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Chapter Text

(The Red Keep - 22nd Day of the Withering Moon, 119 AC, Late Afternoon)

The Godswood of the Red Keep was a world apart.

Within its ancient heart, where the air smelled of damp earth and the towering weirwood cast long shadows over the mossy ground, the world outside did not exist. No court, no council meetings, no lessons on duty or politics—just rustling leaves and laughter. And the occasional shriek. 

Beneath the sprawling branches of the godswood, Aemond Targaryen—ten and far too serious for his age—squinted up with a crease between his brows as Rhaella Velaryon, just shy of her ninth nameday, clambered up the ancient tree like it was hers by right. Their silver-gold hair shimmered in the dappled light, bright against the deep reds and greens around them—like spun starlight misplaced in the mortal world.

“You’re going to fall!” Aemond called up, frowning at the girl dangling from the lowest branch of the weirwood.

“I am not ,” Rhaella huffed, determined as she swung a leg over the branch and hoisted herself up. “See?” She grinned, perching like a victorious cat. “You worry too much.”

Aemond scowled. “And you’re reckless.”

Rhaella just giggled, swinging her legs. “You should try it. The world looks different from up here.”

He hesitated. Aemond had never been afraid of climbing, but his mother hated when he got dirt on his tunic. And if he fell—

“Come on,” Rhaella urged, patting the space beside her. “No one’s watching. And I promise I won’t tell on you!”

That, more than anything, made up his mind.

With careful movements, Aemond gripped the bark and climbed. He settled beside her, boots scraping against the wood.

The Keep looked different from here. Smaller. The sea stretched beyond the walls, glittering under the late afternoon sun, and for the first time, Aemond felt… free.

“I told you,” Rhaella said smugly, nudging his shoulder.

He just hummed, pretending he wasn’t impressed.

For a moment, they just sat there, quiet and happy, watching the leaves dance as the wind passed through. Sunlight slipped between the branches and made little patches of gold on the ground.

Then, Rhaella spoke.

“Aemond?”

“Hm?”

She swung her legs, thoughtful. “Do you think we’ll always be like this?”

Aemond glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know…” She gestured vaguely. “Friends. Us, Jace, Luke, Baela… all of us.”

Aemond frowned. He didn’t know why, but the question unsettled him.

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rhaella turned to him, smiling. “Swear it?”

He blinked. “Swear it?”

She held out her pinky.

Aemond wrinkled his nose. “That’s childish.”

Rhaella gasped in mock offense. “It is not. It’s a sacred oath, my prince.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically. “Once sworn, it cannot be broken.”

Aemond rolled his eyes but relented, linking his pinky with hers.

“Fine,” he said. “I swear it.”

“No matter what happens?”

Aemond hesitated. Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist.

But still, he nodded. “No matter what.”

Rhaella grinned. “Then I swear it too.”

The wind rustled the leaves, carrying their whispered promise into the sky.

And in that golden hour, perched in the heart of the Godswood, they were only children.

They did not know that promises made in innocence were the hardest to keep.

Chapter Text

(1st Day of the Dragontide Moon, 124 AC - Early Morning)

Morning broke over King’s Landing in a golden haze, spilling through the high windows of the Red Keep. The castle stirred to life with the rustling of servants, the clatter of armor, and the distant tolling of bells from the Sept.

And somewhere in its winding halls—

“PRINCE AEGON, COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!”

A laugh echoed down the corridor, light and completely unrepentant.

Aegon Targaryen was running for his life.

Not from assassins or knights, nor from the looming weight of his princely duties, but from something far worse—

His Septa.

Clutching a stolen bottle of Dornish wine to his chest, he dodged a passing steward, slid across the polished marble, and darted down a side passage. Her furious footsteps echoed behind him, skirts hissing like a snake in pursuit.

“Your mother will hear of this!”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Aegon called back, grinning—

And promptly crashed into Jacaerys Velaryon.

“Oof—”

They both went down in a tangle of limbs. The wine bottle rolled away, miraculously unbroken.

“What in the seven hells, Aegon?!” Jace groaned from the floor.

“Watch your language, nephew,” Aegon wheezed, rubbing his ribs. “By the gods, you’re built like an ox—”

A shadow loomed over them.

Septa Marlow.

Her expression was pure judgment, her presence like the Mother’s own wrath. “Prince Aegon.”

Aegon winced. “Ah. Hello, dearest Septa. Fancy seeing you here.”

Jace wisely scooted away, unwilling to be collateral damage.

“You will report to your lessons—”

But Aegon was already scrambling up, bottle tucked under his arm. “Of course, of course. Right after breakfast. I would never skip a meal.”

And before she could answer, he bolted again—turning the corner and disappearing down the hall, laughter echoing behind him.

--

In the eastern wing of the Keep, chaos had already begun.

“BAELA, I SWEAR BY ALL SEVEN GODS, IF YOU PULL MY BRAID AGAIN—!”

Rhaella Velaryon twisted in front of the mirror, half of her long white-blonde hair still undone. Behind her, Baelagrinned like a wildcat, triumphantly dangling the stolen ribbon out of reach.

Helaena Targaryen sat serenely by the window, humming to herself as she pinned delicate flower petals onto a bit of ribbon—an unfinished crown in her lap. A beetle scurried across her sleeve, unnoticed.

Rhaena Velaryon was curled up on the rug beside her, flipping lazily through a book about dragon lore, a braid half-finished on one side of her head and completely ignored on the other.

“Why are you even braiding it?” Baela asked, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “You’re going to ruin it in the yard anyway.”

“Because I am a lady ,” Rhaella said primly—then promptly launched a pillow at her cousin’s face.

Baela caught it mid-air. “You’re a Velaryon. We’re born messy.”

“Tell that to Mother,” Rhaella muttered, slipping on her boots.

Rhaena looked up. “Technically, she’s the least messy of all of us.”

Helaena nodded in agreement, dreamily. “Like moonlight on still water.”

Baela blinked. “What?”

“Never mind,” Helaena said with a secret little smile, tying off the finished flower crown. “We should go. I want to give these before breakfast.”

--

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Keep—

“LUKE—give that back!”

Jace tore barefoot down the corridor after his younger brother, both half-dressed and laughing. Lucerys darted ahead, waving Jace’s belt like a victory banner.

“I’m just helping you loosen up for the day!” Luke called.

“You’ll be loosened when I throw you off the balcony!”

They turned a corner—and nearly slammed into someone much less amused.

Aemond Targaryen, arms crossed, leaned against the wall like he’d been waiting for them to crash into him.

Jace skidded to a stop. “Oh. Morning.”

Luke, unfazed, tossed the belt over Aemond’s head. “Catch.”

Aemond did. Effortlessly. Then he held it out to Jace without a word.

Jace took it, brushing hair from his face. “Thanks.”

“Children,” Aemond muttered under his breath, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward—barely.

Luke smirked. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“Which is basically affection, coming from you,” Jace said, grinning.

Aemond rolled his eye but fell into step beside them as they headed toward the great hall.

--

The scent of fresh bread, fried eggs, and honey filled the air as they filed into the great hall—still in various states of rumpled hair, half-buttoned tunics, and chaotic energy.

Aegon was already there, barefoot and smug, reclined with one foot on the bench and a half-eaten peach in hand. The bottle of Dornish wine sat beside his cup like a beloved pet.

“You’re disgusting,” Baela said flatly, dropping into the seat across from him.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Aegon drawled. “Have I told you how radiant you look when you’re judging me?”

“You’ve told everyone. Twice.”

Rhaella, already munching on a slice of toasted bread, leaned toward Helaena, whispering something that made her giggle softly behind her hand.

Helaena stirred her tea with absentminded grace, her eyes slightly unfocused. “There was a dream… someone lost a shoe and found a kingdom.” She blinked, thoughtful. “Or maybe it was a lizard.”

Rhaena slid into the seat beside her, eyebrows raised. “Please tell me it’s not the same dream where the lizard runs a bakery again.”

“It’s not,” Helaena said serenely. “He runs a tailor’s shop now.”

Jace dropped into his seat next to Baela with a groan. “I forgot to finish my history scroll. If Lord Beesbury calls on me again, I swear I’ll fake a nosebleed.”

“You’d have to have a nosebleed first,” Luke piped up through a mouthful of honey roll. “Want me to punch you? Happy to help.”

“You’re a menace.”

Aemond sat down with a quiet thud, plate already full, cutting into a fried egg with surgical precision. “You should’ve finished it last night.”

“I was distracted! ”

“Oh yes,” Aemond said dryly. “Very compelling game of ‘chase my belt around the hallway.’”

Luke grinned unrepentantly. “It was a strategic distraction.”

Baela leaned back, arms crossed. “I’d rather spar again than sit through Ser Criston’s lecture today. Last time he made me write ‘a true knight is obedient’ a hundred times.”

Aegon snorted into his cup. “Ser Crispy needs a new hobby.”

“Ser Crispy!” Luke howled. “I’m calling him that forever now.”

“He’ll hate it,” Rhaena muttered, flipping through a folded lesson parchment, “which means we absolutely must.”

“I already handed in my scroll,” Helaena said dreamily. “It was about the migration of the silver-winged bees of Essos. They only sting if you insult their mothers.”

Everyone stared at her for a beat.

Rhaella smiled brightly. “Honestly, same.”

They all burst out laughing—the kind of laughter that comes easy when you still believe you have all the time in the world.

The clink of silverware and overlapping chatter filled the room. Jace and Baela bickered over the last peach slice. Aemond ignored them, but subtly slid his to Rhaella’s plate when she wasn’t looking. Luke dropped crumbs into Aegon’s cup when he turned away, and Helaena watched it all with quiet, delighted fascination.

And for a moment—as plates emptied and sunlight spilled across the floor—it felt like this was how things would always be.

Chapter Text

The Lesson

(5th Day of the Dragontide Moon, 124 AC - Late Morning)

The classroom in the Red Keep wasn’t a true schoolhouse like the ones in Oldtown or Gulltown.
It was a long, sunlit chamber, hung with faded tapestries and lined with wooden desks too small for dragonrider heirs who were all growing faster than anyone could keep up with.

It smelled of parchment, dust, and Maester Othmar’s faint anxiety.

Rhaella Velaryon sat primly at her desk, quill in hand, doing her best to focus.

She really was.
But it was difficult when Baela was tapping her boot impatiently against the stone floor, Luke was whispering something that made Jace stifle a laugh, and Aegon—slouched dramatically in his chair like a man awaiting execution—kept tossing his quill into the air and catching it with exaggerated flair.

Across the room, Aemond sat rigid and still, already halfway through his High Valyrian grammar exercise.

Of course he was.

“Translate the phrase on the board,” Maester Othmar instructed wearily, scratching his thinning hair.
He waved a hand at the blackboard where an elegant script had been chalked in High Valyrian:

                        "Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēda valyrī."

Rhaella bit her lip, wracking her brain.
Something about night... and blood...?

Baela leaned over and whispered fiercely, “It’s something about fighting. Bet you a lemon cake.”

Jace snorted. "Bet you’re wrong."

Luke, grinning, shrugged helplessly.
Even Helaena blinked dreamily, distracted by a spider crawling along her desk.

Aemond frowned deeply, quill tapping once against his desk, clearly irritated it’s taking him a while translating it.

The room buzzed with tension.

And then—
without lifting his head from where he was practically draped over his desk—
Aegon muttered, voice scratchy and half-asleep:

"The night is dark and full of terrors."

Silence.

Every head turned to stare at him.

Even the Maester looked up, genuinely startled.
“A correct translation, Prince Aegon.”

Aegon cracked one eye open lazily, smirking.
“What? I listen sometimes.”

Baela threw a crumpled scrap of parchment at him.
Luke gaped like Aegon had sprouted wings.
Jace just looked personally offended.

Rhaella fought down a giggle, hiding her smile behind her hand.

Even Aemond looked vaguely like he’d been slapped with a fish.

--

Class dragged on from there.

Rhaena dozed quietly in her seat.
Helaena filled the margins of her scroll with dreamy sketches of bees wearing crowns.
Baela challenged Jace to see who could finish the next writing exercise first (and won, barely).
Luke spent five whole minutes balancing his quill on his nose.

And Aegon, impossibly, finished his translation worksheet before anyone else—then promptly tore a strip of parchment off and fashioned it into a tiny, terrible dragon. He made it “fly” over Rhaella’s desk until she batted it away with a sigh.

Meanwhile, Aemond scribbled furiously in a perfect, pristine hand, casting judgmental glances at all of them.

"Prince Aemond," Maester Othmar called, peering over his spectacles, "perhaps you would care to explain the significance of the Doom of Valyria in shaping House Targaryen’s destiny?"

Aemond straightened at once, reciting mechanically:

"The Doom shattered Valyria’s empire of dragons and freed the Targaryens from its rule, allowing them to eventually conquer Westeros and establish their own dynasty."

"Very good," the Maester said approvingly.

"Gods, could he sound any more bored ?" Baela muttered under her breath.

Jace snickered.

Rhaella pressed her lips together, fighting another smile.
She loved them—these ridiculous, loud, brilliant creatures she was lucky enough to grow up alongside.
Even when they made studying impossible.

Maybe especially then.

--

The moment the Maester dismissed them, the classroom exploded into motion.

Chairs scraped. Scrolls flew. Quills vanished into sleeves and boots.
Baela launched herself from her desk like it was a starting line, practically dragging Rhaena with her.

“I swear to the Seven, I’m going to tie your shoelaces together in your sleep!” Jace called after her, scroll tucked under one arm.

“You’ll have to catch me first, princeling!” Baela shouted over her shoulder.

Rhaena groaned, “Must you start this again ?”

Behind them, Luke attempted to stuff three ink-stained pages into his satchel at once, nearly dropping them all. “Wait—WAIT—I wasn’t done drawing the dragon eating Ser Crispy—!”

“You’ve drawn five of those,” Rhaella pointed out.

“This one has a lemon cake in its mouth,” he said proudly.

“Ah,” she said, as if that explained everything. (It kind of did.)

Aemond walked past them all without a word, scrolls stacked perfectly under his arm, posture annoyingly perfect.

“Trying to pretend he doesn’t know us again,” Jace muttered.

“It's alright,” Rhaella whispered to Helaena, who had paused in the middle of the hallway to gently scoop up a pale green lizard clinging to the wall. “He’ll un-pout eventually.”

“I think this one’s name is Almond,” Helaena said dreamily.

“Because he’s small and bitter?” Rhaella asked.

Helaena smiled. “Because he’s going to grow wings.”

From further down the hall, Aegon could be seen trying to slip away unnoticed, his stolen ink pot tucked into one sleeve.

“Oi!” Baela yelled. “You still owe Luke two lemon cakes from yesterday!”

Aegon didn’t even turn around. “I’ve never even seen a lemon cake in my life!”

“You’re covered in crumbs!” Luke yelled back.

“Coincidence!”

They spilled into the main corridor like a small, very loud army of chaos.

The castle staff had learned to part like the seas when the young dragonriders were released from lessons.

At some point, Baela challenged Jace to a footrace to the stables—again.
Rhaena muttered “here we go,” like a prayer.
Luke tried to keep up with both of them and immediately tripped on his own scabbard.
Aemond rolled his eye so hard Rhaella could practically hear it.

Helaena stopped to tell a passing maid that the shadows in the east wing were singing again. The maid nodded politely and walked faster.

Rhaella lingered near the classroom door, scroll hugged to her chest, her gaze drifting briefly toward Aemond as he paused halfway down the hall.

He looked like he might say something.

But then he didn’t.

And Rhaella didn’t wait.

She smiled, tucked her scroll under her arm, and ran to catch up with the others.

--

"The Stables, the Sunlight, the Silly and the Soft"
(124 AC — Early Afternoon)

If the classroom was for sharpening minds, the stables were for softening hearts.

The warm scent of hay and leather filled the air, mingling with sunbaked stone and the faint tang of dragons far above in the sky. The stables sat tucked in a lower courtyard where the grass still clung to patches of green, wildflowers growing in stubborn defiance between flagstones.

And here—this little, quiet space between responsibility and chaos—the children of the crown bloomed.

Baela and Jace were already mid-argument.

“It’s not cheating if the horse’s faster,” Baela declared, adjusting the saddle on Stormhoof, her dapple-gray mare who was pawing the ground in anticipation.

“You nudged me into the trough last time!”

“You fell into the trough.”

Jace muttered something unprintable and tightened the strap on Windcleaver, his glossy brown gelding who looked like he thrived on competition (and petty revenge).

Luke was busy feeding sugar cubes to his short-legged pony, Nugget, who was arguably more interested in grass than speed. “You don’t have to race,” Luke whispered sweetly. “You just have to be brave.”

Nugget snorted and sat down. Completely.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

Rhaella stood nearby with her horse, Moonpetal, a cream-colored mare with soft eyes and a mane like silk. She ran her fingers gently down her neck, humming a song she wasn’t sure she remembered the words to.

A book was tucked under her arm. She wasn’t racing today. Not because she didn’t want to—but because watching was enough. Documenting it in her mind. Writing it in invisible ink on the walls of her heart.

Moonpetal leaned into her side, nuzzling her. She smiled, kissed her velvety cheek, and whispered, “You’re my favorite chapter.”

Helaena was weaving something.

“Hold still, Thistledew,” she murmured to her flaxen palfrey. The mare stood perfectly still as Helaena, radiant with focus, placed the flower crown she’d been working on since breakfast gently between her ears.

“There,” she said. “All queens deserve a crown.”

Then she gave the horse a daisy and tucked a second flower behind her own ear.

Aemond brushed down Nēdenka , his sleek black mare, with slow, precise strokes. His eye scanned the courtyard—not to join, but to observe.
The way Jace glanced at Baela when she wasn’t looking.
The way Rhaella tucked her hair behind her ear as she read.
The way Aegon—

“DON’T EAT THE SADDLE!”

—struggled.

Aegon had named his mare Sunfyre II .
She was patient. Beautiful. Tired of his nonsense.
She chewed slowly on the saddle strap as Aegon tried (and failed) to braid her tail with a piece of red ribbon.

“You’re supposed to gallop,” he muttered. “Not gossip.”

Sunfyre II let out a long, judgmental breath.

Rhaella called over, “Maybe if you fed her, she’d stop trying to eat your equipment.”

Aegon gasped. “She’s on a carb cleanse.”

--

Baela and Jace mounted their horses in synchronized chaos.

“Race to the outer courtyard and back?” Baela grinned.

“You mean the outer courtyard where you definitely didn’t throw an apple core at me last week?”

“Oops.”

Rhaena called out from where she was braiding her horse’s mane. “No injuries before supper, please!”

And then they were off.

Stormhoof and Windcleaver charged through the gates, hooves pounding against stone, laughter echoing behind them.

Luke gave Nugget a pep talk. Helaena taught Thistledew to “curtsy.” Aegon fell asleep with his head on a hay bale. Aemond watched the racing pair disappear down the road with something unreadable in his expression.

And Rhaella?
She turned a page.
Moonpetal leaned into her shoulder.
And the sunlight held.

--

"Afternoon in the Garden"
(124 AC — Midafternoon)

The Red Keep’s garden sat cradled between towers, a quiet patch of green and gold hidden behind ivy-covered stone. The sun spilled dappled light through climbing roses and ancient trees, where the younger royals had spread out in varying degrees of comfort and chaos.

Cushions and low tables had been arranged in the soft grass. There were sliced pears, little honey cakes, figs wrapped in sweet ham, and pitchers of cool lemon water and tea steeped with mint. The scent of it all blended with the wildflowers and old stone and something that felt like home.

Helaena lay on her stomach on a blanket, murmuring softly to a pale green beetle as it crawled along her fingers. "You shall be Sir Cheddar. Knight of the Garden Realm."

Across from her, Luke leaned back on one elbow, nibbling the edge of a honey cake. "Sir Cheddar? What happened to Baron Wiggles?"

"He retired."

Not far from them, Rhaella sat cross-legged, sketchpad resting on her knees. Her charcoal-stained fingers moved quickly, eyes darting between the page and the scene in front of her.

Luke, curious, scooted closer and peeked over her shoulder. "Is that supposed to be Aegon? His nose isn’t that pointy."

Rhaella snorted. "That is not Aegon. That is a lemon cake."

Luke blinked. "Oh. Well. It’s very majestic."

"Thank you," she said solemnly.

Aemond sat nearby, not quite in the group but not far from it either, his back against a tree with a scroll spread across his lap. He was reviewing an assignment—or pretending to. His quill tapped once, twice, then stilled.

He looked up and watched them for a moment.

"You should shade the background more," he said suddenly, not looking directly at Rhaella.

Rhaella paused, turning slightly toward him. "I was going to."

"It’ll make the lemon cake pop."

Luke gave an exaggerated gasp. "A compliment? From Prince Broody?"

Aemond didn’t respond. Just returned to his scroll, but a flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Aegon, sprawled across two cushions like a melting statue, threw a grape into the air and caught it with his mouth. "You’re all doing too much. This is break time."

"You haven’t done anything all day," Jace pointed out, rolling a peach in one hand.

"Exactly. I’m consistent."

Baela flopped down beside him, stealing a piece of fruit from his plate. "Consistent, at least. You never fail to make lounging an art form."

Rhaena quietly poured herself another cup of tea and offered Helaena a sugared fig, which she accepted with a small smile.

Birdsong floated overhead. The wind shifted. Somewhere distant, a dragon roared—but here in the garden, the only things that mattered were warmth, laughter, and the comfort of old friendships.

And in the middle of it all, Rhaella pressed her pencil to the page again, adding the finishing touch to the crown atop Sir Cheddar’s tiny, noble head.

Chapter Text

(5th Day of the Dragontide Moon, 124 AC — Late Afternoon)

The library of the Red Keep stretched tall and endless, a labyrinth of warm oak shelves and velvet shadows, lit now by the soft, slanting rays of the setting sun. Dust motes danced in the light like tiny spirits, and the air smelled of parchment, candle wax, and something ancient and reassuring.

It was the kind of place where the world outside didn’t exist. Only this, this perfect warmth wrapped around them like an old, beloved cloak.

The young royals spilled into the space with the familiar casualness of children who had claimed a fortress for their own. Cushions were dragged into haphazard piles. Scrolls and tomes were tossed onto low tables. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn halfway aside, allowing golden light to flood in and drench the room in molten warmth. The various Maesters gave up with long-suffering sighs, realizing that in the company of the young princes and princesses, silence was a battle already lost.

Rhaella settled cross-legged atop a cushioned bench by one of the tall windows, a book resting open on her lap. The sunlight turned her white-blonde hair nearly translucent, a living flame of silver and gold. She absentmindedly twirled a quill between her fingers, her mind half in the essay about Targaryen lineage, half in the stories and sketches that lived in the margins of her mind.

Luke was curled up on the rug nearby, a scroll spread out before him that he was decidedly not reading. He was more focused on folding a piece of parchment into what might've been a dragon. Or a particularly ambitious lemon cake.

"Is that meant to be Nugget?" Jace asked, dropping beside him with a lazy grin.

Luke glanced up, wide-eyed. "What? No! This is a... war dragon."

Jace raised a brow. "With icing?"

Luke beamed. "Battle frosting."

Baela perched on a chair backward, arms folded over the backrest, her boot tapping an idle rhythm against the floor. A stack of neatly ordered books flanked her, and she wrote steadily in a leather-bound journal, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Helaena sat cross-legged on another cushion, a pile of old herbology books beside her. She hummed softly as she copied one of the plants onto the corners of her essay. Tiny drawings of beetles and grasshoppers filled the margins of her parchment, each one with a little crown atop its head.

"Now Sir Cheddar has a little kingdom to defend," she whispered to herself, carefully sketching a tiny fortress beside a daisy.

Aegon slouched into an oversized armchair, a brightly illustrated book tucked against his chest—some old collection of bawdy fables and funny drawings half-heartedly hidden beneath a history tome. He flipped a page and snickered to himself.

"Studying the important histories, I see," Rhaena said dryly, sliding into a seat with a thin poetry book clasped to her chest.

"Very," Aegon said with mock solemnity. "Did you know there was once a knight who jousted using only his backside?"

"Scandal!" Jace gasped, flinging a hand over his heart.

"Debauchery, in the presence of ladies! Have you no decency, Your Worshipfulness?"

Baela, caught mid-laugh, snorted so hard she sent her inkwell flying, a black comet streaking across her once-pristine journal.

There was a heartbeat of frozen horror before a chorus of laughter erupted.

Baela leveled a mock-glare at the two princelings. Aegon and Jace raised their arms in perfect synchronization, guilty smiles barely contained.

"We are but humble victims of circumstance," Jace declared solemnly.

Baela lobbed a cushion at his head, which he caught clumsily, grinning.

Nearby, Rhaena, who had been quietly giggling into her sleeve, slid over with a scrap of parchment and gently began blotting the ink spill before it could ruin more of Baela's journal.

"Traitor," Baela said, but the affection in her voice betrayed her.

Rhaena smiled sheepishly, shrugging. "It was a noble cause."

The group dissolved into soft laughter once more, the golden light catching on their faces and turning the whole room into a painting.

Aemond had claimed a small desk tucked nearer to Rhaella's window nook. He pulled out a neat stack of scrolls, his quill scratching steadily across parchment. But every now and then, his gaze would lift, almost unconsciously, drawn to where Rhaella daydreamed while absentmindedly twirling one of her braids. The ink on the tip of her quill dried and forgotten.

At one point, Rhaella noticed the faint grimace Aemond made when his quill blotted messily. Without a word, she reached into her satchel, pulled out a spare, and slid it across the desk toward him. He accepted it with a slight nod, already dipping it into the ink and continuing his work. No thanks were spoken. None were needed.

They sat in silent companionship and familiarity, two steady points in the lazy golden light.

The warm hush of the library wrapped around them like a cocoon. Outside, the sun dipped lower, setting the window panes ablaze with gold and rose hues. Shadows grew long, but no one hurried. There was no lesson to rush to, no summons from the court. Just this—an unexpected, perfect sliver of peace.

Time slowed. The sun lowered. The soft sounds of quills scratching, scrolls sliding to the floor, books forgotten in favor of soft bickering, quiet giggles, and Luke's whispered triumphs over particularly tricky folds filled the air.

And somewhere amidst the chatter and the rustling of pages, Rhaella thought: If I could freeze a moment forever... it might be this one.

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(6th Day of the Dragontide Moon, 124 AC - Before Supper)

Mother used to call me her second sunrise.
Father simply laughed and said I arrived when no one was looking for a storm—and found one anyway.

I was born when my parents thought their days of cradling children were long behind them.
Days when my brother, Laenor, already stood tall at court, all sharp smiles and swordsmanship,
and my sister, Laena, had begun dreaming of dragons so vast they could kiss the very clouds.

I was the afterthought, the afterglow.
The youngest daughter of House Velaryon, forged from salt and sea and stubbornness—
a child born into a world already spinning too fast.

And in those golden days, when laughter still filled the halls and the shadows of the crown had not yet swallowed us whole,
I believed there was no safer place in the world than among them.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I thought I could still hear Laena laughing—
the clatter of her boots down the halls,
the way she would swoop down and kiss the crown of my head before racing off to the Dragonpit.
She had smelled of salt air and dragonfire, of adventures that I was always just a little too young to join.

Laenor had been different—steadier, softer around the edges where Laena blazed.
He once hoisted me onto his shoulders during a feast, laughing as I clutched his hair like reins, daring me to command him like a dragon.
"Fly, Laenor!" I had squealed, and he had obeyed, galloping wildly around the great hall to the scandalized gasps of the court.

Now they were both gone.
Laena laid to rest beneath the earth and stars she had loved so fiercely.
Laenor... lost to the sea, they said.
The world had moved on, as it always did.
And I had stayed behind, gathering memories like shells along a receding shore.

Mother had been quieter since.
Her smiles, when they came, were brittle things, precious and breakable.
Father had thrown himself into voyages, chasing winds and trade routes like he could outrun his grief.

They had sent me here—to the Red Keep—not out of cruelty, but necessity.
A ward of the crown, a daughter of the Driftmark tides placed among stone and flame.

It wasn’t always easy to remember I was a guest here, not truly a daughter of the Keep.
A ward tucked neatly between alliances and expectations, the blood of Velaryon and Targaryen running hot in my veins.

But somewhere between High Valyrian lessons and sunlit gardens, between borrowed cloaks and stolen pastries,
the castle had become a second skin.

I had lived here long enough to see Aemond claim Vhagar.
Long enough to see pride light his face like a second sunrise—
and long enough to see the price he paid for it.
Long enough to hear the songs they sang about it—
and the whispered truths they left unsung.

Not every story told in the Red Keep was true.
And not every scar could be stitched with words.

I had watched Baela grow sharp and brilliant,
a flame that would not dim, even in a hall full of men who tried to tame it.
She sparred with boys twice her size and laughed when they cried foul.
She reminded me of Laena—but fiercer, louder, more relentless in her joy.

Rhaena bloomed more slowly, like something sacred and quiet.
She braided kindness into everything she touched,
and I knew she still spoke to her dragon’s egg as though it could hear her dreams.
I often wondered if it could.

Jacaerys had the posture of a prince, the charm of a bard,
and a boy’s ache to do right by everyone.
Sometimes he held his shoulders too straight—
like he believed if he looked noble enough, no one would question his name.

Lucerys was softer, gentler.
He had the heart of someone not built for war,
but born into a story that would ask it of him anyway.
He smiled at horses and cried when he thought no one was looking.

Helaena lived in another world entirely.
One of wings and webs and whispered prophecy.
She would hum lullabies no one else knew the words to,
and speak truths no one listened to—
until it was too late.

Aegon…
Aegon was chaos wrapped in silk,
a storm pretending to be a prince.
But sometimes, when he thought no one saw,
he would go quiet—like he, too, was waiting for the world to make sense.

Daeron was still in Oldtown.
The youngest of them all, and yet somehow forgotten most often.
I had only met him twice—polite, sweet, watchful.
Sometimes I wondered if he felt like I did.
Like the world had already decided what he should be before he even arrived to answer.

And me?

I stayed in the in-between.
A ward. A guest. A girl made of salt and sea and silence.
Watching them all, loving them all,
wondering if I was part of the story—
or just the footnote at the bottom of someone else’s page.

The water in the basin was still warm when I dipped my hands into it, splashing my face and smoothing back the wisps of silver hair curling at my temples.

"You're going to be late," Baela said from the doorway, already dressed in a dark blue tunic cinched at the waist.
"And the kitchen boys said they're roasting honeyed pheasant tonight."

"Gods forbid we miss the food," I teased, wiping my face on a soft cloth.

Rhaena poked her head in behind Baela, her hair still damp from her bath.
"You spent too long daydreaming again, didn't you?"

"Maybe," I said, unrepentant. "Maybe not."

Their laughter warmed the little chamber—my room, tucked between theirs in the eastern wing reserved for royal wards and noble daughters.
It had long since become our unofficial meeting place: Baela’s energy filling the corners, Rhaena’s steadiness grounding it, and my own daydreams floating somewhere in between.

"Come on," Baela said, grabbing my wrist. "Before Aegon eats everything."

We spilled out into the corridor, our slippers whispering over the stones, and just as we rounded the first corner—

"Oi! Slowpokes!"

Luke and Jace materialized from a side hall, half-dressed and already laughing, Luke juggling what looked suspiciously like stolen candied nuts in his hands.

"Late again," Jace announced with mock solemnity, offering a crooked arm to Baela, who accepted it with an exaggerated curtsy.

"Late? Us? Never," Baela said sweetly.

"You just didn't want to walk down alone with Aegon," Rhaena teased.

As if summoned by his name, Aegon sauntered into view, hair a little mussed, tunic slightly askew, a bottle of cider swinging casually from his hand.

"Charming," I said dryly.

He winked. "You're welcome."

Helaena drifted up last, seemingly from nowhere, cradling a large beetle carefully cupped in her hands.

"I found Sir Cheddar a friend," she said cheerfully, showing it to us without warning.

Luke yelped.
Baela laughed.
Jace made gagging noises.

I grinned and linked arms with her.
"Come along, little starling. Supper awaits."

The Feasting Hall was already half-filled when we arrived, the long tables gleaming under hundreds of suspended candles.

The adults sat clustered around the High Table—
King Viserys at the center, looking thinner than I remembered, flanked by Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra.
Prince Daemon lounged beside Rhaenyra, a glint of mischief and mirth never far from his half-smirk.
Father and mother sat nearby, father's proud shoulders set like a shield between the Driftmark banner and the rest of the court.
Otto Hightower whispered something sharp in the Queen's ear, his expression as cold and closed as a locked gate.

There was a space set apart for us, the "younger generation"—
a lower table overflowing with platters of roasted meats, fresh fruit, warm bread, and honeyed tarts.

We tumbled into our seats, laughing and jostling, the rich smell of supper already working its magic.

From my place at the end of the table, I could see everything—
the adults' polite smiles, the veiled glances, the quiet tension coiled under every movement.

If I squinted, I could almost imagine the court as it had been when I first arrived—
all bright banners and summer feasts.

But things were changing.
I could feel it in the way Queen Alicent kept glancing at Princess Rhaenyra without truly meeting her eyes.
In the tightness of father’s jaw.
In the way the King's hand trembled when he lifted his goblet.

Aemond caught my gaze across the table.

Not a word passed between us.

But in his single eye, I read the same thing that stirred uneasily in my chest:

The golden hour never lasts forever.

And in the distance—

beyond the candles, beyond the laughter—

I thought I could almost hear the sound of something beginning to break.

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(6th Day of the Dragontide Moon, 124 AC - Evening Supper)

✧ ✧ ✧

The air smelled of honey and roasting pheasant, of spiced wine and warm bread. Candles floated high above us, their golden light flickering like captured stars, catching in the polished floors and brightening the edges of our laughter.

We were tucked at our usual spot—a long, lower table nestled just beyond the hearth’s glow, a little out of place and yet entirely our own. There were no titles here, no politics. Just stolen pastries, toppled goblets, and the kind of noise only a table of too-many noble children can make.

Aegon had claimed the head of the table, a honey cake in each hand and one stuffed in his mouth.

"You’ll explode," Baela warned, reaching for a slice of blood orange.

"A noble end," he said through a mouthful, spraying crumbs onto Jace, who yelped in horror.

Luke, ever the chaos goblin, snatched a sugared fig and tossed it at Baela, who caught it without blinking.

"Impressive," Jace said.

"I was trained by the best," she said, flicking the fig right back at him.

The table was bursting with food—roasted meats in sweet glazes, wheels of cheese of various size and colour, freshly baked breads with different grains, excellently boiled potatoes, seasonal fruit pies, and candied chestnuts stacked like treasure. Every scent was a promise, every bite a celebration.

Helaena, meanwhile, had repurposed her bread rolls into a tiny fort.

"I present to you," I declared, raising my goblet in mock salute, "Her Majesty Helaena the Beetlehearted, Sovereign of the Breadroll Realm."

Baela bowed low. "Long may she reign."

"Do we kneel or offer tribute?" Luke asked solemnly.

"Crumbs," Helaena said, placing a flower petal atop her fortress. "And silence during bug court."

Jace tried very hard not to laugh. Aegon didn’t bother.

"Did you all hear what happened during drills this morning?" Baela asked.

"Does it involve you maiming someone again?" Jace asked.

"Ser Crispy challenged me to a rematch."

"Why do you call him that again?"

"Because every time he loses, his pride gets scorched," she said sweetly.

Rhaena giggled. "Did you win?"

"Naturally."

We clinked goblets. Even Aegon raised his cup, solemnly declaring, "To scorched egos and brave girls with fast feet."

Luke launched into a story about chasing a goose through the courtyard. It had, according to him, glowing eyes and talons like a wyvern. The rest of us had questions.

"It was guarding the kitchens," he insisted. "Very territorial."

"Sounds like the actual cook," Baela muttered.

"Maybe it was a cursed goose," Rhaena offered thoughtfully. "Sent by the gods to punish food thieves."

"Then Aegon’s doomed," I said.

Aemond, without looking up from his plate, added, "If a goose curses him, at least it has taste."

Aegon raised his goblet. "I only attract the finest poultry."

Aegon leaned back, tipping his chair dangerously. "You know what we should do? Steal the lemon cakes."

"We have lemon cakes," I said.

"No, the lemon cakes. The good ones they hide for mother."

"And how do you suggest we do that?"

He steepled his fingers. "Distraction. Rhaella and Jace argue about pastry politics. Luke faints from dramatic heartbreak. I sneak in and liberate the desserts."

"I am not fainting," Luke protested.

"You’re the smallest," Aegon reasoned. "Most believable."

"I hate that that makes sense," Rhaena whispered.

Baela looked at me. "You could summon your inner storm. I’ve seen it."

I gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But I want extra lemon cake."

"Done."

Aemond, finally looking up from his plate, said dryly, "Or we could just throw Luke at the guards and run."

"Hey!" Luke squawked.

"What? It worked last time," Aemond added, expression utterly deadpan.

Someone—probably Jace—started a toast about dragonriders and charred bread. It devolved into everyone shouting made-up house mottos.

"House Breadroll: Never Crumble!"

"House Goose: Honk and Conquer!"

"House Beetle: Bug or Be Bugged," Helaena added, entirely serious.

We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

I leaned back for a moment, watching them all — Baela waving a mustard-stained napkin like a banner, Rhaena quietly sneaking more almonds to her plate, Jace and Luke in another arm-wrestling match, Helaena whispering to her beetle kingdom, Aegon holding court with crumbs on his tunic, and Aemond... watching it all with that unreadable calm.

I wanted to remember this. All of it.

And for once, nothing else mattered. Not the court, not the crown, not the stories that came before or the ones waiting after.

Just us.

Just supper.

"Sir Ryecrumb demands tribute," Helaena said suddenly, offering me a bread crust with regal grace.

I accepted it with a grin. "Tell him he has my sword."

"And my spoon," Aemond added, deadpan.

"And my dragon!" Luke chimed in, puffing out his chest.

We burst into laughter again.

Somewhere between Baela daring Jace to juggle candied pears and Aegon trying to convince Rhaena that the Septa once trained as a spy, I remained seated beside Aemond—where I had always sat, ever since we were children. We weren’t quite apart from the group, but there was a pocket of quiet between us—an unspoken agreement, old as habit and just as comforting.

"You haven’t said much," I said softly, nudging him with my elbow.

He glanced at me, one corner of his mouth twitching. "I’ve been savoring the circus."

I smiled. "Favorite act so far?"

"Luke’s duel with the mustard. It was brief, but heroic."

I let out a soft laugh. "I’ll let him know you were moved."

He looked at his goblet for a moment. "It’s... nice. This. All of it."

"You say that like you're surprised."

"I am," he admitted. "But mostly because I didn’t think I’d enjoy sitting this close to Aegon wielding a spoon like a sword."

I snorted into my cup. "He’s developing a technique."

Aemond leaned in slightly, voice quieter. "Don’t tell him this, but if he challenges Ser Crist- Ser Crispy to a spoon duel, I’ll put money on him."

"Noted," I whispered back, grinning.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. We just listened—to the laughter, the clatter of forks, the creak of the long wooden table under a dozen young lives trying to forget the weight of their names.

And for once, it felt like we were just... us.

Aemond sipped his wine, then added under his breath, "If Aegon wins the spoon duel, I’m petitioning the crown to knight the utensil."

I nearly choked on mine. "Ser Spoon of House Utensil."

"Bend the knee," he said solemnly, "or risk being stirred."

✧ ✧ ✧

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(3rd Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC - Before Dawn)

✧ ✧ ✧

The godswood was quiet in the hour before dawn.

I had woken from a nightmare—ashes falling like snow, screaming in the distance, my hands pressed against warm bronze scales. A roar echoed behind me, distant yet deafening, ancient and full of sorrow.

When sleep refused to return, I did what I had always done: I sought the godswood.

The Red Keep slumbered, wrapped in stone and silence. I slipped through its corridors like breath through a keyhole, treading familiar paths etched into my childhood. I passed unseen, as I always had—beneath the eyes of sleeping statues and over marble worn soft by time.

The scent of dew and damp earth greeted me like an old friend. Grass replaced stone beneath my feet, and the leaves of the weirwood rustled faintly in the hush. Silver glimmered in the gloom ahead.

He was already there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice quiet and without judgment.

The grass was damp as I knelt, smoothing my cloak beneath me before lowering myself onto the cool earth. My movements were careful, reverent, as if the stillness of the godswood might shatter if I shifted too quickly. I tucked my knees to one side and adjusted my robe with slow fingers. The moss beneath us was soft, the kind that kept old memories close.

“Not tonight,” I said. “The dreams came back.”

“Dragons?”

I nodded, my voice low. “Ash, fire, the sound of wings I couldn't see. And a roar that felt like it came from inside me.”

Aemond exhaled through his nose—an acknowledgment more than a reply. “The dragons never do let us sleep.”

Moonlight touched the edge of his jaw, turning the angles of his face into something near-spectral. He didn’t meet my gaze, but there was no distance in him. Just a quiet knowing.

“They visit you too?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes it’s fire. Sometimes it’s just wind, whispering through a hall that should be empty. But it never is.”

I pulled my cloak tighter around me, drawing my knees up until I could curl my arms around them. “I used to think the godswood would keep them away.”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “But it makes the waking feel... less alone.”

We sat in silence then—not the awkward kind, but the kind worn smooth by years of practice. The kind you can rest inside.

“You’re not usually this poetic,” I teased gently.

“You’re not usually awake when I am.”

“So I’m ruining your brooding routine?”

“Not ruining,” he said, mouth twitching. “Just... adjusting. I’ll send a raven to reschedule.”

I smiled faintly. “How are you? Truly.”

He inhaled slowly. “I’m... surviving. That’s the polite answer, isn’t it?”

“Only if you want to lie.”

“Then no,” he said, his voice a thread lower. “Not always well. But tonight helps.”

I nodded, turning my gaze to the heart tree. “You always come here when the castle sleeps.”

“So do you.”

“Maybe we’re both bad at pretending everything is fine.”

“Or maybe we’re the only ones who notice when it isn’t.”

A breeze passed, cool against my skin. I didn’t pull my sleeves down.

“And you?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “How are you?”

I let the question hang in the air like morning mist.

“Sometimes I feel like a guest in my own life,” I admitted. “Given a name, a duty, a dragon... and none of them quite fit.”

He turned his head fully now, watching me.

“You don’t seem like a guest to me,” he said.

His voice wasn’t soft, nor was it sharp. It simply was—steady, grounded, certain. And for a moment, I believed him.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “That’ll be one silver for listening like a septon.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“It’s getting long.”

“So is yours.”

He smirked, just barely. “Fair.”

I studied him then, the way the wind caught the strands of his hair.

“Your hair’s gotten longer.”

He arched a brow. “Noticed, did you?”

“Hard not to. You keep tucking it behind your ear like some tragic ballad hero.”

“Careful,” he said. “You’ll wound my poetic sensibilities.”

“I thought you surrendered those when you joined the Beetle Court.”

He chuckled—soft and genuine. “Sir Cheddar is a demanding sovereign.”

A pause. Then he looked at me properly, eyes steady.

“Velaryon colors suit you.”

His voice carried no edge, only observation—quiet, unvarnished.

“Thank you,” I said, startled by the sincerity that rested between the words.

“I mean it,” he added after a beat, not looking away. “You wear them like they chose you first. Not the other way around.”

A breeze stirred the air. The scent of moss and bark filled the space between us.

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear, gaze dropping to the edge of my cloak. “Sometimes I think I was born between them. Between banners. Between houses. Like I don’t quite belong to either.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching me in that unreadable way he had. Then his gaze drifted upward, following the path of a falling leaf as it spun silently down through the branches.

“That’s where the strongest ones are forged,” he said at last. “In the in-between.”

I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.

Then, without a word, Aemond reached over and adjusted the clasp of my robe where it had slipped slightly off my shoulder—barely a touch, just enough to right it. His fingers brushed my collarbone for the briefest moment before retreating, as if he wasn’t sure if the gesture still belonged to the boy who used to tug me out of tree branches by the hem of my cloak.

We both pretended not to notice.

A moment passed. Then Aemond spoke again, quieter this time. "I apologize. I forget, sometimes... we're not children anymore."

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I simply nodded.

The godswood, for all its silence, held its breath with us.

I let my eyes fall to where our hands rested between us—his curled over his knee, mine folded tight in my lap. For a heartbeat, I imagined reaching across the space, like we might have as children. But I didn’t.

Instead, I breathed in the morning—clean, damp, just beginning to shift. The wind stirred the leaves above us, and somewhere far off, a bird called once, then went quiet.

The sky had begun to change. Not enough to call it light, not yet—but the black was turning blue around the edges.

“I should head back soon,” I whispered.

He nodded, gaze still fixed forward. “They’ll wonder where you’ve gone.”

“So will they, for you.”

“For me, they’ll assume I’m brooding somewhere.”

“Are they wrong?”

A ghost of a smile. “Not entirely.”

We stood slowly, neither of us rushing, as though movement might startle the quiet away. My cloak gathered dew as I brushed it off and glanced one last time at the heart tree, its red eyes open and unblinking.

Aemond didn’t speak again until we reached the edge of the godswood.

“Rhaella,” he said, and when I turned to him, he didn’t finish the sentence. He just held my gaze.

I offered a small smile. "I know."

And then we turned back toward the castle, the hush of dawn trailing behind our steps like a shared secret.

The godswood lingered behind us, holding the imprint of our silence like a pressed flower. I glanced once more at the heart tree. Its carved face, half-lit by the creeping edge of morning, looked less like a god and more like a witness. Red sap welled slowly beneath its eyes.

As we stepped onto the marble path, a memory surfaced—faint and flickering.

Years ago, I had scraped my knee under this same tree. I’d tried not to cry, but the sting had been sharp. Aemond, smaller then, quieter still, had offered me half a honey cake he’d smuggled from the kitchens. We hadn’t spoken a word. He’d just sat with me until the bleeding stopped.

Funny how some things don’t change.

The sun had begun to rise in earnest now, gold creeping like ink into the edges of the sky. The first bird sang again—louder this time.

“We won’t always have mornings like this,” he said suddenly.

I turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where light touched the towers of the Red Keep.

“No,” I agreed softly. “We won’t.”

But we had this one.

And for now, that was enough.

A bell tolled distantly—one of the smaller ones, marking the quarter hour before sunrise. Its soft chime floated on the breeze, barely more than a whisper, but enough to stir the moment.

I lingered.

We reached the threshold of the godswood, where stone met soil, and something in me tugged—some childlike part unwilling to step fully back into the castle’s waking world.

“I miss this,” I said, not meaning the godswood itself, but something more fragile. “Mornings that feel untouched.”

Aemond glanced sideways. "We should claim more of them. Before they’re no longer ours to claim."

That quieted me.

He offered a small nod toward the path ahead. "Come. If we're late, Baela will blame me."

“She always blames you.”

“She’s usually right.”

We walked on, silence wrapping around us once more—not heavy, not lost. Just... understood.

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(The Red Keep Sunroom - 3rd Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC - Early Afternoon)

(how i imagine the sunroom looked like, with a large plush carpet that they can be comfortable sitting on)  | source: Pinterest)

There was something sacred about the sunroom at the week’s end. 

Not sacred in the way of Septas and prayer books., but in the way of half-finished card games, soft cushions, and cake crumbs on sun-warmed carpets. It was where the children of the crown retreated when the week’s lessons were done, the wooden swords were put away, and no one had been maimed in the training yard—yet.

It smelled of citrus cakes and lemon cucumber water. One of the servants had cracked open the windows, letting in the spring breeze, which carried the cries of gulls and the distant toll of bells. Sunlight streamed through the glass panes, slanting across the tapestries and polished marble floor, catching the dust midair in golden shafts—each particle suspended like tiny stars in honeyed water, the kind you might right about in a storybook.

I was the first to arrive. Probably for the best, since this was Baela’s favorite time of the week and being late meant hearing about it for the rest of the day. 

I liked the quiet before the others arrived. The way the sun dappled the tiles, the whisper of slippers against stone, the sense of company drawing near—without the need to perform or put on masks. 

A yawn escapes my lips as I curled into the long divan beneath the east window, an old favorite book open across my my lap. My boots kicked off by the carpet, my tea sat steeping and steaming on the table beside me, untouched. The silence exhaled, waiting to be broken by laughter.

The door creaked. 

“Rhaen, I swear to the Seven her bed was empty, no note! She could have die— oh you’re here.” 

Baela’s voice cut through the stillness like a drawn sword.

“I am,” I replied, sipping my tea. “Your aunt needed a little time alone, my dear nieces.”

Baela snorted, flopping onto the rug and tossing a cushion into place like she was staking a claim. She kicked off her boots with a huff and tugged loose her braid in a deliberate act of relaxation. Rhaena followed more gently, hands folded, her gaze hopeful as she peered toward the tea tray. 

“Is that orange?” 

“Lemon.”

“Oh. Good.”

The door burst open and in tumbled Jace and Luke, breathless and red-faced. 

“I won.” Jace declared, panting. 

“You cheated!” Luke wheezed, gasping for air. “You said we’d start from the fountain. then pushed me before the bell!”

“Was there supposed to be a bell?” Jace asked innocently.

“Well, there should have been.” Luke exclaimed dramatically.

They collapsed into the cushions, a heap of limbs and overdramatic groans, fanning themselves with napkins like they’d run a tourney instead of a hallway.

“If even a drop of sweat comes near me, Jacearys…” Baela warned. 

Jace and Luke exchanged a look, then lunged for her in a joint embrace. She shrieked in defeat as they cackled like heathens. 

Aegon swept in, already nursing a glass of something that was definitely not tea, his expression hovering between wanting a nap or inciting a riot.

Possibly both.

“I thought this was a lounge, not a wrestling arena— but my money’s on Baela if there are to be bets involved.” he muttered, slouching into an armchair with the weariness of someone twelve years older.

“I can fetch a crown if you’d prefer it to be a court summons, Your Grace.” Rhaena said with quiet humor. 

Aegon winced at the title. “No need. I’m sure once Aemond shows up, he’ll insist we all act ‘appropriately’. What’s that phrase he always uses?” 

“Behave like heirs of dragon blood.” Luke said in a haughty impression, complete with a raised finger. 

“Mock him too loudly and he’ll beat you at cards again,” I added with a laugh.

We were almost complete. Only Helaena and Aemond were missing. 

I glanced out the window. The sun had shifted, casting a warmer glow across the room. 

A perfect afternoon for mischief.

And cards. 

Helaena entered as though following an invisible thread. She stepped carefully, arms cradling a basket filled with jars of various sizes and shapes, each containing insects and lizards.

“They needed a bit of sun,” she murmured, placing them gently by the window. “And the smell of steeping tea soothes them.” 

She held one jar close to her chest. “Almond’s tail is growing back, thank the Seven. Ser Cheddar is in the tall jar with the yellow ribbon. They get along. Most days.” 

“They mostly fight over cake.” she added, settling beside Rhaena.

“Today should be fine. Orange cake will appease both of them.” 

“It’s lemon.” Rhaena and I said in unison.

“Oh much better. That’s their favorite.”

Jace blinked. “How do you know that?”

“You can’t tell?” she asked, holding a jar up to the light. “The sounds they make. It’s quite obvious.”

Rhaena and Luke leaned in, holding crumbs of cake near the jars, tapping gently and watching with fascination. 

Aemond slipped in quietly, as he always did— leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, his eye scanning the room.

“You’ll get a crick in your neck standing like that,” I said, still watching the swirl of tea leaves. 

“I like the wall. It doesn’t host insects or reptiles.” He paused. “Is that orange cake?” 

“Lemon,” the entire room responded at once.

Aemond froze.

He blinked slowly, like someone in the middle of a vision. Then turned his head—just slightly—to scan us all with quiet suspicion.

“…You rehearsed that.”

“We didn’t,” Rhaena said too quickly, covering her smile behind a teacup.

“Highly suspicious,” he muttered. “You’ve definitely put something in it.”

“Only love,” Baela said, grinning like a wolf.

“Malice,” Jace added helpfully.

“Both,” Luke offered.

Helaena reached out serenely and plucked a crumb from the edge of the tray. “Lemon’s good for memory,” she said. “Maybe you’ll stop forgetting which lizard is which.”

Aegon, half-asleep again in his chair, cracked one eye open. “Put a slice in his mouth and see if he bites or flinches. I’ve got five gold on flinch.”

Aemond glanced warily at the cake. Then at them. Then at me.

“It’s lemon,” I said, gently nudging the plate toward him. “I oversaw it this morning.”

That earned a few knowing snickers.

“She stood behind the cook and pointed dramatically at lemons until they got it right,” Baela muttered.

“Quality control is a noble duty,” I replied primly.

Aemond’s gaze lingered on me for a beat longer, the corner of his mouth just barely twitching upward.

“…Then I suppose it’s safe.”

He reached for the slice, and—just for a moment—he looked at me like I was the only person in the room who hadn't betrayed him with citrus.

The room gradually eased into a hum of comfort.

Plates passed around, crumbs gathered in napkins, laughter softened into the kind that sat warm in the chest. Baela lay back on a cushion, one leg swinging lazily in the air. Jace and Luke argued over the last decent napkin. Helaena arranged her jars along the windowsill like honored guests. Rhaena poured another round of tea. Aemond, surprisingly, stayed near the table instead of returning to his corner.

And Aegon—Aegon lounged in his chair like royalty in exile, drink in hand, eyes half-lidded. He hadn’t said much—but for once, he didn’t look like he wanted to leave.

It was a rare kind of quiet.

“Can we play something?” Rhaena asked, voice soft but hopeful. “Before Aegon falls asleep mid-sentence again?”

“I’m right here,” Aegon muttered, mildly offended.

“Barely,” Jace said.

“Spiritually, he left us three sips ago,” Baela added.

“I think he’s been dreaming with his eyes open,” Luke offered.

“Remarkable skill,” Aemond said dryly.

Jace perked up immediately, already halfway to the deck on the tray. “Alright, how about Dragon’s Mercy?”

“No,” Aemond said from across the room, arms folded and voice sharp. “Aegon always hides extra cards.”

“That was one time—” Aegon began.

“Twice,” Helaena said dreamily, without looking up from her jar. “The second time, it was in your boot.”

Aegon looked at her, mildly horrified.

“Fine. What about Queen’s Folly?”

“Not unless we want him making up rules again,” Aemond muttered.

“It’s called adapting,” Aegon argued.

“It’s called rewriting the rules every time you lose a card.” Baela retorted.

Luke sat forward eagerly. “Ooh! Let’s play Castles and Conquests! I’ve been practicing my strategy.”

“You mean the game where Aegon insists on being King of the Stormlands so he can hoard every wild card?” Aemond deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

Aegon gave a scandalized gasp, hand to his chest. “It’s called committing to the role.”

“It’s called cheating,” Jace chimed in, grinning.

Jace snapped his fingers. “What about—oh gods, what’s that one—where you match numbers and ask each other for cards?”

Everyone paused.

“You mean… Go Fish for the Crown?” Rhaena said slowly.

The group turned, almost in unison. Somewhere between dread and delight, a shared realization dawned. Aegon physically recoiled.

Aemond nodded solemnly. “He’s terrible at Go Fish for the Crown.”

“I despise Go Fish for the Crown,” Aegon groaned, slumping lower in his chair like the name itself was an insult.

“It’s a game for children,” he added, voice dripping with wounded pride. “And yet, somehow, I have the luck of a flea on a drowned rat infected with the plague.”

“You once guessed ‘queens’ four times in a row,” Baela said. “And got none.”

“They were in your hand!”

“Exactly,” she smirked.

“Even better,” I said, reaching for the deck. “One round of Seven Scepters first—”

Aegon sighed in visible relief.

“Then Go Fish for the Crown.”

Aegon made a noise like a dying animal.

“No cheating,” I added, beginning to shuffle. “And if anyone flips the table again—”

“That was one time!” Luke cut in, eyes wide with mock offense.

“—they clean the entire lounge. Including under the cushions.”

A chorus of groans erupted.

“Especially under the cushions,” Baela emphasized.

Jace cracked his knuckles like a knight preparing for battle. “Let’s make this interesting.”

Later, with the sweets raided and the cards abandoned, the room settled into a kind of shared stillness.

Aegon had taken it upon himself to teach Jace, Luke, and Aemond a board game he claimed was imported from Pentos—though more likely invented in a haze of boredom and wine. He called it Boards of Castamere, and the name alone sent Helaena into giggles.

The game involved building strongholds, collecting resource tokens (iron, grain, goat, and wine), and occasionally unleashing disasters on your opponents when the dice rolled was a certain symbol. There were rumors it had been banned in the Reach after an actual duel was fought over a sheep tile and a poorly-timed flood card.

Or so Aegon says.

“I heard Lord Redwyne stabbed his own brother over a vineyard dispute,” Jace said solemnly, eyeing Aegon’s wine-rich territory.

“That’s just good strategy,” Aegon replied, laying a tile labeled 'Oldtown Market' with theatrical flair.

“You placed pestilence on my land again?” Luke groaned. “That was my actively producing goat farm!”

“You shouldn’t have insulted my banners,” Aegon said with a shrug.

“You don’t have banners.”

“Exactly.”

Aemond, unsettlingly calm, built an elaborate road across four tiles. “If you don’t want pestilence, Luke, stop trading him grain.”

“I’m trying to keep peace in the realm!”

“Then stop naming your provinces ‘Goatlandia.’”

Off to the side, Helaena and I sat cross-legged with a book between us, giggling as we attempted silly High Valyrian phrases.

“Skoros issa… cake of cheese?” she attempted.

“Translation: What is a cheesecake?” I giggled. “Try it again. You switched the verb and noun.”

Across the rug, Baela was braiding Rhaena’s hair into an elaborate crown while Rhaena carefully stitched a sunburst pattern onto a golden handkerchief. She kept poking the thread too forcefully and muttering, “I’m at war with this embroidery hoop.”

“You’re not supposed to stab it,” Baela said kindly.

“I’m adding emphasis.”

“I can tell.”

The warmth of the afternoon wrapped around us like a blanket. Dust shimmered in the air like golden flecks, drifting lazily between laugh lines and scattered cushions.

Luke suddenly stood. “Wait. I think the kitchens still have some of those imported chocolates left over from yesterday's banquet,” he said. “For that visiting Braavosi dignitary or whatever.”

“Get extra!” Baela called after him.

“And bring one of those sugared lemon peels!” Jace added.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Luke said heroically, before vanishing down the corridor.

He jogged off down the corridor.

We returned to our chaos.

Jace accused Aegon of hoarding wine tokens. Aemond muttered something about diplomatic collapse. Helaena offered Almond a thimble-sized seat at the game board.

Then—

SLAM.

The door burst open again. Luke skidded in, panting. “The Queensguard is two halls away!”

Everyone froze.

“Which means—”

“—Queen Alicent is coming,” he finished.

The room exploded.

Aegon launched out of his chair with the speed of a man who had seen death. “Hide the teacup!” he barked, already shoving it under the cushion.

Baela kicked the scatter of game tiles beneath the divan.

Jace started straightening pillows with military precision.

Aemond, ever composed, moved the beetle jars to a less conspicuous spot and picked up a book—open to the middle, naturally.

Helaena just looked delighted. “Almond will have company.”

Rhaena poured actual tea into a fresh cup and set it before Aegon with a flourish.

Aegon blinked at her. “You’re a saint.”

“Smile,” I hissed. “Look like we’re normal.”

The door creaked.

We sat, a portrait of decorum. Eight suspiciously well-behaved children sipping tea in absolute silence.

Queen Alicent stepped inside, flanked by Ser Criston—tall, armored, and as serious as ever.

Everyone scrambled to their feet.

Chairs screeched. Cushions toppled. Cups were hastily set down.

We curtsied and bowed like little lords and ladies from a painting.

“Your Grace,” we chorused.

Helaena, halfway through feeding Almond a sugared berry, dropped her napkin in surprise.

Baela elbowed Jace when he didn’t bow fast enough.

And Luke—oh, sweet Luke—mumbled under his breath, “Ser Crispy’s back,” just loud enough for us to hear.

Rhaena gasped. Jace thwacked him on the back. Baela coughed loudly.

I cleared my throat so violently I nearly inhaled a lemon seed.

Ser Criston said nothing, but his brow twitched.

Queen Alicent’s gaze swept the room. Her smile was tired, but warm.

“You all seem… well entertained,” she said.

“Just a friendly match, Your Grace,” Aegon said smoothly. “Educational. Trade-based.”

She eyed the half-hidden game pieces, the suspiciously flushed cheeks, the bug jars and the cake crumbs on Almond’s napkin crown.

“I can see that,” she replied. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your time together.”

There was a pause.

Then she added, almost casually, “You may wish to keep the lounge tidy tomorrow. Lady Vaelyra Hightower returns to court. I imagine she’ll be joining you again.”

My heart skipped.

Aegon, mid-sip, promptly choked on his tea.

“Already?” he spluttered, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “I assumed Oldtown would need another century to recover from all her corrections.”

He straightened, smiled brightly.

“That’s a lovely shade of green on you today, Mother. Brings out your inner serenity.”

She does not look serene.

Queen Alicent closed her eyes in a long-suffering prayer to the Seven. “Seven save me.”

Rhaella shot Aegon a death glare that could have turned his tea to ice.

“We’ll make sure everything is tidy and ready, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, smoothing over the moment with practiced grace. “Lady Vaelyra will be warmly welcomed.”

Aegon raised his cup in a mock-toast. “To the triumphant return of the Realm’s Favorite Know-It-All.”

Baela elbowed him. Jace barely contained his grin. Helaena fed Almond a celebratory crumb.

Queen Alicent exhaled slowly. “Good,” she said, though her tone suggested she was already bracing herself. “I’ll see you all at supper.”

And with a graceful nod, she and Ser Criston departed—his boots clicking in rhythm, his shadow trailing behind him.

Luke waited five full seconds.

Then whispered, “Crispy lives.”

Baela smacked him with a pillow.

Perfect. Well, almost.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep Banquet Hall - 3rd Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC - Evening Supper

The feasting hall was warm with firelight and the heavy scent of roast duck and stewed lamb, thick enough to cling to the air. Candles flickered low on the long oak table, their wax dripping slowly onto platters of honey-glazed drumsticks, river trout glistening with herbs, and venison pies whose buttery crusts cracked with the lightest touch of a knife.

Steam rose from iron pots of lamb and garlic, a heady perfume mingling with the sweetness of honeyed carrots and the sharper tang of stewed pears swimming in spiced wine. Slices of freshly baked seeded black bread were stacked between bowls of buttered peas and barley pilaf, the grains glistening with flecks of green. A trencher of baked leeks, heavy with melted cheese, sat near the center of the table, its rich, sharp scent a quiet lure.

At the far end of the table, the desserts gleamed invitingly under the soft candlelight.

Quinces poached in wine and cinnamon sagged luxuriously in their own syrup, their scent thick and golden. Trays of figs stuffed with almonds and dripping honey were arranged like jewels on polished platters. Delicate lemon cakes — crowned with sugared rinds — sat neatly beside bowls of fresh strawberries and cream, the warm scent of spice curling into the air.

The pitchers had been refilled with minted water chilled with pebbles of river ice, and light sweet cider cut with herbs for the older children. For the younger ones, there were flagons of pomegranate juice and milk steeped with honey and lavender, set near their plates to be poured freely.

The hall buzzed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of knives against plates, the crackle of logs settling in the great hearth.

For once, the children of the crown occupied their side of the feasting table without oversight or ceremony.

Baela and Luke were bickering quietly over which dessert is the best — or rather, Baela was arguing while Luke, unconcerned, sat with a drumstick in each hand, gnawing happily like a boy who'd missed too many breakfasts. He tore into the meat with the kind of determination that made Baela roll her eyes and mutter something under her breath.

Jace sat next to Baela, watching the exchange with an easy grin, one elbow propped on the table as he sipped from his goblet. "You’ll choke yourself before you win," he remarked to Luke, earning a wide, greasy grin in return. 

Nearby, Rhaella sat with a book propped open in front of her, pretending to read while sneaking glances at the others. Across from her, Rhaena leaned in, pointing something out on the page — a crude doodle of a dragon burning a stick man squeezed into the margin. Rhaella stifled a laugh, offering Rhaena a conspiratorial wink across the table, and the two shared a fleeting grin before returning to their quiet mischief. 

Helaena fed crumbs to a tiny green beetle she’d snuck in despite the Queen’s quiet protest, and Aemond — ever composed — sat quietly next to Rhaella, idly tracing the rim of his goblet.

Aegon slouched as always at the head of the table, balancing a cup of cider on his knee like a dare.

It was an ordinary evening.

Until the doors opened.

She walked in like she had never left.

Lady Vaelyra Hightower.

A draft whispered through the hall, cooler than autumn should allow. The tall oak doors swung closed behind her without a sound.

Baela froze with a lemon cake halfway to her mouth, one brow lifting in wry amusement.

Luke, mid-gnaw on a drumstick, swallowed too fast and let out a little cough, thumping his chest with a fist as he tried to recover. His second drumstick wobbled dangerously in his other hand.

Jace barked a soft laugh, sliding a fresh goblet of water toward Luke with a nudge of his fingers. “Told you so,” he murmured, eyes darting from his brother to Vaelyra.

Helaena blinked slowly, her beetle crawling unnoticed from her sleeve onto the table. Beside her, Rhaella set her book aside just in time to exchange a glance with Rhaena — who, rather than looking surprised, only smirked knowingly, her gaze following Vaelyra with calm curiosity.

Aemond’s hand stilled against his goblet. Aegon shifted, his cider sloshing dangerously, and caught it at the last second. 

Rhaella was up before she even thought about it, skirts rustling, feet moving across the floor. She crossed the distance between them without hesitation, a smile breaking loose — wide and real.

Vaelyra barely had time to shift before Rhaella threw her arms around her.

For a heartbeat, the hall held its breath.

The low murmur of conversation stilled, heads turning subtly toward the high table.

Lord Otto Hightower frowned slightly, his disapproval plain.

"Such displays are unseemly," he murmured under his breath.

Queen Alicent, seated beside him, cast him a brief, sidelong glance — measured, but firm. "The gods gave them childhood innocence for a reason, Father. It flees fast enough without our help."

Daemon Targaryen, lounging with a goblet in hand, only chuckled. "Better a loud heart than a quiet dagger, wouldn't you say, Lord Hand? Such a shame to stifle them so young. They'll have a lifetime to learn restraint."

Lord Corlys Velaryon gave a low hum of agreement, setting down his goblet. "Let them be children while they can," he said, his voice mild but touched with humor.

Princess Rhaenys, calm and unbothered, added without looking away, "A little lightness now spares them a heavier heart later."

Across from them, Princess Rhaenyra smiled — a slow, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She looked at Rhaenys, "It’s good to see there’s still some joy in these halls," she said, voice low but clear enough for those nearby to hear.

Vaelyra stood still — and then, with a soft exhale, returned the embrace. Not stiff, not reluctant — but reserved, as she always was, her hand resting lightly against Rhaella’s back.

“Welcome home,” Rhaella murmured.

Vaelyra’s mouth quirked — not quite a smile, but close.

Rhaella cleared her throat gently, easing the embrace. She stepped back with a soft, fond smile — not reluctant, but respectful — and offered Vaelyra a final squeeze at the elbow before curtsying.

Instead of returning immediately to her seat, Rhaella lingered at Vaelyra’s side, standing two paces behind.

Vaelyra stood framed in the entryway, tall and composed, her dark cloak pooling around boots polished to a mirror shine. Silver embroidery — waves, flame, and stars — gleamed at its hem, stitched so fine it caught the candlelight with every slight movement. Beneath the cloak, a glimpse of pale green silk whispered with every step, the colors of House Hightower.

Her hair, a cascade of deep raven-black curls, polished and gleaming under soft light. The waves, elegantly structured, fall in disciplined, flowing spirals down her back, with a delicate braid woven across the crown of her head—simple, yet refined. In the low light. Her eyes, a clear, striking green, caught the candlelight as sharply as a blade's edge. Coolly beautiful in a way that demanded no decoration, Vaelyra Hightower wore duty like armor and expectation like a second skin.

She let the hall look at her.

From the high table, Queen Alicent’s expression softened, a rare, genuine warmth blooming across her features — pride and affection she made no attempt to conceal. Beside her, Lord Otto Hightower dipped his head in a polite, measured acknowledgment, the corners of his mouth tightening just so — a politician’s smile.

Lord Corlys Velaryon lifted his goblet in a small, approving salute, while Princess Rhaenys inclined her head with the poised courtesy of one well-versed in courtly games.

Princess Rhaenyra smiled — a flicker of something real — and brushed her fingers lightly against Prince Daemon’s hand. Daemon said nothing, but his gaze tracked Vaelyra with sharp-edged interest, the way a hawk watches a clever fox.

Vaelyra, in turn, offered a curtsy — low and formal, every movement measured and precise. Her chin lifted as she rose, her face serene. She gave no words, only the grace expected of her. A dutiful daughter of House Hightower.

Rhaella, glowing with obvious pride, laced her arm through Vaelyra’s as they moved together. With measured steps, they crossed the hall, the hem of Vaelyra’s cloak whispering against the stone floor, and made their way toward the end of the long table where the younger royals had gathered in easy disorder.

Only then did she speak. 

“I trust you’ve kept my seat warm,” she said lightly. “I’d hate to find my old corner filled with dust and forgotten.”

Baela bit into her dessert at last, grin sharp around the edges. Luke hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and cleaned his greasy fingers hastily with a napkin he hadn’t thought to use before. Helaena traced lazy circles on the table, a soft smile ghosting her lips. Aemond tilted his head the slightest bit, studying Vaelyra’s posture with clinical detachment. Aegon snorted, low and unimpressed.

Without waiting for invitation or protest, she lowered herself into the seat at the end of the table — the one directly across from Aegon. The one she always occupied.

To her right, Helaena shifted to make more room, nearly bumping the beetle in the process. To her left, Rhaella sat upright, beaming with barely contained pride. 

The tension in the hall eased, subtle and sure.

“Welcome home, cousin,” Helaena said dreamily, still tracing slow circles on the table. “The constellation is complete again.”

Vaelyra inclined her head in a quiet nod — the barest acknowledgment — 

She set her book down beside her plate.

Across the table, Aegon smirked.

“This should be fun,” he muttered.

Aegon leaned back lazily in his chair, tipping his goblet in her direction, the faintest gleam of challenge in his eyes.

"Early as always, Hightower. Did they send you back because the Citadel finally got tired of you correcting them?"

Vaelyra tilted her head, a smirk ghosting her lips. “Or perhaps they sent me back to teach the Prince that not every conquest worth having waits behind a tavern door.”

Aegon muttered, “Rude,” but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

Jace chuckled, swirling his goblet idly. “Accurate.”

Vaelyra didn’t blink. “Early to remind you what proper study looks like, Prince Aegon. Or is it still Prince Ale -gon?”

Baela choked while  Luke let out a snort that he barely managed to smother into his cup. Aemond lifted his goblet to drink, hiding a smirk. Rhaena stared awestruck at the exchange, mouth agape.

Aegon grinned, unbothered. “Sharp tongue. Still no sense of humor, though. Some things don’t change.”

Vaelyra lifted her goblet in a mock toast. “And some things are stubbornly persistent.”

Most of the adults had already drifted from the hall, retiring to their chambers with polite excuses and tired smiles. Those who remained were huddled in hushed conversations at the far end of the table, their words lost beneath the steady crackle of the hearth.

The lemon cakes had been picked apart and the figs left sticky and half-eaten on their plates. The heavy main courses were long cleared out, replaced now by the lazy ease that came after a good meal — the lull where mischief had room to breathe.

Aegon set down his goblet with a soft thud, slouching even deeper into his chair. His grin was easy, lazy, and dangerous in a way only he could manage.

"We should celebrate," he said, flicking a glance down the table at Vaelyra. "It’s not every day a wayward Hightower comes back to us."

Vaelyra arched a brow, smirking. "Did you plan on raiding the cellars again? Because I hardly see that as a proper welcome if you're the only one who’s going to enjoy it."

Baela leaned forward, her grin sharp as a blade. "There is one thing we could do. But it depends if you're feeling bold or not."

Jace caught on quickly, nudging Baela with his shoulder. "Bet you the locks are still broken."

Rhaella leaned in toward Aemond, her voice low and mischievous. "You know, I’m tempted to say something to whoever’s in charge of locks. They’re not doing a very good job, are they?"

Aemond didn’t look up from his goblet, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I’ll write a strongly worded letter and send a raven to the Master of Keys," he said dryly.

Baela blinked, then pointed at him with her fork. "Was that—did Aemond just make a joke?"

Jace snorted into his cup. "Mark the day. The world might end."

Luke’s eyes widened, excitement and dread mingling on his face. "Wait. You mean the old rooftop?"

Baela only smirked.

Vaelyra tilted her head, the unimpressed look tempered by the fondness tugging at her mouth. "I haven’t been back a full day and you’re already dragging me into trouble again."

Aegon shrugged, languid and smug, plucking a napkin off the table and giving it a dramatic little flick through the air. "Come now, cousin. Surely you didn’t expect your grand welcome home to be a plain dinner and a lukewarm goblet of Dornish wine?"

Vaelyra smiled, thin but fond. "No. I expected worse."

She glanced down the table, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. "At least it’s not Jace suggesting we visit the Dragonpit again. At night. "

Jace threw up his hands in mock offense. "It was one time!"

Helaena, tracing slow, lazy circles on the table, murmured, "Last time we went up, the constellations had shifted just so — like a crown fallen sideways. They always change when you’re not looking, you know."

Vaelyra’s mouth quirked, something softer than her usual smirk. "Tell me, flower child — do the stars say tonight is a good night for mischief?"

Helaena’s eyes lifted, bright and faraway all at once. She smiled, slow and sure. "Tonight, the stars are winking. It would be rude not to join them."

Aemond, quiet until now, lowered his goblet and leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "We’ll need to move after the second watch changes," he said. "The guards will be tired. And we’ll have to split into smaller groups at the stairwells — less noise."

He tapped a finger lightly against the goblet, as if ticking off plans in his mind. "Stick to the old servants' halls until we reach the tower wing. The balcony's the best option."

Luke shifted, frowning. "What if someone almost catches us again?"

Jace shrugged. "Then we run faster."

Baela grinned. "And blame it on Aegon."

Aegon straightened in mock offense, hand pressed theatrically to his chest. "How dare you," he drawled. "I'm an innocent party in all of this."

Rhaella, practical as ever, folded her arms. "We’re not freezing like last time."

Vaelyra tapped a finger against her goblet. "No fire this time. Too risky."

She glanced at Jace, a teasing glint in her eye. "Maker forbid we encourage your pyromaniac tendencies."

Jace, undeterred, grinned. "Then bring extra cloaks and furs."

Baela: "And someone better bring a decent blanket this time. Not that threadbare one Luke tried to pass off."

Helaena, dreamily: "Someone should bring tea. It’s colder now."

Rhaena added softly, "And snacks."

Luke perked up, eager. "I’ll bring the bread rolls."

Baela wrinkled her nose. "Bread rolls? At midnight? That’s heavier than Aegon after a feast."

Aegon straightened again with a groan. "Why are you always dragging me into these things? Can’t I be a saint in someone's story for once?"

Rhaena, ever practical, offered gently, "Maybe something lighter? Dessert and tea sounds better."

Vaelyra turned her gaze to Aegon, a faint smirk playing at her lips. "I hope, for all our sakes, you’ve cleaned your room if we’re going through that passageway again."

Aegon’s grin widened. "The old tapestry route."

Rhaella wrinkled her nose. "They already know about that one."

Baela propped her chin on her hand. "We could use the kitchen corridors — too narrow for guards."

"Or the old stables," Jace offered. "They’re half-abandoned, no one patrols there anymore."

"The postern gate near the sept," Rhaena added, "if you want to brave the smell."

Aegon lifted his goblet in a mock toast. "I’m a man of many questionable ideas."

Vaelyra tilted her goblet back in response, cool and unreadable. "Of course you are."

Aemond, who had been silent since his dry comment, spoke up, voice even. "There’s the side entrance from my balcony. The guards haven’t figured out how I sneak to the godswood at dusk."

Rhaena lifted a brow. "Is that the one where we have to jump the balcony fence?"

Aemond gave a rare, small smirk. "Unless you’ve grown wings since I last checked, yes."

Luke made a face, pushing his half-eaten fig away, nervous anticipation flickering across his face. "Maybe we should reconsider the kitchen corridors."

Baela snorted. "What’s the matter, Luke? Scared you’ll rip your tunic?"

"I’d rather not fall and break something important," Luke muttered.

Jace leaned back, arms crossed, grinning. "Come now, little brother. What’s a bruised ego compared to a grand adventure?"

Helaena, still tracing invisible patterns on the table, murmured, "Bruises fade, but stories last longer."

Vaelyra smiled at that, lifting her goblet in a casual, almost solemn salute — a silent toast to the golden moment they were about to make. "Well then. Shall we make a story worth remembering?"

They rose — quiet, sure — slipping from the hall like smoke, laughter and candlelight fading behind them as they disappeared into the shadowed corridors of the Keep.

The stone floors were cool beneath their hurried steps, the ancient tapestries whispering as they passed. The night air, sneaking in through the drafty halls, nipped at their cloaks and sleeves.

Vaelyra cast a glance back at the feasting hall — at the flickering candles, the scattered crumbs, the forgotten laughter. She allowed herself a small, private smile before slipping fully into the dark.

Beside her, Rhaella brushed her fingers lightly along the tapestry-lined wall, a contented look on her face. She turned to Helaena, voice soft and sure. "Feels right, doesn’t it? Everyone together again."

Helaena turned her head, her gaze distant but warm. "It’s the way the stars meant it to be," she said dreamily, a small smile curving her lips.

Ahead of them, Aemond moved with silent purpose, already plotting their course. Jace and Baela whispered jokes to each other behind cupped hands.

Rhaena hurried to catch up, the bundled cloaks and blanket wobbling in her arms. She fell into step beside Rhaella and Helaena, her quiet smile widening as she listened to their easy chatter. The laughter that echoed softly between them made her chest warm, the feeling of belonging settling in like an old, familiar cloak.

Luke, meanwhile, shuffled closer to Aegon, holding his bundle of pastries with both hands. "I’m guarding these with my life," he declared solemnly.

Aegon glanced down at him, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "See that you do, brave knight," he said, ruffling Luke’s hair with a hand that was almost gentle.

The Keep seemed to hold its breath as they moved deeper into its bones, the faint creak of old floorboards and the whisper of ancient tapestries following their passage — and for a little while longer, under the winking stars, they were just a constellation of their own making.

Chapter Text

Prince Aemond's Chambers, Red Keep — 3rd Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC — Around the 10th Hour of the Night

The corridor outside Aemond’s chambers was hushed, save for the soft scuff of boots on stone and the occasional stifled giggle. One by one, the others slipped through the shadows — cloaks drawn tight, steps careful.

When Rhaella entered, he knew it was her before she spoke. She pressed her back to the wall, flashing him a cheeky salute.

“Reporting for duty,” she said in a mockingly deep voice.

“At ease,” he returned, dry but amused.

Next came Jace and Baela, practically on top of each other. Jace stumbled forward with an exaggerated huff as Baela stepped neatly around him, offering Aemond an unrepentant grin.

“Subtlety, as always,” Aemond said dryly, returning his attention to his book.

Baela winked. “Would you expect anything less?”

Behind them, Helaena floated in like a wisp of smoke, her beetle jar carefully tucked to her chest. She gave a dreamy little smile and drifted silently toward the far wall.

Rhaena and Luke crept in next. Luke paused just past the threshold, carefully adjusting the woven basket looped over his arm — the top covered with a cloth, but the scent of pastries still leaked out. It swung slightly as he stepped forward with surprising seriousness, eyes fixed on the task. Rhaena, arms full of cloaks and furs, had slung an empty satchel over one shoulder — a worn leather thing Baela had hastily found — to carry them once they were out. For now, she nudged the door shut behind them with her hip.

Aegon swaggered in last, burst in with a barely contained grin, eyes gleaming with mischief like a boy up to no good. He slouched with theatrical flair — as if his mere presence were part of some grand plan only he understood — and with a conspiratorial wink, revealed a small silver flask tucked cleverly inside his belt.

Aemond set his book aside, leveling them all with a flat look that drew a few suppressed snickers.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said.

Aegon flashed a crooked grin. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”

Vaelyra slipped in after, bolting the door with a quiet click and tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She lingered a moment, gaze sweeping the room.

“I can’t believe I let myself get dragged into this,” she muttered.

Across the room, Aemond caught her eye — a fleeting glance, dry and knowing, threaded with the barest hint of reluctant fondness. For a heartbeat, it felt like a silent pact passed between them:

We’re better than this. And yet here we are.

Without another word, Vaelyra moved to the window and peered out into the dark.

Aemond exhaled slowly through his nose — the closest he’d get to a sigh.

“Keep your voices down. The guards pass by at the hour’s turn.”

Jace, already flopped gracelessly onto a cushioned bench, grinned. “Good thing we’re experts in subtlety.”

Baela snorted.

They should have been quiet.

For a few heartbeats, they were.

And then — the inevitable.

Baela circled the room, hands clasped behind her back in a mockingly prim stroll, like a bored noble pretending to inspect the troops. “Ooooh,” she sing-songed, peering over a desk cluttered with scrolls and ink pots. “What’s this?”

Jace leaned in over her shoulder. “Of course he’d have a map of Westeros bigger than his mattress.”

“It’s a strategy map,” Vaelyra said dryly.

Rhaena, arms still full of furs, nudged a tiny carved dragon with the edge of a cloak. “I think it’s supposed to be artistic,” she whispered.

Luke snuck toward a nearby bookshelf, scanning the neat rows. “Why is everything so neat?” he muttered. “Are you even human?”

Aegon, sprawled across a bench, waved a hand. “I told you he lines his boots up by color.”

“They’re organized by function, not color,” Aemond corrected flatly.

Rhaena gave him a sidelong glance  “I don’t think that makes it any better?”

Helaena trailed her fingers over the patterned rug. “The rug has beetles woven into it,” she said, delighted.

Jace whistled low. “You’re one obsessive scribble away from writing Aegon’s Conquests: What Not To Do.”

Vaelyra wandered toward Aemond’s desk, fingers ghosting over thick, leather-bound tomes. “At least he’s the only one prepared for an actual war,” she murmured.

Aemond gave her a sideways glance — not quite a smile, but close. “Some of us prefer plans over luck.”

Baela dropped dramatically into a chair, groaning as if the sheer neatness of the room offended her.

Rhaella tilted her head at Aemond, arms crossed, a playful glint in her eye. “Tell me this is your war strategy — blinding your enemies with tidiness.”

Aemond lifted a brow, the faintest trace of a smirk ghosting his lips. “It’s a highly effective tactic. No one expects a spotless war room.”

Baela snorted. “You’re impossible.”

Luke, now hands free, flopped down beside her. “Nah, it’s impressive,” he said, spraying crumbs.

Rhaella, who had stayed near the door until now, drifted closer. Her eyes roamed over the room: scattered scrolls, the polished map, the worn leather spines. She lingered on the tiny dragon figurines before glancing at Aemond, one brow raised.

“It still looks exactly the same,” she said — then paused.

“Except... was that there last time?”

She nodded toward a small potted plant sitting unobtrusively by the window.

Aemond followed her gaze. “No. It’s new.”

“You said my room lacked greenery,” he added, voice low, “so I asked Helaena to recommend something gentle — something even I couldn’t mess up.”

Rhaella’s mouth curved into a smile. “And here I thought you never listened.”

Aemond gave a quiet huff, almost a laugh. “Well, I had to pretend I wasn’t taking notes.”

From the hearth, Helaena spoke without looking up. “It’s called a starleaf. They grow in the sands of Dorne. Hardy things. They survive long droughts and still find a way to bloom.”

Rhaella smiled as she turned back to the plant, brushing her fingers lightly over the tough leaves.

Rhaella murmured under her breath, “Fitting.”

She let her fingers linger on the plant’s sturdy leaves a moment longer before turning, her hand drifting almost absentmindedly over the stones beside Aemond’s desk. That was when she found it — a faint series of tiny scratch marks, hidden just behind a hanging tapestry.

Barely visible. Easily missed.

She smiled to herself.

Quiet records — a scratched line for every nameday, notched carefully over the years. One slightly taller, the other just below it. Aemond’s and hers. A secret they never spoke of, but never needed to.

Rhaella traced the most recent mark with her nail.

Across the room, Aemond glanced over his shoulder — just once — and caught her standing there. He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth softened.

His fingers brushed over the hilt of his dagger — not drawing it, just a habit.

For a heartbeat, the room felt weighted with old, quiet things — the kind that tethered without chains.

And then —

Footsteps.

Abrupt and sharp, the steady clank of boots against stone. The guards, changing shifts.

Baela dropped into a crouch so fast she nearly knocked Jace off his bench. He yelped — quietly — scrambling for his dagger and tripping over a rug.

Luke stuffed an entire pastry into his mouth, cheeks puffing out like a squirrel caught mid-theft.

Rhaena froze, arms full of furs, eyes darting toward the door.

Aegon didn’t flinch. He slitted his eyes and went utterly still — the embodiment of *if I don’t move, they can’t see me.*

Helaena continued tracing the beetles, humming under her breath.

Vaelyra’s head snapped toward the window. In three strides, she crossed the room, unlatched it just enough to slip out if needed.

Rhaella pulled back from the wall, moving into the shadows.

Only Aemond remained by the balcony latch, hand resting on the frame.

The footsteps stopped. Right outside the door.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.

The faint creak of leather.

A low murmur.

A gauntlet — maybe a sword hilt — brushed against the doorframe.

Luke let out a tiny wheeze through his nose.

Baela shot him a warning glare.

Jace tightened his grip on his dagger and mouthed Seven save us.

Hold.

The scrape shifted again.

And then —

The guards’ voices moved on. Fading footsteps. Laughter, casual and distant.

Still, no one moved.

Baela broke first, flopping onto the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

“We are so bad at being subtle,” she muttered.

Luke, cheeks deflating, gave a strangled laugh.

Aemond pushed the balcony door open with a faint creak.

“Time to move,” he said, voice low.

Luke immediately dropped to a crouch, pulling the cloth tighter over the pastry basket and looping a thin rope around the handle. He gave it an experimental tug, testing the knot, then slung it over his shoulder.

Baela dropped to one knee beside the satchel of furs, hastily stuffing them inside and muttering under her breath as she cinched the drawstrings. The leather bag  bulged awkwardly but held.

Rhaena knelt to help, tucking in loose edges before slinging the bag over her own shoulder.

Helaena secured the beetle jar inside the folds of her cloak, wrapping the cloth carefully to keep it from clinking.

Jace adjusted the straps of his belt, checking the dagger tucked at his side. Vaelyra pulled her hood up and tied it snugly beneath her chin.

Aegon patted his belt where the flask sat, untouched, and gave a mock salute. “Ready as I’ll ever be — though I still say we should’ve brought that wine from supper earlier.”

Rhaella tugged her cloak tighter and fastened the clasps with practiced fingers, then tucked a loose curl behind her ear. She gave Aegon a look. “That’s exactly why we didn’t.”

Beside her, Aemond adjusted the straps of his scabbard, checking the weight and balance out of habit. He glanced once at Rhaella, eyes flicking to the wind pulling at her cloak — and without a word, reached over to help tighten the clasp at her shoulder.

She blinked up at him, surprised by the quiet gesture. His touch was brief, careful.

She gave a soft smile — one she didn’t fully understand — but meant.

He didn’t say anything — just stepped back, calm and composed as ever.

The first few steps were easy — familiar — the wide stone balustrade just low enough to swing a leg over.

But the moment they hit the roof tiles, reality set in.

The slates were slick with night dew. The incline was steeper than they remembered. The gaps between roof ridges gaped wider.

Baela grinned and scrambled up the first slope, reckless and quick.

Jace followed, muttering as he hauled himself up, boot skidding — especially when Baela shot him a smug grin over her shoulder.

"Try to keep up, princeling," she teased.

He grumbled, scrambling faster. "I’ll beat you to the top next time."

“Only if you grow wings,” Baela shot back, already a tile ahead.

“Don’t tempt him,” Aegon muttered, pulling himself up with an exaggerated groan. “Next thing you know, he’s flying tumbling over Luke and I’m the one hauling pastries.”

Luke huffed behind him. “You offered!”

“I offered moral support. Not manual labor,” Aegon countered.

“Shhh!” Rhaena hissed from behind, clutching her bag. “We’re meant to be *stealthy*, remember?”

Helaena chimed in dreamily, “Stealth is a state of mind.”

“Tell that to my knees,” Vaelyra said, breathless but clambering up.

Rhaella stifled a laugh. “At least we’ll die dramatically.”

Aemond, climbing just behind her, muttered, “Speak for yourself. I plan to survive out of sheer spite.”

Then, after a beat: “Besides… who else would keep the rest of you from falling off the roof?”

Rhaella moved — slower, cautious — her palms stinging against the rough tiles. Her heart thudded, wild and giddy.

She slipped once, breath catching, but caught herself.

Behind her, Aemond climbed — steady, silent, precise.

When she reached for the last rise of the rooftop, Aemond was already there.

He extended a hand — an offering, wordless and sure.

Rhaella didn’t hesitate. She placed her hand in his.

What caught her off guard was how easily he lifted her. No strain. No unsteady shifting.

Just a clean, steady pull.

Their palms parted — brief, but Aemond's fingers twitched faintly, as if reluctant to let go, the motion barely there — like a ghost of warmth left behind, unnoticed by all but the stars. But for a heartbeat, he lingered — his gaze catching hers, sharp and searching — something quiet and unspoken pulsing between them. It passed like a breath, but it settled in his chest all the same, stubborn and unsettling. And then, as always, they tucked it away.

They collapsed onto the cold stone, laughter dying into breathless chuckles.

For a moment, no one spoke.

They simply lay there — faces turned upward, hearts still racing.

The stars blinked down, scattered like careless jewels.

Rhaella stretched out her legs. The wind tugged at her hair.

It had been harder this time. Harder to climb, harder to breathe.

Harder to ignore the weight of knowing these moments were numbered.

She closed her eyes.

And when she opened them —

— she was nine again.

Six Years Ago — The Red Keep, 118 AC

The rooftop was different then.

Or maybe it was they who were different.

Back then, the way up hadn't seemed so daunting. There had been no need for daring climbs or risky ledges — not yet. Just a winding path of forgotten stairwells, narrow servant halls, and crumbling corridors most had long stopped using. They crept like shadows through the Red Keep, breath held, laughter stifled.

It had been Aegon's idea, of course. "Shortcut," he’d whispered, all smug confidence. "The roof’s just a few turns past the rookery stairs."

Naturally, they’d gotten lost. Turned around once. Maybe twice.

And then —

Daemon.

He had appeared at the far end of the hallway like some ghost out of legend — arms crossed, eyes gleaming with amused disapproval. The children froze like mice caught sneaking crumbs.

But Daemon only shook his head, stepping aside with a small huff of laughter. “If you’re going to break rules, do it properly,” he muttered, nodding to a side passage. “Two halls down, left at the cracked griffin carving. There’s an old stair hidden behind the tapestry. Less guards that way.”

They’d stared.

Then scattered like startled birds — Baela dragging Jace by the sleeve, Rhaena stumbling after them with wide eyes and hasty steps, and Luke giggling as he clutched a too-large basket of lemon cakes nearly as big as his six-year-old frame. Helaena floated along, distracted by cobwebs sparkling in the torchlight. Aemond stayed close to Rhaella, their strides matching as they glanced back once — only once — to see if Daemon was still watching. He was. And he smirked.

It hadn’t been hard, after that. Not with Daemon’s shortcut.

The rooftop had felt like a secret kingdom — theirs alone.

The stones hadn’t seemed so cracked. The night warmer. The city smaller. The stars closer.

They’d spilled out into the open — Baela barreling forward like a wildcat, Jace right behind her in a race no one had declared. Rhaella had emerged with scraped knuckles and a triumphant grin, her hand still caught in Aemond’s. Rhaena arrived panting, face flushed with delight, while Helaena wandered in last, cradling a green lacewing she’d rescued from a stairwell crack. Aegon had flopped down first, arms wide like he owned the sky.

They lay scattered like lazy cats in a patch of moonlight, limbs tangled and cloaks askew.

“We should bring more blankets next time,” Rhaena said, nose wrinkling against the chill.

“And snacks,” Luke added quickly, clutching the now-empty basket to his chest.

“We need something warm to drink,” Jace groaned. “Tea. Or spiced wine. Preferably wine.”

Vaelyra raised a brow. “You’re eight.”

“Details,” he shrugged.

“I want a telescope,” Helaena whispered, staring upward. “So we can see the stars up close. Catch them before they fall.”

Baela stretched, arms behind her head. “I call dibs on the good cloak next time. Jace can wear the one that smells like the stables.”

“You love that cloak,” Jace said.

“Not after tonight,” Baela shot back.

Rhaella rolled onto her side, hair fanned across the stone. “We’ll make a list,” she murmured. “Next time — what to bring, what to wear, who brings what.”

Aemond, flat on his back beside her, didn’t speak right away. Then softly, “And who sneaks Daemon’s key again?”

Everyone laughed — too loud, too fond.

The wind tugged at their cloaks. The stars watched in silence.

And for a time, that was enough.

“Let's do this until we're the Septons age,” someone had whispered.

Rhaella opened her eyes.

The rooftop was colder now. The stones rougher.

The laughter quieter.

But the stars…

The stars were still there.

Maybe not the same.

But enough.

The Rooftop, 124 AC — Just Before Midnight

The old rooftop wasn’t as empty as it had once been.

Helaena was the first to move, crossing the stones with practiced ease. She found her telescope tucked into the corner beneath an old canvas. Dust coated the brass. She blew on it gently, watching the particles scatter like ash before setting it on its tripod and adjusting the legs.

Rhaena and Baela, already dragging out the furs and bundled cloaks, began laying them out in overlapping layers — like they’d done a hundred times before. Baela plopped down a pillow with a theatrical *hmph* — only for Aegon to drop beside it.

“Mine now,” he grinned.

Jace followed suit, stealing the one Rhaena had just fluffed.

The girls exchanged sharp glares.

Rhaena raised a brow. Baela cracked her knuckles.

Aegon and Jace both raised their hands in surrender and wordlessly got up, repositioning the pillows and smoothing the furs properly while the girls watched, arms crossed.

In the corner, Luke had already unwrapped the basket and was giggling to himself as he arranged the lemon cakes and sugared buns like prized treasure.

Jace chuckled and reached over to ruffle his curls. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Luke beamed. “A sugared menace.” 

"Strategic placement," he whispered, placing one right in the middle of the blankets like an offering to the stars.

Rhaella, meanwhile, moved toward the stone lanterns tucked into the corners. She pulled out a flint and struck it, one by one lighting each small flame. Soft golden light bled over the stone, casting warm shadows.

Aemond stood near the edge, quiet, his gaze fixed on the sleeping sprawl of the city below. The wind tugged gently at his hair.

Vaelyra joined him, her cloak rustling softly. For a moment, neither spoke.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said.

He hummed in reply, arms folded, eyes still on the city. “Just… remembering.”

Vaelyra studied him a moment. “Does it feel different? Seeing the city from up here now?”

Aemond’s voice was quiet. “It feels smaller. Or maybe… farther.”

“And quieter,” she added. “Like it’s holding its breath.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “What do you think will happen… when the King’s breath gives out?”

Aemond was silent, but not tense. “The realm will splinter. No matter what’s said in court.”

Vaelyra nodded slowly. “Do you ever wish you were just a boy again? Climbing rooftops for mischief, not strategy?”

He answered without pause. “No. I wouldn’t trade now for then.”

“Why not?”

“Because then… I didn’t know how much quieter things feel when she’s near.”

The words hung there for a moment, soft and unintentional.

Vaelyra inhaled once through her nose, carefully. “Ah,” she said.

Aemond glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said lightly. “Must have been the wind.”

But the smile she hid said otherwise.

A silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, just weighted.

Vaelyra stood beside him for a moment, then tilted her head. “How is the King?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened — barely. “Weaker. Some days better than others.”

“He forgets things,” Vaelyra said softly.

“Yes.”

They fell silent again. Below, the city glowed in ribbons of firelight.

“He used to be the sun in every room,” she murmured, a pang of sadness tracing her words.

“He still tries to be,” Aemond said. “But we all see the shadows.”

A soft shuffle behind them drew their attention.

Rhaena, Luke, and Helaena were gathered around the telescope, huddled close as Helaena pointed upward.

The elder circle lingered near the edge. Aegon climbed up onto the low stone ledge, swinging his legs carelessly over the drop like he’d done a hundred times before. Baela leaned forward against the railing, chin resting on folded arms. Jace crouched nearby, fiddling with a bit of twine. Rhaella stood beside Aemond, their shoulders just brushing, and Vaelyra let out a quiet sigh as she sat atop a crate with her cloak tucked around her knees.

It was not a court meeting. It was not strategy.

Just them. Together. Watching the lights flicker below, as if the world might hold its breath a little longer — just for them.

Luke called out to them, grinning as he tossed a sweet bun in a perfect arc. Jace caught it midair with a huff of laughter.

“Give us a couple more, would you?” Jace called back, already handing the pastry off to Baela.

Luke giggled, plucking two more buns from the basket and lobbing one to Aegon, who caught it with one hand and a dramatic bow. The other he handed off to Vaelyra, who peeled it in half and passed the other piece to Rhaella.

Jace took a bite and gave Luke a grin. “Strategic placement,” he teased.

There was no ceremony to it. Just crumbs and sticky fingers, small laughter and shared glances — the echo of a dozen nights like this one, tucked in the quiet between.

Aegon offered his flask to Jace, who took it with a grin and a raised brow.

“One sip,” he said, then took it — and immediately coughed, eyes watering.

Aegon laughed under his breath. “Lightweight.”

“Poison,” Jace rasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Remind me to always ask what it is you're drinking before accepting.”

Aegon chuckled, elbowing him lightly. “You’d still drink it next time.”

Jace just grinned and rolled his eyes, taking another small sip as the wind tousled his curls.

For a few heartbeats, they simply sat — the wind curling gently around them, laughter still clinging to the stone.

Then Jace’s voice dropped, quiet and steady. 

“They don’t see it yet,” Jace said quietly. “The cracks.”

“Good,” Baela muttered. “They shouldn’t have to. Not yet.”

Rhaella nodded. “But they will. Sooner than we’d like.”

Aegon stared up at the sky. “Then we make sure they don’t fall when it happens.”

Vaelyra stepped closer, her voice low and steady. “We protect them. That’s the promise.”

Aemond’s gaze flicked toward Helaena, then to Luke and Rhaena. “You’d be surprised by how much Helaena sees,” he said quietly. “But even those who see… need someone to watch for them.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on his siblings. “If one falters, the others hold fast—”

“—and together, we do not break,” Rhaella finished, her voice soft but certain.

They looked at one another — the ones who know— as the wind moved gently around them.

Baela nudged her shoulder into Jace’s. Vaelyra reached out and hooked her pinkie through Rhaella’s cloak hem.

Small things. Not solemn, but sacred.

No oaths were spoken. None were needed.

But the pact settled between them like starlight.

A silent promise.

Whatever comes… we face it together.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(The Crownstudy at Maegor’s Keep - 4th Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC - Mid-Morning)

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the small lecture chamber, pooling gold across ancient wooden desks and the mosaic tiles worn smooth by centuries of noble footsteps. Dust hung in the air like tiny spirits, swaying to the rhythm of sunlight and silence.

Baela had her boots up on the bench in front of her, arms folded, quizzing Rhaena in a hushed voice about dragonrider history.

Rhaena answered thoughtfully between bites of dried apple, the two of them locked in their usual pre-lesson ritual of competitive recall.

Luke was incredibly focused, his brows furrowed in quiet determination. He had an array of small snacks lined up along the edge of his book—tiny toffee cubes, candied almonds, and sugared lemon peel—each acting as a reward for finishing a section. It was a reading strategy he'd never admit to, but it seemed to work well enough.

Jace was practicing his High Valyrian, enunciating each word carefully and muttering to himself about rolling his R's properly—something he insisted on perfecting after realizing how much of their history was preserved and spoken in the old tongue. His quill paused often as he corrected himself, occasionally glancing at Aemond’s flawless script with a mix of admiration and exasperation.

Helaena had once again claimed the windowsill as her personal sanctuary, but today the space was filled with more than her usual party of insects. Pressed flowers were carefully arranged across her parchment, each labeled in her looping script with its origin and uses. A miniature glass terrarium nestled beside her notes, where a sprig of moonmint had already begun to curl toward the sun.

Only one insect sat in a jar today—no name yet, but it was a stout, bejeweled creature, its iridescent shell catching the morning light. As it inched slowly across the glass, it cast spectral rainbows onto the tabletop, like bits of living stained glass come to life.

I flipped through the thick parchment of our history texts, already a little bored. This was one of the quieter hours of our routine—before the Maester arrived, before lessons began in earnest.

I sat beside Aemond near the back, our books spread neatly between us. He was already halfway through a page of perfectly inked notes. Without looking up, he leaned slightly in my direction and murmured under his breath, "Did you ever finish that book you borrowed from me? The one on Nyraean succession?"

I smiled faintly. "I did. Twice, actually. And I annotated it. You're welcome."

His mouth twitched, amused. "Then I expect a full report by supper. Preferably footnoted, with illustrations, and signed in your best calligraphy."

I snorted before I could stop myself, quickly covering it with a cough. My eyes flicked across the room—Baela and Rhaena still murmuring over their quiz, Luke dutifully nibbling a candied almond, Helaena bent over her parchment—and then landed on Aegon.

And that was when something shifted.

Because Aegon—Aegon wasn’t being Aegon. Not the version I was used to. Not the lounging, distracted prince with a quip for everything and a bottle tucked somewhere in his sleeve. No, this was something else entirely—and it made me pause, blinking at him, wondering—not with fear, but with something more curious, almost eager. The kind of wonder you feel when the world shifts just slightly, like a page has turned before you even realized the chapter was ending. I didn’t know what to expect from him—but that, perhaps, was the most thrilling part. 

It reminded me, oddly, of a day in our early years of lessons, before Vaelyra had left for Oldtown on her apprenticeship. She and Aegon had been paired for a mock trial—one of those lessons meant to teach us diplomacy, but which always devolved into chaos. Vaelyra, sharp-tongued and terrifying even then, shredded Aegon's arguments with surgical precision. He, in turn, responded with effortless brilliance—stringing together a razor-sharp argument laced with biting wit and maddening charisma, like he was born knowing the answer but barely cared enough to say it aloud. He delivered his rebuttal with a crumpled scroll in hand, a dramatic bow mid-sentence, and a pointed grin that made Vaelyra’s eye twitch. It wasn’t the accuracy that got under her skin—it was the ease.

We’d all been enthralled—half horrified, half entertained. It ended with the Maester calling an early break and Vaelyra muttering that she’d never speak to him again. She lasted three days before challenging him to a rematch.

And even then, I remember seeing it—that same spark in Aegon’s eyes. Not mischief, not arrogance. Hunger. Drive. Curiosity with teeth.

But it no longer felt harmless—it felt like potential. Like the edge of something long-dormant waking up, stretching its limbs, and remembering it had claws.

Because if Aegon was finally paying attention... it meant he had decided something was worth it.

And now, years later, I saw it again.

Aegon was upright.

Alert.

Focused.

I stared, only half-aware that my mouth had fallen slightly open.

He was leaning forward at his desk, tapping the edge of his parchment with a quill. No wine. No dramatic sighs. No half-hearted doze hidden behind a lazy elbow or a suspiciously long blink pretending to be deep in thought. 

I wasn't the only one who noticed.

“Who are you,” Baela whispered to him, “and what have you done with my cousin?”

Before he could answer, the door creaked open.

Lady Vaelyra Hightower entered like a gust of winter—book tucked beneath one arm, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She said nothing, just took her seat across from Aegon.

Their eyes met.

Static.

“Morning,” Aegon said, tone smooth and sharp as a polished blade. "Try not to fall too far behind today, Lady Vaelyra—I know how flustered you get when someone else has the better argument."

“Prince Aegon,” she replied evenly, not missing a beat. Her voice held the precise neutrality of a dagger sheathed—polished, polite, and still utterly dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” she added without glancing at him, as she opened her book and flipped to the correct page with a snap, “I’ve always enjoyed watching you struggle to keep up.”

A few muffled oofs rippled from the back of the room.

Aegon’s grin only widened.

“Spicy today,” he murmured.

Even Maester Othmar, still setting up his scrolls, blinked like he wasn’t quite sure if he should intervene—or take notes.

He shuffled to the front and cleared his throat. “Today,” he announced, “we’ll be reviewing the properties of Valyrian steel and its known enchantments, and—”

“Why not the Treaty of Qohor?” Vaelyra asked, already raising her hand. “Or the Raven-Blood Accord of 102 AC? The study of Valyrian steel is hardly more than foundational metals-and-magic lecture fare fit for squires and septa-hopefuls."

The Maester blinked. “Ah. Well. Those topics are scheduled for next—”

“I could teach this,” Aegon interrupted, casually waving his hand. “Come on, Maester. We’re not ten. Give us something challenging.”

Vaelyra’s brow rose—just slightly.

Aemond looked up from his notes.

Even Luke paused mid-quill-chew.

“Did he just—” Baela whispered.

“Ask for more homework?” Jace finished, stunned.

“Is he ill?” Helaena asked, blinking slowly as if trying to see him through a different lens. “Or has a star spirit possessed him to fix the alignment of the realm?”

Aegon leaned back, careless but confident. His eyes never left Vaelyra. “I just think if we’re going to pretend to be future leaders and rulers, maybe we shouldn’t waste time on beginner topics.”

Maester Othmar sighed. “Very well. We’ll discuss both.”

And for the first time in years, the room buzzed not with idle chatter, but tension. Curious, crackling tension.

Because for the first time ever...

Aegon wanted to win something that wasn’t a joke.

And Vaelyra Hightower was ready.

Let the battle of wits begin.

(8th Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC – Late Afternoon)

By week’s end, the air in the lecture chamber had changed. Not with magic, nor prophecy, but with something far crueler: exhaustion.

Scrolls were fraying. Ink stains marred once-pristine sleeves. Quills snapped under pressure. And morale? Somewhere between the bottom of Luke’s snack pouch and the glazed look in Baela’s eyes as she stared at a page she had no intention of reading.

Everyone was tired. Except for Aegon, who somehow looked thrilled , like he’d just remembered learning could be a competitive sport.

Vaelyra, cool and composed as ever, had stopped bothering to hide the amused twitch in her mouth whenever someone groaned.

And of course, Aemond—unchanged. Eternal. Icy. Perfect. Probably had notes on our suffering.

“I think I aged three years,” Jace muttered, forehead planted dramatically on his parchment.

“Good,” Baela replied. “Now maybe you’ll stop acting twelve.”

Rhaena had taken to humming quietly to herself as she reviewed the same paragraph for the sixth time.

Helaena had added a second terrarium and was now letting her beetle “choose” which answer to write down for her homework.

Luke had run out of snacks.

And me? I was mostly wondering what we had unleashed.

( 8th Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC – Sunset)

The godswood was quieter than usual, the wind rustling gently through the crimson leaves as if whispering secrets only the trees could understand. I had come here hoping for a moment of peace, but I wasn’t surprised to find Vaelyra already seated beneath the heart tree, long skirts fanned out around her like a scholar’s cloak, her nose buried in a book. Just like it was years ago.

She looked up at my approach, and for a moment, we said nothing.

Then: “If he calls for another debate, I’m shoving his quill down his throat.”

I sank down beside her with a tired laugh. “Be honest—you thrived this week. You looked ready to duel him over clause citations.”

Vaelyra sniffed, but her lips twitched. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t insufferable. Gods, the smirk .”

“I thought he was going to start quoting himself.”

“He did.”

We both laughed, the sound muffled by the stillness around us. Somewhere in the branches above, a raven cawed like it had an opinion.

For a while, we sat in companionable silence. The kind that needed no explanation. The kind built on shared years, whispered gossip, and notes passed in court sessions with very serious handwriting critiquing very serious men.

Vaelyra sighed, glancing at the sky. “What’s worse is that he’s still good. Infuriatingly, disarmingly good. But he knows it now.”

I tilted my head against the bark of the tree. “That’s the dangerous part, isn’t it? When a dragon starts waking up."

She was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Good. He's been asleep for far too long."

I turned to look at her.

But Vaelyra had already gone back to her book, eyes moving line by line like nothing had passed between us.

I didn’t press.

Instead, I leaned back and let the hush of the godswood wrap around us, my thoughts drifting like petals on a current I couldn’t yet name. Whatever this shift was—whatever was coming—we would face it as we always had.

Together.

It was after a long stretch of quiet—just the gentle rustle of leaves and the scratch of Vaelyra's quill or the turn of a page—that I heard footsteps. Measured, deliberate. The kind that didn’t aim to interrupt but announced themselves anyway.

Aemond emerged, hands clasped behind his back, as if the godswood were merely another corridor to patrol.

“Thought I’d find you both here,” he said mildly.

Vaelyra didn’t look up. “You always do.”

I raised an eyebrow at him as he approached. “Finished rewriting your notes on every known Valyrian artifact in existence?”

He smirked faintly. “Twice. And I cross-referenced them with the inventory lists from the Citadel.”

Vaelyra finally closed her book with a soft thud. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” Aemond said, sinking onto the grass beside me, “but accurate.”

We settled into a new kind of silence—one that felt fuller somehow. Like the presence of someone who didn’t demand space, but filled it anyway. I glanced between them and exhaled.

“Do you ever get the feeling these little moments won’t last?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Like one shift in the wind and everything changes.”

Aemond was quiet, eyes fixed on the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly above us.

Vaelyra spoke first. “Then we learn to change with it.”

Aemond nodded, almost to himself. “Or we hold fast to what matters… even when the wind howls.”

I looked at both of them, two sides of the same coin—ice and ink, storm and scholar—and for a moment, I believed we could.

Aegon II Targaryen 

(8th Day of the Grayharvest Moon, 124 AC – Sunset)

I lounged in a sun-drenched alcove of the library, one boot resting on the edge of a reading table I had no intention of using. In my hand, I twisted the ribbon from Vaelyra’s forgotten scroll case—like a trophy I hadn’t meant to win.

I was still grinning.

Not because I enjoyed it. Gods, no. I loathed that she made me show up at all. Loathed that I now spent my afternoons buried in dusty scrolls instead of nursing ale at the Tilted Wyvern or finding increasingly creative ways to skip lectures entirely.

But I refused to lose.

Vaelyra Hightower had become the most aggravating thorn in my side—and the most maddeningly compelling kind of adversary. She challenged me, cornered me, forced me to think . And worst of all: she always looked so bloody pleased with herself every time she landed a blow.

I let my head fall back against the stone wall with a soft thunk, still grinning despite myself.

Not because I cared about winning.

But because—for the first time in years—someone made me want to try.

"Tch. She’s not even that clever," I muttered, the sound barely more than a scoff.

Then I reached for the book she’d referenced earlier—opened it to the page she’d quoted—and read the entire chapter without blinking. It’d be easy to ignore her, if she weren’t so godsdamned right all the time.

I didn’t care to explain myself.

But gods, I hoped someone would try.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Chapter Text

4 Years Ago

(120 AC – Driftmark)

The sea mourned first.
It wept against the cliffs of Driftmark in slow, heaving waves, gray-green and heavy with salt. Mist curled like breath around the jagged stones, climbing the shoreline like it, too, wanted to be held. Overhead, gulls circled wide and slow. Their cries felt too loud for the hush of mourning.

Rhaella Velaryon (age 11)

Uncle Vaemond’s voice rang out over the water, loud and serious. He said the old words — the ones we were supposed to say at funerals.

"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 the days to come."

Each rope they tied around the coffin felt like a knot in my chest. I stood beside Mother. She had her arms around Baela and Rhaena, holding them close while they cried. Her silver-white hair was braided back in tight coils, the salt wind tugging at the edges. Her black veil danced in the wind. She looked like a statue carved from seashells and marble — still, strong, and sharp around the edges. My mother, Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. Her eyes stayed dry, but I knew better. I’d seen her cry once, and it was a quiet, terrifying thing.

Father stood a few steps away, tall and proud in his dark robes. His beard had grown grayer this year. He didn’t speak, just watched the sea, his hands clasped behind him like he could hold something steady by sheer will.

"As she sets to sea for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughters on the shore. Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will all remain bound together in blood."

Baela didn’t cry, but her eyes were red, and she stared at the sea like she thought it might change its mind. Rhaena had been crying since we arrived. Her face was raw and pink, and she didn’t even try to stop the tears anymore. I don’t think she could.

Uncle Daemon stood apart from everyone—even from his daughters. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking anything at all. He hadn’t said a word, it was like he was made of stone. Or like something had hollowed him out, and the sea was the only thing that understood. I remembered when his laughter filled the halls — a rare sound, sharp and short, like something snatched from a storm. Once, he let me hold his sword and told me I had better form than half the squires in the yard. That man felt like another life ago. They said he held his daughters close when he told them Laena was gone — but here, he was stone again.

"Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin."

Uncle Vaemond looked toward the rocks. I followed his gaze and saw Rhaenyra standing with Jace and Luke, one on each side. My brother Laenor stood next to her, but it was like he wasn’t really there. A few steps above them stood Queen Alicent and King Viserys — his weary eyes locked not on the sea, but on Princess Rhaenyra. I saw him glance her way more than once, like he didn’t know what to say. The queen and her father stood nearby, glancing cautiously in her direction as if waiting for a crack to show.

Aegon stood slouched beside Vaelyra, doing his best to keep himself awake. He had been drinking more lately. Vaelyra's gaze was stern and cold. She hadn’t said a word since I saw her — the first time in two years. She'd gone to Oldtown for her apprenticeship, the youngest and first woman in history, and returned taller, quieter, harder to read.

Helaena was nearby too, eyes fixed on a tidepool and staring into it like she was listening to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. Her fingers twitched as she traced the ripples, and her lips moved in a whisper I couldn't catch. When I looked up, Aemond was watching her. Not speaking. Just watching. Then his eyes flicked to mine, and for a heartbeat, we simply looked at each other. His gaze softened — not with sadness, exactly, but something quiet and steady. Then he gave the smallest nod — barely there, but meant for me. Like he was trying to say, you're not alone.

My eyes darted back to Uncle Vaemond, and I understood why he said those words while looking at Princess Rhaenyra, Jace, and Luke. I've heard the whispers at court. But I didn’t care. I knew my brother and loved him all the same. I knew Jace and Luke. They are Velaryons. They are family. I gave my uncle the most withering glare I could muster.

Shouldn't today be about mourning and remembering Laena?

It shouldn't be about maneuvering or scandal or whispers passed between goblets. Not today. Not when we were saying goodbye.

"My gentle niece, may the winds be as strong as your back, your seas as calm as your spirit, and your nets be as full as your heart."

Everyone said she died a hero — flying Vhagar straight into the smoke when wildfire spilled from the Dragonpit cellars. A younger dragon had panicked, breaking through its gate. They said Laena didn’t hesitate. That she rode without armor, without fear, just a cloak billowing behind her like wings.

She saved people. A child. A knight. Maybe more. But the sky turned green that day, and when it cleared, Laena was gone.

They had returned from Essos to King’s Landing only days before. Mother said it was time — time for healing, for letting go of old anger. And for Baela and Rhaena to be reunited with their parents. Daemon and the King had not spoken in years, not truly. But Rhaenyra had written, and Viserys had invited, and for once, pride stepped aside. They came not for duty, but for family, for peace.

And still, we lost her.

They brought back what they could. Enough to fill the coffin. Enough to say goodbye.

"From the sea we came, to the sea we shall return."

She always said she wanted a glorious death — one with fire and dragons, not old age or quiet rooms. I suppose the gods listened. Maybe not kindly, not the way I wanted it to be.

After the coffin slipped beneath the waves, we drifted together toward a terrace carved into the cliffside. It was a narrow stone porch overlooking the sea, its balustrades slick with salt and flecked with moss. The wind passed through without resistance, curling around us like something searching. No one said to gather there, but we all did.

A few benches and empty tables sat against the walls, remnants of some past feast. The braziers hadn’t been lit. We huddled in small groups, too quiet, too aware of every breath.

That’s when Princess Rhaenyra approached Jace.

Jacaerys Velaryon (age 10)

Mother’s voice was soft when she spoke to me. "Have you seen your father?" she asked first. I shook my head. "Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word."

I hesitated, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. "I have an equal claim to sympathy."

"Jace," she said gently. Not scolding — reminding.

"We should be at Harrenhal. We should be mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin."

"It would not be appropriate," she said. "The Velaryons are our kin. The Strongs are not."

She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. "Look at me. Do you understand?"

She looked at me the way she does when she needs me to understand something — not just obey, but understand. So I nodded, barely, and stepped away.

Baela Targaryen (age 10)

I saw him coming, even before he moved. Jace always looked unsure when he was about to do something kind.

He didn’t say anything when he reached us. Just stood beside me like he wasn’t sure if he belonged.

I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. My throat felt scraped raw, but I hadn't let myself cry again. Not since this morning. If I cried now, I might not stop.

"I’m sorry," he said at last. Not for being late. Not for what we both lost. Just… sorry. For everything.

I nodded, once and reached for his hand. He didn't let go. That was enough.

Rhaena Targaryen (age 9)

Jace knelt beside me next, quieter than a ghost. His hand brushed my shoulder and I leaned into it before I could stop myself.

"She was the bravest rider I knew," he said.

I nodded through the tears. "I wanted to be just like her."

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell me I still could be. He just stayed there, holding my hand and my sister's, like he understood that what we needed wasn’t words.

Lucerys Velaryon (age 8)

Grandfather Corlys found me near the edge of the terrace, watching the tide. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood beside me, his hands behind his back like always.

"Both my seat and High Tide will be yours one day, Lucerys," he said, still looking out at the sea. "Your brother will be king, of course. He’ll sit on endless councils and ceremonies, but Lord of the Tides rules the sea."

I didn’t answer right away. I was turning something over in my hands — a little wooden dragon. Its wings were chipped, the paint faded. It used to sit in Aemond’s room. He must’ve left it here once, or maybe given it to me without thinking. I couldn’t remember anymore.

"Sorry, I don't want it," I said softly, my throat tight.

"It’s your birthright, lad."

I looked down at the dragon in my palms. "If I’m the Lord of Driftmark, it means everyone’s dead."

He didn’t say anything after that. Just stayed beside me. And somehow, that was enough.

Not far down the terrace...

Aegon Targaryen (age 14)

Helaena was crouched near the terrace edge, murmuring to a spider crawling across her palm. "Hand turns loom; spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread..."

I glanced at her, then leaned back with a sigh. "I would like to hold one normal conversation with her. Just once. No riddles. No insects."

Vaelyra stood beside her sister, watching the waves. She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

"We used to call them Dreamers. Like Daenys the Dreamer, who saw the Doom before it came. It would be wise to listen."

I scoffed. "Dreamers," I echoed, adding air quotes with my fingers. "Of course."

A serving girl approached with more wine. I held out my goblet.

"Another—"

"No," Vaelyra said, lifting a hand to stop the maid. Her voice was calm, but there was iron behind it. "You’re deep in your goblet again, Prince Aegon. And the last thing you need is to be drunk with so many eyes watching. Especially your grandsire’s. Otto Hightower never forgets a weakness."

I scowled but handed the goblet back with a sigh. She always had a way of getting under my skin — but maybe that was the point.

"Still as charming as ever," I muttered. "Do they teach wit with the sword in Oldtown now?"

"Just sense," she replied. "Which you sorely lack when you drink."

I huffed a bitter laugh. "Gods, I forgot how sharp your tongue could be."

"Then remember," she said. "You’ll need both your tongue and mind sharpened, too."

Helaena, still crouched with the spider cupped in her hands, murmured under her breath, "...dragon’s flesh, weaving dragons of thread…"

Of course the Hightower prodigy is right. But gods, life has been quite dull and boring without her annoying presence.

Aemond Targaryen (age 11)

I had been standing near one of the stone archways, half in shadow, half in sun—listening. Watching.
It was something Rhaella and I shared—the quiet ability to fade into corners and witness the things left unsaid. I caught Jace earlier near the unlit brazier, standing still while Rhaena and Baela had a quiet moment with Princess Rhaenys. I joined him, just briefly — not out of obligation, but because I saw something in the way his hands were clenched and how he looked like he didn’t know where to put his grief.

“That was kind of you,” I said. “Baela and Rhaena needed that.”

He glanced up, cautious. “They lost their mother. I... just wanted to help.”

“You did,” I said simply. “And I’m sorry, too. For Ser Harwin. I know what people say, but I don’t care what the court says. Okay?”

He blinked, not quite expecting that. “You don’t?”

I shook my head. “No. We know who we are. That should be enough.”

And for the first time in a long while, Jace looked at me not as a question—but as an answer. Like something between us had clicked into place, quietly understood.

The storm didn’t break, but it loomed. In the distance, the sea still churned — louder now, rougher, like even the tide couldn’t keep still.

My sister still whispered her riddles to the spider. My brother stewed in wine and wounded pride. Vaelyra cut through it all with her blade-sharp words, too clean, too quick.

But it was her I kept returning to — Rhaella.

Her skirts, damp at the hem, clung to her boots from where the sea breeze swept the terrace. A slate-blue cloak hung over her shoulders, fastened with a silver seahorse brooch—one her mother might’ve chosen. Wisps of her moonlight-blonde hair had come loose from their braids, framing her face in windswept strands.

She stood like a figure carved from memory—softened by grief but unshaken, her silence more watchful than still. It was the way Rhaella always carried herself when the world grew too loud.

She stood apart from the others now, arms wrapped around herself, like she could keep herself from breaking if she held on tight enough.

I crossed the terrace quietly. I didn’t say her name — didn’t need to. She looked up when I neared, her eyes rimmed red, but dry.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. The words felt strange in my mouth, too small for what I wanted them to carry.

Rhaella didn’t answer right away. Her voice, when it came, was barely above the wind. “She always said she’d die in fire.”

“I remember.” I hesitated. “What she did... A lot of people are alive because of her.”

Rhaella nodded, tears slowly pooling at the edge of her eyes. “I know it's wrong to wish she hadn't gone at all to save them. If she hadn't.... she would still be alive. I'd still have a sister." Her voice broke and she paused, allowing herself to breathe. "Aemond, I just got her back. Why would the gods take her away again?"

“I don’t know what the gods have planned,” I said softly. “But I do know this — not everyone gets to choose how they go. She did. And it was a beautiful way to go — saving people on dragonback, with fire at her heels and the sky above her.”

That made her look at me — really look.

For a while, neither of us spoke. We stood side by side, facing the ocean. The quiet settled around us — not heavy, not forced. Just there. Like the sea had made room for our silence.

For that brief, suspended moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to the space between us. No court. No noise. Just the saltwind, the hush of waves, and the steady, shared grief of two children learning what loss meant. “You remember the way she laughed?”

“Like thunder,” I said.

A smile ghosted across her face. Small. Fragile.

For a heartbeat, I saw us in the godswood again. Younger, smaller, more certain. We’d sat on the branches of the weirwood tree, our pinkies twined tight.

"No matter what happens?" she’d whispered

"No matter what happens." I had promised.

We stood there in silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Rhaella’s eyes drifted back to the beach — not to the sea this time, but further down the shore.

There, near the water’s edge, stood Laenor. Shoulders slumped, steps unsteady. Drunk. Again. Grief clung to him like salt to skin, raw and stinging. I saw Princess Rhaenyra watching from a distance, her brow furrowed with something like heartbreak.

A flicker of movement caught my eye. Lord Corlys. His expression darkened as he spotted his son, a muscle twitching in his jaw. One sharp nod to a guard—and the beginning of a scene unfolded before us. The air tensed like a drawn bowstring.

When I looked back to Rhaella, she hadn’t moved—but something in her had curled inward. I saw it in her posture, in the way her arms tightened around herself like a shield and the way she shivered not because of the cold, but of something deeper.

I knew that kind of stillness.

I had lived in that kind of stillness.

It was the kind you wear when you’ve grown up hearing raised voices through too-thin walls. The kind you learn when angry adults fill a room with words sharp as steel—and you become small. Invisible.

She was bracing. Not for what was happening. But for what it reminded her of.

And I... I couldn’t bear that.

Before I could stop myself, I moved.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just... present.

I unclasped my cloak and, without a word, settled it around her shoulders. It was too big, of course, but she didn’t flinch or shrug it off. She let it stay.

I stood beside her, just close enough to say,

"I don’t know what happens next. But I’m here. And I won’t let anything happen to you."

She didn’t look at me right away. But I saw the breath she took — the way her shoulders dropped, barely — but enough. Like she’d been holding up the whole sky and could finally set part of it down.

Her fingers loosened their grip on her arms. Her stance shifted. Calmer. Still bracing, but no longer alone.

Only then did she glance at me. Her lilac eyes met mine — soft, storm-stirred — and something unspoken passed between us. Not gratitude. Not comfort. Just… understanding. The kind you don’t find often. The kind you keep.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

--

Above us, dragons wheeled through the mist, silent shadows against the pale sky. Their wings carved slow arcs, casting fleeting shapes over the sea.

We turned back toward the beach.

Voices drifted faintly from behind us — sharp words softened by distance, but not emotion. Laughter that didn’t sound like joy. A brittle silence followed by the scrape of boots on stone.

Something was unraveling at the edges of the gathering, and we both felt it.

I felt Rhaella shift beside me again. Her voice barely above the wind.

“She wouldn’t have wanted it like this,” she murmured.

“No,” I said. “But your parents, her brother, her children, and you… all of you need this. And she’d understand that more than anyone.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

But before it could settle, the wind shifted — carrying a distant, thunderous groan. Not the sea. Something deeper. Ancient.

We both turned.

Vhagar.

She moved across the sky like a living mountain, wings spanning shadow and cloud, circling low over the cliffs.

We watched in silence — two figures among many, yet bound in stillness.

Then a voice called from behind us.

"They’re sending us to bed already," Jace grumbled, stepping closer, voice low so no adults would hear. "But I was thinking... maybe we sneak out later? Just by the beach. Just an hour or two of respite from… everything. I think everybody is in need of that."

I didn’t answer at first. But Rhaella glanced at me once — eyes asking, Will you come?

And I did.

(Later That Night – Beach Below Driftmark)

They had waited until Driftmark fell quiet — no more clinking goblets, no more whispered politicking. Just the hush of stone and salt air, and the occasional creak of waves beneath the keep. When the moment was right, Baela gave the signal — a sharp tilt of her head, and that gleam in her eye that meant mischief.

They didn’t know the halls well. Not like home. Every turn was a guess, every stair a risk. But Rhaena had sharp memory and soft steps, and she led them like a shadow — retracing a path her mother once told them about. A passage Laena had used as a girl for midnight rides atop Vhagar, slipping through hidden ways and out into the open sky. Baela followed next, guiding the others through the kitchens with a stolen lantern and a smirk, the same smirk her mother wore in those stories.

Rhaella pressed a finger to her lips the whole way, trying not to laugh when Luke tripped over a loose tile. Jace hissed under his breath, catching him just in time. Aemond kept to the rear, always watching — not just for danger, but for anyone who might call them back. Aegon had dozed off against a mossy pillar earlier and had to be roused with a sharp nudge from Vaelyra, who muttered under her breath the whole time about drunkards ruining a perfectly good plan. When he stumbled into line behind them, half-awake and grumbling, Vaelyra rolled her eyes and fell in beside Helaena, who seemed more interested in watching the shadows than speaking. 

For a moment, they allowed the grief to rest. It wasn’t gone — not truly — but it loosened its grip just enough to let in something else. The sound that escaped was not quite joy — a sad, breathless laugh, passed from one child to another like a shared secret.

And for tonight, that was enough.

They found the back stair — a crumbling thing that led to the beach caves. Salt spray slicked the stones, but they moved quick, silent, like they'd done this a hundred times instead of just once.

By the time their boots hit sand, the tension broke into laughter — hushed and breathless. Baela whooped and flopped onto the shore, arms spread wide. Rhaena twirled once, hair catching the moonlight. Rhaella laughed so hard she dropped the lantern in the sand.

They gathered around a fire pit made of driftwood. Baela found a dry patch to light the kindling, and Aemond, after only a single try, sparked the flint. Fire bloomed like a secret shared between friends.

They passed around what they’d pilfered — honeyed seaweed crackers, crabmeat buns, and pebble cakes. Jace tossed a warm cloak over Luke’s shoulders. Rhaella handed Rhaena and Helaena the last two pieces of crabmeat bun. Aemond, ever the scholar, had brought a slim tome bound in sea-green leather — The Histories of Old Valyria: Vol. IV — The Dragonlords and Their Kin. He’d barely spoken since the fire was lit, too busy flipping through its pages. Occasionally, he’d glance up toward the cliffs to make sure no guards were watching. Only once he was certain they were still safe did he return to the book, eyes scanning line after line with quiet intensity.

Laughter floated upward into the night, the kind that only came when grief stepped aside — just for a moment — and let childhood breathe again.

The warmth of the gathering faded into a gentle hush. The laughter and rustling of the others blurred, soft as wind through reeds, until all that remained was the sound of the tide lapping against the shore.

Rhaella and Vaelyra sat side by side on a fallen log, tucked in the crook of a sand-swept dune. The flicker of the fire danced in front of them, a comforting glow. Everyone else was busy — hushed laughter rising from the circle, murmured conversations too soft to catch. The fire crackled gently nearby, its warmth a soft cocoon around the night. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around them like a blanket, where truth could stretch its limbs without fear, and the world faded to the sound of the tide.

Rhaella had her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting lightly atop them. Her cloak pooled around her like a tide, eyes focused on the shifting foam at the shoreline. Vaelyra sat straighter, gaze fixed on the stars that blinked between gaps in the clouds.

It was the kind of scene the world didn’t notice — too small, too still. But it mattered.

"What was it like for you?" Rhaella asked softly, hesitant. "When your..."

"When my parents died?" Vaelyra finished gently, not unkindly. She paused, thinking — not of what to say, but of how to feel it again.

"Losing my mother — it was difficult. Truly. It felt like a part of me had died. From seeing her every day to not seeing her at all... my mind couldn’t comprehend it. Grief rewires you, I think. It protects you in strange ways, dulls the edge of pain just enough so you can carry it. You have to learn a new world where they don’t exist — not in the way they used to. Does that make sense?"

Rhaella didn’t answer, but her gaze stayed steady, as if listening with her whole body.

Vaelyra continued, voice low but unwavering. "My father died of heartbreak, I believe. He tried to hide it, to be strong, but it wore him down. And when he passed, I told myself... at least they're together now. Wherever they are. At least she isn't alone anymore."

She drew a slow breath. "I buried myself in study after that. Knowledge is a good distraction. A sharp one. But grief isn’t a wound you stitch shut. It lives beside you, changes shape, sometimes grows quiet, sometimes louder. And you have to make peace with it — not banish it. I’ve seen what happens when you pretend it’s not there. And when you let it consume you. Neither end well. There must be balance. As in all things."

Rhaella was silent for a long moment. Then slowly, she reached for Vaelyra’s hand. Vaelyra didn’t move to pull away. Instead, she gave the gentlest squeeze in return.

"You carry her bravery too," Rhaella said. "Laena's. The kind that stays."

This time, it was Vaelyra who looked away — not to hide, but to breathe.

And for a while, they just sat there — two girls lit by firelight, with grief curled softly between them like a sleeping cat, no longer clawing, only resting.

--

Aegon was sprawled beside a piece of driftwood, snoring softly, his goblet tipped over and empty. Vaelyra had tried to stop him earlier, but it hadn’t worked. If he hadn’t drunk himself to sleep, he might have taken notice — might’ve stopped what was to come.

But he didn’t.

So none of them saw it coming — not at first.

Then the sound came again — not distant this time. Closer. Heavier.

Wings.

Vhagar descended — slow and massive, the sand trembling beneath her landing.

Chapter Text

Midnight — The Shores of Driftmark

The sand trembled beneath them — a low, guttural quake that stilled every breath and pinned every sound to silence.

Vhagar descended from the mist like a mountain with wings.

Her wings folded in, slow and deliberate, each movement displacing air like the gods exhaling. Even from this distance — perhaps a hundred paces or so — her presence swallowed the shore. Any closer, and the guards would have certainly intervened. Any farther, and they wouldn't be able to see her as she truly was.

She settled just beyond the driftwood ridge, where the dunes sloped into soft cliffs. The beach curved gently there, enough to keep the children hidden by the rise — and close enough to feel her shadow fall across them when she shifted.

The fire snapped and popped, but no one moved.

Aegon, still slumped against a rock, muttered something in his sleep and turned over.

Luke was the first to speak, voice no louder than a breath. “She looked big in the sky... but up close, she’s—” He trailed off. “She’s a mountain. A breathing one.”

Rhaena’s eyes were wide, almost reverent. “She’s terrifyingly beautiful.”

No one disagreed.

Vhagar gave a low, rumbling huff — not aggressive, just present . Like she was letting the world know she was there, and had always been.

Vaelyra’s voice cut through the awe, calm and factual, but not without wonder. “Vhagar’s wingspan is the largest in Westerosi history — save Balerion’s. She was born in Old Valyria, you know. Bonded to Queen Visenya herself. She’s seen every major war since Aegon’s Conquest.”

Her green eyes swept over them. “I’ve heard the histories a thousand times from the maesters, from our kin… but nothing prepares one for this. ”

They had seen Vhagar before — soaring high over the Blackwater, her shadow swallowing entire hills, or perched like a monstrous gargoyle on distant cliffs. From afar, she was almost storybook.

Safe. A legend.

But standing here on the sand, close enough to taste the salt and sulfur on the wind, to hear the slow grind of her scales — this was not a tale.
This was history with breath and bone and claws.
And Vaelyra, for all her composed certainty, felt very small indeed.

Aemond, seated a little apart with the sea-green tome still open in his lap, spoke then, voice quiet but edged with something deep.
“She’s the last of the Conquerors’ dragons. The last living flame from before the Doom.”

His thumb traced the worn edge of the page. “She fought alongside Maegor the Cruel, burned Harrenhal to cinders. They say she flew above the Field of Fire and turned thousands to ash in one pass.” Only then did he look up, eyes glinting with something deeper than fascination — a quiet, burning reverence.

“She is not just a dragon. She is history.”

The others were silent, the crackle of the driftwood fire filling the spaces their thoughts couldn’t. Vhagar remained where she was — distant, still, a dark ridge against the starlit sky.

Luke leaned forward, eyes wide. “She looks like a mountain. Even from here.”

“She is,” Rhaena whispered, almost to herself. Her eyes never left the massive shape on the shore. “She’s bigger than I imagined.”

There was something tight in her voice — awe, yes, but also... hesitation. The kind that slipped in when you were expected to be brave but weren’t sure you knew how. Vaelyra glanced over but said nothing.

Aemond spoke again, low and thoughtful. “They say the older dragons don’t bond easily. They remember too much. They choose who they allow near — and sometimes, they don’t choose at all.” He didn’t look at anyone as he said it, eyes returning to the pages of his book. “But if they sense something in you... they’ll let you approach.”

Rhaena's hands curled into fists on her lap. “She’s meant for me,” she said. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t even certainty. More like... a reminder to herself.

“She was our mother’s. She should be mine. But what if she doesn’t want me?” Her voice wavered. “What if she knows I’m not like mother?”

Jace opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Baela frowned at the sand, quiet for once.

Then Rhaella — gentle, grounding Rhaella — reached out, touching Rhaena’s sleeve.

“You don’t have to be her,” she said softly. “You’re already brave just for wanting to try.”

That didn’t stop the fear from tightening around Rhaena’s chest.

Aemond said nothing. He only looked back at Vhagar.

And didn’t look away.

They were packing up now — kicking sand over the fire, brushing crumbs from their cloaks, half-asleep and heavy with the weight of a night that felt like it had stolen something and given something else in return.

Vaelyra rose, nudging Aegon with her boot.

He didn’t stir.

“Like a log,” Rhaella said with a sigh. “The world could end and he’d still be snoring.”

Vaelyra gave a long, slow sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was praying for strength. “You do realize you slept through a dragon encounter, right? Most people would kill for less exciting dreams.”

She studied his slack-jawed face, shaking her head in near disbelief that softened into reluctant affection. “Next time someone says you’re not good at anything, I’ll remind them how remarkably skilled you are at strategic unconsciousness.”

As if on cue, Aegon gave a sharp, startled snore — the kind that rattled his throat and made the others burst into brief, breathless laughter.

Then Baela froze, her smile slipping all at once, eyes wide.

Not because of a sound.

But because Rhaena was gone.

She whirled toward the open beach — and saw her.

Small. Pale-haired. Walking toward the massive shape in the mist. A few paces behind her was a small dark-haired boy, following with curious steps.

"Jace," Baela hissed, shoving him with both hands. Her voice wouldn’t come — like it had been yanked from her throat by the wind.

"She’s— she’s going—" She couldn’t finish.

Jace saw Luke following and his face paled. "Luke—LUKE!" he hissed, stepping forward.

Luke, still a few feet behind Rhaena, called out, "I just want to see her up close!"

"No—no, no, no," Baela was trembling now. "She’s not ready. I’m not ready—"

Vaelyra grabbed her arm, steadying her. “She might not mean to claim. Maybe she just needs to see her. Maybe that’s all—”

But even as she said it, the wind shifted.

And Vhagar moved.

A slow, low rumble passed through the sand. The dragon's head rose, nostrils flaring, eyes like molten bronze narrowing at the shapes before her.

Aemond felt it before he saw it — that deep drop in his gut, like something ancient had snapped to attention.

And then he was running.

Aemond Targaryen

"RHAENA! LUKE--!"

My legs burned — I couldn’t let them die. Not them.

As I surged forward, heart thudding, I scraped through every line of High Valyrian I’d memorized for the day I would claim a dragon. But not Vhagar. She was supposed to be Rhaena’s.

"Dohaeras, Vhagar! Lykirī—!"

Without thinking, I threw myself between them and the dragon, arms spread wide. Vhagar snarled, rising fully, wings bristling, tail lashing sand like a whip. Her growl shattered the air.

"Aemond!" Rhaena cried. "Help! I don’t think I can—"

Luke clutched her hand, tears spilling. I had to be brave. For them.

Then Vhagar’s tail slammed against a stone ridge. It shattered — a burst of shards and light.

A guttural scream ripped from me before I realized it was my own.

I felt the pain before I understood it — a blinding, searing white-hot line across my face that stole the breath right out of my chest. I dropped to one knee, the taste of salt and iron filling my mouth, blood running hot down my cheek. For a heartbeat, I thought I might collapse completely. 

"Aemond?! AEMOND!"

At first, there was only the ringing — a shrill, hollow whine that carved through my skull like a hot blade. The world seemed to tilt, the ground pulling away beneath me, until there was nothing left but the taste of salt and iron.

Then, muffled — like shouts echoing down a long stone corridor — came the others. A jagged chorus of fear.

“RHAENA, ARE YOU HURT? PLEASE GODS PLEASE—!” Baela’s voice, normally so sure, cracked on a sob, splintering under terror.

“LUKE — GODS, LUKE, RUN—!” Jace — his shout breaking outright, rough with desperation. The sound of someone watching the people he loved slip beyond reach.

“VAELYRA, KEEP THEM BACK—!” Vaelyra’s reply was sharp, controlled — too controlled.

“I AM! JUST — EVERYONE STAY DOWN! STAY DOWN!” Her voice wavered at the edges, frantic in its precision, like if she could just arrange the chaos correctly, they’d all survive.

Then — horror like I'd never known.

I blinked, once, twice, and the world stayed split.
Darkness swallowed my left side, thick and absolute. Panic rose, sharp and strangling — I can’t see, gods, I can’t see.
My breath caught, chest tightening, the ground tilting beneath him.

Then — slicing clean through them all — came a voice that didn’t tremble, didn’t splinter.

“Aemond! AEMOND!”

Clear. Steady. Even from a hundred paces.
The voice he’d once heard laughing beneath the godswood boughs, softer than any promise.
Now it wrapped around him like something unbreakable, pulling him back from the ledge.

And for a moment — bloodied, half-blind, trembling — he let it hold him steady.

The ringing began to fade, the world slotting back into harsh, bright focus — the crackle of the fire, the salt-sticky wind, the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming.

My chest heaved. Slowly, with a hand slick with blood, I raised my arm to signal them. To signal her.

I could handle this.
It would be alright.

Shaking. Steady. I slowly rose up, my knee trembling.

Then, my voice broke like storm over the beach:

"Lykirī, Vhagar. Dohaēras !"

Her growl faded. She lowered her head.

Vhagar bowed.

The dust settled. My breath came hard, ragged. I looked first to Luke, pale and clutching his arm, then to Rhaena, tears brimming over her cut cheek. "Are you okay? Are either of you hurt?"

Luke shook his head, though his hands trembled. Rhaena gave a small, dazed nod. I reached out, brushing under Luke’s chin, then gently turned Rhaena’s face to the moonlight. A small gash on Luke's upper lip, deep enough that it bled to his chin but not deep enough to need stitches. Rhaena had a small nick on her right eyebrow. A sigh of relief escaped my lips.

"You’ll be alright. Both of you. Just scars, at most.” I stepped in front of them again, shielding them, bleeding, shaking. And I knew — nothing would ever be the same.

Rhaena seemed to realize it first. Her gaze darted from Vhagar to me — then down to the blood streaking my face, and the way I stood between them like a wall. Not with pride. With duty.

Her eyes met mine.

"She is not for me," she whispered, and for a moment I caught the fear in her eyes, the trembling of her hands. That truth landed between us like something fragile and heavy.  It came out small. Honest. It wasn’t defeat. It was truth.

She shook her head, just barely. Then looked toward her sister in the distance. Then back to me.

And I understood.

Baela, on the ridge, saw it too. She turned to Jace. Then to Rhaella. And something passed between them — a silent knowing.

Jace hesitated. Then nodded. "Are you sure?"

Rhaella, her voice gentle: "It’s up to Rhaena and Baela to decide."

Baela drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Then nodded again.

Back on the beach, Rhaena turned to me. Her voice trembled but held.

"Sōvēs, Aemond," she said in High Valyrian.

I didn’t move. "Are you certain?" I asked, quietly.

"The gods have spoken," Rhaena whispered. "My claim is for another. Who am I to defy the gods?"

I stood still for one more heartbeat. Blood still trickled from the gash above my cheek, warm and wet, a silent testament to what I had risked — not for glory, but for love, for duty. My eye, the one still whole, flicked once to Rhaena, then to Vhagar. The sand clung to my boots, the air thick with salt and firelight.

I wiped the blood from my face with the back of my hand.

And then, my heart thrumming with nervous excitement, nerves crackling with something ancient,  I turned to Vhagar. My hand found the edge of one massive scale, warm beneath my palm. Carefully, I climbed — pulling myself up rung by rung, higher than I had ever dared. The climb left my breath shallow, blood still trickling into my mouth.

When I reached the curve of her broad back, I settled into the cradle between her shoulders. My voice came out in a reverent hush —

"Sōvēs."

A sharp, startled voice shattered the fragile hush.

“What in the seven hells is happening?!”

Aegon.

He scrambled upright, nearly tripping over his own cloak, eyes wide as saucers as he took in the scene — the scattered group, Vhagar’s vast silhouette, Aemond standing bloody and defiant.

“Is that— is that blood?!” he yelped. His hands flew to his face, fingers clutching his cheeks. “Oh gods, oh no, Mother’s going to have my head for this! ”

Vaelyra, who’d just rushed up beside him, groaned and grabbed his sleeve.

“Don’t flail around like that — you’ll only make it worse! And why weren’t you awake, anyway?! You were supposed to stop this!”

“I was napping! You said it was just a bonfire!”

She shot him a withering look. “You call that a nap? You were dead to the world — with all the screaming and dragon roaring, I thought you’d been murdered.”

He stared back at Aemond and Vhagar. His jaw dropped.
“...Is he riding her now?!”

Vaelyra pinched the bridge of her nose, rubbing her temples. “Not yet. But I think we’re past the point of stopping it.”

Aegon blinked, swallowed hard. Then sighed in abject defeat. “Well… I suppose I’ll be the one explaining this to Mother.”

And then, as Vhagar began her slow, thunderous ascent — wings unfurling like vast sails — Rhaena and Luke came stumbling back into the circle of firelight.

Luke practically threw himself at Jace, babbling out the entire ordeal in a rush of breathless, animated words. Beside them, Rhaena collapsed into Baela’s waiting arms, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook. Baela only held her tighter, murmuring soft assurances against her hair. Rhaella stood a little apart, hands pressed to her mouth. Tears gathered in her eyes, glittering in the firelight — but her lips curved in the faintest, aching smile as she watched Aemond soar higher, Vhagar’s enormous form silhouetted against the stars.

Off to the side, unnoticed as ever, Helaena crouched by the water’s edge. Her voice was no more than a whisper, but it carried, eerie and lilting. 

“This night rewrites the song. The thread is not green or black. It's golden.”

Chapter Text

Past Midnight - Velaryon Hall, Driftmark

The hall was dim but alive with hushed urgency. Heavy curtains had been drawn against the night air, though it did little to banish the chill that clung to the old stones. Torches guttered along the walls, their flames casting long, restless shadows across the polished floor.

Aemond sat nearest the hearth in a high-backed chair, bandages stark white against his cheek, his posture ramrod straight despite the faint tremor in his hands. Maester Kelvyn hovered at his side, dabbing a fresh poultice along the wrappings. Nearby, Luke perched on a low stool, legs swinging nervously while another maester worked at the split on his lip. Jace stood close, one hand on his brother’s shoulder — protective, tense.

Baela and Rhaena were a little apart, seated on a narrow bench beneath a leaded window. A septa bent over Rhaena, gently dabbing at the shallow gash above her brow with a cloth soaked in something that smelled sharply of cloves and bitterroots. Rhaena winced but held still, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Baela’s arm was slung protectively around her shoulders, her free hand gripping Rhaena’s tightly, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles. Rhaella stood beside them, her hand lifting now and then to gently tuck stray strands of hair behind Rhaena’s ear. But every so often, she rose up slightly on her toes, craning her neck to see past the maesters crowding around Aemond’s chair.

When she finally caught his eye, he managed a small, lopsided twitch of his mouth — not quite a smile, more an “I’m alright… mostly” that did little to soothe her. Rhaella’s brows pinched together, worry deepening even as she gave him a tiny nod.

Knights of the Kingsguard were posted at intervals along the walls, silent sentinels in pale cloaks. Among them, Ser Harrold Westerling stood with his helm tucked under one arm, his grey brows drawn tight. Ser Criston Cole lingered near the chamber doors, his gaze sharp, ever watchful for any threat.

The great doors stood half open, as if waiting for more disaster to drift in. And it did, in a way, when King Viserys finally appeared, flanked by attendants who looked as strained as he did.

Viserys paused at the threshold, taking in the scene — the bandages, the tears, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the sharp, clean scent of crushed herbs. A sigh seemed to hollow him out as it left his chest.

“Gods be good,” he muttered. Then louder, voice echoing off the high arches: “How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers.”

Ser Harrold stepped forward, bowing his silver head. “The children of the crown were meant to be abed, Your Grace.”

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Who had the watch?”

Criston inclined his head stiffly. “These halls hold near as many hidden ways as the Red Keep. They found their way, as they often have.”

A sound that might have been a laugh or a groan rattled from Viserys. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Seven save me, I suppose Daemon and I laid the kindling for this long ago. Gods help the lot of us if our grandchildren have inherited all our mischief.”

Through it all, Alicent was already at Aemond’s side, fussing with trembling hands. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her mouth set in a tight line. When she’d satisfied herself that Aemond was at least alive, her gaze snapped up — seeking.

She found Aegon standing half behind a tapestry, as if hoping the gloom would swallow him whole. Her eyes narrowed to flinty slits.

Aegon stood a little apart, trying for casual as he leaned against one of the carved Driftmark pillars — and failing. Vaelyra was beside him, arms folded, lips pursed in a line that spoke of long-suffering patience, while Helaena lingered dreamily at her other side, humming softly to herself.

But the moment Alicent’s eyes found Aegon with that slow, simmering fury only mothers could summon, Vaelyra reached out and gently nudged Helaena a step behind her, half shielding her with a sweep of her skirts. Then she stepped smartly aside herself, smoothing her gown with exaggerated care.

It was the silent declaration of a woman who would not be caught in another’s scolding — but most certainly would not allow sweet Helaena to be dragged into it either.

“Don’t drag me into that. And above all, not Helaena — she’s innocent in all this. You’re on your own.”

Aegon’s eyes went wide and faintly wounded, darting after her like a puppy left in the rain, shooting her a scandalized glare that all but shouted: “Traitor!”

But Vaelyra only arched a brow, giving him the faintest, wicked shrug that said: “I warned you not to nap.”

His shoulders twitched. “Mother.”

She did not raise her voice. Instead, took hold of his arm — not harshly, but with a grip that promised there would be no slipping free. She drew him a few steps away from the others, enough that their conversation was private.

“Where were you?” she demanded, voice pitched low but shaking with strain.

Aegon tried for a half-laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “I… I dozed off by the fire. It was only meant to be a bit of harmless fun— a bonfire —”

His words cut off in a sharp hiss when Alicent pinched his arm, hard, her nails biting through his sleeve. Her face was pale, eyes bright with that cold fury only a mother could wield.

“You are fortunate your brother still draws breath,” she whispered. “We will speak more of this later.”

Aegon swallowed, rubbing his arm with exaggerated misery. “Yes, Mother.”

The heavy doors swung wider on their ancient hinges, and Rhaenyra swept in, skirts whispering over the floor. Her eyes darted wildly about the hall, hair coming loose from its pins.

“Jace?! Luke!”

The relief when she spotted them was so palpable it seemed to deflate her shoulders. She rushed first to Luke, crouching low to take his face in both hands, tilting it gently to see the stitched lip, the way his small shoulders trembled.

“My sweet boy, my sweet brave boy.”

With her arm wrapped around Luke, she shot Jace a look — part disappointment, part fierce, exhausted love, eyes saying “I should scold you, but thank the gods you’re both still here.” Then she pulled Jace into the embrace too, holding them both tightly against her.

Then Laenor was there by the doors— breathless, eyes wide and glistening. He all but ran and dropped to his knees beside them, arms sweeping all three into a trembling embrace.

“I thought… for one breath I thought I might never hold you again,” he breathed, voice catching. Then, with a shaky laugh that was more sob than mirth, he pressed quick kisses to their temples. “Next time you seek adventure, do me the courtesy of growing old first. I’ve not the heart left for more funerals.”

He pressed quick kisses to their temples, then pulled back, scanning them over again as if checking for wounds he might’ve missed.

Moments later, another swirl of cold air and sea-salt scent heralded Rhaenys and Corlys. Rhaenys made straight for the girls and Laenor, skirts hissing, her eyes bright with something suspiciously like tears.

She pressed a hand to Laenor’s shoulder in passing — grounding, grateful — before sweeping Baela, Rhaena, and Rhaella into her arms.

Corlys lingered by Jace and Luke first, his gaze flicking over them with a mariner’s practiced calculation, cataloging every bruise, every tremor. Then, with a short nod that was almost an awkward pat to Jace’s shoulder, he moved to join Rhaenys, standing close but stiff as if unsure how to fold himself into this tangle of arms and tears.

Rhaella leaned over to her father and wrapped her arms around his middle — small and almost shy. Corlys startled, then let out a slow breath, one broad hand settling lightly on her back in a gesture that was more steady than warm.

The quiet of the tender reunions broke with the measured echo of boots across stone — deliberate, unhurried, yet carrying a weight that made every head turn.

Daemon slipped into the hall like a shadow cut from the sea, his dark cloak swirling faintly around his ankles. He did not bother with greetings. His eyes went first to Baela and Rhaena, raking over them for bruises, bandages, any hint of hurt.

When he reached them, he knelt without ceremony, a hand coming up to tilt Baela’s chin, then Rhaena’s cut brow, his thumb brushing beneath each girl’s eye in turn — gentle, but with a simmering tension that spoke of violence barely leashed. His words came low, meant only for them, gentle in a way that did not quite match the sharpness in his eyes.

“Still breathing. Good. See that you don’t make a sport of chasing peril, for my wits’ sake.”

Daemon’s gaze cut to Aemond then, sharp as drawn steel. He took a slow step forward, his smile thin and humorless.

“So tell me, boy — did you think it clever? To risk my daughters’ lives so you might steal a dragon’s favor? Or was it simply enough to seize what was never yours, never mind the cost?”

He took another step, hand falling almost lazily to his sword hilt. "Bold of you, boy, to snatch at a dragon like that when my wife’s bones are barely cold in her grave." His hand fell fully to his hilt — and with a hiss of steel, Dark Sister cleared its sheath, the blade levelled toward Aemond’s chest. "One eye seems a meager price for what you took." Alicent moved instantly, trying to step between them, her hand half-raised as if to shield her son. Rhaenys’ voice was sharp with alarm, and even Rhaenyra reached out, urging calm.

But then Viserys’ voice rang out — hoarse, weary, but carrying the weight of the crown.

“Daemon. Brother. Enough.”

Daemon coolly tilted his head, rolling his eyes with a huff as he sheathed Dark Sister. He returned to Baela and Rhaena’s side, one arm draping protectively around them, though his cold gaze never left Aemond. Across the hall, Rhaenyra swallowed hard, catching the faint shiver that ran up her spine — equal parts worry and something dangerously close to breathless admiration.

The hush fractured under the slow stride of new arrivals. Vaemond positioned himself near Corlys, his stance rigid, eyes narrowed as though measuring the worth of every bruise and tear. Otto, meanwhile, drifted purposefully to Aemond’s side — a quiet claiming that made Aemond blink, startled by such rare attention. Their cloaks pooled behind them like dark tides, heavy with silent judgment.

As the quiet bristled with tension, it was Viserys who finally spoke. He let out a slow, weary breath, the lines of his face deepening as his eyes swept over the gathered children — the bruises, the bandages, the quiet tremors of fear.

“Your king stands before you — yet more importantly, your blood, who loves each of you as uncle, as grandsire, as kin. Now speak, and let us hear the truth of this night.”

It was then Rhaena found her voice, small and strained.

“I thought… if I did it now, everyone would see I was brave enough, like Mother. I wanted to prove I could claim Vhagar. But standing there felt wrong. She looked at me and… she saw it — how I was more frightened of your disappointment than of her fire.” Her head dipped, voice cracking.

“Then Aemond came, speaking in the old tongue, and Vhagar bowed. I knew then — she would never bow for me. Because I tried to force something that was never mine.”

Vaemond sneered from nearby, arms folded. “Seems the girl flinched at the last moment. Let herself be overshadowed by Hightower ambition.” Vaemond scoffed. “And so we lose our greatest power to a boy not of Driftmark blood.”

Rhaenys’s lips thinned, her voice sharp with disdain: “Of course you would be more concerned with losing a dragon than your niece’s daughter.” Corlys shot Vaemond a warning look, but did not outright stop him. 

Daemon’s hand twitched again at his side, as if he longed to draw Dark Sister once more and slice Vaemond’s head off then and there. Viserys caught the motion, letting out an exasperated sigh and saying, “We are not gathered here to squabble over banners or boasts. We are bound by blood — gods help us all to remember it.” His tired eyes settled on Aemond, a small wave of his hand bidding him speak. "Come, son, tell us your side."

Aemond swallowed. "There have been enough shadows on our halls of late... enough dark days, enough mourning." His voice faltered, then steadied. "I did not wish to stand through another funeral. I—I didn’t think. I ran because I could not stand by and watch them be hurt. They’re my kin." His throat bobbed, his eye darted away for a heartbeat before returning. "Losing my eye… it is nothing compared to what it would be to lose them." His hand lifted unconsciously toward the bandage, then clenched against his leg, betraying how much it cost him to say it. 

Vaemond let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Hmph. The boy speaks sweetly enough — but words are cheap. You’d have to be a fool not to see the Hightower ambition in all this. A convenient tale to cloak what was clearly planned.”

Otto turned his head slowly toward Vaemond, his voice soft but cutting.

"I would caution you, Lord Vaemond, to mind your tongue. Accusations of conspiracy against the King’s own family might carry a heavier price than your house is willing to pay."

Vaemond’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, but he did not dare retort.

Viserys exhaled a long, weary sigh, dragging a hand across his face.

“We are here to hear the truth — from those who lived it. Let us have no more sharp tongues."

Then he shifted his tired gaze to Rhaena, his tone softening. 

"And so, Rhaena... is this so? Does your cousin speak true?"

Rhaena lifted her chin slightly, though her voice was still soft.

“The others saw too, Your Grace. Vhagar wasn’t taken from me.. From us.”

Baela nodded firmly.

“It felt… right, somehow. As though Vhagar knew her rider when she saw him.”

Jace exhaled.

“When he spoke the old tongue, she answered like Syrax does Mother. That’s not something you can steal.”

Even Helaena, dreamy-eyed, murmured, “The song changed its tune tonight, Father. Vhagar listened.”

Viserys watched Helaena with an ache that seemed to deepen the lines of his face. Then his gaze drifted to Rhaenyra, and for a breath they were just father and daughter, sharing a burden the rest of the hall could not guess.

Viserys’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened with tired finality.

“If this were theft, if violence had been done upon them, Laena's daughters would not have held their silence. They would have stood before us now, unflinching, to say so. They did not. Let this be an end to it."

And with that, the king got ready to leave the hall, patting Aemond’s shoulder as he spoke briefly to Maester Kelvyn. The room erupted into a flurry of low conversations. As the king moved off to hear the maester’s counsel on Aemond’s wound, Otto’s hand came to rest on Aemond’s back, giving a firm, almost proud pat. Aemond stiffened, startled by the unexpected attention, freezing under Otto’s touch. Across the room, Rhaella noticed it, her brows drawing together — but before she could look longer, Rhaenys began speaking softly to Rhaena, drawing her attention away. Nearby, Vaemond and Corlys spoke in hushed voices. Luke was chattering excitedly to Rhaenyra and Laenor, describing how massive Vhagar was and how he’d seen flames almost dance in her throat. Jace watched him, a small, relieved smile curving his mouth — glad beyond words that his brother was here to tell the tale at all.

Rhaenys looked at Rhaena a long moment, eyes shimmering as if seeing another girl there — her daughter. "My sweet child. Yes, Vhagar is a mighty dragon — but I would rather have you here, alive, than lose you chasing glory on the grandest beast in the world." Rhaenys pulled Baela, Rhaena and Rhaella into a tight embrace — the kind only a mother who had buried a child could give, fierce and trembling, as if trying to hold all of them close enough to keep fate at bay.

Rhaenys slowly stood from the tangle of her granddaughters’ embrace, drawing in a measured breath as she smoothed a hand over Baela’s hair one last time. Her eyes drifted to where Aemond sat — bandaged, still pale, Otto lingering conspicuously at his shoulder.

She approached them with the quiet authority of a woman long used to courtly masks. Her glance at Otto was polite, perhaps even coolly acknowledging his presence, before her gaze settled on Aemond alone.

For a moment her eyes softened, though she blinked hard, fighting to keep tears at bay under the scrutiny of scheming eyes and old, hungry prides.

“Thank you, Prince Aemond, for your courage tonight,” she said, voice clear but edged with something fragile. “If it were not for you, I might have lost another piece of my heart.”

The Hour of the Wolf - Sea Tower, Driftmark

Aemond’s chamber at Driftmark felt too large by half. The carved stone walls, the delicate filigree of Velaryon tapestries — all seemed to loom in the quiet after the storm of the hall. Even the crackling hearth could not quite banish the chill that had settled under his skin.

He sat by the window, one hand curled against the bandage on his cheek. The voices haunted the room still, sneering in ghostly echoes: “A meager price… overshadowed by Hightower ambition… not of Driftmark blood…”

Was it true? Had Vhagar truly chosen him — or had he stolen her? Was he, as they claimed, merely the beneficiary of cunning plots spun by men like Otto, who now seemed suddenly keen to stand at his shoulder?

A soft knock at the door cut through his spiraling thoughts.

It opened without waiting for his leave, and in came Aegon, grinning with that half-lazy, half-mischievous smirk. “Gods, brother. You look like death warmed over. I’d say it suits you.”

But the grin faded quickly. Aegon hovered in the doorway a moment, then shuffled in rubbing at the back of his neck, holding out the book almost like a peace banner.

“Found this lurking in one of Driftmark’s dusty old shelves — thought you’d like it. High Valyrian gibberish, dragon claims, all that nonsense that makes you giddy.”

He tried for a grin, but it faltered almost immediately. With a rough sigh, he sank into the chair opposite Aemond, raking a hand through his hair.

“Seven hells, Aemond… I know I jest too much, but I truly am sorry. I was supposed to be there — not off with my cups. If I’d kept better watch, maybe none of this… gods.”

His voice dropped lower, raw.

“You deserved better from me. As a brother. I’ll try to be… less of a disappointment.”

He pushed the book closer, almost shyly.

“So. Take it. Consider it an apology — for my usual failings.”

Aemond blinked, throat working around words that refused to come. In the end he only nodded, fingers brushing over the worn leather of the book as if it might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

Before Aemond could say more, there was a gentle rap at the door — so soft it was almost questioning. Then it cracked open to reveal Jace, standing there with an exaggerated solemnity that lasted only a heartbeat before he huffed a laugh.

“We thought this tower far too cold for a boy with half a face,” he teased, pushing inside with an overdone sigh.

Behind him tumbled Luke, arms overloaded with pillows, followed by Baela, Rhaena, and Rhaella, all breathless with laughter and carrying trays and bundles. Vaelyra brought up the rear with Helaena, arms brimming with cushions and a plate of sticky lemon cakes.

Vaelyra gave Aemond a wicked grin as she swept by. “You can thank your dear nephew here — he wouldn’t let us sleep anywhere else.”

Baela rolled her eyes at Jace, though her mouth twitched at the corners.“Honestly, we had perfectly fine beds, but he insisted on dragging us all here.”

Rhaella dropped a soft pillow at Aemond’s feet like a shy little gift, then settled herself cross-legged on the rug.

Vaelyra tossed a rolled blanket at Aegon, who caught it with a grunt.“Congratulations, Prince of Guilt. You get to help build the nest.”

Aegon groaned, but there was clear relief there — and maybe even delight. “Seven save me, we’re sleeping in a pile like wolf pups now?”

Vaelyra only rolled her eyes, settling beside Helaena, who was carefully arranging her spiders in a tiny wooden tray as if they, too, deserved ringside seats to the chaos.

When the chamber finally quieted, it looked like some riotous tapestry come to life. Blankets and pillows were heaped together into a makeshift nest sprawling across the floor. Aegon and Jace lay tangled and snoring, Aegon’s mouth half open. Luke had kicked off every stitch of his blanket, a little dragon plush crushed tight to his chest. Baela and Rhaena were curled close, faces buried in each other’s shoulders, while Vaelyra — ever the queen even in sleep — lay on her back, arms neatly crossed over her middle like some enchanted maiden. Helaena was face-down in her pillow, hair spilling everywhere, one arm stretched out as if chasing a dream.

Aemond alone was awake. He sat propped against a pile of cushions, the old tome Aegon had given him open in his lap, a lamp tucked low under the blanket. Its light cast small gold shapes that danced across the ceiling.

He turned a page — and beside him, Rhaella stirred. Her lashes fluttered, and she shifted just enough to squint at the glow under his coverlet.

“Did I wake you?”

She yawned, her hair a soft halo on the pillow.

“No… but you should sleep. Or your one good eye will give up on you too.”

His mouth quirked faintly.

“After tonight? I’d sooner let it burn out than close it yet. Hard to rest when you’ve just claimed a creature older than half the castles in Westeros.”

She gave a sleepy laugh, rolling closer.

“What does it feel like? Claiming a dragon.”

Aemond looked back at her, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Like standing atop the world. Like daring the gods to strike you, and knowing they’d think twice.”

A loud, rattling snore cut through the hush. Aegon shifted, smacked his lips, then snored again twice as loud. Rhaella burst into a tiny fit of giggles, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. Aemond’s lips twitched harder.

When the quiet returned, she reached for him under the blanket, pinkie looping his.

“Promise me… when I have my dragon too, we’ll fly to the tallest mountain we can find. See the moon up close.”

He gave her hand the tiniest squeeze, then let out a low, playful huff.

“Hm. I suppose I’ll have to keep you from falling off your saddle.”

Her sleepy grin widened, eyes fluttering shut.

“Promise anyway.”

His smirk softened into something real.

“I promise.”

Not long after, Aemond set the book aside. Rhaella’s breathing evened out first, her hand still lightly caught around his pinkie. Slowly, his own eyes grew heavy. The lamp’s glow dimmed to embers, and in that little nest of pillows and quiet breaths, they drifted off together. If any gods watched, they saw a peaceful tangle of kin — and for that fleeting heartbeat in time, the realm itself seemed still, almost content.

Chapter Text

Rhaella Velaryon

(The Dragonfields beyond the Red Keep - 7th Day of Grayharvest, 124 AC - Morning)

The field stretched wide beneath the morning sky, a sweep of grassland rolling down toward the glittering bay. The earth bore the marks of dragons: deep claw furrows, patches of scorched earth where fire had seared the ground, stones cracked from heavy landings. It was a place claimed by them as surely as the Red Keep was claimed by kings.

Already the air was thick with the smells of dragon—hot metal and smoke, the musk of scales warmed by sun—and beneath it all, the cleaner scents of salt and wildflowers borne on the sea breeze. The wind carried the faint cries of gulls, but closer came the sounds of leather buckles snapping shut, boots stamping into grass, the metallic ring of clasps being pulled tight, mingled with the chatter and bursts of laughter from the others as they readied themselves.

Sunfyre shone as though he had swallowed the dawn, each scale catching the light in molten gold. Dreamfyre arched her pale neck, wings twitching with impatience, the air shimmering faintly with her heat. Vermax gave a low hiss, tail lashing, until Jace steadied him with a firm hand on his jaw. Moondancer stood restless but sleek, Baela’s low voice keeping her calm, while Arrax flicked his wings, sending small whirlwinds of dust and petals into the air.

The ground itself seemed to hum with their gathered presence.

Rhaena lingered near Moondancer’s side, fingers worrying at the stitching of her gloves, the fabric already damp from her palms. She had always loved dragons, but to ride again—without Laena—was something heavier. Her gaze darted to Baela, then to me, as though measuring whether courage could be borrowed.

I stepped close, laying a hand over hers. “It’s your first time riding with Baela?” I asked gently.

She nodded, her mouth pressed tight before she spoke. “I’ve flown with Mother, but not since…” Her words fell away, the rest unspoken.

“She won’t let anything happen to you,” I promised, glancing at Baela, whose steady posture spoke louder than words. “And I’ll be just behind you, with Aemond. You’ll see. It feels different now—you’re older, taller, steadier than before. The sky was always meant for you.” I lifted my hand to her cheek, cupping it softly as though to pass a fragment of what little courage I had into her. She leaned into the touch, her lips curving into a beam of a smile, and her eyes began to shine— not with fear, but with a spark of excitement. 

Not far off, Aemond was a silhouette against the bulk of Vhagar, high on her back where the saddle rested. The sun was in my eyes, forcing me to squint, and I could only half-make out what he was doing. His pale hair caught the light, streaming in the wind like a banner, glinting every time he moved. I assumed he was checking the buckles and straps with the same precision he gave to his sword drills, his posture rigid and deliberate even if the details were lost to me from below. Vhagar herself rumbled, a sound that reverberated through the soil underfoot, making the others stir and shift. The older dragon’s great wings flexed lazily, casting long shadows that stretched nearly across the whole field.

Around us, everyone was busy in their own way. Aegon was stretching his arms overhead with great, exaggerated grunts, as though preparing for some tournament rather than a morning flight.

“You must warm the body before battle,” he declared, earning a groan from Jace. Helaena copied him, though dreamily—swaying her arms like reeds in the wind, her gaze distant but her smile bright, as though simply glad to take part in the game of it all.

Luke, meanwhile, had snuck a strip of meat from the handlers’ buckets. He tossed it onto the ground a safe distance in front of Arrax, his grin wide. “Dracarys,” he whispered conspiratorially. The young dragon obliged with a small jet of flame, charring the meat before snapping it up eagerly. Luke giggled at the success, patting Arrax’s scaled neck with both hands as the dragon rumbled in quiet approval.

“Biarvose, Arrax,”* Luke murmured in High Valyrian, his tone warm and proud.

“Straps tight?” Jace shouted up to Aemond.

“Tighter than your tongue, Velaryon!” Aemond bellowed back from high atop Vhagar. The distance stretched the words thin, but I caught a tinge of amusement threading his tone.

“Care to test that?” Jace retorted, his hand already drifting toward Vermax’s reins.

“Not after the breakfast I’ve just had,” Aegon interrupted, still flapping his arms.

“Stop it,” Baela said firmly, tugging Rhaena closer to her side. She fussed over her sister’s gloves, adjusting the ties with a tenderness that softened her sharp features. “If you so much as loosen your grip, I’ll know.”

Rhaena rolled her eyes, though her smile gave her away.

Helaena drifted toward us, her armor fitted and riding cloak clasped, yet she moved with a dreamy grace. If I had not known her well, I might have thought her a fearsome dragonrider come to command the skies. She stretched her arms languidly, her voice drifting to us like a dream.

“Vaelyra has yet to join us in dragonriding,” she said, her tone lilting. “Even my beetles have flown before her. Perhaps she prefers the company of scrolls to scales.” Her smile brightened as though the thought delighted her.

From the edge of the field, Vaelyra remained seated in her carriage, a book open on her lap. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “You’re not coming with us?”

Vaelyra glanced up with a small smile and answered clearly across the grass, “I respectfully decline.”

I laughed, shaking my head as I turned back toward the others, my heart racing already—whether from laughter or what waited in the skies, I could not be sure.

Vhagar loomed above me, her massive bulk casting a shadow that seemed to swallow half the field. The nets hung down her side like a ladder spun for giants, ropes thick as my wrist and worn smooth by years of hands gripping them.

I set my jaw and reached for the first knot. The rope bit into my palms as I hauled myself upward, skirts snagging against the rough weave. My arms strained; each pull brought me higher, but Vhagar’s saddle still looked impossibly far above.

“Seven hells,” I muttered under my breath, fingers slipping against the rope. I pressed my cheek to the rough fiber for a heartbeat of rest.

“Do you plan to reach the saddle before nightfall?” Aemond’s voice came from above, calm, cool, infuriatingly composed.

I scowled up at him, clinging to the net. “I am reaching it.”

A shadow shifted. Then his hand extended downward. Long fingers, pale against the dark rope. I hesitated only a moment before slipping mine into his.

With one swift pull, he lifted me as though I weighed nothing at all.

My breath caught—not from the height, not from the sudden movement, but from the ease of it, the strength in his arm that set me firmly on the edge of the saddle.

“There,” he said, expression carefully unreadable as he turned back to check the buckles on the riding straps. His voice was flat, as if he hadn’t just swept me into the air like a feather.

My heart thudded in my chest, though I told myself it was only the climb. Only the dragon. Only the sky waiting.

Then his hands were on me again, tugging at the straps across my waist and chest. The leather creaked as he fastened them snug, his fingers brushing my shoulder, my side, lingering only long enough to be certain the ties would hold. His face was stern, lips pressed into a straight line, his single eye unreadable.

But his touch was steady. Precise. Careful.

I kept my gaze fixed forward, refusing to let him see the heat in my cheeks. “You’ve a gift for making someone feel like a parcel being tied down for delivery,” I murmured, half sulking.

“Better tied than falling,” he replied evenly, tugging one last buckle into place.

He drew back, gloved hands resting against the pommel of the saddle as if nothing at all had passed between us. Vhagar shifted beneath us, vast wings flexing. My pulse was loud in my ears.

Then Vhagar moved. A deep vibration coursed through her body as she adjusted her massive frame, crouching low. The shift travelled up my bones, rattling through the saddle. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath—the chatter of the others dimmed, the wind stilled in my ears. I glanced sideways at Aemond, his profile cut sharp against the sun, steady as stone.

Gone were the softer boyish features I remembered; his face had lengthened, angles honed like a blade. When he was younger his pale hair had curled at the edges like the Queen’s, but now it fell straighter, catching the light as it streamed in the wind.

Strength sat in the set of his shoulders, in the sureness of his grip, and I felt the ache of comparison. I thought of my mother, fierce as the sea, of my grandmother, unbending as steel, of Baela with her fire so ready to blaze—and of how Laenor’s dragon, Seasmoke, could have chosen me once, but did not. The doubts crowded fast and merciless, whispering that he had grown into himself while I was left behind.

My breath quickened, uncertainty pressing in. The dragon was too vast, too powerful, and I was only myself—how could I ever be worthy of any dragon that might answer me one day?

I went quiet, my doubts heavy on my tongue though I could not give them voice.

Aemond noticed—of course he did.

He always did.

He did not ask me outright what was wrong; he knew better than that. Instead his gaze shifted from the horizon, his eye finding me with the same sharpness he gave to any puzzle he meant to unravel. He let the silence hang for a beat, then his mouth curved faintly.

“Brooding suits me far better than it does you.”

I smiled and laughed softly, still unsure whether to voice my thoughts aloud. Aemond’s eye lingered on me, steady and intent. “You’ve never kept a thought from me since we were babes,” he said quietly. “You can tell me anything, Rhae. You always could.”

And I did.

Aemond leaned closer, his voice pitched low so only I could hear over the rising thunder of Vhagar's breath and the whistling of the wind in our ears.

“You’ve been a dragonrider longer than I,” he said steadily. “You flew with your sister upon Vhagar and with your mother upon Meraxes. You greeted Seasmoke like an old friend beside Laenor. Dragon blood runs in you, Rhaella— it is as natural to you as breathing. Do not doubt it."

I swallowed hard, focusing on his words rather than the terrifying might that coiled beneath us, ready to spring.

“In waiting, we are tempered. In patience, prepared. And when the moment comes, you will see why it was not sooner. If you mean to be with the one for you,” he went on—never naming, but his eye flicked briefly toward the far peaks, as though a secret lingered there—“then you must remember this. Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is flying despite it.”

His hand brushed the strap by my shoulder, checking it one last time. “So hold fast. Ābrar sȳndori jēdaris dōrī sepār; sepāragon vala bōsa hēnon issa, vējirry nōgri se ānogri,” he said in the old tongue.

“Let the woman ask in faith, without doubt; for the doubter is a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind,” I translated softly, glancing at him. “Did you make that up?”

Aemond’s mouth curved faintly. “I read it in an old tome. Aegon gave it to me, the night Vhagar chose me.”

“You stole it from my parents’ library, didn’t you—” I began, but my words were lost in a scream of laughter as Aemond urged Vhagar faster into the wind, cutting me off with the rush of sky and speed.

The earth fell away, the air tore at my hair and cloak, and the world became wind and fire and sky. My laughter burst free despite myself, wild and unrestrained. For a moment, it felt as though all of us—Baela, Jace, Luke, Rhaena, Helaena, even Aegon—were streaks of light across the heavens, each dragon carving its place in the firmament.

And through it all, I could still hear his voice, steady and sure, echoing in my chest: Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is flying despite it.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*