaehaerys stopped short, releasing Aemond with a grumble. “I know, I know—it’s rude.”

“Very rude,” Aegon interjected smoothly as he strolled in behind them, sketchpad tucked under his arm. “And utterly unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” Jaehaerys spun to face him. “You skipped the lessons, Aegon! You’re supposed to be there!”

Aegon waved him off with an exaggerated roll of his violet eyes, his silvery curls coming loose from the tight braid holding them back. “Skipped is a strong word,” he drawled, flopping onto the sofa opposite Rhaenyra and sprawling out with the ease of someone who intended to stay a while. “I simply found more valuable uses for my time.”

“Such as?” Jaehaerys demanded, his arms flailing for emphasis.

“Sketching. Far more productive than memorizing the deeds of kings I’ll never be,” Aegon retorted smoothly, holding up his sketchpad as though it proved his point.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her expression calm but pointed. “You’re still a Prince of the Realm, Aegon. There are expectations of you.”

“It’s not fair, Mother!” Lucerys suddenly piped up, his eight-year-old face scrunched with indignation as he stepped into the room. “I have to attend lessons!”

“And so, you must, sweet boy,” Rhaenyra replied with a small, amused smile before addressing all of them. “Come, children. You must all attend your lessons. No exceptions.” Her gaze lingered pointedly on Aegon.

He smirked lazily and reached for a goblet and a jug of orange liquid on the table. “I hope that it’s juice you intend to drink, dear brother,” she remarked dryly.

Aegon met her narrowed eyes with a sarcastic grin. “It’s orange juice, oh dearest sister,” he said, his deepening voice laced with mock reverence. He held the goblet out to her dramatically, and Rhaenyra took it, sniffing delicately to confirm. She knew full well that her brother's time with their mother and grandfather often came with indulgences she disapproved of. She worked hard to ensure he never felt pressured to imbibe around her, and she intervened when she felt he went too far. Whatever his habits, she had always made it clear—he could come to her, and she would always protect him.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra handed the goblet back before turning her attention to the rest of the room. “And where is Helaena?” she asked, lifting her own goblet to sip. “Did she not attend lessons with you?”

Aemond, seated quietly on the floor with a book in hand, looked up only briefly to answer. “She found a nest of spiders outside your door,” he said matter-of-factly before resuming his study of Valyrian history.

Rhaenyra sighed, setting her goblet down with a shake of her head. “Very well. Jaehaerys, Lucerys, collect your aunt. Aemond, close that book and join them. The Maesters wait for no one.”

The children groaned in unison, save for Aegon, who smirked from his perch. “And what of me?” he asked with feigned innocence.

“You, dear brother, may attend… or spend the rest of the day mucking out the dragon pens,” Rhaenyra said sweetly, her sharp eyes gleaming with playful challenge.

“Well then,” Aegon replied with a mock bow of his head, “to the history lessons I go.”

The chaos subsided as the children filed reluctantly out of the room, leaving Rhaenyra’s chambers quieter but not quite peaceful. As the door closed behind the last of the children, Rhaenyra leaned back into her chair, exhaling deeply and reaching for the lukewarm tea she had long since forgotten. She had barely taken a sip before the door creaked open once again.

"Not even a moment's peace, it seems," she said wryly, without looking up.

Laenor’s familiar laughter greeted her ears. "Peace in this house? You must be dreaming, wife." He stepped into the room, his dark tunic slightly askew, and an easy grin on his face. "I just passed the little ones on their way to lessons. Jaehaerys looked ready to start a rebellion, while Lucerys was muttering something about fairness. What chaos have you had to endure this morning?"

Rhaenyra smiled despite herself, setting the tea back on the table. "The usual," she replied. "Aegon trying to charm his way out of responsibility, Jaehaerys dragging Aemond like a hostage, and Helaena losing herself in a nest of spiders outside my door."

Laenor chuckled as he crossed the room to stand beside her. "A fine delegation of heirs we’re raising."

Rhaenyra shot him a mock glare. "Careful, husband. You’re as guilty as they are of shirking duties."

"That’s entirely unfair," he said, placing a hand on his chest in feigned offense. "I came here to check on you, didn’t I? If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is."

Rhaenyra shook her head but let her expression soften. "And what is it you’re here to check on, exactly?" she asked, tilting her head to meet his gaze.

"You," he said simply, his grin fading into something gentler. "I know how hard you’ve been working to ensure the children feel safe and loved, especially with all the burdens you carry. But who makes sure you’re cared for?"

For a moment, Rhaenyra faltered, caught off guard by his sincerity. She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with the embroidery she had abandoned earlier.

"I manage well enough," she said softly. "I have to. For them."

Laenor crouched beside her chair and took her hands in his.

"You don’t have to carry everything alone," he said firmly. "We’re in this together, remember? Besides, I can’t let you steal all the glory. Someone must remind our lot that we’re welcoming Valaena and Larissa to court in two moons times. Eight children’s chaos is too much for one person, even you."

Rhaenyra’s smile wavered but grew warmer as she nodded. "They’re lucky to have you. As are Jaehaerys, Lucerys, and the others," she replied, her voice quieter now.

“And where’s the little one?” Laenor asked, breaking the tension as he was want to do.

“Aerion is sleeping. I’ve called for a wetnurse to tend to him while we step out,” Rhaenyra said with a slight smirk.

Even as she said the words, there was a polite knock at the door, and one of the wetnurses entered, curtsying quickly. Rhaenyra straightened, giving the young woman an approving nod. “Aerion is sleeping soundly in his cradle. Should he wake, ensure he’s fed and comfortable. If he shows signs of fussing, send someone to find me.”

The wetnurse nodded with a warm smile. “Of course, Princess. I’ll keep him close.”

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turned back to Laenor, taking his outstretched hand as he helped her up from the chair. “And now, what was your plan, husband?”

“A walk, perhaps a Dragon ride if time allows,” Laenor answered simply, his arm finding its way to hers. “A bit of fresh air before the children hunt us down again. What do you say?”

Rhaenyra smiled, linking her arm with his. “Only if you promise to keep us hidden.”

Laenor laughed as they stepped out together. “With our brood, Rhaenyra? Not a chance.”

--

King Viserys I Targaryen heaved a heavy sigh as he shifted in his chair, unable to find comfort and respite from the pain that riddled his body. Sores riddled his skin, carefully covered by thin bandages. His skin had grown paler, and his frame thinner, but the sharpness in his eyes had not yet faded. He watched the flames with a weary intensity, as if seeking answers in their dance. The Kings Chambers were filled with the scent of incense and ointments. It lingered in the air but did nothing to mask the acrid undertone of illness. Alicent moved quietly across the chamber, carrying a tray with a goblet of spiced wine and a steaming bowl of broth. She moved with purpose, setting the tray down on the table beside him.

“Husband, you have eaten little today, you must keep up your strength,” she said softly, taking his remaining hand in her own.

Viserys turned his head toward her, offering a faint smile. “You fuss too much, Alicent,” he murmured, though there was no edge to his words. “I’m not so frail as you think.”

“And yet, you are in pain,” she replied gently, taking the goblet and handing it to him. He obeyed with a tired chuckle, lifting the goblet to his lips. The warmth of the wine seemed to bring a faint colour to his cheeks.

“It’s good to see you’ve not lost your resolve,” he said, his voice raspier than it once was. “A queen must be strong. The realm relies on it.”

“And so does its king,” Alicent countered, her tone firm as she adjusted the blanket draped over his lap. “You push yourself too hard, Viserys.”

He gave a slight shake of his head, his gaze drifting back to the fire. “A king must carry his burdens. It is the price of peace.”

Alicent hesitated, her hands stilling on the blanket. She thought of the arguments in the Small Council, the growing tensions that simmered beneath the surface of court life. “It isn’t just the peace of the realm that concerns me,” she said quietly. “It’s you.”

Viserys looked at her, his expression softening. “You’ve always cared deeply, Alicent,” he said, his voice low. “It brings me such peace, having you by my side.”

A flicker of guilt passed through her, memories of Otto’s stern counsel weighing heavily on her shoulders. Viserys sighed, leaning back against the chair. “I fear what will come when I am gone,” he admitted. “I can only hope I have prepared Rhaenyra to be a good and strong queen.”

Alicent reached for the bowl of broth, placing it in his hands and steadying them with her own. “Then you must endure,” she said softly. “For as long as you can.”

He smiled faintly, his fingers brushing hers. “You are a better than you know, Alicent. And kinder than I deserve.”

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She sat beside him, watching as he sipped the broth and returned his gaze to the fire. In the back of Alicent’s mind, her father’s words lingered like a shadow. She could not know how much longer Viserys had in this world, but she knew when he was gone so was any restraint that held Rhaenyra from tearing her children apart.

Aemond had been fooled into her care, much to her frustration. Despite the love he held for her, the way he comforted her and held onto her, he had built some twisted bond with Rhaenyra’s son. They were thick as thieves, and Aemond lit up whenever Rhaenyra was in his presence. Rhaenyra’s shadow loomed over all her children; the only child safe from her was Daeron, currently fostering with her uncle in Oldtown. He had been swept away shortly after his birth, at the insistence of her father.

Otto had berated her for her naivety as Aemond had seemed to flourish when he was with Jaehaerys. His words had sliced her like blades, reminding her that her hesitation would breed failure and cost her children their lives. Alicent’s guilt had sent her praying to the Seven, begging for guidance and forgiveness.

Alicent could not forgive Rhaenyra’s lies in their youth, the disgust that filled her as she remembered how easily she had gotten away with her atrocities. She had turned her children against her, whisking them away to Dragonstone each summer. Despite all Alicent’s protests, to the point of even begging her husband, Rhaenyra spun it to her father as family bonding and teaching her siblings on their heritage. The forsaken Targaryen heritage and their disgusting ways. It was an affront to the Seven that Alicent held so dear. Alicent was broken from her thoughts by Viserys’ fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. He looked troubled, weariness and fatigue on his features.

“What troubles you, my husband,” Alicent asked softly.

Viserys barely turned his head, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Do you think of family often, Alicent?” he asked, his voice weary but laced with an unmistakable melancholy.

Alicent paused, her brow furrowing. “Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, resisting the urge to tear at her nails and moving to stand near him. What had he heard, why was he asking this of her? “Family is at the heart of all that we do.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “At the heart of all that tears us apart, you mean.”

Alicent said nothing, unsure of how to answer. She watched as Viserys leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as though anchoring himself.

“I have been thinking of Daemon,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice barely more than a murmur. “My brother… my blood. I banished him, you know. I thought it would bring peace, but as the years have passed, I feel it has instead left a void.”

Alicent glanced at him, her expression carefully neutral yet fear spiked in her stomach. She could not allow Daemon to return, he would throw all their plans to the fire. “Daemon is… complicated,” she said gently. “You have always done what you believed was best for the realm.”

“And yet, I wonder if I was wrong,” Viserys said, his shoulders slumping further. “Daemon is brash, unpredictable, but he is family. He is the only one who would tell me the truth, no matter how harsh. He would stand beside me, even when I did not ask.”

Alicent folded her hands in front of her, hesitating before speaking. “Do you wish for his return, Your Grace?”

Viserys turned his gaze to her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I wish for a time when we could speak as brothers, without the weight of the crown between us. I wish for the days when we were young, and the world had not yet turned so bitter.”

Viserys gave her a faint, sad smile as Alicent placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. He pats the hand lightly. “I fear the damage is too great. The crown… it takes everything, Alicent. It takes love, trust, even hope.”

As he turned back to the fire, Alicent withdrew her hand and stepped away, her expression troubled. She had to speak to her father; she had to warn him of Viserys’ thoughts. These… notions… of her husband had reared their heads on occasion over the last few years, yet she had managed to dissuade him each time. She begged her leave, trying to not to run as she swept from his chambers and left Viserys to his thoughts.

Viserys stared into the flames, his thoughts drifting to the past. To Daemon. To the brother he missed, despite all that had passed between them. And as the light of the fire danced in his eyes, a single tear slipped down his cheek, unbidden and unnoticed.

His jaw tightened. No, the damage was not beyond repair. Enough time had passed that the wounds of their arguments would have scabbed over and begun to heal. While they would still be scars on their relationship, Daemon was his brother and he deserved to be at court, by his side. He would not let his pride and fear tear apart their family any longer.

“Ser Harrold,” he called, raising his hand. His thoughts churned in his mind, his resolve strengthening with each step of Ser Harrold approaching.

“Your Grace,” Ser Harrold said as he stepped into the chamber, bowing deeply. “You summoned me.”

Viserys turned to him; his features stern but his eyes betraying a flicker of vulnerability. “Ser Harrold, I have a task for you,” he began. “I wish for you to pen a message to my brother, Daemon. Tell him… tell him I wish for his return to King’s Landing. It is time.”

Ser Harrold regarded the king silently for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath his white cloak. “And if he refuses, Your Grace?” he asked cautiously.

Viserys’ jaw tightened, though his gaze softened. “He won’t,” he said with quiet certainty. “Daemon will not ignore this summons. He may be many things, but he is still my brother.”

Ser Harrold nodded solemnly. “As you command, Your Grace. I will leave at once.”

As the knight departed, Viserys turned back to the fire, his hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. The weight of his decision settled over him, but for the first time in years, he felt the faintest spark of hope.

Chapter Text

Aemond watched his older brother cautiously, his small frame tense with unease. Aegon was leaning against the wall, his ever-present smirk fixed firmly in place. At fourteen, he was tall and lanky, with an air of confidence that Aemond often found both intimidating and irritating. Mischief seemed to radiate from him, and it never boded well.

Jaehaerys, ten years old and trying so hard to act like he was grown, stood at Vermax’s side, stroking the dragon’s snout with the tentative care of someone still growing into the bond they shared. Vermax trilled softly, the sound almost comforting. Aemond looked away, swallowing the ache in his chest. He knew it wasn’t Jaehaerys fault that he had a dragon and Aemond did not, but it didn’t make the sting of it any easier to bear.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Aemond asked Aegon, his nine-year-old voice lacking the authority he wished it carried. There was a crack in it, betraying his unease.

Lucerys bounced on the balls of his feet nearby, the youngest among them at only eight. His energy was boundless, and his face often betrayed what he was thinking. At the moment, his wide-eyed, slightly guilty expression made Aemond’s stomach tighten further.

“Oh, dear brother,” Aegon drawled, looping an arm over Aemond’s stiff shoulders. “We have a surprise for you.”

Aemond narrowed his eyes. “What kind of surprise?” he asked, wary.

“The best kind!” Aegon said, his grin widening. “You’re the only one of us without a dragon, and that’s just tragic, isn’t it, Jae?”

Jaehaerys glanced up from Vermax, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about, Eggy?”

Aegon ignored him, guiding Aemond forward a few steps. “So, we found you one,” he continued. “A dragon of your very own. Something special, just for you!”

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat. Was it possible? Could they have truly found him a dragon? For a moment, he felt a flicker of hope, fragile but glowing brightly. He looked at his older brother, trying to gauge if there was any truth in his words.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“Oh, Lucy, bring it up!” Aegon called, his voice light with amusement.

Lucerys hesitated for a moment, looking to Aegon for reassurance before running off toward the pens. The youngest boy’s energy made the whole thing feel a little less real—like a game—but Aemond couldn’t help the hope that flared in his chest. Jaehaerys stepped away from Vermax, his brow furrowed as he crossed his arms and looked between his brothers.

“Eggy,” Jae said, his voice low and suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Patience, Jae,” Aegon replied breezily. “You’ll see.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened as he watched Lucerys return. But instead of a dragon, the boy was leading… Aemond blinked. It was a pig. Painted pink, with wings tied onto its sides. His breath caught, the sight hitting him like a punch to the stomach.

“Behold!” Aegon proclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “The Pink Dread! Aemond’s very own dragon!”

Lucerys giggled nervously as he held the pig’s leash, clearly unsure about the joke now that it was unfolding. Jaehaerys’s eyes widened, his face darkening with anger. Aemond stood frozen, his fists clenching at his sides as humiliation burned through him.

“You’re not funny, Aegon!” Jaehaerys snapped, stepping forward. His voice cracked slightly on the words, but his anger was genuine.

“Oh, come now,” Aegon said, grinning as he gestured toward the pig. “Look at it! It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Aemond’s vision blurred for a moment, his throat tight. He wanted to shout, to push his brother, to cry—but he did none of those things. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his head held high even as tears stung his eyes.

Jaehaerys turned on Aegon, his fists clenched. “You’re cruel, Eggy,” he spat. “You think everything is a joke.”

“It was just a bit of fun,” Aegon said, shrugging as though he hadn’t done anything wrong. His eyes though began to reflect regret, his lips thinning. Lucerys shuffled next to the pig, petting its head as it snorted, completely oblivious.

Jaehaerys didn’t reply, anger at his uncle warring with concern for his closest friend. For all his efforts to be mature and composed, the sight of Aemond’s stricken expression made his heart ache in a way he couldn’t ignore. Without another word, he turned and ran after him, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he left Aegon and Lucerys behind.

Aegon was the first to break the silence that hung heavily in the air. He glanced at the pig, still snorting indignantly at its predicament, and then back at Lucerys, who stood awkwardly with his hands clasped together, his gaze firmly fixed on his feet.

“I think we hurt his feelings, Eggy,” Lucerys mumbled, his voice quiet. His lower lip trembled slightly, and he wrung his hands together as though trying to squeeze the guilt out of himself. “I didn’t want to upset him; I thought he would find it funny. You said it would be funny.”

Aegon sighed, the weight of his actions settling heavily on his shoulders. He hated feeling guilty—it was an uncomfortable emotion, one he often avoided by brushing off responsibility. But there was no brushing this off. He’d gone too far, and Aemond’s stricken face was now burned into his mind.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. He crossed over to Lucerys and clapped him on the back, though the gesture lacked its usual forceful joviality. “I know… I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s my fault.”

Lucerys looked up at him, his eyes wide and uncertain. “What do we do now?” he asked. His voice wavered, and there was a raw sincerity to it that made Aegon’s chest tighten.

For a moment, Aegon didn’t reply. He was used to being the ringleader, the one who decided what they did next, but this situation felt different. He wasn’t sure how to fix it—how to make things right with Aemond. But he knew they had to try.

“We make it up to him,” Aegon said finally, determination creeping into his voice. “Come on, Lucy. Let’s find something better than a pig.”

Lucerys’s eyes brightened slightly, hope flickering in his expression. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Aegon said with a small, wry smile. “But don’t think I’m doing this alone—you’re helping me.”

Lucerys nodded eagerly, and together they set off, their earlier mischief replaced by a shared sense of purpose. As they walked, Aegon’s mind raced with ideas. He was older, and he knew better than Lucerys how deeply Aemond’s lack of a dragon affected him. This wasn’t just about making him laugh—it was about showing him that he mattered, that they cared.

After some deliberation, they found themselves in one of the castle’s storage rooms. Aegon rummaged through crates and barrels, his brow furrowed in concentration. Lucerys watched him nervously, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.

“What are we looking for?” Lucerys asked hesitantly.

“Something we can turn into a proper dragon,” Aegon replied without looking up. “Something that’ll make him forget about… you know, the pig.”

Lucerys nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what Aegon had in mind. He began to help, searching through the clutter with the earnest energy of someone who desperately wanted to set things right.

It took time—longer than either of them expected—but eventually, they found what they needed. An old wooden barrel, a set of sturdy wheels, some scraps of fabric, and a coil of rope. Aegon’s mind buzzed with possibilities as he began to piece everything together, creating brief sketches in the sketchbook he always carried with him.

Lucerys followed his lead, his small hands working diligently to help. Though he wasn’t as skilled as Aegon, his enthusiasm made up for his lack of experience. Together, they shaped the materials into something new—a makeshift sled that resembled a dragon in the way only a child’s imagination could transform it. They painted crude scales onto the barrel and added fabric “wings” that fluttered in the breeze. Paint was all over the two boys, coating their tunics and even in their silvery locks, but when they finally stepped back to admire their creation, both boys were smiling. It wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but it was something. It was something they had built together, and it was for Aemond.

“Think he’ll like it?” Lucerys asked, his voice tentative.

Aegon smirked, though there was a softness in his expression that wasn’t usually there. “He’d better. We worked hard on this.”

Lucerys grinned, his earlier guilt replaced by a spark of pride. “Let’s show him,” he said, already tugging on the rope that served as the sled’s reins.

“Hold on,” Aegon chuckled, pulling Lucerys back with a hand on his shoulder. He gestured to the chaotic mess they’d left in the storage room. “Let’s tidy this up first. We don’t want Rhaenyra yelling at us for wrecking another room.”

Lucerys’s wide eyes scanned the disorder, from scattered tools to broken bits of wood and fabric scraps strewn across the floor. He nodded quickly, nervous energy buzzing in his movements as he bent to start cleaning. Together, the two boys began to put the room back in order, their earlier determination softening into a quiet camaraderie. Every so often, Aegon would toss out a teasing remark—nothing too sharp, just enough to make Lucerys giggle and ease the lingering guilt from earlier.

By the time they finished, their spirits felt lighter, as though they’d scrubbed some of their guilt away along with the mess. Aegon slung the sled's reins over his shoulder, flashing Lucerys a quick, conspiratorial grin. “Ready, Lucy?”

Lucerys’s eager nod was all the answer he needed.

Later that evening, the two found Aemond sitting alone in the courtyard, his small figure silhouetted by the fading light. His head was turned away, silver-gold hair covering his face, his gaze distant, and his posture was rigid - guarded, as if steeling himself against any further humiliation.

“What do you want?” he muttered, his tone low and sullen, not even bothering to look at them as they approached.

Aegon exchanged a glance with Lucerys, the usual cocky light in his eyes dimmed by something softer, more thoughtful. He stepped forward, the sled dragging behind him, its wheels rattling softly against the stone. “We brought you something,” he said simply.

Aemond finally turned, his suspicious gaze narrowing as he took in the sight of his brothers. His eyes darted to the sled, and his frown deepened.

“What is it this time?” he asked, his voice tinged with weariness.

Lucerys stepped forward nervously, clutching the rope that served as the sled’s reins. His hands trembled slightly, but he forced himself to meet Aemond’s gaze.

“It’s… it’s a dragon,” he said softly, his voice earnest and filled with the kind of pure, unselfish love only a child could express. “Not a real one, but… we made it for you. A proper one this time.”

Aemond stared at the sled, his expression unreadable as silence stretched between them. The quiet courtyard was punctuated only by the soft rustle of wind through the trees, and Lucerys shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the stillness. It took everything in him not to burst out in apologies and cry for forgiveness of his uncle. Aegon, uncharacteristically subdued, spoke up.

“We’re sorry about earlier,” he said, his usual bravado muted by sincerity. “This is better, though. You can name it if you want.”

Aemond stood slowly, his gaze fixed on the sled as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real. He walked toward it hesitantly, running a hand over the smooth wood. It wasn’t perfect—there were rough edges, uneven paint strokes, and the faint smell of glue—but there was something undeniably heartfelt about it. It was clear they had put real effort into making it. Something warm stirred in his chest, and he swallowed hard to keep the unexpected emotion at bay.

“What are you waiting for?” Aegon said with a grin, his cocky demeanour creeping back in. “Climb on. Let’s see if you can handle a proper dragon.”

For a moment, Aemond hesitated. Then, slowly, a small, tentative smile broke across his face. He climbed onto the sled, his hands gripping the reins tightly as Aegon and Lucerys took their positions behind it.

“Hold on, brother,” Aegon said with a wink. Before Aemond could protest, they gave the sled a mighty push. It shot forward, the wheels rattling wildly as it careened down the hill. Aemond clutched the reins for dear life, a mixture of exhilaration and terror flashing across his face.

And then it happened—he laughed. The sound echoed through the courtyard, clear and bright and unrestrained. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt included. He felt like he belonged.

At the bottom of the hill, Aemond turned to look back at his brothers, his smile wide and genuine. “Thank you,” he said simply, his voice steady but soft with gratitude.

Lucerys beamed, his earlier guilt melting away into joy, and even Aegon looked pleased with himself.

“Hey, how do you think this would handle going down Rhaenys’s Hill?” Aemond asked after a moment. Both Lucerys and Aegon’s eyes widened with joy and broke out into matching grins.

--

Rhaenyra sat alone in her chambers, the dim light of the late afternoon casting long shadows across the dark wood of her desk. Her fingers tapped against the surface in a soft, irregular rhythm, a testament to the restless energy coursing through her. Jaehaerys’ words from earlier echoed in her mind, the tale of Lucerys and Aegon’s prank on Aemond unfolding anew in her thoughts. Disappointment weighed heavily on her, but not for the prank itself—children would be children, after all. It was the deeper layers of the matter that gnawed at her resolve.

She had learned, painfully, that anger was a weapon best left sheathed when it came to Aegon and Aemond. The way they reacted to confrontation had broken her heart more times than she cared to count. Aegon’s flinches were subtle but unmistakable, his entire body tensing at the slightest movement of her hand, his eyes squeezing shut as though bracing for an invisible blow. Aemond’s reactions were quieter, no less shattering. He would fall utterly silent, staring fixedly at the floor with a resigned stillness that spoke volumes of what he expected.

Neither of them had ever found the words to explain their responses. And perhaps they didn’t need to; Rhaenyra had seen enough to piece together the unspoken story. The way both boys edged away from Otto Hightower whenever he was near, their pale faces and darting glances; the way Alicent’s hand had jerked Aegon about by the arm with a force that lingered long after the action itself. These were moments burned into Rhaenyra’s memory, moments that explained the fragile shields both boys now wore. Helaena seemed the only one to be spared this fate, however she had her troubles. The girl was often in a dream, floating about the keep with small notebook, cataloguing the various insects and beasties she found. Rhaenyra had made a point to take an interest in her creatures, no matter how disgusting they be, to show Helaena she was cared for and listened to.

As the weight of those truths settled on her shoulders, Rhaenyra sighed, leaning back in her chair. When it came to discipline, she had to walk a delicate line, balancing authority with the gentle care both boys so desperately needed. She couldn’t afford to let her frustration show—not when their sense of trust and safety in the world barely existed, a flickering candle against the storm.

The sound of small footsteps in the corridor outside drew her from her thoughts. The door creaked open slightly, and Lucerys peeked around the edge, his expression hesitant but guilt written plainly on his young face. “Mother?” he ventured softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Come in, Luke,” Rhaenyra said, her tone steady, though a hint of exhaustion crept through. She gestured for him to enter, and behind him, Aegon and Aemond shuffled in as well, their heads bowed like chastised puppies. The sight made her chest tighten.

The three silver haired boys stood before her, each embodying a different kind of uncertainty, in a line that had somehow reflected the height of each boy. Jaehaerys had undoubtedly already warned them that their actions had come to light. Rhaenyra’s gaze rested on Aegon, whose eyes darted nervously to her hands. She folded them deliberately on the desk, ensuring they remained still.

Rhaenyra regarded them silently for a moment before speaking. “Jaehaerys told me what happened.” Her voice was calm but carried enough weight to make Lucerys’ head droop further. “Lucerys, Aegon, do you think it was kind to play such a trick on Aemond?”

“No, Mother,” Lucerys mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Aegon hesitated, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. “We didn’t mean to hurt him,” he muttered. “It wasn’t meant to be cruel.”

Before Rhaenyra could respond, Aemond cleared his throat and took an unexpected step forward. “They’ve made it up to me,” he said quietly but firmly, his voice steady as his brothers turned to stare at him. “They apologized already. They didn’t mean anything by it.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened as she turned to him. “Aemond,” she said gently, “it’s important that they understand how their actions affect you. I don’t want you to feel like you must brush things aside.”

“I’m not brushing it aside,” Aemond replied, glancing briefly at his brothers before meeting his mother’s eyes. “They were just being silly. It’s done now.”

Lucerys peeked up at Aemond, his face filled with gratitude. “Thanks, Aemond,” he murmured.

Aegon relaxed slightly, though his guilt lingered in the way his shoulders remained hunched. “Yeah… thanks,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

Rhaenyra studied Aemond for a long moment, her heart swelling with pride. He was a quiet, well natured boy most of the time, but she was never sure how much of that was his own nature or was a learned response from being near Alicent and Otto. She turned back to the others, her voice warm but firm. “You are family,” she said. “That bond is precious. You may argue, you may have your differences, but you must always strive to protect one another.”

Aegon nodded, his violet eyes glancing between his siblings. “We will,” he promised. “We’re sorry, Aemond. We really are.”

“I know,” Aemond replied, his lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile.

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Good. Lucerys, Aemond, go wash up before dinner, the King has requested a family dinner. Aegon, please stay for a moment.”

The younger boys left the room shortly after, their steps lighter than when they had entered, but Aegon stood nervously, twisting his fingers. As the door closed behind them, Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, watching her brother carefully. He looked so small, so fragile, and in that moment, her heart ached for him in ways words could never express. Rising to her feet, she rounded the table, her steps slow and deliberate. He flinched when she swept him into her arms, a reflex born from too much criticism and too little love. But Rhaenyra held him tightly, refusing to let go until his trembling form softened in her embrace. Slowly, he melted into her arms, clinging to her like he was afraid she might vanish.

“I do not know what drove you to suggest such a harsh prank, byka zaldrīzes,” she whispered, her voice low and tender. “But know this: you are loved, and you are safe.” Aegon sniffled into her chest, his face pressed into the soft velvet of her dress. She held him there for a moment longer, her mind swirling with a mix of anger at those who had failed him and determination to be the shelter he so desperately needed. “Why did you do it, sweetling?”

Aegon pulled away, looking down at the floor, his shame palpable. Rhaenyra bent slightly, hooking a finger under his chin to gently lift his face. His teary eyes met hers, filled with uncertainty. She searched his expression, her heart twisting at the pain she saw there. He was just a boy, far too young to bear the burdens he carried. He blinked back tears, his mouth opening as though to speak, but the words didn’t come. Rhaenyra cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. The gesture undid him. A sob tore through him, and he covered his face with his hands, his fragile composure shattered.

“Why are you so nice to me?” he choked out. “How can you be so kind, when I’m so horrible?”

Rhaenyra gasped softly, pulling him back into her arms. She guided him to the small lounger by the fire, sitting down and drawing him onto her lap as though he were still a child. His tall body did not fit as easily against hers, and as she rocked him, she thought of the boy he had been—a boy who once followed her everywhere, who had adored her unconditionally.

“All I ever do is ruin things,” Aegon sobbed. “Mother says so. Grandfather says so. Even Father doesn’t talk to me anymore. How can you still care for me?”

“Oh, my sweet brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, her fingers weaving gently through his silken curls. “I love you. You don’t need to earn my love; it is yours simply because you are you.”

As she spoke, her mind drifted to the past, to the bright-eyed toddler who had clung to her skirts and followed her everywhere. She had adored him from the moment he called her “Nyra” with his chubby, two-year-old voice. He had been her shadow, her first sibling who had survived long enough for her to truly love. Though it broke her heart to see the boy he had become—so bruised and beaten down—he still mended something deep within her, something that no one else could.

“So why don’t they?” Aegon asked, his voice trembling. His tears were slowing now, but his despair was etched into every line of his face.

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched. She should have known his pain stemmed from their mother and grandfather. Alicent and Otto had placed unbearable pressures upon him, shaping his self-worth into something fragile and easily shattered. Rhaenyra had tried to protect him, to shield him from their influence as best she could. She brought him along on her tours, took him and his siblings to Dragonstone whenever possible, and fought tirelessly to keep him with her children. Yet Alicent opposed her at every turn, determined to keep him within her sphere.

“They love you, Aegon,” Rhaenyra said softly, though the words felt hollow in her mouth. She didn’t truly believe them, but Aegon needed hope, even if it was fragile. “They are deeply flawed, complex people. They don’t know how to love the way we do.”

“They don’t even like me, Nyra,” Aegon muttered, leaning his head against her shoulder.

“Mother loves Aemond. She’s so good with him. And even Helaena—she makes time for her. But me? The only time she talks to me is when she’s telling me I’ve done something wrong,” he sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. “If my own mother doesn’t like me… why should Aemond or Lucy? Maybe they should learn the truth. That I’m just a failure, not worth the time.”

Rhaenyra’s grip tightened around him, her protective instincts surging. “Aemond and Lucerys adore you, Aegon. Never doubt that. Never doubt that Laenor and I love you too.” She paused, her voice softening. “Your mother… I cannot excuse her actions. But you are worth more love than the world can give, my dear brother.”

She reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to meet her eyes. “You are not a failure, Aegon. You are smart, talented, and capable. You are a Prince of House Targaryen, and the first babe I ever loved as my own. You are my darling byka zaldrīzes, and I would never trade you for anything in this world.”

Tears welled in his eyes again as he stared at her, his lips trembling.

“But they’ll make me hurt you, Rhaenyra,” he whispered. “They’ll make me take the throne… I don’t want it. I don’t want to hurt you. But they’ll force me.”

Rhaenyra felt her stomach twist. She had suspected Otto’s plans, his scheming to place Aegon on the throne, but hearing it confirmed from her brother’s lips filled her with dread. Still, she forced herself to remain calm. Aegon needed her strength.

“Listen to me, Aegon,” she said firmly, gripping his hands. “If they try to force you, and I am not there to stop them, do as they ask. Do not give them a reason to hurt you. Your safety means more to me than anything in this world. Promise me.”

Aegon hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I… I promise,” he whispered at last.

Rhaenyra exhaled in relief, pulling him into her arms once more. He relaxed against her, the tension in his small body fading. She held him tightly, vowing silently that no matter what came, she would protect him. After a moment of tight embrace, Aegon pulled away from her, wiping his face.

“I need to wash up for dinner,” he said softly, and Rhaenyra gave him a gentle smile, squeezing his hand as he excused himself. As he walked from her chambers, she collapsed back into the chair, covering her face with her hands. She barely had a chance to breath before her peace was swiftly taken by Laenor striding into the room. His face was grave, and Rhaenyra barely had a chance to get to her feet when he collapsed to his knees. She rushed to his side, wrapping an arm around him.

“Oh my, Laenor, what is it, what has happened?” she asked frantically. He gripped the carpet and Rhaenyra felt tension hang over her chambers as he fell back. His eyes seemed to stare right through her, the joy and whimsy she usually found them gone.

Laenor’s breathing was ragged as he knelt, his fingers clutching the carpet beneath him as if it could anchor him to the moment. Rhaenyra’s heart raced, panic gripping her as she tightened her hold around his shoulders. “Laenor, speak to me,” she urged, her voice trembling. “What has happened?”

He tilted his head back, his usually vibrant purple eyes dull, glassy with unshed tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, broken and uneven. “She’s gone.”

Rhaenyra froze, the words hanging heavy in the air between them. “Gone?” she echoed, her mind struggling to grasp the meaning. “Who…?”

“Laena,” he choked out, the single name shattering what little composure he had left. “My sister… she—she died in childbirth.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening in shock, her own heart starting to break for her former Lady-In-Waiting.

“Oh, gods,” she whispered, her hand instinctively moving to cradle the back of Laenor’s head as though shielding him from the weight of his own grief. “Laenor, I’m so sorry…”

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks now, and he shook his head as though trying to rid himself of the memory.

“She was strong,” he said, his voice cracking. “Laena… she was always so strong. How could this happen? How could the gods take her from us?”

Rhaenyra held him tightly, her own eyes stinging with tears. Laena Velaryon was one of her closest friends and confidante’s. She had only left the court to give birth on Driftmark, with Ser Harwin and her daughters by her side. She had wanted to be beside her mother for this birth, having had the other two children in the Red Keep.

“The gods are cruel,” she murmured, her voice heavy with both sorrow and anger. “I cannot imagine their reasoning, but I know this—Laena’s strength will live on in her daughters. They will carry her spirit forward.”

“Laena…” Laenor whispered her name again, his voice breaking over the syllables like a wave crashing against the shore. “She’s gone, Rhaenyra. And the babe… Rhaenyra, the babe didn’t survive either. They couldn’t… she walked into the flames… they couldn’t even tell…”

Rhaenyra’s grip on him tightened as a fresh wave of grief crashed over her. Her mind briefly flickered to Valaena and Larissa, the daughters Laena had left behind. They would be devastated, too young to fully understand but old enough to feel the ache of their mother’s absence.

“We will honour her,” Rhaenyra said firmly, though her voice trembled with grief. “In life and in memory. Laena will never be forgotten, not while we live and breathe. And Valaena and Larissa… we will care for them as though they were our own.”

Laenor buried his face against her shoulder, his frame wracked with silent sobs. “I should have been there,” he whispered. “I should have been with her…”

“You couldn’t have known,” Rhaenyra said softly, stroking his back in soothing circles. “Laena would never blame you, Laenor. She loved you.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands still gripping her arms as he looked into her eyes. “They’ll need me now,” he said, his voice raw but resolute. “Valaena and Larissa… they’ll need me more than ever.”

“And they will have you,” Rhaenyra assured him, her gaze steady. “You are their uncle, and you are not alone, Laenor. We will face this together. We shall bring Ser Harwin and his daughters back to court, and we shall keep them with us.”

Laenor closed his eyes, nodding weakly as he leaned back into her embrace. The room was thick with grief, the loss of Laena casting a shadow that seemed to dim even the sunlight filtering through the windows. Yet in the silence, Rhaenyra held him tightly, a quiet strength anchoring them both as they mourned the woman they had lost.

Chapter Text

She has always been composed in moments like these, her face a mask, her voice steady. But this was one of the hardest tasks she had ever faced. Today, the weight of her grief sits on her chest like an iron chain, each link forged from the memories of Laena Velaryon—her dearest friend, her fiercest confidante, her sister in all but name. Laenor had flown out to Driftmark on Seasmoke before the children had been summoned, the family dinner cancelled, leaving Rhaenyra to ready the family’s voyage by sea and prepare the children. She did not begrudge this, no matter how deep her own grief was, Laenor had lost his sister. Someone who he had shared all with, who had supported him and loved him through all.

Rhaenyra tightens her grip on the windowsill, the cool stone grounding her. How often had Laena stood beside her at this very window, pointing out the dragons circling above the Keep, her laughter ringing like a bell? Rhaenyra can almost hear her voice now, teasing and light, as though she might turn and find Laena there, arms crossed, her smile half-hidden behind a cascade of silvery braids. Today, the space beside her is empty, and the silence is deafening.

"I… I need to tell you something," she begins, her voice trembling, unsteady. She takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. She turns to face the children, her children, and their wide, curious eyes pierce through her. Each gaze reminds her of Laena—of how she had touched their lives, how she had loved them as fiercely as if they were her own.

"Laena Velaryon has… she has passed," she says, her words shattering the air between them.

The silence is unbearable. Her own voice echoes in her mind, repeating the truth she still cannot accept. Gone. How can Laena be gone? The woman who had stood beside her through every trial, who had laughed with her, wept with her, carried her secrets? Gone, as if the gods themselves had reached down and snatched her away.

Helaena is the first to speak, her voice a fragile whisper. Her purple eyes are wide and her lip trembles as they began to well with tears.

"But she… she said we would watch the silkworms hatch together," she says, her hands trembling as they fold in her lap. Her wide, faraway eyes dart to the window, as though searching for the dragonrider in the skies. "She said they’d be beautiful."

Rhaenyra’s heart clenches. She remembers walking into the garden one afternoon, finding Laena and Helaena crouched over a row of flowers, their heads bent together as Laena explained the lifecycle of moths and butterflies. Helaena’s face had been lit with wonder, her soft murmurs of amazement punctuated by Laena’s warm laughter. Laena had understood Helaena in a way few did, nurturing her quiet fascination with the world’s smallest wonders. Who will be that for her now?

Lucerys breaks the stillness with a quiet, hiccupping sob, his small frame trembling as he looks to Rhaenyra. "But she said she’d teach me to swim," he cries, his voice breaking with a child’s raw, unfiltered grief. His fingers tug at his tunic, searching for something—anything—to hold on to. "She promised."

The image of Laena standing at the shoreline, her feet bare in the surf as she coaxed Lucerys into the water, flashes through Rhaenyra’s mind. Laena’s voice had been patient, her arms strong and steady as she guided him through his first strokes. "The sea will hold you, little one, if you trust it," she had said, her voice full of quiet confidence. And Lucerys had trusted her, because with Laena, there was never a reason not to.

Jaehaerys is still as stone, his small hands gripping his knees. "She was going to braid my hair," he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of his disbelief. A hand went to the silvery curls atop his head, that he had been growing purposefully for that reason. "She said my hair would make the prettiest braids."

Rhaenyra bites down hard on her lip to keep the tears from spilling over. Jaehaerys had adored Laena, trailing after her like a shadow when he was but a babe. She had indulged him with endless patience, her skilled fingers weaving intricate braids into his hair as she told him stories of dragons and knights, her voice a soothing melody.

Aemond rises suddenly, his fists clenched at his sides. Rhaenyra gave him a soft look, as the usually mild-mannered child seemed to explode in fury.

"Why?" he demands, his voice low but seething with anger. "Why did she leave us? She wouldn’t just… leave!" His sharp gaze locks on Rhaenyra, as if she holds the answer to the cruel injustice of it all.

Rhaenyra feels a pang of guilt, knowing that Laena’s unwavering belief in Aemond had been one of the few things that anchored him. She had seen the fire in him, the quiet determination that others often overlooked, and she had nurtured it. "The heart of a dragon is forged in fire. You will be made of well-tempered Valyrian steel," Laena had told him one evening as he stared at the unhatched egg that mocked him. Now, Rhaenyra wonders if that fire will consume him in his grief. Laena had been the one to understand his plight, to help support him when he was upset about his lack of dragon.

Aegon, though, is the one who breaks her heart the most. He sits apart from the others, his head bowed, his face blank. When he finally speaks, his voice is bitter, cold. "Of course she’s gone. Everyone leaves."

His words cut deeper than any blade. Aegon had always felt the sting of neglect, a boy desperate for love and unsure how to ask for it. Laena had been a lifeline for him his entire childhood, a rare source of comfort and understanding outside of Laenor and Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra remembers finding them together in the gallery one evening after one of his outbursts. Laena’s arm had been draped around his shoulders as she spoke to him in low, soothing tones. Whatever she had said, it had been enough to calm him. But now she is gone, and that lifeline has been severed.

Rhaenyra kneels before him, her hands trembling as she reaches for his arm. "Aegon," she says softly, her voice breaking. But he pulls away, retreating into the shell of his pain, and she doesn’t know how to reach him.

The weight of her failure crushes her. How can she be their strength when she feels so weak? How can she guide them through this storm when she is drowning in her own grief? Laena, my sister, my heart… how could you leave me? You were always the stronger one, the braver one. How am I to navigate these treacherous waters without you?

She gathers Lucerys into her arms, his small body trembling against hers. Her free hand brushes over Helaena’s hair, then rests on Jaehaerys’ shoulder, offering what comfort she can. Aemond stands stiffly, his anger radiating from him, but he doesn’t pull away when she places a hand on his arm. Aegon remains apart, his grief a chasm she cannot cross. His head rests against the stone wall, staring out Blackwater Bay.

"Laena loved you all," she says finally, her voice thick with emotion. "She loved your hearts, your laughter, your strength. She was proud of you, each of you, in ways I can barely put into words. And she would want you to be brave now, as she was brave. I know this will be hard and you will miss her dearly, but she would want you to smile and celebrate her, not cry for her. She was a fierce dragon, and a true queen of the skies."

Her gaze sweeps over them, her beautiful, broken children, and she feels her resolve harden. The drive for her children would keep her strong, and she would carry them through this. For you, Laena. For them. I will not falter, because you wouldn’t have. I will carry your strength, your fire, and I will keep them safe.

The fire crackled softly as the room settled into a heavy silence, their shared grief palpable. Rhaenyra took a steadying breath, brushing her fingers gently over Lucerys' hair before lifting her gaze to her children. Their faces, full of sorrow and confusion, pierced her heart anew but she held firm, strong in her stance as she continues to address them.

"There are things we must do now," she began, her voice low but steady, tinged with the resolve she was forcing herself to summon. Her eyes moved over each of them, lingering for a moment on Aegon's distant gaze. "Tomorrow, we shall take the ship to Driftmark."

Lucerys sniffled against her shoulder, his small voice breaking the silence. He looked up at her with wide, teary eyes. "To Driftmark?"

"Yes, my sweet boy," Rhaenyra said softly, her hand cupping his tear-streaked face. "We will join the Velaryon family to lay Laena to rest. There will be a funeral in the way of the Velaryon’s, and we will stay for several nights at High Tide, among her kin, to pay our respects and share our grief with them."

She paused, her throat tightening as memories of Laena flooded her mind—her laughter echoing in the halls of High Tide, her voice strong and commanding during family gatherings. The thought of standing in that place without her felt unbearable, yet she knew it must be done.

"After the funeral, we will return to Dragonstone," Rhaenyra continued, her tone softening as she reached for Helaena's hand. The girl flinched slightly at the touch but then clasped her hand tightly, as if seeking solace. "We will observe a moon of mourning there. For that time, we shall all wear black, to show support for the Velaryon’s.”

Her eyes swept over them again. Aemond stood stiffly, his lips pressed into a thin line as his emotions churned behind his stoic exterior. Jaehaerys leaned heavily against him, his small face pale and tear streaked. Helaena stared at the floor, her fingers tightening around Rhaenyra's. Lucerys let out a small hiccupping sob, his hands clutching at her dress.

Aegon, however, remained motionless, his face turned away. The sight of him, so closed off, made her heart ache. She yearned to reach him, to find the right words to pierce through his pain, but for now, she could only hope he would find his way to her when he was ready.

She rose to her feet, gathering Lucerys in her arms. He was not a babe any longer, but for so long he had been her baby and while he was heavier now, she would never put him down when he needed to be held. The children remained seated, their grief pooling around them like shadows. As Rhaenyra moved toward the hearth, her gaze lifted to the flames. The fire danced weakly, its light flickering but unyielding, a reminder of the resilience she must summon. She drew a steadying breath, her voice quiet but firm as she continued.

"There is something else you must know. When we return to Dragonstone, we will not be alone. Valaena and Larissa will be joining us, along with Ser Harwin."

Lucerys lifted his tear-streaked face from her shoulder, blinking up at her with wide eyes. "Valaena and Larissa?" he repeated, his voice small.

"Yes," Rhaenyra said softly. "They are very young and may not fully understand what has happened, but they will feel the weight of this loss, just as we do. I need each of you to show them kindness, to help them feel safe and loved during this difficult time."

Her gaze shifted to Aegon; his face still turned away. "Aegon," she said, her tone gentle but resolute. "They will look to you as the eldest, even if they cannot say so. Your kindness will mean more to them than you know."

He didn’t respond, but she saw a flicker of something—perhaps acknowledgment—in the way his shoulders tensed. It was enough, for now.

Helaena tilted her head, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair. "The little ones…" she murmured, her voice distant. "They’ll cry for her."

"Perhaps," Rhaenyra said, her voice softening as she brushed a hand over Helaena’s hair. "But they will also need to see that life goes on, even in the shadow of grief. That is what we must show them—what Laena would have wanted us to show them."

Her gaze turned to Aemond and Jaehaerys, the two boys still seated close together. "And you two," she said, her lips curving into the faintest smile. "You must look after them, protect them as you would your own siblings. They will need your strength, and I know you both have plenty of it."

Aemond nodded solemnly, his jaw tight, while Jaehaerys gave a small, hesitant smile, his hand still clutching Aemond's sleeve. The bond between them, forged in friendship and now in shared sorrow, was something Rhaenyra knew would be a source of comfort in the days to come.

She stood, her hands brushing over her skirts as she squared her shoulders. "We will board the ship at first light and travel to Driftmark," she said, her voice regaining its strength. "There, we will bid farewell to Laena as she is laid to rest. We will stay at High Tide for several nights, and then we shall return to Dragonstone for a moon of mourning. During this time, we will all wear black, as is fitting for those in deepest grief. This is how we honour her."

The children looked at her, their faces a mixture of uncertainty and understanding. Lucerys clung to her hand, his small fingers curling around hers as if seeking reassurance. Helaena’s gaze turned to the window, where the stars twinkled in the night sky, shining despite the grief that hung over the room. Aemond and Jaehaerys exchanged a glance, their silent communicating support to one another. Aegon, though still silent, finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, his expression unreadable. After a moment, his shoulders slumped and he collapsed against the wall under the window, looking thoroughly exhausted.

"Laena loved you all," Rhaenyra said, her voice thick with emotion. "And now, we must love each other enough to carry her memory forward. For her, and for the family she left behind."

The room fell into a hush, the weight of her words settling over them. As the fire crackled in the hearth, Rhaenyra felt the faintest flicker of strength within her. She would guide them through this storm and when the tides of grief threatened to pull her under, she would remember that the fire Laena had always carried within her, a flame that would never be extinguished.

--

The chambers were dimly lit, the fire casting flickering light across the walls, its soft crackling the only sound in the heavy silence. Rhaenyra sat on the edge of her bed; her arms wrapped around Aerion as he slumbered in her embrace. His tiny fingers had found their way into her hair, grasping a loose silver lock even as he gurgled softly in his sleep. She rocked him gently, the motion automatic, a mother’s instinct working through the haze of her exhaustion.

Her gaze swept over the room. Her bed, once hers alone, was now overtaken by the curled forms of Lucerys and Aemond. The boys had cried themselves into a fitful sleep, their small frames pressing into each other as if proximity could shield them from the ache of grief. Lucerys’ cheeks were still damp, and Aemond’s hands clutched the corner of a blanket, his face troubled even in slumber.

Across the room, Helaena sat on one of the extra sleeping rolls brought in for the night. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as she stared at nothing.

Closer to the fire, Aegon sat in quiet defiance. The wine glass in his hand was nearly empty, its deep red contents matching the flicker of the flames. He had asked for it, no, demanded it, in a voice so raw that Rhaenyra had been unable to refuse. Just one glass, she’d told him, watching as he drank it silently, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames. He had not looked at her, nor at his siblings, since.

And there was Jaehaerys, slightly apart from the others, sitting stiffly in a small chair near the window. His head was bowed, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at them, as though hoping they held answers he couldn’t yet voice. His stillness tugged at Rhaenyra’s heart, a quiet grief that made her want to cross the room and pull him into her arms. But something in his posture held her back, an air of self-imposed isolation she didn’t know how to break.

They are all so young, Rhaenyra thought, her throat tightening. Too young for this pain, too young to carry the weight of loss.

The sight of them, scattered like pieces of a broken constellation, sent a wave of guilt crashing over her. What kind of mother was she, that her children should suffer so? What kind of queen? She had failed to shield them, just as she had failed to shield herself. For all her strength, all her fire, she had been powerless to keep the world’s cruelty at bay. The realization was a bitter one.

Aerion stirred in her arms, his tiny face scrunching before relaxing again, his soft breaths a balm to her frayed nerves. She pressed a kiss to his downy silver hair, closing her eyes as the faint scent of him, the sweetness of infancy, filled her senses. He was her smallest, her most vulnerable, and she was silently thankful that he had not been on this Earth long enough to feel this loss.

Her gaze returned to Lucerys, and Aemond, their small forms almost indistinguishable in the tangle of blankets. They had always fought over who would sleep closest to her during storms or nightmares, and now, in the storm of grief, they had claimed her bed entirely. She could not bring herself to move them. Their closeness was a comfort for all of them.

Helaena’s fingers tightened slightly around hers, drawing her attention as she appeared like a ghost next to her. Rhaenyra shifted her grip, giving her sisters’ hand a gentle squeeze. “Are you warm enough, my sweet?” she asked softly.

Helaena nodded, her voice barely a whisper when she spoke. “They’ll cry for her again tomorrow,” she said, her gaze distant. “Like the hatchlings. They cry and cry, but their mothers don’t come back.”

Rhaenyra’s heart broke a little more. She tugged Helaena’s hand gently, guiding her closer until the girl rested her head against her shoulder. “I’m here,” she murmured, stroking Helaena’s hair. “And I won’t leave you.”

Helaena didn’t respond, but her breathing slowed, her trembling fingers stilling in Rhaenyra’s grasp. It was a small victory, but Rhaenyra clung to it, nonetheless.

Aegon shifted in his chair, his glass clinking softly as he set it on the hearth’s edge. He turned his back to the fire, his silhouette framed against the golden glow. His posture was tense, his arms crossed as he stared out the window. Rhaenyra studied him, her first babe, her most troubled. He had said so little since the others had fell into their slumber, his grief manifesting not in tears but in silence, a silence that felt heavier than words ever could.

She wanted to reach for him, to draw him into her arms as she had when he was small, but she knew he wouldn’t allow it. Not now. His pain had created walls she could not breach—not yet.

“Come sit with us, Aegon,” she said gently, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to be alone.”

He didn’t turn. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice flat.

But he wasn’t fine. None of them were.

Her gaze moved to Jaehaerys, still seated by the window, his hands clasped tightly. “Jaehaerys,” she called softly, beckoning him. “Come here, my love.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing, but after a moment, he rose and shuffled toward her. She reached for him, wrapping her free arm around his shoulders as he sank onto the sofa beside her. His head rested against her, and though he didn’t speak, the tension in his small body slowly eased.

Aerion stirred again, his tiny fingers tugging at her hair. She pressed another kiss to his head, her tears finally spilling over. She let them fall silently, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room.

‘I am their protector,’ she thought, her heart aching with the weight of it. ‘I must be their strength. I must carry them through this, no matter how much it hurts.’

The storm outside raged on, but within the chambers, the only sounds were the soft breaths of sleeping children and the gentle rustle of blankets. Rhaenyra tightened her hold on Aerion and Helaena, her fingers brushing over Jaehaerys’ hair as he drifted off. Aegon remained by the fire, his silhouette a shadow against the light. But for now, they were together, and that was enough.

--

The journey to Driftmark would stretch over four uneasy days, the horizon perpetually shrouded in the foreboding grey of turbulent skies. The sea, though calmer than the undercurrents of tension aboard the vessel, churned in quiet warning. Lady Charis, despite the growing weight of her sixth moon of pregnancy, moved with determined efficiency, her every gesture a calculated attempt to mask the apprehension that gnawed at the edges of her composure.

She oversaw the household’s preparations with a meticulous eye, swiftly directing the packing of garments suited for both their time at Driftmark and their subsequent mourning period at Dragonstone. The air crackled with a quiet urgency as she ensured that baskets of finely baked sweet treats and carefully chosen snacks were prepared to comfort the children during the voyage. The Maesters had presented their neatly compiled lesson plans, and Lady Charis, refusing to allow the looming shadows of grief and uncertainty to disrupt the children's education, carefully reviewed the materials. Every detail was tended to, every task executed with an unyielding resolve to create an illusion of normalcy, even as the storm of unspoken fears loomed ever closer.

The ship seemed to mirror the mood of its passengers, creaking under the strain of its voyage, its sails taut and whispering secrets to the unrelenting wind. The King and Queen were set to depart on a separate vessel, their regal entourage embarking two days after the others. Yet Rhaenyra, her spirit as unyielding as the sea, could not abide the delay. Only one moon had passed since the pains of childbirth, her body still mending, but she dismissed the advice of caution. Her resolve burned brighter than caution's warnings. She would have flown ahead on Syrax’s golden back, piercing the storm-wrapped skies, had it not been for her large brood of children grounding her to the rocking deck of the ship.

Above them, the dragons flew in solemn procession, their mighty wings cutting through the oppressive, salt-laden winds. Their mournful cries wove through the air, a haunting song that mirrored their riders’ turmoil. Together, they charted a solemn path toward Dragonstone, their passage heavy with the unspoken anguish of uncertain days ahead.

Rhaenyra sat in the stillness of her room on the ship, relishing a rare moment of quiet, her body heavy with exhaustion, her silver hair slipping like liquid moonlight through her fingers. The years had been long, each one pressing harder than the last, and though she had not weathered them alone, the weight of her struggles felt insurmountable. Her carefully constructed armour, built with defiance, pride, and ambition, was beginning to fracture under the relentless tides of courtly scheming.

Alicent’s influence had grown like a creeping vine, quietly entangling the court in its grasp. With every passing year, the Queen had subtly, but surely, fortified her position, her manipulations as insidious as they were effective. Rhaenyra’s thoughts churned as she recalled how Alicent had gradually gathered power in King’s Landing. She had methodically enticed the noble Houses of Lannister, Baratheon, Redwyne, attracting them to her cause through flattery, alliances, and the careful planting of seeds that painted Rhaenyra as a sinful woman, too fanciful and emotional to rule. It wasn’t just the lords she swayed; Alicent had mastered the art of forging bonds with the noblewomen, who carried whispers of influence into their own households. She’d placed her own daughters of the court as Ladies-in-Waiting to these women, weaving a web of green silk through the court, enhancing her own influence.

Rhaenyra could see the traces of Alicent’s calculated manoeuvring in every aspect of court life. The sea of green gowns and emblems, a bold statement of allegiance to the Queen, served as a visual reminder of the opposition she faced daily. Yet, despite this constant challenge, Rhaenyra pressed forward with unrelenting determination. Her vision extended far beyond the halls of the Red Keep; her efforts focused on building a realm that was not only hers to rule but one that flourished under her leadership.

She championed projects designed to improve the lives of the people, their wellbeing ever in her thoughts. These ventures, from public works to charitable acts, were a testament to her sense of duty and care for the realm, earning her the quiet loyalty of the smallfolk who saw the tangible effects of her endeavours. Rhaenyra’s tireless tours to the noble houses reflected her commitment to cultivating meaningful relationships, each visit strengthening bonds with lords and ladies who admired her fortitude and vision.

Though Alicent’s allies moved through the corridors with quiet confidence, their whispered conversations filled with disdain, Rhaenyra always maintained her poise and dignity. She faced their mockery and scepticism with unwavering resolve, her every effort a bold defiance of their attempts to undermine her legitimacy. The court she sought to build was not just a political statement but a symbol of her capacity to lead with both strength and compassion.

Yet, even within her own household, Rhaenyra could not shake the sense of intrusion. Maids and servants moved about with practiced grace, but trust among them was a commodity she could no longer afford. Alicent’s reach extended into every corner of the Red Keep, and Rhaenyra knew that no conversation was truly private. With Charis at her side, she scrutinized every servant assigned to her family, their histories examined with relentless detail. It was a laborious task, but necessary; even a single leak of information to Alicent’s could put Rhaenyra’s family, her children, at risk.

And still, Alicent stood ever-present at her father’s side, wielding her position as his primary caregiver with strategic brilliance. She painted herself as the dutiful wife, the Queen who cared for her ailing King with unparalleled devotion. The sight of her with her seven-pointed star gleaming in the torchlight, publicly pious and unwavering, set Rhaenyra’s teeth on edge. Alicent preached about virtue and morality, each word a quiet condemnation of Rhaenyra’s own choices. She spoke with an air of righteous certitude about her “trueborn” children, leaving an unspoken accusation hanging in the air, as though Rhaenyra’s brood were lesser, unworthy of their place in the succession. It was not merely a battle for power—it was a battle for perception, for legitimacy. Alicent played the long game, and she played it well.

Rhaenyra… she was so tired. The weight of the crown she had never yet worn pressed heavily upon her, a ceaseless burden that she carried with every step she took within the treacherous confines of the Red Keep. Her fingers traced the jagged edges of her thoughts as she toyed absently with the hem of her gown, silver hair tumbling around her face like a veil of quiet despair. The years had stretched endlessly, a gruelling battle fought in the shadow of her stepmother’s machinations, and she found herself weary.

A part of her, a small and fragile whisper buried deep within the fire of her blood, longed to lay it all down. To shed the mantle of expectation, to step away from the tangled web of politics, betrayals, and ceaseless rivalry. She could see the vision so clearly in her mind’s eye: a quiet life on Dragonstone, surrounded by the crashing of waves against blackened rock, her children growing strong and free beneath the ever-watchful gaze of her dragons. A simpler existence, untouched by the venomous tongues and calculating gazes of courtiers who wore loyalty as a fleeting garment.

But she could not. The thought was as fleeting as it was tempting, dissipating like smoke with every breath. Her name, her blood, her very existence carried the weight of her ancestors' legacy. Of Aegon’s Dream. The Iron Throne was not merely a seat of power—it was the symbol of everything her father had entrusted to her, everything she had fought to defend. To abandon it now, to turn her back on the destiny she had been groomed for, would be to betray the memory of the man who had named her his heir. It would mean yielding to Alicent, who waited like a patient spider in her web of alliances and pious façades.

The exhaustion clung to her like an ever-present shadow, wrapping around her tightly as she stared into the dying embers. She felt it in the marrow of her being. The need for peace. For a life that was hers to live, untethered by the chains of duty and expectation. And this latest blow, the loss of one of her closest companions, made that wish so much stronger. But peace, she reminded herself with a sigh, was a luxury not afforded to queens. And so, though her spirit ached and her heart longed for the sanctuary of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra steeled herself once more. The fire in her veins still burned, albeit dimly, and she would not allow it to be extinguished.

She broke from her musings, taking a steadying breath and stood. It would do not good to linger, she had those who needed her to be strong, to stand tall, and to protect them. Her violet eyes flit to her babe, sleeping peacefully despite the rocking of the boat, and allowed a warm smile to fall on her lips. This was her peace, these moments with her children, and this is how she would endure, with her children by her side.

Scooping the babe into her arms, she gently stepped from her cabins and making her way to the deck of the ship, as the boy grumbled, wrapping a lock of her hair around his little fist. The ship creaked as it cut through the waves, the air thick with the salt of the sea and the unspoken weight of their journey. Rhaenyra adjusted baby Aerion in her arms, his soft breaths steady against her shoulder, though her own heart raced unevenly. The chill wind tugged at her veil, pulling strands of pale hair free, and she kept her gaze fixed on the horizon. Driftmark loomed closer with every passing moment, a grim silhouette against the darkening sky.

Behind her, Lady Charis shifted, her hand resting protectively over the swell of her belly. The silk of her black gown caught the faint light, the fabric stretched slightly over the growing curve of her pregnancy. She stepped closer, her presence warm and familiar, despite the biting wind.

“You’re uneasy, Princess,” Charis said softly, her voice low enough that the others bustling about on deck would not hear. Her keen eyes followed Rhaenyra’s gaze out to the open water, her expression shadowed with concern.

Before Rhaenyra could answer, the roar split the air, primal and thunderous. Charis gasped, her hand flying to her chest as the sailors erupted into frantic shouts, their faces lifted toward the sky.

“What in the Seven…” Charis whispered, her voice trailing off as her eyes widened. She clutched Rhaenyra’s arm instinctively, her nails digging slightly into the fabric. “Is that…?”

Rhaenyra’s grip tightened around Aerion as she turned her face upward, her stomach knotting at the sight of the Blood Wyrm. Caraxes. His massive, crimson wings sliced through the clouds as he descended, his serpentine body twisting with lethal grace. The dragon’s roar reverberated in her chest, stirring something primal and raw within her.

“Stay quiet,” Rhaenyra hissed, her voice sharper than intended. She turned to Charis, her expression tense. “No one must speak of this, not until we understand what it means.”

Charis swallowed hard, her free hand hovering protectively over her belly.

“What it means? Princess, that’s Caraxes. That’s…” She faltered, the name hanging in the air, unspoken but undeniable.

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze returning to the figure astride the dragon. Daemon. After twelve years of absence, he had returned, and not with subtlety. The sight of him, proud and unyielding atop his mount, twisted something deep in her chest—a mix of shock, anger, and something unnameable.

“Stay quiet,” Rhaenyra repeated, softer this time but no less firm. Her eyes flickered to Aerion, whose tiny fingers clung to the ribbon of her gown, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around him. “We will speak of this when the time is right. Until then, not a word.”

Charis hesitated but nodded, her fingers flexing against the railing as she steadied herself. Her gaze lingered on the dragon as it circled the ship once more, the monstrous creature’s cry fading as it banked toward Driftmark. She leaned closer to Rhaenyra, her voice a whisper that barely carried over the wind. “And if it means trouble?”

Rhaenyra glanced at her, her jaw tightening. “Then we will face it.”

--

As Driftmark's shores drew closer, Rhaenyra moved among her children with quiet purpose, ensuring each looked properly composed for what lay ahead. Jaehaerys’s tunic was slightly askew, and she straightened it with a firm but gentle hand, her touch lingering for a moment on his shoulder to reassure him. She then turned to Helaena, who stood apart, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. The girl’s black veil had slipped sideways, and Rhaenyra adjusted it with careful fingers, her voice soft.

“No spiders this time, my sweet sister,” she murmured with a faint smile, her tone kind but resolute. Helaena blinked at her, her pale lilac eyes darting briefly toward the folds of her dress as if to double-check. Rhaenyra’s hand lingered for a moment, brushing Helaena’s cheek, before turning to Aegon, whose sullen expression did little to mask his unease.

Beyond them, the port of Driftmark came into view, shrouded in an unnatural stillness. No banners flew. No retinue waited to welcome them. The silence was eerie, oppressive, broken only by the distant cries of seabirds and the slap of waves against the ship’s hull.

Rhaenyra felt the weight of that silence pressing down on her chest. She had expected no welcome, nor any sign of warmth, but the emptiness of the port still unsettled her. Her mind churned with questions she dared not voice, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. What lay waiting for them at High Tide? What grief, what conflict, would they find behind its stone walls?

“Mother,” Jae said, his voice hesitant, pulling her from her thoughts. “Where is everyone?”

“They are mourning,” Rhaenyra replied after a pause, her tone carefully measured. “As are we. Come, stay close.”

As they disembarked, the ship groaning against the dock, Rhaenyra led the way with her children gathered around her like fledgling dragons seeking the shelter of their dam’s wings. The air was heavy with salt and the faint scent of decay, the sky darkening with clouds that threatened rain.

Then she saw it: Vhagar. The great beast loomed in the distance; her colossal form sprawled across the rocky shore like a mountain come to rest. Even in her sleep, the ancient dragon radiated an aura of fierceness, her sides rising and falling with deep, rumbling breaths. Her scales, weathered by centuries, glinted faintly in the dim light, each one a testament to her age and ferocity.

Rhaenyra stopped for a moment, her breath catching. Aerion whimpered in her arms, startled by the sight, and she gently rocked him, her free hand brushing his silver hair. The children followed her gaze, their expressions a mix of awe and unease.

“She is enormous,” whispered Luke, his voice barely audible.

“A relic,” Aegon muttered, though there was a flicker of fear in his tone.

Rhaenyra pressed forward with her chin held high, her steps steady despite the unease clawing at her stomach. The path to High Tide stretched ahead, unwelcoming and ominous.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere at High Tide was heavy with grief, a tangible silence that even the crashing waves could not shatter. Laenor awaited them at the outer gates, his face a tapestry of anguish and exhaustion, pale from sleepless nights and drawn with sorrow that seemed to have aged him overnight. Still, when the children ran to him with open arms, he forced a tremulous smile, one that threatened to crack under the weight of his grief.

As they clung to him, his hands trembled, but he kissed each child tenderly on the forehead. His words, though soft and steady, carried a raw edge, "I love you," as if reminding himself of the love he still had to give. When he turned to Helaena, his voice nearly broke, but he bent and kissed her forehead with the same care, murmuring, “You are so very loved.” Helaena, perceptive as always, held him tighter than anyone else, as though her embrace could shield him from the tide of loss threatening to overwhelm him.

The five-day wait for the King and Queen to arrive before the funeral was steeped in sombre routine, the halls of High Tide unusually hushed. The family found themselves adrift in their mourning, seeking solace in small, quiet activities as they waited.

Laenor often retreated to the beach at dawn, his figure silhouetted against the golden horizon. He would stand at the water's edge, letting the waves lap at his feet, as though searching for his sister’s presence in the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tide. Occasionally, Helaena would join him, her fingers trailing through the wet sand as she gathered shells or watched the tides shift—a silent offering to their shared love of the sea.

The children, perhaps shielded by their youth, gravitated toward comforting rituals. Aegon practiced his swordplay in the castle yard, the sound of steel against wood ringing out like a defiance against the sorrow hanging in the air. Aemond, quieter, would spend hours in the library, absorbed in tales of Velaryon voyages and dragon lore, with Jaehaerys by his side often. Heleana sought comfort in nature, wandering the small gardens, speaking in gentle whispers to the insects that she had always favoured over human companionship. At first, Lucerys clung to his mother’s side, his small hand grasping hers as though afraid to let go, seeking solace in her unwavering presence amidst the sea of sorrow. But children, resilient as they often are, have a way of finding each other in moments of shared pain. It wasn’t long before he gravitated towards his younger cousins, Valaena and Larissa.

Valaena, despite being the eldest at seven, carried her grief in fiery outbursts, her tears quick to fall yet fleeting, replaced by stubborn declarations that she would protect her little sister in their mother’s stead. She had her mother’s colouring, her silvery hair carefully braided by their uncle in place of Laena. Larissa, quiet and shy by nature, clung to Valaena’s skirts, her sobs soft but no less heartfelt. She took after Harwin, with wild dark curls and deep brown eyes. The sisters, though different in temperament and image, mirrored one another in their fragile sorrow, both prone to bouts of crying that left them curled together like small, trembling birds.

Lucerys, with a child’s intuition, approached them cautiously at first, but his presence was met with acceptance. They found comfort in each other's company, three small figures huddled together in the shadow of their shared loss. Lucerys offered Valaena the strength of an unspoken ally and Larissa the quiet reassurance of a kindred spirit. Together, they created a small haven of innocence amidst the grief that seemed to darken every corner of High Tide.

Within the Hall of Nine, Rhaenys and Rhaenyra occupied themselves with funeral preparations. Their conversations were subdued but purposeful, discussing rites and remembrances with the gravity of their shared grief. Laenor would occasionally join them, his contributions often trailing off into silence as his thoughts drifted away.

Evenings brought a fragile sense of unity. The family would gather for supper, their voices hushed but present, the air heavy with unspoken memories. Laenor, despite his grief, made a point to sit among them, offering tender encouragement to the children and recounting the gentler moments of his sister's life—a balm for their broken hearts.

Harwin, in his grief, had only ventured to join them two days after Rhaenyra’s arrival. He looked a shadow of himself, as he pulled his girls in his arms and held them tight. They clung to their father in fresh grief, and Harwin openly cried into their hair. Rhaenyra’s, her heart breaking for a man who had not only lost his wife but his unborn babe, had kept the others away from the small family.

Rhaenys’ composure in public was impeccable, a testament to the strength she had honed over years of trials. She moved through the halls of High Tide with measured grace, her head held high, her demeanour calm. But within the privacy of her chambers, she allowed the flood of grief to engulf her. Memories of her daughter haunted her—a shared smile, laughter carried on the wind, the fierce bond they had always shared. The tears she shed were quiet but relentless, soaking into her pillow as she sought solace in the shadows. Yet, when she stepped outside those walls, the weight of her pain was hidden beneath the steel of her poise. She was the steadying force, the Queen Who Never Was, keeping the storm of sorrow at bay.

As the days passed and more guests arrived at High Tide, the tension in the air thickened. The house bustled with quiet activity, the murmur of voices and the rustle of preparations filling the halls. Corlys, however, barely concealed his frustration. He paced restlessly, his grief sharp and raw, spilling over into curt words and clenched fists. The delay of the funeral grated on him, a wound exacerbated by the sight of each arriving guest—some offering polite condolences, others simply adding to the suffocating atmosphere. Rhaenys watched her husband with sad, understanding eyes, yet she could not bring herself to intervene. The weight of her own loss was too great to shoulder his anger as well.

Daemon's absence cast a long shadow over the gathering. His sweeping flight over their ship, as swift and calculated as his reputation, had not brought him to High Tide’s gates. Lady Charis and Rhaenyra exchanged glances whenever his name was mentioned, their thoughts mirrored in their silence. They chose not to mention it to Rhaenys and Corlys, unwilling to stoke the fire of Corlys’ wrath.

It was only on the day that Viserys and Alicent arrived with their entourage, did Daemon appear on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm whistling as he approached. He landed at the gates to High Tide with his usual flair, and dismounted Caraxes smoothly, his hand resting on his sword. Rhaenys had cocked an eyebrow at him, lips pursed, yet Corlys had welcomed Daemon as an old friend and fellow warrior, with a pat on the shoulder and curt nod.

Rhaenyra’s breath was stolen as she looked at her uncle. Anger, frustration and longing tore through her as she took him in. Daemon’s features were as striking as ever, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline that give him an almost ethereal yet dangerous beauty. He stood tall, clad in rich, dark tunics with golden dragon clasps. He was as lean and muscular, honed through years of battle and dragon riding as Rhaenyra remembered and he carried himself with his usual confident, yet almost predatory grace, although it was more muted due to the current situation.

She held tight to Lucerys’ hand as her family stood to the side to await the arrival of the King. The family were dressed in rich black fabrics, and Rhaenyra’s own funeral gown was a deep black velvet, regal and imposing. The fitted bodice bore subtle embroidery of entwined dragons in black silk, almost invisible unless one was up close to the fabric. Flowing layers of heavy fabric formed the skirt, trailing behind her like a shadow. A sheer black cape, fastened with an obsidian dragon-shaped brooch, completed her sombre yet elegant look.

Jaehaerys and Aemond stood close to her, Aemon holding Jaehaerys’s hand and Jaehaerys holding Rhaenyra’s skirts. The brood of silver-haired children were huddled around Rhaenyra and Laenor, holding hands with one another to offer silent support.

The first thing that Rhaenyra noticed when her father disembarked his carriage was the hunch in his figure. His hair was falling in thin wisps, barely any left on the mottled and sore scalp. He wore his crown, yet it seemed to dig into his skin as he limped forward, his face set in a deep sadness.

“It pains me to have journeyed for such sorrow, Cousin. My thoughts and prayers are with you,” Viserys said as he approached. Rhaenys stepped forward to meet Viserys, her expression composed but her eyes betraying the weight of her grief.

"Your presence honours us, Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady, though quieter than usual. She dipped her head respectfully but did not linger in formality, knowing the pain they both carried was beyond courtly gestures.

Rhaenyra watched her father, studying him with a mixture of concern and affection. The journey had taken its toll; each step he took seemed heavier, as though the very act of moving carried the burden of his sorrow. His crown gleamed in the pale light of High Tide, but instead of a symbol of majesty, it appeared an unbearable weight that pressed down upon him. Viserys gestured to Rhaenys and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“She was a light taken to soon, a bright fire that will never be forgotten,” he said, his voice a whisper that trembled with memory. For a moment, there was silence save for the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. In that stillness, the shared grief between them seemed to speak louder than any words. Alicent sniffed, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. Otto Hightower hung behind them, and Rhaenyra bit her tongue at his audacity. It was not the time.

Again, her eyes searched for Daemon, and she inhaled sharply to see him staring openly at her, his eyes narrowed as he took in the children surrounding her. Heat flared in her stomach, from anger or from desire, she couldn’t quite tell, but she swiftly looked away.

--

The mourners gathered at the edge of the ocean; the crashing waves a solemn hymn to their grief. Laena’s stone casket rested on the shore, its carved surface cold and unyielding, awaiting its final passage to the sea. The salt-laden wind tugged at veils and cloaks, a relentless reminder of the Velaryon bond to the ocean, eternal and unforgiving.

“We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all her days to come,” Vaemond Velaryon intoned, his voice steady but devoid of warmth. His hands, clasped tightly before him, trembled ever so slightly, though he betrayed no emotion on his face. Around him, the Targaryen’s and Velaryon’s stood silent and stoic, their faces masks of grief, as thick ropes were threaded through the iron rings of the casket. Each creak of the pulleys seemed to echo the weight of the loss.

Vaemond’s voice carried on, sharper now.

“As she sets for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves her two true-born daughters on the shore.” The phrase hung heavily in the air, deliberate and cutting. Rhaenyra felt the tension coil in her chest and instinctively pulled her Lucerys closer to her. Lucerys’ wide eyes flickered to Vaemond, confusion tinged with unease. Jaehaerys, where he stood with Aemond, furrowed his brow, sensing the atmosphere but not fully understanding its meaning. Rhaenyra’s hand tightened on her younger son’s shoulder, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze turned, briefly, to her husband.

Laenor stood stiffly beside her, his jaw clenched, his grief and fury simmering beneath the surface. “Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon veins. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true, and ours must never thin.” Vaemond’s words were a blade, pointed and precise, as his eyes found Rhaenyra.

Laenor shifted, his fists clenching at his sides. Rhaenyra placed a firm, placating hand on his arm, her touch a silent plea for restraint. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her father’s gaze - Viserys watching her with a mixture of sorrow and weariness. Before the tension could break, Daemon’s soft, derisive chuckle rose from the gathered mourners, its sharp edge slicing through the moment. Heads turned, and Corlys fixed his friend with a piercing glare. Daemon merely shrugged, his expression unapologetic, though he swallowed the rest of his laughter as his eyes flicked to Rhaenyra, offering her a pointed, knowing look.

Rhaenyra forced her attention back to the sea. She tuned out Vaemond’s voice, her grief blotting out his barbs as her focus settled on the casket. Her closest friend, now encased in cold stone, was about to be claimed by the waters. A tear slipped silently beneath her veil, and she blinked it away, unwilling to let the world see her broken. Beside her, Laenor slid his arm around her shoulders, the gesture both a comfort and a plea for solace.

--

The air over Driftmark was heavy, laden with salt and sorrow. The waves surged angrily against the jagged cliffs below, their relentless crash reverberating through the bones of those gathered. Clouds hung low over the sea, dark and brooding, as if mourning Laena Velaryon alongside the assembled lords and ladies. Even the gulls, usually so raucous, seemed subdued, their cries distant and fleeting against the vast expanse of sky and water.

Alicent stood among the mourners, her hands folded tightly before her, the black of her gown blending into the shadows cast by the ancient stone walls of High Tide. She kept her face carefully neutral, an image of composure befitting a queen, though her heart fluttered like a bird caught in a storm. She had always hated the sea—its vastness, its depth, its secrets. Today, it felt as though the sea itself were watching, waiting, as though it knew what was about to unfold.

Alicent forced herself to bow her head in reverence, though her thoughts were elsewhere. Her eyes darted toward Aemond and Jaehaerys, the two boys standing together near the edge of the gathering, their blond heads tilted close as they whispered. They were so young, so unguarded. For a moment, Alicent’s heart ached—not with guilt, but with a cold sort of resolve. This was necessary.

The crashing waves seemed louder now, more insistent, as though urging her forward. She glanced toward her father, who stood a few paces away, his expression inscrutable. He met her gaze briefly, and the faintest nod passed between them. The signal was clear. It was time.

The assassin moved with practiced ease, a shadow among the crowd. Their garb was unremarkable, indistinguishable from that of the Velaryon stewards bustling quietly at the edges of the ceremony. Their hood was pulled low, concealing their face, but Alicent knew who they were—what they were. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched them weave through the mourners, each step bringing them closer to Jaehaerys.

She felt the weight of the plan pressing down on her like the very sky above. It had been discussed in whispers, planned with cold precision. A single strike was all it would take. Jaehaerys would fall, and the path to the throne would be clearer. The boy was a threat, a symbol of Rhaenyra’s claim. Alicent had told herself it was for the good of her children, for the good of the realm. But still, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered treacherously. Is it worth the price?

Her hands trembled, and she clasped them tighter to still the motion. She could not falter now. The waves seemed to pound more furiously, a drumbeat of inevitability that filled her ears. Each footstep of the assassin felt like an eternity, and yet they drew closer and closer to the boys.

Jaehaerys laughed softly at something Aemond whispered, his voice carrying faintly to Alicent’s ears. The sound struck her like a blade, a reminder of the innocence she was about to destroy. She averted her gaze, fixing her eyes instead on the bier where Laena’s coffin lay. Do not look. Do not think. It is already done.

The assassin’s hand moved beneath their cloak, their fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger hidden there. Alicent’s breath quickened, though she fought to keep her face calm, serene. No one must notice. No one must know.

Vaemond’s voice rose, calling for a moment of silence. Heads bowed, and the crowd stilled, save for the assassin. They slipped closer, their movements swift yet deliberate. Alicent’s eyes flicked toward the boys once more, and she saw the moment the assassin drew the blade, the steel catching the dim light like a serpent’s fang.

Her stomach churned as time seemed to slow. Jaehaerys, oblivious, leaned forward to whisper something to Aemond. The assassin raised the dagger.

And then Aemond moved.

It was instinct, or perhaps loyalty, that drove him. His hand shot out, shoving Jaehaerys aside with a cry. The assassin, startled by the sudden motion, struck wide, and the blade carved across Aemond’s face, a brutal arc that left blood spraying through the air. The boy collapsed with a strangled cry, his hands clutching at his ruined eye.

“No!” The word tore from Alicent’s throat as the world seemed to splinter around her. The gathered lords and ladies erupted into chaos, their cries and shouts blending with the roar of the waves. Alicent surged forward, her gown tangling around her legs as she fell to her knees beside Aemond.

Blood poured from the wound, staining Aemond’s pale skin and pooling on the stones beneath him. Alicent pressed her hands to his face, desperate to stop the bleeding. Her fingers trembled as she whispered his name, over and over, as though her voice alone could keep him tethered to life. The sight of his eye—or rather, what was left of it—filled her with a sickening horror.

“You’ll be all right,” she whispered, though the words felt hollow. “You’ll be all right, my sweet boy. Stay with me.”

Jaehaerys knelt beside them, his face pale and tear streaked. “Aemon! I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice shaking. “I didn’t see… I didn’t…”

“Enough,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with fear and grief. She didn’t mean to be harsh, but the sight of Jaehaerys, unharmed and unscathed, filled her with a bitter kind of rage. It should have been him. This was not how it was meant to happen.

The assassin was dragged forward by the guards, their hands bound, their hood torn away to reveal a face that was blank, expressionless. Daemon stepped forward, his sword already drawn, a gleam of fury in his eyes.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. When the assassin didn’t answer, he pressed the blade to their throat. “Speak.”

Alicent’s eyes darted to the scrap of cloth at the assassin’s belt—a small piece of fabric bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight of it sent a chill through her. Otto’s plan had been precise, calculated, and now it seemed even more essential. The court would see this and draw their own conclusions.

But Daemon’s blade hovered too close, his patience wearing thin. Alicent glanced toward Ser Criston, giving the faintest nod. He moved swiftly, his sword striking the assassin down before they could utter a word. The gathered lords and ladies gasped, their murmurs growing louder as blood pooled around the fallen figure.

Rhaenyra strode forward, her face a mask of fury. “This… this is a fabrication!” she shouted, her voice breaking with grief and anger. She gestured toward the heraldry, her hands shaking with anger. “You would dare…”

“I dare nothing,” Alicent said softly, rising to her feet. Her hands were stained with Aemond’s blood, her gown ruined, yet her composure was unshaken. “This is an insult to all of us. To Laena’s memory, to our house, to our children. Whoever sent this assassin seeks to divide us.”

The words were carefully chosen, a subtle deflection that carried just enough implication to let the crowd fill in the blanks. She met Rhaenyra’s gaze, her eyes steady. “We must not let them succeed.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth opened as if to respond, but the murmurs of the crowd drowned her out. Alicent turned away, kneeling once more beside Aemond. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, but he was alive. For now, that was enough.

As the waves crashed against the cliffs, their relentless roar filling the air, Alicent made a silent vow. This sacrifice would not be in vain. She would protect her family, whatever the cost.

--

The mourners still gathered at Driftmark seemed frozen in place, their black-clad forms stark against the grey stone and darker sea beyond. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a cold wind as the aftermath of the attack unfolded.

Rhaenys Velaryon stood near the bier where her daughter’s coffin lay, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Her lips, usually so firm and commanding, quivered as she gazed at the chaos spilling over the solemn ceremony. The assassin’s blood stained the ground not far from Laena’s body, the stark red marring the sanctity of her daughter’s final farewell. Her jaw tightened, and her voice, steady but trembling with grief, cut through the murmurs.

“Enough,” she said, her tone low but weighted with all the sorrow of a mother bereaved. “This is not a battlefield. This is not a council chamber. This is a funeral for my daughter, and you have sullied it.”

She turned her piercing gaze on both Rhaenyra and Alicent, who stood apart yet seemed tethered by the tension that hung between them. Her gaze was sharp, yet she turned sharply away, pulling her cloak tightly around herself as she moved toward the shadows of High Tide’s walls. The sight of her retreat left a heavy silence in her wake, save for the ceaseless crash of the waves.

Near the edge of the gathering, Jaehaerys clung to Rhaenyra, his face buried against her side as he sobbed uncontrollably. His small hands twisted the fabric of her cloak, clutching at it as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

 “It was my fault,” he choked out, his words broken by hiccupping gasps. “It’s my fault, Mother… I didn’t see, I didn’t…”

“Shh, sweetling,” Rhaenyra whispered, stroking his hair with trembling fingers. Her heart broke at the sight of him, his cheeks streaked with tears, his small frame racked with guilt and terror. She wanted nothing more than to shield him from the world, to take him far from this place and all the horrors it held. But she couldn’t.

Her eyes darted toward Aemond, who lay pale and bloodied on the ground, his breath shallow. The Maesters hovered over him, their hands deft yet urgent as they worked to stanch the flow of blood and assess the extent of his injuries before they moved him. Rhaenyra’s throat tightened. She was no stranger to blood or wounds, but the sight of the boy, her son’s closest friend and her little brother, the one who had taken the blow meant for Jaehaerys—sent a pang of guilt and worry through her.

Lucerys, standing nearby, had tears streaming silently down his face, his small fists balled at his sides. “Is Aemond going to die?” he asked, his voice trembling. His wide, frightened eyes looked up at Rhaenyra, who had no answer for him. A part of her wanted to go to him, to comfort Alicent, to say something, but the unspoken tension between them, the knowledge that their enmity had led to this moment, kept her rooted in place.

“Rhaenyra!” Daemon’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp and commanding. He was standing near the assassin’s body, his sword still unsheathed, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. “You must respond to this.”

She met his gaze, her jaw tightening. “I will not add to the chaos,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Not here. Not now.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “If you do not act, Alicent will.”

“Enough, Uncle,” she hissed, her voice sharp and firm. Daemon’s mouth curled into a faint scowl, but he said no more. Rhaenyra’s focus shifted back to her children, her protective instincts flaring as she ushered them away from the tension. She summoned Aegon and Helaena to her side, the two in silent panic about their brother. Laenor, who had watched the exchange in silence, stood rooted to the spot. His emotions swirled in a tempest he could barely contain—grief for his sister, anger at Daemon’s callousness, and an acute fear that settled in his chest like a stone as his eyes fell on his sons.

Jaehaerys’s wide eyes met his father’s, and something broke within Laenor. He moved without thought, his hand trembling as Rhaenyra reached for him. The contact startled him, but it was the sight of Jaehaerys; so young, so brave, and yet so vulnerable, that spurred him into action.

“Oh, Jae…” Laenor whispered, his voice cracking. He bent down and scooped the boy into his arms as though he weighed nothing, holding him close against his chest. Jaehaerys clung to him, his small hands gripping the fabric of Laenor’s cloak.

The mourners began to disperse, their grief turning inward as they left Corlys and Vaemond to send Laena to the seas. Laenor barely noticed them, his world reduced to the weight of his son in his arms and the sorrow that clung to him like a second skin.

“Father?” Jaehaerys whispered, his voice muffled against Laenor’s shoulder. “Why did this happen, why was Aemond hurt? Are we safe here?”

The question struck Laenor like a blade, sharp and unyielding. His grip tightened around Jaehaerys as he fought to keep his voice steady.

“You will always be safe,” he said, but the words felt hollow. He glanced at Rhaenyra, who stood nearby with Luke, Aegon and Helaena, her expression unreadable. The unspoken truth hung heavy between them; they could not promise safety in this world.

As the waves crashed against the rocks and the wind howled through the mournful sky, Laenor felt the first seeds of his decision take root. His children’s safety, their future… it could not be ensured while he remained in a world that demanded so much of them, and of him.

He pressed a kiss to Jaehaerys’s hair, closing his eyes against the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “You will always have me,” he whispered, though deep in his heart, he began to understand what that promise might truly mean.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra barely made it to her room at high tide, her legs giving way beneath her as soon as the door closed behind her. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she clawed at the bodice of her gown, desperate to free herself from its suffocating hold. The weight of the night pressed on her like the tides, relentless and unyielding. The memory of her son’s terrified face, her brother’s bloodied eye, and her daughter's screams played on a cruel loop in her mind. Someone had tried to take her son from her. Someone had succeeded in maiming her brother, Aemond, his blood spilling across the cold stone floor of the hall.

She had held it together for as long as she could. For her children. For her siblings. For her house. She had shepherded Jace and Luke into safety, into the care of Lady Charis and Ser Conor Karstark. She had sent Laenor to stand vigil with her father outside Aemond’s chamber, waiting to hear news of the boy's condition. She had done all that was expected of her, all that was necessary. But now, here, in the solitude of her chambers, she could no longer hold herself upright.

Her bodice had barely loosened when the door slammed open, the sound like a whip crack in the still room. She flinched, her hands dropping to her sides as she turned to see Daemon striding in, his silver hair wild, his violet eyes blazing with fury. He moved like a storm, unrelenting and commanding, his presence filling the room before she could utter a single word.

“It cannot stand, Rhaenyra,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You must respond.”

Rhaenyra froze, her breath catching as their eyes locked, violet on violet, fire meeting fire. How dare he? How dare he march in here, unbidden, with demands and fury while her family still bled?

"Respond?" she spat, her voice trembling with fury. "My son was nearly taken from me. My brother has been maimed, his blood still wet upon the stones. And you demand that I respond? Do you think I do not know what must be done?"

Daemon stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet... grounding. "If you know, then act," he said, his tone sharp as a blade. "They have spilled our blood—"

"And you think I am blind to that?" she cut him off, her voice rising, her anger unfurling like a dragon's wings. "You think I need you to tell me what must be done, when I have been the one holding this family together? For twelve years, Daemon. Twelve years, while you have done nothing but drift from one whorehouse to the next!"

Her words struck him, but he did not flinch. Instead, he stepped closer still, the space between them crackling with tension.

"You think I have not suffered?" he said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "I was adrift, Rhaenyra. A man without purpose, a shadow of what I was meant to be. But I have not forgotten who I am—or who you are."

Her breath hitched, her anger colliding with something deeper, something raw. She glared up at him, refusing to falter.

"And who am I, uncle?" she demanded, her voice low and trembling. "Am I still the girl you left behind? The girl who wept for you when you abandoned her?"

Daemon’s gaze softened, though the fire in his eyes burned no less fiercely.

"You are no girl," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "You are a queen. My queen. And I have returned to stand beside you."

Rhaenyra shook her head, stepping back from him, the tears she had fought so hard to suppress brimming in her eyes.

"Words," she said bitterly. "They are nothing but wind. You left me, Daemon. You left me to bear it all—alone. The whispers, the threats, the sacrifices. How do I know you will not leave again?"

He hesitated, the weight of her words pressing down on him. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to his knees. Rhaenyra’s breath caught as she watched him, the rogue prince, the man who had defied kings and courted chaos, kneeling before her.

"I swear it," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "By fire and blood, I will not leave you again. You are my purpose, Rhaenyra. You are the fire that burns within me, the beacon that has always guided me home. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if you let me."

Her chest ached, her resolve wavering as his words wrapped around her like a flame. She stared down at him, her jaw tightening, her voice trembling with the weight of her command.

"Then swear yourself to me," she said. "Not as my uncle, but as my queen’s guard. As my protector. Bend the knee and pledge your life to me."

Daemon did not hesitate. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone floor, his voice low but fierce. "I am yours, Rhaenyra. Your knight, your sword, your shield. I will never leave your side again."

A silence fell between them, thick with unspoken promises and the ghosts of their shared past. Slowly, Rhaenyra reached out, her hand trembling as it cupped his cheek, forcing him to look up at her.

"Rise," she commanded, her voice soft but unyielding. "Rise and stand beside me. Together, we will face whatever comes. But know this, Daemon… if you leave me again, there will be no forgiveness. Not this time."

He rose slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. For a moment, they stood as equals, their bond reforged in the fire of their shared fury and grief. And then, as he stepped closer, his hand brushed against hers, the touch sending a jolt through her.

"You will never be alone again," he murmured, his voice a vow. "Not as long as I draw breath."

Her lips parted, a retort forming on her tongue, but before she could speak, the door creaked open. The sound shattered the moment like glass, and both Rhaenyra and Daemon turned sharply toward the intrusion.

Laenor stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of grief, exhaustion, and something else—something wry, almost amused. His gaze flicked between them, lingering on Rhaenyra’s flushed cheeks and the loosened bodice of her gown. One brow arched, and a faint, humourless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Well," he said, his voice dry but not unkind. "I see I’ve interrupted... something."

Rhaenyra straightened immediately, her hands moving to adjust her bodice, though her composure was already slipping back into place. "Laenor," she said, her voice steady despite the faint tremor beneath it. "What news?"

Laenor stepped into the room, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "Aemond will recover," he said, his tone quieter now. "The Maester says he’ll need time and assistance, but he’ll live. The eye... it’s gone, Rhaenyra. But he’s strong. He’ll endure."

Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged with relief, though the weight of the night still pressed heavily upon her. She nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line as she fought to keep her emotions in check. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Laenor’s gaze shifted to Daemon, his expression unreadable. "And you," he said, his tone carrying a hint of something sharper. "I assume you’re here to... offer your support?"

Daemon met his gaze evenly, his usual smirk absent. "I am here to stand beside her," he said simply, his voice steady. "As I should have been all along."

Laenor’s lips twitched, though whether in approval or scepticism, it was hard to tell. He turned back to Rhaenyra, his expression softening once more.

"The children are safe," he said. "They’re with Lady Charis and Ser Conor. Jaehaerys is shaken, but unharmed. He’s asking for you."

Rhaenyra nodded, her resolve hardening as she straightened her shoulders. "I’ll go to him," she said. She glanced at Daemon, her gaze lingering for a moment before she turned back to Laenor. "Thank you, Laenor. For everything."

Laenor inclined his head, his expression unreadable once more. "Always," he said simply. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking between them again. The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Rhaenyra turned back to Daemon, her eyes searching his face.

"These changes nothing," she said, her voice firm. "You swore yourself to me, Daemon. Do not make me regret it."

Daemon inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I would never dare," he said, his voice low and filled with something that made her heart ache.

As the door closed behind Rhaenyra, leaving the faint echo of her presence lingering in the air, Daemon straightened, his piercing violet eyes still fixed on the spot where she had stood. His lips curled into a faint smirk, not one of arrogance, but of quiet satisfaction. She was a force to be reckoned with, a queen in every sense of the word.

She had made it clear; he would stand beside her on her terms, or not at all.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of Laenor clearing his throat. Daemon turned to face him, his smirk widening just slightly as he took in the younger man’s guarded expression. Laenor stepped further into the room, his posture tense but composed, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied Daemon.

"I should make myself clear," Laenor said, his voice steady but tinged with an underlying edge. "I have always liked you, Daemon. Admired you, even. Your skill, your cunning, your... audacity. Few have ever managed to challenge the world the way you do and remain standing."

Daemon raised a brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Flattery, Laenor? I didn’t expect that from you."

Laenor ignored the remark, his gaze sharpening as he stepped closer, closing the space between them. "But know this," he continued, his tone hardening. "If you ever put my family at risk—if your actions, your schemes, or your impulses endanger my children or Rhaenyra—I will end your life. Without hesitation. Without mercy."

Daemon’s smirk widened, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he tilted his head, regarding Laenor with a mixture of respect and amusement. "Bold words," he said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. "You’ve grown quite formidable, it seems."

Laenor’s expression didn’t waver, his resolve clear in his eyes. "I am not blind to the kind of man you are, Daemon. I know you care for her, perhaps more than you’ll ever admit. But I will not stand idle while you gamble with their safety. I will protect them, whatever the cost."

Daemon fell silent for a moment, his smirk fading as he studied Laenor more carefully. There was no bluff in the younger man’s words, no pretence in his threat. He meant every syllable, and Daemon found himself almost admiring his conviction.

"Well," Daemon said finally, his tone lighter but not dismissive. "You’ve got fire in you after all, Laenor. I can see why she trusts you." He stepped closer, his gaze narrowing slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter, more serious. "You needn’t worry about your wife or your children, Laenor. I’ve pledged myself to them. To her. And I keep my oaths."

Laenor nodded once, his posture relaxing only slightly. "See that you do," he said simply, before turning and making his way to the door.

As the door closed behind him, Daemon let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "Protective, aren’t we?" he murmured to himself. And though his smirk lingered, his mind was already turning, his oath to Rhaenyra and her family binding him in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

Perhaps, he mused, there was more to Laenor than he had given him credit for.

--

The sun dipped lower into the horizon, casting the shoreline in hues of gold and crimson that glittered like molten metal over the restless waves. Laenor stood motionless at the edge of the sand, his boots sinking further into the damp shore with each passing moment. The sea breeze was sharp, tugging at his cloak and teasing his silver hair into an untamed, windswept cascade. His gaze was fixed on the horizon—or rather, beyond it—as memories of Laena crowded his thoughts, filling every crevice of his mind with the echoes of her laughter, the flash of her smile, the unyielding strength that had defined her.

The ache of her loss was unbearable, but it was not the only ache that gripped him now. Laenor’s thoughts drifted, shifting from his sister to his children, the three bright stars of his life who carried his blood and name.

Jaehaerys. His eldest. The boy was just ten, but his resolve and sense of duty had already begun to mirror the weighty expectations placed upon him. Laenor could see the way the mantle of responsibility rested on Jaehaerys’s young shoulders, and it crushed him to know it would only grow heavier in time. Jaehaerys often asked questions about knighthood, duty, and protection—questions that Laenor struggled to answer without betraying the uncertainty within himself. And tonight, as he had stood at his son’s bedside after the attempt on his life, the fear in Jaehaerys’s wide eyes had pierced Laenor’s soul in a way he hadn’t expected. His son needed protection—protection greater than Laenor could provide.

Lucerys. His sweet, curious Luke. Always the first to crack a smile and always the first to comfort those around him. Lucerys had held Jaehaerys’s hand tightly tonight, a quiet and protective presence by his older brother’s side. But beneath his playful exterior, Laenor had seen the shadow of fear creeping into the boy’s gaze after the events of the evening. Luke was still young enough to trust his father’s promises of safety, but Laenor feared that trust was a fragile thing, something easily shattered by the harsh realities of their lives. Luke needed someone steady, someone who could stand unwavering against the threats they faced.

Aerion. His baby. So small and so innocent, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked around them. Laenor thought of the boy’s laugh, the way his tiny hands reached for his father whenever he came near. Aerion was too young to understand the weight of the world, but Laenor knew it would not be long before that innocence began to erode, as it had for his brothers. It was a cycle that seemed inevitable, and Laenor could hardly bear the thought of Aerion facing a world so fraught with peril and deceit.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the sand pulled Laenor from his thoughts. He blinked, his vision refocusing on the present as the familiar figure of Qarl Correy emerged from the shadows of the rocky beach.

“You shouldn’t linger out here alone,” Qarl said softly, his voice gentle but steady.

Laenor turned his head slightly, his gaze softening as he looked at the man who had been his anchor through so many storms. Qarl’s presence was unobtrusive yet grounding, a quiet comfort that Laenor had come to rely on even when words failed him.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye to her,” Laenor murmured, his voice hoarse from grief. “To Laena. She was... she was everything.”

Qarl stepped closer, his boots crunching against the damp sand, and placed a hand on Laenor’s shoulder. The touch was warm and firm, a gesture that reminded Laenor he wasn’t alone in his pain.

“She was, and always will be, a part of you,” Qarl said, his tone gentle but resolute. “But holding onto pain doesn’t honour her memory, Laenor. Living does.”

Laenor inhaled sharply, his thoughts flickering back to Jaehaerys, Lucerys, and Aerion. The faces of his sons blended with the echo of Qarl’s words, and the weight in his chest seemed to grow heavier. Living. What did it mean to live when the life he had built felt so precarious? How could he live when the safety of his sons was not guaranteed?

Living, he realized, might mean stepping aside—not out of cowardice, but out of love. Perhaps the best thing he could do for his sons was to remove the dangers that came with his name and his role. Perhaps living meant finding freedom, for himself and for them.

He exhaled shakily, leaning into Qarl’s touch as his gaze returned to the horizon.

“They need more than me,” he admitted quietly, his voice nearly drowned by the sound of the waves. “They need someone who can protect them. Someone stronger.”

Qarl didn’t respond immediately, but his grip on Laenor’s shoulder tightened in reassurance. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady. “You can give them what they need, Laenor. Even if it means letting go.”

The tide kissed their boots as they stood in silence, the light of the fading sun bathing them in hues of crimson and gold. Laenor’s grief remained palpable, but in Qarl’s presence—and in his thoughts of his sons—it began to shape into something clearer.

He didn’t have all the answers, but perhaps, in the quiet ache of the shoreline, he had found the beginnings of a path forward.

--

Alicent knelt beside Aemond, her heart splintering as she gazed down at the blood-soaked cloth pressed against his face. The bandage wrapped over his empty eye socket was already saturated, crimson seeping through and staining her trembling fingers. His intact eye was closed now, the strain of consciousness too great to bear. The Maesters hovered nearby, murmuring about stitching and poultices, but their voices were a meaningless drone in the back of her mind. All Alicent could hear was the shallow, ragged breathing of her son.

His silver hair, matted with blood, stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead. Alicent gently peeled it away, her hands trembling, as if her touch alone could mend what had been broken. She could not look at his face—not fully—for every glimpse of the brutal wound left her raw and hollow. The disfigured socket where his eye had once been felt like an open wound in her soul, a mark of his sacrifice that she did not know how to bear.

Behind her, she sensed movement. The door creaked open, and though she did not turn, she knew who it was. Rhaenyra entered the room, her presence undeniable. The tension between them was palpable, a crackling undercurrent that threatened to ignite the already fragile moment. Alicent stiffened, her hands stilling as she focused on the blood-soaked cloth, refusing to acknowledge the woman who had intruded on this private agony.

But Aemond’s weak voice cut through her resolve.

“Nyra…” he murmured, barely more than a whisper, and Alicent froze. The name clawed at her, sharp and jagged, leaving her breath shallow in her chest. She felt a surge of something dark and bitter rise within her, a cold, unyielding resentment that twisted like a knife. Even now, broken and bleeding, he called for Rhaenyra.

Before Alicent could speak, Rhaenyra rushed forward, her skirts trailing behind her as she knelt at Aemond’s bedside. Alicent watched as the woman took his hand, cradling it as though it were something fragile and precious. Her movements were tender, her voice soft as she leaned closer to him.

“I’m here,” Rhaenyra said, her words steady despite the tremble in her voice. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. “I’m here, my sweet boy.”

Aemond’s remaining eye fluttered open, though his gaze was unfocused and clouded with pain despite the Milk of Poppy the Maester’s had given him.

“I saved him,” he rasped, the words escaping on a breath that seemed to cost him everything. “I saved Jaehaerys.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said, her voice catching as she tightened her grip on his hand. “You did. You’re so brave, my darling. So brave.”

Alicent’s jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists as she looked away. She could not bear to watch Rhaenyra shower her son with praise, to hear her call him brave when it was her defiance that had led him to this moment. This is her fault, Alicent thought bitterly, the words like poison in her mind. If Rhaenyra had not rejected the order of succession, if she had not brought this chaos to their house, Aemond would not be lying here, disfigured.

Grief warred with fury in Alicent’s heart, a relentless tide that threatened to drown her. She wanted to scream at Rhaenyra, to tear her away from Aemond and tell her that she had no right to be here, no right to comfort the son she had broken. But the sight of Aemond’s battered face held her back, a stark reminder of the price he had paid—a price she could not afford to let go to waste.

“Aemond,” Rhaenyra said gently, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. “You saved Jaehaerys. He is safe, thanks to you.”

“Good,” Aemond whispered, his lips trembling as he forced the word out. His remaining eye closed, and his breath shuddered in his chest. “Good…”

Alicent’s heart ached as she listened to the exchange. Her son had risked everything for Rhaenyra’s child, had given up a part of himself to ensure the boy’s safety. And now, as he lay on the brink of death, it was Rhaenyra he reached for, Rhaenyra who held his hand and spoke soft words of comfort. The bitterness in Alicent’s heart grew, twisting and curling like a viper.

She stood abruptly, her movements sharp and sudden, drawing the attention of both Rhaenyra and the Maesters.

“He needs rest,” Alicent said, her voice cold and clipped. “If you care for him at all, you will let him rest.”

Rhaenyra looked up, her eyes meeting Alicent’s. For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no accusation in Rhaenyra’s gaze, only worry, for Aemond, for Jaehaerys, for the fragile threads that held their world together. But Alicent refused to let that sympathy linger. She would not allow herself to be drawn into Rhaenyra’s web of lies and manipulation.

Without another word, Alicent turned and left the room, her steps deliberate and purposeful. As she walked away, she felt the weight of her grief and rage pressing down on her, threatening to consume her. She would not let it. She would not let Rhaenyra see her break.

In the quiet of the corridor, Alicent allowed herself a single moment of weakness. She leaned against the wall, her shoulders trembling as tears filled her eyes. But even then, her resolve did not waver. She would protect her family, no matter the cost. She would ensure that Aemond’s sacrifice was not in vain.

The sound of footsteps reverberated through the corridor, each one measured and deliberate. Alicent didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Otto Hightower approached with the steady composure of a man for whom emotion was a foreign concept. Even in her despair, she braced herself, straightening her back as he neared.

“Alicent.” His voice was sharp and clipped, devoid of warmth or concern. He stopped a few paces from her, his piercing gaze flicking over her bloodied hands and tear-streaked face. “This is what I find? The Queen of the realm undone in a hallway?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She lowered her gaze, shame curling in her chest like a serpent. “Father…” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aemond—”

“Lives,” Otto interrupted, his tone cold and matter of fact. “That is all that matters.” He stepped closer, looming over her. “But your tears and trembling hands will not undo what has been done tonight.”

Alicent flinched as though struck. “I did everything you asked of me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I—I planned; I acted. Aemond… he protect…”

“For nothing,” Otto snapped, his eyes narrowing. “You allowed yourself to falter. You allowed sentimentality to cloud your judgment. Now, your son is the one lying broken, and Rhaenyra’s bastard lives.”

The words cut deep, sharper than any blade. Alicent recoiled, her breath hitching as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she said weakly. “I didn’t…”

“Of course you didn’t,” Otto said, his voice heavy with disdain. “But intentions are meaningless. Results are what matter, and tonight, you failed.”

She shook her head, her nails digging into her palms. The desperation in her chest grew, twisting and writhing like a living thing.

“It’s her fault,” she said suddenly, her voice a sharp hiss. “Rhaenyra… she is to blame for all of this. Her defiance, her arrogance! It’s why we are here. It’s why…”

“Enough,” Otto barked, silencing her. His expression was one of cool detachment, but the flicker of disdain in his eyes was unmistakable. “Do not delude yourself into thinking this absolves you of responsibility. You had a task to complete, and you failed to see it through. Accept it. Learn from it. And perhaps, if you prove yourself capable, you may yet salvage this mess you’ve created.”

Alicent’s shoulders trembled as she struggled to contain the storm of emotions raging within her. She yearned for his approval, his validation, but his words only deepened the gaping void inside her. And still, she could not bring herself to fight him. She could not let him see her break completely.

“I will fix it,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now. “I will make it right.”

Otto studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded once, curtly. “See that you do,” he said. “For your sake and for the realm’s.”

He turned on his heel and strode away, his footsteps fading into the distance. Alicent remained rooted to the spot, her breath shallow and uneven. Her tears had dried, replaced by a cold, burning resolve. She would prove herself. She would make Rhaenyra pay for everything, for Aemond’s suffering, for her father’s disappointment, for the searing shame that clung to her like a second skin.

As she stood alone in the dim corridor, Alicent vowed silently to herself. She would not fail again. She would not rest until the scales were balanced, and Rhaenyra’s claim was crushed beneath the weight of her vengeance.

Rhaenyra would pay for all of it.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to their departure from Driftmark were laden with an unspoken heaviness, a fragile balance of grief and determination hanging over the household. Aemond’s recovery was a slow, gruelling process—each step forward a testament to his unyielding resolve. The Maester of Driftmark attended to his wound with meticulous care under Rhaenyra’s watchful eyes. She observed every movement, her lips pressed into a thin line as she scrutinized the bandages and ointments. Eventually, the Maester crafted a soft cotton patch to shield Aemond’s injured eye, its texture designed to be gentle on the raw skin beneath, to allow the wound to breathe and heal without irritation. Practical as it was, the sight of the patch pained Rhaenyra deeply. To her, it was not just a tool of recovery—it was a stark symbol of the loss Aemond would carry with him for life.

Despite the haze of pain that clouded his days, Aemond quickly grew weary of the fog Milk of the Poppy cast over his mind. By the second day, he firmly refused the draught, brushing off his mother’s protests with a stoic resolve that was becoming characteristic of him. “I need my wits,” he said simply, his voice low and firm. It was a response Alicent could not bring herself to argue against, though worry lingered in her gaze as she left his chambers.

By the third day, Aemond pushed himself further, rising from his bed on trembling legs. He paced his room with slow, deliberate steps, testing his depth perception. His movements were measured, almost mechanical, as he adjusted to the world through a single eye. Each step, though small, felt monumental.

That same day, after the maesters deemed it safe for the children to visit him, Jaehaerys approached Aemond’s chambers with a nervous energy. The boy’s small fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stood before the heavy oak door, summoning the courage to knock. When Aemond’s voice called out softly in invitation, Jaehaerys stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Aemond sat by the window, gazing out at the restless waves below. His figure seemed smaller against the vastness of the sea’s expanse, yet there was a quiet strength in the way he held himself. Jaehaerys hesitated, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. His usual mischievous grin was absent, replaced by a solemn expression that made him appear older than his ten years.

“Thank you,” Jaehaerys said at last, his voice trembling but steady enough to carry the weight of his gratitude. “For protecting me.”

Aemond turned, his good eye locking onto his cousin’s earnest face. The simplicity of the words seemed to unnerve him, and he shifted slightly in his seat, uncomfortable under the intensity of Jaehaerys’s gaze. “I’m your kin,” Aemond replied, his voice gruff yet tinged with something softer. “It’s what we do.” He shrugged as if to dismiss the enormity of what had happened, but the gesture could not entirely mask the flicker of vulnerability in his expression.

The silence that followed was heavy, but not awkward. It was a moment of understanding between two boys forced to confront the weight of their shared reality. Then, as if a dam had broken, Jaehaerys’s reserved demeanour dissolved, and his usual effervescent energy spilled forth. He began recounting the events of the past days with rapid-fire enthusiasm, his words tumbling over one another in his eagerness to share every detail.

At first, Aemond’s responses were measured, a faint curve of his lips the only indication of his amusement. But as Jaehaerys’s tales grew more animated, embellished with exaggerated gestures and impromptu voices for dramatic effect, Aemond’s composure cracked. A genuine laugh escaped him—a sharp, pained sound that he quickly stifled by clutching his side.

“Careful, Jae,” Aemond said with a wince, though there was no mistaking the warmth in his tone. “You’re going to kill me with your stories before I even get the chance to heal.”

Jaehaerys grinned, unrepentant. “If you can laugh, you’re already halfway there,” he replied cheekily, earning a shake of the head from Aemond, who still couldn’t quite suppress the smile tugging at his lips.

Meanwhile, the corridors of Driftmark echoed with heated words as Rhaenyra and Alicent clash over Aemond’s future. Alicent’s voice is sharp, her frustration spilling over as she accuses Rhaenyra of manipulating the situation for her own gain.

“You think you know what’s best for my son?” Alicent seethes, her gaze hard as steel. “You have no right!”

“Your son,” Rhaenyra interrupts, her voice firm but measured, “is my brother. I would not see him left to fester in King’s Landing, surrounded by vipers and whispers that will only deepen his wounds. Dragonstone offers safety. A chance for him to heal and rest from his wounds, without any danger to his person as the attempt is investigated.”

The argument seems at an impasse until Viserys, pale and frail but still commanding in presence, intervened. Summoning both women to his chambers, he listens quietly as Alicent pleads her case, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, desperation in her voice. Rhaenyra, in contrast, speaks with calm conviction, her words carrying the weight of someone who has thought carefully about what is best for Aemond. When she finishes, Viserys leans back, his expression weary but resolute.

“Aemond will go to Dragonstone,” he declares, his voice softer than it once was but no less authoritative. “The maesters have deemed him fit, and I trust Rhaenyra’s judgment in this matter.”

Alicent’s composure falters for just a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line as she bows her head in reluctant acquiescence. The decision, though final, leaves the air between them charged with unresolved tension.

Before their departure, the children, all seven of Rhaenyra’s growing brood, gather in the gardens one last time. Their laughter rises over the sound of waves crashing against Driftmark’s shores, a rare moment of levity untainted by the shadows of court intrigue. Helaena hummed a soft melody as Larissa and Valaena weave flowers into each other’s hair. Aegon regaled the group with a wildly exaggerated tale of his dragon’s feats, drawing both groans and giggles from his younger siblings, nephews and cousins. Even Aemond, often reserved, allowed himself to be drawn into their joy when Jaehaerys drags him into a game of cyvasse. For a brief, golden hour, the bonds of family outweigh the fractures of ambition and grief.

The ship sets sail at dawn on the fifth day of Aemond’s recovery, its painted sails catching the pale morning light. The children cluster at the prow, their faces alight with wonder as the sea stretches endlessly before them. Helaena whispers riddles to the waves, her cryptic words drawing curious glances from the others and Jaehaerys stands next to her, holding her hand gently. Aemond stands apart, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the salt air cool against his skin. He watched the large mountain that is Vhagar take flight with curiosity and longing and the dragon roars as she flies past their ship. The journey feels both like a retreat and a reckoning, a chance to redefine himself in the wake of his loss.

Rhaenyra and Daemon find themselves in each other’s company frequently during the voyage, Aerion always firmly in Rhaenyra’s grasp. One evening, beneath the soft glow of lanterns, they share a quiet conversation by the ship’s railing as Aerion sleeps in the crook of Daemon’s neck. Daemon’s voice, uncharacteristically subdued, carries an air of wistfulness as he recounts a memory of his youth, a time when he felt untouchable, unburdened by the expectations of others. Rhaenyra listens intently, her gaze steady on his. Their connection is undeniable, the unspoken tension between them growing as the night deepens.

Daemon’s hand drifts dangerously close to hers, the cool metal of his rings brushing against her fingers. The air between them is charged, their mutual restraint fraying under the weight of their emotions. But as Rhaenyra’s lip’s part, as Daemon’s gaze dips to hers, they both pull back, an unspoken agreement that their time has not yet come. Duty holds them at bay, their restraint a testament to the strength of their resolve. Laenor, from his quiet position on the ship, watches them closely, rolling his eyes at their attempts to keep their hands from each other.

--

Their arrival at Dragonstone was a much-needed respite, a rare moment where the weight of their responsibilities eased, if only slightly. Harwin, with Valaena and Larissa's small hands in his own, allowed himself to take in the sight of the imposing castle carved from volcanic stone. The sight stirred something deep within him—a sense of purpose, perhaps, or simply gratitude that they had made it here safely. He glanced down at the girls, their wide eyes fixed on the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. Their awe brought a faint smile to his face, a reminder of the innocence he was so desperate to protect.

Rhaenyra stood nearby, the cool breeze pulling at her silver hair as she gazed up at the castle. There was a relief in her expression, though it was softened by a bittersweet melancholy. Dragonstone was her sanctuary, yet it also represented the weight of her heritage and the battles yet to come. Laenor, at her side, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He, too, seemed to feel the significance of their return to the island—a place where their lineage and legacy were undeniably rooted.

Further along, Daemon exuded his characteristic nonchalance, though those who knew him well could see the tension leaving his frame. The rogue prince was not a man easily swayed by sentiment, but Dragonstone's rugged beauty seemed to calm even his restless spirit. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon as if keeping watch, though his stance betrayed a rare moment of ease.

The children, unburdened by the complexities that weighed on the adults, were a cacophony of excitement. Jaehaerys and Lucerys were already scheming about exploring the island, their imaginations running wild with tales of hidden treasures and dragon caves. Valaena and Larissa tugged at Harwin's hands, their voices lilting with pleas to run ahead and feel the solid ground beneath their feet. Aegon was looking forward to the peace of libraries, where he could work on his sketches and the ability to spend time bonding with Sunfyre.

Aemond, though less outwardly exuberant, stepped onto the island with a quiet reverence. The sight of so many dragons in the sky—roaring, diving, singing to one another—was a vision he would never forget. For a moment, the boy who longed for a dragon felt both awe and longing intertwine within him.

 His heart swelled, though it was tempered by his sister Helaena's voice, soft and distant as she murmured in his ear, "The eye shall seal, and the sky shall yield… one lid closes, and another world opens." Her words settled like mist, too opaque to fully grasp, but they left an indelible mark. Aemond blinked at her in confusion, his expression caught between a smile and a frown, as she added, "Oh, Aemond, did you know there’s a wyrm that likes to nest in volcanic soil?"

Rhaenyra stood still for a moment; her eyes trained on the castle. She inhaled deeply, allowing the tension she had been carrying to ease with the salty air of the island. It felt as though the weight of expectations and whispered accusations at court was momentarily lifted. Her shoulders, once stiff with the burden of leadership and fear for her children, relaxed as she looked up at the ancestral seat of her house; a fortress that had stood as a beacon through centuries of turmoil. Beside her, Daemon’s presence was steady. He stepped closer, his sharp gaze fixed on the cliffs before him. His hand grazed hers in a subtle reassurance, the gesture speaking volumes despite its simplicity.

“You’re safe here,” Daemon murmured, his voice low but resolute. “Dragonstone will hold, as it always has.”

 Rhaenyra turned to him, her silver hair catching the light, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself a small smile.

“It feels good to finally breathe,” she admitted softly, exhaling a long-held tension. They stood like that for a moment, two figures silhouetted against the rocky expanse—bound by their shared history, unspoken loyalty, and the fiery legacy of their house.

Meanwhile, Jaehaerys and Helaena wandered off together, their steps light as they made their way ahead of the group into the castle’s interior. The grandeur of Dragonstone was not lost on the pair, no matter how many summers they had spent in the fortress, though their fascination found itself in the intricate details hidden within its halls. They came upon a room adorned with ancient tapestries; their colours muted by age but their stories vivid as ever. Helaena’s eyes sparkled as she approached the woven depictions of dragons in flight, their forms entwined with celestial symbols and tales of conquest.

“It’s beautiful,” Helaena whispered, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of a tapestry depicting a dragon encircling the moon. Her gaze was distant, as though she were looking at something beyond the fabric before her. Jaehaerys, drawn by her fascination, stepped closer.

“What does it mean?” he asked, his tone curious rather than sceptical. Helaena tilted her head, her thoughts swirling in cryptic patterns.

“It’s not just dragons,” she murmured. “It’s the stars… the paths they weave and the worlds they open. There’s truth in their movements, Jaehaerys, if you know where to look.”

Her cryptic musings left him thoughtful, their quiet observations continuing as they wandered the tapestries. They walked side by side, interpreting the imagery with a shared curiosity.

Aegon lingered behind the group, his steps hesitant as he gazed up at Dragonstone’s towering walls. He seemed smaller somehow, his usually self-assured air replaced by a visible uncertainty. The castle was vast, its imposing presence mirroring the expectations that had been thrust upon him, a weight he felt acutely. Rhaenyra noticed his hesitation and slowed her pace, her sharp gaze softening as she approached him.

“You are enough, Aegon, you have nothing to prove here,” she said gently, her voice steady and warm. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the simple touch grounding him. For a moment, he met her gaze, searching for the sincerity in her words, and he found it. Her reassurance buoyed him, a lifeline he hadn’t realized he needed. Aegon straightened, his steps becoming surer as he followed the group with renewed confidence as he took her hand and squeezed it.

At the gates of Dragonstone, Daemon’s attention turned to Laenor and Harwin, who both carried the youngest of the children in their arms. His demeanour shifted instantly, a grin curling at the edges of his mouth as he greeted them with a mix of warmth and teasing.

“Laenor,” Daemon called, his voice rich with amusement, “I suppose you managed to drag yourself away from the sea for this majestic view?”

Laenor chuckled, the easy rhythm of their banter a welcome relief. “Majestic view wasted on you, I’d say,” he retorted, gesturing grandly to the cliffs around them. Daemon’s grin widened, his sharp wit cutting through the tension lingering in the air.

“You’ve been on the sea so long, Laenor, I half-expected you to sprout gills by now.”

Harwin joined in with a strained laugh, the camaraderie between the three men evident as they fell into stride together. Their banter was light-hearted, a thread of normalcy in a world fraught with chaos, despite the grief that was held in Laenor and Harwin’s hearts.

The procession into Dragonstone was filled with quiet murmurs and the echo of footsteps against the volcanic stone paths. The children’s voices, a delightful symphony of excitement and curiosity, rose in contrast to the measured tones of the adults. Harwin’s eyes drifted over Valaena and Larissa, who clung tightly to his sides, their hands resting in his as they took in the towering dragon-carved walls surrounding them. He offered them each a reassuring squeeze, trying to anchor himself in their innocent delight while keeping his own grief carefully concealed beneath his rugged exterior.

The breeze carried a faint scent of salt and brimstone, a reminder of the island’s fiery heart. As the group approached the inner gates, Lady Charis, ever the orchestrator of Rhaenyra’s household, took charge with efficient poise. She gestured to the gathered attendants, her voice calm but commanding as she directed them to carry the family’s belongings to their assigned chambers.

“These chambers should suffice,” Lady Charis remarked, gesturing to a series of rooms lining a wide corridor within the Stone Drum. “The children will be close together, for ease and comfort.” Her gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, who nodded in quiet agreement.

Aegon lingered at the threshold of the chamber assigned to him, his fingers brushing the frame of the heavy oak door. Rhaenyra approached him, her expression softening as she placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, his eyes squeezing shut before his shoulders slumped and he looked at his sister.  

“This was once my room,” she said, her voice low and filled with meaning. “Aegon the Conqueror himself likely walked these halls. Do you see, Aegon? This castle holds the strength of all who came before us. And now it holds you.”

Aegon straightened, her words filling him with a hesitant but growing sense of belonging. He stepped into the room, casting a lingering glance at sister, who smiled faintly before turning back to the rest of her household.

Further ahead, Daemon had led the children into the winding halls of Dragonstone. His natural charisma, paired with his sharp wit, kept the children engaged as they followed him like ducklings. Laenor and Harwin had joined the group, the three men creating a harmonious mix of protection, levity, and guidance.

“Now,” Daemon said with mock seriousness, stopping at a carved dragonhead that framed a stone archway. “Legend has it that this door leads to the lair of the largest dragon ever to roam these lands.”

“That can’t be true,” Lucerys shot back, his green eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re making that up, Uncle.”

Daemon smirked, crossing his arms. “Am I? Only one way to find out.”

Harwin stepped in with a warm chuckle, clapping a hand on Lucerys’s shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you, lad. I’ve heard more than one outrageous tale from him over the years.”

“And yet my tales always keep you coming back,” Daemon quipped, raising an eyebrow. The exchange was punctuated by Valaena and Larissa’s giggles as they edged closer to the archway, daring each other to peer through it.

Laenor, standing off to the side, pointed to a distant naval emblem etched into the stone. His voice carried the fondness of one sharing a piece of home.

“That’s from the Velaryon fleet, your family’s legacy at sea. We’ve defended these shores for generations.” He glanced at his sons, his smile softening. “It’s in your blood, as much as the dragons are.”

The soft murmurs of Jaehaerys and Helaena could be heard in a corner of the chamber, their voices a thoughtful counterpoint to the lively chatter of the others. They had discovered a series of intricate carvings on the walls and were deep in conversation about their meaning.

“Look,” Helaena said, tracing a spiral pattern with her fingertips. “It’s more than a design. It’s a path—a story waiting to be walked.”

Jaehaerys tilted his head, his brow furrowed in concentration. He liked to listen to Helaena tell her stories, show him her interests. She was not like any other girl he had ever met, always with mud on her hems, bugs in her dress and her silver hair ruffled. “What kind of story?”

“The kind that leads to answers,” Helaena replied cryptically, her expression serene but distant. She glanced at her nephew, a faint smile playing on her lips. “You must feel the stone to understand it. The dragons left their voices here.”

Jaehaerys didn’t press her further, sensing the depth of her thoughts. Instead, he joined her in tracing the carvings in quiet exploration.

At the back of the group, Rhaenyra and Daemon had fell into sync, their pace slower and their conversation quieter. The cacophony of the children’s excitement seemed to soften around them, leaving space for a moment of reflection.

“The walls here are thick,” Rhaenyra said, her gaze sweeping over the towering stone structures. “The defences formidable. This castle has endured more than most. But can it endure what’s to come?”

“It will,” Daemon replied, his tone confident but measured. “Because we will endure. Together.”

Rhaenyra glanced at him, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “You always make it sound so simple.”

Daemon shrugged, his smirk returning. “Sometimes it is. Besides, you worry too much. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve started to care what I think.”

That drew a laugh from her, a sound that felt both surprising and welcome, like twinkling bells that lightened Daemon’s heart. Together, they ascended the stone staircase leading deeper into the heart of Dragonstone, the faint roar of dragons echoing in the distance.

The children had finally separated from the adults, Laenor and Harwin taking Aerion to the nursery for his afternoon nap. Finally free to explore Dragonstone’s sprawling halls and echoing chambers, quickly fell into their usual rhythms, their unique relationships weaving together like threads in a tapestry. Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, it was their interactions, at once familiar and filled with discovery, that made the fortress come alive.

Aegon, at fourteen, had taken a tentative leadership over the brood of children, eager to keep them all safe, though it was often masked by a veneer of nonchalance. He lingered near Helaena as she darted towards another row of dragon carvings, her pale fingers trailing over the intricate stonework.

“Look at this one,” Helaena said in awe, her voice soft but bright with wonder. “Its wings look like they’re moving, even though they’re still.”

Aegon leaned against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“It’s just a carving, Helaena, you have seen it before,” he replied with a faint smirk, though his tone lacked bite. He watched her with a mix of amusement and affection, unable to fully mask his appreciation for her boundless curiosity. “You get way too excited about stuff like this.”

Helaena turned to him, her wide eyes shining. “But don’t you see? These carvings tell stories. The dragons… they’ve been here, Aegon. Their voices are still in the walls.”

Her fervour was infectious, and even Aegon couldn’t completely hide the small, begrudging smile tugging at his lips. Not far from them, Jaehaerys had taken it upon himself to guide Aemond through the maze-like halls, linking arms with him to keep him from falling due to his depth perception. The younger boy’s usually reserved manner gave way to a quiet awe as they wandered deeper into the castle, despite his familiarity with Dragonstone.

“What do you think is behind that door?” Aemond asked, nodding toward a heavy iron door that loomed at the end of the corridor. No matter how many times they came to Dragonstone, there always seemed to be new areas to explore, new doors to open and new treasures to find.

Jaehaerys grinned, a spark of mischief in his usually serious eyes. “Something important, obviously. Why else would it look so intimidating?”

“Do you think it’s a dragon lair?” Aemond’s voice was hushed, a mix of excitement and apprehension. The pain from his eyes spiked as he spoke, but he refused to let it bother him. He was with his family, he as safe and he would enjoy himself, pain or no pain.

“Could be,” Jaehaerys replied, leaning closer to inspect the ornate carvings around the frame. “Or it could be a secret treasure room. Maybe both.”

The pair exchanged a glance, their shared curiosity igniting a sense of adventure. With a cautious push, Jaehaerys tested the door, only to find it locked. Aemond groaned in disappointment, but his brother clapped him on the back. “We’ll find another way in,” Jaehaerys promised, his grin widening. “There’s always another way.”

Back near the dragon carvings, Helaena had drawn Aegon into a quiet conversation about the tapestries they’d passed earlier. “I think they’re warnings,” she said, her voice dreamy but purposeful. “The dragons—they’re trying to tell us something.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow, his scepticism plain. “Warnings about what? How to decorate a gloomy old castle?”

Helaena shook her head, undeterred. “No, warnings about the future. About the sky, and the stars, and what’s to come.”

For a moment, Aegon said nothing, his usually dismissive manner replaced by a rare flicker of thoughtfulness. “You’re strange, Helaena,” he said finally, though his tone was more affectionate than teasing. “But I guess that’s what makes you… you.”

Helaena smiled, her gaze returning to the carvings as though seeking answers only she could perceive. Elsewhere, Jaehaerys and Aemond had re-joined the group, their laughter echoing through the halls as they shared their failed attempt to unlock the iron door. Lucerys, Valaena, and Larissa soon joined as well, their faces alight with excitement from their own discoveries. The children’s voices overlapped as they recounted their adventures, their different perspectives weaving together into a tapestry of youthful energy as they clambered into the main reception chambers.

Daemon and Laenor stood apart by the windows of the reception chamber, the laughter and chatter of the children a distant melody to their conversation. The two men mirrored each other in posture, though they couldn’t have been more different—Laenor gently cradled baby Aerion in his arms, the infant’s tiny fists curling sleepily against his father’s chest, while Daemon sipped his wine with his characteristic smirk, the goblet’s origin as much a mystery as the man himself. His sharp eyes, however, lingered on the children with something more contemplative than his usual bravado.

“They’ve grown into quite the brood, haven’t they?” Laenor mused, his voice low so as not to disturb Aerion. There was a note of humour there, but beneath it, Daemon could sense the weight of loss that never quite left Laenor’s tone. The boy in his arms was both a joy and a reminder of all that had been taken from him.

Daemon tilted his head, his expression softening as he took in the children, each so clearly unique yet bound by a shared legacy.

“A lively bunch,” he said. “But each of them has their own storm brewing. It’s not easy, being young in a world that demands they grow up so fast.”

His gaze fell on Aemond first, the boy’s sharp focus evident even now as he followed Jaehaerys’s lead through the halls.

“That one,” Daemon said with a nod toward Aemond, “he’ll be a warrior. You can see it in the way he moves. Every step calculated, every action with purpose. But he’s young yet, too eager to prove himself.”

“And Jaehaerys?” Laenor asked, his tone faintly protective as his eyes followed his eldest son.

Daemon chuckled lightly, though his smile was tinged with something more introspective. “A good boy. Kind. Maybe too kind for the world he’ll inherit. But he has the makings of a true Targaryen prince, the way he carries himself, the way the others follow him. He’s steady, sure of himself. That’ll serve him well.”

They both fell silent for a moment as their attention turned to Lucerys, who was guiding Valaena and Larissa by the hand. The younger girls clung to him with a quiet trust, their grief still evident in the way they sought comfort in his presence. “That one’s too soft-hearted,” Daemon remarked, though there was no judgment in his tone. “Far too willing to shoulder everyone else’s pain.”

Laenor smiled faintly, his hand instinctively cradling Aerion closer. “There’s strength in that, though. It takes courage to be soft in a world like ours.”

Daemon hummed in agreement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they shifted to Helaena. She drifted through the corridors like a spectre, her pale hair catching the light as she cradled a small insect in her hands. Her lips moved in a silent murmur, her words a mystery even to herself.

“Helaena,” Daemon said, his voice quieter now. “She’s… something else. Like she’s here, but not. Her minds in another world, but she sees things we don’t. There’s a wisdom to her, buried beneath all that haze.”

“She’s always been different,” Laenor agreed softly. “But it’s a kind of beauty, isn’t it? The way she sees the world.”

Daemon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on Helaena as she perched on a bench and began embroidering. Her needle moved with quiet precision, the fabric beneath her hands coming alive with visions of dragon’s mid-flight. He wondered if she even knew what truths her fingers wove.

“And then there’s Aegon,” Laenor said, breaking the moment of quiet. His tone was carefully neutral, but Daemon caught the way his eyes flicked toward the boy, who had settled himself against Rhaenyra’s side. Aegon looked perfectly at ease, his head resting on his sister’s shoulder as she smoothed down his hair in a gesture so maternal it bordered on overindulgent.

“Aegon,” Daemon repeated, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. “The boy has no drive, no sense of responsibility. He’s content to sit and sketch, let the world pass him by while someone else deals with the consequences.”

“He’s still young,” Laenor countered, though there was doubt in his voice. “He has time to grow.”

“Perhaps,” Daemon allowed, though his tone suggested otherwise. “But he leans on Rhaenyra like she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this family. He’s… soft. And not the kind of soft that comes with strength, like Lucerys. He’s…” Daemon trailed off, searching for the words.

“Lost,” Laenor finished for him, his voice barely more than a whisper. Daemon glanced at him, surprised by the bluntness of the statement. “He’s lost, Daemon. He’s searching for something—someone—to anchor him.”

Daemon’s smirk softened into something more reflective as he swirled the wine in his goblet. His eyes returned to Aegon, who had now shifted in Rhaenyra’s embrace, his fingers absentmindedly sketching in a notebook balanced precariously on his knee. There was a fragility to him, a vulnerability that Daemon couldn’t entirely fault. He sighed, draining the rest of his wine in one long sip.

“They’re children, Daemon,” Laenor said after a moment, his voice firm but gentle. “All of them. And for all our scrutiny, all our expectations, they’re still learning who they are. Give them time.”

Daemon didn’t respond immediately, his sharp gaze flicking between the children as if seeing them anew. Finally, he nodded, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual edge. “Time,” he repeated, almost to himself. “We’ll see if time is kind to them.”

Laenor smiled faintly, his attention drawn back to the tiny bundle in his arms. Aerion let out a soft coo, his bright eyes now wide open and staring up at his father with an innocence that seemed to defy the weight of the world around them.

“Time will be kind to him,” Laenor said softly, his voice filled with quiet determination as he gently rocked the baby. “Because I’ll make sure of it.”

Daemon tilted his head, a rare hint of admiration flickering in his expression. “A noble sentiment, Laenor. Let’s hope it holds true.”

The two men fell into a companionable silence, their gazes drawn back to the children as they began to ready for dinner at Rhaenyra’s instruction. Her eyes caught the two men staring and she raised an eyebrow, rising from the lounger she was perched on.

“You two look far too happy over here,” she joked as she approached, reaching for her youngest child. The baby snuggled into his mother, eye looking up at her blearily. He still lay scrunched up, not yet out of that beloved new babe phase she adored with Jaehaerys and Lucerys. Aerion’s little fists were clenched, and he huddled into his blanket for warmth. “What are you up to?”

“Just deciding upon the boy’s sparring lessons,” Daemon responded with a devious smirk. Rhaenyra rose an eyebrow. Glancing to Laenor who nodded innocently in agreement. Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Daemon's smirk, shifting her gaze to Laenor, who feigned an air of pure innocence as they made their way to the large table set out for dinner, taking seats close to one another to continue their conversation. Daemon sat to the left of Laenor, who sat to Rhaenyra’s right and left the seat to her left empty.

“Sparring lessons?” she echoed, a playful note slipping into her voice as she cradled her youngest. “For the boys, or yourselves?”

Daemon swirled his goblet lazily, his smirk deepening. “The boys, of course,” he replied, though the sparkle in his eyes hinted at mischief brewing. “You’ve got quite the little army under your roof, niece. It’d be a shame to let them grow soft.”

“Soft?” Rhaenyra said, raising an eyebrow as she glanced toward Jaehaerys, who was helping Aemond adjust his belt as they approached the dinner table. The younger boys were quietly bickering about whether they’d discovered a dragon lair earlier; Aemond insisting they had, Jaehaerys rolling his eyes with amusement. “If anything, I think you’ve underestimated them. They’ve got more strength than you give them credit for.”

“They’ve got potential,” Daemon conceded, watching as Lucerys patiently guided Valaena and Larissa to their seats, gently reassuring Larissa as she fussed over being too far from her father. “But potential needs honing. Discipline, confidence, skill.”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, her eyes flicking toward Aegon, who hesitated at the doorway before entering the room. His sketchbook was tucked under one arm, his movements careful and slightly uncertain. Her sharp gaze softened as she called out to him, “Aegon, come sit by me.”

The boy didn’t need to be asked twice, he approached quickly, settling himself at her side and leaning into her touch as she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. He murmured something under his breath about finishing a sketch he’d been working on earlier, and she smiled down at him as though he’d shared a great secret. “You can tell me all about it after dinner,” she said warmly, brushing a stray lock of his hair from his face.

Daemon snorted softly into his goblet, drawing Rhaenyra’s attention back to him. “And what’s your assessment of Aegon, then?” she asked, her tone deceptively light but her gaze sharp.

Daemon leaned back against the wall, glancing lazily at Aegon as the boy tucked his sketchbook under his seat. “No drive, no fire,” he said bluntly, though not unkindly. “But he’s clever. He knows how to work people; how to make them like him, how to charm them when it suits him. That could be useful, if he learns how to use it.”

Laenor glanced up from Aerion at Rhaenyra, his expression more thoughtful than teasing. “He’s young,” he said softly. “They all are. And they need time to figure out who they are, what they can do. We can guide them, but they’ll find their own way, in their own time.”

Rhaenyra nodded, pressing a kiss to Aerion’s temple as she adjusted his blanket. “Time,” she repeated, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s the one thing we can’t afford to waste.”

Dinner itself unfolded with a warmth that felt almost unusual amidst the tension that often surrounded them. Jaehaerys took on the role of peacekeeper, making sure Aemond’s complaints about seating arrangements didn’t escalate, while Lucerys entertained Valaena and Larissa with stories of their ancestors, his vivid imagination painting dragons soaring across the skies in bursts of flame and light. Harwin sat next to them, feeling awkward until Lady Charis sat down heavily next him, her hand resting on her large stomach. Helaena sat quietly, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the tablecloth, occasionally murmuring something cryptic that left Aemond staring at her in bemusement.

Aegon, seemed content to sit beside Rhaenyra, absorbing her warmth and attention like a sponge. He listened as she spoke with Daemon and Laenor about their plans for the weeks ahead, his sketchbook forgotten for the moment. Aerion drifted off to sleep in his mother’s arms, his tiny face peaceful as the soft glow of the torches bathed the room in light.

Daemon observed the scene with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. For all his talk of discipline and drive, he couldn’t deny the strength that came from their bonds—messy, imperfect, but unwavering. In the quiet moments, when the laughter of children mingled with the murmurs of adults, Dragonstone felt less like a fortress and more like home.

Rhaenyra leaned toward Aegon; her voice soft but encouraging. “Aegon,” she began, her tone inviting rather than probing, “you’ve spent so much time with Sunfyre lately. Tell me, what have you observed?”

The boy blinked, startled by her attention but comforted by her calm interest. Slowly, he began to speak, his words careful at first but growing in confidence as Rhaenyra listened intently. “He’s… he’s unlike the other dragons,” Aegon said, glancing around the table to gauge the reactions of his siblings. “He doesn’t roar much—he’s quieter, more reserved. But he’s proud. When I approach him, he runs up to me and headbutts me.”

Jaehaerys nodded thoughtfully from across the table, his own experiences with the dragons giving him an appreciation for Aegon’s insight. Lucerys murmured a quiet “That’s amazing,” his voice filled with genuine awe. Even Daemon, who had been observing the exchange with his usual smirk, tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the boy’s bond with his dragon.

Rhaenyra smiled warmly, her pride in her son evident as she steered the conversation further. “Sunfyre is lucky to have you, Aegon,” she said, her voice carrying an undercurrent of affection. “And we’re lucky to have you. Dragons carry a part of our legacy; they connect us to who we are. Your bond with him is important, not just to you, but to all of us.”

Aegon straightened slightly, his confidence bolstered by her words. The quiet boy who often shied away from the spotlight was now the centre of attention, and for once, he didn’t seem to mind.

At the other end of the table, Helaena sat beside Larissa, her hands deftly weaving delicate flowers into the younger girl’s hair. Larissa’s chatter rose brightly as she recounted her day, her voice a joyful counterpoint to the gentle murmuring of Helaena. “And then we saw the dragon paintings!” Larissa said excitedly, her wide eyes fixed on Helaena. “They were amazing, the dragons were so big!”

Helaena smiled faintly, her focus shifting between the flowers and Larissa words. “Big,” she echoed, her voice light and whimsical. “But not the biggest. There are dragons in the stars that are even larger, you know.”

Larissa blinked, tilting her head curiously. “In the stars?”

Helaena nodded, her fingers continuing their work. “They dance in the sky at night, when you’re asleep. You can see them if you know where to look.”

Though Larissa didn’t fully understand her cryptic response, she giggled nonetheless, her laughter drawing smiles from those nearby. Helaena, ever the gentle enigma, continued weaving until Larissa’s hair was adorned with a delicate crown of blossoms.

As the conversation and laughter flowed, Laenor stood and raised his glass, a broad grin lighting up his face. “A toast,” he declared, his voice carrying just the right balance of humour and sincerity. “To the trials that brought us here and to the family who endured them. It’s not every day we find ourselves at Dragonstone, but let’s make the most of it!”

The table erupted in applause and laughter; the mood lifted further by his easy charm. Jaehaerys listened intently, his admiration for his father evident in the way he mirrored his proud stance. Laenor’s words carried weight, but his humour softened their edges, creating a sense of camaraderie among the group.

Harwin followed, rising from his seat with a mischievous grin. “I suppose I can’t let Laenor have all the fun,” he said, his booming voice drawing more laughter as he began recounting one of his infamous travels. “There was a time, not long ago, mind you, when I found myself face-to-face with a knight who mistook me for a robber. Turns out, all he needed was a good drink to see reason!”

The table roared with laughter, the vivid imagery of Harwin’s escapade bringing a moment of light-heartedness that seemed to dissolve the last remnants of tension. Even the children giggled, their imaginations conjuring the scene as Harwin embellished the details to their delight.

Daemon, watching the proceedings with a rare sense of contentment, raised his own goblet, the deep red wine swirling as he lifted it high. “To new beginnings,” he said, his voice steady and sincere. The simple toast carried more weight than any elaborate speech could, and the room quieted for a moment as his words settled.

Across the table, his gaze met Rhaenyra’s, the shared history and unspoken understanding between them clear in the look they exchanged. Her lips curled into a small smile; the kind reserved for moments that didn’t need words to be acknowledged.

The meal carried on, filled with laughter, stories, and shared warmth. Dragonstone’s reception chamber, with its imposing stone walls and flickering torchlight, had transformed into a sanctuary—a place where family ties and fleeting peace could be celebrated.

Chapter Text

The family settled into a comforting rhythm over the days that followed, the familiarity of routine offering solace amidst the lingering undercurrents of grief. Rhaenyra began each morning attending to Aemond’s injuries, her presence steady and unfaltering. She inspected the cotton patch with a meticulous eye, ensuring that the wound beneath remained clean and free of infection. The maesters, though competent, deferred to her precise touch, recognizing the mix of love and determination in her movements. As she carefully cleaned the injury, her fingers delicate yet firm, she allowed the wound moments to breathe before redressing it with fresh linens.

Aemond often sat in silence during these ministrations, leaning slightly into her care. Though he rarely spoke, his posture conveyed a quiet trust, an unspoken appreciation for her unwavering attention. Rhaenyra filled the stillness with stories, recounting tales from her own childhood—adventures and missteps alike. She spoke of her first fall from Syrax, the sting of embarrassment as much as the bruises it left behind. She shared moments of clumsiness—tripping over the hem of her dresses during courtly lessons—and the unexpected challenges of sparring with knights.

When she mentioned her training in combat, Aemond’s curiosity ignited. He peppered her with questions, his voice alive with surprise and intrigue.

“You sparred with knights? What were you best at? Did you ever wield a sword?” His wide-eyed eagerness pulled a genuine laugh from her, the sound soft yet filled with warmth. Smiling, she lifted the hem of her gowns just enough to reveal the hilt of a ruby-encrusted dagger.

“This,” she said with a glint of pride, “was a gift from Daemon years ago. I may not wield a blade often now, but I assure you, I have not forgotten how.” Aemond’s fascination lingered, his questions trailing into musings about her past exploits and the stories they might tell.

After tending to Aemond, Rhaenyra and her youngest brother joined the rest of the family for breakfast in Dragonstone’s great hall. Unlike dinners, which were lively and chaotic with animated conversations and bouts of sibling squabbling, breakfast was a quieter affair. The children trickled in, bleary-eyed and sluggish, their exhaustion from the previous day’s excitement evident.

Daemon, ever an early riser, surprised everyone by taking charge of serving breakfast. By now, he had developed a knack for understanding each child’s preferences and quirks. Helaena, seated demurely at the end of the table, avoided meats and favoured fruit stirred into her porridge. Daemon, noticing her small smile as he placed her bowl before her, quietly added an extra slice of apple to the mix. Aegon, in stark contrast, was an unapologetic carnivore, his dissatisfaction with fish met by Daemon’s good-natured teasing and promises of bacon the following day.

Jaehaerys, still brimming with youthful energy even at the early hour, cheerfully devoured anything placed in front of him. Lucerys, true to his Velaryon heritage, heaped his plate with fish and porridge, sparing little thought for the fruits or meats. Across the table, Harwin presided over the youngest of the group, gently convincing Valaena and Larissa to eat enough to satisfy their appetites. His exchanges with Larissa were particularly amusing, his exaggerated protests met with giggles as she wrinkled her nose at the fish. “Fine,” he relented with a theatrical sigh, “you may skip the fish, but the porridge stays. And yes, that means fruit too!” Larissa’s mischievous grin betrayed her victory as Harwin placed a small dish of berries on her plate.

Despite the quiet of breakfast, the room carried a comforting hum of familial warmth. Laenor, a habitual late riser, typically wandered in halfway through the meal, stretching theatrically and offering exaggerated yawns that elicited amused groans from the children. Settling next to Daemon, the two would fall into easy conversation, their voices weaving tales of the past, plans for the day, or musings on the children’s well-being. Their camaraderie was a quiet but steadfast presence, anchoring the family with its familiarity.

Once the meal was finished, Lady Charis would sweep the children away for their lessons with Maester Gerardys. The sound of their chatter faded as they made their way to the library, leaving the adults to their duties. Laenor often ventured to the docks with Ser Qarl, keeping a close watch on the fishing and trading to report back to Rhaenyra. Daemon spent his mornings in the training yard with Harwin, their sparring sessions crackling with energy as Harwin poured his grief into each swing of his blade, seeking solace in the clashing of steel.

Rhaenyra, meanwhile, commanded the Throne Room of Dragonstone, a picture of authority as she held petitions. Dressed in a striking black velvet gown, she cut an imposing figure upon the throne carved from stone, her presence radiating the strength of a leader born to rule. From the murmurs of supplicants to the steady rhythm of her voice, the hall reverberated with the echoes of her command, a stark reminder that she was not only a mother and sister but a queen in her own right.

The routines of the household wove together like threads in a tapestry, creating a rhythm that soothed and strengthened each member of the family. In their shared moments, whether over a simple meal or amidst the weight of their responsibilities, they found the bonds that tethered them to one another growing ever stronger.

Afternoons on Dragonstone found the household immersed in purposeful activity, each member tending to their roles with quiet focus and determination. Rhaenyra and Laenor retreated to the solar, their voices low as they reviewed the petitions and papers required to manage the keep effectively. The worn pages bore requests and updates from the smallfolk and traders on the island, each one carefully read and discussed.

Their conversations meandered through topics of trade routes and market accessibility. Laenor, ever the seafarer, proposed ideas to improve the flow of goods by utilizing the Velaryon ships to establish more frequent connections to surrounding isles. Rhaenyra, her brow furrowed in thought, considered ways to enhance farming on the island, whether by introducing livestock to supplement crops or diversifying produce to meet the needs of the people. Their discussions frequently circled back to the care of the smallfolk, with Rhaenyra insisting that their well-being remained a priority.

Outside, the sounds of sparring echoed from the training yard as the boys—Aegon, Jaehaerys, Lucerys, and even Aemond—gathered under the watchful eyes of Harwin and Daemon. The clang of steel against steel filled the air as Harwin led them through drills, his instructions firm but encouraging. Aegon, ever competitive, delighted in pitting himself against Harwin, his strikes brimming with youthful vigour. Jaehaerys and Lucerys trained together, their laughter mingling with grunts of effort as they exchanged playful banter between bouts.

Aemond, still recovering but determined to rebuild his strength, joined in more measured exercises under Daemon’s guidance. Daemon, with his practiced eye, pushed Aemond just enough to challenge him without risking further injury. Their sparring sessions became moments of quiet mentorship, with Daemon offering advice not just on swordplay but on the resilience required to face hardship.

In the castle’s tearoom, Lady Charis gathered the girls—Helaena, Valaena, and Larissa—for embroidery and tea. The atmosphere was serene, the soft clinking of teacups blending with the rhythmic sound of needles weaving through fabric. Charis, her figure poised yet warm, instructed them on the importance of maintaining a household and carrying themselves as future Ladies of keeps.

Helaena, always captivated by the intricate patterns, immersed herself in creating delicate designs that mirrored the flora and insects she admired in the gardens. Valaena, quietly determined, focused on perfecting her stitches under Charis’s gentle guidance. Larissa, the youngest at only five, often wrinkled her nose at the task and begged leave but was drawn in by Charis’s encouraging smile and Helaena’s whispered encouragements about the beauty of her budding creations.

The golden light of late afternoon spilled through the high windows of the reception hall, warming the stone floors and casting soft shadows across the family as they gathered. The air hummed with a quiet tranquillity, the kind that only comes from the mutual understanding of shared effort and respite. Each member of the household found solace in these moments, far removed from the venomous whispers and calculating stares of court life.

Rhaenyra sat with Laenor in one corner, their heads bent together as they exchanged updates on the petitions and coordination of running Dragonstone, baby Aerion safe in Rhaenyra’s arms. Their voices were hushed, but their tone carried the weight of careful thought, their mutual respect evident in the way they deliberated over improving trade routes or bolstering the care of the smallfolk. Laenor’s hand occasionally gestured to a map spread between them, his ideas punctuated with a light joke that earned a faint smile from Rhaenyra.

Across the room, Daemon leaned against the wall with casual ease, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement as he listened to Harwin’s animated recounting of the boys’ sparring session. Aegon was gesticulating wildly, his voice rising as he interjected to share his version of events, earning a playful clap on the shoulder from Harwin. Jaehaerys and Lucerys chimed in with grins, their laughter blending into a harmonious cadence that spoke of the bond growing between them.

Helaena sat quietly near the window, her hands occupied with the finishing touches on an embroidery piece, the rhythm of her stitching offering her a sense of calm. Valaena and Larissa perched beside her, admiring her work with the awe only younger children could muster. Helaena occasionally paused to answer their curious questions about the patterns she wove, her voice soft yet patient.

Lady Charis made her way between the groups, offering kind words and gentle encouragement as she ensured the girls were content and the boys remained civil amidst their boisterous energy. Her presence carried the kind of warmth that tempered the room, her graceful authority a quiet but steady anchor.

As the conversations wound down, each member drifted off to their personal pursuits, savouring the peaceful interlude before the liveliness of dinner resumed. For a moment, Dragonstone felt like an oasis—a place where the heavy burdens of politics and rivalry could not reach them, where their familial bonds provided a sanctuary that no courtly intrigue could fracture.

--

On the fourth day, the sun stretched lower over Dragonstone, gilding the jagged cliffs and the dragons that soared above in hues of gold and crimson. The day had already been a tapestry of discovery and connection for the family, but as the shadows lengthened, a moment approached that none would soon forget.

Aemond had trailed behind the group for most of the afternoon, his steps quieter, his eyes drawn to the enormous presence of Vhagar perched on a rocky outcrop in the distance. The legendary she-dragon, whose shadow alone could swallow the cliffs whole, exuded a silent authority, her wings folded neatly against her sides as she gazed out over the sea. Her age and size were unmatched, her very existence a testament to the strength of House Targaryen’s legacy.

Aemond’s chest tightened. The sight of her stirred something deep within him—a sense of longing, of purpose. He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her monumental form. His family’s voices faded into the background, and for a moment, it was as if the world consisted only of the ancient dragon and the quiet pull in his chest urging him forward.

Steeling himself, Aemond took a deep breath and stepped away from the group. Harwin, who had been keeping a close eye on him, watched the boy intently. “Where are you going, lad?” Harwin’s tone was gentle, not accusatory, but Aemond barely glanced back.

“I have to try,” Aemond said softly, his voice carrying a gravity that belied his years. There was no hesitation in his stride as he began making his way toward Vhagar. Harwin followed at a respectful distance, his hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to intervene if needed but unwilling to disrupt what felt like an important decision.

As Aemond approached, Vhagar turned her massive head, her amber eyes glowing with an ancient, knowing light. She let out a low, rumbling growl that echoed through the cliffs, a sound that might have sent a lesser boy fleeing. But Aemond stood firm, his posture straight, his single eye unflinching as he met her gaze. His heart pounded in his chest, but it was not fear that coursed through him—it was determination.

He moved carefully, each step deliberate, his voice steady as he began to speak to her in High Valyrian. The ancient words of the dragonlords felt strange but powerful on his tongue. “Dohaerās, Vhagar. Dohaerās!”

The great dragon’s growl deepened, but she did not lash out. Instead, she lowered her head slightly, her golden eyes narrowing as if appraising the boy before her. Harwin held his breath, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade, but he made no move to intervene.

For a moment, the air was still, the weight of expectation pressing down on them. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, Vhagar extended her wing, creating a path for Aemond to climb. The boy hesitated only briefly before stepping forward, his hands gripping the rough ridges of her scales as he hoisted himself onto her back. The moment his weight settled, Vhagar let out a deafening roar that echoed across the cliffs, drawing the attention of the rest of the family.

From where they stood, Rhaenyra and Daemon turned sharply, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of Aemond astride the great she-dragon. The children’s voices rose in astonishment, their earlier excitement now replaced by sheer awe.

“He’s done it,” Daemon murmured, a rare note of admiration threading through his tone. There was no mockery, no teasing; just a quiet acknowledgment of the courage it took to approach a dragon like Vhagar.

Rhaenyra’s expression was unreadable, a complex mix of pride, concern, and a deep understanding of what this moment meant for her brother. “She’s chosen him,” she said softly, more to herself than to anyone else.

In the sky, Vhagar spread her colossal wings, and with a powerful beat, she launched into the air, carrying Aemond with her. The boy’s shouts of exhilaration mingled with the dragon’s roars as they soared higher, a silhouette against the setting sun. The sight was breath-taking, a moment that felt almost too grand to be real.

Jaehaerys and Lucerys, their earlier playful rivalry forgotten, stood side by side, their faces alight with awe. “That’s Vhagar,” Jaehaerys whispered, his voice filled with wonder. “Aemond’s claimed her.”

Helaena, her gaze soft and reflective, watched the flight with a faint smile. “She’s wise,” she murmured. “He closed and eye and now he has taken to the sky.”

When Vhagar finally descended, her landing shook the ground beneath her, the sheer force of her presence a reminder of her power. Aemond slid from her back, his legs trembling slightly but his expression filled with triumph. Harwin approached him first, his hand clapping Aemond’s shoulder. “That was brave,” Harwin said, his voice filled with genuine admiration and pride for the boy who had taken claim for his late wife’s dragon.

As the family regrouped, the atmosphere erupted in cheers of pride and disbelief. Daemon, ever one to acknowledge boldness, gave Aemond a slight nod, a wordless gesture of approval. Rhaenyra stepped forward, her hands resting lightly on Aemond’s shoulders.

“You’ve done something extraordinary,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “Vhagar is yours now. Treat her with the respect she commands, and she will never fail you.”

Aemond’s chest swelled with pride, but there was also a quiet humility in his form as he nodded. “I will,” he promised, his voice firm.

The family lingered for a while longer, the earlier excitement giving way to a quieter sense of connection and reflection. For Aemond, the claiming of Vhagar was more than an accomplishment; it was a moment that defined him, that filled a part of the void he had carried since the loss of his eye. And for the family, it was a reminder of their strength, their bonds, and the legacy they were destined to protect.

Shortly after, the family delighted in the display overhead. Jaehaerys and Lucerys were nearly bouncing with excitement as they pointed out their young dragons, Vermax and Arrax, weaving through the skies.

“Vermax is learning to dive!” Jaehaerys shouted, his voice filled with exhilaration as the green and orange scaled dragon tucked its wings close and plummeted downward before flaring them wide in a graceful recovery. Lucerys grinned and clapped him on the back.

“Arrax could teach him a thing or two about agility,” he teased, watching as his sleek pearly white dragon banked sharply mid-flight, its movements smooth and precise.

Their laughter and competitive banter filled the air, drawing smiles from the adults. Helaena, standing slightly apart with an almost ethereal calm, let out a delighted gasp. Her finger shot skyward, pointing towards her shimmering silver and blue-scaled dragon, Dreamfyre, flying high above.

“Look how the sunlight dances on her wings,” she murmured, her voice reverent. “Each tilt… it’s like watching poetry in motion.”

She turned to Jaehaerys, her excitement soft but radiant. “Do you see how she glides without flapping? She is catching the wind perfectly.”

Jaehaerys nodded, his eyes wide as he followed her gaze. “She’s very elegant,” he agreed, his voice quieter now, mirroring her wonder. Their shared love for dragons, both as creatures and as symbols of their family’s heritage, deepened their bond in this moment of mutual discovery.

Amidst the animated chatter of the children and the low hum of dragon wings overhead, Rhaenyra and Daemon found themselves naturally drifting to the edge of the group. The breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, tugging at Rhaenyra’s silver-gold hair as she crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on the sky where dragons soared freely. Daemon watched her from the corner of his eye, noting the way the sunlight caught the silver in her hair, a reflection of their shared bloodline, their shared destiny.

“They’re magnificent,” Daemon said after a long silence, his voice low and thoughtful. He gestured toward the dragons, his tone softening as he added, “A reminder of who we are. What we are meant to protect.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her eyes strayed to the children rather than the dragons. Jaehaerys and Lucerys, engrossed in their competition of which dragon could perform better dives. Helaena, her calm manner brightened by the joy of witnessing her silver and blue dragon’s graceful flight. Aegon, quietly ensuring that Larissa stayed close to the group, offering her a steadying hand when she stumbled. Even Aemond, though more subdued, seemed caught in a moment of connection as he gazed at Vhagar.

“Our legacy is more than fire and blood,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice tinged with quiet conviction. “It is them—their bonds, their strength. That is what endures.”

Daemon shifted his stance, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as he regarded her. There was a softness in his expression, though it was framed by the steel of his resolve.

“And they’ll endure because of us,” he said, his tone certain. “Because we’ll make sure of it.”

She glanced at him then, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You sound almost optimistic, Uncle. It is unlike you.”

He smirked, his typical swagger returning for a moment.

“You’re rubbing off on me, Niece,” he teased, though the sincerity beneath his words lingered like an unspoken promise. She felt his fingers brush against hers, and her stomach clenched at his touch. Her skin burned where he had touched her, and she inhaled sharply.

Their conversation drifted into a charged silence as they stood together, watching the family Rhaenyra had fought so hard to protect. The dragons roared overhead, their cries powerful and untamed—a sound that echoed the unyielding spirit of House Targaryen itself.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the rocky cliffs, Daemon called for the group to begin the journey back to the keep. The children, reluctant to leave, lingered for a few last moments, their eyes fixed on the majestic creatures above. Aemond stole one last glance at Vhagar, the ancient dragon’s presence etched deeply into his mind, her powerful form a symbol of the strength he had managed to claim.

The family made their way back together, their voices weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and laughter. Rhaenyra walked beside Aegon, her voice low as she praised him for his attentiveness to the younger children.

“You have a gift,” she told him, her tone warm and sincere. “The way you care for them, the way they trust you… it is something special. We will need that, Aegon. You will be more important to this family than you realize.” Her words planted a seed of confidence in him, a spark that he carried in his quiet ways.

The excursion had left its mark on each of them. Aemond’s quiet connection with Vhagar, Helaena’s serene joy in observing the dragons, Jaehaerys and Lucerys’s spirited camaraderie, and Aegon’s growing sense of purpose.

Rhaenyra and Daemon began to drift slowly behind the group, their steps slowing as the courtyard emptied. The air between them sizzled, the quiet hum of the waves below punctuating the tension that had been building throughout the day previous nine days. Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the horizon, her expression contemplative as the wind tugged at her hair. Daemon stood beside her, his presence steady yet magnetic, his sharp features softened by the fading light. The air was thick with the smell of salt and brine, the floral notes of blossoms budding from Aegon’s Gardens mingling with it.

“They’re magnificent,” Daemon murmured, his voice low and rich. His eyes were not on the dragons, but on her; on the way the final rays of sunlight caught the light sheen on her lips, the way her shoulders carried the weight of her responsibilities with such grace, the way her chest rose in her bodice, her breath catching slightly. “You should be proud.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“I am,” she replied, her voice steady but quiet. “But it is not just the dragons. It is them, the children. Their bonds, their strength. They are what matter most, they are my proudest achievement.”

Daemon’s gaze did not waver, his expression unreadable yet intense. He stepped closer, the space between them narrowing until it was almost non-existent. She itched to reach out to him, her entire body tense as he moved closer so she could smell the dragon on his skin, a mix of musk, cinnamon, and fire.

“And what about us?” he asked, his tone softer now, laced with something deeper, something raw. His eyes pierced her skin and she leaned closer to him without realising.

Her breath caught at the question, the weight of it settling between them. “We have our roles to play…” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “But sometimes, I wonder…”

His hand rose, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with a touch so light it sent a shiver down her spine. Rhaenyra leaned into his touch, fire igniting in the pit of her stomach.

“What do you wonder, Rhaenyra?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the force of everything unsaid. Her heart raced; his proximity overwhelmed her senses. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat as his gaze dropped to her lips. The world around them seemed to fade; the castle, the waves, the distant roars of dragons; leaving only the heat of his presence and the unspoken tension that had been building for so long. Years of longing, of want hung between them, and the memory of his touch in that brothel was seared into her skin all these years, leaving her wanting more of him.

“I… I’m no longer a child…” she stumbled. Her hangs gripped his tunic, and he cupped her cheeks with both hands, resting his forehead against hers. Rhaenyra slid her hands up to his face, gentle fingers gliding over his scarred skin. “I want you, Daemon.”

He paused for a moment, searching her eyes for any indecision, and faltering in her gaze, before he pressed his lips against hers gently. She sighed in relief, her arms sliding around his neck as she leaned into his touch, shivers erupting down her spine. Time seemed to stand still as their lips met, and she surrendered to the intensity as the kiss deepened, his hands finding their way into her long locks. Daemon tugged her hair gently, tilting her mouth to allow him better access to her and she felt fire burn through her.

 Their bodies moved in perfect synchronicity, stumbling towards the closed door of gatehouse. His lips were rougher, dry as they trailed kisses along her jawline. Her breath trembled as he returned to her mouth, lightly touching her lip with his tongue and exploring her mouth.

Their tongues danced and they seemed to fall together, pulling each other closer as they melted into the kiss. Rhaenyra let out a soft moan when his bit gently on her lower lip, the air between them almost desperate as he pushed her against the door. Daemon’s fingers traced the curve of her waist, the hardness in his breeched pressing firmly against her as she slid her hand along the front of his tunic.

Every touch, every moan between them blended into a bittersweet sense of desire and urgency. The need for each other coursed through their veins and she panted as she pulled back from his lips, meeting his eyes.

“We… we should… dinner,” she whispered, trying to gather her wits as his fingers continued to trace, his lips ghosting along the creamy skin of her neck. Rhaenyra fought a moan when she felt his hand massaging her breast through her bodice, a touch she had not felt in so long igniting within her. “We… I have not… It has been so long, Daemon…”

He paused at the soft whisper of his name, his eyes finding hers as he cupped her face despite the urge to take her sweet lips back to his. He licked his lips, tasting the sweetness of honey and tartness of lemons on his own lips.

“When… when was the last time you…” Daemon started and she cast her eyes down, a flush erupting across her cheeks. When she looked back at him, their eyes locked in a moment of shared understanding and silent conversation. Daemon quickly realised that for Rhaenyra… It had been years. She had not been touched in this manner in many moons… she had not been kissed since their night in the brothel, over twelve years ago… She was still a maiden. His resolve firmed, and he cupped her cheeks gently.

“When I take you, Rhaenyra… it will not be in a gatehouse in a rushed flurry. I am going to show you the true meaning of passion, of heat, and I am going to take… my… time…” he whispered against her lips, resting his forehead against her soft skin. Rhaenyra breathed in sharply, her eyes wide at his promise. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips and then stepped away, a smirk falling onto his sharp features.

“Now, I believe you said something about dinner,” he teased, winking as he spun away from her. Rhaenyra blinked herself back to reality, spluttering slightly.

How on earth was she meant to focus with that promise?

--

The amber glow of the setting sun seeped into the royal solar, casting long shadows across the stone floor and igniting the air with a golden warmth that neither of them could feel. Alicent held the tray carefully, the soft clinking of porcelain bowls marking her steady steps. Viserys sat by the window; his form hunched over like the bent branches of a tree weathered by years of storms.

"My king," Alicent said softly, her voice tender and steady. It had taken her some time to perfect the balance of soothing and formality, a tone that disarmed his defences and carried her intentions seamlessly.

Viserys turned to her; his gaze weary yet tinged with affection. "Alicent. You always seem to know when I need you most."

She set the tray down beside him, kneeling with practiced grace. The coolness of the stone beneath her gown grounded her, but it did little to temper the ache that stirred in her chest as she rolled up his sleeve.

"You carry so much, my king. Allow me to ease your burdens," she murmured, revealing the angry red sores that marred his arm.

Her fingers worked methodically, cleaning the wounds with delicate precision. The warm water steamed faintly, carrying the subtle scent of lavender that lingered between them, a fragile note of tranquillity amid the heaviness. Viserys winced slightly as the cloth brushed his skin, but said nothing, his gratitude conveyed in the soft curve of his lips.

"You should not have to do this, Alicent. It is not fitting for a queen," he said, his voice low and rough.

"It is fitting for a wife who cares for her husband," Alicent replied, her tone firm yet kind.

As she applied the ointment, her thoughts betrayed her, dragging her into an internal storm she could not quiet. She had made herself believe, at first, that her sacrifices were noble. That her choices were forged by duty, not despair. But the years had worn that resolve thin, exposing the scars of regret hidden beneath her carefully constructed mask.

Once she had finished tending to his arm, Alicent helped him to his feet. The rough fabric of his tunic brushed against her as she guided him toward the chair by the fire. Each step felt heavier, not from his frailty but from the weight of her own decisions pressing against her like a shadow.

"The warmth will do you good, my king," she said as she adjusted the cushions and draped a blanket over his legs.

Viserys settled into the chair with a soft sigh, the firelight painting his worn features in hues of gold and orange. For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them like an unspoken reassurance.

Alicent’s gaze lingered on the flames as she weighed her next words. She had learned, through years of necessity, how to weave her thoughts into conversation with careful subtlety.

"I have been thinking about the children lately," she began, her tone light yet deliberate. "How swiftly time moves...Helaena will soon be a woman grown."

Viserys hummed softly, his gaze turning contemplative. "Yes...she has her mother’s kindness and grace. Aegon, on the other hand, grows restless—much like I was at his age."

Alicent tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Restlessness can be tempered, my king, given the right influences. And Helaena has a gentle way about her, one that could balance Aegon’s impetuousness."

The Kings eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained calm as he replied. "You think they should wed."

Alicent glanced at him, her expression measured. "It is a thought, my king. Their union could strengthen our house, unify the family further, and offer them both a secure future. Helaena’s heart is gentle, and Aegon...well, he might learn from her in ways we cannot teach."

Viserys sat back, his fingers tracing the carved arms of his chair. "It is a logical match, I will grant you that. Yet I cannot help but wonder—would they be happy?"

She looked down, her hands tightening slightly in her lap. "We ask much of them, it is true. But happiness is often found in unexpected places. I believe Helaena’s warmth might bring out the better parts of Aegon’s nature. And he...may protect her in ways we cannot."

Viserys studied her closely, his expression softening further. "You’ve always thought of what is best for them—and for me. You carry burdens that most would never accept."

Alicent smiled faintly, though her gaze remained fixed on the fire. "My burdens are light when compared to yours, my king. I only wish to ease the weight you carry, even if only for a moment."

The fire crackled softly as Viserys reached out, his hand brushing hers. "I will consider your counsel, Alicent."

Her nod was subtle, her relief tempered by the silent questions that lingered in her heart. As the flames continued their dance, Alicent found herself lost in their glow, the warmth unable to chase away the chill that gnawed at her spirit.

Chapter Text

The sun blazed in relentless fury over Dragonstone, casting its stark, jagged cliffs into a glare so bright it seemed the stone itself might ignite. The black walls of the Keep, warmed throughout the morning, now radiated heat like the breath of a slumbering dragon. The air shimmered with heatwaves, distorting the outlines of the family as they descended toward the shore in a flowing procession. Rhaenyra led the way, her silver hair catching the sunlight like molten threads, glinting against the lighter linen of her gown. Her children darted ahead, their laughter ringing out, cutting through the oppressive silence of the sun-drenched afternoon.

Barefoot and eager for respite, they moved toward a collection of blankets spread across the sand, a soft breeze teasing at their lighter clothing. The children squealed as the tide, frothing with crystal-clear spray, reached up to kiss their ankles.

Valaena skipped backward, her silver curls catching the wind, and exclaimed, “It’s cold!”.

Larissa giggled, mimicking her sister’s skip, while Lucerys waded deeper, his sharp eyes scanning the shore for hidden treasures. The beach stretched before them, pale and glistening under the harsh glare of the sun. Seashells lay scattered like forgotten secrets, their surfaces polished by the tide until they gleamed like dragon scales. Larissa crouched down, brushing her small hands through the cool, damp sand.

“Look, Valaena!” she squealed, holding up a delicate pink shell shimmering with saltwater. Beside her, Valaena scrambled to find her own prize, her tiny hands sifting through a mix of crushed barnacles and seaweed. Her face lit up when her fingers closed around a crescent-shaped violet fragment.

“Mine’s better!” she declared, holding it high like a trophy.

“Watch out for the rocks, you two,” Lucerys called, his sharp gaze sweeping the uneven shoreline. His tone carried a touch of exasperation, but also a protective warmth, despite his young age. The breeze tousled his darker silver locks as he stepped carefully, pointing out paths where jagged stones were hidden under patches of frothy water.

“We’ll be good, Luke!” Larissa replied with the air of a fearless adventurer, though her indignant tone dissolved into giggles as she flung a playful handful of water in his direction. It splashed onto his tunic, and he groaned, before splashing her back lightly. Larissa squealed in delight, her gown already soaked through at the hem as she continued to splash and look for shiny seashells.

 From where he sat on the blankets, Aegon rolled his eyes at their immature antics, returning quietly to his sketches. Aemond sat close to him, picking at berries and trying to read one of the dusty old tomes he had found in the rooms at Dragonstone.

Further back, Jaehaerys sat cross-legged on the sand, his knees dusted with grains that clung stubbornly to his skin. Around him lay an array of colourful shells collected by his cousins, their iridescent surfaces catching the sunlight like pieces of spilled moonlight. His fingers worked methodically, threading twine through tiny holes he’d carved into each shell.

“You know,” he said, not bothering to glance up, “these are better than any jewels we’ll find in the Red Keep.”

Larissa trotted over, curiosity sparkling in her green eyes. “What are you doing, Jae?”

Holding up a green and brown pattered shell, he smiled triumphantly. “This one’s for you,” he announced.

“For me?” Larissa’s voice rose an octave, her surprise as bright as her grin. “Why?”

“Because it matches your eyes,” Jaehaerys replied with a nonchalance that didn’t quite mask his satisfaction. Larissa squealed and launched herself into his arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace that momentarily knocked him off balance.

“You’re the best, Jae!” she declared, already spinning around with her new necklace as the sunlight danced off its polished surface.

Valaena sidled up, holding her crescent-shaped shell aloft like an offering. “What about mine? Can you make it a necklace too?”

“Patience,” Jaehaerys teased, reaching for more twine. “Art like this takes time. But you’ll owe me a favour later, cover for me when Mother asks about that broken vase?”

“You broke the vase?” Valaena gasped, her young sense of justice affronted by his secret.

“Details, details,” Jaehaerys replied with a smirk, threading her shell onto the twine.

Meanwhile, the salty tang of the ocean breeze intermingled with the faint, earthy scent of damp sand, carried on a wind that offered brief relief from the sweltering heat. The sun burned mercilessly overhead, its heat radiating off the dark cliffs of Dragonstone and warming the beach until the very air seemed to shimmer. Tiny crabs scuttled sideways over slick stones, retreating into crevices as the children’s boisterous laughter echoed across the shore.

Lucerys finally joined his family, crouching beside Jaehaerys to inspect the growing collection of necklaces. “Not bad,” he admitted, feigning detachment. “Think you could make one for me?”

“Find your own shells first,” Jaehaerys shot back with a grin. “I’m not running a charity.”

Up the shore, Rhaenyra and Daemon strolled together, their bare feet sinking into the velvety sand. The breeze caught Rhaenyra’s hair, casting it in silver waves that glinted under the sunlight. She paused to watch the brood of children, her face softening as Jaehaerys slipped Valaena’s completed necklace over her head.

“They look so carefree,” Rhaenyra murmured, more to herself than to Daemon. “It’s good to see them like this.”

Daemon followed her gaze, his lips quirking slightly at the scene of Lucerys guiding hiscousins across the rocks. “Resilient little things,” he remarked, his voice tinged with an admiration he rarely voiced. “Takes after you.”

Rhaenyra shot him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth curving in a faint smile. “Or their uncle,” she said, her tone light but her eyes knowing.

A short distance away, Jaehaerys waded knee-deep into the surf, his boots abandoned further up the shore. He cupped his hands, scooping up seawater before splashing it at Larissa, who shrieked with laughter and retaliated with a furious flurry of splashes. Valaena squealed as her dress caught the spray, the fabric clinging damply to her legs.

“Enough, enough! You’ll drown me!” Jaehaerys cried, his mock surrender drawing giggles from the girls. He bent down, scooped up a flat, smooth stone, and turned to Helaena, who had been perched quietly on a nearby rock, her toes skimming the water. She watched the water ripple with pale lilac eyes, humming to herself softly.

“Think you can skip this one?” Jaehaerys asked, holding the stone out to her. She blinked in surprise at his voice, before her gaze flitting to the horizon where the waves stretched endlessly.

“I’m not good at it,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly as she clenched her fingers in the soft fabric of her dress.

“I’ll show you,” Jaehaerys replied with an encouraging smile. He mimed the throwing motion dramatically, making her laugh. “It’s all in the wrist.”

Tentatively, Helaena took the stone and let it fly. It skipped once, twice, three times before disappearing beneath the waves. A chorus of cheers erupted behind her as Jaehaerys whooped, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“You’re a natural!” he exclaimed.

Helaena’s smile widened, and for a moment, her usually dreamy manner melted away in the glow of their shared laughter. The sound mingled with the crash of waves and the calls of distant seabirds, creating a symphony of joy that seemed to push the oppressive heat into the background. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her children playing by the shore, their laughter rolling across the beach like gentle waves. The sight brought a rare and fleeting peace—a balm against the endless weight of her responsibilities. She leaned back slightly, letting the sunlight warm her skin as the faint scent of salt and seaweed mingled with the breeze. Her fingers trailed through the sun-warmed sand, the grains slipping between her fingers in soothing resistance.

Daemon moved away from her, his long strides carrying him toward Harwin and Laenor, who were deep in conversation near the edge of the tide pools. For a moment, her attention lingered on her uncle’s animated gestures, the sunlight glinting off his silver hair. But soon, she turned her gaze inward, focusing on the space she had created for herself amid the chaos of the shore.

Aegon shifted beside her, his movements unguarded and instinctive. He leaned into her as though seeking solace, resting his head against her shoulder without a word. His sketchbook lay across his lap, charcoal smudging the corners of his fingertips as he made slow, deliberate strokes on the paper. The rhythmic crash of the waves seemed to mirror the steady movement of his hand, a quiet song to accompany his focus.

Without thinking, Rhaenyra’s fingers found their way to his curls, brushing through them with light, absentminded strokes. His hair was soft and slightly damp, carrying traces of the ocean air. Aegon didn’t glance up, but the corner of his mouth twitched in acknowledgment—a subtle sign that her touch was appreciated.

“What are you working on?” Rhaenyra asked softly, her voice almost lost to the breeze.

“Nothing important,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed a quiet pride. He angled the sketchbook slightly, letting her see the rough outline of the cliffs of Dragonstone, their jagged peaks rising against a backdrop of swirling waves. In the corner, he had begun sketching the silhouette of Syrax, the dragon’s wings outstretched in majestic flight.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, her fingers continuing their gentle rhythm in his hair. “Your eye for detail is improving.”

Aegon shrugged, though his cheeks flushed slightly under her praise. “It’s easier when there’s nothing else to do but sweat.”

She chuckled softly, her laughter light and airy, like a breath of wind skipping over the shore. “Perhaps the heat is good for your artistry, then.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked toward her, catching the teasing glimmer in her gaze. “If it gets any hotter, I might sketch myself wilting.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, the sound blending with the distant calls of gull’s overhead. For a moment, neither spoke, letting the warmth of the sun and the murmurs of the sea fill the silence between them. Rhaenyra’s fingers continued to glide through Aegon’s curls as he leaned into her shoulder, his slight weight anchoring her amidst the swirling heat and laughter around them. The steady rhythm of his charcoal on the page mirrored the crash of the waves nearby, the two sounds blending into a soothing cadence. She glanced down at the sketchbook again, taking in the careful strokes that captured the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone and the frothing sea below. Each line seemed imbued with quiet determination, as though Aegon were trying to carve his place into the world, one sketch at a time.

“You’ve always had such a way of seeing things,” she said softly, her voice barely heard over the breeze.

Aegon paused, glancing up at her with a mixture of curiosity and self-consciousness. “What do you mean?” he asked, his tone guarded as though bracing for criticism.

Rhaenyra smiled, her hand stilling briefly in his hair before resuming its gentle rhythm. “The other boys, Jaehaerys with his swords, Aemond with his drive, they express themselves so boldly. But you… you have an eye for detail, for understanding what others might overlook.” She gestured faintly to the sketch. “Even here, you’re capturing not just the cliffs but the way the light dances on the waves, the life beneath the surface.”

Aegon shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing. “It’s just a drawing,” he muttered, though the faint blush creeping into his cheeks betrayed his attempt at modesty.

“It’s more than that,” Rhaenyra insisted, tilting her head to meet his uncertain gaze. “You notice things, Aegon. You feel things deeply, and that’s a rare gift. Jaehaerys and Aemond may find strength in blades or dragons, but you understand the people beyond the castle walls. That is just as powerful.”

Aegon blinked, her words sinking in slowly. He looked down at his hands, stained with charcoal, and then back at the sketch. “You really think so?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with vulnerability.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened, and she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “I know so,” she said firmly. “You’ve already begun to shine, not just as a dragon rider, but as a brother, a Prince, and one day, a leader. Trust in that, Aegon.”

For a moment, the weight of her words settled over them like a warm embrace. Aegon leaned further into her, his gaze returning to his sketch with renewed focus. The tension that so often clung to his shoulders seemed to ease, replaced by a quiet determination.

In the distance, the joyous cries of the other children reached them, carried by the ocean breeze. Rhaenyra watched as Jaehaerys splashed Lucerys, the younger boy retaliating with a fierce wave of water that drenched them both. Larissa and Valaena laughed, their bright voices ringing out against the crash of the waves. The sight filled her with a profound sense of gratitude, a fleeting but precious reprieve from the storm clouds that so often loomed over their family.

Aegon followed her gaze, his lips quirking into a small smile. “They’re loud,” he commented, though the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

“They are,” Rhaenyra agreed, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder. “But so are you, in your own way.”

The rhythmic crash of the waves provided a backdrop to the impromptu duel further up the beach. Harwin Strong and Daemon Targaryen circled one another, swords gleaming in the golden sunlight, their movements casting long shadows across the sand. Daemon’s silver hair caught the light as he lunged forward dramatically, his blade slicing through the air with an exaggerated flourish.

“Is that all you’ve got, Ser Harwin?” Daemon taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “I thought they called you Breakbones for a reason!”

Harwin grinned, sidestepping the attack with ease. “And here I thought Targaryen’s were supposed to be fearsome fighters. You’re making me question the legends, my Prince.”

This earned a round of laughter from their spectators. Aemond leaned forward eagerly from his spot on the blanket, his hands in the air. “Show him, Uncle Daemon!” he shouted, his voice bright with excitement. “Knock him into the sea!”

On the other side of the makeshift arena, Jaehaerys smirked, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. “Uncle Harwin don’t let him win! He’ll be insufferable for weeks!”

Daemon turned his head slightly toward Jaehaerys, raising an eyebrow in mock offense. “You dare question my honour, boy?” he called, narrowly blocking Harwin’s swift strike. “You might be next.”

Jaehaerys just laughed, clearly unfazed. “Only if you survive Uncle Harwin first!”

The children erupted in laughter, their voices a cheerful cacophony that mingled with the sound of the ocean. Larissa and Valaena clapped and cheered, their smaller frames bouncing on the sand as they rooted for their father. Aemond, ever the diligent observer, pointed out each deft manoeuvre to the younger children like a seasoned commentator.

“Did you see that twist? He’s going to feint left next,” Aemond predicted as Harwin lunged forward, blade flashing toward Daemon’s side. Lucerys watched with wide eyes, taking a seat next to Aemond on his knees.

But Daemon, ever the showman, spun dramatically to dodge the strike, his sword sweeping low in an arc that nearly caught Harwin off balance. He straightened, smirking, and gestured grandly to the onlookers. “Witness, children! This is the form of a true warrior!”

Harwin rolled his eyes, adjusting his stance as he caught his breath. “And this is the humility of a true Targaryen.”

The quip earned another round of laughter. Aemond leapt to his feet, pumping his fists in the air. “Finish him, Uncle! He can’t match a dragon!”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t actually breathe fire,” Jaehaerys quipped, earning a snicker from Aegon, who was half-watching with an amused smirk from his perch next to Rhaenyra.

As the duel wore on, Harwin began to press his advantage, his movements swift and calculated. He ducked under one of Daemon’s wide sweeps, stepping inside the prince’s guard and locking swords with him in a loud clang that drew gasps from the audience. The children had all gathered to the edge of blankets now, cheering and clapping with each move and strike.

“Not bad,” Daemon muttered, his grin belying the strain in his tone. “For a man weighed down by honour.”

“Not bad yourself,” Harwin replied, shoving Daemon back and pivoting for another strike. “For a man weighed down by ego.”

The children howled with laughter, their cheers and taunts spurring the fighters on. Larissa and Valaena jumped to their feet, clinging to each other in giddy excitement. Lucerys clapped loudly, shouting advice that both fighters promptly ignored.

Finally, Daemon, ever the dramatist, allowed Harwin to corner him near the waterline. With a theatrical groan of defeat, he dropped his sword and stumbled back into the shallows, arms flailing for effect.

“You have bested me!” he declared, his voice booming like a proclamation. “Harwin Strong is the true Breakbones!”

Harwin laughed, lowering his weapon and stepping back as the tide rushed up to soak Daemon’s boots. The children swarmed around them, their laughter echoing across the beach as they celebrated Harwin’s victory with unbridled glee. Aemond and Jaehaerys led the charge, each shouting exaggerated praise for the winner.

“You’ve bested a dragon!” Aemond cried, tugging at Harwin’s arm as though to inspect him for hidden magic.

“Better luck next time, Uncle Daemon,” Jaehaerys teased, crossing his arms as he grinned down at the damp and defeated prince. “If you’re willing to learn, I could give you a few pointers.”

Daemon sat up, dripping but grinning, and pointed a finger at Jaehaerys. “Careful, boy. The next duel might be yours.”

As the waves lapped at the shore, the group dissolved into laughter and playful banter. Laenor clapped his hands together with mock seriousness, dividing the children into two spirited teams.

“Alright, my brave adventurers,” he declared with a wide grin, his enthusiasm contagious. “The challenge is simple! Find the most spectacular shells, and the victorious team earns the title of Shell Lords of Dragonstone!”

Larissa squealed with excitement, racing ahead before her team had even been formally organized. She crouched low by the water’s edge, her small hands darting through the wet sand. Each new shell she uncovered earned a triumphant cry.

“Look, look!” she called, holding up a perfectly rounded piece of coral-pink shell. The sunlight caught the smooth surface, making it gleam like a precious gem.

Lucerys, ever the steady one, followed in her wake, carefully placing each find into an already brimming bucket. “Slow down, Larissa,” he called, though his tone lacked any real reprimand. “You’re going to trip and fall into the tide pools.”

“I’m winning!” Larissa shot back with a toothy grin, already darting off to another promising patch of sand.

Nearby, Valaena and Aemond worked as a surprisingly well-coordinated team. Aemond, usually reserved, had taken to scouring the beach with surprising intensity, his sharp eye spotting shells hidden beneath mounds of kelp or nestled in rocky crevices. Valaena trailed behind, eagerly collecting and carrying their growing pile of treasures. “We’re going to beat you, Larissa!” she declared, shaking a delicate spiral shell in triumph.

“You wish!” Larissa called over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out playfully.

Laenor, laughing at the competitive energy among the children, knelt by a tide pool to examine a cluster of shining white shells.

“This one,” he said, holding up a long, curved fragment, “is clearly the best. Perfect for my team!” He tossed it into Lucerys’ bucket with a wink, prompting an exaggerated groan from his son.

“That’s cheating, Father,” Lucerys said, though the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“It’s called strategic shell hunting,” Laenor replied with mock gravity, placing a hand over his heart.

Further down the beach, Aegon had abandoned their sketchbooks to join in, offering enthusiastic commentary on the unfolding competition.

“Aemond, you’re supposed to use your eye, not scare the shells into hiding!” Jaehaerys teased, earning a glare from his younger uncle.

“Focus on your own team, Jae,” Aemond shot back, tossing a handful of sand in his direction with a smirk.

The children’s laughter, carried by the ocean breeze, slowly began to quiet as the shell-collecting contest neared its conclusion. Buckets and hands brimmed with iridescent treasures, and Laenor, his forehead glistening with sweat, dramatically declared a tie. “It seems,” he announced, holding his arms wide, “that we are all Shell Lords of Dragonstone!”

The children cheered, their joy bubbling over like the tide at their feet. But as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the shoreline in hues of amber and crimson, the atmosphere softened. The warmth of the day lingered, but the frenetic energy gave way to a quieter, reflective stillness.

Rhaenyra approached the edge of the tide, her bare feet sinking into the wet, cool sand. She watched Larissa and Valaena arrange their shells in intricate patterns, their focus intense as though creating something sacred. Lucerys sat nearby, rinsing his hands in the shallows, the rippling water washing away the grains of sand clinging to his fingers. Aegon wandered a little farther, kicking at stray seaweed with absentminded movements, while Jaehaerys and Helaena crouched by a tide pool, tracing shapes in the sand.

As Rhaenyra took a moment to breathe in the salty air, Aegon joined her, his steps soft against the damp sand. Without a word, he leaned against her side, his head resting against her arm in the same instinctive gesture he had made earlier on the blanket. The weight of his presence brought a quiet comfort, grounding her amidst the shifting waves and fading light.

“What’s on your mind, byka zaldrīzes?” she asked gently, her voice barely louder than the tide.

Aegon shrugged, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the water met the sky. “Just… thinking,” he mumbled, his tone unusually subdued.

Rhaenyra turned slightly, resting her hand on his shoulder. “About what?”

For a moment, Aegon didn’t reply. He kicked at the sand, drawing invisible lines with his foot. Then, with a hesitant exhale, he admitted, “Sometimes, I feel like I’m… not enough.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and unguarded. Rhaenyra blinked, her heart tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. “Not enough for what?” she asked softly, encouraging him to continue.

“For… everything,” Aegon said, gesturing vaguely. “For you, for Father, for this family. Jae’s your heir, Luke’s braver, Aemond’s smart… even the girls and they aren’t even Targaryen’s. And me?” He gave a hollow laugh. “I’m just… here.”

Rhaenyra’s hand moved to his hair, brushing through his curls with a tenderness that belied the strength she had always tried to impart.

“Aegon,” she began, her voice firm but warm, “you are so much more than you see right now. You are enough and you are loved. You are one of the biggest parts of this family.”

Aegon turned to look at her then, his wide, unsure eyes meeting her steady gaze. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” Rhaenyra said without hesitation. “And I see it every day. In the way you guide your siblings, your nephews and your cousins, the way you listen, and the way you care, even if you don’t think anyone notices. Those qualities make a true leader, Aegon. Not just power, but heart.”

Her words seemed to settle over him like the calming embrace of the tide. Aegon swallowed, his posture relaxing slightly as he leaned into her again.

“Thank you, sister,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of the confidence she knew he could find within himself.

Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to his temple, her hand lingering on his shoulder. As they stood there together, watching the sun dip lower, she felt a glimmer of hope—a reassurance that, in time, Aegon would come to see the strength she saw in him.

Behind them, the sounds of the other children drifted closer. Jaehaerys and Helaena joined Lucerys in the water, their playful banter softened by the approaching evening. Larissa and Valaena carried their shell creations proudly toward Laenor and Harwin, eager for their approval. Aemond was conversing with Daemon, his hands flailing wildly as he discussed Daemon’s techniques in the mock duel. The day’s earlier chaos had given way to a peaceful camaraderie, the warmth of family ties holding them all together.

Rhaenyra sighed, her heart full as she stood amidst the gentle waves and fading light. For now, at least, the burdens of their world seemed far away, replaced by the small but profound moments that made them whole.

--

“So… when are you going to tell me about it?” Laenor’s voice broke through Rhaenyra’s quiet as she sat with her youngest babe, humming a song to him to soothe him as he grumbled. He had been fussier in the heat, taking his time to settle and letting out whimpering cries. Rhaenyra looked up to her husband, who leaned against the entrance to the nursery with an amused smirk on his handsome features.

“I do not know of what you speak, dear husband,” she responded lightly. It had been three days since the first kiss with Daemon, and she had burned ever since. He had stolen her away throughout the days, sneaking kisses with her in the shadows, teasing her and building up her desire for him, yet never following through with the act. It was maddening yet enticing at the same time. She had never known she could desire someone this much.

“Oh really… here I thought we do not lie to one another, my loving wife,” Laenor grinned, stepping towards her to relieve her of Aerion, who had moved into a full cry. Rhaenyra sighed, her lips curving into a small, weary smile as Laenor took the squalling babe from her arms.

“I do not lie, my dear husband,” she replied lightly, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. She adjusted her skirts, brushing away invisible specks of dust, her movements measured and calm despite the fussing child.

Aerion’s cries softened as Laenor cradled him against his chest, bouncing gently on his heels.

“There now,” Laenor murmured, his voice low and soothing. “No need to wake all of Dragonstone with your little protests.” He shot a pointed glance at Rhaenyra, his smirk widening. “Though I must say, I suspect our youngest is learning the art of theatrics from his mother.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her amusement barely masked. “If that were true, he would already have the court hanging on his every whim.”

“Well, he does have you wrapped around his little finger,” Laenor teased, earning a soft chuckle from his wife.

She leaned back in her chair, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze drifting toward the window where the moon shone bright in the sky. “And what of you, my dear Laenor?” she asked, her tone playful but tinged with affection. “How is it that you always manage to calm him so effortlessly?”

“Simple,” Laenor replied with a grin, shifting Aerion in his arms as the baby let out a contented sigh. “He knows his father is a natural with dragons… even the smallest ones.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. For a moment, the tension that had been coiled within her seemed to ease, replaced by the quiet comfort of their shared banter. Yet, beneath her smile, her thoughts remained tangled. Laenor’s words earlier still lingered in the air like an unspoken challenge.

He tilted his head, watching her with sharp but kind eyes. “Rhaenyra,” he said after a pause, his voice softer now, “you don’t fool me, you know.”

She looked at him, her expression carefully composed, but the quick flash of guilt in her eyes betrayed her. “Fool you?” she echoed, her voice light as though brushing off his remark. “I would never dream of it.”

Laenor chuckled, shaking his head as he continued to rock their youngest child There was no edge to his laughter, only warmth. “I saw you and Daemon. In the courtyard.”

Rhaenyra froze for a heartbeat, her fingers stilling where they rested on her gown. A faint blush crept into her cheeks as she looked down, her lips pressing together.

“What of it?” she asked, her tone measured but not defensive.

Laenor took a step closer, adjusting Aerion in his arms as the babe let out a soft whimper.

“And,” he said, his grin softening into something more genuine, “it’s about time.”

Her gaze snapped up to meet his, surprise flickering across her face.

“About time?” she repeated, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice. She had never begrudged Laenor his preferences, they had done everything to ensure that they could both pursue what they wanted outside of their marriage, yet she had not yet taken a paramour. For Laenor to just give his blessing was a balm to her that she hadn’t known she needed.

He smiled, rocking Aerion gently as he continued. “Rhaenyra, we’ve always been honest with each other about what we are and what we aren’t. You deserve to feel alive, to want and be wanted. If that’s with Daemon, then so be it.”

She stared at him, her composure slipping just enough to reveal the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. “You mean that?” she asked quietly.

“Of course, I do,” Laenor replied with an easy shrug. “You’ve always supported me… with Qarl.” His voice softened, carrying the weight of unspoken gratitude. “How could I not wish for the same happiness for you? We’re partners, Rhaenyra, and that doesn’t change.”

Her lips parted as though to respond, but no words came. Instead, she smiled. It was a small, tentative thing that spoke volumes more than anything she could say. “Thank you,” she murmured finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Laenor tilted his head, his grin widening. “Just don’t let him think he’s won too easily,” he teased, his tone lighter now. “Make him work for it. The man’s cocky enough as it is.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, a genuine warmth breaking through the weight she had been carrying. For the first time in days, she felt the simmering tension within her begin to ease, replaced by a sense of gratitude for the man standing before her. Laenor reached out to her and took her hand in his. She was radiant, even in moments like this—radiant and burdened all at once. It was a weight he had seen press against her shoulders ever since she had taken on the fight for the crown, ever since the world demanded she fight for her very birthright.

“I love you, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice steady but edged with quiet intensity. She glanced up at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “And you deserve happiness. The throne, the kingdom… none of it means anything if you are not happy.”

Rhaenyra faltered, her gaze dropping to Aerion’s tiny, curling fists. For all her strength, Laenor knew she carried the sharp sting of the sacrifices they had made—the humiliation, the rumours that shadowed their union like vultures circling. She did not often allow herself to dwell on such things aloud, but he could see it in the way her hand stilled in his own, her fingers curling slightly around his as though to anchor herself.

“We have given everything for the throne,” Laenor continued, stepping toward her. Aerion whimpered again, and he gently rocked the babe, cradling him close with practiced ease. “The embarrassment, the slander… the cost of it all. But at what point do we say it’s enough?”

He rocked Aerion as Rhaenyra remained quiet, her expression carefully composed. But beneath her silence, Laenor felt the weight of her storm—a storm she had been carrying alone, even as Daemon had started to feed the flames.

He had seen them. In the courtyard, their shared looks, the stolen touches, the whispers that lingered like smoke on the air. It had been a waiting game on the two falling together since the Dragon Rider had waltzed back into their lives. He had felt the shift in Rhaenyra; the way her gaze seemed brighter, her steps lighter. She was coming alive in a way she hadn’t for years, and though it pained him to admit it, he knew the source.

Daemon brought her a joy that he could not. And perhaps that was okay.

Laenor’s grip tightened slightly around Aerion, his mind drifting back to his own quiet moments of happiness with Qarl. His lover’s laughter, the easy way they fit into each other’s lives; it was a solace, a reminder that love could take on many forms. He wanted that for Rhaenyra, wanted her to feel the same joy, the same freedom.

But if he remained in the picture, her path to Daemon would always be obscured. It was not bitterness that filled him, but a quiet acceptance. Their marriage had always been a pact, an alliance built on necessity rather than passion. What they shared had been enough for a time, but the world was changing and so were they.

He sighed, rocking Aerion as the babe’s cries faded into soft breaths. “Rhaenyra,” he said finally, his voice calm but resolute, “I see what Daemon means to you. If he makes you happy, if he makes you feel alive, you should chase that. I would never stand in the way of your happiness, Rhaenyra.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, her gaze softened, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to truly look at him; not as her husband or her ally, but as the man who had stood beside her through everything.

“Thank you,” she whispered after a long pause, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for… understanding.”

As Laenor placed Aerion in his cradle, he found himself gazing out the window at the horizon beyond Dragonstone. He wondered how long it would take before his role in this story came to an end. But if that was what it took for Rhaenyra to truly find her joy, then he would let her go.

Because love, after all, was about more than holding on. It was knowing when to step aside.

Chapter Text

Laenor and Rhaenyra spent the next few weeks at Dragonstone dedicating themselves wholly to the children they had gathered into their sprawling, unconventional brood. Though laughter and warmth filled their days, an undercurrent of bittersweet determination ran through their efforts.

For Laenor, these moments were anchors, stabilising his restless thoughts. He often lost himself in stories spun for the youngest, his dramatic retellings of dragon flights and sea battles earning giggles and wide-eyed admiration. His voice carried a rich timbre, a blend of theatrical flair and gentle reassurance. When the children clamoured for another tale, he obliged with the same flourish; his deep laugh echoing through the chamber. Yet, in the quiet moments of solitude, the shadow of doubt crept into his gaze, as though he questioned the longevity of this fleeting peace.

Rhaenyra, meanwhile, balanced warmth and calculation as she moved through their days. Her touch lingered on the children's shoulders, grounding them in the assurance of her presence. Her moments with Aegon, however, were laced with intention and purpose. Beneath the shade of the trees in Aegon’s Garden, surrounded by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze, she placed several worn tomes in his hands.

“Start with these,” she instructed softly, the faint scent of parchment mingling with the earthy aroma of the trees. “I want your thoughts on what you read.”

Aegon traced his fingers over the embossed leather spines of the books, feeling the uneven ridges beneath his touch. The weight of the volumes seemed heavier than they should, not because of their physical mass but because of the unspoken expectation they carried. He settled onto the stone bench nearby, the cool surface pressing through the fabric of his tunic, grounding him as he opened the first book.

The pages greeted him with densely packed lines of text, the ink slightly smudged in places as if mocking his struggle. His gaze flickered across the first few words, but they jumbled and shifted under his scrutiny—letters twisting and merging into incomprehensible patterns. A familiar frustration clawed at his chest, a tight knot that made his breath hitch. He clenched the edge of the book, willing his mind to focus, to untangle the mess the words had become.

After several moments, he managed to piece together a phrase—something about governance, wisdom, and duty. The ideals were lofty, almost poetic, but the effort required to decipher them drained whatever inspiration they might have sparked. His lips pressed into a thin line as he traced the sentence again, his progress slow and uneven. Did those rulers ever truly understand the lives they professed to care for? Aegon doubted it. Their words felt detached, unfeeling—a polished veneer covering a reality they likely never dared to confront.

He flipped to the next page, his movements sharp, almost angry. The second book was even denser, filled with strategies for infrastructure, education, and welfare reforms. Each paragraph seemed to stretch endlessly, the text weaving a maze that his mind struggled to navigate. His brow furrowed deeper as he forced himself to focus, his eye darting back and forth, the letters often refusing to stay in their proper places. The logic of the arguments was stark and pragmatic, but the effort to parse them left him exhausted. Were these calculations too detached from the human cost? Could anyone truly make such choices without losing part of their soul in the process?

Aegon sighed, his gaze dropping to the book resting heavily in his lap. He wanted to throw it aside, to give in to the frustration that built like a storm within him, but he knew Rhaenyra expected more. Her voice echoed faintly in his mind—steady and resolute: “Start with these. Tell me your thoughts. What should the priorities be?” She hadn't mentioned his struggle, hadn't acknowledged the difficulty she surely knew he faced, and part of him resented her for it. Yet, another part of him understood. She wasn’t asking him to be perfect; she was asking him to try.

As he glanced back at the page, the words swam again, the challenge mocking his resolve. His finger traced the edge of the text as though grounding himself in its presence might calm the chaos in his mind. Slowly, painfully, he began to push forward, his thoughts teetering between doubt and determination. Somewhere amid frustration, a spark flickered’ small, barely noticeable, but enough to keep him moving.

His finger halted, tracing the edges of a sentence advocating empathy in leadership. The concept lingered in his mind, heavy and disquieting. Empathy, he thought. Could he embody such a virtue? To lead not just through power, but through understanding—the idea felt both distant and intimidating. He gripped the edge of the book tightly, as if the pressure might keep his doubts at bay.

From across the Garden, Rhaenyra watched him silently, her gaze steady and contemplative. She took in his hunched shoulders, the way he gripped the book like it might slip from his grasp. He seemed weighed down not just by the difficulty of the task but by the doubts simmering beneath it. She remained composed, her thoughts guarded, though her heart ached to bridge the distance she felt between them.

After a moment, she stepped closer, her shadow briefly mingling with his. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, her tone low and reassuring. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, a fleeting pressure that conveyed a quiet strength. Then, with deliberate steps, she withdrew, allowing him space to wrestle with the words alone.

Aegon stared down at the page, the letters swimming before his eyes. He wanted to close the book, to abandon the frustration it brought, but something deeper kept him rooted. Beneath the doubt, beneath the struggle, a faint ember smouldered. It was small and fragile, but it was enough. For now.

--

The clang of steel against steel reverberated through the courtyard as Daemon’s sword collided with Aemond’s once again, the impact shuddering through the boy’s frame. Sweat dripped from Aemond’s brow, tracing the curve of his scarred cheek before disappearing beneath his tunic collar. His breathing was laboured, his remaining eye blazing with determination. The scar that knit together where his other eye had once been was no longer covered; he had insisted on baring it, as if defiance alone could turn vulnerability into strength.

Daemon stepped back, lowering his blade only slightly.

“Your strike is too wide,” he said curtly. His tone held no sympathy, though there was an undercurrent of something sharper—a steely insistence that Aemond not be allowed to falter because of his injury. “If you give your opponent an opening, they’ll take your head next time.”

Aemond adjusted his grip, his fingers trembling but firm.

“They’ll have to do more than take my eye, then,” he growled. The words were bitter, but his stance straightened, his will unyielding.

Daemon smirked faintly, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. He advanced again, his movements deliberate but swift, forcing Aemond to react with heightened awareness.

“Stop relying on sight alone,” Daemon barked, his blade darting toward the boy’s left flank. “Feel the weight of the sword. Sense the shift in the air. Your enemy won’t care about your disadvantages, they’ll exploit them.”

Aemond gritted his teeth, his blade barely intercepting Daemon’s strike in time. The collision sent a jarring pain through his arm, but he refused to yield. Daemon’s relentless training wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty; it was a calculated harshness meant to shape Aemond into something more—a warrior who would not crumble when the world sought to crush him.

Nearby, under the partial shade of the training yard’s overhang, Jaehaerys hovered close, his gaze flickering between Aemond’s sparring and his own training session. He gripped his practice sword tightly, the leather-wrapped hilt slick with the sweat of exertion. Ser Harwin stood before him, his massive frame imposing but steady, offering advice in his low, gravelly voice.

“Your footing is solid,” Harwin praised, though he pointed toward Jaehaerys’ shield with a sharp gesture. “But don’t forget your guard. A strong stance means little if you’re vulnerable up top.”

Lucerys, his younger brother, stood a few paces away, mock-flourishing his blade with youthful enthusiasm. “Perhaps Jaehaerys just likes to show off,” he teased, flashing his brother a grin. “Look at him—he’s practically inviting a blow to the head.”

“Quiet, Luc!” Jaehaerys shot back, his cheeks flushing slightly. He adjusted his shield position, glancing toward Harwin for approval.

The interplay of their training created a layered symphony of motion, Harwin’s steady encouragement, Jaehaerys’ disciplined focus, Lucerys’ playful quips. Yet, Jaehaerys couldn’t help but glance back at Aemond every now and then, his expression thoughtful. His uncle’s struggle was different from his own; there was a rawness to Aemond’s efforts, an edge forged in pain and loss that Jaehaerys couldn’t fully comprehend.

Daemon noticed the boy’s gaze and called out sharply, “Focus on your own training, Jaehaerys, unless you think yourself capable of fighting blind as well.”

Jaehaerys startled slightly but returned his attention to Harwin’s instructions. The sound of clashing of swords and exchange of encouraging, if harsh, words continued for a short while longer, until Rhaenyra approached with Aerion strapped to her chest in a red cloth harness. She looked the vision of the mother, concern dashing over her features as she watched Aemond sweating. Her breath caught when Daemon parried a particularly harsh blow to the boy of only nine years.

“Enough!” she shrieked, hitching her skirts and dashing over to her younger brother. Swords were rapidly dropped at her approach, the boys turning to her in surprise as she knelt next to Aemond who was sprawled on the ground. Rhaenyra fussed over him, her hands running over his form, taking particular care to check over his scars and ensure his scar had not ripped.

“He’s fine, Rhaenyra,” Daemon stated, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t even broken a sweat in his training of the boy, and the linen tunic he wore hung loose over his lean, yet muscled frame. Rhaenyra’s head spun to him; her teeth almost bared as she glared at him.

“He is not fine, Uncle! He can barely catch his breath; you are lucky his scar did not rip open! He is just a boy; you do not need to train him like he is a grown warrior!”

Daemon’s smirk deepened as Rhaenyra’s blazing violet gaze bore into him. Her fury, though intense, entertained him more than anything else; she was ever the dragon when her protective instincts flared.

“You wound me, Rhaenyra,” he murmured with the barest hint of mockery, his tone smooth as silk. “The boy is made of sterner stuff than you think.” His grip loosened on the hilt of his sword, one hand languidly resting on his hip as he stepped toward her.

Rhaenyra, still kneeling beside Aemond, bristled at his dismissive attitude. Her fingers lingered on the boy’s shoulder as she checked for any sign of pain beyond his laboured breathing. Aerion squirmed slightly in his harness, oblivious to the tension around him.

Daemon crouched beside them, his movements unhurried and unthreatening, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Look at him, niece,” he said, motioning with one hand. “He’s still holding his ground—even after I tested him. Aemond might be young, but he’s no fragile flower. You fret too much”

The cavalier dismissal in his words tipped her over the edge.

“Fret?” she spat, her voice crackling with raw emotion. “He is nine years old, Daemon! He shouldn’t have to prove his worth by risking his health under your relentless training. He carries enough scars already!”

Daemon’s smirk deepened, and this time, her stomach twisted—not in rage, but something far more disconcerting. She bit down the unwelcome thought, forcing her attention back to Aemond. She wanted to shield her younger brother, protect him from harm, but another part of her felt like she was trying to shield herself. From what? The feeling she refused to name… the one that came creeping back every time Daemon looked at her like that, his eyes glittering with mischief and challenge. Aemond, his breathing slowly steadying, pushed himself onto his elbows and managed to sit up.

As if to save her from herself, Aemond’s voice, though shaky, broke the tense moment. “I’m fine, sister,” he said, his tone as resolute as he could muster despite the obvious effort it took to speak. His eye, filled with determination, locked onto hers. “I wanted this.”

Daemon’s lips curved further upward. “See? The boy has fire in his veins, like the rest of us.”

Rhaenyra drew a sharp breath, her hands pausing in their ministrations. The fire in her chest flared again—this time, not just for Daemon, but for this stubborn little brother who refused to back down. She exhaled, casting a sidelong glance at Daemon as if to measure his reaction to Aemond’s defiance. His smirk had softened—not into mockery, but something closer to pride. “That doesn’t mean you need to break him,” she hissed. “He carries enough scars; he doesn’t need any more.”

Daemon straightened, his gaze sweeping over his niece and nephew. “Scars are reminders, Rhaenyra. A testament to survival. Let him learn to wield his fire before the world tries to extinguish it.”

Aemond adjusted his stance, tugging at his sweat-soaked tunic. “I want to be ready,” he interjected, his voice trembling but resolute. “You can’t stop me.”

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, brushing strands of hair from her flushed face. “You’re impossibly stubborn, both of you,” she muttered, reaching to help Aemond to his feet. “But mark my words, Daemon, if he suffers under your teaching, I will make you regret it.”

Daemon straightened to his full height, the loose linen tunic shifting over his frame as he casually rested a hand on his hip.

“He’s stronger than you give him credit for,” he said smoothly, that devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips again. “You’d see that if you’d stop coddling him.”

Her grip on Aemond’s shoulder tightened as she turned to glare at Daemon, her violet eyes shimmering with the wrath only a Targaryen could summon. “And you,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice dropping to a hiss, “would do well to remember that his scars may be badges of survival, but they do not make him invincible.”

Daemon chuckled, a low and infuriating sound that sent a shiver down her spine even as it riled her temper.

 “I wouldn’t dare forget, niece,” he said softly, his tone dripping with something dangerously close to affection. “But it seems you’ve forgotten something, too.”

Her brow furrowed as his words lingered in the air, laden with meaning she couldn’t quite decipher. And before she could demand an answer, he turned his attention back to Aemond, ruffling the boy’s sweat-dampened hair like a dragon acknowledging a hatchling’s first flame.

--

Rhaenyra, her heart still hammering from the earlier confrontation, could feel the exhaustion weighing down her steps as she left the training grounds behind. The clash of swords and shouted commands faded into the background, replaced by the muted rustle of the keep’s corridors and the faint smell of parchment and candlewax wafting from the library nearby. Peaceful pastures, she thought wistfully, though her mind remained clouded with tension and frustration.

She found her solace quickly enough, her beloved sister tucked away in a small alcove near the library. The girl’s profile was soft in the dim light, her focus completely absorbed in the delicate embroidery she worked on. The steady motion of her fingers wielding needle and thread created a quiet rhythm, soothing in its simplicity.

Rhaenyra’s eyes fell on the design as she drew closer. Against the black cloth, a green tower stood alight with orange flame. Silver stars glimmered in the dark sky above it, while delicate vines crept up the tower’s sides. The image was hauntingly beautiful, yet it stirred an unease within Rhaenyra. Flame and shadow, silver and green, the colours and symbols felt heavy with meaning, a story told in thread, yet one she could not fully unravel. Rhaenyra settled beside her sister, watching the needle thread through black cloth with measured precision. For a moment, all was calm—the rhythmic motion of Helaena’s fingers, the faint flicker of candlelight against the alcove walls, and the muffled sounds of the keep beyond.

“What story do you sew today, sweet sister?” Rhaenyra asked gently, though a faint shiver ran down her spine at the sight of the flames.

Helaena glanced at her, a faraway look in her pale eyes, her lips curling in a secretive smile. “A tower,” she said softly, her words floating like smoke. “A proud tower that reaches too high. It burns, but its ashes give way to gold.”

Rhaenyra stilled, her brow furrowing as she regarded her sister more closely. “Gold?” she murmured, the word leaving her lips almost involuntarily. Her gaze flicked back to the embroidery, tracing the flames that leapt from the green threads. “What do you mean, Helaena?”

Her sister’s needle paused midair, her head tilting as if she heard something that Rhaenyra could not—a whisper on the wind, a distant voice. She blinked slowly, her tone growing distant, layered with the cadence of prophecy. “Green towers crumble, their vines consumed by golden flames. Stars burn; brighter in the night.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught, the cryptic words curling through her thoughts like tendrils of smoke. Though she could not decipher their meaning entirely, unease tightened its grip around her chest.

“Helaena,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with urgency, “what does this mean?”

Her sister’s gaze sharpened for a moment, clarity flickering briefly before her usual dreamlike demeanour returned. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her fingers resuming their steady work. “But the vines... they cling tightly until there’s nothing left but ash.”

Rhaenyra’s thoughts churned as she watched Helaena stitch a silver star into the sky above the tower. The girl’s prophecies—obscure, fragmented, yet unerringly true—had always unsettled her. But tonight, as the image unfolded, Rhaenyra couldn’t shake the feeling that her sister’s quiet words carried the weight of something inevitable. Something that would touch them all.

Aerion stirred against her chest, his tiny hands batting at the air. Rhaenyra reached to soothe him, but her gaze lingered on the embroidery. The green tower burned bright against the black cloth, the vines seeming almost alive as they twisted upward, and the silver stars twinkled faintly.

“Helaena,” she said softly, “do you ever wish you could unsee what you see?”

Her sister’s fingers faltered for only a moment. “Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice like a shadow. “But the stars burn whether I look or not.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers brushed against the edge of the embroidery; the cloth soft yet heavy in her hands. The image of the burning green tower seemed almost alive, its orange flames flickering in the dim light. She traced a delicate vine with the tip of her finger, her mind clouded with thoughts of her sister’s cryptic words.

“Helaena,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “The things you say, the way you see... it’s not just a gift, is it?” Her violet eyes searched her sister’s face, finding an ethereal calmness there that only deepened her curiosity. “You’re not like the rest of us. You’re like... like Daenys the Dreamer.”

The needle paused mid-stitch, hovering in Helaena’s delicate hand. Slowly, her gaze lifted, meeting Rhaenyra’s with an intensity that seemed almost out of place in her otherwise dreamlike demeanour.

 “Daenys saw what others couldn’t,” Helaena said quietly, her words carrying a weight that belied her usual soft tones. “She saved us, didn’t she? Guided us to safety before the fire consumed everything.”

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest as the implications settled over her. Could it truly be? Was her sister, the gentle and unassuming Helaena, blessed—or cursed—with the same prophetic visions that had saved their ancestors from Old Valyria’s doom? The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

“And you?” Rhaenyra pressed, her voice trembling slightly. “What do you see, Helaena? What do these flames mean?”

Helaena paused, her needle hovering mid-air, as though the question itself had summoned an unseen truth. “The towers burn,” she said softly, her tone ethereal yet resolute, “but the stars burn brighter.”

Rhaenyra blinked, her chest tightening. “Stars burn brighter?” she echoed, the words both soothing and unsettling. “You speak in riddles, sister.”

Helaena met her gaze with a clarity that seemed almost otherworldly. “It is not riddles,” she said, her voice carrying the cadence of prophecy, “but truth. The towers fall to fire, but the stars endure, their flames outshining all else. The dragon’s light will rise higher than ever before.”

As Helaena’s words sank into the air, a weight seemed to settle on Rhaenyra’s shoulders—a burden of destiny she hadn’t known she carried until now. The stars burning brighter were not merely symbols; they were a promise, an omen that the Targaryen’s, for all their scars and struggles, would emerge renewed, their fire unyielding.

Her sister’s needle resumed its quiet rhythm, sewing silver flames that seemed to dance with life. Rhaenyra placed her hand on Helaena’s, halting the motion momentarily.

“You see what others cannot,” she said softly, awe mingling with fear. “You are not just gifted—you are a dreamer, like Daenys.”

Helaena tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “The stars burn brighter because the dragon must rise,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But even stars cast shadows.”

Her voice trailed off, leaving a silence so profound it seemed to echo in the small alcove. Rhaenyra felt the weight of her sister’s words pressing down on her, an almost suffocating sense of dread mixed with awe. If Helaena truly was a dreamer, her cryptic warnings were not to be dismissed lightly.

“Helaena,” she said softly, trying to temper the rising urgency in her chest. “What do the stars mean? You said they burn brighter.” Her voice faltered slightly. “Is it because of us, because of the dragons?”

Helaena’s fingers paused, her pale eyes lifting to meet Rhaenyra’s. For a moment, the girl seemed to waver between two worlds—the present and the vast, enigmatic dreams that consumed her. “The stars burn,” she said, her tone distant yet hauntingly melodic, “because their fire is meant to guide us. Even in the darkest nights, their light will not fade.”

The words were comforting, but there was an undercurrent of something more—a warning, perhaps, or a burden carried by those who bore the flame. Rhaenyra leaned closer, unable to resist the pull of her sister’s cryptic wisdom. “And the towers?” she pressed. “Why do they burn? You see it in your dreams, don’t you?”

Helaena’s gaze dropped back to the cloth, her needle resuming its steady rhythm. “The towers burn green,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Their roots run deep, but their flames are shallow. Golden fire rises higher—it consumes the green, feeds on its ashes, and the stars watch from above.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught as she pieced together the fragments of her sister’s prophecy. The green towers could only mean the Hightower’s; Alicent’s kin, whose ambitions had driven the realm to this breaking point. The golden fire, then... could it signify their family, the Targaryen’s, rising from the chaos stronger than ever? Or was it something darker—a sign that even as they triumphed, they would burn through everything in their path?

“What else do you see, Helaena?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice trembling. “Is this our future? The future of our house?”

Helaena hesitated, her hands faltering for the first time. “The stars burn brighter when the dragons rise,” she said, her tone laced with a sorrow Rhaenyra couldn’t ignore. “But the brighter the fire, the longer the shadow it casts. Some stars fall, Rhaenyra. They fall so others may shine.”

Rhaenyra stared at her sister, her mind racing to make sense of the prophecy. The stars falling... was it a warning? A sign of sacrifice? Her stomach twisted at the thought of what—or who—might be lost for their family to ascend.

“You’ve seen this,” Rhaenyra said, her tone more certain now. “Not just in your mind, but in your dreams. Haven’t you?”

Helaena nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Dreams are like threads,” she said after a long pause. “They weave through time, tangling the past, present, and future. Some knots can never be undone, no matter how hard you try.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes burned as she watched her sister, a girl so often overlooked, now bathed in a strange and luminous light. This realization, this moment, changed everything. Helaena was not simply gifted; she was a beacon, a dreamer carrying the weight of knowledge that could alter the course of their lives.

Reaching out, Rhaenyra placed her hand gently over her sister’s, stopping her next stitch.

“If Daenys saved our house, then perhaps you can save us now,” she said, her voice trembling with both hope and fear. “We’ll listen, Helaena. I’ll listen.”

Helaena’s fingers stilled under her sister’s touch, but her eyes remained fixed on the burning tower taking shape on the cloth.

“Not all dreams are meant to be heeded,” she whispered. “Some fires must burn, no matter how tightly you cling to the vine.”

Rhaenyra’s hand lingered on her sister’s embroidery, her thoughts swirling with the gravity of Helaena’s words. The stars burn brighter, she thought, her heart heavy with both hope and trepidation. Her sister’s calm, dreamlike manner belied the immense burden she carried—the visions that danced through her mind, weaving threads of fate that none but she could see.

Aerion stirred against Rhaenyra’s chest, his tiny hands batting at the air as if reaching for the stars sewn into the cloth. A soft coo escaped his lips, breaking the silence with a sound so pure it seemed to chase away the shadows lingering in the alcove. Rhaenyra glanced down at him, her lips curving into a faint smile despite the weight pressing on her heart.

Helaena’s gaze shifted to the child, her expression softening as she watched him squirm in his red cloth harness. “He’s like the stars,” she murmured, her voice carrying a rare note of affection. “Bright and full of promise.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers brushed against Aerion’s downy hair, her heart swelling with a fierce protectiveness. “And like the stars,” she said quietly, “he will guide us through the dark.”

Helaena’s needle resumed its steady rhythm, the silver stars taking shape one by one. “The stars burn brighter,” she whispered, her tone distant yet resolute. “And so will he.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on her sister, a newfound respect blooming in her chest. Helaena was not just gifted—she was a dreamer, a beacon of light in the darkness. And Aerion, with his innocent cooing and bright eyes, was a reminder of the future they fought to protect.

As the sisters sat together, the weight of prophecy and legacy hung between them, but so did the quiet promise of brighter days ahead.

--

The bath steamed as Rhaenyra lowered into it, the chaos and revelations of the day having pushed her to near exhaustion. Lavender and chamomile blossoms drifted gently on the water's surface, their calming fragrance rising in delicate waves to soothe her restless thoughts. She closed her eyes, letting a soft sigh escape as the warmth enveloped her, easing the tension from her body. Craving solitude, she had sent her Ladies-in-Waiting away, relishing this stolen moment of quiet. Her fingertips skimmed the surface, leaving ripples that danced and shimmered in the candlelight.

The flames of the surrounding candles flickered and swayed, their golden glow casting the chamber in a dreamy, shadowed light. Her lips curled into a faint smile as she rested her head against the edge of the tub, the peace almost tangible. But the tranquillity shattered in an instant, the faint sound of movement reached her ears. Her eyes, a striking violet hue, snapped open wide. Heart pounding, she sat upright, her hand darting to the dagger she kept within arm's reach. Water sloshed to the stone around her, soaking the floor.

Her grip on the dagger faltered as Daemon stepped into the flickering light, his presence as commanding as ever. The faintest smirk played on his lips, a dangerous glint in his eyes that made her pulse quicken despite herself.

“Rhaenyra,” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, like silk brushing against steel. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied, her tone sharper than intended. She set the dagger aside, though her fingers itched to hold onto something—anything—to steady herself. “What are you doing here?”

Daemon’s gaze lingered on her, unapologetic and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to drink in the sight of her.

“I could ask you the same,” he countered, stepping closer. The heat of his presence seemed to rival the warmth of the bathwater, and she hated how acutely aware she was of every inch of him.

“I dismissed my Ladies for the evening,” she said, her voice steady but her heart racing. “I wanted peace.”

“And yet,” he murmured, crouching beside the tub, his face now level with hers, “you don’t seem at peace now.”

Her breath hitched as his hand reached out… not to touch her, but to trail his fingers through the water, sending ripples across the surface. The gesture was maddeningly casual, yet it felt like a challenge, a test of her resolve.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, though the words lacked conviction. Her violet eyes met his, and the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension. He chuckled, soft and dangerous, as his fingers trailed idly through the water, brushing past a floating lavender bloom. The ripples mirrored the turmoil within her, spreading outward and breaking against her resolve.

“Then perhaps I should leave,” he mused, his words a taunt as much as a question.

“Don’t,” she said, too quickly, the single word hanging in the charged air between them.

His smirk softened, but the fire in his gaze remained, drawing her in with the promise of everything unspoken. “I thought not,” he murmured, his voice a silken thread wrapping itself around her.

For weeks, they had danced around this inevitability, their conversations laden with double meanings, their touches lingering just a heartbeat too long. And now, as his hand hovered just above hers, the boundary they’d both skirted for so long was within reach, ready to crumble.

She almost moaned when his fingers grazed her skin, and his lips brushed the edge of her ear.

“I told you that I would show you the true meaning of passion, of heat… and tonight I full intend to do so, my dear niece,” he spoke in Valyrian to her, the words like honey. Rhaenyra inhaled sharply as his fingers traced up her arm, barely touching her skin. His rough fingers ghosted over her collarbone, down the gap between her tender breasts.

“Uncle…” she breathed, and he gently pushed her until she was leaning back against the tub. She could feel the heat radiating off him, as his lips caressed over her neck. His hand massaged her breast, almost painfully gentle, before they adventured along her body, into the rippling water. As Daemon’s fingers reached their destination, she felt a familiar warmth spreading from her core.

She chased the feeling his ministrations caused, arching into his hand. It had been so long since Rhaenyra had been touched, and she found herself weak to him. It overwhelmed all her sense as he built up the tension within her, the heat between them climbing to a feverish temperature.

The entire world was drowned out around them and Rhaenyra allowed herself to be swept up by Daemon, by the culmination of years of want, of desire…

His lips caught hers, the scent of lavender melding with the scent of steel and cinnamon that was so uniquely Daemon. She let out a deep sigh, hands grabbing at his collar as she moaned into his mouth. Their breath mingled, the years of longing finally making way to acceptance and she had to keep herself from pulling him into the water with her. Her kiss was urgent, yet he tempered her with delicate touches, building on her desire for him.

“Slowly, Neice…” he whispered in Valyrian, his self-control waning as he gazed at her luminous form, her soft curves. “We have all night… and I intend to devour every inch of you…”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's skirts swirled around her, the black velvet catching the dim light like shadows in motion, the crimson trim gleaming faintly as if stained by fire. The air within the halls of Dragonstone was heavy with the salt-laden mist from the sea, a sharp, bracing scent that mingled with the faint aroma of warmed stone. The rhythmic murmur of waves crashing against the cliffs far below was punctuated by the occasional shriek of gulls circling overhead, their cries echoing eerily within the fortress.

The torches lining the stone walls flickered and sputtered, their amber glow casting jagged shadows that danced in time with Rhaenyra's steps. The towering arches of the corridor pressed in around her, the cold, grey stone seeming to absorb the heat of her fury. Ancient tapestries swayed slightly, the threads whispering long-forgotten tales of conquest and betrayal.

Behind her, Aegon's hurried footsteps echoed sharply in the silence, his uneven breaths betraying his struggle to keep pace. His books jostled against one another with every step, the soft thud of leather and parchment adding to the chaotic symphony of his panic. His gaze darted repeatedly to Helaena, who walked beside him in tranquil contrast, her fingers trailing along the rough stone wall as if seeking some connection to the past.

The chamber doors loomed ahead, carved dragons twisting and snarling in frozen defiance. Their wooden forms appeared almost alive in the flickering torchlight, their menacing stares seeming to mock Aegon's hesitation. Rhaenyra reached them first, her hands slamming against the heavy doors with such force that they groaned open, revealing the Chamber of the Painted Table within.

The ancient table stretched before her, its surface an intricate map of the realm illuminated by the pale, golden light of suspended lanterns. The carved rivers and mountains seemed to gleam with an unnatural brilliance, each line etched deep with history and consequence. Rhaenyra's fingers curled around the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening as the chill of the polished wood seeped into her skin.

The faint sound of the sea was louder here, amplified by the cavernous design of the chamber. It was a haunting melody, a reminder of the tides that shaped Dragonstone and the turbulent forces threatening to reshape the realm itself. The air was cooler, the stone walls damp to the touch, as if they were sweating under the weight of what had just transpired. Daemon, Harwin and Laenor Daemon, Laenor, and Harwin loomed over the intricate map, their expressions grim as candlelight flickered across the carved outlines of Westeros. The atmosphere was charged, the tension palpable in the silence that stretched between them.

Rhaenyra drew in a sharp breath as she approached the table, her fingers pressing into its surface, the cold wood biting her skin. Her voice, when it came, was fierce but measured.

“Otto planned this,” she said, her anger carefully controlled. “He knew exactly how to corner us, how to make my protest worthless before the realm.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, his violet eyes holding a dangerous gleam. “Perhaps. But cornered does not mean beaten. We are not so easily undone,” he said with defiance, his voice low yet commanding.

Aegon shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between the map and his sister. His trembling voice broke through the silence, hesitant and unsteady. “I… I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.”

Rhaenyra’s fiery gaze softened slightly as she turned to him. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding him as much as herself.

“I know, Aegon,” she said gently, though her voice still carried the weight of her anger. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. None of us did. But it’s not your fault. This is Otto’s doing, not yours.”

Her words were steady, her tone warm enough to ease Aegon's tension without betraying the rage burning within her. She let her hand linger a moment longer before pulling away and addressing the room once more.

“What’s done is done. The noble houses have already heard of the betrothal. He wanted this—to bind our hands before we could act. But this isn’t the end. We will not let him think he’s won.”

Aegon glanced at Helaena, his eyes seeking reassurance, but she remained silent, her fingers idly tracing the carved lines on the table. Daemon and Harwin exchanged a brief glance, their resolve palpable, while Laenor stepped forward, his voice steady but grave. “Then we act carefully. Thoughtfully. Otto may believe he holds the board, but the game isn’t over yet.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her fingers curling into fists as she felt the cold of the table seep through her skin. “Let him think he’s won. Let him think he’s untouchable. But mark my words—this is far from over.”

“We must return to King’s Landing, we have given them too much time to plot and scheme behind our backs,” Laenor stated, leaning against the table. Helaena gravitated toward him, her eyes wide, yet hazy. The youngest princess lifted her head, her voice a soft murmur that carried through the heavy air like a whisper of fate.

"Though the towers are bound, their stones cannot cage the sky. The threads of green may weave their knots, but the black flame dances free. Fire cannot be held, nor can it be silenced. It will burn through the towers, through the threads, and through the hearts of men."

The words hung in the silence, their weight pressing into the room like an unspoken truth. Daemon’s sharp gaze shifted to Helaena, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smirk, while Laenor and Harwin exchanged uneasy glances. Even Aegon seemed to shrink further into himself, clutching his books tightly as if the prophecy was a burden he could not yet comprehend. But Rhaenyra stood tall, her eyes burning with quiet determination as Helaena’s words settled in her heart.

“We have lingered here long enough. At first light, we fly to King’s Landing. Gather your belongings, your armour, anything of value you cannot bear to leave behind or have transported by ships,” Rhaenyra instructed, and Harwin paled slightly.

Daemon’s smirk grew, a glint of excitement sparking in his violet eyes. “By dragon back, then. Let them quake when they hear the roar of wings above the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra nodded sharply, meeting his gaze with equal determination. “Let them know. Let them see that we do not cower in the shadows. We will confront them as we are, as dragons of fire and blood.”

Daemon and Laenor exchanged approving glances, their resolve solidifying in the wake of her command. Aegon hesitated, his gaze darting to Helaena, who offered him a serene smile. Her earlier prophecy seemed to echo in her calm manner, her fingers tracing rivers in the wood.

As the group dispersed to prepare, Rhaenyra lingered a moment longer, her gaze returning to the Painted Table. Her fingers brushed over the carved dragons, their forms fierce and proud, as if reminding her of the strength that pulsed through her veins.

“When we return,” she murmured to herself, her voice soft yet fierce, “it will be as conquerors, not pawns.”

The chamber was still, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth. Rhaenyra stood near the table, her fingers resting lightly on the map carved into its surface. Driftmark’s outline seemed to shimmer under her touch, the weight of its legacy pressing heavily on her shoulders. Daemon leaned against the far wall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he observed her with the quiet intensity that often accompanied his presence.

“They ridicule us, uncle,” Rhaenyra said, her eyes still lowered. She took a deep breath, striving to control the anger burning within her. “I cannot confront the greens alone; I require your support in this matter.”

Her voice shifted as she began to speak in High Valyrian, a language that carried both reverence and intimacy. “Let us strengthen our bond, as Aegon the Conqueror did with his sisters. With you as my husband and prince consort, they would not contest my claim so freely or openly.”

Daemon’s gaze softened as he considered her words, his deep and thoughtful expression seeming to hold her in place. Rhaenyra glanced back at the map, her fingers tracing the shape of Driftmark once more.

“I love Laenor,” she continued, her voice quieter now but no less resolute. “He has been my support and my home for so long… yet Velaryon’s are of the sea. You and I… we are made of fire. We have always been meant to burn together.”

Daemon sighed heavily, his heart singing for her even as a shadow of sadness crept into his bones. “We could not marry, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of regret. “Unless Laenor were dead.”

Laenor stood at the edge of the chamber, just beyond the reach of the firelight, his shoulders pressed against the cool stone wall. He had been listening silently, his presence unnoticed as Rhaenyra and Daemon spoke in hushed tones about the greens, the claim, the fire that bound them both. Each word struck him like a hammer, but it was not their ambition that held his focus—it was the realization creeping over him, cold and relentless, that his path was already set.

He took a step forward, the movement drawing Rhaenyra and Daemon’s attention immediately. The shadows parted as the firelight illuminated his face, revealing eyes that shone not with anger, but with sorrow. His voice was steady, yet every word carried the weight of what he was about to say.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Both Rhaenyra and Daemon turned sharply, their gazes locking on the figure stepping into the firelight. Laenor stood tall, his expression resolute yet tinged with the pain of the decision he had been wrestling with. His silver hair gleamed like molten metal in the flickering light, and his eyes carried the weight of his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time,” Laenor said, his voice steady despite the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. He glanced between them, his gaze lingering on Rhaenyra before shifting to Daemon. “I love you, Rhaenyra. I always have. But I’ve also always known that your fire burns brighter than anything I can give you. I see the way you two move around each other, the bond you share. It’s something that can’t be denied. And it’s something the greens will never stop fearing.”

Daemon watched him silently, his expression unreadable, though there was something in his eyes that hinted at respect—or perhaps pity. Rhaenyra, however, was visibly shaken, her hand rising to her chest as though to steady herself.

“Laenor,” she whispered again, pleading. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice broke slightly, and he took another step forward, his movements heavy with the weight of his decision. “It’s not just about you and Daemon. It’s about Jaehaerys, Lucerys, Aerion. The children.”

He paused, his gaze turning inward for a moment as memories of his sons flooded his mind. He thought of Jaehaerys, standing in the training yard with his wooden sword, his youthful enthusiasm dulled by the shadows cast by their name. He thought of Luke, who had clung to him so tightly after the attempt on Jaehaerys’s life, his small voice trembling as he asked if they would ever be safe. And he thought of Aerion, blissfully unaware of the dangers that surrounded them, his bright smile a fragile shield against the darkness creeping closer.

“I raised them,” Laenor said quietly, his voice shaking now. “I taught them to laugh, to dream, to fight. They are my blood, and I love them more than anything in this world. But I see it now, Rhaenyra—they need more than what I can give them. They need protection that I can’t provide, strength that I don’t have.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling as she stepped closer. “You’re their father, Laenor. They love you. They need you.”

He smiled faintly, though it was tinged with sadness. “They do. And they will always have my love. But love alone isn’t enough to shield them from the shadows that follow us. The greens, the court, the whispers... all of it. It’s more than I can bear, more than I can ask them to bear.”

Daemon finally spoke, his voice low and even. “You believe stepping aside will make them safer?”

Laenor met his gaze, and for a moment, the two men seemed to understand each other in a way they hadn’t before. “I do,” he said simply. “With you by Rhaenyra’s side, with your fire protecting them, they will be safer than they ever could be with me.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice breaking as she spoke. “It’s not fair, Laenor. To you, to them, to us.”

He reached for her hand then, holding it firmly in his own. His fingers trembled slightly, but his grip was steady, grounding them in the moment. “I know it isn’t fair. But this is what must be done. For their sake. For your claim. For House Targaryen.”

A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek, and Laenor’s heart ached as he wiped it away with his thumb. “Tell them I loved them,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Tell them I did this for them. One day, they’ll understand.”

Daemon stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on Laenor’s shoulder. His gaze softened, and when he spoke, there was no trace of mockery or disdain. “You are braver than most, Laenor.”

Laenor chuckled faintly, though the sound carried no humour. “Bravery has little to do with it, Daemon. Love does.”

The room fell silent once more, the fire crackling softly as the three of them stood together, united in grief and resolve. Laenor’s thoughts lingered on his sons, and as he stepped back into the shadows, he prayed that his sacrifice would give them the future they deserved.

Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice trembling as she spoke, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. “Laenor, you don’t have to do this. We can…”

“We can what?” Laenor interrupted gently, his tone filled with understanding. “Fight a battle that can’t be won? Hold onto a lie that serves no one? No, Rhaenyra. This is what must happen. For the sake of the children. For your claim. For House Targaryen.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Laenor’s words pressing down on them all. Rhaenyra’s eyes shimmered with tears, and Daemon’s gaze softened, his respect for the man before him evident.

“How?” Rhaenyra whispered. “How do we do this?”

Laenor stepped closer, his voice quiet but unwavering. “Discretion will be key. No bloodshed, no whispers. I will disappear, as though the gods themselves have taken me away. And you will rise stronger than before.”

Rhaenyra placed a hand over her heart, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Laenor…”

He smiled faintly and reached for her hand, holding it firmly in his own. “You will always have my love, Rhaenyra. Never doubt that. And one day, when the children are older, they’ll understand. They’ll know I did this for them.”

Daemon stepped forward, his presence commanding as he nodded to Laenor. “You are a braver man than most, Laenor Velaryon.”

Laenor chuckled softly, though it carried a bittersweet edge. “Bravery has little to do with it, Daemon. Love does.”

“You will return to Kings Landing, though, we shall take some time before we put things into motion,” Rhaenyra sniffed, discreetly rubbing tears from her eyes. Laenor smiled gently at her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her forehead.

“I will do whatever you bid, my Queen,” he whispered softly, and she sobbed a little. Daemon watched them both with a heavy gaze, before he placed a hand on Laenor’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Laenor’s arms tightened around Rhaenyra as she quietly sobbed against his shoulder, her emotions spilling through the cracks of her resolve. His own eyes glistened as he held her, his forehead resting gently against hers. The warmth of her presence grounded him, though it couldn’t ease the ache in his chest.

“When the time comes,” Laenor murmured, his voice trembling yet determined, “I will vanish without a trace. The realm will believe I’m gone but know this: my heart will always be here, with you and the boys.”

Rhaenyra clutched at his tunic, as if holding him might somehow change the course they had set. “You are their father, Laenor. How will they understand? How will they ever forgive me for this?”

Laenor pulled back slightly, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. His smile was bittersweet, touched by both grief and love. “They will understand, one day. When they are older, they’ll see the strength it took to make this choice—your strength, Rhaenyra. You are their guide, their queen. I trust you to teach them that this was done for them.”

Daemon remained silent as he watched the exchange, his hand still resting on Laenor’s shoulder. His grip tightened briefly, a rare display of solidarity.

“The boy speaks true,” Daemon said at last, his voice quieter than usual but laced with respect. “The greens won’t hesitate to strike where they see weakness. His choice spares you a vulnerability they would exploit.”

Rhaenyra turned her head toward Daemon, her tearful gaze flickering with anger for a fleeting moment.

“There is no victory in this, Daemon. It is a sacrifice.”

Daemon inclined his head slightly, the weight of her words sinking in. “A sacrifice,” he echoed, “that ensures your sons will have a mother with an unchallenged claim.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not oppressive. Laenor stepped back from Rhaenyra, though his hand lingered on hers for a moment longer.

“You will make this work,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking. “You’ve always known how to navigate the storms, Rhaenyra.”

As her tears began to subside, Rhaenyra nodded faintly, her fingers brushing against his once more before she let go.

“We will,” she whispered. “For the children. For the realm.”

Daemon stepped forward, his presence a steadying force as he looked between the two of them. “You have my word,” he said, his tone resolute. “We will see this through, Laenor. Discreetly.”

Laenor’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile, though his heart felt as though it might shatter. “Then I leave my family in your hands.”

Rhaenyra looked at him one last time, memorizing his face, the way the firelight caught in his silver hair, the determination in his eyes. “You will always be a part of this family, Laenor,” she said softly. “In our hearts. Always.”

He nodded, the finality of their decision settling heavily on his shoulders. Then, with a deep breath, Laenor stepped away, his head held high as he prepared to walk the path, they had all chosen.

--

The dragons’ hums grew louder, a chorus that seemed to resonate with the rolling waves. Vhagar, the ancient matriarch, remained a looming presence, her massive form partially buried in the sand, like a mountain weathered by time. She let out a low, guttural rumble, a sound that carried both boredom and wisdom. Her half-lidded eye fixed on the antics of Arrax and Vermax, who chased each other like playful hatchlings, their wings flapping awkwardly as they kicked up sprays of sand. Though she was far beyond youthful exuberance, Vhagar's gaze betrayed a flicker of amusement, a reminder that even the oldest dragon had once been young.

Arrax, smaller and more slender, darted around Vermax, his motions quick and unpredictable, like a flame dancing in the wind. Vermax, stockier and more confident, let out a high-pitched squeal of mock defiance, pouncing at his sibling before tumbling into the sand. Their play was uncoordinated yet endearing, a stark contrast to the polished grace they would grow into one day. Their small roars echoed faintly, but Vhagar’s responding huff—a cloud of steam and smoke—silenced them momentarily, her dominance needing no effort to assert.

Dreamfyre and Sunfyre continued their peculiar dance of mutual curiosity and mild indifference. Sunfyre, his shimmering gold scales glittering like molten metal, made an elaborate show of arching his neck and rumbling a playful trill, the sound a deep and pleasant baritone. Dreamfyre responded with a snort of disdain, the silvery blue of her scales catching the early morning sunlight as she tucked her head beneath her wing once more. Yet her wing, slightly ajar, betrayed her interest, and Sunfyre crooned softly, inching closer.

Above, Syrax and Caraxes continued their aerial duet, weaving through the air with a precision and synchronicity honed by experience. Syrax glided in smooth, elegant arcs, her radiant yellow form glowing like the sun cutting through the clouds. Caraxes, with his elongated, serpentine body, twisted and turned with a feral grace that was mesmerizing. Their roars were not just noise but a melody, haunting and ethereal, as if recounting ancient tales only dragons could understand. From below, Seasmoke tilted his head back and released an enthusiastic roar of his own, his grey-white form shimmering like seafoam caught in the spray. The dragons in the skies above seemed to acknowledge him, their roars dipping momentarily, as if inviting him into their shared song.

Even as the dragons moved and played, an unspoken bond held them together. They were not merely mythical beasts but entities with their own distinctive personalities, instincts, and modes of communication. Vhagar, the living relic of a bygone era, exuded a quiet authority which commanded the respect of even the younger dragons. Arrax and Vermax, representing the promise of the future, brought an infectious energy, and they engaged Jaehaerys and Lucerys enthusiastically when their riders appeared, ready for their journey. The rest of the family followed, wrapped in warm cloaks appropriate for travel. Aerion was securely fastened to Rhaenyra’s chest, with a woollen shawl around her to protect him from the chill in the clouds.

She completed her instructions to Charis and Harwin, who would be travelling by ship with Valaena and Larissa. Neither girl had yet claimed a dragon, and despite their heritage, Harwin was not keen for them to do so. They would remain by his side for as long as possible. Leanor began his headcount of the children, gathering them into a group to ensure all were present, while Daemon summoned Caraxes to the beach, the Blood Wyrm whistling in welcome to his rider. Daemon rested his forehead against Caraxes’ scales, a soft smile falling on his lips.

"Jaehaerys, you'll ride with me," Laenor commanded, his voice steady and authoritative. "Lucerys, you’ll fly alongside your mother. And Aemond..." He fixed the young boy with a firm gaze. "You will ride with Daemon on Caraxes."

Aemond’s protest was immediate, his face flushing with indignation. He opened his mouth to argue, but Laenor raised a hand, silencing him before he could utter a word.

"Aemond," Laenor continued, his tone calm but unyielding. "The flight from Dragonstone to King’s Landing will take more than half a day. You lack the experience to command Vhagar over such a distance. It’s not just about courage—it’s about control and ability. Vhagar is not a beast to be underestimated."

Aemond bit back his retort, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the colossal form of Vhagar, who lay silently on the beach. Her sheer size and the weight of her gaze were enough to remind him of the truth in Laenor's words, even if he did not want to admit it. Daemon, standing nearby, smirked faintly at the exchange, his hand brushing Caraxes’s scarlet neck as the dragon tilted his head, sensing the tension.

“Listen to him, boy,” Daemon said, his tone laced with both amusement and sharpness. “You’d sooner end up in the Narrow Sea than reach King’s Landing with Vhagar alone.”

Syrax, perched at Rhaenyra’s side, tilted her head, her amber eyes locked onto Lucerys with a maternal presence that mirrored her rider's. The younger boy shifted, glancing from his mother to his uncle, clearly relieved that he would not be the subject of scrutiny. His dragon let out a soft trill, as if urging him forward.

Seasmoke waited patiently at Laenor’s side, his silver-grey form catching the light of the sun. His tail flicked through the sand, his form calm yet ready for flight.

As the riders prepared to mount their dragons, there was a palpable sense of anticipation—not just for the journey ahead, but for the dynamics and relationships that would evolve in the skies. Each dragon seemed to carry the emotions of their riders, their roars and movements acting as reflections of the turmoil, confidence, or excitement they felt.

Vhagar seemed to be affronted by Aemond riding on Caraxes, and she let out a dep rumble that shook the beach as she climbed to her feet. After a quick moment with Aemond however, she settled back down with a huff of hot air.

The dragons, sensing the mounting tension and anticipation, shifted restlessly on the sands. Caraxes, ever the sentinel, snorted, sending small plumes of dust into the air, while Syrax's eyes never left Lucerys, her presence a constant, protective force. The bond between dragon and rider was palpable, a mingling of loyalty and mutual understanding that transcended mere companionship.

Daemon, ever the seasoned rider, swung himself onto Caraxes with practiced ease, the dragon responding with an eager growl. "Remember, Aemond," he instructed, "there is a bond between dragon and rider that goes beyond mere command. Feel Caraxes’s spirit; let it guide you."

Laenor glanced at his own dragon, Seasmoke, and then at his children. "In the skies, we are more than ourselves—we are a part of something greater," he said, his voice tinged with both pride and warning. "Respect that bond, and it will carry you far."

Rhaenyra, mounting Syrax with a grace borne of years, called to Lucerys. "Stay close to me," she reminded him, "and remember what we’ve practiced." Her voice was soothing, a melody of reassurance that eased the boy's evident nerves.

With a final glance towards Vhagar, who had settled but still watched with an almost begrudging calm, Aemond took Daemon's offered hand and climbed onto Caraxes. The dragon, feeling the unfamiliar weight, rumbled but did not protest. Aemond, though anxious, could sense the power and grace beneath him, a formidable force waiting to be unleashed.

The riders, now all mounted, looked towards the horizon. Daemon raised his arm, a signal for the dragons to take flight. Caraxes leapt into the air with powerful strokes, Syrax following close behind with Lucerys confident on her back. Seasmoke and Vhagar brought up the rear, their riders attuned to every shift and movement. The synchrony of their flight was mesmerizing, a dance of wings and scales against the backdrop of a fading day.

As the dragons soared higher, the landscape of Dragonstone fell away beneath them, replaced by the endless expanse of sea and sky. The journey to King’s Landing had begun, and with each beat of wings, the riders felt the weight of their destinies intertwined with their dragon companions. The air was filled with a chorus of roars, a symphony of power and majesty as the dragons carved their path through the skies.

--

The roars reached Alicent before anything else—a symphony of chaos that rattled through the stillness of her chambers and sent her heart racing despite herself. And then, the unmistakable sound came—the shrill, discordant whistle that could only belong to Caraxes, Daemon Targaryen’s infernal dragon. It grated against her nerves like nails on stone, a sound that was as insufferable as its rider. Alicent tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her knuckles pale as she fought to keep the sneer from overtaking her face entirely.

She rose slowly, her movements deliberate, the heavy folds of her dress sweeping across the floor as she crossed to the window. The vast expanse of King’s Landing sprawled before her, but her gaze was fixed on the sky, a canvas now streaked with ominous shapes as the dragons began their descent. It wasn’t just the dragons; it was the declaration behind their arrival, the way Rhaenyra never failed to make herself the centre of attention. Of course, Alicent thought bitterly, she would announce herself with such ostentation. Always desperate to be seen, always reaching to embody the perfect image of a Targaryen—fire and blood, grace and power.

Alicent’s lips pressed into a tight line as she watched the great winged beasts circle above the city. The golden shimmer of Syrax and the sinuous crimson of Caraxes stood out in stark contrast, their movements impossibly graceful for creatures so massive. The people would look up in awe, she knew, their voices rising in praise and fear; a display meant to remind the realm of Rhaenyra’s dominance, her so-called legitimacy. Alicent’s gaze hardened as her fingers curled against the cool stone of the window ledge. She refused to play into it.

As the dragons descended, the roar of wings and the whistle of Caraxes mingled with the cheers and cries of the crowd below. Alicent remained rooted in place, her expression one of steely resolve. Rhaenyra may have claimed the skies, but Alicent would hold firm to the ground. This was a game of perception, and she would not let Rhaenyra’s theatrics undermine hers.

The roars that filled the skies of King’s Landing faded into a dull echo against the backdrop of Alicent’s thoughts. Otto Hightower was Hand of the King once more. It was a victory that had been hard-earned, a step she had fought for in silence and shadow. Alicent’s lips curled into a faint smirk as she considered the significance of his return. Her father had always been the architect of their family's ambitions, a man who could wield influence like a blade and carve out paths where none seemed to exist.

Otto had taught her the art of subtlety—the power in whispers rather than shouts, in alliances formed over shared grievances rather than promises of glory. It was not enough to hold power; one had to make others believe in their inevitability. With Otto back at Viserys’s side, the pieces of the board had shifted, the balance tilting in her favour. The faith of the realm had been quietly moulded under his steady hand, nudged by sermons and strategic friendships among the noble houses. Otto’s counsel was no less sharp than a sword, yet it carried none of the bloodshed… just the quiet erosion of opposition.

Her fingers traced the edge of the letter that lay open before her, its ink still fresh with instructions relayed from her father. The betrothal of Helaena and Aegon—it was a masterstroke in Otto’s endless game of consolidation. Not merely a union of convenience, but a declaration of strength, binding the Targaryen legacy under their banner. Alicent had ensured its secrecy, keeping the arrangement hidden from Rhaenyra’s prying eyes and Daemon’s cunning schemes. It was hers now, the future of her children and their claim secured through careful manipulation.

Alicent let her gaze drift to the window, where dragons circled the skies, their presence commanding the attention of the city below. Let them look, she thought. Let Rhaenyra draw the crowd with her spectacle, her fire and blood. Alicent did not need the skies to claim her place. Her father had built the foundation of their strategy, and she had taken his lessons to heart, sharpening them into weapons of her own. With him at her side, there was no plan too grand, no goal beyond their reach.

The cheers from the smallfolk reached her ears, but Alicent remained unmoved. They could applaud Rhaenyra’s arrival all they liked, but Alicent knew better. Power was not in the wings of dragons; it was in the minds and hearts of men who would swear loyalty in quiet rooms, who would shift alliances not because they were awed, but because they were convinced. Otto had taught her that. And now, with her father’s strategies aligning perfectly with her own vision, Alicent was determined to ensure nothing would interrupt her plans.

Aegon would be the king, as was his right by birth. He and Helaena would be married, and she would birth his heir, ensuring that Rhaenyra’s line never made it to the throne.

The sound of the chamber door creaking open sent a jolt through her. The sound of Otto’s footsteps was deliberate as he entered the room, each strike of his heel against the stone floor echoing with unspoken judgment. Alicent rose from her seat instinctively, her movements precise, as if trying to ward off his disapproval. His gaze swept over her, cold and appraising, the faint sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth betraying his thoughts before he spoke.

“The Whore of Dragonstone has returned, I see,” Otto began, his voice like a lash. “With a new paramour, no less. She does nothing but flaunt her scandals, a disgrace to the realm.” Alicent pressed her lips together, the insult to Rhaenyra not unexpected but still cutting, knowing that Otto’s reproach extended in subtle ways to her as well. To him, women were tools, chess pieces to be moved and sacrificed as the game demanded. That included her.

“Father,” Alicent said, her tone careful and restrained. “Her return changes nothing. Our plans remain intact.”

Otto’s sharp laugh was devoid of humour, a dry sound that cut through her words like the crack of a whip. He stepped closer, his height looming over her, forcing her to tilt her chin upward to meet his gaze.

“The children are back in our grasp now, Alicent,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You must ensure you do not lose them again. Or have you forgotten how easily they slipped away when you let your petty emotions guide your actions?”

Alicent swallowed hard, the sting of his rebuke sending a wave of anger coursing through her. She wanted to defend herself, to remind him of the sacrifices she had made, the nights spent weaving alliances and ensuring their position remained secure. But Otto’s scornful expression stopped her, the iron grip of his judgment tightening around her throat.

To Otto, her accomplishments were meaningless… her triumphs reduced to mere obedience, her mistakes magnified as proof of her inadequacy. She was not his equal, not even his protégé; in his eyes, she was a pawn, a placeholder for his ambition. And yet, she knew that he depended on her, on her ability to navigate the court, to manipulate the people who would bend to her softer, quieter influence. It was a contradiction she had long grown weary of… a daughter revered only as long as she served his agenda.

“I understand,” Alicent said finally, her voice flat but steady. “I will not fail.”

Otto studied her for a moment, as if searching for signs of weakness. “See that you don’t,” he said, turning to leave. “You’ve played your part well enough thus far but remember—this game has no room for sentiment. Only results.”

As the door closed behind him, Alicent sank into her chair, her hands gripping the arms of it tightly. She felt the burn of humiliation, the slow, simmering rage of being dismissed so easily. Yet even as her father’s words echoed in her mind, she resolved to push them aside. She could not afford to dwell on his disdain—her focus had to remain on the path ahead, on the plans she had nurtured with care and precision. Otto might view her as a pawn, but Alicent knew better. She was not his pawn; she was his queen, and the board was hers to control.

--

Rhaenyra maintained her composure as she proceeded through the Red Keep towards her father's chambers. The unexpected arrival of her retinue on the backs of dragons had left the guards unprepared, as they did not anticipate the heir to the throne returning to King's Landing for another week. Consequently, no welcoming committee had been organized for their entrance to the Dragon Pit.

The tranquillity she had experienced on Dragonstone was now replaced by intense anger towards her father due to his perceived cowardice and susceptibility to Alicent's influence. Rhaenyra could not fathom how he could allow this situation, particularly naming Otto as Hand again. Her expression remained stern with a forced smile as she greeted the murmuring courtiers. They were gathered in the castle halls, offering polite remarks as she approached.

The courtiers simpered and bowed, their eyes wide with curiosity and speculation. They made exaggerated gestures of respect, some even attempting small talk, but Rhaenyra’s pace never wavered. She acknowledged them with minimal nods and a tight-lipped smile, never slowing down or allowing herself to be stopped. The urgency of her mission was clear, and she did not intend to waste time with idle pleasantries.

Her guards followed closely, standing tall and imposing. Their presence added an intimidating aura around her, ensuring that none of the courtiers dared to impede her path. As the heir to the throne moved with determined grace, her retinue remained vigilant and steadfast, a silent reminder of her power and authority. As she approached the grand doors to the king’s solar, she nodded at Ser Harrold.

“Announce me, Ser Harrold,” she requested, hands clasped firmly at her front. She looked every inch the Targaryen Princess, clad in a magnificent black and red velvet gown. The regal attire was adorned with intricate gold dragons embroidered along the hem and long sleeves; their sinuous forms brought to life with dazzling jewels that glinted in the flickering torchlight. Each dragon sparkled with precious stones, lending the gown an unmistakable aura of royalty and power. The exquisite craftsmanship and attention to detail were evident in every stitch, making Rhaenyra's presence both commanding and resplendent. Ser Harrold gave a curt gesture of his head, before announcing Rhaenyra’s full titles to the room.  

Rhaenyra’s heels echoed on the stone floor as she strode into her father’s chambers. The air was thick with the scent of wax and wood, mingling with the faint acrid tang of burning incense. The chamber itself reflected Viserys' inner world—a mix of grandeur and decay. The sprawling model of Old Valyria dominated the room, its intricate towers and bridges cast in shadow by the flickering glow of a dozen candelabras. Tables and shelves were cluttered with scrolls, books, and half-finished carvings, while the walls bore faded tapestries of dragons soaring over distant landscapes.

Viserys sat hunched at the edge of the model, his fingers idly tracing the outline of a wooden dragon. He glanced up, his expression softening with paternal warmth, only for it to harden as the sharp edge of Rhaenyra’s fury struck him like a blade.

“Do you want me to be Queen, father?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness like a whip. “Or am I merely a figurehead for your whims?”

Viserys rose slowly, leaning heavily on the table as if burdened by the weight of his years and his decisions. “You presume much, Rhaenyra,” he began, his voice measured yet laced with a warning. “You speak of things beyond your understanding.”

“Beyond my understanding?” Rhaenyra stepped closer, her gown swishing against the stone. The jewels on her embroidered dragons sparkled, mirroring the fire in her eyes. “Do not patronize me, father. I know what Otto Hightower represents. I know the whispers that still linger about my virtue—whispers he started.”

Viserys’ face darkened, his jaw tightening as his temper began to slip. “I will not be lectured in my own chambers!” he bellowed, slamming his palm against the edge of the model. A fragile wooden tower toppled, breaking into splinters on the floor. “You see shadows where there are none, Rhaenyra. Otto is a seasoned Hand, one who—"

“One who serves his own interests!” she interrupted, refusing to yield. Her violet eyes blazed as she pressed on, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. “And what of Aegon and Helaena? Did you think I would not see it as a slight? You have betrothed them without a word to me—after all I have done to raise them as my own!”

Viserys pointed a trembling finger at her, his face contorted with frustration. “You think this is all some plot against you? Do you truly believe I would weaken your claim, the claim I fought to uphold? Do not mistake my decisions for betrayal, Rhaenyra. Everything I do, I do to hold this family together!”

“Then why does it feel like you are tearing it apart?” she shot back, her voice softening yet laden with hurt. Her pacing came to an abrupt halt, her fists clenched at her sides. “Do you even see me, father? Or do you see a daughter you moulded into your perfect queen? I have done everything you asked of me. I have shouldered burdens that you will never understand. I married as you commanded, bore children, upheld the honour of House Targaryen… And yet, you doubt me at every turn.”

Viserys’ expression faltered, but she didn’t stop. Her voice rose, her pain laid bare. “Do you know what it is like to hear them whisper? That I am unfit to rule? You proclaimed me your heir, father, but you have never defended me—not truly. I have fought alone, tooth and nail, to hold onto the legacy you gave me.”

Her gaze swept over the chamber, over the crumbling remnants of Old Valyria that her father so lovingly tended. The candles cast uneven shadows, their flickering light catching the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. “You have poured your love into your dream of Valyria, into these relics of a forgotten age. But what of me, father? Am I not your legacy too? Or am I just another piece to place on the gameboard, to move and sacrifice as you see fit?”

Viserys inhaled sharply, his face a storm of conflicting emotions. He took a step forward, his hand reaching toward her as though to offer comfort, but she recoiled.

“You speak of unity,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, raw and trembling. “But every decision you make drives a wedge deeper into this family. You have entrusted our fate to those who would see me fall, who would see your sons—my sons—destroyed.”

Viserys’ anger reignited, and he pointed a trembling finger at her. “You think I do not care? Do not dare to suggest I would see harm come to you or your children. Every choice I make, Rhaenyra, is for the good of the realm, for the survival of our House!”

“For the survival of your House, or for your own peace of mind?” she shot back, her voice cutting. “You are a good man, father. But you are not a good king.”

The words hung in the air like the edge of a blade. Viserys staggered back, as though the weight of her accusation had struck him physically. His hand fell to his side, his shoulders slumping as he turned away, retreating to the sanctuary of his model. The firelight caught the lined planes of his face, casting shadows that made him look wearier than regal. He traced his fingers over the jagged edges of the broken wooden tower, avoiding her gaze.

Rhaenyra’s chest rose and fell with the force of her emotions, her jaw clenched tightly as she wrestled for control. For a moment, she turned her back to him, her trembling hands smoothing the embroidered dragons along her gown. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, cold, and unwavering, though it carried the crackling tension of suppressed fury.

“Aegon and Helaena will marry, but they will not be forced to bedding. The child will wait until she is of age to consummate.”

Viserys turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in mild surprise at her tone, but he said nothing. Emboldened by his silence, she pressed on, her words sharp with resolve.

“This is not a request, father. I will not be swayed on this matter. If there is any argument—if Otto, or Alicent, or anyone dares to challenge my decision—then I will take all the children to Dragonstone. We will not return until she is of age.”

Her declaration rang out like a bell tolling in the chamber. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance in time with her words, casting her shadow long and imposing against the walls. She watched him carefully, her violet eyes seeking some sign of understanding, of agreement. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a flicker of regret in his gaze, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

Viserys inhaled deeply, his shoulders lifting only to sag again under the weight of his crown and his choices. He turned back to his model, his voice soft and strained as he finally replied, “Do what you must, Rhaenyra.”

The faint acknowledgment was far from the victory she had sought, but it was enough to draw a small, weary nod from her. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel, her gown sweeping behind her like a storm cloud as she exited the chamber. The door creaked shut, leaving Viserys alone in the dim light of his crumbling Valyrian dream.

At the door, Rhaenyra paused, her fingers brushing the rough wood as Ser Harrold stepped forward to close it behind her. Her fury ebbed slightly as her gaze flickered back to her father. Despite everything, she saw his fragility, the growing weakness that seemed to weigh on him more each day. Turning to Ser Harrold, she softened her voice.

“Ser Harrold, please see to him. Ensure he is settled. I do not wish him to be distressed.”

The Kingsguard gave her a kind nod, his weathered face marked by quiet respect. “I will see to it, Princess. He will not be left to his thoughts.”

Rhaenyra smiled weakly; a fleeting shadow of the formidable resolve she had displayed moments before. She reached out, placing her hand on the cold metal plate of his arm.

“I thank you, good ser,” she said gently, before finally turning to make her way back to her chambers in the Holdfast. The heavy thud of the door echoed softly behind her as she retreated, leaving behind a trail of flickering torchlight and fading anger.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra composed herself, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she prepared to re-enter the Court. The Courtiers had assembled in the Lower Dining Hall, engaged in conversations as evening set in. Typically, upon returning to the keep, Rhaenyra would endeavour to have a private dinner with her family to regain composure before facing the Court again. However, on this occasion, she needed to assert her presence immediately, demonstrating her return and her resolve. Otto's return to his role as Hand of the King threatened to shift the balance of power in the Court back to the Greens, necessitating that she captivates their attention once more.

She dismissed her guards from her side and gave a nod to Knight at the doors to the Lower Hall to announce her. The murmurs of the Courtiers hushed as the Knight's voice rang out, announcing her arrival. Heads turned; the collective gaze of the assembled nobles fixed on Rhaenyra as she stepped forward with measured grace. Each step echoed with the weight of the moment, her gown flowing around her like liquid midnight.

The eyes of the Court were not merely upon her—they were dissecting her every move, searching for any sign of vulnerability or hesitation. Rhaenyra's posture remained impeccable, her chin lifted, her expression composed and determined. The whispers of intrigue and speculation buzzed through the hall like restless insects, the tension palpable. She was no stranger to the court’s scrutiny, yet as she approached the dais where her family were seated, she felt its gravity. Her father, Viserys, appeared frail and distant, a stark contrast to the vibrant authority he once wielded. The presence of Otto Hightower, now reinstated as Hand of the King, loomed large—his calculating eyes gleaming with silent challenge.

Rhaenyra paused at the base of the dais, her gaze sweeping across the faces of the nobles. The Lower Dining Hall was a tableau of splendour. The top table sat elevated on the dais, overlooking the lords and ladies gathered below. Flickering candlelight illuminated the array of dishes—glistening roasted meats, sweet fruits, and golden goblets filled with Arbor wine. Her eyes met Otto's briefly, a flicker of defiance passing between them. Then, with deliberate poise, she ascended the steps to join her family, her heart pounding with the resolve to reclaim her standing.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, the hem of her black and red gown brushing against the polished stone floor. Her voice, strong yet melodic, reverberated through the grand hall, commanding attention from every corner. The lords and ladies before her froze in their whispers, their gazes fixed upon her as though mesmerized by the flames of a dragon’s gaze.

"Lords and Ladies," she began, her tone warm but resolute, "I am overjoyed to be back at court, where I will continue to act as the true heir to the throne. Know that House Targaryen will always stand strong and true in the face of adversity, and we will bring fire and blood on those who stand against us."

The room held its breath, the weight of her words settling over the assembly like the shadow of a great dragon passing overhead. The flickering torchlight reflected off the gold dragons embroidered along her gown, as if they too were alive, adding to the aura of power she carried effortlessly.

She paused, letting her words linger, then offered a faint but deliberate smile that tempered the fire in her tone. “Yet, let us not only speak of adversity, but also of unity. For it is unity that makes us unyielding, and it is unity that strengthens our House. Together, we will forge a future brighter than the flames of our ancestors.”

Scattered murmurs rippled through the crowd, some nodding in agreement while others exchanged wary glances. The measured clink of a goblet being set down echoed softly, breaking the momentary hush.

Her gaze swept across the hall, taking in the faces of those assembled. She saw admiration in some, doubt in others, and calculated indifference in those she knew had long harboured loyalties elsewhere. But Rhaenyra did not falter. She stood tall, the fire of Old Valyria in her blood and her gaze, daring any who would oppose her to do so openly.

With a slight inclination of her head, she reached for goblet of deep red wine, raising it as she continued, "House Targaryen does not shy away from challenges. We embrace them. And with your support, I will ensure that the Iron Throne remains strong, unyielding, and most of all, ours."

The hall erupted in applause, some loud and enthusiastic, others polite and measured. Rhaenyra accepted it with a composed nod, though her grip on the balcony’s edge tightened just slightly. For all her outward strength, she knew the challenges ahead would test her in ways she could barely imagine.

As she turned her back to the nobles, heading for her seat between Viserys and Laenor, her eyes met with Alicent in silent challenge. Alicent clenched her hands in her lap, determined to keep her expression clear of response. As Rhaenyra sat next to her husband, the room buzzed with muted conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. At the dais, an oppressive silence clung to the air like the weight of storm clouds.

Rhaenyra’s declaration still hung heavy over the gathering; the fire of her conviction evident in her words earlier in the hall. She sat straight-backed and poised, a vision of regal authority in her black and red gown, the embroidered dragons glinting with jewelled fire under the light. A faint smile graced her lips as though daring anyone to challenge her.

Alicent, seated just a few chairs away, maintained her composure. Dressed in a modest green gown that spoke of virtue and restraint, her hands rested lightly in her lap, fingers clasped together as though in silent prayer. Yet her hazel eyes betrayed the turmoil roiling beneath her placid exterior. The Queen’s gaze flicked briefly to her husband, Viserys, who sat slumped in his chair, his remaining hand gripping his goblet tightly. Then her eyes darted to Rhaenyra, assessing, calculating, wary.

She reached for her own goblet, lifting it with practiced grace to mask the tightness of her jaw. When she set it back down, her voice cut through the quiet at their table like the whisper of a blade. “Such stirring words, Princess. One might think you’ve been practicing speeches for the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes narrowed slightly as she met Alicent’s gaze head-on. “It is no practice, Your Grace. Merely truth, spoken plainly and without shame.” Her voice was cool and measured, yet it carried an undeniable challenge.

Alicent’s lips pressed together briefly, her mask of serenity slipping just for a heartbeat. Her gaze flickered to the children seated further down the table close to Rhaenyra’s own—Aegon, his posture bored and slouched; Helaena, her dreamy expression betraying little awareness of the tension; and Aemond, his sharp eyes darting between the adults like a hawk studying prey. All children dressed in the Targaryen black and red, much to her distaste.

“Truth,” Alicent echoed softly, her tone laden with meaning as she leaned forward slightly. “Truth can be a powerful thing, but it is often tempered with humility. It is the wise who understand that power is best wielded without brashness.”

Viserys stirred, lifting his head just enough to glance between the two women. He opened his mouth as though to interject, but stopped, the weight of exhaustion evident in his pallid face.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, her smile sharpening. “Humility is a virtue, indeed. Though there are those who mistake it for submission.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stem of her goblet, her composure threatening to crack under the strain. She forced herself to remain still, her expression calm and collected, though her chest burned with frustration. “Boldness may win hearts, but it does not always win the realm, Princess.”

Daemon, seated beside Laenor, let out a low chuckle as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “Ah, but sometimes it does,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and provocation. “Boldness can move mountains—and men.”

Alicent’s lips thinned as she gave him a pointed glance. “And yet it is wisdom that keeps both from crumbling.”

The tension at the dais became almost tangible, pulling tighter with every word exchanged. Rhaenyra held Alicent’s gaze for a moment longer before looking away, picking up her goblet with an elegant hand and taking a slow sip. The dismissal was clear, yet unspoken.

As the conversations below the dais resumed in cautious murmurs, Alicent leaned back in her chair, the tension in her spine masked by her serene posture. Her plate sat untouched before her, the aroma of roasted meat and spiced fruits doing nothing to rouse her appetite. Instead, her gaze roved over her children, each of them a living reminder of the choices she had made and the damage she could never undo.

She caught Aegon’s gaze first, and her heart clenched at the open resentment flickering in his eyes. He glowered at her, his lips curling into a faint sneer before he leaned closer to Jaehaerys, muttering something she couldn’t hear. The younger boy glanced at her uncertainly but quickly turned his attention back to Aegon, nodding hesitantly at whatever his elder brother whispered. Alicent’s fingers tightened around her goblet, her knuckles paling as the wine within sloshed ever so slightly.

Further down the table, Helaena sat as quiet as ever, her gaze distant and unfocused. But Alicent’s attention sharpened as she noticed her daughter reaching for Daemon’s sleeve, her small fingers grasping at the dark fabric as if seeking an anchor. Daemon raised an eyebrow, his expression more curious than perturbed, but he made no move to pull away. Instead, he allowed her to cling to him, sipping his wine with an air of mild amusement. Alicent’s chest tightened, uneased at the sight of her daughter gravitating toward the Rogue Prince.

Finally, her gaze settled on Aemond, seated almost directly across from her. He didn’t look up, his lone eye fixed on his plate as though the food might offer him answers to the unspoken questions weighing on his heart. Alicent’s breath caught as her gaze lingered on the scar that marred his face, an ever-present reminder of the price he had paid for her mistakes.

Her insides lurched, guilt and sorrow tangling in her chest as she realized how isolated he looked, even here among his family. He had always carried himself with quiet dignity, but tonight, his silence felt heavier, more deliberate. Was it anger? Hurt? She couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty gnawed at her. Alicent could see the way the shadows from the flickering candlelight softened the rough edges of his scar, yet there was no softening the pain it conjured in her heart. Her mind unspooled memories of the night he lost his eye; the chaos, the screams, her desperation to defend him… and yet she could never erase the bitter truth: her actions, her words, her insistence, had set the tragedy in motion.

She swallowed hard, her chest tightening further as she reflected on the repercussions of that night. No matter how fiercely she loved him, no matter how many prayers she whispered, she could never take back what had been done, what Rhaenyra had caused her to do.

Alicent exhaled quietly, her serene mask cracking ever so slightly. She set her goblet down carefully and folded her hands in her lap, her fingers intertwining in her lap. The hall buzzed with life around her, the lords and ladies below their table feasting and laughing, oblivious to the storm brewing at the top of the dais. Yet Alicent could only feel the widening chasm between her children, between herself and them, and the bitter taste of helplessness that no wine could wash away.

--

The chambers of the Red Keep were still, cloaked in the heavy silence that followed the day's tumult. Rhaenyra sat by the window, her gaze fixed on the skyline of King's Landing, where torchlights flickered like distant stars against the deepening dusk. The quiet should have felt peaceful, a respite from the unrelenting swirl of courtly politics and familial obligations, but tonight it weighed upon her, a silence thick with the unsaid, the unacknowledged. Her white nightshirt pooled around her, falling off her shoulder as she gazed out the window.

Laenor had been in earlier, recounting the boys' antics at bedtime, his voice laced with the fondness that always tugged at Rhaenyra's heart. He'd spoken of Jae’s curious questions about dragons, of Luke’s laughter ringing through the halls, of Aerion’s small, chubby fingers clutching his sleeve with unyielding determination. As he spoke, Rhaenyra had seen the cracks in his armour—the tiny fissures where his resolve faltered under the weight of their unspoken goodbye. It was not yet time for him to leave, but the inevitability of their plans hung over them, coiling tighter with every shared glance, every moment of quiet understanding.

She stood alone now, her fingers curling against the edge of the stone windowsill, as if grounding herself against the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. The Red Keep had never felt more foreign, its grandeur cold and empty compared to the surprising warmth of their time in Dragonstone. The boys were settled in their rooms, safe for the night, but Rhaenyra couldn't shake the thought of how the routine would shift when Laenor was no longer there to take his turn. Would they resent her for his absence? Would they understand why he had to leave? For them, for her, for himself? Or would they only see it as betrayal?

Behind her, she heard the quiet click of the door, the soft tread of familiar boots on the stone floor. Laenor had always been quiet in his movements, a subtlety that often belied the warmth of his presence. She didn’t turn, but she felt him near, the air between them charged with the weight of all they couldn’t say.

“Rhaenyra,” he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of hesitation, as though saying her name might pull the thread holding them together taut enough to snap.

She turned slowly, her eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room. He stood at the edge of the hearth’s glow, his expression weary but resolute, the hint of sadness in his gaze betraying what words could not. She didn’t know what to say. The plans they had made were pragmatic, necessary, but the reality of them was something she wasn’t sure she could bear.

“Laenor…” her voice faltered as she stepped closer, her hand lifting instinctively to rest on his arm. The gesture was small, tentative, but it carried the weight of her unspoken grief. “I hate this. I hate what we must do.”

His smile was faint, humourless, as he looked down at her hand, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. “So do I,” he admitted, his voice low. “But hate it or not, it’s the right thing. For them. For you.”

“And for you?” she asked, her tone sharp with emotion as she searched his face. “How is this fair and right for you, being away from your children?”

Laenor hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor as he considered her words. “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “what’s right isn’t what’s easy. And it’s not what we want, either.” He met her eyes again, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands. “It’s what protects them. And that’s what matters.”

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply; her chest tight with the ache of the choices they’d made. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that there had to be another way. But she couldn’t bring herself to voice the protest, because deep down, she knew he was right. They had tried to fight against the tide for so long, but some battles weren’t meant to be won.

“I’ll miss you,” she said softly, her voice breaking as the words escaped her. “I’ll miss how you make them laugh, how you keep us grounded, how you—”

Laenor pressed a finger gently to her lips, silencing her with a shake of his head. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t say it. Not yet.”

She nodded; her throat tight as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. He pulled her into his arms then, his embrace firm but unspoken, a silent promise that even as he stepped aside, he would never truly leave them. That was how Daemon found them, sneaking in through the secret passages put in place by Maegor Targaryen over a hundred years before. Laenor smiled weakly at the warrior, even as he gently rubbed the top of Rhaenyra’s back.

Daemon stepped further into the room, his sharp eyes flicking between Rhaenyra and Laenor. The smirk tugging at his lips was unmistakable, a rogue’s grin that promised mischief.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. “Should I leave you two to your tender moment, or is there room for one more?”

Laenor chuckled softly, his hand still resting on Rhaenyra’s back. “You’re always welcome, Daemon. Though I must warn you, I don’t share my wine easily.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he sauntered toward the table where a decanter of wine awaited. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of taking what’s yours, Laenor. Unless, of course, you’re offering.”

Rhaenyra sighed; her frustration evident as she turned to face them both. “Must you always turn everything into a game?” she asked, though her tone lacked true bite. She knew them too well to expect anything less.

Daemon poured himself a generous glass of wine, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Life is a game, niece. And if you don’t play, you lose.” He raised his glass in a mock toast, his violet eyes gleaming with mischief.

Laenor leaned back in his chair, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “You know, Daemon, for someone who claims to be a master of strategy, you seem awfully fond of stealing other people’s wine.”

Daemon shrugged, unbothered by the accusation. “It’s not stealing if it’s freely given. Besides, I’m doing you a favour—less wine means fewer regrets in the morning.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t suppress the faint smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “If you two are quite finished, perhaps we could discuss something of actual importance?”

Daemon settled into a chair opposite Laenor, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. “Of course, Princess. Let’s talk about your grand plans to save the realm—or whatever it is you’re plotting.”

Laenor leaned forward, his expression growing more serious as he met Daemon’s gaze. “We’re not just plotting, Daemon. We’re preparing. For the children, for Rhaenyra’s claim, for what’s to come.”

“I firmly believe we have done more than enough for one day, especially after that majestic moment at dinner. Let us drink to the Heri to the throne!” Daemon stated. Laenor leaned back into his chair, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he raised his glass toward Daemon.

 “I’ll drink to that. Though it’s rare to hear you advocate for leisure over intrigue, Uncle. Should I be worried?”

Daemon’s smirk widened as he poured himself a generous helping of wine from the decanter on the table. “You wound me, Laenor. As if I’d need an excuse to enjoy good wine and better company. Besides,” he added, with a sly glance at Rhaenyra, “it seems our dear Princess could use a moment to relax. Her furrowed brow threatens to form a permanent crease.”

Rhaenyra, sitting between the two men, crossed her arms and fixed Daemon with a withering stare. “Perhaps my furrowed brow has something to do with the pair of you behaving like overgrown boys instead of the adults I desperately need you to be.”

Daemon raised his glass in a mock toast. “And yet, here you are, enjoying our company despite your better judgment.”

Laenor chuckled, setting his glass down as he leaned forward. “Be fair, Rhaenyra. He may be insufferable, but he’s entertaining. That must count for something.”

She groaned, rubbing her temples as if to ward off a headache. But the corners of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward despite herself. “You two make it impossible to stay cross for long. Which is infuriating.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair; his expression smug as he took a sip of wine. “That’s the secret to my charm. Irresistible, isn’t it?”

“Oh, truly irresistible,” Laenor interjected with mock solemnity. “Your charm, your wit, your complete disregard for propriety… what’s not to love?”

Rhaenyra groaned louder, but the sound melted into soft laughter as she reached for her own glass. “Seven save me from the both of you.”

The camaraderie between them was palpable, the shared laughter a fleeting reprieve from the weight of their plans. As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting golden light across their faces as they enjoyed one another’s company, taking advantage of the late night and the overabundance of wine.

--

Aegon stumbled into his chambers, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud. His back hit the cold, carved stone of the wall as he slid down, his knees curling to his chest in a feeble attempt to compress the unbearable weight pressing down on him. Breath hitched in his throat, shallow and erratic, as though the air itself in King's Landing refused to fill his lungs. It was always this way upon his return—this crushing, suffocating sense of dread that gnawed at his insides. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his mother found her way to his room, her footsteps heralding another wave of expectation he couldn’t bear.

He hated it. The relentless pressure, the choking expectations—they suffused the very air of King’s Landing, seeping into his skin. His mother, Alicent Hightower, would soon be at his door, with that practiced look of disappointment wrapped in love… a veil he could see through all too clearly. She never stopped. She demanded, she pushed, she pleaded for him to be better, to rise to the occasion, to be someone he wasn’t sure he wanted to be. The worst part was that he knew she believed it was all for his own good; that she could save him from his demons by burdening him with hers.

And his grandfather. The thought of Otto Hightower sent a sharp pang of bitterness through his chest. The man’s ambitions were a weight Aegon had never asked to carry, yet they sat upon his shoulders like an iron mantle. Every calculated word, every scheme, every subtle nudge, all designed to meld Aegon into the ruler Otto envisioned. It wasn’t love—it was power. Power, they wanted to channel through him. He hated them for it. He hated them for seeing him not as a person but to an end, a pawn on their intricate chessboard of politics.

His eyes swept the familiar chaos of his surroundings, his sanctuary turned to a smothering cage. The velvet drapes in deep crimson and black hung heavily over the tall windows, barring the sunlight as if even the day had forsaken him. Darkness pooled in every corner, deepening his isolation. The imposing four-poster bed loomed in the dim light; the Targaryen sigil embroidered on its canopy a reminder of the name he carried like a burden. The fabric hung limp, crumpled and careless, much like his own attempts to maintain control over his life.

Signs of his excess surrounded him. A goblet lay overturned, its contents bleeding into the worn rug beneath, the dark stain an accusing reminder of his indulgences. On the ornate table nearby, a half-empty flagon of wine tilted precariously, daring gravity to claim its last remnants. The faint scent of incense clung to the air, though it failed to mask the sour undertone of stale wine and squandered time. Books and scrolls lay scattered in neglected heaps, their dust-choked pages bearing knowledge he had no patience to seek.

His hands gripped his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he doubled over, the walls of his room closing in with a ferocity that matched his internal torment. They didn’t care about him—not really. Alicent and Otto wanted a crown more than they wanted a son or grandson. For what? To bind him tighter to this city, this throne, this life he never asked for? He wanted to scream, to shatter the silence, but even his voice felt stolen… taken by the city that demanded everything and returned nothing.

A sob wrung itself from Aegon's throat, raw and untamed, but it was swiftly silenced by the soft, hesitant knock at his door. He froze, his chest tightening as he blinked away the tears clouding his vision. Scrambling to his feet, he brushed trembling fingers across his cheeks, willing the evidence of his anguish to disappear. The door creaked open, and through the shadows, a small head peeked cautiously into the room.

"Egg?" Lucerys’ voice carried softly through the oppressive stillness, a fragile bridge between his isolation and the outside world. Aegon could make out the boy's slight frame in the gloom, his nephew clutching a pillow tightly to his chest. Before he could protest, a series of silver-haired heads followed. Aemond stepped in next, his one eye gleaming with quiet curiosity, while Jaehaerys trailed behind, a mix of concern and timidness evident in his posture. All three were clad in their nightclothes, their pillows a silent indication of why they had come.

Aegon quickly wiped at his face, masking his vulnerability with the well-practiced motions of indifference. He turned away from them, retreating to the edge of his bed, where the sheets lay rumpled and tangled—a mirror to his state of mind. His back faced the group as he sank down onto the mattress, his shoulders tense and hunched.

"I'm not in the mood for company," he muttered, his voice strained but steady, an effort to conceal the storm raging within. Yet even as he spoke, he couldn’t bring himself to look at them. The weight of his emotions pressed him down, the presence of his nephews and brother both comforting and suffocating in equal measure.

Aegon’s shoulders remained stiff, his back turned to the intruders of his solitude. He swallowed hard, wrestling with the lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “I said I’m not in the mood for company,” he mumbled again, his voice quieter this time, betraying the lingering cracks of his earlier sobs.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, the soft patter of bare feet against the stone floor reached his ears. Aegon’s head tilted slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of Lucerys approaching him hesitantly, pillow still clutched in hand. Without a word, the boy climbed onto the bed beside him and settled close enough that Aegon could feel the warmth of his small frame.

“We don’t care,” Lucerys said with the stubbornness only a child could muster. “We’re staying.”

Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that might have been the ghost of a laugh if not for the heaviness in his chest. He turned his head slightly as Aemond and Jaehaerys joined them, their presence filling the room with a quiet solidarity. Aemond, always composed, regarded him with an unreadable expression before setting his pillow down and seating himself on the floor near the bed. Jaehaerys, more concerning than his brother, lingered for a moment before gingerly perching on the edge of the mattress.

“You don’t have to be alone, Egg,” Jaehaerys said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re here. We always are.”

Aegon closed his eyes, the words striking him harder than he wanted to admit. They didn’t understand… not fully, not yet. But their presence spoke louder than any declarations of love or loyalty could. They stayed despite his brokenness, despite the chaos of his room and his life. They didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand he be someone he wasn’t. They simply were there, a steady and unwavering reminder that not everything in his world was shaped by expectation or ambition.

Lucerys leaned against him, his small head resting against Aegon’s arm. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said, his voice gentle. “We just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

It was those words that shattered his fragile resolve. Aegon let out a choked, broken sob, burying his face in trembling hands. His shoulders shook as he cried, the sound muffled against his palms. The weight pressing on his chest spilled out in raw, anguished waves, overwhelming him completely. He barely registered the shifting around him—the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft creak of the bed—but then arms encircled him, tentative yet steady. Lucerys had climbed next to him, wrapping his small, comforting frame around his uncle.

They couldn’t possibly understand the storm raging inside him—the crushing weight of guilt and despair that filled his soul to the brim. Aegon felt utterly alone in his anguish, yet here they were, holding on to him as though their presence alone could keep him from slipping further into darkness. Lucerys’ thin arms tightened around him, his silent courage speaking louder than any words.

Behind him, Lucerys cast a wide-eyed look at Aemond and Jaehaerys, his uncertainty palpable. The two older boys exchanged glances, concern evident in their features. Jaehaerys, hesitant and unsure, leaned closer to whisper, his voice barely audible.

“Should we get mother?” he asked quietly, his gaze flicking nervously between Aegon and Aemond.

Aemond, steady and resolute, shook his head. “Sister has her own concerns,” he replied firmly, his voice low but clear. “We can look after Aegon.”

Jaehaerys hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. Reluctant but determined, he moved to sit beside Lucerys and Aegon, setting his pillow down on the edge of the bed. Aemond joined them shortly after, sitting close but not intrusively, his presence as solid and grounding as ever. Together, they surrounded him, their warmth a quiet shield against the coldness of his grief.

As Aegon’s cries subsided into ragged breaths, his nephews and brother stayed where they were, unmoving. They didn’t try to understand his pain; they didn’t need to. Their love didn’t demand explanations. It simply existed, steadfast and unyielding, holding him together when he thought he might completely fall apart.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra fell onto the cotton bedsheets of her bed, perspiration visible on her forehead. She held the sheets against her bare, fair skin and took several deep breaths to compose herself. Daemon lay beside her with a smirk, reaching for the pitcher on the bedside table and pouring himself a goblet. His scars were prominently visible, his form entirely uncovered as he stretched languidly across her bed.

The burns from his battles marked his body, narrating the tale of a resilient yet battle-worn Prince.  Rhaenyra rested her head on his shoulder, her silver hair loose and trailing along her pillow. She gently traced the edges of the burns on his neck, and Daemon shivered as he captured her hand in his own, stopping her movements.

“Enough of that, unless you are ready for another round,” he teased, his lips brushing across her ear, before he bit the earlobe playfully. Rhaenyra flushed as he leaned over, beginning to place soft, gentle kisses along her neck. Fire pooled in her stomach, and she yearned to give into her desire for him. Yet the day awaited, and Rhaenyra knew it would not be long before her handmaidens came to rouse her, interrupting her supposed slumber. She bit back the moan as his fingers ghosted along the soft skin at her side, his mouth moving ever so close to her breasts. With all her willpower and strength, she pushed him to the other side of the bed, shaking her head.

“We cannot, we have much to do today, and much to discuss before my handmaidens arrive to help me bathe and dress,” Rhaenyra excused herself quickly from the bed, pulling the white bedsheet with her. Rhaenyra's chamber at King's Landing exuded an air of elegance and warmth befitting her status as the Crown Princess.

The scent of cinnamon and orange oil lingered in the room, a subtle yet invigorating blend that matched her vibrant spirit. Golden rays of sunlight streamed through sheer curtains, casting dappled patterns onto the marble floor. The bed was an opulent centrepiece, draped in crimson and gold silks that shimmered faintly in the early light. The walls were adorned with finely woven tapestries, depicting scenes of dragon flight and Valyrian lore, their intricate details softened by the morning's glow. A faint murmur of life echoed through the castle corridors beyond her chamber, but within, the crackling embers in the grand fireplace added a soothing rhythm to the room's stillness, creating a sanctuary for the Princess of Dragonstone.

“I could assist you” Daemon teased flirtingly, sprawling along her bed like a cat, his naked form on display. Rhaenyra rose an eyebrow, swallowing slightly as she ran her eyes over his body, before swiftly turning and pulling on her nightgown, throwing the bedsheet at him. Daemon’s deep chuckle reverberated through her as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his breeches.

Nine moon turns had passed since Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their family returned to King's Landing. Rhaenyra sat at her intricately carved oak table, its surface scattered with reports, invitations, and parchments detailing the various responsibilities she had undertaken since her confrontation with her father. Though the tension between them remained palpable, she refused to waver in her determination to secure her claim. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon and orange, a calming yet invigorating scent that had come to define her chamber. Sunlight streamed through sheer curtains, casting intricate patterns upon the polished marble floor, as if heralding the dawn of new challenges.

Daemon and Harwin had taken command of the Goldcloaks with zeal, purging the streets of King's Landing of its criminal underbelly. The transformation of the City Watch into a disciplined force sent a clear message to the realm—justice and order would no longer be neglected under the Targaryen banner. The clang of swords and the echo of marching boots were familiar sounds outside the Red Keep, signs of the city’s slow, deliberate resurgence. Despite their progress, the efforts were not without risk; whispers of Daemon's unrelenting methods and Harwin's growing prominence reached the court, fuelling intrigue and murmurs of discontent.

Though the investigation into the assassination attempts at Driftmark yielded fewer results with each passing day, Daemon remained relentless in his pursuit of answers, his loyalty to Rhaenyra unwavering. As she shuffled through the papers before her, a dispatch from Daemon caught her eye, a succinct yet detailed account of their latest raids on a smuggler’s den. The corner of her lips twitched, a flicker of pride mixing with a quiet resolve. Their work was far from over, but their presence in King's Landing was no longer a question, it was a statement.

In the meantime, Rhaenyra had thrown herself into supporting Helaena through the labyrinthine preparations for her impending wedding. It was no small feat, especially with Alicent's persistent attempts to exert control over every detail.

The Queen Mother had a knack for weaving herself into the tapestry of decision-making, a challenge Rhaenyra met with measured defiance and occasional wit. Rhaenyra’s efforts included overseeing the selection of gowns, jewels, and decor that would ensure the ceremony reflected Targaryen grandeur while honouring Helaena’s gentle spirit.

Beyond the wedding preparations, Rhaenyra had been diligently cultivating her Ladies Court, gathering noblewomen whose loyalty to her was unwavering. Each week, she held these sessions in her chamber, a haven of cinnamon-scented warmth. The court had become a blend of camaraderie and strategic dialogue, with Rhaenyra introducing Helaena to their circles following her three-and-ten celebration. Together, they discussed matters of governance, arts, and the strength of alliances; subjects Rhaenyra hoped would prepare Helaena for her future role.

Beyond the walls of the Red Keep, she was working closely with Lord Beesbury and the Small Council, attempting to implement reforms to restore prosperity to the surrounding lands. Taxes on struggling merchants were beginning to lower, and alliances being forged through carefully negotiated agreements. The once-stagnant markets of King's Landing hummed with life as vendors and buyers filled the streets with vibrant energy.

Perhaps her most heartfelt initiative was the establishment of medicine houses across the city, offering care to those who had long been neglected. These sanctuaries, staffed by skilled healers from Essos and the Citadel, brought hope to the downtrodden and bolstered Rhaenyra’s reputation as a ruler who cared for all her people, noble and common alike.

In quieter moments, Rhaenyra also sought to provide her children with the stability and guidance they craved in an uncertain world. She arranged outings to the gardens, where they could run among the roses or watch the swans glide gracefully on the reflecting ponds. She encouraged their studies, ensuring each of them received tailored lessons in history, diplomacy, and Valyrian traditions. These moments, though fleeting, offered her respite from the weight of her responsibilities.

Her children provided a measure of solace, their laughter echoing through the gardens and the dragon pit during the rare moments she could join them. Rhaenyra felt the weight of her responsibilities, but she also recognized the strength that had come from their return to the Red Keep. Together, they were shaping not just their own futures, but the fate of the realm.

Yet, among the weighty affairs of court and the tireless efforts to nurture alliances, there was a moment of pure joy that softened the sharp edges of duty. Lady Charis, one of Rhaenyra's closest confidantes, had recently given birth to a son, Arthur. The news was met with celebration among the Ladies Court, and Rhaenyra had made time to visit Charis during her confinement, bringing gifts and blessings for the newborn. Arthur, with his dark hair and lively eyes, was already a cherished presence, his arrival a reminder of the quiet joys of motherhood amidst the storm of politics.

Though Charis’s absence left a temporary gap in their gatherings, her spirit remained a guiding presence. Rhaenyra often found herself envisioning Charis's return, knowing the strength and wisdom she brought to their circle. The young Arthur, she mused, would no doubt grow to become a formidable force in his own right, a testament to the resilience of the women who shaped him.

“How fares Laenor, now we are approaching the wedding?” Daemon asked, his voice low and edged with unspoken certainty as he leaned over her. The warmth of his arm radiated against the back of her chair, his presence a mix of comfort and tension. One hand rested upon the table, fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood, though his gaze was fixed intently on her. The implication in his voice was clear; the wedding would mark Laenor’s departure, his time in their household coming to an end under the cover of night.

The plans had been carefully refined over the past moons, each detail scrutinized until perfection was achieved. Daemon had spent hours corresponding with his contacts across the Narrow Sea, securing a temporary residence for Laenor in Essos; a sanctuary that promised safety but also distance. The house, tucked away in Volantis, was well-hidden, an escape befitting the man who must fade into anonymity for the sake of his family’s legacy.

Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, the burden of her decision pressing heavily upon her as her silver hair caught the faint glow of sunlight filtering into the chamber. Her gaze fell, tracing the lines of a parchment that listed upcoming arrangements for the wedding, yet her focus was elsewhere.

“He is making the best of the time remaining with the children,” she murmured, her voice touched with both resignation and affection. Daemon watched her closely, the flicker of pride and understanding reflected in his violet eyes. She continued, her tone soft but steady.

“Jaehaerys has been taking to him like a shadow, eager to learn the art of diplomacy and the subtleties of leadership. Laenor has been patient with him, teaching him not just the duties of a prince but the heart required to wield power wisely. Lucerys, of course, insists on mastering the ways of the ocean. Laenor has indulged him by teaching him to navigate the currents and read the stars, the wisdom of a sea captain passed down with pride. Aerion is nearly one now, and despite his tender years, Laenor dotes on him, laughing as the baby reaches out for him whenever he’s near.”

Daemon’s smirk softened, replaced by something resembling a quiet respect. “Laenor is a good father,” he said, his tone less biting than usual. His fingers shifted, brushing lightly against her shoulder. “A loyal man, despite everything.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed together, forming a thin line as her heart ached at the truth of his words. Laenor had not wavered in his dedication to her and the children, not even as the weight of their circumstances bore down on him. She could see the strain in his eyes, the bittersweet smiles he gave the boys as he recounted tales of the sea and dragons, knowing they were moments stolen from a future he could never share.

“I wish there was another way,” she whispered, her voice almost too quiet to reach Daemon’s ears.

He remained silent, though his hand slipped from the table to rest firmly against her shoulder. “We do what must be done, Rhaenyra. The realm needs you. And the children need safety more than sentiment.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her heart wavered. She knew the truth of Daemon’s words, knew the sacrifices necessary for their survival, but it did not make the pain of losing Laenor any less sharp. The wedding should be a celebration, a spectacle of joy and union, but for their household, it would mark a quiet tragedy… a farewell shrouded in secrecy and necessity.

“Please,” Rhaenyra said, her voice trembling softly, though she tried to mask it. “Would you keep an eye on Aegon? I am concerned for him; he is retreating deeper into himself as the wedding approaches. He will not talk to me, nor to Laenor.” Her fingers gripped the quill tightly, the strain reflected in the faint whitening of her knuckles. The quill tip hovered just above the parchment, a blot of ink spreading beneath it as she held her hand steady, frozen by her own worry.

Daemon leaned closer, his presence a quiet comfort amidst her turmoil. His arm rested on the back of her chair, and his other hand, calloused but warm, came to rest flat against the table beside hers. The faint scent of leather and ash lingered on him, mingling with the spice of orange and cinnamon that perfumed her chamber. His violet eyes softened as he studied her face, and then, with a gentle nod, he said, “I will watch him.”

Before either could speak further, a knock on the chamber door interrupted their exchange. Rhaenyra sighed, the breath carrying a trace of weariness. Daemon bent forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead—a gesture that was equal parts affection and resignation. “That is my sign to leave,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing against her skin.

Rhaenyra nodded, though she did not look up, her mind still occupied with thoughts of Aegon’s growing silence. She barely registered the quiet shuffle of Daemon’s boots as he moved toward the hidden entrance. The passage, carved long ago under Maegor’s supervision, opened with a faint creak of stone, and Daemon slipped through it, his departure silent and swift.

Moments later, her handmaidens filtered into the chamber, their movements precise and practiced. The first group carried steaming basins of water, the sharp tang of heated copper and rosemary rising from the bowls. Others followed with trays of food; freshly baked bread, slices of honeyed peaches, and a pot of fragrant tea spiced with cloves. One maid busied herself with setting the table, while another arranged Rhaenyra’s bath with care, folding towels of soft linen by the tub. As the handmaidens bustled around her chamber, Rhaenyra rose from her chair with a grace that belied the storm of emotions brewing within her. The parchment she'd been working on remained unfinished, its ink drying unevenly where her quill had lingered. She allowed herself to be guided to the waiting tub, the steam curling lazily into the air and mingling with the heady aromas of orange blossoms and cinnamon oil. Her fingers brushed against the soft linen towels as she steadied herself, her gaze fixed on the rippling surface of the water.

The maids worked diligently, their practiced hands pouring the fragrant oils and smoothing them across her fair skin. Rhaenyra leaned back, closing her eyes as the warmth of the water enveloped her. The comforting embrace of the bath did little to quell the tide of thoughts that surged within her mind. She thought of Laenor, of his steady hands teaching Jaehaerys the art of diplomacy and Lucerys the ways of the ocean. She imagined Aerion’s bright eyes, always seeking out his father with the unwavering adoration of a child who did not yet understand the gravity of the world around him. A pang of sorrow tightened her chest… soon, those children would lose the daily presence of the man who had nurtured and loved them.

Her thoughts shifted, like clouds obscuring the sun, to Aegon. His increasing withdrawal weighed heavily on her heart, and though she had spoken to Daemon of her concern, the silence from her eldest sibling haunted her. The wedding loomed ahead, its brilliance and pomp a stark contrast to the undercurrents of sacrifice and pain that coursed through their household. Rhaenyra felt the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her shoulders, an invisible crown far heavier than the one she sought to claim.

As the maids stepped back to allow her a moment of quiet, Rhaenyra’s gaze wandered to the ornate mirror resting against the wall. Her reflection stared back at her, the silver strands of her hair catching the glint of sunlight, her violet eyes filled with both determination and weariness. For all her efforts, the realm remained a fragile tapestry, its threads pulled taut by ambition, loyalty, and love. She straightened her posture, resolving to carry her burdens with dignity.

As the handmaidens carefully dressed her, Rhaenyra’s gown revealed itself as nothing short of artwork. The fabric was a sumptuous black velvet, deep and rich, catching the light like the dark waters of Blackwater Bay under the moon. It clung to her figure with elegant precision before flowing into a cascade of crimson silk, pooling at her feet like dragon fire. The intricate embroidery that adorned the gown told a story as vivid as the flames it resembled—red and gold dragons winding their way along the hems and sleeves, their forms crafted with a dexterous hand. The embroidery shimmered with jewelled highlights, tiny rubies and garnets catching the sunlight as though ignited by the very fire they depicted.

The sleeves, flared and flowing, bore the most breath-taking detail. Flames danced along their edges, their golden threads almost alive, flickering as Rhaenyra moved. The bodice was adorned with a deep ruby set at its centre, surrounded by dragons forged from delicate golden stitching, their wings stretched wide as though in flight. A pair of matching rubies winked from her shoulders, holding the cloak that spilled down her back, a cloak lined in deep crimson silk and edged with yet more flames, crafted in fine gold.

Her appearance was further elevated by the finishing touches: her silver hair braided and coiled into an intricate crown-like style, adorned with slender pins shaped like dragon heads. As they added the final touches; a jewelled pendant at her throat, rings adorning her fingers; Rhaenyra’s thoughts once again turned to the weeks ahead. She would protect her children, guide Helaena through her transition to womanhood, and ensure that Laenor’s departure was seamless. Yet, amidst all these plans, she could not shake the shadow of uncertainty that clung to her heart.

When the maids stepped back and curtseyed, signalling their work was complete, Rhaenyra rose to her full height. She was every inch the Princess of Dragonstone, formidable and radiant. But within the halls of the Red Keep, beneath the layers of silk and jewellery, she was simply a woman navigating the labyrinth of duty and love, sacrifice and ambition.

--

Helaena was being dressed in her first gown for the seven days of celebration when Rhaenyra arrived at her room. The air inside was heavy with the gentle aroma of hyacinths and freesias, mingling with the earthy smell of soil from the myriad pots of small plants that adorned every surface. Delicate creepers clung to the edges of the ornate window frames, their tendrils seeking out the warm evening sun. Tiny glass containers with carefully preserved beetles and butterflies sat on the shelves, their iridescent wings catching the light. Fabrics embroidered with vibrant flowers and intricate insect motifs were draped artfully over furniture, casting colourful shadows in the late afternoon light.

Amid this meticulously chaotic sanctuary stood Helaena, a young princess with furrowed brows and red-rimmed eyes. Her frustration was palpable as she swatted at the handmaidens’ well-meaning hands, her movements sharp and restless.

“I do not wish to be touched,” she snapped, her voice trembling with barely restrained irritation. “Why do they keep trying to touch me? Must everything always be so suffocating?”

Her words hung in the air, echoing softly off the stone walls. The handmaidens, though clearly taken aback, continued their efforts, their movements gentle but persistent. Helaena batted them away again, a low growl of frustration escaping her lips. Rhaenyra stepped forward then, her presence commanding without being overbearing. She raised a hand to still the nearest handmaiden, her tone firm yet understanding.

“Sister, are you well?” she asked, her sharp gaze flicking over Helaena’s distressed form. She could see the tension in the younger girl’s shoulders, the way her fingers clenched at the fabric of her gown, and the subtle shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

“I do not wish to be touched,” Helaena repeated, softer this time but no less fierce, as her glare fell on the handmaidens. They exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of how to proceed under such scrutiny.

Rhaenyra clicked her tongue lightly and dismissed the handmaidens with a graceful wave, speaking in a tone that brooked no argument. “That will be all for now. I will help my sister prepare for the procession.”

The handmaidens bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving the two women alone. Rhaenyra turned back to Helaena, her expression softening as she extended a hand. “It is necessary, dear sister,” she said gently, “but if it behoves you, I am happy to dress you for the procession. There is no need for all this fuss if it troubles you.”

Helaena hesitated, her eyes flickering between Rhaenyra’s outstretched hand and the now-closed door. The younger princess seemed to weigh her options, her gaze lingering on the gentle smile playing at Rhaenyra’s lips. Finally, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against her sister’s palm before grasping it fully. Rhaenyra guided Helaena to the large mirrors that stood in one corner of the room, their silver surfaces framed by carvings of creeping vines and blossoming flowers.

 “Come,” Rhaenyra soothed as they moved through the cozy disarray. “Let us make this bearable together.” Helaena nodded quietly, her tension easing slightly as she allowed herself to be cared for by her sister. Rhaenyra delicately worked her fingers through Helaena's silver tresses, her touch light as a butterfly’s wing. The room was a testament to Helaena's individuality: the intricate embroidered fabrics scattered on her chair seemed alive with bees and dragonflies woven in gold, and the soft scent of hyacinths intertwined with the heady perfume of freesias. Rhaenyra let her gaze drift to the carved wooden table beside the mirror, its surface adorned with a collection of delicate jewels, each glinting in the soft light spilling through the window.

Her thoughts lingered on her sister's essence—a love for nature's purity and its quiet marvels. From the array of shimmering hairpins, she chose a circlet of silver leaves adorned with tiny, jewelled butterflies, so intricately crafted that they seemed ready to take flight. Rhaenyra smiled as she held it up against the light, its radiance complementing Helaena’s ethereal beauty.

She slipped it gently onto Helaena’s head, weaving the braid around the circlet to secure it. The silver leaves seemed to melt into the younger princess's hair, while the jewelled butterflies twinkled like stars in the soft twilight filtering into the room.

“There,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice soothing as her fingers lingered briefly on the finished braid. “You’re perfect—a reflection of yourself, and that is what makes you radiant.”

Helaena met her sister's gaze in the mirror, her expression softening. For a fleeting moment, the tension in her shoulders eased, and the storm of her earlier frustration settled into a quiet calm. Rhaenyra’s touch, the delicate circlet, and her unwavering patience were as much a balm to her spirit as they were to her appearance.

As Helaena stood to be dressed, Rhaenyra let out a slight gasp at the gown she wore. Helaena’s dress was nothing short of a masterpiece, a quiet reflection of her soul and dreams. The pure white fabric shimmered softly in the golden light of her chambers, its surface smooth and pristine like freshly fallen snow. Yet it was the embroidery, painstakingly done by Helaena’s own hands, that turned the gown into a living tapestry. Threads of silver wove intricate patterns across the fabric, delicate and unassuming at first glance, but closer inspection revealed a hauntingly beautiful story.

Depicted subtly within the embroidery were the shapes of towers rising toward the heavens, their spires casting long shadows across a tumultuous landscape. Between them danced the flickering forms of fire, consuming and creating in equal measure, hinting at dreams both foreboding and transformative. Dragons soared gracefully through the skies above, their silver wings gleaming as if illuminated by some internal flame. Each stitch was precise, yet held a peculiar fluidity, as though the images themselves might come to life when the fabric shifted with her movements.

The design was far from an overt narrative; it spoke in whispers rather than proclamations, allowing its true nature to be discerned only by those who lingered long enough to see it. The gown seemed to encapsulate the essence of Helaena’s dreams; visions that wove together her family’s history, their triumphs and tragedies, and her own mysterious foresight.

As Rhaenyra adjusted the circlet in Helaena’s hair, she took a moment to truly absorb the artistry of the gown. “It’s magnificent, dear sister,” she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “You’ve poured your heart into this, and it shows. Every thread speaks of something greater—something only you can see.”

Helaena blinked slowly, her gaze falling to the gown’s hem, where the silvery threads depicted waves crashing against jagged rocks, a hint, perhaps, of the unyielding currents of fate. Her expression was thoughtful, as though she were both proud and perplexed by her own creation.

“It is what I see,” she murmured quietly. “I see the fire and the flight, the towers that rise and the waves that fall. I don’t know if it will save us or undo us.”

Rhaenyra rested a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Whatever it may mean, it is beautiful… and so are you.”

In the mirror, the sisters stood side by side, a picture of contrasts and harmony—Rhaenyra with her commanding presence, and Helaena wrapped in her quiet elegance, her gown a window to the hidden depths of her mind. As the light shifted in the room, the embroidery seemed to shimmer with a life of its own, whispering secrets that only Helaena could ever truly understand.

“I am nervous, sister… I do not wish to be married,” Helaena's voice trembled as she spoke, her nervous words barely audible above the soft rustle of fabric and the faint hum of life within her room. Her downcast eyes were like storm clouds, shadowed and uncertain, while her restless fingers tugged at the hem of her sleeve in a quiet but desperate search for distraction. Rhaenyra took in the sight of her younger sister with an understanding gaze and without a word, she gently led Helaena to the fabric-covered lounger near the wide, sun-warmed window, its cushions plump and inviting.

Settling beside her sister, Rhaenyra reached into the folds of her gown, her movements deliberate and smooth, as if she were unveiling a treasure.

“I have a gift for you,” she said softly, her voice threaded with kindness. Helaena’s gaze flickered upward, curious despite the weight of her unease. As Rhaenyra drew forth a small, ornate golden cage, Helaena blinked, her brows furrowing in faint wonder.

Inside the cage, perched delicately upon a bed of leaves and sticks, was a tiny golden beetle. Its body shimmered with an otherworldly translucence, the black dots along its back gleaming like onyx. It skittered across its makeshift habitat with precise and jerky movements, its fragile legs navigating the terrain with unexpected grace. The insect was no larger than a ladybird, yet its presence commanded attention, as if its quiet beauty held some hidden magic.

Rhaenyra tilted the cage slightly, allowing Helaena a better view of the creature. “It is a lucky beetle,” she explained, her lips curving in a small smile. “All the way from Lys. They say it brings good fortune and courage to those who keep it close.”

Helaena stared at the beetle for a long moment, her fingers stilling as she became absorbed in the delicate intricacies of its form. The golden sheen of its body caught the light, refracting it into faint, ethereal hues that danced across the room’s walls. Slowly, a flicker of emotion softened Helaena’s features—curiosity mingled with a tentative hope.

“It’s… beautiful,” she murmured, her voice quiet yet steady as she reached out to touch the cage’s smooth bars. The golden beetle moved again, its little legs carrying it toward her, as if sensing the presence of its new keeper.

Rhaenyra watched her sister with a quiet pride, sensing a shift in Helaena’s demeanour; a tiny seed of courage taking root amidst her fears.

“You don’t have to face anything alone, dear sister,” Rhaenyra said, placing a hand on Helaena’s knee. “This beetle is a small reminder that even the smallest things can carry strength and bring light. You possess more of that than you know.”

Helaena's lips twitched into a small smile as she gazed at the golden beetle scuttling within the cage.

"Jiminy," she whispered, testing the name softly, as though speaking it aloud made the little creature truly hers. The beetle paused momentarily on a leaf, its delicate legs tracing the surface, before continuing its exploration with an air of determined curiosity.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, her own smile deepening. "Jiminy suits him," she remarked warmly. "Let him remind you that even in the smallest of beings lies strength."

Helaena reached out, her fingers brushing the smooth golden bars of the cage. The sight of Jiminy seemed to anchor her, his lively movements a distraction from the weight of her nervous thoughts.

“Thank you, sister," she said softly, her voice tinged with emotion. "Jiminy… I think he’ll help me."

The golden beetle, who would now her steadfast companion, had brought a lightness to her heart and a balm to the turmoil she felt.

--

Daemon’s mood soured with each step as he ascended the spiralling tower of the Holdfast, its narrow staircase winding endlessly upward as if mocking his impatience. The air grew cooler the higher he climbed, laden with an eerie stillness that unsettled him. Shadows from the narrow windows stretched across the walls, twisting as if they sought to cling to him. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, the comforting weight of the Valyrian steel grounding him even as his instincts screamed for haste.

Aegon’s choice—or was it the Lord Hand’s? —to house the boy in the highest tower seemed absurd to him. The isolation was unnerving. Daemon couldn’t fathom why anyone thought it appropriate for the young prince to reside so far removed from the life pulsating below, tucked away as though forgotten. Yet there was a creeping urgency in Daemon’s veins, an unshakable sense that he must reach Aegon now. His brows knit together as his boots echoed louder on the stone steps, his pace quickening despite himself.

As he rounded the final curve, the door to Aegon’s chamber came into view, flanked by two guards standing as rigid as statues. Their expressions barely flickered as Daemon swept past them, his authority unquestioned. His gaze locked onto the heavy wooden door, its iron fittings gleaming dully in the dim light.

It didn’t budge. His fist rattled the handle furiously, frustration flaring in his chest. “Why is this door locked?” he demanded, his voice sharp as the blade he carried. “Open it, now!”

One guard stiffened, hesitating before responding. “It’s on the orders of the Lord Hand, my Prince—”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain, his patience evaporating. “Fuck the Hand,” he growled. “I said, open this door.”

The tension was palpable, the guards exchanging nervous glances. Daemon’s presence was a storm, crackling with energy and barely restrained fury. He loomed over them, an undeniable force whose very posture promised severe repercussions should his order be defied. Reluctantly, one guard produced the key from his belt, the clinking sound loud in the oppressive quiet, and began to unlock the door.

Daemon’s mind raced as the lock clicked open, his instincts telling him that whatever lay beyond this door was not as it should be. He inhaled deeply, bracing himself, and stepped inside. The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering candle on the desk. Shadows pooled in the corners, hiding secrets Daemon could already sense waiting to be unearthed.

The stench of stale wine and vomit hit Daemon like a physical blow as he entered the room, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto the horrifying sight before him. Aegon hung limply from the chandelier, the sheets cruelly twisted around his neck, the chair beneath him overturned and discarded. For a moment, Daemon froze, his breath catching in his throat as a wave of panic surged through him, threatening to drown his composure. His heart thundered in his chest; each beat a deafening reminder of the stakes. This was not just a boy—this was his paramour’s ward, a life entrusted to his care, and the thought of failing him was unbearable.

“Gods, no,” Daemon muttered under his breath, his voice trembling with a rare vulnerability. The sight of Aegon’s pale, lifeless form sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, snapping him into action. He surged forward, his movements swift and purposeful despite the chaos in his mind. Grasping the boy’s legs, he lifted him to relieve the tension on his neck, his hands trembling as he drew his sword. The Valyrian steel sliced through the sheets with a clean, decisive motion, and Aegon collapsed into his arms, limp and unresponsive.

“Summon the Maester! Now!” Daemon’s voice was a roar, raw with urgency and fear. He lowered Aegon to the floor, his hands moving frantically over the boy’s frame, searching for signs of life. His fingers brushed against the bruises already forming on Aegon’s neck, dark and angry against his pale skin. Daemon’s chest tightened painfully, the sight of those marks a cruel reminder of how close they had come to losing him.

“Come on, boy, come on,” Daemon urged, his voice cracking as he leaned over Aegon.

“Breathe, damn you!” His desperation was palpable, his usually steady hands shaking as he smacked the boy across the face. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and jarring, but it was enough to jolt Aegon back to consciousness. The boy gasped, a spluttering cough tearing through his throat as he inhaled sharply. His hands flew out, clutching at Daemon’s arm as he struggled to take in air. Daemon’s relief was immediate but fleeting, replaced by a surge of anger born of fear.

“What were you thinking, you little shit!?” he demanded, his voice harsh and unyielding. “Do you know how devastated your sister would be if you died?” His words were sharp, but his hands were gentle as they cradled Aegon’s trembling form. The boy’s eyes filled with tears, his gaze unfocused and glassy as the weight of his actions settled upon him.

Daemon’s anger faltered, giving way to a deep, aching sorrow. He wrapped his arms around Aegon, pulling him tightly to his chest as if to shield him from the world.

“Don’t you ever… do not ever do something like this again,” he murmured, his voice breaking as he held the boy close. The fear that had gripped him so tightly began to ebb, replaced by a fierce determination to protect Aegon from whatever demons had driven him to this point.

Aegon’s desperation lingered in the air, a heavy, suffocating presence that spoke of a pain too deep for words. His tears soaked into Daemon’s tunic as he clung to the older man, his small frame shaking with silent sobs. Daemon’s heart ached for the boy, for the fear and despair that had led him to such a dark place. In that moment, he vowed to do whatever it took to ensure Aegon never felt so alone again. Aegon’s words came out haltingly, every syllable laced with anguish.

“I… I couldn’t think of another way… I don’t want to get married… I don’t want the throne…” His voice was raw, hoarse from the strain on his throat, and he shivered like a leaf in a storm. Daemon’s heart clenched painfully as he held the boy close, his hands steady despite the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He could feel Aegon’s thin frame trembling against his chest, the sobs wracking his body a physical manifestation of the despair that had driven him to such a desperate act.

“I know, I know…” Daemon murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to the anger that had initially flared within him. He rocked Aegon gently, much like one would a frightened child, his firm embrace offering both comfort and stability. The weight of Aegon’s words hung heavily in the air, and Daemon’s mind raced to find something—anything—that might ease the boy’s torment.

“Once Rhaenyra is queen, we will dissolve the marriage, I promise you.” There was steel in his tone, an unyielding determination that made the promise feel unbreakable.

Aegon’s tears continued to fall, soaking into Daemon’s tunic as his shoulders heaved with quiet sobs. His face was pressed against Daemon’s chest, seeking solace in the one place that felt safe in a world that demanded far too much of him. The door creaked open then, and the Maester shuffled into the room, his steps hesitant under Daemon’s piercing glare.

Reluctantly, Daemon released Aegon, though his hand lingered on the boy’s shoulder as the Maester knelt to examine him. The older man worked swiftly, his movements precise as he checked Aegon’s neck and vitals, all under the unrelenting scrutiny of Daemon’s sharp gaze. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the occasional sniffle from Aegon and the rustle of the Maester’s tools.

“He will survive,” the Maester said at last, his tone even and professional. “But he will be tender for the next night or so. He must rest.”

Daemon gave a curt nod, but the hard glint in his eye did not waver. Slowly, he straightened, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

“If a word of this is heard beyond this room…” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl, each word deliberate and icy. “You will not see another day. Do I make myself clear?”

The Maester swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to the sharp edge of Daemon’s blade before nodding quickly. “Yes, my Prince.”

Satisfied, Daemon turned his attention back to Aegon, kneeling beside him once more. The boy’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his pale skin marred by the dark bruises forming on his neck. Daemon’s fingers brushed lightly over Aegon’s hair, smoothing it in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. As the Maester quietly gathered his tools and left the room, the oppressive air seemed to lighten ever so slightly.

The Maester’s departure left the room in a tenuous quiet, the air still heavy with the lingering emotions of the ordeal. Daemon took a steadying breath, his fingers flexing at his sides as he turned his attention back to Aegon, whose pale and tear-streaked face still bore traces of anguish.

“We must get you ready now,” Daemon repeated, his tone gentle but resolute. He reached for a basin of water that sat atop a small table, its surface reflecting the dim light like rippled silver. Wringing out a cloth, he knelt beside Aegon, tilting the boy’s chin up with a careful hand. “Let’s clean you up first.”

The cool water against Aegon’s skin seemed to bring him back to the present, his breaths slowing as Daemon wiped away the remnants of tears and sweat. The faint redness of his neck from the bruising stood out starkly, and Daemon’s gaze lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. He couldn’t protect Aegon from the burdens of this life, but he could ensure the boy knew he was not abandoned to them.

Daemon set the cloth aside and moved to a nearby wardrobe, rifling through its contents until he found the garments prepared for the occasion. The tunic and cloak were in pristine shades of ivory and gold, befitting a prince’s station, but the sight of them only deepened the lines on Aegon’s brow.

“I know you hate this,” Daemon said as he returned to Aegon, holding the garments with a knowing look. “And I won’t pretend it’s fair. But you’ll stand tall today, not for those who demand it of you, but for yourself. You have more strength than you realize, and I’ll be with you every step.”

Aegon’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for the tunic, his expression hesitant but no longer as shattered as before. Daemon guided him through the motions of dressing, his movements efficient yet uncharacteristically patient. He adjusted the fit of the tunic, smoothing the fabric over Aegon’s shoulders and fastening the clasps with care. The cloak was draped last, its golden embroidery shimmering faintly in the candlelight, a reluctant symbol of the role Aegon was born into.

As he secured the clasp at Aegon’s throat, Daemon rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders, leaning down to meet his gaze. “There,” he said quietly. “You’re ready. Whatever comes next, we face it together. Understand?”

Aegon’s eyes, though still shadowed with fear, held a spark of something more—a faint but growing resolve. He nodded once, his chin lifting ever so slightly. “Together,” he echoed, his voice hoarse but steady.

Daemon allowed himself a small smile, straightening as he gestured toward the door. “Good. Now let’s show them the strength of a prince of House Targaryen.”

And with that, the two stepped out of the room, the flickering candlelight extinguished behind them as they descended into the world waiting below.

Rhaenyra's stride faltered as she approached Aegon, her sharp eyes instantly taking in the purpling bruises beginning to bloom on his pale neck. Her composure cracked, and she reached for him instinctively, prepared to fuss over his well-being. But Daemon’s firm grip on Aegon’s shoulder stopped her mid-motion, his subtle shake of the head commanding her restraint. Rhaenyra hesitated, her lips pressing together as she glanced at the boy. Her fiery indignation softened into a quiet concern that lingered unspoken between them.

The Royal family gathered in the courtyard, the open-top carriages gleaming beneath the afternoon sun, their white floral decorations a vibrant symbol of the supposed joyous occasion. Roses, lilies, and peonies cascaded from the sides of each carriage, their sweet scent mingling with the faint salty breeze drifting in from the sea. The first carriage, polished to perfection, awaited Aegon and Helaena, along with King Viserys, Queen Alicent, and Rhaenyra herself—a tableau of royal unity, however fractured it might truly be.

Daemon and Laenor, along with the children, were to follow in the second carriage, its decorations mirroring the first, though the energy between its occupants promised to be less rigid and ceremonious. The final carriage, bedecked with similarly ornate white blooms, carried the grim-faced members of the Small Council, ever the shadow looming behind royal festivities.

King Viserys, leaning heavily on his cane, beamed as his family assembled before him. His expression radiated pride, his smile wide and eyes shining with the sentimentality of a father witnessing the union of his children.

 “A blessed day, my family!” he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the courtyard like the toll of a bell. “This procession will begin the festivities for Aegon and Helaena as they are wed!”

Rhaenyra inwardly bristled at his words, her stomach twisting in discomfort. The injustice of it all, the pressure forced onto Aegon and Helaena, bubbled to the surface, but she fought to keep her expression neutral. The resentment simmering within her was palpable, though she masked it with a practiced smile. Still, her gaze flickered toward Alicent, whose ashen complexion betrayed her turmoil. The Queen clutched the symbol of the Seven at her throat like a lifeline, her smile tight and forced as she struggled to reconcile the strange customs of Targaryen’s with the rigid tenets of her faith.

Daemon’s sharp eyes remained on Aegon as the boy shifted nervously, his small movements betraying the lingering ache in his neck. With his hand still resting protectively on Aegon’s shoulder, Daemon leaned in slightly, his presence offering a silent reassurance.

“You’ll do well,” he said quietly, his voice steady. The boy nodded, though the hesitation in his posture spoke volumes.

The carriages were waiting, their white flowers swaying gently in the breeze, as the family stepped forward to begin the procession that would carry them through the city to Rhaenys’ Hill, to the Sept of Baelor and then back to the Red Keep. The tension in the carriage was palpable, a stifling silence hanging heavy between Aegon and Helaena. They refused to meet each other’s eyes, their bodies angled slightly away, as if the mere proximity was too much to bear. Helaena’s hands were clutched tightly to her chest, her slender fingers trembling ever so slightly as she shrank back from her mother’s outstretched hand.

“You look beautiful, Helaena,” Alicent whispered, her voice soft but edged with a hint of insistence. The Queen’s attempt at maternal comfort fell flat as Helaena furrowed her brow, withdrawing further into herself. Her refusal, so quiet yet so resolute, sent a ripple of unease through Alicent. The tension in her shoulders betrayed her frustration, though she did not push further. She bristled visibly, her lips tightening, but before she could speak again, the sound of trumpets echoed through the courtyard.

The procession began, the ceremonial band marching through the grand bronze doors with the rhythmic precision of a practiced ritual. Their music was bold and triumphant, a celebration that masked the underlying discord within the royal family and the cheers of the crowd filtered through the walls of the Barbican, a swelling roar of adoration that contrasted starkly with the strained atmosphere in the first carriage.

Rhaenyra sat opposite Aegon; her sharp gaze fixed on him as if willing him to look up. Worry flickered in her eyes, unspoken yet clearly etched into the lines of her expression. Her hands remained folded neatly in her lap, but they tightened involuntarily every time Aegon shifted in discomfort. She could feel the weight of his anguish; a silent plea she dared not voice in the presence of others. The bruises on his neck, concealed beneath his fine tunic, were a constant reminder of his fragility and the lengths he had been pushed to.

At the head of the carriage, King Viserys surveyed his family, his tired eyes moving between them with a mix of pride and unease. His smile faltered briefly as he noted the distance between Aegon and Helaena, the stiffness in Alicent’s posture, and the worry etched into Rhaenyra’s features. For a moment, the weariness of his years seemed to settle more heavily upon him.

“Let us show joy today, my family,” Viserys said, his voice firm but laced with weariness. His words, though framed as a request, carried the weight of an order. “We will show the people a united and strong family.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze briefly flicking to her father before returning to Aegon. The King’s words, while well-meaning, ignored the cracks forming beneath the surface. Alicent’s fingers toyed nervously with the symbol of the Seven at her throat, the tight smile on her face unable to mask her internal conflict.

As the carriage began to move, the royal family settled into an uneasy rhythm. The white flowers adorning the procession fluttered gently in the breeze, their pristine beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil hidden behind the regal façade. Beyond the walls of the Red Keep the city cheered and lauded their arrival, oblivious to the storm brewing within the family they so revered.

The cheers of the smallfolk reverberated through the streets, a cacophony of applause and jubilant shouts that seemed to grow louder with each turn of the carriages’ wheels. Banners bearing the Targaryen sigil fluttered in the warm breeze, their scarlet and black hues a stark contrast to the white flower petals that rained down from the gathered crowd. The carriages moved at a steady, deliberate pace, their polished exteriors gleaming under the relentless glare of the sun. The oppressive heat hung like a shroud, beads of sweat forming on the foreheads of the passengers, their fine garments doing little to alleviate the discomfort.

Rhaenyra, seated regally in the first carriage, executed her practiced wave with precision, her smile perfectly composed yet hollow beneath the surface. She appeared every bit the image of royal grace, though her thoughts were far from the festivities. Her eyes flickered toward Aegon, her concern for the boy simmering just beneath her mask of decorum. He slouched in his seat, silent and withdrawn, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor of the carriage as if attempting to escape the day entirely.

Helaena sat stiffly beside him; her hands clenched tightly around the small golden cage housing Jiminy. The tiny beetle moved within, its delicate legs brushing against the leaves and sticks that formed its sanctuary. Helaena’s knuckles whitened with the strength of her grip, her trembling fingers clutching at her only anchor amidst the overwhelming storm of sound and motion. The drums and trumpets blared, their piercing notes blending with the roar of the crowd, an onslaught to her already sensitive senses. Yet she held firm, her gaze fixed on Rhaenyra as if drawing strength from her older sister's steady presence.

Alicent, seated nearby, cast worried glances at both of her children. Her lips moved as if to speak, but each time the words died unspoken, replaced instead by a tightening of her grip on the Seven-pointed star at her throat. She seemed caught between her roles as a mother and a queen, her heart clearly conflicted as she watched her children endure the weight of the day’s expectations.

The procession wound through the streets, the Sept of Baelor drawing closer with each passing moment. The grand domed structure loomed in the distance, its glistening marble façade both beautiful and foreboding. The cheers of the smallfolk surged as they caught sight of the royal family, their adoration a stark contrast to the tensions simmering within the carriages.

Viserys, ever the proud king, leaned forward slightly, his eyes scanning the jubilant crowd with a faint but satisfied smile. Though his cane rested heavily against his knee, his posture was one of pride, as if the sight of his family united for this event was enough to ease the burden of his years.

 “A joyous day indeed,” he murmured to himself, though his gaze lingered on the sombre expressions of Aegon and Helaena, a shadow of doubt crossing his face.

For the moment, the appearance of unity and strength held firm, a carefully curated image presented to the realm. But beneath the surface, each member of the family carried their own private burdens, their thoughts as tumultuous and unyielding as the sea.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the wedding blurred into a haze of hushed conversations and carefully chosen words. Every decision weighed on Rhaenyra, from the placement of guests at the feast to the delicate balance of loyalty between the great houses. Yet, it was the sight of Daemon; leaning against a pillar in the corner of the hall, his sharp eyes never leaving Aegon; that anchored her thoughts.

For three days, Daemon had hardly left Aegon’s side. He moved with the precision of a dragon circling its hoard, a protective yet calculating presence that left little room for doubt. When duty called Daemon away, Laenor or Harwin quietly stepped in, their unspoken camaraderie forming an impenetrable wall around Aegon. Though Aegon had initially resisted such attention, his gratitude was evident in his softened demeanour. The young prince clung to his cups more than Rhaenyra liked, but there was a fragile sense of relief in his laughter—a sound she hadn’t heard in weeks.

The Blessing of the Seven, held in the Great Sept on the fourth day, was a spectacle of opulence and tension. Rhaenyra stood regal yet restless, the weight of her crown heavier than usual. As the High Septon intoned his blessings, Daemon’s barely concealed disdain rippled through the room like a taut string waiting to snap. Alicent, seated opposite Rhaenyra, observed her with a hard, unyielding stare—a quiet insistence that this tradition was as much a proclamation of her family’s influence as it was a spiritual act. The air bristled with unspoken words, the murmurs of the court a backdrop to the clinking of ceremonial chalices.

For the smallfolk gathered outside the Red Keep, the wedding the following day was a moment of pageantry and hope. The grand hall was transformed into a dazzling display of opulence, a feast for the senses that spoke of Targaryen wealth and power. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of roasted meats, spiced wines, and the faint but distinct scent of dragonfire that always lingered within the Red Keep. The musicians played a tune both stately and haunting, their notes rising and falling like the wings of dragons soaring over the realm.

Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the dais, regal yet distant, her eyes flickering to Aegon and Helaena as they approached the altar. Aegon’s reluctance was a palpable thing—etched into the stiff set of his shoulders and the way he avoided meeting Helaena’s gaze. His silver-gold hair caught the light like molten fire, yet his expression was clouded, his jaw clenched tight. Every step seemed heavier than the last, as if he were walking to his execution rather than his wedding.

Helaena, delicate as spring’s first bloom, moved with equal hesitance, her fingers gripping the folds of her gown as though it might shield her from the weight of expectation. Her wide lavender eyes darted between the gathered lords and ladies, her discomfort plain for all to see. The gown she wore, a masterpiece of lily-white silk adorned with golden dragon embroidery, seemed crafted not to celebrate her, but to shroud her. The shimmering threads caught the light of the countless chandeliers overhead, the dragons appearing to writhe and twist as the fabric shifted with her every step. The skirt billowed and floated around her, the sheer volume of the material giving the illusion that she was gliding rather than walking. Each layer of silk was as fine as gossamer, catching the faintest breeze and trailing behind her like a lingering spectre.

For all its grandeur, the gown only amplified the fragility of Helaena’s slender form. The high neckline and long, flowing sleeves, embroidered with yet more twisting dragons, seemed to swallow her whole, as though the weight of her heritage had been stitched into every thread. The train; a cascade of silk nearly as long as a dragon’s tail; pooled behind her, brushing against the stone floor like the ghostly remains of dreams abandoned.

As she stood at Aegon’s side, the light caught the pale fabric in such a way that she seemed almost translucent. The ethereal glow of her gown, combined with the hesitance in her wide lavender eyes, made her look less like a radiant bride and more like a ghost bound to the altar, tethered by duty rather than love. There was a stillness about her that seemed unnatural, as though the life had been drained from her in the process of preparing her for this moment. Her fingers trembled slightly as they clutched at the folds of her dress, and when the ceremony demanded she lift her gaze, her expression was one of resigned melancholy. She stumbled once, barely catching herself, and the ripple of murmurs that followed was quickly drowned by the booming voice of the officiant.

The vows were spoken amidst a tension that crackled like a storm gathering over the Blackwater Bay. Aegon’s voice was steady, but his tone carried none of the warmth or joy expected of a man on his wedding day. Instead, his words were clipped, betraying his contempt for the entire ceremony. Helaena's reply came in a whisper barely audible, her voice trembling as though she were forcing the words out against her will.

Even the crowd seemed caught in the undertow of unease. The lords and ladies exchanged fleeting glances, their smiles strained, their applause a fraction too slow. The smallfolk outside the gates clamoured for a glimpse of the spectacle, their cheers carried faintly into the hall—but inside, the weight of the occasion pressed heavily on every soul present.

Daemon, standing near the edge of the dais, wore a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. His gaze flickered between Aegon and the assembled guests, sharp and calculating. As the ceremony concluded and the cheers erupted, his smirk vanished altogether, replaced by a look of vigilance, hand resting on the hilt of his sword in silent threat to all. Rhaenyra, watching from the shadows of the towering dragon banners, felt the tension coil tighter in her chest. She saw the cracks in the façade of unity that Alicent sought to cement with this marriage, and she knew they would not hold.

The feast began with all the grandeur expected of a royal wedding, yet the atmosphere remained charged, the laughter and music unable to erase the sense of unease. Aegon drank deeply, his goblet never far from his hand, while Helaena sat quietly, picking at her meal as though every bite were an act of defiance. The hall shimmered with candlelight and crystal goblets, but to Rhaenyra, it felt as though the room were suffocating under the weight of what had just transpired.

As the evening wore on the Great Hall seemed to come alive, a breathing entity of light and sound. Candles flickered, their golden glow dancing across the polished floors and gilded chandeliers, while the strains of music swirled through the air, softening the clamour of laughter and revelry. The nobles, their finery shimmering like jewels caught in a dragon’s flame, moved in an elegant chaos, their glasses raised high as the feast carried on in sumptuous abundance.

King Viserys had long retired for the evening, his announcement that the celebrations were to continue through the night leaving the hall alive with revelry. Alicent remained, seated stiffly amidst the chaos, her posture rigid as her gaze swept over the merriment surrounding her. Goblets raised high, laughter unchecked, nobles weaving in and out of decorum like leaves caught in a gale. To Alicent, it was nothing short of a scene of debauchery; unbefitting of their noble heritage, an affront to the sanctity of the Seven.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she leaned toward Otto Hightower, her father, who was seated close at hand. Their whispered exchange blended into the clamour of the hall, the world outside their bubble growing increasingly distant.

“Look at them,” Alicent muttered, her tone low and tinged with disdain. “They drink and shout like commoners at a tavern. These are the lords and ladies of Westeros, entrusted with the legacy of their houses, and they behave like unruly children.”

Otto nodded solemnly; his gaze steady as he surveyed the hall. “Wine dulls their minds, Alicent. For them, tonight is a moment of distraction from duty, nothing more.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly; her discontent unwavering. “Distraction is no excuse for disgrace. They should know better.”

Her fingers curled tightly around the armrest of her chair as her thoughts churned. The Seven, the gods they all claimed to worship, demanded discipline, piety, and restraint—values that Alicent had built her life upon, even as those around her stumbled away from their teachings. The sight of lords and ladies abandoning themselves to wine and jest filled her with a simmering frustration. She resolved to keep her composure, to maintain the dignity that others seemed so willing to cast aside.

Otto’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You hold yourself well, daughter. Your presence is a reminder of what they ought to strive for.”

Alicent nodded faintly, her expression softening ever so slightly at her father’s words, though the bitterness in her heart remained untouched. For now, she would endure, a silent emblem of restraint amidst the chaos.

Rhaenyra sat stiffly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her goblet as she pushed the roasted capon back and forth across her plate. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by the gnawing weight of inevitability. The thought of the alarm being raised—of the cries echoing through the halls—felt like a stone lodged in her chest, pressing her down with relentless force. Even the tapestry behind her, depicting a great dragon soaring over a field of flames, seemed to mock her with its vibrancy, as though daring her to maintain the illusion of control.

Daemon, by contrast, radiated a composed intensity. He was never far from her, his silver hair catching the light as he tilted his head slightly to observe the room, his expression unreadable. His presence was an anchor, not of reassurance but of mutual resolve; a shared understanding of what was to come. The flickering candlelight played across his face, making him appear almost statuesque, a sentinel holding his post as the court danced into the night.

At the far end of the table, Helaena sat quietly, the golden cage resting delicately in her hands, its tiny occupant offering her a measure of calm. The intricate bars shimmered under the light, casting faint shadows onto her pale gown. She swayed subtly in her chair, her lips pressed together as if holding back some unspoken truth. The music wrapped around her like a gentle embrace, coaxing a fleeting smile onto her lips, a rare moment of lightness in the heavy air that seemed to stifle every breath.

Her gaze, though, lingered nervously on the dais, where Rhaenyra and Daemon were seated. Yet, even amid her quiet apprehension, there was solace in the presence of Jaehaerys. Always attuned to her unspoken feelings, he had drawn his chair closer to hers, his youthful charm spilling out in vivid tales designed solely to draw her mind away from worry. It was the kind of effort born from simple yet profound care—a connection rooted in their shared innocence, where words mattered less than the comfort of being side by side.

Aemond, who was Jaehaerys’s usual shadow, had taken it upon himself to entertain Valaena and Larissa with the enthusiastic help of Lucerys. The trio’s laughter rippled through the Great Hall, punctuated by Aemond’s exaggerated retelling of a misadventure on dragonback that had both girls in fits of giggles.

“You call that bravery?” Lucerys chimed in, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I think the dragon was more scared of you!”

Valaena joined in, her eyes alight with mischief. “If you need someone to show you how it’s done, Aemond, I’d be happy to give you a lesson.”

Aemond rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Careful, Valaena. I wouldn’t want you getting ideas.”

Across the hall, Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold with a small, thoughtful smile. There was something heartening in seeing them all so at ease with one another—such moments had grown rare in recent years. Her gaze lingered on Aemond and Valaena a moment longer, and a quiet thought flickered through her mind. They made a good pair. Perhaps, one day, they might find more than camaraderie in one another.

The hall’s vibrancy continued unabated; goblets refilled, platters emptied, laughter ringing out; but Rhaenyra remained apart from it all, despite her position on the dais, her mind a storm of calculation and memory. The laughter seemed distant, hollow, as if the hall were filled with shades rather than flesh and blood. The nobles’ merriment masked a darkness that hung heavy in the air, unseen but inescapable.

She glanced toward Laenor, whose face betrayed nothing but an outward mirth that matched the revelry around them. Yet Rhaenyra’s heart sank, knowing that this veneer was soon to crumble under the weight of their shared secret. She could barely look at him without feeling the pang of loss—for the man she knew, for the bond that had been forged in fire and duty.

The gilded walls of the Great Hall seemed to confine her, their grandeur a mockery of the tragedy that loomed just beyond. Soon, they would bear witness to his staged demise—a fall from the ramparts, flames consuming the illusion of his mortal shell. She imagined the horror that would ripple through the guests, their cries ringing out, their shock a bitter testament to the deception she had orchestrated. And yet, it had to be this way. There was no other path, not with the whispers of danger closing in and the fragile alliances trembling like leaves in a gale.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered to the children, scattered throughout the hall. For their sake, for their futures, she had to see this through. But in her heart, she wanted nothing more than to gather them all and flee; to leave behind the weight of crowns and councils, to find refuge in Dragonstone, far from the halls that now felt like a prison.

 Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra saw Ser Qarl approach Laenor and whisper in his ear. The conversation was brief, their voices low and meant for no ears but their own. Laenor nodded curtly, his gaze flicking to her, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. There was something in his look… an unspoken question, perhaps a farewell… that made her throat tighten. She kept her face carefully blank, even as her heart thudded in her chest. When Ser Qarl turned on his heel and strode away, Laenor lingered only a moment longer before following him out of the hall.

Rhaenyra watched his retreating form, her breath shallow. Doubts clawed at her resolve, whispering fears she could not allow herself to voice. What if something went wrong? What if the plan unravelled, and Laenor’s flame was more than a ruse? The thought of his laughter extinguished forever sent a cold shiver down her spine, but she forced the rising tide of dread back into the recesses of her mind. She could not afford to falter now. Too much hinged on this charade; on Laenor’s willingness to leave everything behind and on her ability to wear the mask of grief convincingly enough to shield them all.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she turned her gaze to Daemon. He had caught her subtle signal, as he always did, and was already gathering the children. He strode toward them with an easy authority, his face softening as he crouched to Valaena and Larissa’s level.

“Come now,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Off to bed before you all turn into little dragons and start breathing fire on the guests.”

The children groaned and pouted, but there was no real resistance. Daemon ruffled Jaehaerys’s silver hair as he herded them together, a rare warmth in his expression as he added, “You can tell me all about your grand dragon-riding plans tomorrow.”

Larissa clung to his hand, and he swung her gently as they walked, coaxing a small laugh from her that rang like a bell through the tension of the hall. Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold, a faint ache blooming in her chest. For all Daemon’s flaws, his way with the children was undeniable—a glimpse of the man who might have been, had their world allowed for simpler lives.

Still seated on the dais, Rhaenyra straightened her shoulders and cast a measured glance around the room. The nobles remained engrossed in their revelry, oblivious to the storm brewing just beyond their gilded sanctuary. But the shadow of what was to come loomed heavy over her, and the burden of its weight sat squarely on her shoulders. The crown demanded sacrifices—this one more painful than most. Her gaze turned to her eldest brother at this thought, the concern in her heart growing.

Aegon’s spirits rose in direct proportion to the emptiness of his goblet. The once-muted prince had come alive in a manner both brash and unsettling, his laughter echoing across the hall as he leaned heavily on the armrest of his chair. His flushed cheeks betrayed the wine's influence, and the occasional stumble in his words drew glances from those seated nearby; some amused, others uneasy.

The golden light of the chandeliers cast shimmering reflections on Aegon’s silver-gold hair, giving him the appearance of a flame flickering precariously in the wind. He raised his goblet again, demanding a refill with the sharp confidence of one emboldened by drink. The servant obliged, though with a sidelong glance to Harwin Strong, who lingered close by. Harwin was a silent sentinel, his broad frame an imposing reminder that even amid revelry, order must be preserved.

Aegon’s merriment had begun to border on recklessness, his laughter ringing louder than the music that filled the Great Hall. He jested boldly, his words teetering on the edge of propriety, drawing gasps and nervous chuckles from those nearest to him. Occasionally, his tone would slip into something sharper, more pointed, veiled insults mingling with his attempts at humour. Alicent’s sharp glance cut through the noise like a blade, her disapproval clear even as she tried to maintain the calm facade expected of her.

As the Queen, she had endured much, but tonight her patience frayed with every inappropriate jest and slurred remark. Her lips tightened, her gaze lingering on her son with a mix of frustration and something closer to sorrow. Rising from her seat with a restrained elegance, she murmured briefly to her father, Otto, before signalling Ser Criston. She would not subject herself to this any longer.

“I’m retiring for the night,” she said, her voice steady, but laced with unmistakable weariness. Ser Criston fell into step behind her without question, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, as though her dignity needed guarding as much as her person.

As Alicent departed the hall, Aegon remained where he was, oblivious or perhaps indifferent to the tension his behaviour had caused. For all the indulgence he poured into the evening, there was an air of desperation beneath the surface. He drank deeply from his goblet as though seeking solace in its depths, his laughter—a little too loud, a little too forced—echoing in the ears of those around him.

It was the laughter of a man lost in the storm, clutching at fleeting moments of joy as if they could anchor him to something solid. But no wine, no jest, no fleeting thrill could fill the void that seemed to churn within him. Rhaenyra observed him from her place at the dais, her gaze heavy with concern but unwilling to intervene. She trusted Harwin, who stood like a shadow at the edge of Aegon’s reach, ready to guide him away should his antics grow beyond the bounds of propriety.

Meanwhile, the music swelled, the musicians seemingly attempting to drown out the growing boisterousness of the prince with their intricate melodies. The nobles continued their dances, their laughter blending into the ambient noise, though a few cast sidelong glances toward Aegon’s increasingly theatrical displays. To many, this was just another scene in the spectacle of the evening—a story to recount when they broke their fasts. To Rhaenyra, however, it was a reminder of the delicate state of Aegon’s mind, and how much he needed protecting.

Amidst the chaos, Harwin remained steadfast, his broad frame a pillar of calm as his piercing gaze stayed fixed on Aegon. The prince, slouched in his chair and fuelled by too much wine, seemed intent on drawing every shred of amusement from the night. Harwin’s silent vigilance, however, spoke volumes. His eyes flicked to Rhaenyra’s, and she offered him a subtle nod of gratitude. The silent exchange was one of understanding—they both knew that indulgence now could have consequences later.

For the next hour, the hall’s vibrancy settled into a steady hum of activity. Servants glided between tables, refilling goblets and replacing emptied platters. The music softened into lilting melodies, providing a backdrop for the nobles’ laughter and light-hearted chatter. Yet the warmth of the festivities felt tenuous, like a candle struggling to hold its flame against an encroaching wind.

Then, the first shout pierced through the tranquillity, distant and muffled but enough to halt the flow of conversation. The music faltered, the harpist’s hands pausing mid-strum, and an uneasy stillness swept through the Great Hall. Heads turned toward the doors as confusion rippled among the guests. Murmurs swelled into an anxious cacophony, nobles exchanging worried glances and leaning toward one another for answers no one seemed to have.

Rhaenyra’s pulse quickened, but her face remained composed, her features a mask of royal authority. From her seat on the dais, she scanned the room, her gaze meeting Harwin’s once more. She gave him the slightest incline of her head, a signal weighted with purpose.

Without hesitation, Harwin rose to his feet. His movements were swift and purposeful, his hand clamping firmly around Aegon’s arm as he leaned down to murmur in his ear.

“Come on, my prince,” he said, his voice low but commanding. Aegon groaned in protest, his words slurred and barely coherent.

“Unhand me, Harwin,” he muttered, attempting to wrench his arm free. “I’m not a child.”

Harwin’s grip remained unyielding, his patience unwavering even as Aegon’s struggles grew more pronounced.

 “You’ve had enough for one night,” Harwin replied, his tone calm but brooking no argument. Aegon, emboldened by the wine coursing through his veins, twisted in Harwin’s grasp, his movements clumsy but insistent. “I said, let me go!” he barked, his voice rising above the murmurs of the hall.

With practiced ease, Harwin shifted his hold, scooping Aegon into his arms as though he weighed nothing. The prince flailed, his protests growing louder, but Harwin carried him with the steady determination of a man accustomed to handling unruly charges.

“Enough,” Harwin said firmly, his voice cutting through Aegon’s drunken tirade. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Helaena, wide-eyed and clutching the folds of her gown, hurried to keep pace with them. Her steps faltered as she reached out, her fingers curling around the sleeve of Harwin’s tunic. “Is he going to be all right?” she asked, her voice trembling with worry. Her gaze darted toward her sister, a silent plea for reassurance reflected in her panicked expression.

Rhaenyra, still seated on the dais, met Helaena’s gaze with a calm she did not feel. She gave her a small, steadying nod, her face a mask of composure even as her heart ached for the girl’s distress.

“Go with him, Helaena,” she said gently, her voice carrying just enough authority to soothe. “Harwin will see to it that Aegon is safe.”

Helaena hesitated for only a moment before nodding, her grip on Harwin’s sleeve tightening as she fell into step beside him. Harwin glanced down at her, his expression softening for a moment.

“Stay close,” he urged her again, his tone steady despite the undercurrent of urgency. Together, they disappeared through the side entrance, leaving the growing murmurs of the hall behind them. The nobles, emboldened by their curiosity, began to surge toward the main doors. The rising tide of movement created a chaotic swirl of colour and noise, their once-gilded confidence now tinged with unease. Rhaenyra remained seated, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched Harwin and the children disappear into the shadows of the hall, their departure unnoticed by most in the growing tumult.

The screams from outside grew louder, creeping in through the thick, sturdy doors like a phantom threatening to shatter the fragile veneer of merriment. At first, it was a murmur—a ripple of unease that passed through those remaining—but soon, the shouts became distinct. “He’s on fire!” someone cried, the words slicing through the air and setting every nerve alight.

Rhaenyra’s heart seized in her chest. She swallowed hard, rising from her chair with deliberate calm that belied the storm raging within. Hitching up her skirts, she gestured to Ser Steffon, who immediately stepped to her side. With quiet urgency, she began moving toward the entrance, each step faster than the last, her movements gaining momentum until she was almost running. It’s not real. It’s not real. The mantra pounded in her mind, a desperate attempt to silence the growing dread threatening to consume her.

Behind her, Ser Steffon moved with purpose, clearing her path through the growing throng of curious nobles. Their murmurs built into a cacophony as they pressed toward the doors, each eager to uncover the source of the commotion.

“Step aside!” Ser Steffon barked, his voice cutting through the din as he pushed and guided Rhaenyra through the crush of bodies. The cold night air hit her face like a slap as they emerged from the hall, the clamour of the crowd growing louder still.

Her eyes were drawn upward, almost involuntarily, to the high towers silhouetted against the night sky. There, at the edge of the battlements, a figure burned brightly, the flames licking hungrily at its form. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, and so did Rhaenyra, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape. The figure wavered, and then, as though pulled by some cruel fate, it began to fall. Time slowed, the descent stretching into eternity, until the deafening thud of the body hitting the ground tore through the night. The screams around her fell silent, replaced by an eerie stillness that seemed to envelop everyone present.

Ser Harrold Westerling was the first to move. His heavy boots echoed against the stone as he marched forward, the Goldcloaks quick to follow in his wake.

“Get everyone to their rooms!” Ser Harrold bellowed, his voice cutting through the growing unease like a blade. The gathered nobles hesitated; their movements sluggish as curiosity battled with fear. Whispers and fragmented questions rose from the crowd, their urgency mounting as they cast glances at the smouldering figure on the ground. But the sight of the burned body—a grim spectacle lit by the flickering glow of dying flames—was enough to send many scrambling back toward the Great Hall. The chaos of their retreat echoed against the stone walls, a stark counterpoint to Harrold’s resolute authority.

Ser Harrold turned sharply to a nearby guard. “Douse the flames!” he commanded. His voice was cold steel, unyielding, and the guard rushed to obey, fetching water with trembling hands.

Rhaenyra stood as though rooted to the spot, her knees buckling under the weight of what she was witnessing. Her grip on Ser Steffon’s arm tightened, her fingers trembling as they clutched at the fabric of his sleeve. Each breath came in short, shallow bursts, the cold air slicing through her as panic clawed at the edges of her resolve. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. The words repeated like a prayer, desperate and fragile, fighting to drown out the mounting tide of doubt. But the sight before her was unrelenting, a brutal and unforgiving reminder of the lie they had woven.

Harrold approached the body with slow, deliberate steps, his jaw tight and his eyes scanning the charred remains. For a moment, he froze, his stoic mask slipping as recognition dawned. His jaw tightened visibly, the muscles working beneath his skin as he scanned the battlements above. His gaze sharpened, assessing the heights for any sign of the perpetrator, or accomplice, of this grim display. But when his attention shifted, it landed on Rhaenyra.

Their eyes met across the space, and for an instant, the weight of his silent sorrow was laid bare. Ser Harrold, the man who had faced countless dangers, allowed her to see the pain etched into his expression. It was not just for the future Prince Consort or the flames that danced in the night; it was for her, for the burden that had been thrust upon her shoulders and for the grief she was now forced to bear, real or fabricated. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, his features hardening once more as he turned back to the guards.

“I want this castle locked down!” Harrold barked, his voice sharp and unrelenting. The words sent the guards into motion, their boots ringing out as they scattered to fulfil his commands.

“Double the watch. Seal every gate. No one leaves the grounds without my order. Is that understood?” His tone left no room for disobedience, and the guards responded with swift, determined nods.

Rhaenyra’s legs finally gave out, and she sank to the ground, her skirts pooling around her. The cold stone bit into her knees, but she hardly noticed, her mind a maelstrom of panic and denial. He’s not really dead. The thought came weaker now, as though the mantra itself had grown weary of fighting against the crushing weight of doubt. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the sob that trembled on her lips, her wide eyes fixed on the charred remains even as her vision blurred.

Around her, the world dissolved into chaos. The shouts of Harrold’s orders rang out, sharp and commanding, over the hurried footsteps of guards scrambling to fulfill his directives. Nobles whispered frantically as they were ushered back to their chambers, their faces pale with fear and confusion.

The muffled cries of onlookers and the hiss of water dousing flames rose and fell in a discordant symphony, but none of it penetrated the haze that had settled over Rhaenyra. She felt untethered, as if the cold night air had swept her away from the ground beneath her. He’s not really dead, she thought desperately, the mantra pounding through her mind in a rhythmic cadence of denial. He’s not really dead.

The heavy thud of boots on stone broke through the fog, and she looked up to see Ser Harrold striding toward her. His face, normally so composed, was grim, etched with lines of sorrow and resolve. His eyes met hers briefly, and in that moment, she saw the weight of what he was about to say reflected at her. Ser Harrold hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though searching for the right words, but the truth left no room for soft edges.

“My Princess,” he said quietly, his voice low enough to shield her from the crowd, yet firm enough to pierce the stillness between them. He paused, his jaw tightening, and when he spoke again, each word felt like a stone dropped into a deep well. “The body is Prince Laenor.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Her heart screamed in protest, clinging to the fragile hope she had nurtured like a lifeline. He’s not really dead. The mantra rang out louder, more desperate, even as her body betrayed her. Her hands shook violently, her chest rising and falling in panicked gasps that threatened to spill over into sobs.

“No,” she whispered, the denial slipping past her lips before she could stop it. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to trap the sound before it escaped further. “It’s not—it’s not real. It can’t be.”

Harrold’s gaze did not waver, though the sorrow in his eyes deepened. “We must move quickly, Princess,” he said, his tone softening. “The castle is being secured, but your safety is paramount.”

Still kneeling on the cold stone, Rhaenyra shook her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the plan they had forged in whispers and secrecy. Yet the image of the burning figure falling from the battlements loomed large in her mind, a cruel taunt that threatened to unravel everything. He’s not really dead, she repeated silently, even as the weight of Harrold’s words settled over her like a shroud.

“Princess, we must return to your chambers,” Ser Steffon whispered urgently, his gloved hand outstretched toward her. Rhaenyra blinked, his words pulling her from the haze that clouded her mind. Princess.

The title weighed heavily in her ears, a stark reminder of who she was—the Crown Princess, the heir to the Iron Throne. She had to be protected, secured, for the realm depended on her survival. The thought brought a bitter taste to her tongue, the reality of duty cutting through the swirl of emotions rising within her.

Her gaze shifted to the scene unfolding around her—the hurried movements of guards locking down the castle, the frightened murmurs of nobles retreating to their chambers. The shouts of Ser Harrold Westerling still echoed faintly over the sound of boots and chaos. There was apparently an unknown assailant in the Red Keep, or so the guards claimed. Her knees ached from the cold stone where she had collapsed, but the ache was nothing compared to the hollow, twisting pain in her chest.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the sob that threatened to escape. He’s not really dead, the thought whispered, weak and faltering now against the evidence her eyes had witnessed. Her throat tightened as tears pricked at the corners of her vision, but she pushed them back with sheer determination. Her grief, her panic—they were luxuries she could not afford. Not now.

Drawing a shaky breath, Rhaenyra reached out and took Ser Steffon’s hand, her fingers trembling as they met the leather of his glove. With his help, she pulled herself to her feet, her legs unsteady but her resolve stiffening. The weight of the crown pressed down on her like an invisible shroud, forcing her to straighten her shoulders and set her gaze ahead.

“Secure the doors,” she murmured, her voice steadier than she felt. Her words seemed to anchor her, pulling her from the abyss of despair. She glanced briefly at Ser Steffon, then out toward the battlements, where the flames still smouldered faintly in the night. The image burned into her mind; Laenor’s supposed falling figure, the deafening thud; and she swallowed hard again, her jaw tightening.

The crowd around them began to disperse, Harrold’s commands pushing people toward their rooms and away from the chaos. But Rhaenyra’s mind lingered on the implications of what had transpired, the delicate balance of truth and deception threatening to unravel with each passing moment. He’s not really dead, she repeated silently, clinging to the fragile truth that had carried her this far.

As she moved forward, Ser Steffon close by her side, she steeled herself for what lay ahead. She was the Heir to the Throne, and though her heart ached, and her knees trembled, she had to carry the weight of that title. The storm raging within her would have to wait—for now, survival was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

Daemon found her under the shroud of darkness, the flickering light of a nearby brazier barely illuminating her figure. She cradled Aerion in her arms, the babe fast asleep, his tiny fingers curled against the soft fabric of her gown. Her rocking was slow, almost instinctive, her gaze fixed on the expanse of the ocean beyond. The wind that brushed through the balcony seemed to lift her silver-gold hair like a crown, but her face was pale, her expression one of quiet desolation.

For a moment, Daemon lingered in the doorway, his presence obscured by the shadows. His gaze traced her features; the delicate curve of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as if caught in a silent sigh. Even now, drained by the weight of the day, she was utterly arresting. A portrait of beauty shaped by both fire and fragility. She was Rhaenyra. His Rhaenyra.

His eyes drifted to the babe nestled in her arms, his little chest rising and falling with the serenity of sleep. Though Daemon had no claim over the boy, a part of him—a selfish, aching part—wished it were otherwise. Wished that Aerion, with his downy hair and Targaryen blood, was truly his. The thought flickered and burned like a secret flame in his chest. To see her like this, a mother cradling a child that might have been theirs, awakened something both tender and envious in him.

He stepped forward finally, the soft scuff of his boots against the stone drawing her out of her reverie. Her eyes lifted to meet his, shadows darkening the violet depths that had once burned with unyielding fire. Her lips pursed.

“Did they…” she started, her voice soft, barely a whisper, as if saying the words aloud would shatter the fragile hope she clung to. Daemon nodded curtly, the movement precise and assured, cutting through her hesitation like a blade. The weight in her chest eased, just slightly. They had gotten away. They were on their way to Essos. The thought brought a shaky sigh of relief to her lips, and she dipped her head to press a tender kiss to the crown of her son’s head, drawing solace from the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

Daemon watched her in silence, his sharp features softened by the dim light. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her grip tightened ever so slightly around the boy as though holding onto him would steady the storm raging within her. “They will investigate,” he said after a beat, his voice low, measured. “But they will find nothing. After all, how can you find a murderer when no one was killed?”

His words hung in the air, the sharp edge of his dark humour both reassuring and jarring. Rhaenyra lifted her gaze to meet his, raising an eyebrow at his attempt to coax a reaction from her. She wasn’t in the mood for levity, and her expression made that plain. The lines of her face, usually so composed, betrayed her exhaustion, her worry, her simmering grief.

Daemon smirked faintly, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He tilted his head, leaning casually against the doorframe as he added, “Everything is as it should be, Rhaenyra. The storm will pass, and soon enough, the only whispers left will be the ones we want them to hear.”

“We have much to do then…” Rhaenyra began, her tone steady but marked by the strain of the evening. She rose from where she stood, crossing her chambers with measured steps. Daemon watched her closely, his gaze tracking every movement as she gently laid Aerion down on the bed. The boy stirred but did not wake, his serene expression offering a fleeting comfort amidst the chaos. Rhaenyra turned away, her fingers brushing the soft bedding before she settled into a plush chair. The regal air she projected was undeniable, but the exhaustion etched into her features betrayed the turmoil beneath.

“You will fly to Rhaenys,” she continued, her voice firm but quiet, as though speaking aloud might make the words more concrete. “Give her the news in person. I shall bring the children for the funeral. We shall then travel to Dragonstone.”

Daemon nodded without hesitation, his agreement wordless but resolute. They had discussed the plan before—woven it together thread by thread in whispered meetings—and now Rhaenyra was merely reinforcing its structure. He leaned against the stone frame of the balcony doorway, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as his thoughts churned. The weight of what lay ahead hung in the air between them, heavy and inescapable.

“I will tell the children…” Rhaenyra’s words faltered, her breath catching in her throat as the enormity of the task washed over her. She pressed a hand to her face, her fingers trembling slightly as she dragged them down. The simple gesture spoke volumes, her composure momentarily cracking as she battled the emotions clawing at the edges of her resolve.

Daemon pushed off the doorway, crossing the room with quiet purpose until he stood beside her. His presence was steadying, a silent offering of strength, though he did not speak. Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered toward him briefly before lowering, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she added, “They will be devastated, but we shall have him back soon enough.”

The words were almost more for herself than for him, a fragile reassurance against the weight of what she must do. Her thoughts lingered on Jaehaerys and Lucerys, their inquisitive minds, their fierce loyalty, and she knew the news would cut them deeply. But she would shield them, as she always had, as she always must. There was no room for failure now, no room for doubt.

Daemon, watching her with an expression somewhere between admiration and concern, placed a hand lightly on the back of her chair. “You are strong,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Stronger than you know.”

Rhaenyra did not reply, her focus remaining on the faint sound of Aerion’s breathing. The boy slept peacefully, unaware of the storm raging around him, and for a fleeting moment, she envied his innocence. She steeled herself once more, her jaw tightening as she straightened in her seat. There was much to do, and no time to dwell on uncertainties. Daemon crouched beside her, and took her hands in his own, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“We will protect them, Niece, and they will be stronger for it,” Daemon assured her, his voice a blend of conviction and quiet promise. His lips brushed over her pale skin, a fleeting, reverent gesture that lingered in its tenderness. Rhaenyra sighed; the weight of her turmoil momentarily eased by his presence. Her smile was hesitant but genuine, a flicker of light breaking through the shadows that had gathered around them.

“I love you, Uncle,” she said softly, her words carrying both the vulnerability of the moment and the steel of her resolve. The admission hung in the air between them, a truth neither had spoken aloud but one they had always known.

Daemon inhaled sharply, the sound catching in his throat. His hands, usually so sure and steady, trembled as they reached for hers. He lowered his forehead to meet them, the gesture an unspoken vow, one that transcended the constraints of words. His eyes fluttered shut as he let the meaning of her confession wash over him, a storm of emotions tightening his chest.

“I am yours,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and filled with raw honesty. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his tone; only the unyielding certainty of a man who had given himself entirely to her. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken understanding and shared pain, binding them together in a way that was as dangerous as it was undeniable.

The world outside felt distant, the chaos and grief dulled for just a heartbeat as they found solace in each other.

--

Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon leaned heavily against the towering mantle of the fireplace in the Hall of the Nine, her silvery hair cascading loose down her back, free of the intricate braids she often wore. The soft, flowing locks framed her pale, solemn face, their shine catching the flicker of the flames. She was clad in a white nightgown that seemed to blend into the shadows of the chamber, giving her the image of a ghost—a spectre weighed down by sorrow and regret. The firelight danced across her features, its warm glow contrasting with the cold stillness in her violet eyes. The flames before her crackled and roared, casting golden light onto the treasures Corlys had amassed during his nine voyages. Each relic spoke of his ambition, his triumphs, and the legacy he had built for House Velaryon—a legacy now shadowed by grief.

“He is free…” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of peace and sorrow. The thought brought some solace—Laenor had escaped the dangers that surrounded him, the demands of duty that had nearly consumed him. But her relief was tempered by the weight of what they had sacrificed for his freedom. Her heart ached with the knowledge that she would never see him again, never hold her son as a mother should.

She looked down at the crumpled piece of parchment in her hand, the word “Essos” written in a steady hand. With a sharp exhale, she flung it into the fire. The flames eagerly devoured the paper, and as it curled and blackened, the word unfurled briefly before disappearing entirely, reduced to ash. Her gaze lingered on the embers, her mind heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Her husband would mourn deeply for Laenor, but she could never share the truth with him. Corlys was a proud man—a man who had conquered the seas and elevated their house to heights no Velaryon before him had dreamed of. But his pride was as unyielding as the tides, and he would never accept the deception they had orchestrated. To him, a son lost in death was a wound that time might eventually soothe. But a son lost by design, hidden away, was a betrayal that would cut far deeper. She could not bear to shatter his faith in her, nor could she risk the fiery wrath he would unleash if he knew Laenor still lived. The secret was one she would carry alone, a burden she bore to protect both Corlys and the legacy they had built together.

Her gaze softened briefly as her thoughts turned to the future. High Tide would remain a beacon for their family, a place where the blood of Velaryon and Targaryen intertwined. Soon, Lucerys and Valaena would be fostered here, their presence breathing new life into these stone halls. She imagined their laughter echoing in the Hall of the Nine, imagined them learning the history and traditions of House Velaryon under Corlys’s watchful eye. Perhaps it would be a balm for his grief, a way for him to channel his love and pride into the next generation.

For now, though, the emptiness of the hall was deafening. Rhaenys straightened, her resolve hardening as the flames dimmed to glowing embers. “He is free,” she said again, this time with a steadiness that belied the ache in her heart. The words were both a comfort and a promise; one she clung to as she turned away from the fire, the weight of their choices pressing heavily on her shoulders.

--

Rhaenyra found herself momentarily unable to breathe, her chest tight as she faced the gathering of her children; the horde she had lovingly, if not chaotically, collected and birthed over the years. Summoned to her chambers at first light, they filed in one by one, still groggy from sleep, their movements slow and uncoordinated. Eyes crusted with slumber, hair tangled from restless dreams, and clad in their nightclothes, they were a ragged assembly of youth and innocence, utterly unaware of the storm that brewed outside these walls.

Jaehaerys and Aemond were predictably the first to arrive, their shared smirk suggesting a night spent in carefree mischief; no doubt playing cards until exhaustion claimed them. Aemond’s features were softened slightly by lingering sleep, his pale hair unkempt, while Jaehaerys bore the faint, smug air of an older child who had orchestrated their antics. They entered with an easy familiarity, their bond evident in the subtle elbow nudges exchanged between them.

Helaena drifted in not long after, her steps quiet, her presence ethereal as ever. Her violet eyes seemed distant, as if lost in dreams she had yet to leave behind. Lucerys followed close on her heels, the boy’s usual exuberance dulled by the early hour. His tousled curls bounced with every step, but his wide eyes betrayed his confusion at this unusual summons. He looked up at Rhaenyra, seeking reassurance, though her tight-lipped expression offered him none.

The soft sound of footsteps and low murmurs drew Rhaenyra’s gaze to the doorway, where Ser Harwin Strong entered, his uniform pristine despite the early hour. In his strong arms, he carried Valaena and Larissa, the young girls still half-asleep, their small heads resting against his broad shoulders. Harwin met Rhaenyra’s gaze as he stepped inside, offering her a tight, almost apologetic smile. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared knowledge of the burden that this moment would place on her shoulders.

And then came Aegon, stumbling in last, clutching his head as though the weight of his hangover might split it in two. He muttered incoherently about curses and too much wine, his steps heavy and his voice hoarse. But when his bleary eyes fell on Rhaenyra, and more specifically on the expression etched into her features, he faltered mid-sentence. His hand fell to his side, and for the first time that morning, he stood upright, his gaze sobering as he took her in.

Rhaenyra swept her gaze over them all, her pulse quickening as the enormity of the task ahead pressed down on her. They were hers; all of them, bound to her by blood and duty and love. She had summoned them here to face a truth that would shatter the fragile peace of their world, and though her heart screamed against it, she knew there was no turning back.

Once the children were settled, their curious, sleep-clouded eyes fixed on her, Rhaenyra clasped her hands tightly in front of her. The gesture was one of instinct, a way to still the trembling of her fingers as she steeled herself for what was to come. Her breath came slow and deliberate, each inhale and exhale meant to calm the storm raging in her chest.

“Last night…” she began, her voice faltering for a moment. She swallowed hard, forcing the words to come. “There was an… accident.”

Her violet eyes floated over their faces, taking in their various expressions—confusion, concern, and in some cases, the first flickers of dread. Lucerys leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowed deeply, while Valaena rubbed at her eyes sleepily, unaware of the gravity in her mother’s tone. Jaehaerys sat stiffly, his gaze locked on her, his jaw tightening as though bracing himself for a blow.

Rhaenyra’s thumb twisted the rings on her fingers—a nervous habit she hadn’t indulged in years. “Laenor… Laenor has passed away,” she said softly, the weight of her words seeming to press down on her from every angle.

The room fell silent, the atmosphere heavy with disbelief. Helaena’s hands froze mid-fidget, her wide eyes pooling with tears she didn’t seem to know how to release. Aegon’s bleary expression sharpened, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he tried to process what he had just heard. Lucerys shook his head almost imperceptibly, as though rejecting the reality of her words before they could take root.

For a moment, Rhaenyra felt as though the walls of the chamber were closing in on her, the crushing weight of their grief and confusion suffocating her. Her resolve threatened to crumble, but she forced herself to stand firm. We shall have him back soon enough, she thought to herself, clinging to the fragile hope she dared not voice aloud.

The silence stretched, each passing moment amplifying the tension in the room. Rhaenyra prepared herself for the questions that would come, the disbelief she would face, and the grief she would have to navigate for all of them.

Aegon sat frozen in place as the words sank in, Rhaenyra’s announcement reverberating through his mind like the toll of a bell. Laenor has passed away. At first, the sentence felt distant, disconnected from reality—as though spoken in some other language. But then it began to settle, creeping slowly into his consciousness, and he couldn’t stop the wave of disbelief that followed.

He blinked, his bleary eyes fixed on Rhaenyra’s pale, strained face, searching for some sign that this was a cruel jest, or perhaps a misunderstanding. His heart hammered in his chest as memories of Laenor flooded his thoughts, each one hitting him like a blow. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way—not to Laenor. Not to the man who had shown him the world of creativity, who had taught him that his passions mattered, even if they weren’t the ones the realm demanded of him.

Aegon remembered the afternoons spent sketching alongside Laenor, the older man’s patient guidance as he encouraged him to explore the limits of his imagination. Laenor hadn’t cared that Aegon was a prince, hadn’t looked at him with judgment or expectation. Instead, he had simply seen him—a boy who found solace in drawing, who craved moments of quiet in a world that was always too loud.

The thought of losing that connection brought an ache to Aegon’s chest, sharp and unrelenting. He felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving him gasping for breath. His eyes burned, the threat of tears simmering just beneath the surface, but he swallowed hard, forcing them back. He didn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of the others.

But the anger came unbidden, rising like a flame that threatened to consume him. Why had this happened? Why now? Why Laenor? The questions churned in his mind, fuelling the frustration he felt toward a world that seemed intent on taking away the few things that brought him joy. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he bit back the words that clawed at his throat.

His gaze shifted to the sketchbook that lay discarded on a nearby table, its pages filled with lines and shading that Laenor had once admired with genuine interest. The sight of it sent another wave of pain through him, and this time, he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. Why? The thought echoed in his mind, relentless and unanswered.

Aegon didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions. Instead, he retreated inward, withdrawing from the others as grief and disbelief threatened to overwhelm him. He sat stiffly, his eyes unfocused, his expression etched with a quiet sorrow that belied his usual bravado. While the room buzzed with the children’s murmurs and confusion, Aegon remained silent, trapped in a vortex of memories and loss.

Laenor had been the rare presence in his life who made him feel understood, who didn’t demand he be something he wasn’t. And now, that presence was gone—leaving behind an emptiness he didn’t know how to fill.

Jaehaerys sat stiffly in his chair, his spine straight and his hands gripping the arms of the seat as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Rhaenyra’s words hung heavy in the air, louder than the rising thrum of blood in his ears. Laenor has passed away. His mother’s voice had been steady, carefully measured, but all Jaehaerys heard was the deafening crack of his world fracturing in two.

His mind rebelled against the words, refusing to let them settle. His father—gone? No, it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be true. Mistakes happen. People get things wrong. He wanted to ask his mother if she was absolutely certain, but the weight in her violet eyes silenced him. She was certain, and the truth of it made his throat close tight.

His hands loosened their grip, trembling slightly as they fell to his lap. His gaze flickered downward, avoiding his siblings’ faces, as a knot of emotions twisted in his chest; anger, sorrow, disbelief. But more than anything, the ache of loss pressed down on him, sharp and unyielding. He thought of the quiet moments they had shared: Laenor teaching him the Velaryon way of knotting ropes, his patient smile as they worked side by side. He thought of his father’s laughter, his kindness, the way he never pressured him to be more than he was. Those memories rose now like ghosts, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“I… I don’t understand,” Jaehaerys whispered, his voice barely audible, the words trembling as he spoke them. But even as he said it, he knew there was nothing to understand. Laenor was gone, and the loss was absolute. He stared blankly at the stone floor, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He wasn’t ready for this… not to lose the man who had shaped his world, who had loved him without condition.

Beside him, his siblings shifted uneasily, their murmured voices weaving through the silence that enveloped the room. But Jaehaerys barely noticed them. His thoughts were distant, locked onto his father’s face; the way he smiled when Jaehaerys got the hang of tying a knot, the warmth in his eyes when he spoke of their family, their future.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling with the effort it took to keep his emotions at bay. He wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. But the tears threatened to spill anyway, and his jaw tightened as he blinked them back. His father was gone, and nothing in the world felt stable anymore. The storm in his chest raged on, silently battering the walls he tried to build around himself.

Lucerys’ small hands clutching the edge of his chair tightly. Laenor has passed away. The phrase didn’t make sense at first. It hung in the air like an unanswered question, one that he didn’t know how to process. His wide eyes darted to his mother’s face, searching desperately for some sign that it wasn’t true; that it was some sort of cruel misunderstanding. But the solemn set of Rhaenyra’s expression offered him no comfort. The truth was undeniable, and it hit him like a wave, knocking the breath out of his chest.

“N-No,” he stammered, his voice trembling as he shook his head. “No, he can’t be gone. He wasn’t sick. He was fine last night!” His words tumbled out in rapid bursts, each one tinged with confusion and rising panic. Tears welled up in his bright eyes, the sting of them cutting deep as he tried to fight against the emotions building within him.

Lucerys had always looked up to his father, had always seen Laenor as a figure of strength and warmth. Laenor wasn’t the kind of man who demanded perfection, and Lucerys—lively, curious, sometimes reckless—had flourished under his encouragement. He remembered chasing his father through the halls in laughter, learning to wield a small practice sword under his watchful eye, and falling asleep curled up beside him after long nights of stories about the Velaryon voyages. Those memories swirled in his mind now, each one amplifying the ache in his chest.

The tears broke free, streaming down his cheeks as he buried his face in his hands. “I don’t understand!” he cried, his voice cracking as the grief poured out of him. His small shoulders shook with each sob, his body trembling from the force of his emotions. He didn’t have the words to express what he was feeling—all he could do was grieve, raw and unrestrained.

Rhaenyra moved toward him, her own heart breaking at the sight of her son’s anguish. She knelt beside his chair, wrapping her arms around him as he turned into her embrace. Lucerys clung to her tightly, his face pressed against her shoulder as he continued to cry. In that moment, the world felt impossibly unfair, his grief too vast for his young heart to bear.

Helaena sat quietly, her small frame perched on the edge of the chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her violet eyes, wide and unblinking, flickered between Rhaenyra and the floor as the words sank in. Laenor has passed away. She tilted her head slightly, as though the announcement were something to be studied from a distance, like one of her insects pinned delicately in a glass case. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing at first, her breath hitching faintly as her gaze grew distant.

“He was… gentle,” she murmured finally, her voice so soft it was barely audible over the heavy silence that filled the room. “He would always smile…” Her words drifted off, unfinished, as a single tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. Instead, her hands pressed tighter together, her fingers twisting around the fabric of her nightclothes in a nervous gesture. Helaena’s grief was quiet, contemplative, like a storm brewing far out at sea, its waves only visible to those who knew her well.

Across the room, Aemond remained rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stared unflinchingly at Rhaenyra. His lips pressed into a tight line; the sharpness of his cheekbones accentuated by the tension in his jaw. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with the effort it took to keep his emotions at bay. Anger surged within him, its heat simmering just below the surface, though his voice carried an icy calm as he spoke.

“Who did this?” he demanded, his tone low and controlled, but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Was it sabotage? Or negligence?”

His gaze shifted briefly to Harwin, as though seeking confirmation—or perhaps someone to blame. Aemond couldn’t fathom the randomness of it, the injustice that had taken a man like Laenor; a man who had always carried himself with dignity and honour.

When no immediate answers came, Aemond’s frustration boiled over, though he did not lash out. Instead, he stood abruptly, stalking toward the far corner of the chamber, his movements sharp and precise. He turned his back to the group, his jaw tightening further as he stared at the cold stone wall. His grief would be wrestled with alone, in silence, as it always was. He wouldn’t let himself cry, wouldn’t let anyone see the flicker of vulnerability that threatened to break through.

Helaena glanced briefly at her brother’s retreating form, her expression softening as though she wished she could reach out to him. But her attention soon returned to her sister, her voice trembling as she asked, “Will we… have a vigil? For the Seven?”

Aemond, overhearing, scoffed softly, though he didn’t turn around.

 “What good is prayer now?” he muttered, his voice low and bitter, though there was no true malice in his words. Rhaenyra sat on the edge of her chair; her arms wrapped tightly around Lucerys as he sobbed into her shoulder. His small frame trembled against hers, his grief spilling out in unrestrained waves that broke her heart with every stifled breath. She pressed her cheek to his curls, murmuring soothing words that felt hollow even as she spoke to them. The weight of the room pressed heavily on her, her own grief entwined with the task of holding her family together.

Her gaze drifted to Helaena, who sat perched on the edge of her chair like a fragile bird, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The young girl’s whispered words—He was so gentle…—echoed softly in Rhaenyra’s ears. The tears trailing silently down Helaena’s face felt like a dagger to her heart. Rhaenyra longed to reach out to her, to pull her into the protective embrace she was already offering Lucerys. But she knew better than to smother Helaena’s delicate world. Her sister needed space to process, to weave her own understanding of the loss they all shared.

“You’re right, my sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said gently, her voice trembling but steady, as she met Helaena’s distant gaze. “He was gentle. And kind. He loved you all so much.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they sounded more like a plea—to reassure her children, and perhaps herself, that Laenor’s love would remain with them even in his absence. Then her attention shifted to Aemond. His rigid posture, the clench of his fists, and the sharp edge of his voice as he demanded answers spoke of a storm raging beneath the surface. His anger and refusal to let emotion show stung her in a different way. She recognized the impulse; to bury pain in cold resolve, but seeing it in her brother, so young and already hardening himself against the world, filled her with a profound sadness.

“Aemond,” she called softly, her tone firm but not unkind. “There is no one to blame. Sometimes the gods take from us that we cannot afford to lose.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but she forced them out for his sake. “I know your heart is angry, but that anger will not ease this grief. You don’t have to bear it alone.”

Aemond did not turn to face her, but his shoulders tensed further, the only sign that he had heard her at all. Rhaenyra held back a sigh, knowing she could not force him to release his emotions. He would process the loss in his own time, just as they all would.

Lucerys hiccupped against her shoulder, his tears slowing but still hot on her skin. She kissed the top of his head, her hand running soothingly over his back as she addressed them all, her voice soft yet resolute.

“We will endure this. Together. As a family. Laenor loved each of you fiercely, and that love will never leave you.” Her words wavered slightly, but the conviction in them was real.

Rhaenyra adjusted her hold on Lucerys, his tears dampening her shoulder as his small body shook with quiet sobs. The grief in the room was palpable, heavy in the air as it settled over each child. Her gaze moved toward Valaena and Larissa, sitting side by side on the cushioned bench near the corner of the room.

Valaena, at seven years, hugged her knees to her chest, her bright violet eyes fixed on Rhaenyra with an expression of disbelief. “Uncle Laenor?” she asked softly, her voice trembling. “But he was at the feast last night. He was… he was smiling.”

Larissa, only five, looked between her sister and her aunt, her small brow furrowing in confusion. “What happened to him?” she asked, her voice high and plaintive, breaking slightly on the last word.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of her own tears. “There was an accident,” she said gently, her voice carrying the weight of the moment. “Uncle Laenor is… gone now. He is in a better place.”

Valaena’s lip quivered, but she bit down hard, as though trying to hold back her emotions. She turned toward Larissa, wrapping an arm protectively around her sister’s small shoulders. “Don’t cry, Lari,” she whispered, though her own voice broke slightly. “Aunt said he’s in a better place. That means… that means he’s safe.”

Larissa frowned deeply, her tears spilling freely as she buried her face against Valaena’s arm. The sight tugged sharply at Rhaenyra’s heart, the innocence of their grief a stark contrast to the heaviness of the moment. “Will he come back?” Larissa asked, her voice muffled against her sister’s sleeve.

“No, love,” Rhaenyra said quietly, the words almost catching in her throat. “But we will always remember him, and he will always be with us in our hearts.”

Valaena nodded slowly, her small hand rubbing comforting circles on her sister’s back, though her own eyes shone with unshed tears. Rhaenyra’s heart ached as she watched them, their young minds grappling with loss in a way that was both heartbreaking and tender, not even a year after the loss of their own mother. Harwin stood by his daughters, his eyes sad as he held onto Valaena’s hand.

Rhaenyra’s voice carried a quiet resolve, though the strain in her tone was undeniable. “We will be traveling to High Tide in three days for the funeral, then we shall go on to Dragonstone,” she told them, her violet eyes floating over each of their faces as she spoke. The announcement landed heavily in the room, the silence that followed amplifying the tension in the air.

Lucerys stirred in her arms, his tear-streaked face lifting toward hers with a hesitant expression. “Will—will Grandpa be there?” he asked softly, his voice trembling. The mention of Corlys, and his grief, sent a pang of guilt through Rhaenyra’s heart. She nodded faintly, brushing his curls back from his damp cheeks. “Yes, sweet boy. He will be there.”

Valaena’s small hand tightened around Larissa’s as she whispered, “I don’t like funerals…” Her words were barely audible, meant more for herself than the room, but Larissa nodded fervently in agreement, her tearful face still pressed into her sister’s arm.

Aemond turned sharply from where he stood near the corner, his stiff posture radiating tension.

 “Dragonstone?” he repeated, his voice clipped. “What will we do at Dragonstone?” His questioning wasn’t defiance, but rather a need to assert control over something—anything—amid the chaos. His icy demeanour made Rhaenyra’s heart ache even more.

“We will honour Laenor’s memory,” Rhaenyra answered carefully, levelling her gaze toward him. “And we will gather strength. As a family.” She let the words linger, her meaning clear. The move to Dragonstone wasn’t just logistical; it was meant to fortify them for what lay ahead.

Helaena sat unmoving, her wide eyes flickering back to the firelight as though searching for meaning in its dance. “Dragonstone…” she murmured softly, repeating the name in an almost dreamlike tone. “Will the dragons mourn too?” Her question, innocent and strange, brought a fleeting moment of warmth to the heaviness, though it went unanswered.

Aegon let out a low exhale, his gaze cast toward the floor. “Three days,” he muttered, shaking his head as if the timeframe were impossibly short for the weight of what was to come. His thoughts, however, remained a mystery, locked behind the guarded expression he wore like armour.

Rhaenyra’s grip on Lucerys tightened, her gaze sweeping over the children once more. Despite their grief and their questions, they were together, and she was determined to keep it that way. “We will endure this,” she said softly, her words carrying a quiet promise.

Chapter Text

‘The tides are favourable, and the sun graces a new horizon. A place where fire finds harmony and shadows embrace peace. The dragons have found their haven.’

Rhaenyra's heart swelled with bittersweet joy as her thoughts returned to the note she had received two nights before. Knowing Laenor had found peace brought a fragile sense of relief; he was safe, away from the chaos that had engulfed them. Yet, the ache of his absence lingered, a quiet sorrow that seemed to shadow her every step. Amid the fear of the looming journey to Kings Landing and the weight of her responsibilities, Rhaenyra couldn't help but feel the delicate threads of hope, grief, and worry tugging at her soul.

The children had begun to emerge from the weight of grief, though each carried the loss of Laenor differently. Tears had flowed freely during the funeral on Driftmark, their collective sorrow binding them together in that moment. On Dragonstone, however, their paths began to diverge.

Lucerys, though young, seemed determined to bear the role of the family's heart. His laughter was infectious, his belief that a hug and a joke could mend even the deepest wounds unshakable. He moved from room to room with an exuberance that belied the shadows that lingered, seeking out his siblings to brighten their days. Yet, in quieter moments, when he believed himself unseen, his youthful face would crease with worry.

Aemond and Jaehaerys sought refuge in discipline. Their training with Daemon became their sanctuary, the rigorous lessons offering a structure that softened the sting of their loss. Aemond's strokes with the practice sword grew more deliberate, his focus sharpening to a fine edge as if preparing himself for battles both seen and unseen.

Jaehaerys, meanwhile, approached their lessons with quiet determination, his mind seemingly miles away even as he performed each manoeuvre with precision. Together, they pushed one another, their unspoken pact evident in every shared glance; this was their way of honouring Laenor, their silent promise to grow strong in his memory.

Aegon was a puzzle of contradictions. He had arrived on Dragonstone as though carrying the weight of the world, his once-vibrant spirit dimmed to a faint flicker. Yet, Daemon had adopted him as a personal challenge, trailing him like a shadow, unrelenting in his efforts to kindle a spark.

Aegon spent hours sketching in the gardens, the cool breeze of Dragonstone bringing solace as he poured his emotions onto parchment. His preference for the outdoors was unwavering, and Daemon indulged this inclination, taking Aegon on early morning flights. Together, they soared into the dawn, returning only after the sun had fully risen, a small, shared ritual that seemed to chip away at the walls Aegon had built around himself.

Helaena remained a mystery to them all, drifting with an otherworldly air that seemed untouched by sorrow. Yet, there was a grounding in her presence that had not been there before, as though she had found some hidden truth amidst the chaos.

Her eyes often carried a faraway look, but when she spoke, her words were deliberate, tinged with a knowledge that others could only grasp at. Rhaenyra couldn't shake the feeling that Helaena had pierced through the veil of their shared tragedy, her playful smile and whispered words—"The sea keeps its treasures, hidden but unharmed. Not everything lost is truly gone."—leaving Rhaenyra both comforted and unsettled.

Rhaenyra herself felt the tangled web of emotions tightening around her. Relief that Laenor lived, joy in seeing her children heal, sorrow at his absence, and a quiet but growing fear for the challenges yet to come. She watched them all with a mother’s pride and an unshakable protectiveness.

Today, she was filled with a girlish excitement that fluttered in her chest, almost unfamiliar after the trials of the past years. Lady Elinda worked through her silver-gold locks with a gentle hand, and her handmaidens diligently applied rouge and charcoal to enhance her features. Their care was meticulous, bathing her in a cloud of warmth and soft fragrances, but Rhaenyra’s thoughts were elsewhere—on the evening ahead, on Daemon, and on herself.

Daemon had seen her scars before, had traced them with his fingers, even murmured words of praise for the strength they symbolized. He had never been bothered by the marks of her motherhood, the pouching of her stomach, or the curves that had replaced the sharper lines of her youth. His gaze held a reverence that she could never quite understand, as though he saw in her everything, she doubted in herself. Yet, despite this, she couldn’t suppress the quiet worry that gnawed at her.

Her hips, widened by the three children she had birthed, told stories of her resilience but felt foreign to her now. The stretch marks, faded from angry red to soft silver, traced a path she hadn’t chosen but carried with her all the same. She knew Daemon would look at her as he always had—with admiration, affection, and the boldness that had drawn her to him in the first place. But she also knew her own insecurities would fight to overshadow the certainty of his love.

As her handmaidens fastened the final touches, she caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back was not the same girl who had first stood by Daemon's side. She had grown, endured, and borne the weight of kingdoms and kin. Yet, the thought of baring herself fully to him tonight brought both excitement and trepidation. She longed for his embrace, for the reassurance in his touch, but could not banish the whisper of doubt that lingered in her heart.

She knew he would find her beautiful, as he always did. And still, as the sun dipped closer to the horizon, Rhaenyra couldn't help but wonder if she could find the same beauty within herself. Lady Charis approached with the traditional Valyrian headdress in hand, its intricate gold beading catching the firelight as she moved with practiced grace. She had served as Rhaenyra’s head lady-in-waiting for fifteen years, her bond with the Princess forged through moments both triumphant and harrowing. Six years Rhaenyra’s elder, Charis had often been more than an attendant—she was a confidante, a voice of wisdom, and at times, the soothing motherly presence that Rhaenyra needed most.

Rhaenyra had relied on her in ways she never openly admitted, whether to lean into her calm during uncertain moments, or to bask in her quiet reassurances when the weight of her station grew heavy. Today was no exception, and though Rhaenyra knew she should feel elation as her marriage to Daemon approached, her heart danced between excitement and anxiety.

The headdress was deceptively beautiful. As Lady Charis gently placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head, she felt the strain on her neck muscles; the physical weight mirrored the intangible burden of her lineage. Charis lingered, adjusting it carefully, her warm hazel eyes catching Rhaenyra’s in the mirror. “You look beautiful, my Princess,” she murmured, her voice filled with the kind of unwavering belief that felt like an anchor. She cupped Rhaenyra’s cheek, her touch carrying the familiarity of years spent guiding her through life’s storms.

Charis’s own thoughts wandered as she looked at Rhaenyra, resplendent yet vulnerable. She thought of the spirited girl she had first served, sharp-tongued and wilful, and how the years had shaped her into a woman of undeniable strength.

There were times when Charis felt more like a sister than a servant, often offering advice or a shoulder to lean on when no one else dared approach the heir to the Iron Throne. She was proud of Rhaenyra, though she sometimes worried that the Princess shouldered more than anyone should. Charis reached for Rhaenyra’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You carry so much, and you do it with grace,” she said, her voice tinged with affection. “Tonight is yours, and you deserve every happiness that comes with it.”

Rhaenyra smiled, the warmth of Charis’s words pushing some of her insecurities into the background. She had always trusted Charis’s judgment and in this moment, as her reflection stared back at her, she felt the faint stirrings of reassurance. The moment was broken by a small, braided silver-haired head peeking through the door. Jaehaerys's wide lilac eyes met his mother’s, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. Rhaenyra’s face softened, a gentle smile gracing her lips as she reached out her hand toward him.

“Come here, my sweet boy,” she said, her tone as warm as the fire crackling behind her.

Jae hesitated for a breath, biting his lip before he stepped into the room and placed his hand in hers. Her fingers, soft yet strong, wrapped around his smaller ones, grounding him in a way only she could. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gazed up at her, his voice quiet but steady. “You look pretty, Mother.”

There was sincerity in his words, yet they were tinged with uncertainty. Jaehaerys wasn’t sure what he felt about his mother remarrying. He wanted to be happy for her; he knew that his mother and the Rogue Prince had been closer than just kin. He had seen how they looked at each other when they thought no one else noticed; how Daemon’s gaze followed her with an intensity Jae found both gross and oddly reassuring. His mother had never looked at his father that way, not with that kind of warmth and longing.

Even at only one and ten, Jaehaerys understood, in a way, that his mother and Daemon belonged together. And he liked Daemon; truly, he did. The prince never tried to be his father, nor did he coddle him. Instead, Daemon guided him, firm but fair, offering wisdom when it was needed and stepping back when it was not. Jae could see the care Daemon gave them all, even if it was delivered in his gruff, sarcastic way that made his siblings roll their eyes. Daemon could be a bit of a bitch about things, but Jae knew it came from a place of protection, not disdain.

Still, a part of him ached for his father. He missed Laenor; the man who had always greeted him with a wide smile, who had flown him over the seas on Seasmoke’s back and told him stories of the great voyages of his House. Jae still held onto the memories of when his father’s laughter had filled the halls, the way he lifted him onto his shoulders even when he was much too big to do so. That loss didn’t fade easily, and the thought of his mother moving on without him left a knot in his chest.

“I… I hope you’re happy, Mother,” Jaehaerys finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t much, but Rhaenyra understood the sentiment behind it. She pulled him closer, brushing a kiss across his silver hair.

“Jae,” she said softly, “Are you truly at peace with all this?”

Jae blinked at her, startled by the question. For a moment, he didn’t speak, his gaze dropping to their entwined hands. His lips pressed into a thin line before he finally looked back up at her. “

I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice small but honest. “I miss Father. I really do. But I… I think this is right. You and Daemon… you’re supposed to be together. I can see it. And Daemon… he cares for all of us. He’s rough sometimes, but he’s… good.”

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled at his words; both the courage it took for him to share them and the maturity with which he balanced his grief and acceptance. She smiled gently, brushing her thumb across his cheek.

 “Your father will always have a place in your heart,” she said. “And in mine. No one could ever take that from you, my love. But I promise you this; Daemon and I will always do everything we can to protect you and your brothers. We’ll make this work for all of us, Jae.”

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, her words settling over him like a balm. He squeezed her hand and offered a small smile. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then I’m okay.”

Rhaenyra kissed his temple softly, pulling him into her arms for a brief embrace. “Thank you for being honest with me, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “That means more to me than you know.”

--

As twilight descended upon Dragonstone, the volcanic peaks stood like ancient sentinels against the darkening sky. The fiery glow from the molten heart of the volcano cast a warm, flickering light across the gathered assembly, illuminating their faces in hues of gold and red. Beneath the shadow of its towering presence, the wedding ceremony unfolded with a primal, almost sacred energy, the Targaryen legacy intertwined with the raw power of the land they called home.

Rhaenyra stood beneath the towering shadow of the volcano, the flickering flames of the torches casting her in an otherworldly glow. Her gown was a masterpiece of Valyrian tradition, its beige base a canvas for the striking red accents and intricate gold embellishments that adorned it. The red collar framed her face with bold elegance, while the gold trimmings and the gradient effect of red flowing into the lower half of the garment symbolized the blending of fire and blood—the very foundation of House Targaryen.

The sleeves, transitioning from soft beige to vivid crimson, bore delicate gold patterns that resembled veins or branches, as though the flames of Old Valyria had been stitched into the fabric itself. A wide gold belt cinched her waist, not just a part of the design but a symbol of unity and strength. Each detail whispered of heritage, power, and the unyielding legacy of her House.

Lady Charis had ensured every fold and embellishment was perfect, her careful hands arranging the gown so that it draped with both grace and authority. The older woman had stayed behind with Aerion, unable to attend a traditional Valyrian ceremony with no Valyrian blood. Before Rhaenyra had departed, Charis could not deny the weight of emotion in her chest; a mixture of awe at the sight of her Princess transformed into a vision of their ancestors, and the bittersweet ache of seeing the young woman she had guided for years stepping into her destiny.

Daemon, dressed in complementary shades of deep black and red with understated gold accents, awaited her. His gaze swept over her, his expression betraying a flicker of wonder even as he maintained his signature composure. Her brood of children stood nearby; their faces brightened by the firelight as they watched the ceremony unfold. Lucerys fidgeted with excitement and nervousness, his youthful energy barely contained. Jaehaerys held himself with quiet pride, his gaze flicking between his mother and Daemon, who stood awaiting her at the altar. Aegon lingered slightly apart, sketchbook tucked under his arm, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the scene. Helaena, with her enigmatic smile, hummed softly to herself as the firelight danced in her wide eyes, lending her an ethereal air as she held on to Aemond’s hand. Even Aemond looked slightly amazed at the image that Rhaenyra and Deamon cut, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Daemon extended his hand toward Rhaenyra as she stepped forward, their gazes locking in a way that seemed to hold the world still for that moment. The Rogue Prince, the fiery dragon, the man she had loved and desired for so long…. Finally, he was hers.

The ceremony was steeped in Valyrian tradition, the ancient tongue ringing out as the vows were exchanged. Rhaenyra spoke her words with unwavering conviction, never breaking eye contact with Daemon. The Rogue Prince’s reply was rich and resonant, his tone laced with the promise of fierce loyalty and devotion. The air seemed to hum with the power of their union, the fire and blood of House Targaryen binding them not only in marriage.

The ancient Valyrian ritual carried a weight that Rhaenyra felt in every deliberate movement. As Daemon’s blade traced her palm and lip, the sting of pain was sharp but fleeting, replaced by the warmth of their mingled blood pooling in the golden chalice. The firelight reflected off the goblet’s surface, casting rippling patterns of red and gold that seemed to dance in time with the dragons’ song above.

Daemon’s expression remained stoic; his focus unbroken as he lifted the chalice to her lips. Rhaenyra met his gaze, her own resolve steady as she drank deeply, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the heady weight of tradition. When Daemon followed suit, the crowd murmured in reverence, the ancient words of the officiant echoing through the volcanic pass.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra caught Lucerys’s reaction—his nose wrinkled, his tongue sticking out in exaggerated disgust. The sight was so endearingly childlike, so at odds with the solemnity of the moment, that she couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips. It was a reminder, amidst the gravity of the ceremony, of the life and light her children brought to her world.

Rhaenyra felt the weight of the moment settle into her chest, a mixture of relief, triumph, and joy. Daemon turned to her, his hand lifting to cup her cheek as he leaned in, sealing their vows with a kiss that seemed to burn as brightly as the fires around them. In the darkened skies the dragons seemed to sing, dancing through the clouds above their heads.

As the cheers subsided and the ceremony gave way to familial closeness, Rhaenyra’s children rushed toward her, their individual energies mingling in a chaotic symphony of youth. Lucerys reached her first, practically bouncing with excitement as he grasped her hand. His wide lilac eyes sparkled as he exclaimed, “Mother, that was so amazing! The dragons, the fire—I loved all of it! Except…” He scrunched his nose. “Except drinking blood. That was gross.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, brushing a hand over his curls. “The blood is part of the tradition, my love,” she said gently, her lips curving into an indulgent smile. “Not everything in life will be as delightful as dragons soaring above us.”

Jaehaerys approached next, his stride measured and deliberate, his young face carrying an expression of thoughtful pride. He glanced between his mother and Daemon before offering the latter a respectful nod.

“Congratulations,” he said quietly, his tone mature beyond his years. “I’m glad… glad that it’s him.” The words carried weight, subtle yet sincere, and Rhaenyra’s heart ached with love for him; her thoughtful, steady boy who had weathered so much already.

Daemon inclined his head in response to Jaehaerys, his lips twitching in the faintest trace of a smirk. “You’ll find I’m not so terrible,” Daemon said dryly, his tone light yet carrying a hint of genuine affection. It wasn’t the playful exchange of equals, nor the warmth of a father’s embrace; it was Daemon’s own unique brand of care, laced with understated approval.

Aemond followed Jaehaerys, quieter in his approach but no less watchful. His single eye, sharp and calculating, shifted between his siblings, cousins and Daemon before settling on his sister. “It was a strong ceremony,” he said in a measured tone, his words deliberate and restrained. “The dragons were… fitting.”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened as she turned her full attention to him, hearing the weight behind his carefully chosen words. Aemond had always been serious beyond his years, his intelligence shining through even in his brief observations. She extended her hand to him, and he hesitated for a moment before taking it, his grasp firm but not unkind.

“Your words are a comfort to me, Aemond,” she said quietly, and his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile before he inclined his head.

Aegon lingered near the edge of the gathering, his sketchbook tucked under his arm as he observed the scene with quiet intensity. His gaze caught Daemon’s briefly, the unspoken understanding between them passing in a single glance. Then he turned to his sister, his expression softening just enough to allow a faint smile.

“You’re happy,” he said simply, and Rhaenyra reached out to touch his shoulder with an encouraging squeeze.

“I am,” she said warmly. “And that’s all I want for all of you—to find your own happiness.”

Helaena was the last to join them, her approach almost dreamlike. Her wide eyes gleamed with an ethereal light as she looked at Rhaenyra, her enigmatic smile giving nothing away.

“The dragons danced for you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible amidst the laughter and chatter surrounding them. “They know.”

Rhaenyra’s heart swelled as she took in all her children, each so unique and yet bound together by shared love and loss. The joy she felt was overwhelming; a deep, abiding happiness she had not dared to hope for amidst the trials of the past. Her gaze shifted to Daemon, who had stepped beside her silently, his hand brushing hers. He wasn’t smiling, not in the conventional sense, but the way his eyes softened as they rested on her spoke volumes. His adoration was unhidden, unwavering, and in his presence, she felt her entire body burn, flush with desire and love.

“Remarkable,” Daemon said softly, the word meant for her alone. She tilted her head toward him, her smile growing, and for the briefest moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

The children’s chatter pulled her back, their laughter mingling with the distant cries of the dragons still dancing above. For this moment, she was simply a mother, a bride, and a woman surrounded by those she loved most.

--

Alicent’s fury was barely contained as she paced her chambers, the rich emerald of her skirts swishing against the stone floor with every forceful step. Her auburn curls swayed in unison with her movements, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. The anger bubbling inside her threatened to boil over, yet she fought to keep herself composed. It had only been two moons since Laenor Velaryon’s death—a tragedy that still lingered heavily in the court’s whispers—and yet Rhaenyra had wasted no time. She had not even allowed the memory of her late husband to settle before announcing her marriage to Daemon.

The audacity of it made Alicent feel as though the walls of the chamber were closing in around her. The letter had arrived just hours before, its contents as brazen as the woman who had penned them. Bold, unapologetic, and stamped with the sigil of House Targaryen, the announcement was nothing less than a declaration of war. And now Alicent found herself pacing, torn between fury and a quiet panic over what this union could mean.

She had made the calculated decision to keep this matter from Viserys, choosing instead to handle it herself. The King had grown fragile, his health deteriorating with each passing day, and Alicent couldn’t afford to let his anger and disappointment destabilize him further.

Viserys’s reaction, if he were to find out, would undoubtedly be explosive. His fury toward Rhaenyra’s actions—a perceived betrayal of duty and tradition—would bring chaos to an already fracturing court. And Alicent wasn’t blind to the fact that the King, for all his love for his daughter, often struggled to balance that affection against the mounting pressures of politics and legacy.

But her decision to keep Viserys uninvolved brought its own weight. Alicent felt as though she were carrying the burden of the entire realm on her shoulders, the responsibility of preserving order and dignity falling solely on her. She was the Queen. It was her duty to ensure stability, even if it meant withholding truths from her husband. And in truth, Alicent wasn’t sure she trusted him to act decisively anymore.

“How dare she,” Alicent hissed under her breath, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Two moons. Just two moons since her husband’s death, and she flaunts this union as though it were some blessed affair! Does she care nothing for the sanctity of duty? For the reputation of her House?”

Her pacing quickened, the anger swelling in her chest, until she stopped abruptly before her desk. The letter lay atop it, mocking her with its presence. She imagined Rhaenyra penning it with a smirk, her silver-gold hair glowing in the firelight as she plotted her next move. Alicent could almost hear the laughter; the utter disregard for decorum, for respect, for Alicent herself.

Her thoughts turned to Viserys, picturing the fury that would light his face if he knew. She could see the veins in his temple throbbing, the tremble in his voice as his words lashed out like a whip. He would blame her, too, for not stopping Rhaenyra sooner; for not being a stronger force in her life, for letting things spiral out of control. Viserys’s anger was unpredictable, and Alicent had learned that he often directed it at those closest to him, whether deserved or not. She had no desire to expose herself to his wrath, nor did she wish to exacerbate his frailty.

No, she would handle this herself. She would ensure that Rhaenyra understood the consequences of her actions—that she couldn’t continue to defy tradition and propriety without facing the ramifications. Alicent’s eyes narrowed as her mind churned, already considering her next steps. The Iron Throne was not Rhaenyra’s to claim, no matter how many bold moves she made or how deeply she insulted the crown. Alicent would make sure of it.

But for now, she paced and planned, the anger a sharp and searing fuel. Two moons was all it had taken for Rhaenyra to shatter every expectation of decorum, and Alicent would not let her impudence go unchecked. Whatever alliances Rhaenyra thought she could secure with Daemon at her side, Alicent would meet with strategy and cunning. The game was far from over, and Alicent Hightower intended to play it well.

Alicent’s pacing halted abruptly as she heard the unmistakable sound of Viserys’s enraged voice echoing through the halls. The King had discovered the news; she wasn’t sure how, but the whispers in the Red Keep carried swiftly, and Rhaenyra’s announcement had reached his ears. Now, his fury thundered through the corridors, his once weakened tone finding renewed strength in his outrage.

Alicent felt a pang of guilt as she pressed her lips together tightly. She had chosen to keep the news from him, hoping to shield him from unnecessary stress in his fragile state. And yet, here they were, his reaction all-consuming, his anger now a storm threatening to rip through the fragile threads holding the court together.

The door to her chambers flew open with a resounding crack, and Viserys staggered inside, his face flushed, and his breathing laboured.

“She dares—” he began, his voice shaking with fury. “She dares to defile very shred of dignity that House Targaryen holds dear!”

Alicent rushed to his side, her hands instinctively reaching out to steady him. “Viserys,” she said softly, trying to calm him as his trembling hand grasped the edge of the table for support. “You must not exert yourself. This anger will do you no good.”

“She marries Daemon as if it is something to celebrate, as if she hasn’t just buried Laenor!” Viserys spat; his rage undeterred by Alicent’s attempts at soothing him. “Two moons, Alicent. Two moons since Laenor’s death, and she sees fit to throw herself into the arms of that Rogue Prince!”

Alicent frowned, her own anger simmering just beneath the surface. She had anticipated his reaction, but seeing it unfold was another matter entirely. “Viserys, we must approach this with care,” she said firmly. “Rhaenyra has always… taken liberties, and I fear this marriage will only embolden her further. But we cannot let her actions fracture the realm.”

Viserys shook his head violently, his expression a mixture of outrage and despair. “She mocks me, Alicent. She mocks the crown, the realm, everything I have fought to protect! Does she have no sense of duty? No respect for the throne she claims to want? I should have—”

He broke off, coughing harshly, the weight of his fury clearly straining his already fragile body. Alicent pressed a hand to his chest, guiding him to the chair by the hearth as he collapsed into it, his breathing ragged. “Enough, Viserys,” she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. “We must act, yes, but first you need your strength.”

Her own thoughts churned as she poured him a goblet of wine, her mind racing through the implications of Rhaenyra’s marriage. She had withheld the news in the hope of managing it herself, but now that Viserys knew, there was no turning back. His fury would only fuel the tensions brewing between the factions in court, and Alicent had to think carefully about how to navigate the coming storm.

Viserys took the goblet shakily, his eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth. “It is not just the marriage,” he murmured bitterly. “It is her defiance. Always her defiance. She would see this family torn apart if it meant having her way.”

Alicent felt a sharp pang in her chest as she listened to his words. She knew his disappointment in Rhaenyra ran deep, and though she shared his frustrations, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if his anger stemmed as much from his helplessness as it did from his pride. Viserys looked at her, his eyes glassy with exhaustion and rage. For a moment, there was silence between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Alicent stood firm, her mind already racing through the steps she would take to counteract Rhaenyra’s brazen move.  The King slumped in his chair by the hearth, his face pale but his expression stormy. His fury was not the kind that erupted in shouts or slammed fists—it was quieter, more insidious, the kind that simmered and burned beneath the surface. Alicent could see it in the way his hands trembled as he gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white with the effort to contain himself.

“She’s my daughter,” Viserys said finally, his voice hoarse but resolute. “My precious girl. And she marries him—Daemon, of all people. A man who has spent his life in brothels and taverns, who has defied me at every turn. How could she… how could she do this?”

Alicent stood nearby, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She had known this would be his reaction. For all his faults, Viserys’s love for Rhaenyra was unwavering, and it blinded him to the realities of her actions. He saw her not as the woman she had become, but as the spirited child who had once sat on his knee, her silver-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight. To him, she was still that girl, and the thought of her aligning herself with Daemon—a man he both loved and mistrusted—was a betrayal he could scarcely comprehend.

“She is headstrong,” Alicent said carefully, her tone measured. “And she believes herself above reproach. But Viserys, you must see that there is nothing we can do to undo this. The marriage is done, and the realm will hear of it soon enough.”

Viserys’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire. “She has defied me,” he muttered. “She has defied the crown, the realm, everything I have worked to protect. And yet… what can I do? She is my heir. My blood.”

Alicent hesitated, choosing her words with care. “You could summon her back to court,” she suggested, though she knew it was futile. “Demand an explanation. Hold her accountable for her actions.”

Viserys shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “And what would that accomplish? She would stand before me, defiant as ever, and justify her actions with that sharp tongue of hers. No, Alicent. She has made her choice, and I cannot undo it.”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had expected as much. Viserys’s love for Rhaenyra was both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, and it left him paralyzed in moments like this. He could not bring himself to punish her, not truly, and Alicent knew that any attempt to sway him would be met with resistance.

“Then what will you do?” she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer.

Viserys sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his decision. “I will banish her from court,” he said finally, his voice heavy with resignation. “Let her remain on Dragonstone with her new husband. If she wishes to defy me, then she can do so far from the Red Keep.”

Alicent nodded, her expression unreadable. It was the only course of action left to them, and she knew it. But even as she agreed, a part of her bristled at the thought of Rhaenyra escaping the consequences of her actions so easily. The realm would see it as a punishment, but Alicent knew better. Rhaenyra would thrive on Dragonstone, surrounded by her dragons and her loyalists, free from the constraints of courtly life.

Still, she kept her thoughts to herself, her gaze fixed on Viserys as he stared into the fire. His anger had burned itself out, leaving only the ashes of disappointment and sorrow. Alicent felt a pang of sympathy for him, but it was fleeting. She had her own children to think of, her own legacy to protect. And if Rhaenyra’s actions threatened that legacy, then Alicent would do whatever it took to ensure her family’s survival.

For now, though, she remained silent, her mind already turning to the next move in this dangerous game of power and loyalty. Rhaenyra might have won this battle, but the war was far from over. And Alicent Hightower was not a woman to be underestimated.

Chapter Text

The sun streamed through the latticed windows of the royal chamber, casting shimmering patterns on the tiled floor. The air hummed with activity: the clatter of servants arranging platters of fresh bread and fruit on a grand dining table, the rhythmic sweeping of brooms, and the faint hum of a handmaiden humming a melody as she folded garments. The aroma of spiced wine mingled with the fresh scent of blooming flowers placed in ornate vases.

Scattered across the room were the unmistakable signs of a household ruled by children. A wooden dragon with chipped paint lay abandoned near the hearth, its once-vivid colours dulled by countless adventures. A small, well-loved blanket peeked out from beneath a chair, its edges frayed from years of comforting tiny hands. Near the window, smudged with tiny fingerprints, a stack of books teetered precariously, their covers adorned with illustrations of knights and dragons.

“This is it! This is the last babe I carry. I am done,” Rhaenyra huffed as she lowered herself into her lounger, her movements slow and deliberate. She blew a rogue strand of silvery hair from her brow, frustration etched on her features. Her gaze softened, however, as it landed on a small, hand-carved figurine resting on the table beside her, a gift from her eldest, Jaehaerys, when he was just a boy.

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her, his expression a mix of amusement and affection. “You said that after Baelon, and again after Viserys,” he teased, settling onto the armrest beside her. “And yet, here we are.”

Rhaenyra shot him a glare, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “If this is a boy… I am done,” she declared, her tone firm but tinged with a hint of playfulness.

“But you are just so lovely when rounded with my babe,” Daemon countered, smirking as he bent closer to her. His hand brushed against hers, resting on the swell of her belly. “And you cannot deny how much you adore them—all of them.”

Her expression softened further, her fingers instinctively tracing circles over her growing bump. “I do,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Each of them is a piece of my heart, running wild through these halls. But Daemon, I am tired.”

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before she could protest. She allowed it for a moment, her eyes fluttering shut, before pushing him away with a narrowed gaze. “No more babes,” she pouted, though her hand remained protectively over her belly.

From the corridor came the sound of laughter; high-pitched and unrestrained. The door creaked open with a hesitant push, and Baelon peeked inside, his cherubic face alight with mischief. Sticky fingers clutching a half-eaten tart gave him away instantly.

“Mother, can we go to the gardens now?” he asked, his words tumbling out in the eager, insistent tone of a four-year-old.

“In a moment, my love,” she replied, waving him off gently. As the door closed behind him, she turned back to Daemon. “They are my greatest joy,” she said softly, “but I wouldn’t mind a moment’s peace.”

Daemon chuckled, his hand still resting on hers. “Peace is overrated,” he said, his tone light. “Chaos suits us.”

As if to respond to his statement, the sound of crashing and smashing caused Rhaenyra to wince, squeezing her eyes shut. There was a moment of silence, before a following “Everything is fine!” filtered to the chamber. “Fuck… what do you think that was?”

“I think that was someone letting a hatchling loose in the hall,” Daemon sighed, running his hand through his silver locks.

Rhaenyra shook her head, her lips curving slightly despite her attempt to maintain her stern facade. "If that was a hatchling, we'll be lucky if the hall is still standing by the end of the day."

Daemon's laughter echoed through the chamber, a rich sound that filled the space. "Always an adventure," he mused, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "And Baelon's heart is set on the gardens. Shall we?"

With a reluctant sigh, Rhaenyra nodded, allowing Daemon to help her to her feet. The weight of her pregnancy made every movement slower, but his steady presence provided the support she needed. Together, they made their way to the door, where the chaos beyond awaited them.

As they stepped into the corridor, the sight that greeted them was nothing short of a delightful mess. Lucerys seemed to be wrangling the youngest children as they ran amok, their laughter ringing out as they dodged and weaved, their games creating a symphony of joyful disorder.

Baelon spotted them and rushed over, his face lit with excitement. "Come, Mother! Come, Father!" he cried, tugging at their hands. "The gardens are calling!"

Rhaenyra exchanged a glance with Daemon, the shared understanding of their chaotic yet treasured life reflected in their eyes. "Very well, my little prince," she said, her tone warm. "Lead the way."

As Baelon ran ahead, his siblings following in a merry parade, Rhaenyra and Daemon walked hand in hand, the promise of the garden's peace a distant reality. For now, they embraced the chaos, finding beauty in the wild, unrestrained moments that made their family whole. These moments were rare, the duties as Heir to the Throne and the Princess of Dragonstone required a great deal of her time.

For six relentless years, Dragonstone echoed with the fevered rhythms of her resolve. Exiled from King’s Landing, Rhaenyra pushed her mind and body to the unyielding task of fortifying her claim to the Iron Throne and strengthening her rule of Dragonstone. Behind the rugged cliffs and roaring sea, plans were drawn, and alliances were forged. Yet amid the political turbulence, she lived another life entirely, a life of creation and sacrifice.

Rhaenyra gave birth to two sons, each a piece of her legacy, and now carried a third beneath her weary heart. The demands of her pregnancy interwove with the ever-present weight of her ambitions, pressing upon her mind and body. Sleepless nights became gruelling, whether spent balancing the needs of her family or her realm. Yet the villages on Dragonstone saw the rise of modest medicine centres, their doors marked with the Targaryen sigil, offering aid to those forgotten by war’s cruelty.

Across the realm, she sent emissaries to establish farming knowledge centres, planting seeds not only in the soil but in the hearts of the smallfolk. Crops flourished under her advisors’ guidance, and whispers of “Rhaenyra the Compassionate” began to root themselves in the minds of Westeros. The Crown Princess had not forgotten her people, she was on their side, unlike the King and Queen who were never seen outside of King’s Landing.

Even the feasts she hosted carried the weight of her vision. Great houses ventured to Dragonstone, drawn by her carefully curated events. Beneath the glow of candlelight and the awe-inspiring presence of her dragons, Rhaenyra forged alliances. Each noble pledged their loyalty not out of fear, but because her every word, every decision, whispered of a future worth fighting for… a future where Westeros was united. Rhaenyra pressed forward not for herself alone, but for her children, her realm, and the vision of a united Westeros—a vision she embodied with every breath she took, even as the ghost of war loomed ever nearer.

Rhaenyra’s heart clenched, as she thought of her siblings, of Helaena’s form recently swollen with child, her hands resting on her bump delicately on her most recent visit. Alicent and Otto had succeeded in anchoring Helaena and Aegon to their designs, warping duty into chains. Helaena wore her burden like armour; graceful, purposeful; her hands rarely idle as they crafted ornate embroideries for her unborn children, each stitch a reflection of quiet resolve.

Rhaenyra had done everything short of declaring war to keep them on Dragonstone with her, but the pull of their mother and court was unyielding. Like restless tides, Aegon, Aemond and Helaena were summoned back to King’s Landing whenever the Greens beckoned. Yet they always found their way back to Dragonstone, refusing to be caged. Aegon always returned worn down, like a husk drained of spirit—defiant, but reckless. Sunfyre bore his slumped form with begrudging loyalty, the dragon’s golden scales dulled under the weight of their shared exhaustion. His silvery hair clung to his damp brow, slick with the sweat of overindulgence and the sharp scent of wine. Each time he arrived; Rhaenyra cleaned him herself. Her fingers washed the strands of hair Aegon seemed to disregard, hands steady as she braided it away from his pale face. Her words were silent but seething, a litany of curses aimed at Alicent’s court—the court that had twisted her brother into this shadow of himself.

But Rhaenyra knew, as she always had, that Aegon’s recklessness wasn’t aimless. Beneath the chaos of his outward demeanour, there lay a grim purpose. Every act of drunken folly in King’s Landing was a deliberate move, a calculated performance to disarm Otto and Alicent, to play into their belief that he was incapable of ruling. It was the only power he truly held—this image he projected, this elaborate mask he wore. On Dragonstone, as the facade fell away, Rhaenyra would glimpse the man beneath. Aegon recovered quickly here, his violet eyes clearing, his wit sharp once more.

Yet the act was not without its toll. In the quiet moments, when the storms of court politics had momentarily abated, she could see the weight pressing against his shoulders. Aegon bore the role he had chosen like an ill-fitting cloak, both proud of his defiance and burdened by the constant need to maintain it. It was his only rebellion, his only escape, and his greatest burden. For all the control he wielded over their perceptions, there was none over his own life, none over the endless machinations that sought to shape him into something he refused to become.

Each time she braided his hair, her fingers moving gently through his damp strands, she wondered if he ever longed to put down the mask, even for a moment. But when she met his gaze, there was a silent resolve that answered the question before it was asked. Aegon’s choice, painful as it was, emboldened him. It was the armour he carried into every battle, the anchor that kept him grounded amidst a storm he could never truly escape.

Aemond was different. He carried himself like an apex predator, black leather gleaming as he flew between Dragonstone and King’s Landing with neither guilt nor compromise. When Otto snapped orders at him, Aemond simply smirked—sharp and wry—before turning his back and striding away. In his towering form, there was defiance that neither bent nor shattered, a silent rebellion that left Otto fuming. Once he set foot on Dragonstone, Aemond transformed. The edge that defined him in King’s Landing softened, revealing a camaraderie that few would expect. With Jaehaerys, his elder by a year, he found not just a nephew, but a confidant and an equal. The two were inseparable, whether sparring in the training yard or soaring on dragonback above the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone. Their laughter echoed through the stone halls; a reminder of a bond forged in loyalty rather than politics.

Jaehaerys’s bold ambition tempered Aemond’s unyielding discipline, while Aemond’s measured strength steadied Jaehaerys’s more daring impulses. Together, they embodied the shared spirit of the Targaryen legacy—a symphony of fire and blood. When not immersed in strategy or dragon-lore, they often debated the finer points of history or warfare late into the night, their voices carrying the warmth of true companionship.

Yet even in these moments of friendship, the predator in Aemond never truly disappeared. It lingered beneath the surface, coiled and ready, his intensity marking him as both protector and rival.

The scene before her was one of familial warmth. Baelon and Viserys were already lost in their delight, their small hands sticky as they devoured scones piled high with jam and cream. Nearby, Jaehaerys sat with his usual sharp intensity, carefully peeling the sugared lemon slices from the tops of lemon cakes. He set the sponges aside, untouched, savouring the tart sweetness of the fruit with a small, content smile.

Daemon held his hands for her to help her down to the blankets and once she was in position, he sat himself. Aerion bounded toward her, his silvery-gold hair gleaming in the dappled sunlight, woven into tight rows against his head. His small hands were clasped together, the wide grin on his face betraying his excitement long before he spoke.

“Mother! I found something!” he announced, his lilac eyes sparkling with joy as his voice rang out across the garden. Rhaenyra felt a knot tighten in her stomach, a flicker of dread stirring within her. How many times had Aerion presented her with treasures she had rather never lay eyes upon? She found herself silently praying to the Seven that this discovery was not another centipede.

The suspense was brief, yet it seemed to stretch forever as Aerion slowly opened his hands. Rhaenyra exhaled in relief—no centipede. But her reprieve was short-lived; instead, perched in his palm, was a gleaming green frog, its wide eyes unblinking as if it shared Aerion’s thrill.

“That is a tree frog, isn’t it?” Rhaenyra asked, as Aerion held it up, eagerly pointing out the webbing between its feet. Meanwhile, Baelon was already dashing toward Aerion, his small hands stretched out greedily. “Let me see! I want to hold it!” he demanded, his enthusiasm boundless. Aerion, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, dodged away shouting ‘No!’, clutching the frog protectively while Baelon stomped in frustration.

Jaehaerys, seated on the nearby blankets, glanced over, and raised an eyebrow. His faintly amused expression betrayed his thoughts. He leaned back slightly, watching as Rhaenyra’s complexion shifted to a pale hue, her stomach twisting as the frog hopped slightly in Aerion’s hands. Daemon, standing beneath the shade of the towering trees, smirked as he observed the chaos unfold. Shaking his head, he crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze lingering on Aerion.

“Aerion, that is a lovely frog, my sweet... but do you not think he would rather be in the trees?” Rhaenyra asked weakly, her voice laced with patience as her stomach churned at the sight of the amphibian’s glossy skin. Aerion’s face scrunched in concentration, the gears in his young mind clearly turning as he weighed his mother’s words against his excitement. Rhaenyra tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows raised, silently urging him to reconsider.

With an exaggerated huff, Aerion rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “Finnnneeeee!” The melodrama of his response drew a smirk from Daemon, who watched the exchange with amused detachment from his spot beneath the towering trees. Aerion opened his hands, and the frog leapt away, disappearing into the tall grass and safety of the nearby grove.

Rhaenyra inhaled to praise her son’s reluctant compliance but winced as Aerion darted toward the blankets, grabbing a lemon cake and shoving it into his mouth with sticky abandon. Baelon, who had been quietly sulking after Aerion’s refusal to share the frog, snapped out of his tantrum at the sight of his brother’s treat. Without hesitation, Baelon lunged forward, his small hands reaching out for a lemon cake of his own, giggling as crumbs clung to his fingers.

--

King Viserys I Targaryen lay prone in his grand canopy bed, the towering posts draped with heavy curtains that seemed to stifle the air around him. His body, once regal and commanding, was now frail and barely recognizable, wrapped in layers of thick bandages. Each laboured breath rasped against the stillness of the chamber, echoing like whispers of the inevitable. His skin, where it peeked through the gauze, carried a sickly grey hue, a shadow of decay that spread like a silent curse. His remaining eye, now swollen and shut, offered no glimpse of the man he once was.

The room was suffused with the scent of lavender and incense, a cloying attempt to mask the sickly, musty odour that hung heavily in the air. The sweet perfume clashed with the raw truth of his condition, only serving to amplify the atmosphere of decline. On the bedside table sat rows of delicate vials, their contents shimmering faintly in the dim light. Oils and ointments meant to soothe—though their effects seemed as fleeting as the King's waning strength.

Even the chamber itself seemed to bow under the weight of sorrow, its ornate details fading into obscurity as grief and helplessness filled every corner. The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth offered the only sound besides the King's laboured breaths, its warmth doing little to fight the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Viserys clung to life, though it was clear that life was slipping away with every passing moment.

“Rhae… nyra…” he moaned, his voice barely audible, each syllable strained as though dragged from the depths of his failing body. His remaining hand trembled as it reached out to the air around him, grasping for something unseen. “My… sweet…” The words hung in the room, fragile and fleeting, like the last flicker of a dying flame.

His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a battle against the inevitable. Yet in those final moments, his thoughts, however clouded by pain and decay, found clarity in the faces of those he loved most. Rhaenyra: his fierce, beloved daughter, the light of his life, the one who had carried his hopes and dreams for the realm. And Aemma; his sweet Aemma, whose absence had left a void that no crown, no throne, could ever fill.

The lavender and incense that filled the room seemed to fade, overtaken by the memories that surged through his mind. He could see Aemma’s smile, hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her hand in his. And Rhaenyra—her determination, her fire, her unwavering loyalty. They were his anchors, his solace, even as the darkness closed in.

Viserys’s hand fell back to the bed, his strength finally giving way. His lips moved once more, though no sound escaped, as his thoughts lingered on the love that had defined his life. And then, with one final, laboured breath, the King was still.

--

The night was quiet as the steps of a young Lady-in-Waiting echoed through the grand halls of the Red Keep. The walls once laden with Valyrian artwork and tapestries were now bare, the only symbolism evident for the Seven. The torches were not lit, the day yet to start as the Lady-In-Waiting rushed to the Queen’s chambers, eyes wide and lips pursed tightly. Her mind was heavy with the news she was to share, having been informed by a pageboy in the kitchens only moments before.

After a gentle knock on the heavy oak door, the young woman entered the Queen’s chambers, her hands clasped tightly at her front. Alicent sat up slowly under the thick fabrics of her blankets, her satin nightgown modest with its high collar and long sleeves. Her auburn curls tumbled freely down her back, no longer confined to the tight up-do she favoured in recent years. She looked older somehow, in this quiet vulnerability, the burden of her station etched into the soft lines of her face.

The words, once spoken, shattered the silence. Alicent’s eyes widened, and an “Are you sure?” slipped from her lips in disbelief, her voice trembling as her fingers intertwined tightly. When the confirmation came, her composure faltered. She hiccupped in a sob, her slender form crumpling as she covered her mouth, muffling the grief that threatened to pour out of her. Her eyes closed, searching for strength amidst the flood of sorrow. The room stood still as her lady-in-waiting held her silence, allowing Alicent a moment of respite.

Grief coursed through her veins, sharp and unrelenting, but her thoughts began to shift, pulled by the inexorable weight of duty. She had to tell her father. That realization struck her like a blow, splintering her sorrow with threads of cold urgency. Her father would have to know, and swiftly; there was no time to delay. The longer this news lingered unspoken, the greater the risk of it slipping beyond their control. Rhaenyra could not know. Alicent’s fingers tightened around the edge of her blanket as her mind raced through the possibilities, the steps they would need to take to ensure the succession fell into place before her rival could act.

Her memories of Viserys clawed at the edges of her focus; a man who had once been her partner, whose affection had grown distant as the years unfolded. She had watched his decline in silence, powerless to halt the slow decay that claimed his body, his mind. And now, he was gone. Her grief threatened to drown her, but the stakes left no room for weakness. The realm demanded action.

She sniffled, sweeping aside her covers with brisk determination. Her legs trembled as she stood, though her resolve did not waver. “Stay here. Tell no one,” Alicent instructed sharply, her voice steadied now as she moved toward her wardrobe. Her hands trembled as she rummaged through the fabrics, her mind a storm of strategy and sorrow. “Help me dress!” she commanded, turning to her lady-in-waiting with a firmness that left no room for hesitation.

As the garments were brought forward, Alicent’s mind churned with the enormity of what lay ahead. How to proceed with Otto? What moves would they need to make to keep the crown from Rhaenyra’s grasp? Her heart ached as she buried the grief under layers of duty, preparing for the next step. As she quickly dressed and made her way towards the Tower of the Hand, she fought the urge to tear at her nail beds. The halls were quiet, night still fighting for control over the day, servants still preparing for the morning in the bowels of the castle.

Alicent entered her father’s chambers without announcement, her steps faltering as she crossed the threshold. Otto was already awake, standing near the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and commanding. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his expression. He was dressed, prepared as always.

‘Always ready…’ Alicent thought bitterly, her unease deepening as she lingered near the doorway.

“It is early, Alicent,” Otto said sharply, his gaze narrowing as he turned toward her. The chastisement in his tone struck like a whip, but Alicent pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to flinch. She moved forward and lowered herself into the solid wooden chair at his table, her composure strained but intact.

“The King has passed,” she said, her voice colder than she intended. The statement hung in the air like a hammer blow, each word heavier than the last. As Otto stood by the fireplace, the heat licking at the edges of his robes, his mind was consumed by the weight of what this moment represented. The culmination of everything he had strived for; the schemes, the sacrifices, the manipulation; it had all led him here. From the beginning, Otto had understood the cruel realities of power. He was a second son, born with nothing but his name and his sharp mind to carry him. Where others faltered, content with their lot in life, Otto had climbed.

Every step he had taken, every pawn he had played, had been calculated. He had turned disadvantage into opportunity, obscurity into dominance. And now, his blood was poised to sit on the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

The people he had disposed of along the way—they haunted him in some sense, but not with guilt. No, Otto Hightower felt no remorse for the obstacles he had swept aside. They had been necessary sacrifices, weak links in the chain of his rise. It was strength that carried men to greatness, and Otto had wielded his like a weapon, cutting through the noise of sentiment and hesitation. The world was no place for the weak, for those who allowed themselves to be led by whispers and promises. Men like Viserys.

Otto’s pale eyes narrowed as his thoughts settled on the man whose reign had epitomized feebleness. Viserys; an ineffectual king, too soft, too simpering, to command the respect of those who served him. Even now, in his death, Otto felt nothing but disdain for the man who had handed his realm over to chaos with his indecision.

Viserys had been a puppet, easily led and manipulated, too blinded by sentiment to see the wheels turning around him. It had been frustrating, excruciating even, to watch as the king allowed his love for Rhaenyra to overshadow the needs of the realm. Otto had advised him, steered him, shaped his decisions as best he could, but Viserys’s weakness was too deeply rooted. The realm deserved better. Otto deserved better.

Now, finally, the tides were shifting. Viserys’s death was not a tragedy—it was liberation. Otto’s heart quickened at the thought of Aegon’s coronation. Aegon was not perfect, but he was his blood, his legacy. The power Otto had spent decades building was no longer distant; it was within reach, tangible and undeniable.

Yet, there was no room for celebration, not yet. The work was far from over, and Otto knew the path ahead was treacherous. Rhaenyra, the spoiled daughter of a weak king, would not yield easily. Her claim was strong, her supporters determined. But Otto’s resolve was stronger. He would see Aegon crowned, and he would see the Greens victorious. There was no other option.

As Alicent delivered the news, her voice faltering slightly, Otto felt the weight of her grief but dismissed it quickly. Emotions were a distraction, a weakness. His daughter’s loyalty was a tool, a vital one, and it had served him well. But this moment was his, the culmination of his ambition. He could not afford sentimentality, not when the throne was within his grasp.

Turning from the fire, Otto paced across the chamber, his steps heavy with purpose. His gaze flicked to Alicent, her resolve cracking as she tried to meet his intensity. He had waited too long, sacrificed too much. The crown was theirs. And Otto Hightower would not be denied.

 “Who knows?” he demanded, his tone biting, though his movements were controlled. He stepped toward her, the weight of his presence unsettling.

“My lady-in-waiting,” Alicent replied quietly, her voice faltering for the briefest of moments. She felt the strain of her resolve cracking, her grief fighting against the cold veneer she had donned. “And servants. Pages, cooks—I don’t know. The news came quickly.” Her fingers gripped the edges of the chair, as though it could anchor her against the rising tide of despair. Otto’s face darkened, his ambitions rising to the surface with undeniable force.

“The servants,” he said firmly, “all of them must be held in isolation immediately. We cannot risk the news spreading beyond these walls until we are ready.” His words were spoken with icy precision, his focus unyielding.

Alicent nodded stiffly, though the motion felt mechanical. The King was gone, and while Otto’s mind raced toward the next steps, hers lingered in the shadows of doubt. The thought of moving forward, of enacting their plan to crown Aegon, felt suffocating. Viserys’s warmth, his quiet affection—even in his decline—clung to her memories like a lingering ghost. Did it all have to unravel so quickly? Couldn’t they pause, just for a moment, to honour him?

But Otto’s gaze pierced through her hesitation, his voice cutting through her thoughts.

“We will convene the loyal members of the Small Council,” he said, pacing in front of the fire. His movements were deliberate, each step embodying the determination of a man whose victory was within reach. “They must act without hesitation, without weakness. The Greens cannot falter now—not when the throne is so close.”

Alicent felt the weight of his ambition pressing down on her, suffocating in its intensity. She wanted to protest, to give voice to the conflict clawing at her insides. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, for Viserys’s final wishes, for the fractures this would cause—but she said nothing. She couldn’t say anything. Her father’s resolve was unshakable, his cold certainty leaving no room for dissent. Her own voice felt trapped, silenced by the walls of duty and expectation

“You’ve done well, Alicent,” Otto added, his tone softening slightly though his words remained calculated. “We will not fail.”

Alicent rose from her chair, her movements slower now, heavier. Her lips pressed into a tight line as she prepared herself for the role she must play. The grief still simmered beneath her resolve, threatening to break through. But she buried it deep, folding it into the darkest corners of her heart. She couldn’t falter; not in front of him, not now.

Otto watched her carefully, his pale eyes gleaming with the promise of power within his grasp. Alicent turned away, her footsteps echoing as she left the room. The night outside seemed darker somehow, the halls colder, as she carried the burden of her father’s ambition.

The sun was threatening to rise as the Small Council gathered in the echoing chamber, the lingering darkness of night casting long shadows across the polished stone floors. The air was heavy with silence, thick and oppressive, the kind that seemed to stifle even the smallest sound. The faint flicker of torches along the walls offered little warmth, their flames struggling against the growing cold that seeped into the room. Each step of the council members reverberated like a quiet drumbeat, a solemn rhythm that matched the weight of the moment.

Alicent sat at the head of the table, her fingers restless as they twisted and clasped in a futile attempt to steady herself. Her pale complexion, bereft of powder, and her hastily thrown-on gown betrayed the weariness that clung to her like an unwanted shroud. Her hair hung loose, carelessly brushed but not styled—a stark contrast to the immaculate presentation expected of her in brighter times. She barely noticed the council members placing their small spheres before them, the symbols of their positions seeming hollow in this sombre gathering.

To her left stood Ser Criston, a pillar of quiet strength in his gleaming, perfectly polished armour. His presence brought her some measure of comfort, though her unease was far from subdued. To her right sat Otto Hightower, his expression severe, a reflection of the calculated resolve she knew all too well. Not a thread nor hair was out of place, his dignity meticulously preserved. His robes of rich green fabric, trimmed with golden embroidery, seemed to shimmer faintly in the torchlight, a declaration of his loyalty to House Hightower and his ambition. The golden pin of the Hand gleamed against his chest, an emblem of power and authority that felt heavier now than ever before.

In contrast to Otto’s pristine presence, Alicent felt positively undone. She couldn’t shake the sinking sensation in her chest, her grief and doubt pressing hard against the resolve she fought to maintain. Her silence mirrored the sombre mood of the chamber, broken only by Tyland Lannister’s ill-timed jest about the reason for their gathering. The attempt at humour fell flat, the words hanging awkwardly in the still air. Alicent barely reacted, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared down at her hands, unable to summon the energy to respond.

Otto cut through the tension with decisive force, his voice sharp and unyielding as he announced Viserys’s death. The words seemed to reverberate in the chamber, sinking into the ears of every council member like an inevitability they had all been bracing for. The silence that followed was deafening, each man and woman forced to reckon with the gravity of what was to come.

As Otto spoke, his voice steady and unwavering, Alicent felt a sharp sting of resentment rise within her chest. His words carried the calculated weight of authority, eulogizing King Viserys not as the man he was but as the figure Otto had shaped in the court’s eyes. His phrasing was deliberate, emphasizing the importance of succession, of the King’s supposed final wish for Aegon to take the throne. But to Alicent, the words rang hollow; cold and stripped of the humanity that had defined Viserys in his weakest moments.

She cast her gaze downward, her fingers trembling as they twisted against the fabric of her gown. She had been the one at his side through the long nights, tending to his decaying body as his strength failed him. She had wiped his brow, steadied his faltering breaths, endured his rambling whispers of Aemma and promises that no longer mattered in the face of mortality. Otto had not been there. He had strategized and schemed from afar, while she bore the weight of Viserys’s decline.

The night before his death haunted her. His voice, faint and broken, had lingered in her ears as he murmured of Aegon, his words disjointed and desperate. He had spoken of the one to bind the kingdoms—visions and promises blurred by fevered memory. Alicent had listened, her heart breaking with each word, knowing the man she had married since she was just nineteen was slipping away from her forever. Now, as Otto turned those same words into ammunition for his ambition, the ache in her chest grew unbearable.

Tears lined Alicent’s eyes as her father continued his speech, his tone almost cruel in its calculated detachment. He spoke of Aegon, of rightful kingship, of duty. She felt the weight of his expectations pressing down on her, suffocating her grief beneath layers of strategy. Her lips tightened as he referenced her, muttering about her role in hearing Viserys’s final words and confirming them. Alicent wanted to scream, to challenge his certainty, but her voice failed her.

She had lost her husband; not just the King, but the man who had held her hand through the early days of her queenship, who had seen her as more than a pawn in her father’s schemes. Viserys had not been perfect, but he had been hers, and now he was gone. As Otto’s words droned on, Alicent’s resolve crumbled further, though she refused to let it show. The tears brimming in her eyes threatened to fall, but she blinked them away, clinging desperately to composure.

The chamber felt colder than before, the tension thick and oppressive. Otto’s speech was met with solemn nods from the council, their eyes fixed on the golden pin gleaming against his rich green robes. Alicent felt the threads of her father’s ambition wrapping tightly around her, forcing her to move forward, to make choices she did not wish to make. But deep down, she knew that her grief—her humanity—would never matter to Otto Hightower. He had waited years for this moment, and nothing, not even her pain, would deter him from his course.  

The Small Council members exchanged silent glances, and Tyland was the first to speak, his tone cautious. “Then we may proceed with the assurance of his blessing on our long-laid plans,” he said, and Alicent closed her eyes momentarily, before she gathered herself. Tyland’s cautious words had barely settled before Alicent’s gaze swept the room, her confusion giving way to a slow, simmering realization.

The absence of Lord Beesbury gnawed at her, the empty chair at the table speaking louder than the quiet glances exchanged by the others. Her heart pounded as the weight of betrayal pressed down on her like an iron shroud.

“Am I to understand,” she began, her voice low and trembling with restrained fury, “that members of the Small Council have been secretly planning to install my son without my knowledge?” Her words cut through the oppressive quiet, her tone sharpening with each syllable until it lashed across the room like a whip.

Otto turned his head to face her, his gaze narrowing as his fingers pressed together in a steeple.

“We would not want to sully you with dark plans, Alicent,” he said coolly, his tone calm yet laced with reproach. “These matters require strict action—action without emotion.”

Alicent’s hands pressed firmly against the table as she leaned forward, her composure threatening to fracture.

“Without emotion?” she spat, her voice rising with her fury. “Without the care of a mother who has sacrificed everything for this family, for this throne? Do not speak to me of actions without emotion, Father.” Her words hung heavy in the air, her eyes blazing as she glared at him. Her grief for Viserys, her husband, was fresh and raw, and the gall of Otto to move forward so coldly seared through her like fire.

Otto held her gaze, his expression betraying no flicker of regret or doubt. His rich green robes caught the torchlight as he straightened in his chair, the golden pin of the Hand gleaming defiantly against his chest. To him, there was no room for Alicent’s outrage, no space for grief or hesitation. The time for sentiment had passed.

“Your sacrifices have not been in vain, Alicent,” he said, his voice measured, his words chosen carefully to both placate and control. “But the realm’s future demands clarity of purpose.”

Her chest tightened, fury and sorrow warring within her as she cast a glance around the room. The other members of the council kept their eyes carefully averted, unwilling to meet the storm brewing in hers. Even Ser Criston, steadfast at her side, stood silent, his jaw taut. She felt surrounded, hemmed in by men who saw her not as their Queen, not as the mother of the boy they would crown, but as another pawn in the endless games of power they played.

Alicent was no pawn, and the fire rising in her chest reminded her of that. She turned her eyes back to Otto, her voice steel-edged as she hissed, “You will not do this without me.”

The tension in the room became almost unbearable, the weight of Alicent’s defiance crashing against Otto’s unwavering resolve. For a moment, the chamber seemed frozen in time, the dawn’s light creeping faintly through the cracks in the heavy curtains, as if the coming day itself hesitated to breach the quiet storm unfolding within.

“Very well, what do you suggest we do next then, your Grace,” Otto sneered, a mocking tone slipping into his cold voice. Otto’s mocking tone lingered in the air, but Alicent held firm, her grip tightening on the table’s edge. She met his narrowed gaze with unwavering resolve. This was no time to falter, not when the fragile threads of control hung so delicately in balance.

“We must ensure that Aegon is secure,” she said, her voice clear and unyielding. “He must be crowned before the end of the day. If not, news will reach Dragonstone before we can temper it.”

The tension in the room was palpable as she turned her attention to the empty chair meant for Lord Beesbury. Its absence was stark, a glaring reminder of her father’s machinations. Alicent’s brow furrowed, her voice hardening as she continued, “I notice Lord Beesbury is missing from this council.”

Otto straightened slightly, his robes rustling as he leaned forward. “He is deeply entrenched in his loyalty to Rhaenyra,” he explained coldly, his words clipped. “He could not be trusted.”

A flicker of anger flared in Alicent’s chest, her thoughts darting briefly to Beesbury’s long service to the realm. Still, practicality overtook sentiment.

“Then he must be silenced,” she said firmly, the authority in her tone sending ripples through the council. She turned to Criston, who stood at her side, his polished armour gleaming in the torchlight. “He should be locked in his rooms until we have done what is required,” she instructed.

Criston gave a sharp nod. The motion reassured her, though the cold finality of her own words lingered like an echo in her mind. She cast her gaze around the table, searching the faces of the council members, their expressions carefully blank. They were men accustomed to subterfuge, to political games, and yet there was a flicker of something in their eyes as they watched her—a hint of respect, perhaps, or fear.

“What of Rhaenyra?” Alicent demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. The question hung in the air, heavier than the walls that surrounded them. It was the unspoken truth, the shadow looming over everything they did. They could not crown Aegon without reckoning with the storm that Rhaenyra would bring.

Otto’s expression shifted slightly, a calculating gleam in his eyes. For him, this was the moment he had been waiting for, the culmination of decades of ambition. Alicent glanced at him, her fury and sorrow still simmering just beneath the surface. Whatever her father’s intentions, she could not allow herself to become a mere instrument of his will. She would stand for her children, for the path she had walked since she was nineteen.

“The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support for her claim,” Otto stated, his voice cold and unyielding. The words fell like hammer blows in the sombre chamber, leaving the air heavy with their weight. At the far end of the table, Ser Harrold’s head shot up, his gaze narrowing as he clenched his jaw in silent protest. Otto did not waver, his sharp eyes fixed forward, as though daring anyone to challenge him.

“She and her family will be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new King,” Otto added, his tone detached, as if it were a foregone conclusion. His choice of words was deliberate, controlled, but the implications were impossible to ignore.

Alicent’s breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, she responded. “She will never bend the knee. Nor will Daemon—you know this.” Her voice was steady, but the truth of her words sent a ripple through the room. Otto’s expression remained implacable, but a flicker of something dangerous stirred in his pale gaze. Alicent, however, had not finished. Realization swept over her like a cold tide, chilling her to the core. Her eyes darted across the gathered council members, searching their faces as dread settled deep in her stomach. Her voice dropped, low and trembling. “You plan to kill them.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, the sound almost jarring against the stillness of the room. Alicent’s pulse thundered in her ears, her thoughts a tangled storm. Memories of Rhaenyra flooded her mind, unbidden and sharp. The girl who had once been her closest companion, with her infectious laugh and unshakable confidence. The woman who, despite everything, had shown kindness to Alicent’s children, even as her father insisted it was all a ruse. The Rhaenyra who had, in another life, been like a sister to her.

But then came the other memories, the ones twisted with bitterness. Rhaenyra’s fiery tantrums, her impetuous behaviour, her ability to charm her way out of every consequence. How spoiled she had seemed, how heedless of the responsibilities she refused to shoulder. Alicent’s lips pressed into a tight line as the contradictions warred within her—resentment and love, anger and sorrow. Rhaenyra had always gotten her way, hadn’t she? Even when she was reckless, even when she flaunted her lack of decorum. And yet, through it all, Rhaenyra had been her friend.

Alicent’s gaze flickered to Otto, her father who had once moulded her into the perfect queen. Now he sat there, rigid and unflinching, the embodiment of calculation and ambition. His silence in response to her accusation was damning. She felt her breath catch in her throat as understanding fully dawned. This was the price for securing her children’s future. For Aegon to sit on the throne, Rhaenyra’s claim had to be extinguished—not just discredited but erased. Daemon, Rhaenyra, their children… None could remain, not if the realm was to be secured.

Her thoughts churned, a storm of conflicted emotions. Alicent knew what was at stake. She knew her children’s lives, their legacy, depended on Aegon’s ascension. And yet, the idea of ordering the death of the woman who had once shared her secrets, her dreams, and her laughter—it hollowed something inside her. She clenched her fists against the table, her knuckles white, as her gaze fell to the grain of the wood. No matter how much she hated Rhaenyra’s flaws, no matter how deeply the betrayal cut, Alicent could not ignore the bond they had once shared.

“And all here accede to this?” Alicent asked, her voice sharp as her gaze swept across the council. Her breath came unevenly, her resolve fraying with every passing moment. The Grand Maester nodded solemnly, his face betraying no hint of hesitation, as though his support was a matter of duty rather than conscience.

“It is unsavoury, yes,” Otto responded coolly, his tone measured and unyielding. “But a sacrifice we must make to ensure Aegon’s succession. The King wouldn’t wish fo—”

“The King would not wish for the murder of his most cherished daughter!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice trembling with disbelief and anger as she leaned forward, her hands pressed against the table. “He loved her! You will not deny this.”

Otto opened his mouth to respond, but Lord Wylde interrupted, his tone calm yet dangerously dismissive. “And yet—”

“One more word,” Alicent hissed, rearing on him with blazing fury, her teeth clenched and her voice trembling with emotion. “One more word and you will be removed from this chamber and sent to the Wall.”

Her eyes locked on him, daring him to challenge her, her authority filling the room like a storm sweeping in from the sea. Otto sighed in exasperation, his patience clearly wearing thin as he watched his daughter struggle with the weight of her grief and fury.

“Time is of the essence,” he stated, his voice cold and clipped, dismissing her protests with calculated efficiency. His gaze shifted to Ser Harrold Westerling, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings. “Lord Commander, take your knights to Dragonstone. Be quick and be clean.”

The words sent a ripple through the chamber, the silence that followed almost suffocating. Ser Harrold’s head shot up, his expression dark and unreadable, though the disgust in his shadowed eyes was undeniable. He paused for a long moment, his gaze sweeping across the council members as if weighing each of them in turn. Then, with deliberate grace, he reached for his white cloak, tugging it free from his shoulders in one fluid motion. The fabric pooled onto the table, stark against the polished wood.

“I am Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Ser Harrold said, his gravelly voice resonating through the chamber. “I recognise no authority but the King. And we have no King. Until there is one, I have no place here.”

The quiet disappointment in his tone was palpable, a damning judgment of the council’s actions. Without another word, Ser Harrold turned on his heel and strode from the room, his steps echoing in the still air. His departure felt heavier than the silence that followed, a void left in the wake of a man whose principles would not bend to ambition.

Alicent’s gaze lingered on the cloak, her chest heaving as she struggled to contain the turmoil raging within her. Memories of Viserys and Rhaenyra flooded her mind, clashing with the cruel reality of the path they were forcing her to walk. Otto, however, remained unmoved, his focus unbroken as he continued to direct the council. The fate of the realm hung in the balance, and in Otto’s eyes, sentiment was a luxury none of them could afford.

--

Aegon took a long swig of his wine, the sharp burn trailing down his throat as he watched the sun creep over Fleabottom. The sprawling chaos of the city unfurled beneath him, its filth and squalor almost comforting in its constancy. Around him, the remnants of his night lingered in varying states of disarray—his drinking companions had long since succumbed to the lure of alcohol and the skirts of the brothel’s whores. Aegon sneered, his lips curling in disdain. Idiots. They barely had the self-restraint to keep upright when he offered them a night on his coin, yet here they were, slumped and oblivious. He stood apart from them, deliberate in his distance, as though even their company couldn’t touch him.

He would have to return to the Red Keep soon—to the ever-present disappointment etched into his mother’s eyes, and the quiet, simmering disdain that radiated from his grandfather. These were things he had grown accustomed to, as predictable as the sunrise over King’s Landing. But predictability didn’t mean he welcomed them. The thought of their judgments made his shoulders tighten, his grip on the goblet firming as if to ward off the memories before they could weigh him down.

And yet, he kept coming back here, despite everything. The city held no love for him; it was wretched, a mire of greed and decay. But it pulled him in every time, as though its shadows held something he couldn’t find anywhere else. And perhaps they did. Rhaenyra was banished, Daemon relied on him to keep appearances intact, to maintain the network they had built. Aegon’s role was pivotal—he kept the little birdies in line, gathering whispers like a net catching errant fish. Every scrap of gossip, every flicker of dissent, every movement of consequence came to him first. He reported back to Daemon with precision, feeding the war machine Rhaenyra didn’t even know existed. If she did, Daemon’s head would be on a spike before sunrise.

Aegon loved it. The quiet purpose it gave him, the drive it instilled; it was almost intoxicating. Here, amid the dregs of King’s Landing, he thrived. And his drunken fool’s mask… the staggered gait, the slurred speech, the reckless revelry… was not a weakness, but his greatest weapon. Who questioned a drunken prince wandering the streets? Who saw anything but indulgent excess? People spoke freely around to him, unguarded in the presence of someone they deemed harmless. Aegon wasn’t harmless. He was listening, calculating, storing every secret they let slip like coins in a hidden chest.

The irony was not lost on him. His grandfather would flay him for the humiliation his antics caused their house, and his mother would hiss her disappointment in quiet tones. Let them. Aegon smirked as he poured another goblet, the wine glinting in the morning light. Let them think him a fool. It was better this way; he embarrassed them, yes, but the network thrived, and he gave Daemon the tools to fight Rhaenyra’s enemies, or perhaps her friends. Sometimes, Aegon didn’t care which it was. He understood the weight of his role, even if no one else did.

Taking another sip, Aegon leaned against the rail, letting the cool morning breeze carry the stench of Fleabottom away from him. His gaze swept over the city’s twisting alleys and crooked rooftops, its filth laid bare under the soft light of dawn. For all its wretchedness, Fleabottom had its uses—here, truths lived in the shadows, raw and unvarnished, ripe for the taking. Aegon smirked to himself. No, this city held no love for him, but it didn’t need to. Its filth served him well.

His thoughts, however, were far from the squalor below. They drifted instead to the Red Keep, to the nursery where his twin children, his son and daughter, lay swaddled in silk and blankets. For all his disdain for the rigid cage of court life, the thought of them stirred something deep within him. They were his flesh and blood, and their existence anchored him in a way he hadn’t thought possible. His son’s curious gaze and his daughter’s tiny hand curling around his finger—they were more than heirs; they were his reason. Aegon felt the fierce pull of love and duty, a protective instinct so primal it startled him.

Helaena, their mother, had surprised him too. While he cared little for her as a wife, there was an unspoken bond between them now, forged in the sleepless nights spent with their newborns and the quiet moments stolen in the nursery. He admired her calm strength, her unwavering devotion to their children. The union their grandfather had forced upon them, crafted for ambition rather than affection, had taken root in ways Otto could not have anticipated. Aegon suspected even Otto didn’t fully grasp how deeply he cared for the twins, how far he would go to keep them safe.

Otto, of course, had known what he was doing. He had engineered this union with precision, ensuring Helaena was kept tethered to the Red Keep throughout her pregnancy, her freedom curtailed under the guise of protection. Aegon’s lips curled into a slight sneer at the thought—his grandfather’s influence loomed over every corner of their lives; every decision preordained by his schemes. Yet, for all Otto’s manipulation, this was one outcome Aegon claimed as his own. The love he bore for his children was not something his grandfather could weaponize.

The fool’s mask, the drunken escapades, the scorn of those who underestimated him—it all served its purpose. In the brothels and alehouses, truths came freely to a man thought too self-absorbed to care. But behind the mask, Aegon was calculating, every scrap of information another weapon to wield. He would protect his network, his role in the shadows feeding Daemon’s designs as Rhaenyra remained oblivious. But above all, he would protect his children. They gave him something the rest of this wretched world could not; a reason to rise above the mire, a purpose beyond the schemes and whispers.

Taking another sip, Aegon let his gaze linger on Fleabottom one last time. This city offered him filth, yes, but it also gave him power. And power was what he needed to ensure his children’s future, no matter the cost. With a quiet, resolute smile, he turned back toward the Red Keep. His role was far from over, and Aegon Targaryen knew exactly what he was doing.

--

“Where is your brother?” Alicent demanded as she swept into Aemond’s chambers, her tone sharp and clipped. The heavy doors groaned as they swung shut behind her, Ser Criston trailing closely behind. The warmth of the fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room’s dark wood-panelled walls.

Aemond sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, his long legs stretched out before him, his posture deceptively relaxed. His face, illuminated by the shifting light, carried an unconventional handsomeness that was both striking and unsettling. The sharp angles of his jawline, the pale, almost porcelain quality of his skin, and the single piercing blue eye that seemed to see through everything; it all gave him an air of quiet menace. The black leather patch covering his other eye only added to the effect, a reminder of the violence that had shaped him. There was something about him that drew attention, not in the way of a golden prince, but like a blade glinting in the dark—dangerous, compelling, and impossible to ignore.

He raised an eyebrow at his mother, his expression unreadable, though the faintest hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. He said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Alicent’s patience frayed under his gaze, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

With a sharp huff, she turned to Ser Criston, her tone urgent. “I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends upon it.” Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze softened as she looked up at him, her wide eyes shimmering with something unspoken.

“I implore upon all your feelings for me as your Queen…” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, the intimacy of her words hanging in the air.

Criston straightened, his jaw tightening as he nodded sharply. “I will not fail you,” he said, his voice steady and resolute.

Alicent exhaled, her gratitude barely audible as she murmured, “I thank you.” Her hand brushed against his arm as she stepped away, the touch fleeting but deliberate. The tension between them was palpable, a quiet undercurrent that neither acknowledged aloud but both felt deeply. She turned back toward Aemond, reaching for him as if to steady herself. He rose to his full height, towering over her, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her falter for a moment.

Aemond was perhaps the smartest of her children, his mind sharp and calculating, his loyalty fierce but conditional. He was a man shaped by fire and fury, his scars both visible and hidden. Yet his loyalty was not hers; it had been bought, secured by Helaena’s children. Since his sister had fallen pregnant, Aemond had grit his teeth and fallen in line, his restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

He stood there now, his presence commanding, his expression unreadable save for the faint shadow of resentment in his eye. Alicent felt the weight of his judgment, the cold edge of his intelligence cutting through her like a blade. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the darkness that lingered within him, a darkness that made him both formidable and unknowable.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the tension thick and suffocating. Alicent swallowed hard, her own anger quelled by exhaustion as she met her son’s gaze. Aemond’s loyalty might have been hers to claim, but it was a fragile thing, bound by duty rather than love. And in that moment, she wondered if it would ever truly be hers.

“Will you assist him?” Alicent asked, her voice softened with maternal care as she stepped closer to Aemond. She lingered near him, her hand hovering in the air, as if reaching for an invisible connection between them. Her eyes searched his face, imploring him for the faintest sign of agreement.

Aemond narrowed his eye, the leather patch glinting in the firelight as his gaze flicked briefly to Ser Criston. He knew what his mother wanted—no, demanded—of him, and though his heart burned with quiet affection for his elder brother, he would not make this easy for her. A small rebellion, an act of subtle defiance against her constant pressures and ceaseless expectations.

Criston nodded to him, his expression firm yet understanding, and Aemond exhaled slowly. “Fine,” he drawled, his voice laced with faint irritation, though not at Aegon. “Let us go and find my brother.”

The truth was, Aemond knew exactly where Aegon would be. He knew his brother’s haunts, his patterns, the predictable chaos of his nocturnal exploits. Aegon was like a flame, drawing moths into his orbit, leaving behind trails of excess that only Aemond seemed capable of deciphering. But his agreement was not without its conditions—he wouldn’t make the search simple, not for their mother. He loved Aegon fiercely, more than anyone realized, but his strained relationship with Alicent fuelled his reluctance.

Aemond rose with deliberate grace, adjusting the belt of his sword as he stood. Though he carried himself with authority, there was a quiet fondness buried in the corner of his expression. Aegon’s flaws, his wild antics, even his drunken escapades—none of it diminished the bond Aemond felt toward him. To the world, Aegon was a disappointment, but to Aemond, he was a brother. A brother who needed him, even if neither of them said so aloud.

Alicent let out a soft sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging slightly at his compliance. She reached for him, brushing her fingers lightly against his sleeve as if to anchor herself to the moment. Aemond stiffened slightly but allowed the touch, though he did not meet her gaze. His loyalty to his family remained steadfast, but his family were very specific people, and his mother was not deemed one of them.

As the trio moved toward the door, Aemond cast one final look at Alicent. The faint flicker of resentment still lingered in his chest, but it was tempered by the quiet knowledge that, ultimately, he could not let Aegon face this alone. For all the turmoil within their family, for all the weight of expectations and responsibilities thrust upon them, Aemond’s love for his brother remained unshakable.

With a sharp nod, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, his steps deliberate, his mind already racing with plans for how he would make the search as infuriating for his mother as possible, while still ensuring Aegon’s safety.

--

Helaena sewed with frantic determination, the embroidery needle darting in and out of the delicate fabric with a rhythm bordering on feverish. Her eyes flitted back and forth across the unfinished blanket, as though the threads whispered secrets she could only half comprehend.

 “The Tower will fall… the tower will fall… burn bright… dragons fly…” she murmured under her breath, her voice a soft, lilting cadence. The words spilled forth unbidden, weaving themselves into the air like a half-remembered song. Her gaze remained unfocused, her expression blank, as though she were somewhere far beyond the quiet confines of the room.

The faint coppery scent of blood began to mingle with the air, unnoticed by Helaena as her fingertips reddened from the relentless stabbing of the needle. Tiny beads of crimson dotted the blanket’s edges, ignored by its creator, who was wholly enraptured by the image taking form beneath her trembling hands. “Blood will spill… the skies will shine…” she whispered again, her voice dropping into a haunting, rhythmic tone.

She had felt it, the truth of her father’s death. It had not come from a messenger or whispered in the castle halls, but in the quiet stillness of her dreams. The night before, as she lay swaddled in restless sleep, her father had visited her. He was as she remembered him in his kinder days—his face warm and gentle, his smile like a balm against her troubled heart. His hand had rested lightly on her shoulder, his eyes filled with a peace she hadn’t seen in years. “It’s time,” he had whispered softly, his voice echoing within her like the faint tolling of a bell. “Find peace, child. All will be well.”

When she had awoken, the ache in her chest confirmed what her dreams had told her. Viserys was gone, lost to the world, his suffering finally at an end. His touch lingered in the warmth of her memory, but his absence was undeniable. The threads of her blanket blurred before her as tears welled in her eyes, though she did not stop sewing. Her grief and her certainty intertwined, pressing down upon her as she whispered her prophecy. “Blood will spill… the skies will shine… the Tower will fall…”

The murmurs in the castle only strengthened her certainty. The hurried footsteps of courtiers, the sharp tones of her mother’s commands, the cold precision in her grandfather’s gaze—they all spoke of plans unfolding, a storm gathering that she could not escape. Helaena watched it from the edges of her quiet world, unable to stop it, her prophetic whispers the only outlet for the turmoil in her mind.

Her babes, only three moons old, slept soundly in their cribs beside her. Their soft breaths filled the room, untouched by the unease that pressed against Helaena from every corner. Her son’s tiny fist twitched in his sleep, while her daughter’s lips curled in a faint, dreamlike smile. They were her light, her anchor, her purpose. But even their presence could not drive away the lingering shadow of her visions.

“Dragons fly…” Helaena murmured, her words trembling as her needle paused, trembling in her hands. The Tower will fall, she thought, her heart aching with the weight of knowing—and not knowing—what the prophecy truly meant. She felt it in her bones, the threads of fate tightening around her family, pulling them toward something she could not yet grasp.

And through it all, her father’s presence lingered in her dreams, assuring her of peace even as the skies darkened.

Chapter Text

Alicent sat at her dressing table, her posture rigid despite the gentle hands of her Lady-in-Waiting carefully binding and pinning up her auburn curls. The soft scrape of the silver comb against her scalp was the only sound to fill the tense silence in her chambers, save for the muted murmurs of activity beyond the door. The day was slipping away quickly, and there had been no word from Aemond or Ser Criston. Alicent’s hands trembled slightly as they rested in her lap, twisting nervously against the fabric of her gown.

The castle was a hive of restless whispers, rumours slipping through the cracks no matter how tightly Otto sought to seal them. Servants had been gathered and locked away in the cells, their freedoms suspended until after Aegon was crowned. It was Otto’s directive, no leaks, no risks. Everything moved with precision, orchestrated with the cold efficiency of Otto Hightower’s mind.

Alicent could not deny his mastery, even if she resented his methods. He remained ahead of the chaos as much as humanly possible, disappearing into Flea Bottom without a word of explanation, his presence like an invisible shadow moving through the slums. What he did there, Alicent could only guess, though she knew it served his ultimate purpose—to secure Aegon’s crown at any cost.

She was not deaf to the whispers that trailed him. Rumours flowed through the castle, whispers of nobles being gathered to the Throne Room without warning, of Otto standing tall before them, commanding with an air of quiet menace. He had refused to allow them to leave until they swore allegiance to Aegon, their vows demanded with an unrelenting severity. Those who refused—the few brave enough to openly defy him—had been escorted away by his agents. Where they had been taken, Alicent did not know, and the uncertainty gnawed at her. Yet, Otto’s ruthlessness was undeniable, his focus unshakable.

Alicent could picture him now, standing before the assembled nobles, his rich green robes sweeping the floor, the golden pin of the Hand gleaming like a symbol of authority none dared question. His pale gaze would sweep over them like a hawk, searching for weakness, for hesitation, for even the faintest flicker of dissent. He would tolerate none. It was a dangerous game he played, but Otto Hightower had never been one to flinch under pressure. He thrived in moments like these, his ambitions sharper than the finest blade.

Her thoughts churned as the Lady-in-Waiting continued pinning her hair, drawing her gaze back to the reflection in the mirror. Alicent’s face looked pale and drawn, her eyes weary from days of strain. The whispers in the castle felt like shadows pressing against her mind, echoing Otto’s brutal efficiency. For all his calculation and cunning, there was something in his methods that frightened her. He moved pieces on a board that none of them could fully see, playing a game far greater than even Aegon’s ascension.

Alicent stood by the window in the King’s chambers, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon her. She could not remember how she had found herself there, only the piercing ache in her heart as she watched the Silent Sisters work with meticulous care, their quiet movements both reverent and haunting. Viserys’s frail form, now wrapped in thick fabrics and surrounded by the cloying scent of oils and embalming fluid, was a sight she could not bear to linger upon. The horror of his decline, coupled with the sadness of his loss, twisted painfully in her chest. Alicent turned away, the fabric laced with cinnamon pressed firmly to her nose, muffling the sobs that threatened to spill.

The room was cloaked in heavy silence, the weight of finality thick in the air. As the Silent Sisters finished their sacred task and began to move away, Alicent found herself turning back, her gaze fixed on where Viserys lay, his body now concealed beneath the elaborate wrappings. She hesitated, her breath catching sharply as the sight tore open the fragile seams of her resolve. He looked so small, so distant—a shadow of the man who had once held the realm together, even in his weakness.

With trembling hands, she made her way to the pedestal where his crown rested. The silver and gold gleamed softly in the dim light, a symbol of power and duty that had weighed so heavily upon him. Alicent set down her cloth carefully, her movements deliberate, as though she feared the slightest misstep might shatter the moment entirely. The crown felt cool in her grasp; its intricate design pressed against her fingertips. It was heavier than she remembered, though perhaps that was the weight of her grief pressing down upon her.

She approached the body, each step slow and measured, her breath hitching as she drew closer. Alicent placed the crown gently atop the wrappings, her hands lingering for a moment as though reluctant to let go. The sob that ripped from her throat was sudden and raw, breaking the solemn quiet like the crack of thunder. She staggered slightly, her hands clasping tightly at her stomach as she struggled to catch her breath. The memories flooded her mind in vivid waves—the man who had once been so kind, so gentle, yet so dismissive of her in the ways that mattered most.

It hadn’t all been bad… not truly. There had been moments of warmth, brief glimpses of connection. The quiet evenings spent talking histories, the stories he would weave with such passion, the times when his eyes lit with curiosity rather than exhaustion. And of course, he had given her four children—four pieces of herself that she loved with fierce, unwavering devotion. For all his faults, Viserys had been a part of her life since she was barely more than a girl, and now he was gone.

The grief threatened to consume her as she stood there, trembling and vulnerable, but then Alicent took in a sharp breath. She straightened, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, her expression hardening with steely determination. She could not allow herself to crumble, not here, not now. There was still so much to do. The realm needed her, her children needed her, and her duty could not be abandoned—not even in the shadow of her sorrow.

With a renewed resolve, Alicent turned from the window, her movements measured but purposeful as she strode toward the door. Viserys’s crown gleamed atop his wrappings, a final symbol of his reign, but Alicent’s path lay ahead, and she would not falter.

--

Aegon scrambled, his breath ragged as Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk—he could never tell which was which—tightened their grips on his arms, trying to steer him down the steps of the Sept. His scowl deepened, anger flashing in his eyes. They had found him, of course, and wasted no time dragging him from the relative quiet of the sacred halls to face his grandfather’s demands at the city’s edge. Naturally, Aegon hadn’t made it easy; a few bruises later, he was still pretending to stumble, dragging his feet on purpose, playing the drunk fool, they all expected him to be.

The twins barely had time to react as two cloaked figures stepped out of the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, their dark hoods masking their identities. But Aegon didn’t need to see their faces to recognize them. Ser Criston Cole stood tall, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Aemond loomed like a coiled serpent, his sharp gaze cutting through the heavy morning air. Aegon met his brother’s eye, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow.

Aemond gave a sharp jerk of his head to the right. The gesture was barely perceptible, but Aegon recognized it instantly. Years ago, Daemon’s lessons in silent communication had been little more than a game for them, but now those small movements carried the weight of strategy and survival. Aemond’s hand shifted under his cloak, his fingers curling into a subtle signal: two quick pumps, eyes flicking to the right.

Aegon didn’t hesitate. Without another thought, he wrenched himself free of one twin’s grip and dove down the stone steps, careening toward the right with an agility that surprised even him. The move threw one of the twins into panic, their grasp faltering as they bolted after him. But before they could give proper chase, Criston moved with practiced precision, his sword flashing in the dim light. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the square as Criston locked the twin in combat, holding him off with swift, calculated strikes. The second twin hesitated, torn between loyalty to his task and the threat looming before him.

Aemond, meanwhile, stepped forward with measured confidence, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade but not yet drawing it. His presence alone was enough to hold the second twin in check, his cool, unwavering gaze promising retribution should they make a wrong move. His eye flicked briefly to Aegon, tracking his brother’s retreat down the steps, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Aegon didn’t look back as he bolted, his boots skidding against the uneven stone. He knew Aemond would continue the act; he always did. Their bond, forged in shared trials and strengthened by trust, allowed for no hesitation. They didn’t need words, didn’t need declarations. Aemond’s silent support was enough, and Aegon would not waste it.

As the clash of blades and the murmur of voices faded behind him, Aegon’s chest tightened—not with fear, but with the quiet reassurance that, no matter the chaos surrounding them, Aemond always had his back. Their animosity was a performance, a necessary deception to pacify their mother and grandfather. But in moments like this, there was no façade, only two brothers who would do whatever it took to protect one another.

After a brief pause, Aemond let out an exasperated sigh and gave chase, his boots clicking sharply against the stone steps. His eye narrowed with faint annoyance, and he couldn’t stop himself from rolling it. This performance: the theatrics of Aegon’s supposed refusal; was utterly ridiculous. They both knew where this would end. The crown was inevitable, for the sake of Helaena, her children, and the fragile balance they sought to protect. Still, appearances had to be maintained. Doubt needed to be sown carefully among the Small Folk. Aegon’s reluctance, however staged, served its purpose.

The show was for everyone else, their mother and grandfather included. It was a deception they had perfected, a smokescreen of animosity that hid the truth of their alliance. Behind closed doors, Aegon and Aemond had been plotting for years, working in quiet tandem the moment their father had grown bedridden and the cracks in the realm began to widen. The bonds of brotherhood that united them were unshakable, their shared determination far stronger than the petty rivalries others assumed defined them. Whatever tension existed in public was deliberate, a calculated move to keep suspicions at bay.

But their plans had not come without sacrifice. Dragonstone, the bastion of peace that beckoned to them both, had been a fleeting reprieve, a brief escape from the suffocating weight of the Red Keep. They had only managed to visit three or four times over the past four years, stolen moments that passed too quickly. Aemond hated it in Kings Landing. The stench, the constant whispers of treachery, the weight of the shadows that seemed to gather in every corner of the Red Keep—it all gnawed at him. And yet, he and his siblings continued to return.

There was no other choice. For all their love of Dragonstone, the haven it offered, and their devotion to Rhaenyra, Aemond knew they couldn’t abandon the capital. The stakes were too high. Here, at the centre of power, they could influence events in ways that distance could never allow. Their presence was a shield, a silent barrier against Otto’s endless machinations. To leave would be to surrender the game before it had even begun.

But the façade was exhausting. Every day, they played their roles, feigning loyalty to their mother and grandfather, enduring their hollow commands and cold judgments. Aegon’s staged reluctance to accept the crown, his theatrical displays of drunken disinterest, served their purpose well. They created doubt, encouraged whispers among the Small Folk, and made Otto’s schemes seem fragile. It was all part of the plan—a delicate performance to mask their true intentions.

Their mother and grandfather, of course, remained oblivious to the depths of their alliance. Alicent’s firm hand and Otto’s icy scheming had created a vacuum of trust between them and their family, a divide Aemond and Aegon had carefully exploited to craft the illusion of submission. They let Alicent believe she could command them, and they let Otto believe they were pawns in his game. It was a lie, but a necessary one—one that placed them exactly where they needed to be: within striking distance of the Iron Throne.

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the thought of the Iron Throne. It wasn’t about the power, the glory. It was about what it represented: stability, legitimacy, the fragile balance of a realm always on the edge of chaos. If they abandoned King’s Landing entirely, they might as well hand the realm to Otto on a silver platter. As much as it sickened him, holding influence here; however covertly; was the best way to ensure Rhaenyra’s claim remained strong.

And then there was Daemon. Aemond allowed himself a faint smirk, though the expression was brief. Daemon had not been easy to convince. His protectiveness was almost suffocating, his distrust palpable. Aemond could still hear his warning echoing in his mind: If even one hair on their heads is harmed, I will burn this place to the ground. It wasn’t a threat; it was a promise, and one that lingered like a blade at his back. For all their independence, Aemond and Aegon shared Daemon’s fears. They knew the dangers here, the constant threat of betrayal. Returning to the Red Keep was a calculated risk, a sacrifice they had chosen to make to keep their family safe.

They had assured Rhaenyra of their intentions, swearing that Helaena and the children would be safe, that they would shield her from the dangers of court politics. No intervention was necessary—this they had vowed, even as they worked in the shadows. Rhaenyra had reluctantly agreed to trust them, her own worries tempered by their confidence.

Aemond’s focus returned to the present as Aegon darted ahead, his movements deliberate despite the chaotic façade he created. The act was convincing, even to the knights pursuing him, and Aemond couldn’t help but admire his brother’s ability to weave the performance so seamlessly. The tension in Aemond’s chest softened, replaced by a quiet protectiveness that surged whenever Aegon threw himself into harm’s way. Aegon may be reckless, infuriatingly so, but he was Aemond’s brother. And for all the brawls, all the arguments staged for the benefit of the court, Aemond would fight tooth and nail to ensure his safety.

Aemond caught up to Aegon with calculated speed, his long strides closing the distance as his brother stumbled theatrically down the steps. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Aegon in mock aggression that felt more like the playful brawls of their youth. Aegon twisted, shoving at him with exaggerated grunts, while Aemond dug his heels in, the two of them tumbling briefly against the stone with enough noise to sell their supposed animosity to anyone watching.

“Stop being a fool,” Aemond hissed under his breath, the words sharp but layered with urgency. He gripped Aegon’s shoulder tightly, pulling him closer as the sound of distant voices echoed through the plaza, a gathering of small folk starting to creep closer to the ruckus. His tone dropped further, low enough that only Aegon could hear. “The rumours are confirmed. Father is dead.”

Aegon’s movements faltered, his breath hitching as the words settled over him. For a moment, the theatrical mask slipped, his genuine shock flashing across his face. But Aemond tightened his grip, his gaze locking onto his brother’s as he continued, his voice steady and unwavering. “You must go through with the ceremony. For Helaena. For the twins. It’s the only way.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he registered the weight of his brother’s words. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before the mask fell back into place, his grin twisting into something wild and reckless. With a sudden shove, he broke free of Aemond’s grasp, laughing loudly as though the struggle had been nothing more than sport.

Their performance resumed without hesitation; their movements timed perfectly to maintain the illusion of discord. Aegon pulled away from Aemond, his movements quick and deliberate, feigning an escape with a wild laugh that echoed through the plaza. His grin stretched wide, reckless and chaotic; the perfect illusion of a man desperate to avoid his fate. He stumbled, intentionally unsteady, weaving through the gathering crowd with theatrical flair. The Small Folk had begun to gather murmured, eyes darting between the struggling brothers, uncertainty and confusion spreading like wildfire. This was their act, their carefully crafted performance, a show designed to plant doubt in the hearts of onlookers.

Aemond surged forward, his long strides cutting the distance easily. His patience was wearing thin, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on him. Aegon darted to the left, his pace quickening, but Aemond was faster. With a fluid motion, Aemond caught his brother’s arm, twisting him sharply and slamming him back against the rough stone wall of the nearest building. Aegon’s chest heaved, his breath ragged as Aemond pinned him in place, his movements controlled but swift.

The dagger appeared in an instant, its blade glinting ominously in the fading sunlight. Aemond held it steady, the edge hovering at his brother’s throat, though the grip was firm enough to make the act convincing without causing harm. His single blue eye locked onto Aegon’s, the tension between them palpable. To the crowd, it looked like an arrest, an elder brother forcing the reluctant heir to submit. But in the quiet space between them, a different truth lingered.

Aegon’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his expression faltering as the weight of the moment pressed into him. He met his brother’s gaze, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, in broken Valyrian, barely above a whisper, he spoke. “I will keep my promise.”

Aemond didn’t move, his grip remaining steady as he searched his brother’s face. Aegon’s chest heaved as he staggered forward, the wild grin still plastered across his face, but the light in his eyes dimmed. The weight of everything—the promise to Rhaenyra, the truth of their father’s death, and the inevitability of the crown—pressed down on him like an unrelenting storm. For a moment, he faltered, his steps slowing as he felt Aemond’s steady, commanding presence at his back.

Behind them, the sharp, ringing clash of steel resounded through the plaza. Ser Criston Cole moved with deadly precision, each calculated strike driving his opponent to the defensive. The twin knight—Arryk or Erryk, Aegon still couldn’t tell, and he cursed the twin’s mother for her unimaginative naming techniques—stumbled back, his weapon faltering under the relentless assault. A final, decisive blow sent the knight’s sword clattering to the ground. Criston’s blade hovered at his opponent’s throat, the duel won, his presence radiating control and authority. The crowd around them watched in stunned silence, the tension thick in the air.

Aegon glanced back at the scene, his grin faltering for just a moment before he turned to face his brother. Aemond’s expression remained cold and unyielding, his dagger now sheathed but his gaze sharp and expectant. They didn’t need words to understand what came next. Aegon knew the part he had to play, and though every fibre of him wanted to resist, to claw his way back to the safety of Dragonstone, he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the lives of those he cared for hung in the balance.

Taking a slow, shaky breath, Aegon let his shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him like air from a punctured bellows. He stumbled toward Aemond, letting his brother grab him roughly by the arm. The motion was for show, a final act in the performance they had woven so carefully, but Aemond’s grip was steady, anchoring.

“I will keep my promise,” Aegon whispered again, so low it was barely audible over the murmurs of the crowd. This time, there was no defiance in his tone, only quiet resolve.

Aemond’s gaze flickered with something unreadable; relief, perhaps, or acknowledgment, but he said nothing. Instead, he yanked Aegon forward, dragging him toward Criston, who stood waiting with his sword lowered, the defeated knight slumped at his feet. Criston’s gaze swept over the brothers, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed the shift in Aegon’s demeanour. Without a word, he turned and motioned for the small contingent of guards to fall in line.

The crowd parted reluctantly, their whispers rising like a tide as Aegon stumbled forward, Aemond and Criston flanking him, continuing to protest loudly his lack of wish to rule, his lack of ambition. The Small Folk would remember this scene—the unruly heir, the brother forcing him to comply, the looming shadow of Ser Criston Cole, part of the narrative Otto fought them spinning without knowing. But within the hearts of Aegon and Aemond, another story unfolded. One of sacrifice, of loyalty, and of promises whispered in the shadows.

The Red Keep awaited them, the weight of their actions trailing behind like a ghost. And though Aegon’s head remained bowed, and his steps faltered, his heart burned with the quiet hope that this would be enough; that his submission would protect those he loved. For now, the charade would hold. For now, Aegon would walk forward into the storm, his brother by his side.

--

Otto sneered in contempt as he watched his grandson being scrubbed clean, the servants working with brisk efficiency to shear Aegon’s silvery hair into a more suitable cut and shave his face smooth. The boy looked every inch the reluctant heir, his expression carefully neutral, his eyes slightly glazed as though he were somewhere far away. Aegon resisted the urge to snarl at the man standing before him, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He had learned long ago that defiance only fed Otto’s cruelty.

“I don’t want this,” Aegon slurred deliberately, his voice thick with feigned drunkenness. The words hung in the air like a challenge, and Otto’s fists clenched at his sides. The Hand of the King had already endured enough obstacles for one day—Alicent’s insistence that Rhaenyra is not put to death, the sending of terms to the Crown Princess, and now this obstinate whelp daring to resist him. Otto’s jaw tightened, his pale gaze narrowing as he stepped closer.

“What you want is of no consequence,” Otto snapped, his tone sharp and cutting. “It is what is best for the realm, boy.” His words carried the weight of authority, the kind that brooked no argument.

Night was beginning to fall, the darkness creeping over King’s Landing as the people gathered in the Dragon pit. The ceremony was set, the Conqueror’s crown polished and gleaming, ready to be placed upon Aegon’s head as the sun dipped below the horizon. Otto’s plan was unfolding perfectly, and he would not allow his grandson’s petulance to derail it.

“You’re a fool,” Aegon spat, his anger breaking through his carefully constructed mask. The words were sharp, biting, and he winced as Otto’s hand struck his face with a resounding smack. The sting burned hot against his cheek, but before he could react, Otto’s hand shot out, grabbing his chin with a grip that was both firm and cruel. Aegon’s breath hitched as Otto leaned in close, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss.

The words hit like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile hope Aegon had clung to. His insides churned violently, his eyes widening in shock at the threat. It was the first time Otto had spoken the unspeakable, the silent menace that had always lingered now given voice. Aegon had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that his children would be spared Otto’s wrath, that their shared blood would shield them from the man’s cruelty. But Otto had no such qualms, his ambition far outweighing any familial ties.

“You can always have more,” Otto added coldly, his tone devoid of emotion. The words twisted in Aegon’s gut, the implication clear and horrifying. His children were nothing more than pawns to Otto, disposable pieces in the game he played so ruthlessly. Aegon’s breath came in shallow gasps, his mind racing as he fought to keep his expression neutral, to hide the storm raging within him.

The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of Otto’s threat pressing heavily on his shoulders. Aegon’s gaze flickered briefly to the polished crown resting on the pedestal nearby, its gleam mocking him with its inevitability. He had made a promise once, years ago, to Rhaenyra. A promise that if the day came when they tried to crown him in her absence, he would let them. He would submit, not for himself, but for his siblings—for their safety, for their survival.

And now, that promise was all that tethered him. Aegon swallowed hard, his throat dry as he nodded faintly, his movements stiff and reluctant. Otto released his grip, stepping back with a satisfied sneer as the servants resumed their work. Aegon’s chest heaved as he fought to steady his breathing, his mind churning with the weight of the choices before him.

--

The carriage rattled softly as it made its way through the uneven streets of King’s Landing, the heavy wheels creaking against the worn stone. The enclosed space carried a tense stillness, broken only by the faint sounds of the city outside—a distant hum of voices, the echo of bells tolling, and the occasional calls of guards directing the gathered crowd toward the Dragon Pit. Night was falling, the sky painted with shades of orange and crimson as the sun dipped lower. Inside the carriage, Alicent sat opposite her son, her posture rigid yet controlled, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Aegon stared out the window, his head tilted just enough to avoid meeting her gaze. His silvery hair gleamed faintly in the fading light, the carefully trimmed strands a stark reminder of Otto’s calculated preparations. His face was freshly shaven, his attire immaculate, but his expression was distant. He seemed almost hollow, his eyes unfocused, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths that betrayed none of the turmoil within.

Alicent shifted slightly, her gaze softening as she studied him. “You look... well,” she offered quietly, her voice carrying a rare gentleness. She had hoped to ease the tension, to offer some measure of comfort, but the words felt hollow even as they left her lips.

Aegon didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the blur of passing streets beyond the window. Alicent’s brow furrowed as she leaned forward slightly, her hands extending toward him, though she hesitated before touching him.

“Aegon,” she tried again, her tone firmer but still gentle. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know you’re angry, and frightened, but you—”

Her words faltered as his head turned abruptly, his gaze meeting hers with an icy clarity that made her breath catch. His face remained unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line, but there was something in his eyes; a quiet, unrelenting determination that startled her. For a moment, she thought he might lash out, curse her for the role she played in all of this. Instead, he looked away again, his voice low and almost detached as he muttered, “I’m fine.”

Alicent’s frown deepened. She wasn’t sure what she had expected—anger, bitterness, perhaps even tears—but this... this emptiness unsettled her. He had resisted so strongly before, his defiance a familiar presence in her life, and now it was gone. She searched his face for answers, her mind racing as doubt began to creep in.

“You’re not fighting anymore,” she said softly, her words more observation than accusation. She tilted her head, studying him with growing concern. “Why?”

Aegon turned to her slowly, his expression carefully neutral, his voice measured as he replied. “Does it matter?”

The answer sent a chill through her. Alicent knew her son—his defiance, his temper, his chaos—and this quiet compliance felt alien. It pleased her, in a way, to see him finally falling in line, but it also terrified her. She didn’t understand, didn’t know what had broken the resistance she had always expected from him. She was pleased, yes, but that pleasure was hollow, tainted by the growing sense that something had shifted irrevocably.

She tried again, her voice trembling slightly as her fingers curled tightly in her lap. “You can tell me, Aegon. I’m your mother. You—”

He cut her off, his voice sharp but quiet. “You wouldn’t understand.”

The words stung, but it wasn’t the dismissal that hurt; it was the underlying truth in his tone. Alicent drew back, her gaze flicking briefly to his hands, clenched tightly in his lap, before she turned her attention to the window beside her. The carriage rolled on, the tension between them thick and suffocating, and Alicent’s mind churned with questions she dared not ask.

As they neared the Dragon Pit, the faint roar of the gathered crowd grew louder, the city’s energy rising with the setting sun. Aegon shifted slightly, his fingers loosening their grip, his body stiffening as though bracing himself for the spectacle awaiting them. Alicent stole a glance at him, her heart twisting as she saw the shadow in his eyes; the weight he carried but refused to share.

She didn’t know why he had stopped resisting, didn’t know what had silenced the fire that had burned in him before. But she knew one thing for certain: Aegon was stepping into something far heavier than the crown Otto had prepared for him, and she was powerless to stop it.

The rumble of the crowd echoed through the vast expanse of the Dragon Pit, the mixture of nobles, Small Folk, and sworn knights creating a cacophony of voices that swirled and rose like smoke. The setting sun bathed the arena in fiery hues, casting long shadows that stretched across the ancient stone, as if the world itself bowed to the impending coronation. At the heart of it all, a raised stage stood, framed by the flickering light of torches that gleamed like dragonfire. The stage had been transformed into a ceremonial altar, its platform elevated above the gathered masses and bordered by the steadfast presence of the Kingsguard, their swords gleaming and their faces unyielding.

Aegon emerged from the carriage, his silvery hair catching the fading light, and the murmur of the crowd swelled. His mother was at his side, her hand hovering protectively over his arm but never quite touching. Alicent’s expression carried a mixture of triumph and concern, her gaze flitting between her son and the onlookers. Ser Criston Cole followed closely, his presence commanding, the hilt of his sword resting lightly against his palm as his sharp gaze surveyed the crowd.

The walk to the stage felt like an eternity. Aegon’s steps were slow, deliberate, his posture stiff yet controlled as he forced himself forward. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum in his ears, drowned out by the thunder of his own heartbeat. The raised platform loomed ahead, where his grandfather stood tall and composed, Aemond rigid beside him, and Helaena glowing in her defiance, clad in white. Aegon’s steps faltered slightly as his gaze flickered to his sister. Her concerned expression, the tension in her posture—it struck something deep within him, a pang of guilt for the false smile he forced onto his face. Yet, the sight of her was a balm, a reminder of why he had to endure this, why he had to press forward. For the twins. For their fragile future. For the promise he had made. The memory of Rhaenyra’s words echoed in his mind—the quiet reassurance she had offered him years ago, the way her hand had lingered on his shoulder as she whispered, “If they try to force you, and I am not there to stop them, do as they ask. Do not give them a reason to hurt you. Your safety means more to me than anything in this world. Promise me.”

The crowd surged and shifted, kept at bay by the unwavering presence of the Kingsguard, their hands resting on their swords in silent warning. The murmurs of the Small Folk filled the air as they watched the ceremony unfold, their eyes wide with curiosity and doubt. The Conqueror’s crown gleamed on its pedestal, its jagged edges catching the light like shards of dragonfire.

His mother’s voice brought him back to the present, a soft murmur of encouragement as she tightened her hold on his arm. “Nearly there,” she said quietly, though her words held a nervous tremor. Alicent’s pride swelled at his compliance, but beneath her outward composure, a seed of doubt lingered. She didn’t understand why the resistance she had always braced herself for was gone. His submission pleased her, yes, but it also unsettled her, the unknowns gnawing at the edges of her mind.

Aegon reached the steps and ascended slowly, each movement deliberate as though dragging a heavy chain. He could feel the heat of his grandfather’s gaze on him, the silent demand for obedience, for the culmination of Otto’s meticulous plans. Aemond’s piercing eye locked onto his, and in that moment, Aegon saw the faintest flicker of reassurance; a silent promise that his brother was still beside him, unyielding and watchful.

Ser Criston stepped forward, his expression solemn, his gloved hands reverent as he lifted the crown from its pedestal. The crowd grew quieter, their murmurs fading into expectant silence as the weight of the moment hung in the air. Criston’s movements were deliberate, calculated, as he held the crown high for all to see. The jagged edges of the Conqueror’s crown seemed almost alive in the torchlight, its weight far greater than mere metal and jewels. This was a symbol, a declaration of power, a carefully crafted performance for the realm.

Aegon’s knees nearly buckled as he felt the cool weight of the crown settle onto his head, the jagged edges pressing against his skull like iron chains. He closed his eyes briefly, retreating into the recesses of his mind, where memories of Dragonstone awaited him. He could hear Rhaenyra’s voice, the quiet strength in her words: “You are a Prince of House Targaryen, and the first babe I ever loved as my own. You are my darling byka zaldrīzes, and I would never trade you for anything in this world.”

When his eyes opened again, they met the crowd’s gaze—silent, expectant, and unnervingly watchful. The roar returned as the people erupted in cheers, their cries filling the Dragon Pit as Ser Criston stepped back, bowing low. The Knight of the Kingsguard, the Kingmaker, had fulfilled his role. Alicent beamed at her son, her pride evident, though the corners of her lips trembled as she searched his face, as though trying to understand the hollowness in his eyes.

Aegon didn’t move, his body stiff beneath the weight of the crown, the cheers hollow in his ears. His gaze flickered briefly to Helaena, who watched him with quiet sorrow, and then to Aemond, whose steady presence grounded him.

For all the show of power and triumph, Aegon felt only the cold chains of the promise he had made to Rhaenyra, and the heavy truth of Otto’s words echoing in his mind.

Chapter Text

The storm had come to Dragonstone.

Clouds swelled, dark and restless, dragging the scent of salt and rain across the island. Winds howled against the cliffs, rattling stone, pulling at the harbour where ships rocked uneasily, their sails snapping as sailors rushed to moor them before the squall. Lantern light trembled in the growing gloom, casting shards of gold onto slick stone.

Above, dragons tore through the sky, their cries stretching over the wind, shrill and knowing. He did not look up, not this time. He had seen them before, had felt their fire from a distance, had stood in court as they loomed like spectres over the Iron Throne. But tonight, their voices were not merely distant echoes of power. They were omens.

And beneath them, Dragonstone rose from the sea like a jagged, ancient beast, its towers clawing at the storm-heavy sky. The fortress stood—black and carved from the bones of the mountain, its towers jagged against the storm-heavy sky. It was a stronghold of basalt and fire, born from the volcanic heart of the island itself. But to the Targaryens, it was more than stone and defence. It was sanctuary. The first stronghold of their bloodline upon these shores, the last refuge when all else had crumbled.

He had never truly understood that—not before. Not when the throne sat firm in Viserys’ rule. Not when the line was unbroken. Now, he climbed toward a queen without a throne, toward a dynasty teetering at the edge of war.

And Dragonstone; unyielding, ancient, watching, stood as both fortress and sanctuary, ready to weather the storm.

The knight pressed forward, his armour dulled by flight, his limbs sluggish with exhaustion. He cradled the satchel close to his chest, fingers curled tightly around the strap, refusing to loosen his hold even as his arms ached. Inside, nestled against worn leather and damp cloth, lay the crown of King Viserys.

His king.

His oath.

And yet, the weight of the crown was nothing compared to what truly gnawed at him. The other half of his soul; the twin who had once walked with him step for step, fought beside him, laughed with him, breathed as he breathed, had chosen his own path. Had stood behind the usurper. Had left him.

The knight swallowed hard, the taste of brine bitter on his tongue. He had fled the capital with grief wedged between his ribs, his duty barely keeping him upright. He had outrun pursuers, had kept his hand steady upon his sword hilt. But nothing—not the loss of the throne, nor the chaos he had left behind—had wounded him quite like the absence of his brother at his side.

He climbed higher, boots dragging against the winding path, the fortress looming ahead.

His message would be delivered. And war would follow.

--

Rhaenyra rubbed her stomach, the ache settling deep in her bones. A cramp spasmed through her, sharp enough to make her breath hitch, but she ignored it—her mind was consumed by far greater pains. It had been five days since word had reached her from King’s Landing. Five days of silence from her siblings. Five days of pacing these cold stone floors in the Painted Table Hall, her mind clawing at possibilities too dreadful to name.

Something was wrong.

The feeling gnawed at her, creeping beneath her skin like frostbite, chilling her despite the roaring fire in the great hearth beside her. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the war table, distorting the carved borders of Westeros, twisting its form like the fate that had turned against her. She ran her fingers absently over the raised edges of Dragonstone, the island that was her birthright.

Daemon watched her, his presence steady yet restless, his sharp features etched with quiet concern. He reached for her wrist, a silent plea to stop her pacing, to rest, to let him ease her worries even if only for a moment. His hand was warm, strong, familiar. Yet she pulled away.

"I cannot sit, Daemon," she muttered, her voice tight with the weight of unspoken fears. "I cannot rest while I do not hear from them. They are my babes."

She swallowed thickly, and in that moment, something deep within her twisted—not just worry, not just dread, but something real, something physical. She stumbled, a sharp cry escaping her lips as another wave of pain struck. Her hands, once gripping the table, now clutched her stomach. It was too soon, far too soon.

Daemon was beside her in an instant, his grip firm yet careful, fingers pressing into her shoulders with the steady reassurance of a warrior accustomed to battle, yet helpless against the war raging within his wife’s body. His silver hair, unbound and untamed, gleamed in the firelight, strands catching against the flickering glow like molten steel. The sharp angles of his face—his high cheekbones, his strong jaw, the ever-present smirk now replaced by something graver—were tense as his violet eyes locked onto her, searching, assessing, waiting.

The black and red of his fine tunic, embroidered with the three-headed dragon, marked him as a prince, but in this moment, he was only a husband; a man desperate to understand the pain rippling through his wife’s frame. His brows furrowed, the sharp crease between them deepening as Rhaenyra let out a shuddering gasp, her stomach clenching beneath her black brocade gown.

“What is it, is it the baby?” Daemon asked urgently, his voice lower now, edged with something rare, concern rather than command. Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling against his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath his sleeves, the warmth of his skin. He was fire, she was flame. But tonight, all she felt was an unbearable weight pressing down on her.

Daemon moved, shifting to brace her more fully, his presence always so sure, so unwavering, yet she could feel the tightness in him, the barely concealed tension in the way his hands lingered longer than necessary, as if by sheer force he could force the pain away.

The fire crackled behind them, casting long shadows against the walls, illuminating the carving of Westeros upon the Painted Table. And within its distorted glow, for the first time, Daemon looked afraid. The chamber seemed to shrink around her, the towering stone walls pressing inward as the White Cloaks parted, revealing the knight who carried the weight of the realm upon his shoulders. Ser Erryk Cargill stepped forward, his tarnished armour dulled by travel and grief, his long hair bound back in solemn practicality. He moved with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much, carried too much, and now stood before those who would bear the burden next.

Daemon tensed beside her, his posture shifting, shoulders squared in defiance before the knight could even speak. “Whatever you carry, it can wait—she is not well,” Daemon snapped, sharp and protective, as though his words alone could ward off whatever ill news the man had come to deliver.

But Rhaenyra saw before she heard.

Her eyes caught the weary lines of Ser Erryk’s face, the tightness around his mouth, the hollow shadow beneath his eyes. And then, her gaze drifted downward; to the satchel clutched to his chest, gripped so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

Something inside her broke.

A breath hitched, her fingers curling against the fabric of her gown, nails pressing into the embroidered folds of black brocade. Her stomach clenched—not just from pain, but from understanding. Her chest felt hollow, yet unbearably heavy, as though she were standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, staring into the abyss.

Daemon continued to argue, his voice distant now, meaningless, drowned beneath the crashing realization that had just thundered through her.

She knew before Ser Erryk spoke, lowering to his knee.

She knew before the satchel was opened.

She knew before the glittering silver and gold crown was revealed and held up to her in offering.

Viserys was gone.

Her father was gone.

The throne—the realm—her birthright—had been stolen.

The world had shifted beneath her feet, collapsing into something unrecognizable, something cruel. Her father was gone. The man who had shaped her, who had believed in her, who had always been the gentle voice behind her choices, now dust and memory. She hadn’t even had time to mourn, hadn’t had time to breathe before the realm betrayed her.

Her throne: her birthright, usurped. They had stolen it in the cold hours following Viserys’s death, before his body had even cooled. They had crowned Aegon, twisting his hand into fate’s cruel script. Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena; trapped beneath Otto’s hand, beneath his ambitions. She could see it so clearly… Aegon forced into taking the crown, Aemond bristling like a caged beast, Helaena watching it unfold with quiet, knowing horror. They had been swept into a game they should not have had to suffer, and Otto was moving the pieces.

And now… her child, too soon. Her body had betrayed her just as the world had. She clung to Daemon, her fingers digging into his flesh, as though holding him was the only tether she had to the realm of the living. The pain was blinding, sharpening her grief, twisting it into something unbearable. Her father was dead. Her crown was stolen. And now this innocent life… the life that had barely begun… was being pulled into the storm.

She could not break. She would not. But the fire burned, and the ghosts whispered, and the weight of everything pressed deep into her bones.

The pain in her belly sharpened, cruel and unrelenting. The storm that had raged in her heart now found its voice in the skies above Dragonstone. Thunder cracked, rolling across the heavens in a deafening chorus, as if the gods themselves mourned the loss she had yet to fully comprehend and in her anguish, Rhaenyra howled with them.

Her cry tore through the chamber, raw and unrelenting, as her stomach contracted viciously, forcing her to double over against the Painted Table. Pain and fury intertwined, her grief spilling from her lips in a guttural sound that resonated through the stone halls. Daemon caught her, his arms tightening around her shoulders, steady but stricken.

“Rhaenyra,” he breathed, and she could hear the tension in his voice, the helplessness he rarely revealed. His grip was strong, but it could do nothing against the war within her own body. Ser Erryk remained kneeling, his head bowed, his hands still clutching the crown; a silent witness to the moment history shifted; to the moment a woman mourning her father also bore the agonising weight of creation.

The fire in the hearth burned hotter, casting shadows across the walls, flickering like ghosts of the past. Daemon barked orders, demanding the Maester be summoned. Rhaenyra gasped as she was lifted into her husband’s arms, and she whimpered into his neck as he began to stride through the castle. Daemon's grip was unyielding, his arms locked around Rhaenyra as he carried her through the stone corridors.

The castle surged to life around them—guards scrambling, Maesters summoned, whispers already gathering in the dimly lit alcoves—but Daemon saw none of it. His world narrowed to the woman in his arms, to the tremors running through her, to the way she clutched at him as though he were the last stable thing in a realm collapsing around her.

Her breaths were sharp, shallow. Not just from pain—from something deeper, something suffocating. She was drowning. And Daemon, for all his power, for all his ruthlessness, could do nothing to pull her from the abys.

"Get the Maester—now!" His voice cut through the air, edged with desperation. He was a man who commanded armies, who tore through battlefields like a storm, but this fight he could not win. Rhaenyra’s body had turned against her, the babe coming too soon, and his own helplessness boiled into barely contained rage.

"Rhaenyra," he breathed, softer now, bending his head toward her even as his strides remained swift. He could feel the heat of her, the tension in her limbs. Could feel her grief, pressing into his own skin like an unspoken scream.

She didn’t look at him, only clutched tighter, only let out a small, gasping sound that shattered something deep within him. He knew. Knew what was consuming her—the weight of loss, of betrayal. Knew what names were flashing through her mind—Viserys. Aegon. Aemond. Helaena. Knew that with each pulse of pain, with each fresh wave of agony, she was falling deeper into the realization that her world had turned against her.

Daemon barked more orders—furious, sharp—but his touch was gentle, his grip solid. He would not let her slip. He could not lose her. Not to fate, not to grief, not to anything.

As he reached the chambers, pushing past Rhaenyra’s Ladies-in-Waiting, he finally let himself investigate her face and, in her eyes, in the raw anguish and silent fury, he saw a queen who had lost everything; except the fire still burning in her soul. Lady Charis swept forward, wrapping an apron around her form.

Prince Daemon, you must let us take it from here,” Lady Charis said softly, her voice steady despite the storm raging around them. Her hazel eyes locked onto his, beseeching yet firm, a silent command wrapped in gentleness. Daemon faltered, his grip tightening for a moment as though he could shield Rhaenyra from the inevitable. His lips felt painfully dry, and he licked them, his breath catching as Charis gestured toward the bed.

“Let her sit. We will help her,” she urged, her tone unwavering.

Daemon hesitated, his panic flashing in his eyes, but slowly, reluctantly, he moved toward the canopy bed. The weight of Rhaenyra in his arms felt heavier than it should, as though her grief and pain had seeped into his very bones. He set her down carefully, his hands lingering for a moment before he stepped back, his presence still looming, protective, even as he relinquished control.

Lady Charis smiled at him, a brief flicker of gratitude that softened the tension in the room. Then she turned to Rhaenyra, her movements fluid and purposeful as she knelt beside the bed.

“Okay, Rhaenyra. We have done this five times before. Let’s do this again,” she said, her voice calm, grounding, a lifeline in the chaos.

Around them, the Ladies-in-Waiting moved with practiced urgency. The chamber was alive with motion—aprons tied, sleeves rolled, hair wrapped away from flushed faces. The hearth roared, its heat oppressive, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Basins of steaming water were placed within reach, soft pillows arranged with care, though comfort seemed a distant dream. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fire, the quiet hum of preparation broken only by the occasional sharp command.

Lady Charis reached for Rhaenyra’s hand, her touch gentle but firm. Rhaenyra took steadying breath as her gown was unlaced, closing her violet eyes to the chaos around her.

“Breathe, Princess,” she murmured, her voice a steady anchor. “We will get through this.”

Daemon stood amidst it all, a man who commanded warriors, who thrived in conflict, but who was now utterly powerless against the tide of nature. His hands twitched at his sides, his breath sharp and uneven, his panic barely concealed beneath the steel of his posture. The women bustled around him, brushing past as they prepared, their practiced efficiency rendering him an outsider in the realm of birth. He was used to war—but this was something deeper. More intimate. More terrifying.

The sound of Rhaenyra’s cries echoed in his ears, haunting him even as he strode through the castle halls. His boots struck the stone floor with sharp, deliberate force, but his steps betrayed him—each one heavier than the last, as though the weight of his dread was dragging him down. The dragons sang in the skies above, their calls piercing the air, but even their power felt distant, insignificant against the terror clawing at his chest.

Daemon didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to move, had to escape the sight of his wife writhing in pain, the helplessness that had rooted him to the chamber floor. He was a man of action, a man who thrived in chaos, but this—this was a battle he could not fight. He could not wield a sword against fate, could not command the tides of nature to bend to his will. And so, he ran, his breath sharp and uneven, his heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

Before he realized it, he was at the edge of the sea. The waves crashed against the shore, their rhythm steady, unyielding, as though mocking the turmoil within him. The salt spray splashed against his trousers, soaking the fabric, but he didn’t care. He stood there, staring out at the endless expanse of water, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight.

The fear was suffocating. He could lose her. He could lose the woman who had fought for him, who had stood beside him, who had carried the weight of the realm on her shoulders. He could lose the child—the fragile, innocent life that had barely begun. The thought was unbearable, a knife twisting in his gut, and he felt his knees weaken beneath him.

Daemon’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, the sound of the waves filling the silence. He had faced death countless times, had stared it in the face and laughed, but this—this was different. This was a loss he could not bear, a pain he could not endure. And for the first time in years, he felt powerless.

The voice was familiar—achingly so. It threaded through the crashing waves, through the salt-heavy air, through the storm in Daemon’s chest.

“I hear there are rumbles in the castle.”

Daemon's body was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes, dragging salt-soaked hands through his hair, the droplets clinging to his skin like ghosts of the sea. His breath came sharp as he swallowed down the wreckage of his fear. The presence shifted beside him, deliberate, waiting. Not pressing—not yet.

Daemon exhaled roughly. “Rhaenyra is in her labours,” he muttered, the words sharp, broken. “It’s too soon, Lae…” He halted, breath catching. No. Not Laenor. Laenor was dead.

His mouth tightened. He forced himself to say it—forced himself to confront the reality standing beside him.

“Leon.”

The man beside him, the ghost of a past discarded, did not flinch at the name. The fishermen’s garb hung loose against his form, his beard fuller now, the edges of his jaw shadowed with age. His hair; once a statement of lineage, of pride; was shaved down, casting him further from what he once was. But his eyes; his eyes were the same.

Daemon met them now, and in them, he saw understanding. He saw quiet acknowledgment—not of the past, but of the grief knotted in his chest. Laenor—Leon—shifted, brushing salt-crusted fingers against the coarse fabric of his tunic.

“And you came here,” he murmured, gaze flicking to the waves. “To drown in it.”

Daemon didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

The tide swelled around them, uncaring, infinite. And for a moment, in the shadow of grief, neither man was who the world had once believed them to be. Daemon didn’t move, didn’t speak, just breathed—sharp inhales, uneven exhales, the salt thick on his tongue. He had not seen Laenor in years, had not heard his voice outside the echoes of memory. And yet, here he stood, worn by the world, reshaped by necessity, but still him.

“Laenor Velaryon died,” Daemon muttered finally, barely more than a breath. Laenor—Leon—huffed softly, shifting his weight as the waves crashed against his boots.

“Did he?” His voice was quiet, edged with something wry, something old. “Or did he just step off the path that led nowhere?”

Daemon swallowed, the taste bitter. He had seen Laenor fight, had watched him laugh in the heat of battle, had known—had understood—the exhaustion in his bones long before the world did. They had been alike once; reckless, restless, shaped by the burdens of expectation, by names that demanded more than they could always give. Daemon exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his face, the salt burning his skin.

"Rhaenyra," he whispered, voice breaking beneath the weight of her name. "The babe—it's too soon."

Laenor was quiet for a moment, watching him. Then, slowly, he lowered himself beside Daemon, crouching in the damp sand.

"And you," he murmured, "ran to the sea instead of staying. Why?"

Daemon’s jaw tightened. He gritted his teeth, staring out at the horizon, the endless pull of the water.

"Because I can't fight this," he admitted, the words raw. "I can't do anything. I can lead armies, I can win wars, I can cut down men who stand against her; but I can't stop this. I can't hold back fate."

Laenor nodded, slow, understanding. "You're scared," he said simply, no mockery, no challenge… just truth.

Daemon let out a bitter laugh, rough, exhausted. "You think I fear anything?"

Laenor gave him a look. A long, knowing stare… one Daemon had seen too many times before, back when they stood as brothers-in-arms, when they had fought beside each other, bled beside each other.

"I think," Laenor said carefully, "that if you've come all the way down here to drown yourself in salt and grief, then yes, Daemon, I think you are terrified."

Daemon sucked in a breath, sharp and unforgiving. He closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the wind, his fingers curling into his palms. "If I lose her…" He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say the rest.

Laenor sighed, dragging his fingers across his bearded jaw, his eyes flicking toward the distant castle. "She’s stronger than you think," he said. "Stronger than both of us. But right now, you are not helping her by being here."

Daemon’s breath hitched.

Laenor straightened, shaking off the water on his hands, before resting one on Daemon’s shoulder. "You were never meant to sit on the sidelines and watch, Daemon. That’s never been who you are. So go back. Stand beside her. Be the man she needs right now—not the man the realm fears."

Daemon stared at him. At Laenor Velaryon—Leon—the ghost that wasn’t a ghost, the man reborn. And slowly, painfully, he nodded.

--

The chamber was suffused with the heat of the roaring hearth, the flickering firelight throwing jagged shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the acrid scent of sweat that clung to every surface. The chamber was stifling, the heat of too many bodies pressed into too small a space amplifying the tension that hung like a storm cloud. The Valaena and Larissa, the newest Ladies-in -Waiting for Rhaenyra, hovered at the edges of the room, their faces pale and drawn, their hands trembling as they clutched at their skirts. Their fear was palpable, unspoken but heavy, a silent prayer shared among them that this day would not end in tragedy.

Rhaenyra’s laboured breathing filled the room, sharp and uneven, punctuated by low moans that cut through the air. She was crouched low, her hair sticking to her sweat-drenched face, her hands gripping the edge of a sturdy chair as she bore down, every muscle in her body trembling with effort. Her voice cut through the oppressive atmosphere, raw and guttural, a string of curses that would have made even the most hardened soldier blush. Her words were a mix of fury and desperation, each one spat out between laboured breaths.

“Fuck! If this babe doesn’t come soon, I’ll—” Her threat dissolved into a cry of pain, her body arching as another contraction tore through her. Elinda moved swiftly around her, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, the hem of her gown stained with the evidence of her work. She leaned close, her voice steady but urgent. Elinda fought the panic that clawed at her throat, staying as calm as possible given the babe was note due for another moon turn. She couldn’t allow Rhaenyra to get an inkling of her panic, after she had already fought their assistance, pacing her chambers like a caged animal before she fell to her knees.

“You can do this, my Princess. Just a little more. The babe is almost here.”

Beside her, Lady Charis knelt, her apron already smeared with blood, so much blood, her hands firm but gentle as they offered support to Rhaenyra. Her breathing was calm and steady, belying the fear that bubbled in her. This labour had come on hard and fast yet seemed to drag. The Princess was in pain with every step and Charis was pleading for the babe to hurry, to leave the Princess’ womb.

“Focus on your breath,” Charis murmured, her tone soothing yet commanding. She brushed a damp cloth over Rhaenyra’s brow, her hazel eyes scanning her princess’s face for signs of faltering. The coppery scent of blood was overwhelming, but she pushed it aside, focusing only on the task at hand. “You’ve done this before. You can do it again.”

Rhaenyra let out a shuddering cry, her voice raw, her body pushed to its very limits. She leaned forward, her fingers clawing against the wood, her knees digging into the soft rug beneath her. It felt as though the world was narrowing, the fire in her belly consuming her, spreading until there was nothing else—nothing but her and the life fighting its way into the world.

“It’s coming,” Elinda said, her voice pitching higher now, the first crack in her professional calm. Rhaenyra was fighting their hands, her own trying to get between her legs to pull the babe from her. Elinda glanced at Charis, a flicker of urgency in her expression, and Charis nodded, already moving.

“Rhaenyra,” Charis said, shifting to place herself directly in front of her Princess. “Let us help! We need one more push. Just one more, and it will be over.”

Rhaenyra gasped, her head tilting back, her whole body shuddering with the effort as she bore down one last time. Time seemed to stretch, the moments endless, the air thick with tension. The babe slipped into Charis’s waiting hands, tiny and glistening. For a heart-stopping moment, the room fell silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire and Rhaenyra’s laboured breaths. Charis worked quickly, her fingers deft and sure as she cleared the babe’s lungs, her movements precise despite the blood that slicked her hands. The women inhaled as one, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all.

And then—a gasp.

The baby took her first breath, her fragile chest rising, her tiny fists curling weakly in the cool air. Charis’s lips parted in relief as she let out a shaky laugh, holding the child up for Rhaenyra to see, the Princess’s violet eyes wild as she searched her daughter’s tiny frame. “She’s here,” Charis whispered, tears shining in her eyes. “A girl. A strong little girl.”

Rhaenyra let out a sob, her body collapsing onto the floor as she reached for her daughter, Charis carefully placing the babe in her arms. Elinda moved to help, supporting Rhaenyra as she cradled the babe against her chest. The child was small, impossibly small, but she was alive—warm and breathing, her cries soft but steady. The room, still buzzing with the echoes of their fear and tension, seemed to still. The women exchanged glances of quiet triumph; their relief palpable. Outside, the day softened, the wind easing as though the gods themselves had granted this child their blessing.

Rhaenyra cradled the tiny bundle against her chest, her trembling hands brushing over the damp, fragile skin of her daughter. Relief crashed over her in waves, so overwhelming it left her gasping, her forehead pressing to the baby’s as tears streaked silently down her face. But with the relief came fear; sharp, insidious. The babe was so small, so delicate, her breaths a faint flutter against Rhaenyra’s skin, her cries soft and fragile. How could something so tiny, so impossibly fragile, survive in a world as cruel as this?

Her fingers traced the curve of her daughter’s soft cheek, her lips brushing against her downy head. The smell that only a newborn babe could possess filled her senses, and she closed her eyes.

“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “You’re here, my sweetling. You’re so strong. You must be strong.” The words were as much a plea as they were a reassurance—a desperate prayer to the gods, to anyone who might hear.

The chamber was a battlefield, the aftermath of the birth leaving its mark on every surface, every soul within. The air was thick with the lingering scent of blood and sweat, a testament to the ordeal that had just unfolded. Lady Charis moved with purpose; her hands steady despite the slickness of blood that clung to her fingers. Her touch was firm yet gentle, a paradox of strength and care as she worked to mend the damage beneath Rhaenyra’s bloodied nightgown.

The Princess lay trembling, her body spent, her breaths shallow and uneven, even as she held her baby in her arms. Charis’s gaze flickered over her, a quiet concern etched into her features, though her voice remained calm, grounding. “You’ve done well, Princess,” she murmured, brushing back the damp strands of hair that clung to Rhaenyra’s face. Her movements were deliberate, each one a silent reassurance that the worst was over.

Valaena and Larissa, still so young and only just beginning to move into their teen years, hovered nearby, their faces pale, their hands clutching at their skirts as they exchanged glances filled with unspoken fear. The room was heavy with the weight of what had transpired, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft murmurs of Charis as she worked. “But we need to clean you up,” she said, her tone steady, commanding yet gentle. “Let us take care of you now.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting Charis’s for a fleeting moment. There was gratitude there, buried beneath the exhaustion and pain, a silent acknowledgment of the unwavering support that had carried her through. Charis’s hands moved with practiced ease, her focus unwavering as she tended to her Princess, the room slowly beginning to breathe again as the tension ebbed away. Elinda moved with the unwavering precision of a woman who knew her duty. She worked quickly, her sleeves pushed high, her gown stained with the remnants of Rhaenyra’s struggle. The warmth of the cloth she pressed against her Princess’s skin was a stark contrast to the icy tension that still clung to the room, her movements swift yet gentle, wiping away the evidence of battle.

Valaena hurried from the chamber, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor, her relief palpable—an escape from the weight of fear that still lingered. Elinda barely spared her a glance, her focus singular, her words quiet but firm as she worked. “Breathe, Princess,” she murmured, reaching for fresh linens, the fabric crisp against her fingers. “You’re both safe, the worst is over.”

Rhaenyra nodded faintly, though her eyes remained locked on her daughter, her breath hitching with every tiny, shaky rise and fall of the babe’s chest. She stirred against Rhaenyra’s chest, a small, instinctive movement, her breaths blooming into quiet whimpers. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around her daughter, as if grounding herself in the only thing that mattered now. Charis lingered nearby, watching with a careful eye, ensuring that every step was taken with precision, with care. The room, though still heavy with the scent of blood and the echoes of pain, was beginning to settle—beginning to breathe again.

“She’s so small,” she whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible. “Is she… is she strong enough?”

Charis placed a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “She took her first breath, Princess,” Charis said gently. “And she’ll take many more.”

Maester Gerardys’s presence brought a new kind of gravity to the room, his measured steps and calm demeanour a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded him. His robes brushed the bloodstained floor as he approached, his gaze unwavering as he assessed the scene before him. The Ladies-in-Waiting stepped back instinctively, their relief mingling with the lingering tension as they made way for him.

Rhaenyra’s trembling hands tightened around her daughter; her knuckles white as she clung to the fragile warmth against her chest. Her breaths were shallow, her body still wracked with exhaustion, but her eyes never left the babe. The Maester’s hands were steady as he worked, his touch gentle yet firm as he examined the newborn with the precision of a man who had seen countless lives begin and end.

“She’s small,” he said finally, his voice breaking the silence with a calm authority that seemed to settle the room. “But her lungs are strong. She’ll need warmth, nourishment, and constant care. Keep her swaddled tightly, and ensure she feeds often. She’ll grow stronger with time.”

Rhaenyra nodded faintly; her gaze fixed on her daughter as if the world beyond her no longer existed. Her lips parted, but no words came, her emotions too raw, too overwhelming to articulate. The Maester placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch light but grounding, his expression softening as he met her eyes.

“You’ve done well, Princess,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet reverence. “She’s here, and she’s alive. That is no small victory.”

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a gentle reminder of life continuing, even in the wake of such turmoil. The Ladies-in-Waiting exchanged glances, their fear giving way to a tentative hope as the Maester’s words settled over them. The room, though still heavy with the scent of blood and sweat, began to feel less like a battlefield and more like a sanctuary. Rhaenyra’s trembling hands lingered on her daughter, her reluctance to release the babe palpable in the way her fingers tightened around the swaddled form. Charis knelt beside her, her hazel eyes steady, her touch gentle as she reached for the newborn.

 “Let me hold her, Princess,” Charis murmured, her voice soft but firm, a grounding presence amidst the lingering chaos.

Rhaenyra hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charis and her daughter, her lips trembling as she whispered, “She’s so small… I was afraid…”

Her voice cracked, the weight of her emotions spilling over as she finally allowed Charis to take the babe into her waiting arms. Charis cradled the newborn with practiced ease, her movements fluid as she offered quiet reassurances, her own fear still lingering but masked by her calm demeanour.

Valaena stepped forward, her hands deft as she helped Rhaenyra to her feet, guiding her toward the bed with a steadying touch. The Princess swayed; her exhaustion evident in the way her body leaned heavily against Valaena’s support. The Ladies-in-Waiting exchanged glances, their unspoken concern mirrored in the tension that still hung in the air.

Elinda moved with purpose, her hands sure as she fetched fresh linens and warm water, her voice a quiet hum of instructions as she worked. She knelt beside Rhaenyra, her touch firm yet gentle as she cleaned the blood from her skin, wiping away the evidence of the battle she had fought. The warmth of the cloth was soothing, a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in Rhaenyra’s bones.

Valaena helped Rhaenyra into a fresh gown, the fabric soft against her skin, a small comfort amidst the exhaustion that weighed her down. Elinda’s hands moved to her hair, smoothing the damp strands with practiced efficiency before weaving them into a simple braid, her movements steady and grounding.

“You’ve done well, Princess,” Elinda said softly, her voice carrying a quiet strength. “And she’s here. That’s what matters now.”

Rhaenyra sank onto the bed, her body trembling as she leaned back against the pillows, her gaze fixed on her daughter in Charis’s arms. Charis stepped towards Gerardys who took the babe with practiced ease, performing more of his official checks.

“You’re stronger than you know, Princess. And so is she.”

The words hung in the air, a quiet affirmation that seemed to settle over the room, bringing with it a tentative sense of peace. Maester finished his work, wrapping the babe in soft, clean linens and placing her carefully back into Rhaenyra’s arms. Rhaenyra cradled her daughter against her chest, her fingers curling protectively around the soft linen, feeling the steady warmth of the tiny life in her arms. The exhaustion sat deep in her bones, but now—now there was something else. A quiet relief, fragile and tentative, but real.

Gerardys lingered for a moment, watching the way Rhaenyra held the babe, as though anchoring herself to something beyond the pain, beyond the fear. “She’ll need you,” he repeated, softer now, a note of understanding in his voice. “But she’ll also need rest. Let her sleep, let her grow.”

Elinda stepped forward, smoothing the blankets around Rhaenyra with careful hands, ensuring every fold was neat, every movement gentle. Valaena perched beside the bed, her presence quiet, steady, as she reached for a goblet of watered wine, pressing it into Rhaenyra’s grasp.

“Drink, Princess,” she urged, her voice barely above a whisper. Charis lingered at the foot of the bed, her fingers flexing slightly as though willing the tension from them, watching as Rhaenyra traced a trembling finger down the babe’s cheek. That fear, the unspoken terror that had gripped the chamber, still lingered in the air, but it was fading, dissipating with every quiet breath the babe took.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to her daughter’s forehead, eyes fluttering closed as the weight of exhaustion finally pulled at her. The quiet between Charis and Elinda was heavy with unspoken emotion, the kind that lingered after a storm had passed but left its mark. Charis’s usual poise had faltered, her shoulders slightly hunched as she exhaled shakily, her gaze fixed on the tiny bundle in Rhaenyra’s arms.

 “I wasn’t sure this time,” she admitted, her voice barely audible, raw with the weight of her confession. “I thought… I thought we might lose her.”

Elinda stilled, her hands pausing mid-fold as Charis’s words hung in the air. She turned, her expression softening, her own composure cracking just enough to reveal the depth of her relief.

“But we didn’t,” she said gently, her voice steady, a quiet anchor in the aftermath. “She’s here. And she’s breathing. That’s what matters now.”

Charis nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line as she blinked rapidly, willing the tears to stay at bay. Her gaze flickered to Rhaenyra, who was cradling her daughter with a fierce tenderness, her exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

“It’s a miracle,” Charis murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “She’s stronger than we could possibly know.”

The two women exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them, their shared relief palpable even as the weight of the ordeal lingered in their expressions. Charis moved closer to the bed, her hands deft as she adjusted the blankets around Rhaenyra, her touch gentle but sure. Elinda resumed her work, her movements brisk but careful as she tidied the room, her focus a quiet reassurance that life would continue, even after the chaos.

And then—the sound of boots striking stone filled the quiet of the chamber.

Daemon’s approach was unmistakable, his strides heavy, deliberate, as though the weight of his fear was dragging him forward. The door swung open, and he stood there, his breath sharp, his eyes wide with panic. His gaze darted to Rhaenyra, to the babe in her arms, and for a moment, he froze, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“Rhaenyra,” he rasped, his voice breaking. He stepped forward, his movements hesitant, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the room. His eyes locked onto the child, and his hands twitched at his sides, his fear and helplessness etched into every line of his face.

“She’s here,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice trembling. “She’s alive.”

Daemon’s breath hitched again, sharp and uneven, as though the air itself had turned against him. He knelt there, his knees pressing into the cold stone floor, his hands trembling as they hovered just above the swaddled form of his daughter. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her, not yet. She was so small, impossibly small, her tiny chest rising and falling with fragile, shallow breaths as she slept. It was as though she might shatter beneath the weight of his hands, as though his touch might break the delicate thread tethering her to this world.

His gaze flickered to Rhaenyra, searching her face for something—reassurance, strength, an anchor to steady the storm raging within him. But all he saw was her exhaustion, the pale strain of her features, the way her body trembled even as she held their child close. And yet, she was alive. They were both alive. The realisation hit him like a blow, and he let out a shuddering exhale, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his relief.

“I thought…” His voice cracked, raw and unsteady, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to continue.

“I thought I might lose you both.” The admission was barely audible, a whisper torn from the depths of his fear. He had faced death countless times, had stared it in the eye and laughed, but this—this was different. This was a loss he could not have borne.

Rhaenyra reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, grounding him. Her touch was light, but it steadied him, pulling him back from the edge of his despair. “We’re here,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steadying with each word. “We’re here, Daemon.”

Daemon closed his eyes, his breath hitching again as he leaned into her touch. The warmth of her hand against his skin was a lifeline, a reminder that she was real, that she was alive. He opened his eyes, his gaze dropping once more to the tiny bundle in her arms. His daughter. His child. She was so small, so impossibly fragile, and yet she had fought her way into the world, defying the odds stacked against her.

His hands finally moved, trembling as they reached out to brush against the edge of the swaddle. The fabric was soft beneath his fingers, but it was the warmth beneath it that made his breath catch—the faint, fragile heat of life. He let out a shaky laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief, as he finally allowed himself to touch her. His fingers brushed against her tiny hand, and when her impossibly small fingers curled weakly around his, he felt something inside him break.

“She’s so small,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “So small… but she’s here.” His gaze flickered back to Rhaenyra, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Rhaenyra nodded, her own tears spilling freely now as she held their daughter closer. “She’s strong,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in it. “She’s strong, Daemon. Like her father.”

Daemon let out another shaky laugh, his head bowing as he pressed his forehead to Rhaenyra’s. His shoulders shook, the weight of his fear and relief crashing over him in waves. He had never felt so vulnerable, so raw, so utterly human. Daemon’s hands trembled as he reached out, and carefully, he slid his hands beneath her, lifting her from Rhaenyra’s arms as though she were made of glass. His movements were deliberate, reverent, his gaze locked on the tiny face peeking out from the folds of cloth.

She was impossibly small, her features delicate, with wisps of silver hair on her head, her breaths faint but steady. Daemon’s throat tightened as he cradled her against his chest, his arms instinctively curling around her to shield her from the world. He could feel the faint flutter of her heartbeat against his skin, and it was both a relief and a terror; proof that she was alive, but a reminder of how fragile she was.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flickered to the Maester, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. “What does she need? What do we do?”

The Maester stepped forward, his expression calm but focused. “She’ll need warmth, nourishment, and constant care,” he said, his tone measured. “Keep her swaddled tightly, and ensure she feeds often. She’s breathing well, and her heart is strong, but she’ll need time to grow.”

Daemon nodded, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the Maester’s words. He glanced down at his daughter again, his thumb brushing lightly over her tiny hand. Her fingers curled weakly around his, and he let out a shaky laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief.

“She’s strong,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s so small, but she’s strong.”

Daemon’s gaze lingered on the tiny bundle in his arms, his thumb brushing gently across his daughter’s small, curled hand. The silence was heavy, yet charged with meaning, as though the room itself held its breath alongside the babe. His lips parted, hesitant, as he let the thought forming in his mind take shape.

“She should have a name,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost reverent. He glanced at Rhaenyra, his expression soft but weighted with significance. “A name worthy of the strength she already carries.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, exhaustion evident in the pallor of her skin, but her gaze was fixed on her husband, searching his face for the emotion behind his words. She tightened her arms around the babe, her lips trembling as she leaned forward, closer to Daemon.

“I thought,” he began, swallowing hard, his voice thick with emotion, “she could be Aemma.” The name escaped him slowly, deliberately, each syllable laden with meaning. “For your mother.”

The air seemed to still, and Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. The weight of the name struck her deeply, her heart twisting in her chest. Memories of her mother surfaced unbidden—the warmth of her embrace, the gentleness of her smile, the quiet strength that had been the foundation of her life before it was cruelly ripped away.

“Aemma,” she repeated softly, the name trembling on her lips. Her voice broke, but she managed a nod, the tears streaming freely down her cheeks as she looked back at Daemon. “It’s perfect.”

Daemon exhaled shakily, his relief palpable, as though naming their daughter had somehow steadied him, anchored him to the moment.

“She carries your fire, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice steadying as he looked down at the babe once more. “And the strength your mother gave you.”

The room seemed warmer now, filled not only by the heat of the hearth but by the quiet triumph in the air—the fragile hope that their daughter, Aemma, would grow strong, would endure.

--

Lady Charis smoothed her apron as she stepped into Dragonstone’s solar, her steps light yet purposeful. The evening sun bathed the chamber in molten gold, its light catching on Jaehaerys’s short silver curls, the strands glinting as they trailed down the nape of his neck. His skin, a shade darker than his brothers', carried the rich warmth of his Velaryon lineage, the contrast only accentuating the sharp angles of his features. A strong, chiselled jaw lent him an air of quiet authority, his handsome face already carrying the weight of his responsibilities. He sat upright, his posture poised, the tip of his quill hovering just above parchment as his sharp gaze flickered toward Charis, his expression carefully measured.

Lucerys, in contrast, sprawled by the hearth with the ease of someone only beginning to grow into himself. His silver braids, reminiscent of his grandfather’s, framed his youthful face, yet the remnants of childhood lingered in the soft fullness of his cheeks. He was coming into his own—a young man on the cusp of something greater—but the traces of boyhood hadn’t entirely faded. His lips parted slightly in curiosity as he snapped his book shut, his gaze darting toward Charis, his brow furrowed in mild intrigue.

Aerion, ever restless, had already abandoned his dragon model, the wooden pieces scattered as he leapt to his feet, his eagerness palpable. He was the embodiment of movement, of youthful exuberance, his expression bright with anticipation, his stance wide as if prepared to launch into whatever Charis brought. The contrast between them—the composed eldest, the thoughtful middle, and the spirited youngest—was stark, yet undeniable.

Charis’s greeting, though warm, carried a weight that settled over them, the subtle shift in the air prompting their immediate attention. Jaehaerys set his quill down, Lucerys leaned forward, and Aerion, already impatient, shifted on his feet, waiting. The chamber had shifted—something was coming.

“You bring news,” Jaehaerys observed, his tone calm but curious. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly in front of him as his younger brothers exchanged glances.

Lady Charis nodded, her hazel eyes softening as she addressed them. “Your mother has delivered her child,” she said, her words measured but warm. “A daughter. You have a sister.”

The room fell silent for a beat, the weight of her announcement settling over them. Aerion’s face lit up first, his eyes widening with excitement. “A sister?” he repeated, his voice high with delight. “Truly? Is she little? Can I see her?”

Lucerys, perched on the edge of his chair now, let out a soft laugh at his brother’s enthusiasm. “Of course she’s little, Aerion,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Babies are always little.”

Aerion practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he turned toward Lucerys, his hands gesturing wildly. “But how little?” he pressed, his grin wide. “Like a kitten? Or smaller? Can she grip my finger? Does she have silver hair like us?”

Lucerys snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the chair’s back, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Seven hells, Aerion, do you think she’s no bigger than a sparrow? She’s a babe, not some pixie from the old tales.”

Aerion huffed, undeterred, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. “You’re dodging the question, brother. You haven’t even seen her yet! What if she’s as small as a sparrow, and you’re proven wrong?”

Lucerys groaned, shaking his head, but the laughter tugging at his lips betrayed his enjoyment. “Then I suppose you’ll be the first fool to train a sparrow to grip your finger.”

Aerion only grinned wider, clearly unbothered by the teasing. “A noble endeavour,” he declared grandly. “I’ll be the first prince with a tiny dragon.”

Charis watched the exchange with a flicker of amusement, but her gaze eventually drifted to Jaehaerys, who had remained silent throughout. Unlike his brothers, whose excitement danced in their voices, he held himself unnaturally still, his hands folded neatly before him, his posture stiff. But the way he studied her—the sharp glint in his violet eyes, the faint crease between his brows—told her everything she needed to know.

“And my mother?” he asked, his voice quieter, more measured than his brothers’, but carrying the unmistakable weight of emotion beneath the restraint. “She is well?”

There was no boyish jest, no eager curiosity about his new sister—only the thinly veiled fear that had gripped him every time Rhaenyra took to childbed. Every time, he had waited with bated breath, his own concerns swallowing any celebration. Even now, the tremor in his voice—slight but present—betrayed him.

Charis softened, stepping closer, her tone steady and gentle. “She is weary, but well. The birth was difficult, but she is resting now, and she holds your sister in her arms.”

Jaehaerys exhaled, his shoulders dropping just slightly, though he didn’t look away. “And there was no danger?” he pressed, unwilling to surrender to relief too soon.

“No more than any birth,” Charis assured him. “But your mother is strong, and she had us all by her side.”

Only then did Jaehaerys nod, slow and deliberate. His fingers twitched, as though fighting the urge to rise and see for himself, but he remained seated, schooling his expression into something careful, measured. Still, the tension in him loosened, just barely.

Lucerys nudged Aerion lightly, gesturing toward their eldest brother with a smirk. “See? That’s how you ask questions properly.”

Aerion rolled his eyes dramatically. “Boring,” he muttered, but the teasing edge in his voice was light, meant to stir amusement rather than frustration. “I prefer mine.”

Jaehaerys ignored them both, exhaling slowly, his mind already set. “I will see her soon,” he murmured, though whether it was a promise to himself, or a request remained unclear. Charis only nodded, understanding. The Prince would not let his heart settle until he laid eyes on his mother himself.

Charis inclined her head, her expression reassuring. “Your mother is resting, but she is strong, as always,” she said firmly. “And your sister, though small, is alive and breathing. She will need care and attention, but she is here.”

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let out a soft sigh. “A sister,” he murmured, the words lingering on his lips as though he were testing their weight. “What is her name?”

“Aemma,” Charis replied, her voice filled with quiet pride. “Prince Daemon suggested it—for your grandmother.”

Lucerys’s grin faltered just slightly before he let out an exaggerated sigh, tossing his hands in the air. “Aemma? Hells, I was certain she’d be Visenya,” he groaned, shaking his head. “I even put five gold on it.”

Jaehaerys fingers idly tracing the edge of the parchment in front of him. His mind was elsewhere—still with his mother, still lingering on the quiet weight of the name. “Aemma suits her,” he said finally, his voice softer than his brothers’.

The room, once heavy with anticipation, was now settling into something lighter, something whole. Aerion’s eyes went impossibly wide, his whole face lighting up as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “A sister?” he echoed, his voice high with delight. “Truly? Is she very little? Littler than me? Can I hold her?” His hands flitted eagerly, as if he might reach for the babe that very moment.

Lucerys let out a laugh, shaking his head at his younger brother’s antics. “Of course she’s little, Aerion,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Babies start little, that’s how they work.”

Aerion huffed, scrunching his nose as he whirled toward him. “Well, I don’t know! I’ve never had a baby sister before. What if she’s big? What if she’s already taller than you?” His mischievous giggle bubbled over as Lucerys scoffed, reaching out to ruffle his curls.

“If she’s taller than me, I really want my gold back,” Lucerys muttered, though amusement danced in his violet eyes. “I put five coins on her being Visenya, you know. What a waste.”

Aerion gasped, scandalized. “You were betting on her name?” he demanded, as though Lucerys had committed some grave offense. “That doesn’t sound very princely.”

Lucerys smirked, flicking a playful finger against Aerion’s forehead. “You don’t sound very princely either, bouncing around like an overexcited rabbit.”

Aerion didn’t hear him—he was already tugging at Charis’s sleeve, his violet eyes round and pleading. “Can I see her? Please? I’ll be gentle, I swear!”

Charis smiled, reaching out to ruffle Aerion’s silver curls affectionately. “You’ll see her soon,” she promised. “But for now, you must let her rest. Your mother, too. They have both been through a great deal.”

Aerion pouted slightly but nodded, his boundless energy only slightly tempered. Jaehaerys rose from his chair, his movements deliberate and measured and placed a hand on Aerion’s shoulder. “Patience, brother,” he said gently. “We will see them when the time is right.”

Lucerys leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as he looked toward the door, before he stood. “A sister,” he said again, his voice quieter now, tinged with wonder. “I suppose we’ll have to keep her safe.”

Charis’s smile grew, and she inclined her head. “Yes,” she said softly. “She will be strong, but she will still need her brothers.”

“Come, Aerion, let us go summon the eggs for her—she will need a dragon!” Lucerys declared, his voice brimming with energy. Aerion’s lilac eyes widened in delight, his excitement spilling over as he practically bounced beside his brother. Without another word, he darted toward the door, Lucerys following with an amused chuckle.

The door clicked shut softly behind them, their footsteps fading down the corridor, mingling with their eager chatter; Aerion’s bright exclamations, Lucerys’s playful jabs, the rhythmic pulse of anticipation weaving through their words. Their joy was effortless, unburdened, carried away with them.

Jaehaerys remained unmoving in the solar, the absence of their voices settling around him like a veil. His fingers traced the grain of the wood beneath them, slow, thoughtful, as the weight of the moment pressed heavier upon his shoulders. The tension he had concealed in his brothers’ presence now uncoiled, his brow furrowing as his thoughts turned inward.

A sister. Aemma. The word had felt solid in his mouth earlier, something tangible, something real. But now, as he sat in the quiet, the relief warred with the residual fear that lingered in his chest—fear he had refused to voice, fear that had gripped him every time his mother took to childbed.

He exhaled, slow and measured, though the tightness in his chest did not fully ease. Lady Charis lingered, sensing his hesitation, her movements quiet and deliberate as she folded the linens she had brought earlier. She cast him a sidelong glance, her hazel eyes studying his face with the perceptive calm that so often steadied those around her.

“Jaehaerys,” she said softly, setting the linens aside. “Is something troubling you?”

Jaehaerys didn’t immediately reply, his gaze fixed on the distant sea. “You said my mother is resting,” he said at last, his words quiet but deliberate. “But is she truly well? After everything… after my grandfather, after the news from King’s Landing…” His voice trailed off, the weight of his unspoken fears heavy in the air.

Charis stepped closer, her hazel eyes softening as she regarded him. “Your mother is strong, Jaehaerys,” she said firmly, though her tone carried a quiet understanding. “She has endured much, it’s true. But she draws strength from her children, from her family. She is resting now, and that rest will do her well. You need not fear for her.”

Jaehaerys nodded slowly, though the tension in his posture remained. He turned to face her fully, his expression guarded. “And the news from King’s Landing?” he asked carefully. “Is it true?”

Charis hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. She met his gaze, her own steady but heavy with the weight of the truth. “It is true,” she said softly. “Your uncle Aegon has been crowned. The crown has passed to him.”

Jaehaerys’s jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring as he absorbed the blow. Though still young, he carried himself with the gravity of a man who understood the significance of the moment, the implications it held for his family.

“My mother will not stand for this,” he said quietly, his voice calm but resolute. “She will not yield.”

Charis inclined her head, a faint smile touching her lips. “She is your mother,” she said. “And dragons do not yield.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, the distant crash of waves against Dragonstone’s rocky cliffs filling the void. Jaehaerys turned his gaze back toward the window, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I will not yield either,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with quiet determination.

Charis watched him, the faintest glimmer of pride flickering in her eyes. “Your strength will be a comfort to her,” she said softly. “And to your siblings. They will need you in the days to come.”

Jaehaerys nodded, his expression firm as he turned from the window. “Then I will wait for her summons,” he said. “And I will be ready.”

Charis inclined her head once more, her gaze following him as he strode toward the door, his steps steady and deliberate. As he walked, his mind ran with thoughts. King’s Landing had become a tangled web of ambition and betrayal, its once-familiar halls now foreign to him. The news of his uncle Aegon’s coronation had left an ache in his chest, a gnawing sense of dread that refused to ease. His grandfather was gone, and with him, the fragile stability of the realm. And now, his family was caught in the storm.

Jaehaerys’s thoughts lingered on the calculating force behind this coup. Otto Hightower. His grandfather’s Hand had always been a man of ambition, but this… this was something darker, more dangerous. And the family caught beneath his shadow—his loved ones—had become pawns in a game they hadn’t chosen.

His heart clenched as he thought of Helaena, his radiant, gentle aunt; so full of quiet wisdom and kindness. She did not belong in this turmoil. She was a queen now, in name if not in choice, but the burden placed upon her shoulders was cruel. Jaehaerys had always admired her, loved her fiercely, and now he feared for her… not just for her safety, but for her spirit. He could imagine her there, trapped in the Red Keep, her eyes filled with a sadness she would never voice.

And then—there was Aemond. His best friend, his partner in crime, the one who had always stood beside him, regardless of consequence. Where others dismissed Aemond as brooding or stern, Jaehaerys had always seen deeper—the fierce loyalty, the quiet brilliance, the spark of humour he shared only with those he trusted most. Aemond was not a pawn. He was a dragon, strong and defiant, and yet… he was trapped too. Otto’s hand was over him as much as it was over Helaena, twisting his path for the sake of power.

Jaehaerys exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting to the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The bonds of family—of friendship—were as strong as the blood of the dragon itself, but the realm sought to test them, to fray them, to turn them to ash. He could not let that happen. He would not.

The echoes of his new sister’s cries, faint but steady, lingered in his ears—a fragile reminder of what mattered most. Aemma, so small, so innocent, was a spark of hope in a world descending into fire. And yet, as much as Jaehaerys loved her already, his thoughts returned to King’s Landing, to those left behind, to those he could not protect. The ache in his chest grew heavier.

“Aemond,” he murmured softly, “Helaena. I will not abandon you.”

The winds howled against the stones of Dragonstone, their strength steady and unyielding. Jaehaerys straightened, his hands tightening against the sill. He would be ready. For his sister. For his mother. For the family he loved no matter the storm.

--

The chamber was quiet but charged with expectation as Rhaenyra stood before her wardrobe, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted the flowing black gown that clung to her form. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light streaming through the arched windows, the colour deep as midnight—a statement of mourning, of defiance, of power. Every movement sent a faint ache radiating through her body, but she gritted her teeth, forcing her shoulders back, her posture unyielding.

The day after her labours, the pain was still sharp, still persistent. Her body protested every step, every breath, but she could not afford to falter. The realm waited for her to rise, for the Dragon Queen to reclaim her place at the painted table. They could not see her as weak. Not now.

Elinda hovered nearby; her brow furrowed with worry as she handed Rhaenyra the heavy golden necklace. “You should still be resting, Princess,” she murmured, her voice hushed. “You need—”

“I need to be seen,” Rhaenyra cut in sharply, though her voice softened a fraction as she took the necklace from Elinda’s trembling hands. “The realm needs to know I am unbroken.”

Charis adjusted the hem of Rhaenyra’s gown, her hazel eyes scanning the Princess’s face with quiet concern. “You are strong, my Princess,” she said softly, her tone steady. “But do not push yourself beyond your limits.”

Rhaenyra gave a tight smile, her hand brushing Charis’s shoulder lightly. “I have no choice,” she replied, her words edged with resolve. “There is too much at stake.”

The painted table loomed in the hall ahead, its surface illuminated by the flickering glow of candles. At the far end of the hall, Rhaenys stood with her arms crossed, her piercing gaze fixed on the room’s centre. She was a force in her own right, the Queen Who Never Was, and her presence added weight to the moment.

Rhaenyra stepped into the hall, her gait measured, her head held high despite the faint wince that flickered across her face with each movement. The gown swept behind her, the gold of her necklace catching the light as she took her place at the head of the painted table. Her hands braced against the ancient, carved wood. The gilded map of Westeros stretched before her, illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of candlelight. The room, once filled with murmurs and movement, now stood silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

Her Kingsguard were stationed at the edges of the chamber, their white cloaks stark against the darkened stone walls. Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander, stood closest to her, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, his expression grim but steadfast. He watched her with a quiet intensity, ready to act at her slightest command.

To her right stood Daemon, his arms crossed over his chest, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. His sharp features were unreadable, but there was a tension in his stance; a coiled energy barely concealed beneath the surface. His gaze swept over the map, his mind undoubtedly racing with possibilities, strategies, and the lust for vengeance.

Rhaenys stood to her left, regal as ever despite the wear of recent days, her husband currently bound to his bed with injuries from war in the Stepstones. Her chin was lifted, her expression composed, though her eyes betrayed her sharp intellect, weighing every word, every movement. She had seen the cost of ambition before, and her presence here now was both a warning and a show of support.

Jaehaerys and Lucerys flanked Rhaenys, their young faces set with determination. Jaehaerys held himself with quiet resolve, the weight of his mother’s crown already visible in the lines of his brow. Lucerys, though younger, had a fire in his gaze—a defiant spark that mirrored his mother’s. Both stood tall, silent and attentive, their loyalty unwavering.

Rhaenyra drew in a steadying breath, ignoring the sharp twinge in her abdomen, and let her gaze sweep over her closest allies. “King’s Landing,” she began, her voice firm, commanding. “The crown has been stolen, and Otto Hightower sits in my father’s seat, pulling strings from the shadows. We cannot allow this insult to stand.”

Daemon shifted slightly, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. “The greens will not yield without bloodshed,” he said, his voice low, calculated. “If we march on King’s Landing, we must do so knowing the price. Vhagar roams the skies, and Otto will not hesitate to use her to crush any who challenge his power.”

Rhaenys inclined her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. “Daemon is right,” she said, her tone measured. “Aegon may wear the crown, but Otto is the true threat. And he will not relinquish control easily. We must be strategic, or risk losing more than we can afford.”

Lucerys glanced between his uncle and Rhaenys, his youthful defiance tempered by their caution. “We have dragons,” he said, his voice steady but edged with eagerness. “More than they do.”

Rhaenyra placed a hand on the table, her fingers splaying over the carved land of King’s Landing. “Dragons will be our strength,” she agreed, her gaze steady, “but we cannot rely on them alone. This will not be a battle of swords and fire—it will be a war of alliances, of strategy.” She looked up, her eyes locking with Jaehaerys’s. “And it will require every one of us.”

Jaehaerys nodded, his jaw tightening. “You have my loyalty, Mother,” he said quietly, but with conviction. “Always.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The painted table, so often the site of grand designs and bold plans, now felt like the centre of a storm—a storm that would soon engulf the realm. But in this moment, Rhaenyra stood tall, the pain of her recent labour hidden beneath the strength of her resolve.

“We begin with our allies,” Rhaenyra said finally, her voice resolute, unwavering. “We have spent many years preparing for this moment, knowing the throne could one day be usurped. That day has come.”

She gestured to Jaehaerys, watching as he moved the carved markers across the painted table, placing each sigil with deliberate precision. “We have House Staunton, Massey, and Darklyn,” she continued, her gaze sweeping over the gathered figures. “The Crownlands are not wholly lost to us—House Hayford, House Celtigar, and House Crabb still stand by our side.”

Rhaenys observed the movement of the pieces with quiet pride, the years of preparation, of training and diplomacy, manifesting in this single moment. The groundwork had been laid, the bonds forged with purpose. She narrowed her eyes slightly as Jaehaerys positioned the Riverland markers next, her fingers tracing the edge of the table.

“The Riverlands will be crucial,” Rhaenyra pressed on, her tone edged with calculation. “House Tully holds great influence over the region, and their allegiance can turn the tides. We have the Strongs, the Mootons—their loyalty has long been steadfast. If the Blackwoods and Darrys remain firm in their support, we strengthen the pulse of our cause.”

Jaehaerys set the carved fish of House Tully beside the others, his movements precise but weighted with significance.

“The Frey’s?” he asked, not looking up.

Daemon scoffed; his arms crossed over his chest. “The Frey’s align themselves where the wind favours them most,” he muttered. “They will hesitate to declare until they see which side prevails.”

Rhaenyra ignored him, pressing forward.

“The North will remember,” she said firmly. “The Starks have never broken an oath—and their word was given. Their banners will march under the direwolf.” Her fingers tapped against the carved sigil of House Stark, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But it is best to secure their loyalty directly. Jaehaerys, I trust you to travel north and ensure House Stark stands with us.”

Jaehaerys inclined his head, accepting the charge without hesitation.

“White Harbor is ours to claim as well,” Rhaenyra continued, her mind already mapping out the movements that would follow. “The Manderley’s have always valued honour and stability—they will not turn from us now. The Karstarks, the Cerwyn’s—they know the price of broken vows. They will fight.” Her voice did not waver, and though pain still lingered in the depths of her body, she forced herself to stand taller.

Rhaenys studied her carefully, weighing not just her words but the conviction behind them. “You have cast your nets wide, Rhaenyra,” she murmured, though not unkindly. “But words are wind. They must hold firm when the battle comes.”

Rhaenyra met her gaze evenly. “They will,” she said simply. The candlelight danced over the painted table, illuminating the lines of Westeros in shifting gold and shadow. The air in the chamber was thick with expectation, the weight of war pressing against the stone walls of Dragonstone. The carved markers lay scattered across the map like pieces in a game, yet this was no game; this was the future of the realm, resting upon the choices made in this very room.

Rhaenyra straightened, suppressing the wince that threatened to show in the way her muscles protested. She had no time for weakness. The war loomed before her, but war was not her desire. If she could take back King’s Landing swiftly, if the Greens could be pressured, outmanoeuvred—perhaps this would not end with blood soaking the streets of the capital.

“I do not wish for war,” she admitted, her voice quiet but firm. “If we take King’s Landing quickly, with precision, they may yield. The realm has known peace for so long. I would see it remain so.” Her fingers tightened against the edge of the table, as if willing the possibility of a bloodless victory into existence.

Rhaenys, ever composed, studied her with sharp eyes, her arms crossed. She knew better. The girl before her was her Queen, and she respected Rhaenyra’s claim, but Rhaenyra had not spent years watching Otto Hightower’s careful scheming unfold. She had. She had watched him plant seeds, manipulate minds, turn a weak king into his puppet—and she did not believe for a moment that he would allow Rhaenyra to reclaim what was hers without cost.

“You are right to hope,” Rhaenys murmured, though there was something unreadable in her expression. “But hope does not blind me to the truth. Otto has been preparing for this day longer than you realize. He will not yield. And if you hesitate, if you do not act with the strength expected of you, he will use it against you.”

Daemon let out a short breath, the sound closer to a scoff. He leaned forward, his fingers tracing the carved edges of the Red Keep, the heat of the candlelight catching in his sharp eyes. “War is inevitable,” he said, his voice edged with hunger. “If you hesitate, the greens will tighten their grip, and the moment to strike will slip from your fingers.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to him, her expression hardening. “I do not hesitate,” she retorted.

Daemon tilted his head slightly, watching her. He could see the fire in her eyes, the defiance, but he also saw the weight pressing upon her shoulders. She wanted to avoid war. It was noble, but it was naïve.

Daemon leaned forward again, his fingers curling around the edge of the painted table, his frustration evident in the sharp set of his jaw. “You would take the city with strategy alone?” he pressed, his voice edged with challenge. “Otto will see it coming. The moment you move, he will unleash his armies, his schemes. He will force Aemond to use Vhagar against us. If we are to take King’s Landing, it must be with fire and blood. Anything less invites failure.”

Rhaenyra inhaled slowly, controlling the storm brewing within her. “It must be with precision,” she countered, her tone cool but firm. “If we rush headlong into battle, we risk turning the realm against us. There are lords who are undecided—lords who may back our claim if we are seen as just, as rightful. And Aemond will not hurt us. He is my brother.”

Her words hung in the air, unwavering, certain. She was not naïve. She knew war demanded sacrifices. She knew alliances shifted, that loyalty was tested in the fires of ambition. But Aemond was not just her kin—he was her son in all but name. She had raised him. She had watched him stumble as a child, comforted him when the world made him feel small, guided him when the weight of expectation pressed too heavily on his shoulders.

Daemon’s nostrils flared slightly, his expression flickering between frustration and something more complicated—something almost sympathetic. “Aemond may not want this,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more tempered. “But Otto will make him do it. That’s what men like him do.”

Rhaenys, standing tall beside Rhaenyra, studied her carefully. There was grief in Rhaenyra’s insistence, pain laced beneath the steel. She did not want to fight her brothers. But the realm did not care for sentiment, and Otto Hightower never had.

“You must not let love blind you,” Rhaenys said finally, her words deliberate, each syllable carrying weight. “Aemond loves you, I do not doubt that. But duty is a cruel master. And men like Otto will twist duty until it no longer resembles choice.”

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened, but she lifted her chin, defiant. “I will not harm him,” she said. “Nor Aegon, nor Helaena.” Her gaze hardened, sweeping over Daemon, demanding his understanding. “They are my family. This war is against Otto, against his scheming, against those who would steal what is mine—but it is not against my brothers.”

Daemon exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against the table. He understood. He didn’t agree, but he understood. And though he did not say it, he felt the weight of what was coming—that Rhaenyra might not have a choice. That the war Otto had begun would force her hand, no matter how much she tried to keep her heart intact.

The candles flickered, casting shadows over the faces gathered in the chamber. This was not just a war; it was a test of family, of love, of the blood that bound them together even as swords threatened to sever it.

Rhaenys, watching the exchange, finally spoke, her voice quiet but deliberate. “You must find the balance, Rhaenyra,” she said. “Force will be needed. Do not be mistaken. But you must use it wisely, strike in a way that does not turn your cause to ruin. No matter how many banners you raise, if the common folk see only war, they will fear you. And fear breeds rebellion.”

Daemon exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but he did not argue with Rhaenys. He knew she was right, even if he did not like the truth of it.

Rhaenyra placed both hands on the painted table, her gaze burning with resolve. “We take King’s Landing,” she said. “But we take it on our terms.”

The tension in the chamber did not ease as Rhaenyra's declaration settled into the air, but the silence that followed carried the weight of something far greater. The war had begun, but if it was to be won, it would not be through reckless strikes or dragonfire alone. It would be through control. Through precision.

Daemon’s fingers traced the carved outline of King’s Landing on the painted table, his gaze narrowed in thought.

“If we take the city by force, we give them a reason to rally against us,” he murmured. “But if we choke it from the outside—if we make them desperate—then the city may turn on itself before we ever set foot within its walls.”

Rhaenys studied the map, nodding slowly. “The Blackwater Bay must be sealed,” she said, her tone decisive. “If we control the flow of ships, we control the lifeblood of King’s Landing. The capital cannot survive without trade, without grain, without fresh supplies.”

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, her fingers pressing into the edge of the table. “Then we begin at once,” she commanded. “Call our banners—House Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Hayford, Celtigar, and Crabb. Let them encircle the city, cut off the roads leading into the capital.”

Jaehaerys moved the markers across the table, methodical and practiced, placing their allies strategically around King’s Landing. As he positioned the last of them, his gaze flickered up to his mother. “The Riverlands must move, too,” he added. “House Tully commands the Trident, and if we take the crossings, we restrict inland trade.”

Lucerys leaned forward, tracing the river’s path with his fingers. “The Mooton's and the Strong's,” he said, thinking aloud. “If we press them along the western roads while the fleets block the Bay, the city will feel the strain within days. I can fly out to call them to arms.”

Daemon nodded, the sharp smirk curling at the edge of his lips betraying his satisfaction with the plan. Starve them. Isolate them. Make them fear the moment we finally strike.

Rhaenys placed a hand against the carved sigil of House Velaryon. “The fleet is ready,” she assured them. “Once our ships command Blackwater Bay, the greens will be caged within their own walls.”

Rhaenyra stood in silence, her gaze locked onto the painted table, the carved representation of King’s Landing stark beneath the flickering candlelight. The words had been spoken—the plan set in motion—but still, doubt crept into her thoughts, curling at the edges of her certainty. Starve the city. Choke it until the people turned against Otto. It was strategic. It was effective. But it was cruel.

Her fingers tightened around the wood, her jaw clenching slightly as she exhaled. “There must be a way,” she murmured, almost to herself. “A way to weaken Otto without condemning the innocent to suffer.”

Daemon arched an eyebrow, but his smirk faltered slightly at the quiet conflict in her voice. “Wars are not won with kindness, wife,” he muttered. “The people may suffer for a time, but when the city falls, it will be better for them. They will see it was necessary.”

Rhaenyra lifted her eyes, sharp and unwavering. “I will not be the kind of queen who allows innocents to starve simply to serve my war,” she said, her voice firmer now, edged with a quiet intensity. “Otto does not care for them. Aegon does not rule for them. But I do.”

Rhaenys watched her carefully, weighing the fire behind her words. “Incite them, then,” she said, measured but supportive. “Make them see that Otto is their enemy; that it is his policies, his greed, his control that strangles them. If they turn on him of their own accord, the city may fall without our direct hand.”

Jaehaerys, still poised over the map, nodded slowly. “We can send word through the Riverlands—through our allies in Maidenpool, Duskendale. Through those in the city who remain loyal.” His expression was thoughtful, calculating. “If we promise relief, aid, food once Otto is gone, they will begin to question their allegiance.”

Lucerys leaned forward, excitement sparking in his gaze. “We could send supplies through hidden routes—small shipments, carefully placed.” His voice was lower now, filled with a quiet energy. “Not enough for Otto’s men, but enough for the people to know who truly cares for them.”

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, nodding. This was the way. Not brute force. Not fire and blood alone. But the heart of the people. If she could turn the capital itself against Otto—if she could give them reason to rise—then the city would not need to be broken by siege. It would tear itself apart from within.

She turned back to Daemon, meeting his gaze steadily. “We do not starve them,” she said. “We remind them who truly holds their welfare in mind. We give them reason to rise.”

Daemon studied her, his lips pressing into a thin line. He did not argue—but there was something in his expression, something that lingered between admiration and frustration. It would take time. It would not be the swift path. But it would be hers.

Rhaenys let a small smile curve at the corner of her lips.

“Then let us begin,” she murmured. The air in the chamber hung heavy with the weight of strategy, of war, of choices that would shape the fate of the realm. But amidst the movements of carved sigils across the painted table, amidst the tightening noose around King’s Landing, Daemon tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched his wife push forward, relentless.

Daemon’s fingers drummed steadily against the edge of the painted table, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet space between them. He was watching her—truly watching her—as though searching for something beyond her words, beyond the strategy laid out before them. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes carried something layered, something deeper than mere expectation.

“You speak as queen,” he murmured at last, his voice quiet but deliberate, edged with a weight that was both challenge and conviction. “But you are not yet crowned.”

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, though her posture remained rigid, unwavering. The words settled heavily between them—not an accusation, not a dismissal, but a truth that could not be ignored. She had carried her father’s decree for years, had lived with the certainty of her birthright, but the greens had forced her into a different reality. They had stolen her ascension. She did not inherit her crown; she would have to take it.

Daemon did not press her—not yet. He merely waited, his fingers still tapping idly, as if giving her the space to claim her own answer. When she finally met his gaze, her expression was unreadable, but her eyes burned. There was fire there, something ancient and immovable, something that went beyond politics, beyond claim and strategy.

She did not need a crown to be queen. She was born to rule.

But still, Daemon held his ground, his stare unwavering. He was not speaking out of mere practicality—not entirely. It was love. It was deliberation. It was his faith in her wrapped in his need for her to solidify that faith before the realm.

“You must be crowned,” he said simply. “Not for them. Not for your banners or your allies or even your enemies. For yourself. For what is yours.”

The flicker of something unspoken passed through Rhaenyra’s expression; something like acknowledgment, perhaps understanding, perhaps reluctance. She had never needed symbols to know her own strength. But if she was to take back what had been stolen, the realm needed to see her not just as the rightful heir, but as the ruler who had already claimed her seat. Rhaenys, standing beside her, studied Daemon carefully before shifting her gaze to Rhaenyra.

“He is right,” she said, though her voice was softer than usual. “If you wish the realm to follow you—to see that the throne is yours—you must be crowned. Not simply by blood, but by ceremony.”

Jaehaerys, still poised over the map, glanced up at the exchange. “It will strengthen our claim,” he added, his tone thoughtful. “If the lords see you as Queen, not merely the rightful heir, but as one already seated in power, then their loyalty will be reinforced.”

Lucerys nodded, though his expression flickered with a hint of something more, perhaps pride, perhaps anticipation. “Then let her be crowned,” he murmured, his voice edged with quiet reverence.

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, the pain still lingering in the depths of her body, but her mind was set. She would claim what was hers.

She glanced between them all; Daemon, Rhaenys, her sons, her Queensguard.

“Then it shall be done,” she said finally, her voice like steel. “I will be crowned on Dragonstone, in the presence of those who stand beside me.”

Daemon smirked faintly, leaning back, satisfied. “Good,” he murmured. “Let the realm see its queen.”

Rhaenyra straightened, despite the ache in her limbs. Let them see her. Let them know that fire still burned. Let them witness the rise of the Black Queen.

Chapter Text

Otto had never been a man who waited for events to unfold.

The death of a king was inevitable, but the moment of opportunity lay not in the mourning—it lay in the preparation, and Otto Hightower had prepared meticulously.

Viserys had been fading for moons, his body turning frail, his mind slipping into softness. The court whispered, but none spoke the words aloud. None dared. Otto had known for years that the day would come, that the realm would wake to the news that the King was gone. When that day came, he ensured it would be his hand that grasped the throne first.

The armies had not yet gathered, but they had begun to move in the moons leading up to Viserys’s death. Tyland Lannister had understood, had seen the necessity. Before Viserys drew his final breath, the Lannister’s had set their march toward the capital, their banners flying beneath the guise of routine movement, of quiet precaution. Not war, not yet—but presence.

Aegon had been a hindrance, a child who had never grasped the weight of the crown Otto had placed upon his head. But Otto did not need him to rule. He only needed him to hold the throne long enough for the city to believe.

The Kingsguard had been easily taken once Ser Harrold Westerling stepped down. Ser Criston Cole, a man whose loyalty burned not for duty, but for resentment, had been a tool well placed. He had moved efficiently, stripping away the weak-willed and those loyal to Rhaenyra, replacing them with those who would not falter to support the Greens.  

The Goldcloaks followed, their command shifting without ceremony, their allegiance cemented before questions could be asked. They patrolled the streets not as enforcers of justice, but as extensions of Otto’s will. The smallfolk did not notice the shift immediately. Change was subtle; harsh whispers behind closed doors, the silencing of tongues that spoke too openly in Rhaenyra’s favour.

But silence had not been enough.

Ravens meant for Dragonstone never reached their destination. The first waves of dissenters vanished quietly, removed before unrest could bloom. Lords who had sworn themselves to Rhaenyra, believing her claim secured, found themselves with a singular choice, bend the knee, or be erased.

Some bent.

Others did not.

Otto had been thorough. He had moved before grief could settle, before Viserys’ name could be etched into the histories. However, even the most meticulous hands could not grasp every loose thread. Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk had slipped through his fingers, stealing away to Dragonstone, carrying with them a truth he had sought to bury; a message that would reach the Whore of Dragonstone before she could be blindsided.

It was a failure Otto could not afford, and while they had a five-day head start, it was frustrating, nonetheless. And the crown. Viserys' crown. The Conciliator’s crown. That relic of legitimacy had been spirited away, placed upon the head of the woman Otto had spent decades ensuring would never rule. It had not been a show of defiance or rebellion.

It had been a statement.

Rhaenyra would sit as heir to her father; not as some usurper, not as an outcast clinging to scraps, but as the rightful successor and Otto had failed to stop it. The knowledge festered in him, deeper than anger, heavier than frustration. It was not simply failure, it was exposure. The cracks in his foundation were showing. The careful work, the bloodied hands, the purges, the forced silence—none of it had been enough to keep Rhaenyra learning of her father’s death.

Otto had always believed that control was a matter of foresight.

That wars were won not on the battlefield, but in the quiet corridors of influence, in the whispered exchanges before swords were ever raised. And yet his spies brought him nothing but failure.

Movements on Dragonstone.

The Queen Who Never Was had abandoned the safety of Driftmark, flying to Rhaenyra’s side. She had always been dangerous—not as a fighter, not as some great military mind, but as proof that women could rule. That Viserys’ choice had never been madness, but precedent. She was fuel for Rhaenyra’s cause, for the illusion of legitimacy that Otto had fought so bitterly to tear apart.

And then, the bastards.

The boys who carried nothing but stolen names, soaring across the skies on their beasts, scattering like crows to the great houses. Otto had known, had expected this manoeuvre, yet knowing did little to dull the sting of watching it unfold. It meant the game was slipping further from his grasp; that the realm was being rallied against him with quiet efficiency.

And then, the child. Another mistake. Another failure.

The whore had borne another spawn, another piece of Rhaenyra’s legacy that should never have existed. The girl was small, frail. Perhaps fortune would steal her breath before she could rise. Perhaps nature would intervene where Otto had not yet dared.

If only Rhaenyra had carried her mother’s curse. If only she had drowned in loss instead of thriving in defiance.

Perhaps it would be easier to ensure she never thrived again. A thought sharpened in his mind, cruel and cold.

Perhaps, this time, Otto should abandon restraint.

The weight of the realm's survival rested heavily on Otto's shoulders; a burden that seemed to grow more insufferable with each passing day. He had hoped to wield his influence like a master swordsman, cutting down opposition with precision and authority. Yet, as each strategy failed, Otto found himself contemplating more drastic measures.

Otto’s hand tightened on the edge of the balcony, his knuckles whitening as the thought lingered—sharp and cruel. Perhaps it was time to abandon the pretence of restraint. The Whore’s death would be the decisive blow he needed, a silencing of rebellion before it could bloom into full-scale war.

But his thoughts fractured as the sharp click of boots echoed behind him, a measured, deliberate stride that broke through the fog of his calculations. Otto turned sharply, his expression darkening as Ser Criston Cole stepped into view, his armour catching the pale morning light filtering through the room. Criston bowed his head, the action clipped but respectful.

“Lord Hand,” he began, his voice low, carrying the weight of urgency.

“Speak.” Otto’s tone brooked no delay. He knew Criston well enough to recognize the purpose in his arrival. This was not a man prone to theatrics.

Criston straightened; his expression carved from stone. “The Blackwater Bay has been blockaded.”

For a moment, Otto did not move, the words sinking like lead into his chest. Blockaded. The word rang with finality, tearing through the layers of control he had so carefully constructed.

“How many ships?” Otto demanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the growing unease roiling in his mind.

“Enough,” Criston replied simply. “The Velaryon’s’ fleet has arrived in full strength. The blockade is complete. Nothing enters or leaves the city by sea.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, his thoughts racing. The Velaryon’s had always been Rhaenyra’s staunchest allies, their mastery of the seas unmatched. He had anticipated their involvement, had calculated the possibility—but this. This was swift, decisive. The capital was choked, its lifeblood severed by the fleet encircling its shores. Supplies would dwindle. Restless lords would feel the tightening noose, their doubts swelling with every passing day.

“Have the smallfolk noticed?” Otto asked, his words clipped, the wheels of his mind already turning toward mitigation.

Criston gave a single, curt nod. “There are murmurs. Fear spreads quickly, my lord.”

Fear. It was both Otto’s greatest weapon and his most precarious liability. He could wield it, force the city to remain silent, but fear too easily slipped into chaos. Too easily turned into rebellion.

He released a slow breath, steadying himself. “Send word to Tyland. The Lannister’s’ advance must quicken. I care not for subtleties now—we need their swords at the gates. And the Goldcloaks?”

“Positioned, as you ordered,” Criston answered. “But even they will not quell panic if the blockade lingers.”

“Then we must ensure it does not linger,” Otto snapped, turning back toward the balcony, his gaze narrowing on the distant blue of the bay. He could feel the tightening noose, the pressure building around the Red Keep, and the growing realization that his carefully laid plans were beginning to splinter under the weight of Rhaenyra’s counterstrike.

It was a crack, but it was not yet a collapse. Not if he could act swiftly.

“Double patrols in the streets,” Otto ordered. “Silence any talk of rebellion. The smallfolk need to believe that control has not faltered.”

Criston hesitated, just briefly, his jaw tightening before he bowed his head. “As you command, my lord.”

Otto turned away from him, his mind already leaping to the next steps, the next moves he needed to make. The Velaryon’s may have choked the city, but Otto Hightower had spent a lifetime manoeuvring through suffocation. If the sea was closed to him, he would find another way.

But even as the thought solidified, he could not quiet the faint, gnawing edge of doubt that scraped against the corners of his mind. This was a problem.

One that required a solution immediately.

His fingers tapped absently against the stone, his thoughts pulling at threads—who needed silencing, which Lords would break first, how to craft a countermove before the panic in the streets turned into something worse.

"You should have seen this coming."

It was not Criston’s voice.

It was softer. Sharper.

Otto exhaled slowly through his nose before turning.

Alicent lingered near the threshold, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes dark with something that was not quite accusation—but was far too close to it. She was a vision of composed strength, a Queen Dowager carved from duty and expectation.

Her hair had been styled with practiced precision, golden-brown curls swept into an elegant half-up arrangement, pinned with emerald-studded adornments befitting her station. Not a strand lay out of place, no sign of distress marked her features; only the rigid restraint of a woman who had learned long ago that weakness could never be worn openly.

Her gown was a masterpiece of quiet authority, deep emerald, the shade of Hightower and dragon alike, with delicate leaf embroidery in gold curling along the hem, creeping up the sleeves like veins of gilded control. She did not dress as a widow in mourning, nor as a mother wracked with concern.

She dressed as a Queen who would not be overlooked.

And yet, despite the flawless composition of power draped around her shoulders, Otto saw it—the hesitation, the doubt settling just beneath the surface. The quiet fracture forming between belief and truth. She did not speak again immediately, but when she did, her voice carried the weight of something brittle, something sharp.

"You should have seen this coming."

“I anticipated resistance,” Otto said carefully. His words were measured, even, meant to placate. “But not—”

“The sea is closed, father,” she interrupted, stepping further into the chamber, her dress whispering against the stone. “The blockade is complete. You will starve the city before you ever force Rhaenyra to surrender. You should have sent terms; we may have been able to avoid this.”

Her voice did not waver.

Otto narrowed his gaze. “Do you intend to lecture me on strategy?”

Alicent inhaled sharply, her fingers flexing in quiet frustration. “I intend to understand what happens next.”

Her presence in this moment unsettled him—not because she did not belong in strategy, but because her gaze carried something deeper. Something dangerous.

Something that looked far too much like doubt. Otto did not allow hesitation to show. He had spent decades wielding control with quiet efficiency, and he would not bend simply because his daughter had chosen this moment to demand answers. He exhaled, turning fully toward her, hands clasping behind his back in calculated dismissal. She does not understand.

“The blockade will be broken in due time,” he said smoothly, measured, as though explaining a simple matter of state rather than a crisis threatening to choke the city. “The Velaryon’s believe themselves untouchable upon the waters, but King’s Landing is not so easily suffocated. The Lannister’s’ forces will arrive within the next week, the Goldcloaks are prepared. There is nothing to concern yourself with.”

Alicent did not flinch.

She stood straight, tall despite the weight pressing against her chest. The pearls at her throat gleamed in the dim light, her gown rich in emerald and gold, every inch the Queen Dowager, carrying the quiet authority Otto had so carefully moulded into her since girlhood. And yet, she was not the pliant girl he had once shaped.

Her fingers curled at her sides before she spoke, steady and deliberate. “You move without informing me.”

Otto’s brow furrowed, the first flicker of irritation ghosting across his expression. “I move to secure this kingdom for your son, as I always have.”

Alicent’s lips pressed together, thin, unreadable. “For Aegon,” she echoed, though there was something else beneath her tone—something Otto did not like.

She took a step forward, her gown whispering against the stone, the delicate gold embroidery catching the light as though mocking the weight pressing against her chest. Her gaze was sharp, unwavering, despite the tremor she forced down, the quiet war raging beneath her composed exterior.

“You silence dissent,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something brittle, something sharp. “Cut out tongues before questions can be asked. Have men removed in the dead of night—and expect that I simply look away.”

Otto’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he regarded her. “I expect you to understand what is necessary,” he replied, his tone clipped, dismissive. “This is war, Alicent. Sacrifices must be made.”

Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, but she did not falter. She had spent years swallowing her discomfort, turning her gaze away from the shadows that lingered in her father’s wake. But now, as the weight of his actions pressed against her, as the city trembled beneath the blockade, as the streets whispered rebellion, she could no longer ignore the truth.

“Sacrifices,” she repeated, her voice quieter now, but no less cutting. “Children taken from their homes. Women dragged from their chambers. Families torn apart in the name of control. Is that what you call necessary?”

Otto’s gaze narrowed, his fingers curling behind his back. “You speak as though you do not benefit from these measures. Your son sits the throne because of them.”

Her son.

Aegon.

Alicent’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as his name echoed in her mind. She loved him—of course she loved him. He was her child, her blood, her legacy. But that love was twisted now, tangled in the knowledge of his inadequacy, the bitter truth that he was not suited for the crown she had fought so bitterly to place upon his head. And yet, he must uphold it. He must be king.

Because if he faltered, if he fell, their lives would be forfeit. The Greens would crumble, and the war would consume them all.

“I know what is necessary,” she said finally, her voice trembling but firm. “But do not mistake my silence for approval. I have prayed for forgiveness for the things I have allowed you to do. For the lives you have taken in the name of my son’s reign.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience fraying. “Your prayers will not save this kingdom, Alicent. Action will.”

Her gaze hardened, her fingers curling at her sides. “And what will save us when the city turns against us? When the smallfolk rise, when the Lords rebel, when the streets burn? Will your actions save us then?”

Otto did not answer immediately. He could see it now, the fracture forming in her resolve, the quiet rebellion simmering beneath her piety. She was still his daughter, still bound by duty, but she was no longer blind to the cost of his ambition. And that made her dangerous.

 Otto did not answer immediately.

She had looked away. For years, she had chosen silence. Had allowed herself to believe his methods were necessary, had turned her gaze elsewhere when choices were made that should have sickened her. But now, she was seeing him, seeing all the pieces he had shifted without her knowledge, without her approval.

His fingers tightened behind his back. “You are the Queen Dowager, Alicent. Your concern is Aegon’s reign, his legacy—not war strategy.”

“My concern,” she said sharply, “is the city I must watch crumble while my son drowns himself in his cups.”

Otto stiffened.

Alicent’s breath was shallow, but she did not back down. She was not challenging him outright—she was still his daughter, still a product of his careful instruction—but she was angry. At him, at herself. At the war she had spent years believing was righteous, only to now feel it slipping through their fingers.

And that anger made her dangerous.

Otto considered her, calculating, searching for the thread he could pull to regain control.

“The blockade will not last,” he said finally, shifting back into command, into reassurance, into control. “The city will remain intact, and the crown will hold.”

Alicent inhaled through her nose, forcing herself to listen, to accept… but not to believe. Not entirely.

Otto could see it in her eyes.

She was beginning to doubt.

Alicent exhaled slowly, forcing the tremor in her hands to still. Otto watched her, waiting, assessing, searching for a weakness to exploit, a thread to pull that would drag her back into compliance. She would not give him that. She stepped back, chin lifting just slightly, the pearls at her throat catching in the light. Her gown fell in elegant folds around her, emerald dark against the gold of her sleeves, a queen carved in restraint and quiet suffering.

"I will pray," she murmured, her voice even, controlled.

Otto scoffed, low and dismissive as he repeated his earlier words. "Your prayers will not save this kingdom."

Alicent did not acknowledge him. She turned, moving toward the door with measured grace, each step carrying her further from the chamber, from her father, from the suffocating calculations that had defined her life. The Royal Sept would offer her no true solace, only the cold stone beneath her knees and the fragile hope that someone was listening. The stone halls of the Keep stretched long before her, silent save for the whisper of her skirts against the floor.

Alicent walked with purpose, but her hands trembled, her fingers curling against her palms, pressing deep into her skin as though she might ground herself there—hold herself together.

She had done this before.

She had prayed for peace before war had come, had begged the gods for clarity when the crown had been placed upon her son’s head, had pleaded for forgiveness for all that she had allowed her father to do in the name of duty, but the gods had never answered.

She stepped into the Royal Sept, the air cool against her skin, the scent of burning wax and aged stone pressing around her. She should kneel. She must kneel. And yet, she lingered in the threshold, a memory swelling in her throat, thick with sorrow.

A younger Rhaenyra had knelt here once, small and fragile in the wake of her mother’s death, eyes rimmed red, her hands clenched too tightly in her lap.

She had not known how to pray.

Alicent had taught her.

She had guided Rhaenyra’s trembling fingers together, had whispered the words softly, had spoken of the gods as comfort, as presence, as something that might ease the ache. She had pressed warmth into Rhaenyra’s hands, had held them when grief had shattered through her prayers.  Her knees hit the stone, her skirts pooling around her, her hands pressing together not in devotion, but in desperation.

She had once whispered prayers for Rhaenyra’s peace.

Now, she whispered them for her own.

--

Lucerys had not expected hostility at Storm’s End, but neither had he expected failure. Lord Borros had been dismissive, impatient, his booming voice drowning out any hope of diplomacy. There had been no loyalty in his words, only the weight of broken oaths discarded in favour of marriage pacts and power. The laughter of his court had echoed in the vast, empty hall, pressing against Lucerys’ ribs like something sharp, something final. He had left with his jaw tight, his mind clouded with the bitter sting of rejection, the storm already howling around him.

And then he saw Aemond.

Aemond had landed at the gates, Vhagar settling with slow, deliberate patience, the beast unbothered by the winds curling through the courtyard. Aemond’s figure was familiar, his stance framed against the storm’s darkened embrace, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across his features. He was still clad in riding leathers, damp from the rain, his hair sticking against his forehead.

But his expression was not hostile.

Not cold.

It was pleased.

Lucerys did not hesitate to raise a hand in a brief wave, the tension of the failed negotiations slipping away, if only for a moment and Aemond lifted the scroll he had stashed in his belt, its wax seal untouched, the pale parchment catching in the torchlight as he held it aloft. It was a message meant for Daemon and Rhaenyra, for his sister whose forces tightened around the capital. But it was not a challenge.

Lucerys understood instantly.

The boy nodded once, sharp, sure, no hesitation between them. He gestured toward the storm-heavy skies, toward the jagged expanse above Storm’s End where the winds howled, and lightning split the heavens. A meeting place. A manoeuvre planned without words.

Aemond smirked, just briefly, just enough to let memory seep in. They had done this before.

In the training yards of Dragonstone, their bodies moving in tandem beneath Daemon’s sharp gaze. Silent communication. No wasted breath, no shouted orders, only understanding between warriors who knew each other’s rhythm. They had sparred without words, had flown without them, had learned to read the flicker of a glance, the twitch of a hand, the shift of weight before movement.

Now, despite the war that lingered in the distance, despite the sides drawn between them, they fell back into knowing. Aemond swung back into Vhagar’s saddle without a word and Lucerys did the same with Arrax. Together, they ascended into the storming skies, hair plastered to their skin, ready to pass their communications between one another.

The skies over Storm’s End had never been kind, but this storm was unlike any before it. The air was thick with fury, the winds howling with the wrath of a god unseen. Lightning split the heavens, jagged veins of white streaking against the endless dark. The rain fell in violent sheets, turning the world into blurred shadows, into the indistinct chaos of water and sky merging into one.

The rain lashed against their skin, turning their cloaks to dead weight, their fingers stiff against reins slick with cold. The winds shrieked, pulling at Arrax’s wings, dragging him sideways—an unrelenting force that cared nothing for blood, nor for royal lineage, nor for the silent understanding between two riders suspended in the heavens.

Lucerys gritted his teeth, urging Arrax forward, his movements clipped, sharp tightened into survival rather than grace. He was light upon the saddle, his body small enough that every gust threatened to throw him from his beast, to rip him into the abyss below.

Aemond followed.

His grip was firm, unshaken against Vhagar’s reins, but even the great beast struggled against the storm’s wrath. Rain streaked against Aemond’s face, his hair plastered against his brow, his breaths measured, his pulse hammering beneath the damp fabric clinging to his chest.

They passed signals between them.

Lucerys flicked his wrist—a movement taught in the training yards; a manoeuvre practiced under Daemon’s watchful gaze. Rise.

Aemond responded with a sharp tilt of his fingers. Shift left.

They understood. Even now, even with war looming beneath them, they understood.

Lightning split the sky, searing through the black, an echo of fire and fury that tore across the heavens.

Lucerys twisted instinctively, his breath catching, his grip tightening on his grip tightening on Arrax’s reins. Aemond cursed beneath his breath, urging his great, lumbering dragon forward to reach him. He had to pass a message to his nephew, meant to pull the strings of diplomacy before the war could deepen.

But fate did not wait for men to hold their conversations.

It came with fire. With fury. With the judgment of a storm that cared little for kings or heirs or rival factions. Lightning split the sky and struck Arrax in a blaze of white, searing through flesh and bone, through wing and scale. The dragon screamed, its body convulsing against the violent electricity surging through its form.

Lucerys did not even have time to cry out.

The storm swallowed him whole.

And when Aemond reached for him; when he urged Vhagar forward, desperate, reckless, reaching—there was nothing left to grasp. Aemond saw it happen, felt it, as if the searing light had torn through his own flesh.

One moment, Lucerys was there, his small frame hunched against Arrax’s thrashing, his movements clipped, controlled, instinct guiding him through the fury of the heavens. The next… there was nothing.

Only the blinding flash, the deafening roar of electricity colliding with scale, the terrible, wrenching scream of a dragon dying mid-flight.

And then, silence.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening painfully around Vhagar’s reins, his heart hammering beneath his ribs. His eye darted through the storm, searching, desperate. Where was he?

He urged Vhagar forward, reckless now, uncaring of the winds, of the rain slicing against his skin, of the deafening rage of the storm. His thoughts ran sharp and jagged, cutting against his mind, repeating in endless succession—

Lucerys was gone.

"Lucerys!"

The name tore from Aemond’s throat, swallowed instantly by the wind, unheard, unheeded. He searched the skies. He searched the seas below. He searched the storm that had stolen his nephew whole. But no matter how many times he turned, how many times he called, how many times he forced Vhagar through the chaos—

Lucerys was gone.

And when the skies finally cleared, when the lightning ceased and the winds relented, there was no body to recover.

Only the wreckage of a boy lost to the storm.

Aemond doesn’t process it immediately—he couldn’t. The moment stretches too long, the wind still clawing at his cloak, the rain still pressing cold against his skin. Vhagar huffs beneath him, uneasy, the great beast sensing his tension, the sharp rigidity in his spine, the way his fingers have gone taut around the reins.

Lucerys is gone. It had been an accident. A freak turn of fate. A tragedy written in the storm, a death that had not been caused by blade or hatred or pursuit, but by the wrath of the skies themselves. And yet, no one would believe it.

No one would see the storm as executioner. No one would look upon the shattered remnants of Arrax and think lightning had stolen the boy before Aemond could speak. No one would care that he had not meant to chase him, had not meant to harm him, had not meant for their meeting to be anything but an exchange—that they had coordinated their movements to communicate without anyone seeing or hearing. No one would see this as anything but murder.

His fingers curled tighter, his breath shallow against the wind. His heart pounded; uneven, erratically, wrong. He had been seen. The men in Storm’s End had watched him ascend after Lucerys, had seen the two riders rise together into the storm.

They would tell Daemon.

They would tell Rhaenyra.

And that would be the end.

He was no stranger to death. He had tasted the violence of the training yards, had endured pain enough to know its shape. But this was different. This was something else entirely.

This was not war.

This was a child.

A child who had once idolized him.

A child Aemond had once called brother and now, a child who was lost to the abyss.

His stomach churned, twisting against something foreign, something dark. His fingers loosened briefly, then clenched again. His pulse drummed against his skull, his breath refusing to steady. His body knew what had happened. His mind refused to accept it as he turned Vhagar slowly, deliberately, the rain streaking down his face, his eye burning against the wind.

Aemond couldn’t hesitate. He would not return to King’s Landing, would not face Otto’s scrutiny or Alicent’s indifference, would not endure the inevitability of what would be demanded of him. He had no love for war, no thirst for blood, and now, with Lucerys lost, the boy who had been the best of them all, with his name already written in the histories as murderer, he had no patience for the inevitable march toward vengeance.

He would fly to Rhaenyra.

Toward the only person who would understand—who might listen.

The flight was relentless.

He had ridden Vhagar through storms before, had braced against howling winds and the sharp lash of freezing rain, but never like this. Never when his body had already stiffened with the weight of grief, when his thoughts had blurred into jagged fragments, his pulse hammering in his throat as though it might tear him apart from within. The winds fought him at every turn.

Rain stung against his skin, seeping through the seams of his cloak, through the leather of his armour, chilling him to his core. His fingers were stiff against the reins, gripping them too tightly, his knuckles raw from the strain. His muscles ached from holding his position, his thighs burning with each sharp movement, each desperate attempt to urge Vhagar forward.

The great beast carried him without question, but even she had to fight against the elements. She was old, wise, stronger than the storm, yet the winds buffeted her wings, forcing her to adjust, to compensate for the fury pressing against them from all sides.

Aemond barely registered time.

He did not notice how long he had flown, how far Dragonstone still sat upon the horizon. He did not feel the way his body shivered beneath his soaked clothing, how the cold bit into his ribs and settled there like an iron grip.

He only felt the ache—the hollow, aching weight of knowing.

By the time Dragonstone finally emerged from the mist, its jagged cliffs cutting against the darkened sky, his body was beyond exhaustion. His limbs trembled from strain, his throat burned from the ragged breaths he had barely remembered taking, his fingers had nearly lost all feeling.

He descended unevenly, too fast, the landing harsher than it should have been.

His boot slipped as he dismounted, his knees buckling just slightly, just enough for him to catch himself before he fell. He inhaled sharply, forcing steadiness into his legs, ignoring the way his body protested, the way his muscles felt like fire, the way his vision blurred just at the edges. The guards did not stop him. They would never stop Aemond, Rhaenyra’s precious brother. Especially not when they saw the desperation in his face, the way his knuckles were white against Vhagar’s saddle, the way he did not wear the composure of a prince—but the exhaustion of a man who had lost something irretrievable.

Dragonstone was calm. The sea stretched endlessly beyond its cliffs, dark and rolling beneath the skies, the wind carrying the scent of salt and rain. The great fortress was still. Unknowing. It had not yet heard the whispers carried upon the tides.

The halls did not yet echo with grief. The war had not yet deepened. Aemond stepped forward, his limbs stiff, his breath uneven, his body still aching from the flight. His boots scraped against the stone, damp from the rain, his cloak clinging to his shoulders, heavier than it should be.

He was tired, his body ached all over, the leathers chafing his skin, rubbing it raw.

The chamber was tense with the weight of strategy, the painted table stretching before them, its carved surface illuminated by flickering candlelight. Lords spoke in measured tones, voices weaving over one another, tracing paths of war, of alliances, of fleets and strongholds. The air was thick with purpose—plans that would shape the future of the realm.

And then the heavy doors swung open, rain-dampened boots scraping against the stone. Aemond’s sudden presence fractured the room, dragging attention toward him like a force unseen.

He was not meant to be here. Not as an enemy. Not as an emissary. Not as a prince carrying war upon his shoulders.

But as a man broken.

Rhaenyra turned, her fingers instinctively lifting from the edge of the table, her breath catching in relief—Aemond. Alive.

But not whole.

He was soaked through, his leathers stiff with cold, his damp hair clinging to his brow. His face was paler than it should have been, exhaustion carved deep into his features, his single eye dark with something raw, something unchecked.

Aemond had not felt warmth in a long time. Not the kind that softened the edges of a harsh world, not the kind that wrapped around him without expectation, without demand, without the unspoken weight of duty pressing between them. But here, in the halls of Dragonstone, beneath the flickering candlelight, beneath the sharp gaze of lords and Queensguard alike, Rhaenyra moved toward him, and there was nothing but fierce relief in her eyes.

She was every inch as he remembered her.

Regal yet gentle, fierce yet kind. Her black gown hugged her frame, flowing like liquid shadow, intricate embroidery of fire and gold curling along the hem. The candlelight caught against the delicate silver chain at her throat, shimmering like dragon’s breath, casting soft glows against the curve of her collarbone. Her hair, silver like the moonlight, was twisted into careful braids, woven in the old Valyrian fashion, secured with gems that gleamed against the warmth of her skin.

And her eyes. Gods, her eyes.

Aemond had never sought comfort in them before, had never needed to… but now, as she closed the distance, as she reached for him without hesitation, without guarded caution, without the cold, distant love of his mother; he felt something fragile press against his ribs.

She did not wait for him to speak as she embraced him.

The council stiffened further, Rhaenys’ expression flickering with caution, Daemon watching with unreadable intensity, but Aemond barely registered them because Rhaenyra was here, her arms firm around him, her warmth chasing away the cold that had settled deep into his bones from the flight, from the loss, from the weight of something unbearable.

She smelled of smoke, cinnamon and oranges, of Dragonstone’s salt-heavy air, of the familiar presence he had not known he needed until now.

Aemond’s throat tightened.

He did not move immediately.

He was stiff, locked in place, uncertain if he was allowed this moment—allowed to lean into it, allowed to accept it – and then slowly, hesitantly, with the faintest tremor in his fingers, he raised his arms, pressing them against her back, gripping the fabric of her gown, his breath unsteady.

Rhaenyra exhaled against his shoulder, holding him tighter.

"You’re safe," she whispered.

Aemond closed his eye and for the first time since the storm, he breathed. After a moment, he opened his mouth… but no words came.

Rhaenyra was still holding him, still anchoring him in the present, in the warmth of her embrace, in the quiet hum of familiarity that softened the edges of something unbearable. Her presence was safety, was relief, was everything his mother had never been—but it did not change what he had to say.

"Lucerys is gone."

The words had been spoken already, but now, beneath the weight of Rhaenyra’s concern, beneath the sharp gazes of the council, beneath Daemon’s silent, unreadable stare—Aemond had to say more. Had to say what should never have been spoken.

Had to say what the world would never believe.

"It wasn’t me."

It sounded too hollow. Too empty. Too inadequate.

He swallowed hard, his throat thick with something suffocating. He did not know how to say it—to explain it—to make her understand.

Rhaenyra pulled back just slightly, her hands still firm against his arms, her brows furrowing as she studied him. Her expression was shifting now, concern edged with something sharper, something wary, something instinctually afraid of what he had come here to say.

"Aemond."

His name was softer than it should have been. Her hand was on his jaw as she gazed at him, fighting her own urge to break to offer comfort to one of her many brood. He clenched his jaw, tried to force the words, tried to push through the barrier pressing against his lungs.

"It was the storm," he rasped, his voice raw, broken.

Rhaenyra did not move.

Did not react.

Did not blink.

She only listened.

And somehow—that made it worse.

She had always known Aemond; had understood the sharp lines of his restraint, the way his body carried tension even in moments of stillness, the way his single eye flickered with too many thoughts left unsaid. But now, as he stood before her, drenched from the storm, his fingers stiff with exhaustion, his jaw locked against words he could barely force from his throat… her baby boy was unravelling.

Lucerys was gone.

And Aemond was breaking.

"It was the storm," he had rasped again, his voice hoarse, his breath unsteady, his frame still rigid with the weight of something unbearable.

And Rhaenyra felt it.

Her first instinct was to hold him tighter, to pull him into the embrace of the sister who had raised him as a son, to offer the warmth he had always found in her, to chase away the suffocating loss pressing against his ribs. He was her blood, her family, her child, even if he had never been hers in name.

She inhaled sharply and her fingers curled tighter around his arms as his body gave out. The weight of the storm, of the flight, of grief pressed against him with unforgiving force, his knees striking the stone floor with a sharp crack. His breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his fingers twitching where they clung to Rhaenyra’s sleeves. His frame shuddered, his exhaustion ripping through him with all the force of the winds that had nearly swallowed him whole.

Rhaenyra did not hesitate.

She dropped to her knees with him, hands bracing against his shoulders, grounding him, holding him firm as his body trembled beneath the enormity of what he carried. The council remained silent, watching, assessing, uncertain in the presence of a grief so raw, so unexpected.

But Rhaenyra did not waver.

"Breathe."

Her voice was soft but commanding, her grip steady against his arms, fingers pressing lightly into the damp fabric of his sleeves. Aemond barely managed to inhale.

His mind was fraying, pulling at the edges of the storm, at the flash of lightning, at the agonizing silence that had followed. His chest felt tight—too tight—his pulse erratic, hammering against his ribs. His fingers curled tighter, grasping for something, anything solid in a world that had shifted beneath him.

And Rhaenyra was there.

"Look at me."

She reached for his face, her fingers gentle beneath his jaw, guiding him upward, forcing his eye to meet hers.

There was no accusation in her gaze. No immediate anger, no blame. Only understanding. Only quiet, unrelenting love.

Aemond choked on a breath, his shoulders shaking.

"I—"

The word never formed. His throat was too raw, too closed, too broken beneath the weight of it all.

Rhaenyra pulled him into her embrace again, cradling him against her shoulder, her own breath shuddering—but she did not cry.

She could not.

Not yet.

Not when Aemond needed her first. She had to hold him together.

But her own grief—gods, her own grief burned.

It pressed against her throat, curled against her ribs, clawed at her lungs like a beast ready to tear through her. She wanted to scream, to rip through the silence of the chamber, to crumple beneath the unbearable agony that threatened to consume her.

But she did not.

She could not.

She was a mother, but she was also a queen. And she would not let herself break.

Not when Aemond already had.

Her fingers trembled as she exhaled, controlled, careful, pressing her own grief down, burying it beneath duty, beneath instinct, beneath the quiet strength she had wielded for years.

"You are home," she murmured, forcing steadiness into her voice.

Aemond’s breath caught.

And though her own ribs screamed, she swallowed the agony whole.

For him.

For her son.

Daemon had been silent too long.

He had watched as Aemond stumbled into the Hall of the Painted Table, drenched from the storm, his body stiff with exhaustion, his fingers trembling against Rhaenyra’s sleeves. He had seen the weight pressing against his frame, the strain carving deep into his features, the grief coiling tight beneath his skin.

He had listened as his wife spoke soft reassurances, as her fingers steadied Aemond’s grip, as she held him together even as her own world threatened to fall apart. He had heard the rasp in Aemond’s voice, the quiet fracture in his words, the undeniable truth buried beneath exhaustion and sorrow.

But now, as Aemond collapsed completely, as his knees hit the stone, as his body trembled, as his breath hitched, as Rhaenyra whispered comfort into the air thick with grief, Daemon finally moved.

He stood, deliberately. Measuredly.

His fingers curled at his sides, his pulse steady, his steps slow as he approached. The council did not stop him. They would not stop him. Aemond did not look up, nor brace or react to his presence, sobbing into Rhaenyra’s shoulder like a babe.

And Daemon saw it now.

Saw him.

Not as the Prince of the Greens.

Not as the enemy across the battlefield.

Not as the boy who had once idolized him, who had once mimicked his movements in the training yards, who had once listened with quiet, eager attention as Daemon spoke of war, of strategy, of dragons, of legacy.

But as a son.

As a boy breaking.

Daemon knelt next to his wife and nephew. Not cautiously, not hesitantly, firmly. His presence was solid, unwavering, a force that could not be ignored, could not be dismissed. He placed a hand against Aemond’s shoulder, pressing just enough to anchor, just enough to remind him—you are still here.

Aemond exhaled sharply, his frame shaking, yet Daemon still said nothing, did not demand explanation nor push for words.

He only remained.

Only let Aemond feel it.

Let him know that he was there.

The chamber was oppressive in its silence.

The air was thick—salt-laden from the rolling tides beyond Dragonstone’s cliffs, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and charred wood. The sea winds did not reach this far into the castle, but their presence lingered, mixing with the heavy warmth of the chamber, the slow burn of candle wax curling against the air.

Beneath the painted table, flames flickered in the great brazier, their heat radiating upward, pressing against the fabric of Rhaenyra’s gown, against Aemond’s damp leathers, against Daemon’s careful, measured stance. The glow cast deep shadows across the carved map, illuminating the ridges and valleys of Westeros with the flickering, uneven light of war waiting to unfold.

The council watched them.

Eyes sharp, expressions unreadable, hands resting against sword pommels or the smooth surface of the table’s edge. Lord Simon Staunton shifted just slightly, fingers tightening where they had been relaxed. Lord Bartimos Celtigar’s gaze flickered between Aemond’s trembling form and Rhaenyra’s tightening hold. Rhaenys remained still, her posture rigid, her chin lifted; not dismissive but calculating.

Daemon was beside them now, kneeling with the quiet patience of a man who had raised kings, who had shaped warriors, who had known grief long before today. His breath was even, but his fingers twitched against Aemond’s shoulder.

And Rhaenyra was holding herself together.

Her ribs ached beneath the strain, her pulse uneven, but her grip did not falter. The heat beneath the table pressed against her skin, against the rising shudder of her breath, against the grief that screamed at her to shatter.

Lucerys was gone.

She had heard it. Felt it. Known it in the way Aemond collapsed, in the way his voice had rasped, broken, in the way Daemon had moved toward them.

She could not let herself fall.

Not yet.

Not when Aemond was still shaking beneath her touch. Not when the council remained silent, their gazes flickering between grief and calculation. Not when Daemon was lingering at their side, his fingers still firm against Aemond’s shoulder, his own loss pressing sharp behind his gaze. Rhaenyra inhaled through her nose, sharp and slow, forcing control into the muscles of her back, into the tension pressing against her spine, into the tremor that threatened to settle into her fingers.

She had carried burdens before.

She would carry this one, too.

"Aemond," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear, her voice steady despite the tightness in her throat. "You are not alone."

Her words were both promise and restraint.

She would not let him suffer, but she would not let herself collapse.

Not yet.

Not until the moment demanded it.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing writhed in the grip of siege, its pulse slow and faltering. The blockade tightened around the city like a noose, and the streets once bustling with trade now lay silent, littered with fragments of abandoned lives. Broken pottery crunched underfoot, scattered like forgotten relics of fleeting prosperity. The scent of rot lingered persistently, a grotesque reminder of food wasted or stolen by the Goldcloaks.

The sunlight was cruel and sharp, illuminating the cracks and scars of the city’s face. It carved long, menacing shadows across the alleys, where desperate figures crouched in silence, their ribs pressing through their threadbare tunics. Even the breeze seemed absent, as if it, too, had forsaken the city’s starving masses. The spring air, usually brisk and laced with the promise of renewal, was stagnant and thick, pressing against the skin like a humid embrace. Beads of sweat clung to brows and trickled down spines, collecting grit and ash as they fell. Those who ventured through the streets found themselves coated in the city’s grime, a fine layer of dust and soot that seemed to seep into pores and linger, no matter how furiously it was wiped away.

Within the Red Keep, tension swirled like smoke. The Greens huddled in their chambers, their voices sharp, slicing through the suffocating stillness. Otto Hightower loomed over court meetings; his commands issued with the steely coldness of inevitability. The granaries were emptied, their contents commandeered for the crown’s dwindling forces, while rumours whispered that even the nobility were feeling the pinch. Outside the Keep, the Goldcloaks patrolled with cruel efficiency, breaking down doors in search of hidden grain, dragging prisoners to the dungeons for questioning. Their mere presence turned streets into silent battlegrounds of hatred.

The Lannister army had swept through the city’s lower districts, their crimson banners fluttering mockingly over seized ramparts. Soldiers took prisoners indiscriminately; men accused of favouring the Blacks or simply bearing Targaryen features. They dragged away the old, the young, even babes in arms, leaving grieving families to curse their banners. The cries of mothers echoed in the desolate streets, mingling with the sharp clang of boots and the hollow thud of barred doors breaking open.

For the smallfolk, life was a waking nightmare. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, and desperation twisted their faces into masks of hollow rage. Breadlines stretched endlessly, but the loaves handed out were mere crumbs that crumbled in shaking hands. At the edge of the crowd, a starving woman bartered her tarnished silver locket for scraps—her trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks telling the story of countless others. The hatred boiled over in quiet corners, where whispers of rebellion grew louder, their venom directed at the royal family who feasted while they starved.

At the docks, the blockade transformed the harbour into a graveyard. Ships bearing the Blacks’ banners sat like vultures, cutting off escape and resupply. Even the waves seemed mournful, their sluggish lapping against rotting piers echoing the city’s anguish. Watermen sat idle, their eyes dull with anger, their trade strangled by the blockade’s iron grip. The cries of gulls, once a lively backdrop to the harbour’s bustle, were now an eerie soundtrack to the blockade’s silent grip. Their screeches echoed off stone walls, mingling with the desperate murmurs of the smallfolk. The sound was sharp and grating, like a blade scraping against brittle bone, slicing through the city’s suffocating silence.

The streets reeked of human suffering. The lingering scent of blood from skirmishes, the coppery tang cutting through the air, mingled with the putrid odour of backed-up drains and the faint waft of seawater from the distant docks. For those who passed through the lower districts, the smell of burning tallow—candles melted down into crude light sources—clung to the air, a bitter reminder of how far the city had fallen. Bones ached from the strain of standing too long, clutching empty bowls in trembling hands. Even murmured prayers to the Seven were hoarse and ragged, ripped from parched throats as if begging for deliverance from the gods who had abandoned them. Feet shuffled along cobblestones slick with sweat and grime, their uneven surfaces no longer a familiar annoyance but a treacherous hazard for weakened bodies. Each step reverberated through hollow bones, each stumble drawing sharp gasps from worn lips. The air was so stifling, so dense, that even speaking felt like a chore; words emerged hoarse, strained, as though torn from parched throats.

And yet, despite the oppressive heat, the coldness of fear was ever-present. It lingered in the chill of the shadows, in the icy glares exchanged between desperate neighbours, in the trembling of hands clutching empty bowls or tarnished heirlooms offered in barter for scraps. This was a city held in the jaws of war, its heartbeat faint, its breath ragged.

Nightfall brought no reprieve. Fires smouldered in Flea Bottom, casting sinister shadows on the walls of homes robbed of joy. Hunger reduced whispered complaints to murmurs of madness. In dark alleys, skeletal figures plotted, their burning eyes fixed on the distant Red Keep. The cries of the imprisoned, the starving, and the grieving filled the air, a chilling cacophony of suffering echoing through a city crushed by ambition and betrayal.

The clop-clop of hooves echoed down the street, jarring in the suffocating silence. Heads turned as a caravan appeared; a procession of barrels and sacks, piled high and protected by a thick wall of Goldcloaks. Their polished armour gleamed mockingly in the sunlight, a cruel contrast to the grime-streaked faces of those who stared, hollow-eyed, from the shadows. The smallfolk watched, motionless at first, their gaunt forms framed by the skeletal remains of once-thriving stalls. Then came the murmurs, bubbling up like bile.

“Another feast for the highborn,” hissed a toothless man, his voice trembling with rage. “While we gnaw on air.”

A woman clutching a bundle of rags to her chest—her baby or simply scraps of fabric for warmth, it was impossible to tell—shook her head. Her lips barely moved, yet her words carried the weight of a curse. “Dragons be damned. Let them choke on their gilded meals.”

The air reeked of sweat; unwashed bodies pressed together in the oppressive heat. Hunger had stripped all pretence of civility. Children with sunken cheeks scrambled toward the caravan, their filthy hands outstretched. A single loaf of bread slipped from one of the wagons, landing with a puff of dust. In an instant, chaos erupted.

The starving smallfolk surged forward, their skeletal arms grabbing, clawing, trampling one another for the pitiful scrap. A Goldcloak descended upon the crowd, swinging his cudgel indiscriminately. Cries of pain rose, mingling with the sickening crack of wood against bone. A boy no older than eight was knocked to the ground, blood streaming from his nose. His mother shrieked, but the guard did not pause.

From the edge of the street, an old man watched in stunned silence. His leathery face twisted with grief as he turned toward the Red Keep, its towers casting long shadows over the chaos. “They feast,” he muttered, the words half-swallowed by a dry, cracked throat. “They feast while we die.”

And still the caravan rolled on, its guards stoic, unyielding, blind to the anguish etched into every face they passed. A pregnant woman dropped to her knees, clutching her swollen belly as she begged for mercy.

“My babe,” she rasped. “Please, for my babe.” But the guards did not falter. One gave her a passing glance, a flicker of something like pity or disgust, before looking away.

The sound of grinding wheels faded into the distance, leaving behind a tableau of desperation. The woman remained on her knees; her sobs quiet but unrelenting. The boy’s mother cradled him, rocking back and forth in the dirt, her own hunger forgotten in the face of his stillness. The rest of the crowd stood frozen, their fury simmering just beneath the surface. It burned in their empty stomachs, in their parched throats, in the hatred blazing behind their sunken eyes.

The piers groaned under the weight of desperation. The bay, its waters slick and reeking from weeks of neglect, became the stage for a bitter battle. A handful of watermen hauled nets dripping with the scant remnants of life—a few scrawny, silver-scaled fish wriggling weakly against the ropes. The moment the catch hit the dock, the crowd surged forward, a mass of clawing hands and shrill voices.

“Mine!” shrieked a man with a sunken chest and an oily beard, his arms reaching greedily. A woman elbowed her way past him, snatching the smallest fish from the net and clutching it tightly to her breast as though it were a newborn. She didn’t get far. A gaunt youth dove toward her, his bony fingers wrapping around the slimy carcass as they wrestled in the grime-streaked mud. The fish snapped in two—its viscera spilling onto the wooden planks—but neither gave up, even as its rancid smell turned the stomachs of those watching.

Nearby, a haggard boy fought to keep his footing as he cradled a bucket containing waterlogged crabs too weak to claw their way out. A group of children surrounded him, their skeletal bodies moving with the feral grace of predators. The first blow landed hard on the boy’s shoulder, sending him sprawling. The bucket overturned, its contents scattering. The children dove, grabbing at the crabs with shaking hands, their hollow laughter echoing with a madness born of starvation.

Further inland, a pile of rotting fruit lay abandoned near a shuttered stall. The air around it was thick with the sour tang of decay, attracting flies that buzzed angrily at the commotion. A young mother reached for a blackened apple, trembling as she wiped at its bruised flesh with the hem of her dress. Her child clung to her leg, whimpering, too weak to cry. As her fingers closed around the fruit, a man swiped it from her grasp, shoving her aside with a grunt of triumph.

“No!” she cried, her voice hoarse and raw. “For my child! Please—”

But the man didn’t stop. He sank his teeth into the spoiled apple, not bothering to wipe away the dirt or the buzzing insects. The woman fell to her knees, clutching her child tightly, her sobs barely audible above the chaos.

At the very edges of the city, under the cover of twilight, whispers spread like wildfire. Crates had washed ashore at the crumbling docks, borne on the sluggish tides and emblazoned with the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen. Unlike the caravans to the Red Keep, guarded and ostentatious, these deliveries came shrouded in secrecy. They arrived at nightfall, sliding into the shallows under the cover of darkness, their weathered wood glinting faintly in the moonlight. Though small and scarce, the crates stirred something that had long been absent in King’s Landing: hope. The rumour spread quickly, carried by hushed voices from Flea Bottom to the slums near the bay.

“Dragonstone remembers us,” the smallfolk whispered. “The queen has not abandoned her people.”

The crates reeked faintly of saltwater, their wooden slats warped and battered by the journey. As soon as they were spotted, the docks came alive with movement. Smallfolk gathered like shadows, their eyes darting nervously toward patrolling Goldcloaks. The hunger that gnawed at their bellies made discretion difficult, but each person fought to keep their movements muted, their voices hushed.

They advanced cautiously at first, their footsteps hesitant, their eyes darting toward the waters as if expecting a trap. An elderly woman was the first to approach, her back hunched beneath the weight of age and suffering. She reached for a sack of barley, her gnarled fingers trembling as she lifted it, cradling it as though it were something sacred.

“Bless the queen,” she murmured, her voice thick with gratitude. She clutched a single sack of grain to her chest, her fingers gnarled but strong. For a moment, she seemed almost victorious—a relic of resilience in the face of despair.

But it didn’t last. A younger woman with wild, matted hair lunged toward her, her face twisted with desperation. “That’s mine!” she screamed, her voice a raw wound, and her hands clawed at the sack. The older woman staggered, clutching her prize even tighter, but her strength was no match for hunger and fury. With a savage jerk, the younger woman wrenched the sack away, sending the elder stumbling into the dirt.

The old woman cried out, her voice cracked and broken, but no one stopped to help. Around them, chaos erupted as more smallfolk descended on the crates. The sound of wood splintering filled the air as desperate hands tore at the lids, spilling provisions onto the ground. Salted fish, hard cheese, and dried bread—enough to spark hope but not nearly enough to feed a city.

Amid the chaos, a boy crouched low, his tiny hands darting toward a fallen loaf of bread. He clutched it to his chest, his face pale and gaunt, yet his wide eyes brimmed with a flicker of hope.

“For my sister,” he whispered, though no one was listening. He ran into the shadows before the scuffle could reach him. At the edge of the dockyards, a tall, silver haired man built like a brickhouse rose to prominence among the desperate. A blacksmith by trade, he was a towering figure with a booming voice that seemed to cut through the clamouring chaos. His broad shoulders, once hardened from working forges, now sagged with exhaustion, but his commanding presence brought a semblance of order.

“Form a line!” he bellowed as the latest shipment was hauled ashore under cover of night. “Everyone gets their share. Push, and you’ll leave with nothing.”

To the amazement of many, the crowd responded—hesitantly at first, like children too frightened to trust. The Blacksmith stalked along the line, his sharp eyes scanning for signs of trouble. He barked orders at a few younger men to carry sacks of barley or wheels of cheese toward the waiting smallfolk.

With each distribution, his voice carried reassurance: “Dragonstone remembers you. There is enough, if we stand together.”

For a moment, hope rippled through the gathered masses. The lines moved in tense silence, punctuated only by murmurs of thanks as bread was handed from rough, calloused hands to trembling fingers. A child hugged a loaf of hard bread to his chest as though it were treasure, his wide, tear-filled eyes gazing up at the Targaryen sigil as if it might speak to him.

But not all were so inclined to wait their turn. At the far end of the docks, the glow of newfound hope was smothered by the dark shadow of desperation. A wiry man, his face gaunt and hollow-eyed, darted past the lines, yanking open a crate and clutching handfuls of dried fish.

“I’ve got a family to feed!” he snarled as he shoved past others, cradling his prize. His voice was raw and edged with fury, as though daring anyone to challenge him.

The order the man worked so hard to create began to fray at the edges. Cries of outrage rippled through the crowd. A woman lunged at the man, her hands clawing at his spoils.

“We all have families!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with desperation. Her attack emboldened others. Like wolves scenting weakness, they descended, tearing the stolen provisions from his arms. Fists flew, and the docks were once again engulfed in chaos. The Blacksmith waded into the fray, his booming voice rising above the din.

“Enough!” he roared, grabbing the wiry man by the collar and pulling him back. “You shame yourself!” The words seemed to cut deeper than any blow, and for a fleeting moment, the man froze, his defiance crumbling beneath the Blacksmith’s glare.

Yet, even as the Blacksmith worked tirelessly to restore order, others slipped into the shadows with as much food as they could carry. Quiet hands pilfered sacks meant for the greater good, vanishing into alleys before Hammer’s watchful gaze could find them. The tension between the altruistic and the selfish simmered beneath every interaction, threatening to boil over at the slightest spark.

A sharp whistle pierced the night air, cutting through the murmurs and clamour on the docks. Heads snapped upward, searching the skies, and there he was… Daemon Targaryen on the blood-red form of Caraxes, the dragon's sinuous body silhouetted against the pale moonlight. He did not descend, nor come close enough to risk the Greens’ watchful eyes, but his presence was undeniable.

Caraxes circled high above the bay, his wings carving great arcs through the darkened sky. The rhythmic sound of leathery wings beating against the night sent shivers through the crowd below. The people froze, staring upward, as if hypnotized by the sight of the dragon’s glimmering scales reflecting the faint moonlight. The air grew still, heavy with awe and unease, as though the city itself held its breath.

Daemon’s figure was a shadow atop his mount, distant yet commanding. The faint whistle came again, short and sharp, carried on the night wind like a blade. It was enough. The crowd stirred uneasily; their desperation tempered by a visceral fear of the man who rode the dragon. His reputation preceded him… the Rogue Prince, the master of chaos, the Targaryen who had never balked at making his enemies bleed.

The smallfolk, who had just moments ago fought like starving dogs over scraps, fell silent. Slowly, they began to reorder themselves. Lines that had been forming under the Blacksmith’s booming commands solidified, the fear of Daemon’s gaze more compelling than the promise of bread. A child clutched a crust to his chest, his wide eyes fixed on the circling dragon. A mother whispered to her son, her cracked lips forming prayers of thanks—to the prince, to the queen, to anyone who might listen.

The Blacksmith seized the moment, his deep voice rising over the crowd.

“Stay in line!” he called. “Take what you need and leave the rest. If we stand together, there will be enough.” He cast a quick glance at the sky, where Caraxes continued his slow, deliberate flight. Daemon didn’t need to speak—the sight of him was enough to quell even the rowdiest dissenters.

Caraxes roared once, the sound like thunder rolling over the city, and a ripple of awe spread through the crowd. It wasn’t anger or violence—just a reminder, as undeniable as the dragon’s shadow stretching across the docks, that the Blacks were watching. That despite the starvation and chaos, someone still cared enough to act.

With a final sweep over the bay, Daemon pulled Caraxes away, their great form vanishing into the distance like a blood-tinged spectre. The crowd exhaled as one, the tension slowly bleeding away, though the fear lingered in the air like smoke. But beneath that fear, there was something else—a glimmer of hope. They had not been abandoned. The shipments bore the sigil of the dragon, and the dragon himself had come to watch over them.

For the smallfolk, it was a bitter comfort. The Blacks might have provided for them, but the sight of Daemon circling above was a stark reminder of the tenuous line they walked - between salvation and submission, between hope and the fear of the dragon’s fire.

--

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering light across the dimly lit chamber. Shadows stretched and danced along the stone walls, distorted by the uneven glow of embers that pulsed with the slow rhythm of dwindling heat. Helaena sat in silence, rocking the carved wooden cribs in gentle motions, her movements steady despite the tremor in her hands.

The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the world beyond—the suffocating darkness, the whispers of the starving, the distant wail of the city suffering beneath the siege. She couldn’t bear to look at it, couldn’t let it seep into her sanctuary, where her children slept unaware of the turmoil swallowing their kingdom. The twins stirred beneath thick blankets, the soft rise and fall of their breathing the only sound more delicate than the crackling flames.

Her silver hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, cascading down her back in waves that caught the firelight. The silk of her nightdress shimmered faintly, embroidered with blue dragons that curled at the hem—an echo of Dreamfyre, far away on Dragonstone, beyond her reach but never beyond her thoughts.

She rocked them, endlessly, as if the rhythm alone could ward off the terror pressing against the castle walls. Her lips moved in whispers—soft, rhythmic words that spilled from old lullabies, melodies her mother might have sung once, barely remembered yet instinctively known. The faint glow of firelight flickered across her face, highlighting the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin. She hadn’t slept properly since the siege began. Every night brought new horrors, whispered through the castle walls, and every day the cries of the starving smallfolk outside grew louder.

She didn’t turn when Aegon entered, though the sound of his boots against the stone floor was unmistakable. She had expected him in her chambers, ever since he had been forced to take the crown he had appeared each night. Not to bother, nor converse, just to be in the presence of his children. It seemed to soothe his soul as he guarded them.

 He closed the door behind him with a soft click, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world pressed down on him. The flask he usually carried was absent tonight, replaced by an emptiness in his hands that mirrored the hollowness in his eyes.

“Helaena,” he said softly, his voice low, uncertain. He took a step closer, his gaze flicking from her to the cradle. “Is everything...?”

“I’m scared,” she interrupted, her voice trembling but steady. She still didn’t look at him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the cradle. The sweet, round faces of her sleeping babes filled her with an undeniable terror. That something could happen to ones so delicate. It was unthinkable.

“For them.” Her eyes flicked down to the twins, and for a moment, her expression softened.

Aegon hesitated, unsure of what to say. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, nor Aerys and Aelora,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. The words felt hollow even as he spoke them, but he needed to say them. Helaena turned to him then, her pale blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“How can you promise that?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Do you hear them, Aegon? Do you hear them crying outside? They’re starving. They’re dying. The children… I hear their cries in my dreams…”

Her breath hitched, and she looked away, her shoulders shaking. Her violet eyes filled with tears; her knuckles white as she clenched her hands around the wooden edge of the crib. “I don’t even know if I trust the guards anymore. I see the way they look at us...at the children. They’re as hungry as the people outside.”

Aegon exhaled shakily, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The burden of guilt fell on his shoulders. He should have fought harder. It was great to destroy the people’s faith in the Greens, in him and his grandfather, but to hear them suffering, to have Helaena and their children at such risk… he had never loved Helaena as a wife, but she was his damn family, and he was failing them.

“I know,” he admitted, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. “I know. And it’s my fault they’re hungry. My fault the smallfolk hate us.”

His voice cracked, and for a moment, the mask he so often wore—the careless drunkard, the unworthy king—slipped away, revealing the man beneath.

Helaena reached out, her hand trembling as it found his. “It’s not your fault,” she said softly. “It’s this war. It’s all of them—Otto, Mother, the lords, the banners... We’re all caught in it, like threads in a web.”

“But you shouldn’t be caught in it,” Aegon said, his voice suddenly fierce. He turned to her, gripping her hand tightly. “You and the children, you should be somewhere safe, somewhere far away from this madness.”

He paused, his gaze dropping to the cradle. “I’ve been thinking...maybe I can find a way. Get you out of here. To Dragonstone. Or to the North. Somewhere they’ll never find you.”

Helaena’s lips parted in surprise, her eyes searching his face. “Aegon...if you try to get us out, they’ll know. Otto will know. And if we’re caught...” Her voice faltered, fear choking her words.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said, a quiet desperation in his voice. “I’ll find a way.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The cries from outside the castle grew quieter as the night wore on, the silence haunting the chambers. Finally, Helaena turned back to the cradle, her fingers gently brushing her children’s soft cheeks.

“I just want them to be safe, if we can get them to safety…” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Aegon watched her, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know how to keep that promise; how to protect his family from the storm raging outside and the storm brewing within the Red Keep. But as he sat there, watching Helaena cradle their fragile hope, he knew he had to try. When Helaena lay to rest, he began to formulate his plot, to smuggle them all out of King’s Landing to Dragonstone. If he could get Helaena and the babes to Sunfyre, they should be able to fly without being caught. He had to somehow get word to Rhaenyra to expect them. He left in the early hours, as the sun began to rise and peek through the cracks in the curtains.

Helaena’s dreams came in fragments, slipping through the cracks of her restless sleep like rays of sunlight filtering through a storm cloud. In her dreams, there were whispers of peace; children laughing in fields of golden wheat, the air sweet with the scent of honey and wildflowers. She saw dragons flying not in battle, but in harmony, their scales glinting under an azure sky unmarred by smoke. Helaena saw her children; her precious twins; older, stronger, smiling as they reached for her hand. In the stillness of the night, as the castle walls muffled the cries of the desperate, these dreams wrapped her in a fragile cocoon of hope.

When Helaena woke, the light of day was sharp and unforgiving, peeling back the comforting layers her dreams had woven. The Red Keep bore the siege like a sickly beast. The air reeked of mildew and fear; the tension so thick it seemed to press against her chest with every breath. No golden fields here—only suffering and pain.

She sat by the window, clutching her twins to her chest, their small bodies warm but fragile in her trembling arms. Her gaze drifted across the cityscape of King’s Landing, where the spiralling roofs once gleamed red in the sun but now looked grey and lifeless. Her dreams lingered, their images vivid yet fading, and she clung to them desperately, as if their memory alone could stave off despair.

“Aegon says he will protect us,” she murmured to the room, though there was no one to hear. The words felt hollow, brittle as the light spilling across the cold stone floor. Her voice faltered. “But what can he do against this?”

A memory from her dream surfaced unbidden—a dragon, as black as coal with red horns, soaring toward a sunlit horizon. Helaena wondered if it meant something, as her dreams so often did, or if it was merely the longing of a battered soul. The gift of her visions had once been a comfort, her quiet anchor in the storm of royal life. Now they felt like cruel riddles, offering glimpses of hope too distant to reach, too fragile to hold.

--

Otto’s chambers were dimly lit, the flickering light of the fire casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and the sharp tang of wine, mingling with the faint musk of leather from the notes clenched tightly in his fists. He paced the room, his boots striking the floor with deliberate force, each step echoing his simmering frustration.

The petitioners at court had been insufferable; snivelling, desperate creatures begging for scraps, their pleas grating against his patience. Parasites, he thought darkly, feeding off the crown’s dwindling resources while offering nothing in return. The very memory of their trembling voices filled him with disgust, and he poured himself a goblet of deep red wine to drown the thought. The liquid swirled in the cup, dark and rich, but even its warmth did little to soothe the cold fury coiling in his chest.

As he raised the goblet to his lips, the sight of Alicent standing in the doorway made him pause. Her presence was unwelcome, her words even more so. She approached him, already speaking, her voice carrying the weight of concern and urgency. Otto tuned her out, his mind too preoccupied with the plans forming in the shadows of his thoughts.

Aegon was a problem; a weak, drunken fool who resisted Otto’s guidance at every turn. The boy’s defiance was a thorn in his side, a threat to the carefully constructed web of power Otto had spent years weaving. He needed to act, to tighten his grip on the crown and ensure that his will was carried out without question. And if Aegon refused to bend, Otto would find a way to break him.

The notes in his hand contained the seeds of his plan—names, alliances, whispers of betrayal. He would use them to manipulate, to coerce, to force Aegon into submission. But even that might not be enough. Otto’s gaze flicked to the fire, its flames dancing with a cruel beauty, and a darker thought crossed his mind. If Aegon’s resistance endangered the realm, if his weakness threatened the stability Otto had fought to maintain, then perhaps more drastic measures would be necessary.

He took a long sip of wine, the bitterness lingering on his tongue as he considered the unthinkable. The boy’s son—his own grandson—was a pawn in this game, a piece Otto could move or remove as the situation demanded. The thought was repugnant, but the realm demanded sacrifices, and Otto had never shied away from doing what was necessary.

Alicent’s voice broke through his reverie, sharp and pleading. “Father, you must listen. You repeatedly cut my legs from me while seated at that table of men!

“I feel your anger, Alicent. These weeks since Viserys’ death have not got to plan, now Aemond has abandoned his family, this cause. You have failed in the raising of both those ignorant whelps,” Otto sneered, and took a sip of his wine. Alicent's eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her sides.

"You speak of failure, but it is your overreach and relentless ambition that have brought us to this precipice. Aegon may be a fool, but he is still the king, and you cannot force him to be what he is not."

The chamber was stifling, the scent of old parchment mingling with the deep red bitterness of Arbor wine. Otto sat rigid, the goblet in his grip just shy of trembling, though he would never allow weakness to show. Alicent’s accusations still hung in the air, sharp as a blade pressed against his throat.

Failure.

She dared to speak to him of failure, as if she understood the weight of the crown, the agony of maintaining power in a realm teetering on the brink. He had spent years crafting the Greens’ ascension, manipulating, manoeuvring, ensuring his blood sat the throne. And what had come of it?

A drunken wastrel with no sense of strategy, no understanding of duty. Aegon resisted him at every turn—mocking, retreating into his cups, wasting his rule on indulgence while the realm burned outside their walls. Otto had thought, perhaps, that Aemond would be the stronger force, the steel in his family’s spine, but even he had abandoned them, his recklessness costing the Greens their foothold.

Now, the smallfolk starved, and whispers of rebellion curled through the streets like smoke. The blockade tightened, and Rhaenyra’s brood sent food to the wretches outside, undermining his hold. This is the moment to act, Otto thought, his fingers tightening around the goblet’s stem. The queen’s mercy was weak, foolish. He knew how to win a war, through strategy, through ruthlessness. He would remind Aegon of that.

His mind turned to his grandson. Aerys. A babe, insignificant in the grand scheme, yet undeniably useful. A hostage could turn tides, a sacrifice could end wars. He had not made his decision yet—not fully—but the thought had lingered long enough to take shape. If Aegon continued his defiance, if Alicent refused to see reason, Otto would ensure the throne remained secure. No matter the cost.

He took another sip of wine, swallowing down doubt. The realm does not care for sentiment, he reminded himself.

Otto's gaze hardened as he set the goblet down, its thud resonating in the silent room. "Do you think I enjoy this, Alicent? Watching our family crumble under the weight of incompetence? I act to preserve what little remains of our legacy."

She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a hiss. "And what legacy is that, father? A throne built on manipulation and fear? You risk everything with your scheming, and for what? A crown that may slip from our grasp at any moment?"

Otto turned away; his jaw tight with suppressed rage. "I do what I must. The realm demands strength, not sentiment. If you cannot see the necessity of my actions, then perhaps you are no better than Aegon."

Alicent's heart ached with the weight of her father's words, but she held her ground. "You may regret those words, father. The bonds of family are fraying, and your iron grip may be the very thing that tears us apart."

Otto's shoulders sagged, the firelight casting his face in stark relief. "We are beyond the point of return, Alicent. The realm will not wait for Aegon to grow into his role. It needs leadership, it needs control."

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Then perhaps it is time to reconsider what is truly important. Before it's too late."

Otto sneered at her, but she brushed his gaze away as she turned and strode from his chambers. She fought the urge to pick at her fingers, her lips set in a thin line. She had never felt so alone.

The halls of the Red Keep, once her home, now felt like a prison, their vast chambers filled with shadows that whispered all the things she tried so desperately to ignore. The weight of her father’s words sat heavy on her chest, an ache that tightened her throat even as she fought to hold her composure.

You are no better than Aegon, he had said.

The insult stung, but what hurt more was the truth buried beneath it. She had spent her life believing in duty, believing in the careful shaping of power. Yet with every day that passed, with every cruel choice Otto made, she saw that power was a beast she could no longer control. Aegon was failing, yes, but was it truly his fault? Her father had pushed him, had tried to shape him to be a puppet, and when the strings tangled, Otto blamed him for falling. And now, Otto’s gaze had turned toward Aerys, her grandson.

She couldn’t let it happen.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she moved through the halls, the flickering candlelight barely illuminating her path. Do you think I enjoy this, Alicent? Otto had asked, as if his schemes were a necessary burden. But she saw the truth—he thrived in it, wrapped himself in manipulation like a cloak, heedless of the wounds he carved into his own family.

She reached the Queens chambers, where Helaena now resided with her babes, pushing open the door with slow, careful movements. The twins slept soundly, oblivious to the war raging around them. She stepped closer, brushing her fingers over Aerys’ soft silver curls, her heart twisting painfully. How long before my father turns his hand against you? she thought bitterly. She had sacrificed everything for this throne. She had endured humiliation, had moulded herself into the queen Westeros needed.

And what had it all been for?

--

The days blurred together.

She barely slept, barely ate. She did not bathe, did not speak. There was only the search—the ceaseless, aching ritual of scouring the shoreline, of soaring over restless waves, of tearing through wreckage with raw, trembling hands.

Her mind refused to rest. Rhaenyra cut through the heavens on Syrax’s back, the dragon’s wings slicing the golden air, but all she felt was the hollow ache of a mother searching for something she dared not name. Below her, the sea stretched endlessly, laughing in shimmering blue waves, holding secrets beneath its depths.

For so long, he had been her baby.

Her sweet, smiling boy, always eager to please, always searching for approval. She could still hear his laugh, light and unguarded, the way he had tried to comfort others even when his own fears gnawed at him. How many times had she caught him biting his lip in quiet distress, worried that he wasn’t enough? That he would never be the ruler Driftmark needed?

She had told him, reassured him, he was worthy. He was good. For he was the very best of her children, even if she never admitted it out loud. But now those words were ashes, scattered in the same wind that had taken him from her.

She thought of his hands, small, once chubby with childhood, growing leaner with age. His hands had held hers, had clung to her skirts when he was frightened, had steadied themselves against the reins of his dragon, trying so desperately to be brave.

She had let him go and the sea had taken him. She had assured him all would be well and the skies had shot him down.

The sun did not falter. It burned overhead, bathing the waves in golden light, making the sea look soft, warm, when it was anything but. It had swallowed her child whole, dragged him beneath its cruel depths, and yet it rippled as if nothing had changed.

She hated it.

She hated the quiet voices of those who watched her search but dared not intervene. She hated the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, the ache in her back, the salt drying against her skin. But more than anything, more than all of it, she hated herself.

The days stretched; the nights closed in around her.

Still, she searched.  And then, she found him. The wind vanished from her lungs as she caught just a glimpse of something wrapped in fisherman’s nets, far too large to be any fish. She barely registered Syrax's landing before she was moving, sliding from the saddle in a graceless, frantic rush, her legs nearly buckling beneath her as she hit the ground.

She ran.

The shoreline blurred around her, but she found in, the tangle of nets caught in the tide, the wreckage washed ashore like discarded remnants of a nightmare. And there, twisted in it, she saw the wing. Arrax’s severed wing.

Her breath hitched, turned to shards in her chest, but she didn’t stop. She stumbled through the shifting sand, the salt stinging her lips, her fingers shaking as she tore at the netting, desperate, frantic…

And then—

Her son.

Luke.

The corpse wrapped within the dragon’s ruined wing was blackened, burnt, twisted beyond recognition. His arm was gone. His leg was gone. Flesh turned to ruin; his body nearly consumed by the lightning strike that had torn him from the sky.

But the cloak, the cloak she had painstakingly embroidered with the family’s sigil, all her fumbled lessons on embroidery from her youth being used to make something for her precious baby boy.

His cloak.

Still there, draped across the ruin of him, the fabric barely touched by fire, as if it refused to burn when everything else had.

Her knees hit the ground, her fingers trembling as she reached for him. Pain lanced through her body as she fell to her knees, sharp and unforgiving. Her limbs were already weak—still raw from the strain of labour, from the impossible weight of bearing a child mere weeks ago. The ache in her core, the tender soreness beneath her ribs, all of it should have been fading by now. But grief carved through it, twisting muscle and bone until the pain became something else entirely.

Her daughter had lived.

Her son had died.

It was an unthinkable exchange, a transaction she had never agreed to, a balance that should not exist. Aemma had entered the world gasping, fighting for breath, struggling against the cruelty of birth, and she had wept with relief when she lived. But now—now she knelt before the remains of another child, another son, burnt and broken and ruined by a war that should never have touched him.

Her hands trembled as they reached for Luke’s cloak, the fabric still damp with seawater, the only thing left untouched by fire. She clutched it to her chest, pressed it against herself as if she could draw him back, as if the warmth of her body could seep into his remains, coaxing life where there was none.

Her vision blurred, and she was gasping, breath ragged, her throat closing in on itself. The salt burned in her lungs, the wind tore at her face, but she barely felt it. The agony inside her—inside the battered core of her body, inside the shattered remains of her soul—was too great.

She wanted to scream, to curse the gods, to demand why they had taken him from her. But she had no strength left for fury. Only sorrow. She clutched at the cloak, dragging it to her chest, her body curling forward as grief wrenched her apart. Rhaenyra did not hear the footsteps at first. Her body was too far gone, too lost in the ruin of her son, in the exhaustion clawing at her from within. The world around her had begun to fade, the sea’s endless whisper dissolving into meaningless sound.

But then—

A presence.

Hesitant, trembling.

She did not lift her head, did not move. But when he stumbled forward, the sand shifting beneath his unsure steps, the breath that tore from his throat was enough.

She knew.

Leon.

No—Laenor.

His disguise remained, the rough clothing of a fisherman, the weary face of a man who had lived another life. But none of it mattered now. None of it could mask the grief breaking through his carefully constructed walls. She saw it in the way his knees buckled, in the way his hand hovered, shaking, over the wreckage before them—over their son.

And when his fingers finally grasped at the cloak, his sobs shattered the quiet.

She did not speak. She could not.

She simply leaned into him, pressing her face into his shoulder, her body curling toward him as if she could share the unbearable weight, as if she could anchor herself in something, someone.

His scent was salt and regret, the weight of years spent apart, but in this moment, he was not Leon. He was not the fisherman.

He was a father. He was her oldest friend.

And together, they mourned the son they could never save.

The docks were quiet when Daemon found him.

Leon—the man Laenor had become—was hauling nets, the salt thick in his lungs, the wind biting against his skin. He had lived like this for years, slipping between the waves unnoticed, a shadow on the shore, a man without a name.

But Daemon did not call him Leon.

He stood before him, face grim, eyes heavy with something far darker than their usual sharpness, and said only one word.

“Laenor.”

The net slipped from his grasp, the weight of it forgotten as he slowly turned. It had been years since Daemon had sought him out, years since their paths had truly crossed, but the look in his friend’s eyes—gods, he knew. He knew before Daemon even said the words.

“It’s Luke.”

The world stilled. The crash of the tide faded. The creak of the boats, the distant cries of gulls, all of it dulled beneath the sharp, deafening silence in his chest.

His son was dead.

His body had never been meant for the fire. He had never been meant to fall.

Laenor had been absent for so much, had stayed away, had let his children live without him, knowing they would be safer that way. But Luke. Gods, Luke. His boy, his sweet boy, who had been afraid of Driftmark, afraid of being a ruler, afraid of the weight that had been thrust upon him—he had died in the depths of a war he never wanted.

His legs trembled beneath him, but Daemon did not offer a hand.

“He fell,” Daemon continued, voice stiff, unyielding, as if speaking the words too softly would make them unbearable. “Storm’s End. Aemond. The dragons—”

He couldn’t hear it.

Laenor staggered, fingers gripping at the wooden post beside him, breath ragged, chest tight. He had failed him.

And Rhaenyra…

Daemon was still talking, still explaining, still giving shape to the nightmare he had thrust upon him, but Laenor could hardly process it.

“She’s gone to find him,” Daemon said. “She’s been searching for days.”

The ache in his chest deepened, spread like rot.

Rhaenyra.

His oldest friend, his wife once, the mother of the son he had abandoned—but never stopped loving. She was scouring the shores alone, searching for the remains of the child they had failed to protect. He did not care about his disguise then. Did not care about Leon, about the life he had built away from war and politics and bloodlines.

There was only one truth now.

Laenor Velaryon was a father. And his son was dead.

--

His voice echoed over the cliffs, carried by the restless sea winds.

“Seasmoke!”

Silence.

The tide churned below, the distant cries of gulls filling the space where his dragon’s answer should have been.

He swallowed, throat raw, and called again, louder this time, voice breaking under the weight of grief.

“Seasmoke! Gods, please.”

A roar, distant.

But no movement.

Laenor lifted his gaze, scanning the sky, and there he was—Seasmoke, a ghost among the clouds, circling, watching. But he did not descend.

Instead, he lingered.

Laenor exhaled shakily. He had expected hesitation, had expected some wariness after years of silence. But this? This was something else entirely.

The dragon did not call back, did not surge forward. He hovered, unwilling, and something in his posture spoke of cold, quiet indignation.

A huff.

Barely perceptible, but there.

Laenor could almost feel the weight of it—the silent reprimand, the years of neglect compacted into one sharp exhale. You left me.

“Seasmoke,” he murmured again, weaker this time, desperation stripping away the last remnants of pride. His knees buckled, the grief in his chest twisting like a blade, and he sank onto the rocky ground, fingers grasping at nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

The dragon did not move.

Laenor swallowed past the tightness in his throat, forcing himself to meet Seasmoke’s gaze, even as his own blurred with tears.

“I…” The word faltered, breaking apart before he could shape it into anything worthwhile. What could he even say?

That he had abandoned him because he had no choice? That he had left behind his name, his family, his war—all of it—for survival? That Seasmoke had been collateral damage in a life Laenor no longer felt entitled to?

None of it mattered now. None of it changed what had been done.

“I should have come back sooner.” His voice was barely a breath, thick with regret, heavy with sorrow. “I should have never left you.”

Seasmoke gave a short pause, then a light shift. He still hovered, but something in his posture softened. Laenor did not dare move, did not dare press further. He simply sat there, kneeling at the edge of the cliffs, waiting for the verdict. And after another agonizing moment, slow and reluctant, Seasmoke began to descend. Not eagerly. Not with the warmth of reunion. But with the weariness of something long overdue.

Laenor had abandoned him.

And Seasmoke would not forget that, but for now, for this, he would answer the call.

The flight was silent.

Laenor barely registered the wind against his face, barely felt the way Seasmoke surged forward, cutting through the skies with a speed that felt desperate. Neither of them had flown like this in years—one lost to exile, the other abandoned to waiting.

But now, the past no longer mattered. Only the shore ahead. Only the wreckage. Only her.

Seasmoke let out a low, searching rumble, his massive head shifting slightly, eyes scanning for something—Syrax.

Laenor felt the faint echo of it through their bond—the instinct, the familiarity, the need to find the mate who had once flown beside him. The mate Seasmoke had not seen since his rider disappeared, but Syrax was silent. Still. When Laenor’s gaze finally landed on Rhaenyra, collapsed beside the remains of their son, every thought fractured.

She was barely moving. Barely breathing. Her body was crumpled in the sand, her grip locked around the ruined fabric of Luke’s cloak, her face buried in the folds as if she could sink into him, disappear with him.

The sight of her—the queen, the dragon rider, the woman who had survived everything—so utterly shattered, nearly brought Laenor to his knees. He dismounted in a rush, nearly stumbling as his boots hit the sand, his breath already torn from his lungs.

“Rhaenyra,” he rasped.

She did not lift her head. Did not speak. He approached slowly, his knees buckling as he sank beside her, his trembling hands reaching for the cloak… reaching for their son. And the grief shattered him. His sobs came fast, unrestrained, broken, and without hesitation, Rhaenyra curled into him, pressing her face to his shoulder as if he was the only anchor she had left.

Leon. Laenor. It did not matter anymore.

There was only this.

Only sorrow. Only love. Only the unbearable silence where Luke’s laughter should have been.

And behind them, Seasmoke lingered, searching for Syrax, for something familiar in a world that had changed too much.

But just like Laenor, he had been gone too long.

Syrax does not greet Seasmoke with joy. There is no warm reunion, no instinctual recognition of a mate long lost. Instead, there is only the weight of grief, thick in the air between them, an unspoken sorrow that curls around their aching bodies. Arrax was their child… born of their line, their fire, their blood. And now, he is gone.

Seasmoke rumbles low, a sound that vibrates through his massive frame, but there is no fury—only pain, only regret, only the quiet devastation of something irreparable. Syrax shifts, her golden body tense, uncertain. Then, as the realization fully settles into her bones, she keens—a deep, mournful cry that cuts through the air like a blade, raw and unrestrained.

The sound shakes Laenor where he kneels, as if grief itself has gained a voice beyond his own shattered sobs.

Syrax lowers her head, nudging weakly at the air where Arrax should have been. Seasmoke does not move away. He stays, close enough to feel the weight of her sorrow, close enough to let his own grief intertwine with hers. Neither dragon had protected their son, and now, there is nothing left to save.

Between them, there is no battle, no struggle for dominance—only loss, only understanding, only the unbearable silence where Arrax’s flame should have burned.

The world does not speak.

It does not mourn.

The sea continues its endless rhythm, crashing gently against the shore as if nothing has changed, as if it has not swallowed a boy whole, has not torn apart a family, has not left his mother and father kneeling in the sand, ruined by grief too vast for words.

Rhaenyra does not lift her head.

Laenor does not move.

Their hands, trembling, rest upon the remains of their son—the scorched fabric of his cloak, the tattered fragments of what was once a boy so full of love, so desperate to be good, to be worthy, to be more than the shadow of a war he never wanted.

There is no language for this sorrow.

Her fingers clutch at the fabric, pulling it to her chest, pulling him to her, as if she can will him back, as if she can press the warmth of her own body into his ruined remains and make him whole again. Laenor kneels beside her, his breathing shallow, broken, his hands curled over hers, over Luke’s cloak, over the pieces of their son that the sea saw fit to return.

The world moves around them, but they do not move with it. Rhaenyra and Laenor remain—silent, still, holding what is left of their son, as the dragons mourn alongside them.

The sun still shines.

The waves still whisper.

And none of it will ever matter again.

Chapter Text

The royal chambers were too grand for a prison, but Aegon had long since stopped seeing them as anything else. The drapes were heavy, deep crimson lined with gold embroidery, framing the wide-panelled windows that overlooked a city bleeding into chaos below. The marble flooring was polished, pristine, untouched by the war that brewed beyond the walls. The air inside was thick with silence; cold, suffocating, pressing against his lungs like a held breath. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting wavering shadows against the dark oak of the furniture. Gilded chairs, silken cushions, a bed too large for comfort; all remnants of a life meant for an obedient king.

Aegon had never been obedient. Not truly.

His fingers moved with precision, securing the fabric around the twins, folding it just right so that the warmth clung to them, shielding them against the night air. The coarse linen of the baby wrap rasped against his calloused hands as he tightened the knots, making sure the twins were pressed close to Helaena’s chest, secure, safe. The very last things left in this world worth saving. The gown Helaena wore was plain, unremarkable—the soft brown wool meant for a common woman, something that wouldn’t catch attention in the frantic streets. A hood was settled over her hair, shadowing the silver strands that might betray her name. He needed to move faster.

Aegon’s own clothing was deliberately understated—a tunic of dark blue, softened at the edges with wear, a belt wrapped just tight enough to conceal the dagger at his waist, boots meant for movement rather than display. This was not the garb of a king because tonight, he was not a king.

He was a man orchestrating his escape, a ghost slipping through the cracks of a kingdom that had never truly belonged to him. The riot had been brewing for weeks. Aegon had felt it in the air, tasted it in the bitterness of the streets, seen it in the desperation of the smallfolk as grain disappeared, as taxes climbed, as promises shattered into silence.

Otto thought the people would bow forever. He had never truly seen them—the smallfolk, the broken, the hungry. He did not hear their grief, did not smell the rot creeping through their streets, did not taste the bitterness of desperation that clung to every breath they took. He knew only control: the iron grip of laws they could not defy, the unspoken truth that their lives were worth less than the silver in his coffers. To Otto, the masses were beasts—docile when starved, predictable when afraid, and useful only when they could serve.

But even the meek had limits. Aegon knew better, having spent most of his time amongst them for the last seven years. Aegon had learned, in the suffocating dark, that there were things fear could not crush. It could choke them, wound them, make them kneel; but it could not stop them from seeing the truth. Fleabottom was a graveyard of broken men, but it was also something else. Something Otto had never bothered to understand. So, he had waited, and he had watched. He had observed the shifts in the guard, the thinning patrols near the Keep as tensions bled toward the gates, the way desperation turned hungry men into weapons without masters.

The moment had to be taken precisely, ruthlessly, without hesitation, and when the first scream split the night; the first torch thrown, the first blade drawn, the first surge toward the castle gates; Aegon had been ready with his disguises, with his careful mapping of the passageways, with a boat on standby.

This was his window. The Goldcloaks would reinforce the entrance, leaving the tunnels open, unguarded, forgotten in the wake of fire and fury. The twins slept, oblivious to the storm that raged beyond the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Helaena stood still, unmoving. She had not spoken since the plan was set and Aegon had stopped expecting her to. The faded cloak felt wrong beneath his fingers—too rough, too simple, too far from the weight of ermine and silk. He pulled it tight around her all the same, securing it over her shoulders, a flimsy shield against the nightmare outside.

"The tunnels will bring us into Fleabottom."

His voice was a whisper, just above the crackling torches. The air was thick with damp stone, the scent of burning pitch curling in his throat. He had waited for this—for the moment when Otto would look without seeing, would scheme without suspecting. The Hand thought him caged, complacent, too broken to act. It had been easy to play the fool. Easier still to let them believe it, but now, the game was shifting. Helaena would go. He would stay.

That was the difference. That was the trap.

Aegon could not leave—not truly. Not without giving Otto everything. The Hand had built his empire on control, on the certainty that fear would keep the city docile, that hunger would keep them obedient. But rot does not announce itself—it festers, unseen, beneath the surface. And Aegon had learned how to rot things from the inside.

The streets choked on misery, Fleabottom suffocating beneath its own decay. Yet even in the filth, the whispers remained—sharp-edged, cutting, turning his failures into something else. The fool king. The weak king. The drunken, useless king. No man to follow. No man to fear. Aegon fed them those illusions like scraps to starving dogs, let the mockery spread unchecked, let his name drip with derision. And Otto let it happen. Because Otto thought a weak king was a controlled king.

And when the moment came, when the Hand’s grip loosened just enough, they would not fear him anymore. They would turn. They would break. And Rhaenyra would be the only thing left standing. His fingers tightened on Helaena’s shoulders, the rough fabric pressing against his palms. She was the only piece he could save. If she reached Dragonstone, Rhaenyra would protect her. She would never harm the twins, nor her own sister. She loved them.

"Once we reach the docks—"

A heavy boom echoed in the distance, the city rumbling beneath them like a beast stirring from sleep. Helaena flinched, but did not speak and Aegon tightened his jaw, fists curling at his sides. they had no time to hesitate. No time to rethink the plan, as carefully as Aegon had put it together.

The passage swallowed them whole, Aegon moving first with a tight grip around Helaena’s hand, leading her carefully through the narrow tunnels beneath the Red Keep. The stone walls were damp, slick with age, the air stale from decades of secrets buried beneath the fortress. He knew these tunnels, he had known them since boyhood, when Rhaenyra traced the paths with him beneath the Red Keep and whispered of the escape routes their ancestors once used.

"You’ll need to remember," she had told him all those years ago, tapping her fingers against her forehead as she had him lead her through the winding passages. "There may come a time when these are the only paths left to you."

She had not spoken of war then, not really.

Aegon kept his pace measured but swift, his free hand brushing along the stone to guide them deeper. Above them, the riot had fully taken hold of the city, the distant sounds of screams and clashing steel a grim reminder of the city’s unravelling. The smallfolk fought the Goldcloaks for the provisions Rhaenyra had sent in the night, desperation turning them against one another like starving dogs. A twinge of nerves struck his cool composure. They could not be caught in that madness. Not with the twins.

Helaena clutched them fiercely, her arms wrapped protectively around their fragile bodies, her wide lilac eyes darting to Aegon each time the tunnel groaned with distant echoes of chaos. Her hair was bound tightly beneath the simple hat, but even so, it could not mask her fragility, the sharp tension lining her jaw.

Aegon tightened his grip.

"Almost there," he murmured, his voice low, steady, meant for her ears alone.

But the air was shifting and thickening, trembling with a warning he could not yet name. Ahead, the tunnel narrowed, leading them into the heart of the city’s underbelly. Beyond that, Fleabottom waited. Beyond that, the docks. Beyond that—freedom.

If they could reach it.

The tunnels stretched on and on, twisting beneath Maegor’s Holdfast like the intestines of some great beast, swallowing them deeper into the fortress’s underbelly. The air was thick and damp with centuries of secrets, the scent of stone and decay curling against Aegon’s throat as he led Helaena through the passage.

He would not falter.

He forced his grip to remain firm but steady, his fingers curled around hers with unyielding pressure. She needed that—needed the certainty of his hold, the illusion of control, even as chaos thundered above them. The riot had given them an opening. But openings cut both ways. No guards. No loyal men to shield them. Only Aegon, only the tunnels, only the desperate hope that they would reach Fleabottom unseen.

"Stay close," he murmured, voice low, even, betraying nothing.

They had been walking for minutes, maybe hours—it was impossible to tell. The tunnels played tricks on the mind, their uneven depths stretching beyond reason, each turn bleeding into the next, until direction itself became uncertain. Helaena kept her arms locked around the twins, her breaths barely audible, her lilac eyes wide beneath the shadow of her hat. She did not speak. She did not ask where they were or how much further.

She trusted him.

Another distant boom sounded above them and King’s Landing roared, a city consuming itself in its own hunger. Somewhere in that madness, the Goldcloaks were fighting the smallfolk, some fighting for control while others fought for survival. Somewhere in that madness, the Red Keep stood without its king, without its heir, unguarded but still caged by its own walls. Somewhere in that madness, Otto would soon notice the absence.

They had to move faster.

The tunnels began felt endless, and with every step, Aegon could not shake the feeling that they were being swallowed whole. The tunnel stretched longer than he remembered. Aegon knew these routes—had traced them in childhood, had memorised them. He knew them.

So why did this passage feel wrong?

The walls were too tight, the air colder than the last stretch. His steps had slowed imperceptibly, though he did not dare pause. Helaena clung to his grip, trusting him, depending on him; and the thought made his stomach twist painfully. They had taken a wrong turn.

He did not say it aloud. He could not.

Above them, King’s Landing screamed, its agony bleeding through the stone—the riot growing, the fight turning into something worse. The Goldcloaks would not hold control for long. Once the smallfolk realized their own strength, the city would turn into a slaughterhouse.

"This way," he murmured, guiding Helaena to the left, though he was no longer certain it was the right choice.

The tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly, no markers to confirm he had taken the right path. The feeling of being swallowed crept up his spine. Was this how Maegor had built his keep? A maze designed to ensnare those foolish enough to think they could escape it? A graveyard beneath the stones?

Helaena’s breath hitched ever so slightly. Aegon tightened his grip, forced his pace forward, forced certainty into his stride.

"We’re almost there," he lied, but the walls felt closer. The air heavier and for the first time, he wondered if they would ever see daylight again. The tunnel stretched longer than it should have. Helaena clutched the slumbering twins tighter, her eyes flickering toward him, wide beneath the brim of her hat. He did not falter. He could not.

"This way," Aegon murmured, leading Helaena forward—but the path curved in an unfamiliar way, and his pulse spiked.

A wrong turn and consequently, precious minutes lost. His breath was even, controlled—but inside, he swore violently, scanning the walls for some marker, some proof that he hadn’t doomed them in the twisting veins of Maegor’s labyrinth.

The tunnel split into two paths. Left or right. Aegon had no time to weigh the decision, no time to second-guess. His mind raced through memory, through childhood, through the echoes of Rhaenyra’s lessons. One path would lead them forward. The other—a dead end.

He chose left.

The stone walls shuddered, the distant sound of fighting bleeding through the fortress’s bones. But the air shifted, feeling almost clearer. The scent of stale air began to give way. Aegon held back a sigh of deep relief. He had chosen correctly.

"Almost there," he murmured, but his grip tightened on Helaena’s wrist, betraying his own fear. They had to move faster. The air inside the tunnels was suffocating—a labyrinth of stone pressing in from all sides, damp walls swallowing each breath, the scent of mildew and burning pitch clinging to his skin. Every step felt too slow, every flickering torchlight casting shadows that twisted into monsters.

And then the darkness broke. They stumbled into open air, gasping as the tunnel spilled them into the streets, into a night thick with smoke and firelight. The relief was instant, visceral, as if the world had cracked open just to let them breathe again.

Just as quickly, it was gone.

The city burned. Buildings twisted into skeletal remains of wood and stone, choking the air with embers and ash. The streets, once teeming with life, were now a battlefield of screams and shattered glass. Figures darted through the haze, some running, some fighting, some fallen and unmoving. The scent of blood mingled with the smoke, thick and cloying. The distant glow of torches licked against stone, turning alleyways into corridors of shifting light and shadow. Smoke curled above the rooftops and the screams bled together, high-pitched and jagged, the sound of panic that had long since abandoned reason.

Aegon held tight to Helaena’s wrist, his pace measured yet urgent, deliberate, like a man threading himself through a collapsing world. He moved purposefully as the streets shuddered beneath them. A scattering of barrels tipped over in the next alley, a scuffle spilling out into the open—two men clawing at a sack of grain, their faces thin with starvation, teeth bared like animals. Helaena curled herself tighter around the twins, her movements instinctive, her breath shallow.

The docks were close. The boat was waiting but between them and escape lay a city swallowing itself whole.

Aegon could see them—just beyond the shifting mass of bodies, beyond the riot twisting through the streets like wildfire. The boat was waiting, but the city had other plans. A surge of movement; sudden, chaotic, violent. Someone crashed into Aegon’s side, sending him stumbling forward. Hands shoved against his chest—another body, desperate and panicked, pushing past without thought, without care.

Helaena faltered, clutching the twins tighter, her breath hitching as she was dragged sideways, her feet struggling for purchase against the uneven cobblestone. Her hand slipped from Aegon’s as she stumbled.

Aegon saw it too late; the wild-eyed man lunging, desperation twisting his features into something feral. The blade was crude, meant for survival, not precision. But survival did not care who suffered.

Instinct did.

His hand flew to the dagger at his waist, fingers curling tight around the hilt—not fumbling, not uncertain, but steady. Trained. A choice. Kill. Or let her bleed.

For years, he had played the fool—wasted, staggering, indifferent. But beneath that façade had been lessons burned into his body, movements beaten into muscle memory, Daemon’s voice a ghost in his mind. Hold firm. Strike fast. No hesitation. And he didn’t.

Steel flashed, cutting through the dim torchlight, meeting flesh with brutal efficiency. He felt the resistance—the instinctive clench of muscles, the sickening give as the blade forced past it, deep, decisive. Warmth splattered against his grip, a pulse of blood slicking his knuckles.

The man jerked, eyes widening—pain, recognition, then nothing at all as his body crumpled, dead weight hitting the stones with a wet, echoing thud. Silence swallowed them whole and Aegon stood still, breath sharp, but his grip unwavering—steady, practiced, like he had done this before. Like the drunken fool had never existed at all.

Helaena did not move, her gaze trapped between him and the corpse; lips parted—but no words came. The blood had caught her in a red spray across her cheek, her lips, staining the pale fabric of her disguise. She did not flinch. She did not cry out.

She simply stared.

Aegon’s breath came sharp, his pulse pounding against his skull. There was no time to linger. No time to process.

He gripped her wrist tighter. "Move."

He led her into the chaos, into the blood-soaked streets, toward the docks, toward the only hope that remained. Suddenly Helaena screamed. It ripped through the night, jagged, raw, a sound that cracked the air like breaking glass. The world did not stop for it—the riot raged, the slaughter continued—but in that instant, as she stared, wide-eyed, at the carnage before her, nothing else mattered.

A child’s body lay crumpled beneath trampling feet, limbs bent at unnatural angles, the delicate fabric of their tunic soaked through with grime and blood. Fingers, outstretched, as if reaching for someone their last desperate moments. The child’s mother beside them, arms curled protectively around the too-still form. The mother was lifeless, but her grasp remained, tight, desperate, as though she had died shielding the only thing that had ever mattered.

Helaena stumbled back, hand flying to her mouth as if she could swallow the sound—could force herself to unsee it. But there was no escape from the truth. Aegon snapped toward her, fast, too fast, his hand clamping over her mouth, his palm pressing against the blood-slick curve of her jaw.

"Quiet," he hissed, not cruel, but commanding and with a deep urgency. Her wild lilac eyes shot downward, to the twins. They had begun to stir, their tiny hands twitching against the wrap, faint murmurs bubbling into the cold night air…

No. No, they could not wake. They could not cry.

Helaena’s breath shuddered, her body rigid, trapped in the storm of what had just happened. Her mouth moved beneath Aegon’s grip, trembling, then she swallowed it. She swallowed the scream, the shock, the horror—she swallowed it down, crushed it beneath instinct.

Her arms wrapped tighter around the babies, her chin dipping, her body curling inward, shielding them, shielding herself. She shushed them gently, murmuring her gentle songs too them as they began to settle again. Aegon held her for one more breath before his hand dropped, his bloodstained fingers curling into a fist at his side.

"We need to go," Aegon rasped, his voice unyielding. He pulled them through the carnage, through the dead and the dying, through the wreckage of a kingdom set ablaze. The night offered no mercy; no shadows deep enough to swallow them whole. Aegon’s grip was iron around Helaena’s wrist, pulling her forward, his mind locked on the docks their last chance. His mind was three steps ahead of everything around him, his movements careful and deliberate, one hand holding onto his blade tightly.

The riot had unravelled into pure bedlam; bodies slammed together, blades flashed, smoke thickened in the air like a living thing. Each step was a battle against desperation, slipping through grasping hands, past the wounded and those who would not rise again. There was a flicker at the edge of the melee—a figure shifting through the smoke, steel glinting under dying torchlight.

A Goldcloak, but not just any Goldcloak.

Ser Gwayne Hightower.

His gaze landed on them and did not waver. Once, he had been the ideal of chivalry; the golden son of Oldtown, handsome in a way that bordered on effortless, his features sculpted with the quiet arrogance of nobility. But there was little of that man left now.

Blood marred his face; some of it dried, some fresh, cutting jagged lines across the sharp planes of his cheekbones. Soot streaked his skin, smudged against his jaw, settling in the creases of his forehead. His once-pristine armour, a symbol of order and duty, was ruined… dented, tarnished, smeared with the lifeblood of the very people he had sworn to protect.

Recognition did not come immediately. But Aegon saw the moment it did; the subtle shift in stance, the narrowing of his eyes, the slow realization crawling across his face. Aegon felt the weight of it crash down and time seemed to tighten around him.

Ser Gwayne Hightower hesitated.

It was only a breath, a single heartbeat, but Aegon saw it. Felt it.

The recognition had already settled in Gwayne’s eyes, not just of Aegon, not just of Helaena, but of something deeper. Of the terror. Of the desperation. Of the unspoken truth buried beneath the blood and chaos. Aegon had expected fury, resistance, duty sharpening into steel. But instead, his eyes held uncertainty.

Unlike Alicent, Gwayne had known their father’s wrath in full. He had been born a son, and for Otto, that had meant he could be broken without care, without restraint. Aegon saw the memory flicker across Gwayne’s face, the hesitation, the silent reckoning. Mercy had never existed in their house. Only pain.

And in that sliver of indecision—Aegon moved.

He wrenched Helaena forward, grip iron-tight, feet pounding against the slick stone. Blood and filth turned the streets into a treacherous snare, bodies shifting, grasping, clawing for escape. The stench of sweat and smoke clung thick in the air, acrid, choking, burning its way into their lungs.

They ran.

Past the dying, past the ones who no longer screamed, past outstretched hands that grasped at their cloaks… begging, pleading, too weak to hold on. Aegon’s breath came in ragged bursts, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Helaena stumbled once, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips, but his grip did not falter. He would drag her if he had to. He would not lose her. Not here. Not now.

Behind them, the city howled—metal clashing, voices shrieking, the unbearable crack of wood splintering as flames climbed higher, consuming everything in their path.

Ahead, the waves roared. The beaches were nearby.

The boat was waiting.

Gwayne Hightower did not call for them to stop, he watched them go, running from the scenes of violence and panic around him. His grip tightened on the pommel of his sword, but he did not draw it. His recognition had settled, slow but certain. And with it, the choice. He could call out. Raise the alarm. Turn them back, drag them to the Red Keep, deliver them into Otto’s waiting hands.

But instead, his jaw clenched. A breath held too long, exhaled too slow. Then, the knight turned away, his attention moving back to the burning streets. Back to the riot. Back to the war gutting King’s Landing from the inside out.

He did not speak. He did not chase them, but he knew. He Knew all too well what would come if Otto ever learned. Knew the fury that had carved itself into his bones since boyhood, sharp and indiscriminate. The scars that marred his skin were not from war alone, but from the lashings of his father as he was taught to be obedient, to be smart, to be a good son.

Gwayne did not look back.

Aegon strode forward, each step measured, each breath controlled, his grip firm around Helaena’s wrist. The boat was supposed to be there. It was supposed to be waiting. The plan had been airtight. Every risk accounted for, every obstacle navigated, every delay predicted. He had been meticulous, had waited for the right moment, had ensured this path would not collapse beneath them.

But the dock was empty.

There was no sail against the night sky. No shadow waiting in the black waters.

The man he had paid—the escape he had orchestrated—vanished.

Still, Aegon did not fall. He stood rigid, muscles locked, breath sharp, Helaena’s breaths sharp and quiet behind him as he processed his next steps. Behind them, King’s Landing burned, its screams never ceasing, a city consumed from within. The air reeked of blood and smoke, thick, suffocating, clinging to skin, sinking into fabric. The light from the fires reflected off the black waters, distorted, flickering, casting ghostly shapes against the shore.

But on the beach, there was only silence. No refuge. No escape. Just the endless stretch of sand, the whisper of waves lapping against the shore, uncaring. The cold breeze carried salt, mingling with the iron tang of violence, but it did nothing to soothe the rawness in his throat.

Helaena clutched the twins tighter, her body curling around them, shielding them, even as the wind whipped against her bloodstained disguise. Aegon flexed his fingers at his side, itching toward the hilt of his sword.

Fury simmered, cold and quiet.

This was not failure. Not yet.

His mind turned, calculated, searched for the next step, because there had to be one. There would be. There always was. The night held its silence too long as Aegon slowly exhaled, closing his eyes against the darkness.

He would not break.

And then—a voice. Low, familiar, edged with quiet amusement.

"You’re looking a bit worse for wear."

Aegon’s body went rigid, his muscles locking at the voice, at the familiarity that washed over him.

Helaena turned sharply, her grip on the twins tightening, lilac eyes wide with something dangerously close to shock. The figure stood in the shadows beyond them, posture easy, composed, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. The flickering torchlight caught the rough edges of his disguise; the salt-worn clothes, the short-cropped hair; the large beard, carefully braided and the quiet way he held himself, no longer a prince, no longer bound to court.

But Aegon knew him. He knew that voice, strong yet playful, always there for him and supporting him. The stance. The undeniable presence of the man who had stopped him making stupid decision after stupid decision when he was a child, who had held him when he cried about his mother’s lack of care and affection.

Laenor Velaryon.

Aegon’s breath shuddered, wrecked, his vision swimming for a fractured second before his knees buckled. The world had already been collapsing beneath him; his body spent, his mind fraying, the weight of failure pressing deep into his chest. But this… this was not war, not blood, not another shattered plan. This was something older.

Something lost.

Laenor Velaryon stood before him.

Alive. Whole. Impossible.

Aegon gripped the sand, unsteady, his breath sharp, uneven. The man who had lifted him onto a saddle, the man who had pulled him from the wreckage of his childhood, the man who had vanished beneath the weight of duty and deception. The calculations in his mind stuttered, failed… there was no strategy for this, no next step to chart, no careful manoeuvre to take.

Only disbelief.

And when Aegon finally forced himself to look up, still on his knees, his voice barely scraped past his lips.

"Laenor?"

The night twisted around them. King’s Landing still screaming, still burning in the distance, but none of it touched the space between Aegon and the man who had shaped his childhood, nor broke the silent breeze of salty air on the beach.

"No," Aegon whispered, the word barely forming, barely carrying, barely making sense. Laenor raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, posture too composed, too familiar, too real. He stepped forward, crouching down next to his adopted eldest child and placing a hand on his shoulder. Aegon nearly reared back, yet his body remained locked in position.

"I know I’ve been gone a while, but I expected a slightly warmer welcome."

Aegon’s lungs refused to work properly. Laenor had raised him, had been his closest guide in the days before his mother’s grief swallowed her whole, before his father’s absence turned into rejection. Laenor had been a presence—a protector, a constant, a father where his own had failed so spectacularly—and then he had been gone.

Dead.

Aegon’s fingers curled against the stone, his mind scrambling, his throat dry, his body refusing to process the sheer reality of it. Every memory shattered against the present.

"You—"

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t move.

Aegon couldn’t do anything except stare at the ghost standing in front of him. At first, Aegon didn’t react at all.

Then, he laughed.

It tore out of him—sharp, broken, uncontrolled, the kind of laugh that had nothing to do with humour, nothing to do with relief. A laugh born of exhaustion, of disbelief, of a man standing knee-deep in ruin and finding himself staring at ghosts. Helaena did not flinch, a small smile on her face as she gazed gently at Laenor. She adjusted her grip on the twins, steady, as if she had expected this all along.

"You're joking," Aegon managed, breathless, wrecked, still laughing even as he pressed a bloodied hand to his face, wiping at his jaw.

Laenor did not laugh.

His grip on Aegon’s shoulder was firm, grounding, his gaze too soft, too kind for a man who had vanished so long ago. How could he still look at Aegon like that? Like he hadn’t abandoned him?

"The man you paid was one of Daemon’s spies," Laenor said, matter of fact, a knowing glint in his eyes as he spoke. "Daemon sent me to retrieve Helaena."

Aegon’s laughter faltered—but did not die.

Of course, Daemon had known.

Aegon had made sure of it.

The contact he had chosen, the message he had left behind, the way he had let the information slip into the right hands. Daemon was supposed to know. Daemon was supposed to be ready. His fingers curled against his thigh, blood sticky against his skin. His plan had worked. And yet—he still felt wrung dry, his body spent, his mind reeling, his knees pressing into the cold dock as if the weight of the night refused to release him.

He exhaled, slow, steady, dragging his gaze back to Laenor.

"Then take her," Aegon said, voice hoarse, rasping. "Get them out of here."

The air stretched too thin, too sharp, pressing against his ribs as reality settled in. Laenor Velaryon, back from the dead, kneeling next to him and telling him information he already knew. Information he had planned for. Aegon though had not expected Laenor.

Helaena only exhaled, in peaceful relief.

She had always known.

The riot had quieted—not in victory, not in peace, but in exhaustion, in blood-soaked resignation. The screams had faded, replaced by the hollow echo of footsteps scraping against the stone beyond the shore. The guards were sweeping through the Keep, moving into the streets, searching for signs of treason, of escape.

Aegon’s breath came sharp, uneven, his knees still pressing into the cold dock, his fingers twitching against the stone. The air was crisp with salt, but beneath it lingered the stench of the city’s ruin—smoke clinging to his skin, dried blood caking beneath his nails, the scent of sweat and fear thick in the night. Helaena stood beside him, unmoving, the twins tucked against her chest, their warmth the only thing grounding her in the shifting tide of events. The wind pulled at her cloak, the fabric catching against the damp air, but she did not shiver.

She was waiting.

And Laenor was watching.

The torchlight flickered against the water, casting fractured reflections along the dock’s surface—gold against black, fire against sea, fleeting, fragile. Time was running out. Aegon should stand. Should move. Should demand answers, but the beach was cold beneath him, and for one terrible second, he thought it might swallow him whole.

Aegon did not rise.

His body had given everything, spent itself completely, left only with the weight of knowing what had to happen next. There was no victory here, no final stand, no fight left to give. He shook his head. Just once, just enough.

Then, slowly, he reached for the twins.

Helaena did not hesitate, lowering them into his arms, letting him hold them, feel them, press his lips to their soft foreheads in the last moment he would have before they were gone. They smelled of warmth, of safety, of the one thing he was never able to protect.

He lingered. Just briefly. Just enough for his fingers to shake as he let them go.

His voice came hoarse, wrecked, final.

"Leave."

Helaena nodded sharply, her gaze turning to the horizon. The bells would ring soon. The streets would flood with men loyal to the throne, to Otto, to the idea that the only way to stop war was through further bloodshed and Aegon had no more time to stop it.

Laenor did not move immediately. Instead, his hand tightened on Aegon’s shoulder, his gaze searching, holding fast to something beyond the exhaustion, beyond the blood, beyond the wreckage clinging to him. And then, without hesitation, he pulled Aegon in, his arms wrapping strong, steady, unshaken.

Aegon stiffened, only for a moment, before the weight of it crashed down. His fingers curled into the rough fabric of Laenor’s tunic, his breath hitching, but he did not pull away. It had been years since he had felt this. Since he had allowed himself to feel the love of a father, of someone truly on his side that wasn’t his sister.

Laenor exhaled, his voice barely above a murmur, meant only for him.

"You’ve done more than anyone ever expected, Aegon." A pause. "I am so proud of you."

Aegon swallowed hard, staring past Laenor’s shoulder, past the shore, past the ruin swallowing everything he had ever known. Laenor pulled back, grip steady on Aegon’s arms, his gaze firm. "I love you. Never doubt that."

Aegon’s jaw clenched. His throat burned. His muscles locked to keep the breaking at bay. Then Laenor turned, leading Helaena away to a boat he had stashed in the rocks. Helaena stepped onto the boat. The twins clung to her, silent, waiting.

Aegon didn’t watch them go.

He only listened to the waves carrying them away. Then, slowly, Aegon straightened, ready to face what came next. The beach was colder now, though the air itself had not changed. The sea still breathed against the shore, steady and indifferent, the scent of salt hanging heavy over the worn wood and stone. But something had shifted. Aegon remained where he had fallen, his body numb with exhaustion, his mind reeling beneath the weight of it all.

Laenor was alive.

He had spent years believing otherwise; mourning him, aching for the man who had once been more of a father than Viserys ever could be. Laenor had taught him how to hold a sword, had been there in the moments his mother had drowned in grief, had laughed with him when court had been unbearable, had pulled him onto dragonback when he had been too young to fear the skies.

And then he had died.

But now—now, he was here. Here and even more, he was proud of him.

Aegon exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists against the sand, the grit scratching into his skin. He had expected relief. Expected something close to joy, even through the madness of the night. But all he felt was grief. For what had been, for what had been lost, for what had changed beyond recognition.

Beyond the shore, the city still smouldered—smoke curling upward, the scent of blood thick beneath the salt, the distant echoes of the riot still pulsing in his ears. The Goldcloaks had butchered without hesitation. The streets had turned into slaughterhouses, and Aegon had seen it; had been pressed against it, had killed within it, had let Helaena be drenched in it.

The bells would ring. The mourning bells, the war bells, the bells that did not signify loss but the tightening of Otto’s grip.

He would wake to it soon.

Otto. The true ruler of King’s Landing.

Aegon had worn the crown, but Otto had wielded its power, twisting the city’s fate with a cold, unyielding grip. Aegon had played the fool, hoping his incompetence could dilute his control, slow his cruelty, keep the city from suffocating too fast.

But had it worked?

Had it done anything at all?

Aegon squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky, uneven, wrecked. He had to compose himself, yet his thoughts ran wild with his emotions.

Rhaenyra.

He had not spoken her name aloud in months, had buried the thought of her, of Dragonstone, of the place where he might have been safe. He missed her terribly, his older sister, the woman that had raised him and had mothered him, had loved him. She would take Helaena in. She would look after the twins. Helaena was with Aemond now, with Daemon, Jaehaerys, with their family, their true kin.

And Aegon was alone. He remained trapped in King’s Landing, caged by the weight of a crown that was never meant for him, suffocating beneath a war that would never end. By his own choice, by his own design, to keep Otto from gaining total control. He had to do more, had to take greater control somehow.

The sun began to rise, a gentle pale gold creeping along the horizon, turning the water into liquid fire and behind him, the armour closed in. One of them hesitated, not in hesitation to obey, but in recognition. Gwayne Hightower’s grip was steady, but his breath was too sharp, his stance too tense, his gaze flickering over Aegon with something dangerously close to regret.

"I didn’t think I’d find you here," he murmured, barely audible over the lapping waves, but Aegon did not dignify his uncle with an answer.

Instead, he stood.

Not because they forced him, not because they pulled him up, but because he chose to rise. The hands grasping at his arms hesitated; just briefly, just enough. The men expected dead weight, expected defeat, expected to drag a broken king back to his cage. Aegon would not be dragged. He would walk and he would be in control. So, he walked.  Through the streets, through the dawn, through the Red Keep’s towering gates. He did not falter. He did not resist.

Because this was always part of the plan.

The men thought they were dragging him back, thought they were pulling him from the beach, thought they were returning a drunken king to his cage.

But Aegon let them believe it.

They needed to believe it.

Otto needed to believe it.

The crown weighed nothing when placed on the head of a fool. Aegon had spent years ensuring that was exactly what they saw—an indulgent, reckless usurper, too blind to strategy, too drowned in pleasure to wield power, but fools did not plan escapes like this. Fools did not walk into their prison with steady steps, choosing to play their role even as war pressed against their skin.

Fools did not survive Otto’s control.

Aegon had survived. He had played the part perfectly.

And now, he would play it again.

The bells began to toll, their song weaving through the blood-soaked streets and alleys of King’s Landing. The sun burned gold behind him, casting him in radiance; light against ruin, gleaming against the carnage that festered beneath. The knights circled him, rigid in formation, their armour dulled by soot and blood. They believed him beaten, broken, bent under the weight of fate.

Aegon walked between them, his strides deliberate, unshaken, allowing them the illusion, allowing them to think they had won.

But the light crowned him—not like the metal they had forced upon his head, but the glow of something more deliberate, more dangerous. The Red Keep loomed ahead, its gates yawning open, its walls waiting to swallow him whole.

Aegon smiled.

Chapter Text

The room was steeped in silence, thick and heavy, pressing down on her like the weight of a thousand unread histories. The faint crackle of candle flames punctuated the stillness, their glow casting restless shadows along the towering shelves that lined the chamber. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingered in the air—a musty perfume of knowledge long preserved, mingling with the sharper tang of wax and the faint acrid bite of soot from the fireplace.

Beyond the walls, the wind howled, a mournful whisper slipping through the narrow gaps in the stone, carrying with it the brine of the sea. The salt clung to the air, a reminder of the world beyond, the ever-churning waves that had once embraced her son, only to drag him from her grasp. The distant crash of the tide was like a heartbeat—slow, rhythmic, unrelenting.

The fire burned in the gaping maw of Balerion, a beast long gone yet still present in stone. Its heat pulsed outward, licking at her skin, but it could not chase away the creeping chill from the surrounding walls, the cold pressing against her back as if the fortress itself mourned with her. The contrast was suffocating—the oppressive warmth before her, the biting cold at her back. A perfect reflection of the war raging within.

The chair beneath her was sturdy, solid oak with its intricate carvings of dragons winding beneath her fingertips. She traced their sinuous forms absentmindedly, feeling the grooves worn smooth by years of touch, of rulers who had sat before her, who had carried the same burdens, the same grief. But none had known this—this hollow ache, this silent agony.

The youngest children, aside from Aemma, were safe, away with Lady Charis on route to the Karstark keep in the North. Their laughter was absent from the stone halls, leaving nothing but an aching void in their wake. Daemon, ever restless, had disappeared into the night, his sorrow a quiet thing, buried beneath layers of resolve. He would seek the dragons, and yet, even they could not ease this pain.

And Lucerys… her sweet, curly-haired boy… was lost to her now. No number of ink-stained pages, no stories of kings and queens, of conquest and loss, could bring him back. The library was her refuge, a sanctuary carved from stone and history, where the weight of her crown could slip from her shoulders for just a moment. The world beyond its doors was relentless—duty, expectation, the ever-watchful eyes that sought her strength, her resolve. Out there, she was a queen, a mother, a leader. But in here, in the flickering candlelight and the whispers of forgotten texts, she could be something else—she could be broken.

Her fingers curled over the carved dragons on her chair, tracing their scales, their fierce expressions. They had been masters of the skies, rulers of fire and fury. Unbreakable. But even dragons could fall. Even queens could bleed.

Lucerys was gone. And part of her—some vital, irreplaceable piece—had gone with him.

She felt the heat rising beneath her skin, the slow, simmering boil of something primal. Rage. A force demanding a target, something to destroy, to blame. But there was no enemy here, no treachery, no betrayal. Only fate. Only the cruel indifference of the world that had stolen him away in a twist of wind and wave.

Her breathing was steady, measured. She had to keep it so. Because when she left this room, she would step back into her role. She would be strong. She would lead. She would be everything they needed her to be.

But for now, just for now, she was only a mother mourning her son, and the silence swallowed her whole. She clutched the cloak to her chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric, as if holding it tight enough might somehow summon him back. The scent of fire still lingered—a cruel reminder of his fate, mingling with the brine of the sea air that crept through the stone lattice. Salt and smoke. The elements of his life, and now, of his death.

She breathed in deeply, pressing the cloth against her lips, her eyes shutting against the wave of grief that threatened to drown her. It smelled like him still, beneath the ruin—like wind whipping through his silver curls, like sun-warmed wool, like the boy who had always carried the scent of the open sea no matter how far from it he roamed.

How many nights had she run her fingers through those soft curls, humming low as she braided his hair, lingering far past his boyhood years just for the excuse to hold him close? How many times had he laughed, rolling his eyes as she tucked him in, as if he weren’t nearly too old to be coddled? And yet, he had always allowed it, indulging her mother’s heart even when he feigned protest.

She had given him the skies, a dragon to command, a legacy to forge, but in the end, none of it had saved him. He had been meant for greatness, meant to grow into something more. But the winds had stolen him, the waves had swallowed him whole, and she was left with nothing but the tattered remnants of what once was.

A mother should never have to bury her child. She should never be left clinging to the last remnants of what they were, searching for traces of their warmth in something so cold, so ruined.

But it was all she had now. And gods help her; she would never let it go. The grief had settled deep into her bones, an ache that would never truly fade, no matter how many days passed. It clung to her like the salt-laden air, slipping beneath her skin, heavy in her chest, pressing down with the weight of all she had lost. Daemon understood this—perhaps better than anyone. He had given her space to mourn, had shielded her from the world when she could not bear its demands, had held her in silence when words failed. He carried his own sorrow, but he did not ask her to shoulder it. Not yet.

Barely a moon turn had passed, and though she stood tall before the court, though she wore her grief like armour, there was no denying its hold on her. They saw only the heart of Valyrian steel that had been forged from pain, from loss, from the ghosts that haunted her footsteps. But steel could be brittle. And she was not infallible.

The cloak still rested where she had left it, draped across her lap, its scent filling the quiet space around her. Torn and burned, the remnants of her son, of his life. Fire and salt—the two forces that had shaped him, had carried him across the skies and through the waves. And now, they were all she had left.

Laenor’s sudden return had sent ripples through their household, unsettling the fragile balance she had worked to maintain. Aerion, still too young to grasp the weight of it, had stared at his true father as if seeing a spectre, confusion flickering in his sharp little eyes. To him, Daemon was the man who had raised him, the constant presence in his life. The father he knew.

Jaehaerys—her heir, her firstborn—was coming home. He would step into this grief with her, unknowing, unprepared. She would have to relive it again, speak it aloud, let it tear through her once more as she explained the loss of his brother, the return of the father he had once grieved. It would be another wound, another test of endurance.

She breathed in deeply, pressing her fingers into the carved wood of her chair, grounding herself in the tangible. Soon, she would have to step from this room, leave behind the quiet embrace of sorrow and return to the world beyond these walls—to duty, to family, to the ever-turning wheel of power and expectation.

But not yet. Not just yet.

Aemond had retreated into himself, swallowed by the weight of his guilt, a sorrow he could not shed despite Rhaenyra’s reassurances. He lingered in the dim corners of his chambers, where the only company he allowed was silence and shadows, his grief a ghost that refused to leave him.

She had told him, time and time again, that Lucerys' death had not been his fault, that the skies had stolen her son, not him. But words, no matter how often repeated, did little to break through the fortress of regret he had built around himself. He had always been the boy who sought control, the boy who fought against weakness. And now, in the face of tragedy, he had none.

The only thing that tethered him to the present, that brought a flicker of warmth back into his cold fingers, was the infant Aemma. She was untouched by grief, unburdened by the history that had weighed them all down. In her tiny hands and quiet breaths, he found a respite—not forgiveness, not absolution—but something softer.

When he held her, the tension in his shoulders loosened, even if just for a moment. He cradled her as if she were the only thing left untainted by the past, his grip careful, reverent, as if she might break beneath the weight he carried.

Rhaenyra watched him from a distance, seeing the way his fingers trembled when they brushed over the babe’s downy silver hair, the way his lips parted as though he might say something, only to falter. He had not wept—not in front of her, not where anyone might see. His grief was locked behind his ribs, silent but suffocating.

Rhaenyra set the cloak down with careful precision, smoothing her fingers over the charred edges as if she might somehow make them whole again. She lingered for a moment, twisting the rings on her fingers, feeling the weight of them, of what they meant—of the life she had forged, the burdens she bore. The black velvet of her gown brushed against her ankles as she strode toward the open window, where the dragons danced in the slate-coloured sky, their distant roars carried by the wind. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sharp sting of sea air, tucking her grief away piece by piece, locking it down with the same discipline that had shaped her since birth.

But grief was never so easily contained.

"Mother..."

The deep voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned to see him approaching.

Jaehaerys had grown into a formidable presence—a tall, broad-shouldered man, his silver hair bound in three tight braids that framed his face, a hint of stubble darkening his cheeks, a reflection of his mixed heritage. His black leather tunic bore the sigil of their house—a three-headed dragon, embroidered in deep crimson across his chest. A symbol of fire and fury, of power and dominion. But now, in this moment, it felt hollow.

His eyes were red-rimmed, grief etched into his features despite the steel he was trying to wield. His hands were clasped in front of him, white-knuckled with restraint, his breath measured, controlled—an effort not to shatter beneath the weight of it. He was a warrior, a prince, an heir. He had been raised to endure, to bear the expectations placed upon him. But nothing had prepared him for this.

"Lord Cregan Stark... has promised 2,000 men... they march..."

His voice faltered, breaking like a blade struck too hard against an unforgiving surface. The sob tore free before he could stop it, his shoulders trembling under the force of it, years of composure splintering in a single breath.

Rhaenyra did not hesitate. She rounded the table swiftly, closing the distance between them, wrapping him in her arms before he could retreat, before he could steel himself once more and bury it away. He was her son. Her firstborn. And for all his strength, for all the expectation pressed upon him, he was still just a grieving brother.

She felt the shudder in his frame, the way he clung to her as if anchoring himself against the storm raging inside him. There were no words to soothe this pain, no assurances that would mend what had been broken. In that moment, the weight of titles and duty meant nothing. He was not the heir to the throne, not a warrior preparing for war—he was simply her child, her baby boy, broken by grief and held together only by the arms that had cradled him since birth.

His frame trembled against her, the strength he had always carried now stripped away, leaving only the rawness of loss, the unbearable ache of absence. Seventeen. Still so young yet forced to wear the burdens of a world that did not allow softness, did not permit weakness. But here, in his mother’s embrace, he did not have to be anything but a brother mourning the sibling he would never see again.

Rhaenyra pressed a hand to the back of his head, fingers weaving into silver strands, feeling the warmth of him, the shaking breath against her shoulder. He had been so small once, fragile and wide-eyed, curling into her side in the quiet hours of the night, seeking comfort in her presence. And now—now, he was taller than her, a man in the eyes of the realm, but in this moment, he was just a boy who had lost his brother. A boy who had lost a piece of himself.

She held him tighter, wishing she could shield him from this pain, wishing she could take it for him. But grief was a cruel thing—it spared no one, showed no mercy. And just as she had, he would carry this loss for the rest of his life.

But for now, at least, he did not have to carry it alone. She would hold him if he needed. As long as she could. The heavy silence between mother and son was broken by the sound of booted footsteps, deliberate and firm. Daemon strode into the chamber, his presence as commanding as ever, though there was something different now—something dulled at the edges. His sharp, angular handsomeness was marred with grief, worn into the lines around his piercing violet eyes, carved into the tension in his jaw. His silver-blond hair was half tied back, though strands had fallen loose, framing his face, cascading straight to his shoulders. He looked both regal and exhausted, his black doublet a rich fabric embroidered intricately with dragons.

Cradled against his chest was Aemma, the babe nestled securely in his arms, her presence a stark contrast to the sorrow weighing down the room. His brow furrowed, deep-set with burdens he would never fully voice, but it softened at the sight of them, his wife, his adopted son.

"They are here," Daemon said, his voice low, unreadable, but his eyes carried the message well enough.

Rhaenyra stiffened, her fingers brushing instinctively over the front of her gown, smoothing the fabric as though it might steady her. There was no need to ask who. She already knew.

But Jaehaerys was not so sure. His grip on the back of the chair tightened, knuckles white with strain, his voice rough when he finally asked, "Who?"

Rhaenyra turned to him, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her gaze; a hesitation, an understanding.

"Helaena."

Jaehaerys' breath hitched.

It was barely perceptible, but Rhaenyra saw it, the way his posture shifted, the way relief flooded him in a way he had not realized he had been holding back. It was like something had loosened inside him, something that had coiled tight ever since he had set foot in Dragonstone once more. The weight of grief did not fade, but in this moment, the knowledge that she was here—that she had returned—sent a pulse of warmth through him, a quiet certainty that, even in sorrow, something precious remained.

Rhaenyra studied him but said nothing. She had always known. Perhaps not in words, not in outright admissions, but in the way he looked at Helaena, the way his gaze lingered, the way he always seemed drawn to her presence even when circumstances had kept them apart. It had been a love held close to his heart, quiet, unspoken, but no less powerful. And now, in the wake of all they had lost, it was still there, unwavering.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding once, straightening her shoulders.

"Then we shall go meet them," she said, and though her voice was steady, she felt her pulse quicken beneath the weight of what was to come. Daemon shifted Aemma in his arms, giving her a measured look, a silent question. Was she ready, was she okay?

Rhaenyra paused, holding her breath for a moment. She didn't know. But she had no choice but to be okay. She was the Queen.

--

Jaehaerys walked close behind, his steps measured, yet betraying the tension wound tight beneath his composed exterior. He had always carried himself with dignity, with the poised confidence of an heir, but now he was simply a young man navigating grief, unsure of how to face what was coming.

Daemon kept pace beside Rhaenyra, his stride purposeful, yet there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes when she glanced at him. He had handed Aemma off with deliberate care, unwilling to expose her to the chill of the evening air, knowing her presence outside Dragonstone’s walls was not meant for now—not yet.

Rhaenyra, for all her practiced control, could not help the urgency in her step. She held her skirts tight in her fists, half walking, half running as they descended toward the beach, where Laenor would soon land, where Helaena would step onto their shores. The wind had picked up, curling in salty gusts through Rhaenyra’s loose hair. The scent of the sea mingled with the smoke of distant torches, filling her lungs, grounding her even as her heart pounded in anticipation.

The roar of Seasmoke’s descent was deafening, the wind kicking up as the pale dragon’s wings beat furiously against the air, sending a spray of seawater into the wind as he landed on the rocky shore of Dragonstone. Jaehaerys barely noticed. The beast, the sheer spectacle of his arrival, the way the ground trembled beneath his weight—it was all lost to him.

His eyes found Helaena instead.

She stood amid the chaos, her silvery hair windswept and wild from the flight, strands clinging to her flushed cheeks, caught in the damp sea breeze. Even dishevelled, even weary from travel, she was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that had nothing to do with crowns or lineage, but simply with the quiet way she moved—graceful even in disorder, unshaken even as she struggled to steady the twins in her arms.

The babes fussed, wriggling against her grasp, and she shushed them softly, murmuring something he could not hear, though he wished he could. There was an unspoken tenderness in the way she moved, in the way her fingers soothed their restless limbs, in the curve of her body as she bent protectively over them.

He had always known the depth of his feelings for her, carried them silently, tucked away where they could never be spoken aloud. But now, standing here, watching her fight against the elements to keep the babes steady, he felt it anew; the sharp, undeniable ache for something that could not be his.

Even in grief, even beneath the weight of loss, she was still the only thing that could make his heart stumble. And gods, it stumbled now. Jaehaerys had barely drawn breath from the sight of Helaena before his gaze was wrenched toward the figure standing beside her—the man who should not be here, who should not exist before him in flesh and blood.

Laenor.

The father he had mourned, the ghost resurrected before his very eyes.

The weight of disbelief crashed down upon him, his stomach twisting violently as his eyes traced every detail. His father’s face aged with time, his beard thicker, his clothes unfamiliar, yet unmistakably regal. And despite all the years, despite the distance between the life he had lived and the life he had abandoned, Laenor fit so seamlessly into his place beside Rhaenyra, as if he had never left, as if he had never torn himself from their lives.

Jaehaerys felt his breath hitch, his throat tightening painfully, a bitter sting crawling up from deep within. He saw his mother move, watched as she stepped forward to embrace Helaena, her arms wrapping around her in fierce relief, her body speaking the words her lips did not—I am glad you are here; I am grateful you have come.

And then, he knew.

Knew what they had done, what they had woven in secrecy, what reasoning had led them down this path of deception, of pain. The pieces clicked together with a cruel finality; the whispers that had never made sense before, the strange quiet that had accompanied Laenor’s passing, the way his mother had never spoken of him with the grief of a woman who had truly lost her husband.

They had plotted this. They had orchestrated his disappearance, buried him in shadow and secrecy for reasons they believed noble, reasons they no doubt thought would justify the agony they had caused. His heart thundered against his ribs, rage clawing its way up his chest, burning beneath the weight of revelation. For so long, he had grieved his father. And now, standing before him, was the proof that his grief had been manufactured, forced upon him not by fate, but by the very people he loved.

The betrayal twisted deep.

And yet, even as fury coiled in his gut, as shock threatened to consume him, his eyes flicked back to Helaena—to the quiet understanding in her gaze, to the way she cradled the babes in her arms, the way she had returned here, to them.

And Gods help him, he did not know what he felt anymore. Only that it burned. And it would not stop. Jaehaerys barely registered the weight of the hand on his shoulder until it steadied him—grounded him against the storm raging inside his chest. Daemon. The man who had filled the absence left behind, who had protected them all, who had been there when his father had vanished into myth and memory.

In that moment, Jaehaerys could not bear it. He could not bear the comfort, the understanding, the silent message Daemon sought to impart. The emotions tearing through him were too raw, too conflicted—anger, betrayal, confusion, and something dangerously close to grief all tangled into an unrelenting force that threatened to unmake him.

His breath came short, sharp, stolen from his chest as he took a step back, turning away before he could succumb to the weight of it all. He did not see the exchange between the men behind him—the brief, unreadable look Laenor gave Daemon, the subtle nod passed between them, a silent agreement unspoken but understood. Nor did he see the way Helaena placed a gentle hand on Laenor’s arm, shaking her head ever so slightly—leave him be.

Jaehaerys only knew that he had to escape.

His steps were swift, purposeful, carrying him back toward the castle, toward anything that might give him space to breathe, to think—to unravel the mess of emotions clawing at his ribs. The distant roar of Seasmoke faded behind him, as did the quiet murmurs of the people he left behind.

Rhaenyra caught sight of Jaehaerys in the corner of her vision, his retreating form stiff with emotion, and for a fleeting second, worry lanced through her, sharp, piercing. But then a soft, breathy gurgle pulled her back, grounding her in the moment. The twins fussed in Helaena’s arms, their tiny limbs stretching, their sweet sounds a stark contrast to the grief-laden air around them. Relief flooded her, sudden and overwhelming, her hands reaching out instinctively, cupping Helaena’s chilled cheeks, smoothing strands of her wild, windswept hair away from her face.

"You're here," she muttered, almost breathless, words tumbling from her lips in rapid succession. "The flight… was it safe? Did the babes fare well? Did you have trouble?"

Helaena only nodded in that serene way of hers, her gaze steady, unshaken despite the journey, despite the weight of what they all carried. Rhaenyra let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, fingers briefly pressing against Helaena’s forehead as if checking for some unseen wound, some proof that she had truly made it to Dragonstone unscathed.

But even as relief settled in her chest, a new anxiety clawed its way in and her gaze lifted upward, toward the skies. The dragons still wheeled in the distance, the wind carrying their restless cries, their wings cutting through the thick, dreary clouds above. She scanned the horizon, the stretch of storm-darkened sky, searching—waiting—hoping to catch sight of golden wings, of Sunfyre’s radiant glow against the gloom.

Nothing.

Her stomach twisted.

"Where is Aegon?" she asked, voice uneven, cracking in a way she could not control. "Why is he not with you?"

He should have been here. Should have been standing at her side, the brother she had claimed long before any duty bound them, the first child she had loved without condition. He was hers—not by blood, but by heart, by the bond forged in childhood, in quiet whispers and fierce protection. She turned to Laenor, and the shake of his head sent ice through her veins. No explanation. No comfort. Just confirmation of what she already knew, that Aegon was not coming.

It was Helaena who finally spoke, her voice gentle, but no less devastating.

"He had to stay behind," she said quietly. "He has to protect your throne."

The words hit like a blow, her pulse slowing, stretching between one breath and the next.

No.

Her hands fell uselessly to her sides, fingers twitching, curling into fists before uncurling again. The grief that had settled in her bones twisted into something sharper, something that tasted of fear. Of helplessness. She had already lost one son. And now, she felt as though she were losing another, though not to death, not yet—but to war. To duty. To the very thing she had spent her life fighting against. The wind howled around them, carrying the scent of salt, of burning torch smoke, of the damp chill clinging to the fortress walls. The world moved as it always had, uncaring of the realization cutting through her.

She had already lost one son.

Now she felt as though she were losing another. And gods, she could not bear it.

She turned her gaze to the distant horizon, anger rising in her like a storm threatening to tear her apart. The relentless waves crashing against the rocks below mirrored the fury that churned within her chest. Her thoughts, sharp and unforgiving, clawed at her, refusing to accept the cruel reality she faced. The wind whipped at her hair and cloak, but it was Daemon’s presence just behind her—a quiet, almost amused presence—that stoked her fire further.

“We must trust him,” Laenor murmured again, though his words were met with nothing but a sharp, defiant laugh from her, one that carried no mirth.

“Trust him? Aegon, always. But trust her? Trust him?” Her voice cracked like a whip, her fury a palpable force that made even the wind seem to pale. “His mother, who would sooner see me broken than seated on my throne? His grandfather, who poisons the air of that wretched court with every breath he takes? I cannot trust them! And I will not trust them with my son!”

Daemon, leaning on a weathered rock, his dark cloak flapping in the sea breeze, tilted his head, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed, as though enjoying the fire blazing in her. He had always admired her sharpness, her unrelenting drive, and in this moment, she burned brighter than the sun cutting through the heavy clouds overhead.

“It is not his war to fight,” she spat, her voice rising above the howling wind. “It is mine. I should be there, not him. He is a child; he is my child. King’s Landing is no place for him, surrounded by vipers and liars and schemers who will twist him into something unrecognizable. They will not have him. I will not allow it!”

Her chest heaved as she took a step toward the water, her fingers twitching, already yearning for the familiar leather reins of Syrax’s harness. The thought of her dragon, the bond between them forged in fire and blood, gave her strength. She was ready; ready to mount Syrax, to fly to King’s Landing herself, to tear through the Red Keep’s halls until every viper scurried back into its den.

Laenor reached for her arm, his grip firm yet cautious. “Rhaenyra, think…”

“I am thinking,” she cut him off, her words biting and cold. “I trust Aegon, but I do not trust them. I will not leave him to face them alone while they circle like wolves. He is my child, my blood, my heart. If they think they can claim him, they will learn what it means to face a mother’s wrath.”

The fire in her eyes was unrelenting, her resolve unshakable. Daemon’s smirk widened slightly, though he still said nothing, his amusement tempered by the faint glimmer of pride. He knew better than to stand in her way when she burned like this. Perhaps, he thought, it was better to fan the flames than to extinguish them.

A gust of wind carried the salt of the sea to her lips, and the scent of torch smoke mingled with the damp chill of the air. She turned back toward the fortress briefly, her decision made. If Aegon could not come to her, then she would go to him. The throne, the vipers, and the court’s endless games—they could all burn. She would not lose another son to their treachery.

As the storm of her anger threatened to crest, Daemon pushed off the weathered rock, his boots crunching against the damp gravel as he closed the distance between them. His smirk softened, though his eyes retained their sharpness, glinting like steel tempered in fire. He reached for her arm, not forcefully, but with a steadying weight that conveyed not amusement but purpose.

“Rhaenyra,” he began, his voice low, carrying a calm that seemed incongruous against the swirling tempest around them. “Aegon is no longer a boy. He is a man, smarter than most give him credit for. And he has chosen his path.”

She turned to him, her fury still blazing, but her voice faltered for a moment. “His path? Aegon knows nothing of their scheming! The court will eat him alive!”

Daemon’s grip tightened, grounding her. “He is not a fool. You know that better than anyone. He has weighed the risks, the alliances, and the promises whispered in shadow. And he has made his decision—not as your brother, or your son, but as a man who seeks to protect you, protect us.”

She pulled her arm free, her movements fierce and snapping like fire itself. “Protect me? By throwing himself to the wolves? By risking his life in that wretched den? He cannot know the peril he faces. He cannot know—”

“He knows.” Daemon’s voice hardened, though his tone remained even. “He knows more than you think. You taught him to be strong, cunning, to see through lies and grasp power with his own hands. He does not fight this war as a child, Rhaenyra. He fights it as a prince, as your blood.” He stepped closer, his expression serene yet unyielding. “If you rush to him now, if you storm into King’s Landing to tear down the walls, you risk everything. He cannot gain their trust if you make him appear weak, a pawn to his mother’s will.”

Her eyes burned, her jaw clenched, but she did not speak. The weight of his words pressed against her resolve like waves battering a cliffside. She hated him for his logic, hated him for the truths she could not deny.

Behind them, Laenor escorted Helaena and her wailing babes into towards the great halls of Dragonstone. Their cries pierced the air, mingling with the roar of the sea, yet she barely registered them. Her thoughts churned, as turbulent as the waters below. Daemon stepped closer still, lowering his voice as if speaking only to her heart.

“Think, Rhaenyra. Aegon is stronger than you believe. He carries your fire, your blood, your name—and he carries your lessons. Let him prove himself, and let them see that he is not alone, even when you are miles away.”

Her gaze flickered to the distant horizon, where the skies softened into an ominous grey. She wanted to resist, to defy him, to mount Syrax and fly into the heart of the storm. But Daemon’s grip and his quiet truth anchored her, though it burned her soul to yield. He pressed his forehead to hers, silently willing her to see reason.

“I hate you for this,” she whispered, her voice strained and low, yet no less fierce.

Daemon’s smirk returned, faint and knowing. “Then I’ve done my job well.”

With a heavy breath, Rhaenyra turned her back to the sea and moved away from her husband, her steps deliberate yet reluctant as she strode toward the fortress. Behind her, Daemon watched her retreat, his expression unreadable, though pride lingered in the glint of his eyes. She would not lose another son to treachery, and though her fire burned bright, it would not consume her—not yet.

--

The Painted Table glowed beneath the flickering candlelight, casting jagged shadows over its carved surface, where realms and rivers stretched beneath Rhaenyra’s fingertips. She leaned forward, her hands braced against the polished wood, eyes narrowed as she studied the Riverlands, the miniature banners standing rigid upon their carved territories. A frown settled upon her lips, deepening as her gaze traced the familiar shapes—the Blackwood raven, the Bracken stallion—locked in bitter rivalry once more.

The room was thick with warmth, the fire at her back crackling softly, sending waves of heat against the chill that clung to the stone walls of Dragonstone. The scent of burning oak and melting wax mixed with parchment and ink, the remnants of ravens’ messages scattered across the table, their sealed edges still smelling of the distant lands from which they came.

Rhaenyra was adorned in an intricate black gown, the fabric flowing like liquid night, shaped to her form with tailored precision. It hung loose around the diminishing remnant of her swollen stomach, enough to flatter but not hide the woman that she was. Golden thread wove dragon-scale embroidery up her sleeves, each delicate stitch catching the candlelight as she moved, the embedded gemstones shimmering like captured starlight. It was a gown designed not just for elegance, but for presence.

Her small council argued, their voices layered with urgency, tactics debated in clipped tones as they dissected reports and theories. Some gestured toward the pieces on the table, others paced, their shadows stretching long against the walls, but none dared interrupt her thoughts.

Daemon sat to Rhaenyra’s right, ever her sword in the dark, watching the ebb and flow of the conversation with narrowed eyes, his fingers drumming idly against the hilt of his blade. He had long since grown weary of politics, of the endless calculations and negotiations that came with war. His patience was thin, worn raw from moons of meetings, of ravens carrying words instead of steel. He was ready, more than ready, to carve through their enemies. He lived to end this feud in fire and blood.

Yet here he sat, bored out of his mind.

Rhaenyra, his ever-cunning, ever-defiant wife, kept him on a tight leash. A fact he did not fully resent, though it made him huff softly under his breath, a quiet exhale of exasperation that did not go unnoticed. Rhaenys smirk to herself whenever she glanced over to him and caught his eye, ever amused by how easily Rhaenyra reigned him in when no one else could.

She was his only restraint. The only force capable of tempering his fury, of holding him back when his instincts screamed for war. Though it irked him and the waiting gnawed at him, he could not deny the quiet pride that curled in his chest as he watched her work. She was no longer the girl who had ridden recklessly through the halls, demanding the world bend to her will—she was a queen, standing firm, shaping the future with careful, calculated strikes.

Still, his thoughts wandered—to the fire, to the skies, to what could be done with dragon flame rather than ink and parchment. And, for the briefest moment, to something softer. To his daughter, his baby girl. He wished he could be with her now. Away from the heat of war, from the looming threat of battle, to hold her against his chest and listen to the quiet hum of her breath.

But his place was here. At Rhaenyra’s side.

When she finally gave the order—when she unleashed him—there would be no hesitation. Only fire. Only blood. Only war. A smirk fell on his lips. He was so ready, ready for the action, for the countless hours of training with Laenor and Jaehaerys to finally come to fruition.

The Riverlands had once again become a graveyard for feuding houses, their endless cycle of bloodshed staining the lands between their banners. The raven had carried its grim tale swiftly, inked in blood and betrayal. Lord Samwell Blackwood had fallen; not in honour, not with dignity, but in mockery of all he had stood for.

Ser Amos Bracken had not simply bested him in combat. He had made a show of it, dragging the battle out for sport, forcing the Blackwood men to witness their lord’s agony. His blade did not strike swift. It carved through flesh deliberately, cruelly, shattering bone with calculated malice. He had wanted them to watch, had wanted them to know that this was no mere victory, but humiliation.

When Samwell’s body crumpled to the mud, breath stolen from him at last, Bracken was not finished. The horses had been waiting. Their reins pulled tight as their riders grinned, as they bound Samwell’s limbs with thick rope, tying his arms and legs to their mounts. When the command was given, they rode—splitting him limb from limb, tearing his body apart in a savage display of power, his blood splattering across the soil in thick, wet bursts.

The letter then detailed, horrifically, the final insult that the Bracken had levied against Sir Samwell.

He had taken what was left, what remained of his corpse, and strung it from the twisted branches of a dead weirwood tree, letting him hang there, lifeless, broken. It was a direct mockery of his house’s sacred symbol, a taunt to the Blackwoods, to their gods, to everything they had believed in.

But vengeance had been swift.

As Ser Amos stood before his gruesome trophy, revelling in his conquest, the whistle of an arrow cut through the stagnant air. A pale shaft, carved from sacred wood, struck him deep in the heart, puncturing through muscle and lung. During the battle, or massacre, the Mill had been engulfed in flames, its wooden frame collapsing into the river, embers scattering across the blood-soaked banks. The cries of the fallen had mingled with the roaring flames, with the clash of steel and the hiss of arrows splitting the air.

The Blackwoods had struck like ghosts in the mist, their vengeance swift, unrelenting. What had begun as a calculated Bracken assault had ended in catastrophe, their banners torn, their men felled, their lord lying cold with a weirwood shaft buried deep in his chest.

Rhaenyra studied the chessboard laid out before her, the painted territories now symbols of slaughter rather than mere carved wood. The fire at her back burned hot, casting deep shadows along the ancient map, making the rivers look like veins, pulsing with the lifeblood of war. Pain had begun to brew in her lower back, yet she staunchly ignored it, a lingering reminder of giving birth only 7 weeks hence.

This feud had been long simmering, but now it had boiled over. And worse, it threatened to upend the delicate balance she was trying to maintain in the Riverlands. Their houses should have been unified, should have stood against the true war ahead but instead, they tore themselves apart, drowning their lands in blood that should have been spent fighting for her cause.

The council murmured behind her, voices layered in discussion, in argument, but she barely heard them. She inhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to the map, tracing the stretch of land where the battle had taken place.

It needed to be dealt with. Quickly.

Rhaenyra straightened, the firelight casting sharp lines across her face as she studied the map before her. The Brackens had overstepped, spilling Blackwood blood in recklessly at a time when unity was demanded. That mistake would cost them dearly.

She turned, locking eyes with Daemon. He had been watching her in silence, waiting—not with apprehension, but with the unwavering certainty of a man who knew his place at her side, who understood the weight of the choices she bore.

"You will take Stone Hedge," she commanded, her voice even, resolute. "House Blackwood will have what is rightfully theirs."

Daemon’s lips curled at the edges, not in amusement, but in quiet satisfaction, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword.

"And the Bracken men?" His tone was calm, though there was a flicker of something darker beneath—anticipation.

"They are no longer lords," Rhaenyra stated, her voice hard as Valyrian steel. "They will be given a choice—the Wall, or death."

A murmur rippled through the council, some shifting uneasily, others nodding, already resigned to the inevitability of war. Daemon only inclined his head slightly, a silent promise that the task would be done. He did not question her judgment. The silver-haired man stood and approached his wife, who remained stood at the edge of the table. Rhaenyra’s eyes followed him, before she turned her attention to the men gathered.

“They are traitors to their liege lords and to the throne itself. Rally houses Darry, Piper, Frey and Rootes and take Stone Hedge,” Rhaenyra instructed, her voice unwavering, the weight of her authority pressing into every syllable.  Daemon hovered near her shoulder as Bartimos Celtigar’s hands moved deftly over the Painted Table, shifting the carved pieces into position. Then, she felt the light, almost imperceptible touch of Daemon’s fingers grazing the dark fabric at her elbow. It was a silent cue, gently insisting she leave her feet.

He knew her well enough to sense what others could not, to notice the subtle tension in her frame, the stiffness settling in her limbs, the way weariness had begun creeping into her body, unspoken but ever present.

Without a word, he guided her toward her chair, his touch lingering just enough to remind her—he was there. Not commanding, not demanding, simply ensuring that she did not crumble beneath the weight of all she carried. Rhaenyra hesitated for a fraction of a moment, resisting the pull of exhaustion. But Daemon, ever unyielding when it came to her, ever attuned to the things she would not say aloud, remained firm.

Daemon’s hands rested casually on the back of her chair, but his gaze was sharp as he caught Jaehaerys’s smirk from across the table. The boy—no, the young man—was eager, too eager, his stance rigid with restrained determination, his silver braids catching the low candlelight as he squared his shoulders.

“I shall go with Daemon,” Jaehaerys stated, his voice firm, his posture unwavering. Rhaenyra’s response was immediate, edged in something dangerously close to panic.

“No,” she snapped, the weight of her authority pressing into the air between them. “You will remain at Dragonstone.”

Not another son.

She had already lost one. The agony of it had not dulled, had not settled into something bearable. It was fresh, it was clawing, it was a constant ache buried beneath every breath she took. And now, standing before her, was another son asking to step onto the battlefield, asking to place himself in the hands of war. She would not allow it. Jaehaerys exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his features. He clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

“I am no child, Mother.” His tone held steel, held the same quiet intensity that had been forming inside him for moons now. “I am a dragon.”

“It is folly to keep a dragon chained,” Rhaenys murmured, her voice smooth as she drummed her nails against the polished wood, the rhythmic tapping carrying beneath the murmuring council members. But then, her gaze sharpened, shifting toward Jaehaerys, narrowing in cold calculation.

“However,” she continued, deliberate, measured, “in this moment, I am inclined to agree with the Queen. The heir to the throne should remain on Dragonstone—away from the battlefield.”

Jaehaerys scowled, his pride bruised, his fury barely contained beneath the weight of his grandmother’s logic. It wasn’t just Rhaenyra denying him, it was Rhaenys reinforcing it, sealing it as fact. A wall had been placed between him and war, between him and proving himself, and despite his maturity, despite his restraint, resentment coiled beneath his ribs.

Daemon smirked slightly, watching the exchange, yet he said nothing—only observing, only waiting. He knew this feeling well; the frustration of being held back, of being kept away from battle when he longed for nothing more than the fight. The chamber crackled with tension, the air thick with the scent of burning oak and melted wax, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across the walls. The Painted Table lay before them, its surface marked by shifting banners, a living battlefield shaped by words and strategy.

Ser Alfred Broome cut through the murmuring council like a blade, his voice sharp, urgent. “We must seize the hour and act before our enemy does. The Riverlands are aflame after the Battle of the Burning Mill. We must press the advantage that we have.”

Lord Gormon Massey leaned forward, his brows knitting together in measured scrutiny. “And what advantage is that?”

Alfred scoffed, frustration bleeding into every syllable as he gestured broadly across the table. “Dragons! We have the greater number. We hold the Usurper’s Queen and her children. We have the advantage. We should turn the Green strongholds to our cause and take King’s Landing by force! We should burn those who resist.” His fist slammed against the wood, rattling the carefully placed pieces of war.

The council shifted, some nodding, others stiffening at the suggestion. But it was Rhaenyra who remained still, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting briefly to Rhaenys, seeking unspoken reassurance, understanding. A silent exchange passed between them.

Rhaenys inhaled, fingers tapping lightly against the polished edge of the table, her posture relaxed, but her presence undeniable. Where Rhaenyra was fire, Rhaenys was tempered steel—both sharp, both unyielding, but one honed by experience, by patience.

“Recklessness has its price, Ser Alfred,” Rhaenys finally said, her tone smooth, measured. “The Riverlands are aflame, yes, but fire spreads in all directions. You would have us press forward without thought, without calculation.”

Alfred bristled, eyes flashing with indignation. “And what would you have us do? Wait? Allow the Greens to gather their forces, allow them to strike first?”

Daemon exhaled softly, barely suppressing amusement at the exchange, but Rhaenys did not rise to it. Instead, she turned to Rhaenyra, her gaze steady, guiding.

Rhaenyra’s words rang clear, decisive: “We will secure our victory with armies, not with dragons.”

Daemon’s fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword, his instincts screaming for action, for blood, for the swift and merciless resolution fire could provide. Rhaenys caught the subtle movement, the barely contained fury in his stance, and with the smallest shake of her head, she reined him in. Not yet. Daemon huffed slightly, irritated but obedient, his hands loosening, though the hunger for war remained coiled beneath his skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra caught Jaehaerys shifting, rising from his chair. His stance mirrored Daemon’s; tensed, determined, eager for battle. His fingers curled against the hilt of his sword, his jaw set in defiance, unwilling to remain sidelined. He had been patient long enough.

“The North are sending their men,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice carrying across the room. “Jaehaerys will fly out to ride with them to King’s Landing.”

Jaehaerys stilled, his lips parting slightly, the flicker of surprise breaking through his rigid exterior. He had expected another denial, another command to remain behind—but this, this was something else. A mission. A purpose.

“The barricade holds on the city,” Rhaenyra went on, her eyes sweeping over the gathered lords, ensuring they understood. “While there is conflict outside the walls, the city will be taken when the North’s army arrives in two moons.”

“It’s not good enough!” Alfred retorted, slamming his fist again. A man used to using his large stature as intimidation.

“Hold your tongue, Ser Alfred, lest you wish to lose it,” Jaehaerys snapped. The chamber fell into a tense silence, the crackling fire the only sound amid the charged air. Ser Alfred Broome’s indignation was written across his face, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he stared at Jaehaerys, stunned by the sharpness of his rebuke.

Jaehaerys met his gaze unflinchingly, his golden eyes burning with conviction, his stance rigid with restrained fury. He had been sidelined long enough, commanded to stay back when all he wanted was to fight. And now, when the path forward had been laid, when his role had finally been decided, Alfred dared to challenge it, dared to sneer at the strategy that had been deemed sound?

Daemon shifted slightly, amusement flickering behind his narrowed gaze, but he did not speak. Rhaenys exhaled softly, the slightest arch of her brow speaking volumes. She did not need to interject; Jaehaerys had already asserted himself. This was his moment to step into command—to demand respect rather than ask for it.

Ser Alfred huffed, his lips pressing into a thin, frustrated line as he fell back into his seat, effectively silenced. His fingers twitched against the wood, but he did not speak, did not protest further. The weight of Jaehaerys’s rebuke, the silent authority of Rhaenyra, and the watchful presence of Daemon had settled over him like an unspoken command—enough.

The weight of command pressed against her ribs, exhaustion settling deep into her bones as she straightened, forcing strength into her stance despite the stiffness clawing at her legs. The chamber, thick with heated discussion and smothering candle smoke, had begun to feel suffocating, oppressive.

“I have given my orders, see to it that they are carried out,” she stated, her tone firm, leaving no room for further debate. She needed to leave this place. Her muscles ached; her body weary from the hours spent at war in words alone. The Painted Table had held her captive long enough, its carved rivers and castles demanding too much of her focus, too much of her restraint. She longed for escape; however temporary it may be.

Syrax. The open sky. The wind rushing against her skin, carrying the scent of salt instead of politics, fire instead of obligation. Just an hour, just a moment away from duty and expectation, away from the endless weight of strategy, of sacrifice.

But she knew better than to expect peace.

Still, as she turned to leave, her fingers flexed absently at her side, an unconscious yearning for reins, for flight.

--

Helaena tossed in her sleep, trapped in a world that did not belong to her. Ice clawed at her skin, numbing her fingers, biting into the soles of her feet as she stumbled through the endless cold. The figures watched her with eyes of glowing, unnatural blue, burning like embers trapped in ice. Their faces were gaunt, lifeless, their flesh seeming less like skin and more like frozen stone, sculpted from the very cold that swallowed the world. They did not move. They did not need to.

Their numbers were countless.

Stretching beyond the horizon, they stood like silent sentinels, a wall of death pressed against the wind-swept snow, unmoving yet suffocating in their stillness. The sky above them felt wrong—dark, heavy, as though the very air shuddered beneath their presence. Ice laced their forms, creeping through their veins, frost curling at their fingers. They were carved from the frozen earth itself, unyielding, unbreakable.

Helaena’s breath hitched, the cold biting into her ribs, sinking deep, deeper, until her limbs felt brittle, ready to snap beneath the weight of terror. They were watching her. They had always been watching her.

And they were waiting.

She ran, her breath sharp and shallow, chest tightening with every frantic step. The ground beneath her shattered, ice fracturing like glass, and suddenly there was no earth beneath her, only the plunge— endless, merciless.

The frozen depths swallowed her whole.

Water rushed up to greet her, violent and unyielding, crashing against her like fists. Her lungs seized, her mouth parted in a silent scream as freezing tendrils invaded, filling the space where breath should have been. The cold did not merely bite—it consumed. It slithered into her veins, curling around her bones, pressing deep into her ribs until her own body felt foreign, a thing of ice and drowning despair.

She kicked, thrashed, but the dark would not let her go. Shadows coiled around her ankles, tightening like chains, dragging her down, deeper, deeper— the surface a distant dream. The weight of the water crushed against her chest, pressing her ribs inward, stealing every trace of warmth. It did not matter how hard she fought; the abyss had already decided it would keep her.

Above her, through the shattered gleam of the water, she could still see them. Countless figures standing silent in the snow. Eyes glowing blue. Waiting. Watching.

Then… fire.

The frozen grip wrenched away, torn from her skin so violently that her breath came in gasping, desperate sobs. Heat bloomed in an instant, swallowing her whole, spreading through her veins like liquid gold. She stumbled forward, disoriented, no longer sinking but standing. Her legs shook under her, the wet fabric of her nightgown clinging to them as she stumbled.

Around her, the desert stretched endless, the air shimmering with firelight, embers twisting in the breeze. Flames licked at her arms, her shoulders, curling against her neck, but they did not burn. They knew her. They welcomed her.

She inhaled deeply as she felt the warmth seep into her bones, not as a stranger, but as kin. This was not destruction. It was comfort. It was power. She belonged here.

Dreamfyre.

The thought surged through her before she could understand it, before she could question it. The fire did not harm her because it had always been hers. Because she had always been its.

And there, standing in the heart of the blaze, her silver hair braided in the style of Visenya, was a woman; young, radiant, untouched by the inferno. The heat shimmered around her, painting her in gold, in embers, in something almost divine. She stood as if she had never feared the flames, as if they had embraced her rather than consumed her.

Before her, three eggs cracked open, fissures spreading like veins, and from within, dragons stirred—small, trembling creatures that clung to her bare form, yet never seemed to scratch her pale skin. Helaena felt their weight, as if their claws pressed into her own skin.

The woman lifted her head, violet eyes catching the firelight, reflecting it back as though she held the essence of the flames within her. She did not speak but Helaena felt something coil tight in her chest, something vast and unknowable, yet familiar.

A connection.

She was beautiful. She was distant. She was hers, but not.

Helaena shivered, frozen water dripping from her limbs, pooling at her feet, steaming against the heat of the inferno. She did not know if she was burning or freezing. She did not know if she was drowning or breathing.

And then, she woke.

A scream ripped from her throat, ragged, raw. Her body trembled violently, her sheets tangled around her limbs, slick with sweat. Tears streaked her cheeks, hot and endless, but she did not know if they were born of terror or longing. She could still feel the ice. She could still feel the fire. Her hands curled into fists against her chest as the sobs overtook her—quiet at first, but then louder, rougher, until she could not stop them.

She had been drowning. She had been burning.

And then, suddenly, arms, strong and steady, pulling her in.

She barely registered the motion, barely felt the moment she was enveloped, cradled against something firm, something familiar. Salt, earth, dragon. The scent surrounded her, grounding her against the madness still clawing at her mind, the copper tang of skin and warmth pressing against her shaking frame. She sobbed into the embrace, her body trembling against the presence that did not let her go. A deep, steady voice rumbled low, the words quiet, meant only for her.

"It’s okay."

The voice cut through her shaking, through the remnants of blue eyes and glowing embers, through the fear that still lingered in her chest. She felt herself rocked, held as if she might break, as if the sobs might shatter her apart. She clung to him.

As the haze of her dream began to fade, as the fire and ice receded to the edges of her mind, Helaena knew. She knew who was holding her.

Jaehaerys.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Not in fear, not in lingering terror, but in something far more painful—far more familiar.

So long they had been parted. She, a mother and a wife now, bound by duty, by expectation, by the life she was meant to live. Yet in this moment, in the quiet of trembling limbs and tear-streaked cheeks, nothing else existed but him.

The chamber was bathed in moonlight, silver beams spilling through the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the stone floor. The fire in the hearth burned low, embers pulsing faintly, the scent of smoke lingering in the warm air. The gentle flicker of the flames sent shifting patterns along the walls, mixing with the pale light of the moon, creating a glow that felt almost dreamlike. She did not release him. Did not move away, did not shatter this fragile moment where her fingers curled against his tunic, where his scent wrapped around her, grounding her in a way she had not felt in so long. Salt, earth, dragon. The reassurance of his steady breath.

He had come.

Her fingers tightened, imperceptibly, as if she feared he might vanish, as if she feared this was just another dream. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her gaze.

And their eyes met.

Silence stretched between them, charged, unbreakable. Her breath stilled, her throat thick with something she could never name, something she had never been permitted to say aloud. But her heart knew. It had always known. In that space between past and present, she felt it—the weight of years, of stolen glances, of moments so small they had slipped past unnoticed by all but them.

She remembered being a child, crouched in the garden, her fingers tracing the delicate wings of a beetle, the vibrant colour catching the light just so. She had spoken eagerly, her voice soft but full of life, explaining the creature’s intricacies, how it moved, how it survived. Others had found it odd. Aegon had scoffed, rolling his eyes. But Jaehaerys had knelt beside her, listening—not out of duty, not out of politeness, but because he wanted to hear what she had to say.

He had never laughed at her love for insects. Never dismissed her fascination with plants.

He had simply seen her.

She remembered the way he had carried her pressed flowers when they were children, tucking them into his books without comment. The way he had watched her carefully when she spoke of the patterns of bees, as if her voice itself was something precious. The way he had never made her feel foolish for loving the quiet, overlooked creatures of the world.

So many years. So many stolen moments.

She did not release him. Did not move away, did not shatter this fragile moment where her fingers curled against his tunic, where his scent wrapped around her, grounding her in a way she had not felt in so long. Salt, earth, dragon. The reassurance of his steady breath.

He had come.

Her fingers tightened, imperceptibly, as if she feared he might vanish, as if she feared this was just another dream. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her gaze.

And their eyes met. Silence stretched between them, charged, unbreakable.

Jaehaerys looked at her as he always had; as if she were something precious, something he would gladly tear the world apart to protect. Her breath stilled, her throat thick with something she could not name, something she had never been permitted to say aloud. But her heart knew. It had always known.

And as he held her, as she let herself be held, she wished— for just a moment, she wished—

That she was free to be by his side.

But the world was not kind to wishes. The weight of their unspoken truths hung heavy in the air, a tether that both bound them and kept them apart. Duty, loyalty, the chains of expectations; they had always stood between them, immovable as mountains, yet fragile enough to crumble under the force of a single confession. Jaehaerys broke the silence, his voice quiet, deep, filled with the resonance of unshed storms.

“I have to leave in the morning, Helaena,” he said, the words heavy with regret. “The North rides to war, and I must ride with them.”

Her breath caught, sharp and painful, as if the air itself rebelled against his words. “No,” she whispered, her voice trembling, raw. “You cannot go. Don’t go.”

Her fingers clutched at his tunic, desperation pouring through her touch, as if holding him tighter could somehow anchor him here, could somehow rewrite the cruel inevitability of his departure. Her tears brimmed, unfallen, her strength defying the fragility she felt inside. “I am lost, Jaehaerys, I cannot- “

He cupped her face in his hands, the warmth of his touch anchoring her even as sorrow clouded his gaze.

“Helaena,” he murmured, voice breaking at the edges. “You’re stronger than you know. You’ve endured so much already—and you will endure this, too. But I must go.” He hesitated, the weight of the unsaid heavy between them. “My duty—”

“To them?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion. Fear trembled through her words, raw and unguarded. “And what of the dangers that await you? What of the wounds you might bear, the pain you’ll suffer? Must you risk everything?”

His forehead rested gently against hers. And in that quiet, breathless space, the world outside faded—leaving only their shared breath, their unspoken grief.

“You are everything,” he whispered. “You always have been.”

His hands trembled slightly against her skin. “But if I don’t go now, Helaena… there will be nothing left to protect. No realm, no family. No future.” His voice grew quieter, thick with longing. “You are what I fight for. Always.”

Her tears broke free as she buried her face in his chest, her shoulders trembling with the weight of everything she could no longer hold inside. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, as if he could shield her from the pain, as if by sheer force of will, he could keep the world from breaking her again. For a moment, he dared to believe he could. That if he held her tightly enough, the world might let them stay like this. Just for a while.

When she stilled, her cheek resting against him, he kissed her hair, gently, reverently, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and low, roughened by something deeper than grief. “There’s something I’ve never said,” he murmured. “Not truly. Not out loud. Something I’ve kept buried for far too long.

She looked up at him then, her lashes still wet, her lips parted in a silent question. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing the tears from her cheeks, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—were burning.

“I love you, Helaena.” The words left him like a confession, like a prayer he’d been repeating for years in the quiet of his soul. “I think I always have, from the time you explained the secrets of your garden to me like they were sacred texts… from the way you lit up when a beetle landed on your palm, like it had chosen you. Since the moment you told me centipedes were misunderstood and I believed you, not just because you were right, but because you said it.””

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

“I’ve watched you become a mother. A wife. I’ve smiled for you, stood beside you, and said nothing, because it wasn’t mine to claim. But every day I’ve lived with this ache in my chest. And every time I leave you behind, it’s like tearing something from my soul.”

He gave a soft, broken laugh. “I have tried to be noble. I have tried to be silent. But every time I leave you behind, the only thing I can think of is that I will die without ever having told you the truth.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, voice trembling now. “You are not just someone I need. You are everything. You are the reason I fight. You are the reason I come back.”

This time, it was she who froze. Her lips parted. Her hands reached up, framing his face with trembling fingers. Their mouths met slowly, not out of hesitation, but with the clarity of two souls who had waited too long. The kiss was fire and grief and longing all in one—years of silence burning away in a single breath. When they parted, gasping, she didn’t speak immediately.

Instead, her gaze dropped.

And there it was—the truth, rushing back like a tide.

“I shouldn’t…” she murmured, her voice trembling with shame and sorrow. “I am a wife. I am a mother. My children…” She stopped, the words fracturing in her throat.

Jaehaerys didn’t recoil. He didn’t step back or let her go, only continued to hold her.

“I know,” he said gently, his thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve never forgotten that. And I will never ask you to abandon them. You are their mother, Helaena. Yet you are still the woman I love.”

Tears spilled anew, slower now, weighted with everything they could not be. Everything they were, in silence.

And then she whispered, so quietly it might have been mistaken for a prayer, “I have loved you in silence for so long, I forgot what it felt like to speak it.”

He closed his eyes, his voice barely a breath. “One day… we will not need to steal our moments.”

However, for now, they held each other in that sliver of borrowed time—caught between what was, what might be, and all they could not say. The room seemed smaller now, or perhaps it was the weight of their truths that made it so. The world outside didn’t exist, not in this fragile moment. There was only the beating of their hearts, a rhythm that matched as if it had been composed for them and them alone. Helaena’s fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath.

“Do you think the gods mock us?” she asked, her voice as soft as the breeze that stirred the curtains.

Jaehaerys tilted his head, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Perhaps. Or maybe they pity us.”

She laughed then, a broken, aching sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Pity,” she echoed. “What use is their pity when they leave us with this?”

“This,” he replied, his hand finding hers, pressing it firmly over his heart, “is still more than nothing. It is still more than an empty life lived without knowing what it means to feel… this.”

Her breath hitched. The words, so simple and yet so profound, unravelled something deep within her. For all the wrongness, for all the pain, there was an undeniable truth: he was a part of her soul as much as she was a part of his. The world would not care for truths like theirs. It demanded sacrifices, forced them into roles and duties that would never bend to the whispers of their hearts So, for now, they would bury their love under layers of propriety and silence, hoping that time—or perhaps the gods—would one day be kinder.

“Then let us steal this moment,” she said at last, her voice steadier now, even as the tears still lingered in her gaze. “Let us have it, even if it’s all we’re allowed.”

He nodded, his lips brushing her forehead, a silent vow in the absence of words. They would steal their moments and when the world inevitably called them back, they would answer, but not before leaving pieces of themselves here, in this fleeting sanctuary.

As the seconds stretched and blurred, they at together on her bed, unspoken promises binding them tighter than any law or vow ever could.

--

Rhaenyra stood in silence, the chill of the stone floor seeping into the soles of her bare feet, anchoring her in the stillness of the hour. Dusk had long since given way to night, and now her bedchamber—once filled with the golden spill of sunlight—rested in shadow. The only illumination came from the hearth, where flames crackled low and slow, throwing wavering light across the carved pillars and the velvet drapes that hung like sleeping sentries at the windows.

Behind her, Lady Elinda moved with practiced grace, fingers weaving strands of silver-gold hair into a long, neat braid. The gentle rhythm of it, the light tug and release, was the only sound beside the occasional hiss of the fire. No words passed between them. They were well beyond the need for that.

A soft scent clung to Rhaenyra’s skin—cinnamon and oranges from the oils in her bath, the fragrance lingering like the memory of warmth. It curled faintly in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of smouldering wood and aged stone.

She wore a deep blue nightgown of crinkled silk, its texture soft and soothing against her skin. The neckline plunged slightly, edged with a delicate border of silver thread, elegant but unadorned—as though made for a queen who had grown weary of gold. The sleeves hung loose and unstructured, brushing the backs of her hands as if the garment itself hesitated to disturb her. Beneath the outer layer, a pleated shift of pale, gauzy linen peeked through, catching the firelight in whispers. The soft fabrics soothed her frayed nerves, but only just. Beneath its gentle weight, the chill remained, not in her limbs, but in the hollow place Daemon had left behind.

For seven years, he had never been far. At court, at war, by her side through council and crisis—Daemon had been the steady presence behind her flame, the blade unsheathed at her word. Now, with Caraxes’ shadow vanished into the dusk, she felt laid bare.

He had left in a fury of wings and smoke, bloodlust shimmering in his eyes, and though she had not spoken it aloud, she felt lost without him. The room felt vast without him. Guarded, yes; her Queensguard stationed beyond the doors; but their blades were not his. They would die for her, certainly. But they did not know her. Not the way he did.

Without Daemon, the night pressed in. Even the shadows felt unfamiliar. Lady Elinda smiled at her as she helped her settle into her bed, yet Rhaenyra heaved a heavy sigh. Her muscles ached—not from strain, but from something deeper, wearier. It was the ache of days spent carrying crowns and coffins, of years stitched together by duty and grief. She was so tired yet sleep escaped her.

“Let me ask the Maester for a draught, it will help settle you,” Elinda suggested, her dark eyes alight with concern. Rhaenyra pursed her lips but gave a soft nod as she fluffed her pillow.

“That may be best,” she eventually responded. “Thank you, Elinda.”

“Always, my Queen,” Elinda said softly, making her way to the fire to stoke the flames. The room was chilled again, a draft cooling the air from the towering windows. The flames flared with a soft rush as Elinda fed them another log, the glow brightening the room for a moment before settling back into a steady, amber pulse. Shadows danced across the ceiling timbers, mimicking the flicker of unease that stirred beneath Rhaenyra’s skin. She shifted beneath the covers, the nightgown’s silken layers rustling softly, like wind through parchment.

She missed his warmth beside her. Daemon always radiated heat, as though the fire of Caraxes lived in him as well. He’d draw her close without a word, one arm slung around her waist, grounding her in the now. Without him, the bed felt too wide, the silence too deep.

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed. “Ser Erryk?” she called, sitting up in her bed. Her voice carried confusion, not yet alarm. Elinda looked toward the entryway, straightening as her own unease flickered across her face.

The knight said nothing. He stepped forward, silent and unreadable, though his face bore the features of the man she trusted.

Then, with a sharp metallic rasp, he drew his sword, the sound of steel rang through the chamber like a bell tolling far too late. Elinda froze, her mouth parting as if to speak, but no words came. Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat, the ache in her limbs forgotten, replaced by a sudden, electrifying clarity.

That face, once so familiar, yet hollow now. Ser Erryk had always carried himself with solemn dignity, with loyalty carved into every gesture. But this version of him moved like a stranger in borrowed skin. His eyes—once steady—gleamed with something unreadable, something cold.

“Elinda, step back,” Rhaenyra said, her voice low but iron laced. She did not scream. Queens do not scream.

The fire cracked again behind them, a burst of light against the growing dread. Rhaenyra pushed the bed linens aside, her nightgown tangling around her legs as she rose, unarmed, the silk brushing her ankles like water. Vulnerable, but not helpless. She reached for the dagger that was always kept within reach, gifted to her by Daemon so long ago. Her knuckles were white as she held up a hand.

“I have no choice, believe me,” the knight said, his voice low and gravelly. Rhaenyra raised her dagger. She was no match for a trained knight, she knew this much. But she would not be taken down easily. Elinda crouched lower, reaching for her own dagger under her gown. All her maidens were trained in self-defence, to ensure their safety and their ability to protect her.

The clash of metal boots on stone broke the chamber’s stillness like a thundercrack. Firelight flickered wildly as the second man barrelled through the doorway, his face taut with fury… Erryk, Rhaenyra realized. Which meant the man who now approached her with sword raised was…

“Arryk,” Elinda breathed beside the fire, horror dawning in her voice. Twin knights. Mirror images. Bound by blood. Split by crown.

“Brother! Do not do this. I beg you,” Ser Erryk beseeched as he approached, his sword ready. Ser Arryk sneered in response, his own sword raised. Elinda glanced between them, and then darted from the fire towards Rhaenyra, the two women standing close to one another. Rhaenyra clasped Elinda’s hand in her own free one, keeping her dagger poised and her position low.

“You are the one who betrayed us, Erryk!” Arryk shouted, the two men circling one another. His eyes darted from Erryk to Rhaenyra, wild and furious.  Then, he darted towards them, his sword raised as he screamed. Erryk’s sword met his brothers with a deafening clash, and the impact rang through the room like a bell of judgment. Sparks scattered over the hearth as the blades locked, and Rhaenyra stumbled backward, dragging Elinda with her behind the bed’s edge. Erryk pushed Arryk away from the Queen, putting himself between the women and his twin.

“Go! Find Ser Lorent!” Rhaenyra hissed, her heartbeat thundering in her chest. Elinda hesitated, eyes wide with refusal, but Rhaenyra’s voice cut sharper than any blade. “That is an order, Elinda!”

Pursed lips, a flinch of protest, then swift obedience—Elinda clambered over the bed in a rustle of skirts and silk, sprinting across the cold stone toward the door. The clang of steel rang behind her like the tolling of a bell, again and again.

The brothers were locked in a relentless rhythm now; Erryk parrying low, turning his blade to catch Arryk’s forward thrust, then spinning with a grunt to drive him back a pace. Their swords sparked in the firelight, their movements both precise and savage. Twins by blood, now strangers by oath.

“Stay back!” Erryk barked, eyes darting to Rhaenyra just long enough to reassure himself she still breathed, still stood.

Arryk’s reply was wordless—a downward slash aimed for Erryk’s shoulder. It met steel with a shriek that echoed off the stone walls. Erryk twisted, taking the brunt of the blow on the flat of his blade, and countered with a vicious elbow to his brother’s jaw. Arryk staggered, blood at the corner of his mouth, but didn’t fall.

“You were always her dog,” he snarled, circling.

“And you,” Erryk growled, “were meant to protect the realm, not murder queens in their beds.”

Their swords met again—a flurry of blows, so fast Rhaenyra could barely follow the motion. She had seen knights duel in the yard, had watched from her chair as men performed valour beneath banners and applause. But this was not that. There was no art here, only survival. Love twisted into violence, loyalty sundered by war.

Erryk fought not to win, but to block—to absorb, to shield. Every step he took was angled to keep himself between Rhaenyra and Arryk, forcing his brother back toward the hearth, where light still flickered but warmth had long since vanished. The crackle of flame, the sting of sweat, the smell of steel and blood—it filled the chamber like smoke before a firestorm.

Rhaenyra could do nothing but clutch her dagger and brace against the shadows. She turned toward the door—toward escape—only to be thrown forward by the crushing weight of a body slamming into her back.

Her skull struck the corner of the stone archway with a sickening crack. White-hot pain bloomed behind her eyes, and the world spun violently. The dagger fell from her fingers, clattering uselessly across the floor.

Erryk had landed atop her, his breath ragged, sword raised in a desperate arc to deflect the wild swing from his brother. There was no time for apologies, no time for even a glance. He pushed himself from her with a grunt and surged forward, meeting Arryk’s blade again with a strength born of duty—not vengeance, but the resolve of a man who had chosen what to protect.

Arryk pressed forward, relentless, driven by something grim and unspoken. Their swords clashed in a flurry, boots skidding across stone slick with sweat and blood. The chamber echoed with the grind of steel, the laboured gasps of brothers trying not to kill each other—and yet striking as if they must.

With a sudden burst of movement, Erryk lunged low and drove his heel into Arryk’s centre, a brutal, practiced kick that knocked the wind from him. Arryk stumbled backward, sword dipping. He fell hard to the floor, and Erryk seized the moment, rising, blade high, face tight with sorrow and fury.

The two began to circle again, slower now, each waiting for the other to show a fracture.

Then Ser Lorent burst into the chamber like a thunderclap, his bare feet slapping the stone, his nightshirt stained with sweat. His sword gleamed in the firelight, lifted high above his head.

“Your Grace!” he cried, and Rhaenyra blinked through the blinding pain in her skull, blood trickling hot into her eye. She could barely see but she raised her arm, dagger less now, signalling her position. The brothers were still fighting, trading blows with deadly purpose, but she couldn’t tell who was who anymore. It just silver and steel, fury and grief.  Lorent dropped to her side, catching her under the arm, his body half-shielding hers.

“We need to move,” he growled through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on the whirling melee. Rhaenyra nodded weakly, her balance off-kilter. She stumbled toward the second door, hope fluttering with each breath—until her hand met resistance. Locked. She rattled the handle with growing desperation, then hammered her fist against the oak. “Which is Erryk!?” Ser Lorent shouted.

No one answered. Behind her, the fight had degenerated into something more primal. Swords had been forgotten, fists raised. A grim brawl. The kind that left neither victor nor honour. One knight landed a blow that sent the other reeling into a table; it splintered beneath the weight. Blood sprayed across the stone, thick and wet. There was no grace left—only the crunch of bone, the heavy thud of bodies. One man slammed the other into the hearthside, grappling like madmen.

Amidst the grunts and ragged gasps, she could hear as a voice of one of the brothers – “We were born together! You parted us!” followed by “But I still love you, brother”. The sounds of choking filled the room, and Rhaenyra turned to the brothers, her eyes wide. Then, she jumped as the attacker feel to the ground, the other brother clambering to his feet slowly. As they both got to their feet, swords back in hand, they ran at each other and Rhaenyra gasped as she saw sword pierce flesh, her hands flying to her mouth.

The two brothers clung to one another in the stillness after the storm, their arms locked in a final, broken embrace. One heaved a shuddering breath—and stilled. Blood spilled thick between them, a dark pool spreading beneath their feet, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stone.

The dying man collapsed with a heavy thud, his sword slipping from nerveless fingers. The other staggered forward, gasping, his chest rising in ragged, uneven gulps. His face was smeared with blood, his brother’s, his own, the separation was indistinguishable now, just as their lives had once been. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword as though it alone kept him upright. He lifted his eyes, and Rhaenyra saw him… truly saw him… not just as a knight, not just as Erryk, but as a man hollowed by a grief no crown could ease.

“Your Grace…” he rasped, voice hoarse and broken.

Rhaenyra inched toward him, her hands trembling as they reached out in instinct more than thought. She didn’t know what she meant to do—comfort him, stop him, forgive him—only that she couldn’t let him fall alone. But he turned his sword.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, and she saw the tears in his eyes just before he dropped to his knees.

The blade plunged into his chest with a wet crunch, a jarring finality that echoed through the chamber louder than any scream. Rhaenyra’s breath left her in a choked cry. The pain in her skull was nothing now, dwarfed by the crack forming in her heart. She collapsed beside him, silk pooling around her knees, her hands scrambling across blood-warmed stone until they found his.

“No, no… Ser Erryk…”

His eyes stared upward, glassy now, his mouth parted as if to speak again. But no words came. Behind her, Ser Lorent stood silent, his blade lowered. Even he—battle-worn, unshakable—could only watch as the Queen of Dragonstone wept over a knight who had torn his soul in two for her.

Chapter Text

The nursery was a sanctuary carved out of an ever-darkening world. Sunlight spilled across the polished floor in long golden slants, filtering through gossamer curtains the colour of clotted cream. The walls, painted in soft hues of blush and morning mist, exhaled warmth as if the stones themselves held onto Rhaenyra’s hopes. Here, peace lingered like a gentle perfume in the air, woven with lavender and milk.

Rhaenyra sat in a carved window seat draped with faded tapestries, Aemma nestled in the crook of her arm. The babe’s silver curls glinted in the sun, impossibly fine against her mother’s dark gown. Her small fingers curled instinctively around Rhaenyra’s thumb, a fragile grip that made her breath catch. She marvelled at the weight of her daughter, still so tiny, so delicate. She had grown so munch in the nine weeks since her birth yet somehow remained so small.

Her gaze drifted toward Helaena’s twins, Aerys and Aelora, where they played beneath the nursemaid’s watchful eyes. Six moons old, and already full of mirth, their laughter bubbled over like a creek after spring thaw. Their limbs were sturdier, their eyes bright with constant curiosity and yet Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with unshakable pride when Aemma turned her head at the sound of her voice.

Rhaenyra rocked gently, her fingers trailing soothing circles against Aemma’s downy back as the babe nestled deeper into the crook of her arm. The sunlight bathing the nursery shimmered over the silver of her daughter’s hair, casting a faint halo around them, as if the gods themselves sought to preserve this moment.

“This room is where the world narrows,” she whispered again, her voice barely above the hush of silk shifting. “And all that matters still fits in my arms.”

She glanced toward the open window, where the breeze stirred the curtain like a mother’s breath. Her thoughts reached northward, over leagues of war-touched earth, to the bitter chill of snow-draped holdfasts and the distant safety carved by duty and love.

“Aerion, Baelon and Viserys are safe, sweet one. Tucked away in the North, where the winds howl but cannot bite. Lady Charis watches over them like the Old Gods themselves.” Her voice caught, softened. “The Karstarks guard them well, sword and shield, hearth and hope. You’d love them, Aemma. Baelor would build towers just for you to knock down. Viserys would make you laugh with that foolish little dance he does when he thinks no one’s watching.”

She traced Aemma’s ear with a fingertip, marvelling at her only daughter’s perfection. “They will love you too, my little dragon. They will protect you from the world, just as I will.”

Though her smile softened her features, her voice trembled with unshed longing. “Your father would have held you like this each morning if war hadn’t called him away. He loves you more fiercely than his own blood, though he’s soaked himself in it now.” Her thumb brushed Aemma’s downy cheek. “He wept when you were born, little dragon. Daemon Targaryen wept.”

Outside, soft white clouds shifted listlessly in the breeze, but within, it was warmth and stillness. A moment carved out of stone and sun. She closed her eyes briefly and murmured, almost to herself, “Jaehaerys rides with the North now. They should be at the Neck, if the road has been kind. They will be at King’s Landing in a moon, and we will take back our throne from those that would dare challenge us. Aegon will be back with us, safe and secure.”

Her musings were interrupted by the soft rustle of curtains, and she glanced up from her babe’s face to see Laenor leaning against the nursery doorframe, his arms crossed. A gentle smile was on his lips, his beard now trimmed close to his skin, yet his eyes were worn and filled with sadness.

“I used to find you here, just like this,” he said gently, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “When Lucerys was small. Do you remember… his running phase?”

Rhaenyra blinked, and then the ache bloomed. It was sudden and piercing yet laced with something tender. She let out a breath that trembled on the cusp of laughter. “Gods, how could I forget? He bolted like a wild colt every time we tried to leave the Red Keep. We never knew if we’d find him in the kitchens or the stables.”

“You were ready to post guards on every hallway,” Laenor chuckled, stepping farther into the nursery. His smile faltered only for a moment. “Eventually I leashed him. He was like a stray pup… fierce, fast, and absolutely determined to escape us.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and fragile. “You ran shouting through half the castle. I remember the guards staring at you in horror.”

Laenor huffed a rueful breath. “They thought I’d gone mad. But then Lucerys would laugh, and it was worth every sprint.”

A silence settled, tender and aching. Then Rhaenyra’s smile tilted mischievously. “Did I ever tell you he shot Daemon?”

Laenor blinked, startled. “He what?”

“Oh yes.” Her eyes gleamed with fond mischief, as she adjusted Aemma in her arms. “He was ten and three, full of vinegar and wit. Daemon had made some remark about Lucerys' form in his archery lesson and Luce just turned, cool as a breeze, and sent the arrow straight into his thigh.”

Laenor stared at her, mouth slightly open. “Ten and three? And he still did it?”

“Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing. Stared Daemon in the eye as he loosed it. And do you know what he said?” Rhaenyra’s smile curved with pride and ache. “He said, ‘Well, you told me to aim with intent.’”

Laenor chuckled, then shook his head, the emotion catching in his throat. “Little bastard was more like his uncle than either of you would admit.”

Rhaenyra's gaze fell to Aemma, already dreaming, her tiny hand curled against her mother’s heart. “And still gentler than either of them.”

Aemma stared out at the world with wide lavender eyes with as she blew small milk bubbles. Laenor’s gaze was soft as he took a seat next to Rhaenyra, his fingers gently toying with the hemp of Aemma’s blanket. He studied her face as she stared at him.

“She has your nose,” he murmured, smiling. “But those eyes… those are trouble. I’ve seen those before.”

Rhaenyra hummed, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Lucerys.”

Laenor’s expression softened, laughter flickering in the corners of his mouth. “Do you remember when he put flour in Ser Criston’s helmet?”

Rhaenyra chuckled, her voice muffled slightly as she kissed the crown of Aemma’s head. “The man sneezed through the entire sparring demonstration. I think Daemon was secretly impressed.”

“And the lemon rind incident?” Laenor asked, grinning. “When he cut little moons from the peels and slipped them into your inkpot?”

“That ink was cursed for weeks,” she replied with mock indignation. “Everything I wrote smelled of citrus and mischief. He said it was to ‘make the royal decrees more tolerable.’”

Laenor laughed, full and open now, the sound rich with memory. “He used to stick little messages under my goblet when I’d visit. Always nonsense riddles about cats and cabbages.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, her smile sadder now, but still true. “After you left… he changed. Quieter for a time. But then came the bees.”

“The bees?”

“He raised them in secret in the rookery. Had a whole plan to release them during Lord Borros’ visit. I only caught wind of it when he tried to enlist Aerion as a distraction.” She sighed, almost laughing. “He said the Baratheon’s had never truly appreciated the arts.”

Laenor covered his face, shaking with soundless laughter. “He was chaos in soft boots.”

They sat for a while in the golden stillness, the scent of milk and sunlight filling the air. No battlefield could reach them here, no crown press upon their shoulders.

“He would’ve been a good big brother to her,” Laenor said at last, voice quiet. “Protective. Overly so.”

“He would’ve declared himself her sworn shield,” Rhaenyra murmured. “Then stolen her milk cakes when no one was looking. He would have taught her how to read and ride and lie convincingly to get out of lessons. And gods help whoever hurt her.”

“He would have stood between her and the world,” Laenor agreed. “Just like he always did. He used to walk Larissa back from her lessons every day. Held her hand like a sworn knight, even when she was the one dragging him along. Once, she tripped on the stairs and scraped her knee. He was furious and said the Keep was unworthy of her feet and demanded a retainer of stonecutters to smooth every corner.”

They sat in stillness for a long beat. The kind that hangs heavy but healing, full of things unsaid yet deeply understood. The sunlight hadn’t moved, but the air felt different. It was heavy with remembrance.

As the sun eased its way toward the horizon, the room settled into a gentle quiet. It was one stitched together by the threads of laughter and loss. Beyond the open windows, the steady crashing of the waves seemed softened, as if the world itself bowed its head in memory.

Laenor rose first, stretching slowly, reluctance in every motion. “He’d have liked this,” he said, voice low and sure. “All this remembering. He used to say a story was a second life.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes bright with old sorrow and gratitude intermingled. “And we keep him alive each time we speak his name.”

--

The air in the King’s quarters reeked of dragon oil and fresh varnish, the scent of power newly claimed. Viserys’ relics had been swept away—his books, his carved wooden dragons, the soft robes he wore in the final years. In their place, obsidian decor and steel-banded furnishings loomed, a statement of Aegon’s rule. He stood rigid near the hearth, the firelight catching on the polished jet of his tunic, every inch a king, except for the angry crimson trailing down his chin.

Otto didn’t see a king. He saw squandered potential.

“You strut about like you’ve won, but your reign has started in rot,” Otto snarled, his voice raw. “I gave you power on a platter, and this is how you wield it? With drunken spectacle and reckless indulgence?”

His anger was no longer the cold calculation of years past—it burned hot, uncontained. The fire in his belly, once tempered by strategy, now threatened to consume him. His knuckles whitened around the carved armrest of Viserys’ old chair, the one Aegon refused to sit in.

“Harrenhall was meant to fall to us within weeks. Daemon was to be a corpse picked clean. Instead, he holds it like a fortress and the Riverlands now bend knee to the Blacks. All the while your allies’ bicker over wine cups and your babes are absconded to a tower ruled by wolves.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed, fury tightening in his chest. Otto stepped forward, his breath sharp with spiced wine and unspent rage. “I spent years shaping this realm. I compromised, I silenced dissent, I planted seeds in courts and beds across Westeros… and now they sprout thorns because you refuse to prune them.”

His face reddened further, veins threading like blue rivers beneath his temples. “And that whore sits on her stone throne, the dragons answering to her call!”

Aegon’s knuckles blanched as his fingers curled into fists, the blood on his lip drying like lacquered paint across his mouth. His jaw ached, not from Otto’s rings but from holding back the scream that clawed up his throat, the kind that could ignite a room like wildfire. The desire to slit the man’s throat where he stood pulsed beneath his skin, red-hot and unrepentant. Let the gods curse him a kinslayer. He would wear the title proudly if it meant ridding himself of this parasite.

But not yet. The tower would not fall with one stone struck from its foundation. Otto’s allies were too well-placed, their roots tangled through the court and city alike. Aegon needed them exposed, named, cornered. Let Rhaenyra’s armies advance; let them flush out the traitors so he might burn them publicly and thoroughly. Until then, he wore his mask of wine-soaked arrogance.

“You dare strike me?” Aegon bellowed, staggered deliberately forward, as if still drunk from the morning’s revelry. The fire caught the glint in his eye, not intoxication, but fury contained by sheer will.

“Your king!” he shouted again, voice rising to fill the chamber. Otto flinched, barely perceptible, but enough. That one twitch fed Aegon’s resolve.

He stumbled, theatrically, over the edge of the rug, slamming one thigh against Viserys’ old desk, another relic he tolerated only for strategic optics. “You lay hand on your king!” he snarled, spittle flecking the edge of his mouth now. “I am the one in charge here!”

The room hummed with tension, no servants daring to peek in, no guards brave enough to intervene. Only the fire hissed its commentary, licking at the shadows around Otto’s feet.

Otto straightened, mouth tight, but his silence betrayed the tremor of unease. He had always preferred subtlety, calculated pressure, persuasion… but there was no room for diplomacy now. His legacy was slipping, faster than he had ever feared.

Aegon lowered his voice, the drunken mania melting like wax to reveal something colder, sharper beneath. “Strike me again,” he said, softly now, “and I’ll have your knuckles boiled and served to the council. See how long they follow a man who can’t raise a cup, much less a kingdom.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. It was dense and trembling, as if the air itself braced for violence. Otto’s fingers flexed at his sides and the line of his mouth hardened, but he did not move. His pride warred with his caution, and for the first time in years, he seemed to measure his grandson as something more than just a drunken fool, a lecherous lout.

He saw through the façade, if only for a glimpse. Aegon straightened, letting the wine-damp bravado fade, replacing it with a glacial clarity.

“You think yourself irreplaceable, grandfather? There are rats in every corner of this keep, each ready to gnaw for a crumb of power. I need only whisper your name and watch the feast begin.”

Otto’s composure cracked, a flicker of doubt in those cold, calculating eyes. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it, the prospects of retaliation etched in every silent beat. Aegon let the moment thicken, holding Otto in the cruel gravity of his gaze. Aegon’s fingers curled around the edge of the desk, the polished wood cool beneath his palm. The ache in his thigh pulsed, a reminder of the chaos Otto had stirred, but it was nothing compared to the fire now settling in his chest. The wine haze had lifted, and in its place stood something sharper. Purpose. The silence in the chamber was thick, but not empty—it thrummed with decision.

“Ser Willas,” he called, voice steady. The Kingsguard stepped in, helm tucked beneath one arm, posture rigid. “Lord Hightower has been relieved of his duties. He is no longer Hand of the King.”

Ser Willas hesitated only a breath, then bowed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The door closed again and Aegon poured himself another cup of wine but did not drink. Instead, he stared into it, watching the surface ripple like prophecy. Otto lingered in the chamber, refusing to retreat. His jaw was tight; his eyes narrowed with indignation. He had weathered kings before. He had shaped them. And now this boy, this drunkard dressed in black silk, dared to cast him aside?

“You presume too much,” Otto said, voice low but taut. “You think the realm will bend to your whims without guidance? Without me?”

Aegon didn’t turn. He remained by the window, watching the city flicker below, braziers glowing like embers in a field of ash. War loomed on the horizon, staining the sky crimson. His reflection in the glass was pale, sharp, sovereign.

“I think the realm will bend to fear,” Aegon replied, his voice stripped of wine and bravado. “And I no longer fear you.”

Otto stepped forward, cloak dragging like a shadow. “You need me. The alliances I’ve built, the lords I’ve kept loyal—”

Aegon raised a hand, silencing him.

“Go,” he murmured, not even sparing a glance. “Ensure your roots are as deep as you believe. The storm is coming, and I’ll see who survives the flood.”

Otto’s mouth opened, then closed. The words hung in the air like smoke—final, irrevocable. He lingered a fraction too long, the silence between them thick with the weight of a legacy unravelling. Then he turned, cloak swirling behind him, the emblem of the Hand still pinned to his chest—useless now, a relic of a reign that had ended without ceremony. Only when the door closed did Aegon allow himself a breath, collapsing against the desk he had just knocked his thigh against. The game had shifted, and for the first time, the king was no longer content to be a piece on Otto’s board.

Otto’s boots struck the stone like thunder, each step a pulse of rage echoing down the corridor. His lips were pinched, breath short, like a predator nearing its quarry. He didn’t slow—not for courtiers who stepped aside, not for the guards who lowered their gazes in haste. Her door was closed, with no guard.

He shoved the doors wide, wood cracking against stone. The chamber was thick with heat, candles half-melted and wine pooling near the foot of the bed. Alicent’s startled gasp cut the air as she scrambled upright, her silks twisted around her form. Ser Criston surged backward, half-dressed, his bruised lips parted, eyes wide with a soldier’s panic—not from shame, but from being caught out of control.

Otto’s gaze raked across the scene. Criston’s armour strewn like cast-off honour. Alicent’s flushed cheeks and hair tangled like a girl caught in revelry, not a queen mourning her husband’s realm. He felt it rise… rage, yes, but also bitter disappointment. A lifetime of strategy and compromise, undone by passion in silken sheets. He closed his eyes briefly, not from embarrassment but to keep himself from shouting. He swallowed the groan lodged deep in his throat, the sound of generations failing.

When he opened them again, they glinted steel.

“I spent decades fashioning crowns and alliances,” he said slowly, voice cutting through the charged silence, “…and this is what remains of my legacy? A queen caught in heat and a knight with no armour?”

Alicent shrank into herself, the polished mask of queenship cracking before her father’s eyes. Her breath came in shallow gasps; chest flushed a deep crimson that crept up her throat and bloomed across her cheeks. Her bodice had slipped slightly, the ties loose and askew, one strap hanging by the crook of her elbow, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the frantic rise and fall of her breath. Her skirts were tangled around her ankles, the hem twisted and rumpled like a storm had passed through her chambers—and perhaps one had.

Stray strands of her auburn hair clung to her damp forehead, others clotted at her nape, loosened from their pins in Criston’s hands. Her lips, once painted with the poise of royal restraint, now bore the smudged echo of kisses; swollen, parted, caught between horror and the need to explain.

There was nothing regal in the image before Otto now. No Queen Regent. No pillar of sanctity and virtue. Just Alicent Hightower laid bare, undone by desire and desperation.

She clutched the edge of a chaise as if it could anchor her back into control, but her hands trembled, knuckles white, nails biting into velvet. She didn’t speak. Her silence was not ignorance. It was panic threaded with pride, thick in the air like incense.

Otto watched with ice forming in the ridges of his heart, not because she had broken some sacred vow, but because it was messy. Unplanned. Uncalculated. It was everything he had tried to stamp out of her, now sprawled across the chamber in bruises and sighs.

“The court whispers. The Blacks gather. And my daughter squanders her morals in the dark like a tavern girl.”

Otto braced himself against the table, fingers splayed, the polished wood grounding his fury. He didn’t look at Criston, there was no need. The knight stumbled through his shame, tugging his tunic over bruised skin, belt half-fastened, boots clutched in one hand. His face burned with a flush not just of exposure, but of reduced stature. He, the protector of royalty, the King Maker, was now nothing more than a lover fleeing judgment.

The door loomed; freedom promised just beyond it. Criston paused, whether out of duty or desperation. He turned to Otto; lips parted in search of words that could reshape the moment. His brain tried to out an apology, perhaps, or a defence of Alicent’s loneliness. But Otto didn’t flinch.

“I do not wish to hear of it,” he said quietly.

The dismissal cut sharper than any shouted command. Criston froze for half a breath, then bowed stiffly, a soldier stripped of honour and left the father and daughter alone in the Queen’s chambers.

Otto turned at last to his daughter. Her shoulders had stiffened; arms folded around herself like a wounded creature trying to mimic nobility. But the bodice still hung askew, her skin blotched from flushed heat and lingering touch. Her eyes were wet, glassed from the sheer weight of shame and fury, and the knowledge that her father saw all, judged all, and gave no reprieve.

“This is the consequence of emotion unchecked,” Otto said, voice low but cutting. “And it is the last time I will tolerate it.”

He didn’t move toward her. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was the punishment. Alicent did not move at first, only the rise and fall of her chest betraying the storm inside. She drew breath with difficulty, as though the air itself resisted her presence in the room. Silence pressed between them, thick as oil, refusing to be pierced by excuse or plea. When she finally found her voice, it was a fragile echo, trembling with remnants of a dignity she could no longer summon at will.

“Father,” she began, but the word crumbled, revealing decades of expectation and a chasm where trust used to reside. Her hands clutched at her bodice, as if straightening the fabric could repair more than appearance. Otto did not move toward her. He remained anchored beside the table, the posture of a commander surveying a failed battleground. His mouth curled in distaste and contempt. The room reeked of dishevelled want, of silken heat and tangled shame.

“Spare me your trembling, girl,” he snapped, the word slicing through her attempt at dignity. “You clutch at fabric as though it hides your folly. Lace won’t make you clean again.”

Alicent shrank slightly, knuckles tightening over the edge of her bodice, now smoothed but still slightly misaligned, the neckline drifting lower than propriety permitted. Her skirts, hastily unfurled, whispered of urgency and weakness. Otto’s gaze lingered on the mess… not out of paternal concern but out of strategic disgust.

“You speak of strength, yet you wield your wiles like a tavern wench trying to barter comfort for favour. You do not know power, not truly. You think it lives in whispered promises and blushed cheeks. It does not.”

She flinched, red creeping up her throat again, this time from humiliation rather than passion.

“You are Queen Regent,” he said, each syllable weighted like coin dropped on stone. “And yet you play at court like a chambermaid with a knight in tow. The world will not mourn your softness, Alicent. It will devour it. And when it does, I will not weep for you.”

He stepped back finally, as though proximity to her mistake might stain him. “From this moment on, you do not cry. You do not shudder. You do not stray. You wear the mask I carved for you, and you wear it without crack or apology.”

Rage bloomed hot in Alicent’s chest, pushing back the shame like a tide breaking its banks. Her eyes burned from fury denied too long. She had bent, she had borne, she had sacrificed… but she was not some wanton creature undone by lust. She was a queen. Regent. Mother of heirs. And Otto had the gall to call her soft?

Her spine straightened, the bare skin of her chest still flushed but now radiant with purpose, like armour forged in fire. Her hands left her bodice not to conceal but to confront. She stepped toward her father deliberately. She did not raise her voice; she did not need to.

“You call me weak. You think I play at court like a harlot seeking favour? Look around you, Father. Look at the Keep you walk so smugly through, filled with my allies, my banners. The sept murmurs Rhaenyra’s name in curses because I rewrote her legacy in whispers and prayer. I held the realm together as Viserys died in rot and silence… while you schemed, I ruled.”

Otto’s jaw stiffened, but he said nothing.

“You built a throne of glass? I claimed it. And I held it with bloodied hands while my sons were groomed for war. While you shuffled ravens and bartered loyalties, I stood in the shadow of dragons and did not flinch.”

The candlelight flickered across her face, no longer soft. Her hair hung in tangled waves, her gown rumpled but none of it mattered. Her presence now was sovereign.

“I am not made of stone,” she said coldly. “Stone cracks and shatters. I am flame. And you will not stamp me out.”

Otto’s silence stretched, heavy as iron. The flame in Alicent’s eyes did not flicker. It burned steady, sovereign. And yet, beneath the contempt that curled in his chest, something colder stirred. Possibility. This was not the submissive vessel he had shaped from childhood obedience and courtly restraint. This was something sharper. Louder. Useful. He straightened from the table slowly, like a man dusting off old armour. The air between them sizzled. It was not from warmth, but from recognition. Alicent’s fury had teeth, and teeth could bite for him… if pointed the right way.

“Well then,” he said at last; his tone smoothed to polished steel. “Let the realm see the flame.”

Alicent blinked, unsure whether his words were challenge or approval. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Otto stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “Your anger is wasted in chambers and whispers. If you are fire, burn for a purpose. Rhaenyra’s shadow looms long and fire alone casts it out.”

He turned from her, cloak whispering behind him like a curtain closing over sentiment.

“You will appear tomorrow in gold and emerald, not as the shamed woman of tonight,” he continued. “You will speak not of sin, but legacy. Our legacy.”

At the door, he paused just once, voice softer than before. “Stone cracks, yes. But fire consumes.”

Then he was gone, leaving Alicent with her rage sharpened into something new; something that could scorch the Red Keep clean.

--

Aegon stared at his reflection, the flickering candlelight casting fractured shadows across the polished glass. The crown of Aegon the Conqueror sat heavy on his brow, the ancient iron pressing into his scalp, forcing his silver hair into unnatural ridges. It was uncomfortable. A relic of fire and blood, worn by men who carved kingdoms with dragons and ruthlessness.

He was not that man.

His lip curled in disgust. He reached up and removed the crown with a slow, deliberate motion, the metal cold against his fingers. It left a faint indentation on his skin, like a brand. He set it down on the desk with a dull thud, the sound echoing through the chamber like a closing door.

He turned away from the mirror and reached for the bundle tucked beneath his bed; rough spun wool, a patched cloak, boots worn from deliberate use. The garments of a commoner. Of a ghost in the crowd.

He dressed quickly, binding his hair beneath a hood and smearing ash across his cheeks to dull the pale gleam of his skin. The transformation was not perfect, but it was enough. Enough to slip past the guards in the city. Enough to walk among the smallfolk without drawing eyes.

Otto had fed him lies of inflated victories and losses buried beneath rhetoric. The gates were said to be secure, the people loyal, the damage minimal, yet Aegon had seen the smoke curling beyond the walls. He had heard the distant screams carried on the wind. He had felt the tremor in the stone beneath his feet.

He could not trust filtered parchment and polished words. He needed truth, no matter how raw and ugly it would be. He needed to walk the streets and see the chaos himself. Then, he would decide what Rhaenyra needed to know. Aegon took a deep breath as he thought of his sister. Not the Queen of Dragonstone, not the heir denied, but Rhaenyra, the girl who once held his hand in the Godswood and whispered stories of Valyria when the world felt too heavy. The woman who had raised him and cared for him like a mother in place of the woman who had all but cursed his existence.

Part of him longed for her to end it. To rise on dragonback and reduce the Red Keep to cinders. To burn away his mother’s sanctimony, Otto’s schemes and the sycophants who bowed with daggers behind their backs. He wanted freedom. Not from the crown, but from the shackles it had forged around him. Shackles of expectation, of legacy, of blood. He knew she would do it. If he asked, if he so much as hinted that he was drowning, Rhaenyra would unleash hell. She would not hesitate. Not for Alicent. Not for Otto. Not for the realm.

But she hadn’t.

Because of him.

It was his voice, quiet and steady, that stayed her hand. His letters, his whispered reassurances, his promises that he could do it. That he could root out Otto’s allies, name the traitors, play the fool until the board was ready to be overturned. She trusted him, not just as a brother, but as her shield within enemy walls.

She was kind. Fierce, yes, but kind. She wanted to protect the people, even those who had spat on her name. She wanted to rule with justice, not fire. But above all, she wanted to protect him.

And that knowledge cut deeper than any crown.

He was her restraint. The true reason for her mercy on his mother and grandfather. She had not turned the dragons on Kings Landing, no matter the number under her power, because he stayed her hand with his coded letters. He acted the fool so he could keep her just, keep her as the Good Queen.

And so, he endured and played the part. He walked among the ashes and gathered names like kindling. Because when the time came, and the fire was finally loosed, he would make sure it burned only what needed to die.

The streets of King’s Landing were cloaked in smoke and murmurs and Aegon moved through them like a shadow, his hood pulled low, the rough wool scratching against his neck. The air was thick with the scent of ash and boiled grain, the distant clang of hammers and the occasional cry of a child. The city was not burning anymore, no longer rioting, but it was bruised.

He passed shuttered shops, their signs faded and splintered. The cobbles beneath his boots were stained with soot and blood, though most had been scrubbed clean by desperate hands. The smallfolk moved with caution, eyes darting, voices hushed. They did not scream. They endured.

Aegon stopped at a square near the docks, where a line of people stretched around a cracked fountain. At its centre stood a man with broad shoulders and a weathered face, distributing sacks of grain and dried fish from a cart. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing arms corded with labour, and his voice carried with the ease of command. Aegon approached slowly, watching as Hugh handed a sack to a mother with two children clinging to her skirts. She bowed her head in thanks, and he nodded once. There was no flourish, no sermon. Just quiet dignity.

When the crowd thinned, Aegon stepped forward. Hugh’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and assessing. The man was large, his shoulders broad and his hands strong. His silver hair was bound by leather, and he wore a loose tunic over his muscle-bound frame. His brow was heavy as he watched Aegon approach, distrust in his eyes.

“You’re not from Flea Bottom,” Hugh said, not unkindly. “And you’re not here for food.”

Aegon hesitated, then pulled back his hood just enough for recognition to flicker. Hugh’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t kneel nor flinch. Aegon moved forward finally, his eyes flickering round as he approached the giant of a man. The area was beginning to empty out, people returning to their homes in the dark of the night.  

Aegon hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. He could feel the eyes of the few stragglers who remained, curiosity veiled behind tired faces. He pulled his hood lower, glancing once over his shoulder before speaking.

“No,” he replied, voice barely above a murmur. “I need a friend more than I need a meal.”

Hugh wiped his brow with the back of his soot-coated wrist, gaze unwavering. “There are many who come to these docks needing things. I don’t know what you’re running from, but you smell of the keep. You’re too clean for the alleys.”

Aegon’s lips twitched with a wry, almost bitter smile. “Cleanliness can be a mask. Dirt washes off, but not the stains I carry.”

Hugh studied him for a long, silent moment. Behind him, the square emptied, leaving only the sound of water trickling through cracks in the old fountain and the distant gulls crying above the masts. At last, Hugh gestured with a tilt of his chin. “Walk with me.”

They moved away from the cart, boots scuffing the cobbles as the crowd thinned behind them. Hugh’s voice dropped, rough and low, the cadence of a man who’d seen too much to be easily impressed.

“If you’re looking for names, or someone to blame,” he said, “you’ve come to the wrong man. The city’s had enough spies and lords in disguise.”

“I’m not here for rebellion,” Aegon replied, matching his stride. “I’m here for truth. Not the kind written in council ledgers or whispered through Otto’s ravens. I want to know what’s really happening. What people are facing. What they fear. What they need.”

Hugh glanced sideways, eyes narrowing beneath his brow. “Truth’s a dangerous thing in King’s Landing. Most folk prefer silence. It keeps them fed.”

“I don’t,” Aegon said simply.

Hugh grunted, the sound halfway between scepticism and reluctant approval. “Then listen more than you speak. Ask the baker who lost his flour to the Reach raids. Ask the healer who’s run out of salves. Ask the mother who buried her son because the gold cloaks were too busy guarding lords’ gates to patrol the alleys.”

They walked on, two shadows in the battered heart of King’s Landing, the city groaning beneath the weight of war. Evening settled like a shroud, casting long shadows across shuttered windows and broken stones. Aegon knew the route well—twisting alleys that spilled into the wide avenue leading to the gates of King’s Landing. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Shouts rang out in the distance, steel clashing against steel, the rhythm of war echoing off stone. The gates loomed ahead, half-shrouded in haze, guarded by men whose eyes looked everywhere but at the suffering around them.

Hugh stopped abruptly, one hand resting on the crumbling wall beside them. His face was grave, carved with lines of exhaustion and fury.

“We’re stuck in this hell,” Hugh muttered, voice low and tight. “Till the Black Queen does somethin’.”

He stared toward the gates, as if expecting dragons to descend at any moment.

“She sends food. Sends healers. Keeps the worst of it off our backs. And aye, we’re grateful. Without her, we’d be starvin’ or dead in the gutters.”

His jaw worked, teeth grinding, eyes darkening with barely contained anger.

“But she ain’t here, is she? She ain’t walkin’ these streets. Ain’t buryin’ the lads dragged off for nickin’ a loaf. Ain’t watchin’ the gold cloaks take women like it’s their right. Ain’t hearin’ the little ones cry when they get locked up for beggin’.”

He turned to Aegon, eyes blazing now—not with hatred, but with the raw ache of betrayal.

“She’s a queen. Might be a good one, I don’t know. But she’s still a dragon. And dragons don’t live down here. They fly above it all. They see the mess and send help, aye—but they don’t feel it.”

Aegon said nothing, the weight of Hugh’s words settling like ash in his chest.

“She’s the only one who’s done anything,” Hugh went on, softer now. “And that’s more than most. But every day she waits, more of us go under. More of us get broken. Mercy’s nice, sure—but it don’t fix nothin’. We need her to end this.”

He looked back toward the gates, where the clang of steel and shouts echoed louder.

“’Cause if she don’t come soon, this city’ll rot clean through. And when she finally gets here, there’ll be nothin’ left worth savin’.”

They walked on, boots crunching over broken stone and dried muck, the air growing thicker with every step. The scent hit first. Blood, sharp and metallic, mingled with the acrid sting of smoke and the sour rot of unwashed bodies. It clung to the back of the throat, made the eyes water, made the stomach twist.

The sounds followed: steel on steel, the wet thud of flesh meeting blade, the barked orders of men who no longer cared if they were obeyed. Screams; some short, some drawn out; echoed off the walls like ghosts refusing to die.

The gates loomed ahead, massive and iron-bound, flanked by rows of sharpened spikes driven into the cobbles like teeth. Barriers had been erected, tall wooden palisades reinforced with scrap metal, broken carts, and sandbags. Gold cloaks stood behind them, faces grim, armour dulled by soot and blood. They didn’t look like protectors. They looked like survivors.

Aegon slowed, Hugh beside him, both men silent now. The crowd was thinner here. No beggars. No children. Just the desperate and the damned—those who had come to fight, or to die, or to watch the world unravel. A man staggered past them, clutching his side, blood pouring through his fingers. No one stopped him. No one helped.

Hugh spat into the dirt. “This ain’t a war. It’s a butcher’s yard.”

Aegon’s eyes swept the scene… the barricades, the wounded, the guards too tired to care… He had read reports. Heard Otto’s polished words. Minor skirmishes, they’d said. Contained unrest.

This was not contained. This was chaos.

He stepped closer, but a gold cloak raised a spear, barring the way.

“Back,” the man growled. “No one passes unless they’ve got orders or a death wish.”

Aegon didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough.

The war wasn’t coming. It was here.

And if Rhaenyra didn’t move soon, the city wouldn’t just fall… it would bleed out, slow and ugly, while the crown sat polished on a corpse. It was time for this to end, it was time to get Rhaenyra to act.

Chapter Text

Silence hung in the air, thick and unnatural, broken only by the low murmurs of soldiers tending to their wounded. The voices were hushed, reverent almost, as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness that had settled over the battlefield. Outside the gates of King’s Landing, the ground was a tapestry of blood and churned earth, the once-proud banners now dulled and torn, fluttering weakly in the breeze.

The cool breath of autumn whispered through the mist, curling around limbs and clinging to armour like a shroud. It softened the edges of the world, blurring faces and forms until everything felt half-remembered, half-forgotten. The scent of iron hung heavy, mingling with damp soil and the faint, acrid tang of smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called before the quiet swallowed it whole.

Both sides moved slowly, deliberately. Healers crouched beside the fallen, their hands stained red, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. Some men wept silently as they wrapped the dead in cloaks, others stared blankly ahead, as if waiting for something. The anticipation was a living thing, coiled tight in every chest, pressing against ribs like a held breath.

Even the city itself seemed to watch. The walls loomed above, slick with dew, the stones darkened by shadow and time. No bells rang. No cries echoed from within. Just the mist, and the quiet, and the knowledge that this was not peace but the pause before its breaking.

There had been a shift in the air, not just in command, but in purpose. Since Ser Otto Hightower’s dismissal and Ser Criston Cole’s elevation to Hand, the war council had grown restless. Criston, ever the soldier, pressed for engagement. He saw opportunity in the lull, a chance to strike before Rhaenyra’s forces could fully consolidate. But Aegon had other plans.

From the battlements of the Red Keep, Aegon watched the horizon with a quiet intensity. His orders were clear: the Lannister and Hightower battalions were to hold position, tend to their wounded, and reinforce their lines, but not advance. No raids. No provocations. Just readiness. It was a command that grated against Criston’s instincts and left many lords questioning the young king’s resolve, but Aegon’s restraint was deliberate. He had received word from Rhaenyra that the North was moving. Stark banners had been seen on the Kings Road, and ravens whispered of Tyrell armies moving alongside them. Rhaenyra’s allies were converging, and soon, her host would swell beyond reckoning.

He was not waiting to strike. He was waiting to yield.

Each morning, Aegon stood at the battlements, watching the mist roll in from the blood-soaked fields beyond the city gates. His armour gleamed in the pale light, his posture regal, his silence deliberate. To the lords and knights below, he was the image of a king preparing for war. But it was all theatre, it was a performance he had honed through years of courtly deception.

Aegon had mastered the art of misdirection. He had learned how to wear a crown without letting it weigh him down, how to speak in council without revealing his mind, how to nod at Otto’s strategies and Alicent’s sermons while quietly dismantling them. They had cast him as king, as weapon, as heir. But his loyalty had never belonged to them.

It belonged to Rhaenyra.

She had raised him in the shadows of the Red Keep, not with ambition, but with affection. She had taught him to read, to question, to think. She had held him when Alicent was too busy praying and Otto too busy scheming. She had been his sister, his guardian, his queen in all but name. And now, he would return the favour to her, not with swords, but with silence.

To the realm, Aegon was a disappointment. A drunkard. A lecher. A fool. He had cultivated that image with precision, letting wine stain his reputation and scandal cloud his name. He mocked the court, insulted the lords, made a spectacle of himself at feasts and councils. They whispered of his incompetence, his recklessness, his shame and he let them.

Because no one suspects a fool of treason.

While Criston Cole sharpened blades and plotted offensives, Aegon stalled. He delayed orders, feigned indecision, redirected resources to “defensive” efforts. He allowed the nobles to see him as weak, unfit and easily manipulated, all while ensuring that King’s Landing remained intact and waiting. Waiting for Rhaenyra.

Otto had no idea.

For all his cunning, all his years of manoeuvring through court and council, he had never truly seen Aegon. He saw a pawn, a vessel for ambition, a boy to be shaped into a king who would serve the Hightower legacy. He had dismissed Aegon’s vices as weaknesses, his mockery as immaturity, his silence as stupidity. He never considered that the boy might be playing him.

Rhaenyra had raised him, not as a prince, but as a boy. She had raised him with stories, with patience, with a kind of warmth that neither Otto nor Alicent ever offered without condition. In the quiet corners of the Red Keep and in the blissful peace of Dragonstone, she had been his sister, his mentor, his protector and now, she was his queen.

Aegon had played along with Otto’s schemes, nodded through Alicent’s sermons of duty and divine right. He had let them crown him, let them parade him through the city, let them believe he was theirs. But every move he made was calculated. He aimed not to win the war, but to slow it. To stall. To preserve the capital until Rhaenyra arrived with her full host. He had fed Criston just enough command to keep him loyal, but never enough to ignite the battlefield.

Criston did not know. Otto suspected, but too late. Alicent… perhaps she saw it in his eyes, in the way he avoided hers when she spoke of righteousness and legacy. But Aegon did not waver. He would not let King’s Landing burn for a crown he never wanted.

He had written to Rhaenyra once, a week ago, in a letter sealed with wax. “Come claim what is yours. The city awaits your arrival.”

The mist clung to the ramparts like memory, softening the edges of stone and steel, as if the city itself were trying to forget what had come before or brace for what was coming next. Inside the throne room, the air was no less heavy. Nobles lined the hall in hushed expectation, their cloaks damp from the morning fog, their expressions taut with anticipation. They had gathered at Aegon’s summons, summoned not for war council, but for something else. Something undefined. And that uncertainty gnawed at them.

Aegon sat sprawled across the Iron Throne, the jagged blades of conquest rising behind him like a crown of ghosts. He lounged with deliberate indifference, one leg draped over the armrest, a golden goblet of crimson wine swirling lazily in his hand. His tunic was half-laced, his hair tousled, his eyes half-lidded — the image of a king who had long since stopped caring.

But he was watching them. Every lord, every knight, every whispering courtier. All loyal to Hightower, whether through coercion, coin, or conviction. They had backed Otto’s claim, rallied behind Alicent’s vision, and now stood waiting for Aegon to act. They waited for him to prove he was the king they had made him. Aegon let the silence stretch, savouring it. He could feel their unease, their hunger for certainty. Criston Cole stood to his right, rigid and expectant, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Lord Jasper Wylde shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between Aegon and the chamber doors. Even Alicent, seated beside the dais, wore a mask of serenity that did not reach her eyes.

Aegon took a slow sip of wine, letting the taste linger. Then he spoke — not loudly, but clearly.

“Tell me,” he drawled, voice thick with wine and something sharper beneath, “how many of you would bleed for me?”

No one answered.

He smiled, lazy and cruel. “Not for the realm. Not for the gods. For me.”

Still silence.

He leaned forward, the goblet dangling from his fingers. “You want war. You want glory. You want to carve your names into the bones of this city. But you don’t know what you’re fighting for. You never did.”

One of the lords stepped forward, his voice clipped. “We fight for your crown, Your Grace.”

Aegon’s gaze flicked to him, and for a moment, the mask slipped. His eyes were clear. Cold. Calculating. It then fell over his features once more, without notice of the change. Close to the dais, Otto stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, fingers twitching with restraint. His lip curled in disgust as he seethed. He was no longer hand, but this lout of a man was an embarrassment to him and his line.

“You pathetic, waste of breath,” Otto bit out, his voice sharp as a blade honed on years of discipline. It was not loud enough to draw attention, the nobles continuing to mull amongst one another without giving them any attention. “You squander all I have given you.”

Aegon, sprawled like some debauched spectre of a lost dynasty, swirled his cup in lazy circles. The deep red wine kissed the rim, indifferent to the chaos beyond. He lifted it to his lips without hurry, watching Otto from beneath his lashes.  

“It’s a party, old man! Have some fun,” he slurred, raising the cup as though in invitation.

Otto’s nostrils flared. “You are the only one drinking,” he seethed.

Aegon laughed, careless in his indulgence, but his fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles blanching. As he turned fully to Otto, the humour slipped. He leaned forward ever so slightly and there was an almost imperceptible shift, and yet the weight of it pressed against Otto’s chest. The flicker of amusement in Aegon’s gaze darkened, sharpened into something knowing, something colder.

Otto blinked. A moment’s hesitation.

“What did you expect, traitor?” Aegon murmured, his voice devoid of slurred charm. Now, it was cold and clear.

“Did you think I would allow you to rule through me? That I would play the perfect puppet while you worked the strings? They know me only as a wastrel, a drunken lout.” He exhaled a breath of something that might have been laughter but held none of its warmth. “You think they will follow me? You think they will rally behind me? Follow me into battle? No.”

Otto stiffened. The boy’s eyes gleamed with something too measured, too intentional. The realization struck slow, creeping like a sickness in his veins. It was all an act. The chaos. The indulgence. The shame Aegon had draped over himself like royal finery—it had never been a weakness.

It had been a weapon and Otto had let it fester.

Then came the sound.

At first, it was distant. A low, rhythmic thudding, like drums muffled by stone. But it grew louder, sharper. The clash of steel. The unmistakable roar of men in combat. Cries of alarm echoed through the corridors, boots pounding against marble as guards rushed toward the gates.

Otto turned, his face paling. “What is that?”

The throne room doors slammed open, and a steward stumbled inside, breathless and wide-eyed, his cloak torn, his face streaked with soot and sweat.

“The North, my King!” he gasped. “They’ve breached the Lion Gate and the Kings Gate. Visenya’s Hill is lost. God’s Way is overrun. The Hightower men are engaged—outnumbered. The city…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

The nobles began to stir, the illusion of ceremony unravelling in real time. Lord Wylde dropped his goblet, the wine pooling like blood across the marble floor. Lady Fell clutched her skirts, her knuckles white, eyes darting toward the exits. Lord Larys Strong, ever composed, tilted his head slightly, calculating paths of survival rather than loyalty.

“Is no longer yours,” Aegon said, cutting him off.

Otto spun to face him, fury and disbelief warring in his expression. “You let them in?”

“I held the gates,” Aegon replied, voice calm, almost serene. “I held the throne. I held the city. For her.”

Otto’s mouth opened, but no words came. The sounds of battle grew louder. There were screams now, and the thunder of hooves on cobblestone. The nobles in the hall began to stir, confusion rippling through them like wildfire. Aegon turned to the crowd, raising his voice just enough to be heard above the chaos.

“You backed me because you thought I was yours,” he said, voice steady. “Because you thought I was weak. Controllable. Disposable.”

He looked to Otto. “But I was never yours.”

The steward still lingered near the door, trembling. Behind him, the sounds of battle grew louder. Aegon turned to the gathered lords and ladies, his gaze sweeping over them like a final reckoning.

“You wanted a king who would burn the realm for your ambitions. I am not that king.”

He paused, letting the silence settle like ash.

“I am her herald.”

And with that, the throne room fractured, not with swords, but with fear. Nobles surged toward the exits, robes trailing, voices rising in frantic pleas and shouted orders. The court dissolved into chaos, the last vestiges of Hightower control crumbling beneath the weight of truth.

Otto stared at him now. At the young king who had played him for moons, who had let the chaos fester, who had ensured that no matter the outcome, it would be Otto who was blamed for the ruin. His fingers twitched at his sides.

His mind raced.

How did one salvage control from a man determined to lose it? How did one craft a kingdom out of ash when the boy meant to rule it had set fire to his own name?

Otto was no warrior. He could not turn the tide by force. He had spent his life wielding influence over kings and councils, shaping policy with quiet precision. Yet now, he stood before the greatest failure of his life… not the death of a king, nor the threat of war, but the realisation that the throne he had fought to claim was already lost.

The halls trembled with the echo of steel and fury. Otto stood at the heart of the throne room, pulse hammering as the distant roar of the Northern host surged through the Keep’s stone walls. Cregan Stark had come. The gates, that had been barred for three moons, had shattered beneath the strength of Winterfell’s banners, and now, all that remained was ruin.

He turned sharply, eyes darting to the throne where Aegon lounged, watching the crumbling of his reign with something akin to idle amusement. Wine dripped between his fingers, dark red stains blooming against his cuff. He did not move.

He would not move.

“Get up!” Otto hissed, striding forward, fingers curling at his sides. “Aegon, the Keep is lost! Do you understand? The North has breached the gates. The Blacks will have you dragged from that chair and torn apart. If you do not rise, if you do not fight, they will tear you from that seat and…”

Aegon stood slowly. Unhurried.

Wine dripped between his fingers, staining the stone like blood as he gazed down upon Otto with the weight of finality. A silence stretched between them, thick with understanding and Aegon smirked, tilting his head ever so slightly, his voice rolling across the throne room with unsettling ease.

"Rhaenyra, my Queen, can take it."

Otto’s stomach lurched. The words landed like a death blow. It was final, undeniable.

Aegon had never been fighting for the throne.

He had never wanted it at all.

He had stripped Otto of every shred of control, rendering his years of war, diplomacy, and Otto swallowed hard. This was not how it was meant to end. He had crafted contingencies, prepared for every outcome—every possible unravelling of control. But this? This was chaos incarnate. A rebellion not merely against Rhaenyra, but against the very name Otto had fought to solidify upon the throne.

He had nothing left to bargain with.

He turned sharply Alicent, who stood at the threshold, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling.  She was clad in gold and emerald, a queen forged in duty, in sacrifice, in relentless conviction. The silk of her gown shimmered regally in the torchlight, but her face betrayed her. She was pale. Not with fear, but with the slow, dawning horror of understanding.

She had fought beside him. Had weathered every storm. Had held the walls with him while her son sat, drunk and distant, a crown slipping sideways on his brow. She had prayed, pleaded, commanded. She had whispered scripture and strategy in equal measure, believing that if she held firm, the realm would bend to her will.

But now, she saw the truth.

The nobles were scattering. The throne room was dissolving into chaos, and her son was not rallying the court, not defending the gates, not claiming his crown.

He was surrendering it.

Otto’s mind raced. Harrenhall. It was his only chance. The fortress had held strong against countless sieges, its walls thick with history and blood. If he fled now… if he could outrun the fire and steel descending upon the Keep, he might yet salvage what remained.

"Come," Otto rasped, barely audible over the chaos beyond. The clash of swords, the barked orders of Northern men storming through their halls. It was all unravelling too fast. Urgency clawed at his voice. "We must go."

She did not move. Alicent stood frozen, her breath shallow, her eyes wide as they darted between her father and her son. Aegon met her gaze, and for a moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was thick with grief, with buried resentment, with the fragile threads of love that had frayed long ago.

She took a step forward, the hem of her gown trailing like ivy across the stone. Her lips parted, but no words came. Otto had always known where he stood in moments of crisis. He had crafted through political storms with calculated precision, had whispered the path to power in the ears of kings, had melded his own daughter into the very foundation of his control. But now… now, as the Red Keep crumbled beneath the weight of defeat, as Cregan Stark’s men spilled into the halls… he realized she was not following.

She was shaking her head.

Slowly.

Almost imperceptibly.

Otto’s breath hitched. “Alicent—”

Aegon moved, smooth and unhurried, wine slipping between his fingers, pooling dark at his feet. His smirk curled; half-lidded eyes gleaming beneath the throne’s iron shadow. "Run, old man," he murmured. "See how far your schemes carry you now."

Alicent exhaled, sharp and tremulous.

And Otto saw the unravelling of belief flickering across her face, the slow-breaking realization that everything they had done, everything they had fought for, had been a fool’s errand. The sacrifices. The suffering. The way she had pressed herself into silent endurance, swallowing grief and guilt for a son who had never wanted any of it.

She had made mistakes.

She had been wrong.

Otto surged forward, reaching for her arm, but she pulled away, her refusal clear; not with words, but in the way her fingers curled against her side, in the way her lips parted as though she wanted to speak but could not find breath enough to form the words. Alicent did not move.

The roar of dragons shattered the air.

It was not the sound of war, it was older, deeper, more primal. A thunderous cry that rolled across the city like a reckoning, silencing steel and screams alike. The throne room stilled instantly, as if the very stones had learned fear. Nobles froze mid-flight, heads snapping upward, eyes wide with dread.

The torches flickered. The stained glass trembled. And above them, through the high windows and open arches, the shadows of wings passed — vast and terrible, blotting out the sun.

Alicent’s breath hitched.

She staggered backward, her knees buckling beneath the weight of it all. The sound, the sight, the truth. Her hands flew to her mouth, fingers trembling against her lips as she sank to the floor. The emerald silk pooled around her like spilled ambition; her crownless head bowed in silent devastation.

It was over.

Otto turned slowly, his face ashen, his eyes hollow. He looked to Aegon, the boy he had crowned, the king he had tried to meld, the weapon he had failed to wield and Aegon met his gaze and smiled.

It was not cruel. Not triumphant. Just quiet. Inevitable.

He raised his goblet of wine in a slow, deliberate toast as the doors of the throne room burst open once more. This time not with panicked stewards or fleeing courtiers, but with the storm of the North.

They came in waves: cloaks soaked with mist and blood, steel glinting beneath furs, the direwolf sigil stark against the gloom. Their boots struck the marble with purpose, not haste. These were not men who bargained or pleaded. They were the hand of justice, the edge of inevitability.

The nobles turned in terror, their whispers collapsing into cries. Some tried to flee, but the Northerners moved swiftly, cutting off exits, surrounding the chamber with grim efficiency. Swords were drawn but not raised. This was not a massacre. It was a claiming.

Lord Wylde was the first to be seized, his protests drowned by the clatter of his rings against the floor. Lady Fell fainted outright, her guards too stunned to intervene. Larys Strong did not resist, he simply folded his hands and watched, his expression unreadable, as two Stark men flanked him.

Alicent remained on her knees, her hands still pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and unseeing. She did not move. She did not speak. Otto stepped back, his face pale, his breath shallow. He looked to the doors, as if expecting salvation, but found only the cold eyes of the North. He turned to Aegon one last time.

“You planned this,” Otto whispered.

Aegon smirked, the corner of his mouth curling with quiet satisfaction. He raised the goblet once more, savouring the wine as if it were the final note in a symphony only he had heard. The chaos around him did not touch him. The screams, the clatter of steel, the desperate pleas of nobles, they all faded beneath the weight of Otto’s realisation.

Two Northmen stepped forward, their faces grim beneath fur-lined helms. They seized Otto by the arms, dragging him down with brutal efficiency. His knees struck the marble with a dull crack, and he winced, pride fracturing alongside bone. His arms were wrenched behind his back, bound tightly with leather cord. A sword was drawn and pressed against the hollow of his throat.

Otto’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. He looked up at Aegon, eyes wide, searching for something, but Aegon gave him nothing. The roar of dragons grew louder, no longer distant but deafening. The very stones of the Red Keep trembled beneath their descent. Dust drifted from the vaulted ceiling as claws met cobblestone, wings folding with thunderous grace. The courtyard outside was alight with fire and shadow, the air thick with heat and awe.

Inside the throne room, the centre was cleared.

Northern soldiers moved with quiet authority, pushing nobles to the edges of the chamber. Lords and ladies huddled in silks and furs, their faces pale, their titles meaningless now. Otto was held in the centre, bound and kneeling, his pride bleeding into the marble. Beside him, Alicent was hauled forward, her gown torn, her crownless head bowed. Her hands trembled, her breath shallow, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Aegon stood before them, his eyes fixed on the great doors, watching them eagerly. The goblet had been discarded. The performance was over. The throne behind him loomed, jagged and empty, but he did not look back.

It was over.

He could stop pretending.

He could stop being the king they wanted, the fool they feared, the weapon they wielded. He could be Aegon again, the boy who sketched dragons in the margins of scrolls, who watched his children sleep with quiet wonder, who had once laughed freely in the gardens with Rhaenyra before ambition poisoned everything. The ground shook again. Dust fell like ash. The doors began to open.

Aegon exhaled, slow and steady.

She was here.

--

Rhaenyra held her breath, her fingers twisting at the front of her riding leathers as she strode from her dragon towards the Great Hall. The garment clung to her like a second skin; black leather etched with subtle dragon-scale patterns that shimmered faintly beneath the velvet overlay. Golden filigree traced the seams like veins of fire, catching the torchlight with each step. The cut was almost gown-like, regal in silhouette yet forged for war, its high collar framing her jaw like a crown of defiance.

Two Northmen stood at either side of the grand door, and Jaehaerys stood with them. His hair had grown out in the last moon, silvery curls framing his face. His clothes were marred with dirt and blood, but she could not see any wounds on him. Still, something in his eyes made her hesitate, not fear, but the weight of what waited beyond the doors. Her fingers stilled, resting against the scaled leather, as if drawing strength from the armour that bore her house’s legacy.

Rhaenyra’s pace quickened, her composure unravelling with each step until she reached him. She cupped his cheek in one hand, the other grasping his bloodied fingers with quiet desperation. Her thumb brushed the grime from his skin, as if by touch alone she could erase the horrors he’d endured. Relief surged through her, but she swallowed it down, forcing her breath to steady. Jaehaerys stood tall, his posture firm despite the wear of the march to Kings Landing, and the battle to take the city. He did not lean into her touch, nor did he flinch. His voice was low, reverent.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head just enough to honour her station. “You are home.”

The words struck her like a blade to the ribs. Home. She wanted to pull him into her arms, to bury her face in his shoulder and forget the crown, the war, the weight of legacy. But the Northmen watched, and the Great Hall loomed behind them. So, she nodded, lips pressed into a line, her fingers lingering at his cheek a moment longer before she let go.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely above the wind. “You’ve done well.”

The Throne Room of the Red Keep stood vast and cavernous, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with tension and torch smoke. The great oak and bronze doors groaned open with ancient weight, spilling flickering torchlight across the cold stone floor in rippling waves.

The Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the hall, jagged and monstrous, its twisted blades rising like a crown of ruin. It sat atop a raised dais, its shadow stretching long and sharp across the floor. Along the edges of the chamber, nobles stood in uneasy silence, their silks dulled by fear, their jewels dimmed by the flickering light. They had been pushed back, corralled by Northern soldiers whose presence was quiet but absolute. The nobles’ eyes flicked between the throne, the captives, and the woman now entering, their whispers stilled, their bravado drained.

At the centre of the hall, Otto Hightower knelt, bound and silent, his once-proud posture broken beneath the weight of defeat. Beside him, Alicent, her emerald gown torn and dust-streaked, bowed her head. Her hair had come loose, her hands trembled, and the regal mask she had worn for years cracked. Rhaenyra stepped forward, her silhouette framed by the open doors and the Northmen flanking her. Her cloak of deep velvet trailed behind her like spilled ink and behind her walked Jaehaerys, steady and protective.

A herald's voice rang clear through the stillness.

“Behold Rhaenyra of House Targaryen,” he declared, “First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm!”

The words echoed through the hall, and silence reigned as Rhaenyra stepped into the room. Torchlight flickered across her face, casting her features in gold and shadow, but her eyes were steady, sweeping over the gathered nobles with quiet judgment. She saw fear. She saw guilt. She saw the remnants of a court that had once defied her.

Then she saw him.

Aegon stood just behind Otto and Alicent, between them and the Iron Throne. His posture was taut, and his face shuttered, his breath was uneven, but he was upright. He was whole and when her gaze met his, something shifted.

Rhaenyra couldn’t stop the surge that rose in her chest, a rush of joy so fierce it stole her breath. Her heart, hardened by war and loss, cracked open in an instant. He was safe. He was okay. He was here in front of her.

Her brother.

Not the drunken fool the realm whispered about. Not the puppet king Otto had tried to meld. But the boy she had raised, the boy who had clung to her skirts in the gardens, who had asked her endless questions about dragons and stars, who had once drawn her picture with charcoal smudges on his fingers and pride in his smile.

She had loved him fiercely, protectively, with a devotion that had never waned, even as the realm tried to pit them against each other. She had watched him grow in the shadow of ambition, had tried to shield him from it, had feared for him every day since the war began. He had held the city for her. He had endured ridicule, suspicion, and isolation. He had worn the crown not for power, but for her. He had sacrificed everything; reputation, legacy, even love, so that she could walk into this hall and claim what was hers.

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened. Her eyes burned with tears, and she blinked back tears at the sight of him.

She did not pause for ceremony, did not glance at the nobles lining the walls, did not heed the gasps that rippled through the chamber. Politics be damned. This was the boy she had raised, the man who had held the realm together with trembling hands and quiet sacrifice.

She ran to him.

Her velvet cloak billowed behind her like wings, her crown glinting in the torchlight as she crossed the hall with purpose. The sound of her boots striking stone echoed like a heartbeat, and the Northmen parted instinctively, recognizing something sacred in her stride.

Aegon’s breath caught as she approached. His shoulders tensed, his eyes wide, and then she was there.

She threw her arms around him, pulling him into her embrace with a force that shattered the silence. Her hands gripped his back, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, as if afraid he might vanish. He stiffened for a heartbeat and then melted into her, his arms wrapping around her waist, his forehead pressing to her shoulder.

Rhaenyra held him like a mother who had found her lost child. Like a sister who had feared she would never see him again. Like a queen who knew that no throne, no crown, no victory could ever mean more than this.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered, voice thick with tears.

“You didn’t,” Aegon murmured, his voice muffled against her neck. “I waited.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands cradling his face. His eyes were tired, rimmed with red, but they were clear. Honest. Hers.

“You held the city,” she said, a gentle smile on her face, eyes glowing with joy.

“For you, sister,” he replied quietly, and Rhaenyra smiled wider before she pressed a firm kiss to his forehead.

“I am so proud of you,” she murmured gently.

Aegon’s eyes shimmered, betraying the storm of relief and longing within him. He clung to her a moment longer, as if the world might fracture should he let go. Around them, the Northmen looked away, the torchlight flickering over bowed heads and glinting steel, giving the siblings a fragile bubble of privacy in that vast, cold hall.

Rhaenyra gently brushed a lock of hair from his brow, her thumb tracing the faint bruise along his cheekbone. Her touch was light, but it lingered, a silent apology for every moment she hadn’t been there to protect him.

“You’ve done more than I ever asked,” she said, her voice steady now, threaded with the iron of command. “You have my thanks. And my trust.”

Aegon nodded, swallowing hard. His eyes teared, but he did not cry. Not here. Not now.

He stepped back, the space between them filled with quiet understanding. Then, with deliberate grace, he drew his sword from its scabbard, the steel catching the torchlight in a single, clean arc. He turned the blade, holding it flat in both hands, and dropped to one knee.

“The throne is yours, my Queen,” he said, bowing his head and raising the sword above him. Rhaenyra looked down at him and her heart ached with pride and sorrow, with love and resolve. She stepped forward and placed her hand atop the blade, her fingers brushing his.

“I never wanted you to suffer for me,” she said softly.

“I didn’t,” he replied, lifting his gaze. “I suffered for our family.”

Rhaenyra’s hand remained atop Aegon’s sword for a breath longer, anchoring the moment in silence. Then she stepped forward, her velvet cloak trailing behind her like a banner of dusk and ascended the iron dais. The nobles watched, hushed and still, holding their breaths as she ascended the steps. The Iron Throne loomed ahead, and it had never looked more like a warning.

Rhaenyra turned to face the hall.

Her eyes swept over the gathered lords and ladies, over the Northmen who had fought for her, over the remnants of Hightower ambition now kneeling in defeat. Her gaze was steady, her posture regal, but her voice was clear, threaded with fire and grace.

“I stand before you not as a conqueror,” she said, “but as the rightful heir to the legacy of House Targaryen. I claim this throne not through bloodshed, but through truth. I claim the throne through loyalty, through sacrifice, through the will of the realm itself.”

She looked to Aegon, still kneeling, his sword lowered now in quiet reverence.

“My brother held this city not for power, but for peace. He bore the crown so that I might arrive without fire and ruin. Let it be known that his loyalty preserved King’s Landing, and that his name shall be remembered not as a usurper, but as a guardian of the realm.”

She turned back to the throne.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, first of my name. I claim the Iron Throne by birth right, by oath, and by the will of those who still believe in justice.”

She stepped forward, and with slow, deliberate grace, she sat. The Iron Throne groaned beneath her, the blades whispering of kings and queens long dead. But she did not flinch. She did not falter.

She was home.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low over the Blackwater Bay, casting silver ripples across the water that danced like lullabies on the breeze. That same breeze drifted through the open window, cool and fragrant, stirring the gauzy curtains and brushing Rhaenyra’s flushed cheeks with gentle fingers. The chamber was dimly lit, the flicker of candlelight painting soft gold across the stone walls and catching in the folds of her satin gown. Shadows swayed like quiet sentinels, keeping watch over mother and child.

Lucerys stirred, his tiny lips puckering in sleep, and Rhaenyra adjusted the blanket around him. It was a pale blue weave, warm and feather-light against her skin. Her own body still ached from the birth, but the ache was diminished with every gentle breath that her son took. She nestled deeper into the cushions, the scent of lavender rising from the linens, and let herself sink into the stillness.

Outside, the city slept. Inside, time slowed to the rhythm of her son’s breath. He had been later in his arrival, unlike his brother who had came into this world with the dawn, Lucerys had arrived with the moon high in the sky, bathing King’s Landing in a silvery glow. She traced the curve of his soft cheek with the back of her finger, marvelling at the dusky hue that bloomed there, so much like his grandfather. He was not fire-born like Jaehaerys, who had roared into the world with fists clenched and lungs ready to command. No, Lucerys had arrived like the tide, quiet and sure, his curls already whispering of waves and wind.

Laenor’s laughter still echoed faintly in the corridor, muffled by thick stone and velvet drapes. Rhaenyra smiled to herself, remembering how he had cradled the babe with reverence, his joy lighting up his face. Lady Charis had swept him away with a flourish, promising wine and song, and Rhaenyra had giggled until tears pricked her eyes. Her body was sore, her gown loose and damp, but joy shimmered through her like candlelight on water.

She nestled Lucerys closer, letting the warmth of the blankets and the hush of the chamber wrap around them like a cocoon. The sea breeze stirred again, lifting the edge of the curtain, and she imagined Driftmark calling softly to its prince. Not with fire, but with salt and storm.

Rhaenyra’s breath shuddered, her knuckles white as she stepped into her old chambers. The chamber was still, heavy with memory. The tapestries hung unchanged, faded dragons stitched into velvet, watching her with silent eyes. Rhaenyra stepped forward, her fingers grazing the edge of the birthing bed where she had once screamed life into the world. The stone beneath her feet remembered her pacing as she birthed Jaehaerys, her prayers for Lucerys, her whispered lullabies to Aerion. It was not just a room; it was a witness to the start of her family.

She closed her eyes and let the ache rise, not to drown her but to remind her. Lucerys had once slept here, curled against her chest, his breath warm against her collarbone. She could almost hear his laugh echoing down the corridor, chasing Jaehaerys and Aemond in their endless games. That laughter was gone now, but she held those memories close to her heart.

Slowly, she unclenched her fists, and opened her eyes, The ache began to pass, as did the urge to massage her temples to soothe the headache threatening, and Rhaenyra smoothed the front skirts. Today, there was no place for grief. Not in King’s Landing, not before those who would look to her for strength. Her gown seemed to remember for her, a garment woven as much for memory as for majesty. Black brocade shimmered with red dragons; their sinuous bodies embroidered in fire across her bodice and skirts. A scalloped girdle of gold, set with pearls and rubies, crowned her waist, gleaming like a circlet of flame. The sleeves cascaded in dark bell-shaped folds, edged in gilt, the cuffs heavy with jewels, as though even her sorrow had been armoured in splendour. Layers of black tulle fell over the skirts, scattered with beads that caught the torchlight like stars scattered across a night sky, while beneath them the dragons curled and coiled, revealed in flashes as she moved.

As she returned to the corridor, eyes followed her. Those she passed bent their knees and bowed low, offering their congratulations and watching her with almost awe. The weight of loss clung to her still, but now it was a mantle of power. Rhaenyra carried her grief with her, gilded and set with jewels, no less radiant for its sharp edges. The Conciliator’s crown pressed against her brow, its weight a reminder of the burden she bore. Forged in the image of peace, it now sat upon the head of a queen born of war. The future of the Seven Kingdoms rested on her now, and from the brief, grim reports she had received since taking the Throne, it was clear: the realm was bleeding.

The Royal Treasury had been gutted, not merely emptied, but violated. Otto Hightower’s agents had siphoned coin to Oldtown under the guise of royal expense, leaving behind ledgers filled with lies and debts. The Crown’s gold was gone, and with it, the means to rebuild. Taxes had been collected sporadically, if at all, over the past moons. Some lords had withheld payment in protest, others in quiet rebellion. The smallfolk had borne the brunt, their grain taken, their levies raised, their pleas ignored.

Trade with Essos and Lys had stalled and the ports of Driftmark and Duskendale sat idle, their harbourmasters reporting empty docks and silent ships. The merchant guilds, once loyal to the Crown, now demanded guarantees Rhaenyra could not yet offer. The Reach was openly hostile. Highgarden had severed its supply lines to King’s Landing while it had been under Otto’s thumb, and the granaries of the Reach, once the breadbasket of the real, were now guarded by Tyrell swords. The Tyrells, newly emboldened, advanced on Old Town in her name, but whether they sought to restore order or claim dominion was unclear. The Queen’s banner flew above their march, but whether it was loyalty or ambition that drove them, Rhaenyra could not be sure. Knowing the Tyrell’s, it was likely the latter.

The Crownlands were restless. Skirmishes flared like embers in dry grass and pockets of resistance, rogue knights, and bitter remnants of the Green cause. Villages burned, roads were unsafe, and the people looked to the Red Keep with fear, not faith. The loyalty of the great houses was a patchwork of grudging oaths and silent resentment. Rhaenyra would need more than dragons to rebuild their loyalty. She needed diplomacy, justice, and time, despite how Daemon would be more than willing to burn all her enemies, to force them into submission to her rule.

That was only the surface, to make it all so much worse. Beneath it lay the slow rot of neglect… the crumbling roads, the broken ports, the cities left to decay while her father lingered in his sickbed and Otto ruled in his stead. The realm had not merely suffered war. It had been completely abandoned by its rulers, loath as she was to admit it.

She was mending the fractures of years, of a kingdom divided by whispers, weakened by indecision, and hollowed by ambition. Her musings were cut short as she approached the Small Council chambers, guards flanking her on both sides. Rhaenyra stopped for a moment at the solid door, her hand on the smoothed stone wall. Ser Harwin Strong, her newly appointed Lord Commander, leaned against the opposite wall, a small smile on his lips. In another life, Rhaenyra could have found herself awfully fond of that smile.

He had been waiting for her arrival at the doors, ready to announce her first arrival to the newly formed Small Council. Harwin was not surprised by her delay. As her Lord Commander, he was more than aware of the demands for her time, and as her friend, he had seen how turbulent walking through the Red Keep left her feeling.

“Are you ready to face he rabble, my Queen?” Harwin asked, keeping his voice light. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, her head tipping back momentarily. When her eyes met his again, they were full of humour.

“After all this trouble, I likely should be, should I not?” she quipped. Harwin chuckled at her glib. The voices of the summoned filtered through the thick doors. She could hear Rhaenys, sharp as ever, chastising Daemon. Likely for a lewd comment he had tossed too freely into the room. Their dance was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. The gruff Norther accent of Lord Cregan Stark rumbled in her ears, words too muffled to make out, but she could hear Jaehaerys laugh in response. Maester Gerardys’ gentle murmuring floated just above the din, likely talking through some issue to himself, as he often did. His voice was soft, but his mind was sharp. She surmised he was close to the door, given she could just make out his words on disease in Flea Bottom.

With a nod from Rhaenyra, Harwin pushed open the doors open. The swung with a soft groan and Rhaenyra caught as all conversation in the room went silent. She tuned out Harwin announcing her ridiculous length of titles, stepping forward into the room with her hands clasped at the front of her gown. The gathered members had all stood, the legs of the wooden chairs scraping against the stone floor.

She had to keep herself from raising her eyebrows at the scene before her. The table was, for lack of a better word, overcrowded.

Along her left, five chairs had been pushed so close together they might as well have been a single bench. Jaehaerys sat nearest the head, spine straight, hands folded with the careful precision of someone trying extremely hard to look older than his years. Beside him, Aegon leaned back with the easy grace of someone who did not need to try, his smile crooked and relaxed, his eyes bright as they met hers. Then came Cregan Stark, broad, and unmoving, wedged between the Manderly brothers like a mountain among saplings. Medrick and Torrhen, both fair-haired and florid, were engaged in a silent war of elbows and narrowed glances, each trying to claim a sliver more space without drawing attention.

They all bowed their heads as she approached, though Torrhen’s looked more like a nod interrupted by a shoulder nudge.

Corlys sat at the foot of the table, as he always had, his posture regal, his chin lifted. He did not rise, due to the damage to his leg in the war of the Stepstones. His pride was a quiet thing, worn like armour.

To her right, the rest of the council stood. Rhaenys, arms crossed, gaze sharp as ever. Mysaria, silent and watchful, her presence like a shadow stitched to the wall. Maester Gerardys offered a small, respectful incline of his head, already thumbing through a sheaf of notes. Bartimos Celtigar looked vaguely annoyed, though whether at the crowding or the delay, she could not tell. And Daemon stood with a smirk tugging at his mouth, one brow arched as if to say, Well, you wanted a council.

Rhaenyra paused at the head of the table, letting the moment settle. She glanced at Harwin, who stood just behind her shoulder, and murmured, “Next time, remind me to build a longer table.”

He grinned. “Or smaller lords.”

A few of the men chuckled, Cregan openly, Jaehaerys trying not to. Even Corly’s mouth twitched.

Rhaenyra took her seat, folding her hands before her. “Let us begin.”

--

Daemon, for all his love of his wife and his pride in seeing her seated where she belonged, was bored. He had made the effort, of course. He was attending Rhaenyra’s first Small Council as Prince Consort, dressed in his finest, pressed tunic, his hair tied back with something approaching care. It was a gesture of support, of faith. A public show that the dragon behind the Queen still burned for her.

But gods, it was dull.

They were discussing trade routes. Or tariffs. Or possibly the grain levy in Gulltown… Daemon had stopped listening somewhere between “projected yield” and “seasonal variance.” He had considered stabbing himself in the thigh just to feel something.

And worse… worse than the droning voices and the endless parchment… was Lord Bartimos Celtigar. A man of considerable intellect, yes, but also considerable odour. He reeked of sweat and fish, and for reasons known only to the gods, he was currently pressed horribly close to Daemon. Every time Bartimos leaned forward to make a point, Daemon had to fight the urge to lean back so far, he would fall off his chair.

He glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, who was listening intently to Cregan Stark’s measured report on Northern grain reserves. Her brow was furrowed, her fingers steepled, every inch the monarch. Daemon loved her for it. She was resplendent, she was beautiful. She was the other half of his soul. But… He also wanted to throw a goblet at the wall just to see who flinched.

Instead, he leaned toward Bartimos with a smile that was all teeth.

“Tell me, Lord Celtigar,” he murmured, “is the fish scent deliberate? A kind of diplomatic cologne?”

Bartimos blinked, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

Daemon waved a hand. “Never mind. Do go on about barley. I’m riveted.”

Across the table, standing behind Aegon, Harwin Strong coughed into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. Aegon looked like he might explode, his cheeks red as he restrained his laughter. Jaehaerys cracked a smile, though he quickly buried it behind his goblet.

Rhaenyra did not look over to him, her gaze fixed on Cregan’s report, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the stone. But Daemon caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth—a flicker of amusement, or warning, or both.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhaenys turn. Her expression was pure disapproval, sharpened by years of watching him toe and, gleefully, cross the line. She did not bother to hide it. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed into a line that could have sliced parchment. Daemon, unbothered, turned to her with the full force of his most charming smile, the one that had once made half the court blush and the other half reach for their swords.

Rhaenys did not blush. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the table, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “child.”

With the attention drifting back to Cregan’s measured cadence and the rustle of maps, Daemon’s leg resumed its jitter beneath the table. A steady, silent bounce that betrayed the storm inside him. He had tried to tell himself this was a victory. Rhaenyra was crowned, the realm was (mostly) at peace, his enemies were scattered or dead. But peace was a dull companion. It did not sing in his blood. It did not test the edge of his sword.

The war for the throne had been brief, too brief. A skirmish, really. No great battles, no cities burned. Just manoeuvring, alliances, and a few unfortunate corpses. It had been clever. Efficient. Maddening.

He wanted something to break. A rule, a window, a nose… he wasn’t fussy. At all. He would take anything that he could fight.

Instead, he sat still. For her.

But the leg kept bouncing.

Across the table, Aegon glanced at him, then nudged Jaehaerys with a grin. The boy looked up, confused, then followed his brother’s gaze. Daemon met their eyes and raised a brow, daring them to laugh. Jaehaerys looked away quickly. Aegon did not, his entire aura lightened at the handing over of the throne to Rhaenyra.

Daemon’s leg continued to bounce.

After a moment, he felt a hand settle on his jittering thigh, and he rose an eyebrow. Rhaenyra gazed at him out the corner of her eye, a soft smile on her lips.

“Shall we take a brief respite, my lords, I find myself in need of movement,” Rhaenyra suggested. A beat of silence followed her words, like the room itself had blinked. The Lords paused mid-quill, heads tilted, expressions flickering between confusion and curiosity.

Cregan Stark raised a brow, but said nothing and Rhaenys looked mildly scandalized, though her lips twitched as if she could not suppress her amusement. Bartimos Celtigar blinked rapidly, as though trying to calculate whether this was a test. Mysaria, ever silent, simply watched.

Daemon, for his part, did not move. Her hand still rested lightly on his thigh, grounding him. He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, and the corner of his mouth curled.

“You tire of barley already?” he murmured.

“I tire of watching you vibrate like a caged animal,” she replied, voice low and amused.

Harwin Strong cleared his throat, clearly suppressing a laugh. “Shall I have the courtyard prepared, Your Grace?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “A walk will do. Let the council take refreshment. We will reconvene shortly.”

The council stood again, some more gracefully than others. Aegon looked delighted, Jaehaerys relieved. Gerardys muttered something about digestion and the benefits of movement. Rhaenyra and Daemon lingered as the rest of the council all but fled the chamber, robes swishing, boots echoing, muttered complaints about numb legs and stale air trailing behind them. Lords who had once fought for power now scrambled for fresh air and wine, their dignity barely intact.

Daemon watched them go with a smirk. “Look at them,” he murmured. “Hours of talk and not a sword drawn. I am amazed they survived.”

Rhaenyra did not answer immediately, her hand yet to leave his thigh. Daemon’s smirk deepened, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as her fingers traced upward. Her voice, low and laced with amusement, curled around him like smoke.

“You have an excess in vigour, issa zaldrīzes,” she murmured, the Valyrian slipping from her lips like a secret.

He turned his head, eyes catching hers with a glint of heat. “And you mean to tame it?”

Rhaenyra’s smile did not falter, turning sultry. “I mean to redirect it.”

“And just how do you intend to do that?” he responded in Valyrian, as she rose from her seat, her silver-gold hair catching the flickering candlelight like molten metal.

Her body was a study in controlled grace, every movement deliberate, every breath measured. She leaned back against the polished stone table, and her foot found the space between his legs, the tip of her shoe pressed against the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. A slow, deliberate tease. The leather of his breeches was warm from his body heat, and she could feel the tension in his muscles even through the thick material. His breath hitched, just for a second, before his hand shot out like a striking viper.

His fingers wrapped around her ankle, his grip firm, possessive. The callouses on his palm rasped against her skin as he traced the delicate bones, his thumb pressing into the softness just above her boot.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, catching his lips with her own in a heated kiss. Daemon’s breath caught, but he answered her with equal fervour, the taste of her driving out the metallic tang of battle from his mouth. Her fingers slid to the back of his neck, drawing him closer until there was nothing left between them but the pulse of shared defiance.

She broke the kiss only to whisper against his lips, her breath hot. “There are better wars to fight, my prince.”

Her words coiled around him like a spell, pulling him from the storm that usually ruled him. His hand tightened around her calf, anchoring himself in her calm, her fire. She felt the shift, the moment the violence bled into hunger, the rage into something far more dangerous. Daemon’s gaze darkened, his pupils blowing wide as he drank her in, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, the part of her lips, still wet from their kiss. 

His hand slid up her leg, slow and deliberate, his calloused palm burning a path over her skin. She shivered a delicious tremor that started deep within her core, as his fingers traced the inside of her thigh, inching higher, higher and then, in one smooth, powerful movement, he pushed her back, her body meeting the cool, polished surface of the council table with a soft thud. Parchment scattered, quills skittered, and a heavy inkwell wobbled precariously before settling. Rhaenyra gasped, a choked sound of surprise and burgeoning pleasure, when his lips left hers.

 The cool air of the chamber rushed over her exposed skin as her skirts shoved around her waist, gathered in a crumpled heap above her hips. His long, lean body pressed against hers, pinning her to the table, the hard planes of his chest a stark contrast to her softer curves.

His lips, still tasting of her, found the inside of her thigh, trailing a searing line of kisses along her skin. She tasted of oranges, of cinnamon from the spiced wine, and of a raw, untamed fire that mirrored his own. Daemon could not stop his tongue from licking along her skin, a deep, primal need consuming him. He tasted her, consumed her, his movements growing more urgent, more possessive.

“We don’t have long, my love,” Rhaenyra whispered in Valyrian, her voice heated. Daemon growled into her thigh, and Rhaenyra nearly giggled as he rose over her, a dangerous look on his face.

“Let them try to disturb us,” he growled, before he captured her lips, devouring her next words. He nipped her bottom lip, and his tongue dove into her mouth. They battled for dominance, and Rhaenyra gasped when she felt his hand slipping between her legs.

--

Outside the chamber, Ser Harwin Strong stood sentinel, arms folded, posture relaxed but unmistakably firm. The flicker of torchlight caught the edge of his armour, casting long shadows down the corridor. He had heard the murmurs and moans, the scattering of objects on stone. Harwin Strong was no fool, he knew exactly what kind of “respite” the Queen had requested.

When the first of the council members began to trickle back, their expressions ranging from sheepish to impatient, Harwin didn’t miss a beat.

“The Queen requires more time to rest,” he said smoothly, stepping forward just enough to block the threshold. “She’ll summon you when she’s ready.”

Lord Celtigar blinked, clearly flustered. “But we were told…”

“You were told to reconvene,” Harwin said, voice calm. “Not to interrupt.”

Rhaenys raised a brow but said nothing. Cregan Stark gave a quiet nod and turned without protest. Aegon looked like he was trying not to laugh. Jaehaerys looked mortified.

Harwin caught Daemon’s voice echoing faintly from within and had to fight the smirk tugging at his lips. He adjusted his stance, gaze forward, expression neutral. Let them speculate. Let them whisper. His job was not to explain the Queen’s choices. His job was to guard them.

And he did so gladly.